Short Fiction

It was Holy Saturday in 188‒⁠ ⁠…

Evening had long since enfolded the silent earth. The ground, warmed during the day by the rays of the sun, was now cooling beneath the invigorating influence of the night-frost. It seemed like one sighing, while its breath, forming a silvery mist, rose glistening in the rays of the starlit sky, like clouds of incense, to greet the approaching holiday.

All was still. In the cool night-breeze the small provincial town of N⁠⸺ stood silent, waiting to hear the first stroke of the bell from the high cathedral-tower. But the town was not sleeping; a spirit of expectancy brooded beneath the veil of darkness, breathing through the shadows of the silent and deserted streets. Now and then a belated workman, who had but just escaped from his servile task ere the holiday began, passed, hurrying on his way; once in a while a drosky rattled by, leaving silence behind it. Life had fled indoors and hidden itself, in palace and hovel, from whose windows the lights shone far out upon the street, while over the city and the fields hovered the spirit of Resurrection.

My comrade had gone, and I was to spend the night alone in our yourt.

Not feeling in the mood for working, I did not light the fire, and, as I reclined on my bed, I fell by degrees under the dismal spell of the gathering gloom and silence, while the waning daylight merged itself into the cold night-mist. Little by little, the last rays of light disappeared from the ice windows, and profound darkness crept out from the corners, veiling the sloping walls of the yourt, which seemed gradually contracting more and more over my head. For a while, the outlines of the fireplace remained dimly visible, like some ugly Penate of a Yakút dwelling, who, with outstretched arms, meets the invading darkness, as if invoking it in silent prayer. But at last even these faint outlines were lost in the utter darkness. Only in three spots shone a soft phosphorescent light like a gleam from the dark eyes of the Yakút Frost peering in at the windows. Minutes and hours passed in silence, and I was not aware how imperceptibly had crept upon me that fatal hour when a longing for home fully takes possession of one’s soul⁠—the hour when, conjured up by a fevered imagination, all those hills, forests, and interminable steppes that lie between one’s self and all that life holds dear rise threateningly in their measureless and unconquered distance. All so far away and so utterly lost, now beckoning, now seeming to fade from sight, and flickering in the dim distance like the glimmer of a dying hope.

At the N⁠⸺ post-station, where I arrived in the evening, there were no horses to be found.

“Do take my advice, Iván Seménovitch!” the stout and good-natured stationmaster entreated me, “and do not travel by night. Never mind your business. One’s life is more precious than other people’s money. For miles around the only subjects talked about are your lawsuit and this large sum of money. No doubt, the cormorants will be on the alert.⁠ ⁠… Do spend the night here!⁠ ⁠…”

Of course, I realized all the wisdom of this advice; but, still, I felt that I could not follow it.

“I must go on!⁠ ⁠… Please send for private horses.⁠ ⁠…”

“You are an obstinate man, I must confess; but I will give you a trusty ‘friend.’ He will carry you to B⁠⸺, to the Molokán. But you really must spend the night there. You will have to pass the Devil’s Hollow. It is a lonely place, and the people are audacious.⁠ ⁠… Better wait till daylight!⁠ ⁠…”

Half an hour later I sat on my telyéga, listening to the advice and good-wishes of my friend.

“I am greatly obliged to you, my friend! It would have gone ill with me, had it not been for you.”

“You owe me no thanks,” he replied.

“What do you mean!⁠ ⁠… That was evidently a desperate crowd!⁠ ⁠…”

“That’s true.⁠ ⁠…”

“Do you know those men?”

“I know Kostiúshka.⁠ ⁠… But, then, I suppose every dog knows that rascal!⁠ ⁠… The merchant, too, I have seen before⁠ ⁠… but the one who was left behind I don’t think I ever saw.⁠ ⁠… Yes, I suppose he relied on Kostiúshka to do the business.⁠ ⁠… No, sir, Kostiúshka is not to be trusted! He is the first one to run!⁠ ⁠… But the man I speak of is no coward.⁠ ⁠…”

He paused.

“This has never happened before⁠ ⁠… not this kind of business,”⁠ ⁠… he began again, slightly shaking his head.⁠ ⁠… “I wonder how Kostiúshka got hold of him.⁠ ⁠… He is gathering the cormorants together against me, the cursed rascal!⁠ ⁠…”

“And why are they afraid of you?”

The driver smiled.

“Yes, there is no doubt they are afraid of me. I gave one of them his quietus, not far from here.⁠ ⁠…”

He reined in the horses, and, turning towards me, he said: “Look back; do you see the hollow yonder!⁠ ⁠… I killed a man there, on that very spot!”

It seemed to me that his voice trembled as he uttered these words, and, by the light of the dawn, that was beginning to brighten the eastern sky, I fancied I could detect an expression of deep sadness in his eyes.

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.