The Passion for Competitions

The Knights of the Turtle and the voracious general. – Wrestlers and walkers. – The combination of pleasure with utility. – The summer peripatetic school of philosophy. – The king of inventors and a new luminary for our planet. – A romance in Edison’s life.

While the fasting doctor was astounding the world with his absolute starvation and struggling with his stomach against the laws of nature, at another place a respected general was violating all the laws of nature through immoderate gluttony. Among all sorts of curious and strange clubs in New York, there is also a club of so-called “Knights of the Turtle.” Their principal goal is to perfect the art of preparing turtle soups. Turtle is in great use in America, and restaurants on Broadway as an attraction and advertisement frequently display at their doors enormous live turtles, which move their legs and heads for the amusement of passersby. The named club leads all others in the turtle question and considers this to be their glory and pride. Recently there was the club’s annual celebration, and the magnificent dinner consisted mainly of turtle soups and champagne. The chairman of the club announced a prize that day for whoever ate the most turtle soup. The competition was, naturally, fierce; club members ate soup, as one might say, until they bled. Upon conclusion of the dinner, when the “knights” lit their cigars, the president solemnly announced that the prize belonged to General Barnard, who had eaten the most. The valiant general had consumed ninety-nine (99) bowls of soup, thirty-three (33) eggs, and drunk eighteen (18) glasses of vodka (brandy). Not all generals can boast of such deeds.

It is difficult to point to any people who love competitions of all kinds as much as the Americans do. In this regard, one might say they far surpass even the English, those well-known lovers of sport. Newspapers daily announce the most whimsical competitions, which can only make one throw up one’s hands at their childish naivety, and meanwhile Americans—from gray-haired Yankees to blooming young ladies—go by the thousands to watch them, and the press devotes entire columns to detailed, even tediously detailed descriptions of them. Needless to say what an important event is such a fact as, for example, the recent competition between Americans and Irish in marksmanship. Americans followed it with almost the same suspended breath as Russians followed the siege of Plevna; in any case, the newspapers transmitted the vicissitudes of the competition with such details as reports from before Plevna could never compare to; entire columns were devoted to telegraph correspondences from the scene of action in Ireland, and meanwhile every word over the ocean cable costs 75 cents, or by our rate, 1½ rubles. They are particularly fond of rowing races. The colleges annually hold competitions, and one must see the interest with which society follows them. The entire honor of the college depends on the success of its rowing competition. The college that wins the rowing competition is surrounded for a whole year by a certain special halo, and remarkably, society usually considers it to be the best in academic respects, and fathers strive to place their children in this college as a special honor. Indeed, the colleges themselves are very jealous in maintaining their honor and make admission of pupils contingent on a certain measure of their physical strength, a certain standard of chest width and thickness of the upper arm. If a pupil falls even one inch short of the established measure in chest and arms, then even if he be seven times a genius—he will not be admitted to the celebrated college. Wrestling competitions are also much loved—like the ancient gladiatorial ones, only healthy fists serve instead of swords. Wrestling is usually extremely fierce, as tens of thousands of dollars in bets often hang behind it; the wrestlers beat each other with brutal ferocity; a European’s heart sinks from horror, while blue-eyed American girls only wave their handkerchiefs with innocent jubilation and their cheeks burn with the fire of enjoyment. Very often one of the wrestlers, and sometimes both of them, are sent from the arena directly to the hospital, but in compensation their heads are abundantly crowned with victory wreaths from merciful ladies. A curious example of the Americans’ love for such entertainment, especially if a large dollar prize hangs behind it, was recently provided by a fortunate couple, the male half of which was blessed by fate with healthy fists. From South America there arrived here a celebrated fighter, possessed of “the healthiest fists in the entire southern hemisphere” of the earth and offered his services to lovers of this entertainment. A lover, naturally, was soon found, and they announced a victory bet of 15,000 dollars. An announcement found a monetary competitor, but there was no fighter yet. Then the tender half of the fortunate couple said to her sturdy half: “Dear Chali (a diminutive term of endearment for Charles), here is a good opportunity for you to make money: go and defeat him!” The sturdy half shrank a bit from the prospect, but what is stronger than love and money?—and Chali went into the arena. When on the arena he encountered before him the monstrous fists of his opponent, the courage of the poor fellow was ready to abandon him, and he would have done well to withdraw from the fight. Suddenly, at the most critical moment, a needed voice rang out from the balcony: “Be brave, dear Chali, and you will be victorious!” He raised his eyes and saw his tender half, who in her left hand held a victorious wreath for him, and in her right a tablet with a large inscription: “Fifteen thousand dollars!” This sight restored his courage; he rushed into battle, and half an hour later his opponent was lying on the floor, helplessly waving his healthiest-in-the-southern-hemisphere fists. Such is the power of woman and dollars.

In such a fist-fighting competition, one can certainly find some interesting features, but I once happened to attend a pedestrian competition: it is difficult to imagine anything more boring, and yet the Americans simply went mad with delight and jubilation. The competition had been announced with grand advertisements, and Americans by the thousands poured into an enormous hall to witness it and follow all its vicissitudes. “Were you at the pedestrian competition?” my American doctor acquaintance asks me. “Not yet, doctor.” “But how can that be?” the respected Aesculapius nearly exploded. “Why, this is the greatest competition in the world. Only in America will you see it. In your Russia nothing like it. Certainly, certainly go!” “I will, I will, doctor,” I said, pacifying the indignant Aesculapius. “Well, how did you like the pedestrian competition?” suddenly asks me a familiar Methodist pastor. “Forgive me, respected father, I have not yet been to the competition!” “You still haven’t been? My lord, you should be ashamed to say that. What a display of patience, of endurance! I simply order you to go. Otherwise you will never see anything like it!” the pastor boiled over. “Well, how is it you are not ashamed that you have not yet invited me to the pedestrian competition!” pretty lips said to me reproachfully. Here it was not so easy to get away as before, and I set out for this greatest competition in the world. An enormous hall, capable of holding up to 15,000 people, was filled with spectators. An orchestra played the favorite national songs ceaselessly; the people shouted and raved; a large gallery was filled with newspaper reporters; above, large moving figures showed the number of miles covered, and along a large circular line, like shadows, walked the unfortunate competitors—pedestrians. The competition was set for seven days, and this was already the fifth day. With almost no sleep and rest, the competitors walked this line day after day, spurred on by interested parties who had wagered tens of thousands of dollars. Some of the pedestrians seemed so exhausted that I was seized with the fear of being witness to their inhuman death. But the Americans only rejoiced and marveled; ladies waved their handkerchiefs and distorted their pretty mouths with cries, threw flowers, which the triumphant sufferers could not even muster strength to pick up. And the sufferers again strained their strength and quickened their barely-moving feet. There were seven competitors in all, and three of them daily covered almost a hundred miles. The victor turned out to be a young black man, who covered 602 miles in a week. As soon as the competition was announced finished, the poor fellow fell and instantly fell asleep, despite the enthusiastic roar of the ten-thousand crowd that acclaimed him as victor. It is fortunate that such murderous victory is not poorly rewarded. The black man received 17,000 dollars for this victory.

In this way and in many other ways our trans-Atlantic friends amuse themselves. Besides the “Knights of the Turtle” described above, in New York there are many other such knights, who on their annual holidays usually entertain the public with feats of buffoonery and comedy. Remarkably, the attitude of the press toward these comic festivals is notable. It does not scold them at all, much less hurl thunderbolts and lightning at the knights; on the contrary, it actively participates in them, and in the best newspapers you can usually read humorous descriptions of such buffoonish celebrations. This does not mean, however, that our friends are wholly pervaded by buffoonery. There is in them extraordinary liveliness and humor, which with cheerfulness quite naturally pass into careless childishness and buffoonery. In other cases they know how to “seriously” enjoy themselves, combining utility with pleasure. An example of such a combination of utility with pleasure can be the “philosophical school on the estate.” The Americans, as is known, are not particularly great lovers of philosophical abstract speculation. Pure profit is immeasurably more important to them than the boldest and most fruitful philosophical conclusions. There are, however, exceptions among them—people devoted with their whole soul to the interests of philosophical knowledge. Not being particularly original in their thinking, they, as true Americans, are original in the forms of expression of their love for philosophy. One of them, a wealthy American named Alcott, conceived a passionate desire to establish in America such a philosophical school as would be a complete reproduction of the ancient philosophical schools, where Socrates, Platos, and other luminaries of the ancient world philosophized. No sooner said than done. In the neighboring state of Massachusetts, distinguished for the most romantic beauties of nature, there is an insignificant little place called Concord. Its surroundings are so picturesque and healthy that every summer it is usually occupied by thousands of summer residents from all sides. Alcott decided to establish his philosophical school here. Last year he erected a magnificent building for an academy, invited professors, and opened lectures. At first the summer residents were shy of the academy, but gradually they began to develop a taste for it. Now the fame of the academy has spread throughout the entire country, and some come from thousands of miles to attend the lectures. And so the philosophical academy is now in full operation. Besides the regular professors, a multitude of amateur lecturers have come to deliver lectures, vying with one another to entertain the summer residents with the fruits of their philosophical speculation. Ladies, naturally, do not lag behind the gentlemen, and some of them also give lectures. During intermissions an orchestra plays music, and nearby there is “refreshment.” After the lectures the pupils and teachers scatter through the magnificent park and engage in private conversations on philosophical subjects. The noise of the forests and the splash of the surrounding waters lend a romantic character to these philosophical pleasures. The academy’s founder himself, already an eighty-year-old man, jumps about like a child with delight, seeing the realization of his long-cherished dream. The lecture course is two months long, limited also by the summer season.

Competitions among Americans often contribute to scientific and technical discoveries. This was confirmed by the example of the great American inventor Edison. As is known, before the great genius of this “king of inventors,” nature obediently opens its hidden treasures. Only in the matter of electric lighting did it prefer our Yablochkov, who reaped rich laurels. But those laurels turned the head of the “king of inventors” and gave him no peace. He withdrew to his laboratory and swore an oath: either never to come out of it, or to come out with such an electric lamp as would astound the world. For eighteen months Edison worked intensively on experiments in this field; there was no word or sign of him, and everyone had even begun to forget about the great inventor, when suddenly on Sunday, December 21 of last year, the cry rang through the city: a new great invention of the great man! The “Herald” appended to its Sunday issue a special sheet in which the electric lamp invented by Edison was described in detail, documentarily, with engravings and polytypies, as he had promised. The leading article loudly trumpeted that the great problem of how to cheaply, pleasantly, and safely light streets, churches, theaters, and homes had at last been genially solved. The news was so unexpected that the unprepared public could not form any more or less definite conception of its subject, and it produced a great impression only in the stock-exchange world, where shares of gas companies immediately plummeted into the abyss, from which shrewd people did not fail to extract considerable percentages. On the second and third days there were no explanations whatever of the new invention, and doubt began to creep into the soul: is this lamp not one of the numerous hoaxes that shrewd Yankees frequently launch for pure sport? But then reporters, these faithful servants of the newspapers and the public, helped clarify the matter. They scattered throughout the city and desperately knocked on the doors of the prominent physicists and technicians here, demanding admission for a voluntary examination. Woe to scientists here! They must expect every hour that a reporter will burst through their door and ask: what do you think about such-and-such a question? The well-known Professor Draper, to such a question from a reporter, only smiled in reply that, of course, Edison is a great man, but about his new invention, prior to its practical application, he could say nothing, and tried to quickly show the troublesome questioner out. Another professor, the celebrated technologist here Morton, known for his physical research, even warned the reporters in advance and sent his opinion to one of the newspapers, in which he protested against the proclamation of Edison’s experiments in the field of electric lighting as “miraculous success,” as “anyone familiar with the matter can predict with confidence his failure.”

Be that as it may, the representatives of science refused to give any positive explanation of the discovery that occupied everyone. Then the reporters began to besiege Edison’s laboratory itself, demanding further explanation from him. One of them relates the following about his visit to Edison’s “coal palace.”

After the usual knock on the door, the “king of inventors” himself met the reporter in his office—a man of small stature, squat gentleman with soiled hands—and kindly led him into his laboratory, from which the new sun for our planet was to emerge. “There is the lamp that has caused you so much trouble,” Edison said with a smile, pointing to his invention, and began to explain its features and secret. This lamp is a model of simplicity and economy. The light in the lamp is produced by means of a horseshoe-shaped piece of charred paper, about two and a half inches long and the thickness of a thread. This horseshoe is placed in a small glass bulb, from which air is drawn out as much as is possible with the means of science available, so that perhaps only one millionth part of it remains.

The inventor showed the practical application of his invention as well. He stood right under an ordinary gas chandelier, on which two of his lamps were burning. He took off one of them, and it turned out to be a simple glass bulb. He put it back on the socket, and immediately the brilliant horseshoe shone forth with a golden light, illuminating the bulb. Turning a screw in the lamp, Edison reduced the light to the degree of a spark, then turned it off completely, as one turns off gas, and then turned it on again, whereupon a magnificent flame appeared once more. From this one could see that the electric light in his laboratory obeyed his will, just as the gas light obeys the hands of those accustomed to handling it.