The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol

by Nikolai Gogol

  Let us begin from earliest morning, when the whole of Petersburg smells of hot, freshly baked bread and is filled with old women in tattered dresses and coats carrying out their raids on churches and compassionate passers-by. At that time Nevsky Prospect is empty: the stout shop owners and their salesclerks are still asleep in their Holland nightshirts or are soaping their noble cheeks and drinking coffee; beggars gather near the pastry shops, where a sleepy Ganymede, 2 who yesterday was flying about with chocolate like a fly, crawls out, tieless, broom in hand, and tosses them stale cakes and leftovers. Down the streets trudge useful folk: Russian muzhiks pass by occasionally, hurrying to work, their boots crusted with lime that even the Ekaterininsky Canal, famous for its cleanness, would be unable to wash off. At that time it is usually unfitting for ladies to go about, because the Russian people like to express themselves in such sharp terms as they would probably not hear even in the theater. An occasional sleepy clerk will plod by, briefcase under his arm, if he has to pass Nevsky Prospect on his way to the office. One may say decidedly that at that time, that is, until twelve o'clock, Nevsky Prospect does not constitute anyone's goal, it serves only as a means: it gradually fills with people who have their own occupations, their own cares, their own vexations, and do not think about it at all. The Russian muzhik talks about his ten coppers or seven groats, the old men and women wave their arms and talk to themselves, sometimes with quite expressive gestures, but no one listens to them or laughs at them, except perhaps some urchins in hempen blouses, with empty bottles or repaired shoes in their hands, racing along Nevsky Prospect like lightning. At that time, however you may be dressed, even if you have a peaked cap on your head instead of a hat, even if your collar sticks out too far over your tie—no one will notice it.

  At twelve o'clock Nevsky Prospect is invaded by tutors of all nations with their charges in cambric collars. English Joneses and French Coques walk hand in hand with the charges entrusted to their parental care and, with proper gravity, explain to them that the signs over the shops are made so that by means of them one may learn what is to be found inside the shop. Governesses, pale misses and rosy Slavs, walk majestically behind their light, fidgety girls, telling them to raise their shoulders a bit higher and straighten their backs; in short, at this time Nevsky Prospect is a pedagogical Nevsky Prospect. But the closer it comes to two o'clock, the fewer in number are the tutors, pedagogues, and children: they are finally supplanted by their loving progenitors, who hold on their arms their bright, multicolored, weak-nerved companions. Gradually their company is joined by all those who have finished their rather important domestic business, to wit: discussing the weather with their doctor, as well as a little pimple that has popped out on the nose, informing themselves about the health of their horses and children, who incidentally show great promise, reading an advertisement in the newspaper and an important article on arrivals and departures, and, finally, drinking a cup of coffee or tea; and these are joined by those on whom an enviable fate has bestowed the blessed title of official for special missions. And these are joined by those who serve in the foreign office and are distinguished by the nobility of their occupations and habits. God, how beautiful some posts and jobs are! how they elevate and delight the soul! but, alas! I am not in the civil service and am denied the pleasure of beholding my superiors' refined treatment of me. Whatever you meet on Nevsky Prospect is all filled with decency: men in long frock coats, their hands in their pockets, ladies in pink, white, and pale blue satin redingotes and hats.

  Here you will meet singular side-whiskers, tucked with extraordinary and amazing art under the necktie, velvety whiskers, satiny whiskers, black as sable or coal, but, alas, belonging only to the foreign office. Providence has denied black side-whiskers to those serving in other departments; they, however great the unpleasantness, must wear red ones. Here you will meet wondrous mustaches, which no pen or brush is able to portray; mustaches to which the better part of a lifetime is devoted—object of long vigils by day and by night; mustaches on which exquisite perfumes and scents have been poured, and which have been anointed with all the most rare and precious sorts of pomades, mustaches which are wrapped overnight in fine vellum, mustaches which are subject to the most touching affection of their possessors and are the envy of passers-by. A thousand kinds of hats, dresses, shawls—gay-colored, ethereal, for which their owners' affection sometimes lasts a whole two days—will bedazzle anyone on Nevsky Prospect. It seems as if a whole sea of butterflies has suddenly arisen from the stems, their brilliant cloud undulating over the black beedes of the male sex. Here you will meet such waists as you have never seen in dreams: slender, narrow waists, no whit thicker than a bottle's neck, on meeting which you deferentially step aside, lest you somehow imprudently nudge them with your discourteous elbow; timidity and fear will come over your heart, lest somehow from your imprudent breath the loveliest work of nature and art should be broken. And what ladies' sleeves you meet on Nevsky Prospect! Ah, how lovely! They somewhat resemble two airborne balloons, so that the lady would suddenly rise into the air if the man were not holding her; for raising a lady into the air is as easy and pleasant as bringing a champagne-filled glass to your lips. Nowhere do people exchange bows when they meet with such nobility and nonchalance as on Nevsky Prospect. Here you will meet that singular smile, the height of art, which may cause you sometimes to melt with pleasure, sometimes suddenly to see yourself lower than grass, and you hang your head, sometimes to feel yourself higher than the Admiralty spire, 3 and you raise it. Here you will meet people discussing a concert or the weather with an extraordinary nobility and sense of their own dignity. You will meet thousands of inconceivable characters and phenomena. O Creator! what strange characters one meets on Nevsky Prospect! There is a host of such people as, when they meet you, unfailingly look at your shoes, and, when you pass by, turn to look at your coattails. To this day I fail to understand why this happens. At first I thought they were shoemakers, but no, that is not the case: for the most part they serve in various departments, many are perfectly well able to write an official letter from one institution to another; or else they are people occupied with strolling, reading newspapers in pastry shops—in short, they are nearly all decent people. At this blessed time, from two to three in the afternoon, when Nevsky Prospect may be called a capital in motion, there takes place a major exhibition of the best products of humanity. One displays a foppish frock coat with the best of beavers, another a wonderful Greek nose, the third is the bearer of superb side-whiskers, the fourth of a pair of pretty eyes and an astonishing little hat, the fifth of a signet ring with a talisman on his smart pinkie, the sixth of a little foot in a charming bootie, the seventh of an astonishment-arousing necktie, the eighth of an amazement-inspiring mustache. But it strikes three and the exhibition is over, the crowd thins out. . At three, a new change. Suddenly spring comes to Nevsky Prospect: it gets all covered with clerks in green uniforms. Hungry titular, court, and other councillors try with all their might to put on speed. Young collegiate registrars, provincial and collegiate secretaries hasten to make use of their time and take a stroll on Nevsky Prospect with a bearing which suggests that they have not spent six hours sitting in an office. But the old collegiate secretaries, titular and court councillors walk briskly, their heads bowed: they cannot be bothered with gazing at passers-by; they are not yet completely torn away from their cares; there is a jumble in their heads and a whole archive of started and unfinished cases; for a long time, instead of a signboard, they see a carton of papers or the plump face of the office chief.

  From four o'clock on, Nevsky Prospect is empty, and you will hardly meet even one clerk on it. Some seamstress from a shop runs across Nevsky Prospect, a box in her hands; some pathetic victim of a humanitarian lawyer, reduced to begging in a frieze overcoat; some visiting eccentric for whom all hours are the same; some long, tall Englishwoman with a reticule and a book in her hands; some company agent, a Russian in a half-cotton frock coat gathered at the back
, with a narrow little beard, who lives all his life in a slapdash way, in whom everything moves—back and arms and legs and head—as he goes deferentially down the sidewalk; now and then a lowly artisan; you will not meet anyone else on Nevsky Prospect.

  But as soon as dusk falls on the houses and streets, and the sentry, covering himself with a bast mat, climbs the ladder to light the lantern, and prints which do not dare show themselves in the daytime peek out of the low shop windows, then Nevsky Prospect again comes to life and begins to stir. Then comes that mysterious time when lamps endow everything with some enticing, wondrous light. You will meet a great many young men, mostly bachelors, in warm frock coats or overcoats. At that time there is a sense of some goal, or, better, of something resembling a goal, something extremely unaccountable; everyone's steps quicken and generally become very uneven. Long shadows flit over the walls and pavement, their heads all but reaching the Police Bridge. Young collegiate registrars, provincial and collegiate secretaries stroll about for a very long time; but the old collegiate registrars, titular councillors, and court councillors mostly stay home, either because they are married folk or because their food is very well prepared by their live-in German cooks. Here you will meet the respectable old men who strolled along Nevsky Prospect with such gravity and such amazing nobility at two o'clock. You will see them running just like young collegiate registrars to peek under the hat of a lady spotted from far off, whose thick lips and rouge-plastered cheeks are liked by so many strollers, most of all by the salesclerks, company agents, shopkeepers, always dressed in German frock coats, who go strolling in whole crowds and usually arm in arm.

  "Wait!" Lieutenant Pirogov cried at that moment, tugging at the young man in the tailcoat and cloak who was walking beside him. "Did you see?"

  "I did, a wonderful girl, a perfect Perugino Bianca." 4

  "But who are you talking about?"

  "Her, the dark-haired one. And what eyes! God, what eyes! The bearing, and the figure, and the shape of the face—sheer wonders!"

  "I'm talking about the blonde who walked after her in the same direction. Why don't you go after the brunette, since you liked her so much?"

  "Oh, how could I?" the young man in the tailcoat exclaimed, blushing. "As if she were the kind to walk about Nevsky Prospect in the evening. She must be a very noble lady," he went on, sighing, "her cloak alone is worth about eighty roubles!"

  "Simpleton!" cried Pirogov, pushing him toward where the bright cloak was fluttering.

  "Go on, ninny, you'll miss her! And I'll follow the blonde."

  The two friends parted.

  "We know you all," Pirogov thought with a self-satisfied and self-confident smile, sure that no beauty would be able to resist him.

  The young man in the tailcoat and cloak went with timid and tremulous steps toward where, some distance away, the colorful cloak was fluttering, now bathed in bright light as it approached a street lamp, now instantly covered in darkness as it left it behind. His heart was pounding, and he unwittingly quickened his pace. He did not even dare dream of gaining any right to the attention of the beauty flying off into the distance, still less to admit such a black thought as Lieutenant Pirogov had hinted at; he merely wished to see the house, to make note of where this lovely being dwelt, who seemed to have flown down from heaven right onto Nevsky Prospect and would surely fly off again no one knew where. He flew along so quickly that he was constantly pushing staid gentlemen with gray side-whiskers off the sidewalk. This young man belonged to a class which represents quite a strange phenomenon among us and belongs as much to the citizens of Petersburg as a person who comes to us in a dream belongs to the real world. This exceptional group is highly unusual in a city in which everyone is either an official, a shopkeeper, or a German artisan. He was an artist. A strange phenomenon, is it not? 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, misty. These artists do not in the least resemble Italian artists—proud, ardent, like Italy and its sky; on the contrary, they are for the most part kind and meek people, bashful, lighthearted, with a quiet love for their art, who drink tea with their two friends in a small room, who talk modestly about their favorite subject and are totally indifferent to all superfluity. He is forever inviting some old beggar woman to his place and making her sit for a good six hours, so as to transfer her pathetic, insensible expression to canvas. He paints his room in perspective, with all sorts of artistic clutter appearing in it: plaster arms and legs turned coffee-colored with time and dust, broken easels, an overturned palette, a friend playing a guitar, paint-stained walls, and an open window through which comes a glimpse of the pale Neva and poor fishermen in red shirts. They paint almost everything in dull, grayish colors—the indelible imprint of the north. Yet, for all that, they apply themselves with genuine pleasure to their work. They often nurture a genuine talent in themselves, and if the fresh air of Italy were to breathe on them, it would surely develop as freely, broadly, and vividly as a plant that has finally been brought outside into the open air.

  They are generally very timid: a star5 or a thick epaulette throws them into such confusion that they unwittingly lower the price of their works. They like to play the dandy on occasion, but this dandyism always stands out in them and looks something like a patch. You will sometimes meet an excellent tailcoat on them and a dirty cloak, an expensive velvet waistcoat and a frock coat all covered with paint. Just as you will sometimes meet on their unfinished landscape a nymph painted upside down, which the artist, finding no other place, sketched on the dirty background of an old work he once delighted in painting. He never looks you straight in the eye; or if he does, it is somehow vaguely, indefinitely; he does not pierce you with the hawk's eye of an observer or the falcon's gaze of a cavalry officer. The reason for that is that he sees, at one and the same time, both your features and those of some plaster Hercules standing in his room, or else he imagines a painting of his own that he still means to produce. That is why his responses are often incoherent, not to the point, and the muddle of things in his head increases his timidity all the more. To this kind belonged the young man we have described, the artist Piskarev, shy, timid, but bearing in his soul sparks of feeling ready on the right occasion to burst into flame. With a secret tremor he hastened after his object, who had struck him so strongly, and he himself seemed to marvel at his own boldness. The unknown being to whom his eyes, thoughts, and feelings clung so, suddenly turned her head and looked at him.

  God, what divine features! The loveliest brow, of a dazzling whiteness, was overshadowed by beautiful, agate-like hair. They were curly, those wondrous tresses, some of which fell from under her hat onto her cheek, touched with a fine, fresh color called up by the cool of the evening. Her lips were locked on a whole swarm of the loveliest reveries. All that remains of childhood, that comes of dreaming and quiet inspiration by a lighted lamp—all this seemed to join and merge and be reflected in her harmonious lips. She glanced at Piskarev, and his heart fluttered at this glance; it was a stern glance, a sense of indignation showed on her face at the sight of such insolent pursuit; but on this beautiful face wrath itself was bewitching. Overcome with shame and timidity, he stopped, his eyes cast down; but how lose this divinity without even discovering to what holy place she had descended for a visit? Such thoughts came into the young dreamer's head, and he resolved on pursuit. But to do it without being noticed, he hung back, glanced around nonchalantly and studied the shop signs, while not losing sight of a single step the unknown lady took. Passers-by began to flit by more rarely, the street grew quieter; the beauty looked back, and it seemed to him that a slight smile flashed on her lips.

  He trembled all over and did not believe his eyes. No, it was the street lamp with its deceitful light showing the semblance of a smile on her face; no, it was his own dreams laughing at him.

  But it stopped the breath in his breast, everything in him turned into a vague trembling, all his senses wer
e aflame, and everything before him was covered with a sort of mist. The sidewalk rushed under him, carriages with galloping horses seemed motionless, the bridge was stretched out and breaking on its arch, the house stood roof down, the sentry box came tumbling to meet him, and the sentry's halberd, along with the golden words of a shop sign and its painted scissors, seemed to flash right on his eyelashes. And all this was accomplished by one glance, by one turn of a pretty head. Unhearing, unseeing, unheeding, he raced in the light tracks of beautiful feet, himself trying to moderate the quickness of his pace, which flew in time with his heart. Sometimes doubt would come over him: Was the expression of her face indeed so benevolent?—and then he would stop for a moment, but the beating of his heart, the invincible force and agitation of all his feelings, urged him onward. He did not even notice how a four-story house suddenly rose before him, how all four rows of windows, shining with light, glared at him at once, and the railings of the entrance opposed him with their iron thrust. He saw the unknown woman fly up the steps, look back, put her finger to her lips, and motion for him to follow her. His knees trembled; his senses and thoughts were on fire; a lightning flash of joy pierced his heart with an unbearable point! No, it was no dream! God, so much happiness in one instant! such a wonderful life of two minutes!

  But was it not a dream? Could it be that she, for one of whose heavenly glances he would be ready to give his whole life, to approach whose dwelling he already counted an inexplicable bliss— could it be that she had just shown him such favor and attention? He flew up the stairs.

  He did not feel any earthly thought; he was not heated with the flame of earthly passion, no, at that moment he was pure and chaste, like a virginal youth, still breathing the vague spiritual need for love. And that which in a depraved man would arouse bold thoughts, that same thing, on the contrary, made him still more radiant. This trust which a weak, beautiful being had shown in him, this trust imposed on him a vow of chivalric rigor, a vow slavishly to fulfill all her commands. He wished only for her commands to be all the more difficult and unrealizable, so that he could fly to overcome them with the greater effort. He had no doubt that some secret and at the same time important reason had made the unknown woman entrust herself to him, that some important services would surely be required of him, and he already felt in himself enough strength and resolve for everything.