“That’s why you have no idea of singing—­because you care more for vodka than for godliness, you fool.”

“Don’t work yourself up,” said Father Kuzma.  “Don’t be cross. . . .  I will persuade him.”

Father Kuzma went up to Gennady Semitchov and began “persuading” him:  “What do you do it for?  Try and put your mind to it.  A man who sings ought to restrain himself, because his throat is . . . er . . tender.”

Gennady scratched his neck and looked sideways towards the window as though the words did not apply to him.

After the “Cherubim” hymn they sang the Creed, then “It is meet and right”; they sang smoothly and with feeling, and so right on to “Our Father.”

“To my mind, Father Kuzma,” said the sacristan, “the old ‘Our Father’ is better than the modern.  That’s what we ought to sing before the Count.”

“No, no. . . .  Sing the modern one.  For the Count hears nothing but modern music when he goes to Mass in Petersburg or Moscow. . . .  In the churches there, I imagine . . . there’s very different sort of music there, brother!”

After “Our Father” there was again a great blowing of noses, coughing and turning over of pages.  The most difficult part of the performance came next:  the “concert.”  Alexey Alexeitch was practising two pieces, “Who is the God of glory” and “Universal Praise.”  Whichever the choir learned best would be sung before the Count.  During the “concert” the sacristan rose to a pitch of enthusiasm.  The expression of benevolence was continually alternating with one of alarm.

“Forte!” he muttered.  “Andante! let yourselves go!  Sing, you image!  Tenors, you don’t bring it off!  To-to-ti-to-tom. . . .  Sol . . . si . . . sol, I tell you, you blockhead!  Glory!  Basses, glo . . . o . . . ry.”

His bow travelled over the heads and shoulders of the erring trebles and altos.  His left hand was continually pulling the ears of the young singers.  On one occasion, carried away by his feelings he flipped the bass Gennady under the chin with his bent thumb.  But the choristers were not moved to tears or to anger at his blows:  they realised the full gravity of their task.

After the “concert” came a minute of silence.  Alexey Alexeitch, red, perspiring and exhausted, sat down on the window-sill, and turned upon the company lustreless, wearied, but triumphant eyes.  In the listening crowd he observed to his immense annoyance the deacon Avdiessov.  The deacon, a tall thick-set man with a red pock-marked face, and straw in his hair, stood leaning against the stove and grinning contemptuously.

“That’s right, sing away!  Perform your music!” he muttered in a deep bass.  “Much the Count will care for your singing!  He doesn’t care whether you sing with music or without. . . .  For he is an atheist.”

Father Kuzma looked round in a scared way and twiddled his fingers.

“Come, come,” he muttered.  “Hush, deacon, I beg.”