BY
V. A. Slyeptzòv.
At about six in the evening the singers assembled at the choir-master’s house. After rubbing their boots on the mat in the hall, they went into the ante-room, which contained an old rickety sofa, a wardrobe, and a fat chest of drawers. For want of room the out-of-door garments were flung in a heap on the sofa or chest of drawers. Here, too, there was a sort of mat on the floor, upon which the singers were expected to rub their feet. At the door leading into the inner room stood the choir-master himself—a man of about forty, of middle height, with an expressive face and short-cropped whiskers. He stood in his dressing-gown with a pipe in his hand, watching to see that the singers rubbed their boots properly. In the inner room, on the table, burned one tallow candle, dimly lighting up a large stove in the corner, a sofa, a piano covered with music, a red wooden cheffonier, several chairs, and a violin hanging on the wall. On the opposite wall hung a portrait of the Metropolitan Filarèt, a clock, and a starched shirt-front. The room was crowded and musty, smelling of stale tobacco, and when any one coughed, the lack of resonance became noticeable. On entering the room the singers bowed, blew their noses (we will not inquire how), and sat down silently. They came in not all together, but in little groups; and every time that the rubbing of boots and blowing of noses was heard in the ante-room, the choir-master would ask—
“Now, are you all here?”
Then a voice would answer from the dark ante-room—
“Not yet, sir.”
“Trebles and altos, don’t come in; stop outside till your boots are dry,” said the choir-master, meeting at the door a fresh crowd of boys.
The trebles and altos stopped outside, and instantly began playing tricks. The tenors and basses either sat smoking or walked up and down the room talking together softly.
“Now then!” said the choir-master; “are you all here?”
“All here, Ivàn Stepànych,”