“Stationmaster. Stationmaster Pushkin read, stationmaster Pushkin read for free, stationmaster Pushkin read online

© V. O. Pelevin, 2015

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* * *

What is happiness?
It's enough that I'm not afraid,
dragging your nothingness through nowhere,
while the devils are damning this soul,
like a swift pitchfork on the water.

From monastic poetry1
Attributed to Niccolo the First. According to another version, it was written by Pavel the Alchemist - and changed by Niccolo the First under the influence of the decadents: in the lost Pavlovian original it was supposedly “dragging his Maltese cross in the dark, // where this Trinity draws the soul, // like fast pitchforks on the water.” This hypothesis is supported by the fact that in Old Russia during the time of Paul, forks with three prongs were indeed common. Against this version is some ambivalence of the term “Trinity” in the mouth of Pavel the Alchemist.

Preface

I thought for a long time whether I had the right to write about my former self in the first person. Probably, not. But in this case, no one has the right to do this at all.

In essence, any combination of the pronoun “I” with a past tense verb (“I did”, “I thought”) contains a metaphysical, and simply physical, forgery. Even when a person talks about what happened a minute ago, it did not happen to him - we already have another stream of vibrations in front of us, located in a different space.

Therefore, the wise say that a person cannot open his mouth without lying (I will return to this topic). Only the amount of untruth changes.

When a person says, “Yesterday I drank and now I have a headache,” this is an acceptable lie, although there is often not even a visual similarity between yesterday’s fresh gentleman and today’s hangover sufferer.

When a person declares, for example: “Ten years ago I borrowed a thousand dollars to buy a house that had already burned down,” this phrase has no meaning at all, except for a judicial one - in all other respects, the former borrower and the burnt down house are no longer different from each other. from friend.

I’m going to talk about my younger self – and it would, of course, be more correct to write about “Alexis” (my official name) or at least about “Alexa” (this means “lawless” in a mixture of Greek and Latin, my curator Galileo joked).

But calling a hero whom you truly know from the inside the word “he” is pure literary arrogance: the story loses its authenticity and begins to seem like fiction to the storyteller himself.

That's why I decided to write in the first person.

But please remember that the hero is young and naive. I could attribute some of the thoughts to him in retrospect.

“I” in this case is something like a telescope, through which I now look at the little man dancing in the space of my memory, and the little man looks at me...

I respectfully dedicate my work to the memory of Paul the Great, the alchemist emperor who was not recognized on the Old Earth - and left it for a better life. At the very beginning I place an excerpt from Paul’s secret diary - let it serve as an introductory sketch to my narrative and eliminate the need to provide historical information.

Alexis II de Quizhe,

Warden of Idyllium

I

Latin Diary of Paul the Alchemist,

Part 1 (PSS, XIV, 102–112, translation)

1782

De Docta Ignorantia

The cheerful brother Friedrich (it would be more correct to call him uncle, but Freemasonry does not imply such addresses) writes that the journey through Europe, undertaken by me under the name of Count of the North, could be included in his textbook of military cunning. Frederick probably conceived this work when Marshal Hemorrhoids bypassed him from the rear, cutting him off from the last Greek joys.

But in fact, my task is not as difficult as he thinks - the crowned hypocrites of Europe are so bewitched by their own cunning that it is not difficult for a simpleton to deceive them (which, following Nicholas from Cuza, I sincerely believe myself to be).

In a week in Vienna I will be accepted into the Illuminati. The lodge will think that it has gained into its ranks the future Emperor of Russia - with its vast territory and army. I will turn the Illuminati into a secret lever of the Brotherhood. And with this lever we will soon turn the whole earth over. Brother Franz Anton will be our Archimedes, and I will give him a fulcrum. The results of the experiments are so encouraging that there is no doubt about success.

Here is my “Simple Wisdom” for today in a nutshell.

1783 (1)

Aurora Borealis

I believed that Brother Franz Anton would no longer be able to surprise me with anything. But what I saw in Paris struck me to the deepest depths of my soul. The nature of his discovery is such that our previous plans, despite their greatness, now seem insignificant. Perhaps something completely different – ​​and grandiose. All the superlatives of human languages ​​are powerless to even touch it.

Brother Franz Anton hesitates - he says that our power over Fluid is insufficient. Oddly enough, my closest associate in the Brotherhood who immediately accepted my plan was Brother Benjamin.

Perhaps the wild and joyless expanses of America (Benjamin serves as the American envoy in Paris) bring the mind into a fearless state, also characteristic of Russians who do not value their lives too much. And the savagery pressing on all sides makes our antipodes think about escape, just as we Europeans do under the yoke of our sophistication.

Brother Benjamin is quite colorful. Here they joke about his fur hat, and he is fascinated by Versailles and Trianon. I think he would make a good king of America - or at least, as they joked here, Le Duc des Antipodes 2
Duke de Antipode ( fr.).

A magnificent couple – Le Comte du Nord et le Duc des Antipodes.

Brother Franz Anton is in great fashion here. In addition to the highest aristocracy and the king, initiated into the secret, he has many followers among the common people. Those understand by the word mesmerisme something wild - witchcraft, like that practiced in the remote corners of Russia by rural sorcerers.

This is funny, but also wise, because so many people have already been privy to the secret that it would be impossible to hide it completely. It is better to hide it under the false understanding with which people of our age so joyfully saturate their brains.

From brother Franz Anton you can learn not only the art of power over the Fluid, but also this secrecy wide open in all directions. Let's follow his example - let's hide a pea of ​​truth in a lake of lies.

The new lodge founded by us will be called “World Aurora”. She will in every possible way promote the false teaching spread among the people under the name mesmerisme. The true art of controlling the Fluid will be available only to the order hidden inside this lodge, which we will call Aurora Borealis. Only the chosen ones will see the light of this Aurora. Let the true dawn rise under the covers of the false one, partly sharing its name.

And if this is not enough to hide the Secret, there is a sure and final means, the mere thought of which makes me happy: we have already accepted Cagliostro, and in a short time he will make so much empty ringing with his testicles that even those who will forget the truth will to whom she accidentally revealed herself.

1783 (2)

Among modern scientists it is considered good manners to deny that the spirit can act on matter - this, as it were, takes them out of the jurisdiction of the Pope.

One such wise man from among the brothers told Franz Anton today at a lodge meeting that by the methods of science one can only observe how one material object influences another - everything else is simply an act of faith. Franz Anton made the audience laugh a lot by asking him the following question:

“Do you, my friend, ever want to drink wine - or look out the window?”

“Yes,” answered the scientist, “it happens.”

“And your hand reaches for the bottle or the latch, doesn’t it?”

“Exactly so,” answered the scientist, “and I understand what you will say next, my venerable brother, but this is only the effect of purely material causes, such as thirst and stuffiness, on the muscles of my body.”

“Then,” said Franz Anton, “consider the following incident: some Charles the Fifth decides that his honor is offended, and the next day an army of a hundred thousand with guns weighing many thousands of pounds crosses the border. At the same time, horses, pulling cannons behind them, abundantly cover all the surrounding roads with manure... Isn’t this a case of the influence of spirit on matter?”

The scientist was silent.

“I specifically mention manure,” continued Franz-Anton, “because I noticed that during disputes with the priests of matter, it is this substance that for some reason acts on their imagination in the most invincible way...”

When we remained in the circle of those initiated into the highest secret, Franz Anton, as if following this anecdote, said a few words about the nature of the Fluid. I'll write it down as long as I remember it verbatim.

“Between matter and spirit lies a distinct and impassable gulf, which thinkers of all ages have recognized. Their connection is also clear and undeniable. I used to think that Fluid is exactly what connects matter with spirit. Now I consider the Fluid to be that from which both matter and spirit arise. And for this very reason it can serve as a bridge between them. You should not direct your mind further - remain respectfully ignorant about the rest... Chute, monsieurs, chute...”

1783 (3)

Not all the Illuminati are under our control - there are also those who are trying to stop us. Incredibly, they believe that their duty to the Supreme Being (by whom they usually mean Baphomet) requires this. They tried to kill Franz Anton: an Italian raider, considered a great swordsman, was sent to him.

How carelessly it was of Franz Anton to accept the challenge! But the Breter called him ciarlatano- a rare Italian curse word, which Franz-Anton, unfortunately, is familiar with. Yesterday he laughed at Charles the Fifth - and today he saw in what happened point d'honneur. And such is the most intelligent person I know! Stumble on the great path over your own invention...

The rest turned out even more stupid. The duel was a secret, but I was able to attend it. Breter was determined - I realized this after exchanging a few words with him. It was clear from Franz Anton's face that he was going to play the noble gentleman to the end and would probably be killed.

A choice had to be made, and I made it: before they had time to start, I paralyzed the fencer with the forces of Fluid - and squeezed his muscles so successfully that the poor fellow, without having time to make a single sensible attack, fell onto Franz Anton’s sword. Fortunately, he held it at the right angle.

Franz Anton did not suspect anything - dueling was new to him, and he was too excited by the sight of blood. But the fencer understood everything. When I leaned over him, he croaked:

“I don’t know by what force you destroyed me, sir, but now I will go down to the bottom of hell to take possession of it. And then I’ll come back and take revenge!”

His life is on my conscience. I will never forget the poor guy's eyes. He was a brutal killer - but he deserved to die from a sword. However, formally he died from it.

They say that when a person dies, overcome by a thirst for revenge, his spirit can indeed cause serious trouble. But most importantly, Franz Anton is alive. And now he considers himself a dueling hero. As he likes to repeat himself - monsieurs, chute!

I understand the kings who prohibited fights on pain of severe punishment. Truly, sometimes it’s a pity that we are not in Russia. Flog, just flog.

1784

The Great Work is nearing completion. I can’t even believe how much has been done - sometimes, when I wake up, I think that this is all just a dream. But once you spend an hour or two in the laboratory, your confidence in success returns.

A new Hat of Power arrived from Brother Franz Anton, hidden in a black cocked hat. The open metal design is more comfortable and lighter, but this one can be worn without causing curiosity. Communication with mediums is stable and does not depend on the huge distance between us.

The fluid gives undoubted power over inanimate matter - and this power is such that it is great even for the emperor. But how to breathe soul into a substance? How and with what will we revive the new world?

This requires daily experiments; You can’t waste a minute on empty leisure - it’s better to be known as a reclusive tyrant than to miss a great goal.

Brother Benjamin reports: the Illuminati, under his leadership, is preparing a great unrest in Paris. This will be, he writes, not just a revolt of the mob, but the first revolution of its kind, an unstoppable whirlwind of colors and colors, like a huge carnival stained with blood, to which all idle minds will immediately join, considering themselves free due to their depravity.

A cruel but reasonable solution: those who know the secret but do not follow us will die. Brother Louis, who did not accept our plan, alas, too. This will allow us to quickly and without interference finish what we started and cover our tracks.

I have no doubt that the planned turmoil will succeed. Preparation will take several years; At first, Brother Benjamin will lead everything personally, suppressing disagreement with the formidable manifestations of Fluid.

I hope that the Supreme Being will forgive us, for a great cause requires great sacrifices.

Alas, we were not gentle as doves.

Will we be able to master the wisdom of the Serpent?

(records 1785–1801 considered lost)

1801, March

Traces of my activities in the laboratory have been destroyed; The St. Petersburg conspiracy, with which the English envoy kindly helped, is ready. No one dares to contradict the Grand Master in his little oddities. Kizh knows what awaits him - but he believes me completely. The emperor's word means something else.

All the things I needed—Fluid mode tables and several manuscripts—fit into one travel chest. We will make the rest on site.

In one of the rooms of the Mikhailovsky Castle, I made a kind of door out of Fluid, allowing passage to my remote laboratory in Idyllium. The room in the castle and the laboratory are completely identical in shape; Having sat on a chair in one place, I can get up from the same one in another. Thanks to this, my experiments are not interrupted. No one can follow me. As soon as I close the invisible passage, it disappears.

What will they think of this room when they walk in? It will probably be mistaken for a place for secret meetings - or for a torture chamber (to give food to inquisitive minds, I threw sugar tongs and a whip on the floor). It’s so strange to see the haven of my sleepless nights empty... It turns out that there is much more space here than I thought.

Kizh has been sleeping on a camp bed in my bedroom for three days. The doors are unlocked, the guard is dismissed. Kizh says that he is not scared at all - but it must be the opium tincture, for which he has developed a fair taste. I will keep my promise to him.

Let the drunken conspirators console themselves with the thought that they killed the Master of the Order of Malta. In fact, I could have stabbed them with a simple toothpick before they had time to get scared - but what joy would I have in impressing a few onion-breathing officers who couldn’t even keep their oath? Let the Supreme Being judge them.

My reward is to walk across the earth unnoticed - as the wise have done at all times. It is not easy to do this, being born in ermine skin. But it seems I could.

I was the emperor here. In Idyllium, everyone will become one.

II

The courier in the red kamilavka bowed his handsome face to the window of the self-propelled carriage and said:

– The road to the station is not so far, sir. I will give you advice - start repentance right now. Then we won't have to wait in an open field until you complete it...

His advice was very urgent: having finished speaking, he closed the window, and I found myself in the dark.

Before a personal meeting with the Overseer, you are supposed to cleanse your soul by performing the so-called Great Repentance - remember your entire life and repent of your sins (“rethink” them, as the monks of the Yellow Flag explain).

Of course, if you do this conscientiously, remembering every crushed ant, the Watcher will have to wait a very long time, therefore the type of repentance recommended in practice is called “quick Great Repentance”: the penitent comprehends only what itself appears in memory. If a Solik repents, he remembers the world he created - and laments its shortcomings.

But my twenty-two-year-old conscience was not only clear - it had never been taken out of the case where it was stored. Given my lifestyle, there was no reason for this, because I belonged to the de Quizhe family - which was simultaneously considered both the highest honor and a curse.

The curse of our family is that all de Kizhe are doomed to live in Idyllium. They cannot go into personal space. But there is a well-known judgment of dialectics about us: if you are de Quizhe and grew up in Idyllium, thereby you created it, at least in part. Therefore, during such religious procedures, we are supposed to think about the Idyllium - and repent for its shortcomings (or for what we foolishly consider to be such).

This is what I started doing.

Idyllium, I thought leisurely, this big Island or a small continent, as you like. Due to the characteristics of the relief, many different climatic zones coexist here. All around is the sea. No one has ever undertaken a round-the-world trip, but if we decide to do this, our world will apparently have to part with the pleasant uncertainty of its status and become a water-filled balloon.

Our capital is also called “Idyllium,” although many times attempts have been made to rename it either Pauloville or even Arhatopavlovsk (which, in my opinion, reeks of the most complete Assyria). The most elegant of the proposed options was, in my opinion, the name “Svetopavlovsk” - but even that did not catch on. The point is probably that the term Idyllium The Three Exalted Ones came into use – and there is no better way to perpetuate the memory of one of them.

Our capital is quite boring. Mainly officials and monks hang around here, devoting themselves to protecting the universe and understanding its secrets. They are members of the “Yellow Flag” and “Iron Abyss” orders (it’s quite easy to distinguish them by their tattoos; in addition, in the first, the meditative resonators look like a small copper head, and in the second, it’s a skull).

We owe a lot to these orders, including technology and culture. It was they who created Corpus Anonymous, as the works of monastic writers and poets who have taken a vow of anonymity are called. But not only monks live in the capital - anyone can live here, and there are quite a lot of people on the streets.

When I say “doomed to live in Idyllium,” this does not mean that de Quizhe’s fate is completely bitter. Idyllium is quite a happy place, and there is no point in running away from it. But this is only the central crossroads of the world - a node that makes possible all the diversity of personal universes based on it.

If a person living in the Idyllium feels freedom and strength in his chest (and this always depends more on internal reasons than on external ones), and if he is also endowed with imagination and will, the Fluid becomes favorable to him - and the person gets the opportunity to do something , which, with the light hand of Benjamin Singer, is called “coming in”: to create your own world. To do this, he goes to one of our vague borders - the seashore, desert, forest thicket, or any other of the “inland territories,” as places suitable for practice are called.

He settles in a simple hut, chooses a direction favorable for contemplation and, turning his face there, focuses on the images of the world where he would like to go. If his soul is pure and his concentration is strong enough, the Angels agree to help him, and Fluid makes his dream come true, opening doors to a new world for him.

Such people are called solics (this term seems to come from the marriage of the words “solus” and “stoic”, but monastic poets see in it “the salt of the four great elements - earth, water and air with fire”). In official documents, “coming out” is usually called the Great Adventure, but they rarely say so.

Sometimes Soliks return from personal spaces - most often not for long. On the street you can immediately recognize the returning soloist by his wild look and unusual appearance– from extremely severe to excessively refined.

Solikov is respected. It is generally accepted that the first of these were the Three Exalted Ones, our founding fathers. But this fully applies, perhaps, only to Benjamin the Singer due to his connection with music. It’s more complicated with Pavel and Franz Anton: the world where they brought the elect from the Old Earth cannot be called someone’s individual project, because now we all continue it.

Franz Anton is even called a new hypostasis of God the Creator. But is being a Creator a personal adventure? The creatures from the ark are unlikely to agree. However, theologians solve this problem easily, that’s their job - just listen.

The carriage shook violently on the potholes, and because of this my thoughts came out somewhat ragged. If I had to repent for Idyllium, I thought, I must definitely complain that I never had enough of our money and glitches.

Gl?ck in German - “happiness”. Our unit of account was invented personally by Paul the Great, who was prone to pedantic literalism: this currency is backed not by gold stored in a bank, not by blood shed in the world and not by chaos exported to other lands, as the money changers of the Old Earth practiced at different times, but by directly experienced happiness .

A certain amount of happiness can be extracted from a coin of any denomination using a simple device, glucogen, which is usually sold for a symbolic amount - exactly one glitch. The coin itself turns black, and the symbol “C” appears on it - that is, “canceled.” After this, it is only suitable for melting down - neither people nor trading machines will accept it anymore.

I’ve had glucogen in the form of an elegant bone tube since I was ten – it was a birthday present. But there were almost no glitches for sublimation. They, my teachers believed, could interfere with my education.

Children don’t need glitches, says a well-known vulgarity, which for some reason is passed off as wisdom in our country. On the contrary, gentlemen, on the contrary – adults don’t need glitches. They can only bring real happiness to a child: for him, dissolving a coin in glucogen is like a short and fresh sea voyage.

The story tells about the station superintendent Samson Vyrin and his daughter Duna. Dunya was very beautiful. All the guests noticed this. And one day a handsome hussar took her away with him. The father went to look for her, but the daughter did not want to communicate with him. Out of grief, he drank himself to death and died. And Dunya came to his grave a few years later.

The story teaches that even if you want to completely change your life, you must not forget and turn away from your parents. One day you may regret it, but it will be too late.

At the beginning of the story, the author talks about the difficult work of station guards in Russia. All travelers demand a change of horses, which are often not available. They yell at the caretaker, threaten them, write complaints. The author ended up at one of these stations. He asked for a change of horses and tea. While I was waiting, I looked at the caretaker’s home, where he, having become a widower, lived with his fourteen-year-old daughter Dunya.

The house was poor, but well-kept, even with flowers on the windows. The author was struck by Dunya’s extraordinary beauty. She was not shy, but on the contrary, a flirt. She looked directly at the author with her huge blue eyes. She sat down to drink tea with her father and guest and easily carried on a conversation. When the guest was leaving, he asked Dunya for a kiss, and she did not refuse. A few years later, the author again found himself in the same area, on a familiar road. All this time he remembered Dunya and wanted to see her again.

He entered the caretaker's house and was surprised at the desolation that reigned there. And in three years the caretaker himself turned from a strong man into a decrepit old man. Dunya was nowhere to be seen. Then the old man started talking and told his sad story. He said that Dunya had a magical effect on all visitors. With her, they stopped making trouble and threatening, and gave her small gifts: handkerchiefs or earrings. One day, a young hussar, Minsky, arrived at the station and began to rudely demand horses, even swinging a whip at the caretaker. When Dunya came out from behind the curtain, he immediately calmed down and even ordered lunch.

After lunch he became very ill. The caretaker had to give up his bed to the hussar, and Dunya looked after him as best she could. Meanwhile, the guest was getting worse. We decided to send for a doctor to the city. A German doctor came from the city, examined the patient and said that he needed rest, saying that he was very ill, but the hussar and the doctor ordered lunch and both ate it with appetite.

The hussar paid the doctor twenty-five rubles, and he went back. All this time Dunya did not leave the patient. Three days later, the hussar felt better, and he got ready to move on. And Dunya was going to church for a service that day. The military man offered to give the girl a ride, but she doubted it. Then the father said that she could easily go with the guest. They left. After a while, the caretaker became worried. The daughter did not return, and he went to the church to look for her. When he arrived, the temple was already closed. The priest told the caretaker that he had not seen Dunya at the service today.

By nightfall, one of the coachmen from the neighboring station told the caretaker that he had seen Dunya leave with a visiting hussar. The coachman claimed that the girl was crying, but was driving of her own free will. From such grief, Vyrin became very ill, and the doctor who examined the hussar came to treat him. The doctor admitted to Vyrin that the hussar’s illness was a hoax, and he lied because Minsky threatened him.

The caretaker recovered and decided to find his daughter. He remembered that the hussar was on his way to St. Petersburg. Then Samson Vyrin took a vacation and went to the capital in search of his daughter. He managed to find out where the hussar lived. Vyrin came to him and began to ask about his daughter. He said that I’m kind of sorry that this happened, but I’ll make your daughter happy, she loves me and has already gotten used to a different life, and you go away, and he sent out the caretaker. Already on the street, the caretaker discovered an envelope with money in his pocket. In anger, he threw the banknotes into the snow, trampled them with his heel and walked away. One clever fellow picked up the money and quickly disappeared in a cab.

In the evening of the same day, he managed to follow the hussar and find out where Dunya lived. He entered this house under the pretext of delivering a letter. Dunya looked great and was expensively dressed in the latest fashion. She was sitting in the company of a hussar. When Dunya saw her father, she fainted. The hussar shouted at him and kicked him out of the house. A friend advised Vyrin to fight for his daughter, but he went home and began his usual work. This is the story told by a sad old man. He said that he had not heard from his daughter since then and did not know where she was. Out of grief, the old man became addicted to alcohol and became depressed.

After some time, the author again found himself on the same route and learned that the station no longer existed, and the caretaker finally drank himself to death and died. The author went to his grave. The boy who accompanied him to the cemetery said that a young beautiful lady came to this grave with her children in a luxurious carriage. He recalled: the lady lay on the grave for a long time and cried, and then went to the local priest.

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STORIES OF THE LATE IVAN PETROVICH BELKIN

Text source:Collected works of A.S. Pushkin in ten volumes. M.: GIHL, 1960, volume 5. Original here: Russian Virtual Library. Content :

Ms. Prostakova

Well, my father, he is still a hunter of stories.

Skotinin

Mitrofan for me.

Minor.

FROM THE PUBLISHER

Having taken up efforts to publish the Stories of I.P. Belkin, now offered to the public, we wanted to add at least a brief biography of the late author and thereby partially satisfy the fair curiosity of lovers of Russian literature. For this purpose, we turned to Marya Alekseevna Trafilina, the closest relative and heiress of Ivan Petrovich Belkin; but, unfortunately, it was impossible for her to bring us any news about him, because the deceased was not at all familiar to her. She advised us to refer this matter to one respectable husband, a former friend, Ivan Petrovich. We followed this advice, and to our letter we received the following desired response. We place it without any changes or notes, as a precious monument to a noble image of opinions and touching friendship, and at the same time as very sufficient biographical information. My dear Lord ****! I had the honor to receive your most respected letter dated the 15th of this month on the 23rd of this month, in which you express to me your desire to have detailed information about the time of birth and death, about the service, about home circumstances, also about the activities and disposition of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin, my former sincere friend and neighbor on the estates. With my great pleasure, I fulfill this desire of yours and forward to you, my dear sir, everything that I can remember from his conversations, as well as from my own observations. Ivan Petrovich Belkin was born from honest and noble parents in 1798 in the village of Goryukhin. His late father, Second Major Pyotr Ivanovich Belkin, was married to the girl Pelageya Gavrilovna from the Trafilin family. He was not a rich man, but moderate, and very smart when it came to farming. Their son received his initial education from the village sexton. It seems that he was indebted to this respectable husband for his desire to read and study Russian literature. In 1815, he entered service in the Jaeger infantry regiment (I don’t remember the number), in which he remained until 1823. The death of his parents, which happened almost at the same time, forced him to resign and come to the village of Goryukhino, his homeland. Having entered into the management of the estate, Ivan Petrovich, due to his inexperience and soft-heartedness, soon launched the farm and weakened the strict order established by his late parent. Having replaced the efficient and efficient headman, with whom his peasants (according to their habit) were dissatisfied, he entrusted the management of the village to his old housekeeper, who acquired his power of attorney through the art of telling stories. This stupid old woman never knew how to distinguish a twenty-five-ruble note from a fifty-ruble one; the peasants, to whom she was all godfather, were not at all afraid of her; The headman chosen by them indulged them so much, cheating at the same time, that Ivan Petrovich was forced to abolish the corvee and establish a very moderate rent; but even here the peasants, taking advantage of his weakness, begged for a deliberate benefit for the first year, and in the next year more than two-thirds of the rent was paid in nuts, lingonberries and the like; and there were arrears. Having been a friend of Ivan Petrovich’s late parent, I considered it my duty to offer my son my advice and repeatedly volunteered to restore the previous order that he had lost. For this purpose, having come to him one day, I demanded the business books, called the rogue headman, and in the presence of Ivan Petrovich began to examine them. The young master first began to follow me with all possible attention and diligence; but as it turned out, according to the accounts, that in the last two years the number of peasants had increased, and the number of yard birds and livestock had deliberately decreased, Ivan Petrovich was content with this first information and did not listen to me further, and at that very moment, as I, with my investigations and strict By interrogating the rogue, I brought the headman into extreme confusion and forced him into complete silence; with my great annoyance I heard Ivan Petrovich snoring heavily in his chair. Since then, I stopped interfering with his economic orders and handed over his affairs (like himself) to the orders of the Almighty. This, however, did not upset our friendly relations at all; for I, sympathizing with his weakness and the destructive negligence common to our young nobles, sincerely loved Ivan Petrovich; Yes, it was impossible not to love young man so meek and honest. For his part, Ivan Petrovich showed respect for my years and was sincerely committed to me. Until his death, he saw me almost every day, valuing my simple conversation, although we for the most part did not resemble each other in habits, way of thinking, or disposition. Ivan Petrovich led a very moderate life, avoiding all kinds of excesses; I never happened to see him drunk (which in our region can be considered an unheard-of miracle); he had a great inclination towards the female sex, but his modesty was truly girlish * . In addition to the stories that you would like to mention in your letter, Ivan Petrovich left many manuscripts, some of which are in my possession, some of which were used by his housekeeper for various household needs. Thus, last winter, all the windows of her outbuilding were sealed with the first part of the novel, which he did not finish. The above-mentioned stories were, it seems, his first experience. They, as Ivan Petrovich said, are for the most part fair and were heard by him from various persons * . However, almost all of the names in them were invented by him, and the names of villages and hamlets were borrowed from our area, which is why my village is mentioned somewhere. This did not happen from any evil intention, but solely from a lack of imagination. In the fall of 1828, Ivan Petrovich fell ill with a cold that turned into a fever, and died, despite the tireless efforts of our district doctor, a very skilled man, especially in the treatment of deep-rooted diseases, such as calluses and the like. He died in my arms at the age of 30 and was buried in the church of the village of Goryukhin near his deceased parents. Ivan Petrovich was of average height, had gray eyes, brown hair, and a straight nose; his face was white and thin. Here, my dear sir, is all that I could remember regarding the lifestyle, activities, character and appearance of my late neighbor and friend. But if you decide to make any use out of this letter of mine, I humbly ask you not to mention my name in any way; for, although I greatly respect and love writers, I consider it unnecessary and indecent to assume this title. With my true respect, etc. November 16, 1830. Village of Nenaradovo Considering it our duty to respect the will of our venerable friend the author, we offer him our deepest gratitude for the news he brought us and we hope that the public will appreciate their sincerity and good nature.

A.P.

* There follows an anecdote, which we do not include, considering it unnecessary; however, we assure the reader that he does not contain anything reprehensible to the memory of Ivan Petrovich Belkin. * In fact, in Mr. Belkin’s manuscript, above each story, the author’s hand is inscribed: I heard from such and such person(rank or rank and capital letters of the first and last name). We write it out for curious explorers. “The Caretaker” was told to him by the titular adviser A.G.N., “The Shot” by Lieutenant Colonel I.L.P., “The Undertaker” by the clerk B.V., “Blizzard” and “The Young Lady” by the girl K.I.T.

SHOT

We were shooting.

Baratynsky.

I swore to shoot him by right of duel

(my shot was still behind him).

Evening at the bivouac.

We were standing in the town of ***. The life of an army officer is known. In the morning training, playpen; lunch with the regimental commander or in a Jewish tavern; in the evening punch and cards. In *** there was not a single open house, not a single bride; we gathered at each other's houses, where we saw nothing but our uniforms. Only one person belonged to our society, not being a military man. He was about thirty-five years old, and for that we considered him an old man. Experience gave him many advantages over us; Moreover, his usual gloominess, harsh disposition and evil tongue had a strong influence on our young minds. Some kind of mystery surrounded his fate; he seemed Russian, but had a foreign name. He once served in the hussars, and even happily; no one knew the reason that prompted him to resign and settle in a poor town, where he lived both poorly and wastefully: he always walked on foot, in a worn black frock coat, and kept an open table for all the officers of our regiment. True, his dinner consisted of two or three courses prepared by a retired soldier, but the champagne flowed like a river. No one knew either his fortune or his income, and no one dared to ask him about it. He had books, mostly military ones, and novels. He willingly gave them to read, never demanding them back; but he never returned to the owner the books he had borrowed. His main exercise was pistol shooting. The walls of his room were all riddled with bullets, all in holes, like a honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury of the poor hut where he lived. The art he achieved was incredible, and if he had volunteered to shoot a pear off someone’s cap with a bullet, no one in our regiment would have hesitated to offer their heads to him. The conversation between us often concerned fights; Silvio (that's what I'll call him) never interfered with it. When asked if he had ever fought, he answered dryly that he had, but did not go into details, and it was clear that such questions were unpleasant to him. We believed that some unfortunate victim of his terrible art lay on his conscience. However, it never occurred to us to suspect anything like timidity in him. There are people whose appearance alone removes such suspicions. The accident surprised us all. One day about ten of our officers were having lunch with Silvio. They drank as usual, that is, a lot; After lunch we began to persuade the owner to sweep the bank for us. For a long time he refused, because he almost never played; Finally he ordered the cards to be brought, poured fifty chervonets onto the table and sat down to throw. We surrounded him and the game began. Silvio used to remain completely silent while playing, never argued or explained himself. If the punter happened to be shortchanged, he immediately either paid the extra amount or wrote down the excess. We already knew this and did not stop him from managing things in his own way; but between us was an officer who had recently been transferred to us. He, while playing right there, absent-mindedly bent an extra corner. Silvio took the chalk and equalized the score as usual. The officer, thinking that he had made a mistake, launched into an explanation. Silvio continued throwing silently. The officer, losing patience, took a brush and erased what seemed to him to be written down in vain. Silvio took the chalk and wrote it down again. The officer, inflamed by the wine, the game and the laughter of his comrades, considered himself severely offended and, in a rage, grabbed a copper shandal from the table and threw it at Silvio, who barely managed to dodge the blow. We were confused. Silvio stood up, turning pale with anger, and with sparkling eyes said: “Dear sir, if you please come out, and thank God that this happened in my house.” We had no doubt about the consequences and assumed that our new comrade had already been killed. The officer went out, saying that he was ready to answer for the insult, as Mr. Banker pleases. The game continued for several more minutes; but, feeling that the owner had no time for the game, we fell behind one by one and scattered to our apartments, talking about an imminent vacancy. The next day, in the arena, we were already asking whether the poor lieutenant was still alive, when he himself appeared among us; we asked him the same question. He replied that he had not yet had any news about Silvio. This surprised us. We went to Silvio and found him in the yard, putting bullet after bullet into an ace glued to the gate. He received us as usual, without saying a word about yesterday's incident. Three days passed, the lieutenant was still alive. We asked in surprise: will Silvio really not fight? Silvio didn't fight. He was content with a very easy explanation and made peace. This greatly damaged him in the opinion of the youth. Lack of courage is least of all excused by young people, who usually see courage as the height of human virtue and an excuse for all sorts of vices. However, little by little everything was forgotten, and Silvio again regained his former influence. I could no longer approach him alone. Having a naturally romantic imagination, I was most strongly attached to a man whose life was a mystery and who seemed to me the hero of some mysterious story. He loved me; at least with me alone he abandoned his usual harsh slander and spoke about various subjects with simplicity and extraordinary pleasantness. But after the unhappy evening, the thought that his honor was soiled and not washed through his own fault, this thought did not leave me and prevented me from treating him as before; I was ashamed to look at him. Silvio was too smart and experienced not to notice this and not guess the reasons for it. This seemed to upset him; at least I noticed twice in him a desire to explain himself to me; but I avoided such cases, and Silvio abandoned me. From then on, I saw him only in front of my comrades, and our previous frank conversations ceased. Absent-minded residents of the capital have no idea about many experiences that are so familiar to residents of villages or towns, for example, about waiting for mail day: on Tuesday and Friday, our regimental office was full of officers: some were waiting for money, some for letters, some for newspapers. The packages were usually immediately unsealed, the news was communicated, and the office presented a most animated picture. Silvio received letters addressed to our regiment and was usually right there. One day they handed him a package, from which he tore the seal with an air of great impatience. As he ran through the letter, his eyes sparkled. The officers, each busy with their letters, did not notice anything. “Gentlemen,” Silvio told them, “circumstances require my immediate absence; I’m going tonight; I hope that you will not refuse to dine with me at last time. “I’m waiting for you too,” he continued, turning to me, “I’m definitely waiting.” With these words, he hurriedly left; and we, having agreed to unite at Silvio’s, each went our separate ways. I came to Silvio at the appointed time and found he had almost his entire regiment. All his belongings had already been packed; only bare, bullet-ridden walls remained. We sat down at the table; the owner was extremely in spirit, and soon his cheerfulness became general; the corks were popping constantly, the glasses were foaming and hissing incessantly, and we with all possible zeal they wished the departing Bon Voyage and every good thing. We got up from the table late in the evening. While sorting out the caps, Silvio, saying goodbye to everyone, took me by the hand and stopped me at the very moment I was about to leave. “I need to talk to you,” he said quietly. I stayed. The guests have left; We were left alone, sat down opposite each other and silently lit our pipes. Silvio was preoccupied; there was no longer any trace of his convulsive gaiety. His gloomy pallor, sparkling eyes and thick smoke coming out of his mouth gave him the appearance of a real devil. Several minutes passed and Silvio broke the silence. “Perhaps we will never see each other again,” he told me, “before parting, I wanted to explain myself to you.” You may have noticed that I have little respect for outside opinions; but I love you, and I feel: it would be painful for me to leave an unfair impression on your mind. He stopped and began to fill his burnt out pipe; I was silent, looking down. “It was strange for you,” he continued, “that I did not demand satisfaction from this drunken madman R***.” You will agree that, having the right to choose a weapon, his life was in my hands, and mine was almost safe: I could attribute my moderation to generosity alone, but I don’t want to lie. If I could punish R*** without risking my life at all, I would never forgive him. I looked at Silvio in amazement. This confession completely confused me. Silvio continued. - That’s right: I have no right to expose myself to death. Six years ago I received a slap in the face, and my enemy is still alive. My curiosity was greatly aroused. -You didn’t fight with him? - I asked. - Circumstances, right, separated you? “I fought with him,” answered Silvio, “and here is a monument to our fight.” Silvio stood up and took out of the cardboard a red cap with a gold tassel and galloon (what the French call bonnet de police); 1) he put it on; she was shot an inch from the forehead. “You know,” continued Silvio, “that I served in the *** Hussar Regiment.” You know my character: I am used to being superior, but from a young age this was a passion in me. In our time, rioting was in fashion: I was the first rowdy in the army. We boasted about drunkenness: I drank too much of the glorious Burtsova , sung by Denis Davydov. Duels in our regiment happened every minute: I was either a witness or an actor in all of them. My comrades adored me, and the regimental commanders, constantly changing, looked at me as a necessary evil. I was calmly (or restlessly) enjoying my fame, when a young man of a rich and noble family (I don’t want to name him) decided to join us. I have never met such a brilliant lucky man in my life! Imagine youth, intelligence, beauty, the most frantic gaiety, the most careless courage, a loud name, money for which he did not know the account and which was never transferred from him, and imagine what effect he had to produce between us. My primacy has wavered. Seduced by my glory, he began to seek my friendship; but I received him coldly, and he left me without any regret. I hated him. His successes in the regiment and in the society of women led me to complete despair. I began to look for a quarrel with him; He responded to my epigrams with epigrams that always seemed to me more unexpected and sharper than mine and which, of course, were far more fun: he joked, and I was angry. Finally, one day at a ball hosted by a Polish landowner, seeing him as the object of attention of all the ladies, and especially of the hostess herself, who was in a relationship with me, I said some flat rudeness in his ear. He flushed and slapped me. We rushed to the sabers; ladies fainted; They took us away, and that same night we went to fight. It was at dawn. I stood at the appointed place with my three seconds. I waited with inexplicable impatience for my opponent. The spring sun had risen, and the heat was already rising. I saw him from afar. He walked on foot, with his uniform on his saber, accompanied by one second. We went to meet him halfway. He approached, holding a cap filled with cherries. The seconds measured out twelve steps for us. I was supposed to shoot first: but the excitement of anger in me was so strong that I did not rely on the fidelity of my hand and, in order to give myself time to cool down, I conceded the first shot to him; my opponent did not agree. They decided to cast lots: the first number went to him, the eternal favorite of happiness. He took aim and shot through my cap. The line was behind me. His life was finally in my hands; I looked at him greedily, trying to catch at least one shadow of concern... He stood under the pistol, choosing ripe cherries from his cap and spitting out the seeds, which flew to me. His indifference infuriated me. What good would it do me, I thought, to deprive him of his life when he does not value it at all? An evil thought flashed through my mind. I lowered the gun. “It seems you don’t care about death now,” I told him, “you deign to have breakfast; I don’t want to disturb you.” “You don’t bother me at all,” he objected, “if you please, shoot, but as you wish: your shot remains yours; I am always ready at your service.” I turned to the seconds, announcing that I did not intend to shoot today, and that was how the fight ended. I retired and retired to this place. Since then, not a single day has passed that I have not thought about revenge. Now my hour has come... Silvio took the letter he had received from his pocket this morning and gave it to me to read. Someone (it seemed his attorney) wrote to him from Moscow that famous person should soon enter into legal marriage with a young and beautiful girl. “You can guess,” said Silvio, “who this famous person. I'm going to Moscow. Let's see if he will accept death as indifferently before his wedding as he once waited for it behind the cherries! At these words, Silvio stood up, threw his cap on the floor and began to walk back and forth around the room, like a tiger in its cage. I listened to him motionless; strange, opposite feelings agitated me. The servant entered and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio squeezed my hand tightly; we kissed. He got into the cart, where there were two suitcases, one with pistols, the other with his belongings. We said goodbye again, and the horses galloped off.

Several years passed, and home circumstances forced me to settle in a poor village in H** county. While doing housework, I never stopped quietly sighing about my former noisy and carefree life. The hardest thing for me was to get used to spending autumn and winter evenings in complete solitude. I somehow still made it until lunch, talking with the headman, traveling around to work or visiting new establishments; but as soon as it began to get dark, I had absolutely no idea where to go. A small number of books that I found under cabinets and in the pantry were memorized. All the fairy tales that the housekeeper Kirilovna could remember were retold to me; the songs of the women made me sad. I started to drink the unsweetened liqueur, but it gave me a headache; Yes, I admit, I was afraid to become a drunkard out of grief, that is, the most bitter a drunkard, of which I saw many examples in our district. There were no close neighbors around me, except for two or three bitter, whose conversation consisted mostly of hiccups and sighs. The solitude was more bearable. Four miles from me there was a rich estate belonging to Countess B***; but only the steward lived in it, and the countess visited her estate only once, in the first year of her marriage, and then she lived there for no more than a month. However, in the second spring of my seclusion, a rumor spread that the countess and her husband would come to their village for the summer. In fact, they arrived at the beginning of June. The arrival of a rich neighbor is an important era for the villagers. The landowners and their servants were talking about it two months earlier and three years later. As for me, I confess that the news of the arrival of a young and beautiful neighbor had a strong effect on me; I was eager to see her, and therefore, on the first Sunday after her arrival, I went after lunch to the village of *** to recommend myself to their Lordships as my closest neighbor and most humble servant. The footman led me into the count's office, and he himself went to report on me. The vast office was decorated with every possible luxury; near the walls there were cabinets with books, and above each there was a bronze bust; there was a wide mirror above the marble fireplace; the floor was covered with green cloth and covered with carpets. Having become unaccustomed to luxury in my poor corner and having not seen someone else’s wealth for a long time, I became timid and waited for the count with some trepidation, like a petitioner from the provinces waiting for the minister to appear. The doors opened and a man of about thirty-two, handsome, entered. The Count approached me with an open and friendly air; I tried to cheer up and began to recommend myself, but he warned me. We sat down. His conversation, free and amiable, soon dispelled my wild shyness; I was already beginning to settle into my usual position, when suddenly the Countess entered, and embarrassment took possession of me more than ever. Indeed, she was a beauty. The Count introduced me; I wanted to appear casual, but the more I tried to assume an air of ease, the more awkward I felt. They, in order to give me time to recover and get used to the new acquaintance, began to talk among themselves, treating me like a good neighbor and without ceremony. Meanwhile, I began to walk back and forth, examining the books and paintings. I'm not an expert in paintings, but one caught my attention. She depicted some kind of view from Switzerland; but what struck me about it was not the painting, but the fact that the painting was shot through by two bullets planted one on top of the other. “That’s a good shot,” I said, turning to the count. “Yes,” he answered, “the shot is very wonderful.” Are you a good shooter? - he continued. “Pretty much,” I answered, glad that the conversation finally touched on a subject that was close to me. “I won’t let you miss at thirty paces, using familiar pistols, of course.” - Right? - said the countess, with an air of great attentiveness, - and you, my friend, will you get into the map at thirty paces? “Someday,” answered the count, “we will try.” In my time I was not a bad shot; but it’s been four years since I picked up a pistol. “Oh,” I remarked, “in that case, I bet that your Excellency will not hit the map even at twenty paces: a pistol requires daily exercise.” I know this from experience. In our regiment I was considered one of the best shooters. Once it happened that I didn’t take a pistol for a whole month: mine were being repaired; What would you think, Your Excellency? The first time I started shooting later, I missed the bottle four times in a row at twenty-five paces. We had a captain, a wit, a funny man; he happened here and told me: you know, brother, your hand does not rise to the bottle. No, Your Excellency, you should not neglect this exercise, otherwise you will just get out of the habit. The best shooter I ever met shot every day, at least three times before lunch. He had this as a habit, like a glass of vodka. The Count and Countess were glad that I started talking. - How did he shoot? - the count asked me. - Yes, this is how it is, your Excellency: it happened that he saw a fly land on the wall: are you laughing, Countess? By God, it's true. Sometimes he would see a fly and shout: “Kuzka, gun!” Kuzka brings him a loaded pistol. He slams and presses the fly into the wall! -- It is amazing! - said the count, - what was his name? - Silvio, your Excellency. - Silvio! - the count cried, jumping up from his seat; - did you know Silvio? - How not to know, your Excellency; we were friends with him; he was accepted in our regiment as a comrade brother; Yes, it’s been five years since I’ve had any news about him. So your Excellency, therefore, knew him? “I knew it, I knew it very much.” Didn't he tell you... but no; I don't think; didn't he tell you one very strange incident? “Wasn’t it a slap in the face, Your Excellency, that he received at a ball from some rake?” “Did he tell you the name of this rake?” - No, your Excellency, I didn’t say... Ah! your Excellency,” I continued, guessing the truth, “excuse me... I didn’t know... wasn’t it you? there is a monument to our last meeting. .. “Oh, my dear,” said the countess, “for God’s sake don’t tell; I'll be scared to listen. “No,” the count objected, “I’ll tell you everything; he knows how I offended his friend: let him know how Silvio took revenge on me. The Count moved chairs for me, and I heard the following story with lively curiosity. "Five years ago I got married. -- First month, the honey-moon 2) , I spent here in this village. I owe the best moments of my life and one of the most difficult memories to this house. One evening we rode together on horseback; My wife’s horse became stubborn; she got scared, gave me the reins and walked home; I went ahead. In the yard I saw a road cart; I was told that there was a man sitting in my office who did not want to announce his name, but simply said that he cared about me. I entered this room and saw in the darkness a man covered with dust and overgrown with a beard; he was standing here by the fireplace. I approached him, trying to remember his features. "You didn't recognize me, Count?" - he said in a trembling voice. "Silvio!" - I shouted, and, I confess, I felt how my hair suddenly stood on end. “That’s right,” he continued, “the shot is behind me; I’ve come to unload my pistol; are you ready?” His pistol was sticking out of side pocket . I measured twelve steps and stood there in the corner, asking him to shoot quickly before my wife returned. He hesitated - he asked for fire. Candles were brought. I locked the doors, told no one to come in, and again asked him to shoot. He took out a pistol and took aim... I counted the seconds... I thought about her... A terrible minute passed! Silvio lowered his hand. “I regret,” he said, “that the pistol is not loaded with cherry pits... the bullet is heavy. It still seems to me that we are not having a duel, but a murder: I’m not used to aiming at an unarmed person. Let’s start again; let’s draw lots for who to shoot first." My head was spinning... It seems I didn’t agree... Finally we loaded another pistol; folded two tickets; he put them in his cap, which I had once been shot through; I took out the first number again. “You, Count, are devilishly happy,” he said with a grin that I will never forget. I don’t understand what happened to me and how he could force me to do this... but I shot and ended up in this picture. (The Count pointed his finger at the shot-through picture; his face burned like fire; the Countess was paler than her scarf: I could not refrain from exclamation.) “I shot,” the Count continued, “and, thank God, I missed; then Silvio... (at that moment he was truly terrible) Silvio began to take aim at me. Suddenly the doors opened, Masha ran in and threw herself on my neck with a squeal. Her presence restored all my vigor. “Dear,” I told her, “can’t you see that we’re joking? How frightened you are! Go, drink a glass of water and come to us; I’ll introduce you to an old friend and comrade.” Masha still couldn’t believe it. “Tell me, is your husband telling the truth?” she said, turning to the formidable Silvio, “is it true that you are both joking?” “He always jokes, Countess,” Silvio answered her, “he once gave me a joking slap in the face, jokingly shot me through this cap, jokingly missed me now; now I too have the urge to make a joke...” With this in a word, he wanted to take aim at me... in front of her! Masha threw herself at his feet. “Get up, Masha, it’s a shame!” I shouted in rage; “and you, sir, will you stop mocking the poor woman? Will you shoot or not?” “I won’t,” answered Silvio, “I’m satisfied: I saw your confusion, your timidity; I made you shoot at me, that’s enough for me. You will remember me. I betray you to your conscience.” Then he was about to go out, but stopped at the door, looked back at the picture I had shot through, shot at it, almost without aiming, and disappeared. The wife lay in a faint; people did not dare to stop him and looked at him with horror; He went out onto the porch, called the driver and drove away before I had time to come to my senses.” The Count fell silent. Thus I learned the end of the story, the beginning of which had once so amazed me. I have never met her hero. They say that Silvio, during the indignation of Alexander Ypsilanti, led a detachment uh terrorists and was killed in battle of Skulany.

BLIZZARD

Horses rush over the hills,

Trampling deep snow...

There's a temple of God on the side

Seen alone.

Suddenly there is a snowstorm all around;

The snow is falling in clumps;

The black corvid, whistling with its wing,

Hovering over the sleigh;

The prophetic groan says sadness!

The horses are in a hurry

They look sensitively into the distance,

Raising their manes...

Zhukovsky.

At the end of 1811, in an era memorable to us, the good Gavrila Gavrilovich R** lived on his Nenaradov estate. He was famous throughout the area for his hospitality and cordiality; neighbors constantly went to him to eat, drink, play Boston for five kopecks with his wife, and some in order to look at their daughter, Marya Gavrilovna, a slender, pale and seventeen-year-old girl. She was considered a rich bride, and many expected her to marry them or their sons. Marya Gavrilovna was brought up on French novels, and, consequently, was in love. The subject she chose was a poor army ensign who was on leave in his village. It goes without saying that the young man was burning with equal passion and that the parents of his beloved, noticing their mutual inclination, forbade their daughter to even think about him, and he was received worse than a retired assessor. Our lovers corresponded and saw each other alone every day in a pine grove or near the old chapel. There they swore to each other eternal love , complained about fate and made various assumptions. Corresponding and talking in this way, they (which is very natural) came to the following reasoning: if we cannot breathe without each other, and the will of cruel parents interferes with our well-being, then will it be impossible for us to do without it? It goes without saying that this happy thought first occurred to the young man and that Marya Gavrilovna’s romantic imagination greatly liked it. Winter came and stopped their meetings; but the correspondence became all the more lively. Vladimir Nikolaevich in each letter begged her to surrender to him, to get married secretly, to hide for a while, then to throw herself at the feet of her parents, who, of course, would finally be touched by the heroic constancy and misfortune of the lovers and would certainly tell them: “Children! Come into our arms.” Marya Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time; many escape plans were abandoned. Finally she agreed: on the appointed day she was to not have dinner and retire to her room under the pretext of a headache. Her girlfriend was in the conspiracy; both of them had to go out into the garden through the back porch, find a ready-made sleigh behind the garden, get into it and drive five miles from Nenaradov to the village of Zhadrino, straight to the church, where Vladimir was supposed to be waiting for them. On the eve of the decisive day, Marya Gavrilovna did not sleep all night; She was getting ready, tying up her underwear and dress, and wrote a long letter to a sensitive young lady, her friend, and another to her parents. She said goodbye to them in the most touching terms, excused her offense with the irresistible power of passion and ended with the fact that she would consider the happiest moment of her life to be the one when she was allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dearest parents. Having sealed both letters with a Tula seal, on which were depicted two flaming hearts with a decent inscription, she threw herself on the bed just before dawn and dozed off; but even here terrible dreams awakened her every minute. It seemed to her that at the very moment she got into the sleigh to go get married, her father stopped her, dragged her through the snow with excruciating speed and threw her into a dark, bottomless dungeon... and she flew headlong with an inexplicable sinking of her heart; then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale, bloodied. He, dying, begged her in a shrill voice to hurry up and marry him... other ugly, meaningless visions rushed before her one after another. Finally she stood up, paler than usual and with a real headache. Her father and mother noticed her concern; their tender care and incessant questions: what’s wrong with you, Masha? aren't you sick, Masha? - tore her heart. She tried to calm them down, to seem cheerful, but she couldn’t. Evening came. The thought that this was the last time she was spending the day among her family troubled her heart. She was barely alive; she secretly said goodbye to all the persons, to all the objects that surrounded her. Dinner was served; her heart began to beat violently. In a trembling voice, she announced that she did not want dinner, and began to say goodbye to her father and mother. They kissed her and, as usual, blessed her: she almost cried. Arriving at her room, she threw herself into an armchair and burst into tears. The girl tried to persuade her to calm down and take courage. Everything was ready. Half an hour later Masha had to leave forever parents' house , your own room, a quiet girlish life... There was a snowstorm outside; the wind howled, the shutters shook and rattled; everything seemed to her a threat and a sad omen. Soon everything in the house calmed down and fell asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a warm hood, took her box in her hands and went out onto the back porch. The maid carried two bundles behind her. They went down into the garden. The snowstorm did not subside; the wind blew towards her, as if trying to stop the young criminal. They reached the end of the garden by force. On the road the sleigh was waiting for them. The horses, frozen, did not stand still; Vladimir’s coachman paced in front of the shafts, holding back the zealous. He helped the young lady and her girlfriend sit down and put away the bundles and box, took the reins, and the horses flew off. Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and the art of Tereshka the coachman, let us turn to our young lover. Vladimir was on the road all day. In the morning he visited the Zhadrinsky priest; I forcibly came to an agreement with him; then he went to look for witnesses among neighboring landowners. The first person he came to, the retired forty-year-old cornet Dravin, agreed willingly. This adventure, he assured, reminded him of his former time and the pranks of the hussars. He persuaded Vladimir to stay with him for dinner and assured him that the case would not be resolved with the other two witnesses. In fact, immediately after dinner, land surveyor Shmit appeared in a mustache and spurs, and the police captain’s son, a boy of about sixteen who had recently joined the lancers. They not only accepted Vladimir’s offer, but even swore to him that they were ready to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir hugged them with delight and went home to get ready. It had long been dark. He sent his reliable Tereshka to Nenaradovo with his troika and with detailed, thorough orders, and for himself he ordered a small sleigh to be put on one horse, and alone without a coachman he went to Zhadrino, where Marya Gavrilovna was supposed to arrive in two hours. The road was familiar to him, and the drive was only twenty minutes. But as soon as Vladimir drove out of the outskirts into the field, the wind rose and there was such a snowstorm that he could not see anything. One minute the road skidded; the surroundings disappeared into a muddy and yellowish haze, through which white flakes of snow flew; the sky merged with the earth. Vladimir found himself in a field and in vain wanted to get on the road again; the horse walked at random and constantly rode up a snowdrift and then fell into a hole; the sleigh was constantly capsizing. Vladimir only tried not to lose his true direction. But it seemed to him that more than half an hour had already passed, and he had not yet reached the Zhadrinskaya Grove. About ten more minutes passed; the grove was still out of sight. Vladimir drove through a field crossed by deep ravines. The snowstorm did not subside, the sky did not clear. The horse was starting to get tired, and he was dripping with sweat, despite the fact that he was constantly waist-deep in snow. Finally he saw that he was driving in the wrong direction. Vladimir stopped: he began to think, remember, figure out - and was convinced that he should have taken to the right. He went to the right. His horse walked slightly. He had been on the road for more than an hour. Zhadrino should have been nearby. But he drove and drove, and there was no end to the field. Everything is snowdrifts and ravines; Every minute the sleigh overturned, every minute he raised it. As time went; Vladimir began to get very worried. Finally, something began to turn black to the side. Vladimir turned there. As he approached, he saw a grove. Thank God, he thought, it’s close now. He drove near the grove, hoping to immediately get onto a familiar road or go around the grove: Zhadrino was immediately behind it. He soon found the road and drove into the darkness of the trees, naked in winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was smooth; the horse cheered up, and Vladimir calmed down. But he drove and drove, and Zhadrin was nowhere to be seen; there was no end to the grove. Vladimir saw with horror that he had driven into an unfamiliar forest. Despair took possession of him. He hit the horse; the poor animal began to trot, but soon began to pester and after a quarter of an hour began to walk, despite all the efforts of unfortunate Vladimir. Little by little the trees began to thin out, and Vladimir rode out of the forest; Zhadrin was nowhere to be seen. It must have been around midnight. Tears flowed from his eyes; he went at random. The weather had calmed down, the clouds were clearing, and in front of him lay a plain covered with a white wavy carpet. The night was quite clear. He saw a village nearby, consisting of four or five courtyards. Vladimir went to see her. At the first hut he jumped out of the sleigh, ran to the window and began knocking. A few minutes later the wooden shutter rose and the old man stuck out his gray beard. "What do you want?" - “Is Zhadrino far away?” - “Is Zhadrino far away?” - “Yes, yes! How far?” - “Not far; it will be about ten miles.” At this answer, Vladimir grabbed himself by the hair and remained motionless, like a man sentenced to death. “Where are you from?” continued the old man. Vladimir did not have the heart to answer questions. “Can you, old man,” he said, “get me horses to Zhadrin?” “What kind of horses are we?” the man answered. “Can’t I at least hire a guide? I’ll pay whatever he wants.” “Wait,” said the old man, lowering the shutter, “I’ll send out my son; he’ll see you out.” Vladimir began to wait. Less than a minute later, he started knocking again. The shutter rose and the beard appeared. "What do you want?" - “What about your son?” - “Now he’ll come out and put on his shoes. Are you cold? Come up and warm yourself.” - “Thank you, send your son quickly.” The gates creaked; the guy came out with a club and walked forward, now pointing, now looking for the road covered with snowdrifts. "What time is it now?" - Vladimir asked him. “It’ll be dawn soon,” answered the young man. Vladimir didn’t say a word anymore. The roosters were crowing and it was already light when they reached Zhadrin. The church was locked. Vladimir paid the conductor and went to the priest’s yard. He was not in the troika's yard. What news awaited him! But let’s return to the good Nenaradov landowners and see if they are doing something. Nothing. The old people woke up and went into the living room. Gavrila Gavrilovich in a cap and flannel jacket, Praskovya Petrovna in a cotton wool dressing gown. The samovar was served, and Gavrila Gavrilovich sent the girl to find out from Marya Gavrilovna what her health was and how she slept. The girl returned, announcing that the young lady had slept poorly, but that she was feeling better now and that she would come to the living room now. In fact, the door opened, and Marya Gavrilovna came up to greet daddy and mummy. "What's your head, Masha?" - asked Gavrila Gavrilovich. “Better, daddy,” answered Masha. “You must have been crazy yesterday, Masha,” said Praskovya Petrovna. “Maybe Mama,” answered Masha. The day went well, but at night Masha fell ill. They sent to the city for a doctor. He arrived in the evening and found the patient delirious. A severe fever developed, and the poor patient spent two weeks at the edge of the coffin. No one in the house knew about the intended escape. The letters she had written the day before were burned; her maid did not tell anyone about anything, fearing the wrath of the masters. The priest, the retired cornet, the mustachioed surveyor and the little lancer were modest, and for good reason. Tereshka the coachman never said anything unnecessary, even when drunk. Thus the secret was kept by more than half a dozen conspirators. But Marya Gavrilovna herself, in constant delirium, expressed her secret. However, her words were so inconsistent with anything that the mother, who did not leave her bed, could understand from them only that her daughter was mortally in love with Vladimir Nikolaevich and that, probably, love was the cause of her illness. She consulted with her husband, with some neighbors, and finally everyone unanimously decided that this was clearly Marya Gavrilovna’s fate, that you couldn’t beat your betrothed with a horse, that poverty was not a vice, that living not with wealth, but with a person, and the like. Moral sayings can be surprisingly useful in cases where we can invent little on our own to justify ourselves. Meanwhile, the young lady began to recover. Vladimir had not been seen in Gavrila Gavrilovich’s house for a long time. He was frightened by the usual reception. They decided to send for him and announce to him unexpected happiness: consent to marriage. But what was the amazement of the Nenaradov landowners when, in response to their invitation, they received a half-crazed letter from him! He announced to them that he would never set foot in their house, and asked them to forget about the unfortunate man, for whom death remained the only hope. A few days later they learned that Vladimir had left for the army. This was in 1812. For a long time they did not dare to announce this to the recovering Masha. She never mentioned Vladimir. A few months later, having found his name among those who distinguished themselves and were seriously wounded at Borodino, she fainted, and they were afraid that her fever would return. However, thank God, the fainting had no consequences. Another sadness visited her: Gavrila Gavrilovich died, leaving her as the heiress of the entire estate. But the inheritance did not console her; she sincerely shared the grief of poor Praskovya Petrovna, vowed never to part with her; They both left Nenaradovo, a place of sad memories, and went to live on the *** estate. The grooms circled around the sweet and rich bride; but she didn’t give anyone the slightest hope. Her mother sometimes persuaded her to choose a friend; Marya Gavrilovna shook her head and thought. Vladimir no longer existed: he died in Moscow, on the eve of the French entry. His memory seemed sacred to Masha; at least she cherished everything that could remind him: books he had once read, his drawings, notes and poems he had copied for her. The neighbors, having learned about everything, marveled at her constancy and waited with curiosity for the hero who was finally supposed to triumph over the sad fidelity of this virgin. Artemises. Meanwhile, the war with glory was over. Our regiments were returning from abroad. The people ran towards them. Music played conquered songs: Vive Henri-Quatre 1) , Tyrolean waltzes and arias from La Gioconde. The officers, who went on campaign almost as youths, returned, having matured in the battle air, hung with crosses. The soldiers talked cheerfully among themselves, constantly interjecting German and French words into their speech. Unforgettable time! Time of glory and delight! How hard the Russian heart beat at the word fatherland! How sweet were the tears of the date! With what unanimity we united the feelings of national pride and love for the sovereign! And what a moment it was for him! Women, Russian women were incomparable then. Their usual coldness disappeared. Their delight was truly intoxicating when, meeting the victors, they shouted: hooray! And they threw caps into the air. Which of the officers of that time does not admit that he owed the best, most precious award to a Russian woman?.. During this brilliant time, Marya Gavrilovna lived with her mother in the *** province and did not see how both capitals celebrated the return of the troops. But in the districts and villages the general delight was perhaps even stronger. The appearance of an officer in these places was a real triumph for him, and the lover in a tailcoat felt bad in his neighborhood. We have already said that, despite her coldness, Marya Gavrilovna was still surrounded by seekers. But everyone had to retreat when the wounded hussar Colonel Burmin appeared in her castle, with George in his buttonhole and interesting pallor, as the young ladies there said. He was about twenty-six years old. He came on vacation to his estates, located next to the village of Marya Gavrilovna. Marya Gavrilovna distinguished him very much. With him, her usual thoughtfulness was revived. It was impossible to say that she was flirting with him; but the poet, noticing her behavior, would say: Se amor non X che dun e?.. 2) Burmin was indeed a very nice young man. He had exactly the kind of mind that women like: a mind of decency and observation, without any pretensions and carelessly mocking. His behavior with Marya Gavrilovna was simple and free; but no matter what she said or did, his soul and eyes followed her. He seemed of a quiet and modest disposition, but rumor assured that he had once been a terrible rake, and this did not harm him in the opinion of Marya Gavrilovna, who (like all young ladies in general) gladly excused pranks that revealed courage and ardor of character. But most of all... (more than his tenderness, more pleasant conversation, more interesting pallor, more bandaged hand) the silence of the young hussar most of all incited her curiosity and imagination. She could not help but admit that he liked her very much; Probably, he too, with his intelligence and experience, could have already noticed that she distinguished him: how come she had not yet seen him at her feet and had not yet heard his confession? What was holding him back? timidity, inseparable from true love, pride or the coquetry of a cunning red tape? It was a mystery to her. Having thought carefully, she decided that timidity was the only reason for this, and decided to encourage him with greater attentiveness and, depending on the circumstances, even tenderness. She was preparing the most unexpected denouement and was looking forward to the moment of romantic explanation. A secret, no matter what kind it is, is always burdensome to a woman’s heart. Her military actions had the desired success: at least Burmin fell into such a thoughtfulness and his black eyes rested on Marya Gavrilovna with such fire that the decisive moment seemed to be close. The neighbors talked about the wedding as if it were a matter already over, and the kind Praskovya Petrovna was glad that her daughter had finally found a worthy groom. One day the old woman was sitting alone in the living room, playing grand solitaire, when Burmin entered the room and immediately inquired about Marya Gavrilovna. “She’s in the garden,” answered the old woman, “go to her, and I’ll be waiting for you here.” Burmin went, and the old woman crossed herself and thought: maybe the matter will end today! Burmin found Marya Gavrilovna by the pond, under a willow tree, with a book in her hands and in a white dress, the real heroine of the novel. After the first questions, Marya Gavrilovna deliberately stopped carrying on the conversation, thus increasing mutual confusion, which could only be gotten rid of with a sudden and decisive explanation. And so it happened: Burmin, feeling the difficulty of his situation, announced that he had been looking for a long time for an opportunity to open his heart to her, and demanded a minute of attention. Marya Gavrilovna closed the book and lowered her eyes as a sign of agreement. “I love you,” said Burmin, “I love you passionately...” (Marya Gavrilovna blushed and bowed her head even lower.) “I acted carelessly, indulging in a sweet habit, the habit of seeing and hearing you every day...” (Marya Gavrilovna remembered first letter to St.-Preux 3) .) “Now it’s too late to resist my fate; the memory of you, your dear, incomparable image will henceforth be the torment and joy of my life; but I still have to fulfill a difficult duty, reveal to you a terrible secret and put an insurmountable barrier between us...” - “She always existed,” Marya Gavrilovna interrupted with liveliness, “I could never be your wife...” “I know,” he answered her quietly, “I know that you once loved, but death and three years of lamentation... Kind, dear Marya Gavrilovna! Don’t try to deprive me of my last consolation: the thought that you would agree to make my happiness if... be silent, for God’s sake, be silent. You are tormenting me. Yes, I know , I feel that you would be mine, but - I am the most unfortunate creature ... I am married! Marya Gavrilovna looked at him in surprise. “I’m married,” continued Burmin, “I’ve been married for four years now and I don’t know who my wife is, and where she is, and whether I should ever meet her!” -- What are you saying? - exclaimed Marya Gavrilovna, - how strange it is! Continue; I'll tell you later... but go ahead, do me a favor. “At the beginning of 1812,” said Burmin, “I hurried to Vilna, where our regiment was located. Arriving one day at the station late in the evening, I ordered the horses to be laid as quickly as possible, when suddenly a terrible snowstorm arose, and the caretaker and the coachmen advised me to wait it out. I obeyed them, but an incomprehensible anxiety took possession of me; it seemed like someone was pushing me like that. Meanwhile, the snowstorm did not subside; I couldn’t bear it, ordered the laying again and rode into the storm. The coachman decided to go along the river, which should have shortened our journey by three miles. The banks were covered; the driver drove past the place where we entered the road, and thus we found ourselves in an unfamiliar direction. The storm did not subside; I saw a light and ordered to go there. We arrived at the village; there was a fire in the wooden church. The church was open, several sleighs stood outside the fence; people were walking around the porch. "Here! here!" - several voices shouted. I told the coachman to drive up. “For mercy, where did you hesitate?” someone said to me, “the bride has fainted; the priest doesn’t know what to do; we were ready to go back. Come out quickly.” I silently jumped out of the sleigh and entered the church, dimly lit by two or three candles. The girl was sitting on a bench in a dark corner of the church; the other rubbed her temples. “Thank God,” this one said, “you came by force. You almost killed the young lady.” The old priest came up to me with the question: “Will you order us to begin?” “Begin, begin, father,” I answered absentmindedly. The girl was raised. She seemed pretty good to me... An incomprehensible, unforgivable frivolity... I stood next to her in front of the lectern; the priest was in a hurry; three men and a maid supported the bride and were busy only with her. We were married. “Kiss,” they told us. My wife turned her pale face to me. I wanted to kiss her... She screamed: “Oh, not him! Not him!” - and fell unconscious. The witnesses looked at me with frightened eyes. I turned around, left the church without any obstacles, rushed into the wagon and shouted: “Get off!” -- My God! - Marya Gavrilovna shouted, “and you don’t know what happened to your poor wife?” “I don’t know,” answered Burmin, “I don’t know the name of the village where I got married; I don’t remember which station I left from. At that time, I believed so little importance in my criminal prank that, having driven away from the church, I fell asleep and woke up the next morning, at the third station. The servant who was then with me died on the campaign, so I have no hope of finding the one on whom I played such a cruel joke and who has now been so cruelly avenged. - My God, my God! - said Marya Gavrilovna, grabbing his hand, - so it was you! And you don't recognize me? Burmin turned pale... and threw himself at her feet...

UNDERTAKER

Don't we see coffins every day,

Gray hair of the decrepit universe?

Derzhavin.

The last belongings of the undertaker Adriyan Prokhorov were loaded onto the funeral cart, and the skinny couple trudged for the fourth time from Basmannaya to Nikitskaya, where the undertaker was moving his entire household. Having locked the shop, he nailed a notice to the gate that the house was for sale and for rent, and went on foot to the housewarming party. Approaching the yellow house, which had so long seduced his imagination and which he had finally bought for a considerable sum, the old undertaker felt with surprise that his heart was not rejoicing. Having crossed the unfamiliar threshold and finding turmoil in his new home, he sighed about the dilapidated shack, where for eighteen years everything had been instituted in the strictest order; began to scold both his daughters and the worker for their slowness and began to help them himself. Order was soon established; an ark with images, a cupboard with dishes, a table, a sofa and a bed occupied certain corners in the back room; the kitchen and living room contained the owner's wares: coffins of all colors and sizes, as well as cabinets with mourning hats, robes and torches. Above the gate stood a sign depicting a portly Cupid with an overturned torch in his hand, with the caption: “Here, simple and painted coffins are sold and upholstered, old ones are also rented and repaired.” The girls went to their little room. Adrian walked around his home, sat down by the window and ordered the samovar to be prepared. The enlightened reader knows that Shakespeare and Walter Scott both portrayed their gravediggers as cheerful people and playful, so that this opposite will strike our imagination more strongly. Out of respect for the truth, we cannot follow their example and are forced to admit that the disposition of our undertaker was completely consistent with his gloomy craft. Adrian Prokhorov was usually gloomy and thoughtful. He allowed silence only to scold his daughters when he caught them idly staring out the window at passers-by, or to ask an exaggerated price for his works from those who had the misfortune (and sometimes the pleasure) of needing them. So, Adrian, sitting under the window and drinking his seventh cup of tea, was, as usual, immersed in sad thoughts. He thought about the pouring rain that, a week ago, met the funeral of a retired brigadier at the very outpost. Many robes became narrower as a result, many hats became warped. He foresaw inevitable expenses, because his long-standing supply of coffin outfits was falling into a pitiful state. He hoped to recoup the loss on the old merchant's wife Tryukhina, who had been dying for about a year. But Tryukhina was dying on Razgulay, and Prokhorov was afraid that her heirs, despite their promise, would not be too lazy to send for him to such a distance and would not make a deal with the nearest contractor. These reflections were unexpectedly interrupted by three Freemasonic knocks on the door. "Who's there?" - asked the undertaker. The door opened, and a man, in whom at first glance one could recognize a German craftsman, entered the room and approached the undertaker with a cheerful look. “Sorry, dear neighbor,” he said in that Russian dialect, which we still cannot hear without laughing, “I’m sorry that I disturbed you... I wanted to get to know you as soon as possible. I am a shoemaker, my name is Gottlieb Schultz, and "I live across the street from you, in this house opposite your windows. Tomorrow I celebrate my silver wedding, and I ask you and your daughters to dine with me as friends." The invitation was favorably accepted. The undertaker asked the shoemaker to sit down and have a cup of tea, and thanks to the open disposition of Gottlieb Schultz, they soon began to talk amicably. "What is your worship's trade?" - asked Adrian. “E-he-he,” answered Schultz, “and this way and that. I can’t complain. Although, of course, my product is not the same as yours: a living person can do without boots, but a dead person cannot live without a coffin.” “It’s true,” Adrian noted; “however, if a living person has nothing to buy a boot with, then, don’t be angry, he walks barefoot; and a dead beggar takes his coffin for free.” Thus, their conversation continued for some time; Finally the shoemaker stood up and took leave of the undertaker, renewing his invitation. The next day, at exactly twelve o'clock, the undertaker and his daughters left the gate of the newly purchased house and went to their neighbor. I will not describe either the Russian caftan of Adriyan Prokhorov, or the European outfit of Akulina and Daria, deviating in this case from the custom adopted by modern novelists. I think, however, it is not superfluous to note that both girls put on yellow hats and red shoes, which they only wore on special occasions. The shoemaker's cramped apartment was filled with guests, mostly German artisans, with their wives and apprentices. Among the Russian officials there was one guard, the Chukhonian Yurko, who knew how to acquire, despite his humble rank, the special favor of his master. For twenty-five years he served in this rank with faith and truth, as postman Pogorelsky. The fire of the twelfth year, having destroyed the capital, also destroyed his yellow booth. But immediately, after the enemy had been expelled, a new one appeared in her place, gray with white columns of the Doric order, and Yurko again began to walk around her with with an ax and in homespun armor . He was familiar to most of the Germans living near the Nikitsky Gate: some of them even happened to spend the night with Yurka from Sunday to Monday. Adrian immediately became acquainted with him, as with a person whom sooner or later he might need, and when the guests went to the table, they sat down together. Mr. and Mrs. Schultz and their daughter, seventeen-year-old Lotchen, while dining with the guests, all treated them together and helped the cook serve. The beer was flowing. Yurko ate for four; Adrian was not inferior to him; his daughters were repairing; the conversation in German became noisier hour by hour. Suddenly the owner demanded attention and, uncorking the tarred bottle, said loudly in Russian: “For the health of my good Louise!” The half-champagne began to foam. The owner tenderly kissed the fresh face of his forty-year-old friend, and the guests noisily drank good Louise's health. "For the health of my dear guests!" - the owner proclaimed, uncorking the second bottle - and the guests thanked him, draining their glasses again. Here health began to follow one after another: they drank the health of each guest in particular, they drank the health of Moscow and a whole dozen German towns, they drank the health of all workshops in general and each one in particular, they drank the health of masters and apprentices. Adrian drank diligently and was so amused that he himself proposed some kind of humorous toast. Suddenly one of the guests, a fat baker, raised his glass and exclaimed: “To the health of those for whom we work, unserer Kundleute!” 1) The proposal, like everything else, was accepted joyfully and unanimously. The guests began to bow to each other, the tailor to the shoemaker, the shoemaker to the tailor, the baker to both of them, everyone to the baker, and so on. Yurko, in the midst of these mutual bows, shouted, turning to his neighbor: “What? Drink, father, to the health of your dead.” Everyone laughed, but the undertaker considered himself offended and frowned. No one noticed, the guests continued to drink, and were already announcing Vespers when they got up from the table. The guests left late, and mostly tipsy. A fat baker and bookbinder whose face

It seemed bound in red morocco,

They took Yurka by the hand to his booth, observing in this case the Russian proverb: debt is worth paying. The undertaker came home drunk and angry. “What is it, really,” he reasoned aloud, “why is my craft more dishonest than others? Is the undertaker a brother to the executioner? Why are the infidels laughing? Is the undertaker a yuletide guy? I wanted to invite them to a housewarming party, give them a feast like a mountain: "That won't happen! But I will call together those for whom I work: the Orthodox dead." - “What are you doing, father?” said the worker, who at that time was taking off his shoes, “why are you making such a fuss? Cross yourself! Calling the dead to a housewarming party! What passion!” - “By God, I will convene,” continued Adrian, “and for tomorrow. You are welcome, my benefactors, to feast with me tomorrow evening; I will treat you with what God has sent.” With this word the undertaker went to bed and soon began to snore. It was still dark outside when Adriyan was woken up. The merchant's wife Tryukhina died that very night, and a messenger from her clerk rode to Adriyan on horseback with this news. The undertaker gave him a ten-kopeck piece for vodka, got dressed quickly, took a cab and went to Razgulay. The police were already standing at the gate of the deceased and merchants were walking around like crows, sensing the dead body. The deceased lay on the table, yellow as wax, but not yet disfigured by decay. Relatives, neighbors and household members crowded around her. All the windows were open; the candles were burning; priests read prayers. Adrian approached Tryukhina’s nephew, a young merchant in a fashionable frock coat, announcing to him that the coffin, candles, shroud and other funeral accessories would immediately be delivered to him in all repairs. The heir thanked him absentmindedly, saying that he did not bargain about the price, but relied on his conscience in everything. The undertaker, as usual, swore that he would not take too much; exchanged a significant glance with the clerk and went to work. I spent the whole day driving from Razgulay to the Nikitsky Gate and back; In the evening he settled everything and went home on foot, dismissing his cab driver. The night was moonlit. The undertaker safely reached the Nikitsky Gate. At Ascension, our acquaintance Yurko called out to him and, recognizing the undertaker, wished him good night. It was late. The undertaker was already approaching his house, when suddenly it seemed to him that someone had approached his gate, opened the gate and disappeared through it. “What does this mean?” thought Adriyan. “Who cares about me again? Has a thief got into my place? Are lovers going to see my fools? What good!” And the undertaker was already thinking of calling his friend Yurka to help. At that moment someone else approached the gate and was about to enter, but, seeing the owner running, he stopped and took off his three-cornered hat. His face seemed familiar to Adrian, but in his haste he did not have time to take a good look at him. “You came to me,” said Adrian, out of breath, “come in, do me a favor.” - “Don’t stand on ceremony, father,” he answered dully, “go ahead; show the guests the way!” Adrian had no time to stand on ceremony. The gate was unlocked, he went up the stairs, and he followed him. It seemed to Adrian that people were walking around his rooms. "What the devil!" - he thought and hurried to enter... then his legs gave way. The room was full of dead people. The moon through the windows illuminated their yellow and blue faces, sunken mouths, dull, half-closed eyes and protruding noses... Adrian recognized with horror in them the people buried through his efforts, and in the guest who entered with him, the foreman buried during the torrential rain. All of them, ladies and men, surrounded the undertaker with bows and greetings, except for one poor man, recently buried for nothing, who, ashamed and ashamed of his rags, did not approach and stood humbly in the corner. The rest were all dressed decently: the dead women in caps and ribbons, the dead officials in uniforms but with unshaven beards, the merchants in festive caftans. “You see, Prokhorov,” said the foreman on behalf of the entire honest company, “we all came up at your invitation; only those who were no longer able to stand, who completely fell apart, and who were left with only bones without skin, remained at home, but and then one couldn’t resist - he so wanted to visit you...” At that moment, a small skeleton made his way through the crowd and approached Adrian. His skull smiled affectionately at the undertaker. Pieces of light green and red cloth and old linen hung here and there on him, as if on a pole, and the bones of his legs beat in large boots, like pestles in mortars. “You didn’t recognize me, Prokhorov,” said the skeleton. “Do you remember retired guard sergeant Pyotr Petrovich Kurilkin, the same one to whom, in 1799, you sold your first coffin - and also a pine one for an oak one?” With this word, the dead man extended his bone embrace to him - but Adrian, gathering his strength, screamed and pushed him away. Pyotr Petrovich staggered, fell and crumbled all over. A murmur of indignation arose among the dead; everyone stood up for the honor of their comrade, pestered Adrian with abuse and threats, and the poor owner, deafened by their scream and almost crushed, lost his presence of mind, he himself fell on the bones of a retired guard sergeant and lost consciousness. The sun had long been illuminating the bed on which the undertaker lay. Finally he opened his eyes and saw a worker in front of him, inflating the samovar. With horror, Adrian remembered all yesterday’s incidents. Tryukhina, the brigadier and sergeant Kurilkin vaguely appeared in his imagination. He silently waited for the worker to start a conversation with him and announce the consequences of the night's adventures. “How did you sleep, father, Adrian Prokhorovich,” Aksinya said, handing him a robe. “Your neighbor, the tailor, came to see you, and the local bottler ran in to announce that today was a private birthday, but you deigned to sleep, and we didn’t want to wake you up.” - Did they come to me from the deceased Tryukhina? - Deceased women? Did she really die? - What a fool! Wasn’t it you who helped me arrange her funeral yesterday? . - What are you doing, father? Are you crazy, or are you still drunk from yesterday? What was the funeral like yesterday? You feasted with the German all day, came back drunk, fell into bed, and slept until this hour, when mass was announced. - Oh! - said the delighted undertaker. “That’s true,” answered the worker. “Well, if that’s the case, let’s have some tea quickly and call your daughters.”

STATION GUARD

Collegiate Registrar,

Postal station dictator.

Prince Vyazemsky.

Who hasn’t cursed the stationmasters, who hasn’t sworn at them? Who, in a moment of anger, did not demand from them a fatal book in order to write into it his useless complaint about oppression, rudeness and malfunction? Who doesn't consider them monsters? human race , equal to the late clerks or at least the Murom robbers? Let us, however, be fair, we will try to put ourselves in their position and, perhaps, we will begin to judge them much more leniently. What is a stationmaster? A real martyr of the fourteenth grade, protected by his rank only from beatings, and even then not always (I refer to the conscience of my readers). What is the position of this dictator, as Prince Vyazemsky jokingly calls him? Isn't this real hard labor? I have peace neither day nor night. The traveler takes out all the frustration accumulated during a boring ride on the caretaker. The weather is unbearable, the road is bad, the driver is stubborn, the horses are not carrying - and the caretaker is to blame. Entering his poor home, a traveler looks at him as if he were an enemy; it would be good if he managed to get rid of the uninvited guest soon; but if the horses don’t happen?.. God! what curses, what threats will rain down on his head! In the rain and slush, he is forced to run around the yards; in a storm, in the Epiphany frost, he goes into the entryway, just to rest for a minute from the screams and pushes of an irritated guest. The general arrives; the trembling caretaker gives him the last two threes, including the courier one. The general leaves without saying thank you. Five minutes later - the bell rings!.. and the courier throws his travel document on his table!.. Let's look into all this thoroughly, and instead of indignation, our hearts will be filled with sincere compassion. A few more words: for twenty years in a row I traveled across Russia in all directions; I know almost all postal routes; I know several generations of coachmen; I don’t know a rare caretaker by sight, I haven’t dealt with a rare one; I hope to publish a curious stock of my travel observations in a short time; For now I will only say that the class of stationmasters is presented to the general opinion in the most false form. These much-maligned caretakers are generally peaceful people, naturally helpful, inclined towards community, modest in their claims to honor and not too money-loving. From their conversations (which are inappropriately neglected by gentlemen passing by) one can glean a lot of interesting and instructive things. As for me, I confess that I prefer their conversation to the speeches of some 6th class official traveling on official business. You can easily guess that I have friends from the venerable class of caretakers. Indeed, the memory of one of them is precious to me. Circumstances once brought us closer together, and this is what I now intend to talk about with my dear readers. In 1816, in the month of May, I happened to be driving through the *** province, along a highway that has now been destroyed. I was in a minor rank, rode on crossroads and paid runs for two horses. As a result of this, the caretakers did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often took in battle what, in my opinion, was rightfully due me. Being young and hot-tempered, I was indignant at the baseness and cowardice of the caretaker when this latter gave the troika he had prepared for me under the carriage of the official master. It took me just as long to get used to having a picky servant hand me a dish at the governor’s dinner. Nowadays both seem to me to be in the order of things. In fact, what would happen to us if instead of the generally convenient rule: honor the rank of rank, Another thing came into use, for example: honor your mind? What controversy would arise! and who would the servants start serving the food with? But I turn to my story. The day was hot. Three miles from the station*** it began to drizzle, and a minute later the pouring rain soaked me to the last thread. Upon arrival at the station, the first concern was to quickly change clothes, the second was to ask myself some tea. “Hey, Dunya!” the caretaker shouted, “put on the samovar and go get some cream.” At these words, a girl of about fourteen came out from behind the partition and ran into the hallway. Her beauty amazed me. "Is this your daughter?" - I asked the caretaker. “My daughter, sir,” he answered with an air of satisfied pride, “she’s so intelligent, so nimble, she looks like a dead mother.” Then he began to copy out my travel document, and I began to look at the pictures that decorated his humble but neat abode. They depicted the story of the prodigal son: in the first, a respectable old man in a cap and dressing gown releases a restless young man, who hastily accepts his blessing and a bag of money. Another vividly depicts the depraved behavior of a young man: he sits at a table, surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Further, a squandered young man, in rags and a three-cornered hat, tends pigs and shares a meal with them; his face shows deep sadness and remorse. Finally, his return to his father is presented; a kind old man in the same cap and dressing gown runs out to meet him: the prodigal son is on his knees; in the future, the cook kills a well-fed calf, and the elder brother asks the servants about the reason for such joy. Under each picture I read decent German poetry. All this has been preserved in my memory to this day, as well as pots with balsam, and a bed with a colorful curtain, and other objects that surrounded me at that time. I see, as now, the owner himself, a man of about fifty, fresh and cheerful, and his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons. Before I had time to pay my old coachman, Dunya returned with a samovar. The little coquette noticed at second glance the impression she made on me; she lowered her big blue eyes; I began to talk to her, she answered me without any timidity, like a girl who has seen the light. I offered my father her glass of punch; I served Duna a cup of tea, and the three of us began talking as if we had known each other for centuries. The horses were ready a long time ago, but I still didn’t want to part with the caretaker and his daughter. Finally I said goodbye to them; my father wished me a good journey, and my daughter accompanied me to the cart. In the entryway I stopped and asked her permission to kiss her; Dunya agreed. .. I can count many kisses since I’ve been doing this, but not one has left such a long, such a pleasant memory in me. Several years passed, and circumstances led me to that very road, to those very places. I remembered the old caretaker's daughter and rejoiced at the thought that I would see her again. But, I thought, the old caretaker may have already been replaced; Dunya is probably already married. The thought of the death of one or the other also flashed through my mind, and I approached the station *** with a sad foreboding. The horses stopped at the post house. Entering the room, I immediately recognized the pictures depicting the story of the prodigal son; the table and bed were in the same places; but there were no longer flowers on the windows, and everything around showed disrepair and neglect. The caretaker slept under a sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him up; he stood up... It was definitely Samson Vyrin; but how he has aged! While he was getting ready to rewrite my travel document, I looked at his gray hair, at the deep wrinkles of his long-unshaven face, at his hunched back - and could not marvel at how three or four years could turn a vigorous man into a frail old man. “Do you recognize me?” I asked him, “we are old acquaintances.” “It may be,” he answered gloomily, “there is a big road here; I’ve had many travelers pass by.” - “Is your Dunya healthy?” - I continued. The old man frowned. “God knows,” he answered. “So, apparently she’s married?” -- I said. The old man pretended not to hear my question and continued to read my travel document in a whisper. I stopped my questions and ordered the kettle to be put on. Curiosity began to bother me, and I hoped that the punch would resolve the language of my old acquaintance. I was not mistaken: the old man did not refuse the offered glass. I noticed that the rum cleared up his sullenness. By the second glass he became talkative; remembered or pretended to remember me, and I learned from him a story that at that time greatly interested and touched me. “So you knew my Dunya?” he began. “Who didn’t know her? Oh, Dunya, Dunya! What a girl she was! It used to be that whoever passed by, everyone would praise her, no one would condemn her. The ladies gave her as a gift. , sometimes with a handkerchief, sometimes with earrings. Passing gentlemen stopped on purpose, as if to have lunch or dinner, but in fact just to take a closer look at her. It happened that the master, no matter how angry he was, would calm down in front of her and talk graciously to me. Believe me. Well, sir: the couriers and couriers talked to her for half an hour, she kept the house going: what to clean, what to cook, she kept up with everything. And I, the old fool, can’t get enough of it; Didn’t I really love my Dunya, didn’t I cherish my child; Did she really have no life? No, you can’t avoid trouble; what is destined cannot be avoided." Then he began to tell me in detail his grief. Three years ago, one winter evening, when the caretaker was ruling new book , and his daughter behind the partition was sewing a dress for herself, the troika drove up, and a traveler in a Circassian hat, in a military overcoat, wrapped in a shawl, entered the room, demanding horses. The horses were all in full speed. At this news the traveler raised his voice and his whip; but Dunya, accustomed to such scenes, ran out from behind the partition and affectionately turned to the traveler with the question: would he like to have something to eat? Dunya's appearance had its usual effect. The passerby's anger passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered himself dinner. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, unraveling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache. He settled down with the caretaker and began to talk cheerfully with him and his daughter. They served dinner. Meanwhile, the horses arrived, and the caretaker ordered that they immediately, without feeding, be harnessed to the traveler’s wagon; but, returning, he found a young man almost unconscious lying on a bench: he felt sick, had a headache, it was impossible to go... What to do! the caretaker gave him his bed, and it was supposed, if the patient did not feel better, to send to S*** for a doctor the next morning. The next day the hussar became worse. His man went on horseback to the city to get a doctor. Dunya tied a scarf soaked in vinegar around his head and sat down with her sewing by his bed. In front of the caretaker, the patient groaned and said almost a word, but he drank two cups of coffee and, groaning, ordered himself lunch. Dunya did not leave his side. He constantly asked for a drink, and Dunya brought him a mug of lemonade she had prepared. The sick man wet his lips and each time he returned the mug, as a sign of gratitude, he shook Dunyushka’s hand with his weak hand. The doctor arrived at lunchtime. He felt the patient’s pulse, spoke to him in German and announced in Russian that all he needed was peace and that in two days he would be able to hit the road. The hussar gave him twenty-five rubles for the visit and invited him to dinner; the doctor agreed; They both ate with great appetite, drank a bottle of wine and parted very pleased with each other. Another day passed, and the hussar completely recovered. He was extremely cheerful, joked incessantly, first with Dunya, then with the caretaker; he whistled songs, talked with passers-by, wrote down their travel information in the postal book, and became so fond of the kind caretaker that on the third morning he was sorry to part with his kind guest. The day was Sunday; Dunya was getting ready for mass. The hussar was given a wagon. He said goodbye to the caretaker, generously rewarding him for his stay and refreshments; He said goodbye to Dunya and volunteered to take her to the church, which was located on the edge of the village. Dunya stood in bewilderment... “What are you afraid of?” her father said to her, “after all, his high nobility is not a wolf and will not eat you: take a ride to the church.” Dunya sat down in the wagon next to the hussar, the servant jumped onto the handle, the coachman whistled, and the horses galloped off. The poor caretaker did not understand how he could allow his Duna to ride with the hussar, how blindness came over him, and what happened to his mind then. Less than half an hour had passed when his heart began to ache and ache, and anxiety took possession of him to such an extent that he could not resist and went to mass himself. Approaching the church, he saw that the people were already leaving, but Dunya was neither in the fence nor on the porch. He hastily entered the church: the priest was leaving the altar; the sexton was extinguishing the candles, two old women were still praying in the corner; but Dunya was not in the church. The poor father forcibly decided to ask the sexton whether she had attended mass. The sexton replied that she had not been. The caretaker went home neither alive nor dead. There was only one hope left to him: Dunya, in the frivolity of her young years, decided, perhaps, to take a ride to the next station, where she lived godmother . In painful anxiety he awaited the return of the troika on which he had let her go. The coachman did not return. Finally, in the evening, he arrived alone and drunk, with the murderous news: “Dunya went on from that station with the hussar.” The old man could not bear his misfortune; he immediately went to bed in the same bed where the young deceiver had lain the day before. Now the caretaker, considering all the circumstances, guessed that the illness was feigned. The poor man fell ill with a severe fever; he was taken to S*** and someone else was assigned to his place for the time being. The same doctor who came to the hussar also treated him. He assured the caretaker that the young man was completely healthy and that at that time he still guessed about his evil intention, but remained silent, fearing his whip. Whether the German was telling the truth or just wanting to show off his foresight, he did not console the poor patient in the least. Having barely recovered from his illness, the caretaker asked S*** the postmaster for leave for two months and, without telling anyone a word about his intention, he set off on foot to fetch his daughter. From the road station he knew that Captain Minsky was traveling from Smolensk to St. Petersburg. The driver who was driving him said that Dunya cried all the way, although it seemed that she was driving of her own accord. “Perhaps,” thought the caretaker, “I’ll bring my lost sheep home.” With this thought in mind, he arrived in St. Petersburg, stopped at the Izmailovsky regiment, in the house of a retired non-commissioned officer, his old colleague, and began his search. He soon learned that Captain Minsky was in St. Petersburg and lived in the Demutov tavern. The caretaker decided to come to him. Early in the morning he came to his hallway and asked him to report to his nobility that the old soldier was asking to see him. The military footman, cleaning his boot on the last, announced that the master was resting and that he would not receive anyone before eleven o’clock. The caretaker left and returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him in a dressing gown and a red skufia. "What do you want, brother?" - he asked him. The old man’s heart began to boil, tears welled up in his eyes, and in a trembling voice he said only: “Your Honor!.. do such a divine favor!..” Minsky looked at him quickly, flushed, took him by the hand, led him into the office and locked him behind him. door. “Your Honor!” continued the old man, “what fell from the cart is lost; at least give me my poor Dunya. After all, you have had fun with her; don’t destroy her in vain.” “What has been done cannot be undone,” said the young man in extreme confusion, “I am guilty before you and am glad to ask for your forgiveness; but don’t think that I could leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you need it? She loves Me; she was unaccustomed to her previous state. Neither you nor she will forget what happened." Then, thrusting something down his sleeve, he opened the door, and the caretaker, without remembering how, found himself on the street. He stood motionless for a long time, and finally saw the with the cuff of his sleeve, a bundle of papers; he took them out and unfolded several five- and ten-ruble crumpled banknotes. Tears welled up in his eyes again, tears of indignation! He squeezed the papers into a ball, threw them to the ground, stamped them with his heel and walked away... Having walked away a few steps, he stopped, thought... and turned back... but the banknotes were no longer there. A well-dressed young man, seeing him, ran up to the cab driver, sat down hastily and shouted: “Get off!..” The caretaker did not chase him. He decided to go home to his station, but first he wanted to see his poor Dunya at least once again. For this, two days later he returned to Minsky; but the military footman told him sternly that the master did not receive anyone, pushed him out of the hall with his chest and slammed the doors under his nose The caretaker stood, stood, and then went. That very day, in the evening, he walked along Liteinaya, having served a prayer service for All Who Sorrow. Suddenly a smart droshky raced in front of him, and the caretaker recognized Minsky. The droshky stopped in front of a three-story house, right at the entrance, and the hussar ran onto the porch. A happy thought flashed through the mind of the caretaker. He returned and, drawing level with the coachman: “Whose horse, brother?” he asked, “is it Minsky’s?” “Exactly so,” answered the coachman, “what do you want?” - “Well, here’s the thing: your master ordered me to take a note to his Dunya, and I’ll forget where Dunya lives.” - “Yes, right here, on the second floor. You’re late, brother, with your note; Now he’s with her.” “There’s no need,” the caretaker objected with an inexplicable movement of his heart, “thanks for the advice, and I’ll do my job.” And with that word he walked up the stairs. The doors were locked; he called, several seconds passed in painful anticipation. The key rattled and it was opened for him. “Is Avdotya Samsonovna standing here?” -- he asked. “Here,” answered the young maid, “why do you need it?” The caretaker, without answering, entered the hall. “It’s impossible, it’s impossible!” the maid shouted after him, “Avdotya Samsonovna has guests.” But the caretaker, without listening, walked on. The first two rooms were dark, the third was on fire. He walked up to the open door and stopped. In a beautifully decorated room, Minsky sat thoughtfully. Dunya, dressed in all the luxury of fashion, sat on the arm of his chair, like a rider on her English saddle. She looked at Minsky with tenderness, wrapping his black curls around her sparkling fingers. Poor caretaker! Never had his daughter seemed so beautiful to him; he couldn't help but admire her. "Who's there?" - she asked without raising her head. He remained silent. Receiving no answer, Dunya raised her head... and fell onto the carpet screaming. Frightened Minsky rushed to pick her up and, suddenly seeing the old caretaker at the door, left Dunya and approached him, trembling with anger. “What do you want?” he said to him, gritting his teeth, “that you are sneaking after me everywhere like a robber? Or do you want to stab me? Get out!” - and, with a strong hand, grabbing the old man by the collar, he pushed him onto the stairs. The old man came to his apartment. His friend advised him to complain; but the caretaker thought, waved his hand and decided to retreat. Two days later he set out from St. Petersburg back to his station and again took up his post. “For the third year now,” he concluded, “I’ve been living without Dunya and there’s not a word or breath of her. Whether she’s alive or not, God knows. Anything can happen. I didn’t lure her first, not her last a passing rake, and there he kept him and abandoned him. There are a lot of them in St. Petersburg, young fools, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow, you’ll see, they’re sweeping the street along with the tavern’s nakedness. Sometimes you think that Dunya too, maybe right there disappears, so you will inevitably sin and wish for her grave..." Such was the story of my friend, the old caretaker, a story repeatedly interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with his hollow, like a zealous Terentyich in Dmitriev's beautiful ballad . These tears were partly aroused by the punch, of which he drew five glasses in the continuation of his story; but be that as it may, they touched my heart greatly. Having parted with him, I could not forget the old caretaker for a long time, I thought for a long time about poor Duna... Recently, driving through the town of ***, I remembered my friend; I learned that the station over which he commanded had already been destroyed. To my question: “Is the old caretaker alive?” - no one could give me a satisfactory answer. I decided to visit a familiar side, took free horses and set off for the village of N. This happened in the fall. Gray clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew from the reaped fields, blowing red and yellow leaves from the trees they encountered. I arrived in the village at sunset and stopped at the post office. In the entryway (where poor Dunya once kissed me) a fat woman came out and answered my questions that the old caretaker had died a year ago, that a brewer had settled in his house, and that she was the brewer’s wife. I felt sorry for my wasted trip and the seven rubles spent for nothing. "Why did he die?" - I asked the brewer's wife. “I got drunk, father,” she answered. "Where was he buried?" - “Outside the outskirts, near his late mistress.” - “Is it possible to take me to his grave?” - “Why can’t it be. Hey, Vanka! You’ve had enough of messing around with the cat. Take the master to the cemetery and show him the caretaker’s grave.” At these words, a ragged boy, red-haired and crooked, ran out to me and immediately led me outside the outskirts. - Did you know the dead man? - I asked him dear. - How not to know! He taught me how to carve pipes. It used to be (may he rest in heaven!) he would come out of a tavern, and we would follow him: “Grandfather, grandfather! some nuts!” - and he gives us nuts. Everything used to mess with us. - Do passers-by remember him? - Yes, but there are few travelers; Unless the assessor wraps it up, he has no time for the dead. In the summer, a lady passed by, and she asked about the old caretaker and went to his grave. - Which lady? - I asked curiously. “Beautiful lady,” answered the boy; - she rode in a carriage of six horses, with three little barts and a nurse, and a black pug; and when they told her that the old caretaker had died, she began to cry and said to the children: “Sit still, and I’ll go to the cemetery.” And I volunteered to bring it to her. And the lady said: “I know the way myself.” And she gave me a silver nickel - such a kind lady!.. We came to the cemetery, a bare place, unfenced, dotted with wooden crosses, not shaded by a single tree. I have never seen such a sad cemetery in my life. “Here is the grave of the old caretaker,” the boy told me, jumping onto a pile of sand into which was buried a black cross with a copper image. - And the lady came here? - I asked. “She came,” answered Vanka, “I looked at her from afar.” She lay down here and lay there for a long time. And there the lady went to the village and called the priest, gave him money and went, and gave me a nickel in silver - a nice lady! And I gave the boy a penny and no longer regretted either the trip or the seven rubles I spent.

PEASANT GIRL

You, Darling, look good in all your outfits.

Bogdanovich.

In one of our remote provinces there was an estate of Ivan Petrovich Berestov. In his youth he served in the guard, retired early 1797, went to his village and since then he has not left there. He was married to a poor noblewoman who died in childbirth while he was away in the field. Household exercises soon consoled him. He built a house according to his own plan, started a cloth factory, tripled his income and began to consider himself the smartest man in the entire neighborhood, which his neighbors, who came to visit him with their families and dogs, did not contradict him about. On weekdays he wore a corduroy jacket, on holidays he put on a frock coat made of homemade cloth; I wrote down the expenses myself and read nothing except the Senate Gazette. In general, he was loved, although he was considered proud. Only Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky, his closest neighbor, did not get along with him. This was a real Russian gentleman. Having squandered most of his estate in Moscow and at that time become a widower, he left for his last village, where he continued to play pranks, but in a new way. He planted an English garden, on which he spent almost all his other income. His grooms were dressed as English jockeys. His daughter had an English madam. He cultivated his fields according to the English method: But Russian bread will not be born in someone else’s way, and despite a significant reduction in expenses, Grigory Ivanovich’s income did not increase; Even in the village he found a way to enter into new debts; with all that, he was considered a not stupid person, for he was the first of the landowners of his province to think of mortgaging his estate into the Guardian Council: a move that seemed at that time extremely complex and bold. Of the people who condemned him, Berestov responded most severely. Hatred of innovation was a distinctive feature of his character. He could not speak indifferently about his neighbor's Anglomania and constantly found opportunities to criticize him. Did he show the guest his possessions in response to praise for his economic management: “Yes, sir!” he said with a sly grin, “my property is not like that of my neighbor Grigory Ivanovich. Why should we go broke in English? If only we in Russian, at least you’re full.” These and similar jokes, due to the diligence of the neighbors, were brought to the attention of Grigory Ivanovich with additions and explanations. The Angloman endured criticism as impatiently as our journalists. He was furious and called his zoil a bear and a provincial. Such were the relations between these two owners, how Berestov’s son came to his village. He was brought up at the *** University and intended to enter military service, but his father did not agree to this. The young man felt completely incapable of civil service. They were not inferior to each other, and young Alexey began to live for the time being as a master, letting go of his mustache just in case. Alexey was really great. It would really be a pity if his slender figure was never pulled together by a military uniform, and if instead of showing off on a horse, he spent his youth bent over stationery papers. Seeing how he always galloped first when hunting, without making out the way, the neighbors agreed that he would never make a good chief executive. The young ladies glanced at him, and others looked at him; but Alexey did little with them, and they believed that the reason for his insensitivity was a love affair. In fact, a list was circulating from hand to hand from the address of one of his letters: Akulina Petrovna Kurochkina, in Moscow, opposite the Alekseevsky Monastery, in the house of coppersmith Savelyev, and I humbly ask you to deliver this letter to A.H.R. Those of my readers who have not lived in villages cannot imagine what a charm these county young ladies are! Brought up in the clean air, in the shade of their garden apple trees, they draw knowledge of light and life from books. Solitude, freedom and reading early develop in them feelings and passions unknown to our absent-minded beauties. For a young lady, the ringing of a bell is already an adventure, a trip to a nearby city is considered an era in life, and a visit to a guest leaves a long, sometimes eternal memory. Of course, everyone is free to laugh at some of their oddities, but the jokes of a superficial observer cannot destroy their essential merits, of which the main thing is: character trait, originality(individualit) 1) , without which, in the opinion Jean-Paul, there is no such thing as human greatness. In the capitals, women receive perhaps a better education; but the skill of light soon softens the character and makes souls as monotonous as hats. Let this be said not in court, and not in condemnation, but nota nostra manet 2) , as one ancient commentator writes. It is easy to imagine what impression Alexey must have made among our young ladies. He was the first to appear before them, gloomy and disappointed, the first to tell them about lost joys, and about his faded youth; Moreover, he wore a black ring with the image of a death's head. All this was extremely new in that province. The young ladies went crazy for him. But the most preoccupied with him was my Anglomaniac’s daughter, Lisa (or Betsy, as Grigory Ivanovich usually called her). The fathers did not visit each other, she had not yet seen Alexei, while all the young neighbors were talking only about him. She was seventeen years old. Her dark eyes enlivened her dark and very pleasant face. She was the only child and therefore a spoiled one. Her agility and minute-by-minute pranks delighted her father and drove her Madame Miss Jackson, a forty-year-old prim girl who bleached her hair and darkened her eyebrows, into despair. I re-read Pamela twice a year., received two thousand rubles for it and died of boredom in this barbaric Russia . Nastya followed Liza; she was older, but just as flighty as her young lady. Lisa loved her very much, revealed all her secrets to her, and thought over her ideas with her; in a word, Nastya was a much more significant person in the village of Priluchina than any confidante in the French tragedy. “Let me go visit today,” Nastya said one day, dressing the young lady. - If you please; And where to? - To Tugilovo, to the Berestovs. The cook's wife is their birthday girl and yesterday she came to invite us to dinner. -- Here! - said Lisa, - the masters are quarreling, and the servants are treating each other. - What do we care about gentlemen! - Nastya objected, - besides, I’m yours, not daddy’s. You haven’t quarreled with young Berestov yet; and let the old people fight if it’s fun for them. - Try, Nastya, to see Alexei Berestov, and tell me thoroughly what he is like and what kind of person he is. Nastya promised, and Lisa eagerly awaited her return all day. In the evening Nastya appeared. “Well, Lizaveta Grigorievna,” she said, entering the room, “I saw young Berestov: she’s had enough of a look; We were together all day. -- Like this? Tell me, tell me in order. - Excuse me, sir; let's go, me, Anisya Egorovna, Nenila, Dunka... - Okay, I know. Well then? - Let me tell you everything in order. We arrived just before lunch. The room was full of people. There were the Kolbinskys, the Zakharyevskys, the clerk with her daughters, the Khlupinskys... - Well! and Berestov? - Wait, sir. So we sat down at the table, the clerk was in first place, I was next to her... and the daughters were sulking, but I don’t care about them... - Oh, Nastya, how boring you are with your eternal details! - How impatient you are! Well, we left the table... and we sat for three hours, and the dinner was delicious; a blancmange cake blue, red and striped... So we left the table and went into the garden to play burners, and the young master appeared here. -- Well? Is it true that he is so good-looking? - Surprisingly good, handsome, one might say. Slender, tall, blush all over his cheek... - Right? And I thought that his face was pale. What? What did he look like to you? Sad, thoughtful? -- What do you? I've never seen such a madman in my entire life. He decided to run with us into the burners. - Run into the burners with you! Impossible! - Very possible! What else did you come up with! He'll catch you and kiss you! - It’s your choice, Nastya, you’re lying. - It's your choice, I'm not lying. I got rid of him by force. He spent the whole day with us like that. - Why, they say, he’s in love and doesn’t look at anyone? “I don’t know, sir, but he looked at me too much, and at Tanya, the clerk’s daughter, too; and to Pasha Kolbinskaya, yes, it’s a shame to say, he didn’t offend anyone, such a spoiler! -- It is amazing! What do you hear about him in the house? “The master, they say, is wonderful: so kind, so cheerful.” One thing is bad: he likes to chase girls too much. Yes, for me, this is not a problem: it will settle down over time. - How I would like to see him! - Lisa said with a sigh. - What’s so tricky about that? Tugilovo is not far from us, only three miles: go for a walk in that direction or ride on horseback; you will probably meet him. Every day, early in the morning, he goes hunting with a gun. - No, it’s not good. He might think I'm chasing him. Besides, our fathers are in a quarrel, so I still won’t be able to meet him... Oh, Nastya! Do you know what? I'll dress up as a peasant girl! - Indeed; put on a thick shirt, a sundress, and go boldly to Tugilovo; I guarantee you that Berestov will not miss you. “And I can speak the local language perfectly well.” Oh, Nastya, dear Nastya! What a wonderful idea! - And Lisa went to bed with the intention of certainly fulfilling her cheerful assumption. The next day she began to carry out her plan, sent to buy thick linen, blue Chinese clothes and copper buttons at the market, with Nastya’s help she cut herself a shirt and a sundress, set the whole girl’s room to sewing, and by evening everything was ready. Lisa tried on the new look and admitted in front of the mirror that she had never seemed so cute to herself. She repeated her role, bowed low as she walked and then shook her head several times, like clay cats, spoke in a peasant dialect, laughed, covering herself with her sleeve, and earned Nastya’s complete approval. One thing made it difficult for her: she tried to walk across the yard barefoot, but the turf pricked her tender feet, and the sand and pebbles seemed unbearable to her. Nastya helped her here too: she took the measurement of Liza’s leg, ran to the field to Trofim the shepherd and ordered him a pair of bast shoes according to that measurement. The next day, before dawn, Lisa had already woken up. The whole house was still asleep. Nastya was waiting for the shepherd outside the gate. The horn began to play, and the village herd pulled past the manor's yard. Trofim, passing in front of Nastya, gave her small colorful bast shoes and received half a ruble from her as a reward. Liza quietly dressed up as a peasant woman, gave Nastya her instructions in a whisper regarding Miss Jackson, went out onto the back porch and ran through the garden into the field. The dawn shone in the east, and the golden rows of clouds seemed to be waiting for the sun, like courtiers waiting for a sovereign; the clear sky, morning freshness, dew, breeze and birdsong filled Lisa's heart with infantile gaiety; afraid of some familiar meeting, she seemed not to walk, but to fly. Approaching the grove standing on the border of her father's property, Lisa walked more quietly. Here she was supposed to wait for Alexei. Her heart was beating strongly, without knowing why; but the fear that accompanies our young pranks is also their main charm. Lisa entered the darkness of the grove. A dull, rolling noise greeted the girl. Her gaiety died down. Little by little she indulged in sweet reverie. She thought... but is it possible to accurately determine what a seventeen-year-old young lady is thinking about, alone, in a grove, at six o’clock on a spring morning? So, she walked, lost in thought, along the road, shaded on both sides by tall trees, when suddenly a beautiful pointer dog barked at her. Lisa got scared and screamed. At the same time, a voice was heard: “Tout beau, Sbogar, ici...” 3 ) - and the young hunter appeared from behind the bushes. “I suppose, honey,” he said to Lisa, “my dog ​​doesn’t bite.” Liza had already recovered from her fright and knew how to immediately take advantage of the circumstances. “No, master,” she said, pretending to be half-frightened, half-shy, “I’m afraid: she’s so angry, you see; she’ll attack again.” Alexey (the reader already recognized him) meanwhile was looking intently at the young peasant woman. “I will accompany you if you are afraid,” he told her, “will you allow me to walk beside you?” - “Who’s stopping you?” answered Lisa, “the free will, but the road is worldly.” -- "Where are you from?" - “From Priluchin; I am the daughter of Vasily the blacksmith, I’m going mushroom hunting” (Lisa carried the box on a string). - “And you, master? Tugilovsky, or what?” “That’s right,” answered Alexey, “I am the young master’s valet.” Alexey wanted to equalize their relationship. But Lisa looked at him and laughed. “You’re lying,” she said, “you’re not attacking a fool. I see that you’re a master yourself.” - “Why do you think so?” - “Yes, on everything.” - “However?” - “But how can you not recognize the master and the servant? And they’re dressed wrong, and you call differently, and you don’t call the dog like us.” Alexey liked Liza more and more from hour to hour. Accustomed to not standing on ceremony with pretty village girls, he wanted to hug her; but Liza jumped away from him and suddenly assumed such a stern and cold look that although this made Alexei laugh, it kept him from further attempts. “If you want us to be friends in the future,” she said with importance, “then please don’t forget yourself.” “Who taught you this wisdom?” Alexey asked, laughing. “Isn’t Nastenka, my friend, your young lady’s girlfriend? These are the ways enlightenment spreads!” Lisa felt that she was out of her role, and immediately recovered. “What do you think?” she said, “don’t I ever go to the master’s yard? I suppose: I’ve heard and seen enough of everything. However,” she continued, “you won’t be able to pick mushrooms by chatting with you. Go ahead.” ", master, to one side, and I to the other. We ask for forgiveness..." Lisa wanted to leave, Alexey held her hand. "What is your name, my soul?" “Akulina,” answered Lisa, trying to free her fingers from Alekseeva’s hand, “let me go, master; it’s time for me to go home.” - “Well, my friend Akulina, I will certainly visit your father, Vasily the blacksmith.” - “What are you doing?” Liza objected with liveliness, “for Christ’s sake, don’t come. If at home they find out that I was chatting alone with the master in the grove, then I will be in trouble: my father, Vasily the blacksmith, will beat me to death.” . - “Yes, I definitely want to see you again.” - “Well, someday I’ll come here again for mushrooms.” - "When?" - “Yes, even tomorrow.” - “Dear Akulina, I would kiss you, but I don’t dare. So tomorrow, at this time, isn’t it?” - “Yes, yes.” - “And you won’t deceive me?” - “I won’t deceive you.” - "Swear to me." - “Well, it’s Holy Friday, I’ll come.” The young people separated. Lisa came out of the forest, crossed the field, crept into the garden and ran headlong to the farm, where Nastya was waiting for her. There she changed clothes, absentmindedly answering the questions of her impatient confidante, and appeared in the living room. The table was set, breakfast was ready, and Miss Jackson, already whitened and drinking, was cutting thin tartines. Her father praised her for her early walk. “There is nothing healthier,” he said, “than waking up at dawn.” Here he gave several examples of human longevity, drawn from English magazines, noting that all people who lived more than a hundred years did not drink vodka and got up at dawn in winter and summer. Lisa didn't listen to him. In her thoughts she repeated all the circumstances of the morning meeting, the entire conversation between Akulina and the young hunter, and her conscience began to torment her. In vain did she object to herself that their conversation did not go beyond the bounds of decency, that this prank could not have any consequences, her conscience grumbled louder than her reason. The promise she made for the next day worried her most of all: she was completely determined not to keep her solemn oath. But Alexey, having waited for her in vain, could go to look for the daughter of Vasily the blacksmith in the village, the real Akulina, a fat, pockmarked girl, and thus guess about her frivolous prank. This thought horrified Lisa, and she decided to appear in Akulina’s grove again the next morning. For his part, Alexey was delighted; all day he thought about his new acquaintance; At night and in his dreams, the image of a dark-skinned beauty haunted his imagination. Dawn had barely begun before he was already dressed. Without giving himself time to load the gun, he went out into the field with his faithful Sbogar and ran to the place of the promised meeting. About half an hour passed in unbearable anticipation for him; Finally, he saw a blue sundress flash between the bushes and rushed towards sweet Akulina. She smiled at the delight of his gratitude; but Alexei immediately noticed traces of despondency and anxiety on her face. He wanted to know the reason for this. Lisa admitted that her action seemed frivolous to her, that she repented of it, that this time she did not want to break her word, but that this meeting would be the last and that she asked him to end the acquaintance, which could not lead to anything good bring them through. All this, of course, was said in peasant dialect; but the thoughts and feelings, unusual in a simple girl, amazed Alexei. He used all his eloquence to turn Akulina away from her intentions; he assured her of the innocence of his desires, promised never to give her cause for repentance, to obey her in everything, begged her not to deprive him of one joy: to see her alone, at least every other day, at least twice a week. He spoke the language of true passion and at that moment he was definitely in love. Lisa listened to him in silence. “Give me your word,” she said at last, “that you will never look for me in the village or ask about me. Give me your word not to look for other dates with me, except those that I myself make.” Alexey swore to her on Holy Friday, but she stopped him with a smile. “I don’t need an oath,” said Lisa, “your promise is enough.” After that, they talked amicably, walking together through the forest, until Lisa told him: it’s time. They parted, and Alexey, left alone, could not understand how a simple village girl managed to gain true power over him in two dates. His relations with Akulina had for him the charm of novelty, and although the instructions of the strange peasant woman seemed painful to him, the thought of not keeping his word did not even occur to him. The fact is that Alexey, despite the fatal ring, the mysterious correspondence and the gloomy disappointment, was a kind and ardent fellow and had a pure heart, capable of feeling the pleasures of innocence. If I had only obeyed my desire, I would certainly have begun to describe in all detail the meetings of the young people, the growing mutual inclination and gullibility, activities, conversations; but I know that most of my readers would not share my pleasure with me. These details should generally seem cloying, so I’ll skip them, saying briefly that not even two months had passed, and my Alexey was already in love, and Liza was no more indifferent, although more silent than him. Both of them were happy in the present and thought little about the future. The thought of an unbreakable bond flashed through their minds quite often, but they never spoke about it to each other. The reason is clear: Alexey, no matter how attached he was to his dear Akulina, still remembered the distance that existed between him and the poor peasant woman; and Lisa knew what hatred existed between their fathers, and did not dare to hope for mutual reconciliation. Moreover, her pride was secretly instigated by the dark, romantic hope of finally seeing the Tugilov landowner at the feet of the daughter of the Priluchinsky blacksmith. Suddenly an important incident almost changed their mutual relationship. One clear, cold morning (one of those with which our Russian autumn is rich) Ivan Petrovich Berestov went out for a walk on horseback, just in case, taking with him three pairs of greyhounds, a stirrup and several yard boys with rattles. At the same time, Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky, tempted by the good weather, ordered his scanty filly to be saddled and rode at a trot near his anglicized possessions. Approaching the forest, he saw his neighbor, proudly sitting on horseback, wearing a checkman lined with fox fur, and a waiting hare, which the boys were driving out of the bushes with shouts and rattles. If Grigory Ivanovich could have foreseen this meeting, then of course he would have turned aside; but he ran into Berestov completely unexpectedly and suddenly found himself within pistol shot distance of him. There was nothing to do. Muromsky, like an educated European, rode up to his opponent and greeted him courteously. Berestov answered with the same zeal with which a chained bear bows gentlemen on the orders of his leader. At this time, the hare jumped out of the forest and ran across the field. Berestov and the stirrup shouted at the top of their lungs, released the dogs and galloped after them at full speed. Muromsky's horse, which had never been hunting, got scared and bolted. Muromsky, who proclaimed himself an excellent horseman, gave her free rein and was internally pleased with the opportunity that saved him from an unpleasant interlocutor. But the horse, having galloped to a ravine that it had not previously noticed, suddenly rushed to the side, and Muromsky did not sit still. Having fallen rather heavily on the frozen ground, he lay cursing his short mare, which, as if having come to its senses, immediately stopped as soon as it felt itself without a rider. Ivan Petrovich galloped up to him, asking if he had hurt himself. Meanwhile, the stirrup brought the guilty horse, holding it by the bridle. He helped Muromsky climb onto the saddle, and Berestov invited him to his place. Muromsky could not refuse, for he felt obliged, and thus Berestov returned home with glory, having hunted the hare and leading his enemy wounded and almost a prisoner of war. The neighbors chatted quite amicably while having breakfast. Muromsky asked Berestov for a droshky, because he admitted that due to the injury he was not able to ride home on horseback. Berestov accompanied him all the way to the porch, and Muromsky left not before taking his word of honor to come to Priluchino for a friendly dinner the next day (and with Alexei Ivanovich). Thus, the ancient and deeply rooted enmity seemed ready to end due to the timidity of the short filly. Lisa ran out to meet Grigory Ivanovich. “What does this mean, dad?” she said in surprise, “why are you limping? Where is your horse? Whose droshky is this?” -- "You'll never guess, my dear" 4 ) “,” Grigory Ivanovich answered her and told her everything that happened. Lisa couldn't believe her ears. Grigory Ivanovich, without allowing her to come to her senses, announced that both Berestovs would be dining with him tomorrow. “What are you saying!” she said, turning pale. “The Berestovs, father and son! Tomorrow we have dinner! No, dad, as you wish: I will never show my face.” - “Are you crazy? - objected the father, - how long ago have you become so shy, or do you have a hereditary hatred for them, like a novel heroine? Come on, don’t be foolish...” - “No, dad “, not for anything in the world, not for any treasures, will I appear before the Berestovs.” Grigory Ivanovich shrugged his shoulders and did not argue with her anymore, because he knew that contradiction would not get anything out of her, and went to take a break from his interesting walk. Lizaveta Grigorievna went to her room and called Nastya. Both talked for a long time about tomorrow's visit. What will Alexey think if he recognizes his Akulina in the well-bred young lady? What opinion will he have about her behavior and rules, about her prudence? On the other hand, Lisa really wanted to see what impression such an unexpected date would make on him... Suddenly a thought flashed through her mind. She immediately handed it to Nastya; both were delighted with it as a godsend and decided to carry it out without fail. The next day at breakfast, Grigory Ivanovich asked his daughter if she still intended to hide from the Berestovs. “Dad,” answered Lisa, “I will accept them, if it pleases you, only with an agreement: no matter how I appear before them, no matter what I do, you will not scold me and will not give any sign of surprise or displeasure.” ". “Again, some pranks!” said Grigory Ivanovich, laughing. “Well, good, good; I agree, do what you want, my black-eyed minx.” With that word, he kissed her forehead, and Lisa ran to get ready. At two o'clock sharp, a carriage of homework, drawn by six horses, drove into the yard and rolled around the dense green turf circle. Old Berestov ascended the porch with the help of two livery lackeys of Muromsky. Following him, his son arrived on horseback and together with him entered the dining room, where the table was already set. Muromsky received his neighbors as kindly as possible, invited them to examine the garden and menagerie before dinner, and led them along paths carefully swept and strewn with sand. Old Berestov internally regretted the lost labor and time on such useless whims, but remained silent out of politeness. His son shared neither the displeasure of the prudent landowner, nor the admiration of the proud Anglomaniac; he was impatiently awaiting the appearance of the master's daughter, about whom he had heard a lot, and although his heart, as we know, was already occupied, the young beauty always had the right to his imagination. Returning to the living room, the three of them sat down: the old men remembered the old times and anecdotes of their service, and Alexey thought about what role he should play in the presence of Lisa. He decided that cold absent-mindedness was, in any case, the most decent thing and, as a result, got ready. The door opened, he turned his head with such indifference, with such proud negligence that the heart of the most inveterate coquette would certainly have shuddered. Unfortunately, instead of Liza, old Miss Jackson came in, whitewashed, drawn up, with downcast eyes and a small curtsy, and Alekseevo’s wonderful military movement was wasted. Before he had time to gather his strength again, the door opened again, and this time Lisa entered. Everyone stood up; the father began to introduce the guests, but suddenly stopped and hastily bit his lips... Liza, his dark Liza, was whitewashed up to her ears, more than Miss Jackson herself; false curls, much lighter than her own hair, were fluffed up like a Louis XIV wig; sleeves Yu l"imbИcile 5) stuck out like fags Madame de Pompadour; 6) her waist was cinched like an X, and all her mother's diamonds, not yet pawned, shone on her fingers, neck, and ears. Alexey could not recognize his Akulina in this funny and brilliant young lady. His father approached her hand, and he followed him with annoyance; when he touched her little white fingers, it seemed to him that they were trembling. Meanwhile, he managed to notice a leg, deliberately exposed and shod with all kinds of coquetry. This reconciled him somewhat with the rest of her outfit. As for the white and antimony, in the simplicity of his heart, I must admit, he did not notice them at first glance, and did not even suspect them after. Grigory Ivanovich remembered his promise and tried not to show any surprise; but his daughter’s prank seemed so funny to him that he could hardly restrain himself. The prim Englishwoman was not amused. She guessed that the antimony and white had been stolen from her chest of drawers, and a crimson blush of annoyance made its way through the artificial whiteness of her face. She cast fiery glances at the young prankster, who, postponing any explanations until another time, pretended not to notice them. We sat at the table. Alexey continued to play the role of absent-minded and thoughtful. Lisa affected herself, spoke through clenched teeth, in a sing-song voice, and only in French. My father stared at her every minute, not understanding her purpose, but finding it all very funny. The Englishwoman was furious and silent. Ivan Petrovich alone was at home: he ate for two, drank to his own measure, laughed at his own laughter, and hour by hour he talked and laughed more amiably. Finally they got up from the table; the guests left, and Grigory Ivanovich gave free rein to laughter and questions. “Why did you want to fool them?” he asked Liza. “Do you know what? The whitewash really suits you; I don’t go into the secrets of the ladies’ toilet, but if I were you I would whiten myself; of course, not too much, but a little.” ". Lisa was delighted with the success of her invention. She hugged her father, promised him to think about his advice and ran to appease the irritated Miss Jackson, who forcibly agreed to unlock her door and listen to her excuses. Liza was ashamed to appear such a dark creature in front of strangers; she did not dare to ask... she was sure that kind, dear Miss Jackson would forgive her... and so on, and so on. Miss Jackson, making sure that Lisa was not thinking of making her laugh, calmed down, kissed Lisa and, as a pledge of reconciliation, gave her a jar of English whitewash, which Lisa accepted with an expression of sincere gratitude. The reader will guess that the next morning Liza was not slow in appearing in the rendezvous grove. “Did you have an evening with our gentlemen, master?” she immediately said to Alexei, “what did the young lady seem like to you?” Alexei replied that he did not notice her. “It’s a pity,” Lisa objected. "Why not?" - Alexey asked. “And because I would like to ask you, is it true what they say...” - “What do they say?” - “Is it true that they say that I look like a young lady?” - “What nonsense! She’s a freak in front of you.” - “Oh, master, it’s a sin to tell you this; our young lady is so white, such a dandy! How can I compare with her!” Alexey swore to her that she was better than all kinds of little white ladies and, in order to completely calm her down, began to describe her mistress with such funny features that Lisa laughed heartily. “However,” she said with a sigh, “even though the young lady may be funny, I’m still an ignorant fool in front of her.” - “And!” said Alexey, “there is something to lament about! Yes, if you want, I will immediately teach you to read and write.” “But really,” said Lisa, “shouldn’t we really try?” - “If you please, dear; let’s start now.” They sat down. Alexey took a pencil and notebook out of his pocket, and Akulina learned the alphabet surprisingly quickly. Alexey could not be surprised at her understanding. The next morning she wanted to try and write; At first the pencil did not obey her, but after a few minutes she began to draw letters quite decently. “What a miracle!” said Alexey. “Yes, our teaching proceeds faster than according to Lancastrian system"In fact, in the third lesson Akulina was already sorting out the warehouses "Natalia, the boyar's daughter" , interrupting the reading with remarks from which Alexey was truly in amazement, and marred the round sheet with aphorisms selected from the same story. A week passed, and correspondence began between them. The post office was established in the hollow of an old oak tree. Nastya secretly improved her position as a postman. There Alexey brought letters written in large handwriting and there he found his beloved’s scribbles on plain blue paper. Akulina, apparently, was getting used to a better way of speaking, and her mind was noticeably developing and forming. Meanwhile, the recent acquaintance between Ivan Petrovich Berestov and Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky became more and more strengthened and soon turned into friendship, for the following reasons: Muromsky often thought that after the death of Ivan Petrovich all his estate would pass into the hands of Alexei Ivanovich; that in this case Alexey Ivanovich will be one of the richest landowners of that province, and that there is no reason for him not to marry Liza. Old Berestov, for his part, although he recognized some extravagance in his neighbor (or, in his expression, English stupidity), however, did not deny many excellent qualities in him, for example: rare resourcefulness; Grigory Ivanovich was a close relative of Count Pronsky, a noble and strong man; the count could be very useful to Alexei, and Muromsky (so Ivan Petrovich thought) would probably rejoice at the opportunity to give away his daughter in an advantageous manner. The old men each thought about it all to themselves until they finally talked to each other, hugged each other, promised to handle the matter in order, and each began to fuss about it on his own part. Muromsky was faced with a difficulty: to persuade his Betsy to get to know Alexei, whom she had not seen since that memorable dinner. They didn't seem to like each other very much; at least Alexey no longer returned to Priluchino, and Liza went to her room every time Ivan Petrovich honored them with a visit. But, thought Grigory Ivanovich, if Alexey is with me every day, then Betsy will have to fall in love with him. This is par for the course. Time will sort everything out. Ivan Petrovich was less worried about the success of his intentions. That same evening, he called his son into his office, lit a pipe and, after a short silence, said: “Why haven’t you been talking about military service for a long time, Alyosha? Or the hussar uniform no longer seduces you!..” - “No, “Father,” answered Alexei respectfully, “I see that you do not want me to join the hussars; it is my duty to obey you.” “Okay,” answered Ivan Petrovich, “I see that you are an obedient son; this is comforting to me; I don’t want to force you either; I don’t force you to join. .. immediately... to the civil service; in the meantime, I intend to marry you." “Who is it, father?” asked the amazed Alexey. “To Lizaveta Grigorievna of Muromskaya,” answered Ivan Petrovich; “the bride is anywhere; isn’t it true?” “Father, I I’m not thinking about marriage yet. - You don’t think so, I thought for you and changed my mind. - Your will, I don’t like Liza of Muromskaya at all. - Afterwards I’ll like it. She’ll endure it, she’ll fall in love. - I don’t feel capable of doing it happiness. - Not your grief - her happiness. What? Is this how you honor your parents’ will? Good! - As you wish, I don’t want to get married and won’t get married. - You get married, or I’ll curse you, but the estate "How holy is God! I'll sell it and squander it, and I won't leave you half a dime! I'll give you three days to think about it, but in the meantime, don't you dare show your face to me. Alexei knew that if his father took anything into his head, it would be that, as Taras put it. Skotinin, you couldn't knock him out with a nail; but Alexey was like a priest, and it was just as difficult to argue with him. He went into his room and began to think about the limits of his parents' power, about Lizaveta Grigorievna, about his father's solemn promise to make him a beggar, and finally about Akulina. For the first time he saw clearly that he was passionately in love with her; The romantic idea of ​​marrying a peasant woman and living by his own labors came into his head, and the more he thought about this decisive action, the more prudence he found in it. For some time, meetings in the grove were stopped due to rainy weather. He wrote a letter to Akulina in the clearest handwriting and the wildest style, announcing to her the death that threatened them, and immediately offering her his hand. He immediately took the letter to the post office, to the hollow, and went to bed quite pleased with himself. The next day, Alexey, firm in his intention, went to Muromsky early in the morning in order to frankly explain himself to him. He hoped to incite his generosity and win him over to his side. “Is Grigory Ivanovich at home?” - he asked, stopping his horse in front of the porch of the Priluchinsky castle. “No way,” answered the servant, “Grigory Ivanovich deigned to leave in the morning.” - “How annoying!” - thought Alexey. “Is Lizaveta Grigorievna at home at least?” - “At home, sir.” And Alexey jumped off the horse, gave the reins into the hands of the footman and went without a report. “Everything will be decided,” he thought, approaching the living room, “I’ll explain it to her myself.” - He came in... and was dumbfounded! Liza... no Akulina, sweet dark Akulina, not in a sundress, but in a white morning dress, sat in front of the window and read his letter; She was so busy that she didn’t hear him enter. Alexey could not resist a joyful exclamation. Lisa shuddered, raised her head, screamed and wanted to run away. He rushed to hold her. “Akulina, Akulina!..” Lisa tried to free herself from him... “Mais laissez-moi donc, monsieur; mais Étes-vous fou?” 7) - she repeated, turning away. "Akulina! my friend, Akulina!" - he repeated, kissing her hands. Miss Jackson, witnessing this scene, did not know what to think. At that moment the door opened and Grigory Ivanovich entered. - Yeah! - said Muromsky, - yes, it seems that the matter is already completely coordinated... Readers will save me from the unnecessary obligation to describe the denouement.

THE END OF I. P. BELKIN’S STORIES

Notes

(S. M. Petrov )

Stories of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin

"Belkin's Tales" were written by Pushkin in the fall of 1830 in Boldin. Pushkin noted the end time of work in his autograph. The earliest of the stories, "The Undertaker", has a manuscript date of September 9; "The Station Agent" - September 14, "The Young Lady-Peasant" - September 20, "The Shot" - October 14, "Blizzard" - October 20. December ninth Pushkin “very secretly” informed P. A. Pletnev that he had written “five stories in prose, from which Baratynsky laughs and fights.” In April 1831, the poet read stories in Moscow to M. P. Pogodin. Pushkin decided to publish the stories anonymously. To the cycle of these stories he added a preface “From the Publisher,” containing a biography of I.P. Belkin. Before sending the stories to print, Pushkin changed the original order of their arrangement: “Shot” and “Blizzard” moved to the beginning of the collection. The epigraph to the entire cycle is taken from Fonvizin’s “Undergrowth” (1781). Pletnev was in charge of publishing the stories. In a letter to him (around August 15, 1831), Pushkin asked: “Whisper my name to Smirdin so that he whispers to the buyers.” At the end of October 1831, the stories were published under the title “Tales of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin, published by A.P.”. With the full name of the author, "Belkin's Tales" were published in 1834 in the book "Tales Published by Alexander Pushkin."

SHOT

(Page 45)

“The Shot” uses an episode of Pushkin’s duel with officer Zubov in Chisinau in June 1822. Pushkin showed up to the duel with Zubov with cherries and ate them for breakfast while he was shooting. Zubov shot first and missed. Pushkin did not fire his shot, but left without reconciling with his opponent. The epigraphs are taken from E. Baratynsky's poem "The Ball" (1828) and from A. Bestuzhev-Marlinsky's story "Evening at the Bivouac" (1822). Burtsov Alexander Petrovich (died in 1813) - hussar officer, friend of the poet D.V. Davydov; according to a contemporary, “the greatest reveler and the most desperate drunkard of all the hussar lieutenants.” Etherists- members of heterias, secret societies in Greece, whose main goal was the fight against the Turkish yoke. Battle of Skulany- happened on June 17, 1821 (see the story "Kirdzhali") during the Greek national liberation movement against Turkish rule. 1) police hat (French). 2) Honeymoon (English).

BLIZZARD

(Page 63)

The epigraph is taken from V. A. Zhukovsky’s ballad “Svetlana” (1813). Artemisa- the widow of the Halicarnassian king Mausolus (IV century BC), was considered an example of a faithful wife, inconsolable in her widowhood. She erected a tombstone for her husband - a “mausoleum”. Vive Henri-Quatre- couplets from the comedy of the French playwright Charles Collet “The Hunting Departure of Henry IV” (1764). ...arias from La Gioconde- from the comic opera “La Joconde, or the Adventurer” by Nicolo Izouard, which was successfully performed in Paris in 1814, when Russian troops were there. "Se amor non X che dunque?.."-- verse from Petrarch's 88th sonnet. ...first letter to St.-Preux-- from the novel in letters "Julia, or the New Heloise" (1761) by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. 1) Long live Henry the fourth (French) 2) If this is not love, then what?.. (Italian) 3) Saint Preux (French).

UNDERTAKER

(Page 77)

The prototype of the hero of the story was the undertaker Adrian, who lived not far from the Goncharovs’ house in Moscow (now Herzen St., 50). The Church of the Ascension mentioned in the story is located at the Nikitsky Gate. The epigraph is taken from G. R. Derzhavin’s poem “Waterfall” (1794). ...Shakespeare and Walter Scott both presented their gravediggers as cheerful people...-- Pushkin is referring to the images of undertakers in Shakespeare's Hamlet and in Walter Scott's novel The Bride of Lamermoor (1819). ...postman Pogorelsky- a character from A. Pogorelsky's story "Lafertovskaya Poppy" (1825). "With an ax and in homespun armor"- verse from the fairy tale by A. Izmailov (1779--1831) “Fool Pakhomovna.” "It seemed to be bound in red morocco"- a slightly modified verse from Ya. Knyazhnin’s comedy “The Braggart” (1786). 1) our clients (German).

(Page 86)

The epigraph was a verse slightly modified by Pushkin from P. A. Vyazemsky’s poem “Station” (1825). Collegiate Registrar- the lowest civilian rank. ...traveled on crossroads- that is, changing horses, changing at each station. Runs- travel money. ...in Dmitriev's beautiful ballad- in the poem by I. I. Dmitriev “Retired sergeant (Caricature)” (1791).

PEASANT GIRL

(Page 98)

The epigraph is taken from the second book of I. F. Bogdanovich’s poem “Darling” (1775). ...retired early in 1797.- that is, after the accession of Paul I, who persecuted the officers of Catherine’s guard that he hated. “But Russian bread will not be born in someone else’s style”- verse from “Satire” by A. Shakhovsky (“Moliere! your gift, incomparable with anyone else in the world”) (1808). ...letting his mustache grow just in case.- For military personnel, wearing a mustache was then mandatory. Jean Paul-- pseudonym of the German writer Johann-Paul Richter (1763--1825). ...I re-read Pamela twice a year...- novel by the English writer Richardson “Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded” (1741). Madame de Pompadour- favorite of King Louis XV. Lancastrian system-- the then-used method of mutual teaching, developed by the English teacher Lancaster (1771-1838). "Natalia, boyar's daughter"- story by N. M. Karamzin (1792). 1) individuality (French). 2) our remark remains valid (lat.). 3) Tubo, Sbogar, here... (French). 4) My dear (English). 5) “foolishly” (narrow sleeve style with puffs at the shoulder) (French). 6) Madame de Pompadour (French). 7) Leave me alone, sir; are you crazy? (French).

FROM EARLIER EDITIONS

BELKIN'S STORIES

FROM THE PUBLISHER

Original edition of the preface

I am heartily glad that the manuscript, which I had the honor to forward to you, seemed worthy of some attention to you. I hasten to fulfill your will, delivering to you all the information that I could obtain regarding my late friend. Pyotr Ivanovich D. - was born in Moscow in 1801 from honest and noble parents. Being a baby, he lost his father, Iv. P.D., collegiate assessor and gentleman. P.I. was brought up in the second cadet corps, where, despite his extremely poor health and weak memory, he made quite significant progress in the sciences. His diligence good behavior, modesty and kindness earned him the love of his mentors and the respect of his comrades. In 1818, he was released as an officer into the Selenga Infantry Regiment, in which he served until 1822. At that time, he lost his mother, and poor health forced him to resign. He settled in New. district, in the village of Goryukhin, where he spent the rest of his short life. Being his guardian, I wanted to hand over his estate to him legally, but P.I., due to natural carelessness, could never decide to review the account books, plans, papers that I presented to him. I forcefully persuaded him to believe at least the expenditure and income of the last two years, but he was content with reviewing some results, according to which he noticed that the number of chickens, geese, calves and other poultry had almost doubled thanks to good supervision, although, unfortunately, the number of men decreased significantly due to the widespread disease that raged in our region. Anticipating that the carelessness of his character would not allow him to engage in housekeeping, I offered him the continuation of my management, to which he did not agree, ashamed to impose unnecessary troubles on me. I advised him to at least let the peasants pay rent and thereby free himself from all economic worries. My assumption was approved by him, but he did not carry it out due to lack of leisure. Meanwhile, the economy stopped, the peasants did not pay quitrents and stopped going to corvée, so that in the entire region there was no landowner who was more beloved and received less income.

Variants of one of the subsequent editions of the preface

Page 46. ​​After the words “to the village of Goryukhino, my homeland”: The description of his arrival, which I gleaned from his manuscript, which he gave me as a gift, in the belief that you will be curious about it, is attached here. (Here is a rather long excerpt from a lengthy manuscript that we have now acquired and which we hope to publish if these stories are favorably received by the public.) Page 47. After the words “they didn’t resemble each other”: To prove this, I will give an example. Before dinner, no matter what the weather, inspecting the fields and work, or hunting or just walking, I usually ride a horse, which is extremely beneficial and even necessary for my health. P.I., not having the habit of riding, was afraid for a long time to follow my example, and finally decided to demand a horse. I ordered him to saddle the quietest of all my stables - and rode at a walk, because the trot might seem to him, out of habit, too dangerous and restless riding, besides, his horse had long been unaccustomed to it. P.I. sat quite cheerfully and was already beginning to adapt to the movement of the horse - just as I, having approached the barn where they were threshing, stopped. Following my example, the horse became P.I. But from a sudden shock he lost his balance, fell and broke his arm. This misfortune and laughter, from which I could not refrain, did not prevent him from continuing to accompany me on my walks, and subsequently he acquired some skill in horseback riding, in this exercise as useful as it is noble.

White autograph options 1)

Page 71. After the words “it was surrounded by seekers”: Among the new ones, two seemed to be challenging each other for primacy, removing all other rivals. One of them was the son of the district leader, the same little uhlan who once swore eternal friendship to our poor Vladimir, but now a laughing man, overgrown with a mustache and sideburns and looking like a real Hercules. The other was a wounded hussar colonel, about 26 years old, with George in his buttonhole and with an interesting pallor (as the young ladies there said). Page 71. After a quote from Petrarch: It is also true that the Uhlan Hercules seemed to have special power over her: they were shorter and more frank with each other. But all this (at least on her part) seemed more like friendship than love. It was even noticeable that the young uhlan’s red tape sometimes annoyed her, and his jokes were rarely received favorably by her. The wounded hussar made less noise and laughed, but it seems he was much more successful.

UNDERTAKER

Page 82. After the words “I spent the whole day driving from Razgulay to the Nikitsky Gate and back” in the manuscript: By the evening I had everything sorted out and arrived home too late. There was no fire in the little room; his daughters had been asleep for a long time. He knocked at the gate for a long time until the sleepy janitor heard him. Adrian scolded him as usual and sent him away sleep, but in the entryway the undertaker stopped: it seemed to him that people were walking from room to room. "The thieves!" - was the undertaker's first thought; He was not a coward, his first move was to enter as quickly as possible. But then his legs gave way, and he was dumbfounded with horror.

STATION GUARD

Page 88. After the words “to the last thread”: Arriving at the station, my first concern was to quickly change clothes, the second was to go as quickly as possible. “There are no horses,” the caretaker told me and handed me a book to justify his words. "How come there are no horses?" - shouted with partly feigned anger (“From the notes of a young man”) 1). Page 88. After the words “... all dead mother”: Then my old coachman (i.e., the twenty-year-old coachman who brought me; but on the high road they grow old at post offices) with a demand for vodka; at that time people did not flash for tea. But enlightenment, having made gigantic strides in the last decade... 2) Page. 89. After the words “such a long, such a pleasant memory” in the manuscript: And now, when I think about him, I seem to see her languid eyes, her suddenly disappeared smile, I seem to feel the warmth of her breath and the fresh imprint of her lips. The reader knows that there are several types of love: sensual love, platonic love, love out of vanity, love of a fifteen-year-old heart, etc., but of all, road love is the most pleasant. Having fallen in love at one station, you insensitively get to another, and sometimes to a third. There is nothing like shortening the road, and the imagination, undisturbed by anything, fully enjoys its dreams. Sorrowless love, carefree love! It occupies us vividly, without tiring our hearts, and fades away in the first city tavern.

Initial outline of the story

Discussion about caretakers. - In general, people are unhappy and kind. My friend is the caretaker of widows. Daughter. This road has been destroyed. I recently went along it. I couldn't find my daughter. Daughter's story. The clerk's love for her. The clerk follows her to P.B. and sees her on a walk. Returning, he finds his father dead. The daughter arrives. The grave is outside the outskirts. I'm driving away. The clerk died. The coachman tells me about his daughter. 1) The note in brackets indicates that what was to follow was an excerpt from the previously written “Notes of a Young Man”; see page 496. 2) This place in the manuscript is unfinished.

PEASANT GIRL

Page 104. After the words “and by evening everything was ready”: Nastya took measurements of Liza’s legs and ran into the field to see Trofim the shepherd. “Grandfather,” she said to him, “can you weave me a pair of bast shoes according to this measurement?” “If you please,” answered the old man, “I’ll tell you something that’s sweet, dear... but who, mother, needs children’s bast shoes?” “It’s none of your business,” answered Nastya, “just don’t bother with work.” The shepherd promised to bring them by tomorrow morning, and Nastya ran away, singing her favorite song: Captain's daughter, Don't go for a walk at midnight 1) . Page 109. Instead of the phrase from the words “Besides, her pride” to the words “daughter of the Priluchinsky blacksmith”: Moreover, they were so happy with their position that they did not want any change. Meanwhile, autumn has arrived and with it bad weather. Dates became less frequent, the weather constantly upset them. The young people grumbled, but there was nothing to do. Page 117. After the words “very pleased with himself”: The next day he woke up, sobered up from yesterday’s storm. He changed his mind; go to B** 2) , to speak openly with him and then with common strength to persuade the irritated old man seemed better to him. He ordered the horse to be saddled and set off to see his neighbor; he drove into the grove on the way to take the letter back, but it was no longer in the hollow; Nastya, who was filling the position of postman under Lisa, warned him. Alexey was little worried about this, because the idea of ​​marrying Akulina did not seem stupid to him, and he was glad to talk about it with her. 1) Initially: “In the evening I blush.” 2) This is how Muromsky’s surname was originally designated.

A.S. Pushkin
Complete works with criticism
STATION GUARD
Collegiate registrar, Postal station dictator
Prince Vyazemsky.
Who hasn’t cursed the stationmasters, who hasn’t sworn at them? Who, in a moment of anger, did not demand from them a fatal book in order to write into it his useless complaint about oppression, rudeness and malfunction? Who doesn’t consider them monsters of the human race, equal to the late clerks or, at least, the Murom robbers? Let us, however, be fair, we will try to put ourselves in their position, and perhaps we will begin to judge them much more leniently. What is a stationmaster? A real martyr of the fourteenth grade, protected by his rank only from beatings, and even then not always (I refer to the conscience of my readers). What is the position of this dictator, as Prince Vyazemsky jokingly calls him? Isn't this real hard labor? I have peace neither day nor night. The traveler takes out all the frustration accumulated during a boring ride on the caretaker. The weather is unbearable, the road is bad, the driver is stubborn, the horses are not moving - and the caretaker is to blame. Entering his poor home, a passer-by looks at him as if he were an enemy; it would be good if he managed to get rid of the uninvited guest soon; but if the horses don’t happen?.. God! what curses, what threats will rain down on his head! In the rain and slush, he is forced to run around the yards; in a storm, in the Epiphany frost, he goes into the entryway, just to rest for a minute from the screams and pushes of an irritated guest. The general arrives; the trembling caretaker gives him the last two threes, including the courier one. The general leaves without saying thank you. Five minutes later - the bell rings!... and the huntsman throws his travel bag on his table!.. Let's look into all this carefully, and instead of indignation, our hearts will be filled with sincere compassion. A few more words: for twenty years in a row, I traveled Russia in all directions; I know almost all postal routes; I know several generations of coachmen; I don’t know a rare caretaker by sight, I haven’t dealt with a rare one; I hope to publish a curious stock of my travel observations in a short time; For now I will only say that the class of stationmasters is presented to the general opinion in the most false form. These much-maligned caretakers are generally peaceful people, naturally helpful, inclined towards community, modest in their claims to honor and not too money-loving. From their conversations (which are inappropriately neglected by gentlemen passing by) one can glean a lot of interesting and instructive things. As for me, I confess that I prefer their conversation to the speeches of some 6th class official traveling on official business. You can easily guess that I have friends from the venerable class of caretakers. Indeed, the memory of one of them is precious to me. Circumstances once brought us closer together, and this is what I now intend to talk about with my dear readers. In 1816, in the month of May, I happened to be driving through the *** province, along a highway that has now been destroyed. I was in a minor rank, rode on carriages, and paid fees for two horses. As a result of this, the caretakers did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often took in battle what, in my opinion, was rightfully due me. Being young and hot-tempered, I was indignant at the baseness and cowardice of the caretaker when this latter gave the troika he had prepared for me under the carriage of the official master. It took me just as long to get used to having a picky servant hand me a dish at the governor’s dinner. Nowadays both seem to me to be in the order of things. In fact, what would happen to us if, instead of the generally convenient rule: honor the rank of rank, something else was introduced into use, for example: honor the mind of the mind? What controversy would arise! and who would the servants start serving the food with? But I turn to my story. The day was hot. Three miles from the station it began to drizzle, and a minute later the pouring rain soaked me to the last thread. Upon arrival at the station, the first concern was to quickly change clothes, the second was to ask myself some tea. "Hey Dunya!" the caretaker shouted, “put on the samovar and go get some cream.” At these words, a girl of about fourteen came out from behind the partition and ran into the hallway. Her beauty amazed me. "Is this your daughter?" I asked the caretaker. “Daughter, sir,” he answered with an air of satisfied pride; “Yes, so intelligent, so agile, like a dead mother.” Then he began to copy out my travel document, and I began to look at the pictures that decorated his humble but neat abode. They depicted the story of the prodigal son: in the first, a respectable old man in a cap and dressing gown releases a restless young man, who hastily accepts his blessing and a bag of money. Another vividly depicts the depraved behavior of a young man: he sits at a table, surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Further, a squandered young man, in rags and a three-cornered hat, tends pigs and shares a meal with them; his face shows deep sadness and remorse. Finally, his return to his father is presented; a kind old man in the same cap and dressing gown runs out to meet him: the prodigal son is on his knees; in the future, the cook kills a well-fed calf, and the elder brother asks the servants about the reason for such joy. Under each picture I read decent German poetry. All this has been preserved in my memory to this day, as well as pots with balsam and a bed with a colorful curtain, and other objects that surrounded me at that time. I see, as now, the owner himself, a man of about fifty, fresh and cheerful, and his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons. Before I had time to pay my old coachman, Dunya returned with a samovar. The little coquette noticed at second glance the impression she made on me; she lowered her big blue eyes; I began to talk to her, she answered me without any timidity, like a girl who has seen the light. I offered my father her glass of punch; I served Duna a cup of tea, and the three of us began talking as if we had known each other for centuries. The horses were ready a long time ago, but I still didn’t want to part with the caretaker and his daughter. Finally I said goodbye to them; my father wished me a good journey, and my daughter accompanied me to the cart. In the entryway I stopped and asked her permission to kiss her; Dunya agreed... I can count many kisses since I’ve been doing this, but not one has left such a long, such a pleasant memory in me. Several years passed, and circumstances led me to that very road, to those very places. I remembered the old caretaker's daughter and rejoiced at the thought that I would see her again. But, I thought, the old caretaker may have already been replaced; Dunya is probably already married. The thought of the death of one or the other also flashed through my mind, and I approached the *** station with a sad premonition. The horses stopped at the post house. Entering the room, I immediately recognized the pictures depicting the story of the prodigal son; the table and bed were in the same places; but there were no more flowers on the windows, and everything around showed disrepair and neglect. The caretaker slept under a sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him up; he stood up... It was definitely Samson Vyrin; but how he has aged! While he was getting ready to rewrite my travel document, I looked at his gray hair, at the deep wrinkles of his long-unshaven face, at his hunched back - and could not marvel at how three or four years could turn a vigorous man into a frail old man. "Did you recognize me?" I asked him; "You and I are old friends." “It may happen,” he answered gloomily; “The road here is big; I’ve had a lot of travelers pass by.” - “Is your Dunya healthy?” I continued. The old man frowned. “God knows,” he answered. - “So apparently she’s married?” I said. The old man pretended not to hear my question and continued to read my travel document in a whisper. I stopped my questions and ordered the kettle to be put on. Curiosity began to bother me, and I hoped that the punch would resolve the language of my old acquaintance. I was not mistaken: the old man did not refuse the offered glass. I noticed that the rum cleared up his sullenness. By the second glass he became talkative; remembered or pretended to remember me, and I learned from him a story that at that time greatly interested and touched me. "So you knew my Dunya?" he began. “Who didn’t know her? Oh, Dunya, Dunya! What a girl she was! It used to be that whoever passed by, everyone would praise her, no one would judge her. The ladies gave her gifts, sometimes with a scarf, sometimes with earrings. Gentlemen passing by deliberately stopped, as if to have lunch or dinner, but really just to look at her a little longer. Sometimes the master, no matter how angry he was, would calm down in front of her and talk graciously to me. Believe it, sir: couriers, feld-jaegers would talk to her for half an hour She kept the house going: what to clean, what to cook, she had time for everything. And I, an old fool, couldn’t see enough, sometimes I couldn’t be happier; didn’t I love my Dunya, didn’t I cherish my child; was there life? No, you can’t get away from trouble; what’s destined cannot be avoided.” Then he began to tell me in detail his grief. - Three years ago, one winter evening, when the caretaker was lining a new book, and his daughter was sewing a dress for herself behind the partition, a troika drove up, and a traveler in a Circassian hat, in a military overcoat, wrapped in a shawl, entered the room, demanding horses. The horses were all in full speed. At this news the traveler raised his voice and his whip; but Dunya, accustomed to such scenes, ran out from behind the partition and affectionately turned to the traveler with the question: would he like to have something to eat? Dunya's appearance had its usual effect. The passerby's anger passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered himself dinner. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, unraveling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache. He settled down with the caretaker and began to talk cheerfully with him and his daughter. They served dinner. Meanwhile, the horses arrived, and the caretaker ordered that they immediately, without feeding, be harnessed to the traveler’s wagon; but when he returned, he found a young man almost unconscious lying on a bench: he felt sick, his head ached, it was impossible to go... What to do! the caretaker gave him his bed, and it was supposed, if the patient did not feel better, to send to S*** for a doctor the next morning. The next day the hussar became worse. His man went on horseback to the city to get a doctor. Dunya tied a scarf soaked in vinegar around his head and sat down with her sewing by his bed. The patient groaned in front of the caretaker and did not say almost a word, but he drank two cups of coffee and, groaning, ordered himself lunch. Dunya did not leave his side. He constantly asked for a drink, and Dunya brought him a mug of lemonade she had prepared. The patient wet his lips, and each time he returned the mug, as a sign of gratitude, he shook Dunyushka’s hand with his weak hand. The doctor arrived at lunchtime. He felt the patient’s pulse, spoke to him in German, and in Russian announced that he needed only peace of mind, and that in two days he would be able to hit the road. The hussar gave him twenty-five rubles for the visit and invited him to dinner; the doctor agreed; They both ate with great appetite, drank a bottle of wine and parted very pleased with each other. Another day passed, and the hussar completely recovered. He was extremely cheerful, joked incessantly, first with Dunya, then with the caretaker; he whistled songs, talked with passers-by, wrote down their travel information in the postal book, and became so fond of the kind caretaker that on the third morning he was sorry to part with his kind guest. The day was Sunday; Dunya was getting ready for mass. The hussar was given a wagon. He said goodbye to the caretaker, generously rewarding him for his stay and refreshments; He said goodbye to Dunya and volunteered to take her to the church, which was located on the edge of the village. Dunya stood in bewilderment... “What are you afraid of?” her father told her; “After all, his nobility is not a wolf and will not eat you: take a ride to the church.” Dunya sat down in the wagon next to the hussar, the servant jumped onto the handle, the coachman whistled and the horses galloped off. The poor caretaker did not understand how he could allow his Duna to ride with the hussar, how blindness came over him, and what happened to his mind then. Less than half an hour had passed when his heart began to ache and ache, and anxiety took possession of him to such an extent that he could not stand it and went to mass himself. Approaching the church, he saw that the people were already leaving, but Dunya was neither in the fence nor on the porch. He hurriedly entered the church; the priest came out of the altar; the sexton was extinguishing the candles, two old women were still praying in the corner; but Dunya was not in the church. The poor father decided to forcefully ask the sexton whether she had attended mass. The sexton replied that she had not been. The caretaker went home neither alive nor dead. There was only one hope left to him: Dunya, in the frivolity of her young years, perhaps decided to take a ride to the next station, where her godmother lived. In painful anxiety he awaited the return of the troika on which he had let her go. The coachman did not return. Finally, in the evening, he arrived alone and drunk, with the murderous news: “Dunya went on from that station with the hussar.” The old man could not bear his misfortune; he immediately went to bed in the same bed where the young deceiver had lain the day before. Now the caretaker, considering all the circumstances, guessed that the illness was feigned. The poor man fell ill with a severe fever; he was taken to S*** and someone else was assigned to his place for the time being. The same doctor who came to the hussar also treated him. He assured the caretaker that the young man was completely healthy, and that at that time he still guessed about his evil intention, but remained silent, fearing his whip. Whether the German was telling the truth or just wanting to boast of his foresight, he did not console the poor patient in the least. Having barely recovered from his illness, the caretaker asked S*** the postmaster for leave for two months, and without telling anyone a word about his intention, he set off on foot to fetch his daughter. From the road station he knew that Captain Minsky was traveling from Smolensk to St. Petersburg. The driver who was driving him said that Dunya cried all the way, although it seemed that she was driving of her own accord. “Perhaps,” thought the caretaker, “I’ll bring my lost sheep home.” With this thought in mind, he arrived in St. Petersburg, stopped at the Izmailovsky regiment, in the house of a retired non-commissioned officer, his old colleague, and began his search. He soon learned that Captain Minsky was in St. Petersburg and was living in a tavern in Demut. The caretaker decided to come to him. Early in the morning he came to his hallway and asked him to report to his honor that the old soldier was asking to see him. The military footman, cleaning his boot on the last, announced that the master was resting and that he would not receive anyone before eleven o’clock. The caretaker left and returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him in a dressing gown and a red skufia. "What do you want, brother?" he asked him. The old man’s heart began to boil, tears welled up in his eyes, and in a trembling voice he said only: “Your Honor!.. do such a divine favor!..” Minsky looked at him quickly, flushed, took him by the hand, led him into the office and locked him behind you is the door. "Your Honor!" continued the old man, “whatever fell from the cart is lost; at least give me my poor Dunya. After all, you have had fun with her; don’t destroy her in vain.” “What’s done cannot be undone,” said the young man in extreme confusion; “I’m guilty of you, and I’m glad to ask you for forgiveness; but don’t think that I could leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you need it? She loves Me; she was unaccustomed to her previous state. Neither you nor she, you will forget what happened." Then, thrusting something down his sleeve, he opened the door, and the caretaker, without remembering how, found himself on the street. He stood motionless for a long time, and finally saw him behind the cuff a bundle of papers from his sleeve; he took them out and unfolded several crumpled five- and ten-ruble banknotes. Tears welled up in his eyes again, tears of indignation! He squeezed the papers into a ball, threw them on the ground, stamped them with his heel, and walked away... Having walked away a few steps, he stopped, thought... and turned back... but the banknotes were no longer there. A well-dressed young man, seeing him, ran up to the cab driver, sat down hastily and shouted: “Let's go!..” The caretaker did not chase him. He decided to go home to his station, but first he wanted to see his poor Dunya at least once again. For this, two days later, he returned to Minsky; but the military footman told him sternly that the master did not accept anyone, pushed him out of the hall with his chest, and slammed the doors under his nose. The caretaker stood, stood, and then went. That very day, in the evening, he walked along Liteinaya, having served a prayer service for All Who Sorrow. Suddenly a smart droshky raced in front of him, and the caretaker recognized Minsky. The droshky stopped in front of a three-story house, right at the entrance, and the hussar ran onto the porch. A happy thought flashed through the mind of the caretaker. He returned, and when he came level with the coachman: “Whose horse, brother?” he asked, “Isn’t it Minsky?” - “Exactly so,” answered the coachman, “what do you want?” - “Well, here’s the thing: your master ordered me to take a note to his Dunya, and I’ll forget where his Dunya lives.” - “Yes, right here, on the second floor. You were late, brother, with your note; now he’s with her.” “There’s no need,” the caretaker objected with an inexplicable movement of his heart, “thank you for the advice, and I’ll do my job.” And with that word he walked up the stairs. The doors were locked; he called, a few seconds passed; in painful anticipation. The key rattled and it was opened for him. “Is Avdotya Samsonovna standing here?” he asked. “Here,” answered the young maid; "What do you need it for?" The caretaker, without answering, entered the hall. "Don't get in, don't get in!" the maid shouted after him: “Avdotya Samsonovna has guests.” But the caretaker, without listening, moved on. The first two rooms were dark, the third was on fire. He walked up to the open door and stopped. In the beautifully decorated room, Minsky sat thoughtfully. Dunya, dressed in all the luxury of fashion, sat on the arm of his chair, like a rider on her English saddle. She looked at Minsky with tenderness, wrapping his black curls around her sparkling fingers. Poor caretaker! Never had his daughter seemed so beautiful to him; he admired her involuntarily. "Who's there?" she asked without raising her head. He was completely silent. Receiving no answer, Dunya raised her head... and fell onto the carpet screaming. Frightened Minsky rushed to pick her up, and suddenly seeing the old caretaker at the door, he left Dunya and approached him, trembling with anger. "What do you want?" he told him, gritting his teeth; “Why are you following me around like a robber? Or do you want to kill me? Get out!” and with a strong hand he grabbed the old man by the collar and pushed him onto the stairs. The old man came to his apartment. His friend advised him to complain; but the caretaker thought, waved his hand and decided to retreat. Two days later he set out from St. Petersburg back to his station and again took up his post. “For the third year now,” he concluded, how I have lived without Dunya, and how there is neither a word nor a breath of her. Whether she is alive or not, God knows. Anything can happen. It was not her first, nor her last, who was lured away by a passing rake, and he held it there and abandoned it. There are a lot of them in St. Petersburg, young fools, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow, you’ll see, sweeping the street along with the tavern’s nakedness. Just as you sometimes think that Dunya, perhaps, is disappearing right away, so You will inevitably sin, but you will wish for her grave...” This was the story of my friend, the old caretaker, the story was repeatedly interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with his hollow, like the zealous Terentyich in Dmitriev’s beautiful ballad. These tears were partly aroused by the punch, of which he drew five glasses in the continuation of his story; but be that as it may, they touched my heart greatly. Having parted with him, I could not forget the old caretaker for a long time, I thought for a long time about poor Duna... Recently, driving through the town of ***, I remembered my friend; I learned that the station over which he commanded had already been destroyed. To my question: “Is the old caretaker alive?” no one could give me a satisfactory answer. I decided to visit a familiar side, took free horses and set off for the village of N. This happened in the fall. Gray clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew from the reaped fields, blowing red and yellow leaves from the trees they encountered. I arrived in the village at sunset and stopped at the post office. In the entryway (where poor Dunya once kissed me) a fat woman came out and answered my questions that the old caretaker had died a year ago, that a brewer had settled in his house, and that she was the brewer’s wife. I felt sorry for my wasted trip and the seven rubles spent for nothing. "Why did he die?" I asked the brewer's wife. “I got drunk, father,” she answered. - “Where was he buried?” - “Outside the outskirts, near his late mistress.” - “Isn’t it possible to take me to his grave?” - “Why can’t it be. Hey, Vanka! You’ve had enough of messing around with the cat. Take the master to the cemetery and show him the caretaker’s grave.” At these words, a ragged boy, red-haired and crooked, ran out to me and immediately led me beyond the outskirts. - “Did you know the dead man?” I asked him dear. - “How could you not know! He taught me how to cut out pipes. It used to be (may he rest in heaven!) He would come out of the tavern, and we would follow him: “Grandfather, grandfather! nuts!" - and he gives us nuts. - He used to tinker with us." “Do passers-by remember him?” “But there are not many people passing by; the assessor will turn around, but he has no time for the dead. A lady passed by in the summer, so she asked about the old caretaker and went to his grave.” “Which lady?” I asked curiously. “Beautiful lady,” answered the boy; “She was riding in a carriage of six horses, with three little barchats and a nurse, and a black pug; and when she was told that the old caretaker had died, she began to cry and said to the children: “Sit still, and I’ll go to the cemetery.” And I volunteered to take her. And the lady said: “I know the way myself.” And such a kind lady gave me a nickel in silver!.." We came to the cemetery, a bare place, unfenced, dotted with wooden crosses, not shaded by a single tree. I have never seen such a sad cemetery in my life. “Here is the grave of the old caretaker,” he told me. a boy jumped onto a pile of sand into which was buried a black cross with a copper image. "And the lady came here?" I asked. “She came,” answered Vanka; “I looked at her from afar. She lay down here and lay there for a long time. And there the lady went to the village and called the priest, gave him money and went, and she gave me a silver nickel - a nice lady!” And I gave the boy a penny, and no longer regretted either the trip or the seven rubles I spent.

Stationmaster (original)

(quoted from www.rvb.ru)

Collegiate Registrar

Postal station dictator.

Prince Vyazemsky.

Who hasn’t cursed the stationmasters, who hasn’t sworn at them? Who, in a moment of anger, did not demand from them a fatal book in order to write into it his useless complaint about oppression, rudeness and malfunction? Who does not consider them monsters of the human race, equal to the late clerks or at least the Murom robbers? Let us, however, be fair, we will try to put ourselves in their position and, perhaps, we will begin to judge them much more leniently. What is a stationmaster? A real martyr of the fourteenth grade, protected by his rank only from beatings, and even then not always (I refer to the conscience of my readers). What is the position of this dictator, as Prince Vyazemsky jokingly calls him? Isn't this real hard labor? I have peace neither day nor night. The traveler takes out all the frustration accumulated during a boring ride on the caretaker. The weather is unbearable, the road is bad, the driver is stubborn, the horses are not moving - and the caretaker is to blame. Entering his poor home, a traveler looks at him as if he were an enemy; it would be good if he managed to get rid of the uninvited guest soon; but if the horses don’t happen?.. God! What curses, what threats will rain down on his head! In the rain and slush, he is forced to run around the yards; in a storm, in the Epiphany frost, he goes into the entryway, just to rest for a minute from the screams and pushes of an irritated guest. The general arrives; the trembling caretaker gives him the last two threes, including the courier one. The general leaves without saying thank you. Five minutes later - the bell rings!.. and the courier throws his travel document on his table!.. Let's look into all this thoroughly, and instead of indignation, our hearts will be filled with sincere compassion. A few more words: for twenty years in a row I traveled across Russia in all directions; I know almost all postal routes; I know several generations of coachmen; I don’t know a rare caretaker by sight, I haven’t dealt with a rare one; I hope to publish a curious stock of my travel observations in a short time; For now I will only say that the class of stationmasters is presented to the general opinion in the most false form. These much-maligned caretakers are generally peaceful people, naturally helpful, inclined towards community, modest in their claims to honor and not too money-loving. From their conversations (which are inappropriately neglected by gentlemen passing by) one can glean a lot of interesting and instructive things. As for me, I confess that I prefer their conversation to the speeches of some 6th class official traveling on official business.

You can easily guess that I have friends from the venerable class of caretakers. Indeed, the memory of one of them is precious to me. Circumstances once brought us closer together, and this is what I now intend to talk about with my dear readers.

In 1816, in the month of May, I happened to be driving through the *** province, along a highway that has now been destroyed. I was in a minor rank, rode on carriages and paid fees for two horses. As a result of this, the caretakers did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often took in battle what, in my opinion, was rightfully due me. Being young and hot-tempered, I was indignant at the baseness and cowardice of the caretaker when this latter gave the troika he had prepared for me under the carriage of the official master. It took me just as long to get used to having a picky servant hand me a dish at the governor’s dinner. Nowadays both seem to me to be in the order of things. In fact, what would happen to us if instead of the generally convenient rule: honor the rank of rank, Another thing came into use, for example: honor your mind? What controversy would arise! and who would the servants start serving the food with? But I turn to my story.

The day was hot. Three miles from the station*** it began to drizzle, and a minute later the pouring rain soaked me to the last thread. Upon arrival at the station, the first concern was to quickly change clothes, the second was to ask myself some tea. “Hey, Dunya! - the caretaker shouted, “put on the samovar and go get some cream.” At these words, a girl of about fourteen came out from behind the partition and ran into the hallway. Her beauty amazed me. “Is this your daughter?” - I asked the caretaker. “My daughter, sir,” he answered with an air of satisfied pride, “she’s so intelligent, so nimble, she looks like a dead mother.” Then he began to copy out my travel document, and I began to look at the pictures that decorated his humble but neat abode. They depicted the story of the prodigal son: in the first, a respectable old man in a cap and dressing gown releases a restless young man, who hastily accepts his blessing and a bag of money. Another vividly depicts the depraved behavior of a young man: he sits at a table, surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Further, a squandered young man, in rags and a three-cornered hat, tends pigs and shares a meal with them; his face shows deep sadness and remorse. Finally, his return to his father is presented; a kind old man in the same cap and dressing gown runs out to meet him: the prodigal son is on his knees; in the future, the cook kills a well-fed calf, and the elder brother asks the servants about the reason for such joy. Under each picture I read decent German poetry. All this has been preserved in my memory to this day, as well as the pots with

balsam, and a bed with a colorful curtain, and other objects that surrounded me at that time. I see, as now, the owner himself, a man of about fifty, fresh and cheerful, and his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons.

Before I had time to pay my old coachman, Dunya returned with a samovar. The little coquette noticed at second glance the impression she made on me; she lowered her big blue eyes; I began to talk to her, she answered me without any timidity, like a girl who has seen the light. I offered my father her glass of punch; I served Duna a cup of tea, and the three of us began talking as if we had known each other for centuries.

The horses were ready a long time ago, but I still didn’t want to part with the caretaker and his daughter. Finally I said goodbye to them; my father wished me a good journey, and my daughter accompanied me to the cart. In the entryway I stopped and asked her permission to kiss her; Dunya agreed... I can count many kisses since I’ve been doing this, but not one has left such a long, such a pleasant memory in me.

Several years passed, and circumstances led me to that very road, to those very places. I remembered the old caretaker's daughter and rejoiced at the thought that I would see her again. But, I thought, the old caretaker may have already been replaced; Dunya is probably already married. The thought of the death of one or the other also flashed through my mind, and I approached the station *** with a sad foreboding.

The horses stopped at the post house. Entering the room, I immediately recognized the pictures depicting the story of the prodigal son; the table and bed were in the same places; but there were no longer flowers on the windows, and everything around showed disrepair and neglect. The caretaker slept under a sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him up; he stood up... It was definitely Samson Vyrin; but how he has aged! While he was getting ready to rewrite my travel document, I looked at his gray hair, at the deep wrinkles of his long-unshaven face, at his hunched back - and could not marvel at how three or four years could turn a vigorous man into a frail old man. “Did you recognize me? - I asked him, “you and I are old acquaintances.” “It may be,” he answered gloomily, “there is a big road here; many travelers visited me.” - “Is your Dunya healthy?” - I continued. The old man frowned. “God knows,” he answered. “So, apparently she’s married?” - I said. The old man pretended not to hear my question and continued to read my travel document in a whisper. I stopped my questions and ordered the kettle to be put on. Curiosity began to bother me, and I hoped that the punch would resolve the language of my old acquaintance.

I was not mistaken: the old man did not refuse the offered glass. I noticed that the rum cleared up his sullenness. By the second glass he became talkative; remembered or pretended to remember me, and I learned from him a story that at that time greatly interested and touched me.

“So you knew my Dunya? - he began. - Who didn’t know her? Ah, Dunya, Dunya! What a girl she was! It happened that whoever passed by, everyone would praise, no one would judge. The ladies gave it as a gift, sometimes with a handkerchief, sometimes with earrings. Gentlemen passing by deliberately stopped, as if to have lunch or dinner, but in fact only to take a closer look at her. It used to be that the master, no matter how angry he was, would calm down in her presence and talk kindly to me. Believe it, sir: couriers and couriers talked to her for half an hour. She kept the house going: she kept up with everything, what to clean, what to cook. And I, the old fool, can’t get enough of it; Didn’t I really love my Dunya, didn’t I cherish my child; Did she really have no life? No, you can’t avoid trouble; what is destined cannot be avoided.” Then he began to tell me in detail his grief. Three years ago, one winter evening, when the caretaker was ruling a new book, and his daughter was sewing a dress for herself behind the partition, a troika drove up, and a traveler in a Circassian hat, in a military overcoat, wrapped in a shawl, entered the room, demanding horses. The horses were all in full speed. At this news the traveler raised his voice and his whip; but Dunya, accustomed to such scenes, ran out from behind the partition and affectionately turned to the traveler with the question: would he like to have something to eat? Dunya's appearance had its usual effect. The passerby's anger passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered himself dinner. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, unraveling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache. He settled down with the caretaker and began to talk cheerfully with him and his daughter. They served dinner. Meanwhile, the horses arrived, and the caretaker ordered that they immediately, without feeding, be harnessed to the traveler’s wagon; but, when he returned, he found a young man almost unconscious lying on a bench: he felt sick, had a headache, it was impossible to go... What to do! the caretaker gave him his bed, and it was supposed, if the patient did not feel better, to send to S*** for a doctor the next morning.

The next day the hussar became worse. His man went on horseback to the city to get a doctor. Dunya tied a scarf soaked in vinegar around his head and sat down with her sewing by his bed. In front of the caretaker, the patient groaned and said almost a word, but he drank two cups of coffee and, groaning, ordered himself lunch. Dunya did not leave his side. He constantly asked for a drink, and Dunya brought him a mug of lemonade she had prepared. The sick man wet his lips and each time he returned the mug, as a sign of gratitude, he shook Dunyushka’s hand with his weak hand. The doctor arrived at lunchtime. He felt the patient’s pulse, spoke to him in German and announced in Russian that all he needed was peace and that in two days he would be able to hit the road. The hussar gave him twenty-five rubles for the visit and invited him to dinner; the doctor agreed; They both ate with great appetite, drank a bottle of wine and parted very pleased with each other.

Another day passed, and the hussar completely recovered. He was extremely cheerful, joked incessantly, first with Dunya, then with the caretaker; whistled songs, talked

with travelers, wrote down their travel documents in the postal book, and became so fond of the kind caretaker that on the third morning he was sorry to part with his kind guest. The day was Sunday; Dunya was getting ready for mass. The hussar was given a wagon. He said goodbye to the caretaker, generously rewarding him for his stay and refreshments; He said goodbye to Dunya and volunteered to take her to the church, which was located on the edge of the village. Dunya stood in bewilderment... “What are you afraid of? - her father said to her, “after all, his high nobility is not a wolf and will not eat you: take a ride to the church.” Dunya sat down in the wagon next to the hussar, the servant jumped onto the handle, the coachman whistled, and the horses galloped off.

The poor caretaker did not understand how he could allow his Duna to ride with the hussar, how blindness came over him, and what happened to his mind then. Less than half an hour had passed when his heart began to ache and ache, and anxiety took possession of him to such an extent that he could not resist and went to mass himself. Approaching the church, he saw that the people were already leaving, but Dunya was neither in the fence nor on the porch. He hastily entered the church: the priest was leaving the altar; the sexton was extinguishing the candles, two old women were still praying in the corner; but Dunya was not in the church. The poor father forcibly decided to ask the sexton whether she had attended mass. The sexton replied that she had not been. The caretaker went home neither alive nor dead. There was only one hope left to him: Dunya, in the frivolity of her young years, perhaps decided to take a ride to the next station, where her godmother lived. In painful anxiety he awaited the return of the troika on which he had let her go. The coachman did not return. Finally, in the evening, he arrived alone and drunk, with the murderous news: “Dunya from that station went further with the hussar.”

The old man could not bear his misfortune; he immediately went to bed in the same bed where the young deceiver had lain the day before. Now the caretaker, considering all the circumstances, guessed that the illness was feigned. The poor man fell ill with a severe fever; he was taken to S*** and someone else was assigned to his place for the time being. The same doctor who came to the hussar also treated him. He assured the caretaker that the young man was completely healthy and that at that time he still guessed about his evil intention, but remained silent, fearing his whip. Whether the German was telling the truth or just wanting to show off his foresight, he did not console the poor patient in the least. Having barely recovered from his illness, the caretaker asked S*** the postmaster for leave for two months and, without telling anyone a word about his intention, he set off on foot to fetch his daughter. From the road station he knew that Captain Minsky was traveling from Smolensk to St. Petersburg. The driver who was driving him said that Dunya cried all the way, although it seemed that she was driving of her own accord. “Perhaps,” the caretaker thought, “I’ll bring my lost sheep home.” With this thought in mind, he arrived in St. Petersburg, stopped at the Izmailovsky regiment, in the house of a retired non-commissioned officer, his old colleague, and began his search. He soon learned that Captain Minsky was in St. Petersburg and lived in the Demutov tavern. The caretaker decided to come to him.

Early in the morning he came to his hallway and asked him to report to his nobility that the old soldier was asking to see him. The military footman, cleaning his boot on the last, announced that the master was resting and that he would not receive anyone before eleven o’clock. The caretaker left and returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him in a dressing gown and a red skufia. “What do you want, brother?” - he asked him. The old man’s heart began to boil, tears welled up in his eyes, and in a trembling voice he said only: “Your Honor!.. do such a divine favor!..” Minsky looked at him quickly, flushed, took him by the hand, led him into the office and locked him behind him. door. “Your Honor! - continued the old man, - what fell from the cart was lost; at least give me my poor Dunya. After all, you were amused by her; Don’t destroy her in vain.” “What has been done cannot be undone,” said the young man in extreme confusion, “I am guilty before you and am glad to ask you for forgiveness; but don’t think that I could leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you need it? She loves Me; she was unaccustomed to her previous state. Neither you, Niona, will forget what happened.” Then, putting something down his sleeve, he opened the door, and the caretaker, without remembering how, found himself on the street.

He stood motionless for a long time, and finally saw a bundle of papers behind the cuff of his sleeve; he took them out and unfolded several crumpled five- and ten-ruble banknotes. Tears welled up in his eyes again, tears of indignation! He squeezed the pieces of paper into a ball, threw them on the ground, stamped his heel and walked away... After walking a few steps, he stopped, thought... and turned back... but the banknotes were no longer there. A well-dressed young man, seeing him, ran up to the cab driver, sat down hastily and shouted: “Get off!..” The caretaker did not chase him. He decided to go home to his station, but first he wanted to see his poor Dunya at least once again. For this purpose, two days later he returned to Minsky; but the military footman told him sternly that the master did not accept anyone, pushed him out of the hall with his chest and slammed the doors in his face. The caretaker stood, stood, and then went.

On this very day, in the evening, he walked along Liteinaya, having served a prayer service for All Who Sorrow. Suddenly a smart droshky raced in front of him, and the caretaker recognized Minsky. The droshky stopped in front of a three-story house, right at the entrance, and the hussar ran onto the porch. A happy thought flashed through the mind of the caretaker. He returned and, drawing level with the coachman: “Whose horse, brother? - he asked, “isn’t it Minsky?” “Exactly so,” answered the coachman, “what do you want?” - “Well, here’s the thing: your master ordered me to take a note to his Dunya, and I’ll forget where Dunya lives.” - “Yes, here, on the second floor. You are late, brother, with your note; now he’s with her.” “There’s no need,” the caretaker objected with an inexplicable movement of his heart, “thanks for the advice, and I’ll do my job.” And with that word he walked up the stairs.

The doors were locked; he called, several seconds passed in painful anticipation. The key rattled and it was opened for him. “Is Avdotya Samsonovna standing here?” - he asked. “Here,” answered the young maid, “why do you need it?” The caretaker, without answering, entered the hall. “You can’t, you can’t! - the maid shouted after him, “Avdotya Samsonovna has guests.” But the caretaker, without listening, walked on. The first two rooms were dark, the third was on fire. He walked up to the open door and stopped. In a beautifully decorated room, Minsky sat thoughtfully. Dunya, dressed in all the luxury of fashion, sat on the arm of his chair, like a rider on her English saddle. She looked at Minsky with tenderness, wrapping his black curls around her sparkling fingers. Poor caretaker! Never had his daughter seemed so beautiful to him; he couldn't help but admire her. "Who's there?" - she asked without raising her head. He remained silent. Receiving no answer, Dunya raised her head... and fell onto the carpet screaming. Frightened Minsky rushed to pick her up and, suddenly seeing the old caretaker at the door, left Dunya and approached him, trembling with anger. “What do you want? - he said to him, gritting his teeth, - why are you sneaking after me everywhere like a robber? or do you want to stab me? Go away!" - and, with a strong hand, grabbing the old man by the collar, he pushed him onto the stairs.

The old man came to his apartment. His friend advised him to complain; but the caretaker thought, waved his hand and decided to retreat. Two days later he set out from St. Petersburg back to his station and again took up his post. “For the third year now,” he concluded, “I have been living without Dunya and there is neither a rumor nor a breath of her. Whether she is alive or not, God knows. Stuff happens. Not her first, not her last, was lured away by a passing rake, but he held her there and abandoned her. There are a lot of them in St. Petersburg, young fools, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow, look, they are sweeping the street along with the tavern's nakedness. When you sometimes think that Dunya, perhaps, is disappearing right there, you will inevitably sin and wish for her grave...”

This was the story of my friend, the old caretaker, a story repeatedly interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with his lap, like the zealous Terentyich in Dmitriev’s beautiful ballad. These tears were partly excited by the punch I would draw

n five glasses in the continuation of his story; but be that as it may, they touched my heart greatly. Having parted with him, I could not forget the old caretaker for a long time, I thought for a long time about poor Duna...

Recently, driving through the town of ***, I remembered my friend; I learned that the station over which he commanded had already been destroyed. To my question: “Is the old caretaker alive?” - no one could give me a satisfactory answer. I decided to visit a familiar side, took free horses and set off for the village of N.

This happened in the fall. Gray clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew from the reaped fields, blowing red and yellow leaves from the trees they encountered. I arrived in the village at sunset and stopped at the post office. In the entryway (where poor Dunya once kissed me) a fat woman came out and answered my questions that the old caretaker had died a year ago, that a brewer had settled in his house, and that she was the brewer’s wife. I felt sorry for my wasted trip and the seven rubles spent for nothing. “Why did he die?” - I asked the brewer’s wife. “I got drunk, father,” she answered. “Where was he buried?” - “Outside the outskirts, near his late mistress.” - “Is it possible to take me to his grave?” - “Why not? Hey Vanka! You've had enough of messing around with the cat. Take the master to the cemetery and show him the caretaker’s grave.”

At these words, a ragged boy, red-haired and crooked, ran out to me and immediately led me outside the outskirts.

Did you know the dead man? - I asked him dear.

How could you not know! He taught me how to carve pipes. It used to be (may he rest in heaven!) he would come out of a tavern, and we would follow him: “Grandfather, grandfather! nuts!” - and he gives us nuts. Everything used to mess with us.

Do passers-by remember him?

Yes, but there are few travelers; Unless the assessor wraps it up, he has no time for the dead. In the summer, a lady passed by, and she asked about the old caretaker and went to his grave.

Which lady? - I asked curiously.

“A beautiful lady,” answered the boy; - she rode in a carriage of six horses, with three little barchats and a nurse, and a black pug; and when they told her that the old caretaker had died, she began to cry and said to the children: “Sit still, and I’ll go to the cemetery.” And I volunteered to bring it to her. And the lady said: “I know the way myself.” And she gave me a silver nickel - such a kind lady!..

We came to the cemetery, a bare place, unfenced, dotted with wooden crosses, not shaded by a single tree. I have never seen such a sad cemetery in my life.

“Here is the grave of the old caretaker,” the boy told me, jumping onto a pile of sand into which was buried a black cross with a copper image.

And the lady came here? - I asked.

“She came,” Vanka answered, “I looked at her from afar. She lay down here and lay there for a long time. And there the lady went to the village and called the priest, gave him money and went, and gave me a nickel in silver - a nice lady!

And I gave the boy a penny and no longer regretted either the trip or the seven rubles I spent.