THE EVOLUTION OF REALISM IN RUSSIA.―GOGOL.
The first Russian tale or romance was published in 1799, but nothing
of note appeared before 1840; although we have seen what success
Karamzin obtained with his touching romances, especially with “La
Pauvre Lise.” Several historical romances also appeared about this
time, (1820), inspired, no doubt, by the unprecedented popularity and
success of those of Sir Walter Scott. But lyric poetry and romanticism
had not lost their influence, and even Pushkin’s little historical
tales savor more of the classic period, and are rather works of the
imagination than studies from real life. The historical and so-called
popular novel, however, with its superhuman heroes, was now becoming
tedious; and authors were already appearing who had begun to observe
the life around them attentively, and to take pleasure in studying
something outside of themselves. The same causes conspired to produce,
almost simultaneously, three writers destined to accomplish the same
task: Dickens in England, Balzac in France, and Gogol in Russia. Gogol
developed his work more slowly than the others at first, but collected
rich materials for his successors. He may be called the first of
Russian prose writers; and we shall see by a study of his character
and works, what a foundation he laid for future progress in prose
literature in his country, and what stirring controversies his books
called forth.
I.
Gogol was a Cossack, from Little Russia or Ukraine. For Russian
readers, that is quite enough to explain the peculiar qualities of his
mind and its productions, which were characterized by keen but kindly
satire, with a tinge of melancholy ever running through and underneath
it. He is the natural product of the land which gave him birth. This
frontier country is subject to the contending influences of both north
and south. For a few short months the sun revels there and accomplishes
an almost miraculous work―an oriental brilliancy of light by day, and
soft, enchanting nights under a sky resplendent with stars. Magnificent
harvests from the fertile soil ensure an easy, joyous life; all trouble
and sadness vanish with the melting snow, and spirits rise to general
gayety and enthusiasm.
But the boundless spaces, the limitless horizons of these sunny plains
overwhelm the spirit; one cannot long feel joyous in the presence of
Infinity. The habit of thought becomes like that of the eye; is lost
in space, develops an inclination to revery, which causes the mind to
fall back upon itself, and the imagination is, so to speak, thrown
inward.
Winter transforms the Russian. Upon the Dnieper the winter is nearly
as severe as on the Neva. There is nothing to check the icy winds from
the north. Death comes suddenly to claim its reign. Both earth and man
are paralyzed. Just as Ukraine was subjugated by the armies of Moscow,
so it is taken possession of by the climate of Moscow. On this great
battle-field nature carries out the plan of this country’s political
history, the vicissitudes of which have no doubt contributed, as well
as those of climate, to form its own peculiar physiognomy.
Little Russia was at one time overrun by the Turks; and derived from
its long association with them many oriental traits. Then it was
subdued by Poland, which has transmitted something of its savage luxury
to its vassal. Afterwards the Cossack leagues established there their
republican spirit of independence. The traditions of this epoch are
dearest of all to the heart of the Little Russian, who claims from
them his inheritance of wild freedom and prowess. An ancient order
of Cossack chivalry, the Zaporovian League, recruited from brigands
and fugitive serfs, had always been in constant warfare, obeying no
law but that of the sword. Families who were descended directly from
this stock (Gogol’s was one of them) inherited this spirit of revolt,
as well as wandering instincts, and a love of adventure and the
marvellous. The complex elements of this character, which is more free,
jovial, and prompt in action than that of the native of Russia proper,
have strongly influenced the literature of Russia through Gogol, whose
heart clung with tenacity to his native soil. In fact, the first half
of his life’s work is a picture of life in Ukraine, with its legends.
Gogol (Nikolai Vasilievitch) was born near Poltava in 1809, in the
very heart of the Cossack country. His grandfather, who was his first
teacher, was regimental scribe to the Zaporovian League.[B] The child
listened from infancy to the tales of this grandfather, inexhaustible
tales of heroic deeds during the great wars with Poland, as well
as thrilling exploits of these Corsairs of the Steppes. His young
imagination was fed with these stories, tragedies of military life, and
rustic fairy-tales and legends, which are given to us almost intact
in his “Evenings at the Farm,” and in his poem of “Taras Bulba.” His
whole surroundings spoke to him of an age of fable not long past; of
a primitive poetry still alive in the customs of the people. This
condensed poetry reaches us after passing through two prisms; the
recollections of old age, which recalls while it regrets the past;
and the impressions of a child’s fancy, which is dazzled by what it
hears. This was the first and perhaps the most profitable part of the
young boy’s education. He was afterwards put into an institution,
where he was taught Latin and other languages; but, according to his
biographers, he never excelled in scholarship. He must have made up for
lost time later on; for all his contemporaries speak of his extensive
reading and his perfect familiarity with all the literature of the
Occident.
His letters written to his mother before leaving school show already
the bent of his mind. Keen, observant, and satirical, his wit is
sometimes exercised at the expense of his comrades. He already showed
signs of a deeply religious nature, and was ambitious too of a great
career. His high hopes are sometimes temporarily crushed by a sudden
depression or feeling of discouragement, and in his letters he declaims
against the injustice of men. He feels the pervading influence of
the Byronism of that time. “I feel as if called,” cries the young
enthusiast, “to some great, some noble task, for the good of my
country, for the happiness of my fellow-citizens and of all mankind. My
soul feels the presence of an angel from heaven, calling, impelling me
towards the lofty aim I aspire to.”
A Russian who lived under the rule of the Emperor Nicholas, and was
eager to work for the happiness of his fellow-men, had no choice of
means. He must enter the government service, and laboriously climb the
steps of the administrative hierarchy, which appropriates to itself
every force of the community and nation. Having completed his studies,
Gogol set out for St. Petersburg. It was in the year 1829, and he was
twenty years of age. With empty pockets, but rich in illusions, he
approached the capital just as his Cossack ancestors had entered the
cities they conquered; thinking he had only to walk boldly forward
and claim everything he desired. But the future author, destined to
play so prominent a part in the life and literature of his country,
must now put aside his dreams and taste the stern reality of life. A
few weeks’ experience taught him that the great capital was for him
more of a desert than his native steppe. He was refused everything
he applied for; for a provincial with no letters of introduction
could expect nothing else. In a fit of despair, he determined to
leave St. Petersburg. One day, having received a small sum from his
mother, which she had saved to pay off a mortgage on their house,
instead of depositing the money in a bank, he jumped on board a ship
to go―somewhere, anywhere―forward, into the great world; like a
child who had become imbued with the spirit of adventure, from reading
Robinson Crusoe. He left the boat at her first landing-place, which
was Lubeck. Having wandered about the city for three days, he returned
to St. Petersburg, cured of his folly, and resigned to bear patiently
whatever was in store for him.
With great difficulty he obtained a modest position in an office
connected with the government, where he only remained one year, but
where he received impressions which were to haunt his whole future
life. It was here that he studied the model of that wretched hero of
his work, “Le Manteau,” in flesh and blood.
Becoming weary of his occupation, he attempted acting, but his voice
was not thought strong enough. He then became a tutor in families
of the aristocracy of St. Petersburg; and finally was appointed to
a professorship in the University. But although he made a brilliant
opening address, his pupils soon complained that he put them to sleep,
and he lost the situation. It was at this juncture that he took refuge
in literature. He published at first a few modest essays in the leading
journals, which attracted some attention, and Zhukovski had introduced
him to Pushkin. Gogol has related with what fear and trembling he rung
one morning at the door of the great poet. Pushkin had not yet risen,
having been up all night, as his valet said. When Gogol begged to be
excused for disturbing one so occupied with his literary labors, the
servant informed him that his master had passed the night playing
cards. What a disenchantment for an admirer of the great poet!
But Gogol was warmly welcomed. Pushkin’s noble heart, too great for
envy, enjoyed the success of others. His eager sympathy, lavish praise,
and encouragement have produced legions of authors. Gogol, among them
all, was his favorite. At first he advised him to write sketches
descriptive of the national history and the customs of the people.
Gogol followed his advice and wrote his “Evenings at a Farm near
Dikanka.”[C]
II.
This book is a chronicle of scenes of the author’s childhood; and all
his love and youthful recollections of the country of the Cossacks are
poured from his heart into this book.
A certain old man, whose occupation is that of raising bees, is the
story-teller of the party. He relates tales of Little Russia, so
that we see it under every aspect; and gives glimpses of scenery,
rustic habits and customs, the familiar dialogues of the people, and
all sorts of legends, both terrible and grotesque. The gay and the
supernatural are strangely blended in these recitals, but the gay
element predominates; for Gogol’s smile has as yet no bitterness
in it. His laugh is the hearty, frank laugh of the young Cossack
who enjoys life. All this is related in racy, expressive language,
full of words peculiar to Little Russia, curious local expressions,
and those affectionate diminutives quite impossible to translate or
express in a more formal language. Sometimes the author bursts forth
in a poetical vein, when certain impressions or scenes of his native
country float before his eyes. At the beginning of his “Night in
May” is this paragraph:―“Do you know the beauty of the nights of
Ukraine? The moon looks down from the deep, immeasurable vault, which
is filled to overflowing and palpitating with its pure radiance. The
earth is silver; the air is deliciously cool, yet almost oppressive
with perfume. Divine, enchanting night! The great forest trees, black,
solemn, and still, reposing as if oppressed with thought, throw out
their gigantic shadows. How silent are the ponds! Their dark waters
are imprisoned within the vine-laden walls of the gardens. The little
virgin forest of wild cherry and young plum-trees dip their dainty
roots timidly into the cold waters; their murmuring leaves angrily
shiver when a little current of the night wind stealthily creeps in to
caress them. The distant horizon sleeps, but above it and overhead all
is palpitating life; august, triumphal, sublime! Like the firmament,
the soul seems to open into endless space; silvery visions of grace and
beauty arise before it. Oh! the charm of this divine night!
“Suddenly life, animation, spreads through forest, lake, and steppe.
The nightingale’s majestic trill resounds through the air; the moon
seems to stop, embosomed in clouds, to listen. The little village
on the hill is wrapt in an enchanted slumber; its cluster of white
cottages gleam vividly in the moonlight, and the outlines of their low
walls are sharply clear-cut against the dark shadows. All songs are
hushed; silence reigns in the homes of these simple peasants. But here
and there a twinkling light appears in a little window of some cottage,
where supper has waited for a belated occupant.”
Then, from a scene like this, we are called to listen to a dispute and
quarrel between two soldiers, which ends in a dance. Now the scene
changes again. The lady of the lake, the Fate lady, rises from her
watery couch, and by her sorceries unravels the web of fortune. Again,
between the uproarious bursts of laughter, the old story-teller heaves
a melancholy sigh, and relates a bit of pathos,―for a vein of sadness
is always latent in the gay songs and legends of this people. These
sharp contrasts fill this work with life and color. The book excited
considerable attention, and was the more welcome as it revealed a
corner of Russia then hardly known. Gogol had struck the right chord.
Pushkin, who especially enjoyed humor, lauded the work to the skies;
and it is still highly appreciated by Russians.
As for us, while we recognize its high qualities, the work does not
wholly please us. Perhaps we are too old or morose to appreciate and
enjoy these rustic jokes, and the comic scenes are perhaps a little
coarse for our liking. It may be, too, that the enthusiastic readers
of 1832 looked upon life with different eyes from ours; and that it
is only the difference in time that biases our opinion. To them this
book was wonderfully in advance of its time; to us it seems perhaps
somewhat behind. Nothing is more difficult than to estimate what effect
a work which is already old (especially if it be written in a foreign
language) will produce on our readers of to-day. Are we amused by the
legend of “La Dame Blanche”? Certainly we are, for everybody enjoys it.
Then perhaps the “Ladies of the Lake” of Gogol’s book will be amusing.
In 1834 Gogol published his “Evenings near Mirgorod,” including a
veritable ghost story, terror-inspiring enough to make the flesh creep.
The principal work of this period of the author’s career, however, and
the one which established his fame, was “Taras Bulba,” a prose epic,
a poetical description of Cossack life as it was in his grandfather’s
time. Not every writer of modern epics has been so fortunate as Gogol;
to live at a time when he could apply Homer’s method to a subject
made to his hand; only repeating, as he himself said, the narratives
of his grandfather, an actual witness and actor in this Iliad. It
was scarcely more than half a century since the breaking-up of the
Zaporovian camps of the corsairs and the last Polish war, in which
Cossack and Pole vied with each other in ferocious deeds of valor,
license, and adventure. This war forms the subject of the principal
scenes of this drama, which also gives a vivid picture of the daily
life of the savage republic of the Zaporovian Cossacks. The work is
full of picturesque descriptions, and possesses every quality belonging
to an epic poem.
M. Viardot has given us an honest version of “Taras Bulba,” giving more
actual information about this republic of the Dnieper than any of the
erudite dissertations on the subject. But what is absolutely impossible
to render in a translation is the marvellous beauty of Gogol’s poetic
prose. The Russian language is undoubtedly the richest of all the
European languages. It is so very clear and concise that a single word
is often sufficient to express several different connected ideas,
which, in any other language, would require several phrases. Therefore
I will refrain from giving any quotations of these classic pages, which
are taught in all the Russian schools.
The poem is very unequal in some respects. The love passages are
inferior and commonplace, and the scenes of passion decidedly hackneyed
in style and expression. In regard to epic poems, the truth is that the
mould is worn out; it has been used too long; although Guizot, one of
the best judges of this sort of composition, said that in his opinion
“Taras Bulba” was the only modern epic poem worthy of the name.
Even the descriptions of scenery in “Taras” do not seem to us wholly
natural. We must compare them with those of Turgenef to realize
how comparatively inferior they are. Both were students and lovers
of nature: but the one artist placed his model before his easel in
whatever attitude he chose; while to the other she was a despotic
mistress, whose every fancy he humbly obeyed. This can be readily
understood by a comparison of some of their works. Although I am not
fond of epics, I have called particular attention to “Taras Bulba,”
knowing what pride the Russians take in the work.
III.
In 1835, Nikolai Vasilievitch (Gogol) gave up his position in the
University, and left the public service for good. “Now I am again
a free Cossack!” he wrote at this time, which was the time of his
greatest literary activity.
His novels now show him groping after realism, rather than indulging
his fancy. Among the unequal productions of the transition period, “Le
Manteau” is the most notable one. A late Russian politician and author
once said to me: “Nous sommes tous sortis du manteau de Gogol.”
“Le Manteau” (as well as the “Revizor,” “Inspector-General”) was the
outgrowth of his one year’s experience in the government offices; and
the fulfilment of a desire to avenge his life of a galley slave while
there. These works were his first blows aimed at the administrative
power. Gogol had always had a desire to write for the stage; and
produced several satirical comedies; but none of them, except the
“Revizor,” had any success. The plot of the piece is quite simple.
The functionaries of a provincial government office are expecting
the arrival of an inspector, who was supposed to come incognito to
examine their books and accounts. A traveller chances to alight at
the inn, whom they all suppose to be the dreaded officer of justice.
Their guilty consciences make them terribly anxious. Each one attacks
the supposed judge, to plead his own cause, and denounce a colleague,
slipping into the man’s hand a generous supply of propitiatory roubles.
Amazed at first, the stranger is, however, astute enough to accept the
situation and pocket the money. The confusion increases, until comes
the crash of the final thunderbolt, when the real commissioner arrives
upon the scene.
The intention of the piece is clearly marked. The venality and
arbitrariness of the administration are exposed to view. Gogol says, in
his “Confessions of an Author”: “In the ‘Revizor,’ I tried to present
in a mass the results arising from the one crying evil of Russia, as I
recognized it in that year; to expose every crime that is committed in
those offices, where the strictest uprightness should be required and
expected. I meant to satirize the great evil. The effect produced upon
the public was a sort of terror; for they felt the force of my true
sentiments, my real sadness and disgust, through the gay satire.”
In fact, the disagreeable effect predominated over the fun, especially
in the opinion of a foreigner; for there is nothing of the French
lightness and elegance of diction in the Russian style. I mean that
quality which redeems Molière’s “Tartuffe” from being the blackest and
most terrible of dramas.
When we study the Russian drama, we can see why this form of art is
more backward in that country than in any other. Poetry and romance
have made more rapid strides, because they are taken up only by the
cultivated class. There is virtually no middle class; and theatrical
literature, the only diversion for the people, has remained in its
infancy.
There is an element of coarseness in the drollery of even the two
masterpieces: the comedy by Griboyedof, “Le Mal de Trop d’Esprit,”
and the “Revizor” by Gogol. In their satire there is no medium
between broad fun and bitterness. The subtle wit of the French
author ridicules without wounding; his keen witticism calls forth
laughter; while the sharp, cutting satire of the Russian produces
bitter reflection and regret. His drollery is purely national, and is
exercised more upon external things and local peculiarities; while
Molière rails at and satirizes humanity and its ways and weaknesses.
I have often seen the “Revizor” performed. The amiable audience laugh
immoderately at what a foreigner cannot find amusing, and which
would be utterly incomprehensible to one not well acquainted with
Russian life and customs. On the contrary, a stranger recognizes much
more keenly than a Russian the undercurrent of pathos and censure.
Administrative reform is yet too new in Russia for the public to
be as much shocked as one would expect at the spectacle of a venal
administration. The evil is so very old!
Whoever is well acquainted with the Oriental character knows that their
ideas of morality are broader, or, rather, more lax, than ours, because
their ideas of the rights of the government are different. The root of
these notions may be traced to the ancient principle of tribute money;
the old claim of the powerful over the weak, whom they protect and
patronize.
What strikes us as the most astonishing thing in regard to this comedy
is that it has been tolerated at all. We cannot understand, from
what we know of the Emperor Nicholas, how he could have enjoyed such
an audacious satire upon his government; but we learn that he himself
laughed heartily, giving the signal for applause from his royal box.
His relations with Gogol are very significant, showing the helplessness
of the absolute power against the consequences of its own existence. No
monarch ever did more to encourage talent, or in a more delicate way.
Some one called his attention to the young author’s poverty.
“Has he talent?” asked the Czar. Being assured that he had, the Emperor
immediately placed the sum of 5000 roubles[D] at his disposition,
saying, with the greatest delicacy: “Do not let your protégé know that
the gift comes from me; he would be less independent in the exercise
of his talents.” The Emperor continued therefore in future to supply
him incognito, through the poet Zhukovski. Thanks to the imperial
munificence, this incorrigible traveller could expatriate himself to
his heart’s content, and get rest and refreshment for future labors.
The year 1836 was a critical one for Gogol. He became ill in body
and mind, and the melancholy side of his nature took the ascendency.
Although his comedy had been a great success at St. Petersburg and
at court, such a work could not but excite rancor and raise up
enemies for its author. He became morbidly sensitive, and considered
himself the object of persecution. A nervous disease, complicated
with hypochondria, began to undermine his constitution. A migratory
instinct, which always possessed him in any crisis of his life, now
made him resolve to travel; “to fly,” as he said. But he never returned
to his country for any length of time, and only at long intervals;
declaring, as Turgenef did some years later, that his own country, the
object of his studies, was best seen from afar.
After travelling extensively, Gogol finally settled at Rome, where he
formed a strong friendship with the painter Ivanof, who for twenty
years had been in retirement in a Capuchin monastery, working upon
his picture, which he never finished, “The Birth of Christ.” The two
friends became deeply imbued with an ascetic piety; and from this time
dates the mysticism attributed to Gogol. But before his mind became
obscured he collected his forces for his last and greatest effort.
He carried away with him from Russia the conception of this work,
which excluded all other thoughts from his mind. It ruled his whole
existence, as Goethe was for thirty years ruled by his “Faust.”
Gogol gave Pushkin the credit of having suggested the work to him,
which never was finished, but which he wrestled with until he finally
succumbed, vanquished by it. Pushkin had spoken to him of his physical
condition, fearing a premature death; and urged him to undertake a
great work, quoting the example of Cervantes, whose works previous to
“Don Quixote” would never have classed him among the great authors.
He suggested a subject, which he said he never should have given to
any other person. It was the subject of “Dead Souls.” In spite of the
statement, I cannot help feeling that “Dead Souls” was inspired by
Cervantes; for, on leaving Russia, Gogol had gone at once to Spain,
where he studied the literature of that country diligently; especially
“Don Quixote,” which had always been his favorite book. It furnished
a theme just suited to his plan; the adventures of a hero impelled to
penetrate into every strange region and into every stratum of society;
an ingenious excuse for presenting to the world in a series of pictures
the magic lantern of humanity. Both works proceed from a satirical and
meditative mind, the sadness of which is veiled under a smile, and both
belong to a style unique in itself, entirely original. Gogol objected
to his work being called a romance. He called it a poem, and divided
it into songs instead of chapters. Whatever title may be bestowed upon
Cervantes’ masterpiece may just as appropriately be applied to “Dead
Souls.”
His “poem” was to be in three parts. The first part appeared in 1842;
the second, unfinished and rudimentary, was burned by the author in a
frenzy of despair; but after his death it was printed from a copy which
escaped destruction. As to the third, it is perhaps interred with his
bones, which repose in the cemetery at Moscow under the block of marble
which bears his name.
IV.
It is well known that the Russian peasants or serfs, “Souls” as they
were popularly called, were personal property, and to be traded with
in exactly the same way as any other kind of property. A proprietor’s
fortune was reckoned according to the number of male serfs he owned.
If any man owned, for instance, a thousand of them, he could sell or
exchange them, or obtain loans upon them from the banks. The owner was,
besides, obliged to pay taxes upon them at so much a head. The census
was taken only at long intervals, during which the lists were never
examined. The natural changes of population and increase by births
being supposed to make up for the deaths. If a village was depopulated
by an epidemic, the ruling lord and master sustained the loss,
continuing to pay taxes for those whose work was done forever.
Tchitchikof, the hero of the book, an ambitious and evil-minded rascal,
made this proposition to himself: “I will visit the most remote corners
of Russia, and ask the good people to deduct from the number on their
lists every serf who has died since the last census was taken. They
will be only too glad, as it will be for their interest to yield up
to me a fictitious property, and get rid of paying the tax upon it. I
shall have my purchases registered in due form, and no tribunal will
imagine that I require it to legalize a sale of dead men. When I have
obtained the names of some thousands of serfs, I shall carry my deeds
to some bank in St. Petersburg or Moscow, and raise a large sum on
them. Then I shall be a rich man, and in condition to buy real peasants
in flesh and blood.”
This proceeding offers great advantages to the author in attaining
his ends. He enters, with his hero, all sorts of homes, and studies
social groups of all classes. The demand the hero makes is one
calculated to exhibit the intelligence and peculiar characteristics
of each proprietor. The trader enters a house and makes the strange
proposition: “Give me up the number of your dead serfs,” without
explaining, of course, his secret motives. After the first shock of
surprise, the man comprehends more or less quickly what is wanted of
him, and acts from instinct, according to his nature. The simple-minded
give willingly gratis what is asked of them; the distrustful are on
their guard, and try to penetrate the mystery, and gain something for
themselves by the arrangement; the avaricious exact an exorbitant
price. Tchitchikof finds some wretches more evil than himself. The only
case which never occurs is an indignant refusal, or a denunciation;
the financier well knew how few scruples he should have to contend with
in his fellow-countrymen.
The enterprise supplied Gogol with an inexhaustible source of both
comic and touching incidents and situations. The skilful author,
while he apparently ignores, under an assumption of pleasantry, the
lugubrious element in what he describes, makes it the real background
of the whole narrative, so that it reacts terribly upon the reader.
The first readers of this work, and possibly even the author himself,
hardly appreciated the force of these contrasts; because they were
so accustomed to the horrors of serfdom that an abuse of this nature
seemed to them a natural proceeding. But with time the effect of the
book increases; and the atrocious mockery of using the dead as articles
of merchandise, which seems to prolong the terrors of slavery, from
which death has freed them, strikes the reader with horror.
The types of character created by Gogol in this work are innumerable;
but that of the hero is the most curious of all, and was the outgrowth
of laborious study. Tchitchikof is not a Robert Macaire, but rather a
serious Gil Blas, without his genius. The poor devil was born under
an unlucky star. He was so essentially bad that he carried on his
enterprise without seeming to realize the enormous immorality of it.
In fact, he was wronging no one, in his own opinion.
Gogol makes an effort to broaden this type of character, and include in
it a greater number of individuals; and we can see thereby the author’s
intention, which is to show us a type, a collective image of Russia
herself, irresponsible for her degradation, corrupted by her own social
condition.
This is the real, underlying theory of “Dead Souls,” and of the
“Revizor,” as well as of Turgenef’s “Annals of a Sportsman.” In all
the moralists of this time we recognize the fundamental sophistry of
Rousseau, who poisoned the reasoning faculties of all Europe.
At the end of the first part the author attempts a half-ironical,
half-serious defence of Tchitchikof. After giving an account of his
origin, he says: “The wise man must tolerate every type of character;
he must examine all with attention, and resolve them into their
original elements…. The passions of man are as numberless as the sands
upon the sea-shore, and have no points of resemblance; noble or base,
all obey man in the beginning, and end by obtaining terrible power
over him…. They are born with him, and he is powerless to resist them.
Whether sombre or brilliant, they will fulfil their entire career.”…
From this analysis, this argument of psychological positivism, the
writer, in a roundabout way, goes back ingeniously to the designs of
Providence, which has ordered all for the best, and will show the right
path out of this chaos.[E]
What is after all most remarkable about the book is that it is the
reservoir of all contemporary literature, the source of all future
inventions.
The realism, which is only instinctive in Gogol’s preceding works, is
the main doctrine in “Dead Souls”; and of this he is fully conscious.
The author thus apologizes for bringing the lower classes so constantly
before the reader:―
“Thankless is the task of the writer who dares reproduce what is
constantly passing before the eyes of all, unnoticed by our distracted
gaze: all the disgusting little annoyances and trials of our every-day
lives; the ordinary, indifferent characters we must constantly meet
and put up with. How they hinder and weary us! Such a writer will not
have the applause of the masses; contemporary critics will consider
his creations both low and useless, and will assign him an inferior
place among those writers who scoff at humanity. He will be declared
wanting in heart, soul, and talent. For his critic will not admit those
instruments to be equally marvellous, one of which reveals the sun and
the other the motions of invisible animalculæ; neither will he admit
what depth of thought is required to make a masterpiece of a picture,
the subject of which is drawn from the darker side of human life.”….
Again, in one of his letters, he says:―
“Those who have analyzed my powers as a writer have not discerned the
important element of my nature, or my peculiar bent. Pushkin alone
perceived it. He always said that I was especially endowed to bring
into relief the trivialities of life, to analyze an ordinary character,
to bring to light the little peculiarities which escape general
observation. This is, I think, my strong point. The reader resents
the baseness of my heroes; after reading the book he returns joyfully
to the light of day. I should have been pardoned had I only created
picturesque villains; their baseness is what will never be pardoned. A
Russian shrinks before the picture of his nothingness.”
We shall see that the largest portion of the later Russian novels were
all generated by the spirit of this initiative book, which gives to the
Slav literature its peculiar physiognomy, as well as its high moral
worth. We find in many a passage in “Dead Souls,” breathing through the
mask of raillery and sarcasm, that heavenly sentiment of fraternity,
that love for the despised and pity for the suffering, which animate
all Dostoyevski’s writing. In another letter he says:―
“Pity for a fallen human creature is a strong Russian trait. There is
no spectacle more touching than our people offer when they go to assist
and cheer on their way those who are condemned to exile in Siberia.
Every one brings what he can; provisions, money, perhaps only a few
consoling words. They feel no irritation against the criminal; neither
do they indulge in any exaggerated sentiment which would make a hero of
him. They do not request his autograph or his likeness; neither do they
go to stare at him out of curiosity, as often happens in more civilized
parts of Europe. There is here something more; it is not that they
wish to make excuses for the criminal, or wrest him from the hands of
justice; but they would comfort him in his fallen condition; console
him as a brother, as Christ has told us we should console each other.”
In “Dead Souls,” the true sentiment is always masked, which makes it
the more telling; but when the first part appeared, in 1842, it was
received by some with stupefaction, by others with indignation. Were
their countrymen a set of rascals, idiots, and poor wretches, without a
single redeeming quality? Gogol wrote: “When I read the first chapters
of my book to Pushkin, he was prepared to laugh, as usual whenever
he heard anything of mine. But his brow soon clouded, and his face
gradually grew serious. When I had finished, he cried, with a choking
voice: ‘Oh, God! poor Russia!’”
Many accused the writer of having judged his fellow-countrymen from a
sick man’s point of view; and considered him a traducer of mankind.
They reminded him that, in spite of the evils of serfdom and the
corruption of the administration, there were still plenty of noble
hearts and honest people in the empire of Nicholas. The unfortunate
author found that he had written too strongly. He must now make
explanations, publish public letters and prefaces imploring his readers
to suspend their judgment until he produced the second part of the
poem, which would counteract the darkness of the first. But such was
not the case. No bright visions proceeded from the saddened brain of
the caricaturist.
However, every one read the work; and its effect has never ceased
increasing as a personification of the Russia of former times. It
has for forty years been the foundation of the wit of the entire
nation. Every joke has passed into a proverb, and the sayings of its
characters have become household words. The foreigner who has not read
“Dead Souls” is often puzzled in the course of conversation, for he
is ignorant of the family traditions and the ideal ancestors they are
continually referring to. Tchitchikof, his coachman Seliphan, and their
three horses are, to a Russian, as familiar friends as Don Quixote,
Sancho, and Rosinante can be to a Spaniard.
V.
Gogol returned from Rome in 1846. His health rapidly declined, and
attacks of fever made any brain-work difficult for him. However, he
went on with his work; but his pen betrayed the condition of his
nerves. In a crisis of the disease he burned all his books as well as
the manuscript of the second part of the poem. He now became absorbed
in religious meditations; and, desiring to make a pilgrimage to the
Holy Land, he published his last work, “Letters to my Friends,” in
order to raise the necessary funds, and to “entreat their prayers
for him,” as he said in his preface. These letters were written in a
religious vein, but intermingled with literary arguments; and not one
of his satirical works raised up for him so many enemies and such abuse
as this religious treatise. It is difficult to account for the intense
excitement it produced, and the lengthy arguments it called forth. The
second half of the reign of Nicholas is a period but little understood.
In the march of ideas of that time, there were already indications
of the coming revolutionary movement among the young men, which was
entirely opposed to the doctrines brought forward by Gogol. These
contained a good deal of philosophy, as well as ancient truths, mingled
with some new ideas, which are exactly those of the present day. But
these, because they were new, were just what met with the strongest
opposition; and he was now accused of taking upon himself the direction
of consciences, and of arrogating to himself the right to do so by
dint of his intellectual superiority. His letters present a curious
combination of Christian humility and literary pride. He was declared
to have fallen into mysticism; but any one who now reads his letters
carefully cannot call him a mystic. The fact that he gave up writing
to recover his health would only be considered at any other epoch
reasonable and natural. Tolstoï, who has acted in a similar manner,
protests against this epithet being applied to him. He, however,
proposes to us a new theology, while Gogol clung to the established
dogmas. Possibly what would have been called “mysticism” in 1840 would
not have been looked upon as such two centuries earlier, any more than
it is a half-century later.
But what became of the poor author in the midst of the tempest he
himself had raised? He went to Jerusalem and wandered for a time
among its ancient ruins; hardly a wholesome sphere for a sick and
morbid soul. Returning to Moscow, he was made welcome in the homes of
friends. But the Cossack nature could not rest in any fixed spot. He
had no money, for he had given everything he had to the poor. Since
1844 the whole receipts from his works he gave to poor students. He
brought with him only a small valise, which was crammed with newspaper
articles, criticisms, and pamphlets written against him. This was all
he possessed.
A person who lived in a house which he often visited thus described
him: “He was short, but the upper part of his body was too long; he
walked with an uneven gait, was awkward and ungainly; his hair fell
over his forehead in thick locks, and his nose was long and prominent.
He conversed but little, and not readily. Occasionally a touch of
his old gayety returned, especially when with children, whom he
passionately loved. But he soon fell back into his hypochondria.” This
description agrees with what Turgenef wrote of him, after his first
visit to him. “There was a slight gleam of satire in his heavy eyes,
which were small and dark. His expression was somewhat like that of a
fox. In his general appearance there was something of the provincial
schoolmaster.” Gogol had always been awkward and plain, which naturally
produced in him a habitual timidity. This is perhaps why, according
to his biographers, no woman ever crossed his path. We can therefore
understand why he so rarely wrote of women.
It is almost universally believed that he died from the effects of his
excessive fastings and mortification of the flesh; but I have learned
from reliable sources that an aggravation of his disease, with typhoid
symptoms, caused his death. But little is known of his latter years. He
aged rapidly, as Russians do, and ended his work at the time of life
when others begin theirs. A mysterious fatality has attended nearly
all the writers of his time, who have all died at about the age of
forty. The children of Russia develop as her vegetation does. It grows
quickly and matures young, but its magnificent growth is soon cut off,
benumbed while still in perfection. At the age of thirty-three, after
the publication of “Dead Souls,” the productive brain-power of Nikolai
Vasilievitch was wellnigh ruined. At forty-three he died, on the 21st
of February, 1852. The event of his death made but little sensation.
The imperial favor had quite forgotten this writer. Even the governor
of Moscow was criticized for putting on the regalia of his order to
attend the funeral. Turgenef was exiled to his own distant estates as a
punishment for having written a letter in which he called the deceased
author “a great man.” Posterity, however, has ratified this title.
Gogol may now be ranked, according to some critics, with the best
English humorists; but I should place him rather between Cervantes and
Le Sage. Perhaps it may be too soon to judge him. Should we appreciate
“Don Quixote” now if Spanish literature had not been known for three
hundred years? When we were children we laughed whenever an _alguazil_
or an _alcalde_ was mentioned.
Gogol introduces us to an untried world. I must warn the reader that
he will at first find difficulties―the strangest customs; an array of
characters not in any way connected; names as strange as the people
who bear them. He must not expect the attractive style or class of
subjects of Tolstoï and Dostoyevski. _They_ show us results, not
principles; they tell of what we can better apprehend; for what they
have studied is more common to all Europe. Gogol wrote of more remote
times, and, besides, he and his work are thoroughly and exclusively
Russian. To be appreciated by men of letters, then, his works must be
admirably translated; which, unfortunately, has never yet been done.
We must leave him, therefore, in Russia, where all the new authors of
any distinction recognize in him their father and master. They owe
to him their very language. Although Turgenef’s is more subtile and
harmonious, its originator has more life, variety, and energy.
One of the last sentences that fell from his pen, in his “Confessions
of an Author,” was this:―
“I have studied life as it really is―not in dreams of the imagination;
and thus have I come to a conception of Him who is the source of all
life.”
FOOTNOTES:
[B] _Zaporovian_ commonwealth, so-called from
“_Zaporozhtsi_,” meaning those who live beyond the
rapids.
[C] “Veillées dans un hameau près de Dikanka.”
[D] About $4000.
[E] The quotation of this paragraph in full should be
given here, in order to obtain a clear understanding
of Gogol’s thought; but the French translator has
omitted too much.