The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol

by Nikolai Gogol

  Sophie cried and rushed to embrace me . . . "Ah, Medji, Medji! If you knew who he is: dark hair, a kammerjunker, 5 and such eyes! dark and glowing like fire"—and Sophie ran to her room. A moment later a young kammerjunker with dark side-whiskers came in, went up to the mirror, smoothed his hair, and glanced around the room. I growled a little and kept my place.

  Sophie came out soon and bowed gaily to his scraping; and I, as if noticing nothing, just went on looking out the window; however, I cocked my head a little to one side and tried to hear what they were talking about. Ah,ma chere, such nonsense they talked about! They talked about a lady who performed one figure instead of another during a dance; also how a certain Bobov looked just like a stork in his jabot and nearly fell down; how a certain Miss Lidin fancies she has blue eyes, whereas they're green—and the like. "Well," thought I to myself, "and if we compare the kammerjunker with Tresor!" Heavens, what a difference! First of all, the kammerjunker has a perfectly smooth, broad face with side-whiskers around it, as if someone had tied it with a black band; while Tresor has a slender little muzzle and a white spot right on his forehead. Between Tresor's waist and the kammerjunker's there's no comparing. The eyes, the gestures, the manners are not at all alike. Oh, what a difference! I don't know, ma chere, what she finds in her Teplov. Why does she admire him so? . . .

  To me it also seems that there's something wrong here. It can't be that a kammerjunker could enchant her so. Let's see further on:

  It seems to me that if she likes that kammerjunker, she'll soon be liking the clerk who sits in Papa's study. Ah,ma chere, if you only knew how ugly he is. A perfect turtle in a sack . . .What clerk might this be?. . .He has the strangest last name. He always sits and sharpens pens. The hair on his head looks very much like hay. Papa always sends him out instead of a servant.

  I think the vile little dog is aiming at me. How is my hair like hay? Sophie can never help laughing when she looks at him. You're lying, you cursed dog! What a vile tongue! As if I don't know it's a matter of envy.

  As if I don't know whose tricks these are. These are the section chief's tricks. The man has sworn undying hatred—and so he injures me, he keeps injuring me at every step. However, let's look at another letter. Maybe the thing will explain itself.

  Ma chere Fidele, you must excuse my not writing for so long. I've been in perfect ecstasy.

  It's entirely correct what some writer has said, that love is a second life. Besides, there are big changes in our house now. The kammerjunker now comes every day. Sophie loves him to distraction. Papa is very happy. I even heard from our Grigory, who sweeps the floor and almost always talks to himself, that there will be a wedding soon; because Papa absolutely wants to see Sophie married to a general, or a kammerjunker, or an army colonel. . .

  Devil take it! I can't read any more . . . It's all either kammerjunker or general. All that's best in the world, all of it goes either to kammerjunkers or generals. You find a poor treasure for yourself, hope to reach out your hand to it—a kammerjunker or a general plucks it away from you. Devil take it! I wish I could become a general myself: not so as to get her hand and the rest of it, no, I want to be a general simply to see how they'll fawn and perform all those various courtly tricks and equivocations, and then to tell them I spit on them both. Devil take it. How annoying! I've torn the stupid dog's letters to shreds.

  December 3.

  IT CAN’T BE. Lies! The wedding won't take place! So what if he's a kammerjunker. It's nothing more than a dignity; it's not anything visible that you can take in your hands. He's not going to have a third eye on his forehead because he's a kammerjunker. His nose isn't made of gold, it's the same as mine or anybody else's; he doesn't eat with it, he smells; he doesn't cough, he sneezes. Several times already I've tried to figure out where all these differences come from. What makes me a titular councillor, and why on earth am I a titular councillor?

  Maybe I'm some sort of count or general and only seem to be a titular councillor? Maybe I myself don't know who I am. There are so many examples in history: some simple fellow, not only not a nobleman, but simply some tradesman or even peasant—and it's suddenly revealed that he's some sort of dignitary, or sometimes even an emperor. If even a muzhik sometimes turns out like that, what, then, may become of a nobleman? Suddenly, for instance, I walk in wearing a general's uniform: an epaulette on my right shoulder, and an epaulette on my left shoulder, a blue ribbon over my shoulder—what then? How is my beauty going to sing? What is Papa himself, our director, going to say? Oh, he's a man of great ambition! He's a Mason, a downright Mason, though he pretends to be this and that, I noticed right away he's a Mason: whenever he shakes a person's hand, he only holds out two fingers. But can't I be promoted this minute to governor general, or intendant, or something else like that? I'd like to know, what makes me a titular councillor? Why precisely a titular councillor?

  December 5.

  I SPENT THE whole morning today reading the newspapers. There are strange doings in Spain. I couldn't even make them out properly. They write that the throne is vacant and that the officials are in a difficult position about the selection of an heir, which is causing disturbances. This seems terribly strange to me. How can a throne be vacant? They say some dona should ascend the throne. 6 A doña cannot ascend a throne. Simply cannot. There should be a king on a throne. But, they say, there is no king. It cannot be that there was no king. A state cannot be without a king. There is a king, only he's somewhere unknown. Possibly he's right there, but either some sort of family reasons, or apprehensions about neighboring powers, such as France and other countries, have forced him into hiding, or there are other reasons of some sort.

  December 8.

  I WAS JUST about to go to the office, but various reasons and reflections held me back. I couldn't get these Spanish affairs out of my head. How can a doña be made a queen? They won't allow it. And, first of all, England won't allow it. And besides, the political affairs of the whole of Europe: the Austrian emperor, our sovereign . . I confess, these events so crushed and shook me that I was decidedly unable to busy myself with anything all day long. Mavra observed to me that I was extremely distracted at the table. And, indeed, it seems I absentmindedly threw two plates on the floor, which proceeded to break. After dinner, I strolled around the toboggan slides. Couldn't arrive at anything constructive. Mostly lay in bed and reasoned about the affairs in Spain.

  The Year 2000, 43rd of April.

  THIS DAY—IS a day of the greatest solemnity! Spain has a king.

  He has been found. I am that king. Only this very day did I learn of it. I confess, it came to me suddenly in a flash of lightning. I don't understand how I could have thought and imagined that I was a titular councillor. How could such a wild notion enter my head? It's a good thing no one thought of putting me in an insane asylum. Now everything is laid open before me.

  Now I see everything as on the palm of my hand. And before, I don't understand, before everything around me was in some sort of fog. And all this happens, I think, because people imagine that the human brain is in the head. Not at all: it is brought by a wind from the direction of the Caspian Sea. First off, I announced to Mavra who I am. When she heard that the king of Spain was standing before her, she clasped her hands and nearly died of fright. The stupid woman had never seen a king of Spain before. However, I endeavored to calm her down and assured her in gracious words of my benevolence and that I was not at all angry that she sometimes polished my boots poorly. They're benighted folk. It's impossible to tell them about lofty matters. She got frightened, because she's convinced that all kings of Spain are like Philip II. But I explained to her that there was no resemblance between me and Philip II, and that I didn't have a single Capuchin7 ... I didn't go to the office ... To hell with it! No, friends, you won't lure me there now; I'm not going to copy your vile papers!

  The 86th of Martober. Between day and night.

  TODAY OUR MANAGER came to tell me to go to the office, since I hadn't been to
work for over three weeks. I went to the office as a joke. The section chief thought I'd bow to him and start apologizing, but I looked at him with indifference—neither too wrathfully nor too benevolently—and sat down at my place as if not noticing anyone. I looked at all that office riffraff and thought: "What if you knew who was sitting amongst you . . . Lord God! what a rumpus you'd raise, and the section chief would start bowing as low to me as he now bows to the director." Some papers were placed in front of me so that I could make an abstract of them. But I didn't even set a finger to them. A few minutes later everything was in turmoil.

  They said the director was coming. Many clerks ran up front to show themselves before him.

  But I didn't budge. When he was passing through our section, everybody buttoned up their tailcoats; but I—nothing of the sort! What is a director that I should stand up before him—-never! What sort of director is he? He's a doornail, not a director. An ordinary doornail, a simple doornail, nothing more. The kind used in doors. I was most amused when they slipped me a paper to be signed. They thought I'd write "Chief Clerk So-and-So" at the very bottom of the page. Not a chance! In the central place, where the director of the department signs, I dashed off: "Ferdinand VIII." You should have seen what reverent silence ensued; but I merely waved my hand, saying, "No need for any tokens of homage!" and walked out. From there I went straight to the director's apartment. He was not at home. The lackey didn't want to let me in, but after what I said to him, he just dropped his arms. I made my way straight to the boudoir. She was sitting before the mirror, jumped up, and backed away from me. However, I didn't tell her I was the king of Spain. I only said that such happiness awaited her as she could not even imagine, and that despite the machinations of enemies, we would be together. I did not want to say anything more, and walked out. Oh, she's a perfidious being—woman! Only now have I grasped what woman is. Till now no one has found out who she's in love with: I'm the first to discover it. Woman is in love with the devil. Yes, no joking. It's stupid what physicists write, that she's this or that—she loves only the devil. See there, from a box in the first balcony, she's aiming her lorgnette. You think she's looking at that fat one with the star?

  Not at all, she's looking at the devil standing behind his back. There he is hiding in his tailcoat. There he is beckoning to her with his finger! And she'll marry him. Marry him. And all those high-ranking fathers of theirs, all those who fidget in all directions and worm their way into court and say they're patriots and this and that: income, income is what these patriots want!

  Mother, father, God—they'll sell them all for money, the ambitious Judases! It's all ambition, and ambition is caused by a little blister under the tongue with a little worm in it the size of a pinhead, and it's all the doing of some barber who lives in Gorokhovaya Street. I don't know what his name is; but it's known for certain that he, together with some midwife, wants to spread Mohammedanism throughout the world, and as a result, they say, in France the majority of people already accepts the faith of Mohammed.

  Date none. The day had no date.

  STROLLED INCOGNITO ON Nevsky Prospect. His Majesty the emperor drove by. The whole city took their hats off, and I did, too; however, I didn't let on that I was the king of Spain. I considered it unsuitable to reveal myself right there in front of everybody; because, first of all, I have to present myself at court. The only thing holding me up is that I still don't have royal attire. If only I could get some sort of mantle. I was going to order one from a tailor, but they're perfect asses, and, besides, they neglect their work completely; they've thrown themselves into affairs and are mostly busy paving the streets with stones. I decided to make a mantle out of my new uniform, which I had only worn twice. But, to prevent those blackguards from ruining it, I decided to sew it myself, after locking the door so that no one could see. I cut it all up with scissors, because the style has to be completely different.

  Don't remember the date. There was no month, either. Devil knows what there was.

  THE MANTLE IS all ready and sewn up. Mavra cried out when I put it on. However, I still refrain from presenting myself at court. No deputation from Spain so far. Without deputies it's not proper. There'll be no weight to my dignity. I expect them any moment.

  The 1st.

  I’M EXTREMELY ASTONISHED at the slowness of the deputies. What reasons can be holding them up? Can it be France? Yes, that is the most unfavorably disposed power. I went to inquire at the post office whether the Spanish deputies had arrived. But the postmaster is very stupid, he doesn't know anything; no, he says, there are no Spanish deputies here, and if you wish to write letters, we accept them at the set rate. Devil take it! what's a letter! A letter's nonsense. Apothecaries can write letters. . .

  Madrid. Thirtieth Februarius.

  AND SO I’M in Spain, and it happened so quickly that I've barely come to my senses. This morning the Spanish deputies came to me, and I got into the carriage together with them. The extraordinary speed seemed strange to me. We drove so quickly that in half an hour we reached the Spanish border. However, there are railroads everywhere in Europe now, and steamships drive very fast. Spain is a strange land: when we entered the first room, I saw a lot of people with shaved heads. I guessed, however, that they must be either grandees or soldiers, since they shave their heads. The behavior of the lord chancellor, who led me by the arm, seemed extremely strange to me; he pushed me into a little room and said, "Sit here, and if you still want to call yourself King Ferdinand, I'll beat the wish out of you." But I, knowing it was nothing but a provocation, replied in the negative—for which the chancellor hit me twice on the back with a stick, so painfully that I nearly cried out, but caught myself, having remembered that this was the knightly custom on entering upon high rank, because in Spain they still preserve knightly customs. Being left alone, I decided to occupy myself with state affairs. I discovered that China and Spain are absolutely one and the same land, and it is only out of ignorance that they are considered separate countries. I advise everyone purposely to write Spain on a piece of paper, and it will come out China. But, nevertheless, I was extremely upset by an event that is going to take place tomorrow. Tomorrow at seven o'clock a strange phenomenon will occur: the earth is going to sit on the moon. This has also been written about by the noted English chemist Wellington. I confess, I felt troubled at heart when I pictured to myself the extraordinary delicacy and fragility of the moon. For the moon is usually made in Hamburg, and made quite poorly. I'm surprised England doesn't pay attention to this.

  It's made by a lame cooper, and one can see that the fool understands nothing about the moon. He used tarred rope and a quantity of cheap olive oil, and that's why there's a terrible stench all over the earth, so that you have to hold your nose. And that's why the moon itself is such a delicate sphere that people can't live on it, and now only noses live there. And for the same reason, we can't see our own noses, for they're all in the moon. And when I pictured how the earth is a heavy substance and in sitting down may grind our noses into flour, I was overcome with such anxiety that, putting on my stockings and shoes, I hurried to the state council chamber to order the police not to allow the earth to sit on the moon. The shaved grandees, great numbers of whom I found in the state council chamber, were all very intelligent people, and when I said, "Gentlemen, let us save the moon, because the earth wants to sit on it," they all rushed at once to carry out my royal will, and many crawled up the wall in order to get the moon; but just then the lord chancellor came in. Seeing him, they all ran away. I, being the king, was the only one to remain. But, to my surprise, the chancellor hit me with a stick and drove me to my room. Such is the power of popular custom in Spain!

  January of the same year, which came after February.

  I STILL CANNOT understand what sort of country Spain is. The popular customs and court etiquette are absolutely extraordinary. I do not understand, I do not understand, I decidedly do not understand anything. Today they shaved my head, though I shouted with
all my might about my unwillingness to be a monk. But I cannot even remember how I felt when they began dripping cold water on my head. I've never experienced such hell before. I was ready to start raging, so that they were barely able to hold me back. I don't understand the meaning of this strange custom at all. A stupid, senseless custom! The folly of the kings, who still have not abolished it, is incomprehensible to me. Judging by all probabilities, I guess I may have fallen into the hands of the Inquisition, and the one I took for the chancellor may be the grand inquisitor himself. Only I still cannot understand how a king can be made subject to the Inquisition. True, this might come from the French side, especially from Polignac. 8 Oh, he's a sly customer, Polignac! He's sworn to injure me as long as I live. And so he persecutes me, persecutes me; but I know, friend, that you're being led by the Englishman. The Englishman is a great politician. He fusses about everywhere. The whole world knows that when England takes snuff, France sneezes.

  The 25th.

  TODAY THE GRAND inquisitor came to my room, but, hearing his footsteps from far off, I hid under a chair. Seeing I wasn't there, he began calling out. First he shouted,

  "Poprishchin!" but I didn't say a word. Then: "Aksenty Ivanovich! Titular councillor!

  Nobleman!" I kept silent. "Ferdinand VIII, king of Spain!" I wanted to poke my head out, but then thought, "No, brother, you're not going to hoodwink me! We know you: you'll pour cold water on my head again." Nevertheless, he saw me and chased me out from under the chair with his stick. That cursed stick is extremely painful. However, all this has been rewarded by my present discovery: I've learned that every rooster has his Spain, that it's located under his feathers. The grand inquisitor nevertheless left me in wrath and threatened me with some punishment. But I utterly ignored his impotent anger, knowing that he was acting mechanically, as the Englishman's tool.