 Part 1 of the Cloak by Nikolai Gogol. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Phil Chenevere. The Cloak by Nikolai Gogol. Part 1 In the department of—but it is better not to mention the department. The touchiest things in the world are departments, regiments, courts of justice, in a word, all branches of public service. Each individual nowadays thinks all society insulted in his person. Quite recently a complaint was received from a district chief of police, in which he plainly demonstrates that all the imperial institutions are going to the dogs and that the Tsar's sacred name was being taken in vain, and in proof he appended to the complaint a romance in which the district chief of police is made to appear about once in every ten pages and sometimes in a downright drunken condition. Therefore, in order to avoid all unpleasantness, it will be better to designate the department in question as a certain department. Though in a certain department there was a certain official, not a very notable one it must be allowed, shorter stature, somewhat pockmarked, red-haired and mole-eyed, 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 rank, with us Russians the ranker comes first. He was what is called a perpetual titular counselor, 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 Boshmakin. This name is evidently derived from Boshmak, Shu, but when, at what time and in what manner is not known. His father and grandfather and all the Boshmakins always were boots which were we sold two or three times a year. His name was Akaki Akekevich. It may strike the reader as rather singular and forfeched, but he may rest assured that it was by no means forfeched and that the circumstances were such that it would have been impossible to give him any other. This was how it came about. Akaki Akekevich was born, if my memory fails me not, in the evening on 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 baptized. She was lying on the bed opposite the door. On her right stood the godfather, Ivan Ivanovich Eroshkin, a most esteemable man, who served as the head clerk of the Senate. The godmother, Arina Semyonovana Bilobrishkovna, the wife of an officer of the quarter and a woman of rare virtues. They offered the mother her choice of three names, Mokia, Sosia, or that the child should be named after the martyr Kostasat. No, said the good woman, all those names are poor. In order to please her they opened the calendar at another place. Three more names appeared. Chifili, Dula, and Varashki. This is awful, said the old woman. What names, I truly never heard of like. I might have put up with Varadot or Varkul, but not Chifili and Varashki, see. They turned to another page and found Pausikali and Vaktishi. Now I see, said the old woman, that it is plainly fate. And since such is the case it will be better to name him after his father. His father's name was Akaki, so let his son's name be Akaki too. In this manner he became Akaki Akahiyevich. They christened the child, where at he wept and made a grimace as though he foresaw that he was to be a titular counselor. 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. Always the letter copying clerk, so that it was afterwards affirmed that he had been born in 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 insignificant assistant to the head clerk would thrust the paper under his nose without so much as saying, copy, or here's an interesting little case, or anything else agreeable, as is customary among 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 him 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 Akaki Akikievich 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 head 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 so that one young man, a newcomer, who, taking pattern by the others, who had permitted himself to make sport of Akaki, suddenly stopped short as though all about him had undergone a transformation and presented himself in a different aspect. Some unseen force repelled him from the comrades whose acquaintance he had made on the supposition that they were decent well-bred men. Young 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? And 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, shuttered as seeing how much inhumanity there is in man, how much savage christeness is concealed beneath refined, cultured, worldly refinement, and even know God in that man whom the world acknowledges as honorable and upright. It would be difficult to find another man who lives so entirely for his duties. It is not enough to say that Akaki labored with zeal. No, he labored 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 the 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 counsellor of state. He worked, as his companions the wits put it, like a horse in a mill. However, it would be untrue 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 for ever. Outside this copying it appeared that nothing existed for him. He gave no thought to his clothes. His uniform was not green but a sort of rusty meal-collar. 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 by the necks of the plaster-cats which peddlers carry about on their heads. And something was always sticking to his uniform, either a bit of hay or some trifle. Moreover, he had a peculiar neck as he walked along the street, a thriving beneath a window just as all sorts of rubbish was 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 to the street, while it is well known that his young brother officials trained the range of their glances till they could see when anyone's trouser straps came undone upon the opposite sidewalk which always brought a malicious smile to their faces. But Akakia Kakavich 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 that he observed that he was not in the middle of a line but in the middle of the street. When reaching home he sat down at once at the table, sipped 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. When he saw that his stomach was beginning to swell, 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 his style, but of its being addressed to some distinguished person. Even at the hour when the grey St. Petersburg sky had quite disappeared, 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 department jars of pins running to and fro for 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 the bonnets, another wasting his evening in compliments to some girl the star of a small official circle, another, and this is the common case of all, visiting his comrades on the third or fourth floor, two small rooms with an anti-room or kitchen, and some pretensions to fashions 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 wist, as they sip their tea from glasses with a copax 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, a cocky a cakey of itch indulged in no kind of diversion. No one could even say that he had seen 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 rules, 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 counselors, as well as for private actual court, and every other species of counselor, even to 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 rules a year are 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 in their eyes, the poor titular counselors 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. A cocky Kekievich had felt for some time that his back and shoulders were painting 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 a cocky Kekievich'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 single make its color diminishing year by year to serve to patch its other parts. The patching did not exhibit great skill on the part of the tailor who was, in fact, baggy and ugly. Seeing how the matter stood, a cocky Kekievich decided that it would be necessary to take the cloak to Petrovich the tailor who lived somewhere on the fourth floor up a dark staircase 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 Petrovich the tailor. At first he was called only Grigory and was some gentleman's surf. He commenced calling himself Petrovich 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 festivals 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 Petrovich had a wife who wore a cap and a dress but could not 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 Petrovich's room, which staircase was all soaked with dish water and reeked with the smell of spirits which affect the eyes, and is an inevitable adjunct to all dark stairways in St. Petersburg houses, ascending the stairs, a khaki, a kekyovich, pondered how much Petrovich 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. A khaki, a kekyovich, passed through the kitchen unperceived even by the housewife and at length reached a room where he beheld Petrovich 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 as they sit at work, and the first thing which caught his eye was his thumb with a deformed nail thick and strong as a turtle's shell. About Petrovich'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. A khaki, a kekyovich was vexed at arriving at the precise moment when Petrovich was angry. He liked to order something of Petrovich when he was a little downhearted or as his wife expressed it when he had settled himself with brandy the one-eyed devil. Under such circumstances Petrovich generally came down in his price very readily and even bowed in the return thanks. Afterwards to be sure his wife would come complaining that her husband had been drunk and so had fixed the price too low, but if only a ten-copek piece were added then the matter would be settled. But now it appeared that Petrovich was in a sober condition and therefore rough, taciturn and inclined to demand Satan only knows what price. A khaki, a kekyovich, felt this and would gladly have beat a retreat but he was in for it. Petrovich screwed up his one-eyed very intently at him and a khaki, a kekyovich involuntarily said, How do you do, Petrovich? I wish you a good morning, sir, said Petrovich, squinting at a khaki, a kekyovich's hands to see what sort of booty he had brought. Ah, to you, Petrovich, this! It must be known that a khaki, a kekyovich, 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, uh, this, in fact, is quite, he forgot to go on thinking he had already finished it. What is it? asked Petrovich, and with his one eye scanned a khaki, a kekyovich's whole uniform from the collar down to the cuffs, the back, the tails, and the buttonholes, 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 when meeting one. But I, here, this Petrovich, 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. Petrovich took the cloak, spread it out to begin with on the table, looked at it hard, shook his head, reached out his hand to the windowsill 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, Petrovich held up the cloak and inspected it against the light, and again shook his head. Then he turned it, lining upwards and 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 is a wretched garment. A cocky, a cakey of itch's heart sank at these words. Why is it impossible, Petrovich? he asked, almost in the pleading voice of a child. All that ails it is that it has worn the shoulders. You must have some pieces. Yes, patches could be found, patches are easily found, said Petrovich. 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 is no use in strengthening it. It is too far gone. It's lucky that its cloth, far if the wind were to blow it, would fly away. Well, strengthen it again. How this, in fact, no, said Petrovich decisively. There is nothing to be done with it. It is a thoroughly bad job. You'd better, when the cold winter weather comes on, make yourself some gapers out of it, because stockings are not warm. The Germans invented them in order to make more money. Petrovich 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 a khaki, a keki of Vitch'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 Petrovich'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 Petrovich, with barbarous composure. Well, if it came to a new one, how… It… You mean how much would it cost? Yes. Well, you would have to lay out a hundred and fifty or more, said Petrovich, and pursed up his lips significantly. He liked to produce powerful effects, like 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 a khaki, a keki of Vitch, perhaps for the first time in his life, for his voice had always been distinguished for softness. Yes, sir, said Petrovich, for any kind of cloak. If you have a morton fur on a collar or a silk line hood, it will mount up to two hundred. Petrovich, please, said a khaki, a keki of it, in a beseeching tone, not hearing and not trying to hear Petrovich'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 Petrovich, and a khaki, a keki of it, went away after these words, utterly discouraged. But Petrovich stood for some time after his departure, with significantly compressed lips, and without be taking himself to his work, satisfied that he would not be dropped and an artistic tailor employed. A khaki, a keki of it, 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 following 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 suspecting it. On the way a chimney sweep bumped up against him and blackened his shoulder, and a whole hat full 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 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 Akaki Akikievich, it is impossible to reason with Petrovich 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 sleeping, for he will want to get drunk, and his wife won't give him any money, and at such a time a tin-copeck piece in his hand will, he will become more fit to reason with, and then the cloak, and that, thus argued Akaki Akikievich with himself, regaining his courage, and waited until the first Sunday, when, seeing from afar that Petrovich's wife had left the house, he went straight at him. Petrovich'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, pleased to order a new one. Thereupon Akaki Akikievich handed over the tin-copeck piece. Thank ye, sir, I will drink your good health, said Petrovich, 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. Akaki Akikievich was still fromending it, but Petrovich 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 Akaki Akikievich 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 must have some new trousers, and pay a debt of longstanding 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 or even fifty rubles instead of forty, it would be a mere nothing, a mere drop in the ocean toward the funds necessary for a cloak. Although he knew that Petrovich 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 Petrovich 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. Akaki Akekevich had a habit of putting, for every ruble he spent, a grotion into a small box fastened with 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? Akaki Akekevich 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 morning 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 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 a 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 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 Martin 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, and crossed himself. Once in the course of every month, he had a conference with Petrovich on the subject of the cloak, where it would be better to buy the cloth and the color 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. For beyond all his hopes, the director awarded neither forty nor forty-five rubles for a kaki a kekiavich's share, but sixty. Whether he suspected that a kaki a kekiavich needed a cloak, or whether it was merely chance at all events, went to extra rubles were by this means provided. The circumstance hastened matters. Two or three months more of hunger and a kaki a kekiavich had accumulated about eighty rubles. His heart, generally so quiet, began to throb. On the first possible day he went shopping in company with Petrovich. They bought some very good cloth, and at a reasonable rate too, for they had been considering the matter for six months, and rarely that a month passed without their visiting the shops to inquire prices. Petrovich himself said that no better cloth could be had. For lining they selected a cotton stuff, but so firm and thick, that Petrovich declared it to be better than silk, and even prettier and more glossy. They did not buy the martin 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 martin at a distance. Petrovich 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 Petrovich 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 a cocky, a cakey of Vitch's life, when Petrovich 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. Petrovich brought the cloak himself as befits a good tailor. On his countenance was a significant expression, such as a cocky, a cakey of Vitch had never be held there. He seemed fully sensible that he had done no small deed, and crossed a gulf separating tailors who put in linings and executed repairs from those who made 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 skillfully over the shoulders of a cocky, a cakey of Vitch. Then he pulled it and fitted it down behind with his hand, and he draped it around a cocky, a cakey of Vitch without butting it. A cocky, a cakey of Vitch, like an experienced man, wished to try the sleeves. Petrovich 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. Petrovich did not neglect to observe that it was only because he lived in a narrow street and had no signboard, and had known a cocky, a cakey of Vitch so long that he had made it so cheaply. But that if he had been in business on the Nevesky prospect, he would have charged seventy-five rubles for the making alone. A cocky, a cakey of Vitch did not care to argue this point with Petrovich. He paid him, thanked him, and set out at once in his new cloak for the department. Petrovich 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 emerged again into the street beyond to gaze once more upon the cloak from another point, namely directly in front. Meanwhile, a cocky, a cakey of Vitch 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 his warmth, the other its beauty. He saw nothing on the road, but suddenly found himself at the department. He took off his cloak in the anti-room, looked it over carefully, and confided it to the special care of the attendant. It is impossible to say precisely how it was that everyone in the department knew at once that a cocky, a cakey of Vitch had a new cloak and that the cape no longer existed. All rushed at the same moment into the anti-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 at least give them all a party, a cocky, a cakey of Vitch 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, trying to assure them with great simplicity that it was not a new cloak, that it was in fact the old cape. At length one of the officials assistant to the head clerk, 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 a cocky, a cakey of Vitch. I invite you all to tea with me tonight. It just happens to be my name day too. The officials naturally at once offered the assistant clerk their congratulations and accepted the invitation with pleasure. A cocky, a cakey of Vitch 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. End of Part 1. Part 2 of The Cloak by Nikolai Gogol This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 2. That whole day was truly a most triumphant festival for a cocky, a cakey of Vitch. 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 dressed himself leisurely, put on his cloak and stepped out into the street. Where the hosts lived, unfortunately we cannot say. Our memory begins to fail us badly. 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 Akaky Akakyovitch's residence. Akaky Akakyovitch 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, shabby slaymen with their wooden railed slays stuck over with brass-headed nails became rarer, whilst on the other hand more and more drivers in red velvet caps, lacquered slays and bare-skin coats began to appear, and carriages with rich hammer-cloth flew swiftly through the streets, their wheels scrunching the snow. Akaky Akakyovitch 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 burying 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. Akaky Akakyovitch shook his hand 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 everyone cherishes, nevertheless, some sort of feeling, or else he thought like many officials, well, those French, what is to be said, if they do go in for anything of that sort, why, but possibly he did not think at all. Akaky Akakyovitch at length reached the house in which the head clerk's assistant lodged. He lived in fine style. The staircase was lit by a lamp, his apartment being on the second floor. On entering the vestibule, Akaky Akakyovitch beheld a whole row of galoshes on the floor. Among them, in the center 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 tray full 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. Akaky Akakyovitch, having hung up his own cloak, entered the inner room. Before him all at once appeared lights, officials, pipes, and car tables, and he was bewildered by a 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 anti-room and there took another look at his cloak. Akaky Akakyovitch, 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 wist. All this, the noise, the talk, and the throng of people was rather overwhelming to Akaky Akakyovitch. 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 honor of his new garment. In the course of an hour supper consisting of vegetable salad, cold veal, pastry, confectioners' pies, and champagne was served. They made Akaky Akakyovitch 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 anti-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 ascended the stairs to the street. In the street all was still bright. Some petty shops, those permanent clubs of service, and all sorts of folks 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. Akaky Akakyovitch 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 these 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 far 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. Akaky Akakyovitch'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. Of course the cloak is mine, said one of them in a loud voice, seizing hold of his collar. Akaky Akakyovitch was about to shout, Help! When the second man thrust a fist about the size of an official's head at his very mouth muttering, Just you dare to scream. Akaky Akakyovitch felt them strip off his cloak and give him a kick. 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 the outskirts of the square. In despair, but without seizing to shout, he started at a run across the square, straight towards the watchbox, besides which stood the watchman leaning on his halberd and apparently curious to know what kind of a customer was running toward him shouting. Akaky Akakyovitch 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. Akaky Akakyovitch ran home and arrived in a state of complete disorder. His hair, which grew very thinly upon his temples and at the back of his head all tousled, 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 yet opened it she fell back on beholding Akaky Akakyovitch in such a condition. 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 the 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, Akaky Akakyovitch betook himself sadly to his room, and how he spent the night there any one 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 the 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 dinnertime and the clerks in the anti-room would not admit him on any terms, and insisted upon knowing his business. So that at last, for once in his life, Akaky Akakyovitch 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 his entrance, that he came from the Department of Justice, and that when he complained to 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 Akaky Akakyovitch. 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 Akaky Akakyovitch 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 Akaky Akakyovitch. 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 the division, who was a friend of the author, and so the sum was trifling. One of them, moved by pity, resolved to help Akaky Akakyovitch 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 it 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 relation with the proper persons, could greatly expedite the matter. As there was nothing else to be done, Akaky Akakyovitch 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 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 counselor 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 counselor, when promoted to the head of some small separate office, immediately partitioned off a private room for himself, called at 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 would 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 inferior smacked of sternness and consisted cheaply of three phrases. How dare you? Do you know whom you are speaking to? Do you realize who is standing before you? Otherwise he was a very kindhearted 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, thereby earning the name of the most wearisome of men. To this prominent personage Akaki Akekevik presented himself, and this at the most unfavorable time for himself, though opportune for the prominent personage. The prominent personage was in his cabinet, conversing very 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 Bush Muckin 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 Abramovich? Just so, Stefan Volamovich? Nevertheless, he ordered that the official 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 the weight in his anti-room? At length, having talked himself completely out, and more than that, having had his fill of pauses and smoked a cigar and a very comfortable armchair 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 an official waiting to see me. Tell him that he may come in. On perceiving Akaki Akekevich's modest mean and his worn uniform, he turned abruptly to him and said, What do you want? In a curt hard voice, which he had practiced in his room in private, and before the looking-glass for a whole week before being raised to his present rank. Akaki Akekevich, 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 inhumane manner, that he had applied to him in order that he might in some way buy 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, are you not acquainted with etiquette? To whom have you come? Don't you know how such matters are managed? You should first have presented a petition to the office. 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 Akaki Akekevich, trying to collect his small handful of wits, and conscious at the same time that he was perspiring terribly. I, your Excellency, presume to trouble you because secretaries are in untrustworthy race. What, what, what? said the important personage. Where did you get such courage? Where did you get such ideas? What impudence toward their chiefs and superiors has spread among the young generation? The prominent personage apparently had not observed that Akaki Akekevich 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 are speaking? Do you realize who was standing before you? Do you realize it? Do you realize 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 Akaki Akekevich. Akaki Akekevich's senses failed him. He staggered, trembled in every limb, and if the porters had not run in 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. Akaki Akekevich could not remember how he descended the stairs and got into the street. He felt neither his hands nor his 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 snowstorm 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 Quincy into his throat and he reached home unable to utter a word. His throat was swollen and he lay down on his bed, so powerful as sometimes a good scolding. The next day a violent fever developed. Thanks to the generous assistance of the St. Petersburg climate the melody 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 poultice 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 36 hours. After this he turned to the landlady and said, 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 Akaki Akekevich 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 Petrovich and ordered him to make a cloak with some traps of robbers, who seemed to him to be always under the bed, and he 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, and more so as these 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 these incoherent words and thoughts hovered ever about one thing, his cloak. At length poor Akakia Kekevik breathed his last. They sealed up neither his room nor his effects, because in the first place there were no airs, and in the second there was very little to inherit beyond a bundle of goose quills, a choir 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 confessed that the person who told me this tale took no interest in the matter. They carried Akakia Kekevik out and buried him. And St. Petersburg was left without Akakia Kekevik 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 attached 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 him thereafter an intolerable misfortune descended just as it descends upon the heads of 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 Akaki Akekevich'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 Akaki Akekevich, 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. A rumor suddenly spread through St. Petersburg that a dead man had taken to appearing on the Pelican bridge, and in 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, everyones cloak from his shoulders, be it catskin, 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 recognized in him Akaki Akekevich. 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 counselors, were exposed to the danger of a cold on account of their 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 the Kerinchkin lane caught the corpse by the collar on the very scene of his evil deeds, when attempting to pull off the frieze cloak 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 watchman 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 official began to appear even beyond the Kerinchkin bridge, causing no little terror in 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 Akaki Akakovic, 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 Akaki Akakovic. And from that day forth, poor Akaki Akakovic 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 Akaki Akakovic had died suddenly a fever, he was startled, hawken 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 every one was of the same rank as himself, so that he need not feel in the least constrained. This had a marvelous 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, Carolina Ivanova, a lady it appears with whom he was on a very friendly footing. 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 slightly arched 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 sleigh, said to the coachman, to Carolina Ivanova's, and rapping himself luxuriously in his warm cloak, found himself in that delightful frame of mind than which a Russian can conceive nothing 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 past, and all the moths 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 someone clutch him firmly by the collar. Turning round, he perceived a man of short stature in an old worn uniform and recognized, not without terror, a cocky akekeovic. The official's face was white as snow, and looked just like acorpses, but the horror of the important personage transcended all bounds when he saw the dead man's mouth open, and heard it utter the following remarks while it breathed upon him the terrible odor of the grave. 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 everyone said, ah, 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 Carolina Ivanova's, reaching his room somehow or other and past the night in direst distress, so that the next morning over their tea his daughter said, you are very pale today, 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 it to go. This occurrence made a deep impression upon him. He even began to say, how dare you, do you realize who is standing before you, less frequently to the under-officials, and if he did utter the words it was only after first having learned the bearings of the matter. But the most noteworthy point was that from that day forward the apparition of the dead official ceased to 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 solicitous persons could, by no means, reassure themselves and assert it that the dead official still showed himself in distant parts of the city. In fact one watchman in Coleman saw with his own eyes the apparition come from behind a house. But the watchman was not a strong man, so he was afraid to arrest him and followed him in the dark until at length the apparition looked round, paused, and inquired, what do you want, at the same time showing such a fist as is never seen on living men. The watchman said nothing and turned back instantly. But the apparition was much too tall, wore huge mustaches, and directing its steps apparently toward the Ubukov Bridge disappeared in the darkness of the night.