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Taras Bulba and Other Tales

N >> Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol >> Taras Bulba and Other Tales




Then the case went on with the unusual promptness upon which courts
usually pride themselves. Documents were dated, labelled, numbered,
sewed together, registered all in one day, and the matter laid on the
shelf, where it continued to lie, for one, two, or three years. Many
brides were married; a new street was laid out in Mirgorod; one of the
judge's double teeth fell out and two of his eye-teeth; more children
than ever ran about Ivan Ivanovitch's yard; Ivan Nikiforovitch, as a
reproof to Ivan Ivanovitch, constructed a new goose-shed, although a
little farther back than the first, and built himself completely off
from his neighbour, so that these worthy people hardly ever beheld
each other's faces; but still the case lay in the cabinet, which had
become marbled with ink-pots.

In the meantime a very important event for all Mirgorod had taken
place. The chief of police had given a reception. Whence shall I
obtain the brush and colours to depict this varied gathering and
magnificent feast? Take your watch, open it, and look what is going on
inside. A fearful confusion, is it not? Now, imagine almost the same,
if not a greater, number of wheels standing in the chief of police's
courtyard. How many carriages and waggons were there! One was wide
behind and narrow in front; another narrow behind and wide in front.
One was a carriage and a waggon combined; another neither a carriage
nor a waggon. One resembled a huge hayrick or a fat merchant's wife;
another a dilapidated Jew or a skeleton not quite freed from the skin.
One was a perfect pipe with long stem in profile; another, resembling
nothing whatever, suggested some strange, shapeless, fantastic object.
In the midst of this chaos of wheels rose coaches with windows like
those of a room. The drivers, in grey Cossack coats, gaberdines, and
white hare-skin coats, sheepskin hats and caps of various patterns,
and with pipes in their hands, drove the unharnessed horses through
the yard.

What a reception the chief of police gave! Permit me to run through
the list of those who were there: Taras Tarasovitch, Evpl Akinfovitch,
Evtikhiy Evtikhievitch, Ivan Ivanovitch--not that Ivan Ivanovitch but
another--Gabba Bavrilonovitch, our Ivan Ivanovitch, Elevferiy
Elevferievitch, Makar Nazarevitch, Thoma Grigorovitch--I can say no
more: my powers fail me, my hand stops writing. And how many ladies
were there! dark and fair, tall and short, some fat like Ivan
Nikiforovitch, and some so thin that it seemed as though each one
might hide herself in the scabbard of the chief's sword. What
head-dresses! what costumes! red, yellow, coffee-colour, green, blue,
new, turned, re-made dresses, ribbons, reticules. Farewell, poor eyes!
you will never be good for anything any more after such a spectacle.
And how long the table was drawn out! and how all talked! and what a
noise they made! What is a mill with its driving-wheel, stones, beams,
hammers, wheels, in comparison with this? I cannot tell you exactly
what they talked about, but presumably of many agreeable and useful
things, such as the weather, dogs, wheat, caps, and dice. At length
Ivan Ivanovitch--not our Ivan Ivanovitch, but the other, who had but
one eye--said, "It strikes me as strange that my right eye," this
one-eyed Ivan Ivanovitch always spoke sarcastically about himself,
"does not see Ivan Nikiforovitch, Gospodin Dovgotchkun."

"He would not come," said the chief of police.

"Why not?"

"It's two years now, glory to God! since they quarrelled; that is,
Ivan Ivanovitch and Ivan Nikiforovitch; and where one goes, the other
will not go."

"You don't say so!" Thereupon one-eyed Ivan Ivanovitch raised his eye
and clasped his hands. "Well, if people with good eyes cannot live in
peace, how am I to live amicably, with my bad one?"

At these words they all laughed at the tops of their voices. Every one
liked one-eyed Ivan Ivanovitch, because he cracked jokes in that
style. A tall, thin man in a frieze coat, with a plaster on his nose,
who up to this time had sat in the corner, and never once altered the
expression of his face, even when a fly lighted on his nose, rose from
his seat, and approached nearer to the crowd which surrounded one-eyed
Ivan Ivanovitch. "Listen," said Ivan Ivanovitch, when he perceived
that quite a throng had collected about him; "suppose we make peace
between our friends. Ivan Ivanovitch is talking with the women and
girls; let us send quietly for Ivan Nikiforovitch and bring them
together."

Ivan Ivanovitch's proposal was unanimously agreed to; and it was
decided to send at once to Ivan Nikiforovitch's house, and beg him, at
any rate, to come to the chief of police's for dinner. But the
difficult question as to who was to be intrusted with this weighty
commission rendered all thoughtful. They debated long as to who was
the most expert in diplomatic matters. At length it was unanimously
agreed to depute Anton Prokofievitch to do this business.

But it is necessary, first of all, to make the reader somewhat
acquainted with this noteworthy person. Anton Prokofievitch was a
truly good man, in the fullest meaning of the term. If any one in
Mirgorod gave him a neckerchief or underclothes, he returned thanks;
if any one gave him a fillip on the nose, he returned thanks too. If
he was asked, "Why, Anton Prokofievitch, do you wear a light brown
coat with blue sleeves?" he generally replied, "Ah, you haven't one
like it! Wait a bit, it will soon fade and will be alike all over."
And, in point of fact, the blue cloth, from the effects of the sun,
began to turn cinnamon colour, and became of the same tint as the rest
of the coat. But the strange part of it was that Anton Prokofievitch
had a habit of wearing woollen clothing in summer and nankeen in
winter.

Anton Prokofievitch had no house of his own. He used to have one on
the outskirts of the town; but he sold it, and with the purchase-money
bought a team of brown horses and a little carriage in which he drove
about to stay with the squires. But as the horses were a deal of
trouble and money was required for oats, Anton Prokofievitch bartered
them for a violin and a housemaid, with twenty-five paper rubles to
boot. Afterwards Anton Prokofievitch sold the violin, and exchanged
the girl for a morocco and gold tobacco-pouch; now he has such a
tobacco-pouch as no one else has. As a result of this luxury, he can
no longer go about among the country houses, but has to remain in the
town and pass the night at different houses, especially of those
gentlemen who take pleasure in tapping him on the nose. Anton
Prokofievitch is very fond of good eating, and plays a good game at
cards. Obeying orders always was his forte; so, taking his hat and
cane, he set out at once on his errand.

But, as he walked along, he began to ponder in what manner he should
contrive to induce Ivan Nikiforovitch to come to the assembly. The
unbending character of the latter, who was otherwise a worthy man,
rendered the undertaking almost hopeless. How, indeed, was he to
persuade him to come, when even rising from his bed cost him so great
an effort? But supposing that he did rise, how could he get him to
come, where, as he doubtless knew, his irreconcilable enemy already
was? The more Anton Prokofievitch reflected, the more difficulties he
perceived. The day was sultry, the sun beat down, the perspiration
poured from him in streams. Anton Prokofievitch was a tolerably sharp
man in many respects though they did tap him on the nose. In
bartering, however, he was not fortunate. He knew very well when to
play the fool, and sometimes contrived to turn things to his own
profit amid circumstances and surroundings from which a wise man could
rarely escape without loss.

His ingenious mind had contrived a means of persuading Ivan
Nikiforovitch; and he was proceeding bravely to face everything when
an unexpected occurrence somewhat disturbed his equanimity. There is
no harm, at this point, in admitting to the reader that, among other
things, Anton Prokofievitch was the owner of a pair of trousers of
such singular properties that whenever he put them on the dogs always
bit his calves. Unfortunately, he had donned this particular pair of
trousers; and he had hardly given himself up to meditation before a
fearful barking on all sides saluted his ears. Anton Prokofievitch
raised such a yell, no one could scream louder than he, that not only
did the well-known woman and the occupant of the endless coat rush out
to meet him, but even the small boys from Ivan Ivanovitch's yard. But
although the dogs succeeded in tasting only one of his calves, this
sensibility diminished his courage, and he entered the porch with a
certain amount of timidity.



CHAPTER VII

HOW A RECONCILIATION WAS SOUGHT TO BE EFFECTED
AND A LAW SUIT ENSUED

"Ah! how do you do? Why do you irritate the dogs?" said Ivan
Nikiforovitch, on perceiving Anton Prokofievitch; for no one spoke
otherwise than jestingly with Anton Prokofievitch.

"Hang them! who's been irritating them?" retorted Anton Prokofievitch.

"You have!"

"By Heavens, no! You are invited to dinner by Peter Feodorovitch."

"Hm!"

"He invited you in a more pressing manner than I can tell you. 'Why,'
says he, 'does Ivan Nikiforovitch shun me like an enemy? He never
comes round to have a chat, or make a call.'"

Ivan Nikiforovitch stroked his beard.

"'If,' says he, 'Ivan Nikiforovitch does not come now, I shall not
know what to think: surely, he must have some design against me. Pray,
Anton Prokofievitch, persuade Ivan Nikiforovitch!' Come, Ivan
Nikiforovitch, let us go! a very choice company is already met there."

Ivan Nikiforovitch began to look at a cock, which was perched on the
roof, crowing with all its might.

"If you only knew, Ivan Nikiforovitch," pursued the zealous
ambassador, "what fresh sturgeon and caviare Peter Feodorovitch has
had sent to him!" Whereupon Ivan Nikiforovitch turned his head and
began to listen attentively. This encouraged the messenger. "Come
quickly: Thoma Grigorovitch is there too. Why don't you come?" he
added, seeing that Ivan Nikiforovitch still lay in the same position.
"Shall we go, or not?"

"I won't!"

This "I won't" startled Anton Prokofievitch. He had fancied that his
alluring representations had quite moved this very worthy man; but
instead, he heard that decisive "I won't."

"Why won't you?" he asked, with a vexation which he very rarely
exhibited, even when they put burning paper on his head, a trick which
the judge and the chief of police were particularly fond of indulging
in.

Ivan Nikiforovitch took a pinch of snuff.

"Just as you like, Ivan Nikiforovitch. I do not know what detains
you."

"Why don't I go?" said Ivan Nikiforovitch at length: "because that
brigand will be there!" This was his ordinary way of alluding to Ivan
Ivanovitch. "Just God! and is it long?"

"He will not be there, he will not be there! May the lightning kill me
on the spot!" returned Anton Prokofievitch, who was ready to perjure
himself ten times in an hour. "Come along, Ivan Nikiforovitch!"

"You lie, Anton Prokofievitch! he is there!"

"By Heaven, by Heaven, he's not! May I never stir from this place if
he's there! Now, just think for yourself, what object have I in lying?
May my hands and feet wither!-- What, don't you believe me now? May I
perish right here in your presence! Don't you believe me yet?"

Ivan Nikiforovitch was entirely reassured by these asseverations, and
ordered his valet, in the boundless coat, to fetch his trousers and
nankeen spencer.

To describe how Ivan Nikiforovitch put on his trousers, how they wound
his neckerchief about his neck, and finally dragged on his spencer,
which burst under the left sleeve, would be quite superfluous. Suffice
it to say, that during the whole of the time he preserved a becoming
calmness of demeanour, and answered not a word to Anton
Prokofievitch's proposition to exchange something for his Turkish
tobacco-pouch.

Meanwhile, the assembly awaited with impatience the decisive moment
when Ivan Nikiforovitch should make his appearance and at length
comply with the general desire that these worthy people should be
reconciled to each other. Many were almost convinced that Ivan
Nikiforovitch would not come. Even the chief of police offered to bet
with one-eyed Ivan Ivanovitch that he would not come; and only
desisted when one-eyed Ivan Ivanovitch demanded that he should wager
his lame foot against his own bad eye, at which the chief of police
was greatly offended, and the company enjoyed a quiet laugh. No one
had yet sat down to the table, although it was long past two o'clock,
an hour before which in Mirgorod, even on ceremonial occasions, every
one had already dined.

No sooner did Anton Prokofievitch show himself in the doorway, then he
was instantly surrounded. Anton Prokofievitch, in answer to all
inquiries, shouted the all-decisive words, "He will not come!" No
sooner had he uttered them than a hailstorm of reproaches, scoldings,
and, possibly, even fillips were about to descend upon his head for
the ill success of his mission, when all at once the door opened,
and--Ivan Nikiforovitch entered.

If Satan himself or a corpse had appeared, it would not have caused
such consternation amongst the company as Ivan Nikiforovitch's
unexpected arrival created. But Anton Prokofievitch only went off into
a fit of laughter, and held his sides with delight at having played
such a joke upon the company.

At all events, it was almost past the belief of all that Ivan
Nikiforovitch could, in so brief a space of time, have attired himself
like a respectable gentleman. Ivan Ivanovitch was not there at the
moment: he had stepped out somewhere. Recovering from their amazement,
the guests expressed an interest in Ivan Nikiforovitch's health, and
their pleasure at his increase in breadth. Ivan Nikiforovitch kissed
every one, and said, "Very much obliged!"

Meantime, the fragrance of the beet-soup was wafted through the
apartment, and tickled the nostrils of the hungry guests very
agreeably. All rushed headlong to table. The line of ladies,
loquacious and silent, thin and stout, swept on, and the long table
soon glittered with all the hues of the rainbow. I will not describe
the courses: I will make no mention of the curd dumplings with sour
cream, nor of the dish of pig's fry that was served with the soup, nor
of the turkey with plums and raisins, nor of the dish which greatly
resembled in appearance a boot soaked in kvas, nor of the sauce, which
is the swan's song of the old-fashioned cook, nor of that other dish
which was brought in all enveloped in the flames of spirit, and amused
as well as frightened the ladies extremely. I will say nothing of
these dishes, because I like to eat them better than to spend many
words in discussing them.

Ivan Ivanovitch was exceedingly pleased with the fish dressed with
horse-radish. He devoted himself especially to this useful and
nourishing preparation. Picking out all the fine bones from the fish,
he laid them on his plate; and happening to glance across the
table--Heavenly Creator; but this was strange! Opposite him sat Ivan
Nikiforovitch.

At the very same instant Ivan Nikiforovitch glanced up also-- No, I
can do no more-- Give me a fresh pen with a fine point for this
picture! mine is flabby. Their faces seemed to turn to stone whilst
still retaining their defiant expression. Each beheld a long familiar
face, to which it should have seemed the most natural of things to
step up, involuntarily, as to an unexpected friend, and offer a
snuff-box, with the words, "Do me the favour," or "Dare I beg you to
do me the favour?" Instead of this, that face was terrible as a
forerunner of evil. The perspiration poured in streams from Ivan
Ivanovitch and Ivan Nikiforovitch.

All the guests at the table grew dumb with attention, and never once
took their eyes off the former friends. The ladies, who had been busy
up to that time on a sufficiently interesting discussion as to the
preparation of capons, suddenly cut their conversation short. All was
silence. It was a picture worthy of the brush of a great artist.

At length Ivan Ivanovitch pulled out his handkerchief and began to
blow his nose; whilst Ivan Nikiforovitch glanced about and his eye
rested on the open door. The chief of police at once perceived this
movement, and ordered the door to be fastened. Then both of the
friends began to eat, and never once glanced at each other again.

As soon as dinner was over, the two former friends both rose from
their seats, and began to look for their hats, with a view to
departure. Then the chief beckoned; and Ivan Ivanovitch--not our Ivan
Ivanovitch, but the other with the one eye--got behind Ivan
Nikiforovitch, and the chief stepped behind Ivan Ivanovitch, and the
two began to drag them backwards, in order to bring them together, and
not release them till they had shaken hands with each other. Ivan
Ivanovitch, the one-eyed, pushed Ivan Nikiforovitch, with tolerable
success, towards the spot where stood Ivan Ivanovitch. But the chief
of police directed his course too much to one side, because he could
not steer himself with his refractory leg, which obeyed no orders
whatever on this occasion, and, as if with malice and aforethought,
swung itself uncommonly far, and in quite the contrary direction,
possibly from the fact that there had been an unusual amount of fruit
wine after dinner, so that Ivan Ivanovitch fell over a lady in a red
gown, who had thrust herself into the very midst, out of curiosity.

Such an omen forboded no good. Nevertheless, the judge, in order to
set things to rights, took the chief of police's place, and, sweeping
all the snuff from his upper lip with his nose, pushed Ivan Ivanovitch
in the opposite direction. In Mirgorod this is the usual manner of
effecting a reconciliation: it somewhat resembles a game of ball. As
soon as the judge pushed Ivan Ivanovitch, Ivan Ivanovitch with the one
eye exerted all his strength, and pushed Ivan Nikiforovitch, from whom
the perspiration streamed like rain-water from a roof. In spite of the
fact that the friends resisted to the best of their ability, they were
nevertheless brought together, for the two chief movers received
reinforcements from the ranks of their guests.

Then they were closely surrounded on all sides, not to be released
until they had decided to give one another their hands. "God be with
you, Ivan Nikiforovitch and Ivan Ivanovitch! declare upon your honour
now, that what you quarrelled about were mere trifles, were they not?
Are you not ashamed of yourselves before people and before God?"

"I do not know," said Ivan Nikiforovitch, panting with fatigue, though
it is to be observed that he was not at all disinclined to a
reconciliation, "I do not know what I did to Ivan Ivanovitch; but why
did he destroy my coop and plot against my life?"

"I am innocent of any evil designs!" said Ivan Ivanovitch, never
looking at Ivan Nikiforovitch. "I swear before God and before you,
honourable noblemen, I did nothing to my enemy! Why does he calumniate
me and insult my rank and family?"

"How have I insulted you, Ivan Ivanovitch?" said Ivan Nikiforovitch.
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, I
was 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: I
have 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 I
was 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!

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