THE SIGNAL
Semyon Ivanov was a track-walker. His cabin was twelve versts away from the railway station in one direction, and ten in the other. A large spinning mill had been opened the year before about four versts away, and its tall chimney rose darkly from behind the forest. The only dwellings around were the cabins of the neighbouring track-walkers.
Semyon Ivanov was a sick, broken-down man. He had been in the war nine years before, serving all through the campaign as an officer's servant. He had known hunger, and cold, and blazing heat, and had made twenty-five and thirty-five mile marches in heat and cold, rain and shine. He had been under fire, too, but no bullet, thank God, had got him. His regiment had once been in the firing line, and there had been skirmishing with the Turks for a whole week. Our men had lain on this side of a glen, the Turks on the other, and there had been a steady cross-fire from morning till evening. Semyon's officer was there too; three times a day Semyon brought him his meals and a boiling samovar from the regimental kitchen in the ravine. He carried the samovar through a clearing, and the bullets whizzed around him and smacked against the rocks. Semyon was terrified, and sometimes he cried, but he kept straight on. The officers were pleased with him, because they always had hot tea. He came home from the war unharmed, but his legs and arms began to ache. He fell on evil days. Coming home, he found that his old father had died; his four-year-old son had died, too, from some throat trouble. Semyon was left all alone in the world with his wife. They could not work the farm; ploughing the land with rheumatic arms and legs was no easy task. Life in their home village became unbearable, and so they set out to seek their fortune in other places. They tried their luck on the border, in Kherson, and in the Don, but without success. Then the wife went into domestic service, while Semyon continued to wander about. Once he happened to ride on an engine, and at one of the stations the face of the station-master seemed familiar to him. Semyon looked at the station-master, and the station-master looked at Semyon, and they recognized each other. He had been an officer in their regiment.
"You are Ivanov?" he said. ;
"Yessir."
"What are you doing here?"
Semyon told him all about it.
"Where are you going now?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Idiot! What do you mean, you don't know?"
"I mean I have nowhere to go, sir. I am looking for a job, sir."
The station-master looked at him, thought a bit, then said: "Look here, old chap, you stay here at the station for a time. You're married, aren't you? Where is your wife?"
"Yessir, I'm married. My wife's in the town of Kursk, in service with a merchant there."
"Well then, write her to come here. I'll get you a free ticket. There will soon be a vacancy as track-walker here. I'll speak to the division chief about you."
"Thank you very much, sir," said Semyon.
And so he stayed at the station. He helped in the station-master's kitchen, chopped firewood, and swept the yard and the platform. In a fortnight's time his wife arrived and they went out together to their railway cabin on a hand-trolley. The cabin was newly built and warm, with as much firewood as you wanted; there was a small vegetable patch left over from the previous tenants, and about half a dessiatine of arable land on either side of the track. Semyon was delighted; he began to think of how he would do some farming, buy himself a cow and a horse.
He was given the necessary outfit-a green flag, a red flag, lanterns, a horn, a hammer, a wrench for tightening the nuts, a crow-bar, a spade, a broom, bolts, and rail spikes; they also gave him two books of regulations arid a time-table. At the beginning Semyon did not sleep for nights at a stretch, learning the time-table by heart; two hours before a train was due he would go over his section, then sit down on the bench outside his cabin, looking out all the time and listening whether the rails were humming or a train could be heard rumbling. He learned the regulations, too, by heart, although he could barely spell out the words.
It was summer; the work was not hard; no snow to clear away, and trains on that line were infrequent. Semyon would go over his verst of track twice a day, tightening up nuts here and there, levelling down the bed, and examining the water pipes, and then go home to attend to his household. The trouble there was that he always had to get the inspector's permission for the least little thing he wanted to do. The inspector had to report to the division chief, and all this took a long time. Semyon and his wife were getting tired of it.
Two months went by; Semyon began to make the acquaintance of his track-walker neighbours. One was a very old man, whom the authorities were always meaning to relieve; he could barely move out of his cabin and his wife did all the work for him. The other track-walker, the one nearer the station, was a young man, rather skinny but wiry. He and Semyon met for the first time on the line midway between their cabins when going over their sections; Semyon raised his hat and bowed. "How d'ye do, neighbour", he said. The neighbour glanced askance at him. "How d'ye do," he said, and turned away. Later their wives met each other. Semyon's wife Arina greeted the neighbour, but the latter did not say much either and went away. Semyon met her once.
"Your husband isn't very chatty, young woman, is he?"
"What's he got to talk about? Every man has his own worries. God be with you."
However, after a month or so, they became acquainted. Semyon and Vasily would meet on the line, sit down on the edge of the embankment, smoke their pipes and talk about life. Vasily did not have much to say for himself, but Semyon talked about his home village and the campaign he had been through.
"Yes, I've had a pretty tough time," he said, "and God knows I'm not that old. I've had no luck. You've got to put up with the lot that God gives you. Yes, brother Vasily, that's how it is."
Vasily knocked the ash out of his pipe, stood up, and said:
"It's not bad luck or God's lot that's getting us down, but the people around us. There isn't a beast on earth as cruel and vicious as human beings are. Wolf doesn't eat wolf, but a man will just swallow another man whole."
"Don't tell me that, brother. A wolf does eat wolf."
"That was just my way of talking. All the same, man's a nasty beast. If it wasn't for his being so wicked and greedy life wouldn't be so bad. Everyone tries to take a snap at you, bite a piece of you off, swallow you up."
Semyon pondered.
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe you're right, and if you are, then it's God's will."
"If that's the way you think," said Vasily, "then I have nothing to talk to you about. If you're going to blame God for all that's bad, and just sit and bear it, then you're not a man, but an animal. That's my opinion."
And he turned and went away without saying good-bye. Semyon also got up. "Neighbour!" he shouted. "There's no need to get angry."
But Vasily did not look round. Semyon gazed after him until he was lost to sight at a dip in the bend. He came home and said to his wife:
"Well, Arina, that neighbour of ours is a nasty piece o' work, I tell you."
"Ah, brother, if it wasn't for men, you and I would not be poking around in these cabins," said Vasily.
"What's wrong with the cabins, they're not so bad."
"Not so bad, not so bad. . . . Ugh, you! You have lived long and learned little, looked at much and seen little. What sort of life is it for a poor man in a cabin here or anywhere else? These blood-suckers are eating you up alive, squeezing you dry, and when you get old they'll chuck you out just as they would husks to feed the pigs with. How much do you get in wages?"
"Not much, Vasily-twelve rubles."
"And I get thirteen fifty. I ask you-why? According to the company's regulations we are all entitled to fifteen rubles a month, heating and lighting free. Now who decides that you should have twelve and I thirteen and a half? Whose pocket does the other three or one and a half rubles go into? Can you tell me that? And you say-it's not bad! It isn't even a question of one and a half or three rubles. Even if they paid the full fifteen. Last month I was at the station when the director rode through; I saw him-I had that honour. Travelled in a special coach all to himself; came out on the platform, stood there showing the gold chain on his belly, cheeks red and fat. Bloated with our blood that he has sucked up. Ah, if I had the power! No, I shall not stay here long; I'll go away somewhere, anywhere."
"But where will you go, Vasily? You won't find anything better. At least here you have a house, warmth, a piece of land. Your wife is a help."
"Land! You ought to see that piece of land. Not a stick growing on it. I planted some cabbages in the spring, and the inspector comes along and says, 'Hullo, what's this? Why didn't you report it? Why didn't you ask permission? Dig them up, the whole bally lot. ' He was drunk. At any other time he would not have said anything, but this time he says, 'Three rubles fine!' just to have it his own way."
Vasily paused, sucking at his pipe, then said quietly. "I could have knocked the fellow's brains out." "You're a hot-tempered one, neighbour, let me tell you." "Temper has nothing to do with it. I speak the truth and I think for myself. He's asking for trouble and he'll get it, that fat mug! I'll complain to the division chief, I will. You'll see." And so he did.
The division chief once came to inspect the line. Some important personages from St. Petersburg were expected in three days' time; they were making a tour of inspection, and so everything had to be put in order before their arrival. The bed was ballasted and levelled, the sleepers were carefully examined, the spikes driven in a bit harder, the nuts tightened up, the posts painted, and yellow sand was sprinkled at the level crossings. The woman at the neighbouring cabin turned her old man out to weed. Semyon worked all the week. He put everything in order, mended and cleaned his tunic, and polished up his brass plate with brick dust until it fairly shone. Vasily worked too. The division chief arrived in a trolley, four men working the handles so that the gears whirred and the wheels hummed as the trolley hurtled down the line. It came flying up to Semyon's cabin; Semyon ran up and reported in soldierly fashion. Everything was found to be in order.
"Have you been here long?" the chief inquired. "Since the second of May, sir."
"All right. Thank you. And who is at number one sixty-four?"
The traffic inspector (he was travelling with the chief on the trolley) answered: "Vasily Spiridov."
"Spiridov, Spiridov. . . . Ah, is that the man you reported last year?" "Yes, sir." "Very well then, let's see this Vasily Spiridov. Move on!"
The men fell to work on the handles and the trolley got under way.
"Well, there's going to be trouble."
A couple of hours later he started on his round. He saw someone coming down the track from the wood cutting. A closer look showed him that it was Vasily. He had a stick in his hand and a small bundle over his shoulder, and his cheek was bound up in a handkerchief.
"Where are you off to, neighbour?" shouted Semyon.
Vasily came up quite close. He looked awful, his face white as chalk, his eyes blazing; his voice, when he spoke, was choky.
"I'm going to town," he muttered. "To Moscow... to the Head Office."
"The Head Office? Ah, you are going to complain, I suppose? Drop it, Vasily, forget it."
"No, mate, I won't forget. It's too late to forget. Look, he hit me in the face, drew blood. I won't forget it as long as I live, and I won't drop it. They've got to be taught a lesson, those blood-suckers."
"Drop it, Vasily," Semyon said, taking his arm. "Believe me, you won't better things."
"Better things! I know myself I won't better things; you were right about fate. It won't do me any good, but a man must stand up for right."
"Yes, but how did it happen?"
"How? He looked everything over, got off the trolley, looked into the cabin. I knew beforehand that he'd be strict, so I had everything shipshape. He was about to go away when I made my complaint. He started shouting right away: 'Here's a government inspection coming down and you make a complaint about a vegetable garden, damn you! Privy councillors are coming, and he talks about his cabbage!' I answered something back, I couldn't help myself; it wasn't so bad, really, but he took it amiss. He gave it to me hot. Our accursed patience! I should have given it to him, too, but instead I just stood there as if it was the right thing. When they went away, I came to myself, washed my face, and started off."
"And what about the cabin?"
"My wife is there. She will look after things. To hell with their railway!"
Vasily got up to go.
"Good-bye, Semyon. I don't know whether I'll find anyone to listen to me."
"Surely you are not going to walk?"
"I'll try to get a lift on a goods train at the station, and tomorrow I'll be in Moscow."
The neighbours took leave of each other. Vasily was away for some time. His wife did his work for him, and went without sleep night and day; she was eaten up with anxiety. On the third day the commission arrived: an engine, a luggage-van, and two first-class carriages, but there was still no sign of Vasily. On the fourth day Semyon met his wife. Her face was swollen from crying and her eyes were red.
"Has he come back?" Semyon asked.
Semyon had learned, when still a lad, to make pipes out of osier rods. He would burn the core out of a rod, drill holes in it, make a mouth-piece at one end, and tune the thing so well that you could play almost any air on it. He made quite a number of these pipes in his spare time and sent them to the market in town by goods train conductors of his acquaintance; they fetched two kopeks a piece there. The day after the commission's visit he left his wife at home to meet the six o'clock evening train, and went into the woods with a knife to cut some osier rods. He went to the end of his section-at this point the line made a sharp bend-descended the embankment and struck downhill into the woods. About half a mile away there was a big marsh with excellent willows for his pipes growing on the edge of it. He cut a bundle of osiers and started home through the woods. The sun stood low; the only sounds in the deathly stillness were the twittering of the birds and the crackle of the deadwood underfoot. As he walked on, nearing the embankment, Semyon fancied he heard a sound like that of iron striking iron. He quickened his pace. No repairs were being made on his section. What could it mean? He came out on the fringe of the woods-the railway embankment rose up before him; on the top a man was squatting, doing something to the track; Semyon crept up quietly: he thought the man was after the nuts. But when the man stood up, he saw a crow-bar in his hands; he had placed it under the rail and was tearing it up. Everything went dark before Semyon's eyes; he wanted to cry out but he could not. Then he saw that it was Vasily. He ran, and Vasily, with a crow-bar and a wrench in his hands, tumbled head over heels down the other side of the embankment.
"Vasily! Man alive, come back! Give me the crow-bar. We'll put the rail back, no one will know. Come back! Don't take this sin on your soul!"
Vasily did not look back; he plunged into the woods.
Semyon stood looking at the torn-up rail; he had thrown down his bundle of osiers. It was a passenger train that was due, not a goods train. And he had nothing to stop it with, no flag. He could not replace the rail; you could not drive the spikes in with your bare hands. He must run, run back to his cabin for some tools. "God help me!" he gasped,
It was six o'clock. In two minutes' time the train was due to pass. Good God!
is a curve, a bend, an eighty-foot embankment, down which it goes toppling, its third-class coaches chock-full of people, little children. . . . All sitting in the train now, little dreaming of the danger. God, tell me what to do! No, there is no time to run to the cabin and back again. . . .
Just short of the cabin, Semyon turned back and ran faster than ever. He ran blindly, not knowing himself what he was going to do. He came to the torn-up rail; his sticks lay there in a heap. Bending down, he picked one of them up, not knowing why, and ran on. He thought he could hear the train coming already. He heard the distant whistle, felt the quiet steady tremor of the rails. His strength gave out, he could run no more. He stopped within about two hundred and fifty yards of the awful spot. A light burst upon his mind. Taking off his cap, he took out of it a cotton handkerchief, pulled his knife out of his boot top, and crossed himself, muttering, "God help me!"
He slashed his left arm with the knife above the elbow; the blood spurted out in a hot stream; he soaked his handkerchief in it, then smoothed it out, tied it to the stick and hung out his red flag.
He stood there, waving his flag. The train was already in sight. The engine-driver would not see him, he would come up too close to be able to stop the heavy train at two hundred and fifty yards!
, and black specks danced before his eyes; then all grew dark, and there was a loud ringing in his ears. He neither saw the train nor heard its noise. There was but one thought in his mind:
"I shall fall, I shall drop the flag; the train will pass over me. Help me, God!"
And the world went black in his eyes, his mind became a blank, and he dropped the flag; but the blood-stained banner did not fall to the ground. A hand seized it and held it aloft before the oncoming train. The driver saw it, shut off the governor and reversed steam. The train came to a standstill.
a stick.
"Bind me, I tore the rail up."
1887