“Trebles and altos, don’t come in; stop outside till your boots are dry,” said the choir-master, meeting at the door a fresh crowd of boys. The trebles and altos stopped outside, and instantly began playing tricks. The tenors and basses either sat smoking or walked up and down the room talking together softly. “Now then!” said the choir-master; “are you all here?” “All here, Ivàn Stepànych,” “Koulìkov, give out Berioùzov’s _Credo_.” The singers began coughing, straightening their neckties, jerking their trousers, and otherwise preparing for their work. One of the tenors, who served as assistant to the choir-master, handed round the music. The boys, called in from the ante-room before they had had time to finish their tricks, continued pinching each other and treading on each other’s toes after their parts had been handed to them. The choir-master scolded them incessantly, but it was evident that they had not much fear of him. “Now then! Make haste and begin! Get to your places!” said the choir-master. “Koulìkov, have you tried through _The Gates of Mercy_ with the trebles?” “Yes, sir,” answered the pale, curly-haired tenor. “Only I wanted to speak to you about Pètka; I simply can’t do anything with him! He sings so flat that there’s no bearing it. Indeed, he does nothing but put the others out.” “Pètka, how much more trouble am I to have with you? Take care, my boy; I shall have to take you in hand soon!” Pètka, a jolly-looking, sharp-eyed treble, put on a serious face, and steadily perused his music. “Place yourselves! Place yourselves!” shouted the choir-master, sitting down to the piano. “Who’s that smelling of whiskey? Mirotvòretz, is that you?—For shame!” “It’s what I use to rub my feet, Ivàn Stepànych; I’ve caught cold, and I was advised to rub them with spirits.” “Caught cold, indeed! At the funeral yesterday, I suppose?” “Yes, sir.” “H’m, so I see.... Your face looks drunk enough.” “No, sir ... indeed....” “There, there! Never mind! Gentlemen, you’re placed all wrong! Basses, don’t you know you have to stand by the stove?” The basses sullenly went across to the stove. “And you, Pàvel Ivànych? One might as well talk to a baby as to you, for all the notice you take!” Pàvel Ivànych, a gloomy, unshaven, deep-bass singer, stared meditatively at the ceiling. “Pàvel Ivànych!” “What?” “What did I say to you?—And all you answer is, ‘What?’ Confound it all, man, where’s your place?” Pàvel Ivànych gazed meditatively at his music, and never moved. “Ivàn Stepànych, Pètka’s hitting me,” whimpered an alto. “Pètka!” “Ivàn Stepànych, I didn’t——” “Hold your tongue before I come and make you. Now, then!” The choir-master struck several chords. “Now listen! You all begin _piano_: ‘_I believe in one God the Father Almighty_,’ ... recitative, you know; and mind every word is clear. The basses must get their vowels out well.... Pàvel Ivànych! Where are you looking?” “I?”