FROM WHICH MAY BE SEEN WHENCE AROSE THE DISCUSSION BETWEENIVAN IVANOVITCH AND IVAN NIKIFOROVITCH
One morning--it was in July--Ivan Ivanovitch was lying on his balcony.
The day was warm; the air was dry, and came in gusts.Ivan Ivanovitch had been to town, to the mower's, and at the farm, and had succeeded in asking all the muzhiks and women whom he met all manner of questions.He was fearfully tired and had laid down to rest.As he lay there, he looked at the storehouse, the courtyard, the sheds, the chickens running about, and thought to himself, "Heavens! What a well-to-do man I am! What is there that I have not? Birds, buildings, granaries, everything I take a fancy to; genuine distilled vodka;pears and plums in the orchard; poppies, cabbages, peas in the garden;what is there that I have not? I should like to know what there is that I have not?"As he put this question to himself, Ivan Ivanovitch reflected; and meantime his eyes, in their search after fresh objects, crossed the fence into Ivan Nikiforovitch's yard and involuntarily took note of a curious sight.A fat woman was bringing out clothes, which had been packed away, and spreading them out on the line to air.Presently an old uniform with worn trimmings was swinging its sleeves in the air and embracing a brocade gown; from behind it peeped a court-coat, with buttons stamped with coats-of-arms, and moth-eaten collar; and white kersymere pantaloons with spots, which had once upon a time clothed Ivan Nikiforovitch's legs, and might now possibly fit his fingers.
Behind them were speedily hung some more in the shape of the letter pi.Then came a blue Cossack jacket, which Ivan Nikiforovitch had had made twenty years before, when he was preparing to enter the militia, and allowed his moustache to grow.And one after another appeared a sword, projecting into the air like a spit, and the skirts of a grass-green caftan-like garment, with copper buttons the size of a five-kopek piece, unfolded themselves.From among the folds peeped a vest bound with gold, with a wide opening in front.The vest was soon concealed by an old petticoat belonging to his dead grandmother, with pockets which would have held a water-melon.
All these things piled together formed a very interesting spectacle for Ivan Ivanovitch; while the sun's rays, falling upon a blue or green sleeve, a red binding, or a scrap of gold brocade, or playing in the point of a sword, formed an unusual sight, similar to the representations of the Nativity given at farmhouses by wandering bands; particularly that part where the throng of people, pressing close together, gaze at King Herod in his golden crown or at Anthony leading his goat.
Presently the old woman crawled, grunting, from the storeroom, dragging after her an old-fashioned saddle with broken stirrups, worn leather holsters, and saddle-cloth, once red, with gilt embroidery and copper disks.
"Here's a stupid woman," thought Ivan Ivanovitch."She'll be dragging Ivan Nikiforovitch out and airing him next."Ivan Ivanovitch was not so far wrong in his surmise.Five minutes later, Ivan Nikiforovitch's nankeen trousers appeared, and took nearly half the yard to themselves.After that she fetched out a hat and a gun."What's the meaning of this?" thought Ivan Ivanovitch."I never knew Ivan Nikiforovitch had a gun.What does he want with it? Whether he shoots, or not, he keeps a gun! Of what use is it to him? But it's a splendid thing.I have long wanted just such a one.I should like that gun very much: I like to amuse myself with a gun.Hello, there, woman, woman!" shouted Ivan Ivanovitch, beckoning to her.
The old woman approached the fence.
"What's that you have there, my good woman?"
"A gun, as you see."
"What sort of a gun?"
"Who knows what sort of a gun? If it were mine, perhaps I should know what it is made of; but it is my master's, therefore I know nothing of it."Ivan Ivanovitch rose, and began to examine the gun on all sides, and forgot to reprove the old woman for hanging it and the sword out to air.
"It must be iron," went on the old woman.
"Hm, iron! why iron?" said Ivan Ivanovitch."Has your master had it long?""Yes; long, perhaps."
"It's a nice gun!" continued Ivan Ivanovitch."I will ask him for it.
What can he want with it? I'll make an exchange with him for it.Is your master at home, my good woman?""Yes."
"What is he doing? lying down?"
"Yes, lying down."
"Very well, I will come to him."
Ivan Ivanovitch dressed himself, took his well-seasoned stick for the benefit of the dogs, for, in Mirgorod, there are more dogs than people to be met in the street, and went out.
Although Ivan Nikiforovitch's house was next door to Ivan Ivanovitch's, so that you could have got from one to the other by climbing the fence, yet Ivan Ivanovitch went by way of the street.
From the street it was necessary to turn into an alley which was so narrow that if two one-horse carts chanced to meet they could not get out, and were forced to remain there until the drivers, seizing the hind-wheels, dragged them back in opposite directions into the street, whilst pedestrians drew aside like flowers growing by the fence on either hand.Ivan Ivanovitch's waggon-shed adjoined this alley on one side; and on the other were Ivan Nikiforovitch's granary, gate, and pigeon-house.
