THE CLOAK



In the department of--but it is better not to mention the department.

There is nothing more irritable than departments, regiments, courts of

justice, and, in a word, every branch of public service. Each

individual attached to them nowadays thinks all society insulted in

his person. Quite recently a complaint was received from a justice of

the peace, in which he plainly demonstrated that all the imperial

institutions were going to the dogs, and that the Czar's sacred name

was being taken in vain; and in proof he appended to the complaint a

romance in which the justice of the peace is made to appear about once

every ten lines, and sometimes in a drunken condition. Therefore, in

order to avoid all unpleasantness, it will be better to describe the

department in question only as a certain department.



So, in a certain department there was a certain official--not a very

high one, it must be allowed--short of stature, somewhat pock-marked,

red-haired, and short-sighted, with a bald forehead, wrinkled cheeks,

and a complexion of the kind known as sanguine. The St. Petersburg

climate was responsible for this. As for his official status, he was

what is called a perpetual titular councillor, over which, as is well

known, some writers make merry, and crack their jokes, obeying the

praiseworthy custom of attacking those who cannot bite back.



His family name was Bashmatchkin. This name is evidently derived from

"bashmak" (shoe); but when, at what time, and in what manner, is not

known. His father and grandfather, and all the Bashmatchkins, always

wore boots, which only had new heels two or three times a year. His

name was Akakiy Akakievitch. It may strike the reader as rather

singular and far-fetched, but he may rest assured that it was by no

means far-fetched, and that the circumstances were such that it would

have been impossible to give him any other.



This is how it came about.



Akakiy Akakievitch was born, if my memory fails me not, in the evening

of the 23rd of March. His mother, the wife of a Government official

and a very fine woman, made all due arrangements for having the child

baptised. She was lying on the bed opposite the door; on her right

stood the godfather, Ivan Ivanovitch Eroshkin, a most estimable man,

who served as presiding officer of the senate, while the godmother,

Anna Semenovna Byelobrushkova, the wife of an officer of the quarter,

and a woman of rare virtues. They offered the mother her choice of

three names, Mokiya, Sossiya, or that the child should be called after

the martyr Khozdazat. "No," said the good woman, "all those names are

poor." In order to please her they opened the calendar to another

place; three more names appeared, Triphiliy, Dula, and Varakhasiy.

"This is a judgment," said the old woman. "What names! I truly never

heard the like. Varada or Varukh might have been borne, but not

Triphiliy and Varakhasiy!" They turned to another page and found

Pavsikakhiy and Vakhtisiy. "Now I see," said the old woman, "that it

is plainly fate. And since such is the case, it will be better to name

him after his father. His father's name was Akakiy, so let his son's

be Akakiy too." In this manner he became Akakiy Akakievitch. They

christened the child, whereat he wept and made a grimace, as though he

foresaw that he was to be a titular councillor.



In this manner did it all come about. We have mentioned it in order

that the reader might see for himself that it was a case of necessity,

and that it was utterly impossible to give him any other name. When

and how he entered the department, and who appointed him, no one could

remember. However much the directors and chiefs of all kinds were

changed, he was always to be seen in the same place, the same

attitude, the same occupation; so that it was afterwards affirmed that

he had been born in undress uniform with a bald head. No respect was

shown him in the department. The porter not only did not rise from his

seat when he passed, but never even glanced at him, any more than if a

fly had flown through the reception-room. His superiors treated him in

coolly despotic fashion. Some sub-chief would thrust a paper under his

nose without so much as saying, "Copy," or "Here's a nice interesting

affair," or anything else agreeable, as is customary amongst well-bred

officials. And he took it, looking only at the paper and not observing

who handed it to him, or whether he had the right to do so; simply

took it, and set about copying it.



The young officials laughed at and made fun of him, so far as their

official wit permitted; told in his presence various stories concocted

about him, and about his landlady, an old woman of seventy; declared

that she beat him; asked when the wedding was to be; and strewed bits

of paper over his head, calling them snow. But Akakiy Akakievitch

answered not a word, any more than if there had been no one there

besides himself. It even had no effect upon his work: amid all these

annoyances he never made a single mistake in a letter. But if the

joking became wholly unbearable, as when they jogged his hand and

prevented his attending to his work, he would exclaim, "Leave me

alone! Why do you insult me?" And there was something strange in the

words and the voice in which they were uttered. There was in it

something which moved to pity; so much that one young man, a

new-comer, who, taking pattern by the others, had permitted himself to

make sport of Akakiy, suddenly stopped short, as though all about him

had undergone a transformation, and presented itself in a different

aspect. Some unseen force repelled him from the comrades whose

acquaintance he had made, on the supposition that they were well-bred

and polite men. Long afterwards, in his gayest moments, there recurred

to his mind the little official with the bald forehead, with his

heart-rending words, "Leave me alone! Why do you insult me?" In these

moving words, other words resounded--"I am thy brother." And the young

man covered his face with his hand; and many a time afterwards, in the

course of his life, shuddered at seeing how much inhumanity there is

in man, how much savage coarseness is concealed beneath delicate,

refined worldliness, and even, O God! in that man whom the world

acknowledges as honourable and noble.



It would be difficult to find another man who lived so entirely for

his duties. It is not enough to say that Akakiy laboured with zeal:

no, he laboured with love. In his copying, he found a varied and

agreeable employment. Enjoyment was written on his face: some letters

were even favourites with him; and when he encountered these, he

smiled, winked, and worked with his lips, till it seemed as though

each letter might be read in his face, as his pen traced it. If his

pay had been in proportion to his zeal, he would, perhaps, to his

great surprise, have been made even a councillor of state. But he

worked, as his companions, the wits, put it, like a horse in a mill.



Moreover, it is impossible to say that no attention was paid to him.

One director being a kindly man, and desirous of rewarding him for his

long service, ordered him to be given something more important than

mere copying. So he was ordered to make a report of an already

concluded affair to another department: the duty consisting simply in

changing the heading and altering a few words from the first to the

third person. This caused him so much toil that he broke into a

perspiration, rubbed his forehead, and finally said, "No, give me

rather something to copy." After that they let him copy on forever.



Outside this copying, it appeared that nothing existed for him. He

gave no thought to his clothes: his undress uniform was not green, but

a sort of rusty-meal colour. The collar was low, so that his neck, in

spite of the fact that it was not long, seemed inordinately so as it

emerged from it, like the necks of those plaster cats which wag their

heads, and are carried about upon the heads of scores of image

sellers. And something was always sticking to his uniform, either a

bit of hay or some trifle. Moreover, he had a peculiar knack, as he

walked along the street, of arriving beneath a window just as all

sorts of rubbish were being flung out of it: hence he always bore

about on his hat scraps of melon rinds and other such articles. Never

once in his life did he give heed to what was going on every day in

the street; while it is well known that his young brother officials

train the range of their glances till they can see when any one's

trouser straps come undone upon the opposite sidewalk, which always

brings a malicious smile to their faces. But Akakiy Akakievitch saw in

all things the clean, even strokes of his written lines; and only when

a horse thrust his nose, from some unknown quarter, over his shoulder,

and sent a whole gust of wind down his neck from his nostrils, did he

observe that he was not in the middle of a page, but in the middle of

the street.



On reaching home, he sat down at once at the table, supped his cabbage

soup up quickly, and swallowed a bit of beef with onions, never

noticing their taste, and gulping down everything with flies and

anything else which the Lord happened to send at the moment. His

stomach filled, he rose from the table, and copied papers which he had

brought home. If there happened to be none, he took copies for

himself, for his own gratification, especially if the document was

noteworthy, not on account of its style, but of its being addressed to

some distinguished person.



Even at the hour when the grey St. Petersburg sky had quite dispersed,

and all the official world had eaten or dined, each as he could, in

accordance with the salary he received and his own fancy; when all

were resting from the departmental jar of pens, running to and fro

from their own and other people's indispensable occupations, and from

all the work that an uneasy man makes willingly for himself, rather

than what is necessary; when officials hasten to dedicate to pleasure

the time which is left to them, one bolder than the rest going to the

theatre; another, into the street looking under all the bonnets;

another wasting his evening in compliments to some pretty girl, the

star of a small official circle; another--and this is the common case

of all--visiting his comrades on the fourth or third floor, in two

small rooms with an ante-room or kitchen, and some pretensions to

fashion, such as a lamp or some other trifle which has cost many a

sacrifice of dinner or pleasure trip; in a word, at the hour when all

officials disperse among the contracted quarters of their friends, to

play whist, as they sip their tea from glasses with a kopek's worth of

sugar, smoke long pipes, relate at times some bits of gossip which a

Russian man can never, under any circumstances, refrain from, and,

when there is nothing else to talk of, repeat eternal anecdotes about

the commandant to whom they had sent word that the tails of the horses

on the Falconet Monument had been cut off, when all strive to divert

themselves, Akakiy Akakievitch indulged in no kind of diversion. No

one could ever say that he had seen him at any kind of evening party.

Having written to his heart's content, he lay down to sleep, smiling

at the thought of the coming day--of what God might send him to copy

on the morrow.



Thus flowed on the peaceful life of the man, who, with a salary of

four hundred rubles, understood how to be content with his lot; and

thus it would have continued to flow on, perhaps, to extreme old age,

were it not that there are various ills strewn along the path of life

for titular councillors as well as for private, actual, court, and

every other species of councillor, even for those who never give any

advice or take any themselves.



There exists in St. Petersburg a powerful foe of all who receive a

salary of four hundred rubles a year, or thereabouts. This foe is no

other than the Northern cold, although it is said to be very healthy.

At nine o'clock in the morning, at the very hour when the streets are

filled with men bound for the various official departments, it begins

to bestow such powerful and piercing nips on all noses impartially

that the poor officials really do not know what to do with them. At an

hour when the foreheads of even those who occupy exalted positions

ache with the cold, and tears start to their eyes, the poor titular

councillors are sometimes quite unprotected. Their only salvation lies

in traversing as quickly as possible, in their thin little cloaks,

five or six streets, and then warming their feet in the porter's room,

and so thawing all their talents and qualifications for official

service, which had become frozen on the way.



Akakiy Akakievitch had felt for some time that his back and shoulders

suffered with peculiar poignancy, in spite of the fact that he tried

to traverse the distance with all possible speed. He began finally to

wonder whether the fault did not lie in his cloak. He examined it

thoroughly at home, and discovered that in two places, namely, on the

back and shoulders, it had become thin as gauze: the cloth was worn to

such a degree that he could see through it, and the lining had fallen

into pieces. You must know that Akakiy Akakievitch's cloak served as

an object of ridicule to the officials: they even refused it the noble

name of cloak, and called it a cape. In fact, it was of singular make:

its collar diminishing year by year, but serving to patch its other

parts. The patching did not exhibit great skill on the part of the

tailor, and was, in fact, baggy and ugly. Seeing how the matter stood,

Akakiy Akakievitch decided that it would be necessary to take the

cloak to Petrovitch, the tailor, who lived somewhere on the fourth

floor up a dark stair-case, and who, in spite of his having but one

eye, and pock-marks all over his face, busied himself with

considerable success in repairing the trousers and coats of officials

and others; that is to say, when he was sober and not nursing some

other scheme in his head.



It is not necessary to say much about this tailor; but, as it is the

custom to have the character of each personage in a novel clearly

defined, there is no help for it, so here is Petrovitch the tailor. At

first he was called only Grigoriy, and was some gentleman's serf; he

commenced calling himself Petrovitch from the time when he received

his free papers, and further began to drink heavily on all holidays,

at first on the great ones, and then on all church festivities without

discrimination, wherever a cross stood in the calendar. On this point

he was faithful to ancestral custom; and when quarrelling with his

wife, he called her a low female and a German. As we have mentioned

his wife, it will be necessary to say a word or two about her.

Unfortunately, little is known of her beyond the fact that Petrovitch

has a wife, who wears a cap and a dress; but cannot lay claim to

beauty, at least, no one but the soldiers of the guard even looked

under her cap when they met her.



Ascending the staircase which led to Petrovitch's room--which

staircase was all soaked with dish-water, and reeked with the smell of

spirits which affects the eyes, and is an inevitable adjunct to all

dark stairways in St. Petersburg houses--ascending the stairs, Akakiy

Akakievitch pondered how much Petrovitch would ask, and mentally

resolved not to give more than two rubles. The door was open; for the

mistress, in cooking some fish, had raised such a smoke in the kitchen

that not even the beetles were visible. Akakiy Akakievitch passed

through the kitchen unperceived, even by the housewife, and at length

reached a room where he beheld Petrovitch seated on a large unpainted

table, with his legs tucked under him like a Turkish pasha. His feet

were bare, after the fashion of tailors who sit at work; and the first

thing which caught the eye was his thumb, with a deformed nail thick

and strong as a turtle's shell. About Petrovitch's neck hung a skein

of silk and thread, and upon his knees lay some old garment. He had

been trying unsuccessfully for three minutes to thread his needle, and

was enraged at the darkness and even at the thread, growling in a low

voice, "It won't go through, the barbarian! you pricked me, you

rascal!"



Akakiy Akakievitch was vexed at arriving at the precise moment when

Petrovitch was angry; he liked to order something of Petrovitch when

the latter was a little downhearted, or, as his wife expressed it,

"when he had settled himself with brandy, the one-eyed devil!" Under

such circumstances, Petrovitch generally came down in his price very

readily, and even bowed and returned thanks. Afterwards, to be sure,

his wife would come, complaining that her husband was drunk, and so

had fixed the price too low; but, if only a ten-kopek piece were

added, then the matter was settled. But now it appeared that

Petrovitch was in a sober condition, and therefore rough, taciturn,

and inclined to demand, Satan only knows what price. Akakiy

Akakievitch felt this, and would gladly have beat a retreat; but he

was in for it. Petrovitch screwed up his one eye very intently at him,

and Akakiy Akakievitch involuntarily said: "How do you do,

Petrovitch?"



"I wish you a good morning, sir," said Petrovitch, squinting at Akakiy

Akakievitch's hands, to see what sort of booty he had brought.



"Ah! I--to you, Petrovitch, this--" It must be known that Akakiy

Akakievitch expressed himself chiefly by prepositions, adverbs, and

scraps of phrases which had no meaning whatever. If the matter was a

very difficult one, he had a habit of never completing his sentences;

so that frequently, having begun a phrase with the words, "This, in

fact, is quite--" he forgot to go on, thinking that he had already

finished it.



"What is it?" asked Petrovitch, and with his one eye scanned

Akakievitch's whole uniform from the collar down to the cuffs, the

back, the tails and the button-holes, all of which were well known to

him, since they were his own handiwork. Such is the habit of tailors;

it is the first thing they do on meeting one.



"But I, here, this--Petrovitch--a cloak, cloth--here you see,

everywhere, in different places, it is quite strong--it is a little

dusty, and looks old, but it is new, only here in one place it is a

little--on the back, and here on one of the shoulders, it is a little

worn, yes, here on this shoulder it is a little--do you see? that is

all. And a little work--"



Petrovitch took the cloak, spread it out, to begin with, on the table,

looked hard at it, shook his head, reached out his hand to the

window-sill for his snuff-box, adorned with the portrait of some

general, though what general is unknown, for the place where the face

should have been had been rubbed through by the finger, and a square

bit of paper had been pasted over it. Having taken a pinch of snuff,

Petrovitch held up the cloak, and inspected it against the light, and

again shook his head once more. After which he again lifted the

general-adorned lid with its bit of pasted paper, and having stuffed

his nose with snuff, closed and put away the snuff-box, and said

finally, "No, it is impossible to mend it; it's a wretched garment!"



Akakiy Akakievitch's heart sank at these words.



"Why is it impossible, Petrovitch?" he said, almost in the pleading

voice of a child; "all that ails it is, that it is worn on the

shoulders. You must have some pieces--"



"Yes, patches could be found, patches are easily found," said

Petrovitch, "but there's nothing to sew them to. The thing is

completely rotten; if you put a needle to it--see, it will give way."



"Let it give way, and you can put on another patch at once."



"But there is nothing to put the patches on to; there's no use in

strengthening it; it is too far gone. It's lucky that it's cloth; for,

if the wind were to blow, it would fly away."



"Well, strengthen it again. How will this, in fact--"



"No," said Petrovitch decisively, "there is nothing to be done with

it. It's a thoroughly bad job. You'd better, when the cold winter

weather comes on, make yourself some gaiters out of it, because

stockings are not warm. The Germans invented them in order to make

more money." Petrovitch loved, on all occasions, to have a fling at

the Germans. "But it is plain you must have a new cloak."



At the word "new," all grew dark before Akakiy Akakievitch's eyes, and

everything in the room began to whirl round. The only thing he saw

clearly was the general with the paper face on the lid of Petrovitch's

snuff-box. "A new one?" said he, as if still in a dream: "why, I have

no money for that."



"Yes, a new one," said Petrovitch, with barbarous composure.



"Well, if it came to a new one, how would it--?"



"You mean how much would it cost?"



"Yes."



"Well, you would have to lay out a hundred and fifty or more," said

Petrovitch, and pursed up his lips significantly. He liked to produce

powerful effects, liked to stun utterly and suddenly, and then to

glance sideways to see what face the stunned person would put on the

matter.



"A hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak!" shrieked poor Akakiy

Akakievitch, perhaps for the first time in his life, for his voice had

always been distinguished for softness.



"Yes, sir," said Petrovitch, "for any kind of cloak. If you have a

marten fur on the collar, or a silk-lined hood, it will mount up to

two hundred."



"Petrovitch, please," said Akakiy Akakievitch in a beseeching tone,

not hearing, and not trying to hear, Petrovitch's words, and

disregarding all his "effects," "some repairs, in order that it may

wear yet a little longer."



"No, it would only be a waste of time and money," said Petrovitch; and

Akakiy Akakievitch went away after these words, utterly discouraged.

But Petrovitch stood for some time after his departure, with

significantly compressed lips, and without betaking himself to his

work, satisfied that he would not be dropped, and an artistic tailor

employed.



Akakiy Akakievitch went out into the street as if in a dream. "Such an

affair!" he said to himself: "I did not think it had come to--" and

then after a pause, he added, "Well, so it is! see what it has come to

at last! and I never imagined that it was so!" Then followed a long

silence, after which he exclaimed, "Well, so it is! see what

already--nothing unexpected that--it would be nothing--what a strange

circumstance!" So saying, instead of going home, he went in exactly

the opposite direction without himself suspecting it. On the way, a

chimney-sweep bumped up against him, and blackened his shoulder, and a

whole hatful of rubbish landed on him from the top of a house which

was building. He did not notice it; and only when he ran against a

watchman, who, having planted his halberd beside him, was shaking some

snuff from his box into his horny hand, did he recover himself a

little, and that because the watchman said, "Why are you poking

yourself into a man's very face? Haven't you the pavement?" This

caused him to look about him, and turn towards home.



There only, he finally began to collect his thoughts, and to survey

his position in its clear and actual light, and to argue with himself,

sensibly and frankly, as with a reasonable friend with whom one can

discuss private and personal matters. "No," said Akakiy Akakievitch,

"it is impossible to reason with Petrovitch now; he is that--evidently

his wife has been beating him. I'd better go to him on Sunday morning;

after Saturday night he will be a little cross-eyed and sleepy, for he

will want to get drunk, and his wife won't give him any money; and at

such a time, a ten-kopek piece in his hand will--he will become more

fit to reason with, and then the cloak, and that--" Thus argued Akakiy

Akakievitch with himself, regained his courage, and waited until the

first Sunday, when, seeing from afar that Petrovitch's wife had left

the house, he went straight to him.



Petrovitch's eye was, indeed, very much askew after Saturday: his head

drooped, and he was very sleepy; but for all that, as soon as he knew

what it was a question of, it seemed as though Satan jogged his

memory. "Impossible," said he: "please to order a new one." Thereupon

Akakiy Akakievitch handed over the ten-kopek piece. "Thank you, sir; I

will drink your good health," said Petrovitch: "but as for the cloak,

don't trouble yourself about it; it is good for nothing. I will make

you a capital new one, so let us settle about it now."



Akakiy Akakievitch was still for mending it; but Petrovitch would not

hear of it, and said, "I shall certainly have to make you a new one,

and you may depend upon it that I shall do my best. It may even be, as

the fashion goes, that the collar can be fastened by silver hooks

under a flap."



Then Akakiy Akakievitch saw that it was impossible to get along

without a new cloak, and his spirit sank utterly. How, in fact, was it

to be done? Where was the money to come from? He might, to be sure,

depend, in part, upon his present at Christmas; but that money had

long been allotted beforehand. He must have some new trousers, and pay

a debt of long standing to the shoemaker for putting new tops to his

old boots, and he must order three shirts from the seamstress, and a

couple of pieces of linen. In short, all his money must be spent; and

even if the director should be so kind as to order him to receive

forty-five rubles instead of forty, or even fifty, it would be a mere

nothing, a mere drop in the ocean towards the funds necessary for a

cloak: although he knew that Petrovitch was often wrong-headed enough

to blurt out some outrageous price, so that even his own wife could

not refrain from exclaiming, "Have you lost your senses, you fool?" At

one time he would not work at any price, and now it was quite likely

that he had named a higher sum than the cloak would cost.



But although he knew that Petrovitch would undertake to make a cloak

for eighty rubles, still, where was he to get the eighty rubles from?

He might possibly manage half, yes, half might be procured, but where

was the other half to come from? But the reader must first be told

where the first half came from. Akakiy Akakievitch had a habit of

putting, for every ruble he spent, a groschen into a small box,

fastened with a lock and key, and with a slit in the top for the

reception of money. At the end of every half-year he counted over the

heap of coppers, and changed it for silver. This he had done for a

long time, and in the course of years, the sum had mounted up to over

forty rubles. Thus he had one half on hand; but where was he to find

the other half? where was he to get another forty rubles from? Akakiy

Akakievitch thought and thought, and decided that it would be

necessary to curtail his ordinary expenses, for the space of one year

at least, to dispense with tea in the evening; to burn no candles,

and, if there was anything which he must do, to go into his landlady's

room, and work by her light. When he went into the street, he must

walk as lightly as he could, and as cautiously, upon the stones,

almost upon tiptoe, in order not to wear his heels down in too short a

time; he must give the laundress as little to wash as possible; and,

in order not to wear out his clothes, he must take them off, as soon

as he got home, and wear only his cotton dressing-gown, which had been

long and carefully saved.



To tell the truth, it was a little hard for him at first to accustom

himself to these deprivations; but he got used to them at length,

after a fashion, and all went smoothly. He even got used to being

hungry in the evening, but he made up for it by treating himself, so

to say, in spirit, by bearing ever in mind the idea of his future

cloak. From that time forth his existence seemed to become, in some

way, fuller, as if he were married, or as if some other man lived in

him, as if, in fact, he were not alone, and some pleasant friend had

consented to travel along life's path with him, the friend being no

other than the cloak, with thick wadding and a strong lining incapable

of wearing out. He became more lively, and even his character grew

firmer, like that of a man who has made up his mind, and set himself a

goal. From his face and gait, doubt and indecision, all hesitating and

wavering traits disappeared of themselves. Fire gleamed in his eyes,

and occasionally the boldest and most daring ideas flitted through his

mind; why not, for instance, have marten fur on the collar? The

thought of this almost made him absent-minded. Once, in copying a

letter, he nearly made a mistake, so that he exclaimed almost aloud,

"Ugh!" and crossed himself. Once, in the course of every month, he had

a conference with Petrovitch on the subject of the cloak, where it

would be better to buy the cloth, and the colour, and the price. He

always returned home satisfied, though troubled, reflecting that the

time would come at last when it could all be bought, and then the

cloak made.



The affair progressed more briskly than he had expected. Far beyond

all his hopes, the director awarded neither forty nor forty-five

rubles for Akakiy Akakievitch's share, but sixty. Whether he suspected

that Akakiy Akakievitch needed a cloak, or whether it was merely

chance, at all events, twenty extra rubles were by this means

provided. This circumstance hastened matters. Two or three months more

of hunger and Akakiy Akakievitch had accumulated about eighty rubles.

His heart, generally so quiet, began to throb. On the first possible

day, he went shopping in company with Petrovitch. They bought some

very good cloth, and at a reasonable rate too, for they had been

considering the matter for six months, and rarely let a month pass

without their visiting the shops to inquire prices. Petrovitch himself

said that no better cloth could be had. For lining, they selected a

cotton stuff, but so firm and thick that Petrovitch declared it to be

better than silk, and even prettier and more glossy. They did not buy

the marten fur, because it was, in fact, dear, but in its stead, they

picked out the very best of cat-skin which could be found in the shop,

and which might, indeed, be taken for marten at a distance.



Petrovitch worked at the cloak two whole weeks, for there was a great

deal of quilting: otherwise it would have been finished sooner. He

charged twelve rubles for the job, it could not possibly have been

done for less. It was all sewed with silk, in small, double seams; and

Petrovitch went over each seam afterwards with his own teeth, stamping

in various patterns.



It was--it is difficult to say precisely on what day, but probably the

most glorious one in Akakiy Akakievitch's life, when Petrovitch at

length brought home the cloak. He brought it in the morning, before

the hour when it was necessary to start for the department. Never did

a cloak arrive so exactly in the nick of time; for the severe cold had

set in, and it seemed to threaten to increase. Petrovitch brought the

cloak himself as befits a good tailor. On his countenance was a

significant expression, such as Akakiy Akakievitch had never beheld

there. He seemed fully sensible that he had done no small deed, and

crossed a gulf separating tailors who only put in linings, and execute

repairs, from those who make new things. He took the cloak out of the

pocket handkerchief in which he had brought it. The handkerchief was

fresh from the laundress, and he put it in his pocket for use. Taking

out the cloak, he gazed proudly at it, held it up with both hands, and

flung it skilfully over the shoulders of Akakiy Akakievitch. Then he

pulled it and fitted it down behind with his hand, and he draped it

around Akakiy Akakievitch without buttoning it. Akakiy Akakievitch,

like an experienced man, wished to try the sleeves. Petrovitch helped

him on with them, and it turned out that the sleeves were satisfactory

also. In short, the cloak appeared to be perfect, and most seasonable.

Petrovitch did not neglect to observe that it was only because he

lived in a narrow street, and had no signboard, and had known Akakiy

Akakievitch so long, that he had made it so cheaply; but that if he

had been in business on the Nevsky Prospect, he would have charged

seventy-five rubles for the making alone. Akakiy Akakievitch did not

care to argue this point with Petrovitch. He paid him, thanked him,

and set out at once in his new cloak for the department. Petrovitch

followed him, and, pausing in the street, gazed long at the cloak in

the distance, after which he went to one side expressly to run through

a crooked alley, and emerge again into the street beyond to gaze once

more upon the cloak from another point, namely, directly in front.



Meantime Akakiy Akakievitch went on in holiday mood. He was conscious

every second of the time that he had a new cloak on his shoulders; and

several times he laughed with internal satisfaction. In fact, there

were two advantages, one was its warmth, the other its beauty. He saw

nothing of the road, but suddenly found himself at the department. He

took off his cloak in the ante-room, looked it over carefully, and

confided it to the especial care of the attendant. It is impossible to

say precisely how it was that every one in the department knew at once

that Akakiy Akakievitch had a new cloak, and that the "cape" no longer

existed. All rushed at the same moment into the ante-room to inspect

it. They congratulated him and said pleasant things to him, so that he

began at first to smile and then to grow ashamed. When all surrounded

him, and said that the new cloak must be "christened," and that he

must give a whole evening at least to this, Akakiy Akakievitch lost

his head completely, and did not know where he stood, what to answer,

or how to get out of it. He stood blushing all over for several

minutes, and was on the point of assuring them with great simplicity

that it was not a new cloak, that it was so and so, that it was in

fact the old "cape."



At length one of the officials, a sub-chief probably, in order to show

that he was not at all proud, and on good terms with his inferiors,

said, "So be it, only I will give the party instead of Akakiy

Akakievitch; I invite you all to tea with me to-night; it happens

quite a propos, as it is my name-day." The officials naturally at once

offered the sub-chief their congratulations and accepted the

invitations with pleasure. Akakiy Akakievitch would have declined, but

all declared that it was discourteous, that it was simply a sin and a

shame, and that he could not possibly refuse. Besides, the notion

became pleasant to him when he recollected that he should thereby have

a chance of wearing his new cloak in the evening also.



That whole day was truly a most triumphant festival day for Akakiy

Akakievitch. He returned home in the most happy frame of mind, took

off his cloak, and hung it carefully on the wall, admiring afresh the

cloth and the lining. Then he brought out his old, worn-out cloak, for

comparison. He looked at it and laughed, so vast was the difference.

And long after dinner he laughed again when the condition of the

"cape" recurred to his mind. He dined cheerfully, and after dinner

wrote nothing, but took his ease for a while on the bed, until it got

dark. Then he dressed himself leisurely, put on his cloak, and stepped

out into the street. Where the host lived, unfortunately we cannot

say: our memory begins to fail us badly; and the houses and streets in

St. Petersburg have become so mixed up in our head that it is very

difficult to get anything out of it again in proper form. This much is

certain, that the official lived in the best part of the city; and

therefore it must have been anything but near to Akakiy Akakievitch's

residence. Akakiy Akakievitch was first obliged to traverse a kind of

wilderness of deserted, dimly-lighted streets; but in proportion as he

approached the official's quarter of the city, the streets became more

lively, more populous, and more brilliantly illuminated. Pedestrians

began to appear; handsomely dressed ladies were more frequently

encountered; the men had otter skin collars to their coats; peasant

waggoners, with their grate-like sledges stuck over with brass-headed

nails, became rarer; whilst on the other hand, more and more drivers

in red velvet caps, lacquered sledges and bear-skin coats began to

appear, and carriages with rich hammer-cloths flew swiftly through the

streets, their wheels scrunching the snow. Akakiy Akakievitch gazed

upon all this as upon a novel sight. He had not been in the streets

during the evening for years. He halted out of curiosity before a

shop-window to look at a picture representing a handsome woman, who

had thrown off her shoe, thereby baring her whole foot in a very

pretty way; whilst behind her the head of a man with whiskers and a

handsome moustache peeped through the doorway of another room. Akakiy

Akakievitch shook his head and laughed, and then went on his way. Why

did he laugh? Either because he had met with a thing utterly unknown,

but for which every one cherishes, nevertheless, some sort of feeling;

or else he thought, like many officials, as follows: "Well, those

French! What is to be said? If they do go in anything of that sort,

why--" But possibly he did not think at all.



Akakiy Akakievitch at length reached the house in which the sub-chief

lodged. The sub-chief lived in fine style: the staircase was lit by a

lamp; his apartment being on the second floor. On entering the

vestibule, Akakiy Akakievitch beheld a whole row of goloshes on the

floor. Among them, in the centre of the room, stood a samovar or

tea-urn, humming and emitting clouds of steam. On the walls hung all

sorts of coats and cloaks, among which there were even some with

beaver collars or velvet facings. Beyond, the buzz of conversation was

audible, and became clear and loud when the servant came out with a

trayful of empty glasses, cream-jugs, and sugar-bowls. It was evident

that the officials had arrived long before, and had already finished

their first glass of tea.



Akakiy Akakievitch, having hung up his own cloak, entered the inner

room. Before him all at once appeared lights, officials, pipes, and

card-tables; and he was bewildered by the sound of rapid conversation

rising from all the tables, and the noise of moving chairs. He halted

very awkwardly in the middle of the room, wondering what he ought to

do. But they had seen him. They received him with a shout, and all

thronged at once into the ante-room, and there took another look at

his cloak. Akakiy Akakievitch, although somewhat confused, was

frank-hearted, and could not refrain from rejoicing when he saw how

they praised his cloak. Then, of course, they all dropped him and his

cloak, and returned, as was proper, to the tables set out for whist.



All this, the noise, the talk, and the throng of people was rather

overwhelming to Akakiy Akakievitch. He simply did not know where he

stood, or where to put his hands, his feet, and his whole body.

Finally he sat down by the players, looked at the cards, gazed at the

face of one and another, and after a while began to gape, and to feel

that it was wearisome, the more so as the hour was already long past

when he usually went to bed. He wanted to take leave of the host; but

they would not let him go, saying that he must not fail to drink a

glass of champagne in honour of his new garment. In the course of an

hour, supper, consisting of vegetable salad, cold veal, pastry,

confectioner's pies, and champagne, was served. They made Akakiy

Akakievitch drink two glasses of champagne, after which he felt things

grow livelier.



Still, he could not forget that it was twelve o'clock, and that he

should have been at home long ago. In order that the host might not

think of some excuse for detaining him, he stole out of the room

quickly, sought out, in the ante-room, his cloak, which, to his

sorrow, he found lying on the floor, brushed it, picked off every

speck upon it, put it on his shoulders, and descended the stairs to

the street.



In the street all was still bright. Some petty shops, those permanent

clubs of servants and all sorts of folk, were open. Others were shut,

but, nevertheless, showed a streak of light the whole length of the

door-crack, indicating that they were not yet free of company, and

that probably some domestics, male and female, were finishing their

stories and conversations whilst leaving their masters in complete

ignorance as to their whereabouts. Akakiy Akakievitch went on in a

happy frame of mind: he even started to run, without knowing why,

after some lady, who flew past like a flash of lightning. But he

stopped short, and went on very quietly as before, wondering why he

had quickened his pace. Soon there spread before him those deserted

streets, which are not cheerful in the daytime, to say nothing of the

evening. Now they were even more dim and lonely: the lanterns began to

grow rarer, oil, evidently, had been less liberally supplied. Then

came wooden houses and fences: not a soul anywhere; only the snow

sparkled in the streets, and mournfully veiled the low-roofed cabins

with their closed shutters. He approached the spot where the street

crossed a vast square with houses barely visible on its farther side,

a square which seemed a fearful desert.



Afar, a tiny spark glimmered from some watchman's box, which seemed to

stand on the edge of the world. Akakiy Akakievitch's cheerfulness

diminished at this point in a marked degree. He entered the square,

not without an involuntary sensation of fear, as though his heart

warned him of some evil. He glanced back and on both sides, it was

like a sea about him. "No, it is better not to look," he thought, and

went on, closing his eyes. When he opened them, to see whether he was

near the end of the square, he suddenly beheld, standing just before

his very nose, some bearded individuals of precisely what sort he

could not make out. All grew dark before his eyes, and his heart

throbbed.



"But, of course, the cloak is mine!" said one of them in a loud voice,

seizing hold of his collar. Akakiy Akakievitch was about to shout

"watch," when the second man thrust a fist, about the size of a man's

head, into his mouth, muttering, "Now scream!"



Akakiy Akakievitch felt them strip off his cloak and give him a push

with a knee: he fell headlong upon the snow, and felt no more. In a

few minutes he recovered consciousness and rose to his feet; but no

one was there. He felt that it was cold in the square, and that his

cloak was gone; he began to shout, but his voice did not appear to

reach to the outskirts of the square. In despair, but without ceasing

to shout, he started at a run across the square, straight towards the

watchbox, beside which stood the watchman, leaning on his halberd, and

apparently curious to know what kind of a customer was running towards

him and shouting. Akakiy Akakievitch ran up to him, and began in a

sobbing voice to shout that he was asleep, and attended to nothing,

and did not see when a man was robbed. The watchman replied that he

had seen two men stop him in the middle of the square, but supposed

that they were friends of his; and that, instead of scolding vainly,

he had better go to the police on the morrow, so that they might make

a search for whoever had stolen the cloak.



Akakiy Akakievitch ran home in complete disorder; his hair, which grew

very thinly upon his temples and the back of his head, wholly

disordered; his body, arms, and legs covered with snow. The old woman,

who was mistress of his lodgings, on hearing a terrible knocking,

sprang hastily from her bed, and, with only one shoe on, ran to open

the door, pressing the sleeve of her chemise to her bosom out of

modesty; but when she had opened it, she fell back on beholding Akakiy

Akakievitch in such a state. When he told her about the affair, she

clasped her hands, and said that he must go straight to the district

chief of police, for his subordinate would turn up his nose, promise

well, and drop the matter there. The very best thing to do, therefore,

would be to go to the district chief, whom she knew, because Finnish

Anna, her former cook, was now nurse at his house. She often saw him

passing the house; and he was at church every Sunday, praying, but at

the same time gazing cheerfully at everybody; so that he must be a

good man, judging from all appearances. Having listened to this

opinion, Akakiy Akakievitch betook himself sadly to his room; and how

he spent the night there any one who can put himself in another's

place may readily imagine.



Early in the morning, he presented himself at the district chief's;

but was told that this official was asleep. He went again at ten and

was again informed that he was asleep; at eleven, and they said: "The

superintendent is not at home;" at dinner time, and the clerks in the

ante-room would not admit him on any terms, and insisted upon knowing

his business. So that at last, for once in his life, Akakiy

Akakievitch felt an inclination to show some spirit, and said curtly

that he must see the chief in person; that they ought not to presume

to refuse him entrance; that he came from the department of justice,

and that when he complained of them, they would see.



The clerks dared make no reply to this, and one of them went to call

the chief, who listened to the strange story of the theft of the coat.

Instead of directing his attention to the principal points of the

matter, he began to question Akakiy Akakievitch: Why was he going home

so late? Was he in the habit of doing so, or had he been to some

disorderly house? So that Akakiy Akakievitch got thoroughly confused,

and left him without knowing whether the affair of his cloak was in

proper train or not.



All that day, for the first time in his life, he never went near the

department. The next day he made his appearance, very pale, and in his

old cape, which had become even more shabby. The news of the robbery

of the cloak touched many; although there were some officials present

who never lost an opportunity, even such a one as the present, of

ridiculing Akakiy Akakievitch. They decided to make a collection for

him on the spot, but the officials had already spent a great deal in

subscribing for the director's portrait, and for some book, at the

suggestion of the head of that division, who was a friend of the

author; and so the sum was trifling.



One of them, moved by pity, resolved to help Akakiy Akakievitch with

some good advice at least, and told him that he ought not to go to the

police, for although it might happen that a police-officer, wishing to

win the approval of his superiors, might hunt up the cloak by some

means, still his cloak would remain in the possession of the police if

he did not offer legal proof that it belonged to him. The best thing

for him, therefore, would be to apply to a certain prominent

personage; since this prominent personage, by entering into relations

with the proper persons, could greatly expedite the matter.



As there was nothing else to be done, Akakiy Akakievitch decided to go

to the prominent personage. What was the exact official position of

the prominent personage remains unknown to this day. The reader must

know that the prominent personage had but recently become a prominent

personage, having up to that time been only an insignificant person.

Moreover, his present position was not considered prominent in

comparison with others still more so. But there is always a circle of

people to whom what is insignificant in the eyes of others, is

important enough. Moreover, he strove to increase his importance by

sundry devices; for instance, he managed to have the inferior

officials meet him on the staircase when he entered upon his service;

no one was to presume to come directly to him, but the strictest

etiquette must be observed; the collegiate recorder must make a report

to the government secretary, the government secretary to the titular

councillor, or whatever other man was proper, and all business must

come before him in this manner. In Holy Russia all is thus

contaminated with the love of imitation; every man imitates and copies

his superior. They even say that a certain titular councillor, when

promoted to the head of some small separate room, immediately

partitioned off a private room for himself, called it the audience

chamber, and posted at the door a lackey with red collar and braid,

who grasped the handle of the door and opened to all comers; though

the audience chamber could hardly hold an ordinary writing-table.



The manners and customs of the prominent personage were grand and

imposing, but rather exaggerated. The main foundation of his system

was strictness. "Strictness, strictness, and always strictness!" he

generally said; and at the last word he looked significantly into the

face of the person to whom he spoke. But there was no necessity for

this, for the half-score of subordinates who formed the entire force

of the office were properly afraid; on catching sight of him afar off

they left their work and waited, drawn up in line, until he had passed

through the room. His ordinary converse with his inferiors smacked of

sternness, and consisted chiefly of three phrases: "How dare you?" "Do

you know whom you are speaking to?" "Do you realise who stands before

you?"



Otherwise he was a very kind-hearted man, good to his comrades, and

ready to oblige; but the rank of general threw him completely off his

balance. On receiving any one of that rank, he became confused, lost

his way, as it were, and never knew what to do. If he chanced to be

amongst his equals he was still a very nice kind of man, a very good

fellow in many respects, and not stupid; but the very moment that he

found himself in the society of people but one rank lower than himself

he became silent; and his situation aroused sympathy, the more so as

he felt himself that he might have been making an incomparably better

use of his time. In his eyes there was sometimes visible a desire to

join some interesting conversation or group; but he was kept back by

the thought, "Would it not be a very great condescension on his part?

Would it not be familiar? and would he not thereby lose his

importance?" And in consequence of such reflections he always remained

in the same dumb state, uttering from time to time a few monosyllabic

sounds, and thereby earning the name of the most wearisome of men.



To this prominent personage Akakiy Akakievitch presented himself, and

this at the most unfavourable time for himself though opportune for

the prominent personage. The prominent personage was in his cabinet

conversing gaily with an old acquaintance and companion of his

childhood whom he had not seen for several years and who had just

arrived when it was announced to him that a person named Bashmatchkin

had come. He asked abruptly, "Who is he?"--"Some official," he was

informed. "Ah, he can wait! this is no time for him to call," said the

important man.



It must be remarked here that the important man lied outrageously: he

had said all he had to say to his friend long before; and the

conversation had been interspersed for some time with very long

pauses, during which they merely slapped each other on the leg, and

said, "You think so, Ivan Abramovitch!" "Just so, Stepan Varlamitch!"

Nevertheless, he ordered that the official should be kept waiting, in

order to show his friend, a man who had not been in the service for a

long time, but had lived at home in the country, how long officials

had to wait in his ante-room.



At length, having talked himself completely out, and more than that,

having had his fill of pauses, and smoked a cigar in a very

comfortable arm-chair with reclining back, he suddenly seemed to

recollect, and said to the secretary, who stood by the door with

papers of reports, "So it seems that there is a tchinovnik waiting to

see me. Tell him that he may come in." On perceiving Akakiy

Akakievitch's modest mien and his worn undress uniform, he turned

abruptly to him and said, "What do you want?" in a curt hard voice,

which he had practised in his room in private, and before the

looking-glass, for a whole week before being raised to his present

rank.



Akakiy Akakievitch, who was already imbued with a due amount of fear,

became somewhat confused: and as well as his tongue would permit,

explained, with a rather more frequent addition than usual of the word

"that," that his cloak was quite new, and had been stolen in the most

inhuman manner; that he had applied to him in order that he might, in

some way, by his intermediation--that he might enter into

correspondence with the chief of police, and find the cloak.



For some inexplicable reason this conduct seemed familiar to the

prominent personage. "What, my dear sir!" he said abruptly, "are you

not acquainted with etiquette? Where have you come from? Don't you

know how such matters are managed? You should first have entered a

complaint about this at the court below: it would have gone to the

head of the department, then to the chief of the division, then it

would have been handed over to the secretary, and the secretary would

have given it to me."



"But, your excellency," said Akakiy Akakievitch, trying to collect his

small handful of wits, and conscious at the same time that he was

perspiring terribly, "I, your excellency, presumed to trouble you

because secretaries--are an untrustworthy race."



"What, what, what!" said the important personage. "Where did you get

such courage? Where did you get such ideas? What impudence towards

their chiefs and superiors has spread among the young generation!" The

prominent personage apparently had not observed that Akakiy

Akakievitch was already in the neighbourhood of fifty. If he could be

called a young man, it must have been in comparison with some one who

was twenty. "Do you know to whom you speak? Do you realise who stands

before you? Do you realise it? do you realise it? I ask you!" Then he

stamped his foot and raised his voice to such a pitch that it would

have frightened even a different man from Akakiy Akakievitch.



Akakiy Akakievitch's senses failed him; he staggered, trembled in

every limb, and, if the porters had not run to support him, would have

fallen to the floor. They carried him out insensible. But the

prominent personage, gratified that the effect should have surpassed

his expectations, and quite intoxicated with the thought that his word

could even deprive a man of his senses, glanced sideways at his friend

in order to see how he looked upon this, and perceived, not without

satisfaction, that his friend was in a most uneasy frame of mind, and

even beginning, on his part, to feel a trifle frightened.



Akakiy Akakievitch could not remember how he descended the stairs and

got into the street. He felt neither his hands nor feet. Never in his

life had he been so rated by any high official, let alone a strange

one. He went staggering on through the snow-storm, which was blowing

in the streets, with his mouth wide open; the wind, in St. Petersburg

fashion, darted upon him from all quarters, and down every

cross-street. In a twinkling it had blown a quinsy into his throat,

and he reached home unable to utter a word. His throat was swollen,

and he lay down on his bed. So powerful is sometimes a good scolding!



The next day a violent fever showed itself. Thanks to the generous

assistance of the St. Petersburg climate, the malady progressed more

rapidly than could have been expected: and when the doctor arrived, he

found, on feeling the sick man's pulse, that there was nothing to be

done, except to prescribe a fomentation, so that the patient might not

be left entirely without the beneficent aid of medicine; but at the

same time, he predicted his end in thirty-six hours. After this he

turned to the landlady, and said, "And as for you, don't waste your

time on him: order his pine coffin now, for an oak one will be too

expensive for him." Did Akakiy Akakievitch hear these fatal words? and

if he heard them, did they produce any overwhelming effect upon him?

Did he lament the bitterness of his life?--We know not, for he

continued in a delirious condition. Visions incessantly appeared to

him, each stranger than the other. Now he saw Petrovitch, and ordered

him to make a cloak, with some traps for robbers, who seemed to him to

be always under the bed; and cried every moment to the landlady to

pull one of them from under his coverlet. Then he inquired why his old

mantle hung before him when he had a new cloak. Next he fancied that

he was standing before the prominent person, listening to a thorough

setting-down, and saying, "Forgive me, your excellency!" but at last

he began to curse, uttering the most horrible words, so that his aged

landlady crossed herself, never in her life having heard anything of

the kind from him, the more so as those words followed directly after

the words "your excellency." Later on he talked utter nonsense, of

which nothing could be made: all that was evident being, that his

incoherent words and thoughts hovered ever about one thing, his cloak.



At length poor Akakiy Akakievitch breathed his last. They sealed up

neither his room nor his effects, because, in the first place, there

were no heirs, and, in the second, there was very little to inherit

beyond a bundle of goose-quills, a quire of white official paper,

three pairs of socks, two or three buttons which had burst off his

trousers, and the mantle already known to the reader. To whom all this

fell, God knows. I confess that the person who told me this tale took

no interest in the matter. They carried Akakiy Akakievitch out and

buried him.



And St. Petersburg was left without Akakiy Akakievitch, as though he

had never lived there. A being disappeared who was protected by none,

dear to none, interesting to none, and who never even attracted to

himself the attention of those students of human nature who omit no

opportunity of thrusting a pin through a common fly, and examining it

under the microscope. A being who bore meekly the jibes of the

department, and went to his grave without having done one unusual

deed, but to whom, nevertheless, at the close of his life appeared a

bright visitant in the form of a cloak, which momentarily cheered his

poor life, and upon whom, thereafter, an intolerable misfortune

descended, just as it descends upon the mighty of this world!



Several days after his death, the porter was sent from the department

to his lodgings, with an order for him to present himself there

immediately; the chief commanding it. But the porter had to return

unsuccessful, with the answer that he could not come; and to the

question, "Why?" replied, "Well, because he is dead! he was buried

four days ago." In this manner did they hear of Akakiy Akakievitch's

death at the department, and the next day a new official sat in his

place, with a handwriting by no means so upright, but more inclined

and slanting.



But who could have imagined that this was not really the end of Akakiy

Akakievitch, that he was destined to raise a commotion after death, as

if in compensation for his utterly insignificant life? But so it

happened, and our poor story unexpectedly gains a fantastic ending.



A rumour suddenly spread through St. Petersburg that a dead man had

taken to appearing on the Kalinkin Bridge and its vicinity at night in

the form of a tchinovnik seeking a stolen cloak, and that, under the

pretext of its being the stolen cloak, he dragged, without regard to

rank or calling, every one's cloak from his shoulders, be it cat-skin,

beaver, fox, bear, sable; in a word, every sort of fur and skin which

men adopted for their covering. One of the department officials saw

the dead man with his own eyes and immediately recognised in him

Akakiy Akakievitch. This, however, inspired him with such terror that

he ran off with all his might, and therefore did not scan the dead man

closely, but only saw how the latter threatened him from afar with his

finger. Constant complaints poured in from all quarters that the backs

and shoulders, not only of titular but even of court councillors, were

exposed to the danger of a cold on account of the frequent dragging

off of their cloaks.



Arrangements were made by the police to catch the corpse, alive or

dead, at any cost, and punish him as an example to others in the most

severe manner. In this they nearly succeeded; for a watchman, on guard

in Kirushkin Alley, caught the corpse by the collar on the very scene

of his evil deeds, when attempting to pull off the frieze coat of a

retired musician. Having seized him by the collar, he summoned, with a

shout, two of his comrades, whom he enjoined to hold him fast while he

himself felt for a moment in his boot, in order to draw out his

snuff-box and refresh his frozen nose. But the snuff was of a sort

which even a corpse could not endure. The watchman having closed his

right nostril with his finger, had no sooner succeeded in holding half

a handful up to the left than the corpse sneezed so violently that he

completely filled the eyes of all three. While they raised their hands

to wipe them, the dead man vanished completely, so that they

positively did not know whether they had actually had him in their

grip at all. Thereafter the watchmen conceived such a terror of dead

men that they were afraid even to seize the living, and only screamed

from a distance, "Hey, there! go your way!" So the dead tchinovnik

began to appear even beyond the Kalinkin Bridge, causing no little

terror to all timid people.



But we have totally neglected that certain prominent personage who may

really be considered as the cause of the fantastic turn taken by this

true history. First of all, justice compels us to say that after the

departure of poor, annihilated Akakiy Akakievitch he felt something

like remorse. Suffering was unpleasant to him, for his heart was

accessible to many good impulses, in spite of the fact that his rank

often prevented his showing his true self. As soon as his friend had

left his cabinet, he began to think about poor Akakiy Akakievitch. And

from that day forth, poor Akakiy Akakievitch, who could not bear up

under an official reprimand, recurred to his mind almost every day.

The thought troubled him to such an extent that a week later he even

resolved to send an official to him, to learn whether he really could

assist him; and when it was reported to him that Akakiy Akakievitch

had died suddenly of fever, he was startled, hearkened to the

reproaches of his conscience, and was out of sorts for the whole day.



Wishing to divert his mind in some way, and drive away the

disagreeable impression, he set out that evening for one of his

friends' houses, where he found quite a large party assembled. What

was better, nearly every one was of the same rank as himself, so that

he need not feel in the least constrained. This had a marvellous

effect upon his mental state. He grew expansive, made himself

agreeable in conversation, in short, he passed a delightful evening.

After supper he drank a couple of glasses of champagne--not a bad

recipe for cheerfulness, as every one knows. The champagne inclined

him to various adventures; and he determined not to return home, but

to go and see a certain well-known lady of German extraction, Karolina

Ivanovna, a lady, it appears, with whom he was on a very friendly

footing.



It must be mentioned that the prominent personage was no longer a

young man, but a good husband and respected father of a family. Two

sons, one of whom was already in the service, and a good-looking,

sixteen-year-old daughter, with a rather retrousse but pretty little

nose, came every morning to kiss his hand and say, "Bonjour, papa."

His wife, a still fresh and good-looking woman, first gave him her

hand to kiss, and then, reversing the procedure, kissed his. But the

prominent personage, though perfectly satisfied in his domestic

relations, considered it stylish to have a friend in another quarter

of the city. This friend was scarcely prettier or younger than his

wife; but there are such puzzles in the world, and it is not our place

to judge them. So the important personage descended the stairs,

stepped into his sledge, said to the coachman, "To Karolina

Ivanovna's," and, wrapping himself luxuriously in his warm cloak,

found himself in that delightful frame of mind than which a Russian

can conceive no better, namely, when you think of nothing yourself,

yet when the thoughts creep into your mind of their own accord, each

more agreeable than the other, giving you no trouble either to drive

them away or seek them. Fully satisfied, he recalled all the gay

features of the evening just passed, and all the mots which had made

the little circle laugh. Many of them he repeated in a low voice, and

found them quite as funny as before; so it is not surprising that he

should laugh heartily at them. Occasionally, however, he was

interrupted by gusts of wind, which, coming suddenly, God knows whence

or why, cut his face, drove masses of snow into it, filled out his

cloak-collar like a sail, or suddenly blew it over his head with

supernatural force, and thus caused him constant trouble to

disentangle himself.



Suddenly the important personage felt some one clutch him firmly by

the collar. Turning round, he perceived a man of short stature, in an

old, worn uniform, and recognised, not without terror, Akakiy

Akakievitch. The official's face was white as snow, and looked just

like a corpse's. But the horror of the important personage transcended

all bounds when he saw the dead man's mouth open, and, with a terrible

odour of the grave, gave vent to the following remarks: "Ah, here you

are at last! I have you, that--by the collar! I need your cloak; you

took no trouble about mine, but reprimanded me; so now give up your

own."



The pallid prominent personage almost died of fright. Brave as he was

in the office and in the presence of inferiors generally, and

although, at the sight of his manly form and appearance, every one

said, "Ugh! how much character he had!" at this crisis, he, like many

possessed of an heroic exterior, experienced such terror, that, not

without cause, he began to fear an attack of illness. He flung his

cloak hastily from his shoulders and shouted to his coachman in an

unnatural voice, "Home at full speed!" The coachman, hearing the tone

which is generally employed at critical moments and even accompanied

by something much more tangible, drew his head down between his

shoulders in case of an emergency, flourished his whip, and flew on

like an arrow. In a little more than six minutes the prominent

personage was at the entrance of his own house. Pale, thoroughly

scared, and cloakless, he went home instead of to Karolina Ivanovna's,

reached his room somehow or other, and passed the night in the direst

distress; so that the next morning over their tea his daughter said,

"You are very pale to-day, papa." But papa remained silent, and said

not a word to any one of what had happened to him, where he had been,

or where he had intended to go.



This occurrence made a deep impression upon him. He even began to say:

"How dare you? do you realise who stands before you?" less frequently

to the under-officials, and if he did utter the words, it was only

after having first learned the bearings of the matter. But the most

noteworthy point was, that from that day forward the apparition of the

dead tchinovnik ceased to be seen. Evidently the prominent personage's

cloak just fitted his shoulders; at all events, no more instances of

his dragging cloaks from people's shoulders were heard of. But many

active and apprehensive persons could by no means reassure themselves,

and asserted that the dead tchinovnik still showed himself in distant

parts of the city.



In fact, one watchman in Kolomna saw with his own eyes the apparition

come from behind a house. But being rather weak of body, he dared not

arrest him, but followed him in the dark, until, at length, the

apparition looked round, paused, and inquired, "What do you want?" at

the same time showing a fist such as is never seen on living men. The

watchman said, "It's of no consequence," and turned back instantly.

But the apparition was much too tall, wore huge moustaches, and,

directing its steps apparently towards the Obukhoff bridge,

disappeared in the darkness of the night.