The work belongs to the cycle “Tales of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin”, where in addition to “The Station Agent” there are four more works and a preface by the publisher. The story “The Station Warden” is listed as the fourth in the cycle; its text was written on September 14, 1830 in Boldino. A year later it was published as part of a series.
The story is told from the perspective of the simple-minded landowner Ivan Petrovich Belkin, invented by Pushkin. The fictional Belkin recalls a half-forgotten story told to him by Samson Vyrin, a station superintendent in one of the Russian provinces.
Vyrin had a daughter, Dunya, a beautiful and flirtatious girl, who captivated the passing hussar Minsky with her grace. In order not to part with Dunya, Minsky pretended to be sick and for several days enjoyed the company of the young charmer who took care of him. Samson Vyrin did not suspect the deception, and when the “recovered” hussar offered to give Dunya a ride to the nearest church, he himself convinced his daughter to sit in the carriage of a “decent man.” Minsky took the girl to St. Petersburg and made her his kept woman. The heartbroken father went in search of his daughter. Minsky tried to pay off Vyrin with money and convince him that Dunya lived in splendor and luxury, was in love with him and would not want to return to her father’s house. And so it turned out. Seeing her father on the threshold, the girl faints, and Samson Vyrin is pushed out into the street by the lackeys. Unable to cope with grief, the old man died. Many years later, a young lady with three children comes to his grave and cries inconsolably, hugging a mound overgrown with grass.
Pushkin's story “The Station Agent” is written in the style of sentimentalism. This is one of the trends that dominated Russian literature in the first half of the 19th century.
", third - "Undertaker", fifth - "Peasant Young Lady")
In May 1816, as Pushkin’s story tells, I, then still a young man, got wet in the pouring rain, stopped at a road station and ordered myself tea. Dunya, the daughter of the station superintendent Samson Vyrin, a girl of extraordinary beauty, only 14 years old, ran to put the samovar on. I liked her very much. When Dunya returned with tea, I struck up a conversation with her and was fascinated by her intelligent and pleasant manner. When I left the station, the caretaker ordered his daughter to accompany me to the horses. In the hallway I asked Dunya for permission to kiss her, and I still remember this hot kiss.
Three or four years later I was again traveling in the same places, eager to find out what happened during this time to Dunya and her father. The station building was no longer as neat and tidy as it used to be. Warden Vyrin has aged a lot. He had a silent appearance and began to talk only after I treated him to several glasses of punch.
When asked about Dunya, the stationmaster told a sad story. Three years ago, in the winter, a certain hussar drove into the station. He immediately paid attention to Dunya, stopped rushing to leave for his further journey and ordered himself dinner. After dinner, this visitor suddenly became ill. Dunya began to look after the patient, who constantly shook her hand as a sign of gratitude. A couple of days later, the recovered hussar was already talking with Dunya as if he were an old acquaintance. Leaving the station, he offered to give the girl a ride in his wagon to the church on the edge of the village. The caretaker did not interfere. The hussar and Dunya left, and in the evening the driver driving their horses came back and said: he took them both not to the church, but to the neighboring station, and from there they drove on.
There was no limit to the grief of the old caretaker. He realized that the hussar's illness was feigned. Having fallen ill himself with a severe fever, the caretaker, after recovery, went to St. Petersburg. From the roadside, Vyrin learned that it was there that the hussar, who bore the surname Minsky, was heading there.
The caretaker found out in the capital where Minsky lived and went to his home. Seeing him, the hussar flushed. The poor father asked to return his daughter to him, saying that now Minsky had already had enough of Dunya, so let him not destroy her in vain. Minsky in response assured that Dunya had already lost the habit of her previous poor state and would be happy with him, and not with her father. Having thrust several banknotes into the caretaker's hand, he pushed him out the door.
Vyrin was in despair. For several days he walked past the house where the hussar lived, and once he saw him drive past in a smart droshky. The caretaker ran after him. Minsky stopped in front of one entrance and entered it. The caretaker guessed: his Dunya most likely lives there. Following the hussar, he entered one of the apartments and went inside, although he was detained by the maid.
Minsky was sitting in a chair, and on the arm next to him was the luxuriously dressed Dunya, who was tenderly wrapping the hussar’s hair around her fingers. Seeing her father, the daughter fainted. An enraged Minsky approached the caretaker, grabbed him by the collar and threw him onto the stairs. Vyrin wanted to file a complaint against the hussar, but, on reflection, he waved his hand, abandoned this useless undertaking and returned to his station. While he was talking about all this, he constantly wiped away his tears with his hollow clothes.
A. S. Pushkin “Station Warden”. Audiobook
I sadly left the stationmaster. Several years later I had the opportunity to pass through those places again. The station had already been closed by that time, although its original house was still standing. It was no longer Vyrin who lived there, but the brewer’s family. The latter's wife told me that the caretaker died, completely drunk before his death. Vyrin was buried in a local cemetery, and in the summer some rich lady with three small children visited his poor grave. She lay on the grave mound for a long time, and then went to the priest and ordered a service for the deceased.
The most Russian season of the year is winter. Not a fast summer with green spaces, annoying mosquitoes and flies. Not a thoughtful autumn in gold at first, slushy-gray and smoky-cold later. An unfriendly spring with the lively polyphony of birds and the stuffy aromas of wildflowers. Namely, winter: endlessly white, endless snow, a echoing emptiness, which the Russian soul, cramped in the body, strives to break; strong frost, inciting the heart and dulling fear. Blizzards, blizzards, blizzards are allies of unimaginable feats. Winter. Patroness of the desperate and adversary of the desperate.
Director Sergei Solovyov treated the film adaptation of the story by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin very carefully. The text is reproduced verbatim, the little man is really small, and his face is even too kind: the visualized tragedy of the father, who did not wait for the return of the prodigal daughter, potentially plays on an incomparably larger number of instruments. However, it would be strange if the director did not see the story in his own way. All that remained of the image of the station superintendent Samson Vyrin’s daughter, a “little coquette,” was “big blue eyes.” Solovyovskaya's Dunya is as beautiful as she is silent: not a single line is spoken throughout the entire film. She has become more than a thing, a thing that cannot call itself one. However, Dunyasha didn’t speak at Pushkin’s either, but she did talk and “answered without any timidity.” Behind the descriptive vividness one could see a person, a girl, a daughter. No matter how blasphemous it may sound, there is nothing to love Dunya, performed by Marianna Kushnirova, in a fatherly way (only blindly, of course), like a man, it’s not so difficult, unusual. Beauty has always attracted and will attract, but in this case it is not enough. Naturally, the center of the narrative is noticeably shifting towards male characters. Samson Vyrin is a copy of Pushkin, and Captain Minsky, who took away his father’s only daughter, does not seem like that archetypal rake, vulgar and “making fun.” Mikhalkov, in essence, will play Paratov in the same way later, but at higher speeds and in general as a businessman. Minsky is an adventurer, a rogue, but it was not possible to portray him as an evil, real antagonist of Vyrin. How can anyone be blamed for appropriating something that seems to belong to no one?
The most Russian music romances. Melodic, lyrical, hysterical. They can save, destroy, explain everything in the world. It was a good idea to include them in the film. The bored landowner Ivan Pavlovich Belkin, the narrator, travels to the sounds of romances. He tells the story of the unfortunate caretaker in the tone of a tired collector of not too sophisticated tales. “Not her first, not her last, was lured away by a passing rake,” says Vyrin about his daughter. The meaning of this phrase is very accurately expressed in the mood of the film: although it manages to diversify and even improve the original with visible and audible advantages, in general the picture looks too dull. The most full-colored episode is the episode of the snowball game between Dunya and Minsky. This is where there was lively Russian fun, drawn characters and spontaneity of display, and not the look of a bored film artist. Solovyov completely ignored the reproductions of the parable of the prodigal son. And this can be regarded as the fact that the director did not want to invest much, but only wanted to quote Pushkin and thicken the colors of Russian road melancholy. Perhaps the most Russian of all.
There are no more unhappy people than stationmasters, for travelers invariably blame the stationmasters for all their troubles and seek to take out their anger on them about bad roads, unbearable weather, bad horses, and the like. Meanwhile, the caretakers are mostly meek and unresponsive people, “real martyrs of the fourteenth class, protected by their rank only from beatings, and even then not always.” The caretaker's life is full of worries and troubles, he sees no gratitude from anyone, on the contrary, he hears threats and screams and feels the pushes of irritated guests. Meanwhile, “one can glean a lot of interesting and instructive things from their conversations.”
In 1816, the narrator happened to be driving through the *** province, and on the way he was caught in the rain. At the station he hurried to change clothes and drink tea. The caretaker's daughter, a girl of about fourteen named Dunya, who amazed the narrator with her beauty, put the samovar on and set the table. While Dunya was busy, the traveler examined the decoration of the hut. On the wall he noticed pictures depicting the story of the prodigal son, on the windows there were geraniums, in the room there was a bed behind a colorful curtain. The traveler invited Samson Vyrin - that was the name of the caretaker - and his daughter to share a meal with him, and a relaxed atmosphere arose that was conducive to sympathy. The horses had already been supplied, but the traveler still did not want to part with his new acquaintances.
Several years passed, and again he had the opportunity to travel along this route. He was looking forward to meeting old acquaintances. “Having entered the room,” he recognized the previous situation, but “everything around showed disrepair and neglect.” Dunya was not in the house either. The aged caretaker was gloomy and taciturn; only a glass of punch stirred him up, and the traveler heard the sad story of Dunya’s disappearance. This happened three years ago. A young officer arrived at the station, who was in a hurry and angry that the horses had not been served for a long time, but when he saw Dunya, he softened and even stayed for dinner. When the horses arrived, the officer suddenly felt very unwell. The doctor who arrived found him to have a fever and prescribed complete rest. On the third day, the officer was already healthy and prepared to leave. It was Sunday, and he offered Duna to take her to church. The father allowed his daughter to go, not expecting anything bad, but he was still overcome by anxiety, and he ran to the church. Mass had already ended, the worshipers were leaving, and from the words of the sexton, the caretaker learned that Dunya was not in the church. The driver who was carrying the officer returned in the evening and reported that Dunya had gone with him to the next station. The caretaker realized that the officer’s illness was feigned, and he himself fell ill with a severe fever. Having recovered, Samson begged for leave and went on foot to St. Petersburg, where, as he knew from the road, Captain Minsky was going. In St. Petersburg he found Minsky and came to him. Minsky did not immediately recognize him, but when he did, he began to assure Samson that he loved Dunya, would never leave her and would make her happy. He gave the caretaker some money and took him outside.
Samson really wanted to see his daughter again. Chance helped him. On Liteinaya he noticed Minsky in a smart droshky, which stopped at the entrance of a three-story building. Minsky entered the house, and the caretaker learned from a conversation with the coachman that Dunya lived here, and entered the entrance. Once in the apartment, through the open door of the room he saw Minsky and his Dunya, beautifully dressed and looking at Minsky with uncertainty. Noticing her father, Dunya screamed and fell unconscious on the carpet. An angry Minsky pushed the old man onto the stairs, and he went home. And now for the third year he knows nothing about Duna and is afraid that her fate is the same as the fate of many young fools.
After some time, the narrator happened to pass through these places again. The station no longer existed, and Samson “died about a year ago.” The boy, the son of a brewer who settled in Samson’s hut, took the narrator to Samson’s grave and said that in the summer a beautiful lady came with three young ladies and lay for a long time on the caretaker’s grave, and the kind lady gave him a silver nickel.
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Stationmaster (original)
(quoted from www.rvb.ru)
Collegiate Registrar
Postal station dictator.
Prince Vyazemsky.
Who hasn’t cursed the stationmasters, who hasn’t sworn at them? Who, in a moment of anger, did not demand from them a fatal book in order to write into it his useless complaint about oppression, rudeness and malfunction? Who does not consider them monsters of the human race, equal to the late clerks or at least the Murom robbers? Let us, however, be fair, we will try to put ourselves in their position and, perhaps, we will begin to judge them much more leniently. What is a stationmaster? A real martyr of the fourteenth grade, protected by his rank only from beatings, and even then not always (I refer to the conscience of my readers). What is the position of this dictator, as Prince Vyazemsky jokingly calls him? Isn't this real hard labor? I have peace neither day nor night. The traveler takes out all the frustration accumulated during a boring ride on the caretaker. The weather is unbearable, the road is bad, the driver is stubborn, the horses are not moving - and the caretaker is to blame. Entering his poor home, a traveler looks at him as if he were an enemy; it would be good if he managed to get rid of the uninvited guest soon; but if the horses don’t happen?.. God! What curses, what threats will rain down on his head! In the rain and slush, he is forced to run around the yards; in a storm, in the Epiphany frost, he goes into the entryway, just to rest for a minute from the screams and pushes of an irritated guest. The general arrives; the trembling caretaker gives him the last two threes, including the courier one. The general leaves without saying thank you. Five minutes later - the bell rings!.. and the courier throws his travel document on his table!.. Let's look into all this thoroughly, and instead of indignation, our hearts will be filled with sincere compassion. A few more words: for twenty years in a row I traveled across Russia in all directions; I know almost all postal routes; I know several generations of coachmen; I don’t know a rare caretaker by sight, I haven’t dealt with a rare one; I hope to publish a curious stock of my travel observations in a short time; For now I will only say that the class of stationmasters is presented to the general opinion in the most false form. These much-maligned caretakers are generally peaceful people, naturally helpful, inclined towards community, modest in their claims to honor and not too money-loving. From their conversations (which are inappropriately neglected by gentlemen passing by) one can glean a lot of interesting and instructive things. As for me, I confess that I prefer their conversation to the speeches of some 6th class official traveling on official business.
You can easily guess that I have friends from the venerable class of caretakers. Indeed, the memory of one of them is precious to me. Circumstances once brought us closer together, and this is what I now intend to talk about with my dear readers.
In 1816, in the month of May, I happened to be driving through the *** province, along a highway that has now been destroyed. I was in a minor rank, rode on carriages and paid fees for two horses. As a result of this, the caretakers did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often took in battle what, in my opinion, was rightfully due me. Being young and hot-tempered, I was indignant at the baseness and cowardice of the caretaker when this latter gave the troika he had prepared for me under the carriage of the official master. It took me just as long to get used to having a picky servant hand me a dish at the governor’s dinner. Nowadays both seem to me to be in the order of things. In fact, what would happen to us if instead of the generally convenient rule: honor the rank of rank, Another thing came into use, for example: honor your mind? What controversy would arise! and who would the servants start serving the food with? But I turn to my story.
The day was hot. Three miles from the station*** it began to drizzle, and a minute later the pouring rain soaked me to the last thread. Upon arrival at the station, the first concern was to quickly change clothes, the second was to ask myself some tea. “Hey, Dunya! - the caretaker shouted, “put on the samovar and go get some cream.” At these words, a girl of about fourteen came out from behind the partition and ran into the hallway. Her beauty amazed me. “Is this your daughter?” - I asked the caretaker. “My daughter, sir,” he answered with an air of satisfied pride, “she’s so intelligent, so nimble, she looks like a dead mother.” Then he began to copy out my travel document, and I began to look at the pictures that decorated his humble but neat abode. They depicted the story of the prodigal son: in the first, a respectable old man in a cap and dressing gown releases a restless young man, who hastily accepts his blessing and a bag of money. Another vividly depicts the depraved behavior of a young man: he sits at a table, surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Further, a squandered young man, in rags and a three-cornered hat, tends pigs and shares a meal with them; his face shows deep sadness and remorse. Finally, his return to his father is presented; a kind old man in the same cap and dressing gown runs out to meet him: the prodigal son is on his knees; in the future, the cook kills a well-fed calf, and the elder brother asks the servants about the reason for such joy. Under each picture I read decent German poetry. All this has been preserved in my memory to this day, as well as the pots with
balsam, and a bed with a colorful curtain, and other objects that surrounded me at that time. I see, as now, the owner himself, a man of about fifty, fresh and cheerful, and his long green coat with three medals on faded ribbons.
Before I had time to pay my old coachman, Dunya returned with a samovar. The little coquette noticed at second glance the impression she made on me; she lowered her big blue eyes; I began to talk to her, she answered me without any timidity, like a girl who has seen the light. I offered my father her glass of punch; I served Duna a cup of tea, and the three of us began talking as if we had known each other for centuries.
The horses were ready a long time ago, but I still didn’t want to part with the caretaker and his daughter. Finally I said goodbye to them; my father wished me a good journey, and my daughter accompanied me to the cart. In the entryway I stopped and asked her permission to kiss her; Dunya agreed... I can count many kisses since I’ve been doing this, but not one has left such a long, such a pleasant memory in me.
Several years passed, and circumstances led me to that very road, to those very places. I remembered the old caretaker's daughter and rejoiced at the thought that I would see her again. But, I thought, the old caretaker may have already been replaced; Dunya is probably already married. The thought of the death of one or the other also flashed through my mind, and I approached the station *** with a sad foreboding.
The horses stopped at the post house. Entering the room, I immediately recognized the pictures depicting the story of the prodigal son; the table and bed were in 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 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; I have had many passers-by." - “Is your Dunya healthy?” I continued. The old man frowned. “God only knows,” he replied. “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. 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 interested and touched me.
“So you knew my Dunya? - he began. - Who didn’t know her? Ah, Dunya, Dunya! What a girl she was! It happened that whoever passed by, everyone would praise, no one would judge. The ladies gave it as a gift, sometimes with a handkerchief, sometimes with earrings. Gentlemen passing by deliberately stopped, as if to have lunch or dinner, but in fact only to take a closer look at her. It used to be that the master, no matter how angry he was, would calm down in her presence and talk kindly to me. Believe it, sir: couriers and couriers talked to her for half an hour. She kept the house going: she kept up with everything, what to clean, what to cook. And I, the old fool, can’t get enough of it; Didn’t I really love my Dunya, didn’t I cherish my child; Did she really have no life? No, you can’t avoid trouble; what is destined cannot be avoided.” Then he began to tell me in detail his grief. Three years ago, one winter evening, when the caretaker was ruling a new book, and his daughter was sewing a dress for herself behind the partition, a troika drove up, and a traveler in a Circassian hat, in a military overcoat, wrapped in a shawl, entered the room, demanding horses. The horses were all in full speed. At this news the traveler raised his voice and 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 supper for himself. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, unraveling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared as a young, slender hussar with a black mustache. He settled down with the caretaker and began to talk cheerfully with him and his daughter. They served dinner. Meanwhile, the horses arrived, and the caretaker ordered that they immediately, without feeding, be harnessed to the traveler’s wagon; but, when he returned, he found a young man almost unconscious lying on a bench: he felt sick, had a headache, it was impossible to go... What to do! the caretaker gave him his bed, and it was supposed, if the patient did not feel better, to send to S*** for a doctor the next morning.
The next day the hussar became worse. His man went on horseback to the city to get a doctor. Dunya tied a scarf soaked in vinegar around his head and sat down with her sewing by his bed. In front of the caretaker, the patient groaned and said almost a word, but he drank two cups of coffee and, groaning, ordered himself lunch. Dunya did not leave his side. He constantly asked for a drink, and Dunya brought him a mug of lemonade she had prepared. The sick man wet his lips and each time he returned the mug, as a sign of gratitude, he shook Dunyushka’s hand with his weak hand. The doctor arrived at lunchtime. He felt the patient’s pulse, spoke to him in German and announced in Russian that all he needed was peace and that in two days he would be able to hit the road. The hussar gave him twenty-five rubles for the visit, invited him to dine; 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, incessantly joking with Dunya, then with the caretaker; whistling songs, talking
with travelers, wrote down their travel documents in the postal book, and became so fond of the kind caretaker that on the third morning he was sorry to part with his kind guest. The day was Sunday; Dunya was getting ready for mass. The hussar was given a wagon. He said goodbye to the caretaker, generously rewarding him for his stay and refreshments; He said goodbye to Dunya and volunteered to take her to the church, which was located on the edge of the village. Dunya stood in perplexity ... “What are you afraid of? - her father said to her, “after all, his high nobility is not a wolf and will not eat you: take a ride to the church.” Dunya sat down in the wagon next to the hussar, the servant jumped onto the handle, the coachman whistled, and the horses galloped off.
The poor caretaker did not understand how he could allow his Duna to ride with the hussar, how blindness came over him, and what happened to his mind then. Less than half an hour had passed when his heart began to ache and ache, and anxiety took possession of him to such an extent that he could not resist and went to mass himself. Approaching the church, he saw that the people were already leaving, but Dunya was neither in the fence nor on the porch. He hastily entered the church: the priest was leaving the altar; the sexton was extinguishing the candles, two old women were still praying in the corner; but Dunya was not in the church. The poor father forcibly decided to ask the sexton whether she had attended mass. The sexton replied that she had not been. The caretaker went home neither alive nor dead. There was only one hope left to him: Dunya, in the frivolity of her young years, perhaps decided to take a ride to the next station, where her godmother lived. In painful anxiety he awaited the return of the troika on which he had let her go. The coachman did not return. Finally, in the evening, he arrived alone and drunk, with the murderous news: “Dunya from that station went further with the hussar.”
The old man 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 severe 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 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 will bring home my lost lamb.” 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, in a red skufi. “What do you want, brother?” - he asked him. The old man’s heart began to boil, tears welled up in his eyes, and in a trembling voice he said only: “Your Honor!.. do such a divine favor!..” Minsky looked at him quickly, flushed, took him by the hand, led him into the office and locked him behind him. door. “Your Honor! - continued the old man, - what fell from the cart was lost; at least give me my poor Dunya. After all, you were amused by her; Don’t destroy her in vain.” “What has been done cannot be undone,” said the young man in extreme confusion, “I am guilty before you and am glad to ask you for forgiveness; but don’t think that I could leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you need it? She loves Me; she was unaccustomed to her previous state. Neither you, Niona, will forget what happened.” Then, putting something down his sleeve, he opened the door, and the caretaker, without remembering how, found himself on the street.
He stood motionless for a long time, and finally saw a bundle of papers behind the cuff of his sleeve; he took them out and unfolded several crumpled banknotes of five and ten rubles. 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 day, after two days, 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 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 rushed past 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 caretaker's head. He returned and, drawing level with the coachman: “Whose horse, brother? - he asked, “isn’t it Minsky?” “Exactly so,” answered the coachman, “what do you want?” - “Well, here’s the thing: your master ordered me to take a note to his Dunya, and I’ll forget where Dunya lives.” - “Yes, here, on the second floor. You are late, brother, with your note; now he’s with her.” “There’s no need,” the caretaker objected with an inexplicable movement of his heart, “thanks for the advice, and I’ll do my job.” And with that word he walked up the stairs.
The doors were locked; he called, several seconds passed in painful anticipation. The key rattled and it was opened for him. “Is Avdotya Samsonovna standing here?” - he asked. “Here,” answered the young maid, “why do you need it?” The caretaker, without answering, entered the hall. “You can’t, you can’t! - the maid shouted after him, “Avdotya Samsonovna has guests.” But the caretaker, without listening, walked on. The first two rooms were dark, the third was on fire. He walked up to the open door and stopped. In 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 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 on the carpet with a cry. 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, clenching his teeth, - why are you sneaking around me like a robber? or do you want to stab me? Go away!" - and, with a strong hand, seizing the old man by the collar, pushed him onto the stairs.
The old man came to his apartment. His friend advised him to complain; but the caretaker thought, waved his hand, and decided to retreat. Two days later he set out from St. Petersburg back to his station and again took up his post. “For the third year now,” he concluded, “I have been living without Dunya and there is neither a rumor nor a breath of her. Whether she is alive or not, God knows. Stuff happens. Not her first, not her last, was lured away by a passing rake, but he held her there and abandoned her. There are a lot of them in St. Petersburg, young fools, today in satin and velvet, and tomorrow, look, they are sweeping the street along with the tavern's nakedness. When you sometimes think that Dunya, perhaps, is disappearing right there, you will inevitably sin and wish for her grave...”
This was the story of my friend, the old caretaker, a story repeatedly interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with his lap, like the zealous Terentyich in Dmitriev’s beautiful ballad. These tears were partly excited by the punch I would draw
n five glasses in the continuation of his story; but be that as it may, they touched my heart greatly. Having parted with him, I could not forget the old caretaker for a long time, I thought for a long time about poor Duna...
Recently, driving through the town of ***, I remembered my friend; I learned that the station 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 a familiar side, took free horses and set off for the village of N.
This happened in the fall. Gray clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew from the reaped fields, blowing red and yellow leaves from the trees they encountered. I arrived in the village at sunset and stopped at the post office. In the entryway (where poor Dunya once kissed me) a fat woman came out and answered my questions that the old caretaker had died a year ago, that a brewer had settled in his house, and that she was the brewer’s wife. I felt sorry for my wasted trip and the seven rubles spent for nothing. “Why did he die?” - I asked the brewer’s wife. “I got drunk, father,” she answered. “Where was he buried?” - “Outside the outskirts, near his late mistress.” - “Is it possible to take me to his grave?” - “Why not? Hey Vanka! You've had enough of messing around with the cat. Take the master to the cemetery and show him the caretaker’s grave.”
At these words, a ragged boy, red-haired and crooked, ran out to me and immediately led me outside the outskirts.
Did you know the dead man? - I asked him dear.
How could you not know! He taught me how to carve pipes. It used to be (may he rest in heaven!) he would come out of a tavern, and we would follow him: “Grandfather, grandfather! nuts!” - and he gives us nuts. Everything used to mess with us.
Do passers-by remember him?
Yes, but there are few travelers; Unless the assessor wraps it up, he has no time for the dead. In the summer, a lady passed by, and she asked about the old caretaker and went to his grave.
What lady? - I asked curiously.
“A beautiful lady,” answered the boy; - she rode in a carriage of six horses, with three little barchats and a nurse, and a black pug; and when they told her that the old caretaker had died, she began to cry and said to the children: “Sit still, and I’ll go to the cemetery.” And I volunteered to bring 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 the cemetery, a bare place, unfenced, dotted with wooden crosses, not shaded 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 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.
