Chapter V: Part 5

One time some new convicts came to the prison. In the evening all the old convicts gathered around the newcomers, and began to ply them with questions as to the cities or villages from which this one or that had come, and what their crimes were.

At this time Aksénof was sitting on his bunk, near the strangers, and, with bowed head, was listening to what was said.

One of the new convicts was a tall, healthy looking old man of sixty years, with a close-cropped gray beard. He was telling why he had been arrested. He said:

“And so, brothers, I was sent here for nothing. I unharnessed a horse from a postboy’s sledge, and they caught me in it, and insisted that I was stealing it. ‘But,’ says I, ‘I only wanted to go a little faster, so I whipped up the horse. And besides, the driver was a friend of mine. It’s all right,’ says I. ‘No,’ say they; ‘you were stealing it.’ But they did not know what and where I had stolen. I have done things which long ago would have sent me here, but I was not found out; and now they have sent me here without any justice in it. But what’s the use of grumbling? I have been in Siberia before. They did not keep me here very long though--”

“Where did you come from?” asked one of the convicts.

“Well, we came from the city of Vladímir; we are citizens of that place. My name is Makár, and my father’s name was Semyón.”

Aksénof raised his head and asked:

“Tell me, Semyónitch,[7] have you ever heard of the Aksénofs, merchants in Vladímir city? Are they alive?”

“Indeed, I have heard of them! They are rich merchants, though their father is in Siberia. It seems he was just like any of the rest of us sinners. And now tell me, Grandfather, what you were sent here for?”

Aksénof did not like to speak of his misfortune; he sighed, and said:

“Twenty-six years ago I was condemned to hard labor on account of my sins.”

Makár Semyónof said:

“But what was your crime?”

Aksénof replied: “I must, therefore, have deserved this.”

But he would not tell or give any further particulars; the other convicts, however, related why Aksénof had been sent to Siberia. They told how on the road some one had killed a merchant, and put the knife into Aksénof’s luggage, and how he had been unjustly punished for this.

When Makár heard this, he glanced at Aksénof, clasped his hands round his knees, and said:

“Well, now, that’s wonderful! You have been growing old, Grandfather!”

They began to ask him what he thought was wonderful, and where he had seen Aksénof. But Makár did not answer; he only repeated:

“A miracle, boys! how wonderful that we should meet again!”

And when he said these words, it came over Aksénof that perhaps this man might know who it was that had killed the merchant. And he said:

“Did you ever hear of that crime, Semyónitch, or did you ever see me before?”

“Of course I heard of it! The country was full of it. But it happened a long time ago. And I have forgotten what I heard,” said Makár.

“Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?” asked Aksénof.

Makár laughed, and said:

“Why, of course the man who had the knife in his bag killed him. If any one put the knife in your things and was not caught doing it--it would have been impossible. For how could they have put the knife in your bag? Was it not standing close by your head? And you would have heard it, wouldn’t you?”

As soon as Aksénof heard these words he felt convinced that this was the very man who had killed the merchant.

He stood up and walked away. All that night he was unable to sleep. Deep melancholy came upon him, and he began to call back the past in his imagination.

He imagined his wife as she had been when for the last time she had come to see him in the prison. She seemed to stand before him exactly as though she were alive, and he saw her face and her eyes, and he seemed to hear her words and her laugh.

Then his imagination brought up his children before him; one a little boy in a little fur coat, and the other on his mother’s breast.

And he imagined himself as he was at that time, young and happy. He remembered how he had sat on the steps of the tavern when they arrested him, and how his soul was full of joy as he played on his guitar.

And he remembered the place of execution where they had knouted him, and the knoutsman, and the people standing around, and the chains and the convicts, and all his twenty-six years of prison life, and he remembered his old age. And such melancholy came upon Aksénof that he was tempted to put an end to himself.

“And all on account of this criminal!” said Aksénof to himself.

And then he began to feel such anger against Makár Semyónof that he almost fell upon him, and was crazy with desire to pay off the load of vengeance. He repeated prayers all night, but could not recover his calm. When day came he walked by Makár and did not look at him.

Thus passed two weeks. Aksénof was not able to sleep, and such melancholy had come over him that he did not know what to do.

One time during the night, as he happened to be passing through the prison, he saw that the soil was disturbed under one of the bunks. He stopped to examine it. Suddenly Makár crept from under the bunk and looked at Aksénof with a startled face.

Aksénof was about to pass on so as not to see him, but Makár seized his arm, and told him how he had been digging a passage under the wall, and how every day he carried the dirt out in his boot-legs and emptied it in the street when they went out to work. He said:

“If you only keep quiet, old man, I will get you out too. But if you tell on me, they will flog me; but afterward I will make it hot for you. I will kill you.”

When Aksénof saw his enemy, he trembled all over with rage, twitched away his arm, and said: “I have no reason to make my escape, and to kill me would do no harm; you killed me long ago. But as to telling on you or not, I shall do as God sees fit to have me.”

On the next day, when they took the convicts out to work, the soldiers discovered where Makár had been digging in the ground; they began to make a search, and found the hole. The chief came into the prison and asked every one, “Who was digging that hole?”

All denied it. Those who knew did not name Makár, because they were aware that he would be flogged half to death for such an attempt.

Then the chief came to Aksénof. He knew that Aksénof was a truthful man, and he said: “Old man, you are truthful; tell me before God who did this.”

Makár was standing near, in great excitement, and did not dare to look at Aksénof.

Aksénof’s hands and lips trembled, and it was some time before he could speak a word. He said to himself: “If I shield him--But why should I forgive him when he has been my ruin? Let him suffer for my sufferings! But shall I tell on him? They will surely flog him? But what difference does it make what I think of him? Will it be any the easier for me?”

Once more the chief demanded:

“Well, old man, tell the truth! Who dug the hole?”

Aksénof glanced at Makár, and then said:

“I can not tell, your Honor. God does not bid me tell. I will not tell. Do with me as you please; I am in your power.”

In spite of all the chief’s efforts, Aksénof would say nothing more. And so they failed to find out who dug the hole.

On the next night as Aksénof was lying on his bunk, and almost asleep, he heard some one come along and sit down at his feet.

He peered through the darkness and saw that it was Makár.

Aksénof asked:

“What do you wish of me? What are you doing here?”

Makár remained silent. Aksénof arose, and said:

“What do you want? Go away, or else I will call the guard.”

Makár went up close to Aksénof, and said in a whisper:

“Iván Dmítritch,[8] forgive me!”

Aksénof said: “What have I to forgive you?”

“It was I who killed the merchant and put the knife in your bag. And I was going to kill you too, but there was a noise in the yard; I thrust the knife in your bag, and slipped out of the window.”

Aksénof said nothing, and he did not know what to say. Makár got down from the bunk, knelt on the ground, and said:

“Iván Dmítritch, forgive me, forgive me for Christ’s sake. I will confess that I killed the merchant--they will pardon you. You will be able to go home.” Aksénof said:

“It is easy for you to say that, but how could I endure it? Where should I go now? My wife is dead! My children have forgotten me. I have nowhere to go.”

Makár did not rise; he beat his head on the ground, and said:

“Iván Dmítritch, forgive me! When they flogged me with the knout, it was easier to bear than it is now to look at you. And you had pity on me after all this--you did not tell on me. Forgive me for Christ’s sake! Forgive me though I am a cursed villain!”

And the man began to sob.

When Aksénof heard Makár Semyónof sobbing, he himself burst into tears, and said:

“God will forgive you; maybe I am a hundred times worse than you are!”

And suddenly he felt a wonderful peace in his soul. And he ceased to mourn for his home, and had no desire to leave the prison, but only thought of his last hour.

Makár would not listen to Aksénof, and confessed his crime.

When they came to let Aksénof go home, he was dead.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Nízhni Nóvgorod: it means Lower New Town.

[2] Nearly twenty-six and a half miles.

[3] Water-boiler for making Russian tea.

[4] A team of three horses harnessed abreast: the outside two gallop; the shaft horse trots.

[5] Diminutive of Iván. John.

[6] Chetyá Minyéi.

[7] Son of Semyón.

[8] Son of Dmitry (or Dmítrievitch; see page 137).

EASTER NIGHT

BY VLADIMIR GALAKTIONOVITCH KOROLÉNKO

_Twenty-five years separate Korolénko from Tolstoi, and a new and more modern point of view becomes apparent in the work of the younger man. “Easter Night” is distinguished from its predecessors in this volume by a romantic note of imaginative dramatic interest that shows the developed artistic temperament of the author._

_Korolénko was born in 1853, made his literary début in 1879, and with “The Blind Musician,” in 1886, rose to the front rank among the younger generation of writers. It is the story of the life of a boy who has been blind from birth who becomes a musician under the tender care of his father and mother._

EASTER NIGHT
BY VLADIMIR KOROLÉNKO

Translated by Mrs. Aline Delano. Copyright, 1887,
by Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. It was Holy Saturday in 188-.

Evening had long since enfolded the silent earth. The ground, warmed during the day by the rays of the sun, was now cooling beneath the invigorating influence of the night-frost. It seemed like one sighing, while its breath, forming a silvery mist, rose glistening in the rays of the starlit sky, like clouds of incense, to greet the approaching holiday.

All was still. In the cool night-breeze the small provincial town of N---- stood silent, waiting to hear the first stroke of the bell from the high cathedral tower. But the town was not sleeping; a spirit of expectancy brooded beneath the veil of darkness, breathing through the shadows of the silent and deserted streets. Now and then a belated workman, who had but just escaped from his servile task ere the holiday began, passed, hurrying on his way; once in a while a droshky rattled by, leaving silence behind it. Life had fled indoors and hidden itself, in palace and hovel, from whose windows the lights shone far out upon the street, while over the city and the fields hovered the spirit of Resurrection.

Although the moon stood high above the horizon, the town still rested in the broad, deep shadow of a hill, crowned by a gloomy and massive edifice, whose peculiarly straight and severe outlines were sharply defined in the golden ether. The sombre gates were hardly to be distinguished amid the gloom of its deeply shadowed walls, while the towers on the four corners stood out boldly against the azure sky, and gradually over all the moon poured its flood of liquid gold.

Suddenly on the sensitive air of the expectant night came the first stroke from the high cathedral belfry; then another, and still another. A minute later and the whole air throbbed and swelled, as the countless bells rang out, uniting in one harmonious peal. From the gloomy building overshadowing the town there came a faint, broken harmony, that seemed to flutter helplessly in the air, and thence to rise into the ethereal light, and join the mighty chord. The singing ceased, the sounds dissolved in air, and the silence of the night gradually resumed its sway; a faint echo seemed to hover for a while, like the vibration of an invisible harp-string. Now the fires were gradually extinguished, the church windows shone forth brightly, and the earth seemed ready to proclaim once more the old tidings of peace, love, and good-will.

The bolts of the dark gates in the gloomy building creaked, and a band of soldiers, with clanking arms, sallied forth to relieve the night sentinels; on approaching the corners, they would halt, and a dark form, with measured steps, would detach itself from the rest, while the former sentinel took his place in the ranks, and the soldiers went on their way, skirting the high prison wall, that glistened in the moonbeams.

As they reached its western side, a young recruit stepped forward from the ranks to relieve the sentry who was posted there; a rustic awkwardness still showed itself in his movements, and his young face betrayed the absorbed attention of a novice who was to occupy for the first time a responsible post. He faced the wall, presented arms, made two steps forward, and, shouldering his musket, stood beside the sentry he was to replace. The latter, turning slightly toward him, repeated the usual formula, in the singsong tone of discipline.

“From corner to corner--Look out! Do not sleep or doze!” He spoke rapidly, while the recruit listened with close attention, and a peculiar expression of anxiety and sadness in his gray eyes.

“You understand?” asked his superior.

“Yes, sir!”

“Then, look out!” he added, sharply; but, suddenly changing his tone, he said, good-naturedly:

“Don’t be afraid, Faddeyef; you are not a woman! I hope you are not afraid of the Lyeshy!”

“Why should I be afraid of him?” replied Faddeyef. Then he added: “But I tell you, my good fellows, I have a misgiving.”

This simple and almost childish confession made the soldiers laugh.

“There’s simplicity for you!” exclaimed the leader, in tones of contempt. Then giving the order, “Shoulder arms! March!” the sentries, with measured tread, disappeared around the corner, and the sound of their footsteps was soon lost in the distance. The sentinel shouldered his musket, and began to pace along the wall.

Inside the prison, at the first stroke of the bell, all was in motion. It was long since the sad and gloomy prison night had witnessed so much life. It seemed as if the church bells had really brought tidings of liberty; for the grimy doors of the cells opened in turn, and their occupants, clad in long gray garments, the fatal patches on their backs, filed in rows along the corridors, on their way to the brilliantly lighted prison church. They came from all directions--from right and left, descending and ascending the stairway--and amid the echoing footsteps rang the sound of arms and the clanking of chains. On entering the church, this gray mass of humanity poured into the space allotted to them, behind the railing, and stood there in silence. The windows of the church were protected by strong iron bars.

The prison was empty, except in the four towers, where, in small, strongly bolted cells, four men, in solitary confinement, were restlessly pacing to and fro, stopping once in a while to listen at the keyhole to the snatches of church singing that reached their ears.

And, beside these, in one of the ordinary cells, in a bunk, lay a sick man. The overseer, to whom this sudden illness had been reported, went into his cell as they were escorting the prisoners to church, and, leaning over him, looked into his eyes, that were gazing fixedly before him, and in which shone a peculiar light.

“Ivanof! Ivanof!” he called out to the invalid.

The convict never turned his head, but continued muttering something unintelligible, moving his parched lips with difficulty.

“Carry him to the hospital to-morrow!” said the overseer, as he left the cell, appointing a sentry to guard the door. The latter, after a close examination of the delirious patient, shook his head, saying as he did so: “A vagrant! Poor fellow! you are not likely to tramp any more!” The overseer continued his way along the corridor, and entered the church, taking up his post by the door, where, with frequent genuflections, he listened devoutly to the service. Meanwhile the mutterings of the unconscious man filled the empty cell.

He did not seem old; on the contrary, he looked strong and muscular. He was delirious, apparently reliving his recent past, while a look of distress disfigured his face. Fate had played him a sorry trick. He had tramped thousands of versts through the Siberian forests and mountains, had suffered countless dangers and privations, always urged onward by a consuming homesickness, and sustained by one hope--that he might live to see his native place, and be once more with his own people, if it were but for a month, or even a week. Then he would be resigned, even if he had to go back again. But it chanced that when only a few hundred versts from his native village he had been recaptured, and confined in this prison. Suddenly his mutterings ceased. His eyes dilated, and his breathing became more even--Brighter dreams flitted across his fevered brain--The forest soughs--He knows it well, that soughing; monotonous, musical, and powerful--He can distinguish its various tones; the language of each tree: the majestic pine, dusky green, rustling high overhead--the whispering cedars--the bright, merry birch, tossing its flexible branches--the trembling aspen, fluttering its timid, sensitive leaves--The free birds sing; the stream rushes across the stony chasm; and a swarm of gibbering magpies, detectives of the forest, are soaring in the air over the path followed by the vagrant through this almost impenetrable thicket.

It seemed as if a breeze from the free forest were wafted through the prison cell. The invalid sat up and drew a long breath, gazing intently before him, while a sudden gleam of consciousness flashed into his eyes--The vagrant, the habitual fugitive, beheld before him an unaccustomed sight--an open door?

In his frame, enfeebled by disease, a powerful instinct sprang to life. His delirium either disappeared, or centred itself on one idea, which, like a ray of sunlight, illumined the chaos of his thoughts. Alone! and with an open door! In a moment he was on his feet. It seemed as if the fever had left his brain, and was only perceptible in his eyes, which had a fixed and menacing expression.

Some one had just come out from the church, leaving the door ajar.

The strains of the harmonious singing, subdued by the distance, reached the ear of the vagrant, and then died away. His face softened, his eyes grew dim, and his imagination reproduced a long cherished scene: A mild night, the whisper of the pines, their branches swaying above the old church of his native village--a throng of countrymen; the lights reflected in the river, and this same chant--He must make haste with his journey, that he may hear this at home, with his family!

All this time, in the corridor, near the church door, the overseer prayed devoutly, kneeling, and touching his forehead to the ground.

Meanwhile, the young recruit paced to and fro on his beat along the prison wall, which glowed with a phosphorescent light. A broad, level field, recently freed from snow, lay before him.

A light wind rustled through the tall grass, inclining him to a sad and pensive mood.

The moon hung high above the horizon; the expression of anxiety had vanished from Faddeyef’s face. He stopped by the wall, and, setting his musket on the ground, rested his hand on the muzzle, on which he leaned his head, falling into a deep reverie. He could not yet wholly grasp the idea of his presence in this place, on this solemn Easter night, beside the wall, with a musket in his hand, and opposite the vacant field. He had by no means ceased to be a peasant; many things clear to a soldier were to him incomprehensible; and he was often teased by being called “a rustic.” But a short time ago he was a free man, had the care of a household, owned a field, and was at liberty to labor when and where he pleased. Now, an indefinite, inexplicable fear beset his every step and movement, forcing the awkward young rustic into the groove of strict discipline. At this moment he was alone--the bleak landscape before him, and the wind, whistling through the dry grass, made him dreamy; and memories of familiar scenes passed through his mind. He seemed to see his native village! The same moon shone above it, the same breeze blew over it; he saw the lighted church, and the dark pines tossing their green heads--

Suddenly he became conscious of his present surroundings, and surprise kindled his blue eyes, as though he were questioning, “What are these? this field, this wall, and musket?” For an instant he realized where he was, but in another moment the whistling breeze wafted him back to familiar scenes; and again the soldier dreamt, leaning on his musket.

All at once, close beside him, appeared a head over the top of the wall--the eyes glimmering like two coals. The vagrant peered into the open field, and beyond it to the shadowy line of the distant forest--his chest expanded as he greedily inhaled the refreshing breath of “mother night.” He let himself down by his hands, gently gliding along the wall.

The joyful ringing had awakened the slumbering night. The door of the prison church was opened, and the procession moved into the yard. In waves of melody the singing poured forth from the church. The soldier started, lifted his cap, and was about to make the sign of the cross, when he suddenly stopped, with his hand raised in the act of prayer, while the vagrant, having reached the ground, swiftly started on a run toward the tall grass.

“Stop, pray, stop, my dearest fellow!” exclaimed the soldier, in a terrified voice, as he raised his musket. At the sight of this gray figure fleeing from pursuit, all his shapeless and terrible fears took a definite form. “Duty--responsibility!” flashed across his mind, and, raising his musket, he aimed at the fugitive. But before pulling the trigger he pitifully shut his eyes.

Meanwhile, above the town there rose, hovering in the ether, a harmonious and prolonged chime, marred only by the prison bell, that trembled and fluttered like a wounded bird; and from beyond the wall the sounds of the joyous chant, “Christ is risen,” reached far into the field. Suddenly, above all other sounds, came the report of a musket, followed by a faint, helpless groan, like a plaintive and dying protest. Then for a moment all was still; and only the distant echoes of the vacant field repeated with a sad murmur the last reverberation of the shot amid the silence of the terror-stricken night.

THE SIGNAL

BY VSEVOLOD MIKAILOVITCH GARSHIN

_Garshin, who may be said, for purposes of comparison, to belong to the school of Dostoievski, was all his life subject to attacks of melancholia. Despite the careful nursing of his wife, who was a physician, he threw himself over the stairs of his house in St. Petersburg in 1888, and died from the effects. His first important story, “Four Days,” appeared in 1876, and was the outcome of his experiences in the Servian and Turkish Wars. It is a powerful but gruesome Verestchagin-like study of the horrors of war, and reminds one of Stephen Crane’s “Red Badge of Courage.” In 1883 he was appointed Secretary to the Congress of Russian Railroads, and it was probably at that time that he gained the experience which led to the writing of “The Signal.”_

THE SIGNAL
BY VSEVOLOD GARSHIN

Translated by Lizzie B. Gorin. Copyright, 1907,
by P. F. Collier & Son.

Semen Ivanov served as trackman on the railroad. His watch-house was twelve versts (nearly eight miles) distant from one station and ten from the other. The year before a large weaving mill had been established about four versts away; and its tall chimneys looked black from behind the trees of the wood; and nearer than this, apart from the other watch-houses, there was no human habitation.

Semen Ivanov was a sickly, broken-down man. Nine years before he had gone to the war: he served as orderly to an officer and had remained with him during the whole campaign. He starved and froze, and baked in the hot sun, and marched from forty to fifty versts in the frost or in the burning heat. It also happened that he was often under fire, but, thank God, no bullet ever touched him.

Once his regiment was in the first line; for a whole week the firing was kept up constantly on both sides: the Russian line on this side of the hollow and the Turkish lines just across, and from morning till night the firing was going on. Semen’s officer was also in the front lines, and three times a day, from the regiment kitchens in the hollow, Semen carried the hot samovár and the food. Semen walked through the open space while the bullets whistled over his head and cracked the stones. Semen was afraid, but he went on--wept, and went on. The officers were very much satisfied with Semen’s services: the officers always had their hot tea.

Semen returned from the war without a wound, but with a rheumatic pain in his legs and arms. And he had suffered a good deal of sorrow since that time. His old father died soon after his return, then his little son--a boy of four--also died from some throat trouble; and Semen was left alone in the world with his wife.

Their work on the little piece of land allotted to them also proved unsuccessful, it being too hard for a man to till the soil with swollen arms and legs. And so they could not get along in their native village, and decided to go into new places in search of better luck. Semen lived with his wife on the Done for some time, and in the Government of Cherson; but they somehow could not get along very well anywhere. At last his wife went into service, and Semen continued his roving life as heretofore.

Once he happened to go by rail, and on one station he noticed the station-master, who seemed rather familiar to him. Semen looked at him intently, and the station-master also peered into Semen’s face. They recognized each other: it was an officer of his regiment. “Is it you, Ivanov?” said the man.

“Yes, your honor, my very self.”

“How did you get here?” And so Semen told him: such and such were the circumstances.

“Well, where are you going now?”

“I can not say, your honor.”

“How is that, you fool, you can not say?”

“Just so, your honor, because I have nowhere to go to. I must look for some kind of employment, your honor.”

And the station-master looked at him for a moment and fell to thinking, then he said to him: “Well, brother, stay here on the station in the mean time. But it seems to me that you are a married man? Where is your wife?”

“Yes, sir, I am married; my wife is serving at the house of a merchant at Kursk.”

“Well, then, write to your wife to come here. I shall get a free ticket for her. We will soon have a vacant watch-house here, and I will ask the division-master to give you the place.”

“Many thanks, your honor,” replied Semen.

And so he remained on the station, helping in the station-master’s kitchen, cutting wood, sweeping the courtyard and the railway platform. In two weeks his wife arrived, and Semen went on a hand-car to his new home.

The watch-house was new and warm, wood he had in plenty, the former watchman left a small garden, and there was a little less than one and a half acres of arable land on the two sides of the railroad-bed. Semen was overjoyed: he began to dream of a little homestead of his own, and of buying a horse and a cow.

He was given all the necessary supplies: a green flag, a red flag, lanterns, a signal-pipe, a hammer, a rail-key for tightening the screw-nuts, a crowbar, shovel, brooms, clinch-nails, bolts, and two books with the rules and regulations of the railroad. At first Semen did not sleep at night, for he continually repeated the regulations. If the train was due in two hours, he had already gone his rounds, and would sit on the little bench at the watch-house and look and listen: were not the rails trembling, was there no noise of an approaching train?

At last he learned by heart all the rules; though he read with difficulty and had to spell out each word, nevertheless he did learn them by heart.

This happened in summer: the work was not hard, there was no snow to shovel, and, besides, the trains passed but rarely on that road. Semen would walk over his verst twice in twenty-four hours, would tighten a screw here and there, pick up a splinter, examine the water-pipes, and go home to take care of his little homestead. The only thing that bothered him and his wife was: no matter what they made up their minds to do, they had to ask the permission of the track-master, who again had to lay the matter before the division-master, and when permission was at last given the time had already passed, and it was then too late to be of any use to them. On account of this, Semen and his wife began, at times, to feel very lonely.

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.