with blue sleeves?” he generally replied, “Ah, you haven’t one like it! Wait: it will wear off, and it will be alike all over.” And, in point of fact, the blue cloth, from the effects of the sun, began to turn cinnamon- color, and had now become of the same tint as the rest of the coat. But the strange part of it was that Anton Prokofievich had a habit of wearing woollen clothing in summer and nankeen in winter. Anton Prokofievich has no house of his own. He used to have one at the extremity of the town; but he sold it, and with the purchase-money bought a troika [three-horse carriage] of brown horses, and a little brichka in which he drove about to stay with the squires. But as the horses made a good deal of trouble, and money was required for oats, Anton Prokofievich swapped them off for a violin and a house-maid, with twenty-five paper rubles to boot. Afterwards Anton Prokofievich sold the violin, and swapped the girl for a morocco and gold tobacco-pouch; and now he has such a tobacco-pouch as no one else has. As a result of this luxury, he can no longer go about among the country-houses, but must remain in the city, and pass the night at different houses, especially of those gentlemen who take pleasure in tapping him on the nose. Anton Prokofievich is very fond of good eating, and plays well at durak and melnik.¹

But, as he walked along, he began to ponder in what manner he should contrive to induce Ivan Nikiforovich to come to the assembly. The rather unbending character of the latter, who was otherwise a worthy man, rendered his undertaking almost hopeless. Yes, and how, in fact, was he to persuade him to come, when even rising from his bed cost him so great an effort? But supposing that he does rise, how can he get him there, where, as he doubtless knows, his irreconcilable enemy already is? The more Anton Prokofievich reflected, the more difficulties he perceived. The day was sultry, the sun beat down, the perspiration poured from him in streams. Anton Prokofievich was a tolerably sharp man in many respects (though they did tap him on the nose). In swapping, however, he was not fortunate. He knew very well when to play the fool, and sometimes contrived to turn things to his own profit, amid circumstances and surroundings from which a wise man could rarely escape without loss.

His ingenious mind had contrived a means of persuading Ivan Nikiforovich; and he was proceeding bravely to face everything, when an unexpected occurrence somewhat disturbed his equanimity. There is no harm, at this point, in admitting to the reader, that, among other things, Anton Prokofievich was the owner of a pair of trousers of such singular properties, that, when he put them on, the dogs always bit his calves. Unfortunately, on this day he had donned that particular pair of trousers; and so he had hardly resigned himself to meditation when a fearful barking on all sides saluted his ears. Anton Prokofievich raised such a yell (no one could scream louder than he) that not only did the well-known woman and the inhabitant of the endless surtout rush out to meet him, but even the small boys from Ivan Ivanovich’s yard strewed themselves over him; and although the dogs succeeded in tasting only one of his calves, yet this sensibly diminished his courage, and he entered the veranda with a certain amount of timidity.

VII. and Last

“Ah! how do you do? Why do you irritate the dogs?” said Ivan Nikiforovich, on perceiving Anton Prokofievich; for no one spoke otherwise than jestingly with Anton Prokofievich.

“Hang them! who’s been irritating them?” retorted Anton Prokofievich.

“You lie!”

“By Heavens, no!—You are invited to dinner by Peter Feodorovich.”

“Hm!”

“He invited you more pressingly than I can tell you. ‘Why,’ says he, ‘does Ivan Nikiforovich shun me like an enemy? He never comes round to have a chat, or make a call.’ ”

Ivan Nikiforovich stroked his beard.