This year I happened to be passing through Groholyovka, Bugrov’s estate.  I found the master and the mistress of the house having supper. . . .  Ivan Petrovitch was highly delighted to see me, and fell to pressing good things upon me. . . .  He had grown rather stout, and his face was a trifle puffy, though it was still rosy and looked sleek and well-nourished. . . .  He was not bald.  Liza, too, had grown fatter.  Plumpness did not suit her.  Her face was beginning to lose the kittenish look, and was, alas! more suggestive of the seal.  Her cheeks were spreading upwards, outwards, and to both sides.  The Bugrovs were living in first-rate style.  They had plenty of everything.  The house was overflowing with servants and edibles. . . .

When we had finished supper we got into conversation.  Forgetting that Liza did not play, I asked her to play us something on the piano.

“She does not play,” said Bugrov; “she is no musician. . . .  Hey, you there!  Ivan! call Grigory Vassilyevitch here!  What’s he doing there?” And turning to me, Bugrov added, “Our musician will come directly; he plays the guitar.  We keep the piano for Mishutka—­ we are having him taught. . . .”

Five minutes later, Groholsky walked into the room—­sleepy, unkempt, and unshaven. . . .  He walked in, bowed to me, and sat down on one side.

“Why, whoever goes to bed so early?” said Bugrov, addressing him.  “What a fellow you are really!  He’s always asleep, always asleep . . .  The sleepy head!  Come, play us something lively. . . .”

Groholsky turned the guitar, touched the strings, and began singing: 

          “Yesterday I waited for my dear one. . . .”

I listened to the singing, looked at Bugrov’s well-fed countenance, and thought:  “Nasty brute!” I felt like crying. . . .  When he had finished singing, Groholsky bowed to us, and went out.

“And what am I to do with him?” Bugrov said when he had gone away.  “I do have trouble with him!  In the day he is always brooding and brooding. . . .  And at night he moans. . . .  He sleeps, but he sighs and moans in his sleep. . . .  It is a sort of illness. . . .  What am I to do with him, I can’t think!  He won’t let us sleep. . . .  I am afraid that he will go out of his mind.  People think he is badly treated here. . . .  In what way is he badly treated?  He eats with us, and he drinks with us. . . .  Only we won’t give him money.  If we were to give him any he would spend it on drink or waste it . . . .  That’s another trouble for me!  Lord forgive me, a sinner!”

They made me stay the night.  When I woke next morning, Bugrov was giving some one a lecture in the adjoining room. . . .

“Set a fool to say his prayers, and he will crack his skull on the floor!  Why, who paints oars green!  Do think, blockhead!  Use your sense!  Why don’t you speak?”

“I . . .  I . . . made a mistake,” said a husky tenor apologetically.