“What chance brings you here? What and how? How is your health, Ivan Nikiforovich?”

But Ivan Nikiforovich was neither dead nor alive; for he was stuck fast in the door, and could not take a step either forwards or backwards. In vain did the judge shout into the ante-room that some one there should push Ivan Nikiforovich forward into the court-room. In the ante-room was only one old woman with a petition, who, in spite of all the efforts of her bony hands, could accomplish nothing. Then one of the clerks, with thick lips, wide shoulders, and a thick nose, with eyes which looked askance and intoxicated, and with ragged elbows, approached the front half of Ivan Nikiforovich, crossed his hands for him as though he had been a child, and winked at the old soldier, who braced his knee against Ivan Nikiforovich’s belly. In spite of the latter’s piteous moans, he was squeezed out into the ante-room. Then they pulled the bolts, and opened the other half of the door. Meanwhile 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 Nikiforovich? 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 feelings will disappear.”

But Ivan Nikiforovich dropped into a chair, and could utter no word beyond prolonged oh’s. Finally, in a voice feeble and barely audible from fatigue, he exclaimed, “Wouldn’t you like some?” and, drawing his snuffbox 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 Nikiforovich managed to ejaculate.

“A petition? What petition?”

“A complaint”… (here the asthma entailed a prolonged pause)—“Oh!—a complaint against the rascal—Ivan Ivanovich Pererépenko!”

“And you too! Such particular friends! A complaint against such a benevolent man!”

“He’s Satan himself!” ejaculated Ivan Nikiforovich abruptly.

The judge crossed himself.

“Take my petition, and read it.”

“There is nothing to be done. Read it, Taras Tikhonovich,” said the judge, turning to the secretary with an expression of displeasure, which caused his nose to sniff at his upper lip, 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 before 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 Dovgochkhun, son of Nikofor, nobleman 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 Pererépenko, 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,