The Postmaster (Pushkin)
Short summary
Russian Empire, 1816. A traveler stopped at a small post station and met the postmaster and his beautiful daughter. Years later, he returned to find the postmaster aged and broken.
The postmaster told his story: three years earlier, a young Hussar officer stopped at the station, pretending to be ill. He stayed several days, charming everyone, especially the postmaster's daughter.
On Sunday, the Hussar offered to drive Dounia to church. She never returned—he had abducted her. The devastated postmaster traveled to St. Petersburg to find his daughter. He discovered she was living as the Hussar's mistress in luxury.
Minsky gave the old man money to leave.
He crushed the notes into a ball, flung them upon the ground, stamped upon them with the heel of his boot, and then walked away.... After having gone a few steps, he stopped, reflected, and returned... but the notes were no longer there.
Detailed summary
Division into chapters is editorial.
Reflections on the fate of Russian postmasters
A traveller reflected on the difficult position of Russian postmasters, those much-maligned officials of the fourteenth class who bore the brunt of every traveller's frustration.
Who has not cursed postmasters, who has not quarrelled with them?... Let us, however, be just; let us place ourselves in their position, and perhaps we shall begin to judge them with more indulgence.
The narrator had travelled extensively throughout Russia for twenty years and knew nearly all the post roads and many postmasters personally. He found them to be peaceful, obliging persons, modest in their pretensions, and their conversation often proved both interesting and instructive. One postmaster's memory remained particularly dear to him, and it was this man's story he intended to tell.
First encounter: the postmaster and his beautiful daughter Dounia
In May 1816, the narrator travelled through the Government of N—— on a road now destroyed. He held an inferior rank then and travelled by post stages, paying for two horses. During a hot day, about three versts from the station, a drizzling rain began that soon turned into a downpour, drenching him completely. Upon arriving at the station, his first concern was to change clothes, his second to ask for tea.
The postmaster called out for Dounia to prepare the tea-urn and fetch cream. A young girl of about fourteen appeared from behind the partition and ran into the vestibule. Her beauty immediately struck the narrator.
The postmaster confirmed she was his daughter, expressing pride that she was sharp and sensible, just like her late mother. While he registered the travelling passport, the narrator examined pictures on the walls illustrating the story of the Prodigal Son. He also noticed little pots of balsams, a bed with speckled curtains, and other humble furnishings. The postmaster himself was a man of about fifty, fresh and strong, wearing a long green surtout with three medals on faded ribbons.
When Dounia returned with the tea-urn, the little coquette saw at a second glance the impression she had made. She lowered her large blue eyes as the narrator began talking to her. She answered without timidity, like a girl who had seen the world. He offered her father a glass of punch and gave Dounia a cup of tea, and the three conversed as old acquaintances. Though the horses had long been ready, the narrator felt reluctant to leave. At the vestibule, he stopped and asked permission to kiss Dounia, which she granted—a kiss that left a long and pleasant recollection.
Return visit: the postmasters tale of loss and betrayal
Several years passed before circumstances led the narrator back to the same road. He wondered whether the old postmaster had been changed or if Dounia had married, and the thought that one or both might be dead flashed through his mind. Approaching the station with sad presentiment, he immediately recognized the pictures of the Prodigal Son, but everything indicated decay and neglect. The postmaster was asleep under his sheepskin pelisse. When awakened, he proved to be Simeon Virin indeed, but terribly aged—grey-haired, deeply wrinkled, bent, transformed from a strong man into a feeble old one.
When asked about Dounia, the old man frowned and replied mournfully that God only knew. To the suggestion that she was probably married, he pretended not to hear. The narrator ordered tea, hoping punch would loosen his old acquaintance's tongue. He was not mistaken—the rum dispelled the postmaster's mournfulness, and at the second glass he began to tell his story.
Ah, Dounia, Dounia! What a girl she was! Everybody who passed this way praised her... It was she who kept the house... And I, like an old fool, could not look at her enough, could not idolize her enough.
Three years before, one winter evening, a troika arrived with a traveller in a Circassian cap and military cloak who demanded horses. When told none were available, he raised his voice and whip, but Dounia's appearance produced the usual calming effect. The traveller proved to be a tall young Hussar with a black moustache who made himself comfortable and conversed pleasantly with father and daughter. After supper, he suddenly fell faint with a headache, making it impossible to continue his journey. The postmaster gave up his own bed, and they decided to send for a doctor if the sick man did not improve.
The next day the Hussar was worse, and his servant rode for the doctor. Dounia bound his head with a vinegar-soaked handkerchief and sat with her needlework beside his bed. He constantly asked for drinks, and each time Dounia gave him lemonade, he feebly pressed her hand in gratitude. The doctor declared he only needed rest and would be able to travel in a couple of days. The Hussar paid him twenty-five roubles and invited him to dinner. Another day passed, and the Hussar felt quite himself again, extraordinarily lively and charming, winning over the worthy postmaster completely.
On Sunday, Dounia prepared for mass. The Hussar's kibitka stood ready, and he offered to drive her to the church at the village's end. When Dounia hesitated, her father asked what she feared and told her to drive with him. She seated herself beside the Hussar, the servant sprang onto the box, the driver whistled, and the horses started at a gallop. Half an hour later, the postmaster's heart began to grieve with terrible anxiety. At the church, the people were dispersing, but Dounia was nowhere to be found. One hope remained—that she had gone to the next station where her godmother lived. But the driver returned alone and intoxicated in the evening with terrible news: Dounia had gone on with the Hussar.
Final visit: death and an unexpected revelation
The old man fell ill with violent fever. After recovering, he obtained two months' leave and set out on foot to search for his daughter. From the travelling passport, he learned that Captain Minsky was journeying to St. Petersburg. In the city, he discovered Minsky's address and called upon him. When finally admitted, Minsky grew confused, led him into his cabinet, and locked the door. The postmaster pleaded for his daughter's return, but Minsky insisted what was done could not be undone and that Dounia would be happy. He pushed money into the old man's sleeve and showed him out. The postmaster crushed the banknotes and stamped on them, but when he returned, they were gone—taken by a well-dressed young man who jumped into a droshky.
Days later, following Minsky's droshky, the postmaster discovered where Dounia lived. He forced his way past the servant into an elegantly furnished room where Minsky sat in deep thought. Dounia, dressed in the most elegant fashion, sat upon the arm of his chair, winding his black curls round her sparkling fingers. When she raised her head and saw her father, she fell upon the carpet with a cry. The enraged Minsky seized the old man and pushed him down the stairs. The postmaster returned to his station, and for three years he lived without hearing a word about Dounia.
She is not the first, nor yet the last, that a travelling scoundrel has seduced... to-day in satin and velvet, and to-morrow sweeping the streets... Sometimes, when I think that Dounia also may come to such an end...
Years later, passing through the town again, the narrator learned the old postmaster had been dead for about a year, having died of drink. A ragged boy with red hair led him to the cemetery—a dreary, unenclosed place with wooden crosses. At the postmaster's grave, the boy reported that last summer a beautiful lady in a carriage with six horses, three children, a nurse, and a little black dog had visited. She went to the cemetery, lay down at the grave for a long time, then returned to the village, sent for the priest, gave him money, and drove off. The narrator gave the boy a five-copeck piece and no longer regretted his journey.