Part 11

About two months passed in this way; Semen began to form acquaintance with his nearest neighbors--trackmen like himself. One was already a very old man, whom the railway authorities had long intended to replace; he could hardly move from his watch-house, and his wife attended to his duties. The other trackman, who lived nearer to the station, was still a young man, thin and sinewy. Semen met him for the first time on the railroad-bed half-way between their watch-houses, while they were making their rounds; Semen took off his cap and bowed. “Good health to you, neighbor,” he said.

The neighbor looked at him askance. “How are you?” he replied, turned, and went his way.

The women also met afterward. Arina, Semen’s wife, greeted her neighbor affably, but this neighbor, also not of the talkative kind, spoke a few words and walked away. On meeting her once, Semen asked:

“Why is your husband so uncommunicative, young woman?” After standing for some time in silence, she said: “But what should he talk to you about? Everybody has his troubles--God speed you.”

But after another month had passed, their intimacy grew. Now, when Semen and Vasili met on the road-bed, they sat down on the edge, smoked their pipes, and told each other of their past life and experiences. Vasili spoke but little, but Semen told of his campaign life and of his native village.

“I have seen plenty of sorrow in my time, and God knows I am not so very old either. God has not given us much luck. It just depends: the kind of a lot the dear Lord portions out to one--such he must have. This is the way I make it out, Vasili Stepanich, little brother.”

And Vasili struck the bowl of his pipe on the rail to empty it, and said:

“It isn’t luck nor fate which is eating your life and mine away, but people. There is not a beast more cruel and rapacious than man. A wolf does not devour a wolf--but man eats man alive.”

“Well, brother, wolf does eat wolf--that is where you are wrong.”

“It came to my tongue, so I said it; anyhow there is not a more cruel beast. If it were not for man’s viciousness and greed--’twould be possible to live. Every one is on the lookout to grasp at your vitals, tear off a piece, and gobble it up.”

“I don’t know, brother,” said Semen after thinking a bit. “Maybe it is so--but if it is really so, then the great God ordained it in this way.”

“And if it is so,” spoke Vasili, “then there is no use of my speaking to you. A man who attributes to God every kind of iniquity, and himself sits and patiently bears it, can not be a man, brother mine--but an animal. Here you have my whole say!”

And he turned and went off without even saying good-by. Semen rose also and called after him; “Neighbor, and what are you abusing me for?”

But the neighbor did not even turn around, and went his way.

Semen looked after him till he was lost from sight at the turn of the road, then he returned home and said to his wife: “Well, Arina, what a venomous man that neighbor of ours is!”

Nevertheless they were not angry with each other; and when they met again they spoke as if nothing had happened and on the very same topic.

“Ei, brother, if not for the people--we would not sit here in these watch-houses,” spoke Vasili.

“Well, what if we do live in a watch-house? It is not so bad to live in one, after all.”

“Not so bad to live, not so bad--Ech, you! You lived long, but gained little; looked at much, but saw little. A poor man, no matter where he lives, in a railway watch-house or in any other place, what sort of a life is his? Those fleecers are eating your life away, squeeze all your juice out, and when you have grown old they throw you out like some swill, for the pigs to feed on. How much wages do you get?”

“Well, not much, Vasili Stepanich, twelve rubles” (about seven dollars and a half).

“And I thirteen and a half. Allow me to ask you why! According to the rulings of the administration, every one of us is supposed to get the same amount--fifteen rubles a month, and light and heat. Who was it that allotted you and me twelve, or say, thirteen and a half rubles? Allow me to ask you?--And you say it is not so bad a life? Understand me well, it is not about the three or one and a half rubles I am wrangling about--but even if they paid me the whole amount--Last month I was at the station when the director happened to pass. I saw him there. Had the honor. He occupied a whole private car by himself--on the station he alighted and stood on the platform, looking--no, I will not stay here long; I shall go where my eyes will lead me.”

“But where will you go, Stepanich? Let well alone, you will not find it much better anywhere. You have a home here, warmth, and a bit of land. Your wife is an able workwoman--”

“Land! You ought to see the land I have--why, there isn’t a stick on it. This spring I planted some cabbages. Well, one day the track-master passed: ‘What is this?’ he says. ‘Why did you not report it? Why not have waited for permission? Dig it out at once and not a vestige should be left of it.’ He was in his cups. At another time he would not have said a word, and here he got it into his head--Three rubles fine!--”

For some moments Vasili pulled at his pipe in silence, then he said in a low voice: “It wanted but little more, and I would have made short work of him.”

“Well, neighbor, you are a hot-head, I can tell you.”

“I am not hot, I am only speaking and considering everything from the point of justice. But he will get it from me yet, the red-mug; I shall make a complaint to the master of the division in person. We shall see!”

And he really complained.

Once the master of the division came to make a preliminary inspection of the road. In three days’ time very important gentlemen were expected from St. Petersburg to make an inspection of the road: everything had to be made ship-shape; some new gravel was ordered before their arrival, added, leveled, and smoothed out, the sleepers were examined, the nuts tightened, the verst-posts newly painted, and the order was given that some fine yellow sand be strewn over the crossings. A track-woman even drove her old man out of the nearest watch-house, which he almost never left, in order to trim a little the tiny grass-plot. Semen worked a whole week to bring everything into first-rate order, even mended his coat and burnished his brass shield till it shone. Vasili also worked hard.

At last the division master arrived in a buzzing draisine (hand car), worked by four men and making twenty versts an hour. It came flying toward Semen’s watch-house, and Semen sprang forward and reported in military fashion. Everything appeared to be correct.

“Are you long here?” asked the master.

“Since the second of May, your honor.”

“Very well, thank you. And who is at Number 164?”

The track-master who rode with him on the draisine replied: “Vasili Spiridov.”

“Spiridov, Spiridov.--Oh, the one you reported?”

“The very same.”

“Very well, let us have a look at Vasili Spiridov. Go ahead.”

The workmen leaned upon the handles and the draisine flew farther. “There will be a fight between them and the neighbor,” thought Semen, looking after the disappearing draisine.

About two hours later Semen went on his rounds. He saw that some one was coming toward him, walking over the railroad bed, and there was something white visible on his head. Semen strained his eyes to see who it was--Vasili; in his hand he carried a stick and a small bundle was slung across his shoulders, and one cheek was tied up with a white kerchief.

“Where are you going, neighbor?” Semen shouted to him.

When Vasili approached him closer, Semen saw that he was as pale as chalk and wild-eyed; and when he started to speak his voice broke.

“I am off to the city,” he said, “to Moscow--to the main office of the administration.”

“To the administration--Is that it! You are going to make a complaint, are you? Better not, Vasili Stepanich, forget it--”

“No, brother, I will not forget it. It is too late to forget. You see, he struck me in the face, beat me till the blood flowed. As long as I live, I will not forget it, nor let it go at this.”

“Give it up, Stepanich,” Semen spoke to him, taking hold of his hand. “I speak truth: you will not make things better.”

“Who speaks of better! I know myself that I will not make them better; you spoke truly about fate--you did. I shall not do much good to myself, but one has to stand up for justice.”

“But won’t you tell me how it all came about?”

“How it all came about--Well, he inspected everything, left the draisine on purpose to do so--even looked inside the watch-house. I knew beforehand that he would be strict--so I had everything in first-class order. He was already going to leave when I came forward with my complaint. He immediately burst forth: ‘Here,’ he said, ‘is to be a government inspection, you--so and so--and you dare come forward with your complaints about your vegetable garden! We are expecting privy councilors and he comes with his cabbages!’ I could not control myself and said a word--not so very bad either, but it seemed to offend him and he struck me--And I stood there, as if it was the most usual thing in the world to happen. Only, when they went off, I came to my senses, washed off the blood from my face and went away.”

“And what about the watch-house?”

“My wife is there, she will take care; and besides, the devil take their road, anyway!”

“Good-by, Ivanich,” he said to Semen on taking leave of him; “I don’t know if I shall find justice for myself.”

“You don’t mean to tell me that you will go on foot?”

“I shall ask them at the station to let me ride in a freighter; to-morrow I shall be in Moscow.”

The neighbors took leave of each other and each went his way. Vasili stayed away for a long time. His wife did all the work for him, sleeping neither night nor day, and looked very worn and exhausted. On the third day the inspectors passed: an engine, freight-car, and two private cars, and Vasili was still absent. On the fourth day Semen saw Vasili’s wife; her face was swollen with incessant weeping and her eyes were very red. “Has your husband returned?” he asked her. She only waved her arm, but did not utter a word.

* * * * *

When still a little boy Semen had learned how to make willow pipes. He burnt out the pith, drilled out where necessary the tiny finger-holes, and finished up the end of the pipe so artistically that almost anything could be played on it. At odd moments he now made lots of such pipes and sent them with an acquaintance of his, a freight conductor, to the city, where they were sold at two copecks[9] a pipe. On the third day after the inspection he left his wife at home to meet the six o’clock train, took his knife and went into the woods to cut his willow sticks. He came to the end of his section, where the road made a sharp turn, descended the embankment and went up the hill. About a half verst farther was a large bog, around which grew splendid shrubs for his pipes. He cut a whole heap of sticks and went home, again walking through the wood. The sun was already low; and a death-like quiet reigned all about, only the chirping of the birds could be heard and the crackling underfoot of the wind-fallen wood. A little more and he would reach the railroad bed; suddenly it seemed to him as if he heard coming from somewhere the clang of iron striking on iron. Semen hurried his steps. “What can it be?” he asked himself, knowing that no repairs were going on in that section at that time. He reached the edge of the wood--before him rose high the embankment of the railway; and he saw on the top--on the railroad bed--a man squatting down at work on something. Semen began to ascend the embankment very quietly, thinking that some one was trying to steal the screw-nuts. He saw the man rise; in his hand he held a crowbar; he quickly shoved the crowbar under the rail and gave it a push to one side--Semen felt everything grow dim; he tried to shout, but could not. He saw that it was Vasili, and made a dash for the embankment, but Vasili was already rolling down the other side of the embankment with the rail-key and crowbar.

“Vasili Stepanich! Little father, friend, come back! Give me the crowbar! Let us put the rail in place; no one will ever know. Come back, save your soul from a great sin!”

But Vasili did not even turn round, and went on into the woods.

Semen remained standing over the dislocated rail, his sticks lying in a heap at his feet. The train which was due was not a freighter, but a passenger train, and he had nothing to stop it with: a flag he had none. He could not put the rail into its right place; with bare hands one can not fasten in the rail spikes. He had to run, run for dear life into his watch-house for the necessary implements! God give him strength!

And Semen started to run breathlessly toward his watch-house. He ran--now, now he would fall--at last he left the wood behind, he had only about seven hundred feet left to his watch-house--suddenly he heard the factory whistle. Six o’clock, and at two minutes past six the train would pass. Great God! Save the innocent souls! And before his eyes he seemed to see how the left wheel of the engine would strike the cut rail, quiver, slant to one side, and tear the sleepers, knock them all to slivers, and just here--is the rounded curve, and the embankment--and the engine, the cars, all--would go pell-mell down, down from the height of seventy-seven feet, and the third-class cars were jammed full of people, little children among them. Now they were sitting tranquilly, not thinking of anything. O Lord, teach him what to do! No, he would not be able to get to the watch-house and return in time.

Semen gave up his intention of running to the watch-house, turned and ran back quicker than he had come, his head in a whirl; not knowing himself what would happen he ran up to the cut rail: his sticks lay scattered all around. He bent down and took one of the sticks, not understanding himself why he did it; and ran farther. And it seemed to him that the train was already approaching. He heard a far-away whistle, heard the rails begin to quiver measuredly and quietly: he had no more strength left to run. He stopped about seven hundred feet from the fatal spot: suddenly he became illuminated, as it were, by a thought.

He took off his hat, took from it a handkerchief; took out his knife from his boot-leg and crossed himself. God’s blessing!

He slashed his left arm a little above the elbow with his sharp knife; the blood spurted down in a hot stream; he dipped his handkerchief in it, smoothed it out, tied it to his stick, and displayed his red flag.

He stood waving the flag; the train was already in sight. The engineer did not see him, he would come nearer, but at a distance of seven hundred feet he would not be able to stop the heavy train!

And the blood was pouring and pouring--Semen pressed his hand to his side, but the blood would not stop; evidently he had made too deep a cut into the arm; his head was beginning to turn; he was getting dizzy, as if black flies were swimming in his eyes; then everything became altogether dark, and loud bells were ringing in his ears--He no longer saw the train, no longer heard the noise: only one thought predominated: “I will not be able to keep on my feet, will fall down, drop the flag; the train will pass over me?--Dear God, succor, send some one to relieve me--” His soul became a void, and he dropped the flag. But the bloody flag did not fall to the ground: some one’s hand caught it and raised it aloft in front of the oncoming train. The engineer saw him and brought the engine to a stop.

* * * * *

The people came rushing from the train; soon they gathered into a crowd; before them lay a man, unconscious, covered with blood; another man stood beside him with a bloody rag tied to a stick.

Vasili surveyed the crowd and lowered his head.

“Bind me,” he said; “it was I who cut the rail.”

FOOTNOTES:

[9] A copeck is a little more than half a cent. 100 copecks make a silver ruble, or 60 cents.

THE CURSE OF FAME

BY IGNATIY NIKOLAIEVITCH POTAPENKO

_Potapenko was born in 1856 and received a university education at Odessa and at St. Petersburg. In 1881 he made his first mark as an author with a series of short stories and sketches. Since then he has contributed to Russian literature many romances, novels, tales and plays. Like the Belgian dramatist, Maeterlinck, he seems to select a few insistent notes with masterly judgment, and then strikes these over and over again until the overtones are heard and produce of themselves the full effect of harmony._

_The general opinion among critics of Russian literature is that Potapenko, though ranking by no means with the first of Russian writers, has reached in this single instance of “The Curse of Fame” a high-water mark equal to the best._

THE CURSE OF FAME BY IGNATIY POTAPENKO

Translated by A. Lionel. Copyright, 1896, by the Current Literature Publishing Co.

The small Hall of the Conservatory of Music was but half illuminated. Along the walls only alternate sconces were lighted, and only those jets of the great chandelier nearest the platform were burning. On this particular evening--a private “Students’ Recital”--none but fellow pupils and near relatives of the performers were admitted. The Hall was rather empty. The visitors sat near the platform, and the students were in possession of the back seats. This arrangement enabled the young women to gossip among themselves, or to flirt with the young men, and gave the latter an opportunity to besiege and conquer the young women’s hearts. In fact it seemed as if the entire interest of the young people at these “Students’ Recitals” centred in this occupation. The performers were students of mediocre talent, or sometimes children who gave promise of future proficiency, but the pieces they played had long since ceased to arouse interest.

The nights of the “Grand Concerts” are quite a different matter. The public is then admitted, a struggle for seats takes place, the Hall is fully lighted, and the platform is occupied by the favorite pupils of the professors--those idols of the Conservatory, who are some day to make the institution famous. On these occasions the students turn out in great numbers, and unable to find room in the crowded Hall, they squeeze into the corridors, treading on one another’s toes.

An adult flautist with yellow mustaches has just concluded his number, and, with a face flushed from exertion, has stepped off the platform and disappeared in the corridor. No one has noticed whether his playing was good or bad. He has managed to get through the piece assigned him by his master without a mistake in the tempo. That at least is commendable. Presently a boy came on the platform. He appeared to be about twelve years of age. His small, oval face was pale, and his fair hair carefully brushed and parted on one side. In one hand he held a violin, somewhat smaller than the usual size, and in the other hand the bow. He was dressed in a short, dark gray coat and knickerbockers. Probably neither the appearance nor the playing of this boy would have attracted any more attention than that of the flautist had the professor not followed him on the platform, and seating himself at the piano, commenced a little preliminary improvisation. He evidently intended to play the boy’s accompaniment. This caused some surprise and stir in the back rows.

“Who is the boy? Onkel himself is going to play his accompaniment!” queried the young lady pianists of their neighbors, the barytones.

These barytones were the acknowledged irresistibles of the institution. They sat in studied attitudes and answered questions loftily, scarcely deigning to open their teeth. But this time they could make no reply.

“What? Don’t you know?” respectfully asked the trombone player who sat in front, turning his head. Trombone players are generally of awkward, timid disposition, and while barytones, tenors, basses, and violinists revel in dreams of future greatness, the trombonist’s aspirations rise no higher than the back row of the orchestra. This must account for the lady pianists’ hardness of heart toward them, not to speak of the indifference of the lady singers, who are so constantly devoured by the ardent fire of their ambition.

“It is Spiridonoff, who is full of brilliant promise,” explained the trombonist. “Onkel says he’ll be a second Paganini, and he hopes to make his own name famous through the boy.”

“Oh, Spiridonoff! Is that he?”

For the last year all have heard and spoken of Spiridonoff. The boy had made marvelous progress. Even now he could have played in public and put many a grown violinist to shame. But Onkel would not allow it. He guarded his young talent with the utmost care.

“Why is he so pale, poor little fellow?” asked the florid soprano, whose interest had been aroused by the words of the trombonist.

“Pallor is an attribute of true talent,” stated the baritone. He had a pale face surmounted by a shock of black hair.

The trombonist, overwhelmed by the remark--he possessed neither pallor nor talent--again turned his face to the platform.

Among the friends of the performers, in the second row, on the last chair to the left, sat a man whose eyes were riveted on the boy with unswerving attention. He was tall and slender. His thin hair was combed over from the right temple to the left, and stuck down with pomatum in an evident desire to hide a conspicuous baldness. He must have been over fifty years of age, as there were many and deep wrinkles in his forehead, and his cheeks, and around his eyes and chin. His thin hair too was thickly streaked with gray. The strongly marked eyebrows expressed determination and obstinacy, yet there was a look of gentleness in the eyes. At the present moment he was evidently in an excited, emotional and expectant frame of mind. He wore a long, old-fashioned, black coat, carefully buttoned up to the chin.

The pale boy played. The audience particularly liked the unusual firmness with which he held his violin, and that he used his bow like a familiar weapon. Professor Onkel had acted boldly in selecting a showy concert piece instead of a pupils’ “study.” But what would you? The old professor was greedy for notoriety, and anxious to display the result of his style of teaching. He succeeded well, for Spiridonoff played splendidly. He executed the difficult passages with great precision, and when feeling was to be expressed, he pressed his bow on the string with laudable correctness. Onkel in his piano accompaniment introduced every variety of light and shade. His whole body assisted in the work. He would straighten himself, stretch his neck, or slowly throw himself back in his chair; at other times he would suddenly fling himself over the keys--in short he played with his entire being, which of course deepened the impression produced by the performance. All admired the young virtuoso, whose thin little legs seemed hardly able to support his fragile frame. When he finished playing the applause resounded. This was against the rules, but what rules can control outbursts of wonder and delight?

Spiridonoff made a hasty, awkward little bow, and left the platform, followed by Onkel, swelling with pride and pompousness.

While the next aspirant to fame tortured his instrument on the platform, a small crowd gathered in the corridor and surrounded the boy. The grand Mæcænas with the long gray beard was there. This patron of the institution never missed a single free concert; in fact, he knew the secret of making them all “free” to himself by procuring ingress to the Hall through the dressing-room. He patted young Spiridonoff patronizingly on the head, and disarranged his carefully combed hair.