Short Fiction by Vladimir Korolenko (ready player one ebook TXT) 📕

at chess with Urmánov, the snow lay thick. There was not a single track to the house, which looked terribly bleak and cold, and only a single pine-tree hard by the wall beat one of its boughs against the window. I leaned on the fence, and for a long while stood looking at this desolate, inhospitable dwelling.

Quite near, there shone through the trees, the lighted windows of a large villa, through which I could see a throng of dark shapes standing close together. I had but to turn my head, and, instead of the General’s empty villa, I saw the lighted house where she was. The contrast awoke within me a strange feeling. From one side gazed on me memories filled with the cold of death; on the other was a crowd of young life, and talk of life. And there, too, was she whom I both loved and feared.⁠ ⁠… I broke into a laugh. The fantastic idea occurred to me that the people in the large house were praying⁠ ⁠… perhaps to man, perhaps to idols, but still praying.⁠ ⁠… And yet the little villa was telling me that there is nothing in this world to pray to.⁠ ⁠…

I stood a long time, as it were, under some strange spell. At last, I tore myself away, and went slowly to the large house, stopping occasionally to look back.

The hall was hung round with overcoats; and traces of snowy boots were visible on the floor. Some of the men had made seats of their coats and were talking in low voices. But most of them were gathered in the large room. The air was full of smoke, the room faintly lighted with a single lamp; and at first I could see only a mass of heads, all turned in the same direction⁠—towards somebody who was reading aloud in a clear yet somewhat harsh and pedantic voice.

Before I had time to look round a young girl came forward from near one of the windows. She took me by the hand and whispered in my ear:⁠—

“Why are you so late?”

I made no answer.

“Come here⁠ ⁠… as we used to.”

She led me through a side passage into the host’s bedroom. Here sat only the Sokolovs and Chernov. Sokolov sat with folded hands, his rough, serious face turned towards the open door. As I entered, Madame Sokolov exchanged glances with Chernov, who moved nearer the door.

“Sit down here,” said Tonia. “Now, hush! listen.”

We sat on a chest, as in the old days. Tonia seemed pleased at this; but for a whole quarter of an hour she did not once turn towards me. A ray of light from the next room fell on her face, which wore a look expressive of intense and earnest attention. As I watched her eager eyes and parted lips, I realized that this matter was for her not one of curiosity merely, but the turning-point of an important question. So I began to listen carefully to what was being read. But though I heard I found it amazingly difficult to understand. In addition to the thoughts which for some time past had occupied my mind there was room in it for Tonia. I could still think of her without much effort. I realized that I was sitting beside her; everything else, however, was far away, and it gave me great trouble to piece together the separate ideas contained in the pamphlet which was being read.

It concerned the irredeemable debt of the educated classes to the people; told how this debt must needs go on growing; and insisted on the pressing necessity of a solution of the question.⁠ ⁠… The reading ceased. There was a slight rustle and some coughing in the room; then silence. The whole company waited for one of the habitual orators to speak; but the silence continued longer than usual.

Suddenly, to my great surprise, the voice of Titus broke the stillness:⁠—

“Allow me, friends⁠ ⁠… I should like to read to you.⁠ ⁠… Zaitzev writes⁠ ⁠…”

He spoke so easily that I was amazed.

“No, no! we don’t want it,” interrupted several voices; “we know⁠ ⁠…”

“No; but why? Allow me.”

“You must let him have his say.”

“Well, but look here, friends, he is wandering from the point⁠ ⁠…”

“Let the man have his say, then,” broke in the harsh voice of the reader; “but of course no sense will come of it; all the same, let him ring his chime out, and come down from the steeple!”

Titus found a marked place in the book, and read aloud a short quotation, then passed to the subject of the former reading. No one interrupted him. Besides our own set, there were in the room a number of Moscow students; and they took his part. I observed several attentive faces. It was, however, evident that no one could make out what the quotation from Zaitzev had to do with the matter under discussion; and many looked forward with interest to his explanation. But Titus’s speech was incoherent and incomprehensible. Why he quoted Zaitzev passed my comprehension; nevertheless, I did not find his observations utterly devoid of meaning. When he spoke of the people, I remembered our old Markelych, the corridor philosopher and veteran of the days of Nicholas, who was bound to Titus by ties of mutual sympathy. But at the meeting there reigned quite a different ideal of the people; it was the historical people, the people of folk-songs, the creators of the village commune. In addition to this, Titus got entangled in his talk; and, fearing to be interrupted, hurried on, and became still worse confused.

“There! Shut up!” said somebody.

“No, no; let me finish!” cried Titus, in an injured tone.

The comparative ease with which he had spoken, and the attention of his audience, had slightly turned his head.

“No, no! We won’t have it! Shut up; we have had enough.”

On this, the proceedings became uproarious. Titus shouted, but his voice was drowned in the increasing din. We could hear laughter, and, from the further corner, peculiar exclamations of the schoolboy sort.

“Every time the same