The Nose and Other Stories

by Nikolai Gogol

  “Naturally, sometimes these people suffer great financial shortages that do not allow them to lead their usual poor lives. They must often take out emergency loans in order to extricate themselves from their circumstances. Then one finds among them those people who are called by the resounding name of capitalists and who can supply sums from twenty to a hundred rubles at various rates of interest, almost always excessive. These people little by little accumulate a fortune that sometimes allows them to acquire their own little home. But among these moneylenders there was one unlike all the rest, a strange creature by the name of Petromikhali. Whether he was a Greek or an Armenian or a Moldavian—no one knew, but at the least he had completely southern facial features. He always wore a capacious Asiatic robe, he was tall, his face had a dark olive complexion, and his black beetling eyebrows with a touch of gray and also his mustache lent him a frightening appearance. No expression was discernible on his face. It was almost always motionless, and his striking southern physiognomy presented a strange contrast to the ashlike inhabitants of Kolomna. Petromikhali did not at all resemble the abovementioned moneylenders of this secluded part of the city. He could offer any sum that was asked of him. Naturally, the rates of interest for this were also unusual. His dilapidated house with its multitude of annexes was located in the Goat’s Bog neighborhood. It would not have been so decrepit if its owner had laid out even a little bit of cash for repairs, but Petromikhali absolutely refused to make any expenditures. All the rooms of the house, excluding the small hole he himself occupied, were cold storerooms in which were scattered piles of vases made of porcelain, gold, and jasper, all sorts of trash, even furniture that was brought to him as security by debtors of various ranks and callings, because Petromikhali didn’t scorn anything, and although he could lend rubles by the hundreds of thousands, he was also ready to offer a sum no larger than one ruble. Old, worn-out linen, broken chairs, even torn boots—he was ready to take everything into his storerooms, and a beggar could have no fear in coming to him with a bundle in his hand. Costly pearls that perhaps had once entwined the most enchanting neck in the world were kept in his dirty iron trunk along with a fifty-year-old lady’s ancient snuffbox, a diadem that had risen over the alabaster brow of a great beauty, and the diamond ring of a poor civil servant who had received it as a reward for his tireless labors.

  “But it must be noted that people were forced to turn to him only by the most dire necessity. His conditions were so onerous that they dispelled any desire. But strangest of all, at first his interest rates did not seem very high. By means of his strange and unusual computations he arranged them in such an inexplicable way that they grew at a terrible progression, and even auditors’ clerks could not fathom this incomprehensible rule, all the more since it seemed to be based on the laws of strict mathematical truth. They saw sums that were clearly exaggerated, but they also saw that there was no mistake in these calculations. Pity, like all the other passions of a feeling person, could never reach him, and no supplications could incline him to a deferment or to a lessening of the payment. Several times they found at his door unfortunate old women, ossified from the cold, whose dark-blue faces, frozen limbs, and dead, outstretched arms seemed even after death still to be begging him for mercy. This often aroused a general indignation, and the police tried several times to investigate more thoroughly the acts of this strange man, but the district police inspectors always managed to fend them off under various pretexts and to present the business in a different light, despite the fact that they had not received a penny from him. But wealth has such a strange force that people believe in it the way they believe in a state banknote. Without even showing itself, it can invisibly move everyone like fawning servants. This strange creature would sit cross-legged on his blackened divan, motionlessly receiving petitioners, only slightly twitching his brow as a sign of greeting, and one never heard anything superfluous or extraneous from him. Nevertheless there were rumors that he sometimes gave out money for nothing, without demanding its return, but that he would propose such a condition that everyone ran from him in horror, and even the most garrulous housewives did not have the strength to move their lips to tell others about it. Those who did have the courage to accept the money he gave them turned yellow, withered away, and died without daring to reveal the mystery.

  “In this part of the town a certain artist who was then famed for his truly beautiful works owned a small house. This artist was my father. I can show you some of his works that display a decided talent. His life was quite placid. He was the kind of modest, pious painter that lived only in the religious Middle Ages. He could have had great fame and acquired a great fortune if he had made up his mind to take the many jobs that were offered him from all sides, but he preferred to work on religious subjects, and for a small sum he would agree to paint the entire iconostasis of a parish church. He often had need of money, but he never brought himself to have recourse to the horrible moneylender, although he always had the means to pay back his debt, because all he had to do was to sit down and paint a few portraits and the money would be in his pocket. But he was so sorry to tear himself away from his work, he was so sad to part with his beloved idea for even a short time, that he would rather have sat starving in his room for several days, which is what he would always have done if he had not had a passionately beloved wife and two children, one of whom you now see before you. But one time his extremity became so great that he was about ready to go see the Greek, when suddenly the news spread that the horrible moneylender was at the point of death. This incident struck him so powerfully that he was ready to acknowledge it as having been sent on purpose from above in order to hinder his intention, when he met in his entryway a panting old woman, the woman who carried out three duties for the moneylender: cook, yard sweeper, and valet. The old woman, who had quite lost the habit of talking while serving her strange master, indistinctly muttered a few incoherent, abrupt words, from which my father could learn only that her master had urgent need of him and asked that he bring his paints and brushes with him. My father could not imagine what he could be needed for at such a time, and moreover with his paints and brushes, but spurred by curiosity, he grabbed his box of painting supplies and set off with the old woman.

  “Only with difficulty could he force his way through the crowd of beggars who were clustering around the dwelling of the dying moneylender, nourishing the hope that maybe now, finally, before death, this sinner would repent and dispense a small part of his innumerable riches. He went into a small room and saw, stretching out almost to its whole length, the body of the Asian, which at first he thought already dead, so stretched out and immobile was it. Finally the moneylender lifted his shriveled head, and his eyes became so terribly fixed that my father began to tremble. Petromikhali uttered a muffled exclamation and finally said: ‘Paint my portrait!’ My father was amazed at such a strange desire. He began to explain to him that this was no longer the time to think of such a thing, that he should reject all earthly desires, that he had only a few minutes left to live and that therefore it was time to reflect on his former deeds and to express repentance to the Most High. ‘I don’t want anything; paint my portrait!’ Petromikhali said in a firm voice, while his face was seized by such convulsions that my father would probably have left if he had not been stopped by a feeling that is quite excusable in an artist struck by an unusual subject for his brush. The face of the moneylender indeed was one of those that constitute a treasure for the artist. With terror and at the same time a kind of secret desire, he set up a canvas on his knees, not having an easel, and began to paint. The thought of later using this face in a painting in which he wished to depict a man possessed by demons that are expelled by the powerful word of the Savior, this thought compelled him to intensify his zeal. He hurriedly sketched an outline and the first shadows, afraid every minute that the moneylender’s life would suddenly be cut short, because death seemed to be hovering on his lips. From time to time the moneylender would emit a wheeze
and would anxiously fix his terrible gaze on the painting. Finally something resembling joy flashed in his eyes when he saw how his features were taking shape on the canvas.

  “Afraid for the moneylender’s life at every moment, my father decided to work on the ultimate refinement of the eyes first of all. This was the most difficult subject, because the feeling depicted in them was quite unusual and inexpressible. He labored over them for about an hour and finally captured to perfection the fire that was already going out in the moneylender, his original. With a secret pleasure he walked a short distance away from the painting in order to have a better look at it, and he jumped away from it in horror when he saw living eyes gazing at him. An incomprehensible terror took possession of him to such a degree that, throwing down his palette and paints, he rushed to the door; but the terrible, almost half-dead body of the moneylender rose from his bed and grabbed him with his emaciated hand, ordering him to continue working. My father crossed himself and swore that he would not continue. Then this horrible creature tumbled off his bed so that his bones rattled, gathered all his strength, his eyes flashed with vitality, his arms embraced my father’s legs, and, crawling, he kissed the hem of his clothes and implored him to finish painting the portrait. But my father was implacable and was merely amazed at the strength of the moneylender’s will, which overcame the very approach of death.

  “Finally the desperate Petromikhali, with extraordinary force, pulled a chest out from under the bed, and a terrible pile of gold fell to my father’s feet. Seeing that even then he remained adamant, the moneylender collapsed at his feet, and a whole stream of incantations began to flow from his lips, which had been silent up until then. It was impossible not to feel a kind of horrible and, if one may say, repulsive compassion. ‘Kind man! Man of God! Man of Christ!’ this living skeleton said with an expression of despair. ‘I conjure you by your small children, by your beautiful wife, by the grave of your father, finish my portrait! Work on it just one more hour! Listen, I will reveal a secret to you.’ At these words a deathly pallor began to appear more clearly on his face. ‘But never reveal this secret to anyone—neither to your wife, nor to your children. If you do, you will die, and they will die, and you will all be unfortunate. Listen, if you do not take pity now, I will ask no further. After death I must go to the one to whom I would not wish to go. There I must suffer the kind of torments you have never heard of even in your dreams; but I can avoid going to him for a long time, for as long as our earth exists, if only you finish my portrait. I have learned that half of my life will pass into my portrait if only it is painted by a skillful painter. You see that a part of life has already remained in the eyes; it will be in all the other features too when you have finished. And although my body will perish, half of my life will remain on earth and I will escape the torments for a long time yet. Finish the painting! Finish the painting! Finish the painting!’ this strange creature cried out in a harrowing and dying voice. My father was even more possessed by horror. He could feel his hair stand on end from this horrible secret, and he dropped the brush that he had been on the point of raising, touched by the moneylender’s entreaties. ‘So you don’t want to finish painting me?’ Petromikhali said in a wheezing voice. ‘Then take my portrait for yourself. I give it to you as a gift.’ At these words something like a terrible laugh was expressed on his lips. Life seemed to flash once more in his features, and a minute later there remained before my father a dark-blue corpse. My father did not want to touch the brushes and paints that had painted those apostate features, and ran out of the room.

  “In order to divert the unpleasant thoughts brought on by this incident, he walked around the city for a long time and returned home toward evening. The first object that met his eye in his studio was the portrait he had painted of the moneylender. He asked his wife, the woman who worked in the kitchen, and the yard sweeper, but they all answered decisively that no one had brought the portrait, and no one had even come while he was away. This caused him to ponder for a moment. He approached the portrait and involuntarily turned his eyes away, overwhelmed by revulsion from his own work. He ordered that it be taken down and carried away to the attic, but the whole time he felt a sort of strange burden, the presence of thoughts that frightened him. But most of all he was struck when he went to bed by the following almost unbelievable incident: He clearly saw Petromikhali come into his room and stand at the end of his bed. Petromikhali looked at him for a long time with his living eyes, and finally began to propose such horrible things to him, wished to give his art such a hellish direction, that my father leaped out of bed with a painful moan, penetrated by a cold sweat, by an unbearable weight on his soul, and also by the most ardent indignation. He could see the magical depiction of the dead Petromikhali recede into the frame of the portrait, which was again hanging before him on the wall.

  “He resolved to burn this accursed product of his hands that very day. As soon as the fireplace was lit, he threw the portrait into the flaming fire and watched with secret delight as the canvas’s frame cracked, and the still wet paint hissed. Finally all that remained of its existence was a heap of cinders. And when that heap began to fly out the chimney in a light dust, it seemed that the vague image of Petromikhali flew away with it. He felt a certain lightening of the burden on his soul. With the feelings of a man who has recovered from a lengthy illness he turned to the corner of the room where an icon hung that he had painted in order to express pure repentance, and he saw with horror that before him stood that same portrait of Petromikhali, whose eyes seemed to have acquired even more vitality, so that even his children uttered a cry when they looked at it. This produced an extraordinary impression on my father. He resolved to confide everything to our parish priest and to ask his advice about how to proceed in this unusual business. The priest was a sensible man and was also devoted with warm love to his duties. He immediately appeared, at the first call from my father, whom he respected as a most worthy parishioner. My father did not consider it necessary to take him aside and resolved to tell him of this incomprehensible incident right there, in the presence of my mother and their children. But scarcely had he uttered his first word when my mother suddenly cried out in a muffled voice and fell senseless onto the floor. Her face was covered by a terrible pallor, her lips remained motionlessly open, and all her features were twisted in convulsions. My father and the priest ran to her and saw with horror that she had accidentally swallowed a dozen needles she had been holding in her mouth. The doctor came and declared that she could not be cured. Some needles had remained lodged in her throat, others had passed into her stomach and internal organs, and my mother died a horrible death.

  “This incident had a powerful influence on my father’s whole life. From that time a kind of gloom took possession of his soul. Seldom did he do any work; he almost always remained silent and avoided any society. But meanwhile the horrible image of Petromikhali with his living eyes began to persecute him more constantly, and often my father felt a surge of such desperate, savage thoughts that he himself involuntarily shuddered. All that which settles like black sediment in the depths of a person, which is destroyed and expelled by education, noble deeds, and contemplation of the beautiful—all of that he felt rebelling and ceaselessly striving to come out and develop in all its depraved perfection. The gloomy state of his soul was precisely of the kind that would cause him to seize upon this black side of man. But I must note that the strength of my father’s character was unparalleled; the power he exerted over himself and his passions was incomprehensible; his convictions were firmer than granite, and the stronger the temptation, the more he strove to oppose it with the indestructible power of his soul. Finally, weakened by this struggle, he resolved to pour out and bare himself entirely by depicting the whole tale of his sufferings to that same priest who had almost always given him healing with his meditative speeches.

  “This was at the beginning of autumn. The weather was beautiful, the sun was shining with a fresh autumn light. The
windows of our rooms were open; my father was sitting with the worthy priest in his studio; my brother and I were playing in the room next to it. Both these rooms were on the second floor, which formed the mezzanine of our little house. The door to the studio was slightly ajar. I happened to glance through the opening, saw my father move closer to the priest, and even heard him say: ‘Finally I will reveal this whole secret…’ Suddenly a short cry caused me to turn around: my brother was not there. I went up to the window and—my God! I will never be able to forget this incident: on the pavement lay the corpse of my brother, soaked with blood. In playing he had probably bent carelessly out the window and fallen, no doubt head first, because his head was smashed. I will never forget this horrible accident. My father stood motionless before the window, crossed his arms on his chest and raised his eyes to heaven. The priest was overcome by terror when he remembered the horrible death of my mother, and he himself requested that my father preserve this horrible secret.