The Russian Soul
'Hey there, what are you up to, anyway?' said Chichikov to Selifan. 'Yes, you.'
'What?' said Selifan in a drawling voice.
'What do you mean "what?" You're a goose! Look how you're driving. Come on, now, give 'em a taste of the whip!'
And indeed, by now Selifan had been driving for quite some time with his eyes closed, and, in his half-awake state, gave the reins only an occasional shake over the flanks of the horses, who were also dozing. As for Petrushka, his cap had long ago blown off, who knows just where, and he himself had tipped back, dropping his head on to Chichikov's knee, so that the latter had to give him a good crack. Selifan perked up a bit and after giving the dappled horse a few flicks on the back, upon which he broke into a jog-trot, and after brandishing the whip above all three of them, he added in a thin, singing voice: 'Don't be scared!' The coursers bestirred themselves and began pulling the britska as if it were light as a feather. Selifan merely kept brandishing the whip and shouting: 'Hey, hey, hey!', bouncing smoothly on his box as the troika now flew up a knoll, now dashed down a knoll, features which dotted the entire length of the road as it ran in a barely perceptible descending slope. Chichikov merely smiled as he gently jounced on his leather cushion, for he loved fast driving. And what Russian is there who does not love fast driving? Why should his soul, which yearns to revel and roister and sometimes say, 'May the Devil take everything!' -- why should his soul not love it? Not love when something rapturous and wondrous can be sensed in it? 'Twould seem an unknown power has cought you up on its wing, and you yourself are flying, and everything is flying: verst-posts are flying, merchants on the seats of their covered carts are flying towards you, the forest is flying by on either side with its dark stands of firs and pines, its ringing axe and cawing crow, the whole road is flying who knows where, into the vanishing distance, and something dread lies within all this fleet flashing by, where a vanishing object has no time to assume firm form; only the sky overhead, and the light clouds, and the moon breaking through them, only they seem motionless. Eh, troika, bird-troika, who devised thee? Like as not, thou couldst have been born only among a spirited people, in a land that has no love of joking, but has flung itself, smooth-flat, o'er half the world, so just try counting the verst-posts till your eyes begin to swim. And no clever travelling-contraption art thou, 'twould seem, clamped together with iron screws, but fitted out and slapped together, rough and ready, with axe and chisel alone, by a handy Yaroslavl muzhik. No foreign top boots for the driver: beard and mittens, and sitting on the Devil knows what; but he stands up and brandishes his whip, and strikes up a song and off go the steeds like a whirlwind, the spokes of each wheel blend into a smooth circle, onlly the road quivers and a passerby stops short and cries out in fear! And there it goes, rushing on, rushing on, rushing on! And then, all that can be seen in the distance is something that raises the dust and boreds through the air.
Art not thou too, O Rus, rushing onwards like a spirited troika that none can overtake? Smoking like smoke under you is the road, thundering are the bridges, all falls back and is left behind. The onlooker comes to a stop, struck by the divine miracle: is this not a lightning bolt flung down from heaven? What is the meaning of this awe-inspiring movement? And what manner of unkown power is contained within these steeds, who are unknown to the world? Eh, steeds, steeds, what manner of steeds! Do whirlwinds nest in your amnes? Does a keen ear burn in your every fibre? They have heard from on high the familiar song, and at once as one they have strained their bronze chests, and barely touching the earth with their hooves, all are transformed into long straight lines that fly through the air, and on rushes the troika, all-inspired by God! Rus, whither art thou racing? Give an answer. She gives no answer. The bells set up a wondrous jingling: rent to shreds, the air thunders and is transformed into wind: all that exists on earth flies by, and, looking askance, other peoples and nations step aside and make way for her.
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Dead Souls, by Nikolai Gogol (Translated by Robert A. Maguire)
'What?' said Selifan in a drawling voice.
'What do you mean "what?" You're a goose! Look how you're driving. Come on, now, give 'em a taste of the whip!'
And indeed, by now Selifan had been driving for quite some time with his eyes closed, and, in his half-awake state, gave the reins only an occasional shake over the flanks of the horses, who were also dozing. As for Petrushka, his cap had long ago blown off, who knows just where, and he himself had tipped back, dropping his head on to Chichikov's knee, so that the latter had to give him a good crack. Selifan perked up a bit and after giving the dappled horse a few flicks on the back, upon which he broke into a jog-trot, and after brandishing the whip above all three of them, he added in a thin, singing voice: 'Don't be scared!' The coursers bestirred themselves and began pulling the britska as if it were light as a feather. Selifan merely kept brandishing the whip and shouting: 'Hey, hey, hey!', bouncing smoothly on his box as the troika now flew up a knoll, now dashed down a knoll, features which dotted the entire length of the road as it ran in a barely perceptible descending slope. Chichikov merely smiled as he gently jounced on his leather cushion, for he loved fast driving. And what Russian is there who does not love fast driving? Why should his soul, which yearns to revel and roister and sometimes say, 'May the Devil take everything!' -- why should his soul not love it? Not love when something rapturous and wondrous can be sensed in it? 'Twould seem an unknown power has cought you up on its wing, and you yourself are flying, and everything is flying: verst-posts are flying, merchants on the seats of their covered carts are flying towards you, the forest is flying by on either side with its dark stands of firs and pines, its ringing axe and cawing crow, the whole road is flying who knows where, into the vanishing distance, and something dread lies within all this fleet flashing by, where a vanishing object has no time to assume firm form; only the sky overhead, and the light clouds, and the moon breaking through them, only they seem motionless. Eh, troika, bird-troika, who devised thee? Like as not, thou couldst have been born only among a spirited people, in a land that has no love of joking, but has flung itself, smooth-flat, o'er half the world, so just try counting the verst-posts till your eyes begin to swim. And no clever travelling-contraption art thou, 'twould seem, clamped together with iron screws, but fitted out and slapped together, rough and ready, with axe and chisel alone, by a handy Yaroslavl muzhik. No foreign top boots for the driver: beard and mittens, and sitting on the Devil knows what; but he stands up and brandishes his whip, and strikes up a song and off go the steeds like a whirlwind, the spokes of each wheel blend into a smooth circle, onlly the road quivers and a passerby stops short and cries out in fear! And there it goes, rushing on, rushing on, rushing on! And then, all that can be seen in the distance is something that raises the dust and boreds through the air.
Art not thou too, O Rus, rushing onwards like a spirited troika that none can overtake? Smoking like smoke under you is the road, thundering are the bridges, all falls back and is left behind. The onlooker comes to a stop, struck by the divine miracle: is this not a lightning bolt flung down from heaven? What is the meaning of this awe-inspiring movement? And what manner of unkown power is contained within these steeds, who are unknown to the world? Eh, steeds, steeds, what manner of steeds! Do whirlwinds nest in your amnes? Does a keen ear burn in your every fibre? They have heard from on high the familiar song, and at once as one they have strained their bronze chests, and barely touching the earth with their hooves, all are transformed into long straight lines that fly through the air, and on rushes the troika, all-inspired by God! Rus, whither art thou racing? Give an answer. She gives no answer. The bells set up a wondrous jingling: rent to shreds, the air thunders and is transformed into wind: all that exists on earth flies by, and, looking askance, other peoples and nations step aside and make way for her.
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Dead Souls, by Nikolai Gogol (Translated by Robert A. Maguire)