A Dead Body

Anton Chekhov

A STILL August night. A mist is rising slowly from the fields and casting an opaque veil

over everything within eyesight. Lighted up by the moon, the mist gives the impression at

one moment of a calm, boundless sea, at the next of an immense white wall. The air is

damp and chilly. Morning is still far off. A step from the bye-road which runs along the

edge of the forest a little fire is gleaming. A dead body, covered from head to foot with new

white linen, is lying under a young oak-tree. A wooden ikon is lying on its breast. Beside

the corpse almost on the road sits the "watch" -- two peasants performing one of the most

disagreeable and uninviting of peasants' duties. One, a tall young fellow with a scarcely

fire is lazily burning down between them, throwing a red glow on their faces. There is

perfect stillness. The only sounds are the scrape of the knife on the wood and the crackling

of damp sticks in the fire.

"Don't you go to sleep, Syoma . . ." says the young man.

"I . . . I am not asleep . . ." stammers the goat-beard.

"That's all right. . . . It would be dreadful to sit here alone, one would be frightened. You

might tell me something, Syoma."

"You are a queer fellow, Syomushka! Other people will laugh and tell a story and sing a

song, but you -- there is no making you out. You sit like a scarecrow in the garden and roll

your eyes at the fire. You can't say anything properly . . . when you speak you seem

understanding. You must make an effort, Syoma. . . . You should listen hard when anything

good's being said, note it well, and keep thinking and thinking. . . . If there is any word you

don't understand, you should make an effort and think over in your head in what meaning

the word is used. Do you see? Make an effort! If you don't gain some sense for yourself

you'll be a simpleton and of no account at all to your dying day."

All at once a long drawn-out, moaning sound is heard in the forest. Something rustles in the

leaves as though torn from the very top of the tree and falls to the ground. All this is faintly

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repeated by the echo. The young man shudders and looks enquiringly at his companion.

"It's an owl at the little birds," says Syoma, gloomily.

"Why, Syoma, it's time for the birds to fly to the warm countries!"

"To be sure, it is time."

"It is chilly at dawn now. It is co-old. The crane is a chilly creature, it is tender. Such cold is

death to it. I am not a crane, but I am frozen. . . . Put some more wood on!"

Syoma gets up and disappears in the dark undergrowth. While he is busy among the bushes,

The goat-beard sits motionless as before and keeps his eyes fixed on the fire. . . .

"Ye that love not Zion . . . shall be put to shame by the Lord." A falsetto voice is suddenly

heard singing in the stillness of the night, then slow footsteps are audible, and the dark

figure of a man in a short monkish cassock and a broad-brimmed hat, with a wallet on his

shoulders, comes into sight on the road in the crimson firelight.

"Thy will be done, O Lord! Holy Mother!" the figure says in a husky falsetto. "I saw the fire

in the outer darkness and my soul leapt for joy. . . . At first I thought it was men grazing a

drove of horses, then I thought it can't be that, since no horses were to be seen. 'Aren't they

thieves,' I wondered, 'aren't they robbers lying in wait for a rich Lazarus? Aren't they the

gypsy people offering sacrifices to idols? And my soul leapt for joy. 'Go, Feodosy, servant

will be Ananova, our village. From the village, father, you turn to the right by the river-

bank, and so you will get to the brickyards. It's two miles from Ananova."

"God give you health. And why are you sitting here?

"We are sitting here watching. You see, there is a dead body. . . ."

"What? what body? Holy Mother!"

The pilgrim sees the white linen with the ikon on it, and starts so violently that his legs give

a little skip. This unexpected sight has an overpowering effect upon him. He huddles

together and stands as though rooted to the spot, with wide-open mouth and staring eyes.

For three minutes he is silent as though he could not believe his eyes, then begins

muttering:

"O Lord! Holy Mother! I was going along not meddling with anyone, and all at once such

an affliction."

"What may you be?" enquires the young man. "Of the clergy?"

"No . . . no. . . . I go from one monastery to another. . . . Do you know Mi . . . Mihail

did the deceased come from?"

"He was a stranger."

"Such is life! But I'll . . . er . . . be getting on, brothers. . . . I feel flustered. I am more afraid

of the dead than of anything, my dear souls! And only fancy! while this man was alive he

wasn't noticed, while now when he is dead and given over to corruption we tremble before

him as before some famous general or a bishop. . . . Such is life; was he murdered, or

what?"

"The Lord knows! Maybe he was murdered, or maybe he died of himself."

the body for three days."

"By the river-bank. . . . To be sure. . . . Why am I standing still? I must go on. Farewell,

brothers."

The man in the cassock takes five steps along the road and stops.

"I've forgotten to put a kopeck for the burying," he says. "Good orthodox friends, can I give

would go for the good of his soul; if it's a suicide it's a sin."

"That's true. . . . And maybe it really was a suicide! So I had better keep my money. Oh,

sins, sins! Give me a thousand roubles and I would not consent to sit here. . . . Farewell,

brothers."

The cassock slowly moves away and stops again.

"I can't make up my mind what I am to do," he mutters. "To stay here by the fire and wait

till daybreak. . . . I am frightened; to go on is dreadful, too. The dead man will haunt me all

have come on foot and nothing happened, and now I am near home and there's trouble. I

see me to the village."

"We've been told not to go away from the body."

"No one will see, brothers. Upon my soul, no one will see! The Lord will reward you a

hundredfold! Old man, come with me, I beg! Old man! Why are you silent?"

"He is a bit simple," says the young man.

"You come with me, friend; I will give you five kopecks."

"For five kopecks I might," says the young man, scratching his head, "but I was told not to.

"I'll stay," the simpleton consents.

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