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ST. 
 
 JOHN'S EVE 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 From “Evenings at the Farm” and “ St. Petersburg Stories 
 
 BY 
 
 NIKOLAI VASILIEVITCH GOGOL 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY 
 
 ISABEL F. HAPGOOD 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 
 13 Astor Place 
 
Copyright, 1886, 
 
 By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO 
 
 ELECTROTVTED AND PRINTED 
 BY RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 
 
 BOSTON, 
 
13 
 
 ■' $ 5 
 
 i__ lr\&l 
 
 v 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
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 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION.5 
 
 ST. JOHN’S EVE. RELATED BY THE SACRISTAN 
 
 OF THE DIKANKA CHURCH.t; 
 
 ST. JOHN’S EVE.23 
 
 » 
 
 C OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS.53 
 
 THE TALE OF HOW IVAN IVANOVITCH QUAR¬ 
 RELLED WITH IVAN NIKIFOROVITCH . . 101 
 
 THE PORTRAIT.203 
 
 THE CLOAK.317 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 “What unheard-of thing is this ? 'Evenings 
 at a Farmhouse near Dikanka ! ’ 1 What sort of 
 evenings are these ? And some bee-farmer has 
 sprung forth into prominence ! Glory to God ! 
 have not geese enough already had courage to 
 take to quills, and bring forth scrappy non¬ 
 sense on paper ? have not plenty of people of 
 every calling, and even the rabble, already 
 smeared their fingers with ink? And now the 
 bee-farmer has been seized with a freak to fol¬ 
 low the others ! Truth to tell, there’s so much 
 printed paper about, that you can’t very readily 
 find things to wrap up in it.” 
 
 1 Although but three of these selected tales belong to the famous 
 series known as e: Evenings at a Farmhouse near Dikanka ” (which 
 includes the sequel, “ Mirgorod ”), the Introduction is herewith given, 
 for the proper understanding of the title as referred to in this volume, 
 and in those which will succeed it. 
 
 5 
 
6 
 
 INTR OB UC TION. 
 
 My informant has heard these speeches, 
 heard them a month ago ! that is, I say, that, 
 when our brother the farmer thrusts his nose 
 out into the great world, then—good Heavens!* 
 — it’s all the same how it comes about: some¬ 
 times you enter the chamber of a great lord; 
 all surround you, and begin to make a fool of 
 you (that would be nothing, if it were only the 
 upper servants; no, it is some ragged little 
 boy, see—a good-for-nothing, who lounges in 
 the back yard, and there he’ll stick), and they 
 begin to stamp on all sides: “Where are you 
 going? Where? Why? Get along, muzhik, 
 step along ! ” — I will tell you — but why 
 speak ? It’s a great deal easier for me to 
 go twice a year to Mirgorod, where it’s five 
 years since either the district judge or the 
 reverend priest has seen me, than show my¬ 
 self in that great- world; but I have shown 
 myself — weep, or not, but answer. 
 
 We, beloved readers, without wrath be it 
 said (and perhaps you will be angry because a 
 bee-farmer addresses you unceremoniously, as 
 though you were his relative or his gossip), we 
 at the farm have long held this practice: as 
 
INTRODUCTION, 
 
 7 
 
 soon as the labors of" the field ar<f refinished, 
 the muzhik crawls upon his oven to spend the 
 whole winter, and our brother hides his bees in 
 a dark cellar ; when you no longer behold a 
 stork in the air, nor a pear upon the tree, then, 
 as soon as evening falls, a little light is sure to 
 be burning somewhere at the end of the street, 
 laughter and songs are audible afar, the bala¬ 
 laika 1 tinkles, and sometimes a fiddle; talking, 
 uproar . . . This is our vetchernitza . 2 They, 
 you will please to observe, resemble your balls ; 
 only it cannot be said that they are exactly 
 alike. If you go to a ball, it is on purpose to 
 twirl your feet, and yawn behind your hand; 
 but with us a throng of girls assembles in one 
 cottage, not for a ball, but with distaffs and hac- 
 kling-combs. And at first they seem to busy 
 themselves with their affairs ; the distaffs whir, 
 songs pour forth, and not a maiden raises her 
 eye askance: but as soon as the boys dash 
 down upon the cottage with the fiddler, a cry 
 
 1 A sort of primitive guitar, with a long neck and a short, gener¬ 
 ally triangular, sounding-board, strung with two or three catgut cords, 
 which are plucked with the fingers in playing. 
 
 2 From vetcher , evening. 
 
8 
 
 INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 arises, pranks are concocted, dances begin, and 
 such capers are indulged in as it is impossible 
 to describe. 
 
 But the best of all is, when they crowd 
 together in a dense cluster, and set to guessing 
 riddles, or simply begin to chat. My Heavens, 
 what don’t they tell! What ancient things 
 they exhume ! What terrors they cause ! But 
 nowhere, probably, were such marvels related 
 as at the evening gatherings at the house of 
 the bee-farmer, Ruduii Panko. t 
 
 Why the townsfolk call me Ruduii Panko 
 (the red gentleman), by Heavens, I cannot tell! 
 And my hair, it seems, is now more gray than 
 red. But with us, one must not get angry, 
 for such is the custom : if people confer a nick¬ 
 name on any one, it will stick to him for ever 
 and ever. They used to assemble on the eve 
 of a festal day, these good people, as guests 
 at the bee-farmer’s poor hut: they seated them¬ 
 selves about the table, — and then I would 
 beg you only to listen to them. You would 
 have said they were not at all of the common 
 herd, not mere farm-laborers. ... Yes, perhaps 
 they would have done honor to some higher per- 
 
IN TROD UC TION 
 
 9 
 
 son than a farmer by their visit. . . . Here, for 
 instance, do you know the dyak of our Dikanka 
 church, Thoma Grigorovitch ? Eh, there’s a 
 head for you ! What stories he could get off! 
 You will find two of them in this little book. 
 He never wore a motley dressing-gown, such 
 as you find on many village sacristans; but, 
 even if you caught him on ordinary days, he 
 always received you in a smock of fine cloth, 
 of the color of cold potato kisel , 1 for which 
 he had paid about six rubles the arshin 2 in 
 Poltava. None of us on all the farm could say 
 of his shoes that they ever smelt of tar; but 
 every one knows that he cleaned them with the 
 very best suet, such as I think some peasants 
 would put into their oatmeal porridge with joy. 
 Neither can any one say that he ever wiped 
 his nose on the skirts of his smock, as some 
 persons of his profession do; but he took from 
 his bosom a neatly folded handkerchief, em¬ 
 broidered on all the edges with red thread, and, 
 after having put it to its proper use, he folded 
 it up again, generally into the twelfth part of 
 its first compass, and hid it again in his breast. 
 
 1 Sourish, jelly-like porridge. 
 
 2 Twenty-eight inches. 
 
IO 
 
 IN TROD UC TION 
 
 And one of the guests, — well, he was so much 
 of a gentleman, that*he might be dressed up on 
 the spot as an assessor or an under mill-clerk. 
 He used to hold his finger out before him, 
 and, gazing at its tip, he would set out to tell a 
 story, in an artistic, cunning way, just as things 
 are in printed books. Sometimes you would 
 listen, listen, and fall into a revery. You 
 couldn’t understand any thing, if you were 
 killed for it. Where did he get such words ? 
 Thoma Grigorovitch once made up a capital 
 fancy decoration to a story, as a hit at this. 
 He told him that a student, who had learned 
 reading and writing of a certain sacristan, 
 came home to his father’s house, and had got 
 
 to be such a Latin scholar, that he had even 
 
 * 
 
 forgotten our orthodox language: all the words 
 twisted round on his tongue. He called lopata 
 (a spade), lopatus ; baba (a woman), babus. So 
 once it came to pass that he and his father 
 went into the fields together. The Latinist 
 caught sight of a rake, and asked his father, 
 “What do you call this, father?” and then, 
 open-mouthed, he set his foot on the teeth 0 
 His father had not managed to answer him, 
 
IN TROD UC TION. 
 
 11 
 
 when the handle gave a flourish, rose up, and — 
 bang it went on his forehead ! “ Confound the 
 
 rake!” shrieked the scholar, clutching at his 
 forehead, and jumping a whole arshin: “ may 
 the Evil One knock its father off the bridge ! 
 how painfully it strikes ! ” So there it was ! the 
 little dove remembered its name. Such a tale 
 did not suit the taste of the inventive story¬ 
 teller. He rose from his seat without a word, 
 planted his feet wide apart in the middle of the 
 room, inclined his head a little forward, thrust 
 his hand into the hind-pocket of his pea-green 
 coat, pulled out a round, lacquered snuff-box, 
 tapped with his finger upon the painted phiz of 
 some Mussulman general, and taking any thing 
 but a small pinch of snuff, ground up from 
 ashes and lovage-leaves, he raised it with a 
 pump-handle motion to his nose, and stretched 
 out his nose in passing at the whole heap, 
 without even touching his thumb, and all with¬ 
 out uttering a word : then he dived into another 
 pocket, and pulled out a blue-checked cotton 
 handkerchief; and then only did he growl some¬ 
 thing to himself, which sounded like the prov¬ 
 erb, “ Cast not your pearls before swiueC 
 
12 
 
 IN TROD UC TION. 
 
 “Now there will be a quarrel,” I thought, per¬ 
 ceiving that Thoma Grigorovitch’s fingers were 
 folding in preparation for an insulting sign. 
 Fortunately, my old woman had the wit to set 
 upon the table a hot knish , 1 with butter, and all 
 set to work. Thoma Grigorovitch’s hand, in¬ 
 stead of showing the sign, was stretched out 
 towards the kuish; and, as it always happens, 
 they all began to praise the masterly housewife. 
 
 We had still another story-teller among us; 
 but he (there’s no need of recalling him at 
 night) dug up such frightful tales, that our hair 
 stood straight up on our heads. I have deliber¬ 
 ately refrained from placing any of them here: 
 good people would be so scared, that, Heaven 
 forgive them ! they would take to fearing the 
 bee-farmer like a fiend. It is better, therefore, if 
 God grants me to live until the New Year, and 
 to issue another little book, then perhaps I may 
 frighten them with visitors from another world, 
 and marvels such as were performed in our 
 orthodox land in olden days. Among them, 
 you will find, perhaps, some little tales by the 
 bee-farmer himself, such as he related to his 
 
 1 A cake baked with butter or grease. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 13 
 
 r 
 
 grandchildren. If they are but read and listened 
 to, I can collect ten such little books — only 
 this confounded indolence overpowers me. 
 
 Yes, and I came near forgetting the most im¬ 
 portant thing of all! when you come to see me, 
 gentlemen, take the straight path by the post¬ 
 road to Dikanka. I have placed it on the first 
 leaf on purpose that you may reach our farm as 
 speedily as possible. Of Dikanka, I think you 
 have already heard enough. 
 
 It is sufficient to say that there is a house 
 there cleaner than any bee-keeper's barrack. Of 
 the garden, nothing can be said : in your Peters¬ 
 burg, you will not find such another, of a surety. 
 On arriving at Dikanka, just ask the first small 
 boy you meet in a dirty shirt, tending geese, 
 “Where does Ruduii Panko, the bee-farmer, 
 live ? ” — “ Why, there! ” he will say, pointing 
 with his finger; and, if you like, he will con¬ 
 duct you to the very farmhouse. But I beseech 
 you not to put your arms behind you, and back¬ 
 bite as the saying is ; for the roads to our farms 
 are not so smooth as they are before our tem¬ 
 ples. Thoma Grigorovitch, when he came from 
 Dikanka the year before last, made acquaintance 
 
14 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 with a hole, in company with his brown mare 
 and a new tarataika , 1 in spite of the fact that he 
 was driving himself, and that he had temporarily 
 placed over his own eyes some others which he 
 had bought. 
 
 Moreover, when you come as my guest, we 
 will give you such melons as you probably never 
 ate since you were born ; and honey — I swear 
 that you can find no better at any farm. Just 
 imagine, when you fetch in a comb of honey, a 
 perfume such as it is impossible to form any 
 idea of wafts through all the room : it is trans¬ 
 lucent as a tear, or the precious crystal which 
 people have in earrings. And what piroggi 
 (patties) my old woman will feed you on ! If 
 you only knew what patties they are! sugar, 
 perfect sugar! and butter, so that it trickles 
 over your lips when you begin to eat! You will 
 think rightly, what master-hands these women 
 are ! Did you ever, gentlemen, drink pear kvas 
 with thorn-tree haws? orvarenukha 2 with rai¬ 
 sins and cream ? Or did you ever chance to 
 eat putra 3 with milk? My Heavens! what 
 
 1 A two-wheeled peasant wagon. 
 
 2 Berry brandy, made of berries, brandy, honey, and spices. 
 
 3 A sort of soup, made of vegetables, groats, and milk. 
 
INTRODUCTION, 
 
 15 
 
 dishes there are in this world! You begin 
 to eat — you gorge yourself, and that’s all 
 there is about it: it’s an inexpressible delight. 
 Last year— But what nonsense am I chatter¬ 
 ing ? Only come, come as soon as you possibly 
 can ; and we will feed you, so that you will tell 
 the tale far and wide. 
 
 BEE-FARMER RUDUII PANKO. 
 
 Note. — Later on, the gentleman in the pea-green 
 
 * 
 
 coat deserted this worshipful company. It came about 
 in this wise: the question of pickling apples for winter 
 use arose. The Ruduii Panko’s “old woman ” said that 
 the apples should first be well washed, and then dipped 
 in kvas. The pea-green Poltava man immediately said, 
 “ Nothing of the sort! First of all, they must be strewn 
 with tansy, and then ” — Now, no one had ever heard of 
 tansy being used in that way, though currant-leaves, 
 hawkweed, and trefoil were not uncommon, and no one 
 understood such matters better than the old woman. 
 The host, therefore, led the innovator quietly to one side, 
 and besought him not to set people by the ears, even if he 
 was a man of importance, who had dined once at the 
 same table as the governor, and warned him that people 
 would ridicule him if he said such things. The man, 
 who carried his nose in the air because his uncle had 
 been a commissary (“ though, glory to God, there are 
 official positions more elevated than even a commis¬ 
 sary’s ! ”), simply spit, and took himself off without a 
 word, to the satisfaction of the company. — TV. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ST. JOHN’S EVE. 1 
 
 RELATED BY THE SACRISTAN OF THE DIKANKA 
 
 CHURCH. 
 
 Thoma Grigorovitch had a very strange 
 sort of eccentricity: to the day of his death, he 
 never liked to tell the same thing twice. There 
 were times, when, if you asked him to relate a 
 thing afresh, behold, he would interpolate new 
 matter, or alter it so that it was impossible to 
 recognize it. Once on a time, one of those 
 gentlemen (it is hard for us simple people to 
 put a name to them, to say whether they are 
 scribblers, or not scribblers : but it is just the 
 same thing as the usurers at our yearly fairs ; 
 they clutch and beg and steal every sort of 
 frippery, and issue mean little volumes, no 
 
 1 This is one of the stories from the celebrated volume entitled 
 “ Tales at a Farmhouse near Dikanka.” 
 
 17 
 
18 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 thicker than an A B C book, every month, or 
 even every week), — one of these gentlemen 
 wormed this same story out of Thoma Grigoro- 
 vitch, and he completely forgot about it. But 
 that same young gentleman in the pea-green 
 caftan, whom I have mentioned, and one of 
 whose Tales you have already read, I think, 
 came from Poltava, bringing with him a little 
 book, and, opening it in the middle, shows it to 
 us. Thoma Grigorovitch was on the point of 
 setting his spectacles astride of his nose, but 
 recollected that he had forgotten to wind 
 thread about them, and stick them together 
 with wax, so he passed it over to me. As I 
 understand something about reading and writ¬ 
 ing, and do not wear spectacles, I undertook to 
 read it. I had not turned two leaves, when all 
 at once he caught me by the hand, and stopped 
 me. 
 
 “ Stop! tell me first what you are reading.” 
 
 I confess that I was a trifle stunned by such 
 a question. 
 
 “ What! what am I reading, Thoma Grigoro¬ 
 vitch ? These were your very words.” 
 
 “ Who told you that they were my words ? ” 
 
ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 19 
 
 “Why, what more would you have? Here 
 it is printed : Related by such and such a 
 sacristan." 
 
 “ Spit on the head of the man who printed 
 that! he lies, the dog of a Moscow pedler! 
 Did I say that ? ’ Twas just the same as though 
 one hadn't his wits about him ! Listen. I’ll 
 tell it to you on the spot.” 
 
 We moved up to the table, and he began. 
 
 My grandfather (the kingdom of heaven 
 be his! may he eat only wheaten rolls and 
 makovniki 1 with honey in the other world !) 
 could tell a story wonderfully well. When he 
 used to begin on a tale, you wouldn’t stir from 
 the spot all day, but keep on listening. He 
 was no match for the story-teller of the present 
 day, when he begins to lie, with a tongue as 
 though he had had nothing to eat for three days, 
 so that you snatch your cap, and flee from the 
 house. As I now recall it, — my old mother 
 was alive then, — in the long winter evenings 
 when the frost was crackling out of doors, and 
 
 1 Poppy-seeds cooked in honey, and dried in square cakes. 
 
20 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 had so sealed up hermetically the narrow panes 
 of our cottage, she used to sit before the hack- 
 ling-comb, drawing out a long thread in her 
 hand, rocking the cradle with her foot, and 
 humming a song, which I seem to hear even 
 now. 
 
 The fat-lamp quivering and flaring up as 
 though in fear of something, lighted us within 
 our cottage; the spindle hummed ; and all of 
 us children, collected in a cluster, listened to 
 grandfather, who had not crawled off the oven 
 for more than five years, owing to his great 
 age. But the wondrous tales of the incursions 
 of the Zaporozhian Cossacks, the Poles, the 
 bold deeds of Podkova, of Poltor-Kozhukh, and 
 Sagaidatchnii, did not interest us so much as 
 the stories about some deed of eld which al¬ 
 ways sent a shiver through our frames, and 
 made our hair rise upright on our heads. 
 Sometimes such terror took possession of us in 
 consequence of them, that, from that evening 
 on, Heaven knows what a marvel every thing 
 seemed to us. If you chance to go out of the 
 cottage after nightfall for any thing, you ima¬ 
 gine that a visitor from the other world has lain 
 
ST. JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 21 
 
 down to sleep in your bed; and I should not 
 be able to tell this a second time were it not 
 that I had often taken my own smock, at a dis¬ 
 tance, as it lay at the head of the bed, for the 
 Evil One rolled up in a ball ! But the chief 
 thing about grandfather’s stories was, that he 
 never had lied in all his life; and whatever he 
 said was so, was so. 
 
 I will now relate to you one of his marvellous 
 tales. I know that there are a great many wise 
 people who copy in the courts, and can even 
 read civil documents, who, if you were to put 
 into their hand a simple prayer-book, could not 
 make out the first letter in it, and would show 
 all their teeth in derision — which is wisdom. 
 These people laugh at every thing you tell 
 them. Such incredulity has spread abroad in 
 the world ! What then ? (Why, may God and 
 the Holy Virgin cease to love me if it is not 
 possible that even you will not believe me !) 
 Once he said something about witches; . . . 
 What then ? Along comes one of these head- 
 breakers,— and doesn’t believe in witches! 
 Yes, glory to God that I have lived so long in 
 the world! I have seen heretics, to whom it 
 
22 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 would be easier to lie in confession than it 
 would to our brothers and equals to take snuff, 
 and those people would deny the existence of 
 witches ! But let them just dream about some¬ 
 thing, and they won’t even tell what it was ! 
 There’s no use in talking about them ! 
 
ST. JOHN’S EVE. 
 
 No one could have recognized this village of 
 ours a little over a hundred years ago : a ham¬ 
 let it was, the poorest kind of a hamlet. Half 
 a score of miserable izbas, unplastered, badly 
 thatched, were scattered here and there about 
 the fields. There was not an enclosure or a 
 decent shed to shelter animals or wagons. 
 That was the way the wealthy lived: and if you 
 had looked for our brothers, the poor,—why, a 
 hole in the ground, — that was a cabin for you ! 
 Only by the smoke could you tell that a God- 
 created man lived there. You ask why they 
 lived so ? It was not entirely through poverty: 
 almost every one led a wandering, Cossack life, 
 and gathered not a little plunder in foreign 
 lands ; it was rather because there was no rea¬ 
 son for setting up a well-ordered khata (wooden 
 house). How many people were wandering 
 
 2 3 
 
24 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 all over the country, — Crimeans, Poles, Lith¬ 
 uanians ! It was quite possible that their own 
 countrymen might make a descent, and plunder 
 every thing. Any thing was possible. 
 
 In this hamlet a man, or rather a devil in 
 human form, often made his appearance. Why 
 he came, and whence, no one knew. He 
 prowled about, got drunk, and suddenly dis¬ 
 appeared as if into the air, and there was not 
 a hint of his existence. Then, again, behold, 
 and he seemed to have dropped from the sky, 
 and went flying about the street of the village, 
 of which no trace now remains, and which was 
 not more than a hundred paces from Dikanka. 
 He would collect together all the Cossacks he 
 met; then there were songs, laughter, money 
 in abundance, and vodka flowed like water. . . . 
 He would address the pretty girls, and give 
 them ribbons, earrings, strings of beads, — 
 more than they knew what to do with. It is 
 true that the pretty girls rather hesitated about 
 accepting his presents : God knows, perhaps 
 they had passed through unclean hands. My 
 grandfather’s aunt, who kept a tavern at that 
 time, in which Basavriuk (as they called that 
 
ST, JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 25 
 
 devil-man) often had his carouses, said that no 
 consideration on the face of the earth would 
 have induced her to accept a gift from him. 
 And then, again, how avoid accepting ? Fear 
 seized on every one when he knit his bristly 
 brows, and gave a sidelong glance which might 
 send your feet, God knows whither: but if you 
 accept, then the next night some fiend from the 
 swamp, with horns on his head, comes to call, 
 and begins to squeeze your neck, when there is 
 a string of beads upon it; or bite your finger, if 
 there is a ring upon it; or drag you by the hair, 
 if ribbons are braided in it. God have mercy, 
 then, on those who owned such gifts! But 
 here was the difficulty : it was impossible to 
 get rid of them ; if you threw them into the 
 water, the diabolical ring or necklace would 
 skim along the surface, and into your hand. 
 
 There was a church in the village, — St. Pan- 
 telei, if I remember rightly. There lived there 
 a priest, Father Athanasii of blessed memory. 
 Observing that Basavriuk did not come to 
 church, even on Easter, he determined to re¬ 
 prove him, and impose penance upon him. 
 Well, he hardly escaped with his life. “ Hark 
 
2 6 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 ye, pannotche 1 !” he thundered in reply, “ learn 
 to mind your own business instead of meddling 
 in other people’s, if you don’t want that goat’s 
 throat of yours stuck together with boiling 
 kutya .” 2 What was to be done with this un¬ 
 repentant man ? Father Athanasii contented 
 himself with announcing that any one who 
 should make the acquaintance of Basavriuk 
 would be counted a Catholic, an enemy of 
 Christ’s church, not a member of the human 
 race. 
 
 In this village there was a Cossack named 
 Korzh, who had a laborer whom people called 
 Peter the Orphan — perhaps because no one 
 remembered either his father or mother. The 
 church starost, it is true, said that they had 
 died of the pest in his second year; but my 
 grandfather’s aunt would not hear to that, and 
 tried with all her might to furnish him with par¬ 
 ents, although poor Peter needed them about 
 as much as we need last year’s snow. She 
 said that his father had been in Zaporozhe, 
 
 1 Sir. 
 
 2 A dish of rice or wheat flour, with honey and raisins, which is 
 brought to the church on the celebration of memorial masses. 
 
ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 27 
 
 taken prisoner by the Turks, underwent God 
 only knows what tortures, and having, by some 
 miracle, disguised himself as a eunuch, had 
 made his escape. Little cared the black- 
 browed youths and maidens about his parents. 
 They merely remarked, that if he only had 
 a new coat, a red sash, a black lambskin cap, 
 with dandified blue crown, on his head, a Turk¬ 
 ish sabre hanging by his side, a whip in one 
 hand and a pipe with handsome mountings in 
 the other, he would surpass all the young men. 
 But the pity was, that the only thing poor 
 Peter had was a gray svitka with more holes in 
 it than there are gold pieces in a Jew's pocket. 
 And that was not the worst of it, but this : 
 that Korzh had a daughter, such a beauty as I 
 think you can hardly have chanced to see. My 
 deceased grandfather’s aunt used to say — and 
 you know that it is easier for a woman to kiss 
 the Evil One than to call anybody a beauty, 
 without malice be it said — that this Cossack 
 maiden’s cheeks were as plump and fresh as 
 the pinkest poppy when just bathed in God’s 
 dew, and, glowing, it unfolds its petals, and 
 coquets with the rising sun; that her brows 
 
28 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 were like black cords, such as our maidens buy 
 nowadays, for their crosses and ducats, of the 
 Moscow pedlers who visit the villages with 
 their baskets, and evenly arched as though 
 peeping into her clear eyes; that her little 
 mouth, at sight of which the youths smacked 
 their lips, seemed made to emit the songs of 
 nightingales ; that her hair, black as the raven’s 
 wing, and soft as young flax (our maidens did 
 not then plait their hair in clubs interwoven 
 with pretty, bright-hued ribbons), fell in curls 
 over her kuntush . 1 Eh! may I never intone 
 another alleluia in the choir, if I would not 
 have kissed her, in spite of the gray which is 
 making its way all through the old wool which 
 covers my pate, and my old woman beside 
 me, like a thorn in my side! Well, you know 
 what happens when young men and maids live 
 side by side. In the twilight the heels of red 
 boots were always visible in the place where 
 Pidorka chatted with her Petrus. But Korzh 
 would never have suspected any thing out of 
 the way, only one day — it is evident that 
 none but the Evil One could have inspired 
 
 1 Upper garment in Little Russia. 
 
ST JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 29 
 
 him — Petrus took it into his head to kiss the 
 Cossack maiden’s rosy lips with all his heart in 
 the passage, without first looking well about 
 him ; and that same Evil One — may the son of 
 a dog dream of the holy cross! — caused the 
 old graybeard, like a fool, to open the cottage- 
 door at that same moment. Korzh was petri¬ 
 fied, dropped his jaw, and clutched at the door 
 for support. Those unlucky kisses had com¬ 
 pletely stunned him. It surprised him more 
 than the blow of a pestle on the wall, with 
 which, in our days, the muzhik generally drives 
 out his intoxication for lack of fusees and 
 powder. 
 
 Recovering himself, he took his grandfather’s 
 hunting-whip from the wall, and was about to 
 belabor Peter’s back with it, when Pidorka’s 
 little six-year-old brother Ivas rushed up from 
 somewhere or other, and, grasping his father’s 
 legs with his little hands, screamed out, 
 “ Daddy, daddy! don’t beat Petrus!” What 
 was to be done ? A father’s heart is not made 
 of stone. Hanging the whip again upon the 
 wall, he led him quietly from the house. “ If 
 you ever show yourself in my cottage again, 
 
30 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 or even under the windows, look out, Petro! by 
 Heaven, your black mustache will disappear; 
 and your black locks, though wound twice 
 about your ears, will take leave of your pate, 
 or my name is not Terentiy Korzh.” So say¬ 
 ing, he gave him a little taste of his fist in the 
 nape of his neck, so that all grew dark before 
 Petrus, and he flew headlong. So there was an 
 end of their kissing. Sorrow seized upon our 
 doves; and a rumor was rife in the village, that 
 a certain Pole, all embroidered with gold, with 
 mustaches, sabre, spurs, and pockets jingling 
 like the bells of the bag with which our sacris¬ 
 tan Taras goes through the church every day, 
 had begun to frequent Korzh’s house. Now, 
 it is well known why the father is visited when 
 there is a black-browed daughter about. So, 
 one day, Pidorka burst into tears, and clutched 
 the hand of her Ivas. “Ivas, my dear! Ivas, 
 my love ! fly to Petrus, my child of gold, like 
 an arrow from a bow. Tell him all: I would 
 have loved his brown eyes, I would have kissed 
 his white face, but my fate decrees not so. 
 More than one towel have I wet with burning 
 tears. I am sad, I am heavy at heart. And 
 
ST. JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 31 
 
 my own father is my enemy. I will not marry 
 that Pole, whom I do not love. Tell him they 
 are preparing a wedding, but there will be no 
 music at our wedding: ecclesiastics will sing 
 instead of pipes and kobzas . 1 I shall not 
 dance with my bridegroom : they will carry 
 me out. Dark, dark will be my dwelling, — 
 of maple wood; and, instead of chimneys, a 
 cross will stand upon the roof.” 
 
 Petro stood petrified, without moving from 
 the spot, when the innocent child lisped out 
 Pidorka’s words to him. “And I, unhappy 
 man, thought to go to the Crimea and Turkey, 
 win gold and return to thee, my beauty! But 
 it may not be. The evil eye has seen us. I 
 will have a wedding, too, dear little fish, I too; 
 but no ecclesiastics will be at that wedding. 
 The black crow will caw, instead of the pope, 
 over me ; the smooth field will be my dwelling; 
 the dark blue clouds my roof-tree. The eagle 
 will claw out my brown eyes: the rain will 
 wash the Cossack’s bones, and the whirlwinds 
 will dry them. But what am I ? Of whom, to 
 whom, am I complaining ? ’Tis plain, God 
 
 1 Eight-stringed musical instrument. 
 
32 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 willed it so. If I am to be lost, then so be 
 it! ” and he went straight to the tavern. 
 
 My late grandfather’s aunt was somewhat 
 surprised on seeing Petrus in the tavern, and 
 at an hour when good men go to morning mass ; 
 and she stared at him as though in a dream, 
 when he demanded a jug of brandy, about half 
 a pailful. But the poor fellow tried in vain to 
 drown his woe. The vodka stung his tongue 
 like nettles, and tasted more bitter than worm¬ 
 wood. He flung the jug from him upon the 
 ground. “You have sorrowed enough, Cos¬ 
 sack,” growled a bass voice behind him. He 
 looked round — Basavriuk ! Ugh, what a face ! 
 His hair was like a brush, his eyes like those 
 of a bull. “ I know what you lack: here it 
 is.” Then he jingled a leather purse which 
 hung from his girdle, and smiled diabolically. 
 Petro shuddered. “He, he, he! yes, how it 
 shines! ” he roared, shaking out ducats into 
 his hand: “he, he, he! and how it jingles! 
 And I only ask one thing for a whole pile of 
 such shiners.” — “It is the Evil One!” ex¬ 
 claimed Petro: — “Give them here! I’m ready 
 for any thing ! ” They struck hands upon it. 
 
ST. JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 33 
 
 “See here, Petro, you are ripe just in time: 
 to-morrow is St. John the Baptist’s day. Only 
 on this one night in the year does the fern 
 blossom. Delay not. I will await thee at mid¬ 
 night in the Bear’s ravine.” 
 
 I do not believe that chickens await the hour 
 when the woman brings their corn, with as 
 much anxiety as Petrus awaited the evening. 
 And, in fact, he looked to see whether the shad¬ 
 ows of the trees were not lengthening, if the 
 sun were not turning red towards setting; and, 
 the longer he watched, the more impatient he 
 grew. How long it was ! Evidently, God’s day 
 had lost its end somewhere. And now the sun 
 is gone. The sky is red only on one side, and 
 it is already growing dark. It grows colder in 
 the fields. It gets dusky, and more dusky, and 
 at last quite dark. At last! With heart al¬ 
 most bursting from his bosom, he set out on 
 his way, and cautiously descended through the 
 dense woods into the deep hollow called the 
 Bear’s ravine. Basavriuk was already waiting 
 there. It was so dark, that you could not see 
 a yard before you. Hand in hand they pene¬ 
 trated the thin marsh, clinging to the luxuriant 
 
34 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 thorn-bushes, and stumbling at almost every 
 step. At last they reached an open spot. 
 Petro looked about him : he had never chanced 
 to come there before. Here Basavriuk halted. 
 
 “ Do you see, before you stand three hillocks? 
 There are a great many sorts of flowers upon 
 them. But may some power keep you from 
 plucking even one of them. But as soon as the 
 fern blossoms, seize it, and look not round, no 
 matter what may seem to be going on behind 
 thee.” 
 
 Petro wanted to ask — and behold, he was no 
 longer there. He approached the three hillocks 
 —where were the flowers ? He saw nothing. 
 The wild steppe-grass darkled around, and 
 stifled every thing in its luxuriance. But the 
 lightning flashed ; and before him stood a whole 
 bed of flowers, all wonderful, all strange: and 
 there were also the simple fronds of fern. Pe¬ 
 tro doubted his senses, and stood thoughtfully 
 before them, with both hands upon his sides. 
 
 “ What prodigy is this ? one can see these 
 weeds ten times in a day : what marvel is there 
 about them ? was not devil’s-face laughing at 
 
ST. JOHN’S EVE. 
 
 35 
 
 Behold! the tiny flower-bud crimsons, and 
 moves as though alive. It is a marvel, in 
 truth. It moves, and grows larger and larger, 
 and flushes like a burning coal. The tiny star 
 flashes up, something bursts softly, and the 
 flower opens before his eyes like a flame, light¬ 
 ing the others about it. “Now is the time,” 
 thought Petro, and extended his hand. He 
 sees hundreds of shaggy hands reach from be¬ 
 hind him, also for the flower; and there is a 
 running about from place to place, in the rear. 
 He half shut his eyes, plucked sharply at the 
 stalk, and the flower remained in his hand. All 
 became still. Upon a stump sat Basavriuk, all 
 blue like a corpse. He moved not so much as 
 a finger. His eyes were immovably fixed on 
 something visible to him alone : his mouth was 
 half open and speechless. All about, nothing 
 stirred. Ugh! it was horrible! — But then a 
 whistle was heard, which made Petro’s heart 
 grow cold within him ; and it seemed to him that 
 the grass whispered, and the flowers began to 
 talk among themselves in delicate voices, like 
 little silver bells ; the trees rustled in waving 
 contention ; — Basavriuk’s face suddenly became 
 
36 57: JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 full of life, and his eyes sparkled. “The witch 
 has just returned/’ he muttered between his 
 teeth. “See here, Petro: a beauty will stand 
 before you in a moment; do whatever she com¬ 
 mands; if not — you are lost forever.” Then 
 he parted the thorn-bush with a knotty stick, 
 and before him stood a tiny izba, on chicken’s 
 legs, as they say. Basavriuk smote it with his 
 fist, and the wall trembled. A large black dog 
 ran out to meet them, and with a whine, trans¬ 
 forming itself into a cat, flew straight .at his 
 eyes. “Don’t be angry, don’t be angry, you old 
 Satan ! ” said Basavriuk, employing such words 
 as would have made a good man stop his ears. 
 Behold, instead of a cat, an old woman with a 
 face wrinkled like a baked apple, and all bent 
 into a bow : her nose and chin were like a pair 
 of nut-crackers. “A stunning beauty! ” thought 
 Petro; and cold chills ran down his back. The 
 witch tore the flower from his hand, bent over, 
 and muttered over it for a long time, sprinkling 
 it with some kind of water. Sparks flew from 
 her mouth, froth appeared on her lips. 
 
 “ Throw it away,” she said, giving it back to 
 Petro. 
 
ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 37 
 
 Petro threw it, and what wonder was this ? the 
 flower did not fall straight to the earth, but for 
 a long while twinkled like a fiery ball through 
 the darkness, and swam through the air like a 
 boat : at last it began to sink lower and lower, 
 and fell so far away, that the little star, hardly 
 larger than a poppy-seed, was barely visible. 
 “ Here! ” croaked the old woman, in a dull voice : 
 and Basavriuk, giving him a spade, said, “ Dig 
 here, Petro: here you will see more gold than 
 you or Korzh ever dreamed of.” 
 
 Petro spat on his hands, seized the spade, 
 applied his foot, and turned up the earth, a 
 second, a third, a fourth time. . . . There was 
 something hard : the spade clinked, and would 
 go no farther. Then his eyes began to distin¬ 
 guish a small, iron-bound coffer. He tried to 
 seize it; but the chest began to sink into the 
 earth, deeper, farther, and deeper still: and 
 behind him he heard a laugh, more like a ser¬ 
 pent’s hiss. “ No, you shall not see the gold 
 until you procure human blood,” said the witch, 
 and led up to him a child of six, covered with 
 a white sheet, indicating by a sign that he was 
 to cut off his head. Petro was stunned. A 
 
38 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 trifle, indeed, to cut off a man’s, or even an in¬ 
 nocent child’s, head for no reason whatever! 
 In wrath he tore off the sheet enveloping his 
 head, and behold ! before him stood Ivas. 
 And the poor child crossed his little hands, and 
 hung his head. . . . Petro flew upon the witch 
 with the knife like a madman, and was on the 
 point of laying hands on her. . . . 
 
 “What did you promise for the girl?” . . . 
 thundered Basavriuk; and like a shot he was on 
 his back. The witch stamped her foot : a blue 
 flame flashed from the earth ; it illumined it all 
 inside, and it was as if moulded of crystal; and 
 all that was within the earth became visible, as 
 if in the palm of the hand. Ducats, precious 
 stones in chests and kettles, were piled in 
 heaps beneath the very spot they stood on. 
 His eyes burned, . . . his mind grew troubled. 
 . . . He grasped the knife like a madman, and 
 the innocent blood spurted into his eyes. Dia¬ 
 bolical laughter resounded on all sides. Mis¬ 
 shaped monsters flew past him in herds. The 
 witch, fastening her hands in the headless 
 trunk, like a wolf, drank its blood. . . . All 
 went round in his head. Collecting all his 
 
ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 39 
 
 I 
 
 strength, he set out to run. Every thing 
 turned red before him. The trees seemed 
 steeped in blood, and burned and groaned. 
 The sky glowed and glowered. . . . Burning 
 points, like lightning, flickered before his eyes. 
 Utterly exhausted, he rushed into his miserable 
 hovel, and fell to the ground like a log. A 
 death-like sleep overpowered him. 
 
 Two days and two nights did Petro sleep, 
 without once awakening. When he came to 
 himself, on the third day, he looked long at all 
 the corners of his hut; but in vain did he en¬ 
 deavor to recollect; his memory was like a 
 miser’s pocket, from which you cannot entice 
 a quarter of a kopek. Stretching himself, he 
 heard something clash at his feet. He looked, 
 — two bags of gold. Then only, as if in a 
 dream, he recollected that he had been seeking 
 some treasure, that something had frightened 
 him in the woods. . . . But at what price he 
 had obtained it, and how, he could by no means 
 understand. 
 
 Korzh saw the sacks, — and was mollified. 
 “ Such a Petrus, quite unheard of ! yes, and 
 did I not love him ? Was he not to me as my 
 
40 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 own son ?” And the old fellow carried on his 
 fiction until it reduced him to tears. Pidorka 
 began to tell him how some passing gypsies 
 had stolen Ivas; but Petro could not even 
 recall him — to such a degree had the Devil’s 
 influence darkened his mind ! There was no 
 reason for delay. The Pole was dismissed, and 
 the wedding-feast prepared ; rolls were baked, 
 towels and handkerchiefs embroidered; the 
 young people were seated at table; the wed¬ 
 ding-loaf was cut; banduras, cymbals, pipes, 
 kobzi, sounded, and pleasure was rife. . . . 
 
 A wedding in the olden times was not like 
 one of the present day. My grandfather’s 
 aunt used to tell—what doings!—how the 
 maidens—in festive head-dresses of yellow, 
 blue, and pink ribbons, above which they bound 
 gold braid ; in thin chemisettes embroidered on 
 all the seams with red silk, and strewn with tiny 
 silver flowers; in morocco shoes, with high iron 
 heels—danced the gorlitza as swimmingly as 
 peacocks, and as wildly as the whirlwind; how 
 the youths — with their ship-shaped caps upon 
 their heads, the crowns of gold brocade, with 
 a little slit at the nape where the hair-net 
 
ST. JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 41 
 
 peeped through, and two horns projecting, one 
 in front and another behind, of the very finest 
 black lambskin ; in kuntushas of the finest blue 
 silk with red borders — stepped forward one 
 by one, their arms akimbo in stately form, and 
 executed the gopak ; how the lads — in tall Cos¬ 
 sack caps, and light cloth svitkas, girt with sil¬ 
 ver embroidered belts, their short pipes in their 
 teeth—skipped before them, and talked non¬ 
 sense. Even Korzh could not contain himself, 
 as he gazed at the young people, from getting 
 gay in his old age. Bandura in hand, alter¬ 
 nately puffing at his pipe and singing, a brandy- 
 glass upon his head, the gray-beard began the 
 national dance amid loud shouts from the 
 merry-makers. What will not people devise in 
 merry mood! They even began to disguise 
 their faces. They did not look like human 
 beings. They are not to be compared with 
 the disguises which we have at our weddings 
 nowadays. What do they do now ? Why, imi¬ 
 tate gypsies and Moscow pedlers. No! then 
 one used to dress himself as a Jew, another as 
 the Devil: they would begin by kissing each 
 other, and end by seizing each other by the 
 
42 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 hair. . . . God be with them ! you laughed till 
 you held your sides. They dressed themselves 
 in Turkish and Tatar garments. All upon 
 them glowed like a conflagration, . . . and 
 then they began to joke and play pranks. . . . 
 Well, then away with the saints ! 
 
 An amusing thing happened to my grand¬ 
 father’s aunt, who was at this wedding. She 
 was dressed in a voluminous Tatar robe, and, 
 wineglass in hand, was entertaining the com¬ 
 pany. The Evil One instigated one man to 
 pour vodka over her from behind. Another, 
 at the same moment, evidently not by acci¬ 
 dent, struck a light, and touched it to her; 
 . . . the flame flashed up ; poor aunt, in ter¬ 
 ror, flung her robe from her, before them all. 
 . . . Screams, laughter, jests, arose, as if at a 
 fair. In a word, the old folks could not recall 
 so merry a wedding. 
 
 Pidorka and Petrus began to live like a gen¬ 
 tleman and lady. There was plenty of every 
 thing, and every thing was handsome. . . . 
 But honest people shook their heads when they 
 looked at their way of living. “From the 
 Devil no good can come,” they unanimously 
 
ST. JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 43 
 
 agreed. “ Whence, except from the tempter 
 of orthodox people, came this wealth ? Where 
 else could he get such a lot of gold ? Why, 
 on the very day that he got rich, did Basavriuk 
 vanish as if into thin air ? ” Say, if you can, 
 that people imagine things ! In fact, a month 
 had not passed, and no one would have recog¬ 
 nized Petrus. Why, what had happened to 
 him ? God knows. He sits in one spot, and 
 says no word to any one : he thinks continu¬ 
 ally, and seems to be trying to recall some¬ 
 thing. When Pidorka succeeds in getting him 
 to speak, he seems to forget himself, carries 
 on a conversation, and even grows cheerful; 
 but if he inadvertently glances at the sacks, 
 “ Stop, stop ! I have forgotten,” he cries, and 
 again plunges into revery, and again strives to 
 recall something. Sometimes when he has sat 
 long in a place, it seems to him as though it 
 were coming, just coming back to mind, . . . 
 and again all fades away. It seems as if he is 
 sitting in the tavern : they bring him vodka; 
 vodka stings him ; vodka is repulsive to him. 
 Some one comes along, and strikes him on the 
 shoulder; . . . but beyond that every thing is 
 
44 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 veiled in darkness before him. The perspira¬ 
 tion streams down his face, and he sits ex¬ 
 hausted in the same place. 
 
 What did not Pidorka do ? She consulted 
 the sorceress; and they poured out fear, and 
 brewed stomach ache , 1 — but all to no avail. 
 And so the summer passed. Many a Cossack 
 had mowed and reaped : many a Cossack, 
 more enterprising than the rest, had set off 
 upon an expedition. Flocks of ducks were 
 already crowding our marshes, but there was 
 not even a hint of improvement. 
 
 It was red upon the steppes. Ricks of 
 grain, like Cossacks’ caps, dotted the fields 
 here and there. On the highway were to be 
 encountered wagons loaded with brushwood 
 and logs. The ground had become more solid, 
 and in places was touched with frost. Already 
 
 1 “To pour out fear,” is done with us in case of fear; when it is 
 desired to know what caused it, melted lead or wax is poured into 
 water, and the object whose form it assumes is the one which fright¬ 
 ened the sick person; after this, the fear departs. Sonyashnitza is 
 brewed for giddiness, and pain in the bowels. To this end, a bit of 
 stump is burned, thrown into a jug, and turned upside down into a 
 bowl filled with water, which is placed on the patient’s stomach: after 
 an incantation, he is given a spoonful of this water to drink. 
 
ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 45 
 
 had the snow begun to besprinkle the sky, 
 and the branches of the trees were covered 
 with rime like rabbit-skin. Already on frosty 
 days the red-breasted finch hopped about on 
 the snow-heaps like a foppish Polish nobleman, 
 and picked out grains of corn ; and children, 
 with huge sticks, chased wooden tops upon 
 the ice ; while their fathers lay quietly on the 
 stove, issuing forth at intervals with lighted 
 pipes in their lips, to growl, in regular fashion, 
 at the orthodox frost, or to take the air, and 
 thresh the grain spread out in the barn. At 
 last the snow began to melt, and the ice rind 
 slipped away: but Petro remained the same; 
 and, the longer it went on, the more morose 
 he grew. He sat in the middle of the cottage 
 as though nailed to the spot, with the sacks 
 of gold at his feet. He grew shy, his hair 
 grew long, he became terrible ; and still he 
 thought of but one thing, still he tried to 
 recall something, and got angry and ill-tem¬ 
 pered because he could not recall it. Often, 
 rising wildly from his seat, he gesticulates vio¬ 
 lently, fixes his eyes on something as though 
 desirous of catching it: his lips move as 
 
46 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 though desirous of uttering some long-forgot¬ 
 ten word — and remain speechless. Fury takes 
 possession of him: he gnaws and bites his 
 hands like a man half crazy, and in his vexa¬ 
 tion tears out his hair by the handful, until, 
 calming down, he falls into forgetfulness, as it 
 were, and again begins to recall, and is again 
 seized with fury and fresh tortures. . . . What 
 visitation of God is this ? 
 
 Pidorka was neither dead nor alive. At first 
 it was horrible to her to remain alone in the 
 cottage ; but, in course of time, the poor woman 
 grew accustomed to her sorrow. But it was 
 impossible to recognize the Pidorka of former 
 days. No blush, no smile: she was thin and 
 worn with grief, and had wept her bright eyes 
 away. Once, some one who evidently took pity 
 on her, advised her to go to the witch who 
 dwelt in the Bear’s ravine, and enjoyed the 
 reputation of being able to cure every disease 
 in the world. She determined to try this last 
 remedy : word by word she persuaded the old 
 woman to come to her. This was St. John’s 
 Eve, as it chanced. Petro lay insensible on 
 the bench, and did not observe the new-comer. 
 
47 
 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 Little by little he rose, and looked about him. 
 Suddenly he trembled in every limb, as though 
 he were on the scaffold : his hair rose upon his 
 head, . . . and he laughed such a laugh as 
 pierced Pidorka’s heart with fear. “ I have 
 remembered, remembered ! ” he cried in terri¬ 
 ble joy ; and, swinging a hatchet round his head, 
 he flung it at the old woman with all his might. 
 The hatchet penetrated the oaken door two 
 vershok (three inches and a half). The old 
 woman disappeared ; and a child of seven in a 
 white blouse, with covered head, stood in the 
 middle of the cottage. . . . The sheet flew 
 off. “Ivas!” cried Pidorka, and ran to him; 
 but the apparition became covered from head 
 to foot with blood, and illumined the whole 
 room with red light. . . . She ran into the 
 passage in her terror, but, on recovering herself 
 a little, wished to help him ; in vain ! the door 
 had slammed to behind her so securely that she 
 could not open it. People ran up, and began to 
 knock : they broke in the door, as though there 
 were but one mind among them. The whole 
 cottage was full of smoke; and just in the 
 middle, where Petrus had stood, was a heap of 
 
48 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 ashes, from which smoke was still rising. They 
 flung themselves upon the sacks : only broken 
 potsherds lay there instead of ducats. The 
 Cossacks stood with staring eyes and open 
 mouths, not daring to move a hair, as if rooted 
 to the earth, such terror did this wonder inspire 
 in them. 
 
 I do not remember what happened next. 
 Pidorka took a vow to go upon a pilgrimage, 
 collected the property left her by her father, 
 and in a few days it was as if she had never 
 been in the village. Whither she had gone, no 
 one could tell. Officious old women would have 
 despatched her to the same place whither Petro 
 had gone; but a Cossack from Kief reported 
 that he had seen, in a cloister, a nun withered 
 to a mere skeleton, who prayed unceasingly; 
 and her fellow - villagers recognized her as 
 Pidorka, by all the signs, — that no one had 
 ever heard her utter a word ; that she had 
 come on foot, and had brought a frame for the 
 ikon of God’s mother, set with such brilliant 
 stones that all were dazzled at the sight. 
 
 But this was not the end, if you please. On 
 the same day that the Evil One made way with 
 
ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 49 
 
 Petrus, Basavriuk appeared again; but all fled 
 from him. They knew what sort of a bird he 
 was, — none else than Satan, who had assumed 
 human form in order to unearth treasures ; and, 
 since treasures do not yield to unclean hands, 
 he seduced the young. That same year, all 
 deserted their earth huts, and collected in a 
 village; but, even there, there was no peace, on 
 account of that accursed Basavriuk. My late 
 grandfather’s aunt said that he was particularly 
 angry with her, because she had abandoned her 
 former tavern, and tried with all his might to 
 revenge himself upon her. Once the village 
 elders were assembled in the tavern, and, as the 
 saying goes, were arranging the precedence at 
 the table, in the middle of which was placed a 
 small roasted lamb, shame to say. They chat¬ 
 tered about this, that, and the other,—among 
 the rest about various marvels and strange 
 things. Well, they saw something; it would 
 have been nothing if only one had seen it, but 
 all saw it; and it was this : the sheep raised 
 his head ; his goggling eyes became alive and 
 
 i 
 
 sparkled; and the black, bristling mustache, 
 which appeared for one instant, made a sig- 
 
50 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 
 nificant gesture at those present. All, at once, 
 recognized Basavriuk’s countenance in the 
 sheep’s head : my grandfather’s aunt thought 
 it was on the point of asking for vodka. . . . 
 The worthy elders seized their hats, and has¬ 
 tened home. 
 
 Another time, the church starost 1 himself, 
 who was fond of an occasional private interview 
 with my grandfather’s brandy-glass, had not 
 succeeded in getting to the bottom twice, when 
 he beheld the glass bowing very low to him. 
 “ Satan take you, let us make the sign of the 
 cross over you!” . . . And the same marvel 
 happened to his better half. She had just 
 begun to mix the dough in a huge kneading- 
 trough, when suddenly the trough sprang up. 
 “ Stop, stop! where are you going?” Putting 
 its arms akimbo, with dignity, it went skipping 
 all about the cottage. ... You may laugh, but 
 it was no laughing-matter to our grandfathers. 
 And in vain did Father Athanasii go through 
 all the village with holy water, and chase the 
 Devil through all the streets with his brush; 
 and my late grandfather’s aunt long complained, 
 
 1 Elder. 
 
ST. JOHN'S EVE . 
 
 51 
 
 that, as soon as it was dark, some one came 
 knocking at her door, and scratching at the 
 wall. 
 
 Well! All appears to be quiet now, in the 
 place where our village stands ; but it was not 
 so very long ago — my father was still alive — 
 that I remember how a good man could not 
 pass the ruined tavern, which a dishonest race 
 had long managed for their own interest. 
 From the smoke-blackened chimneys, smoke 
 poured out in a pillar, and rising high in the 
 air, as if to take an observation, rolled off like 
 a cap, scattering burning coals over the steppe; 
 and Satan (the son of a dog should not be 
 mentioned) sobbed so pitifully in his lair, that 
 the startled ravens rose in flocks from the 
 neighboring oak-wood, and flew through the air 
 with wild cries. 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 1 
 
 I am very fond of the modest life of those 
 isolated owners of distant villages, which are 
 usually called “ old-fashioned ” in Little Russia, 
 and which, like ruinous and picturesque houses, 
 are beautiful through their simplicity, and com¬ 
 plete contrast to a new, regular building, whose 
 walls the rain has never yet washed, whose roof 
 is not yet covered with mould, and whose porch, 
 undeprived of its stucco, does not yet show its 
 red bricks. I love sometimes to enter for a 
 moment the sphere of this unusually isolated 
 
 1 This is the first story in the volume entitled “ Mirgorod,” which 
 forms a continuation of the “ Tales at a Farmhouse near Dikanka.” 
 The introduction consists of the two following quotations : — 
 
 “Mirgorod is a large town of great importance situated on the 
 river Khorol. It has one rope-walk, one brick-yard, four water and 
 forty-five wind mills.” — Zyablovsky's Geography . 
 
 “ Though the bubliki [cracknels] are made of black dough in 
 Mirgorod, they are quite savory .”—Extract from the Journal of a 
 Trave tier. 
 
 53 
 
54 
 
 OLD-FASIIIONED FARMERS. 
 
 life, where no wish flies beyond the palings 
 surrounding the little yard, beyond the hedge 
 of the garden filled with apples and plums, 
 beyond the izbas of the village surrounding it, 
 having on one side, shaded by willows, elder- 
 bushes and pear-trees. The life of the modest 
 owners is so quiet, so quiet, that you forget 
 yourself for a moment, and think that the pas¬ 
 sions, wishes, and the uneasy offspring of the 
 Evil One, which keep the world in an uproar, 
 do not exist at all, and that you have only be¬ 
 held them in some brilliant, dazzling vision. 
 
 I can see now the low-roofed little house, 
 with its veranda of slender, blackened tree- 
 trunks, surrounding it on all sides, so that, in 
 case of a thunder or hail storm, the window- 
 shutters could be shut without your getting 
 wet ; behind it, fragrant wild-cherry trees, 
 whole rows of dwarf fruit-trees, overtopped by 
 crimson cherries and a purple sea of plums, 
 covered with a lead-colored bloom, luxuriant 
 maples, under the shade of which rugs were 
 spread for repose; in front of the house the 
 spacious yard, with short, fresh grass, through 
 which paths had been trodden from the store- 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 55 
 
 houses to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the 
 apartments of the family; a long-legged goose 
 drinking water, with her young goslings, soft as 
 down ; the picket-fence hung with bunches of 
 dried pears and apples, and rugs put out to air; 
 a cart full of melons standing near the store¬ 
 house ; the oxen unyoked, and lying lazily be¬ 
 side it. All this has for me an indescribable 
 charm, perhaps because I no longer see it, and 
 because any thing from which we are separated 
 is pleasing to us. However that may be, from 
 the moment that my britchka drove up to the 
 porch of this little house, my soul entered 
 into a wonderfully pleasant and peaceful state : 
 the horses trotted merrily up to the porch ; the 
 coachman climbed very quietly down from the 
 seat, and filled his pipe, as though he had 
 arrived at his own house ; the very bark which 
 the phlegmatic dogs set up, was soothing to 
 my ears. 
 
 But more than all else, the owners of this 
 isolated nook, — an old man and old woman,— 
 hastening anxiously out to meet me, FjpS 
 me. Their faces present themsel^^^^^^^ 
 even now, sometimes, in the 
 
56 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 motion, amid fashionable dress-suits ; and then 
 suddenly a half-dreaming state overpowers me, 
 and the past flits before me. On their coun¬ 
 tenances are always depicted such goodness, 
 
 such cheerfulness, and purity of heart, that 
 you involuntarily renounce, if only for a brief 
 space of time, all bold conceptions, and imper¬ 
 ceptibly enter with all your feelings into this 
 lowly bucolic life. 
 
 To this day I cannot forget two old people 
 of the last century, who are, alas ! no more; 
 but my heart is still full of pity, and my feel¬ 
 ings are strangely moved when I fancy myself 
 driving up sometimes to their former dwelling, 
 now deserted, and see the cluster of decaying 
 cottages, the weedy pond, and, where the little 
 house used to stand, an overgrown pit, and 
 nothing more. It is melancholy. But let us 
 return to our story. 
 
 Athanasii Ivanovitch Tovstogub, and his wife 
 Pulcheria Ivanovna Tovstogubikha, according 
 to the neighboring muzhiks’ way of putting it, 
 '•<^'^he old people whom I began to tell about. 
 f;;£merca painter, and wished to represent 
 ! T : ;on canvas, I could have 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 57 
 
 found no better models than they. Athanasii 
 Ivanovitch was sixty years old, Pulcheria Ivan¬ 
 ovna was fifty-five. Athanasii Ivanovitch was 
 tall, always wore a sheepskin jacket covered 
 with camel’s hair, sat all doubled up, and was 
 almost always smiling, whether he was telling 
 a story or only listening. Pulcheria Ivanovna 
 was rather serious, and hardly ever laughed; 
 but her face and eyes expressed so much good¬ 
 ness, so much readiness to treat you to all the 
 best they owned, that you would probably have 
 found a smile too repellingly sweet for her kind 
 face. The delicate wrinkles were so agreeably 
 disposed upon their countenances, that an artist 
 would certainly have appropriated them. It 
 seemed as though you might read their whole 
 life in them, the pure, peaceful life, led by the 
 old patriotic, simple-hearted, and, at the same 
 time, wealthy families, which always offer a 
 contrast to those baser Little Russians, who 
 work up from tar-burners and pedlers, throng 
 the court-rooms like grasshoppers, squeeze the 
 last kopek from their fellow-countrymen, crowd 
 Petersburg with scandal-mongers, finally acquire 
 a capital, and triumphantly add an f to their 
 
58 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 surnames ending in o. No, they did not re¬ 
 semble those despicable and miserable crea¬ 
 tures, but all ancient and native Little Russian 
 families. 
 
 It was impossible to behold without sympathy 
 their mutual affection. They never called each 
 other thou , but always you , — “ You, Athanasii 
 Ivanovitch “ You, Pulcheria Ivanovna.” 
 
 “ Was it you who sold the chair, Athanasii 
 Ivanovitch ? ” 
 
 “No matter. Don’t you be angry, Pulcheria 
 Ivanovna : it was I.” 
 
 They never had any children, so all their 
 affection was concentrated upon themselves. 
 At one time, in his youth, Athanasii Ivanovitch 
 served in the militia, and was afterwards brevet- 
 major ; but that was very long ago, and Athana¬ 
 sii Ivanovitch hardly ever thought of it himself. 
 Athanasii Ivanovitch married at thirty, while he 
 was still young, and wore embroidered waist¬ 
 coats. He even very cleverly abducted Pulche¬ 
 ria Ivanovna, whose parents did not wish to give 
 her to him : but this, too, he recollected very 
 little about; at least, he never mentioned it. 
 
 All these long-past and unusual events had 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 59 
 
 given place to a quiet and lonely life, to those 
 dreamy yet harmonious fancies which you ex- 
 perience seated on a country balcony facing the 
 garden, when the beautiful rain patters luxu¬ 
 riously on the leaves, flows in murmuring 
 rivulets, inclining your limbs to repose, and 
 meanwhile the rainbow creeps from behind the 
 trees, and its arch shines dully with its seven 
 hues in the sky ; or when your calash rolls on, 
 pushing its way among green bushes, and the 
 quail calls, and the fragrant grass, with the ears 
 of grain and field-flowers, creeps into the door 
 of your carriage, pleasantly striking against 
 your hands and face. 
 
 He always listened with a pleasant smile to 
 his guests : sometimes he talked himself, but 
 generally he asked questions. He was not one 
 of the old men who weary you with praises of 
 the old times, and complaints of the new : on 
 the contrary, as he put questions to you, he 
 exhibited the greatest curiosity about, and 
 sympathy with, the circumstances of your life, 
 your success, or lack of success, in which kind 
 old men usually are interested; although it 
 closely resembles the curiosity of a child, who 
 
6o 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 examines the seal on your fob while he is asking 
 his questions. Then, it might be said that his 
 face beamed with kindness. 
 
 The rooms of the little house in which our 
 old people lived were small, low-studded, such 
 as are generally to be seen with old-fashioned 
 people. In each room stood a huge stove, 
 which occupied nearly one-third of the space. 
 These little rooms were frightfully warm, be¬ 
 cause both Athanasii Ivanovitch and Pulcheria 
 Ivanovna were fond of heat. All their fuel 
 was stored in the vestibule, which was always 
 filled nearly to the ceiling with straw, which is 
 generally used in Little Russia in the place of 
 wood. The crackling and blaze of burning 
 straw render the ante-rooms extremely pleasant 
 on winter evenings, when some lively youth, 
 chilled with his pursuit of some brunette maid, 
 rushes in, beating his hands together. 
 
 The walls of the rooms were adorned with 
 pictures in narrow, old-fashioned frames. I am 
 positive that their owners had long ago for¬ 
 gotten their subjects ; and, if some of them had 
 been carried off, they probably would not have 
 noticed it. Two of them were large portraits 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 6l 
 
 in oil: one represented some bishop ; the other, 
 Peter III. From a narrow frame gazed the 
 Duchess of La Valliere, spotted by flies. 
 Around the windows and above the doors were 
 a multitude of small pictures, which you grow 
 accustomed to regard as spots on the wall, and 
 which you never look at. The floor in nearly 
 all the rooms was of clay, but smoothly plas¬ 
 tered down, and more cleanly kept than any 
 polished floor of wood in a wealthy house, lan¬ 
 guidly swept by a sleepy gentleman in livery. 
 Pulcheria Ivanovna’s room was all furnished 
 with chests and boxes, and little chests and 
 little boxes. A multitude of little packages and 
 bags, containing seeds, — flower-seeds, vege¬ 
 table-seeds, watermelon-seeds,—hung on the 
 walls. A great many balls of various colored 
 woollens, scraps of old dresses, sewed together 
 during half a century, were stuffed away in the 
 corners, in the chests, and between the chests. 
 Pulcheria Ivanovna was a famous housewife, 
 and saved up every thing; though she some¬ 
 times did not know herself what use she could 
 ever make of it. 
 
 But the most noticeable thing about the 
 
 \ 
 
62 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 house was the singing doors. Just as soon 
 as day arrived, the songs of the doors resounded 
 throughout the house. I cannot say why they 
 sang. Either the rusty hinges were the cause, 
 or else the mechanic who made them concealed 
 some secret in them ; but it was worthy of note, 
 that each door had its own particular voice: 
 the door leading to the bedroom sang the thin¬ 
 nest of sopranos ; the dining-room door growled 
 a bass ; but the one which led into the vestibule 
 gave out a strange, quavering, yet groaning 
 sound, so that, if you listened to it, you heard at 
 last, quite clearly, “ Batiushka, I am freezing.” 
 I know that this noise is very displeasing to 
 many, but I am very fond of it; and if I chance 
 to hear a door squeak, here, I seem to see the 
 country ; the low-ceiled chamber, lighted by a 
 candle in an old-fashioned candlestick; the sup¬ 
 per on the table ; May darkness ; night peeping 
 in from the garden through the open windows 
 upon the table set with dishes; the nightin¬ 
 gale, which floods the garden, house, and the 
 
 % 
 
 distant river with her trills; the rustle and the 
 murmuring of the boughs, . . . and, O God! 
 what a long chain of reminiscences is woven ! 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 63 
 
 The chairs in the room were of wood, and 
 massive, in the style which generally distin¬ 
 guished those of olden times; all had high, 
 turned backs of natural wood, without any 
 paint or varnish; they were not even uphol¬ 
 stered, and somewhat resembled those which 
 are still used by bishops. Three-cornered tables 
 stood in the corners, a square one before the 
 sofa ; and there was a large mirror in a thin gold 
 frame, carved in leaves, which the flies had 
 covered with black spots ; in front of the sofa 
 was a mat with flowers resembling birds, and 
 birds resembling flowers : and this constituted 
 nearly the whole furniture of the far from ele¬ 
 gant little house where my old people lived. 
 The maids’ room was filled with young and 
 elderly serving-women in striped petticoats, to 
 whom Pulcheria Ivanovna sometimes gave some 
 trifles to sew, and whom she made pick over 
 berries, but who ran about the kitchen or slept 
 the greater part of the time. Pulcheria Ivan¬ 
 ovna regarded it as* a necessity to keep them in 
 the house; and she looked strictly after their 
 morals, but to no purpose. 
 
 Upon the window-panes buzzed a terrible 
 
64 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 number of flies, overpowered by the heavy bass 
 of the bumble-bee, sometimes accompanied by 
 the penetrating shriek of the wasp; but, as 
 soon as the candles were brought in, this whole 
 horde betook themselves to their night quar¬ 
 ters, and covered the entire ceiling with a black 
 cloud. 
 
 Athanasii Ivanovitch very rarely occupied 
 himself with the farming; although he some¬ 
 times went out to the mowers and reapers, 
 and gazed quite intently at their work. All 
 the burden of management devolved upon Pul- 
 cheria Ivanovna. Pulcheria Ivanovna’s house¬ 
 keeping consisted of an incessant unlocking 
 and locking of the storeroom, in salting, dry¬ 
 ing, preserving innumerable quantities of fruits 
 and vegetables. Her house was exactly like a 
 chemical laboratory. A fire was constantly 
 laid under the apple-tree ; and the kettle or the 
 brass pan with preserves, jelly, marmalade, — 
 made with honey, with sugar, and I know not 
 with what else,—was hardly ever removed from 
 the tripod. Under another tree the coachman 
 was forever distilling vodka with peach-leaves, 
 with wild cherry, cherry-flowers, gentian, or 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 65 
 
 cherry-stones in a copper still ; and, at the 
 end of the process, he never was able to con¬ 
 trol his tongue, chattered all sorts of nonsense, 
 which Pulcheria Ivanovna did not understand, 
 and took himself off to the kitchen to sleep. 
 Such a quantity of all this stuff was pre¬ 
 served, salted, and dried, that it would proba¬ 
 bly have overwhelmed the whole yard at last 
 (for Pulcheria Ivanovna loved to lay in a store 
 beyond what was calculated for consumption), 
 if the greater part of it had not been devoured 
 by the maid-servants, who crept into the store¬ 
 room, and over-ate themselves to such a fearful 
 extent, that they groaned and complained of 
 their stomachs for a whole day afterwards. 
 
 It was less possible for Pulcheria Ivanovna 
 to attend to the agricultural department. The 
 steward conspired with the village elder to rob 
 in the most shameless manner. They had got 
 into a habit of going to their master’s forest as 
 though to their own ; they manufactured a lot 
 of sledges, and sold them at the neighboring 
 fair; besides which they sold all the stout oaks 
 to the neighboring Cossacks for beams, for a 
 mill. Only once Pulcheria Ivanovna wished to 
 
66 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 inspect her forest. For this purpose the 
 droshky, with its huge leather apron, was har¬ 
 nessed. As soon as the coachman shook his 
 reins, and the horses (which had served in the 
 militia) started, it filled the air with strange 
 sounds, as though fifes, tambourines, and drums 
 were suddenly audible: every nail and iron 
 bolt rattled so, that, when the pani drove from 
 the door, they could be heard clear to the mill, 
 although that was not less than two versts 
 away. Pulcheria Ivanovna could not fail to 
 observe the terrible havoc in the forest, and 
 the loss of oaks which she recollected from her 
 childhood as being centuries old. 
 
 “Why have the oaks become so scarce, 
 Nitchipor?” she said to the steward, who was 
 also present. “ See that the hairs on your 
 head do not become scarce.” 
 
 “Why are they scarce?” said the steward. 
 “ They disappeared, they disappeared alto¬ 
 gether : the lightning struck them, and the 
 worms ate them. They disappeared, pani, they 
 disappeared.” 
 
 Pulcheria Ivanovna was quite satisfied with 
 this answer, and on returning home merely 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 67 
 
 gave orders that double guards should be 
 placed over the Spanish cherries and the large 
 winter-pear trees in the garden. 
 
 These worthy managers — the steward and 
 the village elder — considered it quite unneces¬ 
 sary to bring all the flour to the storehouses at 
 the manor, and that half was quite sufficient 
 for the masters; and finally, that half was 
 brought sprinkled or wet through — what had 
 been rejected at the fair. But no matter how 
 the steward and village elder plundered, or how 
 horribly they devoured things at the house, 
 from the housekeeper down to the pigs, who 
 not only made way with frightful quantities of 
 plums and apples, but even shook the trees with 
 their snouts in order to bring down a whole 
 shower of fruit; no matter how the sparrows 
 and crows pecked, or how many presents the 
 servants carried to their friends in other vil¬ 
 lages, including even old linen and yarn from 
 the storeroom, which all brought up eventually 
 at the universal source, namely, the tavern ; no 
 matter how guests, phlegmatic coachmen, and 
 lackeys stole,—yet the fruitful earth yielded 
 such an abundance, Athanasii Ivanovitch and 
 
68 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 Pulcheria Ivanovna needed so little, that all 
 this abominable robbery seemed to pass quite 
 unperceived in their household. 
 
 Both the old folks, in accordance with old- 
 fashioned customs, were very fond of eating. 
 As soon as daylight dawned (they always rose 
 early), and the doors had begun their many- 
 toned concert, they seated themselves at table, 
 and drank coffee. When Athanasii Ivanovitch 
 had drunk his coffee, he went out, and, flirt¬ 
 ing his handkerchief, said, “ Kish, kish! go 
 away from the veranda, geese ! ” In the yard 
 he generally encountered the steward : he usu¬ 
 ally entered into conversation with him, in¬ 
 quired about the work with the greatest 
 minuteness, and communicated such a number 
 of observations and orders as would have 
 caused any one to wonder at his knowledge 
 of affairs ; and no novice would have ventured 
 to suppose that such an acute master could 
 be robbed. But his steward was a clever ras¬ 
 cal : he knew well what answers it was neces¬ 
 sary to give, and, better still, how to manage 
 things. 
 
 After this, Athanasii Ivanovitch returned to 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 69 
 
 the room, and said, approaching Pulcheria Ivan¬ 
 ovna, “Well, Pulcheria Ivanovna, is it time to 
 eat something, perhaps ? ” 
 
 “ What shall we have to eat now, Athanasii 
 Ivanovitch, — some wheat and tallow cakes, or 
 some pies with poppy-seeds, or some salted 
 mushrooms ? ” 
 
 “ Some mushrooms, then, if you please, or 
 some pies,” replied Athanasii Ivanovitch; and 
 then suddenly a table-cloth would make its 
 appearance on the table, with the pies and 
 mushrooms. 
 
 An hour before dinner, Athanasii Ivanovitch 
 took another snack, and drank vodka from an 
 ancient silver cup, ate mushrooms, divers dried 
 fish, and other things. They sat down to dine 
 at twelve o’clock. Besides the dishes and 
 sauce-boats, there stood upon the table a multi¬ 
 tude of pots with covers pasted on, that the 
 appetizing products of the savory old-fashioned 
 cooking might not be exhaled abroad. At din¬ 
 ner the conversation turned upon subjects 
 closely connected with the meal. 
 
 “ It seems to me,” Athanasii Ivanovitch gen¬ 
 erally observed, “that this groats is burned a 
 
70 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS, 
 
 little. Does it strike you so, Pulcheria Ivan¬ 
 ovna ? ” 
 
 “No, Athanasii Ivanovitch : put on a little 
 more butter, and then it will not taste burned ; 
 or take this mushroom sauce, and pour over it.” 
 
 “If you please,” said Athanasii Ivanovitch, 
 handing his plate, “let us see how that will 
 do.” 
 
 After dinner Athanasii Ivanovitch went to 
 lie down for an hour, after which Pulcheria 
 Ivanovna brought him a sliced watermelon, and 
 said, “ Here, try this, Athanasii Ivanovitch ; see 
 what a good melon it is.” 
 
 “Don’t trust it because it is red in the centre, 
 Pulcheria Ivanovna,” said Athanasii Ivanovitch, 
 taking a good-sized chunk. “ Sometimes they 
 are red, but not good.” 
 
 But the watermelon slowly disappeared. 
 Then Athanasii Ivanovitch ate a few pears, and 
 went out for a walk in the garden with Pul¬ 
 cheria Ivanovna. On returning to the house, 
 Pulcheria went about her own affairs : but he 
 sat down on the veranda facing the yard, and 
 observed how the storeroom’s interior was con¬ 
 stantly disclosed, and again concealed; and 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 71 
 
 how the girls jostled one another as they car¬ 
 ried in, or brought out, all sorts of stuff in 
 wooden boxes, sieves, trays, and other recep¬ 
 tacles for fruit. After waiting a while, he sent 
 for Pulcheria Ivanovna, or went to her himself, 
 and said, “What is there for me to eat, Pul¬ 
 cheria Ivanovna ? ” 
 
 “What is there?” said Pulcheria Ivanovna: 
 “shall I go and tell them to bring you some 
 berry tarts which I had set aside for you ? ” 
 
 “That would be good,” replied Athanasii 
 Ivanovitch. 
 
 “ Or perhaps you could eat some kissel ? ” 1 
 
 “That is good too,” replied Athanasii Ivan¬ 
 ovitch ; whereupon all was brought immedi¬ 
 ately, and eaten in due course. 
 
 Before supper Athanasii Ivanovitch took an¬ 
 other snack. At half-past nine they sat down 
 to supper. After supper they went directly to 
 bed, and universal silence settled down upon 
 this busy yet quiet nook. 
 
 The chamber in which Athanasii Ivanovitch 
 and Pulcheria Ivanovna slept, was so hot that 
 very few people could have stayed in it more 
 
 1 Sourish jelly. 
 
 / 
 
7 2 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 than a few hours : but Athanasii Ivanovitch, for 
 the sake of more warmth, slept upon the stove- 
 bench ; although the excessive heat caused him 
 to rise several times in the course of the night, 
 and walk about the room. Sometimes Athan¬ 
 asii Ivanovitch groaned as he walked about the 
 room. 
 
 Then Pulcheria Ivanovna inquired, “ Why do 
 you groan, Athanasii Ivanovitch ?” 
 
 “God knows, Pulcheria Ivanovna! it seems 
 as if my stomach ached a little,” said Athanasii 
 Ivanovitch. 
 
 “ Hadn’t you better eat something, Athanasii 
 Ivanovitch ? ” 
 
 “I don’t know, — perhaps it would be well, 
 Pulcheria Ivanovna: by the way, what is there 
 to eat ? ” 
 
 “Sour milk, or some stewed dried pears.” 
 
 “ If you please, I will try them,” said Athan¬ 
 asii Ivanovitch. The sleepy maid was sent to 
 ransack the cupboards, and Athanasii Ivan¬ 
 ovitch ate a plateful; after which he remarked, 
 “ Now I seem to feel relieved.” 
 
 Sometimes when the weather was clear, and 
 the rooms were very much heated, Athanasii 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 73 
 
 Ivanovitch got merry, and loved to tease Pul- 
 cheria Ivanovna, and talk of something out of 
 the ordinary. 
 
 “Well, Pulcheria Ivanovna,” he said, “what 
 if our house were to suddenly burn down, what 
 would become of us?” 
 
 “God forbid!” ejaculated Pulcheria Ivan¬ 
 ovna, crossing herself. 
 
 “Well, now, just suppose a case, that our 
 house should burn down. Where should we go 
 then ? ” 
 
 “God knows what you are saying, Athanasii 
 Ivanovitch ! How could our house burn down ? 
 God will not permit that.” 
 
 “ Well, but if it did burn ? ” 
 
 “Well, then, we should go to the kitchen. 
 You could occupy for a time the room which 
 the housekeeper now has.” 
 
 “ But if the kitchen burned too ? ” 
 
 “The idea! God will preserve us from such 
 a catastrophe as the house and the kitchen both 
 burning down. In that case, we could go into 
 the storehouse while a new house was being 
 built.” 
 
 “And if the storehouse burned also ? ” 
 
74 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 “ God knows what you are saying! I won’t 
 listen to you ! it is a sin to talk so, and God will 
 punish you for such speeches.” 
 
 But Athanasii Ivanovitch, content with hav¬ 
 ing had his joke over Pulcheria Ivanovna, sat 
 quietly in his chair, and smiled. 
 
 But the old people were most interesting of 
 all to me when they had visitors. Then every 
 thing about their house assumed a different 
 aspect. It may be said that these good people 
 only lived for their guests. They vied with 
 each other in offering you every thing which 
 the place produced. But the most pleasing 
 feature of it all to me was, that, in all their kind¬ 
 liness, there was nothing feigned. Their kind¬ 
 ness and readiness to oblige were so gently 
 expressed in their faces, so became them, that 
 . you involuntarily yielded to their requests. 
 These were the outcome of the pure, clear 
 simplicity of their good, sincere souls. Their 
 joy was not at all of the sort with which the 
 official of the court favors you, when he has 
 become a personage through your exertions, 
 and calls you his benefactor, and fawns at your 
 feet. No guest was ever permitted to depart 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 75 
 
 on the day of his arrival: he must needs pass 
 the night with them. 
 
 “ How is it possible to set out at so late an 
 hour upon so long a journey ! ” Pulcheria Ivan¬ 
 ovna always observed. (The visitor usually 
 lived three or four versts from them.) 
 
 “Of course,” said Athanasii Ivanovitch, “it 
 is impossible on all accounts: robbers, or some 
 other evil men, will attack you.” 
 
 “May God in his mercy deliver us from rob¬ 
 bers! ” said Pulcheria Ivanovna. “And why 
 mention such things at night ? Robbers, or no 
 robbers, it is dark, and no fit time to travel. 
 And your coachman, ... I know your coach¬ 
 man : he is so weak and small, any horse could 
 kill him ; besides, he has probably been drinking, 
 and is now asleep somewhere.” 
 
 And the visitor was obliged to remain. But 
 the evening in the warm, low room, cheerful, 
 strewn with stories, the steam rising from the 
 food upon the table, which was always nourish¬ 
 ing, and cooked in a masterly manner, — this 
 was his reward. I seem now to see Athanasii 
 Ivanovitch bending to seat himself at the table, 
 with his constant smile, and listening with 
 
76 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 attention, and even with delight, to his guest. 
 The conversation often turned on politics. The 
 guest, who also emerged but rarely from his 
 village, frequently with significant mien and 
 mysterious expression of countenance, aired his 
 surmises, and told how the French had formed 
 a secret compact with the English to let Buona¬ 
 parte loose upon Russia again, or talked merely 
 of the impending war; and then Athanasii 
 Ivanovitch often remarked, without appearing 
 to look at Pulcheria Ivanovna, — 
 
 “I am thinking of going to the war myself. 
 Why cannot I go to the war ? ” 
 
 “ You have been already,” broke in Pulcheria 
 Ivanovna. “ Don’t believe him,” she said, turn¬ 
 ing to the visitor : “ what good would he, an old 
 man, do in the war ? The very first soldier 
 would shoot him ; by Heaven, he would shoot 
 him ! he would take aim, and fire at him.” 
 
 “What?” said Athanasii Ivanovitch. “I 
 would shoot him.” 
 
 “Just listen to him!” interposed Pulcheria 
 Ivanovna. “ Why should he go to the war ? 
 And his pistols have been rusty this long time, 
 and are lying in the storeroom. If you could 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 77 
 
 only see them ! the powder would burst them 
 before they would fire. He will blow his hands 
 off, and disfigure his face, and be miserable for¬ 
 ever after!” 
 
 “ What’s that?” said Athanasii Ivanovitch. 
 “ I will buy myself new arms : I will take my 
 sword or a Cossack lance.” 
 
 “These are all inventions : as soon as a thing 
 comes into his head, he begins to talk about 
 it ! ” interrupted Pulcheria Ivanovna with vexa¬ 
 tion. “ I know that he is jesting, but it is un¬ 
 pleasant to hear him all the same. He always 
 talks so : sometimes you listen and listen, until 
 it is perfectly frightful.” 
 
 But Athanasii Ivanovitch, satisfied with hav¬ 
 ing frightened Pulcheria Ivanovna, laughed as 
 he sat doubled up in his chair. 
 
 Pulcheria Ivanovna seemed to me most note¬ 
 worthy when she offered her guest zakuska . 1 
 “ Here,” she said, taking the cork from a decan¬ 
 ter, “is genuine yarrow or sage vodka; if any 
 one’s shoulder-blades or loins ache, this is a 
 
 1 A whet to the appetite preliminary to dinner, consisting of cavi¬ 
 are, herring, smoked salmon, sardines, smoked goose, sausages, 
 cheese-bread, butter, vodka, etc. 
 
73 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 very good remedy: here is some with gentian ; 
 if you have a ringing in your ears, or eruption 
 on your face, this is very good : and this is dis¬ 
 tilled with peach-kernels; here, take a glass; 
 what a fine perfume! If ever any one, in get¬ 
 ting out of bed, strikes himself against the cor¬ 
 ner of the clothes-press or table, and a bump 
 comes on his forehead, all he has to do is to 
 drink a glass of this before meals, — and it all 
 disappears out of hand, as though it had never 
 been.” Then followed a catalogue of the other 
 decanters, almost all of which possessed some 
 healing properties. Having loaded down her 
 guest with this complete apothecary shop, she 
 led him to where a multitude of dishes were 
 set out. “ Here are mushrooms with summer- 
 savory ; and here are some with cloves and wal¬ 
 nuts. A Turkish woman taught me how to 
 pickle them, at a time when there were still 
 Turkish prisoners among us. She was a good 
 Turk, and it was not noticeable that she pro¬ 
 fessed the Turkish faith: she behaved very 
 nearly as we do, only she would not eat pork; 
 they say that it is forbidden by their laws. 
 Here are mushrooms with currant-leaves and 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 79 
 
 nutmeg; and here, some with clove-pinks. 
 These are the first I have cooked in vinegar. 
 I don’t know how good they are. I learned the 
 secret from Ivan’s father : you must first spread 
 oak-leaves in a small cask, and then sprinkle on 
 pepper and saltpetre, and then more, until it be¬ 
 comes the color of hawk-weed, and then spread 
 the liquid over the mushrooms. And here are 
 cheese-tarts ; these are different: and here are 
 some pies with cabbage and buckwheat flour, 
 which Athanasii Ivanovitch is extremely fond 
 of.” 
 
 “Yes,” added Athanasii Ivanovitch, “I am 
 very fond of them : they are soft and a little 
 tart.” 
 
 Pulcheria Ivanovna was generally in very 
 good spirits when they had visitors. Good old 
 woman ! she belonged entirely to her guests. 
 I loved to stay with them ; and though I over¬ 
 ate myself horribly, like all who visited them, 
 and although it was very bad for me, still, I was 
 always glad to go to them. Besides, I think 
 the air of Little Russia must possess some spe¬ 
 cial properties which aid digestion ; for if any 
 one undertook to eat here, in that way, there is 
 
8o 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 no doubt but that he would find himself lying 
 on the table instead of in bed. 
 
 Good old people! . . . But my story ap¬ 
 proaches a very sad event, which changed for¬ 
 ever the life in that peaceful nook. This event 
 appears all the more striking, because it resulted 
 from the most insignificant cause. But, in ac¬ 
 cordance with the primitive arrangement of 
 things, the most trifling causes produce the 
 greatest events, and the grandest undertakings 
 end in the most insignificant results. Some war¬ 
 rior collects all the forces of his empire, fights 
 for several years, his colonels distinguish them¬ 
 selves, and at last it all ends in the acquisition 
 of a bit of land on which no one would even 
 plant potatoes; but sometimes, on the other 
 hand, a couple of sausage-makers in different 
 towns quarrel over some trifle, and the quarrel 
 at last extends to the towns, and then to the 
 villages and hamlets, and then to the whole 
 empire. But we will drop these reflections; 
 they lead nowhere: and, besides, I am not fond 
 of reflections when they remain mere reflec¬ 
 tions. 
 
 Pulcheria Ivanovna had a little gray cat, which 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 8l 
 
 almost always lay coiled up in a ball at her feet. 
 Pulcheria Ivanovna stroked her occasionally, 
 and tickled her neck with her finger, which the 
 petted cat stretched out as long as possible. It 
 was impossible to say that Pulcheria Ivanovna 
 loved her so very much, but she had simply 
 become attached to her from having become 
 used to seeing her about continually. But 
 Athanasii Ivanovitch often joked at such an 
 attachment. 
 
 “ I cannot see, Pulcheria Ivanovna, what you 
 find attractive in that cat: of what use is she? 
 If you had a dog, that would be quite another 
 thing ; you can take a dog out hunting: but 
 what is a cat good for ? ” 
 
 “Be quiet, Athanasii Ivanovitch/’ said Pul¬ 
 cheria Ivanovna: “you just like to talk, and 
 that’s all. A dog is not clean; a dog soils 
 things, and breaks every thing: but the cat is 
 a peaceable beast; she does no harm to any 
 one.” 
 
 But it made no difference to Athanasii Ivano¬ 
 vitch whether it was a cat or a dog: he only 
 said it to tease Pulcheria Ivanovna. 
 
 Behind their garden was a large wood, which 
 
82 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 had been spared by the enterprising steward, 
 possibly because the sound of the axe might 
 have reached the ears of Pulcheria Ivanovna. 
 It was dense, neglected: the old tree-trunks 
 were concealed by luxuriant hazel-bushes, and 
 resembled the feathered legs of pigeons. In 
 this wood dwelt wild-cats. The wild forest-cats 
 must not be confounded with those which run 
 about the roofs of houses : being in the city, 
 they are much more civilized, in spite of their 
 savage nature, than the denizens of the woods. 
 These, on the contrary, are mostly fierce and 
 wild : they are always lean and ugly, and miauw 
 in rough, untutored voices. They sometimes 
 scratch for themselves underground passages to 
 the storehouses, and steal tallow. They occa¬ 
 sionally make their appearance in the kitchen, 
 springing suddenly in at an open window, when 
 they see that the cook has gone off among the 
 grass. As a rule, noble feelings are unknown 
 to them : they live by thievery, and strangle the 
 little sparrows in their very nests. These cats 
 had a long conference with Pulcheria Ivanovna’s 
 tame cat, through a hole under the storehouse, 
 and finally led her astray, as a detachment of 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 83 
 
 soldiers leads astray a dull peasant. Pulcheria 
 Ivanovna noticed that her cat was missing, and 
 sent to look for her ; but no cat was to be found. 
 Three days passed: Pulcheria Ivanovna felt 
 sorry, but finally forgot all about her loss. 
 
 One day she had been inspecting her vege¬ 
 table-garden, and was returning with her hands 
 full of fresh green cucumbers, which she had 
 picked for Athanasii Ivanovitch, when a most 
 pitiful miauwing struck her ear. She instinc¬ 
 tively called, “ Kitty! kitty ! ” and out from the 
 tall grass came her gray cat, thin and starved. 
 It was evident that she had not had a mouthful 
 of food for days. Pulcheria Ivanovna continued 
 to call her; but the cat stood crying before her, 
 and did not venture to approach. It was plain 
 that she had become quite wild in that time. 
 Pulcheria Ivanovna stepped forward, still call¬ 
 ing the cat, which followed her timidly to the 
 fence. Finally, seeing familiar places, it en¬ 
 tered the room. Pulcheria Ivanovna at once 
 ordered milk and meat to be given her, and, 
 sitting down by her, enjoyed the avidity with 
 which her poor pet swallowed morsel after mor¬ 
 sel, and lapped the milk. The gray runaway 
 
8 4 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 fattened before her very eyes, and began to eat 
 less eagerly. Pulcheria Ivanovna reached out 
 her hand to stroke her; but the ungrateful 
 animal had evidently become too well used to 
 robber cats, or adopted some romantic notion 
 about love and poverty being better than a 
 palace, for the cats were as poor as church- 
 mice. However that may be, she sprang 
 through the window, and none of the servants 
 were able to catch her. 
 
 The old woman reflected. “ It is my death 
 which has come for me,” she said to herself; 
 and nothing could cheer her. All day she was 
 sad. In vain did Athanasii Ivanovitch jest, 
 and want to know why she had suddenly grown 
 so grave. Pulcheria Ivanovna either made no 
 reply, or one which was in no way satisfactory 
 to Athanasii Ivanovitch. The next day she 
 was visibly thinner. 
 
 “What is the matter with you, Pulcheria 
 Ivanovna ? You are not ill ? ” 
 
 “ No, I am not ill, Athanasii Ivanovitch. I 
 want to tell you about a strange occurrence. 
 I know that I shall die this year: my death has 
 already come for me.” 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 85 
 
 Athanasii Ivanovitch’s mouth became dis¬ 
 torted with pain. Nevertheless, he tried to 
 conquer the sad feeling in his mind, and said, 
 smiling, “God only knows what you are talking 
 about, Pulcheria Ivanovna! You must have 
 drunk some peach infusion instead of your 
 usual herb-tea.” 
 
 “No, Athanasii Ivanovitch, I have not drunk 
 the peach,” said Pulcheria Ivanovna. 
 
 And Athanasii Ivanovitch was sorry that he 
 had made fun of Pulcheria Ivanovna; and, as 
 he looked at her, a tear hung on his lashes. 
 
 “I beg you, Athanasii Ivanovitch, to fulfil 
 my wishes,” said Pulcheria Ivanovna. “ When I 
 die, bury me by the church-wall. Put my gray¬ 
 ish dress on me, — the one with small flowers 
 on a cinnamon ground. My satin dress with red 
 stripes, you must not put on me : a corpse needs 
 no clothes. Of what use are they to her? But 
 it will be good for you. Make yourself a fine 
 dressing-gown, in case visitors come, so that 
 you can make a good appearance when you 
 receive them.” 
 
 “ God knows what you are saying, Pulcheria 
 Ivanovna!” said Athanasii Ivanovitch. “Death 
 
86 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 will come some time, but you frighten one with 
 such remarks.” 
 
 “No, Athanasii Ivanovitch : I know when my 
 death is to be. But do not sorrow for me. I 
 am old, and stricken in years; and you, too, are 
 old. We shall soon meet in the other world.” 
 
 But Athanasii Ivanovitch sobbed like a child. 
 
 “ It is a sin to weep, Athanasii Ivanovitch. 
 Do not sin, and anger God by your grief. I 
 am not sorry to die : I am only sorry for one 
 thing,”—a heavy sob broke her speech for a 
 moment, — “I am sorry because I do not know 
 whom I shall leave with you, who will look 
 after you when I am dead. You are like a little 
 child : the one who attends you must love you.” 
 And her face expressed such deep and heart-felt 
 sorrow, that I do not know whether any one 
 could have beheld her, and remained unmoved. 
 
 “ Mind, Yavdokha,” she said, turning to the 
 housekeeper, whom she had ordered to be sum¬ 
 moned expressly, “that you look after your 
 master when I am dead, and cherish him like 
 the apple of your eye, like your own child. 
 See that every thing he likes is prepared in the 
 kitchen ; that his linen and clothes are always 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 87 
 
 clean ; that, when visitors happen in, you dress 
 him properly : otherwise he will come forth in 
 his old dressing-gown, for he often forgets now 
 whether it is a festival or an ordinary day. Do 
 not take your eyes off him, Yavdokha. I will 
 pray for you in the other world, and God will 
 reward you. Do not forget, Yavdokha. You 
 are old, — you have not long to live. Take no 
 sins upon your soul. If you do not look well 
 to him, you will have no happiness in the world. 
 I will beg God myself to give you an unhappy 
 ending. And you will be unhappy yourself, 
 and your children will be unhappy; and none 
 of your race will ever have God’s blessing.” 
 
 Poor old woman! she thought not of the 
 great moment which awaited her, nor of her 
 soul, nor of the future life : she thought only 
 of her poor companion, with whom she had 
 passed her life, and whom she was leaving an 
 orphan and unprotected. After this fashion, she 
 arranged every thing with great skill : so that, 
 after her death, Athanasii Ivanovitch might 
 not perceive her absence. Her faith in her 
 approaching end was so firm, and her mind was 
 so fixed upon it, that, in a few days, she actually 
 
88 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 took to her bed, and was unable to take any 
 nourishment. 
 
 Athanasii Ivanovitch was all attention, and 
 never left her bedside. “ Perhaps you could 
 eat something, Pulcheria Ivanovna,” he said, 
 looking uneasily into her eyes. But Pulcheria 
 Ivanovna made no reply. At length, after a 
 long silence, she moved her lips, as though 
 desirous of saying something — and her breath 
 fled. 
 
 Athanasii Ivanovitch was utterly amazed. It 
 seemed to him so terrible, that he did not even 
 weep. He gazed at her with troubled eyes, as 
 though he did not comprehend the meaning of 
 a corpse. 
 
 They laid the dead woman on a table, dressed 
 her in the dress she herself had designated, 
 crossed her arms, and placed a wax candle in 
 her hand. He looked on without feeling. A 
 throng of people of every class filled the court. 
 Long tables were spread in the yard, and cov¬ 
 ered with heaps of kutya , x fruit-wine, and pies. 
 The visitors talked, wept, looked at the dead 
 woman, discussed her qualities, gazed at him ; 
 
 1 Rice cooked with honey and raisins. 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 89 
 
 but he looked upon it all as a stranger might. 
 At last they carried out the dead woman: the 
 people thronged after, and he followed. The 
 priests were in full vestments, the sun shone, 
 the infants cried in their mothers’ arms, the 
 larks sang, the children in their little blouses 
 ran and capered along the road. Finally they 
 placed the coffin over the grave. They bade 
 him approach, and kiss the dead woman for the 
 last time. He approached, and kissed her. 
 Tears appeared in his eyes, but unfeeling tears. 
 The coffin was lowered: the priest took the 
 shovel, and flung in the first earth. The full 
 choir of diaks and two sacristans sang the 
 requiem under the blue, cloudless sky. The 
 laborers grasped their shovels; and the grave 
 was soon filled, the earth levelled off. Then he 
 pressed forward. All stood aside to make room 
 for him, wishing to know his object. He raised 
 his eyes, looked about in a bewildered way, and 
 said, “And so you have buried her! Why?” — 
 He paused, and did not finish his sentence. 
 
 But when he returned home, when he saw 
 that his chamber was empty, that even the 
 chair, on which Pulcheria Ivanovna was wont 
 
90 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 to sit, had been carried out, he sobbed, sobbed 
 violently, irrepressibly ; and tears ran in streams 
 from his dim eyes. 
 
 Five years passed. What grief will time not 
 efface! What passion is not cured in unequal 
 battle with it! I knew a man in the bloom of 
 his youthful strength, full of true nobility and 
 worth ; I knew that he loved, tenderly, passion¬ 
 ately, wildly, boldly, modestly; and in my 
 presence, before my very eyes, almost, the 
 object of his passion — a girl, gentle, beautiful 
 as an angel — was struck by insatiable Death. 
 I never beheld such a terrible outburst of spir¬ 
 itual suffering, such mad, fiery grief, such 
 consuming despair, as agitated the unfortunate 
 lover. I never thought that a man could make 
 for himself such a hell, where there was neither 
 shadow nor form, nor any thing in any way 
 resembling hope. . . . They tried never to let 
 him out of sight: they concealed all weapons 
 from him by which he could commit suicide. 
 Two weeks later he regained control of him¬ 
 self; he began to laugh and jest; they gave 
 him his freedom, and the first use he made of 
 it was to buy a pistol. One day a sudden shot 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 91 
 
 startled his relatives terribly: they rushed into 
 the room, and beheld him stretched out, with 
 his skull crushed. A physician who chanced 
 to be present, and who enjoyed a universal 
 reputation for skill, discovered some signs of 
 life in him, found that the wound was not fatal; 
 and he was cured, to the great amazement of 
 all. The watchfulness over him was redoubled: 
 even at table, they never put a knife near him, 
 and tried to keep every thing away from him 
 with which he could injure himself. But he 
 soon found a fresh opportunity, and threw him¬ 
 self under the wheels of a passing carriage. 
 His hand and-ieet were crushed, but again he 
 was cured. A year after this I saw him in a 
 crowded ' salon. He was talking gayly, as he 
 covered a card ; and behind him, leaning upon 
 the back of his chair, stood his young wife, 
 turning over his counters. 
 
 Being in the vicinity during the course of 
 the five years already mentioned, which suc¬ 
 ceeded Pulcheria Ivanovna’s death, I went to 
 the little farm of Athanasii Ivanovitch, to in- 
 quire after my old neighbor, with whom I had 
 formerly spent the day so agreeably, dining 
 
92 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 always on the choicest delicacies of his kind- 
 hearted wife. When I drove up to the door, 
 the house seemed twice as old; the peasants’ 
 izbas were lying completely on one side, with¬ 
 out doubt, exactly like their owners; the fence 
 and hedge around the courtyard were com¬ 
 pletely dilapidated; and I myself saw the cook 
 pull out a paling to heat the stove, when she 
 had only a couple of steps to take in order to 
 get the kindling-wood which had been piled 
 there expressly. I stepped sadly upon the 
 veranda: the same dogs, now blind, or with 
 broken legs, raised their bushy tails, all matted 
 with burs, and barked. The old man came 
 out to meet me. So, this was he! I recognized 
 him at once, but he was twice as bent as 
 formerly. He knew me, and greeted me with 
 the smile already so well known to me. I 
 followed him into the room. All there seemed 
 the same as in the past; but I observed a sort 
 of strange disorder, a tangible absence of some¬ 
 thing : in a word, I experienced that strange 
 sensation which takes possession of us when 
 we enter, for the first time, the dwelling of a 
 widower, whom we had heretofore known as 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 93 
 
 inseparable from the companion who has been 
 with him all his life. This sensation resembles 
 the one we feel when we see before us a man 
 whom we had always known as healthy, with¬ 
 out his legs. In every thing was visible the ab¬ 
 sence of painstaking Pulcheria Ivanovna. At 
 table they gave us a knife without a handle: 
 the dishes were not prepared with so much 
 art. I did not care to inquire about the man¬ 
 agement of the estate: I was even afraid to 
 glance at the farm-buildings. 
 
 When we sat down at the table, a maid fas¬ 
 tened a napkin in front of Athanasii Ivanovitch ; 
 and it was very well that she did so, for other¬ 
 wise he would have spotted his dressing-gown 
 all over with gravy. I tried to interest him in 
 something, and told him various bits of news. 
 He listened with his usual smile, but his glance 
 was at times quite unintelligent; and thoughts 
 did not wander there, but only disappeared. 
 He frequently raised a spoonful of porridge, 
 and, instead of carrying it to his mouth, carried 
 it to his nose; and, instead of sticking his fork 
 into the chicken, he struck the decanter with 
 it; and then the servant, taking his hand, 
 
 / 
 
94 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 guided it to the chicken. We sometimes 
 waited several minutes for the next course. 
 Athanasii Ivanovitch remarked it himself, and 
 said, “ Why are they so long in bringing the 
 food ? ” But I saw through a crack of the door, 
 that the boy who brought the dishes was not 
 thinking of it at all, but was fast asleep, with 
 his head leaning on a stool. 
 
 “This is the dish,” said Athanasii Ivanovitch, 
 when they brought us mnishki 1 with cream,— 
 “this is the dish,” he continued, and I ob¬ 
 served that his voice began to quiver, and 
 that tears were ready to peep from his leaden 
 eyes ; but he collected all his strength, striving 
 to repress them : “This is the dish which the — 
 the — the de — ceas ” — and the tears suddenly 
 burst forth : his hand fell upon the plate, the 
 plate was overturned, flew from the table, and 
 was broken; the gravy ran all over him. He 
 sat stupidly holding his spoon, and tears like a 
 never-ceasing fountain flowed, flowed in streams 
 down upon his napkin. 
 
 “ O God ! ” I thought, as I looked at him, 
 “ five years of all-obliterating time, ... an old 
 
 1 Curds and flour. 
 
95 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 man, an already apathetic old man, who, in all 
 his life, apparently, was never agitated by any 
 strong spiritual emotion, whose whole life 
 seemed to consist in sitting on a high chair, in 
 eating dried fish and pears, in telling good- 
 natured stories — and yet so long and fervent 
 a grief! Which wields the mqst powerful sway 
 over us, passion, or habit ? Or are all our 
 strong impulses, all the whirlwinds of our de¬ 
 sire and boiling passions, but the consequence 
 of our fierce young growth, and only for that 
 reason seem deep and annihilating?” However 
 that may be, all our passion, on that occasion, 
 seemed to me child’s play beside this long, 
 slow, almost insensible habit. Several times 
 he tried to pronounce the dead woman’s name; 
 but in the middle of the word his peaceful and 
 ordinary face became convulsively distorted, 
 and a childlike fit of weeping cut me to the 
 heart. 
 
 No : these were not the tears of which old 
 people are generally so lavish, when represent¬ 
 ing to us their wretched condition and unhap¬ 
 piness. Neither were these the tears which 
 they drop over a glass of punch. No: these 
 
9 6 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS, 
 
 were tears which flowed without asking a rea¬ 
 son, distilled from the bitter pain of a heart 
 already growing cold. 
 
 He did not live long after this. I heard of 
 his death recently. It was strange, though, that 
 the circumstances attending his death some¬ 
 what resembled those of Pulcheria Ivanovna’s. 
 One day Athanasii Ivanovitch decided to take a 
 short stroll in the garden. As he went slowly 
 down the path, with his usual carelessness, a 
 strange thing happened to him. All at once 
 he heard some one behind him say, in a distinct 
 voice, “ Athanasii Ivanovitch.” He turned 
 round, but there was no one there. He looked 
 on all sides : he peered into the shrubbery, — 
 no one anywhere. The day was calm, and the 
 sun shone clear. He pondered for a moment. 
 His face lighted up ; and at length he exclaimed, 
 “ It is Pulcheria Ivanovna calling me ! ” 
 
 It has doubtless happened to you, at some 
 time or other, to hear a voice calling you by 
 name, which the peasants explain by saying 
 that a man’s spirit is longing for him, and calls 
 him, and that death inevitably follows. I con¬ 
 fess that this mysterious call has always been 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 97 
 
 very terrifying to me. I remember to have 
 often heard it in my childhood. Sometimes 
 some one suddenly pronounced my name dis¬ 
 tinctly behind me. The day, on such occasions, 
 was usually bright and sunny. Not a leaf on a 
 tree moved. The silence was deathlike : even 
 the grasshoppers had ceased to whir. There 
 was not a soul in the garden. But I must con¬ 
 fess, that, if the wildest and most stormy night, 
 with the utmost inclemency of the elements, 
 had overtaken me alone in the midst of an 
 impassable forest, I should not have been so 
 much alarmed by it as by this fearful stillness 
 amid a cloudless day. On such occasions, I 
 usually ran in the greatest terror, catching my 
 breath, from the garden, and only regained 
 composure when I encountered some person, 
 the sight of whom dispelled the terrible inward 
 solitude. 
 
 He yielded himself up utterly to his moral 
 conviction that Pulcheria Ivanovna was calling 
 him. He yielded with the will of a submissive 
 child, withered away, coughed, melted away like 
 a candle, and at length expired like it, when 
 nothing remains to feed its poor flame. “ Lay 
 
9 8 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS. 
 
 me beside Pulcheria Ivanovna,” — that was all 
 he said before his death. 
 
 His wish was fulfilled; and they buried him 
 beside the church, close to Pulcheria Ivanovna’s 
 grave. The guests at the funeral were few, but 
 there was a throng of common and poor people. 
 The house was already quite deserted. The 
 enterprising clerk and village elder carried off 
 to their izbas all the old household utensils and 
 things which the housekeeper did not manage 
 to appropriate. 
 
 There shortly appeared, from some unknown 
 quarter, a distant relative, the heir of the prop¬ 
 erty, who had served as lieutenant in some regi¬ 
 ment, I forget which, and was a great reformer. 
 He immediately perceived the great waste and 
 neglect in the management. This decided him 
 to root out, re-arrange, and introduce order into 
 every thing. He purchased six fine English 
 scythes, nailed a number on each izba, and 
 finally managed so well, that in six months the 
 estate was in the hands of trustees. The wise 
 trustees (consisting of an ex-assessor and a 
 captain of the staff in faded uniform) promptly 
 carried off all the hens and eggs. The izbas, 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FARMERS . 
 
 99 
 
 nearly all of which were lying on the ground, 
 fell into complete ruin. The muzhiks wandered 
 off, and were mostly numbered among the run¬ 
 aways. The real owner himself (who lived on 
 peaceable terms with his trustees, and drank 
 punch with them) very rarely entered his vil¬ 
 lage, and did not long live there. From that 
 time forth, he has been going about to all the 
 fairs in Little Russia, carefully inquiring prices 
 at various large establishments, which sell at 
 wholesale, flour, hemp, honey, and so forth, but 
 he buys only the smallest trifles, such as a flint, 
 a nail to clean his pipe, or any thing, the value 
 of which at wholesale does not exceed a ruble. 
 

THE TALE 
 
 OF HOW IVAN IVANOVITCH QUARRELLED 
 WITH IVAN NIKIFOROVITCH. 1 
 
 -*-#-<- 
 
 I, 
 
 IVAN IVANOVITCH AND IVAN NIKIFOROVITCH. 
 
 A fine bekesha 2 has Ivan Ivanovitch! splen¬ 
 did ! And what lambskin ! deuce take it, what 
 lambskin ! blue-black with silver lights. I’ll 
 forfeit, I know not what, if you find any one 
 else owning any such. Look at it, for Heav¬ 
 en’s sake, especially when he stands talking 
 with any one ! look at him from the side : what 
 a pleasure it is! To describe it, is impossi¬ 
 ble : velvet! silver ! fire! Heavens! Nikolai 
 the Wonder-worker, saint of God ! why have 
 not I such a bekesha? He had it made before 
 
 1 From u Mirgorod.” 2 Short shooting-coat. 
 
 ioi 
 
102 HO W THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 Agafya Fedosyevna went to Kief. You know 
 Agafya Fedosyevna, the same who bit the 
 assessor’s ear off. 
 
 Ivan Ivanovitch was a very handsome man. 
 What a house he had in Mirgorod ! Around it 
 
 on every side was a veranda on oaken pillars, 
 
 * 
 
 and on the veranda everywhere, were benches. 
 Ivan Ivanovitch, when the weather gets too 
 warm, throws off his bekesha and his under¬ 
 clothing, remains in his shirt alone, and rests 
 on the veranda, and observes what is going on 
 in the court-yard and the street. What apples 
 and pears he has under his very windows! 
 You have but to open the window, and the 
 branches force themselves through into the 
 room. All this is in front of the house ; but 
 you should have seen what he had in the gar¬ 
 den. What was there not there ? Plums, 
 cherries, black-hearts, every sort of vegetable, 
 sunflowers, cucumbers, melons, peas, a thresh¬ 
 ing-floor, and even a forge. 
 
 A very fine man, Ivan Ivanovitch ! He is 
 very fond of melons: they are his favorite 
 food. Just as soon as he has dined, and come 
 out on his veranda, in his shirt, he orders 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 103 
 
 Gapka to fetch two melons, and immediately 
 cuts them himself, collects the seeds in a paper, 
 and begins to eat. Then he orders Gapka to 
 fetch the ink-bottle, and, with his own hand, 
 writes this inscription on the paper of seeds : 
 These melons were eaten on such and such a 
 date . If there was a guest present, then it 
 reads, Such and such a person assisted. 
 
 The late judge of Mirgorod always gazed at 
 Ivan Ivanovitch’s house with pleasure. Yes, 
 the little house was very pretty. It pleased me 
 because sheds, and still other little sheds, were 
 built on to it on all sides ; so that, looking at it 
 from a distance, only roofs were visible, rising 
 one above another, which greatly resembled a 
 plate full of pancakes, or, better still, fu ngi 
 growing on the trunk of a tree. Moreover, the 
 roofs were all overgrown with weeds : a willow, 
 
 4 
 
 an oak, and two apple-trees leaned their spread¬ 
 ing branches against it. Through the trees 
 peeped little windows with carved and white¬ 
 washed shutters, which projected even into the 
 street. 
 
 A very fine man, Ivan Ivanovitch ! The 
 commissioner of Poltava knows him also. 
 
104 HOW TIIE TW0 IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 Dorosh Tarasovitch Pukhi'votchka, when he 
 leaves Khorola, always goes to his house. 
 And Father Peter, the Protopope who lives in 
 Koliberda, when he invites a few guests, always 
 says that he knows of no one who so well ful¬ 
 fils all his Christian duties, and understands so 
 well how to live, as Ivan Ivanovitch. 
 
 How time flies ! More than ten years have 
 already passed since he became a widower. 
 He never had any children. Gapka has chil¬ 
 dren, and they run about the court-yard. Ivan 
 Ivanovitch always gives each one of them either 
 a round cake, or a slice of melon, or a pear. 
 
 Gapka carries the keys of his storerooms 
 and cellars; but the key of the large chest 
 which stands in his bedroom, and that of the 
 centre storeroom, Ivan Ivanovitch keeps him¬ 
 self ; and he does not like to admit any one. 
 Gapka is a healthy girl, and goes about in coarse 
 cloth garments with ruddy cheeks and calves. 
 
 And what a pious man is Ivan Ivanovitch ! 
 Every Sunday he dons his bekesha, and goes to 
 church. On entering, Ivan Ivanovitch bows on 
 all sides, generally stations himself in the 
 choir, and sings a very good bass. When the 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 105 
 
 service is over, Ivan Ivanovitch cannot refrain 
 from passing the poor people in review. He 
 probably would not have cared to undertake 
 this tiresome work, if his natural goodness had 
 not urged him to it. “ Good-day, beggar ! ” he 
 generally said, selecting the most crippled old 
 woman in the most threadbare garment made 
 of patches. “ Whence come you, my poor 
 woman ? ” 
 
 “I come from the farm, panotchka. ’Tis two 
 days since I have eaten or drunk: my own 
 children drove me out.” 
 
 “ Poor soul! why did you come hither ? ” 
 
 “To beg alms, panotchka, to see whether 
 some one will not give at least enough for 
 bread.” 
 
 “Hm! so you want bread?” Ivan Ivanovitch 
 generally inquired. 
 
 “ How should I not want it ? I am as 
 hungry as a dog.” 
 
 “Hm! ” replied Ivan Ivanovitch usually, 
 “and perhaps you would like butter too ?” 
 
 “Yes ; every thing which your kindness will 
 give; I will be content with all.” 
 
 “ Hm ! Is butter better than bread ? ” 
 

 106 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 “ How is a hungry person to choose ? Any 
 thing you please, all is good.” Thereupon the 
 old woman generally extended her hand. 
 
 “Well, go with God’s blessing,” said Ivan 
 Ivanovitch. “Why do you stand there? I’m 
 not beating you.” And turning to a second 
 and a third with the same questions, he finally 
 returns home, or goes to drink a little glass of 
 vodka with his ne ighb or, Ivan Nikiforovitch, or 
 the judge, or the chief of police. 
 
 Ivan Ivanovitch is very fond of receiving 
 presents. This pleases him very much. 
 
 A very fine man also is Ivan Nikiforovitch. 
 They are such friends as the world never saw. 
 Anton Prokofievitch Pupopuz, who goes about 
 to this hour in his cinnamon-colored surtout 
 with blue sleeves, and dines every Sunday with 
 the judge, was in the habit of saying that the 
 Devil himself had bound Ivan Ivanovitch and 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch together with a rope : where 
 one goes, the other follows. 
 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch was never married. Al¬ 
 though it was reported that he was married, 
 it was completely false. I know Ivan Nikifor¬ 
 ovitch very well, and am able to state that he 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 107 
 
 never even had any intention of marrying. 
 Where do all these scandals originate ? In the 
 same way it was rumored that Ivan Nikiforo- 
 vitch was born with a tail ! But this invention 
 is so clumsy, and at the same time so horrible 
 and indecent, that I do not even consider it 
 necessary to refute it for the benefit of civilized 
 readers, to whom it is doubtless known that 
 only witches, and very few even of those, have 
 tails. Witches, moreover, belong more to the 
 feminine than to the masculine gender. 
 
 In spite of their great friendship, these rare 
 friends were not always agreed between them¬ 
 selves. Their characters can best be known by 
 comparing them. Ivan Ivanovitch has the 
 unusual gift of speaking in an extremely pleas¬ 
 ant manner. Heavens! How he does speak! 
 The feeling can best be described by comparing 
 it to that which you experience when some one 
 combs your head, or draws his finger softly 
 across your heel. You listen and listen until 
 you drop your head. Pleasant, exceedingly 
 pleasant! like the sleep after a bath. Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch, on the contrary, is more reti¬ 
 cent ; but, if he once takes up the word, look 
 
108 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 out for yourself! He shaves better than any 
 
 r 
 
 barber. Ivan Ivanovitch is tall and thin : Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch is rather shorter in stature, but 
 he makes it up in thickness. Ivan Ivanovitch’s 
 head is like a radish, tail down ; Ivan Nikiforo- 
 vitch’s like a radish with the tail up. Ivan 
 Ivanovitch lies on the veranda in his shirt after 
 dinner only: in the evening he dons his 
 bekesha, and goes out somewhere, either to 
 the village store, where he supplies flour, or 
 into the fields to catch quail. Ivan Nikiforo¬ 
 vitch lies all day on his porch : if the day is 
 not too hot, he generally turns his back to the 
 sun, and will not go anywhere. If it happens 
 to occur to him in the morning, he walks 
 through the yard, inspects the domestic affairs, 
 and retires again to his room. In early days 
 he used to go to Ivan Ivanovitch. Ivan Ivano¬ 
 vitch is a very refined man, and in polite con¬ 
 versation never utters an impolite word, and is 
 offended at once if he hears one. Ivan Niki¬ 
 forovitch is not always on his guard. On such 
 occasions Ivan Ivanovitch usually rises from 
 his seat, and says, “ Enough, enough, Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch ! it’s better to go out into the sun 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. IO9 
 
 at once, than to utter such godless words.” 
 Ivan Ivanovitch goes into a terrible rage if a 
 fly falls into his beet-soup; then he is fairly 
 beside himself; and he flings away his plate, 
 and the housekeeper catches it. Ivan Nikiforo- 
 vitch is exceedingly fond of bathing; and, when 
 he gets up to the neck in water, he orders a 
 table and a samovar to be placed on the water, 
 and he is very fond of drinking tea in that cool 
 position. Ivan Ivanovitch shaves his beard 
 twice a week ; Ivan Nikiforovitch, once. Ivan 
 Ivanovitch is extremely curious. God preserve 
 you if you begin to tell him any thing, and do 
 not finish it! If he is displeased with any 
 thing, he lets it be seen at once. It is very 
 hard to tell from Ivan Nikiforovitch’s counte¬ 
 nance whether he is pleased or angry: even if 
 he is rejoiced at any thing, he will not show it. 
 Ivan Ivanovitch is of a rather timid character: 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch, on the contrary, has such 
 full folds in his trousers, that, if you were to 
 inflate them, you might put the court-yard, with 
 its storehouses and buildings, inside them. 
 Ivan Ivanovitch has large, expressive eyes, of a 
 snuff color, and a mouth shaped something like 
 
IIO HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 the letter V: Ivan Nikiforovitch has small, 
 yellowish eyes, quite concealed between heavy 
 brows and fat cheeks; and his nose is the shape 
 of a ripe plum. If Ivan Ivanovitch treats you 
 to snuff, he always licks the cover of his box 
 first with his tongue, then taps on it with his 
 finger, and says, as he raises it, if you are an 
 acquaintance, “ Dare I beg you, sir, to give 
 me the pleasure?’’ if a stranger, “Dare I 
 beg you, sir, though I have not the honor of 
 knowing your rank, name, and family, to do me 
 the favor?” but Ivan Nikiforovitch puts his 
 box straight into your hand, and merely adds, 
 “ Do me the favor.” Neither Ivan Ivanovitch 
 nor Ivan Nikiforovitch loves fleas; and there¬ 
 fore, neither Ivan Ivanovitch nor Ivan Nikiforo¬ 
 vitch will, on any account, admit a Jew with 
 his wares, without purchasing of him elixir in 
 various little boxes, as remedies against these 
 insects, having first rated him well for belong¬ 
 ing to the Hebrew faith. 
 
 But, in spite of numerous dissimilarities, 
 Ivan Ivanovitch and Ivan Nikiforovitch are 
 both very fine men. 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . Ill 
 
 II. 
 
 FROM WHICH MAY BE SEEN, WHAT IVAN IVANO- 
 VITCH WANTED, WHENCE AROSE THE DISCUS¬ 
 SION BETWEEN IVAN IVANOVITCH AND IVAN 
 NIKIFOROV ITCH, AND WHERE IT ENDED. 
 
 One morning — it was in July — Ivan Ivano- 
 vitch was lying on his veranda. The day was 
 warm : the air was dry, and came in gusts. 
 Ivan Ivanovitch had been to town, to the mow¬ 
 er’s, and at the farm, and had succeeded in 
 asking all the muzhiks and women whom he 
 met, w hence, whither, and why. He was fear¬ 
 fully tired, and had lain down to rest. As he 
 lay there, he looked at the storehouses, the 
 court-yard, the sheds, the chickens running 
 about, and thought to himself, “My Heavens! 
 What a master I am ! What is there that I 
 have not ? Birds, buildings, granaries, every 
 thing I take a fancy to; genuine distilled 
 vodka; pears and plums in the orchard; pop¬ 
 pies, cabbages, peas, in the garden; . . . what 
 
1 12 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 is there which I have not ? I should like to 
 know what there is that I have not ?” 
 
 As he put this profound 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, its buttons 
 stamped with coats-of-arms, and with moth- 
 eaten collar; white cassimere 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 7r. Then 
 came a blue Cossack jacket, which Ivan Niki- 
 forovitch had had made twenty years before, 
 when he prepared to enter the militia, and al¬ 
 lowed his mustache to grow. And finally, one 
 after another, appeared a sword, projecting into 
 the air like a spit; then the skirts of a grass- 
 
HO W THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 113 
 
 green caftan-like garment, with copper buttons 
 the size of a five-kopek piece, unfolded them¬ 
 selves. From among the folds peeped a vest 
 bound with gold, with a wide opening in front. 
 The vest was soon concealed by an old petti¬ 
 coat belonging to his dead grandmother, with 
 pockets which would have held a watermelon. 
 All these things piled together formed a very 
 interesting spectacle for Ivan Ivanovitch: while 
 the sun’s rays, falling upon bits of a blue or 
 green sleeve, a red binding, or a scrap of gold 
 brocade, or playing on the point of the sword, 
 formed an unusual sight, similar to the repre¬ 
 sentations 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: at these 
 exhibitions the fiddle whines, a gypsy taps on 
 his lips in lieu of a drum, and the sun goes 
 down, and the cool freshness of the young 
 night presses more strongly on the shoulders 
 and bosoms of the plump farmers’ wives. 
 
 Presently the old woman crawled, grunting, 
 from the storeroom, dragging after her an old- 
 
114 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 fashioned saddle with broken stirrups, worn 
 leather pistol-cases, and saddle-cloth, once red, 
 with gilt embroidery and copper disks. 
 
 “ Here’s a stupid woman,” thought Ivan Ivan- 
 ovitch. “ She’ll be dragging Ivan Nikiforovitch 
 out and airing him next.” 
 
 And with reason : Ivan Ivanovitch was not 
 so far wrong in his surmise. Five minutes 
 later, Ivan Nikiforovitch’s nankeen trousers ap¬ 
 peared, and took nearly half the yard to them¬ 
 selves. After that she fetched out a hat and a 
 gun. 
 
 “ What’s the meaning of this?” thought Ivan 
 Ivanovitch. “I never saw Ivan Nikiforovitch 
 have 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 splen¬ 
 did thing. I have long wanted to get just 
 such a one; I want 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 ? ” 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUAREE. 
 
 u 
 
 << 
 
 A gun, as you see. 
 
 What sort of a gun ? ” 
 
 Who knows what sort of a gun ? If it wei 
 mine, perhaps I should know what it is made 
 of; but it is my master’s.” 
 
 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 to air. 
 
 “It must be iron,” went on the old woman. 
 
 “ Hm ! iron ! why iron ? ” said Ivan Ivanovitch 
 to himself. “ Has your master had it long ? ” 
 
 “Yes; long,*perhaps.” 
 
 “It’s a nice thing!” continued Ivan Ivano¬ 
 vitch. “ I will ask him for it. What can he 
 do with it ? I’ll 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 
 
THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED, 
 
 Tan Ivanovitch’s, so that you could have 
 one to the other by climbing the fence, 
 -yei ivan Ivanovitch went by 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 in oppo¬ 
 site directions into the street, and pedestrians 
 drew aside like flowers growing by the fence on 
 either hand. Ivan Ivanovitch’s wagon-shed ad¬ 
 joined this alley on one side ; arid on the other, 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch’s granary, gate, and pigeon- 
 house. * Ivan Ivanovitch went up to the gate, 
 and rattled the latch. Within arose the barking 
 of dogs ; but the motley-haired pack ran back, 
 wagging their tails, when they saw the well- 
 known face. Ivan Ivanovitch traversed the 
 court-yard, in which were collected Indian doves 
 fed by Ivan Nikiforovitch’s own hand, water¬ 
 melon, and melon-rinds, vegetables, broken 
 wheels, barrel-hoops, or a wallowing small boy 
 with dirty blouse, — a picture such as painters 
 love. The shadows of the fluttering clothes 
 covered nearly the whole of the yard, and lent 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. I 1 7 
 
 it a degree of coolness. The woman greeted 
 him with an inclination, and stood, gaping, in 
 one spot. The front of the house was adorned 
 with a small porch, its roof supported on two 
 oak pillars, — a welcome protection from the 
 sun, which at that season in Little Russia loves 
 not to jest, and bathes the pedestrian from head 
 to foot in boiling perspiration. From this it 
 may be judged how powerful was Ivan Ivano- 
 vitch’s desire to obtain an indispensable article, 
 when he made up his mind, at such an hour, 
 to depart from his usual custom, which was to 
 walk about only in the evening. 
 
 The room which Ivan Ivanovitch entered was 
 quite dark, for the shutters were closed ; and the 
 ray of sunlight falling through a hole made in 
 the shutter, took on the colors of the rainbow, 
 and, striking the opposite wall, sketched upon 
 it a party-colored picture of the outlines of roofs, 
 trees, and the clothes suspended in the yard, 
 only upside down. This gave the room a pecul¬ 
 iar half-light. 
 
 “ God assist you ! ” said Ivan Ivanovitch. 
 
 “ Ah ! how do you do, Ivan Ivanovitch ? ” 
 replied a voice from the corner of the room. 
 
I 18 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 Then only did Ivan Ivanovitch perceive Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch, lying upon a rug which was 
 spread on the floor. “ Excuse me for appearing 
 before you in a state of nature.” 
 
 “ Not at all. You have been asleep to-day, 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch ? ” 
 
 “ I have been asleep. Have you been asleep, 
 Ivan Ivanovitch ? ” 
 
 “ I have.” 
 
 “ And now you have risen ? ” 
 
 “Now I have risen. Christ be with you, 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch ! How can you sleep until 
 this time? I have just come from the farm. 
 There’s very fine barley on the road, charming! 
 and the hay is so tall and soft and golden ! ” 
 “Gorpina!” shouted Ivan Nikiforovitch, 
 “fetch Ivan Ivanovitch some vodka, and some 
 pastry and sour cream ! ” 
 
 “Fine weather, we’re having to-day.” 
 
 “Don’t praise it, Ivan Ivanovitch! Devil 
 take it! You can’t get away from the heat.” 
 
 “ Now, why need you mention the Devil! 
 Ah, Ivan Nikiforovitch! you will recall my 
 words when it’s too late. You will suffer in the 
 next world for such godless words.” 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. II9 
 
 “ How have I offended you, Ivan Ivanovitch ? 
 I have not attacked your father nor your moth¬ 
 er. I don’t know how I have insulted you.” 
 
 “ Enough, enough, Ivan Nikiforovitch ! ” 
 
 “By Heavens, Ivan Ivanovitch, I did not 
 insult you ! ” 
 
 “ It’s strange that the quails haven’t come 
 yet to the whistle.” 
 
 “Think what you please, but I have not 
 insulted you in any way.” 
 
 “I don’t know why they don’t come,” said 
 Ivan Ivanovitch, as if he did not hear Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch: “it is more than time for them 
 already ; . . . but they seem to need more time, 
 for some reason.” 
 
 “ You say that the barley is good ? ” 
 
 “ Splendid barley, splendid ! ” 
 
 A silence ensued. 
 
 “ So you are having your clothes aired, Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch ? ” said Ivan Ivanovitch, at length. 
 
 “ Yes : those cursed women have ruined some 
 beautiful clothes ; almost new, they were, too. 
 Now I’m having them aired : the cloth is fine 
 and handsome. They only need turning to 
 make them fit to wear again.” 
 
120 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 “ One thing among them pleased me extreme¬ 
 ly, Ivan Nikiforovitch ? ” 
 
 “ Which was that ? ” 
 
 “Tell me, please, what do you do with the 
 gun that has been put to air with the clothes ? ” 
 Here Ivan Ivanovitch offered his snuff. “May 
 I ask you to do me the favor ? ” 
 
 “By no means! take it yourself: I will use 
 my own.” Thereupon Ivan Nikiforovitch felt 
 about him, and got hold of his snuff-box. “That 
 stupid woman ! So she hung the gun out to 
 air. That Jew makes good snuff in Sorotchintzi. 
 I don’t know what he puts into it, but it is so 
 fragrant. It is a little like tansy. Here, take a 
 little, and chew it: isn’t it like tansy ? ” 
 
 “Say, Ivan Nikiforovitch, I want to talk 
 about that gun : what are you going to do with 
 it? You don’t need it.” 
 
 “ Why don’t I need it ? I might want to 
 shoot ?” 
 
 “God be with you, Ivan Nikiforovitch ! When 
 will you shoot ? At the millennium, perhaps ? 
 So far as I know, or any one can recollect, 
 you never killed even a duck : yes, and your 
 nature was not so constructed that you can 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 121 
 
 shoot. You have a dignified bearing and figure : 
 how are you to drag yourself about the marshes, 
 when your garment, which it is not polite to 
 mention in conversation by name, is being aired 
 at this very moment ? What then ? No : you 
 require rest, repose.” (Ivan Ivanovitch, as has 
 been hinted at above, employed uncommonly 
 picturesque language when it was necessary to 
 persuade any one. How he talked ! Heavens, 
 how he could talk!) “Yes, and you require 
 polite actions. See here, give it to me ! ” 
 
 “The idea! The gun is valuable : you can’t 
 find such guns anywhere nowadays. I bought 
 it of a Turk when I joined the militia; and 
 now, to give it away all of a sudden ! Impos¬ 
 sible! It is an indispensable article.” 
 
 “ Indispensable for what ? ” 
 
 “For what? What if robbers should attack 
 the house ? . . . Indispensable indeed! Glory 
 to God ! now I am at ease, and fear no on ej 
 And why ? Because I know that a gun stands 
 in my storehouse.” 
 
 “A fine gun that ! Why, Ivan Nikiforovitch, 
 the hammer is spoiled.” 
 
 “What! how spoiled? It can be repaired: 
 
122 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 all that needs to be done is to rub it with 
 hemp-oil, so that it may not rust.” 
 
 “ I see in your words, Ivan Nikiforovitch, any 
 thing but a friendly disposition towards me. 
 You will do nothing for me in token of 
 friendship.” 
 
 “ How can you say, Ivan Ivanovitch, that I 
 show you no friendship ? You ought to be 
 ashamed of yourself. Your oxen pasture on 
 my steppes, and I have never interfered with 
 them. When you go to Poltava, you always 
 beg my wagon, and what then ? Have I ever 
 refused? Your children climb over the fence 
 into my yard, and play with my dogs — I never 
 say any thing; let them play, so long as they 
 touch nothing ; let them play ! ” 
 
 “ If you won’t give it to me, then let us 
 exchange.” 
 
 “What will you give me for it?” There¬ 
 upon Ivan Nikiforovitch raised himself on his 
 elbow, and looked at Ivan Ivanovitch. 
 
 “ I will give you my dark-brown sow, the one 
 I have fed in the sty. A magnificent sow. 
 You’ll see, she’ll bring you a litter of pigs next 
 year.” 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 123 
 
 “ I do not see, Ivan Ivanovitch, how you can 
 talk so. What could I do with your sow ? 
 Make a funeral dinner for the Devil ? ” 
 
 “ Again! You can’t get along without the 
 Devil ! It’s a sin ! by Heaven, it’s a sin, Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch ! ” 
 
 “ What do you mean, in fact, Ivan Ivanovitch, 
 by giving, the deuce knows what, — a sow,— 
 for my gun ? ” 
 
 “Why is she ‘the deuce knows what/ Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch ? ” 
 
 “Why? You can judge for yourself per¬ 
 fectly well : here’s the gun, a known thing ; 
 but the deuce knows what that sow is ! If it 
 had not been you who said it, Ivan Ivanovitch, 
 I might have put an insulting construction on 
 it.” 
 
 “ What defect have you observed in the 
 sow?” 
 
 “For what do you take me, in fact,—fora 
 sow ? ” . . . 
 
 “ Sit down, sit down ! I won’t . . . No mat¬ 
 ter about your gun ; let it rot and rust where 
 it stands, in the corner of the storeroom. I 
 don’t want to say any thing more about it! ” 
 
124 H0W THE TW0 IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 After this a pause ensued. 
 
 “They say,” began Ivan Ivanovitch, “that 
 three kings have declared war on our Tzar.” 
 
 “Yes: Peter Feodorovitch told me. What 
 sort of a war is this, and why ? ” 
 
 “I cannot say exactly, Ivan Nikiforovitch, 
 what the cause is. I suppose the kings want 
 us to adopt the Turkish faith.” 
 
 “Fools! they would have it,” said Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch, raising his head. 
 
 “So, you see, our Tzar declared war on them 
 in consequence. ‘No,’ says he, ‘ do you adopt 
 the faith of Christ ! ’ ” 
 
 “ What ? Why, our people will beat them, 
 Ivan Ivanovitch ! ” 
 
 “They will. So you won’t swap the gun, 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch ? ” 
 
 “ It’s a strange thing to me, Ivan Ivanovitch, 
 that you, who seem to be a man distinguished 
 for sense, should talk such nonsense. What 
 a fool I should be! ” 
 
 “ Sit down, sit down. God be with it! let 
 it burst! I won’t mention it again.” 
 
 At this moment, lunch was brought in. 
 
 Ivan Ivanovitch drank a glass, and ate a pie 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 125 
 
 with sour cream. “ Listen, Ivan Nikiforovitch : 
 I will give you, besides the sow, two sacks of 
 oats; you did not sow any oats. You’ll have 
 to buy oats this year, in any case.” 
 
 “By Heaven, Ivan Ivanovitch, I must tell 
 you, you are very green ! [This is nothing : 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch does not even permit such 
 phrases.] Who ever heard of swapping a gun 
 for two sacks of oats ? Never fear, you don’t 
 offer your coat.” 
 
 “But you forget, Ivan Nikiforovitch, that I 
 am to give you the sow too.” 
 
 “ What! two sacks of oats and a sow for a 
 gun ? ” 
 
 “Why, is it too little?” 
 
 “ For a gun ? ” 
 
 “ Of course, for a gun.” 
 
 “ Two sacks for a gun ? ” 
 
 “Two sacks, not empty, but filled with oats; 
 and you’ve forgotten the sow.” 
 
 “ Kiss your sow; and, if you don’t like that, 
 then go to the Evil One ! ” 
 
 “ Oh, get angry now, do ! See here : they’ll 
 stick your tongue full of red-hot needles in the 
 other world, for such godless words. After a 
 
126 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 conversation with you, one has to wash his face 
 and hands, and fumigate himself.” 
 
 “ Permit me, Ivan Ivanovitch : my gun is a 
 noble thing, the most curious toy; and, be¬ 
 sides, it is a very agreeable decoration in a 
 room/’ . . . 
 
 “You go on like a fool about that gun of 
 yours, Ivan Nikiferovitch, ,, said Ivan Ivanovitch 
 with vexation ; for he was beginning to be 
 really angry. 
 
 “ And you, Ivan Ivanovitch, are a regular 
 goose ! 7 
 
 TT Tvan Nikiforovitch had not uttered that 
 word, then they would have quarrelled, but 
 would have parted friends as usual ; but now 
 things took quite another turn. Ivan Ivano¬ 
 vitch flew into a rage. 
 
 “What was that you said, Ivan Nikiforo¬ 
 vitch ?” he asked, raising his voice. 
 
 “I said you were like a goose, Ivan Ivano¬ 
 vitch ! ” 
 
 “ How dare you, sir, forgetful of decency, 
 and the respect due a man’s rank and family, 
 insult him with such a disgraceful name ! ” 
 
 “ What is there disgraceful about it ? And 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 127 
 
 why are you flourishing your hands so, Ivan 
 Ivanovitch ? ” 
 
 “How dared you, I repeat, in disregard of 
 all decency, call me a goose ? ” 
 
 “ I spit on your head, Ivan Ivanovitch! 
 What are you screaming so for ? ” 
 
 Ivan Ivanovitch could no longer control him¬ 
 self : his lips quivered ; his mouth lost its usual 
 V shape, and became like the letter O ; he 
 winked so that he was terrible to look at. 
 This very rarely happened with Ivan Ivano¬ 
 vitch : it was necessary that he should be ex¬ 
 tremely angry first. 
 
 “ Then, I declare to you/’ exclaimed Ivan 
 Ivanovitch, “ that I will not know you ! ” 
 
 “A great pity! By Heaven, I shall never 
 cry on that account!” retorted Ivan Nikiforo- 
 vitch. He lied, he lied, by Heaven, he lied! it 
 was very annoying to him. 
 
 “I will never put my foot inside your house 
 
 • iff 
 
 again ! 
 
 “Oho, ho!” said Ivan Nikiforovitch, vexed, 
 yet not knowing himself what to do, and rising 
 to his feet, contrary to his custom. “ Hey, 
 there, woman, boy!” Thereupon, there ap- 
 
128 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 peared at the door the same fat woman, and 
 small boy, enveloped in a long and wide sur- 
 tout. “Take Ivan Ivanovitch by the arms, and 
 lead him to the door! ” 
 
 “What! a nobleman ? ” shouted Ivan Ivano¬ 
 vitch with a feeling of vexation and dignity. 
 “Just do it if you dare! Come on ! I’ll anni¬ 
 hilate you and your stupid master. The crow 
 won’t be able to find your bones.” (Ivan Ivan¬ 
 ovitch spoke with uncommon force when his 
 spirit was up.) 
 
 The group presented a striking picture: 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch standing in the middle of 
 the room ; the woman with her mouth wide 
 open, and the most senseless, terrified look on 
 her face; Ivan Ivanovitch with uplifted hand, 
 as the Roman tribunes are depicted. This was 
 an extraordinary moment, a magnificent specta¬ 
 cle : and yet there was but one spectator; this 
 was the boy in the extensive surtout, who stood 
 quite quietly, and picked his nose with his 
 finger. 
 
 Finally Ivan Ivanovitch took his hat. “You 
 have behaved well, Ivan Nikiforovitch, ex¬ 
 tremely well! I shall remember it.” 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 129 
 
 “ Go, Ivan Ivanovitch, go ! and see that you 
 don’t come in my way: if you do, I’ll beat your 
 ugly face to a jelly, Ivan Ivanovitch ! ” 
 
 “Take that, Ivan Nikiforovitch! ” retorted 
 Ivan Ivanovitch, making an insulting gesture, 
 and banged the door, which squeaked and flew 
 open behind him. 
 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch appeared at the door, and 
 wanted to add something more; but Ivan Ivan¬ 
 ovitch did not glance back, and hastened from 
 the yard. 
 
130 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 III. 
 
 WHAT TOOK PLACE AFTER IVAN IVANOVITCH’S 
 QUARREL WITH IVAN NIKIFOROVITCH. 
 
 And thus two respectable men, the pride and 
 honor of Mirgorod, had quarrelled, and about 
 what? About a bit of nonsense, — a goose. 
 They would not see each other, broke off all 
 connection, while hitherto they had been 
 known as the most inseparable friends. Every 
 day Ivan Ivanovitch and Ivan Nikiforovitch had 
 sent to inquire about each other’s health, and 
 often conversed together from their balconies, 
 and said such charming things as it did the 
 heart good to listen to. On Sundays, Ivan 
 Ivanovitch, in his lambskin bekesha, and Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch, in his yellowish cinnamon-colored 
 nankeen casakin, used to set out for church 
 almost arm in arm ; and if Ivan Ivanovitch, who 
 had remarkably sharp eyes, was the first to 
 catch sight of a puddle or any dirt in the street, 
 which sometimes happened in Mirgorod, he 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 131 
 
 always said to Ivan Nikiforovitch, “ Look out! 
 don’t put your foot there, it’s dirty.” Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch, on his side, exhibited the same 
 touching tokens of friendship ; and wherever he 
 chanced to be standing, he always held out his 
 hand to Ivan Ivanovitch with his snuff-box, say¬ 
 ing, “ Do me the favor ! ” And what fine man¬ 
 agers both were! . . . And these two friends 
 . . . When I heard of it, it struck me like a 
 flash of lightning. For a long time I would 
 not believe it. Ivan Ivanovitch had quarrelled 
 with Ivan Nikiforovitch ! Such worthy people ! 
 What is to be depended upon, then, in this 
 world ? 
 
 When Ivan Ivanovitch reached home, he re¬ 
 mained long in a state of strong excitement. 
 He usually went, first of all, to the stable, to 
 see whether his mare was eating her hay (Ivan 
 Ivanovitch had a bay mare, with a white star 
 on her forehead : a very pretty little mare she 
 was too), then to feed the turkeys and little pigs 
 with his own hand, and then to his room, 
 where he either made wooden dishes (he could 
 make various vessels of wood very tastefully, 
 quite as well as any turner), or read a book 
 
 1 
 
132 110 W THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 printed by Liubia, Garia and Popoff (Ivan 
 Ivanovitch never could remember the name, 
 because the serving-maid had long before torn 
 off the top part of the titlepage while amusing 
 the children), or rested on the veranda. But 
 now he did not betake himself to any of his or¬ 
 dinary occupations. Instead, on encountering 
 Gapka, he began to scold because she was loi¬ 
 tering about without any occupation, though 
 she was carrying groats to the kitchen ; flung 
 a stick at a cock which came upon the veranda 
 for his customary treat; and when the dirty 
 little boy, in his little torn blouse, ran up to 
 him, and shouted, “ Papa, papa! give me a 
 honey-cake,” he threatened him and stamped 
 at him so fiercely that the frightened child fled, 
 God knows whither. 
 
 But at last he bethought himself, and began 
 to busy himself with his every-day duties. He 
 dined late, and it was almost night when he lay 
 down to rest on the veranda. A good beet- 
 soup with pigeons, which Gapka cooked for 
 him, quite drove from his mind the occurrences 
 of the morning. Again Ivan Ivanovitch began 
 to gaze at his belongings with satisfaction : at 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 133 
 
 • length his eye rested on the neighboring yard; 
 and he said to himself, “ I have not been to 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch’s to-day: I’ll go there now.” 
 So saying, Ivan Ivanovitch took his stick and 
 his hat, and directed his steps to the street ; 
 but scarcely had he passed through the gate, 
 when he recollected the quarrel, spit, and 
 turned back. Almost the same thing hap¬ 
 pened at Ivan Nikiforovitch’s house. Ivan 
 Ivanovitch saw the woman put her foot on the 
 fence, with the intention of climbing over into 
 his yard, when suddenly Ivan Nikiforovitch’s 
 voice became audible. “ Back ! back ! it won’t 
 do!” But Ivan Ivanovitch found # it very tire¬ 
 some. It is quite possible that these worthy 
 men would have made peace next day, if a 
 certain occurrence in Ivan Ivanovitch’s house 
 had not destroyed all hopes, and poured oil 
 upon the fire of enmity which was ready to die 
 out. 
 
 • • • • • • • 
 
 On the evening of that very day, Agafya 
 Fedosyevna arrived at Ivan Nikiforovitch’s. 
 Agafya Fedosyevna was not Ivan Nikiforo¬ 
 vitch’s relative, nor his sister-in-law, nor even 
 
134 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 his fellow-godparent. There seemed to be no 
 reason why she should come to him, and he 
 was not particularly glad of her company; still, 
 she came, and lived on him for weeks at a time, 
 and even longer. Then she took possession of 
 the keys, and took the whole house into her 
 own hands. This was extremely displeasing to 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch ; but he, to his amazement, 
 minded her like a child; and although he 
 occasionally attempted to dispute, yet Agafya 
 Fedosyevna always got the better of him. 
 
 I must confess that I do not understand why 
 things are so arranged, that women seize us by 
 the nose as deftly as they do the handle of a 
 teapot : either their hands are so constructed, 
 or else our noses are good for nothing else. 
 And notwithstanding the fact that Ivan Niki- 
 forovitch’s nose somewhat resembled a plum, 
 she grasped that nose, and led him about after 
 her like a dog. He even, in her presence, in¬ 
 voluntarily altered his ordinary manner of life. 
 
 Agafya Fedosyevna wore a cap on her head, 
 three warts on her nose, and a coffee-colored 
 cloak with yellow flowers. Her figure was like 
 a cask, and it would have been as hard to tell 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 135 
 
 where to look for her waist, as for her to see 
 her nose without a mirror. Her feet were 
 small, and formed in the shape of two cushions. 
 She talked scandal, and ate boiled beet-soup in 
 the morning, and swore extremely well; and 
 amidst all these various occupations, her coun¬ 
 tenance never for one instant changed its ex¬ 
 pression, which phenomenon, as a rule, women 
 alone are capable of displaying. 
 
 Just as soon as she arrived, every thing went 
 wrong side before. “ Ivan Nikiforovitch, don’t 
 you make peace with him, nor ask his forgive¬ 
 ness ; he wants to ruin you ; that’s the kind of 
 man he is! you don’t know him yet! ” that 
 cursed woman whispered and whispered, and 
 managed so that Ivan Nikiforovitch would not 
 even hear Ivan Ivanovitch mentioned. 
 
 All assumed another aspect. If his neigh¬ 
 bor’s dog ran into the yard, it was beaten within 
 an inch of its life; the children, who climbed 
 over the fence, were sent back with howls, 
 their little shirts stripped up, and marks of a 
 switch behind; even the woman, when Ivan 
 Ivanovitch undertook to ask her about some¬ 
 thing, did something so insulting, that Ivan 
 
136 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 
 Ivanovitch, being an extremely delicate man, 
 only spit, and muttered, “ What a nasty woman ! 
 even worse than her master ! ” 
 
 Finally, as a climax to all the insults, his 
 hated neighbor built a goose-coop right against 
 his fence where they usually climbed over, as 
 if with the express intention of redoubling the 
 insult. This coop, so hateful to Ivan Ivan¬ 
 ovitch, was constructed with diabolical swift¬ 
 ness,— in one day. 
 
 This aroused wrath and a desire for revenge 
 in Ivan Ivanovitch. Nevertheless, he showed 
 no signs of bitterness, in spite of the fact that 
 the coop trespassed on his land ; but his heart 
 beat so violently, that it was extremely difficult 
 for him to preserve this calm appearance. 
 
 He passed through the day in this manner. 
 Night came. . . . Oh, if I were a painter, how 
 magnificently I would depict the night’s charms! 
 I would describe how all Mirgorod sleeps; how 
 steadily the myriads of stars gaze down upon 
 it ; how the apparent quiet is filled far and 
 near with the barking of dogs ; how the love¬ 
 sick sacristan steals past them, and scales the 
 fence with knightly fearlessness; how the white 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 137 
 
 walls of the houses, bathed in the moonlight, 
 grow whiter still, the overhanging trees darker; 
 how the shadows of the trees fall blacker, the 
 flowers and the silent grass become more fra¬ 
 grant, and the crickets, unharmonious cavaliers 
 of the night, strike up their rattling song in 
 friendly fashion on all sides. I would describe 
 how, in one of these little, low-roofed, clay 
 houses, the black-browed village maid, toss¬ 
 ing on her lonely couch, dreams with heaving 
 bosom of hussar’s spurs and mustache, and 
 how the moonlight smiles upon her cheeks. I 
 would describe how the black shadows of the 
 bats flit along the white road, before they alight 
 upon the white chimneys of the cottages. . . . 
 But it would hardly be within my power to 
 depict Ivan Ivanovitch, as he crept out that 
 night, saw in hand ; and the various emotions 
 written on his countenance! Quietly, so quietly, 
 he crawled along, and climbed upon the goose- 
 coop. Ivan Nikiforovitch’s dogs knew nothing, 
 as yet, of the quarrel between them ; and so 
 they permitted him, as an old friend, to enter 
 the coop, which rested upon four oaken posts. 
 Creeping up to the nearest post, he applied his 
 
138 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 saw, and began to cut. The noise produced by 
 the saw caused him to glance about him every 
 moment, but the recollection of the insult 
 refreshed his courage. The first post was 
 sawed through. Ivan Ivanovitch began upon 
 the next. His eyes burned, and he saw nothing 
 for terror. All at once Ivan Ivanovitch uttered 
 an exclamation, and became petrified with fear: 
 a dead man appeared to him ; but he speedily 
 recovered himself on perceiving that it was a 
 goose, thrusting its neck out at him. Ivan 
 Ivanovitch spit with vexation, and proceeded 
 with his work : and the second post was sawed 
 through; the building trembled. Ivan Ivan- 
 ovitch’s heart beat so violently, when he began 
 on the third, that he had to stop several times. 
 The post was more than half sawed through, 
 when the frail building quivered violently. . . . 
 
 Ivan Ivanovitch had barely time to spring 
 back when it tumbled down with a crash. 
 Seizing his saw, he ran home in the greatest 
 terror, and flung himself upon his bed, without 
 having sufficient courage to peep from the 
 window at the consequences of his terrible deed. 
 It seemed to him as though Ivan Nikiforovitch’s 
 
HO W THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 139 
 
 entire household assembled: the old woman, 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch, the boy in the endless sur- 
 tout, all with sticks, . . . led by Agafya Fedo- 
 syevna, were coming to tear down and destroy 
 his house. 
 
 Ivan Ivanovitch passed the whole of the fol¬ 
 lowing day in a perfect fever. It seemed to 
 him that his detested neighbor would set fire 
 to his house at least, in revenge for this ; and 
 so he gave orders to Gapka to look everywhere 
 constantly, and see whether dry straw were laid 
 against it anywhere. Finally, in order to fore¬ 
 stall Ivan Nikiforovitch, he determined to run 
 ahead, like a hare, and enter a complaint against 
 him before the district judge of Mirgorod. In 
 what it consisted, can be learned from the fol¬ 
 lowing chanter. 
 

 
 140 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 IV. 
 
 WHAT TOOK PLACE BEFORE THE DISTRICT JUDGE 
 
 OF MIRGOROD. 
 
 A wonderful town is Mirgorod! How 
 many buildings are there under straw, rush, 
 and even wooden roofs! On the right is a 
 street, on the left a street, and fine fences 
 everywhere: over them twine hop-vines, upon 
 them hang pots; from behind them the sun¬ 
 flowers show their sun-like heads, poppies blush, 
 fat pumpkins peep, . . . luxury itself! The 
 fence is always garnished with articles which 
 render it still more picturesque : women’s wide¬ 
 spread undergarments of checked woollen stuff, 
 shirts or trousers. There is no such thing as 
 theft or rascality in Mirgorod, so everybody 
 hangs upon his fence whatever strikes his fancy. 
 If you will go to the square, you will surely 
 stop and admire the view: a puddle, such a 
 wonderful puddle, is there! the only one you 
 ever saw. It occupies nearly the whole of the 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 141 
 
 1o 
 
 \ x 
 
 square. A truly magnificent puddle! The--, 1 
 houses and cottages, which at a distance might 
 be mistaken for hay-ricks, stand around it, lost y 
 in admiration of its beauty. 
 
 But I agree with those who think that there 
 is no better house than that of the district 
 judge. Whether it is of oak or birch, is noth¬ 
 ing to the point; but it has, my dear sirs, eight 
 windows! eight windows in a row, directly 
 on the square, and upon that watery expanse, 
 which I have just mentioned, and which the 
 chief of police calls a lake. It alone is painted 
 the color of granite. All the other houses in 
 Mirgorod are merely whitewashed. Its roof is 
 all of wood, and would have been even painted 
 red, had not the government clerks eaten the 
 
 lp / 
 
 oil which had been prepared for that purpose, 
 having flavored it with garlic, as it happened, 
 as if expressly, during a fast; and so the roof 
 remained unpainted. Towards the square pro¬ 
 jects a porch, which the chickens frequently 
 visit, because that porch is nearly always strewn 
 with grain or some edible, not intentionally, but 
 through the carelessness of visitors. The house 
 is divided into two parts : one part is the court- 
 
 ( 
 
142 HOW THE TWO I VANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 room ; the other, the jail. In the half which 
 contains the court-room are two neat, white¬ 
 washed rooms, —one, the front one, for clients, 
 the other containing a table adorned with ink- 
 spots ; upon the table is a looking-glass ; there 
 are four oak chairs with tall backs ; along the 
 wall stand iron-bound chests, in which are pre¬ 
 served bundles of district law-suit papers. 
 Upon one of the chests stood at that time a 
 pair of boots, polished with w, x. 
 
 The court had been open since morning. The 
 judge, a pretty large man, though thinner 
 than Ivan Nikiforovitch, with a good-natured 
 face, a greasy dressing-gown, a pipe, and a cup 
 of tea, was conversing with the clerk of the 
 court. 
 
 The judge’s lips were directly under his nose, 
 so that he could snuff his upper lip as much as 
 he liked. This lip served him instead of a 
 snuff box, for the snuff intended for his nose 
 almost always lodged upon it. So the judge was 
 talking with the assistant. A barefooted girl 
 held a tray with cups on one side of them. At 
 the end of the table, the secretary was reading 
 the decision in some case, but in such a mourn- 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . I43 
 
 ful and monotonous voice, that the condemned 
 man himself would have fallen asleep while lis¬ 
 tening to it. The judge, no doubt, would have 
 been the first of all to do so, had he not entered 
 into an engrossing conversation while it was 
 going on. 
 
 “ I expressly tried to find out,” said the judge, 
 sipping his tea from the already cold cup, “how 
 they manage to sing so well. I had a splendid 
 thrush two years ago. Well, all of a sudden 
 he was completely spoiled, and began to sing, 
 God knows what: he got worse, and worse, and 
 worse, as time went on ; he began to rattle and 
 get hoarse,—just good for nothing! And it’s 
 all nonsense ! this is why it happened: a little 
 lump, not so big as a pea, came under his throat. 
 It was only necessary to prick that little swell¬ 
 ing with a needle. Zachar Prokofievitch taught 
 me that; and, if you like, I’ll tell you just how 
 it was. I go to him” . . . 
 
 “ Shall I read another, Demyan Demyano- 
 vitch ? ” broke in the secretary, who had not 
 been reading for several minutes. 
 
 “ Have you finished already ? Just think how 
 quick! And I did not hear a word of it! 
 
144 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 Where is it ? Give it here, and I’ll sign it. 
 What else have you there ? ” 
 
 “The case of Cossack Boki'tok for stealing a 
 cow.” 
 
 “Very good; read it! Yes, so I go to him. 
 . . . I can even tell you in detail how he enter¬ 
 tained me. There was vodka and dried stur¬ 
 geon, excellent! Yes, not our sturgeon ” (here 
 the judge smacked his tongue, and smiled, upon 
 which his nose took a snuff at its usual snuff¬ 
 box), “such as our Mirgorod shops furnish us. 
 I ate no herrings, for, as you know, they give 
 me heart-burn ; but I tasted the caviare,—very 
 fine caviare ! There’s no doubt about it, excel¬ 
 lent. Then I drank some peach-brandy, real 
 gentian. There was saffron-brandy too; but, 
 as you know, I never take that. You see, it 
 was very good. In the first place, to whet your 
 appetite, as they say, and then to satisfy it . . . 
 Ah! speak of an angel ”... exclaimed the 
 judge, all at once, catching sight of Ivan Ivano- 
 vitch as he entered. 
 
 “ God be with us ! I wish you a good-morn¬ 
 ing,” said Ivan Ivanovitch, bowing all round 
 with his usual politeness. My God! how well 
 
HO W THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . I45 
 
 he understood the art of fascinating everybody 
 with all his ways ! I never beheld such refine¬ 
 ment. He knew his own worth quite well, and 
 therefore looked for universal respect as his due. 
 The judge himself handed Ivan Ivanovitch a 
 chair; and his nose inhaled all the snuff from 
 his upper lip, which, with him, was always a 
 sign of great pleasure. 
 
 “What will you take, Ivan Ivanovitch?” he 
 inquired : “ will you have a cup of tea ? ” 
 
 “No, much obliged,” replied Ivan Ivanovitch, 
 bowed and seated himself. 
 
 “ Do me the favor, — one little cup,” repeated 
 the judge. 
 
 “ No, thank you ; much obliged for your hos¬ 
 pitality,” replied Ivan Ivanovitch, and rose, 
 bowed, and sat down. 
 
 “Just one little cup,” repeated the judge. 
 
 “ No, do not trouble yourself, Demyan Dem- 
 yanovitch.” Whereupon Ivan Ivanovitch again 
 rose, bowed, and sat down. 
 
 “ A little cup ! ” 
 
 “Very well, then, just a little cup,” said Ivan 
 Ivanovitch, and reached out his hand to the tray. 
 
 My Heavens ! What a depth of refinement 
 
146 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 there was in that man! It is impossible to 
 describe what a pleasant impression such man¬ 
 ners produce! 
 
 “Will you not have another cup?” 
 
 “I thank you sincerely,” answered Ivan 
 Ivanovitch, turning his cup upside down upon 
 the tray, and bowing. 
 
 “ Do me the favor, Ivan Ivanovitch.” 
 
 “ I cannot; much obliged.” Thereupon Ivan 
 Ivanovitch bowed, and sat down. 
 
 “ Ivan Ivanovitch, for the sake of our friend¬ 
 ship, just one little cup !” 
 
 “ No : I am extremely indebted for your hos¬ 
 pitality.” So saying, Ivan Ivanovitch bowed, 
 and seated himself. 
 
 “ Only a cup, one little cup ! ” 
 
 Ivan Ivanovitch put out his hand to the tray, 
 and took a cup. 
 
 Oh, the deuce! How, how can a man con¬ 
 trive to support his dignity! 
 
 “ Demyan Demyanovitch,” said Ivan Ivano¬ 
 vitch, swallowing the last mouthful, “ I have 
 pressing business with you : I want to enter a 
 complaint.” 
 
 Then Ivan Ivanovitch set down his cup, and 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED 147 
 
 drew from his pocket a sheet of stamped paper, 
 written over. “ A complaint against my enemy, 
 my sworn enemy.” 
 
 “ And who is that ? ” 
 
 “Ivan Nikiforovitch Dovgotchkhun.” .j 
 
 At these words, the judge nearly fell off his 
 chair. “ What do you say ? ” he exclaimed, 
 clasping his hands: “Ivan Ivanovitch, is this 
 you ? ” 
 
 “You see yourself, that it is I.” 
 
 “ The Lord and all the saints be with you! 
 What! You ! Ivan Ivanovitch! you have fallen 
 out with Ivan Nikiforovitch ! Is it your mouth 
 which says that ? Repeat it! Is not some one 
 hid behind you, who is speaking instead of 
 you ? 
 
 “What is there incredible about it? I can’t 
 endure the sight of him : he has done me a 
 deadly injury, — he has insulted my honor.” 
 
 “Holy Trinity! How am I to believe my 
 mother now ? Why, every day, when I quarrel 
 with my sister, the old woman says, ‘ Children, 
 you live together like dogs. If you would only 
 take pattern by Ivan Ivanovitch and Ivan Niki¬ 
 forovitch, they are friends indeed ! such friends! 
 
148 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 such worthy people! ’ There you are with 
 your friend! Tell me what this is about. 
 How is it ? ” 
 
 “ It is a delicate business, Demyan Demyano- 
 vitch ; it is impossible to relate it in words : be 
 pleased rather to read my petition. Here, take 
 it by this side : it is more convenient.” 
 
 “Read it, Taras Tikhonovitch,” said the 
 
 1 
 
 judge, turning to the secretary. Taras Tikho¬ 
 novitch took the petition ; and blowing his 
 nose, as all district judges’ secretaries blow 
 their noses, with the assistance of two fingers, 
 he began to read : — 
 
 “From the nobleman and landed proprietor 
 of the Mirgorod District, Ivan Pererepenko , son 
 of Ivan, a petition : concerning which the fol¬ 
 lowing points are to be observed : — 
 
 “ 1. Ivan Dovgotchkhun, son of Nikifor, noble¬ 
 man, known to all the world for his godless acts, 
 which inspire disgust, and in lawlessness exceed 
 [all bounds, on the seventh day of July of this 
 year 1810, conferred upon me a deadly insult, 
 as touching my personal honor, and likewise 
 as tending to the humiliation and confusion 
 of my rank and family. The said nobleman, of 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 149 
 
 repulsive aspect, has also a pugnacious disposi¬ 
 tion, and is full to overflowing of various sorts 
 of blasphemy and quarrelsome words.” . . . 
 
 Here the reader paused for an instant, to 
 blow his nose again ; but the judge folded his 
 hands in approbation, and murmured to himself, 
 “ What a ready pen ! Lord! how that man 
 does write ! ” 
 
 Ivan Ivanovitch requested that the reading 
 might proceed, and Taras Tikhonovitch went 
 on : — 
 
 “The said Ivan Dovgotchkhun, son of Niki¬ 
 for, when I went to him with a friendly proposi¬ 
 tion, called me publicly by an epithet insulting 
 and injurious to my honor, namely, a goose , 
 whereas it is known to the whole district of 
 Mirgorod, that I never was named after that 
 disgusting animal, and have no intention of 
 ever being named after it. And the proof of 
 my noble extraction is, that, in the baptismal 
 register to be found in the Church of the Three 
 Bishops, the day of my birth, and likewise the 
 fact of my baptism, are inscribed. But a goose, 
 as is well known to every one who has any 
 knowledge of science, cannot be inscribed in 
 
*4 ■ m 
 
 pj^ \s^ 
 
 S 150 HO W THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 the baptismal register; for a goose is not a 
 man, but a fowl; which, likewise, is suffi¬ 
 ciently well known, even to persons who have 
 not been to a seminary. But the said evil- 
 minded nobleman, being privy to all these 
 facts, for no other purpose than to offer a 
 deadly insult to my rank and calling, affronted 
 me with the aforesaid foul word. 
 
 “2. And the same impolite and indecent 
 nobleman, moreover, attempted injury to my 
 property, inherited by me from my father, a . 
 gmrnber of the clerical profession, Ivan Pere- 
 repenko, son of Onisieff, of blessed memory, 
 in that he, contrary to all law, transported 
 directly opposite my porch, a goose-coop, which 
 was done with no other intention than to em¬ 
 phasize the insult offered me; for the said coop 
 had, up to that time, stood in a very good situ¬ 
 ation, and was still sufficiently strong. But 
 the loathsome intention of the aforesaid noble¬ 
 man consisted simply in this : viz., in making 
 me a witness of unpleasant occurrences ; for it 
 is well known, that no man goes into a coop, 
 much less into a goose-coop, for polite pur¬ 
 poses. In the commission of his lawless deed, 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 15 I 
 
 the two front posts trespassed on my land, re¬ 
 ceived by me during the lifetime of my father, 
 Ivan Pererepenko, son of Onisieff, of blessed 
 memory, beginning at the granary, thence in a 
 straight line to the spot where the women wash 
 the pots. 
 
 “ 3. The above-described nobleman, whose 
 very name and surname inspire thorough dis¬ 
 gust, cherishes in his mind a malicious design 
 to burn me in my own house. Which the 
 infallible signs, hereinafter mentioned, fully 
 demonstrate : in the first place, the said wicked 
 nobleman has begun to emerge frequently from 
 his apartments, which he never did formerly 
 on account of his laziness and the disgusting 
 corpulence of his body ; in the second place, 
 in his servants’ apartments, adjoining the fence, 
 surrounding my own land, received by me from 
 my father, of blessed memory, Ivan Perere¬ 
 penko, son of Onisieff, a light burns every day, 
 and for a remarkably long period of time, which 
 is also a clear proof of the fact. For hitherto, 
 owing to his repulsive niggardliness, not only 
 the tallow-candle, but also the grease-lamp, has 
 been extinguished. 
 
152 I/OIV THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 “And therefore I pray that the said noble¬ 
 man, Ivan Dovgotchkhun, son of Ivan, being 
 plainly guilty of incendiarism, of insult to my 
 rank, name, and family, and of illegal appropria¬ 
 tion of my property, and, worse than all else, of 
 malicious and deliberate addition to my sur- 
 name.oLthe nickname of go ose, be condemned 
 by the court, to fine, satisfaction, costs, and 
 damages, and that the aforesaid be put in irons 
 as a criminal, and, being chained, be removed 
 to the town jail, and that judgment be ren¬ 
 dered upon this, my petition, immediately and 
 without delay. 
 
 “ Written and composed by Ivan Perere- 
 penko, son of Ivan, nobleman, and landed pro¬ 
 prietor of Mirgorod.” 
 
 After the reading of the petition was con¬ 
 cluded, the judge approached Ivan Ivanovitch, 
 took him by the button, and began to talk to 
 him after this fashion. “ What are you doing, 
 Ivan Ivanovitch ? Fear God ! throw away that 
 petition, let it go ! may Satan carry it off! Bet¬ 
 ter take Ivan Nikiforovitch by the hand, and 
 kiss him, and buy some Santurinski or Niko- 
 polski liquor, simply make a punch, and call 
 
HO W THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 153 
 
 me. We will drink it up together, and forget 
 all.” 
 
 “No, Demyan Demyanovitch ! it's not that 
 sort of an affair,” said Ivan Ivanovitch, with the 
 dignity which always became him so well: “it 
 is not an affair which can be arranged by a 
 friendly agreement. Farewell ! Good-day to 
 you also, gentlemen,” he continued with the 
 same dignity, turning to them all. “ I hope 
 that my petition will give rise to the proper 
 action ; ” and out he went, leaving all present 
 in a state of stupefaction. 
 
 The judge sat down without uttering a word; 
 the secretary took a pinch of snuff; the clerks 
 upset some broken fragments of bottles which 
 served for inkstands; and the judge himself, in 
 absence of mind, spread out a puddle of ink 
 upon the table with his finger. 
 
 “What do you say to this, Dorofei Trofimo- 
 vitch ? ” said the judge, turning to the assistant 
 after a pause. 
 
 “ I’ve nothing to say,” replied the clerk. 
 
 “What things do go on!” continued the 
 judge. He had not finished saying this, when 
 the door creaked, and the front half of Ivan 
 
154 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 Nikiforovitch presented itself in the court-room : 
 the rest of him remained in the ante-room. 
 The appearance of Ivan Nikiforovitch, and in 
 court, too, seemed so extraordinary, that the 
 judge screamed; the secretary stopped read¬ 
 ing ; and one clerk, in his frieze imitation of a 
 dress-coat, took his pen in his lips; and the 
 
 other swallowed a fly ; even the constable on 
 
 % 
 
 service, and the watchman, a discharged sob 
 dier, who up to that moment had stood by 
 the door scratching about his dirty blouse, with 
 its chevrons of merit on the shoulder, even this 
 invalid dropped his jaw, and trod on some 
 one’s foot. 
 
 “ What chance brings you here ? What and 
 how ? How is your health, Ivan Nikiforo¬ 
 vitch ? ” 
 
 But Ivan Nikiforovitch was neither dead nor 
 alive ; for he was stuck fast in the door, and 
 could not take a step either forwards or back¬ 
 wards. In vain did the judge shout into the 
 ante-room that some one there should push 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch forward into the court-room. 
 In the ante-room was only one old woman 
 with a petition, who, in spite of all the efforts 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 155 
 
 of her bony hands, could accomplish nothing. 
 Then one of the clerks, with thick lips, wide 
 shoulders, and a thick nose, with eyes which 
 
 m 
 
 looked askance and intoxicated, and with ragged 
 elbows, approached the front half of Ivan Niki- 
 forovitch, crossed his hands for him as though 
 he had been a child, and winked at the old 
 soldier, who braced his knee against Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch’s belly, and, in spite of the lat¬ 
 ter’s piteous moans, he was squeezed out into 
 the ante-room. Then they pulled the bolts, 
 and opened the other half of the door. Mean¬ 
 while the clerk and his assistant, the soldier, 
 breathing hard with their friendly exertions, 
 exhaled such a strong odor that the court¬ 
 room seemed temporarily converted into a 
 drinking-room. 
 
 “ Did you hurt yourself, Ivan Nikiforovitch ? 
 I will tell my mother to send you a decoction 
 of brandy, with which you need but to rub 
 your back and stomach, and all your bad feel¬ 
 ings will disappear.” 
 
 But Ivan Nikiforovitch dropped into a chair, 
 and could utter no word beyond prolonged oil's. 
 Finally, in a voice feeble and barely audible 
 
156 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 from fatigue, he exclaimed, “ Wouldn’t you 
 like some?” and, drawing his snuff-box from 
 his pocket, he added, “ Help yourself, if you 
 please.” 
 
 “Very glad to see you,” replied the judge; 
 “but I cannot conceive what made you put 
 yourself to so much trouble, and favor us with 
 so unexpected an honor.” 
 
 “A petition!” . . . Ivan Nikiforovitch man¬ 
 aged to ejaculate. 
 
 “ A petition ? What petition ? ” 
 
 “A complaint” . . . (here the asthma en¬ 
 tailed a prolonged pause) — “ Oh ! — a com¬ 
 plaint against the rascal — Ivan Ivanovitch 
 Pererepenko! ” 
 
 “And you too! Such particular friends! 
 A complaint against such a benevolent man ! ” 
 
 “He’s Satan himself!” ejaculated Ivan Niki¬ 
 forovitch abruptly. 
 
 The judge crossed himself. 
 
 “Take my petition, and read it.” 
 
 “ There is nothing to be done. Read it, Taras 
 Tikhonovitch,” said the judge, turning to the 
 secretary with an expression of displeasure, 
 which caused his nose to sniff at his upper lip, 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 1 57 
 
 which generally occurred only as a sign of 
 great enjoyment. This independence on the 
 part of his nose caused the judge still greater 
 vexation. He pulled out his handkerchief, and 
 rubbed off all the snuff from his upper lip, 
 in order to punish it for its daring. 
 
 The secretary, having gone through his usual 
 performance, which he always indulged in be¬ 
 fore he began to read, — that is to say, without 
 the aid of a pocket-handkerchief, — began in 
 his ordinary voice, in the following manner : — 
 “ Ivan Dovgotchkhun, son of Nikofor, noble¬ 
 man of the Mirgorod District, offers a petition, 
 and begs attention to the following points : — 
 
 “ 1. Through his hateful malice, and plainly 
 manifested ill will, the person calling himself 
 a nobleman, Ivan Pererepenko, son of Ivan, 
 commits against me every manner of injury, 
 damage, and other spiteful deeds, which inspire 
 me with terror ; and yesterday at afternoon, like 
 a brigand and a thief, with axes, saws, chisels, 
 and various locksmith’s tools, he came by night 
 into my yard, and into my own goose-coop 
 located within it, and with his own hand, and 
 in outrageous manner, destroyed it; for which 
 

 158 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 very illegal and burglarious deed, on my side 
 I gave no manner of cause. 
 
 “ 2. The same nobleman Pererepenko has 
 designs upon my life ; and on the 7th of last 
 month, cherishing this design in secret, he 
 came to me, and began, in a friendly and sly 
 manner, to demand of me a gun which was in 
 my chamber, and offered me for it, with the 
 miserliness peculiar to him, many worthless 
 [objects, such as a brown sow and two sacks of 
 oats. But, divining at that time his criminal 
 intentions, I endeavored in every way to dis¬ 
 suade him from it; but the said rascal and 
 scoundrel, Ivan Pererepenko, son of Ivan, 
 abused me like a muzhik, and since that time 
 has cherished against me an irreconcilable en¬ 
 mity. His, sister was well known to all the 
 world as a loose character, and went off with 
 a regiment of chasseurs which was stationed at 
 Mirgorod, five years ago ; but she inscribed her 
 husband as a peasant. His father and mother 
 also were not law-abiding people, and both were 
 inconceivable drunkards. The afore-mentioned 
 nobleman and robber Pererepenko, in his beast¬ 
 ly and blameworthy actions, goes beyond all 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 159 
 
 his family, and under the guise of piety does 
 the most immoral things. He does not observe 
 the fasts; for on the eve of St. Philip’s this 
 atheist bought a sheep, and the next day he 
 ordered his mistress, Gapka, to kill it, alleging 
 that he needed tallow for lamps and candles at 
 once. 
 
 “Therefore I pray that the said nobleman, a 
 manifest robber, church-thief, rascal, convicted 
 of plundering and stealing, may be put in irons, 
 and confined in the jail or the government 
 prison, and there, under supervision, deprived 
 of his rank and nobility, he may be well flogged 
 by barbarians, and banished to forced labor in 
 Siberia for cause, and that he may be com¬ 
 manded to pay damages, losses, and that judg¬ 
 ment may be rendered on this my petition. 
 
 “To this petition, Ivan Dovgotchkhun, son of 
 Nikofor, noble of the Mirgorod District, has 
 set his hand.” 
 
 As soon as the secretary had finished reading, 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch seized his hat, and bowed, 
 with the intention of departing. 
 
 “Where are you going, Ivan Nikiforovitch ? ” 
 the judge called after him. “ Sit yet a little 
 
l6o HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 while. Drink some tea. Orishko, why are 
 you standing there, you stupid girl, winking at 
 the clerks ? Go, bring tea.” 
 
 But Ivan Nikiforovitch, in terror at having 
 got so far from home, and at having undergone 
 such a fearful quarantine, made haste to crawl 
 through the door, saying, “ Don’t trouble your¬ 
 self. It is with pleasure that I ” — and closed 
 it after him, leaving all present stupefied. 
 
 There was nothing to be done. Both peti¬ 
 tions were entered ; and the affair promised to 
 assume a sufficiently serious aspect, when an 
 unforeseen occurrence gave an added interest 
 to it. As the judge was leaving the court, in 
 company with the clerk and secretary, and the 
 employees were thrusting into sacks the fowls, 
 eggs, chunks of bread, pies, cracknels, and other 
 odds and ends brought by plaintiffs,—just at 
 that moment a brown sow rushed into the 
 room, and snatched, to the amazement of the 
 spectators, neither a pie nor a crust of bread, 
 but Ivan Nikiforovitch^ pe tition, which lay on 
 the end of the table, with its leaves hanging 
 over. Having seized the document, mistress 
 sow ran off so briskly that not one of the clerks 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. l6l 
 
 or officials could catch her, in spite of the rulers 
 and ink-bottles they hurled after her. 
 
 This extraordinary occurrence produced a 
 terrible muddle, for there had not even a copy 
 been taken of the petition. The judge — that is 
 to say, his secretary — and the assistant debated 
 for a long time upon such an unheard-of affair. 
 Finally it was decided to write a report of the 
 matter to the prefect, as the investigation of 
 the matter pertained more to the department 
 of the city police. Report No. 389 was de¬ 
 spatched to him that same day; and also upon 
 that day there came to light a sufficiently curi¬ 
 ous explanation, which the reader can learn 
 from the following chapter. 
 
162 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 V. 
 
 IN WHICH ARE DETAILED THE DELIBERATIONS 
 
 f 
 
 OF TWO IMPORTANT PERSONAGES OF MIRGOROD. 
 
 As soon as Ivan Ivanovitch had arranged his 
 domestic affairs, and stepped out upon the ve¬ 
 randa, according to his custom, to lie down, 
 then, to his indescribable amazement, he saw 
 something red at the gate. This was the red 
 facings of the chief of police’s coat, which were 
 polished equally with his collar, and had turned 
 on the edges into varnished leather. Ivan 
 Ivanovitch thought to himself, “It’s not bad 
 that Peter Fedorovitch has come to talk it 
 over.” But he was very much surprised to 
 see that the chief was walking remarkably fast, 
 and flourishing his hands, which very rarely 
 happened with him. There were eight buttons 
 planted about on the chief of police’s uniform : 
 the ninth, torn off in some manner during the 
 procession at the consecration of the church 
 two years before, the desyatskie had not been 
 
HO W THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 1 63 
 
 able to find up to this time ; although the 
 chief, on the occasion of the daily reports 
 made to him by the sergeants of police, 
 always asked, “ Has that button been found ? ” 
 These eight buttons were strewn about him 
 as women sow beans, — one to the right, 
 and one to the left. His left foot had been 
 struck by a ball in the last campaign, and 
 therefore he limped, and threw it out so far to 
 one side as to almost counteract the efforts of 
 the right foot. The more briskly the chief of 
 police worked his walking apparatus, the less 
 progress it made in advance ; and so, while 
 the chief was getting to the veranda, Ivan 
 Ivanovitch had plenty of time to lose himself 
 in surmises as to why the chief was flourishing 
 his hands so vigorously. This interested him 
 the more, as the matter seemed one of unusual 
 importance ; for the chief had on a new dagger. 
 
 “ Good-morning, Peter Feodorovitch ! ” cried 
 Ivan Ivanovitch, who was, as has already been 
 stated, exceedingly curious, and could not re¬ 
 strain his impatience at the sight as the chief 
 of police began to ascend to the veranda, yet 
 never raised his eyes, and scolded at his foot, 
 
164 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 which could not be persuaded to mount the 
 step at only one flourish. 
 
 “ I wish my good friend and benefactor, Ivan 
 Ivanovitch, a good-day,” replied the chief. 
 
 “ Pray sit down. I see that you are weary, as 
 your lame foot hinders ” . . . 
 
 “ My foot! ” screamed the chief, bestowing 
 upon Ivan Ivanovitch a glance such as a giant 
 might cast upon a pygmy, a pedant upon a dan¬ 
 cing-master : thereupon he stretched out his 
 foot, and stamped upon the floor with it. But 
 this boldness cost him dear; for his whole body 
 wavered, and his nose struck the railing ; but 
 the brave preserver of order, with the purpose 
 of making light of it, righted himself immedi¬ 
 ately, and began to feel in his pocket as if to 
 get his snuff-box. “ I must report to you, my 
 dear friend and benefactor, Ivan Ivanovitch, 
 that never in all my days have I made such a 
 march. Yes, seriously. For instance, during 
 the campaign of 1807. • • • Ah! I will relate 
 to you in what manner I crawled through the 
 enclosure to see a pretty little German.” Here 
 the chief closed one eye, and executed a dia¬ 
 bolically sly smile. 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 165 
 
 “ Where have you been to-day ? ” asked Ivan 
 Ivanovitch, wishing to cut the chief short, and 
 bring him more speedily to the object of his 
 visit. He would have very much liked to in¬ 
 quire what the chief meant to tell him, but 
 his extensive knowledge of the world showed 
 him all the impropriety of such a question; 
 and so Ivan Ivanovitch had to keep himself 
 well in hand, and await a solution, his heart, 
 meanwhile, beating with unusual force. 
 
 “ Ah, excuse me ! I was going to tell you — 
 where was I ? ” answered the chief of police. 
 “ In the first place, I report that the weather is 
 fine to-day ”... 
 
 At these last words, Ivan Ivanovitch nearly 
 died. 
 
 “But permit me,” went on the chief. “I 
 came to you to-day about a very important 
 affair.” Here the chief’s face and bearing 
 assumed the same careworn guise with which 
 he had ascended to the veranda. Ivan Ivano¬ 
 vitch lived again, and shook as if in a fever, 
 omitting not, as was his habit, to put a ques¬ 
 tion. “What is the important matter? Is it 
 important ? ” 
 
166 IIOW TI 1 E TWO IVANS QUARRELLED, 
 
 “ Pray judge for yourself: first I venture to 
 report to you, dear friend and benefactor, Ivan 
 Ivanovitch, that you ... I beg you to observe 
 that, for my own part, I should have nothing to 
 say; but the rules of government require it . . . 
 you have transgressed the rules of propriety/' 
 
 “What do you say, Peter Feodorovitch ? I 
 don’t understand at all.” 
 
 “Pardon me, Ivan Ivanovitch ! how is it that 
 you do not understand? Your own beast has 
 destroyed a very important government docu¬ 
 ment ; and you can still say, after that, that you 
 do not understand ! ” 
 
 “ What beast ? ” 
 
 “Your own brown sow, with your permission, 
 be it said.” 
 
 “ How am I responsible ? Why did the jani¬ 
 tor of the court open the door ? ” 
 
 “ But, Ivan Ivanovitch, your own brown sow. 
 You must be responsible.” 
 
 “ I am extremely obliged to you for compar¬ 
 ing me to a sow.” 
 
 “But I did not say that, Ivan Ivanovitch! 
 By Heavens ! I did not say it! Pray judge 
 from your own clear conscience. It is known 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 167 
 
 to you without doubt, that, in accordance with 
 the views of the government, unclean animals 
 are forbidden to roam about the city, particu¬ 
 larly in the principal streets. Confess, now, 
 that it is prohibited.” 
 
 “ God knows what you are talking about! 
 A mighty important business, that a sow got 
 into the street! ” 
 
 “Permit me to inform you, Ivan Ivanovitch, 
 permit me, permit me, that this is utterly impos¬ 
 sible. What is to be done ? The authorities 
 command, we must obey. I don’t deny, that 
 sometimes chickens and geese run about the 
 streets, and even about the square, — pray ob¬ 
 serve, chickens and geese ; but only last year, 
 I gave orders that pigs and goats were not to 
 be admitted to the public squares, which regu¬ 
 lations I directed to be read aloud at the time, 
 in the assembly before all the people.” 
 
 “No, Peter Feodorovitch, I see nothing here 
 except that you are doing your best to insult 
 me.” 
 
 “ But you cannot say, my dearest friend and 
 benefactor, that I have tried to insult you. 
 Bethink yourself : I never said a word to you 
 
168 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 last year when you built a roof a whole arshin 
 higher than was fixed by law. On the contrary, 
 I pretended not to have observed it. Believe 
 me, my dearest friend, even now, I would, so to 
 speak . . . but my duty, in a word, my obliga¬ 
 tions, demand that I should have an eye to 
 cleanliness. Just judge for yourself, when 
 suddenly in the principal street ” . . . 
 
 “ Fine principal streets yours are! Every 
 woman goes there and throws down any 
 rubbish she chooses.” 
 
 “Permit me to inform you, Ivan Ivanovitch, 
 that it is you who are insulting me. In fact, 
 that does sometimes happen, but, as a rule, only 
 beside fences, sheds, or storehouses; but that 
 a filthy sow should intrude herself in the main 
 street, in the square, now that’s a matter” . . . 
 
 “What sort of a matter? Peter Feodoro- 
 vitch ! surely a sow is one of God’s creatures ! ” 
 
 “ Agreed. Everybody knows that you are a 
 learned man, that you are acquainted with 
 sciences and various other subjects. In short, 
 I never studied the sciences : I began to learn 
 to write in my thirteenth year. Of course you 
 know that I was a soldier in the ranks.” 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 169 
 
 “ Hm !” said Ivan Ivanovitch. 
 
 “Yes,” continued the chief of police, “in 
 1801 I was in the Forty-second Regiment of 
 chasseurs, lieutenant in the Fourth Battalion. 
 The commander of our battalion was, if I may 
 be permitted to mention it, Capt. Eremeeff.” 
 Thereupon the chief of police thrust his fingers 
 into the snuff-box which Ivan Ivanovitch was 
 holding open, and stirred up the snuff. 
 
 Ivan Ivanovitch answered, “ Hm ! ” 
 
 “But my duty,” went on the chief of police, 
 “is to obey the commands of the authorities. 
 Do you know, Ivan Ivanovitch, that a person 
 who purloins a government document in the 
 court-room incurs capital punishment, equally 
 with other criminals ? ” 
 
 “ I know it; and, if you like, I can give you 
 lessons. It is so ordered with regard to peo¬ 
 ple,— as if you, for instance, were to steal a 
 document; but a sow is an animal, one of God’s 
 creatures.” 
 
 “ Certainly ; but the law reads, ‘ Those guilty 
 of theft ’ . . . I beg you to listen most atten¬ 
 tively, — ‘ Those guilty ! 9 Here is indicated 
 neither race nor sex nor rank : of course, an 
 
170 I/O IV THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 animal can be guilty. You may say what you 
 please ; but the animal, until the sentence is 
 pronounced by the court, should be committed 
 to the charge of the police, as a transgressor of 
 the law.” 
 
 “No, Peter Feodorovitch,” retorted Ivan 
 Ivanovitch coolly, “that shall not be.” 
 
 “As you like: only I must carry out the 
 orders of the authorities.” 
 
 “What are you threatening me with ? Prob¬ 
 ably you want to send that one-armed soldier 
 after her. I shall order the woman who tends 
 the door, to drive him off with the poker: he’ll 
 get his last arm broken.” 
 
 “ I dare not dispute with you. In case you 
 will not commit her to the charge of the police, 
 then do what you please with her: kill her for 
 Christmas, if you like, and make hams of her, 
 or eat her as she is. Only I should like to ask 
 ^you^Jj^^caso you make sausages, to send me a 
 couple 
 blood 
 
 j s-— 
 
 extremely fond of them.” 
 
 “ I will send you a couple of sausages if you 
 permit.” 
 
 such as your Gapka makes so well of 
 
 grafena Trofimovna is 
 
 ard. My 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 171 
 
 “ I shall be extremely obliged to you, dear 
 friend and benefactor. Now permit me to say 
 one word more. I am commissioned by the 
 judge, as well as by all our acquaintances, so to 
 speak, to effect a reconciliation between you 
 and your friend, Ivan Nikiforovich/' 
 
 “ What! with that brute ! I am to be recon¬ 
 ciled to that clown ! Never ! It shall not be, 
 it shall not be! " Ivan Ivanovitch was in a re¬ 
 markably determined frame of mind. 
 
 “As you like," replied the chief of police, 
 treating both nostrils to snuff. “ I will not 
 venture to advise you ; but permit me to men¬ 
 tion — here you live at enmity, and if you 
 make peace "... 
 
 But Ivan Ivanovitch began to talk about 
 catching quail, as he usually did when he 
 wanted to put an end to a conversation. So 
 the chief of -police was obliged to retire with¬ 
 out having achieved any success whatever. 
 
172 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 VI. 
 
 FROM WHICH THE READER CAN EASILY DIS¬ 
 COVER WHAT IS CONTAINED IN IT. 
 
 In spite of all the judge’s efforts to keep the 
 matter secret, all Mirgorod knew by the next 
 day that Ivan Ivanovitch’s sow had stolen Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch’s petition. The chief of police 
 himself, in a moment of forgetfulness, was the 
 first to betray himself. When Ivan Nikiforo- 
 vitch was informed of it, he said nothing: he 
 merely inquired, “ Was it the brown one ? ” 
 
 But Agafya Fedosyevna, who was present, 
 P began agath ""To urge Ivan Nikiforovitch. 
 “ What’s the matter with you, Ivan Nikiforo¬ 
 vitch ? People will laugh at you as at a fool if 
 you let it pass. How can you remain a noble¬ 
 man after that? You will be worse than the 
 old woman who sells the honey-cakes with 
 hemp-seed oil, you are so fond of.” And the 
 mischief-maker persuaded him. She hunted up 
 somewhere a middle-aged man with black com- 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 V 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 173 
 
 plexion, and spots all over his face, and a dark- 
 blue surtout patched on the elbows, —a regular 
 official scribbler. He blacked his boots with 
 tar, wore three pens behind his ear, and a glass 
 bubble tied to his button-hole with a string, 
 instead of an ink-bottle: he ate as many as 
 nine pies at once, and put the tenth in his 
 pocket, and wrote so many slanders of all sorts 
 on a single sheet of stamped paper, that no 
 reader could get through all at one time with¬ 
 out interspersing coughs and sneezes. This 
 poor imitation of a man labored, toiled, and 
 wrote, and finally concocted the following 
 document: — 
 
 “To the District Judge of Mirgorod, from 
 the noble, Ivan Dovgotchkhun, son of Nikifor. 
 
 “ In pursuance of my petition which was 
 presented by me, Ivan Dovgotchkhun, son of 
 Nikifor, in connection with the nobleman, Ivan 
 Pererepenko, son of Ivan ; to which also, the 
 judge of the Mirgorod district court exhibited 
 his indifference. And the shameless, high¬ 
 handed deed of the brown sow being kept 
 secret, and coming to my ears from outside 
 parties. 
 
174 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 “ And the said allowing and neglect, plainly 
 malicious, lies incontestably at the judge’s door; 
 for the sow is a stupid animal, and therefore 
 less fitted for the theft of papers. From 
 which it plainly appears, that the said fre¬ 
 quently mentioned sow was not otherwise than 
 instigated to the same by the opponent, Ivan 
 Pererepenko, son of Ivan, calling himself a 
 nobleman, and already convicted of theft, con¬ 
 spiracy against life, and desecration of a 
 church. But the said Mirgorod judge, with 
 the partisanship peculiar to him, gave his pri¬ 
 vate consent to this individual; for without 
 such consent the said sow could by no possible 
 means have been admitted to carry off the doc¬ 
 ument ; for the judge of the district court of 
 Mirgorod is well provided with servants : it was 
 only necessary to summon a soldier, who is 
 always on duty in the reception-room, and who, 
 although he has but one eye and one somewhat 
 damaged arm, has powers quite adequate to 
 driving out a sow, and to beating it with a club, 
 from which is credibly evident the criminal 
 neglect of the said Mirgorod judge, and the 
 incontestable sharing of the Jew-like spoils 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 175 
 
 therefrom resulting between these mutual con¬ 
 spirators. And the aforesaid robber and noble¬ 
 man, Ivan Pererepenko, son of Ivan, having 
 disgraced himself, finished his turning on his 
 lathe. Wherefore I, the noble, Ivan Dovgotch- 
 khun, son of Nikifor, declare to the said dis¬ 
 trict judge, in proper form, that if the said 
 brown sow, or the man Pererepenko, who was 
 mentioned in the petition, in league with her, 
 be not summoned to the court, and judgment in 
 accordance with justice and my advantage pro¬ 
 nounced upon her, then I, Ivan Dovgotchkhun, 
 son of Nikifor, shall present a complaint, with 
 observance of all due formalities, against the 
 said district judge, for his illegal partisanship, 
 to the superior courts. 
 
 “ Ivan Dovgotchkhun, son of Nikifor, noble 
 of the Mirgorod District.” 
 
 This petition produced its effect. The judge 
 was a man of timid disposition, as all good peo¬ 
 ple generally are. He betook himself to the 
 secretary. But the secretary emitted from his 
 lips a thick hm , and exhibited in his counte¬ 
 nance that indifferent and diabolically equivocal 
 expression which Satan alone assumes when 
 
176 IIOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 he sees his victim hasting to his feet. One 
 resource remained, — to reconcile the two 
 friends. But how set about it, when all at¬ 
 tempts up to that time had been so unsuccess¬ 
 ful ? Nevertheless, it was decided to make 
 another effort; but Ivan Ivanovitch declared 
 downright that he would not hear to it, and 
 even * flew into a violent passion. Ivan Niki- 
 forovitch, in lieu of an answer, turned his back, 
 and would not utter >a word. Then the case 
 went on with the unusual promptness, upon 
 which courts usually pride themselves. Docu¬ 
 ments were dated, labelled, numbered, sewed 
 together, registered, all in one day, and the 
 matter laid on the sh elf, where it c ontinued to 
 lie, lie, lie, for one, two, or three years. Many 
 brides were married ; a new street was laicf 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 reproof to Ivan Ivano¬ 
 vitch, had constructed a new goose-coop, al¬ 
 though a little farther off than the first, and 
 built himself completely off from Ivan Ivano¬ 
 vitch, so that these worthy people almost never 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 177 
 
 beheld each other's faces ; and still the case 
 lay on, in the very best order, in the cabinet, 
 which had become marbled with ink-spots. 
 
 In the mean time a very important event for 
 all Mirgorod had taken place. The chief of 
 police had given a reception. Whence shall I 
 obtain tfie Brusli arid colors to depict this 
 varied gathering, and this magnificent feast? 
 Take your watch, open it, and observe what is 
 going on there. 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 court-yard. How many britchkas and 
 wagons were there ! One was wide behind and 
 narrow in front; another narrow behind and wide 
 in front. One was a britchka and wagon com¬ 
 bined ; another neither a britchka nor a wagon. 
 One resembled a huge hayrick, or a fat mer¬ 
 chant’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, sug¬ 
 gested some strange, utterly formless, and ex¬ 
 ceedingly fantastic, being. In the midst of 
 this chaos of wheels and carriage-boxes, rose 
 
178 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 the semblances of coaches, with windows like 
 those of a room, crossed with broad frames. 
 The coachmen, in gray Cossack coats, svitkas, 
 and white hare coats, with sheepskin hats and 
 caps of various patterns, and 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 Ivano- 
 vitch, — not that Ivan Ivanovitch, but another, — 
 Gabba Gavrilonovitch, our Ivan Ivanovitch, Elev- 
 feriy Elevferievitch, Makar Nazarevitch, Thoma 
 Grigorovitch ... I can do no more : my powers 
 fail me, my hand ceases to write. And how 
 many ladies were there ! dark and fair and 
 short, 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-color, green, blue, new, 
 turned, made over,—dresses, ribbons, reticules. 
 Farewell, poor eyes ! you will never be good 
 for any thing any more after this spectacle. 
 And how long the table was drawn cut! and 
 
IIOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 179 
 
 how all talked ! and what a humming 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 agree¬ 
 able and useful things, such as the weather, 
 dogs, wheat, caps, and dice. At length Ivan 
 Ivanovitch — not that Ivan Ivanovitch, but the 
 other, who had but one eye — said, “ It strikes 
 me as strange that my right eye [one-eyed Ivan 
 Ivanovitch always spoke sarcastically about 
 himself] does not see Ivan Nikiforovitch, Mr . 1 
 Dovgotchkhun.” 
 
 “ 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 can¬ 
 not live in peace, how am I to live amicably, 
 
 1 Gospodin. 
 
180 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 with my bad eye ? ” At these words, all laughed 
 at the tops of their voices. All loved one-eyed 
 Ivan Ivanovitch, because he cracked jokes quite 
 in the style of the present one. 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, — this 
 gentleman rose from his seat, and approached 
 nearer to the crowd which surrounded one-eyed 
 Ivan Ivanovitch. ‘‘Listen,” said one-eyed Ivan 
 Ivanovitch, when he perceived that quite a 
 throng had collected about him; “ see here: 
 instead of gazing at my bad eye, suppose we 
 make peace between our friends. Ivan Ivano¬ 
 vitch is talking with the women and girls; . . . 
 let us go 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 commis¬ 
 sion rendered all thoughtful. They debated 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 181 
 
 long as to who was the most fitted for, and 
 expert in, diplomatic matters. At length it 
 was unanimously agreed to depute Anton Pro- 
 kofievitch Golopuzo for this business. 
 
 But it is necessary, first of all, to make the 
 reader somewhat acquainted with this notewor¬ 
 thy person. Anton Prokofievitch was a truly 
 virtuous man, in the fullest meaning of the term. 
 If any one in Mirgorod gives him a neckerchief 
 or underclothes, he returns thanks : if any one 
 gives him a fillip on the nose,—he returns 
 thanks then also. If he was asked, “ Why, 
 Anton Prokofievitch, have you a light brown 
 coat with blue sleeves ? ” he generally re¬ 
 plied, “Ah, you haven’t one like it! Wait: it 
 will wear off, and it will be alike all over.” 
 And, in point of fact, the blue cloth, from the 
 effects of the sun, began to turn cinnamon- 
 color, and had now become 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 has no 
 house of his own. He used to have one at the 
 extremity of the town ; but he sold it, and with 
 
182 I/OIV THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 the purchase-money bought a troika of brown 
 horses, and a little britchka in which he drove 
 about to stay with the squires. But as the 
 horses made a good deal of trouble, and money 
 was required for oats, Anton Prokofievitch 
 swapped them off for a violin and a house-maid, 
 with twenty-five paper rubles to boot. After¬ 
 wards Anton Prokofievitch sold the violin, and 
 swapped the girl for a morocco and gold tobac¬ 
 co-pouch ; and 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 must remain in the city, 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 well at durak 
 and melnik . 1 Obeying orders always was his 
 forte ; so, taking his hat and cane, he set out 
 at once on his way. 
 
 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 rather unbending character of the latter, 
 
 1 Card games : literally, “ fool ” and “miller.” 
 
HO W THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 183 
 
 who was otherwise a worthy man, rendered his 
 undertaking almost hopeless. Yes, and how, in 
 fact, was he to persuade him to come, when even 
 rising from his bed cost him so great an effort ? 
 But supposing that he does rise, how can he 
 get him there, where, as he doubtless knows, 
 his irreconcilable enemy already is ? The more 
 Anton Prokofievitch reflected, the more difficul¬ 
 ties 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 swapping, how¬ 
 ever, 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 every thing, 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 
 
184 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 a pair of trousers of such singular properties, 
 that, when he put them on, the dogs always 
 bit his calves. Unfortunately, on this day he 
 had donned that particular pair of trousers ; and 
 so he had hardly resigned himself to meditation 
 when 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 inhabit¬ 
 ant of the endless surtout rush out to meet 
 him, but even the small boys from Ivan Ivano- 
 vitch’s yard strewed themselves over him ; and 
 although the dogs succeeded in tasting only one 
 of his calves, yet this sensibly diminished his 
 courage, and he entered the veranda with a 
 certain amount of timidity. 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 185 
 
 VII. AND LAST. 
 
 “Ah! how do you do? Why do you irritate 
 the dogs ? ” said Ivan Nikiforovitch, on perceiv¬ 
 ing Anton Prokofievitch; for no one spoke 
 otherwise than jestingly with Anton Prokofie¬ 
 vitch. 
 
 “ Hang them ! who’s been irritating them ? ” 
 retorted Anton Prokofievitch. 
 
 “ You lie ! ” 
 
 “ By Heavens, no !—You are invited to din¬ 
 ner by Peter Feodorovitch.” 
 
 “Hm!” 
 
 “ He invited you more pressingly than I can 
 tell you. 4 Why,’ says he, ‘does Ivan Nikiforo¬ 
 vitch 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 Niki- 
 
186 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 forovitch ! ’ Come, Ivan Nikiforovitch, let us 
 go! a very choice company is already assem¬ 
 bled there/’ 
 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch began to regard a cock, 
 which was perched on the roof, and crowing 
 with all its might. 
 
 “ If you only knew, Ivan Nikiforovitch,” pur¬ 
 sued the zealous ambassador, “what fresh stur¬ 
 geon 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 
 quick : Thoma Grigorovitch is there too. Why 
 don’t you come ? ” he added, seeing that Ivan 
 Nikiforovitch still lay in the same position. 
 “Why, shall we go, or not?” 
 
 “ I won’t! ” 
 
 This “/ won't ” startled Anton Prokofie- 
 vitch : he had fancied that his alluring repre¬ 
 sentations had quite moved this very worthy 
 man; but instead, he heard that decisive “/ 
 won t. 
 
 “Why won’t you?” he asked, almost with 
 vexation, which he very rarely exhibited, even 
 when they put burning paper on his head, a 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 187 
 
 trick which the judge and the chief of police 
 were particularly fond of indulging in. 
 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch took a pinch of snuff. 
 
 “As you like, Ivan Nikiforovitch. I do not 
 know what detains you.” 
 
 “Why won’t I go?” said Ivan Nikiforovitch 
 at length : “ that brigand will be there ! ” This 
 was his ordinary way of alluding to Ivan Ivan- 
 ovitch. “Just God! and is it long” . . . 
 
 “ He will not be there, he will not be there! 
 May the lightning kill me on the spot!” re¬ 
 turned Anton Prokofievitch, who was ready to 
 perjure himself ten times in an hour. “Come 
 along, Ivan Nikiforovitch!” 
 
 “Yes, you lie, Anton Prokofievitch! he is 
 there! ” 
 
 “By Heavens, by Heavens, 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! . . . 
 Why, don’t you believe me now ? May I 
 perish right here in your presence! Don’t 
 you believe me yet ? ” 
 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch was entirely re-assured by 
 these asseverations, and ordered his valet, in 
 
1 88 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 the boundless surtout, to fetch his trousers and 
 nankeen casaquin. 
 
 I suppose that to describe how Ivan Nikifor- 
 ovitch put on his trousers, how they wound his 
 neckerchief about his neck, and finally dragged 
 on his casaquin, which burst under the left 
 sleeve, would be quite superfluous. Suffice it 
 to say, that during all that time he preserved a 
 becoming calmness of demeanor, and answered 
 not a word to Anton Prokofievitch’s proposition 
 to swap something for his Turkish tobacco- 
 pouch. 
 
 f 
 
 Meanwhile the assembly awaited with impa¬ 
 tience the decisive moment when Ivan Nikifor- 
 ovitch 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 he only desisted because one-eyed Ivan 
 Ivanovitch demanded that he should wager 
 his shot foot against his own bad eye, at 
 which the chief of police was greatly of- 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 1 89 
 
 fended, 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 
 ceremonious occasions, every one had already 
 long dined. 
 
 No sooner did Anton Prokofievitch show him¬ 
 self in the doorway, than he was instantly sur¬ 
 rounded by all. Anton Prokofievitch, in answer 
 to all inquiries, shouted one all-decisive word, 
 “ He will not come!” No sooner had he 
 uttered this, than a hailstorm of reproaches, 
 scoldings, and, possibly, even fillips, prepared 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 
 throughout the company as Ivan Nikiforovitch’s 
 unexpected arrival created. But Anton Proko¬ 
 fievitch 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 
 
190 BOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 space of time, have attired himself like a re¬ 
 spectable gentleman. Ivan Ivanovitch was not 
 there at the moment: he had stepped out 
 somewhere. Recovering from their amaze¬ 
 ment, the public took an interest in Ivan Niki- 
 
 21 
 
 » forovitch’s health, and expressed 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 the table. The line of 
 ladies, loquacious and silent, thin and thick, 
 swept on, and the long table glittered with all 
 the hues of the rainbow. I will not describe 
 the courses: I will make ~no^mention ofTlie 
 curd dumplings with sour cream, nor ot theTdish ' 
 of haslets 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 sauce which was brought in all 
 enveloped in the flames of wine, which amused 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . I9I 
 
 as well as frightened the ladies extremely. I 
 will say nothing of these dishes, because I like 
 better to eat them than to spend many words 
 in discussing them. 
 
 Ivan Ivanovitch was exceedingly pleased 
 with the fish prepared with horseradish. He 
 devoted himself particularly 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 if 
 . . . Heavenly Creator! but this was strange! I 
 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 ! My pen is flabby, 
 dead, . . . with a fine point for this picture ! 
 Their faces seemed to turn to stone, still keep¬ 
 ing their defiant expression. Each beheld a 
 long familiar face, to which it seemed the most 
 natural of things to step up as to an unex¬ 
 pected friend, involuntarily, and offer a snuff¬ 
 box, with the words, “ Do me the favor/’ or 
 “ Dare I beg you to do me the favor ? ” In¬ 
 stead of this, that face was terrible as a fore¬ 
 runner of evil. The perspiration poured in 
 
ig2 I/OIV THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 
 
 streams from Ivan Ivanovitch and Ivan Niki- 
 forovitch. 
 
 All the guests at table grew dumb with at¬ 
 tention, and never took their eyes from the 
 former friends. The ladies, who had been busy 
 up to that time with a sufficiently interesting 
 discussion as to the preparation of capons, sud¬ 
 denly cut their conversation short. All was 
 silence. It was a picture worthy the brush of 
 a great artist. 
 
 At length Ivan Ivanovitch pulled out his 
 handkerchief, and began to blow his nose; but 
 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 strongly fastened. Then both 
 of the friends began to eat, and never once 
 glanced at each other again. 
 
 As soon as dinner was done, both of the 
 former friends rose from their seats, and began 
 to look for their hats, with a view to departure. 
 Then the chief beckoned ; and Ivan Ivanovitch 
 — not that Ivan Ivanovitch, but the other, the 
 one with the one eye — stood behind Ivan Niki¬ 
 forovitch, and the chief stepped behind Ivan 
 
I/OIV THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 193 
 
 Ivanovitch, and both began to drag them back¬ 
 wards, in order to bring them together, and not 
 release them until they had shaken hands with 
 each other. Ivan Ivanovitch, the one-eyed Ivan, 
 pushed Ivan Nikiforovitch, though rather crook¬ 
 edly, yet 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 what¬ 
 ever on this occasion, and, as if with malice 
 aforethought, swung itself uncommonly far, and 
 in quite the contrary direction (which possibly 
 resulted 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 
 centre, out of curiosity. Such an omen fore¬ 
 boded nothing good. Nevertheless, the judge, 
 in order to set the matter 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 
 
194 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 of ball. As soon as the judge pushed Ivan 
 Ivanovitch, Ivan Ivanovitch with the one eye 
 exerted all his strength, and pushed Ivan Niki- 
 forovitch, from whom the perspiration streamed 
 like rain-water from the roofs. In spite of the 
 fact that the friends resisted to the best of their 
 ability, nevertheless they were brought together, 
 for the two active movers received re-enforce¬ 
 ments from the ranks of the guests. 
 
 Then they were closely surrounded on all 
 sides, not to be released until they had decided 
 to give each other their hands. “ God be with 
 you, Ivan Nikiforovitch and Ivan Ivanovitch ! 
 declare upon your honor now, what you quar¬ 
 relled about ; trifles, wasn’t it ? aren’t you 
 ashamed of yourselves before people and before 
 God ? ” 
 
 “I do not know,” said Ivan Nikiforovitch, 
 panting with fatigue (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 Niki- 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 195 
 
 forovitch. “ I swear before God and before 
 you, honorable noblemen, I did nothing to 
 my enemy! Why does he calumniate me, 
 and injure my rank and family ? ” 
 
 “What injury have I done you, Ivan Ivano- 
 vitch ? ” said Ivan Nikiforovitch. One moment 
 more of explanation, and the long enmity was 
 on the point of being extinguished. Ivan Niki¬ 
 forovitch was already feeling in his pocket for 
 his snuff-box, and was about to say, “ Do me 
 the favor.” 
 
 “Is it no injury,” answered Ivan Ivanovitch, 
 without raising his eyes, “ when you, my dear 
 sir, insulted my honor and my family with a 
 word which it is improper to repeat here ? ” 
 
 “ Permit me to observe, in a friendly man¬ 
 ner, 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 came over Ivan Nikiforovitch that he had 
 made a mistake in uttering that word ; but it was 
 too late : the word was out. Every thing went 
 
196 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED, 
 
 to the deuce. If, 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 assem¬ 
 blage 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 cast one glance upon Ivan Nikiforovitch, 
 and such a glance! If that glance had pos¬ 
 sessed active power, then it would have turned 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch into dust. The guests un¬ 
 derstood the glance, and hastened to separate 
 
 1 
 
 them. And this m£n, the very model of gentle¬ 
 ness, jvho never let a single poor woman go 
 wjikout 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. 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 197 
 
 His ancestral chest was opened; from the chest 
 was taken — what? silver rubles, his grand¬ 
 father’s old silver rubles! And these rubles 
 passed into the ink-stained hands of legal ad¬ 
 visers. The case was sent up to the higher 
 court; and when Ivan Ivanovitch received the 
 joyful news that it would be decided on the mor¬ 
 row, 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 tiresome and 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 that 
 time: when it was dull, I was dull; but in spite 
 of that, when I came to pass through Mirgorod, 
 my heart beat violently. God, what reminis- 
 
198 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 cences ! I had not beheld Mirgorod for twenty 
 years. Here then had lived, in touching friend¬ 
 ship, two inseparable friends. And how many 
 prominent people had died! Judge Demyan 
 Demyanovitch was already gone : Ivan Ivano- 
 vitch (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 
 new grading was being done. Several izbas 
 had been removed. The remnants of board 
 and wattled fences projected sadly, here and 
 there. It was a festival day. I ordered my bas¬ 
 ket kibitka 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 empty; there were very few people; 
 it was evident that even the most pious feared 
 the mud. The candles seemed strangely un¬ 
 pleasant in that gloomy, or, better still, 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 addressed myself to a respectable 
 old man, with grayish hair : “ May I inquire if 
 Ivan Nikiforovitch is still living ? ” At that 
 
HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 199 
 
 moment the lamp before the ikon burned up 
 more brightly, and the light fell directly upon 
 the face of my companion. What was my sur¬ 
 prise, on looking more closely, to behold fea¬ 
 tures 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 Nikiforo¬ 
 vitch. 
 
 “You don’t say so! you have been to Poltava 
 in this 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 favor.” 
 
 * - - 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders, and went to get 
 some news of Ivan Ivanovitch. 
 
 “ Ivan Ivanovitch is here,” some one said to 
 me, “ in the choir.” 
 
 Then I saw a gaunt form. Was that Ivan 
 
2 C 0 HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED. 
 
 Ivanovitch ? His face was covered with wrin¬ 
 kles, his hair was perfectly white; but the 
 bekesha was the same as ever. After the first 
 greetings were over, Ivan Ivanovitch, turning 
 to me with the joyous smile which always 
 became his funnel-shaped face, said, “Have 
 you been informed of the pleasant news ? ” 
 
 “What news ?” I inquired. 
 
 “ My case is to be decided to-morrow with¬ 
 
 out fail: the court has announced it de- 
 j cisively.” 
 
 I sighed more deeply than before, and 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 “ cour¬ 
 ier’s horses,” started, producing with their hoofs, 
 which were buried in a gray 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 pene¬ 
 trated through and through me. The gloomy 
 barrier with a sentry-box, in which an old sol¬ 
 dier was repairing his gray weapons, passed 
 slowly by. Again the same fields, in some 
 
HO W THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED . 201 
 
 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 dull in this world, 
 gentlemen ! 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE PORTRAIT . 1 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Nowhere did so many people pause as before 
 the little picture-shop in the Shtchukinui Dvor. 
 This little shop offered, in fact, the most varied 
 collection of curiosities. The pictures were 
 principally in oil, covered with dark-green var¬ 
 nish, in tinsel frames of a dull yellow. Winter 
 scenes with white trees; very red sunsets, like 
 raging conflagrations ; a Flemish boor, with 
 pipe and crippled hand, more like a turkey-cock 
 in cuffs than a human being, — these were the 
 prevailing subjects. To these must be added a 
 few engravings, — a portrait of Khozreff-Mirza 
 in a sheepskin cap, and portraits of some gen¬ 
 erals or other with three-cornered hats and 
 hooked noses. Moreover, the doors of such 
 
 1 This is the first in the series of St. Petersburg stories. 
 
 203 
 
204 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 booths are usually festooned with bundles of 
 publications, printed on large sheets of bark, 
 which bear witness to the native talent of the 
 Russian. 
 
 On one was the Tzarevna Miliktrisa Kirbi- 
 tievna; on another the city of Jerusalem, over 
 whose houses and churches spread red paint, 
 embracing in its sweep a part of the ground, 
 and two praying Russian muzhiks in their shirt¬ 
 sleeves. There are usually but few purchasers 
 of these productions, but the gazers were many. 
 Some truant lackey probably yawned before 
 them, holding in his hand the dishes containing 
 dinner from the cook-shop for his master, who 
 would doubtless not get his soup very hot. Be¬ 
 fore them, too, would probably be standing a 
 soldier wrapped in his cloak, — that cavalier of 
 the old-clothes’ mart, with two penknives for 
 sale,—and Okhtenka, the huckstress, with her 
 basketful of shoes. Each expresses his admira¬ 
 tion in his own fashion. The muzhiks generally 
 touch them with their fingers; the cavaliers 
 gaze seriously at them ; serving-boys and ap¬ 
 prentices laugh, and tease each other with the 
 colored caricatures ; old lackeys in frieze man- 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 205 
 
 ties look at them merely for the sake of yawning 
 away their time somewhere ; and the hucksters, 
 young Russian women, halt by instinct to hear 
 what people are gossiping about, and to see 
 what they are looking at. 
 
 At the time when our story opens, the young 
 painter, Tchartkoff, paused involuntarily as he 
 passed the shop. His old cloak and undandified 
 attire showed him to be a man who was devoted 
 to his art with self-denying zeal, and who had 
 no time to trouble himself about clothes, which 
 always have a secret attraction for young men. 
 
 He paused before the little shop, and at first 
 
 \ 
 
 enjoyed an inward laugh over the monstrosities 
 of pictures. At length he sank unconsciously 
 into a revery, and began to ponder on the ques¬ 
 tion, What sort of people wanted these pro¬ 
 ductions ? It did not seem remarkable to him 
 that the Russian people should gaze with rapture 
 upon Eruslanoff Lazarevitch, on The Glutton 
 and The Carouser, on Thoma and Erema. The 
 delineations of those subjects were sufficient 
 and very easily intelligible to the masses. But 
 where were there purchasers for those streaky, 
 dirty oil-paintings ? Who needed those Flemish 
 
20 6 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 boors, those reel and blue landscapes, which put 
 forth some claims to a higher stage of art, but 
 which expressed all the depths of its degrada¬ 
 tion ? They did not appear in the least like 
 the works of a self-taught child. In that case, 
 in spite of the intentional caricature of the 
 design, a sharp distinction would have mani¬ 
 fested itself. But here were visible only simple 
 dulness, weak, faltering incapacity, which stood, 
 through self-will, in the ranks of art, while its 
 true place was among the lowest trades, — an 
 incapacity which was true, nevertheless, to its 
 vocation, and dragged its trade into art. The 
 same colors, the same manner, the same driving, 
 practised hand, belonging rather to a manufac¬ 
 tured automaton than to a man ! 
 
 He stood long before the dirty pictures, 
 thinking not at all of them at length; but 
 meanwhile the proprietor of the stall, a little 
 gray man, in a frieze cloak, with a beard which 
 had not been shaved since Sunday, had been 
 nudging him for some time, bartering and set¬ 
 tling on prices, without even knowing what 
 pleased him, or what he wanted. “ Here, I’ll 
 take a silver piece for these peasants and this 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 207 
 
 little landscape. What painting ! it fairly puts 
 your eyes out; only just received from the 
 factory; the varnish isn’t dry yet. Or, here is 
 a winter scene, — take the winter scene ; fifteen 
 rubles ; the frame alone is worth it. What a 
 winter scene!” Here the merchant gave a 
 light fillip to the canvas, as if to demonstrate 
 all the merits of the winter scene. “ Pray have 
 them done up and sent to your house. Where 
 do you live? Here, boy, give me some 
 string! ” 
 
 “ Hold, brother, not so fast! ” said the paint¬ 
 er, coming to himself, and perceiving that the 
 brisk dealer was beginning in earnest to do 
 them up. He was rather ashamed not to take 
 any thing after standing so long at the stall ; 
 and he said, “ Here, stop ! I will see if there 
 is any thing I want here ; ” and, bending over, 
 he began to pick up from the floor, where they 
 were thrown in a heap, worn, dusty old paint¬ 
 ings, which evidently commanded no respect. 
 There were old family portraits, whose descend¬ 
 ants, probably, could not be found on earth ; 
 totally unknown pictures, with torn canvas; 
 frames minus their gilding; in a word, all sorts 
 
208 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 of old trash. But the painter began his search, 
 thinking to himself, “ Perhaps I may find some¬ 
 thing.” He had often heard stories about 
 pictures of the great masters having been found 
 among the rubbish at the cheap print-sellers’ 
 shops. 
 
 The dealer, perceiving what he was about, 
 ceased his importunities, and, assuming his 
 usual attitude and the accompanying expres¬ 
 sion, took up his post again at the door, hailing 
 the passers-by, and pointing to his stall with 
 one hand. “ Hither, friends, here are pictures; 
 enter, enter; just received from the makers!” 
 He shouted his fill, and generally in vain : he 
 had a long talk with a rag-merchant standing 
 opposite, also at the door of his stall; and 
 finally, recollecting that he had a customer in 
 his shop, he turned his back on the public, and 
 went inside. “Well, batiushka [my friend], 
 have you chosen any thing ? ” But the painter 
 had already been standing for some time im¬ 
 movable before a portrait in a large, originally 
 magnificent, frame, but upon which hardly a 
 trace of gilding now remained. 
 
 It represented an old man, with a thin, 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 209 
 
 bronzed face and high cheek-bones ; it seemed 
 as if the features were depicted in a moment of 
 convulsive agitation, and bespoke an un-northern 
 power; the burning south was stamped upon 
 them. He was muffled in a voluminous Asiatic 
 costume. Dusty and defaced as the portrait 
 was, when he had succeeded in removing the 
 dirt from the face, he saw traces of the work 
 of a great artist. The portrait appeared to be 
 unfinished, but the power of the handling was 
 striking. The eyes were the most remarkable 
 of all: it seemed as though the full power of the 
 artist’s brush and all his care had been lavished 
 upon them. They fairly looked, gazed, out of 
 the portrait, destroying its harmony with their 
 strange liveliness. When he carried the portrait 
 to the door, the eyes glanced even more pene- 
 tratingly. They produced nearly the same im¬ 
 pression on the public. A woman standing 
 behind him, exclaimed, “He looks, he looks!” 
 and jumped back. He experienced an unpleas¬ 
 ant feeling, inexplicable even to himself, and 
 put the portrait on the floor. 
 
 “How? You take the portrait?” said the 
 dealer. 
 
210 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 “ How much is it ? ” said the painter. 
 
 “ Why chaffer over it ? give me seventy-five 
 kopeks.” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “Well, how much will you give?” 
 
 “Twenty kopeks,” said the painter, preparing 
 to go. 
 
 “ What a price ! Why, you couldn’t buy the 
 frame for that! Perhaps you will decide to 
 purchase to-morrow. Sir, sir, turn back ! Add 
 ten kopeks. Take it, take it! give me twenty 
 kopeks. To tell the truth, you are my first cus¬ 
 tomer, and that’s the only reason.” Then he 
 made a gesture, as if to signify, “ So be it; 
 let the picture go ! ” 
 
 Thus Tchartkoff quite unexpectedly purchased 
 the old portrait, and at the same time reflected, 
 “Why have I bought it? What is it to me ? ’’ 
 But there was nothing to be done. He pulled 
 the twenty-kopek piece from his pocket, gave it 
 to the merchant, took the portrait under his 
 arm, and carried it home. On the way thither, 
 he remembered that the twenty-kopek piece he 
 had given for it was his last. His thoughts at 
 once grew dark. Vexation and careless indif- 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 211 
 
 ference took possession of him at one and the 
 same moment. “ Devil take it! This world is 
 disagreeable enough ! ” he said, with the feel¬ 
 ing of a Russian whose affairs are going wrong. 
 And almost mechanically he went on at a 
 quickened pace, filled with indifference to every 
 thing. The red light of sunset still lingered in 
 half the sky ; the houses facing that way still 
 almost gleamed with its warm light; and mean¬ 
 while the cold blue light of the moon grew 
 brighter. Light, half-transparent shadows fell 
 in bands upon the ground, broken by the 
 houses and the feet of the pedestrians. The 
 painter began by degrees to glance up at the 
 sky, flushed with a thin, transparent, dubious 
 light; and nearly at the same moment from his 
 mouth fell the words, “ What a delicate tone ! ” 
 and the words, “What a nuisance! Deuce 
 take it! ” and, re-adjusting the portrait, which 
 slipped from under his arm incessantly, he 
 quickened his pace. 
 
 Weary, bathed in perspiration, he dragged 
 himself to the fifteenth line, on Vasilievsky 
 Ostroff. With difficulty and much panting he 
 made his way up the stairs flooded with soap- 
 
212 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 suds, and adorned with the tracks of dogs and 
 cats. To his knock on the door, there was no 
 answer: there was no one at home. He leaned 
 against the window, and disposed himself to 
 wait patiently, until at last there resounded 
 behind him the footsteps of a boy in a blue 
 blouse—his servant, model, color-grinder, and 
 scrubber of floors, who also dirtied them with 
 his boots. The boy was called Nikita, and 
 spent all his time in the streets when his mas¬ 
 ter was not at home. Nikita tried for a long 
 time to get the key into the lock, which was 
 quite invisible, by reason of the darkness. 
 
 Finally the door was opened. Tchartkoff en¬ 
 tered his ante-room, which was intolerably cold, 
 as painters’ rooms always are, which fact, more¬ 
 over, they do not notice. Without giving Nikita 
 his coat, he went into his studio, a large, square, 
 but low apartment, with frozen windows, and 
 fitted up with all sorts of artistic rubbish, — 
 bits of plaster hands, canvas stretched on 
 frames, sketches begun and discarded, and dra¬ 
 peries thrown over chairs. He was very tired : 
 he threw off his cloak, placed the portrait ab¬ 
 stractedly between two small canvases, and 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 213 
 
 threw himself on the narrow divan, of which it 
 was impossible to say that it was covered with 
 leather, because a row of brass nails, which had 
 formerly fastened it, had long been left alone 
 by themselves, and the leather remained above 
 by itself; so that Nikita was in the habit of 
 stuffing dirty stockings, shirts, and all the 
 
 soiled linen, under it. Having seated himself, 
 and stretched himself, as much as it was 
 
 possible to stretch, on the narrow divan, he 
 finally called for a light. 
 
 “ There are no candles,” said Nikita. 
 
 “ How, none ? ” 
 
 “And there were none last night,” said 
 
 Nikita. The artist recollected that, in fact, 
 there had been no candles the previous even¬ 
 ing, quieted down, and became silent. He let 
 himself be undressed, and put on his old, 
 
 much-worn dressing-gown. 
 
 “There has been a gentleman here,” said 
 Nikita. 
 
 “ Well, he came for money, I know,” said the 
 painter, waving his hand. 
 
 “Yes, and he was not alone,” said Nikita. 
 
 “Who else?” 
 
214 
 
 THE rORTRAIT. 
 
 “I don’t know,—some policeman or other.” 
 
 “ But why a policeman ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know why : he says because your 
 rent is not paid.” 
 
 “ Well, what will come of it ? ” 
 
 “I don’t know what will come of it : he said, 
 ‘If he won’t pay, why, let him leave the rooms.’ 
 They are both coming again to-morrow.” 
 
 “Let them come,” said Tchartkoff, with sad 
 indifference ; and that gloomy mood took full 
 possession of him. 
 
 Young Tchartkoff was an artist of talent, 
 which promised great things : by fits and starts 
 his work gavei evidence of observation, thou ght, 
 and a strong inclination to approach nearer to 
 nature. 
 
 “ Look here, my friend,” his professor said to 
 him more than once, “you have talent; it will 
 be a shame if you waste it: but you are impa¬ 
 tient ; you have but to be attracted by a thing, 
 to fall in love with a thing — you are all en¬ 
 grossed with it, and everything else is rubbish, 
 all else goes for nothing, you won’t even look 
 at it. See to it that you do not become a fash¬ 
 ionable artist : at present your colors begin to 
 
THE FOR TEA IT. 
 
 215 
 
 assert themselves too loudly; your drawing is 
 not strong; at times it is quite weak, —no lines 
 are to be seen : you are already striving after 
 the fashionable light, because it strikes the eye 
 at once. . . . See, you fall into the English 
 style as if on purpose. Have a care! the 
 world already begins to attract you : I have 
 already seen you with a shiny hat, a foppish 
 neckerchief. ... It is seductive; it is possible 
 to allow one's self to paint fashionable little 
 pictures and portraits for money; but talent 
 is ruined, not developed, by that means. Be 
 patient; think out every piece of work; discard 
 your foppishness; let others amass money, your 
 own will not fail you." 
 
 The professor was partly right. Our artist 
 sometimes wanted to carouse, to play the fop, 
 in a word, to exhibit his youth in some way or 
 other; but he could control himself withal. 
 At times he could forget every thing, when 
 he had once taken his brush in hand, and 
 could not tear himself from it except as from a 
 delightful dream. His taste perceptibly devel¬ 
 oped. He did not as yet understand all the 
 depths of Raphael, but he was attracted by 
 
216 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 Guido’s broad and rapid handling, he paused 
 before the portraits by Titian, he delighted in 
 the Flemish masters. The dark veil enshroud¬ 
 ing the ancient pictures had not yet passed 
 away from before them ; but he already saw 
 something in them, though in private he did 
 not agree with the professor that the old mas¬ 
 ters are irremediably lost to us : it seemed to 
 him that the nineteenth century had improved 
 upon them considerably, that the delineation of 
 nature had become clearer, more vivid, nearer; 
 in a word, he thought on this point as youth 
 does think, having already accomplished some¬ 
 thing, and recognizing it with internal pride. 
 It sometimes vexed him when he saw how a 
 strange artist, French or German, sometimes 
 not even a painter by profession, but only a 
 skilful dauber, produced, by the celerity of his 
 brush and the vividness of his coloring, a uni¬ 
 versal commotion, and amassed in a twinkling 
 a funded capital. This did not occur to him 
 when, fully occupied with his own work, he for¬ 
 got food and drink and all the world : but when 
 dire want arrived, when he had no money 
 wherewith to buy brushes and colors, when his 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 217 
 
 implacable landlord came ten times a day to 
 demand the pay for his rooms, then did the 
 luck of the wealthy artists present itself to his 
 hungry imagination; then did the thought 
 which so often traverses Russian minds, trav¬ 
 erse his, — to give up altogether, and go down 
 hill, and utterly to the bad. And now he was 
 almost in this frame of mind. 
 
 “ Yes, be patient, be patient! ” he exclaimed 
 with vexation; “ but there is an end to pa¬ 
 tience at last. Be patient! but what money 
 am I to dine with to-morrow ? No one will 
 lend me any. If I bring myself to sell all my 
 pictures and sketches, they would give me 
 twenty kopeks for the whole of them. They 
 are useful; I feel that not one of them was 
 undertaken in vain ; I learned something from 
 each one. Yes, but of what use? studies, trial- 
 sketches— and all will be studies, trial-sketches 
 — and there will be no end to them. And who 
 will buy, knowing me not even by name ? yes, 
 and who wants drawings from the antique, or 
 the life class, or my unfinished love of a Psyche, 
 or the perspective of my chamber, or the por¬ 
 trait of my Nikita, though it is better, to tell 
 
218 
 
 T 1 IE PORTRAIT 
 
 the truth, than the portraits by any of the fash¬ 
 ionable artists ? In fact, what does it mean ? 
 Why do I worry, and toil like a learner over the 
 alphabet, when I might shine as brightly as 
 the rest, and have money, too, like them ?” 
 
 Thus speaking, the artist suddenly shuddered, 
 and turned pale: a convulsively distorted face 
 gazed at him, peeping forth from the surround¬ 
 ing canvas ; two terrible eyes were fixed straight 
 upon him, as if preparing to devour him ; on 
 the mouth was written a menacing command of 
 silence. Frightened, he tried to scream and 
 summon Nikita, who had already succeeded in 
 setting up a gigantic snoring in his ante-room ; 
 but he suddenly paused and laughed ; the sensa¬ 
 tion of fear subsided in a moment; it was the 
 portrait he had bought, and which he had quite 
 forgotten. The light of the moon illuminating 
 the chamber, fell upon it, and lent it a strange 
 likeness to life. He began to examine and wipe 
 it off. He moistened a sponge with water, passed 
 it over the picture several times, washed off 
 nearly all the accumulated and incrusted dust 
 and dirt, hung it on the wall before him, and 
 wondered yet more at the remarkable workman- 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 219 
 
 ship : almost the whole face had gained new 
 life, and the eyes gazed at him so that he shud¬ 
 dered at last; and, springing back, he exclaimed 
 in a voice of surprise, “ It looks, it looks, with 
 human eyes!” Then suddenly there came to y 
 his mind a story he had heard long before 
 from his professor, of a certain portrait by the 
 renowned Leonardo da Vinci, upon which the 
 great master labored several years, and still 
 held it incomplete, and which, according to 
 Vasari, was nevertheless deemed by all the most 
 complete and finished product of his art. The 
 most finished thing about it was the eyes, which 
 amazed his contemporaries : the very smallest, 
 barely visible veins in them were not omitted, 
 but committed to the canvas. But here, in 
 the portrait now before him, there was some¬ 
 thing singular. This was no longer art: it even n 
 destroyed the harmony of the portrait; they 
 were living, human eyes ! It seemed as though 
 they had been cut from a living man, and 
 inserted there.. Here was none of that high 
 enjoyment which takes possession of the spirit 
 at the sight of an artist’s production, no matter 
 how terrible the subject he may have chosen : 
 
220 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 there was a painful, fatiguing sensation here. 
 “ What is it ? ” the artist asked himself involun¬ 
 tarily ; “but this is nature, nevertheless, living 
 nature. Whence this strangely unpleasant 
 feeling ? Is a slavish, literal copy of nature a 
 crime which proclaims itself in a shrill, dis¬ 
 cordant shriek? If you take an unsympathetic 
 subject, one void of feeling, having no sympathy 
 with it yourself, will it infallibly stand forth, in 
 its fearful realism, unillumined by any intan¬ 
 gible, hidden light, to the thoughts of all? will 
 it stand forth in such realism as is displayed, 
 when, wishing to understand the secret of a 
 very handsome man, you arm yourself with an 
 anatomical knife, cut to his heart, and behold 
 a hideous man ? Why does simple, lowly Na¬ 
 ture reveal herself in the works of one artist in 
 such a light that you experience no sensation 
 of degradation, — on the contrary, you seem to 
 enjoy it for some reason, and things seem to 
 flow more quietly and smoothly around you 
 after it? And why does this same Nature 
 seem, in the hands of another artist, low and 
 vile? Yet he was true to Nature too. But, 
 no, there is nothing illuminating in her. It 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 221 
 
 makes no difference what aspect Nature wears : 
 however magnificent she may be, there is al¬ 
 ways something wanting, unless the sun is in 
 the sky.” 
 
 Again he approached the portrait, in order to 
 view those wondrous eyes, and perceived with 
 terror that they were gazing at him. This was 
 no copy from Nature : it was life, the strange 
 life which might have lighted up the face of 
 a dead man, who had risen from the grave. 
 Whether it was the effect of the moonlight, 
 which brought with it fantastic thoughts, and 
 transformed things into strange likenesses, 
 opposed to those of matter-of-fact day, or from 
 some other cause, it suddenly became fright¬ 
 ful to him, he knew not why, to sit alone in the 
 room. He retreated softly from the portrait, 
 turned aside, and tried not to look at it ; but his 
 eye involuntarily, of its own accord, glanced 
 sideways, and watched it. Finally, he became 
 afraid to walk about the room : it seemed as 
 though some one were on the point of stepping 
 up behind him ; and every time he turned, he 
 glanced timidly back. He had never been cow¬ 
 ardly ; but his imagination and nerves were sen- 
 
222 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 sitive, and that evening he could not explain 
 his involuntary fear. He seated himself in the 
 corner, but even then it seemed to him that 
 some one was peeping over his shoulder into 
 his face. Even Nikita’s snores, resounding 
 from the ante-room, did not chase away his fear. 
 At length he rose from his seat, timidly, with¬ 
 out raising his eyes, went behind his screen, 
 and lay down on his bed. Through the cracks 
 of the screen he saw his room illuminated by 
 the moon, and saw the portrait hanging stiffly 
 on the wall. The eyes were fixed upon him in 
 a still more terrible and significant manner, and 
 it seemed as if they would not look at any thing 
 but him. Overpowered with a feeling of oppres¬ 
 sion, he decided to rise from his bed, seized a 
 sheet, and, approaching the portrait, covered it 
 up completely. 
 
 Having done this, he lay down more quietly 
 on the bed, and began to meditate upon the 
 poverty and pitiful lot of the artist, of the thorny 
 path before him in the world ; — but, mean¬ 
 while, his eye glanced involuntarily through 
 the joint of the screen, at the portrait muffled 
 in the sheet. The light of the moon height- 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 223 
 
 ened the whiteness of the sheet, and it seemed 
 to him as though those terrible eyes shone 
 through the cloth. With terror he fixed his 
 eyes more steadfastly on it, as if wishing to 
 convince himself that it was all nonsense. But 
 at length, in fact, ... he sees, sees clearly : 
 there is no longer a sheet; . . . the portrait is 
 quite uncovered, and gazes past every thing 
 around it, straight at him ; gazes fairly into his 
 heart. . . . His heart grows cold. And he 
 sees : the old man has moved, and suddenly, 
 supporting himself on the frame with both 
 arms, has raised himself by his hands, and, 
 putting forth both feet, has leaped out of the 
 frame. . . . Through the crack of the screen, 
 the empty frame alone was now visible. Foot¬ 
 steps resounded in the room, and they ap¬ 
 proached nearer and nearer to the screen. The 
 poor artist’s heart began to beat harder. He 
 expected every moment, his breath failing for 
 fear, that the old man would look round the 
 screen at him. And lo! he did look behind 
 the screen, with the very same bronzed face, 
 and with his big eyes roving about. Tchartkoff 
 tried to scream, and felt that his voice was 
 
224 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 gone ; he tried to move, to make a gesture ; his 
 limbs refused their office. With open mouth, 
 and failing breath, he gazed at the terrible, tall 
 phantom, in some sort of a voluminous Asiatic 
 robe, and waited for what it would do. The 
 old man sat down almost on his very feet, and 
 then pulled out something from among the 
 folds of his wide garment: it was a purse. 
 The old man untied it, seized it by both ends, 
 and shook it. Heavy rolls of money, like long 
 pillars, fell out with a dull thud upon the floor: 
 each was wrapped in blue paper, and on each 
 was marked, “1,000 ducats The old man 
 extended his long, bony hand from his wide 
 sleeves, and began to undo the rolls. The gold 
 glittered. Great as was the artist’s unreason¬ 
 ing fear, and feeling of oppression, he bent all 
 his attention upon the gold, gazing motionless, 
 as it made its appearance in the bony hands, 
 gleamed, rang lightly or dully, and was wrapped 
 up again. Then he perceived one packet which 
 had rolled farther than the rest, to the ve'ry leg 
 , of his bedstead, near his pillow. He grasped 
 it almost convulsively, and glanced in fear_at 
 the old man to see if he perceived it. But the 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 225 
 
 old man appeared very much occupied: he 
 collected all his rolls, replaced them in the 
 purse, and went outside the screen without 
 looking at him. Tchartkoff’s heart beat wildly 
 as he heard the rustle of the retreating foot¬ 
 steps sounding through the room. He clasped 
 his roll more closely in his hand, quivering in 
 every limb ; and suddenly he heard the footsteps 
 approaching the screen again. . . . Apparently 
 the old man had recollected that one roll was 
 missing. And lo ! again he looked round the 
 screen at him. The artist in despair grasped 
 the roll with all his strength, exerted all his 
 power to make a movement, shrieked — and X 
 awoke. 
 
 He was bathed in a cold perspiration ; his 
 heart beat as hard as it was possible for it to 
 beat; his chest was oppressed, as though his 
 last breath was about to fly from it. “ Was it 
 a dream ? ” he said, seizing his head with both 
 hands. But the terrible life-likeness of the 
 apparition did not resemble a dream. As he' 
 woke, he saw the old man step into the frame : 
 the skirts of the voluminous garment even 
 fluttered, and his hand felt plainly that a 
 
226 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 moment before it had held something heavy. 
 The moonlight illumined the room, bringing 
 out from the dark corners, here a canvas, 
 there the model of a hand ; a drapery thrown 
 over a chair j trousers and uncleaned boots. 
 Then he perceived that he was not lying in his 
 bed, but standing upright, directly before__the 
 portrait. How he had come there, he could 
 not in the least comprehend. Still more sur¬ 
 prised was he, to find the portrait quite un¬ 
 covered, and there actually was no sheet ov er 
 it. Motionless with terror, he gazed at it, and 
 perceived that the living, human eyes were 
 fastened upon him. A cold perspiration 
 started out upon his face. He wanted to move 
 away, but felt that his feet had in some way 
 become rooted to the earth. And he saw — 
 that this was not a dream. The old man s 
 features moved, and his lips began to project 
 towards him, as though he wanted to suck him 
 in. With a yell of despair he jumped back 
 
 — and awoke. 
 
 t “ Was it a dream ? ” With his heart beating 
 to bursting, he felt about him with both hands. 
 Yes, he was lying in bed, and in precisely the 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 227 
 
 position in which he had fallen asleep. Before 
 him stood the screen. The moonlight flooded 
 the apartment. Through the crack of the 
 screen, the portrait was visible, covered with 
 the sheet, as it should be, just as he had 
 covered it. And so this, too, was a dream ? 
 But his clinched fist still felt as though some¬ 
 thing had been in it. The beating of his heart 
 was violent, almost terrible; the weight upon 
 his breast, intolerable. He fixed his eyes upon 
 the crack, and stared steadfastly at the sheet. 
 And lo ! he sees plainly how the sheet begins 
 to open, as though hands were pushing from 
 underneath, and trying to throw it off. “ Lord 
 God, what is it! ” he shrieked, crossing himself 
 in despair — and awoke. 
 
 And was this also a dream ? He sprang 
 from his bed, frantic, half mad, and could not 
 comprehend what had happened to him : was 
 it the oppression of a nightmare, or domovoi 
 (kobold), the raving of fever, or a living appari¬ 
 tion ? Striving to calm, as far as possible, his 
 mental tumult, and wildly rushing blood, which 
 beat with straining pulses in every vein, ho 
 went to the window, and opened the pane. 
 
228 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 The cool, fragrant breeze revived him. The 
 moonlight lay on all the roofs and white walls 
 of the houses, though small clouds passed fre¬ 
 quently across the sky. All was still : from 
 time to time there struck the ear, the distant 
 rumble of adrozhky, whose izvosethik was sleep¬ 
 ing in some obscure alley, lulled to slumber 
 by his lazy nag, as he awaited a belated pas¬ 
 senger. He put his head out of the pane, and 
 gazed long. Already the signs of approaching 
 dawn were spreading in the sky. At last he 
 felt drowsy, clapped to the pane, stepped back, 
 lay down in bed, and quickly fell, like one 
 exhausted, into a deep sleep. 
 
 He awoke late, and with the disagreeable 
 feeling of a man who has been choked with 
 coal-gas : his head ached painfully. The room 
 was dim : an unpleasant humidity pervaded the 
 air, and penetrated the cracks of his windows, 
 stopped with pictures and grounded canvas. 
 Dissatisfied and depressed as a wet cock, he 
 seated himself on his dilapidated divan, not 
 knowing what to do, what to undertake, and at 
 length remembered all his dream. As he re¬ 
 called it, the dream presented itself to his mind 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 229 
 
 as so oppressively real that he even began to 
 wonder whether it were a dream, and simple 
 delirium, whether there were not something 
 else here, whether it were not an apparition. 
 Removing the sheet, he looked at the terrible 
 portrait by the light of day. The eyes were 
 really striking in their extraordinary liveliness, 
 but he found nothing particularly terrible in 
 them ; yet an indescribably unpleasant feeling 
 lingered in his mind. Nevertheless, he could 
 not quite convince himself that it was a dream. 
 It struck him that there must have been some 
 terrible fragment of reality in the midst of the 
 dream. It seemed as though there were some¬ 
 thing in the old man’s very glance and expres¬ 
 sion which said that he had been with him that 
 night: his hand felt the weight which had so 
 recently lain in it as if some one had but just 
 snatched it from him. It seemed to him, that, 
 if he had only grasped the roll more firmly, it 
 would have remained in his hand, even after 
 his awakening. 
 
 “ My God, if I had only a portion of that 
 money! ” he said, breathing heavily; and in his 
 fancy, all those rolls, with their fascinating in- 
 
230 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 scription, i( 1,000 due cits , began to pour out of 
 the purse. The rolls opened, the gold glit¬ 
 tered, was wrapped up again ; and he sat 
 motionless, with his eyes fixed on the empty 
 air, as if he were incapable of tearing himself 
 from such a sight, like a child who sits before 
 a plate of sweets, and beholds, with watering 
 mouth, other people devouring them. 
 
 At last there came a knock on the door, 
 which recalled him unpleasantly to himself. 
 The landlord entered with the constable of the 
 district, whose presence, as is well known, is 
 even more disagreeable to poor people than is 
 the presence of a beggar to the rich. The 
 landlord of the little house in which Tchartkoff 
 lived resembled the other individuals who own 
 houses anywhere in the fifteenth line of 
 Vasilievsky Ostroff, on the Petersburg side, or 
 in the distant regions of Kolomna, — individu¬ 
 als of which there are many in Russia, and 
 whose character is as difficult to define as the 
 color of a threadbare surtout. In his youth he 
 had been a captain and a braggart, had sen ed 
 in the civil service, was a master in the ait of 
 flogging, was skilful and foppish and stupid, 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 231 
 
 but in his old age he combined all these various 
 qualities into a kind of dim indefiniteness. 
 He was a widower, already on the retired list, 
 no longer boasted, nor was dandified, no longer 
 quarrelled, and loved only to drink tea and talk 
 all sorts of nonsense over it; he walked about 
 his room, and arranged the ends ot the tallow 
 candles ; punctually at the end of each month 
 he called upon his lodgers for his money; went 
 out into the street, with the key in his hand, to 
 look at the roof of his house, and sometimes 
 chased the dvornik (porter) out of his kennel, 
 where he had hidden himself to sleep; in a 
 word, he was a man on the retired list, who, 
 after the turmoils and wildness of his life, had 
 only his old-fashioned habits left. 
 
 “Please to see for yourself, Varukh Kuz- 
 mitch, ,, said the landlord, turning to the offi¬ 
 cer, and throwing out his hands, “ this man 
 does not pay his rent, he does not pay.” 
 
 “ How can I when I have no money ? Wait, 
 and I will pay.” 
 
 “ I can’t wait, my good fellow,” said the 
 landlord angrily, making a gesture with the 
 key which he held in his hand. “ Lieutenant- 
 
232 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 Colonel Potogonkin has lived with me seven 
 years, seven years already; Anna Petrovna 
 Buchmisteroff hires the carriage - house and 
 stable, except two stalls, and has three house¬ 
 hold servants, . . . that is the kind of lodgers 
 I have. I will say to you frankly, that this is 
 not an establishment where people do not pay 
 their rent. Pay your money at once, if you 
 please, or else clear out.” 
 
 “ Yes, if you hired the rooms, please to pay,” 
 said the constable, with a slight shake of the 
 head, as he laid his finger on one of the but¬ 
 tons of his uniform. 
 
 “Well, what am I to pay with? that’s the 
 question. I haven’t a groschen just at pres¬ 
 ent.” 
 
 “ In that case, satisfy the claims of Ivan 
 Ivanovitch with the fruits of your profession,” 
 said the officer : “ perhaps he will consent to 
 take pictures.” 
 
 “No, thank you, my good fellow, no pictures. 
 Pictures of holy subjects, such as one could 
 hang upon the walls, would be well enough ; or 
 some general with a star, or Prince Kutusoff’s 
 portrait: but this fellow has painted that 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 233 
 
 muzhik, that muzhik in his blouse, his servant 
 who grinds his colors ! The idea of painting 
 his portrait, the hog! I’ll thrash him well : he 
 took all the nails out of my bolts, the scoundrel! 
 Just see what subjects ! here he has drawn this 
 room. It would have been well enough if he 
 had taken a clean, well-furnished room ; but he 
 has gone and drawn this one, with all the dirt 
 and rubbish which he has collected. Just see 
 how he has defaced my room ! Look for your¬ 
 self. Yes, and my lodgers have been with 
 me seven years, the lieutenant-colonel, Anna 
 Petrovna Buchmisteroff. . . . No, I tell you, 
 there is no worse lodger than a painter: he 
 lives like a pig ; simply — God have mercy ! ” 
 
 And the poor artist had to listen patiently to 
 all this. Meanwhile the officer had occupied 
 himself with examining the pictures and stud¬ 
 ies, and showed that his mind was more ad¬ 
 vanced than the landlord’s, and that he was not 
 insensible to artistic impressions. 
 
 “ Heh! ” said he, tapping one canvas, on 
 which was depicted a naked woman, “ this sub¬ 
 ject is — lively. But why so much black under 
 her nose ? did she take snuff ? ” 
 
234 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 “Shadow,” answered Tchartkoff gruffly, with¬ 
 out looking at him. 
 
 “ But it might have been put in some other 
 place : it is too conspicuous under the nose,” 
 observed the officer. “ And whose likeness is 
 this ?” he continued, approaching the old man’s 
 portrait. “ It’s too terrible. Was he really so 
 dreadful ? Ah ! why, he actually looks ! What 
 a thunder-cloud! From whom did you paint 
 it ? ” 
 
 “Ah! it is from a” — said Tchartkoff, and 
 did not finish his sentence: he heard a crack. 
 It seems that the officer had pressed too hard 
 on the frame of the portrait, thanks to the axe¬ 
 like build of his constable’s hands: the small 
 boards on the side caved in, one fell on the 
 floor, and with it fell, with a heavy clash, a 
 roll in blue paper. The inscription caught 
 Tchartkoff’s eye, — “ 1,000 ducats .” Like a 
 madman, he sprang to pick it up, grasped the 
 roll, and gripped it convulsively in his hand, 
 which fell down with the weight. 
 
 “Wasn’t there a sound of money?” inquired 
 the officer, hearing the noise of something fall¬ 
 ing on the floor, and not catching sight of it, by 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 235 
 
 reason of the rapidity of the movement with 
 which Tchartkoff had hastened to pick it up. 
 
 “What business is it of yours what is in my 
 
 ^ ft 
 
 room ? 
 
 “It’s my business because you ought to pay 
 your rent to the landlord at once, because you 
 have money, and won’t pay, — that’s why it’s 
 my business.” 
 
 “Well, I will pay him to-day.” 
 
 “ Well, and why wouldn’t you pay him before, 
 instead of making trouble for your landlord, and 
 bothering the police to boot ? ” 
 
 “ Because I did not want to touch this money. 
 I will pay him all this evening, and leave the 
 rooms to-morrow, because I will not stay with 
 such a landlord.” 
 
 “ Well, Ivan Ivanovitch, he will pay you,” 
 said the constable, turning to the landlord. 
 “ But in case you are not satisfied in every re¬ 
 spect this evening, then you must excuse me, 
 Mr. Painter.” So saying, he put on his three- 
 cornered hat, and went into the ante-room, fol¬ 
 lowed by the landlord hanging his head, and 
 apparently engaged in meditation. 
 
 “ Thank God, Satan has carried them off! ” 
 
236 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 said Tchartkoff, when he heard the door of the 
 ante-room shut. He looked out into the ante¬ 
 room, sent Nikita off on some errand, in order 
 to be quite alone, fastened the door behind him, 
 and, returning to his room, began with wildly 
 beating heart to undo the roll. 
 
 In it were ducats, all new, and bright as fire. 
 Almost beside himself, he sat down beside the 
 pile of gold, still asking himself, “Is not this 
 all a dream ?” There were just a thousand in 
 the roll: the exterior was precisely like what he 
 had seen in his dream. He turned them over, 
 and looked at them for some minutes, without 
 coming to his senses. His imagination con¬ 
 jured up all the tales of hoards, cabinets with 
 secret drawers, left by ancestors for their spend- 
 thrift descendants, with firm belief in the ex¬ 
 travagance of their life. He pondered thus : 
 “ Did not some grandfather, in the present in¬ 
 stance, leave a gift for his grandchild, shut up 
 in the frame of the family portrait?” Filled 
 with romantic fancies, he began to think : had 
 not this some secret connection with his fate? 
 was not the existence of the portrait bound up 
 with his own existence, and was not his acquisi- 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 tion of it a kind of predestination ? He begS| 
 to examine the frame with curiosity. On one 
 side a cavity was hollowed out, concealed so 
 skilfully and neatly by a little board, that, if the 
 massive hand of the constable had not effected 
 a breach, the ducats might have remained hidden 
 
 0 
 
 to the end of time. On examining the portrait, 
 he marvelled again at the exquisite workman¬ 
 ship, the extraordinary treatment of the eyes; 
 they no longer appeared terrible to him ; but, 
 nevertheless, each time, a disagreeable feeling 
 involuntarily lingered in his mind. “No,” he 
 said to himself, “ no matter whose grandfather 
 you were, I’ll put a glass over you, and get 
 you a gilt frame.” Then he laid his hand 
 on the golden pile before him, and his heart 
 beat faster at the touch. “ What shall I do 
 with them ? ” he said, fixing his eyes on them. 
 “Now I am independent for at least three 
 years : I can shut myself up in my room and 
 work. I have money for colors now; for din¬ 
 ner, tea, my food and lodging — no one will 
 annoy and disturb me now. I will buy myself 
 a first-class manikin, I will order a plaster 
 torso, I will model feet, I will have a Venus, I 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 W\W buy engravings of the best pictures. And 
 if I work three years to satisfy myself, without 
 haste, not for sale, I shall surpass them all, and 
 I may become a distinguished artist.” 
 
 Thus he spoke in solitude, with his good 
 judgment prompting ; but louder and more dis¬ 
 tinct sounded another voice within him. And 
 as he glanced once more at the gold, it was not 
 thus that his twenty-two years and fiery youth 
 spoke. Now every thing was within his power 
 on which he had hitherto gazed with envious 
 eyes, which he had viewed from afar with long¬ 
 ing. How his heart beat when he thought of 
 it! To wear a fashionable coat, to feast after 
 long abstinence, to hire handsome apartments, 
 to go, on the instant, to the theatre, to the con- 
 fectioner’s, to . . . other places; and seizing 
 his money, he was in the street in a moment. 
 
 First of all he went to the tailor, clothed 
 himself anew from head to foot, and began to 
 look at himself incessantly, like a child. He 
 bought perfumes, pomade^ ; hired the first ele¬ 
 gant suite of apartments with mirrors and plate- 
 glass windows which he came across in the 
 Nevsky Prospect, without haggling about the 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 239 
 
 price; bought, on the impulse of the moment, 
 in a shop, a costly opera-glass ; bought, also on 
 impulse, a quantity of neckties of every descrip¬ 
 tion, many more than he needed; had his hair 
 curled at the hairdresser’s; rode through the 
 city twice without any object whatever; ate an 
 immense amount of candy at the confectioner s ; 
 and went to the French Restaurant, of which 
 he had heard rumors as indistinct as though 
 they had concerned the Empire of China. 
 There he dined, with his arms akimbo, casting 
 proud glances at the other visitors, and continu¬ 
 ally arranging his curls in the glass. There he 
 drank a bottle of champagne, which had been 
 known to him hitherto only by hearsay. The 
 wine rather affected his head ; and he emerged 
 into the street, lively, pugnacious, ready to raise 
 the Devil, according to the Russian expression. 
 He strutted along the sidewalk, levelling his 
 opera-glass at everybody. On the bridge he 
 caught sight of his former professor, and 
 slipped past him neatly, as if he did not see 
 him, so that the astounded professor stood 
 stock-still on the bridge for a long time, with a 
 face suggestive of an interrogation-point. 
 
240 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 All his things, every thing he owned, — easels, 
 canvas, pictures, — were transported that same 
 evening to his elegant quarters. He arranged 
 the best of them in conspicuous places, threw 
 the worst into a corner, and promenaded up and 
 down the handsome rooms, glancing constantly 
 in the mirrors. An unconquerable desire to 
 seize fame by the tail, and show himself to the 
 world at once, had arisen in his mind. He al¬ 
 ready heard the shouts, “ Tchartkoff! Tchart- 
 koff! Have you seen Tchartkoff’s picture ? 
 How rapidly Tchartkoff paints! How much 
 talent Tchartkoff has ! ” He paced the room 
 in a state of rapture, unconscious whither he 
 went. The next day he took ten ducats, and 
 went to the publisher of a popular journal, ask¬ 
 ing his charitable assistance. He was joyfully 
 received by the journalist, who called him on 
 the spot, “Most respected sir,” squeezed both 
 his hands, made minute inquiries as to his 
 name, birthplace, residence ; and the next day 
 there appeared in the journal, below a notice 
 of some newly invented tallow candles, an 
 article with the following heading: — 
 
I 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 241 
 
 \AJl £ ^^ 0 [yfrJjJ/ 
 
 “ tchartkoff’s immense talent. 
 
 “We hasten to delight the cultivated inhabit¬ 
 ants of the capital with a discovery which we 
 may call splendid in every respect. All are 
 agreed that there are among us many very 
 handsome physiognomies and faces, but hith¬ 
 erto there has been no means of committing 
 them to the wonder-working canvas for trans¬ 
 mission to posterity. This want has now been 
 supplied : an artist has been found who unites 
 in himself all desirable qualities. The beauty 
 can now feel assured that she will be depicted 
 with all the grace of her spiritual charms, airy, 
 fascinating, wondrous, butterfly-like, flitting 
 among the flowers of spring. The stately 
 father of a family can see himself surrounded 
 by his family. Merchant, warrior, citizen, 
 statesman — hasten one and all, come from 
 your promenade, your expedition to your 
 friend, your cousin, to the glittering bazaar; 
 hasten, wherever you may be. The artist’s 
 magnificent establishment [Nevsky Prospect, 
 such and such a number] is all hung with por¬ 
 traits from his brush, worthy of Van Dyck or 
 
242 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 Titian. One knows not which to admire most, 
 their truth and likeness to the originals, or the 
 wonderful brilliancy and freshness of the col¬ 
 oring. Hail to you, artist! you have drawn 
 a lucky number in the lottery. Long live 
 Andrei Petrovitch! ” (The journalist evi¬ 
 dently liked familiarity.) “ Glorify yourself 
 and us. We know how to prize you. Univer¬ 
 sal popularity, and with it money, will be your 
 meed, though some of our brother journalists 
 may rise against you.” 
 
 The artist read this article with secret satis¬ 
 faction : his face beamed. He was mentioned 
 in print; it was a novelty to him : he read the 
 lines over several times. The comparison with 
 Van Dyck and Titian flattered him extremely. 
 The phrase, “ Long live Andrei Petrovitch,” also 
 pleased him greatly : being called by his Chris¬ 
 tian name and patronymic in print was an 
 honor hitherto utterly unknown to him. He 
 began to pace the chamber briskly, to tumble 
 his hair; now he sat down in an arm-chair, then 
 sprang up, and seated himself on the sofa, plan¬ 
 ning each moment how he would receive visit¬ 
 ors, male and female; he went to his canvas, 
 
THE TOE TEA IT. 
 
 243 
 
 and made a rapid sweep of the brush, endeaw 
 oring to impart a graceful movement to his 
 hand. 
 
 The next day, the little bell at his door rang : 
 he hastened to open. A lady entered, followed 
 by a lackey in a furred livery-coat; and with 
 the lady entered an eighteen-year-old girl, her 
 daughter. 
 
 “ You are Monsieur Tchartkoff ? ” 
 
 The artist bowed. 
 
 “ A great deal is being written about you : 
 your portraits, it is said, are the height of per¬ 
 fection.” So saying, the lady raised her glass 
 to her eyes, and glanced rapidly over the walls, 
 upon which nothing was hanging. “But where 
 are your portraits ? ” 
 
 “They have been taken away,” replied the 
 artist, somewhat confusedly: “I have but just 
 moved into these apartments; so they are still 
 on the road, . . . they have not arrived.” 
 
 “You have been in Italy?” asked the lady, 
 levelling her glass at him, as she found nothing 
 else to point it at. 
 
 “ No, I have not been there ; but I wish to go, 
 . . . and I have deferred it for a while. . . . 
 
244 
 
 TIIE PO RITA IT. 
 
 Here is an arm-chair, Madame: you are fa¬ 
 tigued ? ” . . . 
 
 “ Thank you : I have been sitting a long time 
 in the carriage. Ah, at last I behold your 
 work ! ” said the lady, running to the opposite 
 wall, and bringing her glass to bear upon his 
 studies, programmes, perspectives, and portraits 
 which were standing on the floor. “C’est char- 
 mant, Lise ! Lise, venez-ici. Rooms in the style 
 of Teniers. Do you see ? Disorder, disorder, a 
 table with a bust upon it, a hand, a palette; 
 here is dust . . . see how the dust is painted ! 
 C’est charmant. And here on this canvas is a 
 woman washing her face. Quelle jolie figure! 
 Ah ! a little peasant, a muzhik in a Russian 
 blouse ! see, — a little muzhik ! So you do not 
 devote yourself exclusively to portraits ? ” 
 
 “ Oh ! that is rubbish. I was trying experi¬ 
 ments . . . studies.” 
 
 “Tell me your opinion of the portrait painters 
 of the present day. Is it not true that there 
 are none now like Titian ? There is not that 
 strength of color, that — that . . . What a pity 
 that I cannot express to you in Russian.” (The 
 lady was fond of paintings, and had gone 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 245 
 
 through all the galleries in Italy with her eye¬ 
 glass.) “ But Monsieur Nohl . . . ah, how he 
 paints! what remarkable work! I think his 
 faces have even more expression than Titian’s. 
 You do not know M. Nohl ? ” 
 
 “Who is Nohl?” inquired the artist. 
 
 “Monsieur Nohl. Ah, what talent! He 
 painted her portrait when she was only twelve 
 years old. You must certainly come to see us. 
 Lise, you shall show him your album. You 
 know, we came expressly that you might begin 
 her portrait immediately.” 
 
 “What? I am ready this very moment.” 
 And in a trice he pulled forward an easel with 
 a piece of canvas already prepared, grasped 
 his palette, and fixed his eyes on the daughter’s 
 pretty little face. If he had been acquainted 
 with human nature, he might have read in it 
 the dawning of a childish passion for balls, the 
 dawning of sorrow and misery at the length of 
 time before dinner and after dinner, of a desire 
 to go to walk in her dress only, the heavy 
 traces of uninterested application to various 
 arts, insisted upon by her mother for the ele¬ 
 vation of the sentiments of her soul. But the 
 
246 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 artist perceived only the tender little face, a 
 seductive subject for his brush, the body almost 
 as transparent as porcelain, the slight attractive 
 fatigue, the delicate white neck, and the aris¬ 
 tocratically slender form. And he prepared 
 beforehand to triumph, to display the delicacy 
 of his brush, which had hitherto had to deal 
 only with the harsh features of coarse models, 
 with severe antiques and copies of classic mas¬ 
 ters. He already saw in fancy how this delicate 
 little face wouM turn out. 
 
 “Do you know,” said the lady with a posi¬ 
 tively touching expression of countenance, “ I 
 should like . . . she is dressed up now; I con¬ 
 fess, that I should not like her in the costume 
 to which we are accustomed : I should like her 
 to be simply attired, and seated among green 
 shadows, like meadows, with a flock or a grove 
 in the distance, ... so that it could not be seen 
 that she goes to balls or fashionable entertain¬ 
 ments. Our balls, I confess, so murder the 
 intellect, so deaden all remnants of feeling. . . . 
 Simplicity, would there were more simplicity ! ” 
 Alas ! it was stamped on the faces of mother 
 and daughter, that they had so overdanced them- 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 24 7 
 
 selves at balls, that they had become almost wax 
 figures. 
 
 Tchartkoff set to work, seated the original, 
 reflected a bit, fixed upon the idea, waved his 
 brush in the air, settling the points mentally, 
 screwed his eyes up a little, retreated, looked 
 off in the distance, and then began and finished 
 the sketching in, in an hour. Satisfied with it, 
 he began to paint: the work fascinated him ; 
 he forgot every thing, forgot the very existence 
 of the aristocratic ladies, began even to dis¬ 
 play some artistic tricks, uttering various odd 
 sounds; humming to himself now and then, as 
 artists do when immersed heart and soul in 
 their work. Without the slightest ceremony, 
 with one wave of his brush, he made the sitter 
 lift her head, which finally began to turn in 
 a very decided manner, and express utter weari¬ 
 ness. 
 
 “ Enough, for the first time, enough,” said 
 the lady. 
 
 “A little more,” said the artist, forgetting 
 himself. 
 
 “No, it is time to stop. Lise, three o’clock!” 
 said the lady, taking out a tiny watch, which 
 
248 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 hung by a gold chain from her girdle. “ Ah, 
 how late it is ! ” she cried. 
 
 “Only a minute,” said Tchartkoff innocently, 
 with the pleading voice of a child. 
 
 But the lady appeared to be not at all in¬ 
 clined to yield to his artistic demands on this 
 occasion : she promised instead, to sit longer 
 the next time. 
 
 “ It is vexatious, all the same! ” thought 
 Tchartkoff to himself: “ I had just got my hand 
 in ; ” and he remembered that no one had inter¬ 
 rupted him or stopped him when he was at 
 work in his studio on Vasilievsky Ostroff. Ni¬ 
 kita sat motionless in one place — you might 
 paint him as long as you pleased : he even 
 went to sleep in the attitude prescribed to him. 
 And, dissatisfied, he laid his brush and palette 
 on a chair, and paused in irritation before the 
 picture. 
 
 The woman of the world’s compliments 
 awoke him from his revery. He flew to the 
 door to show them out: on the stairs he re¬ 
 ceived an invitation to dine with them the fol¬ 
 lowing week, and returned with a cheerful face 
 to his apartments. The aristocratic lady had 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 249 
 
 completely charmed him. Up to that time he 
 had looked upon such beings as unapproach¬ 
 able,— born solely to ride in magnificent car¬ 
 riages with liveried footmen and stylish coach¬ 
 man, and to cast indifferent glances on the poor 
 man travelling on foot in a cheap cloak. And 
 now, all of a . sudden, one of those beings had 
 entered his room : he was painting her portrait, 
 was invited to dinner in an aristocratic house. 
 An unusual feeling of pleasure took possession 
 of him : he was completely intoxicated, and 
 rewarded himself with a splendid dinner, an 
 evening at the theatre; and afterwards he took 
 a ride through the city in a carriage without 
 any necessity whatever. 
 
 But during all these days, his ordinary work 
 did not fall in with his mood at all. He did 
 nothing but prepare himself, and wait for the 
 moment when the bell should ring. At last the 
 aristocratic lady arrived with her pale daughter. 
 He seated them, pulled forward the canvas, with 
 skill, and some efforts at fashionable airs, and 
 began to paint. The sunny day and bright 
 light aided him not a little: he saw in his 
 dainty sitter much, which, caught and commit- 
 
250 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 ted to the canvas, would give great value to the 
 portrait; he perceived that he might bring forth 
 something rare if he could reproduce, with ac¬ 
 curacy, all which nature then offered to his eyes. 
 His heart even began to beat faster when he 
 felt that he was expressing something which 
 others had not even seen as yet. His work 
 engrossed him completely: he was entirely taken 
 up with his painting, and again forgot the aris¬ 
 tocratic origin of the sitter. With heaving 
 breast he saw the delicate traits and the almost 
 transparent body of the eighteen-year-old maid¬ 
 en appear under his hand. He had caught 
 every shade, the slight sallowness, the almost 
 imperceptible blue tinge under the eyes, — and 
 was already preparing to put in the tiny pimple 
 on the brow, when he suddenly heard the moth¬ 
 er’s voice behind him. 
 
 “ Ah ! why do you paint that ? it is not neces¬ 
 sary : and you have made it here ... in sev¬ 
 eral places, rather yellow . . . and here quite 
 so, like dark spots.” The artist undertook to 
 explain that the spots and yellow tinge would 
 turn out well, that they brought out the delicate 
 and pleasing tones of the face. He was in- 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 251 
 
 formed that they did not bring out tones, and 
 would not turn out well at all, and that it merely 
 seemed so to him. “ But permit me to touch 
 up just this one place, here, with yellow/’ said 
 the simple-minded artist. But he was not per¬ 
 mitted. It was explained to him that just to¬ 
 day Lise did not feel quite well; that she never 
 was sallow, and that her face was distinguished 
 for its fresh coloring. Sadly he began to erase 
 what his brush had produced upon the canvas. 
 Many a nearly invisible trait disappeared, and 
 with it vanished also a portion of the resem¬ 
 blance. He began indifferently to give it that 
 commonplace coloring which can be painted 
 mechanically, and which lends to a face, even 
 when taken from nature, the sort of cold ideal¬ 
 ity observable on school programmes. But the 
 lady was satisfied when the objectionable color 
 was quite banished. She merely expressed sur¬ 
 prise that the work lasted so long, and added 
 that she had heard that he finished a portrait 
 completely in two sittings. The artist could 
 not think of any answer to this. The ladies 
 rose, and prepared to depart. He laid aside his 
 brush, escorted them to the door, and then stood 
 
252 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 disconsolate for a long while in one spot, before 
 his portrait. 
 
 He gazed stupidly at it; and meanwhile there 
 passed before his mind those delicate feminine 
 features, those shades, and airy tints which he 
 had copied, which his brush had annihilated. 
 Engrossed with them, he set the portrait on 
 one side, and hunted up the head of Psyche, 
 which he had long before thrown on canvas in 
 a sketchy manner. It was a pretty little face, 
 well painted, but entirely ideal, cold, consisting 
 of the common features not assumed by a living 
 being. For lack of occupation, he now began 
 to go over it, imparting to it all he had taken 
 note of in his aristocratic sitter. Those fea¬ 
 tures, shadows, tints, which he had noted, made 
 their appearance here in the purified form in 
 which they appear when the painter, after close¬ 
 ly observing nature, subordinates himself to her, 
 and produces a creation equal to her own. 
 
 Psyche began to live ; and the scarce dawning 
 thought began, little by little, to clothe itself in 
 a visible form. The type of face of the fash¬ 
 ionable young lady was unconsciously commu¬ 
 nicated to Psyche, and nevertheless she had an 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 253 
 
 expression of her own which gave it claims to 
 be considered in truth, an original creation. It 
 seemed as if he made use of some things and 
 yet of all that the original suggested to him 
 throughout, and gave himself up entirely to his 
 work. For several days he was engrossed by 
 it alone. And the ladies surprised him at this 
 work on their arrival. He had not time to re¬ 
 move the picture from the easel. Both ladies 
 uttered a cry of amazement, and clasped their 
 hands. 
 
 “ Lise, Lise ! Ah, how like ! Superbe, su- 
 perbe! What a happy thought to drape her 
 in a Greek costume ! Ah, what a surprise! ” 
 
 The artist could not see his way to disabus¬ 
 ing the ladies of their pleasant mistake. Shame¬ 
 facedly, with drooping head, he murmured, “ This 
 is Psyche.” 
 
 “ In the character of Psyche ? (Test char- 
 mant! ” said the mother, smiling, upon which 
 the daughter also smiled. “ Confess, Lise, does 
 it not please you to be painted in the character 
 of Psyche better than any other way ? Quelle 
 idee delicieuse ! But what treatment! It is 
 Correggio himself. I must say, that, although I 
 
254 
 
 THE FOR TEA IT. 
 
 had read and heard about you, I did not know 
 you had so much talent. You positively must 
 paint me too.” Evidently, the lady wanted to 
 be portrayed as some sort of Psyche also. 
 
 “What am I to do with them ?” thought the 
 artist. “ If they will have it so, why, let Psyche 
 pass for what they choose : ” and he said aloud, 
 “Pray sit a little longer : I will touch it up here 
 and there.” 
 
 “ Ah! I am afraid you will ... it is such a 
 likeness now ! ” 
 
 But the artist understood that the difficulty 
 was with the sallowness, and so he re-assured 
 them by saying that he only wished to give 
 more brilliancy and expression to the eyes. 
 But, in truth, he was ashamed, and wished to 
 impart a little more likeness to the original, lest 
 any one should accuse him of actual barefaced 
 flattery. And, in fact, the features of the pale 
 young girl at length appeared more clearly in 
 Psyche’s countenance. 
 
 “ Enough,” said the mother, beginning to fear 
 that the likeness might become too decided. 
 The artist was remunerated in every way, — 
 with smiles, money, compliments, cordial press- 
 

 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 255 
 
 ures of the hand, invitations to dinner: in a 
 word, he received a thousand flattering rewards. 
 
 The portrait created a furor in the city. 
 The lady exhibited it to her friends : all ad¬ 
 mired the skill with which the artist had pre¬ 
 served the likeness, and at the same time 
 conferred more beauty on the original. The 
 last remark, of course, was prompted by a 
 slight tinge of envy. And the artist was sud¬ 
 denly overwhelmed with work. It seemed as 
 if the whole city wanted to be painted by him. 
 The door-bell rang incessantly. From one 
 point of view, this might be considered advan¬ 
 tageous, as presenting to him endless practice 
 in variety and number of faces. But, unfortu¬ 
 nately, they were all people who were hard to 
 get along with, busy, hurried people, or belong¬ 
 ing to the fashionable world, consequently more 
 
 
 occupied than any one else, and therefore im¬ 
 patient to the last degree. In all quarters, the^ 
 demand was merely that the likeness should be 
 good and quickly done. The artist perceived 
 that it was a simple impossibility to finish his 
 work; that it was necessary to exchange the 
 power of his treatment for lightness and rapid- 
 
 d 
 
256 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 ity, — to catch only the general, palpable ex¬ 
 pression, and not waste labor on delicate details 
 — in a word, to copy nature in her finish was 
 utterly out of the question. Moreover, it must 
 be added that nearly all his sitters made many 
 stipulations on various points. The ladies re¬ 
 quired that mind and character chiefly should 
 be represented in their portraits: that he should 
 make a point of nothing else; that all angles 
 should be rounded, all unevenness smoothed 
 away, and even removed entirely if possible ; 
 in a word, that their faces should be such as to 
 cause every one to stare with admiration, if not 
 fall in love with outright. And in consequence 
 of this, when they sat to him, they sometimes 
 assumed expressions which greatly amazed the 
 artist: one tried to express melancholy; another, 
 meditation; another wanted to make her mouth 
 
 small on any terms, and puckered it up to such 
 
 • 
 
 an extent that it finally looked like a spot about 
 as big as a pinhead. And in spite of it all, 
 they demanded of him good likenesses and un¬ 
 constrained naturalness. And the men were no 
 better than the ladies : one insisted upon being 
 painted with an energetic, muscular turn to his 
 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 257 
 
 head ; another, with upturned, inspired eyes; 
 a lieutenant of the guard demanded that Mars 
 should be visible in his eyes, without fail ; an 
 official in the civil service drew himself up to 
 his full height in order to express his upright¬ 
 ness, his nobility, in his face, and so that his 
 hand might rest upon a book bearing the words 
 in plain characters, “ He always stood up for 
 the right.” At first such demands threw the 
 artist into a cold perspiration : he had to think 
 it over, to consider; and there was but very 
 little time for that. Finally he acquired the 
 knack of it, and never troubled himself at all 
 about it. He understood at a word how each 
 wanted himself portrayed. If a man wanted 
 Mars in his face, he put in Mars : he gave a 
 Byronic turn and attitude to those who aimed 
 at Byron. If the ladies wanted to be Corinne, 
 Undine, or Aspasia, he agreed with great readi¬ 
 ness, and threw in a sufficient measure of good 
 looks from his own imagination, which, as is 
 well known, does no harm, and for the sake of 
 which an artist is even forgiven a lack of re¬ 
 semblance, He soon began to wonder himself 
 at the rapidity and dash of his brush. And of 
 
258 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 course those who sat to him were in ecstasies, 
 and proclaimed him a genius. 
 
 Tchartkoff became a fashionable artist in 
 every sense of the word. He began to dine 
 out, to escort ladies to the galleries and even 
 to walk, to dress foppishly, and to assert audi¬ 
 bly that an artist should belong to society, that 
 he must uphold his profession, that artists 
 dress like shoemakers, do not know how to be¬ 
 have themselves, do not preserve the highest 
 tone, and are lacking in all polish. At home, 
 in his studio, he carried cleanliness and spot¬ 
 lessness to the last extreme, set up two superb 
 footmen, took foppish pupils, dressed several 
 times a day in various morning costumes, 
 curled his hair, practised various manners of 
 receiving his callers, busied himself in adorn¬ 
 ing his person in every conceivable way, in 
 order to produce a pleasing impression on the 
 ladies : in a word, it would soon have been im¬ 
 possible for any one to recognize in him the 
 modest artist who had formerly toiled unknown 
 in his miserable quarters in the Vasilievsky 
 Ostroff. He now expressed himself decidedly 
 concerning artists and art ; declared that too 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 259 
 
 much credit had been given to the old masters ; 
 that they all, down to Raphael, painted not fig¬ 
 ures, but herrings ; that the idea that there was 
 any holiness about them existed only in the 
 minds of the spectators; that even Raphael 
 did not always paint well, and that fame at¬ 
 tached to many of his works, simply by force 
 of tradition ; that Michael Angelo was a brag¬ 
 gart because he could boast only a knowledge 
 of anatomy ; that there was no grace about 
 him, and that real brilliancy and power of treat¬ 
 ment and coloring were to be looked for only 
 in the present century. And there, naturally, 
 the question touched him personally. “No, I 
 do not understand,” said he, “how others toil 
 and work with difficulty : a man who labors for 
 months over a picture is a dauber, and no artist 
 in my opinion; I don’t believe he has any 
 talent: genius works boldly, rapidly. Here,” 
 said he, turning generally to his visitors, “ is 
 this portrait which I painted in two days, this 
 head in one day, this in a few hours, this in 
 little more than an hour. No, I . , . I confess 
 I do not recognize as art that which adds line to 
 line : that is a trade, not art.” In this manner 
 
26 o 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 did he lecture his visitors ; and the visitors ad¬ 
 mired the strength and boldness of his works, 
 even uttered exclamations on hearing how fast 
 they had been produced, and then said to each 
 other, “This is talent, real talent ! see how he 
 speaks, how his eyes gleam. II y a quelque 
 chose cCextraordinaire dans tonte sa figure ! ” 
 
 It flattered the artist to hear such reports 
 about himself. When printed praise appeared 
 in the papers, he rejoiced like a child, although 
 this praise was purchased with his money. He 
 carried the printed slips about with him every¬ 
 where, showed them to friends and acquaint¬ 
 ances as if by accident, and it pleased him to 
 the extent of simple-minded naivete. His 
 fame increased, his works and orders multi¬ 
 plied. Already the same portraits over and 
 over wearied him with the same attitudes and 
 turns, which he had learned by heart. He 
 painted them now without any great interest in 
 the work, trying to make some sort of a head, 
 and giving them to his pupils to finish. At first 
 he had tried to devise a new attitude each time, 
 to surprise with his power and the effect. Now 
 this had grown wearisome to him. His brain 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 26l 
 
 was tired with planning and thinking. It was 
 out of his power, then or ever : his fast life, 
 and society, where he tried to play the part of 
 a man of the world, all this bore him far away 
 from labor and thought. His work grew cold 
 and dim ; and he betook himself with indiffer¬ 
 ence to monotonous, set, well-worn forms. 
 The uniform, cold, eternally spick and span, 
 and, so to speak, buttoned-up faces of the govern¬ 
 ment officials, soldiers, and statesmen, did not 
 offer a wide field for his brush : it forgot superb 
 draperies, and powerful emotion and passion. 
 Of groups, artistic drama and its lofty connec¬ 
 tions, there was nothing to be said. Before 
 him was only a uniform, a corsage, a dress-coat, 
 in the face of which the artist feels cold, and 
 before which all imagination vanishes. Even 
 his own peculiar merits were no longer visible 
 in his works, yet they continued to enjoy re¬ 
 nown ; although genuine connoisseurs and artists 
 merely shrugged their shoulders when they saw 
 his latest productions. But some who had 
 known Tchartkoff before, could not understand 
 how the talent of which he had given such 
 clear indications in the beginning, could have 
 
262 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 so vanished ; and they strove in vain to divine 
 by what means genius could be extinguished in 
 a man just when he had attained to the full 
 development of his powers. 
 
 But the intoxicated artist did not hear these 
 criticisms. He began to attain to the age of 
 dignity, both in mind and years: he began to 
 grow stout, and increase visibly in flesh. He 
 read in the papers phrases with adjectives, “ Our 
 most respected Andrei Petrovitch; our worthy 
 Andrei Petrovitch He began to receive offers 
 of distinguished posts in the service, invitations 
 to examinations and committees. He began, as • 
 is usually the case in maturer years, to advocate 
 Raphael and the old masters, not because he 
 had become thoroughly convinced of their tran¬ 
 scendent merits, but in order to snub the younger 
 artists. He began, according to the universal 
 custom of those who have attained maturity, to 
 accuse all young men, without exception, of im¬ 
 morality and a vicious turn of mind. He began 
 to believe that every thing in the world simply 
 happens, that there is no higher inspiration, and 
 that every thing should of necessity be brought 
 under one strict rule in the interests of accuracy 
 
THE FOR TEA IT. 
 
 263 
 
 and uniformity. In a word, his life already was 
 approaching the verge of the years when every 
 thing which suggests impulse, contracts within 
 a man ; when a powerful chord appeals more 
 feebly to the spirit, and weaves no piercing 
 strains about the heart ; when the touch of 
 beauty no longer converts virgin strength into 
 fire and flame, but all the burnt-out sentiments 
 become more vulnerable to the sound of gold, 
 hearken more attentively to its seductive music, 
 and, little by little, permit themselves to be 
 completely lulled to sleep by it. Fame can give 
 no pleasure to him who has stolen it, not won 
 it: it produces a permanent shock only in the 
 breast of him who is worthy of it. And so all 
 his feelings and impulses turned towards gold. 
 Gold was his passion, his ideal, his fear, his de¬ 
 light, his aim. The bundles of bank-bills in¬ 
 creased in his coffers ; and, like all to whose lot 
 falls this fearful gift, he began to grow miserly, 
 inaccessible to every sentiment except the love 
 of gold, a causeless miser, an extravagant amass- 
 er, and on the point of becoming one of those 
 strange beings of whom there are many in 
 this unfeeling world, on whom the man full of 
 
264 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 life and heart gazes with horror, who regards 
 them as walking stony sepulchres with dead 
 men inside, instead of hearts. But something 
 occurred which gave him a powerful shock, and 
 disturbed the whole tenor of his life. 
 
 One day he found upon his table a note, in 
 which the Academy of Painting begged him, as 
 a worthy member of its body, to come and give 
 his opinion upon a new work which had been 
 sent from Italy by a Russian artist who was 
 perfecting himself there. The artist was one 
 of his former comrades, who had been possessed 
 v\ith a passion for art from his earliest years, 
 had given himself up to it with his whole soul, 
 estranged himself from his friends, from his 
 relatives, from his pleasant habits, and had has¬ 
 tened there, where, under a magnificent sky, 
 flourishes a splendid hot-bed of art, to wonder¬ 
 ful Rome, at whose very name the artist’s heart 
 beats wildly and hotly. There, like an exile, 
 he buried himself in his work and in toil from 
 which he permitted nothing to entice him. He 
 caied not whether his character were talked 
 about, or not, or his ignorance of the art of 
 getting on with people, or his neglect of polite 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 265 
 
 usages ; nor of the discredit which he cast upon 
 his calling of artist by his poor, old-fashioned 
 dress. It was nothing to him if his brother 
 artists were angry. He neglected every thing, 
 and devoted himself wholly to art. He visited 
 the galleries unweariedly, he stood for hours at 
 a time before the works of the great masters, 
 seizing and studying their marvellous methods. 
 He never finished any thing without revising his 
 impressions several times before these great 
 teachers, and reading in their works silent but 
 eloquent counsels. He entered into no noisy 
 conversations or disputes. He neither advo¬ 
 cated nor opposed the purists. He gave each 
 impartially his due, appropriating from all only 
 that which was most beautiful, and finally be¬ 
 came the pupil of the divine Raphael alone — 
 as a great poet-artist, after reading many works 
 of various kinds, full of many charms and splen¬ 
 did beauties, at last made Homer’s Iliad alone 
 his breviary, having discovered that it contains 
 all one wants, and that there is nothing which 
 is not expressed in it, in deep and grand per¬ 
 fection. And so he brought away from his 
 school the grand conception of creation, the 
 
266 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 mighty beauty of thought, the high charm of 
 that heavenly brush. 
 
 When Tchartkoff entered the room, he found 
 a great crowd of visitors already collected before 
 the picture. The most profound silence, such as 
 rarely settles upon a throng of critics, reigned 
 over all, on this occasion. He hastened to 
 assume the significant expression of a connois¬ 
 seur, and approached the picture; but, O God! 
 what did he behold ! 
 
 Pure, faultless, beautiful as a bride, stood the 
 picture before him. Modest, reverent, innocent, 
 and simple as a guardian angel, it rose above 
 them all. It seemed as though the divine fig¬ 
 ures, embarrassed by the many glances directed 
 at them, had dropped their beautiful eyelashes 
 in confusion. The critics regarded the new, 
 hitherto unknown work, with a feeling of in¬ 
 voluntary wonder. All seemed united in it, — 
 the art of Raphael, which was reflected in 
 the lofty grace of the grouping; the art of 
 Correggio, breathing from the finished per¬ 
 fection of the workmanship. But more striking 
 than all else was the evident power of creation, 
 still contained in the artist’s mind. The very 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 267 
 
 minutest object in the picture was informed with 
 it; every thing was done with order and inward 
 power; he had caught that melting roundness 
 of outline which is visible in nature only to the 
 artist creator, and which comes out as angles 
 with a copyist. It was plainly to be seen how 
 the artist, having drawn it all from the visible 
 world, had first stored it in his mind, and then 
 had drawn it thence, as from a spiritual source, 
 into one harmonious, triumphant song. And it 
 was evident, even to the uninitiated, how vast 
 a gulf was fixed between creation and a mere 
 copy from nature. It was almost impossible to 
 describe that rare silence which unconsciously 
 overpowered all who cast their eyes on the pic¬ 
 ture,— not a rustle, not a sound : and the picture 
 seemed more and more noble with every moment 
 that passed ; more brilliantly and wonderfully 
 stood forth at length in one instant, — the fruit 
 which had descended from heaven into the ar¬ 
 tist’s mind,—the instant for which all human 
 life is but the preparation. Involuntary tears 
 stood ready to fall in the eyes of those who 
 surrounded the picture. It seemed as though 
 all tastes, all bold, irregular errors of taste, 
 
268 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 even, joined in a silent hymn to the divine 
 work. 
 
 Motionless, with open mouth, Tchartkoff stood 
 before the picture ; and at length, when by de¬ 
 grees the visitors and critics began to murmur 
 and comment upon the merits of the work, and 
 when at length they turned to him, and begged 
 him to express an opinion, he came to himself 
 once more ; he tried to assume an indifferent, 
 every-day expression; tried to make some of the 
 commonplace, every-day remarks of hardened 
 artists, in the following style: “Yes, in fact, 
 to tell the truth, it is impossible to deny the 
 artist’s talent; there is something to it; he evi¬ 
 dently tried to express something ; but as to 
 the chief point ”... and then as a conclu¬ 
 sion to this, of course follow praises to such an 
 effect that no artist would have felt flattered 
 by them: he tried to do this; but the speech 
 died upon his lips, tears and sobs burst forth 
 uncontrollably for answer, and he rushed from 
 the room like one beside himself. 
 
 In a moment he stood, deprived of sense 
 and motion, in the middle of his magnificent 
 studio. All his being, all his life, had been 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 269 
 
 aroused in one instant, as if youth had re¬ 
 turned to him, as if the dying sparks of his 
 talent had blazed forth afresh. The bandage 
 suddenly fell from his eyes. Heavens ! to 
 think of having mercilessly wasted the best 
 years of his youth, of having extinguished, 
 trodden out perhaps, the spark of fire, which, 
 cherished in his breast, might perhaps have 
 been developed now into magnificence and 
 beauty, and have extorted, too, its meed of tears 
 and admiration! And to have ruined it all, 
 ruined it without pity ! It seemed as though 
 suddenly and all together there revived in his 
 soul those impulses, that devotion, which he 
 had known in other days. He seized a brush, 
 and approached his canvas. The perspiration 
 started out upon his face with his efforts : one 
 thought possessed him wholly, one desire con¬ 
 sumed him ; he tried to depict a fallen angel. 
 This idea was most in harmony with his frame 
 of mind. But alas ! his figures, attitudes, 
 groups, thoughts, arranged themselves stiffly, 
 disconnectedly. His hand and his imagination 
 had been too long confined to one groove ; and 
 the powerless effort to escape from the bonds 
 
270 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 and fetters which he had imposed upon himself, 
 showed itself in irregularities and errors. He 
 had despised the long, wearisome ladder to 
 knowledge, and the first fundamental law of 
 the future great man. He gave vent to his 
 vexation. He ordered all his last productions 
 to be taken out of his studio, all the fashion¬ 
 able, lifeless pictures, all the portraits of hus¬ 
 sars, ladies, and councillors of state. 
 
 He shut himself up alone in his room, would 
 order no food, and devoted himself entirely to 
 his work. He sat toiling like a youth, like a 
 scholar. But how pitifully ignoble was all 
 which proceeded from his hand! He was 
 stopped at every step by his ignorance of the 
 very first principles : the simple ignorance of 
 the mechanical part chilled all inspirations, and 
 formed an impassable barrier to his imagination. 
 His brush returned involuntarily to hackneyed 
 forms : the hands folded themselves in a set 
 attitude; the heads dared not make any unusual 
 turn ; the very folds of the garments turned 
 out commonplace, and would not subject them¬ 
 selves or drape themselves to any unaccus¬ 
 tomed posture of the body. And he felt, he 
 felt and saw it all himself. 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 271 
 
 “But had I really any talent ?” he said at 
 length: “did not I deceive myself ?” And, 
 uttering these words, he turned to his early 
 works, which he had painted so purely, so un¬ 
 selfishly, in former days, in his wretched cabin 
 yonder in lonely Vasilievsky Ostroff, far from 
 people, luxury, and every indulgence. He 
 turned to them now, and began attentively to 
 examine them all; and all the misery of his for¬ 
 mer life came back to him. “Yes,” he cried 
 despairingly, “ I had talent : the signs and 
 traces of it are everywhere visible.” . . . 
 
 He paused suddenly, and shivered all over : 
 his eyes encountered eyes fixed immovably 
 upon him. It was that remarkable portrait 
 which he had bought in the Shtchukinui Dvor. 
 All this time it had been covered up, concealed 
 by other pictures, and had utterly gone out of 
 his mind. Now, as if by design, when all the 
 fashionable portraits and paintings had been 
 removed from the studio, it looked forth, to¬ 
 gether with the productions of his early youth. 
 As he recalled all the strange story ; as he re¬ 
 membered that this singular portrait had been, 
 in a manner, the cause of his errors; that the 
 
272 
 
 THE FOR TEA/T. 
 
 hoard of money which he had obtained in such 
 peculiar fashion had given birth in his mind to 
 all the wild caprices which had destroyed his 
 talent, — madness was on the point of taking 
 possession of him. On the instant he ordered 
 the hateful portrait to be removed. But his 
 mental excitement was not thereby diminished. 
 Every feeling, his whole being, was shaken to 
 its foundation ; and he suffered that fearful tor¬ 
 ture which is sometimes exhibited in nature, as 
 a striking anomaly, when a feeble talent strives 
 to display itself on a scale too great for it, and 
 cannot display itself, — that torture which in 
 youth gives birth to greatness, but, when 
 revery is carried to too great an extent, is con¬ 
 verted into unquenchable thirst, — that fearful 
 torture which renders a man capable of terrible 
 things. A horrible envy took possession of 
 him, envy which bordered on madness. The 
 gall flew to his face when he beheld a work 
 which bore the stamp of talent. He gnashed 
 his teeth, and devoured it with the glare of a 
 basilisk. He conceived the most devilish plan 
 which ever entered into the mind of man, and 
 he hastened with the strength of madness to 
 
THE FOR TEA IT. 
 
 273 
 
 carry it into execution. He began to purchase 
 the best which art produced, of every kind. 
 Having bought a picture at a great price, he 
 transported it to his room with care, and flung 
 himself upon it with the ferocity of a tiger, cut it, 
 tore it, chopped it into bits, and stamped upon 
 it, accompanying these proceedings with a grin 
 of delight. The incalculable riches which he 
 had amassed, enabled him to gratify this devil¬ 
 ish desire. He opened his bags of gold, and 
 unlocked his coffers. No monster of ignorance 
 ever destroyed so many superb productions of 
 art as did this raging avenger. At any auction 
 where he made his appearance, every one de¬ 
 spaired at once of obtaining any work of art. 
 It seemed as if an angry heaven had sent this 
 fearful scourge into the world expressly to de¬ 
 stroy all harmony. This terrible passion com¬ 
 municated to him a horrible color: the gall 
 abode permanently in his face. Blame of the 
 world, and scorn of it, were expressed in his 
 countenance. It seemed as though that awful 
 demon were incarnate in him, which Pushkin 
 has described in an ideal manner. His tongue 
 uttered nothing except biting and censorious 
 
 
 ffikc e 
 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 274 
 
 words. He swooped down like a harpy into 
 the street; and all, even his acquaintances, 
 catching sight of him in the distance, sought to 
 turn aside and avoid a meeting with him, say¬ 
 ing that it poisoned all the rest of the day. 
 
 Fortunately for the world and art, such a 
 strained and forced life could not last long: 
 the measure of his passions was too abnormal 
 and colossal for his feeble strength. The 
 attacks of madness began to appear more fre¬ 
 quently, and ended at last in the most frightful 
 illness. A violent fever, combined with gallop¬ 
 ing consumption, seized upon him with such 
 force, that in three days there remained only a 
 shadow of his former self. To this was added 
 indications of hopeless madness. Sometimes 
 several men were unable to hold him. The 
 long-forgotten, living eyes of the remarkable 
 portrait began to torment him, and then his 
 madness became dreadful. All the people who 
 surrounded his bed seemed to him horrible por¬ 
 traits. The portrait doubled and quadrupled 
 itself in his eyes ; all the walls seemed hung 
 with portraits, which fastened their living, 
 motionless eyes upon him ; horrible portraits 
 
THE FOE TEA IT. 
 
 27S 
 
 glared at him from the ceiling, from the floor ; 
 the room widened and lengthened endlessly, in 
 order to make room for more of the motionless 
 eyes. The doctor who had undertaken to at¬ 
 tend him, having learned something of his 
 strange history, strove with all his might to 
 fathom the secret connection between the vis¬ 
 ions of his fancy and the occurrences of his 
 life, but without the slightest success. The 
 sick man understood nothing, felt nothing, ex¬ 
 cept his own tortures, and gave utterance only 
 to frightful yells and unintelligible gibberish. 
 At last his life ended in a final attack of unut¬ 
 terable suffering. His corpse was horrible. 
 Nothing could be found of all his great wealth; 
 but when they beheld the mutilated fragments 
 of all the grand works of art, the value of 
 which exceeded a million, they understood the 
 terrible use which had been made of it. 
 
2?6 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 PART II. 
 
 A throng of carriages, droschkis, and ca¬ 
 lashes stood at the entrance of a house in which 
 an auction sale was going on of the effects 
 belonging to one of those wealthy art-lovers 
 who have dreamed their lives sweetly away, 
 engrossed with Loves and Zephyrs, have inno¬ 
 cently passed for Maecenases, and in a simple- 
 minded fashion expended, to that end, the mil¬ 
 lions amassed by their thrifty fathers, and 
 frequently even by their own early labors. As 
 is well known, there are no such Maecenases in 
 existence now; and our nineteenth century long 
 ago acquired the aspect of a parsimonious bank¬ 
 er, rejoicing in his millions only in the form of 
 figures jotted down on paper. The long saloon 
 was filled with the most motley throng of vis¬ 
 itors, collected like birds of prey swooping down 
 upon an unburied corpse. There was a whole 
 squadron of Russian shop-keepers from the 
 Gostinnui Dvor, and even from the old-clothes 
 mart, in blue coats of foreign make. Their 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 277 
 
 faces and expressions were a little more sedate 
 here, more natural, and did not display that 
 fictitious desire to serve which is so marked in 
 the Russian shop-keeper when he stands before 
 a customer in his shop. Here they stood upon 
 no ceremony, although the saloons were full of 
 those very aristocrats before whom, in any other 
 place, they would have been ready to sweep, 
 with reverences, the dust brought in by their 
 feet. Here they were quite at their ease, han¬ 
 dled pictures and books without ceremony, 
 desirous of ascertaining the value of the goods, 
 and boldly disarranged the prices attached by 
 the connoisseur-Counts. There were many of 
 the infallible attendants of auctions who make 
 it a point to go to one every day as regularly 
 as to take their breakfast; aristocratic con¬ 
 noisseurs, who look upon it as their duty not 
 to miss any opportunity of adding to their col¬ 
 lections, and who have no other occupation 
 between twelve o’clock and one ; finally those 
 noble gentlemen, with garments and pockets 
 very threadbare, who make their daily appear¬ 
 ance without any selfish object in view, but 
 merely to see how it all goes off, — who will 
 
278 
 
 THE FOR TEA IT. 
 
 give more, who less, who will outbid the other, 
 and who will get it. A quantity of pictures 
 were lying about in disorder: with them were 
 mingled furniture, and books with possibly the 
 cipher of the former owner, who never was 
 moved by any laudable desire to glance into 
 them. Chinese vases, marble slabs for tables, 
 old and new furniture with curving lines, with 
 griffins, sphinxes, and lions’ paws, gilded and 
 ungilded, chandeliers, sconces, — all were 
 heaped together, and not in the order of the 
 shops. It presented a perfect chaos of art. 
 The feeling we generally experience at an auc¬ 
 tion is a strange one : every thing about it bears 
 some likeness to a funeral procession. The 
 room in which it takes place, is always rather 
 dark, — the windows, piled up with furniture 
 and pictures, admit but scant light: the silence 
 expressed in the faces, and the funereal voice of 
 the auctioneer, the tapping of the hammer and 
 the requiem of the poor arts, met together so 
 strangely here; all this seems to heighten still 
 further the peculiar unpleasantness of the im¬ 
 pression. 
 
 The auction appeared to be at its height. A 
 
THE TOE TEA IT. 
 
 279 
 
 whole throng of respectable people had collected 
 in a group, and were discussing something 
 eagerly. On all sides resounded the words, 
 rubles , rubles , giving the auctioneer no time 
 to repeat the added price, which had already 
 reached a sum four times as great as the price 
 announced. The surging throng was compet¬ 
 ing for a portrait which could not but arrest the 
 attention of all who possessed any knowledge 
 of art. The skilled hand of an artist was plainly 
 visible in it. The portrait had apparently been 
 several times restored and renovated, and pre¬ 
 sented the dark features of an Asiatic in vo¬ 
 luminous garments, with a strange and remark¬ 
 able expression of countenance ; but what struck 
 the buyers more than all else, was the peculiar 
 liveliness of the eyes. The more the people 
 looked at them, the more did they seem to 
 pierce into each man’s heart. This peculiarity, 
 this strange illusion of the artist, attracted the 
 attention of nearly all. Many who had been 
 bidding for it, withdrew because the price had 
 risen to an incredible sum. There remained 
 only two well-known aristocrats, amateurs of 
 painting, who were unwilling to forego such an 
 
28 o 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 acquisition. They grew warm, and would, prob¬ 
 ably, have raised the price to an impossible 
 sum, had not one of the lookers-on suddenly ex¬ 
 claimed, “ Permit me to interrupt your competi¬ 
 tion for a while: I, perhaps, more than any 
 other, have a right to this portrait/’ 
 
 These words at once fixed the attention of 
 all upon him. He was a tall man of thirty-five, 
 with long black curls. His pleasing face, full 
 of a certain bright nonchalance, indicated a 
 soul removed from all wearisome, worldly ex¬ 
 citement ; his garments made no pretence to 
 fashion : all about him indicated the artist. He 
 was, in fact, B. the painter, personally well 
 known to many of those present. 
 
 “ However strange my words may seem to 
 you,” he continued, perceiving that the general 
 attention was directed to him, “yet, if you con¬ 
 sent to listen to a short story, you may possibly 
 see that I was right in uttering them. Every 
 thing assures me that this is the portrait which 
 I am looking for.” 
 
 A very natural curiosity illumined the faces 
 of nearly all; and even the auctioneer paused 
 as he was opening his mouth, and with hammer 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 28l 
 
 uplifted in the air, prepared to listen. At the 
 beginning of the story, many glanced involun¬ 
 tarily towards the portrait; but later on, all 
 bent their attention solely on the narrator, as 
 his tale grew gradually more absorbing. 
 
 “ You know that portion of the city which is 
 called Kolomna/’ he began. “There every thing 
 is unlike any thing else in Petersburg: there 
 it is neither capital nor provinces. It seems, 
 you know, when you traverse those streets, 
 as though all youthful desires and impulses 
 deserted you. Thither the future never comes, 
 all is peace and desolation, all that has fallen 
 away from the movement of the capital. Retired 
 tchinovniks 1 remove thither to live ; widows ; 
 people not very well off, who have acquaintance 
 in the senate, and therefore condemn them¬ 
 selves to this for nearly the whole of their lives ; 
 retired cooks, who gossip all day at the markets, 
 talk nonsense with the muzhiks in the petty 
 shops, purchasing each day five kopeks’ worth 
 of coffee, and four of sugar; and, in short, that 
 whole list of people who can be described by 
 the one word ash-colored , — people whose gar- 
 
 1 Officials. 
 
28 2 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 ments, faces, hair, eyes, have a sort of troubled, 
 ashy surface, like a day when there is in the 
 sky neither cloud nor sun, but it is simply 
 neither one thing nor the other: the mist set¬ 
 tles down, and robs every object of its distinct¬ 
 ness. Among them may be reckoned retired 
 theatrical servants, retired titular councillors, 
 retired sons of Mars, with ruined eyes and 
 swollen lips. These people are utterly pas¬ 
 sionless. They walk along without glancing at 
 any thing, and maintain silence without think¬ 
 ing of any thing. There are not many posses¬ 
 sions in their chambers, — sometimes merely a 
 stoup of pure Russian vodka, which they absorb 
 monotonously all day long, without its having 
 any marked tendency to affect their heads, 
 caused by a strong dose such as the young 
 German mechanic loves to treat himself to on 
 Sundays, — that bully of Myeshtchanskaya 
 Street, sole controller of all the sidewalks 
 after twelve o’clock at night. 
 
 “ Life in Kolomna is terribly lonely: rarely 
 does a carriage appear, except, perhaps, one 
 containing an actor, which disturbs the univer¬ 
 sal stillness by its rumble, noise, and jingling. 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 283 
 
 There all are — pedestrians: the izvoshtchik 
 frequently loiters along, carrying hay for his 
 shaggy little horse. You can get lodgings for 
 .five rubles a month, coffee in the morning in¬ 
 cluded. Widows with pensions are the most 
 aristocratic families there; they conduct them¬ 
 selves well, sweep their rooms often, chatter 
 with their friends about the dearness of beef 
 and cabbage; they frequently have a young 
 daughter, — a taciturn, quiet, sometimes pretty 
 creature, — an ugly little dog, and wall-clocks 
 which strike in a melancholy fashion. Then 
 come the actors whose salaries do not permit 
 them to desert Kolomna, an independent folk, 
 living, like all artists, for pleasure. They sit 
 in their dressing-gowns, cleaning their pistols, 
 glueing together all sorts of things out of card¬ 
 board, which are useful about a house, playing 
 checkers and cards with any friend who chances 
 to drop in, and so pass away the morning, doing 
 pretty nearly the same in the evening, with the 
 addition of punch now and then. After these 
 great people and aristocracy of Kolomna, come 
 the rank and file. It is as difficult to put a 
 name to them as to number the multitude of 
 
284 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 insects which breed in stale vinegar. There 
 are old women who get drunk, who make a liv¬ 
 ing by incomprehensible means, like ants, drag 
 old clothes and rags from the Kalinkin Bridge 
 to the old-clothes mart, in order to sell them 
 there for fifteen kopeks, — in a word, the very 
 dregs of mankind, whose condition no benefi¬ 
 cent, political economist has devised any means 
 of ameliorating. 
 
 “ I have enumerated them in order to show you 
 how often such people find themselves under 
 the necessity of seeking immediate temporary 
 assistance, of having recourse to borrowing; 
 and there settles among them a peculiar race of 
 money-lenders who lend small sums on security 
 at an enormous percentage. These petty usu¬ 
 rers are sometimes more heartless than the 
 great ones, because they penetrate into the 
 midst of poverty, and sharply displayed beg¬ 
 garly rags, which the rich usurer, who has deal¬ 
 ings only with carriage-customers, never sees, 
 — and because every feeling of humanity, too, 
 soon dies within them. Among these usurers 
 was a certain . . . but I must not omit to men¬ 
 tion that the occurrence which I have under- 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 285 
 
 taken to relate, refers to the last century; 
 namely, to the reign of our late Empress 
 Ekaterina the Second. You will understand 
 that the very appearance and life of Kolomna 
 must have changed materially. So, among 
 the usurers was a certain person, — an extraor¬ 
 dinary being in every respect, who had settled 
 in that quarter of the city long before. He 
 went about in voluminous Asiatic attire; his 
 dark complexion pointed to a Southern origin; 
 but to what particular nation he belonged, — 
 India, Greece, or Persia, — no one could say 
 with certainty. Of tall, almost colossal stature, 
 with dark, thin, glowing face, and an indescrib¬ 
 ably strange color in his large eyes of unwonted 
 fire, with heavy, overhanging brows, he differed 
 sharply and strongly from all the ash-colored 
 denizens of the capital. 
 
 “ His very dwelling was unlike the other small 
 wooden houses. It was of stone, in the style of 
 those formerly much affected by Genoese mer¬ 
 chants, with irregular windows of various sizes, 
 with iron shutters and bars. This usurer dif¬ 
 fered from other usurers also in that he could 
 furnish any required sum, from that desired by 
 
286 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 the poor old beggar-woman to that demanded 
 by the extravagant court grandee. The most 
 gorgeous equipages often showed themselves 
 in front of his house, and from their windows 
 sometimes peeped forth the head of an elegant 
 lady of society. Rumor, as usual, reported that 
 his iron coffers were full of untold gold, treas¬ 
 ures, diamonds, and all sorts of pledges, but 
 that, nevertheless, he was not the slave of that 
 avarice which is characteristic of other usurers. 
 He lent money willingly, stipulating very favor¬ 
 able terms of payment, so it appeared, but, by 
 some curious method of reckoning, made them 
 amount to an incredible percentage. So said 
 rumor, at least. But what was strangest of 
 all, and could not fail to strike many, was the 
 peculiar fate of all who received money from 
 him: all ended their lives in some unhappy 
 way. Whether this was simply the popular 
 opinion, stupid, superstitious rumors, or reports 
 circulated with an object, is not known. But 
 several instances which happened within a brief 
 space of time before the eyes of all, were vivid 
 and striking. 
 
 “ Among the aristocracy of that day, the one 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 287 
 
 who speedily attracted to himself the eyes of 
 all was a young man of one of the best families, 
 distinguished also in his early years in court- 
 circles, a warm admirer of all true and noble 
 things, zealous for all which art or the mind of 
 man produced, and giving promise of becoming 
 a Maecenas. He was soon deservedly distin¬ 
 guished by the Empress, who conferred upon 
 him an important post, fully proportioned to his 
 desires,—a post in which he could accomplish 
 much for science and the general welfare. The 
 youthful dignitary surrounded himself with ar¬ 
 tists, poets, and learned men. He wished to 
 give work to all, to encourage all. He under¬ 
 took, at his own expense, a number of useful 
 publications; gave many orders; proclaimed 
 many prizes for the encouragement of different 
 arts; spent a great deal of money, and finally 
 ruined himself. But, full of noble impulses, he 
 did not wish to relinquish his work, sought a loan 
 everywhere, and finally betook himself to the 
 well-known usurer. Having effected a consid¬ 
 erable loan from him, the man changed com¬ 
 pletely in a short time : he became a persecutor 
 and oppressor of budding talent and intellect. 
 
288 
 
 TIIE PORTRAIT 
 
 He saw the bad side in every publication, and 
 every word he uttered was false. Then, unfor¬ 
 tunately, came the French Revolution. This 
 furnished him with an excuse for every sort of 
 suspicion. He began to discover a revolution¬ 
 ary tendency in every thing: he encountered 
 hints in every thing. He became suspicious to 
 such a degree, that he began, finally, to suspect 
 himself; began to concoct terrible and unjust 
 accusations, made scores of people unhappy. 
 Of course, such conduct could not fail, in time, 
 to reach the throne. The kind-hearted Empress 
 was shocked; and, full of the noble spirit which 
 adorns crowned heads, she uttered words which, 
 although they could not descend to us in all 
 their sharpness, have yet preserved the memory 
 of their deepest meaning engraven on many 
 hearts. The Empress remarked, that not under 
 a monarchical government were the high and 
 noble impulses of souls persecuted; not there 
 were the creations of intellect, poetry, and art 
 contemned and oppressed ; that, on the other 
 hand, monarchs alone were their protectors; 
 that Shakspeare and Moliere flourished under 
 their magnanimous protection, while Dante 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 289 
 
 could not find a corner in his republican birth¬ 
 place ; that true geniuses arise in the period of 
 brilliancy and power of emperors and empires, 
 but not in the time of monstrous political ap¬ 
 paritions and republican terrorism, which, up 
 to that time, had never given to the world a 
 single poet; that poet-artists should be marked 
 out for favor, for peace, and divine quiet alone 
 compose their minds, not excitement and tu¬ 
 mult ; that learned men, poets, and all produ¬ 
 cers of art, are the pearls and diamonds in the 
 imperial crown : by them is the epoch of the 
 great ruler adorned, and from them it receives 
 yet greater brilliancy. In a word, when the Em¬ 
 press uttered these words, she was divinely 
 beautiful for the moment. I remember old men 
 who could not speak of it without tears. All 
 were interested in the affair. It must be re¬ 
 marked, to the honor of our national pride, that 
 in the Russian’s heart there always beats a fine 
 feeling that he must adopt the part of the per¬ 
 secuted. The dignitary who had betrayed his 
 trust was punished in an exemplary manner, 
 and degraded from his post. But he read a 
 much more dreadful punishment in the faces of 
 
290 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 his fellow-countrymen: this was a sharp and 
 universal scorn. It is impossible to describe 
 what that vain-glorious soul suffered: pride, 
 betrayed self-love, ruined hopes, all united, 
 and he died in a terrible attack of raving mad¬ 
 ness. 
 
 “ Another striking example occurred also in 
 view of all: among the beauties in which our 
 Northern capital is assuredly not poor, one de¬ 
 cidedly surpassed all the rest. Her loveliness 
 was a combination of our Northern charms with 
 the charms of the South, — a brilliant such as 
 rarely makes its appearance on earth. My 
 father admitted that he had never beheld any 
 thing like it in the whole course of his life. 
 Every thing seemed to be united in her,— 
 wealth, intellect, and spiritual charms. She 
 had throngs of admirers ; and the most distin¬ 
 guished of them all was Prince R., the most 
 noble-minded, the best, of all young men, the 
 finest in face, and in his magnanimous and 
 knightly sentiments the grand ideal of romance 
 and women, a Grandison in every acceptation 
 of the term. Prince R. was passionately and 
 desperately in love : he was requited by a like 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 291 
 
 ardent passion. But the match seemed un¬ 
 equal to the parents. The prince’s family 
 estates had not been in his possession for a 
 long time, his family was out of favor, and the 
 sad state of his affairs was well known to all. 
 Of a sudden the prince quitted the capital, as 
 if for the purpose of arranging his affairs, and 
 after a short interval re-appeared, surrounded 
 with luxury and incredible splendor. Brilliant 
 
 1 
 
 balls and parties made him known at court. 
 The beauty’s father began to relent, and a most 
 interesting wedding took place in the city. 
 Whence this change in circumstances, this un¬ 
 heard-of wealth of the bridegroom, came, no 
 one could fully explain ; but it was whispered 
 that he had entered into a compact with the 
 mysterious usurer, and had borrowed money of 
 him. However that may have been, the wed¬ 
 ding was a source of interest to the whole city, 
 and the bride and bridegroom were the objects 
 of general envy. Every one knew of their 
 warm and faithful love, the long persecution . 
 they had had to endure from every quarter, the 
 great personal worth of both. Ardent women 
 at once sketched out the heavenly bliss which 
 
292 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 the young couple would enjoy. But it turned 
 out very differently. 
 
 “ In the course of a year a frightful change 
 came over the husband. His character, up to 
 that time so fine and noble, became poisoned 
 with jealous suspicions, irritability, and inex¬ 
 haustible caprices. He became a tyrant and per¬ 
 secutor to his wife, — something which no one 
 could have foreseen, — and indulged in the most 
 inhuman deeds, even in blows. In a year’s 
 time, no one would have recognized the woman 
 who such a little while before had shone, and 
 drawn about her throngs of submissive adorers. 
 Finally, no longer able to endure her heavy lot, 
 she proposed a divorce. Her husband flew 
 into a rage at the very suggestion. In the first 
 burst of passion, he chased her about the room 
 with a knife, and would doubtless have mur¬ 
 dered her then and there, if they had not 
 seized him and prevented him. In a burst of 
 madness and despair he turned the knife 
 against himself, and ended his life amid the 
 most horrible sufferings. 
 
 “ Besides these two instances which occurred 
 before the eyes of all the world, stories circu- 
 
THE FOR TEA IT. 
 
 293 
 
 lated of a great number which took place 
 among the lower classes, nearly all of which 
 had tragic endings. Here an honest, sober 
 man became a drunkard ; there a shop-keeper’s 
 clerk robbed his master; again, an izvoshtchik 
 who had conducted himself properly for a num¬ 
 ber of years, cut his passenger’s throat for a 
 groschen. It was impossible that such occur¬ 
 rences, related, too, sometimes not without 
 embellishments, should not inspire a sort of 
 involuntary horror in the sedate inhabitants of 
 Kolomna. No one cherished any doubt as to 
 the presence of an evil power in this man. 
 They said that he imposed conditions which 
 made the hair rise on one’s head, and which 
 the miserable wretch never afterward dared 
 reveal to any other being; that his money pos¬ 
 sessed a power of attraction ; that it grew hot 
 of itself, and that it bore strange marks. . . . 
 In short, many were the silly stories in circula¬ 
 tion. And it is worthy of remark, that all this 
 colony of Kolomna, this whole race of poor old 
 women, petty officials, petty artists, and, in a 
 word, all the insignificant people whom we 
 have just recapitulated, agreed that it was 
 
294 
 
 THE TOR TRAIT. 
 
 better to endure any thing, and to suffer the ex¬ 
 treme of misery, rather than to have recourse 
 to the terrible usurer: old women were even 
 found dying of hunger, who preferred to kill 
 their bodies rather than lose their souls. Those 
 who met him in the street felt an involuntary 
 fear. Pedestrians took care to turn aside from 
 his path, and gazed long after the extremely 
 tall, receding figure. In his face alone, there 
 was enough that was uncommon to cause any 
 one to ascribe to him a supernatural nature. 
 The strong features, so deeply chiselled, not 
 seen in many men; the glowing bronze of his 
 complexion; the incredible thickness of his 
 brows ; the intolerable, terrible eyes; even the 
 wide folds of his Asiatic garment, — every thing 
 seemed to indicate that all passions of other 
 people were pale compared to the passions 
 raging in that body. My father stopped short 
 every time he met him, and could not refrain 
 each time from saying, ‘A devil, a perfect 
 devil! ’ But I must introduce you as speedily 
 as possible to my father, who, with others, is 
 
 the chief character in this story. 
 
 << My father was a remarkable man in many 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 295 
 
 respects. He was an artist of rare ability, a 
 self-taught artist, seeking in his own soul, with¬ 
 out teachers or schools, principles and rules, 
 carried away only by the thirst for perfection, 
 and treading a path indicated by his own in¬ 
 stincts, for reasons unknown, perchance, even 
 to himself,—one of those natural marvels whom 
 their contemporaries often honor with the in¬ 
 sulting title of fools , and who are chilled 
 neither by blame nor their own lack of success, 
 who gain only fresh vigor, and, in their own 
 minds, have gone far beyond those works on 
 account of which they have received the name 
 of fools. Through some lofty and secret instinct 
 he perceived the presence of a soul in every ob¬ 
 ject ; he embraced, by his unaided mind, the true 
 significance of the words, historical painting; 
 he comprehended why a simple head, a simple 
 portrait by Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Titian, 
 Correggio, can be considered an historical paint¬ 
 ing, and why a huge picture with historical sub¬ 
 ject remains, nevertheless, a genre picture, in 
 spite of all the artist’s pretensions to historical 
 painting. And this secret instinct and per¬ 
 sonal conviction turned his brush to Christian 
 
296 
 
 THE PORTRAIT, 
 
 subjects, grand and lofty to the last degree. 
 He had none of the vanity or irritability so insep¬ 
 arable from the character of many artists. His 
 was a strong character: he was an honorable, 
 upright, even rough man, covered with a sort of 
 hard rind without, not entirely lacking in pride, 
 and given to expressing himself both sharply 
 and scornfully about people. 4 What are they 
 looking at ? ’ he generally said. 4 1 am not 
 working for them. I don’t carry my pictures to 
 the tavern. He who understands me is grate¬ 
 ful. The man of the world is not to blame 
 that he understands nothing about painting ; but 
 he does understand cards, and he knows good 
 wine and horses ; — why should a gentleman 
 know more ? Observe, if you please, how he 
 tries one, and then another, and then begins to 
 consider, when his living does not depend upon 
 it. Let every man attend to his own affairs. 
 To my mind, that man is the best of all who 
 says frankly that he does not understand a 
 thing, rather than the man who pretends, talks 
 as though he knew a thing he does not know, 
 and is simply disgusting and intolerable.’ He 
 worked for very small pay; that is to say, for 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 297 
 
 just enough to support his family, and obtain 
 the tools to work with. Moreover, he never, 
 under any circumstances, refused to aid any 
 one, or to lend a helping hand to a poor artist: 
 he believed with the simple, reverent faith of 
 his ancestors ; and from that cause, it may be, 
 that noble expression which even brilliant 
 talents cannot acquire, showed itself in the 
 faces he painted. At length, by his unintermit¬ 
 ting labor, and perseverance in the path he had 
 marked out for himself, he began to win the 
 approbation of those who honored his folly and 
 his self-taught talent. They gave him constant 
 orders for churches, and he never lacked em¬ 
 ployment. One of his paintings possessed a 
 strong interest for him. I no longer recall the 
 precise subject: I only know that he needed to 
 represent the Spirit of Darkness in it. He 
 pondered long what form to give him : he 
 wished to concentrate in his face all that weighs 
 down and oppresses a man. In the midst of 
 his meditations, there suddenly occurred to his 
 mind the image of the mysterious usurer ; and 
 he thought involuntarily, ‘ That’s what I ought 
 to paint for the Devil ! ’ Imagine his amaze- 
 
298 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 ment when one day, as he was at work in his 
 studio, he heard a knock at the door, and 
 directly after there entered that very same ter¬ 
 rible usurer. He could not repress an inward 
 
 shudder, which involuntarily traversed every 
 limb. 
 
 You are an artist ? ’ he said to my father 
 abruptly. 
 
 ‘“I am,’ answered my father in surprise, 
 waiting for what should come next. 
 
 ‘Good! Paint my portrait. I may possibly 
 die soon. I have no children; but I do not 
 wish to die completely, I wish to live. Can 
 
 you paint a portrait that shall be as though it 
 lived ? ’ 
 
 “ My father reflected, ‘ What could be better ? 
 he offers himself for the Devil in my picture.’ 
 He promised. They agreed upon a time and 
 price, and the next day my father took palette 
 and brushes, and went to his house. The 
 lofty court-yard, dogs, iron doors and locks, 
 arched windows, coffers draped with strange 
 covers, and, last of all, the remarkable owner 
 himself, seated motionless before him, all pro¬ 
 duced a strange impression on him. The 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 299 
 
 Wffdows seemed intentionally barred, and so 
 encumbered below that they admitted the light 
 only from the top. ‘ Devil take him, how well 
 his face is lighted ! ’ he said to himself, and 
 began to paint assiduously, as though afraid 
 that the favorable light would disappear. 
 * What strength! ’ he repeated to himself. 
 4 If I make half a likeness of him, as he is just 
 now, it will surpass all my other works : he will 
 simply start from the canvas if I am only 
 partly true to nature. What remarkable fea¬ 
 tures ! * he kept repeating, redoubling his 
 energy ; and he began himself to see how some 
 traits were making their appearance on the can¬ 
 vas. But the more closely he approached him, 
 the more conscious he became of an aggres¬ 
 sive, uneasy feeling, which he could not explain 
 to himself. But, notwithstanding this, he set 
 himself to copy with literal accuracy every 
 slightest trait and expression. First of all, 
 however, he busied himself with the eyes. 
 There was so much force in those eyes, that it 
 seemed impossible to reproduce them exactly 
 as they were in nature. But he resolved, at 
 any price, to seek in them the most minute 
 
300 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 characteristics and shades, to penetrate nWB 
 secret. . . . But as soon as he approached 
 them, and began to redouble his exertions, there 
 sprang up in his mind such a terrible feeling of 
 repulsion, of inexplicable oppression, that he 
 was forced to lay aside his brush for a while, 
 and begin anew. At last he could bear it no 
 longer : he felt as if those eyes were piercing 
 into his soul, and causing intolerable emotion. 
 On the second and third days this became still 
 stronger. It became horrible to him. He 
 threw down his brush, and declared abruptly 
 that he could paint him no longer. You 
 should have seen how the terrible usurer 
 changed countenance at these words. He 
 threw himself at his feet, and besought him to 
 finish the portrait, saying that his fate and his 
 existence in the world depended on it; that he 
 had already caught his prominent features ; 
 that if he could reproduce them accurately, his 
 life would be preserved in his portrait, in a 
 supernatural manner; that by that means he 
 would not die completely; that it was necessary 
 for him to continue to exist in the world. 
 
 “ My father was frightened by these words : 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 301 
 
 they seemed to him strange and terrible to such 
 a degree, that he threw down his brushes and 
 palette, and rushed headlong from the room. 
 
 “ The memory of it troubled him all day and 
 all night; but the next morning he received 
 the portrait from the usurer, brought by a 
 woman who was the only creature in his ser¬ 
 vice, who announced that her master did not 
 want the portrait, would pay nothing for it, and 
 had sent it back. On the evening of the same / 
 day he learned that the usurer was dead, and 
 that preparations were in progress to bury him 
 according to the rites of his religion. All this 
 seemed to him inexplicably strange. But from 
 that day a marked change showed itself in his 
 character. He was possessed by a troubled, 
 uneasy feeling, of which he was unable to ex¬ 
 plain the cause ; and he soon committed a deed 
 which no one could have expected of him. 
 For some time the works of one of his pupils 
 had been attracting the attention of a small 
 circle of connoisseurs and amateurs. My father 
 had perceived his talent, and manifested a par¬ 
 ticular liking for him in consequence. Sud¬ 
 denly he became envious of him. The general 
 
302 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 interest in him and talk about him became un¬ 
 endurable to my father. Finally, to complete 
 his vexation, he learned that his pupil had been 
 asked to paint a picture for a recently built and 
 wealthy church. This enraged him. ‘ No, I 
 will not permit that fledgling to triumph !’ said 
 he : ‘it is early, friend, to think of consigning 
 the old men to the gutters. I still have powers, 
 God be praised ! We’ll soon see which will 
 put down the other.’ And the straightforward, 
 honorable man employed intrigues and plots 
 which he had hitherto abhorred. He finally 
 contrived that there should be a competition for 
 the picture which other artists were permitted 
 to enter into with their works. Then he shut 
 himself up in his room, and grasped his brush 
 with zeal. It seemed as if he were striving to 
 summon all his strength for this occasion. 
 And, in fact, it turned out to be one of his best 
 works. No one doubted that he would bear off 
 the palm. The pictures were placed on exhibi¬ 
 tion, and all the others seemed to his as night 
 to day. Then, of a sudden, one of the mem¬ 
 bers present, an ecclesiastical personage if I 
 mistake not, made a remark which surprised 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 303 
 
 every one. ‘There is certainly much talent in 
 this artist’s picture/ said he, ‘but no holiness 
 in the faces : there is even, on the contrary, a 
 sort of demoniacal look in the eyes, as though 
 some evil feeling had guided the artist’s hand.’ 
 All looked, and could not but acknowledge the 
 truth of the words. My father rushed forward 
 to his picture, as though to verify for himself 
 this offensive remark, and perceived with hor¬ 
 ror that he had bestowed the usurer’s eyes 
 upon nearly all the figures. They had such an 
 annihilatingly diabolical gaze, that he involunta¬ 
 rily shuddered. The picture was rejected ; and 
 he was forced to hear, to his indescribable vex¬ 
 ation, that the palm was awarded to his pupil. 
 It is impossible to describe the state of rage in 
 which he returned home. He almost killed my 
 mother, he drove the children away, broke his 
 brushes and easels, tore down the usurer’s por¬ 
 trait from the wall, demanded a knife, and 
 ordered a fire built in the chimney, intending 
 to cut it in pieces and burn it. A friend, an 
 artist, caught him in the act as he entered the 
 room, — a jolly fellow, like my father, always 
 satisfied with himself, inflated by no unattain- 
 
304 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 able wishes, doing daily any thing that came to 
 hand, and taking still more gayly to his dinner 
 and little carouses. 
 
 “ ‘ What are you doing ? What are you pre¬ 
 paring to burn ? ’ he asked, and stepped up to 
 the portrait. ‘Why, this is one of your very 
 best works. This is the usurer who died a short 
 time ago : yes, it is a most perfect thing. You 
 did not stop until you had got into his very eyes. 
 Never in life did eyes look as these of yours do 
 now.’ 
 
 “‘Well, I’ll see how they look in the fire!’ 
 said my father, making a movement to fling the 
 portrait into the grate. 
 
 “ ‘ Stop, for Heaven's sake ! ’ exclaimed his 
 ’ friend, restraining him: ‘give it to me, rather, 
 if it offends your eyes to such a degree.’ My 
 father began to insist, but yielded at length ; 
 and the jolly fellow, well pleased with his acqui¬ 
 sition, carried the portrait home with him. 
 
 “When he was gone, my father felt more calm. 
 The burden seemed to have disappeared from 
 his soul together with the portrait. He was sur¬ 
 prised himself at his evil feelings, his envy, and 
 the evident change in his character. Reviewing 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 305 
 
 his acts, he became sad at heart; and not with¬ 
 out inward sorrow did he exclaim, ‘No, it was 
 God who punished me! my picture, in fact, 
 brought disgrace. It was meant to ruin my 
 brother-man. A devilish feeling of envy guided 
 my brush, and that devilish feeling must have 
 made itself visible in it.’ He set out at once 
 to seek his former pupil, embraced him warmly, 
 begged his forgiveness, and endeavored as far 
 as possible to excuse his own fault. His labors 
 continued, as before, undisturbed; but his face 
 more frequently was thoughtful. He prayed 
 more, grew more taciturn, and expressed him¬ 
 self less sharply about people : even the rough 
 exterior of his character was modified to some 
 extent. But a certain occurrence soon dis¬ 
 turbed him more than ever. He had seen 
 nothing for a long time of the comrade who had 
 begged the portrait of him. He had already de¬ 
 cided to hunt him up, when the latter sudden¬ 
 ly made his appearance in his room. After a 
 few words and questions on both sides, he said, 
 ‘Well, brother, it was not without cause that 
 you wished to burn that portrait. Devil take 
 it, there’s something horrible about it! ... I 
 
306 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 don’t believe in sorcerers; blit, begging your 
 pardon, there’s an unclean spirit in it.’ . . . 
 
 “ ‘ How so ? ’ asked my father. 
 
 “‘Well, from the very moment I hung it up 
 in my room, I felt such depression . . . just as 
 if I wanted to murder some one. I never knew 
 in my life what sleeplessness was; but now I 
 suffer not from sleeplessness alone, but from 
 such dreams! ... I cannot tell whether they 
 are dreams, or what; it is as if a kobold [domo- 
 voi ] were strangling one : and the old man ap¬ 
 pears to me in my sleep. In short, I can’t 
 describe my state of mind. I never had any 
 thing of the sort before. I have been wander¬ 
 ing about miserably all the time: I have had a 
 sensation of fear, of expecting something un¬ 
 pleasant. I have felt as if I could not speak a 
 cheerful or sincere word to any one : it is just 
 as if a spy were sitting over me. And from 
 the very hour that I gave that portrait to my 
 nephew, who asked for it, I felt as if a stone 
 had been rolled from my shoulders : I immedi¬ 
 ately felt cheerful, as you see me now. Well, 
 brother, you made the very Devil ! ’ 
 
 “During this recital, my father listened with 
 
3°7 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 I 
 
 unswerving attention, and finally inquired, 
 ‘And your nephew now has the portrait?’ 
 
 “ ‘ My nephew, indeed ! he could not stand 
 it!’ said the jolly fellow: ‘do you know, the 
 soul of that usurer has migrated into it; he 
 jumps out of the frame, walks about the room; 
 and what my nephew tells of him is simply in¬ 
 comprehensible. I should take him for a lu¬ 
 natic, if I had not undergone a part of it myself. 
 He sold it to some collector of pictures ; and 
 he could not stand it either, and got rid of it 
 to some one else.’ 
 
 “ This story produced a deep impression on 
 my father. He became seriously pensive, fell 
 into hypochondria, and finally became fully con¬ 
 vinced that his brush had served as a tool of the 
 Devil; that a portion of the usurer’s life had 
 actually passed into the portrait, and was now 
 troubling people, inspiring diabolical excite¬ 
 ment, beguiling painters from the true path, 
 producing the fearful torments of envy, and so 
 forth, and so forth. Three catastrophes which 
 occurred afterwards, three sudden deaths of 
 wife, daughter, and infant son, he regarded as a 
 divine punishment on him, and firmly resolved 
 
3°8 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 to leave the world. As soon as I was nine 
 years old, he placed me in an academy of paint¬ 
 ing, and, paying all his debts, retired to a lonely 
 cloister, where he soon afterwards took the vows. 
 There he amazed every one by the strictness of 
 his life, and his untiring observance of all the 
 monastic rules. The prior of the monastery, 
 hearing of his skill in painting, ordered him to 
 paint the principal ikon in the church. But the 
 humble brother said plainly that he was un¬ 
 worthy to touch a brush, that his was contam¬ 
 inated, that with toil and great sacrifice must 
 he first purify his spirit in order to render him¬ 
 self fit to undertake such a task. They did not 
 care to force him. He increased the rigors of 
 monastic life for himself as much as possible. 
 At last, even it became insufficient, and not 
 strict enough for him. He retired, with the ap¬ 
 proval of the prior, into the desert, in order to 
 be quite alone. There he constructed for him¬ 
 self a cell from branches of trees, ate only un¬ 
 cooked roots, dragged about a stone from place 
 to place, stood in one spot with his hands lifted 
 to heaven, from the rising until the going-down 
 of the sun, reciting prayers without cessation : 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 309 
 
 in short, he underwent, it seemed, every possi¬ 
 ble degree of suffering and of that pitiless self- 
 abnegation, of which instances can perhaps be 
 found in some Lives of the Saints. In this man¬ 
 ner did he long — for several years — exhaust 
 his body, invigorating it, at the same time, with 
 the strength of fervent prayer. At length, one 
 day he came to the cloister, and said firmly to 
 the prior, ‘Now I am ready. If God wills, I 
 will finish my task/ The subject he selected 
 was the Birth of Christ. A whole year he sat 
 over it, without leaving his cell, barely sustain¬ 
 ing himself with coarse food, and praying inces¬ 
 santly. At the end of the year the picture was 
 ready. It was a really wonderful work. You 
 must know, that neither prior nor brethren 
 knew much about painting; but all were struck 
 with the marvellous holiness of the figures. 
 The expression of reverent humility and gen¬ 
 tleness in the face of the Holy Mother, as she 
 bent over the Child ; the deep intelligence in 
 the eyes of the Holy Child, as though he saw 
 something afar; the triumphant silence of the 
 Magi, amazed by the Divine Miracle, as they 
 bowed at his feet; and finally, the indescribable 
 
3io 
 
 THE POE TEAIT 
 
 peace which informed the whole picture, — all 
 this was presented with such even strength and 
 powerful beauty, that the impression it made 
 was magical. All the brethren threw them¬ 
 selves on their knees before the new ikon ; and 
 the prior, deeply affected, exclaimed, ‘No, it is 
 impossible for any artist, with the assistance 
 only of earthly art, to produce such a picture: 
 a holy, divine power guided thy brush, and the 
 blessing of Heaven rested upon thy labor!' 
 
 “By that time I had completed my education 
 at the academy, received the gold medal, and 
 with it the joyful hope of a journey to Italy, 
 — the fairest dream of a twenty-year-old artist. 
 It only remained for me to take leave of my 
 father, from whom I had been separated for 
 twelve years. I confess that even his image 
 had long faded from my memory. I had heard 
 somewhat of his grim saintliness, and rather 
 expected to meet a hermit of rough exterior, a 
 stranger to every thing in the world, except his 
 cell and his prayers, worn out, dried up, by eter¬ 
 nal fasting and penance. But how great was 
 my surprise, when a handsome, almost divine, 
 old man stood before me ! And no traces of 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 3 H 
 
 exhaustion were visible on his countenance : it 
 beamed with the light of a heavenly joy. His 
 beard, white as snow, and his thin, almost trans¬ 
 parent hair of the same silvery hue, fell pic¬ 
 turesquely upon his breast, and upon the folds 
 of his black gown, and even to the rope with 
 which his poor monastic garb was girded. But 
 most surprising to me of all, was to hear from 
 his mouth such words and thoughts about art, 
 as, I confess, I long shall bear in mind, and I 
 sincerely wish that all my comrades would do 
 the same. 
 
 “ 4 1 expected you, my son,’ he said, when I 
 approached for his blessing. ‘ The path awaits 
 you, in which your life is henceforth to flow. 
 Your path is pure,—desert it not. You have 
 talent: talent is the most priceless of God’s 
 gifts, — destroy it not. Search out, learn all 
 you see, subject all things to your brush ; but in 
 all, see that you find the hidden soul, and most 
 of all, strive to attain to the grand secret of 
 creation. Blessed is the elect one, who masters 
 that! There is for him, no mean object in na¬ 
 ture. In lowly themes, the artist creator is as 
 great as in great ones: in the despicable, there 
 
312 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 is nothing for him to despise; for the glorious 
 mind of the creator penetrates it, and the des¬ 
 picable has received a lofty significance, for it 
 has passed through the purifying fire of his 
 mind. An intimation of God’s heavenly para¬ 
 dise is contained for the artist, in art, and by 
 that alone is it higher than all else. But by 
 as much as triumphant rest is grander than 
 every earthly emotion ; by as much as the angel, 
 pure in the innocence of its bright spirit, is 
 above all invisible powers and the proud pas¬ 
 sions of Satan, — by just so much is the lofty 
 creation of art higher than every thing else on 
 earth. Sacrifice every thing to it, and love it 
 with passion, — not with the passion breathing 
 with earthly desire, but a peaceful, heavenly 
 passion. Without it a man is not capable of 
 elevating himself above the earth, and cannot 
 produce wondrous sounds of soothing; for the 
 grand creations of art descend into the world 
 in order to soothe and reconcile all. It cannot 
 plant discord in the spirit, but ascends, like a 
 resounding prayer, eternally to God. But there 
 are moments, dark moments ... he paused, 
 and I observed that his bright face darkened, as 
 
THE PORTRAIT 
 
 313 
 
 though some cloud crossed it for a moment. 
 ‘There is one incident of my life/ he said. 
 
 ‘ (Jp to this moment, I cannot understand what 
 that terrible figure was, of which I painted a 
 likeness. It was certainly some diabolical ap¬ 
 parition. I know that the world denies the ex¬ 
 istence of the Devil, and therefore I will not 
 speak of him. I will only say that I painted 
 him with repugnance : I felt no liking for my 
 work, even at the time. I tried to force myself, 
 and, stifling every emotion in a hard-hearted 
 way, to be true to nature. It was not a crea-^ 
 tion of art: and therefore the feelings which 
 overpower every one who looks at it, are feel¬ 
 ings of repulsion, disturbing emotions, not the 
 feelings of an artist; for an artist infuses peace 
 into commotion. I have been informed that 
 this portrait is passing from hand to hand, and 
 sowing unpleasant impressions, inspiring artists 
 with feelings of envy, of dark hatred towards 
 their brethren, with malicious thirst for perse¬ 
 cution and oppression. May the Almighty pre¬ 
 serve you from such passions! There is nothing 
 more terrible. It is better to endure the bitter¬ 
 ness of all possible persecution than to subject 
 
3 T 4 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 any one to even the shadow of persecution. 
 Preserve the purity of your mind. He who 
 
 u %. 
 
 possesses talent should be purer than all others. 
 Much is forgiven to another which is not for¬ 
 given to him. A man who has emerged from his 
 house in brilliant, festive garments, has but to be 
 spattered with a single drop of mud from a 
 wheel, and people surround him, and point the 
 finger at him, and talk of his want of cleanli¬ 
 ness ; while the same people do not perceive 
 the multitude of spots upon other passers-by, 
 who are clothed in ordinary garments, for spots 
 are not visible on ordinary garments.’ 
 
 “ He blessed and embraced me. Never in my 
 life was I so grandly moved. Reverently, rather 
 than with the feeling of a son, I leaned upon his 
 breast, and kissed his scattered silver locks. 
 
 “ Tears shone in his eyes. ‘Fulfil my one 
 request, my son,’ said he, at the moment of 
 parting. ‘You may chance to see the portrait 
 I have mentioned, somewhere. You will know 
 it at once by the strange eyes, and their peculiar 
 expression. Destroy it at any cost.’ . . . 
 
 “Judge for yourselves whether I could refuse 
 to promise, with an oath, to fulfil this request. 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 315 
 
 In the space of fifteen years, I had never suc¬ 
 ceeded in meeting with any thing which in any 
 way corresponded to the description given me 
 by my father, until now, all of a sudden, at an 
 auction ”... 
 
 The artist did not finish his sentence, but 
 turned his eyes to the wall in order to glance 
 once more at the portrait. The whole throng 
 of his auditors made the same movement, seek¬ 
 ing the wonderful portrait with their eyes. But, 
 to their extreme amazement, it was no longer 
 on the wall. An indistinct murmur and ex¬ 
 clamation ran through the crowd, and then was 
 heard distinctly the word, stolen. Some one 
 had succeeded in carrying it off, taking advan¬ 
 tage of the fact that the attention of the specta¬ 
 tors was distracted by the story. And those 
 present remained long in a state of surprise, 
 not knowing whether they had really seen those 
 remarkable eyes, or whether it was simply a 
 dream, which had floated for an instant before 
 their vision, strained with long gazing at old 
 pictures. 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 \ 
 
THE CLOAK/ 
 
 -*-#-*- 
 
 In the department of . . . but it is better 
 not to name the department. There is nothing 
 more irritable than all kinds of departments, 
 regiments, courts of justice, and, in a word, 
 every branch of public service. Each separate 
 man nowadays thinks all society insulted in 
 his person. They say that, quite recently, a 
 complaint was received from a justice of the 
 peace, in which he plainly demonstrated that 
 all the imperial institutions were going to the 
 dogs, and that his sacred name was being taken 
 in vain ; and in proof he appended to the com¬ 
 plaint a huge volume of some romantic compo¬ 
 sition, in which the justice of the peace appears 
 about once in every ten lines, sometimes in a 
 drunken condition. Therefore, in order to 
 avoid all unpleasantness, it will be better for us 
 
 1 From the series of St. Petersburg tales. 
 
 3 T 7 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 318 
 
 to designate the department in question as a 
 certain department. So, in a certain department 
 serves a certain tchinovnik (official ),— not a very 
 prominent official, it must be allowed,—short 
 of stature, somewhat pock-marked, rather red- 
 haired, rather blind, judging from appearances, 
 with a small bald spot on his forehead, with 
 wrinkles on his cheeks, with a complexion of 
 the sort called sanguine. . . . How could he 
 help it ? The Petersburg climate was responsi¬ 
 ble for that. As for his tchin (rank), —for with 
 us the rank must be stated first of all, —he was 
 what is called a perpetual titular councillor, 
 over which, as is well known, some writers 
 make merry and crack their jokes, as they have 
 the praiseworthy custom of attacking those 
 who cannot bite back. 
 
 His family name was Bashmatchkin. It is 
 evident from the name, that it originated in 
 bashmak (shoe); but when, at what time, and 
 in what manner, is not known. His father 
 and grandfather, and even his brother-in-law, and 
 all the Bashmatchkins, always wore boots, and 
 only had new heels two or three times a year. 
 His name was Akakiy Akakievitch. It may 
 
THE CLOAK,\ 
 
 319 
 
 strike the reader as rather singular and far¬ 
 fetched ; but he may feel assured that it was 
 by no means far-fetched, and that the circum¬ 
 stances were such that it would have been im¬ 
 possible to give him any other name ; and this 
 was how it came about. Akakiy Akakievitch 
 was born, if my memory fails me not, towards 
 night on the 23d of March. His late mother, 
 the wife of a tchinovnik, and a very fine woman, 
 made all due arrangements for having the child 
 baptized. His mother was lying on the bed 
 opposite the door : on her right stood the god¬ 
 father, a most estimable man, Ivan Ivanovitch 
 Eroshkin, who served as presiding officer of 
 the senate ; and the godmother, the wife of an 
 officer of the quarter, a woman of rare virtues, 
 Anna Semenovna Byelobrushkova. They of¬ 
 fered the mother her choice of three names, 
 — Mokiya, Sossiya, or that the child should be 
 called after the martyr Khozdazat. “No,” 
 pronounced the blessed woman, “all those 
 names are poor.” In order to please her, they 
 opened the calendar at another place : three 
 more names appeared,—Triphiliy, Dula, and 
 Varakhasiy. “This is a judgment,” said the 
 
320 
 
 THE CLOAK, 
 
 old woman. “What names! I truly never 
 heard the like. Varadat or Varukh might have 
 been borne, but not Triphiliy and Varakhasiy ! ” 
 They turned another page — Pavsikakhiy and 
 Vakhtisiy. “Now I see,” said the old woman, 
 “ that it is plainly fate. And if that’s the 
 case, it will be better to name him after his 
 father. His father’s name was Akakiy, so let 
 his son’s be also Akakiy.” In this manner he 
 became Akakiy Akakievitch. They christened 
 the child, whereat he wept, and made a grimace, 
 as though he foresaw that he was to be a titular 
 councillor. In this manner did it all come 
 about. We have mentioned it, in order that 
 the reader might see for himself that it hap¬ 
 pened quite as a case of necessity, and that it 
 was utterly impossible to give him any other 
 name. When and how he entered the depart¬ 
 ment, and who appointed him, no one could re¬ 
 member. However much the directors and 
 chiefs of all kinds were changed, he was always 
 to be seen in the same place, the same attitude, 
 the same occupation, — the same official for let¬ 
 ters ; so that afterwards it was affirmed that he 
 had been born in undress uniform with a bald 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 321 
 
 spot on his head. No respect was shown him 
 in the department. The janitor not only did 
 not rise from his seat when he passed, but 
 never even glanced at him, as if only a fly had 
 flown through the reception-room. His supe¬ 
 riors treated him in a coolly despotic manner. 
 Some assistant chief would thrust a paper 
 under his nose without so much as saying, 
 
 “ Copy,” or, “ Here’s a nice, interesting matter,”* 
 or any thing else agreeable, as is customary in 
 well-bred service. And he took it, looking 
 only at the paper, and not observing who 
 handed it to him, or whether he had the right to 
 do so : he simply took it, and set about copying 
 it. The young officials laughed at and made 
 fun of him, so far as their official wit permitted; 
 recounted there in his presence various stories 
 concocted about him, and about his landlady, 
 an old woman of seventy ; they said that she 
 beat him ; asked when the wedding was to be ; 
 and strewed bits of paper over his head, call¬ 
 ing them snow. But Akakiy Akakievitch an¬ 
 swered not a word, as though there had been 
 no one before him. It even had no effect upon 
 his employment: amid all these molestations 
 
322 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 he never made a single mistake in a letter. 
 But if the joking became utterly intolerable, as 
 when they jogged his hand, and prevented his 
 attending to his work, he would exclaim, 
 “Leave me alone! Why do you insult me?” 
 And there was something strange in the words 
 and the voice in which they were uttered. 
 There was in it a something which moved to 
 pity; so that one young man, lately entered, 
 who, taking pattern by the others, had per¬ 
 mitted himself to make sport of him, suddenly 
 stopped short, as though all had undergone a 
 transformation before him, and presented itself 
 in a different aspect. Some unseen force re¬ 
 pelled him from the comrades whose acquaint¬ 
 ance he had made, on the supposition that they 
 were well-bred and polite men. And long 
 afterwards, in his gayest moments, there came 
 to his mind the little official with the bald fore¬ 
 head, with the heart-rending words, “ Leave me 
 alone! Why do you insult me?” And in 
 these penetrating words, other words resounded, 
 — “I am thy brother.” And the poor young 
 man covered his face with his hand ; and many 
 a time afterwards, in the course of his life, 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 323 
 
 he shuddered at seeing how much inhumanity 
 there is in man, how much savage coarseness is 
 concealed in delicate, refined worldliness, and, 
 O God! even in that man whom the world 
 acknowledges as honorable and noble. 
 
 It would be difficult to find another man who 
 lived so entirely for his duties. It is saying 
 but little to say that he served with zeal: no, 
 he served with love. In that copying, he saw 
 a varied and agreeable world. Enjoyment 
 was written on his face : some letters were 
 favorites with him ; and when he encountered 
 them, he became unlike himself ; he smiled and 
 winked, and assisted with his lips, so that it 
 seemed as though each letter might be read in 
 his face, as his pen traced it. If his pay had 
 been in proportion to his zeal, he would, per¬ 
 haps, to his own surprise, have been made even 
 a councillor of state. But he served, as his 
 companions, the wits, put it, like a buckle in a 
 button-hole. 
 
 Moreover, it is impossible to say that no 
 attention was paid to him. One director being 
 a kindly man, and desirous of rewarding him 
 for his long service, ordered him to be given 
 
324 
 
 THE CLOAK, 
 
 something more important than mere copying; 
 namely, he was ordered to make a report of an 
 already concluded affair, to another court: the 
 matter consisted simply in changing the head¬ 
 ing, and altering a few words from the first to 
 the third person. This caused him so much 
 toil, that he was all in a perspiration, rubbed his 
 forehead, and finally said, “ No, give me rather 
 something to copy.” After that they let him 
 copy on forever. Outside this copying, it ap¬ 
 peared that nothing existed for him. He 
 thought not at all of his clothes : his undress 
 uniform was not green, but a sort of rusty-meal 
 color. The collar was narrow, low, so that his 
 neck, in spite of the fact that it was not long, 
 seemed inordinately long as it emerged from 
 that collar, like the necks of plaster cats which 
 wag their heads, and are carried about upon the 
 heads of scores of Russian foreigners. And 
 something was always sticking to his uniform, 
 — either a piece of hay or some trifle. More¬ 
 over, he had a peculiar knack, as he walked in 
 the street, of arriving beneath a window when 
 all sorts of rubbish was being flung out of it: 
 hence he always bore about on his hat melon 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 325 
 
 and water-melon rinds, and other such stuff. 
 Never once in his life did he give heed to what 
 was going on every day in the street; while it 
 is well known that his young brother official, 
 extending the range of his bold glance, gets 
 so that he can see when any one’s trouser- 
 straps drop down upon the opposite sidewalk, 
 which always calls forth a malicious smile upon 
 his face. But Akakiy Akakievitch, if he looked 
 at any thing, saw in all things the clean, even 
 strokes of his written lines ; and only when a 
 horse thrust his muzzle, from some unknown 
 quarter, over his shoulder, and sent a whole 
 gust of wind down his neck from his nostrils, 
 did he observe that he was not in the middle 
 of a line, but in the middle of the street. 
 
 On arriving at home, he sat down at once at 
 the table, supped his cabbage-soup quickly, and 
 ate a bit of beef with onions, never noticing 
 their taste, ate it all with flies and any thing 
 else which the Lord sent at the moment. On 
 observing that his stomach began to puff out, 
 he rose from the table, took out a little vial 
 with ink, and copied papers which he had 
 brought home. If there happened to be none, 
 
3 2 6 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 he took copies for himself, for his own gratifica¬ 
 tion, especially if the paper was noteworthy, 
 not on account of its beautiful style, but of its 
 being addressed to some new or distinguished 
 person. 
 
 Even at the hour when the gray Petersburg 
 sky had quite disappeared, and all the world 
 of tchinovniks had eaten or dined, each as he 
 could, in accordance with the salary he received, 
 and his own fancy; when all were resting from 
 the departmental jar of pens, running to and 
 fro, their own and other people’s indispensable 
 occupations, and all the work that an uneasy 
 man makes willingly for himself, rather than 
 what is necessary; when tchinovniks hasten 
 to dedicate to pleasure the time which is left 
 to them — one bolder than the rest goes to the 
 theatre ; another, into the streets, devoting it to 
 the inspection of some bonnets ; one wastes his 
 evening in compliments to some pretty girl, the 
 star of a small official circle; one — and this 
 is the most common case of all — goes to his 
 comrades on the fourth or third floor, to two 
 small rooms with an ante-room or kitchen, and 
 some pretensions to fashion, a lamp or some 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 327 
 
 other trifle which has cost many a sacrifice of 
 dinner or excursion — in a word, even at the 
 hour when all tchinovniks disperse among the 
 contracted quarters of their friends, to play at 
 whist, as they sip their tea from glasses with a 
 kopek’s worth of sugar, draw smoke through 
 long pipes, relating at times some bits of gossip 
 which a Russian man can never, under any cir¬ 
 cumstances, refrain from, or even when there is 
 nothing to say, recounting everlasting anecdotes 
 about the commandant whom they had sent to 
 inform that the tails of the horses on the Fal¬ 
 conet Monument had been cut off, — in a word, 
 even when all strive to divert themselves, Aka¬ 
 kiy Akakievitch yielded to no diversion. No 
 one could ever say that he had seen him at any 
 sort of an evening party. Having written to 
 his heart’s content, he lay down to sleep, smil¬ 
 ing at the thought of the coming day, — of 
 what God might send to copy on the morrow. 
 Thus flowed on the peaceful life of the man, 
 who, with a salary of four hundred rubles, 
 understood how to be content with his fate ; and 
 thus it would have continued to flow on, per¬ 
 haps, to extreme old age, were there not various 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 328 
 
 ills sown aiong the path of life for titular coun¬ 
 cillors as well as for private, actual, court, and 
 every other species of councillor, even for those 
 who never give any advice, or take any them¬ 
 selves. 
 
 There exists in Petersburg a powerful foe of 
 all who receive four hundred rubles salary a 
 year, or thereabouts. This foe is no other than 
 our Northern cold, although it is said to be very 
 wholesome. At nine o’clock in the morning, 
 at the very hour when the streets are filled with 
 men bound for the departments, it begins to 
 bestow such powerful and piercing nips on all 
 noses impartially, that the poor officials really 
 do not know what to do with them. At the 
 hour when the foreheads of even those who 
 occupy exalted positions ache with the cold, 
 and tears start to their eyes, the poor titular 
 councillors are sometimes unprotected. Their 
 only salvation lies in traversing as quickly as 
 possible, in their thin little cloaks, five or six 
 streets, and then warming their feet well in the 
 porter’s room, and so thawing all their talents 
 and qualifications for official service, which had 
 become frozen on the way. Akakiy Akakie- 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 329 
 
 vitch had felt for some time that his back and 
 shoulders suffered with peculiar poignancy, in 
 spite of the fact that he tried to traverse the 
 legal distance with all possible speed. He 
 finally wondered whether the fault did not lie in 
 his cloak. He examined it thoroughly at home, 
 and discovered that in two places, namely, on 
 the back and shoulders, it had become thin as 
 mosquito-netting : the cloth was worn to such a 
 degree that he could see through it, and the 
 lining had fallen into pieces. You must know 
 that Akakiy Akakievitch’s cloak served as an 
 object of ridicule to the tchinovniks : they even 
 deprived it of the noble name of cloak, and 
 called it a capote . 1 In fact, it was of singular 
 make : its collar diminished year by year, but 
 served to patch its other parts. The patching 
 did not exhibit great skill on the part of the 
 tailor, and turned out, in fact, baggy and ugly. 
 Seeing how the matter stood, Akakiy Akakie- 
 vitch decided that it would be necessary to take 
 the cloak to Petrovitch, the tailor, who lived 
 somewhere on the fourth floor up a dark stair¬ 
 case, and who, in spite of his having but one 
 
 1 A woman’s cloak. 
 
330 
 
 THE CLOAK, 
 
 eye, and pock-marks all over his face, busied 
 himself with considerable success in repairing 
 the trousers and coats of officials and others; 
 that is to say, when he was sober, and not nurs¬ 
 ing some other scheme in his head. It is not 
 necessary to say much about this tailor : but, as 
 it is the custom to have the character of each 
 personage in a novel clearly defined, there is 
 nothing to be done ; so here is Petrovitch the 
 tailor. At first he was called only Grigoriy, 
 and was some gentleman’s serf: he began to 
 call himself Petrovitch from the time when he 
 received his free papers, and began to drink 
 heavily on all holidays, at first on the great 
 ones, and then on all church festivals without 
 discrimination, wherever a cross stood in the 
 calendar. On this point he was faithful to an¬ 
 cestral custom ; and, quarrelling with his wife, 
 he called her a low female and a German. As 
 we have stumbled upon his wife, it will be 
 necessary to say a word or two about her; but, 
 unfortunately, little is known of her beyond the 
 fact that Petrovitch has a wife, who wears a 
 cap and a dress; but she cannot lay claim to 
 beauty, it seems — at least, no one but the sol- 
 
THE CLOAK, 
 
 331 
 
 diers of the guard, as they pulled their mus¬ 
 taches, and uttered some peculiar sound, even 
 looked under her cap when they met her. 
 
 Ascending the staircase which led to Petro- 
 vitch — which, to do it justice, was all soaked 
 in water (dishwater), and penetrated with the 
 smell of spirits which affects the eyes, and is 
 an inevitable adjunct to all dark stairways 
 in Petersburg houses — ascending the stairs, 
 Akakiy Akakievitch pondered how much 
 Petrovitch would ask, and mentally resolved 
 not to give more than two rubles. The door 
 was open ; for the mistress, in cooking some 
 fish, had raised such a smoke in the kitchen 
 that not even the beetles were visible. Akakiy 
 Akakievitch passed through the kitchen unper¬ 
 ceived, even by the housewife, and at length 
 reached a room where he beheld Petrovitch 
 seated on a large, unpainted table, with his legs 
 tucked under him like a Turkish pacha. His 
 feet were bare, after the fashion of tailors as 
 they sit at work ; and the first thing which 
 arrested the eye was his thumb, very well 
 known to Akakiy Akakievitch, with a deformed 
 nail thick and strong as a turtle’s shell. On 
 
332 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 Petrovitch’s neck hung a skein of silk and 
 thread, and upon his knees lay some old gar¬ 
 ment. He had been trying for three minutes 
 to thread his needle, unsuccessfully, and so was 
 very angry with the darkness, and even with 
 the thread, growling in a low voice, “ It won’t 
 go through, the barbarian! you pricked me, 
 you rascal ! ” Akakiy Akakievitch was dis¬ 
 pleased at arriving at the precise moment when 
 Petrovitch was angry : he liked to order some¬ 
 thing of Petrovitch when the latter was a little 
 downhearted, or, as his wife expressed it, 
 “when he had settled himself with brandy, the 
 one-eyed devil!” Under such circumstances, 
 Petrovitch generally came down in his price 
 very readily, and came to an understanding, 
 and even bowed and returned thanks. After¬ 
 wards, to be sure, his wife came, complaining 
 that her husband was drunk, and so had set the 
 price too low; but, if only a ten-kopek piece 
 were added, then the matter was settled. But 
 now it appeared that Petrovitch was in a sober 
 condition, and therefore rough, taciturn, and 
 inclined to demand, Satan only knows what 
 price. Akakiy Akakievitch felt this, and would 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 333 
 
 gladly have beat a retreat, as the saying goes; 
 but he was in for it. Petrovitch screwed up 
 his one eye very intently at him ; and Akakiy 
 Akakievitch involuntarily said, “How do you 
 do, Petrovitch ! ” 
 
 “I wish you a good-morning, sir,” said Petro¬ 
 vitch, and squinted at Akakiy Akakievitch’s 
 hands, wishing to see what sort of booty he 
 had brought. 
 
 “Ah! I . . . to you, Petrovitch, this”— It 
 must be known that Akakiy Akakievitch ex¬ 
 pressed himself chiefly by prepositions, ad¬ 
 verbs, and by such scraps of phrases as had no 
 meaning whatever. But if the matter was a 
 very difficult one, then he had a habit of never 
 completing his sentences; so that quite fre¬ 
 quently, having begun his phrase with the 
 words, “This, in fact, is quite” < . . there was 
 no more of it, and he forgot himself, thinking 
 that he had already finished it. 
 
 “What is it?” asked Petrovitch, and with 
 his one eye scanned his whole uniform, begin¬ 
 ning with the collar down to the cuffs, the back, 
 the tails and button-holes, all of which were 
 very well known to him, because they were his 
 
334 
 
 THE CLOAK ,I 
 
 own handiwork. Such is the habit of tailors : 
 it is the first thing they do on meeting one. 
 
 “But I, here, this, Petrovitch, ... a cloak, 
 cloth . . . here you see, everywhere, in differ¬ 
 ent places, it is quite strong ... it is a little 
 dusty, and looks old, but it is new, only here in 
 one place it is a little ... on the back, and 
 here on one of the shoulders, it is a little worn, 
 yes, here on this shoulder it is a little ... do 
 you see ? this is all. And a little work ” . . . 
 
 Petrovitch took the mantle, spread it out, to 
 begin with, on the table, looked long at it, 
 shook his head, put out his hand to the window¬ 
 sill after his snuff-box, adorned with the por¬ 
 trait of some general,—just what general is 
 unknown, for the place where the face belonged 
 had been rubbed through by the finger, and a 
 square bit of paper had been pasted on. Hav¬ 
 ing taken a pinch of snuff, Petrovitch spread 
 the cloak out on his hands, and inspected it 
 against the light, and again shook his head ; 
 then he turned it, lining upwards, and shook 
 his head once more; again he removed the 
 general-adorned cover with its bit of pasted 
 paper, and, having stuffed his nose with snuff, 
 
THE CLOAK, 
 
 335 
 
 covered and put away the snuff-box, and said 
 finally, “ No, it is impossible to mend it: it’s a 
 miserable garment! ” 
 
 Akakiy Akakievitch’s heart sank at these 
 words. 
 
 “ Why is it impossible, Petrovitch ? ” he said, 
 almost in the pleading voice of a child: “all 
 that ails it is, that it is worn on the shoulders. 
 You must have some pieces.” . . . 
 
 “Yes, patches could be found, patches are 
 easily found,” said Petrovitch, “but there’s 
 nothing to sew them to. The thing is com¬ 
 pletely rotten : if you touch a needle to it — 
 see, it will give way.” 
 
 “Let it give way, and you can put on another 
 patch at once.” 
 
 “ But there is nothing to put the patches on ; 
 there’s no use in strengthening it; it is very 
 far gone. It’s lucky that it’s cloth ; for, if the 
 wind were to blow, it would fly away.” 
 
 “Well, strengthen it again. How this, in 
 fact ”... 
 
 “No,” said Petrovitch decisively, “there is 
 nothing to be done with it. It’s a thoroughly 
 bad job. You’d better, when the cold winter 
 
33<5 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 weather comes on, make yourself some foot- 
 bandages out of it, because stockings are not 
 warm. The Germans invented them in order 
 to make more money. [Petrovitch loved, on 
 occasion, to give a fling at the Germans.] But 
 it is plain that you must have a new cloak.” 
 
 At the word new, all grew dark before 
 Akakiy Akakievitch’s eyes, and every thing in 
 the room began to whirl round. The only 
 thing he saw clearly was the general with the 
 paper face on Petrovitch’s snuff-box cover. 
 “How a new one?” said he, as if still in a 
 dream : “why, I have no money for that.” 
 
 “Yes, a new one,” said Petrovitch, with bar¬ 
 barous composure. 
 
 “Well, if it came to a new one, how, it” . . . 
 
 “You mean how much would it cost?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Well, you would have to lay out a hundred 
 and fifty or more,” said Petrovitch, and pursed 
 up his lips significantly. He greatly liked 
 powerful effects, liked to stun utterly and sud¬ 
 denly, and then to glance sideways to see what 
 face the stunned person would put on the 
 matter. 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 337 
 
 “A hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak!” 
 shrieked poor Akakiy Akakievitch, — shrieked 
 perhaps for the first time in his life, for his 
 voice had always been distinguished for its soft¬ 
 ness. 
 
 “ Yes, sir,” said Petrovitch, “for any sort of 
 a cloak. If you have marten fur on the collar, 
 or a silk-lined hood, it will mount up to two 
 hundred.” 
 
 “Petrovitch, please,” said Akakiy Akakie¬ 
 vitch in a beseeching tone, not hearing, and not 
 trying to hear, Petrovitch’s words, and all his 
 “effects,” “some repairs, in order that it may 
 wear yet a little longer.” 
 
 “No, then, it would be a waste of labor and 
 money,” said Petrovitch ; and Akakiy Akakie¬ 
 vitch went away after these words, utterly dis¬ 
 couraged. But Petrovitch stood long after his 
 departure, with significantly compressed lips, 
 and not betaking himself to his work, satisfied 
 that he would not be dropped, and an artistic 
 tailor employed. 
 
 Akakiy Akakievitch went out into the street 
 as if in a dream. “Such an affair! ” he said to 
 himself : “ I did not think it had come to ” . . . 
 
 9 
 
338 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 and then after a pause, he added, “ Well, so it 
 is ! see what it has come to at last ! and I never 
 imagined that it was so! ” Then followed a 
 long silence, after which he exclaimed, “ Well, 
 so it is ! see what already exactly, nothing un¬ 
 expected that ... it would be nothing . . . 
 what a circumstance ! ” So saying, instead of 
 going home, he went in exactly the opposite 
 direction without himself suspecting it. On 
 the way, a chimney-sweep brought his dirty side 
 up against him, and blackened his whole shoul¬ 
 der : a whole hatful of rubbish landed on him 
 from the top of a house which was building. 
 He observed it not; and afterwards, when he 
 ran into a sentry, who, having planted his hal¬ 
 berd beside him, was shaking some snuff from 
 his box into his horny hand,—only then did 
 he recover himself a little, and that because 
 the sentry said, “ Why are you thrusting your¬ 
 self into a man’s very face ? Haven’t you the 
 sidewalk?” This caused him to look about 
 him, and turn towards home. There only, he 
 finally began to collect his thoughts, and to sur¬ 
 vey his position in its clear and actual light, 
 and to argue with himself, not brokenly, but 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 339 
 
 sensibly and frankly, as with a reasonable friend, 
 with whom one can discuss very private and 
 personal matters. “No,” said Akakiy Akakie- 
 vitch, “it is impossible to reason with Petrovitch 
 now : he is that . . . evidently, his wife has 
 been beating him. I’d better go to him Sunday 
 morning: after Saturday night he will be a lit¬ 
 tle cross-eyed and sleepy, for he will have to get 
 drunk, and his wife won’t give him any money; 
 and at such a time, a ten-kopek piece in his 
 hand will — he will become more fit to reason 
 with, and then the cloak, and that.” . . . Thus 
 argued Akakiy Akakievitch with himself, re¬ 
 gained his courage, and waited until the first 
 Sunday, when, seeing from afar that Petrovitch’s 
 wife had gone out of the house, he went straight 
 to him. Petrovitch’s eye was very much askew, 
 in fact, after Saturday : his head drooped, and 
 he was very sleepy; but for all that, as soon as 
 he knew what the question was, it seemed as 
 though Satan jogged his memory. “Impos¬ 
 sible,” said he: “please to order a new one.” 
 Thereupon Akakiy Akakievitch handed over the 
 ten-kopek piece. “Thank you, sir ; I will drink 
 your good health,” said Petrovitch: “but as for 
 
340 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 the cloak, don't trouble yourself about it; it is 
 good for nothing. I will make you a new coat 
 famously, so let us settle about it now.” 
 
 Akakiy Akakievitch was still for mending it; 
 but Petrovitch would not hear to it, and said, “ I 
 shall certainly make you a new one, and please 
 depend upon it that I shall do my best. It may 
 even be, as the fashion goes, that the collar can 
 be fastened by silver hooks under a flap.” 
 
 Then Akakiy Akakievitch saw that it was im¬ 
 possible to get along without a new cloak, and 
 his spirit sank utterly. How, in fact, was it 
 to be accomplished ? Where was the money to 
 come from ? He might, to be sure, depend, in 
 part, upon his present at Christmas; but that 
 money had long been doled out and allotted 
 beforehand. He must have some new trousers, 
 and pay a debt of long standing to the shoe¬ 
 maker for putting new tops to his old boots, and 
 he must order three shirts from the seamstress, 
 and a couple of pieces of linen which it is im¬ 
 polite to mention in print; — in a word, all 
 his money must be spent; and even if the di¬ 
 rector should be so kind as to order forty-five 
 rubles instead of forty, or even fifty, it would be 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 341 
 
 a mere nothing, and a mere drop in the ocean 
 towards the capital necessary for a cloak: 
 although he knew that Petrovitch was wrong¬ 
 headed enough to blurt out some outrageous 
 price, Satan only knows what, so that his 
 own wife could not refrain from exclaiming, 
 “ Have you lost your senses, you fool ? ” At 
 one time he would not work at any price, and 
 now it was quite likely that he had asked a 
 price which it was not worth. Although he 
 knew that Petrovitch would undertake to make 
 it for eighty rubles, still, where was he to get 
 the eighty rubles ? He might possibly man¬ 
 age half; yes, a half of that might be procured : 
 but where was the other half to come from ? 
 But the reader must first be told where the 
 first half came from. Akakiy Akakievitch had 
 a habit of putting, for every ruble he spent, a 
 groschen into a small box, fastened with lock 
 and key, and with a hole in the top for the recep-" 
 tion of money. At the end of each half-year, he 
 counted over the heap of coppers, and changed 
 it into small silver coins. This he continued 
 for a long time ; and thus, in the course of some 
 years, the sum proved to amount to over forty 
 
342 
 
 TIIE CLOAK. 
 
 rubles. Thus he had one half on hand ; but 
 where to get the other half ? where to get 
 another forty rubles ? Akakiy Akakievitch 
 thought and thought, and decided that it would 
 be necessary to curtail his ordinary expenses, 
 for the space of one year at least, —to dispense 
 with tea in the evening; to burn no candles, 
 and, if there was any thing which he must do, 
 to go into his landlady’s room, and work by her 
 light; when he went into the street, he must 
 walk as lightly as possible, and as cautiously, 
 upon the stones and flagging, almost upon tip¬ 
 toe, in order not to wear out his heels in too 
 short a time ; he must give the laundress as lit¬ 
 tle to wash as possible ; and, in order not to wear 
 out his clothes, he must take them off as soon 
 as he got home, and wear only his cotton dress¬ 
 ing-gown, which had been long and carefully 
 saved. 
 
 To tell the truth, it was a little hard for him 
 at first to accustom himself to these depriva¬ 
 tions ; but he got used to them at length, after 
 a fashion, and all went smoothly — he even got 
 used to being hungry in the evening; but he 
 made up for it by treating himself in spirit, 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 343 
 
 bearing ever in mind the thought of his future 
 cloak. From that time forth, his existence 
 seemed to become, in some way, fuller, as if he 
 were married, as if some other man lived in him, 
 as if he were not alone, and some charming 
 friend had consented to go along life’s path with 
 him, — and the friend was no other than that 
 cloak, with thick wadding and a strong lining 
 incapable of wearing out. He became more 
 lively, and his character even became firmer, 
 like that of a man who has made up his mind, 
 and set himself a goal. From his face and gait, 
 doubt and indecision — in short, all hesitating 
 and wavering traits — disappeared of themselves. 
 Fire gleamed in his eyes: occasionally, the bold¬ 
 est and most daring ideas flitted through his 
 mind ; why not, in fact, have marten fur on the 
 collar ? The thought of this nearly made him 
 absent-minded. Once, in copying a letter, he 
 nearly made a mistake, so that he exclaimed 
 almost aloud, “Ugh!” and crossed himself. 
 Once in the course of each month, he had a 
 conference with Petrovitch on the subject of 
 the coat, — where it would be better to buy the 
 cloth, and the color, and the price, — and he 
 
344 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 always returned home satisfied, though trou¬ 
 bled, reflecting that the time would come at 
 last when it could all be bought, and then the 
 cloak could be made. The matter progressed 
 more briskly than he had expected. Far beyond 
 all his hopes, the director appointed neither forty 
 nor forty-five rubles for Akakiy Akakievitch’s 
 share, but sixty. Did he suspect that Akakiy 
 Akakievitch needed a cloak ? or did it merely 
 happen so ? at all events, twenty extra rubles 
 were by this means provided. This circum¬ 
 stance hastened matters. Only two or three 
 months more of hunger — and Akakiy Akakie¬ 
 vitch had accumulated about eighty rubles. 
 His heart, generally so quiet, began to beat. 
 On the first possible day, he visited the shops 
 in company with Petrovitch. They purchased 
 some very good cloth — and reasonably, for they 
 had been considering the matter for six months, 
 and rarely did a month pass without their visit¬ 
 ing the shops to inquire prices ; and Petrovitch 
 said himself, that no better cloth could be had. 
 For lining, they selected a cotton stuff, but so 
 firm and thick, that Petrovitch declared it to be 
 better than silk, and even prettier and more 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 345 
 
 glossy. They did not buy the marten fur, be¬ 
 cause it was dear, in fact; but in its stead, they 
 picked out the very best of cat-skin which 
 could be found in the shop, and which might 
 be taken for marten at a distance. 
 
 Petrovitch worked at the cloak two whole 
 weeks, for there was a great deal of quilting: 
 otherwise it would have been done sooner. 
 Petrovitch charged twelve rubles for his work, 
 — it could not possibly be done for less : it was 
 all sewed with silk, in small, double seams; and 
 Petrovitch went over each seam afterwards 
 with his own teeth, stamping in various pat¬ 
 terns. It was — it is difficult to say precisely 
 on what day, but it was probably the most glo¬ 
 rious day in Akakiy Akakievitch’s life, when 
 Petrovitch at length brought home the cloak. 
 He brought it in the morning, before the hour 
 when it was necessary to go to the department. 
 Never did a cloak arrive so exactly in the nick 
 of time; for the severe cold had set in, and it 
 seemed to threaten increase. Petrovitch pre¬ 
 sented himself with the coat as befits a good 
 tailor. On his countenance was a significant 
 expression, such as Akakiy Akakievitch had 
 
346 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 never beheld there. He seemed sensible to the 
 fullest extent that he had done no small deed, 
 and that a gulf had suddenly appeared, sepa¬ 
 rating tailors who only put in linings, and make 
 repairs, from those who make new things. He 
 took the cloak out of the pocket-handkerchief 
 in which he had brought it. (The handkerchief 
 was fresh from the laundress : he now removed 
 it, and put it in his pocket for use.) Taking 
 out the cloak, he gazed proudly at it, held it 
 with both hands, and flung it very skilfully 
 over the shoulders of Akakiy Akakievitch; 
 then he pulled it and fitted it down behind 
 with his hand ; then he draped it around Aka¬ 
 kiy Akakievitch without buttoning it. Akakiy 
 Akakievitch, as a man advanced in life, wished 
 to try the sleeves. Petrovitch helped him on 
 with them, and it turned out that the sleeves 
 were satisfactory also. In short, the cloak 
 appeared to be perfect, and just in season. 
 Petrovitch did not neglect this opportunity to 
 observe that it was only because he lived in a 
 narrow street, and had no signboard, and 
 because he had known Akakiy Akakievitch so 
 long, that he had made it so cheaply ; but, if he 
 
THE CLOAK, 
 
 347 
 
 had been on the Nevsky Prospect, he would 
 have charged seventy-five rubles for the making 
 alone. Akakiy Akakievitch did not care to 
 argue this point with Petrovitch, and he was 
 afraid of the large sums with which Petrovitch 
 was fond of raising the dust. He paid him, 
 thanked him, and set out at once in his new 
 cloak for the department. Petrovitch followed 
 him, and, pausing in the street, gazed long at 
 the cloak in the distance, and went to one side 
 expressly to run through a crooked alley, and 
 emerge again into the street to gaze once more 
 upon the cloak from another point, namely, 
 directly in front. 
 
 Meantime Akakiy Akakievitch went on with 
 every sense in holiday mood. He was con¬ 
 scious every second of the time, that he had a 
 new cloak on his shoulders; and several times 
 he laughed with internal satisfaction. In fact, 
 there were two advantages, — one was its 
 warmth; the other, its beauty. He saw noth¬ 
 ing of the road, and suddenly found himself at 
 the department. He threw off his cloak in the 
 ante-room, looked it over well, and confided it 
 to the especial care of the janitor. It is impos- 
 
348 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 sible to say just how every one in the depart¬ 
 ment knew at once that Akakiy Akakievitch 
 had a new cloak, and that the “mantle” no 
 longer existed. All rushed at the same 
 moment into the ante-room, to inspect Akakiy 
 Akakievitch’s new cloak. They began to con¬ 
 gratulate him, and to say pleasant things to 
 him, so that he began at first to smile, and then 
 he grew ashamed. When all surrounded him, 
 and began to say that the new cloak must be 
 “ christened,” and that he must give a whole 
 evening at least to it, Akakiy Akakievitch lost 
 his head completely, knew not where he stood, 
 what to answer, and how to get out of it. He 
 stood blushing all over for several minutes, and 
 was on the point of assuring them with great 
 
 simplicity that it was not a new cloak, that it 
 
 • 
 
 was so and so, that it was the old cloak. At 
 length one of the tchinovniks, some assistant 
 chief probably, in order to show that he was 
 not at all proud, and on good terms with his 
 inferiors, said, “ So be it : I will give the party 
 instead of Akakiy Akakievitch ; I invite you 
 all to tea with me to-night; it happens quite 
 apropos y as it is my name-day.” The officials 
 
THE CLOAK, 
 
 349 
 
 naturally at once offered the assistant chief 
 their congratulations, and accepted the invita¬ 
 tion with pleasure. Akakiy Akakievitch would 
 have declined; but all declared that it was dis¬ 
 courteous, that it was simply a sin and a shame, 
 and that he could not possibly refuse. Besides, 
 the idea became pleasant to him when he recol¬ 
 lected that he should thereby have a chance to 
 wear his new cloak in the evening also. That 
 whole day was truly a most triumphant festival 
 day for Akakiy Akakievitch, He returned 
 home in the most happy frame of mind, threw 
 off his cloak, and hung it carefully on the wall, 
 admiring afresh the cloth and the lining; and 
 then he brought out his old, worn-out cloak, for 
 comparison. He looked at it, and laughed, so 
 vast was the difference. And long after dinner 
 he laughed again when the condition of the 
 mantle recurred to his mind. He dined gayly, 
 and after dinner wrote nothing, no papers even, 
 but took his ease for a while on the bed, until 
 it got dark. Then he dressed himself lei¬ 
 surely, put on his cloak, and stepped out into 
 the street. Where the host lived, unfortu¬ 
 nately we cannot say : our memory begins to 
 
350 
 
 THE CLOAK, 
 
 fail us badly ; and every thing in St. Peters¬ 
 burg, all the houses and streets, have run 
 together, and become so mixed up in our 
 head, that it is very difficult to produce any 
 thing thence in proper form. At all events, 
 this much is certain, that the tchinovnik lived 
 in the best part of the city; and therefore it 
 must have been any thing but near to Akakiy 
 Akakievitch. Akakiy Akakievitch was first 
 obliged to traverse a sort of wilderness of de¬ 
 serted, dimly lighted streets ; but in proportion 
 as he approached the tchinovnik’s quarter of 
 the city, the streets became more lively, more 
 populous, and more brilliantly illuminated. 
 Pedestrians began to appear; handsomely 
 dressed ladies were more frequently encoun¬ 
 tered ; the men had otter collars; peasant 
 wagoners, with their grate-like sledges stuck 
 full of gilt nails, became rarer; on the other 
 hand, more and more coachmen in red velvet 
 caps, with lacquered sleighs and bear-skin robes, 
 began to appear; carriages with decorated coach¬ 
 boxes flew swiftly through the streets, their 
 wheels scrunching the snow. Akakiy Akakie¬ 
 vitch gazed upon all this as upon a novelty. 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 3Si 
 
 He had not been in the streets during the 
 evening for years. He halted out of curiosity 
 before the lighted window of a shop, to look at 
 a picture representing a handsome woman, who 
 had thrown off her shoe, thereby baring her 
 whole foot in a very pretty way ; and behind 
 her the head of a man with side-whiskers and 
 a handsome mustache peeped from the door of 
 another room. Akakiy Akakievitch shook his 
 head, and laughed, and then went on his way. 
 Why did he laugh ? Because he had met with 
 a thing utterly unknown, but for which every 
 one cherishes, nevertheless, some sort of feel¬ 
 ing; or else he thought, like many officials, 
 as follows: “Well, those French! What is to 
 be said ? If they like any thing of that sort, 
 then, in fact, that ” . . . But possibly he did 
 not think that. 
 
 For it is impossible to enter a man’s mind, 
 and know all that he thinks. At length he 
 reached the house in which the assistant chief 
 lodged. The assistant chief lived in fine style : 
 on the staircase burned a lantern ; his apartment 
 was on the second floor. On entering the ves¬ 
 tibule, Akakiy Akakievitch beheld a whole row 
 
352 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 of overshoes on the floor. Amid them, in the 
 centre of the room, stood a samovar, humming, 
 and emitting clouds of steam. On the walls 
 hung all sorts of coats and cloaks, among which 
 there were even some with beaver collars or 
 velvet facings. Beyond the wall the buzz of 
 conversation was audible, which became clear 
 and loud when the servant came out with a 
 trayful of empty glasses, cream-jugs, and sugar- 
 bowls. It was evident that the tchinovniks had 
 arrived long before, and had already finished 
 their first glass of tea. Akakiy Akakievitch, 
 having hung up his own cloak, entered the 
 room ; and before him all at once appeared 
 lights, officials, pipes, card-tables ; and he was 
 surprised by a sound of rapid conversation ris¬ 
 ing from all the tables, and the noise of moving 
 chairs. He halted very awkwardly in the mid¬ 
 dle of the room, wondering, and trying to decide, 
 what he ought to do. But they had seen him : 
 they received him with a shout, and all went out 
 at once into the ante-room, and took another look 
 at his cloak. Akakiy Akakievitch, although 
 somewhat confused, was open-hearted, and 
 could not refrain from rejoicing when he saw 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 353 
 
 how they praised his cloak. Then, of course, 
 they all dropped him and his cloak, and returned, 
 as was proper, to the tables set out for whist. 
 All this — the noise, talk, and throng of people 
 — was rather wonderful to Akakiy Akakievitch. 
 He simply did not know where he stood, or 
 where to put his hands, his feet, and his whole 
 body. Finally he sat down by the players, 
 looked at the cards, gazed at the face of one 
 and another, and after a while began to gape, 
 and to feel that it was wearisome — the more 
 so, as the hour was already long past when he 
 usually went to bed. He wanted to take leave 
 of the host; but they would not let him go, say¬ 
 ing that he must drink a glass of champagne, in 
 honor of his new garment, without fail. In the 
 course of an hour, supper was served, consist¬ 
 ing of vegetable salad, cold veal, pastry, con¬ 
 fectioner’s pies, and champagne. They made 
 Akakiy Akakievitch drink two glasses of cham¬ 
 pagne, after which he felt that the room grew 
 livelier: still, he could not forget that it was 
 twelve o’clock, and that he should have been at 
 home long ago. In order that the host might 
 not think of some excuse for detaining him, he 
 
354 
 
 THE CLOAK, 
 
 went out of the room quietly, sought out, in 
 the ante-room, his cloak, which, to his sorrow, 
 he found lying on the floor, brushed it, picked 
 off every speck, put it on his shoulders, and 
 descended the stairs to the street. In the street 
 all was still bright. Some petty shops, those 
 permanent clubs of servants and all sorts of peo¬ 
 ple, were open : others were shut, but, neverthe¬ 
 less, showed a streak of light the whole length 
 of the door-crack, indicating that they were not 
 yet free of company, and that probably domes¬ 
 tics, both male and female, were finishing their 
 stories and conversations, leaving their masters 
 in complete ignorance as to their whereabouts. 
 Akakiy Akakievitch went on in a happy frame 
 of mind : he even started to run, without know¬ 
 ing why, after some lady, who flew past like a 
 flash of lightning, and whose whole body was 
 endowed with an extraordinary amount of move¬ 
 ment. But he stopped short, and went on very 
 quietly as before, wondering whence he had got 
 that gait. Soon there spread before him those 
 deserted streets, which are not cheerful in the 
 daytime, not to mention the evening. Now 
 they were even more dim and lonely: the lan- 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 355 
 
 terns began to grow rarer — oil, evidently, had 
 been less liberally supplied ; then came wooden 
 houses and fences : not a soul anywhere ; only 
 the snow sparkled in the streets, and mourn¬ 
 fully darkled the low-roofed cabins with their 
 closed shutters. He approached the place where 
 the street crossed an endless square with barely 
 visible houses on its farther side, and which 
 seemed a fearful desert. 
 
 Afar, God knows where, a tiny spark glim¬ 
 mered from some sentry-box, which seemed to 
 stand on the edge of the world. Akakiy Aka- 
 kievitch’s cheerfulness diminished at this point 
 in a marked degree. He entered the square, not 
 without an involuntary sensation of fear, as 
 though his heart warned him of some evil. He 
 glanced back and on both sides — it was like a 
 sea about him. “ No, it is better not to look,” 
 he thought, and went on, closing his eyes ; and 
 when he opened them, to see whether he was 
 near the end of the square, he suddenly beheld, 
 standing just before his very nose, some bearded 
 individuals — of just what sort, he could not 
 make out. All grew dark before his eyes, and 
 his breast throbbed. 
 
356 
 
 THE CLOAK, 
 
 “But of course the cloak is mine! ” said one 
 of them in a loud voice, seizing hold of the collar. 
 Akakiy Akakievitch was about to shout watch , 
 when the second man thrust a fist into his 
 mouth, about the size of a tchinovnik’s head, 
 muttering, “ Now scream ! ” 
 
 Akakiy Akakievitch felt them take off his 
 cloak, and give him a push with a knee: he fell 
 headlong upon the snow, and felt no more. In 
 a few minutes he recovered consciousness, and 
 rose to his feet; but no one was there. He felt 
 that it was cold in the square, and that his cloak 
 was gone : he began to shout, but his voice did 
 
 not appear to reach to the outskirts of the square. 
 
 « 
 
 In despair, but without ceasing to shout, he 
 started on a run through the square, straight 
 towards the sentry-box, beside which stood the 
 watchman, leaning on his halberd, and appar¬ 
 ently curious to know what Devil of a man was 
 running towards him from afar, and shouting. 
 Akakiy Akakievitch ran up to him, and began 
 in a sobbing voice to shout that he was asleep, 
 and attended to nothing, and did not see when 
 a man was robbed. The watchman replied that 
 he had seen no one; that he had seen two men 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 357 
 
 stop him in the middle of the square, and sup¬ 
 posed that they were friends of his ; and that, 
 instead of scolding in vain, he had better go to 
 the captain on the morrow, so that the captain 
 might investigate as to who had stolen the cloak. 
 Akakiy Akakievitch ran home in complete dis¬ 
 order : his hair, which grew very thinly upon 
 his temples and the back of his head, was en¬ 
 tirely disarranged ; his side and breast, and all 
 his trousers, were covered with snow. The old 
 woman, mistress of his lodgings, hearing a ter¬ 
 rible knocking, sprang hastily from her bed, and, 
 with a shoe on one foot only, ran to open the 
 door, pressing the sleeve of her chemise to 
 her bosom out of modesty; but when she had 
 opened it, she fell back on beholding Akakiy 
 Akakievitch in such a state. When he told 
 the matter, she clasped her hands, and said that 
 he must go straight to the superintendent, for 
 the captain would turn up his nose, promise 
 well, and drop the matter there : the very best 
 thing to do, would be to go to the superintend¬ 
 ent ; that he knew her, because Finnish Anna, 
 her former cook, was now nurse at the superin¬ 
 tendent’s ; that she often saw him passing the 
 
358 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 house ; and that he was at church every Sunday, 
 praying, but at the same time gazing cheerfully 
 at everybody; and that he must be a good man, 
 judging from all appearances. Having listened 
 to this opinion, Akakiy Akakievitch betook 
 himself sadly to his chamber ; and how he spent 
 the night there, any one can imagine who can 
 put himself in another’s place. Early in the 
 morning, he presented himself at the superin¬ 
 tendent’s ; but they told him that he was asleep : 
 he went again at ten — and was again informed 
 that he was asleep : he went at eleven o’clock ; 
 and they said, “The superintendent is not at 
 home : ” at dinner-time, and the clerks in the 
 ante-room would not admit him on any terms, 
 and insisted upon knowing his business, and 
 what brought him, and how it had come about: 
 so that at last, for once in his life, Akakiy 
 Akakievitch felt an inclination to show some 
 spirit, and said curtly that he must see the 
 superintendent in person ; that they should not 
 presume to refuse him entrance; that he came 
 from the department of justice, and, when he 
 complained of them, they would see. The 
 clerks dared make no reply to this, and one 
 
THE CLOAK, 
 
 359 
 
 of them went to call the superintendent. The 
 superintendent listened to the extremely strange 
 story of the theft of the coat. Instead of di¬ 
 recting his attention to the principal points of 
 the matter, he began to question Akakiy Akakie- 
 vitch, Why did he return so late ? Was he in 
 the habit of going, or had he been, to any dis¬ 
 orderly house ? so that Akakiy Akakievitch got 
 thoroughly confused, and left him without know¬ 
 ing whether the affair of his cloak was in proper 
 train, or not. All that day he never went near 
 the court (for the first time in his life). The 
 next day he made his appearance, very pale, and 
 in his old mantle, which had become even more 
 shabby. The news of the robbery of the cloak 
 touched many; although there were officials 
 present, who never omitted an opportunity, 
 even the present, to ridicule Akakiy Akakie¬ 
 vitch. They decided to take up a collection for 
 him on the spot, but it turned out a mere trifle; 
 for the tchinovniks had already spent a great 
 deal in subscribing for the director's portrait, 
 and for some book, at the suggestion of the head 
 of that division, who was a friend of the author: 
 and so the sum was trifling. One, moved by 
 
360 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 pity, resolved to help Akakiy Akakievitch with 
 some good advice at least, and told him that he 
 ought not to go to the captain, for although it 
 might happen that the police-captain, wishing 
 to win the approval of his superior officers, 
 might hunt up the cloak by some means, still, 
 the cloak would remain in the possession of the 
 police if he did not offer legal proof that it 
 belonged to him : the best thing for him would 
 be to apply to a certain prominent personage; 
 that this pro7ninent personage , by entering into 
 relations with the proper persons, could greatly 
 expedite the matter. As there was nothing else 
 to be done, Akakiy Akakievitch decided to go 
 to the prominent personage. What was the 
 official position of the prominent personage , re¬ 
 mains unknown to this day. The reader must 
 know that the prominent persoiiage had but re¬ 
 cently become a prominent personage, but up to 
 that time he had been an insignificant person. 
 Moreover, his present position was not consid¬ 
 ered prominent in comparison with others more 
 prominent. But there is always a circle of peo¬ 
 ple to whom what is insignificant in the eyes of 
 others, is always important enough. Moreover, 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 361 
 
 he strove to increase his importance by many 
 devices ; namely, he managed to have the infe¬ 
 rior officials meet him on the staircase when he 
 entered upon his service : no one was to pre¬ 
 sume to come directly to him, but the strictest 
 etiquette must be observed; “The Collegiate 
 Recorder ” must announce to the government 
 secretary, the government secretary to the tit¬ 
 ular councillor, or whatever other man was 
 proper, and the business came before him in 
 this manner. In holy Russia, all is thus con- 
 taminated with the love of imitation : each man 
 imitates and copies his superior. They even 
 say that a certain titular councillor, when pro¬ 
 moted to the head of some little separate court¬ 
 room, immediately partitioned off a private room 
 for himself, called it the Audience Chamber , and 
 posted at the door a lackey with red collar and 
 braid, who grasped the handle of the door, 
 and opened to all comers; though the audience 
 chamber would hardly hold an ordinary writing- 
 table. 
 
 The manners and customs of the prominent 
 personage were grand and imposing, but rather 
 exaggerated. The main foundation of his sys- 
 
362 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 tem was strictness. “ Strictness, strictness, 
 and always strictness ! ” he generally said; and 
 at the last word he looked significantly into the 
 face of the person to whom he spoke. But 
 there was no necessity for this, for the half¬ 
 score of tchinovniks who formed the entire 
 force of the mechanism of the office were 
 properly afraid without it: on catching sight of 
 him afar off, they left their work, and waited, 
 drawn up in line, until their chief had passed 
 through the room. His ordinary converse with 
 his inferiors smacked of sternness, and con¬ 
 sisted chiefly of three phrases: u How dare 
 you?” “ Do you know to whom you are talk¬ 
 ing ? ” “ Do you realize who stands before you ? ” 
 Otherwise he was a very kind-hearted man, 
 good to his comrades, and ready to oblige; but 
 the rank of general threw him completely off 
 his balance. On receiving that rank, he be¬ 
 came confused, as it were, lost his way, and 
 never knew what to do. If he chanced to be 
 with his equals, he was still a very nice kind of 
 man, — a very good fellow in many respects, 
 and not stupid : but just the moment that he 
 happened to be in the society of people but 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 363 
 
 one rank lower than himself, he was simply in¬ 
 comprehensible ; he became silent; and his 
 situation aroused sympathy, the more so, as he 
 felt himself that he might have made an in¬ 
 comparably better use of the time. In his 
 eyes, there was sometimes visible a desire to 
 join some interesting conversation and circle; 
 but he was held back by the thought, Would it 
 not be a very great condescension on his part ? 
 Would it not be familiar ? and would he not 
 thereby lose his importance ? And in conse¬ 
 quence of such reflections, he remained ever in 
 the same dumb state, uttering only occasionally 
 a few monosyllabic sounds, and thereby earning 
 the name of the most tiresome of men. To 
 this prominent personage, our Akakiy Akakie- 
 vitch presented himself, and that at the most 
 unfavorable time, very inopportune for himself, 
 though opportune for the prominent personage. 
 The prominent personage was in his cabinet, 
 conversing very, very gayly with a recently 
 arrived old acquaintance and companion of his 
 childhood, whom he had not seen for several 
 years. At such a time it was announced to 
 him that a person named Bashmatchkin had 
 
364 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 come. He asked abruptly, “Who is he?” — 
 “ Some tchinovnik,” they told him. “ Ah, he 
 can wait! this is no time,” said the important 
 man. It must be remarked here, that the im¬ 
 portant man lied outrageously : he had said all 
 he had to say to his friend long before; and 
 the conversation had been interspersed for 
 some time with very long pauses, during which 
 they merely slapped each other on the leg, and 
 said, “You think so, Ivan Abramovitch! ” 
 “Just so, Stepan Varlamovitch ! ” Neverthe¬ 
 less, he ordered that the tchinovnik should 
 wait, in order to show his friend—a man who 
 had not been in the service for a long time, 
 but had lived at home in the country — how 
 long tchinovniks had to wait in his ante-room. 
 
 At length, having talked himself completely 
 out, and more than that, having had his fill of 
 pauses, and smoked a cigar in a very comfort¬ 
 able arm-chair with reclining back, he suddenly 
 seemed to recollect, and told the secretary, who 
 stood by the door with papers of reports, 
 “Yes, it seems, indeed, that there is a tchinov¬ 
 nik standing there. Tell him that he may 
 come in.” On perceiving Akakiy Akakie- 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 365 
 
 vitch’s modest mien, and his worn undress uni¬ 
 form, he turned abruptly to him, and said, 
 “ What do you want ? ” in a curt, hard voice, 
 which he had practised in his room in private, 
 and before the looking-glass, for a whole week 
 before receiving his present rank. Akakiy 
 Akakievitch, who already felt betimes the 
 proper amount of fear, became somewhat con¬ 
 fused : and as well as he could, as well as his 
 tongue would permit, he explained, with a 
 rather more frequent addition than usual of the 
 word that , that his cloak was quite new, and 
 had been stolen in the most inhuman manner; 
 that he had applied to him, in order that he 
 might, in some way, by his intermediation, that 
 . . . he might enter into correspondence with 
 the chief superintendent of police, and find the 
 cloak. For some inexplicable reason, this con¬ 
 duct seemed familiar to the general. “What, 
 my dear sir!” he said abruptly, “don’t you 
 know etiquette ? Where have you come to ? 
 Don’t you know how matters are managed? 
 You should first have entered a complaint 
 about this at the court : it would have gone to 
 the head of the department, to the chief of the 
 
366 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 division, then it would have been handed over 
 to the secretary, and the secretary would have 
 given it to me.” . . . 
 
 “ But, your excellency,” said Akakiy Akakie- 
 vitch, trying to collect his small handful of 
 wits, and conscious at the same time that he 
 was perspiring terribly, “ I, your excellency, 
 presumed to trouble you because secretaries 
 that . . . are an untrustworthy race.” . . . 
 
 “What, what, what!” said the important 
 personage. “ Where did you get such cour¬ 
 age ? Where did you get such ideas ? What 
 impudence towards their chiefs and superiors 
 has spread among the young generation ! ” 
 The prominent personage apparently had not 
 observed that Akakiy Akakievitch was already 
 in the neighborhood of fifty. If he could be 
 called a young man, then it must have been in 
 comparison with some one who was seventy. 
 “ Do you know to whom you speak ? Do you 
 realize who stands before you ? Do you realize 
 it ? do you realize it ? I ask you! ” Then he 
 stamped his foot, and raised his voice to such 
 a pitch that it would have frightened even a 
 different man from Akakiy Akakievitch. Aka- 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 367 
 
 kiy Akakievitch’s senses failed him ; he stag¬ 
 gered, trembled in every limb, and could not 
 stand; if the porters had not run in to support 
 him, he would have fallen to the floor. They 
 carried him out insensible. But the prominent 
 personage, gratified that the effect should have 
 surpassed his expectations, and quite intoxi¬ 
 cated with the thought that his word could even 
 deprive a man of his senses, glanced sideways 
 at his friend in order to see how he looked 
 upon this, and perceived, not without satisfac¬ 
 tion, that his friend was in a most undecided 
 frame of mind, and even beginning, on his side, 
 to feel a trifle frightened. 
 
 Akakiy Akakievitch could not remember how 
 he descended the stairs, and stepped into the 
 street. He felt neither his hands nor feet. 
 Never in his life had he been so rated by any 
 general, let alone a strange one. He went on 
 through the snow-storm, which was howling 
 through the streets, with his mouth wide open, 
 slipping off the sidewalk : the wind, in Peters¬ 
 burg fashion, flew upon him from all quarters, 
 and through every cross-street. In a twinkling 
 it had blown a quinsy into his throat, and he 
 
363 
 
 THE CLOAK, 
 
 reached home unable to utter a word : his throat 
 was all swollen, and he lay down on his bed. 
 So powerful is sometimes a good scolding! 
 The next day a violent fever made its appear¬ 
 ance. Thanks to the generous assistance of 
 the Petersburg climate, his malady progressed 
 more rapidly than could have been expected: 
 and when the doctor arrived, he found, on feel¬ 
 ing his pulse, that there was nothing to be done, 
 except to prescribe a fomentation, merely that 
 the sick man might not be left without the 
 beneficent aid of medicine; but at the same 
 time, he predicted his end in another thirty-six 
 hours. After this, he turned to the landlady, 
 and said, “ And as for you, my dear, don’t waste 
 your time on him : order his pine cofifin now, for 
 an oak one will be too expensive for him.” Did 
 Akakiy Akakievitch hear these fatal words ? 
 and, if he heard them, did they produce any 
 overwhelming effect upon him ? Did he lament 
 the bitterness of his life ? — We know not, for he 
 continued in a raving, parching condition. Vis¬ 
 ions incessantly appeared to him, each stranger 
 than the other: now he saw Petrovitch, and 
 ordered him to make a cloak, with some traps 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 369 
 
 for robbers, who seemed to him to be always 
 under the bed; and he cried, every moment, to 
 the landlady to pull one robber from under his 
 coverlet: then he inquired why his old mantle 
 hung before him when he had a new cloak; 
 then he fancied that he was standing before the 
 general, listening to a thorough setting-down, 
 and saying, “ Forgive, your excellency ! ” but at 
 last he began to curse, uttering the most hor¬ 
 rible words, so that his aged landlady crossed 
 herself, never in her life having heard any thing 
 of the kind from him — the more so, as those 
 words followed directly after the words your 
 excellency . Later he talked utter nonsense, of 
 which nothing could be understood: all that 
 was evident, was that his incoherent words and 
 thoughts hovered ever about one thing, — his 
 cloak. 
 
 At last poor Akakiy Akakievitch breathed 
 his last. They sealed up neither his room nor 
 his effects, because, in the first place, there were 
 no heirs, and, in the second, there was very 
 little inheritance ; namely, a bunch of goose- 
 quills, a quire of white official paper, three pairs 
 of socks, two or three buttons which had burst 
 
37° 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 off his trousers, and the mantle already known 
 to the reader. To whom all this fell, God 
 knows. I confess that the person who told this 
 tale took no interest in the matter. They car¬ 
 ried Akakiy Akakievitch out, and buried him. 
 And Petersburg was left without Akakiy Akakie¬ 
 vitch, as though he had never lived there. A 
 being disappeared, and was hidden, who was 
 protected by none, dear to none, interesting to 
 none, who never even attracted to himself the 
 attention of an observer of nature, who omits no 
 opportunity of thrusting a pin through a com¬ 
 mon fly, and examining it under the microscope, 
 — a being who bore meekly the jibes of the de¬ 
 partment, and went to his grave without having 
 done one unusual deed, but to whom, neverthe¬ 
 less, at the close of his life, appeared a bright 
 visitant in the form of a cloak, which momenta¬ 
 rily cheered his poor life, and upon whom, there¬ 
 after, an intolerable misfortune descended, just 
 as it descends upon the heads of the mighty of 
 this world ! . . . Several days after his death, 
 the porter was sent from the department to his 
 lodgings, with an order for him to present him¬ 
 self immediately; the chief commands it: but 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 371 
 
 the porter had to return unsuccessful, with the 
 answer that he could not come; and to the 
 question, Why ? he explained in the words, 
 “Well, because: he is already dead! he was 
 buried four days ago.” In this manner did they 
 hear of Akakiy Akakievitch’s death at the de¬ 
 partment ; and the next day a new and much 
 larger tchinovnik sat in his place, forming his 
 letters by no means upright, but more inclined 
 and slantwise. 
 
 But who could have imagined that this was 
 not the end of Akakiy Akakievitch, — that he 
 was destined to raise a commotion after death, as 
 if in compensation for his utterly insignificant 
 life ? But so it happened, and our poor story 
 unexpectedly gains a fantastic ending. 
 
 A rumor suddenly spread throughout Peters¬ 
 burg, that a dead man had taken to appearing 
 on the Kalinkin Bridge, and far beyond, at 
 night, in the form of a tchinovnik seeking a 
 stolen cloak, and that, under the pretext of its 
 being the stolen cloak, he dragged every one’s 
 cloak from his shoulders without regard to rank 
 or calling, — cat-skin, beaver, wadded, fox, bear, 
 raccoon coats; in a word, every sort of fur and 
 
372 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 skin which men adopted for their covering. 
 One of the department employes saw the dead 
 man with his own eyes, and immediately recog¬ 
 nized in him Akakiy Akakievitch : nevertheless, 
 this inspired him with such terror, that he 
 started to run with all his might, and therefore 
 could not examine thoroughly, and only saw 
 how the latter threatened him from afar with 
 his finger. Constant complaints poured in 
 from all quarters, that the backs and shoulders, 
 not only of titular but even of court councillors, 
 were entirely exposed to the danger of a cold, 
 on account of the frequent dragging off of 
 their cloaks. Arrangements were made by the 
 police to catch the corpse, at any cost, alive or 
 dead, and punish him as an example to others, 
 in the most severe manner: and in this they 
 nearly succeeded; for a policeman, on guard in 
 Kirushkin Alley, caught the corpse by the col¬ 
 lar on the very scene of his evil deeds, for 
 attempting to pull off the frieze cloak of some 
 retired musician who had blown the flute in his 
 day. Having seized him by the collar, he sum¬ 
 moned, with a shout, two of his comrades, whom 
 he enjoined to hold him fast, while he himself 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 373 
 
 felt for a moment in his boot, in order to draw 
 thence his snuff-box, to refresh his six times 
 forever frozen nose; but the snuff was of a 
 sort which even a corpse could not endure. 
 The policeman had no sooner succeeded, hav¬ 
 ing closed his right nostril with his finger, in 
 holding half a handful up to the left, than the 
 corpse sneezed so violently that he completely 
 filled the eyes of all three. While they raised 
 their fists to wipe them, the dead man vanished 
 utterly, so that they positively did not know 
 whether they had actually had him in their 
 hands at all. Thereafter the watchmen con¬ 
 ceived such a terror of dead men, that they 
 were afraid even to seize the living, and only 
 screamed from a distance, “Hey, there! go 
 your way ! ” and the dead tchinovnik began to 
 appear, even beyond the Kalinkin Bridge, caus¬ 
 ing no little terror to all timid people. 
 
 But we have totally neglected that certain 
 prominent personage , who may really be consid¬ 
 ered as the cause of the fantastic turn taken by 
 this true history. First of all, justice compels 
 us to say, that after the departure of poor, 
 thoroughly annihilated Akakiy Akakievitch, he 
 
374 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 felt something like remorse. Suffering was 
 unpleasant to him : his heart was accessible to 
 many good impulses, in spite of the fact that 
 his rank very often prevented his showing his 
 true self. As soon as his friend had left his 
 cabinet, he began to think about poor Akakiy 
 Akakievitch. And from that day forth, poor 
 Akakiy Akakievitch, who could not bear up 
 under an official reprimand, recurred to his 
 mind almost every day. The thought* of the 
 latter troubled him to such an extent, that a 
 week later he even resolved to send an official 
 to him, to learn whether he really could assist 
 him ; and when it was reported to him that 
 Akakiy Akakievitch had died suddenly of fever, 
 he was startled, listened to the reproaches of 
 his conscience, and was out of sorts for the 
 whole day. Wishing to divert his mind in 
 some way, and forget the disagreeable impres¬ 
 sion, he set out that evening for one of his 
 friends’ houses, where he found quite a large 
 party assembled; and, what was better, nearly 
 every one was of the same rank, so that he 
 need not feel in the least constrained. This 
 had a marvellous effect upon his mental state. 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 375 
 
 He expanded, made himself agreeable in con¬ 
 versation, charming: in short, he passed a de¬ 
 lightful evening. After supper he drank a 
 couple of glasses of champagne — not a bad 
 recipe for cheerfulness, as every one knows. 
 The champagne inclined him to various out-of- 
 the-way adventures; and, in particular, he de¬ 
 termined not to go home, but to go to see a 
 certain well-known lady, Karolina Ivanovna, 
 a lady, it appears, of German extraction, with 
 whom he felt on a very friendly footing. It 
 must be mentioned that the prominent person¬ 
 age was no longer a young man, but a good 
 husband, and respected father of a family. 
 Two sons, one of whom was already in the 
 service ; and a good-looking, sixteen-year-old 
 daughter, with a rather retrousse but pretty little 
 nose, — came every morning to kiss his hand, 
 and say, “Bon jour> papa.” His wife, a still 
 fresh and good-looking woman, first gave him 
 her hand to kiss, and then, reversing the proced¬ 
 ure, kissed his. But the prominent personage, 
 though perfectly satisfied in his domestic rela¬ 
 tions, considered it stylish to have a friend in 
 another quarter of the city. This friend was 
 
37 ^ 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 hardly prettier or younger than his wife ; but 
 there are such puzzles in the world, and it is 
 not our place to judge them. So the impor¬ 
 tant personage descended the stairs, stepped 
 into his sleigh, and said to the coachman, “To 
 Karolina Ivanovna’s,” and, wrapping himself 
 luxuriously in his warm cloak, found himself in 
 that delightful position than which a Russian 
 can conceive nothing better, which is, when 
 you think of nothing yourself, yet the thoughts 
 creep into your mind of their own accord, each 
 more agreeable than the other, giving you no 
 trouble to drive them away, or seek them. 
 Fully satisfied, he slightly recalled all the gay 
 points of the evening just passed, and all the 
 mots which had made the small circle laugh : 
 many of them he repeated in a low voice, and 
 found them quite as funny as before; and there¬ 
 fore it is not surprising that he should laugh 
 heartily at them. Occasionally, however, he 
 was hindered by gusts of wind, which, com¬ 
 ing suddenly, God knows whence or why, cut 
 his face, flinging in it lumps of snow, filling 
 out his cloak-collar like a sail, or suddenly 
 blowing it over his head with supernatural 
 
THE CLOAK . 
 
 377 
 
 force, and thus causing him constant trouble 
 to disentangle himself. Suddenly the impor¬ 
 tant personage felt some one clutch him very 
 firmly by the collar. Turning round, he per¬ 
 ceived a man of short stature, in an old, worn 
 uniform, and recognized, not without terror, 
 Akakiy Akakievitch. The tchinovnik’s face 
 was white as snow, and looked just like a 
 corpse’s. But the horror of the important per¬ 
 sonage transcended all bounds when he saw 
 the dead man’s mouth open, and, with a terrible 
 odor of the grave, utter the following remarks : 
 “Ah, here you are at last! I have you, that 
 . . . by the collar ! I need your cloak : you took 
 no trouble about mine, but reprimanded me; 
 now give up your own.” The pallid prominent 
 personage almost died. Brave as he was in the 
 office and in the presence of inferiors generally, 
 and although, at the sight of his manly form 
 and appearance, every one said, “Ugh! how 
 much character he has ! ” yet at this crisis, he, 
 like many possessed of an heroic exterior, ex¬ 
 perienced such terror, that, not without cause, 
 he began to fear an attack of illness. He flung 
 his cloak hastily from his shoulders, and 
 
378 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 shouted to his coachman in an unnatural voice, 
 “Home, at full speed!” The coachman, hear¬ 
 ing the tone which is generally employed at 
 critical moments, and even accompanied by 
 something much more tangible, drew his head 
 down between his shoulders in case of an 
 emergency, flourished his knout, and flew on 
 like an arrow. In a little more than six min¬ 
 utes the prominent personage was at the 
 entrance of his own house. Pale, thoroughly 
 scared, and cloakless, he went home instead of 
 to Karolina Ivanovna’s, got to his chamber 
 after some fashion, and passed the night in the 
 direst distress ; so that the next morning over 
 their tea, his daughter said plainly, “You are 
 very pale to-day, papa.” But papa remained 
 silent, and said not a word to any one of what 
 had happened to him, where he had been, or 
 where he had intended to go. This occurrence 
 made a deep impression upon him. He even be¬ 
 gan to say less frequently to the under-officials, 
 “ How dare you ? do you realize who stands 
 before you ?” and, if he did utter the words, it 
 was after first having learned the bearings of 
 the matter. But the most noteworthy point 
 
THE CLOAK. 
 
 379 
 
 was, that from that day the apparition of the 
 dead tchinovnik quite ceased to be seen ; evi¬ 
 dently the general’s cloak just fitted his shoul¬ 
 ders ; at all events, no more instances of his 
 dragging cloaks from people’s shoulders were 
 heard of. But many active and apprehensive 
 persons could by no means re-assure them¬ 
 selves, and asserted that the dead tchinovnik 
 still showed himself in distant parts of the 
 city. And, in fact, one watchman in Kolomna 
 saw with his own eyes the apparition come 
 from behind a house ; but being rather weak of 
 body, — so much so, that once upon a time an 
 ordinary full-grown pig running out of a private 
 house knocked him off his legs, to the great 
 amusement of the surrounding izvoshtchiks , 1 
 from whom he demanded a groschen apiece for 
 snuff, as damages, — being weak, he dared not 
 arrest him, but followed him in the dark, until, 
 at length, the apparition looked round, paused, 
 and inquired, “ What do you want?” and 
 showed such a fist as you never see on living 
 men. The watchman said, “ It’s of no conse¬ 
 quence,and turned back instantly. But the 
 
 1 Coachmen (public). 
 
380 
 
 THE CLOAK. 
 
 apparition was much too tall, wore huge mus¬ 
 taches, and, directing its steps apparently 
 towards the Obukhoff Bridge, disappeared in 
 the darkness of the night. 
 
TABLE OF RUSSIAN RANKS. 
 
TABLE OF RUSSIAN RANKS. ( Tchins .) 
 
 
 
 Corresponding Ranks. 
 
 
 Civil Ranks. 
 
 Army. 
 
 Navy. 
 
 Court. 
 
 X 
 
 Chancellor of the 
 
 General Field-mar- 
 
 Admiral-in-Chief. 
 
 
 
 Empire. 
 
 shal. 
 
 
 
 2 
 
 Actual Privy 
 
 General of Infantry. 
 
 
 Chief Chamberlain. 
 
 
 Councillor. 
 
 General of Cavalry. 
 
 Admiral. 
 
 Chief Steward of 
 the Household. 
 Chief Marshal of 
 the Court. 
 
 Chief Cupbearer. 
 
 General of Artillery. 
 
 
 3 
 
 Privy Councillor. 
 
 Lieutenant-General. 
 
 Vice-Admiral. 
 
 Steward, Marshal, 
 
 
 
 
 Master of the 
 Hounds. 
 
 
 4 
 
 Actual Councillor 
 
 Major-General. 
 
 Rear-Admiral. 
 
 
 
 of State. 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 Councillor of 
 
 
 
 
 
 State. 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 Collegiate Coun- 
 
 Staff 
 
 Colonel. 
 
 Officers. 
 
 Captain of the 1st 
 
 Chamber-Fourrier. 
 
 
 cillor. 
 
 
 Rank. 
 
 
 7 
 
 Court Councillor. 
 
 Lieutenant-Colonel. 
 
 Captain of the 2d 
 
 • • • • • 0 • 
 
 
 
 
 Rank. 
 
 
 8 
 
 Collegiate Assess¬ 
 or. 
 
 Major. 
 
 Captain-Lieutenant. 
 
 
 
 
 Upper 
 
 Officers. 
 
 Court-Fourrier. 1 
 
 9 
 
 Titular Councillor. 
 
 Captain of Infantry. 
 Captain of Cavalry. 
 
 Lieutenant. 
 
 
 10 
 
 Collegiate Coun- 
 
 Stafif-Captain. 
 
 
 
 
 cillor. 
 
 Staff-Cavalry Cap- 
 
 
 9 
 
 
 
 tain. 
 
 
 
 11 
 
 Naval Secretary. 
 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 Gove r n m e n t a 1 
 
 Lieutenant. 
 
 Midshipman. 
 
 Table-Decker, 
 
 
 Secretary. 
 
 
 Coffee - Bearer, 
 Butter-Bearer. 
 
 
 13 
 
 Senate, Synod, 
 and Cabinet 
 
 Sub-Lieutenant. 
 
 
 
 14 
 
 Registrar. 
 Collegiate Regis- 
 
 Ensign of Infantry. 
 
 
 
 trar. 
 
 Cornet of Cavalry. 
 
 
 
 The officers of the Young Guard, of the Engineer Corps, and Cadet Corps, have one 
 grade over those of the line, and the officers of the Old Guard have two, up to the rank 
 of Colonel. 
 
 The 5th class of the Military Hierarchy, which comprised the grades of Brigadier 
 and Captain-Commander , has been abolished. It is the same in the nth class. It 
 must also be observed, that, in the Imperial Guards, classes 7 and 8 (Lieutenant- 
 Colonel and Major) do not exist; and the same is true of Major in the Corps of Engi¬ 
 neers and Public Ways. 
 
 In the Military as well as the Naval Hierarchy, the grades from 14 to 7 confer per¬ 
 sonal nobility, and the superior grades, beginning with the 6th class, hereditary nobility; 
 while in the Civil and other Hierarchies, personal nobility is acquired only from the 9th 
 class ( Titular Councillor) , and hereditary nobility only from the 4th ( Actual Coun¬ 
 cillor 0/ State). 
 
 1 In ancient times, the officer who assigned the lodgings to followers of the Court. 
 
 382 
 
COMPARATIVE TABLE OF RUSSIAN RANKS. (Tc/uns.) 
 
 Ranks. 
 
 Mines. 
 
 Learned 
 
 Degrees. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Head Director of 
 Mines. 
 
 • • • • 
 
 Director of 
 Mines. 
 
 Chief Surveyor 
 of Mines. 
 
 Chief Overseer of 
 Forges, Sur¬ 
 veyor of Mines. 
 
 • • • • 
 
 • • • • 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 Markscheider 
 (Surveyor). 
 Chief Assayer. 
 Overseer of 
 Forges. 
 
 M agister 
 (Master). 
 
 Candid ate 
 (Bache¬ 
 lor). 
 
 Assayer. 
 
 Foreman. 
 
 Foreman. 
 
 Actual Stu¬ 
 dent. 
 
 • • • • 
 
 
 Titles, 
 
 1 
 
 2 
 
 1 
 
 Vuisokoprevoskho- 
 diteistvo. Noble 
 Excellency. 
 
 3 
 
 Prevoskhoditelstvo. 
 
 Excellency. 
 
 4 
 
 
 5 
 
 Vuisokorodie. High 
 born. 
 
 6 
 
 V 71 isokob l ago rddie. 
 Most Honorable. 
 
 7 
 
 
 8 
 
 
 9 
 
 
 10 
 
 Blagorddie. Well 
 born. 
 
 11 
 
 
 12 
 
 
 13 
 
 
 Hierarchy of the 
 Church. 
 
 Monastic Priesthood. 
 
 1. Metropolitan. 
 
 2. Archbishop. 
 
 Title. VuisokoPreosvy- 
 ashtchenstvo . Most 
 Eminent. 
 
 3. Bishop. 
 
 Title. Preosvyash- 
 tchenstvo. Eminence. 
 
 4. Archimandrite. 
 
 5. Ahbot. 
 
 Title. VuisokoprcPo- 
 (idbie. Right Rever¬ 
 end. 
 
 White Priesthood. 
 
 6. Archpriest. 
 
 Tit l e. V 11 isokop repo- 
 
 dobie. Right Rever¬ 
 end. 
 
 7. Priest. 
 
 Title. Prepoddbie. 
 Reverend. 
 
 8. Archdeacon. 
 
 9. Deacon. 
 
 The 4th class of the Civil Hierarchy includes the titles Attorney-General and 
 Herald-in-Chief; the 6th, the title Councillor of War; and the 13th, the title 
 Provincial Secretary. 
 
 Among the posts at court of the first rank also belong Chief Master of the Horse , 
 Chief Master of the Hounds , Chief Master of Ceremonies , Director of the Imperial 
 Theatre ; and, to the second rank. Master of the Horse , Chief Carver, Master of 
 Ceremonies , as well as the posts of Chamberlain and Gentleman of the Bed-chamber. 
 
 The grades above indicated in the Hierarchy of Mines are preserved only for those 
 who obtained them previous to 1834, that is to say, before the formation of the Corps 
 of Mining Engineers; at present, the employees of the Department of Mines are called 
 functionaries of such or such a class. 
 
 The titles Vuisokoprevoskhoditelstvo, Prevoskhoditelstvo , Vuisokorodie, etc., are 
 only given to functionaries who possess no other. Russian Princes and Counts have the 
 titles of Siyatelstvo (Excellency); and Princes of the Empire, that of Svyetlost (Serene 
 Highness). 
 
 3 8 3 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
PRESERVATION REVIEW