The only one who had never appeared in this parlour was the captain’s wife.  That had been a thorn in Abramka’s flesh.  He had spent days and nights going over in his mind how he could rid this lady of the, in his opinion, wretched habit of ordering her clothes from Moscow.  For this ball, however, as she herself had told him, she had not ordered a dress but only material from out of town, from which he deduced that he was to make the gown for her.  But there was only one week left before the ball, and still she had not come to him.  Abramka was in a state of feverishness.  He longed once to make a dress for Mrs. Zarubkin.  It would add to his glory.  He wanted to prove that he understood his trade just as well as any tailor in Moscow, and that it was quite superfluous for her to order her gowns outside of Chmyrsk.  He would come out the triumphant competitor of Moscow.

As each day passed and Mrs. Zarubkin did not appear in his shop, his nervousness increased.  Finally she ordered a dressing-jacket from him—­but not a word said of a ball gown.  What was he to think of it?

So, when Semyonov told him that Mrs. Zarubkin was expecting him at her home, it goes without saying that he instantly removed the dozen pins in his mouth, as he was trying on a customer’s dress, told one of his assistants to continue with the fitting, and instantly set off to call on the captain’s wife.  In this case, it was not a question of a mere ball gown, but of the acquisition of the best customer in town.

Although Abramka wore a silk hat and a suit in keeping with the silk hat, still he was careful not to ring at the front entrance, but always knocked at the back door.  At another time when the captain’s orderly was not in the house—­for the captain’s orderly also performed the duties of the captain’s cook—­he might have knocked long and loud.  On other occasions a cannon might have been shot off right next to Tatyana Grigoryevna’s ears and she would not have lifted her fingers to open the door.  But now she instantly caught the sound of the modest knocking and opened the back door herself for Abramka.

“Oh!” she cried delightedly.  “You, Abramka!”

She really wanted to address him less familiarly, as was more befitting so dignified a man in a silk hat; but everybody called him “Abramka,” and he would have been very much surprised had he been honoured with his full name, Abram Srulevich Stiftik.  So she thought it best to address him as the others did.

Mr.  “Abramka” was tall and thin.  There was always a melancholy expression in his pale face.  He had a little stoop, a long and very heavy greyish beard.  He had been practising his profession for thirty years.  Ever since his apprenticeship he had been called “Abramka,” which did not strike him as at all derogatory or unfitting.  Even his shingle read:  “Ladies’ Tailor:  Abramka Stiftik”—­the most valid proof that he deemed his name immaterial, but that the chief thing to him was his art.  As a matter of fact, he had attained, if not perfection in tailoring, yet remarkable skill.  To this all the ladies of the S——­ Regiment could attest with conviction.