Marfutkin,
the president of the Zemstvo, Potrashkov, the permanent member of
the Rural Board, the two justices of the peace of the district, the
police captain, Krinolinov, two police-superintendents, the district
doctor, Dvornyagin, smelling of iodoform, all the landowners, great
and small, and so on. There are about fifty people assembled in
all.

Precisely at twelve o'clock, the visitors, with long faces, make
their way from all the rooms to the big hall. There are carpets on
the floor and their steps are noiseless, but the solemnity of the
occasion makes them instinctively walk on tip-toe, holding out their
hands to balance themselves. In the hall everything is already
prepared. Father Yevmeny, a little old man in a high faded cap,
puts on his black vestments. Konkordiev, the deacon, already in his
vestments, and as red as a crab, is noiselessly turning over the
leaves of his missal and putting slips of paper in it. At the door
leading to the vestibule, Luka, the sacristan, puffing out his
cheeks and making round eyes, blows up the censer. The hall is
gradually filled with bluish transparent smoke and the smell of
incense.

Gelikonsky, the elementary schoolmaster, a young man with big pimples
on his frightened face, wearing a new greatcoat like a sack, carries
round wax candles on a silver-plated tray. The hostess, Lyubov
Petrovna, stands in the front by a little table with a dish of
funeral rice on it, and holds her handkerchief in readiness to her
face. There is a profound stillness, broken from time to time by
sighs. Everybody has a long, solemn face. . . .

The requiem service begins. The blue smoke curls up from the censer
and plays in the slanting sunbeams, the lighted candles faintly
splutter. The singing, at first harsh and deafening, soon becomes
quiet and musical as the choir gradually adapt themselves to the
acoustic conditions of the rooms. . . . The tunes are all mournful
and sad. . . . The guests are gradually brought to a melancholy
mood and grow pensive. Thoughts of the brevity of human life, of
mutability, of worldly vanity stray through their brains. . . .
They recall the deceased Zavzyatov, a thick-set, red-cheeked man
who used to drink off a bottle of champagne at one gulp and smash
looking-glasses with his forehead. And when they sing "With Thy
Saints, O Lord," and the sobs of their hostess are audible, the
guests shift uneasily from one foot to the other. The more emotional
begin to feel