So, in a certain department there was a certain official—not a very notable one, it must be allowed—short of stature3, somewhat pock-marked, red-haired, and mole-eyed, with a bald forehead, wrinkled cheeks, and a complexion4 of the kind known as sanguine5. The St. Petersburg climate was responsible for this. As for his official rank—with us Russians the rank comes first—he was what is called a perpetual titular6 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 Bashmachkin. This name is evidently derived7 from bashmak (shoe); but, when, at what time, and in what manner, is not known. His father and grandfather, and all the Bashmachkins, always wore boots, which were resoled two or three times a year. His name was Akaky Akakiyevich. It may strike the reader as rather singular and far-fetched; but he may rest assured that it was by no means far-fetched, and that the circumstances were such that it would have been impossible to give him any other.
This was how it came about.
Akaky Akakiyevich was born, if my memory fails me not, in the evening on 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 Ivanovich Eroshkin, a most estimable man, who served as the head clerk of the senate; and the godmother, Arina Semyonovna Bielobrinshkova, the wife of an officer of the quarter, and a woman of rare virtues9. They offered the mother her choice of three names, Mokiya, Sossiya, or that the child should be called after the martyr10 Khozdazat. “No,” said the good woman, “all those names are poor.” In order to please her, they opened the calendar at another place; three more names appeared, Triphily, Dula, and Varakhasy. “This is awful,” said the old woman. “What names! I truly never heard the like. I might have put up with Varadat or Varukh, but not Triphily and Varakhasy!” They turned to another page and found Pavsikakhy and Vakhtisy. “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 Akaky, so let his son’s name be Akaky too.” In this manner he became Akaky Akakiyevich. They christened the child, whereat he wept, and made a grimace11, 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 utterly12 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—always the letter-copying clerk—so that it was afterwards affirmed that he had been born in 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 insignificant13 assistant to the head clerk would thrust a paper under his nose without so much as saying, “Copy,” or, “Here’s an interesting little case,” 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 concocted14 about him, and about his landlady15, an old woman of seventy; declared that she beat him; asked when the wedding was to be; and strewed16 bits of paper over his head, calling them snow. But Akaky Akakiyevich 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 annoyances17 he never made a single mistake in a letter. But if the joking became wholly unbearable18, as when they jogged his head, 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 so that one young man, a newcomer, who, taking pattern by the others, had permitted himself to make sport of Akaky, suddenly stopped short, as though all about him had undergone a transformation19, and presented itself in a different aspect. Some unseen force repelled20 him from the comrades whose acquaintance he had made, on the supposition that they were decent, well-bred men. Long afterwards, in his gayest moments, there recurred21 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, shuddered22 at seeing how much inhumanity there is in man, how much savage24 coarseness is concealed25 beneath refined, cultured, worldly refinement26, and even, O God! in that man whom the world acknowledges as honourable27 and upright.
It would be difficult to find another man who lived so entirely28 for his duties. It is not enough to say that Akaky laboured with zeal29; no, he laboured with love. In his copying, he found a varied30 and agreeable employment. Enjoyment31 was written on his face; some letters were even favourites with him; and when he encountered these, he smiled, winked32, 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.
However, it would be untrue to say that no attention was paid to him. One director being a kindly33 man, and desirous of rewarding him for his long service, ordered him to be given something more important than mere34 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 toil35, that he broke into a perspiration36, 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 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 inordinately37 so as it emerged from it, like the necks of the plaster cats which pedlars carry about on their heads. And something was always sticking to his uniform, either a bit of hay or some trifle. Moreover, he had a peculiar38 knack39, as he walked along the street, of arriving beneath a window just as all sorts of rubbish was being flung out of it; hence he always bore about on his hat scraps40 of melon rinds, and other such articles. Never once in his life did he give heed41 to what was going on every day to the street; while it is well known that his young brother officials trained the range of their glances till they could see when any one’s trouser-straps came undone42 upon the opposite sidewalk, which always brought a malicious43 smile to their faces. But Akaky Akakiyevich 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 gust44 of wind down his neck from his nostrils45, did he observe that he was not in the middle of a line, but in the middle of the street.
On reaching home, he sat down at once at the table, sipped48 his cabbage-soup up quickly, and swallowed a bit of beef with onions, never noticing their taste, and gulping49 down everything with flies and anything else which the Lord happened to send at the moment. When he saw that his stomach was beginning to swell50, 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 distinguished51 person.
Even at the hour when the grey St. Petersburg sky had quite disappeared, and all the official world had eaten or dined, each as he could, in accordance with the salary he received and his own fancy; when, all were resting from the department jar of pens, running to and fro, for 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 the bonnets53; 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 third or fourth floor, in two small rooms with an ante-room or kitchen, and some pretensions54 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 disperse55 among the contracted quarters of their friends, to play whist, as they sip47 their tea from glasses with a kopek’s worth of sugar, smoke long pipes, relate at time 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 anecdotes56 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, Akaky Akakiyevich indulged in no kind of diversion. No one could even 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 to those who never give any advice or take any themselves.
There exists in St. Petersburg a powerful foe57 of all who receive a salary of four hundred rubles a year, or there-abouts. 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 bestow58 such powerful and piercing nips on all noses impartially59, that the poor officials really do not know what to do with them. At an hour, when the foreheads of even those who occupy exalted60 positions ache with the cold, and tears start to their eyes, the poor titular councillors are sometimes quite unprotected. Their only salvation61 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 thawing62 all their talents and qualifications for official service, which had become frozen on the way.
Akaky Akakiyevich had felt for some time that his back and shoulders were paining with peculiar poignancy63, 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 thoroughly64 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 lining65 had fallen into pieces. You must know that Akaky Akakiyevich’s cloak served as an object of ridicule66 to the officials. They even refused it the noble name of cloak, and called it a cape67. In fact, it was of singular make, its collar diminishing year by year to serve to patch its other parts. The patching did not exhibit great skill on the part of the tailor, and was, in fact, baggy68 and ugly. Seeing how the matter stood, Akaky Akakiyevich decided69 that it would be necessary to take the cloak to Petrovich, the tailor, who lived somewhere on the fourth floor up a dark staircase, and who, in spite of his having but one eye and pock-marks all over his face, busied himself 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 Petrovich the tailor. At first he was called only Grigory, and was some gentleman’s serf. He commenced calling himself Petrovich from the time when he received his free papers, and further began to drink heavily on all holidays, at first on the great ones, and then on all church festivals without discrimination, wherever a cross stood in the calendar. On this point he was faithful to ancestral custom; and when 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 Petrovich had a wife, who wore a cap and a dress, but could not lay claim to beauty, at least, no one but the soldiers of the guard even looked under her cap when they met her.
Ascending70 the staircase which led to Petrovich’s room—which staircase was all soaked with dish-water and reeked71 with the smell of spirits which affects the eyes, and is an inevitable72 adjunct to all dark stairways in St. Petersburg houses—ascending the stairs, Akaky Akakiyevich pondered how much Petrovich 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 beetles73 were visible. Akaky Akakiyevich passed through the kitchen unperceived, even by the housewife, and at length reached a room where he beheld74 Petrovich seated on a large unpainted table, with his legs tucked under him like a Turkish pasha. His feet were bare, after the fashion of tailors as they sit at work; and the first thing which caught the eye was his thumb, with a deformed75 nail thick and strong as a turtle’s shell. About Petrovich’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 enraged77 at the darkness and even at the thread, growling79 in a low voice, “It won’t go through, the barbarian80! you pricked81 me, you rascal82!”
Akaky Akakiyevich was vexed83 at arriving at the precise moment when Petrovich was angry. He liked to order something of Petrovich when he was a little downhearted, or, as his wife expressed it, “when he had settled himself with brandy, the one-eyed devil!” Under such circumstances Petrovich 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 had been drunk, and so had fixed84 the price too low; but, if only a ten-kopek piece were added then the matter would be settled. But now it appeared that Petrovich was in a sober condition, and therefore rough, taciturn, and inclined to demand, Satan only knows what price. Akaky Akakiyevich felt this, and would gladly have beat a retreat, but he was in for it. Petrovich screwed up his one eye very intently at him, and Akaky Akakiyevich involuntarily said, “How do you do, Petrovich?”
“I wish you a good morning, sir,” said Petrovich squinting85 at Akaky Akakiyevich’s hands, to see what sort of booty he had brought.
“Ah! I—to you, Petrovich, this—” It must be known that Akaky Akakiyevich 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 he had already finished it.
“What is it?” asked Petrovich, and with his one eye scanned Akaky Akakiyevich’s whole uniform from the collar down to the cuffs86, 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—Petrovich—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—”
Petrovich took the cloak, spread it out, to begin with, on the table, looked at it hard, shook his head, reached out his hand to the window-sill for his snuff-box, adorned87 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, Petrovich held up the cloak, and inspected it against the light, and again shook his head. Then he turned it, lining upwards88, and shook his head once more. After which he again lifted the general-adorned lid with its bit of pasted paper, and having stuffed his nose with snuff, dosed and put away the snuff-box, and said finally, “No, it is impossible to mend it. It is a wretched garment!”
Akaky Akakiyevich’s heart sank at these words.
“Why is it impossible, Petrovich?” he said, almost in the pleading voice of a child. “All that ails8 it is, that it is worn on the shoulders. You must have some pieces—”
“Yes, patches could be found, patches are easily found,” said Petrovich, “but there’s nothing to sew them to. The thing is completely rotten. If you put a needle to it—see, it will give way.”
“Let it give way, and you can put on another patch at once.”
“But there is nothing to put the patches on to. There’s no use in strengthening it. It is too far gone. It’s lucky that it’s cloth, for, if the wind were to blow, it would fly away.”
“Well, strengthen it again. How this, in fact—”
“No,” said Petrovich 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.” Petrovich 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 Akaky Akakiyevich’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 Petrovich’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 Petrovich, with barbarous composure.
“Well, if it came to a new one, how—it—”
“You mean how much would it cost?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you would have to lay out a hundred and fifty or more,” said Petrovich, and pursed up his lips significantly. He liked to produce powerful effects, liked to stun89 utterly and suddenly, and then to glance sideways to see what face the stunned90 person would put on the matter.
“A hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak!” shrieked91 poor Akaky Akakiyevich, perhaps for the first time in his life, for his voice had always been distinguished for softness.
“Yes, sir,” said Petrovich, “for any kind of cloak. If you have a marten fur on the collar, or a silk-lined hood92, it will mount up to two hundred.”
“Petrovich, please,” said Akaky Akakiyevich in a beseeching93 tone, not hearing, and not trying to hear, Petrovich’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 Petrovich. And Akaky Akakiyevich went away after these words, utterly discouraged. But Petrovich 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 artistic94 tailor employed.
Akaky Akakiyevich 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 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 poking95 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 frankly96, as with a reasonable friend, with whom one can discuss private and personal matters. “No,” said Akaky Akakiyevich, “it is impossible to reason with Petrovich 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 Akaky Akakiyevich with himself regained97 his courage, and waited until the first Sunday, when, seeing from afar that Petrovich’s wife had left the house, he went straight to him.
Petrovich’s eye was indeed very much askew98 after Saturday. His head drooped99, 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 Akaky Akakiyevich handed over the ten-kopek piece. “Thank you, sir. I will drink your good health,” said Petrovich. “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.”
Akaky Akakiyevich was still for mending it, but Petrovich 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 Akaky Akakiyevich 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 must have some new trousers, and pay a debt of long standing100 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 linen101. 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 or even fifty rubles instead of forty, it would be a mere nothing, a mere drop in the ocean towards the funds necessary for a cloak, although he knew that Petrovich was often wrong-headed enough to blurt102 out some outrageous103 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 Petrovich 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 procured104, but where was the other half to come from? But the reader must first be told where the first half came from.
Akaky Akakiyevich had a habit of putting, for every ruble he spent, a groschen into a small box, fastened with lock and key, and with a slit105 in the top for the reception of money. At the end of every half-year he counted over the heap of coppers106, 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? Akaky Akakiyevich thought and thought, and decided that it would be necessary to curtail107 his ordinary expenses, for the space of one year at least, to dispense109 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 accustom110 himself to these deprivations111. But he got used to them at length, after a fashion, and all went smoothly112. 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 forth113, 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 incapable114 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 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 Petrovich 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. For beyond all his hopes, the director awarded neither forty nor forty-five rubles for Akaky Akakiyevich’s share, but sixty. Whether he suspected that Akaky Akakiyevich 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 Akaky Akakiyevich had accumulated about eighty rubles. His heart, generally so quiet, began to throb115. On the first possible day, he went shopping in company with Petrovich. 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 enquire116 prices. Petrovich himself said that no better cloth could be had. For lining, they selected a cotton stuff, but so firm and thick, that Petrovich declared it to be better than silk, and even prettier and more glossy117. 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.
Petrovich 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 Petrovich went over each seam afterwards with his own teeth, stamping in various patterns.
It was—it is difficult to say precisely118 on what day, but probably the most glorious one in Akaky Akakiyevich’s life, when Petrovich 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. Petrovich brought the cloak himself as befits a good tailor. On his countenance119 was a significant expression, such as Akaky Akakiyevich had never beheld there. He seemed fully76 sensible that he had done no small deed, and crossed a gulf120 separating tailors who put in linings121, 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 skilfully122 over the shoulders of Akaky Akakiyevich. Then he pulled it and fitted it down behind with his hand, and he draped it around Akaky Akakiyevich without buttoning it. Akaky Akakiyevich, like an experienced man, wished to try the sleeves. Petrovich 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. Petrovich did not neglect to observe that it was only because he lived in a narrow street, and had no signboard, and had known Akaky Akakiyevich so long, that he had made it so cheaply; but that if he had been in business on the Nevsky Prospect123, he would have charged seventy-five rubles for the making alone. Akaky Akakiyevich did not care to argue this point with Petrovich. He paid him, thanked him, and set out at once in his new cloak for the department. Petrovich 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 crooked124 alley125, and emerge again into the street beyond to gaze once more upon the cloak from another point, namely, directly in front.
Meantime Akaky Akakiyevich 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 confided126 it to the special care of the attendant. It is impossible to say precisely how it was that every one in the department knew at once that Akaky Akakiyevich 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 at least give them all a party, Akaky Akakiyevich 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, trying to assure them with great simplicity127 that it was not a new cloak, that it was in fact the old “cape.”
At length one of the officials, assistant to the head clerk, 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 Akaky Akakiyevich; I invite you all to tea with me to-night. It just happens to be my name-day too.”
The officials naturally at once offered the assistant clerk their congratulations, and accepted the invitation with pleasure. Akaky Akakiyevich would have declined; but all declared that it was discourteous128, 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 recollected130 that he should thereby131 have a chance of wearing his new cloak in the evening also.
That whole day was truly a most triumphant132 festival for Akaky Akakiyevich. 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 leisurely133, 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. 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 Akaky Akakiyevich’s residence. Akaky Akakiyevich was first obliged to traverse a kind of wilderness134 of deserted135, dimly-lighted streets. But in proportion as he approached the official’s quarter of the city, the streets became more lively, more populous136, and more brilliantly illuminated137. Pedestrians138 began to appear; handsomely dressed ladies were more frequently encountered; the men had otter139 skin collars to their coats; shabby sleigh-men with their wooden, railed sledges141 stuck over with brass-headed nails, became rarer; whilst on the other hand, more and more drivers in red velvet142 caps, lacquered sledges and bear-skin coats began to appear, and carriages with rich hammer-cloths flew swiftly through the streets, their wheels scrunching143 the snow.
Akaky Akakiyevich 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 doorway144 of another room. Akaky Akakiyevich 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, “Well, those French! What is to be said? If they do go in for anything of that sort, why—” But possibly he did not think at all.
Akaky Akakiyevich at length reached the house in which the head clerk’s assistant lodged145. He lived in fine style. The staircase was lit by a lamp, his apartment being on the second floor. On entering the vestibule, Akaky Akakiyevich beheld a whole row of goloshes on the floor. Among them, in the centre of the room, stood a samovar, humming and emitting clouds of steam. On the walls hung all sorts of coats and cloaks, among which there were even some with beaver146 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.
Akaky Akakiyevich, having hung up his own cloak, entered the inner room. Before him all at once appeared lights, officials, pipes, and card-tables, and he was bewildered by a sound of rapid conversation rising from all the tables, and the noise of moving chairs. He halted very awkwardly in the middle of the room, wondering what he ought to do. But they had seen him. They received him with a shout, and all thronged148 at once into the ante-room, and there took another look at his cloak. Akaky Akakiyevich, 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 throng147 of people, was rather overwhelming to Akaky Akakiyevich. 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 gape149, 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 champagne150, in honour of his new garment. In the course of an hour, supper, consisting of vegetable salad, cold veal151, pastry152, confectioner’s pies, and champagne, was served. They made Akaky Akakiyevich 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 speck153 upon it, put it on his shoulders, and descended154 the stairs to the street.
In the street all was still bright. Some petty shops, those permanent clubs of servants and all sorts of folks, were open. Others were shut, but, nevertheless, showed a streak155 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. Akaky Akakiyevich 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 these 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 shutters156. 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 glimmered157 from some watchman’s-box, which seemed to stand on the edge of the world. Akaky Akakiyevich’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 throbbed158.
“Of course, the cloak is mine!” said one of them in a loud voice, seizing hold of his collar. Akaky Akakiyevich was about to shout “Help!” when the second man thrust a fist, about the size of an official’s head, at his very mouth, muttering, “Just you dare to scream!”
Akaky Akakiyevich felt them strip off his cloak, and give him a kick. 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 the outskirts159 of the square. In despair, but without ceasing to shout, he started at a run across the square, straight towards the watch-box, beside which stood the watchman, leaning on his halberd, and apparently160 curious to know what kind of a customer was running towards him shouting. Akaky Akakiyevich ran up to him, and began in a sobbing161 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.
Akaky Akakiyevich ran home and arrived in a state of complete disorder162, his hair which grew very thinly upon his temples and the back of his head all tousled, his body, arms and legs, covered with snow. The old woman, who was mistress of his lodgings163, 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 bosom164 out of modesty165. But when she had opened it, she fell back on beholding166 Akaky Akakiyevich in such a condition. 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, Akaky Akakiyevich 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 the official was asleep. He went again at ten and was again informed that he was asleep. At eleven, and they said, “The superintendent167 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, Akaky Akakiyevich felt an inclination168 to show some spirit, and said curtly169 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 Akaky Akakiyevich. 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 Akaky Akakiyevich 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 ridiculing170 Akaky Akakiyevich. They decided to make a collection for him on the spot, but the officials had already spent a great deal in subscribing171 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 trifling172.
One of them, moved by pity, resolved to help Akaky Akakiyevich 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 relation with the proper persons, could greatly expedite the matter.
As there was nothing else to be done, Akaky Akakiyevich decided to go to the prominent personage. What was the exact official position of the prominent personage, remains173 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 sundry174 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 etiquette175 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 office, immediately partitioned off a private room for himself, called it the audience chamber176, and posted at the door a lackey177 with red collar and braid, who grasped the handle of the door, and opened to all comers, though the audience chamber would hardly hold an ordinary writing table.
The manners and customs of the prominent personage were grand and imposing178, 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 spoke179. But there was no necessity for this, for the halfscore of subordinates, who formed the entire force of the office, were properly afraid. On catching180 sight of him afar off, they left their work, and waited, drawn181 up in line, until he had passed through the room. His ordinary converse182 with his inferiors smacked183 of sternness, and consisted chiefly of three phrases: “How dare you?” “Do you know whom you are speaking to?” “Do you realise who is standing 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 condescension184 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 Akaky Akakiyevich presented himself, and this at the most unfavourable time for himself, though opportune185 for the prominent personage. The prominent personage was in his cabinet, conversing186 very gaily187 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 Bashmachkin had come. He asked abruptly188, “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 outrageously189. He had said all he had to say to his friend long before, and the conversation had been interspersed190 for some time with very long pauses, during which they merely slapped each other on the leg, and said, “You think so, Ivan Abramovich!” “Just so, Stepan Varlamovich!” 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 recollect129, and said to the secretary, who stood by the door with papers of reports, “So it seems that there is an official waiting to see me. Tell him that he may come in.” On perceiving Akaky Akakiyevich’s modest mien191 and his worn uniform, he turned abruptly to him, and said, “What do you want?” in a curt108 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.
Akaky Akakiyevich, who was already imbued192 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 inhuman23 manner; that he had applied193 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 inexplicable194 reason, this conduct seemed familiar to the prominent personage.
“What, my dear sir!” he said abruptly, “are you not acquainted with etiquette? To whom have you come? Don’t you know how such matters are managed? You should first have presented a petition to the office. 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 Akaky Akakiyevich, trying to collect his small handful of wits, and conscious at the same time that he was perspiring195 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 impudence196 towards their chiefs and superiors has spread among the young generation!” The prominent personage apparently had not observed that Akaky Akakiyevich 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 seventy. “Do you know to whom you are speaking? Do you realise who is standing 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 Akaky Akakiyevich.
Akaky Akakiyevich’s senses failed him. He staggered, trembled in every limb, and, if the porters had not run in to support him, would have fallen to the floor. They carried him out insensible. But the prominent personage, gratified that the effect should have surpassed his expectations, and quite intoxicated197 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.
Akaky Akakiyevich 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, darted198 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 swollen199, and he lay down on his bed. So powerful is sometimes a good scolding!
The next day a violent fever developed. Thanks to the generous assistance of the St. Petersburg climate, the malady200 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 poultice, 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 coffin201 now, for an oak one will be too expensive for him.”
Did Akaky Akakiyevich hear these fatal words? And if he heard them, did they produce any overwhelming effect upon him? Did he lament202 the bitterness of his life?—We know not, for he continued in a delirious203 condition. Visions incessantly204 appeared to him, each stranger than the other. Now he saw Petrovich, and ordered him to make a cloak, with some traps for robbers, who seemed to him to be always under the bed; and he cried every moment to the landlady to pull one of them from under his coverlet. Then he inquired why his old mantle205 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 aged78 landlady crossed herself, never in her life having heard anything of the kind from him, and more so as these 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 these incoherent words and thoughts hovered206 ever about one thing, his cloak.
At length poor Akaky Akakiyevich 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 Akaky Akakiyevich out, and buried him.
And St. Petersburg was left without Akaky Akakiyevich, 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 meekly207 the jibes208 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 him, thereafter, an intolerable misfortune descended, just as it descends209 upon the heads of the mighty210 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 Akaky Akakiyevich’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 slanting211.
But who could have imagined that this was not really the end of Akaky Akakiyevich, that he was destined212 to raise a commotion213 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 rumour214 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 an official seeking a stolen cloak, and that, under the pretext215 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, sable52, 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 Akaky Akakiyevich. 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 corpse216, 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 Kirinshkin Lane, caught the corpse by the collar on the very scene of his evil deeds, when attempting to pull off the frieze217 cloak of a retired218 musician. Having seized him by the collar, he summoned, with a shout, two of his comrades, whom he enjoined219 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 nostril46 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 positively220 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 official 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, annihilated221 Akaky Akakiyevich, he felt something like remorse222. 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 Akaky Akakiyevich. And from that day forth, poor Akaky Akakiyevich, 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 Akaky Akakiyevich 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 constrained223. This had a marvellous effect upon his mental state. He grew expansive, made himself agreeable in conversation, in short, he passed a delightful224 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 determined225 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 slightly arched but pretty little nose, came every morning to kiss his hand and say, “Bon jour, papa.” His wife, a still fresh and good-looking woman, first gave him her hand to kiss, and then, reversing the procedure, kissed his. But the prominent personage, though perfectly226 satisfied in his domestic relations, considered it stylish227 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 sledge140, said to the coachman, “To Karolina Ivanovna’s,” and, wrapping himself luxuriously228 in his warm cloak, found himself in that delightful frame of mind than which a Russian can conceive nothing better, namely, when you think of nothing yourself, yet when the thoughts creep into your mind of their own accord, each more agreeable than the other, giving you no trouble either to drive them away, or seek them. Fully satisfied, he recalled all the gay features of the evening just passed and all the mots which had made the little circle laugh. Many of them he repeated in a low voice, and found them quite as funny as before; so it is not surprising that he should laugh heartily229 at them. Occasionally, however, he was interrupted by gusts230 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, Akaky Akakiyevich. The official’s face was white as snow, and looked just like a corpse’s. But the horror of the important personage transcended231 all bounds when he saw the dead man’s mouth open, and heard it utter the following remarks, while it breathed upon him the terrible odour of the grave: “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 pallid232 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 manly233 form and appearance, every one said, “Ugh! how much character he has!” at this crisis, he, like many possessed234 of an heroic exterior235, 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 unnatural236 voice, “Home at full speed!” The coachman, hearing the tone which is generally employed at critical moments, and even accompanied by something much more tangible237, 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 distress238; 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 is standing before you?” less frequently to the under-officials, and, if he did utter the words, it was only after first having learned the bearings of the matter. But the most noteworthy point was, that from that day forward the apparition239 of the dead official 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 solicitous240 persons could by no means reassure241 themselves, and asserted that the dead official still showed himself in distant parts of the city.
In fact, one watchman in Kolomen saw with his own eyes the apparition come from behind a house. But the watchman was not a strong man, so he was afraid to arrest him, and followed him in the dark, until, at length, the apparition looked round, paused, and inquired, “What do you want?” at the same time showing such a fist as is never seen on living men. The watchman said, “Nothing,” and turned back instantly. But the apparition was much too tall, wore huge moustaches, and, directing its steps apparently towards the Obukhov Bridge, disappeared in the darkness of the night.
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touchiest
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| adj.易动气的( touchy的最高级 )；小心眼的；需要小心对待的；棘手的 | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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3
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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4
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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5
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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titular
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| adj.名义上的，有名无实的；n.只有名义（或头衔）的人 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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11
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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12
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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13
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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14
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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15
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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16
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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17
annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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18
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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19
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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20
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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21
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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22
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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23
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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24
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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25
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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26
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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27
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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28
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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29
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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30
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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31
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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32
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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33
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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34
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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35
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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36
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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37
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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38
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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39
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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40
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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41
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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42
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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43
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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44
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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45
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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46
nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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47
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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48
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
gulping
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的现在分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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50
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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51
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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52
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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53
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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54
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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55
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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56
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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57
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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58
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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59
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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60
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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61
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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62
thawing
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| n.熔化，融化v.（气候）解冻( thaw的现在分词 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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63
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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64
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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65
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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66
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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67
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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68
baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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69
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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70
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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71
reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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72
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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73
beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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74
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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75
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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76
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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77
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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78
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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79
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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80
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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81
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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82
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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83
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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84
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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85
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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86
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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87
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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88
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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89
stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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90
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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91
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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93
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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94
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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95
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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96
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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97
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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98
askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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99
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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101
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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102
blurt
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| vt.突然说出，脱口说出 | |
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103
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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104
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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105
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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106
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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107
curtail
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| vt.截短，缩短；削减 | |
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108
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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109
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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110
accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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111
deprivations
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| 剥夺( deprivation的名词复数 )； 被夺去； 缺乏； 匮乏 | |
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112
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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113
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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114
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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115
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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116
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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117
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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118
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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119
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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120
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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121
linings
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| n.衬里( lining的名词复数 )；里子；衬料；组织 | |
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122
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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123
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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124
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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125
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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126
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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127
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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128
discourteous
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| adj.不恭的，不敬的 | |
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129
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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130
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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132
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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133
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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134
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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135
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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136
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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137
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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138
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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139
otter
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| n.水獭 | |
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140
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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141
sledges
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| n.雪橇，雪车( sledge的名词复数 )v.乘雪橇( sledge的第三人称单数 )；用雪橇运载 | |
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142
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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143
scrunching
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| v.发出喀嚓声( scrunch的现在分词 )；蜷缩；压；挤压 | |
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144
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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145
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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146
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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147
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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148
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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150
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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151
veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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152
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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153
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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154
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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155
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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156
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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157
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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159
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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160
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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161
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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162
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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163
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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164
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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165
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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166
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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167
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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168
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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169
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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170
ridiculing
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的现在分词 ) | |
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171
subscribing
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| v.捐助( subscribe的现在分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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172
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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173
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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174
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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175
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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176
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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177
lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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178
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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179
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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180
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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181
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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182
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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183
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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185
opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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186
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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187
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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188
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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189
outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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190
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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191
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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192
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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193
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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194
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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195
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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196
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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197
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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198
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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199
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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200
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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201
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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202
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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203
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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204
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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205
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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206
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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207
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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208
jibes
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| n.与…一致( jibe的名词复数 )；（与…）相符；相匹配v.与…一致( jibe的第三人称单数 )；（与…）相符；相匹配 | |
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209
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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210
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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211
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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212
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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213
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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214
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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215
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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216
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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217
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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218
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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219
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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221
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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222
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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223
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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224
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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225
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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226
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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227
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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228
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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229
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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230
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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231
transcended
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的过去式和过去分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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232
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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233
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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234
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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235
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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236
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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237
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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238
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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239
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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240
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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241
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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