"In the tavern sit great merchants
Drinking liquors strong,"
narrated the leader, in a bold recitative. The company joined in
unison:
"Oh, dubinushka, heave-ho!"
And then the bassos smote the air with deep sounds:
"It goes, it goes."
And the tenors repeated:
"It goes, it goes."
Foma listened to the song and directed his footsteps toward it,
on the wharf. There he noticed that the carriers, formed in two
rows, were rolling out of the steamer's hold huge barrels of
salted fish. Dirty, clad in red blouses, unfastened at the
collar, with mittens on their hands, with arms bare to the elbow,
they stood over the hold, and, merrily jesting, with faces
animated by toil, they pulled the ropes, all together, keeping
time to their song. And from the hold rang out the high, laughing
voice of the invisible leader:
"But for our peasant throats
There is not enough vodka."
And the company, like one huge pair of lungs, heaved forth loudly
and in unison:
"Oh, dubinushka, heave-ho!"
Foma felt pleased and envious as he looked at this work, which
was as harmonious as music.
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