"I find it strange that my right eye" (the one-eyed Ivan Ivanovich always spoke of himself ironically) "does not see Ivan Niki-forovich, Mr. Dovgochkhun."
"He didn't want to come," said the police chief.
"How so?"
"It's already two years, God bless us, since they quarreled with each other-Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich, that is-and where the one is, the other won't go for anything!"
"What are you saying?" With that the one-eyed Ivan Ivanovich raised his eyes and clasped his hands. "Well, now, if people with good eyes can't live in peace, how will I get along with my blind one!"
At these words everybody roared with laughter. Everybody liked the one-eyed Ivan Ivanovich, because the jokes he cracked were entirely in the present-day taste. Even the tall, lean man in the cotton flannel frock coat with a plaster on his nose, who till then had been sitting in the corner and had never once changed the movement of his face, even when a fly flew up his nose-this same gentleman got up from his seat and moved closer to the crowd that had formed around the one-eyed Ivan Ivanovich.
"Listen!" said the one-eyed Ivan Ivanovich, when he saw that he had a good-sized company around him. "Listen! Instead of you all now ogling my blind eye, why don't we get our two friends reconciled instead! Right now Ivan Ivanovich is talking with the women and girls-let's quietly send for Ivan Nikiforovich and push them together."
Everybody unanimously accepted Ivan Ivanovich's suggestion and decided immediately to send for Ivan Nikiforovich at home, to ask him by all means to come to dinner at the police chief's. But an important problem-whom to entrust with this important errand-threw them all into perplexity. They argued for a long time over who was most capable and skillful along diplomatic lines; finally it was unanimously decided to entrust it all to Anton Prokofievich Golopuz. 9
But first we must acquaint the reader somewhat with this remarkable character. Anton Prokofievich was a wholly virtuous man in the full sense of the word: if one of the distinguished persons of Mirgorod gave him a neckerchief or undergarment, he thanked him; if someone flicked him slightly on the nose, he thanked him for that as well. If someone asked him, "How is it, Anton Prokofievich, that your frock coat is brown but the sleeves are light blue?" he always used to reply: "And you don't have anything like it! Just wait, it'll get worn and turn the same color all over!" And indeed, under the effect of the sun, the blue cloth began to turn brown and now matches the color of the frock coat perfectly! But the strange thing is that Anton Prokofievich was in the habit of wearing flannel clothes in the summer and nankeen in the winter. Anton Prokofievich has no house of his own. He had one once, at the edge of town, but he sold it and used the money to buy a troika of bay horses and a small britzka, in which he drove around visiting landowners. But since they were a lot of trouble, and he had to have money to buy oats besides, Anton Prokofievich traded them for a fiddle and a serving girl, with twenty-five roubles to boot. Then Anton Prokofievich sold the fiddle and traded the girl for a gold brocade tobacco pouch. And now he has a pouch such as no one else has. Owing to this pleasure, he can no longer drive around visiting estates, but has to stay in town and sleep in various houses, particularly those of the gentlemen who enjoy giving him flicks on the nose. Anton Prokofievich likes to eat well and plays a good game of "fools" and "millers." Obedience was always his element, and therefore, taking his hat and stick, he set forth immediately. But, as he walked, he began reasoning about how he might induce Ivan Nikiforovich to come to the party. The rather tough character of this otherwise worthy man made the undertaking all but impossible. And why, indeed, should he venture to come, if getting up from his bed was already a great labor for him? But, supposing he did get up, why should he go to a place where-as he undoubtedly knew-his implacable enemy was? The more Anton Prokofievich thought about it, the more obstacles he found. The day was stifling; the sun burned down; sweat streamed from him. Anton Prokofievich, though he might be flicked on the nose, was a very clever man in many respects-he simply wasn't so lucky at trading-and knew very well when he should pretend to be a fool, and sometimes proved resourceful in circumstances and on occasions when an intelligent man would scarcely have been able to wriggle his way out.
While his inventive mind was thinking up some means of convincing Ivan Nikiforovich, and he was already going bravely to meet it all, a certain unexpected circumstance left him rather bewildered. Here it will do no harm to inform the reader that Anton Prokofievich had, among other things, a pair of trousers with the strange property that, whenever he wore them, dogs always bit him on the calves. As ill luck would have it, he was wearing precisely those trousers that day. And that was why he had no sooner given himself over to reflection than his hearing was struck by terrible barking on all sides. Anton Prokofievich raised such a cry-no one could shout louder than he-that not only our woman acquaintance and the owner of the boundless frock coat ran to meet him, but even the boys from Ivan Ivanovich's yard came pouring out, and though the dogs only managed to bite one of his legs, nevertheless it greatly diminished his cheerfulness, and he approached the porch with a certain timidity.
Chapter VII
And Last
"Ah! greetings! What are you teasing the dogs for?" said Ivan Nikiforovich, seeing Anton Prokofievich, because no one ever spoke to Anton Prokofievich except jokingly.
"They can all drop dead! Who's teasing them?" replied Anton Prokofievich.
"You're lying."
"By God, I'm not! Pyotr Fyodorovich is inviting you to dinner."
"Hra!"
"Yes, by God! and he insists on it so much, I can't tell you. 'Why is it,' he says, 'that Ivan Nikiforovich avoids me like an enemy? Never stops by to chat or sit a while.' "
Ivan Nikiforovich stroked his chin.
" 'If Ivan Nikiforovich doesn't come now,' he says, 'I don't know what I'll think: he must have something against me. Do me a favor, Anton Prokofievich, persuade Ivan Nikiforovich!' So what about it, Ivan Nikiforovich? Come on, there's an excellent company gathered there now!"
Ivan Nikiforovich began to scrutinize a rooster that was standing on the porch crowing his throat off.
"If you knew, Ivan Nikiforovich," the zealous deputy went on, "what sturgeon, what fresh caviar Pyotr Fyodorovich has been sent!"
At that Ivan Nikiforovich turned his head and began listening attentively.
This encouraged the deputy.
"Let's hurry. Foma Grigorievich is there, too! What's the matter?" he added, seeing that Ivan Nikiforovich went on lying in the same position. "Well, do we go or don't we?"
"I don't want to."
This "I don't want to" struck Anton Prokofievich. He thought his convincing presentation had thoroughly persuaded this otherwise worthy man, but instead he heard a resolute "I don't want to."
"And why don't you want to?" he said, almost with vexation, which appeared in him extremely rarely, even when they put burning paper on his head, something the judge and the police chief particularly enjoyed doing.
Ivan Nikiforovich took a pinch of snuff.