She went off into the reading-room, rustling her skirts, while I
went home, and for a long time could not get to sleep.

That cheerless autumn some kind soul, evidently wishing to alleviate
my existence, sent me from time to time tea and lemons, or biscuits,
or roast game. Karpovna told me that they were always brought by a
soldier, and from whom they came she did not know; and the soldier
used to enquire whether I was well, and whether I dined every day,
and whether I had warm clothing. When the frosts began I was presented
in the same way in my absence with a soft knitted scarf brought by
the soldier. There was a faint elusive smell of scent about it, and
I guessed who my good fairy was. The scarf smelt of lilies-of-the-valley,
the favourite scent of Anyuta Blagovo.

Towards winter there was more work and it was more cheerful. Radish
recovered, and we worked together in the cemetery church, where we
were putting the ground-work on the ikon-stand before gilding. It
was a clean, quiet job, and, as our fellows used to say, profitable.
One could get through a lot of work in a day, and the time passed
quickly, imperceptibly. There was no swearing, no laughter, no loud
talk. The place itself compelled one to quietness and decent
behaviour, and disposed one to quiet, serious thoughts. Absorbed
in our work we stood or sat motionless like statues; there was a
deathly silence in keeping with the cemetery, so that if a tool
fell, or a flame spluttered in the lamp, the noise of such sounds
rang out abrupt and resonant, and made us look round. After a long
silence we would hear a buzzing like the swarming of bees: it was
the requiem of a baby being chanted slowly in subdued voices in the
porch; or an artist, painting a dove with stars round it on a cupola