CHAPTER XII

They soon found traces of Taras. An army of a hundred and twenty

thousand Cossacks appeared on the frontier of the Ukraine. This was no

small detachment sallying forth for plunder or in pursuit of the Tatars.

No: the whole nation had risen, for the measure of the people’s patience

was over-full; they had risen to avenge the disregard of their rights,

the dishonourable humiliation of themselves, the insults to the faith of

their fathers and their sacred customs, the outrages upon their church,

the excesses of the foreign nobles, the disgraceful domination of the

Jews on Christian soil, and all that had aroused and deepened the stern

hatred of the Cossacks for a long time past. Hetman Ostranitza, young,

but firm in mind, led the vast Cossack force. Beside him was seen his

old and experienced friend and counsellor, Gunya. Eight leaders led

bands of twelve thousand men each. Two osauls and a bunchuzhniy assisted

the hetman. A cornet-general carried the chief standard, whilst many

other banners and standards floated in the air; and the comrades of the

staff bore the golden staff of the hetman, the symbol of his office.

There were also many other officials belonging to the different bands,

the baggage train and the main force with detachments of infantry and

cavalry. There were almost as many free Cossacks and volunteers as there

were registered Cossacks. The Cossacks had risen everywhere. They came

from Tchigirin, from Pereyaslaf, from Baturin, from Glukhof, from the

regions of the lower Dnieper, and from all its upper shores and islands.

An uninterrupted stream of horses and herds of cattle stretched across

the plain. And among all these Cossacks, among all these bands, one was

the choicest; and that was the band led by Taras Bulba. All contributed

to give him an influence over the others: his advanced years, his

experience and skill in directing an army, and his bitter hatred of the

foe. His unsparing fierceness and cruelty seemed exaggerated even to the

Cossacks. His grey head dreamed of naught save fire and sword, and his

utterances at the councils of war breathed only annihilation.

It is useless to describe all the battles in which the Cossacks

distinguished themselves, or the gradual courses of the campaign. All

this is set down in the chronicles. It is well known what an army raised

on Russian soil, for the orthodox faith, is like. There is no power

stronger than faith. It is threatening and invincible like a rock, and

rising amidst the stormy, ever-changing sea. From the very bottom of the

sea it rears to heaven its jagged sides of firm, impenetrable stone. It

is visible from everywhere, and looks the waves straight in the face

as they roll past. And woe to the ship which is dashed against it! Its

frame flies into splinters, everything in it is split and crushed, and

the startled air re-echoes the piteous cries of the drowning.

In the pages of the chronicles there is a minute description of how the

Polish garrisons fled from the freed cities; how the unscrupulous Jewish

tavern-keepers were hung; how powerless was the royal hetman, Nikolai

Pototzky, with his numerous army, against this invincible force; how,

routed and pursued, he lost the best of his troops by drowning in a

small stream; how the fierce Cossack regiments besieged him in the

little town of Polon; and how, reduced to extremities, he promised,

under oath, on the part of the king and the government, its full

satisfaction to all, and the restoration of all their rights and

privileges. But the Cossacks were not men to give way for this. They

already knew well what a Polish oath was worth. And Pototzky would never

more have pranced on his six-thousand ducat horse from the Kabardei,

attracting the glances of distinguished ladies and the envy of the

nobility; he would never more have made a figure in the Diet, by giving

costly feasts to the senators--if the Russian priests who were in the

little town had not saved him. When all the popes, in their brilliant

gold vestments, went out to meet the Cossacks, bearing the holy pictures

and the cross, with the bishop himself at their head, crosier in hand

and mitre on his head, the Cossacks all bowed their heads and took off

their caps. To no one lower than the king himself would they have shown

respect at such an hour; but their daring fell before the Church of

Christ, and they honoured their priesthood. The hetman and leaders

agreed to release Pototzky, after having extracted from him a solemn

oath to leave all the Christian churches unmolested, to forswear the

ancient enmity, and to do no harm to the Cossack forces. One leader

alone would not consent to such a peace. It was Taras. He tore a handful

of hair from his head, and cried:

“Hetman and leaders! Commit no such womanish deed. Trust not the Lyakhs;

slay the dogs!”

When the secretary presented the agreement, and the hetman put his hand

to it, Taras drew a genuine Damascene blade, a costly Turkish sabre

of the finest steel, broke it in twain like a reed, and threw the two

pieces far away on each side, saying, “Farewell! As the two pieces of

this sword will never reunite and form one sword again, so we, comrades,

shall nevermore behold each other in this world. Remember my parting

words.” As he spoke his voice grew stronger, rose higher, and acquired a

hitherto unknown power; and his prophetic utterances troubled them all.

“Before the death hour you will remember me! Do you think that you have

purchased peace and quiet? do you think that you will make a great show?

You will make a great show, but after another fashion. They will flay

the skin from your head, hetman, they will stuff it with bran, and

long will it be exhibited at fairs. Neither will you retain your heads,

gentles. You will be thrown into damp dungeons, walled about with stone,

if they do not boil you alive in cauldrons like sheep. And you, men,” he

continued, turning to his followers, “which of you wants to die his true

death? not through sorrows and the ale-house; but an honourable Cossack

death, all in one bed, like bride and groom? But, perhaps, you would

like to return home, and turn infidels, and carry Polish priests on your

backs?”

“We will follow you, noble leader, we will follow you!” shouted all his

band, and many others joined them.

“If it is to be so, then follow me,” said Taras, pulling his cap farther

over his brows. Looking menacingly at the others, he went to his

horse, and cried to his men, “Let no one reproach us with any insulting

speeches. Now, hey there, men! we’ll call on the Catholics.” And then

he struck his horse, and there followed him a camp of a hundred waggons,

and with them many Cossack cavalry and infantry; and, turning, he

threatened with a glance all who remained behind, and wrath was in his

eye. The band departed in full view of all the army, and Taras continued

long to turn and glower.

The hetman and leaders were uneasy; all became thoughtful, and remained

silent, as though oppressed by some heavy foreboding. Not in vain had

Taras prophesied: all came to pass as he had foretold. A little later,

after the treacherous attack at Kaneva, the hetman’s head was mounted on

a stake, together with those of many of his officers.

And what of Taras? Taras made raids all over Poland with his band,

burned eighteen towns and nearly forty churches, and reached Cracow.

He killed many nobles, and plundered some of the richest and finest

castles. The Cossacks emptied on the ground the century-old mead and

wine, carefully hoarded up in lordly cellars; they cut and burned the

rich garments and equipments which they found in the wardrobes.

“Spare nothing,” was the order of Taras. The Cossacks spared not the

black-browed gentlewomen, the brilliant, white-bosomed maidens: these

could not save themselves even at the altar, for Taras burned them with

the altar itself. Snowy hands were raised to heaven from amid fiery

flames, with piteous shrieks which would have moved the damp earth

itself to pity and caused the steppe-grass to bend with compassion

at their fate. But the cruel Cossacks paid no heed; and, raising the

children in the streets upon the points of their lances, they cast them

also into the flames.

“This is a mass for the soul of Ostap, you heathen Lyakhs,” was all

that Taras said. And such masses for Ostap he had sung in every village,

until the Polish Government perceived that Taras’s raids were more than

ordinary expeditions for plunder; and Pototzky was given five regiments,

and ordered to capture him without fail.

Six days did the Cossacks retreat along the by-roads before their

pursuers; their horses were almost equal to this unchecked flight, and

nearly saved them. But this time Pototzky was also equal to the task

intrusted to him; unweariedly he followed them, and overtook them on the

bank of the Dniester, where Taras had taken possession of an abandoned

and ruined castle for the purpose of resting.

On the very brink of the Dniester it stood, with its shattered ramparts

and the ruined remnants of its walls. The summit of the cliff was strewn

with ragged stones and broken bricks, ready at any moment to detach

themselves. The royal hetman, Pototzky, surrounded it on the two sides

which faced the plain. Four days did the Cossacks fight, tearing down

bricks and stones for missiles. But their stones and their strength

were at length exhausted, and Taras resolved to cut his way through the

beleaguering forces. And the Cossacks would have cut their way through,

and their swift steeds might again have served them faithfully, had not

Taras halted suddenly in the very midst of their flight, and shouted,

“Halt! my pipe has dropped with its tobacco: I won’t let those heathen

Lyakhs have my pipe!” And the old hetman stooped down, and felt in the

grass for his pipe full of tobacco, his inseparable companion on all his

expeditions by sea and land and at home.

But in the meantime a band of Lyakhs suddenly rushed up, and seized him

by the shoulders. He struggled with all might; but he could not scatter

on the earth, as he had been wont to do, the heydukes who had seized

him. “Oh, old age, old age!” he exclaimed: and the stout old Cossack

wept. But his age was not to blame: nearly thirty men were clinging to

his arms and legs.

“The raven is caught!” yelled the Lyakhs. “We must think how we can show

him the most honour, the dog!” They decided, with the permission of the

hetman, to burn him alive in the sight of all. There stood hard by a

leafless tree, the summit of which had been struck by lightning. They

fastened him with iron chains and nails driven through his hands high up

on the trunk of the tree, so that he might be seen from all sides; and

began at once to place fagots at its foot. But Taras did not look at

the wood, nor did he think of the fire with which they were preparing to

roast him: he gazed anxiously in the direction whence his Cossacks were

firing. From his high point of observation he could see everything as in

the palm of his hand.

“Take possession, men,” he shouted, “of the hillock behind the wood:

they cannot climb it!” But the wind did not carry his words to them.

“They are lost, lost!” he said in despair, and glanced down to where

the water of the Dniester glittered. Joy gleamed in his eyes. He saw the

sterns of four boats peeping out from behind some bushes; exerted all

the power of his lungs, and shouted in a ringing tone, “To the bank, to

the bank, men! descend the path to the left, under the cliff. There are

boats on the bank; take all, that they may not catch you.”

This time the breeze blew from the other side, and his words were

audible to the Cossacks. But for this counsel he received a blow on the

head with the back of an axe, which made everything dance before his

eyes.

The Cossacks descended the cliff path at full speed, but their pursuers

were at their heels. They looked: the path wound and twisted, and made

many detours to one side. “Comrades, we are trapped!” said they. All

halted for an instant, raised their whips, whistled, and their Tatar

horses rose from the ground, clove the air like serpents, flew over

the precipice, and plunged straight into the Dniester. Two only did not

alight in the river, but thundered down from the height upon the stones,

and perished there with their horses without uttering a cry. But the

Cossacks had already swum shoreward from their horses, and unfastened

the boats, when the Lyakhs halted on the brink of the precipice,

astounded by this wonderful feat, and thinking, “Shall we jump down to

them, or not?”

One young colonel, a lively, hot-blooded soldier, own brother to the

beautiful Pole who had seduced poor Andrii, did not reflect long, but

leaped with his horse after the Cossacks. He made three turns in the air

with his steed, and fell heavily on the rocks. The sharp stones tore him

in pieces; and his brains, mingled with blood, bespattered the shrubs

growing on the uneven walls of the precipice.

When Taras Bulba recovered from the blow, and glanced towards the

Dniester, the Cossacks were already in the skiffs and rowing away. Balls

were showered upon them from above but did not reach them. And the old

hetman’s eyes sparkled with joy.

“Farewell, comrades!” he shouted to them from above; “remember me, and

come hither again next spring and make merry in the same fashion! What!

cursed Lyakhs, have ye caught me? Think ye there is anything in the

world that a Cossack fears? Wait; the time will come when ye shall learn

what the orthodox Russian faith is! Already the people scent it far and

near. A czar shall arise from Russian soil, and there shall not be a

power in the world which shall not submit to him!” But fire had already

risen from the fagots; it lapped his feet, and the flame spread to the

tree.... But can any fire, flames, or power be found on earth which are

capable of overpowering Russian strength?

Broad is the river Dniester, and in it are many deep pools, dense

reed-beds, clear shallows and little bays; its watery mirror gleams,

filled with the melodious plaint of the swan, the proud wild goose

glides swiftly over it; and snipe, red-throated ruffs, and other birds

are to be found among the reeds and along the banks. The Cossacks rowed

swiftly on in the narrow double-ruddered boats--rowed stoutly, carefully

shunning the sand bars, and cleaving the ranks of the birds, which took

wing--rowed, and talked of their hetman.

ST. JOHN’S EVE

A STORY TOLD BY THE SACRISTAN OF THE DIKANKA CHURCH

Thoma Grigorovitch had one very strange eccentricity: to the day of

his death he never liked to tell the same thing twice. There were times

when, if you asked him to relate a thing afresh, he would interpolate

new matter, or alter it so that it was impossible to recognise it. Once

upon a time, one of those gentlemen who, like the usurers at our yearly

fairs, clutch and beg and steal every sort of frippery, and issue mean

little volumes, no thicker than an A B C book, every month, or even

every week, wormed this same story out of Thoma Grigorovitch, and the

latter completely forgot about it. But that same young gentleman, in the

pea-green caftan, came from Poltava, bringing with him a little book,

and, opening it in the middle, showed it to us. Thoma Grigorovitch

was on the point of setting his spectacles astride of his nose, but

recollected that he had forgotten to wind thread about them and stick

them together with wax, so he passed it over to me. As I understand

nothing about reading and writing, and do not wear spectacles, I

undertook to read it. I had not turned two leaves when all at once he

caught me by the hand and stopped me.

“Stop! tell me first what you are reading.”

I confess that I was a trifle stunned by such a question.

“What! what am I reading, Thoma Grigorovitch? Why, your own words.”

“Who told you that they were my words?”

“Why, what more would you have? Here it is printed: ‘Related by such and

such a sacristan.’”

“Spit on the head of the man who printed that! he lies, the dog of a

Moscow pedlar! Did I say that? ‘’Twas just the same as though one hadn’t

his wits about him!’ Listen. I’ll tell the tale to you on the spot.”

We moved up to the table, and he began.

*****

My grandfather (the kingdom of heaven be his! may he eat only wheaten

rolls and poppy-seed cakes with honey in the other world!) could tell a

story wonderfully well. When he used to begin a tale you could not

stir from the spot all day, but kept on listening. He was not like the

story-teller of the present day, when he begins to lie, with a tongue as

though he had had nothing to eat for three days, so that you snatch your

cap and flee from the house. I remember my old mother was alive then,

and in the long winter evenings when the frost was crackling out of

doors, and had sealed up hermetically the narrow panes of our cottage,

she used to sit at her wheel, drawing out a long thread in her hand,

rocking the cradle with her foot, and humming a song, which I seem to

hear even now.

The lamp, quivering and flaring up as though in fear of something,

lighted up our cottage; the spindle hummed; and all of us children,

collected in a cluster, listened to grandfather, who had not crawled

off the stove for more than five years, owing to his great age. But the

wondrous tales of the incursions of the Zaporozhian Cossacks and the

Poles, the bold deeds of Podkova, of Poltar-Kozhukh, and Sagaidatchnii,

did not interest us so much as the stories about some deed of old which

always sent a shiver through our frames and made our hair rise upright

on our heads. Sometimes such terror took possession of us in consequence

of them, that, from that evening forward, Heaven knows how wonderful

everything seemed to us. If one chanced to go out of the cottage after

nightfall for anything, one fancied that a visitor from the other world

had lain down to sleep in one’s bed; and I have often taken my own

smock, at a distance, as it lay at the head of the bed, for the Evil One

rolled up into a ball! But the chief thing about grandfather’s stories

was, that he never lied in all his life; and whatever he said was so,

was so.

I will now tell you one of his wonderful tales. I know that there are a

great many wise people who copy in the courts, and can even read

civil documents, but who, if you were to put into their hand a simple

prayer-book, could not make out the first letter in it, and would show

all their teeth in derision. These people laugh at everything you tell

them. Along comes one of them--and doesn’t believe in witches! Yes,

glory to God that I have lived so long in the world! I have seen

heretics to whom it would be easier to lie in confession than it would

be to our brothers and equals to take snuff, and these folk would deny

the existence of witches! But let them just dream about something, and

they won’t even tell what it was! There, it is no use talking about

them!

No one could have recognised the village of ours a little over a hundred

years ago; it was a hamlet, the poorest kind of a hamlet. Half a score

of miserable farmhouses, unplastered and badly thatched, were scattered

here and there about the fields. There was not a yard or a decent shed

to shelter animals or waggons. That was the way the wealthy lived:

and if you had looked for our brothers, the poor--why, a hole in the

ground--that was a cabin for you! Only by the smoke could you tell that

a God-created man lived there. You ask why they lived so? It was not

entirely through poverty: almost every one led a raiding Cossack life,

and gathered not a little plunder in foreign lands; it was rather

because it was little use building up a good wooden house. Many

folk were engaged in raids all over the country--Crimeans, Poles,

Lithuanians! It was quite possible that their own countrymen might make

a descent and plunder everything. Anything was possible.

In this hamlet a man, or rather a devil in human form, often made his

appearance. Why he came, and whence, no one knew. He prowled about, got

drunk, and suddenly disappeared as if into the air, leaving no trace

of his existence. Then, behold, he seemed to have dropped from the sky

again, and went flying about the street of the village, of which no

trace now remains, and which was not more than a hundred paces from

Dikanka. He would collect together all the Cossacks he met; then

there were songs, laughter, and cash in plenty, and vodka flowed like

water.... He would address the pretty girls, and give them ribbons,

earrings, strings of beads--more than they knew what to do with. It

is true that the pretty girls rather hesitated about accepting his

presents: God knows, perhaps, what unclean hands they had passed

through. My grandfather’s aunt, who kept at that time a tavern, in which

Basavriuk (as they called this devil-man) often caroused, said that no

consideration on the earth would have induced her to accept a gift from

him. But then, again, how to avoid accepting? Fear seized on every one when

he knit his shaggy brows, and gave a sidelong glance which might send

your feet God knows whither: whilst if you did accept, then the next

night some fiend from the swamp, with horns on his head, came and began

to squeeze your neck, if there was a string of beads upon it; or bite

your finger, if there was a ring upon it; or drag you by the hair, if

ribbons were braided in it. God have mercy, then, on those who held

such gifts! But here was the difficulty: it was impossible to get rid of

them; if you threw them into the water, the diabolical ring or necklace

would skim along the surface and into your hand.

There was a church in the village--St. Pantelei, if I remember rightly.

There lived there a priest, Father Athanasii of blessed memory.

Observing that Basavriuk did not come to church, even at Easter, he

determined to reprove him and impose penance upon him. Well, he hardly

escaped with his life. “Hark ye, sir!” he thundered in reply, “learn

to mind your own business instead of meddling in other people’s, if you

don’t want that throat of yours stuck with boiling kutya (1).” What was

to be done with this unrepentant man? Father Athanasii contented

himself with announcing that any one who should make the acquaintance

of Basavriuk would be counted a Catholic, an enemy of Christ’s orthodox

church, not a member of the human race.

(1) A dish of rice or wheat flour, with honey and raisins, which is

brought to the church on the celebration of memorial masses.

In this village there was a Cossack named Korzh, who had a labourer whom

people called Peter the Orphan--perhaps because no one remembered either

his father or mother. The church elder, it is true, said that they had

died of the pest in his second year; but my grandfather’s aunt would not

hear of that, and tried with all her might to furnish him with parents,

although poor Peter needed them about as much as we need last year’s

snow. She said that his father had been in Zaporozhe, and had been taken

prisoner by the Turks, amongst whom he underwent God only knows what

tortures, until having, by some miracle, disguised himself as a eunuch,

he made his escape. Little cared the black-browed youths and maidens

about Peter’s parents. They merely remarked, that if he only had a new

coat, a red sash, a black lambskin cap with a smart blue crown on his

head, a Turkish sabre by his side, a whip in one hand and a pipe with

handsome mountings in the other, he would surpass all the young men. But

the pity was, that the only thing poor Peter had was a grey gaberdine

with more holes in it than there are gold pieces in a Jew’s pocket. But

that was not the worst of it. Korzh had a daughter, such a beauty as I

think you can hardly have chanced to see. My grandfather’s aunt used

to say--and you know that it is easier for a woman to kiss the Evil One

than to call any one else a beauty--that this Cossack maiden’s cheeks

were as plump and fresh as the pinkest poppy when, bathed in God’s dew,

it unfolds its petals, and coquets with the rising sun; that her brows

were evenly arched over her bright eyes like black cords, such as our

maidens buy nowadays, for their crosses and ducats, off the Moscow

pedlars who visit the villages with their baskets; that her little

mouth, at sight of which the youths smacked their lips, seemed made to

warble the songs of nightingales; that her hair, black as the raven’s

wing, and soft as young flax, fell in curls over her shoulders, for

our maidens did not then plait their hair in pigtails interwoven with

pretty, bright-hued ribbons. Eh! may I never intone another alleluia in

the choir, if I would not have kissed her, in spite of the grey which is

making its way through the old wool which covers my pate, and of the old

woman beside me, like a thorn in my side! Well, you know what happens

when young men and maidens live side by side. In the twilight the heels

of red boots were always visible in the place where Pidorka chatted with

her Peter. But Korzh would never have suspected anything out of the

way, only one day--it is evident that none but the Evil One could have

inspired him--Peter took into his head to kiss the maiden’s rosy lips

with all his heart, without first looking well about him; and that same

Evil One--may the son of a dog dream of the holy cross!--caused the old

grey-beard, like a fool, to open the cottage door at that same moment.

Korzh was petrified, dropped his jaw, and clutched at the door for

support. Those unlucky kisses completely stunned him.

Recovering himself, he took his grandfather’s hunting whip from the

wall, and was about to belabour Peter’s back with it, when Pidorka’s

little six-year-old brother Ivas rushed up from somewhere or other, and,

grasping his father’s legs with his little hands, screamed out, “Daddy,

daddy! don’t beat Peter!” What was to be done? A father’s heart is not

made of stone. Hanging the whip again on the wall, he led Peter quietly

from the house. “If you ever show yourself in my cottage again, or even

under the windows, look out, Peter, for, by heaven, your black moustache

will disappear; and your black locks, though wound twice about your

ears, will take leave of your pate, or my name is not Terentiy Korzh.”

So saying, he gave him such a taste of his fist in the nape of his neck,

that all grew dark before Peter, and he flew headlong out of the place.

So there was an end of their kissing. Sorrow fell upon our turtle

doves; and a rumour grew rife in the village that a certain Pole,

all embroidered with gold, with moustaches, sabre, spurs, and pockets

jingling like the bells of the bag with which our sacristan Taras goes

through the church every day, had begun to frequent Korzh’s house. Now,

it is well known why a father has visitors when there is a black-browed

daughter about. So, one day, Pidorka burst into tears, and caught the

hand of her brother Ivas. “Ivas, my dear! Ivas, my love! fly to Peter,

my child of gold, like an arrow from a bow. Tell him all: I would have

loved his brown eyes, I would have kissed his fair face, but my fate

decrees otherwise. More than one handkerchief have I wet with burning

tears. I am sad and heavy at heart. And my own father is my enemy. I

will not marry the Pole, whom I do not love. Tell him they are making

ready for a wedding, but there will be no music at our wedding:

priests will sing instead of pipes and viols. I shall not dance with my

bridegroom: they will carry me out. Dark, dark will be my dwelling of

maple wood; and, instead of chimneys, a cross will stand upon the roof.”

Peter stood petrified, without moving from the spot, when the innocent

child lisped out Pidorka’s words to him. “And I, wretched man, had

thought to go to the Crimea and Turkey, to win gold and return to thee,

my beauty! But it may not be. We have been overlooked by the evil eye. I

too shall have a wedding, dear one; but no ecclesiastics will be present

at that wedding. The black crow instead of the pope will caw over me;

the bare plain will be my dwelling; the dark blue cloud my roof-tree.

The eagle will claw out my brown eyes: the rain will wash my Cossack

bones, and the whirlwinds dry them. But what am I? Of what should I

complain? ‘Tis clear God willed it so. If I am to be lost, then so be

it!” and he went straight to the tavern.

My late grandfather’s aunt was somewhat surprised at seeing Peter at the

tavern, at an hour when good men go to morning mass; and stared at him

as though in a dream when he called for a jug of brandy, about half a

pailful. But the poor fellow tried in vain to drown his woe. The vodka

stung his tongue like nettles, and tasted more bitter than wormwood. He

flung the jug from him upon the ground.

“You have sorrowed enough, Cossack,” growled a bass voice behind him.

He looked round--it was Basavriuk! Ugh, what a face! His hair was like

a brush, his eyes like those of a bull. “I know what you lack: here it

is.” As he spoke he jingled a leather purse which hung from his girdle

and smiled diabolically. Peter shuddered. “Ha, ha, ha! how it shines!”

he roared, shaking out ducats into his hands: “ha, ha, ha! how it

jingles! And I only ask one thing for a whole pile of such shiners.”

“It is the Evil One!” exclaimed Peter. “Give me them! I’m ready for

anything!”

They struck hands upon it, and Basavriuk said, “You are just in time,

Peter: to-morrow is St. John the Baptist’s day. Only on this one night

in the year does the fern blossom. I will await you at midnight in the

Bear’s ravine.”

I do not believe that chickens await the hour when the housewife brings

their corn with as much anxiety as Peter awaited the evening. He kept

looking to see whether the shadows of the trees were not lengthening,

whether the sun was not turning red towards setting; and, the longer he

watched, the more impatient he grew. How long it was! Evidently, God’s

day had lost its end somewhere. But now the sun has set. The sky is red

only on one side, and it is already growing dark. It grows colder in the

fields. It gets gloomier and gloomier, and at last quite dark. At last!

With heart almost bursting from his bosom, he set out and cautiously

made his way down through the thick woods into the deep hollow called

the Bear’s ravine. Basavriuk was already waiting there. It was so dark

that you could not see a yard before you. Hand in hand they entered

the ravine, pushing through the luxuriant thorn-bushes and stumbling at

almost every step. At last they reached an open spot. Peter looked about

him: he had never chanced to come there before. Here Basavriuk halted.

“Do you see before you three hillocks? There are a great many kinds of

flowers upon them. May some power keep you from plucking even one of

them. But as soon as the fern blossoms, seize it, and look not round, no

matter what may seem to be going on behind thee.”

Peter wanted to ask some questions, but behold Basavriuk was no longer

there. He approached the three hillocks--where were the flowers? He saw

none. The wild steppe-grass grew all around, and hid everything in its

luxuriance. But the lightning flashed; and before him was a whole bed of

flowers, all wonderful, all strange: whilst amongst them there were

also the simple fronds of fern. Peter doubted his senses, and stood

thoughtfully before them, arms akimbo.

“What manner of prodigy is this? why, one can see these weeds ten times

a day. What is there marvellous about them? Devil’s face must be mocking

me!”

But behold! the tiny flower-bud of the fern reddened and moved as though

alive. It was a marvel in truth. It grew larger and larger, and glowed

like a burning coal. The tiny stars of light flashed up, something burst

softly, and the flower opened before his eyes like a flame, lighting the

others about it.

“Now is the time,” thought Peter, and extended his hand. He saw hundreds

of hairy hands reach also for the flower from behind him, and there was

a sound of scampering in his rear. He half closed his eyes, and plucked

sharply at the stalk, and the flower remained in his hand.

All became still.

Upon a stump sat Basavriuk, quite blue like a corpse. He did not move so

much as a finger. Hi eyes were immovably fixed on something visible

to him alone; his mouth was half open and speechless. Nothing stirred

around. Ugh! it was horrible! But then a whistle was heard which made

Peter’s heart grow cold within him; and it seemed to him that the grass

whispered, and the flowers began to talk among themselves in delicate

voices, like little silver bells, while the trees rustled in murmuring

contention;--Basavriuk’s face suddenly became full of life, and his eyes

sparkled. “The witch has just returned,” he muttered between his

teeth. “Hearken, Peter: a charmer will stand before you in a moment; do

whatever she commands; if not--you are lost forever.”

Then he parted the thorn-bushes with a knotty stick and before him

stood a tiny farmhouse. Basavriuk smote it with his fist, and the wall

trembled. A large black dog ran out to meet them, and with a whine

transformed itself into a cat and flew straight at his eyes.

“Don’t be angry, don’t be angry, you old Satan!” said Basavriuk,

employing such words as would have made a good man stop his ears.

Behold, instead of a cat, an old woman all bent into a bow, with a

face wrinkled like a baked apple, and a nose and chin like a pair of

nutcrackers.

“A fine charmer!” thought Peter; and cold chills ran down his back. The

witch tore the flower from his hand, stooped and muttered over it for a

long time, sprinkling it with some kind of water. Sparks flew from her

mouth, and foam appeared on her lips.

“Throw it away,” she said, giving it back to Peter.

Peter threw it, but what wonder was this? The flower did not fall

straight to the earth, but for a long while twinkled like a fiery ball

through the darkness, and swam through the air like a boat. At last

it began to sink lower and lower, and fell so far away that the little

star, hardly larger than a poppy-seed, was barely visible. “There!”

croaked the old woman, in a dull voice: and Basavriuk, giving him a

spade, said, “Dig here, Peter: you will find more gold than you or Korzh

ever dreamed of.”

Peter spat on his hands, seized the spade, pressed his foot on it, and

turned up the earth, a second, a third, a fourth time. The spade clinked

against something hard, and would go no further. Then his eyes began to

distinguish a small, iron-bound coffer. He tried to seize it; but the

chest began to sink into the earth, deeper, farther, and deeper still:

whilst behind him he heard a laugh like a serpent’s hiss.

“No, you shall not have the gold until you shed human blood,” said the

witch, and she led up to him a child of six, covered with a white sheet,

and indicated by a sign that he was to cut off his head.

Peter was stunned. A trifle, indeed, to cut off a man’s, or even an

innocent child’s, head for no reason whatever! In wrath he tore off the

sheet enveloping the victim’s head, and behold! before him stood Ivas.

The poor child crossed his little hands, and hung his head. Peter flew

at the witch with the knife like a madman, and was on the point of

laying hands on her.

“What did you promise for the girl?” thundered Basavriuk; and like

a shot he was on his back. The witch stamped her foot: a blue flame

flashed from the earth and illumined all within it. The earth became

transparent as if moulded of crystal; and all that was within it became

visible, as if in the palm of the hand. Ducats, precious stones in

chests and pots, were piled in heaps beneath the very spot they stood

on. Peter’s eyes flashed, his mind grew troubled.... He grasped the

knife like a madman, and the innocent blood spurted into his eyes.

Diabolical laughter resounded on all sides. Misshapen monsters flew past

him in flocks. The witch, fastening her hands in the headless trunk,

like a wolf, drank its blood. His head whirled. Collecting all his

strength, he set out to run. Everything grew red before him. The trees

seemed steeped in blood, and burned and groaned. The sky glowed and

threatened. Burning points, like lightning, flickered before his eyes.

Utterly exhausted, he rushed into his miserable hovel and fell to the

ground like a log. A death-like sleep overpowered him.

Two days and two nights did Peter sleep, without once awakening. When he

came to himself, on the third day, he looked long at all the corners of

his hut, but in vain did he endeavour to recollect what had taken place;

his memory was like a miser’s pocket, from which you cannot entice a

quarter of a kopek. Stretching himself, he heard something clash at

his feet. He looked, there were two bags of gold. Then only, as if in

a dream, he recollected that he had been seeking for treasure, and that

something had frightened him in the woods.

Korzh saw the sacks--and was mollified. “A fine fellow, Peter, quite

unequalled! yes, and did I not love him? Was he not to me as my own

son?” And the old fellow repeated this fiction until he wept over it

himself. Pidorka began to tell Peter how some passing gipsies had stolen

Ivas; but he could not even recall him--to such a degree had the Devil’s

influence darkened his mind! There was no reason for delay. The Pole was

dismissed, and the wedding-feast prepared; rolls were baked, towels and

handkerchiefs embroidered; the young people were seated at table;

the wedding-loaf was cut; guitars, cymbals, pipes, viols sounded, and

pleasure was rife.

A wedding in the olden times was not like one of the present day. My

grandfather’s aunt used to tell how the maidens--in festive head-dresses

of yellow, blue, and pink ribbons, above which they bound gold braid; in

thin chemisettes embroidered on all the seams with red silk, and strewn

with tiny silver flowers; in morocco shoes, with high iron heels--danced

the gorlitza as swimmingly as peacocks, and as wildly as the whirlwind;

how the youths--with their ship-shaped caps upon their heads, the crowns

of gold brocade, and two horns projecting, one in front and another

behind, of the very finest black lambskin; in tunics of the finest blue

silk with red borders--stepped forward one by one, their arms akimbo

in stately form, and executed the gopak; how the lads--in tall Cossack

caps, and light cloth gaberdines, girt with silver embroidered belts,

their short pipes in their teeth--skipped before them and talked

nonsense. Even Korzh as he gazed at the young people could not help

getting gay in his old age. Guitar in hand, alternately puffing at his

pipe and singing, a brandy-glass upon his head, the greybeard began the

national dance amid loud shouts from the merry-makers.

What will not people devise in merry mood? They even began to disguise

their faces till they did not look like human beings. On such occasions

one would dress himself as a Jew, another as the Devil: they would begin

by kissing each other, and end by seizing each other by the hair. God be

with them! you laughed till you held your sides. They dressed

themselves in Turkish and Tatar garments. All upon them glowed like a

conflagration, and then they began to joke and play pranks....

An amusing thing happened to my grandfather’s aunt, who was at this

wedding. She was wearing an ample Tatar robe, and, wine-glass in hand,

was entertaining the company. The Evil One instigated one man to pour

vodka over her from behind. Another, at the same moment, evidently not

by accident, struck a light, and held it to her. The flame flashed up,

and poor aunt, in terror, flung her dress off, before them all. Screams,

laughter, jests, arose as if at a fair. In a word, the old folks could

not recall so merry a wedding.

Pidorka and Peter began to live like a gentleman and lady. There was

plenty of everything and everything was fine.... But honest folk shook

their heads when they marked their way of living. “From the Devil

no good can come,” they unanimously agreed. “Whence, except from the

tempter of orthodox people, came this wealth? Where else could he have

got such a lot of gold from? Why, on the very day that he got rich, did

Basavriuk vanish as if into thin air?”

Say, if you can, that people only imagine things! A month had not

passed, and no one would have recognised Peter. He sat in one spot,

saying no word to any one; but continually thinking and seemingly trying

to recall something. When Pidorka succeeded in getting him to speak, he

appeared to forget himself, and would carry on a conversation, and even

grow cheerful; but if he inadvertently glanced at the sacks, “Stop,

stop! I have forgotten,” he would cry, and again plunge into reverie and

strive to recall something. Sometimes when he sat still a long time in

one place, it seemed to him as though it were coming, just coming back

to mind, but again all would fade away. It seemed as if he was sitting

in the tavern: they brought him vodka; vodka stung him; vodka was

repulsive to him. Some one came along and struck him on the shoulder;

but beyond that everything was veiled in darkness before him. The

perspiration would stream down his face, and he would sit exhausted in

the same place.

What did not Pirdorka do? She consulted the sorceresses; and they poured

out fear, and brewed stomach ache (2)--but all to no avail. And so the

summer passed. Many a Cossack had mowed and reaped; many a Cossack, more

enterprising than the rest, had set off upon an expedition. Flocks of

ducks were already crowding the marshes, but there was not even a hint

of improvement.

(2) “To pour out fear” refers to a practice resorted to in case of

fear. When it is desired to know what caused this, melted lead or

wax is poured into water, and the object whose form it assumes is

the one which frightened the sick person; after this, the fear

departs. Sonyashnitza is brewed for giddiness and pain in the

bowels. To this end, a bit of stump is burned, thrown into a jug,

and turned upside down into a bowl filled with water, which is

placed on the patient’s stomach: after an incantation, he is given

a spoonful of this water to drink.

It was red upon the steppes. Ricks of grain, like Cossack’s caps, dotted

the fields here and there. On the highway were to be encountered waggons

loaded with brushwood and logs. The ground had become more solid, and

in places was touched with frost. Already had the snow begun to fall

and the branches of the trees were covered with rime like rabbit-skin.

Already on frosty days the robin redbreast hopped about on the

snow-heaps like a foppish Polish nobleman, and picked out grains of

corn; and children, with huge sticks, played hockey upon the ice; while

their fathers lay quietly on the stove, issuing forth at intervals

with lighted pipes in their lips, to growl, in regular fashion, at the

orthodox frost, or to take the air, and thresh the grain spread out in

the barn. At last the snow began to melt, and the ice slipped away: but

Peter remained the same; and, the more time went on, the more morose he

grew. He sat in the cottage as though nailed to the spot, with the sacks

of gold at his feet. He grew averse to companionship, his hair grew

long, he became terrible to look at; and still he thought of but

one thing, still he tried to recall something, and got angry and

ill-tempered because he could not. Often, rising wildly from his seat,

he gesticulated violently and fixed his eyes on something as though

desirous of catching it: his lips moving as though desirous of uttering

some long-forgotten word, but remaining speechless. Fury would take

possession of him: he would gnaw and bite his hands like a man half

crazy, and in his vexation would tear out his hair by the handful,

until, calming down, he would relapse into forgetfulness, as it were,

and then would again strive to recall the past and be again seized with

fury and fresh tortures. What visitation of God was this?

Pidorka was neither dead not alive. At first it was horrible for her to

remain alone with him in the cottage; but, in course of time, the poor

woman grew accustomed to her sorrow. But it was impossible to recognise

the Pidorka of former days. No blushes, no smiles: she was thin and worn

with grief, and had wept her bright eyes away. Once some one who took

pity on her advised her to go to the witch who dwelt in the Bear’s

ravine, and enjoyed the reputation of being able to cure every disease

in the world. She determined to try that last remedy: and finally

persuaded the old woman to come to her. This was on St. John’s Eve, as

it chanced. Peter lay insensible on the bench, and did not observe the

newcomer. Slowly he rose, and looked about him. Suddenly he trembled in

every limb, as though he were on the scaffold: his hair rose upon his

head, and he laughed a laugh that filled Pidorka’s heart with fear.

“I have remembered, remembered!” he cried, in terrible joy; and,

swinging a hatchet round his head, he struck at the old woman with all

his might. The hatchet penetrated the oaken door nearly four inches. The

old woman disappeared; and a child of seven, covered in a white sheet,

stood in the middle of the cottage.... The sheet flew off. “Ivas!” cried

Pidorka, and ran to him; but the apparition became covered from head to

foot with blood, and illumined the whole room with red light....

She ran into the passage in her terror, but, on recovering herself a

little, wished to help Peter. In vain! the door had slammed to behind

her, so that she could not open it. People ran up, and began to knock:

they broke in the door, as though there were but one mind among them.

The whole cottage was full of smoke; and just in the middle, where Peter

had stood, was a heap of ashes whence smoke was still rising. They flung

themselves upon the sacks: only broken potsherds lay there instead of

ducats. The Cossacks stood with staring eyes and open mouths, as if

rooted to the earth, not daring to move a hair, such terror did this

wonder inspire in them.

I do not remember what happened next. Pidorka made a vow to go upon a

pilgrimage, collected the property left her by her father, and in a few

days it was as if she had never been in the village. Whither she had

gone, no one could tell. Officious old women would have despatched

her to the same place whither Peter had gone; but a Cossack from Kief

reported that he had seen, in a cloister, a nun withered to a mere

skeleton who prayed unceasingly. Her fellow-villagers recognised her as

Pidorka by the tokens--that no one heard her utter a word; and that

she had come on foot, and had brought a frame for the picture of God’s

mother, set with such brilliant stones that all were dazzled at the

sight.

But this was not the end, if you please. On the same day that the Evil

One made away with Peter, Basavriuk appeared again; but all fled from

him. They knew what sort of a being he was--none else than Satan,

who had assumed human form in order to unearth treasures; and, since

treasures do not yield to unclean hands, he seduced the young. That same

year, all deserted their earthen huts and collected in a village; but

even there there was no peace on account of that accursed Basavriuk.

My late grandfather’s aunt said that he was particularly angry with

her because she had abandoned her former tavern, and tried with all

his might to revenge himself upon her. Once the village elders were

assembled in the tavern, and, as the saying goes, were arranging the

precedence at the table, in the middle of which was placed a small

roasted lamb, shame to say. They chattered about this, that, and the

other--among the rest about various marvels and strange things. Well,

they saw something; it would have been nothing if only one had seen it,

but all saw it, and it was this: the sheep raised his head, his goggling

eyes became alive and sparkled; and the black, bristling moustache,

which appeared for one instant, made a significant gesture at those

present. All at once recognised Basavriuk’s countenance in the sheep’s

head; my grandfather’s aunt thought it was on the point of asking for

vodka. The worthy elders seized their hats and hastened home.

Another time, the church elder himself, who was fond of an occasional

private interview with my grandfather’s brandy-glass, had not succeeded

in getting to the bottom twice, when he beheld the glass bowing very

low to him. “Satan take you, let us make the sign of the cross over

you!”--And the same marvel happened to his better half. She had just

begun to mix the dough in a huge kneading-trough when suddenly the

trough sprang up. “Stop, stop! where are you going?” Putting its arms

akimbo, with dignity, it went skipping all about the cottage--you may

laugh, but it was no laughing matter to our grandfathers. And in vain

did Father Athanasii go through all the village with holy water,

and chase the Devil through all the streets with his brush. My late

grandfather’s aunt long complained that, as soon as it was dark, some

one came knocking at her door and scratching at the wall.

Well! All appears to be quiet now in the place where our village stands;

but it was not so very long ago--my father was still alive--that

I remember how a good man could not pass the ruined tavern which

a dishonest race had long managed for their own interest. From the

smoke-blackened chimneys smoke poured out in a pillar, and rising high

in the air, rolled off like a cap, scattering burning coals over the

steppe; and Satan (the son of a dog should not be mentioned) sobbed so

pitifully in his lair that the startled ravens rose in flocks from the

neighbouring oak-wood and flew through the air with wild cries.

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.

HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED

CHAPTER I

IVAN IVANOVITCH AND IVAN NIKIFOROVITCH

A fine pelisse has Ivan Ivanovitch! splendid! And what lambskin! deuce

take it, what lambskin! blue-black with silver lights. I’ll forfeit, I

know not what, if you find any one else owning such a one. Look at it,

for heaven’s sake, especially when he stands talking with any one! look

at him side-ways: what a pleasure it is! To describe it is impossible:

velvet! silver! fire! Nikolai the Wonder-worker, saint of God! why have

I not such a pelisse? He had it made before Agafya Fedosyevna went to

Kief. You know Agafya Fedosyevna who bit the assessor’s ear off?

Ivan Ivanovitch is a very handsome man. What a house he has in Mirgorod!

Around it on every side is a balcony on oaken pillars, and on the

balcony are benches. Ivan Ivanovitch, when the weather gets too warm,

throws off his pelisse and his remaining upper garments, and sits, in

his shirt sleeves, on the balcony to observe what is going on in the

courtyard and the street. What apples and pears he has under his

very windows! You have but to open the window and the branches force

themselves through into the room. All this is in front of the house;

but you should see what he has in the garden. What is there not there?

Plums, cherries, every sort of vegetable, sunflowers, cucumbers, melons,

peas, a threshing-floor, and even a forge.

A very fine man, Ivan Ivanovitch! He is very fond of melons: they

are his favourite food. As soon as he has dined, and come out on his

balcony, in his shirt sleeves, he orders Gapka to bring two melons, and

immediately cuts them himself, collects the seeds in a paper, and begins

to eat. Then he orders Gapka to fetch the ink-bottle, and, with his own

hand, writes this inscription on the paper of seeds: “These melons were

eaten on such and such a date.” If there was a guest present, then it

reads, “Such and such a person assisted.”

The late judge of Mirgorod always gazed at Ivan Ivanovitch’s house with

pleasure. The little house is very pretty. It pleases me because sheds

and other little additions are built on to it on all sides; so that,

looking at it from a distance, only roofs are visible, rising one above

another, and greatly resembling a plate full of pancakes, or, better

still, fungi growing on the trunk of a tree. Moreover, the roof is all

overgrown with weeds: a willow, an oak, and two apple-trees lean their

spreading branches against it. Through the trees peep little windows

with carved and white-washed shutters, which project even into the

street.

A very fine man, Ivan Ivanovitch! The commissioner of Poltava knows him

too. Dorosh Tarasovitch Pukhivotchka, when he leaves Khorola, always

goes to his house. And when Father Peter, the Protopope who lives at

Koliberdas, invites a few guests, he always says that he knows of no one

who so well fulfils all his Christian duties and understands so well how

to live as Ivan Ivanovitch.

How time flies! More than ten years have already passed since he became

a widower. He never had any children. Gapka has children and they run

about the court-yard. Ivan Ivanovitch always gives each of them a cake,

or a slice of melon, or a pear.

Gapka carries the keys of the storerooms and cellars; but the key of

the large chest which stands in his bedroom, and that of the centre

storeroom, Ivan Ivanovitch keeps himself; Gapka is a healthy girl, with

ruddy cheeks and calves, and goes about in coarse cloth garments.

And what a pious man is Ivan Ivanovitch! Every Sunday he dons his

pelisse and goes to church. On entering, he bows on all sides, generally

stations himself in the choir, and sings a very good bass. When the

service is over, Ivan Ivanovitch cannot refrain from passing the poor

people in review. He probably would not have cared to undertake

this tiresome work if his natural goodness had not urged him to it.

“Good-day, beggar!” he generally said, selecting the most crippled old

woman, in the most patched and threadbare garments. “Whence come you, my

poor woman?”

“I come from the farm, sir. ‘Tis two days since I have eaten or drunk:

my own children drove me out.”

“Poor soul! why did you come hither?”

“To beg alms, sir, to see whether some one will not give me at least

enough for bread.”

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

“How should it be otherwise? I am as hungry as a dog.”

“Hm!” replied Ivan Ivanovitch usually, “and perhaps you would like

butter too?”

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

all.”

“Hm! Is butter better than bread?”

“How is a hungry person to choose? Anything you please, all is good.”

Thereupon the old woman generally extended her hand.

“Well, go with God’s blessing,” said Ivan Ivanovitch. “Why do you stand

there? I’m not beating you.” And turning to a second and a third with

the same questions, he finally returns home, or goes to drink a little

glass of vodka with his neighbour, Ivan Nikiforovitch, or the judge, or

the chief of police.

Ivan Ivanovitch is very fond of receiving presents. They please him

greatly.

A very fine man too is Ivan Nikiforovitch. They are such friends as the

world never saw. Anton Prokofievitch Pupopuz, who goes about to this

hour in his cinnamon-coloured surtout with blue sleeves and dines every

Sunday with the judge, was in the habit of saying that the Devil himself

had bound Ivan Ivanovitch and Ivan Nikiforovitch together with a rope:

where one went, the other followed.

Ivan Nikiforovitch has never married. Although it was reported that

he was married it was completely false. I know Ivan Nikiforovitch very

well, and am able to state that he never even had any intention of

marrying. Where do all these scandals originate? In the same way it

was rumoured that Ivan Nikiforovitch was born with a tail! But this

invention is so clumsy and at the same time so horrible and indecent

that I do not even consider it necessary to refute it for the benefit of

civilised readers, to whom it is doubtless known that only witches, and

very few even of these, have tails. Witches, moreover, belong more to

the feminine than to the masculine gender.