The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol (48 page)

This worthy citizen was already on St.
Isaac’s Bridge.
First he glanced around; then he leaned over the rail, as if looking under
the bridge to see if there were lots of fish darting about, and quietly threw down the rag with the nose.
He felt as if a three-hundred-pound weight had suddenly fallen from him; Ivan Yakovlevich even grinned.
Instead of going to shave the chins of functionaries, he was heading for an institution under a sign that read “Food and Tea” to ask for a glass of punch, when suddenly he saw at the end of the bridge a police officer of noble appearance, with broad side-whiskers, in a three-cornered hat, wearing a sword.
He went dead; and meanwhile the policeman was beckoning to him with his finger and saying, “Come here, my good man!”

Ivan Yakovlevich, knowing the rules, took off his peaked cap while still far away and, approaching rapidly, said:

“Good day to your honor!”

“No, no, brother, never mind my honor.
Tell me what you were doing standing on the bridge.”

“By God, sir, I’m on my way to give a shave and just stopped to see if the river’s flowing fast.”

“Lies, lies!
You won’t get off with that.
Be so good as to answer!”

“I’m ready to shave you twice a week, sir, or even three times, with no objections,” Ivan Yakovlevich answered.

“No, friend, that’s trifles.
I have three barbers to shave me, and they consider it a great honor.
Kindly tell me what you were doing there.”

Ivan Yakovlevich blanched … But here the incident becomes totally shrouded in mist, and of what happened further decidedly nothing is known.

II

The collegiate assessor Kovalev woke up quite early and went “brr …” with his lips—something he always did on waking up, though he himself was unable to explain the reason for it.
Kovalev stretched and asked for the little mirror that stood on the table.
He wished to look at a pimple that had popped out on his nose the previous evening; but, to his greatest amazement, he saw that instead of a nose he had a perfectly smooth place!
Frightened,
Kovalev asked for water and wiped his eyes with a towel: right, no nose!
He began feeling with his hand to find out if he might be asleep, but it seemed he was not.
The collegiate assessor Kovalev jumped out of bed, shook himself: no nose!… He ordered his man to dress him and flew straight to the chief of police.

But meanwhile it is necessary to say something about Kovalev, so that the reader may see what sort of collegiate assessor he was.
Collegiate assessors who obtain that title by means of learned diplomas cannot in any way be compared with collegiate assessors who are made in the Caucasus.
²
They are two entirely different sorts.
Learned collegiate assessors … But Russia is such a wondrous land that, if you say something about one collegiate assessor, all collegiate assessors, from Riga to Kamchatka, will unfailingly take it to their own account.
The same goes for all ranks and titles.
Kovalev was a Caucasian collegiate assessor.
He had held this rank for only two years, and therefore could not forget it for a moment; and to give himself more nobility and weight, he never referred to himself as a collegiate assessor, but always as a major.
“Listen, dearie,” he used to say on meeting a woman selling shirt fronts in the street, “come to my place; I live on Sadovaya; just ask, ‘Where does Major Kovalev live?’—anyone will show you.” And if he met some comely little thing, he would give her a secret order on top of that, adding: “Ask for Major Kovalev’s apartment, sweetie.” For which reason, we shall in future refer to this collegiate assessor as a major.

Major Kovalev had the habit of strolling on Nevsky Prospect every day.
The collar of his shirt front was always extremely clean and starched.
His side-whiskers were of the sort that can still be seen on provincial and regional surveyors, architects, and regimental doctors, as well as on those fulfilling various police duties, and generally on all men who have plump, ruddy cheeks and play a very good game of Boston: these side-whiskers go right across the middle of the cheek and straight to the nose.
Major Kovalev wore many seals, of carnelian, with crests, and the sort that have Wednesday, Thursday, Monday, and so on, carved on them.
Major Kovalev had come to Petersburg on business—namely, to seek a post suited to his rank: as vice-governor if he was lucky, or else
as an executive in some prominent department.
Major Kovalev would not have minded getting married, but only on the chance that the bride happened to come with two hundred thousand in capital.
And therefore the reader may now judge for himself what the state of this major was when he saw, instead of a quite acceptable and moderate nose, a most stupid, flat, and smooth place.

As ill luck would have it, not a single coachman appeared in the street, and he had to go on foot, wrapping himself in his cloak and covering his face with a handkerchief as if it were bleeding.
“But maybe I just imagined it that way: its impossible for a nose to vanish so idiotically,” he thought and went into a pastry shop on purpose to look at himself in the mirror.
Luckily there was no one in the pastry shop; the boys were sweeping the rooms and putting the chairs in place; some of them, sleepy-eyed, brought out hot pastries on trays; yesterday’s newspapers, stained with spilt coffee, lay about on tables and chairs.
“Well, thank God nobody’s here,” he said.
“Now I can have a look.” He timidly approached a mirror and looked: “Devil knows, what rubbish!” he said, spitting.
“There might at least be something instead of a nose, but there’s nothing!…”

Biting his lips in vexation, he walked out of the pastry shop and decided, contrary to his custom, not to look at anyone or smile to anyone.
Suddenly he stopped as if rooted outside the doors of one house; before his eyes an inexplicable phenomenon occurred: a carriage stopped at the entrance; the door opened; a gentleman in a uniform jumped out, hunching over, and ran up the stairs.
What was Kovalev’s horror as well as amazement when he recognized him as his own nose!
At this extraordinary spectacle, everything seemed to turn upside down in his eyes; he felt barely able to stand; but, trembling all over as if in a fever, he decided that, whatever the cost, he would await his return to the carriage.
Two minutes later the nose indeed came out.
He was in a gold-embroidered uniform with a big standing collar; he had kidskin trousers on; at his side hung a sword.
From his plumed hat it could be concluded that he belonged to the rank of state councillor.
By all indications, he was going somewhere on a visit.
He looked both ways, shouted, “Here!” to the coachman, got in, and drove off.

Poor Kovalev nearly lost his mind.
He did not know what to think of such a strange incident.
How was it possible, indeed, that the nose which just yesterday was on his face, unable to drive or walk—should be in a uniform!
He ran after the carriage, which luckily had not gone far and was stopped in front of the Kazan Cathedral.

He hastened into the cathedral, made his way through a row of old beggar women with bandaged faces and two openings for the eyes, at whom he had laughed so much before, and went into the church.
There were not many people praying in the church: they all stood just by the entrance.
Kovalev felt so upset that he had no strength to pray, and his eyes kept searching in all corners for the gentleman.
He finally saw him standing to one side.
The nose had his face completely hidden in his big standing collar and was praying with an expression of the greatest piety.

“How shall I approach him?” thought Kovalev.
“By all tokens, by his uniform, by his hat, one can see he’s a state councillor.
Devil knows how to go about it!”

He began to cough beside him; but the nose would not abandon his pious attitude for a minute and kept bowing down.

“My dear sir,” said Kovalev, inwardly forcing himself to take heart, “my dear sir …”

“What can I do for you?” the nose said, turning.

“I find it strange, my dear sir … it seems to me … you should know your place.
And suddenly I find you, and where?—in a church.
You must agree …”

“Excuse me, I don’t understand what you’re talking about … Explain, please.”

“How shall I explain it to him?” thought Kovalev, and, gathering his courage, he began:

“Of course, I … anyhow, I’m a major.
For me to go around without a nose is improper, you must agree.
Some peddler woman selling peeled oranges on Voskresensky Bridge can sit without a nose; but, having prospects in view … being acquainted, moreover, with ladies in many houses: Chekhtareva, the wife of a state councillor, and others … Judge for yourself … I don’t know, my dear sir …” (Here Major Kovalev shrugged his shoulders.) “Pardon
me, but … if one looks at it in conformity with the rules of duty and honor … you yourself can understand …”

“I understand decidedly nothing,” replied the nose.
“Explain more satisfactorily.”

“My dear sir …” Kovalev said with dignity, “I don’t know how to understand your words … The whole thing seems perfectly obvious … Or do you want to … But you’re my own nose!”

The nose looked at the major and scowled slightly.

“You are mistaken, my dear sir.
I am by myself.
Besides, there can be no close relationship between us.
Judging by the buttons on your uniform, you must serve in a different department.”

Having said this, the nose turned away and continued praying.

Kovalev was utterly bewildered, not knowing what to do or even what to think.
At that moment the pleasant rustle of a lady’s dress was heard; an elderly lady all decked out in lace approached, followed by a slim one in a white dress that very prettily outlined her slender waist, wearing a pale yellow hat as light as a pastry.
Behind them a tall footman with big side-whiskers and a full dozen collars stopped and opened his snuffbox.

Kovalev stepped closer, made the cambric collar of his shirt front peek out, straightened the seals hanging on his gold watch chain, and, smiling to all sides, rested his attention on the ethereal lady who, bending slightly like a flower in spring, brought her white little hand with its half-transparent fingers to her brow.
The smile on Kovalev’s face broadened still more when he saw under her hat a rounded chin of a bright whiteness and part of a cheek glowing with the color of the first spring rose.
But he suddenly jumped back as if burnt.
He remembered that in place of a nose he had absolutely nothing, and tears squeezed themselves from his eyes.
He turned with the intention of telling the gentleman in the uniform outright that he was only pretending to be a state councillor, that he was a knave and a scoundrel, and nothing but his own nose … But the nose was no longer there; he had already driven off, again probably to visit someone.

This threw Kovalev into despair.
He went back and paused for a moment under the colonnade, looking carefully in all directions, in case he might spot the nose.
He remembered very well that he
was wearing a plumed hat and a gold-embroidered uniform; but he had not noted his overcoat, nor the color of his carriage, nor of his horses, nor even whether he had a footman riding behind and in what sort of livery.
Besides, there were so many carriages racing up and down, and at such speed, that it was even difficult to notice anything; and if he had noticed one of them, he would have had no way of stopping it.
The day was beautiful and sunny.
There were myriads of people on Nevsky; a whole flowery cascade of ladies poured down the sidewalk from the Police to the Anichkin Bridge.
There goes an acquaintance of his, a court councillor whom he called Colonel, especially if it occurred in front of strangers.
And there is Yarygin, a chief clerk in the Senate, a great friend who always called
remise
when he played eight at Boston.
There is another major who got his assessorship in the Caucasus, waving his arm, inviting him to come over …

“Ah, devil take it!” said Kovalev.
“Hey, cabby, drive straight to the chief of police!”

Kovalev got into the droshky and kept urging the cabby on: “Gallop the whole way!”

“Is the chief of police in?” he cried, entering the front hall.

“No, he’s not,” the doorman replied, “he just left.”

“Worse luck!”

“Yes,” the doorman added, “not so long ago, but he left.
If you’d have come one little minute sooner, you might have found him at home.”

Kovalev, without taking the handkerchief from his face, got into a cab and shouted in a desperate voice:

“Drive!”

“Where to?” said the cabby.

“Straight ahead!”

“How, straight ahead?
There’s a turn here—right or left?”

This question stopped Kovalev and made him think again.
In his situation, he ought first of all to address himself to the Office of Public Order, not because it was related directly to the police, but because its procedures were likely to be much quicker than elsewhere; to seek satisfaction from the authorities in the place where the nose claimed to work would be unreasonable, because it could
be seen from the nose’s own replies that nothing was sacred for this man, and he could be lying in this case just as he lied when he insisted that he never saw him before.
And so Kovalev was about to tell the cabby to drive to the Office of Public Order when it again occurred to him that this knave and cheat, who had already behaved so shamelessly at their first encounter, might again conveniently use the time to slip out of the city somehow, and then all searching would be in vain, or might, God forbid, go on for a whole month.
In the end it seemed that heaven itself gave him an idea.
He decided to address himself directly to the newspaper office and hasten to take out an advertisement, with a detailed description of all his qualities, so that anyone meeting him could bring him to him or at least inform him of his whereabouts.
And so, having decided on it, he told the cabby to drive to the newspaper office, and all the way there he never stopped hitting him on the back with his fist, saying: “Faster, you scoundrel!
Faster, you cheat!” “Eh, master!” the coachman replied, shaking his head and whipping up his horse, whose coat was as long as a lapdog’s.
The droshky finally pulled up, and Kovalev, breathless, ran into a small reception room, where a gray-haired clerk in an old tailcoat and spectacles sat at a table, holding a pen in his teeth and counting the copper money brought to him.