One moment more of explanation, and the long enmity would have been extinguished.Ivan Nikiforovitch was already feeling in his pocket for his snuff-box, and was about to say, "Do me the favour.""Is it not an insult," answered Ivan Ivanovitch, without raising his eyes, "when you, my dear sir, insulted my honour and my family with a word which it is improper to repeat here?""Permit me to observe, in a friendly manner, Ivan Ivanovitch," here Ivan Nikiforovitch touched Ivan Ivanovitch's button with his finger, which clearly indicated the disposition of his mind, "that you took offence, the deuce only knows at what, because I called you a 'goose'--"It occurred to Ivan Nikiforovitch that he had made a mistake in uttering that word; but it was too late: the word was said.Everything went to the winds.It, on the utterance of this word without witnesses, Ivan Ivanovitch lost control of himself and flew into such a passion as God preserve us from beholding any man in, what was to be expected now? I put it to you, dear readers, what was to be expected now, when the fatal word was uttered in an assemblage of persons among whom were ladies, in whose presence Ivan Ivanovitch liked to be particularly polite? If Ivan Nikiforovitch had set to work in any other manner, if he had only said bird and not goose, it might still have been arranged, but all was at an end.
He gave one look at Ivan Nikiforovitch, but such a look! If that look had possessed active power, then it would have turned Ivan Nikiforovitch into dust.The guests understood the look and hastened to separate them.And this man, the very model of gentleness, who never let a single poor woman go by without interrogating her, rushed out in a fearful rage.Such violent storms do passions produce!
For a whole month nothing was heard of Ivan Ivanovitch.He shut himself up at home.His ancestral chest was opened, and from it were taken silver rubles, his grandfather's old silver rubles! And these rubles passed into the ink-stained hands of legal advisers.The case was sent up to the higher court; and when Ivan Ivanovitch received the joyful news that it would be decided on the morrow, then only did he look out upon the world and resolve to emerge from his house.Alas!
from that time forth the council gave notice day by day that the case would be finished on the morrow, for the space of ten years.
Five years ago, I passed through the town of Mirgorod.I came at a bad time.It was autumn, with its damp, melancholy weather, mud and mists.
An unnatural verdure, the result of incessant rains, covered with a watery network the fields and meadows, to which it is as well suited as youthful pranks to an old man, or roses to an old woman.The weather made a deep impression on me at the time: when it was dull, Iwas dull; but in spite of this, when I came to pass through Mirgorod, my heart beat violently.God, what reminiscences! I had not seen Mirgorod for twenty years.Here had lived, in touching friendship, two inseparable friends.And how many prominent people had died! Judge Demyan Demyanovitch was already gone: Ivan Ivanovitch, with the one eye, had long ceased to live.
I entered the main street.All about stood poles with bundles of straw on top: some alterations were in progress.Several dwellings had been removed.The remnants of board and wattled fences projected sadly here and there.It was a festival day.I ordered my basket chaise to stop in front of the church, and entered softly that no one might turn round.To tell the truth, there was no need of this: the church was almost empty; there were very few people; it was evident that even the most pious feared the mud.The candles seemed strangely unpleasant in that gloomy, or rather sickly, light.The dim vestibule was melancholy; the long windows, with their circular panes, were bedewed with tears of rain.I retired into the vestibule, and addressing a respectable old man, with greyish hair, said, "May I inquire if Ivan Nikiforovitch is still living?"At that moment the lamp before the holy picture burned up more brightly and the light fell directly upon the face of my companion.
What was my surprise, on looking more closely, to behold features with which I was acquainted! It was Ivan Nikiforovitch himself! But how he had changed!
"Are you well, Ivan Nikiforovitch? How old you have grown!""Yes, I have grown old.I have just come from Poltava to-day,"answered Ivan Nikiforovitch.
"You don't say so! you have been to Poltava in such bad weather?""What was to be done? that lawsuit--"
At this I sighed involuntarily.
Ivan Nikiforovitch observed my sigh, and said, "Do not be troubled: Ihave reliable information that the case will be decided next week, and in my favour."I shrugged my shoulders, and went to seek news of Ivan Ivanovitch.
"Ivan Ivanovitch is here," some one said to me, "in the choir."I saw a gaunt form.Was that Ivan Ivanovitch? His face was covered with wrinkles, his hair was perfectly white; but the pelisse was the same as ever.After the first greetings were over, Ivan Ivanovitch, turning to me with a joyful smile which always became his funnel-shaped face, said, "Have you been told the good news?""What news?" I inquired.
"My case is to be decided to-morrow without fail: the court has announced it decisively."I sighed more deeply than before, made haste to take my leave, for Iwas bound on very important business, and seated myself in my kibitka.
The lean nags known in Mirgorod as post-horses started, producing with their hoofs, which were buried in a grey mass of mud, a sound very displeasing to the ear.The rain poured in torrents upon the Jew seated on the box, covered with a rug.The dampness penetrated through and through me.The gloomy barrier with a sentry-box, in which an old soldier was repairing his weapons, was passed slowly.Again the same fields, in some places black where they had been dug up, in others of a greenish hue; wet daws and crows; monotonous rain; a tearful sky, without one gleam of light!...It is gloomy in this world, gentlemen!
