this masterpiece
Tamoszius Kuszleika begins to edge in between the tables, making his
way toward the head, where sits the bride. There is not a foot of space
between the chairs of the guests, and Tamoszius is so short that he
pokes them with his bow whenever he reaches over for the low notes; but
still he presses in, and insists relentlessly that his companions must
follow. During their progress, needless to say, the sounds of the cello
are pretty well extinguished; but at last the three are at the head, and
Tamoszius takes his station at the right hand of the bride and begins to
pour out his soul in melting strains.

Little Ona is too excited to eat. Once in a while she tastes a little
something, when Cousin Marija pinches her elbow and reminds her; but,
for the most part, she sits gazing with the same fearful eyes of wonder.
Teta Elzbieta is all in a flutter, like a hummingbird; her sisters,
too, keep running up behind her, whispering, breathless. But Ona seems
scarcely to hear them--the music keeps calling, and the far-off look
comes back, and she sits with her hands pressed together over her heart.
Then the tears begin to come into her eyes; and as she is ashamed to
wipe them away, and ashamed to let them run down her cheeks, she turns
and shakes her head a little, and then flushes red when she sees that
Jurgis is watching her. When in the end Tamoszius Kuszleika has reached
her side, and is waving his magic wand above her, Ona's cheeks are
scarlet, and she looks as if she would have to get up and run away.

In this crisis, however, she is saved by Marija Berczynskas, whom
the muses suddenly visit. Marija is fond of a song, a song of lovers'
parting; she wishes to hear it, and, as the musicians do not know it,
she has risen, and is proceeding to teach them. Marija is short, but
powerful in build. She works in a canning factory, and all day long she
handles cans of beef that weigh fourteen pounds. She has a broad
Slavic face, with prominent red cheeks. When she opens her mouth, it
is tragical, but you cannot help thinking of a horse. She wears a blue
flannel shirt-waist, which is now rolled up at the sleeves, disclosing
her brawny arms; she has a carving fork in her hand, with which she
pounds on the table to mark the time. As she roars her song, in a voice
of which it is enough to say that it leaves no portion of the room
vacant, the three musicians follow her, laboriously and note by note,
but averaging one note