n, gloomy
poetry of the liturgy, and when the touching citation was heard, "Come,
let us give him the last kiss," a loud, wailing sob escaped from Foma's
chest, and the crowd in church was stirred to agitation by this outburst
of grief.

Having uttered the sob, Foma staggered. His godfather immediately caught
him by his arms and began to push him forward to the coffin, singing
quite loudly and with some anger:

"Kiss him who was but lately with us.
Kiss, Foma, kiss him--he is given over to the grave, covered with a stone.
He is settling down in darkness, and is buried with the dead."

Foma touched his father's forehead with his lips and sprang back from
the coffin with horror.

"Hold your peace! You nearly knocked me down," Mayakin remarked to him,
in a low voice, and these simple, calm words supported Foma better than
his godfather's hands.

"Ye that behold me mute and lifeless before you, weep for me, brethren
and friends," begged Ignat through the mouth of the Church. But his son
was not crying any longer; his horror was called forth by the black,
swollen face of his father, and this horror somewhat sobered his soul,
which had been intoxicated by the mournful music of the Church's lament
for its sinful son. He was surrounded by acquaintances, who were kindly
consoling him; he listened to them and understood that they all felt
sorry for him and that he became dear to them. And his godfather
whispered in his ear:

"See, how they all fawn upon you. The tom-cats have smelt the fat."

These words were unpleasant to Foma, but they were useful to him, as
they caused him to answer at all events.

At the cemetery, when they sang for Ignat's eternal memory, he cried
again bitterly and loud. His godfather immediately seized him by the
arms and led him away from the grave, speaking to him earnestly:

"What a faint-hearted fellow you are! Do I not feel sorry for him? I
have known his real value, while you were but his son. And yet, I do
not cry. For more than thirty years we lived together in perfect
harmony--how much had been spoken, how much thought--how much sorrow
drunk. You are young; it is not for you to grieve! Your life is before
you, and you will be rich in all sorts of friendship; while I am old,
and now that I buried my only friend, I am like a pauper. I can no
longer make a bosom friend!"

The old man's voice began to jar and squeak queerly. His face was
distorted, his lips were stretched into a big gr