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

When the moon rose quite high and lighted up the shore, I saw from the distance the fishing benches; and my ear caught the chirruping of the same bird which had asked questions while I was walking with the American.

I went home with a full heart. Titus, my room mate, was lying on his bed, dressed and asleep. In his hand were some papers⁠—the poor fellow was expecting a reexamination⁠—and the lamp was burning on the table. He had evidently been waiting for me; but I had no wish to waken him; for I knew he would begin to talk and scare away my fancies; and I did not want to lose a particle of them. I crossed the room softly, looked a moment at the face of my poor Titus, worn out with cramming, whom I loved now more than ever; and taking the lamp, went to my table. Opening the window and letting the rustle of the bushes and the dreamy howl of a dog somewhere at Vyselki mingle with the snoring of Titus, I sat down at the table, and, for some time gave myself up to contemplating the impressions of the evening as they disposed themselves harmoniously in my mind. Then I began to write.

I had a friend living in the little country town where I had been at school. He was too poor to come to the capital; and too practical to start off at random. He had therefore for over a year, been fagging at lessons to scrape together the money he needed. That night, in my agitation, I, for some inscrutable reason, thought of him; and although we hardly ever corresponded, wrote him a long epistle. Afterwards, I had the opportunity of reading this letter. In effect it was a hymn in praise of student-life; opening out future vistas of young love, and lofty aspirations. All this I illustrated with fact, and with the vivid sensations which filled my heart. The result was a picture in which everything came out beautifully; everything! even Urmánov’s suffering was tinged with happiness. It was very cruel to send this tempting picture to my poor anchorite friend. He told me afterwards that he wept with rage in his room in the dead-alive little town; and was so rude to the headmaster that he nearly lost his situation.

As I finished writing, a gust of wind blew in at the window and scattered the leaves of paper about the floor. By this time, it was nearly daybreak; the dawn was shimmering through the window. The dog had long since left off barking; but I fancied that the bird by the lake was still repeating its questions. That, of course, was only fancy.

Raising the lamp above my head, I cast its light on the haggard face of my poor Titus. The light and the chilly air woke him and he looked at me.⁠ ⁠… I laughed; and he laughed too, without knowing why.

“Is it late?” he asked, looking round.

“It is morning. What do you think, Titushka, is it worth while living in the world?”

“Quite worth while, Gavrik; only this confounded chemistry⁠—” he added mournfully.

We both burst out laughing. Then we undressed, put out the light, and went to bed, still laughing. We left the window wide open, although the gust flew in and kept humming round our ears.

The autumn was late that year. Though all the leaves had fallen the earth was still warm. Even the latest of the summer visitors were gone, leaving warm days behind them. The park grew empty, bare and light. All its summer decorations lay like a russet carpet on the earth: and a warm, blue mist floated between the tree trunks, filled with the spicy scent of fallen leaves and damp earth. The dew dripped from the branches like quiet tears of farewell.

The General had long disappeared from our horizon, with his green shade, angry looks, mumbling speech and taciturn manservant. Latterly he had seldom been seen in the avenues of the park; and, when he did come out, moved feebly, his head shaking more than ever. His eyes stood out further and had a strange stony glare. But they expressed only helplessness; bodily sickness and general weariness of life. When I saw that expression, I involuntarily looked away, feeling within me a sort of dismal pity for the man.

Yes, I said to myself; but why did he demand a false oath and the breaking of a free bond? The fact is, however, that I felt the need of justifying to my own mind my former hatred of Ferapontyev.

The lectures were in full swing. I still felt almost a schoolboy’s delight in making the acquaintance of new professors and new subjects, and the beginning of a new term generally. The arranging of my notes, the life in a circle of comrades, the students’ meetings at which I felt myself a full-blown citizen in comparison with the crowd of freshmen⁠—all this absorbed me and for a time obscured the recollection of Urmánov and dimmed my interest in the tragedy of his life.

Then the first snow fell, and in such quantities that the porters had to clear paths to the Academy. In the park it lay in a smooth, even sheet, covering the clumps of trees, the stone staircase with its vases, the walks with their shrubs. Here and there the stalks of dead flowers stood out, and lumps of snow, like tufts of soft cotton-wool, covered the heads of the frozen asters. For the rest, the foggy sky, after unexpectedly shaking down this mass of snow, continued to breathe warmth upon the earth, and soon the snow began to melt. Water dripped from the trees; and all the air was full of that mysterious murmur which bespeaks the presence of warmth, soft weather, and tiny unseen streams.

That day, as I worked in the draughtsmen’s room, I saw from the window somebody who looked like Urmánov.