Dead Souls

by Nikolai Gogol

The author is very hard put to name both ladies in such a way as not to make them angry at him, as they used to be angry in the old days. To give them fictitious names is fraught with danger. No matter what name you think up, there will inevitably be found in some corner or other of our realm, since it is so large, someone who bears it and who will inevitably become incensed to the extent of wishing to beat me not only within an inch of my life but actually to death, who will begin saying that the author had purposely made a secret trip to the town to find out everything about him, just what sort of creature he is, and what sort of wretched little sheepskin jacket he walks around in, and which Agrafena Ivanovna he calls on, and what dishes he is fond of. But if one were to mention ranks—God save us, that would be still more dangerous! Nowadays all our ranks and classes are in so touchy a mood that anything and everything which may be between the covers of a printed book already has the appearance of personalities for them—such, evidently, is the spirit in the air. It suffices merely to say that there’s a stupid man in a certain town, and that’s already a personal reflection: a gentleman of respectable appearance will suddenly pounce upon you and set up a shout: “Why, I, too, am a man, ergo, I, too, am stupid!”—in a word, he’ll surmise in the wink of an eye just what you’re up to.