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.