This aroused anger and a desire for revenge in Ivan Ivanovich. He did not, however, show any sign of irritation, despite the fact that the pen even occupied a portion of his land; but his heart beat so hard that it was extremely difficult for him to maintain this external calm.
So he spent the day. Night came… Oh, if I were a painter, I would wondrously portray all the loveliness of the night! I would portray how all Mirgorod lies sleeping; how countless stars gaze motionlessly down on it; how the visible silence resounds with the near and far-off barking of dogs; how the amorous beadle races past them and climbs over the fence with chivalrous fearlessness; how the white walls of houses enveloped in moonlight turn still whiter, the trees above them turn darker, the shadow of the trees falls blacker, the flowers and hushed grass grow more fragrant, and the crickets, indefatigable cavaliers of the night, with one accord begin their chirping songs in all corners. I would portray how, in one of these low clay cottages, a dark-browed town girl with quivering young breasts tosses on her solitary bed dreaming of a hussar's mustache and spurs while moonlight laughs on her cheeks. I would portray how the black shadow of a bat flits over the white road and settles on the white chimneys of the houses… But I would scarcely be able to portray Ivan Ivanovich going out that night with a saw in his hand. So many different feelings were written on his face! Softly, softly he crept close and got under the goose pen. Ivan Nikiforovich's dogs still knew nothing of the quarrel between them and therefore allowed him, as an old friend, to approach the pen, which rested entirely on four oak posts. Coming to the nearest post, he put his saw to it and began sawing. The noise produced by the saw made him look around every moment, but the thought of the offense restored his courage. The first post was sawn through; Ivan Ivanovich went on to the next. His eyes glowed and saw nothing from fear. Suddenly Ivan Ivanovich cried out and went numb: a dead man appeared to him; but he quickly recovered, seeing it was a goose stretching out its neck toward him. Ivan Ivanovich spat in indignation and began to go on with his work. The second post was sawn through: the building lurched. Ivan Ivanovich's heart began to pound so terribly when he started on the third that he interrupted his work several times; it was already more than half sawn through when the unsteady building suddenly lurched badly… Ivan Ivanovich barely managed to jump clear as it collapsed with a crash. Grabbing his saw, terribly frightened, he went running home and threw himself on his bed, not having the courage even to look out the window at the consequences of his dreadful deed. He fancied that Ivan Nikiforovich's entire household had gathered: the old woman, Ivan Nikiforovich, the boy in the endless frock coat-armed with pikestaffs, Agafya Fedoseevna at their head, they were all coming to devastate and destroy his house.
The whole of the next day Ivan Ivanovich spent as if in a fever. He kept imagining that in revenge for it his hateful neighbor would at the very least set fire to his house. And he therefore gave Gapka orders to keep an eye out at all times everywhere for dry straw stuck someplace or other. Finally, in order to forestall Ivan
Nikiforovich, he decided to run ahead hare-like and make a claim against him in the Mirgorod local court. What it consisted of can be found out in the next chapter.
Chapter IV
About What Happened in the Office of the Mirgorod Local Court
A wonderful town, Mirgorod! What buildings it has! And with thatch, or rush, or even wooden roofs; a street to the right, a street to the left, excellent watde fences everywhere; hops twine over them, pots hang on them, from behind them the sunflower shows it sunlike head, poppies redden, fat pumpkins flash… Magnificent! A wattle fence is always adorned with objects that make it still more picturesque: a hanging apron, or a shift, or balloon trousers. In Mirgorod there is neither thievery nor crookery, and therefore everybody hangs up whatever he likes. When you get to the square, you're sure to stop for a while and admire the view: there is a puddle in it, an astonishing puddle! the only one like it you'll ever chance to see! It takes up almost the whole square. A beautiful puddle! The houses, big and small, which from afar might be taken for haystacks, stand around marveling at its beauty.
But to my mind there's no house better than the local courthouse. Whether it's made of oak or birch is not my affair; but it has eight windows, my dear sirs! eight windows in a row, looking right onto the square and that expanse of water of which I've already spoken and which the police chief calls a lake! It alone is painted a granite color: the rest of the houses of Mirgorod are simply whitewashed. Its roof is entirely of wood, and would even have been painted with red paint, if the oil prepared for that purpose had not been eaten, garnished with onion, by the clerks, which happened, as if by design, during a fast period, and so the roof went un-painted. The porch juts out into the square, and chickens often run about on it, because there's almost always grain or something else edible spilled on the porch, though that is not done on purpose but solely through the carelessness of the petitioners. It is divided into two halves: in one is the office, in the other the jail-house. In the half where the office is, there are two clean, whitewashed rooms: one, the anteroom, is for petitioners; in the other, there's a desk adorned with ink blots, and on it a zertsalo. 5 Four oak chairs with high backs; against the walls, ironbound chests containing piles of regional calumny. On one of these chests there then stood a boot polished with wax. The office had been open since morning. The judge, a rather plump man, though somewhat thinner than Ivan Nikiforovich, with a kindly mien, in a greasy housecoat, holding a pipe and a cup of tea, was talking with the court clerk. The judge's lips were right under his nose, and he could therefore sniff his upper lip to his heart's content. This lip served him as a snuffbox, because the snuff addressed to his nose almost always spilled on it. And so, the judge was talking with the court clerk. To one side stood a barefoot girl holding a tray with teacups.
At the end of the table, the secretary was reading the decision of a case, but in such a monotonous and mournful voice that the accused himself might have fallen asleep listening to it. The judge would undoubtedly have done so before anyone else, if he hadn't entered, meanwhile, into an amusing conversation.
"I purposely tried to find out," the judge said, sipping tea from the already cold cup, "how they turn out to sing so well. I had a fine blackbird some two years ago. What then? Suddenly he went off completely. Started singing God knows what. As it continued, he got worse, turned guttural, hoarse-fit for the trash heap. And owing to a mere trifle! Here's how it happens: they get a lump under the throat, smaller than a pea. You need only prick this lump with a needle. Zakhar Prokofievich taught me that, and I'll tell you precisely how: I come to see him…"
"Shall I read another one, Demyan Demyanovich?" interrupted the secretary, who had already finished reading several minutes earlier.
"You read all of it? Imagine, so quickly! I didn't hear a thing! Where is it? Give it to me, I'll sign it. What else have you got?"
"The Cossack Bokitko's case concerning the stolen cow."
"Very well, read it! So, I come to see him… I can even tell you in detail what he treated me to. The vodka was served with a balyk 6 -one of a kind! Yes, not like our balyk, which"-here the judge clucked his tongue and smiled, while his nose sniffed from his usual snuffbox-"which our Mirgorod grocery treats us to. I didn't eat any pickled herring, because, as you yourself know, it gives me heartburn. But I did try the caviar-wonderful caviar! not to say excellent! Then I drank some peach vodka flavored with centaury. There was also saffron vodka, but, as you yourself know, I don't drink saffron vodka. It's very nice, you see: first to arouse the appetite, as they say, and then to finish… Ah! it's been ages, ages…" the judge suddenly cried out, seeing Ivan Ivanovich come in.