The matter went even faster than he anticipated. Surpassing all his hopes, the director allotted him not forty or forty-five rubles, but sixty! Perhaps he felt that Akaki Akakievich needed a cloak, or else it was an accident, but the fact was, Akaki Akakievich found himself with twenty unexpected rubles. This circumstance hastened matters. Another two or three months of hunger, and Akaki Akakievich found himself with eighty rubles. His heart, usually tranquil, began to throb.
On the first free day he went shopping with Petrovich. They purchased a very good cloth, and at a reasonable price, because they had considered the matter for a full six months before, and hardly a month passed but that they visited the shops to inquire prices; besides, Petrovich himself said that better cloth couldn’t be found. For lining, they selected a cotton cloth, but so strong and thick that, to use the words of Petrovich, it was better than silk, and in appearance even showy and shiny. Marten fur proved too expensive, and so in its place they purchased the very best obtainable cat-skin, which in the distance could be mistaken for marten. Petrovich worked on the cloak two weeks; there was much quilting, otherwise it would have been finished sooner. For his labor Petrovich charged twelve rubles—he couldn’t possibly take less; it was all done with silk, in small double stitches, which afterwards Petrovich went over with his own teeth, creating various patterns in the process.
It was—it is difficult to say precisely on what day; but probably the most triumphant day in Akaki Akakievich’s life was when Petrovich at last brought the cloak. He brought it in the morning, just before the time necessary to start for the department. It could not have arrived at a more opportune moment, because a severe cold had set in, and it seemed to threaten to become even colder. Petrovich himself brought the cloak, as befits a good tailor. His face expressed such an extraordinary significance as Akaki Akakievich never had beheld there before. It was evident that he felt he had done no small thing, and that he had suddenly revealed in himself the abyss which separates these tailors who sew on mere linings and do mending, from those who make an entire new garment. He drew out the cloak from a handkerchief in which he brought it. The handkerchief had just come from the laundress; so, folding it, he put it in his pocket for use. Holding up the cloak proudly in both hands, he very deftly threw it on Akaki Akakievich’s shoulders, after which he pulled it down with his hand from behind, and let it hang unbuttoned. Akaki Akakievich, like a man wise in years, wished to try the sleeves. Petrovich helped him into them. The sleeves too fitted well. In short, the cloak was all that was wanted of it. Petrovich did not let the opportunity pass to remark that only because he conducted his establishment without a signboard and in a small street, and had known Akaki Akakievich for so long, had he charged him so cheaply, and that on Nevski Prospect they would have charged him seventy-five rubles for the work alone. Akaki Akakievich did not wish to argue the matter with Petrovich, and feared all large amounts, of which the tailor loved to speak soundingly. Akaki Akakievich paid and thanked Petrovich, and set forth in his new cloak to the department. Petrovich followed him, and for a long time his gaze lingered on the cloak from a distance; then, making a short cut through a side street, he reappeared to view the cloak from another point—namely, directly in front.
As for Akaki Akakievich, he walked on, experiencing exultation in every part of his body. At every step he felt conscious of the new cloak upon his shoulders, and several times he even smiled from internal gratification. Indeed, the cloak had two advantages: it was warm and it was handsome. He did not notice the road at all, and suddenly found himself in the department. He threw off the cloak in the porter’s room, and, after surveying it, he confided it to the special care of the attendant. It is impossible to tell how every one in the department suddenly knew that Akaki Akakievich had a new cloak, and that the cape no longer existed. All at once ran into the porter’s room to inspect the garment. They began to congratulate him, so that at the beginning he smiled and afterwards even felt ashamed. When, however, every one surrounding him said that the new cloak should be christened, and that at least he should give them all a party some evening, Akaki Akakievich lost his head completely, and did not know what to do, what to say, and how to get out of it. For several minutes, blushing, he tried to assure them, in a sufficiently naïve manner, that the cloak was not at all a new one, that it was, in fact, an old cloak. In the end, one of the officials, who served as assistant to the head clerk, evidently wishing to show that he was not at all proud and did not condescend towards his inferiors, said: “So be it. I, instead of Akaki Akakievich, will give the party, and I invite you all to my house tonight. As it happens, it is my birthday.” Naturally, the officials then congratulated the head clerk’s assistant, and accepted the invitation eagerly. Akaki Akakievich at first wished to decline, but every one started to impress upon him how discourteous it was, and that it was a shame and a disgrace, so that he could not refuse. Besides, he afterwards began to feel pleasure in the thought that he would have an opportunity to spend an evening in his new cloak.
That entire day was like a triumphant holiday for Akaki Akakievich. He returned home in the happiest possible frame of mind, threw off his cloak, and hung it carefully on the wall, his eye revelling once more in the cloth and the lining; he afterwards held up beside it for comparison the old cape, now all fallen to pieces. He laughed, so great was the difference. And even a long time after dinner he smiled each time the condition of his old cape occurred to him. He dined cheerfully, and did not copy any papers afterwards, but rested upon his bed until it grew dark. Afterwards, wasting no time, he dressed himself, placed the cloak across his shoulders, and went into the street.
Just where the inviting official lived, we unfortunately cannot say; our memory is beginning to fail us, and the St. Petersburg streets and houses have so badly massed and mixed themselves in our head that it is most difficult to establish any kind of order out of all the chaos. However that may be, at least it is certain that the official lived in the better part of the city, from which may be guessed that it was anywhere but near Akaki Akakievich’s neighborhood. At first he had to pass through several dimly lighted, deserted streets, but in proportion as he approached the official’s residence the streets grew more lively, more populous, and more brightly illuminated; pedestrians grew in greater numbers; women too, handsomely dressed, began to appear; some of the men even wore beaver collars; peasants with their wooden fence-rail sledges, hammered over with yellow-headed nails, were more rarely met with; on the other hand, drivers with red velvet caps, in lacquered sledges, with bearskin coverings, were becoming more frequent; and beautifully ornamented carriages flew swiftly through the street.
Akaki Akakievich gazed upon all this as upon a novelty; it was now several years since he had passed an evening in the streets. He paused with curiosity before a lighted shop-window, to look at a picture in which was represented a handsome woman taking off her shoe and baring her entire foot very prettily, while behind her a man with whiskers and a handsome mustache peeped through the door of another room. Akaki Akakievich shook his head and laughed, and then continued his journey. Why did he laugh? Was it because he had met a thing altogether unfamiliar to him, but for which, however, every one cherishes some sort of feeling, or was it because he thought about it as many other officials would? “Ah, those French! What is there to say? When they want to do anything like that, they do it rather well!” And it is possible that he did not think such a thing at all. After all, it is impossible to steal into a man’s soul and to discover all that he thinks.
At last he reached the house in which lived the head clerk’s assistant. This man resided in grand style; the staircase was lighted by a lamp; his quarters were on the second floor. Entering the vestibule, Akaki Akakievich observed several rows of galoshes on the floor. Among them, in the middle of the room, stood the samovar; it was humming and emitting clouds of steam. The walls were covered with cloaks and mantles, among which were even a few with beaver collars or with velvet lapels. Behind the wall were audible the noise and conversation, which suddenly grew clear and loud when the door opened and the servant came out with a trayful of empty glasses, a cream-jug, and a sugar-bowl. It was evident that the officials had arrived some time ago and had had their first glass of tea.
Akaki Akakievich, having hung up his cloak himself, entered the room, and his astonished gaze took in at once the lights, the officials, the pipes, and the card-tables, and he was confused by the sound of conversation rising from all sides and the noise of moving chairs. He paused very awkwardly in the middle of the room, pondering what he should do. But he had already been noticed, and he was received with shouts; every one running towards the vestibule to survey his cloak anew. Although Akaki Akakievich was somewhat astonished, still, being a simple-hearted man, he could not help but feel flattered, seeing how well his cloak was liked. Afterwards, it goes without saying, they forgot him and his cloak, and returned quite properly to the tables appointed for whist. All this—the noise, the conversation, and the size of the gathering—all this was strange to Akaki Akakievich. He simply did not know what to do with himself, where to put his hands, his feet, and his entire body; finally he seated himself near the players, looked at the cards, or into the face of now one, now another, and after a time began to grow drowsy, and to feel a certain feeling of weariness, all the more because his accustomed hour for going to bed had long passed. He wished to bid his host good-night, but he was not permitted to depart; they insisted that he drink a glass of champagne in honor of his new garment. In another hour supper was served; it consisted of a relish, cold veal, pastry, sweets, and champagne. Akaki Akakievich was made to drink two glasses of champagne, after which the room assumed to him a livelier aspect; nevertheless, he could not forget that it was twelve o’clock, and that he should have been home long ago. In order that the host might not detain him, he stole silently out of the room, sought out in the anteroom his cloak, which, to his sorrow, he found lying on the floor. He brushed it, removed every speck of dust from it, put it on his shoulders, and descended the stairs into the street.
The street was as yet all alight. Some of the petty shops, those permanent clubs of servants and all sorts of people, were open; others, however, which were closed, showed a long streak of light through the entire length of the door-crack, suggesting that they did not lack company, probably servants of both sexes, who were concluding their gossip and conversation, and keeping their masters in complete ignorance of their whereabouts. Akaki Akakievich walked on in a happy frame of mind, started even to run, for an unknown reason, after a woman who flashed by him like lightning. After this, however, he paused and resumed his former leisurely pace, wondering at his own sudden spurt. Very soon there stretched before him the deserted streets, not particularly cheerful even by day, and much less so by night. Now they seemed even more than usually dark and lonely; the lights were growing further apart; then came wooden houses and fences; not a soul anywhere; only the snow sparkled in the streets; and the slumbering, low-roofed cabins with closed shutters looked melancholy against the snow. He was approaching the spot where the street cut through a vast square, with houses on the other side barely visible across the desert space.