Short Fiction, Vladimir Korolenko [finding audrey TXT] 📗

table, with its fine hair, the color of flax. The old man, screwing up his half-blind, spectacled eyes, moved a pointer along the lines of the printed page, while the boy spelled out the syllables, straining his attention to the utmost. When he failed to grasp some word, the old man helped him with affectionate patience. The boy was attempting to piece together the letters before him.54

He stopped, evidently unable to master the strange word. The old man screwed up his eyes a little more, and helped him.

“The nightingale,” he read.

“The nightingale,” repeated the pupil faithfully. Then, raising his perplexed eyes to his teacher, he asked,

“The night-ingale⁠ ⁠… What’s that?”

“A bird,” said the old man.

“A bird⁠ ⁠…” And he continued the reading, finally mastering the word, “Bird-cherry.”

“What’s that?” the child again asked in his indifferent, wooden voice.

“On the bird-cherry. A bird-cherry is a tree. So he sat there.”

“He sat there? Why was be sitting? Is it a big bird?”

“No, a tiny, little one. He sings beautifully.”

“Sings beautifully⁠ ⁠…”

The boy stopped reading and became lost in thought. It grew quite dark in the hut. The clock was ticking, the fog was flying past outside⁠ ⁠… The piece of sky overhead reminded me of the fact that in other places it was a bright, sunny day, and nightingales were singing on the bird-cherry trees in spring⁠ ⁠…

“What a pitiful childhood!” thought I involuntarily, listening to the monotonous sounds of the child’s voice⁠ ⁠… “Without nightingales, without the blossoming spring! Nothing but water and rocks that bar the whole of God’s world from your eyes; with the crow as the sole representative of the birds, with the larches on the slopes, and an occasional pine tree, making the whole vegetation⁠ ⁠…”

The boy read another sentence in the same weary, inexpressive voice, and then suddenly stopped.

“Isn’t it time for us to go, grandfather?” he asked, and this time there were live, excited notes in his voice, while his clear eyes, reflecting the light of the lamp, were turned to his grandfather with evident interest.

The old man looked at the clock, which ticked on indifferently, then at the curling darkness outside, and replied calmly:

“It’s too early yet. It is only half-past.”

“Grandfather, maybe the clock is wrong?”

“Now, now, it’s too dark yet⁠ ⁠… It’s better for us, too. See how windy it is⁠ ⁠… Maybe it’ll drive away the fog, otherwise we won’t be able to see anything again, like the other day⁠ ⁠…”

“It’s better⁠ ⁠…” repeated the boy in his former, obedient tone, and continued the reading.

Thus about twenty minutes went by. The old man glanced at the clock, then out through the window, and blew out the lamp. A bluish twilight filled the room.

“Get dressed,” said the old man, and then added, “But quietly, so that Tanya won’t hear.”

The boy quickly jumped down from the chair.

“Aren’t we going to take her with us?” he asked in a whisper.

“No, it’s better not to⁠ ⁠… She has a cough⁠ ⁠… Let her sleep⁠ ⁠…”

The boy began to dress with careful haste, and soon the two figures, the grandfather and the grandson, glided past through the twilight of the room. The boy was dressed in what looked like an overcoat of the city cut; on his feet were felt boots, while a woman’s scarf was wrapped around his neck. The old man wore a short fur coat. The door creaked, and they were outside.

I remained alone. Beyond the partition I heard the quiet breathing of the sleeping girl and the harsh ticking of the clock. The moving fog outside rushed faster and faster, rents were torn in it oftener and oftener, and through them I caught glimpses of larger, sterner blots that represented dark rocks and ravines. The room now grew lighter, now was again plunged in twilight.

The desire to sleep had left me entirely. The silent sadness of the place was beginning to affect me, and I waited impatiently for the door to creak again, and admit the old man and the boy. But they did not return for some time.

Then I decided to see what it was that had induced them out of the hut into the fog and the cold. I had slept fully dressed, and it did not take me long to put on my boots and overcoat, and come out of the hut⁠ ⁠…

The old man and the boy were standing on the steps, their hands hidden in the openings of their coat sleeves, evidently expecting something.

The whole locality seemed even gloomier than it had appeared through the window. Above, the fog had already lifted, and the tops of the mountains stood sharply and sternly out lined against the sky that was growing clearer. Only isolated cloudlets of mist were still flying past, visible against the background of the mountains, while down below everything was still enveloped in the cold dusk. The Lena’s currents, still unfrozen, but already dark and heavy, were running together in the narrow channel, forming eddies and whirlpools. It seemed that the river was seething and raging in dumb despair, striving to force its way out of the gloomy crevice⁠ ⁠… The cold wind, blowing just before morning, was dispersing the remaining portions of the night fog, and rushed along angrily, causing our coats to flap to and fro.

The houses of the little hamlet, scattered on the rocky platform in little clusters, began to awaken. Smoke appeared over some of them, in others the windows became dimly lighted; a tall teamster in a ragged coat, blinking constantly, led two horses down to the watering place and soon disappeared in the shadow of the slope. Everything looked dejected and spoke of the awakening day of labor.

“What are you waiting for?” I asked of the old man.

“My grandson here wanted to see the sun,” he answered, and asked in turn: “Are you from Russia?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know anybody by the name of Chernyshov?”

“Chernyshov? No⁠ ⁠…”

“Of course it would be pretty hard. Russia is big⁠ ⁠… They say he was a general, though⁠ ⁠…”

He was silent for a few moments, shivering a little from the cold, and seemed