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The sun had long been shining on the bed in which the coffin-maker lay. He finally opened his eyes and saw before him the maidservant, who was blowing on the coals of the samovar. With horror Adrian recalled all of the previous day’s events. Tryukhina, the brigadier, and Sergeant Kurilkin arose vaguely in his imagination. He waited silently for the housekeeper to begin a conversation with him and tell him the consequences of the night’s adventures.

“How long you’ve slept, dear Adrian Prokhorovich,” said Aksinya, handing him his dressing gown. “Our neighbor the tailor came to see you, and the local sentry ran by to announce that today is the police chief’s name day, but you were asleep, and we didn’t want to wake you up.”

“Did anyone come to me from the late Tryukhina?”

“Late? Did she die?”

“You fool! Didn’t you help me arrange her funeral yesterday?”

“What’s got into you, dearie? Have you lost your mind, or has yesterday’s drunkenness still not left you? What kind of funeral was there yesterday? You spent the whole day feasting at the German’s, came home drunk, flopped into bed, and slept right up till now, when they’ve already rung for the morning liturgy.”

“You don’t say!” said the overjoyed coffin-maker.

“Sure enough,” the housekeeper replied.

“Well, in that case serve the tea quickly and call my daughters.”

* “our clientele”

THE STATIONMASTER

A collegiate registrator,

A post-station dictator.

PRINCE VYAZEMSKY1

Who has not cursed stationmasters, who has not quarreled with them? Who, in a moment of anger, has not demanded the fatal book from them, in order to set down in it his useless complaint about their oppression, rudeness, and negligence? Who does not consider them monsters of the human race, on a par with defunct scriveners or, at the very least, the bandits of Murom?2 Let us be fair, however, let us try to enter into their situation, and perhaps we will judge them much more leniently. What is a stationmaster? A veritable martyr of the fourteenth class,3 protected by his rank only from beatings, and that not always (I call my reader’s conscience to witness). What are the duties of this dictator, as Prince Vyazemsky jokingly calls him? Is it not real penal servitude? No peace day or night. It is on the stationmaster that the traveler vents all the vexation accumulated during his boring journey. The weather is unbearable, the road bad, the coachman pig-headed, the horses don’t pull—and it’s the stationmaster’s fault. Going into his poor dwelling, the traveler looks upon him as an enemy; it’s good if he manages to rid himself of the uninvited guest quickly; but if there happen to be no horses?…God, what curses, what threats pour down on his head! In rain and slush he is forced to run around outside; in storm, in midwinter frost, he steps out to the entryway, to rest for at least a moment from the shouting and shoving of an irate wayfarer. A general arrives; the trembling stationmaster gives him the last two troikas, including the one reserved for couriers. The general drives off without even thanking him. Five minutes later—the bell!…and a government messenger throws his travel papers on the table in front of him!…Let us get a good grasp on all of this, and instead of indignation, our hearts will be filled with sincere compassion. A few more words: in the course of twenty years, I have driven over Russia in all directions; I know almost all the post roads; I am acquainted with several generations of coachmen; rare is the stationmaster I don’t know by sight, rare are those I have not dealt with; I hope to publish a curious store of my travel observations before too long; meanwhile I will say only that the stationmasters’ estate is presented to general opinion in a most false guise. These much-maligned stationmasters are generally peaceable people, obliging by nature, inclined to be sociable, modest in their claim to honors, and not overly fond of money. From their conversation (so unduly scorned by gentleman travelers) one can learn much that is curious and instructive. As for me, I confess that I would rather talk with them than with some functionary of the sixth class traveling on official business.

It can easily be guessed that I have friends among the honorable estate of the stationmasters. In fact, the memory of one of them is precious to me. Circumstances once brought us together, and it is of him that I now intend to speak with my gentle readers.

In 1816, in the month of May, I happened to pass through––sky province, by a highway since abandoned. I was of low rank, went by post, and had a traveling allowance for two horses. As a result, stationmasters did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often had to fight for what, in my opinion, was mine by right. Being young and hotheaded, I was indignant at the baseness and pusillanimity of a stationmaster, when the latter had the troika prepared for me hitched to the carriage of a high-ranking gentleman. It took me just as long to get used to being passed over by a discriminating flunkey at a governor’s dinner. Now I find both the one and the other in the order of things. What, in fact, would happen to us if, instead of the all-convenient rule Let rank honor rank, something else were introduced, for instance Let mind honor mind. What arguments would arise! And with whom would the waiters begin their serving? But I return to my story.

It was a hot day. Two miles from the * * * posting station it started to sprinkle, and a moment later a downpour soaked me to the skin. On reaching the station, my first concern was to change my clothes quickly, the second was to ask for tea.

“Hey, Dunya,” shouted the stationmaster, “prepare the samovar and go for cream!”

At these words, a girl of about fourteen came from behind a partition and ran to the front hall. I was struck by her beauty.

“Is that your daughter?” I asked the stationmaster.

“That she is, sir,” he answered with an air of contented pride. “And she’s such a smart one, such a quick one, just like her late mother.”

Here he began to copy out my travel papers, and I set myself to examining the pictures that adorned his humble but well-kept abode. They illustrated the story of the prodigal son.4 In the first a venerable old man in a nightcap and dressing gown is seeing off a restless young man, who hastily receives his blessing and a bag of money. In the next the young man’s dissipated behavior is portrayed in vivid strokes: he sits at a table surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Further on, the ruined young man, in rags and a cocked hat, is tending swine and sharing their meal; his face shows profound sorrow and repentance. Finally, his return to his father is portrayed: the good old man has run out to meet him in the same nightcap and dressing gown; the prodigal son is on his knees; in the background the cook is killing the fatted calf, and the older son is questioning the servants about the cause of such rejoicing. Under each picture I read the appropriate German verses. All of that is preserved in my memory to this day, along with the pots of impatiens, and the bed with the motley canopy, and other objects that surrounded me at that time. I can see, as if it were now, the host himself, a man of about fifty, hale and hearty, and his long green frock coat with three medals on faded ribbons.

No sooner had I paid my old coachman than Dunya returned with the samovar. The little coquette had noticed at second glance the impression she had made on me; she lowered her big blue eyes; I started to converse with her, she replied without any timidity, like a girl who has seen the world. I offered her father a glass of punch, gave Dunya a cup of tea, and the three of us began talking as if we had known each other for ages.