“And wee-e-e wo-o-or-ship Th-ee-ee-ee,” bellowed, like an ophicleide, the stubbly-haired bass, savagely rolling the whites of his eyes and looking ready to tear some one in pieces.
At this moment there was a knock at the door. The singing broke off again.
“Who’s that?” shouted the choir-master, angry at being interrupted.
The deacon came in; a short, thick-set man of about forty-five, in a long-tailed coat, and with whiskers completely surrounding his face, after the fashion of anthropoid apes. He made a slow salute, and uttered the conventional salutation: “My respects.”
“Ah, Vasìli Ivànych. Sit down, please. Won’t you have a pipe?” The choir-master had suddenly become very amiable.
“Thank you, don’t trouble, I have cigars. I am disturbing you, am I not?”
“No. We were just going through the old things, so as not to forget them. Sit down Vasìli Ivànych. Will you have some tea? I’ll order it at once, in a minute.”
The choir-master half-opened a door leading into a bedroom, thrust in his head and said softly to his wife, who was lying on the bed—
“Vasìli Ivànych has come. Think yourself. You know we can’t——”
“Yes, you’ll be inviting twenty people here next, and giving them tea,” answered his wife.