Throughout this first collection of stories there is a blend of broad farce and poetical fancy; we are introduced to the humours of the fair, the adventures of sacristans with the devil and other apparitions; to the Russalka, a naiad, a kind of land-mermaid, or Loreley, which haunts the woods and the lakes. And every one of these stories smells of the South Russian soil, and is overflowing with sunshine, good-humour, and a mellow charm. This side of Russian life is not only wholly unknown in Europe, but it is not even suspected. The picture most people have in their minds of Russia is a place of grey skies and bleak monotonous landscape, weighed down by an implacable climate. These things exist, but there is another side as well, and it is this other side that Gogol tells of in his early stories. We are told much about the Russian winter, but who ever thinks of the Russian spring? And there is nothing more beautiful in the world, even in the north and centre of Russia, than the abrupt and sudden invasion of springtime which comes shortly after the melting snows, when the woods are carpeted with lilies-of-the-valley, and the green of the birch trees almost hurts the eye with its brilliance. Nor are we told much about the Russian summer, with its wonderful warm nights, nor of the pageant of the plains when they become a rippling sea of golden corn. If the spring and the summer are striking in northern and central Russia, much more is this so in the south, where the whole character of the country is as cheerful and smiling as that of Devonshire or Normandy. The farms are whitewashed and clean; sometimes they are painted light blue or pink; vines grow on the walls; there is an atmosphere of sunshine and laziness everywhere, accompanied by much dancing and song. Once when I was in St. Petersburg I was talking to a peasant member of the Duma who came from the south. After he had declaimed for nearly twenty minutes on the terrible condition of the peasants in the country, their needs, their wants, their misery, their ignorance, he added thoughtfully: “All the same we have great fun in our village; you ought to come and stay there. There is no such life in the world!” The sunshine and laughter of the south of Russia rise before us from every page of these stories of Gogol. Here, for instance, is a description of a summer’s day in Little Russia, the day of a fair: