Read the stationmaster Pushkin, read the stationmaster Pushkin for free, read the stationmaster Pushkin online. A. S. Pushkin. The stories of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin. The text of the work. Stationmaster

STATION OFFICER

Collegiate registrar, Postal station dictator Prince Vyazemsky.

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

In the year 1816, in the month of May, I happened to pass through the *** province, along the highway, now destroyed. I was in a small rank, rode on chaises and paid runs for two horses. As a result of this, the wardens did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often took with a fight what, in my opinion, followed me by right. Being young and quick-tempered, I was indignant at the meanness and cowardice of the superintendent when this latter gave the troika prepared for me under the carriage of the bureaucratic gentleman. It took me just as long to get used to the fact that a choosy lackey carried me a dish at the governor's dinner. Now both seem to me in the order of things. Indeed, what would happen to us if, instead of the generally convenient rule: rank rank read, another has come into use, for example: honor the mind? What controversy would arise! and servants with whom would they start serving food? But back to my story.

The day was hot. Three versts from the station *** began to drip, and in a minute pouring rain soaked me to the last thread. Upon arrival at the station, the first concern was to change clothes as soon as possible, the second to ask for tea. "Hey Dunya! - the caretaker shouted, - put the samovar on and go for cream. At these words, a girl of fourteen years old came out from behind the partition and ran into the passage. Her beauty struck me. "Is this your daughter?" I asked the caretaker. “Daughter, sir,” he answered with an air of contented vanity; “yes, such a reasonable, such a nimble mother, all dead.” Then he began to rewrite my travelogue, and I busied myself with examining the pictures that adorned his humble but tidy abode. They depicted the story of the prodigal son. In the first, a venerable old man in a cap and dressing gown dismisses a restless young man, who hurriedly accepts his blessing and a bag of money. In another, depraved behavior is depicted in vivid features. 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; deep sadness and remorse are depicted in his face. 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 verses. All this has been preserved in my memory to this day, as well as pots of 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 vigorous, and his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons.

Before I had time to pay off 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 her father a glass of punch; I gave Dunya a cup of tea, and the three of us began to talk, as if we had known each other for centuries.

The horses were ready for a long time, but I still did not want to part with the caretaker and his daughter. At last I said goodbye to them; my father wished me a good journey, and my daughter accompanied me to the cart. In the passage I stopped and asked her permission to kiss her; Dunya agreed ... I can count many kisses since I have 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 was glad at the thought of seeing 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 stood at the post house. Entering the room, I immediately recognized the pictures depicting the story of the prodigal son; table and bed were on former places; but there were no more flowers on the windows, and everything around showed dilapidation and neglect. The caretaker slept under a sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him up; he got up... It was definitely Samson Vyrin; but how old he is! While he was about to rewrite my roadmap, I looked at his gray hair, at the deep wrinkles of his long unshaven face, at his hunched back - and could not be surprised how three or four years could turn a cheerful man into a frail old man. “Did you recognize me? - I asked him; - you and I are old acquaintances. - "Maybe," he answered sullenly; "there is a big road; I have had many passers-by." - "Is your Dunya healthy?" I continued. The old man frowned. “God only knows,” he replied. "So she's married?" - I said. The old man pretended not to have heard my question and continued to read my travelogue 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 proposed glass. I noticed that the rum cleared up his sullenness. At the second glass he became talkative; remembered or pretended to remember me, and I learned from him a story that at that time greatly occupied 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 passes by, everyone will praise, no one will condemn. The ladies gave her, the one with a handkerchief, the other with earrings. Gentlemen, the travelers stopped on purpose, as if to dine or supper, but in fact only to look at her longer. Sometimes the gentleman, no matter how angry he was, would calm down in her presence and talk graciously to me. Believe me, sir: couriers, couriers talked to her for half an hour. She kept the house: what to clean up, what to cook, she managed to do everything. And I, the old fool, do not look enough, it used to be, I do not get enough; did I not love my Dunya, did I not cherish my child; did she not have a life? No, you won’t get rid of trouble; what is destined, that cannot be avoided. Then he began to tell me his grief in detail. - Three years ago, one day, in winter evening when the caretaker lined 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 running. At this news the traveler raised his voice and 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 eat something? Dunya's appearance had its usual effect. The wrath of the traveler has passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered supper for himself. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, untangling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache. He settled down at the caretaker, began to talk cheerfully with him and with his daughter. Served dinner. In the meantime, the horses came, and the keeper ordered that immediately, without feeding, they were harnessed to the carriage of the traveler; but, returning, he found a young man lying almost unconscious on a bench: he became ill, his head ached, it was impossible to go ... What to do! the superintendent gave him his bed, and it was necessary, if the patient did not feel better, the next morning to send to S *** for a doctor.

The next day the hussar became worse. His man went on horseback to the city for a doctor. Dunya tied a handkerchief soaked with vinegar around his head and sat down with her sewing by his bed. The sick man groaned in front of the caretaker and did not say almost a word, but he drank two cups of coffee and, groaning, ordered himself dinner. Dunya did not leave him. He constantly asked for a drink, and Dunya brought him a mug of lemonade prepared by her. The sick man dipped his lips and every time he returned the mug, as a token 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 of mind and that in two days he could be on the road. The hussar gave him twenty-five rubles for the visit, invited him to dine; the doctor agreed; 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, incessantly joking with Dunya, then with the caretaker; he whistled songs, talked to the passers-by, entered their wayfarers in the post book, and so fell in love with the kind caretaker that on the third morning he was sorry to part with his kind guest. The day was Sunday; Dunya was going to dinner. The hussar was given a kibitka. He said goodbye to the caretaker, generously rewarding him for his stay and refreshments; he also said goodbye to Dunya and volunteered to take her to the church, which was located on the edge of the village. Dunya stood in perplexity ... “What are you afraid of? - her father said to her, - after all, his nobility is not a wolf and will not eat you: take a ride to the church. Dunya got into the wagon next to the hussar, the servant jumped on the pole, the coachman whistled, and the horses galloped off.

The poor caretaker did not understand how he himself could allow his Duna to ride with the hussar, how he was blinded, and what happened to his mind then. In less than half an hour, his heart began to whine, whine, and anxiety took possession of him to such an extent that he could not resist and went himself to mass. Approaching the church, he saw that the people were already dispersing, but Dunya was neither in the fence nor on the porch. He hastily entered the church: the priest was leaving the altar; the deacon 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 deacon whether she had been at Mass. The deacon replied that she had not been. The caretaker went home neither alive nor dead. One hope remained for him: Dunya, due to the frivolity of her young years, took it into her head, perhaps, to ride to the next station, where she lived godmother. In excruciating excitement, he expected the return of the troika, on which he let her go. The coachman did not return. Finally, in the evening, he arrived alone and tipsy, with the deadly news: "Dunya from that station went further with a hussar."

The old man did not bear his misfortune; he immediately fell into 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 strong fever; he was taken to C *** and another was appointed in his place for a while. The same doctor who came to the hussar treated him too. He assured the caretaker that the young man was quite healthy and that at that time he still guessed about his malicious intention, but was silent, fearing his whip. Whether the German was telling the truth, or merely wishing to boast of far-sightedness, he did not in the least console the poor patient. Barely recovering from his illness, the superintendent begged the postmaster for two months' leave and, without saying a word to anyone about his intention, went on foot to fetch his daughter. He knew from the traveler that Captain Minsky was on his way from Smolensk to Petersburg. The driver who drove him said that Dunya was crying all the way, although she seemed to be driving on her own accord. “Perhaps,” thought the caretaker, “I will bring home my lost lamb.” With this thought he arrived in Petersburg, stayed in 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 the Demutov tavern. The caretaker decided to come to him.

Early in the morning he came to his hall and asked him to report to his honor that the old soldier asked to see him. The military footman, cleaning his boot on the block, announced that the master was resting and that before eleven o'clock he did not receive anyone. The caretaker left and returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him in a dressing gown, in a red skufi. "What, brother, do you want?" he asked him. The old man’s heart boiled, tears welled up in his eyes, and he only said in a trembling voice: “Your honor! .. do such a divine favor! ..” Minsky glanced at him quickly, flushed, took his hand, led him into the office and locked him behind him Door. “Your honor! - continued the old man, - what fell from the wagon is gone; give me at least my poor Dunya. After all, you have enjoyed it; don’t ruin her in vain.” “What’s done can’t be taken back,” said the young man in extreme confusion; - guilty before you and glad to ask your forgiveness; but do not think that I could leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you want her? She loves Me; she had lost the habit of her former state. Neither you nor she - you will not forget what happened. Then, thrusting something into his sleeve, he opened the door, and the caretaker, without remembering how, found himself in the street.

For a long time he stood motionless, at last he saw a roll of papers behind the cuff of his sleeve; he took them out and opened several crumpled banknotes of five and ten rubles. Tears welled up again in his eyes, tears of indignation! He squeezed the papers into a ball, threw them on the ground, stamped them down with his heel, and went... Having walked a few steps, he stopped, thought... and returned... but there were no banknotes anymore. A well-dressed young man, seeing him, ran up to the cab, sat down hurriedly and shouted: "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 more. For this day, after two days, he returned to Minsky; but the military lackey told him sternly that the master was not receiving anyone, forced him out of the hall with his chest and slammed the door under his breath. The caretaker stood, stood - and went.

On that same day, in the evening, he walked along Liteinaya, having served a prayer service for All Who Sorrow. Suddenly a smart droshky rushed past him, and the caretaker recognized Minsky. Drozhki stopped in front of a three-story house, at the very entrance, and the hussar ran onto the porch. A happy thought flashed through the caretaker's head. He turned back and, having caught up with the coachman: “Whose, brother, is the horse? - he asked, - is it Minsky? - “Exactly so,” answered the coachman, “but what about you?” - “Yes, that's what: your master ordered me to take a note to his Dunya, and I forget where Dunya lives.” - “Yes, right here, on the second floor. You are late, brother, with your note; now she has him himself. ”-“ There is no need, ”the caretaker objected with an inexplicable movement of his heart,“ thanks for the thought, and I’ll do my job. And with that word he went up the stairs.

The doors were locked; he called, several seconds passed in painful expectation for him. The key rattled, they opened it. “Is Avdotya Samsonovna standing here?” - he asked. “Here,” answered the young maid, “why do you need her?” The caretaker, without answering, entered the hall. “No, no! the maid shouted after him, “Avdotya Samsonovna has guests.” But the caretaker, not listening, went on. The first two rooms were dark, the third was on fire. He walked to the open door and stopped. In the room, beautifully decorated, Minsky sat in thought. Dunya, dressed in all the luxury of fashion, sat on the arm of his chair, like a rider on her English saddle. She looked tenderly at Minsky, winding his black curls around her glittering fingers. Poor caretaker! Never had his daughter seemed to him so beautiful; he reluctantly admired her. "Who's there?" she asked without raising her head. He remained silent. Receiving no answer, Dunya raised her head ... and fell on the carpet with a cry. Frightened, Minsky rushed to pick it up and, suddenly seeing the old caretaker at the door, left Dunya and went up to him, trembling with anger. “What do you need? - he said to him, clenching his teeth, - why are you sneaking around me like a robber? Or do you want to kill me? Go away!" and, with a strong hand, seizing the old man by the collar, pushed him out 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 went from Petersburg back to his station and again took up his post. “This is the third year,” he concluded, “how I live without Dunya and how there is not a rumor or a spirit about her. Whether she is alive or not, God knows. Anything happens. Not her first, not her last, was lured by a passing rake, but there he held it and left it. There are many of them in St. Petersburg, young fools, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow, you'll see, sweeping the street along with the barn's tavern. When you sometimes think that Dunya, perhaps, immediately disappears, you will inevitably sin, but wish her a grave ... "

Such was the story of my friend, the old caretaker, a story repeatedly interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with his coat, like the zealous Terentyich in Dmitriev's beautiful ballad. These tears were partly aroused by the punch, of which he drew out five glasses in the course of his narration; but be that as it may, they touched my heart greatly. Having parted with him, for a long time I could not forget the old caretaker, for a long time I thought about poor Dunya ...

Not long ago, while passing through a place ***, I remembered my friend; I learned that the station he commanded had already been destroyed. To my question: "Is the old caretaker still alive?" - no one could give me a satisfactory answer. I decided to visit the familiar side, took free horses and set off for the village of N.

It happened in the fall. Greyish clouds covered the sky; cold wind blew from the reaped fields, carrying red and yellow leaves from opposite trees. I arrived at the village at sunset and stopped at the post house. In the passage (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. “Drunk, father,” she answered. "Where was he buried?" - "Beyond the outskirts, near his late mistress." - "Can't you bring me to his grave?" - “Why not. Hey Vanka! it's enough for you to mess with the cat. Take the gentleman 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 deceased? I asked him dear.

How not to know! He taught me how to cut pipes. It used to happen (God rest his soul!), He comes from the tavern, and we follow him: “Grandfather, grandfather! nuts! - and he gives us nuts. Everything used to be messing with us.

Do passers-by remember him?

Yes, there are few passers-by; unless the assessor wraps up, but that is not up to the dead. Here in the summer a lady passed by, so she asked about the old caretaker and went to his grave.

What lady? I asked curiously.

A beautiful lady, answered the boy; - she rode in a carriage with six horses, with three small barchats and with a nurse, and with a black pug; and as she was told that the old caretaker had died, she wept and said to the children: "Sit quietly, and I will go to the cemetery." And I volunteered to bring her. And the lady said: "I myself know the way." And she gave me a nickel in silver - such a kind lady! ..

We came to a cemetery, a bare place, not fenced in anything, strewn with wooden crosses, not overshadowed by a single tree. Never in my life have I seen such a sad cemetery.

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

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 nickel in silver - a glorious lady!

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

Notes

The original plan of the story has been preserved among the pages of the manuscript of The Undertaker. This plan does not fully correspond to the final text. Discussion about caretakers. In general, people are unhappy and kind. My friend is a widowed caretaker. Daughter. This route has been destroyed. I recently went on it. Didn't find my daughter. Daughter's story. Love for her clerk. The clerk followed her to Petersburg. He sees her walking. Returning, he finds his father dead. Grave outside. I'm going away. The clerk is dead. The coachman tells me about his daughter.
The story is dated September 13, but the next day Pushkin returned to it, corrected something and inserted new episode- a scene in which a young man steals banknotes thrown by the caretaker. After that, he corrected the end date to the 14th.
Epigraph- from a poem by P. A. Vyazemsky "Station". From Vyazemsky: When a provincial registrar, A dictator at the Postal Station.
Pushkin altered the first verse, apparently deliberately: the stationmasters used the rank of the 14th class, under the name "college registrar", and the rank "provincial registrar" was not in the table of ranks.
"A real martyr of the fourteenth class, protected by his rank tokmo from beatings." According to the rules of 1808, “travelers are strictly forbidden to harass and insult stationmasters or beat postmen” (paragraph 7). “Station supervisors who do not have class ranks, but being at their places, in the protection of insults, use the 14th class at the highest will” (paragraph 9).
Official 6th class- collegiate adviser corresponding to the military rank of colonel.
“I paid runs for two horses.” - Travelers, who gave the right to receive horses at a fixed rate, were issued for a certain number of horses, depending on the rank. Above this number, horses were hired privately. Two horses were supposed to be "lower ranks and servants." To ride on a chaise meant to ride on a state-owned carriage, changing at each station.
"... stopped at the Izmailovsky regiment." - Izmailovsky regiment - a district in St. Petersburg, where the barracks of the Izmailovsky regiment were located.
Demutov tavern- a hotel in St. Petersburg near Nevsky Prospekt.
"... in Dmitriev's beautiful ballad." - In the poem "Caricature" (1792).

From earlier editions

The manuscript was:

After the words "to the last thread":

Arriving at the station, my first concern was to change my clothes as soon as possible, the second was to go as soon as possible. “There are no horses,” said the caretaker and handed me a book to justify his words. "How come there are no horses?" - I shouted with anger, partly feigned (from the notes of a young man).

The note in brackets indicates that what followed was to be an extract from the previously written "Notes of a Young Man";

After the words "... the whole dead mother":

“Yes, she is so reasonable, so agile. And do you believe that even the couriers are talking to her? - This is where my old coachman (that is, the twenty-year-old coachman who brought me; to high road and grow old at the post office) with a demand for vodka; at that time people did not ask tips. But enlightenment... having taken a gigantic step in the last decade... Before I had time to pay it off, Dunya returned with a samovar.

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 smile that suddenly disappeared, I seem to feel the warmth of her breath and the fresh imprint of her lips.

The reader knows that there are several kinds of love: sensual, platonic love, love out of vanity, love of a fifteen-year-old heart, and so on, but of all travel love is the most pleasant. Having fallen in love at one station, you insensitively reach another, and sometimes even a third. Nothing shortens roads like this; the imagination, not entertained by anything, fully enjoys its dreams. Love is careless, love is carefree! It vividly occupies us, without wearying our hearts, and fades away in the first city tavern.

Pushkin, Alexander Sergeyevich

Stationmaster

A.S. Pushkin

Complete Works with Criticism

STATION OFFICER

Collegiate Registrar, Postal Station Dictator

Prince Vyazemsky.

Who hasn't cursed the stationmasters, who hasn't scolded them? Who, in a moment of anger, did not demand from them a fatal book in order to write in it their useless complaint of oppression, rudeness and malfunction? Who does not revere them as monsters of the human race, equal to the deceased scoundrels, or at least Murom robbers? Let us, however, be fair, let us try to enter into their position, and perhaps we will begin to judge them much more condescendingly. What is a station attendant? 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 it real hard labor? Peace of day or night. All the annoyance accumulated during a boring ride, the traveler takes out on the caretaker. The weather is unbearable, the road is bad, the driver is stubborn, the horses are not driven - and the caretaker is to blame. Entering his poor dwelling, the passer-by looks at him as if he were an enemy; well, if he manages to get rid of the uninvited guest soon; but if there are no horses? .. God! what curses, what threats will fall on his head! In rain and sleet he is forced to run around the yards; in a storm, in the Epiphany frost, he goes into the canopy, so that only for a moment can he rest from the screams and pushes of the irritated guest. The general arrives; the trembling caretaker gives him the last two triples, including the courier. The general goes without saying thank you. Five minutes later - a bell! ... and the field huntsman throws his road trip on the table! .. Let's delve into all this thoroughly, and instead of indignation, our heart will be filled with sincere compassion. A few more words: for twenty years in a row, I traveled to Russia in all directions; almost all postal routes are known to me; several generations of coachmen are familiar to me; I don’t know a rare caretaker by sight, I didn’t deal with a rare one; I hope to publish a curious stock of my travel observations in a short time; for the time being, I will only say that the class of stationmasters is presented to the general opinion in the most false form. These so-slandered overseers are generally peaceful people, naturally obliging, prone to cohabitation, modest in their claims to honors and not too greedy. From their conversations (which gentlemen passing by inappropriately neglect) one can learn a lot of curious and instructive things. As for me, I confess that I prefer their conversation to the speeches of some official of the 6th class, following on official business. You can easily guess that I have friends from the respectable class of caretakers. Indeed, the memory of one of them is precious to me. Circumstances once brought us closer, and I now intend to talk about it with my kind readers. In the year 1816, in the month of May, I happened to pass through the *** province, along the highway, now destroyed. I was in a small rank, rode on chaises, and paid runs for two horses. As a result of this, the wardens did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often took with a fight what, in my opinion, followed me by right. Being young and quick-tempered, I was indignant at the meanness and cowardice of the superintendent when this latter gave the troika prepared for me under the carriage of the bureaucratic gentleman. It took me just as long to get used to the fact that a choosy lackey carried me a dish at the governor's dinner. Now both seem to me 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 was introduced, for example: honor the mind of the mind? What controversy would arise! and servants with whom would they start serving food? But back to my story. The day was hot. Three versts from the station, *** began to drip, and a minute later the pouring rain soaked me to the last thread. Upon arrival at the station, the first concern was to change clothes as soon as possible, the second to ask for tea. "Hey Dunya!" the caretaker shouted, "put the samovar on and go get some cream." At these words, a girl of fourteen years old came out from behind the partition and ran into the passage. Her beauty struck me. "Is this your daughter?" I asked the caretaker. "Daughter, sir," he replied with an air of contented pride; "Yes, such a reasonable, such a nimble, all dead mother." Then he began to rewrite my travelogue, and I busied myself with examining the pictures that adorned his humble but tidy 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. In another, the depraved behavior of a young man is depicted in vivid features: 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; deep sadness and remorse are depicted in his face. 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 verses. All this has remained in my memory to this day, as well as pots of 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 vigorous, and his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons. Before I had time to pay off 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 her father a glass of punch; I gave Dunya a cup of tea, and the three of us began to talk, as if we had known each other for centuries. The horses were ready for a long time, but I still did not want to part with the caretaker and his daughter. At last I said goodbye to them; my father wished me a good journey, and my daughter accompanied me to the cart. In the passage I stopped and asked her permission to kiss her; Dunya agreed ... I can count many kisses since I have 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 was glad at the thought of seeing her again. But, I thought, the old caretaker may have already been replaced; probably Dunya is 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 stood 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 their original places; but there were no more flowers on the windows, and everything around showed dilapidation and neglect. The caretaker slept under a sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him up; he got up... It was definitely Samson Vyrin; but how old he is! While he was about to rewrite my roadmap, I looked at his gray hair, at the deep wrinkles of his long unshaven face, at his hunched back - and could not be surprised how three or four years could turn a cheerful man into a frail old man. "Did you recognize me?" I asked him; "You and I are old friends." - "Maybe," he answered sullenly; "Here the road is big; I have had many passers-by." - "Is your Dunya healthy?" I continued. The old man frowned. "God only knows," he replied. - "So you can see she's married?" I said. The old man pretended not to have heard my question, and continued to read my travelogue 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 proposed glass. I noticed that the rum cleared up his sullenness. At the second glass he became talkative; remembered or pretended to remember me, and I learned from him a story that at that time greatly occupied 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, whoever passes, everyone praises, no one condemns. to have lunch, or supper, but really only to look at her a little longer. There were times when the gentleman, no matter how angry he was, would calm down in front of her and talk graciously to me. Believe me, sir: couriers, feld chasseurs talked to her for half an hour She kept the house: what to tidy up, what to cook, she had time for everything. was there life? Then he began to tell me his grief in detail. - Three years ago, one winter evening, when the caretaker was lining up 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 running. At this news the traveler raised his voice and 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 eat something? Dunya's appearance had its usual effect. The wrath of the traveler has passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered supper for himself. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, untangling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache. He settled down at the caretaker, began to talk cheerfully with him and with his daughter. Served dinner. In the meantime, the horses came, and the keeper ordered that immediately, without feeding, they were harnessed to the carriage of the traveler; but returning, he found a young man lying almost unconscious on a bench: he became ill, his head ached, it was impossible to go ... What to do! the superintendent gave him his bed, and it was necessary, if the patient did not feel better, the next morning to send to S *** for a doctor. The next day the hussar became worse. His man went on horseback to the city for a doctor. Dunya tied a handkerchief soaked with vinegar around his head and sat down with her sewing by his bed. The sick man groaned in the presence of the caretaker and did not say almost a word, but he drank two cups of coffee, and, groaning, ordered himself dinner. Dunya did not leave him. He constantly asked for a drink, and Dunya brought him a mug of lemonade prepared by her. The sick man dipped his lips, and every time he returned the mug, as a token 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 of mind, and that in two days he could be on the road. The hussar gave him twenty-five rubles for the visit, invited him to dine; the doctor agreed; 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, incessantly joking with Dunya, then with the caretaker; he whistled songs, talked to the passers-by, entered their wayfarers in the post book, and so fell in love with the kind caretaker that on the third morning he was sorry to part with his kind guest. The day was Sunday; Dunya was going to dinner. The hussar was given a kibitka. He said goodbye to the caretaker, generously rewarding him for his stay and refreshments; he also said goodbye to Dunya and volunteered to take her to the church, which was located on the edge of the village. Dunya stood at a loss... "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 got into the wagon next to the hussar, the servant jumped on the pole, the driver whistled and the horses galloped. The poor caretaker did not understand how he himself could allow his Duna to ride with the hussar, how he was blinded, and what happened to his mind then. In less than half an hour, his heart began to whine, whine, and anxiety took possession of him to such an extent that he could not stand it, and went himself to mass. Approaching the church, he saw that the people were already dispersing, but Dunya was neither in the fence nor on the porch. He hastily entered the church; the priest was leaving the altar; the deacon was extinguishing the candles, two old women were still praying in the corner; but Dunya was not in the church. The poor father had the courage to ask the deacon if she had been to Mass. The deacon replied that she had not been. The caretaker went home neither alive nor dead. There was only one hope left for him: Dunya, due to the frivolity of her young years, took it into her head, perhaps, to ride to the next station, where her godmother lived. In excruciating excitement, he expected the return of the troika, on which he let her go. The coachman did not return. Finally, in the evening, he arrived alone and tipsy, with the deadly news: "Dunya went on from that station with a hussar." The old man did not bear his misfortune; he immediately fell into 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 strong fever; he was taken to S *** and another was appointed in his place for a while. The same doctor who came to the hussar treated him too. He assured the caretaker that the young man was quite healthy, and that at that time he still guessed about his malicious intention, but was silent, fearing his whip. Whether the German was telling the truth, or just wishing to boast of far-sightedness, he did nothing to console the poor patient. Barely recovering from his illness, the caretaker begged S*** the postmaster for two months' leave, and without saying a word to anyone about his intention, went on foot to fetch his daughter. He knew from the traveler that Captain Minsky was on his way from Smolensk to Petersburg. The coachman who drove him said that Dunya was crying all the way, although she seemed to be driving on her own accord. "Perhaps," thought the caretaker, "I will bring home my lost lamb." With this thought he arrived in Petersburg, stayed in 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 demut tavern. The caretaker decided to come to him. Early in the morning he came to his antechamber, and asked him to report to his high nobility that the old soldier asked to see him. The military footman, cleaning his boot on the block, announced that the master was resting, and that before eleven o'clock he did not receive anyone. The caretaker left and returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him in a dressing gown, in a red skufi. "What, brother, do you want?" he asked him. The old man’s heart boiled, tears welled up in his eyes, and he only said in a trembling voice: “Your honor! .. do such a divine favor! ..” Minsky glanced at him quickly, flushed, took his hand, led him into the office and locked a door behind you. "Your Highness!" continued the old man, "what fell from the wagon is gone; give me at least my poor Dunya. "What's done can't be undone," said the young man in utter confusion; "I am guilty before you, and I am glad to ask your forgiveness; but do not think that I could leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you want her? She loves Me; she had lost the habit of her former state. Neither you nor she - you will not forget what happened. "Then, thrusting something into his sleeve, he opened the door, and the caretaker, without remembering how, found himself in the street. For a long time he stood motionless, finally saw behind the cuff a roll of papers from his sleeve, he took them out and unrolled several five and ten ruble crumpled banknotes. Tears again welled up in his eyes, tears of indignation! he stopped, thought ... and returned ... but there were no banknotes anymore. A well-dressed young man, seeing him, ran up to the cab, sat down hurriedly and shouted: "Go! .." The caretaker did not chase him. He decided to go home to his station, but before that he wanted to see his poor Dunya at least once more. To do this, two days later, he returned to Minsky; but the military lackey told him sternly that the master was not receiving anyone, forced him out of the hall with his chest, and slammed the door under his breath. that very day, in the evening, he walked along Liteinaya, having served a prayer service for All Who Sorrow. Suddenly a smart droshky rushed past him, and the caretaker recognized Minsky. Drozhki stopped in front of a three-story house, at the very entrance, and the hussar ran onto the porch. A happy thought flashed through the caretaker's head. He turned back, and drawing level with the coachman: "Whose, brother, is the horse?" he asked, "isn't it Minsky?" - "Exactly so," answered the coachman, "but what about you?" - "Yes, that's what: your master ordered me to take a note to his Dunya, and I forget where Dunya lives." - "Yes, here, on the second floor. You were late, brother, with your note; now he himself is with her." - "There is no need," objected the caretaker with an inexplicable movement of the heart, "thanks for the thought, but I'll do my job." And with that word he went up the stairs. The doors were locked; he called, a few seconds passed; in painful anticipation. The key rattled, they opened it. "Is Avdotya Samsonovna standing here?" he asked. "Here," answered the young maid; "Why do you need it?" The caretaker, without answering, entered the hall. "Don't lie, don't lie!" the maid shouted after him: "Avdotya Samsonovna has guests." But the caretaker, not listening, walked on. The first two rooms were dark, the third was on fire. He walked 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 tenderly at Minsky, winding his black curls around her glittering fingers. Poor caretaker! Never had his daughter seemed to him so beautiful; he reluctantly admired her. "Who's there?" she asked without raising her head. He remained silent. Receiving no answer, Dunya raised her head ... and fell on the carpet with a cry. Frightened, Minsky rushed to pick it up, and suddenly seeing the old caretaker at the door, he left Dunya and went up to him, trembling with anger. "What do you need?" he said to him, clenching his teeth; "Why are you sneaking around me like a robber? Or do you want to kill me? Get out!" and seizing the old man by the collar with a strong hand, pushed him out 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 off from Petersburg back to his station, and again took up his post. “For the third year already, he concluded, how I live without Dunya, and how there is neither a rumor nor a spirit about her. Whether she is alive or not, God knows. and there he held it, and then abandoned it. There are many of them in St. Petersburg, young fools, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow, you'll see, they sweep the street along with the tavern's scum. involuntarily you sin, but you wish her a grave ... " Such was the story of my friend, the old caretaker, the story was repeatedly interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with his coat, like the zealous Terentich in Dmitriev's beautiful ballad. These tears were partly excited by the punch, of which he drew out five glasses in the continuation of his story; but be that as it may, they touched my heart greatly. Having parted with him, for a long time I could not forget the old caretaker; I learned that the station 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 the familiar side, took free horses and set off for the village of N. This happened in the fall. Greyish clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew from the reaped fields, blowing the red and yellow leaves from the trees on the way. I arrived at the village at sunset and stopped at the post house. In the passage (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. "What did he die of?" I asked the brewer's wife. - "I drank myself, father," she answered. - "Where was he buried?" - "Beyond the outskirts, near his late mistress." "Couldn't you take me to his grave?" - "Why not. Hey, Vanka! It's enough for you to mess with the cat. Take the gentleman 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 not to know! He taught me how to cut pipes. It used to (God bless him!) Comes from a tavern, and we follow him: "Grandfather, grandfather! nuts!" - and he endows us with nuts. - he used to mess around with us. "Do passers-by remember him?" “Yes, there are few travelers; unless the assessor turns around, but he’s not up to the dead. In the summer, a lady passed by, so 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 with six horses, with three small barchats and with a nurse, and with a black pug; and as they told her that the old caretaker had died, she wept and said to the children: "Sit still, and I'll go to the cemetery." And I volunteered to bring her. And the lady said: "I know the way myself." And such a kind lady gave me a nickel in silver! tree. Never in my life have I seen such a sad cemetery. "Here is the old caretaker's grave," he told me. boy, jumping onto a pile of sand, into which was dug a black cross with a copper image. "And the lady came here?" I asked. "She came," replied Vanka; "I looked at her from afar. She lay down here and lay 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 nickel in silver - a glorious lady!" And I gave the boy a nickel, and no longer regretted either the trip or the seven rubles I had spent.

collegiate registrar, Collegiate Registrar- the lowest civil rank.

Post station dictator.

Prince Vyazemsky

In the year 1816, in the month of May, I happened to pass through the *** province, along the highway, now destroyed. I was in a small rank, rode on chaises and paid runs for two horses. As a result of this, the wardens did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often took with a fight what, in my opinion, followed me by right. Being young and quick-tempered, I was indignant at the meanness and cowardice of the superintendent when this latter gave the troika prepared for me under the carriage of the bureaucratic gentleman. It took me just as long to get used to the fact that a choosy lackey carried me a dish at the governor's dinner. Now both seem to me in the order of things. Indeed, what would happen to us if, instead of the generally convenient rule: honor rank rank, something else came into use, for example: honor the mind of the mind? What controversy would arise! and servants with whom would they start serving food? But back to my story.

The day was hot. Three versts from the station, *** began to drip, and a minute later the pouring rain soaked me to the last thread. Upon arrival at the station, the first concern was to change clothes as soon as possible, the second to ask for tea. "Hey Dunya! the caretaker shouted, “put the samovar on and go for cream.” At these words, a girl of fourteen years old came out from behind the partition and ran into the passage. Her beauty struck me. "Is this your daughter?" I asked the caretaker. “Daughter, sir,” he answered with an air of contented vanity, “but such a reasonable, such a nimble mother, all dead.” Then he began to rewrite my travelogue, and I busied myself with examining the pictures that adorned his humble but tidy abode. They depicted the story of the prodigal son. In the first, a venerable old man in a cap and dressing gown dismisses a restless young man, who hurriedly accepts his blessing and a bag of money. In another, the depraved behavior of a young man is depicted in vivid features: 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; deep sadness and remorse are depicted in his face. 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 verses. All this has remained in my memory to this day, as well as pots of 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 vigorous, and his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons.

The horses were ready for a long time, but I still did not want to part with the caretaker and his daughter. At last I said goodbye to them; my father wished me a good journey, and my daughter accompanied me to the cart. In the passage I stopped and asked her permission to kiss her; Dunya agreed ... I can count many kisses, since I've been doing this but none left in me such a long, such a pleasant memory.

The horses stood 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 their original places; but there were no more flowers on the windows, and everything around showed dilapidation and neglect. The caretaker slept under a sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him up; he got up… It was definitely Samson Vyrin; but how old he is! While he was about to rewrite my road trip, I looked at his gray hair, at the deep wrinkles of his face that had not been shaved for a long time, at his hunched back - and could not be surprised how three or four years could turn a cheerful man into a frail old man. “Did you recognize me? I asked him, “we are old acquaintances.” “It may happen,” he answered sullenly, “there is a big road here; I have had many passers-by." - "Is your Dunya healthy?" I continued. The old man frowned. “God only knows,” he replied. “So, is she married?” - I said. The old man pretended not to have heard my question and continued to read my travelogue 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 proposed glass. I noticed that the rum cleared up his sullenness. At the second glass he became talkative: he remembered or pretended to remember me, and I learned from him a story that at that time greatly occupied 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 passes by, everyone will praise, no one will condemn. The ladies gave her, the one with a handkerchief, the other with earrings. Passers-by deliberately stopped, as if to dine or supper, but in reality only to look at her longer. Sometimes the gentleman, no matter how angry he was, would calm down in her presence and talk graciously to me. Believe me, sir: couriers, couriers talked to her for half an hour. She kept the house: what to clean up, what to cook, she managed to do everything. And I, the old fool, do not look enough, it used to be, I do not get enough; did I not love my Dunya, did I not cherish my child; did she not have a life? No, you won’t get rid of trouble; what is destined, that cannot be avoided. Then he began to tell me his grief in detail. - Three years ago, one winter evening, when the caretaker was lining up 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 running. At this news the traveler raised his voice and 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 eat something? Dunya's appearance had its usual effect. The wrath of the traveler has passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered supper for himself. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, untangling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache. He settled down at the caretaker, began to talk cheerfully with him and with his daughter. Served dinner. In the meantime, the horses came, and the keeper ordered that immediately, without feeding, they were harnessed to the carriage of the traveler; but, come back, he found a young man lying almost unconscious on a bench: he became ill, his head ached, it was impossible to go ... What to do! the superintendent gave him his bed, and it was necessary, if the patient did not feel better, the next morning to send to S *** for a doctor.

The poor caretaker did not understand how he himself could allow his Duna to ride with the hussar, how he was blinded, and what happened to his mind then. In less than half an hour, his heart began to whine, whine, and anxiety took possession of him to such an extent that he could not resist and went himself to mass. Approaching the church, he saw that the people were already dispersing, but Dunya was neither in the fence nor on the porch. He hastily entered the church: the priest was leaving the altar; the deacon 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 deacon whether she had been at Mass. The deacon replied that she had not been. The caretaker went home neither alive nor dead. There was only one hope left for him: Dunya, due to the frivolity of her young years, took it into her head, perhaps, to ride to the next station, where her godmother lived. In excruciating excitement, he expected the return of the troika, on which he let her go. The coachman did not return. Finally, in the evening, he arrived alone and tipsy, with the deadly news: "Dunya from that station went further with a hussar."

The old man did not bear his misfortune; he immediately fell into 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 strong fever; he was taken to S *** and another was appointed in his place for a while. The same doctor who came to the hussar treated him too. He assured the caretaker that the young man was quite healthy and that at that time he still guessed about his malicious intention, but was silent, fearing his whip. Whether the German was telling the truth, or merely wishing to boast of far-sightedness, he did not in the least console the poor patient. Barely recovering from his illness, the superintendent begged S*** the postmaster for two months' leave and, without saying a word to anyone about his intention, went on foot to fetch his daughter. He knew from the traveler that Captain Minsky was on his way from Smolensk to Petersburg. The driver who drove him said that Dunya was crying all the way, although she seemed to be driving on her own accord. “Perhaps,” thought the caretaker, “I will bring home my lost lamb.” With this thought he arrived in Petersburg, stayed in 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 the Demutov tavern. The caretaker decided to come to him.

Early in the morning he came to his hall and asked him to report to his honor that the old soldier asked to see him. The military footman, cleaning his boot on the block, announced that the master was resting and that before eleven o'clock he did not receive anyone. The caretaker left and returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him in a dressing gown, in a red skufi. "What, brother, do you want?" he asked him. The old man’s heart boiled, tears welled up in his eyes, and he only said in a trembling voice: “Your honor!., do such a divine favor!..” Minsky glanced at him quickly, flushed, took his hand, led him into the office and locked him behind him Door. “Your honor! - continued the old man, - what fell from the wagon is gone; give me at least my poor Dunya. After all, you have enjoyed it; don't waste it in vain." “What has been done cannot be returned,” said the young man in extreme confusion, “I am guilty before you and glad to ask your forgiveness; but do not think that I could leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you want her? She loves Me; she had lost the habit of her former state. Neither you nor she - you will not forget what happened. Then, thrusting something into his sleeve, he opened the door, and the caretaker, without remembering how, found himself in the street.

For a long time he stood motionless, at last he saw a roll of papers behind the cuff of his sleeve; he took them out and opened several crumpled banknotes of five and ten rubles. Tears welled up again in his eyes, tears of indignation! He squeezed the papers into a ball, threw them to the ground, stamped them down with his heel, and went... Having gone a few steps, he stopped, thought... and returned... but there were no banknotes anymore. A well-dressed young man, seeing him, ran up to the cab, sat down hurriedly and shouted: "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 more. For this day, after two days, he returned to Minsky; but the military lackey told him sternly that the master was not receiving anyone, forced him out of the hall with his chest and slammed the door under his nose. The caretaker stood, stood, and went.

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

The doors were locked; he called, several seconds passed in painful expectation for him. The key rattled, they opened it. “Is Avdotya Samsonovna standing here?” - he asked. “Here,” answered the young maid, “why do you need her?” The caretaker, without answering, entered the hall. “No, no! the maid shouted after him, “Avdotya Samsonovna has guests.” But the caretaker, not listening, went on. The first two rooms were dark, the third was on fire. He walked to the open door and stopped. In the room, beautifully decorated, Minsky sat in thought. Dunya, dressed in all the luxury of fashion, sat on the arm of his chair, like a rider on her English saddle. She looked tenderly at Minsky, winding his black curls around her glittering fingers. Poor caretaker! Never had his daughter seemed to him so beautiful; he reluctantly admired her. "Who's there?" she asked without raising her head. He remained silent. Receiving no answer, Dunya raised her head ... and fell on the carpet with a cry. Frightened, Minsky rushed to pick it up and, suddenly seeing the old caretaker at the door, left Dunya and went up to him, trembling with anger. “What do you need? he said to him, clenching his teeth, “why are you following me everywhere like a robber?” Or do you want to kill me? Go away!" and with a strong hand, seizing the old man by the collar, pushed him out 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 went from Petersburg back to his station and again took up his post. “For the third year already,” he concluded, “how I live without Dunya and how there is not a word or a spirit about her. Whether she is alive or not, God knows. Anything happens. Not her first, not her last, was lured by a passing rake, but there he held it and left it. There are many of them in St. Petersburg, young fools, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow, you'll see, sweeping the street along with the barn's tavern. When you sometimes think that Dunya, perhaps, immediately disappears, you willy-nilly sin and wish her a grave ... "

Not long ago, while passing through a place ***, I remembered my friend; I learned that the station he commanded had already been destroyed. To my question: "Is the old caretaker still alive?" Nobody could give me a satisfactory answer. I decided to visit the familiar side, took free horses and set off for the village of N.

It happened in the fall. Greyish clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew from the reaped fields, blowing the red and yellow leaves from the trees on the way. I arrived at the village at sunset and stopped at the post house. In the passage (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. “Drunk, father,” she answered. "Where was he buried?" - "Beyond the outskirts, near his late mistress." "Couldn't you take me to his grave?" “Why not. Hey Vanka! it's enough for you to mess with the cat. Take the gentleman 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 not to know! He taught me how to cut pipes. It used to happen (God rest his soul!), He comes from the tavern, and we follow him: “Grandfather, grandfather! nuts! - and he gives us nuts. Everything used to be messing with us.

Do passers-by remember him?

- Yes, there are few passers-by; unless the assessor wraps up, but that is not up to the dead. Here in the summer a lady passed by, so she asked about the old caretaker and went to his grave.

- What lady? I asked with curiosity.

- A beautiful lady, - answered the boy, - she rode in a carriage with six horses, with three small barchats and with a nurse, and with a black pug; and as she was told that the old caretaker had died, she wept and said to the children: "Sit quietly, and I will go to the cemetery." And I volunteered to bring her. And the lady said: "I myself know the way." And she gave me a nickel in silver - such a kind lady! ..

We came to a cemetery, a bare place, not fenced in anything, strewn with wooden crosses, not overshadowed by a single tree. Never in my life have I seen such a sad cemetery.

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

- 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 nickel in silver - a glorious lady!

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

collegiate registrar,
Post station dictator.

Prince Vyazemsky

In the year 1816, in the month of May, I happened to pass through the *** province, along the highway, now destroyed. I was in a small rank, rode on chaises and paid runs for two horses. As a result of this, the wardens did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often took with a fight what, in my opinion, followed me by right. Being young and quick-tempered, I was indignant at the meanness and cowardice of the superintendent when this latter gave the troika prepared for me under the carriage of the bureaucratic gentleman. It took me just as long to get used to the fact that a choosy lackey carried me a dish at the governor's dinner. Now both seem to me in the order of things. In fact, what would happen to us if, instead of the generally convenient rule: honor the rank of the rank, another was introduced, for example: respect the mind of the mind? What controversy would arise! and servants with whom would they start serving food? But back to my story.

The day was hot. Three versts from the station, *** began to drip, and a minute later the pouring rain soaked me to the last thread. Upon arrival at the station, the first concern was to change clothes as soon as possible, the second to ask for tea. "Hey Dunya! the caretaker shouted, “put the samovar on and go for cream.” At these words, a girl of fourteen years old came out from behind the partition and ran into the passage. Her beauty struck me. "Is this your daughter?" I asked the caretaker. “Daughter, sir,” he answered with an air of contented vanity, “but such a reasonable, such a nimble mother, all dead.” Then he began to rewrite my travelogue, and I busied myself with examining the pictures that adorned his humble but tidy 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. In another, the depraved behavior of a young man is depicted in vivid features: 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; deep sadness and remorse are depicted in his face. 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 verses. All this has remained in my memory to this day, as well as pots of 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 vigorous, and his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons.

The horses stood 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 their original places; but there were no more flowers on the windows, and everything around showed dilapidation and neglect. The caretaker slept under a sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him up; he got up… It was definitely Samson Vyrin; but how old he is! While he was about to rewrite my roadmap, I looked at his gray hair, at the deep wrinkles of his long unshaven face, at his hunched back - and could not be surprised how three or four years could turn a cheerful man into a frail old man. “Did you recognize me? I asked him, “we are old acquaintances.” “It may happen,” he answered sullenly, “there is a big road here; I have had many passers-by." - "Is your Dunya healthy?" I continued. The old man frowned. “God knows,” he replied. So, is she married? - I said. The old man pretended not to have heard my question, and continued to read my travelogue 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.

“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 passes by, everyone will praise, no one will condemn. The ladies gave her, the one with a handkerchief, the other with earrings. Gentlemen, the travelers stopped on purpose, as if to dine or supper, but in fact only to look at her longer. It used to happen that the master, no matter how angry he was, would calm down in her presence and talk graciously to me. Believe me, sir: couriers, couriers talked to her for half an hour. She kept the house: what to clean up, what to cook, she managed to do everything. And I, the old fool, do not look enough, it used to be, I do not get enough; did I not love my Dunya, did I not cherish my child; did she not have a life? No, you won’t get rid of trouble; what is destined, that cannot be avoided. Then he began to tell me his grief in detail. Three years ago, one winter evening, when the caretaker was lining up 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 running. At this news the traveler raised his voice and 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 eat something? Dunya's appearance had its usual effect. The wrath of the traveler has passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered supper for himself. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, untangling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache. He settled down at the caretaker, began to talk cheerfully with him and with his daughter. Served dinner. In the meantime, the horses came, and the keeper ordered that immediately, without feeding, they were harnessed to the carriage of the traveler; but, returning, he found a young man lying almost unconscious on a bench: he became ill, his head ached, it was impossible to go ... What to do! the superintendent gave him his bed, and it was necessary, if the patient did not feel better, the next morning to send to S *** for a doctor.

The poor caretaker did not understand how he himself could allow his Duna to ride with the hussar, how he was blinded, and what happened to his mind then. In less than half an hour, his heart began to whine, whine, and anxiety took possession of him to such an extent that he could not resist and went himself to mass. Approaching the church, he saw that the people were already dispersing, but Dunya was neither in the fence nor on the porch. He hastily entered the church: the priest was leaving the altar; the deacon 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 deacon whether she had been at Mass. The deacon replied that she had not been. The caretaker went home neither alive nor dead. There was only one hope left for him: Dunya, due to the frivolity of her young years, took it into her head, perhaps, to ride to the next station, where her godmother lived. In excruciating excitement, he expected the return of the troika, on which he let her go. The coachman did not return. Finally, in the evening, he arrived alone and tipsy, with the deadly news: "Dunya from that station went further with a hussar."

The old man did not bear his misfortune; he immediately fell into 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 strong fever; he was taken to S *** and another was appointed in his place for a while. The same doctor who came to the hussar treated him too. He assured the caretaker that the young man was quite healthy and that at that time he still guessed about his malicious intention, but was silent, fearing his whip. Whether the German was telling the truth, or just wishing to boast of far-sightedness, he did not in the least console the poor patient. Hardly recovering from his illness, the superintendent begged S*** the postmaster for a vacation of two months and, without saying a word to anyone about his intention, went on foot to fetch his daughter. He knew from the traveler that Captain Minsky was on his way from Smolensk to Petersburg. The coachman who drove him said that Dunya was crying all the way, although she seemed to be driving on her own accord. “Perhaps,” thought the caretaker, “I will bring home my lost lamb.” With this thought he arrived in Petersburg, stayed in 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 the Demutov tavern. The caretaker decided to come to him.

Early in the morning he came to his hall and asked him to report to his honor that the old soldier asked to see him. The military footman, cleaning his boot on the block, announced that the master was resting and that before eleven o'clock he did not receive anyone. The caretaker left and returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him in a dressing gown, in a red skufi. "What, brother, do you want?" he asked him. The old man’s heart boiled, tears welled up in his eyes, and he only said in a trembling voice: “Your honor! .. do such a divine favor! ..” Minsky glanced at him quickly, flushed, took his hand, led him into the office and locked him behind him Door. “Your honor! - continued the old man, - what fell from the wagon is gone; give me at least my poor Dunya. After all, you have enjoyed it; don't waste it in vain." “What has been done cannot be returned,” said the young man in extreme confusion, “I am guilty before you and glad to ask your forgiveness; but do not think that I could leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you want her? She loves Me; she had lost the habit of her former state. Neither you nor she - you will not forget what happened. Then, thrusting something into his sleeve, he opened the door, and the caretaker, without remembering how, found himself in the street.

For a long time he stood motionless, at last he saw a roll of papers behind the cuff of his sleeve; he took them out and unfolded several crumpled banknotes of five and ten rubles. Tears welled up again in his eyes, tears of indignation! He squeezed the papers into a ball, threw them on the ground, stamped them down with his heel, and went... Having walked a few steps, he stopped, thought... and returned... but there were no banknotes anymore. A well-dressed young man, seeing him, ran up to the cab, sat down hurriedly and shouted: "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. For this day, after two days, he returned to Minsky; but the military lackey told him sternly that the master was not receiving anyone, forced him out of the hall with his chest and slammed the door under his breath. The caretaker stood, stood, and went.

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

The doors were locked; he called, several seconds passed in painful expectation for him. The key rattled, they opened it. “Is Avdotya Samsonovna standing here?” - he asked. “Here,” answered the young maid, “why do you need her?” The caretaker, without answering, entered the hall. “No, no! the maid shouted after him, “Avdotya Samsonovna has guests.” But the caretaker, not listening, went on. The first two rooms were dark, the third was on fire. He walked to the open door and stopped. In the room, beautifully decorated, Minsky sat in thought. Dunya, dressed in all the luxury of fashion, sat on the arm of his chair, like a rider on her English saddle. She looked tenderly at Minsky, winding his black curls around her glittering fingers. Poor caretaker! Never had his daughter seemed to him so beautiful; he reluctantly admired her. "Who's there?" she asked without raising her head. He remained silent. Receiving no answer, Dunya raised her head ... and fell on the carpet with a cry. Frightened, Minsky rushed to pick it up and, suddenly seeing the old caretaker at the door, left Dunya and went up to him, trembling with anger. “What do you need? he said to him, clenching his teeth, “why are you following me everywhere like a robber?” Or do you want to kill 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 went from Petersburg back to his station and again took up his post. “For the third year already,” he concluded, “how I live without Dunya and how there is neither a rumor nor a spirit about her. Whether she is alive or not, God knows. Anything happens. Not her first, not her last, was seduced by a passing rake, and there he held her, and left her. There are many of them in St. Petersburg, young fools, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow, you'll see, sweeping the street along with the barn's tavern. When you sometimes think that Dunya, perhaps, immediately disappears, you willy-nilly sin and wish her a grave ... "

Such was the story of my friend, the old caretaker, a story repeatedly interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with his coat, like the zealous Terentyich in Dmitriev's beautiful ballad. These tears were partly excited by the punch, of which he drew out five glasses in the continuation of his story; but be that as it may, they touched my heart greatly. Having parted with him, for a long time I could not forget the old caretaker, for a long time I thought about poor Dunya ...

Not long ago, while passing through a place ***, I remembered my friend; I learned that the station he commanded had already been destroyed. To my question: "Is the old caretaker still alive?" Nobody could give me a satisfactory answer. I decided to visit the familiar side, took free horses and set off for the village of N.

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.

Do passers-by remember him?

- Yes, there are few passers-by; unless the assessor wraps up, but that is not up to the dead. Here in the summer a lady passed by, so she asked about the old caretaker and went to his grave.

- What lady? I asked with curiosity.

“A beautiful lady,” answered the boy; - she rode in a carriage with six horses, with three small barchats and with a nurse, and with a black pug; and as she was told that the old caretaker had died, she wept and said to the children: "Sit quietly, and I will go to the cemetery." And I volunteered to bring her. And the lady said: "I myself know the way." And she gave me a nickel in silver - such a kind lady! ..

We came to a cemetery, a bare place, not fenced in anything, strewn with wooden crosses, not overshadowed by a single tree. Never in my life have I seen such a sad cemetery.

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

- And the lady came here? I asked.

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

1830

The story "The Stationmaster" is one of the five stories that went down in the history of literature under the name of Belkin's stories. This story was written in September 1830, that same autumn, when Pushkin, having left for property matters, was forced to stay until winter, while cholera raged in the capitals. But it was a productive autumn for the poet.

The saddest story of the five other stories tells about little man. According to Maxim Gorky, Russian realism began with this small work. The Stationmaster was first published along with other works in the name of a certain Ivan Belkin in 1831, and in 1834 they were published under the name of Pushkin himself. Leo Tolstoy believed that Belkin's Tales should be studied by every writer.

One day, an acquaintance of his came to Pushkin, and, seeing Belkin's Tales, which had come out of print, on the table, he asked: "Who is this Belkin?" To which the poet replied: “Whoever he is, you need to write stories like this: simply, briefly and clearly.”

It is also striking that, despite the past 200 years, the plot of the story "The Stationmaster" has not become outdated and has even acquired some additional relevance today. Girls from poor families still dream of breaking out of poverty by falling in love with a wealthy man.

Pushkin, Alexander Sergeyevich

Stationmaster

A.S. Pushkin

Complete Works with Criticism

STATION OFFICER

Collegiate Registrar, Postal Station Dictator

Prince Vyazemsky.