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Updated: June 9, 2025
The peasants had long ago grown used to the sight of the bridge, and it was difficult to imagine the river at that place without a bridge. The heap of rubble left from the building of it had long been overgrown with grass, the navvies were forgotten, and instead of the strains of the "Dubinushka" that they used to sing, the peasants heard almost every hour the sounds of a passing train.
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.
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. The slovenly faces of the carriers beamed with smiles, the work was easy, it went on smoothly, and the leader of the chorus was in his best vein.
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