‘At the beginning of 1812,’ Burmin began, ‘I was hurrying to Vilna, where our regiment was stationed. Arriving late one evening at a post-station I ordered horses to be harnessed without delay, when suddenly there was a terrible blizzard, and the postmaster and drivers advised me to wait. I followed their advice, but an inexplicable anxiety took hold of me: it seemed as if someone was pushing me forward. Meanwhile the blizzard did not abate. I lost patience, again ordered horses to be harnessed and rode off straight into the blizzard. The coachman took it into his head to follow the course of the river, which should have shortened the journey by about a mile and a half. The banks were covered with snow; the coachman passed the spot where we would have come out on the main road, and as a result we found ourselves in unknown territory. The blizzard did not let up. I saw a light and ordered the driver to head towards it. We reached a village; in a wooden church a light was burning. The church was open and by the fence stood several sleighs; people were walking up and down the porch. “Over here! Over here!” cried several voices. I ordered the coachman to drive up. “For heaven’s sake, why have you taken so long?” someone asked me. “The bride has fainted, the priest does not know what to do; we were just about to go back. Come as quickly as you can.” Without saying a word I sprang from my sleigh and entered the church, which was dimly lit by two or three candles. A young girl was sitting on a bench in a dark corner of the church; another girl was rubbing her temples. “Thank God,” the latter said. “At last you’ve come. You very nearly killed my mistress.” The old priest came over to me and asked, “Do you wish me to begin?” “Yes, begin, do begin, Father,” I answered absently. They lifted the young lady to her feet. She seemed not bad-looking. Prompted by an incomprehensible, unpardonable light-headedness, I took my place at her side before the pulpit; the priest was in a hurry; three men and a maid supported the bride and concerned themselves only with her. We were married. “Kiss each other,” we were told. My wife turned her pale face towards me. I was about to kiss her… She cried out, “Oh, it is not he! It is not he!” – and she fell senseless. With fear in their eyes the witnesses stared at her. I turned around, walked out of the church unimpeded, threw myself into the sleigh and shouted, “Drive off!”’
‘Good God!’ cried Marya Gavrilovna. ‘And do you have any idea what became of your poor wife?’
‘I do not know,’ Burmin replied. ‘Nor do I know the name of the village where I was married. I cannot remember the name of the post-station from which I set out. At the time I attached so little importance to my criminal prank that I fell asleep when I drove away from the church and I did not wake up until I was at the third station, the following morning. The servant who was with me at the time died during the campaign, so that I have no hope at all of ever finding that woman upon whom I played such a cruel joke and who has now taken such cruel vengeance.’
‘Good God! Good God!’ cried Marya Gavrilovna, grasping his hand. ‘So it was you! Do you not recognize me?’
Burmin turned pale and threw himself at her feet…
THE UNDERTAKER
Do we not behold coffins every day,
The grey hairs of an ageing universe?
Derzhavin1
The last of the undertaker Adrian Prokhorov’s belongings were piled on to the hearse and for the fourth time the two scrawny-looking horses dragged themselves from Basmannaya Street to Nikitskaya Street,2 where the undertaker had moved with his whole household. After locking his shop he nailed to the gate a notice announcing that the house was for sale or rent, and set off on foot for his new abode. As he approached the little yellow house that for so long had captured his imagination and which he had bought at last for a tidy sum, the old undertaker was amazed to find that his heart did not rejoice. When he crossed the unfamiliar threshold and found his new home in chaos, he sighed for his old tumbledown shack where, for eighteen years, the strictest order had prevailed. He started scolding his two daughters and maidservant for being so slow and set about helping them himself. Soon order was established; the icon case, the crockery cupboard, the table, the sofa and the bed occupied their appointed places in the back room; in the kitchen and parlour the master’s wares were placed: coffins of every colour and size, as well as cupboards filled with mourning hats, cloaks and torches. Over the gate hung a sign depicting a plump cupid with a downturned torch in his hand and bearing the inscription: ‘Plain and painted coffins sold and upholstered here. Coffins also let out for hire and old ones repaired.’ The girls retired to their room. After making a tour of inspection of his new dwelling Adrian sat by the window and ordered the samovar to be prepared.
The enlightened reader knows that Shakespeare and Walter Scott both portrayed their grave-diggers as cheerful, jocular characters so that the contrast might strike our imagination all the more forcibly. Out of respect for the truth we are unable to follow their example and have to admit that the temperament of our undertaker harmonized perfectly with his lugubrious vocation. Adrian Prokhorov was habitually gloomy and pensive. He would break his silence only to scold his daughters when he found them idly staring out of the window at passers-by, or to demand an exorbitant price for his wares from those who had the misfortune (or occasionally the good fortune) to need them. And so Adrian, seated by the window and drinking his seventh cup of tea, was, as usual, absorbed by sad reflections. He was brooding over the torrential rain which, a week before, had poured down at the funeral procession of a retired brigadier. Because of the rain, many cloaks had shrunk, many hats had lost their shape. He foresaw unavoidable expenses, since his old stock of funeral apparel was in a sorry state. He had hoped to recoup his losses with the funeral of old Tryukhina, the merchant’s wife, who had been at death’s door for over a year. But Tryukhina lay dying at Razgulyai,3 and Prokhorov was afraid that her heirs, despite their promise, would not bother to send for him from so far away and would make their arrangements with the nearest undertaker.
These reflections were unexpectedly interrupted by three Masonic knocks at the door. ‘Who’s there?’ asked the undertaker. The door opened and a man who could immediately be recognized as a German craftsman entered the room and approached the undertaker with a cheerful look. ‘Excuse me, my good neighbour,’ he said in that accented Russian which to this day we cannot hear without laughing, ‘excuse me for disturbing you… I wanted to make your acquaintance as soon as possible. I’m a shoemaker, my name is Gottlieb Schultz and I live across the street, in the little house opposite your windows. Tomorrow I shall be celebrating my silver wedding, and I’ve come to invite you and your daughters to have dinner with us.’ The invitation was graciously accepted. The undertaker asked the shoemaker to sit down and have a cup of tea, and thanks to Gottlieb Schultz’s open-hearted disposition they were soon having the most amicable of conversations. ‘How is business, my dear sir?’ Adrian asked. ‘Oh,’ replied Schultz, ‘so-so. I really can’t complain. Of course my goods are not like yours: the living can do without shoes, but the dead can’t do without a coffin.’ ‘That’s so true,’ observed Adrian. ‘However, if a living person has no money for shoes then, begging your pardon, he goes around barefoot. But a dead beggar gets his coffin for nothing.’ The conversation continued in this vein for some time. Finally the shoemaker stood up, renewed his invitation and took his leave of the undertaker.
Next day, at precisely twelve o’clock, the undertaker and his daughters passed through the gate of their newly purchased house and went to visit their neighbour. I shall not stop to describe Adrian’s Russian caftan, nor Akulina and Darya’s European attire, in this respect departing from the normal practice of contemporary novelists. At the same time, however, I do not consider it superfluous to remark that both girls had put on the yellow hats and red shoes which they wore only on very important occasions.
The shoemaker’s cramped room was packed with guests, mainly German craftsmen with their wives and apprentices. There was only one Russian official there, namely a constable, Yurko the Finn who, desp
ite his lowly calling, enjoyed the host’s particular favour. For twenty-five years he had discharged his duties honestly and loyally, like Pogorelsky’s postman.4 The fire of 1812, which had destroyed the ancient capital, had also destroyed his yellow sentry-box. But immediately after the expulsion of the enemy, a new one appeared in its place, painted grey and with white Doric columns, and Yurko once again paced up and down before it ‘axe in hand and in armour of coarse cloth’.5 He was known to the majority of Germans living near the Nikitsky Gate, and some of them had even happened to spend Sunday night at his place. Adrian immediately made himself acquainted with him as someone who, sooner or later, might have need of his services, and when the guests took their places at the table they sat beside one another.
At dinner Herr and Frau Schultz and their seventeen-year-old daughter Lottchen waited on their guests and helped the cook to serve the food. The beer flowed. Yurko ate enough for four and in no way did Adrian lag behind; his daughters conducted themselves with due decorum. The conversation, which was in German, became noisier every minute. Suddenly the host called for his guests’ attention and, as he uncorked a sealed bottle, said loudly in Russian, ‘To the health of my good Luisa!’ The sparkling wine foamed. The host tenderly kissed the fresh face of his forty-year-old spouse and the guests noisily toasted good Luisa’s health. ‘To the health of my dear guests!’ proclaimed the host as he uncorked a second bottle; and the guests thanked him as they drained their glasses again. Then one toast followed another: they drank the health of each guest; they drank to the health of Moscow and a round dozen little German towns; they drank to the health of all guilds in general and each one in particular; they drank to the health of the masters and apprentices. Adrian drank zealously and became so merry that he proposed some humorous toast himself. Suddenly one of the guests, a fat baker, raised his glass and exclaimed, ‘To the health of those for whom we work, unserer Kundleute!’6 This proposal, like all the others, was joyfully and unanimously welcomed. The guests began to bow to one another – the tailor to the shoemaker, the shoemaker to the tailor, the baker to both of them, the whole assembly to the baker and so on. Amidst the mutual salutations Yurko cried out, turning to his neighbour, ‘Come on, my dear friend! Drink to the health of your corpses!’ Everyone burst out laughing, but the undertaker considered himself insulted and frowned. No one noticed, the guests carried on drinking and the bells were already ringing for vespers when they left the table.
It was late when the guests departed and most of them were tipsy. The fat baker and the bookbinder, whose face
Seemed to be bound in red morocco,7
led Yurko by the arm to his sentry-box, on this occasion observing the Russian proverb, ‘One good turn deserves another.’ The undertaker arrived home drunk and angry. ‘Why is it?’ he deliberated aloud, ‘that my profession is less honourable than any other? Is an undertaker brother to the hangman? What were those heathens laughing at? Is an undertaker a clown at a Christmas party? I’d really like to invite them to a house-warming and give them a splendid feast. But no! I’ll invite those for whom I work – the Christian dead.’
‘What are you saying, master?’ asked his maidservant, who was just then helping him off with his boots. ‘Cross yourself! Fancy inviting the dead to a house-warming! How awful!’ ‘By God I shall invite them!’ Adrian continued. ‘And tomorrow too! Do me the favour, my benefactors, come and feast with me tomorrow evening. I shall regale you with whatever I have.’ With these words the undertaker went to bed and he was soon snoring.
It was still dark outside when Adrian was roused from his slumbers. Tryukhina, the merchant’s wife, had died that very night, and a special messenger, sent on horseback by her steward, had galloped over to Adrian with the news. The undertaker gave him ten copecks for some vodka, hurriedly dressed and took a cab to Razgulyai. The police were already standing at the door of the dead woman’s house, while tradesmen walked up and down like ravens scenting a dead body. The deceased lay on a table, yellow as wax but as yet not disfigured by decay. Relatives, neighbours and servants had crowded round her. All the windows were open; candles were burning; priests were reading prayers for the dead. Adrian went up to Tryukhina’s nephew, a young merchant in a fashionable frock-coat, and informed him that the coffin, candles, pall and other funeral accessories would be immediately delivered, and in perfect condition. The heir thanked him absently, saying that he would not haggle about the price and had complete confidence that the undertaker would be guided by his conscience. The undertaker, as was his custom, swore that he would not charge a copeck too much, exchanged meaningful glances with the steward and went home to make the arrangements.
The entire day was spent travelling back and forth from Razgulyai to the Nikitsky Gate. By evening he had seen to everything and, after dismissing the cab, returned home. It was a moonlit night. The undertaker safely reached the Nikitsky Gate. By the Church of the Ascension he was hailed by our friend Yurko who, when he recognized the undertaker, wished him good-night. It was late. The undertaker was approaching his house when suddenly he thought he could see someone go up to his gate, open the wicket and disappear within. ‘What could this mean?’ wondered Adrian. ‘Who could be needing my services again? Can it be a thief who’s come to rob me? Or perhaps my stupid daughters have lovers coming to visit them? It can bode nothing good!’ And the undertaker was already thinking of summoning the assistance of his friend Yurko. At that moment someone else approached the wicket-gate and was about to enter. However, seeing the master of the house running towards him he stopped and raised his three-cornered hat. His face seemed familiar to Adrian, but he was in such a hurry he had no time to take a close look at it. ‘You’ve come to visit me, then,’ Adrian said breathlessly. ‘Do go in, I beg you.’ ‘Don’t stand on ceremony, old chap,’ the other replied in a hollow voice. ‘You go in first and show your guests the way!’ Adrian had no time to stand on ceremony. The wicket-gate was open; he climbed the steps, with the other following him. Adrian thought he could hear people walking around in the rooms. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he thought and hurried in… but then his legs gave way. The room was full of corpses. The moon shone through the windows and illuminated their yellow and blue faces, sunken mouths, dim, half-closed eyes and prominent noses. To his horror Adrian recognized them as people he himself had buried and in the guest who had entered with him the brigadier who had been buried in the pouring rain. All of them, ladies and gentlemen, surrounded the undertaker with bows and greetings, except for one poor devil recently buried free of charge and who, ashamed of his rags and feeling shy, dared not approach him but stayed meekly in one corner. All the others were decently dressed: the females in bonnets and ribbons, the officials in uniform, but with beards unshaven, and the merchants in their Sunday best. ‘You see, Prokhorov,’ said the brigadier on behalf of the whole honourable company, ‘we have all risen in response to your invitation; only those who were unable to attend have remained at home, those who have completely fallen to bits and of whom there is nothing left but fleshless bone. But one of them could not hold himself back, so keen was he to come and see you…’ At this moment a small skeleton forced its way through the crowd and went up to Adrian. The skull smiled warmly at the undertaker. Shreds of bright green and red cloth and rotting linen hung on him here and there, as if on a pole, while the bones of his feet rattled in his large jackboots like pestles in mortars. ‘You don’t recognize me, Prokhorov,’ said the skeleton. ‘Don’t you remember Pyotr Petrovich Kurilkin, retired Guards sergeant, that very same person to whom, in 1799, you sold your first coffin – and in cheap pine instead of what should have been oak?’ With these words the skeleton held out its arms in bony embrace, but Adrian, bracing himself, shrieked and pushed it away. Pyotr Petrovich staggered, fell and completely disintegrated. A murmur of indignation arose amongst the corpses; all of them stood up and defended the honour of their comrade, attacking Adrian with such abuse and threats that the poor host, deafened by their shouts and a
lmost crushed to death, lost his nerve, fell on to the bones of the retired Guards sergeant and fainted clean away.
The sun had long been shining on the bed upon which the undertaker lay. At last he opened his eyes and saw his maidservant before him, heating the samovar. With horror Adrian recalled all the events of the previous day. Tryukhina, the brigadier and Sergeant Kurilkin dimly appeared in his mind. Silently he waited for the maid to start the conversation and tell him of the consequences of the previous night’s adventures.
‘How you’ve overslept, Adrian Prokhorovich,’ said Aksinya as she handed him his dressing-gown. ‘Your neighbour the tailor called and the district constable dropped in to say that today’s the inspector’s name-day, but you were sleeping so soundly, and we didn’t want to wake you.’
‘Did anyone come for me from the late Tryukhina?’
‘The late? Is she dead?’
‘Stupid girl! Didn’t you yourself help me yesterday with the arrangements for her funeral?’
‘Have you gone out of your mind or are you still tipsy from yesterday? What funeral was there yesterday? You spent the whole day celebrating at the German’s place, came back drunk, fell on to your bed and slept until now, when the bells have already rung for Mass.’
‘Is that so?’ said the overjoyed undertaker.
‘Oh yes, master,’ replied the maid.
‘Well, if that’s the case hurry up with my tea and call my daughters.’
THE POSTMASTER
The collegiate registrar, with iron hand,
Dictator of every post-stage in the land.
Prince Vyazemsky1
Who has not cursed postmasters, who has never quarrelled with them? Who, in a moment of rage, has not demanded from them that fatal book in order to record in it futile complaints of heavy-handedness, rudeness and inefficiency? Who does not look upon them as the scum of the earth, the equal of scriveners of old,2 or at least of the brigands of Murom?3 Let us be fair, however; let us try to put ourselves in their position and perhaps then we shall come to judge them much more leniently. What is a postmaster? A veritable martyr of the fourteenth grade, protected by his rank4 only from blows and then not always. I appeal to the conscience of my readers.
Tales of Belkin and Other Prose Writings Page 6
