lows. And suddenly, changing the
tempo of the song and striking a higher pitch, she began to sing, as
slowly as her sister, voluptuous and exultant threats:

"Drier than the raging wind, Drier than the mown-down grass, Oi, the
mown and dried-up grass."

Resting his elbows on the table, Foma bent his head, and with knitted
brow, gazed into the face of the woman, into her black, half-shut eyes
Staring fixedly into the distance, her eyes flashed so brightly and
malignantly that, because of their light, the velvety voice, that burst
from the woman's chest, seemed to him also black and flashing, like her
eyes. He recalled her caresses and thought:

"How does she come to be such as she is? It is even fearful to be with
her."

Ookhtishchev, sitting close to his lady, an expression of happiness on
his face, listened to the song and was radiant with satisfaction. The
gentleman with the side whiskers and Zvantzev were drinking wine, softly
whispering something as they leaned toward each other. The red-headed
woman was thoughtfully examining the palm of Ookhtishchev's hand,
holding it in her own, and the jolly girl became sad. She drooped her
head low and listened to the song, motionless, as though bewitched
by it. From the fire came the peasant. He stepped carefully over the
boards, on tiptoe; his hands were clasped behind his back, and his
broad, bearded face was now transformed into a smile of astonishment and
of a naive delight.

"Eh! but feel, my kind, brave man!"

entreated Vassa, plaintively, nodding her head. And her sister, her
chest bent forward, her hand still higher, wound up the song in powerful
triumphant notes:

"The yearning and the pangs of love!"

When she finished singing, she looked haughtily about her, and seating
herself by Foma's side, clasped his neck with a firm and powerful hand.

"Well, was it a nice song?"

"It's capital!" said Foma with a sigh, as he smiled at her.

The song filled his heart with thirst for tenderness and, still full
of charming sounds, it quivered, but at the touch of her arm he felt
awkward and ashamed before the other people.

"Bravo-o! Bravo, Aleksandra Sarelyevna!" shouted Ookhtishchev, and the
others were clapping their hands. But she paid no attention to them, and
embracing Foma authoritatively, said:

"Well, make me a present of something for the song."

"Very well, I will," Foma assented.

"What?"

"You tell me."

"I'll tell you when we come to town. And