The Overcoat and Other Short Stories

Nikolai Gogol

• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Year: 2012
• eBook ISBN: 9780486115177
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Classics
• Index: Literature

Gogol's stories are admired for their skillful mingling of fantasy and reality, quiet good humor and use of mundane details — as Gogol put it — "to extract the extraordinary from the ordinary." Imaginative and timeless, they remain as fresh and significant today as they were to readers generations ago.
This rich selection of four short stories by the great 19th-century Russian author of Dead Souls includes "The Nose," a savage satire of incompetent bureaucrats and the snobbery and complacency of the Russian upper classes; "Old-Fashioned Farmers," a sketch depicting an elderly couple who live a happy but simple life in rustic seclusion; "The Tale of How Ivan Ivanovich Quarrelled with Ivan Nikiforovich," and of Gogol's most famous comic stories; and "The Overcoat," an exceptionally moving tale — considered a masterpiece of the form — about a poor and much-ridiculed St. Petersburg official. Includes a selection from the Common Core State Standards Initiative: "The Nose."

The Tale of How Ivan Ivanovich Quarrelled with Ivan Nikiforovich

I.

IVAN IVANOVICH AND IVAN NIKIFOROVICH.

A FINE BEKESHA [short shooting-coat] has Ivan Ivanovich! splendid! And what lambskin! deuce take it, what lambskin! blue-black with silver lights. I’ll forfeit, I know not what, if you find any one else owning any such. Look at it, for Heaven’s sake, especially when he stands talking with any one! look at him from the side: what a pleasure it is! To describe it, is impossible: velvet! silver! fire! Heavens! Nikolai the Wonder-worker, saint of God! why have not I such a bekesha? He had it made before Agafya Fedosyevna went to Kief. You know Agafya Fedosyevna, the same who bit the assessor’s ear off.

Ivan Ivanovich was a very handsome man. What a house he had in Mirgorod ! Around it on every side was a veranda on oaken pillars, and on the veranda everywhere were benches. Ivan Ivanovich, when the weather gets too warm, throws off his bekesha and his underclothing, remains in his shirt alone, and rests on the veranda, and observes what is going on in the court-yard and the street. What apples and pears he has under his very windows! You have but to open the window, and the branches force themselves through into the room. All this is in front of the house; but you should have seen what he had in the garden. What was there not there? Plums, cherries, black-hearts, every sort of vegetable, sunflowers, cucumbers, melons, peas, a threshing-floor, and even a forge.

A very fine man, Ivan Ivanovich! He is very fond of melons: they are his favorite food. Just as soon as he has dined, and come out on his veranda, in his shirt, he orders Gapka to fetch two melons, and immediately cuts them himself, collects the seeds in a paper, and begins to eat. Then he orders Gapka to fetch the ink-bottle, and, with his own hand, writes this inscription on the paper of seeds: These melons were eaten on such and such a date. If there was a guest present, then it reads, Such and such a person assisted.

The late judge of Mirgorod always gazed at Ivan Ivanovich’s house with pleasure. Yes, the little house was very pretty. It pleased me because sheds, and still other little sheds, were built on to it on all sides; so that, looking at it from a distance, only roofs were visible, rising one above another, which greatly resembled a plate full of pancakes, or, better still, fungi growing on the trunk of a tree. Moreover, the roofs were all overgrown with weeds: a willow, an oak, and two apple-trees leaned their spreading branches against it. Through the trees peeped little windows with carved and whitewashed shutters, which projected even into the street.

A very fine man, Ivan Ivanovich! The commissioner of Poltava knows him also. Dorosh Tarasovich Pukhívochka, when he leaves Khorola, always goes to his house. And Father Peter, the Protopope who lives in Koliberda, when he invites a few guests, always says that he knows of no one who so well fulfils all his Christian duties, and understands so well how to live, as Ivan Ivanovich.

How time flies! More than ten years have already passed since he became a widower. He never had any children. Gapka has children, and they run about the court-yard. Ivan Ivanovich always gives each one of them either a round cake, or a slice of melon, or a pear.

Gapka carries the keys of his storerooms and cellars; but the key of the large chest which stands in his bedroom, and that of the centre storeroom, Ivan Ivanovich keeps himself; and he does not like to admit any one. Gapka is a healthy girl, and goes about in coarse cloth garments with ruddy cheeks and calves.

And what a pious man is Ivan Ivanovich! Every Sunday he dons his bekesha, and goes to church. On entering, Ivan Ivanovich bows on all sides, generally stations himself in the choir, and sings a very good bass. When the service is over, Ivan Ivanovich cannot refrain from passing the poor people in review. He probably would not have cared to undertake this tiresome work, if his natural goodness had not urged him to it. “Good-day, beggar!” he generally said, selecting the most crippled old woman in the most threadbare garment made of patches. “Whence come you, my poor woman?”

“I come from the farm, panochka [master dear]. “Tis two days since I have eaten or drunk: my own children drove me out.”

“Poor soul! why did you come hither?”

“To beg alms, panochka, to see whether some one will not give at least enough for bread.”

“Hm! so you want bread?” Ivan Ivanovich generally inquired.

“How should I not want it? I am as hungry as a dog.”

“Hm!” replied Ivan Ivanovich usually, “and perhaps you would like butter too?”

“Yes; everything which your kindness will give; I will be content with all.”

“Hm! Is butter better than bread?”

“How is a hungry person to choose? Any thing you please, all is good.” Thereupon the old woman generally extended her hand.

“Well, go with God’s blessing,” said Ivan Ivanovich. “Why do you stand there? I’m not beating you.” And turning to a second and a third with the same questions, he finally returns home, or goes to drink a little glass of vodka with his neighbor, Ivan Nikiforovich, or the judge, or the chief of police.

Ivan Ivanovich is very fond of receiving presents. This pleases him very much.

A very fine man also is Ivan Nikiforovich. They are such friends as the world never saw. Anton Prokofievich Golopuz, who goes about to this hour in his cinnamon-colored surtout with blue sleeves, and dines every Sunday with the judge, was in the habit of saying that the Devil himself had bound Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich together with a rope: where one goes, the other follows.

Ivan Nikiforovich was never married. Although it was reported that he was married, it was completely false. I know Ivan Nikiforovich very well, and am able to state that he never even had any intention of marrying. Where do all these scandals originate? In the same way it was rumored that Ivan Nikiforovich was born with a tail! But this invention is so clumsy, and at the same time so horrible and indecent, that I do not even consider it necessary to refute it for the benefit of civilized readers, to whom it is doubtless known that only witches, and very few even of those, have tails. Witches, moreover, belong more to the feminine than to the masculine gender.

In spite of their great friendship, these rare friends were not always agreed between themselves. Their characters can best be known by comparing them. Ivan Ivanovich has the unusual gift of speaking in an extremely pleasant manner. Heavens! How he does speak! The feeling can best be described by comparing it to that which you experience when some one combs your head, or draws his finger softly across your heel. You listen and listen until you drop your head. Pleasant, exceedingly pleasant! like the sleep after a bath. Ivan Nikiforovich, on the contrary, is more reticent; but, if he once takes up the word, look out for yourself! He shaves better than any barber.

Ivan Ivanovich is tall and thin; Ivan Nikiforovich is rather shorter in stature, but he makes it up in thickness. Ivan Ivanovich’s head is like a radish, tail down; Ivan Nikiforovich’s like a radish with the tail up. Ivan Ivanovich lies on the veranda in his shirt after dinner only: in the evening he dons his bekesha, and goes out somewhere, either to the village store, where he supplies flour, or into the fields to catch quail. Ivan Nikiforovich lies all day on his porch; if the day is not too hot, he generally turns his back to the sun, and will not go anywhere. If it happens to occur to him in the morning, he walks through the yard, inspects the domestic affairs, and retires again to his room.

In early days he used to go to Ivan Ivanovich. Ivan Ivanovich is a very refined man, and in polite conversation never utters an impolite word, and is offended at once if he hears one. Ivan Nikiforovich is not always on his guard. On such occasions Ivan Ivanovich usually rises from his seat, and says, “Enough, enough, Ivan Nikiforovich! it’s better to go out into the sun at once, than to utter such godless words.”

Ivan Ivanovich goes into a terrible rage if a fly falls into his beet-soup; then he is fairly beside himself; and he flings away his plate, and the housekeeper catches it. Ivan Nikiforovich is exceedingly fond of bathing; and, when he gets up to the neck in water, he orders a table and a samovar to be placed on the water, and he is very fond of drinking tea in that cool position. Ivan Ivanovich shaves his beard twice a week; Ivan Nikiforovich, once. Ivan Ivanovich is extremely curious. God preserve you if you begin to tell him anything, and do not finish it! If he is displeased with anything, he lets it be seen at once. It is very hard to tell from Ivan Nikiforovich’s countenance whether he is pleased or angry: even if he is rejoiced at anything, he will not show it.

Ivan Ivanovich is of a rather timid character: Ivan Nikiforovich, on the contrary, has such full folds in his trousers, that, if you were to inflate them, you might put the court-yard, with its store-houses and buildings, inside them. Ivan Ivanovich has large, expressive eyes, of a snuff color, and a mouth shaped something like the letter V Ivan Nikiforovich has small, yellowish eyes, quite concealed between heavy brows and fat cheeks; and his nose is the shape of a ripe plum. If Ivan Ivanovich treats you to snuff, he always licks the cover of his box first with his tongue, then taps on it with his finger, and says, as he raises it, if you are an acquaintance, “Dare I beg you, sir, to give me the pleasure?”—if a stranger, “Dare I beg you, sir, though I have not the honor of knowing your rank, name, and family, to do me the favor?” But Ivan Nikiforovich puts his box straight into your hand, and merely adds, “Do me the favor.” Neither Ivan Ivanovich nor Ivan Nikiforovich loves fleas; and therefore, neither Ivan Ivanovich nor Ivan Nikiforovich will, on any account, admit a Jew with his wares, without purchasing of him elixir in various little boxes, as remedies against these insects, having first rated him well for belonging to the Hebrew faith.

But, in spite of numerous dissimilarities, Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich are both very fine men.

II.

FROM WHICH MAY BE SEEN WHAT IVAN IVANOVICH WANTED, WHENCE AROSE THE DISCUSSION BETWEEN IVAN IVANOVICH AND IVAN NIKIFOROVICH, AND WHERE IT ENDED.

ONE MORNING—it was in July—Ivan Ivanovich was lying on his veranda. The day was warm; the air was dry, and came in gusts. Ivan Ivanovich had been to town, to the mowers, and at the farm, and had succeeded in asking all the muzhiks [peasants] and women whom he met, whence, whither, and why. He was fearfully tired, and had lain down to rest. As he lay there, he looked at the store-houses, the court-yard, the sheds, the chickens running about, and thought to himself, “My Heavens! What a master I am! What is there that I have not? Birds, buildings, granaries, everything I take a fancy to; genuine distilled vodka; pears and plums in the orchard; poppies, cabbages, peas, in the garden; ... what is there which I have not? I should like to know what there is that I have not?”

As he put this profound question to himself, Ivan Ivanovich reflected; and meantime, his eyes, in their search after fresh objects, crossed the fence into Ivan Nikiforovich’s yard, and involuntarily took note of a curious sight. A fat woman was bringing out clothes, which had been packed away, and spreading them out on the line to air. Presently an old uniform with worn trimmings was swinging its sleeves in the air, and embracing a brocade gown; from behind it peeped a court-coat, its buttons stamped with coats-of-arms, and with moth-eaten collar; white cassimere pantaloons with spots, which had once upon a time clothed Ivan Nikiforovich’s legs, and might now, possibly, fit his fingers. Behind them were speedily hung some more in the shape of the letter II. Then came a blue Cossack jacket, which Ivan Nikiforovich had had made twenty years before, when he prepared to enter the militia, and allowed his mustache to grow. And finally, one after another, appeared a sword, projecting into the air like a spit; then the skirts of a grass-green caftan-like garment, with copper buttons the size of a five-kopek piece, unfolded themselves. From among the folds peeped a vest bound with gold, with a wide opening in front. The vest was soon concealed by an old petticoat belonging to his dead grandmother, with pockets which would have held a watermelon. All these things piled together formed a very interesting spectacle for Ivan Ivanovich, while the sun’s rays, falling upon bits of a blue or green sleeve, a red binding, or a scrap of gold brocade, or playing on the point of the sword, formed an unusual sight, similar to the representations of the Nativity given at farmhouses by wandering bands; particularly that part where the throng of people, pressing close together, gaze at King Herod in his golden crown, or at Anthony leading his goat: at these exhibitions the fiddle whines, a gypsy taps on his lips in lieu of a drum, and the sun goes down, and the cool freshness of the young night presses more strongly on the shoulders and bosoms of the plump farmers’ wives.

Presently the old woman crawled, grunting, from the storeroom, dragging after her an old-fashioned saddle with broken stirrups, worn leather pistol-cases, and saddle-cloth, once red, with gilt embroidery and copper disks.

“Here’s a stupid woman,” thought Ivan Ivanovich. “She’ll be dragging Ivan Nikiforovich out and airing him next.”

And with reason: Ivan Ivanovich was not so far wrong in his surmise. Five minutes later, Ivan Nikiforovich’s nankeen trousers appeared, and took nearly half the yard to themselves. After that she fetched out a hat and a gun.

“What’s the meaning of this?” thought Ivan Ivanovich. “I never saw Ivan Nikiforovich have a gun. What does he want with it? Whether he shoots, or not, he keeps a gun! Of what use is it to him? But it’s a splendid thing. I have long wanted to get just such a one; I want that gun very much: I like to amuse myself with a gun. Hello, there, woman, woman!” shouted Ivan Ivanovich, beckoning to her.

The old woman approached the fence.

“What’s that you have there, my good woman?”

“A gun, as you see.”

“What sort of a gun?”

“Who knows what sort of a gun? If it were mine, perhaps I should know what it is made of; but it is my master’s.”

Ivan Ivanovich rose, and began to examine the gun on all sides, and forgot to reprove the old woman for hanging it and the sword to air.

“It must be iron,” went on the old woman.

“Hm! iron! why iron?” said Ivan Ivanovich to himself. “Has your master had it long?”

“Yes; long, perhaps.”

“It’s a nice thing!” continued Ivan Ivanovich. “I will ask him for it. What can he do with it? I’ll exchange with him for it. Is your master at home, my good woman?”

“Yes.”

“What is he doing? lying down?”

“Yes, lying down.”

“Very well, I will come to him.”

Ivan Ivanovich dressed himself, took his well-seasoned stick for the benefit of the dogs (for, in Mirgorod, there are more dogs than people to be met in the street), and went out.

Although Ivan Nikiforovich’s house was next door to Ivan Ivanovich’s, so that you could have got from one to the other by climbing the fence, yet Ivan Ivanovich went by the street. From the street it was necessary to turn into an alley which was so narrow, that if two one-horse carts chanced to meet, they could not get out, and were forced to remain there until the drivers, seizing the hind-wheels, dragged them in opposite directions into the street, and pedestrians drew aside like flowers growing by the fence on either hand. Ivan Ivanovich’s wagon-shed adjoined this alley on one side; and on the other, Ivan Nikiforovich’s granary, gate, and pigeon-house.

Ivan Ivanovich went up to the gate, and rattled the latch. Within arose the barking of dogs; but the motley-haired pack ran back, wagging their tails, when they saw the well-known face. Ivan Ivanovich traversed the court-yard, in which were collected Indian doves fed by Ivan Nikiforovich’s own hand, watermelon, and melon-rinds, vegetables, broken wheels, barrel-hoops, or a wallowing small boy with dirty blouse—a picture such as painters love. The shadows of the fluttering clothes covered nearly the whole of the yard, and lent it a degree of coolness. The woman greeted him with an inclination, and stood, gaping, in one spot. The front of the house was adorned with a small porch, its roof supported on two oak pillars—a welcome protection from the sun, which at that season in Little Russia [the Ukraine] loves not to jest, and bathes the pedestrian from head to foot in boiling perspiration. From this it may be judged how powerful was Ivan Ivanovich’s desire to obtain an indispensable article, when he made up his mind, at such an hour, to depart from his usual custom, which was to walk about only in the evening.

The room which Ivan Ivanovich entered was quite dark, for the shutters were closed; and the ray of sunlight falling through a hole made in the shutter, took on the colors of the rainbow, and, striking the opposite wall, sketched upon it a party-colored picture of the outlines of roofs, trees, and the clothes suspended in the yard, only upside down. This gave the room a peculiar half-light.

“God assist you!” said Ivan Ivanovi...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Note
• Table of Contents
• Old-Fashioned Farmers
• The Tale of How Ivan Ivanovich Quarrelled with Ivan Nikiforovich
• The Nose
• The Overcoat
• DOVER · THRIFT · EDITIONS - FICTION