Many of those who heard Gogol read from the second volume of Dead Souls (some listened to as many as seven chapters) praised it in terms similar to those of his friend L. I. Arnoldi, who described such a reading in a memoir of his friendship with the author: “ ‘Amazing, incomparable!’ I cried. ‘In these chapters you come even closer to reality than in the first volume; here one senses life everywhere, as it is, without any exaggerations …’ “ Could this be the same Gogol? Had he finally stooped to writing a conventional novel? But, in fact, what we find in the surviving fragments of volume 2 is not life “as it is,” but a series of nonpareils—the perfect young lady, the perfect landowner, the perfect wealthy muzhik, the perfect prince, and also, since nonpareils need not be moral ideals, the perfect ruined nobleman, the perfect Germanizer, the perfect do-nothing—all of them verging on the grotesque, but on an unintentional and humorless grotesque. While we can see where Gogol was straining to go, we are aware mostly of the strain. He is still arm in arm with his hero at the end, but, as he says, “This was not the old Chichikov. This was some wreckage of the old Chichikov. The inner state of his soul might be compared with a demolished building, which has been demolished so that from it a new one could be built; but the new one has not been started yet, because the definitive plan has not yet come from the architect and the workers are left in perplexity.” Amid the rubble and perplexity of the second volume, the unsinkable squire Petukh, met by chance when Chichikov takes a wrong road, sounds the last great cockcrow of Gogol’s genius.
II
They’d plant it right, but what came up
you couldn’t say: it’s not a watermelon,
it’s not a pumpkin, it’s not a cucumber …
devil knows what it is!
N. Gogol, The Enchanted Spot
That genius was purely literary. Gogol was a born writer, and his minor epic is a major feast of Russian prose. It caused a sensation when it first appeared, almost all of its characters immediately became proverbial, and its reputation has never suffered an eclipse. The book entered into and became fused with Russian life, owing mainly to its verbal power. The poet Innokenty Annensky, in his essay “The Aesthetics of Dead Souls and Its Legacy” (1909), asked: “What would have become of our literature if he alone for all of us had not taken up this burden and this torment and plunged in bottomless physicality our still so timid, now reasonable, now mincing, even if luminously aerial, Pushkinian word?” (Annensky’s italics.) The phrase “plunged in bottomless physicality” nicely evokes both the material exuberance of Gogol’s style and its artistic procedure.
Such qualities were largely ignored by the first critics of Dead Souls, who paid little attention to matters of style. They were most anxious to place Gogol’s work within the social polemics of the time, to make him a partisan of one side or the other. Both sides stressed Gogol’s “realism” (which we may find surprising), seeing his book as a living portrait of Russia, an embodiment of typical Russian life and of what, following Pushkin, they called “the Russian spirit” or “breath.” Gogol represented the first appearance in Russian literature of everyday provincial life in all its details (Belinsky praised in particular the “executed” louse in chapter 8, seeing it as a challenge to literary gentility). Where the critics disagreed was on the character of that life and the nature of its appearance. The Slavophils saw the book as an image of deep Russia, “wooden” Russia, and saw in the figure of the coachman Selifan, for example, a portrait of the “unspoiled” Russian nature. They laughed merrily with Gogol. The radicals saw the book as an attack on landowners and bureaucrats, an unmasking of the social reality hypocritically denied by the ruling classes, and a denunciation of the evils of serf owning. For the Slavophils, Dead Souls was the first book fully to embrace Russian reality; for the radicals it represented Gogol’s rejection of Russian reality and his (at least implicit) opposition to the established order. You may laugh at these characters in Gogol’s book, wrote Belinsky, but you would not laugh at them in real life. The book is only superficially funny; it lays bare the nonsense and triviality of Russian life, implicitly asking how all this could become so important, and in this it is both profound and serious.
Soviet Marxist criticism continued in Belinsky’s line, adding its own ideological formulas. Thus Dead Souls turned out to be progressive in bringing out the contradictions latent in Russian society of the 1840s—the decay of the old feudal, serf-owning class, and the emergence of its class enemy, the capitalist, in the person of Chichikov (who is also contradictory and in transition). Its characters, representing broad and typical generalities of the time, are determined by their economic behavior—greed, prodigality, acquisitiveness, idleness. Gogol exposes the evils of arbitrary rule, bureaucratic corruption, and petty self-interest, and thus prepares the way for social change. And so on.
Such programmatic readings are themselves contradicted on every page of Dead Souls, nowhere more explicitly than when the author, after describing Plyushkin’s descent into worthlessness, pettiness, and vileness, suddenly cries out: “Does this resemble the truth? Everything resembles the truth, everything can happen to a man.” If “everything resembles the truth,” then the laws of this resemblance are of a peculiar sort, and the reality they correspond to is incalculable. That such a will-o’-the-wisp can come so vividly to life is a tribute to the magic of Gogol’s prose, with its “plunge into bottomless physicality.”
His is in fact an inverted realism: the word creates the world in Dead Souls. This process is enacted, parodied, and commented upon all through the poem. One paradigm of it is the apostrophe to the “aptly uttered Russian word” at the end of chapter 5. The word in question is an unprintable epithet, which the author politely omits. It then becomes the subject of a panegyric in Gogol’s best lyrical manner, which in its soaring rhetoric makes us forget that the aptly uttered word in question is not only an unprintable epithet, but in fact has not even been uttered. Another paradigm is the simile that ends the second paragraph of chapter 1: “In the corner shop, or, better, in its window, sat a seller of hot punch with a red copper samovar and a face as red as the samovar, so that from a distance one might have thought there were two samovars in the window, if one samovar had not had a pitch-black beard.” This replacement of the person by the thing, of narrative reality by the figure of speech, occurs repeatedly in Dead Souls. The resulting hybrids—a bearded samovar—are essential Gogolian images. He was, in Annensky’s words, “the one poet in the world who, in his ecstatic love of being—not of life, but precisely of being—was able to unite a dusty box of nails and sulphur with the golden streak in the eastern sky, and with whom a transparent and fiery maple leaf shining from its dense darkness did not dare to boast before a striped post by the roadside.”
The highest instance of this love of being, revealed in the creative power of the word, is the moment in chapter 7 when Chichikov sits down in front of his chest, takes from it the lists of deceased peasants he has acquired, and draws up deeds of purchase for them. “Suddenly moved in his spirit,” he says: “ ‘My heavens, there’s so many of you crammed in here!’ ” He reads their names, and from the names alone begins to invent lives for them, resurrecting them one by one. Here, for the only time in the book, the author’s voice joins with his hero’s, as he takes the relay and continues the inventing himself. Absent presences, and presences made absent (like the five-foot sturgeon Sobakevich polishes off in chapter 8), are the materials of Gogol’s poem. He plays on them in a thousand ways, in his intricate manipulation of literary conventions (as when the author profits from the fact that his hero has fallen asleep in order to tell his story), in the lying that goes on throughout the book (along with Chichikov’s main business, there is also Nozdryov, who lies from a sort of natural generative force, or the “lady agreeable in all respects,” who lies from inner conviction), in such details as the elaborately negated description of Italy superimposed on Russia near the start of chapter 11, or the prosecutor’s bushy eyebrows (�
�all you had, in fact, was bushy eyebrows”—which is literally true). The tremendous paradox of the title—Dead Souls—is fraught with all the ambiguities of this inverted realism. “Everything resembles the truth.” Such is Gogol’s artistic procedure, the plunging into bottomless physicality of … the word. That is, an airy nothing.
The characters Chichikov meets are not real-life landowners, not unspoiled Russian natures or general human types; like the hero himself, they are elemental banalities. In this they are quite unlike the exuberant “souls” he resurrects from his chest. Gogol wrote in a letter of 1843:
I have been much talked about by people who have analyzed some of my aspects but failed to define my essence. Pushkin alone sensed it. He always told me that no other writer before has had this gift of presenting the banality of life so vividly, of being able to describe the banality of the banal man with such force that all the little details that escape notice flash large in everyone’s eyes. That is my main quality, which belongs to me alone, and which indeed no other writer possesses.
The word translated as “banality” here is the Russian poshlost. For a full comprehension of the meaning of poshlost (pronounced “POSHlust”), readers are referred to Vladimir Nabokov’s Nikolai Gogol (1944), which contains a twelve-page disquisition on the subject. Poshlost is a well-rounded, untranslatable whole made up of banality, vulgarity, and sham. It applies not only to obvious trash (verbal or animate), but also to spurious beauty, spurious importance, spurious cleverness. It is an ideal subject for Gogolian treatment, a “gape in mankind,” as he calls Plyushkin, an absence he can bring to enormous presence by filling it with verbal matter. Gogol’s portrayal of poshlost goes far beyond topical satire or a denunciation of social evils. His characters are not time bound; they inhabit an indefinitely expanded time in which they lose the sharply negative features of vice and wickedness and instead become wildly funny. They also have no psychology, no “inner nature.” Nabokov thinks they are “bloated dead souls” themselves, and that inside “a poshlyak [a male embodiment of poshlost] even of Chichikov’s colossal dimensions” one can see “the worm, the little shriveled fool that lies huddled up in the depth of the poshlost-painted vacuum.” But he is not quite right. There is no worm or shriveled fool inside Gogol’s characters; they are all external, like landscapes. The process of “growing wild” that has happened to Plyushkin’s garden has also happened to Plyushkin himself. At the end of her chapter, Korobochka almost blends back into her barnyard. Everything around Sobakevich says, “I, too, am Sobakevich.” Their very lack of inner life gives Gogol’s characters a monumental stature, an almost mythical dimension.
But who has ever seen mythical figures of this sort? Looking at them, we may hear ourselves repeating the question Manilov puts to Chichikov: “Here, it may be … something else is concealed …?” Yet it is all simply poshlost. But the more often Gogol repeats that everything he is describing is “all too familiar” and “the same everywhere,” the more exuberant is his verbal invention. He provokes a mutation in the scale of artistic values, as Sinyavsky says, an “ostentation of language” grown out of the commonplace:
As a result, the everyday and the commonplace look somehow extraordinary in Gogol, owing already to the fact that the author, for no apparent reason, has turned his fixed attention on them. Things seem to hide or hold something in themselves, unreal in their real aspect, so wholly familiar that you cannot imagine they are just simply and causelessly standing there without signifying anything, though it is precisely their ordinary being before us and signifying nothing that constitutes their lot and their unsolved mystery.
The unsolved mystery of banality is the lining of the extraordinary behind it. It is Chichikov’s chest with its double bottom, in which he stores all sorts of meaningless trash, but from which his “dead souls” also emerge in procession and move across all Russia. It is the renewal and futurity inherent in the road, which Gogol celebrates. It is the sense of promise contained in laughter itself.
Richard Pevear
Translators’ Note
Russian names are composed of first name, patronymic (from the father’s first name), and family name. Formal address requires the use of first name and patronymic. A shortened form of the patronymic is sometimes used in conversation between acquaintances; thus Platon Mikhailovich Platonov, in the second volume of Dead Souls, is most often called Platon Mikhalych. Virtually all the names Gogol uses are perfectly plausible in Russian. Some of them, however, also have specific meanings or a more general suggestiveness. (In the following list, accented syllables are given in italics.)
Chichikov, Pavel Ivanovich: echoic of birds chirping and scissors snipping, it is a flighty, frivolous-sounding name, in apparent contrast to the hero’s plumpness and practicality.
Manilov (no first name or patronymic): comes from manit, “to lure, to beckon.” In sound it is moist-lipped, soft, and gooey.
Korobochka, Nastasya Petrovna: her family name means “little box.”
Nozdryov (no first name or patronymic): comes from nozdrya, “nostril,” and is suggestive of all sorts of holes and porosities.
Sobakevich, Mikhail Semyonovich: comes from sobaka, “dog.” Mikhail, Mikhailo, and the diminutives Misha and Mishka are common Russian names for bears.
Plyushkin, Stepan (no patronymic): seems, on the other hand, to have no specific connotations.
Gogol plays with names in several other ways. Sometimes perfectly ordinary names become amusing when put together. So it is with Nozdryov’s fellow carousers Potseluev (from “kiss”) and Kuvshinnikov (from “jug”), as also with the dishonest clerks in volume 2—Krasnonosov, Samosvistov, and Kisloyedov (Red-noser, Self-whistler, and Sour-eater). At one point in chapter 8 he mocks Russian formal address by mercilessly listing the names and patronymics of a long series of ladies and gentlemen, ending in complete absurdity with the nonexistent Maklatura Alexandrovna.
Frequent reference is made in Dead Souls to various ranks of the imperial civil service. The following is a list of the fourteen official ranks established by Peter the Great in 1722, from highest to lowest:
chancellor
actual privy councillor
privy councillor
actual state councillor
state councillor
collegiate councillor
court councillor
collegiate assessor
titular councillor
collegiate secretary
secretary of naval constructions
government secretary
provincial secretary
collegiate registrar
The rank of titular councillor conferred personal nobility, and the rank of actual state councillor made it hereditary. Mention of an official’s rank automatically indicates the amount of deference he must be shown, and by whom.
There are two words for “peasant” in Russian: krestyanin and muzhik. The first is a more neutral and specific term; the second is broader, more common, and may be used scornfully. Gogol uses both words. Since muzhik has entered English, we keep it where Gogol has it and use “peasant” where he has krestyanin.
Before their emancipation in 1861, Russian peasants were bound to the land and were the property of the landowner. The value of an estate, and thus the “worth” of its owner, was determined by the number of peasant “souls,” or adult male serfs, living on it. The peasants worked the master’s land and also paid him rent for their own plots, usually in kind. If they knew a trade, they could earn money practicing it and pay quitrent to the master. They remained bound to the land, however, and if they traveled to work, had to have a passport procured for them by their master. Landowners were not required to pay taxes, but their peasants were, and it was up to the landowner to collect them. He was responsible for turning in the tax money for as many souls as had been counted in the latest census. There could be a considerable lapse of time between censuses (the action of Dead Souls is set in the period between the seventh official census of
1815 and the eighth, taken in 1833). During that time a number of peasants would die, but the master remained responsible for the tax on them until they were stricken from the rolls at the next census. It was also possible for a landowner to obtain money from the government by mortgaging some or all of the peasants of whom he was the certified owner.
This translation has been made from the Russian text of the Soviet Academy of Sciences edition, volumes 6 and 7 (Leningrad, 1951). We have preferred the earlier (1855) redaction of volume 2 as being both briefer and more complete. We give the unrevised version of “The Tale of Captain Kopeikin” in chapter 10 of volume 1.
VOLUME ONE
Chapter One
Through the gates of the inn in the provincial town of N. drove a rather handsome, smallish spring britzka, of the sort driven around in by bachelors: retired lieutenant colonels, staff captains, landowners possessed of some hundred peasant souls—in short, all those known as gentlemen of the middling sort. In the britzka sat a gentleman, not handsome, but also not bad-looking, neither too fat nor too thin; you could not have said he was old, yet neither was he all that young. His entrance caused no stir whatever in town and was accompanied by nothing special; only two Russian muzhiks standing by the door of the pot-house across from the inn made some remarks, which referred, however, more to the vehicle than to the person sitting in it. “See that?” said the one to the other, “there’s a wheel for you! What do you say, would that wheel make it as far as Moscow, if it so happened, or wouldn’t it?” “It would,” replied the other. “But not as far as Kazan I don’t suppose?” “Not as far as Kazan,” replied the other. And with that the conversation ended. Then, as the britzka drove up to the inn, it met with a young man in white twill trousers, quite narrow and short, and a tailcoat with presumptions to fashion, under which could be seen a shirtfront fastened with a Tula-made pin shaped like a bronze pistol.1 The young man turned around, looked at the carriage, held his hand to his peaked cap, which was almost blown off by the wind, and went on his way.
Dead Souls: A Novel Page 2
