Short Story Review || The Mantle (1842)
"A subtly hopeful civil servant has his prized possession stolen from him, setting off a terrible series of events."
: 🌕 : SPOILER ALERT : 🌕 :
Behind the veil of screws & buttons, lies the tale of a phantasm who wanders the roadways that scrapped his knees in life. His whims take him redundantly to the space where his convictions tremble like a broken heart; soothing the veins that halt their flow as dawn mounts the sun to the skyline. Although turmoil does beseech the reader with familiar cues, the tale is not one easily appreciated for its candour, nostalgic in giggles & jives, pocked to the sleeping bear, hiding behind closed eyes.
“If at this time even high officials so suffer from the severity of the cold in their own persons that the tears come into their eyes, what must be the sufferings of the titular councillors, whose means do not allow of their protecting themselves against the rigour of winter?”
Without prior knowledge of Gogol, I endeavoured to meet him where he has remained for over a century. Reflective & scholarly inventories about his life & literary influence reveal the author to have been at the helm of what is now deemed as the classic Russian literary feel that so many readers devour when given the chance.
Adoration for his efforts cannot go unnoticed. Accordingly, the great Titans, Pushkin, Turgenev, & Dostoevsky were warmed by rays of the sun that Gogol shone on Russia. Yet, meeting him on the page of this short story, one would be forgiven for wondering whether the hands of its creator had altogether stunted the warmth of these rays.
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Furrowing into the passages offered by Gogol, readers are met with a character who feels very small, one that might otherwise nestle in the palm of their hand had he not work to do & a bed to sleep in. Rather than write a mirage the likes of which many readers may gawk at so as to forget themselves, Gogol presents heavy-lidded weepers with the crowning sob story of the century.
What remains of Gogol’s literary efforts may confuse a modern reader. His writing style leaves this story feeling rather cold with a hint of something more, which the reader is encouraged to include based on their own emotional bandwidth. That is not to say that Gogol failed to craft a story with vivid trifles & characters who reek of plot-driven intentions. Gogol has inserted what might be a personal anecdote into an otherwise simple story; the reader must meet the author where he has hidden himself, include their foray of feelings, & leave knowing that the author shall not follow.
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Certainly, the characters represent a quaint portrayal of Russia as she was in the nineteenth century. The prized government jobs & the roles of civil servants across the gallant city induce the like of Akaki with something akin to heart; his story is small, but his surroundings create the divide that readers will either try to sew shut or watch maw into great depths as the main character dies broken-hearted.
In essence, this is a story about a man who lives a small life. His days revolve around the transcription of documents, which he takes home with him, avoiding a social life & isolating him further from the common experience of his countrymen. Akaki is a man who should not have enemies & yet he does. Ironically, his self-induced structure & solitude have incited some sentiment of frustration & disgust in the hearts of his co-workers who tease him & make lewd jokes at his expense.
The crux of the story arrives when Akaki comes to find that he needs a new coat. He has been saving his money as best he can but a new mantle (overcoat) would run him too much & therefore he attempts to find ways to be able to afford that which he needs.
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Readers who are sensitive to financial insecurity will have their work cut out for them working their way through this tale. Perhaps Gogol understood on some level that financial freedom was nearly impossible to achieve in the large cities & small townships of Russia wherein people were eager to glaze their throats with a substance that might ease the evenings & had rather little leftover for the finer things in life, i.e., clothing.
Yet, what makes Akaki’s story so painfully sad is that the man himself is in no way seeking to outdo himself. His days are filled with little tasks & for all intents & purposes, he lives a little life. His suffering at the hands of the law, who in no way protected him from the thieves who stole his new coat, nor from the pain of having to run cold in the days & nights of a Russian winter, left him for dead. It was sad to see Akaki perish in such a neglected way. He did not deserve that.
As penance for a life filled with honest intentions & pursuits, the afterlife of which Akaki would have been promised was put on hold. He turns into a ghost who haunts everyone who passes the laneway that he stalks, ending his saga only when he meets the Superintendent. I questioned what this story was attempting to convey, even going so far as to seek out peer-reviewed papers on the subtext for I felt certain that I had been missing something important.
Through my searches, I found that scholarly enthusiasts came up short, rather, perhaps I came up short as they have not seemed to deem the subject worthy of reflection. So few articles of merit exist at my disposal on the subject of this story.
I wonder what Gogol wanted the reader to understand when writing about a government employee who died as a consequence of the neglect of others who undertook their roles to protect the citizens of their district. Is a reader meant to deduce that authority is prone to failure? Will a reader nibble at the death of Akaki like a rat to stale cheese, appreciating it simply for what it is?
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Throughout the research I did after I read this story, I concluded that the overarching sentiment towards Gogol is one of admiration. This story ranks among his most legendary, noting the movement in social circles this story incited by doing the rounds of literary goons who longed for the next great feat to consume.
Surely, the way that Akaki is treated by everyone in this story might be representative of Gogol’s experiences in life. Having been a public servant himself, a reader may deduce that on some level, the author has had something stolen from him—nothing as precious as Akaki’s mantle but something close enough to the heart that has left him feeling haunted by the care he was not given.
On the other hand, perhaps Gogol wanted Russia to wander the streets curious as to whether a ghost might appear & reclaim the recycled fabrics that the living collected in the absence of the dead. I meander back & forth between these two reflections & cannot say for certain where I would land if forced to choose.
Does it suffice to note that the society where Akaki was ostracised feels no pang of sorrow for his untimely death because he is but a man amongst the thousands? Would it make me feel better knowing that the Superintendent was robbed of the same peace that Akaki never held again?
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Ultimately, I cannot say that I found this story to be as moving as I had hoped. This is, in part, untrue because I have repeatedly thought about Akaki with sadness in my throat that I swallow & drown with every gulp. Rather, I find that the context of the story has evaded me & perhaps this is a consequence of not living in Eastern Europe & not wandering the neighbourhoods where Gogol roamed in an attempt to feel part of something greater than himself.
Stories do not always need to leave a clear message to the reader. The brilliant minds of men I quite admire have deemed Gogol a man worth respecting, a writer worth all his words, & a person who shaped the literary world of Russia. Here I shall insert the words of another; according to Britannica: “Gogol was among the first authors to have revealed Russia to itself.” If one takes a close look at the story at hand, one may note tinges of a nauseous flow that hopes to still the intestine from revulsion.
In the end, Gogol has haunted the literary world from the confines. Having followed the word of God to the outskirts of where he deemed it necessary to exile himself, longing for the rhythm he bestowed on early readers, void of the salacious mirror he carried in his pocket, drawn forward for his countrymen. In truth, Gogol’s work, though less than revolutionary for me at this stage in my life, lays the groundwork for a better understanding of what I have come to consider as a traditional romanticism of the great novels I keep coddled in my heart.
Gogol’s ability to render the simple Narcissus traumatized by his desire to avoid accountability is insightful & raw, doggedly colouring the grey pages of a printed leaf humbled by the author’s drying ink. Hopeful am I, that Akaki’s ghost may have found the rest he deeply deserved. Humbled am I, by Gogol’s dedication to his swan song, prosed deliciously without me in mind, but which I have come to palate all the same with the eagerness of the tongue upon icing sugar & sweet birthday cake.
If you would like to read this story, please visit this link — « The Mantle » by Nikolai Gogol
C. 💌