Chapter Chapter 4 · 第4章

The cloak had been brought wrapped up in a large, new, freshly washed

handkerchief, which the tailor carefully opened, folded, and placed in

his pocket. Then he proudly took the cloak in both hands and laid it on

Akaki Akakievitch's shoulders. He pulled it straight behind to see how

it hung majestically in its whole length. Finally he wished to see the

effect it made when unbuttoned. Akaki, however, wished to try the

sleeves, which fitted wonderfully well. In brief, the cloak was

irreproachable, and its fit and cut left nothing to be desired.

While the tailor was contemplating his work, he did not forget to say

that the only reason he had charged so little for making it, was that he

had only a low rent to pay and had known Akaki Akakievitch for a long

time; he declared that any tailor who lived on the Nevski Prospect would

have charged at least five-and-sixty roubles for making up such a cloak.

The titular councillor did not let himself be involved in a discussion

on the subject. He thanked him, paid him, and then sallied forth on his

way to the office.

Petrovitch went out with him, and remained standing in the street to

watch Akaki as long as possible wearing the mantle; then he hurried

through a cross-alley and came into the main street again to catch

another glimpse of him.

Akaki went on his way in high spirits. Every moment he was acutely

conscious of having a new cloak on, and smiled with sheer

self-complacency. His head was filled with only two ideas: first that

the cloak was warm, and secondly that it was beautiful. Without noticing

anything on the road, he marched straight to the chancellery, took off

his treasure in the hall, and solemnly entrusted it to the porter's

care.

I do not know how the report spread in the office that Akaki's old cloak

had ceased to exist. All his colleagues hastened to see his splendid new

one, and then began to congratulate him so warmly that he at first had

to smile with self-satisfaction, but finally began to feel embarrassed.

But how great was his surprise when his cruel colleagues remarked that

he should formally "handsel" his cloak by giving them a feast! Poor

Akaki was so disconcerted and taken aback, that he did not know what to

answer nor how to excuse himself. He stammered out, blushing, that the

cloak was not so new as it appeared; it was really second-hand.

One of his superiors, who probably wished to show that he was not too

proud of his rank and title, and did not disdain social intercourse with

his subordinates, broke in and said, "Gentlemen! Instead of Akaki

Akakievitch, I will invite you to a little meal. Come to tea with me

this evening. To-day happens to be my birthday."

All the others thanked him for his kind proposal, and joyfully accepted

his invitation. Akaki at first wished to decline, but was told that to

do so would be grossly impolite and unpardonable, so he reconciled

himself to the inevitable. Moreover, he felt a certain satisfaction at

the thought that the occasion would give him a new opportunity of

displaying his cloak in the streets. This whole day for him was like a

festival day. In the cheerfullest possible mood he returned home, took

off his cloak, and hung it up on the wall after once more examining the

cloth and the lining. Then he took out his old one in order to compare

it with Petrovitch's masterpiece. His looks passed from one to the

other, and he thought to himself, smiling, "What a difference!"

He ate his supper cheerfully, and after he had finished, did not sit

down as usual to copy documents. No; he lay down, like a Sybarite, on

the sofa and waited. When the time came, he made his toilette, took his

cloak, and went out.

I cannot say where was the house of the superior official who so

graciously invited his subordinates to tea. My memory begins to grow

weak, and the innumerable streets and houses of St Petersburg go round

so confusedly in my head that I have difficulty in finding my way about

them. So much, however, is certain: that the honourable official lived

in a very fine quarter of the city, and therefore very far from Akaki

Akakievitch's dwelling.

At first the titular councillor traversed several badly lit streets

which seemed quite empty; but the nearer he approached his superior's

house, the more brilliant and lively the streets became. He met many

people, among whom were elegantly dressed ladies, and men with

beaverskin collars. The peasants' sledges, with their wooden seats and

brass studs, became rarer; while now every moment appeared skilled

coachmen with velvet caps, driving lacquered sleighs covered with

bearskins, and fine carriages.

At last he reached the house whither he had been invited. His host lived

in a first-rate style; a lamp hung before his door, and he occupied the

whole of the second story. As Akaki entered the vestibule, he saw a long

row of galoshes; on a table a samovar was smoking and hissing; many

cloaks, some of them adorned with velvet and fur collars, hung on the

wall. In the adjoining room he heard a confused noise, which assumed a

more decided character when a servant opened the door and came out

bearing a tray full of empty cups, a milk-jug, and a basket of biscuits.

Evidently the guests had been there some time and had already drunk

their first cup of tea.

After hanging his cloak on a peg, Akaki approached the room in which his

colleagues, smoking long pipes, were sitting round the card-table and

making a good deal of noise. He entered the room, but remained standing

by the door, not knowing what to do; but his colleagues greeted him with

loud applause, and all hastened into the vestibule to take another look

at his cloak. This excitement quite robbed the good titular councillor

of his composure; but in his simplicity of heart he rejoiced at the

praises which were lavished on his precious cloak. Soon afterwards his

colleagues left him to himself and resumed their whist parties.

Akaki felt much embarrassed, and did not know what to do with his feet

and hands. Finally he sat down by the players; looked now at their faces

and now at the cards; then he yawned and remembered that it was long

past his usual bedtime. He made an attempt to go, but they held him back

and told him that he could not do so without drinking a glass of

champagne on what was for him such a memorable day.

Soon supper was brought. It consisted of cold veal, cakes, and pastry of

various kinds, accompanied by several bottles of champagne. Akaki was

obliged to drink two glasses of it, and found everything round him take

on a more cheerful aspect. But he could not forget that it was already

midnight and that he ought to have been in bed long ago. From fear of

being kept back again, he slipped furtively into the vestibule, where he

was pained to find his cloak lying on the ground. He carefully shook it,

brushed it, put it on, and went out.

The street-lamps were still alight. Some of the small ale-houses

frequented by servants and the lower classes were still open, and some

had just been shut; but by the beams of light which shone through the

chinks of the doors, it was easy to see that there were still people

inside, probably male and female domestics, who were quite indifferent

to their employers' interests.

Akaki Akakievitch turned homewards in a cheerful mood. Suddenly he found

himself in a long street where it was very quiet by day and still more

so at night. The surroundings were very dismal. Only here and there hung

a lamp which threatened to go out for want of oil; there were long rows

of wooden houses with wooden fences, but no sign of a living soul. Only

the snow in the street glimmered faintly in the dim light of the

half-extinguished lanterns, and the little houses looked melancholy in

the darkness.

Akaki went on till the street opened into an enormous square, on the

other side of which the houses were scarcely visible, and which looked

like a terrible desert. At a great distance--God knows where!--glimmered

the light in a sentry-box, which seemed to stand at the end of the

world. At the same moment Akaki's cheerful mood vanished. He went in the

direction of the light with a vague sense of depression, as though some

mischief threatened him. On the way he kept looking round him with

alarm. The huge, melancholy expanse looked to him like a sea. "No," he

thought to himself, "I had better not look at it"; and he continued his

way with his eyes fixed on the ground. When he raised them again he

suddenly saw just in front of him several men with long moustaches,

whose faces he could not distinguish. Everything grew dark before his

eyes, and his heart seemed to be constricted.

"That is my cloak!" shouted one of the men, and seized him by the

collar. Akaki tried to call for help. Another man pressed a great bony

fist on his mouth, and said to him, "Just try to scream again!" At the

same moment the unhappy titular councillor felt the cloak snatched away

from him, and simultaneously received a kick which stretched him

senseless in the snow. A few minutes later he came to himself and stood

up; but there was no longer anyone in sight. Robbed of his cloak, and

feeling frozen to the marrow, he began to shout with all his might; but

his voice did not reach the end of the huge square. Continuing to shout,

he ran with the rage of despair to the sentinel in the sentry-box, who,

leaning on his halberd, asked him why the deuce he was making such a

hellish noise and running so violently.

When Akaki reached the sentinel, he accused him of being drunk because

he did not see that passers-by were robbed a short distance from his

sentry-box.

"I saw you quite well," answered the sentinel, "in the middle of the

square with two men; I thought you were friends. It is no good getting

so excited. Go to-morrow to the police inspector; he will take up the

matter, have the thieves searched for, and make an examination."

Akaki saw there was nothing to be done but to go home. He reached his

dwelling in a state of dreadful disorder, his hair hanging wildly over

his forehead, and his clothes covered with snow. When his old landlady

heard him knocking violently at the door, she sprang up and hastened

thither, only half-dressed; but at the sight of Akaki started back in

alarm. When he told her what had happened, she clasped her hands

together and said, "You should not go to the police inspector, but to

the municipal Superintendent of the district. The inspector will put you

off with fine words, and do nothing; but I have known the Superintendent

for a long time. My former cook, Anna, is now in his service, and I

often see him pass by under our windows. He goes to church on all the

festival-days, and one sees at once by his looks that he is an honest

man."