Before the feast has been five minutes under way, Tamoszius Kuszleika has risen in his excitement; a minute or two more and you see that he is beginning to edge over toward the tables.  His nostrils are dilated and his breath comes fast—­his demons are driving him.  He nods and shakes his head at his companions, jerking at them with his violin, until at last the long form of the second violinist also rises up.  In the end all three of them begin advancing, step by step, upon the banqueters, Valentinavyczia, he cellist, bumping along with his instrument between notes.  Finally all three are gathered at the foot of the tables, and there Tamoszius mounts upon a stool.

Now he is in his glory, dominating the scene.  Some of the people are eating, some are laughing and talking—­but you will make a great mistake if you think there is one of them who does not hear him.  His notes are never true, and his fiddle buzzes on the low ones and squeaks and scratches on the high; but these things they heed no more than they heed the dirt and noise and squalor about them—­it is out of this material that they have to build their lives, with it that they have to utter their souls.  And this is their utterance; merry and boisterous, or mournful and wailing, or passionate and rebellious, this music is their music, music of home.  It stretches out its arms to them, they have only to give themselves up.  Chicago and its saloons and its slums fade away—­there are green meadows and sunlit rivers, mighty forests and snowclad hills.  They behold home landscapes and childhood scenes returning; old loves and friendships begin to waken, old joys and griefs to laugh and weep.  Some fall back and close their eyes, some beat upon the table.  Now and then one leaps up with a cry and calls for this song or that; and then the fire leaps brighter in Tamoszius’ eyes, and he flings up his fiddle and shouts to his companions, and away they go in mad career.  The company takes up the choruses, and men and women cry out like all possessed; some leap to their feet and stamp upon the floor, lifting their glasses and pledging each other.  Before long it occurs to some one to demand an old wedding song, which celebrates the beauty of the bride and the joys of love.  In the excitement of this masterpiece Tamoszius Kuszleika begins to edge in between the tables, making his way toward the head, where sits the bride.  There is not a foot of space between the chairs of the guests, and Tamoszius is so short that he pokes them with his bow whenever he reaches over for the low notes; but still he presses in, and insists relentlessly that his companions must follow.  During their progress, needless to say, the sounds of the cello are pretty well extinguished; but at last the three are at the head, and Tamoszius takes his station at the right hand of the bride and begins to pour out his soul in melting strains.