“I’ve sung through four services this blessed day,” one of the basses was saying, “and I’m downright tired of it; my throat’s quite sore. First I sang at the early service, then in another church at high mass, then at vespers at the Holy Virgin’s church, and then at a funeral. I got Kouznetzòv to come to the Holy Virgin’s, and we had a rare lark with the deacon;—I told him we would! I tell you, that deacon won’t forget us in a hurry—the way we put him out! When he started on one note, we got on to another. You know, he always tries to take ‘Give ear’ as high as he can, so as not to have to take the octave—his voice is fit for nothing;—so when we started ‘Glory be to Thee’ a whole tone lower, he was just done for. ‘For ever and ev——’ and there he stuck—couldn’t get a word out for the life of him. And that scamp Kouznetzòv, there he stood saying his prayers as if it wasn’t his doing a bit; bowing and crossing himself, as pious as you please. I nearly died of laughing. Oh, and what a rage the priest is in—my word! After service the deacon came up to the chancel, and says he: ‘Wait a bit, my fine fellow; I’ll serve you a trick.’... But that’s all nonsense. What can he do to him?”
“But what did the priest say?” asked the consumptive tenor.
“What’s it to him? He said, ‘I’m not going to take that deacon’s part.’ So you see, we can do as we like.”
“Get to your places; make haste,” interrupted the choir-master’s voice. “Koulìkov! ‘We sing to Thee.’ Trebles hold your tongues!”
The singers once more ranged themselves in order; the choir-master took his place at the piano.
“Do—mi—la. Pianissimo. One!”
“We sing to Thee, we bless——”
“Stop! How many times am I to tell you? What are you doing? What sort of thing do you call that? Now I ask you, what are you doing? Skvortzòv, what are you doing?”
Skvortzòv meditated.
“What am I a-doin’? I’m a-singin’.”