er he chanced to be standing, always held out his hand to Ivan
Ivanovitch with his snuff-box, saying: "Do me the favour!" And what
fine managers both were!--And these two friends!--When I heard of it, it
struck me like a flash of lightning. For a long time I would not believe
it. Ivan Ivanovitch quarrelling with Ivan Nikiforovitch! Such worthy
people! What is to be depended upon, then, in this world?

When Ivan Ivanovitch reached home, he remained for some time in a state
of strong excitement. He usually went, first of all, to the stable to
see whether his mare was eating her hay; for he had a bay mare with a
white star on her forehead, and a very pretty little mare she was too;
then to feed the turkeys and the little pigs with his own hand, and
then to his room, where he either made wooden dishes, for he could make
various vessels of wood very tastefully, quite as well as any turner, or
read a book printed by Liubia, Garia, and Popoff (Ivan Ivanovitch could
never remember the name, because the serving-maid had long before torn
off the top part of the title-page while amusing the children), or
rested on the balcony. But now he did not betake himself to any of his
ordinary occupations. Instead, on encountering Gapka, he at once began
to scold her for loitering about without any occupation, though she was
carrying groats to the kitchen; flung a stick at a cock which came upon
the balcony for his customary treat; and when the dirty little boy, in
his little torn blouse, ran up to him and shouted: "Papa, papa! give me
a honey-cake," he threatened him and stamped at him so fiercely that the
frightened child fled, God knows whither.

But at last he bethought himself, and began to busy himself about his
every-day duties. He dined late, and it was almost night when he lay
down to rest on the balcony. A good beet-soup with pigeons, which Gapka
had cooked for him, quite drove from his mind the occurrences of the
morning. Again Ivan Ivanovitch began to gaze at his belongings with
satisfaction. At length his eye rested on the neighbouring yard; and he
said to himself, "I have not been to Ivan Nikiforovitch's to-day: I'll
go there now." So saying, Ivan Ivanovitch took his stick and his hat,
and directed his steps to the street; but scarcely had he passed through
the gate than he recollected the quarrel, spit, and turned back. Almost
the same thing happened at Ivan Nikiforovitch's house. Ivan Ivanovitch
saw the woman put her foot on