“ ‘If,’ says he, ‘Ivan Nikiforovich does not come now, I shall not know what to think: surely, he must have some design against me. Pray, Anton Prokofievich, persuade Ivan Nikiforovich!’ Come, Ivan Nikiforovich, let us go! a very choice company is already assembled there.”

Ivan Nikiforovich began to regard a cock, which was perched on the roof, and crowing with all its might.

“If you only knew, Ivan Nikiforovich,” pursued the zealous ambassador, “what fresh sturgeon and caviare Peter Feodorovich has had sent to him!” Whereupon Ivan Nikiforovich turned his head, and began to listen attentively. This encouraged the messenger. “Come quick: Foma Grigorovich is there too. Why don’t you come?” he added, seeing that Ivan Nikiforovich still lay in the same position. “Why, shall we go, or not?”

“I won’t!”

This “I won’t” startled Anton Prokofievich: he had fancied that his alluring representations had quite moved this very worthy man; but instead, he heard that decisive “I won’t.”

“Why won’t you?” he asked, almost with vexation, which he very rarely exhibited, even when they put burning paper on his head, a trick which the judge and the chief of police were particularly fond of indulging in.

Ivan Nikiforovich took a pinch of snuff.

“As you like, Ivan Nikiforovich. I do not know what detains you.”

“Why won’t I go?” said Ivan Nikiforovich at length: “that brigand will be there!” This was his ordinary way of alluding to Ivan Ivanovich. “Just God! and is it long”…

“He will not be there, he will not be there! May the lightning kill me on the spot!” returned Anton Prokofievich, who was ready to perjure himself ten times in an hour. “Come along, Ivan Nikiforovich!”

“Yes, you lie, Anton Prokofievich! he is there!”

“By Heavens, by Heavens, he’s not! May I never stir from this place if he’s there! Now, just think for yourself, what object have I in lying? May my hands and feet wither!… Why, don’t you believe me now? May I perish right here in your presence! Don’t you believe me yet?”

Ivan Nikiforovich was entirely re-assured by these asseverations, and ordered his valet, in the boundless surtout, to fetch his trousers and nankeen casaquin.

I suppose that to describe how Ivan Nikiforovich put on his trousers, how they wound his neckerchief about his neck, and finally dragged on his casaquin, which burst under the left sleeve, would be quite superfluous. Suffice it to say that during all that time he preserved a becoming calmness of demeanor, and answered not a word to Anton Prokofievich’s proposition to swap something for his Turkish tobacco- pouch.

Meanwhile the assembly awaited with impatience the decisive moment when Ivan Nikiforovich should make his appearance, and at length comply with the general desire, that these worthy people should be reconciled to each other. Many were almost convinced that Ivan Nikiforovich would not come. Even the chief of police offered to be with one-eyed Ivan Ivanovich that he would not come; and he only desisted because one-eyed Ivan Ivanovich demanded that he should wager his shot foot against his own bad eye, at which the chief of police was greatly offended, and the company enjoyed a quiet laugh. No one had yet sat down to the table, although it was long past two o’clock, an hour before which in Mirgorod, even on ceremonious occasions, every one had already long dined.