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"
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 grimace and were
quivering, and from his small eyes frequent tears were running
over the now contracted wrinkles of his face.


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