Foma listened to her, smiled and now and then quivered from the nearness of her sound, well-shaped body. Zvantzev’s sour, cracked and boring voice was falling on his ears. “I don’t like it. I cannot understand the beauty of this renowned Russian song. What is it that sounds in it? Eh? The howl of a wolf. Something hungry, wild. Eh! it’s the groan of a sick dog--altogether something beastly. There’s nothing cheerful, there’s no chic to it; there are no live and vivifying sounds in it. No, you ought to hear what and how the French peasant sings. Ah! or the Italian.” “Excuse me, Ivan Nikolayevich,” cried Ookhtishchev, agitated. “I must agree with you, the Russian song is monotonous and gloomy. It has not, you know, that brilliancy of culture,” said the man with the side whiskers wearily, as he sipped some wine out of his glass. “But nevertheless, there is always a warm heart in it,” put in the red-haired lady, as she peeled an orange. The sun was setting. Sinking somewhere far beyond the forest, on the meadow shore, it painted the entire forest with purple tints and cast rosy and golden spots over the dark cold water. Foma gazed in that direction at this play of the sunbeams, watched how they quivered as they were transposed over the placid and vast expanse of waters, and catching fragments of conversation, he pictured to himself the words as a swarm of dark butterflies, busily fluttering in the air. Sasha, her head resting on his shoulder, was softly whispering into his ear something at which he blushed and was confused, for he felt that she was kindling in him the desire to embrace this woman and kiss her unceasingly. Aside from her, none of those assembled there interested him--while Zvantzev and the gentleman with the side whiskers were actually repulsive to him. “What are you staring at? Eh?” he heard Ookhtishchev’s jestingly-stern voice. The peasant, at whom Ookhtishchev shouted, drew the cap from his head, clapped it against his knee and answered, with a smile: “I came over to listen to the lady’s song.” “Well, does she sing well?” “What a question! Of course,” said the peasant, looking at Sasha, with admiration in his eyes. “That’s right!” exclaimed Ookhtishchev. “There is a great power of voice in that lady’s breast,” said the peasant, nodding his head. At his words, the ladies burst out laughing and the men made some double-meaning remarks about Sasha. After she had calmly listened to these and said nothing in reply, Sasha asked the peasant: “Do you sing?” “We sing a little!” and he waved his hand, “What songs do you know?” “All kinds. I love singing.” And he smiled apologetically. “Come, let’s sing something together, you and I.” “How can we? Am I a match for you?” “Well, strike up!” “May I sit down?” “Come over here, to the table.” “How lively this is!” exclaimed Zvantzev, wrinkling his face. “If you find it tedious, go and drown yourself,” said Sasha, angrily flashing her eyes at him.