“I have a friend called Samorodov.  A peculiar man.  He is by rank an honorary citizen, and he can talk.  But I know him through and through, auntie, and he feels it.  Pray join me in drinking to the health of Samorodov, auntie!”

Varvara, worn out and distracted, walked round the table pressing the guests to eat, and was evidently pleased that there were so many dishes and that everything was so lavish—­no one could disparage them now.  The sun set, but the dinner went on:  the guests were beyond knowing what they were eating or drinking, it was impossible to distinguish what was said, and only from time to time when the band subsided some peasant woman could be heard shouting: 

“They have sucked the blood out of us, the Herods; a pest on them!”

In the evening they danced to the band.  The Hrymin Juniors came, bringing their wine, and one of them, when dancing a quadrille, held a bottle in each hand and a wineglass in his mouth, and that made everyone laugh.  In the middle of the quadrille they suddenly crooked their knees and danced in a squatting position; Aksinya in green flew by like a flash, stirring up a wind with her train.  Someone trod on her flounce and Crutch shouted: 

“Aie, they have torn off the panel!  Children!”

Aksinya had naive grey eyes which rarely blinked, and a naive smile played continually on her face.  And in those unblinking eyes, and in that little head on the long neck, and in her slenderness there was something snake-like; all in green but for the yellow on her bosom, she looked with a smile on her face as a viper looks out of the young rye in the spring at the passers-by, stretching itself and lifting its head.  The Hrymins were free in their behaviour to her, and it was very noticeable that she was on intimate terms with the elder of them.  But her deaf husband saw nothing, he did not look at her; he sat with his legs crossed and ate nuts, cracking them so loudly that it sounded like pistol shots.

But, behold, old Tsybukin himself walked into the middle of the room and waved his handkerchief as a sign that he, too, wanted to dance the Russian dance, and all over the house and from the crowd in the yard rose a roar of approbation: 

“He’s going to dance! He himself!”

Varvara danced, but the old man only waved his handkerchief and kicked up his heels, but the people in the yard, propped against one another, peeping in at the windows, were in raptures, and for the moment forgave him everything—­his wealth and the wrongs he had done them.

“Well done, Grigory Petrovitch!” was heard in the crowd.  “That’s right, do your best!  You can still play your part!  Ha-ha!”

It was kept up till late, till two o’clock in the morning.  Anisim, staggering, went to take leave of the singers and bandsmen, and gave each of them a new half-rouble.  His father, who was not staggering but still seemed to be standing on one leg, saw his guests off, and said to each of them: