Here's a collegiate registrator,
Of posting stations the dictator.

WHO has not cursed the superintendents of posting stations? who has not quarrelled with them? Who in a moment of anger has not demanded from them the fatal book to write in it his useless complaint of injustice, rudeness, and inefficiency? Who does not regard them as human monsters, as bad as the attorneys of the old days or at any rate as the Murom highwaymen? Let us be just, however, let us try to consider their position, and perhaps we shall feel more kindly towards them. What is a station-master? A true martyr, whose low rank in the civil service protects him only from blows, and that not always (I appeal to my readers' conscience). What sort of life has this 'dictator', as Prince Viazemsky jokingly calls him? The life of a galley-slave. He has no rest either by day or by night. Travellers vent upon him all the annoyance accumulated during their tedious journey: the weather is unbearable, the roads are bad, the driver is obstinate, the horses don't go—and it is all the station-master's fault. Coming into his poor dwelling, the traveller looks upon him as an enemy; he is lucky if he can soon get rid of his unwelcome visitor; but if there happen to be no horses? . . .

Goodness, what abuse, what threats are showered upon him! In rain and sleet he is forced to run about the village trying to find horses; in the storm, in bitter frost he has to go into the cold entry to have a minute's respite from the angry traveller's shouts and blows. A general arrives; the station-master, trembling, gives him his last troikas, including the one for government messengers. The general drives off without saying: 'Thank you'. Five minutes later a bell is heard—and a government courier throws down his pass on the table! Let us consider all this closely and, instead of indignation, our heart will be filled with genuine sympathy. A few words more: during twenty years in succession I have travelled up and down Russia in all directions; I have been on almost all the posting routes;I have known several generations of drivers; there are few station-masters whose faces are not familiar to me and with whom I have not had something to do; I hope to publish in the near future an interesting collection of my travelling impressions; meanwhile I shall only say that the class of station-masters has been grossly misrepresented to the public. Those officials, so cruelly maligned, are, generally speaking, peaceable men, obliging by nature, of sociable disposition, modest in their ambitions, and not too grasping. Much that is interesting and instructive may be gathered from their conversation, which the travellers do wrong to despise. As for myself, I confess I prefer their talk to that of some important official travelling on government business.

It is not difficult to guess that I have friends among the honourable company of station-masters. In fact, the memory of one of them is precious to me. Circumstances drew us together once, and it is of him I now want to tell my kind readers.

In May 1816 I happened to go through the province of X. along a posting route that has since been done away with. Being of low rank in the service I travelled by post-stages and hired only two horses. In consequence station-masters did not stand on ceremony with me, and I often had to fight for what I regarded as my lawful due. Being young and hot-tempered I felt indignant at the station-master's meanness and cowardice when he gave to some gentleman of rank the team intended for me. It took me just as long to get accustomed to being passed over by a discriminating flunkey handing dishes at a governor's dinner. Now both the one and the other seem to me in the natural order of things. What, indeed, would become of us if, instead of the convenient rule of precedence by rank, some other rule were introduced such as 'precedence by intelligence'. What disputes there would be! and who would be first served at dinner? But I return to my story.

The day was hot. Two miles from the station N. I felt a few spots of rain; in another minute there was a regular downpour and I was drenched to the skin. When I arrived at the station the first thing I did was to change my clothes; the second, to ask for some tea.

'Dounia!' the station-master cried,' heat the samovar and run for some cream.'

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

'Is that your daughter?' I asked the station-master.

'Yes, sir,' he answered with an air of satisfied pride, 'and such a good girl, and so quick, the very picture of her dear mother.'

Thereupon he began copying out my pass, and I examined the pictures that adorned his humble but clean dwelling. They illustrated the story of the Prodigal Son: in the first, a venerable old man in a night-cap and dressing-gown was saying good-bye to the restless youth, who was hastily receiving his blessing and a purse of gold. Another vividly depicted the young man's dissolute conduct; he was sitting at the table surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Farther on, the young man, in a three-cornered hat and ragged clothes, was herding pigs and sharing their meal; his face expressed profound sorrow and penitence. The last picture showed his return to his father: the kind old man in the same dressing-gown and night-cap was running to meet him; the prodigal son was kneeling; in the background the cook could be seen killing the fatted calf, and the elder brother asking the servants about the reason for such rejoicing. Under each picture I read appropriate German verses. I remember it all to this day, as well as the clarkia in pots, the bed with a gaily coloured curtain, and the other things in the room. I clearly see before me the stationmaster himself, a vigorous and well-preserved man of about fifty, dressed in a long green coat with three medals attached to faded ribbons. I liad scarcely had time to settle with my old driver when Dounia came in with the samovar. The little coquette noticed at the second glance the impression she had made on me; she cast down her big blue eyes; I spoke to her; she answered me witliout any timidity, like a girl who had seen the world. I offered her father a glass of punch, gave Dounia a cup of tea, and we talked together, the three of us, as though we had known one another all our lives.

My horses had long been ready, but still I did not want to part with the station-master and his daughter. At last I bid them good-bye; the father wished me a pleasant journey, and the daughter saw me off to my vehicle. In the entry I stopped and asked if she would allow me to kiss her. Dounia consented. I can count many kisses,

Since the day I took up this pursuit, but not one of them left such a long and pleasant memory in my mind.

Several years had passed, and circumstances brought me to the same posting route, to the same neighbourhood, once more. I recalled the old station-master's daughter, and was glad to think that I should see her again. ' But perhaps there is some other man in the old station-master's place,' I thought;

'Dounia is probably already married.' The thought that one or the other of them might have died also crossed my mind, and I approached the station N. with a sad foreboding. The horses stopped by the station-house. Coming into the room I recognized at once the pictures illustrating the story of the Prodigal Son; the bed and the table stood in their old places, but there were no longer flowers in the windows, and everything around me looked worn and neglected. The station-master was sleeping under a sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him; he got up. ... It was he, Simeon Vyrin, indeed; but how he had aged! While he was preparing to copy out my pass, I gazed at his grey hair, at the deep lines of his unshaven face, at his stooping shoulders—and could not understand how three or four years could have transformed him into a decrepit old man.

'Do you recognize me?' I asked. 'You and I are old friends.'

'Perhaps,' he answered morosely. ' I live on the high road: many travellers have passed through my station.'

'How is your Dounia?' I asked.

The old man frowned. ' I really couldn't say,' he answered.

'So then she is married?' I asked.

He pretended not to hear me, and went on reading my pass in a whisper. I did not question him any further, but asked to have a kettle put on the fire. I was beginning to feel curious and hoped that punch would untie my old friend's tongue.

I was not mistaken: the old man did not refuse the glass I offered him. I noticed that rum put him into a better humour. At the second glass he grew talkative; he remembered, or pretended to remember, who I was, and I heard from him a story which interested and touched me greatly at the time.

'So you knew my Dounia?' he began. 'Every one knew her, indeed! Ah, Dounia, Dounia! What a fine girl she was! Whoever went by always praised her, no one found fault with her. Ladies would give her a kerchief and a pair of ear-rings. Gentlemen, driving past, would stop to have dinner or supper simply because they wanted to see more of her. However angry a man might be, he always calmed down when he saw her, and spoke to me kindly. Would you believe it, sir, government messengers and couriers used to stop for half an hour talking to her. She kept the house going: did all the cleaning and cooking, and managed everything. And I, old fool that I was, did nothing but delight in her. How I loved my Dounia, how I cherished her! No girl could have had a happier life. But no, there is no keeping off misfortune; what is to be will be.'

Then he told me the story of his trouble. Three years previously, on a winter night, when he was ruling out a new post book, and his daughter behind the partition was making herself a dress, a troika drove up, and a traveller wrapped up in a rug, wearing a Circassian cap and a military uniform, came into the room asking for horses. There were no horses to be had. On hearing this, the traveller raised his voice and his whip; but Dounia, used to such scenes, ran out from behind the partition and amiably asked the traveller if he would have something to eat. Dounia's appearance produced its usual effect. The traveller's anger cooled; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered supper. When he had taken off his wet shaggy cap, unwrapped his rug and folded his overcoat, he proved to be a graceful young hussar with a small black moustache. He made himself at home, and began talking cheerfully to the station-master and his daughter. Supper was served. Meanwhile the horses had come back and the station-master gave orders that they were to be harnessed at once, without being fed, to the young man's covered sledge; but on coming back he found the young man lying almost senseless on the bench: he had been suddenly taken ill, his head ached, he could not go. ... What was to be done ? The station-master gave up his bed to him, and it was decided that if the invalid was no better in the morning, they would send to S. for a doctor.

The following day the hussar was worse. His servant rode to the town to fetch a doctor. Dounia tied up his head with a handkerchief soaked in vinegar, and sat down by his bedside with her needlework. While the station-master was in the room the invalid groaned and hardly spoke a word, but he managed to drink two cups of coffee and, groaning, ordered some dinner. Dounia never left his side. He asked for a drink every minute and Dounia gave him the mug of lemonade she had prepared. The invalid moistened his lips in it, and every time he returned the mug he gratefully pressed Dounia's hand with his feeble fingers. The doctor arrived by dinnertime. He felt the invalid's pulse, talked to him in German, and declared in Russian that all he needed was rest, and that in a couple of days he would be able to go on with his journey. The hussar gave him twenty-five roubles for his visit, and invited him to share his dinner; the doctor agreed; both ate with much appetite, drank a bottle of wine, and parted very much pleased with each other.

Another day passed and the hussar recovered completely. He was extremely gay, joked all the time with Dounia and her father, whistled tunes, talked to the travellers, and copied out their passes into the post-book; the good old man took such a liking to him that on the morning of the third day he was quite sorry to part from his amiable lodger. It was a Sunday; Dounia was preparing to go to Mass. The hussar's sledge was brought. He said good-bye to the station-master, paying him generously for his board and lodging; he said good-bye to Dounia too, and offered to drive her as far as the church, which was at the end of the village. Dounia hesitated.

'What are you afraid of ?' her father said. 'His honour is not a wolf, he won't eat you—have a lift to the church.'

Dounia sat down in the sledge next to the hussar, the servant jumped on to the box, the driver whistled, and the horses galloped off.

Poor man, he could not understand how he could have allowed his Dounia to drive away with the hussar: he did not know how he could have been so blind, nor what could have become of his good sense. Before half an hour had passed his heart began to ache, and such anxiety possessed him that he could stand it no longer, and went to Mass himself. Coming up to the church he saw that people were already going home, but Dounia was neither in the churchyard, nor on the steps. He hastily entered the church; the priest was leaving, the sexton was blowing out the candles;

two old women were still praying in a comer, but Dounia was not there. Her poor father could scarcely bring himself to ask the sexton whether Dounia had been to Mass. The sexton answered that she had not. The station-master went home more dead than alive. He had one hope left: with the thoughtlessness of youth Dounia might have decided to drive as far as the next station where her godmother lived. He waited in an agony of suspense for the return of the troika in which he had let her go. The driver was late; he returned at last in the evening, by himself, drunk, with the awful news that Dounia had gone on with the hussar from the next station.

The blow was too much for the old man; he was taken ill on the spot, and lay down in the same bed where the night before the young impostor had rested. Later on he guessed, putting all the circumstances together, that the hussar's illness had been a sham. The station-master had brainfever, and was taken to S., while another man was temporarily appointed in his place. The same doctor who had come to the hussar, treated him. He assured the stationmaster that the young man had been perfectly well; he had guessed his evil intention at the time, but said nothing, fearing the hussar's whip. Whether tlie German spoke the truth or merely wanted to boast of his foresight, his words were not of the least comfort to the sick man. He had hardly recovered from his illness when he obtained a two months' leave from the S. postmaster and, not saying a word to any one about his intention, set out on foot in search of his daughter. He knew irom the hussar's pass that Captain Minsky was travelling from Smolensk to Petersburg; the driver who had taken him said that Dounia wept all the way, though she seemed to have gone of her own will.

'I may bring home my lost lamb,' thought the stationmaster. With this idea he came to Petersburg, put up at the house of a retired sergeant, an old comrade of his in the service, and began his search. He soon learned that Captain Minsky was in Petersburg and lived in Demoute's Hotel: the station-master decided to go to him.

Early in the morning he came to his door and asked the servant to tell his honour that an old soldier wished to see him. The orderly, who was polishing boots, said that his master was asleep, and could not see any one till eleven o'clock. The station-master went away and came back at the appointed hour. Minsky in a dressing-gown and a red fez came out to him. 'What do you want, brother?' he asked.

The old man's heart brimmed over, tears came into his eyes, and he could only bring out in a shaking voice: 'Your honour! . . . be so kind, I beg you! . . .'

Minsky glanced at him quickly, flushed crimson, and taking him by the hand led him to his study, shutting the door after him.

'Your honour!' the old man went on, ' it's no use crying over spilt milk, but give me back my poor Dounia. You have had your pleasure; don't ruin her for nothing.'

'What is done cannot be undone,' said the young man in extreme confusion. 'I have wronged you, and am glad to ask your forgiveness; but don't think that I could ever abandon Dounia; she will be happy, I promise you on my honour. What do you want with her? She loves me; she has lost the habit of her old life. Neither you nor she could forget what has happened.'

After that, thrusting something into the cuff of the old man's sleeve, he opened the door, and the station-master did not remember how he found himself in the street.

He stood motionless for some time; then he saw a bundle of papers in the cuff of his sleeve; taking them out he unfolded several crumpled fifty-rouble notes. Tears came into his eyes again—tears of indignation! He crushed the notes into a ball, threw them down, stamped on them, and walked away. . . . After taking a few steps he stood still and thought . . . and went back . . . but the notes were no longer there. A well-dressed young man, catching sight of him, ran up to a cab, stepped in hastily, and shouted to the driver 'Go!' . . . The station-master did not follow him. He decided to go home, to his station, but before doing so he wanted to see his poor Dounia once more. With this end ir view he called on Minsky again a couple of days later; but the orderly said to him sternly that his master was not seeing any one, and, almost pushing him out of the entry, banged the door in his face. The old man stood outside for a time and then walked home.

On the evening of that same day, after a service to Our Lady, 'Joy of all the sorrowful', he was walking along the Liteyiny. Suddenly a smart-looking droshky dashed past him, and he recognized Minsky. The droshky stopped at the front door of a house of three stories and the hussar ran up the steps. A happy thought struck the old man. He went back and, going up to the coaclnnan, asked him:

'Whose horse is it? Minsky's, isn't it?'

"Yes, it is,' the coachman answered. 'Why do you ask?'

'Well, it's like this: your master told me to take a note to his Dounia, and as luck would have it, I 've forgotten where Dounia lives.'

'Why, here, on the first floor. You are late, brother, with your note; he is with her himself now.'

'Never mind,' the station-master answered with an indescribable feeling in his heart. 'Thank you for telling me, I'll go and deliver the note.' With tliese words he walked up the stairs.

The door was locked; he rang. He had a few seconds of painful expectationthe key rattled; the door was opened.

'Does Avdotya Simeonovna live here?' he asked. 'Yes,' a young maid-servant answered. ' What do you want her for?'

Without answering the station-master walked into the hall.

'You can't see her!' the maid called after him. 'She has visitors!'

But he walked on, not heeding her. The first two rooms were dark, in the third one there was a light. He walked up to the open door and stopped. Minsky, lost in thought, was sitting in the beautifully furnished room. Dounia, dressed in the height of fashion, sat on the arm of his chair like a rider on a side-saddle. She looked at Minsky tenderly, twisting his black curls round her white fingers. Poor station-master! Never had his daughter seemed to him more beautiful; he could not help admiring her. 'Who is there?' she asked without raising her head. He said nothing. Not receiving an answer, Dounia looked up ... and fell down on the carpet with a cry. Minsky, terrified, rushed to lift her, but, suddenly seeing her father in the doorway, left Dounia and went up to him shaking with anger. 'What do you want ?' he said to him, clenching his teeth. ' Why do you steal after me everywhere like a brigand ? Do you want to murder me ? Out with you!' and seizing the old man with a strong hand by the collar, he pushed him out on to the stairs.

The station-master walked back to his lodgings; his friend advised him to complain, but on thinking it over he decided to give up the whole thing. Two days later he went back to his station, and took up his duties there. 'It is over two years now,' he concluded,' that I have lived without Dounia, knowing nothing whatever about her. God only knows whether she is still alive. All sorts of things happen. She is not the first or the last to have been seduced by a passer-by, kept for a while, and then abandoned. There are plenty of those silly girls in Petersburg, wearing satin and velvet one day, and sweeping the streets together with the riff-raff from public-houses the next. When I think sometimes that my Dounia may have gone the same way I can't help wishing she were dead, sinner that I am! . . .'

That was tlie story that my friend, the old station-master, told me, interrupting it more than once with tears which he picturesquely wiped with the skirt of his coat like the zealous Terentyitch in Dmitriev's beautiful ballad. Those tears were partly excited by punch, of which he drained five glasses in the course of his story—but, anyway, they greatly touched my heart. Long after parting from him I kept thinking of the station-master and of poor Dounia.

Not long ago, passing through the village of X., I remembered my old friend; I heard that the posting station he superintended had been closed. No one could give a satisfactory answer to my question whether the old station-master was still living. I derided to visit the place and, hiring some horses, went on to the village of N.

It was in the autumn. Grey clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew from the harvested fields, snatching red and yellow leaves from the trees by the roadside. I arrived at the village at sunset, and stopped by the station-house. A fat woman came out into the entry (where poor Dounia had once kissed me); in answer to my questions she said that the station-master had died about a year ago, that the brewer was now living in his house, and that she was the brewer's wife. I regretted my useless journey, and the seven roubles I had spent on it. ' What did he die of?'I asked the woman. 'Of drink, sir,' she answered. 'Where is he buried?' 'Outside the village, next to his wife's grave.' 'Can someone take me there?' 'Why not? Heigh, Vanka! You 've played enough with the cat. Take the gentleman to the cemetery, and show him the station-master's grave.'

At these words a ragged little boy, red-haired and blind in one eye, ran up to me and proceeded to take me to the cemetery.

'Did you know the old man?' I asked him on the way.

'Oh yes! He taught me to make whistles. When he went home from the public-house (God rest his soul!) we all ran after him crying, 'Grandad, grandad, give us some nuts!' and he would give some to each one. He was always playing with us.'

'And do the travellers remember him?'

'There aren't many travellers now, the assessor comes sometimes, but he has no thoughts to spare for the dead. But last summer a lady came who did ask for the old stationmaster, and went to his grave, too.'

'What lady?' I asked with interest.

'A lovely lady!' the boy answered. 'She came in a carriage drawn by six horses, and had three children with her, and a wet-nurse, and a black lapdog, and when she heard that the old station-master was dead, she wept, and said to the children: "You sit still, and I'll go to the cemetery”. I offered to take her, but she said: "I know the way”, and she gave me five copecks in silver . . . such a kind lady!'

We arrived at the cemetery—a bare field, dotted about with wooden crosses, with no fence round it, and not a single tree. I never saw a more desolate cemetery.

'This is the old station-master's grave,' said the boy, jumping on to a heap of sand with a black cross that had a brass ikon fixed to it.

'And the lady came here?' I asked.

'Yes, she did,' Vanka answered. 'I watched her from a distance. She threw herself down on the grave and lay here for a long time. And then she walked to the village and called the priest, gave him some money, and went away, and gave me five copecks in silver ... a good lady!'

I, too, gave the boy five copecks, and no longer regretted my journey and the seven roubles I had spent.