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Groholsky was not troubled by these visits, especially as they were brief and infrequent, and were apparently paid on account of Mishutka, who could not under any circumstances have been altogether deprived of the privilege of seeing his mother. Bugrov came, unpacked his presents, and after saying a few words, departed.
Fil-thy woman!" Bugrov seized her by the elbow, shook her, and flung her like an indiarubber ball towards the window. . . . "Wretched, vulgar woman! you have no shame!" She flew towards the window, hardly touching the floor with her feet, and caught at the curtains with her hands. "Hold your tongue," shouted her husband, going up to her with flashing eyes and stamping his foot.
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. . . ."
He clutched several branches of the lilac that he might not stagger and fall down. All was over! Bugrov had his arm round Liza's waist, and was saying to her: "My darling! what are we to do? It seems it was God's will. . . . I am a scoundrel. . . . I sold you. I was seduced by that Herod's money, plague take him, and what good have I had from the money? Nothing but anxiety and display!
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. . . ."
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!
Dreariness, ill . . . my chest is bad, and my stomach is bad." Bugrov ceased speaking, and then it was Liza's turn. . . . My God, the cruelty of that woman! She began weeping, complaining, enumerating all the defects of her lover and her own sufferings. Groholsky as he listened to her, felt that he was a villain, a miscreant, a murderer. "He makes me miserable. . . ." Liza said in conclusion.
When Bugrov saw him he moved away from his wife and began looking out of the other window. Groholsky flew up to him, and waving his arms and breathing heavily and looking at no one, he began in a shaking voice: "Ivan Petrovitch! Let us leave off keeping up this farce with one another! We have deceived each other long enough! It's too much! I cannot stand it. You must do as you like, but I cannot!
Groholsky jumped up, put on his hat, and staggering backwards, ran out of the drawing-room. Bugrov clutched the window curtains more tightly than ever. . . . He was ashamed . . . . There was a nasty, stupid feeling in his soul, but, on the other hand, what fair shining hopes swarmed between his throbbing temples! He was rich!
Bugrov went up to his wife and drew the curtain out of her hands. "Don't stand by the window, people will see you blubbering. . . . Don't let it happen again. You'll go from embracing to worse trouble. You'll come to grief. Do you suppose I like to be made a fool of?
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