Five minutes later the choir-master was pouring out a sixth glass for the deacon. It was only then that he suddenly remembered the tenors and basses, who, not able to endure this sight any longer, had in sheer desperation made up their minds to go home.
“Come along, come along! What are you afraid of?” said the choir-master, with a faint attempt to keep up his dignity in the eyes of his subordinates. The singers started, and one after another came up to the table. Koustòdiev took a glass, looked at it, held it up to the light, and suddenly, as if struck with a new idea, turned it upside down into his mouth, without eating anything.
“Pàvel Ivànovich, and you?”
Pàvel Ivànovich modestly declined.
“Why?”
“Thanks, I won’t take any.”
“Stuff and nonsense! Why not?”
“N—no, I ... really——”
“Rubbish!”
“No; you must excuse me. I have taken a pledge.”