At a sign from Major Kulubeitis, they raised their glasses all together and roared out an unearthly “Hurrah!” which quite undid the Jew Kristianpoller, but rejoiced the servant Fedya so much that he burst out into a peal of laughter. He laughed so hard that he could not stand up straight, it shook him so. And he beat his plump thighs with his clumsy hands. This foolish laughter, so far from offending the gentlemen, as Kristianpoller had begun to fear, did the reverse; the good-humoured officers caught its contagion, and now everyone laughed with Fedya, touched glasses, guffawed, shook, roared and coughed with merriment. Suddenly a merciless hilarity had them in its toils; they were bound and delivered, given up to their own laughter. Yes, and Tarabas, the man of might, amidst the wild unabating gaiety, beckoned the laughing Fedya to him and ordered him to dance. And so that music might not be lacking, Tarabas had one of his men called in, one Kaleyczuk, an admirable manipulator of the accordion. He took up his position with his chest well out and his instrument across it, and began to play. He struck up the celebrated Cossack dance, for he had immediately recognized a brother-Cossack in Fedya. And at once, caught heart and feet by the music of the accordion, Fedya danced. The chain formed by the officers closed now into a ring, in the centre of which Fedya hopped and Kaleyczuk accompanied him with a will. Willingly, even blissfully, Fedya had embarked upon the dance. But gradually, under the spell of the music, which imposed its will upon him and which he yielded to with a submission at once sweet and agonizing, gradually the smile froze upon his face and his open mouth refused to shut. Between his yellow teeth his tongue showed now and then, moving thirstily as though to lick the air the lungs were panting for in vain. He revolved on his own axis, then dropped and twirled round squatting, and rose again to perform a leap into the air, all as the rules of the Cossack dance prescribed. It was clear to see that he would have gladly stopped. Sometimes it seemed as though all the dancer’s strength was going out of him, had gone already, and that only the ardent, melancholy music still drove and animated him, and the rhythmic beat of the officers’ clapping hands, as they stood around him, drawn up like guardians of the rite.
Soon the musician Kaleyczuk himself was seized with a desire to set his feet in motion. His own music overwhelmed him so completely that, his agile fingers still uninterruptedly pressing the accordion keys, he too suddenly began to turn, to hop, to squat and dance towards the indefatigable Fedya. And lastly some of the officers left the circle and vied with the two dancers as best they could, whilst the others unceasingly pounded out the measure with their heavily booted feet and with their clapping hands.
A monstrous noise arose. The floor resounded with the stamping, the window-panes clattered, the spurs clanked, and the empty glasses too, which stood side by side upon the tin-covered counter and seemed to wait for drinkers yet to come. The Jew Kristianpoller did not dare to move from the spot where he was standing. Strangely enough the din calmed him in the same way that it frightened him. But he was in dread lest they should suddenly take it into their heads to make him dance like the servant Fedya. Hatred was in his heart, and apprehension. He found himself wishing that these men might go on drinking, although he very well knew that they had no money to pay for what they took. Motionless he stood beside his counter, a stranger in his own house. And what to do he knew not. And he wanted to leave his place and go away — and knew that this also was out of the question. All at a loss, miserable and busy despite his outward immobility, he stood there, the Jew Kristianpoller.
Meanwhile the golden autumn day was drawing to its close. And upon the rack opposite the window, on which the tanned and greasy leather belts and glittering swords were hung, the red sunset was mirrored. Upon this sun as it went down the Jew Kristianpoller fixed his eyes. It seemed to him a sign and token that the ancient God existed still. He knew, the Jew, that the sun went down in the west, and that on every cloudless day it shone upon that rack, yet in that moment he drew solace from the most everyday, the most everyday, the most familiar things. What if this Tarabas were come, this terrible one? God’s sun still went down to its setting as on every other day. It was the hour of the evening prayer, said with the face turned towards the east; towards the rack, then, which he was already looking at. How could he pray? The noise grew louder and louder. All the terrors of the war and of the previous changing occupations of the town since then, seemed at that moment to Kristianpoller harmless in comparison with the quite undangerous roaring and stamping of the men round Tarabas.
As for Tarabas himself, he alone had not left his table. He sat leaning far back, rather lying than sitting, his legs in the skin-tight trousers spread wide, his feet in the immaculate boots stretched out far in front of him. From time to time he felt it incumbent upon him to clap his hands, as the others were doing ceaselessly. A good dozen empty glasses stood now upon his table, and were joined continuously by another and another full one, brought like a ritual offering by the attentive hands of the officers in the circle. Except for Tarabas no one had drunk anything for half an hour. From his counter the Jew Kristianpoller could see when it was time for him to fill another glass. Indeed his eyes were riveted upon the table of Colonel Tarabas, and neither the din, which almost deafened him, nor the manifold anxieties which filled him could distract his mind from the supreme care of the moment — whether the frightful one was ready for something more to drink. Tarabas now ignored the bottle which Kristianpoller had set down on his table. Obviously he preferred to let the officers wait upon him. And now, or so it seemed to Kristianpoller, tiredness began to overcome him. At the host’s rough guess he must have accounted for some sixteen glasses. He yawned, the great man; Kristianpoller distinctly saw him do it. And this unequivocal expression of a universal human weakness reassured the Jew.
Meanwhile the bright reflection of the evening sun was quickly disappearing from the hotel parlour. It grew dark, almost in a moment. Suddenly there was the sound of a heavy fall. Fedya lay outstretched on his back with his arms flung out, and the accordion broke off as though someone had cut it in two. Someone shouted: “Water!” Kristianpoller rushed up with a pail which always stood in readiness behind the bar, and dashed a cold and heavy swath into Fedya’s face. The surrounding audience observed with great exactitude and with more interest than alarm how Fedya emerged from his faint, guffawed, and on the instant of his return to life, still lying where he had fallen, went off again into another roar of laughter … just as a new-born child greets the light of day with a woeful crying.
By this time it had grown completely dark. “Light up!” cried Tarabas, and rose. Kristianpoller first lit the lantern which always stood upon the counter; he held a paper spill to its flame and lit the oil lamp with this, as he did on every evening of his life. The murky, yellow shine fell upon Fedya, who, still laughing, was scrambling to his feet. He puffed and blew; the water poured off his head and shoulders. The others were all silent. No one moved.
“How much?” cried Tarabas suddenly. How long it was since the Jew Kristianpoller had heard that call! Who had ever shouted “How much?”
“Your Excellency, General,” said Kristianpoller, “I beg your pardon, but I haven’t been keeping count. …”
“From tomorrow on you’ll keep count!” said Tarabas. “How about a walk, gentlemen?”
And all made haste to gird themselves and go. With racket and clatter they left the inn and passed into the darkness of the little town of Koropta, with Tarabas heading the pack. Their destination was the barracks, to see how the new regiment was conducting itself in the darkness.