The Postmaster: Corey's Thoughts

"The Postmaster" is about a man whose daughter abandons him for a nobleman in the Russian countryside, and his ensuing expectations and heartache. One of the most common motifs in the writing of Alexander Pushkin is that of unfulfilled expectations for the reader. At the beginning of "The Postmaster", the narrator has a short rant about how despicable postmasters are, but then explains that this is understandable in light of the hardships that they face as a result of their jobs. Therefore, when he launches into the tale of one particular postmaster he is acquainted with, the reader naturally expects to hear of some horrible injustice done to the postmaster as a result of his job. However, we hear very little about the postmaster's livelihood, but instead about his family, especially his beautiful daughter Dunya. Once Dunya has run away with Minsky, Pushkin again creates an expectation within the reader's mind that is destined to go unfulfilled. In constantly making reference to the postmaster's pictures which depict the biblical story of the prodigal son, the reader cannot help but assume that these pictures foreshadow the fate of Dunya. Even after the postmaster has been rebuffed in his attempt to reclaim his daughter, he still believes that it is only a matter of time before her ruin and return, saying "She is not the first, nor yet the last, that a traveling scoundrel has seduced, kept for a little while, and then abandoned. There are many such young fools in St. Petersburg " (Pushkin 75). However, despite all expectations to the contrary, this is not Dunya's fate. She not only remains with her lover Minsky, never to return home until after her father's death, but appears to live an extremely luxurious lifestyle based on her carriage and clothing when she arrives at the cemetery. Once again, the expectations which Pushkin creates for his readers are left unfulfilled.

Remembrance

by Aleksandr Pushkin

When the loud day for men who sow and reap
Grows still, and on the silence of the town
The unsubstantial veils of night and sleep,
The meed of the day's labour, settle down,
Then for me in the stillness of the night
The wasting, watchful hours drag on their course,
And in the idle darkness comes the bite
Of all the burning serpents of remorse;
Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicities
Are swarming in my over-burdened soul,
And Memory before my wakeful eyes
With noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy scroll.
Then, as with loathing I peruse the years,
I tremble, and I curse my natal day,
Wail bitterly, and bitterly shed tears,
But cannot wash the woeful script away.


--Translated by Maurice Baring

From "World Poetry," edited by Katharine Washburn, John S. Major and Clifton Fadiman (W.W. Norton: 1,338 pp.)