Novels, Tales, Journeys

“What are you saying?” Marya Gavrilovna exclaimed. “This is so strange! Go on; I’ll tell you afterwards…but go on, if you please!”

“At the beginning of 1812,” said Burmin, “I was hurrying to Vilno, where our regiment was. Coming to a posting station late one night, I ordered horses to be hitched up quickly, when a terrible blizzard suddenly arose, and the stationmaster and the coachmen advised me to wait. I heeded their advice, but an incomprehensible restlessness came over me; it seemed as if someone was pushing me. Meanwhile the blizzard did not let up. I couldn’t help myself, ordered them again to hitch up, and drove off into the storm. The coachman took it into his head to go along the river, which was supposed to shorten our way by two miles. The banks were snowbound; the coachman drove past the place where he should have turned onto the road, and as a result we found ourselves in unknown parts. The storm did not let up. I saw a little light and told the coachman to go there. We came to a village; there was a light in the wooden church. The church was open and several sledges stood inside the fence; people were moving about on the porch.

“ ‘This way! This way!’ several voices shouted. I told my coachman to go there. “ ‘For pity’s sake, why are you so late?’ somebody said to me. ‘The bride has fainted; the priest doesn’t know what to do; we were about to go back. Get out quickly.’ I silently jumped out of the sledge and went into the church, dimly lit by two or three candles. A girl was sitting on a bench in a dark corner of the church; another was rubbing her temples.

“ ‘Thank God,’ she said, ‘you’ve come at last. You were nearly the death of the young miss.’

“The old priest came to me and asked, ‘Shall we begin?’

“ ‘Begin, begin, father,’ I replied distractedly.

“The girl was helped to her feet. Not bad looking, I thought…Incomprehensible, unpardonable frivolity…I stood beside her at the altar; the priest was in a hurry; the three men and the maid supported the bride and were occupied only with her. We were married.

“ ‘Kiss now,’ they said to us. My wife turned her pale face to me. I was about to kiss her…She cried out:

“ ‘Aie! It’s not him, not him!’ and fell unconscious.

“The witnesses fixed their frightened eyes on me. I turned, walked out of the church unhindered, threw myself into my kibitka, and shouted: ‘Drive!’ ”

“My God!” cried Marya Gavrilovna. “And you don’t know what became of your poor wife?”

“No, I don’t,” replied Burmin. “I don’t know the name of the village where I was married; I don’t remember what station I stopped at. I ascribed so little importance to my criminal prank at the time that, having driven away from the church, I fell asleep and woke up the next morning, already three stations away. The servant who was with me then died in the campaign, so that I also have no hope of finding the woman on whom I played such a cruel joke and who is now so cruelly revenged.”

“My God, my God!” said Marya Gavrilovna, seizing his hand. “So that was you! And you don’t recognize me?”

Burmin went pale…and threw himself at her feet…

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.