Заповедник

Sergei Dovlatov

PUSHKIN HILLS

Translated by Katherine Dovlatov

Комментарии и словарь 
А. Лободы

УДК 372.8
ББК  81.2 Англ-93 
Д58

ISBN 978-5-9925-1437-7

Довлатов, Сергей Донатович.

Д58     Заповедник : Книга для чтения на английском 
языке / С. Д. Довлатов. — [Пер. с русск. Катерины 
Довлатовой] — Санкт-Петербург : КАРО, 2020. — 
192 с. — (Русская современная проза).

ISBN 978-5-9925-1437-7.

Сергей Донатович Довлатов (1941–1990) — один из 
наиболее читаемых и издаваемых русских писателей. Его 
произведения переведены на многие языки. Повесть «Заповедник» (1983) справедливо называют одним из самых 
значимых произведений прозаика. Как и в большинстве 
произведений Довлатова, прототипом главного героя является автор, работавший в музее-заповеднике А. С. Пушкина 
«Михайловское» в 1976–1977 годах. 
Рассказчик — писатель, который на лето приезжает в 
Пушкинские Горы поработать эксурсоводом. Деньги, жена, 
творчество и государство — вот что вызывает внутренние 
противоречия у главного героя. Однако эти же проблемы 
были острыми для Пушкина, который жил в поселке «Михайловское» 150 лет назад.
Читателю книги предоставляется возможность познакомиться с русской литературой на английском языке. Издание снабжено комментариями и словарем.

УДК 372.8 
ББК 81.2 Англ-93

Translation Copyright
© Katherine Dovlatov, 2013
Published by Alma Classics Ltd
© Издательство КАРО, 2020 
Все права защищены

SERGEI DOVLATOV

PUSHKIN HILLS

To my wife, who was right

At noon we pulled into Luga. We stopped at the 
station square and the tour guide adjusted her tone 
from a lofty to an earthier one:
“There to the left are the facilities…”
My neighbour pricked up his ears1:
“You mean the restroom?”
He had been nagging me the entire trip: “A bleaching agent, six letters? An endangered artiodactyl? An 
Austrian downhill skier?”
The tourists exited onto a sunlit square. The 
driver slammed the door shut and crouched by the 
radiator.
The station: a dingy yellow building with columns, a clock tower and flickering neon letters, 
faded by the sun…
I cut across the vestibule with its newspaper 
stand and massive cement urns and instinctively 
sought out a café. 
“Through the waiter,” grumbled the woman at 
the counter. A bottle-opener dangled on her fallen 
bosom. 
I sat by the door. A waiter with tremendous felted sideburns materialized a minute later.
“What’s your pleasure?”

1 to prick up one’s ears — навострить уши

“My pleasure,” I said, “is for everyone to be kind, 
humble and courteous.”
The waiter, having had his fill1 of life’s diversity, 
said nothing. 
“My pleasure is half a glass of vodka, a beer and 
two sandwiches.”
“What kind?”
“Sausage, I guess.”
I got out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. My hands 
were shaking uncontrollably. “Better not drop the 
glass…” And just then two refined old ladies sat 
down at the next table. They looked like they were 
from our bus. 
The waiter brought a small carafe, a bottle of 
beer and two chocolates.
“The sandwiches are all gone,” he announced 
with a note of false tragedy.
I paid up. I lifted the glass and put it down right 
away. My hands shook like an epileptic’s. The old 
ladies looked me over with distaste. I attempted 
a smile:
“Look at me with love!”
The ladies shuddered and changed tables. 
I heard some muffled interjections of disapproval. 
To hell with them, I thought. I steadied the glass 
with both hands and drained it. Then I wrestled out 
the sweet.

1 to have one’s fill — насытиться

I began to feel better. That deceptive feeling of 
bliss was setting in. I stuffed the beer in my pocket 
and stood up, nearly knocking over the chair. A Duralumin1 armchair, to be precise. The old ladies continued to scrutinize me with apprehension. 
I stepped onto the square. Its walls were covered with warped plywood billboards. The drawings 
promised mountains of meat, wool, eggs and various 
unmentionables in the not-too-distant future. 
The men were smoking by the side of the bus. 
The women were noisily taking their seats. The tour 
guide was eating an ice cream in the shade. I approached her:
“Let’s get acquainted.”
“Aurora,” she said, extending a sticky hand.
“And I am,” I said, “Borealis.”
The girl didn’t take offence.
“Everyone makes fun of my name. I’m used to 
it… What’s wrong with you? You’re all red!”
“I assure you, it’s only on the outside. On the 
inside I’m a constitutional democrat.”
“No, really, are you unwell?”
“I drink too much… Would you like a beer?”
“Why do you drink?” she asked.
What could I say?

1 Duralumin — дюралевый, выполненный из дюралюминия (собирательное название сплавов на основе алюминия)

“It’s a secret,” I said, “a little mystery…”
“So you’ve decided to work at the museum?”
“Exactly.”
“I knew it right away.”
“Do I look like the literary type?”
“Mitrofanov was seeing you off. He’s an extremely learned Pushkin scholar. Are you good friends?”
“I’m good friends,” I said, “with his bad side…”
“How do you mean?”
“Never mind.”
“You should read Gordin, Shchegolev, Tsyavlovskaya… Kern’s memoirs1… and one of the popular 
brochures on the dangers of alcohol.”
“You know, I’ve read so much about the dangers 
of alcohol that I decided to give it up… reading, that 
is.”
“You’re impossible to talk to.”
The driver glanced in our direction. The tourists 
were in their seats.
Aurora finished the ice cream and wiped her 
fingers.

1 Gordin, Shchegolev, Tsyavlovskaya… Kern’s memoirs: 
Arkady Gordin (1913–97) was a Pushkin expert who wrote 
a number of books on Pushkin in Mikhailovskoye, where 
the Pushkin Preserve is now located. Pavel Shchegolev 
(1877–1931) and Tatyana Tsyavlovskaya (1897–1978) 
were also noted Pushkin specialists. Anna Kern (1800–79) 
was briefly Pushkin’s lover. The two met in nearby Trigorskoye in 1825.  

“In the summer,” she said, “the museum pays 
very well. Mitrofanov makes close to two hundred 
roubles.”
“And that’s two hundred roubles more than he’s 
worth.”
“Why, you’re also bitter.”
“You’d be bitter too,” I said.
The driver honked twice.
“Let’s go,” said Aurora.
The Lvov bus1 was stuffy. The calico seats were 
burning hot. The yellow curtains intensified the feeling of suffocation. 
I was leafing through the pages of Alexei Vulf’s 
Diaries2. They referred to Pushkin in a friendly and 
sometimes condescending manner. There it was, the 
closeness that spoils vision. Everyone knows that 
geniuses must have friends. But who’ll believe that 
his friend is a genius?!
I dozed off to the murmur of some unintelligible 
and irrelevant facts about Ryleyev’s mother3…

1 Lvov bus — автобус, выпущенный на Львовском автобусном заводе (ЛАЗ) 

2 Alexei Vulf’s Diaries: Alexei Nikolayevich Vulf (1805–81) 
was a bon vivant and close friend of Pushkin. 

3 Ryleyev’s mother: Kondraty Ryleyev (1795–1826) was 
a leader in the Decembrist Revolt of 1825, which sought to 
overthrow the Tsar, and a publisher of Pushkin’s work. 

Someone woke me when we were already in 
Pskov. The kremlin’s freshly plastered walls brought 
on a feeling of gloom. The designers had secured 
a grotesque Baltic-style emblem made of wrought 
iron above the central archway. The kremlin resembled a gigantic model.
One of the outbuildings housed the local travel 
bureau. Aurora filed some paperwork and we were 
driven to Hera, the most fashionable local restaurant.
I wavered — to top up or not? If I drank more, 
tomorrow it’d be even worse. I didn’t feel like eating…
I walked onto the boulevard. Low and heavy, the 
lindens rustled. 
Long ago I realized that as soon as you give way 
to thinking, you remember something sad. For instance, my last conversation with my wife…

“Even your love of words — your crazy, unhealthy, pathological love — is fake. It’s nothing 
more than an attempt to justify the life you lead. And 
you lead the life of a famous writer without fulfilling the slightest requirements. With your vices you 
should be a Hemingway1 at the very least…”

1 Hemingway — Эрнест Хемингуэй (1899–1961), американский писатель, журналист, лауреат Нобелевской премии