Russian Romance (Pushkin)/The Station-Master
THE STATION-MASTER.
Is there anybody who has not cursed the station-masters, who has not abused them? Is there anybody who has not demanded of them the fatal book in an angry moment, so as to enter therein the unavailing complaint against delays, incivility, and inexactitude? Is there anybody who does not look upon them as being the scum of the human race, like the late Government Clerks,[1] or at the least like the Mouromsky brigands?[2] Let us, however, be just; let us realize the position, and perhaps we shall judge them with some leniency. What is a station-master? The veritable martyr of the fourteenth class, whose rank serves only to save him from blows, and not so even at all times. (I appeal to the conscience of my readers.) What is the duty of these dictators, as Prince Viazemsky humorously styles them? Is it not in truth hard labour? No rest day or night. It is him the traveller assails irritated by the accumulated vexations of a tiresome journey. Is the weather atrocious; are the roads in a bad state; is the driver dogged; do the horses refuse to go?—the fault is surely the station-master's. On entering his poor dwelling, the wayfarer looks upon him as he would a foe; the station-master may consider himself fortunate if he succeeds in ridding himself of his uninvited guest; but should there be no horses? Heavens! what abuse, what threats! He is about in the rain and sleet, and takes refuge in the lobby in storms, and during the Epiphanial frosts, to escape, were it but for a moment, the complaints and assaults of the irritated travellers. A general arrives: the trembling station-master gives his two last troikas, including the courier's. The general is off, without uttering so much as "Thank you." Five minutes later—bells!—and a state messenger throws his order for horses on the table! Let us examine these matters closely, and our hearts will commiserate rather than fill with indignation. A few words more. In the course of twenty years, I have travelled through Russia in all directions; I know almost all the post-roads, and I am acquainted with several generations of drivers; there are few station-masters unknown to me by sight, and few with whom I have not had some intercourse. I hope to publish at no distant period some interesting notes made during my travels; I shall here merely observe, that the station-masters as a class are most falsely represented. These much-calumniated station-masters are in a general way quiet people, naturally obliging, sociably inclined, unassuming, and not over money-loving. From their conversation (which travellers do wrong to scorn) one may learn much that is interesting and instructive. I must own, that so far as I myself am concerned, I much prefer it to the tall talk of some employé of the sixth class, travelling on the service of the Crown.
It will be easily guessed that I have some friends amongst this respectable class of men. Indeed, the memory of one of them is precious to me. Circumstances had once brought us together, and it is of him I now intend to speak to my kind readers.
In May, 1816, I happened to be travelling through the government of * * *, on a road which is now in disuse. My rank was insignificant; I changed carriages at every stage, paying post-rates for two horses. Consequently the station-masters did not treat me with any distinction, and I often had to obtain by force what should have been mine by right. Young and impetuous, I used to vent my indignation on the station-masters for their meanness and obsequiousness, when the troika to which I had a right was given up for the carriage of some person of high rank. Equally did it take me some time to get accustomed to being passed over by a discriminating serf at the governor's dinner-table. To-day, both these circumstances appear to me to be in the order of things. Indeed, what would become of us, if the one very convenient maxim, Rank honours rank, were superseded by this other, Intellect honours intellect? What differences of opinion would arise; and who would dependents wait upon first? But to return to my tale.
The day was hot. A few drops of rain fell at three versts from the station, but it soon began to pour, and I got wet through. On arrival, my first care was to change my clothes as quickly as possible, my second to order tea.
"Here, Dounia!" shouted the station-master; "get the samovar ready, and run and fetch some cream."
At these words, a girl of about fourteen appeared from behind the partition, and ran into the lobby. I was struck by her beauty.
"Is that thy daughter?" asked I of the station-master.
"Yes, it is," answered he, with an air of satisfied pride; "she is so sensible and so quick, and quite takes after her poor mother."
Here he began to copy my order for horses, whilst I amused myself looking at the prints which ornamented the walls of his humble but neat chamber. They represented the story of the Prodigal Son: in the first, a venerable old man, in a night-cap and dressing-gown, parts with the restless youth, who hastily accepts his blessing and a bag of money. In the next, the dissipated conduct of the young man is portrayed in glaring colours: he is sitting at a table, surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Farther on, the ruined youth, in a tattered shirt and cocked hat, is seen feeding swine and sharing their meal; his face expresses deep sorrow and repentance. His return to his father is last represented: the good old man, in the very same night-cap and dressing-gown, rushes to meet him; the prodigal son is on his knees; in the background, the cook is slaying the fatted calf, and the elder brother is inquiring of the servants the reason for so much rejoicing. Under each of these pictures, I read appropriate verses in German. All this has remained impressed on my memory, as have also the pots of balsam, the bed with coloured curtains, and the other objects which then surrounded me. I fancy I still see the host himself, a fresh and good-natured looking man of about fifty, wearing a long green coat, with three medals suspended by faded ribbons.
I had scarcely settled with my old driver, when Dounia returned with the samovar. The little coquette had at a second glance noticed the impression she had made on me; she dropped her large blue eyes; I entered into conversation with her; she answered without the slightest timidity, like a girl accustomed to the ways of the world. I offered a glass of punch to her father, gave Dounia a cup of tea, and we three conversed as if we had always known each other.
The horses had long been ready, but I was unwilling to part with the station-maater and his little daughter. At last I bade them "good-bye;" the father wished me a prosperous journey, and the daughter accompanied me to the carnage. I stopped in the lobby and asked leave to kiss her: Dounia consented. I can remember having given many kisses "since I first took to that occupation," but none have left such lasting, such pleasant recollections.
Several years passed by, and circumstances led me to the same places by the same roads. I remembered the old station-master's daughter, and rejoiced at the prospect of seeing her again. "But," thought I, "the old station-master has perhaps been removed; Dounia is probably married." The possibility of the death of the one or of the other also crossed my mind, and I neared the station of *** with melancholy apprehensions. The horses stopped at the little post-house. On entering the room, I at once recognized the pictures representing the history of the Prodigal Son; the table and bed stood in their old places, but there were now no flowers on the sills, and everything showed symptoms of decay and neglect. The station-master was sleeping under his sheepskin coat; my arrival awoke him; he raised himself. It was Sampson Virin, indeed: but how he had aged! Whilst he was arranging the papers to copy my order for horses, I looked at his gray hairs, at the deep wrinkles on a long-unshaven face, on his bent form, and could not help wondering how it was possible that three or four years had changed him, hale as he used to be, into a feeble old man.
"Dost thou recognize me?" asked I; "we are old friends.
"Maybe," answered he, gruffly; "this is the high road, many travellers have halted here."
"Is thy Dounia well?" I continued.
The old man frowned. "God knows," answered he.
"Then she is married, I suppose," said I.
The old man feigned not to hear me, and continued reading my padarojnaya[3] in a whisper. I ceased interrogating him, and asked for some tea. A feeling of curiosity disquieted me, and I was hoping that some punch would loosen the tongue of my old acquaintance.
I was not mistaken; the old man did not refuse the proffered glass. I observed that the rum was dispelling his moroseness. He became talkative at the second glass, remembered, or pretended to remember me, and I learned from him the story, which at that time interested and touched me deeply.
"And so you knew my Dounia?" he began. "Who did not know her? Oh! Dounia, Dounia! what a girl she was. All who came here praised her; never a word of complaint. Ladies used to give her now a neckerchief, then a pair of earrings. Travellers would stop purposely, as it were, to dine or to sup; but, in truth, only to look at my Dounia a little longer. The gentlemen, however choleric, would calm down in her presence and talk kindly to me. Will you believe it, sir? courtiers, state messengers, used to converse with her for half an hour at a time. She kept the house; she cleaned up, she got things ready, she used to find time for everything. And I, old fool that I am, could not admire her sufficiently, could not appreciate her enough! Did not I love my Dounia? did not I pet my child? Was not her life happiness itself? But no, one cannot flee misfortunes; what is ordained must come to pass." Here he recounted his troubles in detail. Three years had passed since one winter evening, whilst the station-master was ruling out a new book, and his daughter was working at a new dress behind the partition, a troika pulled up, and a traveller, wearing a Circassian cap and military cloak, and wrapped in a shawl, entered the room, calling for horses. All the relays were out. At this piece of intelligence, the traveller was about to raise his voice and his stick, but Dounia, accustomed to such scenes, ran out, and softly addressing the stranger, asked him whether he would be pleased to take some refreshment! Dounia's appearance produced its usual effect. The traveller's anger passed off; he consented to wait for the horses, and ordered supper. Upon taking off his wet rough cap, undoing his shawl, and throwing off his cloak, the traveller turned out to be a slight young Hussar, with a small black moustache. He made himself at home, and conversed gaily with the station-master and his daughter. Supper was served. Horses had in the meanwhile returned, and the station-master ordered their being put to without being even baited; but on re-entering the room, he found the young man on a form, almost insensible: he had suddenly felt faint, his head ached, and he could not possibly proceed on his journey. What was to be done? The station-master gave up his bed to him, and it was decided that the doctor at S * * * should be sent for, should the patient not feel better in the morning.
The next day the Hussar was worse. His servant rode off to the town for the doctor. Dounia bound his head with a handkerchief steeped in vinegar, and sat down at her work by his bedside. In the station-master's presence, the patient groaned and scarcely spoke; but he managed nevertheless to empty two cups of coffee, and, still groaning, to order his dinner. Dounia never left him. He was constantly calling for something to drink, and Dounia would hold up a mug of lemonade, which she had herself prepared. The patient would wet his lips, and whenever he returned the mug, his feeble hand pressed Dounia's in token of gratitude. The doctor arrived towards noon. He felt the patient's pulse, had some conversation with him in German, and declared in Russian that all he required was rest, and that in a couple of days he would be able to resume his journey. The Hussar handed him twenty-five roubles as his fee, and invited him to dinner. The doctor accepted; they ate with good appetites, drank a bottle of wine, and parted perfectly satisfied with each other.
Another day passed, and the Hussar was quite himself again. He was exceedingly cheerful, joking incessantly, now with Dounia, then with the station-master, whistling all sorts of tunes, talking to the travellers, copying their orders for horses into the post-book, and he contrived to ingratiate himself so much with the good-natured station-master, that he felt sorry to part with his amiable host when the third morning arrived. It was a Sunday. Dounia was preparing for Mass. The Hussar's carriage drove up. He took leave of the station-master, having rewarded him liberally for his board and hospitality; he also bid Dounia good-bye, and offered to drive her as far as the church, which was situated at the very extreme of the village. Dounia looked perplexed—"What art thou afraid of?" said her father: "his excellency is not a wolf, and will not eat thee; take a drive as far as the church." Dounia took her seat in the carriage next to the Hussar, the servant jumped into the rumble, the driver whistled, and the horses were off.
The poor station-master was not able to understand how he, of his own accord, should have allowed Dounia to drive off with the Hussar; how he could have been blinded to such an extent, and what could have possessed him. Half an hour had not elapsed when his heart already ached, and he felt so much anxiety, that he could contain himself no longer, and accordingly strode off to the church. On reaching it, he saw that the people were already dispersing, but Dounia was neither within the enclosure nor yet at the porch. He hurriedly entered the church; the priest was emerging from behind the altar; the clerk was extinguishing the candles; two old women were still praying in a corner; but no Dounia was to be seen. The poor father could scarcely make up his mind to ask the clerk whether she had been at Mass. The clerk answered that she had not. The station-master returned home, neither dead nor alive. One hope remained. Dounia might possibly, young and thoughtless as she was, have taken it into her head to go on to the next station, where her godmother lived. He awaited in a desperate state of agitation the return of the troika which had carried them off. No driver returned. At last towards evening he appeared, but alone and tipsy, with the killing news that Dounia had gone off with the Hussar.
This disaster was too much for the old man; he immediately took to the bed where the young deceiver had lain but the day before. And he now conjectured, after pondering over all the late circumstances, that the illness had been feigned. The poor fellow was attacked by a serious fever; he was taken into the town of S * * *, and another station-master was temporarily appointed to replace him. The medical man who had seen the Hussar, attended him also. He assured him that the young man was in perfect health, and that he had, even when he visited him, a suspicion of his wicked intentions, but had observed silence for fear of his chastisement. Whether what the German said was true, or whether he only wished to make a boast of his foresight, he did not minister any consolation to the poor sufferer. Scarcely had he recovered from his illness than the station-master at once applied to the post-master at S * * * for two months' leave of absence, and without saying a word respecting his intentions, set out on foot, in search of his daughter. He knew by his papers, that the Cavalry Captain Minsky was going from Smolensk to St. Petersburgh. The man who had driven him had said, that though she appeared to go willingly, Dounia had cried the whole way. "It is just possible," thought the station-master, "that I may bring home my little lost sheep." He arrived at St. Petersburg with this idea, and stopping at the Ismailoffsky Barracks put up at the quarters of a retired sub-officer, an old comrade: and commenced his search. He soon learnt that Minsky was at St. Petersburg, staying at Demouth's Inn. The station-master decided upon going to him.
He appeared at his door early the following morning, and asked to be announced as an old soldier who wished to see his excellency. The military servant, who was cleaning a boot on a last, declared that his master was asleep, and that he saw no one before eleven o'clock. The station-master went away and returned at the appointed hour. Minsky himself came to him, in his dressing-gown and a red smoking cap. "What is it thou wantest, my friend?" he asked. The old man's heart beat fast, tears gushed to his eyes, and he could only utter in a trembling voice: "Your excellency! for God's sake do me the favour!"—Minsky threw a quick glance at him, bridled up, took him by the hand, led him into his study, and closed the door. "Your excellency!" the old man continued, "what is fallen is lost; give me back my poor Dounia. You have trifled sufficiently with her; do not ruin her uselessly." "What is done cannot be undone," said the young man in extreme confusion. "I am guilty before thee and ready to ask thy forgiveness; but do not imagine I can abandon Dounia; she will be happy, I give thee my word for it. What dost thou want her for? She loves me, she is no longer accustomed to her former mode of living. Neither of you will be able to forget the past." Here he slipped something into the old man's sleeve, opened the door, and the station-master found himself in the street, he scarcely knew how.
For a long time he stood motionless; at last he noticed a roll of paper in the cuff of his sleeve; he drew it out, and unrolled several bank-notes of the value of five and ten roubles. Tears came to his eyes again tears of indignation! He crushed the notes, threw them from him, trampled them under-foot, and walked away.—Having proceeded a few paces, he stopped, reflected, and retraced his steps—but no bank-notes were there. A well-dressed young man on seeing him rushed up to a droshky, into which he hastily threw himself and shouted out: "Go on!" The station-master did not follow him. He had made up his mind to return home, but he wished to see his poor Dounia once again before leaving. With this end in view he returned to Minsky two days later; but the soldier-servant roughly told him that his master received no one, and pushing him out of the hall, slammed the door in his face. The station-master waited, and still waited, and then went his way.
He was walking along the Letéynaya that same evening, having listened to a Te Deum at the Church of Vseh Skarbiastchech.[4] A smart droshky suddenly dashed past him, and he recognized Minsky. The droshky stopped at the entrance of a three-storied house, and the Hussar ran up the steps. A happy thought flashed across the station-master. He turned back, and approaching the coachman: "Whose horse is this, my friend?" asked he; "not Minsky's?" "Yes, Minsky's," answered the coachman: "what dost thou want?" "Why, this; thy master ordered me to take a note to his Dounia, and I have forgotten where his Dounia lives." "It is here she lives, on the second floor. Thou art too late with thy note, my friend: he is with her himself now."—"No matter," said the station-master, with a violent beating of the heart; "thanks for directing me; I shall know how to manage my business." And with these words he walked up the flight of stairs.
The doors were closed; he rang. For several seconds he stood in uneasy expectation. The key rustled; the doors were opened. "Does Avdotia Samsónovna live here?" asked he. "Yes," answered the young servant. "What dost thou want her for?" The station-master, without saying a word, entered the ante-room. "You cannot come in, you cannot come in," shouted the girl after him—"Avdotia Samsónovna has visitors." But the station-master walked on without heeding her. The first two rooms were dark, there were lights in the third. He approached the open door and stopped; Minsky was seated thoughtfully in this richly furnished apartment. Dounia, dressed in all the luxury of fashion, was sitting on the arm of his easy-chair, like a horsewoman in her English saddle, looking tenderly down upon Minsky, and twisting his dark curls with her jewelled fingers. Poor station-master! Never had he seen his daughter looking so beautiful! He could not help admiring her. "Who is there?" asked she, without raising her head. He remained silent. Not receiving any reply, Dounia looked up—and uttering a cry, fell to the floor. The alarmed Minsky rushed to raise her, but on becoming aware of the old station-master's presence, he left Dounia and approached him, quivering with rage: "What dost thou want?" said he, clenching his teeth. "Why dost thou track me, as if I were a brigand? Dost thou want to murder me? Be off!" And seizing the old man by the collar, with a strong arm he pushed him down the stairs.
The old man returned to his rooms. His friend advised him to lodge a complaint; but the station-master having reflected awhile, waved his hand, and decided upon giving it up. Two days later he left St. Petersburg, and returned direct to his station, where he resumed his duties. " This is now the third year that I live without Dounia, and I have neither heard from her, nor have I seen her. God knows whether she is alive or dead. Anything may happen. She is neither the first nor the last who has been enticed away by a scampish wayfarer, and who has first been cared for, and then deserted. There are plenty of these young simpletons at St. Petersburg, who are to-day in satins and velvet, and to-morrow you see them sweeping the streets in degraded misery. When the thought crosses me that Dounia may be ruining herself in the same manner, one sins involuntarily, and wishes she were in the grave."
Such was the story of my friend the old station-master—a story more than once interrupted by tears, which lie picturesquely wiped away with his coat-tails, like zealous Terentitch in Dmitrieff's beautiful ballad. Those tears were partly induced by the punch, of which he emptied five glasses during his recital; but be that as it may, they touched me deeply. Having taken my leave, it was long before I could forget the old station-master, and long did I think of poor Dounia.
Lately again, on passing through * * * I recollected my friend. I learned that the station which he had superintended had been abolished. To my inquiry, "Is the old station-master alive?" I could obtain no satisfactory answer. I made up my mind to visit the familiar locality, and, hiring a private conveyance, I left for the village of N.
It was autumn. Gray clouds obscured the sky; a cold wind swept over the reaped fields, carrying before it the red and yellow leaves that lay in its course. I entered the village at sunset and stopped before the little post-house. A fat old woman came into the lobby (where poor Dounia had once kissed me) and replied to my inquiries by saying that the old station-master had been dead about a year, that a brewer was settled in his house, and that she herself was the brewer's wife. I began to regret my useless drive and the seven roubles I had profitlessly expended.
"What did he die of?" I inquired of the brewer's wife.
"Drink, sir," answered she.
"And where is he buried?"
"Behind the enclosure, next to his late missus."
"Could anybody conduct me to the grave?"
"Why not? Here, Vanka! leave off pulling the cat about. Take this gentleman to the churchyard, and show him the station-master's grave."
At these words a ragged, red-haired lad, who was blind of one eye, ran up to me, and set out as my guide.
"Didst thou know the dead man?" I asked him by the way.
"How was I not to know him? He taught me how to make reed whistles. Many a time have we shouted after him when on his way from the public-house (God rest his soul!), ' Daddy, daddy, give us some nuts!' And he would then throw nuts at us. He always played with us." "And do travellers ever talk of him?"
"There are few travellers now. The assessor may occasionally turn in this way, but it is not the dead he cares for! In the summer, a lady actually did drive by, and she did ask after the station-master, and went to see his grave."
"What lady?" asked I, with curiosity.
"A beautiful lady," answered the lad: "she drove a coach and six horses, with three little gentlemen, a wet-nurse, and a black pug dog, and when told that the old station-master had died, she began to cry, and said to the children, 'Sit you here quietly, whilst I go to the churchyard.' Well, I offered to show her the way. But the lady said: 'I know the road myself,' and she gave me five kopecks in silver—such a lady!"
We arrived at the cemetery, a bare place, with nothing to mark its limits, strewn with wooden crosses, with not a tree to shade it. Never in my life had I seen such a melancholy grave-yard.
"This is the grave of the old station-master," said the boy, jumping on a mound of earth, over which a black cross with a copper image was placed.
"And the lady came here?" asked I.
"Yes," answered Vanka. "I looked at her from a distance. She threw herself down here, and so she lay a long time. Then she went into the village, called the priest, gave him some money, and drove away; and to me she gave five kopecks in silver—a splendid lady!"
I also gave the lad five kopecks, and no longer regretted my journey, or the seven roubles I had spent.