The Letters from The Nose of Collegiate Assessor Kovalev to Ródion Románovich Raskólnikov Nov 04 '02    Write an essay on this topic. Tweet Popular Products in Books Irene Hunt - The Lottery Rose: A Novel From $6 John Steinbeck - East Of Eden From $7 The Bottom Line Have you read Nikolai Gogol's The Nose? How about Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment? Do you have a nose? Answering "yes" to all three questions means this story is for you... [a note from mfunk75: The following was written for my 2nd year "Satire in Literature" class. Prof. Ewen -- a kindly old man with an enormous purple head and a bulbous nose himself -- loved to give his students opportunities to flex their creative muscles when writing their term essays. What follows is my answer to the proposal: "Re-write Nikolai Gogol's short story 'The Nose' from the Nose's point of view". In his comments on my returned paper (which earned an A grade, thank you very much), he speculated that I had managed to "deconstruct the entirety of Russian literature" with this piece. Probably not true, but who am I to argue with such a learned professor? Anyway, I'm really proud of this piece. Hope you enjoy...] Introduction: Ródion Románovich Raskólnikov is the very same man who was the subject of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s wonderful biography "Crime and Punishment". If you were living in St. Petersburg at the time, I’m sure you must remember the story of the student who murdered a lady pawnbroker, for no better reason than the pursuit of an intellectual idea. It was constant news in all the papers. These letters from The Nose of Collegiate Assessor Kovalev were written to Raskólnikov in the months following that crime. It is curious to note, however, that if both men were living in the same city, why was mail used for communication instead of face-to-face conversation? It is also curious to note that Raskólnikov never made any return correspondences. --- 10 March 1863 My dearest Ródion Románovich, I encountered your friend Fyodor last week on Gorokhovaya Street, and am delighted to hear of your most unique experiment. As a fellow member of the golden class, I too wonder if our superiority has retained its perfume in this rancid society. What use is intellectual greatness when a rotting turd like my own Collegiate Assessor Kovalev can rise to a level well above his own abilities? It stains those of us with real expertise in criticism and cynicism. You have given me courage, gentle Ródya, to take my own action. For you see, I too have been playing silly children’s games with myself. Gentle ponderings of my real abilities. Semi-serious contemplations of actions that never come to pass. 'Am I a coward,' I often wonder? Do I lack the nerve to enact these hideous plans? To give you but one example, last week Collegiate Assessor Kovalev and I were walking along the River Neva, when we passed the university. Do you remember our glory days at the university, my eternal comrade? I long for the days when we would stay up all night, and allow our pessimism to spread its powerful bouquet throughout those great academic halls. We were so sure of ourselves in those days, Ródya. We were so free. Forgive my digression into memories better left alone, but it struck me square in the face that we are no longer the heroes we once were. On that day beside the River, you see, an old lady, obviously hardened by the burdens of her pungent life, passed by Collegiate Assessor Kovalev on his side closest to the river bank. A curious hypothetical crept into my mind, and that was this: What if I tickled Collegiate Assessor Kovalev, causing him to blare out at this rank old woman? Being the kind of man who never carries a handkerchief (unless wearing a horribly expensive-looking dress suit), he would surely have to discharge his mucus violently in her direction. Would she lose her balance and tumble into the river, possibly catch a dreadful cold, and then very likely meet her fortunate demise? That moment of anguish, between the time I first concocted this brilliant plan and the time when she passed us by and it was too late to set the plan in motion, was energizing in a way I hadn’t known since our endless discussions at the university. It is through your inspiration, my eternal soulmate Ródka, that I have hatched a plan so devious, that it makes the events that took place between you and that deviant lady seem like mere idleness. I will be sure to correspond again when the plan, and its intricate details, has been ‘pulled off’. Until then, I am eternally your Nose --- 24 March 1863 My dearest Ródion Románovich, Spring is blooming, the birds are singing, and the flowers and the trees carry a fragrance I hope stays with me till I expire on my deathbed! Blessed Ródya, I am happier now than I have ever been. For you see, I am for the first time released from my enslavement as a kept being! I am now free. My plan has worked. Perfect in planning, and faultless in execution, it allowed me to finally separate myself from Collegiate Assessor Kovalev. I am sure that you, my lifelong friend, will love the story of my emancipation. As you know, every Wednesday and Sunday Collegiate Assessor Kovalev visits his barber, Ivan Yakovlevich, for a shave. I knew that for me to make my triumphant getaway, this was to be my most appropriate opportunity. For Ivan Yakovlevich is not the most adept of barbers. He is prone to tugging heartily on my top, and some times it feels like he is going to pull me right off. Collegiate Assessor Kovalev always leaves his shop stroking me vigorously, glad that I have not come out of joint. On this particular Wednesday (that is to say, last Wednesday), I plotted to loosen myself at my base ever so slightly (by fostering an intense mucus buildup, for which Collegiate Assessor Kovalev will violently overblow), and allow the inevitable pull of Ivan Yakovlevich’s musky hands to break me free from my perilous perch. As the behindhanded barber clenched my crest between his thumb and forefinger, I felt a curious pop at my base. ‘Glorious God, I am free,’ I thought. Now was the time for quick thinking and patient action. Retaining my position, when freedom was mine for the taking any time I chose, proved an arduous task. For I knew that if I leapt suddenly off of Collegiate Assessor Kovalev’s face, I would surely be scooped up quicker than a stray kopeck on Sadovaya Street. It is in this part that my plan needed a level of genius that I was sure I could provide. At the first sign that Collegiate Assessor Kovalev’s eyes had closed (for he was always worried that Ivan Yakovlevich would spill lather in his eyes), I leapt from my perch on his face, and landed in the ruffles of the barber’s tainted tails (for Ivan Yakovlevich never wore a frock coat). Sliding down the malodorous material, I landed safely in Ivan Yakovlevich’s pocket, beside a rotten handkerchief and a shiny tin snuffbox. It was in this way that I safely made my escape from Collegiate Assessor Kovalev. I decided to hide away with Ivan Yakovlevich until the ‘coast was clear’ -- as they are wont to say in the bowery. And so, gentle Ródka, that is the extent of my story, so far. I assure, you that this is not the end of my adventure (or the end of my correspondence). You will surely be hearing from me soon. As ever, I am honoured to be your loyal friend Nose --- 7 April 1863 Dear Ródion Románovich Raskólnikov, My friend, I have known you for many years, back to our glory days in school. In all that time, I have known you to be a man of a sweetly aromatic honour. Therefore, it is my duty to uphold my own sense of honour, and continue my story as I promised in my previous communication. That curious devil, Ivan Yakovlevich, carried me unknowingly in his pocket for the remainder of that remarkable Wednesday. I must tell you, my redolent Ródya, never have I enjoyed a ride in a putrid pocket more! The smell of freedom surrounded me, as I enjoyed my first days away from the prison that is the visage of Collegiate Assessor Kovalev. A future, full of untold fantastics awaited me. Or so I thought. You see, my longtime friend, the barber Ivan Yakovlevich lives not alone in this cold, dark world. He has ‘hitched his wagon’ (a frightening phrase I remember you saying on many a drunken occasion) to a fearsome battle-ax named Praskovya Osipovna. As a ‘fly on the wall’ in their home (another curious phrase I must attribute to memories of you, my fabulously fragrant Ródenka), I was privy to more than one moment of Praskovya Osipovna’s wrath. Her constant shouts of “Devil”, “Drunkard”, “Dullard”, “Dunce”, and “Derelict” hailed down on her husband like a harsh Russian winter. A more alarming situation I cannot fathom, and I wish it not on my worst of enemies! Unfortunately for me, I was trapped in that house until a safe path to freedom could be unearthed. You see, Ródion Románovich, I knew that in order for my plan to succeed, I would have to bide my time. Any sudden moves, and I was sure to be found out as missing, and returned to my dreadful roost atop Collegiate Assessor Kovalev’s face. As a man brought up in the steepest traditions of stubbornness, I was not about to let my plan implode in a cloud of rank fumes. I was nearer to freedom than I had ever been, and I was not going to let that opportunity be taken right from under my ... but I am sure that you, my own Ródka, know of my superior will. I will not bore you with my rhetoric anymore. Back to my tale. To escape the terrors of Praskovya Osipovna, I decided to hide myself in a rectangular tin canister, which I only assumed was once used to store precious jewels. I was to find out later that it was, in fact, a bread pan. This fact dawned on my when I awoke one morning to find myself surrounded by gooey dough, and shoved in the oven. Oh the horror, my Ródya, of the sweltering heat inside a baker’s oven. You must remember our days back in the university, when an early summer class threatened to melt our sizable aptitudes. No professor would ever understand our plight and conclude class early. I assure you, that if they ever felt the terrible heat of that oven, the thousand apologies we are owed would arrive post-haste. The gooey dough soon set, and I found myself inside a freshly baked loaf of bread. The smell -- normally an aroma so sweet it makes the angels sing -- now signified a prison worse than that of contemporary Russian society. The stifling heat seared my skin, especially the pimple on my side that has been pestering me for days. This very same pimple served as a buffer between my skin and a razor sharp knife that Ivan Yakovlevich plunged into the loaf of bread. What followed is not always clear in my mind. I remember staring up at Ivan Yakovlevich’s face, as he picked me up between his two rotting fingers (the very same fingers that had emancipated me the day before) and brought me closer to his face to examine me. My concentration was intermittently broken by the petrifying noises Praskovya Osipovna was emitting. I presume that she was abusing her husband (for I could not make out her high pitched squeals) because every word she had spoken to him in my presence had been of such a nature. To escape this torturous situation, Ivan Yakovlevich wrapped me in a cloth (which I can only assume had been previously stashed underneath the house, for it smelled something like rotting carcasses) and made out onto the street. I initially presumed that he intended to allow me to enjoy my first taste of liberated air. Upon seeing a police superintendent, I realized that he actually intended to turn me in. Instead of risking my precious freedom, I made a courageous leap from his hand, and over the side of Isakievsky Bridge, where I landed in the River Neva. Here is where my story ends for now, dearest Ródya. For as a devout intellectual, I understand your interests better than anyone. You will not be interested in my battle with the barracuda in the River Neva. You surely will take no joy in hearing of my struggle with a drunken prostitute, who picked me up out of the river and intended to use me in her practice. And I know with all my heart that you will never forgive me if I corrupt your ears with the tale of my exploits in the St. Petersburg senate chambers. To obey your wishes, I gratefully pass over these woeful events, and until next time proclaim myself your one true Nose --- 1 June 1863 Dear Ródion Románovich, As I sit here, taking pen in hand, I can’t help wondering how your plan is unfolding. My close friend Ródka, it has been nearly three months since my first letter to you was sent off, and I have heard nary a word. The pessimist in me worries for your safety, for I presume that all is not well with that business regarding the pawnbroker. But you will be surprised to hear that I have developed an optimistic streak since my days at the university, for there is a large part of me that believes that your experiment is as great a success as mine is. Please keep me informed, as I will continue to do for you. Oh how I am enjoying my turn as a truly free Russian citizen! As you can probably guess -- considering the vast potential that I showed in our glory days at the university -- I have been offered (and have accepted) an important job: that of state councilor. You should see me, my compatriot Ródya! I am attired in the best that any Russian tailor has to offer: a spectacular uniform adorned with golden braids; beautiful buckskin breeches; a very regal looking sword, which hangs by my side throughout the day; and the highest and stiffest collar you have ever seen! They have given me a carriage and a driver, which assist me greatly in the performance of my important duties. The life of Russian gentry is not all wine and roses, however. This was brought to my attention the other day with the force of an atrocious wafting stench, when an encounter on the street showed how perilous my new perch really is. On an errand for my immediate superior, Chief State Councilor Dmítri Zámetnikov, I was required to visit the home of a beautiful young lady friend of his, and drop off an envelope (which I assumed carried important state documents, so I dared not inquire as to its contents). Upon my exit from her sweet-smelling apartment, who should I see approaching me on the street but Collegiate Assessor Kovalev! His usually drunken posture was even more pronounced, and he held a familiar handkerchief over the area of his face where I once made my residence. Knowing that he was greatest threat to my personal freedom, I quickly leapt into my carriage. I then proceeded to Kazan Cathedral, where I usually spend many an afternoon keeping up the appearance of the truly free Russian man whose soul is not captured by the devil. To my chagrin, Collegiate Assessor Kovalev followed me in to the church. In the hopes of evading his sight, I tried to hide my face behind my shirt collar and my prayer. But all my efforts were in vain. Collegiate Assessor Kovalev quietly approached me (I say quietly, but in fact he was drawing a curious amount of attention to himself with all his coughing and grunting, presumably meant to draw my attention to him). “My good sir...” he said as he stepped near me, “my good sir...” I decided at this moment that my best approach to this situation was to feign ignorance in his identity. “What is it?” I replied, with every ounce of contempt I could muster into my voice. He stammered on: “I am surprised, sir ... I do think ... you should know your place. And just look where I’ve found you--in a church. You must agree...” “Excuse me sir," I replied with anguish, for calling Collegiate Assessor Kovalev ‘sir’ was a horror I dreaded having to repeat, “but I find myself unable to make head or tail of what you are saying. Please explain yourself.” This lie seemed to confuse Collegiate Assessor Kovalev, for he started into a rambling dialogue that I really couldn’t make heads or tails of. It was at this very moment that the shame of my role in Collegiate Assessor Kovalev’s life up to now dawned on me. I realized that for lo those many years, I lead Collegiate Assessor Kovalev down every road he traveled. Every choice he made, I was the one sent out to the test the breeze. The putrid stench of the situation almost made me sick right there in the church. But being one for impeccable breeding, as I’m sure you remember, my bosom mate Ródenka, I composed myself quickly. “My good sir...” Collegiate Assessor Kovalev continued after I had collected myself, “as a matter of fact ... it all seems quite plain to me ... Or do you wish ... The point is, you’re my very own nose!” In every man’s life (except for those with atrociously low breeding) there comes a time when he has to look the devil in the face and prove to himself what he’s really composed of. I know that you, my sweet and innocent Ródka, have known this moment in your dealings with the lady pawnbroker. And now, my turn has come. After taking a moment to set my composure, I launched into a manifesto so powerful, even the great Marx would see it fit to bow at my feet: “You are mistaken, my good sir. I am a person in my own right. Furthermore there cannot be any close relations between us, for to judge by the buttons on your uniform you must serve in another department.” With the smell of triumph still in the air (and while Collegiate Assessor Kovalev’s attention was occupied by a noisy elderly lady in the next pew over) I rose to my feet and exited Kazan Cathedral. The remainder of the day was spent in the back of my carriage, basking in the bouquet of my victory over my former landlord. And yet always in the back of my mind was a sense of impending doom. For I had come too close to the edge this time. The success of my plan rested for a moment on Collegiate Assessor Kovalev’s powers of perception. In order to dodge other bullets of this kind, I resolved to stick to the backroads, so to speak. A lower profile was needed. This is my plan for the coming weeks, and as new events roll in, I assure you, Ródka my eternal brother, I will keep you informed. Until such a time, I am under wraps and forever more your Nose --- 7 July 1863 Dear Ródya, Let there be no more suspense, for suspense has been my undoing. The unbearable curiosity of what was on the other side of the fence of freedom burrowed into my brain like the pungent aroma of the government officials I have grown to loathe. If my tone shocks you, innocent Ródka, I am not surprised. For the anger I display comes from my failure, which I (an intellectual of the highest order) should have foretold. But enough bravado, for there is a tale to be terminated. And although I have not received any of the many letters you must have sent, I know that you too are engrossed in curiosity. Our concluding chapter starts with a revelation, and that is this: The free man is not as free as advertised. If my tone from before was shocking to you, then this revelation must have knocked you over like proletariat morality in a windstorm. This stunning conclusion occurred to me during my second week of employment as a state councilor. On a routine inspection of a man accused of trespassing, I informed my partner, an unodorous and completely banal man named Nikolai Karamazin, of my intention to retire for the day. He asked what I intended to do instead, and I told him of my plan to spend the day in my study, engrossed in the writings of Pushkin. For I was tired of the tediousness of the job, and wished to further my intellectual growth instead. My dearest Ródenka, you would have thought that I had requested an adulterous affair with his wife, for state councilor Nikolai Karamazin proceeded into a tirade about the nobleness and importance of our work, and how I, as a government employee, must serve until my duties for the day have ended. And then I must serve again tomorrow. His words shocked me to my core. For I assumed that the free man had choice, as well as the power to use that choice. My simple little Ródya, I now know that this is not the case. Once I came to this conclusion, I knew that my plan was a failure, and that there was but one thing to do: return myself to my rightful place leading Collegiate Assessor Kovalev’s dignified face. Only one dilemma faced me. If I were to turn myself in, I would be deemed a coward for the remainder of my days. I remember your great orations during our days in the university on the nature of cowardice, and its place above only ignorance on the list of man’s worst sins. I pledge to you, my honourable Ródka, to avoid this fate. The obvious answer, then, is to execute a ruse that would not only return me to my former glorious position, but also keep my precious dignity intact. My plan was simple. I would send an anonymous letter to Chief State Councilor Dmítri Zámetnikov, informing him that the nose of Collegiate Assessor Kovalev has escaped, and is hiding out in the employ of the state councilor's office. To further uphold my dignity, I would need to stage a confrontation with the police (for they are sure to be sent out in full force for such a malodorous crime). This confrontation must only give the appearance of a struggle on my part, ending with my unconditional surrender. Therefore, the public will be able to see the fight in me, but also recognize that my situation was hopeless against the powerful government sent to retrieve me. They will understand that I must return to my rightful place, even if it is of no choice of mine. With this plan, my dual goals will be achieved. And so that is what I did. I am not proud of my failure, strong and noble Ródion Románovich. It burns my insides to think of it. But, then again, I do see the bright side. If I have learned that the free man is not as free as advertised, then I have also learned that being a kept man is not as putrid as previously thought. I recognize my importance as the leader of Collegiate Assessor Kovalev’s visage. We (I say ‘we’ for I have accepted the communal nature of the face) provide Collegiate Assessor Kovalev with an appearance that is acceptable and most attractive to Russian society. In return, Collegiate Assessor Kovalev provides us with shelter, nourishment, care, and daily upkeep. I see it now as a most desirable, and easy, position to be in. From now on, worthy Ródya, I pledge to you and my God above, that I shall be complacent in my position. It is an enviable position to be in, and I now know that I only cut myself off from Collegiate Assessor Kovalev to spite his face. This is the end of my tale, my fragrant friend Ródya. If you have learned any lessons from it, I am most honoured to be your teacher as well as your comrade. Please, if you have a spare moment, let me in on the details of your triumph, for I am sure that success is yours. I am stuffed with anticipation to find out about your wonderful exploits. Until that glorious time, I will remain for all time in your debt and your Nose

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