Kryptin pulled up short and clutched my hand convulsively. He was pale, breathing heavily and trembling. His eyes _were rolling wildly and his chest was heaving . ..
"Is that you, Spektroff?" he asked in a sepulchral voice. "Is that rcally you? You're as white as a ghost . . . Are you quite sure you're not a hallucination? . . . My God . . . you scare me stiff ..."
"But what about you? You look ghastly!"
"Phew, let me get my breath back, old chap . . . It's wonderful to see you, if it really is you and not an optical illusion. That damned seance . . . Would you believe it, my nerves were so overwrought that when I got back to my room just now I thought I saw - a coffin!"
I could not believe my ears and asked for confirmation.
"A coffin, a real coffin!" said the doctor, sitting down exhausted on one of the stairs. "I'm no coward, but the devil himself would get a fright if he came home after a seance and bumped into a coffin in the dark!"
Stumbling and stammering, I told the doctor about the coffins I had seen . . .
For a moment we gazed at each other, our eyes popping and our mouths gaping in astonishment. Then, to make sure we were not seeing hallucinations, we bcgan pinching each other.
"We both feel pain," said thedoctor, "which means that we're not asleep and seeing each other in a dream. And that means the coffins — mine and your two - are not optical illusions but really do exist. So what's our next move, old man?"
After standing for a solid hour on the cold staircase and losing ourselves in conjecture and surmise, we were chilled to the bone and made up our minds to cast aside cowardly fear and wake up the floor-porter, in order to return with him to the doctor's room. This we did. On entering the apartment, we lit a candle and there indeed we saw a coffin, covered in white silk brocade, with a gold fringe and tassels. The porter crossed himself reverently.
"Now we can find out," said the doctor, pale-faced and trembling all over, "whether this coffin is empty, or - or - inhabited!"
After an understandably long period of indecision, the doctor bent over, and grimng his teeth in dread and anticipation, wrenched off the lid of the coffin. We looked inside and . ..
The coffin was empty.
There was no dead body, but we did find a lener which read as follows:
"My dear Kryptin! As you know, my father-in-law's business has been going from bad to worse. He's up to his neck in debt. Tomor- row or the day after they're coming to make an inventory of all his stock, which will deal the death blow to his family and mine, and to our honour, which is dearer to me than anything. At our family conference yesterday we decided to hide everything precious and valuable. As my father-in-law's stock consists entirely of coffins (he is, as you know, a master coffin-maker, the best in town), we decided to hide away all the best coffins. I appeal to you as a friend to help me save our fortune and our honour! In the hope that you will assist us in preserving our stock, I am sending youonecoffin, oldchap, with the request that you keep it until it is required. Without the help of our friends and acquaintances we shall certainly perish. I hope this is not too much to ask, especially as the coffin will not be with you for more than a week. I have sent a coffin each to all those I consider our true friends and am relying on their nobility and generosity.
Affectionately yours, Ivan Nekstovkin."
For three months afterwards I was under a specialist in nervous disorders, whilst our friend, the coffin-maker's son-in-law, not only saved his honour and his stock, but set up a funeral parlourand deals in memorials and tombstones. His business is none too healthy, and now, when I come home each evening, I am always afraid I'm going to see a white marble memorial or a catafalque by my bedside.'
Minds in Ferment
(From the Annals ofa Town)
The earth was like an inferno. The aftcrnoon sun hcat down with such a vengeance that even thc thermometer hanging in the excise office lost its head, shot up to 112• 5, and hovered there in dither . . . Sweat poured off the town's inhabitants as though they were hard- ridden horses, and dried where it was: thcy hadn't the energy to wipe it off.
Across the broad market square, where all the surrounding build- ings were tightly shuttered, walked two such inhabitants: chief cashicr Skrabhitch and town solicittH Optimov (veteran local cor- respondent ofSon of the Fatherland, to boot). They walked in silence on account of the heat. Optimov felt the urge to castigate the council for all the dust and litter lying about the market place, but knowing the peaceful disposition and moderate views of his companion, he reframed.
When they reached the middle of the square, Skrabbitch suddenly stopped and stared up at the sky.
'What are you looking at, Yevpl Serapionych?'
'Th.at flock ofstarlings there. I wonder where they'll settle? Clouds and clouds of them! Say you were to take a pot-shot at them from here, say you were to go and pick them up afterwards . .. and say ... They've settled in the Dean's orchard!'
'No, you're wrong, Yevpl Serapionych, they're in Deacon Pan- demonoff's. If you were to take a pot-shot at them from here, you wouldn't hit anything. The pellets are too small, once they'dgot that far their strength would have gone. Anyway, what do you want to kill them for?The bird's a menace to fruit, I grant you, but it's one of God's creatures, don't forget, a work of the Lord. A starling, for example, can sing . . . And wherefore does he sing, you may ask? To give praise, that's why. "Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord!" No, you're right, I do believe they've settled in the Dean's orchard.'
Whilst they were conversing thus, three old women, wandering pilgrims carrying scrips and wearing big bast shoes, walked silently by. Puzzled by the way in which Skrabbitch and Optimov were staring at the Dean's house, they slowed down, drew to one side, stopped, took another look at the two friends, and proceeded to gaze at the Father's house in their turn.
'You were quite right, they have settled in the Dean's orchard,' Optimov went on. 'His cherries have just ripened, so they've flown in for a peck.'
At this moment, Father Kantiklin himself came out of his garden gate with Yevstigney, his server. Seeing so much attention directed towards his house and wondering what everyone was staring at, he stopped, and he and his server also began looking up in the air, to find oi:t.
'I expect the good Father's taking an office,' said Skrabbitch. 'The Lord be his succour!'
Some workers from Purov's factory who were just returning from a swim in the river now hove into view in the space between the two friends and Father Kantiklin. Seeing the latter with his gaze fixed on the firmament above, and the pilgrims standing stockstill and also staring on high, they stopped and stared in the same direction. A little boy leading a blind beggar, and a peasant who had come out to tip a barrelful of rotten herrings onto the square, did likewise.
'Looks as though something's up,' said Skrabbitch. 'Do you reckon it's a fire? No, it can't be, there's no smoke. Hey, Kuzma!' he shouted at the peasant. 'What's going on over there?'
The peasant said something in reply, but Skrabbitch and Optimov did not catch it. Sleepy shopkeepers began to appear in all the doorways. Some plasterers working on the front of merchant Fer- tikulin's corn-chandler's left their ladders and joined the factory- workers. A fireman, who had been describing circles at the top of the watch-tower in his bare feet, came to a halt, and after a few moments' observation, descended. The fire-tower was now desened. This looked suspicious.
'Perhapsthere's a fire somewhere? Hey, stop shoving will you! Pig face!'