Prishibeyev, a shrivelled little sergeant with a crabbed face, squares his shoulders and answers in a stifled, croaky voice, clipping his words as though on the parade ground:
'Your Honour MrJustice ofthe Peace-sir! What it says in the law is: every statement can be mutually contested. I'm not guilty - it's them lot. This all came about because of a dead corpse, God rest his soul. I was walking along on the 3rd - quiet and respectable like — with my wife Anfisa, when suddenly I spy this mob ofvaried persons standing on the river-bank. "What perfect right has that mob got to be assembled there?" I ask myself. "What do they think they're up to? Where's it written down that common folk can go around in droves?" So I shout, "Hey, you lot - disperse!" I started shoving them, to get them to go indoors, I ordered the constable to lay into them, and —'
just one moment. You're not a police officer or elder: is it your business to be breaking up crowds?'
'No, it ain't! It ain't!' voices cry from different corners of the courtroom. 'He's the bane ofour lives, yeronner! Fifteen years we've put up with him! Ever since he gave up work and came back here the village ain't been worth living in. He's driving us mad!'
'It's quite true, yeronner,' says the elder who is one of the witnes- ses. 'The whole village complains of him. He's impossible to live with. Whether we're taking the icons round the village, or there's a wedding, or some do on, say, he's out there shouting at us, kicking up a row and calling for order. He goes about pulling the kids' ears, he spies on our womenfolk to see they're not up to something, like he was their own father-in-law . .. The other day he went round the huts ordering everyone to stop singing and put all their lights out. "There's no law permitting you to sing songs," he says.'
'All right, you'll have time to give evidence later,' says the magis- trate.' At the moment let's hear what else Prishibeyev has to say. Go on, Prishibeyev.'
'Yessir!' croaks the sergeant. 'You were pleased to observe, your Honour, that it's not my business to be breaking up crowds ... Very g^^, sir ... But what if there's a disturbance? We can't allow them to run riot, can we? Where's it written down that the lower orders can do what they like? I can't let them get away with that, sir. And ifl don't tell them to break up, and give them what for, who will? No one round here knows what proper discipline is, you might say I'm the only one, your Honour, as knows how to deal with the lower orders, and, your Honour, I know what I'm talking about. I'm not a peasant, I'm a non-commissioned officer, a Q.M.S. retired, I served in Warsaw as a staff-sergeant, sir, after I got an honourable discharge I worked in the fire-brigade, sir, then I had to give up the fire-brigade by virtue of health and worked for the next two years as janitor in an independent classical school for young gentlemen . .. So I know all about discipline, sir. But a peasant's just a simple fellow, he doesn't know any better, so he must do what I tell him — 'cause it's for his own good. Take this business, for example. I break up the crowd and there lying in the sand on the river-bank is the drownded corpse of a dead man. On what possible grounds can he be lying there, I ask myself. Do you call that law and order? Why's the officer just standing there? "Hey, officer," I say, "why aren't you informing your superiors? Maybe this drownded corpse drowned himself, or maybe it smacks of Siberia — maybe it's a case of criminal homicide .. .'' But officer Zappsky doesn't give a damn, he just goes on smoking his cigarene. "Who's this bloke giving orders?" he says. "Is he one of yours? Where'd he spring from? Does he think we don't know what to do without his advice?" he says. "Well you can't do, can you, dimwit," says I, "if you're just standing there and don't give a damn.'' "I informed the inspector yesterday," he says. "Why the inspector?" I ask him. "According to which article of the code? In cases like this, of people being drowned or strangulated and suchlike and so forth, what can the inspector do? It's a capital offence," I says, "a case for the courts . .. You'd better send a dispatch to his Honour the examining magistrate and the justices straightaway," I says. "And first of all," I says, "you must draw up a iocument and send it to his Honour the Justice of the Peace." But the officer, he just listens to me and laughs. And the peasants the same. They were all laughing, your Honour. I'M testify to that on oath. That one there laughed - and this one - and Zappsky, he laughed too. "What are you all grinning at?" I says. Then the officer says: "Such maners," he says, "are nothing to do with the J.P." Well, the blood rushed to my head when I heard him say that. That is what you said, isn't it, officer?' the sergeant asks, turning to Zappsky.
'That's what I said.'
'Everyone heard you say them words, for all the common people to hear. "Such matters are nothing to do with the J.P." - everyone heard you say them words ... Well, the blood rushed to my head, your Honour, I went quite weak at the knees. "Repeat to me," says I, "repeat, you . .. so-and-so, what you just said!" He comes out with them same words again . .. I goes up to him. "How dare you say such things," says I, "about his Honour the Justice ofthe Peace? A police officer and you're against authority - eh? Do you know," I says, "that if he likes, his Honour thejustice ofthe Peace can have you sent to the provincial gendarmerie for saying them words and proving unreliable? Do you realise," says I, "where his Honour thejustice of the Peace can pack you offto for political words like that?" Then the elder buns in: "The J.P.," he says, "can't deal with anything outside his powers. He only handles minor cases.'' That's what he said, everyone heard him ... "How dare you," says I, "belittle authority? Oon't you come that game with me, son," I says, "or you'll find yourselfin hot water." When I was in Warsaw, or when I was janitor at the independent classical school for young gentlemen, soon as I heard any words as shouldn't be said I'd look out on the street for a gendarme and shout, "Step in here a minute, will you, soldier?" — and repon it all to him. But who can you tell things to out here in the country? . . . It made me wild. It really got me, to think of the common people of today indulging in licence and insubordination like that, so I let fly and - not hard of course, just lightly like, just proper, so's he wouldn't dare say such things about your Honour again . .. The officer sided with the elder. So I gave the officer one, too . .. And that's how it staned ... I got worked up, your Honour. But you can't get anywhere without a few clouts, can you? If you don't clout a stupid man, it's a sin on your own head. Especially if there's good reason for it - ifhe's been causing a disturbance . ..'
'But there are other people appointed to keep public order! That's what the officer, the elder and the constable are there for -'
'Ah, but the officer can't keep an eye on everybody, and he don't
understand wh.it I do . . .'
'Well understand now that it's none of your business!'
'Not my business, .sir? How do you make that out?That's queer . .. People behave improperly and it's none of my business? Whatam I supposed to do - cheer them on ? Thcy've just been complaining to you that I won't let them sing songs . . . And what good is there in songs, I'd like to know ? Instead ofgetting on with something useful, they sing songs . . . Then they've got a new craze for sitting up late with a light burning. They ought to be in bed asleep, but all you hear is laughing and talking. I've got it all written down!'
'You've got what written down?'
'Who sits up burmng a light.'
Prishibeyev takes a greasy slip of paper from his pocket, puts his spectacles on, and reads:
'Peasants what sit up burning a light: Ivan Prokhorov, Savva Mikiforov, Pyotr Pctrov. The soldier's widow Shustrova is living in illicit union with Semyon Kislov. Ignat Sverchok dabbles in black magic, and his wife Mavra is a witch, she goes around at night milking other people's cows.'