I was feeling very comfortable; the coffee had warmed me up, and through the open door came scents of flowers and breaths of cool night air.
I think I dozed off for a while.
I was wakened by an odd rustling in my ears.
After having had my eyes closed, I had a feeling that the light had grown even stronger than before.
There wasn’t a trace of shadow anywhere, and every object, each curve or angle, seemed to score its outline on one’s eyes.
The old people, Mother’s friends, were coming in.
I counted ten in all, gliding almost soundlessly through the bleak white glare.
None of the chairs creaked when they sat down.
Never in my life had I seen anyone so clearly as I saw these people; not a detail of their clothes or features escaped me.
And yet I couldn’t hear them, and it was hard to believe they really existed.
Nearly all the women wore aprons, and the strings drawn tight round their waists made their big stomachs bulge still more.
I’d never yet noticed what big paunches old women usually have.
Most of the men, however, were as thin as rakes, and they all carried sticks.
What struck me most about their faces was that one couldn’t see their eyes, only a dull glow in a sort of nest of wrinkles.
On sitting down, they looked at me, and wagged their heads awkwardly, their lips sucked in between their toothless gums. I couldn’t decide if they were greeting me and trying to say something, or if it was due to some infirmity of age.
I inclined to think that they were greeting me, after their fashion, but it had a queer effect, seeing all those old fellows grouped round the keeper, solemnly eying me and dandling their heads from side to side.
For a moment I had an absurd impression that they had come to sit in judgment on me.
A few minutes later one of the women started weeping.
She was in the second row and I couldn’t see her face because of another woman in front.
At regular intervals she emitted a little choking sob; one had a feeling she would never stop.
The others didn’t seem to notice.
They sat in silence, slumped in their chairs, staring at the coffin or at their walking sticks or any object just in front of them, and never took their eyes off it.
And still the woman sobbed.
I was rather surprised, as I didn’t know who she was.
I wanted her to stop crying, but dared not speak to her.
After a while the keeper bent toward her and whispered in her ear; but she merely shook her head, mumbled something I couldn’t catch, and went on sobbing as steadily as before.
The keeper got up and moved his chair beside mine.
At first he kept silent; then, without looking at me, he explained.
“She was devoted to your mother.
She says your mother was her only friend in the world, and now she’s all alone.”
I had nothing to say, and the silence lasted quite a while.
Presently the woman’s sighs and sobs became less frequent, and, after blowing her nose and snuffling for some minutes, she, too, fell silent.
I’d ceased feeling sleepy, but I was very tired and my legs were aching badly.
And now I realized that the silence of these people was telling on my nerves.
The only sound was a rather queer one; it came only now and then, and at first I was puzzled by it.
However, after listening attentively, I guessed what it was; the old men were sucking at the insides of their cheeks, and this caused the odd, wheezing noises that had mystified me.
They were so much absorbed in their thoughts that they didn’t know what they were up to.
I even had an impression that the dead body in their midst meant nothing at all to them.
But now I suspect that I was mistaken about this.
We all drank the coffee, which the keeper handed round.
After that, I can’t remember much; somehow the night went by.
I can recall only one moment; I had opened my eyes and I saw the old men sleeping hunched up on their chairs, with one exception. Resting his chin on his hands clasped round his stick, he was staring hard at me, as if he had been waiting for me to wake.
Then I fell asleep again.
I woke up after a bit, because the ache in my legs had developed into a sort of cramp.
There was a glimmer of dawn above the skylight.
A minute or two later one of the old men woke up and coughed repeatedly.
He spat into a big check handkerchief, and each time he spat it sounded as if he were retching.
This woke the others, and the keeper told them it was time to make a move.
They all got up at once.
Their faces were ashen gray after the long, uneasy vigil.