Thomas Hardy. Absent-Mindedness in a Parish Choir (in English, in the original)

Thomas Hardy is an famous English writer of the Victorian England. He wrote mostly about the tragic fate of the English woman in those times and was noted for his brillant novel «Tess of the D’Urbervilles».

Short stories by Thomas Hardy are less known but are definitely worth reading. Especially because they are exciting and have unusual plots. Most of them are really sad but the story «Absent-Mindedness in a Parish Choir», which is availiable for reading below is a hilarious one. You will get the real pleasure!

Short stories by Thomas Hardy and his most crazy story

«Absent-Mindedness in a Parish Choir» (in English, in the original)

It happened on Sunday after Christmas — the last Sunday ever they played in Longpuddle church gallery, as it turned out, though they didn’t know it then. As you may know, sir, the players formed a very good band — almost as good as the Mellstock parish players that were led by the Dewys; and that’s saying a great deal. There was Nicholas Puddingcome, the leader, with the first fiddle; there was Timothy Thomas, the bass-viol man; John Biles, the tenor fiddler; Daniel Hornhead, with the serpent; Robert Dowdle, with the clarionet; and Mr. Nicks, with the oboe — all sound and powerful musicians, and strong-winded men — they that blowed.

Enjoy this story in Russian (two translations) — Томас Гарди. Сумасшедшая ночь в церкви

For that reason they were very much in demand Christmas week for little reels and dancing parties; for they could turn a jig or a hornpipe out of hand as well as ever they could turn out a psalm, and perhaps better, not to speak irreverent. In short, one half-hour they could be playing a Christmas carol in the squire’s hall to the ladies and gentlemen, and drinking tay and coffee with ’em as modest as saints; and the next, at The Tinker’s Arms, blazing away like wild horses with the «Dashing White Sergeant» to nine couple of dancers and more, and swallowing rum-and-cider hot as flame.

Well, this Christmas they’d been out to one rattling randy after another every night, and had got next to no sleep at all. Then came the Sunday after Christmas, their fatal day. ‘Twas so mortal cold that year that they could hardly sit in the gallery; for though the congregation down in the body of the church had a stove to keep off the frost, the players in the gallery had nothing at all. So Nicholas said at morning service, when ’twas freezing an inch an hour, «Please the Lord I won’t stand this numbing weather no longer: this afternoon we’ll have something in our insides to make us warm, if it cost a king’s ransom.»

So he brought a gallon of hot brandy and beer, ready mixed, to church with him in the afternoon, and by keeping the jar well wrapped up in Timothy Thomas’s bass-viol bag it kept drinkably warm till they wanted it, which was just a thimbleful in the Absolution, and another after the Creed, and the remainder at the beginning of the sermon. When they’d had the last pull they felt quite comfortable and warm, and as the sermon went on — most unfortunately for them it was a long one that afternoon — they fell asleep, every man jack of them; and there they slept on as sound as rocks.

It was a very dark afternoon, and by the end of the sermon all you could see of the inside of the church were the parson’s two candles alongside of him in the pulpit, and his spaking face behind them. The sermon being ended at last, the parson gie’d out the Evening Hymn. But no choir set about sounding up the tune, and the people began to turn their heads to learn the reason why, and then Levi Limpet, a boy who sat in the gallery, nudged Timothy and Nicholas, and said, «Begin! begin!»

«Hey? what?» says Nicholas, starting up; and the church being so dark and his head so muddled he thought he was at the party they had played at all the night before, and away he went, bow and fiddle, at «The Devil among the Tailors,» the favourite jig of our neighbourhood at that time. The rest of the band, being in the same state of mind and nothing doubting, followed their leader with all their strength, according to custom. They poured out that there tune till the lower bass notes of «The Devil among the Tailors» made the cobwebs in the roof shiver like ghosts; then Nicholas, seeing nobody moved, shouted out as he scraped (in his usual commanding way at dances when the folk didn’t know the figures), «Top couples cross hands! And when I make the fiddle squeak at the end, every man kiss his pardner under the mistletoe!»

The boy Levi was so frightened that he bolted down the gallery stairs and out homeward like lightning. The pa’son’s hair fairly stood on end when he heard the evil tune raging through the church, and thinking the choir had gone crazy he held up his hand and said: «Stop, stop, stop! Stop, stop! What’s this?» But they didn’t hear ‘n for the noise of their own playing, and the more he called the louder they played.

Then the folks came out of their pews, wondering down to the ground, and saying: «What do they mean by such wickedness! We shall be consumed like Sodom and Gomorrah!»

Then the squire came out of his pew lined wi’ green baize, where lots of lords and ladies visiting at the house were worshipping along with him, and went and stood in front of the gallery, and shook his fist in the musicians’ faces, saying, «What! In this reverent edifice! What!»

And at last they heard him through their playing, and stopped.

«Never such an insulting, disgraceful thing — never!» says the squire, who couldn’t rule his passion.

«Never!» says the pa’son, who had come down and stood beside him.

«Not if the Angels of Heaven,» says the squire (he was a wickedish man, the squire was, though now for once he happened to be on the Lord’s side) — «not if the Angels of Heaven come down,» he says, «shall one of you villanous players ever sound a note in this church again; for the insult to me, and my family, and my visitors, and God Almighty, that you’ve a-perpetrated this afternoon!»

Then the unfortunate church band came to their senses, and remembered where they were; and ’twas a sight to see Nicholas Pudding come and Timothy Thomas and John Biles creep down the gallery stairs with their fiddles under their arms, and poor Dan’l Hornhead with his serpent, and Robert Dowdle with his clarionet, all looking as little as ninepins; and out they went. The parson might have forgiven them when he learned the truth, but the squire would not. That very week he sent for a barrel-organ that would play two-and-twenty new psalm-tunes, so exact and particular that, however sinful inclined you was, you could play nothing but psalm-tunes whatsomever. He had a really respectable man to turn the winch, as I said, and the old players played no more.


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