the stairs, and sat beside his wife. After a minute's rest, he put a few questions about housekeeping, and relapsed into silence.
“Let us have a song.”
My tutor played the guitar, and, in the thick, bass voice of a church clerk, sang “Among the level valleys.” All joined in. The tutor sang bass, Feodor in a hardly audible tenor, and I soprano, in one voice with Tatiana Ivanovna.
When the sky was covered with stars and the frogs ceased croaking, supper was brought from the kitchen. We went indoors and ate. My tutor and the gipsy ate greedily and so noisily that it was hard to judge whether they were eating bones or merely crunching their jaws. Tatiana Ivanovna and I barely finished our portions. After supper the wing sank to deep sleep.
Once—it was at the end of May—we sat on the steps and waited for supper, when a shadow fell across us, and suddenly as if sprung out of the ground appeared Gundasoff. For a second he looked at us steadfastly, then waved his hands, and smiled a merry smile.
“An, idyll!” he exclaimed. “They sing; they dream of the moon! It's irresistible, I swear to God! May I sit with you and dream?”
We exchanged looks, but said nothing. My uncle seated himself on the lowest step, yawned, and looked at the sky. At first silence reigned; and it was Pobiedimsky, long watching for an opportunity to
