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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. "Why?" "What is your voice like? It rattles like a saucepan. I bet you were boozing yesterday! That's what it is!
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 task. After the "concert" came a minute of silence.
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."
"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.
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