The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol (64 page)

The important person was in his office and was talking away very, very merrily with a recently arrived old acquaintance and childhood friend, whom he had not seen for several years.
Just then it was announced to him that a certain Bashmachkin was there.
“Who’s that?” he asked curtly.
“Some clerk,” came the reply.
“Ah!
he can wait, now isn’t a good time,” said the important man.
Here it should be said that the important man was stretching it a bit: the time was good, he had long since discussed everything with his friend and their conversation had long since been interspersed with lengthy silences, while they patted each other lightly
on the thigh, saying: “So there, Ivan Abramovich!” “So it is, Stepan Varlamovich!” But, for all that, he nevertheless told the clerk to wait, in order to show his friend, a man who had not been in the service and had been living for a long time on his country estate, what lengths of time clerks spent waiting in his anteroom.
At last, having talked, or, rather, been silent his fill, and having smoked a cigar in an easy chair with a reclining back, at last he suddenly recollected, as it were, and said to his secretary, who stood in the doorway with papers for a report, “Ah, yes, it seems there’s a clerk standing there.
Tell him he may come in.” Seeing Akaky Akakievich’s humble look and his old uniform, he turned to him suddenly and said, “What can I do for you?” in a voice abrupt and firm, which he had purposely studied beforehand in his room, alone and in front of a mirror, a week prior to receiving his present post and the rank of general.
Akaky Akakievich, who had been feeling the appropriate timidity for a good while already, became somewhat flustered and explained as well as he could, so far as the freedom of his tongue permitted, adding the words “sort of” even more often than at other times, that the overcoat was perfectly new and he had been robbed in a brutal fashion, and that he was addressing him so that through his intercession, as it were, he could sort of write to the gentleman police superintendent or someone else and find the overcoat.
For some reason, the general took this to be familiar treatment.

“What, my dear sir?” he continued curtly.
“Do you not know the order?
What are you doing here?
Do you not know how cases are conducted?
You ought to have filed a petition about it in the chancellery; it would pass to the chief clerk, to the section chief, then be conveyed to my secretary, and my secretary would deliver it to me …”

“But, Your Excellency,” said Akaky Akakievich, trying to collect the handful of presence of mind he had and feeling at the same time that he was sweating terribly, “I made so bold as to trouble you, Your Excellency, because secretaries are, sort of … unreliable folk …”

“What, what, what?” said the important person.
“Where did you pick up such a spirit?
Where did you pick up such ideas?
What
is this rebelliousness spreading among the young against their chiefs and higher-ups!”

The important person seemed not to notice that Akaky Akakievich was already pushing fifty.
And so, even if he might be called a young man, it was only relatively—that is, in relation to someone who was seventy years old.

“Do you know to whom you are saying this?
Do you realize who is standing before you?
Do you realize that?
Do you realize, I ask you?”

Here he stamped his foot, raising his voice to such a forceful note that even someone other than Akaky Akakievich would have been frightened by it.
Akaky Akakievich was simply stricken, he swayed, shook all over, and was quite unable to stand: if the caretakers had not come running at once to support him, he would have dropped to the floor.
He was carried out almost motionless.
And the important person, pleased that the effect had even surpassed his expectations, and thoroughly delighted by the thought that his word could even make a man faint, gave his friend a sidelong glance to find out how he had taken it all, and saw, not without satisfaction, that his friend was in a most uncertain state and was even, for his own part, beginning to feel frightened himself.

How he went down the stairs, how he got outside, nothing of that could Akaky Akakievich remember.
He could not feel his legs or arms.
Never in his life had he been given such a bad roasting by a general, and not his own general at that.
He walked, his mouth gaping, through the blizzard that whistled down the streets, blowing him off the sidewalk; the wind, as always in Petersburg, blasted him from all four sides out of every alley.
He instantly caught a quinsy, and he reached home unable to utter a word; he was all swollen and took to his bed.
So strong at times is the effect of a proper roasting!
The next day he was found to be in a high fever.
Owing to the generous assistance of the Petersburg climate, the illness developed more quickly than might have been expected, and when the doctor came, after feeling his pulse, he found nothing else to do but prescribe a poultice, only so as not to leave the sick man without the beneficent aid of medical science; but he nevertheless declared straight off that within a day and a half it would
inevitably be kaput for him.
After which he turned to the landlady and said, “And you, dearie, don’t waste any time, order him a pine coffin at once, because an oak one will be too expensive for him.” Whether Akaky Akakievich heard these fatal words spoken, and, if he heard them, whether they made a tremendous effect on him, whether he regretted his wretched life—none of this is known, because he was in fever and delirium the whole time.
Visions, one stranger than another, kept coming to him: first he saw Petrovich and ordered him to make an overcoat with some sort of snares for thieves, whom he kept imagining under the bed, and he even called the landlady every other minute to get one thief out from under his blanket; then he asked why his old housecoat was hanging before him, since he had a new overcoat; then he imagined that he was standing before the general, listening to the proper roasting, and kept murmuring, “I’m sorry, Your Excellency!”—then, finally, he even blasphemed, uttering the most dreadful words, so that his old landlady even crossed herself, never having heard anything like it from him, the more so as these words immediately followed the words “Your Excellency.” After that he talked complete gibberish, so that it was impossible to understand anything; one could only see that his disorderly words and thoughts turned around one and the same overcoat.
At last poor Akaky Akakievich gave up the ghost.
Neither his room nor his belongings were sealed, because, first, there were no heirs, and, second, there was very little inheritance left—namely, a bunch of goose quills, a stack of white official paper, three pairs of socks, two or three buttons torn off of trousers, and the housecoat already familiar to the reader.
To whom all this went, God knows: that, I confess, did not even interest the narrator of this story.
Akaky Akakievich was taken away and buried.
And Petersburg was left without Akaky Akakievich, as if he had never been there.
Vanished and gone was the being, protected by no one, dear to no one, interesting to no one, who had not even attracted the attention of a naturalist—who does not fail to stick a pin through a common fly and examine it under a microscope; a being who humbly endured office mockery and went to his grave for no particular reason, but for whom, all the same, though at the very end of his life, there had
flashed a bright visitor in the form of an overcoat, animating for an instant his poor life, and upon whom disaster then fell as unbearably as it falls upon the kings and rulers of this world … Several days after his death, a caretaker was sent to his apartment from the office with an order for him to appear immediately—the chief demanded it.
But the caretaker had to return with nothing, reporting that the clerk could come no more, and to the question “Why?” expressed himself with the words: “It’s just that he’s already dead, buried three days ago …” Thus they learned at the office about the death of Akaky Akakievich, and by the next day a new clerk was sitting in his place, a much taller one, who wrote his letters not in a straight hand but much more obliquely and slantwise.

But who could imagine that this was not yet all for Akaky Akakievich, that he was fated to live noisily for a few days after his death, as if in reward for his entirely unnoticed life?
Yet so it happened, and our poor story unexpectedly acquires a fantastic ending.
The rumor suddenly spread through Petersburg that around the Kalinkin Bridge and far further a dead man had begun to appear at night in the form of a clerk searching for some stolen overcoat and, under the pretext of this stolen overcoat, pulling from all shoulders, regardless of rank or title, various overcoats: with cat, with beaver, with cotton quilting, raccoon, fox, bearskin coats—in short, every sort of pelt and hide people have thought up for covering their own.
One of the clerks from the office saw the dead man with his own eyes and recognized him at once as Akaky Akakievich; this instilled such fear in him, however, that he ran away as fast as his legs would carry him and thus could not take a good look, but only saw from far off how the man shook his finger at him.
From all sides came ceaseless complaints that the backs and shoulders—oh, not only of titular, but even of privy councillors themselves, were completely subject to chills on account of this nocturnal tearing off of overcoats.
An order was issued for the police to catch the dead man at all costs, dead or alive, and punish him in the harshest manner, as an example to others, and in this they nearly succeeded.
Namely, a neighborhood policeman on duty had already quite seized the dead man by the collar in Kiriushkin
Lane, catching him red-handed in an attempt to pull a frieze overcoat off some retired musician who had whistled on a flute in his day.
Having seized him by the collar, he shouted and summoned his two colleagues, whom he charged with holding him while he went to his boot just for a moment to pull out his snuffbox, so as to give temporary refreshment to his nose, frostbitten six times in his life.
But the snuff must have been of a kind that even a dead man couldn’t stand.
The policeman had no sooner closed his right nostril with his finger, while drawing in half a handful with the left, than the dead man sneezed so hard that he completely bespattered the eyes of all three of them.
While they tried to rub them with their fists, the dead man vanished without a trace, so that they did not even know whether or not they had indeed laid hands on him.
After that, on-duty policemen got so afraid of dead men that they grew wary of seizing living ones and only shouted from far off: “Hey, you, on your way!” and the dead clerk began to appear even beyond the Kalinkin Bridge, instilling no little fear in all timorous people.

We, however, have completely abandoned the
certain important person
, who in fact all but caused the fantastic turn taken by this, incidentally perfectly true, story.
First of all, justice demands that we say of this
certain important person
that, soon after the departure of the poor, roasted-to-ashes Akaky Akakievich, he felt something akin to regret.
He was no stranger to compassion: his heart was open to many good impulses, though his rank often prevented their manifestation.
As soon as his out-of-town friend left his office, he even fell to thinking about poor Akaky Akakievich.
And after that, almost every day he pictured to himself the pale Akaky Akakievich, unable to endure his superior’s roasting.
He was so troubled by the thought of him that a week later he even decided to send a clerk to him, to find out about him and whether he might indeed somehow help him; and when he was informed that Akaky Akakievich had died unexpectedly of a fever, he was even struck, felt remorse of conscience, and was in low spirits the whole day.
Wishing to divert himself somehow and forget the unpleasant impression, he went for the evening to one of his friends, where he found a sizable company, and, best of all, everyone there was of
nearly the same rank, so that he felt no constraint whatsoever.
This had a surprising effect on his state of mind.
He grew expansive, became pleasant in conversation, amiable—in short, he spent the evening very pleasantly.
At supper he drank two glasses of champagne—an agent known to have a good effect with regard to gaiety.
The champagne disposed him toward various extravagances; to wit: he decided not to go home yet, but to stop and see a lady of his acquaintance, Karolina Ivanovna, a lady of German origin, it seems, toward whom he felt perfectly friendly relations.
It should be said that the important person was a man no longer young, a good husband, a respectable father of a family.
Two sons, one of whom already served in the chancellery, and a comely sixteen-year-old daughter with a slightly upturned but pretty little nose, came every day to kiss his hand, saying, “
Bonjour
, papa.” His wife, still a fresh woman and not at all bad looking, first gave him her hand to kiss and then, turning it over, kissed his hand.
Yet the important person, perfectly satisfied, incidentally, with domestic family tendernesses, found it suitable to have a lady for friendly relations in another part of the city.
This lady friend was no whit better or younger than his wife; but there exist such riddles in the world, and it is not our business to judge of them.
And so, the important person went downstairs, got into his sleigh, and said to the driver, “To Karolina Ivanovna’s,” and, himself wrapped quite luxuriantly in a warm overcoat, remained in that pleasant state than which no better could be invented for a Russian man, when you are not thinking of anything and yet thoughts come into your head by themselves, each more pleasant than the last, without even causing you the trouble of chasing after and finding them.
Filled with satisfaction, he kept recalling all the gay moments of that evening, all his words that had made the small circle laugh; he even repeated many of them in a half whisper and found them as funny as before, and therefore it was no wonder that he himself chuckled heartily.
Occasionally, however, a gusty wind interfered with him, suddenly bursting from God knows where and for no apparent reason, cutting at his face, throwing lumps of snow into it, hoisting the collar of his coat like a sail, or suddenly, with supernatural force, throwing it over his head, thereby causing him the eternal
trouble of extricating himself from it.
Suddenly the important person felt someone seize him quite firmly by the collar.
Turning around, he noticed a short man in an old, worn-out uniform, in whom, not without horror, he recognized Akaky Akakievich.
The clerk’s face was pale as snow and looked exactly like a dead man’s.
But the important person’s horror exceeded all bounds when he saw the dead man’s mouth twist and, with the horrible breath of the tomb, utter the following words: “Ah!
here you are at last!
At last I’ve sort of got you by the collar!
It’s your overcoat I need!
You didn’t solicit about mine, and roasted me besides—now give me yours!” The poor
important person
nearly died.
However full of character he was in the chancellery and generally before subordinates, and though at a mere glance at his manly appearance and figure everyone said, “Oh, what character!”—here, like a great many of those who are powerful in appearance, he felt such fear that he even became apprehensive, not without reason, of some morbid fit.
He quickly threw the overcoat off his shoulders and shouted to the driver in a voice not his own, “Home at top speed!” The driver, hearing a voice that was usually employed at decisive moments and even accompanied by something much more effective, drew his head between his shoulders just in case, swung his knout, and shot off like an arrow.
In a little over six minutes the important person was already at the door of his house.
Pale, frightened, and minus his overcoat, he came to his own place instead of Karolina Ivanovna’s, plodded to his room somehow or other, and spent the night in great disorder, so that the next morning over tea his daughter told him directly, “You’re very pale today, papa.” But papa was silent—not a word to anyone about what had happened to him, or where he had been, or where he had wanted to go.