The Nose and Other Stories

by Nikolai Gogol

  “How can you say you don’t have any money,” the police inspector said, smiling pleasantly, “when you have so many gold coins?”

  “This money is sacred to me!” Chertkov exclaimed, fearful of the policeman’s expert hands. “I must keep it, it was entrusted to me by my late father. But in order to satisfy you, here’s the money for the rent!” At these words he threw a few coins to the landlord.

  The physiognomy and manner of the landlord and of the worthy guardian of the morals of drunken cabbies changed in a single moment.

  The policeman began to make apologies and to assure Chertkov that he was only carrying out the prescribed formalities, and that he did not in any case have the right to compel him; and in order to assure Chertkov of this even more, he offered him the prize of some snuff. The landlord assured him that he had merely been having a joke, and he made his assurances with the kind of oaths and shamelessness that are usually employed by a merchant in the Gostiny Dvor shopping arcade.8

  But Chertkov ran out and decided not to remain any longer in his former apartment. He didn’t have time to think about the strange nature of this incident. Inspecting the roll, he could see more than a hundred three-ruble coins in it. His first task was to rent a chic apartment. The apartment he happened to find seemed to have been prepared specially for him: four large rooms in a row, big windows, all the advantages and conveniences an artist could wish for! Lying on a Turkish sofa and looking through the sheet-glass windows at the growing and fleetingly glimpsed waves of people, he sank into a self-satisfied oblivion and was amazed at his fate, which only yesterday had crawled along with him in a garret. His unfinished and finished paintings were hung about the colossal, well-proportioned walls; among them hung the mysterious portrait, which he had obtained in such a unique manner. He again began to think about the origin of the unusual vitality of its eyes. His thoughts turned to the half-dream he had had, and finally to the magical treasure that was hidden in its frame. Everything led him to the conclusion that some kind of story was connected with the existence of the portrait and that perhaps even his own existence was linked to this portrait. He jumped up from his sofa and began to inspect the portrait carefully: in the edge of the frame there was a compartment concealed by a thin board that was so skillfully closed up and made even with the surface that no one could have found out about its existence if the heavy finger of the Police Inspector had not broken through the little board. He put the portrait back in its place and looked at it again. The vitality of the eyes no longer seemed so terrifying to him in the bright light that filled his room through the huge windows and the sound of the crowds in the street that thundered in his ears, but that vitality contained something unpleasant, so that he endeavored to turn away from the portrait as soon as possible.

  At that time his doorbell rang, and a respectable middle-aged lady with a tiny waist entered his apartment, accompanied by a young girl of about eighteen; a footman in a rich livery opened the door for them and remained in the anteroom.

  “I have come to you with a request,” the lady said in the affectionate tone ladies use with artists, French hairdressers, and all those people who are born for the pleasure of others. “I have heard about your gifts…” (Chertkov was amazed at this sudden fame of his.) “I would like you to paint a portrait of my daughter.”

  At this the daughter’s pale little face turned toward the artist, who, if he had been an expert on the heart, would have immediately read on it the few volumes of its history. A childish passion for balls, the anguish and boredom of the prolonged periods before dinner and after dinner, the desire to run about among the many guests at an outdoor party in a dress of the latest fashion, an impatience to see her girlfriend in order to say, “Oh, my darling, how bored I was,” or to announce what kind of trimming Madame Sichler had made for the Princess B—’s dress… That is all that the young visitor’s face expressed—a pale face, almost without expression, with a tinge of sickly yellowness.9

  “I would like you to begin right away,” the lady continued. “We can give you an hour.”

  Chertkov rushed to his paints and brushes, took up a stretched and primed canvas, and settled down to work.

  “I must give you some advance warning about my Annette,” said the lady, “which will lighten your labor somewhat. Languor has always been noticeable in her eyes and even in all the features of her face; my Annette is very sensitive, and I confess I never give her modern novels to read!” The artist looked as hard as he could but discerned no signs of languor. “I would like you to depict her simply in her family circle or, even better, alone in the open air, in the green shade, so that nothing would indicate that she was on her way to a ball. Our balls, I must confess, are so boring and so soul-destroying that I truly don’t understand what pleasure there is in attending them.”

  But it was written most distinctly all over the daughter’s face and even the face of the respectable lady herself that they never missed a single ball.

  Chertkov spent a moment reflecting on how to harmonize these small contradictions, and finally decided to choose a prudent middle course. Besides, he was enticed by the desire to conquer the difficulties and make art triumph by preserving the ambiguous expression of the portrait. His brush threw onto the canvas the first fog, the artistic chaos; the features taking shape began slowly to be distinguished and to emerge. He pressed up close to the model, his original, and was already beginning to capture those ineffable features that in a faithful copy lend even the most insipid original a kind of character that constitutes a high triumph of truth. A sweet trembling began to overcome him when he felt that he had finally noticed and would perhaps express that which is very rarely expressed successfully. Only talent knows this enjoyment, inexplicable and progressively heightening. Under his brush the face of the portrait seemed involuntarily to acquire that coloration that was a sudden discovery even for him; but the original began to fidget and yawn so much in front of him that the still inexperienced artist found it difficult to catch its constant expression in fits and starts and at odd moments.

  “I think that’s enough for the first time,” the respectable lady pronounced.

  God, how horrible! His soul and power had been stimulated and wanted to have free rein. Hanging his head and throwing down his palette, he stood in front of his painting.

  “By the way, I was told that you can finish a portrait completely in two sittings,” the lady said, going up to the painting, “but so far you’ve done only a sketch. We’ll come tomorrow at the same time.”

  The artist wordlessly saw his guests out and was left in unpleasant reflections. In his cramped garret no one had interrupted him when he sat at his work, commissioned by no one. With vexation he set aside the portrait he had begun and wanted to take up his other unfinished works. But how could it be possible to replace thoughts and feelings that have penetrated to the soul with new ones that the imagination has not yet managed to fall in love with? Throwing his brush aside, he left the house.

  Youth is fortunate in that a multitude of different roads run before it, that its lively, fresh soul is accessible to a thousand different types of enjoyment; and thus Chertkov found distraction in almost the first moment. A few rubles in the pocket—and what is beyond the power of youth, filled with strength! Besides, a Russian, especially a nobleman or an artist, has this strange characteristic: as soon as he has a half-kopeck in his pocket, the whole world can go hang and he’s not afraid of anything. After the money he had paid in advance for the apartment, he had about thirty three-ruble coins left. And he squandered all thirty in a single evening. First he ordered the most superb dinner, drank two bottles of wine and didn’t take the change, hired a fancy carriage just in order to ride to a theater that was located a few steps from his apartment, treated three of his friends in a pastry shop, made a visit to yet another place, and returned home without a kopeck in his pocket.10

  Throwing himself on the bed, he fell into a deep sleep, but his dreams were just as inco
herent as on the first night, and his chest was just as tight, as if it felt something heavy on it; he saw through the chink in his screens that the depiction of the old man had detached itself from the canvas and with an anxious expression was counting and recounting piles of money, gold was pouring from his hands… Chertkov’s eyes blazed; it seemed that his feelings recognized in the gold an inexplicable charm that had been unknown to him up to that time. The old man beckoned him with a finger and showed him a whole mountain of gold coins. Chertkov convulsively reached out his hand and woke up. Having awakened, he went up to the portrait, shook it, cut its frame open on all sides, but didn’t find hidden money anywhere. Finally he gave up and decided to work, promising himself not to sit for a long time and not to get carried away by the alluring brush.

  At that time the lady from the day before came with her pale Annette. The artist put his portrait on the easel, and this time his brush flew more quickly. The sunny day and bright illumination gave a kind of special expression to the original, and many subtleties that had not been noticeable before were revealed. His soul again began to burn with effort. He tried to capture the tiniest point or feature, even the very yellowness and uneven coloring of the yawning and exhausted beauty’s face, with the kind of precision that inexperienced artists permit themselves, imagining that the truth will please others the same way it pleases them. His brush had just started to capture the general expression of the whole when an annoyed “Enough!” resounded in his ears and the lady went up to his portrait.

  “Oh, my God! What have you painted?” she cried out in vexation. “You’ve made Annette yellow; she has some kind of dark spots under her eyes; she looks as if she’s taken several vials of medicine. No, for the love of God, fix your portrait. That’s not her face at all. We’ll come tomorrow at the same time.”

  Chertkov threw down his brush in vexation. He cursed himself, and his palette, and the affectionate lady, and her daughter, and the whole world. He sat starving in his magnificent room and didn’t have the strength to take up a single painting. The next day, rising early, he seized the first work that came to hand. It was a picture of Psyche that he had started long ago; he put it on the easel with the intention of forcing himself to continue working on it.11 At that moment the lady from the day before came in.

  “Oh, Annette, look, look at this!” the lady exclaimed with a joyful air. “Oh, what a good resemblance! It’s charming! Charming! The nose, the mouth, the eyebrows! How can we thank you for this beautiful surprise? How sweet! How good that this arm is raised a bit. I see that you truly are the great artist they told me about.”

  Chertkov stood dumbfounded when he saw that the lady had mistaken his Psyche for a portrait of her daughter. With the shyness of a novice, he began to assure her that in this weak study he had wanted to depict Psyche; but the daughter took this as a compliment to herself and smiled sweetly, a smile shared by her mother. A hellish thought flashed in the artist’s head, a feeling of vexation and fury fortified it, and he decided to profit by this.

  “Allow me to ask you to sit for me a little longer today,” he said, turning to the blonde, who was pleased this time. “You can see that I haven’t done the dress at all yet, because I wanted to paint it all from nature with greater precision.”

  Quickly he dressed his Psyche in the clothing of the nineteenth century; he slightly touched the eyes and lips, made the hair somewhat lighter, and gave the portrait to his visitors. He was rewarded with a bundle of banknotes and an affectionate smile of gratitude.

  But the artist stood as if rooted to the spot. His conscience was tormenting him; he was overcome by that fastidious, mistrustful fear for his unsullied name that is felt by a youth who carries in his soul the nobility of talent, a fear that forces him, if not to destroy, then at least to hide from the world those works in which he himself sees imperfection, a fear that forces him to prefer enduring the contempt of the whole crowd rather than the contempt of a true connoisseur. It seemed to him that a terrible judge was standing before his painting and, shaking his head, reproaching him for shamelessness and lack of talent. What wouldn’t he give to get it back! He wanted to run after the lady, tear the portrait from her hands, rip it up and stomp on it, but how could he do it? Where should he go? He didn’t even know his visitor’s name.

  But from that time a happy change took place in his life. He expected his name to be covered in infamy, but it turned out quite the contrary. The lady who had commissioned the portrait went into raptures about this extraordinary artist, and our Chertkov’s studio filled with visitors wishing to double, and if possible increase tenfold, their own images. But the fresh, still innocent Chertkov, who felt in his soul that he was unworthy of taking on such an extraordinary task, in order to somewhat make amends and atone for his crime, decided to take up his work with all possible diligence, to double the exertion of his powers, which was the only thing that would produce miracles. But his intentions met with unforeseen obstacles. The visitors whose portraits he was painting were for the most part impatient, busy people in a hurry, and therefore, as soon as his brush began to create something a bit out of the ordinary, a new visitor would burst in and display his head in a most pompous way, burning with the desire to see it on canvas as soon as possible, and the artist would hurry to finish his work quickly.

  His time was finally so filled up that he could not spend a single minute in reflection; and inspiration, continually destroyed at its very birth, finally got out of the habit of visiting him. Finally, in order to make his work go faster, he began to confine himself to well-known, defined, monotonous, long worn-out forms. Soon his portraits resembled those family depictions by the old artists, which are so often encountered in all the lands of Europe and in all corners of the world, where the ladies are depicted with their arms folded on their breasts and holding flowers in their hands, and the cavaliers in uniform with one hand tucked inside their jackets. Sometimes he wished to offer a new, not yet hackneyed posture that would be distinguished by originality and lack of constraint, but, alas! All that is unconstrained and easy is obtained by the poet and artist only in a most constrained way, and is the fruit of great exertions. In order to offer a new, bold expression, to grasp a new secret in painting, he would have to think for a long time, turning his eyes away from everything that surrounded him, flying away from everything worldly and from life. But he didn’t have time for this, and besides he was too exhausted by his daily work to be ready to receive inspiration; and the world he was using as a model to paint his works was too ordinary and monotonous to stimulate and stir his imagination. The deeply pondering and at the same time motionless face of the director of a department; the face of an Uhlan cavalry captain, handsome but always of the same type; the pale face of a St. Petersburg beauty with its forced smile; and many others that were just too ordinary—that is what appeared in turn every day before our painter. It seemed that his very brush had finally taken on the insipidity and lack of energy that marked his originals.

  The banknotes and gold that constantly flashed before him finally put the virginal impulses of his soul to sleep. He shamelessly profited by the weakness of people who, in exchange for an extra feature of beauty added by the artist to their images, were ready to forgive him all his deficiencies, even if that beauty damaged the resemblance itself.

  Chertkov finally became a quite fashionable painter. The whole capital applied to him. His portraits could be seen in everyone’s studies, bedrooms, drawing rooms, and boudoirs. True artists shrugged their shoulders when they looked at the works of this favorite of all-powerful chance. In vain did they try to find in him a single feature of real truth, tossed onto the canvas by passionate inspiration. It was just faces with regular features, almost always good looking, because the concept of beauty maintained a foothold in the artist, but there was no knowledge of the heart, the passions, or even the habits of man—nothing that would speak of a powerful development of subtle taste. Some who knew Chertkov were amazed at this strange ev
ent, because they had seen in his first efforts the presence of talent, and they tried to solve an incomprehensible enigma: How could a gift be extinguished in its prime, rather than developing in full brilliance?

  But the self-satisfied artist did not hear this talk and gloried in his universal fame, throwing his gold coins around and beginning to believe that everything on earth is ordinary and simple, that there is no such thing as a revelation from on high, and that everything must of necessity be subsumed under a strict order of tidiness and monotony. His life was reaching the years when everything that breathes of impulse begins to shrink within a person, when the powerful violin bow reaches the soul more faintly and does not twine about the heart with piercing sounds, when contact with beauty no longer transforms virginal powers into fire and flame, but all the burned-out feelings become more open to the sound of gold, listen more attentively to its alluring music, and little by little, imperceptibly, allow it to put them completely to sleep. Fame cannot satiate and give enjoyment to one who has stolen it and not earned it; it produces a constant excitement only in one who is worthy of it. And so all his feelings and impulses turned toward gold. Gold became his passion, his ideal, his terror, his enjoyment, and his goal. Bundles of banknotes grew in his chests. And like everyone who is given this terrible gift, he became boring, closed to everything and indifferent to everything. It seemed that he was ready to turn into one of those strange creatures who are sometimes encountered in the world, at whom a person full of energy and passion looks with horror, and who seem to him like living bodies that contain corpses within themselves. But a certain event powerfully shook him and gave his life a completely different turn.