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 someone 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.

The tenor belonged to Groholsky.

Groholsky saw me to the station.

“He is a despot, a tyrant,” he kept whispering to me all the way. “He is a generous man, but a tyrant! Neither heart nor brain are developed in him.⁠ ⁠… He tortures me! If it were not for that noble woman, I should have gone away long ago. I am sorry to leave her. It’s somehow easier to endure together.”

Groholsky heaved a sigh, and went on:

“She is with child.⁠ ⁠… You notice it? It is really my child.⁠ ⁠… Mine.⁠ ⁠… She soon saw her mistake, and gave herself to me again. She cannot endure him.⁠ ⁠…”