his face nor his personality, as a whole, would have struck the eye so forcibly; but, on the other hand, on finishing the perusal of this story, the reader’s soul would not have been in the least moved, and he might have turned once more to the card-table, which is the universal comforter in Russia. Yes, my good readers, you would have preferred not to see the man’s meanness laid bare. “Why,” you say, “to what purpose is this? Do we not ourselves know that there is much which is stupid and despicable in life? And moreover it frequently happens that we behold things which are not at all cheerful. Show us rather something very beautiful, very attractive: it is better to forget ourselves.” “Why, my friend, do you inform me that domestic matters are going so badly?” says the master to his steward. “I know all that without your telling me, my good fellow; haven’t you anything else to talk about? I don’t want to know about it: let me forget it, and then I shall be happy.” And then the money which would have gone so far towards righting matters is employed in various ways in lulling the master to forgetfulness. The mind which might, perhaps, have invented a means of acquiring vast wealth, slumbers; and so at last the estates go bang! to the auction—and the master goes forth into the wide world to forget himself with a soul prepared in its dire need to accomplish vile deeds which would have terrified it before.
Why hide all this? Why hesitate over words? Why be chary of calling things by their right names? Who, if not an author, is to speak the truth? You are afraid of a deep, scrutinising glance; you shrink from fixing a deep gaze upon anything yourselves; you are fond of slipping past everything, with eyes which see nothing. You even laugh heartily at Tchitchikoff; perhaps you even praise the author; you say, “At any rate, he has sketched him cleverly. He must be a jolly sort of a man!” And after these words, you turn with redoubled arrogance to yourselves, a self-satisfied smile makes its appearance on your countenances, and you add, “Well it must be admitted that people are dreadfully queer in some of our provinces and there must be a few rascals among them!” However, which of you, filled with Christian humility, will dive into the depths of his own soul, and not aloud, but in silence and solitude, in moments of isolated self- communion, will put to himself the weighty question, “And is there not some taint of Tchitchikoff in me also?” Why not, indeed? Still you never say that of yourself; but if some acquaintance of neither very lofty nor very low rank passes by, you instantly nudge your neighbour, and say to him, almost bursting with laughter the while, “Look, look! there is Tchitchikoff! Tchitchikoff has passed by!” and then, like a child, oblivious of all the respect which is due to rank and years, you will run after him, imitate him behind his back, and say, “Tchitchikoff! Tchitchikoff! Tchitchikoff!”
But we have been talking in rather a loud tone of voice, forgetful of the fact that our hero, who has slumbered while we have recounted his life, is awake now, and might easily overhear his name, thus often repeated. He is a man who takes offence readily, and who does not like to have people express themselves disrespectfully with regard to him. No doubt it matters little to the reader whether Tchitchikoff be incensed with him or not, but the author must on no account quarrel with his hero; there still remains a considerable space over which they must travel hand in hand.
The britchka, with Tchitchikoff, Selifan, and Petrushka was still proceeding at a jog-trot, when our hero woke up.
“Oho! What are you about?” he said to his coachman. “Answer, I’m speaking to you!”
“What?” asked Selifan in a leisurely tone.
“What, indeed! You goose! Where are you going? Come now, make haste!”
And in fact, Selifan had been driving along for a good while with his eyes half shut, just touching the horses—who also were dreaming—with the reins from time to time; and Petrushka’s cap had long since fallen off in some unknown spot, while he himself had fallen backwards until his head struck against Tchitchikoff’s knees, so that the latter was obliged to give him a push. But Selifan now roused himself up, and after administering a few lashes to the piebald, and flourishing his knout in the air, he ejaculated, in a sing-song tone, “Never fear!” The horses then started up, and drew the light britchka along as if it had been merely a tuft of down. Selifan still flourished away, and shouted, “Eh, eh, eh!” as he jerked