The Nose and Other Stories

by Nikolai Gogol

“This is strange, my good sir… You probably didn’t notice… I am an officer…”

  “What’s an officer to me! I am a Swabian German. Me myself” (at this Schiller pounded the table with his fist) “will be an officer: a year and a half as a Junker, two years as a lieutenant, and tomorrow I’m right away an officer. But I don’t want to serve. I’ll do this to an officer: foo!”—at this Schiller brought his palm to his lips and blew on it.

  Lieutenant Pirogov could see that there was nothing left for him to do but to withdraw, but this kind of treatment, which was not at all appropriate for his rank, was unpleasant for him. He kept stopping on the staircase, as if wishing to gather his courage and think of a way to make Schiller feel how impertinent he had been. Finally he reasoned that Schiller could be excused because his head was full of beer. Besides, the image of the pretty blonde appeared to him, and he decided to consign the incident to oblivion. Early in the morning of the next day, Lieutenant Pirogov appeared at the workshop of the master tinsmith. In the front room he was met by the pretty blonde, who asked in a severe voice, which suited her little face wonderfully well: “What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, hello, my lovely! You don’t recognize me? You little rogue, what pretty little eyes!”—with these words Lieutenant Pirogov wished to raise her chin with his finger in a very sweet way.

  But the blonde uttered a skittish exclamation and asked with the same severity: “What can I do for you?”

  “You can let me see you, there’s nothing more I need,” Lieutenant Pirogov said, smiling pleasantly, and came closer to her, but noticing that the skittish blonde wanted to slip through the door, he added: “I need to order some spurs, my lovely. Can you make me some spurs? Although no spurs are needed in order to love you—a bridle would be more useful. What pretty little hands!”

  Lieutenant Pirogov was always very amiable in expressions of this kind.

  “I’ll call my husband right now,” the German woman exclaimed and went out, and in a few minutes Pirogov saw Schiller emerging with sleepy eyes, having barely come to his senses after yesterday’s drinking bout. Looking at the officer, he recalled as if in a hazy dream the incident of the day before. He didn’t remember exactly what had happened, but he felt that he had done something stupid, and therefore he received the officer with a very severe look.

  “For spurs I cannot ask less than fifteen rubles,” he said, wishing to get rid of Pirogov, because as an honorable German, he was very ashamed to look at a person who had seen him in an indecent situation. Schiller liked to drink without any witnesses, with two or three friends, and during such times he would lock even his own workmen out.

  “Why are they so expensive?” Pirogov asked affectionately.

  “German workmanship,” Schiller said coolly, stroking his chin. “A Russian will undertake it for two rubles.”

  “Very well, in order to prove that I like you and wish to make your acquaintance, I will pay fifteen rubles.”

  Schiller had to stop and think for a moment: As an honorable German, he felt a little ashamed. Wishing to dissuade him from making the order, he declared that he could not make them in less than two weeks. But Pirogov expressed his complete consent, without any attempts at contradiction.

  The German fell into thought and started pondering how he could do his work in such a way that it would actually be worth fifteen rubles. At that moment the blonde came into the workshop and started rummaging on the table, which was covered by coffeepots. The lieutenant took advantage of Schiller’s musing, approached her and squeezed her arm, which was bare right up to the shoulder. Schiller really did not like this.

  “Meine Frau!”* he shouted.

  “Was wollen Sie doch?” *

  “Gehen Sie to the kitchen!”†

  The blonde withdrew.

  “So in two weeks?” Pirogov said.

  “Yes, in two weeks,” Schiller answered, pondering. “I have a lot of work right now!”

  “Good-bye! I’ll come see you.”

  “Good-bye!” Schiller answered and locked the door behind him.

  Lieutenant Pirogov made up his mind not to abandon his quest, despite the fact that the German woman had given him an explicit rebuff. He could not understand how it was possible to resist him, all the more since his amiability and brilliant rank gave him full rights to her attention. One must, however, say that Schiller’s wife, for all her comeliness, was very stupid. But stupidity is a particularly charming feature in a pretty wife. At least I’ve known many husbands who are enraptured by the stupidity of their wives and see in it all the signs of an infantile innocence. Beauty works perfect miracles. All spiritual defects in a beautiful woman, instead of evoking revulsion, become unusually attractive; in these women, vice itself breathes with comeliness; but let beauty disappear—and the woman must be twenty times more intelligent than a man in order to inspire if not love then at least respect. But for all her stupidity, Schiller’s wife was always true to her obligations, and therefore it was fairly difficult for Pirogov to succeed in his bold undertaking. But there is always a certain enjoyment involved in overcoming obstacles, and the blonde became more interesting to him from day to day. He began to come quite frequently to inquire about his spurs, so that Schiller finally got sick of it. He made every effort to finish making the spurs as soon as possible. Finally they were ready.

  “Oh, what excellent workmanship!” Lieutenant Pirogov shouted when he saw the spurs. “My Lord, how well made they are! Our general doesn’t have spurs like this.”

  A feeling of self-satisfaction spread over Schiller’s face. His eyes became rather merry, and he was quite reconciled to Pirogov. “A Russian officer is an intelligent man,” he thought to himself.

  “So you must be able to make a mounting, say for a dagger or other things?”

  “Oh, yes, I certainly can,” Schiller said with a smile.

  “Then make me a mounting for my dagger. I will bring it to you. I have a very fine Turkish dagger, but I would like to make a different mounting for it.”

  This was a bombshell for Schiller. He suddenly knit his brow. “Now I’ve done it!” he thought, cursing himself inwardly for inviting another job. He considered it dishonorable to refuse, and moreover the Russian officer had praised his workmanship. After shaking his head, he expressed his consent, but the kiss that Pirogov impudently planted on the very lips of the pretty blonde as he went out completely bewildered him.

  I consider it not superfluous to acquaint the reader somewhat more closely with Schiller. Schiller was a perfect German, in the full sense of the word. When he was only twenty years old, at that happy time when a Russian lives without a care in the world, Schiller had already measured out his whole life and never made any exceptions in any case. He made a rule of getting up at seven o’clock, having dinner at two, being exact in everything, and getting drunk every Sunday. He made a rule of amassing a capital of fifteen thousand over ten years, and this was as true and irrefutable as fate, because a civil servant will sooner forget to peek into his superior’s anteroom than a German will change his word. He never increased his expenditures in any case, and if the price of potatoes got higher than usual, he would not add a single kopeck, but would simply reduce the quantity he bought, and although he sometimes was somewhat hungry, he got used to it nevertheless. His punctiliousness extended to the fact that he made it a rule to kiss his wife no more than twice in a twenty-four-hour period, and in order not to kiss her an extra time, he never put more than one spoonful of pepper in his soup; however, this rule was not so strictly observed on Sundays, because then Schiller drank two bottles of beer and one bottle of caraway-seed vodka, which, however, he always complained about.27 He drank in a quite different way from an Englishman, who puts the door on the hook right after dinner and gets blind drunk all by himself. On the contrary, as a German, he always drank in an inspired way, either with the shoemaker Hoffmann or with the carpenter Kuntz, also a German and a great drunkard. Such was the character of the noble Sch
iller, who finally found himself in an extraordinarily awkward position. Although he was phlegmatic and a German, nevertheless Pirogov’s actions aroused something like jealousy in him. He wracked his brains and could not think how to rid himself of this Russian officer. Meanwhile Pirogov, smoking a pipe in the circle of his comrades—because Providence has so arranged that wherever there are officers, there are pipes—smoking a pipe in the circle of his comrades, would hint meaningfully, with a pleasant smile, about a little intrigue with a pretty German woman, with whom he said he was already on quite friendly terms, and whom in fact he had nearly lost all hope of winning over.

  One day he was strolling along Meshchanskaya Street, stealing looks at the building that sported Schiller’s sign with its coffeepots and samovars. To his great joy he caught sight of the blonde’s little head, leaning out the window and inspecting the passersby. He stopped, waved at her, and said, “Guten Morgen!” The blonde bowed to him, as an acquaintance.

  “Is your husband home?”

  “Yes,” the blonde answered.

  “When is he not at home?”

  “He’s not at home on Sundays,” the stupid little blonde said.

  “That’s not bad,” Pirogov thought to himself. “I can take advantage of that.”

  And the next Sunday he appeared before the blonde out of the blue. Indeed Schiller was not at home. The pretty mistress of the house was frightened, but Pirogov acted rather cautiously this time, he behaved very respectfully, and as he bowed, he showed off all the beauty of his lithe, well-belted figure. He made some jokes in a very pleasant and polite manner, but the stupid little German woman responded to everything with one-syllable words. Finally, after coming at her from all sides and seeing that nothing engaged her, he proposed that they dance. The German woman agreed instantly, because German women are always lovers of dancing. Pirogov based his hopes on this most of all: In the first place, it would give her pleasure, in the second place, it would show off his tournure and his agility, and in the third place, while dancing he could get as close as possible to her, embrace the pretty German woman, and lay the foundation for everything. In short, he deduced a complete success from this. He began a gavotte, knowing that German women need to proceed gradually. The pretty German stepped out into the middle of the room and raised her splendid little foot. This position so enraptured Pirogov that he rushed to kiss her. The German woman began screaming and thereby increased her charm in Pirogov’s eyes even more; he covered her with kisses. All of a sudden the door opened and Schiller came in with Hoffmann and the carpenter Kuntz. All these worthy craftsmen were as drunk as cobblers.

  But I leave it to the reader to judge how angry and indignant Schiller was.

  “You churl!” he screamed with the greatest indignation, “how can you dare to kiss my wife? You are a scoundrel, not a Russian officer. The devil take it, my friend Hoffmann, I am a German, not a Russian pig!”

  Hoffmann answered in the affirmative.

  “Oh, I do not want to have horns! Take him, my friend Hoffmann, by the collar, I do not want,” he continued, wildly waving his arms, with his face looking like the red cloth of his waistcoat. “I’ve been living in Petersburg for eight years, I have a mother in Swabia, and my uncle is in Nürnberg. I am a German, not a horned side of beef! Strip him, my friend Hoffmann! Hold him by the arms and legs, my Kamerad Kuntz!”28

  And the Germans seized Pirogov by the arms and legs.

  In vain did he struggle to fight them off. These three craftsmen were the heftiest of all the St. Petersburg Germans, and they behaved so roughly and rudely with him that I confess I simply cannot find words to depict this lamentable event.

  I am sure that Schiller had a bad fever the next day, that he was shaking like a leaf, expecting the police to arrive at any minute, and that he would have given God knows what if only the event of the day before had taken place in a dream. But there is no changing what has happened. Nothing could compare with Pirogov’s anger and indignation. The mere thought of such a horrible insult drove him wild. He considered Siberia and the lash to be the most lenient punishment for Schiller. He flew home in order to get dressed and go straight to the general, to describe the riotous conduct of the German craftsmen in the most dramatic colors. At the same time he planned to submit a written petition to the General Staff Headquarters. If the General Staff assigned an insufficient punishment, then he would go straight to the State Council, and if necessary to the sovereign himself.29

  But it all ended somehow strangely: He stopped into a pastry shop along the way, ate two puff pastries, read a couple of items in the Northern Bee, and emerged in a less angry frame of mind.30 Besides, the pleasant, cool evening caused him to take a little stroll along Nevsky Avenue; by nine o’clock he had calmed down and thought that it was not a good idea to bother the general on a Sunday, besides he had no doubt been called away somewhere, and so he set off for an evening party at the home of the administrator of the Board of Control, where there was a very pleasant gathering of civil servants and officers. He passed the evening there with great pleasure, and so distinguished himself in dancing the mazurka that he sent not only the ladies but even the cavaliers into raptures.

  “Our world is wondrously arranged!” I thought the other day as I walked along Nevsky Avenue and recalled these two events. “How strangely, how incomprehensibly does our fate play games with us! Do we ever get what we wish for? Do we ever attain that which it seems our powers have been purposely prepared for? Everything turns out quite the reverse. Fate has given one man the most splendid horses, and he rides out with them indifferently, without noticing their beauty at all—while another man, whose heart burns with a passion for horses, walks on foot and has to content himself with clicking his tongue when they lead a trotter past him. One man has an excellent cook, but unfortunately, he has such a small mouth that it won’t admit more than two little pieces; another has a mouth the size of the arch of the General Staff Building, but, alas! He has to content himself with a German dinner of nothing but potatoes. How strangely our fate plays games with us!”31

  But strangest of all are the events that happen on Nevsky Avenue. Oh, do not trust that Nevsky Avenue! I always wrap myself up more tightly in my cloak when I walk along it, and I try not to look at the objects I meet at all. All is deception, all is daydream, all is not what it seems! You think that that gentleman who is strolling along in a beautifully tailored frock coat is very rich? Nothing of the sort: He consists entirely of his frock coat. You imagine that those two fat men who have stopped in front of a church that is being built are judging its architecture? Not at all: They are talking about how strangely two crows have perched facing each other. You think that that enthusiast who is waving his arms is talking about how his wife threw a ball out the window at an officer who was completely unknown to her? Not at all: He is talking about Lafayette.32 You think that those two ladies… but trust the ladies least of all. Don’t look into the windows of the stores so much: The trifles that are displayed in them are splendid, but they smell of a terribly large quantity of banknotes. But God forbid that you peek under the ladies’ little hats! No matter how the cloak of a beauty flutters in the distance, I absolutely refuse to follow it and sate my curiosity. Get away, for the love of God, get away from the streetlamp! And pass by quickly, as quickly as possible. You will be lucky if you get away with just having it spill its stinking oil on your dandyish tailcoat. But besides the streetlamp, everything breathes of deception. It lies at all times of day, that Nevsky Avenue, but most of all when night presses onto it in a condensed mass and marks out the white and pale-yellow walls of the buildings, when the whole city turns into thunder and glitter, myriad coaches tumble off the bridges, the postilions shout and bounce on the horses, and when the demon himself lights the lamps for the sole purpose of showing everything not as it really is.

  * good morning

  * My wife!

  * What do you want?

  † Go to the kitchen!

 
Diary of a Madman

  October 3.

  Today an unusual incident took place. I got up rather late in the morning, and when Mavra brought me the boots she had cleaned, I asked her what time it was. When I heard that it had struck ten o’clock quite a while ago, I hurried to get dressed as soon as possible. I confess I would not have gone to the Department at all, knowing in advance the sort of sour face the head of our section would make. For a long time now he’s been saying to me: “What’s all that senseless mess in your head, my good man? Sometimes you rush around like mad, at times you mix up your work so that Satan himself wouldn’t be able to figure it out, you put a small letter in the title, you don’t indicate either the date or the number.” The damned heron! He probably envies me because I sit in the director’s private study and sharpen the quill pens for His Excellency.1 In short, I would not have gone to the Department if not for my hope of seeing the paymaster and perhaps coaxing that Jew into giving me at least a little of my salary in advance. He’s a real creature! My dear God, the Last Judgment will come sooner than he’ll give anyone some money a month in advance! You can ask until you burst, even if you’re in the direst of straits, he won’t give it to you, the gray-haired devil. And at home his own kitchen woman hits him on the cheeks. The whole world knows about it. I do not understand the advantage of serving in the Department. There are no resources at all. Now in the Provincial Administration, in the Judicial Board and Finance Board, it’s quite a different matter: In those offices you look and there’s a clerk who’s huddled into a corner writing. He’s wearing a nasty old frock coat, his ugly mug makes you want to spit, but just look at the country house he’s renting! Don’t even try to bring him gilt porcelain teacups: “That’s a present for a doctor,” he says; give him a pair of trotters, or a droshky, or a beaver-fur coat that costs three hundred rubles. He looks so quiet and humble, he speaks so delicately—“Please lend me your little penknife so I can mend my little quill”—and then he’ll fleece a petitioner so that all he has left is his shirt. It’s true, on the other hand, that our office is noble, there’s such cleanliness as you’ll never ever see in the Provincial Administration: tables made of mahogany, and all the supervisors address you in the most polite fashion.2 Yes, I confess, if not for the nobility of the place, I would have left the Department long ago.