“I do not know,” said Ivan Nikiforo

“I do not know,” said Ivan Nikiforovitch, panting with fatigue, though it is to be observed that he was not at all disinclined to a reconciliation, “I do not know what I did to Ivan Ivanovitch; but why did he destroy my coop and plot against my life?”
“I am innocent of any evil designs!” said Ivan Ivanovitch, never looking at Ivan Nikiforovitch. “I swear before God and before you, honourable noblemen, I did nothing to my enemy! Why does he calumniate me and insult my rank and family?”
“How have I insulted you, Ivan Ivanovitch?” said Ivan Nikiforovitch. One moment more of explanation, and the long enmity would have been extinguished. Ivan Nikiforovitch was already feeling in his pocket for his snuff-box, and was about to say, “Do me the favour.”
“Is it not an insult,” answered Ivan Ivanovitch, without raising his eyes, “when you, my dear sir, insulted my honour and my family with a word which it is improper to repeat here?”
“Permit me to observe, in a friendly manner, Ivan Ivanovitch,” here Ivan Nikiforovitch touched Ivan Ivanovitch’s button with his finger, which clearly indicated the disposition of his mind, “that you took offence, the deuce only knows at what, because I called you a ‘goose’—”
It occurred to Ivan Nikiforovitch that he had made a mistake in uttering that word; but it was too late: the word was said. Everything went to the winds. It, on the utterance of this word without witnesses, Ivan Ivanovitch lost control of himself and flew into such a passion as God preserve us from beholding any man in, what was to be expected now? I put it to you, dear readers, what was to be expected now, when the fatal word was uttered in an assemblage of persons among whom were ladies, in whose presence Ivan Ivanovitch liked to be particularly polite? If Ivan Nikiforovitch had set to work in any other manner, if he had only said bird and not goose, it might still have been arranged, but all was at an end.
He gave one look at Ivan Nikiforovitch, but such a look! If that look had possessed active power, then it would have turned Ivan Nikiforovitch into dust. The guests understood the look and hastened to separate them. And this man, the very model of gentleness, who never let a single poor woman go by without interrogating her, rushed out in a fearful rage. Such violent storms do passions produce!
For a whole month nothing was heard of Ivan Ivanovitch. He shut himself up at home. His ancestral chest was opened, and from it were taken silver rubles, his grandfather’s old silver rubles! And these rubles passed into the ink-stained hands of legal advisers. The case was sent up to the higher court; and when Ivan Ivanovitch received the joyful news that it would be decided on the morrow, then only did he look out upon the world and resolve to emerge from his house. Alas! from that time forth the council gave notice day by day that the case would be finished on the morrow, for the space of ten years.
Five years ago, I passed through the town of Mirgorod. I came at a bad time. It was autumn, with its damp, melancholy weather, mud and mists. An unnatural verdure, the result of incessant rains, covered with a watery network the fields and meadows, to which it is as well suited as youthful pranks to an old man, or roses to an old woman. The weather made a deep impression on me at the time: when it was dull, I was dull; but in spite of this, when I came to pass through Mirgorod, my heart beat violently. God, what reminiscences! I had not seen Mirgorod for twenty years. Here had lived, in touching friendship, two inseparable friends. And how many prominent people had died! Judge Demyan Demyanovitch was already gone: Ivan Ivanovitch, with the one eye, had long ceased to live.
I entered the main street. All about stood poles with bundles of straw on top: some alterations were in progress. Several dwellings had been removed. The remnants of board and wattled fences projected sadly here and there. It was a festival day. I ordered my basket chaise to stop in front of the church, and entered softly that no one might turn round. To tell the truth, there was no need of this: the church was almost empty; there were very few people; it was evident that even the most pious feared the mud. The candles seemed strangely unpleasant in that gloomy, or rather sickly, light. The dim vestibule was melancholy; the long windows, with their circular panes, were bedewed with tears of rain. I retired into the vestibule, and addressing a respectable old man, with greyish hair, said, “May I inquire if Ivan Nikiforovitch is still living?”
At that moment the lamp before the holy picture burned up more brightly and the light fell directly upon the face of my companion. What was my surprise, on looking more closely, to behold features with which I was acquainted! It was Ivan Nikiforovitch himself! But how he had changed!
“Are you well, Ivan Nikiforovitch? How old you have grown!”
“Yes, I have grown old. I have just come from Poltava to-day,” answered Ivan Nikiforovitch.
“You don’t say so! you have been to Poltava in such bad weather?”
“What was to be done? that lawsuit —”
At this I sighed involuntarily.
Ivan Nikiforovitch observed my sigh, and said, “Do not be troubled: I have reliable information that the case will be decided next week, and in my favour.”
I shrugged my shoulders, and went to seek news of Ivan Ivanovitch.
“Ivan Ivanovitch is here,” some one said to me, “in the choir.”
I saw a gaunt form. Was that Ivan Ivanovitch? His face was covered with wrinkles, his hair was perfectly white; but the pelisse was the same as ever. After the first greetings were over, Ivan Ivanovitch, turning to me with a joyful smile which always became his funnel-shaped face, said, “Have you been told the good news?”
“What news?” I inquired.
“My case is to be decided to-morrow without fail: the court has announced it decisively.”
I sighed more deeply than before, made haste to take my leave, for I was bound on very important business, and seated myself in my kibitka.
The lean nags known in Mirgorod as post-horses started, producing with their hoofs, which were buried in a grey mass of mud, a sound very displeasing to the ear. The rain poured in torrents upon the Jew seated on the box, covered with a rug. The dampness penetrated through and through me. The gloomy barrier with a sentry-box, in which an old soldier was repairing his weapons, was passed slowly. Again the same fields, in some places black where they had been dug up, in others of a greenish hue; wet daws and crows; monotonous rain; a tearful sky, without one gleam of light! . . . It is gloomy in this world, gentlemen!

Kết quả (Việt) 1:

"Tôi không biết," ông Ivan Nikiforovitch, thở hổn hển với mệt mỏi, mặc dù nó là để được quan sát thấy rằng ông không phải ở tất cả thuyền để hòa giải một, "tôi không biết những gì tôi đã làm với Ivan Ivanovitch; "nhưng tại sao ông đã tiêu diệt coop của tôi và âm mưu chống lại cuộc sống của tôi?""Tôi vô tội của bất kỳ thiết kế ác!", ông Ivan Ivanovitch, không bao giờ nhìn vào Ivan Nikiforovitch. "Tôi thề trước Chúa và trước khi bạn, vinh noblemen, tôi đã không làm gì để kẻ thù của ta! Tại sao không ông calumniate tôi và xúc phạm xếp hạng và gia đình của tôi?""Làm thế nào có tôi xúc phạm bạn, Ivan Ivanovitch?", ông Ivan Nikiforovitch. Một thời điểm nhiều lời giải thích, và sự thù hận dài nào đã được dập tắt. Ivan Nikiforovitch là đã cảm giác trong túi của mình cho ông snuff-box, và đã là về để nói, "Làm tôi đặc ân.""Nó không phải là một sự xúc phạm," trả lời Ivan Ivanovitch, mà không cần nâng đôi mắt của mình, "khi bạn, my dear sir, xúc phạm danh dự của tôi và gia đình của tôi với một từ mà nó là không thích hợp để lặp lại ở đây?""Cho phép tôi quan sát, một cách thân thiện, Ivan Ivanovitch," ở đây Ivan Nikiforovitch xúc động Ivan Ivanovitch nút với ngón tay của mình, mà rõ ràng chỉ ra việc bố trí của tâm trí của mình, "rằng bạn đã hành vi phạm tội, deuce chỉ biết những gì, bởi vì tôi gọi cho bạn một 'ngỗng' —"Nó xảy ra với Ivan Nikiforovitch rằng ông đã thực hiện một sai lầm trong thốt ra từ đó; nhưng nó đã quá muộn: từ được nói. Tất cả mọi thứ đã đi đến những cơn gió. Nó, trên câu phát biểu của từ này mà không có nhân chứng, Ivan Ivanovitch mất quyền kiểm soát của mình và đã bay thành một niềm đam mê như Thiên Chúa giữ chúng tôi từ beholding bất cứ người nào trong, những gì đã được dự kiến bây giờ? Tôi đặt nó cho bạn, độc giả thân yêu, những gì đã được dự kiến sẽ bây giờ, khi gây tử vong từ được thốt lên trong một tổ hợp số người trong số đó là phụ nữ, có sự hiện diện Ivan Ivanovitch thích để đặc biệt là lịch sự? Nếu Ivan Nikiforovitch đã thiết lập để làm việc trong bất kỳ hình thức nào khác, nếu ông chỉ có nói chim và không ngỗng, nó có thể vẫn có được sắp xếp, nhưng tất cả đã kết thúc.Ông đã cung cấp một cái nhìn tại Ivan Nikiforovitch, nhưng một cái nhìn! Nếu cái nhìn đó có sở hữu sức mạnh hoạt động, sau đó nó đã có thể bật Ivan Nikiforovitch vào bụi. Các khách hàng hiểu giao diện và hastened để tách chúng. Và người đàn ông này, một hình mẫu của hiền, những người không bao giờ cho một người phụ nữ nghèo duy nhất đi mà không có hỏi cô ấy, đổ xô ra trong một cơn thịnh nộ sợ hãi. Cơn bão bạo lực như vậy làm sản phẩm niềm đam mê!Cho một tháng toàn bộ, không có gì đã được nghe nói của Ivan Ivanovitch. Ông đóng mình ở nhà. Ngực tổ tiên đã được mở cửa, và từ đó đã được đưa bạc Rúp, ông ngoại cũ bạc Rúp! Và các Rúp được thông qua vào tay màu mực cố vấn pháp lý. Trường hợp đã được gửi để tòa án cao hơn; và khi Ivan Ivanovitch nhận được tin vui tươi mà nó sẽ được quyết định vào morrow, sau đó chỉ ông đã tìm ra khi trên thế giới và giải quyết nổi lên từ nhà của ông. Than ôi! từ thời gian đó ra hội đồng đã thông báo ngày rằng vụ án sẽ được hoàn thành vào morrow, cho không gian của mười năm.Năm năm trước đây, tôi đi qua thị xã Mirgorod. Tôi đến tại một thời gian xấu. Đó là mùa thu, với hạt, tươi, thời tiết u sầu, bùn và sương mù. Một verdure không tự nhiên, kết quả của không ngừng mưa, được bảo hiểm với một mạng lưới chảy nước lĩnh vực và đồng cỏ, mà nó là thích hợp cũng như là pranks trẻ trung để một ông già, hay hoa hồng cho một bà già. Thời tiết thực hiện một ấn tượng sâu sắc về tôi lúc đó: khi nó đã được ngu si đần độn, tôi đã ngu si đần độn; Nhưng mặc dù vậy, khi tôi đến để vượt qua thông qua Mirgorod, trái tim của tôi đánh bại khốc liệt. Thiên Chúa, những gì reminiscences! Tôi đã không nhìn thấy Mirgorod trong hai mươi năm. Ở đây đã sống, trong chạm vào tình bạn, hai người bạn không thể tách rời. Và bao nhiêu người nổi tiếng đã chết! Thẩm phán Demyan Demyanovitch đã đi: Ivan Ivanovitch, với một mắt, có dài không còn sống.I entered the main street. All about stood poles with bundles of straw on top: some alterations were in progress. Several dwellings had been removed. The remnants of board and wattled fences projected sadly here and there. It was a festival day. I ordered my basket chaise to stop in front of the church, and entered softly that no one might turn round. To tell the truth, there was no need of this: the church was almost empty; there were very few people; it was evident that even the most pious feared the mud. The candles seemed strangely unpleasant in that gloomy, or rather sickly, light. The dim vestibule was melancholy; the long windows, with their circular panes, were bedewed with tears of rain. I retired into the vestibule, and addressing a respectable old man, with greyish hair, said, “May I inquire if Ivan Nikiforovitch is still living?”At that moment the lamp before the holy picture burned up more brightly and the light fell directly upon the face of my companion. What was my surprise, on looking more closely, to behold features with which I was acquainted! It was Ivan Nikiforovitch himself! But how he had changed!“Are you well, Ivan Nikiforovitch? How old you have grown!”“Yes, I have grown old. I have just come from Poltava to-day,” answered Ivan Nikiforovitch.“You don’t say so! you have been to Poltava in such bad weather?”“What was to be done? that lawsuit —”At this I sighed involuntarily.Ivan Nikiforovitch observed my sigh, and said, “Do not be troubled: I have reliable information that the case will be decided next week, and in my favour.”I shrugged my shoulders, and went to seek news of Ivan Ivanovitch.“Ivan Ivanovitch is here,” some one said to me, “in the choir.”I saw a gaunt form. Was that Ivan Ivanovitch? His face was covered with wrinkles, his hair was perfectly white; but the pelisse was the same as ever. After the first greetings were over, Ivan Ivanovitch, turning to me with a joyful smile which always became his funnel-shaped face, said, “Have you been told the good news?”“What news?” I inquired.“My case is to be decided to-morrow without fail: the court has announced it decisively.”I sighed more deeply than before, made haste to take my leave, for I was bound on very important business, and seated myself in my kibitka.The lean nags known in Mirgorod as post-horses started, producing with their hoofs, which were buried in a grey mass of mud, a sound very displeasing to the ear. The rain poured in torrents upon the Jew seated on the box, covered with a rug. The dampness penetrated through and through me. The gloomy barrier with a sentry-box, in which an old soldier was repairing his weapons, was passed slowly. Again the same fields, in some places black where they had been dug up, in others of a greenish hue; wet daws and crows; monotonous rain; a tearful sky, without one gleam of light! . . . It is gloomy in this world, gentlemen!