"As we have now rendered unto God, so to say, what is due to God, would you permit that the musicians render now unto the Emperor what is due to the Emperor ?" And, without waiting for an answer from his guests, he placed his fist to his mouth, and shouted: "Musicians! Play 'Be Glorious!'" The military orchestra, behind the engine, thundered out the march.
And Makar Bobrov, the director and founder of the local commercial bank, began to hum in a pleasant basso, beating time with his fingers on his enormous paunch: "Be glorious, be glorious, our Russian Czar--tra-rata! Boom!" "I invite you to the table, gentlemen! Please! Take pot-luck, he, he! I entreat you humbly," said Kononov, pushing himself through the dense group of guests.
There were about thirty of them, all sedate men, the cream of the local merchants.

The older men among them, bald-headed and gray, wore old-fashioned frock-coats, caps and tall boots.

But there were only few of these; high silk hats, shoes and stylish coats reigned supreme.
They were all crowded on the bow of the steamer, and little by little, yielding to Kononov's requests, moved towards the stern covered with sailcloth, where stood tables spread with lunch.

Lup Reznikov walked arm in arm with Yakov Mayakin, and, bending over to his ear, whispered something to him, while the latter listened and smiled.

Foma, who had been brought to the festival by his godfather, after long admonitions, found no companion for himself among these people who were repulsive to him, and, pale and gloomy, held himself apart from them.