Read Belkin's story about the stationmaster in full. A

College Registrar,

Postal station dictator.

Prince Vyazemsky.

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 history 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. In another bright features Depraved behavior depicted young man: he sits at a table, surrounded 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 a second glance the impression she made on me; she lowered her big ones 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 Bon Voyage, and escorted my daughter to the cart. In the entryway I stopped and asked her permission to kiss her; Dunya agreed... I can count a lot of kisses,

Since I've been doing this,

but none left such a long, such a pleasant memory in me.

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 happen,” he answered gloomily; “The road here is big; 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. Sometimes the master, no matter how angry he was, would calm down in her presence and talk kindly to me. Believe it, sir: the couriers and field rangers 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 day, in winter evening When the caretaker was lining a new book, and his daughter was sewing a dress for herself behind the partition, 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 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 force himself 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 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 intentions, 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 old soldier asks to see him. The military footman, cleaning his boot on the block, 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!” the old man continued, “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 I am glad to ask you for forgiveness; but don’t think that I can leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you honestly. Why do you need it? She loves Me; she was unaccustomed to her previous state. Neither you nor she 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 papers into a ball, threw them on the ground, stamped them with 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: “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 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 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, 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, “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; “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, 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 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, he left Dunya and approached him, trembling with anger. “What do you want?” he told him, gritting his teeth; “Why are you following me everywhere like a robber? or do you want to stab me? Go away!" 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. 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, the story was repeatedly interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with his lap, like the diligent 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; cold wind blew from the reaped fields, carrying red and yellow leaves from oncoming trees. 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 beyond the outskirts.

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

“How can 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. Everyone 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 chaps 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.

Mrs. Prostakova.

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

Skotinin.

Mitrofan for me.

College Registrar,

Postal station dictator

Prince Vyazemsky

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. “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.

College Registrar,
Postal station dictator.
Prince Vyazemsky

Pushkin. Stationmaster. Audiobook

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 for 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, “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 a 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 a lot of kisses [since I’ve been doing this], but not one has left such a long, such a pleasant memory in me.

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. During the second glass he became talkative: he remembered or showed the appearance that he remembered 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. Sometimes 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 shedding 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 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 sick man wet his lips and each time, returning 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 hurriedly 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 for him: Dunya, in the frivolity of her young years, decided, perhaps, 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 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 coachman 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 nor she 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 papers into a ball, threw them on the ground, stamped them with 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 door 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, said: “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 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 three years now,” he concluded, “I have been living without Dunya and I have not heard a word about 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 there he held her 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 away, 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 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, carrying 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 can 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 was riding 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.

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. Dunya struck the author with her 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. After three days, the hussar felt better, and he got ready to move on. And Dunya was going to church that day for a service. 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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Summary of Belyaev Ariel
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College 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 vestibule, 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 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 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, something else 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 frock 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 a 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 a lot of kisses,

Since I've been doing this,

But none of them 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 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 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 friends.” “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. During the second glass he became talkative: he remembered or showed the appearance that he remembered 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. Sometimes 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 get away from 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 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 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 hurriedly 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 for him: Dunya, in the frivolity of her young years, decided, perhaps, 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,” 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 gone: 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 nor she 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, said: “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 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 was still 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 there he held her 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 away, 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 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, carrying 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 can 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. “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.