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!"