The Cambridge Introduction to Russian Literature

116 The Cambridge Introduction to Russian Literature

imagine Tatyana’s husband challenging Onegintoa duel after finding hisfriend in his wife’s boudoir. But what can Chertokutsky do, except wince? Or in Dostoevsky’s more spiteful and malevolent variant on the scenario, gnash his teeth? Talk his way out of it? It will only get worse. The witnesses have already driven away. Since embarrassment cannot be remedied, its carriers must wear masks, or go mad, or (literally) come apart.

Consider Gogol’s Petersburg fantasy “The Nose” (1836). A nose disappears from the face of a collegiate assessor (civilian rank Six), turns up in a barber’s freshly baked roll, is seen strolling about the city, and then one morning for no reason reappears on its distraught owner’s face. This much-loved story (Dmitry Shostakovich set it as a Modernist opera in 1930) has accumulated interpretations over the years ranging from Russia’s first Absurdist work to clinical testimony on castration anxiety. But more scandalous for Major Kovalyov than the “absolutely preposterous smooth flat space” between his two cheeks is the fact that his nose, which he tracks down at prayer in the Kazan Cathedral, refuses to repatriate for reasons of rank. “You are mistaken, my good sir,” says the Nose. “I’m on my own [ya sam po sebe]. Furthermore, there cannot be any close relations between us, for to judge by the buttons on your uniform, you must serve in the senate, or perhaps in the Department of Justice. Whereas I am in the Academy.”20 The narrator respects the desire of Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov to be called by the military equivalent of his civilian rank because “Major” has more status with the ladies. But how can Major Kovalyov show himself in public now? If a toe had disappeared, it could be covered up with a boot. When the surface defines the person, the definition of horror is an absence that cannot be hidden away.

In Gogol, the absurd aspects of rank blend with the sentimental and the frenetic. Each of these intonations is thickened by an “artless” storyteller who on occasion (as at the end of “The Nose”) demands to know why writers choose such implausible incidents in the first place. But illogicality governs not only events; it permeates every level of the narrative, down to the sounds and punning components of words. A metaphor is developed so richly that it replaces the reality it was supposed to clarify. A non-logical combination of words is masked by sensible syntax. The hero of “The Overcoat” (1842) is a copying clerk and titular councilor (civilian rank Nine), Akaky Akakievich Bashmachkin. His last name comes from the Russian word for “shoe,” bashmak. But, the narrator notes, it is not known how he got this name, although “his father, his grandfather, and even his brother-in-law wore boots . . .” The abrupt substitution of “boots” for shoes combined with that little word “even” impart a flash of madness to the whole.21 Such garrulous wackiness on the part of the storyteller is matched, or undone, by the flatness and verbal uncreativeness of the hero.