Our author ran out of time and could not describe Selifan. Using the standard Gogolian ability to create something out of nothing, create a 250-300 word background story of Selifan using your best Gogolian grotesque.
Our author ran out of time and could not describe Selifan. Using the standard Gogolian ability to create something out of nothing, create a 250-300 word background story of Selifan using your best Gogolian grotesque.
The young Selifan was abandoned soon after birth, hidden on top of some potatoes in a sack at the local market. What a nasty surprise for that customer! When Ivan Vasilievich Vaprosevich arrived home, he was dismayed to find that he had paid for twenty pounds of potatoes, but had gotten only twelve; he had paid for the orphaned boy with his weight in potatoes – when he could have gotten him for free. Old Ivan Vasilievich promptly inquired of the babe as to his name, and upon hearing the reply, called him Selifan ever since. Ivan Vasilievich was, of course, a poor serf, and he worked in the stables of a great estate not far from Moscow. Ivan Vasilievich would lay Selifan in a bundle of hay while he tended to the horses, and this made quite an impression on Selifan. As he grew, his hair become more and more straw-like in appearance, frequently seeming as a haystack on top of Selifan’s head. His limbs seemed like those of a scarecrow stuffed full of straw, and even his complexion took on the hue of a damp bale, moldering in the corner of a barn. His voice matched the neighing of the horses: Selifan might have learned to speak Russian from Ivan Vasilievich, but he learned pronunciation from the horses in the stables. Throughout his life, he always praised the performance of his horses, noticing that his voice was most agreeable to their ears. One day, Ivan Vasilievich forgot to tighten the saddle on the landowner’s favorite steed, for which he was severely reprimanded. The fierce scolding shook him so badly that he died within hours. The landowner felt very guilty, and the sight of Selifan always put him in a nasty temper. So, within a month, Selifan was working for Chichikov, and from there the reader knows the course of events.
Our coachman Selifan is of little interest, but for the sake of the small role he will play later in our hero’s story the author will happily paint his portrait, namely, that of a rancid cabbage teetering upon a sheepskin jacket of which, it must be added, our coachman was more than slightly fond – yes! What a jacket indeed! Little on his person would tell you that this young cabbage – let us call him our cabbageling – stuffed into various articles of clothing was once a most worthy keeper of sheep, such that his previous master – of the idly philanthropic sort – gave the green (and squinched) young Selifan a coat from his favorite sheep, thinking it quite the suitable gift.
And so it was. Our Selifan the young, as he passed from green youth into beige adulthood and finally into a decidedly putrid purple middle-age, wore that coat and treasured it above all possessions, taking it as a sort of anchor in life, the kind a serf need without land to till or sheep to graze – in short, he missed the sedentary life of our great, expansive Russia, with its blissfully unfolding steppes and needle forests…but we digress. In moving from shepherding to coach-driving our Selifan felt most greatly promoted in life, such that at each inn our hero stopped at, no sooner had the master gone upstairs to scratch his extremities and sleep than Selifan had occupied a seat inside, ordered a glass of vodka with kolatchi, and conversed with the other customers as if he himself were more than a mere coachman! The very spirit of it all!
But the author must turn back to matters of import, and so the story of Selifan’s name must be reserved for a more vacant paragraph in the narrative.
nding a description to our Selifan is hardly worth the space, but as he takes up space on the box of the britzka occupied by our hero, it shall be allotted him. Truth be told, there is not a soul in the fatherland that can recall just when it was that Selifan began driving horses or just how he stumbled upon the fact that they relish equally insults and praise. Equally dubious are the circumstances under which he found himself in the service of our Chichikov. Certainly he was not a member of that unfortunate original serf family who passed into the care of our hero. The tracing of that story would be far too simple. The author has made several inquiries into the conditions from whence Selifan came, but has found no suitable answer. This, however, will not do. Instead, here is what the author himself supposes to be the most likely origin of Selifan.
Selifan, from the time of his boyhood, possessed the mindset of a certain category or people known as horse fanciers. Being of a peasant background, however, this was an unacceptable passion. Upon learning of his son’s interest, Selifan’s father quickly corrected him, constantly leading him instead to the cows or the chickens where his attention would be more useful. Selifan tolerated this quietly, but one afternoon a friendly landowner from nearby visited his master. He seized his opportunity. Selifan lured the driver away from his charges with the promise of his father’s vodka. The driver agreed to several toasts while Selifan pretended to drink. The driver became drunk and fell asleep in the hay. The moment he was sure no one was watching, Selifan hopped in the carriage and drove off to the nearest town. There, he encountered our slightly younger hero who happened to be looking for a driver capable of bringing him to the border. Chichikov hired our Selifan. Upon arriving at the border, Selifan, seeing no other option, stayed on with Chichikov. Although this move was uninvited, it was also not protested. Selifan settled in.
Readers will not trouble themselves over the history of our good Selifan. It is not fashionable to take interest in the lives of Russia’s humblest men, but what a country she would be without her serfs! The ladies will turn up their noses at Petrushka’s lively odor or Selifan’s modest intellect, but what would they do without a Petrushka to carry their trunks or a Selifan to drive their horses! In truth, Selifan has lived a life neither extraordinary nor memorable. He was born to a cartwright and his wife, the fourth of eight children, only two of whom had the good fortune of surviving to support the family with a few kopecks of their own; but, as the Russian mothers tell their children, “He who lives longer lives stronger,” and indeed, Selifan was a hearty boy; in his early years he was a prodigious turkey-thrower, renowned throughout the village for his ability to throw a turkey a quarter of a verst without a running start. However, as these things often happen, it was his passion that led to his downfall. The feathers, perhaps, or perhaps the blood (it is unknown; medicine is very advanced in England, they say, but Russians are ignorant of these things), began to affect his brain. Selifan was never a brilliant child, one might say, but past the age of seven or eight he was left without a solid thought in his head, a very simpleton, who would not be out of place at one of these French-style balls, but who was certainly unfit for his father’s trade. It was in this way that Selifan was trained as a cart-driver, for those of simpler minds, they say, understand better the simple animals. How he came into the service of Chichikov I truly cannot tell you; there are some things that even the most diligent poet cannot comprehend.
Well I suppose it has come to a point in the story where a further description of Selifan is necessary. Though he plays a role of little importance to the story at hand, his presence is both noticeable and consistent and therefore the author will here give him what is more than his due.
His hair is wild; the kind of disheveled mess of a head that inevitably brings to the mind imagines of crawling lice and mites, regardless of any evidence of their existence. Thankfully, and upon good Chichikov’s request, a cap is most often shoved firmly on his head, hiding the disreputable sight within. There is nothing particularly displeasing about his countenance, but neither does it show any signs of intelligence beyond that of the household dog. Like the favorite family hound it can exude certain traces of a morose or blissful or hungry disposition, but the finer distinctions found in the human emotional range accurately be expressed on such a face. Of Selifan’s personality we can say little, for who has the time to devote to a study of so base a man? He found the sound of his voice pleasing, a trait common to men of any status, and in the extensive periods in which our hero had no patience for his banal discussions, his mouth ran on to the wind or the horses.
Of this humble servant’s attire there is nothing particularly telling towards his character, and therefore I will omit any description of it, except to say that he considered it a sign of sobriety and decency to keep a clean wardrobe. This noble concept is only hindered by the fact that in the day to day life of this particular man decency is not always the foremost concern, and even more rarely is he sober.
While the author hardly possesses the temerity to approach a description of Selifan, whose nature reflects the Russian propensity for unheralded ambition and stoic traditionalism, a paradox of sorts all too common to provincial folk, and certainly overly evident in the character of Selifan, whose oleaginous locks, groomed only with spit and a misconception of the word ‘narcissism’, present a constant reminder that Selifan is a hallmark of the culture the author has paid much attention to thus far and consequently is obliged to produce a satisfactory image of Selifan, which conveys his indispensably Russian qualities and at the same time illustrates the complex psychology that lurks behind all faces which suffer the duty of getting personages of certain standing to certain places; on time. You see, Selifan had no nose. As a mere child a rather dapper grey horse snatched it from him and could not be persuaded to return it despite the politeness of any entreaties the dastardly equine might hear. Born to a civil servant of notable rank the young Selifan knew that to return home from an outing sans nose would be a most egregious offense and decided to embark on a journey of self-discovery that the author might have ventured to describe had he not suffered from an overwhelming sense of timidity. Selifan initially tried to live off the land yet finding it difficult work decided to seek employment from a civil servant who, he unequivocally knew, would be too absorbed in his own lofty pursuits to notice the deformation that plagued poor Selifan’s soul. This is where we find Selifan.
As Selifan is mentioned consistently throughout our tale, the author will take a moment to inform the reader of his character and countenance. As is the case with most Russian peasants, Selifan’s history is quite unremarkable. But what would our hero do without his faithful, if mildly incompetent, Selifan to drive his britzka and tend to his horses! What would that gray dappled horse do without Selifan’s reassurances and lashes of the whip! Indeed, our mother Russia heavily depends upon her servants and serfs.
Selifan is neither lean nor fat, with an unremarkable face. His rather red hair is given to grease and shine, and his unfortunately protruding chin is generally covered with a handkerchief. Selifan wears a sheepskin coach, which, although rather dingy, proves sufficient in the sharp cold of the Russian winter. Selifan is of 21 years of age, and therefore possesses a rash character that is quite indicative of his maturity. It is difficult to say how he happened across Chichikov, but as it is of no importance to our story and Selifan is of a rather unexciting character, let us move on with our tale.
Selifan? The author may be wrong to suppose that the reader want to know anything about the carriage driver, actually the author knows that a description is unneeded but the fact that the characterization is superfluous tempts the author and prompts him to write. Selifan is quite the uninteresting character actually good only at upsetting his master continually, an act which he manages to perform quite artfully. He was of a non-descript height by meaning neither overly tall nor overly short. He was skinny but not too skinny, largely because of the unavailability of food rather than his lack of appetite. His hair was beginning to grey and had fallen out to form a neat little tuft isolated on the crown of his head, almost like the horn of a unicorn. His appearance was neither overly tidy nor overly dirty, and therefore managed to neither draw looks of admiration nor disdain due to his appearance. Little is known of his past, but one must suppose that Selifan was the type of kid who without being told what to do would stare for hours at absolutely nothing, only moving when hunger or some other bodily function moved him. Our hero actually only took him on seemingly as an act of charity.
Not suprisingly, Selifan never related his story to anyone, as his only true compatriots were his three horses. He understood their every move and subtlety or at least believed that he did. He flicked his whip with an air of dignity only comparable with a master painter and his brush stroke. However, in reality, Selifan was mediocre at best and managed to again remain the artfully non-descript. But look, the author has again gone off on a tangent again and will certainly now return to our hero.
It was in the same town of N—that Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov’s own father, Ivan Pavlovich had employed a rather buffoonish coachman, that is to say, a coachman with similar tendencies as said buffoon, by the name Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov, who came, incidentally, from a long line of goats. Ivan Ivanovich was a drunkard, rightly so, as his father Ivan Kozlovich Ivanov was one of the most brutal bucks of the meadow. Ivan Ivanovich, being without horns and with only two legs, that is to say, human, received much hostility from Ivan Kozlovich, as well from the majority of the herd, for Ivan Ivanovich had sought greener pastures in the form of a paid position.
Ivan Ivanovich soon became weary of such constant brutality from his father and respected elders, and, in response, sought greener pastures in the form of Stolichnaya. Soon, Ivan Ivanovich had developed quite an injurious reputation with the town, as in his drunken state he was known for utter misuse of communal town property and communal town women—thus, he made his escape. As Ivan Ivanovich leaped onto the wagon headed to where the lord only knows, our hero let his hair blow in the fresh autumn wind, the leaves turning just the slightest bit brown, yet were generally the most magnificent shades of yellow and gold, not yet dry enough to crunch under one’s foot, yet certainly approaching such a day, at which time Ivan Ivanovich resolved to crunch one—but not only one, hundreds! For he was free from the goatherd, free to roam the countryside and stop into what ever lodging seemed inviting—and yes, in Ivan Ivanovich’s utter excitement, he let out something reminiscent of a bleat.
Unfortunately, Ivan Ivanovich had boarded only the wagon making local delivery rounds, and he was returned to his departure point within two hours. Selifan Ivanovich was born to a local peasant girl, and was subsequently raised in the town of N—eventually to be employed in his father’s service.
Selifan is quite a mysterious personage indeed. Some have claimed that he rose from the noblest ranks of the mushik class, endearing himself enough to the fates that he was granted a post in service of our hero, Chichikov. While others will maintain that he was, in fact, born from the depths of the woods, that sharp cliffs bore him and rough unmentionable wild creatures nursed him. But how absurd! Irregardless, Selifan’s origins were undoubtedly both obscure and modest.
After Selifan’s mysterious appearance on Earth, his life continued through his utterly unremarkable childhood and adolescence. In fact, the only thing that is even mentionable is the drinking habit he picked up, in true Russian fashion, at the ripe young age of seven. It is only later at age nine that his father introduced him to the joys and unending boringness that is carriage driving. At eleven he learned to mix these two activities into an enthralling and dramatic blend. Having effectively caused over forty-seven “raeda-est-in-fossa-incidents,”* Selifan was certainly an unfortunate choice for a carriage driver. Knowing this, the reader can hardly blame him for instances of ineptitude at the reigns, nor Chichikov’s occasional frustration with him.
Bought at seventeen by our hero, Selifan began his rather unremarkable career as a servant and here the author finds him hardly worth mentioning. In fact, too many words have already been dedicated here to him. Such an excessive amount in fact that the author admonishes himself and will again return to the subject of balls, the purchase of souls,
*Here the author alludes to a popular Latin schoolbook for young aspiring Russian classicists, “Ecce Romani”. Here the phrase literally refers to incidents in which “the-carriage-is-in-the-ditch.”
Selifan is one of those men about who little is known, but few would care enough to discover anything. What is known is that he grew up in the small provincial town of V– and was known from a young age to be a rather average man. He passed through the years neither excelling at anything, nor destroying anything. He could generally find work when he cared to, but not always. He was not a serf, but at the same time most of the townspeople wondered how it was he managed to keep food and vodka on the table. One day, much to the delight of the villagers, Selifan took a job as a coachman for a state official passing through town. He somehow knew how to harness a team, drive the horses, and steer a britzka. He could keep his thoughts to himself when it was required of him, or provide mediocre conversation that was really only good to pass the time. This was the last anyone in the small town of V– ever heard of Selifan, and as far as they were concerned, nothing had been lost.
Selifan would likely continue this job for as long as he needed to. For as the proverb says, “In the forest, the wolf lives for three years and the donkey for nine.” Selifan knew that this job would provide him money to drink, and kept him on the road, and truly, what true Russian does not like to move on to new places and drink with new friends?
And indeed, Selifan’s lethargy and general unwillingness to prepare the coach, despite Chichikov’s request earlier that evening — for Selifan hardly had the desire to think on anyone other than his master! — could be explained, in short, through a certain nostalgia. For one could even say that it was in a town much like this one, the incomparable town of F., where so much seems to resemble the town of N. in which the author now finds his tale; in such a town had Selifan first met Chichikov, and thus improved his life by eliminating all of life’s dangerous pleasures and instituting a strict regimen of banal commands that one might even say were a privilege to receive. When our two men, neither too skinny nor too round, first met one another, Selifan had been performing a valiant show on the main thoroughfare in F., consisting of knife-throwing, tightrope-walking, and (Selifan’s specialty) fire-eating. Though the show was far more fantastic than this humble writer could ever describe, the town of F. proved a poor venue, as there were only transitory inhabitants, including the unfortunate Chichikov, who now owned a newly ruptured axel and newly deserted coachman. Feeling disenchanted with the absurdity of eating fire, and more importantly, in need of a few kopecks so as to sit in one of F. many green rooms, Selifan offered to fix Chichikov’s axel, though he actually had no knowledge whatsoever that could help him in this endeavor. With the help of a spare tightrope, however, Selifan effectively fooled Chichikov into believing his coach fixed, however Chichikov too felt the need to scheme. Claiming the next town over held better whist and better women, Chichikov persuaded Selifan to drive his coach, if only a few miles. And it seems, for one reason or another, Selifan has yet to relinquish the reigns — but the reason for this continued acquaintance remains as yet unknown to this modest author.
Not a lot is known about Selifan the coachman. His origin relates back to the town of L, a town juxtaposed to the town of N but with too many mysteries to unravel. Selifan doesn’t remember too much from his childhood, he always told me that he only remembers before the age of 5. He remembers his parent’s figures, not their faces, but blurred people who loved and cared for him. They worked the lands day and night, providing for Selifan all a serf family could. One day as Selifan entered the stables to check on the horses, and that’s when it happened. He was fascinated with the horses and loved to sneak in and comb their manes. But one tragic day, Selifan was kicked in the head by a horse, and that was the last of his memories in the town L. Fast forward and jump over to the town of N. Selifan only remembers his love for horses, but nothing else; we are surprised ourselves with how he remember that he name is Selifan. He also doesn’t remember how he ended up here, in N. Chichikov didn’t question it, he needed a coachman and a pretty good one; yet he didn’t know what he was getting himself into with Selifan. Let us spare the reader of Selifan’s mistakes and mishaps for it will accomplish nothing.
Once again he had succeeded against the odds. Selifan, I suppose the author ought to say something about him. They are idle men the coachmen, best friend to them can only become their horses, to whom they tell all their secrets, because they will not tell them on; Sometimes I wonder who is really leading the brizka. Hither they come and thither they go we know not, their thoughts are well hidden under their hood. Our Selifan is not any different from all the other coachmen, wrapped in a grey coat, withstanding any weather, and eyes deep as the ocean filled with everything they have seen on their long journeys, so different from ours, we who we travel in the box. They will gather in the dark corners of the pubs waiting for their masters, drinking with each other, but not talk; they have lost the language of men. An acquaintance of mine had a coachman for ten years until he found out that the latter was without a tongue, hussars had cut it off when he was a little boy; hermits they are and yet Selifan has never failed to bring me where I intended to go; it must be an instinct they were born with; they smell it, one night, as black as any night in the heavy rain, I was convinced that my life was to end that night in the floods, yet I lived to tell this story, through wind and weather he guides my brizka loyally.
The importance of characterizing a character such as Selifan is surely negligible at best. However, due to the fact that our hero sees it necessary to pour abuses upon Selifan’s poor head, I feel the need to describe that much abused head. Born a bastard child by a peasant woman from the hamlet of Lousy Arrogance, Selifan seemed fated to live a life of labor, but by chance landed in the position of coachmaster. For this position Selifan is indebted to our hero. Indeed, driving steeds through the vast Russian landscapes is a greater lot than Selifan could have hoped for. This calling affords him much pleasure, especially when the master feels the need to stay in one place for an extended period of time. In these sedentary times Selifan feels in his element and within a blink of an eye he is off to some tavern with his dear companion Petrushka. In this occupation he finds more pleasure than the road could ever afford. Suffice to say Selifan was born a lazybones and a drunk. Always going about matters of business in a slow and inaccurate manner, it would be hard for him not to bring censure upon himself. His ruddy complexion, drowsy brows, dull eyes, tousled hair, and shoddy clothes make a very unmemorable impression on anyone he meets. Though, on the other hand, many would look at him and see a very agreeable Russian muzhik. I dare not dwell to long on the thoughts of such a character, but how can I not say a word or two. Selifan takes abuse fully knowing that he is at fault, and is content with his master and with the life he has been granted. But I digress… Back to our hero…
A few words will now be said about our hero’s coachman Selifan, not because he is particularly important to our story, but rather because it seems almost illogical that Selifan should be the only character without an adequate description. Selifan, a minuscule man of the fourteenth class… but better let this depiction be the beginning of our next chapter.
……………………………
Our coachman Selifan, a man of scarcely two arshini in height, came into existence in the town of K–, approximately 530 versti south-west of the city of M–. Despite his lack of grandeur, Selifan was neither too fat nor too skinny, but rather well proportioned for his height. He is the kind of little man one forgets about seconds after meeting him, and a rather disagreeable spectacle to the eyes. He rarely spoke, except for his obscenities he ejaculates towards his horses while giving them cuts with his whip. It is even strange, I find it difficult to describe him at all, as if I once knew his story, but have since then forgotten. Who is he really? Has he always been a coachman? Is he really a member of the fourteenth class? Why does he have a German accent? The reader, and perhaps I as well, will unfortunately never know. Perhaps it is unimportant.
In order for the reader to get a more wholesome picture of our provincial town of N, let us digress for a few sentences to learn about our dear coachman Selifan. Like our hero Chichikov, he is neither too stout nor too thin, too short nor too tall, too smart nor too ignorant. Having spent weeks together, no one could have denied that Selifan and Chichikov were fated to be master and servant, despite their different backgrounds.
Our coachman grew up in the provincial town of T, far far away from N. Coming from a long tradition of poor coachmen, he had whipped horses, shouted orders, and drank with his father for as long as he could remember. When Selifan reached fifteen years of age, a local nobleman hired Selifan to be his coachman and entrusted him with four horses and a britzka. Selifan and his father were overjoyed and shared a bottle of vodka. The father retired to bed, but Selifan decided to practice his new position.
He woke the horses and drove the britzka down the street. Perhaps unaccustomed to their new master, the horses panicked under his whipping and drunken shouting, and crashed the britzka. Having no money to salvage the damage, Selifan stole one of the horses and rode out of the town of T. While it is unknown exactly what route he took to come to our town of N, he is now a permanent fixture.
Despite this author’s best efforts to avoid boring and disgusting the reader with such mundane and disgusting details as the backgrounds and lives of those of the lower class upon whom our dear Mr. Chichikov must depend, the author is obligated to bring the coachman into more detailed focus. It’s difficult to describe Selifan’s appearance because he himself had never seen himself with any precision. His eyes were so poor and crusted-over that it was a wonder he could distinguish the road from a river or approaching coach from a stand of trees. Nonetheless, like all Russian coach drivers he drove in such a manner as to make certain his passenger knew to what degree exactly that their life was in danger – driving wildly fast through turns and not attempting to avoid bumps in the road. Selifan was a poorer kind than his Petersburg fellow; in spite of his inclination to drink at all hours of the day and his reckless driving, he never found his master arriving anywhere on time. By physical appearance, Selifan bore an elongated snout and ruddy face made rough by a beard. His teeth were worn and dull down from teeth-grinding bumps in the road and his eyes were somewhat too far apart. Nonetheless, he did respect his horses…except that rascal Assessor for horses at least work and don’t complain and don’t contradict.
Ah, Selifan, coachman and keeper of Pavel Ivanovich’s fine horses, how the author laments over your puzzling character! It is hoped that the reader will not be displeased with my hero’s dear sidekick, a man of agreeable sluggishness, and will be able to perceive a lightness of spirit through a conversation that the author once perceived between Selifan and a comrade in the industry of coachmen.
“It seems certain that my britzka could more effortlessly bear such weight,” Vesgeny, the second coachman said.
“Likely factual, my dear Vesgeny,” Selifan responded, “For this Britzka has endured much wear due to its travels – my master frequently decides to leave wherever we may sojourn after only a few hours – but this is of course not the most eloquent Britzka I have ever driven!”
“Well, then,” Vesgeny said, “Let’s hear of one described more lavishly than my mine.”
At this juncture, the author will take the humble liberty of transposing the response to such a challenge in the form of narrative, upon the hopes that such an effort can remind the reader that Selifan is not simply another cold, lifeless soul that the reader might rashly assume pervades our narrative.
Selifan reported of his work at the seat of his last Britzka, under the auspices of the landowner Huruchya. Selifan began working for Huruchya without the master’s knowledge, for Huruchya had the most elegant horses and Selifan, being a lover of the species even in his more vigorous years, snuck into the stables at night and ensured that the horses were clean, fed, and groomed. Selifan came to adore the stable – its smell, the smack of the horses lips as devoured their oats, the occasional neigh (which our Selifan had a perfect imitation of) – and eventually decided to move in. This move necessitated very little transfer of material, for all that Selifan owned was a candle-holder and a thick coat, nor did it necessitate much transfer of emotion, for Selifan eschewed his family from a very young age. When Huruchka noticed, weeks later, that an otherwise empty stall was occupied by a candle-holder and a thick coat, he went in search for its occupant. On the outskirts of his land, many versts away from the stable, Huruchka found Selifan filling up the horse-buckets with the purest water from the purest river of the estate. Huruchka was immediately smitten, in whatever way a master can be smitten with his future servant, and hired Selifan on the spot as coachman on his most stylish britzka.
“The coachman Selifan was a totally different man…
His body and expression were arranged in such a way as to be rather reminiscent of a coatrack, so common in those new and fashionable Petersburg apartments: his clothing sat on him more than about, with his coat worn to patches especially at the elbows, from where his arms bent forever forward for the reins. Selifan’s occupation was a curious and certainly unclear circumstance, since no one, not even he, knew how he arrived at it. It is quite possible he came with the carriage that Chichikov cursed as intractable and wooden-headed, probably with as few thoughts filling his head. Though our driver’s countenance might be said to have something of a horse’s melancholic disposition, his physique retained considerably less than a horse’s grace in its bobbing and lurching from the coachman’s seat, the air above which his body, prematurely stiff and arthritic, often occupied once launched there by our dear, invariable ruts so distinctive of Russian roads. But this is such a horrid impression of a man! So we can at least say that he was very apt and prompt at following directions, then giving these to his horses, since it might be said such simple instructions were what he required in life, in order to lead the least upsetting path in it. Selifan tended to listen well, except when drunk, and spoke little—certainly less so after losing an argument rather soundly, in the course and conclusion of which he also forfeited his only pair of shoes. His favorite word, notwithstanding his foreseeable fascination with “britzka”—which if you must know, he could say with some accuracy and refinement—was perhaps that perennial pick, “vodka,” the pronunciation of which he had also perfected while ordering this popular pastime. Selifan tended to spend his time with the bottle all in what would best be described as a multidirectional heap, sitting in some dark room’s unlucky corner and sobbing for something this author would rather conceal than detail. Yet, as we have been saying, the rest of his vocabulary seemed, to our hero at least, to consist in murmured monosyllables indicating the basic accompaniments to nods and shakes of assent and dissent.
But the author is most ashamed to occupy his readers for so long with people of the low class.” (17)