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Updated: June 7, 2025
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!
But here with Groholsky it was all quietness and emptiness. . . . Besides, here there was one man, and he with his ailments and his continual mawkish kisses, was like an old grandfather for ever shedding tears of joy. It was boring! Here she had not Mihey Sergeyitch who used to be fond of dancing the mazurka with her. She had not Spiridon Nikolaitch, the son of the editor of the Provincial News.
When Liza returned home from her husband's villa and went into the bedroom on tip-toe, as though nothing had happened, Groholsky, pale, with hectic flushes on his cheeks, was lying in the attitude of a man at his last gasp and moaning. On seeing Liza, he sprang out of bed, and began pacing about the bedroom. "So that's what you are like, is it?" he shrieked in a high tenor. "So that's it!
Groholsky said a great many more valiant and stinging things, but did not "go at once"; he felt timid and abashed. . . . He went to Ivan Petrovitch three days later. When he went into his apartment, he gaped with astonishment. He was amazed at the wealth and luxury with which Bugrov had surrounded himself.
"Accept this sacrifice from me," Groholsky went on, "I entreat you! You will take a load off my conscience. . . . I implore you!" My God! A smart carriage rolled along the road wet from a May shower, passed the window through which Bugrov's wet eyes were looking. The horses were fine, spirited, well-trained beasts.
Ivan Petrovitch standing on the verandah with his sleeves tucked up, lifted Isabella into the air, then Fanny, and then Liza. When he was lifting Liza it seemed to Groholsky that he pressed her to himself. . . . Liza too flung one leg over the parapet. . . . Oh these women! All sphinxes, every one of them!
The sun hid behind the tumuli, the air began to lose its dryness and limpidity, and still the furniture was being driven up and hauled into the house. At last it was so dark that Groholsky left off reading the newspaper while Liza still gazed and gazed. "Shouldn't we light the lamp?" said Groholsky, afraid that a fly might drop into his milk and be swallowed in the darkness.
At last, a fortnight later, little Father Pyotr walked for the last time round the villas and, to Groholsky's immense relief, departed. He had enjoyed himself, and went off very well satisfied. Liza and Groholsky fell back into their old manner of life. Groholsky once more blessed his fate. But his happiness did not last for long. A new trouble worse than Father Pyotr followed.
Groholsky pondered. He knew who it was she expected, who it was she wanted. "Let us go home, Liza," he said, "it is damp here. . . ." "You go; I'll come directly." Groholsky pondered again. "You are expecting him?" he asked, and made a wry face as though his heart had been gripped with red-hot pincers. "Yes. . . . I want to give him the socks for Misha. . . ." "He will not come."
The shadows wandered about from morning till evening, and made the summer visitors feel dismal. . . . After Liza's shadow invariably walked the shadow of Groholsky. . . . I call them shadows because they had both lost their natural appearance.
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