[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."