Madrid. February thirtieth.
So, I’m in Spain, and it happened so quickly that it’s hardly dawned on me yet. The Spanish deputies came to me this morning and I got into a carriage with them. The unusual speed seemed strange to me. We traveled so fast that we reached the Spanish border in half an hour. But of course there are railroads everywhere in Europe now and the locomotives move with such extraordinary speed. Spain is a strange land: when we entered the first room I saw a lot of people with their heads shaved. But I guessed that these must have been either the Dominicans or Capuchins, because they shave their heads. The State Chancellor’s behavior seemed very strange to me as he led me by the hand; he pushed me into a small room and said: “Sit here, and if you refer to yourself as King Ferdinand again then I’ll beat the notion out of you.” But I, realizing that this was only a test, answered negatively—for which the Chancellor thumped me across the back a couple of times with a stick so hard that I almost cried out, but I restrained myself, remembering that this was a custom of chivalry on elevation to a high rank, because in Spain the customs of chivalry are preserved even today. When I was left alone I decided to get down to the affairs of State. I discovered that China and Spain are one and the same country and it is only through ignorance that they are considered separate states. I advise everyone to deliberately write the word “Spain” on a piece of paper, and it will always come out as “China.” But I was particularly grieved by an event which takes place tomorrow. Tomorrow at seven o’clock a strange event will occur: the earth will land on the moon. The famous English chemist Wellington has written about this. I confess that I felt my heart tremble when I thought about the unusual softness and fragility of the moon. The moon, you know, is usually made in Hamburg; and very badly made as well. I find it surprising that England has paid any attention to all this. A lame cooper makes it and its obvious that the fool doesn’t know a thing about the moon. He mixed in a tarred rope and one part of lamp-oil; and that’s why there’s such an awful smell over the whole earth that it’s necessary to hold one’s nose. And because of this the moon itself is such a tender ball that people could never live on it, and now only a few noses live there. And it’s for that same reason that we cannot see our own noses, because they’re all on the moon. And when I thought of how heavy an article the world is and how it would grind our noses into flour, then I was overcome with such anxiety that, putting on my socks and shoes, I dashed into the hall of the state council with the intention of ordering the police not to let the earth land on the moon. The Capuchins, whom I encountered in great number in the State council hall, were very intelligent people and when I said, “Gentlemen, let us save the moon, because the earth is going to land on it,” they all rushed to carry out my royal wishes, and many of them began to climb up the wall in an attempt to catch the moon; but at that moment in came the High Chancellor. Seeing him, they all dispersed in great haste. I, as King, was the only one who stayed. But the Chancellor, to my surprise, hit me with a stick and chased me back to my room. Such is the power of national customs in Spain!
January of the Same Year, coming after February
So far I have not been able to understand what sort of a country Spain is. The national traditions and the customs of the court are quite extraordinary. I can’t understand it, I can’t understand it, I absolutely can’t understand it. Today they shaved my head, although I shouted at the top of my voice that I didn’t want to become a monk. But I can’t even remember what happened afterward when they poured cold water on my head. I have never endured such hell. I was almost going frantic, so that they had difficulty in holding me. I cannot understand the meaning of this strange custom. It’s a stupid, senseless practice! The lack of good sense in the kings who have not abolished it to this day is beyond my comprehension. Judging from all the circumstances, I wonder whether I have not fallen into the hands of the Inquisition, and whether the man I took to be the Grand Chancellor isn’t the Grand Inquisitor. But I cannot understand how a king can be subject to the Inquisition. It can only be through the influence of France, especially of Polignac. Oh, that beast of a Polignac! He has sworn to harm me to the death. And he pursues me and pursues me; but I know, my friend, that you are the tool of England. The English are great politicians. They poke their noses into everything. All the world knows that when England takes a pinch of snuff, France sneezes.
The twenty-fifth
Today the Grand Inquisitor came to my room, but I heard his footsteps in the distance and hid under the chair. When he saw that I was not there be began to shout. At first he shouted, “Poprishchin”—I didn’t say a word. Then: “Axenty Ivanov! Titular Councillor! Nobleman!” I still kept silent. “Ferdinand VIII, King of Spain!” I was about to thrust out my head, but then thought: “No, brother, you don’t fool me! We know you: you’ll be pouring water on my head again.” But he saw me and chased me from behind the chair with his stick. That blasted stick hurts a great deal. But I was repaid for all this by a discovery I made yesterday: I found out that every cock has its Spain and it’s situated under its feathers. The Grand Inquisitor, however, went away fuming and threatening me with all sorts of punishment. But I scorned his impotent malice, knowing that he was acting like a machine, like a tool of the Englishman.
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No, I don’t have the strength to take any more. Lord! What are they doing to me! They pour cold water on my head! They won’t listen to me, they don’t see me, won’t hear me. What have I done to them? What are they torturing me for? What do they want from me, wretch that I am? What can I give them? I have nothing. I have no strength, I can’t take their tortures, my head is burning, and everything is swimming before my eyes. Save me! take me! Give me three horses as swift as a whirlwind! Get in, coachman; ring, my little bell; dash on, horses, and take me from this world. Further, further till I can see nothing, nothing. The sky whirls before me; a little star twinkles in the distance; the forest rushes past with its dark trees and the moon; a gray mist stretches out beneath my feet; a chord resounds in the mist; on one side the sea, on the other Italy; over there you can see the cottages of Russia. Is that my home in the blue distance? Is my mother sitting by the window? Mother, save your wretched son! Shed a tear on his aching head! See how they are torturing him! Take your wretched orphan to your breast! There’s nowhere for him on earth! They’re persecuting him! Mother! Take pity on your sick child! … And do you know that the Dey of Algiers has a pimple right under his nose?
(1835) Translated by A. Tulloch, revised by A.L. and M.T.K.
The Nose
I
On the 25th of March an extraordinarily strange event took place in St. Petersburg. Ivan Yakovlevich the barber, residing on Voznesensky [Ascension] Prospect (his surname has been lost, and even on his sign—which depicts a gentleman with his cheek well-soaped and an inscription: Blood let as well—there is nothing more) the barber Ivan Yakovlevich awoke rather early and smelled the aroma of baking bread. Raising himself up a little in bed, he saw that his wife, a rather imposing woman very fond of her coffee, was removing from the oven some freshly-baked loaves.
“Today, Praskovia Osipovna, I will not have coffee,” said Ivan Yakovlevich. “But instead I would like to have some hot bread with some onions.” (That is to say, Ivan Yakovlevich would have liked to have both one and the other, but he knew it was quite impossible to request two things at once: Praskovia Osipovna had a great dislike for such caprices.) “Let the fool eat bread: all the better for me,” his spouse thought. “There’ll be an extra cup of coffee.” And she tossed a loaf onto the table.
For propriety’s sake Ivan Yakovlevich donned his tail-coat over his shirt and, sitting down at the table, he poured out the salt, peeled the two small globelets of onion, took up the knife and, assuming a deliberate air, cut into the load. Having cut it in two, he glanced inside and, to his surprise, saw something whitish. Ivan Yakovlevich gave a careful prod with the knife and poked the inside with a finger: “Something solid
!—he said to himself—what would that be now?”
He thrust his fingers into the bread and pulled out—a nose! … Ivan Yakovlevich’s heart sank; he rubbed his eyes and felt the object: it was a nose, a nose and nothing else! And what’s more, he felt it was somehow familiar. Horror etched itself on Ivan Yakovlevich’s face. But that horror was nothing compared to the indignation that seized his spouse.
—You beast, where ever did you cut off that nose?—she cried out angrily.—Crook! Drunkard! I’ll report you to the police myself. You bandit! I’ve heard from three different people that when you shave them you pull on their noses so hard they barely stay put.
But Ivan Yakovlevich was more dead than alive. He had recognized that this nose belonged to none other than the collegiate assessor Kovalev, whom he shaved on Wednesdays and Sundays.
—Wait, Praskovia Osipovna! Once I’ve wrapped it up in a rag I’ll put it here, in the corner: let it lie there for a bit; later on I’ll take it outside.
—I won’t hear of it! Am I to have a cut-off nose lying about in my room? … You over-baked crust! All you can just about manage nowadays is to strop your razor, but soon you won’t be up to doing your duties, you strumpet, scoundrel! Why should I have to answer for you to the police? … Ah you bungler, stupid log! Get it out of here! Out! Take it wherever you want! Just so I don’t get a whiff of it again!
Ivan Yakovlevich stood like one struck dumb. He thought and thought—and couldn’t decide what to think. “Devil only knows how it happened,—he said finally, scratching behind his ear. Drunk or not drunk, how I came home last night I can’t tell for sure. But by all the signs something incredible has happened: because bread is a baked good, but a nose is something else entirely. I can’t make it out! …” Ivan Yakovlevich fell silent. The thought that the police would discover the nose in his possession and would accuse him frightened into a complete stupor. He could already picture the scarlet collar with its handsome silver embroidery, the saber … and he trembled from head to foot. Finally he found his smock and his boots, put on all this tattered get-up and, to the accompanying severe admonitions of Praskovia Osipovna, wrapped up the nose in a rag and went out unto the street.
He tried to hide it somewhere; in a bin or by a gate, or, just as if by accident, to drop it and duck down a side street. But unfortunately he kept meeting up with this acquaintance or that, who’d set right in with questions: “Where are you off to?” or “Who’re you going to shave this early in the day?” So that Ivan Yakovlevich could not seize his moment. Once he did actually manage to drop it, but from down the street the constable pointed at him with his halberd and said: “Pick that up! You dropped something over there!” And Ivan Yakovlevich had to pick up the nose and hide it in his pocket. Despair seized him, all the more so since the crowd was increasing as stores and shops began to open.
He decided to go to St. Isaac’s Bridge: mightn’t it be possible to hurl it into the Neva? … But I’m to a certain degree at fault here, in that up to this point I’ve told you nothing of Ivan Yakovlevich, in many respects an estimable man.
Ivan Yakovlevich, like any proper Russian artisan, was a terrible drunkard. And although he shaved others’ chins every day, his own remained eternally unshaven. Ivan Yakovlevich’s tail-coat (Ivan Yakovlevich never wore a frock coat) was piebald; that is, it had been once black, but had come out all over in brownish-yellow and gray splotches; the collar was shiny with grease; and instead of three buttons there was only one hanging by a thread. Ivan Yakovlevich was a great cynic and when collegiate assessor Kovalev would say, as he usually did when being shaved: “Ivan Yakovlevich, your hands always stink!” then Ivan Yakovlevich would respond with a question: “Why should they stink?”—I don’t know, my good fellow, but stink they do,” the collegiate assessor would reply,—and Ivan Yakovlevich, taking a pinch of snuff, would retaliate for this by lathering not only Kovalev’s cheeks but under his nose and behind his ear and under his beard, in a word wherever he took a fancy to.
This estimable citizen had reached St. Isaac’s Bridge. First he looked all around; then he leant on the balustrade as if looking under the bridge: perhaps to see if many schools of fish were running, and he quietly tossed in the rag with the nose. He felt was if a hundred-weight had fallen from his shoulders: Ivan Yakovlevich even laughed. Instead of setting off to shave clerkly chins, he headed for an establishment with the designation “Comestibles and Tea” to demand a glass of punch, when suddenly he noticed at the end of the bridge a constable of noble appearance, with sweeping side-whiskers, in a tricorne hat, with a saber. He froze; meanwhile the constable pointed to him and said:
—You come here, my good fellow!
Ivan Yakovlevich, knowing the proper forms, took off his hat when he was still at a distance and approaching smartly, said:
—Good health to your honor!
—No, no, sunshine, I’m not your honor: tell us, what were you doing out there on the bridge?
—God is my witness, sir, I was on my way to give a shave and just looked over to see if the river was flowing fast.
—That’s a lie, a lie! You’re not going to wiggle out with that one. Be so good as to answer!
—I’m ready to shave your grace twice a week, or even three times, no strings attached,—answered Ivan Yakovlevich.
—No, chum, that’s nothing to me. I’ve got three barbers who come to shave me and what’s more they take it for a great honor. But you just be so good as to tell me what you were doing out there?
Ivan Yakovlevich grew pale … But here events become completely enveloped in mist and what happened further is absolutely unknown.
2.
Collegiate assessor Kovalev awoke rather early and made the sound “brrr …” with his lips, which he always did when he woke up, although he himself couldn’t explain why. Kovalev stretched, asked for the small mirror which stood on the table. He wanted to look at a pimple which had surfaced on his nose the evening before; but with the very greatest astonishment he saw that in place of his nose there was a completely smooth expanse! Frightened, Kovalev asked for water and wiped his eyes: just so, no nose! He began to feel about with his fingers in order to find out: wasn’t he asleep? It seemed he was not. Collegiate Assessor Kovalev leapt out of bed and shook himself: no nose! He immediately ordered that he be dressed and off he flew to the police chief’s.
But in the meanwhile I must a tell bit about Kovalev so that the reader might see what sort of collegiate assessor this was. Collegiate assessors who attain that rank with the help of academic certificates are in no way comparable with those collegiate assessors who’ve come up in the Caucasus. These are two completely different species. The erudite collegiate assessors … But Russia is such a bizarre land that whatever you say of one collegiate assessor will inevitably be taken personally by every collegiate assessor from Riga to the Kamchatka. You can count on the same from all callings and ranks.—Kovalev was a Caucasus collegiate assessor. He had only attained the rank two years ago and was therefore unable to forget it for a moment; and in order to give himself more nobility and weight he never called himself a collegiate assessor, but always a major. “Listen, dearie,—he would often say when he met a woman selling shirt-fronts on the street—you come to my house: my rooms are on Sadovaia [Garden Street]; just ask: is this Major Kovalev’s—anyone will show you.” Yet if he met with a pretty one he would give her additional, secret, instructions, adding: “You just ask, darling, for Major Kovalev’s place.”—For this reason we too will in the future call this collegiate assessor the major.
Major Kovalev had the daily habit of strolling along Nevsky Prospect. The collar of his shirtfront was always extraordinarily white and well-starched. His side whiskers were of the type one can still observe on provincial land surveyors, architects, and regimental surgeons, also on those fulfilling certain constabulary duties and, in general, on men who boast plump, ruddy cheeks and are very good at playing the game of boston: these whiskers grow right up to the midpoint
of the cheek and go straight across to the nose. Major Kovalev customarily wore numerous cornelian fobs, both the kind with heraldic crests and the kind with incised inscriptions: Wednesday, Thursday, Monday, and so forth. Major Kovalev had come to Petersburg out of need, namely the need to find a position suitable to his rank: if possible, a vice-governorship, failing that, the executor of some important department or other. Major Kovalev was also not averse to marriage; but only under such circumstances as would bring him a bride with two hundred thousand in capital. And therefore now the reader can judge for himself the position in which this Major found himself when he saw, in place of his rather handsome and well-proportioned nose, a most idiotic, flat, and smooth spot.
To make things worse, not a single cab appeared on the street, and he was forced to go on foot, wrapping himself up in his cloak and swathing his face in his handkerchief, as if he had a nosebleed. “But perhaps it was just my imagination: a nose just can’t vanish in some stupid accident.” He stepped into a pastry-shop to look in a mirror. Fortunately, there was no one in the shop; boys were sweeping up the rooms and moving the chairs about; others with sleep eyes were carrying out trays of hot pirozhki; on the table and chairs were scattered yesterday’s papers, stained with coffee. “Well thank heavens there’s no one here,—he said,—now I can have a look.” Timidly he approached the mirror and looked: “Damn it, what rubbish is this!—he spat …—If there were now something there in place of the nose, but for there just to be nothing at all! …”
Worlds Apart Page 28
