Des gares réelles aux gares fictives :
bref panorama de 1890 à 1930 à travers quelques œuvres
anglaises, belges et françaises.
Suzanne Vanweddingen
Department of Civil, Environmental & Geomatic Engineering
University College of London
Avant de s’interroger sur la place de la gare dans la fiction, il convient de saisir
l’importance du monde ferroviaire dans la réalité. L’apparition du train et son expansion
ont bouleversé l’Europe, et chaque pays a dû et su s’adapter à ce nouveau mode de
transport qui apporte avec lui la promesse d’un avenir placé sous le signe du progrès. Le
développement ferroviaire a transformé l’espace, principalement celui des villes, qui se
sont retrouvées confrontées à une réorganisation de leur centre névralgique. Dans les
grandes villes, surtout, l’établissement du réseau ferré et des bâtiments nécessaires,
comme la gare, a conduit ingénieurs et architectes à développer un plan destiné à
intégrer et parfois imposer le chemin de fer dans le paysage urbain. Le chemin de fer
envahit donc l’espace. Dans le même temps sa construction concerne de nombreuses
professions et est source d’emploi. L’organisation qui entoure le chemin de fer est
équivalente à celle des mines, de même que la hiérarchie. Le fait que l’infrastructure soit
installée dans la ville ne signifie pas forcément que ceux qui y vivent – comme les
cheminots – y soient totalement intégrés puisqu’ils en sont séparés par leur
environnement, exclusivement ferroviaire. Petit à petit, le chemin de fer devient une
société presque indépendante de la société traditionnelle, avec le développement d’une
police, et même d’une poste ferroviaires...
L’espace ferroviaire de fiction
L’espace ferroviaire de fiction s’inspire de la connaissance qu’en ont les auteurs
ou leur volonté de le représenter comme un reflet de celui qu’ils voient réellement,
rappelant en cela le procédé pictural. La peinture a en effet permis d’immortaliser le
chemin de fer, les peintres jouant le rôle de photographes quand cette technologie en
était encore à ses balbutiements. Les auteurs jouent sur l’apparence qui permet
1
d’identifier le chemin de fer dans les textes. Les lecteurs ont alors un point de repère
aussi visuel que s’il s’agissait d’un tableau, quand bien même l’auteur se permettrait
quelques libertés sur les détails techniques. La peinture et l’écriture sont liées dans une
même recherche de la représentation fidèle à la réalité connue des artistes, qu’ils soient
peintres ou écrivains.
En 1877, Monet obtient de la Compagnie de l’Ouest l’autorisation de pouvoir installer
son chevalet dans la gare Saint-Lazare :
He was doggedly painting the departing locomotives. He wanted to show how they looked as
they moved through the hot air that shimmered around them 1.
L’effort de Monet pour peindre une scène tirée du réel se retrouve dans ses tableaux
jusque dans la précision du détail. Cependant, le peintre ajoute son savoir-faire et
transforme cette réalité tangible en une autre réalité, moins tangible. Si l’espace est
reconnaissable, ce n’est cependant plus tout à fait le même. Il devient statique du
fait de l’action de la peinture qui immobilise ce qu’elle représente, quand bien même
décrirait-elle le mouvement.
Parti de son réel, Monet apporte une note presque onirique dans son choix de
mettre la vapeur en peinture. Celle-ci est le symbole du passage entre ce que le
peintre voit et ce qu’il choisit de représenter. La vapeur peut dissimuler les objets
ou les transformer. De la même façon l’artiste peut dissimuler certains aspects du
réel ou les transformer. L’écrivain a en commun avec le peintre qu’il peut utiliser ce
même procédé. Et le cas d’Emile Zola est presque similaire à celui de Monet dont il a
vu les œuvres lors de l’exposition impressionniste de 1877.
Comme Monet, Zola a été sur le terrain, il passe même dix ans à préparer son
roman ferroviaire. Et ses descriptions ont en commun avec le peintre ce rapport à la
réalité. Celle qu’ils reproduisent pour en faire un espace imaginaire.
Dans La Bête Humaine, on retrouve par exemple une description qui fait écho au
travail de Monet, et on imagine volontiers Zola décrivant un lieu précis :
En face, sous ce poudroiement de rayons, les maisons de la rue de Rome se brouillaient,
s'effaçaient, légères. A gauche, les marquises des halles couvertes ouvraient leurs porches
géants, aux vitrages enfumés, celle des grandes lignes, immense, où l'œil plongeait. (…) Les
trois postes d'aiguilleur, en avant des arches, montraient leurs petits jardins nus. Dans
LE ROUX Hugues, « Silhouettes parisiennes. L’exposition de Claude Monet », Gil Blas, 3 mars 1889, p.1-2,
cité par CARTER Ian, Railways and culture in Britain, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 2001, p.119.
« Il peignait les locomotives au départ avec acharnement. Il voulait montrer à quoi elles ressemblaient
lorsqu’elles se déplaçaient dans l’air chaud qui chatoyait autour d’elles. »
1
2
l'effacement confus des wagons et des machines encombrant les rails, un grand signal rouge
tachait le jour pâle2.
La description de Zola fait écho aux tableaux de Monet sur le chemin de fer. La vapeur
dont se sert le peintre pour transformer le cadre est présente également chez l’auteur
chez qui « les maisons (…) se brouillaient, s’effaçaient, légères ». Les vitrages sont
enfumés, signe que la vapeur des tableaux de Monet s’est étendue à la Bête Humaine.
Mais si Monet choisit de représenter une vision du monde ferroviaire proche de celle qui
est son quotidien, Zola inscrit le chemin de fer dans une organisation en marge de la
société, où la moindre intrusion est source de conflit. Le mode de pensée des acteurs du
monde ferroviaire ne peut être compris que par les cheminots, ou ceux qui sont
suffisamment proches d’eux. L’auteur rend compte d’une société imbriquée dans une
autre et les relations entre les deux sont sinon conflictuelles, du moins très difficiles. Il
oppose deux visions du monde : l’un vu par les cheminots, l’autre par ceux qui ne font
pas partie du chemin de fer. Le cadre ferroviaire sert de point de départ à cette double
vision du monde et permet de rattacher l’œuvre à une littérature ferroviaire où
ferroviaire renvoie à l’espace principal du texte, à savoir le chemin de fer au sens large.
Au sein de cette littérature se trouvent des auteurs pour la plupart anglais qui ont fait
du chemin de fer le cadre principal de nombreux de leurs textes. On peut citer parmi eux
Freeman Wills Croft, le spécialiste des crimes ferroviaire, ou encore Victor L.
Whitechurch, qui a inventé le premier détective ferroviaire. Freeman Wills Croft a fait de
sa fascination son métier, et utilise ses connaissances ferroviaires pour ses récits.
Freeman Wills Crofts’ fictions live in a controlled, predictable, engineered world where
trains run to time, positivist applied science is the royal route to knowledge and every
problem has only one solution3.
L’aspect technique retient l’attention, d’autant plus que toutes les précisions dans ses
textes sont « combined with properly employed technical knowledge (codified in
Molesworth, time tables and Bradshaw) »4. Crofts transfère son monde réel dans son
univers de fiction. Dans son cas, les limites qu’il rencontre sont celles fournies par son
imagination, c'est-à-dire l’intrigue qui se greffe sur le cadre réaliste. Mais le fait que ses
ZOLA Emile, La Bête Humaine [1890], Paris, L.G.F., 1988, p.13-14.
CARTER Ian, Railways and culture in Britain, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 2001, p.182.
« Les fictions de Freeman Wills Croft évoluent dans un monde contrôlé, prévisible, et technique dans lequel les
trains sont à l’heure, la science appliquée est la voie royale vers la connaissance, et chaque problème n’a qu’une
seule solution. »
4
Ibid., p.182.
« combinées à une connaissance technique (codifiée dans le Moleworth, les horaires et le Bradshaw) employée
convenablement. »
2
3
3
textes sonnent aussi juste dans la description du chemin de fer 5 renforce cette
distinction entre deux sociétés, celle liée au chemin de fer étant intégrée à la société
classique. Victor Whitechurch, un membre du clergé fasciné par le chemin de fer en fait
également l’un de ses thèmes de prédilection. Si le monde ferroviaire décrit par
Whitechurch est plausible, il ne possède pas l’exacte précision de Crofts, et reste dans
l’amateurisme, même si la critique lui reconnaît une certaine valeur technique.
Cependant, ses textes permettent de mettre en évidence une séparation de forme entre
le monde ferroviaire et la société reprise de la réalité. La description, aussi imparfaite
soit-elle, permettrait donc principalement de décrire une atmosphère ferroviaire
derrière sa société ainsi que l’espace en général.
Composition générale du monde ferroviaire
Pris dans son sens d’ensemble constitué d’un espace et de ceux qui en font partie,
l’espace ferroviaire regroupe différents lieux clefs permettant d’identifier le cadre dans
les textes. Cependant, la société ferroviaire qui s’est développée dans la société
traditionnelle forme une unité close avec ce qui la constitue, posant ainsi la question de
savoir comment s’organise cette société, si elle est renfermée sur elle-même ou si elle
admet des ouvertures sur le monde.
Traditionnellement, on parle de société ferroviaire afin de bien montrer que la
structure de cet ensemble ressemble à celle d’une société traditionnelle. Les compagnies
ferroviaires emploient un grand nombre de personnel, développent des infrastructures,
des logements pour les cheminots, ce qui transforme l’espace ferroviaire en lieu de vie
ainsi que le montre Emile Zola en décrivant le quotidien des cheminots et de leur famille.
Appartenir au monde ferroviaire, c’est faire partie d’une société en marge, mais incluse
dans la société.
A ce sujet, nous renvoyons au chapitre 7 de CARTER Ian, Railways and culture in Britain, Manchester,
Manchester University Press, 2001, p.179 à 181.
5
4
SOCIETE
TRADITIONNELLE
SOCIETE
FERROVIAIRE
Required parameters are missing or incorrect.
Les cheminots sont au service des voyageurs tout en ayant le sentiment d’être des
privilégiés car ils ont accès à la connaissance. A la fin du XIXème siècle, travailler pour
une compagnie ferroviaire est un honneur, et un conducteur de train a un salaire élevé,
ce qui montre l’importance du chemin de fer dans la société, tout en créant un système
de classes à l’intérieur même de la société ferroviaire, à l’image de la société
traditionnelle. L’espace ferroviaire est clos, car il n’accepte pas les étrangers et qu’il a sa
propre hiérarchie, mais il est aussi ouvert puisque les voyageurs ont un droit d’accès.
La gare
L’un des lieux importants dans le monde ferroviaire, outre le train, est sans
conteste la gare. Elle accueille les passagers, leur permet d’obtenir les titres de
transport, les horaires et toute information nécessaire pour un voyage qu’elle précède,
mais qu’elle termine également. Le voyageur quitte la gare pour monter dans le train,
mais c’est le premier endroit auquel il parvient en arrivant à destination. La gare est
donc le début et la fin pour le monde ferroviaire. Mais la gare reste le lieu intermédiaire
entre la société et le monde ferroviaire. En effet, elle se trouve entre le train 6 et la ville,
formant une frontière entre deux espaces distincts.
6
Entendu dans le sens d’ensemble constitué d’une locomotive et de wagons.
5
Un texte comme « The Lost Special » permet d’avoir un aperçu à la fois des possibilités
du chemin de fer et de la fonction première de la gare, qui n’est autre que l’organisation
du voyage. Un certain Louis Caratal accompagné de ce qui se rapproche plus d’un garde
du corps que d’un associé, commande un train spécial pour le mener – le plus
rapidement possible – de Liverpool à Londres. La compagnie organise alors
l’affrètement de ce train :
Mr. Bland struck the electric bell, summoned Mr. Potter Hood, the traffic manager, and had
the matter arranged in five minutes. The train would start in three-quarters of an hour. It
would take that time to insure that the line should be clear. The powerful engine called
Rochdale (…) was attached to two carriages, with a guard’s van behind 7.
Conan Doyle ponctue tout son récit de détails techniques concernant le chemin de fer, ce
qui permet de comprendre le fonctionnement d’un trajet ferroviaire, de sa conception à
son arrivée théorique, et aux répercutions de sa disparition dans le cas de cette nouvelle.
Le rôle de la gare de départ ne se limite pas seulement à s’assurer que le train est parti,
mais également à faire le nécessaire en cas de problème, en l’occurrence, quand le train
spécial disparaît :
At a quarter after six considerable surprise and some consternation were caused amongst
the officials at Liverpool by the receipt of a telegram from Manchester to say that it had not
yet arrived8.
A la suite de cette information, c’est la gare de Liverpool qui entame et coordonne les
recherches. La gare devient donc le centre des opérations. Elle est un lieu de
rassemblement des informations, et c’est là que les décisions se mettent en place,
comme on peut le voir par exemple dans « The Case of Oscar Brodski ». Dans cette
longue nouvelle, la découverte d’un cadavre – au préalable écrasé par un train de
marchandise – crée la confusion dans une petite gare. Parallèlement, les deux
protagonistes – ainsi que le meurtrier – y sont rassemblés, arrivés quelques minutes
seulement après que le corps a été déplacé. La gare concentre donc tous les
personnages, du cadavre aux détectives, en passant par le meurtrier et les employés du
chemin de fer qui prennent une part active à l’enquête :
7
DOYLE Arthur Conan, « The Lost Special » [1898], in PATTRICK William, Mysterious Railway stories,
London, Star, 1984, p.69.
« M. Bland actionna la sonnerie électrique, fit venir M. Potter Hood, le responsable du trafic, et la question fut
réglée en cinq minutes. Le train partirait dans trois quarts d’heure. C’était le temps qu’il fallait pour s’assurer que
la ligne était dégagée. La puissante locomotive Rochdale (…) était attachée à deux wagons et au fourgon du chef
de train. »
8
Ibid., p.70.
« A six heures et quart, un télégramme de Manchester signalant que le train n’était pas encore passé causa une
vive surprise et une certaine consternation à Liverpool. »
6
As we stepped out on to the platform, we became aware that something unusual was
happening or had happened. All the passengers and most of the porters and supernumeraries
were gathered at one end of the station9.
Mais surtout, la gare prolonge l’une des fonctions du train : la rencontre. En effet, Jervis,
le narrateur, et son compagnon rencontrent un troisième personnage – un ami – dans le
train, et ce dernier reconnaît le parapluie de la victime, avant d’identifier le corps.
La gare, tout comme le train, se fond dans le décor, elle est peu ou pas décrite mais
reste néanmoins un élément important de par sa fonction. Elle permet outre de
rassembler les personnages, de devenir un point central où se mettent en place les
opérations, prolongeant ainsi le rôle du train. Certains lieux dans la gare apparaissent
plus souvent dans les textes. C’est le cas de la salle d’attente par exemple, qui, elle aussi,
porte la fonction commune au train et à la gare en elle, puisqu’elle est un lieu de
rencontre. Dans « The Ghost Train », tous les personnages sont réunis dans une salle
d’attente, en attendant que le train suivant arrive. Cette pièce, si elle prolonge le rôle
introductif du train, permet aussi d’intégrer l’événement mystérieux, à savoir l’histoire
du train fantôme auquel les personnages seront confrontés. Dès lors, la gare – en
l’occurrence la salle d’attente – peut servir d’intermédiaire entre une situation normale
et une anomalie.
D’autres textes en revanche font de la salle d’attente un espace de transition qui
provoque la rencontre entre les personnages, puis le récit de l’événement fantastique.
Lorsqu’elle possède cette fonction, la salle d’attente ouvre et clôt souvent le récit. Ainsi,
c’est dans la salle d’attente que Harry, dans « The Wrong Station », commence son récit,
qui concerne également une gare, celle dans laquelle il est arrivé par erreur. La gare
conserve sa fonction première, elle est l’intermédiaire entre le train et la ville. Elle reste
le point géographique qui permet aux passagers de s’orienter, de savoir où ils se
trouvent, et ce, dès que le train s’arrête, puisque les voyageurs peuvent y lire le nom de
la ville. Sans la gare, il est impossible de se repérer, sans son nom, il est impossible de s’y
rendre.
Le quai est l’endroit de la gare, directement en lien avec le train. Il est totalement
indispensable, au point de passer inaperçu dans les textes. Il est nécessaire pour qui
9
FREEMAN R. Austin, « The Case of Oscar Brodski » [1912], in MORGAN Bryan, Crime on the Lines,
London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975, p.62.
« Alors que nous descendions sur le quai, nous remarquâmes que quelque chose d’inhabituel se passait, ou
c’était passé. Tous les passagers, et la plupart des porteurs et de nombreuses autres personnes étaient rassemblés
à l’une des extrémités de la gare. »
7
veut monter ou descendre du train, et si son rôle semble évident, il faut cependant lui
concéder une importance au sein de la gare. En effet, celui qui se trompe de quai a toutes
les chances d’arriver dans un endroit totalement différent de ce qu’il avait prévu, et de la
même façon, celui qui monte dans un train sans passer par le quai, risque de faire un
étrange voyage. De plus, le quai permet d’en savoir un peu plus sur les passagers et il
donne parfois lieu à des rassemblements ou à des séparations. Chacun des lieux
constitutifs de la gare peut donc représenter sa fonction, tout en conservant des
caractéristiques lui étant propre.
La gare peut aisément se « déconstruire » et rappelle en cela le train – constitué
d’une locomotive, d’un tender et de wagons – dans ce procédé. Comme lui, elle est un
ensemble et peut aller jusqu’à lui emprunter sa fonction, suggérant alors que la finalité
de la société ferroviaire (littéraire) ne se résumerait qu’à celle-ci.
Le monde ferroviaire s’accorde, se complète, et les éléments qui le composent peuvent
se substituer les uns aux autres, pour que la fonction première du train – mener d’un
point à un autre, sans que ce point soit précisément ne défini – soit respectée.
La relation entre les différents événements montre clairement le lien existant entre les
espaces qui constituent le monde ferroviaire, qu’ils soient pris séparément ou dans leur
ensemble. Le monde ferroviaire forme un tout, et, du départ à l’arrivée, le voyage est une
continuité, dont nous pouvons voir qu’elle est renforcée par la présence des rails, qui
guident le train. Le réseau ferroviaire ne s’arrête donc pas simplement au nom d’un lieu
et au moyen d’y parvenir, mais il englobe également tout ce qui se trouve autour,
incluant la gare dans son ensemble.
8
BIBLIOGRAPHIE
BERESFORD J.D., « Lost in the Fog » [1918], in Richard Peyton, The Ghost Now Standing
on Platform One, London, Souvenir Press, 1990.
BURRAGE A.M., « The Wrong Station » [1916], in Richard Peyton, The Ghost Now
Standing on Platform One, London, Souvenir Press, 1990.
CARTER Ian, Railways and Culture in Britain, Manchester, Manchester University Press,
2001.
DOYLE Arthur Conan, « The Lost Special » [1898], in PATTRICK William, Mysterious
Railwy Stories, London, Star, 1984.
FARRERE Claude, « Le Train perdu » [1928], in DE LAET Danny, Histoires de Trains
fantastiques, Paris, Librairie des Champs-Elysées, 1980.
FREEMAN R. Austin, « The Case of Oscar Brodski » [1912], in MORGAN Bryan, Crime on
the Lines, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975.
HAINING Peter, Murder on the Railways, London, Orion, 1996.
HELLENS Franz, « Salles d’attente » [1909], in Réalités fantastiques, Paris, Gallimard,
1966.
RIDLEY Arnold & ALEXANDER Ruth, « The Ghost Train » [1926], in PATTRICK
William, Mysterious Railway Stories, London, Star, 1984.
ZOLA Emile, La Bête Humaine, Paris, L.G.F., 1988.
9
TEXTES
The Lost Special
Arthur Conan Doyle
(1898)
The confession of Herbert de Lernac, now lying under sentence of death at Marseilles,
has thrown a light upon one of the most inexplicable crimes of the century--an incident
which is, I believe, absolutely unprecedented in the criminal annals of any country:
Although there is a reluctance to discuss the matter in official circles, and little
information has been given to the Press, there are still indications that the statement of
this arch-criminal is corroborated by the facts, and that we have at last found a solution
for a most astounding business. As the matter is eight years old, and as its importance
was somewhat obscured by a political crisis which was engaging the public attention at
the time, it may be as well to state the facts as far as we have been able to ascertain
them. They are collated from the Liverpool papers of that date, from the proceedings at
the inquest upon John Slater, the engine-driver, and from the records of the London and
West Coast Railway Company, which have been courteously put at my disposal. Briefly,
they are as follows:
On the 3rd of June, 1890, a gentleman, who gave his name as Monsieur Louis Caratal,
desired an interview with Mr. James Bland, the superintendent of the London and West
Coast Central Station in Liverpool. He was a small man, middle-aged and dark, with a
stoop which was so marked that it suggested some deformity of the spine. He was
accompanied by a friend, a man of imposing physique, whose deferential manner and
constant attention showed that his position was one of dependence. This friend or
companion, whose name did not transpire, was certainly a foreigner, and probably from
his swarthy complexion, either a Spaniard or a South American. One peculiarity was
observed in him. He carried in his left hand a small black, leather dispatch box, and it
was noticed by a sharp- eyed clerk in the Central office that this box was fastened to his
wrist by a strap. No importance was attached to the fact at the time, but subsequent
events endowed it with some significance. Monsieur Caratal was shown up to Mr.
Bland's office, while his companion remained outside.
Monsieur Caratal's business was quickly dispatched. He had arrived that afternoon from
Central America. Affairs of the utmost importance demanded that he should be in Paris
without the loss of an unnecessary hour. He had missed the London express. A special
must be provided. Money was of no importance. Time was everything. If the company
would speed him on his way, they might make their own terms.
Mr. Bland struck the electric bell, summoned Mr. Potter Hood, the traffic manager, and
had the matter arranged in five minutes. The train would start in three-quarters of an
hour. It would take that time to insure that the line should be clear. The powerful engine
called Rochdale (No. 247 on the company's register) was attached to two carriages, with
a guard's van behind. The first carriage was solely for the purpose of decreasing the
inconvenience arising from the oscillation. The second was divided, as usual, into four
compartments, a first-class, a first-class smoking, a second-class, and a second-class
smoking. The first compartment, which was nearest to the engine, was the one allotted
10
to the travellers. The other three were empty. The guard of the special train was James
McPherson, who had been some years in the service of the company. The stoker, William
Smith, was a new hand.
Monsieur Caratal, upon leaving the superintendent's office, rejoined his companion, and
both of them manifested extreme impatience to be off. Having paid the money asked,
which amounted to fifty pounds five shillings, at the usual special rate of five shillings a
mile, they demanded to be shown the carriage, and at once took their seats in it,
although they were assured that the better part of an hour must elapse before the line
could be cleared. In the meantime a singular coincidence had occurred in the office
which Monsieur Caratal had just quitted.
A request for a special is not a very uncommon circumstance in a rich commercial
centre, but that two should be required upon the same afternoon was most unusual. It so
happened, however, that Mr. Bland had hardly dismissed the first traveller before a
second entered with a similar request. This was a Mr. Horace Moore, a gentlemanly man
of military appearance, who alleged that the sudden serious illness of his wife in London
made it absolutely imperative that he should not lose an instant in starting upon the
journey. His distress and anxiety were so evident that Mr. Bland did all that was possible
to meet his wishes. A second special was out of the question, as the ordinary local
service was already somewhat deranged by the first. There was the alternative,
however, that Mr. Moore should share the expense of Monsieur Caratal's train, and
should travel in the other empty first-class compartment, if Monsieur Caratal objected to
having him in the one which he occupied. It was difficult to see any objection to such an
arrangement, and yet Monsieur Caratal, upon the suggestion being made to him by Mr.
Potter Hood, absolutely refused to consider it for an instant. The train was his, he said,
and he would insist upon the exclusive use of it. All argument failed to overcome his
ungracious objections, and finally the plan had to be abandoned. Mr. Horace Moore left
the station in great distress, after learning that his only course was to take the ordinary
slow train which leaves Liverpool at six o'clock. At four thirty-one exactly by the station
clock the special train, containing the crippled Monsieur Caratal and his gigantic
companion, steamed out of the Liverpool station. The line was at that time clear, and
there should have been no stoppage before Manchester.
The trains of the London and West Coast Railway run over the lines of another company
as far as this town, which should have been reached by the special rather before six
o'clock. At a quarter after six considerable surprise and some consternation were caused
amongst the officials at Liverpool by the receipt of a telegram from Manchester to say
that it had not yet arrived. An inquiry directed to St. Helens, which is a third of the way
between the two cities, elicited the following reply-"To James Bland, Superintendent, Central L. & W. C., Liverpool.--Special passed here at
4:52, well up to time.--Dowster, St. Helens."
This telegram was received at six-forty. At six-fifty a second message was received from
Manchester-"No sign of special as advised by you."
And then ten minutes later a third, more bewildering-"Presume some mistake as to proposed running of special. Local train from St. Helens
timed to follow it has just arrived and has seen nothing of it. Kindly wire advices.-Manchester."
11
The matter was assuming a most amazing aspect, although in some respects the last
telegram was a relief to the authorities at Liverpool. If an accident had occurred to the
special, it seemed hardly possible that the local train could have passed down the same
line without observing it. And yet, what was the alternative? Where could the train be?
Had it possibly been sidetracked for some reason in order to allow the slower train to go
past? Such an explanation was possible if some small repair had to be effected. A
telegram was dispatched to each of the stations between St. Helens and Manchester, and
the superintendent and traffic manager waited in the utmost suspense at the instrument
for the series of replies which would enable them to say for certain what had become of
the missing train. The answers came back in the order of questions, which was the order
of the stations beginning at the St. Helens end-"Special passed here five o'clock.--Collins Green."
"Special passed here six past five.--Earlstown."
"Special passed here 5:10.--Newton."
"Special passed here 5:20.--Kenyon Junction."
"No special train has passed here.--Barton Moss."
The two officials stared at each other in amazement.
"This is unique in my thirty years of experience," said Mr. Bland.
"Absolutely unprecedented and inexplicable, sir. The special has gone wrong between
Kenyon Junction and Barton Moss."
"And yet there is no siding, so far as my memory serves me, between the two stations.
The special must have run off the metals."
"But how could the four-fifty parliamentary pass over the same line without observing
it?"
"There's no alternative, Mr. Hood. It must be so. Possibly the local train may have
observed something which may throw some light upon the matter. We will wire to
Manchester for more information, and to Kenyon Junction with instructions that the line
be examined instantly as far as Barton Moss." The answer from Manchester came within
a few minutes.
"No news of missing special. Driver and guard of slow train positive no accident between
Kenyon Junction and Barton Moss. Line quite clear, and no sign of anything unusual.-Manchester."
"That driver and guard will have to go," said Mr. Bland, grimly. "There has been a wreck
and they have missed it. The special has obviously run off the metals without disturbing
the line--how it could have done so passes my comprehension--but so it must be, and we
shall have a wire from Kenyon or Barton Moss presently to say that they have found her
at the bottom of an embankment."
But Mr. Bland's prophecy was not destined to be fulfilled. Half an hour passed, and then
there arrived the following message from the station-master of Kenyon Junction-"There are no traces of the missing special. It is quite certain that she passed here, and
that she did not arrive at Barton Moss. We have detached engine from goods train, and I
have myself ridden down the line, but all is clear, and there is no sign of any accident."
12
Mr. Bland tore his hair in his perplexity.
"This is rank lunacy, Hood!" he cried. "Does a train vanish into thin air in England in
broad daylight? The thing is preposterous. An engine, a tender, two carriages, a van, five
human beings--and all lost on a straight line of railway! Unless we get something
positive within the next hour I'll take Inspector Collins, and go down myself."
And then at last something positive did occur. It took the shape of another telegram
from Kenyon Junction.
"Regret to report that the dead body of John Slater, driver of the special train, has just
been found among the gorse bushes at a point two and a quarter miles from the
Junction. Had fallen from his engine, pitched down the embankment, and rolled among
the bushes. Injuries to his head, from the fall, appear to be cause of death. Ground has
now been carefully examined, and there is no trace of the missing train."
The country was, as has already been stated, in the throes of a political crisis, and the
attention of the public was further distracted by the important and sensational
developments in Paris, where a huge scandal threatened to destroy the Government and
to wreck the reputations of many of the leading men in France. The papers were full of
these events, and the singular disappearance of the special train attracted less attention
than would have been the case in more peaceful times. The grotesque nature of the
event helped to detract from its importance, for the papers were disinclined to believe
the facts as reported to them. More than one of the London journals treated the matter
as an ingenious hoax, until the coroner's inquest upon the unfortunate driver (an
inquest which elicited nothing of importance) convinced them of the tragedy of the
incident.
Mr. Bland, accompanied by Inspector Collins, the senior detective officer in the service of
the company, went down to Kenyon Junction the same evening, and their research
lasted throughout the following day, but was attended with purely negative results. Not
only was no trace found of the missing train, but no conjecture could be put forward
which could possibly explain the facts. At the same time, Inspector Collins's official
report (which lies before me as I write) served to show that the possibilities were more
numerous than might have been expected.
"In the stretch of railway between these two points," said he, "the country is dotted with
ironworks and collieries. Of these, some are being worked and some have been
abandoned. There are no fewer than twelve which have small-gauge lines which run
trolly- cars down to the main line. These can, of course, be disregarded. Besides these,
however, there are seven which have, or have had, proper lines running down and
connecting with points to the main line, so as to convey their produce from the mouth of
the mine to the great centres of distribution. In every case these lines are only a few
miles in length. Out of the seven, four belong to collieries which are worked out, or at
least to shafts which are no longer used. These are the Redgauntlet, Hero, Slough of
Despond, and Heartsease mines, the latter having ten years ago been one of the principal
mines in Lancashire. These four side lines may be eliminated from our inquiry, for, to
prevent possible accidents, the rails nearest to the main line have been taken up, and
there is no longer any connection. There remain three other side lines leading-(a) To the Carnstock Iron Works; (b) To the Big Ben Colliery; (c) To the Perseverance
Colliery.
"Of these the Big Ben line is not more than a quarter of a mile long, and ends at a dead
13
wall of coal waiting removal from the mouth of the mine. Nothing had been seen or
heard there of any special. The Carnstock Iron Works line was blocked all day upon the
3rd of June by sixteen truckloads of hematite. It is a single line, and nothing could have
passed. As to the Perseverance line, it is a large double line, which does a considerable
traffic, for the output of the mine is very large. On the 3rd of June this traffic proceeded
as usual; hundreds of men including a gang of railway platelayers were working along
the two miles and a quarter which constitute the total length of the line, and it is
inconceivable that an unexpected train could have come down there without attracting
universal attention. It may be remarked in conclusion that this branch line is nearer to
St. Helens than the point at which the engine-driver was discovered, so that we have
every reason to believe that the train was past that point before misfortune overtook
her.
"As to John Slater, there is no clue to be gathered from his appearance or injuries. We
can only say that, so far as we can see, he met his end by falling off his engine, though
why he fell, or what became of the engine after his fall, is a question upon which I do not
feel qualified to offer an opinion." In conclusion, the inspector offered his resignation to
the Board, being much nettled by an accusation of incompetence in the London papers.
A month elapsed, during which both the police and the company prosecuted their
inquiries without the slightest success. A reward was offered and a pardon promised in
case of crime, but they were both unclaimed. Every day the public opened their papers
with the conviction that so grotesque a mystery would at last be solved, but week after
week passed by, and a solution remained as far off as ever. In broad daylight, upon a
June afternoon in the most thickly inhabited portion of England, a train with its
occupants had disappeared as completely as if some master of subtle chemistry had
volatilized it into gas. Indeed, among the various conjectures which were put forward in
the public Press, there were some which seriously asserted that supernatural, or, at
least, preternatural, agencies had been at work, and that the deformed Monsieur Caratal
was probably a person who was better known under a less polite name. Others fixed
upon his swarthy companion as being the author of the mischief, but what it was exactly
which he had done could never be clearly formulated in words.
Amongst the many suggestions put forward by various newspapers or private
individuals, there were one or two which were feasible enough to attract the attention of
the public. One which appeared in The Times, over the signature of an amateur reasoner
of some celebrity at that date, attempted to deal with the matter in a critical and semiscientific manner. An extract must suffice, although the curious can see the whole letter
in the issue of the 3rd of July.
"It is one of the elementary principles of practical reasoning," he remarked, "that when
the impossible has been eliminated the residuum, HOWEVER IMPROBABLE, must
contain the truth. It is certain that the train left Kenyon Junction. It is certain that it did
not reach Barton Moss. It is in the highest degree unlikely, but still possible, that it may
have taken one of the seven available side lines. It is obviously impossible for a train to
run where there are no rails, and, therefore, we may reduce our improbables to the
three open lines, namely the Carnstock Iron Works, the Big Ben, and the Perseverance. Is
there a secret society of colliers, an English Camorra, which is capable of destroying both
train and passengers? It is improbable, but it is not impossible. I confess that I am unable
to suggest any other solution. I should certainly advise the company to direct all their
energies towards the observation of those three lines, and of the workmen at the end of
them. A careful supervision of the pawnbrokers' shops of the district might possibly
14
bring some suggestive facts to light."
The suggestion coming from a recognized authority upon such matters created
considerable interest, and a fierce opposition from those who considered such a
statement to be a preposterous libel upon an honest and deserving set of men. The only
answer to this criticism was a challenge to the objectors to lay any more feasible
explanations before the public. In reply to this two others were forthcoming (Times, July
7th and 9th). The first suggested that the train might have run off the metals and be
lying submerged in the Lancashire and Staffordshire Canal, which runs parallel to the
railway for some hundred of yards. This suggestion was thrown out of court by the
published depth of the canal, which was entirely insufficient to conceal so large an
object. The second correspondent wrote calling attention to the bag which appeared to
be the sole luggage which the travellers had brought with them, and suggesting that
some novel explosive of immense and pulverizing power might have been concealed in
it. The obvious absurdity, however, of supposing that the whole train might be blown to
dust while the metals remained uninjured reduced any such explanation to a farce. The
investigation had drifted into this hopeless position when a new and most unexpected
incident occurred.
This was nothing less than the receipt by Mrs. McPherson of a letter from her husband,
James McPherson, who had been the guard on the missing train. The letter, which was
dated July 5th, 1890, was posted from New York and came to hand upon July 14th. Some
doubts were expressed as to its genuine character but Mrs. McPherson was positive as
to the writing, and the fact that it contained a remittance of a hundred dollars in fivedollar notes was enough in itself to discount the idea of a hoax. No address was given in
the letter, which ran in this way:
MY DEAR WIFE,-"I have been thinking a great deal, and I find it very hard to give you up. The same with
Lizzie. I try to fight against it, but it will always come back to me. I send you some money
which will change into twenty English pounds. This should be enough to bring both
Lizzie and you across the Atlantic, and you will find the Hamburg boats which stop at
Southampton very good boats, and cheaper than Liverpool. If you could come here and
stop at the Johnston House I would try and send you word how to meet, but things are
very difficult with me at present, and I am not very happy, finding it hard to give you
both up. So no more at present, from your loving husband,
"James McPherson."
For a time it was confidently anticipated that this letter would lead to the clearing up of
the whole matter, the more so as it was ascertained that a passenger who bore a close
resemblance to the missing guard had travelled from Southampton under the name of
Summers in the Hamburg and New York liner Vistula, which started upon the 7th of
June. Mrs. McPherson and her sister Lizzie Dolton went across to New York as directed
and stayed for three weeks at the Johnston House, without hearing anything from the
missing man. It is probable that some injudicious comments in the Press may have
warned him that the police were using them as a bait. However, this may be, it is certain
that he neither wrote nor came, and the women were eventually compelled to return to
Liverpool.
And so the matter stood, and has continued to stand up to the present year of 1898.
15
Incredible as it may seem, nothing has transpired during these eight years which has
shed the least light upon the extraordinary disappearance of the special train which
contained Monsieur Caratal and his companion. Careful inquiries into the antecedents of
the two travellers have only established the fact that Monsieur Caratal was well known
as a financier and political agent in Central America, and that during his voyage to
Europe he had betrayed extraordinary anxiety to reach Paris. His companion, whose
name was entered upon the passenger lists as Eduardo Gomez, was a man whose record
was a violent one, and whose reputation was that of a bravo and a bully. There was
evidence to show, however, that he was honestly devoted to the interests of Monsieur
Caratal, and that the latter, being a man of puny physique, employed the other as a guard
and protector. It may be added that no information came from Paris as to what the
objects of Monsieur Caratal's hurried journey may have been. This comprises all the
facts of the case up to the publication in the Marseilles papers of the recent confession of
Herbert de Lernac, now under sentence of death for the murder of a merchant named
Bonvalot. This statement may be literally translated as follows:
"It is not out of mere pride or boasting that I give this information, for, if that were my
object, I could tell a dozen actions of mine which are quite as splendid; but I do it in
order that certain gentlemen in Paris may understand that I, who am able here to tell
about the fate of Monsieur Caratal, can also tell in whose interest and at whose request
the deed was done, unless the reprieve which I am awaiting comes to me very quickly.
Take warning, messieurs, before it is too late! You know Herbert de Lernac, and you are
aware that his deeds are as ready as his words. Hasten then, or you are lost!
"At present I shall mention no names--if you only heard the names, what would you not
think!--but I shall merely tell you how cleverly I did it. I was true to my employers then,
and no doubt they will be true to me now. I hope so, and until I am convinced that they
have betrayed me, these names, which would convulse Europe, shall not be divulged.
But on that day . . . well, I say no more!
"In a word, then, there was a famous trial in Paris, in the year 1890, in connection with a
monstrous scandal in politics and finance. How monstrous that scandal was can never
be known save by such confidential agents as myself. The honour and careers of many of
the chief men in France were at stake. You have seen a group of ninepins standing, all so
rigid, and prim, and unbending. Then there comes the ball from far away and pop, pop,
pop--there are your ninepins on the floor. Well, imagine some of the greatest men in
France as these ninepins and then this Monsieur Caratal was the ball which could be
seen coming from far away. If he arrived, then it was pop, pop, pop for all of them. It was
determined that he should not arrive.
"I do not accuse them all of being conscious of what was to happen. There were, as I
have said, great financial as well as political interests at stake, and a syndicate was
formed to manage the business. Some subscribed to the syndicate who hardly
understood what were its objects. But others understood very well, and they can rely
upon it that I have not forgotten their names. They had ample warning that Monsieur
Caratal was coming long before he left South America, and they knew that the evidence
which he held would certainly mean ruin to all of them. The syndicate had the command
of an unlimited amount of money--absolutely unlimited, you understand. They looked
round for an agent who was capable of wielding this gigantic power. The man chosen
must be inventive, resolute, adaptive--a man in a million. They chose Herbert de Lernac,
and I admit that they were right.
16
"My duties were to choose my subordinates, to use freely the power which money gives,
and to make certain that Monsieur Caratal should never arrive in Paris. With
characteristic energy I set about my commission within an hour of receiving my
instructions, and the steps which I took were the very best for the purpose which could
possibly be devised.
"A man whom I could trust was dispatched instantly to South America to travel home
with Monsieur Caratal. Had he arrived in time the ship would never have reached
Liverpool; but alas! it had already started before my agent could reach it. I fitted out a
small armed brig to intercept it, but again I was unfortunate. Like all great organizers I
was, however, prepared for failure, and had a series of alternatives prepared, one or the
other of which must succeed. You must not underrate the difficulties of my undertaking,
or imagine that a mere commonplace assassination would meet the case. We must
destroy not only Monsieur Caratal, but Monsieur Caratal's documents, and Monsieur
Caratal's companions also, if we had reason to believe that he had communicated his
secrets to them. And you must remember that they were on the alert, and keenly
suspicious of any such attempt. It was a task which was in every way worthy of me, for I
am always most masterful where another would be appalled.
"I was all ready for Monsieur Caratal's reception in Liverpool, and I was the more eager
because I had reason to believe that he had made arrangements by which he would have
a considerable guard from the moment that he arrived in London. Anything which was
to be done must be done between the moment of his setting foot upon the Liverpool
quay and that of his arrival at the London and West Coast terminus in London. We
prepared six plans, each more elaborate than the last; which plan would be used would
depend upon his own movements. Do what he would, we were ready for him. If he had
stayed in Liverpool, we were ready. If he took an ordinary train, an express, or a special,
all was ready. Everything had been foreseen and provided for.
"You may imagine that I could not do all this myself. What could I know of the English
railway lines? But money can procure willing agents all the world over, and I soon had
one of the acutest brains in England to assist me. I will mention no names, but it would
be unjust to claim all the credit for myself. My English ally was worthy of such an
alliance. He knew the London and West Coast line thoroughly, and he had the command
of a band of workers who were trustworthy and intelligent. The idea was his, and my
own judgement was only required in the details. We bought over several officials,
amongst whom the most important was James McPherson, whom we had ascertained to
be the guard most likely to be employed upon a special train. Smith, the stoker, was also
in our employ. John Slater, the engine-driver, had been approached, but had been found
to be obstinate and dangerous, so we desisted. We had no certainty that Monsieur
Caratal would take a special, but we thought it very probable, for it was of the utmost
importance to him that he should reach Paris without delay. It was for this contingency,
therefore, that we made special preparations-- preparations which were complete down
to the last detail long before his steamer had sighted the shores of England. You will be
amused to learn that there was one of my agents in the pilot-boat which brought that
steamer to its moorings.
"The moment that Caratal arrived in Liverpool we knew that he suspected danger and
was on his guard. He had brought with him as an escort a dangerous fellow, named
Gomez, a man who carried weapons, and was prepared to use them. This fellow carried
Caratal's confidential papers for him, and was ready to protect either them or his
master. The probability was that Caratal had taken him into his counsel, and that to
17
remove Caratal without removing Gomez would be a mere waste of energy. It was
necessary that they should be involved in a common fate, and our plans to that end were
much facilitated by their request for a special train. On that special train you will
understand that two out of the three servants of the company were really in our employ,
at a price which would make them independent for a lifetime. I do not go so far as to say
that the English are more honest than any other nation, but I have found them more
expensive to buy.
"I have already spoken of my English agent--who is a man with a considerable future
before him, unless some complaint of the throat carries him off before his time. He had
charge of all arrangements at Liverpool, whilst I was stationed at the inn at Kenyon,
where I awaited a cipher signal to act. When the special was arranged for, my agent
instantly telegraphed to me and warned me how soon I should have everything ready.
He himself under the name of Horace Moore applied immediately for a special also, in
the hope that he would be sent down with Monsieur Caratal, which might under certain
circumstances have been helpful to us. If, for example, our great coup had failed, it would
then have become the duty of my agent to have shot them both and destroyed their
papers. Caratal was on his guard, however, and refused to admit any other traveller. My
agent then left the station, returned by another entrance, entered the guard's van on the
side farthest from the platform, and travelled down with McPherson the guard.
"In the meantime you will be interested to know what my movements were. Everything
had been prepared for days before, and only the finishing touches were needed. The side
line which we had chosen had once joined the main line, but it had been disconnected.
We had only to replace a few rails to connect it once more. These rails had been laid
down as far as could be done without danger of attracting attention, and now it was
merely a case of completing a juncture with the line, and arranging the points as they
had been before. The sleepers had never been removed, and the rails, fish- plates and
rivets were all ready, for we had taken them from a siding on the abandoned portion of
the line. With my small but competent band of workers, we had everything ready long
before the special arrived. When it did arrive, it ran off upon the small side line so easily
that the jolting of the points appears to have been entirely unnoticed by the two
travellers.
"Our plan had been that Smith, the stoker, should chloroform John Slater, the driver, so
that he should vanish with the others. In this respect, and in this respect only, our plans
miscarried--I except the criminal folly of McPherson in writing home to his wife. Our
stoker did his business so clumsily that Slater in his struggles fell off the engine, and
though fortune was with us so far that he broke his neck in the fall, still he remained as a
blot upon that which would otherwise have been one of those complete masterpieces
which are only to be contemplated in silent admiration. The criminal expert will find in
John Slater the one flaw in all our admirable combinations. A man who has had as many
triumphs as I can afford to be frank, and I therefore lay my finger upon John Slater, and I
proclaim him to be a flaw.
"But now I have got our special train upon the small line two kilometres, or rather more
than one mile, in length, which leads, or rather used to lead, to the abandoned
Heartsease mine, once one of the largest coal mines in England. You will ask how it is
that no one saw the train upon this unused line. I answer that along its entire length it
runs through a deep cutting, and that, unless someone had been on the edge of that
cutting, he could not have seen it. There WAS someone on the edge of that cutting. I was
there. And now I will tell you what I saw.
18
"My assistant had remained at the points in order that he might superintend the
switching off of the train. He had four armed men with him, so that if the train ran off the
line--we thought it probable, because the points were very rusty--we might still have
resources to fall back upon. Having once seen it safely on the side line, he handed over
the responsibility to me. I was waiting at a point which overlooks the mouth of the mine,
and I was also armed, as were my two companions. Come what might, you see, I was
always ready.
"The moment that the train was fairly on the side line, Smith, the stoker, slowed-down
the engine, and then, having turned it on to the fullest speed again, he and McPherson,
with my English lieutenant, sprang off before it was too late. It may be that it was this
slowing-down which first attracted the attention of the travellers, but the train was
running at full speed again before their heads appeared at the open window. It makes
me smile to think how bewildered they must have been. Picture to yourself your own
feelings if, on looking out of your luxurious carriage, you suddenly perceived that the
lines upon which you ran were rusted and corroded, red and yellow with disuse and
decay! What a catch must have come in their breath as in a second it flashed upon them
that it was not Manchester but Death which was waiting for them at the end of that
sinister line. But the train was running with frantic speed, rolling and rocking over the
rotten line, while the wheels made a frightful screaming sound upon the rusted surface. I
was close to them, and could see their faces. Caratal was praying, I think--there was
something like a rosary dangling out of his hand. The other roared like a bull who smells
the blood of the slaughter-house. He saw us standing on the bank, and he beckoned to us
like a madman. Then he tore at his wrist and threw his dispatch-box out of the window
in our direction. Of course, his meaning was obvious. Here was the evidence, and they
would promise to be silent if their lives were spared. It would have been very agreeable
if we could have done so, but business is business. Besides, the train was now as much
beyond our controls as theirs.
"He ceased howling when the train rattled round the curve and they saw the black
mouth of the mine yawning before them. We had removed the boards which had
covered it, and we had cleared the square entrance. The rails had formerly run very
close to the shaft for the convenience of loading the coal, and we had only to add two or
three lengths of rail in order to lead to the very brink of the shaft. In fact, as the lengths
would not quite fit, our line projected about three feet over the edge. We saw the two
heads at the window: Caratal below, Gomez above; but they had both been struck silent
by what they saw. And yet they could not withdraw their heads. The sight seemed to
have paralysed them.
"I had wondered how the train running at a great speed would take the pit into which I
had guided it, and I was much interested in watching it. One of my colleagues thought
that it would actually jump it, and indeed it was not very far from doing so. Fortunately,
however, it fell short, and the buffers of the engine struck the other lip of the shaft with a
tremendous crash. The funnel flew off into the air. The tender, carriages, and van were
all smashed up into one jumble, which, with the remains of the engine, choked for a
minute or so the mouth of the pit. Then something gave way in the middle, and the
whole mass of green iron, smoking coals, brass fittings, wheels, wood-work, and
cushions all crumbled together and crashed down into the mine. We heard the rattle,
rattle, rattle, as the debris struck against the walls, and then, quite a long time
afterwards, there came a deep roar as the remains of the train struck the bottom. The
boiler may have burst, for a sharp crash came after the roar, and then a dense cloud of
19
steam and smoke swirled up out of the black depths, falling in a spray as thick as rain all
round us. Then the vapour shredded off into thin wisps, which floated away in the
summer sunshine, and all was quiet again in the Heartsease mine.
"And now, having carried out our plans so successfully, it only remained to leave no
trace behind us. Our little band of workers at the other end had already ripped up the
rails and disconnected the side line, replacing everything as it had been before. We were
equally busy at the mine. The funnel and other fragments were thrown in, the shaft was
planked over as it used to be, and the lines which led to it were torn up and taken away.
Then, without flurry, but without delay, we all made our way out of the country, most of
us to Paris, my English colleague to Manchester, and McPherson to Southampton,
whence he emigrated to America. Let the English papers of that date tell how throughly
we had done our work, and how completely we had thrown the cleverest of their
detectives off our track.
"You will remember that Gomez threw his bag of papers out of the window, and I need
not say that I secured that bag and brought them to my employers. It may interest my
employers now, however, to learn that out of that bag I took one or two little papers as a
souvenir of the occasion. I have no wish to publish these papers; but, still, it is every man
for himself in this world, and what else can I do if my friends will not come to my aid
when I want them? Messieurs, you may believe that Herbert de Lernac is quite as
formidable when he is against you as when he is with you, and that he is not a man to go
to the guillotine until he has seen that every one of you is en route for New Caledonia.
For your own sake, if not for mine, make haste, Monsieur de----, and General----, and
Baron---- (you can fill up the blanks for yourselves as you read this). I promise you that
in the next edition there will be no blanks to fill.
"P.S.--As I look over my statement there is only one omission which I can see. It concerns
the unfortunate man McPherson, who was foolish enough to write to his wife and to
make an appointment with her in New York. It can be imagined that when interests like
ours were at stake, we could not leave them to the chance of whether a man in that class
of life would or would not give away his secrets to a woman. Having once broken his
oath by writing to his wife, we could not trust him any more. We took steps therefore to
insure that he should not see his wife. I have sometimes thought that it would be a
kindness to write to her and to assure her that there is no impediment to her marrying
again."
20
The Wrong Station
A.M. Burrage
(1916)
We had been together in the miserable waiting-room at Ixtable Junction nearly a
quarter of an hour, and had not spoken for no better reason, perhaps, than that we were
Englishmen. The fire was nearly out, and the light of the gas lamp showed signs of
following its bad example. A dense fog had thrown the train service into utter confusion.
It was not at all a cheerful kind of night.
My companion was a man of fifty, of medium height, rather grey, and certainly not
handsome. He was dressed comfortably but not well. His long black overcoat and bowler
hat, neither of which was shabby, seemed to make him appear more commonplace than
he need have looked. He had big, fishy-looking eyes, and a large, untidy moustache with
a pathetic droop to its ends. He had with him a heavy valise. He looked what I afterwards
found him to be - a commercial traveller of the not too prosperous kind.
For a long while he sat fidgeting, staring down at his bag, which rested beside him on
the floor. Then suddenly he sprang up and crossed the room to examine a map of the
line hanging on the opposite wall. He frowned over it for a full minute, his eyes following
a moving thumbnail. Then he turned to me.
'It was somewhere between Reading and Plymouth,' he said.
'I beg your pardon?'
'It was somewhere between Reading and Plymouth. Do you know that part well, sir?'
'Pretty well. Why?'
His big, fishy eyes were fixed on me in a stare of pathetic appeal.
'If I could only remember the name of that station! If I saw it anywhere, if somebody
said it, I should know it at once. A beautiful name it is. It's always just on the edge of my
memory, but I can never quite get it.'
'That's rather awkward,' I said, 'if you want to go there.'
'I do, sir, I do! I was a fool ever to leave. I ought to have stood up for myself and
refused to go. But she persuaded me. And now I don't suppose I shall ever find that little
town again.'
'If there's a station there,' I said, puzzled and amused, 'it must be on the map. But
perhaps it's on the Southern Railway.'
'No, the Great Western it was - a train that gets you into Plymouth in about four and a
half hours, and lands you there in the small hours of the morning. I know most of the
towns along that route, too - Newbury, Westbury, Taunton, Exeter, but it wasn't any of
them. I wonder if you know the place I want?' He laughed a little shamefacedly.
'Everybody thinks I'm mad when I tell them.'
'It all sounds very mysterious,' I said. 'I gather that you've been to some place that
took your fancy very much, and that you want to go there again, only you dont happen to
remember the name of it?'
'That's it,' he said, eagerly. 'I tell you I'd know that name at once directly I saw it or
heard it. But it's not on any map. Every time I see a map I go and have a look. It
happened about two years ago, and I've been worrying about it all this time.'
My curiosity was by then sufficiently aroused to make me want to hear the whole story.
There was nothing of the madman or the romancer about this commonplace little man
with his big bag and his air of petty commerce.
'What was your town like?' I asked.
He turned his eyes away from me and seemed to think.
'Well - I only saw a bit of it, but I'd like to have seen all. There's not such another place
21
in England - in the whole world, for that matter. I don't mean only because it was pretty,
but there was something in the air - I can't very well explain. If you like, I'll tell you just
how everything happened. Perhaps you'll laugh. Most people do.'
I promised not to.
'Oh, I don't mind. Nineteen people in twenty say there's no such place, tell me I dreamt
it all, but I know I didn't. I do have dreams, of course, but they're never clear like that,
and anybody knows the difference between a dream and a fact.'
'I always do,' said I, to give him confidence.
`Of course, of course!' He sat down on the yellow bench under the map he had been
studying, and looked away from me into the grey embers of the dying fire. 'There's one
or two things I ought to explain first of all,' he said. 'I'm not a bit an imaginative sort of
man, and I'm not what you'd call poetical. I've been in business ever since I was thirteen,
and if I didn't begin with a pretty hard head, I've got one now, I give you my word. Very
well! Another thing is I'm a married man with four kids. We've got a nice little home at
Willesden. I'm a good father and a good husband, though I say it who shouldn't. The
missus and me have been married eighteen years, and we're still pretty fond of each
other. Not quite like we were at first, mind you, but only fools 'ud expect that. Still, I'd
cut off my hand for her if need be. You take me, sir?'
'Perfectly.'
'Well, I travel for a big firm of comb manufacturers, and at that time, two years ago, I
was taken off my usual round to work up what we call the Western circuit. That's the
whole county of Cornwall and about half Devonshire, beginning with Plymouth. The man
on there had been making rather a mess of things - young man without much go and less
experience. So they put me on there to buck things up a bit.
'I caught the night express from Paddington, and had the good luck to get a
compartment to myself. Plymouth was the first stop, and I tipped the guard to wake me
up there if I went to sleep, for I didn't want to find myself at Penzance or Falmouth next
morning.
'I read for the best part of an hour, and then began to feel sleepy. We whizzed through
a big station, and I looked out and saw that it was Reading. I leaned back and put my feet
on the opposite seat. I didn't feel very well. I had a sort of feeling - I can't describe it that I generally get before a heart attack. I've got a bad heart. It may last me for years
yet, or it may carry me off to-night. You can't really tell with these things. I've got to be
careful of myself.
'Well, that night I was sure it was going to give me a doing, within an hour or two.
However, I'd got some stuff the doctor gave me, and I took the bottle out of my breastpocket and had a pull at it. Then I dropped off to sleep, which rather surprised me afterwards, for generally I keep awake when I'm feeling queer. And when I woke up I felt
better than I'd ever felt before.'
He paused and looked at me. His great ugly eyes were shining with a light that made
them almost beautiful.
'I don't mean only better in health. I felt as I used to feel when I was a nipper - a kind
of lightness - I'd never felt it since. I swear I could have danced without music, or run, or
jumped - that kind of feeling. The train had stopped. "Halloa!" I thought, "this is
Plymouth. That guard ought to have called me."'
'Just as those words were going through my mind the door opened and a railway man
put his head into the compartment. He wasn't my guard, but some other, or, perhaps, a
porter - I didn't look to see what he was. But he was extraordinary to look at extraordinary! I've never used the word before when speaking of a man, but he was
beautiful. Yes, sir, there's not another word in the language to describe his looks. I'd
never seen a man's face like his before. There's one or two pictures of angels in the
National Gallery a bit like him, but that's the nearest I've come to seeing his like. And
what does he do, but call me by my Christian name.
"'This is your station, Harry," he said, as gravely as you please.
22
'I wasn't a bit offended, only a little surprised.
"'What, Plymouth?" says I.
"'No, not Plymouth."
'I looked out, and there was the name of the station on a board, the lovely name I can't
remember. And when I saw it I knew that I must get out. It didn't matter if I missed all
my appointments the next day. I had to get out there. And yet - and yet, somehow I
didn't want to.
'The porter took hold of me by the arm. "Come on, Harry," he said. "It's a beautiful
town, the most beautiful town in all the world."
"'But I've got to go on to Plymouth," I said, making a kind of struggle. "I'll come here
later on; I will, really. I don't want to get out here now. Let me go on to Plymouth."
'The man put his mouth close to my ear. His voice was very soft and wheedling, just
like a woman's.
"'It's such a lovely town, Harry," he whispered. "Don't be afraid."
'Well, I let him lead me out on to the platform, and then I turned round for my bag.
"We don't take luggage here," he said, and it seemed to me at the time perfectly
reasonable. I know this sounds just like a dream to you, but it was real - real!
'The porter left me. I don't know if he got on to the train or not, but presently I was all
alone on the platform. I lingered for a moment, and then started out to see the town.
'It must have been somewhere round two in the morning, and quite dark. But it wasn't
an ordinary darkness, it was a kind of deep blue. And there was a smell of flowers in the
air, faint but very refreshing. I don't know where it came from, for I saw no gardens. I
walked down a kind of alley, just as you find at the entrance of any ordinary station, into
one of the streets of that town.'
He fixed me with his great eyes, held his speech for a moment, and then burst out: 'Oh, my God! That wonderful town!'
He relapsed into silence, as if a little ashamed of his emotion. After a pause he went on:
'It doesn't sound so much to describe - not the place itself. The street was wide, and on
each side was a row of large old houses, with diamond panes to the windows, and top
storeys projecting out over the ground floors. There were lights in several of the
windows, and they reflected on the pavements so that the diamond panes looked like
lattice work of light and shadow. And in most of the houses there was music and singing
- wonderful music.
'I said the road was very wide. At one side a stream, lined with poplars, ran between
two stone embankments. And little bridges of old red brick spanned the stream every
few yards, one bridge to the front door of every house on that side. And the stream
tinkled as it ran, for all the world as if somebody was playing the harp. Oh, I can't make
you feel what it was like - the old houses, the stream, the bridges, the blue darkness, the
scents, the music.
'I saw nobody about but children. Yes, there were children playing in the road at that
hour of the morning! They played hide-and-seek behind the bridges and danced and
laughed and sang. Such children, believe me! I never cared much for kids, except my
own, but I didn't mind them playing around me, and instead of growling at those who
caught hold of the skirt of my coat, I turned and patted their heads, and laughed because
they were laughing.
'I had not gone far when I came to a house I seemed to know. At least, if I didn't know
it, I seemed to know that I ought to go there - that I was expected. I didn't stop to ask
questions of myself; I just went up to the door and knocked. And presently a young girl
opened it to me.'
He stopped again.
'That is the queerest thing of all. This is where everybody laughs, and you'll laugh too. I
was an ugly old devil then, just the same as I am now. No girl had looked at me twice in
the last twenty years. I'd got my wife, I'd settled down; it was a long time since I'd
23
thought of girls. But at the sight of her my heart beat like a boy's, and I knew that I knew
her, that we had loved each other for God knows how many years.
'And I remembered her just as I should remember the name of that town if somebody
told it to me, only it was a long memory. It seemed to go back hundreds and hundreds of
years. And I loved her with a kind of love I had never felt before - and I knew that she
loved me. At the sight of her, something in me changed. I wasn't any longer an ugly,
common little man, beginning to grow old. I was young again, and as fine a gentleman as
any in the land. I could feel it in my very blood.
'She uttered a little cry, and called me by a name that I knew had once belonged to me,
only I'd forgotten it. I've forgotten it again since. I can only remember her look and the
tone of her voice. She ran right into my arms and kissed me, and laughed and cried over
me, and my brain reeled and reeled with happiness, for I had been waiting for such a
long while for that moment to come.
'My wife seemed a long way away, and it didn't seem as if I was being the least
unfaithful to her. It seemed as if, in marrying her, I'd done this girl who was clinging to
me some little wrong. She had been first, she had come hundreds and hundreds of years
before the other woman who lay asleep in our little house at Willesden.
"'Let me come in," I remember saying to the girl who clung to me; and when I said that
she began to cry. It was all a mistake, she said, and I would have to go back to the station
and catch the next train. I mustn't stop; and she had been waiting for me so long! We
must both wait a little longer, and it was such a pity, because now I had had a peep at
that town, and seen her, and I shouldn't be happy or contented any more until I came
back.
'I said I wasn't going back to catch the next train or any other train, but she said I
must. She said the time had not yet come and that somebody had made a mistake. She
said that the porter ought to have let me go on to Plymouth - and somehow the word
Plymouth sounded queer coming from her.
'I stood there, suddenly very miserable. I didn't want to go. I wanted to stay with her
and live in that old house beside the stream, and play with the children, and go on
feeling young. And I began to beg of her to let me stop.
'But she wouldn't hear me. She said they'd called me out at the wrong station, and that
I must go on to Plymouth, but one day I would come back. And somehow I couldn't argue
with her much. I seemed to have no will.
'I wish I'd stood up for myself now. I'd found my way there and it didn't seem fair to
send me away. But she took me by the hand, and together in silence we went back the
way I had come through the bluish night. And those wonderful children played around
us as we walked.
'There was a train waiting at the station, and we stood on the platform for a moment
and kissed good-bye. She said I must be patient and I would soon come back. She had
been patient, too, and she had been waiting for me so long, she whispered. So I got into
the train and it started off, and then - then I tried to remember the name of that station,
and couldn't.
'After a while I dropped asleep, and when I woke up there was a doctor and two
railway men in the compartment, and they were pouring brandy down my throat, and
seemed rather surprised to find I was alive. We were at Plymouth now, and it seemed I'd
nearly died in my sleep, and only the brandy had pulled me through.
'The doctor said he quite thought I was dead when they fetched him to look at me, and
I must say I've never had quite such a bad turn as that before or since. I never travel
without something in my pocket now, in case of accidents.'
He paused and in the ensuing silence we heard the sound of an approaching train.
'Mine,' he said. 'I'm going on to Charr. Well, that's the story, and whatever you say
won't convince me that it was a dream. What do you make of it?'
But I could not tell him what I made of it.
24
Lost in the Fog
J.D. Beresford
(1918)
I
London was smothered in fog, and I expected that my train would be
tediously
delayed before we escaped into the free air. I was oppressed
by the burden of darkness
and the misery of enclosure. All this winter
I have longed for the sight of horizons, for
the leap of clear spaces
and the depth of an open sky. But while my anticipation of
delay was
proved false, my longings for release remained unsatisfied. The great
plain
of the Midlands was muffled in a thick white mist. I stared out
desperately, but it was
as if I tried to peer through a window of
frosted glass.
When I alighted from the express at Barnwell Junction, a porter
directed me to
platform No. 5 for my branch line train to Felthorpe. We
were a little late--a quarter of
an hour, perhaps--and I felt hurried,
impatient, and depressed. I probably took the
train from No. 3. The
mistake would not have been irreparable, so far as my day's
excursion
was concerned, if I had not gone to sleep. But I had waked early, and
my
eyes were strained and tired with the hopeless endeavour to search
that still,
persistent mist. I woke with a quick sense of dismay as the
train slowed into a station.
I let down the window, but I could distinguish nothing familiar in
the dim grey
masses that loomed like spectres through the cold, white
smoke of fog. I opened the
door and stood hesitating, afraid to get
out, afraid to go on. And then I heard steps, and
the sound of a dreary
cough waxing invisibly towards me; and the figure of the guard
showed
suddenly close at hand.
"What station is this?" I asked. "Burden," he said.
"Are we far from Felthorpe?" I hazarded, conscious, even then, that I
was lost. He
came closer still, and peered at me with something in his
face that was very like glee.
"You're on the wrong line," he said,
gloating over my discomfiture. Little drops of
moisture shone like milk
on the blackness of his beard. "You'll 'ave to go back to
Barnwell," he
said, as one who delights in judgment.
"How long shall I have to wait?" I asked. He looked at his watch.
"Fifty minutes,"
he said, and immediately quenched my faint relief by
adding, "Or should. But it's 'ardly
likely she'll be punctual to-day.
We're over an hour late now.
The thought seemed to rouse him. Reluctantly--for loth indeed he must
have
been to relinquish the single pleasure of his shrouded day--he
blew a fierce screech on
his whistle, and, shouting hoarsely, slammed
the door of my empty compartment.
I stood back and watched the blurred line of carriages slip groaning
into the
unknown. Then I turned and looked up at the board above me.
"Burden," I muttered. "Where in God's name may Burden be?" I found
something
unutterably sad in the sound of that name.
I felt lonely and pitiable.
It was bitterly cold, and the mist was thicker than ever.
II
I could bear no one. There could be neither porter nor station-master
here.
Evidently this station was nothing more than a "Halt," on what I
presently discovered
was only a single line. I was alone in the
dreadful stillness. The world had ceased to
exist for me. And then I
stumbled upon the little box of a waiting-room, and in it was a
25
man who
crouched over a smouldering fire.
When I went in, he looked quickly over his shoulder with the tense
alertness of
one who fears an ambush. But when he saw me, his
expression changed instantly to
relief, and to something that was like
appeal.
"What brings you here?" he asked with a weak smile, I was thankful
for any
companionship, and poured out the tale of my bitter woes. "Ah!
you don't know how
lucky you are," was my companion's single comment. I
scarcely heeded him. "I shall
have to give up the idea of getting to
Felthorpe to-day," I went on, seeking some
consolation for my misery.
"It I can only get back to town. . . ."
"That's nothing," he put in with a dreary sigh. "Nothing, nothing at
all."
"And this infernal train back to Barnwell will probably be hours
late," I
continued. He smiled weakly, and rubbed his hands together
staring into the dull heart
of the fire. "It sounds queer to me,
hearing this old talk again," he said thoughtfully. "I'd
almost come to
believe that the whole world had changed; that it was impossible
for
life outside to be going on just the same as ever. But of course it is.
. . ." He sighed
immensely and shook his head. "Of course--in a way--it
is," he repeated.
Something in his attitude and the tone of his voice began to pierce
my obstinate
preoccupation with the disaster of my day's excursion. I
had a curious sense of
touching some terrible reality beside which my
little troubles were but a momentary
irritation. I looked at him with a
new curiosity, and noticed for the first time that his
face was pinched
and worn, and that on the further side of his chair lay a pair
of
roughly fashioned crutches.
"Are you going by my train?" I asked. I felt a new desire to help
him. He shook his
head. "Oh! no; I just come down here for a little
rest," he said. "I shall have to go back
presently--as soon as I'm
strong enough. They'll find something for me to do." He
looked up at me
with his pitiful smile as he continued, "But of course you
don't
understand. You've probably never heard of our trouble in Burden, out
there."
I followed the indication of his nod, and could see nothing but the
pale sea of fog
pressing against the dirty window.
"What's the trouble at Burden?" I asked. He looked up at me with an
expression
that I could not interpret. It seemed as if he both appealed
to me and warned me. "You
live in another world," he said. "You'd
better keep out of mine--it isn't a good place to
live in."
I laughed, like the careless fool I was. "Oh! I'll promise to keep
out of it," I said.
"Pray God, I'll never come here again."
"Aye, pray God," he repeated, as though the words had some hidden
intention.
And then he began suddenly:
"It's over two years now since it began. They live right in the
middle of the
village, you know. It has given them an advantage in lots
of ways. We suspected 'em
from the beginning--only we went on. We hoped
it would be all right. Living on the
other side of the street, we
thought we were safe, I suppose."
I was about to interrupt him with a question, but his face
unexpectedly grew
stern and hard. "You see, they cut across Bates's
garden," he said quickly, "and turned
Bates and his family out of their
house; and, as my father said, we couldn't stand that. If
the Turtons
were going to have a set-to with the Royces at the other end of
the
village, we might have stood by and seen fair play. The Royces are a
big family,
and they own all the land that side . . . ."
I inferred that the Turtons were the original aggressors, but he took
so much for
granted. And before I had time to question him he continued
in a low, brooding voice:
26
"But their very first move was against the Franks--by way of Bates's
garden, as
I've said. And two of Bates's children got killed--and then
. . ."
"What?" I interrupted him sharply. "Two of his children? Killed,
did you say?"
"Murdered, practically," he said, and lifted his head and gave a
queer, snickering
laugh. "But we've almost forgotten that," he went on.
"Why, half the village has been
killed or disabled since then."
"But why don't the police interfere?" I asked. He shrugged his
shoulders. "We've
always been our own police," he explained. "But there
is a chap in the next village who
has tried to interfere--sent messages
and so on to both sides. However, he has kept his
family out of it up
to now."
My perplexity deepened. The man looked sane enough, and I could not
believe
that he was deliberately making a fool of me. "But do you
honestly mean to tell me," I
asked, "that the families in your village
are actually fighting and--and killing each
other?"
"I suppose it does seem damned impossible to you," he said. "We've
got sort of
used to it, of course. And we've always been having rows of
this kind, more or less. Not
so bad as this one, but still, pretty bad
some of them. My father remembers . . ."
"But does it go on every day?" I insisted.
"Lord, yes," he said. "It has got down to a sort of siege now. The
Turtons have got
some of the Franks's land, and some of the Royces';
pretty near all little Bates's, and
one or two cottagers' at the back
as well--a roughish lot those cottagers have always
been, fighting
among themselves all the time pretty nearly; and some of 'em went
in
with the Turtons for what they could make out of it. However, the point
is now that
the Turtons are sticking to what they've got, and we're
trying to get 'em off it. But it's a
mighty tough job, and we're all
dead sick of it." He paused, and then repeated drearily,
"Oh! dead sick
of it all. Weary to death of it."
"But can't you come to any agreement between yourselves?" I
protested.
"Well, the Turtons have sort of offered terms," he said. "We think
they might give
us back our neighbours' land and so on, but . . ."
"Well?" I prompted him.
"Well, you can't trust 'em," he explained. "They're land-robbers.
They haven't
quite brought it off this time, because the Royces and the
Franks and us and one or two
others joined hands against em. But if we
call it quits over this, we shall have it all over
again in a year or
two's time. And then it won't be shot-guns; they'll buy rifles."
"Well, you can buy rifles, too," I suggested.
"Oh! what's the good of that?" he cried out impatiently. "We've got
to till the land.
We've got to work--harder now than ever. And how can
you work with a rifle in your
hand, and looking over your shoulder
every minute?"
"But in that case . . ." I began.
"Oh! we've got to beat 'em," he said doggedly, and cast a regretful
glance at the
crutches by his chair. "We've got to teach 'em a lesson,
and make our own terms. It
won't be easy, I know.
They've always wanted to boss the lot of us, and they've got their
knife into my
father for getting the best of 'em over the allotments.
However, that's an old story."
"But how?" I asked.
"Oh! we're sure to beat 'em--in time," he said, "and then we'll be
able to make
terms. My father says he doesn't want to be bitter about
it. He isn't the sort to bear a
grudge. But we've got to make it damned
impossible that this sort of thing shall ever
happen again."
27
For a few moments we lapsed into silence. Outside the fog seemed to
have lifted
a little. Through the window I could see the silhouette of
a gaunt, bare tree, rough and
stark against the milky whiteness that
hid the awful distances of Burden. My
imagination tried to pierce the
shroud of vapour, and picture the horror of hate and
murder beyond. Was
the mist out there glowing with the horrid richness of blood? Was
it
possible that one might walk through the veil of cloud and stumble
suddenly on
something that lay dark and soft across the roadway, in a
broad pool astoundingly red
in this lost, white world? . . .
And then the vision leapt and vanished. I heard the thin sound of a
whistle, and
the remote drumming and throbbing of a distant train.
I jumped to my feet. "It's barely an hour late, after all," I said.
My companion took
no notice. He was gazing with a fixed, cold stare
into the dead heart of the fire.
"I suppose I can't help in any way?" I stammered awkwardly. "You're
lucky to be
out of it. You keep out of it," he said. "You've got your
train to catch." And yet I
hesitated, even when, with a harsh shriek of
impeded wheels, the train scuttered into
the little station. Ought I to
help? I wondered feebly. But my every desire drew me
towards the relief
that would bear me back to the world I knew.
III
And now I wonder if that man's story can possibly have been true? Is
it
conceivable that out there in the little unknown village--for ever
lost to me in a world
of white mist--men are fighting and killing
each other?
Surely it cannot be true?
28
Le Train perdu
Claude Farrère
(1928)
Tiphaigne Hoff, le chef de gare, agita à bout de bras son fanal, et cria - par habitude - «
En arrière, les voyageurs !» tandis que le train 1815, gémissant de tous ses freins serrés,
entrait en gare.
Par habitude : car il n'y avait pas un seul voyageur sur le quai. Pas un seul : Tiphaigne
Hoff d'un coup d'œil, le constata, non sans regret. « Ces sacrés trains de nuit ! grogna-t-il
; jamais un chat. »
Le train, cependant, avait stoppé. Tiphaigne Hoff, homme méticuleux, vérifia d'abord
les signaux de queue, histoire d'être bien sûr que nul wagon ne fût resté à la dérive. Puis
il marcha le long des quatre voitures - un petit train ! - du fourgon et du tender. Le fanal,
promené au ras du trottoir, éclairait les essieux, les châssis et les attelages. Suivant le
chef de gare, l'homme d'équipe frappait chaque roue d'un coup de marteau, pour
éprouver le métal au son.
À la hauteur de la machine, Tiphaigne Hoff s'arrêta pour souhaiter le bonsoir au
mécanicien. Et le mécanicien répondit à Tiphaigne Hoff qu'il faisait froid - bougrement.
« Ces sacrés trains de nuit ! » redit le chef sympathique.
Et les trois minutes d'arrêt écoulées, il cria, par habitude : « En voiture ! » avant de
donner le coup de sifflet réglementaire. Mais, soudain, il resta bouche bée : il aurait juré,
l'instant d'avant, que le quai, d'un bout à l'autre, était désert ; et voilà que deux
voyageurs y avaient surgi comme d'une trappe ! Deux voyageurs, un très grand, un très
petit, tous deux prêts à monter en wagon.
« En voiture ! » répéta tout de même Tiphaigne Hoff, criant plus fort. Et il s'avança, car
ces deux voyageurs ne se hâtaient point.
En vérité, je vous le dis, c'étaient deux drôles de voyageurs ! Tiphaigne Hoff, ahuri déjà
de leur apparition subite et un brin mystérieuse, écarquilla les yeux en les voyant de
près.
Le petit - très petit - n'avait rien de trop extraordinaire dans la figure, sauf qu'il
semblait aussi vieux que le juif errant, et que ses cheveux, longs ä la mode d'il y a cent
ans, lui pendaient plus bas que le col. Mais son accoutrement était tout à fait
invraisemblable : cela comprenait un baroque pantalon, serré aux genoux comme une
culotte, des souliers à boucle, et une sorte d'habit-redingote à boutons d'argent, dont les
larges basques bouffaient comme un jupon. Ajoutez un chapeau de castor, bossué si
singulièrement qu'on eût dit un tricorne. Et le tout sentait le moisi à suffoquer. Une
canne à pomme d'or parachevait la défroque, une canne plus haute que l'homme. Il s'y
appuyait en la serrant à deux mains, comme les suisses serrent leur hallebarde.
L'autre voyageur, le grand - très grand - était beaucoup, beaucoup plus étrange encore ;
et, le considérant, Tiphaigne Hoff, chef de gare, se sentit gêné et peureux. C'était une
longue silhouette tout enveloppée d'un long manteau pareil à une draperie ou à un
linceul, lequel manteau traînait à terre et n'avait ni forme ni couleur qu'on pût préciser.
Un capuchon - un capuchon ou une cagoule ? - cachait la tête. On ne voyait que deux
yeux caves et une barbe blanche de deux pieds. Une main décharnée sortait du manteau,
et touchait du bout de ses doigts blafards un bras du diable à bagages, oublié là par
l'homme d'équipe - oublié bien mal à propos, pensa plus tard Tiphaigne Hoff.
Oui, oui, c'étaient deux drôles de voyageurs. Mais on n'avait guère le temps d'y penser,
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parce qu'il était l'heure du départ, passée.
« En voiture », réitéra Tiphaigne Hoff, énergiquement.
Alors, le vieux petit voyageur se décida. Il plia sur les jarrets et sauta, par-dessus le
marchepied, dans le wagon, avec une agilité tout à fait bizarre - cependant que son
compagnon, le long voyageur à longue barbe blanche, demeurait encore immobile sur le
quai, sa main touchant toujours le diable oublié par l'homme d'équipe.
« Allons, monsieur, montez », dit Tiphaigne Hoff; et il s'approcha pour aider à
l'ascension.
Mais le petit vieux, déjà en wagon, cria tout à coup, d'une fantastique voix de fausset
qui secoua comme des cordes de cloches tous les nerfs de Tiphaigne Hoff : « Ne le
touchez pas, ha, ha, ha ! »
Et Tiphaigne Hoff, effaré, recula de trois sauts. Ce qui fit que l'homme qu'il ne fallait pas
toucher monta tout seul, comme il put.
Tiphaigne Hoff se rappela, plus tard, avoir entrevu dans les plis flottants du manteaulinceul quelque chose d'aigu et de bleuâtre qui luisait - comme un fer de faux...
La portière claqua, et Tiphaigne Hoff donna le signal.
La machine lança son hululement sinistre ; la vapeur fusa des cylindres ; les pistons
poussèrent les bielles, et le train partit. Hors de la gare, la nuit le mangea : on n'en vit
plus rien. Seul, le triangle rouge des trois fanaux d'arrière, réfléchi sur l'acier des rails,
scintilla encore une minute. Puis cela même disparut.
Alors, Tiphaigne Hoff chef de gare, lança le signal de cantonnement, puis le remit à
l'arrêt, pour couvrir le train parti - comme le prescrit l'article 7 du règlement. Après
quoi, il rendit au canton précédent Voie libre, et annonça le train au prochain poste. Tout
était en ordre.
Une idée cependant tracassait Tiphaigne Hoff. Il appela le receveur: « Jap ! Où allaientils donc, les deux voyageurs de tantôt ? »
« Quels voyageurs, chef ? »
« Les deux... le grand et le petit... ceux du train 1815. »
« J'ai pas donné de billet pour le train 1815, chef ! J'ai vu personne, ni grand, ni petit... »
Tiphaigne Hoff arrondit la bouche. Mais avant qu'il eût fait : « Ho ! », la voix de l'homme
d'équipe ébranla toute la gare.
« Chef ! Chef ! Ah bien, par exemple! Chef ! »
Tiphaigne Hoff se précipita : « Ne gueulez donc pas comme ça ! Qu'est-ce qui arrive ? »
« Chef ! Bon Dieu de bon Dieu ! Seigneur ! Regardez donc ça ? »
Ça, c'était le diable à bagages. Tiphaigne Hoff regarda, et, stupide, se tut...
Le diable à bagages, honnête et robuste brouette de fer forgé, neuve l'instant d'avant,
n'était plus qu'un débris de ferraille, usé, rongé, rouillé - oh ! rouillé comme s'il eût
séjourné cent ans au fond de la mer! Les roues disloquées, les pieds tordus, le châssis en
loques, tout se confondait en un décombres couleur de brique. Et un bras entier
manquait, celui-là même qu'avait touché l'étrange voyageur à barbe blanche. Là où ce
bras avait été, un peu de poussière rougeâtre gisait...
Tiphaigne Hoff, muet, passa sur son front moite une main qui tremblait.
Mais soudain, une secousse de tout son être le fit bondir - le fit bondir vers l'appareil de
block: un pressentiment l'avait traversé comme une balle. Et devant l'appareil, il recula,
terrifié : il y avait - l'œil- de-bœuf en faisait foi - il y avait plus d'un quart d'heure que le
train 1815 était parti, et le guichet supérieur, qu'on manœuvre du poste au-delà,
montrait toujours son voyant rouge : Voie occupée.
Le train 1815 n'avait donc pas encore atteint ce poste au-delà, et l'horaire témoignait
qu'il eût dû le dépasser dès la neuvième minute !
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Tiphaigne Hoff le cœur comme dans un étau, lança le signal réglementaire : « Dernier
train annoncé a-t-il dépassé votre poste ? »
La réponse vint, immédiate : « Dernier train annoncé n'a pas dépassé mon poste. »
Derrière le chef de gare, le receveur et l'homme d'équipe, pâles comme linge, lurent la
phrase menaçante.
« Il y a détresse », prononça le receveur, parlant bas comme dans une chambre
mortuaire.
« Non, non et non ! » cria Tiphaigne Hoff luttant contre sa propre épouvante. « Il n'y a
pas détresse, pas encore, il y a marche lente, voilà tout ... »
Mais l'instant d'après, son énergie fauchée, lui-même lançait sur tout le réseau le signal
définitif qui annonce les catastrophes : « Train en détresse sur voie I », quoique le
règlement ordonne de ne transmettre ce signal que sur l'ordre écrit du conducteur-chef
du train en détresse. Oui. Mais déjà, Tiphaigne Hoff savait bien, était sûr, trop sûr ! que le
conducteur-chef du train 1815 n'était plus en état de donner aucun ordre, écrit ou non.
Et l'on attendit dans la terreur.
Quinze minutes se traînèrent. La machine de secours envoyée par la grande gare, passa
en sifflant. Quinze autres minutes suivirent.
Et alors, une chose prodigieuse, fantastique, inouïe - une chose que chef de gare passé
ou futur n'a vue jamais ni ne verra - survint : le guichet de l'appareil de block pivota,
découvrant le voyant blanc : « Voie libre », en même temps que la sonnerie du poste audelà avertissait: « Machine de secours a dépassé mon poste. »
Vous comprenez ? La machine de secours, lancée sur la voie du train 1815, derrière le
train 1815, avait dépassé le poste au-delà, que le train 1815, lui, n'avait pas atteint ! Et la
voie était libre ! Ni déraillement ni tamponnement. Rien du tout. Rien du tout. Rien.
Simplement ceci, impossible, et pourtant constaté : que le train 1815 n'était ni au-delà, ni
en deçà du poste de block, et, par conséquent, qu'il n'y avait plus de train 1815...
Tiphaigne Hoff, chef de gare, ne prononça pas une syllabe. Il alla seulement regarder,
très longuement, ce qui restait du diable à bagages. Le débris s'était émietté durant la
dernière demi-heure. Il ne restait maintenant qu'un petit tas de rouille.
Personne, jamais, n'a plus ouï parler du train 1815. Le mystère est resté entier. Les
recherches ultérieures - au bas des talus, dans la rivière et ailleurs - n'ont fait découvrir
nul vestige. Une enquête spéciale, menée dans le plus grand secret, n'a donné aucun
résultat.
Tiphaigne Hoff, pourtant, a constaté, lui, que du kilomètre 2304 au kilomètre 2307, les
cailloux du ballast, gris naguère, sont aujourd'hui rougeâtres et comme poudrés d'oxyde
de fer.
Tiphaigne Hoff a constaté cela. Mais, bien entendu, il n'en a jamais ouvert la bouche à
âme qui vive, non plus que des deux voyageurs mystérieux, non plus que du diable
disparu, non plus que de rien.
Tiphaigne Hoff ne parle jamais du train 1815. Il ne s'est confié - un jour qu'il était
fabuleusement ivre - qu'à moi.
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