Speranza
On the 25th March, 18, a very
strange occurrence took place in St. Petersburg.
On the Ascension Avenue, there
lived a barber of the name of Ivan Jakovlevitch.
The barber had lost his family name,
and on his sign-board, on which was depicted the head of a gentleman with one
cheek soaped, the only inscription to be read was:
------------------------- Blood-letting done
here.
On this particular morning, the barber awoke pretty early.
Becoming aware of
the smell of fresh-baked bread, he sat up a little in bed, and saw his wife, who
had a special partiality for coffee, in the act of taking some fresh-baked bread
out of the oven.
BARBER: Today, Prasskovna Ossipovna, I do not want any
coffee. I should like a fresh loaf with onions.
The wife thought, "The blockhead may eat bread
only as far as I am concerned, then I shall have a
chance of getting some coffee.”
And the wife threw a loaf on the table.
For the
sake of propriety, Ivan Jakovlevitch drew a coat over his shirt, sat down at the
table, shook out some salt for himself, prepared two onions, assumed a serious
expression, and began to cut the bread.
After he had cut the loaf in two halves,
he looked, and to his great astonishment saw something whitish sticking in it.
He carefully poked round it with his knife, and felt it with his
finger.
“Quite firmly fixed!” he murmured in his beard. “What can it
be?”
He put in his finger, and drew out—A NOSE!
Ivan Jakovlevitch at first
let his hands fall from sheer astonishment.
Then he rubbed his eyes and began to
feel it.
A nose, an actual nose; and, moreover, it seemed to be the nose of an
acquaintance.
Alarm and terror were depicted in Ivan's face.
But these feelings
were slight in comparison with the disgust which took possession of his
wife.
WIFE (screaming) Whose nose have you cut off, you monster?”
Her face red
with anger.
WIFE: “You scoundrel! You tippler! I myself will report you to the police!
Such a rascal! Many customers have told me that while you were shaving them, you
held them so tight by the nose that they could hardly sit still.
But Ivan
Jakovlevitch was more dead than alive; he saw at once that this nose could
belong to no other than to Kovaloff, a member of the Municipal Committee whom he
shaved every Sunday and Wednesday.
BARBER: Stop, Prasskovna Ossipovna! I will wrap
it in a piece of cloth and place it in the corner. There it may remain for the
present; later on I will take it away.
WIFE: No, not there! Shall I endure an
amputated nose in my room? You understand nothing except how to strop a razor.
You know nothing of the duties and obligations of a respectable man. You
vagabond! You good-for-nothing! Am I to undertake all responsibility for you at
the police-office? Ah, you soap-smearer! You blockhead! Take it away where you
like, but don't let it stay under my eyes!
Ivan Jakovlevitch stood there
flabbergasted. He thought and thought, and knew not what he thought.
“The
devil knows how that happened!” he said at last, scratching his head behind his
ear.
“Whether I came home drunk last night or not, I really don't know; but in
all probability this is a quite extraordinary occurrence, for a loaf is
something baked and a nose is something different. I don't understand the matter
at all.” And Ivan Jakovlevitch was silent. The thought that the police might
find him in unlawful possession of a nose and arrest him, robbed him of all
presence of mind. Already he began to have visions of a red collar with silver
braid and of a sword—and he trembled all over.
At last he finished dressing
himself, and to the accompaniment of the emphatic exhortations of his spouse, he
wrapped up the nose in a cloth and issued into the street.
He intended to
lose it somewhere—either at somebody's door, or in a public square, or in a
narrow alley.
But just then, in order to complete his bad luck, he was met by an
acquaintance, who showered inquiries upon him.
ACQUAINTANCE: Hullo, Ivan Jakovlevitch! Whom
are you going to shave so early in the morning?”
etc., so that he could find no
suitable opportunity to do what he wanted.
Later on he did let the nose drop,
but a sentry bore down upon him with his halberd, and said,
SENTRY: “Look out! You have
let something drop.
Ivan Jakovlevitch was obliged to pick it up and put it
in his pocket.
A feeling of despair began to take possession of him.
All the
more as the streets became more thronged and the merchants began to open their
shops. At last he resolved to go to the Isaac Bridge, where perhaps he might
succeed in throwing it into the Neva.
But my conscience is a little uneasy
that I have not yet given any detailed information about Ivan Jakovlevitch, an
estimable man in many ways.
Like every honest Russian tradesman, Ivan
Jakovlevitch was a terrible drunkard, and although he shaved other people's
faces every day, his own was always unshaved. His coat (he never wore an
overcoat) was quite mottled, i.e. it had been black, but become brownish-yellow;
the collar was quite shiny, and instead of the three buttons, only the threads
by which they had been fastened were to be seen.
Ivan Jakovlevitch was a
great cynic, and when Kovaloff, the member of the Municipal Committee, said to
him, as was his custom while being shaved, “Your hands always smell, Ivan
Jakovlevitch!” the latter answered, “What do they smell of?” “I don't know, my
friend, but they smell very strong.” Ivan Jakovlevitch after taking a pinch of
snuff would then, by way of reprisals, set to work to soap him on the cheek, the
upper lip, behind the ears, on the chin, and everywhere.
This worthy man now
stood on the Isaac Bridge.
At first he looked round him, then he leant on the
railings of the bridge, as though he wished to look down and see how many fish
were swimming past, and secretly threw the nose, wrapped in a little piece of
cloth, into the water. He felt as though a ton weight had been lifted off him,
and laughed cheerfully. Instead, however, of going to shave any officials, he
turned his steps to a building, the sign-board of which bore the legend
“Teas
served here"
in order to have a glass of punch, when suddenly he perceived at
the other end of the bridge a police inspector of imposing exterior, with long
whiskers, three-cornered hat, and sword hanging at his side. He nearly fainted;
but the police inspector beckoned to him with his hand and said, “Come here, my
dear sir.”
Ivan Jakovlevitch, knowing how a gentleman should behave, took his
hat off quickly, went towards the police inspector and said,
BARBER: I hope you are in
the best of health.
POLICEMAN: Never mind my health. Tell me, my friend, why you were
standing on the bridge.
BARBER: By heaven, gracious sir, I was on the way to my
customers, and only looked down to see if the river was flowing
quickly.
POLICEMAN: That is a lie! You won't get out of it like that. Confess the
truth.
BARBER: I am willing to shave Your Grace two or even three times a week
gratis.
POLICEMAN: No, my friend, don't put yourself out!
Three barbers are busy with me already, and reckon it a high honour that I let
them show me their skill. Now then, out with it! What were you doing
there?
Ivan Jakovlevitch grew pale. But here the strange episode vanishes in
mist, and what further happened is not known.
***********************
Kovaloff, the member of
the Municipal Committee, awoke fairly early that morning, and made a droning
noise—“Brr! Brr!”—through his lips, as he always did, though he could not say
why. He stretched himself, and told his valet to give him a little mirror which
was on the table. He wished to look at the heat-boil which had appeared on his
nose the previous evening; but to his great astonishment, he saw that instead of
his nose he had a perfectly smooth vacancy in his face. Thoroughly alarmed, he
ordered some water to be brought, and rubbed his eyes with a towel. Sure enough,
he had no longer a nose! Then he sprang out of bed, and shook himself violently!
No, no nose any more! He dressed himself and went at once to the police
superintendent.
But before proceeding further, we must certainly give the
reader some information about Kovaloff, so that he may know what sort of a man
this member of the Municipal Committee really was. These committee-men, who
obtain that title by means of certificates of learning, must not be compared
with the committee-men appointed for the Caucasus district, who are of quite a
different kind.
The learned committee-man—but Russia is such a wonderful country
that when one committee-man is spoken of all the others from Riga to Kamschatka
refer it to themselves. The same is also true of all other titled officials.
Kovaloff had been a Caucasian committee-man two years previously, and could not
forget that he had occupied that position; but in order to enhance his own
importance, he never called himself “committee-man” but “Major.”
“Listen, my
dear,” he used to say when he met an old woman in the street who sold
shirt-fronts; “go to my house in Sadovaia Street and ask ‘Does Major Kovaloff
live here?’ Any child can tell you where it is.”
Accordingly we will call him
for the future Major Kovaloff. It was his custom to take a daily walk on the
Neffsky Avenue. The collar of his shirt was always remarkably clean and stiff.
He wore the same style of whiskers as those that are worn by governors of
districts, architects, and regimental doctors; in short, all those who have full
red cheeks and play a good game of whist. These whiskers grow straight across
the cheek towards the nose.
Major Kovaloff wore a number of seals, on some of
which were engraved armorial bearings, and others the names of the days of the
week.
He had come to St Petersburg with the view of obtaining some position
corresponding to his rank, if possible that of vice-governor of a province; but
he was prepared to be content with that of a bailiff in some department or
other.
He was, moreover, not disinclined to marry, but only such a lady who
could bring with her a dowry of two hundred thousand roubles.
Accordingly, the
reader can judge for himself what his sensations were when he found in his face,
instead of a fairly symmetrical nose, a broad, flat vacancy.
To increase his
misfortune, not a single droshky was to be seen in the street, and so he was
obliged to proceed on foot. He wrapped himself up in his cloak, and held his
handkerchief to his face as though his nose bled.
“But perhaps it is all only my
imagination; it is impossible that a nose should drop off in such a silly way,”
he thought, and stepped into a confectioner's shop in order to look into the
mirror.
Fortunately no customer was in the shop; only small shop-boys were
cleaning it out, and putting chairs and tables straight.
Others with sleepy
faces were carrying fresh cakes on trays, and yesterday's newspapers stained
with coffee were still lying about. “Thank God no one is here!” he said to
himself.
“Now I can look at myself leisurely.”
He stepped gingerly up to a
mirror and looked.
“What an infernal face!” he exclaimed, and spat with
disgust. “If there were only something there instead of the nose, but there is
absolutely nothing.”
He bit his lips with vexation, left the confectioner's,
and resolved, quite contrary to his habit, neither to look nor smile at anyone
on the street. Suddenly he halted as if rooted to the spot before a door, where
something extraordinary happened.
A carriage drew up at the entrance; the
carriage door was opened, and a gentleman in uniform came out and hurried up the
steps. How great was Kovaloff's terror and astonishment when he saw that it was
his own nose!
At this extraordinary sight, everything seemed to turn round
with him. He felt as though he could hardly keep upright on his legs; but,
though trembling all over as though with fever, he resolved to wait till the
nose should return to the carriage.
After about two minutes the nose actually
came out again. It wore a gold-embroidered uniform with a stiff, high collar,
trousers of chamois leather, and a sword hung at its side.
The hat, adorned with
a plume, showed that it held the rank of a state-councillor. It was obvious that
it was paying “duty-calls.” It looked round on both sides, called to the
coachman “Drive on,” and got into the carriage, which drove away.
Poor
Kovaloff nearly lost his reason. He did not know what to think of this
extraordinary procedure. And indeed how was it possible that the nose, which
only yesterday he had on his face, and which could neither walk nor drive,
should wear a uniform.
He ran after the carriage, which fortunately had stopped
a short way off before the Grand Bazar of Moscow. He hurried towards it and
pressed through a crowd of beggar-women with their faces bound up, leaving only
two openings for the eyes, over whom he had formerly so often made
merry.
There were only a few people in front of the Bazar.
Kovaloff was so
agitated that he could decide on nothing, and looked for the nose everywhere. At
last he saw it standing before a shop. It seemed half buried in its stiff
collar, and was attentively inspecting the wares displayed.
“How can I get at
it?” thought Kovaloff. “Everything—the uniform, the hat, and so on—show that it
is a state-councillor. How the deuce has that happened?”
He began to cough
discreetly near it, but the nose paid him not the least
attention.
“Honourable sir,” said Kovaloff at last, plucking up courage,
“honourable sir.”
THE NOSE: What do you want?
The nose turned round.
“It seems to me strange, most respected sir—you should know where you
belong—and I find you all of a sudden—where? Judge yourself.”
“Pardon me, I
do not understand what you are talking about. Explain yourself more
distinctly.”
“How shall I make my meaning plainer to him?”
Then plucking up
fresh courage, he continued, “Naturally—besides I am a Major. You must admit it
is not befitting that I should go about without a nose.
An old apple-woman on
the Ascension Bridge may carry on her business without one, but since I am on
the look out for a post; besides in many houses I am acquainted with ladies of
high position—Madame Tchektyriev, wife of a state-councillor, and many others.
So you see—I do not know, honourable sir, what you——” (here the Major shrugged
his shoulders). “Pardon me; if one regards the matter from the point of view of
duty and honour—you will yourself understand——”
THE NOSE: I understand nothing. “I repeat, please explain yourself more
distinctly.
“Honourable sir,” said Kovaloff with dignity, “I do not know how
I am to understand your words. It seems to me the matter is as clear as
possible.
Or do you wish—but you are after all my own nose!”
The nose looked
at the Major and wrinkled its forehead. “There you are wrong, respected sir; I
am myself. Besides, there can be no close relations between us. To judge by the
buttons of your uniform, you must be in quite a different department to mine.”
So saying, the nose turned away.
Kovaloff was completely puzzled; he did not
know what to do, and still less what to think.
At this moment he heard the
pleasant rustling of a lady's dress, and there approached an elderly lady
wearing a quantity of lace, and by her side her graceful daughter in a white
dress which set off her slender figure to advantage, and wearing a light straw
hat. Behind the ladies marched a tall lackey with long whiskers.
Kovaloff
advanced a few steps, adjusted his cambric collar, arranged his seals which hung
by a little gold chain, and with smiling face fixed his eyes on the graceful
lady, who bowed lightly like a spring flower, and raised to her brow her little
white hand with transparent fingers.
He smiled still more when he spied under
the brim of her hat her little round chin, and part of her cheek faintly tinted
with rose-colour. But suddenly he sprang back as though he had been scorched. He
remembered that he had nothing but an absolute blank in place of a nose, and
tears started to his eyes. He turned round in order to tell the gentleman in
uniform that he was only a state-councillor in appearance, but really a
scoundrel and a rascal, and nothing else but his own nose; but the nose was no
longer there. He had had time to go, doubtless in order to continue his
visits.
His disappearance plunged Kovaloff into despair.
He went back and
stood for a moment under a colonnade, looking round him on all sides in hope of
perceiving the nose somewhere.
He remembered very well that it wore a hat with a
plume in it and a gold-embroidered uniform; but he had not noticed the shape of
the cloak, nor the colour of the carriages and the horses, nor even whether a
lackey stood behind it, and, if so, what sort of livery he wore.
Moreover, so
many carriages were passing that it would have been difficult to recognise one,
and even if he had done so, there would have been no means of stopping
it.
The day was fine and sunny.
An immense crowd was passing to and fro in
the Neffsky Avenue; a variegated stream of ladies flowed along the pavement.
There was his acquaintance, the Privy Councillor, whom he was accustomed to
style “General,” especially when strangers were present. There was Iarygin, his
intimate friend who always lost in the evenings at whist; and there another
Major, who had obtained the rank of committee-man in the Caucasus, beckoned to
him.
“Go to the deuce!” said Kovaloff sotto voce.
“Hi! coachman, drive me
straight to the superintendent of police.” So saying, he got into a droshky and
continued to shout all the time to the coachman “Drive hard!”
“Is the police
superintendent at home?” he asked on entering the front hall.
“No, sir,”
answered the porter, “he has just gone out.”
“Ah, just as I
thought!”
“Yes,” continued the porter, “he has only just gone out; if you had
been a moment earlier you would perhaps have caught him.”
Kovaloff, still
holding his handkerchief to his face, re-entered the droshky and cried in a
despairing voice “Drive on!”
“Where?” asked the coachman.
“Straight
on!”
“But how? There are cross-roads here. Shall I go to the right or the
left?”
This question made Kovaloff reflect. In his situation it was necessary
to have recourse to the police; not because the affair had anything to do with
them directly but because they acted more promptly than other authorities. As
for demanding any explanation from the department to which the nose claimed to
belong, it would, he felt, be useless, for the answers of that gentleman showed
that he regarded nothing as sacred, and he might just as likely have lied in
this matter as in saying that he had never seen Kovaloff.
But just as he was
about to order the coachman to drive to the police-station, the idea occurred to
him that this rascally scoundrel who, at their first meeting, had behaved so
disloyally towards him, might, profiting by the delay, quit the city secretly;
and then all his searching would be in vain, or might last over a whole month.
Finally, as though visited with a heavenly inspiration, he resolved to go
directly to an advertisement office, and to advertise the loss of his nose,
giving all its distinctive characteristics in detail, so that anyone who found
it might bring it at once to him, or at any rate inform him where it lived.
Having decided on this course, he ordered the coachman to drive to the
advertisement office, and all the way he continued to punch him in the
back—“Quick, scoundrel! quick!”
“Yes, sir!” answered the coachman, lashing
his shaggy horse with the reins.
At last they arrived, and Kovaloff, out of
breath, rushed into a little room where a grey-haired official, in an old coat
and with spectacles on his nose, sat at a table holding his pen between his
teeth, counting a heap of copper coins.
“Who takes in the advertisements
here?” exclaimed Kovaloff.
“At your service, sir,” answered the grey-haired
functionary, looking up and then fastening his eyes again on the heap of coins
before him.
“I wish to place an advertisement in your paper."
“Have the
kindness to wait a minute,” answered the official, putting down figures on paper
with one hand, and with the other moving two balls on his
calculating-frame.
A lackey, whose silver-laced coat showed that he served in
one of the houses of the nobility, was standing by the table with a note in his
hand, and speaking in a lively tone, by way of showing himself sociable.
“Would
you believe it, sir, this little dog is really not worth twenty-four kopecks,
and for my own part I would not give a farthing for it; but the countess is
quite gone upon it, and offers a hundred roubles' reward to anyone who finds it.
To tell you the truth, the tastes of these people are very different from ours;
they don't mind giving five hundred or a thousand roubles for a poodle or a
pointer, provided it be a good one.”
The official listened with a serious air
while counting the number of letters contained in the note.
At either side of
the table stood a number of housekeepers, clerks and porters, carrying notes.
The writer of one wished to sell a barouche, which had been brought from Paris
in 1814 and had been very little used; others wanted to dispose of a strong
droshky which wanted one spring, a spirited horse seventeen years old, and so
on.
The room where these people were collected was very small, and the air was
very close; but Kovaloff was not affected by it, for he had covered his face
with a handkerchief, and because his nose itself was heaven knew where.
“Sir,
allow me to ask you—I am in a great hurry,” he said at last impatiently.
“In
a moment! In a moment! Two roubles, twenty-four kopecks—one minute! One rouble,
sixty-four kopecks!” said the grey-haired official, throwing their notes back to
the housekeepers and porters.
NEWSPAPER MAN: What do you wish?
MAJOR: I wish ... I have just been swindled and
cheated, and I cannot get hold of the perpetrator.
I only want you to insert an
advertisement to say that whoever brings this scoundrel to me will be well
rewarded.
NEWSPAPER MAN: What is your name, please?
MAJOR: Why do you want my name? I have
many lady friends—Madame Tchektyriev, wife of a state-councillor, Madame
Podtotchina, wife of a Colonel. Heaven forbid that they should get to hear of
it. You can simply write ‘committee-man,’ or, better, ‘Major.’”
NEWSPAPER MAN: And the man
who has run away is your serf.
MAJOR: Serf! If he was, it would not be such a
great swindle! It is THE NOSE which has absconded.
NEWSPAPER MAN: H'm! What a strange
name. And this Mr Nose has stolen from you a considerable sum?
MAJOR: Mr Nose! Ah,
you don't understand me! It is MY OWN NOSE which has gone, I don't know where.
The devil has played a trick on me.
NEWSPAPER MAN: How has it disappeared? I don't
understand.
MAJOR: I can't tell you how, but the important point is that now it
walks about the city itself a state-councillor. That is why I want you to
advertise that whoever gets hold of it should bring it as soon as possible to
me. Consider; how can I live without such a prominent part of my body? It is not
as if it were merely a little toe; I would only have to put my foot in my boot
and no one would notice its absence. Every Thursday I call on the wife of M.
Tchektyriev, the state-councillor; Madame Podtotchina, a Colonel's wife who has
a very pretty daughter, is one of my acquaintances; and what am I to do now? I
cannot appear before them like this.
The official compressed his lips and
reflected.
NEWSPAPER MAN: “No, I cannot insert an advertisement like that,” he said after a
long pause.
MAJOR: “What! Why not?”
NEWSPAPER MAN: Because it might compromise the paper.
Suppose everyone could advertise that his nose was lost. People already say that
all sorts of nonsense and lies are inserted.
MAJOR: But this is not nonsense!
There is nothing of that sort in my case.
NEWSPAPER MAN: You think so? Listen a minute.
Last week there was a case very like it. An official came, just as you have
done, bringing an advertisement for the insertion of which he paid two roubles,
sixty-three kopecks; and this advertisement simply announced the loss of a
black-haired poodle. There did not seem to be anything out of the way in it, but
it was really a satire; by the poodle was meant the cashier of some
establishment or other.”
MAJOR: But I am not talking of a poodle, but my own nose;
i.e. almost myself.
NEWSPAPER MAN: No, I cannot insert your advertisement.
MAJOR: But my
nose really has disappeared.
NEWSPAPER MAN: That is a matter for a doctor. There are said
to be people who can provide you with any kind of nose you like. But I see that
you are a witty man, and like to have your little joke.
MAJOR: But I swear to you
on my word of honour. Look at my face yourself.
NEWSPAPER MAN: Why put yourself out?”
continued the official, taking a pinch of snuff.
NEWSPAPER MAN: All the same, if you don't
mind,” he added with a touch of curiosity, “I should like to have a look at
it.”
The committee-man removed the handkerchief from before his face.
NEWSPAPER MAN: It
certainly does look odd. It is perfectly flat like a
freshly fried pancake. It is hardly credible.
MAJOR: Very well. Are you going to
hesitate any more? You see it is impossible to refuse to advertise my loss. I
shall be particularly obliged to you, and I shall be glad that this incident has
procured me the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
The Major, we see, did
not even shrink from a slight humiliation.
NEWSPAPER MAN: It certainly is not difficult to
advertise it, but I don't see what good it would do you.
However, if you lay so much stress on it, you should apply to someone who has a
skilful pen, so that he may describe it as a curious, natural freak, and publish
the article in the Northern Bee” (here he took another pinch) “for the benefit
of youthful readers” (he wiped his nose), “or simply as a matter worthy of
arousing public curiosity.”
The committee-man felt completely discouraged.
He
let his eyes fall absent-mindedly on a daily paper in which theatrical
performances were advertised.
Reading there the name of an actress whom he knew
to be pretty, he involuntarily smiled, and his hand sought his pocket to see if
he had a blue ticket—for in Kovaloff's opinion superior officers like himself
should not take a lesser-priced seat; but the thought of his lost nose suddenly
spoilt everything.
The official himself seemed touched at his difficult
position.
Desiring to console him, he tried to express his sympathy by a few
polite words. “I much regret,” he said, “your extraordinary mishap. Will you not
try a pinch of snuff? It clears the head, banishes depression, and is a good
preventive against hæmorrhoids.”
So saying, he reached his snuff-box out to
Kovaloff, skilfully concealing at the same time the cover, which was adorned
with the portrait of some lady or other.
This act, quite innocent in itself,
exasperated Kovaloff. “I don't understand what you find to joke about in the
matter,” he exclaimed angrily.
“Don't you see that I lack precisely the
essential feature for taking snuff? The devil take your snuff-box. I don't want
to look at snuff now, not even the best, certainly not your vile stuff!”
So
saying, he left the advertisement office in a state of profound irritation, and
went to the commissary of police. He arrived just as this dignitary was
reclining on his couch, and saying to himself with a sigh of satisfaction, “Yes,
I shall make a nice little sum out of that.”
It might be expected, therefore,
that the committee-man's visit would be quite inopportune.
This police
commissary was a great patron of all the arts and industries; but what he liked
above everything else was a cheque.
“It is a thing,” he used to say, “to which
it is not easy to find an equivalent; it requires no food, it does not take up
much room, it stays in one's pocket, and if it falls, it is not broken.”
The
commissary accorded Kovaloff a fairly frigid reception, saying that the
afternoon was not the best time to come with a case, that nature required one to
rest a little after eating (this showed the committee-man that the commissary
was acquainted with the aphorisms of the ancient sages), and that respectable
people did not have their noses stolen.
The last allusion was too direct. We
must remember that Kovaloff was a very sensitive man. He did not mind anything
said against him as an individual, but he could not endure any reflection on his
rank or social position. He even believed that in comedies one might allow
attacks on junior officers, but never on their seniors.
The commissary's
reception of him hurt his feelings so much that he raised his head proudly, and
said with dignity, “After such insulting expressions on your part, I have
nothing more to say.” And he left the place.
He reached his house quite
wearied out. It was already growing dark. After all his fruitless search, his
room seemed to him melancholy and even ugly.
In the vestibule he saw his valet
Ivan stretched on the leather couch and amusing himself by spitting at the
ceiling, which he did very cleverly, hitting every time the same spot.
His
servant's equanimity enraged him; he struck him on the forehead with his hat,
and said, “You good-for-nothing, you are always playing the fool!”
Ivan rose
quickly and hastened to take off his master's cloak.
Once in his room, the
Major, tired and depressed, threw himself in an armchair and, after sighing a
while, began to soliloquise:
“In heaven's name, why should such a misfortune
befall me? If I had lost an arm or a leg, it would be less insupportable; but a
man without a nose! Devil take it!—what is he good for? He is only fit to be
thrown out of the window. If it had been taken from me in war or in a duel, or
if I had lost it by my own fault! But it has disappeared inexplicably.
But no!
it is impossible,” he continued after reflecting a few moments, “it is
incredible that a nose can disappear like that—quite incredible. I must be
dreaming, or suffering from some hallucination; perhaps I swallowed, by mistake
instead of water, the brandy with which I rub my chin after being shaved. That
fool of an Ivan must have forgotten to take it away, and I must have swallowed
it.”
In order to find out whether he were really drunk, the Major pinched
himself so hard that he unvoluntarily uttered a cry.
The pain convinced him that
he was quite wide awake. He walked slowly to the looking-glass and at first
closed his eyes, hoping to see his nose suddenly in its proper place; but on
opening them, he started back. “What a hideous sight!” he exclaimed.
It was
really incomprehensible. One might easily lose a button, a silver spoon, a
watch, or something similar; but a loss like this, and in one's own
dwelling!
After considering all the circumstances, Major Kovaloff felt
inclined to suppose that the cause of all his trouble should be laid at the door
of Madame Podtotchina, the Colonel's wife, who wished him to marry her daughter.
He himself paid her court readily, but always avoided coming to the point. And
when the lady one day told him point-blank that she wished him to marry her
daughter, he gently drew back, declaring that he was still too young, and that
he had to serve five years more before he would be forty-two. This must be the
reason why the lady, in revenge, had resolved to bring him into disgrace, and
had hired two sorceresses for that object.
One thing was certain—his nose had
not been cut off; no one had entered his room, and as for Ivan Jakovlevitch—he
had been shaved by him on Wednesday, and during that day and the whole of
Thursday his nose had been there, as he knew and well remembered. Moreover, if
his nose had been cut off he would naturally have felt pain, and doubtless the
wound would not have healed so quickly, nor would the surface have been as flat
as a pancake.
All kinds of plans passed through his head: should he bring a
legal action against the wife of a superior officer, or should he go to her and
charge her openly with her treachery?
His reflections were interrupted by a
sudden light, which shone through all the chinks of the door, showing that Ivan
had lit the wax-candles in the vestibule. Soon Ivan himself came in with the
lights. Kovaloff quickly seized a handkerchief and covered the place where his
nose had been the evening before, so that his blockhead of a servant might not
gape with his mouth wide open when he saw his master's extraordinary
appearance.
Scarcely had Ivan returned to the vestibule than a stranger's
voice was heard there.
“Does Major Kovaloff live here?” it asked.
“Come
in!” said the Major, rising rapidly and opening the door.
He saw a police
official of pleasant appearance, with grey whiskers and fairly full cheeks—the
same who at the commencement of this story was standing at the end of the Isaac
Bridge.
POLICEMAN: You have lost your nose?
MAJOR: Exactly so.
POLICEMAN: It has just
been found.”
What—do you say?” stammered Major Kovaloff.
Joy had suddenly
paralysed his tongue. He stared at the police commissary on whose cheeks and
full lips fell the flickering light of the candle.
“How was it?” he asked at
last.
“By a very singular chance. It has been arrested just as it was getting
into a carriage for Riga. Its passport had been made out some time ago in the
name of an official; and what is still more strange, I myself took it at first
for a gentleman. Fortunately I had my glasses with me, and then I saw at once
that it was a nose. I am shortsighted, you know, and as you stand before me I
cannot distinguish your nose, your beard, or anything else. My mother-in-law can
hardly see at all.”
Kovaloff was beside himself with excitement. “Where is
it? Where? I will hasten there at once.”
“Don't put yourself out. Knowing
that you need it, I have brought it with me. Another singular thing is that the
principal culprit in the matter is a scoundrel of a barber living in the
Ascension Avenue, who is now safely locked up. I had long suspected him of
drunkenness and theft; only the day before yesterday he stole some buttons in a
shop. Your nose is quite uninjured.” So saying, the police commissary put his
hand in his pocket and brought out the nose wrapped up in paper.
“Yes, yes,
that is it!” exclaimed Kovaloff. “Will you not stay and drink a cup of tea with
me?”
“I should like to very much, but I cannot. I must go at once to the
House of Correction. The cost of living is very high nowadays. My mother-in-law
lives with me, and there are several children; the eldest is very hopeful and
intelligent, but I have no means for their education.”
After the commissary's
departure, Kovaloff remained for some time plunged in a kind of vague reverie,
and did not recover full consciousness for several moments, so great was the
effect of this unexpected good news. He placed the recovered nose carefully in
the palm of his hand, and examined it again with the greatest
attention.
“Yes, this is it!” he said to himself. “Here is the heat-boil on
the left side, which came out yesterday.” And he nearly laughed aloud with
delight.
But nothing is permanent in this world. Joy in the second moment of
its arrival is already less keen than in the first, is still fainter in the
third, and finishes by coalescing with our normal mental state, just as the
circles which the fall of a pebble forms on the surface of water, gradually die
away. Kovaloff began to meditate, and saw that his difficulties were not yet
over; his nose had been recovered, but it had to be joined on again in its
proper place.
And suppose it could not? As he put this question to himself,
Kovaloff grew pale. With a feeling of indescribable dread, he rushed towards his
dressing-table, and stood before the mirror in order that he might not place his
nose crookedly. His hands trembled.
Very carefully he placed it where it had
been before. Horror! It did not remain there. He held it to his mouth and warmed
it a little with his breath, and then placed it there again; but it would not
hold.
“Hold on, you stupid!” he said.
But the nose seemed to be made of
wood, and fell back on the table with a strange noise, as though it had been a
cork. The Major's face began to twitch feverishly. “Is it possible that it won't
stick?” he asked himself, full of alarm. But however often he tried, all his
efforts were in vain.
He called Ivan, and sent him to fetch the doctor who
occupied the finest flat in the mansion. This doctor was a man of imposing
appearance, who had magnificent black whiskers and a healthy wife. He ate fresh
apples every morning, and cleaned his teeth with extreme care, using five
different tooth-brushes for three-quarters of an hour daily.
The doctor came
immediately.
After having asked the Major when this misfortune had happened, he
raised his chin and gave him a fillip with his finger just where the nose had
been, in such a way that the Major suddenly threw back his head and struck the
wall with it.
The doctor said that did not matter; then, making him turn his
face to the right, he felt the vacant place and said “H'm!” then he made him
turn it to the left and did the same; finally he again gave him a fillip with
his finger, so that the Major started like a horse whose teeth are being
examined. After this experiment, the doctor shook his head and said, “No, it
cannot be done. Rather remain as you are, lest something worse happen. Certainly
one could replace it at once, but I assure you the remedy would be worse than
the disease.”
“All very fine, but how am I to go on without a nose?” answered
Kovaloff. “There is nothing worse than that. How can I show myself with such a
villainous appearance? I go into good society, and this evening I am invited to
two parties. I know several ladies, Madame Tchektyriev, the wife of a
state-councillor, Madame Podtotchina—although after what she has done, I don't
want to have anything to do with her except through the agency of the police.
I
beg you,” continued Kovaloff in a supplicating tone, “find some way or other of
replacing it; even if it is not quite firm, as long as it holds at all; I can
keep it in place sometimes with my hand, whenever there is any risk. Besides, I
do not even dance, so that it is not likely to be injured by any sudden
movement. As to your fee, be in no anxiety about that; I can well afford
it.”
“Believe me,” answered the doctor in a voice which was neither too high
nor too low, but soft and almost magnetic, “I do not treat patients from love of
gain. That would be contrary to my principles and to my art. It is true that I
accept fees, but that is only not to hurt my patients' feelings by refusing
them. I could certainly replace your nose, but I assure you on my word of
honour, it would only make matters worse. Rather let Nature do her own work.
Wash the place often with cold water, and I assure you that even without a nose,
you will be just as well as if you had one. As to the nose itself, I advise you
to have it preserved in a bottle of spirits, or, still better, of warm vinegar
mixed with two spoonfuls of brandy, and then you can sell it at a good price. I
would be willing to take it myself, provided you do not ask too much.”
“No,
no, I shall not sell it at any price. I would rather it were lost
again.”
“Excuse me,” said the doctor, taking his leave. “I hoped to be useful
to you, but I can do nothing more; you are at any rate convinced of my
good-will.” So saying, the doctor left the room with a dignified
air.
Kovaloff did not even notice his departure. Absorbed in a profound
reverie, he only saw the edge of his snow-white cuffs emerging from the sleeves
of his black coat.
The next day he resolved, before bringing a formal action,
to write to the Colonel's wife and see whether she would not return to him,
without further dispute, that of which she had deprived him.
The letter ran
as follows:
“To Madame Alexandra Podtotchina,
“I hardly understand your
method of action.
Be sure that by adopting such a course you will gain nothing,
and will certainly not succeed in making me marry your daughter. Believe me, the
story of my nose has become well known; it is you and no one else who have taken
the principal part in it. Its unexpected separation from the place which it
occupied, its flight and its appearances sometimes in the disguise of an
official, sometimes in proper person, are nothing but the consequence of unholy
spells employed by you or by persons who, like you, are addicted to such
honourable pursuits.
On my part, I wish to inform you, that if the
above-mentioned nose is not restored to-day to its proper place, I shall be
obliged to have recourse to legal procedure.
“For the rest, with all respect,
I have the honour to be your humble servant,
“Platon Kovaloff.”
The reply
was not long in coming, and was as follows:
“Major Platon Kovaloff,—
“Your
letter has profoundly astonished me. I must confess that I had not expected such
unjust reproaches on your part. I assure you that the official of whom you speak
has not been at my house, either disguised or in his proper person.
It is true
that Philippe Ivanovitch Potantchikoff has paid visits at my house, and though
he has actually asked for my daughter's hand, and was a man of good breeding,
respectable and intelligent, I never gave him any hope.
“Again, you say
something about a nose. If you intend to imply by that that I wished to snub
you, i.e. to meet you with a refusal, I am very astonished because, as you well
know, I was quite of the opposite mind.
If after this you wish to ask for my
daughter's hand, I should be glad to gratify you, for such has also been the
object of my most fervent desire, in the hope of the accomplishment of which, I
remain, yours most sincerely,
“Alexandra Podtotchina.”
“No,” said
Kovaloff, after having reperused the letter, “she is certainly not guilty. It is
impossible. Such a letter could not be written by a criminal.” The committee-man
was experienced in such matters, for he had been often officially deputed to
conduct criminal investigations while in the Caucasus. “But then how and by what
trick of fate has the thing happened?” he said to himself with a gesture of
discouragement. “The devil must be at the bottom of it.”
Meanwhile the rumour
of this extraordinary event had spread all over the city, and, as is generally
the case, not without numerous additions.
At that period there was a general
disposition to believe in the miraculous; the public had recently been impressed
by experiments in magnetism.
The story of the floating chairs in Koniouchennaia
Street was still quite recent, and there was nothing astonishing in hearing soon
afterwards that Major Kovaloff's nose was to be seen walking every day at three
o'clock on the Neffsky Avenue. The crowd of curious spectators which gathered
there daily was enormous. On one occasion someone spread a report that the nose
was in Junker's stores and immediately the place was besieged by such a crowd
that the police had to interfere and establish order. A certain speculator with
a grave, whiskered face, who sold cakes at a theatre door, had some strong
wooden benches made which he placed before the window of the stores, and
obligingly invited the public to stand on them and look in, at the modest charge
of twenty-four kopecks.
A veteran colonel, leaving his house earlier than usual
expressly for the purpose, had the greatest difficulty in elbowing his way
through the crowd, but to his great indignation he saw nothing in the store
window but an ordinary flannel waistcoat and a coloured lithograph representing
a young girl darning a stocking, while an elegant youth in a waistcoat with
large lappels watched her from behind a tree. The picture had hung in the same
place for more than ten years.
The colonel went off, growling savagely to
himself, “How can the fools let themselves be excited by such idiotic
stories?”
Then another rumour got abroad, to the effect that the nose of
Major Kovaloff was in the habit of walking not on the Neffsky Avenue but in the
Tauris Gardens. Some students of the Academy of Surgery went there on purpose to
see it.
A high-born lady wrote to the keeper of the gardens asking him to show
her children this rare phenomenon, and to give them some suitable instruction on
the occasion.
All these incidents were eagerly collected by the town wits,
who just then were very short of anecdotes adapted to amuse ladies. On the other
hand, the minority of solid, sober people were very much displeased. One
gentleman asserted with great indignation that he could not understand how in
our enlightened age such absurdities could spread abroad, and he was astonished
that the Government did not direct their attention to the matter.
This gentleman
evidently belonged to the category of those people who wish the Government to
interfere in everything, even in their daily quarrels with their wives.
But
here the course of events is again obscured by a veil.
Strange events
happen in this world, events which are sometimes entirely improbable. The same
nose which had masqueraded as a state-councillor, and caused so much sensation
in the town, was found one morning in its proper place, i.e. between the cheeks
of Major Kovaloff, as if nothing had happened.
This occurred on 7th April. On
awaking, the Major looked by chance into a mirror and perceived a nose. He
quickly put his hand to it; it was there beyond a doubt!
“Oh!” exclaimed
Kovaloff. For sheer joy he was on the point of performing a dance barefooted
across his room, but the entrance of Ivan prevented him. He told him to bring
water, and after washing himself, he looked again in the glass. The nose was
there! Then he dried his face with a towel and looked again. Yes, there was no
mistake about it!
“Look here, Ivan, it seems to me that I have a heat-boil on
my nose,” he said to his valet.
And he thought to himself at the same time,
“That will be a nice business if Ivan says to me ‘No, sir, not only is there no
boil, but your nose itself is not there!’”
But Ivan answered, “There is
nothing, sir; I can see no boil on your nose.”
“Good! Good!” exclaimed the
Major, and snapped his fingers with delight.
At this moment the barber, Ivan
Jakovlevitch, put his head in at the door, but as timidly as a cat which has
just been beaten for stealing lard.
“Tell me first, are your hands clean?”
asked Kovaloff when he saw him.
“Yes, sir.”
“You lie.”
“I swear they
are perfectly clean, sir.”
“Very well; then come here.”
Kovaloff seated
himself. Jakovlevitch tied a napkin under his chin, and in the twinkling of an
eye covered his beard and part of his cheeks with a copious creamy
lather.
“There it is!” said the barber to himself, as he glanced at the nose.
Then he bent his head a little and examined it from one side. “Yes, it actually
is the nose—really, when one thinks——” he continued, pursuing his mental
soliloquy and still looking at it. Then quite gently, with infinite precaution,
he raised two fingers in the air in order to take hold of it by the extremity,
as he was accustomed to do.
“Now then, take care!” Kovaloff
exclaimed.
Ivan Jakovlevitch let his arm fall and felt more embarrassed than
he had ever done in his life. At last he began to pass the razor very lightly
over the Major's chin, and although it was very difficult to shave him without
using the olfactory organ as a point of support, he succeeded, however, by
placing his wrinkled thumb against the Major's lower jaw and cheek, thus
overcoming all obstacles and bringing his task to a safe conclusion.
When the
barber had finished, Kovaloff hastened to dress himself, took a droshky, and
drove straight to the confectioner's. As he entered it, he ordered a cup of
chocolate. He then stepped straight to the mirror; the nose was there!
He
returned joyfully, and regarded with a satirical expression two officers who
were in the shop, one of whom possessed a nose not much larger than a waistcoat
button.
After that he went to the office of the department where he had
applied for the post of vice-governor of a province or Government bailiff. As he
passed through the hall of reception, he cast a glance at the mirror; the nose
was there! Then he went to pay a visit to another committee-man, a very
sarcastic personage, to whom he was accustomed to say in answer to his raillery,
“Yes, I know, you are the funniest fellow in St Petersburg.”
On the way he
said to himself, “If the Major does not burst into laughter at the sight of me,
that is a most certain sign that everything is in its accustomed place.”
But
the Major said nothing. “Very good!” thought Kovaloff.
As he returned, he met
Madame Podtotchina with her daughter. He accosted them, and they responded very
graciously. The conversation lasted a long time, during which he took more than
one pinch of snuff, saying to himself, “No, you haven't caught me yet, coquettes
that you are! And as to the daughter, I shan't marry her at all.”
After that,
the Major resumed his walks on the Neffsky Avenue and his visits to the theatre
as if nothing had happened. His nose also remained in its place as if it had
never quitted it. From that time he was always to be seen smiling, in a good
humour, and paying attentions to pretty girls.
Such was the occurrence
which took place in the northern capital of our vast empire.
On considering the
account carefully we see that there is a good deal which looks improbable about
it. Not to speak of the strange disappearance of the nose, and its appearance in
different places under the disguise of a councillor of state, how was it that
Kovaloff did not understand that one cannot decently advertise for a lost nose?
I do not mean to say that he would have had to pay too much for the
advertisement—that is a mere trifle, and I am not one of those who attach too
much importance to money; but to advertise in such a case is not proper nor
befitting.
Another difficulty is—how was the nose found in the baked loaf,
and how did Ivan Jakovlevitch himself—no, I don't understand it at all!
But
the most incomprehensible thing of all is, how authors can choose such subjects
for their stories. That really surpasses my understanding. In the first place,
no advantage results from it for the country; and in the second place, no harm
results either.
All the same, when one reflects well, there really is
something in the matter. Whatever may be said to the contrary, such cases do
occur—rarely, it is true, but now and then actually.
NOTES:
(1) Village priest.
(2) Small
scourge.
(3) The king of the gnomes.
Transcriber's Note:
The
following is a list of corrections made to the original. The first passage is
the original passage, the second the corrected one.
Front matter:
31 (N.S)
1809, died at Moscow, March
31 (N.S.), 1809, died at Moscow, March
Page
9:
under the miscroscope fatigues the eye, so does
under the microscope
fatigues the eye, so does
Page 88:
hæmorroids.”
hæmorrhoids.”
Page
102:
Major looked by chance into a mirror and percieved
Major looked by
chance into a mirror and perceived
Page 136:
I advice everyone urgently to
write down the
I advise everyone urgently to write down the
Page
137:
the police orders to prevent the moon sitting on
the police orders to
prevent the earth sitting on
Page 137:
the earth.
the moon.
Page
148:
of those who had been drowned, anl so escaped
of those who had been
drowned, and so escaped
Page 169:
when you locked me up in the dark
room.
when you locked me up in the dark room?
Page 176:
house is
bran-new, and looks as though it
house is brand-new, and looks as though
it
____
REFERENCES:
As a novel-writer and a dramatist, Gogol appears to me to deserve a minute study, and if the knowledge of Russian were more widely spread, he could not fail to obtain in Europe a reputation equal to that of the best English humorists.
A delicate and close observer, quick to detect the absurd, bold in exposing, but inclined to push his fun too far, Gogol is in the first place a very lively satirist. He is merciless towards fools and rascals, but he has only one weapon at his disposal—irony. This is a weapon which is too severe to use against the merely absurd, and on the other hand it is not sharp enough for the punishment of crime; and it is against crime that Gogol too often uses it. His comic vein is always too near the farcical, and his mirth is hardly contagious. If sometimes he makes his reader laugh, he still leaves in his mind a feeling of bitterness and indignation; his satires do not avenge society, they only make it angry.
As a painter of manners, Gogol excels in familiar scenes. He is akin to Teniers and Callot. We feel as though we had seen and lived with his characters, for he shows us their eccentricities, their nervous habits, their slightest gestures. One lisps, another mispronounces his words, and a third hisses because he has lost a front tooth. Unfortunately Gogol is so absorbed in this minute study of details that he too often forgets to subordinate them to the main action of the story. To tell the truth, there is no ordered plan in his works, and—a strange trait in an author who sets up as a realist—he takes no care to preserve an atmosphere of probability. His most carefully painted scenes are clumsily connected—they begin and end abruptly; often the author's great carelessness in construction destroys, as though wantonly, the illusion produced by the truth of his descriptions and the naturalness of his conversations.
The immortal master of this school of desultory but ingenious and attractive story-tellers, among whom Gogol is entitled to a high place, is Rabelais, who cannot be too much admired and studied, but to imitate whom nowadays would, I think, be dangerous and difficult. In spite of the indefinable grace of his obsolete language, one can hardly read twenty pages of Rabelais in succession. One soon wearies of this eloquence, so original and so eloquent, but the drift of which escapes every reader except some Œdipuses like Le Duchat or Éloi Johanneau. Just as the observation of animalculæ under the microscope fatigues the eye, so does the perusal of these brilliant pages tire the mind. Possibly not a word of them is superfluous, but possibly also they might be entirely eliminated from the work of which they form part, without sensibly detracting from its merit. The art of choosing among the innumerable details which nature offers us is, after all, much more difficult than that of observing them with attention and recording them with exactitude.
The Russian language, which is, as far as I can judge, the richest of all the European family, seems admirably adapted to express the most delicate shades of thought. Possessed of a marvellous conciseness and clearness, it can with a single word call up several ideas, to express which in another tongue whole phrases would be necessary. French, assisted by Greek and Latin, calling to its aid all its northern and southern dialects—the language of Rabelais, in fact, is the only one which can convey any idea of this suppleness and this energy. One can imagine that such an admirable instrument may exercise a considerable influence on the mind of a writer who is capable of handling it. He naturally takes delight in the picturesqueness of its expressions, just as a draughtsman with skill and a good pencil will trace delicate contours. An excellent gift, no doubt, but there are few things which have not their disadvantages. Elaborate execution is a considerable merit if it is reserved for the chief parts of a work; but if it is uniformly lavished on all the accessory parts also, the whole produces, I fear, a monotonous effect.
I have said that satire is, in my opinion, the special characteristic of Gogol's talent: he does not see men or things in a bright light. That does not mean that he is an unfaithful observer, but his descriptions betray a certain preference for the ugly and the sad elements in life. Doubtless these two disagreeable elements are only too easily found, and it is precisely for that reason that they should not be investigated with insatiable curiosity. We would form a terrible idea of Russia—of “Holy Russia,” as her children call her—if we only judged her by the pictures which Gogol draws. His characters are almost entirely confined to idiots, or scoundrels who deserve to be hung. It is a well-known defect of satirists to see everywhere the game which they are hunting, and they should not be taken too literally. Aristophanes vainly employed his brilliant genius in blackening his contemporaries; he cannot prevent us loving the Athens of Pericles.
Gogol generally goes to the country districts for his characters, imitating in this respect Balzac, whose writings have undoubtedly influenced him. The modern facility of communication in Europe has brought about, among the higher classes of all countries and the inhabitants of the great cities, a conventional uniformity of manners and customs, e.g. the dress-coat and round hat. It is among the middle classes remote from great towns that we must look to-day for national characteristics and for original characters. In the country, people still maintain primitive habits and prejudices—things which become rarer from day to day. The Russian country gentlemen, who only journey to St Petersburg once in a lifetime, and who, living on their estates all the year round, eat much, read little and hardly think at all—these are the types to which Gogol is partial, or rather which he pursues with his jests and sarcasms. Some critics, I am told, reproach him for displaying a kind of provincial patriotism. As a Little Russian, he is said to have a predilection for Little Russia over the rest of the Empire. For my own part, I find him impartial enough or even too general in his criticisms, and on the other hand too severe on anyone whom he places under the microscope of his observation. Pushkin was accused, quite wrongly in my opinion, of scepticism, immorality, and of belonging to the Satanic school; however he discovered in an old country manor his admirable Tatiana. One regrets that Gogol has not been equally fortunate.
I do not know the dates of Gogol's different works, but I should be inclined to believe that his short stories were the first in order of publication. They seem to me to witness to a certain vagueness in the author's mind, as though he were making experiments in order to ascertain to what style of work his genius was best adapted. He has produced an historical romance inspired by the perusal of Sir Walter Scott, fantastic legends, psychological studies, marked by a mixture of sentimentality and grotesqueness. If my conjecture is correct, he has been obliged to ask himself for some time whether he should take as his model Sterne, Walter Scott, Chamisso, or Hoffmann. Later on he has done better in following the path which he has himself traced out. “Taras Bulba,” his historical romance, is an animated and, as far as I know, correct picture of the Zaporogues, that singular people whom Voltaire briefly mentions in his “Life of Charles XII.” In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the Zaporogues played a great part in the annals of Russia and of Poland; they then formed a republic of soldiers, or rather of filibusters, established on the islands of the Don, nominal subjects sometimes of the Kings of Poland, sometimes of the Grand Dukes of Moscow, sometimes even of the Ottoman Porte. At bottom they were extremely independent bandits, and ravaged their neighbours' territory with great impartiality. They did not allow women to live in their towns, which were a kind of nomad encampments; it was there that the Cossack aspirants to military glory went to be trained as irregular troops. The most absolute equality prevailed among the Zaporogues while at peace in the marshes of the Don. Then the chiefs, or atamans, when speaking to their subordinates always took their caps off. But during an expedition, on the contrary, their power was unlimited, and disobedience to the captain of the company (Ataman Kotchevoï) was considered the greatest of crimes.
Our filibusters of the seventeenth century have many traits of resemblance to the Zaporogues, and the histories of both preserve the remembrance of prodigies of audacity and of horrible cruelties. Taras Bulba is one of those heroes with whom, as the student of Schiller said, one can only have relations when holding a well-loaded gun in one's hand. I am one of those who have a strong liking for bandits; not because I like to meet them on my road, but because, in spite of myself, the energy these men display in struggling against the whole of society, extorts from me an admiration of which I am ashamed. Formerly I read with delight the lives of Morgan, of Donnais, and of Mombars the destroyer, and I would not be bored if I read them again. However, there are bandits and bandits. Their glory is greatly enhanced if they are of a recent date. Actual bandits always cast into the shade those of the melodrama, and the one who has been more recently hung infallibly effaces the fame of his predecessors. Nowadays neither Mombars nor Taras Bulba can excite so much interest as Mussoni, who last month sustained a regular siege in a wolf's den against five hundred men, who had to attack him by sapping and mining.
Gogol has made brilliantly coloured pictures of his Zaporogues, which please by their very grotesqueness; but sometimes it is too evident that he has not drawn them from nature. Moreover, these character-pictures are framed in such a trivial and romantic setting that one regrets to see them so ill-placed. The most prosaic story would have suited them better than these melodramatic scenes in which are accumulated tragic incidents of famine, torture, etc. In short, one feels that the author is not at ease on the ground which he has chosen; his gait is awkward, and the invariable irony of his style makes the perusal of these melancholy incidents more painful. This style which, in my opinion, is quite out of place in some parts of “Taras Bulba,” is much more appropriate in the “Viy,” or “King of the Gnomes,” a tale of witchcraft, which amuses and alarms at the same time. The grotesque easily blends with the marvellous. Recognising to the full the poetic side of his subject, the author, while describing the savage and strange customs of the old-time Cossacks with his usual precision and exactitude, has easily prepared the way for the introduction of an element of uncanniness.
The receipt for a good, fantastic tale is well known: begin with well-defined portraits of eccentric characters, but such as to be within the bounds of possibility, described with minute realism. From the grotesque to the marvellous the transition is imperceptible, and the reader will find himself in the world of fantasy before he perceives that he has left the real world far behind him. I purposely avoid any attempt to analyse “The King of the Gnomes”; the proper time and place to read it is in the country, by the fireside on a stormy autumn night. After the dénouement, it will require a certain amount of resolution to traverse long corridors to reach one's room, while the wind and the rain shake the casements. Now that the fantastic style of the Germans is a little threadbare, that of the Cossacks will have novel charms, and in the first place the merit of resembling nothing else—no slight praise, I think.
The “Memoirs of a Madman” is simultaneously a social satire, a sentimental story, and a medico-legal study of the phenomena presented by a brain which is becoming deranged. The study, I believe, is carefully made and the process carefully depicted, but I do not like this class of writing; madness is one of those misfortunes which arouse pity but which disgust at the same time. Doubtless, by introducing a madman in his story an author is sure of producing an effect. It causes to vibrate a cord which is always susceptible; but it is a cheap method, and Gogol's gifts are such as to be able to dispense with having resort to such. The portrayal of lunatics and dogs—both of whom can produce an irresistible effect—should be left to tyros. It is easy to extract tears from a reader by breaking a poodle's paw. Homer's only excuse, in my opinion, for making us weep at the mutual recognition of the dog Argus and Ulysses, is because he was, I think, the first to discover the resources which the canine race offers to an author at a loss for expedients.
I hasten to go on to a small masterpiece, “An Old-time Household.” In a few pages Gogol sketches for us the life of two honest old folk living in the country. There is not a grain of malice in their composition; they are cheated and adored by their servants, and naïve egoists as they are, believe everyone is as happy as themselves. The wife dies. The husband, who only seemed born for merry-making, falls ill and dies some months after his wife. We discover that there was a heart in this mass of flesh. We laugh and weep in turns while reading this charming story, in which the art of the narrator is disguised by simplicity. All is true and natural; every detail is attractive and adds to the general effect.
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