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 might, to be sure,
depend, in part, upon his present at Christmas; but that money had
long been allotted beforehand. He must have some new trousers, and pay
a debt of long standing 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 rubles instead of forty, or even fifty, it would be a mere
nothing, a mere drop in the ocean towards the funds necessary for a
cloak: although he knew that Petrovitch 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 Petrovitch 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. Akakiy Akakievitch had a habit of
putting, for every ruble he spent, a groschen into a small box,
fastened with a 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? Akakiy
Akakievitch 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 evening; 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 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 traits 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 marten fur on the collar? The
thought of this almost made him absent-minded. Once, in copying a