came a blue Cossack jacket, which Ivan Nikiforovitch had had made twenty
years before, when he was preparing to enter the militia, and allowed
his moustache to grow. And one after another appeared a sword,
projecting into the air like a spit, and the skirts of a grass-green
caftan-like garment, with copper buttons the size of a five-kopek piece,
unfolded themselves. From among the folds peeped a vest bound with gold,
with a wide opening in front. The vest was soon concealed by an old
petticoat belonging to his dead grandmother, with pockets which would
have held a water-melon.

All these things piled together formed a very interesting spectacle
for Ivan Ivanovitch; while the sun's rays, falling upon a blue or green
sleeve, a red binding, or a scrap of gold brocade, or playing in
the point of a sword, formed an unusual sight, similar to the
representations of the Nativity given at farmhouses by wandering bands;
particularly that part where the throng of people, pressing close
together, gaze at King Herod in his golden crown or at Anthony leading
his goat.

Presently the old woman crawled, grunting, from the storeroom, dragging
after her an old-fashioned saddle with broken stirrups, worn leather
holsters, and saddle-cloth, once red, with gilt embroidery and copper
disks.

"Here's a stupid woman," thought Ivan Ivanovitch. "She'll be dragging
Ivan Nikiforovitch out and airing him next."

Ivan Ivanovitch was not so far wrong in his surmise. Five minutes later,
Ivan Nikiforovitch's nankeen trousers appeared, and took nearly half the
yard to themselves. After that she fetched out a hat and a gun. "What's
the meaning of this?" thought Ivan Ivanovitch. "I never knew Ivan
Nikiforovitch had a gun. What does he want with it? Whether he shoots,
or not, he keeps a gun! Of what use is it to him? But it's a splendid
thing. I have long wanted just such a one. I should like that gun very
much: I like to amuse myself with a gun. Hello, there, woman, woman!"
shouted Ivan Ivanovitch, beckoning to her.

The old woman approached the fence.

"What's that you have there, my good woman?"

"A gun, as you see."

"What sort of a gun?"

"Who knows what sort of a gun? If it were mine, perhaps I should know
what it is made of; but it is my master's, therefore I know nothing of
it."

Ivan Ivanovitch rose, and began to examine the gun on all sides, and
forgot to reprove the old woman for hanging it and the sword out to air.

"It must be i