The Nose and Other Stories

by Nikolai Gogol

  Everything you encounter on Nevsky Avenue, everything is filled with propriety: the men in their long frock coats with their hands in their pockets, the ladies in pink, white, and pale-blue satin redingotes and little hats. Here you will encounter unique whiskers, which have been tucked under the necktie with unusual and amazing skill; velvety whiskers, satiny whiskers, whiskers as black as coal, but, alas, these whiskers are the sole property of the Collegium of Foreign Affairs. Providence has denied black whiskers to those serving in other departments; they must wear red whiskers, which is unpleasant for them in the highest degree. Here you will encounter marvelous mustaches that cannot be described by any pen or any brush; mustaches to which the best part of a life has been devoted—the object of long vigils by day and by night, mustaches that have had the most ravishing perfumes and fragrances poured onto them and have been anointed by the most precious and rare types of pomade, mustaches that are rolled in fine vellum paper for the night, mustaches that breathe of the extremely touching devotion their possessors feel for them and that are the envy of passersby. Anyone on Nevsky Avenue will be blinded by a thousand types of little hats, dresses, scarves—particolored, light, which keep the devotion of their lady owners sometimes for two whole days. It seems as if a whole sea of butterflies has suddenly ascended from the stems of plants and is billowing in a brilliant swarm over the black beetles of the male sex. Here you will encounter the kind of waists that you have never dreamed of: slim, narrow waists, no thicker than the neck of a bottle, which will cause you to walk respectfully aside, so as not to shove them incautiously with an impolite elbow; your heart will be overcome by timidity and fear lest an incautious breath should cause this most charming creation of nature and art to snap in two. And the ladies’ sleeves you will encounter on Nevsky Avenue! Oh, how lovely! They somewhat resemble two hot-air balloons, so that the lady would suddenly ascend into the air if the man were not holding onto her, because it is as easy and pleasant to raise a lady into the air as it is to raise a glass of champagne to one’s lips.

  Nowhere do people bow to each other upon meeting so nobly and easily as on Nevsky Avenue. Here you will encounter a unique smile, a smile that is the summit of artistry, sometimes the kind of smile that causes you to melt with pleasure, sometimes the kind that makes you see yourself as lower than the grass and causes you to hang your head, sometimes the kind that makes you feel taller than the Admiralty spire and causes you to raise your head again.8 Here you will encounter people talking about a concert or about the weather with unusual nobility and a feeling of their own dignity. Here you will encounter a thousand incomprehensible characters and phenomena. Oh, Creator! What strange characters you will encounter on Nevsky Avenue! There is a multitude of those people who when they meet you will inevitably look at your boots, and if you pass by them, they will turn around to look at your coattails. To this very day I cannot understand why this happens. At first I thought that they were shoemakers, but it isn’t that at all. For the most part they work in various civil service departments, and many of them can write a memorandum from one government office to another in the most superb manner; or they are people who occupy themselves with strolling and reading newspapers in pastry shops—in a word, for the most part, they are all decent people.

  At this blessed time from two to three o’clock in the afternoon, which might be called the movable capital city of Nevsky Avenue, the main exposition of all the best works of man takes place. One displays a dandified frock coat with the best beaver trim, another displays a beautiful Grecian nose, a third bears superb whiskers, a fourth—a pair of pretty little eyes and an amazing little hat, a fifth—a talisman ring on a dandified pinky finger, a sixth—a little foot in an enchanting slipper, a seventh—a necktie that arouses amazement, an eighth—a mustache that strikes people with astonishment. But three o’clock strikes, and the exposition ends, the crowd thins out… At three o’clock there is a new change. Suddenly spring arrives on Nevsky Avenue: It is all covered with civil servants in green uniforms. Hungry titular, court, and other kinds of councillors try with all their might to hasten their step.9 Young collegiate registrars, gubernial and collegiate secretaries hurry to make use of the remaining time and walk along Nevsky Avenue with the kind of bearing that flat out denies that they have been sitting in an office for six hours. But the old collegiate secretaries and titular and court councillors walk quickly, their heads bent: They couldn’t care less about occupying themselves with scrutinizing the passersby; they have not yet torn themselves away from their cares; their heads are filled with a muddle and a whole archive of business that they’ve begun and not finished. For a long time they see instead of a shop sign a file full of papers or the fat face of the Chancellery administrator.

  From four o’clock Nevsky Avenue is empty, and you will most likely not encounter a single civil servant on it. A seamstress from one of the stores will run across Nevsky Avenue with a box in her hands; the pitiful victim of a philanthropic court clerk, cast out into the world in a rough wool coat; an oddball from out of town, for whom all hours of the day are the same; a long tall Englishwoman with a reticule and a book in her hands; an artisan from a cooperative, a Russian man in a frock coat of thick cotton with its waist gathered at the back, with a narrow beard, who lives his whole life in a slipshod way, in whom everything is moving—his back, and his arms, and his legs, and his head—as he passes politely along the sidewalk; sometimes a lowly craftsman; you will not encounter anyone else on Nevsky Avenue.

  But as soon as dusk falls on the buildings and streets and the policeman on duty covers himself with bast matting and scrambles up a ladder to light the streetlamp, and those prints that don’t dare to show themselves in broad daylight start to peep out of the low little windows of the stores, then Nevsky Avenue again comes to life and begins to stir.10 Then that mysterious time sets in when the lamps lend everything a sort of alluring, miraculous light. You will encounter quite a few young people, bachelors for the most part, in warm frock coats and overcoats. At that time one senses a kind of goal, or rather something that resembles a goal, something extraordinarily unaccountable. Everyone’s steps speed up and become quite uneven. Long shadows flash along the walls and the roadway and nearly reach the Police Bridge with their heads. Young collegiate registrars and gubernial and collegiate secretaries spend a long time strolling along, but for the most part the old collegiate registrars and titular and court councillors sit at home, either because they are married folk or because the German woman cooks who live with them prepare very tasty meals. Here you will encounter respectable old men, who at two o’clock stroll along Nevsky Avenue with such solemnity and such amazing nobility. You will see them running just like the young collegiate registrars, in order to peek under the little hat of a lady they have glimpsed from afar, whose thick lips and cheeks, plastered with rouge, are so fancied by many of the men out for a stroll, but most of all by the shop clerks, cooperative artisans, and merchants, who always stroll in a whole crowd, wearing German frock coats and usually arm in arm.

  “Stop!” shouted Lieutenant Pirogov at that moment, tugging the sleeve of a young man in a tailcoat and cloak who was walking with him. “Did you see her?”

  “I saw her, she’s marvelous, she’s a perfect Bianca of Perugino.”11

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “About her, the one with the dark hair. And what eyes! My God, what eyes! Her whole posture, and her contours, and the setting of her face—they’re miracles!”12

  “I’m talking about the blonde who passed behind her in that direction. Why don’t you follow the brunette, if she pleased you so much?”

  “Oh, how could I!” the young man in the tailcoat exclaimed, blushing. “As if she were one of those who walk along Nevsky Avenue in the evenings. She must be a very well-born lady,” he continued with a sigh, “her cloak alone is worth about eighty rubles!”

  “You simpleton!” Pirogov shouted, pushing him by force in the direction where her brightly col
ored cloak was fluttering. “Get going, you nincompoop, you’ll let her slip away! And I’ll go after the blonde.”

  The two friends went their separate ways.

  “We know all about your type,” Pirogov thought to himself with a self-satisfied and self-confident smile. He was convinced that no beautiful woman could possibly resist him.

  The young man in the tailcoat and cloak walked timidly and tremulously in the direction of the multicolored cloak fluttering in the distance, which would spread out with a bright gleam as it approached the light of the streetlamp, then would instantly be covered in darkness as it moved away from it. His heart was pounding, and he involuntarily quickened his pace. He didn’t dare to think of obtaining the right to the attention of the beautiful woman who was flying into the distance, much less admitting such a dark idea as the one Lieutenant Pirogov had hinted at; he just wanted to see her house, to note where this lovely creature, who seemed to have flown down from heaven right onto Nevsky Avenue and would probably fly away no one knows where, had her dwelling place. He flew so quickly that he was constantly pushing stately gentlemen with gray whiskers off the sidewalk.

  This young man belonged to that class that constitutes a somewhat strange phenomenon here and belongs to the citizenry of St. Petersburg just as much as a face that appears to us in a dream belongs to the world of substance. This exceptional estate is very unusual in the city where everything is either civil servants, or merchants, or German craftsmen. He was an artist. Isn’t that a strange phenomenon? A Petersburg artist! An artist in the land of snows, an artist in the land of Finns, where everything is wet, smooth, flat, pale, gray, and foggy. These artists do not at all resemble Italian artists, as proud and fiery as Italy and its sky. On the contrary, they are for the most part a kind, gentle folk, shy, carefree, who love their art, who drink tea with two friends in a small room, modestly discussing their beloved subject and quite disregarding anything superfluous. Such an artist is always inviting some old beggar woman to his place and forcing her to sit for a whole six hours so that he can transfer her pitiful, impassive countenance onto canvas. He draws a perspective of his room, in which there is all sorts of artistic trash: plaster hands and feet, which have been rendered coffee-colored by time and dust, broken easels, a palette turned upside down, a friend playing the guitar, walls stained by paint, with an opened window through which one can glimpse the pale Neva River and some poor fishermen in red peasant shirts. These artists always put a kind of gray, turbid coloration on everything—the indelible imprint of the north. For all that, they labor over their work with true enjoyment.

  They often harbor true talent in themselves, and if only the fresh air of Italy were to waft onto them, that talent would probably develop just as freely, broadly, and brightly as a plant that is finally taken out of a room into the pure air. They are generally very timid: A decoration with a star and a thick epaulet cause them such embarrassment that they involuntarily lower the price of their works. They sometimes like to play the dandy, but this dandyism always seems a little too striking and somewhat resembles a patch. You’ll sometimes encounter them wearing an excellent tailcoat and a soiled cloak, or an expensive velvet vest and a frock coat all covered with paint. In exactly the same way you’ll sometimes see on one of their unfinished landscape paintings a nymph sketched in upside down, which the artist, who couldn’t find any other place, tossed onto the soiled primer of his previous work, which he had once painted with great relish. An artist of this kind never looks straight into your eyes, and if he does, he does it in a kind of turbid, indefinite way; he does not pierce you with the hawkish gaze of an observer or the falconine glance of a cavalry officer. This is because at one and the same moment he is seeing your features and the features of some plaster Hercules that stands in his room, or he’s imagining his own painting that he’s planning to create. That is why he often gives incoherent answers, sometimes not to the point, and the objects that are mixed up in his head increase his timidity even more.

  Such is the genus to which the young man we have described belonged, the artist Piskaryov—shy, timid, but bearing the sparks of feeling in his soul, sparks that were ready to turn into flame at an opportune moment. With secret trembling he hurried after the object that had so impressed him, and it seemed that he was amazed at his own audacity. The unknown creature to whom his eyes, thoughts, and feelings now clung suddenly turned her head and glanced at him. My God, what divine features! The loveliest, most blindingly white brow was shadowed by hair as beautiful as agate. These marvelous tresses curled, and some of them, falling out from under her little hat, brushed her cheeks, which were touched by a faint, fresh rosiness, called forth by the cold of the evening. Her lips were closed by a whole swarm of the loveliest reveries. Everything that remains from the memories of childhood, everything that leads to daydreaming and quiet inspiration by shining lamplight—all of that seemed to be combined and merged and reflected in her harmonious lips. She glanced at Piskaryov, and his heart began to tremble from that glance; she glanced sternly, a feeling of indignation emerged on her face at the sight of such an insolent pursuit; but anger itself was bewitching on that beautiful face. Overcome by shame and timidity, he stopped, his eyes lowered; but how could he lose this divinity and not find the holy place to which it had descended for its sojourn? These were the thoughts that came to the young dreamer, and he made up his mind to pursue her. But so as not to allow her to notice it, he kept at a good distance, he looked from side to side in a carefree way, inspecting the shop signs, and meanwhile he did not let a single step of the unknown woman escape his vision. The number of passersby diminished, and the street became quieter. The beauty looked back, and it seemed to him as if a slight smile flashed on her lips. He started trembling all over and couldn’t believe his eyes. No, it was the streetlamp’s deceptive light that expressed the semblance of a smile on her face; no, it was his own daydreams laughing at him. But he gasped for breath, everything inside him turned into an indefinite trembling, all his senses burned, and everything in front of him was swathed in a fog. The sidewalk rushed beneath his feet, the coaches with their galloping horses seemed to be motionless, the bridge stretched out and snapped apart at its arch, a building stood with its roof downward, a police booth toppled toward him, and the sentry’s halberd along with the golden words and painted scissors on a shop sign seemed to be gleaming on the very eyelashes of his eyes.13 And all this was produced by a single glance, a single turn of a pretty little head.

  Hearing nothing, seeing nothing, heeding nothing, he rushed after the light traces of the beautiful little feet, trying to moderate the speed of his own steps, which flew in time with the beating of his heart. Sometimes he would be overcome by doubt—was the expression on her face really so well disposed?—and then he would stop for a moment, but the beating of his heart, the insuperable strength and disquiet of all his senses, urged him forward. He didn’t even notice how a four-story building suddenly rose up before him, all four rows of windows, shining with lights, looked at him all at once, and the entryway fence repulsed him with its iron shove. He saw the unknown woman fly up the stairs, look back, place a finger to her lips, and give him a sign to follow her. His knees were trembling; his senses and thoughts were burning; a lightning bolt of joy pierced his heart with its unbearable tip. No, this was no longer a daydream! My God! So much happiness in a single instant! Such a miraculous life in two minutes!

  But wasn’t this all happening in a dream? Could it really be true? He was ready to give up his whole life in exchange for a single heavenly glance from this woman, he considered it an inexpressible blessing that he had been able to come near her dwelling place—could it really be true that she was now so well disposed and attentive to him? He flew up the stairs. He was not feeling any earthly idea; he was not warmed by the flame of an earthly passion, no, at that moment he was as pure and chaste as a virginal youth, still breathing with an indefinite spiritual need for love. And that which in a debauched man would aro
use impertinent thoughts, that very thing, on the contrary, made his thoughts more holy. The trust that the beautiful weak creature had shown him, this trust placed upon him a vow of knightly severity, the vow to slavishly carry out all her commands. He only wished that these commands would be as difficult and hard to carry out as possible, so that he would need an even greater exertion of his powers in order to fly to overcome them. He had no doubt that there was some secret and most important occurrence that had caused the unknown woman to put her faith in him, that he would probably be required to perform significant services, and he felt in himself the strength and resolve for any task.

  The staircase twisted, and along with it his swift daydreams twisted. “Be careful!” her voice resounded like a harp, and it filled all his veins with new tremors. At the dark top of the fourth story the unknown woman knocked at a door—it opened, and they went in together. A rather handsome woman met them with a candle in her hand, but she looked at Piskaryov in such a strange and insolent way that he involuntarily lowered his eyes. They entered the room. Three female figures in various corners appeared before his eyes. One was laying out some cards; another was sitting at a piano and playing a pitiful simulacrum of an old polonaise with two fingers; the third was sitting in front of a mirror, combing out her long hair, and having no thought of abandoning her toilette upon the entrance of an unknown person. A sort of unpleasant disorder, the kind one only encounters in the carefree room of a bachelor, reigned over everything. Quite good quality furniture was covered with dust; a spider was covering an ornamental cornice with its web; through the slightly open door of the next room a spurred boot gleamed and the piping of a uniform showed red; a loud male voice and female laughter resounded without the slightest restraint.