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 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 to think deeply about something; then he turned to me again:

“A traveler said once that he served at the time of Empress Catherine and his name was Zakhar Grigoryevich⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, I heard of a man like that⁠ ⁠…”

The old man wanted to ask me something more, but at that moment the boy suddenly began to move about, and touched his sleeve.

Involuntarily, I, too, turned and looked at the top of the rock which stood on our bank of the Lena, near the curve of the river.

Until that moment the place seemed like a dark hole from which the fog was constantly creeping forth. Now, above the fog, on the rugged crown of the rock, the tops of pine trees and the crests of the rare, already naked larches suddenly loomed up. Breaking out from somewhere behind the mountains that stood on the opposite bank, the first ray of the rising sun had already touched this rock and the group of trees that were growing out of its cracks. The trees stood above the cold, blue shadows of our crevice, as though wrapped in clouds, and were glowing quietly, gladdened by the first caress of the morning.

We stood silent, gazing at that height as though afraid to frighten away the majestic and newfound joy of the lonely rock and of the cluster of larches. The boy stood perfectly still, holding on to the old man’s sleeve. His eyes were wide open, his pale face seemed more lively and shone with joy. In the meantime, on the height, something else trembled and throbbed, and another rock, which until that moment had been sunk in the enveloping, gloomy, bluish background of the mountains, flared up, and joined its shining beauty to that of the already lit-up group. Only a short while before they had been merged with the faraway slopes, but now they stood out boldly, and their background seemed even more distant, dusky, and somber.

The boy again touched his grandfather’s sleeve, and his face seemed entirely transformed. His eyes were sparkling, his lips smiling, and a pink glow seemed to be struggling to appear on his pale and yellow cheeks.

A change had also taken place on the opposite shore of the river. The mountains still concealed the rising sun, but the sky about them had grown light, and the outlines of the ridge stood out sharp and distinct with deep indentations between the rocks. Streams of milky white fog were creeping down the dark slopes of the peaks, as though they were seeking a darker and damper place⁠ ⁠… And above them the sky was already glowing with gold, and the rows of larches on the ridge stood out against this light background as sharply outlined, violet silhouettes. It seemed that something was moving about behind them, something joyful, full of life. A little cloud, all ablaze, flew from mountain to mountain and disappeared behind the neighboring peak. After it came another, and still another, a whole flock of them. Something gladsome and jubilant was taking place behind the mountains. The bottom of the gully between the two mountains shone brighter and brighter. It seemed that the sun was climbing up the other side of the ridge, up to its crown in order to glance into this wretched crevice, upon this dark river, on the lonely heights, on the old man and the pale boy who were awaiting its appearance.

At last it came. A few bright, golden rays burst out in the depths of the mountain-gap, breaking through the thick wall of trees. Sparks of light began to fall in clusters down into the ravines, tearing out of the bluish, cold dusk, now a separate tree, now the crown of a slate rock, now a small mountain meadow⁠ ⁠… Everything seemed to move under their light, rushing to sudden life. Groups of trees seemed to be running from place to place, the rocks sprang forward and then again disappeared in the gloom, the little clearings flared up and became extinguished again. The bands of mist moved about like snakes, ever faster and more excited.

Even the dark river became light for a few moments. The little waves rippling toward our shore lit up; the sand sparkled, and the boats and groups of men and horses near the watering place appeared black against it. The slanting rays glided over the wretched huts, reflected from their mica windows, then touched with a gentle caress the boy’s pale face, which beamed with rapture⁠ ⁠…

And in the break between the mountains a part of the sun’s disk was already moving forward, while on our side the whole bank of the river was bright and joyful, twinkling and sparkling with the many-colored play of the slate-layers and the green pine needles⁠ ⁠…

But it was a brief, brief caress of the morning. A few seconds more, and the bottom of the valley was again cold and blue. The river became dark again and rushed on in its somber channel, madly whirling in its eddies. The colors of the mica panes died away, the shadows rose higher and higher, the mountains drew the curtain of the monotonous, bluish dusk over their erstwhile variety of slopes. The lonely peak on our side still burned for a few seconds like a dying torch over dark mists. Soon it, too, died away. In the break between the mountains all the openings were closed, the trees again stood like a continuous band of mourning, and only a lagging cloudlet or two flew over them, cold and colorless⁠ ⁠…

“That’s all,” said the boy sadly. And looking up at his grandfather, with his sad and darkened eyes, he asked, “Won’t there be any more?”

“No, I guess not,” he answered. “You see for yourself that only an edge of the sun appeared. Tomorrow it will all be down below.”

“That’s all, brother!” shouted the teamster returning from the river. “Good morning, grandfather and grandson!”

Turning around, I saw that there were people in front of other huts too. The doors creaked as the people returned to their huts, and the whole hamlet was again sunk in the discoloring mist.

And this lasts for long, long months!⁠ ⁠… The old man told me that in the summer the sun rises above the mountains, but towards autumn it becomes lower and lower, and finally dis appears behind the broad ridge, unable to rise above it. Then the level of the rays moves down towards the south, and for a few days it appears only in the morning in the break between the two mountains. At first it moves from peak to peak, then goes lower and lower, and finally its golden rays appear but for a few minutes at the bottom of the valley. This was what happened that morning.

The Nuysk hamlet was bidding the sun farewell for the whole winter. The teamsters, of course, would see it again in their travels, but the old men and the children would not see it again until spring, or, rather, until summer⁠ ⁠…

The last reflection died away⁠ ⁠… The day shone in full glory behind the mountain, but here the mist was again growing thicker and thicker and the mountain slopes were covered with its dull, monotonous curtain.

The dispersed light, cold and unfriendly, was sweeping in from behind the mountains.

II

“So you say you, too, are from Russia?” I asked of the old man when we reentered the hut, and he had placed a small old samovar on the table. The boy had gone behind the partition and was trying to amuse his sister. From time to time, a weak, childish laughter was heard from within, that sounded like the jingling of small pieces of glass thrown about.

The old man arranged a little table cloth and then replied somewhat reluctantly.

“Yes⁠ ⁠… Of course⁠ ⁠… They were born here, so they belong here, too. The children are not of common stock, though⁠ ⁠…”

“What’s their name?” I asked.

“Oh, well!”⁠ ⁠… he replied reluctantly. “Avdeyev is what they are called here. But their real name is Chernyshov⁠ ⁠…”

Suddenly he ceased laying the table cloth and looked at me attentively and with interest.

“So you say you have read about Zakhar Grigoryevich Chernyshov? He was a general, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, there was a general by that name in Catherine’s time. Only he was never exiled to Siberia.”

“Well, not he, but somebody of the same name⁠ ⁠… In the time of Nicholas⁠ ⁠… When he became Emperor, or something⁠ ⁠…”

He looked at me attentively, but I could not recall the story. The old man shook his head sadly.

“They say the old man was very fond of books. When he was dying, his last word to his children was to be sure to read books⁠ ⁠…”

He was silent for a moment, and then added, “Oh, well, of course. You know yourself how it is to live here⁠ ⁠… My daughter married his grandson, so they were called Avdeyevs⁠ ⁠… But they won’t live long. The father died and the mother died too, and left me with the two children⁠ ⁠… I am old, and they are sickly⁠ ⁠… The boy is an epileptic⁠ ⁠… There won’t be a trace left of us.”

The door opened, admitting a teamster who made the sign of the cross, standing in front of the image, and then said, “Avdeyev, go over to the Elder’s and take down the travelers’ names⁠ ⁠…”

“All right.”

“Is your name Avdeyev, too?” I asked.

“That’s the way they call me here now⁠ ⁠… After them, I guess.”

And the old man, perhaps the only literate man in the whole Nuysk hamlet, took his dog-eared ledger and left the room.

I learned nothing more about the genealogy of this old family, and soon left forever the gloomy Nuysk hamlet. About two hours later, coming to another bend of the river, I saw the sun directly in front of me⁠ ⁠… It was already close to the horizon, but its splendor still glittered in the water and on the shore⁠ ⁠… And its quiet, saddened light seemed to me at that time bright and gladsome.

III

Upon my return to Russia, I made several attempts to gather information about the exiled branch of the Chernyshov family. The pages of the history of Catherine’s reign often spoke of the name of Zakhary Grigoryevich Chernyshov, but he was never exiled. Once, while waiting for the steamer some where on the Volga, I heard a sailor singing about the imprisonment of the brave Russian warrior, Zakhar Grigoryevich Chernyshov, in Prussia. The sailor, of course, knew nothing about this historical person, but his song was nevertheless partly connected with the actual occurrences. At the time of the Pugachov uprising, a Cossack by the name of Chika called him self Chernyshov and added the glory of an outlaw to the popular name of the famous general. Another song spoke about a prison on the shore of the Volga. In it, the bold hero, Chernyshov, calls the freemen of the Volga to rally to his standard⁠ ⁠…

For some reason or other this name became popular in the people’s memory and the name of Chernyshov is met quite often among the mysterious exiles of Siberia. I used this as an explanation of my experience in the Nuysk hamlet. Evidently the real name of the exile was unknown, and the old man unconsciously assumed that popular name⁠ ⁠… There had been conviction and truthfulness in his sad tone.

It was only recently that I met this name again in the list of the Decembrists⁠ ⁠… Then the incident in the Nuysk hamlet again arose in my memory and assumed a new significance.

I decided that the old man was right. But upon further investigation, I found that I was mistaken. The Decembrist Chernyshov had returned to Russia, had married there, and died abroad⁠ ⁠…

The curtain again fell over the genealogy of the Avdeyevs⁠ ⁠… In the vast gloom of Siberia, many lives become lost in this manner, and many a family has descended forever from the heights lit up by the sun, into the cold, misty ravines⁠ ⁠… On the shore of the Lena, above Yakutsk, there is a peak with a narrow path leading up to its crown. In a cleft on the slope of this peak one can still see the remains of a human habitation. There is a touching legend connected with this spot. A man very high in life was exiled to Siberia many years ago. For a long time he lived in different places, until he finally settled here, in the cleft of the mountain peak. He cut his own wood and brought up his own water. Once, when he was going up the mountain with a bundle of wood on his shoulders, he suddenly saw on the path above him a well-known figure. It was his wife, who had at last found him in this lonely spot. The exile recognized her, but because of joy or of shock, he fainted, and fell down into the precipice.

It was in vain that I tried to learn the name of this man and the details of the occurrence. Cold and indifferent, Siberia does not preserve such information, and the memory of the tragedy dies away as the afterglow of a dim legend connected merely with the rock, and not with the man⁠ ⁠…

The origin of the boy whom I met in the Nuysk hamlet is just as uncertain and just as dim. But whenever I think of Siberia, there inevitably rises in my imagination the spectacle of the dark crevice, the rapid river, the wretched huts of the hamlet, and the dying rays of the departing sun fading away in the sad eyes of the last offspring of a lost family.