The Nose and Other Stories

by Nikolai Gogol

  At these words Akaky Akakievich’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Why is it impossible, Petrovich?” he said, almost in the pleading voice of a child. “After all, it’s just a little worn spot on the shoulder, after all, you have some little scraps…”

  “Yes, we can find some scraps, the scraps can be found,” Petrovich said, “but it’s impossible to sew them on. The whole thing is rotten; if you touch it with the needle, it will come unraveled.”

  “So let it unravel, then you’ll put a patch on right away.”

  “But there’s nothing to put the patch on, there’s nowhere for it to get a foothold, it’s just too worn-out. You can hardly call it cloth—if the wind blows on it, it will fall to pieces.”

  “Well, then just fasten it. How can it be, truly, like…!”

  “No,” Petrovich said decisively, “it’s impossible to do anything. It’s a very bad business. You’d do better, when the cold wintertime comes, to make footwraps out of it, because stockings don’t keep you warm. The Germans thought that up so that they could grab more money for themselves” (Petrovich enjoyed getting in a jab at the Germans when he had the chance) “but as for the overcoat, it’s clear you’re going to have to get a new one made.”

  At the word “new,” a fog came over Akaky Akakievich’s eyes, and everything in the room seemed to get all mixed up. The only thing he could see clearly was the general with his face pasted over with paper, who was located on the lid of Petrovich’s snuffbox.

  “What do you mean, ‘new’?” he said, still feeling as if it were happening in a dream, “I don’t have any money for that.”

  “Yes, a new one,” Petrovich said with barbaric serenity.

  “Well, but if I had to get a new one, then how would it, like…”

  “Do you mean what would it cost?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d have to put in a little more than three fifties,” Petrovich said, and pursed his lips significantly. He really loved forceful effects. He loved to suddenly bewilder somebody and then take a sidelong glance at the face the bewildered person would make after hearing such words.

  “One hundred and fifty rubles for an overcoat!” poor Akaky Akakievich shouted, shouted perhaps for the first time in his life, because he was always distinguished by the quietness of his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Petrovich said, “but it depends what kind of overcoat. If you put marten fur on the collar and a silk lining on the cape, then it would run to two hundred.”

  “Petrovich, please,” Akaky Akakievich said in a pleading voice, not hearing and trying not to hear the words Petrovich had said and all his effects, “fix it somehow, so that it could be of service for just a little while more.”

  “No, that would result in just wasting the work and spending money for nothing,” Petrovich said, and after such words Akaky Akakievich left entirely destroyed.

  And Petrovich stood for a long time after he left, pursing his lips significantly and not taking up his work, pleased that he had not demeaned himself and had not betrayed the art of the tailor.

  As he came out onto the street, Akaky Akakievich felt he was in a dream. “It’s such a business of such a kind,” he said to himself, “truly, I didn’t think it would turn out like…”—and then, after being silent a while, he added: “So that’s how it is! Finally, that’s how it turned out, and truly, I could not at all have supposed that it would be like that.” Then there followed again a long silence, after which he said: “So that’s it! That’s the kind of, really, totally unexpected, like… I couldn’t have at all… such a circumstance!” After he said this, instead of going home, he went in the exact opposite direction without suspecting it himself. Along the way a chimney sweep brushed against him with his whole dirty side and turned his shoulder black; a whole capful of lime poured onto him from the top of a house under construction. He didn’t notice any of this, and only later, when he bumped into a policeman on duty, who had set his halberd aside and was shaking some snuff out of a horn onto his callused fist, only then did he come to himself somewhat, and even then only because the policeman on duty said: “Why are you shoving up right in my snout, don’t you have enough sidewalk?” This caused him to look around and turn toward home.

  Only here did he begin to collect his thoughts; he saw his situation in a clear and true form, and he began talking to himself no longer in fragments, but reasonably and frankly, as if talking with a sensible friend, the kind with whom one can talk about the most heartfelt and intimate matters. “Well, no,” Akaky Akakievich said, “you can’t discuss anything with Petrovich right now. He’s like… his wife must have given him a beating somehow. I’d better go see him on Sunday morning. After the Saturday night before, he’ll be squinting his eye and he’ll have overslept, and he’ll need a hair of the dog, and his wife won’t give him any money, and right then I’ll give him like a ten-kopeck coin right into his hand, and he’ll be more accommodating and then the overcoat like…”

  That is how Akaky Akakievich reasoned to himself. He cheered himself up and waited for the first Sunday, and when he saw from a distance that Petrovich’s wife had left the house to go somewhere, he went right to his place. Petrovich indeed was squinting a lot after his Saturday, he was bending his head to the floor and had really overslept; but despite all that, as soon as he heard what Akaky Akakievich had come about, it was exactly as if the devil had shoved him. “It’s impossible,” he said, “be so good as to order a new one.” Akaky Akakievich immediately slipped him a ten-kopeck coin. “Thank you kindly, sir, I’ll have a drop to drink to your health,” Petrovich said, “but be so good as not to worry about the overcoat: It isn’t fit for any fitness. I’ll make you a glorious new overcoat, on that I insist.”

  Akaky Akakievich again started to talk about mending it, but Petrovich didn’t let him finish and said: “I’m going to make you a new one no matter what, be so good as to count on it, I’ll do my very best. It can even be in the latest fashion: The collar will fasten with silver appliqué clasps.”8

  At this point Akaky Akakievich saw that it was going to be impossible to do without a new overcoat, and his spirits utterly flagged. How, in fact, with what, where would the money come from to make it? Of course, he could partly rely on a future bonus for the holidays, but that money had long ago been allocated and apportioned in advance. He needed to get new trousers, to pay an old debt to the shoemaker for attaching new tops to his bootlegs, and he needed to order from the seamstress three shirts and about two sets of that article of linen which is unseemly to name in print—in short, all the money had to be divided up completely; and even if the director was so merciful that instead of a forty-ruble bonus he assigned forty-five or fifty, all the same only the most pitiful sum would remain, which would be like a drop in the sea of overcoat capital. Although, of course, he knew that sometimes a whimsy would lead Petrovich to ask God knows what exorbitant price, so that even his wife wouldn’t be able to restrain herself and would shout: “You’ve gone out of your mind, you idiot! Sometimes he’ll work for nothing, but now the evil spirit has gotten into him to ask such a price that he himself isn’t worth.” Although, of course, he knew that Petrovich would undertake to make the coat for eighty rubles; all the same, where was he going to get those eighty rubles? He could find half of it: half of it could be found; maybe even a little more; but where would he get the other half?

  But first of all, the reader must know where the first half was to come from. Akaky Akakievich had the habit of taking a half-kopeck coin out of every ruble he spent and putting it aside in a small little box that locked with a key, with a little hole cut in the lid for the throwing-in of money. At the end of every six months he would audit the copper sum that had been amassed and would exchange it for silver change. He had been doing this for a long, long time, and so over the course of several years the amassed sum had turned out to be more than forty rubles. So, he had half of it on hand, but where was he to get the other half? Where could he get the o
ther forty rubles?

  Akaky Akakievich thought and thought, and decided that he would have to reduce his usual expenses for at least one year: to banish the drinking of tea in the evenings, not to light candles in the evenings, and if he needed to do something, to go to the landlady’s room and work by the light of her little candle; as he walked along the street, to step as lightly and carefully as he could along the cobblestones and flagstones, almost on tiptoe, so as not to wear out his soles too fast; to give his linen to the laundress as rarely as possible, and so as not to wear it out, to take it off as soon as he came home and remain in just a thick cotton robe that was very old and had been spared by time itself. One must speak the truth and say that at first it was rather difficult for him to get used to such limitations, but then it seemed to become a habit and things got better. He even got accustomed to going hungry in the evenings; but to make up for it he was nourished spiritually, bearing in his thoughts the eternal idea of the future overcoat. From that time it was as if his very existence became somehow fuller, as if he had gotten married, as if some other person was present with him, as if he was not alone, but a pleasant female life companion had agreed to follow life’s path along with him—and that companion was none other than the thickly padded overcoat with a strong lining showing no trace of wear.9

  He became livelier, he even became firmer in character, like a person who has determined and set himself a goal. Doubt and indecisiveness—in short, all wavering and indefinite features—disappeared from his face and actions all by themselves. At times a fire shone in his eyes, and the most audacious and adventurous thoughts even flashed in his head: Should he not, in fact, put marten fur on the collar? Such meditations almost caused him to become absentminded. Once as he was copying a document, he nearly made a mistake, so that he shouted “Ooh!” almost out loud and crossed himself. Every month he went to see Petrovich at least once to talk about the overcoat, about where the best place would be to buy the cloth, and what color it should be, and what it would cost, and he would always return home, although a little concerned, still happy, thinking that finally the time would come when all of this would be bought and the overcoat would be made. The whole thing went faster than he had expected. Contrary to all expectations, the director assigned Akaky Akakievich a bonus of not forty or forty-five rubles, but a whole sixty rubles. Whether he had had a premonition that Akaky Akakievich needed an overcoat, or it just happened all by itself, because of this he ended up with an extra twenty rubles. This circumstance hastened the course of the matter. Another two or three months of slight hunger—and Akaky Akakievich had indeed accumulated about eighty rubles. His heart, which in general was extremely calm, began to beat.10

  On the very first day he set off to the shops with Petrovich. They bought some very good cloth—and no wonder, because they had already been thinking about it for six months in advance, and hardly a month had gone by that they hadn’t stopped into the shops to see what the prices were. Petrovich himself said that better cloth did not exist. For the lining they chose calico, but of such good quality and so densely woven that according to Petrovich it was better than silk and even more beautiful and lustrous to look at. They did not buy marten, because it was indeed expensive; but instead of it they chose cat fur, the best cat they could find in the shop, a cat fur that from a distance one might always mistake for marten.11 Petrovich spent a whole two weeks on the overcoat, because there was a lot of stitching, otherwise it would have been ready earlier. Petrovich took twelve rubles for his labor—it simply couldn’t be any less. The whole thing was absolutely sewn with silk, with a double closely-stitched seam, and Petrovich then went over every seam with his own teeth, using them to press in various patterns.

  It was… it’s difficult to say what day it was, but it was probably the most extremely solemn day in the life of Akaky Akakievich when Petrovich finally brought the overcoat. He brought it in the morning, right before the time when Akaky Akakievich had to go to the Department. The overcoat could not have come at a more opportune time, because the somewhat harsh cold weather had already begun, and it seemed to be threatening to get even worse. Petrovich appeared with the overcoat in a manner befitting a good tailor. His face had the most significant expression that Akaky Akakievich had ever seen. It seemed that he felt in full measure that he had done a great deed and that he had suddenly shown in himself the abyss that divides tailors who only replace linings and fix things from those who make things from scratch. He took the overcoat out of the enormous handkerchief in which he had brought it; the handkerchief was fresh from the laundress, so he then rolled it up and put it in his pocket for later use. After he took out the overcoat, he gave a very proud look and, holding it in both hands, threw it very deftly onto Akaky Akakievich’s shoulders; then he pulled it and smoothed it down from behind with his hand; then he draped it over Akaky Akakievich in a rather unbuttoned way. Akaky Akakievich, as a man well along in years, wanted to try it with his arms in the sleeves. Petrovich helped him put it on with his arms in the sleeves as well—it turned out that with his arms in the sleeves it was also very fine. In short, it turned out that the overcoat was utterly and perfectly just right. Petrovich did not miss this opportunity to say that it was only because he lived on a side street without a signboard, and because he had known Akaky Akakievich for a long time, that he had done the job so cheaply; on Nevsky Avenue they would have asked seventy-five rubles for the labor alone. Akaky Akakievich did not want to discuss this with Petrovich; he was afraid of all the major sums with which Petrovich liked to throw dust in people’s eyes. He paid him, thanked him, and immediately went out to the Department wearing his new overcoat. Petrovich came out after him and stayed on the street, watching the overcoat from a distance for a long time, and then he purposely went off to the side in order to loop around via a crooked lane, to run ahead, and come out onto the street again and look at his overcoat once more from the other side, that is, right into its face.

  Meanwhile Akaky Akakievich was walking along in the most festive disposition of all his feelings. Every instant of every minute he was feeling that there was a new overcoat on his shoulders, and several times he almost grinned with inner satisfaction. In fact, there were two advantages: One was that it was warm, and the other was that it was good. He didn’t notice the journey at all, and he suddenly found himself in the Department. In the anteroom he took off the overcoat, looked it all over, and entrusted it to the particular oversight of the guard. It is unknown how everyone in the Department suddenly found out that Akaky Akakievich had a new overcoat and that the housecoat no longer existed. At that very moment everyone came running out into the anteroom to look at Akaky Akakievich’s new overcoat. They started congratulating and hailing him, so that at first he just smiled, but then he started feeling ashamed. And when they all gathered around and started saying that they needed to drink to the new overcoat, and that he at least had to throw them all an evening party, Akaky Akakievich got completely flustered and didn’t know what to do, how to answer them, and how to make some excuse. After a few minutes, blushing all over, he started trying naively to convince them that it was not a new overcoat at all, that it was just, it was the old overcoat.

  Finally, one of the civil servants, who was even an assistant desk head, probably in order to show that he was not at all proud and would associate even with his inferiors, said: “Very well, I’ll throw the evening party instead of Akaky Akakievich, and I ask you all to come to my place for tea today: As if on purpose, it’s my name day today.” Naturally, the civil servants immediately congratulated the assistant desk head and eagerly accepted the invitation. Akaky Akakievich was starting to make an excuse, but they all said that that was impolite, that it was simply a shame and a disgrace, and he simply could not refuse. Later, however, it was pleasant for him to recall that because of this he would have the opportunity to walk around in his new overcoat even in the evening.

  That whole day was like the greatest solemn feast day for Akaky Akaki
evich. He returned home in the happiest spirits, he took off the overcoat and hung it carefully on the wall, once again admiring the cloth and the lining, and then for the sake of comparison, he purposely pulled out his former housecoat, which had completely unraveled. He looked at it, and he began laughing: what a huge difference! And then for a long time as he ate dinner, he kept grinning when he recalled the condition the housecoat was in. He had a cheerful dinner, and after dinner he didn’t write anything, no documents, but just lay sybaritically on the bed until it got dark. Then without dragging things out, he got dressed, put the overcoat over his shoulders, and went out onto the street.

  Unfortunately, we cannot say where the civil servant lived who had made the invitation. Our memory is starting to really play tricks on us, and everything in St. Petersburg, all the streets and houses, have gotten so merged and mixed up in our head that it is extremely difficult to retrieve anything from it in any decent form. Whatever the case may be, the one thing that is certain is that the civil servant lived in the better part of the city—which means, he lived very far from Akaky Akakievich. At first, Akaky Akakievich had to pass through some deserted streets with meager illumination, but the closer he got to the civil servant’s apartment the livelier, more populated, and more brightly illuminated the streets became. Pedestrians started to flash by more often, even some beautifully dressed ladies started to appear, some of the men he met had beaver-fur collars; he less frequently encountered poor cabbies with their wooden latticed sleighs studded with gilded nails—on the contrary, he kept meeting drivers of smart cabs wearing crimson velvet caps, with lacquered sleighs and bear-fur blankets, and coaches with beautifully trimmed coachboxes flew across the street, their wheels squealing on the snow.