He town was small--no better than a village--and it was inhabited
almost entirely by old people who died so seldom that it was positively
painful. In the hospital, and even in the prison, coffins were required
very seldom. In one word, business was bad. If Yacob Ivanof had been
coffin-maker in the government town, he would probably have owned his
own house, and called himself Yakob Matvieitch; but, as it was, he was
known only by the name of Yakob, with the street nickname given for
some obscure reason of "Bronza"; and lived as poorly as a simple muzhik
in a little, ancient cabin with only one room; and in this room lived
he, Marfa, the stove, a double bed, the coffins, a joiner's bench, and
all the domestic utensils.
Yet Yakob made admirable coffins, durable and good. For muzhiks and
petty tradespeople he made them all of one size, taking himself as
model; and this method never failed him, for though he was seventy
years of age, there was not a taller or stouter man in the town, not
even in the prison. For women and for men of good birth he made his
coffins to measure, using for this purpose an iron yardwand. Orders
for children's coffins he accepted very unwillingly, made them without
measurement, as if in contempt, and every time when paid for his work
exclaimed:
"Thanks. But I confess I don't care much for wasting time on trifles."
In addition to coffin-making Yakob drew a small income from his
skill with the fiddle. At weddings in the town there usually played
a Jewish orchestra, the conductor of which was the tinsmith Moses
Hitch Shakhkes, who kept more than half the takings for himself. As
Yakob played very well upon the fiddle, being particularly skilful
with Russian songs, Shakhkes sometimes employed him in the orchestra,
paying him fifty kopecks a day, exclusive of gifts from the guests.
When Bronza sat in the orchestra he perspired and his face grew purple;
it was always hot, the smell of garlic was suffocating; the fiddle
whined, at his right ear snored the double-bass, at his left wept the
flute, played by a lanky, red-haired Jew with a whole network of red
and blue veins upon his face, who bore the same surname as the famous
millionaire Rothschild. And even the merriest tunes this accursed Jew
managed to play sadly. Without any tangible cause Yakob had become
slowly penetrated with hatred and contempt for Jews, and especially for
Rothschild; he began with irritation, then swore at him, and once even
was about to hit him; but Rothschild flared up, and, looking at him
furiously, said:
"If it were not that I respect you for your talents, I should send you
flying out of the window."
Then he began to cry. So Bronza was employed in the orchestra very
seldom, and only in cases of extreme need when one of the Jews was
absent.
Yakob had never been in a good humour. He was always overwhelmed by the
sense of the losses which he suffered. For instance, on Sundays and
saints' days it was a sin to work, Monday was a tiresome day--and so
on; so that in one way or another, there were about two hundred days
in the year when he was compelled to sit with his hands idle. That
was one loss! If anyone in the town got married without music, or if
Shakhkes did not employ Yakob, that was another loss. The Inspector
of Police was ill for two years, and Yakob waited with impatience for
his death, yet in the end the Inspector transferred himself to the
government town for the purpose of treatment, where he got worse and
died. There was another loss, a loss at the very least of ten roubles,
as the Inspector's coffin would have been an expensive one lined with
brocade. Regrets for his losses generally overtook Yakob at night; he
lay in bed with the fiddle beside him, and, with his head full of such
speculations, would take the bow, the fiddle giving out through the
darkness a melancholy sound which made Yakob feel better.
On the sixth of May last year Marfa was suddenly taken ill. She
breathed heavily, drank much water and staggered. Yet next morning she
lighted the stove, and even went for water. Towards evening she lay
down. All day Yakob had played on the fiddle, and when it grew dark he
took the book in which every day he inscribed his losses, and from want
of something better to do, began to add them up. The total amounted to
more than a thousand roubles. The thought of such losses so horrified
him that he threw the book on the floor and stamped his feet. Then he
took up the book, snapped his fingers, and sighed heavily. His face was
purple, and wet with perspiration. He reflected that if this thousand
roubles had been lodged in the bank the interest per annum would have
amounted to at least forty roubles. That meant that the forty roubles
were also a loss. In one word, whenever you turn, everywhere you meet
with loss, and profits none.
"Yakob," cried Marfa unexpectedly, "I am dying."
He glanced at his wife. Her face was red from fever and unusually clear
and joyful; and Bronza, who was accustomed to see her pale, timid, and
unhappy-looking, felt confused. It seemed as if she were indeed dying,
and were happy in the knowledge that she was leaving for ever the
cabin, the coffins, and Yakob. And now she looked at the ceiling and
twitched her lips, as if she had seen Death her deliverer, and were
whispering with him.
Morning came; through the window might be seen the rising of the sun.
Looking at his old wife, Yakob somehow remembered that all his life he
had never treated her kindly, never caressed her, never pitied her,
never thought of buying her a kerchief for her head, never carried away
from the weddings a piece of tasty food, but only roared at her, abused
her for his losses, and rushed at her with shut fists. True, he had
never beaten her, but he had often frightened her out of her life and
left her rooted to the ground with terror. Yes, and he had forbidden
her to drink tea, as the losses without that were great enough; so she
drank always hot water. And now, beginning to understand why she had
such a strange, enraptured face, he felt uncomfortable.
When the sun had risen high he borrowed a cart from a neighbour, and
brought Marfa to the hospital. There were not many patients there, and
he had to wait only three hours. To his joy he was received not by the
doctor but by the feldscher, Maxim Nikolaitch, an old man of whom it
was said that, although he was drunken and quarrelsome, he knew more
than the doctor.
"May your health be good!" said Yakob, leading the old woman into the
dispensary. "Forgive me, Maxim Nikolaitch, for troubling you with my
empty affairs. But there, you can see for yourself my object is ill.
The companion of my life, as they say, excuse the expression...."
Contracting his grey brows and smoothing his whiskers, the feldscher
began to examine the old woman, who sat on the tabouret, bent, skinny,
sharp-nosed, and with open mouth so that she resembled a bird that is
about to drink.
"So ..." said the feldscher slowly, and then sighed. "Influenza and may
be a bit of a fever. There is typhus now in the town ... What can I do?
She is an old woman, glory be to God.... How old?"
"Sixty-nine years, Maxim Nikolaitch."
"An old woman. It's high time for her."
"Of course! Your remark is very just," said Yakob, smiling out of
politeness. "And I am sincerely grateful for your kindness; but allow
me to make one remark; every insect is fond of life."
The feldscher replied in a tone which implied that upon him alone
depended her life or death. "I will tell you what you'll do, friend;
put on her head a cold compress, and give her these powders twice a
day. And good-bye to you."
By the expression of the feldscher's face, Yacob saw that it was a bad
business, and that no powders would make it any better; it was quite
plain to him that Marfa was beyond repair, and would assuredly die, if
not to-day then to-morrow. He touched the feldscher on the arm, blinked
his eyes, and said in a whisper: "Yes, Maxim Nikolaitch, but you will
let her blood."
"I have no time, no time, friend. Take your old woman, and God be with
you!"
"Do me this one kindness!" implored Yakob. "You yourself know that if
she merely had her stomach out of order, or some internal organ wrong,
then powders and mixtures would cure; but she has caught cold. In cases
of cold the first tiling is to bleed the patient."
But the feldscher had already called for the next patient, and into the
dispensary came a peasant woman with a little boy.
"Be off!" he said to Yakob, with a frown.
"At least try the effect of leeches. I will pray God eternally for you."