In the department of ------ but it is better not to name the department. Nothing is more annoying than all kinds of departments, regiments, law courts--in a word, any branch of public service. Nowadays things have come to such a pass that every individual considers all society offended in his person. Only lately, I have heard it told, a complaint has been received from a district chief of police--I don’t remember of what town--in which he sets forth clearly that the Imperial institutions are on the wane, and that the Czar’s sacred name is being uttered in vain; and in proof of his assertion he appended to the petition a voluminous romance, in which a district chief of police is made to appear at least once every ten pages, often in a hopelessly drunken condition. Therefore, to avoid all unpleasantness, it is better to designate the department in question as a _certain department_. * * * * * So, in a _certain department_ there served a _certain official_--in no way a remarkable official, at least in appearance; short of stature, somewhat pockmarked, somewhat red-haired, somewhat even dull-sighted, with a bald forehead, wrinkled cheeks, and a complexion that is known as hemorrhoidal. Poor man--the St. Petersburg climate was to blame! As for his official rank--with us a man’s rank comes before all!--he was what is called a perpetual titular councillor, a type which, as is well-known, has evoked the jests of many writers, following the praiseworthy custom of belaboring those who cannot bite back. The official’s name was Bashmachkin. As is quite evident, it was derived from _bashmak_ [shoe]; but when, at what period, and in what manner, nothing is known. It is certain that his father and grandfather, and even brother-in-law--in fact, all the Bashmachkins--wore shoes, which were reheeled three times a year. His name was Akaki Akakievich. Perhaps it may seem to the reader as somewhat odd and far-fetched; but he may rest assured that it was by no means far-fetched, and that, owing to the circumstances which led to it, any other name would have been impossible. This is how it happened. Akaki Akakievich, if my memory serves me right, was born in the evening of the 23rd of March. His mother, the wife of an official, and a very good woman, made all the proper preparations for baptizing the child. She lay on her bed opposite the door, and at her right hand stood the godfather, a most excellent man, Ivan Ivanovich Eroshkin by name, who served as the chief clerk of the Senate; and the godmother, Arina Semenovna Bielobrushkova, the wife of an officer, and a woman of rare virtues. They offered the mother her choice of three names: Mokiya, Sossiya, and that of the martyr Khozdazat. “No,” said the mother. “What a lot of names!” So as to please her, they turned to another page in the calendar, and hit upon the names of Traphili, Dula, and Varakhasi.