She had become very affectionate towards me since she was taken ill
and even seemed to love me as much as she did my sister. Very often she
looked at me steadily for a long time with a sort of surprise. She had
never wept before her illness, but now she cried every day and I guess
why. She was sorry she hadn't loved me before this and was remorseful
at having forgotten Father, and maybe begging forgiveness for
Scaramouch and for all that he had done to us. But a sort of stupefaction
came over me. I couldn't put my hand to anything and my mind was a
blank. Our last conversation together was like that too-neither I nor she
had uttered a word. She only beckoned me and took my hand, shaking
her head and trying hard to control her quivering lips. I realised that she
wanted to say goodbye. But I stood there like a block of wood with my
head lowered, staring doggedly down at the floor.
The next day she died.
My stepfather, in full dress uniform, with a rifle slung over his
shoulder and a hand grenade at his belt, stood in the passage weeping,
but no one paid any attention to him.
On the day of the funeral my sister had a headache and was made to
stay at home. My stepfather, who had been called out to his battalion
that morning, was late for the carrying-out, and after waiting a good two
hours for him, we set out behind the coffin on our own— 'we' being
Skovorodnikov, Aunt Dasha and myself.
They walked. Aunt Dasha holding on to an iron ring to keep from
lagging behind, while me they sat in the hearse.
As we were passing through Market Square I saw a sentry standing at
the gates of the 'Chambers' and some men in civilian clothes bustling
37
about in the garden behind the railings, one of them dragging a machine
gun. The shops were closed, the streets deserted, and after Sergievsky
Street we did not meet a soul. What was the matter?
The hearse driver in his dirty robe was in a hurry and kept whipping
up the horse. It was all Aunt Dasha and Skovorodnikov could do to keep
up with it. We came out onto Posadsky Common-a muddy patch of
wasteland between the town and Posad suburb leading down to the
river across Mill Bridge. A short sharp crackle rang out in the distance;
the driver cast a frightened glance over his shoulder and hesitantly
raised his whip. Aunt Dasha caught up with us and started to scold.
'Man alive! Are you crazy? You're not carting firewood!' 'There's
shooting over there,' the driver growled. A path was dug out in the
hillside leading down to the river, and we drove down it for several
minutes without seeing anything on the sides. They were shooting
somewhere, but less and less frequently. Mill Bridge, from which I had
often fished for gudgeon, came into view. Suddenly the driver stood up
and lashed out at the horse; it dashed off and we raced along the bank,
leaving Skovorodnikov and Aunt Dasha far behind.
It must have been bullets, because chips of wood flew from the hearse
and one of them hit me in the face. The carved wooden upright I was
gripping for support creaked, shook loose and fell into the roadway as
the hearse jolted. I heard Skovorodnikov shouting somewhere behind
us, and Aunt Dasha scolding in a tearful voice.
Pulling his cap down lower and twirling his whip over his head, the
driver drove the horse straight towards the bridge, as though he couldn't
see that the approach to it was blocked with logs, planks and bricks. The
horse reared, and stopped dead in its tracks.
Among the men who ran out from behind this barrier I recognised the
compositor who had rented a room the previous summer at the fortune-
teller's in the next yard to ours. He was carrying a rifle and inside the
leather belt, which looked so odd over an ordinary overcoat, he wore a
service revolver. They were all armed, some even with swords.
The driver clambered down, hitched up the skirt of Us robe, stuck his
whip into his high boot and began to swear.
'What the hell-couldn't you see it's a funeral? You nearly shot my
horse!'
'We weren't shooting, you came under the cadets' fire,' the
compositor said. 'And couldn't you see there was a barricade here, you
dolt?'
'What's your name?' the driver shouted. 'You'll answer for this!
Who's going to pay for repairs?' He walked round the hearse, touching
the damaged places. 'You've smashed one o' the spokes!'
'Fool!' the compositor said again. 'Didn't I tell you it wasn't us! Why
should we fire on coffins! Fathead!'
'Who are you burying, lad?' an elderly man in a tall fur cap, on which
hung a piece of red ribbon in place of a cockade, asked me quietly.
'My mother,' I brought out with difficulty.
He took off his cap.
'Quiet there, comrades,' he said. 'This is a funeral. This boy here is
burying his mother. You ought to know better.'
They all stared at me. I must have looked pretty wretched because,
when everything was patched up and Aunt Dasha, weeping, had caught
38
up with us, and we had driven onto the bridge through the mill, I found
in the pocket of my coat two lumps of sugar and a white biscuit.
Tired out, we returned home after the funeral by way of the opposite
bank.
There was a glow in the sky over the town: the barracks of the
Krasnoyarsk Regiment were on fire. At the pontoon bridge
Skovorodnikov hailed a man of his acquaintance who was on point-
duty, and they started a long conversation, from which I understood
nothing: someone somewhere had pulled up the track, a cavalry corps
was making for Petrograd, and the Death Battalion was holding the
railway station. The name 'Kerensky' kept cropping up all the time with
various additions. I could hardly stand on my feet, and Aunt Dasha
moaned and sighed.
My sister was asleep when we returned. Without undressing, I sat
down next to her on the bed.
