And then and there he considered that it was unbecoming him to turn his head from side to side.
At church Foma's head began to ache, and it seemed to him that everything around and underneath him was shaking.

In the stifling air, filled with dust, with the breathing of the people and the smoke of the incense, the flames of the candles were timidly trembling.

The meek image of Christ looked down at him from the big ikon, and the flames of the candles, reflected in the tarnished gold of the crown over the Saviour's brow, reminded him of drops of blood.
Foma's awakened soul was greedily feeding itself on the solemn, gloomy poetry of the liturgy, and when the touching citation was heard, "Come, let us give him the last kiss," a loud, wailing sob escaped from Foma's chest, and the crowd in church was stirred to agitation by this outburst of grief.
Having uttered the sob, Foma staggered.

His godfather immediately caught him by his arms and began to push him forward to the coffin, singing quite loudly and with some anger: "Kiss him who was but lately with us.
Kiss, Foma, kiss him--he is given over to the grave, covered with a stone.
He is settling down in darkness, and is buried with the dead." Foma touched his father's forehead with his lips and sprang back from the coffin with horror.
"Hold your peace! You nearly knocked me down," Mayakin remarked to him, in a low voice, and these simple, calm words supported Foma better than his godfather's hands.
"Ye that behold me mute and lifeless before you, weep for me, brethren and friends," begged Ignat through the mouth of the Church.

But his son was not crying any longer; his horror was called forth by the black, swollen face of his father, and this horror somewhat sobered his soul, which had been intoxicated by the mournful music of the Church's lament for its sinful son.