Akaky Akakiyevich had felt for some time that his back and shoulders were paining with peculiar poignancy, in spite of the fact that he tried to traverse the distance with all possible speed.  He began finally to wonder whether the fault did not lie in his cloak.  He examined it thoroughly at home, and discovered that in two places, namely, on the back and shoulders, it had become thin as gauze.  The cloth was worn to such a degree that he could see through it, and the lining had fallen into pieces.  You must know that Akaky Akakiyevich’s cloak served as an object of ridicule to the officials.  They even refused it the noble name of cloak, and called it a cape.  In fact, it was of singular make, its collar diminishing year by year to serve to patch its other parts.  The patching did not exhibit great skill on the part of the tailor, and was, in fact, baggy and ugly.  Seeing how the matter stood, Akaky Akakiyevich decided that it would be necessary to take the cloak to Petrovich, the tailor, who lived somewhere on the fourth floor up a dark staircase, and who, in spite of his having but one eye and pock-marks all over his face, busied himself with considerable success in repairing the trousers and coats of officials and others; that is to say, when he was sober and not nursing some other scheme in his head.

It is not necessary to say much about this tailor, but as it is the custom to have the character of each personage in a novel clearly defined there is no help for it, so here is Petrovich the tailor.  At first he was called only Grigory, and was some gentleman’s serf.  He commenced calling himself Petrovich from the time when he received his free papers, and further began to drink heavily on all holidays, at first on the great ones, and then on all church festivals without discrimination, wherever a cross stood in the calendar.  On this point he was faithful to ancestral custom; and when quarrelling with his wife, he called her a low female and a German.  As we have mentioned his wife, it will be necessary to say a word or two about her.  Unfortunately, little is known of her beyond the fact that Petrovich had a wife, who wore a cap and a dress, but could not lay claim to beauty, at least, no one but the soldiers of the guard even looked under her cap when they met her.

Ascending the staircase which led to Petrovich’s room—­which staircase was all soaked with dish-water and reeked with the smell of spirits which affects the eyes, and is an inevitable adjunct to all dark stairways in St. Petersburg houses—­ascending the stairs, Akaky Akakiyevich pondered how much Petrovich would ask, and mentally resolved not to give more than two rubles.  The door was open, for the mistress, in cooking some fish, had raised such a smoke in the kitchen that not even the beetles were visible.  Akaky Akakiyevich passed through the kitchen unperceived, even by the housewife, and at length reached a room where he beheld Petrovich seated on a large unpainted