Act 2 — AT THE POLICE INSPECTOR’S.

By GORBOUNÒV.

PERSONS.

The Police Inspector.

Grigòriev, his servant.

A Shopkeeper.

Ivàn Anàniev, a factory hand.

Time: morning. The Inspector sits in his office reading documents.

Inspector (reads). “Therefore, the Moscow Administration of Public Order——” Grigòriev!

Grigòriev. What is it, yer honour?

65Inspector. Tell the cook to do me a herring with apple sauce.

Grigòriev. Yes, yer honour.

Inspector (reads). “To make all proper investigations——” (Enter the Shopkeeper.) Who’s that?

Shopkeeper. It’s only me, little father.

Inspector. And who are you?

Shopkeeper. An inhabitant of the town.

Inspector. What do you want?

Shopkeeper. I came, little father, to humbly beg a favour of you.

Inspector. Well, what now?

Shopkeeper. It’s an odd business, little father.

Inspector. Odd? What sort of business?

Shopkeeper. Well, you see, it’s this way—don’t be angry, your honour, just take three silver roubles for your household expenses.

Inspector. Sit down, please.

Shopkeeper. Oh, I can stand, your honour; ... I don’t mind standing.

Inspector. What’s your business?

Shopkeeper. Your honour is aware that I have a ’ouse in your district, with a wooden fence....

Inspector. Yes.

Shopkeeper. Well, in that ’ouse I’ve got a factory—a weaving factory.

Inspector. Well?

Shopkeeper. Well, you see, sir——

Inspector. Sit down, sit down....

Shopkeeper. Don’t trouble.... Well, on Saturday I was in the town, and I was kept a bit late. Well, I tore off home as hard as my legs would carry me—There! I thought, my wife’ll be waiting—family matters, you know—and the tea’ll all be kept about——

Inspector. Yes, yes, family matters....

66Shopkeeper. Well, there’s a hand in my factory—Ivàn Anàniev——

Inspector. Well? I suppose he got drunk, or made a row, or something?

Shopkeeper. It’s worse than that, sir—I’d ’ave put up with that—he’s stolen my cutter.

Inspector. What’s a cutter?

Shopkeeper. Why, you see, sir, it’s a sort of thing, ... for the stuff like that we weave, you know, in our line of business....

Inspector. Ah! I understand.

Shopkeeper. So I said to him: “Ivàn Anàniev, you come with me to the Police Inspector.” And what d’you think he said? “I don’t care for your Inspector,” says he!

Inspector. What’s that!—Grigòriev!...

Shopkeeper. So I said to him: “What d’you mean?” I says; “why, any gentleman can hit you over the head if he likes, and you can’t do anything—let alone, his honour the Inspector,” says I.

Inspector. Grigòriev!

Shopkeeper. You see, your honour, people like us can’t pass over things of that sort, ’cause why?—we should just lose all our capital....

Inspector. Gri—gòriev!

Shopkeeper. And I do say, sir, that for us the Inspector ... it’s like this, you see, ... as if——

(Enter Grigòriev.)

Grigòriev. What is it, yer honour?

Inspector. Blockhead!

Grigòriev. At your honour’s service.

Inspector. Fetch Ivàn Anàniev here.

Grigòriev (opening the door). Kondràtiev! Where’s Ivàn Anàniev? Dost thou know who it is? Fetch him to the master.... Ivàn Ana—à—aniev!

67(Enter Ivàn Anàniev.)

Inspector. What is your name?

Ivàn Anàniev. Ha’nt got none; time to die soon.

Inspector. What do you say?

Ivàn Anàniev. Don’t know nothin’.

Inspector. Take him to the lock-up.

Ivàn Anàniev. Koùzma Petròvich ’as jes’ made it all up agin me, ’cause I wouldn’t mix up in any o’ his fine tricks.

Inspector. Take him away.

Grigòriev. Kondràtiev!...

Shopkeeper. Thank you very much, sir. Nothing more to be done, I suppose?

Inspector. Just step into the other office and write out a formal statement.

Shopkeeper. Certainly, sir. (Exit.)

Inspector. Grigòriev!

Grigòriev. What is it, your honour?

Inspector. Give me my uniform.

Grigòriev. Why, your honour, ’tis all mucky and spotty.

Inspector. What!

Grigòriev. I don’t know nothing about it!

Inspector. Can the spots be taken out?

Grigòriev. Oh ay, your honour.

Inspector. How?

Grigòriev. I don’t know.

Inspector. I think with turpentine?

Grigòriev. And I think with turpentine.

Inspector. Only I’m afraid it’ll smell.

Grigòriev. ’Twill stink, your honour.

Inspector. I don’t know, though—perhaps it won’t.

Grigòriev. Of course it won’t, your honour! (Brings back the uniform.) ’Tis ready, your honour.

Inspector. What?

Grigòriev. Nothin’.

68Inspector. Does it smell?

Grigòriev. ’T stinks, your honour.

Inspector. Badly?

Grigòriev. Terrible bad, your honour.

Inspector. I don’t know—it’s nothing to hurt, I think; one can’t smell it.

Grigòriev. Of course one can’t. Let me hold it, sir; there you be!

69