"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!"
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."