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Updated: June 7, 2025
Of medium size, not large, but graceful. . . . A gentleman in a top hat was sitting in the chaise, a child about three, apparently a boy, was sitting on his knees waving his little hands. . . . He was waving his little hands and shouting with delight. Liza suddenly uttered a shriek, rose from her seat and lurched forward. "What is the matter?" asked Groholsky.
"My goodness, what riches!" thought Liza, remembering her old pony which Groholsky, who did not care for riding, had bought her for a hundred roubles. Compared with those swan-like steeds, her pony seemed to her no better than a bug. Groholsky, who was afraid of riding fast, had purposely bought Liza a poor horse. "What wealth!" Liza thought and murmured as she gazed at the noisy carriers.
I have a child to bring up. . . . Well, thank God that you will buy my furniture. . . . That will be a little more in hand, or I should have been regularly bankrupt. . . ." Groholsky got up, took leave of Bugrov, and went home rejoicing. In the evening he sent him ten thousand roubles. Early next morning Bugrov and Mishutka were already at Feodosia. Several months had passed; spring had come.
Groholsky who was spoilt by women, and who had been in love and out of love hundreds of times in his life, saw her as a beauty. He loved her, and blind love finds ideal beauty everywhere. "I say," he said, looking straight into her eyes, "I have come to talk to you, my precious.
"Go in, Liza, go in," Groholsky whispered. "I said we must have dinner indoors! What a girl you are, really. . . ." Bugrov stared and stared, and suddenly began shouting. Groholsky looked at him and saw a face full of astonishment. . . . "Is that you ?" bawled Ivan Petrovitch, "you! Are you here too?"
It's hateful and mean, it's revolting! Do you understand that it is revolting?" Groholsky spluttered and gasped for breath. "It's against my principles. And you are an honest man. I love her! I love her more than anything on earth! You have noticed it and . . . it's my duty to say this!" "What am I to say to him?" Ivan Petrovitch wondered. "We must make an end of it.
Groholsky had seen many rich men in his day, but he had never seen such frenzied luxury. . . . And the higgledy-piggledy muddle he saw when, with an inexplicable tremor, he walked into the drawing-room plates with bits of bread on them were lying about on the grand piano, a glass was standing on a chair, under the table there was a basket with a filthy rag in it. . . . Nut shells were strewn about in the windows.
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!
The doors of the hall, of the dining-room, of the parlour, and of the drawing-room all slammed, and Groholsky flew into the drawing-room like a whirlwind. He was pale and trembling. He was flourishing his arms and crushing his expensive hat in his hands. His coat fluttered upon him as though it were on a peg. He was the incarnation of acute fever.
"He does love me. Very much." "There's another complication! One does not know where to begin. To conceal it from him is base, telling him would kill him. . . . Goodness knows what's one to do. Well, how is it to be?" Groholsky pondered. His pale face wore a frown. "Let us go on always as we are now," said Liza. "Let him find out for himself, if he wants to."
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