Stop, Prascovia Osipovna! at length he said.Ksana Blank’s companion to Gogol’s ‘The Nose’ is an excellent new resource for students of Russian language and literature… The annotations to the text are remarkably thorough and identify allusions, irony, and colloquialisms that the casual reader may miss and the second-language student may struggle with even while paying great attention.
It was the nose of Collegiate Assessor Kovalev-no less: it was the nose of a gentleman whom he was accustomed to shave twice weekly, on each Wednesday and each Sunday! This was the more the case because, sure enough, he had recognised the nose. The brigand, you! Three customers have told me already about your pulling at their noses as you shaved them till they could hardly stand it.īut Ivan Yakovlevitch was neither alive nor dead. Where have you cut off that nose? You villain, you! You drunkard! Why, I'll go and report you to the police myself. A nose! Sheerly a nose! Yes, and one familiar to him, somehow! Oh, horror spread upon his feature! Yet that horror was a trifle compared with his spouse's overmastering wrath. He thrust in, this time, all his fingers, and pulled forth-a nose! His hands dropped to his sides for a moment. He probed it cautiously with the knife-then poked at it with a finger. To his intense surprise he saw something glimmering there. Ivan Yakovlevitch donned a jacket over his shirt for politeness' sake, and, seating himself at the table, poured out salt, got a couple of onions ready, took a knife into his hand, assumed an air of importance, and cut the roll asunder. So much the better for me then, as I shall be able to drink a second lot of coffee.Īnd duly she threw on to the table a roll. Oh, the fool shall have his bread, the dame reflected. Prascovia Osipovna, he said, I would rather not have any coffee for breakfast, but, instead, a hot roll and an onion,-the truth being that he wanted both but knew it to be useless to ask for two things at once, as Prascovia Osipovna did not fancy such tricks. Raising himself a little, he perceived his wife (a most respectable dame, and one especially fond of coffee) to be just in the act of drawing newly baked rolls from the oven. For that morning Barber Ivan Yakovlevitch, a dweller on the Vozkresensky Prospekt (his name is lost now-it no longer figures on a signboard bearing a portrait of a gentleman with a soaped cheek, and the words: Also, Blood Let Here)-for that morning Barber Ivan Yakovlevitch awoke early, and caught the smell of newly baked bread. ON 25 March an unusually strange event occurred in St.
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