A.P. Chekhov - Choristers
THE Justice of the Peace, who had received a letter from
Petersburg, had set the news going that the owner of Yefremovo,
Count Vladimir Ivanovitch, would soon be arriving. When he would
arrive -- there was no saying.
"Like a thief in the night," said Father Kuzma, a grey-headed
little priest in a lilac cassock. "And when he does come the
place will be crowded with the nobility and other high gentry.
All the neighbours will flock here. Mind now, do your best,
Alexey Alexeitch. . . . I beg you most earnestly."
"You need not trouble about me," said Alexey Alexeitch,
frowning. "I know my business. If only my enemy intones the
litany in the right key. He may . . . out of sheer spite. . . ."
"There, there. . . . I'll persuade the deacon. . . I'll persuade
Alexey Alexeitch was the sacristan of the Yefremovo church. He
also taught the schoolboys church and secular singing, for which
he received sixty roubles a year from the revenues of the
Count's estate. The schoolboys were bound to sing in church in
return for their teaching. Alexey Alexeitch was a tall,
thick-set man of dignified deportment, with a fat, clean-shaven
face that reminded one of a cow's udder. His imposing figure and
double chin made him look like a man occupying an important
position in the secular hierarchy rather than a sacristan. It
was strange to see him, so dignified and imposing, flop to the
ground before the bishop and, on one occasion, after too loud a
squabble with the deacon Yevlampy Avdiessov, remain on his knees
for two hours by order of the head priest of the district.
Grandeur was more in keeping with his figure than humiliation.
On account of the rumours of the Count's approaching visit he
had a choir practice every day, morning and evening. The choir
practice was held at the school. It did not interfere much with
the school work. During the practice the schoolmaster, Sergey
Makaritch, set the children writing copies while he joined the
tenors as an amateur.
This is how the choir practice was conducted. Alexey Alexeitch
would come into the school-room, slamming the door and blowing
his nose. The trebles and altos extricated themselves noisily
from the school-tables. The tenors and basses, who had been
waiting for some time in the yard, came in, tramping like
horses. They all took their places. Alexey Alexeitch drew
himself up, made a sign to enforce silence, and struck a note
with the tuning fork.
"To-to-li-to-tom . . . Do-mi-sol-do!"
"Adagio, adagio. . . . Once more."
After the "Amen" there followed "Lord have mercy upon us" from
the Great Litany. All this had been learned long ago, sung a
thousand times and thoroughly digested, and it was gone through
simply as a formality. It was sung indolently, unconsciously.
Alexey Alexeitch waved his arms calmly and chimed in now in a
tenor, now in a bass voice. It was all slow, there was nothing
interesting. . . . But before the "Cherubim" hymn the whole
choir suddenly began blowing their noses, coughing and zealously
turning the pages of their music. The sacristan turned his back
on the choir and with a mysterious expression on his face began
tuning his violin. The preparations lasted a couple of minutes.
"Take your places. Look at your music carefully. . . . Basses,
don't overdo it . . . rather softly."
Bortnyansky's "Cherubim" hymn, No. 7, was selected. At a given
signal silence prevailed. All eyes were fastened on the music,
the trebles opened their mouths. Alexey Alexeitch softly lowered
"Piano . . . piano. . . . You see 'piano' is written there. . .
. More lightly, more lightly."
When they had to sing "piano" an expression of benevolence and
amiability overspread Alexey Alexeitch's face, as though he was
dreaming of a dainty morsel.
"Forte . . . forte! Hold it!"
And when they had to sing "forte" the sacristan's fat face
expressed alarm and even horror.
The "Cherubim" hymn was sung well, so well that the
school-children abandoned their copies and fell to watching the
movements of Alexey Alexeitch. People stood under the windows.
The schoolwatchman, Vassily, came in wearing an apron and
carrying a dinner-knife in his hand and stood listening. Father
Kuzma, with an anxious face appeared suddenly as though he had
sprung from out of the earth. . . . After 'Let us lay aside all
earthly cares' Alexey Alexeitch wiped the sweat off his brow and
went up to Father Kuzma in excitement.
"It puzzles me, Father Kuzma," he said, shrugging his shoulders,
"why is it that the Russian people have no understanding? It
puzzles me, may the Lord chastise me! Such an uncultured people
that you really cannot tell whether they have a windpipe in
their throats or some other sort of internal arrangement. Were
you choking, or what?" he asked, addressing the bass Gennady
Semitchov, the innkeeper's brother.
"What is your voice like? It rattles like a saucepan. I bet you
were boozing yesterday! That's what it is! Your breath smells
like a tavern. . . . E-ech! You are a clodhopper, brother! You
are a lout! How can you be a chorister if you keep company with
peasants in the tavern? Ech, you are an ass, brother!"
"It's a sin, it's a sin, brother," muttered Father Kuzma. "God
sees everything . . . through and through . . . ."
"That's why you have no idea of singing -- because you care more
for vodka than for godliness, you fool."
"Don't work yourself up," said Father Kuzma. "Don't be cross. .
. . I will persuade him."
Father Kuzma went up to Gennady Semitchov and began "persuading"
him: "What do you do it for? Try and put your mind to it. A man
who sings ought to restrain himself, because his throat is . . .
er . . tender."
Gennady scratched his neck and looked sideways towards the
window as though the words did not apply to him.
After the "Cherubim" hymn they sang the Creed, then "It is meet
and right"; they sang smoothly and with feeling, and so right on
to "Our Father."
"To my mind, Father Kuzma," said the sacristan, "the old 'Our
Father' is better than the modern. That's what we ought to sing
before the Count."
"No, no. . . . Sing the modern one. For the Count hears nothing
but modern music when he goes to Mass in Petersburg or Moscow. .
. . In the churches there, I imagine . . . there's very
different sort of music there, brother!"
After "Our Father" there was again a great blowing of noses,
coughing and turning over of pages. The most difficult part of
the performance came next: the "concert." Alexey Alexeitch was
practising two pieces, "Who is the God of glory" and "Universal
Praise." Whichever the choir learned best would be sung before
the Count. During the "concert" the sacristan rose to a pitch of
enthusiasm. The expression of benevolence was continually
alternating with one of alarm.
"Forte!" he muttered. "Andante! let yourselves go! Sing, you
image! Tenors, you don't bring it off! To-to-ti-to-tom. . . .
Sol . . . si . . . sol, I tell you, you blockhead! Glory!
Basses, glo . . . o . . . ry."
His bow travelled over the heads and shoulders of the erring
trebles and altos. His left hand was continually pulling the
ears of the young singers. On one occasion, carried away by his
feelings he flipped the bass Gennady under the chin with his
bent thumb. But the choristers were not moved to tears or to
anger at his blows: they realised the full gravity of their
After the "concert" came a minute of silence. Alexey Alexeitch,
red, perspiring and exhausted, sat down on the window-sill, and
turned upon the company lustreless, wearied, but triumphant
eyes. In the listening crowd he observed to his immense
annoyance the deacon Avdiessov. The deacon, a tall thick-set man
with a red pock-marked face, and straw in his hair, stood
leaning against the stove and grinning contemptuously.
"That's right, sing away! Perform your music!" he muttered in a
deep bass. "Much the Count will care for your singing! He
doesn't care whether you sing with music or without. . . . For
he is an atheist."
Father Kuzma looked round in a scared way and twiddled his
"Come, come," he muttered. "Hush, deacon, I beg."
After the "concert" they sang "May our lips be filled with
praise," and the choir practice was over. The choir broke up to
reassemble in the evening for another practice. And so it went
on every day.
One month passed and then a second. . . . The steward, too, had
by then received a notice that the Count would soon be coming.
At last the dusty sun-blinds were taken off the windows of the
big house, and Yefremovo heard the strains of the broken-down,
out-of-tune piano. Father Kuzma was pining, though he could not
himself have said why, or whether it was from delight or alarm.
. . . The deacon went about grinning.
The following Saturday evening Father Kuzma went to the
sacristan's lodgings. His face was pale, his shoulders drooped,
the lilac of his cassock looked faded.
"I have just been at his Excellency's," he said to the
sacristan, stammering. "He is a cultivated gentleman with
refined ideas. But . . . er . . . it's mortifying, brother. . .
. 'At what o'clock, your Excellency, do you desire us to ring
for Mass to-morrow?' And he said: 'As you think best. Only,
couldn't it be as short and quick as possible without a choir.'
Without a choir! Er . . . do you understand, without, without a
choir. . . ."
Alexey Alexeitch turned crimson. He would rather have spent two
hours on his knees again than have heard those words! He did not
sleep all night. He was not so much mortified at the waste of
his labours as at the fact that the deacon would give him no
peace now with his jeers. The deacon was delighted at his
discomfiture. Next day all through the service he was casting
disdainful glances towards the choir where Alexey Alexeitch was
booming responses in solitude. When he passed by the choir with
the censer he muttered:
"Perform your music! Do your utmost! The Count will give a
ten-rouble note to the choir!"
After the service the sacristan went home, crushed and ill with
mortification. At the gate he was overtaken by the red-faced
"Stop a minute, Alyosha!" said the deacon. "Stop a minute,
silly, don't be cross! You are not the only one, I am in for it
too! Immediately after the Mass Father Kuzma went up to the
Count and asked: 'And what did you think of the deacon's voice,
your Excellency. He has a deep bass, hasn't he?' And the Count
-- do you know what he answered by way of compliment? 'Anyone
can bawl,' he said. 'A man's voice is not as important as his
brains.' A learned gentleman from Petersburg! An atheist is an
atheist, and that's all about it! Come, brother in misfortune,
let us go and have a drop to drown our troubles!"
And the enemies went out of the gate arm-in-arm.
Like a thief in the night: 1 Thessalonians 5:2