The Queen of Spades, and other stories
"Pardon me, my dear neighbour," he said, with the accent which even now
we Russians never hear without a smile; "Pardon me for disturbing you;
I wanted to make your acquaintance at once. I am a bootmaker, my name
is Gottlieb Schultz, I live in the next street--in that little house
opposite your windows. To morrow I celebrate my silver wedding, and I
want you and your daughters to dine with me in a friendly way."
The invitation was accepted. The undertaker asked the bootmaker to sit
down and have a cup of tea, and thanks to Gottlieb Schultz's frank
disposition, they were soon talking in a friendly way.
"How does your business get on?" enquired Adrian.
"Oh, oh," replied Schultz, "one way and another I have no reason to
complain. Though, of course, my goods are not like yours. A living man
can do without boots, but a corpse cannot do without a coffin."
"Perfectly true," said Adrian, "still, if a living man has nothing to
buy boots with he goes barefooted, whereas the destitute corpse gets
his coffin sometimes for nothing."
Their conversation continued in this style for some time, until at last
the bootmaker rose and took leave of the undertaker, repeating his
invitation.
Next day, punctually at twelve o'clock, the undertaker and his
daughters passed out at the gate of their newly-bought house, and
proceeded to their neighbours. I do not intend to describe Adrian's
Russian caftan nor the European dress of Akulina or Daria, contrary
though this be to the custom of fiction-writers of the present day.
I don't, however, think it superfluous to mention that both, maidens
wore yellow bonnets and scarlet shoes, which they only did on great
occasions.
The bootmaker's small lodging was filled with guests, principally
German artisans, their wives, and assistants. Of Russian officials
there was only one watchman, the Finn Yurko, who had managed, in spite
of his humble position, to gain the special favour of his chief. He had
also performed the functions of postman for about twenty-five years,
serving truly and faithfully the people of Pogorelsk. The fire which,
in the year 1812, consumed the capital, burnt at the same time his
humble sentry box. But no sooner had the enemy fled, when in its place
appeared a small, new, grey sentry box, with tiny white columns of
Doric architecture, and Yurko resumed his patrol in front of it with
battle-axe on shoulder, and in the civic armour of the police uniform.
He was well known to the greater portion of the German residents near
the Nikitski Gates, some of whom had occasionally even passed the night
from Sunday until Monday in Yurko's box.
Adrian promptly made friends with a man of whom, sooner or later, he
might have need, and as the guests were just then going in to dinner
they sat down together.
Mr. and Mrs. Schultz and their daughter, the seventeen-year-old
Lotchen, while dining with their guests, attended to their wants and
assisted the cook to wait upon them. Beer flowed. Yurko ate for four,
and Adrian did not fall short of him, though his daughters stood upon
ceremony.
The conversation, which was in German, grew louder every hour.
Suddenly the host called for the attention of the company, and opening
a pitch-covered bottle, exclaimed loudly in Russian:
"The health of my good Louisa!"
The imitation champagne frothed. The host kissed tenderly the fresh
face of his forty-year old spouse and the guests drank vociferously the
health of good Louisa.
"The health of my dear guests!" cried the host opening the second
bottle. The guests thanked him and emptied their glasses. Then
one toast followed another. The health of each guest was proposed
separately; then the health of Moscow and of about a dozen German
towns. They drank the health of the guilds in general, and afterwards
of each one separately; The health of the foremen and of the workmen.
Adrian drank with a will and became so lively, that he himself proposed
some jocular toast.
Suddenly one of the guests, a stout baker, raised his glass and
exclaimed:
"The health of our customers!"
This toast like all the others was drunk joyfully and unanimously. The
guests nodded to each other; the tailor to the bootmaker, the bootmaker
to the tailor; the baker to them both and all to the baker.
Yurko in the midst of this bowing called out as he turned towards his
neighbour:
"Now then! My friend, drink to the health of your corpses."
Everybody laughed except the undertaker, who felt himself affronted and
frowned. No one noticed this; and the guests went on drinking till the
bells began to ring for evening service, when they all rose from the
table.
The party had broken up late and most of the guests were very
hilarious. The stout baker, with the bookbinder, whose face looked as
if it were bound in red morocco, led Yurko by the arms to his sentry
box, thus putting in practice the proverb, "One good turns deserves
another."
The undertaker went home drunk and angry.
"How, indeed," he exclaimed aloud. "Is my trade worse than any other?
Is an undertaker own brother to the executioner? What have the infidels
to laugh at? Is an undertaker a hypocritical buffoon? I should have
liked to invite them to a housewarming; to give them a grand spread.
But no; that shall not be! I will ask my customers instead; my orthodox
corpses."
"What!" exclaimed the servant, who at that moment was taking off the
undertaker's boots. "What is that, sir, you are saying? Make the sign
of the cross! Invite corpses to your housewarming! How awful!"
"I will certainly invite them," persisted Adrian, "and not later than
for to-morrow. Honour me, my benefactors, with your company to-morrow
evening at a feast; I will offer you what God has given me."
With these words the undertaker retired to bed, and was soon snoring.
It was still dark when Adrian awoke. The shopkeeper, Triuhina, had died
in the night, and her steward had sent a special messenger on horseback
to inform Adrian of the fact. The undertaker gave him a _grivenik_ [a
silver fourpenny bit] for his trouble, to buy _vodka_ with; dressed
hurriedly, took an _isvoshchik_, and drove off to Rasgulai. At the gate
of the dead woman's house the police were already standing, and dealers
in mourning goods were hovering around, like ravens who have scented
a corpse. The defunct was lying in state on the table, yellow like
wax, but not yet disfigured by decomposition. Hear her, in a crowd,
were relations, friends, and domestics. All the windows were open;
wax tapers were burning; and the clergy were reading prayers. Adrian
went up to the nephew, a young shopman in a fashionable _surtout_,
and informed him that the coffin, tapers, pall, and the funeral
paraphernalia in general would promptly arrive. The heir thanked him in
an absent manner, saying that he would not bargain about the price, but
leave it all to his conscience. The undertaker, as usual, vowed that
his charges should be moderate, exchanged significant glances with the
steward, and left to make the necessary preparations.
The whole day was spent in travelling from Rasgulai to the Nikitski
Grates and back again. Towards evening everything was settled, and
he started home on foot after discharging his hired _isvoshchik._ It
was a moonlight night, and the undertaker got safely to the Nikitski
Grates. At Yosnessenia he met our acquaintance, Yurko, who, recognising
the undertaker, wished him good-night. It was late. The undertaker was
close to his house when he thought he saw some one approach the gates,
open the wicket, and go in.
"What does it mean?" thought Adrian. "Who can be wanting me again? Is
it a burglar, or can my foolish girls have lovers coming after them?
There is no telling," and the undertaker was on the point of calling
his friend Yurko to his assistance, when some one else came up to the
wicket and was about to enter, but seeing the master of the house run
towards him, he stopped, and took off his three cornered hat. His face
seemed familiar to Adrian, but in his hurry he had not been able to
see it properly.
"You want me?" said Adrian, out of breath. "Walk in, if you please."
"Don't stand on ceremony, my friend," replied the other, in a hollow
voice, "go first, and show your guest the way."
Adrian had no time to waste on formality. The gate was open, and he
went up to the steps followed by the other. Adrian heard people walking
about in his rooms.
"What the devil is this?" he wondered, and he hastened to see. But
now his legs seemed to be giving way. The room was full of corpses.
The moon, shining through the windows, lit up their yellow and blue
faces, sunken mouths, dim, half-closed eyes, and protruding noses. To
his horror, Adrian recognised in them people he had buried, and in
the guest who came in with him, the brigadier who had been interred
during a pouring rain. They all, ladies and gentlemen, surrounded the
undertaker, bowing and greeting him affably, except one poor fellow
lately buried gratis, who, ashamed of his rags, kept at a distance in
a corner of the room. The others were all decently clad; the female
corpses in caps and ribbons, the soldiers and officials in their
uniforms, but with unshaven beards; and the tradespeople in their best
caftans.
"Prohoroff," said the brigadier, speaking on behalf of all the
company, "we have all risen to profit by your invitation. Only those
have stopped at home who were quite unable to do otherwise; who have
crumbled away and have nothing left but bare bones. Even among those
there was one who could not resist--he wanted so much to come."
At this moment a diminutive skeleton pushed his way through the
crowd and approached Adrian. His death's head grinned affably at the
undertaker. Shreds of green and red cloth and of rotten linen hung on
him as on a pole; while the bones of his feet clattered inside his
heavy boots like pestles in mortars.
"You do not recognise me, Prohoroff?" said the skeleton. "Don't
you remember the retired, sergeant in the guards, Peter Petrovitch
Kurilkin, him to whom you in the year 1799 sold your first coffin, and
of deal instead of oak?" With these words the corpse stretched out his
long arms to embrace him. But Adrian collecting his strength, shrieked,
and pushed him away. Peter Petrovitch staggered, fell over, and
crumbled to pieces. There was a murmur of indignation among the company
of corpses. All stood up for the honour of their companion, threatening
and abusing Adrian till the poor man, deafened by their shrieks and
quite overcome, lost his senses and fell unconscious among the bones of
the retired sergeant of the guard.
The sun had been shining for sometime upon the bed on which the
undertaker lay, when he at last opened his eyes and saw the servant
lighting the _samovar._ With horror he recalled all the incidents of
the previous day. Triuchin, the brigadier, and the sergeant, Kurilkin,
passed dimly before his imagination. He waited in silence for the
servant to speak and tell him what had occurred during the night.
"How you have slept, Adrian Prohorovitch!" said Aksima, handing him his
dressing-gown. "Your neighbour the tailor called, also the watchman, to
say that to-day was Turko's namesday; but you were so fast asleep that
we did not disturb you."
"Did anyone come from the late Triuhina?"
"The late? Is she dead, then?"
"What a fool! Didn't you help me yesterday to make arrangements for her
funeral?"
"Oh, my _batiushka!_ [little father] are you mad, or are you still
suffering from last night's drink? You were feasting all day at the
German's. You came home drunk, threw yourself on the bed, and and have
slept till now, when the bells have stopped ringing for Mass."
"Really!" exclaimed the undertaker, delighted at the explanation.
"Of course," replied the servant.