The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol (38 page)

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
A
ND
L
AST

“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.”

“Hm!”

“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 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?”