About five years ago, in the fall, on the road from Moscow to Tula, I had to sit for almost a whole day in the postal house for a lack of horses. I looked out the window with cold despair, when suddenly a small cart stopped in front of the porch. A man of about 30 entered the room with traces of smallpox on his dry, yellowish face, blue-black hair and small puffy eyes. We got into a conversation over tea. The ruined landowner Pyotr Petrovich Karataev was going to Moscow to serve. He told me the reason for the ruin.
When Karataev lived in the village, he fell in love with a beautiful girl named Matryona. The girl did not belong to him, and Karataev wanted to redeem her. Her mistress was a rich and terrible old woman who lived about 15 versts from him; she owned the village of Kukuevka. Karataev came to her. He was met by an old companion who promised to convey his request to the lady. After two days, Karataev again went to the mistress and persuaded her to sell Matryona for a long time, promised any money, but the mischievous old woman, learning about Karataev’s feelings, refused flatly. She stated that she had sent Matryona to a distant steppe village, and suggested finding a respectable bride to Karataev.
Karataev suffered for a long time and blamed himself for ruining Matryona. Finally, he could not bear it: he found out in which village the girl was being kept, went there and persuaded Matryona to run away. Karataev settled it in his estate, in a small house, and they began to live soul to soul. One winter, they went for a sleigh ride, and Matryona sent the horses straight to Kukuevka. Unfortunately, they met an old lady. They drove by so quickly that the lady’s wagon rolled over. Despite this, the lady recognized Matryona and sent a police officer to Karataev.
From this moment the troubles of Karataev began. The lady did not spare money to return Matryona. It turned out that she wanted to marry Karataev to her companion, and was very angry when her plans were upset. Karataev hid Matryon on a far farm. One night, she came to say goodbye to him: she saw what troubles fell on Karataev because of her. The next day Matryona returned to Kukuevka. What happened to her later, I never found out.
A year later, it happened to me to go into a Moscow coffee shop. There, in the billiard room, I met Pyotr Petrovich Karataev. All this time he lived in Moscow - his village was sold at auction. Now he was a battered, drunk man, disappointed in life. I never met Karataev again.
