The whole of the next day Ivan Ivanovich spent as if in a fever. He kept imagining that in revenge for it his hateful neighbor would at the very least set fire to his house. And he therefore gave Gapka orders to keep an eye out at all times everywhere for dry straw stuck someplace or other. Finally, in order to forestall Ivan
Nikiforovich, he decided to run ahead hare-like and make a claim against him in the Mirgorod local court. What it consisted of can be found out in the next chapter.
Chapter IV
About What Happened in the Office of the Mirgorod Local Court
A wonderful town, Mirgorod! What buildings it has! And with thatch, or rush, or even wooden roofs; a street to the right, a street to the left, excellent watde fences everywhere; hops twine over them, pots hang on them, from behind them the sunflower shows it sunlike head, poppies redden, fat pumpkins flash… Magnificent! A wattle fence is always adorned with objects that make it still more picturesque: a hanging apron, or a shift, or balloon trousers. In Mirgorod there is neither thievery nor crookery, and therefore everybody hangs up whatever he likes. When you get to the square, you're sure to stop for a while and admire the view: there is a puddle in it, an astonishing puddle! the only one like it you'll ever chance to see! It takes up almost the whole square. A beautiful puddle! The houses, big and small, which from afar might be taken for haystacks, stand around marveling at its beauty.
But to my mind there's no house better than the local courthouse. Whether it's made of oak or birch is not my affair; but it has eight windows, my dear sirs! eight windows in a row, looking right onto the square and that expanse of water of which I've already spoken and which the police chief calls a lake! It alone is painted a granite color: the rest of the houses of Mirgorod are simply whitewashed. Its roof is entirely of wood, and would even have been painted with red paint, if the oil prepared for that purpose had not been eaten, garnished with onion, by the clerks, which happened, as if by design, during a fast period, and so the roof went un-painted. The porch juts out into the square, and chickens often run about on it, because there's almost always grain or something else edible spilled on the porch, though that is not done on purpose but solely through the carelessness of the petitioners. It is divided into two halves: in one is the office, in the other the jail-house. In the half where the office is, there are two clean, whitewashed rooms: one, the anteroom, is for petitioners; in the other, there's a desk adorned with ink blots, and on it a zertsalo. 5 Four oak chairs with high backs; against the walls, ironbound chests containing piles of regional calumny. On one of these chests there then stood a boot polished with wax. The office had been open since morning. The judge, a rather plump man, though somewhat thinner than Ivan Nikiforovich, with a kindly mien, in a greasy housecoat, holding a pipe and a cup of tea, was talking with the court clerk. The judge's lips were right under his nose, and he could therefore sniff his upper lip to his heart's content. This lip served him as a snuffbox, because the snuff addressed to his nose almost always spilled on it. And so, the judge was talking with the court clerk. To one side stood a barefoot girl holding a tray with teacups.
At the end of the table, the secretary was reading the decision of a case, but in such a monotonous and mournful voice that the accused himself might have fallen asleep listening to it. The judge would undoubtedly have done so before anyone else, if he hadn't entered, meanwhile, into an amusing conversation.
"I purposely tried to find out," the judge said, sipping tea from the already cold cup, "how they turn out to sing so well. I had a fine blackbird some two years ago. What then? Suddenly he went off completely. Started singing God knows what. As it continued, he got worse, turned guttural, hoarse-fit for the trash heap. And owing to a mere trifle! Here's how it happens: they get a lump under the throat, smaller than a pea. You need only prick this lump with a needle. Zakhar Prokofievich taught me that, and I'll tell you precisely how: I come to see him…"
"Shall I read another one, Demyan Demyanovich?" interrupted the secretary, who had already finished reading several minutes earlier.
"You read all of it? Imagine, so quickly! I didn't hear a thing! Where is it? Give it to me, I'll sign it. What else have you got?"
"The Cossack Bokitko's case concerning the stolen cow."
"Very well, read it! So, I come to see him… I can even tell you in detail what he treated me to. The vodka was served with a balyk 6 -one of a kind! Yes, not like our balyk, which"-here the judge clucked his tongue and smiled, while his nose sniffed from his usual snuffbox-"which our Mirgorod grocery treats us to. I didn't eat any pickled herring, because, as you yourself know, it gives me heartburn. But I did try the caviar-wonderful caviar! not to say excellent! Then I drank some peach vodka flavored with centaury. There was also saffron vodka, but, as you yourself know, I don't drink saffron vodka. It's very nice, you see: first to arouse the appetite, as they say, and then to finish… Ah! it's been ages, ages…" the judge suddenly cried out, seeing Ivan Ivanovich come in.
"God be with you! I wish you good day!" said Ivan Ivanovich, bowing to all sides with a pleasantness proper only to himself. My God, how he's able to charm everyone with his manners! Such refinement I've never seen anywhere. He knew his own worth very well, and therefore regarded general respect as his due. The judge himself offered Ivan Ivanovich a chair, and his nose drew all the snuff from his upper lip, which with him was always a sign of great pleasure.
"What may we offer you, Ivan Ivanovich?" he asked. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"
"No, thank you very much," replied Ivan Ivanovich, bowing and sitting down.
"If you please, just one little cup!" repeated the judge.
"No, thank you. You are most hospitable," Ivan Ivanovich replied, bowing and sitting down.