You had better cry, for this is human. It brings much relief
to the heart."
But neither did these words provoke anything in Foma's head or in
his heart. He came to himself, however, on the day of the funeral,
thanks to the persistence of his godfather, who was assiduously and
oddly trying to rouse his sad soul.
The day of the funeral was cloudy and dreary. Amid a heavy cloud
of dust an enormous crowd of people, winding like a black ribbon,
followed the coffin of Ignat Gordyeeff. Here and there flashed the
gold of the priest's robes, and the dull noise of the slow
movement of the crowd blended in harmony with the solemn music of
the choir, composed of the bishop's choristers. Foma was pushed
from behind and from the sides; he walked, seeing nothing but the
gray head of his father, and the mournful singing resounded in
his heart like a melancholy echo. And Mayakin, walking beside
him, kept on intrusively whispering in his ears:
"Look, what a crowd--thousands! The governor himself came out to
accompany your father to the church, the mayor, and almost the
entire city council.
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