Dead Souls

by Nikolai Gogol

In the first moment of conversation with him, you could not help but say, ‘What a pleasant and kind-hearted man!’ The second moment you would say nothing, and the third you would say, ‘The Devil only knows what sort of man he is!’ and you would move as far away from him as you could; if you didn’t move away, you would experience a feeling of deadly boredom. You would wait in vain for any lively or even arrogant word, such as you might hear from almost anyone else if you broached some subject that touched him to the heart.

And in boarding schools, as we know, three main subjects constitute the foundation of human virtues: the French language, which is indispensable for a happy family life; the piano, for affording one’s spouse some pleasant moments; and, finally, in the specifically homemaking skills, the knitting of purses and other surprises.

‘Well then, if it’s a good thing, that’s another matter: I have nothing against it,’ Manilov said, now fully reassured.

In an access of gratitude, Chichikov proceeded to pour out such a torrent of thanks that Manilov grew flustered, turned all red, kept shaking his head in demurral and finally managed to express himself to the effect that it was truly nothing, that he would indeed like in some way to demonstrate the attraction of the heart, the magnetism of the soul, and that the deceased souls were, in a certain respect, nothing but rubbish.

but the moment anyone slightly higher than himself appears, Prometheus will undergo a metamorphosis such as even Ovid8 couldn’t invent: he’s a fly, even less than a fly, he’s reduced to a grain of sand! ‘Why, that’s not Ivan Petrovich,’ you say as you look at him. ‘Ivan Petrovich is taller, while this one is short and puny, Ivan Petrovich talks in a loud and deep voice and never laughs, while this one is the Devil only knows what: he chirps like a bird and is constantly laughing.’ You move closer and you see that it really is Ivan Petrovich! ‘Ahaaa,’ you think to yourself …

There are people that exist on this earth not as objects in themselves, but as extraneous specks or tiny spots on objects. They sit in the same place, they hold their heads in the same way, you are almost ready to take them for a piece of furniture and you think that not a word has dropped from their lips since the day they were born; but if you should happen to find yourself in the maids’ room or the pantry, then you wouldn’t believe your ears!

In reply Plyushkin muttered something between his lips, for he had no teeth. Precisely what is unknown, but the sense was perhaps the following: ‘May the Devil take you and your respects!’ But inasmuch as hospitality enjoys such currency among us that even a miser is powerless to transgress its laws, he proceeded to add, somewhat more intelligibly: ‘I beg you to be seated!’

above all the readers of a higher social sphere. It’s primarily from them that you won’t hear a single decent Russian word. Rather, it’s French, German and English words, very likely, that they’ll dish out in quantities far greater than you could possibly ever want, and they’ll even dish them out with every possible pronunciation preserved intact. In French they’ll talk through their noses and make their ‘r’s guttural; English they’ll pronounce the way a bird would, and they’ll try to look like a bird, and even make fun of anyone who can’t look like a bird. But the only thing they can’t dish out is anything Russian, beyond building themselves, out of patriotic sentiment, a peasant hut in the Russian style as a summer-house.

There, just try to make sense of the human being! He doesn’t believe in God, but he does believe that if the bridge of his nose itches, then he’s sure to die. He totally ignores the creation of a poet that is clear as day and imbued with harmony and the lofty wisdom of simplicity, yet he can’t wait to get his hands on the kind of work where someone bold as brass takes nature and muddles, twists, distorts and turns it inside out, and that will suit him to a T, and he will begin shouting: ‘Here it is, here is true knowledge of the secrets of the heart!’ All his life he hasn’t cared a pin for doctors, but in the end he will turn to some old woman who works cures by whispering magic spells and spitting, or, even better, he himself will concoct something from who knows what rubbish, which, Lord knows why, he will imagine to be just the remedy for his illness. Of

In any event, a virtuous man has not been taken as the hero. And it is even possible to say why not. Because it is time, at last, to give the poor virtuous man a rest; because the phrase ‘virtuous man’ comes too readily to our lips; because the virtuous man has been made into a workhorse, and the writer does not exist who has not ridden him, goading him on with a whip and anything else that comes to hand; because the virtuous man has been so worn down that not even a shadow of virtue remains on him, and all that remains of his body are ribs and skin; because appeals to the virtuous man are hypocritical; because the virtuous man is not respected. No, it’s time, at last, to put the rogue in harness too. And so, let’s harness the rogue!

Who knows what might pop into a man’s head while he is out strolling, something that so often carries a man away from the tedium of the present moment, pulls at, teases and stirs his imagination and gives him gratification even when he knows full well that such a thing will never come to pass.