adows than living
people. . . . Both were pining away like fleas in the classic
anecdote of the Jew who sold insect powder.

At the beginning of July, Liza ran away from Groholsky, leaving a
note in which she wrote that she was going for a time to "her son"
. . . For a time! She ran away by night when Groholsky was asleep
. . . . After reading her letter Groholsky spent a whole week wandering
round about the villa as though he were mad, and neither ate nor
slept. In August, he had an attack of recurrent fever, and in
September he went abroad. There he took to drink. . . . He hoped
in drink and dissipation to find comfort. . . . He squandered all
his fortune, but did not succeed, poor fellow, in driving out of
his brain the image of the beloved woman with the kittenish face
. . . . Men do not die of happiness, nor do they die of misery.
Groholsky's hair went grey, but he did not die: he is alive to this
day. . . . He came back from abroad to have "just a peep" at Liza
. . . . Bugrov met him with open arms, and made him stay for an
indefinite period. He is staying with Bugrov to this day.

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?"