Stories · 1884

At the Cemetery

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Headnote

"At the Cemetery" was written in 1884, when Chekhov was in his early twenties, freshly graduated from medical school and still publishing the bulk of his fiction as short, fast pieces for the Moscow and Petersburg comic weeklies under the signature Antosha Chekhonte. The story carries a Hamlet epigraph – Ophelia’s line about the fate of "his quiddities, his quillets, his cases," rendered here from a Russian translation, cued to the graveyard scene – and stages its own small graveyard scene: a party of strollers wandering among the tombs on a darkening, rain-threatened afternoon, reading epitaphs and drawing wry morals from them.

The piece is built as a sequence of found inscriptions and overheard voices rather than a plotted narrative, in the manner of Chekhov’s early comic-sketch mode: a titular councillor’s grave prompts a mordant riff on a life of eavesdropping and indigestion; a poet-hater lies beneath a monument carved all over with verse. The center of gravity shifts when the party meets a drunken actor searching for the grave of a dead colleague, Mushkin – a man he says ruined him, luring him from a decent home into the "bitter lot" of the stage, and whom he has come, half in spite and half in genuine mourning, to forgive before his own approaching death from drink. The funeral procession the party passes on the way out, the third burial in two hours, closes the piece on the flat, undramatized note characteristic of the mature Chekhov to come: no verdict supplied, the memento mori left to speak for itself.

Notable for a translator: the piece is stylized throughout as a first-person plural narrator ("we") observing and lightly needling the people it meets – the actor’s speech in particular is markedly colloquial and broken, full of digression, invented church-Slavonicisms ("во веки веков,unto ages of ages"), and drink-loosened self-pity, and should read as spoken performance, not literary prose. The wordplay on the vandalized epitaph – time erasing the negating prefix on "unforgotten" and thereby "correcting a human lie" – is the story’s single deliberate joke and should land cleanly.

"Where now are his chicaneries,
"Где теперь его кляузы,
his pettifogging, his tricks, his bribes?"
ябедничество, крючки, взятки?"
– Gentlemen, the wind has risen, and it’s already starting to grow dark. Shouldn’t
– Господа, ветер поднялся, и уже начинает темнеть. Не
we make our way home while we still can?
убраться ли нам подобру-поздорову?
The wind walked through the yellow leaves of the old birches, and from the leaves
Ветер прогулялся по желтой листве старых берез, и с листьев
a hail of large drops came down on us. One of our party slipped on the
посыпался на нас град крупных капель. Один из наших поскользнулся на глинистой
clayey ground and, to keep from falling, caught hold of a large gray cross.
почве и, чтобы не упасть, ухватился за большой серый крест.
– "Titular Councillor and Cavalier Yegor Gryaznorukov..." –
– "Титулярный советник и кавалер Егор Грязноруков..." –
he read out. – I knew this gentleman... Loved his wife, wore a Stanislaus, read
прочел он. – Я знал этого господина... Любил жену, носил Станислава, ничего не
nothing... His stomach digested faultlessly... What life could be better? It seemed there was no need
читал... Желудок его варил исправно... Чем не жизнь? Не нужно бы, кажется, и
for him to die at all, but – alas! – fate lay in wait for him... The poor fellow fell victim to his own
умирать, но – увы! – случай стерег его... Бедняга пал жертвою своей
watchfulness. Once, while eavesdropping, he took such a blow from a door to the head that
наблюдательности. Однажды, подслушивая, получил такой удар двери в голову, что
he sustained a concussion of the brain (he had a brain) and died. And here, under this monument,
схватил сотрясение мозга (у него был мозг) и умер. А вот под этим памятником
lies a man who from the cradle hated verses, epigrams... As if in
лежит человек, с пеленок ненавидевший стихи, эпиграммы... Словно в насмешку,
mockery, his whole monument is covered with verses... Someone’s coming!
весь его памятник испещрен стихами... Кто-то идет!
A man in a shabby overcoat, with a shaven, bluish-purple
С нами поравнялся человек в поношенном пальто и с бритой,
face, drew level with us. Under his arm was a half-bottle, and from his pocket protruded
синевато-багровой физиономией. Под мышкой у него был полуштоф, из кармана торчал
a parcel of sausage.
сверток с колбасой.
– Where is the grave of the actor Mushkin here? – he asked us
– Где здесь могила актера Мушкина? – спросил он нас
in a hoarse voice.
хриплым голосом.
We led him to the grave of the actor Mushkin, who had died some two years before.
Мы повели его к могиле актера Мушкина, умершего года два назад.
– Are you an official? – we asked him.
– Чиновник будете? – спросили мы у него.
– No, sir, an actor... Nowadays it’s hard to tell an actor from
– Нет-с, актер... Нынче актера трудно отличить от
a consistory clerk. You’ve observed that rightly... It’s characteristic, though for
консисторского чиновника. Вы это верно заметили... Характерно, хотя для
an official it’s not exactly flattering.
чиновника и не совсем лестно-с.
We had trouble finding the actor Mushkin’s grave. It had sunk in, grown over
Насилу мы нашли могилу актера Мушкина. Она осунулась, поросла
with weeds, and lost the look of a grave... A small, cheap little cross, leaning
плевелом и утеряла образ могилы... Маленький дешевый крестик, похилившийся и
and overgrown with green moss blackened by the cold, looked old and mournful and
поросший зеленым, почерневшим от холода мохом, смотрел старчески уныло и словно
seemed to be ailing.
хворал.
– "To our unforgotten friend Mushkin"... – we read.
– "забвенному другу Мушкину"... – прочли мы.
Time had worn away the "un-" and corrected the human lie.
Время стерло частицу не и исправило человеческую ложь.
– The actors and the newspapermen collected for a monument for him and...
– Актеры и газетчики собрали ему на памятник и...
drank it away, the dear fellows... – sighed the actor, making a bow to the ground and touching his knees
пропили, голубчики... – вздохнул актер, кладя земной поклон и касаясь коленами
and his cap to the wet earth.
и шапкой мокрой земли.
– What do you mean, drank it away?
– То есть как же пропили?
– Very simple. They collected the money, printed a notice of it in
– Очень просто. Собрали деньги, напечатали об этом в
the papers, and drank it away... I don’t say this to condemn, just so... To your health,
газетах и пропили... Это я не для осуждения говорю, а так... На здоровье,
my angels! To your health, and to him eternal memory.
ангелы! Вам на здоровье, а ему память вечная.
– From drink comes poor health, and eternal memory is nothing but
– От пропивки плохое здоровье, а память вечная – одна
sorrow. God grant a temporary memory – as for the eternal one, what’s the use!
грусть. Дай бог временную память, а насчет вечной – что уж!
– That’s true, sir. Mushkin was well known, they carried some ten wreaths
– Это вы верно-с. Известный ведь был Мушкин, венков за
behind his coffin, and already he’s forgotten! Those he was dear to have forgotten him, and those
гробом штук десять несли, а уж забыли! Кому люб он был, те его забыли, а кому
he did wrong to remember. I, for one, will never forget him unto ages of ages, because
зло сделал, те помнят. Я, например, его во веки веков не забуду, потому, кроме
I saw nothing from him but harm. I don’t love the deceased.
зла, ничего от него не видел. Не люблю покойника.
– What harm did he do you, then?
– Какое же он вам зло сделал?
– Great harm, – sighed the actor, and across his face there spread
– Зло великое, – вздохнул актер, и по лицу его разлилось
an expression of bitter grievance. – He was a villain to me and a robber, the kingdom of
выражение горькой обиды. – Злодей он был для меня и разбойник, царство ему
heaven be his. Looking at him and listening to him, I went into acting. He lured
небесное. На него глядючи и его слушаючи, я в актеры поступил. Выманил он меня
me out of my father’s house with his art, tempted me with theatrical vanity, promised
своим искусством из дома родительского, прельстил суетой артистической, много
much, and gave tears and grief... Bitter is the actor’s lot! I lost my youth, and
обещал, а дал слезы и горе... Горька доля актерская! Потерял я и молодость, и
my sobriety, and the image of God in me... Not a penny to my name, crooked heels, fringe on my trousers
трезвость, и образ божий... За душой ни гроша, каблуки кривые, на штанах бахрома
and a checkerboard pattern, my face as if gnawed by dogs... In my head, freethinking and
и шахматы, лик словно собаками изгрызен... В голове свободомыслие и неразумие...
unreason... He took away my faith too, the villain! If only there’d been talent in it, but no, for nothing at all
Отнял он у меня и веру, злодей мой! Добро бы талант был, а то так, ни за грош
it was lost... It’s cold, honored gentlemen... Won’t you have some? There’s enough for everyone... Brrr...
пропал... Холодно, господа почтенные... Не желаете ли? На всех хватит... Бррр...
Let’s drink to his rest! Though I don’t love him, though he’s dead, still he’s the one I
Выпьем за упокой! Хоть и не люблю его, хоть и мертвый он, а один он у меня на
have in the world, the one and only. This is the last time I’ll see him... The doctors said
свете, один, как перст. В последний раз с ним вижусь... Доктора сказали, что
I’ll soon die of drink, so I’ve come to say farewell. One must forgive one’s enemies.
скоро от пьянства помру, так вот пришел проститься. Врагов прощать надо.
We left the actor to converse with the dead Mushkin and went on.
Мы оставили актера беседовать с мертвым Мушкиным и пошли далее.
A fine, cold rain began to drizzle.
Заморосил мелкий холодный дождь.
At the turn onto the main avenue, strewn with gravel, we met
При повороте на главную аллею, усыпанную щебнем, мы встретили
a funeral procession. Four bearers in white calico sashes and in dirty
похоронную процессию. Четыре носильщика в белых коленкоровых поясах и в грязных
boots, plastered with fallen leaves, were carrying a brown coffin. It was growing dark, and they
сапогах, облепленных листвой, несли коричневый гроб. Становилось темно, и они
hurried, stumbling and swaying the bier...
спешили, спотыкаясь и покачивая носилками...
– We’ve only been walking here two hours, and already this is the third one they’ve
– Гуляем мы здесь только два часа, а при нас уже третьего
carried past... Shall we go home, gentlemen?
несут... По домам, господа?

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