duty, not a mere pastime, was his great play 'The Inspector.' It was
produced in April, 1836. The authorities steadfastly opposed its
production; but the Emperor Nicholas I. heard of it, read it, ordered it
produced, and upheld Gogol in enthusiastic delight. Officials,
merchants, police, literary people, everybody, attacked the author. They
had laughed at his pathos; now they raged at his comedy, refused to
recognize their own portraits, and still tried to have the play
prohibited. Gogol's health and spirits were profoundly affected by this
unexpected enmity. He fled abroad, and returned to Russia thereafter
only at intervals for brief visits, and chiefly to Moscow, where most of
his faithful friends lived. He traveled much, but spent most of his time
in Rome, where his lavish charities kept him always poor, even after the
complete success of 'The Inspector' and of the first part of 'Dead
Souls' would have enabled him to exist in comfort. He was accustomed to
say that he could only see Russia clearly when he was far from her, and
in a measure he proved this by his inimitable first volume of 'Dead
Souls.' Herein he justified Pushkin's expectations in giving him that
subject which would enable him to paint, in types, the classes and
localities of his fatherland. But this long residence in Rome was fatal
to his mind and health, and eventually extinguished the last sparks of
genius. The Russian mind is peculiarly inclined to mysticism, and
Russian writers of eminence seem to be even more susceptible in that
direction than ordinary men. Of the noted writers in this century,
Pushkin and Lermontoff had leaned decidedly in that direction towards
the end of their careers, brief as their lives were. Gogol was their
intimate friend in Russia, and after he went abroad he was the intimate
friend of the aged poet Zhukovsky, who became a mystic in his declining
years.
Even in his school days Gogol had shown, in his letters to his mother, a
marked tendency to religious exaltation. Now, under the combined
pressure of his personal inclinations, friendships, and the clerical
atmosphere of Rome, he developed into a mystic and ascetic of the most
pronounced type. In this frame of mind, he looked upon all his earlier
writings as sins which must be atoned for; and yet his immense
self-esteem was so flattered by the tremendous success of 'The
Inspector' and of the first part of 'Dead Souls,' that he began to
regard himself as a kind of divinely commissioned prophet, whose duty it
was to exhort his fellow-men. The extract from these hortatory letters
to his friends which he published convinced his countrymen that nothing
more was to be expected from him. The failure of this volume only helped
to plunge him into deeper depths of self-torture. In the few remaining
lucid moments of his genius he worked at the second part of 'Dead
Souls,' but destroyed what he had written in the moments of ecstatic
remorse which followed. Thus the greatest work of his mature genius
remains uncompleted. In 1848 he made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and
returned through Odessa to Moscow, where he lived until his death,
growing constantly more mystical, more ascetic. Sleepless nights spent
in prayer, fasting to the extent of trying to nourish himself (as it is
affirmed that practiced ascetics successfully can) for a week on one of
the tiny double loaves which are used in the Holy Communion, completed
the ravages of his long-endured maladies.
It was for publishing in a Moscow paper an enthusiastic obituary of the
dead genius, which he had been forbidden to publish in St. Petersburg,
that Turgenieff was sent into residence on his estate, and enriched the
world with the first work of the rising genius, 'The Diary of a
Sportsman.' Acuteness of observation; natural, infectious, genuine
humor; vivid realism; and an inimitable power of depicting national
types, are Gogol's distinguishing characteristics: and these in varying
degrees are precisely the ingredients which have entered into the works
of his successors and rendered Russian literature famous as a school.
In reviewing Gogol's work, we may set aside with but cursory mention his
youthful idyl, written while still in the gymnasium, published
anonymously and overwhelmed with ridicule, 'Hans Kuchel-garten'; his
'Arabesques,' which are useful chiefly as a contribution to the study of
the man and his opinions, not as permanent additions to literature; his
'Extracts from Correspondence with Friends,' which belong to the
sermonizing, clouded period of his life's close; and the divers
'Fragments,' both of prose and dramatic writing, all of which are
conscientiously included in the complete editions of his writings.
The only complete play which he wrote except 'The Inspector' is the
comedy 'Marriage,' which is still acted, though very seldom. It is full
of naturalness and his own peculiar humor, but its subject does not
appeal to the universal public of all lands as nearly as does the plan
of 'The Inspector.' The plot, in brief, is founded on a young girl's
meditations on marriage, and her actions which lead up to and follow
those meditations. The Heroine, desirous of marrying, invokes the aid of
the Match-maker, the old-time matrimonial agent in the Russian merchant
and peasant classes by conventional etiquette. The Match-maker offers
for her consideration several suitable men, all strangers; the Heroine
makes her choice, and is very well content with her suitor. But she
begins to meditate on the future, becomes moved to tears by the thought
of her daughter's possible unhappiness in a hypothetical wretched
marriage in the dim future, and at last, unable to endure this painful
prospect, she evades her betrothed and breaks off the match. While the
characteristic and national touches are keen and true,--precursors of
the vein which Ostrovsky so happily developed later,--the play must
remain a matter of greater interest to Russians than to foreigners.
The interest of 'The Inspector,' on the other hand, is universal:
official negligence and corruption, bribery, masculine boastfulness and
vanity, and feminine qualities to correspond, are the private
prerogatives of no one nation, of no one epoch. The comedy possesses all
the elements of social portraiture and satire without caricature:
concentration of time, place, action, language, and a tremendous
condensation of character traits which are not only truly, typically
national, but which come within the ken of all fair-minded persons in
other countries.
The volume with which he scored his first success, and which must remain
a classic, is 'Evenings at a Farm-House near Dikanka.' As the second
volume, 'Mirgorod,' and his volume of 'St. Petersburg Tales,' all
combine essentially the same ingredients, though in varying measure, we
may consider them together. All the tales in the first two volumes are
from his beloved birthplace, Little Russia. Some of them are simply the
artistic and literary rendering of popular legends, whose counterparts
may be found in the folk literature of other lands. Such are the story
of the vampire, 'Vy,' 'St. John's Eve,' and the exquisite 'A May Night,'
where the famous poetical spirit of the Ukraina is displayed in its full
force and beauty. 'The Lost Document,' 'Sorotchinsky Fair,' 'The
Enchanted Spot,' and others of like legendary but more exclusively
national character, show the same fertility of wit and skill of
management, with close study of every-day customs, superstitions, and
life, which render them invaluable to both Russians and foreigners.
More important than these, however, are such stories as 'Old-Fashioned
Gentry' (or 'Farmers'), where keen but kindly wit, more tempered than
the mirth of youthful high spirits which had imbued the fantastic tales,
is mingled with the purest, deepest pathos and minute delineation of
character and customs, in an inimitable work of the highest art. To this
category belong also 'How the Two Ivans Quarreled' (the full title, 'How
Ivan Ivan'itch and Ivan Nikifor'itch Quarreled,' is rather unwieldy for
the foreign ear), and 'The Cloak,' from the volume of 'St. Petersburg
Tales.' We may also count 'The Nevsky Prospekt' with these; while 'The
Portrait' is semi-fantastic, 'The Nose' and 'The Calash' are wholly so,
though not legendary, and 'The Diary of a Madman' is unexcelled as an
amusing but touching study of a diseased mind in the ranks of petty
officialdom.
Gogol's capital work, however, is his 'Dead Souls.' In it he carried to
its highest point his talent for accurate delineation of his countrymen
and the conditions of their life. There is less pathos than in some of
his short tales; but all the other elements are perfected. Pushkin's
generosity and sound judgment were never better shown than in the gift
which he made to Gogol of the plan of this book. He could not have
executed it himself as well. The work must forever rank as a Russian
classic; it ought to rank as a universal classic. The types are as
fresh, true, and vivid to one who knows the Russia of to-day as they
were when they were first introduced to the enthusiastic public of 1842.
In the pre-Emancipation days, a soul meant a male serf. The women were
not counted in the periodical revisions, though the working unit, a
_tyaglo_, consisted of a man, his wife, and his horse--the indispensable
trinity to agricultural labor. In the interval between the revisions, a
landed proprietor continued to pay for all the serfs accredited to him
on the official list, the births being reckoned for convenience as an
exact offset to the deaths. Another provision of the law was, that no
one should purchase serfs without the land to which they belonged,
except for the purpose of colonization. An ingenious fraud suggested by
a combination of these two laws forms the foundation of 'Dead Souls.'
The hero, Tchitchikoff, is an official who has struggled up ambitiously
and shrewdly, through numerous vicissitudes of bribe-taking, extortion,
and ensuing discomfiture, to a snug berth in the custom-house service,
from which he is ejected under circumstances which render further
flights difficult if not impossible. In this strait he hits upon the
idea of purchasing from landed proprietors of mediocre probity the souls
who are dead, though still nominally alive, and on whom they are forced
to pay taxes. Land is being given away gratuitously, in the southern
governments of Kherson and Tauris, to any one who will settle upon it,
as every one knows. His plan is to buy one thousand non-existent serfs
("dead souls"), at a maximum of one hundred rubles apiece, for
colonization on an equally non-existent estate in the south, and then,
by mortgaging them to the loan bank for the nobility known as the
Council of Guardians, obtain a capital of two hundred thousand rubles.
In pursuance of this clever scheme he sets out on his travels, visits
provincial towns and the estates of landed gentry of every shade of
character, dishonesty, and financial standing, where he either buys for
a song, or cajoles from them as a gift, large numbers of "dead souls."
It is unnecessary and impossible to do more than reinforce the hint
which this statement contains, by the assurance that Gogol used to the
uttermost the magnificent opportunity thus afforded him of showing up
Russian life and manners. Though the scene of Tchitchikoff's wanderings
does not include either capital, the life there does not escape the
author's notice in his asides and illustrative arguments. It may also be
said that while his talent lies pre-eminently in the delineation of men,
he does not fail in his portraits of women; though as a rule these are
more general--in the nature of a composite photograph--than particular.
The day for minute analysis of feminine character had not arrived, and
in all Gogol's works there is, properly speaking, no such thing as the
heroine playing a first-class role, whether of the antique or the modern
pattern.
Gogol's great historical novel, 'Taras Bulba,' which deals with the
famous Kazak republic of the Dniepr Falls (Zaporozhya), stands equally
with his other volumes of the first rank in poetry, dramatic power, and
truth to life. It possesses also a force of tragedy and passion in love
which are altogether lacking, or but faintly indicated, in his other
masterpieces.
[Signature: Isabel F. Hapgood]
FROM 'THE INSPECTOR'
_Scene_: _A room in the house of the Chief of Police.
_Present_: _Chief of Police, Curator of Benevolent Institutions,
Superintendent of Schools, Judge, Commissary of Police, Doctor,
two Policemen._
_Chief_--I have summoned you, gentlemen, in order to communicate to you an
unpleasant piece of news: an Inspector is coming.
_Judge_--What! An Inspector?
_Chief_--An Inspector from St. Petersburg, incognito. And with secret
orders, to boot.
_Judge_--I thought so!
_Curator_--If there's not trouble, then I'm mistaken!
_Superintendent_--Heavens! And with secret orders, too!
_Chief_--I foresaw it: all last night I was dreaming of two huge rats; I
never saw such rats: they were black, and of supernatural size! They
came, and smelled, and went away. I will read you the letter I have
received from Andrei Ivan'itch Tchorikoff,--whom you know, Artemiy
Philip'itch. This is what he writes:--"Dear friend, gossip and
benefactor!" [_Mutters in an undertone, as he runs his eye quickly over
it._] "I hasten to inform you, among other things, that an official has
arrived with orders to inspect the entire government, and our district
in particular." [_Raises his finger significantly._] "I have heard this
from trustworthy people, although he represents himself as a private
individual. As I know that you are not quite free from faults, since you
are a sensible man, and do not like to let slip what runs into your
hands--" [_Pauses._] Well, here are some remarks about his own
affairs--"so I advise you to be on your guard: for he may arrive at any
moment, if he is not already arrived and living somewhere incognito.
Yesterday--" Well, what follows is about family matters--"My sister Anna
Kirilovna has come with her husband; Ivan Kirilitch has grown very fat,
and still plays the violin--" and so forth, and so forth. So there you
have the whole matter.
_Judge_--Yes, the matter is so unusual, so remarkable; something
unexpected.
_Superintendent_--And why? Anton Anton'itch, why is this? Why is the
Inspector coming hither?
_Chief_ [_sighs_]--Why? Evidently, it is fate. [_Sighs._] Up to this
time, God be praised, they have attended to other towns; now our turn
has come.
_Judge_--I think, Anton Anton'itch, that there is some fine political
cause at the bottom of this. This means something: Russia--yes--Russia
wants to go to war, and the minister, you see, has sent an official to
find out whether there is any treason.
_Chief_--What's got hold of him? A sensible man, truly! Treason in a
provincial town! Is it a border town--is it, now? Why, you could ride
away from here for three years and not reach any other kingdom.
_Judge_--No, I tell you. You don't--you don't--The government has subtle
reasons; no matter if it is out of the way, they don't care for that.
_Chief_--Whether they care or not, I have warned you, gentlemen. See to
it! I have made some arrangements in my own department, and I advise you
to do the same. Especially you, Artemiy Philip'itch! Without doubt, this
traveling official will wish first of all to inspect your
institutions--and therefore you must arrange things so that they will be
decent. The nightcaps should be clean, and the sick people should not
look like blacksmiths, as they usually do in private.
_Curator_--Well, that's a mere trifle. We can put clean nightcaps on
them.
_Chief_--And then, you ought to have written up over the head of each
bed, in Latin or some other language--that's your business--the name of
each disease: when each patient was taken sick, the day and hour. It is
not well that your sick people should smoke such strong tobacco that one
has to sneeze every time he goes in there. Yes, and it would be better
if there were fewer of them: it will be set down at once to bad
supervision or to lack of skill on the doctor's part.
_Curator_--Oh! so far as the doctoring is concerned, Christian
Ivan'itch and I have already taken measures: the nearer to nature the
better,--we don't use any expensive medicines. Man is a simple creature:
if he dies, why then he dies; if he gets well, why then he gets well.
And then, it would have been difficult for Christian Ivan'itch to make
them understand him--he doesn't know one word of Russian.
_Chief_--I should also advise you, Ammos Feodor'itch, to turn your
attention to court affairs. In the ante-room, where the clients usually
assemble, your janitor has got a lot of geese and goslings, which waddle
about under foot. Of course it is praiseworthy to be thrifty in domestic
affairs, and why should not the janitor be so too? only, you know, it is
not proper in that place. I meant to mention it to you before, but
always forgot it.
_Judge_--I'll order them to be taken to the kitchen this very day. Will
you come and dine with me?
_Chief_--And moreover, it is not well that all sorts of stuff should be
put to dry in the court-room, and that over the very desk, with the
documents, there should be a hunting-whip. I know that you are fond of
hunting, but there is a proper time for everything, and you can hang it
up there again when the Inspector takes his departure. And then your
assistant--he's a man of experience, but there's a smell about him as
though he had just come from a distillery--and that's not as it should
be. I meant to speak to you about it long ago, but something, I don't
recall now precisely what, put it out of my mind. There is a remedy, if
he really was born with the odor, as he asserts: you might advise him
to eat onions or garlic or something. In that case, Christian Ivan'itch
could assist you with some medicaments.
_Judge_--No, it's impossible to drive it out: he says that his mother
injured him when he was a child, and an odor of whisky has emanated from
him ever since.
_Chief_--Yes, I just remarked on it. As for internal arrangements, and
what Andrei Ivan'itch in his letter calls "faults," I can say nothing.
Yes, and strange to say, there is no man who has not his faults. God
himself arranged it so, and it is useless for the freethinkers to
maintain the contrary.
_Judge_--What do you mean by faults, Anton Anton'itch? There are various
sorts of faults. I tell every one frankly that I take bribes; but what
sort of bribes? greyhound pups. That's quite another thing.
_Chief_--Well, greyhound pups or anything else, it's all the same.
_Judge_--Well, no, Anton Anton'itch. But for example, if some one has a
fur coat worth five hundred rubles, and his wife has a shawl--
_Chief_--Well, and how about your taking greyhound pups as bribes? Why
don't you trust in God? You never go to church. I am firm in the faith,
at all events, and go to church every Sunday. But you--oh, I know you!
If you begin to talk about the creation of the world, one's hair rises
straight up on his head.
_Judge_--It came of itself, of its own accord.
_Chief_--Well, in some cases it is worse to have brains than to be
entirely without them. Besides, I only just mentioned the district
court: but to tell the truth, it is only very rarely that any one ever
looks in there; 'tis such an enviable place that God himself protects
it. And as for you, Luka Luk'itch, as superintendent of schools, you
must bestir yourself with regard to the teachers. They are educated
people, to be sure, and were reared at divers academies, but they have
very peculiar ways which go naturally with that learned profession. One
of them, for instance, the fat-faced one,--I don't recall his
name,--cannot get along without making grimaces when he takes his
seat;--like this [_makes a grimace_]: and then he begins to smooth his
beard out from under his neckerchief, with his hand. In short, if he
makes such faces at the scholars, there is nothing to be said: it must
be necessary; I am no judge of that. But just consider--if he were to
do that to a visitor it might be very unpleasant; the Inspector or any
one else might take it as personal. The Devil knows what might come of
it.
_Superintendent_--What am I to do with him? I have spoken to him about
it several times already. A few days ago, when our chief went into the
class-room, he made such a grimace as I never beheld before. He made it
out of good-will; but it is a judgment on me, because freethinking is
being inculcated in the young people.
_Chief_--And I must also mention the teacher of history. He's a wise
man, that's plain, and has acquired a great mass of learning; but he
expresses himself with so much warmth that he loses control of himself.
I heard him once: well, so long as he was talking about the Assyrians
and Babylonians, it was all right; but when he got to Alexander of
Macedon, I can't describe to you what came over him. I thought there was
a fire, by heavens! He jumped from his seat and dashed his chair to the
floor with all his might. Alexander of Macedon was a hero, no doubt; but
why smash the chairs? There will be a deficit in the accounts, just as
the result of that.
_Superintendent_--Yes, he is hasty! I have remarked on it to him several
times. He says, "What would you have? I would sacrifice my life for
science."
_Chief_--Yes, such is the incomprehensible decree of fate: a learned man
is always a drunkard, or else he makes faces that would scare the very
saints.
_Superintendent_--God forbid that he should inspect the educational
institutions. Everybody meddles and tries to show everybody else that he
is a learned man.
_Chief_--That would be nothing: that cursed incognito! All of a sudden
you hear--"Ah, here you are, my little dears! And who," says he, "is the
Judge here?"--"Lyapkin-Tyapkin."--"And who is the Superintendent of the
Hospital?"--"Zemlyanika!" That's the worst of it!
_Enter_ Postmaster
_Chief_---Well, how do you feel, Ivan Kusmitch?
_Postmaster_--How do I feel? How do _you_ feel, Anton Anton'itch?
_Chief_--How do I feel? I'm not afraid; and yet I am,--a little. The
merchants and citizens cause me some anxiety. They say I have been hard
with them; but God knows, if I have ever taken anything from them it was
not out of malice. I even think [_takes him by the arm and leads him
aside_]--I even think there may be a sort of complaint against me. Why,
in fact, is the Inspector coming to us? Listen, Ivan Kusmitch: why can't
you--for our common good, you know--open every letter which passes
through your office, going or coming, and read it, to see whether it
contains a complaint or is simply correspondence? If it does not, then
you can seal it up again. Besides, you could even deliver the letter
unsealed.
_Postmaster_--I know, I know. You can't tell me anything about that; I
always do it, not out of circumspection but out of curiosity: I'm deadly
fond of knowing what is going on in the world. It's very interesting
reading, I can tell you! It is a real treat to read some letters: they
contain such descriptions of occurrences, and they're so
improving--better than the Moscow News.
[The play proceeds: two men, the town busybodies, happen to
find at the inn a traveler who has been living on credit and
going nowhere for two weeks. The landlord is about to put his
lodger in prison for debt, when these men jump to the
conclusion that he is the Inspector. The Prefect and other
terrified officials accept the suggestion, in spite of his
plain statement as to his identity. They set about making the
town presentable, entertain and bribe him, and bow down to
him. He accepts their hospitality, asks loans, makes love to
the Prefect's silly wife and daughter, betroths himself to
the latter, receives the petitions and bribes of the
oppressed townspeople,--and drives off with the best
post-horses the town can furnish, ostensibly to ask the
blessing of his rich old uncle on his marriage. The
Postmaster intercepts a letter which he has written to a
friend. Its revelations, and the ridicule which he therein
casts on his hosts, open their eyes at last. At that moment a
gendarme appears and announces that the Inspector has
arrived. Tableau.]
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,'
by Isabel F. Hapgood
OLD-FASHIONED GENTRY
From 'Mirgorod'