Novels, Tales, Journeys

The old man could not bear his misfortune; he took at once to that same bed in which the young deceiver had lain the day before. Now, considering all the circumstances, the stationmaster figured out that the illness had been feigned. The poor man came down with a high fever; he was taken to S–– and another man temporarily filled his place. He was treated by the same doctor who had visited the young hussar. He assured the stationmaster that the young man had been perfectly well and that even then he had guessed his evil intentions, but had said nothing for fear of his whip. Whether the German was telling the truth, or merely wished to boast of his prescience, he did not comfort his poor patient in the least. Having barely recovered from his illness, the stationmaster obtained a two-month leave from his superior in S–– and, telling no one of his intentions, set out on foot after his daughter. From the travel papers he knew that cavalry captain Minsky was going from Smolensk to Petersburg. The coachman who had driven him said that Dunya had wept all the time on the way, though she seemed to be going of her own will.

“Maybe I’ll bring my lost sheep home,” thought the stationmaster.

With that thought in mind, he arrived in Petersburg, stopped in the neighborhood of the Izmailovsky regiment, at the house of a retired corporal whom he had once served with, and began his search. He soon found out that cavalry captain Minsky was in Petersburg and living at the Demut Inn.5 The stationmaster decided to go and see him.

Early in the morning he came to the front hall and asked them to inform his honor that an old soldier was asking to see him. The orderly, who was polishing a boot on a boot tree, told him that his master was asleep and that he did not receive anyone before eleven o’clock. The stationmaster went away and came back at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him, in a dressing gown and a red skullcap.

“What do you want, brother?” he asked.

The old man’s blood began to boil, tears welled up in his eyes, and in a trembling voice all he said was: “Your Honor!…Show me this divine mercy!…”

Minsky glanced quickly at him, flushed, took him by the hand, led him to his study, and shut the door behind him.

“Your Honor!” the old man went on. “What falls off the cart is lost for good; at least give me back my poor Dunya. You’ve had your fun with her; don’t ruin her for nothing.”

“What’s done can’t be undone,” the young man said in the utmost embarrassment. “I’m guilty before you, and I gladly ask your forgiveness; but don’t think that I could forsake Dunya: she’ll be happy, I give you my word of honor. What do you want her for? She loves me; she’s lost the habit of her former situation. Neither you nor she will forget what’s happened.”

Then, slipping something into the old man’s cuff, he opened the door, and the stationmaster, without knowing how, found himself in the street.

For a long time he stood motionless, but finally he noticed a wad of papers behind the cuff of his sleeve. He took them out and unfolded several crumpled five- and ten-rouble banknotes. Tears welled up in his eyes again, tears of indignation! He rolled the papers into a ball, threw them on the ground, stamped on them with his heel, and walked away…After going several steps, he stopped, reflected…and turned back…but the banknotes were no longer there. A well-dressed young man, seeing him, ran over to a cab, quickly got in, and shouted: “Drive!…” The stationmaster did not chase after him. He decided to go back home to his station, but first he wanted to see his poor Dunya at least once more. For that he went back to Minsky’s a couple of days later; but the orderly told him sternly that the master was not receiving anybody, pushed him out of the front hall with his chest, and slammed the door in his face. The stationmaster stood there, stood there—and then left.

That same day, in the evening, he was walking down Liteiny Street, after having prayers said at the Joy of the Afflicted.6 Suddenly a smart droshky raced past him, and the stationmaster recognized Minsky. The droshky stopped in front of a three-story house, just by the entrance, and the hussar went running up to the porch. A happy thought flashed in the stationmaster’s head. He turned around and coming alongside the coachman, asked:

“Whose horse is that, brother? Is it Minsky’s?”

“That’s right,” replied the coachman. “What’s it to you?”

“It’s this: your master told me to take a note to his Dunya, but I forget where his Dunya lives.”

“Right here, on the second floor. You’re late with your note, brother; he’s already with her now.”

“Never mind,” the stationmaster objected with an inexplicable stirring of the heart. “Thanks for telling me, I’ll do what I’m supposed to.” And with those words he went up the stairs.

The door was locked. He rang and spent several painful seconds waiting. A key jangled, the door opened.

“Does Avdotya Samsonovna live here?” he asked.