[adapted]

by Nikolai Gogol

In one of the government departments—but it’s better not to say which one. Departments, courts, offices, and the like get offended easily. Today, everyone working in them feels personally insulted when they’re mentioned. Not long ago, a judge complained that books were ruining the whole country. He proved it by showing a story where a judge appeared every ten lines, and sometimes drunk. So, to avoid trouble, we’ll just say it was a certain department.

In this department, there was a certain man. He was not very important. He was short, had red hair, pockmarks on his face, and bad eyesight. His forehead was bald, his cheeks were wrinkled, and his skin was reddish. The weather in St. Petersburg made it worse. His job title was “perpetual titular councillor,” which some writers like to make jokes about, especially since men with this title can’t defend themselves.

His family name was Bashmatchkin. This name clearly comes from the word “bashmak” (shoe). But when or how it became their name, no one knows. His father and grandfather always wore boots, and only fixed the heels two or three times a year. His first name was Akakiy Akakievitch. This may sound strange, but it was the only name he could have had.

This is how it happened.

Akakiy Akakievitch was born in the evening of March 23. His mother, the wife of a government worker and a good woman, got ready for the baptism. She lay on her bed, and across from her stood the godfather, Ivan Ivanovitch Eroshkin, a respectable man who worked in the senate. The godmother was Anna Semenovna Byelobrushkova, wife of a district officer and a good woman.

They offered the mother a choice of three names: Mokiya, Sossiya, or Khozdazat (a martyr). “No,” said the woman, “these names are no good.” They opened the calendar again and found three more: Triphiliy, Dula, and Varakhasiy. “What terrible names,” said the woman. “Maybe Varada or Varukh would do, but not Triphiliy and Varakhasiy.” They turned another page and found Pavsikakhiy and Vakhtisiy. “Now I understand,” said the woman. “It is fate. Since that’s the case, better name him after his father. His father’s name was Akakiy, so his son’s name will be Akakiy too.” And so he was named Akakiy Akakievitch. They baptized the baby, and he cried and made a funny face, as if he knew he would grow up to be a low-level clerk.

That’s how it happened. We are telling you all this so you know it had to be that way. There was no other name for him. No one remembered when or how he got his job at the department. Many bosses came and went, but he was always there, in the same seat, doing the same work. People said he must have been born wearing a work coat and with a bald head. No one in the department respected him. The door guard didn’t stand up when he passed, or even look at him. It was like a fly flying past. His bosses acted cold and strict. A lower-ranking official might hand him a paper without saying anything polite, like “Copy this” or “This is interesting.” And Akakiy would just take the paper, not looking at who gave it or if they even had the right to give it. He simply took it and started copying.

The young workers at the office laughed at Akakiy and made fun of him. They told jokes about him and about his old landlady, who was seventy years old. They said she hit him. They asked when his wedding would be. They even threw little pieces of paper on his head and called it snow. But Akakiy Akakievitch did not say anything. He acted as if no one was there. It didn’t even stop his work. He never made a mistake, even when people joked around him. But if the jokes went too far, like when someone touched his hand and made him stop working, he would say, “Leave me alone! Why do you insult me?” His voice was strange when he said this. It made people feel sorry for him.

One new worker joined in making fun of Akakiy. But when he heard those words, something changed inside him. He suddenly felt that the people around him were not kind. He thought they were polite, but now he wasn’t so sure. Even later, when he was happy, he remembered Akakiy’s words: “Leave me alone! Why do you insult me?” In those words, he heard something like, “I am your brother.” The young man covered his face with his hand. Many times later in his life, he felt shocked to think about how cruel people can be—even those who seem kind and respected.

Akakiy loved his work more than anything. He didn’t just work hard; he worked with love. He liked copying. It gave him joy. When he copied, his face showed happiness. He even had favorite letters. When he wrote them, he smiled and moved his lips, as if the letters were dancing on his face. If he had been paid for his effort, he might have become an important man. But he stayed in the same low job. His coworkers joked that he worked like a horse in a mill.

Still, someone noticed him. One kind boss wanted to thank Akakiy for his years of work. He told him to do something a little more difficult than copying. Akakiy had to write a short report. He just needed to change the title and a few words. But the job was so hard for him that he started sweating, wiped his forehead, and finally said, “No, give me something to copy.” After that, they let him copy forever.

Outside of his job, Akakiy did not care about anything else. He didn’t care how he looked. His work coat wasn’t green anymore—it had turned a dusty grey. The collar was too low, so his short neck looked long, like those little toy cats that move their heads. He often had hay or little bits of trash stuck to his coat. He had a strange way of walking. He always seemed to pass under windows just when people were throwing out garbage. That’s why he often had pieces of melon or other things stuck to his hat.

He never looked at what was happening on the street. Other young workers liked to watch and laugh when they saw funny things, like when someone’s pants were undone. But Akakiy only saw the clean lines of his letters in everything. Only when a horse suddenly put its nose over his shoulder and blew air down his neck did he realize that he was in the street, not at his desk.

When he got home, he sat at the table right away. He quickly ate his cabbage soup and a piece of beef with onions. He didn’t even notice the taste. He swallowed everything fast, even if there were flies or anything else in it. Then he stood up and began copying papers he had brought home. If he didn’t have any, he copied documents for fun—especially if the paper was special, like one sent to an important person.

Even at night, when the grey St. Petersburg sky had cleared, and all the office workers had eaten dinner—some in good restaurants, others more simply depending on their pay—people rested from the noise of the office and the sound of pens scratching paper. Some people went to the theatre. Others walked the streets and looked at pretty ladies. Some visited friends who lived on the third or fourth floor, in small rooms with a kitchen. They drank tea, played cards, smoked long pipes, and told gossip. Russians love to share stories, even if they have heard them a hundred times before. When there is nothing new to say, they tell the same old jokes again.

But Akakiy Akakievitch never joined in these evening fun times. No one ever saw him at a party. After working at the office all day, he went home and copied papers for fun. Then he smiled, thinking about what papers he would copy the next day, and went to sleep.

So life went on quietly for Akakiy. He had a small salary of 40 rubles a year, but he was happy and never complained. His peaceful life could have continued until he was very old, but life always has surprises—even for simple office workers.

In St. Petersburg, one big problem for people with low pay was the terrible cold. It was said to be “healthy,” but at 9 a.m., when everyone was walking to work, the cold wind hit every nose with painful force. Even important people felt it. But poor office workers like Akakiy didn’t have warm clothes. The only way they could survive was to walk very fast and then warm their frozen feet in the porter’s room before starting their work.

For a while, Akakiy noticed that his back and shoulders felt colder than usual, even though he walked quickly. He started to think the problem was his old cloak. At home, he checked it carefully and saw that the back and shoulders were worn so thin that he could almost see through them. The inside lining was falling apart.

People at the office had always laughed at his cloak. They didn’t even call it a cloak—they called it a cape. It was a strange shape. Every year the collar got smaller because he used pieces of it to patch other parts. The repairs were not done well. The whole thing looked loose and messy. After looking at the cloak, Akakiy decided to take it to Petrovitch the tailor. Petrovitch lived on the fourth floor, up a dark staircase. He had only one eye and a face full of small scars, but he was good at fixing the clothes of office workers—when he wasn’t drunk or busy with strange ideas.

Now let’s talk a little about Petrovitch. He used to be a servant for a rich man, and his name was just Grigoriy. But after he got his freedom papers, he started calling himself Petrovitch. He also began to drink a lot, first on major holidays, and later on all church holidays. He fought often with his wife and called her a rude woman and a German. There’s not much to say about his wife, except that she wore a cap and a dress. She was not very pretty. No one paid attention to her, except maybe some of the soldiers who liked to tease women on the street.

Akakiy Akakievitch walked up the stairs to Petrovitch’s room. The stairs were wet with dirty water and smelled strongly of alcohol. This was common in dark stairways of St. Petersburg. As he walked, Akakiy thought about how much Petrovitch would ask to fix his cloak. He decided he would not pay more than two rubles. The door to the apartment was open. The kitchen was full of smoke because the landlady was cooking fish. It was so smoky that even the bugs could not be seen. Akakiy walked through the kitchen quietly. The landlady did not even notice him.

At last, he reached the room. Petrovitch was sitting on a big wooden table, like a Turkish pasha. His legs were crossed, and he was barefoot, as tailors often are when they work. The first thing Akakiy saw was Petrovitch’s thumb. The nail was thick and bent, like a turtle shell. Around his neck hung a loop of silk and thread. On his knees was an old coat. He had been trying to thread a needle for a while and was angry. He spoke to himself in a low voice, “It won’t go in, stupid thread! You poked me, you little devil!”

Akakiy was unhappy that he came at a bad time. He knew it was better to visit Petrovitch when the tailor was in a good mood, or a little drunk. When drunk, Petrovitch would ask for less money and say “thank you” politely. Sometimes, his wife would come later and complain that her husband had charged too little, but if Akakiy gave her ten kopecks, the problem was solved. But now Petrovitch was sober. When sober, he was grumpy and quiet, and often asked for a high price. Akakiy felt nervous and wanted to leave, but it was too late. Petrovitch looked closely at him with his one good eye. Akakiy said, “Hello, Petrovitch.”

“Good morning to you, sir,” said Petrovitch. He looked carefully at Akakiy’s hands to see what he had brought.

“Ah, I… for you, Petrovitch… this…” Akakiy had trouble speaking clearly. He often used random little words and never finished sentences, especially when nervous. He started to speak: “This, in fact, is quite—” and then forgot to continue.

“What is it?” asked Petrovitch. He looked over Akakiy’s coat carefully—from the collar to the cuffs, the back, and the buttons. He knew this coat well because he had made it himself.

Akakiy began to speak nervously: “Well, you see, Petrovitch, this cloak… the cloth… here and there it is still strong. It’s a little dusty, it looks old, but it’s actually not old. Only in one place on the back, and here on the shoulder, it’s a bit worn… yes, here on the shoulder. Just a small repair…”

Petrovitch took the cloak and spread it on the table. He looked at it closely. Then he reached for his snuffbox, which had the picture of a general on it. The face of the general had been rubbed off and was now covered by a square piece of paper. He took a pinch of snuff, held the cloak up to the light, shook his head, and looked again. Then he took more snuff, put the box away, and said, “No, it’s impossible to fix it. This coat is no good!”

Akakiy Akakievitch felt very sad when he heard Petrovitch’s words.

“Why is it impossible, Petrovitch?” he asked in a soft, childlike voice. “It’s only worn out on the shoulders. You must have some patches—”

“Yes, I could find patches,” said Petrovitch, “but there is nothing to sew them onto. The cloth is too weak. If I try to sew it, it will tear.”

“Let it tear, and then you can sew another patch,” said Akakiy.

“But there’s nothing strong enough to hold the patches. It’s too old. You’re lucky it’s even holding together at all. If the wind blows hard, it might just fly away.”

“Well… try to fix it again. What about—?”

“No,” said Petrovitch firmly. “Nothing can be done. It’s a terrible job. You’d be better off cutting it up and making some warm leg covers for the winter. Stockings aren’t warm. The Germans made them just to make more money.” Petrovitch liked to blame the Germans whenever he could. “But really, you need a new cloak.”

When Akakiy heard the word “new,” everything went dark before his eyes. The room seemed to spin. The only thing he could see clearly was the general’s face on Petrovitch’s snuff-box.

“A new one?” he asked, as if in a dream. “But I don’t have any money.”

“Yes, a new one,” said Petrovitch calmly.

“Well… if I had to buy a new one… how much would it…?”

“You mean how much would it cost?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said Petrovitch, “you would need at least one hundred and fifty rubles.” He pressed his lips together in a serious way. Petrovitch liked to shock people with high prices, just to see how they would react.

“One hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak?!” cried Akakiy. He had never shouted like that before. His voice was usually soft and quiet.

“Yes,” said Petrovitch. “That’s the price. And if you want a fur collar or a silk hood, it could be two hundred.”

“Petrovitch, please,” said Akakiy in a begging voice, not even listening to the prices, “can’t you just fix it, so I can wear it a little longer?”

“No,” said Petrovitch. “It would be a waste of time and money.”

Akakiy left, feeling very sad and hopeless. Petrovitch stood there for a while after he left, not working, just smiling to himself. He was happy because he thought Akakiy would come back to him for the new cloak, and not go to another tailor.

Akakiy Akakievitch walked out into the street like he was in a dream.

“What a thing to happen!” he said to himself. “I didn’t think it had become so bad… But now I see it really has! I never imagined it would come to this!” He was quiet for a while, then said again, “Well, here we are! What a strange thing!”

As he spoke, he walked the wrong way, not even noticing it. A chimney-sweep bumped into him and left a black mark on his shoulder. Then a bunch of dirt fell on him from a building. He didn’t notice that either. He only came back to his senses when he ran into a watchman. The watchman was shaking snuff from a box into his hand and said, “Why are you walking into people’s faces? Can’t you use the sidewalk?”

That made Akakiy look around and realize he had gone the wrong way. Then he turned and went home.

At home, he began to think clearly again. He talked to himself like someone trying to figure out a problem.

“No,” he said, “I can’t talk to Petrovitch today. Something must have happened—maybe his wife hit him. I’ll go on Sunday morning instead. After Saturday night, he’ll be tired and a little drunk. He’ll want more drink, but his wife won’t give him money. If I give him ten kopeks then, he might be easier to deal with. Then we can talk about the cloak.”

Akakiy felt a little better and waited until Sunday. When he saw from far away that Petrovitch’s wife had gone out, he went straight to him.