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 Nikiforovich.
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 Popov3 (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.
Finally, however, he came to his senses and got down to his usual affairs. He had a late dinner, and it was nearly evening when he lay down to rest on the gallery. A good borscht with squab, made by Gapka, drove the morning's incident away completely. Ivan Ivanovich again began to survey his domain with pleasure. Finally his gaze rested on his neighbor's yard and he said to himself: "I haven't been to Ivan Nikiforovich's today; I must go and see him." Having said that, Ivan Ivanovich took his hat and stick and went outside; but as soon as he passed through the gate, he remembered the quarrel, spat, and turned back. Almost the same movement occurred in Ivan Nikiforovich's yard. Ivan Ivanovich saw the woman already setting her foot on the wattle fence, intending to climb into his yard, when Ivan Nikiforovich's voice suddenly rang out: "Come back! come back! never mind!" However, Ivan Ivanovich got very bored. It was quite possible that the two worthy men would have made peace the very next day if a certain event in Ivan Nikiforovich's house hadn't dashed all hopes and poured oil on the flames of enmity that were ready to die out.
In the evening of the same day, Agafya Fedoseevna arrived at Ivan Nikiforovich's. Agafya Fedoseevna was neither a relation nor an in-law, nor even a kuma4 of Ivan Nikiforovich. It would seem she had absolutely no reason for coming to visit him, and he himself was not very glad to have her; nevertheless she would come and stay for whole weeks and sometimes longer. Then she would take the keys, and the entire household would be in her hands. This was very unpleasant for Ivan Nikiforovich, and yet, to his own surprise, he obeyed her like a child, and though he sometimes tried to object, Agafya Fedoseevna always came out on top.
I confess I don't understand why it's so arranged that women grab us by the nose as deftly as if it were a teapot handle. Either their hands are made for it, or our noses are no longer good for anything. And despite the fact that Ivan Nikiforovich's nose somewhat resembled a plum, she still grabbed him by that nose and led him around with her like a little dog. In her presence he even changed, involuntarily, his usual way of life: he did not spend so long lying in the sun, and if he did, it was not in his natural state but always in a shirt and trousers, though Agafya Fedoseevna by no means demanded it. She was not a lover of ceremony, and when Ivan Nikiforovich had a fever, she herself, with her own hands, rubbed him from head to foot with turpentine and vinegar. Agafya Fedoseevna wore a cap on her head, three warts on her nose, and a coffee-colored housecoat with little yellow flowers. Her whole body resembled a barrel, and therefore it was as hard to find her waist as to see your own nose without a mirror. Her legs were short, formed after the pattern of two pillows. She gossiped, ate boiled beets in the mornings, and cursed exceedingly well—her face never once changing its ex
pression during all these diverse occupations, a thing which only women are customarily able to display.
As soon as she came, everything turned inside out.
"Don't make peace with him, Ivan Nikiforovich, and don't apologize: he wants to ruin you, that's the sort of man he is! You don't know him yet."
The accursed woman muttered and muttered and made it so that Ivan Nikiforovich didn't even want to hear about Ivan Ivanovich.
Everything looked different now: if a neighboring dog happened to get into the yard, it was beaten with whatever came to hand; the children who climbed over the fence came back screaming, their shirts tucked up, with traces of a birching on their backsides. Even the woman herself, when Ivan Ivanovich wished to ask her about something, performed such an indecency that Ivan Ivanovich, as a man of extreme delicacy, spat and said only, "What a nasty woman! Worse than her master!"
Finally, to crown all the insults, his hateful neighbor had a goose pen built directly facing him, where they used to climb over the wattle fence, as if with the special purpose of aggravating the insult. This pen, repulsive to Ivan Ivanovich, was built with devilish speed—in a single day.
This aroused anger and a desire for revenge in Ivan Ivanovich. He did not, however, show any sign of irritation, despite the fact that the pen even occupied a portion of his land; but his heart beat so hard that it was extremely difficult for him to maintain this external calm.
So he spent the day. Night came . . . Oh, if I were a painter, I would wondrously portray all the loveliness of the night! I would portray how all Mirgorod lies sleeping; how countless stars gaze motionlessly down on it; how the visible silence resounds with the near and far-off barking of dogs; how the amorous beadle races past them and climbs over the fence with chivalrous fearlessness; how the white walls of houses enveloped in moonlight turn still whiter, the trees above them turn darker, the shadow of the trees falls blacker, the flowers and hushed grass grow more fragrant, and the crickets, indefatigable cavaliers of the night, with one accord begin their chirping songs in all corners. I would portray how, in one of these low clay cottages, a dark-browed town girl with quivering young breasts tosses on her solitary bed dreaming of a hussar's mustache and spurs while moonlight laughs on her cheeks. I would portray how the black shadow of a bat flits over the white road and settles on the white chimneys of the houses. . . But I would scarcely be able to portray Ivan Ivanovich going out that night with a saw in his hand. So many different feelings were written on his face! Softly, softly he crept close and got under the goose pen. Ivan Nikiforovich's dogs still knew nothing of the quarrel between them and therefore allowed him, as an old friend, to approach the pen, which rested entirely on four oak posts. Coming to the nearest post, he put his saw to it and began sawing. The noise produced by the saw made him look around every moment, but the thought of the offense restored his courage. The first post was sawn through; Ivan Ivanovich went on to the next. His eyes glowed and saw nothing from fear. Suddenly Ivan Ivanovich cried out and went numb: a dead man appeared to him; but he quickly recovered, seeing it was a goose stretching out its neck toward him. Ivan Ivanovich spat in indignation and began to go on with his work. The second post was sawn through: the building lurched. Ivan Ivanovich's heart began to pound so terribly when he started on the third that he interrupted his work several times; it was already more than half sawn through when the unsteady building suddenly lurched badly . . . Ivan Ivanovich barely managed to jump clear as it collapsed with a crash. Grabbing his saw, terribly frightened, he went running home and threw himself on his bed, not having the courage even to look out the window at the consequences of his dreadful deed. He fancied that Ivan Nikiforovich's entire household had gathered: the old woman, Ivan Nikiforovich, the boy in the endless frock coat—armed with pikestaffs, Agafya Fedoseevna at their head, they were all coming to devastate and destroy his house.
The whole of the next day Ivan Ivanovich spent as if in a fever. He kept imagining that in revenge for it his hateful neighbor would at the very least set fire to his house. And he therefore gave Gapka orders to keep an eye out at all times everywhere for dry straw stuck someplace or other. Finally, in order to forestall Ivan Nikiforovich, he decided to run ahead hare-like and make a claim against him in the Mirgorod local court. What it consisted of can be found out in the next chapter.
Chapter IV
About What Happened in the Office of the Mirgorod Local Court.
A WONDERFUL TOWN, Mirgorod! What buildings it has! And with thatch, or rush, or even wooden roofs; a street to the right, a street to the left, excellent wattle fences everywhere; hops twine over them, pots hang on them, from behind them the sunflower shows it sunlike head, poppies redden, fat pumpkins flash . . . Magnificent! A wattle fence is always adorned with objects that make it still more picturesque: a hanging apron, or a shift, or balloon trousers. In Mirgorod there is neither thievery nor crookery, and therefore everybody hangs up whatever he likes. When you get to the square, you're sure to stop for a while and admire the view: there is a puddle in it, an astonishing puddle! the only one like it you'll ever chance to see! It takes up almost the whole square. A beautiful puddle! The houses, big and small, which from afar might be taken for haystacks, stand around marveling at its beauty.
But to my mind there's no house better than the local courthouse. Whether it's made of oak or birch is not my affair; but it has eight windows, my dear sirs! eight windows in a row, looking right onto the square and that expanse of water of which I've already spoken and which the police chief calls a lake! It alone is painted a granite color: the rest of the houses of Mirgorod are simply whitewashed. Its roof is entirely of wood, and would even have been painted with red paint, if the oil prepared for that purpose had not been eaten, garnished with onion, by the clerks, which happened, as if by design, during a fast period, and so the roof went un-painted. The porch juts out into the square, and chickens often run about on it, because there's almost always grain or something else edible spilled on the porch, though that is not done on purpose but solely through the carelessness of the petitioners. It is divided into two halves: in one is the office, in the other the jail-house. In the half where the office is, there are two clean, whitewashed rooms: one, the anteroom, is for petitioners; in the other, there's a desk adorned with ink blots, and on it a zertsalo. 5 Four oak chairs with high backs; against the walls, ironbound chests containing piles of regional calumny. On one of these chests there then stood a boot polished with wax. The office had been open since morning. The judge, a rather plump man, though somewhat thinner than Ivan Nikiforovich, with a kindly mien, in a greasy housecoat, holding a pipe and a cup of tea, was talking with the court clerk. The judge's lips were right under his nose, and he could therefore sniff his upper lip to his heart's content.
This lip served him as a snuffbox, because the snuff addressed to his nose almost always spilled on it. And so, the judge was talking with the court clerk. To one side stood a barefoot girl holding a tray with teacups.
At the end of the table, the secretary was reading the decision of a case, but in such a monotonous and mournful voice that the accused himself might have fallen asleep listening to it. The judge would undoubtedly have done so before anyone else, if he hadn't entered, meanwhile, into an amusing conversation.
"I purposely tried to find out," the judge said, sipping tea from the already cold cup, "how they turn out to sing so well. I had a fine blackbird some two years ago. What then? Suddenly he went off completely. Started singing God knows what. As it continued, he got worse, turned guttural, hoarse—fit for the trash heap. And owing to a mere trifle! Here's how it happens: they get a lump under the throat, smaller than a pea. You need only prick this lump with a needle. Zakhar Prokofievich taught me that, and I'll tell you precisely how: I come to see him. . ."
"Shall I read another one, Demyan Demyanovich?" interrupted the secretary, who had already finished reading several minutes earlier.
"You read all of it? Imagine, so quickly! I didn't
hear a thing! Where is it? Give it to me, I'll sign it. What else have you got?"
"The Cossack Bokitko's case concerning the stolen cow."
"Very well, read it! So, I come to see him ... I can even tell you in detail what he treated me to. The vodka was served with a balyk6—one of a kind! Yes, not like our balyk, which"—here the judge clucked his tongue and smiled, while his nose sniffed from his usual snuffbox—"which our Mirgorod grocery treats us to. I didn't eat any pickled herring, because, as you yourself know, it gives me heartburn. But I did try the caviar—wonderful caviar! not to say excellent! Then I drank some peach vodka flavored with centaury. There was also saffron vodka, but, as you yourself know, I don't drink saffron vodka. It's very nice, you see: first to arouse the appetite, as they say, and then to finish . . . Ah! it's been ages, ages . . ." the judge suddenly cried out, seeing Ivan Ivanovich come in.
"God be with you! I wish you good day!" said Ivan Ivanovich, bowing to all sides with a pleasantness proper only to himself. My God, how he's able to charm everyone with his manners! Such refinement I've never seen anywhere. He knew his own worth very well, and therefore regarded general respect as his due. The judge himself offered Ivan Ivanovich a chair, and his nose drew all the snuff from his upper lip, which with him was always a sign of great pleasure.
"What may we offer you, Ivan Ivanovich?" he asked. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"
"No, thank you very much," replied Ivan Ivanovich, bowing and sitting down.
"If you please, just one little cup!" repeated the judge.
"No, thank you. You are most hospitable," Ivan Ivanovich replied, bowing and sitting down.
"One cup," repeated the judge.
"No, don't trouble yourself, Demyan Demyanovich."
With that, Ivan Ivanovich bowed and sat down.
"One little cup?"
The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol Page 25