Overturning the chairs, jostling the tables, thus causing the dishes and the bottles to rattle and fall, the merchants, agitated, delighted, some with tears in their eyes, rushed toward Mayakin with goblets in their hands.
"Ah! Do you understand what has been said here?" asked Kononov, grasping Robustov by the shoulder and shaking him. "Understand it! That was a great speech!""Yakov Tarasovich! Come, let me embrace you!""Let's toss, Mayakin!
"Strike up the band."
"Sound a flourish! A march. 'The Persian March."'
"We don't want any music! The devil take it!""Here is the music! Eh, Yakov Tarasovich! What a mind!""I was small among my brethren, but I was favoured with understanding.""You lie, Trofim!"
"Yakov! you'll die soon. Oh, what a pity! Words can't express how sorry we are!""But what a funeral that is going to be!"
"Gentlemen! Let us establish a Mayakin fund! I put up a thousand!""Silence! Hold on!"
"Gentlemen!" Yakov Tarasovich began to speak again, quivering in every limb. "And, furthermore, we are the foremost men in life and the real masters in our fatherland because we are--peasants!'
"Corr-rect!"
"That's right! Dear mother! That's an old man for you!""Hold on! Let him finish."
"We are primitive Russian people, and everything that comes from us is truly Russian! Consequently it is the most genuine, the most useful and obligatory.""As true as two and two make four!"
"It's so simple."
"He is as wise as a serpent!"
"And as meek as a--"
"As a hawk. Ha, ha, ha!"
The merchants encircled their orator in a close ring, they looked at him with their oily eyes, and were so agitated that they could no longer listen to his words calmly. Around him a tumult of voices smote the air, and mingling with the noise of the engine, and the beating of the wheels upon the water, it formed a whirlwind of sounds which drowned the jarring voice of the old man. The excitement of the merchants was growing more and more intense; all faces were radiant with triumph; hands holding out goblets were outstretched toward Mayakin; the merchants clapped him on the shoulder, jostled him, kissed him, gazed with emotion into his face. And some screamed ecstatically:
"The kamarinsky. The national dance!"
"We have accomplished all that!" cried Yakov Tarasovich, pointing at the river. "It is all ours! We have built up life!"Suddenly rang out a loud exclamation which drowned all sounds:
"Ah! So you have done it? Ah, you."
And immediately after this, a vulgar oath resounded through the air, pronounced distinctly with great rancour, in a dull but powerful voice. Everyone heard it and became silent for a moment, searching with their eyes the man who had abused them. At this moment nothing was heard save the deep sighs of the engines and the clanking of the rudder chains.
"Who's snarling there?" asked Kononov with a frown.
"We can't get along without scandals!" said Reznikov, with a contrite sigh.
"Who was swearing here at random?"
The faces of the merchants mirrored alarm, curiosity, astonishment, reproach, and all the people began to bustle about stupidly. Only Yakov Tarasovich alone was calm and seemed even satisfied with what had occurred. Rising on tiptoe, with his neck outstretched, he stared somewhere toward the end of the table, and his eyes flashed strangely, as though he saw there something which was pleasing to him.
"Gordyeeff" said Yona Yushkov, softly.
And all heads were turned toward the direction in which Yakov Tarasovich was staring.
There, with his hands resting on the table, stood Foma. His face distorted with wrath, his teeth firmly set together, he silently surveyed the merchants with his burning, wide-open eyes. His lower jaw was trembling, his shoulders were quivering, and the fingers of his hands, firmly clutching the edge of the table, were nervously scratching the tablecloth. At the sight of his wolf-like, angry face and his wrathful pose, the merchants again became silent for a moment.
"What are you gaping at?" asked Foma, and again accompanied his question with a violent oath.
"He's drunk!" said Bobrov, with a shake of the head.
"And why was he invited?" whispered Reznikov, softly.
"Foma Ignatyevich!" said Kononov, sedately, "you mustn't create any scandals. If your head is reeling--go, my dear boy, quietly and peacefully into the cabin and lie down! Lie down, and--""Silence, you!" roared Foma, and turned his eye at him. "Do not dare to speak to me! I am not drunk. I am soberer than any one of you here! Do you understand?""But wait awhile, my boy. Who invited you here?" asked Kononov, reddening with offence.
"I brought him!" rang out Mayakin's voice.
"Ah! Well, then, of course. Excuse me, Foma Ignatyevich. But as you brought him, Yakov, you ought to subdue him. Otherwise it's no good."Foma maintained silence and smiled. And the merchants, too, were silent, as they looked at him.
"Eh, Fomka!" began Mayakin. "Again you disgrace my old age.""Godfather!" said Foma, showing his teeth, "I have not done anything as yet, so it is rather early to read me a lecture. I am not drunk, I have drunk nothing, but I have heard everything.
Gentlemen merchants! Permit me to make a speech! My godfather, whom you respect so much, has spoken. Now listen to his godson.""What--speeches?" said Reznikov. "Why have any discourses? We have come together to enjoy ourselves.""Come, you had better drop that, Foma Ignatyevich.""Better drink something."
"Let's have a drink! Ah, Foma, you're the son of a fine father!"Foma recoiled from the table, straightened himself and continuously smiling, listened to the kind, admonitory words.
