Short Fiction, Vladimir Korolenko [finding audrey TXT] 📗

Session of district court. Details in letter. Editor.”

I looked at my watch and then went to inquire about the trains. I hoped that I could not catch the night train at the station, which was some ten versts from the city where I had just finished another piece of reporting. I saw already the laconic and businesslike answer: “Telegram delayed, cannot arrive on twentieth.” Unfortunately the timetable and my watch decided differently. I had three hours to pack and get to the station. That was time enough.

About 11 o’clock on a warm summer evening a coachman landed me at the station; the lights could be seen for a great distance. I got there just in time; the train was waiting.

Directly opposite the entrance there was a car with the windows open. It was not filled and some intelligent-appearing men were playing cards. I imagined that they were members of the court going to the session, and I decided to look for a place elsewhere. This was no easy task but I finally succeeded. The train was just starting when, with my bag in my hand, I entered a second-class compartment in which there were three passengers.

I sat down by the window, through which entered the freshness of the summer night, and soon there were flying past me ends of sleepers, hills, roaring bridges, buildings, fields bathed in the moonlight⁠—all as if carried by a high wind. I was tired and sad. I thought how my life was flying in the same way, from bridge to bridge, from station to station, from city to city, from fire to law court.⁠ ⁠… And that I could never write for any paper what the editor wanted. And all that I would write the next day would be dry and uninteresting.

These were not cheerful thoughts. I tore myself away from them and began to listen to the conversation of my fellow travelers.

II

My nearest neighbor was sleeping contentedly, letting me stretch out as I could. Opposite me one passenger was lying down and another was sitting by the window. They kept on with the conversation they had already commenced.

“Let’s imagine,” said the one who was lying down, “that I am a man who is not superstitious.⁠ ⁠… But yet” (he yawned pleasantly and slowly) “it cannot be denied that there is much, so to speak, unknown⁠—isn’t that so?⁠ ⁠… Let’s suppose, the peasants⁠ ⁠… country naivete and superstition. But take a paper.⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, a paper. Superstition is for peasants, but this is for the papers. A peasant, simple fellow, sees a primitive devil with horns and breathing fire. He’s frightened.⁠ ⁠… A reporter sees a figure from the ballet.⁠ ⁠…”

The gentleman who admitted that there was “much unknown” yawned again.

“Yes,” he said with a somewhat scientific air, “that is true; fears disappear with the development of culture and education.⁠ ⁠…”

His companion did not reply, but later said thoughtfully:

“Disappear?⁠ ⁠… Do you remember in Tolstoy: Anna Karenina and Vronsky have the identical dream: a peasant, an ordinary laborer ‘works in steel’ and speaks French.⁠ ⁠… Both wake up in terror.⁠ ⁠… What’s so terrible there? Of course, it’s a little strange for a peasant to speak French. But, granted.⁠ ⁠… Nevertheless, in a given combination of circumstances, a picture which is not frightful will terrify you.⁠ ⁠… Take the Brothers Karamazov of Dostoyevsky.⁠ ⁠… We’ve got there an urban devil.⁠ ⁠… You remember, of course.⁠ ⁠…”

“No, I don’t.⁠ ⁠… You know, Pavel Semenovich, I’m an instructor of mathematics.⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh, excuse me.⁠ ⁠… I thought.⁠ ⁠… Yes, I remember: he was a certain man, or, better yet, a certain type of Russian gentleman, quite well along in years, with his hair and pointed beard rather gray.⁠ ⁠… His linen and necktie, you know, were like those of any other stylish gentleman, but his linen was rather dirty and his necktie frayed. To sum up, ‘He looked like a man of taste with slender financial resources.⁠ ⁠…’ ”

“That’s a fine devil! A mere sharper, and they’re common enough,” remarked the mathematician.

“Yes, I know there’s a lot of them.⁠ ⁠… But it’s frightful and it’s that, just because it’s so common; that same poor necktie, linen, and coat.⁠ ⁠… If it were only frayed, it would be like yours or mine.⁠ ⁠…”

“All right, Pavel Semenovich.⁠ ⁠… Excuse me, but you have a strange philosophy.”

The mathematician seemed rather insulted. Pavel Semenovich turned towards the light, and I had a good view of his broad face, straight brows and gray, thoughtful eyes hidden under his stern forehead.

Both paused. For a little while you could hear only the hurried roar of the train. Then Pavel Semenovich began again in his even voice.

“At the station of N⁠⸺⁠sk I happened, you know, to walk up toward the engine. I’m a little acquainted with the engineer.⁠ ⁠… A chronically sleepy individual with swollen eyes.”

“Yes?” asked his companion indifferently, and not trying to conceal his feelings.

“Certainly.⁠ ⁠… A natural condition. He hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours.”

“M-n, yes.⁠ ⁠… That is a long while.”

“I thought so too: we fall asleep.⁠ ⁠… The train is flying at full speed.⁠ ⁠… And it’s run by a man who is almost stupefied.⁠ ⁠…”

His companion fidgeted a little.

“What an idea!⁠ ⁠… Really, damnation.⁠ ⁠… You should have told the chief of the station.⁠ ⁠…”

“What for?⁠ ⁠… He’d laugh! A common thing. You might almost call it the system. In Petersburg there’s a gentleman sitting in some office.⁠ ⁠… He’s got a board in front of him with numbers on it. Arrival.⁠ ⁠… Departure.⁠ ⁠… And the engineers are listed too.⁠ ⁠… Pay⁠—so much. Versts⁠—so many. Versts⁠—that’s the length of the run⁠—a useful number, profitable, steady, that can be increased. The pay for the men is minus.⁠ ⁠… And this fellow just cracks his head, thinking how to run the largest number of miles on the smallest number of engineers. Or even make the distance larger than ever.⁠ ⁠… It’s a sort of silent game with numbers, so to speak.⁠ ⁠… And a most ordinary chap bothers with it.⁠ ⁠… He wears a poor coat and necktie, and he looks respectable.⁠ ⁠… A good friend and a fine husband.⁠ ⁠… He loves his child and gives presents to his wife on holidays.⁠ ⁠… His