Stationmaster
Wen 丨 Pushkin
Translation | Xiao Shan
Who hasn't cursed the stationmaster, who hasn't quarreled with them? Who, in a moment of rage, did not ask them for the "damn book" in order to write on it his useless complaints about all kinds of repressive, rough and sloppy attitudes? Who doesn't think of them as heinous bad guys, like the scribes in the gates, or at least like the robbers in the Molom Forest? Still, let's be fair and put ourselves in their shoes, so that criticizing them may be much more lenient. What kind of person is the stationmaster? The stationmaster was a veritable fourteen-pin victim, and his position only protected him from punches and kicks, and it was not always effective (I depend on the conscience of the reader). Duke Vyasemsky jokingly called him the Master of the Coaching Inn, but what was his position? Isn't it really hard labor? There is no tranquility day or night. The passengers vented the resentment accumulated during the tedious journey to the stationmaster. Bad weather, difficult roads, a tempered coachman, and a refusal to pull a cart — all became the fault of the stationmaster. The passenger entered the house of the stationmaster and looked at him like an enemy; he must be able to quickly send the uninvited guest away, even if it is lucky; what if there are no horses? ...... Oh, my God! What kind of insults, what kind of threats will fall on his head! On rainy days, or when the rain and snow added, he had to run from house to house. Even if it is a rain and storm, even if it is the cold before and after the Main Manifestation, he can only hide in the foyer to avoid the roar and shoving of the angry overnight passengers and enjoy a minute of silence. A general arrived; the stationmaster, trembling with fright, allocated him the last two troikas, one of which was an express. The general was gone, without even saying thank you. Five minutes passed – another ringing sound! ...... A messenger threw the stagecoach card on his desk! ...... If we think about all this, then we will not be full of anger, but full of sincere sympathy. I would like to say a few more words: I have traveled all over Russia for almost twenty years; I know almost all the official roads, I know all the generations of coachmen; I know very few stationmasters, and very few who have not dealt with them. I hope to be able to organize and publish the interesting travel insights I have accumulated in a short period of time. Now I just want to make it clear that people's views of the stationmaster are very wrong. Most of these stationmasters who have been blamed are gentle, helpful, and easy to get along with, and they do not seek fame or love money. From their words (unfortunately, passers-by look down on them), there are many interesting and useful things to be gained. As for me, then I would rather listen to them than listen to the rhetoric of any liupin civil servant who travels on business.
Portrait of Pushkin
It is not difficult to imagine that among the respectable stationmasters there were my friends. To be honest, there was a station master who left me with precious memories. I once had the opportunity to get close to him, and now I intend to talk to my dear readers about him.
In May 1816, I passed through a province along a now-abandoned official road. I was humble and could only take the stagecoach that changed horses at each stop and paid the rent for two horses. So the stationmasters were not polite to me, and I often had to fight hard to get what I thought I was entitled to. Sometimes the stationmaster would put the three horses he had prepared for me in the carriage of a high official, and I would be annoyed by his vileness and cowardice because of my youth and vigor. Similarly, at the governor's banquet, the snobbish servants always missed me when they served, and I was not used to this for a long time. Now I'm used to it. Really, what if we abolish the universal rule that only official positions are respectful and instead adopt another rule, such as wisdom is respect? What a dispute this would be! Besides, which one does the servant start with? But I'll tell you my story.
Cover of the "Stationmaster" comic strip
A hot day. At three versts of a certain station, it began to drizzle, and in a few moments, the rain poured down, soaking me wet. When I arrived at the station, the first thing I had to do was to quickly change my clothes, and then ask someone to bring me tea. "Hey, Dunia!" The stationmaster shouted, "Set up the samovar and bring some cream." Before the words could be heard, a young girl of about fourteen years of age came out from behind the wall and ran into the foyer. I was amazed by her beauty. "Is this your daughter?" I asked the webmaster. "It's my daughter," he replied triumphantly, "and she is clever and clever, exactly like her deceased mother." Having said that, he began to register my stagecoach card, and I went to look closely at the pictures that doted his simple and neat house, which depicted the story of the "prodigal son turning back": the first picture was of a respectable old man in a nightcap and a robe sending away an impetuous young man, who hurriedly accepted his blessing and a bag of money. Another painting depicts the young man's debauchery in sharp lines: he sits at a table, surrounded by hypocritical friends and unscrupulous women. The following one shows that the young man had spent all his money, that he had worn a torn dress, a triangular hat, a flock of pigs, and that he had eaten the pigs' feed; he had a look of deep sorrow and remorse on his face. The last painting is of him returning to his father, where the kind old man in his nightcap and robes ran out to greet him; the prodigal son knelt on the ground; the distant view of the cook slaughtering a fat calf, and the brother asking the servant what was going on. Under each painting I read a properly written German poem. All this, like the pots of hydrangea flowers, the bed where the flower tent was hung, and some other things that were around me at that time, still remain in my memory. The fifty-something-year-old master, with his long green dress and three medals hanging from faded ribbons, seemed right in front of my eyes.
Before I could send my old coachman away, Dunya had already returned with a samovar. The little goblin saw the impression she had made on me the second time, and she lowered her big blue eyes. I talked to her, and she answered generously, like a girl who had seen the world. I invited her father to a five-flavored glass of wine, and poured Dunia another cup of tea, and the three of us chatted at first sight.
The horses had been prepared, but I was reluctant to leave the stationmaster and his daughter. Finally I said goodbye to them. My father wished me peace along the way, and my daughter sent me to the carriage. In the foyer, I stood still and begged her to allow me to kiss her. Dunia agreed...
I have kissed many times since I did this, but not once has it left me with such a long, such pleasant memory.
After a few years, when the personnel was in trouble, I walked on this official road again and arrived at this old place again. I remembered the daughter of the old station manager and was very happy to see her again. But I thought again: the old stationmaster may have been withdrawn, and Dunia is probably already married. The thought that a father or daughter would die also crossed my mind. So I approached a station with a sad premonition. The horse stood in front of the hut at the coaching inn. As soon as I entered the house, I immediately recognized the pictures depicting the story of the "prodigal son turning back." The table and bed were still in their original places, but the windowsill was no longer spent, and everything around it looked dilapidated and unattended. The stationmaster fell asleep in his leather jacket, and my arrival woke him up, and he lifted half his body... That's Samson Welling, but much older! When he was ready to register my stagecoach license, I looked at his gray hair, the deep wrinkles on his face that had not been shaved for a long time, and the stooped back, and I was amazed at how three or four years of work would turn a healthy man into a weak old man! "Do you still recognize me?" I asked him, "I've known you for a long time." "Maybe," he replied gloomily, "it's a big road, and there are many travelers who have been to me. "How is Dunia?" I asked again. The old man frowned. "God knows." He replied. "She's probably married, isn't she?" I say. The old man pretended not to hear my question and continued to whisper my stagecoach card. I stopped asking and ordered to burn tea. Curiosity began to torment me, and I hoped that the five-flavored wine would make my old acquaintance open his mouth.
I didn't guess wrong, the old man didn't refuse a drink. I noticed that The Romulus had made his gloomy face cheerful. When he drank the second cup, he began to talk about it endlessly. He remembered me, or he pretended to remember me. In this way, I learned from his mouth a story that I was deeply concerned about at the time and that made me very moved.
"So you know my Dunia?" He began, "Who doesn't know her?" Alas, Dunia, Dunia! What a girl! Once upon a time, no matter who passed by, no one did not praise her, and no one would scold her. The wives gave her a headscarf this time, and gave her earrings the other. Passers-by deliberately stopped, as if to have lunch or dinner, but actually just to look at her a few more times. Once upon a time, no matter how bad-tempered the old man was, as soon as he saw her, his anger subsided, and then he talked to me happily about the sky. Believe it or not, sir, the messenger and the messenger spoke to her for half an hour. She managed the housework, cleaned up the house, cooked, and did everything well. I was such an old fool, at that time, I couldn't see her enough, and I didn't love her enough. Can you say I don't love my Dunia? Can you say I don't hurt my child? Can you say she's not having a good time? No. That's fate, and it's doomed. So he told me in detail about his sadness. One winter night three years ago, the stationmaster was drawing lines on the new register, his daughter sewing clothes for herself behind the siding, a troika arrived, and then a passenger in a Chelkes fur hat, a long army coat, and a shawl came into the house to ask for a horse. The horses are out there. As soon as they heard the news, the passengers raised their voices and raised their horse whips. Accustomed to this kind of scene, Dunia ran out from behind the wall and politely asked the traveler if he wanted something to eat. Dunia's appearance produced the usual effect. The traveler, enraged, agreed to wait for the horses, and had dinner, took off his long wet fur hat, undid his shawl, and took off his military coat, which turned out to be a well-proportioned young hussar with a small black beard. He sat down next to the station master and happily began to talk to him and his daughter. Dinner was served, and at this time the horses also returned, and the station master ordered that instead of feeding the horses, the passengers should be set up immediately. When he returned to the house, he found the young man lying on a bench, barely conscious. He felt uncomfortable, had a terrible headache and couldn't get on the road... What to do? The station master gave him his bed and decided that if his illness did not alleviate the next morning, he would send someone to the C place to see a doctor.
Illustration of "The Stationmaster" (painted by Dou Brynsky)
The next day the hussars became even more sick. His servants rode into town to ask for a doctor. Dunia wrapped a vinegar-soaked handkerchief around his head and sat down on the edge of his bed to do needlework. The patient just groaned in front of the station master, almost did not say a word, but drank two cups of coffee and hummed while setting lunch. Dunia never left him a step. He kept asking for water to drink, and Dunia handed him a large glass of lemonade that she had made herself. The patient only moistened his lips, and every time he handed the cup back, he always reached out his weak hand and squeezed Dunia's hand to express his gratitude. It was time for lunch when the doctor came. He touched the patient's pulse, talked to him for a while in German, and then said in Russian that he only needed to rest and in two or three days he would be on the road. The hussars gave him twenty-five roubles for his visit and left him for lunch. The doctor agreed. The two men ate with relish, drank a bottle of wine, and finally broke up with each other very satisfied.
Another day passed, and the hussars had fully recovered. He was very cheerful, and one moment he told Dunia, and the next he told jokes to the stationmaster, and made a lot of noise; he played little tunes, chatted with the passengers, and helped to register their stagecoach use permits in the book, so that he won the favor of the loyal stationmaster, and by the third morning, the stationmaster was inseparable from this lovely guest. It was Sunday, and Dunya was ready to pray for lunch. The hussar's carriage was set, and he said goodbye to the stationmaster, gave him a considerable amount of room and board, said goodbye to Dunia, and volunteered to send her to the church at the entrance of the village. Dunia stood hesitantly... "What are you afraid of?" The father said to her, "The grown-up is not a wolf, and he will not eat you; take his car to the church." Dunia got into the car and sat down next to the hussars, and the servant jumped on the coachman's seat, and the coachman blew a whistle, and the horse flew away.
The poor stationmaster couldn't understand how he could personally allow his Dunia to go in a car with the hussars, how could he be so confused. Less than half an hour later, his heart began to hurt faintly, and he was so overwhelmed that he finally couldn't bear it and ran to pray for lunch himself. He went to the church and saw that the people had dispersed, but Dunia was not in the courtyard or on the steps. He hurried into the church, where the priest had just come out from behind the altar, the deacon was blowing out candles, and the two old ladies were still praying in the corner; but Dunia was not in the church. The poor father had made up his mind so easily to ask the deacon, and she had not come to pray for lunch. The deacon replied that she had not been there. The stationmaster returned home half-dead. He had a glimmer of hope: maybe Dunya, because she was young and playful, suddenly wanted to take a ride to the next stop to see her godmother. He waited in pain for the troika to return. The coachman did not return. In the evening, he finally returned alone, drunk, with a frightening message: "Dunia and the hussars went to that station and went forward. ”
The old man could not bear the blow and immediately fell down on the bed where the young liar had slept the night before. Now the stationmaster recalled the situation at that time and guessed that the hussar's illness was pretended. The poor man was seriously ill with fever; he was sent to C City and sent another man to temporarily take his place. It was the doctor who had treated the hussars who had come to cure him. He told the station master the truth: the hussars were not sick at all, and he had already seen that the hussars had bad intentions, but they were afraid of his whip and did not make a sound. Whether the German was telling the truth or just wanting to boast of his eyesight, his words did not comfort the poor patient at all. The stationmaster had just recovered, so he asked the director of the C City Stagecoach Bureau for two months' leave, and without revealing his plans to anyone, he set out on foot to find his daughter. He learned from the stagecoach license that the Hussar Lieutenant Minsky had gone to Petersburg from Smolensk. The driver who drove Minsky said that Dunia was crying all the way, but it seemed that she was willing to go. The station master thought, "Maybe I can bring home my lost lamb." With this in mind, he went to Petersburg, and after settling down in the home of his old colleague, a retired corporal of the Izmaylov Regiment, he began to search for it. Soon he found out that The Cavalry Lieutenant Minsky was in St. Petersburg, staying at the Gemmit Hotel. The station master decided to go and see him.
Early one morning, he arrived at the front hall of Minsky's quarters and asked to inform the lord: a veteran had asked to see him. The attendant, who was wiping a pair of leather boots on his last, said: The old man is sleeping, and no one will be seen before eleven o'clock. The webmaster left and turned back at the appointed time. Minsky came out to see him in a dressing gown and a little red hat. "What's the matter, friend?" he asked. The old man's heart was beating wildly, tears were in his eyes, and he could only say in a trembling voice, "Lord! ...... All right! Minsky glanced at him quickly, his face flushed, pulled his arm, led him into the study, and locked the door casually. "My lord," the old man went on, "the past is gone, but you must return my poor Dunia to me." You've had enough of making her happy, but don't ruin her for no reason. "This is the end of the matter, irreparable," said the young man with great embarrassment, "I am sorry for you, and I would like to ask you for forgiveness, but do not think that I will abandon Dunea." I promise you, she will be happy. What do you want her to do? She loved me and was no longer used to her former environment. Neither you nor she can forget what has happened. Then he tucked something into the old man's sleeve and opened the door. The station master himself could not remember how he got out into the street.
He stood motionless for a long time, and finally found a roll of paper in the folded sleeve. He pulled it out and opened it to see a few crumpled five and ten ruble bills. Once again, tears welled up in his eyes, tears of anger! He squeezed the money into a ball, threw it on the ground, stomped the heel of his shoe, and left. ...... Took a few steps, stopped again, thought about it... Turn back again. ...... But the banknotes were gone. As soon as a young man dressed in a very beautiful dress saw him, he ran to a taxi carriage, sat down, and shouted to the coachman: "Go! The webmaster didn't chase. He decided to go home and go back to his caravanserai, but he wanted to see poor Dunya before he left, even if it was. So two days later he came to Minsky again, but the attendant snapped at him that the old man was gone, and lifted his chest out of the vestibule and slammed the door shut in the face. The station master stood for a while, stood for a while, and had to leave.
One of the comic strips of "StationMaster" (painted by Liu Guohui)
That very night, he prayed in the church of "All The Suffering" and walked down the main street of the foundry. Suddenly, a splendid light carriage sped past him, and the stationmaster recognized Minsky. The carriage stopped in front of the gate of a three-story building, and the hussars ran up the steps. The station master turned around, walked over to the coachman, and asked, "Whose horse is this, brother?" Is it Minsky's? "It's his," said the coachman, "what are you going to do?" "That's right: your lord asked me to send him a note to dunia, but I forgot where his dunya lived." "Just live here, on the second floor. But, dude, your note came late, and now he's already with her. "It doesn't matter," replied the stationmaster, with unspeakable excitement in his heart, "thanks for the guidance, but I still have to take care of my business." When he had finished speaking, he went upstairs.
The door locked, and he rang the bell, passing a few seconds in an anxious wait. The key rang and the door opened. "Does Afduchia Samson Novna live here?" he asked. "It's here," replied a young maid, "what are you looking for her for?" "The old station master didn't answer and went straight into the living room." No, no! The maid shouted behind him, "Afduchia Samson Novna has a guest." But the station master ignored him and kept going. The first two rooms were pitch black and the third had lights. He walked over to the open door and stopped. In this well-furnished room, Minsky sat there contemplating. Dressed in the most ornate fashion, Dunia sat on the arm of his easy chair, like a female knight sitting on an English saddle. She looked tenderly at Minsky and wrapped his jet-black mane around her own sparkling fingers. Poor webmaster! He had never found his daughter so beautiful, and couldn't help but admire her. "Who?" She asked without looking up. He remained silent. Dunya didn't hear the answer and looked up... With a loud cry, he fell to the carpet. Minsky ran to help her in a panic, and suddenly saw the old station master standing in the doorway, so he put down Dunya and walked up to him, trembling with anger. "What are you going to do?" He gritted his teeth and said to the station master, "Why are you following me everywhere like a robber?" Are you going to kill me? Fuck off! With that, he grabbed the old man's collar with a strong hand and pushed him up the stairs.
The old man returned to his quarters. His friend advised him to file a complaint, and he thought about it, waved his hand, and decided to give in. Two days later, he left Petersburg and went back to his coaching inn, where he resumed his errands. "It's been three years since I lost Dunya's life alone," he said at the end of the story, "and she has nothing to say, dead or alive, only God knows, anything can happen." In the case of the good family women seduced by the wandering boys who passed by, she was not the first, nor was she the last, they were abandoned after a while of sustenance. This kind of silly girl is more in Petersburg. Wear silk today, tomorrow, you see, they are sweeping the streets with poor drunkards. Sometimes, at the thought that Dunya might fall to that point, I can't help but think of sin and hope that she will die..."
This is the story told by my friend, an old stationmaster, who was interrupted more than once by tears, and who wiped his tears with the front of his uniform, like the zealous Jelenziyich in Dmitriev's beautiful narrative poem, looking touching. The tears were partly drawn by the five-flavored wine—he drank five glasses in the process of telling the story. However, in any case, this tear moved me very much. After breaking up with the old stationmaster, I couldn't forget him for a long time, and I always thought about that poor Dunya...
Not long ago, I was passing by somewhere and remembered my old friend again. I found out that the coaching inn he was in charge of had been abolished. No one can give me a satisfactory answer to my question, "Is the old webmaster still alive?" Determined to revisit the old land, I rented a few horses from my private individual and went to a certain village.
It was autumn. Gray clouds filled the sky; cold winds blew from the fields where the crops had been harvested, and the red and yellow leaves of the trees drifted with the wind. At sunset, I entered a certain village and stopped next to the caravanserai hut. Out of the foyer (where poor Dunya used to kiss me before) came a fat country woman who replied that the old stationmaster had been dead for almost a year, and that a beer brewer had been brought from his house, and that woman was the beer master's wife. I began to run in remorse and spent seven roubles pointlessly. "How did he die?" I asked the beer master's wife. "Drink and drink to death, sir." She replied. "Where is it buried?" "Just outside the village, next to his dead wife." "Can you take me to his grave?" "Why not. Hey, Wanka, don't play with cats. Lead the old man to the cemetery and show him the grave of the stationmaster. ”
As she said this, a little boy with ragged clothes and red hair and one eyes ran up to me and immediately led me outside the village.
"Do you know the dead webmaster?" On the way I asked him.
"How I don't know! He taught me to cut the flute, once upon a time (may he enter heaven early!) He came out of the small hotel, and we followed him and shouted: 'Grandpa, grandpa, give some hazelnuts!' He gave us the hazelnuts. He used to play with us. ”
"So, do the travelers remember him?"
"There are fewer passengers now; even the jurors sometimes bend here, but he doesn't think of dead people." In the summer, a lady passed by here, and she asked about the old station master, and went to his grave. ”
"What kind of wife?" I asked curiously.
"Beautiful lady," replied the child, "she came in a cart of six horses, with three young masters, a nanny, and a black pug. When she heard that the old stationmaster was dead, she began to cry and said to the children, 'You sit obediently, and I will go to the cemetery.' I said I showed her the way. But the wife said, 'I know the way myself.' She also gave me a silver horn of five kopecks – what a kind lady! ......”
We arrived at the cemetery. It was a bare place, with no enclosures, many wooden crosses erected, not even a small shaded tree. I have never seen such a desolate cemetery in my life.
"The old stationmaster's grave is here." As the child spoke, he jumped on a sand pier on which stood a black cross with a bronze icon.
"Has that lady been here?" I asked.
"Come," replied Vanka, "I looked at her from a distance. She lay here for a long time. Later the wife went to the village, invited the priest, gave him some money, got into the carriage and left. For me, she gave me a silver horn of five kopecks – what a good lady! ”
I also gave the child a silver coin of five kopecks, and no longer felt remorse for the visit, nor did I regret the seven rubles spent on it.
September 14, 1830
This article is translated by Ms. Xiao Shan, The Lady of Barkin
The famous Russian writer Gogol once said, "Russian nature, Russian soul, Russian language, Russian character, reflected in Pushkin so pure, so beautiful." And Calvino said, "I love Pushkin because he's clear, ironic and serious." "The multifaceted Pushkin, for humanity, for literature, has left a rich legacy. He is known as the "father of Russian literature" and "the sun of Russian poetry", and is the main representative of Russian Romantic literature in the nineteenth century and the founder of realist literature. Today, we re-read the Belkin Novel Collection, especially his masterpiece of short stories, "The Stationmaster", and it is from here that "little people" begin to become protagonists, and literature begins to grow freely in the unknown corners of society.
↓↓ Recommended for you ↓↓
Wang Yanxiang: Those lonely newsstands
Wang Yanxiang: The lights on the snowy mountain
Nan Huaijin 丨Do you understand Confucius's "magic" secret?