Short Fiction Vladimir Korolenko (best motivational novels .TXT) 📖

I do; he used to be my stárosta in N⁠⸺. I think his name was Fedót.’

“ ‘That’s me, your honor. Come out, boys; this is our father.’

“Whereupon we all came forth.

“ ‘Can it be possible that your honor has come to arrest us? We can’t believe it.’

“ ‘I pitied you, for being such fools. How very clever, to build a fire directly opposite the town!’

“ ‘We were wet, your honor; it rained.’

“ ‘R-a-i-n-e-d! And yet you pretend to call yourselves vagrants. You’ll not melt. You may thank your stars that I came out on the porch to smoke my pipe before the isprávnik returned. If he had seen your fire, he would have found a dry place for you! you are not very shrewd, boys, even if you did get the better of Saltánof, rascals that you are! Now, make haste, put out the fire and get away from here, into the valley; you may build ten fires there if you like, you scoundrels!’

“So the old gentleman scolded, while we stood around him, listening smilingly. Finally he stopped, and said:⁠—

“ ‘Now, listen to what I have to tell you. I have brought you some bread and three bricks of tea, and all I ask of you is to remember old Samárof kindly; and if you are lucky enough to escape, one of you may chance to go to Tobólsk⁠—if so, put a candle before my patron saint in the cathedral. I shall probably die here⁠—it is my home, and, besides, I am getting old; but still I often think of my own country. Well, goodbye; and take another piece of advice⁠—divide yourselves into small parties. How many are there of you?’

“ ‘Eleven,’ we replied.

“ ‘Who could help calling you fools! Probably by this time they have heard all about you at Irkútsk, and yet you still travel in a body!’

“After the old gentleman got into the boat and left us, we moved farther away into the valley, boiled our tea, made the chowder, and, taking the old man’s advice, we divided the provisions and separated.

“Dáryin and I kept together, Makárof went with the Circassians, the Tartar joined the two vagrants, and the remaining three formed another party. From this time forth we never met again. I do not know whether my former comrades are dead or alive. I have heard that the Tartar was sent here, but I don’t know whether it is true.

“That same night, just before dawn, Dáryin and I crept past Nikoláevsk. Only one dog barked, from a house in the outskirts.

“By sunrise, having travelled ten versts through the woods, we drew near the road, and, hearing the jingling of a bell, crouched behind the bushes, and saw the isprávnik driven by in a post-cart. He was wrapped in a greatcoat, and was dozing. Dáryin and I made the sign of the cross. What a mercy that he was out of town the previous night! He may have gone out in pursuit of us.”

VIII

The fire on the hearth had died out; but the yourt was still as warm as an oven. The ice on the windows was melting, and we came to the conclusion that it must be growing warmer outside, for in severe frosts the ice does not melt even from the inside, no matter how warm the yourt may be. Hence we did not replenish the fire, and I went out to close the chimney.

I found that the fog had disappeared and the air had grown softer. In the north, over the brow of the dark, heavily wooded hills, rose faint, fleecy clouds, hurrying swiftly across the sky. One might imagine an invisible giant gently sighing in the dark, cold night; his broad chest pouring forth its steaming breath, to be wafted across the sky and vanish at last in the blue ether. There was a faint playing of the Northern Lights.

Yielding to its melancholy witchery, I stood pensively upon the roof, watching the ever changing rays. The night showed forth in all its cold and dreary beauty. Overhead, the stars were glimmering, while the snowy shroud below gradually faded away in the dim distance. The forest looked like a long black comb, and the distant hills took on a pale blue tinge. This cold and silent picture filled my soul with a gentle sadness, and through the air, in soft vibrations, the words, “Far! so far!” seemed echoing in a minor chord.

When I returned into the hut, I could tell by the steady, regular breathing of the vagrant that he was asleep. I also tried to sleep, but could not, owing to the effect his exciting tale had produced upon me. At times, when sleep nearly overtook me, it would seem as if he purposely tossed and rolled, softly muttering in his sleep. His deep chest-tones dispelled my drowsiness, and in my fevered imagination arose the panorama of his Odyssey. Then, again, forgetting where I was, it seemed as though the boughs of the larch and the cedar waved overhead. I fancied myself gazing from a high cliff, and saw, in the ravine below, the white houses of the outposts, over which a mountain-eagle soared majestically. In fancy I wandered farther and farther from the hopeless gloom of my small yourt. A fresh breeze seemed to fan my brow, and in my ears echoed the faint murmur of the ocean. The sun was setting, and in the gathering darkness my boat rocked gently on the rippling straits. I was deeply excited by the story of the young vagrant.

What an impression this vagrant epic must make when told in the stifling atmosphere that fills the four walls of convict prison barracks. And what was there in this story, I asked myself, that made such an impression upon my whole being? It was not the difficulties overcome on the way, nor the sufferings endured, nor that “vagrant homesickness”; but it was the incomparable poetry of liberty. And why was it that I heard only