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Gelikonsky respectfully takes away the candles, and the memorial service is over. Thereupon there follows a momentary commotion; there is a changing of vestments and a thanksgiving service. After the thanksgiving, while Father Yevmeny is disrobing, the visitors rub their hands and cough, while their hostess tells some anecdote of the good-heartedness of the deceased Trifon Lvovitch.
Trifon Borissovitch was a thick-set, healthy peasant, of middle height, with a rather fat face. His expression was severe and uncompromising, especially with the peasants of Mokroe, but he had the power of assuming the most obsequious countenance, when he had an inkling that it was to his interest. He dressed in Russian style, with a shirt buttoning down on one side, and a full-skirted coat.
“Good-by to you, too, Trifon Borissovitch!” But Trifon Borissovitch did not even turn round. He was, perhaps, too busy. He, too, was shouting and fussing about something. It appeared that everything was not yet ready in the second cart, in which two constables were to accompany Mavriky Mavrikyevitch.
It is true that he was out of humor and greatly disliked the task that had been laid upon him. “Good-by, Trifon Borissovitch!” Mitya shouted again, and felt himself, that he had not called out this time from good-nature, but involuntarily, from resentment.
“Is that all?” “Yes.” “Stay, listen, Trifon Borissovitch. Tell me the chief thing: What of her? How is she?” “Oh, she’s only just come. She’s sitting with them.” “Is she cheerful? Is she laughing?” “No, I think she’s not laughing much. She’s sitting quite dull. She’s combing the young gentleman’s hair.” “The Pole—the officer?” “He’s not young, and he’s not an officer, either. Not him, sir.
“More than a thousand went on them, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,” retorted Trifon Borissovitch firmly. “You flung it about at random and they picked it up. They were a rascally, thievish lot, horse-stealers, they’ve been driven away from here, or maybe they’d bear witness themselves how much they got from you.
“When I stood him drinks in the tavern, the man had quite a different face,” thought Mitya, as he got in. At the gates there was a crowd of people, peasants, women and drivers. Trifon Borissovitch came down the steps too. All stared at Mitya. “Forgive me at parting, good people!” Mitya shouted suddenly from the cart. “Forgive us too!” he heard two or three voices.
“My dear Dmitri Fyodorovitch,” said Trifon Borissovitch, “make them give you back the money you lost. It’s as good as stolen from you.” “I don’t want my fifty roubles back,” Kalganov declared suddenly. “I don’t want my two hundred, either,” cried Mitya, “I wouldn’t take it for anything! Let him keep it as a consolation.” “Bravo, Mitya!
Since then, you know, I have had time to enter into lawful wed-lock, as they say.... Oh ... I took a merchant's daughter seven thousand for her dowry. Her name's Akulina; it goes well with Trifon. She is an ill- tempered woman, I must tell you, but luckily she's asleep all day.... Well, shall it be preference? We sat down to preference for halfpenny points.
An absurd chaotic confusion followed, but Mitya was in his natural element, and the more foolish it became, the more his spirits rose. If the peasants had asked him for money at that moment, he would have pulled out his notes and given them away right and left. This was probably why the landlord, Trifon Borissovitch, kept hovering about Mitya to protect him.
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