Misha Koudryavtsev flushed painfully. Peredonov often teased him by calling him "Mashenka"—Misha did not understand why and could not make up his mind to complain. A number of his companions, stupid youngsters elbowing each other, laughed at Peredonov's words. They too liked to tease Misha.
The church, dedicated to the prophet Elias, an old structure built in the days of Tsar Mikhail, stood in the square, facing the school. For this reason, on church holidays, at Mass and for Vespers, the schoolboys had to gather here and to stand in rows on the left by the chapel of St. Catherine the Martyr, while behind them stood one of the assistant masters in order to keep discipline. Here also in a row, nearer the centre of the church, stood the form masters, as well as the inspector and the Head-Master, with their families. It was usual for nearly all the orthodox schoolboys to gather here, except the few who were permitted to attend their parish churches with their parents.
The choir of schoolboys sang well, and for this reason the church was attended by merchants of the First Guild, officials and the families of landed gentry. There were only a few of the common folk—especially since, in conformity with the Head-Master's wish, Mass was celebrated there later than in other churches.
Peredonov stood in his usual place, from which he could see all the members of the choir. Screwing up his eyes, he looked at them and thought that they were standing out of their places. If he had been inspector he would have pulled them up. There was, for example, a smooth-faced boy, named Kramarenko, a small, thin, fidgety youngster who was constantly turning this way and that way, whispering, smiling—and there was no one to keep him in order. It seemed to be no one's affair.
"What confusion!" thought Peredonov. "These choir-boys are all good-for-nothings. That dark youngster there has a fine, clear soprano—so he thinks he can whisper and grin in church."
And Peredonov frowned.
At his side stood a late-comer, the inspector of the National Schools, Sergey Potapovitch Bogdanov, an oldish man with a brown, stupid face, who always looked as if he wanted to explain to somebody something which he could never make head or tail of himself. No one was easier to frighten or to astonish than Bogdanov: no sooner did he hear anything new or disquieting than his forehead would become wrinkled from his inward, painful efforts and from his mouth would issue a string of incoherent and perplexed exclamations.
Peredonov bent towards him and said in a whisper:
"One of your schoolmistresses walks about in a red shirt!"
Bogdanov was alarmed. His white Adam's apple twitched with fear under his chin.