illuminations for the nose by nikolai gogol

ILLUMINATIONS FOR
THE NOSE
BY
NIKOLAI GOGOL
MELVILLE HOUSE
Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol, painted in 1840
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
1. One Big Nose: Nikolai Gogol and Noses
4
Seized by the Nose – A Selection of Gogol’s
References to Noses 5
“I declare, by that word I mean a nose, and nothing more, or
less” – Selections from Laurence Sterne’s The Life and Opinions of
Tristram Shandy, Gentleman 8
Illustration: The Nose Plaque, St. Petersburg
2. St. Petersburg and Nevsky Prospect
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20
Illustration: Map of St. Petersburg, 1834
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A Letter Home – Letter from Gogol to his mother, with news of
the city 21
Illustration: Nevsky Prospect, cira 1800
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“Oh, do not trust that Nevsky Prospect!” – Selection from Gogol’s
“Nevsky Prospect” 27
Illustration: Engraving of Kazan Cathedral
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1. ONE BIG NOSE: NIKOLAI GOGOL AND NOSES
“Would you believe me that sometimes I am seized by a frenzied desire to transform myself into one big nose . . . whose nostrils would be
as large as pails so that I can imbibe as much . . . as possible.”
—Nikolai Gogol
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Seized by the Nose – A Selection of
Gogol’s References to Noses
Noses play a surprisingly large part throughout Gogol’s work; even
when they remain attached to their owner’s faces, they are a mark
of character, a figurative handle, and an organ particularly suited to
surrealistic imaginings. Vladimir Nabokov, in his short biography of
the author for New Directions’ Makers of Modern Literature series,
writes that Gogol’s own nose was distinctive: “His big sharp nose was
of such length and mobility that in the days of his youth he had been
able (being something of an amateur contortionist), to bring its tip
and his underlip in ghoulish contact; this nose was his keenest and
most essential outer part”—though ultimately Nabokov sees the centrality of noses in Gogol’s fiction not as a reflection of the author’s
physiognomy but instead as “a literary trick allied to the broad humor
of carnivals in general and to Russian nose-humor in particular.”
Here is a selection of passages concerning noses from Gogol’s
stories:
“Don’t buy anything from her!” cried a rival. “See how greasy she is,
and what a dirty nose and hands she has!”
—from The Viy
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“I must confess that I do not understand why things are so arranged,
that women should seize us by the nose as deftly as they do the handle
of a teapot. Either their hands are so constructed or else our noses
are good for nothing else. And notwithstanding the fact that Ivan
Nikiforovitch’s nose somewhat resembled a plum, she grasped that
nose and led him about after her like a dog. He even, in her presence,
involuntarily altered his ordinary manner of life.
“There is nothing to be done. Read it, Taras Tikhonovitch,” said
the judge, turning to the secretary with an expression of displeasure,
which caused his nose to sniff at his upper lip, which generally occurred only as a sign of great enjoyment. This independence on the
part of his nose caused the judge still great vexation. He pulled out his
handkerchief, and rubbed off all the snuff from his upper lip in order
to punish it for its daring.”
—from How the Two Ivans Quarreled
Marya: “Osip, darling, what a dear nose your master has!”
—from The Inspector-General
“But I feel much annoyed by an event which is about to take place
to-morrow; at seven o’clock the earth is going to sit on the moon.
This is foretold by the famous English chemist, Wellington. To tell the
truth, I often felt uneasy when I thought of the excessive brittleness
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and fragility of the moon. The moon is generally repaired in Hamburg, and very imperfectly. It is done by a lame cooper, an obvious
blockhead who has no idea how to do it. He took waxed thread and
olive-oil—hence that pungent smell over all the earth which compels
people to hold their noses. And this makes the moon so fragile that no
men can live on it, but only noses. Therefore we cannot see our noses,
because they are on the moon. When I now pictured to myself how
the earth, that massive body, would crush our noses to dust, if it sat
on the moon, I became so uneasy that I immediately put on my shoes
and stockings and hastened into the council-hall to give the police
orders to prevent the earth sitting on the moon.”
—from Diary of a Madman
“Oh, I know that some people think him handsome,” continued the
hostess, unmoved; “but I say that he is nothing of the kind—that, in
particular, his nose is perfectly odious.”
—from Dead Souls
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“I declare, by that word I mean a nose,
and nothing more, or less”
Chapter 2.XXIV.
—I think it a very unreasonable demand—cried my great-grandfather, twisting up the paper, and throwing it upon the table.—By this
account, madam, you have but two thousand pounds fortune, and not
a shilling more—and you insist upon having three hundred pounds a
year jointure for it.—
—‘Because,’ replied my great-grandmother, ‘you have little or no
nose, Sir.’—
Now before I venture to make use of the word Nose a second
time—to avoid all confusion in what will be said upon it, in this interesting part of my story, it may not be amiss to explain my own
meaning, and define, with all possible exactness and precision, what
I would willingly be understood to mean by the term: being of opinion, that ’tis owing to the negligence and perverseness of writers in
despising this precaution, and to nothing else—that all the polemical
writings in divinity are not as clear and demonstrative as those upon
a Will o’ the Wisp, or any other sound part of philosophy, and natural
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pursuit; in order to which, what have you to do, before you set out,
unless you intend to go puzzling on to the day of judgment—but to
give the world a good definition, and stand to it, of the main word you
have most occasion for—changing it, Sir, as you would a guinea, into
small coin?—which done—let the father of confusion puzzle you, if
he can; or put a different idea either into your head, or your reader’s
head, if he knows how.
In books of strict morality and close reasoning, such as I am engaged in—the neglect is inexcusable; and Heaven is witness, how the
world has revenged itself upon me for leaving so many openings to
equivocal strictures—and for depending so much as I have done, all
along, upon the cleanliness of my readers imaginations.
—Here are two senses, cried Eugenius, as we walk’d along, pointing with the fore finger of his right hand to the word Crevice, in the
one hundred and seventy-eighth page of the first volume of this book
of books,—here are two senses—quoth he.—And here are two roads,
replied I, turning short upon him—a dirty and a clean one—which
shall we take?—The clean, by all means, replied Eugenius. Eugenius,
said I, stepping before him, and laying my hand upon his breast—
to define—is to distrust.—Thus I triumph’d over Eugenius; but I
triumph’d over him as I always do, like a fool.—’Tis my comfort, however, I am not an obstinate one: therefore
I define a nose as follows—intreating only beforehand, and beseeching my readers, both male and female, of what age, complexion, and condition soever, for the love of God and their own souls, to
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guard against the temptations and suggestions of the devil, and suffer
him by no art or wile to put any other ideas into their minds, than
what I put into my definition—For by the word Nose, throughout all
this long chapter of noses, and in every other part of my work, where
the word Nose occurs—I declare, by that word I mean a nose, and
nothing more, or less.
Chapter 2.XXV.
—‘Because,’ quoth my great-grandmother, repeating the words
again—’you have little or no nose, Sir.’—
S’death! cried my great-grandfather, clapping his hand upon his
nose,—’tis not so small as that comes to;—’tis a full inch longer than
my father’s.—Now, my great-grandfather’s nose was for all the world
like unto the noses of all the men, women, and children, whom Pantagruel found dwelling upon the island of Ennasin.—By the way, if
you would know the strange way of getting a-kin amongst so flatnosed a people—you must read the book;—find it out yourself, you
never can.—
—’Twas shaped, Sir, like an ace of clubs.
—’Tis a full inch, continued my grandfather, pressing up the ridge
of his nose with his finger and thumb; and repeating his assertion—
’tis a full inch longer, madam, than my father’s—You must mean your
uncle’s, replied my great-grandmother.
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—My great-grandfather was convinced.—He untwisted the paper, and signed the article.
Chapter 2.XXVI.
—What an unconscionable jointure, my dear, do we pay out of this
small estate of ours, quoth my grandmother to my grandfather.
My father, replied my grandfather, had no more nose, my dear,
saving the mark, than there is upon the back of my hand.
—Now, you must know, that my great-grandmother outlived my
grandfather twelve years; so that my father had the jointure to pay, a
hundred and fifty pounds half-yearly—(on Michaelmas and Ladyday,)—during all that time.
No man discharged pecuniary obligations with a better grace
than my father.—And as far as a hundred pounds went, he would
fling it upon the table, guinea by guinea, with that spirited jerk of an
honest welcome, which generous souls, and generous souls only, are
able to fling down money: but as soon as ever he enter’d upon the
odd fifty—he generally gave a loud Hem! rubb’d the side of his nose
leisurely with the flat part of his fore finger—inserted his hand cautiously betwixt his head and the cawl of his wig—look’d at both sides
of every guinea as he parted with it—and seldom could get to the end
of the fifty pounds, without pulling out his handkerchief, and wiping
his temples.
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Defend me, gracious Heaven! from those persecuting spirits who
make no allowances for these workings within us.—Never—O never
may I lay down in their tents, who cannot relax the engine, and feel
pity for the force of education, and the prevalence of opinions long
derived from ancestors!
For three generations at least this tenet in favour of long noses
had gradually been taking root in our family.—Tradition was all along
on its side, and Interest was every half-year stepping in to strengthen
it; so that the whimsicality of my father’s brain was far from having
the whole honour of this, as it had of almost all his other strange notions.—For in a great measure he might be said to have suck’d this
in with his mother’s milk. He did his part however.—If education
planted the mistake (in case it was one) my father watered it, and
ripened it to perfection.
He would often declare, in speaking his thoughts upon the subject, that he did not conceive how the greatest family in England could
stand it out against an uninterrupted succession of six or seven short
noses.—And for the contrary reason, he would generally add, That
it must be one of the greatest problems in civil life, where the same
number of long and jolly noses, following one another in a direct line,
did not raise and hoist it up into the best vacancies in the kingdom.—
He would often boast that the Shandy family rank’d very high in king
Harry the VIIIth’s time, but owed its rise to no state engine—he would
say—but to that only;—but that, like other families, he would add—it
had felt the turn of the wheel, and had never recovered the blow of my
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great-grandfather’s nose.—It was an ace of clubs indeed, he would cry,
shaking his head—and as vile a one for an unfortunate family as ever
turn’d up trumps.
—Fair and softly, gentle reader!—where is thy fancy carrying
thee!—If there is truth in man, by my great-grandfather’s nose, I
mean the external organ of smelling, or that part of man which stands
prominent in his face—and which painters say, in good jolly noses
and well-proportioned faces, should comprehend a full third—that is,
measured downwards from the setting on of the hair.
—What a life of it has an author, at this pass!
*
Slawkenbergius’s Tale
It was one cool refreshing evening, at the close of a very sultry day, in
the latter end of the month of August, when a stranger, mounted upon
a dark mule, with a small cloak-bag behind him, containing a few
shirts, a pair of shoes, and a crimson-sattin pair of breeches, entered
the town of Strasburg.
He told the centinel, who questioned him as he entered the gates,
that he had been at the Promontory of Noses—was going on to Frankfort—and should be back again at Strasburg that day month, in his
way to the borders of Crim Tartary.
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The centinel looked up into the stranger’s face—he never saw
such a Nose in his life!
—I have made a very good venture of it, quoth the stranger—so
slipping his wrist out of the loop of a black ribbon, to which a short
scymetar was hung, he put his hand into his pocket, and with great
courtesy touching the fore part of his cap with his left hand, as he extended his right—he put a florin into the centinel’s hand, and passed
on.
It grieves, me, said the centinel, speaking to a little dwarfish
bandy-legg’d drummer, that so courteous a soul should have lost his
scabbard—he cannot travel without one to his scymetar, and will not
be able to get a scabbard to fit it in all Strasburg.—I never had one,
replied the stranger, looking back to the centinel, and putting his hand
up to his cap as he spoke—I carry it, continued he, thus—holding up
his naked scymetar, his mule moving on slowly all the time—on purpose to defend my nose.
It is well worth it, gentle stranger, replied the centinel.
—’Tis not worth a single stiver, said the bandy-legg’d drummer—
’tis a nose of parchment.
As I am a true catholic—except that it is six times as big—’tis a
nose, said the centinel, like my own.
—I heard it crackle, said the drummer.
By dunder, said the centinel, I saw it bleed.
What a pity, cried the bandy-legg’d drummer, we did not both
touch it!
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At the very time that this dispute was maintaining by the centinel and the drummer—was the same point debating betwixt a trumpeter and a trumpeter’s wife, who were just then coming up, and had
stopped to see the stranger pass by.
Benedicity!—What a nose! ’tis as long, said the trumpeter’s wife,
as a trumpet.
And of the same metal said the trumpeter, as you hear by its
sneezing.
’Tis as soft as a flute, said she.
—’Tis brass, said the trumpeter.
—’Tis a pudding’s end, said his wife.
I tell thee again, said the trumpeter, ’tis a brazen nose,
I’ll know the bottom of it, said the trumpeter’s wife, for I will
touch it with my finger before I sleep.
The stranger’s mule moved on at so slow a rate, that he heard every word of the dispute, not only betwixt the centinel and the drummer, but betwixt the trumpeter and trumpeter’s wife.
No! said he, dropping his reins upon his mule’s neck, and laying
both his hands upon his breast, the one over the other in a saint-like
position (his mule going on easily all the time) No! said he, looking
up—I am not such a debtor to the world—slandered and disappointed
as I have been—as to give it that conviction—no! said he, my nose
shall never be touched whilst Heaven gives me strength—To do what?
said a burgomaster’s wife.
The stranger took no notice of the burgomaster’s wife—he was
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making a vow to Saint Nicolas; which done, having uncrossed his
arms with the same solemnity with which he crossed them, he took
up the reins of his bridle with his left-hand, and putting his right hand
into his bosom, with the scymetar hanging loosely to the wrist of it, he
rode on, as slowly as one foot of the mule could follow another, thro’
the principal streets of Strasburg, till chance brought him to the great
inn in the market-place over-against the church.
The moment the stranger alighted, he ordered his mule to be led
into the stable, and his cloak-bag to be brought in; then opening, and
taking out of it his crimson-sattin breeches, with a silver-fringed—
(appendage to them, which I dare not translate)—he put his breeches,
with his fringed cod-piece on, and forth-with, with his short scymetar
in his hand, walked out to the grand parade.
The stranger had just taken three turns upon the parade, when
he perceived the trumpeter’s wife at the opposite side of it—so turning short, in pain lest his nose should be attempted, he instantly went
back to his inn—undressed himself, packed up his crimson-sattin
breeches, &c. in his cloak-bag, and called for his mule.
I am going forwards, said the stranger, for Frankfort—and shall
be back at Strasburg this day month.
I hope, continued the stranger, stroking down the face of his mule
with his left hand as he was going to mount it, that you have been kind
to this faithful slave of mine—it has carried me and my cloak-bag,
continued he, tapping the mule’s back, above six hundred leagues.
—’Tis a long journey, Sir, replied the master of the inn—unless
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a man has great business.—Tut! tut! said the stranger, I have been at
the promontory of Noses; and have got me one of the goodliest, thank
Heaven, that ever fell to a single man’s lot.
Whilst the stranger was giving this odd account of himself, the
master of the inn and his wife kept both their eyes fixed full upon the
stranger’s nose—By saint Radagunda, said the inn-keeper’s wife to
herself, there is more of it than in any dozen of the largest noses put
together in all Strasburg! is it not, said she, whispering her husband in
his ear, is it not a noble nose?
’Tis an imposture, my dear, said the master of the inn—’tis a false
nose.
’Tis a true nose, said his wife.
’Tis made of fir-tree, said he, I smell the turpentine.—
There’s a pimple on it, said she.
’Tis a dead nose, replied the inn-keeper.
’Tis a live nose, and if I am alive myself, said the inn-keeper’s,
wife, I will touch it.
I have made a vow to saint Nicolas this day, said the stranger, that
my nose shall not be touched till—Here the stranger suspending his
voice, looked up.—Till when? said she hastily.
It never shall be touched, said he, clasping his hands and bringing them close to his breast, till that hour—What hour? cried the inn
keeper’s wife.—Never!—never! said the stranger, never till I am got—
For Heaven’s sake, into what place? said she—The stranger rode away
without saying a word.
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—Laurence Sterne (1713–1768), from The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman. In Sterne’s novel, much hangs on a nose.
Tristram’s father is obsessed with them and collects numerous books
about noses, from one of which—the entirely fictional Hafen Slawkenbergius’s treatise “De Nasis”—he translates the story of the long-nosed
Stranger from Strasburg, the second selection here. Tristram’s protestations that the word “nose” not be read as a euphemism obviously
have the opposite effect.
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—The Nose Plaque, St. Petersburg. This plaque honoring “The Nose”
was erected in 1995 on the wall of the house where Kovalyov is supposed
to have lived. In 2003, it was stolen, and for a year its whereabouts were
unknown. Russian officials finally found it in a Petersburg apartment
block; news reports at the time noted: “Both the residents and the police
who found the nose treated it with affection.”
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2. ST. PETERSBURG AND NEVSKY PROSPECT
—Map of St. Petersburg, 1834, Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, drawn by W. B. Clarke. “The Nose” was written between 1835 and
1836, so this map (from the British Society, who produced educational
materials for the working and middle classes) shows the city as Gogol
would have known it. The Neva, into which the barber Yakovlevich
throws Kovalyov’s nose, winds through the middle of St. Petersburg. Yakovlevich lives on Voznesensky Prospect, on the east bank; Voznesensky
Prospect, along with the Nevsky Prospect and Gorokhovaya Street, was
one of the three radial streets around which the city developed in the
early nineteenth century.
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A Letter Home
To M.I. Gogol April 30, 1829
. . . Now I will give you a few words about Petersburg. It seems to me
you were always interested in knowing about it and were enraptured
by it. Petersburg is not at all like other European capitals or Moscow. In general each capital is characterized by its people, who throw
their stamp of nationality on it; but Petersburg has no such characterstamp: the foreigners who settled here have made themselves at home
and aren’t like foreigners at all, and the Russians in their turn have
turned into foreigners—they aren’t one thing or the other. Its quietness is extraordinary; no spirit glitters among the people; all the civil
servants and functionaries constantly talk about their departments
and colleges; everything is crushed, everything is sunk in the useless,
insignificant tasks in which they fruitlessly expend their lives. A meeting with them on the boulevards or sidewalks is very amusing; they
are so occupied by their thoughts that when you come up beside one
of them you hear how he curses and converses with himself, another
spices this with gesticulation and waving of the arms. Petersburg is
a rather large city; if you wanted to walk through its streets, squares,
and islands in various directions, you would probably cover more
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than 100 versts and in spite of its hugeness, you can have at hand
everything you need—without sending far—even in the same house.
The houses here are big, especially in the main part of town, but they
aren’t high, for the most part three or four stories, very rarely—five;
there are only four or five in the whole capital six stories high; on
many houses there are many signs. The house in which I abide contains two tailors, one modiste, a shoemaker, a stocking-maker, a man
who repairs broken crockery, a sponger and dyer, a confectioner, a
small grocery store, a storage for winter clothes, a tobacco shop, and,
finally, a high-class midwife. It is natural that this house should be
pasted all over with gold signs. I live on the fourth floor, but I feel that
even here it is not very profitable for me. When I was still staying with
Danilevsky it was not bad at all; but now my pocketbook perceives
this very much; what we paid for by halves I now pay alone. But, by
the way, my works are progressing and, taking care of them attentively, I hope to achieve something in a short time; if I have real and
doubtless success, I will write to you about it in more detail.
There is a great deal of strolling in Petersburg. In the winter all
the idlers stroll along Nevsky Prospect from twelve to two (all the
civil servants are at work at this time). But in the spring (if one can
call this time spring, because the trees are still not dressed in green)
they stroll in Ekaterinhof, in the Summer Garden, and on Admiralty
Boulevard. However, all this promenading is unbearable, especially
that in Ekaterinhof the first of May; all the pleasures consists in the
promenaders getting in carriages—which stretch out in a row for
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more than ten versts, not only that, but so closes to each other that
the noses of the horses of the carriage behind amiably kiss the richly
garbled, lank heydukes. These carriages are constantly kept in rows
by policemen, and occasionally they halt for whole hours to keep in
order—and all this for the purpose of driving around Ekaterinhof and
returning in a ceremonious row without getting out of the carriage. I
too was going to direct my humble footsteps thither, but, enveloped
by a cloud of dust and barely breathing from the closeness, I returned.
Now Petersburg is beginning to empty—everyone is dispersing to
summer cottages and estates for the spring and summer. The nights
do not last more than an hour now, and in the summer there won’t be
any at all—just an interval between the setting and rising of the sun
occupied by two colliding glows, the sunset and dawn, and it doesn’t
look like either evening or morning.
That’s enough about Petersburg for the first time. In another letter
I will talk some more about it. Now, most respected mama, my good
guardian angel, now I ask you in turn to do me the greatest of favors.
You have a subtle, perspicacious mind: you know a great deal about
the customs and mores of our Ukrainians, and therefore I know that
you won’t refuse to inform me about them in our correspondence.
This is very, very necessary for me. In the next letter I expect from you
a description of the full dress of a village deacon from the coat to the
very boots, with names that all were given by those most steeped in
the spirit of the Ukraine, the most ancient and least changed Ukrainians; likewise the names of the articles of clothing worn by our serf
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girls—to the last ribbon—also those of married women and male
serfs.
Item the second: the exact and accurate name of the dress worn
before the time of the Hetmans. You recall once in our church we saw
a girl dressed that way. You can question the old-timers about that; I
think Anna Matveena or Agafya Matveena know a lot of things about
years long past.
Also a circumstantial description of a wedding, not omitting the
smallest details; you can question Demyan about that (I think that’s
his name, I don’t recall his nickname), the one whom we saw as the
arrange of weddings and who apparently knew all possible superstitions and customs. Also a few words about Carols, about St. John the
Baptist, and water nymphs. If there are other spirits or house goblins
besides these—then about them in detail with their names and what
they do; the simple folk have a multitude of superstitions, terrifying
tales, legends, various anecdotes, etc etc etc. All this will be extremely
entertaining for me . . .
Also I would like you to send me two of papa’s Ukrainian comedies: The Sheepdog and Roman and Paraska. Everything Ukrainian
interests everybody here so much that I will make an effort to see if
one of them can’t be put on at a local theater. For this might at least
make a little collection—in my opinion nothing should be neglected;
it is necessary to consider everything.
—Gogol’s observations here of the “civil servants and functionaries” of
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Petersburg are echoed in the character of Kovalyov in “The Nose,” as are
his descriptions of the social life conducted on the boulevards and in the
public gardens of the city. The information that Gogol requests at the
end of this letter he went on to use in his first major work, Evenings on
a Farm Near Dikanka, a volume of Ukrainian stories.
25
—Nevsky Prospect, circa 1800.
26
“Oh, do not trust that Nevsky Prospect!”
It will be as well, however, to let the reader know what sort of person
Lieutenant Pirogov was.
But before we describe Lieutenant Pirogov, it will be as well to say
something of the circle to which Lieutenant Pirogov belonged. There
are officers who form a kind of middle class in Petersburg. You will
always find one of them at every evening party, at every dinner given
by a civil councilor or an actual civil councilor who has risen to that
grade by forty years of service. The group of pale daughters, as colourless as Petersburg, some of them no longer in their first youth, the
tea-table, the piano, the impromptu dance, are all inseparable from
the gay epaulette which gleams in the lamplight between the virtuous
young lady and the black coat of her brother or of some old friend of
the family. It is extremely difficult to arouse and divert these phlegmatic misses. To do so needs a great deal of skill, or rather perhaps the
absence of all skill. One has to say what is not too clever or too amusing and to bring in the trivialities that women love. One must give
credit for that to the gentlemen we are discussing. They have a special
gift for making these colourless beauties laugh and listen. Exclamations, smothered in laughter, of “Oh, do stop! Aren’t you ashamed to
be so absurd!” are often their highest reward. They rarely, one may
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say never, get into higher circles: from those regions they are completely crowded out by the so-called aristocrats. At the same time,
they pass for well-bred, highly educated men. They are fond of talking about literature; praise Bulgarin, Pushkin, and Gretch, and speak
with contempt and witty sarcasm of A.A. Orlov. They never miss a
public lecture, though it may be on book-keeping or even forestry.
You will always find one of them at the theatre, whatever the play, unless, indeed, it be one of the farces of the “Filatka” class, which greatly
offend their fastidious taste. They are priceless at the theatre and the
greatest asset to managers. They are particularly fond of fine verses
in a play, and they are greatly given to calling loudly for the actors;
many of them, by teaching in government establishments or preparing pupils for them, arrive at keeping a carriage and pair. Then their
circle becomes wider and in the end they succeed in marrying a merchant’s daughter who can play the piano, with a dowry of a hundred
thousand, or something near it, in cash, and a lot of bearded relations.
They can never attain this honour, however, till they have reached the
rank of colonel, at least, for Russian merchants, though there may
still be a smell of cabbage about them, will never consent to see their
daughters married to any but generals or colonels at the lowest. Such
are the leading characteristics of this class of young men. But Lieutenant Pirogov had a number of talents belonging to him individually.
He recited verses from “Dimitry Donsky” and “Woe from Wit” with
great effect, and possessed the art of blowing smoke out of a pipe in
rings so successfully that he could string a dozen of them together in
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a chain; he could tell a very good story to the effect that a cannon was
one thing and a unicorn was another. It is difficult to enumerate all the
qualities with which fate had endowed Pirogov. He was fond of talking about actresses and dancers, but not quite in such a crude way as
young lieutenants commonly hold forth on that subject. He was very
much pleased with his rank in the service, to which he had only lately
been promoted, and although he did occasionally say as he lay on the
sofa: “O dear, vanity, all is vanity. What if I am a lieutenant?” yet his
vanity was secretly much flattered by his new dignity; he often tried in
conversation to allude to it in a roundabout way, and on one occasion
when he jostled against a copying clerk in the street who struck him
as uncivil he promptly stopped him and in few but vigorous words
pointed out to him that there was a lieutenant standing before him
and not any other kind of officer. He was the more eloquent in his
observations as two very nice-looking ladies were passing at the moment. Pirogov displayed a passion for everything artistic in general
and encouraged the artist Piskarev; this may have been partly due to a
desire to see his manly countenance portrayed on canvas.
But enough of Pirogov’s good qualities. Man is such a strange
creature that one can never enumerate all his good points, and the
more we look into him the more new characteristics we discover and
the description of them would be endless.
And so Pirogov continued to pursue the unknown fair one, from
time to time he addressed her with questions to which she responded
infrequently with abrupt and incoherent sounds. They passed by the
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wet Kazan gate into Myeshtchansky Street—a street of tobacconists
and little shops, of German artisans and Finnish nymphs. The fair
lady ran faster than ever, and scurried in at the gate of a rather dirtylooking house. Pirogov followed her. She ran up a narrow, dark staircase and went in at a door through which Pirogov boldly followed her.
He found himself in a big room with black walls and a grimy ceiling.
A heap of iron screws, locksmith’s tools, shining tin coffee-pots and
candlesticks lay on the table; the floor was littered with brass and iron
filings. Pirogov saw at once that this was a workman’s lodging. The
unknown charmer darted away through a side-door. He hesitated for
a minute, but, following the Russian rule, decided to push forward. He
went into the other room, which was quite unlike the first and very
neatly furnished, showing that it was inhabited by a German. He was
struck by an extremely strange sight: before him sat Schiller. Not the
Schiller who wrote William Tell and the History of the Thirty Years’
War, but the famous Schiller the ironmonger and tinsmith of Myeshtchansky Street. Beside Schiller stood Hoffmann—not the writer
Hoffmann, but a rather high-class bootmaker who lived in Ofitsersky
Street and was a great friend of Schiller’s. Schiller was drunk and was
sitting on a chair, stamping and saying something with heat. All this
would not have surprised Pirogov, but what did surprise him was the
extraordinary attitude of the two figures. Schiller was sitting with his
head flung up and his rather thick nose in the air, while Hoffmann was
holding the nose between his finger and thumb and was brandishing
the blade of his cobbler’s knife over its very surface. Both individuals
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were talking in German, and so Lieutenant Pirogov, whose knowledge
of German was confined to “Gut Morgen” could not make out what
was going on. However, what Schiller said amounted to this: “I don’t
want it. I have no need of a nose!” he said, waving his hands. “I use
three pounds of snuff a month on my nose alone. And I pay in a nasty
Russian shop, for a German shop does not keep Russian snuff. I pay in
a nasty Russian shop forty kopecks a pound—that makes one rouble
twenty kopecks, twelve times one rouble twenty kopecks—that makes
fourteen roubles forty kopecks. Do you hear, friend Hoffmann? Fourteen roubles forty kopecks on my nose alone! And on holidays I take
a pinch of rappee, for I don’t care to use nasty Russian snuff on a holiday. In the year I use two pounds of rappee at two roubles the pound.
Six and fourteen makes twenty roubles forty kopecks on snuff alone.
It’s a robbery. I ask you, my friend Hoffmann, isn’t it?” Hoffman, who
was drunk himself, answered in the affirmative. “Twenty roubles and
forty kopecks. I am a Swabian; we have a king in Germany. I don’t
want a nose! Cut off my nose! Here is my nose.”
And had it not been for Lieutenant Pirogov’s suddenly appearing,
Hoffmann would certainly, for no rhyme or reason, have cut off Schiller’s nose, for he already had his knife in position, as though he were
going to cut a sole . . .
“Marvellously is our world arranged,” I thought as I walked two days
later along the Nevsky Prospect, and mused over these two incidents.
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“How strangely, how accountably Fate plays with us! Do we ever get
what we desire? Do we ever attain what our powers seem specially
fitted for? Everything goes by contraries. Fate gives splendid horses to
one man and he drives in his carriage without noticing their beauty,
while another who is consumed by a passion for horses has to go
on foot, and all the satisfaction he gets is clicking with his tongue
when trotting horses are led past him. One has an excellent cook, but
unluckily so small a mouth that he cannot take more than two tiny
bits; another has a mouth as big as the arch of the Staff headquarters,
but alas has to be content with a German dinner of potatoes. What
strange pranks Fate plays with us!”
But strangest of all are the incidents that take place in the Nevsky
Prospect. Oh, do not trust that Nevsky Prospect! I always wrap myself more closely in my cloak when I pass along it and try not to look
at the objects which meet me. Everything is a cheat, everything is a
dream, everything is other than it seems! You think that the gentleman who walks along in a splendidly cut coat is very wealthy?—not a
bit of it. All his wealth lies in his coat. You think that those two stout
men who stand facing the church that is being built are criticising its
architecture?—- not at all; they are saying how queerly two crows are
sitting opposite each other. You think that that enthusiast waving his
arms about is describing how his wife was playing ball out of window
with an officer who was a complete stranger to him?—not so at all, he
is talking of Lafayette. You imagine those ladies . . . but ladies are least
of all to be trusted. Do not look into the shop windows, the trifles
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exhibited in them are delightful but they are suggestive of a fearful
pile of notes. But God preserve you from peeping under the ladies’
hats! However attractively in the evening a fair lady’s cloak may flutter in the distance, nothing would induce me to follow her and try
to get a closer view. Keep your distance, for God’s sake, keep your
distance from the lamp-post! and pass by it quickly, as quickly as you
can! It is a happy escape if you get off with nothing worse than some
of its stinking oil on your foppish coat. But, apart from the lamp-post,
everything breathes deception. It deceives at all hours, the Nevsky
Prospect does, but most of all when night falls in masses of shadow
on it, throwing into relief the white and dun-coloured walls of the
houses, when all the town is transformed into noise and brilliance,
when myriads of carriages roll over bridges, postilions shout and jolt
up and down on their horses, and when the demon himself lights the
street lamps to show everything in false colours.
—Gogol wrote the story from which these passages are taken, “Nevsky
Prospect” (here in Constance Garnett’s translation from the early
1920s), just a few years before “The Nose.” Its portrayal of the marvelous and nightmarish properties of St. Petersburg (along with Hoffman’s
nearly severed nose) make it an intriguing parallel to the later story.
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—Kazan Cathedral, nineteenth-century engraving by Andrey Nikiforovich Voronikhin. After “The Nose” was rejected by the Moscow
Observer for being “too sordid,” the poet Alexander Pushkin, whose
support and encouragement was crucial to Gogol’s early career, published it the journal Sovremennik (“The Contemporary”). Nevertheless,
the state censors found the scene where Kovalyov meets his newly independent nose in Kazan Cathedral sacrilegious, and Gogol was forced to
change it to a shopping arcade. Gogol had suspected that this might happen, and before the story’s first publication he wrote to a friend: “If the
stupid censorship should object to the fact that the ‘nose’ pays a visit to
Kazan Cathedral, I might take him to a Catholic church.” In subsequent
editions, he switched the setting back to Kazan, which would also be the
site of the very first political demonstration in Russia in 1876.
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