No sooner did Anton Prokofievich show himself in the doorway than he was instantly surrounded by all. Anton Prokofievich, in answer to all inquiries, shouted one all-decisive word, “He will not come!” No sooner had he uttered this, than a hailstorm of reproaches, scoldings, and possibly, even fillips, prepared to descend upon his head for the ill success of his mission, when all at one the door opened, and—Ivan Nikiforovich entered.

If Satan himself or a corpse had appeared, it would not have caused such consternation throughout the company as Ivan Nikiforovich’s unexpected arrival created. But Anton Prokofievich only went off into a fit of laughter, and held his sides with delight at having played such a joke upon the company.

At all events, it was almost past the belief of all that Ivan Nikiforovich could, in so brief a space of time, have attired himself like a respectable gentleman. Ivan Ivanovich was not there at the moment: he had stepped out somewhere. Recovering from their amazement, the public took an interest in Ivan Nikiforovich’s health, and expressed their pleasure at his increase in breadth. Ivan Nikiforovich kissed every one, and said. “Very much obliged!”

Meantime the fragrance of the beet-soup was wafted through the apartment, and tickled nostrils of the hungry guests very agreeably. All rushed headlong to the table. The line of ladies, loquacious and silent, thin and think, swept on, and the long table glittered with all the hues of the rainbow. I will not describe the courses: I will make no mention of the curd dumplings with sour cream, nor of the dish of haslets that was served with the soup, nor of the turkey with plums and raisins, nor of the dish which greatly resembled in appearance a boot soaked in kvas nor of the sauce, which is the swan’s song of the old- fashioned cook, nor of that other sauce which was brought in all enveloped in the flames of wine, which amused as well as frightened the ladies extremely. I will say nothing of these dishes, because I like better to eat them than to spend many words in discussing them.

Ivan Ivanovich was exceedingly pleased with the fish prepared with horseradish. He devoted himself particularly to this useful and nourishing preparation. Picking out all the fine bones from the fish, he laid them on his plate; and happening to glance across the table… Heavenly Creator! but this was strange! Opposite him sat Ivan Nikiforovich.

At the very same instant Ivan Nikiforovich glanced up also… No… I can do no more… Give me a fresh pen! My pen is flabby, dead,… with a fine point for this picture! Their faces seemed to turn to stone, still keeping their defiant expression. Each beheld a long familiar face, to which it seemed the most natural of things to step up as to an unexpected friend, involuntarily, and offer a snuff-box, with the words, “Do me the favor,” or “Dare I beg you to do me the favor?” Instead of this, that face was terrible as a forerunner of evil. The perspiration poured in streams from Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich.

All the guests at table grew dumb with attention, and never took their eyes from the former friends. The ladies, who had been busy up to that time with a sufficiently interesting discussion as to the preparation of capons, suddenly cut their conversation short. All was silence. It was a picture worthy the brush of a great artist.

At length Ivan Ivanovich pulled out his handkerchief, and began to blow his nose; but Ivan Nikiforovich glanced about, and his eye rested on the open door. The chief of police at once perceived this movement, and ordered the door to be strongly fastened. Then both of the friends began to eat, and never once glanced at each other again.

As soon as dinner was done both of the former friends rose from their seats, and began to look for their hats, with a view to departure. Then the chief beckoned; and Ivan Ivanovich—not than Ivan Ivanovich, but the other, the one with the one eye—stood behind Ivan Nikiforovich, and the chief stepped behind Ivan Ivanovich, and both began to drag them backwards, in order to bring them together, and not release them until they had shaken hands with each other. Ivan Ivanovich, the one-eyed Ivan, pushed Ivan Nikiforovich, though rather crookedly, yet with tolerable success, towards the spot where stood Ivan Ivanovich, but the chief of police directed his course too much to one side, because he could not steer himself with his