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.⁠ ⁠…”