ring. He dimly saw Sasha's black eyes; immobile and flashing
gloomily, they seemed to him enormous and still growing larger and
larger. And it seemed to him that it was not two persons who were
singing--that everything about him was singing and sobbing, quivering
and palpitating in torrents of sorrow, madly striving somewhere,
shedding burning tears, and all--and all things living seemed clasped in
one powerful embrace of despair. And it seemed to him that he, too, was
singing in unison with all of them--with the people, the river and the
distant shore, whence came plaintive moans that mingled with the song.

Now the peasant went down on his knees, and gazing at Sasha, waved his
hands, and she bent down toward him and shook her head, keeping time
to the motions of his hands. Both were now singing without words, with
sounds only, and Foma still could not believe that only two voices were
pouring into the air these moans and sobs with such mighty power.

When they had finished singing, Foma, trembling with excitement, with a
tear-stained face, gazed at them and smiled sadly.

"Well, did it move you?" asked Sasha. Pale with fatigue, she breathed
quickly and heavily.

Foma glanced at the peasant. The latter was wiping the sweat off his
brow and looking around him with such a wandering look as though he
could not make out what had taken place.

All was silence. All were motionless and speechless.

"Oh Lord!" sighed Foma, rising to his feet. "Eh, Sasha! Peasant! Who are
you?" he almost shouted.

"I am--Stepan," said the peasant, smiling confusedly, and also rose to
his feet. "I'm Stepan. Of course!"

"How you sing! Ah!" Foma exclaimed in astonishment, uneasily shifting
from foot to foot.

"Eh, your Honour!" sighed the peasant and added softly and convincingly:
"Sorrow can compel an ox to sing like a nightingale. And what makes
the lady sing like this, only God knows. And she sings, with all her
veins--that is to say, so you might just lie down and die with sorrow!
Well, that's a lady."

"That was sung very well!" said Ookhtishchev in a drunken voice.

"No, the devil knows what this is!" Zvantzev suddenly shouted, almost
crying, irritated as he jumped up from the table. "I've come out here
for a good time. I want to enjoy myself, and here they perform a funeral
service for me! What an outrage! I can't stand this any longer. I'm
going away!"

"Jean, I am also going. I'm weary, too," announced the gentleman with
t