The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol

by Nikolai Gogol

  This surprised me. I confess, lately I had begun sometimes to hear and see things no one had ever seen or heard before. "I'll just follow that little dog," I said to myself, "and find out what she is and what she thinks."

  I opened my umbrella and followed the two ladies. They went down Gorokhovaya, turned onto Meshchanskaya, from there to Stolyarnaya, and finally to the Kokushkin Bridge, where they stopped in front of a big house. "I know that building," I said to myself. "That's Zverkov's building." What a pile! And the sorts that live in it: so many cooks, so many out-of-towners! and our fellow clerks—like pups, one on top of the other. I, too, have a friend there, a very good trumpet player. The ladies went up to the fifth floor. "Very well," I thought, "I won't go up now, but I'll note the place and be sure to make use of it at the first opportunity."

  October 4.

  TODAY IS WEDNESDAY, and so I was in my superior's study. I came earlier on purpose, sat down to work, and sharpened all the pens. Our director must be a very intelligent man. His whole study is filled with bookcases. I read the titles of some of the books: it's all learning, such learning as our kind can't even come close to: all in French, or in German. And to look at his face: pah, such importance shines in his eyes! I've never yet heard him utter an extra word.

  Except maybe when I hand him some papers, and he asks, "How is it outside?" "Wet, Your Excellency!" Yes, there's no comparison with our kind! A real statesman. I notice, though, that he has a special liking for me. If only the daughter also . . ah, confound it! . . . Never mind, never mind, silence! I read the little Bee. 1 What fools these Frenchmen are! So, what is it they want? By God, I'd take the lot of them and give them a good birching! I also read a very pleasant portrayal of a ball there, described by a Kursk landowner. Kursk landowners are good writers. After that I noticed it had already struck twelve-thirty, and our man had never left his bedroom. But around one-thirty an event took place which no pen can describe. The door opened, I thought it was the director and jumped up from the chair with my papers; but it was she, she herself! Heavens above, how she was dressed! Her gown was white as a swan, and so magnificent, pah! and her glance—the sun, by God, the sun! She nodded and said, "Papa hasn't been here?" Aie, aie, aie! what a voice! A canary, truly, a canary! "Your Excellency," I almost wanted to say, "don't punish me, but if it is your will to punish me, punish me with Your Excellency's own hand." But, devil take it, my tongue somehow refused to move, and I said only, "No, ma'am." She looked at me, at the books, and dropped her handkerchief. I rushed headlong, slipped on the cursed parquet, almost smashed my nose, nevertheless kept my balance and picked up the handkerchief. Heavens, what a handkerchief! The finest cambric—ambrosia, sheer ambrosia! it simply exuded excellency. She thanked me and just barely smiled, so that her sugary lips scarcely moved, and after that she left. I sat for another hour, when suddenly a lackey came in and said, "Go home, Aksenty Ivanovich, the master has already gone out." I can't stand the lackey circle: there is one always sprawled in the front hall who won't even nod his head. Moreover, one of the knaves decided once to offer me some snuff without getting up. But don't you know, stupid churl, that I am an official, a man of noble birth?

  However, I took my hat and put my overcoat on by myself— because these gentlemen never help you—and left. At home I lay in bed most of the time. Then I copied out some very nice verses: "I was gone from her an hour, / Yet to me it seemed a year; / Life itself for me turned sour, / And the future dark and drear." Must be Pushkin's writing. 2 In the evening, wrapped in my overcoat, I went to Her Excellency's front gates and waited for a long time to see whether she'd come out for a carriage, to have one more look—but no, she didn't come out.

  November 6.

  FURIOUS WITH THE section chief. When I came to the office, he called me over and started talking to me like this: "Well, pray tell me, what are you up to?"

  "What am I up to? Why, nothing," I replied.

  "Well, think a little better! You're over forty—it's time you got smart. What are you dreaming of? Do you think I don't know all your pranks? You're dangling after the director's daughter! Well, take a look at yourself, only think, what are you? You're a zero, nothing more. You haven't got a kopeck to your name. Just look at yourself in the mirror, how can you even think of it!" Devil take him, his face bears a slight resemblance to a druggist's bottle, with a tuft of hair curled into a forelock sticking up, smeared with some pomade, so he thinks he's the only one allowed anything. I see, I see why he's angry with me. He's jealous.

  Maybe he saw the signs of benevolence preferentially bestowed on me. Well, spit on him! Big deal, a court councillor! hangs a gold watch chain on himself, orders thirty-rouble boots—who the devil cares! Am I some sort of nobody, a tailor's son, or a sergeant's? I'm a nobleman. So, I, too, can earn rank. I'm only forty-two—the age at which service just seriously begins. Wait, friend! we, too, will become a colonel and, God willing, maybe something even higher. We'll get ourselves a reputation even better than yours. What, have you taken it into your head that there are no decent men except you? Just give me a Ruch3 tailcoat, cut in the latest fashion, and let me have the same kind of necktie as you have—you won't hold a candle to me. No income—that's the trouble.

  November 8.

  WENT TO THE theater. The Russian fool Filatka4 was playing. Laughed a lot.

  There was some other vaudeville with funny verses about lawyers, especially about some collegiate registrar, written quite freely, so that I wondered how it passed the censors, and they said outright that merchants cheat people and their sons are debauchers and try to worm their way into the nobility. Also a very funny couplet about journalists: that they like denouncing everything—and the author asked the public for protection. Authors write very funny plays nowadays. I like going to the theater. As soon as I have a penny in my pocket, I just can't keep myself from going. But there are such pigs among our fellow clerks: they decidedly will not go to the theater, the clods, unless you give them a free ticket. One actress sang very well. I remembered the other . . . ah, confound it! . . . never mind, never mind . . . silence.

  November 9.

  AT EIGHT O’CLOCK I went to the office. The section chief assumed such an air as if he didn't notice my arrival. I, for my part, acted as if there had been nothing between us.

  Looked through and collated papers. Left at four o'clock. Passed by the director's apartment but didn't see anybody. Lay in bed most of the time after dinner.

  November 11.

  TODAY I SAT in our director's study and sharpened twenty-three pens for him, and for her, aie, aie! . . . four pens for Her Excellency. He likes very much having more pens. Oh, what a head that must be! Quite silent, but in his head, I think, he ponders everything. I wish I knew what he thinks about most; what's cooking in that head? I'd like to have a closer look at these gentlemen's lives, at all these equivocations and courtly tricks—how they are, what they do in their circle—that's what I'd like to find out! I've meant several times to strike up a conversation with His Excellency, only, devil take it, my tongue wouldn't obey me: I'd just say it was cold or warm outside, and be decidedly unable to say anything else. I'd like to peek into the drawing room, where you sometimes see only an open door into yet another room beyond the drawing room. Ah, such rich furnishings! Such mirrors and china! I'd like to peek in there, into that half, Her Excellency's—that's what I'd like! Into the boudoir, with all those little jars and vials standing there, such flowers that you're afraid to breathe on them; with her dress thrown down there, more like air than a dress. I'd like to peek into her bedroom . . . there, I think, there are wonders; there, I think, there is paradise, such as is not even to be found in heaven. To look at the little stool she puts her little foot on when she gets out of bed, at how a snow-white stocking is being put on that foot. . . aie! aie! aie! never mind, never mind . . .silence.

  Today, however, it dawned on me clear as daylight: I recalled the conversation of the two little dogs I'd heard on Nevsky Prospect. "Very
well," I thought to myself, "I'll find out everything now. I must get hold of the correspondence those rotten little dogs have exchanged. I'll learn a thing or two from it." I confess, I had even called Medji over once and said, "Listen, Medji, we're alone now; I'll lock the door if you like, so no one can see—tell me everything you know about the young miss, what and how she is? I swear to God I won't tell anybody." But the cunning little dog put her tail between her legs, shrank to half her size, and quietly walked out the door as if she hadn't heard anything. I've long suspected dogs of being much smarter than people; I was even certain they could speak, but there was only some kind of stubbornness in them. They're extraordinary politicians: they notice every human step. No, I'll go to Zverkov's building tomorrow at all costs, question Fidele, and, if I'm lucky, get hold of all the letters Medji has written to her.

  November 12.

  AT TWO O’CLOCK in the afternoon I set out with the firm intention of seeing Fidèle and questioning her. I can't stand cabbage, the smell of which comes pouring out of all the small shops on Meshchanskaya; besides that, there was such a whiff of hell coming from under the gates of each house that I held my nose and ran for dear life. And those vile artisans produce so much soot and smoke in their workshops that it's decidedly impossible for a gentleman to walk there. When I got to the sixth floor and rang the bell, a girl came out, not so bad looking, with little freckles. I recognized her. It was the same one who was walking with the old lady.

  She blushed slightly, and I understood at once: You, my sweet, are looking for a fiance. "What can I do for you?" she said. "I must have a word with your little dog." The girl was stupid! I knew at once she was stupid! At that moment the dog ran in, barking; I wanted to seize her, but she, vile thing, almost seized me by the nose with her teeth. I saw her basket in the corner, however. Aha, just what I need! I went over to it, rummaged in the straw of the wooden box, and, to my greatest satisfaction, pulled out a small bundle of little papers. Seeing that, the nasty little dog first bit me on the calf and then, when she realized I'd taken the papers, began squealing and fawning, but I said, "No, my sweet, good-bye!" and rushed out. I suppose the girl took me for a madman, because she was extremely frightened. On coming home, I wanted to get to work and sort these letters out at once, because I see poorly by candlelight. But Mavra had decided to wash the floor. These stupid Finnish women are always cleaning at the wrong moment. And so I went out to walk around and think this event over. Now I'll finally learn about all these affairs and intentions, all these springs, and finally get to the bottom of it.

  These letters will reveal everything to me. Dogs are smart folk, they know all the political relations, and so it's all sure to be there: the picture of the man and all his doings. There'll also be something about her who . . . never mind, silence! Toward evening I came home. Lay in bed most of the time.

  November 13.

  WELL, NOW, LET’S see: the letter looks pretty clear. However, there's still something doggy in the writing. Let's read it:

  Dear Fidele, I still cannot get used to your common-sounding name. As if they couldn't have given you a better one? Fidele, Rosy— such banal tone! However, that's all beside the point. I'm very glad we've decided to write to each other.

  The letter is written very correctly. Punctuation and even tricky spellings all in order. Not even our section chief can write like that, though he keeps saying he studied at some university. Let's see what comes next:

  It seems to me that sharing thoughts, feelings, and impressions with others is one of the foremost blessings in the world.

  Hm! the thought is drawn from some work translated from the German. Can't recall the title. I say it from experience, though I've never run farther in the world than the gates of our house. Whose life flows by in pleasure if not mine? My young mistress, whom Papa calls Sophie, loves me to distraction.

  Aie, aie! . . . never mind, never mind. Silence.

  Papa also pets me very often. I drink tea and coffee with cream. Ah, ma chere, I must tell you that I see no pleasure at all in those big, bare bones our Polkan slobbers over in the kitchen. Only bones from wild game are good, and only before anyone has sucked out the marrow. Mixtures of several gravies are very good, only not with capers or herbs; but I know nothing worse than the habit of giving dogs little balls of bread. Some gentleman sitting at the table, after holding all sorts of trash in his hands, begins to roll bread in those same hands, then calls you over and puts the ball in your teeth. It's somehow impolite to refuse, so you eat it; with disgust, but you eat it. . .

  Devil knows what this is! Such nonsense! As if there were no better subjects to write about. Let's look at the next page. For something more sensible.

  I'm quite ready and willing to inform you of all that goes on in our house. I've already told you a little something about the main gentleman, whom Sophie calls Papa. He's a very strange man. Ah! at last! Yes, I knew it: they have political views on all subjects. Let's see about Papa:

  . . a very strange man. He's silent most of the time. Speaks very rarely; but a week ago, he talked to himself constantly: "Will I get it or won't I?" He would take a piece of paper in one hand, close the other empty one, and say: "Will I get it or won't I?" Once he addressed the question to me: "What do you think, Medji? Will I get it or won't I?" I could understand none of it, so I sniffed his boot and went away. Then, ma chere, a week later Papa came home very happy. All morning gentlemen in uniforms kept coming to him, congratulating him for something. At the table he was merrier than I'd ever seen him before, told jokes, and after dinner he held me up to his neck and said: "Look, Medji, what's this?" I saw some little ribbon.

  I sniffed it but found decidedly no aroma; finally I licked it on the sly: it was a bit salty.

  Hm! This little dog seems to me to be much too . . . she ought to be whipped! Ah! so he's ambitious. That must be taken into consideration.

  Good-bye, ma there, I must run, and so on . . . and so forth . . I'll finish my letter tomorrow. Well, hello! here I am again . . . Today my mistress Sophie . . .

  Ah! so we shall see about Sophie. Eh, confound it! . . . Never mind, never mind . . . let's go on. . . . my mistress Sophie was in a great bustle. She was going to a ball, and I was glad that in her absence I'd be able to write to you. My Sophie is always greatly delighted to be going to a ball, though she's almost always angry as she's being dressed. I simply don't understand, ma chere, the pleasure in going to a ball. Sophie comes home from the ball at six o'clock in the morning, and I can almost always tell by her pale and skinny look that the poor thing was given nothing to eat there. I confess, I could never live like that. If I wasn't given hazel grouse with gravy or roast chicken wings, I .. I don't know what would become of me. Gruel with gravy is also good. But carrots, turnips, and artichokes will never be good . . .

  Extremely uneven style. Shows at once that it wasn't written by a man. Begins properly, but ends with some dogginess. Let's have a look at another letter. A bit long. Hm! and no date.

  Ah, my dear, how one senses the approach of spring! My heart throbs as if it keeps waiting for something. There is an eternal humming in my ears, so that I often stand for several minutes with uplifted paw, listening at the door. I'll confide to you that I have many wooers. I often sit in the window and look at them. Ah, if you only knew how ugly some of them are. The coarsest of all mutts, terribly stupid, stupidity written all over his face, goes down the street most imposingly, imagining he's the noblest person, thinking everyone is looking only at him. Not a bit of it. I didn't even pay attention, just as if I hadn't seen him. And what a frightful Great Dane stops outside my window! If he stood on his hind legs—something the boor is surely incapable of doing—he'd be a whole head taller than my Sophie's Papa, who is also quite tall and fat. This blockhead must be terribly impudent. I growled at him a little, but he couldn't have cared less. He didn't flinch! stuck his tongue out, hung his enormous ears, and stared in the window—what a clod! But don't think, ma chere, that my heart is i
ndifferent to all suitors—oh, no .. If you saw a certain gallant who climbs over the fence from the neighbors' house, by the name of Tresor. Ah, ma chere, he has such a cute muzzle!

  Pah, devil take it! . . . What rot! . . . How can one fill letters with such silliness? Give me a man! I want to see a man; I demand food—such as nourishes and delights my soul; and instead I get these trifles. . . let's skip a page, maybe it will get better:

  . . . Sophie sat at her table sewing something. I was looking out the window, because I enjoy watching passers-by. When suddenly a lackey came in and said: "Teplov!" "Show him in,"