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 watermelon. All these things piled together formed a very interesting spectacle for Ivan Ivanovich, while the sun’s rays, falling upon bits of a blue or green sleeve, a red binding, or a scrap of gold brocade, or playing on the point of the 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: at these exhibitions the fiddle whines, a gypsy taps on his lips in lieu of a drum, and the sun goes down, and the cool freshness of the young night presses more strongly on the shoulders and bosoms of the plump farmers’ wives.

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

“Here’s a stupid woman,” thought Ivan Ivanovich. “She’ll be dragging Ivan Nikiforovich out and airing him next.”

And with reason: Ivan Ivanovich was not so far wrong in his surmise. Five minutes later, Ivan Nikiforovich’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 Ivanovich. “I never saw Ivan Nikiforovich have 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 to get just such a one; I want that gun very much: I like to amuse myself with a gun. Hello, there, woman, woman!” shouted Ivan Ivanovich, 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.”

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

“It must be iron,” went on the old woman.

“Hm! iron! why iron?” said Ivan Ivanovich to himself. “Has your master had it long?”

“Yes; long, perhaps.”

“It’s a nice thing!” continued Ivan Ivanovich. “I will ask him for it. What can he do with it? I’ll exchange with him for it. Is your master at home, my good woman?”

“Yes.”

“What is he doing? lying down?”

“Yes, lying down.”

“Very well, I will come to him.”