contain oil and vinegar, as though in mockery and chastisement of
the guests who are to a man desperately fond of the bottle, and
given to tippling.

"Please help yourselves, gentlemen!" the marshal's widow presses
them. "Only you must excuse me, I have no vodka. . . . I have none
in the house."

The guests approach the table and hesitatingly attack the pie. But
the progress with eating is slow. In the plying of forks, in the
cutting up and munching, there is a certain sloth and apathy. . . .
Evidently something is wanting.

"I feel as though I had lost something," one of the justices of the
peace whispers to the other. "I feel as I did when my wife ran away
with the engineer. . . . I can't eat."

Marfutkin, before beginning to eat, fumbles for a long time in his
pocket and looks for his handkerchief.

"Oh, my handkerchief must be in my greatcoat," he recalls in a loud
voice, "and here I am looking for it," and he goes into the vestibule
where the fur coats are hanging up.

He returns from the vestibule with glistening eyes, and at once
attacks the pie with relish.

"I say, it's horrid munching away with a dry mouth, isn't it?" he
whispers to Father Yevmeny. "Go into the vestibule, Father. There's
a bottle there in my fur coat. . . . Only mind you are careful;