The mother implored the next day: “Show me his grave at least!”
What was there to show! He was laid in a coffin, he was put into a hole in the earth and the soil that covered him was smoothed down to its original level—we all know how such culprits are buried.
“Tell me at least how he died.”
“Well, he was a brave one. He was calm, a bit serious. And he refused a priest, and would not kiss the cross.”
They returned home. A fog of melancholy hung over them, and within them there lit up a spark of mad hope—no, Borya is not dead, Borya will return.
XLIX
The thought that Boris had been hanged could not enter into their habitual, everyday thoughts. Only in the hour when the sun was at its zenith, and in the hour of the midnight moon, it would penetrate their awakened consciousness like a sharp poniard. Again it would pierce the soul with a sharp, tormenting pain, and again it would vanish in the dim mist of dawn with a kind of dull agony. And again, the same unreasonable conviction would awake in their hearts.
No, Borya will return. The bell will suddenly ring, and the door will be opened to him.
“Oh, Borya! Where have you been wandering?”
How we shall kiss him! And how much there will be to tell!