windows came loud sounds of talk. As soon as Foma
appeared in the hall, he was seized by the arms and led away to the
table and there was urged to drink and eat something. A marketplace
noise smote the air; the hall was crowded and suffocating. Silently,
Foma drank a glass of vodka, then another, and a third. Around him they
were munching and smacking their lips; the vodka poured out from the
bottles was gurgling, the wine-glasses were tinkling. They were speaking
of dried sturgeon and of the bass of the soloist of the bishop's choir,
and then again of the dried sturgeon, and then they said that the mayor
also wished to make a speech, but did not venture to do so after the
bishop had spoken, fearing lest he should not speak so well as the
bishop. Someone was telling with feeling:

"The deceased one used to do thus: he would cut off a slice of salmon,
pepper it thickly, cover it with another slice of salmon, and then send
it down immediately after a drink."

"Let us follow his example," roared a thick basso. Offended to the
quick, Foma looked with a frown at the fat lips and at the jaws chewing
the tasty food, and he felt like crying out and driving away all these
people, whose sedateness had but lately inspired him with respect for
them.

"You had better be more kind, more sociable," said Mayakin in a low
voice, coming up to him.

"Why are they gobbling here? Is this a tavern?" cried Foma, angrily.

"Hush," Mayakin remarked with fright and hastily turned to look around
with a kind smile on his face.

But it was too late; his smile was of no avail. Foma's words had been
overheard, the noise and the talk was subsiding, some of the guests
began to bustle about hurriedly, others, offended, frowned, put down
their forks and knives and walked away from the table, all looking at
Foma askance.

Silent and angry, he met these glances without lowering his eyes.

"I ask you to come up to the table!" cried Mayakin, gleaming amid the
crowd of people like an ember amid ashes. "Be seated, pray! They're soon
serving pancakes."

Foma shrugged his shoulders and walked off toward the door, saying
aloud:

"I shall not eat."

He heard a hostile rumbling behind him and his godfather's wheedling
voice saying to somebody:

"It's for grief. Ignat was at once father and mother to him."

Foma came out in the garden and sat down on the same place where his
father had died. The feeling of loneliness and grief oppressed his
heart.