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- Николай Гоголь
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- Стр. 149/232
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"
Tut
,
tut
,
tut
!
"
came
in
a
shout
from
Chichikov
.
"
Hi
,
Selifan
!
"
"
What
is
it
?
"
came
the
reply
,
uttered
with
a
drawl
.
"
What
is
it
?
Why
,
how
dare
you
drive
like
that
?
Come
!
Bestir
yourself
a
little
!
"
And
indeed
,
Selifan
had
long
been
sitting
with
half-closed
eyes
,
and
hands
which
bestowed
no
encouragement
upon
his
somnolent
steeds
save
an
occasional
flicking
of
the
reins
against
their
flanks
;
whilst
Petrushka
had
lost
his
cap
,
and
was
leaning
backwards
until
his
head
had
come
to
rest
against
Chichikov
's
knees
--
a
position
which
necessitated
his
being
awakened
with
a
cuff
.
Selifan
also
roused
himself
,
and
apportioned
to
the
skewbald
a
few
cuts
across
the
back
of
a
kind
which
at
least
had
the
effect
of
inciting
that
animal
to
trot
;
and
when
,
presently
,
the
other
two
horses
followed
their
companion
's
example
,
the
light
britchka
moved
forwards
like
a
piece
of
thistledown
.
Selifan
flourished
his
whip
and
shouted
,
"
Hi
,
hi
!
"
as
the
inequalities
of
the
road
jerked
him
vertically
on
his
seat
;
and
meanwhile
,
reclining
against
the
leather
cushions
of
the
vehicle
's
interior
,
Chichikov
smiled
with
gratification
at
the
sensation
of
driving
fast
.
For
what
Russian
does
not
love
to
drive
fast
?
Which
of
us
does
not
at
times
yearn
to
give
his
horses
their
head
,
and
to
let
them
go
,
and
to
cry
,
"
To
the
devil
with
the
world
!
"
?
At
such
moments
a
great
force
seems
to
uplift
one
as
on
wings
;
and
one
flies
,
and
everything
else
flies
,
but
contrariwise
--
both
the
verst
stones
,
and
traders
riding
on
the
shafts
of
their
waggons
,
and
the
forest
with
dark
lines
of
spruce
and
fir
amid
which
may
be
heard
the
axe
of
the
woodcutter
and
the
croaking
of
the
raven
.
Yes
,
out
of
a
dim
,
remote
distance
the
road
comes
towards
one
,
and
while
nothing
save
the
sky
and
the
light
clouds
through
which
the
moon
is
cleaving
her
way
seem
halted
,
the
brief
glimpses
wherein
one
can
discern
nothing
clearly
have
in
them
a
pervading
touch
of
mystery
.
Ah
,
troika
,
troika
,
swift
as
a
bird
,
who
was
it
first
invented
you
?
Only
among
a
hardy
race
of
folk
can
you
have
come
to
birth
--
only
in
a
land
which
,
though
poor
and
rough
,
lies
spread
over
half
the
world
,
and
spans
versts
the
counting
whereof
would
leave
one
with
aching
eyes
.
Nor
are
you
a
modishly-fashioned
vehicle
of
the
road
--
a
thing
of
clamps
and
iron
.
Rather
,
you
are
a
vehicle
but
shapen
and
fitted
with
the
axe
or
chisel
of
some
handy
peasant
of
Yaroslav
.
Nor
are
you
driven
by
a
coachman
clothed
in
German
livery
,
but
by
a
man
bearded
and
mittened
.
See
him
as
he
mounts
,
and
flourishes
his
whip
,
and
breaks
into
a
long-drawn
song
!
Away
like
the
wind
go
the
horses
,
and
the
wheels
,
with
their
spokes
,
become
transparent
circles
,
and
the
road
seems
to
quiver
beneath
them
,
and
a
pedestrian
,
with
a
cry
of
astonishment
,
halts
to
watch
the
vehicle
as
it
flies
,
flies
,
flies
on
its
way
until
it
becomes
lost
on
the
ultimate
horizon
--
a
speck
amid
a
cloud
of
dust
!
And
you
,
Russia
of
mine
--
are
not
you
also
speeding
like
a
troika
which
nought
can
overtake
?
Is
not
the
road
smoking
beneath
your
wheels
,
and
the
bridges
thundering
as
you
cross
them
,
and
everything
being
left
in
the
rear
,
and
the
spectators
,
struck
with
the
portent
,
halting
to
wonder
whether
you
be
not
a
thunderbolt
launched
from
heaven
?
What
does
that
awe-inspiring
progress
of
yours
foretell
?
What
is
the
unknown
force
which
lies
within
your
mysterious
steeds
?
Surely
the
winds
themselves
must
abide
in
their
manes
,
and
every
vein
in
their
bodies
be
an
ear
stretched
to
catch
the
celestial
message
which
bids
them
,
with
iron-girded
breasts
,
and
hooves
which
barely
touch
the
earth
as
they
gallop
,
fly
forward
on
a
mission
of
God
?
Whither
,
then
,
are
you
speeding
,
O
Russia
of
mine
?
Whither
?
Answer
me
!
But
no
answer
comes
--
only
the
weird
sound
of
your
collar-bells
Rent
into
a
thousand
shreds
,
the
air
roars
past
you
,
for
you
are
overtaking
the
whole
world
,
and
shall
one
day
force
all
nations
,
all
empires
to
stand
aside
,
to
give
you
way
!
Why
do
I
so
persistently
paint
the
poverty
,
the
imperfections
of
Russian
life
,
and
delve
into
the
remotest
depths
,
the
most
retired
holes
and
corners
,
of
our
Empire
for
my
subjects
?
The
answer
is
that
there
is
nothing
else
to
be
done
when
an
author
's
idiosyncrasy
happens
to
incline
him
that
way
.
So
again
we
find
ourselves
in
a
retired
spot
.
But
what
a
spot
!
Imagine
,
if
you
can
,
a
mountain
range
like
a
gigantic
fortress
,
with
embrasures
and
bastions
which
appear
to
soar
a
thousand
versts
towards
the
heights
of
heaven
,
and
,
towering
grandly
over
a
boundless
expanse
of
plain
,
are
broken
up
into
precipitous
,
overhanging
limestone
cliffs
.
Here
and
there
those
cliffs
are
seamed
with
water-courses
and
gullies
,
while
at
other
points
they
are
rounded
off
into
spurs
of
green
--
spurs
now
coated
with
fleece-like
tufts
of
young
undergrowth
,
now
studded
with
the
stumps
of
felled
trees
,
now
covered
with
timber
which
has
,
by
some
miracle
,
escaped
the
woodman
's
axe
.
Also
,
a
river
winds
awhile
between
its
banks
,
then
leaves
the
meadow
land
,
divides
into
runlets
(
all
flashing
in
the
sun
like
fire
)
,
plunges
,
re-united
,
into
the
midst
of
a
thicket
of
elder
,
birch
,
and
pine
,
and
,
lastly
,
speeds
triumphantly
past
bridges
and
mills
and
weirs
which
seem
to
be
lying
in
wait
for
it
at
every
turn
.
