The singers once more ranged themselves in order; the choir-master took his place at the piano. “Do—mi—la. _Pianissimo._ One!” “_We sing to Thee, we bless_——” “Stop! How many times am I to tell you? What are you doing? What sort of thing do you call that? Now I ask you, what are you doing? Skvortzòv, what are you doing?” Skvortzòv meditated. “What am I a-doin’? I’m a-singin’.” “What are you singing?” “Sing to Thee——” “And I tell you that you’re hacking wood, not singing!” Skvortzòv smiled. “What’s there to laugh at? There’s nothing funny about it. Who’s the first to ask for his salary? You. Eh—h—h—you clumsy sledge-hammers! How many times have I told you? Tenors, don’t bawl, take your vowels properly. ‘_Weeee siiiiing tooooo Theeeeeee!_’ You always make it sound like, ‘_Wwwwe sssssssingg tttto Ththththee!_’ What sort of music do you call that? Begin again. ‘_We give thanks to Thee._’ Tenors, just touch the note and break off. Altos ought to ripple along like a brook. Trebles, die away.” At last they got into swing. The basses left off sledge-hammering, the trebles died away, the altos rippled, the tenors “touched” their note and broke off, and the choir-master accompanied. Suddenly, in the midst of the singing, there resounded a smart box on the ear, given to one of the altos for singing flat and not rippling properly, but that in no way disturbed the music. The alto only blinked a little and went on singing. [Illustration: “AT LAST THEY GOT INTO SWING.” ] “_And we worship Thee_,” roared the basses with the most ferocious faces they could put on. “_Oh-h-h Lo-o-rd_,” quavered the tenors, throwing back their heads and wagging their voices as a dog wags its tail. “_And wee-e-e wo-o-or-ship Th-ee-ee-ee_,” bellowed, like an ophicleide, the stubbly-haired bass, savagely rolling the whites of his eyes and looking ready to tear some one in pieces. At this moment there was a knock at the door. The singing broke off again. “Who’s that?” shouted the choir-master, angry at being interrupted. The deacon came in; a short, thick-set man of about forty-five, in a long-tailed coat, and with whiskers completely surrounding his face, after the fashion of anthropoid apes. He made a slow salute, and uttered the conventional salutation: “My respects.” “Ah, Vasìli Ivànych. Sit down, please. Won’t you have a pipe?” The choir-master had suddenly become very amiable. “Thank you, don’t trouble, I have cigars. I am disturbing you, am I not?” “No. We were just going through the old things, so as not to forget them. Sit down Vasìli Ivànych. Will you have some tea? I’ll order it at once, in a minute.” The choir-master half-opened a door leading into a bedroom, thrust in his head and said softly to his wife, who was lying on the bed— “Vasìli Ivànych has come. Think yourself. You know we can’t——” “Yes, you’ll be inviting twenty people here next, and giving them tea,” answered his wife. “I didn’t invite him; he came.”