Soon the old woman crept out of the storeroom groaning and dragging on her back an ancient saddle with torn-off stirrups, scuffed leather holsters for pistols, a saddle blanket once of a scarlet color, with gold embroidery and bronze plaques.
"Look at the foolish woman!" thought Ivan Ivanovich. "Next she'll drag Ivan Nikiforovich himself out for an airing!"
And, indeed, Ivan Ivanovich was not entirely mistaken in his surmise. About five minutes later, Ivan Nikiforovich's nankeen balloon trousers emerged and took up almost half the yard with themselves. After that she also brought out a hat and a gun.
"What does this mean?" thought Ivan Ivanovich. "I've never seen a gun at Ivan Nikiforovich's. What's he up to? He doesn't go shooting, but he keeps a gun! What does he need it for? A nice little thing, too! I've long wanted to get myself one like it. I'd really like to have that little gun; I love fooling with guns."
"Hey, you, woman!" cried Ivan Ivanovich, beckoning with his finger.
The old woman came up to the fence.
"What have you got there, granny?"
"You can see for yourself it's a gun."
"What kind of gun?"
"Who knows what kind! If it was mine, maybe I'd know what it's made of. But it's the master's."
Ivan Ivanovich stood up and began to examine the gun on all sides, forgetting to reprimand the old woman for hanging it and the sword out to air.
"Iron, you'd expect," the old woman went on.
"Hm! iron. Why iron?" Ivan Ivanovich said to himself. "And has the master had it long?"
"Long, maybe."
"A nice little thing!" Ivan Ivanovich went on. "I'll beg it from him. What use does he have for it? Or else I'll trade him something. Say, granny, is the master at home?"
"He is."
"What's he doing? lying down?"
"Lying down."
"All right, then, I'll go and see him."
Ivan Ivanovich got dressed, took his blackthorn in case of dogs, because in Mirgorod you meet more of them than of people in the streets, and went.
Though Ivan Nikiforovich's yard was next to Ivan Ivanovich's, and you could climb over the wattle fence from one to the other, Ivan Ivanovich nevertheless went via the street. From this street he had to go down a lane so narrow that if two carts, each drawn by one horse, chanced to meet in it, they'd be unable to pass each other and would stay in that position until they were seized by the rear wheels and pulled in opposite directions back out to the street. And a passer-by on foot would get himself adorned, as if with flowers, with the burrs that grew along the fences on both sides. On one side Ivan Ivanovich's shed looked onto this lane, on the other Ivan Nikiforovich's barn, gates, and dovecote.
Ivan Ivanovich went up to the gates and clanked the latch: inside, the barking of dogs arose; but the motley pack soon ran off wagging their tails, seeing that the face was a familiar one. Ivan Ivanovich crossed the yard, a colorful mixture of Indian pigeons, fed by Ivan Nikiforovich's own hand, melon and watermelon rinds, an occasional green patch, an occasional broken wheel or barrel hoop, or an urchin lying about in a dirty shirt-a picture such as painters love! The shadow of the hanging clothes covered almost the whole yard and lent it a certain coolness. The woman met him with a bow and stood gaping in her place. In front of the house was a pretty porch with a roof supported by two oak posts-unreliable protection from the sun, which at that season in Little Russia doesn't joke but leaves the walker streaming with hot sweat from head to foot. From this it may be seen how strong was Ivan Ivanovich's wish to acquire the needed object, since he decided to go out at such a time, even abandoning his usual custom of going for a walk only in the evening.
The room Ivan Ivanovich entered was completely dark, because the shutters were closed, and a ray of sunlight, passing through a hole made in the shutters, turned iridescent and, striking the opposite wall, drew on it a colorful landscape of rush roofs, trees, and the clothing hanging outside, only all of it inverted. This lent the room a sort of wondrous half-light.
"God be with you!" said Ivan Ivanovich.
"Ah! greetings, Ivan Ivanovich!" replied a voice from the corner of the room. Only then did Ivan Ivanovich notice Ivan Nikiforovich lying on a rug spread out on the floor. "Excuse me for appearing before you in my natural state."
Ivan Nikiforovich way lying there with nothing on, not even a shirt.
"Never mind. Did you have a good night's sleep, Ivan Nikiforovich?"
"I did. And you, Ivan Ivanovich?"
"I did."
"So you just got up?"
"Just got up? Lord help you, Ivan Nikiforovich! how could one sleep so late! I've just come from the fields. Wonderful crops on the way! Delightful! And the hay is so tall, soft, rich!"
"Gorpina!" cried Ivan Nikiforovich, "bring Ivan Ivanovich some vodka and pies with sour cream."
"Nice weather today."
"Don't praise it, Ivan Ivanovich. Devil take it! there's no escaping the heat!"
"You've got to go mentioning the devil. Ah, Ivan Nikiforovich! You'll remember my words, but it will be too late: you'll get it in the other world for your ungodly talk."
"How did I offend you, Ivan Ivanovich? I didn't touch your father or your mother. I don't know what I did to offend you."
"Come, come, Ivan Nikiforovich!"
"By God, I didn't offend you, Ivan Ivanovich!"
"It's strange, the quail still won't come to the whistle."
"As you wish, think whatever you like, only I didn't offend you in any way."
"I don't know why they won't come," Ivan Ivanovich said, as if not listening to Ivan Nikiforovich. "Maybe it's not the season yet, only it seems it's just the right season."
"You say the crops are good?"
"Delightful crops! Delightful!"
Whereupon silence ensued.
"What's this with you hanging out clothes, Ivan Nikiforovich?" Ivan Ivanovich finally asked.
"Yes, fine clothes, nearly new, the cursed woman almost let them rot. I'm airing them out now; fine fabric, excellent, just turn it inside out and you can wear it again."
"I liked one little thing there, Ivan Nikiforovich."
"Which?"
"Tell me, please, what use you have for that gun that's been put out to air with the clothes?" Here Ivan Ivanovich offered him some snuff. "May I venture to ask you to help yourself?"
"Never mind, you help yourself! I'll snuff my own!" At which Ivan Nikiforovich felt around and came up with a snuff bottle. "Stupid woman, so she hung the gun out, too! That Jew in Soro-chintsy makes good snuff. I don't know what he puts in it, but it's so aromatic! A bit like balsam. Here, take a chew of some in your mouth. Like balsam, right? Take some, help yourself!"