Practical Guidance for Defining a Smart Grid

Modernization Strategy The Case of Distribution

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A WORLD BANK STUDY

Practical Guidance for Defining a

Smart Grid Modernization Strategy
The Case of Distribution

REVISED EDITION

Marcelino Madrigal, Robert Uluski, and Kwawu

Mensan Gaba
© 2017 International Bank for Reconstruction and Development /
The World Bank
1818 H Street NW, Washington DC 20433
Telephone: 202-473-1000; Internet: www.worldbank.org
Some rights reserved
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World Bank Studies are published to communicate the results of the
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under the following conditions:
Attribution—Please cite the work as follows: Madrigal, Marcelino,
Robert Uluski, and Kwawu Mensan Gaba. 2017. Practical Guidance
for Defining a Smart Grid Modernization Strategy: The Case of
Distribution. Revised Edition. World Bank Studies. Washington,
DC: World Bank. doi:10.1596/978-1-4648-1054-1. License:
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ISBN (paper): 978-1-4648-1054-1
ISBN (electronic): 978-1-4648-1055-8
DOI: 10.1596/978-1-4648-1054-1
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Contents

Acknowledgments xi
About the Authors xiii
Executive Summary xv
Abbreviations xix

Chapter The Concept, Role, and Priorities of Smart 1

1 Grids
Introduction: Smart Grids and Their Function 1
High-Level Description of a Smart Grid 3
Examples of Electric Utilities’ Smart Grid Road 5
Maps
China State Transmission Grid 7
Canada-Toronto Hydro-Electric System Ltd. 7
Colombia Electricity Sector 8
The Importance of Defining Priorities: Elements of 9
a Road Map
Step 1: The Smart Grid Vision Statement and 11
the Importance of Governance
Step 2: Establishing a Timeline 12
Step 3: Pillars of Action 12
Step 4: Technologies and Functional 12
Applications
Step 5: Metrics and Monitoring 14
 Note 14

Chapter The Evolution of Electric Distribution 15

2 Systems
The Smart Grid in the Distribution Segment 15
The Traditional Distribution System and the 16
System of the Future
Before the 1980s 17
The 1980s and Early 1990s 19
The Mid- to Late 1990s and Early 2000s 20
The Mid-2000s to the Present (the “Smart Grid 22
Era”)

Chapter Technology Innovations in Distribution 25

3 Grids
Distribution System Monitoring and Control 25
Distribution Management Systems 26
Distribution Protection Systems 28
Volt/VAR Optimization 29
Intelligent Line Switching 32
Outage Management Systems 33
Management of Distributed Energy Resources 33
Demand Response 36
Data Analytics for Managing “Big Data” 36

Chapter Networking in the Smart Grid 39

4
Determinism of Message Streams 42
IEC 61850 Interoperability 44
Local Issues 45
Performance Criteria for SAS and DAS under IEC 46
61850
Message Requirements under IEC 61850 47
Wireless Local Area Networks (LANs) 52
Advantages of Dual High-Speed Ring Topology in 54
LANs
Cybersecurity Policy for Utility Engineered 55
Systems (ESs)
Employees 56
Training 56
Physical Access Controls 57
Data Security Access Controls 57
Security Policy for Customer Documentation 57
Security Policy for IT Controls on Customer 57
Systems
Password Policy 57
Systems and Change Management 57
Data Protection in Transit and at Rest 58
Anti-Malware 58
Data Disposal 58
Disaster Recovery 58
Conclusion 59
 Note 60

Chapter Defining a Distribution-Level Grid 61

5 Modernization Strategy and Investment
Plan
Getting Started 61
Grid Modernization Levels 63
Level 0: Manual Control and Local Automation 64
Reliability Improvement 65
Reduction of Electrical Losses 66
Efficiency Improvement 69
DER Integration 69
Level 1: Substation Communication and 69
Automation
Level 1: Grid Modernization Applications 71
Reliability Improvement 71
Level 1: Summary 74
Level 2: Monitoring and Control of Feeder 76
Devices
Level 2 Application Functions 77
Reliability Improvement 77
Reduction of Electrical Losses 78
Efficiency Improvement 78
Integration of DERs 79
Level 2 Summary 79
 Level 3: Active Control and Management of 81
DERs and Demand Response
Level 3 Application Functions 82
Reliability Improvement 83
Efficiency Improvement 83
Integration of DERs 83
Level 3 Summary 83
Grid Modernization Risks 86
Learning Curve for Field Personnel 86
Information Overload 86
Risk of Cyber Attack (“Hacking”) 87
Immature Technology 87
Summary of Grid Modernization Projects 88
Defining a Smart Grid Investment Plan 88
Step 1. Identify Business Requirements 104
Step 2. Identify the Current Level of Grid 105
Modernization
Step 3. Generate a List of Potential Projects 107
Step 4. Undertake a Cost/Benefit Analysis 108
Step 5. Create an Investment Plan 108
Modernizing the Grid: Gradual Transitions versus 109
Leapfrogging
A Gradual Transition to Smarter Grids: 109
Developed Countries
The Case of Developing Countries 110
 More on Leapfrogging 111

Chapter Regulatory and Financing Issues 113

6
Cost Recovery and Funding 113
Smart Grid Standards and Interoperability 115
Note 117

Chapter Planning Practices to Further Benefit from 119

7 Grid Modernization
DER Analysis (Steady-State and Dynamic Studies) 120
Advanced Distribution Automation and Reclosing 120
Sequential Simulation and Batch Processes 121
Advanced Distribution Reliability Modeling and 121
Analysis
Interfacing with Utility Information Systems 122
Advanced Load Forecasting 122
PEV Modeling and Analysis 122
Joint Modeling of Transmission and Distribution 123
Systems
Power Quality Modeling and Analysis 123
Advanced System Component Modeling 123

Appendix More on Road Map Methodology 125

A Approaches
Sandia National Laboratory 125
Electric Power Research Institute 126
 International Energy Agency 127

Appendix Additional Examples of Road Maps from 129

B Electric Utilities
California Utilities: Pacific Gas and Electric 129
Vision 129
Drivers 129
Pillars of Action 130
Time Frame, Benefits, and Costs 130
California Utility: San Diego Gas and Electric 131
Vision and Drivers 131
Pillars of Action 131
U.S. National Institute of Standards and 131
Technology
Canada–Toronto Hydro-Electric System Ltd 132
Vision Drivers and Pillars of Action 132
China 133
Thailand: Provisional Electricity Authority 135
Vision 135
Drivers 135
Time Plan and Pillars of Action 135
Ireland 135
France 137
Note 138
Appendix Some Guidelines on the Cost-Benefit 139
C Analysis of Smart Grid Applications

Glossary 141
Bibliography 147

Box
1.1 Key Definitions 10

Figures
1.1 The Role of Smart Grids in the Overall Electricity Sector 3
1.2 Visualization of the Smart Grid by Pacific Gas and Electric 4
1.3 Smart Grid Drivers for More Developed and Developing 6
Power Systems
1.4 The Strategic Framework of China’s Smart Grid 7
1.5 Toronto Hydro-Electric System Ltd.: A Smart Grid Road 8
Map
1.6 Columbia’s Electricity Sector: A Road Map 9
1.7 Five Basic Steps in Defining Priorities of a Road Map 11
1.8 Smart Grid Vision and Pillars 13
2.1 Traditional Distribution System 16
2.2 Distribution System of the Future 17
2.3 Electromechanical Protective Relays and Meters 19
2.4 Substation SCADA System 20
2.5 Simple Loop Control System 21
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
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.
It would be difficult to find another man who lived so entirely for
his duties. It is not enough to say that Akaky laboured with zeal; no,
he laboured with love. In his copying, he found a varied and
agreeable employment. Enjoyment was written on his face; some
letters were even favourites with him; and when he encountered
these, he smiled, winked, and worked with his lips, till it seemed as
though each letter might be read in his face, as his pen traced it. If
his pay had been in proportion to his zeal, he would, perhaps, to his
great surprise, have been made even a councillor of state. But he
worked, as his companions, the wits, put it, like a horse in a mill.
However, it would be untrue to say that no attention was paid to
him. One director being a kindly man, and desirous of rewarding him
for his long service, ordered him to be given something more
important than mere copying. So he was ordered to make a report
of an already concluded affair, to another department; the duty
consisting simply in changing the heading and altering a few words
from the first to the third person. This caused him so much toil, that
he broke into a perspiration, rubbed his forehead, and finally said,
“No, give me rather something to copy.” After that they let him copy
on forever.
Outside this copying, it appeared that nothing existed for him. He
gave no thought to his clothes. His uniform was not green, but a
sort of rusty-meal colour. The collar was low, so that his neck, in
spite of the fact that it was not long, seemed inordinately so as it
emerged from it, like the necks of the plaster cats which pedlars
carry about on their heads. And something was always sticking to
his uniform, either a bit of hay or some trifle. Moreover, he had a
peculiar knack, as he walked along the street, of arriving beneath a
window just as all sorts of rubbish was being flung out of it; hence
he always bore about on his hat scraps of melon rinds, and other
such articles. Never once in his life did he give heed to what was
going on every day to the street; while it is well known that his
young brother officials trained the range of their glances till they
could see when any one’s trouser-straps came undone upon the
opposite sidewalk, which always brought a malicious smile to their
faces. But Akaky Akakiyevich saw in all things the clean, even
strokes of his written lines; and only when a horse thrust his nose,
from some unknown quarter, over his shoulder, and sent a whole
gust of wind down his neck from his nostrils, did he observe that he
was not in the middle of a line, but in the middle of the street.
On reaching home, he sat down at once at the table, sipped his
cabbage-soup up quickly, and swallowed a bit of beef with onions,
never noticing their taste, and gulping down everything with flies
and anything else which the Lord happened to send at the moment.
When he saw that his stomach was beginning to swell, he rose from
the table, and copied papers which he had brought home. If there
happened to be none, he took copies for himself, for his own
gratification, especially if the document was noteworthy, not on
account of its style, but of its being addressed to some distinguished
person.
Even at the hour when the grey St. Petersburg sky had quite
disappeared, and all the official world had eaten or dined, each as
he could, in accordance with the salary he received and his own
fancy; when, all were resting from the department jar of pens,
running to and fro, for their own and other people’s indispensable
occupations’, and from all the work that an uneasy man makes
willingly for himself, rather than what is necessary; when, officials
hasten to dedicate to pleasure the time which is left to them, one
bolder than the rest, going to the theatre; another; into the street
looking under the bonnets; another, wasting his evening in
compliments to some pretty girl, the star of a small official circle;
another—and this is the common case of all—visiting his comrades
on the third or fourth floor, in two small rooms with an ante-room or
kitchen, and some pretensions to fashion, such as a lamp or some
other trifle which has cost many a sacrifice of dinner or pleasure trip;
in a word, at the hour when all officials disperse among the
contracted quarters of their friends, to play whist, as they sip their
tea from glasses with a kopek’s worth of sugar, smoke long pipes,
relate at time some bits of gossip which a Russian man can never,
under any circumstances, refrain from, and when there is nothing
else to talk of, repeat eternal anecdotes about the commandant to
whom they had sent word that the tails of the horses on the
Falconet Monument had been cut off; when all strive to divert
themselves, Akaky Akakiyevich indulged in no kind of diversion. No
one could even say that he had seen him at any kind of evening
party. Having written to his heart’s content, he lay down to sleep,
smiling at the thought of the coming day—of what God might send
him to copy on the morrow.
Thus flowed on the peaceful life of the man, who, with a salary of
four hundred rubles, understood how to be content with his lot; and
thus it would have continued to flow on, perhaps, to extreme old
age, were it not that there are various ills strewn along the path of
life for titular councillors as well as for private, actual, court, and
every other species of councillor, even to those who never give any
advice or take any themselves.
There exists in St. Petersburg a powerful foe of all who receive a
salary of four hundred rubles a year, or there-abouts. This foe is no
other than the Northern cold, although it is said to be very healthy.
At nine o’clock in the morning, at the very hour when the streets are
filled with men bound for the various official departments, it begins
to bestow such powerful and piercing nips on all noses impartially,
that the poor officials really do not know what to do with them. At
an hour, when the foreheads of even those who occupy exalted
positions ache with the cold, and tears start to their eyes, the poor
titular councillors are sometimes quite unprotected. Their only
salvation lies in traversing as quickly as possible, in their thin little
cloaks, five or six streets, and then warming their feet in the porter’s
room, and so thawing all their talents and qualifications for official
service, which had become frozen on the way.
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 table, with his legs tucked under him like a Turkish
pasha. His feet were bare, after the fashion of tailors as they sit at
work; and the first thing which caught the eye was his thumb, with a
deformed nail thick and strong as a turtle’s shell. About Petrovich’s
neck hung a skein of silk and thread, and upon his knees lay some
old garment. He had been trying unsuccessfully for three minutes to
thread his needle, and was enraged at the darkness and even at the
thread, growling in a low voice, “It won’t go through, the barbarian!
you pricked me, you rascal!”
Akaky Akakiyevich was vexed at arriving at the precise moment
when Petrovich was angry. He liked to order something of Petrovich
when he was a little downhearted, or, as his wife expressed it,
“when he had settled himself with brandy, the one-eyed devil!”
Under such circumstances Petrovich generally came down in his
price very readily, and even bowed and returned thanks. Afterwards,
to be sure, his wife would come, complaining that her husband had
been drunk, and so had fixed the price too low; but, if only a ten-
kopek piece were added then the matter would be settled. But now
it appeared that Petrovich was in a sober condition, and therefore
rough, taciturn, and inclined to demand, Satan only knows what
price. Akaky Akakiyevich felt this, and would gladly have beat a
retreat, but he was in for it. Petrovich screwed up his one eye very
intently at him, and Akaky Akakiyevich involuntarily said, “How do
you do, Petrovich?”
“I wish you a good morning, sir,” said Petrovich squinting at Akaky
Akakiyevich’s hands, to see what sort of booty he had brought.
“Ah! I—to you, Petrovich, this—” It must be known that Akaky
Akakiyevich expressed himself chiefly by prepositions, adverbs, and
scraps of phrases which had no meaning whatever. If the matter was
a very difficult one, he had a habit of never completing his
sentences, so that frequently, having begun a phrase with the
words, “This, in fact, is quite—” he forgot to go on, thinking he had
already finished it.
“What is it?” asked Petrovich, and with his one eye scanned Akaky
Akakiyevich’s whole uniform from the collar down to the cuffs, the
back, the tails and the button-holes, all of which were well known to
him, since they were his own handiwork. Such is the habit of tailors;
it is the first thing they do on meeting one.
“But I, here, this—Petrovich—a cloak, cloth—here you see,
everywhere, in different places, it is quite strong—it is a little dusty
and looks old, but it is new, only here in one place it is a little—on
the back, and here on one of the shoulders, it is a little worn, yes,
here on this shoulder it is a little—do you see? That is all. And a little
work—”
Petrovich took the cloak, spread it out, to begin with, on the table,
looked at it hard, shook his head, reached out his hand to the
window-sill for his snuff-box, adorned with the portrait of some
general, though what general is unknown, for the place where the
face should have been had been rubbed through by the finger and a
square bit of paper had been pasted over it. Having taken a pinch of
snuff, Petrovich held up the cloak, and inspected it against the light,
and again shook his head. Then he turned it, lining upwards, and
shook his head once more. After which he again lifted the general-
adorned lid with its bit of pasted paper, and having stuffed his nose
with snuff, dosed and put away the snuff-box, and said finally, “No, it
is impossible to mend it. It is a wretched garment!”
Akaky Akakiyevich’s heart sank at these words.
“Why is it impossible, Petrovich?” he said, almost in the pleading
voice of a child. “All that ails it is, that it is worn on the shoulders.
You must have some pieces—”
“Yes, patches could be found, patches are easily found,” said
Petrovich, “but there’s nothing to sew them to. The thing is
completely rotten. If you put a needle to it—see, it will give way.”
“Let it give way, and you can put on another patch at once.”
“But there is nothing to put the patches on to. There’s no use in
strengthening it. It is too far gone. It’s lucky that it’s cloth, for, if the
wind were to blow, it would fly away.”
“Well, strengthen it again. How this, in fact—”
“No,” said Petrovich decisively, “there is nothing to be done with it.
It’s a thoroughly bad job. You’d better, when the cold winter weather
comes on, make yourself some gaiters out of it, because stockings
are not warm. The Germans invented them in order to make more
money.” Petrovich loved on all occasions to have a fling at the
Germans. “But it is plain you must have a new cloak.”
At the word “new” all grew dark before Akaky Akakiyevich’s eyes,
and everything in the room began to whirl round. The only thing he
saw clearly was the general with the paper face on the lid of
Petrovich’s snuff-box. “A new one?” said he, as if still in a dream.
“Why, I have no money for that.”
“Yes, a new one,” said Petrovich, with barbarous composure.
 “Well, if it came to a new one, how—it—”
“You mean how much would it cost?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you would have to lay out a hundred and fifty or more,” said
Petrovich, and pursed up his lips significantly. He liked to produce
powerful effects, liked to stun utterly and suddenly, and then to
glance sideways to see what face the stunned person would put on
the matter.
“A hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak!” shrieked poor Akaky
Akakiyevich, perhaps for the first time in his life, for his voice had
always been distinguished for softness.
“Yes, sir,” said Petrovich, “for any kind of cloak. If you have a
marten fur on the collar, or a silk-lined hood, it will mount up to two
hundred.”
“Petrovich, please,” said Akaky Akakiyevich in a beseeching tone,
not hearing, and not trying to hear, Petrovich’s words, and
disregarding all his “effects,” “some repairs, in order that it may wear
yet a little longer.”
“No, it would only be a waste of time and money,” said Petrovich.
And Akaky Akakiyevich went away after these words, utterly
discouraged. But Petrovich stood for some time after his departure,
with significantly compressed lips, and without betaking himself to
his work, satisfied that he would not be dropped, and an artistic
tailor employed.
Akaky Akakiyevich went out into the street as if in a dream. “Such
an affair!” he said to himself. “I did not think it had come to—” and
then after a pause, he added, “Well, so it is! see what it has come to
at last! and I never imagined that it was so!” Then followed a long
silence, after which he exclaimed, “Well, so it is! see what already—
nothing unexpected that—it would be nothing—what a strange
circumstance!” So saying, instead of going home, he went in exactly
the opposite direction without suspecting it. On the way, a chimney-
sweep bumped up against him, and blackened his shoulder, and a
whole hatful of rubbish landed on him from the top of a house which
was building. He did not notice it, and only when he ran against a
watchman, who, having planted his halberd beside him, was shaking
some snuff from his box into his horny hand, did he recover himself
a little, and that because the watchman said, “Why are you poking
yourself into a man’s very face? Haven’t you the pavement?” This
caused him to look about him, and turn towards home.
There only, he finally began to collect his thoughts, and to survey
his position in its clear and actual light, and to argue with himself,
sensibly and frankly, as with a reasonable friend, with whom one can
discuss private and personal matters. “No,” said Akaky Akakiyevich,
“it is impossible to reason with Petrovich now. He is that—evidently,
his wife has been beating him. I’d better go to him on Sunday
morning. After Saturday night he will be a little cross-eyed and
sleepy, for he will want to get drunk, and his wife won’t give him any
money, and at such a time, a ten-kopek piece in his hand will—he
will become more fit to reason with, and then the cloak and that—”
Thus argued Akaky Akakiyevich with himself regained his courage,
and waited until the first Sunday, when, seeing from afar that
Petrovich’s wife had left the house, he went straight to him.
Petrovich’s eye was indeed very much askew after Saturday. His
head drooped, and he was very sleepy; but for all that, as soon as
he knew what it was a question of, it seemed as though Satan
jogged his memory. “Impossible,” said he. “Please to order a new
one.” Thereupon Akaky Akakiyevich handed over the ten-kopek
piece. “Thank you, sir. I will drink your good health,” said Petrovich.
“But as for the cloak, don’t trouble yourself about it; it is good for
nothing. I will make you a capital new one, so let us settle about it
now.”
Akaky Akakiyevich was still for mending it, but Petrovich would not
hear of it, and said, “I shall certainly have to make you a new one,
and you may depend upon it that I shall do my best. It may even
be, as the fashion goes, that the collar can be fastened by silver
hooks under a flap.”
Then Akaky Akakiyevich saw that it was impossible to get along
without a new cloak, and his spirit sank utterly. How, in fact, was it
to be done? Where was the money to come from? He must have
some new trousers, and pay a debt of long standing to the
shoemaker for putting new tops to his old boots, and he must order
three shirts from the seamstress, and a couple of pieces of linen. In
short, all his money must be spent. And even if the director should
be so kind as to order him to receive forty-five or even fifty rubles
instead of forty, it would be a mere nothing, a mere drop in the
ocean towards the funds necessary for a cloak, although he knew
that Petrovich was often wrong-headed enough to blurt out some
outrageous price, so that even his own wife could not refrain from
exclaiming, “Have you lost your senses, you fool?” At one time he
would not work at any price, and now it was quite likely that he had
named a higher sum than the cloak would cost.
But although he knew that Petrovich would undertake to make a
cloak for eighty rubles, still, where was he to get the eighty rubles
from? He might possibly manage half. Yes, half might be procured,
but where was the other half to come from? But the reader must
first be told where the first half came from.
Akaky Akakiyevich had a habit of putting, for every ruble he spent,
a groschen into a small box, fastened with lock and key, and with a
slit in the top for the reception of money. At the end of every half-
year he counted over the heap of coppers, and changed it for silver.
This he had done for a long time, and in the course of years, the
sum had mounted up to over forty rubles. Thus he had one half on
hand. But where was he to find the other half? Where was he to get
another forty rubles from? Akaky Akakiyevich thought and thought,
and decided that it would be necessary to curtail his ordinary
expenses, for the space of one year at least, to dispense with tea in
the evening, to burn no candles, and, if there was anything which he
must do, to go into his landlady’s room, and work by her light. When
he went into the street, he must walk as lightly as he could, and as
cautiously, upon the stones, almost upon tiptoe, in order not to wear
his heels down in too short a time. He must give the laundress as
little to wash as possible; and, in order not to wear out his clothes,
he must take them off as soon as he got home, and wear only his
cotton dressing-gown, which had been long and carefully saved.
To tell the truth, it was a little hard for him at first to accustom
himself to these deprivations. But he got used to them at length,
after a fashion, and all went smoothly. He even got used to being
hungry in the evening, but he made up for it by treating himself, so
to say, in spirit, by bearing ever in mind the idea of his future cloak.
From that time forth, his existence seemed to become, in some way,
fuller, as if he were married, or as if some other man lived in him, as
if, in fact, he were not alone, and some pleasant friend had
consented to travel along life’s path with him, the friend being no
other than the cloak, with thick wadding and a strong lining
incapable of wearing out. He became more lively, and even his
character grew firmer, like that of a man who has made up his mind,
and set himself a goal. From his face and gait, doubt and indecision,
all hesitating and wavering disappeared of themselves. Fire gleamed
in his eyes, and occasionally the boldest and most daring ideas
flitted through his mind. Why not, for instance, have marten fur on
the collar? The thought of this almost made him absent-minded.
Once, in copying a letter, he nearly made a mistake, so that he
exclaimed almost aloud, “Ugh!” and crossed himself. Once, in the
course of every month, he had a conference with Petrovich on the
subject of the cloak, where it would be better to buy the cloth, and
the colour, and the price. He always returned home satisfied, though
troubled, reflecting that the time would come at last when it could
all be bought, and then the cloak made.
The affair progressed more briskly than he had expected. For
beyond all his hopes, the director awarded neither forty nor forty-
five rubles for Akaky Akakiyevich’s share, but sixty. Whether he
suspected that Akaky Akakiyevich needed a cloak, or whether it was
merely chance, at all events, twenty extra rubles were by this means
provided. This circumstance hastened matters. Two or three months
more of hunger and Akaky Akakiyevich had accumulated about
eighty rubles. His heart, generally so quiet, began to throb. On the
first possible day, he went shopping in company with Petrovich. They
bought some very good cloth, and at a reasonable rate too, for they
had been considering the matter for six months, and rarely let a
month pass without their visiting the shops to enquire prices.
Petrovich himself said that no better cloth could be had. For lining,
they selected a cotton stuff, but so firm and thick, that Petrovich
declared it to be better than silk, and even prettier and more glossy.
They did not buy the marten fur, because it was, in fact, dear, but in
its stead, they picked out the very best of cat-skin which could be
found in the shop, and which might, indeed, be taken for marten at
a distance.
Petrovich worked at the cloak two whole weeks, for there was a
great deal of quilting; otherwise it would have been finished sooner.
He charged twelve rubles for the job, it could not possibly have been
done for less. It was all sewed with silk, in small, double seams, and
Petrovich went over each seam afterwards with his own teeth,
stamping in various patterns.
It was—it is difficult to say precisely on what day, but probably the
most glorious one in Akaky Akakiyevich’s life, when Petrovich at
length brought home the cloak. He brought it in the morning, before
the hour when it was necessary to start for the department. Never
did a cloak arrive so exactly in the nick of time, for the severe cold
had set in, and it seemed to threaten to increase. Petrovich brought
the cloak himself as befits a good tailor. On his countenance was a
significant expression, such as Akaky Akakiyevich had never beheld
there. He seemed fully sensible that he had done no small deed, and
crossed a gulf separating tailors who put in linings, and execute
repairs, from those who make new things. He took the cloak out of
the pocket-handkerchief in which he had brought it. The
handkerchief was fresh from the laundress, and he put it in his
pocket for use. Taking out the cloak, he gazed proudly at it, held it
up with both hands, and flung it skilfully over the shoulders of Akaky
Akakiyevich. Then he pulled it and fitted it down behind with his
hand, and he draped it around Akaky Akakiyevich without buttoning
it. Akaky Akakiyevich, like an experienced man, wished to try the
sleeves. Petrovich helped him on with them, and it turned out that
the sleeves were satisfactory also. In short, the cloak appeared to be
perfect, and most seasonable. Petrovich did not neglect to observe
that it was only because he lived in a narrow street, and had no
signboard, and had known Akaky Akakiyevich so long, that he had
made it so cheaply; but that if he had been in business on the
Nevsky Prospect, he would have charged seventy-five rubles for the
making alone. Akaky Akakiyevich did not care to argue this point
with Petrovich. He paid him, thanked him, and set out at once in his
new cloak for the department. Petrovich followed him, and pausing
in the street, gazed long at the cloak in the distance, after which he
went to one side expressly to run through a crooked alley, and
emerge again into the street beyond to gaze once more upon the
cloak from another point, namely, directly in front.
Meantime Akaky Akakiyevich went on in holiday mood. He was
conscious every second of the time that he had a new cloak on his
shoulders, and several times he laughed with internal satisfaction. In
fact, there were two advantages, one was its warmth, the other its
beauty. He saw nothing of the road, but suddenly found himself at
the department. He took off his cloak in the ante-room, looked it
over carefully, and confided it to the special care of the attendant. It
is impossible to say precisely how it was that every one in the
department knew at once that Akaky Akakiyevich had a new cloak,
and that the “cape” no longer existed. All rushed at the same
moment into the ante-room to inspect it. They congratulated him,
and said pleasant things to him, so that he began at first to smile,
and then to grow ashamed. When all surrounded him, and said that
the new cloak must be “christened,” and that he must at least give
them all a party, Akaky Akakiyevich lost his head completely, and did
not know where he stood, what to answer, or how to get out of it.
He stood blushing all over for several minutes, trying to assure them
with great simplicity that it was not a new cloak, that it was in fact
the old “cape.”
At length one of the officials, assistant to the head clerk, in order
to show that he was not at all proud, and on good terms with his
inferiors, said:
“So be it, only I will give the party instead of Akaky Akakiyevich; I
invite you all to tea with me to-night. It just happens to be my
name-day too.”
The officials naturally at once offered the assistant clerk their
congratulations, and accepted the invitation with pleasure. Akaky
Akakiyevich would have declined; but all declared that it was
discourteous, that it was simply a sin and a shame, and that he
could not possibly refuse. Besides, the notion became pleasant to
him when he recollected that he should thereby have a chance of
wearing his new cloak in the evening also.
That whole day was truly a most triumphant festival for Akaky
Akakiyevich. He returned home in the most happy frame of mind,
took off his cloak, and hung it carefully on the wall, admiring afresh
the cloth and the lining. Then he brought out his old, worn-out
cloak, for comparison. He looked at it, and laughed, so vast was the
difference. And long after dinner he laughed again when the
condition of the “cape” recurred to his mind. He dined cheerfully,
and after dinner wrote nothing, but took his ease for a while on the
bed, until it got dark. Then he dressed himself leisurely, put on his
cloak, and stepped out into the street.
Where the host lived, unfortunately we cannot say. Our memory
begins to fail us badly. The houses and streets in St. Petersburg have
become so mixed up in our head that it is very difficult to get
anything out of it again in proper form. This much is certain, that the
official lived in the best part of the city; and therefore it must have
been anything but near to Akaky Akakiyevich’s residence. Akaky
Akakiyevich was first obliged to traverse a kind of wilderness of
deserted, dimly-lighted streets. But in proportion as he approached
the official’s quarter of the city, the streets became more lively, more
populous, and more brilliantly illuminated. Pedestrians began to
appear; handsomely dressed ladies were more frequently
encountered; the men had otter skin collars to their coats; shabby
sleigh-men with their wooden, railed sledges stuck over with brass-
headed nails, became rarer; whilst on the other hand, more and
more drivers in red velvet caps, lacquered sledges and bear-skin
coats began to appear, and carriages with rich hammer-cloths flew
swiftly through the streets, their wheels scrunching the snow.
Akaky Akakiyevich gazed upon all this as upon a novel sight. He
had not been in the streets during the evening for years. He halted
out of curiosity before a shop-window, to look at a picture
representing a handsome woman, who had thrown off her shoe,
thereby baring her whole foot in a very pretty way; whilst behind her
the head of a man with whiskers and a handsome moustache
peeped through the doorway of another room. Akaky Akakiyevich
shook his head, and laughed, and then went on his way. Why did he
laugh? Either because he had met with a thing utterly unknown, but
for which every one cherishes, nevertheless, some sort of feeling, or
else he thought, like many officials, “Well, those French! What is to
be said? If they do go in for anything of that sort, why—” But
possibly he did not think at all.
Akaky Akakiyevich at length reached the house in which the head
clerk’s assistant lodged. He lived in fine style. The staircase was lit
by a lamp, his apartment being on the second floor. On entering the
vestibule, Akaky Akakiyevich beheld a whole row of goloshes on the
floor. Among them, in the centre of the room, stood a samovar,
humming and emitting clouds of steam. On the walls hung all sorts
of coats and cloaks, among which there were even some with
beaver collars, or velvet facings. Beyond, the buzz of conversation
was audible, and became clear and loud, when the servant came out
with a trayful of empty glasses, cream-jugs and sugar-bowls. It was
evident that the officials had arrived long before, and had already
finished their first glass of tea.
Akaky Akakiyevich, having hung up his own cloak, entered the
inner room. Before him all at once appeared lights, officials, pipes,
and card-tables, and he was bewildered by a sound of rapid
conversation rising from all the tables, and the noise of moving
chairs. He halted very awkwardly in the middle of the room,
wondering what he ought to do. But they had seen him. They
received him with a shout, and all thronged at once into the ante-
room, and there took another look at his cloak. Akaky Akakiyevich,
although somewhat confused, was frank-hearted, and could not
refrain from rejoicing when he saw how they praised his cloak. Then,
of course, they all dropped him and his cloak, and returned, as was
proper, to the tables set out for whist.
All this, the noise, the talk, and the throng of people, was rather
overwhelming to Akaky Akakiyevich. He simply did not know where
he stood, or where to put his hands, his feet, and his whole body.
Finally he sat down by the players, looked at the cards, gazed at the
face of one and another, and after a while began to gape, and to
feel that it was wearisome, the more so, as the hour was already
long past when he usually went to bed. He wanted to take leave of
the host, but they would not let him go, saying that he must not fail
to drink a glass of champagne, in honour of his new garment. In the
course of an hour, supper, consisting of vegetable salad, cold veal,
pastry, confectioner’s pies, and champagne, was served. They made
Akaky Akakiyevich drink two glasses of champagne, after which he
felt things grow livelier.
Still, he could not forget that it was twelve o’clock, and that he
should have been at home long ago. In order that the host might
not think of some excuse for detaining him, he stole out of the room
quickly, sought out, in the ante-room, his cloak, which, to his sorrow,
he found lying on the floor, brushed it, picked off every speck upon
it, put it on his shoulders, and descended the stairs to the street.
 In the street all was still bright. Some petty shops, those
permanent clubs of servants and all sorts of folks, were open. Others
were shut, but, nevertheless, showed a streak of light the whole
length of the door-crack, indicating that they were not yet free of
company, and that probably some domestics, male and female, were
finishing their stories and conversations, whilst leaving their masters
in complete ignorance as to their whereabouts. Akaky Akakiyevich
went on in a happy frame of mind. He even started to run, without
knowing why, after some lady, who flew past like a flash of lightning.
But he stopped short, and went on very quietly as before, wondering
why he had quickened his pace. Soon there spread before him these
deserted streets which are not cheerful in the daytime, to say no
thing of the evening. Now they were even more dim and lonely. The
lanterns began to grow rarer, oil, evidently, had been less liberally
supplied. Then came wooden houses and fences. Not a soul
anywhere; only the snow sparkled in the streets, and mournfully
veiled the low-roofed cabins with their closed shutters. He
approached the spot where the street crossed a vast square with
houses barely visible on its farther side, a square which seemed a
fearful desert.
Afar, a tiny spark glimmered from some watchman’s-box, which
seemed to stand on the edge of the world. Akaky Akakiyevich’s
cheerfulness diminished at this point in a marked degree. He entered
the square, not without an involuntary sensation of fear, as though
his heart warned him of some evil. He glanced back, and on both
sides it was like a sea about him. “No, it is better not to look,” he
thought, and went on, closing his eyes. When he opened them, to
see whether he was near the end of the square, he suddenly beheld,
standing just before his very nose, some bearded individuals of
precisely what sort, he could not make out. All grew dark before his
eyes, and his heart throbbed.
“Of course, the cloak is mine!” said one of them in a loud voice,
seizing hold of his collar. Akaky Akakiyevich was about to shout
“Help!” when the second man thrust a fist, about the size of an
official’s head, at his very mouth, muttering, “Just you dare to
scream!”
Akaky Akakiyevich felt them strip off his cloak, and give him a
kick. He fell headlong upon the snow, and felt no more.
In a few minutes he recovered consciousness, and rose to his feet,
but no one was there. He felt that it was cold in the square, and that
his cloak was gone. He began to shout, but his voice did not appear
to reach the outskirts of the square. In despair, but without ceasing
to shout, he started at a run across the square, straight towards the
watch-box, beside which stood the watchman, leaning on his
halberd, and apparently curious to know what kind of a customer
was running towards him shouting. Akaky Akakiyevich ran up to him,
and began in a sobbing voice to shout that he was asleep, and
attended to nothing, and did not see when a man was robbed. The
watchman replied that he had seen two men stop him in the middle
of the square, but supposed that they were friends of his, and that,
instead of scolding vainly, he had better go to the police on the
morrow, so that they might make a search for whoever had stolen
the cloak.
Akaky Akakiyevich ran home and arrived in a state of complete
disorder, his hair which grew very thinly upon his temples and the
back of his head all tousled, his body, arms and legs, covered with
snow. The old woman, who was mistress of his lodgings, on hearing
a terrible knocking, sprang hastily from her bed, and, with only one
shoe on, ran to open the door, pressing the sleeve of her chemise to
her bosom out of modesty. But when she had opened it, she fell
back on beholding Akaky Akakiyevich in such a condition. When he
told her about the affair, she clasped her hands, and said that he
must go straight to the district chief of police, for his subordinate
would turn up his nose, promise well, and drop the matter there.
The very best thing to do, therefore, would be to go to the district
chief, whom she knew, because Finnish Anna, her former cook, was
now nurse at his house. She often saw him passing the house, and
he was at church every Sunday, praying, but at the same time
gazing cheerfully at everybody; so that he must be a good man,
judging from all appearances. Having listened to this opinion, Akaky
Akakiyevich betook himself sadly to his room. And how he spent the
night there, any one who can put himself in another’s place may
readily imagine.
Early in the morning, he presented himself at the district chief’s,
but was told the official was asleep. He went again at ten and was
again informed that he was asleep. At eleven, and they said, “The
superintendent is not at home.” At dinner time, and the clerks in the
ante-room would not admit him on any terms, and insisted upon
knowing his business. So that at last, for once in his life, Akaky
Akakiyevich felt an inclination to show some spirit, and said curtly
that he must see the chief in person, that they ought not to presume
to refuse him entrance, that he came from the department of
justice, and that when he complained of them, they would see.
The clerks dared make no reply to this, and one of them went to
call the chief, who listened to the strange story of the theft of the
coat. Instead of directing his attention to the principal points of the
matter, he began to question Akaky Akakiyevich. Why was he going
home so late? Was he in the habit of doing so, or had he been to
some disorderly house? So that Akaky Akakiyevich got thoroughly
confused, and left him, without knowing whether the affair of his
cloak was in proper train or not.
All that day, for the first time in his life, he never went near the
department. The next day he made his appearance, very pale, and
in his old cape, which had become even more shabby. The news of
the robbery of the cloak touched many, although there were some
officials present who never lost an opportunity, even such a one as
the present, of ridiculing Akaky Akakiyevich. They decided to make a
collection for him on the spot, but the officials had already spent a
great deal in subscribing for the director’s portrait, and for some
book, at the suggestion of the head of that division, who was a
friend of the author; and so the sum was trifling.
 One of them, moved by pity, resolved to help Akaky Akakiyevich
with some good advice, at least, and told him that he ought not to
go to the police, for although it might happen that a police-officer,
wishing to win the approval of his superiors, might hunt up the cloak
by some means, still, his cloak would remain in the possession of the
police if he did not offer legal proof that it belonged to him. The best
thing for him, therefore, would be to apply to a certain prominent
personage; since this prominent personage, by entering into relation
with the proper persons, could greatly expedite the matter.
As there was nothing else to be done, Akaky Akakiyevich decided
to go to the prominent personage. What was the exact official
position of the prominent personage, remains unknown to this day.
The reader must know that the prominent personage had but
recently become a prominent personage, having up to that time
been only an insignificant person. Moreover, his present position was
not considered prominent in comparison with others still more so.
But there is always a circle of people to whom what is insignificant in
the eyes of others, is important enough. Moreover, he strove to
increase his importance by sundry devices. For instance, he
managed to have the inferior officials meet him on the staircase
when he entered upon his service; no one was to presume to come
directly to him, but the strictest etiquette must be observed; the
collegiate recorder must make a report to the government secretary,
the government secretary to the titular councillor, or whatever other
man was proper, and all business must come before him in this
manner. In Holy Russia, all is thus contaminated with the love of
imitation; every man imitates and copies his superior. They even say
that a certain titular councillor, when promoted to the head of some
small separate office, immediately partitioned off a private room for
himself, called it the audience chamber, and posted at the door a
lackey with red collar and braid, who grasped the handle of the door,
and opened to all comers, though the audience chamber would
hardly hold an ordinary writing table.