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Nikolai Gogol (1809-1852)

The Overcoat
Translated by Constance Garnett

Nikolai Gogol (1809-1852) was a Russian writer born in Ukraine and considered a founder of
Russian realism, although elements of romanticism and the grotesque permeate his work. His
most widely-read novels are Taras Bulba (1835), a historical romance, and Dead Souls (1842), a
satirical novel critical of the Tsarist regime. “The Overcoat,” also known as “The Cloak,” was
published in 1842. Fyodor Dostoyevsky is supposed to have said that all modern literature has
come out of Gogol’s overcoat.

In the department of—but it is better not to mention the department. There is nothing more
irritable than departments, regiments, courts of justice, and, in a word, every branch of public
service. Each individual attached to them nowadays thinks all society insulted in his person.
Quite recently a complaint was received from a justice of the peace, in which he plainly
demonstrated that all the imperial institutions were going to the dogs, and that the Czar's sacred
name was being taken in vain; and in proof he appended to the complaint a romance in which the
justice of the peace is made to appear about once every ten lines, and sometimes in a drunken
condition. Therefore, in order to avoid all unpleasantness, it will be better to describe the
department in question only as a certain department.
So, in a certain department there was a certain official—not a very high one, it must be
allowed—short of stature, somewhat pock-marked, red-haired, and short-sighted, with a bald
forehead, wrinkled cheeks, and a complexion of the kind known as sanguine. The St. Petersburg
climate was responsible for this. As for his official status, he was what is called a perpetual
titular councillor, over which, as is well known, some writers make merry, and crack their jokes,
obeying the praiseworthy custom of attacking those who cannot bite back.
His family name was Bashmachkin. This name is evidently derived from “bashmak” (shoe);
but when, at what time, and in what manner, is not known. His father and grandfather, and all the
Bashmachkins, always wore boots, which only had new heels two or three times a year. His
name was Akakiy Akakievitch. It may strike the reader as rather singular and far-fetched, but he
may rest assured that it was by no means far-fetched, and that the circumstances were such that it
would have been impossible to give him any other.
This is how it came about.
Akakiy Akakievitch was born, if my memory fails me not, in the evening of the 23rd of
March. His mother, the wife of a Government official and a very fine woman, made all due
arrangements for having the child baptised. She was lying on the bed opposite the door; on her
right stood the godfather, Ivan Ivanovitch Eroshkin, a most estimable man, who served as
presiding officer of the senate; and the godmother, Anna Semenovna Byelobrushkova, the wife
of an officer of the quarter, and a woman of rare virtues. They offered the mother her choice of
three names, Mokiya, Sossiya, or that the child should be called after the martyr Khozdazat.
“No,” said the good woman, “all those names are poor.” In order to please her they opened the
calendar to another place; three more names appeared, Triphiliy, Dula, and Varakhasiy. “This is
a judgment,” said the old woman. “What names! I truly never heard the like. Varada or Varukh
might have been borne, but not Triphiliy and Varakhasiy!” They turned to another page and
found Pavsikakhiy and Vakhtisiy. “Now I see,” said the old woman, “that it is plainly fate. And
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since such is the case, it will be better to name him after his father. His father's name was
Akakiy, so let his son's be Akakiy too.” In this manner he became Akakiy Akakievitch. They
christened the child, whereat he wept and made a grimace, as though he foresaw that he was to
be a titular councillor.
In this manner did it all come about. We have mentioned it in order that the reader might see
for himself that it was a case of necessity, and that it was utterly impossible to give him any other
name. When and how he entered the department, and who appointed him, no one could
remember. However much the directors and chiefs of all kinds were changed, he was always to
be seen in the same place, the same attitude, the same occupation; so that it was afterwards
affirmed that he had been born in undress uniform with a bald head. No respect was shown him
in the department. The porter not only did not rise from his seat when he passed, but never even
glanced at him, any more than if a fly had flown through the reception-room. His superiors
treated him in coolly despotic fashion. Some sub-chief would thrust a paper under his nose
without so much as saying, “Copy,” or “Here's a nice interesting affair,” or anything else
agreeable, as is customary amongst well-bred officials. And he took it, looking only at the paper
and not observing who handed it to him, or whether he had the right to do so; simply took it, and
set about copying it.
The young officials laughed at and made fun of him, so far as their official wit permitted;
told in his presence various stories concocted about him, and about his landlady, an old woman
of seventy; declared that she beat him; asked when the wedding was to be; and strewed bits of
paper over his head, calling them snow. But Akakiy Akakievitch answered not a word, any more
than if there had been no one there besides himself. It even had no effect upon his work: amid all
these annoyances he never made a single mistake in a letter. But if the joking became wholly
unbearable, as when they jogged his hand and prevented his attending to his work, he would
exclaim, “Leave me alone! Why do you insult me?” And there was something strange in the
words and the voice in which they were uttered. There was in it something which moved to pity;
so much that one young man, a new-comer, who, taking pattern by the others, had permitted
himself to make sport of Akakiy, suddenly stopped short, as though all about him had undergone
a transformation, and presented itself in a different aspect. Some unseen force repelled him from
the comrades whose acquaintance he had made, on the supposition that they were well-bred and
polite men. Long afterwards, in his gayest moments, there recurred to his mind the little official
with the bald forehead, with his heart-rending words, “Leave me alone! Why do you insult me?”
In these moving words, other words resounded—”I am thy brother.” And the young man covered
his face with his hand; and many a time afterwards, in the course of his life, shuddered at seeing
how much inhumanity there is in man, how much savage coarseness is concealed beneath
delicate, refined worldliness, and even, O God! in that man whom the world acknowledges as
honourable and noble.
It would be difficult to find another man who lived so entirely for his duties. It is not enough
to say that Akakiy laboured with zeal: no, he laboured with love. In his copying, he found a
varied and agreeable employment. Enjoyment was written on his face: some letters were even
favourites with him; and when he encountered these, he smiled, winked, and worked with his
lips, till it seemed as though each letter might be read in his face, as his pen traced it. If his pay
had been in proportion to his zeal, he would, perhaps, to his great surprise, have been made even
a councillor of state. But he worked, as his companions, the wits, put it, like a horse in a mill.
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Moreover, it is impossible to say that no attention was paid to him. One director being a
kindly man, and desirous of rewarding him for his long service, ordered him to be given
something more important than mere copying. So he was ordered to make a report of an already
concluded affair to another department: the duty consisting simply in changing the heading and
altering a few words from the first to the third person. This caused him so much toil that he broke
into a perspiration, rubbed his forehead, and finally said, “No, give me rather something to
copy.” After that they let him copy on forever.
Outside this copying, it appeared that nothing existed for him. He gave no thought to his
clothes: his undress uniform was not green, but a sort of rusty- meal colour. The collar was low,
so that his neck, in spite of the fact that it was not long, seemed inordinately so as it emerged
from it, like the necks of those plaster cats which wag their heads, and are carried about upon the
heads of scores of image sellers. And something was always sticking to his uniform, either a bit
of hay or some trifle. Moreover, he had a peculiar knack, as he walked along the street, of
arriving beneath a window just as all sorts of rubbish were being flung out of it: hence he always
bore about on his hat scraps of melon rinds and other such articles. Never once in his life did he
give heed to what was going on every day in the street; while it is well known that his young
brother officials train the range of their glances till they can see when any one's trouser straps
come undone upon the opposite sidewalk, which always brings a malicious smile to their faces.
But Akakiy Akakievitch saw in all things the clean, even strokes of his written lines; and only
when a horse thrust his nose, from some unknown quarter, over his shoulder, and sent a whole
gust of wind down his neck from his nostrils, did he observe that he was not in the middle of a
page, but in the middle of the street.
On reaching home, he sat down at once at the table, supped his cabbage soup up quickly,
and swallowed a bit of beef with onions, never noticing their taste, and gulping down everything
with flies and anything else which the Lord happened to send at the moment. His stomach filled,
he rose from the table, and copied papers which he had brought home. If there happened to be
none, he took copies for himself, for his own gratification, especially if the document was
noteworthy, not on account of its style, but of its being addressed to some distinguished person.
Even at the hour when the grey St. Petersburg sky had quite dispersed, and all the official
world had eaten or dined, each as he could, in accordance with the salary he received and his
own fancy; when all were resting from the departmental jar of pens, running to and fro from their
own and other people's indispensable occupations, and from all the work that an uneasy man
makes willingly for himself, rather than what is necessary; when officials hasten to dedicate to
pleasure the time which is left to them, one bolder than the rest going to the theatre; another, into
the street looking under all the bonnets; another wasting his evening in compliments to some
pretty girl, the star of a small official circle; another—and this is the common case of all—
visiting his comrades on the fourth or third floor, in two small rooms with an ante-room or
kitchen, and some pretensions to fashion, such as a lamp or some other trifle which has cost
many a sacrifice of dinner or pleasure trip; in a word, at the hour when all officials disperse
among the contracted quarters of their friends, to play whist, as they sip their tea from glasses
with a kopek's worth of sugar, smoke long pipes, relate at times some bits of gossip which a
Russian man can never, under any circumstances, refrain from, and, when there is nothing else to
talk of, repeat eternal anecdotes about the commandant to whom they had sent word that the tails
of the horses on the Falconet Monument had been cut off, when all strive to divert themselves,
Akakiy Akakievitch indulged in no kind of diversion. No one could ever say that he had seen
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him at any kind of evening party. Having written to his heart's content, he lay down to sleep,
smiling at the thought of the coming day—of what God might send him to copy on the morrow.
Thus flowed on the peaceful life of the man, who, with a salary of four hundred rubles,
understood how to be content with his lot; and thus it would have continued to flow on, perhaps,
to extreme old age, were it not that there are various ills strewn along the path of life for titular
councillors as well as for private, actual, court, and every other species of councillor, even for
those who never give any advice or take any themselves.
There exists in St. Petersburg a powerful foe of all who receive a salary of four hundred
rubles a year, or thereabouts. This foe is no other than the Northern cold, although it is said to be
very healthy. At nine o'clock in the morning, at the very hour when the streets are filled with
men bound for the various official departments, it begins to bestow such powerful and piercing
nips on all noses impartially that the poor officials really do not know what to do with them. At
an hour when the foreheads of even those who occupy exalted positions ache with the cold, and
tears start to their eyes, the poor titular councillors are sometimes quite unprotected. Their only
salvation lies in traversing as quickly as possible, in their thin little cloaks, five or six streets, and
then warming their feet in the porter's room, and so thawing all their talents and qualifications for
official service, which had become frozen on the way.
Akakiy Akakievitch had felt for some time that his back and shoulders suffered with
peculiar poignancy, in spite of the fact that he tried to traverse the distance with all possible
speed. He began finally to wonder whether the fault did not lie in his cloak. He examined it
thoroughly at home, and discovered that in two places, namely, on the back and shoulders, it had
become thin as gauze: the cloth was worn to such a degree that he could see through it, and the
lining had fallen into pieces. You must know that Akakiy Akakievitch's cloak served as an object
of ridicule to the officials: they even refused it the noble name of cloak, and called it a cape. In
fact, it was of singular make: its collar diminishing year by year, but serving to patch its other
parts. The patching did not exhibit great skill on the part of the tailor, and was, in fact, baggy and
ugly. Seeing how the matter stood, Akakiy Akakievitch decided that it would be necessary to
take the cloak to Petrovitch, the tailor, who lived somewhere on the fourth floor up a dark stair-
case, and who, in spite of his having but one eye, and pock-marks all over his face, busied
himself with considerable success in repairing the trousers and coats of officials and others; that
is to say, when he was sober and not nursing some other scheme in his head.
It is not necessary to say much about this tailor; but, as it is the custom to have the character
of each personage in a novel clearly defined, there is no help for it, so here is Petrovitch the
tailor. At first he was called only Grigoriy, and was some gentleman's serf; he commenced
calling himself Petrovitch from the time when he received his free papers, and further began to
drink heavily on all holidays, at first on the great ones, and then on all church festivities without
discrimination, wherever a cross stood in the calendar. On this point he was faithful to ancestral
custom; and when quarrelling with his wife, he called her a low female and a German. As we
have mentioned his wife, it will be necessary to say a word or two about her. Unfortunately, little
is known of her beyond the fact that Petrovitch has a wife, who wears a cap and a dress; but
cannot lay claim to beauty, at least, no one but the soldiers of the guard even looked under her
cap when they met her.
Ascending the staircase which led to Petrovitch's room—which staircase was all soaked with
dish-water, and reeked with the smell of spirits which affects the eyes, and is an inevitable
adjunct to all dark stairways in St. Petersburg houses—ascending the stairs, Akakiy Akakievitch
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pondered how much Petrovitch would ask, and mentally resolved not to give more than two
rubles. The door was open; for the mistress, in cooking some fish, had raised such a smoke in the
kitchen that not even the beetles were visible. Akakiy Akakievitch passed through the kitchen
unperceived, even by the housewife, and at length reached a room where he beheld Petrovitch
seated on a large unpainted table, with his legs tucked under him like a Turkish pasha. His feet
were bare, after the fashion of tailors who sit at work; and the first thing which caught the eye
was his thumb, with a deformed nail thick and strong as a turtle's shell. About Petrovitch's neck
hung a skein of silk and thread, and upon his knees lay some old garment. He had been trying
unsuccessfully for three minutes to thread his needle, and was enraged at the darkness and even
at the thread, growling in a low voice, “It won't go through, the barbarian! you pricked me, you
rascal!”
Akakiy Akakievitch was vexed at arriving at the precise moment when Petrovitch was
angry; he liked to order something of Petrovitch when the latter was a little downhearted, or, as
his wife expressed it, “when he had settled himself with brandy, the one-eyed devil!” Under such
circumstances, Petrovitch generally came down in his price very readily, and even bowed and
returned thanks. Afterwards, to be sure, his wife would come, complaining that her husband was
drunk, and so had fixed the price too low; but, if only a ten-kopek piece were added, then the
matter was settled. But now it appeared that Petrovitch was in a sober condition, and therefore
rough, taciturn, and inclined to demand Satan only knows what price. Akakiy Akakievitch felt
this, and would gladly have beat a retreat; but he was in for it. Petrovitch screwed up his one eye
very intently at him, and Akakiy Akakievitch involuntarily said: “How do you do, Petrovitch?”
“I wish you a good morning, sir,” said Petrovitch, squinting at Akakiy Akakievitch's hands,
to see what sort of booty he had brought.
“Ah! I—to you, Petrovitch, this—” It must be known that Akakiy Akakievitch expressed
himself chiefly by prepositions, adverbs, and scraps of phrases which had no meaning whatever.
If the matter was a very difficult one, he had a habit of never completing his sentences; so that
frequently, having begun a phrase with the words, “This, in fact, is quite—” he forgot to go on,
thinking that he had already finished it.
“What is it?” asked Petrovitch, and with his one eye scanned Akakievitch's whole uniform
from the collar down to the cuffs, the back, the tails and the button-holes, all of which were well
known to him, since they were his own handiwork. Such is the habit of tailors; it is the first thing
they do on meeting one.
“But I, here, this—Petrovitch—a cloak, cloth—here you see, everywhere, in different
places, it is quite strong—it is a little dusty, and looks old, but it is new, only here in one place it
is a little—on the back, and here on one of the shoulders, it is a little worn, yes, here on this
shoulder it is a little—do you see? that is all. And a little work—”
Petrovitch took the cloak, spread it out, to begin with, on the table, looked hard at it, shook
his head, reached out his hand to the window-sill for his snuff-box, adorned with the portrait of
some general, though what general is unknown, for the place where the face should have been
had been rubbed through by the finger, and a square bit of paper had been pasted over it. Having
taken a pinch of snuff, Petrovitch held up the cloak, and inspected it against the light, and again
shook his head once more. After which he again lifted the general-adorned lid with its bit of
pasted paper, and having stuffed his nose with snuff, closed and put away the snuff-box, and said
finally, “No, it is impossible to mend it; it's a wretched garment!”
Akakiy Akakievitch's heart sank at these words.
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“Why is it impossible, Petrovitch?” he said, almost in the pleading voice of a child; “all that
ails it is, that it is worn on the shoulders. You must have some pieces—”
“Yes, patches could be found, patches are easily found,” said Petrovitch, “but there's nothing
to sew them to. The thing is completely rotten; if you put a needle to it—see, it will give way.”
“Let it give way, and you can put on another patch at once.”
“But there is nothing to put the patches on to; there's no use in strengthening it; it is too far
gone. It's lucky that it's cloth; for, if the wind were to blow, it would fly away.”
“Well, strengthen it again. How will this, in fact—”
“No,” said Petrovitch decisively, “there is nothing to be done with it. It's a thoroughly bad
job. You'd better, when the cold winter weather comes on, make yourself some gaiters out of it,
because stockings are not warm. The Germans invented them in order to make more money.”
Petrovitch loved, on all occasions, to have a fling at the Germans. “But it is plain you must have
a new cloak.”
At the word “new,” all grew dark before Akakiy Akakievitch's eyes, and everything in the
room began to whirl round. The only thing he saw clearly was the general with the paper face on
the lid of Petrovitch's snuff-box. “A new one?” said he, as if still in a dream: “why, I have no
money for that.”
“Yes, a new one,” said Petrovitch, with barbarous composure.
“Well, if it came to a new one, how would it—?”
“You mean how much would it cost?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you would have to lay out a hundred and fifty or more,” said Petrovitch, and pursed
up his lips significantly. He liked to produce powerful effects, liked to stun utterly and suddenly,
and then to glance sideways to see what face the stunned person would put on the matter.
“A hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak!” shrieked poor Akakiy Akakievitch, perhaps for the
first time in his life, for his voice had always been distinguished for softness.
“Yes, sir,” said Petrovitch, “for any kind of cloak. If you have a marten fur on the collar, or
a silk-lined hood, it will mount up to two hundred.”
“Petrovitch, please,” said Akakiy Akakievitch in a beseeching tone, not hearing, and not
trying to hear, Petrovitch's words, and disregarding all his “effects,” “some repairs, in order that
it may wear yet a little longer.”
“No, it would only be a waste of time and money,” said Petrovitch; and Akakiy Akakievitch
went away after these words, utterly discouraged. But Petrovitch stood for some time after his
departure, with significantly compressed lips, and without betaking himself to his work, satisfied
that he would not be dropped, and an artistic tailor employed.
Akakiy Akakievitch went out into the street as if in a dream. “Such an affair!” he said to
himself: “I did not think it had come to—” and then after a pause, he added, “Well, so it is! see
what it has come to at last! and I never imagined that it was so!” Then followed a long silence,
after which he exclaimed, “Well, so it is! see what already—nothing unexpected that—it would
be nothing—what a strange circumstance!” So saying, instead of going home, he went in exactly
the opposite direction without himself suspecting it. On the way, a chimney-sweep bumped up
against him, and blackened his shoulder, and a whole hatful of rubbish landed on him from the
top of a house which was building. He did not notice it; and only when he ran against a
watchman, who, having planted his halberd beside him, was shaking some snuff from his box
into his horny hand, did he recover himself a little, and that because the watchman said, “Why
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are you poking yourself into a man's very face? Haven't you the pavement?” This caused him to
look about him, and turn towards home.
There only, he finally began to collect his thoughts, and to survey his position in its clear
and actual light, and to argue with himself, sensibly and frankly, as with a reasonable friend with
whom one can discuss private and personal matters. “No,” said Akakiy Akakievitch, “it is
impossible to reason with Petrovitch now; he is that—evidently his wife has been beating him.
I'd better go to him on Sunday morning; after Saturday night he will be a little cross-eyed and
sleepy, for he will want to get drunk, and his wife won't give him any money; and at such a time,
a ten-kopek piece in his hand will—he will become more fit to reason with, and then the cloak,
and that—” Thus argued Akakiy Akakievitch with himself, regained his courage, and waited
until the first Sunday, when, seeing from afar that Petrovitch's wife had left the house, he went
straight to him.
Petrovitch's eye was, indeed, very much askew after Saturday: his head drooped, and he was
very sleepy; but for all that, as soon as he knew what it was a question of, it seemed as though
Satan jogged his memory. “Impossible,” said he: “please to order a new one.” Thereupon Akakiy
Akakievitch handed over the ten- kopek piece. “Thank you, sir; I will drink your good health,”
said Petrovitch: “but as for the cloak, don't trouble yourself about it; it is good for nothing. I will
make you a capital new one, so let us settle about it now.”
Akakiy Akakievitch was still for mending it; but Petrovitch would not hear of it, and said, “I
shall certainly have to make you a new one, and you may depend upon it that I shall do my best.
It may even be, as the fashion goes, that the collar can be fastened by silver hooks under a flap.”
Then Akakiy Akakievitch saw that it was impossible to get along without a new cloak, and
his spirit sank utterly. How, in fact, was it to be done? Where was the money to come from? He
might, to be sure, depend, in part, upon his present at Christmas; but that money had long been
allotted beforehand. He must have some new trousers, and pay a debt of long standing to the
shoemaker for putting new tops to his old boots, and he must order three shirts from the
seamstress, and a couple of pieces of linen. In short, all his money must be spent; and even if the
director should be so kind as to order him to receive forty-five rubles instead of forty, or even
fifty, it would be a mere nothing, a mere drop in the ocean towards the funds necessary for a
cloak: although he knew that Petrovitch was often wrong-headed enough to blurt out some
outrageous price, so that even his own wife could not refrain from exclaiming, “Have you lost
your senses, you fool?” At one time he would not work at any price, and now it was quite likely
that he had named a higher sum than the cloak would cost.
But although he knew that Petrovitch would undertake to make a cloak for eighty rubles,
still, where was he to get the eighty rubles from? He might possibly manage half, yes, half might
be procured, but where was the other half to come from? But the reader must first be told where
the first half came from. Akakiy Akakievitch had a habit of putting, for every ruble he spent, a
groschen into a small box, fastened with a lock and key, and with a slit in the top for the
reception of money. At the end of every half-year he counted over the heap of coppers, and
changed it for silver. This he had done for a long time, and in the course of years, the sum had
mounted up to over forty rubles. Thus he had one half on hand; but where was he to find the
other half? where was he to get another forty rubles from? Akakiy Akakievitch thought and
thought, and decided that it would be necessary to curtail his ordinary expenses, for the space of
one year at least, to dispense with tea in the evening; to burn no candles, and, if there was
anything which he must do, to go into his landlady's room, and work by her light. When he went
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into the street, he must walk as lightly as he could, and as cautiously, upon the stones, almost
upon tiptoe, in order not to wear his heels down in too short a time; he must give the laundress as
little to wash as possible; and, in order not to wear out his clothes, he must take them off, as soon
as he got home, and wear only his cotton dressing-gown, which had been long and carefully
saved.
To tell the truth, it was a little hard for him at first to accustom himself to these deprivations;
but he got used to them at length, after a fashion, and all went smoothly. He even got used to
being hungry in the evening, but he made up for it by treating himself, so to say, in spirit, by
bearing ever in mind the idea of his future cloak. From that time forth his existence seemed to
become, in some way, fuller, as if he were married, or as if some other man lived in him, as if, in
fact, he were not alone, and some pleasant friend had consented to travel along life's path with
him, the friend being no other than the cloak, with thick wadding and a strong lining incapable of
wearing out. He became more lively, and even his character grew firmer, like that of a man who
has made up his mind, and set himself a goal. From his face and gait, doubt and indecision, all
hesitating and wavering traits disappeared of themselves. Fire gleamed in his eyes, and
occasionally the boldest and most daring ideas flitted through his mind; why not, for instance,
have marten fur on the collar? The thought of this almost made him absent-minded. Once, in
copying a letter, he nearly made a mistake, so that he exclaimed almost aloud, “Ugh!” and
crossed himself. Once, in the course of every month, he had a conference with Petrovitch on the
subject of the cloak, where it would be better to buy the cloth, and the colour, and the price. He
always returned home satisfied, though troubled, reflecting that the time would come at last
when it could all be bought, and then the cloak made.
The affair progressed more briskly than he had expected. Far beyond all his hopes, the
director awarded neither forty nor forty-five rubles for Akakiy Akakievitch's share, but sixty.
Whether he suspected that Akakiy Akakievitch needed a cloak, or whether it was merely chance,
at all events, twenty extra rubles were by this means provided. This circumstance hastened
matters. Two or three months more of hunger and Akakiy Akakievitch had accumulated about
eighty rubles. His heart, generally so quiet, began to throb. On the first possible day, he went
shopping in company with Petrovitch. They bought some very good cloth, and at a reasonable
rate too, for they had been considering the matter for six months, and rarely let a month pass
without their visiting the shops to inquire prices. Petrovitch himself said that no better cloth
could be had. For lining, they selected a cotton stuff, but so firm and thick that Petrovitch
declared it to be better than silk, and even prettier and more glossy. They did not buy the marten
fur, because it was, in fact, dear, but in its stead, they picked out the very best of cat-skin which
could be found in the shop, and which might, indeed, be taken for marten at a distance.
Petrovitch worked at the cloak two whole weeks, for there was a great deal of quilting:
otherwise it would have been finished sooner. He charged twelve rubles for the job, it could not
possibly have been done for less. It was all sewed with silk, in small, double seams; and
Petrovitch went over each seam afterwards with his own teeth, stamping in various patterns.
It was—it is difficult to say precisely on what day, but probably the most glorious one in
Akakiy Akakievitch's life, when Petrovitch at length brought home the cloak. He brought it in
the morning, before the hour when it was necessary to start for the department. Never did a cloak
arrive so exactly in the nick of time; for the severe cold had set in, and it seemed to threaten to
increase. Petrovitch brought the cloak himself as befits a good tailor. On his countenance was a
significant expression, such as Akakiy Akakievitch had never beheld there. He seemed fully
 9

sensible that he had done no small deed, and crossed a gulf separating tailors who only put in
linings, and execute repairs, from those who make new things. He took the cloak out of the
pocket handkerchief in which he had brought it. The handkerchief was fresh from the laundress,
and he put it in his pocket for use. Taking out the cloak, he gazed proudly at it, held it up with
both hands, and flung it skilfully over the shoulders of Akakiy Akakievitch. Then he pulled it
and fitted it down behind with his hand, and he draped it around Akakiy Akakievitch without
buttoning it. Akakiy Akakievitch, like an experienced man, wished to try the sleeves. Petrovitch
helped him on with them, and it turned out that the sleeves were satisfactory also. In short, the
cloak appeared to be perfect, and most seasonable. Petrovitch did not neglect to observe that it
was only because he lived in a narrow street, and had no signboard, and had known Akakiy
Akakievitch so long, that he had made it so cheaply; but that if he had been in business on the
Nevsky Prospect, he would have charged seventy-five rubles for the making alone. Akakiy
Akakievitch did not care to argue this point with Petrovitch. He paid him, thanked him, and set
out at once in his new cloak for the department. Petrovitch followed him, and, pausing in the
street, gazed long at the cloak in the distance, after which he went to one side expressly to run
through a crooked alley, and emerge again into the street beyond to gaze once more upon the
cloak from another point, namely, directly in front.
Meantime Akakiy Akakievitch went on in holiday mood. He was conscious every second of
the time that he had a new cloak on his shoulders; and several times he laughed with internal
satisfaction. In fact, there were two advantages, one was its warmth, the other its beauty. He saw
nothing of the road, but suddenly found himself at the department. He took off his cloak in the
ante-room, looked it over carefully, and confided it to the especial care of the attendant. It is
impossible to say precisely how it was that everyone in the department knew at once that Akakiy
Akakievitch had a new cloak, and that the “cape” no longer existed. All rushed at the same
moment into the ante-room to inspect it. They congratulated him and said pleasant things to him,
so that he began at first to smile and then to grow ashamed. When all surrounded him, and said
that the new cloak must be “christened,” and that he must give a whole evening at least to this,
Akakiy Akakievitch lost his head completely, and did not know where he stood, what to answer,
or how to get out of it. He stood blushing all over for several minutes, and was on the point of
assuring them with great simplicity that it was not a new cloak, that it was so and so, that it was
in fact the old “cape.”
At length one of the officials, a sub-chief probably, in order to show that he was not at all
proud, and on good terms with his inferiors, said, “So be it, only I will give the party instead of
Akakiy Akakievitch; I invite you all to tea with me to-night; it happens quite a propos, as it is my
name-day.” The officials naturally at once offered the sub-chief their congratulations and
accepted the invitations with pleasure. Akakiy Akakievitch would have declined, but all declared
that it was discourteous, that it was simply a sin and a shame, and that he could not possibly
refuse. Besides, the notion became pleasant to him when he recollected that he should thereby
have a chance of wearing his new cloak in the evening also.
That whole day was truly a most triumphant festival day for Akakiy Akakievitch. He
returned home in the most happy frame of mind, took off his cloak, and hung it carefully on the
wall, admiring afresh the cloth and the lining. Then he brought out his old, worn-out cloak, for
comparison. He looked at it and laughed, so vast was the difference. And long after dinner he
laughed again when the condition of the “cape” recurred to his mind. He dined cheerfully, and
after dinner wrote nothing, but took his ease for a while on the bed, until it got dark. Then he
 10

dressed himself leisurely, put on his cloak, and stepped out into the street. Where the host lived,
unfortunately we cannot say: our memory begins to fail us badly; and the houses and streets in
St. Petersburg have become so mixed up in our head that it is very difficult to get anything out of
it again in proper form. This much is certain, that the official lived in the best part of the city; and
therefore it must have been anything but near to Akakiy Akakievitch's residence. Akakiy
Akakievitch was first obliged to traverse a kind of wilderness of deserted, dimly-lighted streets;
but in proportion as he approached the official's quarter of the city, the streets became more
lively, more populous, and more brilliantly illuminated. Pedestrians began to appear; handsomely
dressed ladies were more frequently encountered; the men had otter skin collars to their coats;
peasant waggoners, with their grate-like sledges stuck over with brass-headed nails, became
rarer; whilst on the other hand, more and more drivers in red velvet caps, lacquered sledges and
bear-skin coats began to appear, and carriages with rich hammer-cloths flew swiftly through the
streets, their wheels scrunching the snow. Akakiy Akakievitch gazed upon all this as upon a
novel sight. He had not been in the streets during the evening for years. He halted out of curiosity
before a shop-window to look at a picture representing a handsome woman, who had thrown off
her shoe, thereby baring her whole foot in a very pretty way; whilst behind her the head of a man
with whiskers and a handsome moustache peeped through the doorway of another room. Akakiy
Akakievitch shook his head and laughed, and then went on his way. Why did he laugh? Either
because he had met with a thing utterly unknown, but for which every one cherishes,
nevertheless, some sort of feeling; or else he thought, like many officials, as follows: “Well,
those French! What is to be said? If they do go in anything of that sort, why—” But possibly he
did not think at all.
Akakiy Akakievitch at length reached the house in which the sub-chief lodged. The sub-
chief lived in fine style: the staircase was lit by a lamp; his apartment being on the second floor.
On entering the vestibule, Akakiy Akakievitch beheld a whole row of goloshes on the floor.
Among them, in the centre of the room, stood a samovar humming and emitting clouds of steam.
On the walls hung all sorts of coats and cloaks, among which there were even some with beaver
collars or velvet facings. Beyond, the buzz of conversation was audible, and became clear and
loud when the servant came out with a trayful of empty glasses, cream-jugs, and sugar-bowls. It
was evident that the officials had arrived long before and had already finished their first glass of
tea.
Akakiy Akakievitch, having hung up his own cloak, entered the inner room. Before him all
at once appeared lights, officials, pipes, and card-tables; and he was bewildered by the sound of
rapid conversation rising from all the tables, and the noise of moving chairs. He halted very
awkwardly in the middle of the room, wondering what he ought to do. But they had seen him.
They received him with a shout, and all thronged at once into the ante-room, and there took
another look at his cloak. Akakiy Akakievitch, although somewhat confused, was frank-hearted,
and could not refrain from rejoicing when he saw how they praised his cloak. Then, of course,
they all dropped him and his cloak, and returned, as was proper, to the tables set out for whist.
All this, the noise, the talk, and the throng of people was rather overwhelming to Akakiy
Akakievitch. He simply did not know where he stood, or where to put his hands, his feet, and his
whole body. Finally he sat down by the players, looked at the cards, gazed at the face of one and
another, and after a while began to gape, and to feel that it was wearisome, the more so as the
hour was already long past when he usually went to bed. He wanted to take leave of the host; but
they would not let him go, saying that he must not fail to drink a glass of champagne in honour
 11

of his new garment. In the course of an hour, supper, consisting of vegetable salad, cold veal,
pastry, confectioner's pies, and champagne, was served. They made Akakiy Akakievitch drink
two glasses of champagne, after which he felt things grow livelier.
Still, he could not forget that it was twelve o'clock, and that he should have been at home
long ago. In order that the host might not think of some excuse for detaining him, he stole out of
the room quickly, sought out, in the ante-room, his cloak, which, to his sorrow, he found lying on
the floor, brushed it, picked off every speck upon it, put it on his shoulders, and descended the
stairs to the street.
In the street all was still bright. Some petty shops, those permanent clubs of servants and all
sorts of folk, were open. Others were shut, but, nevertheless, showed a streak of light the whole
length of the door-crack, indicating that they were not yet free of company, and that probably
some domestics, male and female, were finishing their stories and conversations whilst leaving
their masters in complete ignorance as to their whereabouts. Akakiy Akakievitch went on in a
happy frame of mind: he even started to run, without knowing why, after some lady, who flew
past like a flash of lightning. But he stopped short, and went on very quietly as before,
wondering why he had quickened his pace. Soon there spread before him those deserted streets,
which are not cheerful in the daytime, to say nothing of the evening. Now they were even more
dim and lonely: the lanterns began to grow rarer, oil, evidently, had been less liberally supplied.
Then came wooden houses and fences: not a soul anywhere; only the snow sparkled in the
streets, and mournfully veiled the low-roofed cabins with their closed shutters. He approached
the spot where the street crossed a vast square with houses barely visible on its farther side, a
square which seemed a fearful desert.
Afar, a tiny spark glimmered from some watchman's box, which seemed to stand on the
edge of the world. Akakiy Akakievitch's cheerfulness diminished at this point in a marked
degree. He entered the square, not without an involuntary sensation of fear, as though his heart
warned him of some evil. He glanced back and on both sides, it was like a sea about him. “No, it
is better not to look,” he thought, and went on, closing his eyes. When he opened them, to see
whether he was near the end of the square, he suddenly beheld, standing just before his very
nose, some bearded individuals of precisely what sort he could not make out. All grew dark
before his eyes, and his heart throbbed.
“But, of course, the cloak is mine!” said one of them in a loud voice, seizing hold of his
collar. Akakiy Akakievitch was about to shout “watch,” when the second man thrust a fist, about
the size of a man's head, into his mouth, muttering, “Now scream!”
Akakiy Akakievitch felt them strip off his cloak and give him a push with a knee: he fell
headlong upon the snow, and felt no more. In a few minutes he recovered consciousness and rose
to his feet; but no one was there. He felt that it was cold in the square, and that his cloak was
gone; he began to shout, but his voice did not appear to reach to the outskirts of the square. In
despair, but without ceasing to shout, he started at a run across the square, straight towards the
watchbox, beside which stood the watchman, leaning on his halberd, and apparently curious to
know what kind of a customer was running towards him and shouting. Akakiy Akakievitch ran
up to him, and began in a sobbing voice to shout that he was asleep, and attended to nothing, and
did not see when a man was robbed. The watchman replied that he had seen two men stop him in
the middle of the square, but supposed that they were friends of his; and that, instead of scolding
vainly, he had better go to the police on the morrow, so that they might make a search for
whoever had stolen the cloak.
 12

Akakiy Akakievitch ran home in complete disorder; his hair, which grew very thinly upon
his temples and the back of his head, wholly disordered; his body, arms, and legs covered with
snow. The old woman, who was mistress of his lodgings, on hearing a terrible knocking, sprang
hastily from her bed, and, with only one shoe on, ran to open the door, pressing the sleeve of her
chemise to her bosom out of modesty; but when she had opened it, she fell back on beholding
Akakiy Akakievitch in such a state. When he told her about the affair, she clasped her hands, and
said that he must go straight to the district chief of police, for his subordinate would turn up his
nose, promise well, and drop the matter there. The very best thing to do, therefore, would be to
go to the district chief, whom she knew, because Finnish Anna, her former cook, was now nurse
at his house. She often saw him passing the house; and he was at church every Sunday, praying,
but at the same time gazing cheerfully at everybody; so that he must be a good man, judging
from all appearances. Having listened to this opinion, Akakiy Akakievitch betook himself sadly
to his room; and how he spent the night there anyone who can put himself in another's place may
readily imagine.
Early in the morning, he presented himself at the district chief's, but was told that this
official was asleep. He went again at ten and was again informed that he was asleep; at eleven,
and they said: “The superintendent is not at home;” at dinner time, and the clerks in the ante-
room would not admit him on any terms, and insisted upon knowing his business. So that at last,
for once in his life, Akakiy Akakievitch felt an inclination to show some spirit, and said curtly
that he must see the chief in person; that they ought not to presume to refuse him entrance; that
he came from the department of justice, and that when he complained of them, they would see.
The clerks dared make no reply to this, and one of them went to call the chief, who listened
to the strange story of the theft of the coat. Instead of directing his attention to the principal
points of the matter, he began to question Akakiy Akakievitch: Why was he going home so late?
Was he in the habit of doing so, or had he been to some disorderly house? So that Akakiy
Akakievitch got thoroughly confused, and left him without knowing whether the affair of his
cloak was in proper train or not.
All that day, for the first time in his life, he never went near the department. The next day he
made his appearance, very pale, and in his old cape, which had become even more shabby. The
news of the robbery of the cloak touched many; although there were some officials present who
never lost an opportunity, even such a one as the present, of ridiculing Akakiy Akakievitch. They
decided to make a collection for him on the spot, but the officials had already spent a great deal
in subscribing for the director's portrait, and for some book, at the suggestion of the head of that
division, who was a friend of the author; and so the sum was trifling.
One of them, moved by pity, resolved to help Akakiy Akakievitch with some good advice at
least, and told him that he ought not to go to the police, for although it might happen that a
police-officer, wishing to win the approval of his superiors, might hunt up the cloak by some
means, still his cloak would remain in the possession of the police if he did not offer legal proof
that it belonged to him. The best thing for him, therefore, would be to apply to a certain
prominent personage; since this prominent personage, by entering into relations with the proper
persons, could greatly expedite the matter.
As there was nothing else to be done, Akakiy Akakievitch decided to go to the prominent
personage. What was the exact official position of the prominent personage remains unknown to
this day. The reader must know that the prominent personage had but recently become a
prominent personage, having up to that time been only an insignificant person. Moreover, his
 13

present position was not considered prominent in comparison with others still more so. But there
is always a circle of people to whom what is insignificant in the eyes of others, is important
enough. Moreover, he strove to increase his importance by sundry devices; for instance, he
managed to have the inferior officials meet him on the staircase when he entered upon his
service; no one was to presume to come directly to him, but the strictest etiquette must be
observed; the collegiate recorder must make a report to the government secretary, the
government secretary to the titular councillor, or whatever other man was proper, and all
business must come before him in this manner. In Holy Russia all is thus contaminated with the
love of imitation; every man imitates and copies his superior. They even say that a certain titular
councillor, when promoted to the head of some small separate room, immediately partitioned off
a private room for himself, called it the audience chamber, and posted at the door a lackey with
red collar and braid, who grasped the handle of the door and opened to all comers; though the
audience chamber could hardly hold an ordinary writing-table.
The manners and customs of the prominent personage were grand and imposing, but rather
exaggerated. The main foundation of his system was strictness. “Strictness, strictness, and
always strictness!” he generally said; and at the last word he looked significantly into the face of
the person to whom he spoke. But there was no necessity for this, for the half-score of
subordinates who formed the entire force of the office were properly afraid; on catching sight of
him afar off they left their work and waited, drawn up in line, until he had passed through the
room. His ordinary converse with his inferiors smacked of sternness, and consisted chiefly of
three phrases: “How dare you?” “Do you know whom you are speaking to?” “Do you realise
who stands before you?”
Otherwise he was a very kind-hearted man, good to his comrades, and ready to oblige; but
the rank of general threw him completely off his balance. On receiving any one of that rank, he
became confused, lost his way, as it were, and never knew what to do. If he chanced to be
amongst his equals he was still a very nice kind of man, a very good fellow in many respects,
and not stupid; but the very moment that he found himself in the society of people but one rank
lower than himself he became silent; and his situation aroused sympathy, the more so as he felt
himself that he might have been making an incomparably better use of his time. In his eyes there
was sometimes visible a desire to join some interesting conversation or group; but he was kept
back by the thought, “Would it not be a very great condescension on his part? Would it not be
familiar? and would he not thereby lose his importance?” And in consequence of such reflections
he always remained in the same dumb state, uttering from time to time a few monosyllabic
sounds, and thereby earning the name of the most wearisome of men.
To this prominent personage Akakiy Akakievitch presented himself, and this at the most
unfavourable time for himself though opportune for the prominent personage. The prominent
personage was in his cabinet conversing gaily with an old acquaintance and companion of his
childhood whom he had not seen for several years and who had just arrived when it was
announced to him that a person named Bashmatchkin had come. He asked abruptly, “Who is
he?”—”Some official,” he was informed. “Ah, he can wait! this is no time for him to call,” said
the important man.
It must be remarked here that the important man lied outrageously: he had said all he had to
say to his friend long before; and the conversation had been interspersed for some time with very
long pauses, during which they merely slapped each other on the leg, and said, “You think so,
Ivan Abramovitch!” “Just so, Stepan Varlamitch!” Nevertheless, he ordered that the official
 14

should be kept waiting, in order to show his friend, a man who had not been in the service for a
long time, but had lived at home in the country, how long officials had to wait in his ante-room.
At length, having talked himself completely out, and more than that, having had his fill of
pauses, and smoked a cigar in a very comfortable arm-chair with reclining back, he suddenly
seemed to recollect, and said to the secretary, who stood by the door with papers of reports, “So
it seems that there is a tchinovnik waiting to see me. Tell him that he may come in.” On
perceiving Akakiy Akakievitch's modest mien and his worn undress uniform, he turned abruptly
to him and said, “What do you want?” in a curt hard voice, which he had practised in his room in
private, and before the looking-glass, for a whole week before being raised to his present rank.
Akakiy Akakievitch, who was already imbued with a due amount of fear, became somewhat
confused: and as well as his tongue would permit, explained, with a rather more frequent
addition than usual of the word “that,” that his cloak was quite new, and had been stolen in the
most inhuman manner; that he had applied to him in order that he might, in some way, by his
intermediation—that he might enter into correspondence with the chief of police, and find the
cloak.
For some inexplicable reason this conduct seemed familiar to the prominent personage.
“What, my dear sir!” he said abruptly, “are you not acquainted with etiquette? Where have you
come from? Don't you know how such matters are managed? You should first have entered a
complaint about this at the court below: it would have gone to the head of the department, then to
the chief of the division, then it would have been handed over to the secretary, and the secretary
would have given it to me.”
“But, your excellency,” said Akakiy Akakievitch, trying to collect his small handful of wits,
and conscious at the same time that he was perspiring terribly, “I, your excellency, presumed to
trouble you because secretaries—are an untrustworthy race.”
“What, what, what!” said the important personage. “Where did you get such courage?
Where did you get such ideas? What impudence towards their chiefs and superiors has spread
among the young generation!” The prominent personage apparently had not observed that
Akakiy Akakievitch was already in the neighborhood of fifty. If he could be called a young man,
it must have been in comparison with someone who was seventy. “Do you know to whom you
speak? Do you realise who stands before you? Do you realise it? do you realise it? I ask you!”
Then he stamped his foot and raised his voice to such a pitch that it would have frightened even a
different man from Akakiy Akakievitch.
Akakiy Akakievitch's senses failed him; he staggered, trembled in every limb, and, if the
porters had not run to support him, would have fallen to the floor. They carried him out
insensible. But the prominent personage, gratified that the effect should have surpassed his
expectations, and quite intoxicated with the thought that his word could even deprive a man of
his senses, glanced sideways at his friend in order to see how he looked upon this, and perceived,
not without satisfaction, that his friend was in a most uneasy frame of mind, and even beginning,
on his part, to feel a trifle frightened.
Akakiy Akakievitch could not remember how he descended the stairs and got into the street.
He felt neither his hands nor feet. Never in his life had he been so rated by any high official, let
alone a strange one. He went staggering on through the snow-storm, which was blowing in the
streets, with his mouth wide open; the wind, in St. Petersburg fashion, darted upon him from all
quarters, and down every cross-street. In a twinkling it had blown a quinsy into his throat, and he
 15

reached home unable to utter a word. His throat was swollen, and he lay down on his bed. So
powerful is sometimes a good scolding!
The next day a violent fever showed itself. Thanks to the generous assistance of the St.
Petersburg climate, the malady progressed more rapidly than could have been expected: and
when the doctor arrived, he found, on feeling the sick man's pulse, that there was nothing to be
done, except to prescribe a fomentation, so that the patient might not be left entirely without the
beneficent aid of medicine; but at the same time, he predicted his end in thirty-six hours. After
this he turned to the landlady, and said, “And as for you, don't waste your time on him: order his
pine coffin now, for an oak one will be too expensive for him.” Did Akakiy Akakievitch hear
these fatal words? and if he heard them, did they produce any overwhelming effect upon him?
Did he lament the bitterness of his life?—We know not, for he continued in a delirious condition.
Visions incessantly appeared to him, each stranger than the other. Now he saw Petrovitch, and
ordered him to make a cloak, with some traps for robbers, who seemed to him to be always under
the bed; and cried every moment to the landlady to pull one of them from under his coverlet.
Then he inquired why his old mantle hung before him when he had a new cloak. Next he fancied
that he was standing before the prominent person, listening to a thorough setting-down, and
saying, “Forgive me, your excellency!” but at last he began to curse, uttering the most horrible
words, so that his aged landlady crossed herself, never in her life having heard anything of the
kind from him, the more so as those words followed directly after the words “your excellency.”
Later on he talked utter nonsense, of which nothing could be made: all that was evident being,
that his incoherent words and thoughts hovered ever about one thing, his cloak.
At length poor Akakiy Akakievitch breathed his last. They sealed up neither his room nor
his effects, because, in the first place, there were no heirs, and, in the second, there was very little
to inherit beyond a bundle of goose-quills, a quire of white official paper, three pairs of socks,
two or three buttons which had burst off his trousers, and the mantle already known to the reader.
To whom all this fell, God knows. I confess that the person who told me this tale took no interest
in the matter. They carried Akakiy Akakievitch out and buried him.
And St. Petersburg was left without Akakiy Akakievitch, as though he had never lived there.
A being disappeared who was protected by none, dear to none, interesting to none, and who
never even attracted to himself the attention of those students of human nature who omit no
opportunity of thrusting a pin through a common fly, and examining it under the microscope. A
being who bore meekly the jibes of the department, and went to his grave without having done
one unusual deed, but to whom, nevertheless, at the close of his life appeared a bright visitant in
the form of a cloak, which momentarily cheered his poor life, and upon whom, thereafter, an
intolerable misfortune descended, just as it descends upon the mighty of this world!
Several days after his death, the porter was sent from the department to his lodgings, with an
order for him to present himself there immediately; the chief commanding it. But the porter had
to return unsuccessful, with the answer that he could not come; and to the question, “Why?”
replied, “Well, because he is dead! he was buried four days ago.” In this manner did they hear of
Akakiy Akakievitch's death at the department, and the next day a new official sat in his place,
with a handwriting by no means so upright, but more inclined and slanting.
But who could have imagined that this was not really the end of Akakiy Akakievitch, that he
was destined to raise a commotion after death, as if in compensation for his utterly insignificant
life? But so it happened, and our poor story unexpectedly gains a fantastic ending.
 16

A rumour suddenly spread through St. Petersburg that a dead man had taken to appearing on
the Kalinkin Bridge and its vicinity at night in the form of an official seeking a stolen cloak, and
that, under the pretext of its being the stolen cloak, he dragged, without regard to rank or calling,
every one's cloak from his shoulders, be it cat-skin, beaver, fox, bear, sable; in a word, every sort
of fur and skin which men adopted for their covering. One of the department officials saw the
dead man with his own eyes and immediately recognised in him Akakiy Akakievitch. This,
however, inspired him with such terror that he ran off with all his might, and therefore did not
scan the dead man closely, but only saw how the latter threatened him from afar with his finger.
Constant complaints poured in from all quarters that the backs and shoulders, not only of titular
but even of court councillors, were exposed to the danger of a cold on account of the frequent
dragging off of their cloaks.
Arrangements were made by the police to catch the corpse, alive or dead, at any cost, and
punish him as an example to others in the most severe manner. In this they nearly succeeded; for
a watchman, on guard in Kirushkin Alley, caught the corpse by the collar on the very scene of
his evil deeds, when attempting to pull off the frieze coat of a retired musician. Having seized
him by the collar, he summoned, with a shout, two of his comrades, whom he enjoined to hold
him fast while he himself felt for a moment in his boot, in order to draw out his snuff-box and
refresh his frozen nose. But the snuff was of a sort which even a corpse could not endure. The
watchman having closed his right nostril with his finger, had no sooner succeeded in holding half
a handful up to the left than the corpse sneezed so violently that he completely filled the eyes of
all three. While they raised their hands to wipe them, the dead man vanished completely, so that
they positively did not know whether they had actually had him in their grip at all. Thereafter the
watchmen conceived such a terror of dead men that they were afraid even to seize the living, and
only screamed from a distance, “Hey, there! go your way!” So the dead tchinovnik began to
appear even beyond the Kalinkin Bridge, causing no little terror to all timid people.
But we have totally neglected that certain prominent personage who may really be
considered as the cause of the fantastic turn taken by this true history. First of all, justice compels
us to say that after the departure of poor, annihilated Akakiy Akakievitch he felt something like
remorse. Suffering was unpleasant to him, for his heart was accessible to many good impulses, in
spite of the fact that his rank often prevented his showing his true self. As soon as his friend had
left his cabinet, he began to think about poor Akakiy Akakievitch. And from that day forth, poor
Akakiy Akakievitch, who could not bear up under an official reprimand, recurred to his mind
almost every day. The thought troubled him to such an extent that a week later he even resolved
to send an official to him, to learn whether he really could assist him; and when it was reported
to him that Akakiy Akakievitch had died suddenly of fever, he was startled, hearkened to the
reproaches of his conscience, and was out of sorts for the whole day.
Wishing to divert his mind in some way, and drive away the disagreeable impression, he set
out that evening for one of his friends' houses, where he found quite a large party assembled.
What was better, nearly everyone was of the same rank as himself, so that he need not feel in the
least constrained. This had a marvellous effect upon his mental state. He grew expansive, made
himself agreeable in conversation, in short, he passed a delightful evening. After supper he drank
a couple of glasses of champagne—not a bad recipe for cheerfulness, as everyone knows. The
champagne inclined him to various adventures; and he determined not to return home, but to go
and see a certain well-known lady of German extraction, Karolina Ivanovna, a lady, it appears,
with whom he was on a very friendly footing.
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It must be mentioned that the prominent personage was no longer a young man, but a good
husband and respected father of a family. Two sons, one of whom was already in the service, and
a good-looking, sixteen-year-old daughter, with a rather retrousse but pretty little nose, came
every morning to kiss his hand and say, “Bonjour, papa.” His wife, a still fresh and good-looking
woman, first gave him her hand to kiss, and then, reversing the procedure, kissed his. But the
prominent personage, though perfectly satisfied in his domestic relations, considered it stylish to
have a friend in another quarter of the city. This friend was scarcely prettier or younger than his
wife; but there are such puzzles in the world, and it is not our place to judge them. So the
important personage descended the stairs, stepped into his sledge, said to the coachman, “To
Karolina Ivanovna's,” and, wrapping himself luxuriously in his warm cloak, found himself in
that delightful frame of mind than which a Russian can conceive no better, namely, when you
think of nothing yourself, yet when the thoughts creep into your mind of their own accord, each
more agreeable than the other, giving you no trouble either to drive them away or seek them.
Fully satisfied, he recalled all the gay features of the evening just passed, and all the mots which
had made the little circle laugh. Many of them he repeated in a low voice, and found them quite
as funny as before; so it is not surprising that he should laugh heartily at them. Occasionally,
however, he was interrupted by gusts of wind, which, coming suddenly, God knows whence or
why, cut his face, drove masses of snow into it, filled out his cloak-collar like a sail, or suddenly
blew it over his head with supernatural force, and thus caused him constant trouble to disentangle
himself.
Suddenly the important personage felt some one clutch him firmly by the collar. Turning
round, he perceived a man of short stature, in an old, worn uniform, and recognised, not without
terror, Akakiy Akakievitch. The official's face was white as snow, and looked just like a corpse's.
But the horror of the important personage transcended all bounds when he saw the dead man's
mouth open, and, with a terrible odour of the grave, gave vent to the following remarks: “Ah,
here you are at last! I have you, that—by the collar! I need your cloak; you took no trouble about
mine, but reprimanded me; so now give up your own.”
The pallid prominent personage almost died of fright. Brave as he was in the office and in
the presence of inferiors generally, and although, at the sight of his manly form and appearance,
every one said, “Ugh! how much character he has!” at this crisis, he, like many possessed of an
heroic exterior, experienced such terror, that, not without cause, he began to fear an attack of
illness. He flung his cloak hastily from his shoulders and shouted to his coachman in an
unnatural voice, “Home at full speed!” The coachman, hearing the tone which is generally
employed at critical moments and even accompanied by something much more tangible, drew
his head down between his shoulders in case of an emergency, flourished his whip, and flew on
like an arrow. In a little more than six minutes the prominent personage was at the entrance of
his own house. Pale, thoroughly scared, and cloakless, he went home instead of to Karolina
Ivanovna's, reached his room somehow or other, and passed the night in the direst distress; so
that the next morning over their tea his daughter said, “You are very pale to-day, papa.” But papa
remained silent, and said not a word to any one of what had happened to him, where he had been,
or where he had intended to go.
This occurrence made a deep impression upon him. He even began to say: “How dare you?
do you realise who stands before you?” less frequently to the under-officials, and if he did utter
the words, it was only after having first learned the bearings of the matter. But the most
noteworthy point was, that from that day forward the apparition of the dead tchinovnik ceased to
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be seen. Evidently the prominent personage's cloak just fitted his shoulders; at all events, no
more instances of his dragging cloaks from people's shoulders were heard of. But many active
and apprehensive persons could by no means reassure themselves, and asserted that the dead
tchinovnik still showed himself in distant parts of the city.
In fact, one watchman in Kolomna saw with his own eyes the apparition come from behind a
house. But being rather weak of body, he dared not arrest him, but followed him in the dark,
until, at length, the apparition looked round, paused, and inquired, “What do you want?” at the
same time showing a fist such as is never seen on living men. The watchman said, “It's of no
consequence,” and turned back instantly. But the apparition was much too tall, wore huge
moustaches, and, directing its steps apparently towards the Obukhoff bridge, disappeared in the
darkness of the night.