A Night in the Cemetery

by Anton Chekhov

  As they came to the bathhouse, Rusty and Dukovsky saw a huge lock hanging on the door.

  “Prepare your matches,” said the detective to his assistant. The woman opened the lock and led the two guests into the bathhouse. Dukovsky lit his match and the light fell into the bathhouse. There was a small table in the middle. Next to it, there was a small, heavy teapot, a bowl of cold soup, and a few other plates with the remains of some sauce.

  They went into the second room, the sauna itself. In the middle, there was another table. On the table, there was a big plate with ham, a bottle of vodka, some plates, knives, and forks.

  “Where is the body? Where is he?” asked the detective.

  “He is on the upper shelf,” whispered the woman, pale and trembling all over.

  Dukovsky took a piece of candle from the table, lit it, and climbed to the upper shelf. There he saw a man’s body lying quietly on a goose down mattress. The body produced a quiet snoring.

  “We’ve been deceived! Look at this! This isn’t him. This is some man who is alive.”

  “Hey, you! Who are you, damn it!”

  The body moved a little, and made a loud whistle. Dukovsky nudged him with his elbow. The body lifted up a hand, stretched and tried to stand up.

  “Who is out there?” said the hoarse and heavy bass. “What do you want? What?”

  Dukovsky lifted the piece of candle to the face of the unknown man and cried from amazement.

  In the red face, in the untidy and uncombed hair, in the very black mustache, one end of which was nicely curved up toward the ceiling, he saw Mr. Banks himself.

  “Mark Ivanovich! Is it you? I can’t believe my eyes!”

  The detective looked up and froze in amazement.

  “Yes, it’s me. And this is you, Dukovsky. What the hell are you doing here? And there, below, who’s that dirty devil down there? Oh my god! It’s the detective himself. What are you doing here, my old buddy?”

  Banks jumped down and embraced Rusty. Olga Petrovna vanished.

  “How did you get here? Let’s have a drink, damn it. Let’s drink! Who brought you here, my friends? How did you find out that I was here? However, no matter. Let’s have a drink!”

  Banks lit the lamp, and poured three shots of vodka.

  “Well, I can’t quite understand. Is it you, or not?” asked the detective.

  “Cut it out, will you? Are you going to read me a moral on how to behave? Stop it. Cut it out. And you, young man Dukovsky, have a shot as well. Let us talk about life, my friends, let us talk. Why are you staring at me? Drink!”

  “I cannot understand,” said the detective, drinking his vodka automatically. “What are you doing here?”

  “Why not here, if here is a good place for me to be?” Banks had a drink, and took a big piece of ham.

  “As you can see, I live with the doctor’s wife. I live here, in a very quiet and desolate place, like a spirit of the house. Drink, brother! You see, I decided to take pity on her, and to stay here in this remote and forgotten bathhouse. I live here like a hermit. I eat good food. Next week, I am going to leave her. I am bored by this life.”

  “I cannot understand,” said Dukovsky.

  “What cannot you understand?”

  “I cannot understand how one of your boots ended up in the garden.”

  “Which boot?”

  “We found one of your boots in the bedroom, and the other one in the garden.”

  “Why do you want to know about that? This is none of your business. Have another shot, damn it! If you woke me up, then you should have another shot.”

  They had another shot and Banks continued,

  “This is an interesting story, brothers, with this boot. You know, I didn’t want to go to Olga. First of all, I was feeling ill, and then I was a little bit drunk. So she came under my window and started scolding me. All women are the same. So I took a boot and threw it at her. Ha-ha-ha. I said, ‘Stop scolding me.’ So she climbed up to the window, lit a lamp, and gave me a good beating when I was drunk. She gave me a good beating, brought me in here, and locked me in. Now I enjoy good cooking here. Love, vodka, and good food. And what about you? Rusty, where are you going?”

  The disappointed detective spat on the floor and left the bath house. Dukovsky, his head down, followed him. Without saying a word to each other, they sat in the carriage and went home. It was the longest and the dullest trip they had ever made together. They were both silent. Rusty was trembling uneasily all the way. Dukovsky was hiding his face in the collar of his coat, as if he was afraid that the darkness and the drizzling rain could read the feeling of shame on his face.

  When they arrived home, the detective found the old Dr. Tutuev in their house. The doctor was sitting at the desk, making deep sighs and shuffling a newspaper.

  “What sort of a world are we living in?” He met the detective with a sad smile. “Again Austria presses its demands. And Mr. Gladstone, the British prime minister, I am worried for him.”

  Rusty threw his hat in the corner of the room, shaking with all his body.

  “Hey you, damned skeleton, don’t even approach me! I have told you a thousand times not to talk to me about politics. I have other things to do besides politics. You’d better go home. And you,” he threatened to Dukovsky with his fist, “I will never forgive these things.”

  “But it was the Swedish match. How could I know?”

  “I wish you would choke on your Swedish match. Get out of here, out of my sight, otherwise I will beat you black and blue. I don’t want to see you for another second.”

  Dukovsky made a deep sigh, took his hat, and left.

  “I will go and have a good drink,” he said walking out of the gates and going slowly to the pub.

  When the doctor’s wife came in from the bathhouse, she met her husband in the living room.

  “Why did the detectives come?” her husband asked her.

  “They came to tell you that they have found Banks. And, can you imagine, they found him with somebody else’s wife.”

  “Oh, Mark Ivanovich, Mark Ivanovich,” said the doctor, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. “I told you that dissipation is no good. I told you this, and you did not listen to me.”

  A NIGHT OF HORROR

  Dedicated to my friend N. N., gravedigger

  Jim Undertaker grew pale as he turned down the lights a little, and began to tell his story in a very excited voice: “It was dark, a completely dark, chilly and spooky night. I was covered with fog as I walked home after visiting my sick friend. You know who I mean, for he died just recently. On that night, of course, he was still alive, and the whole company had visited him, as we held a spiritualistic séance at his house. Afterward, I crept along the narrow, unlit streets, trying to make my way through the fog. At that time, I lived in the heart of Moscow, next to Old Graves Street. I rented an apartment in the house of Mr. Deadman. It was situated in one of the remotest and darkest lanes, next to the downtown Arbat Street. I felt anxious and depressed while I walked along those dark and gloomy streets.

  “ ‘Your life will be over soon. The time has come to repent!’ This was the message told to me by Spinoza, the ancient philosopher, whose spirit we had managed to contact and engage in conversation. I asked him to repeat this to me once again, and to explain what it meant, but the spirit just added a few words, ‘It will happen this night.’

  “Now, I do not believe in spirits and spiritualism, but thoughts about my death, even any hints about it, always upset and depressed me.

  “Dear ladies and gentlemen! We all know that death in inevitable, for it is a part of our life, but at the same time it is unpleasant to contemplate your own demise.

  “And so, on that night I was completely surrounded by the dark, cold fog. The wind howled above my head. I met no one as I walked along, and an unexplainable fear soon filled my soul. I am a man without prejudice, but that night I was walking fast, looking only straight ahead. I dared not glance beside or behind, for I feared that
I would see Death itself, walking behind me as a ghost.”

  At this point, Mr. Undertaker made a deep sigh, drank some water, and continued:

  “My feelings of dread and horror did not leave me when I reached the fourth floor of Mr. Deadman’s house, opened the door, and entered my modest apartment. It was completely dark. A sudden wind arose outside, beginning to howl and cry in the chimneys of my fireplace, as if trying to come inside.

  “If I believed Spinoza, then this night I would die, accompanied by this howling. I was scared.

  “I lit a match in the pitch darkness. A powerful gust of wind tore at the roof of the house, creating a violent roar. Outside, the window shutter was slamming against the wall, and the small gray door of my fireplace was squeaking, as if asking for help.

  “ ‘This is a terrible night for homeless people,’ I thought.

  “This thought was quickly snatched away when the sulfur match lit my room, and I cast a brief glance around. What I saw was unexpected and completely horrifying. I regretted that the drafts of wind had not extinguished my match at once, for then I could not have seen this dreadful sight and my hair would not have started to bristle. I cried out, stepping backward toward the door, and closed my eyes because I was overwhelmed by my feelings of horror, desperation and excitement.

  “Right before me, in the middle of my room, stood a coffin.

  “The dim blue light of my match had briefly lit my room, just long enough to see its design and detailing. Its glazed pink cover shone and sparkled.

  “Dear ladies and gentlemen! There are moments in your life that forever remain ingrained in your memory, even if you experience them only for a brief moment. I saw this coffin for only a fraction of a second, but I remember it down to its smallest detail. It was a coffin made for a person of average height and, judging by its pink color, had been designed for a young lady. It was finely made, with carved legs beneath it, and bronze handles on its sides. It was obviously intended for someone well-to-do.

  “After taking this all in, I finally rushed out of my room into the dark corridor as fast as I could, filled with inexpressible horror, and ran down the stairs to the first floor. It was completely dark there. My legs were trembling and catching in the tails of my coat. It still remains a great mystery how I did not fall down on that length of stairs and did not break my neck. When I finally reached the fresh air of the street, I leaned against a wet lantern, standing and trying to calm myself down. My heart was pounding, and I felt short of breath.”

  At this point in the story, a young lady, who had been listening very attentively, turned up the lights. She moved closer to Mr. Undertaker as he continued,

  “I would not have been more surprised if I had a fire in my room, or had run into a thief or a crazed dog. I would not have been surprised if the ceiling had fallen on my head, or the floorboards had cracked open, or the walls had fallen down…. These are all natural things and can be easily explained. But how had this coffin come to be in my room? Where had it come from? How had this very expensive coffin, designed for a rich young lady, come to be in the tiny apartment of a poor office worker like me?

  “As I leaned against the lantern, my thoughts were racing. Perhaps the coffin was empty. Perhaps there was a dead body inside it. Perhaps it was the body of a mysterious young lady whose life had ended tragically. And yet, who had arranged for her to visit my house? This remained a terrible mystery for me.

  “ ‘If this is not a mystery, then this is definitely a crime,’ was my first thought.

  “I gave myself over to my thoughts. During my absences, the door to my apartment was locked. The place where I hide my key was known to only a few of my closest friends. Would any of my friends have placed the coffin in my room? Of course not! Then was it possible that an undertaker had brought the coffin to me by mistake? He could have brought it to the wrong floor in the building, or to the wrong door, or to the wrong address entirely. However, everyone knows that undertakers do not leave until they receive payment, or at least a handsome tip.

  Perhaps the spirits who had predicted my death tonight had brought the coffin into my room. I do not believe and I never believed in spirits, but all of these questions could throw even a philosophical mind into a very mystical and depressive state. In the end, I cowardly swept the mystery aside, with simple logic. I thought, ‘That was an optical illusion, and nothing else!’ I felt so gloomy and frightened when walking home, that it was perfectly understandable that my upset nerves had created the coffin. Certainly it had been an optical illusion! What else could it have been?

  “Rain was now pouring down my face, and the wind was playing with the tails of my coat, teasing away my hat…. I was cold and wet to the bones. I had to go somewhere—but where? I needed shelter, but my logic abandoned me at the prospect of returning to my apartment. I did not want to run the risk of seeing the coffin again, for that would be more than I could bear. There was not a single human being in sight. Not a single human noise. I was in complete solitude. No, I did not want to be alone, in my apartment, just me and a coffin, and perhaps a dead body inside. I could go crazy up there. At the same time, it was impossible for me to stay outside in this terrible, cold rain.

  “I decided to go spend the night with my friend, Mr. Graveyard, who, as you all know, later shot himself. He lived on Dark Tomb Street, in the house of the entrepreneur Mr. Scully.”

  “At this point, Mr. Undertaker wiped away the cold sweat that had formed on his face, sighed deeply again, and continued.

  “My friend Mr. Graveyard did not answer at my knock at his door, and I feared he was not at home. I then decided to have a closer look, and picked up his key hanging on a nail in the corridor. I opened the door and entered his room. My friend was definitely not at home; still, I gratefully took off my wet coat, felt for the sofa in the darkness, and rested on it. It was completely dark. I listened to the wind howl outside, punctuated by the monotonous noise of a cricket in the fireplace. A huge tower clock started beating its early-morning hours. I took a box of Swedish matches from my pocket and lit one, but the light did not help my mood. On the contrary, the sight before me filled me with unbearable horror. I cried out and, losing control, ran out of his apartment.

  “In the middle of my friend’s room, I saw another coffin.

  “It was almost twice as large as the one in my quarters, with a dour, dark brown velvet cover. How had it come to be there? My optical illusion theory was shattered, for I had no doubts about this vision; the coffin I had just seen was real. It was impossible to have a coffin in each of the apartments. And if these coffins were not optical illusions, then perhaps I was suffering from a nervous illness, or hallucinating like a madman. Everywhere I went I would see a coffin, a terrible hole where death abates. Therefore, if I was going insane, then I had developed some kind of mania, so to speak, ‘coffin-mania.’

  “For a moment I remembered the séance, and the words spoken to me by philosopher Spinoza.

  “ ‘I am going insane!’ I thought in horror, clutching my head with my hands. ‘Oh God, what should I do?’

  “I now had a terrible headache, and my feet were weak and trembling. The rain was pouring; the wind was howling and piercing my shirt, for I had neither my coat nor my hat on. It was impossible for me to go back inside my friend’s apartment to pick them up; I simply did not have the energy or the courage to do this. I was completely immersed in horror…. My hair rose on the back of my head. My face was covered with cold sweat. I thought it was just a hallucination.”

  “What could I do in that situation?” continued Mr. Undertaker. “I felt I was going insane, and at the same time I was running the risk of getting a terrible cold. Luckily, I remembered that another good friend of mine, Mr. Gravedigger, lived nearby. He was a doctor who had only recently graduated, and he lived not far from Dark Tomb Street. He had been present at the spiritualist séance earlier that night. Much later, of course, after all these events, he married the daughter of a rich salesman. B
ut at that time he rented a tiny upper room in the house of the general, Mr. Veil.

  “When I came to Mr. Gravedigger’s place, my shattered nerves were tried yet again. I was climbing up the stairs to the fifth floor, when I heard strange, loud noises from above. A door was violently slammed and someone rushed down the stairs toward me.

  “ ‘Help! Anybody!’ ‘Help!’ I heard a piercing scream. ‘Come to me! Help me, please, anybody, please come here and help me!’

  “In the next second I met a figure on the stairs, dressed in a warm winter coat and with an untidy hat on.

  “ ‘Mr. Gravedigger, is that you? What a surprise!’ I exclaimed, as I saw my friend. ‘What’s happened with you?’

  “He came closer to me and seized my hand. His face was very pale. He was out of breath, and his body was trembling. His eyes were senselessly moving in all directions.

  “ ‘Well, well … Hello, Mr. Undertaker,’ he said in a rushed voice. ‘Nice to see you here. Is it really you? You are as pale as if you had just come from grave. Are you a hallucination? Are you real? Oh my goodness! You look so terrible!’

  “ ‘Better that you tell me what has happened to you! I barely recognize you. You look completely crazy.’

  “‘Oh, my dear friend, wait a second. I am out of breath. I am so glad that I ran into you … if it’s really you, and not an illusion. That séance was terrible! It shattered my nerves. Do you know what I saw when I entered my room? I saw a coffin!’

  “I could not believe what I had heard. I asked him to repeat it.

  “‘A coffin, a real coffin!’ said the doctor, as he sat down on the stairs. ‘I am not a coward, but the devil himself would be scared, if he stumbled upon a coffin in the darkness in his house.’

  “Mumbling and frequently pausing, I told the doctor the story of the coffins I had seen.

  “For a moment, we just looked at each other without saying a word, our eyes bulging. Then, in order to make sure that we were not hallucinating, that it was not simply a bad dream, we lightly punched each other.