“There, there; get along with you.” “Well, but, really, you might——” “Shut up!” “All right, I won’t, I won’t really.” And the choir-master returned into the sitting-room, and sat down beside the deacon. “Well, Vasìli Ivànych, and how are you getting on?” “Pretty middling, thank you,” answered the deacon, coughing. “Won’t you really have a pipe?” “No, thanks.” “Ah, I forgot, you don’t smoke pipes; and I have no cigars. Dear, dear, what a pity! And is your wife pretty well, and the children?” “Very well, thank you.” “That’s all right.” “And how’s the reverend father?” “The father? Oh, as usual, you know.” “Not well?” “He doesn’t like this place; there’s such a lot of work, and at his age it’s hard.” “Yes, yes, he’s getting on. Yes, it’s a pity.” Silence. “Won’t you have some whiskey?” suddenly asked the choir-master. “Whiskey? Oh, no, thank you, no.” “As you like. I’ll send for it, if you wish.” “Why should you—trouble?” “Oh, it’s no trouble. I’ll send, then.” The deacon coughed again, much as if a crumb had got into his throat, and carefully examined the ceiling. “Fèkla!” called the choir-master rather timidly. There was no answer. Several minutes of embarrassing silence followed. The tenors and basses cautiously seated themselves round the walls, while in the bedroom the furniture creaked angrily; the boys whispered in the ante-room. The choir-master sat looking at the door, but, seeing that the servant did not come, muttered to himself: “What’s come to her?” and went into the bedroom. There another whispered conversation began. “Can’t you understand?” exclaimed the choir-master, trying to impress upon his wife the necessity of sending for whiskey. “There’s nothing to understand. I know you’re always glad of a chance to get drunk with anybody. What’s the use of trying to fool me?” “Sh-sh! How am I trying to fool you? Can’t you see that my reputation may suffer?” “From the drink? Yes, I should think so. Be off with you—be off!” “Now, really, Màshenka, do be reasonable.” Presently the choir-master returned, and after him came the maid-servant, carrying a tray with a decanter and a plate of cucumbers. “Ah-h! Put it down here, my girl. Vasìli Ivànych, the first glass is yours.” “Won’t you drink too?” “You first; you are a guest.” “Properly, the master of the house ought to begin,” said the deacon, modestly. “No, no, you first, please. I’ll drink afterwards.” “Well, if you will have it so....” The deacon drained his glass, drew a long breath, snuffed at a bit of bread, and began upon a cucumber. “Yes, this music is a wonderful thing,” began the choir-master, pouring himself out some whiskey. “It’s a thing there’s no comprehending. Won’t you have another glass?” “H’m. Well, I’m afraid it’ll be too much.” “Oh, Vasìli Ivànych, no!” “Well, then, you begin.” And the former ceremony was gone through again. “Your health!” “Yours!”