The Collected tales of Nikolai Gogol

The philosopher was moved by such inconsolable sorrow. He coughed and gave a muffled grunt, wishing thereby to clear his voice a little.

The chief turned and pointed to the place at the dead girl's head, before a small lectern on which some books lay.

"I can do the three nights' work somehow," thought the philosopher, "and the master will fill both my pockets with gold coins for it."

He approached and, clearing his throat once more, began to read, paying no attention to anything around him and not daring to look into the dead girl's face. A deep silence settled in. He noticed that the chief had left. Slowly he turned his head to look at the dead girl, and…

A shudder ran through his veins: before him lay a beauty such as there had never been on earth. It seemed that facial features had never before been assembled into such sharp yet harmonious beauty. She lay as if alive. Her brow, beautiful, tender, like snow, like silver, seemed thoughtful; her eyebrows-night amid a sunny day, thin, regular-rose proudly over her closed eyes, and her eyelashes, falling pointy on her cheeks, burned with the heat of hidden desires; her mouth-rubies about to smile… Yet in them, in these same features, he saw something terribly piercing. He felt his soul begin to ache somehow painfully, as if, in the whirl of merriment and giddiness of a crowd, someone suddenly struck up a song about oppressed people. The rubies of her mouth seemed to make the blood scald his heart. Suddenly something terribly familiar showed in her face.

"The witch!" he cried out in a voice not his own, looked away, turned pale, and began reading his prayers.

It was the very witch he had killed.

When the sun began to set, the dead girl was taken to the church. The philosopher supported the black-draped coffin with one shoulder, and on that shoulder he felt something cold as ice. The chief himself walked in front, bearing the right side of the dead girl's cramped house. The blackened wooden church, adorned with green moss and topped by three conical cupolas, stood desolate almost at the edge of the village. One could see it was long since any service had been celebrated in it. Candles burned before almost every icon. The coffin was placed in the middle, right in front of the altar. The old chief kissed the dead girl once more, made a prostration, and walked out together with the bearers, ordering the philosopher to be given a good meal and taken to the church after supper. Going into the kitchen, all those who had carried the coffin started touching the stove, something people in Little Russia have the custom of doing after they see a dead body.

The hunger that the philosopher began to feel just then made him-forget all about the deceased for a few moments. Soon all the household servants began gradually to gather in the kitchen. The kitchen of the chief's house was something like a club, to which everything that inhabited the yard flowed, including the dogs, who came right up to the door wagging their tails for bones and scraps. Wherever anyone might be sent, on whatever errand, he would always stop at the kitchen first, to rest on a bench for a moment and smoke a pipe. The bachelors who lived in the house and paraded around in Cossack blouses all lay about here for almost the whole day, on the benches, under the benches, on the stove-in short, wherever they could find a comfortable place to lie. Besides, everybody was forever forgetting something in the kitchen-a hat, a knout for stray dogs, or the like. But the most numerous gathering was at suppertime, when the horseherd came after rounding up all his horses, and the cowherd after bringing the cows home for milking, and all the rest who were not to be seen in the course of the day. During supper, loquacity would come to the most taciturn tongues. Here everything was usually talked about: someone who was having new trousers made for himself… and what was inside the earth… and someone who had seen a wolf… There were numerous bonmotists 7 here, of whom there is no lack among the people of Little Russia.

The philosopher sat down with the others in a wide circle under the open sky in front of the kitchen porch. Soon a woman in a red cap stuck herself out the door holding a hot pot of dumplings with both hands, and placed it in the midst of those ready to eat. Each of them took a wooden spoon from his pocket, or some, lacking a spoon, a splinter of wood. As soon as the mouths began to move a bit more slowly and the wolfish appetite of the whole gathering subsided a little, many began to talk. The talk naturally had to turn to the dead girl.

"Is it true," said one young shepherd, who had stuck so many buttons and brass badges on his leather pipe strap that he looked like a mercer's shop, "is it true that the young miss, not to speak ill of her, kept company with the unclean one?"

"Who? The young miss?" said Dorosh, already known to our philosopher. "But she was a downright witch! I'll swear she was a witch!"

"Enough, enough, Dorosh!" said another, the one who had shown such readiness to give comfort during the trip. "God help them, it's none of our business. No point in talking about it."

But Dorosh was not at all disposed to be silent. He had only just gone to the cellar with the steward on some necessary business and, after bending a couple of times to two or three barrels, had come out extremely cheerful and talking nonstop.

"What do you want? For me to keep quiet?" he said. "But she rode on me, on me myself! By God, she did!"

"And what, uncle," said the young shepherd with the buttons, "are there some tokens you can tell a witch by?"

"No," answered Dorosh. "There's no way to tell. Read through all the psalters, you still won't be able to tell."

"You can, too, Dorosh. Don't say that," said the same comforter. "Not for nothing did God give everybody a special trait. People who've got some learning say witches have little tails."

When a woman s old, she s a witch, the gray-haired Cossack said coolly.

"Ah, you're a good lot, too!" picked up the woman, who was just then pouring fresh dumplings into the emptied pot. "Real fat boars!"

The old Cossack, whose name was Yavtukh but who was nicknamed Kovtun, showed a smile of pleasure on his lips, seeing that his words had struck the old woman to the quick; and the cowherd let out such dense laughter as if two bulls, facing each other, had bellowed at once.

The beginning conversation awakened an irrepressible desire and curiosity in the philosopher to learn more in detail about the chief's deceased daughter. And therefore, wishing to bring him back to the former matter, he addressed his neighbor with these words:

"I wanted to ask, why is it that all the folk sitting here over supper consider the young miss a witch? What, did she cause some evil or put a hex on somebody or other?"

"There were all kinds of things," replied one of the seated men, with a smooth face extremely like a shovel.

"And who doesn't remember the huntsman Mikita, or that…"

"And what about the huntsman Mikita?" said the philosopher.

"Wait! I'll tell about the huntsman Mikita," said Dorosh.

"I'll tell about Mikita," said the herdsman, "because he was my chum."

"I'll tell about Mikita," said Spirid.

"Let him! Let Spirid tell it!" shouted the crowd.

Spirid began:

"You, mister philosopher Khoma, didn't know Mikita. Ah, what a rare man he was! He knew every dog like his own father, so he did. The present huntsman Mikola, who's sitting third down from me, can't hold a candle to him. He also knows his business, but next to Mikita he's trash, slops."

"You're telling it good, really good!" said Dorosh, nodding approvingly.

Spirid went on:

"He'd spot a rabbit quicker than you could take a pinch of snuff.

He'd whistle: 'Here, Robber! Here, Racer!' and be off at full speed on his horse, and there'd be no telling whether he was ahead of the dog or the dog ahead of him. He'd toss off a pint of rotgut as if it had never been there. A fine huntsman he was! Only in more recent days he started staring at the young miss all the time. Either he was really smitten, or she'd put a spell on him, only it was the end of the man, he went all soft, turned into devil knows what- pah! it's even indecent to say it."

"Good," said Dorosh.

"The young miss would no sooner glance at him than he'd drop the bridle, call Robber Grouchy, stumble all over, and do God knows what. Once the young miss came to the stable where he was grooming a horse. 'Mikitka,' she says, 'let me lay my little leg on you.' And he, the tomfool, gets all happy. 'Not only your little leg,' he says, 'you can sit right on me.' The young miss lifted up her leg, and when he saw her bare leg, white and plump, the charm, he says, just stunned him. He bent his back, the tomfool, grabbed her bare legs with both hands, and went galloping like a horse all over the fields. And he couldn't tell anything about where they rode, only he came back barely alive, and after that he got all wasted, like a chip of wood. And once, when they came to the stable, instead of him there was just a heap of ashes and an empty bucket lying there: he burned up, burned up of his own self. And what a huntsman he was, you won't find another like him in the whole world."

When Spirid finished his story, talk came from all sides about the merits of the former huntsman.

"And have you heard about Shepchikha?" said Dorosh, addressing Khoma.

"No."

"Oh-ho! Then it's clear they don't teach you much sense there in your seminary. Well, listen! In our settlement there's a Cossack named Sheptun. A good Cossack! He likes to steal or tell a lie sometimes without any need, but… a good Cossack! His place isn't far from here. At this same time as we're now having supper, Sheptun and his wife finished eating and went to bed, and since the weather was fine, Shepchikha slept outside and Sheptun inside on a bench; or, no, it was Shepchikha inside on a bench and Shep-tun outside…"

"And not on a bench, Shepchikha lay on the floor," the woman picked up, standing in the doorway, her cheek propped on her hand.

Dorosh looked at her, then at the floor, then at her again, and after a pause said:

"When I pull your underwear off in front of everybody, it won't be so nice."

This warning had its effect. The old woman fell silent and did not interrupt anymore.

Dorosh went on.

"And in a cradle that hung in the middle of the hut lay their one-year-old baby-I don't know whether of male or female sex. Shepchikha lay there, and then she heard a dog scratching outside the door and howling so loud you just wanted to flee the house. She got frightened-for women are such foolish folk that you could stick your tongue out at her behind the door at night and she'd have her heart in her mouth. 'Anyhow,' she thinks, 'why don't I go and hit the cursed dog in the snout, maybe it'll stop howling.' And taking her poker, she went to open the door. As soon as it was slightly open, the dog darted between her legs and went straight for the baby's cradle. Shepchikha saw that it was no longer a dog but the young miss. And if it had been the young miss looking the way she knew her, it would have been nothing; but there was this one thing and circumstance: that she was all blue and her eyes were burning like coals. She grabbed the baby, bit its throat, and began drinking its blood. Shepchikha only cried out, 'Ah, evil thing!' and fled. But she saw that the front doors were locked. She ran to the attic. The foolish woman sat there trembling, and then she saw that the young miss was coming to the attic. She fell on the foolish woman and started biting her. It was morning before Sheptun got his wife out of there, blue and bitten all over. And the next day the foolish woman died. That's what arrangements and temptations can happen! Though she's the master's progeny, all the same a witch is a witch."

After this story, Dorosh looked around smugly and poked his forefinger into his pipe, preparing to fill it with tobacco. The material about the witch became inexhaustible. Each in turn hastened to tell something. The witch drove right up to the door of one man's house in the form of a haystack; she stole another's hat or pipe; cut off the braids of many village girls; drank several buckets of blood from others.

At last the whole company came to their senses and saw that they had been talking too much, because it was already quite dark outside. They all began trudging off to sleep, putting themselves either in the kitchen, or in the sheds, or in the middle of the yard.

"Well, now, Mr. Khoma, it's time we went to the deceased," said the gray-haired Cossack, turning to the philosopher, and the four of them, Spirid and Dorosh included, went to the church, swinging their knouts at the dogs, of which there were a great many and which angrily bit at their sticks.

The philosopher, though he had fortified himself with a good mug of vodka, secretly felt timorousness creeping over him as they drew near the lighted church. The tales and strange stories he had heard helped to affect his imagination still more. The darkness under the paling and trees began to thin; the place was becoming more bare. They finally stepped past the decrepit church fence into the small yard, beyond which there were no trees and nothing opened out but empty fields and meadows swallowed by the darkness of night. Together with Khoma, the three Cossacks climbed the steep steps of the porch and went into the church. Here they left the philosopher, having wished him a successful performance of his duty, and locked the door on him as the master had ordered.

The philosopher remained alone. First he yawned, then stretched himself, then blew on both hands, and finally looked around. In the middle stood the black coffin. Candles flickered before dark icons. Their light illumined only the iconostasis 8 and, faintly, the middle of the church. The far corners of the vestibule were shrouded in darkness. The tall, ancient iconostasis showed a profound decrepitude; its openwork, covered in gold, now gleamed only in sparks. The gilding had fallen off in some places, and was quite blackened in others; the faces of the saints, completely darkened, looked somehow gloomy. The philosopher glanced around once more.

"Why," he said, "what's frightening about it? No man can get in here, and against the dead and visitors from the other world I've got such prayers that, once I've read them, they'll never lay a finger on me. Nothing to it," he said with a wave of the hand, "let's read!"

Going up to the choir, he saw several bundles of candles.

"That's good," thought the philosopher, "I must light up the whole church so that it's bright as day. Ah, too bad I can't smoke my pipe in God's church!"

And he began sticking wax candles to all the ledges, lecterns, and icons, not stinting in the least, and soon the whole church was filled with light. Only the darkness above seemed to become deeper, and the dark images looked more gloomily from the old carved frames on which gold gleamed here and there. He went up to the coffin, timidly looked into the dead girl's face, and could not help shutting his eyes with a slight start.

Such terrible, dazzling beauty!

He turned and wanted to step away; but with strange curiosity, with the strange, self-contradictory feeling that will not leave a man especially in a time of fear, he could not refrain from glancing at her as he went, and then, with the same feeling of trepidation, glancing once more. Indeed, the deceased girl's sharp beauty seemed frightful. Perhaps she even would not have struck him with such panic terror if she had been slightly ugly. But there was in her features nothing dull, lusterless, dead. The face was alive, and it seemed to the philosopher that she was looking at him through closed eyes. It even seemed to him that a tear rolled from under her right eyelash, and when it stopped on her cheek, he made out clearly that it was a drop of blood.

He hastily went over to the choir, opened the book and, to cheer himself up, began reading in his loudest voice. His voice struck the wooden walls of the church, long silent and deaf. Solitary, without echo, it poured in a low bass into the utterly dead silence and seemed a little wild even to the reader himself.

"What's there to be afraid of?" he thought to himself meanwhile. "She won't get up from her coffin, because she'll be afraid of God's word. Let her lie there! And what kind of Cossack am I if I'm scared? So I drank a bit-that's why it seems so frightening. If I could take some snuff-ah, fine tobacco! Nice tobacco! Good tobacco!"

And yet, as he turned each page, he kept glancing sidelong at the coffin, and an involuntary feeling seemed to whisper to him: "Look, look, she's going to get up, she's going to rise, she's going to peek out of the coffin!"

But there was a deathly silence. The coffin stood motionless. The candles poured out a whole flood of light. Terrible is a lit-up church at night, with a dead body and not a living soul!

Raising his voice, he began singing in various voices, trying to stifle the remnants of his fear. Yet he turned his eyes to the coffin every other moment, as if asking the inadvertent question: "What if she rises, what if she gets up?"

But the coffin did not stir. If only there was a sound, some living being, even the chirp of a cricket in the corner! There was just the slight sizzle of some remote candle and the faint spatter of wax dripping on the floor.

"Well, what if she gets up?…"

She raised her head…

He gazed wildly and rubbed his eyes. But she was indeed no longer lying but sitting up in the coffin. He turned his eyes away, then again looked with horror at the coffin. She's standing up… she's walking through the church with her eyes closed, constandy spreading her arms as if wishing to catch someone.

She was walking straight toward him. In fear he drew a circle around himself. With an effort he began reading prayers and reciting the incantations that had been taught him by one monk who had seen witches and unclean spirits all his life.

She stood almost on the line itself; but it was clearly beyond her power to cross it, and she turned all blue, like someone dead for several days. Khoma did not have the courage to look at her. She was frightful. She clacked her teeth and opened her dead eyes. But, seeing nothing, she turned in the other direction with a fury that showed in her twitching face and, spreading her arms, clutched with them at every pillar and corner, trying to catch Khoma. Finally she stopped, shook her finger, and lay down in her coffin.

The philosopher still could not come to his senses and kept glancing fearfully at the witch's cramped dwelling. Finally the coffin suddenly tore from its place and with a whistle began flying all through the church, crossing the air in every direction. The philosopher saw it almost over his head, but at the same time he saw that it could not enter the circle he had drawn, so he stepped up his incantations. The coffin crashed down in the middle of the church and remained motionless. The corpse again rose up from it, blue, turning green. But just then came the distant crowing of a cock. The corpse sank back into the coffin and the coffin lid slammed shut.

The philosopher's heart was pounding and sweat streamed from him; but, encouraged by the crowing of the cock, he quickly finished reading the pages he ought to have read earlier. At daybreak he was relieved by the beadle and gray-haired Yavtukh, who on this occasion performed the duties of a church warden.

Having gone to lie down, the philosopher was unable to fall asleep for a long time, but fatigue overcame him and he slept till dinner. When he woke up, all the events of the night seemed to have happened in a dream. To bolster his strength, he was given a pint of vodka. At dinner he quickly relaxed, contributed observations on this and that, and ate a rather mature pig almost by himself. However, he did not venture to speak of his experiences in the church, from some feeling unaccountable to himself, and, to the questions of the curious, replied: "Yes, there were all sorts of wonders." The philosopher was one of those people in whom, once they have been fed, an extraordinary philanthropy awakens. Pipe in his teeth, he lay looking at them all with extraordinarily sweet eyes and kept spitting to the side.

After dinner the philosopher was in the highest spirits. He managed to walk about the whole village and make the acquaintance of nearly everybody; he was even chased out of two cottages; one comely young wench gave him a decent whack on the back with a shovel when he decided to feel and find out what kind of material her blouse and kirtle were made of. But the closer it came to evening, the more pensive the philosopher grew. An hour before supper, almost all the household people would gather to play kasha or kragli -a variety of skittles in which long sticks are used instead of balls and the winner has the right to ride on his partner's back. Then the game would become very interesting for the spectator: often the cowherd, broad as a pancake, got astride the swineherd, puny, short, consisting of nothing but wrinkles. Another time the cowherd would bend his back and Dorosh would jump onto it, always saying: "Hey, what a hefty bull!" Those who were more sober-minded sat by the kitchen porch. They had an extremely serious air as they smoked their pipes, even when the young people laughed heartily over some witticism of the cowherd or Spirid. In vain did Khoma try to take part in this fun: some dark thought, like a nail, was lodged in his head. Over supper, hard though he tried to cheer himself up, fear kindled in him as darkness spread over the sky.

"Well, our time has come, mister student!" the familiar gray-haired Cossack said to him, getting up from his place together with Dorosh. "Let's go to work."

Khoma was again taken to the church in the same way; again he was left alone, and the door was locked on him. No sooner was he left alone than timorousness began once more to creep into his breast. Again he saw the dark icons, the gleaming frames, and the familiar black coffin standing in menacing silence and immobility in the middle of the church.

"Well," he said, "this marvel doesn't make me marvel now. It's only frightening the first time. Yes! it's only a little frightening the first time, and then it's not frightening anymore, not frightening at all."

He hastened to the choir, drew a circle around himself, spoke several incantations, and began reading loudly, resolved not to raise his eyes from the book or pay attention to anything. He had been reading for about an hour already, and had begun to weary and to cough a little. He took a snuff bottle from his pocket and, before taking a pinch, timorously turned his gaze to the coffin. His heart went cold.

The corpse was already standing before him, right on the line, fixing her dead green eyes on him. The student shuddered and felt a chill run through all his veins. Dropping his eyes to the book, he began reading his prayers and exorcisms louder and heard the corpse clack her teeth again and wave her arm, wishing to seize him. But, looking out of the corner of one eye, he saw that the corpse was trying to catch him in the wrong place and evidently could not see him. She was growling hollowly, and began to utter dreadful words with her dead lips; they spluttered hoarsely, like the gurgling of boiling pitch. He could not have said what they meant, but something dreadful was contained in them. The philosopher fearfully realized that she was reciting incantations.

Wind swept through the church at these words, and there was a noise as of a multitude of fluttering wings. He heard wings beating against the glass of the church windows and their iron frames, heard claws scratching iron with a rasping noise and countless powers banging on the doors, trying to break in. His heart pounded heavily all the while; shutting his eyes, he kept reading incantations and prayers. At last something suddenly whisded far away. It was the distant crowing of a cock. The exhausted philosopher stopped and rested his soul.

Those who came to relieve the philosopher found him barely alive. He was leaning back against the wall, goggle-eyed, and stared fixedly at the Cossacks who where shaking him. They practically carried him out and had to support him all the way. Coming to the master's yard, he roused himself and asked to be given a pint of vodka. After drinking it, he smoothed the hair on his head and said:

"There's all sorts of trash in this world! And such horrors happen as-oh, well…" At that the philosopher waved his hand.

The circle that had gathered around him hung their heads on hearing such words. Even the young boy whom all the servants considered their rightful representative when it came to such matters as cleaning the stables or toting water, even this poor boy also stood gaping.

Just then a not entirely old wench passed by in a tight-fitting apron that displayed her round and firm shape, the old cook's assis- tant, a terrible flirt, who always found something to pin to her cap-a bit of ribbon, or a carnation, or even a scrap of paper if there was nothing else.

"Greetings, Khoma!" she said, seeing the philosopher. "Ai-yai-yai! what's happened to you?" she cried out, clasping her hands.

"What do you mean, foolish woman?"

"Ah, my God! But you've gone all gray!"

"Oh-oh! And it's the truth she's telling!" said Spirid, studying him intently. "You've really gone all gray like our old Yavtukh."

On hearing this, the philosopher rushed headlong to the kitchen, where he had noticed a triangular piece of mirror glued to the wall and stained by flies, in front of which forget-me-nots, periwinkles, and even a garland of marigolds were stuck, showing that it was intended for the stylish flirt's toilette. He saw with horror the truth of their words: half of his hair had indeed turned white.

Khoma Brut hung his head and gave himself over to reflection.

"I'll go to the master," he said finally, "tell him everything, and explain that I don't want to read anymore. Let him send me back to Kiev right now."

In such thoughts, he directed his steps toward the porch of the master's house.

The chief was sitting almost motionless in his room; the same hopeless sorrow that the philosopher had met on his face earlier remained there still. Only his cheeks were much more sunken than before. It was clear that he had taken very little food, or perhaps not touched anything at all. His extraordinary pallor gave him a sort of stony immobility.

"Greetings, poor lad," he said, seeing Khoma, who stood hat in hand in the doorway. "Well, how is it with you? Everything fine?"

"Fine, fine indeed. Such devilish goings-on, I'd like to just grab my hat and flee wherever my legs will take me."

"How's that?"

"It's your daughter, sir… Reasonably considering, of course, she's of noble birth; nobody will maintain the contrary; only, not to anger you by saying so, God rest her soul…"

"What about my daughter?"

"She's had some dealings with Satan. Giving me such horrors that I can't read any scriptures."

"Read, read! It was not for nothing that she called you. She was worried about her soul, my little dove, and wished to drive away all wicked thoughts by prayer."

"Have it your way, sir-by God, it's too much for me!"

"Read, read!" the chief went on in the same admonitory voice. "You've got one night left now. You'll do a Christian deed, and I'll reward you."

"Rewards or no rewards… As you like, sir, only I won't read!" Khoma said resolutely.

"Listen, philosopher!" said the chief, and his voice grew strong and menacing, "I don't like these notions. You can do that in your seminary, but not with me: I'll give you such a thrashing as your rector never gave. Do you know what a good leather whip is?"

"How could I not!" said the philosopher, lowering his voice. "Everybody knows what a leather whip is: an insufferable thing in large quantities."

"Yes. Only you still don't know what a scotching my boys can deliver!" the chief said menacingly, getting to his feet, and his face acquired an imperious and ferocious expression that revealed all his unbridled character, only temporarily lulled by sorrow. "First they'll scotch you for me, then douse you with vodka, then start over. Go, go! do your business! If you don't, you won't get up; if you do-a thousand pieces of gold!"

"Oh-ho-ho! Some customer!" the philosopher thought, going out. "No joking with this one. Just you wait, brother: I'll cut and run so fast your dogs will never catch me."

And Khoma resolved to escape without fail. He only waited till the time after dinner, when the household people all had the habit of getting into the hay under the sheds and producing, open-mouthed, such a snoring and piping that the yard came to resemble a factory. This time finally came. Even Yavtukh stretched out in the sun, his eyes closed. In fear and trembling, the philosopher quietly went to the garden, from where it seemed to him it would be easier and less conspicuous to escape into the fields. This garden, as commonly happens, was terribly overgrown and thus highly conducive to any secret undertaking. Except for one path beaten down on household necessity, the rest was hidden by thickly spreading cherry trees, elders, burdock that stuck its tall stalks with clingy pink knobs way up. Hops covered the top of this whole motley collection of trees and bushes like a net, forming a roof above them that spread over to the wattle fence and hung down it in twining snakes along with wild field bluebells. Beyond the wattle fence that served as a boundary to the garden, there spread a whole forest of weeds which no one seemed to be interested in, and a scythe would have broken to pieces if it had decided to put its blade to their thick, woody stems.

As the philosopher went to step over the wattle fence, his teeth chattered and his heart pounded so hard that it frightened him. The skirt of his long chlamys seemed stuck to the ground, as if someone had nailed it down. As he was stepping over, it seemed to him that some voice rattled in his ears with a deafening whistle: "Where to, where to?" The philosopher flitted into the weeds and broke into a run, constantly stumbling over old roots and crushing moles underfoot. He could see that once he got through the weeds, all he had to do was run across a field, beyond which darkled a thicket of blackthorn, where he reckoned he would be safe, and passing through which he supposed he would come to the road straight to Kiev. He ran across the field at once and wound up amid the dense blackthorns. He got through the blackthorns, leaving pieces of his frock coat on every sharp thorn in lieu of a toll, and found himself in a small hollow. A pussy willow spread its hanging branches almost to the ground. A small spring shone pure as silver. The philosopher's first business was to lie down and drink his fill, because he felt unbearably thirsty.

"Good water!" he said, wiping his mouth. "I could rest here." "No, better keep running. You might have somebody after you." These words came from above his ears. He turned: before him stood Yavtukh.

"Yavtukh, you devil!" the philosopher thought to himself. "I could just take you by the legs and… and beat your vile mug in, and whatever else you've got, with an oak log."

"You oughtn't to have made such a detour," Yavtukh went on.

"Much better to take the path I did: straight past the stables. And it's too bad about the frock coat. Good broadcloth. How much did you pay per yard? Anyhow, we've had a nice walk, it's time for home."

The philosopher, scratching himself, trudged after Yavtukh. "The accursed witch will give me a hot time now," he thought. "Though what's with me, really? What am I afraid of? Am I not a Cossack? I did read for two nights, God will help with the third. The accursed witch must have done a good deal of sinning for the unclean powers to stand by her like that."

These reflections occupied him as he entered the master's yard. Having encouraged himself with such observations, he persuaded Dorosh, who, through his connection with the steward, occasionally had access to the master's cellar, to fetch a jug of rotgut, and the two friends, sitting under the shed, supped not much less than half a bucket, so that the philosopher, suddenly getting to his feet, shouted: "Musicians! We must have musicians!"-and, without waiting for the musicians, broke into a trepak in the cleared spot in the middle of the yard. He danced until it came time for the afternoon snack, when the household people, standing in a circle around him, as is usual in such cases, finally spat and went away, saying, "Look how long the man's been dancing!" Finally the philosopher went right to sleep, and only a good dousing with cold water could wake him up for supper. Over supper he talked about what a Cossack is and how he should not be afraid of anything in the world.

"It's time," said Yavtukh, "let's go."

"Bite on a nail, you accursed hog!" thought the philosopher, and getting to his feet, said:

"Let's go."

On the way, the philosopher constandy glanced to right and left and tried to talk a little with his guides. But Yavtukh kept mum; Dorosh himself was untalkative. The night was infernal. Far off a whole pack of wolves howled. And even the dogs' barking was somehow frightening.

"Seems like it's something else howling-that's not a wolf," said Dorosh.

Yavtukh kept mum. The philosopher found nothing to say.

They approached the church and stepped in under its decrepit vaults, which showed how little the owner of the estate cared about God and his own soul. Yavtukh and Dorosh withdrew as before, and the philosopher remained alone. Everything was the same. Everything had the same menacingly familiar look. He paused for a minute. In the middle, as ever, stood the motionless coffin of the terrible witch. "I won't be afraid, by God, I won't be afraid!" he said, and, again drawing a circle around himself, he began recalling all his incantations. The silence was dreadful; the candles flickered, pouring light all over the church. The philosopher turned one page, then another, and noticed that he was not reading what was in the book at all. In fear he crossed himself and began to sing. This cheered him somewhat: the reading went ahead, and pages flashed by one after another. Suddenly… amidst the silence… the iron lid of the coffin burst with a crack and the dead body rose. It was still more horrible than the first time. Its teeth clacked horribly, row against row; its lips twitched convulsively and, with wild shrieks, incantations came rushing out. Wind whirled through the church, icons fell to the floor, broken glass dropped from the windows. The doors tore from their hinges, and a numberless host of monsters flew into God's church. A terrible noise of wings and scratching claws filled the whole church. Everything flew and rushed about, seeking the philosopher everywhere.

Khoma's head cleared of the last trace of drunkenness. He just kept crossing himself and reading prayers at random. And at the same time he heard the unclean powers flitting about him, all but brushing him with the tips of their wings and repulsive tails. He did not have the courage to look at them closely; he only saw the whole wall occupied by a huge monster standing amidst its own tangled hair as in a forest; through the web of hair two eyes stared horribly, the eyebrows raised slightly. Above it in the air there was something like an immense bubble, with a thousand tongs and scorpion stings reaching from its middle. Black earth hung on them in lumps. They all looked at him, searching, unable to see him, surrounded by the mysterious circle.

"Bring Viy! Go get Viy!" the words of the dead body rang out.

And suddenly there was silence in the church; the wolves' howling could be heard far away, and soon heavy footsteps rang out in the church; with a sidelong glance he saw them leading in some squat, hefty, splay-footed man. He was black earth all over. His earth-covered legs and arms stuck out like strong, sinewy roots. Heavily he trod, stumbling all the time. His long eyelids were lowered to the ground. With horror Khoma noticed that the face on him was made of iron. He was brought in under the arms and put right by the place where Khoma stood.

"Lift my eyelids, I can't see!" Viy said in a subterranean voice- and the entire host rushed to lift his eyelids.

"Don't look!" some inner voice whispered to the philosopher. He could not help himself and looked.

"There he is!" Viy cried and fixed an iron finger on him. And all that were there fell upon the philosopher. Breathless, he crashed to the ground and straightaway the spirit flew out of him in terror.

A cockcrow rang out. This was already the second cockcrow; the gnomes had missed the first. The frightened spirits rushed pell-mell for the windows and doors in order to fly out quickly, but nothing doing: and so they stayed there, stuck in the doors and windows. When the priest came in, he stopped at the sight of such disgrace in God's sanctuary and did not dare serve a panikhida 9 in such a place. So the church remained forever with monsters stuck in its doors and windows, overgrown with forest, roots, weeds, wild blackthorn; and no one now can find the path to it.

When rumors of this reached Kiev and the theologian Khalyava heard, finally, that such had been the lot of the philosopher Khoma, he fell to thinking for a whole hour. In the meantime great changes had happened with him. Fortune had smiled on him: upon completing his studies, he had been made bell-ringer of the tallest belfry, and he almost always went about with a bloody nose, because the wooden stairs of the belfry had been put together every which way.

"Have you heard what happened with Khoma?" Tiberiy Goro- bets, by then a philosopher and sporting a fresh mustache, said, coming up to him.

"It's what God granted him," said the ringer Khalyava. "Let's go to the tavern and commemorate his soul!"

The young philosopher, who had come into his rights with the passion of an enthusiast, so that his trousers and frock coat and even his hat gave off a whiff of spirits and coarse tobacco, instantly expressed his readiness.

"Khoma was a nice man!" said the ringer, as the lame tavern keeper set the third mug down in front of him. "A fine man! And he perished for nothing!"

"No, I know why he perished: because he got scared. If he hadn't been scared, the witch couldn't have done anything to him. You just have to cross yourself and spit right on her tail, and nothing will happen. I know all about it. Here in Kiev, the women sitting in the marketplace are all witches."

To this the ringer nodded as a sign of agreement. But, noticing that his tongue was unable to articulate a single word, he carefully got up from the table and, swaying from side to side, went off to hide himself in the remotest part of the weeds. Withal not forgetting, out of long habit, to steal an old boot sole that was lying on a bench.

The Story of How Ivan Ivanovich Quarreled with Ivan Nikiforovich

Chapter I

Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich

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.

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 kuma 4 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 expression 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 watde 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 balyk 6 -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?"

"Oh, very well, one little cup," said Ivan Ivanovich, reaching toward the tray.

Lord God! such bottomless refinement some people have! It's impossible to describe what a pleasant impression such behavior makes!

"Wouldn't you care for another cup?"

"I humbly thank you," replied Ivan Ivanovich, placing the cup upside down on the tray and bowing.

"Be so kind, Ivan Ivanovich!"

"I can't. Thank you very much." With that, Ivan Ivanovich bowed and sat down.

"Ivan Ivanovich! be a friend, one little cup!"

"No, much obliged."

Having said this, Ivan Ivanovich bowed and sat down.

"Just one cup! one little cup!"

Ivan Ivanovich reached toward the tray and took a cup.

Pah! damnation! How some people are able, how they manage to maintain their dignity!

"Demyan Demyanovich," Ivan Ivanovich said as he finished the last sip, "I've come to you on some necessary business. I'm putting in a claim." With that, Ivan Ivanovich set down his cup and took from his pocket a sheet of official stamped paper with writing on it. "A claim against an enemy of mine, a sworn enemy."

"Who might that be?"

"Ivan Nikiforovich Dovgochkhun."

At these words the judge nearly fell off his chair.

"What are you saying!" he uttered, clasping his hands. "Ivan Ivanovich, is this you?"

"You can see for yourself it is."

"The Lord God and all his saints be with you! What! you, Ivan Ivanovich, have become enemies with Ivan Nikiforovich? Is it your lips saying so? Repeat it again! Someone must be hiding behind you and talking in your place!…"

"What's so incredible about it? I can't bear the sight of him; he has mortally offended me, insulted my honor."

"Most holy Trinity! how will I ever make my mother believe it now? And she, the old lady, says to me every day, when I quarrel with my sister, 'You children live like cat and dog together. Why don't you take example from Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich? There are two real friends! Such friends! Such worthy people!' That's friends for you! Tell me, what was it? how?"

"It's a delicate matter, Demyan Demyanovich! impossible to put into words. Better order my petition to be read. Here, take it from this side, it's more fitting."

"Read it, Taras Tikhonovich!" said the judge, turning to the secretary.

Taras Tikhonovich took the petition and, having blown his nose with the aid of two fingers, as all court secretaries do, began to read:

"From Ivan, son of Ivan, Pererepenko, gentleman of the Mirgorod region and landowner, a petition; and on what, the points follow herewith:

"1. Known to the whole world for his iniquitous, loathsome, and beyond-all-measure law-breaking actions, the gentleman, Ivan, son of Nikifor, Dovgochkhun, on the 7th of July of the year 1810 instant, did occasion me a mortal offense, as much in reference to my personal honor as in equal measure to the humiliation and embarrassment of my rank and name. This gentleman, being of vile appearance, is likewise of an abusive character and filled with all sorts of blasphemy and abuse…"

Here the reader paused briefly in order to blow his nose again, and the judge pressed his hands together in awe and only kept saying to himself:

"What a glib pen! Lord God! how the man can write!"

Ivan Ivanovich asked for the reading to proceed, and Taras Tikhonovich went on:

"This gentleman, Ivan, son of Nikifor, Dovgochkhun, when I came to him with friendly offers, publicly called me by a name offensive to me and defaming to my honor, namely: goose, whereas it is known to the whole Mirgorod region that I have hitherto in no way ever been called, and have no intention of being called, this vile animal. And the proof of my noble origin is that the day of my birth, and equally well the baptism I received, have been recorded in the register of the Church of the Three Hierarchs. 7 A goose, as is known to all who are at least somewhat versed in science, cannot be recorded in a register, for a goose is not a person but a bird, which fact is positively known to everyone, even if they have not gone to school. But the said malignant gentleman, being informed of all this, with no other purpose than that of occasioning me an offense mortifying to my rank and estate, did abuse me with the said vile word.

"2. This same improper and indecent gentleman also encroached upon my familial property, received by me from my parent, of the clerical estate, Ivan, of blessed memory, son of Onisy, Pererepenko, by transposing, contrary to all law, a goose pen directly opposite my porch, doing so with no other intention than that of aggravating the offense already inflicted upon me, for the said pen had hitherto been standing in a suitable place and was still quite sturdy. But the loathsome intent of the above-mentioned gentleman consisted solely in turning me into a witness of indecent goings-on, for it is known that no one goes to a pen, still less to a goose pen, on decent business. In this illegal act, the two front posts intruded upon my own land, which I received while my parent Ivan, of blessed memory, son of Onisy, Pererepenko, was still alive, and which, starting from the barn, went in a straight line all the way to where the women wash their pots.

"3. The above-depicted gentleman, whose very name and surname inspire all possible loathing, nurses in his heart the wicked intention of setting fire to me in my own house. Indubitable tokens of which are manifest in the following: 1st, the said malignant gentleman has begun to emerge from his rooms frequently, something he never undertook before, on account of his laziness and the vile corpulence of his body; 2nd, in his servant's quarters, which are adjacent to the fence surrounding my land, received by me from my late parent, Ivan, of blessed memory, son of Onisy, Pererepenko, a light burns every day and for an extraordinary length of time, which is already manifest evidence, for hitherto, in his miserly avarice, not only the tallow candle but even the night lamp was always put out.

"And therefore I request that the said gentleman, Ivan, son of Nikifor, Dovgochkhun, being guilty of arson, of insult to my rank, name, and family, and of the thievish appropriation of property, and above all of the base and reprehensible appending to my family name of the appellation goose, have a penalty imposed on him, with payment of expenses and losses, and be condemned himself as a trespasser, put in chains, and taken to jail, which decision with respect to my petition should be handed down at once and without fail.

"Written and composed by Mirgorod landowner Ivan, son of Ivan, Pererepenko, gentleman."

After the reading of the petition, the judge went up to Ivan Ivanovich, took him by the button, and began speaking to him almost like this:

"What are you doing, Ivan Ivanovich! For fear of God, drop this petition, let it perish! (May Satan visit its dreams!) Better take Ivan Nikiforovich by the hands, and kiss each other, and buy a bottle of Santurin or Nikopolis, or else just make a little punch, and invite me! We'll drink together and forget the whole thing!"

"No, Demyan Demyanovich! it is not that sort of affair," Ivan Ivanovich said with that importance which was always so becoming to him. "Not the sort of affair that can be resolved in amicable agreement. Good-bye! Good-bye to you, too, gentlemen!" he went on with the same importance, addressing them all. "I hope my petition will produce the proper effect." And he walked out, leaving the whole office in amazement.

The judge sat without saying a word; the secretary took some snuff; the office boys overturned the broken piece of bottle they used as an inkstand; and the judge himself absentmindedly smeared the puddle of ink over the table with his finger.

"What do you say to that, Dorofei Trofimovich?" said the judge, turning to the court clerk after some silence.

"I say nothing," replied the court clerk.

"Such goings-on!" continued the judge.

Before he finished saying it, the door creaked and the front half of Ivan Nikiforovich heaved itself into the office, while the rest remained in the anteroom. The appearance of Ivan Nikiforovich-and, what's more, in court-seemed so extraordinary that the judge cried out; the secretary broke off his reading. One office boy in the frieze likeness of a half-tailcoat put a quill in his mouth; the other swallowed a fly. Even the invalid who fulfilled the functions of both messenger and watchman, who till then had been standing by the door scratching under his dirty shirt with stripes sewn to the shoulder, even this invalid gaped and stepped on somebody's foot.

"What fates bring you here? why and wherefore? How are you, Ivan Nikiforovich?"

But Ivan Nikiforovich was neither dead nor alive, because he had gotten mired in the doorway and could not make a step forward or back. In vain did the judge shout into the anteroom for someone there to shove Ivan Nikiforovich into the office from behind. There was only one petitioner in the anteroom, an old woman, who, despite all the efforts of her bony arms, could do nothing. Then one of the office boys, with fat lips, broad shoulders, a fat nose, and torn elbows, his eyes glancing about slyly and drunkenly, went up to the front part of Ivan Nikiforovich, folded his arms crosswise as if he were a child, and winked to the old invalid, who placed his knee against Ivan Nikiforovich's belly, and, despite his pitiful moans, squeezed him out into the anteroom. Then they slid back the bolts and opened the other half of the door. While they were at it, the office boy and his helper, the invalid, in their concerted efforts, spread such a strong smell with their breath that the office turned for a time into a public house.

"Did they hurt you, Ivan Nikiforovich? I'll tell my mother, she'll send you a tincture-just rub your shoulders and lower back, and it will all go away."

But Ivan Nikiforovich sank onto a chair and, apart from prolonged oh's, was unable to say anything. Finally, in a weak voice, barely audible from exhaustion, he uttered:

"Will you indulge?" and, taking the snuff bottle from his pocket, added, "here, help yourselves!"

"I'm very pleased to see you," answered the judge. "But, all the same, I can't imagine what made you undertake the effort and present us with such an agreeable unexpectedness."

"A petition…" was all Ivan Nikiforovich could utter.

"A petition? What sort?"

"A claim…" here breathlessness produced a long pause, "ohh!… a claim against a crook… Ivan Ivanovich Pererepenko."

"Lord! you too! Such rare friends! A claim against such a virtuous man!…"

"He's Satan in person!" Ivan Nikiforovich said curtly.

The judge crossed himself.

"Take the petition and read it."

"Nothing to do but read it, Taras Tikhonovich," said the judge, addressing the secretary with an air of displeasure, and his nose inadvertently sniffed his upper lip, which previously it used to do only from great pleasure. Such willfulness on the part of his nose vexed the judge still more. He took out his handkerchief and swept all the snuff from his upper lip in punishment for its insolence.

The secretary, having performed his usual start-up, which he always resorted to before beginning to read, that is, without the aid of a handkerchief, began in his usual voice, thus:

"A petition from Ivan, son of Nikifor, Dovgochkhun, gentleman of the Mirgorod region, and on what, the points follow herewith:

"1. From his hateful spite and obvious ill will, Ivan, son of Ivan, Pererepenko, who calls himself a gentleman, is causing me various losses, doing me dirt, and performing other devious and terrifying acts, and yesterday, like a robber and a thief, with axes, saws, chisels, and other metalworking tools, got into my yard during the night and with his very own hands and in blameworthy fashion did chop up my very own goose pen located therein. For which, on my part, I never gave any cause for such an illegal and marauding act.

"2. The said gendeman Pererepenko presumes upon my very life and, having kept this intention secret until the 7th day of the last month, came to me and in a friendly and cunning fashion started begging for my gun, which was in my room, offering me, with his particular niggardliness, a lot of worthless things-to wit: a brown sow and two measures of oats. But, divining his criminal intention even then, I made every effort to divert him from it; but the said crook and scoundrel, Ivan, son of Ivan, Pererepenko, did abuse me in a churlish manner, and since then has nursed an irreconcilable enmity toward me. Furthermore, the said oft-mentioned violent gentleman and robber, Ivan, son of Ivan, Pererepenko, is of quite blameworthy origin: his sister was a notorious strumpet who went off with a company of chasseurs that was quartered in Mirgorod five years ago; and she registered her husband as a peasant. His father and mother were also most lawless people, and both were unimaginable drunkards. Yet the above-mentioned gentleman and robber Pererepenko has exceeded all his relations in bestial and blameworthy acts and, in the guise of piety, does the most godless things: does not keep fasts, for on the eve of St. Philip's Day 8 this apostate bought a lamb and ordered his lawless wench Gapka to slaughter it the next day, explaining that he supposedly needed tallow just then for lamps and candles.

"Therefore I request that this gentleman, being a robber, a blasphemer, and a crook, already caught thieving and marauding, be put in irons and conveyed to prison, or to the state jail, and that there, on discretion, being stripped of his ranks and nobility, he be given a good basting with birch rods and be sent to hard labor in Siberia as necessary; that he be made to pay all expenses and losses, and that a decision be forthcoming on this my petition.

"Setting hand to which petition, I am Ivan, son of Nikifor, Dovgochkhun, gentleman of the Mirgorod region."

As soon as the secretary finished reading, Ivan Nikiforovich took his hat and bowed, with the intention of leaving.

"What's the hurry, Ivan Nikiforovich?" the judge called after him. "Stay a while! have some tea! Oryshko! Why are you standing there, stupid girl, winking at the office boys? Go and bring tea!"

But Ivan Nikiforovich, frightened to have gone so far from home and to have endured such a dangerous quarantine, had already managed to get through the door, saying:

"Don't trouble yourself, it's my pleasure…" and closed it behind him, leaving the whole office in amazement.

There was nothing to be done. Both petitions were accepted, and the affair was about to take a rather interesting turn when one unforeseen circumstance lent it still greater amusement. As the judge was leaving the office in the company of the court clerk and the secretary, while the office boys were filling a sack with the chickens, eggs, loaves of bread, pies, knishes, and other stuff brought by petitioners, just then a brown sow ran into the room and, to the astonishment of those present, snatched-not a pie or crust of bread, but Ivan Nikiforovich's petition, which lay at the end of the table with its pages hanging down. Having snatched the paper, the brown porker ran off so quickly that none of the officials could catch her, despite the hurling of rulers and ink bottles. This extraordinary incident caused terrible turmoil, because a copy had not even been made of it yet. The judge-that is, his secretary and the court clerk-discussed this unheard-of circumstance for a long time; the decision was finally taken to write a report about it to the police chief, since the investigation of this case belonged rather to the civil police. Report No. 389 was sent to him that same day, whereupon there took place a rather curious conversation, which readers may learn about in the next chapter.

Chapter V

Which Contains an Account of a

Meeting Between Two Distinguished

Persons of Mirgorod

Ivan Ivanovich had only just finished his household chores and gone out, as usual, to lie on the gallery, when, to his unutterable astonishment, he saw something red in the gateway. It was the police chief's cuff, which, along with his collar, had acquired a polish and turned at the edges into patent leather. Ivan Ivanovich thought to himself: "That's nice, Pyotr Fyodorovich is coming for a chat," but was very astonished to see the police chief come in extremely quickly and swinging his arms, which usually happened with him quite seldom. On the police chief's uniform sat eight buttons, the ninth having been torn off during the procession for the blessing of the church some two years earlier, so that the policemen were still unable to find it, though the police chief, while receiving the daily reports of the precinct officers, always asked whether the button had been found. These eight buttons sat on him the way peasant women plant beans, one to the left, another to the right. His left leg had been shot through in the last campaign, which caused him, as he limped, to throw it so far to the side that he thereby undid almost all the labor of the right leg. The more speedily the police chief sent his infantry into action, the less it advanced. And therefore, before the police chief reached the gallery, Ivan Ivanovich had plenty of time to lose himself in conjectures as to the reason why the police chief was swinging his arms so quickly He was the more interested as the matter seemed to be of extraordinary importance, for he even had a new sword on him.

"Greetings, Pyotr Fyodorovich!" cried Ivan Ivanovich, who, as has already been said, was very inquisitive and was simply unable to restrain his impatience at the sight of the police chief storming the porch steps, but still not raising his eyes and quarreling with his infantry, which was in no way capable of taking a step at a single try.

"I wish good day to my gentle friend and benefactor, Ivan Ivanovich!" replied the police chief.

"I ask you kindly to sit down. I see you're tired, because your wounded leg hinders…"

"My leg!" cried the police chief, casting one of those looks at Ivan Ivanovich that a giant casts at a pigmy or a learned pedant at a dancing master. With that he raised his leg and stamped on the floor. This brave act cost him dearly, however, because his whole body lurched and his nose pecked the railing; but the wise guardian of order didn't bat an eye, straightened himself up at once, and went to his pocket as if in order to produce his snuffbox. "About myself I may inform you, my gentle friend and benefactor, Ivan Ivanovich, that in my lifetime I've taken part in all sorts of campaigns. Yes, seriously, I have. For instance, during the campaign of eighteen-oh-seven… Ah, let me tell you how I once climbed a fence after a pretty little German girl." At this the police chief screwed up one eye and gave a devilishly sly smile.

"And where have you been today?" asked Ivan Ivanovich, wishing to interrupt the police chief, the sooner to bring him to the reason for his visit; he would have liked very much to ask what it was that the police chief intended to tell him; but a refined knowledge of the world presented to him all the indecency of such a question, and Ivan Ivanovich had to restrain himself and wait for the answer, his heart meanwhile pounding with extraordinary force.

"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 gendeman 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 Niki-for, 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 Mir-gorod; 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 Niki-forovich, 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 Niki-forovich, 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. Then 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.

Chapter VII

And Last

"Ah! greetings! What are you teasing the dogs for?" said Ivan Nikiforovich, seeing Anton Prokofievich, because no one ever spoke to Anton Prokofievich except jokingly.

"They can all drop dead! Who's teasing them?" replied Anton Prokofievich.

"You're lying."

"By God, I'm not! Pyotr Fyodorovich is inviting you to dinner."

"Hra!"

"Yes, by God! and he insists on it so much, I can't tell you. 'Why is it,' he says, 'that Ivan Nikiforovich avoids me like an enemy? Never stops by to chat or sit a while.' "

Ivan Nikiforovich stroked his chin.

" 'If Ivan Nikiforovich doesn't come now,' he says, 'I don't know what I'll think: he must have something against me. Do me a favor, Anton Prokofievich, persuade Ivan Nikiforovich!' So what about it, Ivan Nikiforovich? Come on, there's an excellent company gathered there now!"

Ivan Nikiforovich began to scrutinize a rooster that was standing on the porch crowing his throat off.

"If you knew, Ivan Nikiforovich," the zealous deputy went on, "what sturgeon, what fresh caviar Pyotr Fyodorovich has been sent!"

At that Ivan Nikiforovich turned his head and began listening attentively.

This encouraged the deputy.

"Let's hurry. Foma Grigorievich is there, too! What's the matter?" he added, seeing that Ivan Nikiforovich went on lying in the same position. "Well, do we go or don't we?"

"I don't want to."

This "I don't want to" struck Anton Prokofievich. He thought his convincing presentation had thoroughly persuaded this otherwise worthy man, but instead he heard a resolute "I don't want to."

"And why don't you want to?" he said, almost with vexation, which appeared in him extremely rarely, even when they put burning paper on his head, something the judge and the police chief particularly enjoyed doing.

Ivan Nikiforovich took a pinch of snuff.

"As you like, Ivan Nikiforovich, but I don't know what's holding you back."

"Why should I go?" Ivan Nikiforovich said at last. "That robber will be there!" So he usually called Ivan Ivanovich.

Good God, was it so long ago that…

"By God, he won't! As God is holy, he won't! May I be struck by lightning on this very spot!" replied Anton Prokofievich, who was ready to swear by God ten times an hour. "Come on, Ivan Nikiforovich!"

"You're lying, Anton Prokofievich, he's there, eh?"

"No, by God, he's not! May I never leave this spot if he's there! And consider for yourself, why would I lie? May my arms and legs wither!… What, you still don't believe me? May I drop dead right here in front of you! May my father and mother and I myself never see the Kingdom of Heaven! You still don't believe me?"

These assurances finally set Ivan Nikiforovich perfectly at ease, and he ordered his valet in the infinite frock coat to bring his balloon trousers and nankeen jacket.

I suppose that to describe the way in which Ivan Nikiforovich put on his balloon trousers, wrapped a tie around his neck, and finally put on the nankeen jacket, which had a split under the left arm, is completely superfluous. Suffice it to say that he preserved a fitting calm all the while and made not a word of reply to Anton Prokofievich's suggestion of trading something for his Turkish tobacco pouch.

Meanwhile the gathering impatiently awaited the decisive moment when Ivan Nikiforovich would appear and the general wish that these two worthy people become reconciled would finally be fulfilled. Many were virtually certain that Ivan Nikiforovich wouldn't come. The police chief even offered to bet the one-eyed

Ivan Ivanovich that he wouldn't, but did not conclude it only because the one-eyed Ivan Ivanovich insisted that the police chief stake his shot-through leg and he his blind eye, which the police chief found highly insulting, while the company quietly laughed. No one sat at the table yet, though it was long past one o'clock- by which time, in Mirgorod, even on gala occasions, people have long been dining.

No sooner did Anton Prokofievich appear in the doorway than he was instantly surrounded by everyone. To all their questions, Anton Prokofievich shouted one resolute phrase: "He won't come." No sooner had he uttered it, and a shower of reprimands, curses, and perhaps even flicks, prepared itself to pour down on his head for his unsuccessful embassy, than the door suddenly opened and-in came Ivan Nikiforovich.

If Satan himself or a dead man had appeared, they would not have caused such amazement in the whole gathering as that into which it was thrown by Ivan Nikiforovich's unexpected arrival. And Anton Prokofievich simply dissolved, holding his sides, from the joy of having played such a trick on the whole company.

Be that as it may, but it was almost unbelievable for them all that Ivan Nikiforovich should have managed in so short a time to dress himself as befits a gentleman. Ivan Ivanovich was not there just then; he had stepped out for some reason. Having recovered from its amazement, the whole public displayed concern for Ivan Nikiforovich's health and expressed satisfaction at his having increased in girth. Ivan Nikiforovich exchanged kisses with them all, saying, "Much obliged."

Meanwhile the smell of borscht spread through the room and pleasantly tickled the nostrils of the now hungry guests. They all flocked to the dining room. A file of ladies, talkative and taciturn, skinny and fat, drew forward, and the long table rippled with all colors. I will not describe the dishes that were set on the table! I will say nothing of the mnishki 10 with sour cream, nor the tripe served with the borscht, nor the turkey with plums and raisins, nor the dish that looked very much like boots soaked in kvass, nor the sauce that was the swan song of an old-style cook-a sauce served all enveloped in a spiritous flame, which greatly amused and at the same time frightened the ladies. I will not speak of these dishes, because I much prefer eating them to holding forth on them in conversation.

Ivan Ivanovich had a great liking for fish prepared with horseradish. He became especially occupied with this useful and nourishing exercise. He was removing the finest fish bones and placing them on his plate when he somehow inadvertently glanced across the table: God in heaven, how strange! Opposite him sat Ivan Nikiforovich!

At one and the same moment, Ivan Nikiforovich also glanced up!… No!… I can't… Give me another pen! My pen is sluggish, lifeless, the slit is too fine for this picture! Their faces became as if petrified in an expression of amazement. Each of them beheld a long-familiar face, to which it would seem one was ready to go up instinctively, as to an unexpected friend, and hold out a snuff bottle, saying, "Help yourself" or "May I venture to ask you to help yourself"; but, along with that, the same face was terrible, like an evil omen! Sweat streamed from Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich.

The people present, all who were at the table, turned mute with attention and could not tear their eyes from the former friends. The ladies, who till then had been taken up with a rather interesting conversation about the ways of preparing capon, suddenly broke it off. Everything became hushed! It was a picture deserving of the brush of a great painter!

Finally Ivan Ivanovich took out his handkerchief and began to blow his nose; but Ivan Nikiforovich looked around and rested his eyes on the open door. The police chief noticed this gesture at once and ordered the door tightly shut. Then each of the friends began to eat, and not once did they glance at each other again.

As soon as the dinner was over, the two former friends left their places and began looking for their hats, so as to slip away. Then the police chief winked, and Ivan Ivanovich-not that Ivan Ivanovich but the other, the one with the blind eye-stood behind Ivan Nikiforovich's back, while the police chief got behind Ivan Ivano-vich's back, and the two started shoving them from behind so as to push them together and not let go until they shook hands. Ivan

Ivanovich of the blind eye did push Ivan Nikiforovich, somewhat obliquely but still rather successfully, toward the place where Ivan Ivanovich had been standing; but the police chief's aim was way off, because he was unable to manage the willfulness of his infantry, which this time did not obey any commands and, as if on purpose, kept straying extremely far and in the completely opposite direction (which may have come from the fact that there were a great many liqueurs of all sorts on the table), so that Ivan Ivanovich fell over a lady in a red dress who, out of curiosity, had stuck herself right in the center. Such an omen did not bode any good. However, to put things right, the judge took the police chief's place and, sucking all the snuff from his upper lip into his nose, pushed Ivan Ivanovich in the other direction. This is the usual means of reconciliation in Mirgorod. It's something like playing ball. As soon as the judge pushed Ivan Ivanovich, Ivan Ivanovich of the blind eye took the firmest stand and pushed Ivan Nikiforovich, from whom the sweat poured down like rain off a roof. Though the two friends put up a strong resistance, they were nevertheless pushed together, because the two acting sides received significant reinforcement from the other guests.

Then they were surrounded tightly on all sides and were not let out until they resolved to shake hands with each other.

"God be with you, Ivan Nikiforovich and Ivan Ivanovich! Tell us in all conscience, what did you quarrel about? Wasn't it over a trifle? Aren't you ashamed before people and before God?"

"I don't know," said Ivan Nikiforovich, puffing with fatigue (one could see that he was not at all against the reconciliation), "I don't know what it was that I did to Ivan Ivanovich. Why, then, did he chop down my pen and plot to destroy me?"

"I'm not guilty of any evil designs," said Ivan Ivanovich, not turning his eyes to Ivan Nikiforovich. "I swear before God and before all of you honorable gentlemen, I did nothing to my enemy. Why, then, does he abuse me and do damage to my rank and name?"

"In what way have I done you damage, Ivan Ivanovich?" said Ivan Nikiforovich.

Another minute of talk and the long enmity would have been on the point of dying out. Ivan Nikiforovich was already going to his pocket to produce his snuff botde and say, "Help yourself."

"Isn't it damage," Ivan Ivanovich replied, without raising his eyes, "if you, my dear sir, insult my rank and family name with a word that it is even indecent to utter here?"

"Allow me to tell you as a friend, Ivan Ivanovich" (with that, Ivan Nikiforovich touched Ivan Ivanovich's button with his finger, signifying his entire good will), "that you got offended over devil knows what-over my calling you a goose…"

Ivan Nikiforovich caught himself committing the carelessness of uttering this word; but it was already too late: the word had been uttered.

Everything went to the devil!

If the uttering of this word without any witnesses had put Ivan Ivanovich beside himself and in such a rage as God keep us from ever seeing in any man-what now, only consider, gentle readers, what now, when this deadly word was uttered in a gathering that included many ladies, before whom Ivan Ivanovich liked to be especially proper? If Ivan Nikiforovich had acted differently, if he had said bird instead of goose, things still might have been put right.

But-it was all over!

He cast a glance at Ivan Nikiforovich-and what a glance! If this glance had been endowed with executive power, it would have turned Ivan Nikiforovich to dust. The guests understood this glance and hastened to separate them. And this man, the epitome of mildness, who never passed over a beggar woman without questioning her, rushed out in a terrible fury. Such violent storms the passions can produce!

For a whole month nothing was heard of Ivan Ivanovich. He locked himself up in his house. The secret trunk was unlocked, and from the trunk were taken-what? silver roubles! old ones, his ancestral silver roubles! And these roubles passed into the soiled hands of ink-slingers. The case was transferred to the state court. And when Ivan Ivanovich received the joyful news that it was to be decided the next day, only then did he look outside and venture to leave his house. Alas! since then, the court has informed him daily for the past ten years that the case would be concluded the next day!

Some five years ago I passed through the town of Mirgorod. I was traveling in bad weather. It was autumn, with its damp, melancholy days, its mud and mists. Some sort of unnatural green-the creation of dull, ceaseless rains-covered the fields and meadows with a thin net, which was as becoming as pranks to an old man or roses to an old woman. Weather affected me strongly then-I was dull when it was dull. But, despite that, as I approached Mirgorod, I felt my heart beating fast. God, so many memories! I hadn't seen Mirgorod for twelve years. Here, in touching friendship, there had then lived two singular men, two singular friends. And how many notable people had died! The judge Demyan Demyanovich was dead by then; Ivan Ivanovich, the one with the blind eye, had also bid the world farewell. I drove into the main street; poles with bunches of straw tied to their tops stood everywhere: some new project was under way! Several cottages had been demolished. The remnants of palings and wattle fences stuck up dejectedly.

It was then a feast day. I ordered my bast-covered kibitka to stop in front of the church and went in so quietly that no one turned around. True, there was no one to do so. The church was empty. Almost no people. One could see that even the most pious were afraid of the mud. The candles in that bleak, or, better to say, sickly daylight, were somehow strangely unpleasant; the dark vestibule was melancholy; the oblong windows with round glass poured down rainy tears. I stepped into the vestibule and turned to one respectable, gray-haired old man:

"If I may ask, is Ivan Nikiforovich still living?"

Just then the lamp flashed more brightly before the icon, and the light fell directly on the face of my neighbor. How surprised I was when, peering at him, I saw familiar features! It was Ivan Nikiforovich himself! But how changed he was!

"Are you well, Ivan Nikiforovich? You've aged so!"

"Yes, I've aged. I came from Poltava today," replied Ivan Niki-forovich.

"You don't say! You went to Poltava in such bad weather?"

"No help for it! The lawsuit…"

At that, I, too, sighed involuntarily. Ivan Nikiforovich noticed this sigh and said:

"Don't worry, I have definite information that the case will be decided in my favor next week."

I shrugged and went to find out something about Ivan Ivano-vich.

"Ivan Ivanovich is here," someone told me, "he's in the choir."

Then I saw a skinny figure. Was this Ivan Ivanovich? His face was covered with wrinkles; his hair was completely white; but the bekesha was the same. After the preliminary greetings, Ivan Ivanovich turned to me with that joyful smile which was always so becoming to his funnel-like face, and said:

"Shall I inform you of some pleasant news?"

"What news?" I said.

"My case will be decided tomorrow without fail. The court says it's certain."

I sighed still more deeply and hastened to take my leave, because I was traveling on important business, and got into my kibitka. The skinny horses, known in Mirgorod as the posthaste kind, drew away, producing with their hooves, as they sank into the gray mass of mud, a sound unpleasant to the ear. Rain poured down in streams on the Jew who sat on the box covering himself with a bast mat. Dampness penetrated me thoroughly. The melancholy town gate, with a sentry box in which an invalid sat mending his gray armor, slowly passed by. Again the same fields, in places turned up and black, in others showing green, the wet jackdaws and crows, the monotonous rain, the sky tearful and without a bright spot.-It's dull in this world, gentlemen!

PETERSBURG TALES

Nevsky Prospect

Th ere is nothing better than Nevsky Prospect, at least not in Petersburg; for there it is everything. What does this street- the beauty of our capital-not shine with! I know that not one of its pale and clerical inhabitants would trade Nevsky Prospect for anything in the world. Not only the one who is twenty-five years old, has an excellent mustache and a frock coat of an amazing cut, but even the one who has white hair sprouting on his chin and a head as smooth as a silver dish, he, too, is enchanted with Nevsky Prospect. And the ladies! Oh, the ladies find Nevsky Prospect still more pleasing. And who does not find it pleasing? The moment you enter Nevsky Prospect, it already smells of nothing but festivity. Though you may have some sort of necessary, indispensable business, once you enter it you are sure to forget all business. Here is the only place where people do not go out of necessity, where they are not driven by the need and mercantile interest that envelop the whole of Petersburg. A man met on Nevsky Prospect seems less of an egoist than on Morskaya, Gorokhovaya, Liteiny, Meshchanskaya, and other streets, where greed, self-interest, and necessity show on those walking or flying by in carriages and droshkies. Nevsky Prospect is the universal communication of Petersburg. Here the inhabitant of the Petersburg or Vyborg side who has not visited his friend in Peski or the Moscow Gate 1 for several years can be absolutely certain of meeting him. No directory or inquiry office will provide such reliable information as Nevsky Prospect. All-powerful Nevsky Prospect! The only entertainment for a poor man at the Petersburg feast! How clean-swept are its sidewalks, and, God, how many feet have left their traces on it! The clumsy, dirty boot of the retired soldier, under the weight of which the very granite seems to crack, and the miniature shoe, light as smoke, of a young lady, who turns her head to the glittering shop windows as a sunflower turns toward the sun, and the clanking sword of a hope-filled sub-lieutenant that leaves a sharp scratch on it-everything wreaks upon it the power of strength or the power of weakness. What a quick phantasmagoria is performed on it in the course of a single day! How many changes it undergoes in the course of a single day and night!

Let us begin from earliest morning, when the whole of Petersburg smells of hot, freshly baked bread and is filled with old women in tattered dresses and coats carrying out their raids on churches and compassionate passers-by. At that time Nevsky Prospect is empty: the stout shop owners and their salesclerks are still asleep in their Holland nightshirts or are soaping their noble cheeks and drinking coffee; beggars gather near the pastry shops, where a sleepy Ganymede, 2 who yesterday was flying about with chocolate like a fly, crawls out, tieless, broom in hand, and tosses them stale cakes and leftovers. Down the streets trudge useful folk: Russian muzhiks pass by occasionally, hurrying to work, their boots crusted with lime that even the Ekaterininsky Canal, famous for its cleanness, would be unable to wash off. At that time it is usually unfitting for ladies to go about, because the Russian people like to express themselves in such sharp terms as they would probably not hear even in the theater. An occasional sleepy clerk will plod by, briefcase under his arm, if he has to pass Nevsky Prospect on his way to the office. One may say decidedly that at that time, that is, until twelve o'clock, Nevsky Prospect does not constitute anyone's goal, it serves only as a means: it gradually fills with people who have their own occupations, their own cares, their own vexations, and do not think about it at all. The Russian muzhik talks about his ten coppers or seven groats, the old men and women wave their arms and talk to themselves, sometimes with quite expressive gestures, but no one listens to them or laughs at them, except perhaps some urchins in hempen blouses, with empty bottles or repaired shoes in their hands, racing along Nevsky Prospect like lightning. At that time, however you may be dressed, even if you have a peaked cap on your head instead of a hat, even if your collar sticks out too far over your tie-no one will notice it.

At twelve o'clock Nevsky Prospect is invaded by tutors of all nations with their charges in cambric collars. English Joneses and French Coques walk hand in hand with the charges entrusted to their parental care and, with proper gravity, explain to them that the signs over the shops are made so that by means of them one may learn what is to be found inside the shop. Governesses, pale misses and rosy Slavs, walk majestically behind their light, fidgety girls, telling them to raise their shoulders a bit higher and straighten their backs; in short, at this time Nevsky Prospect is a pedagogical Nevsky Prospect. But the closer it comes to two o'clock, the fewer in number are the tutors, pedagogues, and children: they are finally supplanted by their loving progenitors, who hold on their arms their bright, multicolored, weak-nerved companions. Gradually their company is joined by all those who have finished their rather important domestic business, to wit: discussing the weather with their doctor, as well as a little pimple that has popped out on the nose, informing themselves about the health of their horses and children, who incidentally show great promise, reading an advertisement in the newspaper and an important article on arrivals and departures, and, finally, drinking a cup of coffee or tea; and these are joined by those on whom an enviable fate has bestowed the blessed title of official for special missions. And these are joined by those who serve in the foreign office and are distinguished by the nobility of their occupations and habits. God, how beautiful some posts and jobs are! how they elevate and delight the soul! but, alas! I am not in the civil service and am denied the pleasure of behold- ing my superiors' refined treatment of me. Whatever you meet on Nevsky Prospect is all filled with decency: men in long frock coats, their hands in their pockets, ladies in pink, white, and pale blue satin redingotes and hats. Here you will meet singular side-whiskers, tucked with extraordinary and amazing art under the necktie, velvety whiskers, satiny whiskers, black as sable or coal, but, alas, belonging only to the foreign office. Providence has denied black side-whiskers to those serving in other departments; they, however great the unpleasantness, must wear red ones. Here you will meet wondrous mustaches, which no pen or brush is able to portray; mustaches to which the better part of a lifetime is devoted-object of long vigils by day and by night; mustaches on which exquisite perfumes and scents have been poured, and which have been anointed with all the most rare and precious sorts of pomades, mustaches which are wrapped overnight in fine vellum, mustaches which are subject to the most touching affection of their possessors and are the envy of passers-by. A thousand kinds of hats, dresses, shawls-gay-colored, ethereal, for which their owners' affection sometimes lasts a whole two days-will bedazzle anyone on Nevsky Prospect. It seems as if a whole sea of butterflies has suddenly arisen from the stems, their brilliant cloud undulating over the black beedes of the male sex. Here you will meet such waists as you have never seen in dreams: slender, narrow waists, no whit thicker than a bottle's neck, on meeting which you deferentially step aside, lest you somehow imprudently nudge them with your discourteous elbow; timidity and fear will come over your heart, lest somehow from your imprudent breath the loveliest work of nature and art should be broken. And what ladies' sleeves you meet on Nevsky Prospect! Ah, how lovely! They somewhat resemble two airborne balloons, so that the lady would suddenly rise into the air if the man were not holding her; for raising a lady into the air is as easy and pleasant as bringing a champagne-filled glass to your lips. Nowhere do people exchange bows when they meet with such nobility and nonchalance as on Nevsky Prospect. Here you will meet that singular smile, the height of art, which may cause you sometimes to melt with plea- sure, sometimes suddenly to see yourself lower than grass, and you hang your head, sometimes to feel yourself higher than the Admiralty spire, 3 and you raise it. Here you will meet people discussing a concert or the weather with an extraordinary nobility and sense of their own dignity. You will meet thousands of inconceivable characters and phenomena. O Creator! what strange characters one meets on Nevsky Prospect! There is a host of such people as, when they meet you, unfailingly look at your shoes, and, when you pass by, turn to look at your coattails. To this day I fail to understand why this happens. At first I thought they were shoemakers, but no, that is not the case: for the most part they serve in various departments, many are perfectly well able to write an official letter from one institution to another; or else they are people occupied with strolling, reading newspapers in pastry shops-in short, they are nearly all decent people. At this blessed time, from two to three in the afternoon, when Nevsky Prospect may be called a capital in motion, there takes place a major exhibition of the best products of humanity. One displays a foppish frock coat with the best of beavers, another a wonderful Greek nose, the third is the bearer of superb side-whiskers, the fourth of a pair of pretty eyes and an astonishing little hat, the fifth of a signet ring with a talisman on his smart pinkie, the sixth of a little foot in a charming bootie, the seventh of an astonishment-arousing necktie, the eighth of an amazement-inspiring mustache. But it strikes three and the exhibition is over, the crowd thins out… At three, a new change. Suddenly spring comes to Nevsky Prospect: it gets all covered with clerks in green uniforms. Hungry titular, court, and other councillors try with all their might to put on speed. Young collegiate registrars, provincial and collegiate secretaries hasten to make use of their time and take a stroll on Nevsky Prospect with a bearing which suggests that they have not spent six hours sitting in an office. But the old collegiate secretaries, titular and court councillors walk briskly, their heads bowed: they cannot be bothered with gazing at passers-by; they are not yet completely torn away from their cares; there is a jumble in their heads and a whole archive of started and unfinished cases; for a long time, instead of a signboard, they see a carton of papers or the plump face of the office chief.

From four o'clock on, Nevsky Prospect is empty, and you will hardly meet even one clerk on it. Some seamstress from a shop runs across Nevsky Prospect, a box in her hands; some pathetic victim of a humanitarian lawyer, reduced to begging in a frieze overcoat; some visiting eccentric for whom all hours are the same; some long, tall Englishwoman with a reticule and a book in her hands; some company agent, a Russian in a half-cotton frock coat gathered at the back, with a narrow little beard, who lives all his life in a slapdash way, in whom everything moves-back and arms and legs and head-as he goes deferentially down the sidewalk; now and then a lowly artisan; you will not meet anyone else on Nevsky Prospect.

But as soon as dusk falls on the houses and streets, and the sentry, covering himself with a bast mat, climbs the ladder to light the lantern, and prints which do not dare show themselves in the daytime peek out of the low shop windows, then Nevsky Prospect again comes to life and begins to stir. Then comes that mysterious time when lamps endow everything with some enticing, wondrous light. You will meet a great many young men, mostly bachelors, in warm frock coats or overcoats. At that time there is a sense of some goal, or, better, of something resembling a goal, something extremely unaccountable; everyone's steps quicken and generally become very uneven. Long shadows flit over the walls and pavement, their heads all but reaching the Police Bridge. Young collegiate registrars, provincial and collegiate secretaries stroll about for a very long time; but the old collegiate registrars, titular councillors, and court councillors mostly stay home, either because they are married folk or because their food is very well prepared by their live-in German cooks. Here you will meet the respectable old men who strolled along Nevsky Prospect with such gravity and such amazing nobility at two o'clock. You will see them running just like young collegiate registrars to peek under the hat of a lady spotted from far off, whose thick lips and rouge-plastered cheeks are liked by so many strollers, most of all by the salesclerks, company agents, shopkeepers, always dressed in German frock coats, who go strolling in whole crowds and usually arm in arm.

"Wait!" Lieutenant Pirogov cried at that moment, tugging at the young man in the tailcoat and cloak who was walking beside him. "Did you see?"

"I did, a wonderful girl, a perfect Perugino Bianca." 4

"But who are you talking about?"

"Her, the dark-haired one. And what eyes! God, what eyes! The bearing, and the figure, and the shape of the face-sheer wonders!"

"I'm talking about the blonde who walked after her in the same direction. Why don't you go after the brunette, since you liked her so much?"

"Oh, how could I?" the young man in the tailcoat exclaimed, blushing. "As if she were the kind to walk about Nevsky Prospect in the evening. She must be a very noble lady," he went on, sighing, "her cloak alone is worth about eighty roubles!"

"Simpleton!" cried Pirogov, pushing him toward where the bright cloak was fluttering. "Go on, ninny, you'll miss her! And I'll follow the blonde."

The two friends parted.

"We know you all," Pirogov thought with a self-satisfied and self-confident smile, sure that no beauty would be able to resist him.

The young man in the tailcoat and cloak went with timid and tremulous steps toward where, some distance away, the colorful cloak was fluttering, now bathed in bright light as it approached a street lamp, now instantly covered in darkness as it left it behind. His heart was pounding, and he unwittingly quickened his pace. He did not even dare dream of gaining any right to the attention of the beauty flying off into the distance, still less to admit such a black thought as Lieutenant Pirogov had hinted at; he merely wished to see the house, to make note of where this lovely being dwelt, who seemed to have flown down from heaven right onto Nevsky Prospect and would surely fly off again no one knew where. He flew along so quickly that he was constantly pushing staid gentlemen with gray side-whiskers off the sidewalk. This young man belonged to a class which represents quite a strange phenomenon among us and belongs as much to the citizens of Petersburg as a person who comes to us in a dream belongs to the real world. This exceptional group is highly unusual in a city in which everyone is either an official, a shopkeeper, or a German artisan. He was an artist. A strange phenomenon, is it not? A Petersburg artist! An artist in the land of snows, an artist in the land of Finns, where everything is wet, smooth, flat, pale, gray, misty. These artists do not in the least resemble Italian artists-proud, ardent, like Italy and its sky; on the contrary, they are for the most part kind and meek people, bashful, lighthearted, with a quiet love for their art, who drink tea with their two friends in a small room, who talk modestly about their favorite subject and are totally indifferent to all superfluity. He is forever inviting some old beggar woman to his place and making her sit for a good six hours, so as to transfer her pathetic, insensible expression to canvas. He paints his room in perspective, with all sorts of artistic clutter appearing in it: plaster arms and legs turned coffee-colored with time and dust, broken easels, an overturned palette, a friend playing a guitar, paint-stained walls, and an open window through which comes a glimpse of the pale Neva and poor fishermen in red shirts. They paint almost everything in dull, grayish colors-the indelible imprint of the north. Yet, for all that, they apply themselves with genuine pleasure to their work. They often nurture a genuine talent in themselves, and if the fresh air of Italy were to breathe on them, it would surely develop as freely, broadly, and vividly as a plant that has finally been brought outside into the open air. They are generally very timid: a star 5 or a thick epaulette throws them into such confusion that they unwittingly lower the price of their works. They like to play the dandy on occasion, but this dandyism always stands out in them and looks something like a patch. You will sometimes meet an excellent tailcoat on them and a dirty cloak, an expensive velvet waistcoat and a frock coat all covered with paint. Just as you will sometimes meet on their unfinished landscape a nymph painted upside down, which the artist, finding no other place, sketched on the dirty background of an old work he once delighted in painting. He never looks you straight in the eye; or if he does, it is somehow vaguely, indefinitely; he does not pierce you with the hawk's eye of an observer or the falcon's gaze of a cavalry officer. The reason for that is that he sees, at one and the same time, both your features and those of some plaster Hercules standing in his room, or else he imagines a painting of his own that he still means to produce. That is why his responses are often incoherent, not to the point, and the muddle of things in his head increases his timidity all the more. To this kind belonged the young man we have described, the artist Piskarev, shy, timid, but bearing in his soul sparks of feeling ready on the right occasion to burst into flame. With a secret tremor he hastened after his object, who had struck him so strongly, and he himself seemed to marvel at his own boldness. The unknown being to whom his eyes, thoughts, and feelings clung so, suddenly turned her head and looked at him. God, what divine features! The loveliest brow, of a dazzling whiteness, was overshadowed by beautiful, agate-like hair. They were curly, those wondrous tresses, some of which fell from under her hat onto her cheek, touched with a fine, fresh color called up by the cool of the evening. Her lips were locked on a whole swarm of the loveliest reveries. All that remains of childhood, that comes of dreaming and quiet inspiration by a lighted lamp-all this seemed to join and merge and be reflected in her harmonious lips. She glanced at Piskarev, and his heart fluttered at this glance; it was a stern glance, a sense of indignation showed on her face at the sight of such insolent pursuit; but on this beautiful face wrath itself was bewitching. Overcome with shame and timidity, he stopped, his eyes cast down; but how lose this divinity without even discovering to what holy place she had descended for a visit? Such thoughts came into the young dreamer's head, and he resolved on pursuit. But to do it without being noticed, he hung back, glanced around nonchalantly and studied the shop signs, while not losing sight of a single step the unknown lady took. Passers-by began to flit by more rarely, the street grew quieter; the beauty looked back, and it seemed to him that a slight smile flashed on her lips. He trembled all over and did not believe his eyes. No, it was the street lamp with its deceitful light showing the semblance of a smile on her face; no, it was his own dreams laughing at him. But it stopped the breath in his breast, everything in him turned into a vague trembling, all his senses were aflame, and everything before him was covered with a sort of mist. The sidewalk rushed under him, carriages with galloping horses seemed motionless, the bridge was stretched out and breaking on its arch, the house stood roof down, the sentry box came tumbling to meet him, and the sentry's halberd, along with the golden words of a shop sign and its painted scissors, seemed to flash right on his eyelashes. And all this was accomplished by one glance, by one turn of a pretty head. Unhearing, unseeing, unheeding, he raced in the light tracks of beautiful feet, himself trying to moderate the quickness of his pace, which flew in time with his heart. Sometimes doubt would come over him: Was the expression of her face indeed so benevolent?-and then he would stop for a moment, but the beating of his heart, the invincible force and agitation of all his feelings, urged him onward. He did not even notice how a four-story house suddenly rose before him, how all four rows of windows, shining with light, glared at him at once, and the railings of the entrance opposed him with their iron thrust. He saw the unknown woman fly up the steps, look back, put her finger to her lips, and motion for him to follow her. His knees trembled; his senses and thoughts were on fire; a lightning flash of joy pierced his heart with an unbearable point! No, it was no dream! God, so much happiness in one instant! such a wonderful life of two minutes!

But was it not a dream? Could it be that she, for one of whose heavenly glances he would be ready to give his whole life, to approach whose dwelling he already counted an inexplicable bliss- could it be that she had just shown him such favor and attention? He flew up the stairs. He did not feel any earthly thought; he was not heated with the flame of earthly passion, no, at that moment he was pure and chaste, like a virginal youth, still breathing the vague spiritual need for love. And that which in a depraved man would arouse bold thoughts, that same thing, on the contrary, made him still more radiant. This trust which a weak, beautiful being had shown in him, this trust imposed on him a vow of chivalric rigor, a vow slavishly to fulfill all her commands. He wished only for her commands to be all the more difficult and unrealizable, so that he could fly to overcome them with the greater effort. He had no doubt that some secret and at the same time important reason had made the unknown woman entrust herself to him, that some important services would surely be required of him, and he already felt in himself enough strength and resolve for everything.

The stairway wound around, and his quick dreams wound with it. "Watch your step!" a voice sounded like a harp and filled his veins with fresh trembling. On the dark height of the fourth floor, the unknown lady knocked at the door-it opened, and they went in together. A rather good-looking woman met them with a candle in her hand, but she gave Piskarev such a strange and insolent look that he involuntarily lowered his eyes. They went into the room. Three female figures in different corners appeared before his eyes. One was laying out cards; the second sat at a piano and with two fingers picked out some pathetic semblance of an old polonaise; the third sat before a mirror combing her long hair and never thought of interrupting her toilette at the entrance of a stranger. Some unpleasant disorder, to be met with only in the carefree room of a bachelor, reigned over all. The rather nice furniture was covered with dust; a spider had spread its web over a molded cornice; in the half-open doorway to another room, a spurred boot gleamed and the red piping of a uniform flitted: a loud male voice and female laughter rang out unrestrainedly.

God, where had he come! At first he refused to believe it and began studying the objects that filled the room more attentively; but the bare walls and curtainless windows showed no presence of a thoughtful housewife; the worn faces of these pathetic creatures, one of whom sat down almost in front of his nose and gazed at him as calmly as at a spot on someone's clothes-all this convinced him that he had come to one of those revolting havens where pathetic depravity makes its abode, born of tawdry education and the terrible populousness of the capital. One of those havens where man blasphemously crushes and derides all the pure and holy that adorns life, where woman, the beauty of the world, the crown of creation, turns into some strange, ambiguous being, where, along with purity of soul, she loses everything feminine and repulsively adopts all the mannerisms and insolence of a man, and ceases to be that weak, that beautiful being so different from us. Piskarev looked her up and down with astonished eyes, as if still wishing to make sure that it was she who had so bewitched him and swept him away on Nevsky Prospect. But she stood before him as beautiful as ever; her hair was as wonderful; her eyes seemed as heavenly. She was fresh; she was just seventeen; one could see that terrible depravity had overtaken her only recently; it had not yet dared to touch her cheeks, they were fresh and lightly tinted by a fine blush-she was beautiful.

He stood motionless before her and was about to fall into the same simple-hearted reverie as earlier. But the beauty got bored with such long silence and smiled significantly, looking straight into his eyes. Yet this smile was filled with some pathetic insolence; it was as strange and as suited to her face as an expression of piety is to the mug of a bribe-taker, or an accountant's ledger to a poet. He shuddered. She opened her pretty lips and began to say something, but it was all so stupid, so trite… As if intelligence left a person together with chastity. He did not want to hear any more. He was extremely ridiculous and as simple as a child. Instead of taking advantage of this favor, instead of being glad of such an occasion, as anyone else in his place would undoubtedly have been, he rushed out headlong, like a wild goat, and ran down to the street.

His head bowed, his arms hanging limp, he sat in his room like a poor man who found a priceless pearl and straightaway dropped it into the sea. "Such a beauty, such divine features-and where, in what place!…" That was all he was able to utter.

Indeed, pity never possesses us so strongly as at the sight of beauty touched by the corrupting breath of depravity. Let ugliness make friends with it, but beauty, tender beauty… in our thoughts it is united only with chastity and purity. The beauty who had so bewitched poor Piskarev was in fact a marvelous, extraordinary phenomenon. Her presence in that despicable circle seemed still more extraordinary. Her features were all so purely formed, the whole expression of her beautiful face was marked by such nobility, that it was simply impossible to think that depravity had stretched out its terrible claws over her. She would have been a priceless pearl, the whole world, the whole paradise, the whole wealth of an ardent husband; she would have been the beautiful, gentle star of an unostentatious family circle, and would have given sweet orders with one movement of her beautiful mouth. She would have been a divinity in a crowded hall, on the bright parquet, in the glow of candles, the awestruck company of her admirers lying speechless at her feet. But, alas! by the terrible will of some infernal spirit who wishes to destroy the harmony of life, she had been flung, with a loud laugh, into the abyss.

Filled with rending pity, he sat by a guttering candle. It was long after midnight, the bell in the tower struck half-past, and he sat fixed, sleepless, keeping a pointless vigil. Drowsiness, taking advantage of his fixity, was gradually beginning to come over him, the room was already beginning to disappear, only the light of the candle penetrated the reveries that were coming over him, when suddenly a knock at the door made him start and come to his senses. The door opened and a lackey in rich livery came in. Never had rich livery visited his solitary room, and that at such an unusual hour… He was perplexed and looked at the entering lackey with impatient curiosity.

"The lady whom you were pleased to visit several hours ago," the lackey said with a courteous bow, "bids me invite you to call on her and sends a carriage for you."

Piskarev stood in wordless astonishment: a carriage, a liveried lackey!… No, there must be some mistake here…

"Listen, my good fellow," he said with timidity, "you must have come to the wrong place. The lady undoubtedly sent you for someone else, and not for me."

"No, sir, I am not mistaken. Was is not you who kindly accompanied a lady on foot to a house on Liteiny, to a room on the fourth floor?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, make haste if you please, the lady wishes to see you without fail and asks you kindly to come straight to her house."

Piskarev ran down the stairs. A carriage was indeed standing outside. He got into it, the door slammed, the pavement rumbled under wheels and hooves, and the lit-up perspective of buildings with bright signboards raced past the carriage windows. On the way, Piskarev kept thinking and was unable to figure out this adventure. A private house, a carriage, a lackey in rich livery… he could in no way reconcile all this with the room on the fourth floor, the dusty windows, and the out-of-tune piano.

The carriage stopped in front of a brightly lit entrance, and he was struck at once: by the row of carriages, the talk of the coachmen, the brightly lit windows, and the sounds of music. The lackey in rich livery helped him out of the carriage and respectfully led the way to a front hall with marble columns, a doorman all drowned in gold, cloaks and fur coats scattered about, and a bright lamp. An airy stairway with shining banisters, perfumed with scents, raced upwards. He was already on it, he was already in the first room, frightened and drawing back at the first step from the terrible crowdedness. The extraordinary diversity of faces threw him into complete bewilderment; it seemed as if some demon had chopped the whole world up into a multitude of different pieces and mixed those pieces together with no rhyme or reason. Ladies' gleaming shoulders, black tailcoats, chandeliers, lamps, airy gauzes flying, ethereal ribbons, and a fat double bass peeking from behind the railing of a magnificent gallery-everything was splendid for him. He saw at once so many venerable old and half-old men with stars on their tailcoats, ladies who stepped so lightly, proudly, and gracefully over the parquet or sat in rows, he heard so many French and English words, moreover the young men in black tailcoats were filled with such nobility, talked or kept silent with such dignity, were so incapable of saying anything superfluous, joked so majestically, smiled so respectfully, wore such superb side-whiskers, knew so well how to display perfect hands as they straightened their ties, the ladies were so airy, so completely immersed in self-satisfaction and rapture, lowered their eyes so charmingly, that… but the humble air of Piskarev, who clung fearfully to a column, was enough to show that he was utterly at a loss. At that moment the crowd surrounded a group of dancers.

They raced on, wrapped in transparent Parisian creations, dresses woven of the very air; carelessly they touched the parquet with their shining little feet, and were more ethereal than if they had not touched it at all. But one among them was dressed more finely, more splendidly and dazzlingly than the rest. Inexpressible, the very finest combination of taste showed in her attire, and yet it seemed that she did not care about it at all and that it showed inadvertently, of itself. She both looked and did not look at the crowd of spectators around her, her beautiful long eyelashes lowered indifferently, and the shining whiteness of her face struck the eye still more dazzlingly when a slight shadow fell on her charming brow as she inclined her head.

Piskarev made a great effort to force his way through the crowd and get a better look at her, but, to his greatest vexation, some huge head with dark, curly hair kept getting in the way; the crowd also pressed him so much that he did not dare move forward or backward for fear he might somehow shove some privy councillor. But then he did push to the front and looked at his clothes, wishing to straighten them properly. Heavenly Creator, what was this! He had a frock coat on, and it was all covered with paint: in his haste he had even forgotten to change into decent clothes. He blushed to his ears and, dropping his glance, wanted to disappear somewhere, but there was decidedly nowhere to disappear to: court chamberlains in brilliant uniforms stood in a solid wall behind him. He wished he was far away from the beauty with the wonderful brow and eyelashes. He fearfully raised his eyes to see whether she was looking at him: God! she was standing right in front of him… But what is this? what is this? "It's she!" he cried almost aloud. Indeed it was she, the very same one he had met on Nevsky and followed to her house.

She raised her eyelashes meanwhile and looked at everyone with her bright eyes. "Aie, aie, aie, what beauty!…" was all he was able to utter with failing breath. She looked around the whole circle of people, all of whom strove to hold her attention, but her weary and inattentive eyes soon turned away and met the eyes of Piskarev. Oh, what heaven! what paradise! Grant him strength, O Creator, to bear it! Life will not contain it, it will destroy and carry off his soul! She made a sign, but not with her hand, not by inclining her head-no, but her devastating eyes expressed this sign so subtly and inconspicuously that no one could see it, yet he saw it, he understood it. The dance lasted a long time; the weary music seemed to fade and go out altogether, then it would break loose again, shriek and thunder. Finally-the end! She sat down, her bosom heaved under the thin smoke of gauze; her hand (O Creator, what a wonderful hand!) dropped on her knees, crushing her airy dress beneath it, and her dress under her hand seemed to start breathing music, and its fine lilac color emphasized still more the bright whiteness of this beautiful hand. Just to touch it-nothing more! No other desires-they are all too bold… He stood behind her chair, not daring to speak, not daring to breathe.

"Was it boring for you?" she said. "I was bored, too. I see that you hate me…" she added, lowering her long eyelashes.

"Hate you? Me?… I…" Piskarev, utterly at a loss, was about to say, and would probably have produced a whole heap of the most incoherent things, but just then a gentleman-in-waiting approached with witty and pleasant observations and a beautifully curled forelock on his head. He rather pleasantly displayed a row of rather good teeth, and each of his witticisms was a sharp nail in Piskarev's heart. At last some third person, fortunately, addressed the gentleman with some question.

"How unbearable!" she said, raising her heavenly eyes to him. "I'll go and sit at the other end of the room. Meet me there!"

She slipped through the crowd and disappeared. He shoved his way through the crowd like a madman and was already there.

Yes, it was she! She was sitting like a queen, the best of all, the most beautiful of all, and was seeking him with her eyes.

"You're here," she said softly. "I'll be frank with you: you must have thought the circumstances of our meeting strange. Could you really think that I belong to that despicable class of creatures among whom you met me? To you my actions seem strange, but I will reveal a secret to you. Will you be able," she said, fixing her eyes on him, "to keep it forever?"

"Oh, I will, I will, I will!…"

But just then a rather elderly man approached, spoke to her in some language unknown to Piskarev, and offered her his arm. She looked at Piskarev with imploring eyes and motioned to him to stay where he was and wait for her to come back, but he, in a fit of impatience, was unable to obey any orders, even from her lips. He started after her; but the crowd parted them. He could no longer see the lilac dress! Anxiously he went from room to room, shoving everyone he met unmercifully, but in all the rooms there were aces sitting over whist, sunk in dead silence. In one corner of the room, several elderly men argued about the advantages of military service over civil; in another, people in superb tailcoats were exchanging light remarks about a multivolume edition of a hardworking poet. Piskarev felt one elderly man of respectable appearance seize him by the button of his tailcoat and present for his judgment some quite correct observation of his, but he rudely pushed him away without even noticing that he had a rather significant decoration around his neck. He ran to the next room-she was not there either. To a third-not there. "Where is she? Give her to me! Oh, I cannot live without another look at her! I want to hear what she was going to say"-but his search was all in vain. Anxious, weary, he pressed himself into a corner and gazed at the crowd; but his strained eyes began to present everything to him in some vague way. Finally, the walls of his own room began to show clearly before him. He raised his eyes. Before him stood a candlestick with the light nearly gone out inside it; the whole candle had melted away; tallow had poured over the table.

So he had been sleeping! God, what a dream! And why wake up? why not wait one more moment: she surely would have appeared again! The unpleasant and wan light of vexatious day showed in his windows. Such gray, such dingy disorder in his room… Oh, how repulsive reality is! What is it compared with dreams? He undressed hastily and went to bed, wrapped in a blanket, wishing to call back the flown vision for a moment. Sleep, indeed, was not slow in coming to him, but it did not at all present him with what he would have liked to see: now a Lieutenant Pirogov would come with his pipe, now an Academy watchman, now an actual state councillor, now the head of a Finnish woman whose portrait he had painted once, and other such nonsense.

He lay in bed till noon, wishing to fall asleep; but she would not appear. If only she would show her beautiful features for a moment, if only he could hear her light footstep for a moment, if only her bare arm, bright as snow on a mountaintop, could flash before him.

Abandoning everything, forgetting everything, he sat with a crushed, hopeless look, filled only with his dream. He did not think of eating anything; without any interest, without any life, his eyes gazed out the window to the courtyard, where a dirty water-carrier was pouring water that froze in the air, and the bleating voice of a peddler quavered: "Old clothes for sale." The everyday and real struck oddly on his ear. Thus he sat till evening, when he greedily rushed to bed. For a long time he struggled with sleeplessness and finally overcame it. Again some dream, some trite, vile dream. "God, be merciful; show her to me for a moment at least, just for one moment!" Again he waited till evening, again fell asleep, again dreamed of some official who was an official and at the same time a bassoon. Oh, this was unbearable! At last she came! her head and her tresses… she looks… Oh, how brief! Again the mist, again some stupid dream.

In the end dreams became his life, and his whole life thereafter took a strange turn: one might say he slept while waking and watched while asleep. If anyone had seen him sitting silently before the empty table or walking down the street, he would certainly have taken him for a lunatic or someone destroyed by hard drinking; his gaze was quite senseless, his natural distractedness developed, finally, and imperiously drove all feeling, all movement, from his face. He became animated only with the coming of night.

Such a state unsettled his health, and his most terrible torment was that sleep finally began to desert him entirely. Wishing to salvage this his only possession, he used every means to restore it. He heard that there was a means of restoring sleep-one had only to take opium. But where to get this opium? He remembered one Persian shopkeeper who sold shawls and who, whenever they met, asked him to paint a beauty for him. He decided to go to him, supposing that he would undoubtedly have this opium. The Persian received him sitting on a couch, his legs tucked under him.

"What do you need opium for?" he asked.

Piskarev told him about his insomnia.

"Very well, I give you opium, only paint me a beauty. Must be a fine beauty! Must be with black eyebrows and eyes big as olives; and me lying beside her smoking my pipe! Do you hear? Must be a fine one! a beauty!"

Piskarev promised everything. The Persian stepped out for a minute and returned with a little pot filled with dark liquid, carefully poured some of it into another little pot and gave it to Piskarev, with instructions to take no more than seven drops in water. He greedily seized this precious pot, which he would not have given up for a heap of gold, and rushed headlong home.

On coming home, he poured a few drops into a glass of water and, having swallowed it, dropped off to sleep.

God, what joy! It's she! She again! but now with a completely different look! Oh, how nicely she sits by the window of a bright country house! Her dress breathes such simplicity as only a poet's thought is clothed in. Her hair is done… O Creator, how simply her hair is done, and how becoming it is to her! A short shawl lightly covers her slender neck; everything in her is modest, everything in her is-a mysterious, inexplicable sense of taste. How lovely her graceful gait! how musical the sound of her footsteps and the rustle of her simple dress! how beautiful her arm clasped round with a bracelet of hair! She says to him with tears in her eyes: "Don't despise me. I'm not at all what you take me for. Look at me, look at me more closely, and say: Am I capable of what you think?" "Oh, no, no! If anyone dares to think so, let him…" But he woke up, all stirred, distraught, with tears in his eyes. "It would be better if you didn't exist, didn't live in the world, but were the creation of an inspired artist! I would never leave the canvas, I would eternally gaze at you and kiss you. I would live and breathe by you, as the most beautiful dream, and then I would be happy. My desires could reach no further. I would call upon you as my guardian angel, before sleep and waking, and I would wait for you whenever I had to portray the divine and holy. But now… what a terrible life! What is the use of her being alive? Is the life of a madman pleasant for his relations and friends who once used to love him? God, what is our life! An eternal discord between dream and reality!" Thoughts much like these constantly occupied him. He did not think about anything, he even ate almost nothing, and impatiently, with a lover's passion, waited for evening and the desired vision. His thoughts were constantly turned to one thing, and this finally acquired such power over his whole being and imagination that the desired image came to him almost every day, always in a situation contrary to reality, because his thoughts were perfectly pure, like the thoughts of a child. Through his dreams, the object itself was somehow becoming more pure and totally transformed.

Taking opium enflamed his thoughts still more, and if anyone was ever in love to the utmost degree of madness, impetuously, terribly, destructively, stormily, he was that unfortunate man.

Of all his dreams, one was the most joyful for him: he imagined his studio, he was so happy, he sat holding the palette with such pleasure! And she was right there. She was his wife now. She sat beside him, her lovely elbow resting on the back of his chair, and looked at his work. Her eyes, languid, weary, showed the burden of bliss; everything in his room breathed of paradise; there was such brightness, such order! O Creator! she leaned her lovely head on his breast… He had never had a better dream. He got up after it, somehow more fresh and less distracted than before. Strange thoughts were born in his head. "It may be," he thought, "that she's been drawn into depravity by some involuntary, terrible accident; it may be that the impulses of her soul are inclined to repentance; it may be that she herself wishes to tear herself away from her terrible condition. And can one indifferently allow for her ruin, and that at a moment when it is enough just to reach out a hand to save her from drowning?" His thoughts went further still. "No one knows me," he said to himself, "and who cares about me anyway? And I don't care about them either. If she shows pure repentance and changes her life, then I'll marry her. I must marry her, and surely I'll do much better than many of those who marry their housekeepers, and often even the most despicable creatures. But my deed will be an unmercenary and perhaps even a great one. I'll restore to the world its most beautiful ornament."

Having come up with such a light-minded plan, he felt the flush of color on his face; he went to the mirror and was himself frightened by his sunken cheeks and the pallor of his face. He began to dress carefully; he washed, brushed his hair, put on a new tailcoat, a smart waistcoat, threw on a cloak, and went out. He breathed the fresh air and felt freshness in his heart, like a convalescent who has decided to go out for the first time after a long illness. His heart was pounding as he approached the street where he had not set foot since the fatal encounter.

He spent a long time looking for the house; his memory seemed to fail him. Twice he walked up and down the street, not knowing where to stop. Finally one seemed right to him. He quickly ran up the stairs, knocked at the door: the door opened, and who should come out to meet him? His ideal, his mysterious image, the original of his dreamt pictures, she by whom he lived, lived so terribly, so tormentingly, so sweetly. She herself stood before him. He trembled; he could barely keep his feet from weakness, overcome by an impulse of joy. She stood before him just as beautiful, though her eyes were sleepy, though pallor had already crept over her face, no longer so fresh-yet still she was beautiful.

"Ah!" she cried out, seeing Piskarev and rubbing her eyes (it was then already two o'clock). "Why did you run away from us that time?"

Exhausted, he sat down on a chair and gazed at her.

"And I just woke up. They brought me back at seven in the morning. I was completely drunk," she added with a smile.

Oh, better you were mute and totally deprived of speech than to utter such things! She had suddenly shown him the whole of her life as in a panorama. However, he mastered himself despite that and decided to try whether his admonitions might have an effect on her. Summoning his courage, he began in a trembling and at the same time fervent voice to present her terrible position to her. She listened to him with an attentive look and with that sense of astonishment which we show at the sight of something unexpected and strange. With a slight smile, she glanced at her friend who was sitting in the corner and who, abandoning the comb she was cleaning, also listened attentively to the new preacher.

"True, I'm poor," Piskarev said finally, after a long and instructive admonition, "but we'll work; we'll vie with each other in our efforts to improve our life. There's nothing more pleasant than to owe everything to oneself. I'll sit over my paintings, you'll sit by me, inspiring my labors, embroidering or doing some other handwork, and we won't lack for anything."

"What!" she interrupted his speech with an expression of some disdain. "I'm no laundress or seamstress that I should do any work!"

God! in these words all her low, all her contemptible life was expressed-a life filled with emptiness and idleness, the faithful companions of depravity.

"Marry me!" her friend, till then sitting silently in the corner, picked up with an impudent look. "If I was a wife, I'd sit like this!"

And with that she made some stupid grimace with her pathetic face which the beauty found very funny.

Oh, this was too much! This was more than he could bear! He rushed out, having lost all feeling and thought. His reason was clouded: stupidly, aimlessly, seeing, hearing, feeling nothing, he wandered about for the whole day. No one could say whether he slept anywhere or not; only the next day, following some stupid instinct, did he come to his apartment, pale, dreadful-looking, his hair disheveled, with signs of madness on his face. He locked himself in his room, let no one in and asked for nothing. Four days passed, and his locked room never once opened; finally a week went by, and the room still remained locked. They rushed to the door, began calling him, but there was no answer; finally they broke the door down and found his lifeless body with the throat cut. A bloody razor lay on the floor. From his convulsively spread arms and terribly disfigured appearance, it could be concluded that his hand had not been steady and that he had suffered for a long time before his sinful soul left his body.

Thus perished, the victim of a mad passion, poor Piskarev, quiet, timid, modest, childishly simple-hearted, who bore in himself a spark of talent which in time might have blazed up broadly and brightly. No one wept over him; no one could be seen by his lifeless body except the ordinary figure of a district inspector and the indifferent mien of a city doctor. His coffin was quietly taken to Okhta, 6 even without religious rites; only a soldier-sentry wept as he followed it, and that because he had drunk an extra dram of vodka. Not even Lieutenant Pirogov came to look at the body of the unfortunate wretch upon whom, while he lived, he had bestowed his lofty patronage. However, he could not be bothered with that; he was occupied with an extraordinary event. But let us turn to him.

I don't like corpses and dead men, and it always gives me an unpleasant feeling when a long funeral procession crosses my path and an invalid soldier, dressed like some sort of Capuchin, takes a pinch of snuff with his left hand because his right is occupied with a torch. My heart is always vexed at the sight of a rich catafalque and a velvet coffin; but my vexation is mixed with sadness when I see a drayman pulling the bare pine coffin of a poor man, and only some beggar woman met at an intersection plods after it, having nothing else to do.

It seems we left Lieutenant Pirogov at the point of his parting from poor Piskarev and rushing after the blonde. This blonde was a light, rather interesting little creature. She stopped in front of each shop window to gaze at the displays of belts, kerchiefs, earrings, gloves, and other trifles; she fidgeted constantly, looked in all directions, and glanced over her shoulder. "You're mine, litde sweetie!" Lieutenant Pirogov repeated self-confidently as he continued his pursuit, covering his face with the collar of his overcoat lest he meet some acquaintance. But it will do no harm if we inform readers of who this Lieutenant Pirogov was.

But before we tell who this Lieutenant Pirogov was, it will do no harm if we say a thing or two about the society to which Pirogov belonged. There are officers in Petersburg who constitute a sort of middle class in society. You will always find one of them at a soiree, at a dinner given by a state or actual state councillor, who earned this rank by forty long years of labor. Several pale daughters, completely colorless, like Petersburg, some of them overripe, a tea table, a piano, dancing-all this is usually inseparable from a bright epaulette shining by a lamp, between a well-behaved blonde and the black tailcoat of a brother or a friend of the family. It is very hard to stir up these cool-blooded girls and make them laugh; it takes very great art, or, better to say, no art at all. One must speak so that it is neither too intelligent nor too funny, so that it is all about the trifles that women like. In this the gentlemen under discussion should be given their due. They have a special gift for making these colorless beauties laugh and listen. Exclamations stifled by laughter-"Ah, stop it! Aren't you ashamed to make me laugh so!"-are usually their best reward. Among the upper classes they occur very rarely, or, better to say, never. They are forced out altogether by what this society calls aristocrats; however, they are considered educated and well-bred people. They like talking about literature; they praise Bulgarin, Pushkin, and Grech, and speak with contempt and barbed wit of A. A. Orlov. 7 They never miss a single public lecture, be it on accounting or even on forestry. In the theater, whatever the play, you will always find one of them, unless they are playing some Filatkas, 8 which are highly insulting to their fastidious taste. They are constantly in the theater. For theater managers, these are the most profitable people. In plays, they especially like good poetry; they also like very much to call loudly for the actors; many of them, being teachers in government schools, or preparing students for them, in the end acquire a cabriolet and a pair of horses. Then their circle widens: they finally arrive at marrying a merchant's daughter who can play the piano, with a hundred thousand or so in cash and a heap of bearded relations. However, this honor they cannot attain before being promoted to the rank of colonel at the very least. Because our Russian beards, though still giving off a whiff of cabbage, have no wish for their daughters to marry any but generals, or colonels at the very least. These are the main features of this sort of young men. But Lieutenant Pirogov had a host of talents that belonged to him personally. He declaimed verses from Dmitri Donskoy and Woe from Wit 9 superbly well, and possessed a special art of producing smoke rings from his pipe so skillfully that he could suddenly send ten of them passing one through another. He could very pleasantly tell a joke about a cannon being one thing and a unicorn something else again. However, it is rather difficult to enumerate all the talents fate had bestowed on Pirogov.

He liked talking about some actress or dancer, but not so sharply as a young sub-lieutenant usually talks about this subject. He was very pleased with his rank, to which he had recently been promoted, and though he would occasionally say, while lying on the sofa: "Ah, ah! vanity, all is vanity! So what if I'm a lieutenant?"- secretly he was very flattered by this new dignity; in conversation he often tried to hint at it indirectly, and once, when he ran across some scrivener in the street who seemed impolite to him, he immediately stopped him and in a few but sharp words gave him to know that before him stood a lieutenant and not some other sort of officer. He tried to expound it the more eloquently as two good-looking ladies were just passing by. Generally, Pirogov showed a passion for all that was fine, and he encouraged the artist Piskarev; however, this may have proceeded from his great desire to see his masculine physiognomy in a portrait. But enough about Pirogov's qualities. Man is such a wondrous being that it is never possible to count up all his merits at once. The more you study him, the more new particulars appear, and their description would be endless.

And so Pirogov would not cease his pursuit of the unknown lady, entertaining her now and then with questions to which she replied sharply, curtly, and with some sort of vague sounds. Through the dark Kazan gate they entered Meshchanskaya Street, the street of tobacco and grocery shops, of German artisans and Finnish nymphs. The blonde ran more quickly and fluttered through the gates of a rather dingy house. Pirogov followed her. She ran up the narrow, dark stairway and went in at a door, through which Pirogov also boldly made his way. He found himself in a big room with black walls and a soot-covered ceiling. There was a heap of iron screws, locksmith's tools, shiny coffeepots and candlesticks on the table; the floor was littered with copper and iron shavings. Pirogov realized at once that this was an artisan's dwelling. The unknown lady fluttered on through a side door. He stopped to think for a moment, but, following the Russian rule, resolved to go ahead. He entered a room in no way resembling the first, very neatly decorated, showing that the owner was a German. He was struck by an extraordinarily strange sight.

Before him sat Schiller-not the Schiller who wrote Wilhelm Tell and the History of the Thirty Years' War, but the well-known Schiller, the tinsmith of Meshchanskaya Street. Next to Schiller stood Hoffmann-not the writer Hoffmann, but a rather good cobbler from Ofitserskaya Street, a great friend of Schiller's. 10 Schiller was drunk and sat on a chair stamping his foot and heatedly saying something. All this would not have been so surprising to Pirogov, but what did surprise him was the extremely strange posture of the figures. Schiller was sitting, his rather fat nose stuck out and his head raised, while Hoffmann was holding him by this nose with two fingers and waggling the blade of his cobbler's knife just above the surface of it. Both personages were speaking in German, and therefore Lieutenant Pirogov, whose only German was "Gut Morgen," was able to understand nothing of this whole story. Schiller's words, however, consisted of the following: