"What will they give here?" asked Olga.
"Chorus singing, tight-rope dancing, and all sorts of similar nonsense."
They decided to go home. On the way Olga asked Klimkov:
"Have you ever been in prison?"
"Yes," he answered, but in an instant added, "Not for long."
They took the tramway to their place of destination. Yevsey found himself in a little room with blue paper on the walls. It was close and stifling, now merry, now gloomy. Makarov played the guitar and sang songs which Yevsey had never before heard. Yakov boldly discussed everything in the world, laughing at the rich and swearing at the officials. Then he danced, filling the whole room with the tread of his feet and the cries and the whistling that accompany the dances. The guitar tinkled the measure of the dance, and Makarov encouraged Yakov with popular sayings and shouts.
"Go ahead, Yasha! Heigho! Who with merriment is blessed, Frightens sorrow from his breast."
Olga looked on serenely and contentedly.
"Good, isn't it?" she asked Klimkov occasionally, smiling at him.
Drunk with a quiet joy unknown to him Klimkov smiled in response. He forgot about himself, and felt the obstinate pricks within him only rarely, for a few seconds at a time. Before his consciousness was able to transform them into clear thought, they disappeared, without recalling his life to him.