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 . . . ."

"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 Prais