Short Fiction - Vladimir Korolenko (easy books to read in english txt) 📗

Still, as I examined the young vagrant’s energetic face, I could guess that he was somewhat eccentric. After a while, this face attracted me less than at first, though still it was a pleasant one. The expression of his dark eyes was thoughtful and intelligent; his features were strong, his manners easy, and in his voice one could distinguish the satisfied ambition of a proud nature. Only, at times, the lower part of his face twitched nervously, and his eyes grew dim. It seemed to require an effort to preserve this calm tone, beneath which a certain sadness, controlled by his will alone, made itself manifest in spite of him.

At first I could not account for it; but later I understood all. The habitual vagrant was deceived when he declared himself contented with his life, his house, his cow, his three-year-old ox, and the respect that was shown him. In his inmost soul, he was perfectly sure, although he tried to suppress the conviction, that this commonplace life, in a strange and unloved land, was not to his taste. From the depths of his heart arose a longing for the forest life⁠—that unknown, fascinating, and delusive vista already beckoning him. It was thus that I afterwards understood him.

At the moment, I only saw that, in spite of his outward calmness, something was tormenting and troubling him, and a longing was penned up in his soul that demanded an outlet. While I was busy with the samovar, Vasíli remained before the fireplace, thoughtfully gazing at the flames. When all was ready, I called him.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, rising. “I am much obliged for your kind hospitality. Ah!” he exclaimed, passionately, turning abruptly toward me, “would you believe me that when I saw your fire, my heart leaped, I assure you. I knew it was the fire of a Russian.

“It was cold and dark while I was riding through the fields; and whenever my horse saw the smoke of a yourt, he was inclined to turn in;⁠—of course, he is a Yakút beast, and does not know any better. But, for my part, I did not care to enter at haphazard, even though it were a comfortable yourt. To be sure, I could have warmed myself, and even have found some brandy⁠—but I did not care to do it. When I saw your fire, I thought to myself, This is the place where I should like to rest, if the master will but grant me leave. Thank you for allowing me to remain; and if you ever happen to come our way, do me the favor to call on me. I shall have the wherewithal to entertain you, and you will be most welcome.”

Having finished his tea, Vasíli seated himself before the fire. He could not go to bed as yet, for he had to wait for his horse to cool before he could feed it. The Yakút horse is not particularly heavy, but it has great powers of endurance. The natives use these horses to carry butter and other products to the remote mines, to the woods where the Tungus live, and to the distant Oochur,7 riding hundreds of versts through places where to obtain hay is out of the question. When they wish to camp, they shovel away the snow, make a fire, and drive the horses into the woods, where the intelligent creatures provide for themselves, nibbling last year’s grass from under the snow, and in the morning are again ready for another long expedition. The animal has, however, one peculiarity. It cannot be fed immediately on arriving from a journey or just before starting, and frequently a well fed horse goes without food for twenty hours or more before starting on a journey.

Vasíli had to wait three hours, and, as I did not feel inclined to go to bed myself, we sat chatting at intervals. Vasíli⁠—or Bagyláï, as he was in the habit of calling himself⁠—now and then added wood to the fire. This was a habit of his, which he had acquired during the long evenings of the Yakút Winter.

“Far away,” he suddenly exclaimed, after a prolonged silence, as if in answer to his own thoughts.

“What is far?” I asked.

“Our country, Russia.⁠ ⁠… Everything is so different here, whichever way you turn. Take, for instance, the cattle, or a horse. Our horses, after a long journey, are fed without delay; but if this one were to be fed now, it would die. Look at the people!⁠—They live in the woods, feed on horseflesh and raw meat; even carrion is not despised! It is shocking! They have no delicacy.⁠—If you open a tobacco-pouch in a yourt, immediately all stretch out their hands, like beggars, and you are obliged to share with them.”

“Well, that is their custom,” I replied. “They also give in their turn. They have helped to set you up.⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes. That is true.”

“Do you really feel satisfied with your life?” I asked, watching him closely.

He smiled enigmatically.

“With life⁠ ⁠…” he echoed, tossing another log into the fire. The flames lighted his face; his eyes looked dim.

“Well, sir, if I should begin to tell you!⁠ ⁠… I have seen very little good in my life, and little do I see now. Until my eighteenth year it was fairly pleasant, and I lived happily as long as I obeyed my parents. When I ceased obeying them, my life ended. Since that time, I cannot call it a life⁠—only a vain struggle.”

Shadows flitted across his face, and his lower lip trembled convulsively, like that of a child; he seemed to be living in imagination in the time when he “obeyed his parents.” He had become a child again, and, childlike, was ready to weep over his own ruined life.

Noticing that I was looking at him intently, he shook his head.

“It is of no use talking about it! Wouldn’t you like to hear how we escaped from the island of Saghálin?”

Of course, I eagerly assented;