Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

STORIES OF THE LATE IVAN PETROVICH BELKIN

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

Ms. Prostakova

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

Skotinin

Mitrofan for me.

undergrowth.

FROM THE PUBLISHER

Undertaking to bother about the publication of the Tales of I. P. Belkin, now offered to the public, we wanted to add to them at least a brief biography of the late author and thereby partly satisfy the just curiosity of lovers of Russian literature. For this we turned to Marya Alekseevna Trafilina, the closest relative and heiress of Ivan Petrovich Belkin; but, unfortunately, it was impossible for her to deliver any news of him to us, for the deceased was not at all familiar to her. She advised us to take this subject to a respectable husband, a former friend of Ivan Petrovich. We followed this advice, and to our letter we received the desired answer as follows. We place it without any changes and notes, as a precious monument of a noble image of opinions and touching friendship, and at the same time, as a very sufficient biographical news. My gracious Sovereign ****! I had the honor to receive your most venerable letter dated the 15th of this month, on the 23rd of this month, in which you express your desire to me to have detailed information about the time of birth and death, about the service, about domestic circumstances, as well as about the activities and disposition of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin, my former sincere friend and neighbor on the estates. With great pleasure I fulfill this desire of yours and forward to you, my dear sir, everything that I can remember from his conversations, as well as from my own observations. Ivan Petrovich Belkin was born from honest and noble parents in 1798 in the village of Goryukhino. His late father, Second Major Pyotr Ivanovich Belkin, was married to a girl, Pelageya Gavrilovna, from the Trafilin family. He was not a rich man, but a moderate one, and in terms of economics he was very clever. Their son received his primary education from a village deacon. To this venerable husband, he seems to be indebted for his desire for reading and studies in Russian literature. In 1815, he entered the service in an infantry chasseur regiment (I don’t remember the number), in which he remained until 1823. The death of his parents, which happened almost at the same time, forced him to resign and come to the village of Goryukhino, his fatherland. Having entered the management of the estate, Ivan Petrovich, due to his inexperience and kindness, soon launched the economy and weakened the strict order established by his late parent. Having replaced the serviceable and efficient headman, with whom his peasants (according to their habit) were dissatisfied, he entrusted the management of the village to his old housekeeper, who acquired his power of attorney with the art of telling stories. This stupid old woman could never tell a twenty-five-ruble note from a fifty-ruble note; the peasants, whom she was godmother to everyone, were not at all afraid of her; The headman chosen by them indulged them to such an extent, cheating at the same time, that Ivan Petrovich was forced to abolish the corvee and establish a very moderate quitrent; but here, too, the peasants, taking advantage of his weakness, for the first year begged for a deliberate benefit, and in the next more than two-thirds of the dues they paid with nuts, lingonberries, and the like; and there were shortfalls. Being a friend of Ivan Petrovich's late parent, I considered it my duty to offer my son my advice and repeatedly volunteered to restore the former, he had missed, order. For this, having once come to him, I demanded the business books, summoned the rogue headman, and in the presence of Ivan Petrovich began to consider them. The young master at first began to follow me with every possible attention and diligence; but as it turned out according to the accounts that in the last two years the number of peasants had multiplied, while the number of yard birds and livestock had deliberately decreased, Ivan Petrovich was content with this first information and did not listen to me further, and at the very moment when I, with my searches and strict interrogating the rogue, he brought the headman into extreme confusion and forced him to complete silence, with my great annoyance I heard Ivan Petrovich snoring soundly in his chair. Since then, I stopped interfering in his economic orders and transferred his affairs (like himself) to the order of the Almighty. This, however, did not upset our friendly relations in the least; for I, condoling with his weakness and fatal negligence, common to our young nobles, sincerely loved Ivan Petrovich; Yes, it was impossible not to love a young man so meek and honest. For his part, Ivan Petrovich showed respect for my years and was cordially devoted to me. Until his very death, he saw me almost every day, cherishing my simple conversation, although neither in habits, nor in the way of thinking, nor in disposition, for the most part, did we resemble each other. Ivan Petrovich led the most moderate life, avoiding all sorts of excesses; I never happened to see him tipsy (which in our region can be considered an unheard-of miracle); he had a great inclination towards the female sex, but his bashfulness was truly girlish. * . In addition to the stories, which you would like to mention in your letter, Ivan Petrovich left a lot of manuscripts, which are partly in my possession, partly used by his housekeeper for various household needs. Thus, last winter, all the windows of her wing were sealed with the first part of the novel, which he did not finish. The above stories were, it seems, his first experience. They, as Ivan Petrovich said, are for the most part fair and heard by him from various persons. * . However, the names in them are almost all invented by him, and the names of villages and villages are borrowed from our neighborhood, which is why my village is mentioned somewhere. This did not come from any evil intention, but solely from a lack of imagination. In the autumn of 1828, Ivan Petrovich fell ill with a catarrhal fever, which turned into a fever, and died, despite the vigilant efforts of our county doctor, a very skilled man, especially in the treatment of rooted diseases, such as corns and the like. He died in my arms at the age of 30 and was buried in the church of the village of Goryukhin near his deceased parents. Ivan Petrovich was of medium height, had gray eyes, blond hair, and a straight nose; his face was white and thin. Here, my dear sir, is all that I could remember about the way of life, occupations, disposition and appearance of my late neighbor and friend. But in case you wish to make any use of this letter of mine, I humbly ask you not to mention my name in any way; for, although I greatly respect and love writers, I consider it superfluous to enter into this title and indecent at my age. With my true respect, etc. November 1830 16. The village of Nenaradovo Considering it our duty to respect the will of our author's venerable friend, we express our deepest gratitude to him for the news brought to us and hope that the public will appreciate their sincerity and good nature.

A.P.

* An anecdote follows, which we do not include, considering it superfluous; however, we assure the reader that he does not contain anything reprehensible to the memory of Ivan Petrovich Belkin. * In fact, in the manuscript of Mr. Belkin, above each story, there is an inscription in the hand of the author: I heard from such and such a person(rank or rank and capital letters of the name and surname). We write out for curious prospectors. "The Overseer" was told to him by the titular adviser A. G. N., "Shot" by Lieutenant Colonel I. L. P., "The Undertaker" by the clerk B. V., "Snowstorm" and "The Young Lady" by the maiden K. I. T.

SHOT

We were shooting.

Baratynsky.

I swore to shoot him by right of duel

(behind him was still my shot).

Evening at the bivouac.

We were standing in a place ***. The life of an army officer is known. In the morning, teaching, arena; lunch at the regimental commander or in a Jewish tavern; in the evening punch and cards. In *** there was not a single open house, not a single bride; we gathered at each other's, where, apart from our uniforms, we saw nothing. Only one person belonged to our society, not being a military man. He was about thirty-five years old, and for that we revered him as an old man. Experience gave him many advantages over us; besides, his usual sullenness, tough temper and wicked tongue had a strong influence on our young minds. Some mystery surrounded his fate; he seemed Russian, but bore a foreign name. Once he served in the hussars, and even happily; no one knew the reason that prompted him to retire and settle in a poor place, where he lived both poorly and prodigally: he always walked, in a worn-out black frock coat, and kept an open table for all the officers of our regiment. True, his dinner consisted of two or three dishes prepared by a retired soldier, but champagne flowed like a river. No one knew either his fortune or his income, and no one dared to ask him about it. He had books, mostly military ones, and novels. He willingly gave them to read, never demanding them back; but he never returned to the owner of the book he occupied. His main exercise consisted in shooting from a pistol. The walls of his room were all riddled with bullet holes, all bored like a honeycomb. A rich collection of pistols was the only luxury of the poor hut where he lived. The skill he achieved was incredible, and if he volunteered to knock a pear off someone's cap with a bullet, no one in our regiment would hesitate to turn his head to him. The conversation between us often touched on fights; Silvio (that's what I'll call him) never interfered with him. When asked if he had ever fought, he answered dryly that he did, but he did not go into details, and it was clear that such questions were unpleasant to him. We believed that some unfortunate victim of his terrible art lay on his conscience. However, it never crossed our minds to suspect anything resembling timidity in him. There are people whose appearance alone removes such suspicions. The accident surprised us all. One day about ten of our officers dined at Silvio's. They drank as usual, that is, a lot; after dinner we began to persuade the owner to clear the bank for us. For a long time he refused, for he almost never played; Finally, he ordered the cards to be brought in, poured out fifty chervonets on the table, and sat down to throw them. We surrounded him and the game began. Silvio used to keep perfect silence during the game, never arguing or explaining himself. If the punter happened to miscalculate, then he immediately either paid the full amount, or wrote down the excess. We already knew this and did not prevent him from managing in his own way; but between us was an officer who had recently been transferred to us. He, playing right there, turned an extra corner in absent-mindedness. Silvio took the chalk and equalized as usual. The officer, thinking that he was mistaken, launched into an explanation. Silvio silently continued to throw. The officer, losing patience, took a brush and erased what seemed to him to have been written in vain. Silvio took the chalk and wrote it down again. The officer, heated up by the wine, the game and the laughter of his comrades, considered himself severely offended and, in a fury, seizing a copper shandal from the table, let it go at Silvio, who barely managed to deviate from the blow. We were confused. Silvio got up, pale with anger, and with sparkling eyes said: "Dear sir, if you please, go out, and thank God that this happened in my house." We did not doubt the consequences and assumed the new comrade had already been killed. The officer went out, saying that he was ready to answer for the insult, as Mr. banker would like. The game went on for several more minutes; but, feeling that the host had no time for the game, we fell behind one by one and dispersed to our apartments, talking about an imminent vacancy. The next day in the arena we were already asking if the poor lieutenant was still alive, when he himself appeared between us; we asked him the same question. He replied that he had not yet had any news of Silvio. This surprised us. We went to Silvio's and found him in the yard, putting bullet after bullet into an ace glued to the gate. He received us in the usual way, not saying a word about yesterday's incident. Three days passed, the lieutenant was still alive. We were surprised to ask: is Silvio really not going to fight? Silvio didn't fight. He was content with a very light explanation and reconciled. This was extremely damaging to him in the opinion of the youth. Lack of courage is least of all excused by young people, who usually see in courage the height of human virtues and an excuse for all sorts of vices. However, little by little everything was forgotten, and Silvio regained his former influence. Alone, I could no longer approach him. Having by nature a romantic imagination, I was most strongly attached to a man whose life was a mystery and who seemed to me the hero of some mysterious story. He loved me; at least with me alone he left his usual sharp slander and spoke about various subjects with innocence and unusual pleasantness. But after the unfortunate evening, the thought that his honor had been soiled and not washed away through his own fault, this thought did not leave me and prevented me from treating him as before; I was ashamed to look at him. Silvio was too smart and experienced not to notice this and not guess the reasons for it. It seemed to upset him; at least once or twice I noticed in him a desire to explain himself to me; but I avoided such cases, and Silvio backed down on me. Since then, I saw him only in the presence of my comrades, and our former frank conversations ceased. The scattered inhabitants of the capital have no idea of ​​many of the impressions so familiar to the inhabitants of villages or towns, for example, of waiting for the post day: on Tuesday and Friday, our regimental office was full of officers: some were waiting for money, some letters, some newspapers. The packages were usually opened immediately, the news was reported, and the office presented the most lively picture. Silvio received letters addressed to our regiment and usually stayed there. One day they gave him a package, from which he tore the seal with an air of the greatest impatience. As he scanned the letter, his eyes sparkled. The officers, each busy with their letters, noticed nothing. “Gentlemen,” Silvio told them, “circumstances require my immediate absence; I’m going tonight; I hope that you won’t refuse to dine with me for the last time. I’m waiting for you too,” he continued, turning to me, “ - I'm definitely waiting. With this word, he hurried out; and we, agreeing to connect with Silvio, each went our separate ways. I came to Silvio at the appointed time and found almost the entire regiment with him. All his goods had already been laid; only bare, shot-through walls remained. We sat down at the table; the host was extremely in spirit, and soon his gaiety became common; corks clapped every minute, glasses foamed and hissed incessantly, and with all possible zeal we wished the departing good journey and every good. We got up from the table late in the evening. When taking apart the caps, Silvio, saying goodbye to everyone, took my hand and stopped me at the very moment I was about to leave. "I need to talk to you," he said quietly. I stayed. The guests have left; we were left alone, sat opposite each other and silently lit our pipes. Silvio was preoccupied; there was no trace of his convulsive gaiety. The gloomy pallor, sparkling eyes, and thick smoke coming out of his mouth, gave him the appearance of a real devil. A few minutes passed, and Silvio broke the silence. “Perhaps we will never see each other again,” he said to me, “before we parted, I wanted to explain myself to you. You may have noticed that I have little respect for outside opinion; but I love you, and I feel it would be painful for me to leave an unjust impression in your mind. He stopped and began to fill his burned-out pipe; I was silent, lowering my eyes. “It was strange to you,” he continued, “that I did not demand satisfaction from this drunken madman R ***. You will agree that, having the right to choose a weapon, his life was in my hands, and mine is almost safe: I could attribute my moderation to generosity alone, but I do not want to lie. If I could punish R*** without putting my life at risk, then I would never forgive him. I looked at Silvio in amazement. Such a confession completely embarrassed me. Silvio continued. “That’s right: I don’t have the right to put myself to death. Six years ago I received a slap in the face, and my enemy is still alive. My curiosity was greatly aroused. - You didn't fight him? I asked. - Circumstances, right, separated you? - I fought with him, - answered Silvio, - and here is the monument of our duel. Silvio got up and took out of cardboard a red cap with a gold tassel and galloon (what the French call bonnet de police); 1) he put it on; she was shot an inch from the forehead. “You know,” Silvio continued, “that I served in the *** Hussars. You know my character: I am accustomed to excel, but from my youth it was a passion in me. In our time, riot was in vogue: I was the first riot in the army. We boasted of drunkenness: I drank the glorious Burtsova sung by Denis Davydov. Duels in our regiment happened every minute: I was either a witness or a protagonist at all. My comrades adored me, and the regimental commanders, who were constantly replaced, looked at me as a necessary evil. I calmly (or restlessly) enjoyed my fame, as a young man of a rich and noble family (I don’t want to name him) decided to join us. Never met a lucky man so brilliant! Imagine youth, intelligence, beauty, the most frenzied gaiety, the most careless courage, a big name, money with which he did not know the account and which he had never transferred, and imagine what effect he had to produce between us. My dominance has been shaken. Enticed by my glory, he began to seek my friendship; but I received him coldly, and without any regret he withdrew from me. I hated him. His successes in the regiment and in the company of women led me to complete despair. I began to seek quarrels with him; he answered my epigrams with epigrams, which always seemed to me more unexpected and sharper than mine, and which, of course, were more cheerful than an example: he joked, and I was spiteful. Finally, one day at a ball at a Polish landowner, seeing him as the object of attention of all the ladies, and especially the hostess herself, who was in touch with me, I said some flat rudeness in his ear. He flared up and gave me a slap in the face. We rushed to the sabers; the ladies fainted; we were pulled apart, and that same night we went to fight. It was at dawn. I stood at the appointed place with my three seconds. With inexplicable impatience I awaited my adversary. The spring sun had risen, and the heat was already humming. I saw him from a distance. He walked on foot, with a uniform on a saber, accompanied by one second. We went towards him. He approached, holding a cap filled with cherries. The seconds measured twelve paces for us. I had to shoot first: but the excitement of anger in me was so strong that I did not rely on the fidelity of my hand and, in order to give myself time to cool down, I yielded to him the first shot; my opponent disagreed. They decided to cast lots: the first number went to him, the eternal favorite of happiness. He took aim and shot through my cap. The queue was behind me. His life was at last in my hands; I looked at him greedily, trying to catch at least one shadow of anxiety ... He stood under the pistol, picking ripe cherries from his cap and spitting out the bones that reached me. His indifference infuriated me. What good is it to me, I thought, to take his life when he does not value it at all? An evil thought flashed through my mind. I lowered the pistol. “It seems to you that now you are not up to death,” I said to him, “you deign to have breakfast; I don’t want to disturb you.” “You don’t interfere with me in the least,” he objected, “if you please, shoot, but as you please: your shot remains with you; I am always ready at your service.” I turned to the seconds, announcing that I did not intend to shoot now, and the duel ended with that. I retired and retired to this place. Not a single day has passed since then that I have not thought of revenge. Now my hour has come... Silvio took the letter he had received from his pocket in the morning and gave it to me to read. Someone (it seemed to be his chargé d'affaires) wrote to him from Moscow that famous person should soon enter into a legal marriage with a young and beautiful girl. “Do you guess,” said Silvio, “who this famous person. I'm going to Moscow. Let's see if he will accept death before his wedding so indifferently, as he once waited for her behind the cherries! At these words, Silvio got up, threw his cap on the floor, and began to pace up and down the room like a tiger in its cage. I listened to him motionless; strange, opposite feelings agitated me. The servant entered and announced that the horses were ready. Silvio squeezed my hand tightly; we kissed. He got into the cart, where there were two suitcases, one with pistols, the other with his belongings. We said goodbye once more, and the horses galloped off.

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

BLIZZARD

Horses rush along the mounds,

Trampling deep snow...

Here is a temple of God

Seen alone.

Suddenly a blizzard is all around;

Snow falls in tufts;

Black Raven, whistling its wing,

Hovering over the sleigh;

A prophetic groan says sadness!

The horses are hurried

Sensitively look into the dark distance,

Lifting manes...

Zhukovsky.

At the end of 1811, in an era memorable to us, the good Gavrila Gavrilovich R ** lived in his estate Nenaradovo. He was famous throughout the district for his hospitality and cordiality; every minute the neighbors went to him to eat, drink, play five kopecks in Boston with his wife, and some in order to look at their daughter, Marya Gavrilovna, a slender, pale and seventeen-year-old girl. She was considered a rich bride, and many predicted her for themselves or for their sons. Marya Gavrilovna was brought up on French novels, and, consequently, she was in love. The subject chosen by her was a poor army ensign who was on leave in his village. It goes without saying that the young man burned with equal passion and that his amiable parents, noticing their mutual inclination, forbade their daughter to even think about him, and he was received worse than a retired assessor. Our lovers were in correspondence, and every day they saw each other alone in the pine grove or at the old chapel. There they swore eternal love to each other, complained about fate and made various assumptions. Corresponding and talking in this way, they (which is quite natural) came to the following reasoning: if we cannot breathe without each other, and the will of cruel parents hinders our well-being, then can we not do without it? It goes without saying that this happy thought first occurred to the young man, and that Marya Gavrilovna's romantic imagination greatly liked it. Winter came and stopped their visits; but the correspondence became all the more lively. Vladimir Nikolaevich in every letter begged her to surrender to him, to marry secretly, to hide for some time, then to throw herself at the feet of her parents, who, of course, would finally be touched by the heroic constancy and unhappiness of their lovers and would certainly say to them: "Children! come into our arms." Marya Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time; many escape plans were rejected. Finally she agreed: on the appointed day, she was to skip supper and retire to her room on the pretext of a headache. Her girl was in a conspiracy; both of them were to go out into the garden through the back porch, find a ready-made sledge behind the garden, get into it and drive five miles from Nenaradovo to the village of Zhadrino, straight to the church, where Vladimir was supposed to wait for them. On the eve of the decisive day Marya Gavrilovna did not sleep all night; she packed, tied her linen and dress, wrote a long letter to one sensitive young lady, her friend, and another to her parents. She said goodbye to them in the most touching terms, excused her misdeed by the irresistible force of passion, and ended by saying that she would honor the most blessed moment of her life when she would be allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dearest parents. Having sealed both letters with a Tula signet, on which were depicted two flaming hearts with a decent inscription, she threw herself on the bed just before dawn and dozed off; but here, too, terrible dreams continually awakened her. It seemed to her that at the very moment she was getting into the sleigh to go to the wedding, her father stopped her, dragged her with excruciating speed over the snow and threw her into a dark, bottomless dungeon ... and she flew headlong with an inexplicable sinking heart; then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale, bloodied. As he was dying, he begged her in a piercing voice to hasten to marry him... Other ugly, senseless visions rushed before her one after another. At last she got up, paler than usual, and with an unfeigned headache. Her father and mother noticed her unease; their tender care and incessant questions: what is the matter with you, Masha? Are you sick, Masha? ripped her heart apart. She tried to calm them down, to appear cheerful, but she could not. Evening came. The thought that this was the last time she was spending the day in the midst of her family oppressed her heart. She was barely alive; she secretly said goodbye to all the persons, to all the objects that surrounded her. Served supper; her heart began to beat violently. She announced in a trembling voice that she did not feel like supper, and began to say goodbye to her father and mother. They kissed her and, as usual, blessed her: she almost cried. Arriving in her room, she threw herself into an armchair and burst into tears. The girl urged her to calm down and take heart. Everything was ready. In half an hour Masha had to leave her parents' house forever, her room, her quiet girlish life... There was a snowstorm outside; the wind howled, the shutters shook and rattled; everything seemed to her a threat and a sad omen. Soon everything in the house calmed down and fell asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a warm coat, picked up her jewelry box, and went out onto the back porch. The maid carried two bundles behind her. They went down to the garden. The blizzard did not subside; the wind blew against her, as if trying to stop the young criminal. They made their way to the end of the garden. On the road, the sleigh was waiting for them. The horses, vegetating, did not stand still; Vladimir's coachman paced in front of the shafts, holding back the zealous. He helped the young lady and her girlfriend to sit down and put the bundles and the box, took the reins, and the horses flew. Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and the art of Tereshka the coachman, let us turn to our young lover. The whole day Vladimir was on the road. In the morning he was at the Zhadrinsk priest; forcibly agreed with him; then he went to look for witnesses among the neighboring landowners. The first to whom he appeared, a retired forty-year-old cornet Dravin, readily agreed. This adventure, he assured, reminded him of the old times and the pranks of the hussars. He persuaded Vladimir to stay and dine with him and assured him that the other two witnesses would not be involved. In fact, immediately after dinner, the land surveyor Schmitt, in mustaches and spurs, and the son of the police captain, a boy of about sixteen, who had recently entered the uhlans, appeared. They not only accepted Vladimir's offer, but even swore to him that they were ready to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced them with delight and went home to get ready. It has been dark for a long time. He sent his reliable Tereshka to Nenaradovo with his troika and detailed instructions, and for himself he ordered a small one-horse sledge to be laid, and alone, without a coachman, went to Zhadrino, where Marya Gavrilovna was supposed to arrive in two hours. The road was familiar to him, and the drive was only twenty minutes. But as soon as Vladimir left the outskirts in the field, the wind picked up and there was such a snowstorm that he could not see anything. In one minute the road skidded; the surroundings vanished into a cloudy and yellowish haze through which white flakes of snow flew; the sky merged with the earth. Vladimir found himself in a field and in vain wanted to get back on the road; the horse stepped at random and every minute either rode up a snowdrift or fell into a hole; the sleigh kept tipping over. Vladimir tried only not to lose the real direction. But it seemed to him that more than half an hour had already passed, and he had not yet reached the Zhadrinskaya grove. Another ten minutes or so passed; the grove was nowhere to be seen. Vladimir rode through a field crossed by deep ravines. The blizzard did not subside, the sky did not clear up. The horse began to tire, and sweat rolled off him in hail, despite the fact that he was constantly waist-deep in snow. Finally, he saw that he was going in the wrong direction. Vladimir stopped: he began to think, to remember, to think, and he became convinced that he should have taken to the right. He drove to the right. His horse stepped a little. He had been on the road for over an hour. Zhadrino should have been nearby. But he rode, rode, and there was no end to the field. All snowdrifts and ravines; every minute the sleigh overturned, every minute he raised them. As time went; Vladimir began to get very worried. Finally, something began to turn black on the side. Vladimir turned there. Approaching, he saw a grove. Thank God, he thought, it's close now. He rode near the grove, hoping at once to get on a familiar road or to drive around the grove: Zhadrino was immediately behind it. Soon he found his way and rode into the darkness of the trees bare in winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was smooth; the horse cheered up, and Vladimir calmed down. But he rode and rode, but Zhadrin was nowhere to be seen; there was no end to the grove. Vladimir saw with horror that he drove into an unfamiliar forest. Despair took hold of him. He hit the horse; the poor animal started at a trot, but soon began to pester, and after a quarter of an hour it was walking, despite all the efforts of the unfortunate Vladimir. Little by little the trees began to thin out, and Vladimir rode out of the forest; Zhadrin was nowhere to be seen. It must have been around midnight. Tears sprang from his eyes; he went at random. The weather had calmed down, the clouds parted, and before him lay a plain covered with a white wavy carpet. The night was pretty clear. He saw a village not far away, consisting of four or five households. Vladimir went to her. At the first hut he jumped out of the sleigh, ran to the window and began to knock. A few minutes later the wooden shutter was raised and the old man stuck out his gray beard. "What do you want?" -- "How far is Zhadrino?" "Is Zhadrino far away?" "Yes, yes! Is it far?" - "Not far; ten versts will be." At this answer, Vladimir grabbed his hair and remained motionless, like a man sentenced to death. "Where are you from?" continued the old man. Vladimir did not have the heart to answer questions. "Can you, old man," he said, "get me horses to Zhadrin?" “What kind of horses we have,” answered the peasant. "But can't I even take a guide? I'll pay as much as he wants." "Wait," said the old man, lowering the shutter, "I'll send my son out; he'll see them through." Vladimir began to wait. Not a minute later, he started knocking again. The shutter went up, the beard showed. "What do you want?" "What about your son?" - "Now he will get out, put on his shoes. Ali, are you cold? Come in and warm yourself." "Thank you, send your son as soon as possible." The gates creaked; the guy came out with a club and went forward, now pointing, now looking for a road covered with snowdrifts. "What time is it now?" Vladimir asked him. "Yes, it will soon dawn," answered the young man. Vladimir didn't say a word. The roosters were crowing and it was already light when they reached Zhadrin. The church was closed. Vladimir paid the conductor and went to the yard to the priest. He was not in the yard of the troika. What news awaited him! But let us return to the good landlords of Nenaradovo and see what they are doing. But nothing. The old people woke up and went into the living room. Gavrila Gavrilovich in a cap and a flannelette jacket, Praskovya Petrovna in a cotton-lined dressing gown. The samovar was brought in, and Gavrila Gavrilovich sent the girl to find out from Marya Gavrilovna how her health was and how she slept. The little girl came back, announcing that the young lady had supposedly slept badly, but that it was easier for her now and that she would come into the drawing-room in a moment. In fact, the door opened, and Marya Gavrilovna came up to greet papa and mama. "What's your head, Masha?" asked Gavrila Gavrilovich. "Better, papa," answered Masha. "You must have gone crazy yesterday, Masha," said Praskovya Petrovna. "Perhaps, mother," answered Masha. The day went well, but at night Masha fell ill. They sent to the city for a doctor. He arrived in the evening and found the patient delirious. A severe fever broke out, and the poor patient spent two weeks at the edge of the coffin. No one in the house knew about the supposed escape. The letters she had written the day before were burned; her maid did not say anything to anyone, fearing the wrath of the masters. The priest, the retired cornet, the mustachioed land surveyor, and the little lancer were modest, and for good reason. Tereshka the coachman never said anything superfluous, even when drunk. Thus the secret was kept by more than half a dozen conspirators. But Marya Gavrilovna herself, in her incessant delirium, expressed her secret. However, her words were so inconsistent with anything that the mother, who did not leave her bed, could only understand from them that her daughter was mortally in love with Vladimir Nikolaevich and that love was probably the cause of her illness. She consulted with her husband, with some of the neighbors, and finally, unanimously, everyone decided that such was the fate of Marya Gavrilovna, that you couldn’t go round your betrothed, that poverty is not a vice, that to live not with wealth, but with a person, and the like. Moral proverbs are surprisingly useful in those cases when we can think up little of ourselves to justify ourselves. Meanwhile, the young lady began to recover. Vladimir had not been seen in the house of Gavrila Gavrilovich for a long time. He was frightened by the usual reception. They decided to send for him and announce to him an unexpected happiness: consent to marriage. But what was the astonishment of the Nenarado landowners when, in response to their invitation, they received a half-crazy letter from him! He announced to them that his foot would never be in their house, and asked them to forget about the unfortunate man, for whom death remains the only hope. A few days later they learned that Vladimir had left for the army. This was in 1812. For a long time they did not dare to announce this to the convalescent Masha. She never mentioned Vladimir. A few months later, having found his name among those distinguished and seriously wounded near Borodino, she fainted, and they were afraid that her fever would not return. However, thank God, the fainting had no consequences. Another sadness visited her: Gavrila Gavrilovich died, leaving her the heiress of the entire estate. But the inheritance did not console her; she sincerely shared the grief of poor Praskovya Petrovna, swore never to part from her; they both left Nenaradovo, a place of sad memories, and went to live in a *** estate. The suitors circled around the sweet and rich bride; but she gave no one the slightest hope. Her mother sometimes urged her to choose a friend; Marya Gavrilovna shook her head and thought. Vladimir no longer existed: he died in Moscow, on the eve of the entry of the French. His memory seemed sacred to Masha; at least she cherished everything that could remind him: books he had once read, his drawings, notes and poems he had transcribed for her. The neighbors, having learned about everything, marveled at her constancy and with curiosity expected the hero who was finally to triumph over the sad fidelity of this virgin Artemis. Meanwhile, the war with glory was over. Our regiments were returning from abroad. The people ran towards them. Music played conquered songs: Vive Henri-Quatre 1) , Tyrolean waltzes and arias from Joconde. The officers, who had gone on a campaign almost as youths, returned, having matured in the quarrelsome air, hung with crosses. The soldiers were talking merrily among themselves, interfering every minute with German and French words. Unforgettable time! Time of glory and delight! How strongly the Russian heart beat at the word fatherland! How sweet were the tears of rendezvous! With what unanimity we united the feelings of national pride and love for the sovereign! And what a moment it was for him! Women, Russian women were then incomparable. Their usual coldness is gone. Their delight was truly intoxicating when, meeting the winners, they shouted: Hurrah! And they threw caps into the air. Who among the officers of that time does not admit that he owed the best, most precious award to a Russian woman? .. During this brilliant time, Marya Gavrilovna lived with her mother in the *** province and did not see how both capitals celebrated the return of the troops. But in the districts and villages the general enthusiasm was perhaps even stronger. The appearance of an officer in these places was a real triumph for him, and his lover in a tailcoat felt bad in his neighborhood. We have already said that, despite her coldness, Marya Gavrilovna was still surrounded by seekers. But everyone had to retreat when the wounded hussar colonel Burmin appeared in her castle, with George in his buttonhole and with interesting pallor, as the young ladies used to say. He was about twenty-six years old. He came on vacation to his estates, located in the neighborhood of the village of Marya Gavrilovna. Marya Gavrilovna distinguished him very much. With him, her usual thoughtfulness was revived. It was impossible to say that she was flirting with him; but the poet, noticing her behavior, would say: Se amor non X che dun e?.. 2) Burmin was indeed a very nice young man. He had just the kind of mind that women like: a mind of propriety and observation, without any pretensions and nonchalantly mocking. His behavior with Marya Gavrilovna was simple and free; but no matter what she said or did, his soul and eyes followed her like that. He seemed of a quiet and modest disposition, but rumor assured that he had once been a terrible rake, and this did not harm him in the opinion of Marya Gavrilovna, who (like all young ladies in general) gladly excused pranks that showed courage and ardor of character. But more than anything (more than his tenderness, more pleasant conversation, more interesting pallor, more bandaged hand) the silence of the young hussar most of all incited her curiosity and imagination. She could not but confess that he liked her very much; probably, and he, with his mind and experience, could already notice that she distinguished him: how did she still not see him at her feet and still not hear his confession? What kept him? timidity, inseparable from true love, pride or coquetry of cunning red tape? It was a mystery to her. Thinking carefully, she decided that timidity was the only reason for this, and decided to encourage him with greater attentiveness and, depending on the circumstances, even tenderness. She was preparing the most unexpected denouement and impatiently awaited the minute of a romantic explanation. A mystery, of whatever kind it may be, is always painful for a woman's heart. Her military actions had the desired success: at least Burmin fell into such thoughtfulness and his black eyes fixed on Marya Gavrilovna with such fire that the decisive moment seemed to be at hand. The neighbors spoke of the wedding as if it were already over, and the kind Praskovya Petrovna was glad that her daughter had finally found a worthy groom. The old woman was once sitting alone in the drawing-room, laying out grand solitaire, when Burmin entered the room and at once inquired after Marya Gavrilovna. “She is in the garden,” answered the old woman, “go to her, and I will wait for you here.” Burmin went, and the old woman crossed herself and thought: perhaps the matter will end today! Burmin found Marya Gavrilovna by the pond, under a willow, with a book in her hands and in a white dress, the real heroine of the novel. After the first questions, Marya Gavrilovna purposely ceased to keep up the conversation, thus intensifying mutual confusion, which could only be got rid of by a sudden and decisive explanation. And so it happened: Burmin, feeling the difficulty of his position, announced that he had long been looking for an opportunity to open his heart to her, and demanded a minute of attention. Marya Gavrilovna closed her book and lowered her eyes in agreement. "I love you," said Burmin, "I love you passionately..." (Marya Gavrilovna blushed and bowed her head even lower.) "I acted imprudently, indulging in a sweet habit, the habit of seeing and hearing you every day..." (Marya Gavrilovna remembered first letter to St.-Preux 3) .) "Now it's too late to resist my fate; the memory of you, your dear, incomparable image, will henceforth be the torment and joy of my life; but I still have to fulfill a heavy duty, reveal to you a terrible secret and put an insurmountable barrier between us ..." - “She always existed,” interrupted Marya Gavrilovna with liveliness, “I could never be your wife ...” “I know,” he answered her quietly, “I know that you once loved, but death and three years of lamentation... Good, dear Marya Gavrilovna, don't try to deprive me of my last consolation: the thought that you would agree to make me happy if... be silent, for God's sake, be silent. You are tormenting me. Yes, I know , I feel that you would be mine, but - I am the most unfortunate creature ... I am married! Marya Gavrilovna looked at him with surprise. "I'm married," continued Burmin, "I've been married for the fourth year now, and I don't know who my wife is, where she is, or whether I should ever see her!" -- What are you talking about? exclaimed Marya Gavrilovna, “how strange it is! Go on; I'll tell you later... but go on, do me a favor. “At the beginning of 1812,” said Burmin, “I hurried to Vilna, where our regiment was stationed. Arriving at the station one evening late in the evening, I ordered to get the horses in as soon as possible, when suddenly a terrible snowstorm arose, and the stationmaster and the drivers advised me to wait. I obeyed them, but an incomprehensible uneasiness seized me; It felt like someone was pushing me. Meanwhile, the blizzard did not let up; I could not bear it, ordered to lay it again and went into the very storm. The coachman took it into his head to go by the river, which should have shortened our path by three versts. The shores were covered; The coachman drove past the place where they entered the road, and thus we found ourselves in an unfamiliar direction. The storm did not subside; I saw a light and ordered to go there. We arrived at the village; there was a fire in the wooden church. The church was open, a few sledges stood behind the fence; people were walking along the porch. "Over here! over here!" shouted several voices. I told the driver to drive up. "Have mercy, where did you hesitate?" someone said to me, "the bride is in a swoon; the priest does not know what to do; we were ready to go back. Come out soon." I silently jumped out of the sleigh and entered the church, dimly lit by two or three candles. The girl was sitting on a bench in a dark corner of the church; the other was rubbing her temples. “Thank God,” said this one, “you came by force. You almost killed the young lady.” An old priest came up to me with a question: "Do you want me to start?" “Begin, begin, father,” I answered absently. The girl was raised. She seemed to me not bad... An incomprehensible, unforgivable frivolity... I stood beside her in front of the platter; the priest was in a hurry; three men and a maid supported the bride and were busy only with her. We got married. "Kiss," they told us. My wife turned her pale face towards me. I wanted to kiss her ... She cried out: "Ay, not him! not him!" and fell unconscious. The witnesses fixed their frightened eyes on me. I turned around, walked out of the church without any obstacle, threw myself into the wagon and shouted: "Let's go!" -- My God! cried Marya Gavrilovna, “and you don’t know what happened to your poor wife? “I don’t know,” answered Burmin, “I don’t know the name of the village where I got married; I don't remember from which station I left. At that time, I considered so little importance in my criminal leprosy that, having driven away from the church, I fell asleep and woke up the next day in the morning, at the third station already. The servant who was with me then died on the campaign, so that I have no hope of finding the one on whom I played a trick so cruelly and who is now so cruelly avenged. - My God, my God! - said Marya Gavrilovna, seizing his hand, - so it was you! And you don't recognize me? Burmin turned pale... and threw himself at her feet...

UNDERTAKER

Don't we see coffins every day,

Gray decrepit universe?

Derzhavin.

The last belongings of the undertaker Adrian Prokhorov were piled on the funeral urns, and for the fourth time the skinny couple dragged themselves with Basmanna to Nikitskaya, where the undertaker moved with his whole house. Having locked up the shop, he nailed to the gate an announcement that the house was for sale and for rent, and went on foot to the house-warming party. Approaching the yellow house, which had so long seduced his imagination and finally bought by him for a considerable sum, the old undertaker felt with surprise that his heart was not happy. Stepping over an unfamiliar threshold and finding turmoil in his new dwelling, he sighed about the dilapidated shack, where for eighteen years everything had been instituted in the most strict order; began to scold both his daughters and the worker for their slowness and began to help them himself. Soon order was established; a case with images, a cupboard with dishes, a table, a sofa and a bed occupied certain corners in the back room; in the kitchen and living room the owner's products fit: coffins of all colors and sizes, also cupboards with mourning hats, robes and torches. Above the gate was a sign depicting a burly Cupid with an overturned torch in his hand, with the inscription: "Here simple and painted coffins are sold and upholstered, old ones are also rented and repaired." The girls went to their room. Adrian walked around his dwelling, sat down at the window and ordered the samovar to be prepared. The enlightened reader knows that Shakespeare and Walter Scott both presented their grave-diggers as cheerful people. and playful, in order to strike our imagination more strongly with this contrast. Out of respect for the truth, we cannot follow their example, and are compelled to confess that the disposition of our undertaker was perfectly suited to his gloomy trade. Adrian Prokhorov was usually gloomy and thoughtful. He permitted silence only in order to scold his daughters when he found them idle staring out the window at passers-by, or to ask for an exaggerated price for his works from those who had the misfortune (and sometimes pleasure) to need them. So, Adrian, sitting under the window and drinking his seventh cup of tea, was, as usual, immersed in sad reflections. He thought of the pouring rain which, a week before, had met with the funeral of a retired brigadier at the very outpost. Many robes have narrowed as a result, many hats have warped. He foresaw inevitable expenses, for his long-standing stock of coffin clothes was falling into a miserable state. He hoped to take out the loss on the old merchant Tryukhina, who had been dying for about a year. But Tryukhina was dying on Razgulay, and Prokhorov was afraid that her heirs, despite their promise, would not be too lazy to send for him so far away and would not bargain with the nearest contractor. These reflections were interrupted inadvertently by three Freemasonic knocks on the door. "Who's there?" asked the undertaker. The door opened, and a man, who at first glance could be recognized as a German craftsman, entered the room and approached the undertaker with a cheerful look. “Excuse me, dear neighbor,” he said in that Russian dialect, which we still cannot hear without laughter, “excuse me for disturbing you ... I wanted to get to know you as soon as possible. I am a shoemaker, my name is Gottlieb Schultz, and I live across the street from you, in this house opposite your windows. Tomorrow I celebrate my silver wedding, and I ask you and your daughters to dine with me in a friendly way. The invitation was favorably accepted. The undertaker asked the shoemaker to sit down and have a cup of tea, and thanks to Gottlieb Schultz's open disposition, they soon got into a friendly conversation. "What is your grace trading?" asked Adrian. "E-he-he," answered Schultz, "this way and that. I can't complain. Although, of course, my goods are not the same as yours: the living can do without boots, but the dead cannot live without a coffin." “It’s true,” remarked Adrian; “however, if a living man has nothing to buy a boot, then, don’t be angry, he walks barefoot; and a beggar dead man takes a coffin for himself for nothing.” Thus the conversation continued with them for some time; at last the shoemaker got up and took leave of the undertaker, renewing his invitation. The next day, at exactly twelve o'clock, the undertaker and his daughters came out of the gate of the newly bought house and went to a neighbor. I will not describe either the Russian caftan of Adrian Prokhorov, or the European attire of Akulina and Daria, deviating in this case from the custom adopted by today's novelists. I think, however, it is not superfluous to note that both girls put on yellow hats and red shoes, which happened to them only on solemn occasions. The shoemaker's cramped apartment was filled with guests, mostly German artisans, with their wives and apprentices. Of the Russian officials, there was one watchman, Yurko, a Chukhonian, who, despite his humble rank, was able to acquire the special favor of the owner. For twenty-five years he served in this rank faithfully, as postman Pogorelsky. The fire of the twelfth year, having destroyed the capital, destroyed his yellow booth. But immediately, after driving out the enemy, a new one appeared in its place, gray with white columns of the Doric order, and Yurko again began to pace around her with with an ax and in homespun armor . He was familiar to most of the Germans living near the Nikitsky Gates: some of them even happened to spend the night with Yurka from Sunday to Monday. Adrian immediately made the acquaintance of him, as with a man whom sooner or later it may happen to be in need, and as the guests went to the table, they sat down together. Mr. and Mrs. Schultz and their daughter, seventeen-year-old Lotchen, dined with the guests, all together treated and helped the cook to serve. The beer was pouring. Yurko ate for four; Adrian did not yield to him; his daughters were repairing; conversation in German grew noisier by the hour. Suddenly the owner demanded attention and, uncorking the tarred bottle, said loudly in Russian: "To the health of my good Louise!" The half champagne frothed. The host tenderly kissed the fresh face of his forty-year-old girlfriend, and the guests noisily drank the good Louise's health. "To the health of my kind guests!" - proclaimed the owner, uncorking the second bottle - and the guests thanked him, draining their glasses again. Here health began to follow one after another: they drank the health of each guest in particular, they drank the health of Moscow and a whole dozen German towns, they drank the health of all workshops in general and each in particular, they drank the health of masters and apprentices. Adrian drank with zeal and was so merry that he himself proposed some kind of playful toast. Suddenly one of the guests, a fat baker, raised his glass and exclaimed: "To the health of those for whom we work, unserer Kundleute!" 1) The proposal, like everything else, was accepted joyfully and unanimously. The guests began to bow to each other, the tailor to the shoemaker, the shoemaker to the tailor, the baker to both of them, all to the baker, and so on. Yurko, in the midst of these mutual bows, shouted, turning to his neighbor: "What then? Drink, father, for the health of your dead." Everyone laughed, but the undertaker felt offended and frowned. No one noticed it, the guests continued to drink, and they were already announcing the vespers when they got up from the table. The guests left late, and for the most part tipsy. The fat baker and bookbinder whose face

It seemed in a red morocco binding,

By the arms they took Yurka to his booth, observing in this case a Russian proverb: a debt in payment is red. The undertaker came home drunk and angry. “What is it, really,” he reasoned aloud, “why is my trade more dishonest than others? Is the undertaker the brother of the executioner? Why are the infidels laughing? But that will not happen! And I will summon those for whom I work: the Orthodox dead." - "What are you, father?" said the worker, who at that time took off his shoes, "what are you talking about? Cross yourself! Calling the dead to a housewarming party! What a passion!" - "By God, I will call," continued Adrian, "and for the very next day. You are welcome, my benefactors, to have a feast with me tomorrow evening; I will treat you with what God has sent." With this word, the undertaker went to bed and soon began to snore. It was still dark outside when Adrian was awakened. The merchant's wife Tryukhina died that same night, and a messenger from her clerk galloped to Adrian on horseback with this news. The undertaker gave him a dime for vodka for that, dressed hastily, took a cab and drove to Razgulay. The police were already standing at the gates of the deceased, and the merchants were pacing like crows, sensing the dead body. The dead woman lay on the table, yellow as wax, but not yet disfigured by smoldering. Relatives, neighbors and household crowded around her. All windows were open; the candles were burning; priests read prayers. Adrian approached Tryukhina's nephew, a young merchant in a fashionable frock coat, announcing to him that the coffin, candles, cover and other funeral accessories would immediately be delivered to him in all good order. The heir thanked him absently, saying that he did not bargain about the price, but relies on his conscience in everything. The undertaker, as usual, swore that he would not take too much; he exchanged a significant glance with the clerk and went to work. I spent the whole day driving from Razgulay to the Nikitsky Gates and back; By evening he managed everything and went home on foot, dismissing his cab. The night was moonlit. The undertaker safely reached the Nikitsky Gate. At Ascension, our acquaintance Yurko called to him and, recognizing the undertaker, wished him good night. Was late. The undertaker was already approaching his house, when it suddenly seemed to him that someone had approached his gate, opened the gate and disappeared through it. "What would that mean?" thought Adrian. "Who needs me again? Isn't it a thief who got into my place? Don't lovers go to my fools? What good!" And the undertaker was already thinking of calling for help from his friend Yurka. At that moment someone else approached the gate and was about to enter, but, seeing the running owner, he stopped and took off his three-cornered hat. Adrian's face seemed familiar, but in his haste he didn't have time to get a decent look at it. “You have come to me,” Adrian said, out of breath, “come in, do me a favor.” - "Do not stand on ceremony, father," he answered dully, "go ahead; show the guests the way!" Adrian had no time to stand on ceremony. The gate was unlocked, he went to the stairs, and the latter followed him. It seemed to Adrian that people were walking through his rooms. "What the hell!" he thought, and hurried to enter... then his legs buckled. The room was full of the dead. The moon through the windows illuminated their yellow and blue faces, sunken mouths, cloudy, half-closed eyes and protruding noses... Adrian was horrified to recognize in them the people buried by his efforts, and in the guest who entered with him, the brigadier, who was buried during the torrential rain. All of them, ladies and men, surrounded the undertaker with bows and greetings, except for one poor man, recently buried for nothing, who, ashamed and ashamed of his rags, did not approach and stood humbly in a corner. The rest were all decently dressed: the dead in caps and ribbons, the dead officials in uniforms, but with unshaven beards, merchants in festive caftans. “You see, Prokhorov,” said the brigadier on behalf of the whole honest company, “we all rose to your invitation; only those who are no longer able to do it, who have completely collapsed, and who are left with only bones without skin, but and then one could not resist - he so wanted to visit you ... "At that moment a small skeleton made its way through the crowd and approached Adrian. His skull smiled kindly at the undertaker. Scraps of light green and red cloth and shabby linen hung here and there on him as if on a pole, and the bones of his legs thrashed about in his large over the knee boots like pestles in mortars. "You didn't recognize me, Prokhorov," said the skeleton. "Do you remember the retired sergeant of the guard Pyotr Petrovich Kurilkin, the same one to whom, in 1799, you sold your first coffin - and also pine for oak?" With this word, the dead man extended his skeletal embrace - but Adrian, gathering his strength, screamed and pushed him away. Pyotr Petrovich staggered, fell and crumbled all over. A murmur of indignation arose among the dead; everyone stood up for the honor of their comrade, stuck to Adrian with abuse and threats, and the poor owner, deafened by their screams and almost crushed, lost his presence of mind, he himself fell on the bones of a retired sergeant of the guard and lost consciousness. The sun had long since illuminated the bed on which the undertaker lay. At last he opened his eyes and saw before him a worker fanning a samovar. With horror Adrian recalled all yesterday's incidents. Tryukhina, the brigadier and sergeant Kurilkin vaguely presented themselves to his imagination. He silently waited for the worker to start a conversation with him and announce the consequences of the night's adventures. “How you slept, father, Adrian Prokhorovich,” said Aksinya, giving him a dressing gown. - A tailor neighbor came to your place, and the local butcher ran in with an announcement that today is a private birthday man, but you deigned to rest, and we didn’t want to wake you up. “Did they come to me from the deceased Tryukhina?” - The dead? Did she die? - What a fool! Didn't you help me arrange her funeral yesterday? . - What are you, father? Haven't you lost your mind, or has yesterday's hop not gone away? What was yesterday's funeral? You feasted all day with a German, came back drunk, collapsed in bed, and slept until this hour, as they already announced the gospel. -- Oy! said the delighted undertaker. “That’s the way it is,” answered the worker. - Well, if so, let's have some tea and call your daughters.

STATION OFFICER

Collegiate Registrar,

Post 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 consider them monsters of the human race, equal to the deceased clerks, 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 coachman is stubborn, the horses are not driven - and the caretaker is to blame. Entering his poor dwelling, the traveler looks at him as 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 courier throws his road trip on the table! .. Let's delve into all this carefully, and instead of indignation, our heart will be filled with sincere compassion. A few more words: for twenty years in a row I traveled all over Russia; 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 relays 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 baseness 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, others have come into use, for example: honor the mind 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 down the samovar 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 vanity, "but such a sensible, such an agile mother, all dead." Here 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 is sitting 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 in me such a long, such a pleasant memory. 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 presentiment. 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 acquaintances." “Maybe,” 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, 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! the other with a handkerchief, the other with earrings. Gentlemen, the travelers, deliberately stopped, as if to dine or dine, but in fact only to look at her longer. eh, sir: couriers, couriers talked to her for half an hour. 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." Here 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 wearing a hat, in a military overcoat, wrapped in a shawl, entered the room, demanding horses. The horses were all in dispersal. 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? The appearance of Dunya produced its usual effect. The anger of the traveler passed; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered dinner for himself. Taking off his wet, shaggy hat, untangling his shawl and pulling off his overcoat, the traveler appeared young, a hussar with a black mustache. He settled down with the inspector, began to talk cheerfully with him and his daughter. Supper was served. Meanwhile, the horses came, and the inspector ordered that immediately, without feeding, harness and x in 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 supposed, if the patient did not feel better, the next day in the 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?” said her father, “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. 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 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 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 stray sheep." 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 a door. "Your high nobility," continued the old man, "what has fallen from the cart is gone; give me at least my poor Dunya. - "What's done, you can't turn back," said the young man in extreme confusion, "I'm guilty before you and I'm glad to ask you for forgiveness; but don't think that I could leave Dunya: she will be happy, I give you my word of honor. Why do you need her? She loves me; she has 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... After walking a few steps, he stopped, thought... and turned back... 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 after 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 superintendent stood for a moment, stood for a moment, and went on. 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 were late, brother, with your note; now he is with her." - "There is no need," objected the superintendent 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. "You can't, you can't!" 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 want?" he said to him, clenching his teeth, "that you're sneaking around behind me like a robber? Or do you want to kill me? Get out!" - 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 went from Petersburg back to his station and again took up his post. “For the third year now,” 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 a passing rake, but there he held it, and threw it away. 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, is disappearing right away, you involuntarily sin and wish her a grave ... " Such was the story of my friend, the old caretaker, the story, repeatedly interrupted by tears, which he picturesquely wiped away with his coat, like an zealous Terentyich in a beautiful ballad by Dmitriev . 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?" 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. 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. "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 a tavern, and we follow him: "Grandfather, grandfather! Nuts!" - and he endows us with nuts. Everything used to be messing with us. Do the travelers remember him? - Yes, there are few travelers; 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 the cemetery, a bare place, not fenced in anything, dotted 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 said to me, 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, - answered Vanka, - I looked at her from a distance. 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 glorious lady! And I gave the boy a nickel and no longer regretted either the trip or the seven rubles I had spent.

YOUNG PEASANT WOMAN

In all of you, Darling, you are good attire.

Bogdanovich.

In one of our remote provinces was the estate of Ivan Petrovich Berestov. In his youth he served in the guard, retired early 1797, went to his village and since then he has not left there. He was married to a poor noblewoman who died in childbirth while he was away in the field. Household exercises soon consoled him. He built a house according to his own plan, started a cloth factory, tripled his income and began to consider himself the smartest person in the whole neighborhood, in which the neighbors who came to visit him with their families and dogs did not contradict him. On weekdays he went about in a plush jacket, on holidays he put on a coat made of homemade cloth; he himself wrote down the expense and did not read anything, except for the Senate Gazette. In general, he was loved, although they were considered proud. Only Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky, his closest neighbor, did not get along with him. This was a real Russian master. Having squandered most of his estate in Moscow and being a widow at that time, he left for his last village, where he continued to play pranks, but in a new way. He planted an English garden, on which he spent almost all the rest of his income. His grooms were dressed as English jockeys. His daughter had an English madam. He processed his fields according to the English method: But Russian bread will not be born in someone else's manner, and despite a significant decrease in expenses, Grigory Ivanovich's income did not increase; even in the countryside he found a way to get into new debts; with all that, he was considered a man not stupid, for the first of the landowners of his province guessed to mortgage the estate to the Board of Trustees: a turn that seemed at that time extremely complex and bold. Of the people who condemned him, Berestov spoke the most severely. Hatred of innovation was a hallmark of his character. He could not speak with indifference about his neighbor's Anglomania, and every minute he found an opportunity to criticize him. Did he show his guest his possessions, in response to praise of his economic orders: “Yes, sir!” he said with a sly smile, “I don’t have what my neighbor Grigory Ivanovich has. in Russian, at least full." These and similar jokes, due to the zeal of the neighbors, were brought to the attention of Grigory Ivanovich with additions and explanations. Angloman endured criticism as impatiently as our journalists. He was furious and called his Zoil a bear and a provincial. Such were the relations between these two owners, as Berestov's son came to him in the village. He was brought up at *** university and intended to enter the military service, but his father did not agree to that. The young man felt completely incapable of civil service. They did not yield to each other, and young Alexey began to live for the time being as a master, let go of the mustache just in case. Alexei was a really good guy. Indeed, it would be a pity if his slender frame had never been pulled together by a military uniform, and if, instead of showing off on a horse, he had spent his youth bent over stationery papers. Watching how he always galloped first on the hunt, not sorting out the road, the neighbors agreed that he would never make a good head clerk. The young ladies glanced at him, while others looked at him; but Alexei did little with them, and they believed that the cause of his insensitivity was a love affair. In fact, a list went from hand to hand from the address of one of his letters: Akulina Petrovna Kurochkina, in Moscow, opposite the Alekseevsky Monastery, in the house of the tinker Savelyev, and I humbly ask you to deliver this letter to A. H. R. Those of my readers who have not lived in the villages cannot imagine what a charm these county young ladies are! Brought up in clean air, in the shade of their orchard apple trees, they draw knowledge of light and life from books. Solitude, freedom and reading early in them develop feelings and passions unknown to our scattered beauties. For a young lady, the ringing of a bell is already an adventure, a trip to a nearby city is supposed to be an epoch in life, and a visit to a guest leaves a long, sometimes eternal memory. Of course, everyone is free to laugh at some of their oddities, but the jokes of a superficial observer cannot destroy their essential virtues, of which the main one is: personality trait, personality(individuality) 1) , without which, according to Jean-Paul there is no such thing as human greatness. In the capitals, women receive, perhaps, a better education; but the skill of light soon smoothes the character and makes souls as monotonous as headdresses. Let this be said not in judgment, and not in condemnation, but nota nostra manet 2) , as one old commentator writes. It is easy to imagine what impression Alexei must have made in the circle of our young ladies. He was the first to appear before them gloomy and disappointed, the first to speak to them of lost joys, and of his withered youth; moreover, he wore a black ring with the image of a dead head. All this was extremely new in that province. The ladies went crazy over him. But the daughter of my Anglo-lover, Liza (or Betsy, as Grigory Ivanovich usually called her), was the most preoccupied with him. The fathers did not visit each other, she had not yet seen Alexei, while all the young neighbors spoke only of him. She was seventeen years old. Black eyes enlivened her swarthy and very pleasant face. She was the only and consequently spoiled child. Her playfulness and every minute pranks delighted her father and drove her Madame Miss Jackson, a prim and forty-year-old maid of forty, who blew her white and drooped her eyebrows, into despair, re-read "Pamela" twice a year, received two thousand rubles for that and died of boredom in this barbarian Russia . Nastya followed Liza; she was older, but as flighty as her young lady. Liza loved her very much, revealed to her all her secrets, and pondered her ideas with her; in a word, Nastya was a person in the village of Priluchino much more significant than any confidante in a French tragedy. “Let me go to visit today,” Nastya said one day, dressing the young lady. -- Please; And where to? - To Tugilovo, to the Berestovs. The cook's wife is their birthday girl and yesterday she came to invite us to dine. -- Here! - said Lisa, - the gentlemen are in a quarrel, and the servants are treating each other. “And what do we care about the gentlemen!” - objected Nastya, - besides, I'm yours, not papa's. You haven't quarreled with young Berestov yet; and let the old people fight for themselves, if it's fun for them. - Try, Nastya, to see Alexei Berestov, but tell me carefully what he is like and what kind of person he is. Nastya was promised, and Liza was looking forward to her return all day. In the evening Nastya came. “Well, Lizaveta Grigorievna,” she said, entering the room, “I saw young Berestov: she had seen enough; were together all day. -- Like this? Tell me, tell me in order. -- Excuse me, sir; Let's go, I, Anisya Egorovna, Nenila, Dunka... - Well, I know. Well then? - Allow me, sir, I will tell you everything in order. Here we are in time for dinner. The room was full of people. There were Kolbinsky, Zakharyevsky, a clerk with her daughters, Khlupinsky ... - Well! and Berestov? -- Wait a minute. So we sat down at the table, the clerk in the first place, I was next to her ... and my daughters pouted, but I don’t give a damn about them ... - Oh, Nastya, how boring you are with your eternal details! - How impatient you are! Well, we left the table ... and we sat for three hours, and the dinner was glorious; blancmange cake blue, red and striped ... So we left the table and went into the garden to play burners, and the young gentleman immediately appeared. -- Well? Is it true that he is so handsome? - Surprisingly good, handsome, one might say. Slender, tall, blush all over his cheek ... - Right? And I thought he had a pale face. What? What did he look like to you? Sad, thoughtful? -- What do you? Yes, I have never seen such a mad man. He took it into his head to run into the burners with us. - Run into the burners with you! Impossible! -- It is very possible! What else did you think! Catch, and well, kiss! - Your will, Nastya, you're lying. - It's your choice, I'm not lying. I forcefully got rid of him. The whole day was with us like that. - But how, they say, he is in love and does not look at anyone? “I don’t know, sir, but he looked at me too much, and at Tanya, the clerk’s daughter, too; Yes, and Pasha Kolbinskaya, yes, it’s a sin to say, he didn’t offend anyone, such a prankster! -- It is amazing! What do you hear about him at home? - The master, they say, is beautiful: so kind, so cheerful. One thing is not good: he likes to chase girls too much. Yes, for me, this is not a problem: it will settle down over time. “How I wish I could see him!” Lisa said with a sigh. - What's so clever about that? Tugilovo is not far from us, only three versts: go for a walk in that direction or ride on horseback; you will surely meet him. Every day, early in the morning, he goes hunting with a gun. - No, it's not good. He might think I'm chasing him. Besides, our fathers are in a quarrel, so I still won’t be able to get to know him ... Ah, Nastya! Do you know what? I'll dress up as a peasant woman! - And indeed; put on a thick shirt, sundress, and go boldly to Tugilovo; I guarantee you that Berestov will not miss you. “And I can speak the local language very well. Oh, Nastya, dear Nastya! What a glorious invention! And Liza went to bed with the intention of fulfilling her cheerful suggestion without fail. The very next day, she set about fulfilling her plan, sent to buy thick linen, blue Chinese and copper buttons at the market, with the help of Nastya she tailored a shirt and a sundress for herself, put all the girl's clothes into sewing, and by evening everything was ready. Liza tried on the new thing and admitted in front of the mirror that she had never seemed so sweet to herself. She repeated her role, bowed low as she walked, and then shook her head several times, like clay cats, spoke in a peasant dialect, laughed, covering herself with her sleeve, and earned Nastya's full approval. One thing made her difficult: she tried to walk barefoot through the yard, but the turf prickled her tender feet, and the sand and pebbles seemed unbearable to her. Nastya helped her here too: she took a measurement from Liza's foot, ran into the field to Trofim the shepherd and ordered him a pair of bast shoes according to that measure. The next day, neither light nor dawn, Liza was already awake. The whole house was still asleep. Nastya was waiting for the shepherd outside the gate. The horn began to play, and the village herd stretched past the manor's yard. Trofim, passing in front of Nastya, gave her small colorful bast shoes and received half a ruble from her as a reward. Liza quietly dressed up as a peasant woman, whispered her instructions to Nastya regarding Miss Jackson, went out onto the back porch and ran through the garden into the field. The dawn was shining in the east, and the golden rows of clouds seemed to be waiting for the sun, as courtiers are waiting for the sovereign; the clear sky, the freshness of the morning, the dew, the breeze, and the song of the birds filled Lisa's heart with childlike gaiety; afraid of some familiar encounter, she seemed not to walk, but to fly. Approaching the grove, standing at the turn of her father's property, Liza went more quietly. Here she was to wait for Alexei. Her heart was beating violently, without knowing why; but the fear that accompanies our young pranks is also their main charm. Lisa entered the gloom of the grove. A dull, erratic noise greeted the girl. Her amusement subsided. Little by little she indulged in sweet reverie. She thought ... but is it possible to determine with accuracy what a seventeen-year-old young lady is thinking, alone, in a grove, at the sixth hour of a spring morning? So, she was walking, thinking, along the road, overshadowed on both sides by tall trees, when suddenly a beautiful pointing dog barked at her. Lisa got scared and screamed. At the same time a voice was heard: "Tout beau, Sbogar, ici..." 3 ) - and the young hunter appeared from behind the bushes. "Probably, dear," he said to Liza, my dog ​​does not bite. Liza had already recovered from her fright and knew how to immediately take advantage of the circumstances. "No, sir," she said, pretending to be half-frightened, half-shy, "I'm afraid she's so wicked, you see; she'll throw herself again." Alexei (the reader has already recognized him) was meanwhile gazing intently at the young peasant woman. "I'll accompany you if you're afraid," he said to her, "will you let me walk beside you?" - "And who hinders them?" answered Lisa, "the free will, but the road is worldly." -- "Where are you from?" - "From Priluchino; I am the daughter of Vasily the blacksmith, I go for mushrooms" (Liza carried a box on a string). - "And you, master? Tugilovsky, or what?" - "That's right," replied Alexei, "I am the young gentleman's valet." Alexei wanted to equalize their relationship. But Lisa looked at him and laughed. "But you're lying," she said, "you didn't attack a fool. I see that you yourself are a gentleman." "Why do you think so?" - "Yes, all over." -- "However?" - "Yes, how can you not recognize the master and the servant? And you are dressed differently, and you talk differently, and you call the dog in a way that is not ours." Alexei liked Liza hour by hour more. Accustomed to not stand on ceremony with pretty peasant women, he was about to embrace her; but Liza jumped away from him and suddenly assumed such a stern and cold air that although this made Alexei laugh, it kept him from further attempts. "If you want us to be friends in the future," she said with gravity, "then don't forget yourself." “Who taught you this wisdom?” Alexei asked, bursting out laughing. “Is it not Nastenka, my friend, is it your young lady’s girlfriend? That’s how enlightenment spreads!” Lisa felt that she was about to step out of her role, and immediately corrected herself. “What do you think?” she said, “am I never even in the manor’s yard? I suppose: I’ve heard and seen enough. However,” she continued, “talking with you, you won’t pick up mushrooms. , master, to the side, and I to the other. We ask for forgiveness ... " Liza wanted to leave, Alexei held her by the hand. "What is your name, my soul?" “Akulina,” answered Liza, trying to free her fingers from Alekseeva’s hand, “let me go, master; it’s time for me to go home.” - "Well, my friend Akulina, I will certainly visit your father, Vasily the blacksmith." - "What are you talking about?" Liza objected with vivacity, "for Christ's sake, don't come. If they find out at home that I was chatting alone with the master in the grove, then I will be in trouble: my father, Vasily the blacksmith, will beat me to death" . "Yes, I certainly want to see you again." - "Well, I'll come here again sometime for mushrooms." -- "When?" "Yes, even tomorrow." - "Dear Akulina, I would kiss you, but I don't dare. So tomorrow, at this time, isn't it?" -- "Yes, yes." -- "And you won't deceive me?" "I won't cheat." -- "Shit." - "Well, those are holy Friday, I'll come." The young people broke up. Liza left the forest, crossed the field, crept into the garden and ran headlong to the farm, where Nastya was waiting for her. There she changed, absently answering the questions of an impatient confidante, and appeared in the living room. The table was set, breakfast was ready, and Miss Jackson, already whitewashed and drawn into a glass, was cutting thin tarts. Her father complimented her on her early walk. "There is nothing healthier," he said, "how to wake up at dawn." Here he gave several examples of human longevity, gleaned from English magazines, noting that all people who lived more than a hundred years did not drink vodka and got up at dawn in winter and summer. Lisa didn't listen to him. She repeated in her mind all the circumstances of the morning meeting, the whole conversation between Akulina and the young hunter, and her conscience began to torment her. In vain she objected to herself that their conversation did not go beyond the boundaries of decency, that this prank could not have any consequences, her conscience murmured louder than her mind. The promise she had made for the next day disturbed her most of all: she was about to make up her mind not to keep her solemn oath. But Alexei, having waited for her in vain, could go in search of the daughter of Vasily the blacksmith in the village, the real Akulina, a fat, pockmarked girl, and thus guess about her frivolous leprosy. This thought horrified Lisa, and she decided the next morning to appear again in Akulina's grove. For his part, Alexei was delighted, he thought all day about his new acquaintance; at night the image of a swarthy beauty haunted his imagination in his sleep. Dawn was hardly engaged when he was already dressed. Without giving himself time to load his gun, he went out into the field with his faithful Sbogar and ran to the place of the promised meeting. About half an hour passed in unbearable waiting for him; at last he saw a blue sarafan flickering between the bushes and rushed to meet dear Akulina. She smiled at the delight of his gratitude; but Alexei immediately noticed traces of despondency and anxiety on her face. He wanted to know the reason. Lisa confessed that her act seemed frivolous to her, that she repented of it, that this time she did not want to keep her word, but that this meeting would be the last and that she asked him to end the acquaintance, which could do no good bring them. All this, of course, was said in a peasant dialect; but thoughts and feelings, unusual in a simple girl, struck Alexei. He used all his eloquence to turn Akulina away from her intention; he assured her of the innocence of his desires, promised never to give her cause for repentance, to obey her in everything, conjured her not to deprive him of one consolation: to see her alone, at least every other day, at least twice a week. He spoke the language of true passion, and at that moment he was as if in love. Lisa listened to him silently. "Give me your word," she said at last, "that you will never look for me in the village or ask about me. Give me your word not to seek other dates with me than those that I myself will appoint." Alexei swore to her that it was Holy Friday, but she stopped him with a smile. "I don't need an oath," said Lisa, "your promise alone is enough." After that, they talked amicably, walking together through the forest, until Lisa told him: it's time. They parted, and Alexei, left alone, could not understand how a simple village girl managed to take true power over him in two dates. His relations with Akulina had the charm of novelty for him, and although the instructions of the strange peasant woman seemed painful to him, the thought of not keeping his word did not even cross his mind. The fact is that Alexei, despite the fatal ring, the mysterious correspondence and the gloomy disappointment, was a kind and ardent fellow and had a pure heart, capable of feeling the pleasures of innocence. If I had obeyed my own desire, I would certainly have begun to describe in all detail the meetings of young people, the growing mutual inclination and gullibility, activities, conversations; but I know that most of my readers would not share my pleasure with me. These details should generally seem cloying, so I will skip them, saying briefly that not even two months had passed, and my Alexei was already in love without memory, and Lisa was not more indifferent, although more silent than him. Both of them were happy in the present and thought little about the future. The thought of an inseparable bond flashed through their minds quite often, but they never spoke of it to each other. The reason is clear: no matter how attached he was to his dear Akulina, he still remembered the distance that existed between him and the poor peasant woman; and Lisa knew what hatred existed between their fathers, and did not dare to hope for mutual reconciliation. Moreover, her pride was secretly spurred on by the dark, romantic hope of finally seeing the Tugilov landowner at the feet of the daughter of the Priluchinsky blacksmith. Suddenly, an important incident almost changed their mutual relationship. On one clear, cold morning (of those with which our Russian autumn is rich), Ivan Petrovich Berestov rode out for a ride, just in case, taking with him a pair of three greyhounds, a groom, and several yard boys with rattles. At the same time, Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky, tempted by the good weather, ordered his stubby filly to be saddled and rode at a trot near his Anglicized possessions. Approaching the forest, he saw his neighbor, proudly sitting on horseback, in a chekmen lined with fox fur, and waiting for a hare, which the boys shouted and rattled out of the bushes. If Grigory Ivanovich could have foreseen this meeting, then of course he would have turned aside; but he ran into Berestov completely unexpectedly and suddenly found himself at a distance of a pistol shot from him. There was nothing to do. Muromsky, like an educated European, rode up to his opponent and greeted him courteously. Berestov answered with the same zeal with which a chained bear bows gentlemen by order of his guide. At this time, the hare jumped out of the forest and ran through the field. Berestov and the stirrup yelled at the top of their lungs, let the dogs go, and galloped after them at full speed. Muromsky's horse, which had never been on a hunt, was frightened and suffered. Muromsky, who proclaimed himself an excellent rider, gave her free rein and was inwardly pleased with the chance that rid him of an unpleasant companion. But the horse, galloping to a ravine, which it had not noticed before, suddenly rushed to the side, and Muromsky did not sit still. Having fallen rather heavily on the frozen ground, he lay, cursing his short mare, who, as if coming to her senses, immediately stopped as soon as she felt herself without a rider. Ivan Petrovich galloped up to him, asking if he had hurt himself. Meanwhile, the groom brought the guilty horse, holding it by the bridle. He helped Muromsky climb onto the saddle, and Berestov invited him to his place. Muromsky could not refuse, for he felt obliged, and thus Berestov returned home with glory, having hunted down a hare and leading his opponent wounded and almost a prisoner of war. Neighbors, having breakfast, got into a rather friendly conversation. Muromsky asked Berestov for a droshky, for he confessed that because of the bruise he was not able to ride home. Berestov accompanied him to the very porch, and Muromsky did not leave before taking his word of honor from him the next day (and with Alexei Ivanovich) to come to dine in a friendly way in Priluchino. Thus, the ancient and deep-rooted enmity seemed ready to end at the shyness of the short filly. Liza ran out to meet Grigory Ivanovich. "What does that mean, papa?" she said in surprise, "why are you limping? Where is your horse? Whose droshky is this?" "You won't guess, my dear" 4 ) , - Grigory Ivanovich answered her and told everything that had happened. Lisa couldn't believe her ears. Grigory Ivanovich, not allowing her to come to her senses, announced that both Berestovs would dine with him tomorrow. “What are you talking about!” she said, turning pale. “Berestovs, father and son! Tomorrow we have dinner! No, dad, as you please: I won’t show myself for anything.” - "What are you, out of your mind? - objected the father, - how long have you been so shy, or do you harbor hereditary hatred for them, like a romantic heroine? That's it, don't fool around ..." - "No, dad , for nothing in the world, for any treasures, I will not appear before the Berestovs. Grigory Ivanovich shrugged his shoulders and argued no more with her, for he knew that nothing could be taken from her by contradicting her, and he went to rest from his remarkable walk. Lizaveta Grigorievna went to her room and called Nastya. Both talked for a long time about tomorrow's visit. What will Alexei think if he recognizes his Akulina in the well-bred young lady? What opinion would he have of her behavior and rules, of her prudence? On the other hand, Lisa really wanted to see what impression such an unexpected meeting would have made on him ... Suddenly a thought flashed through her. She immediately handed it over to Nastya; both rejoiced at her as a find and decided to fulfill it without fail. The next day, at breakfast, Grigory Ivanovich asked his daughter if she still intended to hide from the Berestovs. “Daddy,” answered Lisa, “I will accept them if it pleases you, only with an agreement: no matter how I appear before them, no matter what I do, you will not scold me and will not give any sign of surprise or displeasure ". - "Again some pranks!" said Grigory Ivanovich, laughing. With this word, he kissed her on the forehead, and Lisa ran to get ready. At exactly two o'clock a homemade carriage drawn by six horses drove into the yard and rolled around a densely green circle of turf. Old Berestov ascended the porch with the help of two Muromsky's footmen in livery. Following him, his son came on horseback and went with him into the dining room, where the table was already set. Muromsky received his neighbors as affectionately as possible, invited them to inspect the garden and the menagerie before dinner, and led them along the paths, carefully swept and strewn with sand. Old Berestov inwardly regretted the lost work and time for such useless whims, but kept silent out of politeness. His son shared neither the displeasure of the prudent landowner, nor the admiration of the proud Angloman; he was looking forward to the appearance of the master's daughter, about whom he had heard a lot, and although his heart, as we know, was already occupied, but the young beauty always had the right to his imagination. Returning to the drawing room, the three of them sat down: the old men remembered the old times and the anecdotes of their service, and Alexei pondered what role he should play in Lisa's presence. He decided that cold absent-mindedness was, in any case, the most appropriate thing, and as a result he prepared himself. The door opened, he turned his head with such indifference, with such proud negligence, that the heart of the most inveterate coquette would certainly have shuddered. Unfortunately, instead of Lisa, old Miss Jackson came in, whitewashed, tight-fitting, with downcast eyes and a small knix, and the fine military movement of Alekseevo was wasted. Before he had time to gather his strength again, the door opened again, and this time Liza entered. Everyone got up; my father was about to introduce the guests, but suddenly he stopped and hastily bit his lips... Liza, his swarthy Liza, was whitened up to her ears, more blackened than Miss Jackson herself; her fake curls, much lighter than her own, were fluffed up like a Louis XIV wig; sleeves Yu l "imb and cile 5) sticking out like fizhma Madame de Pompadour; 6) her waist was cinched like an X, and all of her mother's diamonds not yet pawned shone on her fingers, neck, and ears. Alexei could not recognize his Akulina in this funny and brilliant young lady. His father went up to her hand, and he followed him with annoyance; when he touched her little white fingers, it seemed to him that they were trembling. In the meantime, he managed to notice the foot, deliberately exposed and shod with all sorts of coquetry. This reconciled him somewhat with the rest of her attire. As for whitewash and antimony, in the simplicity of his heart, I confess, he did not notice them at first sight, and did not suspect them afterwards either. Grigory Ivanovich remembered his promise and tried not to show his surprise; but his daughter's prank seemed so amusing to him that he could hardly restrain himself. The prim Englishwoman was not laughing. She guessed that the antimony and white had been stolen from her chest of drawers, and a crimson blush of annoyance broke through the artificial whiteness of her face. She threw fiery glances at the young naughty girl, who, postponing all explanations until another time, pretended not to notice them. We sat at the table. Alexei continued to play the role of absent-minded and thoughtful. Lisa was coy, spoke through her teeth, in a singsong voice, and only in French. Her father looked at her for a minute, not understanding her purpose, but finding it all very amusing. The Englishwoman was furious and silent. Ivan Petrovich alone was at home: he ate for two, drank in his measure, laughed at his own laughter, and from time to time talked and laughed more friendly. Finally got up from the table; the guests left, and Grigory Ivanovich gave vent to laughter and questions. "Why did you think of fooling them?" he asked Liza. ". Lisa was delighted with the success of her invention. She embraced her father, promised him to think about his advice, and ran to propitiate the irritated Miss Jackson, who hardly agreed to open her door to her and listen to her excuses. Lisa was ashamed to show herself such a blackhead before strangers; she did not dare to ask ... she was sure that the kind, dear Miss Jackson would forgive her ... and so on and so forth. Miss Jackson, making sure that Liza did not think to mock her, calmed down, kissed Liza and, as a pledge of reconciliation, gave her a jar of English whitewash, which Liza accepted with an expression of sincere gratitude. The reader will guess that the next morning Lisa was not slow to appear in the grove of rendezvous. "Have you been, sir, in the evening with our masters?" she immediately said to Alexei, "what did the young lady seem to you?" Alexei replied that he did not notice her. "Sorry," Lisa protested. "But why?" Alexei asked. "But because I would like to ask you, is it true, they say ..." - "What do they say?" - "Is it true, they say, that I look like a young lady?" - "What nonsense! She is a freak freak in front of you." - "Ah, master, it's a sin to tell you this; our young lady is so fair, such a dandy! How can I be equal to her!" Alexey swore to her that she was better than all sorts of white young ladies, and, in order to completely reassure her, he began to describe her mistress with such ridiculous features that Liza laughed heartily. "However," she said with a sigh, "even though the young lady may be funny, I'm still an illiterate fool in front of her." - "And! - said Alexei, - there is something to lament about! Yes, if you want, I will immediately teach you to read and write." "Really," said Lisa, "shouldn't you really try?" - "If you please, dear, let's start at least now." They sat down. Alexei took out a pencil and a notebook from his pocket, and Akulina learned the alphabet surprisingly quickly. Alexei could not marvel at her comprehension. The next morning she wanted to try and write; at first the pencil did not obey her, but after a few minutes she began to draw letters quite decently. “What a miracle!” said Alexei. “Yes, our teaching goes on faster than Lancaster system". In fact, in the third lesson, Akulina was already sorting out warehouses "Natalia, boyar daughter" , interrupting the reading with remarks, from which Alexei was truly in amazement, and smeared the round sheet with aphorisms selected from the same story. A week passed, and a correspondence began between them. The post office was established in the hollow of an old oak tree. Nastya secretly corrected the position of the postman. Alexey brought letters written in large handwriting there, and there he also found scribbles of his beloved on plain blue paper. Akulina, apparently, was getting used to the better way of speech, and her mind noticeably developed and formed. Meanwhile, the recent acquaintance between Ivan Petrovich Berestov and Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky became more and more strengthened and soon turned into friendship, for the following reasons: Muromsky often thought that after the death of Ivan Petrovich, all his estate would pass into the hands of Alexei Ivanovich; that in that case Aleksei Ivanovich would be one of the richest landowners in that province, and that there was no reason for him not to marry Lisa. Old Berestov, for his part, although he recognized in his neighbor a certain extravagance (or, as he put it, English foolishness), nevertheless did not deny many excellent virtues in him, for example: rare resourcefulness; Grigory Ivanovich was a close relative of Count Pronsky, a noble and strong man; the count could be very useful to Alexei, and Muromsky (so Ivan Petrovich thought) would probably rejoice at the opportunity to extradite his daughter in a profitable way. Until then the old men thought it all over to themselves until at last they spoke to each other, embraced, promised to process the matter in order and began to fuss about it, each for his part. Muromsky faced a difficulty: to persuade his Betsy to make a shorter acquaintance with Alexei, whom she had not seen since the most memorable dinner. They didn't seem to like each other very much; at least Aleksey no longer returned to Priluchino, and Liza went to her room every time Ivan Petrovich honored them with his visit. But, thought Grigory Ivanovich, if Alexey was with me every day, then Betsy would have to fall in love with him. It's okay. Time will sweeten everything. Ivan Petrovich was less worried about the success of his intentions. That same evening he called his son to his office, lit his pipe, and after a short silence said: “Why, Alyosha, have you not been talking about military service for a long time? father, - answered Alexei respectfully, - I see that you do not want me to go to the hussars; it is my duty to obey you. “Very well,” answered Ivan Petrovich, “I see that you are an obedient son; this is comforting to me; .. immediately ... to the civil service; but in the meantime I intend to marry you. "- Who is this, father?" asked the astonished Alexei. "To Lizaveta Grigorievna Muromskaya," answered Ivan Petrovich; I don’t think about marriage yet.—You don’t think so, I thought and changed my mind for you.—Your will, I don’t like Liza Muromskaya at all.—I’ll like it later. happiness. - Not your grief - her happiness. What? Do you respect the will of your parents in this way? Good! - As you wish, I do not want to marry and will not marry. - You marry, or I will curse you, and the estate "I'll sell you and squander it, and I won't leave you half a penny! I'll give you three days to think it over, but for now don't dare show yourself in front of my eyes. Alexei knew that if his father took something into his head, then that, as Taras put it, Skotinin, you can’t knock him out with a nail, but Alexei was like a father, and it was just as difficult to outdo him. He went to his room and began to think about the limits in the love of his parents, about Lizaveta Grigorievna, about his father's solemn promise to make him a beggar, and finally about Akulina. For the first time he saw clearly that he was passionately in love with her; the romantic idea of ​​marrying a peasant woman and living by his own labors came into his head, and the more he thought about this decisive act, the more he found prudence in it. For some time now, meetings in the grove have been discontinued due to rainy weather. He wrote Akulina a letter in the clearest handwriting and the most furious style, announced to her the death that threatened them, and immediately offered her his hand. He immediately took the letter to the post office, in the hollow, and went to bed very pleased with himself. The next day, Alexei, firm in his intention, went to Muromsky early in the morning in order to have a frank explanation with him. He hoped to incite his generosity and win him over to his side. "Is Grigory Ivanovich at home?" he asked, stopping his horse in front of the porch of the Priluchinsky castle. "No way," replied the servant, "Grigory Ivanovich deigned to leave in the morning." -- "How annoying!" thought Alexei. "Is Lizaveta Grigoryevna at least at home?" - "At home, sir." And Alexei jumped off his horse, handed the reins into the hands of the footman, and went off without a report. "Everything will be decided," he thought, going up to the drawing-room, "I'll explain myself to her." "He came in... and was dumbfounded!" Liza ... no Akulina, dear dark Akulina, not in a sundress, but in a white morning dress, was sitting in front of the window and reading his letter; she was so busy that she did not hear him come in. Alexei could not help exclaiming with joy. Liza shuddered, raised her head, screamed and wanted to run away. He rushed to hold her. "Akulina, Akulina!.." Liza tried to free herself from him... "Mais laissez-moi donc, monsieur; mais étes-vous fou?" 7) she repeated, turning away. "Akulina! my friend, Akulina!" he repeated, kissing her hands. Miss Jackson, who witnessed this scene, did not know what to think. At that moment the door opened and Grigory Ivanovich entered. -- Aha! - said Muromsky, - yes, it seems that things have already been completely coordinated with you ... Readers will spare me the unnecessary obligation to describe the denouement.

THE END OF THE STORIES OF I. P. BELKIN

Notes

(S. M. Petrov )

Tales of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin

"Tales of Belkin" were written by Pushkin in the autumn of 1830 in Boldin. Pushkin marked the end time of work in his autograph. The earliest of the stories, "The Undertaker", has a manuscript date of September 9; "The Stationmaster" - September 14, "The Young Lady-Peasant Woman" - September 20, "Shot" - October 14, "Snowstorm" - October 20. ninth december Pushkin "very secretly" informed P. A. Pletnev that he had written "five stories in prose, from which Baratynsky neighs and beats." In April 1831, the poet read stories to MP Pogodin in Moscow. Pushkin decided to publish the stories anonymously. To the cycle of these stories, he added the preface "From the Publisher", containing a biography of I. P. Belkin. Before sending the stories to print, Pushkin changed the original order of their arrangement: "Shot" and "Snowstorm" moved to the beginning of the collection. The epigraph to the entire cycle is taken from Fonvizin's "Undergrowth" (1781). Pletnev was engaged in the publication of stories. In a letter to him (about August 15, 1831), Pushkin asked: "Smirdin to whisper my name so that he whispers to the buyers." At the end of October 1831, the stories were published under the title "The stories of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin, published by A.P." With the full designation of the name of the author, Belkin's Tale was published in 1834 in the book Stories published by Alexander Pushkin.

SHOT

(p.45)

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

BLIZZARD

(p.63)

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

UNDERTAKER

(Page 77)

The prototype of the hero of the story was the undertaker Adrian, who lived not far from the Goncharovs' house in Moscow (now Herzen Street, 50). The Church of the Ascension mentioned in the story is located at the Nikitsky Gate. The epigraph is taken from G. R. Derzhavin's poem "Waterfall" (1794). ... Shakespeare and Walter Scott both presented their grave-diggers as cheerful people ...-- Pushkin has in mind the images of undertakers in Shakespeare's Hamlet and in Walter Scott's novel The Bride of Lamermoor (1819). ... postman Pogorelsky- a character from A. Pogorelsky's story "Lafertovskaya poppy" (1825). "With an ax and in homemade armor"-- a verse from A. Izmailov's (1779--1831) fairy tale "Fool Pakhomovna". "It seemed in a red morocco binding"- A slightly modified verse from Y. Knyaznin's comedy "Bouncer" (1786). 1) our clients (German).

(Page 86)

The epigraph was a verse slightly modified by Pushkin from P. A. Vyazemsky's poem "Station" (1825). Collegiate Registrar the lowest civil rank. ... rode on relays- that is, changing horses, changing at each station. Runs- Travel money. ...in Dmitriev's beautiful ballad- in a poem by I. I. Dmitriev "The retired sergeant major (Caricature)" (1791).

YOUNG PEASANT WOMAN

(Page 98)

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

FROM EARLY EDITIONS

BELKIN'S STORIES

FROM THE PUBLISHER

Original version of the preface

I am heartily glad that the manuscript, which I had the honor to transmit to you, seemed to you worthy of some attention. I hasten to fulfill your will, bringing you all the information that I could get regarding my late friend. Petr Ivanovich D. - was born in Moscow in 1801 from honest and noble parents. As a baby, he lost his father, Yves. P. D., collegiate assessor and gentleman. P. I. was brought up in the Second Cadet Corps, where, despite the extreme tenderness of health and weakness of memory, he made quite significant progress in the sciences. His diligence, good behavior, modesty and kindness earned him the love of mentors and the respect of his comrades. In 1818, he was released as an officer in the Selenginsky Infantry Regiment, in which he served until 1822. At that time, he lost his mother, and his poor health forced him to resign. He settled in Nov. district, in the village of Goryukhin, where he spent the rest of his short life. Being his guardian, I wanted to lease his estate to him on a legal basis, but P.I., due to natural carelessness, could never decide to revise the account books, plans, papers that I presented to him. I hardly persuaded him to believe at least the expense and income of the last two years, but he contented himself with revising the results alone, according to which he noticed that the number of chickens, geese, calves and other poultry had almost doubled thanks to good supervision, although, unfortunately, the number of peasants significantly decreased due to the epidemic disease that raged in our region. Foreseeing that the carelessness of his character would not allow him to take care of the household, I offered him the continuation of my management, to which he did not agree, ashamed to impose unnecessary troubles on me. I advised him at least to allow the peasants to take dues, and thereby save himself from all economic worries. My suggestion was approved by him, but he did not carry it out. for lack of time. Meanwhile, the economy stopped, the peasants did not pay dues and stopped going to corvée, so that in the whole neighborhood there was not a landowner who was more beloved and received less income.

Variants of one of the subsequent editions of the preface

Page 46. ​​After the words "to the village of Goryukhino, my fatherland": The description of his arrival, which I gleaned from his manuscript, presented to me by him, believing that you will be curious about it, I enclose here. (Here is a rather long extract from a lengthy manuscript, which we have now acquired and which we hope to publish if these stories are favorably received by the public.) Page 47. After the words "they did not resemble each other": I will give an example to prove this. Before dinner, whatever the weather, whether I am looking at the fields and working, or hunting, or just walking, I usually ride, which is extremely beneficial and even necessary for my health. P. I., not having the habit of riding, was afraid for a long time to follow my example, finally decided to demand a horse. I ordered for him to saddle the most meek of all my stables - and rode at a pace, for the trot might seem to him, out of habit, riding too dangerous and restless, and his horse had long lost the habit of it. P. I. was sitting quite cheerfully and was already beginning to adjust to the movement of the horse - as I, having driven up to the barn on which they were threshing, stopped. Following my example, the horse P.I. became. But he lost his balance from a sudden concussion, fell and hurt his arm. This misfortune and laughter, from which I could not refrain, did not prevent him from continuing to accompany me on my walks, and subsequently he acquired some skill in riding, in this exercise as useful as it was noble.

White autograph options 1)

Page 71. After the words "I was surrounded by seekers": Among the new two, it seemed, they disputed the championship among themselves, removing all other rivals. One of them was the son of the district leader, the same little lancer who once swore eternal friendship to our poor Vladimir, but now a laughter, overgrown with mustaches and sideburns and looking like a real Hercules. The other was a wounded hussar colonel, about 26 years old, with a george in his buttonhole and with an interesting pallor (as the young ladies there used to say). Page 71. After a quotation from Petrarch: It is also true that the Lancers Hercules seemed to have a special power over her: they were shorter and more frank among themselves. But all this (at least on her part) seemed more like friendship than love. It was even noticeable that the red tape of the young lancer sometimes annoyed her, and seldom his jokes were accepted by her favorably. The wounded hussar made less noise and laughed, but it seems that he managed much more.

UNDERTAKER

Page 82. After the words "The whole day I drove from Razgulay to the Nikitsky Gates and back" in the manuscript: By the evening I managed everything and arrived home late. There was no fire in the room; his daughters were long asleep. He knocked at the gate for a long time until the sleepy janitor heard him. Adrian scolded him in his usual way and sent him sleep, but in the passage the undertaker stopped: it seemed to him that people were walking about the rooms. "The thieves!" was the undertaker's first thought; he was not a cowardly ten, his first movement was to enter as soon as possible. But then his legs buckled, and he was dumbfounded with horror.

STATION OFFICER

Page 88. After the words "to the last thread": Arriving at the station, my first concern was to change clothes as soon as possible, the second - to go as soon as possible. "There are no horses," the caretaker said to me and handed me a book to justify his words. "How are there no horses?" - shouted with anger, partly feigned ("From the notes of a young man") 1). Page 88. After the words "... the whole dead mother": Then my old coachman (i.e., a twenty-year-old coachman who brought me; but on the high road and they grow old on postal) with a demand for vodka; at that time people did not stitch for tea. But enlightenment, having taken a gigantic step in the last decade... 2) Pp. 89. After the words "so long, such a pleasant memory" in the manuscript: And now, thinking 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, the 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 the road so much, and the imagination, undistracted 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.

The original plan for the story

Discussion about caretakers. - In general, people are unhappy and kind. My friend is the caretaker of the widows. 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 follows her in P. b., sees her at a walk. Returning, he finds his father dead. The daughter is coming. Grave outside. I'm going away. The clerk is dead. The coachman tells me about his daughter. 1) The note in brackets indicates that an excerpt from the previously written "Notes of a Young Man" should have followed; see p. 496. 2) This passage in the manuscript is incomplete.

YOUNG PEASANT WOMAN

Page 104. After the words "and by the evening everything was ready": Nastya took measurements from Liza's leg and ran into the field to Trofim the shepherd. “Grandfather,” she said to him, “can you weave me a pair of bast shoes according to this measure?” “If you please,” answered the old man, “I’ll gossip for you in such a way that it’s nice, dear ... but who, mother, needed children’s bast shoes? “None of your business,” answered Nastya, “just don’t tarry with work. The shepherd promised to bring them by tomorrow morning, and Nastya ran away, singing her favorite song: Captain's daughter, Don't go for a walk at midnight 1) . Page 109. Instead of a phrase from the words "Besides, her pride" to the words "the daughter of the Priluchinsky blacksmith": In addition, they were so pleased with their position that they did not want any change. Meanwhile, autumn came and with it bad weather. Dates became less frequent, the weather upset them every minute. Young people grumbled, but there was nothing to do. Page 117. After the words "very pleased with himself": The next day he woke up, sobering up from yesterday's storm. He changed his mind; go to B** 2) , to speak frankly with him, and then by common forces to persuade the irritated old man, it seemed to him more true. He ordered to saddle a horse and set off to a neighbor, on the way he drove into a grove in order to take the letter back, but it was already gone in the hollow; Nastya, who corrected the position of the postman under Lisa, warned him. Alexei worried little about this, for the idea of ​​marrying Akulina did not seem stupid to him, and he was glad to talk to her about it herself. one) Initially: "In the evening I will blush the dawn." 2) So the name of Muromsky was originally designated.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

Horses rush along the mounds,

Trampling deep snow...

Here, aside the temple of God

Seen alone.

…………………………

Suddenly a blizzard is all around;

Snow falls in tufts;

Black Raven, whistling its wing,

Hovering over the sleigh;

A prophetic groan says sadness!

The horses are hurried

Sensitively look into the dark distance,

Raising manes...

Zhukovsky

At the end of 1811, in an era memorable to us, the good Gavrila Gavrilovich R ** lived in his estate Nenaradovo. He was famous throughout the district for his hospitality and cordiality; his neighbors kept coming to him to eat, to drink, to play five kopecks in Boston with his wife, Praskovya Petrovna, and some in order to look at their daughter, Marya Gavrilovna, a slender, pale, seventeen-year-old girl. She was considered a rich bride, and many predicted her for themselves or for their sons.

Marya Gavrilovna was brought up on French novels, and, consequently, she was in love. The subject chosen by her was a poor army ensign who was on leave in his village. It goes without saying that the young man burned with equal passion and that his amiable parents, noticing their mutual inclination, forbade their daughter to even think about him, and he was received worse than a retired assessor.

Our lovers were in correspondence, and every day they saw each other alone in the pine grove or at the old chapel. There they swore eternal love to each other, complained about fate and made various assumptions. Corresponding and talking in this way, they (which is quite natural) came to the following reasoning: if we cannot breathe without each other, and the will of cruel parents hinders our well-being, then can we not do without it? It goes without saying that this happy thought first occurred to the young man, and that Marya Gavrilovna's romantic imagination greatly liked it.

Winter came and stopped their visits; but the correspondence became all the more lively. Vladimir Nikolaevich in every letter implored her to surrender to him, to marry secretly, to hide for some time, then to throw herself at the feet of her parents, who, of course, would finally be touched by the heroic constancy and misfortune of their lovers, and would certainly say to them: Children! come into our arms.

Marya Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time; many escape plans were rejected. Finally she agreed: on the appointed day, she was to skip supper and retire to her room on the pretext of a headache. Her girl was in a conspiracy; both of them were to go out into the garden through the back porch, find a ready-made sledge behind the garden, get into it and drive five miles from Nenaradovo to the village of Zhadrino, straight to the church, where Vladimir was supposed to wait for them.

On the eve of the decisive day Marya Gavrilovna did not sleep all night; she packed, tied her linen and dress, wrote a long letter to one sensitive young lady, her friend, and another to her parents. She said goodbye to them in the most touching terms, excused her misdeed by the irresistible force of passion, and ended by saying that she would honor the most blessed moment of her life when she would be allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dearest parents. Having sealed both letters with a Tula signet, on which were depicted two flaming hearts with a decent inscription, she threw herself on the bed just before dawn and dozed off; but here, too, terrible dreams continually awakened her. It seemed to her that at the very moment she was getting into the sleigh to go to the wedding, her father stopped her, dragged her with excruciating speed over the snow and threw her into a dark, bottomless dungeon ... and she flew headlong with an inexplicable sinking heart; then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale, bloodied. He, dying, begged her in a piercing voice to hasten to marry him ... other ugly, meaningless visions rushed before her one after another. At last she got up, paler than usual, and with an unfeigned headache. Her father and mother noticed her unease; their tender care and incessant questions: what is the matter with you, Masha? Are you sick, Masha? - tore her heart apart. She tried to calm them down, to appear cheerful, but she could not. Evening came. The thought that this was the last time she was spending the day in the midst of her family oppressed her heart. She was barely alive; she secretly said goodbye to all the persons, to all the objects that surrounded her. Served supper; her heart began to beat violently. She announced in a trembling voice that she did not feel like supper, and began to say goodbye to her father and mother. They kissed her and, as usual, blessed her: she almost cried. Arriving in her room, she threw herself into an armchair and burst into tears. The girl urged her to calm down and take heart. Everything was ready. Half an hour later, Masha had to leave her parents' house forever, her room, her quiet girlish life ... There was a snowstorm outside; the wind howled, the shutters shook and rattled; everything seemed to her a threat and a sad omen. Soon everything in the house calmed down and fell asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a warm coat, picked up her box and went out onto the back porch. The maid carried two bundles behind her. They went down to the garden. The blizzard did not subside; the wind blew against her, as if trying to stop the young criminal. They made their way to the end of the garden. On the road, the sleigh was waiting for them. The horses, vegetating, did not stand still; Vladimir's coachman paced in front of the shafts, holding back the zealous. He helped the young lady and her girlfriend to sit down and put the bundles and the box, took the reins, and the horses flew. Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and the art of Tereshka the coachman, let us turn to our young lover.

The whole day Vladimir was on the road. In the morning he was at the Zhadrinsk priest; forcibly agreed with him; then he went to look for witnesses among the neighboring landowners. The first to whom he appeared, a retired forty-year-old cornet Dravin, readily agreed. This adventure, he assured, reminded him of the old times and the pranks of the hussars. He persuaded Vladimir to stay at his place for dinner, and assured him that the other two witnesses would not be involved. In fact, immediately after dinner, the land surveyor Schmitt, in mustaches and spurs, and the son of the police captain, a boy of about sixteen, who had recently entered the uhlans, appeared. They not only accepted Vladimir's offer, but even swore to him that they were ready to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced them with delight, and went home to get ready.

It has been dark for a long time. He sent his reliable Tereshka to Nenaradovo with his troika and detailed instructions, and for himself he ordered a small one-horse sledge to be laid, and alone, without a coachman, went to Zhadrino, where Marya Gavrilovna was supposed to arrive in two hours. The road was familiar to him, and the drive was only twenty minutes.

But as soon as Vladimir left the outskirts in the field, the wind picked up and there was such a snowstorm that he could not see anything. In one minute the road skidded; the surroundings vanished into a cloudy and yellowish haze through which white flakes of snow flew; the sky merged with the earth. Vladimir found himself in a field and in vain wanted to get back on the road; the horse stepped at random and every minute either rode up a snowdrift or fell into a hole; the sleigh kept tipping over; Vladimir tried only not to lose the real direction. But it seemed to him that more than half an hour had already passed, and he had not yet reached the Zhadrinskaya grove. Another ten minutes or so passed; the grove was nowhere to be seen. Vladimir rode through a field crossed by deep ravines. The blizzard did not subside, the sky did not clear up. The horse began to tire, and sweat rolled off him in hail, despite the fact that he was constantly waist-deep in snow.

Finally, he saw that he was going in the wrong direction. Vladimir stopped: he began to think, recall, reflect, and became convinced that he should have taken to the right. He drove to the right. His horse stepped a little. He had been on the road for over an hour. Zhadrino should have been nearby. But he rode, rode, and there was no end to the field. All snowdrifts and ravines; every minute the sleigh overturned, every minute he raised them. As time went; Vladimir began to get very worried.

Finally, something began to turn black on the side. Vladimir turned there. Approaching, he saw a grove. Thank God, he thought, it's close now. He rode near the grove, hoping at once to get on a familiar road or to drive around the grove: Zhadrino was immediately behind it. Soon he found his way and rode into the darkness of the trees bare in winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was smooth; the horse cheered up, and Vladimir calmed down.

In 1811, Gavrila Gavrilovich R. lived on his estate with his wife and daughter Masha. He was hospitable, and many enjoyed his hospitality, and some came for Marya Gavrilovna. But Marya Gavrilovna was in love with a poor army warrant officer named Vladimir, who was on vacation in his village next door. Young lovers, believing that the will of their parents hinders their happiness, decided to do without a blessing, that is, to get married in secret, and then throw themselves at the feet of their parents, who, of course, will be touched by the constancy of their children, forgive and bless them. This plan belonged to Vladimir, but Marya Gavrilovna finally succumbed to his persuasion to flee. A sleigh was supposed to come for her to take her to the neighboring village of Zhadrino, in which it was decided to get married and where Vladimir should already have been waiting for her.

On the evening appointed for the escape, Marya Gavrilovna was in great agitation, refused supper, citing a headache, and went to her room early. At the appointed time, she went out into the garden. On the road, Vladimir's coachman was waiting for her with a sleigh. A blizzard was raging outside.

Vladimir himself spent the whole day in trouble: he needed to persuade the priest, as well as find witnesses. Having settled these matters, he himself, driving in a small one-horse sleigh, went to Zhadrino, but as soon as he left the outskirts, a snowstorm arose, due to which Vladimir lost his way and wandered all night in search of a road. At dawn he had just reached Zhadrin and found the church locked.

And Marya Gavrilovna in the morning, as if nothing had happened, left her room and calmly answered her parents' questions about her well-being, but in the evening she became very feverish. In her delirium, she repeated the name of Vladimir, spoke of her secret, but her words were so incoherent that her mother did not understand anything, except that her daughter was in love with the neighboring landowner and that love must have been the cause of the illness. And the parents decided to give Masha for Vladimir. Vladimir answered the invitation with a chaotic and unintelligible letter, in which he wrote that his foot would not be in their house, and asked them to forget about him. A few days later he left for the army. This happened in 1812, and after a while his name was published among those who distinguished themselves and were wounded near Borodino. This news saddened Masha, and Gavrila Gavrilovich soon died, leaving her as his heiress. Suitors circled around her, but she seemed to be faithful to Vladimir, who died in Moscow from wounds.

"Meanwhile, the war with glory was over." The regiments were returning from abroad. In the estate of Marya Gavrilovna, a wounded hussar colonel Burmin appeared, who came on vacation to his estate, which was nearby. Marya Gavrilovna and Burmin felt that they liked each other, but something kept each from taking a decisive step. Once Burmin came for a visit and found Marya Gavrilovna in the garden. He announced to Marya Gavrilovna that he loved her, but could not become her husband, since he was already married, but did not know who his wife was, where she was and whether she was alive. And he told her an amazing story, how at the beginning of 1812 he was going from vacation to the regiment and during a heavy snowstorm he lost his way. Seeing a light in the distance, he went towards it and ran into an open church, near which a sleigh was standing and people were walking impatiently. They acted as if they were waiting for him. A young lady was sitting in the church, with whom Burmin was placed in front of the lectern. They were driven by unforgivable frivolity. When the wedding ceremony was over, the young people were offered to kiss, and the girl, looking at Burmin, with a cry of “not him, not him,” fell unconscious. Burmin freely left the church and left. And now he does not know what happened to his wife, what her name is, and does not even know where the wedding took place. The servant who was with him at that time has died, so there is no way to find this woman.

Horses rush along the mounds,
Trampling deep snow...
Here, aside the temple of God
Seen alone.
…………………………
Suddenly a blizzard is all around;
Snow falls in tufts;
Black Raven, whistling its wing,
Hovering over the sleigh;
A prophetic groan says sadness!
The horses are hurried
Sensitively look into the dark distance,
Raising manes...

At the end of 1811, in an era memorable to us, the good Gavrila Gavrilovich R ** lived in his estate Nenaradovo. He was famous throughout the district for his hospitality and cordiality; his neighbors kept coming to him to eat, to drink, to play five kopecks in Boston with his wife, Praskovya Petrovna, and some in order to look at their daughter, Marya Gavrilovna, a slender, pale, seventeen-year-old girl. She was considered a rich bride, and many predicted her for themselves or for their sons.

Marya Gavrilovna was brought up on French novels, and, consequently, she was in love. The subject chosen by her was a poor army ensign who was on leave in his village. It goes without saying that the young man burned with equal passion and that his amiable parents, noticing their mutual inclination, forbade their daughter to even think about him, and he was received worse than a retired assessor.

Our lovers were in correspondence, and every day they saw each other alone in the pine grove or at the old chapel. There they swore eternal love to each other, complained about fate and made various assumptions. Corresponding and talking in this way, they (which is quite natural) came to the following reasoning: if we cannot breathe without each other, and the will of cruel parents hinders our well-being, then can we not do without it? It goes without saying that this happy thought first occurred to the young man, and that Marya Gavrilovna's romantic imagination greatly liked it.

Winter came and stopped their visits; but the correspondence became all the more lively. Vladimir Nikolaevich in every letter implored her to surrender to him, to marry secretly, to hide for some time, then to throw herself at the feet of her parents, who, of course, would finally be touched by the heroic constancy and misfortune of their lovers, and would certainly say to them: Children! come into our arms.

Marya Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time; many escape plans were rejected. Finally she agreed: on the appointed day, she was to skip supper and retire to her room on the pretext of a headache. Her girl was in a conspiracy; both of them were to go out into the garden through the back porch, find a ready-made sledge behind the garden, get into it and drive five miles from Nenaradovo to the village of Zhadrino, straight to the church, where Vladimir was supposed to wait for them.

On the eve of the decisive day Marya Gavrilovna did not sleep all night; she packed, tied her linen and dress, wrote a long letter to one sensitive young lady, her friend, and another to her parents. She said goodbye to them in the most touching terms, excused her misdeed by the irresistible force of passion, and ended by saying that she would honor the most blessed moment of her life when she would be allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dearest parents. Having sealed both letters with a Tula signet, on which were depicted two flaming hearts with a decent inscription, she threw herself on the bed just before dawn and dozed off; but here, too, terrible dreams continually awakened her. It seemed to her that at the very moment she was getting into the sleigh to go to the wedding, her father stopped her, dragged her with excruciating speed over the snow and threw her into a dark, bottomless dungeon ... and she flew headlong with an inexplicable sinking heart; then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale, bloodied. He, dying, begged her in a piercing voice to hasten to marry him ... other ugly, meaningless visions rushed before her one after another. At last she got up, paler than usual, and with an unfeigned headache. Her father and mother noticed her unease; their tender care and incessant questions: what is the matter with you, Masha? Are you sick, Masha? - tore her heart apart. She tried to calm them down, to appear cheerful, but she could not. Evening came. The thought that this was the last time she was spending the day in the midst of her family oppressed her heart. She was barely alive; she secretly said goodbye to all the persons, to all the objects that surrounded her. Served supper; her heart began to beat violently. She announced in a trembling voice that she did not feel like supper, and began to say goodbye to her father and mother. They kissed her and, as usual, blessed her: she almost cried. Arriving in her room, she threw herself into an armchair and burst into tears. The girl urged her to calm down and take heart. Everything was ready. Half an hour later, Masha had to leave her parents' house forever, her room, her quiet girlish life ... There was a snowstorm outside; the wind howled, the shutters shook and rattled; everything seemed to her a threat and a sad omen. Soon everything in the house calmed down and fell asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a warm coat, picked up her box and went out onto the back porch. The maid carried two bundles behind her. They went down to the garden. The blizzard did not subside; the wind blew against her, as if trying to stop the young criminal. They made their way to the end of the garden. On the road, the sleigh was waiting for them. The horses, vegetating, did not stand still; Vladimir's coachman paced in front of the shafts, holding back the zealous. He helped the young lady and her girlfriend to sit down and put the bundles and the box, took the reins, and the horses flew. Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and the art of Tereshka the coachman, let us turn to our young lover.

The whole day Vladimir was on the road. In the morning he was at the Zhadrinsk priest; forcibly agreed with him; then he went to look for witnesses among the neighboring landowners. The first to whom he appeared, a retired forty-year-old cornet Dravin, readily agreed. This adventure, he assured, reminded him of the old times and the pranks of the hussars. He persuaded Vladimir to stay at his place for dinner, and assured him that the other two witnesses would not be involved. In fact, immediately after dinner, the land surveyor Schmitt, in mustaches and spurs, and the son of the police captain, a boy of about sixteen, who had recently entered the uhlans, appeared. They not only accepted Vladimir's offer, but even swore to him that they were ready to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced them with delight, and went home to get ready.

A.S. Pushkin

The horses rush along the mounds, They trample the deep snow... Here, aside, the temple of God Is seen lonely. ................................ Suddenly a blizzard is all around; Snow falls in tufts; Black crow, whistling its wing, Hovering over the sleigh; A prophetic groan says sadness! The horses are hurried, Sensitively looking into the dark distance, Raising their manes...

Zhukovsky.

At the end of 1811, in an era memorable to us, the good Gavrila Gavrilovich R ** lived in his estate Nenaradovo. He was famous throughout the district for his hospitality and cordiality; every minute the neighbors went to him to eat, drink, play five kopecks in Boston with his wife, and some in order to look at their daughter, Marya Gavrilovna, a slender, pale and seventeen-year-old girl. She was considered a rich bride, and many predicted her for themselves or for their sons. Marya Gavrilovna was brought up on French novels, and consequently she was in love. The subject chosen by her was a poor army ensign who was on leave in his village. It goes without saying that the young man burned with equal passion, and that his amiable parents, noticing their mutual inclination, forbade their daughter to think about him, and he was received worse than a retired assessor. Our lovers were in correspondence, and every day they saw each other alone in a pine grove or at an old chapel. There they swore eternal love to each other, complained about fate and made various assumptions. Corresponding and talking in this way, they (which is quite natural) came to the following reasoning: if we cannot breathe without each other, and the will of cruel parents hinders our well-being, then can we not do without it? It goes without saying that this happy thought first occurred to the young man, and that Marya Gavrilovna's romantic imagination greatly liked it. Winter came and stopped their visits; but the correspondence became all the more lively. Vladimir Nikolaevich in every letter implored her to surrender to him, to marry secretly, to hide for some time, then to throw herself at the feet of her parents, who, of course, would finally be touched by the heroic constancy and misfortune of their lovers, and would certainly say to them: Children! come into our arms. Marya Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time; many escape plans were rejected. Finally she agreed: on the appointed day, she was to skip supper and retire to her room on the pretext of a headache. Her girl was in a conspiracy; both of them were to go out into the garden through the back porch, find a ready-made sleigh behind the garden, get into it and drive five miles from Nenaradovo to the village of Zhadrino, straight to the church, where Vladimir was supposed to wait for them. On the eve of the decisive day, Marya Gavrilovna did not sleep all night; she packed, tied her linen and dress, wrote a long letter to one sensitive young lady, her friend, and another to her parents. She said goodbye to them in the most touching terms, excused her misdeed by the irresistible force of passion, and ended by saying that she would honor the most blessed moment of her life when she was allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dearest parents. Having sealed both letters with a Tula signet, on which were depicted two flaming hearts with a decent inscription, she threw herself on the bed just before dawn and dozed off; but here, too, terrible dreams continually awakened her. It seemed to her that at the very moment she was getting into the sleigh to go to the wedding, her father stopped her, dragged her with excruciating speed over the snow and threw her into a dark, bottomless dungeon ... and she flew headlong with an inexplicable sinking heart; then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale, bloodied. As he was dying, he begged her in a piercing voice to hasten to marry him... Other ugly, senseless visions rushed before her one after another. At last she got up, paler than usual, and with an unfeigned headache. Her father and mother noticed her unease; their tender care and incessant questions: what is the matter with you, Masha? Are you sick, Masha? tore her heart apart. She tried to calm them down, to appear cheerful, but she could not. Evening came. The thought that this was the last time she was spending the day in the midst of her family oppressed her heart. She was barely alive; she secretly said goodbye to all the persons, to all the objects that surrounded her. Served supper; her heart began to beat violently. She announced in a trembling voice that she did not feel like supper, and began to say goodbye to her father and mother. They kissed her and, as usual, blessed her: she almost burst into tears. Arriving in her room, she threw herself into an armchair and burst into tears. The girl urged her to calm down and take heart. Everything was ready. Half an hour later, Masha had to leave her parents' house forever, her room, her quiet girlish life ... There was a blizzard in the yard; the wind howled, the shutters shook and rattled; everything seemed to her a threat and a sad omen. Soon everything in the house calmed down and fell asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a warm coat, picked up her box and went out onto the back porch. The maid carried two bundles behind her. They went down to the garden. The blizzard did not subside; the wind blew against her, as if trying to stop the young criminal. They made their way to the end of the garden. On the road, the sleigh was waiting for them. The horses, vegetating, did not stand still; Vladimir's coachman paced in front of the shafts, holding back the zealous. He helped the young lady and her girlfriend to sit down and put the bundles and the box, took the reins, and the horses flew. Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and the art of Tereshka the coachman, let us turn to our young lover. The whole day Vladimir was on the road. In the morning he was at the Zhadrinsk priest; forcibly agreed with him; then he went to look for witnesses among the neighboring landowners. The first to whom he appeared, the retired forty-year-old cornet Dravin, readily agreed. This adventure, he assured, reminded him of the old times and the pranks of the hussars. He persuaded Vladimir to stay at his place for dinner, and assured him that the other two witnesses would not be involved. In fact, immediately after dinner, the land surveyor Schmitt, in mustaches and spurs, and the son of the police captain, a boy of about sixteen, who had recently entered the uhlans, appeared. They not only accepted Vladimir's offer, but even swore to him that they were ready to sacrifice their lives for him. Vladimir embraced them with delight, and went home to get ready. It has been dark for a long time. He sent his reliable Tereshka to Nenaradovo with his troika and detailed instructions, and for himself he ordered a small one-horse sledge to be laid, and alone, without a coachman, went to Zhadrino, where Marya Gavrilovna was supposed to arrive in two hours. The road was familiar to him, and the drive was only twenty minutes. But as soon as Vladimir left the outskirts in the field, the wind picked up and there was such a snowstorm that he could not see anything. In one minute the road skidded; the surroundings vanished into a cloudy and yellowish haze through which white flakes of snow flew; the sky merged with the earth. Vladimir found himself in a field and in vain wanted to get back on the road; the horse stepped at random and every minute either rode up a snowdrift or fell into a hole; the sleigh kept tipping over. - Vladimir tried only not to lose the real direction. But it seemed to him that more than half an hour had already passed, and he had not yet reached the Zhadrinskaya grove. Another ten minutes or so passed; the grove was nowhere to be seen. Vladimir rode through a field crossed by deep ravines. The blizzard did not subside, the sky did not clear up. The horse began to tire, and sweat rolled off him in hail, despite the fact that he was constantly waist-deep in snow. Finally, he saw that he was going in the wrong direction. Vladimir stopped: he began to think, recall, reflect, and became convinced that he should have sculpted to the right. He drove to the right. His horse stepped a little. He had been on the road for over an hour. Zhadrino should have been nearby. But he rode, rode, and there was no end to the field. All snowdrifts, yes ravines; every minute the sleigh overturned, every minute he raised them. As time went; Vladimir began to get very worried. Finally, something began to turn black on the side. Vladimir turned there. Approaching, he saw a grove. Thank God, he thought, it's close now. He rode near the grove, hoping at once to get on a familiar road or to drive around the grove: Zhadrino was immediately behind it. Soon he found the way, and drove into the darkness of the trees, bare in winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was smooth; the horse cheered up, and Vladimir calmed down. But he rode and rode, but Zhadrin was nowhere to be seen; there was no end to the grove. Vladimir saw with horror that he drove into an unfamiliar forest. Despair took hold of him. He hit the horse; the poor animal started at a trot, but soon began to pester, and after a quarter of an hour it was walking, in spite of all the efforts of the unfortunate Vladimir. Little by little the trees began to thin out, and Vladimir rode out of the forest; Zhadrin was nowhere to be seen. It must have been around midnight. Tears sprang from his eyes; he went at random. The weather had calmed down, the clouds parted, and before him lay a plain covered with a white wavy carpet. The night was pretty clear. He saw a village not far away, consisting of four or five households. Vladimir went to her. At the first hut he jumped out of the sleigh, ran to the window and began to knock. A few minutes later the wooden shutter was raised and the old man stuck out his gray beard. "What do you want?" - "Is Zhadrino far?" "Is Zhadrino far away?" - "Yes, yes! Is it far?" - "Not far; ten versts will be." At this answer, Vladimir grabbed his hair and remained motionless, like a man sentenced to death. "And where are you from? E continued the old man. Vladimir did not have the heart to answer questions. "Can you, old man," he said, get me horses to Zhadrin?" - "What kind of horses we have," answered the man. - "But can't I take at least a guide? I'll pay as much as I want." - "Wait," said the old man, lowering the shutter, "I will send them out to my son; he will see them off." Vladimir began to wait. Not a minute later, he started knocking again. The shutter went up, the beard showed. "What do you want?" - "What about your son?" - "This hour will go out, put on shoes. Ali, are you cold? Come in and warm yourself." "Thank you, send your son as soon as possible." The gates creaked; the guy came out with a club, and went forward, now pointing, then looking for a road covered with snowdrifts. "What time is it now?" Vladimir asked him. "Yes, it will dawn soon," answered the young man. Vladimir didn't say a word. The roosters were crowing and it was already light when they reached Zhadrin. The church was closed. Vladimir paid the conductor and went to the yard to the priest. He was not in the yard of the troika. What news awaited him! But let us return to the good landlords of Nenaradovo and see what they are doing. But nothing. The old people woke up and went into the living room. Gavrila Gavrilovich in a cap and a flannelette jacket, Praskovya Petrovna in a cotton-lined dressing gown. The samovar was brought in, and Gavrila Gavrilovich sent the girl to find out from Marya Gavrilovna how her health was and how she slept. The little girl came back, announcing that the young lady had supposedly rested badly, but that it was easier for her now, and that she would come into the drawing room this very hour. In fact, the door opened and Marya Gavrilovna came up to greet papa and mama. "What's your head, Masha?" asked Gavrila Gavrilovich. "Better, papa," answered Masha. - "You're right. Masha, she lost her temper yesterday," said Praskovya Petrovna. - "Maybe, mother," answered Masha. The day went well, but at night Masha fell ill. They sent to the city for a doctor. He arrived in the evening and found the patient delirious. A severe fever broke out, and the poor patient spent two weeks at the edge of the coffin. No one in the house knew about the supposed escape. The letters she had written the day before were burned; her maid did not say anything to anyone, fearing the wrath of the masters. The priest, the retired cornet, the mustachioed land surveyor, and the little lancer were modest, and it was not for nothing that Tereshka never said anything superfluous, even when drunk. Thus the secret was kept by more than half a dozen conspirators. But Marya Gavrilovna herself, in incessant delirium, expressed her secret. However, her words were so inconsistent with anything that the mother, who did not leave her bed, could only understand from them that her daughter was mortally in love with Vladimir Nikolaevich, and that love was probably the cause of her illness. She consulted with her husband, with some of the neighbors, and finally, unanimously, everyone decided that such was the fate of Marya Gavrilovna, that you couldn’t go round your betrothed, that poverty is not a vice, that to live not with wealth, but with a person, and the like. Moral proverbs are surprisingly useful in those cases when we can think up little of ourselves to justify ourselves. Meanwhile, the young lady began to recover. Vladimir had not been seen in the house of Gavrila Gavrilovich for a long time. He was frightened by the usual reception. They decided to send for him, and announce to him an unexpected happiness: consent to marriage. But what was the astonishment of the Nenarado landowners when, in response to their invitation, they received a half-crazy letter from him! He announced to them that his foot would never be in their house, and asked them to forget about the unfortunate man, for whom death remains the only hope. A few days later they learned that Vladimir had left for the army. This was in 1812. For a long time they did not dare to announce this to the convalescent Masha. She never mentioned Vladimir. A few months later, having found his name among those distinguished and seriously wounded near Borodino, she fainted, and they were afraid that her fever would not return. However, thank God, the fainting had no consequences. Another sadness visited her: Gavrila Gavrilovich died, leaving her the heiress of the entire estate. But the inheritance did not console her; she sincerely shared the grief of poor Praskovya Petrovna, swore never to part from her; they both left Nenaradovo, a place of sad memories, and went to live in a *** estate. The suitors circled around the sweet and rich bride; but she gave no one the slightest hope. Her mother sometimes urged her to choose a friend; Marya Gavrilovna shook her head and thought. Vladimir no longer existed: he died in Moscow, on the eve of the entry of the French. His memory seemed sacred to Masha; at least she cherished everything that could remind him: books he had once read, his drawings, notes and poems he had transcribed for her. The neighbors, having learned about everything, marveled at her constancy and waited with curiosity for the hero who was finally to triumph over the sad fidelity of this virgin Artemisa. Meanwhile, the war with glory was over. Our regiments were returning from abroad. The people ran towards them. The music played conquered songs: Vive Henri-Quatre, Tyrolean waltzes and arias from Joconde. The officers who went on a campaign almost as youths returned, having matured in the swearing air, hung with crosses. The soldiers were talking merrily among themselves, interfering every minute with German and French words. Unforgettable time! Time of glory and delight! How strongly the Russian heart beat at the word fatherland! How sweet were the tears of rendezvous! With what unanimity we united the feelings of national pride and love for the sovereign! And for him, what a minute it was! Women, Russian women were then incomparable. Their usual coldness is gone. Their delight was truly intoxicating when, meeting the winners, they shouted: hurrah! And they threw caps into the air.