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

deacon pursed his thick lips, rolling out a tremendous octave, with an air as if that were nothing to what he could do at a real grand wedding. The clerk scrambled through his part in a shuffling way.

I was carelessly watching the smoke of the curling incense, and my thoughts were wandering to other things: to the Volga, to the steamer that was passing somewhere between the hills, to the girl-cashier, when suddenly my ear caught a whispered conversation among a group of students.

“Indeed, I believe it is true.”

“What?” asked another voice.

“Why, they say Urmánov is over head and ears in love with his bride! Just look how white he is.”

I woke up. What was this? What was happening? What were they talking about?

The cloud of blue smoke, curling upward, streamed through a yellow ray of sunlight which shone in at the window. Through the smoke I could see the wedding wreath, trembling above Urmánov’s head in the tired hand of the student who acted as groomsman. The priest joined the hands of bride and bridegroom, the echo of the deacon’s octave died away somewhere high up under the arches, and a chorus of children’s voices rang out in the choir.

The general tapped with his stick, and as he glanced gleefully round looking very like a turkey-cock, I thought him disgusting. What was there for him to be so pleased about, so proud of? He, who himself believed in the significance of the ceremony which had just been performed; and why did he force these two people into acting a lie?

I left the church, and at the door I looked back. The newly wedded pair were being led round the lectern. The American bit her lip, and her gray eyes had a look of obstinate determination. Urmánov, pale and grave, walked beside her, stepping carefully, and looking dubiously at the bride’s gorgeous dress, as if to tread upon it would be for him the most terrible of misfortunes.

IX

Ten days passed. The students came back from the vacation, and the throng of summer visitors began to diminish. The General fell ill and discontinued his walks in the park. The newly married pair took a separate villa. The mock “honeymoon” was still going on, as the money was not forthcoming, and they began to fear some unexpected step on the part of the old man⁠—that he had possibly an unpleasant surprise in store for them.

At the same time Urmánov received visits from his fellow-students, and invited me, among others. The “young couple” led a gay life, rowing, driving, walking, giving and receiving many visits, so as to remain alone as little as possible. A feeling of youthful shyness withheld me from accepting my comrade’s invitation.

One evening I came upon Urmánov and his wife in one of the sidepaths⁠—quite unexpectedly. He was sitting on a bench and she standing before him, as if asking him to walk on but he took no notice; and remained motionless. His hat was tilted a little backwards, his head flung in the same direction, his lips were parted, and his face wore an expression which did not belong to it and which was not pleasant to see. I had only once before seen him with that look⁠—during a discussion at a students’ meeting. The man with whom he was arguing was unpleasant, but clever, and remarkably self-contained. Urmánov grew excited; his personal dislike to his opponent made itself evident both in his manner and his language. It chanced, however, that his antagonist was in the right, and he had no difficulty in refuting Urmánov’s arguments. On the other hand, it was plain that it pleased him to have roused the devil in Urmánov whom he still further irritated by jokes and sarcasms. It was as if there awoke in Urmánov some petty, evil, malicious imp which would otherwise have slumbered in the depths of his fiery yet lovable nature. His eyes glowed, his face was distorted, he lost his self-control, denied manifest truths, unceremoniously turned his back on his own principles, well knowing he was in the wrong, and that his friends knew it likewise; all of which made him more frantic than ever. The audience who were usually carried away by his ardor and sincerity, turned against him and burst into peals of ironical laughter, whereupon Urmánov fell more and more completely under the dominion of his baser self, against which he could no longer struggle.

For several days afterwards he was low-spirited and seemed ashamed of himself.

Now his countenance wore the selfsame expression. As I drew near he left off speaking and looked me straight in the face with frankly malignant eyes. He watched me, as if he were counting my steps and waiting impatiently for me to go by; there was something obstinately defiant and cynical as well in his attitude as his appearance.

I felt very uncomfortable, and not wanting to disturb him, quickened my pace as I passed the bench.

“Mr. Gavrilov!” cried suddenly the American lady.

I started in surprise, and stopped short.

“Did I startle you? Forgive my speaking to you without being introduced; but what does it matter? We have known each other a long time.⁠ ⁠… Where are you going?”

“Yes, certainly,” I stammered in confusion. “I⁠ ⁠… was going⁠ ⁠… to fish.”

“Really? How nice! You have two lines, take me with you. Will you? And he can wait here on the bench” (pointing to her companion).

“I⁠ ⁠… I⁠ ⁠… with pleasure.”

“Come along, then. Where were you going? Not far? All right, come.”

Her voice, at first undecided and seemingly confused, was now firm, even slightly mocking. I gave her a line and, flinging it across her shoulder, she walked on beside me.

Not far off were two benches for fishers. Slightly lifting her skirt, she mounted lightly on to the plank, and threw her line with a bold toss.

“Wait,” I said apologetically. “You must have a bait.”

“Why, of course I must!” she answered laughing. “I actually forgot the bait. Will you put it on, please?”

I put on