by Otto Penzler
April 6th.
Leon and I go riding almost daily. He is really a delightful boy, and so devoted to George. He never tires of talking about him. He considers him a great scientist. His patients, too, adore my husband.
Yesterday we were out riding and stopped for a moment under a large pine tree to let the horses rest. Leon seized my hands and made violent love to me. I feel sorry for the poor boy. He has beautiful, dark blue eyes, half hidden by long black lashes. He is twenty-six years old, a year and two months older than myself. He is alone in the world. The poor dear!
April 15th.
I have spent very few evenings with my husband lately. Sometimes Leon and I go to Riga to a concert or a dance. My husband often makes us go out and amuse ourselves. He is overwhelmed with work at the leper hospital, which has recently been enlarged. He has almost no leisure.
Several days ago he asked me whether Leon didn’t bore me. I felt guilty. Perhaps I am spending too much time with him.
April 28th.
G. has been more reserved than ever for several days. He has had no “madness” for a long time. He is always infinitely kind and tender to me, however. I was slightly ill very recently. He left his work completely and did not leave my bedside during the whole week I was in bed. His dear eyes never left my face.
He never speaks of love, but his silence means more to me than the most eloquent language.
I am his; entirely and eternally his.
To leave him, or to cease to love him, would be absolutely impossible.
His slave! So be it! I have grown accustomed to the thought. Yes, a thousand times—his slave!
April 29th.
He was thoughtful all morning, and his silence oppressed me. This evening, when he returned from the laboratory he was more attentive than I had ever before seen him. He kissed my hands in a most unusual manner. “Listen,” he said, “remember to-day well, because, to-day, the rhythm of life has demanded its tribute from me. Life has exacted its ransom. Is it possible that you cannot save me?”
He smiled as he said this. I did not understand what he meant. He smiled again as he kissed my hands a second time.
May 2nd.
Levitsky is madly in love. The poor youngster. He complains of being unable to work, of being nervous, and of being unable to sleep. I am so sorry for him. But what can I do?
May 4th.
To-day G. and I had a talk about Levitsky. It was he who opened the conversation. “Pardon me, Nina, I want to speak to you about our friend, my pupil Levitsky. He is thin. He no longer works. Don’t you think he loves you too much?” He laughed good-naturedly as he said this.
I, too, laughed, but I was hurt and disappointed. I don’t understand myself. This evening I had a fit of weeping and came to my room without saying goodnight to Garine.
May 15th.
The weather has been glorious for several days. I spend long hours on the beach in silent meditation, listening to the cries of the sea-gulls. They are in continuous, harmonious conversation with the waves. Their existence is one long cadence; their only diversion is love. The word-cries of these creatures are as enigmatic as they are full of rhythm.
Yesterday my husband surprised me here. He crept up to me, and I was astonished at his tenderness. It was more marked than ever.
Am I not his slave? I have yielded all that it is possible for a woman to give—her soul.
Love, a woman’s love, is something bigger and better than a man’s. It is an incontestable fact that “true” love is the love upon whose altar the soul immolates itself.
Is it a sacrifice? Empty words! No, it is not immolation, it is dedication.
A man’s love is different. Whence comes this strange, incomprehensible difference? Is not everything in the world, in life, based upon love? Why is it then that true, absolute love does not exist? Among the myriads of mankind, only a few chosen ones have known this love, and I am one of those. But do I appreciate it? I want to weep all of the time recently. Everything seems like dupery and falsehood to me, and I am not proud of the possession of absolute love.
He remained with me for a long lime. Then turning his head away from me, as though he were displeased about something, he said:
“I was busily at work when I felt your mental torture. You do not believe me? Very well. For you the hour has not yet come to say as I did: ‘I no longer believe in you, My God, but I feel your presence.’”
Suddenly he jumped up, picked me up in his arms and carried me home. He kissed me the whole way.
May 30th.
I cannot forget the terrible thing that has happened. I cry out at night, a victim to awful, suffocating nightmares.
I waken my husband and the servant. I have fits of weeping. I can no longer live here. I can no longer bear it. I know this is stupid, but when I think of that horrible mask with bared teeth, my strength fails me.
It happened several days ago on a beautifully bright Sunday morning. I was happy, and the whole world seemed gloriously beautiful; even the cries of the gulls which had recently irritated me.
My husband, unusually gay and talkative, was speaking of forests in glowing terms.
“What do we know of the trees, so silent for us, of their profound and luminous life? They love—for life cannot exist without love. Love is the basis, the reason for life. And yet, for us, the trees are mute and inanimate.”
Suddenly we heard cries. In the road, we saw a human being bounding towards us.
Seeing my husband, he threw himself at his feet, and in a lamentable state of excitement, cried out: “Oh, Doctor, save me!” I could not see his face. I drew nearer and must have cried out as I lost consciousness.
The next thing I remember, I was in my room. I begged my husband to tell me what had happened. But he refused to speak and seemed troubled and unhappy.
Yesterday Levitsky told me all about it. It is a most unusual and tragic tale of love.
The man, a rising young attorney—the woman, refined, gracious, and wondrously beautiful—after an exquisite honeymoon lasting two years came the monstrous tragedy. He contracted leprosy. He did not hide his condition. How could he have done so!
Bravely, uncomplainingly, and tearlessly she tried to comfort him, as only one who loves can. But he was disconsolate.
It was necessary for them to go to the Isle of E——. There, in a comfortable little place, they lived near the leper hospital for five years. The illness continued its ravages and his face had long ago become infected; and she—submitted to her fate. Not only did she submit to, but she defied fate. I rebel at the thought of it, I cannot understand it. Is this love? Not only does she continue to live under the same roof with him, but she continues to be …
Ugh! A leper’s caresses.
I am filled with unspeakable horror. This cannot be love, because love cannot exist in the face of annihilation.
His face was a mask; an inhuman, terrifying mask.
How I hate him! Not only does he impose upon her his horrible caresses, but he is ferociously jealous, thus making her life a martyrdom.
Stupid, stupid woman!
How can any one dare to call this love!
In a frenzy of jealousy he had threatened to kill his wife, then dashed out of the house like a madman, crying out in despair: “Save me! Save her! She is a saint! But I must live!”
This has been going on for years.
When will it end?
I should like to see the poor woman, but I haven’t the strength to overcome my fear of the man’s horrible face.
June 13th.
The dear boy! He blushes so prettily when my hand happens to touch his. This amuses me a great deal, and I often tease him in order to see his confusion. How awkward he is when he kisses my hand! I try to imagine him in a love scene. I heard his confession the other day, asking him whether he had had many adventures.
“No! What are you thinking of?” said he, in a frightened voice.
Can it be possible that he has not yet
had a liaison? How curious and amusing!
G. complains, jokingly of course, that Levitsky mixes up his laboratory cultures and other nasty things. Last Saturday Garine wouldn’t let the poor boy eat his dinner in peace. It seems that he is responsible for some terrible disaster. A rabbit is dead on account of it. How I laughed.
June 15th.
Levitsky and I passed the whole day together on the beach. We went in bathing, and I pretended to drown in order to see him dash out to save me. Oh, but it was fun! He has a splendid body and fine, transparent skin. The down on his face is too amusing! He talked continuously about his love. And I—laughed and threatened to tell my husband.
June 17th.
Yesterday we experienced our “madness.” Life is worth living for that alone. Everything seems unimportant and superfluous beside the ecstasy. Hours seem like fractions of seconds, and life a passing dream.
What is the power of this strange man?
He is everything to me. I do not count. He means more than all the world to me. I long to spend long hours kissing his dear feet, not even his feet, but his footsteps.
But do I love him? Often his presence oppresses me, and I feel as though there were an immense rock hanging over me, threatening to crush me.
June 23rd.
We are going out to dance. Levitsky is going with us. We have had champagne. My husband is in a playful mood. Our “madness” is lying in wait for us.
The court room awaited Dr. Garine’s reply in feverish anxiety. The judge and the jury were visibly disappointed by the testimony. The motive of this frightful drama seemed more obscure, more incomprehensible than ever.
When Garine began to speak the silence was so great that the place seemed to be deserted.
A small detail had been noticed and discussed, especially by the women. It was the excessive, studied fastidiousness and elegance of the murderer’s clothing.
“Your Honor, Gentlemen of the Jury,” his voice rang out severely, solemnly. “You are united here to-day to judge me of a crime committed in the heat of passion.
“You want to understand the motive for an act as terrible as it was cruel. I will be brief, very brief. Everything leads me to believe that the tragedy of which I am the principal author will remain to most of you, even after I have made all explanations, as strange and as incomprehensible as it is at the present moment.
“A very simple, unimportant incident impressed me many years ago.
“I was working in my room when my attention was attracted by cries in the court-yard.
“A group of janitors, stupid passers-by and inhabitants of our flat had crowded around a woman stretched out upon the snow. I went out, bent over the woman who was already dead, and recognized my aunt.
“Fate had been extraordinarily commonplace.
“For thirty years this woman had waited in poverty and misery for her heritage from her sister. What a life she had led for thirty years! She had been her sister’s nurse and had been the victim of her brutal insults. Finally, her torturer died. She inherited the money. Liberated at last, she ran, yes ran to get to her own home and fell, stricken at her doorstep.
“An insignificant story! And yet.… Since then, I have seen thousands and thousands of sick people pass before me, many of whom were doomed and dying. But, even among those who were most seriously ill, I found some, victims of the rhythm of life, who were held fast by the tentacles of humdrum daily existence.
“The rhythm of life!
“It is possible that you do not hear it?
“Are not you its most servile, most docile, most attentive and most devoted slaves?
“The greater the depth and the extent of life, the more terrible is the power of its rhythm: Yes—terrible. Not every one can free himself.”
Garine was silent for a moment, then continued in a dull voice, as though he were talking to himself.
“We men cannot find it again. Most of us are miserable pawns upon the chess-board of life, moved by the sounds of life’s barbarism.
“Is not existence a vain, or almost vain, effort forcibly to extract human superiority from daily trivialities? The story of my own life, as you have just heard it, demonstrates this only too well.
“In my hatred for daily trivialities, I worked indefatigably to tear myself away from common, everyday life.
“A longing for harmony and freedom of soul had been born in me.
“I left everything. I fled to the mountains, to the deserts, to tropical forests. For long months I wandered among savage, primitive tribes. But in vain!
“The rhythm of life pursued me. It formed a part of my innermost being.
“Vanquished, having lost all hope of evading the bogs of stagnation, I returned.
“I turned to these men, who, it seemed to me, had lost everything. Imagine my rebellion when I found that even these human wrecks, these victims of leprosy, are bound to life just as firmly as those who live across the sea which separates them from the world.
“In analyzing their psychology and their mode of living, I came to understand many things which had escaped my attention up to this time.
“Then suddenly came love; more than love, because that which I experienced is given to few.
“My longing for harmony, my desire for real liberty, must have been so great that it became the life-giving force of my love.
“It would be wrong to call this happiness. No language of mankind could express the delirium of my sentiments. This delirium was the only thing which could free me from my bonds.
“The celestial harmony had been established.”
Garine was silent for a moment.
Then he continued in a scarcely perceptible voice, which sounded like the heavy steps of a condemned man.
“Recently, very recently, I noticed that my body had become covered with spots. There could be no doubt. Leprosy! The most cruel manifestation of tuberculous leprosy!
“This discovery awakened me to reality.
“I did not go into frenzy. I did not lose courage—I was on the point of discovering a cure. But the illness progressed rapidly. I could no longer hide it from my wife. Nor did I have the right to do so. Not doubting I would find a cure, everything seemed simple to me. But I had forgotten one thing. Her horror of the illness. Having thought of everything else I had omitted the one essential thing.
“I was happy that evening.
“A wave of passion rose up in me, transmitted itself to my wife, to our home, to the whole world.
“I forgot my illness.
“I rose to mountainous heights, to snowy fields of flowering stars, and, suddenly a cry.
“‘Spots! What are they?’
“I, or rather, some one in me calmly replied;
“‘Leprosy!’
“A void, a second, a millionth part of a second separates my soul from that which followed.
“I was carried away by a delirium of savage, bestial ardor.
“Fear of my illness!
“A feeling that I was riding to doom, that I was losing Her, that I was dropping into an abyss, that I was losing ‘The Harmony of Life!’
“I was carried away by this wave of delirium in which love and passion are as one.…
“I awakened beside the dead body of my wife.
“It was all ended.
“Stern reality took hold of me.
“I dressed, and went to the laboratory to inspect the work.
“You know the rest.
“I judged myself, I inflicted upon myself the verdict of ‘Guilty.’”
Garine arose, removed his collar and bared his breast.
It was covered with angry looking, flaming eruptions.
NIKOLAI GOGOL
THE OVERCOAT
To understand the importance of “The Overcoat” in the history of Russian literature, one merely needs to know Fyodor Dostoevsky’s quote: “We all come out of Gogol’s ‘Overcoat’.” It is, on the surface, a story of a simple crime: the theft of an expensive coat
that had been the prized possession of a poor, simple clerk. It can be read at many levels, and often is seen as a form of protest against society. The protagonist’s name is meant to show that he is a virtual non-entity, a despised and lowly part of society, with Akaky being clearly derived from the Russian word “kaka,” which means excrement.
“The Overcoat” (sometimes translated as “The Cloak” ) has served as the basis for a significant number of Russian films, as well as a 1952 Italian film; a 1954 American television production for the Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. series titled The Awakening in which Buster Keaton played the hapless little bureaucrat; a 1997 Greek film; and a 2001 Canadian made-for-television production. It was adapted into a play by the French mime Marcel Marceau in 1951 (which was filmed the same year) and, in 1953, a stage play by Wolf Mankowitz titled The Bespoke Overcoat, which in turn was adapted for film two years later, with the setting moved to London.
“The Overcoat” is often listed as having its first appearance in 1842, but it was first published in Russia in 1835 in a story collection titled St. Petersburg Stories. It was translated into English by Constance Garnett in 1922.
In the department of—but it is better not to mention the department. There is nothing more irritable than departments, regiments, courts of justice, and, in a word, every branch of public service. Each individual attached to them nowadays thinks all society insulted in his person. Quite recently a complaint was received from a justice of the peace, in which he plainly demonstrated that all the imperial institutions were going to the dogs, and that the Czar’s sacred name was being taken in vain; and in proof he appended to the complaint a romance in which the justice of the peace is made to appear about once every ten lines, and sometimes in a drunken condition. Therefore, in order to avoid all unpleasantness, it will be better to describe the department in question only as a certain department.
So, in a certain department there was a certain official—not a very high one, it must be allowed—short of stature, somewhat pock-marked, red-haired, and short-sighted, with a bald forehead, wrinkled cheeks, and a complexion of the kind known as sanguine. The St. Petersburg climate was responsible for this. As for his official status, he was what is called a perpetual titular councillor, over which, as is well known, some writers make merry, and crack their jokes, obeying the praiseworthy custom of attacking those who cannot bite back.
