It was the beginning to get dark. The wind blew stronger tearing off yellow leaves of the old birch trees and One man said to another: "Hadn't we better take ourselves off before it gets worse?" Other man said: "Yegor Gryaznorukov, titular councilor and cavalier. I knew him." He loved his wife, he wore the Stanislav ribbon and didn't read anything. He had an undistinguished life. It seemed that he hadn't any reason to die, but he was dead. He was very curious. While he was listening to a keyhole, he got a hit the head from the door that he sustained concussion of the brain and died. He hated any literature: poems, books, epigrams. But now all his grave-stone was adorned with verses. Someone came to them. What can we expect from the stranger?