Those who knew Yourii Svarogitsch, and those who did not, those who

liked, as those who despised him, even those who had never thought

about him were sorry, now that he was dead.

Nobody could understand why he had done it; though they all imagined

that they knew, and that in their inmost souls they held of his

thoughts a share. There seemed something so beautiful about suicide, of

which tears, flowers, and noble words were the sequel. Of his own

relatives not one attended the funeral. His father had had a paralytic

stroke, and Lialia could not leave him for a moment. Riasantzeff alone

represented the family, and had charge of all the burial-arrangements.

It was this solitariness that to spectators appeared particularly sad,

and gave a certain mournful grandeur to the personality of the

deceased.

Many flowers, beautiful, scentless, autumn flowers, were brought and

placed on the bier; in the midst of their red and white magnificence

the face of Yourii lay calm and peaceful, showing no trace of conflict

or of suffering.

When the coffin was borne past Sina's house, she and her friend Dubova

joined the funeral-procession. Sina looked utterly dejected and

unnerved, as if she were being led out to shameful execution. Although

she felt convinced that Yourii had heard nothing of her disgrace, there

was yet, as it seemed to her, a certain connection between that and his

death which would always remain a mystery. The burden of unspeakable

shame was hers to bear alone. She deemed herself utterly miserable and

depraved.

Throughout the night she had wept, as in fancy she fondly kissed the

face of her dead lover. When morning came her heart was full of

hopeless love for Yourii, and of bitter hatred for Sanine. Her

accidental liaison with the last-named resembled a hideous dream. All

that Sanine had told her, and which at the moment she had believed, was

now revolting to her. She had fallen over a precipice; and rescue there

was none. When Sanine approached her she stared at him in horror and

disgust before turning abruptly away.

As her cold fingers slightly touched his hand held out in hearty

greeting, Sanine at once knew all that she thought and felt. Henceforth

they could only be as strangers to each other. He bit his lip, and

joined Ivanoff who followed at some distance, shaking his smooth fair

hair.

"Hark at Peter Ilitsch!" said Sanine, "how he's forcing his voice!"

A long way ahead, immediately behind the coffin, they were chanting a

dirge, and Peter Ilitsch's long-drawn, quavering notes filled the air.

"Funny thing, eh?" began Ivanoff. "A feeble sort of chap, and yet he

goes and shoots himself all in a moment, like that!"




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