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.

RISPOLÓZHENSKY. [_Sits down_] There was an old man, a venerable old
man--Here, I've forgotten where it was, my dear madam--only it was in some
desert spot. He had twelve daughters, my dear madam; each younger than the
other! He didn't have the strength to work himself; his wife, too, was very
old, the children were still small; and one has to eat and drink. What they