When and how he entered the department, and who appointed him, no one could remember.  However much the directors and chiefs of all kinds were changed, he was always to be seen in the same place, the same attitude, the same occupation—­always the letter-copying clerk—­so that it was afterwards affirmed that he had been born in uniform with a bald head.  No respect was shown him in the department.  The porter not only did not rise from his seat when he passed, but never even glanced at him, any more than if a fly had flown through the reception-room.  His superiors treated him in coolly despotic fashion.  Some insignificant assistant to the head clerk would thrust a paper under his nose without so much as saying, “Copy,” or, “Here’s an interesting little case,” or anything else agreeable, as is customary amongst well-bred officials.  And he took it, looking only at the paper, and not observing who handed it to him, or whether he had the right to do so; simply took it, and set about copying it.

The young officials laughed at and made fun of him, so far as their official wit permitted; told in his presence various stories concocted about him, and about his landlady, an old woman of seventy; declared that she beat him; asked when the wedding was to be; and strewed bits of paper over his head, calling them snow.  But Akaky Akakiyevich answered not a word, any more than if there had been no one there besides himself.  It even had no effect upon his work.  Amid all these annoyances he never made a single mistake in a letter.  But if the joking became wholly unbearable, as when they jogged his head, and prevented his attending to his work, he would exclaim: 

“Leave me alone!  Why do you insult me?”

And there was something strange in the words and the voice in which they were uttered.  There was in it something which moved to pity; so much so that one young man, a newcomer, who, taking pattern by the others, had permitted himself to make sport of Akaky, suddenly stopped short, as though all about him had undergone a transformation, and presented itself in a different aspect.  Some unseen force repelled him from the comrades whose acquaintance he had made, on the supposition that they were decent, well-bred men.  Long afterwards, in his gayest moments, there recurred to his mind the little official with the bald forehead, with his heart-rending words, “Leave me alone!  Why do you insult me?” In these moving words, other words resounded—­“I am thy brother.”  And the young man covered his face with his hand; and many a time afterwards, in the course of his life, shuddered at seeing how much inhumanity there is in man, how much savage coarseness is concealed beneath refined, cultured, worldly refinement, and even, O God! in that man whom the world acknowledges as honourable and upright.