his hand to Ivan Ivanovich with his snuff-box, saying, “Do me the favor!” And what fine managers 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 Ivanovich had quarrelled with Ivan Nikiforovich! Such worthy people! What is to be depended upon, then, in this world?

When Ivan Ivanovich reached home, he remained 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 Ivanovich 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 printed by Liubia, Garia and Popoff (Ivan Ivanovich never could remember the name, because the serving-maid had long before torn off the top part of the title page while amusing the children), or rested on the veranda. But now he did not betake himself to any of his ordinary occupations. Instead, on encountering Gapka, he began to scold because she was loitering 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 Ivanovich began to gaze at his belongings with satisfaction: at length his eye rested on the neighboring yard; and he said to himself, “I have not been to Ivan Nikiforovich’s to-day: I’ll go there now.” So saying, Ivan Ivanovich 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 happened at Ivan Nikiforovich’s house. Ivan Ivanovich saw the woman put her foot on the fence, with the intention of climbing over into his yard, when suddenly Ivan Nikiforovich’s voice became audible. “Back! back! it won’t do!” But Ivan Ivanovich found it very tiresome. It is quite possible that these worthy men would have made peace next day, if a certain occurrence in Ivan Ivanovich’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 Nikiforovich’s. Agafya Fedosyevna was not Ivan Nikiforovich’s relative, nor his sister-in-law, nor even 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 Nikiforovich; 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 Nikiforovich’s nose somewhat resembled a plum, she grasped that nose, and led him about after her like a dog. He even, in her presence, involuntarily 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 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 countenance never for one instant changed its expression, which phenomenon, as a rule, women alone are capable of displaying.

Just as soon as she arrived, everything went wrong side before. “Ivan Nikiforovich, don’t you make peace with him, nor ask his forgiveness; he wants to ruin you; that’s the kind of man he is! you don’t know him