Part 12

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

[Illustration]

_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._

[Illustration]

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.

“You have great talent. You will make the reputation of the Conservatory, the fame of Russia,” he said, gulping his words as if in the act of hastily swallowing hot tea.

The young ladies gazed tenderly at the boy, and sighed pityingly at his emaciation and pallor.

Professor Brendel passed by. He, too, was a violinist, but very unlike Onkel. Brendel was tall and slim, Onkel was short and stout. Brendel came from Leipsic, Onkel came from Munich. Brendel hated Onkel, because he was a violinist, and according to Brendel there should be but one violinist in the world, and that one--Brendel. Secondly, he hated Onkel, because this wonder, this little Spiridonoff of whom every one was talking, had been discovered in Onkel’s class, and not in his--Brendel’s. Lastly, he hated Onkel because the latter dared to exist. Brendel stopped by Spiridonoff and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Not bad!” he said with a Leipsic accent. “Your technique is good for your age, but why did you make so many mistakes?”

This was untrue, and against his own conscience, but he wished to say something disagreeable in the presence of Onkel.

“He made fewer mistakes than Professor Brendel does in making that remark,” replied Onkel with a Munich accent.

Brendel pretended not to hear as he disappeared at the end of the corridor.

Little Spiridonoff was tormented on all sides. They peered into his eyes, they slapped him on the shoulder, they patted his head, stroked his cheeks, chucked him under the chin, every one encouraged him and predicted future greatness.

He looked at them all sadly, and received their praises with indifference. He apparently felt shy and weary amid all these ebullitions of feeling. His eyes searched anxiously for some one, and finally rested reassured on the wrinkled face of the tall man, who some minutes before had sat at the end of the second row, and listened to him with such close attention. The man eagerly noted all the compliments showered on the boy. He was leaning against the half-open door of a classroom, which was this evening serving for a green room, and holding a child’s thick overcoat in one hand and in the other a violin case. He approached the boy, relieved him of his violin and bow, and placed them in the case with care. Then, after putting on the boy’s overcoat, and muffling a white silk handkerchief around his neck, he took him by the hand, and led him downstairs.

“Spiridonoff,” Onkel called, arresting their steps, “prepare yourself for the Grand Concert.”

The man in the black, buttoned-up coat made a bow, and then continued downstairs, solicitously assisting the boy at every step.

“That’s his father,” somebody remarked.

“Fortunate father,” exclaimed Onkel, much elated at Spiridonoff’s success.

* * * * *

It was a winter morning, and that early hour when the cold is even severer than during the night. The streets were still dark, and the lamps burning. None but belated pleasure seekers hastening to reach home, or factory workmen wrapped in sheepskins hurrying to their work, were to be seen about. While the rest of the population were yet lost in sleep, a fire was lighted in the small, dingy house of the government clerk, Spiridonoff. He had risen at six o’clock, washed and dressed, said his prayers, and cautiously tiptoed into the hall. The house was terribly cold. Mrs. Spiridonoff, who was twenty years younger than her husband, lay sleeping in a large bed with two of her children. Her head was swathed in a cloth, and a mass of clothing was piled on the top of the blanket. This was the only way in which they could keep themselves warm. Old Spiridonoff went through the hall, and feeling for the kitchen door, opened it and entered. A burning lamp emitted an unbearable odor. The cook, like her mistress, was covered over head and ears in rags. It was difficult to tell her head from her feet.

“Arina! Arina!” called Spiridonoff in a low voice, shaking her with both hands. “Get up, it is past six o’clock.”

A sigh issued from the rags. Arina was evidently still sleepy, and unwilling to exchange the warmth of the bed for the outside cold.

“Arina, have we any wood?”

“Wood?” answered a voice as if from a tomb, “perhaps enough to heat one stove.”

“Good. Get up and light the fire in Mitia’s room. At once, do you hear? He’ll be getting up soon.” Arina’s nose appeared from under the bedclothes.

“In Mitia’s room? His was heated yesterday. Perhaps it would be better to have a fire in the bedroom. It hasn’t had one for two days.”

“No, no, no. Mitia’s, do you hear? Mitia’s room must be warm.”

Arina growled her disapproval, nevertheless she got up as soon as Spiridonoff left the room, and after putting on all the rags which had served as her bed covering, she collected the wood which lay under the kitchen table.

“Devils--Anathemas,” she grunted, but in such tones that no one could hear her. “Call themselves gentlefolks--keep a cook indeed--haven’t money enough to buy a log of wood. Mitia is the only one who is kept warm.”

Spiridonoff went into the bedroom, and letting down the cambric bed-curtain, lit a candle. He had on a coat of fox fur, so old that it hung in tatters, and could only be worn for domestic work. He sat down by the table, took a pen, and began writing with half frozen fingers. From time to time he laid down his pen, breathed on his hands, warmed them by the candle flame, and then resumed his work. In half an hour he went to see how Mitia’s stove was getting on. It was beginning to feel warm.

“Arina!” again ordered Spiridonoff, “take a piatak” (about three cents). “Here is a piatak. Run to the little store and buy some milk and boil it. Mitia is going to get up, and it must be ready.” Arina muttered that she didn’t care, milk or no milk, boil or not boil--yet she started off to buy it just the same. Spiridonoff continued to write, warm his hands by the candle, and write again. Arina came to announce that the milk was boiling.

“Aha! Good!”

The old man rose and softly opened the door to the left. The dim light thrown by the candle from the bedroom disclosed a very small room containing only three articles of furniture--a child’s bed, a chair, and a music-stand. In the bed the little virtuoso of last night, Mitia Spiridonoff slumbered sweetly with the blanket drawn up to his chin. The chair served to hold his clothes, the stand his music, while on the floor stood the case containing his violin. The room was not cold. The stove had not had time to get chilled off after yesterday’s fire, before the warmth of the new fire made itself felt. Spiridonoff took the candle, and shutting the bedroom door, cautiously sat down on the little bed. “Mitenka, Mitenka!” he called in a tender low voice.

Mitia opened his eyes with an effort, but immediately closed them again.

“Mitenka, don’t you want to get up? Eh? Won’t you take some hot milk? Eh?”

Mitia again opened his eyes. At first he looked surprised, as if he didn’t understand what was wanted of him. Then he recognized his father, and made a pathetic grimace, expressing great disinclination to be roused from his sleep.

“You don’t want to? Wish to sleep? Well, sleep, sleep. The milk can wait.”

Mitia turned over on his side and hid his face from the old man. But the old man did not leave him. He sat still for a moment, then stretched out his hand and patted the boy on the back.

“But perhaps you will get up, eh? Mitenka! It’s nearly seven o’clock, and at ten you have to go to your class. When will you do your practising? You’d better get up, Mitenka, and drink some warm milk.”

Mitia stretched himself, raised his arms, made another pitiful grimace, and finally sat up in bed.

“There’s a bright boy! Good Mitenka! There, there, I’ll dress you, wash you. You’ll say your prayers, drink your milk, and then you’ll practise. Mr. Onkel, you know, said you must prepare for the Grand Concert. You must exert yourself to the utmost. There’ll be a crowd of people there, and the Prince will come, and ah, we shall be proud of ourselves. Here are your trousers--put them on--That’s it! and here’s your shirt. What’s the matter, Mitenka darling? What is it?”

Mitia with his father’s assistance had donned his knickerbockers, and one sleeve of his shirt, when he suddenly burst out crying.

“I am sleepy, Papa dear,” he whined in a sad, faint little voice.

On his return home yesterday evening he had played for an hour and a half, and on going to bed had dreamt all night long of a gigantic violin. In his dream his father kept saying to him: “Ah, when you have played on this instrument, then you will be an artist.” And now he was so sleepy, and there again he was tormented by the violin.

The old man wiped away the child’s tears with his own handkerchief. The boy shook himself, threw off the blanket, and began to dress briskly. He drank the milk, and in ten minutes stood before the low music-stand, and scraped and scraped and scraped on the violin. About nine o’clock the mother awoke. Her name was Anna Nikitischna. She was of a contented nature, by reason of a robust, healthy body, which was easily kept warm. The woman and the children flung back the bedclothes and other coverings, and ran from the cold room into Mitia’s small one. Old Spiridonoff was horrified.

“How dare you? Mitenka is practising. Oh, my God! my God!”

“But what are we to do, Anton Egoritsch? It is so cold the children will freeze.”

“But, my God! Mitenka must prepare for the Grand Concert.”

“Well, let him do so. In what way do we hinder him? May we not stay, Mitenka?”

“Certainly, mother,” answered Mitia sweetly, smiling at his youngest sister who, happy in feeling warm, had begun to play, and was trying to creep into the violin case.

At half-past nine Anton Egoritsch himself brought him an omelet, and taking the violin from his hand, placed it in the case. Mitia hastily ate the omelet, his father almost feeding him while drawing on an old uniform. Anton Egoritsch was soon due at his post in the Chancery Department, where he occupied the lowest and worst paid position--that of copyist. He intended to hand in the work he had done at home, for which he hoped to get extra pay. In that case a fire would be lighted in the bedroom, and the little girls would have breakfast. Now they could only have weak tea and rye bread, and gaze at Mitia’s omelet with hungry eyes. Mitia would gladly share it with them, but Anton Egoritsch was inexorable.

“Have patience, children, have patience. Father will get some extra money, and then you shall breakfast too. Mitenka must eat. He needs all his strength. He’ll be an artist, and provide for us all, and make us famous. That’s what he’ll do, children.”

Anna Nikitischna, who never contradicted her husband, looked sadly at her son. Her heart contracted painfully at the sight of his thin body, his pale little face, and hollow cheeks. “The food does him no good,” she thought, “and whatever the future may bring, at present he looks wretched.” It was not that she doubted Mitia’s future fame; on the contrary her heart joyfully inclined to the belief when Anton Egoritsch related to her how surprised and delighted the audience had been last night, and how they had vied with each other in treating Mitia as a phenomenon. She simply understood nothing about it all, and when she listened to the monotonous exercises her son was constantly practising, she couldn’t tell whether the playing was good or bad.