Matvey's face was beaming with delight; he sang stretching out his
neck as though he wanted to soar upwards. He sang tenor and chanted
the "Praises" too in a tenor voice with honied sweetness and
persuasiveness. When he sang "Archangel Voices" he waved his arms
like a conductor, and trying to second the sacristan's hollow bass
with his tenor, achieved something extremely complex, and from his
face it could be seen that he was experiencing great pleasure.

At last the service was over, and they all quietly dispersed, and
it was dark and empty again, and there followed that hush which is
only known in stations that stand solitary in the open country or
in the forest when the wind howls and nothing else is heard and
when all the emptiness around, all the dreariness of life slowly
ebbing away is felt.

Matvey lived not far from the station at his cousin's tavern. But
he did not want to go home. He sat down at the refreshment bar and
began talking to the waiter in a low voice.

"We had our own choir in the tile factory. And I must tell you that
though we were only workmen, our singing was first-rate, splendid.
We were often invited to the town, and when the Deputy Bishop,
Father Ivan, took the service at Trinity Church, the bishop's singers
sang in the right choir and we in the left. Only they complained
in the town that we kept the singing on too long: 'the factory choir
drag it out,' they used to say. It is true we began St. Andrey's
prayers and the Praises between six and seven, and it was past
eleven when we finished, so that it was sometimes after midnight
when we got home to the factory. It was good," sighed Matvey. "Very
good it was, indeed, Sergey Nikanoritch! But here in my father's