The sun had already gone off the courtyard, in which there still reigned a dull twilight; a mingled smell of oil-paint, of tar, of sauerkraut and of rotting vegetable matter hung heavy on the sultry evening air. From the windows of the two-storied dwelling there came a sound of song and of oaths, which rang through the court, whilst a drunken man thrust an inquiring head out of a window from behind a corner, looked across at Orloff, and then disappeared with a mocking laugh. The time came for the painters to leave their work; they passed by Orloff, throwing mocking glances at him, winking meaningly at one another, and filled the courtyard with the sounds of their Kostroma dialect Then they separated--each going his own way, the one to the bath, the other to the vodka-shop. Later on, the tailors came down from the second storey into the courtyard; half-dressed, bow-legged fellows who were making merry over the dialect of their painter comrades. The whole court was once more filled with noise, jovial laughter and jokes. Orloff sat silent in his corner, taking no notice of any one. No one went near him, no one dared to joke with him, for all knew that at these moments he was like a raging animal. Completely swayed by his dark desperate mood, which seemed to weigh on his breast and oppress his breathing, he sat there as if rooted to the spot. From time to time his nostrils swelled and his lips parted, showing two rows of big yellow teeth. A dark indescribable feeling of anguish seemed to hold him inexorably; red spots swam before his eyes. A sense of utter melancholy took possession of him, and to this was added a burning thirst for vodka. He knew that he would feel more lighthearted when he had had something to drink, but he was ashamed while it was still light to show his torn and ragged condition in the street, where every one knew him personally as Grigori Orloff the cobbler. He had a feeling of his own dignity, and would not expose himself as a butt for general mirth. But neither could he go home to wash and dress himself,--for there, lying bleeding on the ground, was his wife whom he had greviously ill-used, and whom, at any price, he must not look on at present. There, no doubt, she is lying groaning, and he feels that she is a martyr, and that he has been a thousand times guilty towards her. All this he realizes quite clearly and distinctly. He knows well that where she is concerned he has much to blame himself, and this consideration increases even more the hatred which he feels towards her. A vague but dominating feeling of anger gnaws his soul, prevailing over every other feeling, whilst an inconsolable melancholy overwhelms his inmost being, and he gives way consciously to the dull heavy misery which has taken possession of him, but against which he knows no other remedy than--a pint of vodka....