That night I slept calmly and soundly (as is usual after any great emotion), and awoke with my tears dried and my nerves restored.  At ten o’clock we were summoned to attend the pre-funeral requiem.

The room was full of weeping servants and peasants who had come to bid farewell to their late mistress.  During the service I myself wept a great deal, made frequent signs of the cross, and performed many genuflections, but I did not pray with, my soul, and felt, if anything, almost indifferent, My thoughts were chiefly centred upon the new coat which I was wearing (a garment which was tight and uncomfortable) and upon how to avoid soiling my trousers at the knees.  Also I took the most minute notice of all present.

Papa stood at the head of the coffin.  He was as white as snow, and only with difficulty restrained his tears.  His tall figure in its black frockcoat, his pale, expressive face, the graceful, assured manner in which, as usual, he made the sign of the cross or bowed until he touched the floor with his hand [A custom of the Greek funeral rite.] or took the candle from the priest or went to the coffin—­all were exceedingly effective; yet for some reason or another I felt a grudge against him for that very ability to appear effective at such a moment.  Mimi stood leaning against the wall as though scarcely able to support herself.  Her dress was all awry and covered with feathers, and her cap cocked to one side, while her eyes were red with weeping, her legs trembling under her, and she sobbed incessantly in a heartrending manner as ever and again she buried her face in her handkerchief or her hands.  I imagine that she did this to check her continual sobbing without being seen by the spectators.  I remember, too, her telling Papa, the evening before, that Mamma’s death had come upon her as a blow from which she could never hope to recover; that with Mamma she had lost everything; but that “the angel,” as she called my mother, had not forgotten her when at the point of death, since she had declared her wish to render her (Mimi’s) and Katenka’s fortunes secure for ever.  Mimi had shed bitter tears while relating this, and very likely her sorrow, if not wholly pure and disinterested, was in the main sincere.  Lubotshka, in black garments and suffused with tears, stood with her head bowed upon her breast.  She rarely looked at the coffin, yet whenever she did so her face expressed a sort of childish fear.  Katenka stood near her mother, and, despite her lengthened face, looked as lovely as ever.  Woloda’s frank nature was frank also in grief.  He stood looking grave and as though he were staring at some object with fixed eyes.  Then suddenly his lips would begin to quiver, and he would hastily make the sign of the cross, and bend his head again.