What are the duties of this dictator, as Prince Vyazemsky has humorously called him? Is not his work tantamount to hard labour? All the vexation that has accumulated during a tiresome journey is vented by travellers on postmasters. If the weather is intolerable, if the road is execrable, the driver obstinate, the horses stubborn – the postmaster is to blame. When he enters the postmaster’s poor abode the traveller looks upon him as an enemy; the postmaster is lucky if he manages to rid himself quickly of his uninvited guest; but if there are no horses… Heavens! What torrents of abuse, what threats are showered down upon his head! In rain or in slush he is obliged to run from one house to another. During a storm or biting January frosts he must take refuge out in the entrance hall, in order to enjoy a moment’s respite from the shouting and jostling of an infuriated traveller. A general arrives. The trembling postmaster gives him the last two troikas, including that reserved for the special courier. The general departs without a word of thanks. Five minutes later a sleigh bell rings… and the courier throws down on the table his order for fresh horses.
If we take all this into consideration our hearts will be filled with genuine compassion instead of indignation. And I shall say a few more words on the subject. Over a period of twenty years I have travelled the length and breadth of Russia, in every direction; almost all the post-roads are familiar to me. I am acquainted with several generations of drivers. There are few postmasters I do not know by sight and few with whom I have not had business. I hope to publish the interesting stock of observations made during my travels before long. For the moment I shall merely remark that postmasters have been presented to the public in an exceedingly false light. These much-maligned postmasters are, on the whole, peaceful individuals, obliging by nature, inclined to be sociable, modest in their pretensions to honours and not particularly mercenary. From their conversation (unjustly scorned by travellers) much can be learnt that is both interesting and edifying. For my part I confess that I prefer their talk to that of some high-ranking official travelling on government business.
It will easily be guessed that I have friends among the honourable company of postmasters. Indeed, the memory of one is precious to me. Circumstances once brought us together, and it is of him that I now intend telling my amiable readers.
In the year 1816, in the month of May, I happened to be travelling through*** province, along a post-road now abandoned. At that time I held a low rank, and had a travelling allowance for two horses only.5 Consequently postmasters treated me with little ceremony, and often I had to take by force what, in my opinion, was mine by right. As I was young and hot-tempered, I would become indignant at the baseness and cowardice of postmasters when the latter harnessed horses that had already been prepared for me to the carriage of some high-ranking official. It took me just as long before I could get used to being passed over by some discriminating lackey at a governor’s dinner-table.6 Nowadays both one and the other seem to be in the order of things. Indeed, what would become of us if, instead of the generally accepted rule, let rank honour rank, another were to be introduced, for example, let brains honour brains. What arguments that would provoke! And whom would the servants serve first then? But to return to my story.
It was a hot day. About two miles from the post-station a light drizzle began, and within a few minutes this turned into a torrential downpour and I was soaked to the skin. On arriving at the post-station my first concern was to change my clothes as quickly as possible; my second, to ask for some tea.
‘Hey, Dunya!’ cried the postmaster. ‘Prepare the samovar and fetch some cream.’
At these words a girl of about fourteen appeared from behind the partition and ran into the hall. I was struck by her beauty.
‘Is that your daughter?’ I asked the postmaster.
‘That’s my daughter, sir,’ he replied with a look of satisfied pride. ‘She’s so sensible and quick, just like her late mother.’
Here he started entering my order for fresh horses, and I occupied myself by examining the paintings that adorned his humble but tidy abode. They depicted the Parable of the Prodigal Son: in the first, a venerable old man in night-cap and dressing-gown was saying farewell to a restless young man who was hastily accepting his blessing and a bag of money. In the next the dissipated conduct of the young man was vividly portrayed: he was seated at a table, surrounded by false friends and shameless women. Further on the ruined youth, in rags and with a three-cornered hat on his head, was tending swine and sharing a meal with them; his face expressed deep sorrow and remorse. The last picture portrayed his return to his father: the worthy old man, in the same night-cap and dressing-gown, ran out to meet him; the prodigal son was on his knees; in the background the cook was killing the fattened calf, and the elder brother was asking the servants the reason for such rejoicing. Under each picture I read some appropriate verses in German. All this I have preserved to this day in my memory, including the pots of balsam, the bed with the brightly coloured curtains and the other objects that were all around me. I can see, as if it were now, the master of the house himself, a man of about fifty, healthy and fresh-looking, in his long green frock-coat with three medals hanging from it on faded ribbons.
I had hardly settled my account with my elderly driver when Dunya returned with the samovar. The little coquette saw at second glance the impression she had made on me. She lowered her big blue eyes. I started talking to her; she replied without the least shyness, like a girl who has seen the world. I offered her father a glass of punch, handed Dunya a cup of tea, and the three of us started chatting together as if we had known each other all our lives.
The horses had long been ready, but I was reluctant to part from the postmaster and his daughter. Finally I took my leave of them. The father wished me a pleasant journey and the daughter accompanied me to my coach. In the porch I stopped and asked permission to kiss her: Dunya agreed…
Many are the kisses I can count,
Since first I dabbled in such things
but not one of them has left so sweet, so lasting a memory.
Several years passed and circumstances led me along that same road, to the same neighbourhood. I remembered the old postmaster’s daughter and was overjoyed at the thought of seeing her again. ‘But,’ I thought, ‘perhaps the old postmaster has been replaced; and Dunya is probably married by now.’ The thought that one or other of them might have died flashed through my mind as well, and I approached the *** post-station with sad forebodings.
The horses drew up before the little post-house. Entering the room I immediately recognized the pictures depicting the Parable of the Prodigal Son; the table and bed stood in the same places as before; but no longer were there flowers in the windows, and everything indicated decay and neglect. The postmaster was asleep under his sheepskin coat; my arrival woke him and he stood up… it was certainly Semyon Vyrin, but how he had aged! While he was copying my order for fresh horses, I looked at his grey hair, at the deep wrinkles on his unshaven face, at his bent back, and I was truly amazed that three or four years could have transformed such a healthy and vigorous person into a feeble old man.
‘Don’t you recognize me?’ I asked him. ‘We are old acquaintances.’
‘That’s possible,’ he replied gloomily. ‘This is a main road. Many travellers pass through here.’
‘Is your Dunya well?’ I continued.
The old man frowned. ‘God knows,’ he replied.
‘Is she married now?’ I asked.
The old man pretended not to hear my question and went on reading out my order for horses in a low voice. I stopped questioning him and ordered some tea. Curiosity began to disturb me, and I hoped that some punch would loosen my old acquaintance’s tongue.
I was not mistaken: the old man did not refuse the glass which I offered him. I could see that the rum dispelled his moroseness. With the second glass he became talkative; he either remembered or pretended to remember me, and I heard from him a story that both intrigued and deeply mo
ved me at the time.
‘So you knew my Dunya?’ he began. ‘Who didn’t know her? Oh Dunya, Dunya! What a girl she was! Whoever came here would sing her praises, no one had a word to say against her. Ladies used to give her presents, sometimes a handkerchief, or a pair of ear-rings. Gentlemen passing through would stop on purpose, as if they wanted dinner or supper, but in reality all they wanted was to take a longer look at her. However angry a gentleman happened to be, he would calm down when she was there and would speak civilly to me. Would you believe it, sir: government couriers and special messengers would chat with her for half an hour at a time. The whole place depended on her: she tidied up, prepared everything, took care of everything. And I, old fool, never tired of looking at her and simply doted on her. Didn’t I love my Dunya? Didn’t I cherish my child? Didn’t she have a happy life here? But no, there’s no escaping misfortune; what will be, will be.’
At this point he started telling me about his sorrows in detail. Three years earlier, one winter’s evening, when the postmaster was ruling lines in a new register and his daughter was making a dress behind the screen, a troika drove up, and a traveller with a shawl around his neck, a Circassian cap on his head, and wearing a military greatcoat came into the room and demanded horses. They were all out. When he heard this the traveller was about to raise his voice and his whip; but Dunya, accustomed to such scenes, ran out from behind the screen and graciously asked the traveller if he would care for something to eat. Dunya’s appearance had its usual effect. The traveller’s anger subsided; he agreed to wait for the horses and ordered supper. When he had removed his wet, shaggy cap, unwound his shawl and taken off his greatcoat the traveller turned out to be a handsome hussar with a small black moustache. He made himself comfortable and started gaily chatting away with the postmaster and his daughter. Supper was served. Meanwhile the horses arrived, and the postmaster ordered them to be harnessed immediately, without even being fed, to the traveller’s sledge. But when he came back to the post-house he found the young hussar lying almost unconscious on the bench. He felt bad, his head ached and he was in no state to travel. What was to be done? The postmaster gave up his own bed to him, and it was decided that if the sick man did not improve by the morning they would send to S** for the doctor.
Next day the hussar was worse. His batman rode into town for a doctor. Dunya wrapped a handkerchief soaked in vinegar around his head and sat at his bedside with her sewing. In the presence of the postmaster the sick man groaned and hardly said a word, although he did drink two cups of coffee and, still groaning, ordered some dinner. Dunya did not leave his side. Constantly he asked for a drink, and Dunya would bring him a jug of lemonade she had just made herself. The sick man moistened his lips, and every time he handed back the jug he would weakly squeeze Dunya’s hand in gratitude. Towards dinner time the doctor arrived. He felt the sick man’s pulse, spoke to him in German and declared in Russian that all he needed was rest and that within two days or so he would be fit to continue his journey. The hussar paid him twenty-five roubles for his visit, and invited him to have dinner with him. The doctor accepted. Both ate with great appetite, drank a bottle of wine and parted very satisfied with each other.
Another day passed and the hussar had completely recovered. He was extraordinarily cheerful, joked incessantly, now with Dunya and then with the postmaster; he whistled tunes, chatted with travellers, copied their warrants into the register and so endeared himself to the worthy postmaster that on the third morning he felt sad at the prospect of having to part with his amiable guest.
It was a Sunday; Dunya was preparing to go to Mass. The hussar’s sleigh was brought round. He bade the postmaster farewell, generously rewarded him for the board and lodging, and said goodbye to Dunya, offering to drive her to the church, which was at the far end of the village. Dunya stood there in a quandary.
‘What are you afraid of?’ her father asked. ‘His Honour is no wolf; he won’t eat you. Now, drive to church with him.’
Dunya seated herself in the sleigh beside the hussar, the batman leapt on to the coachman’s box, the driver whistled and the horses galloped off.
The poor postmaster could not understand how he could have allowed his Dunya to drive off with the hussar, how he could have been so blind and what he could have been thinking of at the time. Half an hour had barely passed when his heart began to ache, and he became so agitated that he could no longer restrain himself and went off to the church. As he approached he saw that the congregation was already leaving; but Dunya was neither in the churchyard nor in the porch. He hurried into the church: the priest had left the altar, the sexton was putting out the candles, two old women were still praying in one corner; but there was no sign of Dunya. Her poor father could barely bring himself to ask the sexton whether she had attended Mass. The sexton replied that she had not been to church. The postmaster returned home more dead than alive. One hope remained for him: Dunya, in the recklessness of youth, had perhaps decided to drive to the next post-station, where her godmother lived. In torments of anxiety he awaited the return of the troika with which he had let her go. But it did not return. Finally, towards evening, the driver returned, alone and drunk, bearing the devastating news: ‘Dunya drove on from the next station with that hussar.’
The old man’s misfortune was too much for him; he immediately took to that very same bed where the day before that young deceiver had lain. And now, after considering all the facts of the matter, the postmaster guessed that the illness had been faked. The poor man contracted a severe fever; he was taken to S * * and for a while another postmaster was appointed in his place. He was treated by the same doctor who had called on the hussar. He assured the postmaster that the young man had been perfectly well and that he had suspected his evil intention all along, but had remained silent for fear of his whip. Whether the German was speaking the truth or only wanted to boast of his far-sightedness, his words brought no consolation to his poor patient. Barely had the postmaster recovered from his illness than he obtained two months’ leave of absence from the postmaster at S * * and, without breathing a word to anyone about his plans, set off on foot to look for his daughter. From the warrant for fresh horses he learnt that Captain Minsky had travelled from Smolensk to St Petersburg. The driver who had taken him told him that Dunya had wept the whole way, although she appeared to have gone of her own free will. ‘Perhaps,’ thought the postmaster, ‘I shall bring my stray lamb home.’ With this thought he stayed at the barracks of the Izmailovsky regiment, in the house of an old comrade, a retired non-commissioned officer, and embarked on his search. He soon discovered that Captain Minsky was in St Petersburg and living at Demut’s hotel.7 The postmaster decided to call on him.
Early in the morning he went into Minsky’s ante-room and asked for His Honour to be informed that an old soldier wanted to see him. The batman, who happened to be polishing a boot on a boot-tree, announced that his master was still asleep and that he never received anyone before eleven o’clock. The postmaster departed and returned at the appointed time. Minsky himself came out to him in his dressing-gown and red skull-cap.
‘Well, what do you want, my friend?’ he asked.
The old man’s heart boiled with indignation, tears welled up in his eyes, and he could only reply in a trembling voice, ‘Your Honour, please be so good as to do me the favour!…’
Minsky glanced swiftly at him, flushed, led him by the arm into his study and locked the door.
‘Your Honour!’ continued the old man. ‘It’s no use crying over spilt milk; but at least give me back my poor Dunya. You’ve had your pleasure with her, don’t ruin her needlessly.’
‘What’s done cannot be undone,’ the young man said, in extreme confusion. ‘I am guilty before you and am pleased to ask your forgiveness. But do not think that I could forsake Dunya. She will be happy, I give you my word on it. Why do you want her? She loves me, she has grown out of her former life. Neither of you will ever forget what has happened.’ Then, pushin
g something up the old man’s sleeve, he opened the door, and the postmaster, without recalling how, found himself out in the street.
For a long time he stood motionless until finally he saw a roll of paper under the cuff of his sleeve. He pulled it out and unrolled several crumpled five- and ten-rouble notes. Once again the tears welled up in his eyes – tears of indignation! He rolled the notes into a ball, flung them on to the ground, stamped on them with his heel and walked off… After a few paces he stopped, pondered… and went back… but by now the notes were gone. A well-dressed young man, noticing him, dashed to a cab, hurriedly seated himself and shouted, ‘Drive on!’ The postmaster did not pursue him. He decided to go back to his station, but before doing so he wanted to see his poor Dunya just once more. To that end he returned to Minsky’s rooms a couple of days later, but the batman gruffly informed him that his master was receiving nobody, shoved him out of the entrance hall and slammed the door in his face. The postmaster stood there a long long time – and then he went away.
That same day, in the evening, he was walking along Liteiny Street, having attended a service at the Church of Our Lady of Sorrows. Suddenly an elegant droshky flew past and the postmaster recognized Minsky. The droshky stopped at the entrance to a three-storeyed house and the hussar ran up the steps. A happy thought flashed through the postmaster’s mind. He turned back and went up to the coachman.
Tales of Belkin and Other Prose Writings Page 7