Kabanata Kabanata 3 · 第3章

"Well, can't you strengthen it with another piece of cloth?"

"No, it won't bear anything more; cloth after all is only cloth, and in

its present condition a gust of wind might blow the wretched mantle into

tatters."

"But if you could only make it last a little longer, do you

see--really----"

"No!" answered Petrovitch decidedly. "There is nothing more to be done

with it; it is completely worn out. It would be better if you made

yourself foot bandages out of it for the winter; they are warmer than

stockings. It was the Germans who invented stockings for their own

profit." Petrovitch never lost an opportunity of having a hit at the

Germans. "You must certainly buy a new cloak," he added.

"A new cloak?" exclaimed Akaki Akakievitch, and it grew dark before his

eyes. The tailor's work-room seemed to go round with him, and the only

object he could clearly distinguish was the paper-patched general's

portrait on the tailor's snuff-box. "A new cloak!" he murmured, as

though half asleep. "But I have no money."

"Yes, a new cloak," repeated Petrovitch with cruel calmness.

"Well, even if I did decide on it--how much----"

"You mean how much would it cost?"

"Yes."

"About a hundred and fifty roubles," answered the tailor, pursing his

lips. This diabolical tailor took a special pleasure in embarrassing his

customers and watching the expression of their faces with his squinting

single eye.

"A hundred and fifty roubles for a cloak!" exclaimed Akaki Akakievitch

in a tone which sounded like an outcry--possibly the first he had

uttered since his birth.

"Yes," replied Petrovitch. "And then the marten-fur collar and silk

lining for the hood would make it up to two hundred roubles."

"Petrovitch, I adjure you!" said Akaki Akakievitch in an imploring tone,

no longer hearing nor wishing to hear the tailor's words, "try to make

this cloak last me a little longer."

"No, it would be a useless waste of time and work."

After this answer, Akaki departed, feeling quite crushed; while

Petrovitch, with his lips firmly pursed up, feeling pleased with himself

for his firmness and brave defence of the art of tailoring, remained

sitting on the table.

Meanwhile Akaki wandered about the streets like a somnambulist, at

random and without an object. "What a terrible business!" he said to

himself. "Really, I could never have believed that it would come to

that. No," he continued after a short pause, "I could not have guessed

that it would come to that. Now I find myself in a completely unexpected

situation--in a difficulty that----"

As he thus continued his monologue, instead of approaching his dwelling,

he went, without noticing it, in quite a wrong direction. A

chimney-sweep brushed against him and blackened his back as he passed

by. From a house where building was going on, a bucket of plaster of

Paris was emptied on his head. But he saw and heard nothing. Only when

he collided with a sentry, who, after he had planted his halberd beside

him, was shaking out some snuff from his snuff-box with a bony hand, was

he startled out of his reverie.

"What do you want?" the rough guardian of civic order exclaimed. "Can't

you walk on the pavement properly?"

This sudden address at last completely roused Akaki from his torpid

condition. He collected his thoughts, considered his situation clearly,

and began to take counsel with himself seriously and frankly, as with a

friend to whom one entrusts the most intimate secrets.

"No!" he said at last. "To-day I will get nothing from Petrovitch--to-day

he is in a bad humour--perhaps his wife has beaten him--I

will look him up again next Sunday. On Saturday evenings he gets

intoxicated; then the next day he wants a pick-me-up--his wife gives him

no money--I squeeze a ten-kopeck piece into his hand; then he will be

more reasonable and we can discuss the cloak further."

Encouraged by these reflections, Akaki waited patiently till Sunday. On

that day, having seen Petrovitch's wife leave the house, he betook

himself to the tailor's and found him, as he had expected, in a very

depressed state as the result of his Saturday's dissipation. But hardly

had Akaki let a word fall about the mantle than the diabolical tailor

awoke from his torpor and exclaimed, "No, nothing can be done; you must

certainly buy a new cloak."

The titular councillor pressed a ten-kopeck piece into his hand.

"Thanks, my dear friend," said Petrovitch; "that will get me a

pick-me-up, and I will drink your health with it. But as for your old

mantle, what is the use of talking about it? It isn't worth a farthing.

Let me only get to work; I will make you a splendid one, I promise!"

But poor Akaki Akakievitch still importuned the tailor to repair his old

one.

"No, and again no," answered Petrovitch. "It is quite impossible. Trust

me; I won't take you in. I will even put silver hooks and eyes on the

collar, as is now the fashion."

This time Akaki saw that he must follow the tailor's advice, and again

all his courage sank. He must have a new mantle made. But how should he

pay for it? He certainly expected a Christmas bonus at the office; but

that money had been allotted beforehand. He must buy a pair of trousers,

and pay his shoemaker for repairing two pairs of boots, and buy some

fresh linen. Even if, by an unexpected stroke of good luck, the director

raised the usual bonus from forty to fifty roubles, what was such a

small amount in comparison with the immense sum which Petrovitch

demanded? A mere drop of water in the sea.

At any rate, he might expect that Petrovitch, if he were in a good

humour, would lower the price of the cloak to eighty roubles; but where

were these eighty roubles to be found? Perhaps he might succeed if he

left no stone unturned, in raising half the sum; but he saw no means of

procuring the other half. As regards the first half, he had been in the

habit, as often as he received a rouble, of placing a kopeck in a

money-box. At the end of each half-year he changed these copper coins

for silver. He had been doing this for some time, and his savings just

now amounted to forty roubles. Thus he already had half the required

sum. But the other half!

Akaki made long calculations, and at last determined that he must, at

least for a whole year, reduce some of his daily expenses. He would have

to give up his tea in the evening, and copy his documents in his

landlady's room, in order to economise the fuel in his own. He also

resolved to avoid rough pavements as much as possible, in order to spare

his shoes; and finally to give out less washing to the laundress.

At first he found these deprivations rather trying; but gradually he got

accustomed to them, and at last took to going to bed without any supper

at all. Although his body suffered from this abstinence, his spirit

derived all the richer nutriment from perpetually thinking about his new

cloak. From that time it seemed as though his nature had completed

itself; as though he had married and possessed a companion on his life

journey. This companion was the thought of his new cloak, properly

wadded and lined.

From that time he became more lively, and his character grew stronger,

like that of a man who has set a goal before himself which he will reach

at all costs. All that was indecisive and vague in his gait and gestures

had disappeared. A new fire began to gleam in his eyes, and in his bold

dreams he sometimes even proposed to himself the question whether he

should not have a marten-fur collar made for his coat.

These and similar thoughts sometimes caused him to be absent-minded. As

he was copying his documents one day he suddenly noticed that he had

made a slip. "Ugh!" he exclaimed, and crossed himself.

At least once a month he went to Petrovitch to discuss the precious

cloak with him, and to settle many important questions, e.g. where and

at what price he should buy the cloth, and what colour he should choose.

Each of these visits gave rise to new discussions, but he always

returned home in a happier mood, feeling that at last the day must come

when all the materials would have been bought and the cloak would be

lying ready to put on.

This great event happened sooner than he had hoped. The director gave

him a bonus, not of forty or fifty, but of five-and-sixty roubles. Had

the worthy official noticed that Akaki needed a new mantle, or was the

exceptional amount of the gift only due to chance?

However that might be, Akaki was now richer by twenty roubles. Such an

access of wealth necessarily hastened his important undertaking. After

two or three more months of enduring hunger, he had collected his eighty

roubles. His heart, generally so quiet, began to beat violently; he

hastened to Petrovitch, who accompanied him to a draper's shop. There,

without hesitating, they bought a very fine piece of cloth. For more

than half a year they had discussed the matter incessantly, and gone

round the shops inquiring prices. Petrovitch examined the cloth, and

said they would not find anything better. For the lining they chose a

piece of such firm and thickly woven linen that the tailor declared it

was better than silk; it also had a splendid gloss on it. They did not

buy marten fur, for it was too dear, but chose the best catskin in the

shop, which was a very good imitation of the former.

It took Petrovitch quite fourteen days to make the mantle, for he put an

extra number of stitches into it. He charged twelve roubles for his

work, and said he could not ask less; it was all sewn with silk, and the

tailor smoothed the sutures with his teeth.

At last the day came--I cannot name it certainly, but it assuredly was

the most solemn in Akaki's life--when the tailor brought the cloak. He

brought it early in the morning, before the titular councillor started

for his office. He could not have come at a more suitable moment, for

the cold had again begun to be very severe.

Petrovitch entered the room with the dignified mien of an important

tailor. His face wore a peculiarly serious expression, such as Akaki had

never seen on it. He was fully conscious of his dignity, and of the gulf

which separates the tailor who only repairs old clothes from the artist

who makes new ones.