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

all around me was moving, talking, bustling, and dancing, I did not feel as lonely as before. The ice windows, through which, but one moment before, the frosty night had peered, now sparkled like gems, reflecting the flames. I comforted myself by thinking that my yourt alone, like a small volcano in the midst of this cold, dreary night, was pouring out a torrent of fiery sparks, flickering spasmodically in the air, amidst volumes of white smoke.

Motionless as a statue, the dog sat gazing at the fire. From time to time he turned his head, and in his intelligent eyes I could read the expression of love and gratitude. A heavy tramp was heard outside; yet he did not stir, contenting himself with a complacent whine. He knew that these were only our horses, that had been standing somewhere under a fence, and now had come to the yourt, and were watching the sparks fly merrily upward, and the broad ribbon of warm smoke. Suddenly the dog reluctantly turned from the fire, and growled, and the next moment bounded to the door. I let him out, and, from his accustomed post on the roof, he began barking furiously. I looked out of the doorway; apparently, the lonely traveller whose approach I had previously heard through the sensitive silence of the frosty night had been attracted by my cheerful fire. He had taken down the bars of the gate, so as to make a passageway for his heavily laden horse.

I was not expecting anyone of my acquaintances. A native would hardly have come so late; and if he had, he would have known where his friends lived, and would not have turned in at the first fire. “Therefore,” I said to myself, “this can only be some settler.” Generally, we were not anxious to see such company; but now any man was welcome. I knew that shortly the bright light of the fire would grow dim, the flames indolently and slowly enveloping the charred logs; that still later only a heap of coals would remain, with the whispering fiery snakes gliding amongst them, more and more slowly, and finally silence and darkness would reign supreme in the yourt, and again would my heart be filled with sorrow. The faint spark in the ashes would glimmer like a half-closed eye, peering out once or twice, and then dropping to sleep. And once more I should remain alone;⁠ ⁠… alone in the long, endless, and dreary night.

The thought of spending the night under the same roof with a man whose past might possibly be stained with blood did not enter my head. Siberia teaches one to find the man in the murderer; and although a more intimate acquaintance saves one from idealizing “the unfortunate” who has broken locks, stolen horses, or crushed his neighbor’s skull on a dark night, still, such an acquaintance gives one a chance to study the complicated springs of human motives.

One learns what to expect of a man. A murderer is not always employed in murdering. He lives and feels like other men, and like them he is grateful to those who shelter him from frost and storm. But whenever I chanced to make a new acquaintance among these folk, particularly if he happened to be the owner of a saddle-horse, with well filled saddlebags hanging on either side, then the question concerning the ownership of the horse, as well as that of the contents of the bags, called forth certain suspicions, and aroused speculation as to the means and ways of their acquirement.

The heavy horsehair-covered door of the yourt opened towards the inclined wall, a wave of steam followed, and a stranger entered, and approached the fireplace. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and well built. One could perceive, at the first glance, that he was not a Yakút, although he was dressed like one.

He wore soft boots, made of pure white horsehide; the wide sleeves of his Yakút fur coat rose in folds over his ears; his head and neck were protected by a large shawl, the ends of which were tied around his waist. This, as well as his Yakút hat, the top of which alone was visible, was thickly covered with frozen snowflakes.

The stranger went up to the fire, and with his benumbed fingers untied the shawl and the leather straps of his hat. When he had thrown them back, I saw the fresh, young face of a man of thirty. His large features were stamped with that peculiar expression that I have often noticed on the faces of the stárostas4 of convict artels, as well as on those of all men whose authority is recognized in their sphere, but who still feel obliged to be on their guard with strangers. His expressive, glancing, black eyes and his protruding jaw betrayed a passionate nature. The vagrant5 (for I judged, from a certain slight, but unmistakable sign, that my guest belonged to this class) was well used to controlling his passions. Only a slight nervous tremor of the lower lip, and the twitching of the muscles of the face at times, betrayed the intensity of some inward struggle.

Fatigue, the frosty night, and perhaps an indefinable sadness which the traveller felt as he rode through this impenetrable fog, had somewhat softened the sharp outlines of his face and stamped their impress on his brow and in his dark eyes so full of pathos. His aspect was in harmony with my present feelings, and awakened in me an unaccountable sympathy. Without further divesting himself of his wraps, he leaned against the chimney and took a pipe out of his pocket.

“How do you do, sir!” he said, knocking his pipe on the corner of the hearth, and at the same time scanning me with a swift yet searching glance.

“How do you do!” I replied, also looking at him with curiosity.

“I beg your pardon, sir, for intruding thus. I only want to warm