Текст книги "The Collected tales of Nikolai Gogol"

Автор книги: Николай Гоголь

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A fine bekesha 1 Ivan Ivanovich has! A most excellent one! And what fleece! Pah, damnation, what fleece! dove gray and frosty! I'll bet you anything that nobody has the like! Look at it, for God's sake-especially if he starts talking with somebody-look from the side: it's simply delicious! There's no describing it: velvet! silver! fire! Lord God! Saint Nicholas the holy wonder-worker! why don't I have a bekesha like that! He had it made for him back before Agafya Fedoseevna went to Kiev. Do you know Agafya Fedoseevna? The one who bit off the assessor's ear?

A wonderful man, Ivan Ivanovich! What a house he's got in Mirgorod! A gallery on oak posts all the way round it, with benches along it everywhere. When it gets too hot, Ivan Ivanovich throws off the bekesha and his underclothes, and relaxes on the gallery in just his shirt, watching what goes on in the yard and street. What apples and pears he's got right under his windows! Just open the window-the branches burst into the room. That's all in front of the house; but you should see what he's got in his gar– den! What hasn't he got in it! Plums, cherries, black cherries, all kinds of vegetables, sunflowers, cucumbers, melons, beans-even a threshing floor and a smithy.

A wonderful man, Ivan Ivanovich! He has a great love of melons. They're his favorite food. As soon as he finishes dinner and goes out to the gallery in nothing but his shirt, he immediately tells Gapka to bring two melons. Then he cuts them up himself, collects the seeds in a special piece of paper, and begins to eat. Then he tells Gapka to bring the inkpot and himself, with his own hand, writes on the paper with the seeds: "This melon was eaten on such-and-such date." If there was some guest at the time, then: "with the participation of so-and-so."

The late judge of Mirgorod always looked at Ivan Ivanovich's house with admiration. Yes, it's not a bad little house at all. I like the way rooms and hallways have been added on to it, so that if you look at it from afar you see only roofs sitting one on top of the other, looking very much like a plateful of pancakes, or, better still, like the kind of fungus that grows on trees. Anyhow, the roofs are all thatched with rushes; a willow, an oak, and two apple trees lean on them with their spreading branches. Small windows with whitewashed openwork shutters flash between the trees and even run out to the street.

A wonderful man, Ivan Ivanovich! The Poltava commissary also knows him! Dorosh Tarasovich Pukhivochka, whenever he comes from Khorol, always stops to see him. And the archpriest, Father Pyotr, who lives in Koliberda, whenever he has a half-dozen guests gathered, always says he knows of no one who fulfills his Christian duty or knows how to live so well as Ivan Ivanovich.

God, how time flies! By then ten years had gone by since he was left a widower. He had no children. Gapka has children and they often run about in the yard. Ivan Ivanovich always gives each of them a bagel, or a slice of melon, or a pear. Gapka carries the keys to his storerooms and cellars; the keys to the big trunk in his bedroom and the middle storeroom Ivan Ivanovich keeps himself, and he doesn't like to let anyone into them. Gapka, a healthy girl, goes about in an apron and has fresh calves and cheeks.

And what a pious man Ivan Ivanovich is! Every Sunday he puts on his bekesha and goes to church. On entering, Ivan Ivanovich, after bowing in all directions, usually installs himself in the choir and sings along very well in a bass voice. And when the service is over, Ivan Ivanovich simply can't refrain from going up to every beggar. He might not want to occupy himself with something so boring if he weren't prompted to it by his natural kindness.

"Greetings, poor dear!" he usually says, having sought out a most crippled woman in a ragged dress made all of patches. "Where are you from, dear?"

"I come from a farmstead, good sir. It's three days since I've had anything to eat or drink. My own children drove me out!"

"Poor thing, why have you come here?"

"Just to beg alms, good sir, if someone would give me enough to buy bread."

"Hm! so it's bread you want?" Ivan Ivanovich usually asks.

"How can I not? I'm hungry as a dog."

"Hm!" Ivan Ivanovich usually replies. "Then maybe you'd also like some meat?"

"Whatever your honor gives me I'll be pleased with."

"Hm! so meat is better than bread?"

"A hungry person can't be choosy. Whatever your honor gives me, it's all good."

At that the old woman usually holds out her hand.

"Well, go with God," Ivan Ivanovich says. "Why are you standing there? I'm not beating you!" And, after addressing the same questions to a second one, and a third, he finally goes home, or stops to have a glass of vodka with his neighbor Ivan Nikiforovich, or with the judge, or with the police chief.

Ivan Ivanovich likes it very much when someone gives him a present or a treat. That pleases him very much.

Ivan Nikiforovich is also a very good man. His yard is next to Ivan Ivanovich's yard. Never yet has the world produced such friends as they are with each other. Anton Prokofievich Pupopuz, who to this day still goes around in a brown frock coat with blue sleeves and on Sundays has dinner at the judge's, used to say that the devil himself had tied Ivan Nikiforovich and Ivan Ivanovich to each other with a piece of string. Wherever the one goes, the other gets dragged along.

Ivan Nikiforovich never married. Though there was talk that he had been married, it was a sheer lie. I know Ivan Nikiforovich very well, and I can tell you that he never even had any intention of getting married. Where on earth does all this gossip come from? Just as it got spread about that Ivan Nikiforovich was born with a tail behind. But that invention is so preposterous, as well as vile and indecent, that I don't even consider it necessary to refute it before my enlightened readers, who undoubtedly know that only witches, and a very few of them, have tails behind, and, anyhow, they belong more to the female sex than to the male.

Despite their great attachment, these rare friends were not entirely alike. Their characters can best be known by comparison: Ivan Ivanovich has an extraordinary gift for speaking with extreme pleasantness. Lord, how he speaks! The feeling can only be compared with that of someone picking through your hair or gently passing a finger over your heel. You listen and listen-and your head lolls. Pleasant! extremely pleasant! like a nap after swimming. Ivan Nikiforovich, on the contrary, is mostly silent, though if he slaps on a phrase, just hold tight: he'll trim you better than any razor. Ivan Ivanovich is tall and lean; Ivan Nikiforovich is slightly shorter, but instead expands sideways. Ivan Ivanovich's head resembles a turnip tail-down, Ivan Nikiforovich's a turnip tail-up. It's only after dinner that Ivan Ivanovich lies on the gallery in nothing but his shirt; in the evening he puts on his bekesha and goes somewhere-either to the town store, which he supplies with flour, or out to the fields to hunt quail. Ivan Nikiforovich lies on the porch all day long-if the day isn't very hot, he usually puts his back to the sun-and doesn't care to go anywhere. In the morning, if he's of a mind to, he may pass around the yard, looking over the household, and then retire again. In the old days, he would sometimes call on Ivan Ivanovich. Ivan Ivanovich is an extremely refined man and never says an improper word in decent conversation, and becomes offended at once if he hears one. Ivan Nikiforovich sometimes makes a slip; then Ivan Ivanovich usually gets up from his place and says, "Enough, enough, Ivan Nikiforovich, sooner take to the sunlight than speak such ungodly words." Ivan Ivanovich gets very angry if he finds a fly in his borscht: he's beside himself then, and he throws the plate, and it also means trouble for the host. Ivan Nikiforovich is extremely fond of bathing, and once he's in the water up to his chin, he asks that a table with a samovar also be put in the water, and he likes very much to drink his tea in such coolness. Ivan Ivanovich shaves twice a week, Ivan Nikiforovich once. Ivan Ivanovich is extremely inquisitive. God forbid you should begin telling him something and not finish! And if he's displeased with something, he lets it be known at once. It's very hard to tell by the look of him whether Ivan Nikiforovich is pleased or angry; he may be glad of something, but he doesn't show it. Ivan Ivanovich is of a somewhat timorous character; Ivan Nikiforovich, on the contrary, has such wide gathered trousers that, if they were inflated, the whole yard with its barns and outbuildings could be put into them. Ivan Ivanovich has big, expressive eyes of a tobacco color and a mouth somewhat resembling the letter V; Ivan Nikiforovich has small, yellowish eyes that disappear completely between his bushy eyebrows and plump cheeks, and a nose that looks like a ripe plum. Ivan Ivanovich, when he treats you to snuff, always licks the lid of the snuff box with his tongue first, then flips it open and, offering it to you, says, if you're an acquaintance, "May I venture to ask you, my good sir, to help yourself?" and if you're not an acquaintance, "May I venture to ask you, my good sir, not having the honor of knowing your rank, name, and patronymic, to help yourself?" Whereas Ivan Nikiforovich hands you his snuff botde and only adds: "Help yourself." Like Ivan Ivanovich, Ivan Nikiforovich has a great dislike of fleas; and therefore neither Ivan Ivanovich nor Ivan Nikiforovich ever passes a Jewish peddler without buying various jars of elixirs against these insects from him, having first given him a good scolding for confessing the Jewish faith.

However, despite certain dissimilarities, Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich are both excellent people.

Chapter II

From Which Can Be Learned What

Ivan Ivanovich Took a Liking to,

What the Conversation Between Ivan

Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich Was

About, and How It Ended

One morning-this was in the month of July-Ivan Ivanovich was lying on the gallery. The day was hot, the air dry and flowing in streams. Ivan Ivanovich had already managed to visit the farmstead and the mowers outside town to inquire of the muzhiks and women whence, whither, and why, got mighty tired and lay down to rest. While lying there, he spent a long time looking at the sheds, the yard, the outbuildings, the-chickens running in the yard, and thought to himself, "Lord God, what a proprietor I am! Is there anything I haven't got? Fowl, outbuildings, barns, what not else; vodka of various flavors; pears and plums in the orchards; poppies, cabbage, and peas in the garden… What is there that I haven't got?… I'd like to know, what haven't I got?"

Having asked himself such a profound question, Ivan Ivanovich fell to thinking; and meanwhile his eyes sought new objects, stepped over the fence into Ivan Nikiforovich's yard, and involuntarily became occupied with a curious spectacle. A skinny woman was taking packed-away clothes out one by one and hanging them on the line for airing. Soon an old uniform top with frayed cuffs spread its sleeves in the air and embraced a brocade jacket, after which another stuck itself out, a gentleman's, with armorial buttons and a moth-eaten collar; then white twill pantaloons with stains, which had once been pulled onto Ivan Nikiforovich's legs and now might be pulled onto his fingers. After them, another pair came out to hang, looking like an inverted V. Then came a dark blue Cossack beshmet 2 that Ivan Nikiforovich had had made for himself some twenty years before, when he was preparing to join the militia and even let his mustache grow. Finally, what with one thing and another, a sword thrust itself out as well, looking like a steeple sticking up in the air. Then came the whirling skirts of something resembling a caftan of a grass-green color, with brass buttons the size of five-kopeck pieces. From behind its skirts peeked a waistcoat trimmed in gold braid, with a big cutout front. The waistcoat was soon screened by a deceased grandmother's old skirt, with pockets that could accommodate whole watermelons. All of this mixed together made up a very entertaining spectacle for Ivan Ivanovich, while the sun's rays, striking here and there on a blue or green sleeve, a red cuff or a portion of gold brocade, or sparkling on the sword steeple, turned it into something extraordinary, like those nativity scenes that itinerant hucksters take around to the farmsteads. Especially when a crowd of people, tightly packed, watches King Herod in a golden crown or Anton leading his goat; behind the stage a violin squeals; a Gypsy beats on his own lips instead of a drum, and the sun is setting, and the fresh chill of the southern night, unnoticed, clings closer and closer to the fresh shoulders and breasts of the plump farm girls.

Soon the old woman crept out of the storeroom groaning and dragging on her back an ancient saddle with torn-off stirrups, scuffed leather holsters for pistols, a saddle blanket once of a scarlet color, with gold embroidery and bronze plaques.

"Look at the foolish woman!" thought Ivan Ivanovich. "Next she'll drag Ivan Nikiforovich himself out for an airing!"

And, indeed, Ivan Ivanovich was not entirely mistaken in his surmise. About five minutes later, Ivan Nikiforovich's nankeen balloon trousers emerged and took up almost half the yard with themselves. After that she also brought out a hat and a gun.

"What does this mean?" thought Ivan Ivanovich. "I've never seen a gun at Ivan Nikiforovich's. What's he up to? He doesn't go shooting, but he keeps a gun! What does he need it for? A nice little thing, too! I've long wanted to get myself one like it. I'd really like to have that little gun; I love fooling with guns."

"Hey, you, woman!" cried Ivan Ivanovich, beckoning with his finger.

The old woman came up to the fence.

"What have you got there, granny?"

"You can see for yourself it's a gun."

"What kind of gun?"

"Who knows what kind! If it was mine, maybe I'd know what it's made of. But it's the master's."

Ivan Ivanovich stood up and began to examine the gun on all sides, forgetting to reprimand the old woman for hanging it and the sword out to air.

"Iron, you'd expect," the old woman went on.

"Hm! iron. Why iron?" Ivan Ivanovich said to himself. "And has the master had it long?"

"Long, maybe."

"A nice little thing!" Ivan Ivanovich went on. "I'll beg it from him. What use does he have for it? Or else I'll trade him something. Say, granny, is the master at home?"

"He is."

"What's he doing? lying down?"

"Lying down."

"All right, then, I'll go and see him."

Ivan Ivanovich got dressed, took his blackthorn in case of dogs, because in Mirgorod you meet more of them than of people in the streets, and went.

Though Ivan Nikiforovich's yard was next to Ivan Ivanovich's, and you could climb over the wattle fence from one to the other, Ivan Ivanovich nevertheless went via the street. From this street he had to go down a lane so narrow that if two carts, each drawn by one horse, chanced to meet in it, they'd be unable to pass each other and would stay in that position until they were seized by the rear wheels and pulled in opposite directions back out to the street. And a passer-by on foot would get himself adorned, as if with flowers, with the burrs that grew along the fences on both sides. On one side Ivan Ivanovich's shed looked onto this lane, on the other Ivan Nikiforovich's barn, gates, and dovecote.

Ivan Ivanovich went up to the gates and clanked the latch: inside, the barking of dogs arose; but the motley pack soon ran off wagging their tails, seeing that the face was a familiar one. Ivan Ivanovich crossed the yard, a colorful mixture of Indian pigeons, fed by Ivan Nikiforovich's own hand, melon and watermelon rinds, an occasional green patch, an occasional broken wheel or barrel hoop, or an urchin lying about in a dirty shirt-a picture such as painters love! The shadow of the hanging clothes covered almost the whole yard and lent it a certain coolness. The woman met him with a bow and stood gaping in her place. In front of the house was a pretty porch with a roof supported by two oak posts-unreliable protection from the sun, which at that season in Little Russia doesn't joke but leaves the walker streaming with hot sweat from head to foot. From this it may be seen how strong was Ivan Ivanovich's wish to acquire the needed object, since he decided to go out at such a time, even abandoning his usual custom of going for a walk only in the evening.

The room Ivan Ivanovich entered was completely dark, because the shutters were closed, and a ray of sunlight, passing through a hole made in the shutters, turned iridescent and, striking the opposite wall, drew on it a colorful landscape of rush roofs, trees, and the clothing hanging outside, only all of it inverted. This lent the room a sort of wondrous half-light.

"God be with you!" said Ivan Ivanovich.

"Ah! greetings, Ivan Ivanovich!" replied a voice from the corner of the room. Only then did Ivan Ivanovich notice Ivan Nikiforovich lying on a rug spread out on the floor. "Excuse me for appearing before you in my natural state."

Ivan Nikiforovich way lying there with nothing on, not even a shirt.

"Never mind. Did you have a good night's sleep, Ivan Nikiforovich?"

"I did. And you, Ivan Ivanovich?"

"I did."

"So you just got up?"

"Just got up? Lord help you, Ivan Nikiforovich! how could one sleep so late! I've just come from the fields. Wonderful crops on the way! Delightful! And the hay is so tall, soft, rich!"

"Gorpina!" cried Ivan Nikiforovich, "bring Ivan Ivanovich some vodka and pies with sour cream."

"Nice weather today."

"Don't praise it, Ivan Ivanovich. Devil take it! there's no escaping the heat!"

"You've got to go mentioning the devil. Ah, Ivan Nikiforovich! You'll remember my words, but it will be too late: you'll get it in the other world for your ungodly talk."

"How did I offend you, Ivan Ivanovich? I didn't touch your father or your mother. I don't know what I did to offend you."

"Come, come, Ivan Nikiforovich!"

"By God, I didn't offend you, Ivan Ivanovich!"

"It's strange, the quail still won't come to the whistle."

"As you wish, think whatever you like, only I didn't offend you in any way."

"I don't know why they won't come," Ivan Ivanovich said, as if not listening to Ivan Nikiforovich. "Maybe it's not the season yet, only it seems it's just the right season."

"You say the crops are good?"

"Delightful crops! Delightful!"

Whereupon silence ensued.

"What's this with you hanging out clothes, Ivan Nikiforovich?" Ivan Ivanovich finally asked.

"Yes, fine clothes, nearly new, the cursed woman almost let them rot. I'm airing them out now; fine fabric, excellent, just turn it inside out and you can wear it again."

"I liked one little thing there, Ivan Nikiforovich."

"Which?"

"Tell me, please, what use you have for that gun that's been put out to air with the clothes?" Here Ivan Ivanovich offered him some snuff. "May I venture to ask you to help yourself?"

"Never mind, you help yourself! I'll snuff my own!" At which Ivan Nikiforovich felt around and came up with a snuff bottle. "Stupid woman, so she hung the gun out, too! That Jew in Soro-chintsy makes good snuff. I don't know what he puts in it, but it's so aromatic! A bit like balsam. Here, take a chew of some in your mouth. Like balsam, right? Take some, help yourself!"

"Tell me, please, Ivan Nikiforovich, going back to the gun: What are you going to do with it? You have no need for it."

"How, no need for it? What if I have occasion to shoot?"

"God help you, Ivan Nikiforovich, when are you going to shoot? Maybe after the Second Coming. As far as I know or any– one else remembers, you've never shot so much as a single duck, and your whole nature has not been fashioned by the Lord God for hunting. Your shape and posture are imposing. How can you go dragging yourself about the swamps, if your clothes, which could not decently be called by name in every conversation, are still being aired out, what then? No, you need peace, repose." (Ivan Ivanovich, as was mentioned earlier, could speak extremely picturesquely when he needed to convince somebody. How he could speak! God, how he could speak!) "Yes, and so you need suitable activities. Listen, give it to me!"

"How can I! It's an expensive gun. You won't find such a gun anywhere now. I bought it off a Turk when I was still intending to join the militia. And now I should suddenly up and give it away? How can I? It's a necessity."

"Why a necessity?"

"Why? And when robbers attack the house… Of course it's a necessity. Thank God, I'm at ease now and not afraid of anybody. And why? Because I know I've got a gun in the closet."

"A real good gun! Look, Ivan Nikiforovich, the lock's broken!"

"So what if it's broken? It can be fixed. It just needs to be oiled with hempseed oil to keep it from rusting."

"From your words, Ivan Nikiforovich, I don't see any friendly disposition toward me. You don't want to do anything for me as a token of good will."

"How can you say I don't show you any good will, Ivan Ivanovich? Shame on you! Your oxen graze on my steppe, and I've never once borrowed them from you. When you go to Poltava, you always ask for the loan of my cart, and what-did I ever refuse? Children from your yard climb over the fence into mine and play with my dogs, and I say nothing: let them play, so long as they don't touch anything! let them play!"

"If you don't want to give it to me, maybe we can make a trade."

"And what will you give me for it?" With that, Ivan Nikiforovich leaned on his arm and looked at Ivan Ivanovich.

"I'll give you the brown sow, the one I fattened in the pen. A fine sow! You'll see if she doesn't produce a litter for you next year."

"I don't know how you can say it, Ivan Ivanovich. What do I need your sow for? To feast the devil's memory?"

"Again! You just can't do without some devil or other! It's a sin on you, by God, it's a sin, Ivan Nikiforovich!"

"But really, Ivan Ivanovich, how can you go offering devil knows what-some sow-for a gun!"

"Why is it devil knows what, Ivan Nikiforovich?"

"What else? You can judge pretty well for yourself. Here we have a gun, a known thing; and there, devil knows what-a sow! If it wasn't you talking, I might take it in an offensive way."

"What do you find so bad in a sow?"

"Who do you really take me for? That some sow…"

"Sit down, sit down! I won't… Let the gun stay yours, let it rot and rust away standing in a corner of the closet-I don't want to talk about it anymore."

After which silence ensued.

"They say," Ivan Ivanovich began, "three kings have declared war on our tsar."

"Yes, Pyotr Fyodorovich told me. What is this war? and why?"

"It's impossible to say for certain what it's about, Ivan Nikiforovich. I suppose the kings want us all to embrace the Turkish faith."

"Some fools to want that!" said Ivan Nikiforovich, raising his head.

"You see, and our tsar declared war on them for it. No, he says, you can embrace the Christian faith!"

"And so? Ours will beat them, Ivan Ivanovich!"

"Yes, they will. So, then, Ivan Nikiforovich, don't you want to trade me your little gun?"

"I find it strange, Ivan Ivanovich: you're a man known for his learning, it seems, yet you speak like an oaf. What a fool I'd be if…"

"Sit down, sit down. God help it! let it perish, I won't say any more!…"

Just then the snack was brought in.

Ivan Ivanovich drank a glass and followed it with pie and sour cream.

"Listen, Ivan Nikiforovich, besides the sow, I'll give you two sacks of oats, since you didn't sow any oats. This year you'll need to buy oats anyway."

"By God, Ivan Ivanovich, a man has to eat a lot of peas before he talks with you." (That's nothing, Ivan Nikiforovich can come out with much better phrases.) "Has anybody ever seen a gun traded for two sacks of oats? No fear you'll go offering me your bekesha."

"But you've forgotten, Ivan Nikiforovich, that I'm also giving you the sow."

"What! a sow and two sacks of oats for a gun?"

"Why, it's not enough?"

"For a gun?"

"Of course, for a gun."

"Two sacks for a gun?"

"Not two empty sacks, but with oats; and you forgot the sow."

"Go kiss your sow! Or if you don't want to, then kiss the devil!"

"Oh, touch-me-not! You'll see, they'll lard your tongue with hot needles in the other world for such iniquitous words. After talking with you, a man has to wash his face and hands and smoke himself with incense."

"Beg pardon, Ivan Ivanovich, but a gun is a noble thing, a most curious amusement, and a pleasing adornment for a room besides…"

"Well, Ivan Nikiforovich, you fuss over your gun like a fool over a fancy purse" Ivan Ivanovich said vexedly, because he was indeed beginning to get angry.

"And you, Ivan Ivanovich, are a real goose"

If Ivan Nikiforovich hadn't said this word, they would have had «an argument and parted friends as usual; but now something quite different happened. Ivan Ivanovich got all fired up.

"What's that you said, Ivan Nikiforovich?" he asked, raising his voice.

"I said you resemble a goose, Ivan Ivanovich!"

"How dare you, sir, forgetting all decency and respect for a man's rank and name, dishonor him with such an abusive denomination?"

"What's abusive about it? Why on earth are you waving your arms like that, Ivan Ivanovich?"

"I repeat, how dare you, contrary to all decency, call me a goose?"

"I sneeze on your head, Ivan Ivanovich! What are you clucking like that for?"

Ivan Ivanovich could no longer control himself: his lips trembled, his mouth changed its usual V shape and now resembled an O, he blinked his eyes so that it was frightening to see. This happened very rarely with Ivan Ivanovich. For this he had to be greatly angered.

"Then I declare to you," said Ivan Ivanovich, "that I do not want to know you!"

"A big thing! By God, I won't cry over that!" replied Ivan Niki-forovich.

He was lying, lying, by God! He was very upset by it.

"My foot will not cross your doorsill."

"Oh-ho-ho!" said Ivan Nikiforovich, too upset himself to know what to do and, contrary to his habit, getting to his feet. "Hey, woman! laddie!" At which there appeared from behind the door the same skinny woman and a rather short boy tangled in a long and wide frock coat. "Take Ivan Ivanovich by the arms and lead him out the door!"

"What! a gentleman?" cried Ivan Ivanovich with a feeling of pride and indignation. "Just you dare! Come on! I'll destroy you along with your stupid master! The crows won't find what's left of you!" (Ivan Ivanovich spoke with extraordinary power when his soul was shaken.)

The whole group represented a powerful picture: Ivan Nikiforovich standing in the middle of the room in all his unadorned beauty! The woman, her mouth gaping and with a most senseless and fearful look on her face! Ivan Ivanovich with one arm raised aloft, the way Roman tribunes are portrayed! This was an extraordinary moment! a magnificent spectacle! And yet there was only one spectator: this was the boy in the boundless frock coat, who stood quite calmly and cleaned his nose with his finger.

Finally Ivan Ivanovich took his hat.

"You're behaving very well, Ivan Nikiforovich! Splendid! I'll remember you for it."

"Go, Ivan Ivanovich, go! And watch out, don't cross my path: I'll punch your mug in, Ivan Ivanovich!"

"Take this for that, Ivan Nikiforovich!" replied Ivan Ivanovich, making him a fig and slamming the door behind him, which creaked hoarsely and opened again.

Ivan Nikiforovich appeared in the doorway and wanted to add something, but Ivan Ivanovich, no longer looking back, went flying out of the yard.

Chapter III

What Happened After the Quarrel

Between Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich

And so these two respected men, the honor and adornment of Mirgorod, quarreled with each other! And over what? Over a trifle, over a goose. Refused to see each other, broke all ties, though before they had been known as the most inseparable of friends! Every day Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich used to send to inquire after each other's health, and often talked with each other from their balconies, and said such pleasant things to each other that it was a heart's delight to listen to them. On Sundays, Ivan Ivanovich in his thick woolen bekesha and Ivan Nikiforovich in a yellow-brown nankeen jacket used to go to church all but arm in arm. And if Ivan Ivanovich, who was extremely keen-sighted, was the first to notice a puddle or some other uncleanness in the middle of the street, as sometimes happens in Mirgorod, he always said to Ivan Nikiforovich, "Be careful, don't put your foot down here, it's not a nice spot." Ivan Nikiforovich, for his part, also showed the most touching signs of friendship, and however far away he was standing, always held his hand out to Ivan Ivanovich with the snuff bottle, saying, "Help yourself!" And what excellent estates they both had!… And these two friends… When I heard about it, I was thunderstruck! For a long time I refused to believe it: good God! Ivan Ivanovich has quarreled with Ivan Nikiforovich! Such worthy people! Is there anything solid left in this world?

When Ivan Ivanovich came home, he was greatly agitated for a long time. Usually he would stop first at the stable to see if his little mare was eating her hay (Ivan Ivanovich has a grayish mare with a spot on her forehead, a very nice little horse); after that he would feed the turkeys and pigs with his own hands, and only then go inside, where he would either make wooden utensils (he knew how to fashion various objects quite skillfully out of wood, no worse than a turner), or read a book printed by Lubiy, Gariy, and Popov 3 (Ivan Ivanovich cannot remember the title, because the serf girl tore off the top part of the title page long ago while playing with the baby), or else rest on the gallery. But now he did not go about any of his usual occupations. In place of that, on meeting Gapka, he started scolding her for hanging about idly, when she was in fact carrying grain to the kitchen; he threw his stick at the cock, who came to the porch for his usual handout; and when a dirty little boy in a tattered shirt ran up to him and shouted, "Daddy, daddy, give me a gingerbread!" he threatened and stamped his feet at him so terribly that the frightened boy ran off God knows where.