...And what Russian is there who doesn't love fast driving? How should his soul
that yearns to go off into a whirl, to go off on a fling, to say on occasion,
"Devil take it all!" How should his soul fail
to love it? Is it not a thing to be loved, when one can sense in it something
exaltedly wondrous? Some unseen power has caught you up on its wing and you are
flying yourself, and all things are flying; some merchants are flying towards
you, perched on the front seats of their covered carts. The forest flies on
both sides of the road with its dark rows of firs and pines, echoing with the
ring of axes and the cawing of crows. The whole road is flying, no one knows
where into the unseen distance. There is something fearsome hidden in the
objects that are flashing by, so rapid that there is no time for each one to
become defined before it disappears; only the sky in the infinity above, the
light clouds and the moon breaking through these clouds seem motionless.
Eh, thou troika, thou that art a bird! Who conceived thee? Methinks only among
a spirited folk that thou could have come into being. In the
land that is not fond of doing things by halves, but has evenly and smoothly
spread itself out over half the world. Therefore try and count its
milestones until they turn to spots before the eyes! Far from cunningly
contrived is the vehicle the troika draws; held together with no screws of iron
art thou, but hastily, with a slam and a bang, wert thou put together and
fitted by some handy Muzhik of Yaroslav,
with nothing but an ax and a chisel. No fancy Hessian jack boots does the
driver wear. He spots a beard, great gauntlets, and only the devil knows what
he sits on for a cushion. Let him rise in his seat, swing his whip back, and
strike up a long-drawn song while his steeds are off like a whirlwind. The
spokes of each wheel has blended into one unbroken disk; the road merely
quivers, and a pedestrian, stopping short, cries out in fright, and the troika
is soaring, soaring away! ...Now all one can see, already far in the distance,
is something raising the dust and swirling through the air.
Thou art not my
Russia
,
soaring along even like a spirited never to be outdistanced troika? The road
actually smokes under thee, the bridges thunder, everything falls back and is left behind thee! The witness of thy passing comes
to a deep stop, dumbfounded by this God's wonder! Is it not a streak of
lightning cast down from heaven? What signifies this onrush that inspires
terror? And what unknown power is contained in these steeds, whose like is not
known in this world? Ah, these steeds, these steeds, what steeds they are! Are
there whirlwinds perched upon your manes? Is there a sensitive ear, alert as a
flame, in your every fiber? You have caught the familiar song coming down to
you from above. All as one and all at the same instant, you have strained your
brazen chests and almost without touching earth with your hoofs, you have
become transformed into straight lines cleaving the air. The troika tears
along, inspired by God! Where art thou soaring away to,
Russia
? Give me
the answer! But
Russia
gives none. With a wondrous ring does the jingle bell trill; the air rent to
shreds thunders and turns to the wind. All things on earth fly past, eyeing the
troika and all the other peoples and nations stand aside giving it the right of
way.
Chapter 12. Chichikov's journey.Home life in the Old
Russia
. of Dead Souls
By Nikolai V. Gogol.
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