“No, I, of course! What do you suppose I’m talking to you for? Oh! good heavens, what a life! Well now, you begin piano; and, trebles, mind you don’t drag! Do you hear? ‘_By whom all things were made!_’ All the parts break up here! _Sforzando: ‘By whom all things!_’ ... D’you understand? Pètka, look at me! ‘_And the third day He rose again, according to the Scriptures._’... _Forte._ ‘_And sitteth on the right hand._’ ... _Fortissimo._... Do you understand what it means? Do you? ‘_From thence He shall come again with glory to judge both the quick and the dead._’... Think what it means—the earth, the heavens, everything, going to dust ... and the last trumpet,—lightning,—thunder,—everything annihilated!... ‘_Whose kingdom shall have no end._’... At ‘end’ you have another _diminuendo_, and let the voices die away. You have to express all that great—how do you call it?—wisdom, and power, and eternity, ... don’t you see? Basses lead. Bring out all the tone you can; it wants to be like three hundred voices here! Tenors, change tone; take the octave! Trebles and altos: tra-la-la-la-la.... Stop!” The choir-master had got so absorbed in describing how the Creed ought to be sung, that he had started up from the piano, and, imagining that it was really being sung as he said, began gesticulating and excitedly nudging the tenors, who edged away as far as they could. The basses, meanwhile, were taking snuff indifferently, while the trebles and altos, hiding their faces behind their music, were pinching each other and giggling. At last the singing began in good earnest; they all coughed, shuffled their feet, mumbled a little, and suddenly burst out in a roar: “_I believe in one God the Father Almighty._”... The choir-master stood in the middle of the room, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, nodding his head and beating time with his hand. “Stop! Stop! Not that way!” The singing broke off. “What do you want to roar like bulls for? Basses! Pàvel Ivànych, what did I say to you? Anybody would think you were gone daft! Koustòdiev, where are you looking? And you a clerical![58] How can you behave so?” Koustòdiev, a burly, red-eyed bass, with stubbly hair sticking up in disorder, frowned at his music and made no answer. “It’s no matter what one says to you people; you take not a bit of notice. I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourselves; you’re not children, I should hope—you might have a little sense! Why, you’ve got children of your own; it’s pardonable in them,” added the choir-master, pointing to the trebles and looking reproachfully at the basses. Koustòdiev muttered something inaudible. “What? Now then, begin again! Remember what I said: recitative: and, basses, don’t roar!—Don’t roar!” shrieked the choir-master when the singers began once more: “_I believe._”... “Pàvel Ivànych, what are you bellowing for? Do you want to frighten us all?—Mìtka, don’t snuffle!” “_Very God of Very God, begotten, not made._”...