And so here is the epic conclusion to:
Knopka (The Button): A Recently Unearthed True Story written by Nikolai Gogol, told by the Beadle of the ------ Church (Translated from the Russian by Ian Buksunski)
“Vanya! Friend!” Ivan Khomanovich shouted out jubilantly over the crowd, “I have come to pick up my majestic overcoat!”
“Oh how wonderfully impressed our most respectable Ivan Khomanovich will be with Vanya’s workmanship on his most regal of overcoats. Vanya, show Ivan Khomanovich what we have done,” Vasilisa Shponka called out, quickly trying to associate herself as closely as possible to Vanya and his newfound fame.
“Oh, but certainly,” Vanya said retrieving that most sensational of overcoats, “I spent especially long making sure it would be perfect for you, Ivan Khomanovich.” And with that Vanya gave Ivan Khomanovich his most spectacular overcoat.
“Hmm, why yes, yes this is quite well done indeed,” Ivan Khomanovich ever so mildly exclaimed, careful to hide his excitement as the showings of emotional intensity are not fit for a man as prestigious as Ivan Khomanovich. “This stitching will serve most adequately and I’ll be sure to stay away from that accursed sign post - may the devil take it! - from now on. But this mending, this shall certainly work why-” and here Ivan Khomanovich paused. And why, you may be asking yourself, dear reader, did our upstanding Ivan Khomanovich pause so abruptly in such a manner unbecoming to his most admirable perfection? Well you see, it was at that moment, that Ivan Khomanovich noticed something utterly horrific! The top button - that top, most wonderful of gold buttons - that button all the world saw most prominently when Ivan Khomanovich walked into the room - that button that unequivocally showed the world and all who inhabit it what an astounding man our dear Ivan Khomanovich was - was missing! And here our wonderful Ivan Khomanovich arrived at an impasse, for, you see, though he proclaimed the buttons to be from the capital, and though he proclaimed the buttons to be gold, they were in fact simply painted golden, bought only a few towns over. Well, even a man as magnificent as Ivan Khomanovich can tell a small fib on the rarest of occasions - so rare in fact that were anybody to know of but one such fib the shock may have sent them to an early grave. And so Ivan Khomanovich, knowing that he could not afford to buy a replacement gold button and knowing furthermore that were he to buy another button and paint it golden all the town would know that he had not bought an actual gold button, in all his compassion for those around him, wanting to spare our frail townsfolk from the distress of finding out he had told the most innocent, inconsequential - and why worry them over something so inconsequential? - of white lies, stood there pondering the most tactful and diplomatic of ways to solve this ever so delicate problem.
“Thief!” Ivan Khomanovich shouted at the top of his lungs. “Scoundrel! Thief! Tailor Vanya has swindled me of my gold button! Come everyone, look! My beautiful gold button, that you all admire so, my gift from the Prince himself, it has been stolen! Even the rotten Jews from whom I except such things have never dared con me like this - even they have the most miniscule sense of decency! But this, this most worthless of men, does not fear the wrath of our Lord for such a heinous crime! Fellow townspeople, you have known me long, I do not lie, help me retrieve what is mine from this savage brute!”
“What?” Vanya said with shock and fear, “what are you talking about? The button was right there - the button was right there the whole time!”
“Then where is it now?” Vasilisa Shponka screamed, “I always knew you were a worthless pig! Now give our great Ivan Khomanovich back his glorious gold button, you louse!”
And so the townspeople advanced upon Vanya.
“But all that I have done, all that I have made! Look at my finery, look at my goods! I have the hands of an angel! Why do you no longer revere them?”
“Liar!” “Scammer!” “Shameless, worthless, son of a mule!” the townspeople continued to shout as they further closed in on Vanya.
“You know me to be just! You know me to be good! Get the bastard who stole my button! Let him feel the holy justice for his sins!” our venerable Ivan Khomanovich exclaimed, so wholly committed was he to sparing the townspeople from any grief or suffering over his smallest of lies.
And as the people finally closed in around him, the fervent demands for the button becoming stronger and stronger, why by then Vanya could not stand it any longer and, collapsing on the floor, immediately died.
When the people had regained their composure, our inhumanly humane Ivan Khomanovich said, with a warmth in his voice and heart that could melt away all the ice and snow of our most brutal winters, “This man deserves a proper burial.” And, with the help of a few others, proceeded to lift up the body to move to a temporary storage place.
But, just as they lifted the body, Ivan Khomanovich saw something glitter on the ground right beneath where the body had fallen. Letting go of Vanya, who proceeded in the most tactless of fashions to fall back down on the floor, Ivan Khomanovich gracefully fell on his knees and there he discovered his missing golden button.
“That despicable rat!” he shrieked and with the most satisfying of smirks - so relieved was he that he could spare everyone else the distraught of finding out that most tangential and unnecessary of truths - showed everybody that he had found his button. And oh what a wonderful time it was for all in J----l! The excitement of this discovery so great, that nobody even noticed as that most vile of men from before, slipped out the door.
And so things returned to normal in J----l. The town found a new tailor who sewed back on Ivan Khomanovich’s fantastic golden button, Vanya was buried and forgotten, Lizaveta continued to lick people’s spoons (though less successfully by the day as people grew wise to her spoon-licking ways), and our commendable Ivan Khomanovich continued to stroll the town in his beautiful overcoat, with its brilliant gold buttons, receiving all the honor and respect a man as infallible as he deserves.
Oh, but what a world, we live in! What a cruel and crazy world, where temptation hides around every corner! Where in the shadows lurk men most cruel and vile! Where our townsfolk can be mesmerized and lead to the devil simply through attractive wears! Is this the kind of world, dear reader, you believe we should live in? I dare even say this is not the kind of world a writer should ever transcribe to page - even in the most awful recesses of fictional writing! And shame on all of those who do write about such things - those people are not worth but the fingernail of a true man! And yet, just as our great Ivan Khomanovich, I cannot lie. No! I could never lie to you because, though it hurts me more than you could ever imagine to say this, we do live in such a world. Such things happen in this world - and often at that! All we can do is look towards our great men - look towards your own Ivan Khomanovich, if you are blessed enough to know one - and try to live our lives with but one, one-hundredth of the virtue they do! Why just yesterday, an unspeakable tragedy befell our Ivan Khomanovich. As he walked down the street he clipped his coat on that awful signpost and, without his noticing, off popped his glorious golden button. But look! See with what dignity he continues to walk, thinking never of himself - only of others! And plotting, mercifully plotting, just who he could (rightfully!) blame so as to spare the people sorrow, pain, and heartbreak. What a man! What a man!
Knopka (The Button): A Recently Unearthed True Story written by Nikolai Gogol, told by the Beadle of the ------ Church (Translated from the Russian by Ian Buksunski)
“Vanya! Friend!” Ivan Khomanovich shouted out jubilantly over the crowd, “I have come to pick up my majestic overcoat!”
“Oh how wonderfully impressed our most respectable Ivan Khomanovich will be with Vanya’s workmanship on his most regal of overcoats. Vanya, show Ivan Khomanovich what we have done,” Vasilisa Shponka called out, quickly trying to associate herself as closely as possible to Vanya and his newfound fame.
“Oh, but certainly,” Vanya said retrieving that most sensational of overcoats, “I spent especially long making sure it would be perfect for you, Ivan Khomanovich.” And with that Vanya gave Ivan Khomanovich his most spectacular overcoat.
“Hmm, why yes, yes this is quite well done indeed,” Ivan Khomanovich ever so mildly exclaimed, careful to hide his excitement as the showings of emotional intensity are not fit for a man as prestigious as Ivan Khomanovich. “This stitching will serve most adequately and I’ll be sure to stay away from that accursed sign post - may the devil take it! - from now on. But this mending, this shall certainly work why-” and here Ivan Khomanovich paused. And why, you may be asking yourself, dear reader, did our upstanding Ivan Khomanovich pause so abruptly in such a manner unbecoming to his most admirable perfection? Well you see, it was at that moment, that Ivan Khomanovich noticed something utterly horrific! The top button - that top, most wonderful of gold buttons - that button all the world saw most prominently when Ivan Khomanovich walked into the room - that button that unequivocally showed the world and all who inhabit it what an astounding man our dear Ivan Khomanovich was - was missing! And here our wonderful Ivan Khomanovich arrived at an impasse, for, you see, though he proclaimed the buttons to be from the capital, and though he proclaimed the buttons to be gold, they were in fact simply painted golden, bought only a few towns over. Well, even a man as magnificent as Ivan Khomanovich can tell a small fib on the rarest of occasions - so rare in fact that were anybody to know of but one such fib the shock may have sent them to an early grave. And so Ivan Khomanovich, knowing that he could not afford to buy a replacement gold button and knowing furthermore that were he to buy another button and paint it golden all the town would know that he had not bought an actual gold button, in all his compassion for those around him, wanting to spare our frail townsfolk from the distress of finding out he had told the most innocent, inconsequential - and why worry them over something so inconsequential? - of white lies, stood there pondering the most tactful and diplomatic of ways to solve this ever so delicate problem.
“Thief!” Ivan Khomanovich shouted at the top of his lungs. “Scoundrel! Thief! Tailor Vanya has swindled me of my gold button! Come everyone, look! My beautiful gold button, that you all admire so, my gift from the Prince himself, it has been stolen! Even the rotten Jews from whom I except such things have never dared con me like this - even they have the most miniscule sense of decency! But this, this most worthless of men, does not fear the wrath of our Lord for such a heinous crime! Fellow townspeople, you have known me long, I do not lie, help me retrieve what is mine from this savage brute!”
“What?” Vanya said with shock and fear, “what are you talking about? The button was right there - the button was right there the whole time!”
“Then where is it now?” Vasilisa Shponka screamed, “I always knew you were a worthless pig! Now give our great Ivan Khomanovich back his glorious gold button, you louse!”
And so the townspeople advanced upon Vanya.
“But all that I have done, all that I have made! Look at my finery, look at my goods! I have the hands of an angel! Why do you no longer revere them?”
“Liar!” “Scammer!” “Shameless, worthless, son of a mule!” the townspeople continued to shout as they further closed in on Vanya.
“You know me to be just! You know me to be good! Get the bastard who stole my button! Let him feel the holy justice for his sins!” our venerable Ivan Khomanovich exclaimed, so wholly committed was he to sparing the townspeople from any grief or suffering over his smallest of lies.
And as the people finally closed in around him, the fervent demands for the button becoming stronger and stronger, why by then Vanya could not stand it any longer and, collapsing on the floor, immediately died.
When the people had regained their composure, our inhumanly humane Ivan Khomanovich said, with a warmth in his voice and heart that could melt away all the ice and snow of our most brutal winters, “This man deserves a proper burial.” And, with the help of a few others, proceeded to lift up the body to move to a temporary storage place.
But, just as they lifted the body, Ivan Khomanovich saw something glitter on the ground right beneath where the body had fallen. Letting go of Vanya, who proceeded in the most tactless of fashions to fall back down on the floor, Ivan Khomanovich gracefully fell on his knees and there he discovered his missing golden button.
“That despicable rat!” he shrieked and with the most satisfying of smirks - so relieved was he that he could spare everyone else the distraught of finding out that most tangential and unnecessary of truths - showed everybody that he had found his button. And oh what a wonderful time it was for all in J----l! The excitement of this discovery so great, that nobody even noticed as that most vile of men from before, slipped out the door.
And so things returned to normal in J----l. The town found a new tailor who sewed back on Ivan Khomanovich’s fantastic golden button, Vanya was buried and forgotten, Lizaveta continued to lick people’s spoons (though less successfully by the day as people grew wise to her spoon-licking ways), and our commendable Ivan Khomanovich continued to stroll the town in his beautiful overcoat, with its brilliant gold buttons, receiving all the honor and respect a man as infallible as he deserves.
Oh, but what a world, we live in! What a cruel and crazy world, where temptation hides around every corner! Where in the shadows lurk men most cruel and vile! Where our townsfolk can be mesmerized and lead to the devil simply through attractive wears! Is this the kind of world, dear reader, you believe we should live in? I dare even say this is not the kind of world a writer should ever transcribe to page - even in the most awful recesses of fictional writing! And shame on all of those who do write about such things - those people are not worth but the fingernail of a true man! And yet, just as our great Ivan Khomanovich, I cannot lie. No! I could never lie to you because, though it hurts me more than you could ever imagine to say this, we do live in such a world. Such things happen in this world - and often at that! All we can do is look towards our great men - look towards your own Ivan Khomanovich, if you are blessed enough to know one - and try to live our lives with but one, one-hundredth of the virtue they do! Why just yesterday, an unspeakable tragedy befell our Ivan Khomanovich. As he walked down the street he clipped his coat on that awful signpost and, without his noticing, off popped his glorious golden button. But look! See with what dignity he continues to walk, thinking never of himself - only of others! And plotting, mercifully plotting, just who he could (rightfully!) blame so as to spare the people sorrow, pain, and heartbreak. What a man! What a man!
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