the cover of his box first with his tongue, then taps
on it with his finger and says, as he raises it, if you are an
acquaintance, "Dare I beg you, sir, to give me the pleasure?" if a
stranger, "Dare I beg you, sir, though I have not the honour of
knowing your rank, name, and family, to do me the favour?" but Ivan
Nikiforovitch puts his box straight into your hand and merely adds, "Do
me the favour." Neither Ivan Ivanovitch nor Ivan Nikiforovitch loves
fleas; and therefore, neither Ivan Ivanovitch nor Ivan Nikiforovitch
will, on no account, admit a Jew with his wares, without purchasing of
him remedies against these insects, after having first rated him well
for belonging to the Hebrew faith.

But in spite of numerous dissimilarities, Ivan Ivanovitch and Ivan
Nikiforovitch are both very fine fellows.

CHAPTER II

FROM WHICH MAY BE SEEN WHENCE AROSE THE DISCUSSION BETWEEN IVAN
IVANOVITCH AND IVAN NIKIFOROVITCH

One morning--it was in July--Ivan Ivanovitch was lying on his balcony.
The day was warm; the air was dry, and came in gusts. Ivan Ivanovitch
had been to town, to the mower's, and at the farm, and had succeeded in
asking all the muzhiks and women whom he met all manner of questions.
He was fearfully tired and had laid down to rest. As he lay there, he
looked at the storehouse, the courtyard, the sheds, the chickens running
about, and thought to himself, "Heavens! What a well-to-do man I am!
What is there that I have not? Birds, buildings, granaries, everything
I take a fancy to; genuine distilled vodka; pears and plums in the
orchard; poppies, cabbages, peas in the garden; what is there that I
have not? I should like to know what there is that I have not?"

As he put this question to himself, Ivan Ivanovitch reflected; and
meantime his eyes, in their search after fresh objects, crossed the
fence into Ivan Nikiforovitch's yard and involuntarily took note of
a curious sight. A fat woman was bringing out clothes, which had been
packed away, and spreading them out on the line to air. Presently an
old uniform with worn trimmings was swinging its sleeves in the air
and embracing a brocade gown; from behind it peeped a court-coat, with
buttons stamped with coats-of-arms, and moth-eaten collar; and white
kersymere pantaloons with spots, which had once upon a time clothed Ivan
Nikiforovitch's legs, and might now possibly fit his fingers. Behind
them were speedily hung some more in the shape of the letter pi. Then