“Stop! Stop! Not that way!”
The singing broke off.
“What do you want to roar like bulls for? Basses! Pàvel Ivànych, what did I say to you? Anybody would think you were gone daft! Koustòdiev, where are you looking? And you a clerical![[58]] How can you behave so?”
Koustòdiev, a burly, red-eyed bass, with stubbly hair sticking up in disorder, frowned at his music and made no answer.
“It’s no matter what one says to you people; you take not a bit of notice. I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourselves; you’re not children, I should hope—you might have a little sense! Why, you’ve got children of your own; it’s pardonable in them,” added the choir-master, pointing to the trebles and looking reproachfully at the basses.
Koustòdiev muttered something inaudible.
“What? Now then, begin again! Remember what I said: recitative: and, basses, don’t roar!—Don’t roar!” shrieked the choir-master when the singers began once more: “I believe.”...
“Pàvel Ivànych, what are you bellowing for? Do you want to frighten us all?—Mìtka, don’t snuffle!”
“Very God of Very God, begotten, not made.”...
“Legato! Hold the note.... Break off! Basses, crescendo.... Ivàn Pàvlovich, as loud as you can. ‘By whom all things were made.’... What do you stop for? Oh, dear, oh, dear; what am I to do with you? Look this way, I tell you; look this way! I didn’t tell you to look at me; there’s nothing written on me!” cried the choir-master desperately, tapping the music.