The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol

by Nikolai Gogol

  "If you please, I'll tell you where I've been," answered the police chief. "First of all, I must inform you that the weather today is excellent. . ."

  At these last words Ivan Ivanovich nearly died.

  "But, if you please," the police chief went on. "I've come to you today on a rather important matter." Here the police chief's face and bearing adopted the same preoccupied attitude with which he had stormed the porch.

  Ivan Ivanovich revived and trembled as in a fever, being prompt, as usual, to ask a question: "What's important about it? Is it really important?"

  "Only consider, if you please: first of all, I venture to inform you, my gentle friend and benefactor, Ivan Ivanovich, that you . . . for my part, I . . . please consider, it's nothing to me; but governmental considerations, governmental considerations require it: you have violated the rules of proper order! . . ."

  "What are you saying, Pyotr Fyodorovich? I don't understand a thing."

  "Good gracious, Ivan Ivanovich! How is it you don't understand a thing? Your own animal stole a very important official document, and after that you say you don't understand a thing!"

  "What animal?"

  "Your own brown sow, if you please."

  "And what fault is that of mine? The court guard shouldn't leave the door open!"

  "But, Ivan Ivanovich, it's your own animal—that means it's your fault."

  "I humbly thank you for making me equal to a sow."

  "Now, I didn't say that, Ivan Ivanovich! By God, I didn't! Please judge in pure conscience: it is known to you, beyond any doubt, that according to the official rules, unclean animals are forbidden to walk about the town, more especially the main streets of the town. You must agree it's forbidden."

  "God knows what your saying! A big thing if a sow goes out in the street!"

  "If you please, Ivan Ivanovich, I must inform you, if you please, if you please, this is absolutely impossible! There's no help for it.

  Authority wills—we must obey. I don't argue, chickens and geese sometimes run around in the streets and even in the square— chickens and geese, mark you—but as for pigs and goats, I already gave instructions last year not to allow them in the public squares. Which instructions I ordered read aloud before all the assembled people."

  "No, Pyotr Fyodorovich, I see nothing here, except that you are trying in every way to offend me."

  "Now, that you cannot say, my most gentle friend and benefactor—that I am trying to offend you. You remember: I didn't say a word last year when you built a roof a whole three feet higher than the regulation measure. On the contrary, I made it seem as if I'd ignored it completely. Believe me, my most gentle friend, even now I would completely, so to speak . . .but my duty—in short, responsibility demands the observance of cleanliness. Judge for yourself, if on the main street suddenly . . ."

  "Much good your main streets are! The women all go there to throw out whatever they don't need."

  "If you please, I must inform you, Ivan Ivanovich, that it is you who are offending me! True, it does happen occasionally, but for the most part only by the fence, the sheds, or the storehouses; but that a sow in farrow should get into the main street, into the square, such a thing ..."

  "What of it, Pyotr Fyodorovich! Sows are God's creatures!"

  "I agree! The whole world knows that you're a learned man. You know science and various other subjects. I never studied any science, of course. I began learning to write longhand when I was going on thirty. As you know, I came up from the ranks."

  "Hm!" said Ivan Ivanovich.

  "Yes," the police chief went on, "in the year eighteen-oh-one I was a lieutenant in the fourth company of the forty-second regiment of chasseurs. Our company commander, be it known to you, was Captain Yeremeev." Here the police chief poked his fingers into the snuffbox that Ivan Ivanovich was holding open while rubbing the snuff.

  Ivan Ivanovich replied: "Hm!"

  "But it is my duty," the police chief went on, "to obey the demands of the government. Do you know, Ivan Ivanovich, that someone who purloins an official document in court is subject to criminal prosecution, the same as for any other crime?"

  "I know it so well that I'll also teach you, if you like. It says that about people—if you, for instance, had stolen the document—but a sow is an animal, a creature of God!"

  "That's all very true, but the law says 'guilty of purloining . . .' I ask you to listen attentively: guilty! Here neither kind, nor sex, nor rank is mentioned—that means an animal can also be guilty. Say what you will, but before being sentenced to punishment, the animal must be presented to the police as a violator of order."

  "No, Pyotr Fyodorovich!" Ivan Ivanovich objected coolly. "That will not be!"

  "As you wish, only I must follow the instructions of the authorities."

  "Why are you trying to scare me? Really, do you want to send the one-armed soldier for me? I'll tell my serving woman to drive him out with a poker. He'll have his last arm broken."

  "I wouldn't dare argue with you. In that case, if you don't want to present her to the police, make whatever use of her you please: butcher her for Christmas whenever you like, and make some hams, or just eat her. Only, if you're going to make sausages, I'll ask you to send me a couple of the ones your Gapka is so good at making, with pork blood and fat. My Agrafena Trofimovna likes them very much."

  "I'll send you a couple of sausages, if you please."

  "I'll be very grateful to you, my gentle friend and benefactor. Now, allow me to tell you just one word more: I've been charged by the judge, as well as by all our acquaintances, to reconcile you, so to speak, with your friend Ivan Nikiforovich."

  "What! with that boor? I should be reconciled with that churl? Never! It will not be, it will not!" Ivan Ivanovich was in an extremely resolute state of mind.

  "As you wish," replied the police chief, treating both his nostrils to snuff. "I wouldn't dare give advice: allow me to tell you, however, that you're quarreling now, but once you're reconciled . . ."

  But Ivan Ivanovich began talking about hunting quail, which usually happened when he wanted to change the subject.

  And so, having achieved no success, the police chief had to go back where he came from.

  Chapter VI

  From Which the Reader May Easily Learn Everything Contained in It.

  HARD THOUGH THEY tried to conceal the matter in court, by the next day the whole of Mirgorod knew that Ivan Ivanovich's sow had stolen Ivan Nikiforovich's petition. The police chief was the first to forget himself and let it slip. When Ivan Nikiforovich was told of it, he said nothing, asking only: "Was she brown?"

  But Agafya Fedoseevna, who was present, again began to get after Ivan Nikiforovich: "What's the matter with you, Ivan Nikiforovich? You'll be laughed at like a fool if you let it pass! What kind of gentleman will you be after that! You'll be worse than the woman who sells the sweets you like so much!"

  And the obstreperous woman convinced him! She found a middle-aged little man somewhere, swarthy, with blotches all over his face, in a dark blue frock coat with patched elbows—a perfect office inkpot! He tarred his boots, carried three quills behind his ear and a glass vial tied to a button with string instead of an inkpot; he ate nine pies at one go and stuffed the tenth into his pocket, and he could write so much of every sort of calumny on one sheet of stamped paper that no reader could read through it at one go without interspersing it with coughs and sneezes. This small semblance of a human being toiled, moiled, scribbled, and finally cooked up the following document:

  "To the Mirgorod regional court from Ivan, son of Nikifor, Dovguchkhun, gentleman.

  "Pursuant upon the said petition of mine, which came from me, Ivan, son of Nikifor, Dovgochkhun, gentleman, in conjunction with Ivan, son of Ivan, Pererepenko, gentleman, to which the same Mirgorod regional court has shown its indulgence. And this same said brazen willfulness of the brown sow, being kept secret and coming to be heard through outside persons. Since the said permissiveness and indulgence is
indisputably subject to prosecution as ill-intentioned; for the said sow is a stupid animal and that much less capable of stealing a document. From which it obviously follows that the oft-mentioned sow was undoubtedly put up to it by the adversary himself, the self-styled gentleman, Ivan, son of Ivan, Pererepenko, already exposed as a robber, attempted murderer, and blasphemer. But the said Mirgorod court, with its peculiar partiality, evinced secret connivance of its person; without which connivance the said sow could in no way have been permitted to steal the document: for the Mirgorod regional court is well provided with servants, it being enough to mention just the soldier alone, who abides in the anteroom at all times, and who, though having a crippled arm and one blind eye, is of quite commensurable ability for driving a sow away and hitting her with a cudgel. From which may be trustworthily seen the connivance of the said Mirgorod regional court and the indisputable sharing of the Jewish profits from it by combining mutually. And the said aforementioned robber and gentleman, Ivan, son of Ivan, Pererepenko, is acting as a fraudulent plaintiff. Which is why I, Ivan, son of Nikifor, Dovgochkhun, gentleman, bring it to the due omniscience of the said regional court that, unless the stated petition is extracted from the brown sow or her accomplice, the gentleman Pererepenko, and a decision on it is justly made in my favor, I, Ivan, son of Nikifor, Dovgochkhun, gentleman, will file a complaint with the state court concerning the illegal connivance of the said court, with the appropriate formal transfer of the case.—Ivan, son of Nikifor, Dovgochkhun, gentleman of the Mirgorod region."

  This petition had its effect: the judge, like all good people generally, was a man of a cowardly sort. He turned to the secretary. But the secretary sent a deep "Hm" through his teeth and showed on his face that indifferent and devilishly ambiguous expression which Satan alone wears when he sees at his feet a victim having recourse to him. One means remained: to reconcile the two friends. But how to set about it, if all attempts so far had proved unsuccessful? Nevertheless, they decided to try again; but Ivan Ivanovich announced directly that he did not wish to, and even became very angry. Ivan Nikiforovich, instead of a reply, turned his back and didn't say a word. Then the matter proceeded with the extraordinary rapidity for which courts are ordinarily so famous. The document was marked, recorded, assigned a number, filed, signed, all on one and the same day, and the case was put on a shelf, where it lay and lay and lay—a year, another, a third. A host of brides managed to get married; a new street was laid in Mirgorod; the judge lost a molar and two eyeteeth; Ivan Ivanovich had more kids running around the yard than ever—where they came from God only knows! Ivan Nikiforovich, to reprove Ivan Ivanovich, built a new goose pen, though a bit further away than the former one, and got himself completely built off from Ivan Ivanovich, so that these worthy people hardly ever glimpsed each other's faces—and the case went on lying, in the very best order, on the shelf, which ink blots had turned to marble.

  Meanwhile there took place an extremely important event for the whole of Mirgorod. The police chief gave a party! Where shall I get brushes and paints to portray the diversity of the gathering and the sumptuous feast? Take a watch, open it, and see what goes on inside!

  Awful nonsense, isn't it? And now imagine as many wheels, if not more, standing in the middle of the police chief's yard. What britzkas and carts there were! One with a wide rear and a narrow front; another with a narrow rear and a wide front. One that was both britzka and cart at the same time; another that was neither britzka nor cart; one resembling an enormous haystack or a merchant's fat wife; another a disheveled Jew or a skeleton not yet entirely free of skin; one had the perfect profile of a pipe with a chibouk; another resembled nothing at all, the image of some strange creature, perfectly ugly and extremely fantastic. From the middle of all this chaos of wheels and boxes there arose the semblance of a carriage with a room-sized window crossed with a thick frame. Coachmen in gray caftans, blouses, and hempen coats, in sheepskin hats and miscellaneous peaked caps, pipes in their hands, led unharnessed horses across the yard. What a party the police chief gave! If you like, I'll list everybody who was there: Taras Tarasovich, Evpl Akinfovich, Evtikhy Evtikhievich, Ivan Ivanovich—not that Ivan Ivanovich but the other one, Sawa Gavrilovich, our Ivan Ivanovich, Elevfery Elevferievich, Makar Nazarievich, Foma Grigorievich . . . I can't go on! it's beyond me! My hand is tired of writing! And so many ladies! swarthy and fair, tall and short, some fat as Ivan Nikiforovich, some so thin it seemed each of them could have been put into the police chief's scabbard. So many hats! so many dresses! red, yellow, coffee, green, blue, new, turned, re-cut; shawls, ribbons, reticules! Farewell, poor eyes! After this spectacle you won't be good for anything.

  And what a long table was stretched out! And how they all talked, what noise they made! A mill with all its millstones, wheels, gears, and mortars is nothing compared to that! I can't tell you what they talked about, but I can only think it was about many pleasant and useful things, such as: the weather, dogs, wheat, hats, stallions. Finally, Ivan Ivanovich—not that Ivan Ivanovich but the other one, who is blind in one eye—said: "I find it strange that my right eye" (the one-eyed Ivan Ivanovich always spoke of himself ironically) "does not see Ivan Nikiforovich, Mr. Dovgochkhun."

  "He didn't want to come," said the police chief.

  "How so?"

  "It's already two years, God bless us, since they quarreled with each other—Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich, that is—and where the one is, the other won't go for anything!"

  "What are you saying?" With that the one-eyed Ivan Ivanovich raised his eyes and clasped his hands. "Well, now, if people with good eyes can't live in peace, how will I get along with my blind one!"

  At these words everybody roared with laughter. Everybody liked the one-eyed Ivan Ivanovich, because the jokes he cracked were entirely in the present-day taste. Even the tall, lean man in the cotton flannel frock coat with a plaster on his nose, who till then had been sitting in the corner and had never once changed the movement of his face, even when a fly flew up his nose—this same gentleman got up from his seat and moved closer to the crowd that had formed around the one-eyed Ivan Ivanovich.

  "Listen!" said the one-eyed Ivan Ivanovich, when he saw that he had a good-sized company around him. "Listen! Instead of you all now ogling my blind eye, why don't we get our two friends reconciled instead! Right now Ivan Ivanovich is talking with the women and girls—let's quietly send for Ivan Nikiforovich and push them together."

  Everybody unanimously accepted Ivan Ivanovich's suggestion and decided immediately to send for Ivan Nikiforovich at home, to ask him by all means to come to dinner at the police chief's. But an important problem—whom to entrust with this important errand—threw them all into perplexity. They argued for a long time over who was most capable and skillful along diplomatic lines; finally it was unanimously decided to entrust it all to Anton Prokofievich Golopuz. 9

  But first we must acquaint the reader somewhat with this remarkable character. Anton Prokofievich was a wholly virtuous man in the full sense of the word: if one of the distinguished persons of Mirgorod gave him a neckerchief or undergarment, he thanked him; if someone flicked him slightly on the nose, he thanked him for that as well. If someone asked him, "How is it, Anton Prokofievich, that your frock coat is brown but the sleeves are light blue?" he always used to reply: "And you don't have anything like it! Just wait, it'll get worn and turn the same color all over!" And indeed, under the effect of the sun, the blue cloth began to turn brown and now matches the color of the frock coat perfectly! But the strange thing is that Anton Prokofievich was in the habit of wearing flannel clothes in the summer and nankeen in the winter. Anton Prokofievich has no house of his own. He had one once, at the edge of town, but he sold it and used the money to buy a troika of bay horses and a small britzka, in which he drove around visiting landowners. But since they were a lot of trouble, and he had to have money to buy oats besides, Anton Prokofievich traded them for a fiddle and a serving girl, with twenty-five roubles to boot. The
n Anton Prokofievich sold the fiddle and traded the girl for a gold brocade tobacco pouch. And now he has a pouch such as no one else has. Owing to this pleasure, he can no longer drive around visiting estates, but has to stay in town and sleep in various houses, particularly those of the gentlemen who enjoy giving him flicks on the nose. Anton Prokofievich likes to eat well and plays a good game of "fools" and "millers." Obedience was always his element, and therefore, taking his hat and stick, he set forth immediately. But, as he walked, he began reasoning about how he might induce Ivan Nikiforovich to come to the party. The rather tough character of this otherwise worthy man made the undertaking all but impossible. And why, indeed, should he venture to come, if getting up from his bed was already a great labor for him? But, supposing he did get up, why should he go to a place where—as he undoubtedly knew—his implacable enemy was? The more Anton Prokofievich thought about it, the more obstacles he found. The day was stifling; the sun burned down; sweat streamed from him. Anton Prokofievich, though he might be flicked on the nose, was a very clever man in many respects—he simply wasn't so lucky at trading—and knew very well when he should pretend to be a fool, and sometimes proved resourceful in circumstances and on occasions when an intelligent man would scarcely have been able to wriggle his way out.

  While his inventive mind was thinking up some means of convincing Ivan Nikiforovich, and he was already going bravely to meet it all, a certain unexpected circumstance left him rather bewildered. Here it will do no harm to inform the reader that Anton Prokofievich had, among other things, a pair of trousers with the strange property that, whenever he wore them, dogs always bit him on the calves. As ill luck would have it, he was wearing precisely those trousers that day. And that was why he had no sooner given himself over to reflection than his hearing was struck by terrible barking on all sides. Anton Prokofievich raised such a cry—no one could shout louder than he—that not only our woman acquaintance and the owner of the boundless frock coat ran to meet him, but even the boys from Ivan Ivanovich's yard came pouring out, and though the dogs only managed to bite one of his legs, nevertheless it greatly diminished his cheerfulness, and he approached the porch with a certain timidity.