Novels, Tales, Journeys

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.