and laziness. They kept the railway in operation so long as there were still supplies of coal available, the wages of their few workers they paid irregularly and not in full,
as though they were gifts of charity; as for the rest, they waited for the whole thing to collapse.
It was by this railway, then, that I was employed, living in a wooden shed left standing from the time of the railway’s construction, and now serving at the same time as a
station. There was only one room, in which a bunk had been set up for me—and a desk for any writing I might have to do. Above it was installed the telegraphic
apparatus. In the spring, when I arrived, one train would pass the station very early in the day—later this was changed—and it sometimes happened that a passenger
would alight at the station while I was still asleep. In that case, of course—the nights there were very cool until midsummer—he did not remain outside in the open but
knocked, I would unbolt the door, and then we would often pass hours in chatting. I lay on my bunk, my guest squatted on the floor or, following my instructions, brewed
tea which we then drank together sociably. All these village people were distinguished by a great sociability. Moreover, I perceived that I was not particularly suited to
stand a condition of utter solitude, admit as I had to that my self-imposed solitude had already, after a short time, begun to dissipate my past sorrows. I have in general
found that it is extremely difficult for a misfortune to dominate a solitary person for any length of time. Solitude is powerful beyond everything else, and drives one back
to people. Naturally, you then attempt to find new ways, ways seemingly less painful but in reality simply not yet known.
I became more attached to the people there than I should have thought possible. It was naturally not a regular contact with them that I had. All the five villages with
which I had to do were several hours distant from the station as well as from each other. I dared not venture too far from the station, lest I lose my job. And under no
circumstances did I want that, at least not in the beginning. For this reason I could not go to the villages themselves, and had to depend on the passengers or on people
not deterred by the long journey that had to be made to visit me. During the very first month such people dropped in; but no matter how friendly they were, it was easy
to see that they came only on the chance of transacting some business with me, nor did they make any attempt to conceal their purpose. They brought butter, meat,
corn, all sorts of things; at first, so long as I had any money, I habitually bought everything almost sight unseen, so welcome were these people to me, some of them
especially. Later, though, I limited my purchases, among other reasons because I thought I noticed a certain contempt on their part for the manner in which I bought
things. Besides, the train also brought me food, food, however, that was very bad and even more expensive than that which the peasants brought.
Originally I had intended to plant a small vegetable garden, to buy a cow, and in this way make myself as self-sufficient as I could. I had even brought along gardening
tools and seed; there was a great deal of uncultivated ground around my hut stretching away on one level without the slightest rise as far as the eye could see. But I
was too weak to conquer the soil. A stubborn soil that was frozen solid until spring and that even resisted the sharp edge of my new pick. Whatever seed one sowed in
it was lost. I had attacks of despair during this labor. I lay in my bunk for days, not coming out even when the trains arrived. I would simply put my head through the
window, which was right above my bunk, and report that I was sick. Then the train crew, which consisted of three men, came in to get warm, though they found very