never leaving the
village. Besides which he had had something to drink at the betrothal.

He came to Olenin quite drunk: his face red, his beard tangled, but
wearing a new beshmet trimmed with gold braid; and he brought with him
a balalayka which he had obtained beyond the river. He had long
promised Olenin this treat, and felt in the mood for it, so that he was
sorry to find Olenin writing.

'Write on, write on, my lad,' he whispered, as if he thought that a
spirit sat between him and the paper and must not be frightened away,
and he softly and silently sat down on the floor. When Daddy Eroshka
was drunk his favourite position was on the floor. Olenin looked round,
ordered some wine to be brought, and continued to write. Eroshka found
it dull to drink by himself and he wished to talk.

'I've been to the betrothal at the cornet's. But there! They're
shwine!--Don't want them!--Have come to you.'

'And where did you get your balalayka asked Olenin, still writing.

'I've been beyond the river and got it there, brother mine,' he
answered, also very quietly. 'I'm a master at it. Tartar or Cossack,
squire or soldiers' songs, any kind you please.'

Olenin looked at him again, smiled, and went on writing.

That smile emboldened the old man.

'Come, leave off, my lad, leave off!' he said with sudden firmness.

'Well, perhaps I will.'

'Come, people have injured you but leave them alone, spit at them!
Come, what's the use of writing and writing, what's the good?'

And he tried to mimic Olenin by tapping the floor with his thick
fingers, and then twisted his big face to express contempt.

'What's the good of writing quibbles. Better have a spree and show
you're a man!'

No other conception of writing found place in his head except that of
legal chicanery.

Olenin burst out laughing and so did Eroshka. Then, jumping up from the
floor, the latter began to show off his skill on the balalayka and to
sing Tartar songs.

'Why write, my good fellow! You'd better listen to what I'll sing to
you. When you're dead you won't hear any more songs. Make merry now!'

First he sang a song of his own composing accompanied by a dance:

'Ah, dee, dee, dee, dee, dee, dim, Say where did they last see him? In
a booth, at the fair, He was selling pins, there.'

Then he sang a song he had learnt from his former sergeant-major:

'Deep I fell in love on Monday, Tuesday nothing did but sigh, Wednesday
I popped the question, Thursday w