whether they have a windpipe in their throats or some other sort of internal arrangement. Were you choking, or what?' he asked, addressing the bass Gennady Semitchov, the innkeeper's brother.
'Why?'
'What is your voice like? It rattles like a saucepan. I bet you were boozing yesterday! That's what it is! Your breath smells like a tavern. . . . E-ech! You are a clodhopper, brother! You are a lout! How can you be a chorister if you keep company with peasants in the tavern? Ech, you are an ass, brother!'
'It's a sin, it's a sin, brother,' muttered Father Kuzma. 'God sees everything . . . through and through . . . .'
'That's why you have no idea of singing—because you care more for vodka than for godliness, you fool.'
'Don't work yourself up,' said Father Kuzma. 'Don't be cross. . . .
I will persuade him.'
Father Kuzma went up to Gennady Semitchov and began 'persuading' him: 'What do you do it for? Try and put your mind to it. A man who sings ought to restrain himself, because his throat is . . . er . . tender.'
Gennady scratched his neck and looked sideways towards the window as though the words did not apply to him.
After the 'Cherubim' hymn they sang the Creed, then 'It is meet and right'; they sang smoothly and with feeling, and so right on to 'Our Father.'
'To my mind, Father Kuzma,' said the sacristan, 'the old 'Our Father' is better than the modern. That's what we ought to sing before the Count.'
'No, no. . . . Sing the modern one. For the Count hears nothing but modern music when he goes to Mass in Petersburg or Moscow. . . . In the churches there, I imagine . . . there's very different sort of music there, brother!'
After 'Our Father' there was again a great blowing of noses, coughing and turning over of pages. The most difficult part of the performance came next: the 'concert.' Alexey Alexeitch was practising two pieces, 'Who is the God of glory' and 'Universal Praise.' Whichever the choir learned best would be sung before the Count. During the 'concert' the sacristan rose to a pitch of enthusiasm. The expression of benevolence was continually alternating with one of alarm.
'Forte!' he muttered. 'Andante! let yourselves go! Sing, you image! Tenors, you don't bring it off! To-to-ti-to- tom. . . . Sol . . . si . . . sol, I tell you, you blockhead! Glory! Basses, glo . . . o . . . ry.'
His bow travelled over the heads and shoulders of the erring trebles and altos. His left hand was continually pulling the ears of the young singers. On one occasion, carried away by his feelings he flipped the bass Gennady under the chin with his bent thumb. But the choristers were not moved to tears or to anger at his blows: they realised the full gravity of their task.
After the 'concert' came a minute of silence. Alexey Alexeitch, red, perspiring and exhausted, sat down on the window-sill, and turned upon the company lustreless, wearied, but triumphant eyes. In the listening crowd he observed to his immense annoyance the deacon Avdiessov. The deacon, a tall thick-set man with a red pock- marked face, and straw in his hair, stood leaning against the stove and grinning contemptuously.
'That's right, sing away! Perform your music!' he muttered in a deep bass. 'Much the Count will care for your singing! He doesn't care whether you sing with music or without. . . . For he is an atheist.'
Father Kuzma looked round in a scared way and twiddled his fingers.
'Come, come,' he muttered. 'Hush, deacon, I beg.'
After the 'concert' they sang 'May our lips be filled with praise,' and the choir practice was over. The choir broke up to reassemble in the evening for another practice. And so it went on every day.
One month passed and then a second. . . . The steward, too, had by then received a notice that the Count would soon be coming. At last the dusty sun-blinds were taken off the windows of the big house, and Yefremovo heard the strains of the broken-down, out-of-tune piano. Father Kuzma was pining, though he could not himself have said why, or whether it was from delight or alarm. . . . The deacon went about grinning.
The following Saturday evening Father Kuzma went to the sacristan's lodgings. His face was pale, his shoulders drooped, the lilac of his cassock looked faded.
'I have just been at his Excellency's,' he said to the sacristan, stammering. 'He is a cultivated gentleman with refined ideas. But . . . er . . . it's mortifying, brother. . . . 'At what o'clock, your Excellency, do you desire us to ring for Mass to-morrow?' And he said: 'As you think best. Only, couldn't it be as short and quick as possible without a choir.' Without a choir! Er . . . do you understand, without, without a choir. . . .'
Alexey Alexeitch turned crimson. He would rather have spent two hours on his knees again than have heard those words! He did not sleep all night. He was not so much mortified at the waste of his labours as at the fact that the deacon would give him no peace now with his jeers. The deacon was delighted at his discomfiture. Next day all through the service he was casting disdainful glances towards the choir where Alexey Alexeitch was booming responses in solitude. When he passed by the choir with the censer he muttered:
'Perform your music! Do your utmost! The Count will give a ten-rouble note to the choir!'
After the service the sacristan went home, crushed and ill with mortification. At the gate he was overtaken by the red-faced deacon.
'Stop a minute, Alyosha!' said the deacon. 'Stop a minute, silly, don't be cross! You are not the only one, I am in for it too! Immediately after the Mass Father Kuzma went up to the Count and asked: 'And what did you think of the deacon's voice, your Excellency. He has a deep bass, hasn't he?' And the Count—do you know what he answered by way of compliment? 'Anyone can bawl,' he said. 'A man's voice is not as important as his brains.' A learned gentleman from Petersburg! An atheist is an atheist, and that's all about it! Come, brother in misfortune, let us go and have a drop to drown our troubles!'
And the enemies went out of the gate arm-in-arm.
NERVES
DMITRI OSIPOVITCH VAXIN, the architect, returned from town to his holiday cottage greatly impressed by the spiritualistic seance at which he had been present. As he undressed and got into his solitary bed (Madame Vaxin had gone to an all-night service) he could not help remembering all he had seen and heard. It had not, properly speaking, been a seance at all, but the whole evening had been spent in terrifying conversation. A young lady had begun it by talking, apropos of nothing, about thought-reading. From thought-reading they had passed imperceptibly to spirits, and from spirits to ghosts, from ghosts to people buried alive. . . . A gentleman had read a horrible story of a corpse turning round in the coffin. Vaxin himself had asked for a saucer and shown the young ladies how to converse with spirits. He had called up among others the spirit of his deceased uncle, Klavdy Mironitch, and had mentally asked him:
'Has not the time come for me to transfer the ownership of our house to my wife?'
To which his uncle's spirit had replied:
'All things are good in their season.'
'There is a great deal in nature that is mysterious and . . . terrible . . .' thought Vaxin, as he got into bed. 'It's not the dead but the unknown that's so horrible.'
It struck one o'clock. Vaxin turned over on the other side and peeped out from beneath the bedclothes at the blue light of the lamp burning before the holy ikon. The flame flickered and cast a faint light on the ikon-stand and the big portrait of Uncle Klavdy that hung facing his bed.
'And what if the ghost of Uncle Klavdy should appear this minute?' flashed through Vaxin's mind. 'But, of course, that's impossible.'
Ghosts are, we all know, a superstition, the offspring of undeveloped intelligence, but Vaxin, nevertheless, pulled the bed-clothes over his head, and shut his eyes very tight. The corpse that turned round in its coffin came back to his mind, and the figures of his deceased mother-in-law, of a colleague who had hanged himself, and of a girl who had drowned herself, rose before his imagination. . . . Vaxin began trying to dispel these gloomy ideas, but the more he tried to drive them away the more haunting the figures and fearful fancies became. He began to feel frightened.
'Hang it all!' he thought. 'Here I am afraid in the dark like a child! Idiotic!'
Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . he heard the clock in the next room. The church-bell chimed the hour in the
