Who has not cursed stationmasters, who has not bickered with them? Who, in a moment of rage, has not demanded from them the fateful book in order to write down in it his futile complaint at victimization, rudeness and inefficiency? Who does not consider them the outcasts of the human race, equal to the petty clerks of yore or at best to the brigands of Muron? Let us, however, be fair; le us try to put ourselves in their position, and perhaps we shall judge them much more leniently. What is a stationmaster? A veritable martyr of the fourteenth grade, protected by his rank from beatings only, and that not always (I refer to the conscience of my readers). What are the duties of this dictator, as Prince Vyazemsky facetiously calls him? Are they not really tantamount to a life at hard labor? No respite by day or...