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

the voice of freedom as expressed in the measureless expanse, in the woods, in the steppes, and in the ocean? If this so strongly appealed to me, how much more so to the vagrant, who had already tasted the poisoned cup of unsatisfied desire. He was still sleeping, while my excited imagination allowed me no rest. I cared nothing for the cause of his banishment, for his past life, or for his deeds since he ceased “to obey his parents.” In him I saw only a young life, full of strength, of energy, and of a passionate longing for freedom.⁠ ⁠… Whither, yes, whither?

In his scarce audible mutterings, I fancied I heard sighs. I forgot myself under the pressure of the unsolved question, and gloomy dreams hovered around me.⁠ ⁠… The evening sun had set, and all the sad, infinite world seemed plunged in gloomy thought. Heavy clouds hung overhead.⁠ ⁠… The horizon alone was illuminated by the last vestiges of the dying day, and somewhere, far, far away, under the shadow of the purple hills, flickered a light. What was it?⁠—the familiar flame on the hearth of the long-forsaken home, or a will-o’-the-wisp dancing over the darkness of a grave?

It was very late when at last I fell asleep.

IX

When I awoke it must have been about eleven o’clock. The rays of the sun streamed through the windows of the yourt, playing on the floor. The vagrant had departed. Having to go to the village on business, I harnessed my horse, and started in my little sleigh along the village street. It was a bright and comparatively warm day. The mercury may have stood at twenty degrees.16 But⁠ ⁠… everything in this world is relative; such weather as is usual in midwinter in other lands is regarded here as the first sign of spring. The clouds of smoke rising simultaneously from the chimneys did not remain stationary in immovable columns, as they do in severe frosts, but inclined to the west, and an east wind was blowing, bringing with it a warmer breeze from the Pacific Ocean.

The village was settled principally by banished Tartars, and, as it was a holiday, the streets presented an animated appearance. Gates creaked, sleighs issued forth, and tipsy riders were a common sight. The worshippers of Muhammad are not rigid observers of the laws of the Koran, and both riders and pedestrians at times described the most fantastic curves. Occasionally a startled horse would make a sudden leap, upsetting the sleigh, and tearing along the village street, while the owner, clinging obstinately to the reins, was dragged behind, raising a perfect cloud of snow. It might happen to anyone to lose control over a horse, or to fall out of the sleigh, but even in such critical circumstances it was considered a disgrace for a “true Tartar” to loose his hold of the reins.

A moment later, the straight, arrow-like street assumed an unusually bustling appearance. The riders kept close to the fences, the pedestrians fell back, and the gayly dressed women in their bright chadrys17 hurried their children into the houses. Interested spectators crowded the streets, and all eyes were turned in one direction. At the further end of the narrow street a group of riders appeared, and for the first time I saw the races, of which both Tartars and Yakúts are so fond. There were about five riders, galloping like the wind; and, as the group approached, I saw Bagyláï’s gray horse. With every stroke of his hoofs he increased the distance that separated him from the rest. A moment later, they had all passed me like a whirlwind.

The eyes of the Tartars glistened with fiendish excitement. As they rode by, they shouted, waving their hands and leaning backwards, sitting well back on their horses. Vasíli alone rode Russian fashion, bending closely to his horse’s neck, and occasionally giving a short, shrill whistle, that sounded like the lash of a whip. His gray horse was straining every nerve, cutting the air like a flying bird.

The sympathy of the crowd was, as usual, with the victor.

“Well done!” cried the delighted spectators; and the old horse-thieves, passionate lovers of such sport, bobbed up and down, clapping their hands on their knees, as they beat time to the galloping of the horses.

As Vasíli returned on his foam-flecked horse, he overtook me halfway up the street. His outstripped rivals were far behind.

The vagrant’s face looked pale, but his eyes glowed with excitement; it was evident that he had been drinking.

“I’m on a spree,” he shouted, waving his hat as he bowed.

“That’s no affair of mine.”

“Well, don’t get angry. I can drink and yet keep my wits about me. By the way, do not give up my saddlebags under any pretext whatsoever⁠—not even to me, if I should ask for them.⁠—You understand?”

“I understand,” I coolly replied. “Only, please don’t visit me when you are drunk.”

“You need have no fear; I shall not come,” he said, as he gave his horse a cut with the end of the rein. The horse snorted, reared, and sprang forward a few yards. Vasíli curbed him, exclaiming:⁠—

“Look at my horse! He is worth his weight in gold. I bet on him! Did you see him go? Now the Tartars will give me whatever I ask for him, without doubt, because they passionately adore a good horse.”

“Why do you sell him? What will you have to work with?”

“I can’t help it; it’s fate!”

Again he lashed the horse and curbed him in.

“To tell the truth, ’tis because I have met a comrade here; I will give up everything. Look, my dear fellow, do you see that Tartar on the roan horse, coming this way? Here!” he called out to the Tartar, “Akhmétka, come here!”

The roan horse, arching his neck and prancing, trotted up to my sleigh; the rider took off his hat and bowed, smiling. I looked at him with curiosity.

Akhmétka’s mischievous face was wreathed in a