“What are you singing?”
“Sing to Thee——”
“And I tell you that you’re hacking wood, not singing!”
Skvortzòv smiled.
“What’s there to laugh at? There’s nothing funny about it. Who’s the first to ask for his salary? You. Eh—h—h—you clumsy sledge-hammers! How many times have I told you? Tenors, don’t bawl, take your vowels properly. ‘Weeee siiiiing tooooo Theeeeeee!’ You always make it sound like, ‘Wwwwe sssssssingg tttto Ththththee!’ What sort of music do you call that? Begin again. ‘We give thanks to Thee.’ Tenors, just touch the note and break off. Altos ought to ripple along like a brook. Trebles, die away.”
At last they got into swing. The basses left off sledge-hammering, the trebles died away, the altos rippled, the tenors “touched” their note and broke off, and the choir-master accompanied. Suddenly, in the midst of the singing, there resounded a smart box on the ear, given to one of the altos for singing flat and not rippling properly, but that in no way disturbed the music. The alto only blinked a little and went on singing.
“AT LAST THEY GOT INTO SWING.”
“And we worship Thee,” roared the basses with the most ferocious faces they could put on.
“Oh-h-h Lo-o-rd,” quavered the tenors, throwing back their heads and wagging their voices as a dog wags its tail.