The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol (33 page)

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 Sorochintsy 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 anyone
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.