descend upon his head for the ill
success of his mission, when all at once the door opened, and--Ivan
Nikiforovitch entered.
If Satan himself or a corpse had appeared, it would not have caused such
consternation amongst the company as Ivan Nikiforovitch's unexpected
arrival created. But Anton Prokofievitch 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
Nikiforovitch could, in so brief a space of time, have attired himself
like a respectable gentleman. Ivan Ivanovitch was not there at the
moment: he had stepped out somewhere. Recovering from their amazement,
the guests expressed an interest in Ivan Nikiforovitch's health, and
their pleasure at his increase in breadth. Ivan Nikiforovitch kissed
every one, and said, "Very much obliged!"
Meantime, the fragrance of the beet-soup was wafted through the
apartment, and tickled the nostrils of the hungry guests very agreeably.
All rushed headlong to table. The line of ladies, loquacious and silent,
thin and stout, swept on, and the long table soon 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 pig's
fry 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 dish which was brought in all
enveloped in the flames of spirit, and amused as well as frightened the
ladies extremely. I will say nothing of these dishes, because I like to
eat them better than to spend many words in discussing them.
Ivan Ivanovitch was exceedingly pleased with the fish dressed with
horse-radish. He devoted himself especially 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
Nikiforovitch.
At the very same instant Ivan Nikiforovitch glanced up also--No, I can
do no more--Give me a fresh pen with a fine point for this picture! mine
is flabby. Their faces seemed to turn to stone whilst still retaining
their defiant expression. Each beheld a long familiar face, to which it
should have seemed the most natural of thi
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