All these big, fleshy bodies,
aroused by wine and by the old man's words, stirred and uttered
from their chests such a unanimous, massive shout that everything
around them seemed to tremble and to quake.
"Yakov! you are the trumpet of the Lord!" cried Zubov, holding
out his goblet toward Mayakin.
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.
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