Short Fiction - Vsevolod Garshin (my miracle luna book free read .TXT) 📗

read the addresses as the moonlight was not bright enough to admit of such satisfaction. A photograph was wrapped up with the letters. Vassili Petrovich turned it straight to the light of the moon, and endeavoured to look at the well-known features. “Oh, my darling Lise!” he murmured almost out loud, and sighed, not without a feeling of pleasure. Lisa was his fiancée, whom he had left behind in Petersburg, waiting until Vassili Petrovich should accumulate the thousand roubles which the young couple deemed necessary before setting up house.

Heaving a sigh, he hid the photograph and letters in the left side-pocket of his coat, and commenced to dream of his future married life. And these dreams were even more pleasurable than those about the statesman who was to come and thank him for the good seed sown in his heart.

The sea fumed far away below him and the wind became fresher. The English steamer had disappeared from the strip of moonlight which was shining with a brilliancy melting into a thousand shimmering soft lights, and stretching far away over a seemingly endless expanse of water. Vassili Petrovich was loath to rise from his seat, to tear himself away from this picture and to return to the stifling atmosphere of the little room in the hotel at which he was stopping. However, it was now late, so he got up and went along the boulevard.

A gentleman in a light suit of greyish alpaca and a straw hat with a muslin pugaree (the summer costume of the local beaux), rose from a bench as Vassili Petrovich passed, and said:

“Can you give me a light?”

“With pleasure,” replied Vassili Petrovich.

The red glow of the flame lit up a familiar face.

“Nicolai, my good chap. Is it you?”

“Vassili Petrovich?”

“The same.⁠ ⁠… Ah, how glad I am! I never thought of this, never dreamt of it!” said Vassili Petrovich, embracing his friend heartily. “What fate has brought you here?”

“That’s simply explained⁠—my work. And you?”

“I have been sent here as teacher in the gymnasium. I have only just arrived.”

“Where are you staying? If at an hotel, come along with me. I am glad to see you. You can scarcely have any acquaintances here? Come with me, we will have some supper and talk over old times.”

“Yes, let us,” assented Vassili Petrovich. “I shall be delighted. I came here as if into a wilderness⁠—and suddenly this happy meeting. ‘Izvoschik!’ ” he called.

“Don’t; there is no need to call an izvoschik,” said Vassili’s friend, as he in turn called out “Sergei,” and a smartly turned out koliaska drove up to the kerb. The friend jumped in, but Vassili Petrovich remained standing on the pavement, and looked with bewilderment at the carriage, the black horses, and the portly coachman.

“Kudriasheff, are the horses yours?”

“Mine, mine. What? You didn’t expect it?”

“Wonderful.⁠ ⁠… Can it be you?”

“Well, who else if not me? But get in, and we will talk afterwards.”

Vassili Petrovich got in, sat himself by the side of Kudriasheff, and the koliaska rolled over the cobbles. Vassili Petrovich, as he sat comfortably on the soft cushions, smiled. “What does it mean?” he thought. “Not long ago Kudriasheff was the poorest of students, and now⁠—a koliaska!” Kudriasheff, stretching out his legs, placed them on the seat opposite, said nothing, but smoked his cigar. In five minutes’ time the carriage stopped.

“Well, friend, we have arrived. I will show you my humble abode,” said Kudriasheff, stepping down and helping Vassili Petrovich to get out of the carriage.

Before entering his “humble abode,” the guest cast a glance at it. The moon was behind it, and did not light it up, so that he was only able to note that the “abode” was a one-storied building with some ten or twelve large windows. A portico with spiral columns picked out with gold hung over a heavy wooden door, in which was inserted a looking-glass. The handle was of bronze in the form of a bird’s claw, which held an irregularly shaped piece of crystal. And a shining brass plate, bearing the owner’s name, was affixed to the door.

“Your ‘humble abode,’ Kudriasheff! It is a palace,” said Vassili Petrovich, as they entered the hall with its oak furniture and polished black fireplace. “Is it really your own?”

“No, my dear chap, I haven’t got to that yet. I rent it. It is not expensive⁠—one thousand five hundred roubles.”

“One thousand five hundred roubles!” gasped Vassili Petrovich.

“It is better to pay one thousand five hundred roubles than to spend capital which will give far higher interest if not converted into real estate. Yes, and it means a lot of money if you really build, not like this trash.”

“Trash!” exclaimed Vassili Petrovich perplexedly.

“Yes, the house is nothing grand. But come along.⁠ ⁠…”

Vassili Petrovich hurriedly took off his overcoat and followed his host. The general style in which the house was furnished gave him fresh food for amazement. A whole series of lofty rooms with parquet floors and expensive wallpapers with patterns of gold. The dining-room was furnished in oak with crude models of birds hanging on the wall, an enormous carved sideboard, and a large round dining-table, which was flooded with light thrown from a hanging bronze lamp ornamented with a dead white shade. In the lounge there was a grand piano, a quantity of furniture of all kinds⁠—sofas, stools, chairs, etc. Expensive prints and villainous oleographs hung on the walls in gilded frames. The drawing-room had the customary silk upholstered furniture, and was crowded with numberless unnecessary things. It gave the impression that the owner had suddenly become wealthy⁠—had won two hundred or three hundred thousand roubles⁠—and had hurriedly furnished his house on a lavish scale. All had been purchased at one time, and purchased not because it was wanted, but because the money was burning his pocket, and found an outlet in the purchase of a grand piano, on which, so far as Vassili Petrovich knew, Kudriasheff could only play with one finger; of