actor sighed, making a low bow, falling to his knees and bending so that his hat touched the damp earth.
“What do you mean—they drank it all up?”
“Very simple. They collected the money, put an announcement in the newspapers, and drank it all up. I’m not standing in judgment over them, but that’s how it was.… Angels, to your health! Here’s to your health, and eternal remembrance!”
“As for that, drinking is bad for the health, and eternal remembrance—there’s grief for you! God gives us temporary memories. Who wants an eternal accounting?”
“True, true! Mushkin was a celebrated man. A dozen wreaths followed his coffin, and already he is forgotten! Those he favored have forgotten him, and those who were ill served by him remember him. Myself, I shall never, never forget him, because I never received anything but harm from him. I have no love for the dead man.”
“What harm did he do you?”
“A great deal of harm,” sighed the actor, and an expression of bitterness and outrage spread over his face. “He was a man who sinned against me, a great malefactor, God have mercy on him! Looking at him and listening to him, I became an actor. His art enticed me from my parental home, seduced me with vain artifices, promised much, and left me in tears, sorrowing. An actor’s lot is a bitter one. I lost my youth, I lost sobriety, I lost the divine image. Without a penny in my pocket, down at heels, wearing trousers frayed and patched like a chessboard, and with a face which looked as though it had been gnawed by dogs … My head filled with wild thoughts and inanities … Yes, that robber robbed me of my faith! Maybe there was some talent in me, but I lost all for something not worth a cent. It is cold, gentlemen. You want none of it, eh? Well, there’s enough for everyone! Brrrr … Let us drink to the dear departed! Though I have no love for him, and though he is dead, he’s all I have left in the world. This is the last time I’ll ever pay him a visit. The doctors say I’ll soon be dead from alcoholism, and so I have come to bid him my last farewell. One should forgive one’s enemies!”
We left the actor holding converse with the dead Mushkin, and went on. A fine cold rain was beginning to fall.
At a turning in the main road through the cemetery, a road entirely strewn with rubbish, we encountered a funeral procession. Four pallbearers with white calico sashes round their waists, dead leaves glued to their muddy boots, were carrying a dark-brown coffin. It was growing dark, and they were hurrying and stumbling under the weight of the coffin.
“We have been walking about here for two hours, gentlemen, and already this is the third funeral we have seen. Shall we go now?”
1 Gryaznorukov means “muddy hands.”
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