Part 6

It was--it is difficult to say precisely on what day; but probably the most triumphant day in Akaki Akakievich’s life was when Petrovich at last brought the cloak. He brought it in the morning, just before the time necessary to start for the department. It could not have arrived at a more opportune moment, because a severe cold had set in, and it seemed to threaten to become even colder. Petrovich himself brought the cloak, as befits a good tailor. His face expressed such an extraordinary significance as Akaki Akakievich never had beheld there before. It was evident that he felt he had done no small thing, and that he had suddenly revealed in himself the abyss which separates these tailors who sew on mere linings and do mending, from those who make an entire new garment. He drew out the cloak from a handkerchief in which he brought it. The handkerchief had just come from the laundress; so, folding it, he put it in his pocket for use. Holding up the cloak proudly in both hands, he very deftly threw it on Akaki Akakievich’s shoulders, after which he pulled it down with his hand from behind, and let it hang unbuttoned. Akaki Akakievich, like a man wise in years, wished to try the sleeves. Petrovich helped him into them. The sleeves too fitted well. In short, the cloak was all that was wanted of it. Petrovich did not let the opportunity pass to remark that only because he conducted his establishment without a signboard and in a small street, and had known Akaki Akakievich for so long, had he charged him so cheaply, and that on Nevski Prospect they would have charged him seventy-five rubles for the work alone. Akaki Akakievich did not wish to argue the matter with Petrovich, and feared all large amounts, of which the tailor loved to speak soundingly. Akaki Akakievich paid and thanked Petrovich, and set forth in his new cloak to the department. Petrovich followed him, and for a long time his gaze lingered on the cloak from a distance; then, making a short cut through a side street, he reappeared to view the cloak from another point--namely, directly in front.

As for Akaki Akakievich, he walked on, experiencing exultation in every part of his body. At every step he felt conscious of the new cloak upon his shoulders, and several times he even smiled from internal gratification. Indeed, the cloak had two advantages: it was warm and it was handsome. He did not notice the road at all, and suddenly found himself in the department. He threw off the cloak in the porter’s room, and, after surveying it, he confided it to the special care of the attendant. It is impossible to tell how every one in the department suddenly knew that Akaki Akakievich had a new cloak, and that the cape no longer existed. All at once ran into the porter’s room to inspect the garment. They began to congratulate him, so that at the beginning he smiled and afterwards even felt ashamed. When, however, every one surrounding him said that the new cloak should be christened, and that at least he should give them all a party some evening, Akaki Akakievich lost his head completely, and did not know what to do, what to say, and how to get out of it. For several minutes, blushing, he tried to assure them, in a sufficiently naïve manner, that the cloak was not at all a new one, that it was, in fact, an old cloak. In the end, one of the officials, who served as assistant to the head clerk, evidently wishing to show that he was not at all proud and did not condescend towards his inferiors, said: “So be it. I, instead of Akaki Akakievich, will give the party, and I invite you all to my house tonight. As it happens, it is my birthday.” Naturally, the officials then congratulated the head clerk’s assistant, and accepted the invitation eagerly. Akaki Akakievich at first wished to decline, but every one started to impress upon him how discourteous it was, and that it was a shame and a disgrace, so that he could not refuse. Besides, he afterwards began to feel pleasure in the thought that he would have an opportunity to spend an evening in his new cloak.

That entire day was like a triumphant holiday for Akaki Akakievich. He returned home in the happiest possible frame of mind, threw off his cloak, and hung it carefully on the wall, his eye revelling once more in the cloth and the lining; he afterwards held up beside it for comparison the old cape, now all fallen to pieces. He laughed, so great was the difference. And even a long time after dinner he smiled each time the condition of his old cape occurred to him. He dined cheerfully, and did not copy any papers afterwards, but rested upon his bed until it grew dark. Afterwards, wasting no time, he dressed himself, placed the cloak across his shoulders, and went into the street.

Just where the inviting official lived, we unfortunately cannot say; our memory is beginning to fail us, and the St. Petersburg streets and houses have so badly massed and mixed themselves in our head that it is most difficult to establish any kind of order out of all the chaos. However that may be, at least it is certain that the official lived in the better part of the city, from which may be guessed that it was anywhere but near Akaki Akakievich’s neighborhood. At first he had to pass through several dimly lighted, deserted streets, but in proportion as he approached the official’s residence the streets grew more lively, more populous, and more brightly illuminated; pedestrians grew in greater numbers; women too, handsomely dressed, began to appear; some of the men even wore beaver collars; peasants with their wooden fence-rail sledges, hammered over with yellow-headed nails, were more rarely met with; on the other hand, drivers with red velvet caps, in lacquered sledges, with bearskin coverings, were becoming more frequent; and beautifully ornamented carriages flew swiftly through the street.

Akaki Akakievich gazed upon all this as upon a novelty; it was now several years since he had passed an evening in the streets. He paused with curiosity before a lighted shop-window, to look at a picture in which was represented a handsome woman taking off her shoe and baring her entire foot very prettily, while behind her a man with whiskers and a handsome mustache peeped through the door of another room. Akaki Akakievich shook his head and laughed, and then continued his journey. Why did he laugh? Was it because he had met a thing altogether unfamiliar to him, but for which, however, every one cherishes some sort of feeling, or was it because he thought about it as many other officials would? “Ah, those French! What is there to say? When they want to do anything like that, they do it rather well!” And it is possible that he did not think such a thing at all. After all, it is impossible to steal into a man’s soul and to discover all that he thinks.

At last he reached the house in which lived the head clerk’s assistant. This man resided in grand style; the staircase was lighted by a lamp; his quarters were on the second floor. Entering the vestibule, Akaki Akakievich observed several rows of galoshes on the floor. Among them, in the middle of the room, stood the samovar; it was humming and emitting clouds of steam. The walls were covered with cloaks and mantles, among which were even a few with beaver collars or with velvet lapels. Behind the wall were audible the noise and conversation, which suddenly grew clear and loud when the door opened and the servant came out with a trayful of empty glasses, a cream-jug, and a sugar-bowl. It was evident that the officials had arrived some time ago and had had their first glass of tea.

Akaki Akakievich, having hung up his cloak himself, entered the room, and his astonished gaze took in at once the lights, the officials, the pipes, and the card-tables, and he was confused by the sound of conversation rising from all sides and the noise of moving chairs. He paused very awkwardly in the middle of the room, pondering what he should do. But he had already been noticed, and he was received with shouts; every one running towards the vestibule to survey his cloak anew. Although Akaki Akakievich was somewhat astonished, still, being a simple-hearted man, he could not help but feel flattered, seeing how well his cloak was liked. Afterwards, it goes without saying, they forgot him and his cloak, and returned quite properly to the tables appointed for whist. All this--the noise, the conversation, and the size of the gathering--all this was strange to Akaki Akakievich. He simply did not know what to do with himself, where to put his hands, his feet, and his entire body; finally he seated himself near the players, looked at the cards, or into the face of now one, now another, and after a time began to grow drowsy, and to feel a certain feeling of weariness, all the more because his accustomed hour for going to bed had long passed. He wished to bid his host good-night, but he was not permitted to depart; they insisted that he drink a glass of champagne in honor of his new garment. In another hour supper was served; it consisted of a relish, cold veal, pastry, sweets, and champagne. Akaki Akakievich was made to drink two glasses of champagne, after which the room assumed to him a livelier aspect; nevertheless, he could not forget that it was twelve o’clock, and that he should have been home long ago. In order that the host might not detain him, he stole silently out of the room, sought out in the anteroom his cloak, which, to his sorrow, he found lying on the floor. He brushed it, removed every speck of dust from it, put it on his shoulders, and descended the stairs into the street.

The street was as yet all alight. Some of the petty shops, those permanent clubs of servants and all sorts of people, were open; others, however, which were closed, showed a long streak of light through the entire length of the door-crack, suggesting that they did not lack company, probably servants of both sexes, who were concluding their gossip and conversation, and keeping their masters in complete ignorance of their whereabouts. Akaki Akakievich walked on in a happy frame of mind, started even to run, for an unknown reason, after a woman who flashed by him like lightning. After this, however, he paused and resumed his former leisurely pace, wondering at his own sudden spurt. Very soon there stretched before him the deserted streets, not particularly cheerful even by day, and much less so by night. Now they seemed even more than usually dark and lonely; the lights were growing further apart; then came wooden houses and fences; not a soul anywhere; only the snow sparkled in the streets; and the slumbering, low-roofed cabins with closed shutters looked melancholy against the snow. He was approaching the spot where the street cut through a vast square, with houses on the other side barely visible across the desert space.

In the distance, God knows how far, a tiny flame glimmered in a watchman’s box, which seemed to verge on the edge of the world. Akaki Akakievich’s cheerfulness diminished here perceptibly. He entered the square not without a certain involuntary fear; not without some foreboding of evil. He glanced behind him and on both sides--a sea appeared to surround him. “No, it is better not to look,” he thought, and walked on with closed eyes; and when he opened them to see whether or not he had reached the end of the square, he suddenly beheld before him, almost under his very nose, some bearded individuals, precisely what sort he could not distinguish. Everything grew dark before his eyes, and his heart began to throb.

“But, I say, the cloak is mine,” said one of the men in a loud voice, seizing him by the collar.

Akaki Akakievich wished to cry out, “Help!” when the other man put his fist, the size of an official’s head, to his very mouth, and said, “Just try to make a noise!”

Akaki Akakievich only felt conscious of how they removed the cloak from his shoulders, then gave him a parting kick, which sent him headlong into the snow; after that he felt no more.

In a few minutes he recovered consciousness and rose to his feet, but no one was to be seen. He felt cold, and the absence of his cloak; he began to shout, but his voice did not seem to reach the bounds of the square. Desperate, not ceasing to shout, he started to run across the square straight towards the watchman’s box, beside which stood the watchman, leaning upon his halberd, and looking, as it were, with eager expectancy for an explanation as to this strange fellow’s running and shouting. Akaki Akakievich, having reached him, began to shout in a gasping voice that he was asleep and did not attend to his business, and let people rob a man. The watchman replied that he saw nothing except two men stop and talk to him in the middle of the square, and that he thought they were his friends; he also suggested that rather than waste time on talk he should report the matter to the police captain, and that he would find the man who had taken the cloak.

Akaki Akakievich arrived home in complete disorder. His hair, which thrived in no large numbers upon his temples and the back of his head, was in a dishevelled state; while his entire body was covered with snow. His old landlady, on hearing a loud knocking on the door, sprang quickly out of bed, and with only one shoe on ran to open the door, holding her night-gown, out of modesty, to her breast. Having opened the door, she drew back upon seeing the condition of her lodger. When he explained what had happened she wrung her hands and advised him to inform the district chief of police at once; that a lesser official would only promise without doing anything; besides, she had some acquaintance with the chief, because Anna, her former cook, had just become a nurse at his house. She saw him very often pass her house, and, moreover, she knew that he went to church every Sunday, and that as he prayed he looked cheerily at the same time upon all, and therefore was, to all appearances, a good man. Having listened to this suggestion, Akaki Akakievich very sadly betook himself to his room, and how he spent the night there may be imagined by those who have the faculty of putting themselves in the place of others.

Early next morning he visited the district chief and was told that he was asleep; he went again at ten, with the same result; at eleven they told him the chief was not at home; when he went at dinner-time, the clerks in the anteroom would not admit him, but demanded to know the business that brought him; so that finally Akaki Akakievich for once in his life showed a spark of courage and said firmly that he must see the district chief personally, that they dared not refuse him, as he came from the department upon official business, and that if they persisted he would present a complaint against them, which would make them sorry. The clerks dared not reply to this, and one of them went in to call the chief.

Instead of directing his attention to the important point of the case, he began to cross-examine Akaki Akakievich. Why was he returning home so late? Did he stop on the way in any disorderly house? In the end Akaki Akakievich was so completely confused that he went out not knowing whether anything would be done about the cloak or not.

The entire day he did not appear in the department--the first time in his life. The next day he arrived at his place looking very pale and in his old cape, which had grown even sadder-looking. The news of the robbery of the cloak--notwithstanding the fact that some of the officials did not permit even this opportunity to pass without laughing at Akaki Akakievich--nevertheless touched many. They decided to take up a collection for him, but succeeded in obtaining a mere trifle; as the officials had already spent considerable money in subscribing for the director’s portrait, and for a book, at the suggestion of the chief of the bureau, who was a friend of the author; hence the insignificance of the sum.

Some one, out of pity, wished at least to help Akaki Akakievich with good advice; and so he told him not to go to the captain, for though the captain might really wish to earn the approbation of the chiefs and find the cloak in some way or other, the cloak itself would nevertheless remain with the police, unless he could show legal proof that it was his; he ought therefore to apply to a certain _important personage_; and this _important personage_, by dealing with the proper persons, could hasten and expedite matters. There was nothing else to do but to turn to the _important personage_.

What was the precise function of the _important personage_ remains unknown to this day. One point should be made clear: that this particular _important personage_ only recently had become an important personage, and that until quite lately he had been an unimportant personage. And aside from that, his position was not even now considered important when compared with that of other more important personages. There will always be, however, a circle of people to whom what is unimportant to other people is sufficiently important. Then, again, he bent all his efforts to increase his importance through numerous other means, as, for instance, he instituted the custom of having his inferiors lined up on the stairway to greet his arrival at the department; he also insisted that no one should venture to appear before him directly, but that everything should follow in most unrelenting order: the collegiate registrar should report to the government secretary, the government secretary to the titular councillor, or to whoever was the proper official, and that in this manner the business should finally come to him.

This habit of imitation has infected all of Holy Russia: every one imitates and mimics his superiors. It is even said that a certain titular councillor, when promoted to the head of some small separate office, immediately partitioned off a private room, calling it the “audience chamber;” he placed at the door two attendants in red collars and braid, whose sole duty consisted in taking the door by the handle and opening it to every comer, although the “audience chamber” had barely room enough to contain an ordinary writing-table.

The ways and manners of the _important personage_ were impressive and imposing, but somewhat overdone. The main principle of his system was strictness. “Strictness, strictness--and strictness,” he used to say generally: and always when pronouncing the last word looked significantly at the person whom he was addressing; although this was altogether unnecessary, because the ten officials, constituting the entire mechanism of his office, were afraid of him; and, seeing him even from afar, they would stop all work and assume a respectful attitude until their chief had passed through the room. His usual conversation with his inferiors consisted almost entirely of three phrases: “How dare you? Do you know to whom you are speaking? Do you realize who stands before you?” Otherwise, he was a good-natured man and solicitous towards his comrades; but the rank of general unhinged his mind completely. Upon receiving this rank, he lost his head, and did not know what to do with himself. When he happened to be in the company of his equals he still managed to do the proper thing, to be a gentleman, and in many respects quite a clever fellow; but once in the company of folk even a single rank below him, he simply became helpless; he was silent, and his condition aroused sympathy, the more so as he himself felt that he could have passed the time incomparably happier. At times the desire to join in some conversation or circle was strongly evident in his eyes; but the following thought always arrested him: would it not be regarded as a familiarity, and would it not detract from his importance? In consequence of such reasoning, he remained in the same eternal mood of silence, uttering only rarely some monosyllabic sounds; and thereby earning the name of a most wearisome person.

Before an _important personage_ of this type appeared our Akaki Akakievich, and at a most inopportune moment--that is to say, for himself, but opportune for the _important personage_. The _important personage_ was in his cabinet, conversing very cheerfully with an old acquaintance and friend of his youth, whom he had not seen for many years. It was at such a time that they told him of a certain Bashmachkin who wished to see him. He asked abruptly, “Who is he?” They answered him, “Some sort of official.” “Ah, let him wait, now is not the time,” said the _important personage_. It is necessary to mention here that the _important personage_ simply lied: he had the time to spare; he had already talked over everything with his friend, and the conversation had begun some time ago to lag with long silences; and they merely continued to tap each other on the leg, and exclaim, “That’s how it is, Ivan Abramovich!” “That’s so, Stephen Varlamovich!” Nevertheless, he caused the official to wait, in order to show his friend, a man some time out of the service and living in a village, how long he compelled officials to wait for him in the anteroom.

Finally, having conversed to his heart’s content, and having had also his fill of silence and smoked a cigar in a very comfortable chair with an easy back, he bethought himself all of a sudden, as it were, and said to the secretary who stood at the door with papers needing his signature, “Oh, yes, I believe an official is waiting to see me; tell him to come in.” On seeing Akaki Akakievich’s humble aspect and his shabby uniform, he suddenly turned to him and said, “What is it you wish?” He put this question abruptly and in a hard voice, which he had practised in his own room, when alone, and before the mirror, a full week before receiving his present position and rank.

Akaki Akakievich, who already felt a certain timorousness, became somewhat confused, and, so far as his power of speech would permit, explained, with an even more frequent employment than usual of the word “that,” that his cloak was quite new, and had been stolen in a most inhuman manner, and that he was now applying to him to use his influence with the chief of police or some one else to find his cloak.

The general, for some reason or other, regarded such conduct as familiar. “What, dear sir,” said he in his abrupt manner, “are you ignorant of the rules? Why do you come to me? Do you not know how such matters are managed? You should have first presented a petition to the office; it would have then gone to the chief clerk, then to the clerk of the division, then to the secretary, and the secretary would have reported it to me----”