which, as usual, he made the sign of the cross or bowed until he touched
the floor with his hand [A custom of the Greek funeral rite.] or took
the candle from the priest or went to the coffin--all were exceedingly
effective; yet for some reason or another I felt a grudge against him
for that very ability to appear effective at such a moment. Mimi stood
leaning against the wall as though scarcely able to support herself. Her
dress was all awry and covered with feathers, and her cap cocked to one
side, while her eyes were red with weeping, her legs trembling under
her, and she sobbed incessantly in a heartrending manner as ever and
again she buried her face in her handkerchief or her hands. I imagine
that she did this to check her continual sobbing without being seen by
the spectators. I remember, too, her telling Papa, the evening before,
that Mamma's death had come upon her as a blow from which she could
never hope to recover; that with Mamma she had lost everything; but that
'the angel,' as she called my mother, had not forgotten her when at the
point of death, since she had declared her wish to render her (Mimi's)
and Katenka's fortunes secure for ever. Mimi had shed bitter tears
while relating this, and very likely her sorrow, if not wholly pure and
disinterested, was in the main sincere. Lubotshka, in black garments
and suffused with tears, stood with her head bowed upon her breast. She
rarely looked at the coffin, yet whenever she did so her face expressed
a sort of childish fear. Katenka stood near her mother, and, despite
her lengthened face, looked as lovely as ever. Woloda's frank nature
was frank also in grief. He stood looking grave and as though he were
staring at some object with fixed eyes. Then suddenly his lips would
begin to quiver, and he would hastily make the sign of the cross, and
bend his head again.
Such of those present as were strangers I found intolerable. In fact,
the phrases of condolence with which they addressed Papa (such, for
instance, as that 'she is better off now' 'she was too good for this
world,' and so on) awakened in me something like fury. What right had
they to weep over or to talk about her? Some of them, in referring to
ourselves, called us 'orphans'--just as though it were not a matter of
common knowledge that children who have lost their mother are known as
orphans! Probably (I thought) they liked to be the first to give us that
name, just as some people find pleasure in being the first to address a
newly-married girl as 'Madame.'
In a far corner of the room, and almost hidden by the open door, of the
dining-room, stood a grey old woman with bent knees. With hands clasped
together and eyes lifted to heaven, she prayed only--not wept. Her soul
was in the presence of God, and she was asking Him soon to reunite her
to her whom she had loved beyond all beings on this earth, and whom she
steadfastly believed that she would very soon meet again.
'There stands one who SINCERELY loved her,' I thought to myself, and
felt ashamed.
The requiem was over. They uncovered the face of the deceased, and all
present except ourselves went to the coffin to give her the kiss of
farewell.
One of the last to take leave of her departed mistress was a peasant
woman who was holding by the hand a pretty little girl of five whom she
had brought with her, God knows for what reason. Just at a moment when
I chanced to drop my wet handkerchief and was stooping to pick it up
