“When?”
“More than a month ago.”
“As you like.”
Pàvel Ivànovich reddened and sat down; the other singers began to make fun of him. The choir-master, meanwhile, had worked himself up to such a condition of temerity that he no longer took any notice of the ominous symptoms of an approaching domestic storm which were plainly audible from the bedroom. By the time the second pint of spirit was finished the singers had arrived at the stage of walking unceremoniously up and down the room, and had begun to talk so loud that their conversation sounded remarkably like quarrelling. The room grew close and stifling, the candle began to flare, the deacon’s cigar-smoke got into the people’s eyes. The choir-master, holding the deacon by his coat-button, assured him for the tenth time (à propos of nothing) that his wife was an angel, and that but for her he should have come to utter ruin. The conversation then jumped with extraordinary rapidity back to music, and the deacon affirmed that C sharp major and G minor are the same, and that the whole thing depends upon how you breathe, and finally proved to demonstration that “all these composers” ought long ago to have been kicked down stairs. Notwithstanding all this, the choir-master once more went into the ante-room, waked Pètia, and sent him for a third pint.
“No, no; wait a bit! Just hear what I tell you!” yelled the choir-master, holding the deacon by the coat.
“All that’s idle talk.”
“No, no; I’ll prove it,” shrieked the choir-master. “See now! Where is my music got to? Ah, there now, I forgot to send for the supper ... Fèkla!”
The angry face of the maid-servant appeared at the door.
“Fèkla!” said the choir-master in a stern voice, trying hard not to stagger; “go and fetch some cucumbers.”
“Missis told me not.”