Мертвые души

           Norareyouamodishly-fashionedvehicleoftheroad—athingofclampsandiron.Rather,youareavehiclebutshapenandfittedwiththeaxeorchiselofsomehandypeasantofYaroslav.NorareyoudrivenbyacoachmanclothedinGermanlivery,butbyamanbeardedandmittened.Seehimashemounts,andflourisheshiswhip,andbreaksintoalong-drawnsong!Awaylikethewindgothehorses,andthewheels,withtheirspokes,becometransparentcircles,andtheroadseemstoquiverbeneaththem,andapedestrian,withacryofastonishment,haltstowatchthevehicleasitflies,flies,fliesonitswayuntilitbecomeslostontheultimatehorizon—aspeckamidacloudofdust!

           Andyou,Russiaofmine—arenotyoualsospeedinglikeatroikawhichnoughtcanovertake?Isnottheroadsmokingbeneathyourwheels,andthebridgesthunderingasyoucrossthem,andeverythingbeingleftintherear,andthespectators,struckwiththeportent,haltingtowonderwhetheryoubenotathunderboltlaunchedfromheaven?Whatdoesthatawe-inspiringprogressofyoursforetell?Whatistheunknownforcewhichlieswithinyourmysterioussteeds?Surelythewindsthemselvesmustabideintheirmanes,andeveryveinintheirbodiesbeanearstretchedtocatchthecelestialmessagewhichbidsthem,withiron-girdedbreasts,andhooveswhichbarelytouchtheearthastheygallop,flyforwardonamissionofGod?Whither,then,areyouspeeding,ORussiaofmine?Whither?Answerme!Butnoanswercomes—onlytheweirdsoundofyourcollar-bells