the end of VOLUME 1 of ENFJ Gogol's novel DEAD SOULS

Chichikov did nothing but smile, slightly rising and falling on his leather cushion, because he delighted in rapid motion. And indeed, which Russian isn't fond of speedy travel? How could such a soul, longing to spin wildly, to lose itself in revelry, to sometimes cry out, 'To hell with everything!' --how could his soul not love it? How could one not love it, when it carries a hint of something blissfully magical? It seems as if some enigmatic force has lifted you aloft, borne upon its wing, and you yourself are flying, and everything is flying: the miles sweep past, merchants atop their kibitkas [wagons] hasten to meet you, the forest streams by on either hand with somber files of spruce and pine, resounding with the axe's stroke and the raven's cry; the entire road rushes off to some unknowable vanishing distance, and something terrifying is concealed in this rapid flickering, where the disappearing object does not have time to be discerned -- only the sky above your head, the light clouds, and the struggling moon alone seem motionless. Eh, troika! bird-troika, who was it that conceived you? surely you could only have been born among a spirited people, in that land that cares not for jesting, but has spread out smooth and level over half the earth, and you may go on counting the miles till they dance before your eyes. And it’s no clever device, it seems — no iron bolts hold it together — but with just an axe and a hammer, in haste yet with masterful strokes, a resourceful Yaroslavl peasant crafted you, alive and pulsing. No polished German boots for this coachman: just a wild beard and thick mittens, seated on the Devil knows what, then, with a swift rise, a sweeping motion, and a song bursting forth, the horses surge like a storm, the wheel spokes spinning into a perfect, smooth blur, the road quivers, a frightened passerby cries out -- and away they go, thundering, racing, vanishing into the distance!.. And there, far off, something looms into view, trailing dust and piercing the air.

And is it not so with you, Russia, that you rush on, a swift, invincible troika? The road beneath you smokes and smolders, the bridges thunder, and everything falls behind and remains in the background. An onlooker, overwhelmed by this divine wonder, froze in astonishment: is this not a bolt of lightning, cast down from the heavens? what is the meaning of this fear-inducing motion? and what kind of unfathomable strength resides in these otherworldly horses glowing with light? My God, what magnificent horses! Are your manes filled with raging whirlwinds? Does a watchful ear ignite in every sinew you possess? From above, they caught the sound of a familiar song, and all at once, their copper chests swelled with tension and, almost without touching the earth with their hooves, they became nothing but streaks of motion, gliding through the air -- an entire force, driven by divine inspiration, surging forward!.. Russia, where are you racing? answer me. No answer is given. A little bell pours forth with a marvelous ringing; the heavens thunder, and the air, torn to pieces by the wind, emerges; everything that exists on the ground rushes past, and, casting sidelong glances, other nations and kingdoms step aside and make way for the Russian troika.

ESSAY

Nikolai Gogol's famous passage from Dead Souls presents a vivid and poetic meditation on Russia, using the image of a galloping troika to symbolize the nation's untamed spirit, dynamism, and destiny. Through a blend of romanticized motion, ecstatic imagery, and nationalistic fervor, the passage captures the essence of Russia as a force of boundless energy, moving forward at an unstoppable pace, yet with an uncertain destination.

At the heart of the passage lies Chichikov, a character who delights in speed but is merely a passive observer of it. The description of him "slightly rising and falling on his leather cushion" conveys his pleasure in movement without active participation, a motif that reflects both the individual's role in history and the broader nature of Russian society, where individuals are often caught in the currents of a greater force. The passage then expands from this intimate moment of joy to a sweeping, panoramic view of Russia's terrain, where merchants, forests, and roadways blur in a frenzy of motion. The landscape itself seems animated, a living entity caught up in the ceaseless rush of history.

Gogol's imagery transforms the troika into a near-mythical creation. The simple peasant craftsmanship that constructs the vehicle is contrasted with its breathtaking, almost supernatural vitality. Unlike the mechanical precision of the West, this troika is born of instinct and improvisation, embodying the raw, untamed nature of the Russian soul. The coachman, wild and rugged, steers with intuitive mastery, suggesting that Russia's path forward is not charted by careful calculation but rather by sheer force of will and passion.

The troika becomes a metaphor for Russia itself--its speed, its unpredictability, its awe-inspiring power. The narrator addresses Russia directly, asking, "Where are you racing?" but receives no response. This unanswered question encapsulates a deep ambivalence about Russia's fate. The rapid motion is exhilarating, but it also contains an element of dread. The "frightened passerby," the road "smoking and smoldering," and the "terrifying" rapidity of disappearing images hint at an uncertainty about whether this race leads toward progress or ruin.

Moreover, the passage carries a strong nationalistic tone, presenting Russia's speed and vigor as a phenomenon that astonishes and surpasses other nations. The imagery of foreign lands watching in amazement as Russia blazes past suggests an imperial and expansionist vision. Yet, Gogol's style also imbues the moment with a sense of mystery -- Russia's strength is undeniable, but its direction remains unknown, leaving the reader to wonder whether this great force will ultimately reach a triumphant destiny or a tragic downfall.

In conclusion, Gogol's passage is not merely an ode to Russia's vitality but also a meditation on its fate. Through dazzling, almost hallucinatory prose, he captures the exhiliration and terror of a nation in perpetual motion. The troika, that "invincible" and uncontainable force, becomes a symbol of Russia's grandeur and uncertainty, hurtling forward without a clear destination, leaving both the reader and history itself breathless in its wake.