The deacon drank another glassful and gazed meditatively at the cucumbers. The poor singers looked very miserable. The stubbly-haired bass stared gloomily at the decanter; the tenors tried to distract their minds from temptation by talking together, but the conversation halted. “Koulìkov!” said one. “Well?” “What time is mass to-morrow?” “How should I know? What’s it to you?” “Nothing.” Another tenor was remarking to a friend— “Look here, when you write out music, you ought to put the sharps bigger. I always get wrong.” “All right.” “I shall go home and get to bed,” murmured one of the basses, yawning. The boys in the ante-room had started some game there in the dark. After the third glass the choir-master became sentimental and embraced the deacon. * * * * * The whiskey was nearly all drunk—only two glassfuls were left. The choir-master, holding on to the table with one hand and leaning against the deacon, tried to snuff the candle, but could not. The deacon had got upon his dignity, and would listen to nothing. “Vasìli Ivànych! Vasìli Ivànych!” cried the choir-master, frowning. “No, I won’t, then!” answered the irate deacon. “Won’t you, my friend? Oho! Very well, you remember that. I’ll remind you of it; I’ll remind you!” said the choir-master, threatening him with something unknown. Then, seeing that his menaces had no effect, he suddenly became affectionate. The deacon, pacified, drank another glass. “There now! There’s a good fellow! Kiss me, old man, and let’s be friends. You and I are both ... psalm singers.... We ought to be friends ... eh?” said the choir-master, tapping the deacon on the chest. “I’m not a common sort of man either, I can tell you; you needn’t mind my looking a bit queer.... Just see what a wife I’ve got, eh? She’s a civic councillor’s daughter. D’you understand that?” “’Course I do ... ’tisn’t a syntax ... nothing much to understand.” “Ah! I tell you that woman’s an angel. I’m not worthy of her. I feel myself I’m not. I’ve held an officer’s rank for fifteen years, and I’ve got a medal belonging to me, but all the same I’m not worth her little finger.” An angry murmur came from the bedroom. “There! D’you hear? She’s angry. She doesn’t like to be praised before people. She’s modest. I tell you I never saw any one so modest.... You’ll hardly believe it.... Why, sometimes, when we’re alone——” The sounds from the bedroom grew more threatening. “Ivàn Stepànych, Missis is angry,” said the servant, suddenly entering. “Sh—sh! All right, all right, I won’t,” whispered the frightened husband. “I’m very sorry. I won’t....” The deacon got up to go home. “Vasìli Ivànych! Where are you going? Listen, my dear fellow.” He took the deacon mysteriously into a corner. “What should I listen to? That’s all nonsense!”