Passing through the little town of a short time ago, I remembered my friend. I heard that the station, over which he ruled, had been abolished. To my question: “Is the old Postmaster still alive?” nobody could give me a satisfactory reply. I resolved to pay a visit to the well-known place, and having hired horses, I set out for the village of N——.
It was in the autumn. Grey clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew across the reaped fields, carrying along with it the red and yellow leaves from the trees that it encountered. I arrived in the village at sunset, and stopped at the little post-house. In the vestibule (where Dounia had once kissed me) a stout woman came out to meet me, and in answer to my questions replied, that the old Postmaster had been dead for about a year, that his house was occupied by a brewer, and that she was the brewer’s wife. I began to regret my useless journey, and the seven roubles that I had spent in vain.
“Of what did he die?” I asked the brewer’s wife.
“Of drink, little father,” replied she.
“And where is he buried?”
“On the outskirts of the village, near his late wife.”
“Could somebody take me to his grave?”
“To be sure! Hi, Vanka,[4] you have played with that cat long enough. Take this gentleman to the cemetery, and show him the Postmaster’s grave.”
At these words a ragged lad, with red hair, and a cast in his eye, ran up to me and immediately began to lead the way towards the burial-ground.
“Did you know the dead man?” I asked him on the road.