Текст книги "The Collected tales of Nikolai Gogol"
Автор книги: Николай Гоголь
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November 6. Furious with the section chief. When I came to the office, he called me over and started talking to me like this: "Well, pray tell me, what are you up to?" "What am I up to? Why, nothing," I replied. "Well, think a little better! You're over forty-it's time you got smart. What are you dreaming of? Do you think I don't know all your pranks? You're dangling after the director's daughter! Well, take a look at yourself, only think, what are you? You're a zero, nothing more. You haven't got a kopeck to your name. Just look at yourself in the mirror, how can you even think of it!" Devil take him, his face bears a slight resemblance to a druggist's bottle, with a tuft of hair curled into a forelock sticking up, smeared with some pomade, so he thinks he's the only one allowed anything. I see, I see why he's angry with me. He's jealous. Maybe he saw the signs of benevolence preferentially bestowed on me. Well, spit on him! Big deal, a court councillor! hangs a gold watch chain on himself, orders thirty-rouble boots-who the devil cares! Am I some sort of nobody, a tailor's son, or a sergeant's? I'm a nobleman. So, I, too, can earn rank. I'm only forty-two-the age at which service just seriously begins. Wait, friend! we, too, will become a colonel and, God willing, maybe something even higher. We'll get ourselves a reputation even better than yours. What, have you taken it into your head that there are no decent men except you? Just give me a Ruch 3 tailcoat, cut in the latest fashion, and let me have the same kind of necktie as you have-you won't hold a candle to me. No income-that's the trouble.
November 8. Went to the theater. The Russian fool Filatka 4 was playing. Laughed a lot. There was some other vaudeville with funny verses about lawyers, especially about some collegiate registrar, written quite freely, so that I wondered how it passed the censors, and they said outright that merchants cheat people and their sons are de-bauchers and try to worm their way into the nobility. Also a very funny couplet about journalists: that they like denouncing everything-and the author asked the public for protection. Authors write very funny plays nowadays. I like going to the theater. As soon as I have a penny in my pocket, I just can't keep myself from going. But there are such pigs among our fellow clerks: they decidedly will not go to the theater, the clods, unless you give them a free ticket. One actress sang very well. I remembered the other… ah, confound it!… never mind, never mind… silence.
November 9. At eight o'clock I went to the office. The section chief assumed such an air as if he didn't notice my arrival. I, for my part, acted as if there had been nothing between us. Looked through and collated papers. Left at four o'clock. Passed by the director's apartment but didn't see anybody. Lay in bed most of the time after dinner.
November 11.
Today I sat in our director's study and sharpened twenty-three pens for him, and for her, aie, aie!… four pens for Her Excellency. He likes very much having more pens. Oh, what a head that must be! Quite silent, but in his head, I think, he ponders everything. I wish I knew what he thinks about most; what's cooking in that head? I'd like to have a closer look at these gentlemen's lives, at all these equivocations and courtly tricks-how they are, what they do in their circle-that's what I'd like to find out! I've meant several times to strike up a conversation with His Excellency, only, devil take it, my tongue wouldn't obey me: I'd just say it was cold or warm outside, and be decidedly unable to say anything else. I'd like to peek into the drawing room, where you sometimes see only an open door into yet another room beyond the drawing room. Ah, such rich furnishings! Such mirrors and china! I'd like to peek in there, into that half, Her Excellency's-that's what I'd like! Into the boudoir, with all those little jars and vials standing there, such flowers that you're afraid to breathe on them; with her dress thrown down there, more like air than a dress. I'd like to peek into her bedroom… there, I think, there are wonders; there, I think, there is paradise, such as is not even to be found in heaven. To look at the little stool she puts her little foot on when she gets out of bed, at how a snow-white stocking is being put on that foot… aie! aie! aie! never mind, never mind… silence.
Today, however, it dawned on me clear as daylight: I recalled the conversation of the two little dogs I'd heard on Nevsky Prospect. "Very well," I thought to myself, "I'll find out everything now. I must get hold of the correspondence those rotten little dogs have exchanged. I'll learn a thing or two from it." I confess, I had even called Medji over once and said, "Listen, Medji, we're alone now; I'll lock the door if you like, so no one can see-tell me everything you know about the young miss, what and how she is? I swear to God I won't tell anybody." But the cunning little dog put her tail between her legs, shrank to half her size, and quietly walked out the door as if she hadn't heard anything. I've long suspected dogs of being much smarter than people; I was even certain they could speak, but there was only some kind of stubbornness in them. They're extraordinary politicians: they notice every human step. No, I'll go to Zverkov's building tomorrow at all costs, question Fidele, and, if I'm lucky, get hold of all the letters Medji has written to her.
November 12.
At two o'clock in the afternoon I set out with the firm intention of seeing Fidиle and questioning her. I can't stand cabbage, the smell of which comes pouring out of all the small shops on Meshchanskaya; besides that, there was such a whiff of hell coming from under the gates of each house that I held my nose and ran for dear life. And those vile artisans produce so much soot and smoke in their workshops that it's decidedly impossible for a gentleman to walk there. When I got to the sixth floor and rang the bell, a girl came out, not so bad looking, with little freckles. I recognized her. It was the same one who was walking with the old lady. She blushed slightly, and I understood at once: You, my sweet, are looking for a fiance. "What can I do for you?" she said. "I must have a word with your little dog." The girl was stupid! I knew at once she was stupid! At that moment the dog ran in, barking; I wanted to seize her, but she, vile thing, almost seized me by the nose with her teeth. I saw her basket in the corner, however. Aha, just what I need! I went over to it, rummaged in the straw of the wooden box, and, to my greatest satisfaction, pulled out a small bundle of little papers. Seeing that, the nasty little dog first bit me on the calf and then, when she realized I'd taken the papers, began squealing and fawning, but I said, "No, my sweet, good-bye!" and rushed out. I suppose the girl took me for a madman, because she was extremely frightened. On coming home, I wanted to get to work and sort these letters out at once, because I see poorly by candlelight. But Mavra had decided to wash the floor. These stupid Finnish women are always cleaning at the wrong moment. And so I went out to walk around and think this event over. Now I'll finally learn about all these affairs and intentions, all these springs, and finally get to the bottom of it. These letters will reveal everything to me. Dogs are smart folk, they know all the political relations, and so it's all sure to be there: the picture of the man and all his doings. There'll also be something about her who… never mind, silence! Toward evening I came home. Lay in bed most of the time.
November 13.
Well, now, let's see: the letter looks pretty clear. However, there's still something doggy in the writing. Let's read it:
Dear Fidele,
I still cannot get used to your common-sounding name. As if they couldn't have given you a better one? Fidele, Rosy– such banal tone! However, that's all beside the point. I'm very glad we've decided to write to each other.
The letter is written very correctly. Punctuation and even tricky spellings all in order. Not even our section chief can write like that, though he keeps saying he studied at some university. Let's see what comes next:
It seems to me that sharing thoughts, feelings, and impressions with others is one of the foremost blessings in the world.
Hm! the thought is drawn from some work translated from the German. Can't recall the title.
I say it from experience, though I've never run farther in the world than the gates of our house. Whose life flows by in pleasure if not mine? My young mistress, whom Papa calls Sophie, loves me to distraction.
Aie, aie!… never mind, never mind. Silence.
Papa also pets me very often. I drink tea and coffee with cream. Ah, ma chere, I must tell you that I see no pleasure at all in those big, bare bones our Polkan slobbers over in the kitchen. Only bones from wild game are good, and only before anyone has sucked out the marrow. Mixtures of several gravies are very good, only not with capers or herbs; but I know nothing worse than the habit of giving dogs little balls of bread. Some gentleman sitting at the table, after holding all sorts of trash in his hands, begins to roll bread in those same hands, then calls you over and puts the ball in your teeth. It's somehow impolite to refuse, so you eat it; with disgust, but you eat it…
Devil knows what this is! Such nonsense! As if there were no better subjects to write about. Let's look at the next page. For something more sensible.
I'm quite ready and willing to inform you of all that goes on in our house. I've already told you a little something about the main gentleman, whom Sophie calls Papa. He's a very strange man.
Ah! at last! Yes, I knew it: they have political views on all subjects. Let's see about Papa:
… a very strange man. He's silent most of the time. Speaks very rarely; but a week ago, he talked to himself constantly: "Will I get it or won't I?" He would take a piece of paper in one hand, close the other empty one, and say: "Will I get it or won't I?" Once he addressed the question to me: "What do you think, Medji? Will I get it or won't I?" I could understand none of it, so I sniffed his boot and went away. Then, ma chere, a week later Papa came home very happy. All morning gentlemen in uniforms kept coming to him, congratulating him for something. At the table he was merrier than I'd ever seen him before, told jokes, and after dinner he held me up to his neck and said: "Look, Medji, what's this?" I saw some little ribbon. I sniffed it but found decidedly no aroma; finally I licked it on the sly: it was a bit salty.
Hm! This little dog seems to me to be much too… she ought to be whipped! Ah! so he's ambitious. That must be taken into consideration.
Good-bye, ma there, I must run, and so on… and so forth… I'll finish my letter tomorrow. Well, hello! here I am again… Today my mistress Sophie…
Ah! so we shall see about Sophie. Eh, confound it!… Never mind, never mind… let's go on.
… my mistress Sophie was in a great bustle. She was going to a ball, and I was glad that in her absence I'd be able to write to you. My Sophie is always greatly delighted to be going to a ball, though she's almost always angry as she's being dressed. I simply don't understand, ma chere, the pleasure in going to a ball. Sophie comes home from the ball at six o'clock in the morning, and I can almost always tell by her pale and skinny look that the poor thing was given nothing to eat there. I confess, I could never live like that. If I wasn't given hazel grouse with gravy or roast chicken wings, I… I don't know what would become of me. Gruel with gravy is also good. But carrots, turnips, and artichokes will never be good…
Extremely uneven style. Shows at once that it wasn't written by a man. Begins properly, but ends with some dogginess. Let's have a look at another letter. A bit long. Hm! and no date.
Ah, my dear, how one senses the approach of spring! My heart throbs as if it keeps waiting for something. There is an eternal humming in my ears, so that I often stand for several minutes with uplifted paw, listening at the door. I'll confide to you that I have many wooers. I often sit in the window and look at them. Ah, if you only knew how ugly some of them are. The coarsest of all mutts, terribly stupid, stupidity written all over his face, goes down the street most imposingly, imagining he's the noblest person, thinking everyone is looking only at him. Not a bit of it. I didn't even pay attention, just as if I hadn't seen him. And what a frightful Great Dane stops outside my window! If he stood on his hind legs– something the boor is surely incapable of doing-he'd be a whole head taller than my Sophie's Papa, who is also quite tall and fat. This blockhead must be terribly impudent. I growled at him a little, but he couldn't have cared less. He didn't flinch! stuck his tongue out, hung his enormous ears, and stared in the window-what a clod! But don't think, ma chere, that my heart is indifferent to all suitors-oh, no… If you saw a certain gallant who climbs over the fence from the neighbors' house, by the name of Tresor. Ah, ma chere, he has such a cute muzzle!
Pah, devil take it!… What rot!… How can one fill letters with such silliness? Give me a man! I want to see a man; I demand food-such as nourishes and delights my soul; and instead I get these trifles… let's skip a page, maybe it will get better:
… Sophie sat at her table sewing something. I was looking out the window, because I enjoy watching passers-by. When suddenly a lackey came in and said: "Teplov!" "Show him in," Sophie cried and rushed to embrace me… "Ah, Medji, Medji! If you knew who he is: dark hair, a kammerjunker, 5 and such eyes! dark and glowing like fire"-and Sophie ran to her room. A moment later a young kammerjunker with dark side-whiskers came in, went up to the mirror, smoothed his hair, and glanced around the room. I growled a little and kept my place. Sophie came out soon and bowed gaily to his scraping; and I, as if noticing nothing, just went on looking out the window; however, I cocked my head a little to one side and tried to hear what they were talking about. Ah, ma chere, such nonsense they talked about! They talked about a lady who performed one figure instead of another during a dance; also how a certain Bobov looked just like a stork in his jabot and nearly fell down; how a certain Miss Lidin fancies she has blue eyes, whereas they're green-and the like. "Well," thought I to myself, "and if we compare the kammerjunker with Tresor!" Heavens, what a difference! First of all, the kammerjunker has a perfectly smooth, broad face with side– whiskers around it, as if someone had tied it with a black band; while Tresor has a slender little muzzle and a white spot right on his forehead. Between Tresor's waist and the kam-merjunker's there's no comparing. The eyes, the gestures, the manners are not at all alike. Oh, what a difference! I don't know, ma chere, what she finds in her Teplov. Why does she admire him so?…
To me it also seems that there's something wrong here. It can't be that a kammerjunker could enchant her so. Let's see further on:
It seems to me that if she likes that kammerjunker, she'll soon be liking the clerk who sits in Papa's study. Ah, ma chere, if you only knew how ugly he is. A perfect turtle in a sack…
What clerk might this be?…
He has the strangest last name. He always sits and sharpens pens. The hair on his head looks very much like hay. Papa always sends him out instead of a servant.
I think the vile little dog is aiming at me. How is my hair like hay?
Sophie can never help laughing when she looks at him.
You're lying, you cursed dog! What a vile tongue! As if I don't know it's a matter of envy. As if I don't know whose tricks these are. These are the section chief's tricks. The man has sworn undying hatred-and so he injures me, he keeps injuring me at every step. However, let's look at another letter. Maybe the thing will explain itself.
Ma chere Fidele, you must excuse my not writing for so long. I've been in perfect ecstasy. It's entirely correct what some writer has said, that love is a second life. Besides, there are big changes in our house now. The kammerjunker now comes every day. Sophie loves him to distraction. Papa is very happy. I even heard from our Grigory, who sweeps the floor and almost always talks to himself, that there will be a wedding soon; because Papa absolutely wants to see Sophie married to a general, or a kammerjunker, or an army colonel…
Devil take it! I can't read any more… It's all either kammerjunker or general. All that's best in the world, all of it goes either to kammerjunkers or generals. You find a poor treasure for yourself, hope to reach out your hand to it-a kammerjunker or a general plucks it away from you. Devil take it! I wish I could become a general myself: not so as to get her hand and the rest of it, no, I want to be a general simply to see how they'll fawn and perform all those various courtly tricks and equivocations, and then to tell them I spit on them both. Devil take it. How annoying! I've torn the stupid dog's letters to shreds.
December 3.
It can't be. Lies! The wedding won't take place! So what if he's a kammerjunker. It's nothing more than a dignity; it's not anything visible that you can take in your hands. He's not going to have a third eye on his forehead because he's a kammerjunker. His nose isn't made of gold, it's the same as mine or anybody else's; he doesn't eat with it, he smells; he doesn't cough, he sneezes. Several times already I've tried to figure out where all these differences come from. What makes me a titular councillor, and why on earth am I a titular councillor? Maybe I'm some sort of count or general and only seem to be a titular councillor? Maybe I myself don't know who I am. There are so many examples in history: some simple fellow, not only not a nobleman, but simply some tradesman or even peasant-and it's suddenly revealed that he's some sort of dignitary, or sometimes even an emperor. If even a muzhik sometimes turns out like that, what, then, may become of a nobleman? Suddenly, for instance, I walk in wearing a general's uniform: an epaulette on my right shoulder, and an epaulette on my left shoulder, a blue ribbon over my shoulder-what then? How is my beauty going to sing? What is Papa himself, our director, going to say? Oh, he's a man of great ambition! He's a Mason, a downright Mason, though he pretends to be this and that, I noticed right away he's a Mason: whenever he shakes a person's hand, he only holds out two fingers. But can't I be promoted this minute to governor general, or intendant, or something else like that? I'd like to know, what makes me a titular councillor? Why precisely a titular councillor?
December 5. I spent the whole morning today reading the newspapers. There are strange doings in Spain. I couldn't even make them out properly. They write that the throne is vacant and that the officials are in a difficult position about the selection of an heir, which is causing disturbances. This seems terribly strange to me. How can a throne be vacant? They say some dona should ascend the throne. 6 A doсa cannot ascend a throne. Simply cannot. There should be a king on a throne. But, they say, there is no king. It cannot be that there was no king. A state cannot be without a king. There is a king, only he's somewhere unknown. Possibly he's right there, but either some sort of family reasons, or apprehensions about neighboring powers, such as France and other countries, have forced him into hiding, or there are other reasons of some sort.
December 8.
I was just about to go to the office, but various reasons and reflections held me back. I couldn't get these Spanish affairs out of my head. How can a doсa be made a queen? They won't allow it. And, first of all, England won't allow it. And besides, the political affairs of the whole of Europe: the Austrian emperor, our sovereign… I confess, these events so crushed and shook me that I was decidedly unable to busy myself with anything all day long. Mavra observed to me that I was extremely distracted at the table. And, indeed, it seems I absentmindedly threw two plates on the floor, which proceeded to break. After dinner, I strolled around the toboggan slides. Couldn't arrive at anything constructive. Mostly lay in bed and reasoned about the affairs in Spain.
The Year 2000, 43rd of April. This day-is a day of the greatest solemnity! Spain has a king. He has been found. I am that king. Only this very day did I learn of it. I confess, it came to me suddenly in a flash of lightning. I don't understand how I could have thought and imagined that I was a titular councillor. How could such a wild notion enter my head? It's a good thing no one thought of putting me in an insane asylum. Now everything is laid open before me. Now I see everything as on the palm of my hand. And before, I don't understand, before everything around me was in some sort of fog. And all this happens, I think, because people imagine that the human brain is in the head. Not at all: it is brought by a wind from the direction of the Caspian Sea. First off, I announced to Mavra who I am. When she heard that the king of Spain was standing before her, she clasped her hands and nearly died of fright. The stupid woman had never seen a king of Spain before. However, I endeavored to calm her down and assured her in gracious words of my benevolence and that I was not at all angry that she sometimes polished my boots poorly. They're benighted folk. It's impossible to tell them about lofty matters. She got frightened, because she's convinced that all kings of Spain are like Philip II. But I explained to her that there was no resemblance between me and Philip II, and that I didn't have a single Capuchin 7… I didn't go to the office… To hell with it! No, friends, you won't lure me there now; I'm not going to copy your vile papers!
The 86th of Martober. Between day and night.
Today our manager came to tell me to go to the office, since I hadn't been to work for over three weeks. I went to the office as a joke. The section chief thought I'd bow to him and start apologizing, but I looked at him with indifference-neither too wrathfully nor too benevolently-and sat down at my place as if not noticing anyone. I looked at all that office riffraff and thought: "What if you knew who was sitting amongst you… Lord God! what a rumpus you'd raise, and the section chief would start bowing as low to me as he now bows to the director." Some papers were placed in front of me so that I could make an abstract of them. But
I didn't even set a finger to them. A few minutes later everything was in turmoil. They said the director was coming. Many clerks ran up front to show themselves before him. But I didn't budge. When he was passing through our section, everybody buttoned up their tailcoats; but I-nothing of the sort! What is a director that I should stand up before him-never! What sort of director is he? He's a doornail, not a director. An ordinary doornail, a simple doornail, nothing more. The kind used in doors. I was most amused when they slipped me a paper to be signed. They thought I'd write "Chief Clerk So-and-So" at the very bottom of the page. Not a chance! In the central place, where the director of the department signs, I dashed off: "Ferdinand VIII." You should have seen what reverent silence ensued; but I merely waved my hand, saying, "No need for any tokens of homage!" and walked out. From there I went straight to the director's apartment. He was not at home. The lackey didn't want to let me in, but after what I said to him, he just dropped his arms. I made my way straight to the boudoir. She was sitting before the mirror, jumped up, and backed away from me. However, I didn't tell her I was the king of Spain. I only said that such happiness awaited her as she could not even imagine, and that despite the machinations of enemies, we would be together. I did not want to say anything more, and walked out. Oh, she's a perfidious being-woman! Only now have I grasped what woman is. Till now no one has found out who she's in love with: I'm the first to discover it. Woman is in love with the devil. Yes, no joking. It's stupid what physicists write, that she's this or that-she loves only the devil. See there, from a box in the first balcony, she's aiming her lorgnette. You think she's looking at that fat one with the star? Not at all, she's looking at the devil standing behind his back. There he is hiding in his tailcoat. There he is beckoning to her with his finger! And she'll marry him. Marry him. And all those high-ranking fathers of theirs, all those who fidget in all directions and worm their way into court and say they're patriots and this and that: income, income is what these patriots want! Mother, father, God-they'll sell them all for money, the ambitious Judases! It's all ambition, and ambition is caused by a little blister under the tongue with a little worm in it the size of a pinhead, and it's all the doing of some barber who lives in Gorokhovaya Street. I don't know what his name is; but it's known for certain that he, together with some midwife, wants to spread Mohammedanism throughout the world, and as a result, they say, in France the majority of people already accepts the faith of Mohammed.
Date none. The day had no date.
Strolled incognito on Nevsky Prospect. His Majesty the emperor drove by. The whole city took their hats off, and I did, too; however, I didn't let on that I was the king of Spain. I considered it unsuitable to reveal myself right there in front of everybody; because, first of all, I have to present myself at court. The only thing holding me up is that I still don't have royal attire. If only I could get some sort of mantle. I was going to order one from a tailor, but they're perfect asses, and, besides, they neglect their work completely; they've thrown themselves into affairs and are mostly busy paving the streets with stones. I decided to make a mantle out of my new uniform, which I had only worn twice. But, to prevent those blackguards from ruining it, I decided to sew it myself, after locking the door so that no one could see. I cut it all up with scissors, because the style has to be completely different.
Don't remember the date. There was no month, either. Devil knows what there was.
The mantle is all ready and sewn up. Mavra cried out when I put it on. However, I still refrain from presenting myself at court. No deputation from Spain so far. Without deputies it's not proper. There'll be no weight to my dignity. I expect them any moment.
The 1st. I'm extremely astonished at the slowness of the deputies. What reasons can be holding them up? Can it be France? Yes, that is the most unfavorably disposed power. I went to inquire at the post office whether the Spanish deputies had arrived. But the postmaster is very stupid, he doesn't know anything; no, he says, there are no Spanish deputies here, and if you wish to write letters, we accept them at the set rate. Devil take it! what's a letter! A letter's nonsense. Apothecaries can write letters…
Madrid. Thirtieth Februarius.
And so I'm in Spain, and it happened so quickly that I've barely come to my senses. This morning the Spanish deputies came to me, and I got into the carriage together with them. The extraordinary speed seemed strange to me. We drove so quickly that in half an hour we reached the Spanish border. However, there are railroads everywhere in Europe now, and steamships drive very fast. Spain is a strange land: when we entered the first room, I saw a lot of people with shaved heads. I guessed, however, that they must be either grandees or soldiers, since they shave their heads. The behavior of the lord chancellor, who led me by the arm, seemed extremely strange to me; he pushed me into a little room and said, "Sit here, and if you still want to call yourself King Ferdinand, I'll beat the wish out of you." But I, knowing it was nothing but a provocation, replied in the negative-for which the chancellor hit me twice on the back with a stick, so painfully that I nearly cried out, but caught myself, having remembered that this was the knightly custom on entering upon high rank, because in Spain they still preserve knightly customs. Being left alone, I decided to occupy myself with state affairs. I discovered that China and Spain are absolutely one and the same land, and it is only out of ignorance that they are considered separate countries. I advise everyone purposely to write Spain on a piece of paper, and it will come out China. But, nevertheless, I was extremely upset by an event that is going to take place tomorrow. Tomorrow at seven o'clock a strange phenomenon will occur: the earth is going to sit on the moon. This has also been written about by the noted English chemist Wellington. I confess, I felt troubled at heart when I pictured to myself the extraordinary delicacy and fragility of the moon. For the moon is usually made in Hamburg, and made quite poorly. I'm surprised England doesn't pay attention to this. It's made by a lame cooper, and one can see that the fool understands nothing about the moon. He used tarred rope and a quantity of cheap olive oil, and that's why there's a terrible stench all over the earth, so that you have to hold your nose. And that's why the moon itself is such a delicate sphere that people can't live on it, and now only noses live there. And for the same reason, we can't see our own noses, for they're all in the moon. And when I pictured how the earth is a heavy substance and in sitting down may grind our noses into flour, I was overcome with such anxiety that, putting on my stockings and shoes, I hurried to the state council chamber to order the police not to allow the earth to sit on the moon. The shaved grandees, great numbers of whom I found in the state council chamber, were all very intelligent people, and when I said, "Gentlemen, let us save the moon, because the earth wants to sit on it," they all rushed at once to carry out my royal will, and many crawled up the wall in order to get the moon; but just then the lord chancellor came in. Seeing him, they all ran' away. I, being the king, was the only one to remain. But, to my surprise, the chancellor hit me with a stick and drove me to my room. Such is the power of popular custom in Spain!
