The deacon drained his glass, drew a long breath, snuffed at a bit of bread, and began upon a cucumber.
“Yes, this music is a wonderful thing,” began the choir-master, pouring himself out some whiskey. “It’s a thing there’s no comprehending. Won’t you have another glass?”
“H’m. Well, I’m afraid it’ll be too much.”
“Oh, Vasìli Ivànych, no!”
“Well, then, you begin.”
And the former ceremony was gone through again.
“Your health!”
“Yours!”
The deacon drank another glassful and gazed meditatively at the cucumbers. The poor singers looked very miserable. The stubbly-haired bass stared gloomily at the decanter; the tenors tried to distract their minds from temptation by talking together, but the conversation halted.
“Koulìkov!” said one.