An Inquiry

Anton Chekhov

IT was midday. Voldyrev, a tall, thick-set country gentleman with a cropped head and

prominent eyes, took off his overcoat, mopped his brow with his silk handkerchief, and

somewhat diffidently went into the government office. There they were scratching

away. . . .

"Where can I make an inquiry here?" he said, addressing a porter who was bringing a

trayful of glasses from the furthest recesses of the office. "I have to make an inquiry here

and to take a copy of a resolution of the Council."

"That way please! To that one sitting near the window!" said the porter, indicating with the

"May I make an inquiry about my case here . . . of you? My name is Voldyrev. and, by the

way, I have to take a copy of the resolution of the Council of the second of March."

The clerk dipped his pen in the ink and looked to see if he had got too much on it. Having

satisfied himself that the pen would not make a blot, he began scribbling away. His lip was

thrust out, but it was no longer necessary to blow: the fly had settled on his ear.

"Can I make an inquiry here?" Voldyrev repeated a minute later, "my name is Voldyrev, I

am a landowner. . . ."

"Ivan Alexeitch!" the clerk shouted into the air as though he had not observed Voldyrev,

"will you tell the merchant Yalikov when he comes to sign the copy of the complaint

lodged with the police! I've told him a thousand times!"

before the clerk. The clerk wrinkled up his forehead, drew the book towards him with an

anxious air and closed it.

"A little inquiry. . . . I want only to find out on what grounds the heirs of Princess Gugulin. .

. . May I trouble you?"

The clerk, absorbed in his own thoughts, got up and, scratching his elbow, went to a

cupboard for something. Returning a minute later to his table he became absorbed in the

book again: another rouble note was lying upon it.

"I will trouble you for one minute only. . . . I have only to make an inquiry.

The clerk did not hear, he had begun copying something.

Voldyrev frowned and looked hopelessly at the whole scribbling brotherhood.

"They write!" he thought, sighing. "They write, the devil take them entirely!"

He walked away from the table and stopped in the middle of the room, his hands hanging

hopelessly at his sides. The porter, passing again with glasses, probably noticed the helpless

expression of his face, for he went close up to him and asked him in a low voice:

The clerk drew the book towards him again and began turning over the leaves, and all at

once, as though by chance, lifted his eyes to Voldyrev. His nose began to shine, turned red,

and wrinkled up in a grin.

"Ah . . . what do you want?" he asked.

"I want to make an inquiry in reference to my case. . . . My name is Voldyrev."

"With pleasure! The Gugulin case, isn't it? Very good. What is it then exactly?"

Voldyrev explained his business.

The clerk became as lively as though he were whirled round by a hurricane. He gave the

necessary information, arranged for a copy to be made, gave the petitioner a chair, and all in

one instant. He even spoke about the weather and asked after the harvest. And when

"Well, what people!" thought the country gentleman as he went out into the street, and he

stopped and mopped his brow with his handkerchief.

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