RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Whoever grumbles, I think, offends against God, Agraféna
Kondrátyevna. This is the way it happened—
AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. What are your front names, my dear sir? I keep forgetting.
RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Sysóy Psoich, my dear Agraféna Kondrátyevna.
USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. What does Psoich mean, my jewel? What lingo is that[1]?
[Footnote 1: The name lends itself to the interpretation, "son of a dog (pes).">[
RISPOLÓZHENSKY. I can't tell you positively: they called my father
Psoy—well, naturally, that makes me Psoich.
USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. But, Psoich, like that, Psoich! However, that's nothing; there are worse, my jewel.
AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Well, Sysóy Psoich, what was it you were going to tell us?
RISPOLÓZHENSKY. Well, it was like this, my dear Agraféna Kondrátyevna: it isn't as if it were a proverb, in a kind of fable, but a real occurrence. I'll just take a thimbleful, Agraféna Kondrátyevna. [Drinks.
AGRAFÉNA KONDRÁTYEVNA. Help yourself, my dear sir, help yourself.