Текст книги "The Collected tales of Nikolai Gogol"

Автор книги: Николай Гоголь

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I

Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka

It's four years now that Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka has been retired and living on his farmstead in Vytrebenki. When he was still Vaniusha, he studied at the Gadyach regional high school, and, it must be said, he was a most well-behaved and diligent boy. The teacher of Russian grammar, Nikifor Timofeevich Participle, used to say that if everyone in the class was as diligent as Shponka, he wouldn't have to bring in the maple ruler, with which, as he con-lessed himself, he was weary of rapping lazybones and pranksters on the knuckles. His notebook was always clean, neatly ruled, never a blot anywhere. He always sat placidly, his arms folded and his eyes fixed on the teacher, and he never hung scraps of paper on the back of the comrade in front of him, never carved on the bench or played squash your granny before the teacher came. Whenever anyone needed a penknife to sharpen his pen, he immediately turned to Ivan Fyodorovich, knowing that he always had a penknife with him; and Ivan Fyodorovich, then simply Vaniusha, would take it from the little leather case tied to the buttonhole of his gray frock coat, and asked only that they not scrape the pen with the sharp edge, assuring them that the dull edge was meant for that. Such good behavior soon attracted the attention of the Latin teacher himself, whose mere cough in the front hall, which preceded the thrusting of his frieze overcoat and pockmark-adorned face through the doorway, inspired fear in the whole class. This terrible teacher, who always had two bundles of birch switches on the lectern and half his auditors on their knees, made Ivan Fyodorovich his monitor, though there were many in the class of much greater ability.

Here we cannot omit one occasion which influenced his entire life. One of the students he had charge of as monitor, in order to incline him to put down a scit 3 on his record, though he didn't know a scrap of the lesson, brought a buttered pancake to class wrapped in paper. Ivan Fyodorovich, though he had a bent for justice, was hungry just then and unable to resist temptation: he took the pancake, stood a book in front of him, and began to eat. And he was so occupied with it that he didn't even notice the deathly silence that suddenly fell over the class. He came to his senses with horror only when the dreaded hand, reaching out from the frieze overcoat, seized him by the ear and dragged him into the middle of the classroom. "Give the pancake here! Give it here, I tell you, scoundrel!" said the terrible teacher. Then he seized the buttery pancake with his fingers and flung it out the window, strictly forbidding the boys running around in the yard to pick it up. After which he beat Ivan Fyodorovich most painfully on the hands. And rightly so: it was the fault of the hands, they and not any other part of the body had done the taking. Be that as it may, the timidity inseparable from him to begin with increased still more. Perhaps this very event was the reason why he never had any wish to enter the civil service, seeing from experience that it was not always possible to keep the lid on things.

He was approaching fifteen when he passed into the second class, where, instead of the short catechism and the four rules of arithmetic, he started on the full-length one, the book on the duties of man, and fractions. But seeing that the further into the forest, the thicker grow the trees, and receiving news that his papa had bid the world farewell, he stayed on for another two years and then, with his mother's consent, joined the P– infantry regiment.

The P-infantry regiment was not at all of the sort to which many infantry regiments belong; and, even though it was mostly quartered in villages, it was nevertheless on such a footing that it would not yield to certain cavalry regiments. The majority of the officers drank vymorozki 4 and knew how to pull Jews by their sidelocks no worse than the hussars; several of them even danced the mazurka, and the colonel of the P-regiment never missed an opportunity of mentioning it when talking with someone in society. "I have many," he used to say, patting himself on the belly after each word, "who dance the mazurka, sir. A good many, sir. A great many." To better show readers the cultivation of the P– infantry regiment, we shall add that two of the officers gambled terribly at faro and would lose uniform, visored cap, greatcoat, sword knot, and underwear to boot-something not always found even among cavalrymen.

The company of such comrades, however, by no means diminished Ivan Fyodorovich's timidity. And since he did not drink vymorozki, preferring a glass of vodka before dinner and supper, and did not dance the mazurka or play faro, he naturally always had to stay alone. And so, while the others would go in hired carriages to visit small landowners, he sat at home and exercised himself in occupations dear only to a meek and kindly soul: polishing his buttons, reading a fortune-telling book, setting mousetraps in the corners of his room, and, finally, taking off his uniform and lying in bed. On the other hand, there was no one in the regiment more disciplined than Ivan Fyodorovich. And he commanded his platoon so well that the company commander always held him up as an example. For that, in a short time, eleven years after being made ensign, he was promoted to sub-lieutenant.

In the course of that time, he received the news that his mother had died; and his aunt, his mother's sister, whom he knew only because she used to bring him dried pears and her own very tasty homemade gingerbreads when he was a child, and even sent them to Gadyach (she was on bad terms with his mother and therefore Ivan Fyodorovich had not seen her later)-this aunt, out of the goodness of her heart, undertook to manage his small estate, of which she duly informed him in a letter. Ivan Fyodorovich, being fully confident of his aunt's reasonableness, began to carry on with his service as before. Another in his place, on receiving such rank, would have grown very proud; but pride was completely unknown to him, and having become a sub-lieutenant, he was the very same Ivan Fyodorovich that he had been in the rank of ensign. Staying on for four years after this event so remarkable for him, he was preparing to set out from Mogilev province for Great Russia with his regiment when he received a letter with the following content:

My gentle nephew, Ivan Fyodorovich,

I am sending you underwear-five pairs of cotton socks and four shirts of fine linen-and I also want to discuss business with you: since you are already of a not unimportant rank, which I think you know yourself, and are already of such age that it is time you took up the management of your estate, there is no longer any need for you to serve in the army. I am old now and cannot look after everything on your estate; and indeed I have much to reveal to you personally besides. Come, Vaniusha. In anticipation of the true pleasure of seeing you,

I remain your most loving aunt

Vasilisa Tsupchevska

A strange turnip has grown in our kitchen garden-more like a potato than a turnip.

Within a week of receiving this letter, Ivan Fyodorovich wrote in reply:

My dear madam, Aunt Vasilisa Kashporovna!

I thank you very much for sending me the underwear. My socks especially were very old, so that my orderly had to darn them four times, which made them very tight. As to your opinion about my service, I fully agree with you and sent in my resignation two days ago. As soon as I am discharged, I will hire a carriage. I was unable to fulfill your prior request concerning the wheat seed, the hard Siberian variety: there is none such to be found in all Mogilev province. The pigs here are fed on homebrew mash mixed with a little flat beer.

With the utmost respect, my dear madam aunt, I remain your nephew

Ivan Shponka

At last Ivan Fyodorovich was discharged with the rank of sublieutenant, hired a Jew for forty roubles to take him from Mogilev to Gadyach, and sat himself in the kibitka just at the time when the trees became clothed in young, still sparse leaves, all the earth greened brightly with fresh green, and all the fields smelled of spring.

II

The Road

Nothing remarkable happened on the road. They traveled for a little over two weeks. Ivan Fyodorovich might have arrived sooner, but the pious Jew kept his sabbath on Saturdays and, covering himself with his horse blanket, prayed all day long. However, Ivan Fyodorovich, as I have had occasion to observe before, was the sort of man who would not allow himself to be bored. During that time, he would open his suitcase, take out his linen, examine it well to see if it was properly laundered, properly folded, would carefully remove a piece of fluff from the new uniform, already made without epaulettes, and would put it all back in the best way. Generally speaking, he did not like reading books; and if he ever peeked into the fortune-telling book, it was because he liked meeting familiar things there, already read several times. So a townsman goes to his club every day, not in order to hear anything new there, but to meet those friends with whom from time immemorial he has been used to chatting in the club. So an official takes great pleasure in reading the directory several times a day, not for the sake of any diplomatic undertakings, but because he delights exceedingly in seeing names in print. "Ah! Ivan Gavril-ovich So-and-so!" he repeats to himself in a muted voice. "Ah! and here I am! Hm!…" And the next day he rereads it, again with the same exclamations.

After two weeks of traveling, Ivan Fyodorovich reached a village some seventy miles from Gadyach. It was a Friday. The sun had long set when, with kibitka and Jew, he drove into the inn.

This inn was in no way different from others built in small villages. The traveler is usually treated zealously to hay and oats there, as if he were a post-horse. But if he should wish to have a meal such as decent people ordinarily have, he must keep his appetite intact for the next occasion. Ivan Fyodorovich, knowing all that, had provided himself beforehand with two strings of bagels and a sausage, and, having ordered a glass of vodka, which is never lacking in any inn, began on his supper, sitting on a bench in front of an oak table planted permanently in the clay floor.

In the meantime there came the noise of a britzka. The gates creaked, but for a long time no britzka drove into the yard. A loud voice was quarreling with the old woman who ran the inn. "I'll drive in," Ivan Fyodorovich heard, "but if a single bedbug bites me in your house, I'll beat you, by God, I'll beat you, you old witch! And I'll pay you nothing for the hay!"

A minute later the door opened and in came, or, rather, heaved himself, a fat man in a green frock coat. His immobile head rested on a short neck that seemed fatter still because of his double chin. Even by the look of him, he seemed to be one of those people who never rack their brains over trifles and whose whole life goes swimmingly.

"Greetings to you, my dear sir!" he said, seeing Ivan Fyodorovich.

Ivan Fyodorovich made a wordless bow.

"And may I ask with whom I have the honor of speaking?" the fat arrival went on.

Under such interrogation, Ivan Fyodorovich involuntarily got up from his seat and stood at attention, something he ordinarily did when his colonel asked him a question.

"Retired Sub-lieutenant Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka," he replied.

"And dare I ask to what parts you are traveling?"

"To my own farmstead, sir-Vytrebenki."

"Vytrebenki!" the stern interrogator exclaimed. "Allow me, my dear, dear sir, allow me!" he kept repeating as he approached him, waving his arms as if someone were hindering him or as if he were pushing his way through a crowd, and, coming close, he took Ivan Fyodorovich into his embrace and planted a kiss first on his right cheek, then on the left, and then again on the right. Ivan Fyodorovich liked this kissing very much, because the stranger's big cheeks felt like soft pillows on his lips.

"Allow me, my dear sir, to introduce myself!" the fat man went on. "I am a landowner in the same Gadyach district and your neighbor. I live in the village of Khortyshche, no more than four miles from your farmstead of Vytrebenki. My name is Grigory Grigorievich Storchenko. Without fail, without fail, my dear sir, I don't even want to know you unless you come to visit the village of Khortyshche. I'm hurrying off on an errand now… And what is this?" he said in a mild voice to the entering lackey, a boy in a long Cossack blouse with patches on the elbows, who with a perplexed mien was placing bundles and boxes on the table. "What is this? What?" and Grigory Grigorievich's voice was imperceptibly becoming more and more menacing. "Did I tell you to put it here, my gentle? did I tell you to put it here, scoundrel? Didn't I tell you to heat the chicken up first, you cheat? Get out!" he cried, stamp– ing his foot. "Wait, you mug! where's the hamper with the bottles? Ivan Fyodorovich!" he said, pouring some liquor into a glass, "a little cordial if you please?"

"By God, sir, I can't… I've already had occasion…" Ivan Fyodorovich said, faltering.

"I won't hear of it, my dear sir!" the landowner raised his voice, "I won't hear of it! I'm not moving from this spot until you try…"

Ivan Fyodorovich, seeing it was impossible to refuse, drank it off, not without pleasure.

"This is a chicken, my dear sir," the fat Grigory Grigorievich went on, cutting it up in the wooden box with a knife. "I must tell you that my cook, Yavdokha, is fond of a nip now and then, and so it often comes out too dry. Hey, boy!" here he turned to the boy in the Cossack blouse, who was bringing in a featherbed and pillows, "make my bed up on the floor in the middle of the room! See that you pile the hay a bit higher under the pillow! And pull a tuft of hemp from the woman's spinning to stop my ears for the night! You should know, my dear sir, that I've been in the habit of stopping my ears for the night ever since that cursed time when a cockroach got into my left ear in a Russian tavern. The cursed Russians, as I found out later, even eat cabbage soup with cockroaches in it. It's impossible to describe what happened to me: such a tickling in my ear, such a tickling… you could just climb the wall! A simple old woman helped me when I got back to our parts. And how, do you think? Merely by whispering some spell on it. What do you say about these medical men, my dear sir? I think they simply fool and befuddle us. Some old woman knows twenty times better than all these medical men."

"Indeed, sir, what you say is perfectly true. In fact, some old…" Here he stopped, as if unable to find the appropriate word.

It will do no harm if I say that generally he was not lavish with words. Maybe the reason was his timidity, or maybe it was the wish to express himself more beautifully.

"Give that hay a real good shaking!" Grigory Grigorievich said to his lackey. "The hay here is so vile you have to keep watching for twigs. Allow me, my dear sir, to wish you a good night! We won't see each other tomorrow: I'll be setting out before dawn. Your Jew will keep his sabbath, because tomorrow's Saturday, and so there's no need for you to get up early. And don't forget my request. I don't even want to know you unless you come to the village of Khortyshche."

Here Grigory Grigorievich's valet pulled his frock coat and boots off him, replacing them with a dressing gown, and Grigory Grigorievich tumbled into bed, and it looked as if one huge featherbed were lying on another.

"Hey, boy! where are you off to, scoundrel! Come here, straighten my blanket! Hey, boy, pile up some hay under my head! and, say, have the horses been watered yet? More hay! here, under this side! and straighten the blanket nicely, scoundrel! Like that! more! ah!…"

Here Grigory Grigorievich sighed another time or two and sent a terrible nose-whistling all over the room, occasionally letting out such snores that the old woman snoozing on the stove bench 5 would wake up and suddenly look all around her, but, seeing nothing, would calm down and go back to sleep.

When Ivan Fyodorovich woke up the next day, the fat landowner was no longer there. This was the only remarkable event that befell him on the road. Three days later he was nearing his farmstead.

He felt his heart pound hard when the windmill peeked out, its sails turning, and when, as the Jew drove his nags up the hill, a row of pussy willows appeared down below. A pond gleamed vividly and brightly through them, breathing freshness. Here he once used to swim, in this very pond he used to wade with other boys, up to his neck in the water, hunting for crayfish. The kibitka rode up the dam, and Ivan Fyodorovich saw the same little thatch-roofed old house; the same apple and cherry trees he used to climb on the sly. As soon as he drove into the yard, dogs of all sorts came running from every side: brown, black, gray, spotted. Some threw themselves, barking, under the horses' hooves, others ran behind, noticing that the axle was greased with lard; one stood by the kitchen, covering a bone with his paw and howling at the top of his voice; another barked from a distance as he ran back and forth wagging his tail, as if to say: "Look, good Christian folk, what a wonderful young fellow I am!" Boys in dirty shirts came running to see. A sow, strolling in the yard with sixteen piglets, raised her snout with an inquisitive air and grunted louder than usual. In the yard there were many canvases with wheat, millet, and oats drying in the sun. On the roof there were also many varieties of herbs drying: chicory, hawkweed, and others.

Ivan Fyodorovich was so busy gazing at it all that he came to his senses only when the spotted dog bit the Jew on the calf as he was getting down from the box. The people of the household came running, including the cook, one woman, and two girls in woolen shirts, and after the first exclamations-"Why, it's our young master!"-announced that the aunt was in the kitchen garden planting sweet corn together with the girl Palashka and the coachman Omelko, who often carried out the duties of gardener and watchman. But the aunt, who had seen the bast-covered kibitka from far off, was already there. And Ivan Fyodorovich was amazed when she all but picked him up, as if he couldn't believe this was the aunt who had written to him about her illness and decrepitude.

III

The Aunt

Aunt Vasilisa Kashporovna was then about fifty years old. She had never been married, and she used to say that her maidenly life was dearer to her than anything. However, as far as I can recall, no one had ever offered to marry her. The reason for that was that all men felt some sort of timidity in her presence and simply could not get up the courage to propose to her. "Vasilisa Kashporovna has quite a character!" her wooers used to say, and they were per-fecdy right, because Vasilisa Kashporovna could make anyone feel lower than grass. The drunken miller, who had been good for absolutely nothing at all, she managed, through her own manly pulling of his topknot every day, without any extraneous remedies, to turn not into a man but into pure gold. She was of almost gigantic height and of corresponding build and strength. It seemed that nature had committed an unpardonable error in having arranged for her to wear a dark brown housecoat with little ruffles on weekdays and with a red cashmere shawl on Easter Sunday and her name day, whereas the most becoming things would have been a dragoon's mustache and jackboots. On the other hand, her occupations corresponded perfectly to her appearance: she rowed the boat herself, handling the oars more skillfully than any fisherman; she hunted game; she stood over the mowers all the while they worked; she knew the exact number of melons and watermelons in her patch; she took a toll of five kopecks per cart from those passing over her dam; she climbed the trees to shake down the pears; she gave beatings to her vassals with her terrible hand, and with the same awesome hand offered a glass of vodka to the deserving. Almost simultaneously she cursed, dyed yarn, ran the kitchen, made kvass, cooked jam with honey; she bustled all day and had time for everything. The result was that Ivan Fyodorovich's little estate, which, according to the latest census, consisted of eighteen souls, 6 flourished in the full sense of the word. Besides, she loved her nephew all too ardently and carefully saved every kopeck for him.

On his homecoming, Ivan Fyodorovich's life decidedly changed and took a totally different path. It seemed as if nature had created him precisely for managing an eighteen-soul estate. The aunt herself noticed that he was going to make a good proprietor, though, all the same, she did not yet allow him to enter into all branches of management. "He's still a young lad," she used to say, despite the fact that Ivan Fyodorovich was just shy of forty, "he can't know everything!"

However, he was constantly present in the fields beside the reapers and mowers, and this brought inexplicable delight to his meek soul. The swinging in unison of a dozen or more shining scythes; the swish of grass falling in orderly rows; the occasional pealing song of the women reapers, now merry as the welcoming of guests, now melancholy as parting; the calm, clear evenings– and what evenings! how free and fresh the air! how everything comes alive then: the steppe turns red and blue and glows with flowers; quails, bustards, gulls, grasshoppers, thousands of insects, and from them comes whistling, buzzing, chirring, crying, and suddenly a harmonious chorus; and it's all never silent for a moment! And the sun is going down and disappearing. Oh! how fresh and good! In the fields, now here, now there, cookfires are started, with cauldrons over them, and around the cauldrons mustached mowers sit; steam rises from the dumplings. The dusk turns gray… It's hard to say what went on inside Ivan Fyodorovich then. When he joined the mowers, he would forget to sample their dumplings, which he liked very much, and stand motionless in one spot, his eyes following a gull vanishing in the sky, or counting the shocks of harvested grain that studded the field.

Before too long there was talk everywhere of Ivan Fyodorovich being a great manager. The aunt was utterly overjoyed with her nephew and never missed an opportunity to boast about him. One day-this was after the harvest was over and, namely, at the end of July-Vasilisa Kashporovna, taking Ivan Fyodorovich by the hand, said with a mysterious air that she now wished to talk with him about a matter that had long occupied her.

"You know, gentle Ivan Fyodorovich," so she began, "that there are eighteen souls on your farmstead; that is according to the census, however, while without it one might count as many as twenty-four. But that's not the point. You know the woods behind our pasture, and you must know the wide meadow beyond that same woods: it measures a little less than fifty acres, and there's so much grass that you could sell more than a hundred roubles' worth a year, especially if, as people say, a cavalry regiment is to be stationed here."

"Of course I know it, Auntie-the grass is very good."

"I know myself that it's very good, but do you know that in reality all that land is yours? Why do you pop your eyes so? Listen, Ivan Fyodorovich! Do you remember Stepan Kuzmich? What am I saying-remember! How could you! You were so little then, you couldn't even say his name! I remember, when I came, just before St. Philip's, 7 I picked you up, and you almost ruined my whole dress. Fortunately, I handed you over to the nanny Matryona just in time. Such a nasty boy you were then!… But that's not the point. All the land beyond our farmstead, and the village of Khor-tyshche itself, belonged to Stepan Kuzmich. Even before you came into the world, I must tell you, he started visiting your mother– true, at times when your father wasn't home. Not that I say it in reproach of her! God rest her soul!-though the dear departed was always unfair to me. But that's not the point. Be that as it may, only Stepan Kuzmich left you a deed of gift for that very estate I've been talking about. But, just between us, your late mother was of a most whimsical character. The devil himself, Lord forgive me the vile word, wouldn't have been able to understand her. What she did with that deed, God alone knows. I simply think it's in the hands of that old bachelor Grigory Grigorievich Storchenko. That fat-bellied rogue got the whole estate. I'm ready to stake God knows what that he concealed the deed."

"Allow me to say, Auntie-isn't that the Storchenko I became acquainted with at the posting station?"

Here Ivan Fyodorovich told of his encounter.

"Who knows about him!" the aunt replied, after pondering a little. "Maybe he's not a scoundrel. True, it's only six months since he moved here to live, not long enough to get to know the man. The old woman, his mother, is a very sensible woman, I've heard, and a great expert at pickling cucumbers, they say. Her serf girls make excellent rugs. But since you say he was nice to you, go and see him! Maybe the old sinner will listen to his conscience and give back what doesn't belong to him. You're welcome to take the britzka, only those cursed children pulled all the nails out in the rear. The coachman Omelko must be told to tack the leather down all over."

"What for, Auntie? I'll take the dogcart you sometimes go hunting in."

At that the conversation ended.

IV The Dinner

At dinnertime Ivan Fyodorovich drove into the village of Khor-tyshche and turned a bit timid as he began to approach the master's house. This house was long and covered not with a thatched roof, such as many neighboring landowners had, but with wood. The two barns in the yard also had wooden roofs; the gates were of oak. Ivan Fyodorovich was like that dandy who, having come to a ball, looks around and sees that everyone is dressed more smartly than he is. Out of deference, he stopped his cart by the barn and went on foot to the porch.

"Ah! Ivan Fyodorovich!" cried the fat Grigory Grigorievich, who was walking about the yard in a frock coat but with no tie, waistcoat, or suspenders. However, even this outfit seemed to burden his corpulent girth, because he was sweating profusely. "Why, you said you'd just greet your aunt and come straight over, and then you didn't!" After which words, Ivan Fyodorovich's lips met with the same familiar pillows.

"It's mostly the cares of the estate… I've come for a moment, sir, on business, as a matter of fact…"

"For a moment? Now, that won't do. Hey, boy!" cried the fat host, and the same boy in the Cossack blouse ran out from the kitchen. "Tell Kasian to lock the gates at once, do you hear, lock them tight! And unharness the gentleman's horses this minute! Please go in, it's so hot here my shirt's soaking wet."

Ivan Fyodorovich, having gone in, resolved not to lose any time, and, despite his timidity, to attack resolutely.

"My aunt had the honor… she told me that a deed of gift from the late Stepan Kuzmich…"

It's hard to describe what a disagreeable look these words produced on the vast face of Grigory Grigorievich.

"By God, I can't hear a thing!" he replied. "I must tell you, I once had a cockroach sitting in my left ear. Those cursed Russians breed cockroaches everywhere in their cottages. No pen can describe what a torment it was. Tickle, tickle, tickle. An old woman helped me with the simplest remedy…"

"I wanted to say…" Ivan Fyodorovich ventured to interrupt, seeing that Grigory Grigorievich deliberately meant to divert their talk to other things, "that the late Stepan Kuzmich's will mentions, so to speak, a deed of gift… according to which, sir, there is owing to me…"

"I know, it's your aunt who's managed to talk you up. It's a lie, by God, a lie! My uncle never made any deed of gift. True, there's mention of some deed in the will, but where is it? No one has produced it. I'm telling you this because I sincerely wish you well. By God, it's a lie!"

Ivan Fyodorovich fell silent, considering that, indeed, it may only have been his aunt's imagination.

"And here comes mama with my sisters!" said Grigory Grigorievich, "which means dinner is ready. Come along!" Whereupon he dragged Ivan Fyodorovich by the arm to a room with a table on which vodka and appetizers stood.

At the same time a little old lady came in, short, a veritable coffee pot in a bonnet, with two young ladies, one fair and one dark. Ivan Fyodorovich, being a well-bred cavalier, went up to kiss the old lady's hand first, and then the hands of the two young ladies.

"This is our neighbor, mama, Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka!" said Grigory Grigorievich.

The old lady looked intently at Ivan Fyodorovich, or perhaps it only seemed that she did. Anyhow, she was kindness itself. It seemed all she wanted was to ask Ivan Fyodorovich how many cucumbers they had pickled for the winter.

"Did you drink some vodka?" the little old lady asked.

"Mama, you must not have had enough sleep," said Grigory Grigorievich. "Who asks a guest whether he's had a drink? Just keep offering, and whether we've drunk or not is our business. Ivan Fyodorovich, if you please, centaury or caraway flavored, which do you prefer? What are you doing standing there, Ivan Ivanovich?" Grigory Grigorievich said, turning around, and Ivan Fyodorovich saw Ivan Ivanovich approaching the vodka in a long-skirted frock coat with an enormous standing collar that covered the nape of his neck completely, so that his head sat in the collar as in a britzka.

Ivan Ivanovich approached the vodka, rubbed his hands, examined the glass well, filled it, held it up to the light, poured all the vodka from the glass into his mouth without swallowing it, rinsed his mouth well with it, after which he swallowed it and, downing some bread with salted mushrooms, turned to Ivan Fyo-dorovich: