[Illustration]
_The naturalistic movement, which took its rise in France with Balzac
and Mérimée, was represented in Russia by Gogol (born 1809, died 1852),
who has been called the true founder of the Russian school of fiction.
He undoubtedly derived some inspiration from the romantic Poushkin,
but, unlike Poushkin, he was of Cossack origin--that is, not pure
Russian; he was born in Southwestern Russia, on the borders of Poland.
His writings have exerted a great influence on both French and Russian
writers. Zola frankly confesses him as his master, and Turgenev has
said: “We all came from Gogol’s ‘Cloak.’” Over and above the constant
observation of life on which his work is based, and the remarkable
ability he possessed to present his facts in a simple, natural manner,
there is always the understanding and sympathy of a big-hearted man of
the people._
[Illustration]
THE CLOAK
BY NIKOLAI GOGOL
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
in every ten lines, and sometimes in a drunken condition. Therefore, in
order to avoid all unpleasantness, it will be better to designate the
department in question 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 councilor, over which some writers
make merry and crack their jokes, obeying the praiseworthy custom of
attacking those who can not 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 was how it came about.
Akakiy Akakievitch was born, if my memory fails me not, in the evening
on the 23d of March. His mother, the wife of a Government official,
and a very fine woman, made all due arrangements for having the child
baptized. She was lying on the bed opposite the door; on her right
stood the godfather, Iván Ivanovitch Eroshkin, a most estimable man,
who served as presiding officer of the senate; and 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 at 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. Varadat 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 councilor.
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 afterward 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 subchief 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
among 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 newcomer, 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 afterward, 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 afterward, 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 honorable
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 labored with zeal: no,
he labored with love. In his copying he found a varied and agreeable
employment. Enjoyment was written on his face: some letters were even
favorites 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 councilor 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 color. 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
was 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 gray St. Petersburg sky had quite
disappeared, 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 anteroom 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 councilors as well as for private, actual, court, and every
other species of councilor, 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
councilors 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 staircase, and who, in spite of his having but one eye, and
pock-marks all over his face, busied himself 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 festivals without
discrimination, wherever a cross stood in the calendar. On this point
he was faithful to ancestral custom; and when quarreling 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 can not 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 as they 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. Afterward, 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. Then he turned it, lining upward, and 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 at 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 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 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
sidewise 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 toward 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 toward 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 kopek into a small box, fastened
with 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 color, 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 afterward with his own teeth.
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 sign-board, 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 anteroom, 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 anteroom, 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 subchief 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 _à propos_, as it is my name-day.” The officials naturally at
once offered the subchief their congratulations, and accepted the
invitation 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 can not
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
wagoners, with their grate like sledges stuck over with brass-headed
nails, became rarer; while, 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 hammercloths flew swiftly through the
streets, their wheels crunching 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; while
behind her the head of a man with whiskers and a handsome mustache
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 subchief
lodged. The subchief 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 samovár,
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 a 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 anteroom, 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 honor of his new garment. In the course of
an hour, supper, consisting of vegetables, 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 anteroom, 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 folks, 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, while 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 toward the watch-box,
beside which stood the watchman, leaning on his halberd, and apparently
curious to know what kind of a customer was running toward 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
anteroom 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 councilor, 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 councilor, 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 would 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 realize 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 among
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 unfavorable time for himself, though opportune for
the prominent personage. The prominent personage was in his cabinet,
conversing very 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, Iván Abramovitch?” “Just so, Stephan Varlamovitch!”
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 anteroom.
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
armchair 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 toward
their chiefs and superiors has spread among the young generation!” The
prominent personage apparently had not observed that Akakiy Akakievitch
was already in the neighborhood of fifty. If he could be called a young
man, it must have been in comparison with some one who was seventy. “Do
you know to whom you speak? Do you realize who stands before you? Do
you realize it? do you realize 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 in 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 sidewise 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 snowstorm, 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 heads of 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 rumor 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 recognized 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, of those
who 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 cloak 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, harkened 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 marvelous 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 _retroussé_ but pretty little
nose, came every morning to kiss his hand, and say: “_Bon jour_,
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 nothing
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 recognized, 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 odor of the
grave, give 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 has!” at this crisis, he, like many possessed of
a 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 realize who stands before you?” less frequently
to the under-officials, and, if he did utter the words, it was only
after first having 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 such a fist 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 mustaches, and, directing
its steps apparently toward the Obukhoff Bridge, disappeared in the
darkness of the night.