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."