Novels, Tales, Journeys

THE COFFIN-MAKER

Do we not gaze every day on coffins,

The gray hair of the aging universe?

DERZHAVIN1

The last belongings of the coffin-maker Adrian Prokhorov were piled on the hearse, and for the fourth time the scrawny pair dragged it from Basmannaya to Nikitskaya Street, where the coffin-maker was moving with all his household. Having locked up the shop, he nailed to the gate a notice that the house was for sale or rent, and went on foot to his new home. Approaching the little yellow house that had so long captivated his imagination, and that he had finally purchased for a considerable sum, the old coffin-maker felt with surprise that his heart was not rejoicing. Stepping across the unfamiliar threshold and finding turmoil in his new dwelling, he sighed for the decrepit hovel, where in the course of eighteen years everything had been managed in the strictest order; he started scolding his two daughters and the maidservant for being slow, and set about helping them himself. Soon order was established; the icon stand with its icons, the cupboard with its dishes, the table, the sofa, and the bed took up their appointed corners in the back room; the kitchen and the living room were filled with the master’s handiwork: coffins of all colors and sizes, as well as cupboards with mourning hats, mantles, and torches. Over the gate rose a signboard depicting a stout Cupid with an upside down torch in his hand, with the inscription: “Plain and painted coffins sold and upholstered here, old ones also rented out and repaired.” The girls went to their room. Adrian took a turn around his dwelling, sat down by the window, and ordered the samovar prepared.

The enlightened reader knows that Shakespeare and Walter Scott both presented their gravediggers as merry and jocular people, in order to strike our imaginations the more forcefully by this contrast. Out of respect for the truth we cannot follow their example and are forced to admit that our coffin-maker’s disposition suited his gloomy profession perfectly. Adrian Prokhorov was habitually morose and pensive. He broke his silence only to chide his daughters when he found them gazing idly out the window at passersby, or to ask an exorbitant price for his products from those who had the misfortune (or sometimes the pleasure) of needing them. And so Adrian, sitting by the window and drinking his seventh cup of tea, was immersed in his habitual melancholy reflections. He was thinking about the pouring rain which, a week earlier, had met the funeral of a retired brigadier just at the city gates. Many mantles had shrunk because of it, many hats had been deformed. He foresaw inevitable expenses, for his old stock of funerary vestments had fallen into a pitiful state. He hoped to make up for the loss on the old merchant woman Tryukhina, who had been at death’s door for about a year already. But Tryukhina was dying in Razgulyai, and Prokhorov feared that her heirs, despite their promise, would be too lazy to send so far for him and would make a deal with a contractor closer by.

These reflections were unexpectedly interrupted by three Masonic knocks on the door.

“Who’s there?” asked the coffin-maker.

The door opened, and a man, who could be recognized at first glance as a German artisan, came into the room and with a cheerful air approached the coffin-maker.

“Forgive me, kind neighbor,” he said in that Russian parlance which to this day we cannot hear without laughing, “forgive me for bothering you…I wished quickly to make your acquaintance. I am a shoemaker, my name is Gottlieb Schultz, I live across the street from you, in that little house opposite your windows. Tomorrow I am celebrating my silver anniversary, and I ask you and your daughters to dine with me in friendly fashion.”

The invitation was favorably received. The coffin-maker asked the shoemaker to sit down and have a cup of tea, and, thanks to Gottlieb Schultz’s open disposition, they were soon conversing amicably.

“How goes your trade, my dear sir?” Adrian asked.

“Ehh,” replied Schultz, “up and down. I can’t complain. Though, of course, my trade’s not the same as yours: a living man can do without boots, but a dead man can’t live without a coffin.”

“The exact truth,” observed Adrian. “However, if a living man lacks the wherewithal to buy boots, then, no offense intended, he goes around barefoot; while a beggarly dead man gets his coffin for nothing.”

Their talk went on like that for some time; finally the shoemaker got up and took leave of the coffin-maker, renewing his invitation.

The next day, at exactly twelve noon, the coffin-maker and his daughters stepped through the gateway of their newly purchased house and headed for their neighbor’s. I am not going to describe Adrian Prokhorov’s Russian kaftan, nor the European outfits of Akulina and Darya, departing on this occasion from the custom adopted by present-day novelists. I suppose, however, that it is not superfluous to observe that the two girls put on yellow hats and red shoes, which they used to do only on solemn occasions.

The shoemaker’s small apartment was filled with guests, mostly German artisans, their wives and apprentices. Of Russian officials there was only the sentry Yurko, a Finn, who, despite his humble rank, had managed to earn the host’s special favor. For twenty-five years he had served faithfully in that capacity, like Pogorelsky’s postman. The fire of the year twelve, having destroyed the former capital, also did away with his yellow sentry box.2 But immediately upon the expulsion of the enemy, a new one appeared in its place, gray with little white columns of the Doric order, and Yurko again started pacing before it “with a poleaxe and in a homespun cuirass.”3 He was acquainted with most of the Germans, who lived near the Nikitsky Gate: some of them occasionally even stayed overnight with Yurko from Sunday to Monday. Adrian at once made his acquaintance, as a person he might chance to have need of sooner or later, and when the guests went to the table, they sat next to each other. Mr. and Mrs. Schultz, together with their daughter, the seventeen-year-old Lottchen, while dining with their guests, passed the plates and helped the cook to serve. The beer flowed. Yurko ate enough for four; Adrian did not lag behind him; his daughters behaved decorously; the German conversation grew louder and louder. Suddenly the host called for attention and, uncorking a resin-sealed bottle, pronounced loudly in Russian:

“To the health of my good Louisa!”

The sparkling wine foamed up. The host tenderly kissed the fresh face of his forty-year-old companion, and the guests noisily drank the health of good Louisa.

“To the health of my dear guests!” proposed the host, uncorking a second bottle—and the guests thanked him, emptying their glasses again. Here toasts began to follow one after the other: they drank the health of each particular guest, drank the health of Moscow and a full dozen small German towns, drank the health of all guilds in general and each in particular, drank the health of masters and apprentices. Adrian drank heartily and became so merry that he offered a sort of jocular toast himself. Suddenly one of the guests, a fat baker, raised his glass and exclaimed:

“To the health of those we work for, unserer Kundleute!”^*

This proposal, like all the others, was received joyfully and unanimously. The guests began bowing to each other, the tailor to the shoemaker, the shoemaker to the tailor, the baker to them both, all of them to the baker, and so on. Amidst these mutual reverences, Yurko cried out, turning to his neighbor:

“So then, brother? Drink to the health of your dead.”

Everybody laughed loudly, but the coffin-maker considered himself offended and frowned. Nobody noticed it, the guests went on drinking, and the bells were already ringing for vespers when they got up from the table.

The guests went home late, and for the most part tipsy. The fat baker and the bookbinder,

Whose face seemed bound in red morocco,4

took Yurko under the arms to his sentry box, observing in this case the proverb “One good turn deserves another.” The coffin-maker came home drunk and angry.

“What is this, really?” he reasoned aloud. “What makes my trade less honored than others? Is a coffin-maker a hangman’s brother? Why do those heathens laugh? Is a coffin-maker a Yuletide mummer? I was going to invite them to the housewarming, throw them a big feast: there’ll be none of that! I’ll invite the ones I work for: the Orthodox dead.”

“What’s that, dearie?” said his maidservant, who was just taking off his boots. “What’s that drivel? Cross yourself! To invite dead people to a housewarming! It’s frightful!”

“By God, I will,” Adrian went on, “and tomorrow at that. You are welcome, my benefactors, to come and feast with me tomorrow evening; I’ll regale you with what God sends me!” With those words the coffin-maker put himself to bed and was soon snoring away.

It was still dark outside when Adrian was awakened. Tryukhina, the merchant’s wife, had passed away that same night, and a messenger from her steward came galloping to Adrian with the news. For that the coffin-maker tipped him ten kopecks, quickly got dressed, hired a cab, and drove to Razgulyai. Policemen were already standing by the deceased woman’s gate, and merchants were strolling about like crows, sensing a dead body. The deceased woman lay on the table,5 yellow as wax, but not yet disfigured by corruption. Relations, neighbors, and domestics crowded around her. All the windows were open; candles burned; priests were reciting prayers. Adrian went up to Tryukhina’s nephew, a young merchant in a fashionable frock coat, and told him that the coffin, the candles, the shroud, and other funerary accessories would be delivered to him at once all in good order. The heir thanked him distractedly, saying that he was not going to haggle over the price, but would rely on his conscience in everything. The coffin-maker, as was his habit, swore by God that he would not overcharge him; he exchanged significant glances with the steward and got busy. He spent the whole day driving from Razgulyai to the Nikitsky Gate and back; by evening everything was arranged, and he went home on foot, dismissing his cabby. It was a moonlit night. The coffin-maker reached the Nikitsky Gate safely. By the Church of the Ascension our acquaintance Yurko hailed him and, recognizing the coffin-maker, wished him a good night. It was late. The coffin-maker was already nearing his house when it suddenly seemed to him that someone came to his gate, opened it, and disappeared through it.

“What can this mean?” thought Adrian. “Does somebody need me again? Or is it a thief breaking in on me? Or maybe it’s lovers coming to my two fools, for all I know!” And the coffin-maker was already thinking of calling his friend Yurko to help him. Just then someone else approached the gate and was about to go in, but seeing the owner come running, he stopped and doffed his cocked hat. His face seemed familiar to Adrian, but in his haste he did not manage to make it out properly.

“You’ve come to see me,” Adrian said breathlessly. “Go in, if you please.”

“Don’t stand on ceremony, my good man,” the other replied hollowly. “Go on ahead; show your guests the way!”

Adrian had no time to stand on ceremony. The door was open, he went up the stairs, and the man followed him. Adrian fancied there were people walking about his rooms. “What the devil is this!…” he thought and hurriedly went in…Here his legs gave way. The room was filled with dead people. The moonlight coming through the window lit up their yellow and blue faces, sunken mouths, dull, half-closed eyes, and protruding noses…With horror Adrian recognized them as people buried by his best efforts, and in the guest who had come in with him, the brigadier whose funeral had taken place under the pouring rain. All of them, men and ladies, surrounded the coffin-maker with bows and greetings, except for one poor man, recently buried for free, who, aware and ashamed of his rags, did not come near, but stood humbly in the corner. The rest were dressed properly: the dead ladies in bonnets with ribbons, the dead officials in uniforms, but with unshaven beards, the merchants in their holiday kaftans.

“You see, Prokhorov,” the brigadier said on behalf of the whole honorable company, “we all rose up at your invitation; only the really unfit, who have completely fallen apart, or are nothing but skinless bones, stayed home, but even so there was one who couldn’t help himself—he wanted so much to visit you…”

Just then a little skeleton pushed through the crowd and approached Adrian. His skull was smiling sweetly at the coffin-maker. Scraps of light green and red broadcloth and threadbare linen hung on him here and there as on a pole, and his leg bones knocked about loosely in his high boots, like pestles in mortars.

“You don’t recognize me, Prokhorov,” said the skeleton. “Remember the retired sergeant of the guards, Pyotr Petrovich Kurilkin, the one you sold your first coffin to in 1799—a pine one that you passed off for oak?”

With these words the dead man held out a bony embrace to him—but Adrian, summoning all his strength, cried out and pushed him away. Pyotr Petrovich staggered, fell, and broke to pieces. A murmur of indignation arose among the dead people; they all defended the honor of their comrade, came at Adrian with curses and threats, and the poor host, deafened by their cries and nearly crushed, lost his presence of mind, fell himself onto the bones of the retired sergeant of the guards, and passed out.

The sun had long been shining on the bed in which the coffin-maker lay. He finally opened his eyes and saw before him the maidservant, who was blowing on the coals of the samovar. With horror Adrian recalled all of the previous day’s events. Tryukhina, the brigadier, and Sergeant Kurilkin arose vaguely in his imagination. He waited silently for the housekeeper to begin a conversation with him and tell him the consequences of the night’s adventures.

“How long you’ve slept, dear Adrian Prokhorovich,” said Aksinya, handing him his dressing gown. “Our neighbor the tailor came to see you, and the local sentry ran by to announce that today is the police chief’s name day, but you were asleep, and we didn’t want to wake you up.”

“Did anyone come to me from the late Tryukhina?”

“Late? Did she die?”

“You fool! Didn’t you help me arrange her funeral yesterday?”

“What’s got into you, dearie? Have you lost your mind, or has yesterday’s drunkenness still not left you? What kind of funeral was there yesterday? You spent the whole day feasting at the German’s, came home drunk, flopped into bed, and slept right up till now, when they’ve already rung for the morning liturgy.”

“You don’t say!” said the overjoyed coffin-maker.

“Sure enough,” the housekeeper replied.

“Well, in that case serve the tea quickly and call my daughters.”

* “our clientele”