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

“A traveler said once that he served at the time of Empress Catherine and his name was Zakhar Grigoryevich⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, I heard of a man like that⁠ ⁠…”

The old man wanted to ask me something more, but at that moment the boy suddenly began to move about, and touched his sleeve.

Involuntarily, I, too, turned and looked at the top of the rock which stood on our bank of the Lena, near the curve of the river.

Until that moment the place seemed like a dark hole from which the fog was constantly creeping forth. Now, above the fog, on the rugged crown of the rock, the tops of pine trees and the crests of the rare, already naked larches suddenly loomed up. Breaking out from somewhere behind the mountains that stood on the opposite bank, the first ray of the rising sun had already touched this rock and the group of trees that were growing out of its cracks. The trees stood above the cold, blue shadows of our crevice, as though wrapped in clouds, and were glowing quietly, gladdened by the first caress of the morning.

We stood silent, gazing at that height as though afraid to frighten away the majestic and newfound joy of the lonely rock and of the cluster of larches. The boy stood perfectly still, holding on to the old man’s sleeve. His eyes were wide open, his pale face seemed more lively and shone with joy. In the meantime, on the height, something else trembled and throbbed, and another rock, which until that moment had been sunk in the enveloping, gloomy, bluish background of the mountains, flared up, and joined its shining beauty to that of the already lit-up group. Only a short while before they had been merged with the faraway slopes, but now they stood out boldly, and their background seemed even more distant, dusky, and somber.

The boy again touched his grandfather’s sleeve, and his face seemed entirely transformed. His eyes were sparkling, his lips smiling, and a pink glow seemed to be struggling to appear on his pale and yellow cheeks.

A change had also taken place on the opposite shore of the river. The mountains still concealed the rising sun, but the sky about them had grown light, and the outlines of the ridge stood out sharp and distinct with deep indentations between the rocks. Streams of milky white fog were creeping down the dark slopes of the peaks, as though they were seeking a darker and damper place⁠ ⁠… And above them the sky was already glowing with gold, and the rows of larches on the ridge stood out against this light background as sharply outlined, violet silhouettes. It seemed that something was moving about behind them, something joyful, full of life. A little cloud, all ablaze, flew from mountain to mountain and disappeared behind the neighboring peak. After it came another, and still another, a whole flock of them. Something gladsome and jubilant was taking place behind the mountains. The bottom of the gully between the two mountains shone brighter and brighter. It seemed that the sun was climbing up the other side of the ridge, up to its crown in order to glance into this wretched crevice, upon this dark river, on the lonely heights, on the old man and the pale boy who were awaiting its appearance.

At last it came. A few bright, golden rays burst out in the depths of the mountain-gap, breaking through the thick wall of trees. Sparks of light began to fall in clusters down into the ravines, tearing out of the bluish, cold dusk, now a separate tree, now the crown of a slate rock, now a small mountain meadow⁠ ⁠… Everything seemed to move under their light, rushing to sudden life. Groups of trees seemed to be running from place to place, the rocks sprang forward and then again disappeared in the gloom, the little clearings flared up and became extinguished again. The bands of mist moved about like snakes, ever faster and more excited.

Even the dark river became light for a few moments. The little waves rippling toward our shore lit up; the sand sparkled, and the boats and groups of men and horses near the watering place appeared black against it. The slanting rays glided over the wretched huts, reflected from their mica windows, then touched with a gentle caress the boy’s pale face, which beamed with rapture⁠ ⁠…

And in the break between the mountains a part of the sun’s disk was already moving forward, while on our side the whole bank of the river was bright and joyful, twinkling and sparkling with the many-colored play of the slate-layers and the green pine needles⁠ ⁠…

But it was a brief, brief caress of the morning. A few seconds more, and the bottom of the valley was again cold and blue. The river became dark again and rushed on in its somber channel, madly whirling in its eddies. The colors of the mica panes died away, the shadows rose higher and higher, the mountains drew the curtain of the monotonous, bluish dusk over their erstwhile variety of slopes. The lonely peak on our side still burned for a few seconds like a dying torch over dark mists. Soon it, too, died away. In the break between the mountains all the openings were closed, the trees again stood like a continuous band of mourning, and only a lagging cloudlet or two flew over them, cold and colorless⁠ ⁠…

“That’s all,” said the boy sadly. And looking up at his grandfather, with his sad and darkened eyes, he asked, “Won’t there be any more?”

“No, I guess not,” he answered. “You see for yourself that only an edge of the sun appeared. Tomorrow it will all be down below.”

“That’s all, brother!” shouted the teamster returning from the river. “Good morning, grandfather and grandson!”

Turning around, I saw that there were people in front of other huts too. The doors creaked as the people returned to