“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 the side whiskers.