Russian fiction -- Translations into English; Short stories, Russian -- Translations into English
He gave no thought to his dress. His uniform was not green, but rather
a reddish-mealy color. Its collar was narrow and low, so that his neck,
though not really long, seemed inordinately long as it projected from
the collar, quite like the necks of the plaster cats with wagging heads
that one sees carried upon the heads of foreign peddlers. And something
always clung to his uniform; it was a bit of straw, or perhaps a
thread. Besides, he had the unfortunate tendency, while walking in
the street, to go past a window precisely at the moment when they
threw out of it all kinds of rubbish; hence he always carried about
on his hat pieces of melon-rind and articles of a similar nature. Not
once in his life did he direct his attention upon what was happening
daily in the street--quite unlike his colleague, the young official,
whose glance was sufficiently far-reaching and keen to observe when
any one’s trouser-straps became undone on the opposite sidewalk, which
always called forth upon his face a smile of gratification. But Akaki
Akakievich, when he happened to look at all, saw in everything only the
clear, even strokes of his written lines, and only when, from goodness
knows where, a horse’s head suddenly popped over his shoulder and sent
a whole gust of wind from its nostrils into his face, did he begin to
notice that he was not in the middle of a line, but in the middle of
the street.
On arriving home, he would sit down immediately at the table, gulp
down quickly his cabbage-soup, eat a piece of meat with onion without
noticing their taste, consuming everything--together with flies or
anything else which the Lord happened to send at the moment.
Becoming conscious of the swelling of his stomach, he would rise from
the table, take down a bottle of ink, and begin to copy papers which
he had brought home. If such were wanting, he had the habit of making a
special copy for his personal gratification, particularly if the paper
happened to be remarkable, not indeed so much on account of the beauty
of its style, but of its being addressed to some new or important
person.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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