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like a man occupying an important position in the secular hierarchy rather than a sacristan. It was strange to see him, so dignified and imposing, flop to the ground before the bishop and, on one occasion, after too loud a squabble with the deacon Yevlampy Avdiessov, remain on his knees for two hours by order of the head priest of the district. Grandeur was more in keeping with his figure than humiliation.

On account of the rumours of the Count’s approaching visit he had a choir practice every day, morning and evening. The choir practice was held at the school. It did not interfere much with the school work. During the practice the schoolmaster, Sergey Makaritch, set the children writing copies while he joined the tenors as an amateur.

This is how the choir practice was conducted. Alexey Alexeitch would come into the schoolroom, slamming the door and blowing his nose. The trebles and altos extricated themselves noisily from the school-tables. The tenors and basses, who had been waiting for some time in the yard, came in, tramping like horses. They all took their places. Alexey Alexeitch drew himself up, made a sign to enforce silence, and struck a note with the tuning fork.

β€œTo-to-li-to-tomβ β€Šβ β€¦ Do-mi-sol-do!”

β€œAdagio, adagio.β β€Šβ β€¦ Once more.”

After the β€œAmen” there followed β€œLord have mercy upon us” from the Great Litany. All this had been learned long ago, sung a thousand times and thoroughly digested, and it was gone through simply as a formality. It was sung indolently, unconsciously. Alexey Alexeitch waved his arms calmly and chimed in now in a tenor, now in a bass voice. It was all slow, there was nothing interesting.β β€Šβ β€¦ But before the β€œCherubim” hymn the whole choir suddenly began blowing their noses, coughing and zealously turning the pages of their music. The sacristan turned his back on the choir and with a mysterious expression on his face began tuning his violin. The preparations lasted a couple of minutes.

β€œTake your places. Look at your music carefully.β β€Šβ β€¦ Basses, don’t overdo itβ β€Šβ β€¦ rather softly.”

Bortnyansky’s β€œCherubim” hymn, No. 7, was selected. At a given signal silence prevailed. All eyes were fastened on the music, the trebles opened their mouths. Alexey Alexeitch softly lowered his arm.

β€œPianoβ β€Šβ β€¦ piano.β β€Šβ β€¦ You see β€˜piano’ is written there.β β€Šβ β€¦ More lightly, more lightly.”

When they had to sing β€œpiano” an expression of benevolence and amiability overspread Alexey Alexeitch’s face, as though he was dreaming of a dainty morsel.

β€œForteβ β€Šβ β€¦ forte! Hold it!”

And when they had to sing β€œforte” the sacristan’s fat face expressed alarm and even horror.

The β€œCherubim” hymn was sung well, so well that the schoolchildren abandoned their copies and fell to watching the movements of Alexey Alexeitch. People stood under the windows. The schoolwatchman, Vassily, came in wearing an apron and carrying a dinner-knife in his hand and stood listening. Father Kuzma, with an anxious face appeared suddenly as though he had sprung from out of the earth.β β€Šβ β€¦ After β€˜Let us lay aside all earthly cares’ Alexey Alexeitch wiped the sweat off his brow and went up to Father Kuzma in excitement.

β€œIt puzzles me, Father Kuzma,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, β€œwhy is it that the Russian people have no understanding? It puzzles me, may the Lord chastise me! Such an uncultured people that you really cannot tell whether they have a windpipe in their throats or some other sort of internal arrangement. Were you choking, or what?” he asked, addressing the bass Gennady Semitchov, the innkeeper’s brother.

β€œWhy?”

β€œWhat is your voice like? It rattles like a saucepan. I bet you were boozing yesterday! That’s what it is! Your breath smells like a tavern.β β€Šβ β€¦ E-ech! You are a clodhopper, brother! You are a lout! How can you be a chorister if you keep company with peasants in the tavern? Ech, you are an ass, brother!”

β€œIt’s a sin, it’s a sin, brother,” muttered Father Kuzma. β€œGod sees everythingβ β€Šβ β€¦ through and through.β β€Šβ β€¦β€

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

β€œDon’t work yourself up,” said Father Kuzma. β€œDon’t be cross.β β€Šβ β€¦ I will persuade him.”

Father Kuzma went up to Gennady Semitchov and began β€œpersuading” him: β€œWhat do you do it for? Try and put your mind to it. A man who sings ought to restrain himself, because his throat isβ β€Šβ β€¦ erβ β€Šβ β€¦ tender.”

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

After the β€œCherubim” hymn they sang the Creed, then β€œIt is meet and right”; they sang smoothly and with feeling, and so right on to β€œOur Father.”

β€œTo my mind, Father Kuzma,” said the sacristan, β€œthe old β€˜Our Father’ is better than the modern. That’s what we ought to sing before the Count.”

β€œNo, no.β β€Šβ β€¦ Sing the modern one. For the Count hears nothing but modern music when he goes to Mass in Petersburg or Moscow.β β€Šβ β€¦ In the churches there, I imagineβ β€Šβ β€¦ there’s very different sort of music there, brother!”

After β€œOur 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 β€œconcert.” Alexey Alexeitch was practising two pieces, β€œWho is the God of glory” and β€œUniversal Praise.” Whichever the choir learned best would be sung before the Count. During the β€œconcert” the sacristan rose to a pitch of enthusiasm. The expression of benevolence was continually alternating with one of alarm.

β€œForte!” he muttered. β€œAndante! let yourselves go! Sing, you image! Tenors, you don’t bring it off! To-to-ti-to-tom.β β€Šβ β€¦ Solβ β€Šβ β€¦ siβ β€Šβ β€¦ sol, I tell you, you blockhead! Glory! Basses, gloβ β€Šβ β€¦ oβ β€Šβ β€¦ 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 β€œconcert” came a minute of silence. Alexey Alexeitch, red, perspiring and exhausted, sat down on

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