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 mnishki10 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 Ivanovich'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 bottle 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 agoose . . ."
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 Nikiforovich.
"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 Ivanovich.
"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
THERE 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 l
adies 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 Gate1 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 sublieutenant 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!