He always opposed every one, argued with every one, brought accusations against every one; and almost every Sunday he was cruelly punished for this by one of the singers, or whoever else had a mind for the business. The tavern-keeper loved Kleshtchkov's singing, but he could not endure the singer. He used to complain about him, and obviously sought occasions to humiliate him and to make him ridiculous. This fact was known to the frequenters of the tavern and to Kleshtchkov himself. "He is a good singer, but he is proud; he wants taking down," he said, and several guests agreed with him. "That's true; he's a conceited fellow!" "What's he got to be conceited about? His voice? That comes from God; he has nothing to do with it! And he hasn't a very powerful voice, has he?" the tavern-keeper persisted. His audience agreed with him. "True, it is not so much his voice as his intelligence." One day after the singer had refreshed himself and gone away, the tavern-keeper tried to persuade Luissukha. "Why don't you amuse yourself with Kleshtchkov for a bit, Marie Evdokimova; you'd shake him up, wouldn't you? What would you want for it?" "If I were younger," she said with a laugh. The tavern-keeper cried loudly and warmly: "What can the young ones do? But you--you will get hold of him! We shall see him dancing round you! When he is bowed down by grief he will be able to sing, won't he? Take him in hand, Evdokimova, and do me a favor, will you?" But she would not do it. Large and fat, she lowered her eyes and played with the fringe of the handkerchief which covered her bosom, as she said in a monotonous, lazy drawl: "It's a young person that is needed here. If I were younger, well, I would not think twice about it." Almost every night the tavern-keeper tried to make Kleshtchkov drunk, but the latter, after two or three songs and a glassful after each, would carefully wrap up his throat with a knitted scarf, draw his cap well over his tufted head, and depart. The tavern-keeper often tried to find a rival for Kleshtchkov. The harness-maker would sing a song and then the host, after praising him, would say: "Here is another singer. Come along now, show what you can do!" Sometimes the singer had a good voice, but I do not remember an occasion on which any of Kleshtchkov's rivals sang so simply and soulfully as that little conceited harness-maker. "M--yes," said the tavern-keeper, not without regret, "it's good, certainly! The chief thing is that it is a voice, but there's no soul in it." The guests teased him: "No, you can't better the harness-maker, you see!" And Kleshtchkov, looking at them all from under his red, tufted eyebrows, said to the tavern-keeper calmly and politely: "You waste your time. You will never find a singer with my gifts to set up in opposition to me; my gift is from God." "We are all from God!" "You may ruin yourself by the drink you give, but you 'll never find one."