Endlessly the dancers swung round and round—­when they were dizzy they swung the other way.  Hour after hour this had continued—­the darkness had fallen and the room was dim from the light of two smoky oil lamps.  The musicians had spent all their fine frenzy by now, and played only one tune, wearily, ploddingly.  There were twenty bars or so of it, and when they came to the end they began again.  Once every ten minutes or so they would fail to begin again, but instead would sink back exhausted; a circumstance which invariably brought on a painful and terrifying scene, that made the fat policeman stir uneasily in his sleeping place behind the door.

It was all Marija Berczynskas.  Marija was one of those hungry souls who cling with desperation to the skirts of the retreating muse.  All day long she had been in a state of wonderful exaltation; and now it was leaving—­and she would not let it go.  Her soul cried out in the words of Faust, “Stay, thou art fair!” Whether it was by beer, or by shouting, or by music, or by motion, she meant that it should not go.  And she would go back to the chase of it—­and no sooner be fairly started than her chariot would be thrown off the track, so to speak, by the stupidity of those thrice accursed musicians.  Each time, Marija would emit a howl and fly at them, shaking her fists in their faces, stamping upon the floor, purple and incoherent with rage.  In vain the frightened Tamoszius would attempt to speak, to plead the limitations of the flesh; in vain would the puffing and breathless ponas Jokubas insist, in vain would Teta Elzbieta implore.  “Szalin!” Marija would scream.  “Palauk! isz kelio!  What are you paid for, children of hell?” And so, in sheer terror, the orchestra would strike up again, and Marija would return to her place and take up her task.

She bore all the burden of the festivities now.  Ona was kept up by her excitement, but all of the women and most of the men were tired—­the soul of Marija was alone unconquered.  She drove on the dancers—­what had once been the ring had now the shape of a pear, with Marija at the stem, pulling one way and pushing the other, shouting, stamping, singing, a very volcano of energy.  Now and then some one coming in or out would leave the door open, and the night air was chill; Marija as she passed would stretch out her foot and kick the doorknob, and slam would go the door!  Once this procedure was the cause of a calamity of which Sebastijonas Szedvilas was the hapless victim.  Little Sebastijonas, aged three, had been wandering about oblivious to all things, holding turned up over his mouth a bottle of liquid known as “pop,” pink-colored, ice-cold, and delicious.  Passing through the doorway the door smote him full, and the shriek which followed brought the dancing to a halt.  Marija, who threatened horrid murder a hundred times a day, and would weep over the injury of a fly, seized little Sebastijonas in her arms and bid fair to smother him with kisses.  There was a long rest for the orchestra, and plenty of refreshments, while Marija was making her peace with her victim, seating him upon the bar, and standing beside him and holding to his lips a foaming schooner of beer.