A Night in the Cemetery

A THIEF

The clock struck twelve. Fyodor Stepanovich put his fur coat onto his shoulders, and went outside. He felt the damp night air; a cold wind was blowing. It was drizzling. Fyodor Stepanovich stepped above the remains of a fence and went quietly along the street. It was a wide street, almost as wide as a square. He saw few streets so wide in the European part of Russia. There were no lights and no sidewalks, no signs of such luxuries.

Next to the fences and the walls he saw the dark figures of people in a hurry to get to the church. Fyodor Stepanovich saw two of these figures in front of him, walking in the mud. In the first figure, he recognized the old doctor—a short man with a curved back, the only educated man in town. The old doctor was very friendly to him, and every time he met Fyodor Stepanovich, he sighed deeply. This time the old man was wearing a triangular uniform hat, which looked like two duck heads glued together. The end of his sword could be seen from under his long coat. Next to him was a tall thin man with the same kind of triangular hat.

“Happy Easter, Gury Ivanovich,” Fyodor Stepanovich said to the doctor.

The doctor shook his hand in silence and revealed the medal that hung from the front of his jacket, beneath his fur coat.

“Doctor, I would like to talk to you later today,” Fyodor Stepanovich said. “I would like to share a holiday dinner with you; we always had dinner in my family. And it will give me some good memories.”

“It isn’t convenient. You know I have a wife and family. But I am not prejudiced, so if you want to come—hmm. Sorry, I am coughing, I have a sore throat.”

“What about Barabaev?” Fyodor Stepanovich added with a sour grin on his face. “Barabaev was sentenced with me, but he has dinner with you every day and drinks tea. He stole more money, that’s why.”

Fyodor Stepanovich stopped and pressed himself against the wet picket fence. Very far away he saw small lights. They were flickering in the darkness and moving in one direction.

“This is the holiday procession, with the lights,” thought the exile. “It looks exactly the same as in the place I used to live.”

There were sounds of distant bells and voices: the tenors were barely audible, and the singers seemed to be in a hurry.

“This is my first Easter in this cold, and it is not the last one,” Fyodor Stepanovich thought. “It is so bad here. And, at home, it is probably completely different.” He tried to imagine how life looked there, in his hometown. “They do not have dark dirty snow and sleet underfoot in the streets, and in the pools of water. Instead, there are fresh green leaves on the trees. Instead of this sharp wet wind, there is a breath of spring. The sky is different there. It is darker, and there are more stars, with a white stripe across the sky in the east. There is a green picket fence instead of this shabby, dirty fence, in front of my little cozy house with its three windows. And there are warm, well-lit rooms behind those windows. In one of these rooms, there is a table covered with a nice, white, clean tablecloth with bread, appetizers, and vodka.

It would be nice to have some vodka from home. The local vodka is terrible; you can’t drink it.

In the morning you feel refreshed after a good night’s sleep, then you visit your friends and then you can have some more to drink.

And he remembered his wife Olya, her catlike face that looked as if she were about to cry. She is probably asleep now, not dreaming about him. This sort of woman forgets things quickly. If there had been no Olya, he would not be here. It was she who gave him an idea to steal. She had wanted the money. She had wanted it terribly; she had wanted to spend it on fashionable clothes. She could neither live nor love without money; she would suffer without it.

“And if they send me to Siberia, will you follow me there?” he asked her one day.

“Of course! I will go with you to the ends of the earth!”

When he stole the money, he was caught, and was sent to Siberia. Olya did not go with him; she felt too weak. Now her silly head is lying on a clean, white lace pillow, and his feet are shuffling through this dirty snow and sleet.

“She came into the courtroom in a fashionable dress, and she did not even look at me,” he thought. “She laughed when the lawyer made jokes during his speech. I think I’m ready to kill her.”

All these memories made Fyodor Stepanovich tired. He felt sick and weary, as if he were thinking with his whole body. His feet became weak, and he had no energy to walk. He went home and, without removing his fur coat or heavy boots, simply fell onto his bed.

A cage with a songbird was affixed above his bed. Both cage and bird belonged to the landlord. The bird was very thin, strange, with a long beak, and he did not know its name. Her wings were clipped, and her head had lost its feathers. The owner fed her some disgusting sour stuff, which filled the room with a terrible smell. The bird was moving around the cage kicking her water-dish, and singing different songs, like a blackbird.

“I can’t sleep because of this bird,” Fyodor Stepanovich thought. “Damn it!”

He stood up and shook the cage with his hand. The bird fell silent. The exile lay down and took off his boots. After a moment, the bird started making noise again. A piece of the sour food fell on his head and became tangled in his hair.

“Can’t you stop singing? Can’t you sleep in silence? Shut up!”

Fyodor Stepanovich jumped on his feet, picked up the cage in a fit of rage, and threw it into a corner of the room. The bird fell silent.

Ten minutes later, it seemed to the exile, the bird appeared from the corner of the room, and flew at him with its long beak, and then started picking up something from the floor. To him, there was only a long endless beak and flapping wings, and then it seemed to him that he was lying on the floor, and the bird was flapping her wing at his temples. Then the bird’s beak was broken, and a bunch of feathers was all that remained of the bird. The exile fell asleep.

“Why did you kill the animal, you filthy criminal!” He heard moaning.

Fyodor Stepanovich opened his eyes and saw the face of the landlord, an unpleasant-looking old man.

The landlord was trembling with rage, and tears were flowing down his face.

“Why did you kill my bird, you villain? Why did you kill my singer, you devil? Why? You wretch, get out of my house! You dirty dog! Get out of my sight! This instant! Get out!”

Fyodor Stepanovich put on his coat and went out into the street. It was a gray and windy morning. The sky was overcast. He saw the solid gray sky and could not believe there was a sun somewhere above the clouds. The rain was drizzling.

“Hello! Happy holiday, my dear fellow!” The man heard a familiar voice as he stepped into the street.

Barabaev, with whom he used to live in the same hometown, was passing him by in a carriage. He wore a top hat, and held an umbrella.

“He is paying visits,” Fyodor Stepanovich thought. “Even here he has a comfortable life. He has friends. I should have stolen more money.”

Coming near the church, Fyodor Stepanovich heard another voice. It was a woman’s voice. He saw a postal carriage packed with travelers’ suitcases and bags. There was a woman’s face peering from behind all the bags.

“Where is … Oh my dear, Fyodor Stepanovich, it’s you!” the little face was calling.

Fyodor Stepanovich ran to the carriage, looked intently at the woman’s face, and held her hand.

“What is this? Am I dreaming? Have you come back to me? How did you come to this decision, dear Olya?”

“Where does Barabaev live?”

“Why do you want to see Barabaev?”

“Because he invited me here. He sent me two thousand rubles, and promised three hundred rubles per month in addition. Are there any theaters around here?”

Until late that night, the exile walked around the town looking for a place to live. It rained the whole day, and there was not a moment of sunshine.

“How can these animals live without sunshine?” he thought, trudging through the deep slush. “How can they be happy without sunshine? They’re probably used to it.”