“Koulìkov, give out Berioùzov’s Credo.”
The singers began coughing, straightening their neckties, jerking their trousers, and otherwise preparing for their work. One of the tenors, who served as assistant to the choir-master, handed round the music.
The boys, called in from the ante-room before they had had time to finish their tricks, continued pinching each other and treading on each other’s toes after their parts had been handed to them. The choir-master scolded them incessantly, but it was evident that they had not much fear of him.
“Now then! Make haste and begin! Get to your places!” said the choir-master. “Koulìkov, have you tried through The Gates of Mercy with the trebles?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the pale, curly-haired tenor. “Only I wanted to speak to you about Pètka; I simply can’t do anything with him! He sings so flat that there’s no bearing it. Indeed, he does nothing but put the others out.”
“Pètka, how much more trouble am I to have with you? Take care, my boy; I shall have to take you in hand soon!”
Pètka, a jolly-looking, sharp-eyed treble, put on a serious face, and steadily perused his music.
“Place yourselves! Place yourselves!” shouted the choir-master, sitting down to the piano. “Who’s that smelling of whiskey? Mirotvòretz, is that you?—For shame!”
“It’s what I use to rub my feet, Ivàn Stepànych; I’ve caught cold, and I was advised to rub them with spirits.”
“Caught cold, indeed! At the funeral yesterday, I suppose?”