In this manner, a flood of books and pamphlets continually poured through Voronok’s house. Sometimes he selected whole libraries, and sent them by trustworthy people through the villages.
Elisaveta and Trirodov found Voronok at home. He did not much resemble a party workman; he was gracious, spoke little, and produced the impression of a reserved, well-trained man. He always wore starched linen, a high collar, a fashionable tie and a bowler hat. He had his hair trimmed short, and his beard was most neatly brushed.
“I will go with you, with pleasure,” said Voronok amiably.
He seized his thin cane, put on his bowler hat, took a cursory glance of himself in the mirror, and said again:
“I’m ready. But perhaps you’d like to rest?”
They declined, and the three of them started off. The painful silence of the bright streets hovered about them stealthily and expectantly. They seemed strangers among these wooden huts, depressing fences, and the tottering little bridges. They wanted to ask:
“Why are we going?”
But this only seemed to bring them closer, and to make the quick beats of their hearts more friendly. The whole picture of the life of the poor was here in all its sordidness; dirty, malicious children played here, and abused each other, and wrangled; a drunkard reeled; grey buckets swung on a grey wooden yoke across the shoulders of a grey woman in a worn grey dress.
There was everyday commonplaceness in the poverty of the house, where lay the hastily prepared yellow corpse. A pale-faced woman stood at its head, and wailed quietly and ceaselessly. Three pale, sandy-haired children came in and looked at the visitors; their gaze was at once strange and stupid, neither joyous nor sad, but dulled forever.
Elisaveta went up to the woman. The blooming, rosy, graceful girl stood at the side of the pale, tear-eyed woman, and was quietly saying something to her; the latter was nodding her head and crooning unnecessary, belated words. Trirodov turned quietly to Voronok:
“Is any money needed?”
Voronok whispered back:
“No, his comrades will bury him. We’ll make a collection among ourselves. Afterwards the family will need some money.”
The day of the funeral arrived. The factories stopped work. There was a clear sky, and under it the turbulent crowd; the light currents of incense streamed in the air, and its sumptuous aroma mingled with the light odour of the smoke that came from the forest cinders. The schoolboys struck and went to the funeral. Some of the schoolgirls came also. The more timid ones remained in school.
The children from Trirodov’s colony decided to come. They brought two wreaths with them. The quiet children came also. They kept by themselves and were silent.
The entire town police were present at the funeral. Even police from outlying districts were here. As always, petty provocateurs lurked among the crowd.
The crowd moved calmly and solemnly. Above it the wreaths swung, the red flowers glimmered vividly, the red ribbons fluttered. The Cossacks rode alongside. There was austerity and suspicion in their looks—they were prepared to suppress any demonstration. The chanting of a prayer could be heard. Each time the subsided chant was renewed, the Cossacks listened with great intentness. No—it was only the prayer again.
Elisaveta and Trirodov walked with the crowd behind the coffin. They spoke of that which enraptures those who seek rapture and frightens those who seek repose. Poignant were Elisaveta’s impressions as she stepped upon the sharp cobblestones of the dusty, littered pavement.
The road was long. The austere harmony was kept up for some time. At last the cemetery was reached. Some dejected moments were passed in waiting by the church. The last services were pronounced hurriedly.
The Cossacks moved about in bustling fashion, and as before formed a circle around the throng.
The coffin was carried out of the church. The wreaths swung once more above the crowd, which moved on chanting.
Suddenly the women’s lament grew louder—the women’s lament above the grave. The instructor Bodeyev then stood at the head of the coffin. He began in his shrilly-thin, but far-carrying voice:
“Comrades, we have gathered today at the grave of our brother. …”
The colonel of the gendarmes went up to him, and said sternly:
“It is forbidden. I must ask you to do without speeches or demonstrations.”
Bodeyev asked in astonishment:
“But why?”
“No, I must ask you not to. It is forbidden,” said the colonel dryly.
Bodeyev shrugged his shoulders and remarked as he moved away:
“I submit to brute strength.”
“To the law,” the officer in the blue uniform corrected him sharply.
The dead man’s comrades, crowding near the grave, followed one another with handfuls of soil, which they threw on the coffin. The damp, heavy soil struck the coffin with a hollow sound.
The grave was being filled up. Everyone stood silently, and as silently left the spot.
Then suddenly a voice was heard.
And in an instant the whole crowd began to sing words of a proud, melancholy, revolutionary song. The Cossacks looked on morosely. The command was given. The Cossacks quickly mounted their horses. The singing stopped abruptly.
Once outside the cemetery gates, Elisaveta said:
“I am hungry!”
“Let’s go to my place,” suggested Trirodov.
“Thank you,” said Elisaveta. “But I’d rather go to some tavern.”
Trirodov looked at her in astonishment, but made no objection. He understood her curiosity.
The tavern was crowded and noisy. Trirodov and Elisaveta sat down near the window, at a small table covered with a dirty, spotted cloth. They ordered cold meat and light beer.
At one of the tables, a young man in a red shirt sat drinking. He was in a boastful mood. Behind
