“Mihail, my son, what am I? I⁠ ⁠… am a scoundrel. I have sold your mother! Sold her for thirty pieces of silver, may the Lord punish me! Mihail Ivanitch, little sucking pig, where is your mother? Lost! Gone! Sold into slavery! Well, I am a scoundrel.”

These tears and these words turned Groholsky’s soul inside out. He would look timidly at Liza’s pale face and wring his hands.

“Go to bed, Ivan Petrovitch,” he would say timidly.

“I am going.⁠ ⁠… Come along, Mishutka.⁠ ⁠… The Lord be our judge! I cannot think of sleep while I know that my wife is a slave.⁠ ⁠… But it is not Groholsky’s fault.⁠ ⁠… The goods were mine, the money his.⁠ ⁠… Freedom for the free and Heaven for the saved.”

By day Ivan Petrovitch was no less insufferable to Groholsky. To Groholsky’s intense horror, he was always at Liza’s side. He went fishing with her, told her stories, walked with her, and even on one occasion, taking advantage of Groholsky’s having a cold, carried her off in his carriage, goodness knows where, and did not bring her back till night!

“It’s outrageous, inhuman,” thought Groholsky, biting his lips.

Groholsky liked to be continually kissing Liza. He could not exist without those honeyed kisses, and it was awkward to kiss her before Ivan Petrovitch. It was agony. The poor fellow felt forlorn, but fate soon had compassion on him. Ivan Petrovitch suddenly went off somewhere for a whole week. Visitors had come and carried him off with them⁠ ⁠… And Mishutka was taken too.

One fine morning Groholsky came home from a walk good-humoured and beaming.

“He has come,” he said to Liza, rubbing his hands. “I am very glad he has come. Ha-ha-ha!”