At these words, Akaky Akakiyevich’s heart missed a beat.
‘Why, Petrovich?’ he asked in a childlike, almost pleading voice. ‘Why, it’s only a bit worn on the shoulders – and you have those little pieces…’
‘Yes, I can find pieces of cloth, there are pieces of cloth all right,’ said Petrovich, ‘but how can I sew them on? The whole thing’s rotten. Put a needle to it and it’ll fall to pieces.’
‘That’s all right – just patch it again straightaway.’
‘But there’s nowhere to put a patch, there’s nothing to anchor it to, the cloth’s too far gone. It’s stretching a point even to call it cloth. One puff of wind and it’ll fly apart.’
‘You must reinforce it then. I mean, really, you know, er!’
‘No,’ said Petrovich decisively, ‘there’s nothing I can do. It’s no good. You’d do better, come the winter cold, to make it into foot-cloths,10 because there’s no warmth in stockings. It was Germans thought them up, so as to make more money for themselves.’ (Petrovich never missed a chance to have a go at the Germans.) ‘But as for a greatcoat, you’ll clearly be needing a new one.’
At the word ‘new’ Akaky Akakiyevich’s eyes clouded and everything in the room began to swim before him. All he could see clearly – there on the lid of Petrovich’s snuffbox – was the general with the pasted-over face.
‘What do you mean – “new”?’ he asked, still as if he were in a dream. ‘I don’t have the money for that.’
‘Yes, new,’ said Petrovich, with barbaric calm.
‘But if, say, a new one had to be, what would it…?’
‘You mean, what will it cost?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it’ll be a hundred and fifty roubles and then some,’ said Petrovich – and pursed his lips with significance. He had a great fondness for dramatic effects; he liked somehow to confound a man suddenly and completely, then look out of the corner of his eye at the look on the face of whomever he had confounded.
‘One hundred and fifty roubles for a greatcoat!’ poor Akaky Akakiyevich cried out – cried out, perhaps, for the first time since his birth, for he had always been distinguished by the softness of his voice.
‘Yes sir, and that would just be a very ordinary coat. If we were to put marten on the collar and add a hood with a silk lining, then it could set you back as much as two hundred.’
‘Please, Petrovich,’ Akaky Akakiyevich said in a pleading voice, neither hearing nor even trying to hear Petrovich’s words and all his dramatic effects, ‘mend it somehow or other, so it’ll serve at least a little longer.’
‘No, it’s no good. That’d be a waste of effort, and money down the drain,’ said Petrovich; and after these words Akaky Akakiyevich left, completely destroyed. Petrovich, however, stood there for a long time, pursing his lips with significance and not resuming his work, satisfied that he had neither demeaned himself nor betrayed the art of tailoring.
When he got back outside, Akaky Akakiyevich was as if in a dream. ‘So… so that’s how things are,’ he said to himself. ‘I really never thought, you know, it was like…’ and then, after a silence, he added, ‘So there we are! That’s how it finally stands and I’d never have guessed, really I could never have guessed things were…’ This was followed by another long silence, after which he pronounced, ‘So that’s the way! What an, indeed, altogether, er, unexpected… who could have… what a turn of events!’ Having said this, instead of going home, he went in quite the opposite direction without realizing what he was doing. On the way, a chimney sweep brushed the whole of his unclean side against him and blackened his shoulder; a hatful of lime poured down on him from the top of a building that was under construction. He noticed none of this, and it was only when he had knocked into a sentry who, his halberd propped beside him, was shaking snuff from his snuff-horn on to his calloused fist, that Akaky Akakiyevich began to come to his senses, and even then only because the policeman said, ‘What are you doing barging straight into me like that? Isn’t there enough pavement for you?’ This made him look round and turn homeward. Only at this point did he begin to gather his thoughts; clearly seeing his position for what it was, he began talking to himself not in broken snatches, but reasonably and frankly, as if to a sensible acquaintance with whom he could discuss the most intimate matters of the heart. ‘No,’ said Akaky Akakiyevich, ‘it’s no use talking to Petrovich now. Now he’s, er… seems his wife must have been knocking him about a bit. I’d do better to go and see him on Sunday morning. After his Saturday night he’ll be hung over and still half asleep and he’ll be needing a touch of the hair of the dog, but his wife’s not going to be giving him any money, so just at that time, er, I’ll slip ten kopeks into his hand and he’ll be more reasonable and the greatcoat will, er…’ Thus Akaky Akakiyevich reasoned with himself and cheered himself up; he waited until the next Sunday, watched from a distance until he saw Petrovich’s wife go off somewhere, and went straight in. Petrovich was indeed nursing a mighty hangover from his Saturday night; still half asleep, he was barely able to hold his head up; nevertheless, as soon as he realized why Akaky Akakiyevich had come, it was as if the devil were there at his elbow. ‘No, I can’t,’ he said. ‘Be so good as to order a new greatcoat.’ At this point Akaky Akakiyevich slipped him ten kopeks. ‘I thank you, sir, and I shall drink a little fortifying drop to your health,’ said Petrovich. ‘But please, sir, don’t keep troubling yourself about that greatcoat of yours: it ain’t no use for nothing. I’ll sew you a splendid new coat, yes sir, you have our word on it!’
Akaky Akakiyevich tried again to say something about mending, but Petrovich refused to listen and said, ‘I shall most certainly sew you a new one. Depend upon it, sir, I shall make every effort. And seeing as it’s now the fashion, we could even have little silver appliqué clasps to fasten the collar.’
At this point Akaky Akakiyevich realized there was no getting away from this new greatcoat, and his heart sank completely. Really, indeed, how could he, where would the money come from? He could, of course, to some extent count on a bonus for the coming holiday, but that money had long been earmarked and accounted for. He needed to buy new trousers and to settle a long-standing debt with the cobbler who had put new vamps on his boots; he also had to order three shirts from the seamstress, as well as a couple of pairs of an item of underwear that cannot properly be named in print; in a word, absolutely all of the money was already spent and even if the director were so gracious as to appoint him a bonus, not of forty roubles, but of forty-five or fifty, there would still be only the merest trifle left over – just a drop in the ocean when it came to the capital required for a greatcoat. Although he knew, of course, that Petrovich had a way of suddenly naming the devil knows what exorbitant price, so that sometimes even his own wife couldn’t help shouting, ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, you fool? One day he takes on work for nothing, the next day the Devil gets into him and he asks for more than he’s worth himself!’ Although he knew, of course, that Petrovich would undertake to make the coat for eighty roubles – but where was he to find those eighty roubles? He might be able to come up with half that sum; yes, half of it could be found – maybe even a little more than half; but where was he to find the other half? But first of all the reader needs to know how he would find the first half. Akaky Akakiyevich was in the habit, every time he spent a rouble, of putting aside half a kopek into a small locked box with a little slit in the lid for coins. At the end of every six months he inspected the coppers that had piled up and exchanged them for small pieces of silver. He had been doing this for a long time, and the sum thus accumulated over a number of years turned out to be more than forty roubles. And so half of the sum was at hand; but where was he to find the other half? Where was he to find the other forty roubles? Akaky Akakiyevich thought and thought and decided, at least for a year, to cut down on his living expenses: to put an end to the use of tea in the evening; to give up burning candles in the evening and, if there was someth
ing that had to be done, to go into his landlady’s room and work by the light of her candle; to step as lightly and carefully as possible, almost on tiptoe, over cobbles and flagstones, so as not to wear out his soles too quickly; to send his clothes to the laundress as seldom as possible and, to prevent them getting dirty, to remove them as soon as he got back home and, for the rest of the day, wear only his cotton housecoat – a garment of great age that had been spared even by Time itself. If the truth be told, he did at first find it rather hard to get used to these restrictions, but then everything became a habit and began to go smoothly; he even entirely succeeded in training himself to go without food in the evenings; but then he was, on the other hand, receiving spiritual nourishment, carrying in his thoughts the eternal idea of his future greatcoat. From then on it was as if his very existence somehow became fuller, as if he had married, as if someone else were there at his side, as if his days of loneliness were now over and some charming soulmate had agreed to walk down life’s path beside him – and this companion were none other than this selfsame greatcoat with its thick quilting and its strong lining that would never wear out. He became somehow livelier, even stronger-willed, like a man who has defined a goal for himself and set it before him. Doubt and indecision – in a word, all the shilly-shallying and indefiniteness in his character – vanished as if of their own accord from his face and actions. A fire sometimes gleamed in his eyes and through his head flashed even the very boldest and most audacious of thoughts: perhaps, after all, he really should have a marten collar? These reflections almost led him into moments of absentmindedness. Once, copying some papers, he very nearly even made a mistake, with the result that he cried ‘Oh!’ almost out loud and then crossed himself. In the course of each month he called in at least once on Petrovich, to talk about the greatcoat and discuss where it would be best to buy the cloth, what colour it should be, and what price – and, though somewhat preoccupied, he would always return home contented, thinking that, in the end, the time would come when everything had been purchased and the greatcoat would be finished. Things even progressed faster than he had anticipated. Contrary to all expectation, the director appointed Akaky Akakiyevich a bonus not of forty or forty-five, but of no less than sixty roubles: he might have had a presentiment that Akaky Akakiyevich needed a greatcoat or it might have happened simply by chance, but as a result of this, in any case, Akaky Akakiyevich ended up with an additional twenty roubles. This circumstance accelerated the course of events. Another two or three months of moderate fasting and Akaky Akakiyevich truly did find himself with around eighty roubles. His heart, which was usually extremely calm, began to pound. The very next day he set off with Petrovich to the shops. They bought some particularly fine cloth – and no wonder, since they had been thinking about this for the previous six months and hardly a month had gone by without their going round the shops to compare prices; now Petrovich himself said there was no better cloth to be had. For the lining they chose calico, but such sturdy and high-quality calico that, in the words of Petrovich, it was better than silk, glossier even and more handsome to look at. They did not buy marten, because it was indeed expensive; instead they chose cat, the very best to be had in the shop, cat that from a distance could always be taken for marten. Petrovich took two whole weeks over the greatcoat, because there was a lot of quilting to be done; otherwise it would have been ready sooner. For his work Petrovich charged twelve roubles – anything less was out of the question: everything had quite decidedly been sewn with silk, in fine double seams, and Petrovich had then gone over every seam with his teeth, imprinting various patterns on it. It was… it is hard to say on exactly what day, but it was probably on the most sublimest day of Akaky Akakiyevich’s life that Petrovich at last brought him the greatcoat. He brought it in the morning, just as Akaky Akakiyevich was due to leave for the department. The greatcoat could not have come at a better time because sharpish frosts were already setting in and threatening, it seemed, to turn sharper still. Petrovich appeared with the greatcoat, as a good tailor does. On his face was such a meaningful expression of significance as Akaky Akakiyevich had never seen. He seemed to know very well that his was no mean achievement and that he had suddenly revealed, in his own person, the gulf that divides tailors who merely put in linings and do repairs from those who cut new garments. He took the greatcoat out of the handkerchief in which he had brought it; the handkerchief had just come back from the laundry and he folded it and put it in his pocket for use on his nose. Having taken the greatcoat out, he looked at it with great pride and, holding it in both hands, threw it with great deftness across Akaky Akakiyevich’s shoulders; then he gave it a pull and settled it on his back with a downward stroke, draping it over Akaky Akakiyevich rather jauntily, like a cape. Akaky Akakiyevich, being no longer a young man, wanted to try it on properly; Petrovich helped him put his arms through the sleeves – it fitted there too. In a word, the greatcoat turned out to be an exact and perfect fit. Petrovich did not forbear to mention that it was only because he lived on a small street and had no signboard, and also because he had known Akaky Akakiyevich for a long time, that he had charged so little; on Nevsky Prospekt, Akaky Akakiyevich would have had to pay seventy-five roubles for the work alone. This was not something Akaky Akakiyevich wanted to discuss with Petrovich, for he was frightened by the mighty sums that came rolling off Petrovich’s tongue when he was trying to impress. He settled up with him, thanked him, and set off at once to the department, wearing the new greatcoat. Petrovich followed him out, stood for some time in the street to look at the greatcoat from a distance, then made a detour down a twisting lane so that he could overtake Akaky Akakiyevich, run out into the street ahead of him and look again at his greatcoat, this time from the other side, that is, straight in the face. Meanwhile Akaky Akakiyevich walked along with all his feelings in their most festive mood. Every moment of the minute he could feel the new greatcoat on his shoulders, and several times he even grinned out of inner satisfaction. The coat was, in fact, doubly advantageous: in the first place, it was warm; in the second, it was good. He barely noticed his journey – and, all of a sudden, there he was in the department; he took off the greatcoat in the porter’s lodge, looked it over, and entrusted it to the porter’s special safekeeping. Just how this happened is unknown, but suddenly everyone in the department knew that Akaky Akakiyevich had a new greatcoat and that the dressing gown was no more. They all immediately dashed out into the porter’s lodge to look at Akaky Akakiyevich’s new greatcoat. They began greeting him and congratulating him and he could do nothing but smile, and then he even began to feel ashamed. And when everyone surrounded him and began saying that the new greatcoat should be baptized and that the very least he could do was to throw a party for them all, Akaky Akakiyevich felt completely at a loss and had no idea what to do with himself, what to reply or how to make his excuses. After several minutes, blushing all over, he began simple-mindedly assuring them that it really wasn’t a new greatcoat, that it was just, just the old greatcoat. In the end, one of the civil servants – probably even an assistant to the Head of the desk – wanting most likely to show that he was not in the least a snob and that he even hobnobbed with his inferiors, said, ‘So be it, I shall give a party on behalf of Akaky Akakiyevich and I invite you all to have supper with me. By good chance, today happens to be my nameday.’ The clerks, of course, at once congratulated the assistant to the Head of the desk and eagerly accepted his invitation. Akaky Akakiyevich began making excuses, but everyone said this would be most discourteous and there were repeated cries of ‘For shame! For shame!’ and so it became quite impossible for him to refuse. Afterwards, however, he felt pleased, realizing that now he could go out for a walk in his new greatcoat even in the evening. That whole day was for Akaky Akakiyevich like the grandest and most sublimest of holidays. He returned home in the happiest of moods, took off his greatcoat and carefully hung it up on the wall, once again admiring the cloth and the lining, and then, for purposes of comparison, too
k out the old dressing gown, which had now fallen to pieces completely. He took one look and even began to laugh: what a difference there was between them! And for a long time afterwards, over dinner, he kept on grinning whenever he remembered the present state of his dressing gown. He dined cheerfully and after dinner he wrote nothing, not a single document, but just lay sybaritically on his bed for a while, until it grew dark. Then, without further ado, he dressed, put on his greatcoat and went out on to the street. Where exactly the civil servant who had invited him lived, we cannot unfortunately say; our memory has begun to let us down mightily and everything to be found in Petersburg, every street and every house, has so blended and blurred in our head that we can hardly summon up anything at all from there in an orderly state. However that may be, it is certain that the civil servant lived in the better part of town and consequently not very close to Akaky Akakiyevich. At first Akaky Akakiyevich had to pass down some deserted streets with very scant illumination, but as he drew nearer to the civil servant’s apartment, the streets grew more lively, more crowded and better lit. Passers-by became more frequent, smartly dressed ladies could be seen here and there, beaver collars began to appear on the men, and there were fewer peasant cabbies with their slatted wooden sleighs studded with gilded nails; instead there were coachmen in raspberry-coloured velvet hats, with lacquered sleighs and bearskin rugs, and fine hammerclothed carriages bowling down the street, wheels squealing over the snow. Akaky Akakiyevich looked at all this as if he had never seen anything like it. It was several years since he had gone outside in the evening. He stopped with curiosity before a lighted shop window to look at a painting of some beautiful woman taking her shoe off, baring her whole leg, a very shapely one at that, while behind her back a gentleman with sideburns and a dapper imperial on his chin poked his head round the door. Akaky Akakiyevich shook his head and grinned, then went on his way. Why he grinned, whether because he had encountered something quite unfamiliar but for which every one of us, nevertheless, retains some kind of instinctive feeling, or whether because, like many other clerks, he thought: ‘Well, really, these Frenchmen! What’s there to say? They take it into their heads they want something, and er, it’s just as if, really, er…’ Or maybe he didn’t even think that – after all, it’s not as if you can clamber into a man’s soul and learn all his thoughts. Finally he reached the building where the assistant to the Head of the desk had his rooms. The assistant to the Head of the desk lived in grand style: the stairway was lit and his rooms were on the first floor. On entering the ante-room, Akaky Akakiyevich saw whole rows of galoshes. Between these rows, in the middle of the room, stood a samovar, hissing and letting out clouds of steam. The walls were dense with greatcoats and cloaks, some of which even had beaver collars or velvet lapels. From behind the wall he could hear a general clamour and voices that suddenly became clear and ringing when the door opened and a footman came out bearing a tray laden with empty glasses, a cream jug and a basket of biscuits. It seemed the clerks had all been there for some time and had already drunk their first glass of tea. Akaky Akakiyevich, after hanging up his greatcoat himself, entered the room – and before him, all at once, flashed candles, clerks, pipes and card tables, while his ears were assailed by a hubbub of conversation, coming from every side, and the sound of chairs being moved about. He stood most awkwardly in the middle of the room, looking around and trying to think what to do. But he had been noticed – and they all greeted him loudly and at once went out into the ante-room and again examined his greatcoat. Akaky Akakiyevich was partly embarrassed, yet, being simple at heart, he couldn’t help but be pleased at the way they all praised his greatcoat. Then, of course, everyone abandoned both him and his greatcoat and turned their attention, in the usual way, to the tables set for whist. All this – the noise, the talk, the great crowd of people – seemed somehow strange to Akaky Akakiyevich. He simply did not know what to do, where to put his hands, his feet, his whole self; in the end he sat down beside some of the card-players, looked at the cards, peered into one face after another – and after some time began to yawn and feel bored, all the more so since it was long past the time when he usually went to bed. He wanted to take his leave but they wouldn’t let him go, saying that he absolutely must drink a glass of champagne to the new greatcoat. An hour later dinner was served; it consisted of Russian salad, cold veal, paté, sweet pastries and champagne. Akaky Akakiyevich was made to drink two glasses, after which the room began to feel merrier, but he still couldn’t forget that it was twelve o’clock and long past the time for him to be going home. Lest his host take it into his head to detain him, he slipped out of the room and searched in the ante-room for his greatcoat, which, not without regret, he discovered to be lying on the floor; he gave it a shake, removed every last bit of fluff, draped it over his shoulders and went downstairs and on to the street. It was still light outside. A few little grocers’ shops – those round-the-clock clubs for servants and all manner of people – were still open, while those that were closed showed a long sliver of light all the way down the door jamb, indicating that they were not yet deserted and that maids or menservants were probably still spinning out their tales and discussions, leaving their masters quite bewildered as to their whereabouts. Akaky Akakiyevich walked on in his merry frame of mind; he even almost began to run, for some unknown reason, after a certain lady who passed by like lightning, every part of her body filled with extraordinary movement. Nevertheless he slowed down at once and resumed his previous quiet pace, as astonished as anyone at the animation that had come over him as if from nowhere. Soon he came to those long, deserted streets that are far from cheerful even during the daytime, let alone in the evening. Now they had become still more silent and lonely; the street lamps were fewer and farther between – oil was obviously in short supply; houses and fences were now made of wood; not a soul could be seen anywhere; there was no light except from the snow on the streets, while the low sleeping hovels with their closed shutters looked sad and black. He was near the place where the street was interrupted by an endless square which, with houses on the far side that were almost invisible, looked like a terrible desert.
Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida (Penguin Classics) Page 8
