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."
The tavern-keeper turned purple and muttered: "How do we know? How do we know?"
But Kleshtchkov pointed out to him firmly: