The aged mother of the woman to whom the count’s daughter was carrying a gift of a new kerchief was at home, and bestowed some smacking kisses in thanks.  The old woman even ran after us to discharge another volley of gratitude on the young countess’s pretty cheeks.

In the evening we set out once more for the village, to see the choral dances and hear the songs with which the peasants celebrate their holidays.  A dozen or so of small peasant girls, pupils of the count’s daughter, who had invited themselves to swing on the Giant Steps on the lawn opposite the count’s study windows, abandoned their amusement and accompanied us down the avenue, fairly howling an endless song in shrill voices that went through one’s nerves.

As we emerged from the shadows of the avenue and proceeded up the broad, grassy village street to the place of assembly, the children dispersed.  A crowd was collected at a fairly level spot ready for the dancing.  All wore their gayest clothes.  The full moon, with brilliant Jupiter close beside her, furnished an ideally picturesque light, and displayed the scene to the greatest advantage.  Low gray cottages framed the whole.

It was a grand occasion.  One of the count’s sons had brought his violin, his cousin had a balalaika, a triangular peasant guitar, and one of the lackeys had his harmonica, to play for the dancing.  The young men sat on a rough improvised bench; the servant stood beside them.  The peasants seemed shy.  They hesitated and argued a good deal over beginning each song.  Finally they joined hands and circled slowly to the tones of the generally monotonous airs.  Some of the melodies were lively and pleasing, but the Great Russian peasant woman’s voice is undeniably shrill.  The dancing, when some bold peasant ventured to enter the circle, after much urging and pushing, was far tamer and more unvarying than I had seen elsewhere.  We felt very grateful to our maid, Tatiana, for stepping forward with spirit and giving us a touch of the genuine thing.

Alas! the fruits of Tatiana’s civilization were but too visible in her gown of yellow print flounced to the waist and with a tight-fitting bodice.  The peasant costume suits the dance far better.  Her partner was unworthy of her, and did not perform the squat-and-leap step in proper form.  She needed Fomitch, the butler, who had been obliged to stay at home and serve tea; to his regret, no doubt, since we were informed that “he danced as though he had ten devils in his body.”  As we saw no prospect of any devils at all,—­and they are very necessary for the proper dash in Russian dancing,—­we strolled home, past the pond where the women were wont to wash their clothes, and up the dark avenue.  Perhaps the requisite demons arrived after our departure.  It was a characteristic scene, and one not readily to be forgotten.