Short Fiction, Vladimir Korolenko [finding audrey TXT] 📗

in the hall by the door. I opened and saw some living creature in a dark corner. Yes! it was Ivan Ivanovich. He trembled all over, was blue, and looked at me with his appealing, timid eyes. It was the look of a frightened animal near its end.

“Your weakness again?” I asked kindly.

“Yes,” he answered humbly and briefly, and he started to straighten his clothing. He was again wearing an impossible cassock, he had no hat, and on his bare feet were rough shoes.

Avtonomov soon made his appearance. He was drunk and unpleasantly bold. He spoke in affectedly grandiloquent phrases, acted like an old friend, and from time to time in his reminiscences of our wanderings he made spicy allusions to a certain soldier’s wife.⁠ ⁠… In his eyes gleamed an evil passion and in him I recognized again the preacher in the monastery courtyard⁠—and readiness for any evil deed. He never said a word about his visit to his sister.⁠ ⁠…

“Listen⁠ ⁠… Dearie,⁠ ⁠…” he turned to the maid.⁠ ⁠… “The other time I left a cassock with you.⁠ ⁠… It’s still fit to be worn.⁠ ⁠… Your present was unlucky,” he added, looking impudently at me.⁠ ⁠… “We were robbed near Uglich⁠ ⁠… and they took absolutely everything we had. A merchant cheated you on those felt shoes, that’s easy to see.⁠ ⁠… Cheap goods, cheap.⁠ ⁠… They fell all to pieces.⁠ ⁠…”

He condescendingly patted my shoulder.

Ivan Ivanovich looked at his protector reproachfully. We parted quite coldly, but everyone in my house felt sincere sympathy and pity for Ivan Ivanovich.

After that, from time to time, I heard from my accidental comrades. These messages were usually brought by people in cloaks and cassocks and with more or less clear indications of “weakness” they gave me greetings or notes and they showed how disillusioned they felt, when they saw the meagreness of the reward which they received. Once during the fair a fellow appeared totally drunk and very evil looking, but he handed me a note with as much mysterious familiarity as if it had been from a mutual friend and confidant.

In the note a very shaky and uneven hand had scribbled:

“Dear friend. Receive the bearer as you would me. He is our friend and can tell you everything; incidentally give him money and clothing.⁠ ⁠… His trousers are pretty bad.⁠ ⁠… Gennady Avtonomov.”

One glance was enough to show that the agent was really in dire need of trousers.⁠ ⁠… But in spite of his intoxication, his eyes quickly and curiously ran over the contents of my rooms, and they showed well the results of professional training.⁠ ⁠…

When he left, I heard an unpleasant noise and I had to run to the assistance of my good neighbors.

X

About two years passed, before I again met my former companions.

One hot summer’s day, I had crossed the Volga on a ferry and a pair of horses was dragging us over the sands of the bank to the foot of a hill. The sun had set, but it was intolerably hot. It seemed as if whole waves of heat were being wafted from the gleaming river. Flies hung in clouds over the horses, the bells rang unevenly, and the wheels dragged in the deep sand.⁠ ⁠… Half way up the hill a monastery nestled among the trees and as it looked down on the river out of the rising mist, it seemed to be suspended in midair.

Suddenly the coachman stopped his weary team at the very foot of the hill and ran along the bank. A quarter of a verst away on the rocky and pebbly edge of the river was a black group of people directly between us and the sun.

“Something’s happened,” said my companion.

I got out and also walked up to the place.

A dead body was lying on the bare bank, against which the water was splashing lazily. When I came nearer, I recognized in it my old acquaintance: the little wanderer was lying in his cassock, on his stomach, with outstretched hands and with his head turned at an unnatural angle. He was pale as death; his black hair had fallen over his forehead and temples, and his mouth was half open. I involuntarily recalled that face, as it was when it was filled with childish delight over the singing of the little bird on the hilltop. With his long, sharp nose and his open mouth⁠—he reminded me greatly of a tortured and stifled bird.

Avtonomov sat swaying back and forth beside him and seemed frightened. There was a perceptible odor of wine in the air.⁠ ⁠…

Glancing at the people who were coming up and not recognizing me, he suddenly pulled the dead body.

“Get up, comrade, it’s time to be going.⁠ ⁠… A wanderer’s fate is to wander always.”

He spoke in a very bombastic manner, but he rose uncertainly.⁠ ⁠…

“Don’t you want to? Look, Vanya, I’ll leave you! I’ll go off alone.⁠ ⁠…”

A village chief, with a medal on his chest, hurried up to the group and laid one hand on Avtonomov’s shoulder.

“Stop, don’t go away.⁠ ⁠… You’ve got to make a statement.⁠ ⁠… What sort of people are you?”

Avtonomov, with ironical humility, took off his cap and bowed.

“Please be so kind, your village excellency.⁠ ⁠…”

Above our heads sounded a peal of the bell. The monks were being summoned to vespers. The peal echoed, disturbed the heated air, and rolled above the leafy tops of the oaks and black poplars beside the monastery and as it died away, it fell to the sleepy river. The sound increased again, as it struck the water, and a keen eye could almost follow its flight to the other bank, to the bluish, mist-wrapped meadows.

All removed their hats. Avtonomov turned toward the sound and shook his fist in the air.

“Listen, Vanya,” he said, “your father superior is calling you.⁠ ⁠… Your benefactor.⁠ ⁠… Now he’ll receive you, I know.⁠ ⁠…”

Peal after peal, rapid and repeated, ringing and quavering, fell down upon the river solemnly and quietly.⁠ ⁠…

Isn’t It Terrible? From the Diary of a Reporter I

“Be in N⁠⸺⁠sk on the twentieth.