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

church the candles burned out one after the other. The pilgrims scattered. Little groups of men and women stood at the door of the guesthouse of the monastery, until the guest-master should grant admission to those who desired lodging. A fat monk and two lay brothers came out on the porch and began to divide the sheep from the goats. The sheep entered the door; the goats were driven off and, muttering, made their way to the gates. At the end of this operation, there remained by the entrance a group of Mordvin women and a wanderer. Apparently, their fate had already been decided by the guest-master who reentered the building.

In a moment the lay brothers came out, counted the women and admitted them to the women’s apartments. The older lay brother walked up to the solitary stranger and said with a bow:

“Forgive me, for Christ’s sake, Brother Varsonofy.⁠ ⁠… The guest-master will not permit you to stay here.⁠ ⁠… Go in peace.”

A sick smile passed over the face of the young wanderer and I was surprised by its peculiar, dramatic, and significant character. The man’s face was also worthy of notice: hump-nosed, thin, and with large, glowing eyes. A pointed hat and a hardly noticeable, but pointed, beard gave the man an unusual appearance. The whole dry figure dressed in an old cassock, with a thin neck and a strong profile, attracted your attention, even against your will. The impression which it produced was clear, alarming and disturbing.

When he heard the words of the lay brother, the stranger bowed and said:

“God will save and for this.⁠ ⁠…”

As he turned to go, he suddenly staggered. He was clearly sick and extremely tired. The good-hearted lay brother looked at him and hesitated.

“Wait, Brother Varsonofy.⁠ ⁠… I will try again.”

The stranger rested on his staff and waited expectantly. But in a moment the brother again came out and, walking up with some embarrassment, said with evident pity:

“No, he won’t allow it.⁠ ⁠… Father Nifont told him that a stranger⁠ ⁠… like you⁠ ⁠… speaks badly⁠ ⁠… disturbs the people.”

The stranger’s face showed how he felt. His eyes flashed, as if he were about to speak, but he bowed and said:

“Thank you, fathers.⁠ ⁠…”

And he wearily went from the door.

The lay brother looked at me questioningly. I knew that he was about to shut the gate and so I went to the outer court. This was already empty. The young man who sold kalaches64 for the monastery was behind his stand, but no one came to it.

The porter closed one gate behind me and then, pressing with his feet, he started to close the second. Just then a scuffle was heard within the gate, the tramping of several pairs of feet; the opening again widened and in it appeared an ill-favored figure in a pilgrim’s costume, reddish and faded. A rough, hairy hand held it by the collar and directed its involuntary movements. A vigorous push.⁠ ⁠… The stranger flew off several paces and fell. One wallet and then another sailed after him.⁠ ⁠… A small book in a worn leather binding fell out in the mud and its leaves commenced to blow in the wind.

“Look here,⁠ ⁠…” said a deep, bass voice behind the gate. “Don’t quarrel.⁠ ⁠…”

“What’s the matter?” asked the porter.

“Why, this,” answered the bass voice. “Because of him the guest-master sinned⁠ ⁠… turned a man away.⁠ ⁠… And he’s a good man. Oh! Oh!⁠ ⁠… a real sin.⁠ ⁠…”

The speaker went away. The porter shut the gate, but not quite completely; curiosity mastered him and his little eyes, his fat nose, and his light mustache could be seen through the crack. He was following with manifest interest the further actions of the rejected wanderer.

The latter quickly rose, gathered up his wallets, put one on his back, and threw the other over his shoulder. Then, picking up the book, he carefully began to clean the mud off of it. Looking around the court, he caught sight of me and of the kalach-seller. A group of peasants were watching the little drama from the outer gates of the square. Deliberately the stranger assumed an air of dignity, and, with the most demonstrative devotion, he kissed the binding of the book and made a sarcastic bow toward the inner gates.

“I thank you, holy fathers. As ye have received the stranger and fed the hungry.⁠ ⁠…”

Suddenly noticing in the crack of the gate the mustache and nose of the porter, he said in a different tone:

“What are you looking at? Did you recognize me?”

“I thought⁠ ⁠… yes⁠ ⁠… I thought you were familiar,” said the porter.

“Of course, of course!⁠ ⁠… We’re old friends! We ran off together to the Mordvin women of Sviridov.⁠ ⁠… Do you remember now?”

The porter spat loudly and angrily, closed the gate, and threw the bolt. But his feet, with their rough boots, could still be seen beneath the gate.

“Don’t you remember Fenka, father?”

The feet disappeared as if ashamed.

The stranger straightened his muddy cloak and again looked around. Attracted by the unusual conversation, some six peasants had strolled towards the gate. They were the nearest neighbors to the monastery, Old Believers from the villages in the vicinity, who had come to the bazaar with an air of indifferent and even hostile curiosity. Despite its influence at a distance, the monastery was surrounded by a ring of the “most venomous” sectarians, as the monks expressed it. The inhabitants of the region were positive that in the near future the monastery would be threatened with the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah. But still it continued and attracted thousands of people to its festivals. On such days the figures of the Old Believers furnished a grim contrast to the rejoicing multitudes and their faces reflected their hostility and disgust. Like the Prophet Jonah, they murmured because the Lord delayed in inflicting the promised doom upon the accursed Nineveh.

They were now watching with malevolent curiosity the scene which was being enacted at the door of the dishonorable habitation.

“What’s the matter? They won’t let him in, I see,⁠ ⁠…” one