dy and dreary. Amid a heavy cloud of dust
an enormous crowd of people, winding like a black ribbon, followed
the coffin of Ignat Gordyeeff. Here and there flashed the gold of the
priest's robes, and the dull noise of the slow movement of the crowd
blended in harmony with the solemn music of the choir, composed of the
bishop's choristers. Foma was pushed from behind and from the sides; he
walked, seeing nothing but the gray head of his father, and the mournful
singing resounded in his heart like a melancholy echo. And Mayakin,
walking beside him, kept on intrusively whispering in his ears:

"Look, what a crowd--thousands! The governor himself came out to
accompany your father to the church, the mayor, and almost the entire
city council. And behind you--just turn around! There goes Sophya
Pavlovna. The town pays its respects to Ignat."

At first Foma did not listen to his godfather's whisper, but when he
mentioned Medinskaya, he involuntarily looked back and noticed the
governor. A little drop of something pleasant fell into his heart at
the sight of this important personage, with a bright ribbon across
his shoulder, with orders on his breast, pacing after the coffin, an
expression of sorrow on his stern countenance.

"Blessed is the road where this soul goeth today," Yakov Tarasovich
hummed softly, moving his nose, and he again whispered in his godson's
ear:

"Seventy-five thousand roubles is such a sum that you can demand so many
escorts for it. Have you heard that Sonka is making arrangements for the
laying of the corner-stone on the fifteenth? Just forty days after the
death of your father."

Foma again turned back, and his eyes met the eyes of Medinskaya. He
heaved a deep sigh at her caressing glance, and felt relieved at once,
as if a warm ray of light penetrated his soul and something melted
there. And then and there he considered that it was unbecoming him to
turn his head from side to side.

At church Foma's head began to ache, and it seemed to him that
everything around and underneath him was shaking. In the stifling air,
filled with dust, with the breathing of the people and the smoke of
the incense, the flames of the candles were timidly trembling. The meek
image of Christ looked down at him from the big ikon, and the flames
of the candles, reflected in the tarnished gold of the crown over the
Saviour's brow, reminded him of drops of blood.

Foma's awakened soul was greedily feeding itself on the solem