The Nose and Other Stories

by Nikolai Gogol

  “I don’t even want to hear it! You want me to let a cut-off nose lie around in my room? You piece of overbrowned crust! All he knows how to do is run his razor over his strop, and soon he won’t be in any condition to do his duty, the trollop, the scoundrel! You think I’m going to answer to the police for you? Oh, you slob, you stupid blockhead! Get it out of here! Out! Take it wherever you want! Don’t let me see hide nor hair of it!”

  Ivan Yakovlevich stood there as if he’d been struck dead. He thought and thought—and didn’t know what to think.

  “The devil knows how this happened,” he finally said, scratching behind his ear. “Whether it’s because I came home drunk last night or not, I can’t tell for sure. But everything indicates that this must be an impossible event: For bread is a baked thing, and a nose is something else entirely. I can’t understand it at all!”

  Ivan Yakovlevich fell silent. The thought that the police would find the nose on him and blame him for it caused him to lose his senses. He could already see the policeman’s crimson collar, beautifully embroidered with silver, the sword… and his whole body trembled. Finally, he got his underwear and his boots, pulled on all that stuff, and accompanied by the harsh admonitions of Praskovia Osipovna, wrapped the nose in a rag and went out to the street.

  He wanted to stick it under something, either to stick it under a bollard near a gate, or to drop it somehow accidentally, and then turn off into a lane. But as luck would have it, he kept running into acquaintances, who would immediately begin an interrogation: “Where are you going?” or “Who are you going to shave at this hour?”—so that Ivan Yakovlevich just couldn’t find the right moment. Then he had almost managed to drop it, but the policeman on duty pointed his halberd at him, saying, “Pick it up! You dropped something there!” And Ivan Yakovlevich was forced to pick up the nose and hide it in his pocket. He was overcome by despair, especially because there were more and more people on the street as the stores and shops started opening up.

  He decided to go to Saint Isaac’s Bridge. Maybe he could succeed in throwing it into the Neva? But I am somewhat remiss for not saying anything yet about Ivan Yakovlevich, a person who was estimable in many respects.

  Ivan Yakovlevich, like any respectable Russian artisan, was a terrible drunkard. And although he spent every day shaving other people’s chins, his own was always unshaven. Ivan Yakovlevich’s tailcoat (Ivan Yakovlevich never wore a frock coat) was piebald; that is, it was black, but covered with brownish-yellow and gray spots. His collar was shiny, and in the place of three of his buttons there hung only threads. Ivan Yakovlevich was a great cynic, and when Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov would say to him as usual while he was shaving him: “Ivan Yakovlevich, your hands are always smelly!”—then Ivan Yakovlevich would answer him with a question: “Why should they be smelly?”—“I don’t know, my boy, but they are,” the collegiate assessor would say, and Ivan Yakovlevich, after taking a pinch of snuff, in recompense would spread lather on Kovalyov’s cheek, and under his nose, and behind his ear, and under his chin—in short, wherever he felt like it.

  This estimable citizen found himself now on Saint Isaac’s Bridge. First he looked all around, then he bent over the railing, as if he wanted to look under the bridge to see whether there were a lot of fish running, and he quietly threw in the rag with the nose in it. He felt as if a ten-pood weight had suddenly fallen from him; Ivan Yakovlevich even grinned.2 Instead of going to shave the chins of civil servants, he set off for an establishment with a sign saying “Snacks and Tea” to order a glass of rum punch, when suddenly at the end of the bridge he noticed a district police inspector of noble appearance, with broadly spreading whiskers, a tricorn hat, and a sword. He froze; and meanwhile the police inspector beckoned him with his finger and said: “Come over here, my good man!”

  Ivan Yakovlevich, who knew the formalities, took off his cap while still at a distance, approached nimbly, and said: “Good morning, Your Honor!”

  “No, no, my boy, none of that ‘honor’ stuff; just tell me, what were you doing there, standing on the bridge?”

  “Honest to God, sir, I was on my way to shave people, and I was just looking to see whether the river was running fast.”

  “You’re lying, you’re lying! You’re not going to get off that easily. Be so good as to answer me!”

  “I would be happy to shave Your Worship twice or even three times a week without any question,” Ivan Yakovlevich answered.

  “No, my friend, that’s nothing! I am shaved by three barbers, and they consider it a great honor. So now be so good as to tell me what you were doing over there?”

  Ivan Yakovlevich turned pale… But here the event is completely covered by a fog, and absolutely nothing is known about what happened next.

  II

  Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov woke up rather early and went “brrr” with his lips—which is what he always did when he woke up, although he himself could not explain why. Kovalyov stretched and ordered that he be given the little mirror that stood on the table. He wanted to look at a pimple that had popped up on his nose the evening before; but to his extreme amazement, he saw that instead of a nose he had a completely smooth space! Taking fright, Kovalyov ordered some water and wiped his eyes with a towel: Indeed, there was no nose! He began to feel with his hand to see whether or not he was asleep. It seemed he wasn’t asleep. Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov jumped up from the bed and shook himself: There was no nose! He immediately ordered that he be given his clothes so he could get dressed, and he set off flying straight to the chief of the St. Petersburg police.

  But meanwhile it is necessary to say something about Kovalyov so that the reader might see what sort of collegiate assessor he was. The collegiate assessors who receive that rank with the help of learned diplomas cannot at all be compared with those collegiate assessors who are created in the Caucasus.3 These are two quite particular types. The learned collegiate assessors… But Russia is such a marvelous land that if you say something about one collegiate assessor, then all the collegiate assessors from Riga to Kamchatka will inevitably take it as referring to themselves. And the same goes for all other ranks and offices. Kovalyov was a collegiate assessor of the Caucasus. He had only been at that rank for two years and therefore could not forget about it for a single moment, and so as to lend himself nobility and weight, he never called himself “Collegiate Assessor,” but always “Major.”4 “Listen, honey,” he would usually say when he met a woman selling shirtfronts on the street, “come see me at home; my apartment is on Garden Street. Just ask, does Major Kovalyov live here?—Anyone will show you.” But if he met a really pretty one, he would supplement this with a secret injunction, adding, “Darling, be sure to ask for Major Kovalyov’s apartment.” For this very same reason we will henceforth call this collegiate assessor—major.

  Major Kovalyov had the habit of taking a stroll along Nevsky Avenue every day. The collar of his shirtfront was always extremely clean and starched. He had the kind of whiskers that one can still see on provincial and district surveyors, architects, and regimental doctors, as well as people performing various police duties, and in general on men who have plump, ruddy cheeks and who play Boston very well: These whiskers reach the very middle of the cheek and go right up to the nose.5 Major Kovalyov wore a multitude of carnelian seals, some with coats of arms and some engraved with “Wednesday,” “Thursday,” “Monday,” etc.6 Major Kovalyov had come to St. Petersburg out of necessity, namely to find a position becoming to his rank: if he could manage it, a position as vice-governor, and if not, then as administrator in some prominent department. Major Kovalyov was not averse to getting married as well, but only provided that the bride would bring with her two hundred thousand in capital. And thus the reader can now judge for himself the situation of this Major when he saw instead of a rather handsome and moderate-sized nose a very stupid, flat, and smooth space.

  As luck would have it, there was not a single cabby on the street, and he had to go on foot, wr
apped up in his cloak and covering his face with a kerchief, pretending he had a nosebleed. “But perhaps I imagined it. It can’t be that a nose would disappear for some foolish reason,” he thought, and went into a pastry shop on purpose to look into the mirror. Luckily, there was nobody in the pastry shop. Little boys were sweeping the rooms and setting up chairs; some of them, with sleepy eyes, were bringing out hot little pies on trays; yesterday’s newspapers, stained with coffee, were lying around on the tables and chairs. “Well, thank God nobody’s here,” he said, “now I can take a look.” He went timidly up to the mirror and took a look. “The devil only knows! What rubbish!” he said, and spat. “If only there were something instead of my nose, but there’s nothing!”

  Biting his lips in annoyance, he came out of the pastry shop and decided, contrary to his usual habit, not to look at anyone and not to smile at anyone. Suddenly he stopped dead by the doors of a house. An inexplicable phenomenon occurred before his eyes: A coach stopped in front of the entryway, the coach doors opened, a gentleman in a uniform jumped out, his back bent, and started running up the stairs. What horror and at the same time amazement did Kovalyov feel when he realized that this was his very own nose! At this unusual sight it seemed to him that everything he saw had turned upside down; he felt that he could hardly stay standing, but he resolved to await his return to the coach at all costs, trembling all over as if in a fever. Two minutes later the nose did indeed emerge. He was in a uniform with gold embroidery, with a large stand-up collar; he was wearing suede trousers and had a sword at his side. Judging by his plumed hat he bore the rank of state councillor. All signs indicated that he was going somewhere on a visit. He looked both ways, shouted to the coachman, “Let’s go!”—got into the coach, and rode away.7

  Poor Kovalyov almost lost his mind. He didn’t know how to even think about such a strange event. Indeed, how could it be that a nose that just yesterday was on his face and could neither ride nor walk—was in a uniform! He started to run after the coach, which luckily went only a little distance and stopped in front of the Kazan Cathedral.8

  Kovalyov hurried to the cathedral, made his way through a row of old beggar women with their faces bandaged up leaving two openings for their eyes, at whom he always used to have a good laugh, and went into the church. There were not many worshippers in the church. They were all standing around the entrance doors. Kovalyov felt so upset that he had no strength to pray, and he kept looking for that gentleman in all the corners. Finally, he caught sight of him standing off to the side. The nose had completely hidden his face in his big stand-up collar and was praying with an expression of the greatest piety.

  “How can I approach him?” Kovalyov thought. “Judging by everything, his uniform, his hat, he is a state councillor. The devil knows how to do it!”

  He began coughing gently near him, but the nose did not for a moment abandon his pious position and kept making low bows.9

  “My dear sir,” Kovalyov said, inwardly forcing himself to take courage, “my dear sir…”

  “What can I do for you?” the nose said, turning around.

  “It’s strange to me, my dear sir… it seems to me… you should know your place. And suddenly I find you, and where? In a church. You must agree…”

  “Pardon me, I cannot make any sense of what you wish to say…. Explain yourself.”

  “How can I explain it to him?” Kovalyov thought. He got up his nerve and began:

  “Of course, I… by the way, I am a major. You must agree that it is improper for me to walk around without a nose. A tradeswoman who sells peeled oranges on Resurrection Bridge can sit there without a nose; but with plans to obtain… and moreover being acquainted with ladies in many homes: Mrs. Chekhtaryova, the wife of a state councillor, and others… Judge for yourself… I don’t know, my dear sir.” (At this Major Kovalyov shrugged his shoulders.) “Forgive me… if one looks at this in accordance with the rules of duty and honor… you yourself can understand…”

  “I understand absolutely nothing,” the nose answered. “Express yourself in a more satisfactory manner.”

  “My dear sir…” Kovalyov said with a feeling of his own dignity, “I do not know how to understand your words… The whole affair seems to be quite obvious… Or do you want to… After all, you are my very own nose!”

  The nose looked at the major, and his brows knitted slightly.

  “You are mistaken, my dear sir. I am my own separate self. Moreover, there cannot be any intimate relations between us. Judging by the buttons on your uniform, you serve in a different department.”

  After saying this, the nose turned away and continued praying.

  Kovalyov was quite confused and didn’t know what to do or even what to think. At that moment the pleasant rustling of a lady’s dress was heard. A middle-aged lady all decorated with lace came near, and with her a slim girl wearing a white dress that very sweetly showed off her slender waist, as well as a pale-yellow hat as light as a puff pastry. Behind them a tall footman with huge whiskers and as many as a dozen collars came to a stop and opened his snuffbox.

  Kovalyov walked up closer to them, pulled out the cambric collar of his shirtfront, straightened the seals that were hanging on his golden chain, and smiling in all directions, directed his attention to the weightless lady, who like a spring blossom was bowing slightly and bringing her little white hand with its half-transparent fingers to her forehead. The smile on Kovalyov’s face grew even broader when from under her hat he caught sight of her round, dazzlingly white little chin and part of her cheek, shaded by the color of the first spring rose. But suddenly he jumped away as if he had burned himself. He recalled that instead of a nose he had absolutely nothing, and tears squeezed out of his eyes. He turned around in order to tell the gentleman in the uniform point-blank that he was only pretending to be a state councillor, that he was a rogue and a rascal, and that he was nothing more than his very own nose… But the nose was no longer there. He had managed to gallop off, probably to go visit someone else.

  This plunged Kovalyov into despair. He went back and stood for a minute under the colonnade, looking searchingly in all directions to see if he could tell where the nose was. He remembered very well that his hat was plumed and that his uniform had gold embroidery, but he hadn’t noticed his overcoat, or the color of his coach or his horses, or even whether there was a footman sitting in back and what kind of livery he was wearing. Moreover, there was such a multitude of coaches rushing back and forth and so quickly that it was hard to take note of them. But even if he could take note of one of them, he had no means of stopping it. It was a beautiful sunny day. There were hundreds of people on Nevsky Avenue; a whole flowery waterfall of ladies was pouring onto the sidewalk beginning from the Police Bridge and reaching Anichkov Bridge.10 Here came a court councillor of his acquaintance, whom he always called lieutenant colonel, especially if there were other people around.11 Here came Yarygin, a desk head in the Senate, a great friend who always lost when he bid eight in a game of Boston.12 Here was another major who had obtained an assessorship in the Caucasus, waving his arm to beckon Kovalyov over…

  “Oh, the devil take it!” Kovalyov said. “Hey, cabby, take me right to the chief of police!”

  Kovalyov got into the droshky and kept shouting to the cabby: “Go like a bat out of hell!”13

  “Is the chief of police in?” he shouted as he came into the entrance hall.

  “No, sir,” the doorman answered. “He just left.”

  “Well, I never!”

  “Yes,” the doorman added, “it wasn’t that long ago, but he left. If you had come just a moment earlier, you might have caught him at home.”

  Without taking the kerchief from his face, Kovalyov got back in the cab and shouted in a desperate voice: “Let’s go!”

  “Where?” the cabby said.

  “Go straight!”

  “What do you mean, straight? There’s a turn here: right or left?”

  This question gave Kovalyov pa
use and caused him to think again. In his situation he ought to appeal to the City Police Board, not because his situation had any direct connection to the police, but because the Police Board’s dispositions would be much faster than those in other offices. To seek satisfaction from the authorities in the office where the nose had declared himself to be serving would be foolhardy, because one could see from the nose’s own replies that nothing was sacred for this person and he would be capable of lying in this case just as he had lied when he claimed that he had never seen him. So Kovalyov was about to give the order to go to the Police Board, when he again had the thought that this rogue and swindler, who had already behaved in such an unscrupulous fashion on their first meeting, might easily take advantage of the opportunity to slip out of town—and then all searching would be in vain or could take a whole month, God forbid. Finally, it seemed that heaven itself made him see the light. He decided to apply directly to the advertising department of the newspaper in order to place a timely announcement with a detailed description of all the nose’s traits, so that anyone who met it could immediately present it to him or at least let him know about its place of residence. And so, having resolved on this, he ordered the cabby to drive to the newspaper advertising department, and the whole way there he never ceased punching him in the back with his fist, saying: “Faster, you rascal! Faster, you swindler!”—“Hey now, master!” the cabby would say, shaking his head and using the reins to lash his horse, whose coat was long-haired, like a lapdog’s. Finally the droshky stopped, and Kovalyov ran panting into a small reception room, where a gray-haired clerk wearing an old tailcoat and glasses was sitting at a desk, his quill pen in his mouth, counting copper coins that had been brought in.

  “Who is it here who accepts advertisements?” Kovalyov shouted. “Oh, hello there!”

  “My compliments, sir,” the gray-haired clerk said, raising his eyes for a moment and lowering them again to the piles of money that were laid out.