Here he would stop, and resting his back against the bar, bending backwards, went on, with his face raised toward the ceiling: "Ekh! where--where am I going? Where shall I find the broad ro-oad?" His voice was small like himself, but it was unwearied; he permeated the dark, dull room of the tavern with silvery chords, melancholy words. His groans and cries conquered every one; even the drunken ones became amazedly surprised, gazing down in silence at the tables in front of them. As for me, my heart was torn, and overflowed with those mighty feelings which good music always arouses as it miraculously touches the very depths of the soul. It was as quiet in the tavern as in a church, and the singer seemed like a good priest, who did not preach, but with all his soul, and honestly, prayed for the whole human family, thinking aloud, as it were, of all the grievous calamities which beset human life. Bearded men gazed upon him; childlike eyes blinked in fierce, wild faces; at moments some one sighed, and this seemed to emphasize the triumphant power of the music. At such times it always seemed to me that the lives led by most people were unreal and meaningless, and that the reality of life lay here. In the corner sat the fat-faced old-clothes dealer, Luissukha, a repulsive female, a shameless, loose woman. She hid her head on her fat shoulder and wept, furtively wiping the tears from her bold eyes. Not far from her sat the gloomy chorister, Mitropolski, a hirsute young fellow who looked like a degraded deacon, with great eyes set in his drunken face. He gazed into the glass of vodka placed before him, took it up, and raised it to his mouth, and then set it down again on the table, carefully and noiselessly. For some reason he could not drink. And all the people in the tavern seemed to be glued to their places, as if they were listening to something long forgotten, but once dear and near to them. When Kleshtchkov, having finished his song, modestly sank down in the chair, the tavern-keeper, giving him a glass of wine, would say with a smile of satisfaction: "Well, that was very good, sure! Although you can hardly be said to sing, so much as to recite! However, you are a master of it, whatever they say! No one could say otherwise." Kleshtchkov, drinking his vodka without haste, coughed carefully and said quietly: "Any one can sing if he has a voice, but to show what kind of soul the song contains is only given to me." "Well, you need n't boast, anyhow." "He who has nothing to boast about, does not boast," said the singer as quietly but more firmly than before. "You are conceited, Kleshtchkov!" exclaimed the host, annoyed. "One can't be more conceited than one's conscience allows." And from the corner the gloomy Mitropolski roared: "What do you know about the singing of this fallen angel, you worms, you dirt!"