“Ah—here I am to you, Petrovich, this——”
It should be noted that Akaki Akakievich expressed himself chiefly by means of prepositions, adverbs, and particles of speech which have no meaning whatsoever. And if the matter was very difficult, he was in the habit of not completing his phrases, so that very often when his sentence began with the words, “This, in fact, is quite——” nothing would come of it, and he himself would forget to continue, thinking he had said what he had to say.
“Well, what is it?” asked Petrovich, and at the same time surveyed with his one eye the entire uniform from the collar to the cuffs, the back, the coat-flaps, and the button-holes; they were all familiar to him, for they were his own work. Such is the tailor’s habit; it is the first thing he does upon meeting one.
“Well, I here—this, Petrovich—about the cloak—the cloth, you see, everywhere in other places, is quite strong—it is a trifle dusty, and looks old, but it is new, only here in one place, just a little on the back, and a trifle too on the shoulder—bit worn through, and on this shoulder a bit—do you see?—and that’s all. Not much to do——”
Petrovich took the cape, spread it on the table, examined it for a long time, shook his head, and reached out his hand towards the window-sill for his round snuff-box, on the lid of which was the portrait of some general or other, whose identity was lost, however, because a finger had been thrust straight through the face and the hole glued over with a square bit of paper. Having taken a pinch of snuff, Petrovich held up and examined the cape against the light, and again shook his head; then turned it, lining upwards, and once more shook his head. Again he removed the lid of his snuff-box, and, having applied some of its contents to his nose, he pocketed the case, and finally said:
“No, it is impossible to mend it. It’s a miserable garment!”
Akaki Akakievich’s heart sank at these words.
“And why impossible, Petrovich?” he asked in a voice almost that of an imploring child. “There’s nothing—only a bit worn-out at the shoulders. You surely have some pieces——”
“It’s easy enough to find pieces,” answered Petrovich, “but how is one to sew them on? The cloth is all rotten. Put a needle to it—and it goes apart.”
“Let it; you can put another patch there.”