The tavern-keeper turned purple and muttered: "How do we know? How do we know?" But Kleshtchkov pointed out to him firmly: "Again I tell you this is singing, not a cock-fight." "I know that! Why do you keep harping on it?" "I am not harping on it; I am simply pointing out something to you. If a song is nothing but a diversion, it comes from the devil!" "All right! You'd better sing again." "I can always sing, even in my sleep," agreed Kleshtchkov, and carefully clearing his throat he began to sing. And all nonsense, trashy talk, and ambitions vanished into smoke as by a miracle; the refreshing streams of a different life, reflective, pure, full of love and sadness, flowed over us all. I envied that man, envied intensely his talent and his power over people. The way he took advantage of this power was so wonderful! I wanted to make the acquaintance of the harness-maker, to hold a long conversation with him, but I could not summon up courage to go to him. Kleshtchkov had such a strange way of looking at everybody with his pale eyes, as if he could not see any one in front of him. But there was something about him which offended me and prevented me from liking him; and I wanted to like him for himself, not only when he was singing. It was unpleasant to see him pull his cap over his head, like an old man, and swathe his neck, just for show, in that red, knitted scarf of which he said: "My little one knitted this; my only little girl." When he was not singing he pouted importantly, rubbed his dead, frozen nose with his fingers, and answered questions in monosyllables, and unwillingly. When I approached him and asked him something, he looked at me and said: "Go away, lad!" I much preferred the chorister, Mitropolski. When he appeared in the tavern, he would walk into his corner with the gait of a man carrying a heavy load, move a chair away with the toe of his boot, and sit down with his elbows on the table, resting his large shaggy head on his hands. After he had drunk two or three glasses in silence, he would utter a resounding cry. Every one would start and look towards him, but with his chin in his hands he gazed at them defiantly, his mane of unbrushed hair wildly surrounding his puffy, sallow face. "What are you looking at? What do you see?" he would ask with sudden passion. Sometimes they replied: "We are looking at a werwolf." There were evenings on which he drank in silence, and in silence departed, heavily dragging his feet. Several times I heard him denounce people, playing the prophet: