The Cemetery

by Maxim Gorky

　　In a town of the steppes where I found life exceedingly dull, thebest and the brightest spot was the cemetery. Often did I use towalk there, and once it happened that I fell asleep on somethick, rich, sweet-smelling grass in a cradle-like hollowbetween two tombs.From that sleep I was awakened with the sound of blows beingstruck against the ground near my head. The concussion of themjarred me not a little, as the earth quivered and tinkled like abell. Raising myself to a sitting posture, I found sleep stillso heavy upon me that at first my eyes remained blinded withunfathomable darkness, and could not discern what the matterwas. The only thing that I could see amid the golden glare ofthe June sunlight was a wavering blur which at intervals seemedto adhere to a grey cross, and to make it give forth asuccession of soft creaks.Presently, however--against my wish, indeed--that wavering blurresolved itself into a little, elderly man. Sharp-featured, witha thick, silvery tuft of hair beneath his under lip, and a bushywhite moustache curled in military fashion, on his upper, hewas using the cross as a means of support as, with hisdisengaged hand outstretched, and sawing the air, he dug hisfoot repeatedly into the ground, and, as he did so, bestowedupon me sundry dry, covert glances from the depths of a pair ofdark eyes."What have you got there?" I inquired."A snake," he replied in an educated bass voice, and with arugged forefinger he pointed downwards; whereupon I perceivedthat wriggling on the path at his feet and convulsivelywhisking its tail, there was an echidna."Oh, it is only a grassworm," I said vexedly.The old man pushed away the dull, iridescent, rope-like thingwith the toe of his boot, raised a straw hat in salute, andstrode firmly onwards."I thank you," I called out; whereupon, he replied withoutlooking behind him:"If the thing really WAS a grassworm, of course there was nodanger."Then he disappeared among the tombstones.Looking at the sky, I perceived the time to be about fiveo'clock.The steppe wind was sighing over the tombs, and causing longstems of grass to rock to and fro, and freighting the heated airwith the silken rustling of birches and limes and other trees,and leading one to detect amid the humming of summer a note ofquiet grief eminently calculated to evoke lofty, direct thoughtsconcerning life and one's fellow-men.Veiling with greenery, grey and white tombstones worn with thesnows of winter, crosses streaked with marks of rain, and thewall with which the graveyard was encircled, the rank vegetationserved to also conceal the propinquity of a slovenly, clamoroustown which lay coated with rich, sooty grime amid an atmosphereof dust and smells.As I set off for a ramble among the tombs and tangled grass, Icould discern through openings in the curtain of verdure abelfry's gilded cross which reared itself solemnly over crossesand memorials. At the foot of those memorials the sacramentalvestment of the cemetery was studded with a kaleidoscopic sheenof flowers over which bees and wasps were so hovering andhumming that the grass's sad, prayerful murmur seemed chargedwith a song of life which yet did not hinder reflections ondeath. Fluttering above me on noiseless wing were birds theflight of which sometimes made me start, and stand wonderingwhether the object before my gaze was really a bird or not: andeverywhere the shimmer of gilded sunlight was setting theclose-packed graveyard in a quiver which made the mounds of itstombs reminiscent of a sea when, after a storm, the wind hasfallen, and all the green level is an expanse of smooth,foamless billows.Beyond the wall of the cemetery the blue void of the firmamentwas pierced with smoky chimneys of oil-mills and soap factories,the roofs of which showed up like particoloured stains againstthe darker rags and tatters of other buildings; while blinkingin the sunlight I could discern clatter-emitting, windows whichlooked to me like watchful eyes. Only on the nearer side of thewall was a sparse strip of turf dotted over with ragged,withered, tremulous stems, and beyond this, again, lay the siteof a burnt building which constituted a black patch ofearth-heaps, broken stoves, dull grey ashes, and coal dust. Toheaven gaped the black, noisome mouths of burning-pits whereinthe more economical citizens were accustomed nightly to get ridof the contents of their dustbins. Among the tall stems ofsteppe grass waved large, glossy leaves of ergot; in thesunlight splinters of broken glass sparkled as though they werelaughing; and, from two spots in the dark brown plot which formeda semicircle around the cemetery, there projected, like teeth,two buildings the new yellow paint of which nevertheless madethem look mean and petty amid the tangle of rubbish, pigweed,groundsel, and dock.Indolently roaming hither and thither, a few speckled hensresembled female pedlars, and some pompous red cockerels atroupe of firemen; in the orifices of the burning-pits a numberof mournful-eyed, homeless dogs were lying sheltered; among theshoots of the steppe scrub some lean cats were stalkingsparrows; and a band of children who were playing hide-and-seekamong the orifices above-mentioned presented, a pitiful sight asthey went skipping over the filthy earth, disappearing inthe crevices among the piles of heaped-up dirt.Beyond the site of the burnt-out building there stretched aseries of mean, close-packed huts which, crammed exclusivelywith needy folk, stood staring, with their dim, humble eyes ofwindows, at the crumbling bricks of the cemetery wall, and thedense mass of trees which that wall enclosed. Here, in one suchhut, had I myself a lodging in a diminutive attic, which notonly smelt of lamp-oil, but stood in a position to have waftedto it the least gasp or ejaculation on the part of my landlord,Iraklei Virubov, a clerk in the local treasury. In short, Icould never glance out of the window at the cemetery on theother side of the strip of dead, burnt, polluted earth withoutreflecting that, by comparison, that cemetery was a place ofsheer beauty, a place of ceaseless attraction.And ever, that day, as though he had been following me, couldthere be sighted among the tombs the dark figure of the old manwho had so abruptly awakened me from slumber; and since hisstraw hat reflected the sunlight as brilliantly as the disk of asunflower as it meandered hither and thither, I, in my turn,found myself following him, though thinking, all the while, ofIraklei Virubov. Only a week was it since Iraklei's wife, athin, shrewish, long-nosed woman with green and catlike eyes,had set forth on a pilgrimage to Kiev, and Iraklei had hastenedto import into the hut a stout, squint-eyed damsel whom he hadintroduced to me as his " niece by marriage.""She was baptised Evdokia," he had said on the occasionreferred to. "Usually, however, I call her Dikanka. Pray befriendly with her, but remember, also, that she is not a personwith whom to take liberties."Large, round-shouldered, and clean-shaven like a chef, Virubovwas for ever hitching up breeches which had slipped from astomach ruined with surfeits of watermelon. And always were hisfat lips parted as though athirst, and perpetually had he in hiscolourless eyes an expression of insatiable hunger.One evening I overheard a dialogue to the following effect."Dikanka, pray come and scratch my back. Yes, between theshoulder-blades. O-o-oh, that is it. My word, how strong youare!"Whereat Dikanka had laughed shrilly. And only when I had movedmy chair, and thrown down my book, had the laughter and unctuouswhispering died away, and given place to a whisper of:"Holy Father Nicholas, pray for us unto God! Is the supper kvasready, Dikanka?"And softly the pair had departed to the kitchen--there to gruntand squeal once more like a couple of pigs....The old man with the grey moustache stepped over the turf withthe elastic stride of youth, until at length he halted before alarge monument in drab granite, and stood reading theinscription thereon. Featured not altogether in accordance withthe Russian type, he had on a dark-blue jacket, a turned-downcollar, and a black stock finished off with a large bow--thelatter contrasting agreeably with the thick, silvery, as it weremolten, chin-tuft. Also, from the centre of a fierce moustachethere projected a long and gristly nose, while over the greyskin of his cheeks there ran a network of small red veins. Inthe act of raising his hand to his hat (presumably for thepurpose of saluting the dead), he, after conning the darkletters of the inscription on the tomb, turned a sidelong eyeupon myself; and since I found the fact embarrassing, I frowned,and passed onward, full, still, of thoughts of the street whereI was residing and where I desired to fathom the mean existenceeked out by Virubov and his "niece."As usual, the tombs were also being patrolled by Pimesha,otherwise Pimen Krozootov, a bibulous, broken-down ex-merchantwho used to spend his time in stumbling and falling about thegraves in search of the supposed resting-place of his wife. Bentof body, Pimesha had a small, bird-like face over-grown withgrey down, the eyes of a sick rabbit, and, in general, theappearance of having undergone a chewing by a set of sharpteeth. For the past three years he had thus been roaming thecemetery, though his legs were too weak to support hisundersized, shattered body; and whenever he caught his foot hefell, and for long could not rise, but lay gasping and fumblingamong the grass, and rooting it up, and sniffing with a nose assharp and red as though the skin had been flayed from it. True,his wife had been buried at Novotchevkassk, a thousand verstsaway, but Pimen refused to credit the fact, and always, on beingtold it, stuttered with much blinking of his wet, faded eyes:"Natasha? Natasha is here."Also, there used to visit the spot, well-nigh daily, a MadameChristoforov, a tall old lady who, wearing black spectacles anda plain grey, shroudlike dress that was trimmed with blackvelvet, never failed to have a stick between her abnormally longfingers. Wizened of face, with cheeks hanging down like bags,and a knot of grey, rather, grey-green, hair combed over hertemples from under a lace scarf, and almost concealing her ears,this lady pursued her way with deliberation, and entireassurance, and yielded the path to no one whom she mightencounter. I have an idea that there lay buried there a son whohad been killed in a roisterers' brawl.Another habitual visitor was thin-legged, short-sighted AulicCouncillor Praotzev, ex-schoolmaster. With a book stuffed intothe pocket of his canvas pea-jacket, a white umbrella grasped inhis red hand, and a smile extending to ears as sharp and pointedas a rabbit's, he could, any Sunday after dinner, be seenskipping from tomb to tomb, with his umbrella brandished like awhite flag soliciting terms of peace with death.And, on returning home before the bell rang for Vespers, hewould find that a crowd of boys had collected outside his gardenwall; whereupon, dancing about him like puppies around a stork,they would fall to shouting in various merry keys:"The Councillor, the Councillor! Who was it that fell in lovewith Madame Sukhinikh, and then fell into the pond? "Losing his temper, and opening a great mouth, until he lookedlike an old rook which is about to caw, the Councillor wouldstamp his foot several times, as though preparing to dance tothe boys' shouting, and lower his head, grasp his umbrella likea bayonet, and charge at the lads with a panting shout of:"I'll tell your fathers! Oh, I'll tell your mothers!"As for the Madame Sukhinikh, referred to, she was an oldbeggar-woman who, the year round, and in all weathers, sat on alittle bench beside the cemetery wicket, and stuck to it like astone. Her large face, a face rendered bricklike by years ofinebriety, was covered with dark blotches born of frostbite,alcoholic inflammation, sunburn, and exposure to wind, and hereyes were perpetually in a state of suppuration. Never didanyone pass her but she proffered a wooden cup in a supplianthand, and cried hoarsely, rather as though she were cursing theperson concerned:"Give something for Christ's sake! Give in memory of yourkinsfolk there!"Once an unexpected storm blew in from the steppes, and brought adownpour which, overtaking the old woman on her way home, causedher, her sight being poor, to fall into a pond, whence Praotzevattempted to rescue her, and into which, in the end, he slippedhimself. From that day onwards he was twitted on the subject bythe boys of the town.Other frequenters of the cemetery I see before me--dark, silentfigures, figures of persons whom still unsevered cords of memoryseemed to have bound to the place for the rest of their lives,and compelled to wander, like unburied corpses, in quest ofsuitable tombs. Yes, they were persons whom life had rejected,and death, as yet, refused to accept.Also, at times there would emerge from the long grass a homelessdog with large, sullen eyes, eyes startling at once in theirintelligence and in their absolute Ishmaelitism-- until onealmost expected to hear issue from the animal's mouth reproachescouched in human language.And sometimes the dog would still remain halted in the cemeteryas, with tail lowered, it swayed its shelterless, shaggy head toand fro with an air of profound reflection, while occasionallyventing a subdued, long-drawn yelp or howl.Again, among the dense old lime trees, there would be scurryingan unseen mob of starlings and jackdaws whose young would,meanwhile, maintain a soft, hungry piping, a sort of gentlypersuasive, chirruping chorus; until in autumn, when the windhad stripped bare the boughs, these birds' black nests wouldcome to look like mouldy, rag-swathed heads of human beingswhich someone had torn from their bodies and flung into thetrees, to hang for ever around the white, sugarloaf-shapedchurch of the martyred St. Barbara. During that autumn season,indeed, everything in the cemetery's vicinity looked sad andtarnished, and the wind would wail about the place, and sighlike a lover who has been driven mad through bereavement . . . .Suddenly the old man halted before me on the path, and, sternlyextending a hand towards a white stone monument near us, readaloud:"'Under this cross there lies buried the body of the respectedcitizen and servant of God, Diomid Petrovitch Ussov,'" etc.,etc.Whereafter the old man replaced his hat, thrust his hands intothe pockets of his pea-jacket, measured me with eyes dark incolour, but exceptionally clear for his time of life, and said:"It would seem that folk could find nothing to say of this manbeyond that he was a 'servant of God.' Now, how can a servantbe worthy of honour at the hand of 'citizens'?""Possibly he was an ascetic," was my hazarded conjecture;whereupon the old man rejoined with a stamp of his foot:"Then in such case one ought to write--""To write what?""To write EVERYTHING, in fullest possible detail."And with the long, firm stride of a soldier my interlocutorpassed onwards towards a more remote portion of thecemetery--myself walking, this time, beside him. His statureplaced his head on a level with my shoulder only, and caused hisstraw hat to conceal his features. Hence, since I wished to lookat him as he discoursed, I found myself forced to walk with headbent, as though I had been escorting a woman."No, that is not the way to do it," presently he continued inthe soft, civil voice of one who has a complaint to present."Any such proceeding is merely a mark of barbarism--of a completelack of observation of men and life."With a hand taken from one of his pockets, he traced a largecircle in the air."Do you know the meaning of that?" he inquired."Its meaning is death," was my diffident reply, made with ashrug of the shoulders.A shake of his head disclosed to me a keen, agreeable, finelycut face as he pronounced the following Slavonic words:"'Smertu smert vsekonechnie pogublena bwist.'" [Death hathbeen for ever overthrown by death."]"Do you know that passage?" he added presently.Yet it was in silence that we walked the next ten paces--hethreading his way along the rough, grassy path at considerablespeed. Suddenly he halted, raised his hat from his head, andproffered me a hand."Young man," he said, "let us make one another's betteracquaintance. I am Lieutenant Savva Yaloylev Khorvat, formerlyof the State Remount Establishment, subsequently of theDepartment of Imperial Lands. I am a man who, after never havingbeen found officially remiss, am living in honourableretirement--a man at once a householder, a widower, and a personof hasty temper."Then, after a pause, he added:"Vice-Governor Khorvat of Tambov is my brother--a youngerbrother; he being fifty-five, and I sixty-one, si-i-ixty one."His speech was rapid, but as precise as though no mistake waspermissible in its delivery."Also," he continued, "as a man cognisant of every possiblespecies of cemetery, I am much dissatisfied with this one. Infact, never satisfied with such places am I."Here he brandished his fist in the air, and described a largearc over the crosses."Let us sit down," he said, "and I will explain things."So, after that we had seated ourselves on a bench beside a whiteoratory, and Lieutenant Khorvat had taken off his hat, and witha blue handkerchief wiped his forehead and the thick silveryhair which bristled from the knobs of his scalp, he continued:"Mark you well the word kladbistche." [The word, thoughcustomarily used for cemetery, means, primarily, atreasure-house.] Here he nudged me with his elbow--continuing,thereafter, more softly: "In a kladbisiche one might reasonablylook for kladi, for treasures of intellect and enlightenment.Yet what do we find? Only that which is offensive and insulting.All of us does it insult, for thereby is an insult paid to allwho, in life, are bearing still their 'cross and burden.' Youtoo will, one day, be insulted by the system, even as shall I.Do you understand? I repeat, 'their cross and burden'--the senseof the words being that, life being hard and difficult, we oughtto honour none but those who STILL are bearing their trials, orbearing trials for you and me. Now, THESE folk here have ceasedto possess consciousness."Each time that the old man waved his hat in his excitement, itssmall shadow, bird-like, flew along the narrow path, and overthe cross, and, finally, disappeared in the direction of thetown.Next, distending his ruddy cheeks, twitching his moustache, andregarding me covertly out of boylike eyes, the Lieutenantresumed:"Probably you are thinking, 'The man with whom I have to dealis old and half-witted.' But no, young fellow; that is not so,for long before YOUR time had I taken the measure of life.Regard these memorials. ARE they memorials? For what do theycommemorate as concerns you and myself? They commemorate, inthat respect, nothing. No, they are not memorials; they aremerely passports or testimonials conferred upon itself by humanstupidity. Under a given cross there may lie a Maria, and underanother one a Daria, or an Alexei, or an Evsei, or someoneelse--all 'servants of God,' but not otherwise particularised. Anoutrage this, sir! For in this place folk who have lived theirdifficult portion of life on earth are seen robbed of thatrecord of their existences, which ought to have been preservedfor your and my instruction. Yes, A DESCRIPTION OF THE LIFELIVED BY A MAN is what matters. A tomb might then become evenmore interesting than a novel. Do you follow me?""Not altogether," I rejoined.He heaved a very audible sigh."It should be easy enough," was his remark. "To begin with, Iam NOT a 'servant of God.' Rather, I am a man intelligently, ofset purpose, keeping God's holy commandments so far as lieswithin my power. And no one, not even God, has any right todemand of me more than I can give. That is so, is it not?"I nodded."There!" the Lieutenant cried briskly as, cocking his hat, heassumed a still more truculent air. Then, spreading out hishands, he growled in his flexible bass:"What is this cemetery? It is merely a place of show."At this moment, for some reason or another, there occurred to mean incident which involved the figure of Iraklei Virubov, thefigure which had carpet slippers on its ponderous feet, thicklips, a greedy mouth, deceitful eyes, and a frame so huge andcavernous that the dapper little Lieutenant could have steppedinto it complete.The day had been a Sunday, and the hour eventide. On the burntplot of ground some broken glass had been emitting a reddishgleam, shoots of ergot had been diffusing their gloss, childrenshouting at play, dogs trotting backwards and forwards, and allthings, seemingly, faring well, sunken in the stillness of theportion of the town adjoining the rolling, vacant steppe, with,above them, only the sky's level, dull-blue canopy, and aroundthem, only the cemetery, like an island amidst a sea.With Virubov, I had been sitting on a bench near the wicket-gateof his hut, as intermittently he had screwed his lecherous eyesin the direction of the stout, ox-eyed lacemaker, Madame Ezhov,who, after disposing of her form on a bank hard-by, had fallento picking lice out of the curls of her eight-year-old PetkaKoshkodav. Presently, as swiftly she had rummaged the boy's hairwith fingers grown used to such rapid movement, she had said toher husband (a dealer in second-hand articles), who had beenseated within doors, and therefore rendered invisible--she hadsaid with oily derision:"Oh, yes, you bald-headed old devil, you! Of course you gotyour price. Ye-es. Then, fool, you ought to have had a slippersmacked across that Kalmuck snout of yours. Talk of my price,indeed!"Upon this Virubov had remarked with a sigh, and in sluggish,sententious tones:"To grant the serfs emancipation was a sheer mistake. I am ahumble enough servant of my country, yet I can see the truth ofwhat I have stated, since it follows as a matter of course. Whatought to have been done is that all the estates of thelandowners should have been conveyed to the Tsar. Beyond a doubtthat is so. Then both the peasantry and the townsfolk, the wholepeople, in short, would have had but a single landlord. Fornever can the people live properly so long as it is ignorant ofthe point where it stands; and since it loves authority, itloves to have over it an autocratic force, for its control.Always can it be seen seeking such a force."Then, bending forward, and infusing into each softly utteredword a perfect lusciousness of falsity, Virubov had added to hisneighbour:"Take, for example, the working-woman who stands free of everytie.""How do I stand free of anything?" the neighbour had retorted,in complete readiness for a quarrel."Oh, I am not speaking in your despite, Pavlushka, but to yourcredit," hastily Virubov had protested."Then keep your blandishments for that heifer, your 'niece,'"had been Madame Ezhov's response.Upon this Virubov had risen heavily, and remarked as he movedaway towards the courtyard:"All folk need to be supervised by an autocratic eye."Thereafter had followed a bout of choice abuse between hisneighbour and his " niece,"while Virubov himself, framed in thewicket-gate, and listening to the contest, had smacked his lipsas he gazed at the pair, and particularly at Madame Ezhov. Atthe beginning of the bout Dikanka had screeched:"It is my opinion, it is my opinion, that--""Don't treat me to any of YOUR slop!" the long-fanged Pavlahad interrupted for the benefit of the street in general. Andthus had the affair continued....Lieutenant Khorvat blew the fag-end of his cigarette from hismouthpiece, glanced at me, and said with seemingly, a notover-civil, twitch of his bushy moustache:"Of what are you thinking, if I might inquire?""I am trying to understand you.""You ought not to find that difficult," was his rejoinder asagain he doffed his hat, and fanned his face with it. "Thewhole thing may be summed up in two words. It is that we lackrespect both for ourselves and for our fellow men. Do you followme NOW?"His eyes had grown once more young and clear, and, seizing myhand in his strong and agreeably warm fingers, he continued:"Why so? For the very simple reason that I cannot respectmyself when I can learn nothing, simply nothing, about myfellows."Moving nearer to me, he added in a mysterious undertone:"In this Russia of ours none of us really knows why he has comeinto existence. True, each of us knows that he was born, andthat he is alive, and that one day he will die; but which of usknows the reason why all that is so?"Through renewed excitement, its colour had come back to theLieutenant's face, and his gestures became so rapid as to causethe ring on his finger to flash through the air like the link ofa chain. Also, I was able to detect the fact that on thesmall, neat wrist under his left cuff, there was a braceletfinished with a medallion."All this, my good sir, is because (partially through the factthat men forget the point, and partially through the fact thatthat point fails to be understood aright) the WORK done by aman is concealed from our knowledge. For my own part, I have anidea, a scheme--yes, a scheme--in two words, a, a--""N-n-o-u, n-n-o-u!" the bell of the monastery tolled over thetombs in languid, chilly accents."--a scheme that every town and every village, in fact, everyunit of homogeneous population, should keep a record of theparticular unit's affairs, a, so to speak, 'book of life.' This'book of life' should be more than a list of the results of theunit's labour; it should also be a living narrative of theworkaday activities accomplished by each member of the unit. Eh?And, of course, the record to be compiled without officialinterference--solely by the town council or districtadministration, or by a special 'board, of life and works' orsome such body, provided only that the task be not carried outby nominees of the GOVERNMENT. And in that record there shouldbe entered everything--that is to say, everything of a naturewhich ought to be made public concerning every man whohas lived among us, and has since gone from our midst."Here the Lieutenant stretched out his hand again in thedirection of the tombs."My right it is," he added, "to know how those folk therespent their lives. For it is by their labours and theirthoughts, and even on the product of their bones, that I myselfam now subsisting. You agree, do you not?"In silence I nodded; whereupon he cried triumphantly:"Ah! You see, do you? Yes, an indispensable point is it, thatwhatsoever a man may have done, whether good or evil, should berecorded. For example, suppose he has manufactured a stovespecially good for heating purposes; record the fact. Orsuppose he has killed a mad dog; record the fact. Or suppose hehas built a school, or cleansed a dirty street, or been apioneer in the teaching of sound farming, or striven, by wordand deed, his life long, to combat official irregularities...record the fact. Again, suppose a woman has borne ten, orfifteen, healthy children; record the fact. Yes, and this lastwith particular care, since the conferment of healthy childrenupon the country is a work of absolute importance."Further, pointing to a grey headstone with a worn inscription,he shouted (or almost did so):"Under that stone lies buried the body of a man who never inhis life loved but one woman, but ONE woman. Now, THAT is a factwhich ought to have been recorded about him for it is notmerely a string of names that is wanted, but a narrative ofdeeds. Yes, I have not only a desire, but a RIGHT, to know thelives which men have lived, and the works which they haveperformed; and whenever a man leaves our midst we ought toinscribe over his tomb full particulars of the 'cross andburden' which he bore, as particulars ever to be held inremembrance, and inscribed there both for my benefit and for thebenefit of life in general, as constituting a clear andcircumstantial record of the given career. Why did that manlive? To the question write down, always, the answer in largeand conspicuous characters. Eh?""Most certainly."This led the Lieutenant's enthusiasm to increase still more as,for the third time waving his hand in the direction of thetombs, and mouthing each word, he continued:"The folk of that town are liars pure and simple, for of setpurpose they conceal the particulars of careers that they maydepreciate those careers in our eyes, and, while showing us theinsignificance of the dead, fill the living with a sense ofsimilar insignificance, since insignificant folk are the easiestto manage. Yes, it is a scheme thought out with diabolicalingenuity. Yet, for myself--well, try and make me do what I don'tintend to do!"To which, with his face wrinkled with disgust, he added in atone like a shot from a pistol:"Machines are we! Yes, machines, and nothing else!"Curious was it to watch the old man's excitement as one listenedto the strong bass voice amid the stillness of the cemetery.Once more over the tombs, there came floating the languid,metallic notes of " N-n-o-u! N-n-o-u!"The oily gloss on the withered grass had vanished, faded, andeverything turned dull, though the air remained charged with thespring perfume of the geraniums, stocks, and narcissi whichencircled some of the graves."You see," continued the Lieutenant, "one could not deny thateach of us has his value. By the time that one has livedthreescore years, one perceives that fact very clearly. NeverCONCEAL things, since every life lived ought to be set in thelight. And is capable of being so, in that every man is aworkman for the world at large, and constitutes an instructor ingood or in evil, and that life, when looked into, constitutes,as a whole, the sum of all the labour done by the aggregate ofus petty, insignificant individuals. That is why we ought not tohide away a man's work, but to publish it abroad, and toinscribe on the cross over his tomb his deeds, his services, intheir entirety. Yes, however negligible may have been thosedeeds, those services, hold them up for the perusal of those whocan discover good even in what is negligible. NOW do youunderstand me?""I do," I replied. "Yes, I do.""Good!"The bell of the monastery struck two hasty beats--then becamesilent, so that only the sad echo of its voice remainedreverberating over the cemetery. Once more my interlocutor drewout his cigarette-case, silently offered it to myself, andlighted and puffed industriously at another cigarette. As he didso his hands, as small and brown as the claws of a bird, shook alittle, and his head, bent down, looked like an Easter egg inplush.Still smoking, he looked me in the eyes with a self-diffidentfrown, and muttered:"Only through the labour of man does the earth attaindevelopment. And only by familiarising himself with, andremembering, the past can man obtain support in his work onearth."In speaking, the Lieutenant lowered his arm; whereupon on to hiswrist there slipped the broad golden bracelet adorned with amedallion, and there gazed at me thence the miniature of afair-haired woman: and since the hand below it was freckled, andits flexible fingers were swollen out of shape, and had losttheir symmetry, the woman's fine-drawn face looked the more fullof life, and, clearly picked out, could be seen to be smiling asweet and slightly imperious smile."Your wife or your daughter?" I queried."My God! My God!" was, with a subdued sigh, the only responsevouchsafed. Then the Lieutenant raised his arm, and the braceletslid back to its resting place under his cuff.Over the town the columns of curling smoke were growing redder,and the clattering windows blushing to a tint of pink thatrecalled to my memory the livid cheeks of Virubov's "niece," ofthe woman in whom, like her uncle, there was nothing that couldprovoke one to "take liberties."Next, there scaled the cemetery wall and stealthily stretchedthemselves on the ground, so that they looked not unlike thefar-flung shadows of the cemetery's crosses, a file of dark,tattered figures of beggars, while on the further side of theslowly darkening greenery a cantor drawled in sluggish, carelessaccents:"E-e-ternal me-e--""Eternal memory of what?" exclaimed Lieutenant Khorvat with anangry shrug of his shoulders. "Suppose, in his day, a man hasbeen the best cucumber-salter or mushroom-pickler in a giventown. Or suppose he has been the best cobbler there, or thatonce he said something which the street wherein he dwelt canstill remember. Would not THAT man be a man whose record shouldbe preserved, and made accessible to my recollection?"And again the Lieutenant's face wreathed itself in solid ringsof pungent tobacco smoke.Blowing softly for a moment, the wind bent the long stems ofgrass in the direction of the declining sun, and died away. Allthat remained audible amid the stillness was the peevish voicesof women saying:"To the left, I say.""Oh, what is to be done, Tanechka?"Expelling a fresh cloud of tobacco smoke in cylindrical form,the old man muttered:"It would seem that those women have forgotten the precise spotwhere their relative or friend happens to lie buried."As a hawk flew over the sun-reddened belfry-cross, the bird'sshadow glided over a memorial stone near the spot where we weresitting, glanced off the corner of the stone, and appeared anewbeyond it. And in the watching of this shadow, I somehow found apleasant diversion.Went on the Lieutenant:"I say that a graveyard ought to evince the victory of life,the triumph of intellect and of labour, rather than the power ofdeath. However, imagine how things would work out under myscheme. Under it the record of which I have spoken wouldconstitute a history of a town's life which, if anything, wouldincrease men's respect for their fellows. Yes, such a history asTHAT is what a cemetery ought to be. Otherwise the place isuseless. Similarly will the past prove useless if it can give usnothing. Yet is such a history ever compiled? If it is, how canone say that events are brought about by, forsooth, 'servants ofGod'?"Pointing to the tombs with a gesture as though he were swimming,he paused for a moment or two."You are a good man," I said, "and a man who must have lived agood and interesting life."He did not look at me, but answered quietly and thoughtfully:"At least a man ought to be his fellows' friend, seeing that tothem he is beholden for everything that he possesses and foreverything that he contains. I myself have lived--"Here, with a contraction of his brows, he fell to gazing abouthim, as though he were seeking the necessary word; until,seeming to fail to find it, he continued gravely:"Men need to be brought closer together, until life shall havebecome better adjusted. Never forget those who are departed,for anything and everything in the life of a 'servant of God'may prove instructive and of profound significance."On the white sides of the memorial-stones, the setting sun wascasting warm lurid reflections, until the stonework looked asthough it had been splashed with hot blood. Moreover, everything around us seemed curiously to have swelled and grownlarger and softer and less cold of outline; the whole scene,though as motionless as ever, appeared to have taken on a sortof bright-red humidity, and deposited that humidity in purple,scintillating, quivering dew on the turf's various spikes andtufts. Gradually, also, the shadows were deepening andlengthening, while on the further side of the cemetery wall acow lowed at intervals, in a gross and drunken fashion, and aparty of fowls cackled what seemed to be curses in response, anda saw grated and screeched.Suddenly the Lieutenant burst into a peal of subdued laughter,and continued to do so until his shoulders shook. At length hesaid through the paroxysms, as, giving me a push, he cocked hishat boyishly:"I must confess that, that--that the view which I first took ofyou was rather a tragic one. You see, when I saw a man lyingprone on the grass I said to myself: 'H'm! What is that?' Next Isaw a young fellow roaming about the cemetery with a frownsettled on his face, and his breeches bulging; and again I saidto myself--""A book is lying in my breeches pocket," I interposed."Ah! Then I understand. Yes, I made a mistake, but a very,welcome one. However, as I say, when I first saw you, I said tomyself: 'There is a man lying near that tomb. Perhaps he has abullet, a wound, in his temple?' And, as you know--"He stopped to wink at me with another outburst of soft,good-humoured laughter. Then he continued."Nevertheless, the scheme of which I have told you cannot reallybe called a scheme, since it is merely a fancy of my own. Yet ISHOULD like to see life lived in better fashion."He sighed and paused, for evidently he was becoming lost inthought."Unfortunately," he continued at last, "the latter is a desirewhich I have conceived too late. If only I had done so fifteenyears ago, when I was filling the post of Inspector of theprison at Usman--"His left arm stretched itself out, and once more there slid onto his wrist the bracelet. For a moment he touched its gold witha rapid, but careful, delicate, movement--then he restored thetrinket to its retreat, rose suddenly, looked about him for asecond or two with a frown, and said in dry, brisk tones as hegave his iron-grey moustache an energetic twist:"Now I must be going."For a while I accompanied him on his way, for I had a keendesire to hear him say something more in that pleasant, powerfulbass of his; but though he stepped past the gravestones withstrides as careful and regular as those of a soldier on parade,he failed again to break silence.Just as we passed the chapel of the monastery there floatedforth into the fair evening stillness, from the bars, of awindow, while yet not really stirring that stillness, a hum ofgruff, lazy, peevish ejaculations. Apparently they were utteredby two persons who were engaged in a dispute, since one of themmuttered:"What have you done? What have you done?"And the other responded carelessly:"Hold your tongue, now! Pray hold your tongue!"