An Inquiry

"An Inquiry" is a thought-provoking short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, exploring themes of bureaucracy, responsibility, and the nature of truth. The narrative revolves around an investigation into a tragic event, highlighting the often absurd and convoluted processes of authority. Chekhov's sharp wit and keen observation of human behavior shed light on the complexities of moral dilemmas and the often elusive nature of justice, ultimately prompting readers to reflect on the implications of societal structures in determining individual actions.

								
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 tray the furthest window. Voldyrev coughed and went
towards the window; there, at a green table spotted like typhus, was
sitting a young man with his hair standing up in four tufts on his head,
with a long pimply nose, and a long faded uniform. He was writing,
thrusting his long nose into the papers. A fly was walking about near
his right nostril, and he was continually stretching out his lower lip
and blowing under his nose, which gave his face an extremely care-worn
expression.

"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!"

"I have come in reference to my lawsuit with the heirs of Princess
Gugulin," muttered Voldyrev. "The case is well known. I earnestly beg
you to attend to me."

Still failing to observe Voldyrev, the clerk caught the fly on his lip,
looked at it attentively and flung it away. The country gentleman
coughed and blew his nose loudly on his checked pocket handkerchief. But
this was no use either. He was still unheard. The silence lasted for two
minutes. Voldyrev took a rouble note from his pocket and laid it on an
open book 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:

"Well? Have you inquired?"

"I've inquired, but he wouldn't speak to me."

"You give him three roubles," whispered the porter.

"I've given him two already."

"Give him another."

Voldyrev went back to the table and laid a green note on the open book.

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 Voldyrev went
away he accompanied him down the stairs, smiling affably and
respectfully, and looking as though he were ready any minute to fall on
his face before the gentleman. Voldyrev for some reason felt
uncomfortable, and in obedience to some inward impulse he took a rouble
out of his pocket and gave it to the clerk. And the latter kept bowing
and smiling, and took the rouble like a conjuror, so that it seemed to
flash through the air.

"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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