“To-to-li-to-tom . . .  Do-mi-sol-do!”

“Adagio, adagio. . . .  Once more.”

After the “Amen” there followed “Lord have mercy upon us” from the Great Litany.  All this had been learned long ago, sung a thousand times and thoroughly digested, and it was gone through simply as a formality.  It was sung indolently, unconsciously.  Alexey Alexeitch waved his arms calmly and chimed in now in a tenor, now in a bass voice.  It was all slow, there was nothing interesting. . . .  But before the “Cherubim” hymn the whole choir suddenly began blowing their noses, coughing and zealously turning the pages of their music.  The sacristan turned his back on the choir and with a mysterious expression on his face began tuning his violin.  The preparations lasted a couple of minutes.

“Take your places.  Look at your music carefully. . . .  Basses, don’t overdo it . . . rather softly.”

Bortnyansky’s “Cherubim” hymn, No. 7, was selected.  At a given signal silence prevailed.  All eyes were fastened on the music, the trebles opened their mouths.  Alexey Alexeitch softly lowered his arm.

“Piano . . . piano. . . .  You see ‘piano’ is written there. . . .  More lightly, more lightly.”

When they had to sing “piano” an expression of benevolence and amiability overspread Alexey Alexeitch’s face, as though he was dreaming of a dainty morsel.

“Forte . . . forte!  Hold it!”

And when they had to sing “forte” the sacristan’s fat face expressed alarm and even horror.

The “Cherubim” hymn was sung well, so well that the school-children abandoned their copies and fell to watching the movements of Alexey Alexeitch.  People stood under the windows.  The schoolwatchman, Vassily, came in wearing an apron and carrying a dinner-knife in his hand and stood listening.  Father Kuzma, with an anxious face appeared suddenly as though he had sprung from out of the earth. . . .  After ‘Let us lay aside all earthly cares’ Alexey Alexeitch wiped the sweat off his brow and went up to Father Kuzma in excitement.

“It puzzles me, Father Kuzma,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “why is it that the Russian people have no understanding?  It puzzles me, may the Lord chastise me!  Such an uncultured people that you really cannot tell 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 . . . .”