CHOIR PRACTICE.

CHOIR PRACTICE.

BYV. A. Slyeptzòv.

BYV. A. Slyeptzòv.

BY

V. A. Slyeptzòv.

At about six in the evening the singers assembled at the choir-master’s house. After rubbing their boots on the mat in the hall, they went into the ante-room, whichcontained an old rickety sofa, a wardrobe, and a fat chest of drawers. For want of room the out-of-door garments were flung in a heap on the sofa or chest of drawers. Here, too, there was a sort of mat on the floor, upon which the singers were expected to rub their feet. At the door leading into the inner room stood the choir-master himself—a man of about forty, of middle height, with an expressive face and short-cropped whiskers. He stood in his dressing-gown with a pipe in his hand, watching to see that the singers rubbed their boots properly. In the inner room, on the table, burned one tallow candle, dimly lighting up a large stove in the corner, a sofa, a piano covered with music, a red wooden cheffonier, several chairs, and a violin hanging on the wall. On the opposite wall hung a portrait of the Metropolitan Filarèt, a clock, and a starched shirt-front. The room was crowded and musty, smelling of stale tobacco, and when any one coughed, the lack of resonance became noticeable. On entering the room the singers bowed, blew their noses (we will not inquire how), and sat down silently. They came in not all together, but in little groups; and every time that the rubbing of boots and blowing of noses was heard in the ante-room, the choir-master would ask—

“Now, are you all here?”

Then a voice would answer from the dark ante-room—

“Not yet, sir.”

“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’sCredo.”

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 throughThe Gates of Mercywith 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’replaced 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 beginpiano: ‘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?”

“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 thenceHe 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 anotherdiminuendo, 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 hairsticking 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.”...

“Legato!Hold the note.... Break off! Basses,crescendo.... Ivàn Pàvlovich, as loud as you can. ‘By whom all things were made.’... What do you stop for? Oh, dear, oh, dear; whatamI to do with you? Look this way, I tell you; look this way! I didn’t tell you to look atme; there’s nothing written on me!” cried the choir-master desperately, tapping the music.

The singers looked at him in a languid, careless way, and he began to lose his temper. Suddenly one of the trebles pulled another’s ear, which instantly resulted in a quarrel.

“Ivàn Stepànych,” said one of the most troublesome, “I can’t sing with Mìtka; he keeps on snuffling all the time.”

“Mìtka!”

“Yes, sir!”

“What are you doing?”

“I haven’t done nothing,” replied the injured alto.

“Nothing! I’ll give you what for, my lad! Come and stand over here; I won’t put up with much nonsense, I can tell you! Oh, good Lord! what a dog’s life! What do you come here for, if you please? To dance and sing comic songs, eh? Oh, heavens, how much more of it?... Pètka, find my pipe!”

Here the choir-master began tramping up and down the room, ruffling up his hair in front. The trebles all scrambled to pick up the pipe, and, of course, got fighting again; the rest of the choir broke into little groups and talked.

“Confounded idiot!” muttered the stubbly-haired bass, rolling up a bit of music-paper into a cigarette. “He’s a regular brute, that’s what he is!”

In a corner sat two basses and a thin, consumptive tenor.

“I’ve sung through four services this blessed day,” one of the basses was saying, “and I’m downright tired of it; my throat’s quite sore. First I sang at the early service, then in another church at high mass, then at vespers at the Holy Virgin’s church, and then at a funeral. I got Kouznetzòv to come to the Holy Virgin’s, and we had a rare lark with the deacon;—I told him we would! I tell you, that deacon won’t forget us in a hurry—the way we put him out! When he started on one note, we got on to another. You know, he always tries to take ‘Give ear’ as high as he can, so as not to have to take the octave—his voice is fit for nothing;—so when we started ‘Glory be to Thee’ a whole tone lower, he was just done for. ‘For ever and ev——’ and there he stuck—couldn’t get a word out for the life of him. And that scamp Kouznetzòv, there he stood saying his prayers as if it wasn’t his doing a bit; bowing and crossing himself, as pious as you please. I nearly died of laughing. Oh, and what a rage the priest is in—my word! After service the deacon came up to the chancel, and says he: ‘Wait a bit, my fine fellow; I’llserve you a trick.’... But that’s all nonsense. What can he do to him?”

“But what did the priest say?” asked the consumptive tenor.

“What’s it to him? He said, ‘I’m not going to take that deacon’s part.’ So you see, we can do as we like.”

“Get to your places; make haste,” interrupted the choir-master’s voice. “Koulìkov! ‘We sing to Thee.’ Trebles hold your tongues!”

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, thetenors “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.

“AT LAST THEY GOT INTO SWING.”

“AT LAST THEY GOT INTO SWING.”

“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.”

“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?” andwent 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!”

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!”

“No, no. I’ll send for some more. One of the boys’ll run for it quick. She won’t know. Secretly; d’you see? There’s no difficulty. Own money.... Just see there,” and the choir-master pulled a rouble note out of his waistcoat pocket.

“Only do as I tell you! It’s all according to law.... D’you see?”

The deacon nodded his head and laid down his hat. At this the choir-master clapped him on the shoulder and winked significantly.

“Pètia!” he whispered, going into the ante-room, and shaking a slumbering treble. “Pètia, make haste! Like a flash of lightning, you know—to the publichouse. Off with you!”

Five minutes later the choir-master was pouring out a sixth glass for the deacon. It was only then that he suddenly remembered the tenors and basses, who, not able to endure this sight any longer, had in sheer desperation made up their minds to go home.

“Come along, come along! What are you afraid of?” said the choir-master, with a faint attempt to keep up his dignity in the eyes of his subordinates. The singers started, and one after another came up to the table. Koustòdiev took a glass, looked at it, held it up to the light, and suddenly, as if struck with a new idea, turned it upside down into his mouth, without eating anything.

“Pàvel Ivànovich, and you?”

Pàvel Ivànovich modestly declined.

“Why?”

“Thanks, I won’t take any.”

“Stuff and nonsense! Why not?”

“N—no, I ... really——”

“Rubbish!”

“No; you must excuse me. I have taken a pledge.”

“When?”

“More than a month ago.”

“As you like.”

Pàvel Ivànovich reddened and sat down; the other singers began to make fun of him. The choir-master, meanwhile, had worked himself up to such a condition of temerity that he no longer took any notice of the ominous symptoms of an approaching domestic storm which were plainly audiblefrom the bedroom. By the time the second pint of spirit was finished the singers had arrived at the stage of walking unceremoniously up and down the room, and had begun to talk so loud that their conversation sounded remarkably like quarrelling. The room grew close and stifling, the candle began to flare, the deacon’s cigar-smoke got into the people’s eyes. The choir-master, holding the deacon by his coat-button, assured him for the tenth time (à proposof nothing) that his wife was an angel, and that but for her he should have come to utter ruin. The conversation then jumped with extraordinary rapidity back to music, and the deacon affirmed that C sharp major and G minor are the same, and that the whole thing depends upon how you breathe, and finally proved to demonstration that “all these composers” ought long ago to have been kicked down stairs. Notwithstanding all this, the choir-master once more went into the ante-room, waked Pètia, and sent him for a third pint.

“No, no; wait a bit! Just hear what I tell you!” yelled the choir-master, holding the deacon by the coat.

“All that’s idle talk.”

“No, no; I’ll prove it,” shrieked the choir-master. “See now! Where is my music got to? Ah, there now, I forgot to send for the supper ... Fèkla!”

The angry face of the maid-servant appeared at the door.

“Fèkla!” said the choir-master in a stern voice, trying hard not to stagger; “go and fetch some cucumbers.”

“Missis told me not.”

“Then you won’t go?”

“No, I won’t.”

“Then you’re a pig. I’ll go myself.”

“Go then! Missis’ll give you what for.”

However, after thinking it over, the choir-master decided not to go, and only shouted at her:

“Be off with you! Yah! Scandalmonger!”

“THE DEACON WENT HOME.”

“THE DEACON WENT HOME.”

“THE DEACON WENT HOME.”

The servant went away. Presently a third pint was brought in and the basses and tenors once more crowded round the decanter. Suddenly the choir-master quite unexpectedly sat down at the piano, struck a few chords, and shouted: “Get to your places!” The sleepy boys came in from the ante-room, and the whole choir stood in a crowd together.

“See, the light is dying,See, the time is flying....”[59]

“See, the light is dying,See, the time is flying....”[59]

“See, the light is dying,See, the time is flying....”[59]

“See, the light is dying,

See, the time is flying....”[59]

yelled the choir-master, hammering unmercifully on the keys.

“The lasses went to the fields to play,Among the grasses and flowers gay.”[59]

“The lasses went to the fields to play,Among the grasses and flowers gay.”[59]

“The lasses went to the fields to play,Among the grasses and flowers gay.”[59]

“The lasses went to the fields to play,

Among the grasses and flowers gay.”[59]

bellowed the choir.

“Oh, my bonny blue kirtle!”[59]

“Oh, my bonny blue kirtle!”[59]

“Oh, my bonny blue kirtle!”[59]

“Oh, my bonny blue kirtle!”[59]

howled the tipsy deacon, swinging his legs under the table.

“In the name of law and order!” shrieked the choir-master. “Basses, out with your tone!Crescendo! Crescendo!”

At about eleven o’clock at night the deacon was hunting for his galoshes in the ante-room. For a long time he could not find them; at last he stuck his foot into somebody’s cap, which happened to be lying on the floor, and went home.

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