The Queen of Spades, and other stories
"Well, if that is the case, let us have tea quickly, and call my
daughters."
THE POSTMASTER.
Who has not cursed the Postmaster; who has not quarrelled with him?
Who, in a moment of anger, has not demanded the fatal hook to write his
ineffectual complaint against extortion, rudeness, and unpunctuality?
Who does not consider him a human monster, equal only to our extinct
attorney, or, at least, to the brigands of the Murom Woods? Let us,
however, be just and place ourselves in his position, and, perhaps,
we shall judge him less severely. What is a Postmaster? A real martyr
of the 14th class (i.e., of nobility), only protected by his _tchin_
(rank) from personal violence; and that not always. I appeal to the
conscience of my readers. What is the position of this dictator, as
Prince Yiasemsky jokingly calls him? Is it not really that of a galley
slave? No rest for him day or night. All the irritation accumulated
in the course of a dull journey by the traveller is vented upon the
Postmaster. If the weather is intolerable, the road wretched, the
driver obstinate, or the horses intractable--the Postmaster is to
blame. Entering his humble abode, the traveller looks upon him as his
enemy, and the Postmaster is lucky if he gets rid of his uninvited
guest soon. But should there happen to be no horses! Heavens! what
abuse, what threats are showered upon his head! Through rain and mud
he is obliged to seek them, so that during a storm, or in the winter
frosts, he is often glad to take refuge in the cold passage in order
to snatch a few moments of repose and to escape from the shrieking and
pushing of irritated guests.
If a general arrives, the trembling Postmaster supplies him with
the two last remaining _troiki_ (team of three horses abreast), of
which one _troika_ ought, perhaps, to have been reserved for the
diligence. The general drives on without even a word of thanks. Five
minutes later the Postmaster hears--a bell! and the guard throws down
his travelling certificate on the table before him! Let us realize
all this, and, instead of anger, we shall feel sincere pity for the
Postmaster. A few words more. In the course of twenty years I have
travelled all over Russia, and know nearly all the mail routes. I have
made the acquaintance of several generations of drivers. There are few
postmasters whom I do not know personally, and few with whom I have
not had dealings. My curious collection of travelling experiences I
hope shortly to publish. At present I will only say that, as a class,
the Postmaster is presented to the public in a false light. This
much-libelled personage is generally a peaceful, obliging, sociable,
modest man, and not too fond of money. From his conversation (which
the travelling gentry very wrongly despise) much interesting and
instructive information may be acquired. As far as I am concerned, I
profess that I prefer his talk to that of some _tchinovnik_ (official)
of the 6th class, travelling for the Government.
It may easily be guessed that I have some friends among the honourable
class of postmasters. Indeed, the memory of one of them is very dear
to me. Circumstances at one time brought us together, and it is of him
that I now intend to tell my dear readers.
In the May of 1816 I chanced to be passing through the Government of
----, along a road now no longer existing. I held a small rank, and
was travelling with relays of three horses while paying only for two.
Consequently the Postmaster stood upon no ceremony with me, but I
had often to take from him by force what I considered to be mine by
right. Being young and passionate, I was indignant at the meanness and,
cowardice of the Postmaster when he handed over the _troika_ prepared
for me to some official gentleman of higher rank.
It also took me a long time to get over the offence, when a servant,
fond of making distinctions, missed me when waiting at the governor's
table. Now the one and the other appear to me to be quite in the
natural course of things. Indeed, what would become of us, if, instead
of the convenient rule that rank gives precedence to rank, the rule
were to be reversed, and mind made to give precedence to mind? What
disputes would arise! Besides, to whom would the attendants first hand
the dishes? But to return to my story.
The day was hot. About three versts from the station it began to spit,
and a minute afterwards there was a pouring rain, and I was soon
drenched to the skin. Arriving at the station, my first care was to
change my clothes, and then I asked for a cup of tea.
"Hi! Dunia!" called out the Postmaster, "Prepare the _samovar_ and
fetch some cream."
In obedience to this command, a girl of fourteen appeared from behind
the partition, and ran out into the passage. I was struck by her beauty.
"Is that your daughter?" I inquired of the Postmaster.
"Yes," he answered, with a look of gratified pride, "and such a good,
clever girl, just like her late mother." Then, while he took note of my
travelling certificate, I occupied the time in examining the pictures
which decorated the walls of his humble abode. They were illustrations
of the story of the Prodigal Son. In the firsts a venerable old man
in a skull cap and dressing gown, is wishing good-bye to the restless
youth who naturally receives his blessing and a bag of money. In
another, the dissipated life of the young man is painted in glaring
colours; he is sitting at a table surrounded by false friends and
shameless women. In the next picture, the ruined youth in his shirt
sleeves and a three-corned hat, is taking care of some swine while
sharing their food. His face expresses deep sorrow and contrition.
Finally, there was the representation of his return to his father.
The kind old man, in the same cap and dressing gown, runs out to meet
him; the prodigal son falls on his knees before him; in the distance,
the cook is killing the fatted calf, and the eldest son is asking the
servants the reason of all this rejoicing. At the foot of each picture
I read some appropriate German verses. I remember them all distinctly,
as well as some pots of balsams, the bed with the speckled curtains,
and many other characteristic surroundings. I can see the stationmaster
at this moment; a man about fifty years of age, fresh and strong, in a
long green coat, with three medals on faded ribbons.
I had scarcely time to settle with my old driver when Dunia returned
with the _samovar_. The little coquette saw at a second glance the
impression she had produced upon me. She lowered her large, blue eyes.
I spoke to her, and she replied confidently, like a girl accustomed to
society. I offered a glass of punch to her father, to Dunia I handed a
cup of tea. Then we all three fell into easy conversation, as if we had
known each other all our lives.
The horses had been waiting a long while, but I was loth to part from
the Postmaster and his daughter. At last I took leave of them, the
father wishing me a pleasant journey, while the daughter saw me to the
_telega_. In the corridor I stopped and asked permission to kiss her.
Dunia consented. I can remember a great many kisses since then, but
none which left such a lasting, such a delightful impression.
Several years passed, when circumstances brought me back to the same
tract, to the very same places. I recollected the old Postmasters
daughter, and rejoiced at the prospect of seeing her again.
"But," I thought, "perhaps the old Postmaster has been changed, and
Dunia may be already married." The idea that one or the other might
be dead also passed through my mind, and I approached the station of
---- with sad presentiments. The horses drew up at the small station
house. I entered the waiting-room, and instantly recognised the
pictures representing the story of the Prodigal Son. The table and the
bed stood in their old places, but the flowers on the window sills had
disappeared, while all the surroundings showed neglect and decay.
The Postmaster was asleep under his great-coat, but my arrival awoke
him and he rose. It was certainly Simeon Virin, but how aged! While he
was preparing to make a copy of my travelling certificate, I looked at
his grey hairs, and the deep wrinkles in his long, unshaven face, his
bent back, and I was amazed to see how three or four years had managed
to change a strong, middle-aged man into a frail, old one.
"Do you recognise me?" I asked him, "we are old friends."
"May be," he replied, gloomily, "this is a highway, and many travellers
have passed through here."
"Is your Dunia well?" I added. The old man frowned.
"Heaven knows," he answered.
"Apparently, she is married," I said.
The old man pretended not to hear my question, and in a low voice went
on reading my travelling certificate. I ceased my inquiries and ordered
hot water.
My curiosity was becoming painful, and I hoped that the punch would
loosen the tongue of my old friend. I was not mistaken; the old man
did not refuse the proffered tumbler. I noticed that the rum dispelled
his gloom. At the second glass he became talkative, remembered, or at
any rate looked as if he remembered, me, and I heard the story, which
at the time interested me and even affected me much.
"So you knew my Dunia?" he began. "But, then, who did not? Oh, Dunia,
Dunia! What a beautiful girl you were! You were admired and praised
by every traveller. No one had a word to say against her. The ladies
gave her presents--one a handkerchief, another a pair of earrings. The
gentlemen stopped on purpose, as if to dine or to take supper, but
really only to take a longer look at her. However rough a man might be,
he became subdued in her presence and spoke graciously to me. Will you
believe me, sir? Couriers and special messengers would talk to her for
half-an-hour at the time. She was the support of the house. She kept
everything in order, did everything and looked after everything. While
I, the old fool that I was, could not see enough of her, or pet her
sufficiently. How I loved her! How I indulged my child! Surely her life
was a happy one? But, no! fate is not to be avoided."
Then he began to tell me his sorrow in detail. Three years before,
one winter evening, while the Postmaster was ruling a new book, his
daughter in the next partition was busy making herself a dress, when
a _troika_ drove up and a traveller, wearing a Circassian hat and a
long military overcoat, and muffled in a shawl, entered the room and
demanded horses.
The horses were all out. Hearing this, the traveller had raised his
voice and his whip, when Dunia, accustomed to such scenes, rushed out
from behind the partition and inquired pleasantly whether he would not
like something to eat? Her appearance produced the usual effect. The
passenger's rage subsided, he agreed to wait for horses, and ordered
some supper. He took off his wet hat, unloosed the shawl, and divested
himself of his long overcoat.
The traveller was a tall, young hussar with a small black moustache.
He settled down comfortably at the Postmaster's and began a lively,
conversation with him and his daughter. Supper was served. Meanwhile,
the horses returned and the Postmaster ordered them instantly, without
being fed, to be harnessed to the traveller's _kibitka._ But returning
to the room, he found the young man senseless on the bench where he lay
in a faint. Such a headache had attacked him that it was impossible for
him to continue his journey. What was to be done? The Postmaster gave
up his own bed to him; and it was arranged that if the patient was not
better the next morning to send to C------ for the doctor.
Next day the hussar was worse. His servant rode to the town to fetch
the doctor. Dunia bound up his head with a handkerchief moistened