Short Fiction, Vladimir Korolenko [finding audrey TXT] 📗

stood out clearly above the mysterious mist, gleaming like a torch over dark blue valleys. The son of Cronos, the thunderer, was no longer enthroned upon it, and the other Olympians too were gone.

Socrates stood alone in the light of the sun under the high heavens.

Ctesippus was distinctly conscious of the pulse-beat of a mysterious life quivering throughout nature, stirring even the tiniest blade of grass.

A breath seemed to be stirring the balmy air, a voice to be sounding in wonderful harmony, an invisible tread to be heard⁠—the tread of the radiant Dawn!

And on the illumined peak a man still stood, stretching out his arms in mute ecstasy, moved by a mighty impulse.

A moment, and all disappeared, and the light of an ordinary day shone upon the awakened soul of Ctesippus. It was like dismal twilight after the revelation of nature that had blown upon him the breath of an unknown life.

In deep silence the pupils of the philosopher listened to the marvellous recital of Ctesippus. Plato broke the silence.

“Let us investigate the dream and its significance,” he said.

“Let us investigate it,” responded the others.

Lights

A long time ago, on a dark autumn evening, I happened to be going in a boat up a gloomy Siberian river. Suddenly, beyond a bend of the river, a tiny speck of light flashed ahead, at the foot of some dark mountains.

It flashed brightly, clearly, as though it were very near⁠ ⁠…

“Thank God!” said I joyfully. “Now we are near a place to spend the night.”

The man at the oars glanced at the light over his shoulder, and then resumed his apathetic strokes.

“It’s far away.”

I did not believe him. The light seemed to be so close by, standing out against the vague darkness. But the oarsman was right; the light was really far away.

What a peculiar property do these night lights possess! They approach you ever so closely, conquering the darkness and burning in its midst, beckoning to you and alluring you with their nearness. It seems that two or three strokes more, and you will be at the end of your journey⁠ ⁠… And yet, that end is far, far away.

And on that autumn night, too, it was for a long time after we noticed the light that we were going up the river, black as ink. Rocks and gorges sprang up before us, seemed to be moving towards us, and then floated away, lagging behind and disappearing in the darkness, while the tiny speck of light was still standing before us, there, ahead, twinkling and beckoning, ever near, yet ever far away⁠ ⁠…

And even now, I often recall this dark river, with the rocky cliff’s crowding upon its banks, and the tiny speck of light burning far ahead. Many a light has thus allured me and others with its apparent nearness. But life flows, on, between its gloomy banks, and the lights are far away. And again we must ply our oars⁠ ⁠…

And yet⁠ ⁠… and yet, there are lights ahead!⁠ ⁠…

The Last Ray I

The Nuysk hamlet stands in a small clearing, on the shore of the Lena. A few poor huts stand with their backs pressed to the steep rocks, as though drawing backward from the angry river. In this spot, the Lena is very narrow, unusually rapid, and very gloomy. The mountains on the opposite shore stand with their bases in the water, and it is at this spot, more than anywhere else, that the Lena deserves its surname, “the Accursed Crack.” And really, it seems that there is a gigantic crevice, at the bottom of which whirls the dark river, hemmed in by gloomy rocks and ravines. The fogs stand there for a long time, and a cold, damp twilight always hangs over it. The inhabitants of this hamlet are even weaker, sicklier, and more apathetic than the people of other places along the Lena. The mournful drone of the larches that grow on the mountain ridges form an eternal accompaniment to this staid existence⁠ ⁠…

I had come to the hamlet at night, tired and cold, and awoke quite early on the following morning.

It was quiet. An indeterminate light, either of a dull dawn or a late twilight, was streaming through the windows⁠—something filled with formless, crepuscular dusk. The wind was howling in the “crack” as in a chimney, and was driving night mists through it. Looking up through my window, I could see bits of clear sky. It was evident that a bright, sunny morning was springing to life. But curling clouds of cold darkness were still whirling past the hamlet⁠ ⁠… Everything was gloomy, quiet, grey, and sad.

In the hut where I was spending the night, a simple kerosene lamp was still burning on the table, adding its yellowish flicker to the room’s twilight. The room was quite clean, and the wooden partition that separated the bedrooms was pasted with news papers. In the front corner, near the holy image, were thick clusters of pictures, mostly portraits of generals. One of them was of General Muraviev-Amursky⁠—a large portrait, showing all the regalia. And next to it, I had noticed the night before, two small, modest portraits of Decembrists.

Lying in bed, I could see, through the partition, the table standing against the opposite wall, with the burning lamp on it. An old man sat at the table. His face was quite handsome, though very pale. His beard was gray, his high forehead had a yellowish tinge, and his hair, thin on the crown, was long and wavy behind. His whole figure reminded one of a monk or a clergyman, perhaps even of an evangelist, although the color of his face was unpleasantly pale and unhealthy, and his eyes seemed dull to me. His throat showed a swelling, indicative of the goiter, a disease quite prevalent along the Lena, and usually attributed to the water of the river.

By his side sat a boy of about eight. I could see only his head, bent over the