THE Justice of the Peace, who had received a letter from Petersburg,
had set the news going that the owner of Yefremovo, Count Vladimir
Ivanovitch, would soon be arriving. When he would arrive--there
was no saying.
"Like a thief in the night," said Father Kuzma, a grey-headed little
priest in a lilac cassock. "And when he does come the place will
be crowded with the nobility and other high gentry. All the neighbours
will flock here. Mind now, do your best, Alexey Alexeitch. . . . I
beg you most earnestly."
"You need not trouble about me," said Alexey Alexeitch, frowning.
"I know my business. If only my enemy intones the litany in the
right key. He may . . . out of sheer spite. . . ."
"There, there. . . . I'll persuade the deacon. . . I'll persuade
him."
Alexey Alexeitch was the sacristan of the Yefremovo church. He also
taught the schoolboys church and secular singing, for which he
received sixty roubles a year from the revenues of the Count's
estate. The schoolboys were bound to sing in church in return for
their teaching. Alexey Alexeitch was a tall, thick-set man of
dignified deportment, with a fat, clean-shaven face that reminded
one of a cow's udder. His imposing figure and double chin made him
look like a man occupying an important position in the secular
hierarchy rather than a sacristan. It was strange to see him, so
dignified and imposing, flop to the ground before the bishop and,
on one occasion, after too loud a squabble with the deacon Yevlampy
Avdiessov, remain on his knees for two hours by order of the head
priest of the district. Grandeur was more in keeping with his figure
than humiliation.
On account of the rumours of the Count's approaching visit he had
a choir practice every day, morning and evening. The choir practice
was held at the school. It did not interfere much with the school
work. During the practice the schoolmaster, Sergey Makaritch, set
the children writing copies while he joined the tenors as an amateur.
This is how the choir practice was conducted. Alexey Alexeitch would
come into the school-room, slamming the door and blowing his nose.
The trebles and altos extricated themselves noisily from the
school-tables. The tenors and basses, who had been waiting for some
time in the yard, came in, tramping like horses. They all took their
places. Alexey Alexeitch drew himself up, made a sign to enforce
silence, and struck a note with the tuning fork.
"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 . . . ."
"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.