The sun was already high when Elisaveta awoke. She quickly recalled all that happened the night before. She took but little time in dressing and, urged by a suppressed excitement, was soon on the way to Trirodov in her carriage. Trirodov met her at the gates. He was returning from town, and he told her briefly about his conferences with the authorities. Elisaveta said resolutely:

“I want to see the family of the dead man.”

“I don’t know where they live. We shall have to see Voronok first. He has all the information.”

“Shall we find him at home now?”

“I think so,” said Trirodov. “If he’s at home we’ll all start together.”

They drove off. The dusty road trailed behind the rapid wheels, and revealed vistas of depressing commonplaceness. The light dust, stirred by the wheels into the sultry air, trailed behind the carriage like a long serpent. The high flaming Dragon looked down from his inaccessible sky with furious eyes upon the impoverished earth. There was a thirst for blood in the hot glister of his rays, and there was a soaring exultation because men had shed some priceless drops of the wine of life. In the midst of these open, heat-swept spaces, Trirodov, drawn at this moment into the crowded town life, was addressing his companion in dull, everyday words:

“They searched many houses early this morning. They found a great deal of literature at Stchemilov’s. He’s been arrested.”

He also repeated the rumour of whippings at the police-station. Elisaveta was silent.

Voronok’s house was situated in a very convenient place, somewhere between the centre of the town and the factory section. This house had many visitors because Voronok was an assiduous worker in the local Social Democratic Party. His chief function was to carry on propaganda among the working men and the young, and incidentally to instil into them party views and a true understanding of the aims of the working classes.

Young boys used to come to Voronok, his pupils from the town school, and these brought their comrades and acquaintances with them—those whom they met at home or by chance. They were for the most part charming, sincere, and intelligent youngsters, but very dishevelled and very self-conscious. Voronok taught them very heartily and with good results. They assimilated his teachings: a sympathy towards the working proletariat, a hate towards the satiated bourgeois, a consciousness of the irreconcilability of the interests of the two classes, and a few random facts from history. The ragamuffins from the town school invariably opened every visit to Voronok by complaining against the school rules and the inspector. They complained chiefly about trifles. They would say with an injured air:

“They compel us to wear official badges upon our caps.”

“They treat us as if we were little children.”

“They brand us, so that every one may know that we are the boys of the town school.”

“They force us to cut our hair; why should our hair worry them?”

Voronok sympathized with them fully. This helped him to keep them in a state of revolt. Their no less unkempt friends, who did not go to school, also found something to complain about—if not against their parents, then against the police, indeed against anything that occurred to them. But their complaints did not contain quite that poison and steadiness which was instilled into the schoolboys with all the force of a school. Voronok used to give both classes pamphlets that cost a kopeck and were intensely strict in their party purity.

The younger of the working men also used to come to Voronok’s house. There were still others, a ragged, grumbling lot, who appeared to carry an air of eternal injury with them, as if they had lost all capacity for smiling and jesting. Voronok took great pains to read the pamphlets with them, and to explain to them anything that was not especially clear. Regular hours were allotted for these readings and conversations. By such means Voronok succeeded in developing the desired mood in his visitors; all the party shibboleths were assimilated by them quickly and thoroughly. He also gave them books for home reading. Many used to buy this literature occasionally.

In this manner, a flood of books and pamphlets continually poured through Voronok’s house. Sometimes he selected whole libraries, and sent them by trustworthy people through the villages.

Elisaveta and Trirodov found Voronok at home. He did not much resemble a party workman; he was gracious, spoke little, and produced the impression of a reserved, well-trained man. He always wore starched linen, a high collar, a fashionable tie and a bowler hat. He had his hair trimmed short, and his beard was most neatly brushed.

“I will go with you, with pleasure,” said Voronok amiably.

He seized his thin cane, put on his bowler hat, took a cursory glance of himself in the mirror, and said again:

“I’m ready. But perhaps you’d like to rest?”

They declined, and the three of them started off. The painful silence of the bright streets hovered about them stealthily and expectantly. They seemed strangers among these wooden huts, depressing fences, and the tottering little bridges. They wanted to ask:

“Why are we going?”

But this only seemed to bring them closer, and to make the quick beats of their hearts more friendly. The whole picture of the life of the poor was here in all its sordidness; dirty, malicious children played here, and abused each other, and wrangled; a drunkard reeled; grey buckets swung on a grey wooden yoke across the shoulders of a grey woman in a worn grey dress.

There was everyday commonplaceness in the poverty of the house, where lay the hastily prepared yellow corpse. A pale-faced woman stood at its head, and wailed quietly and ceaselessly. Three pale, sandy-haired children came in and looked at the visitors; their gaze was at once strange and stupid, neither joyous nor sad, but dulled for ever.

Elisaveta went up to the woman. The blooming, rosy, graceful girl stood at the side of the pale, tear-eyed woman, and was quietly saying something to her; the latter was nodding her head and crooning unnecessary, belated words. Trirodov turned quietly to Voronok:

“Is any money needed?”

Voronok whispered back:

“No, his comrades will bury him. We’ll make a collection among ourselves. Afterwards the family will need some money.”

The day of the funeral arrived. The factories stopped work. There was a clear sky, and under it the turbulent crowd; the light currents of incense streamed in the air, and its sumptuous aroma mingled with the light odour of the smoke that came from the forest cinders. The schoolboys struck and went to the funeral. Some of the schoolgirls came also. The more timid ones remained in school.

The children from Trirodov’s colony decided to come. They brought two wreaths with them. The quiet children came also. They kept by themselves and were silent.

The entire town police were present at the funeral. Even police from outlying districts were here. As always, petty provocateurs lurked among the crowd.

The crowd moved calmly and solemnly. Above it the wreaths swung, the red flowers glimmered vividly, the red ribbons fluttered. The Cossacks rode alongside. There was austerity and suspicion in their looks—they were prepared to suppress any demonstration. The chanting of a prayer could be heard. Each time the subsided chant was renewed, the Cossacks listened with great intentness. No—it was only the prayer again.

Elisaveta and Trirodov walked with the crowd behind the coffin. They spoke of that which enraptures those who seek rapture and frightens those who seek repose. Poignant were Elisaveta’s impressions as she stepped upon the sharp cobblestones of the dusty, littered pavement.

The road was long. The austere harmony was kept up for some time. At last the cemetery was reached. Some dejected moments were passed in waiting by the church. The last services were pronounced hurriedly.

The Cossacks moved about in bustling fashion, and as before formed a circle around the throng.

The coffin was carried out of the church. The wreaths swung once more above the crowd, which moved on chanting.

Suddenly the women’s lament grew louder—the women’s lament above the grave. The instructor Bodeyev then stood at the head of the coffin. He began in his shrilly-thin, but far-carrying voice:

“Comrades, we have gathered to-day at the grave of our brother....”

The colonel of the gendarmes went up to him, and said sternly:

“It is forbidden. I must ask you to do without speeches or demonstrations.”

Bodeyev asked in astonishment:

“But why?”

“No, I must ask you not to. It is forbidden,” said the colonel dryly.

Bodeyev shrugged his shoulders and remarked as he moved away:

“I submit to brute strength.”

“To the law,” the officer in the blue uniform corrected him sharply.

The dead man’s comrades, crowding near the grave, followed one another with handfuls of soil, which they threw on the coffin. The damp, heavy soil struck the coffin with a hollow sound.

The grave was being filled up. Every one stood silently, and as silently left the spot.

Then suddenly a voice was heard.

And in an instant the whole crowd began to sing words of a proud, melancholy, revolutionary song. The Cossacks looked on morosely. The command was given. The Cossacks quickly mounted their horses. The singing stopped abruptly.

Once outside the cemetery gates, Elisaveta said:

“I am hungry!”

“Let’s go to my place,” suggested Trirodov.

“Thank you,” said Elisaveta. “But I’d rather go to some tavern.”

Trirodov looked at her in astonishment, but made no objection. He understood her curiosity.

The tavern was crowded and noisy. Trirodov and Elisaveta sat down near the window, at a small table covered with a dirty, spotted cloth. They ordered cold meat and light beer.

At one of the tables, a young man in a red shirt sat drinking. He was in a boastful mood. Behind his ear stuck a cigarette. The fellow intruded upon his neighbours, and shouted:

“Who’s drunk?”

“Well, who?” asked a young working man at the next table contemptuously.

“I am drunk!” exclaimed the drunkard in the red shirt. “And who am I, do you know, eh?”

“Yes, who are you? What sort of a bird are you?” asked the young working man in the black calico blouse derisively.

“I am Borodulin!” said the drunkard, and there was an expression on his face as if he had pronounced a famous name.

His neighbours roared with laughter, and shouted coarse, derisive words. The fellow in the red shirt cried angrily:

“What do you think? Is Borodulin, in your opinion, a peasant?”

The working man in the black blouse began to get annoyed. His lean cheeks grew red. He sprang from his place, and shouted angrily:

“Well, who are you? Answer.”

“I’m a peasant on my passport. An army reserve man. But that’s not all, I assure you,” said Borodulin.

“Well, who then are you?” repeated the young working man angrily, as he took a step towards him.

“And do you know what I am on my card? Can you guess?” asked Borodulin.

He blinked, and tried to look important. The comrades of the young working man tried to dissuade him from pursuing his inquiries, and whispered as they drew him away:

“Don’t waste your time on him. He’s a nobody.”

“I’m a detective, that’s what I am!” said Borodulin with his important air.

The working man in the black blouse spat contemptuously and walked back to his table. Borodulin went on:

“You think I’m out of my senses. No, old chap, you’re mistaken. I’m an experienced man. What do you think of me now? I’m a detective. I can arrest any one!”

The men at the neighbouring tables listened to him and exchanged glances. Borodulin went on boasting.

“Suppose I put the police on to you?” asked a merchant at one of the middle tables angrily. His small black eyes sparkled.

Borodulin burst out laughing, and shouted:

“I have the police in the hollow of my hand. That’s where I have them.”

The customers grumbled. Threats were heard:

“You’d better go away while you’re still whole.”

He paid his bill and left. Suddenly the sound of a crowd gathering in the street was heard. From the window Elisaveta and Trirodov could see the fellow in the red shirt sauntering backwards and forwards in the street, only a few paces from the tavern, and annoying the passers-by. He could be heard shouting:

“I’ll report you! I’ll arrest you! Hand over your ten kopecks.”

Many, afraid of him, acceded to his request. Borodulin clutched at every passer-by. He threw off the men’s caps, he pinched the women, while he pulled young boys by the ear. The women ran from him shrieking. The more timid men also ran. The bolder ones paused in menacing attitudes. These Borodulin did not dare to molest. Small boys ran behind him in a crowd, laughing and hooting. Borodulin grumbled.

“You’d better look out. Do you know who I am?”

“Well, who are you?” asked a young fellow whom he jostled. “You’re a pothouse plug.”

A crowd formed round them. Their faces were morose and unfriendly. Borodulin was afraid, but he showed a bold front and boasted. He shouted:

“Two or three of you will be necessary!”

A sudden attack was made upon Borodulin. A young robust fellow sprang forward from the crowd with a shout, an enormous cobblestone in his hand.

“What’s this dog showing his teeth for?”

He hit Borodulin on the head with the stone. It was unfortunately too well aimed. Borodulin fell. Others attacked him as he lay there. The workman who hit him with the stone made his escape.

Elisaveta and Trirodov were looking out of the window. Trirodov exclaimed:

“The Cossacks!”

The people in the street scattered in all directions. The mutilated corpse lay in a pool of blood on the pavement.