Short Fiction Leonid Andreyev (best books to read .txt) 📖

could not have told what matters he had been pondering. Occasionally he was made aware of a deep and mighty working of his soul; at times tormenting, at times exalting⁠—but to what it all tended he never understood. And only his changing moods, from grave to gay, from tender to severe, gave index in his character of this mysterious, secret expansion in the depths of his being. Since the catastrophe his moods (no matter what his clearer thoughts might be) were gloomy, wild, hopeless; and whenever he woke from his deep brooding he felt that he passed this interval through a long and horrible night.

In his youth he had once been caught by the fierce current of a river, and almost drowned; and for years he carried the impress on his soul of that strangling darkness, his faintness, the eager, greedy sucking depths. And what he now endured was that same feeling!

One sunny, windless morning, two days after his son’s departure, he was out again on the avenue, pacing in silent thought. The yellow leaves that had fallen in the night had already been swept away, and across the marks of the broom, the tracks of his large feet, with their high heels, and broad, square soles, showed clear⁠—deep pressed into the soil; as though to the weight of the man himself had been added the burden of his ponderous thought, pressing him to the earth! Now and again he paused, and over his head in the tangle of sunlit branches was heard the rhythmic hammer of a woodpecker. Once while he stood still a little squirrel ran across the path. He darted from tree to tree like a fluffy ball of red fur.

“They will certainly kill me with a revolver⁠—you can buy such good revolvers now,” he thought. “They don’t understand much about bombs here yet⁠—and then bombs are only for the man who runs; Aljosha, for instance!⁠—when he is made Governor they’ll kill him with a bomb!” thought Peter Iljitch, and his bearded lip curled with a slight ironical smile, though his eyes were fixed and gloomy. “I wouldn’t run⁠—no, bad as it is, I wouldn’t run!”

He halted and brushed a cobweb from his fatigue jacket. “A pity, though, that no one will ever know of my notion of honour and my pluck. They know all the rest, but that they can never know. They’ll shoot me down like any old scoundrel. Too bad! But there’s nothing for it⁠—I shan’t speak of it! Why try to rouse the Judge’s pity? It’s not honourable to work on his feelings⁠—his position is hard enough at best⁠—and now they come and whine for mercy! I am a man of honour, I tell you⁠—honourable!”⁠ ⁠…

It was the first time he had thought of a judge; and he wondered how he had happened to think of it. It came to him as if the question had long ago been settled. As though he had slept, and in his dreams someone had explained most convincingly all the necessary details about the judge, and when he awoke he had forgotten the particulars, but only remembered that there was a judge⁠—a law-abiding justice, panoplied with authority, and encompassed with threatening might! And now, after the first moment of astonishment, he met the thought of this unknown judge as though he were an old and valued friend.⁠ ⁠… “Aljosha could never understand that! According to him everything must be ‘for reasons of State.’ But what sort of statesmanship was that: shooting a hungry mob? Interests of State demand that the starving be fed⁠—and not shot at! He is young and inexperienced yet, and easily influenced.”.⁠ ⁠… But before he had quite finished this complacent thought, he suddenly realised that he himself, and not Aljosha, had ordered the firing!⁠ ⁠… The air suddenly grew close, and he heard (absurdly enough) a single mighty, awful thunder: “Too late!”⁠ ⁠… He was not sure whether it were simply a thought or a feeling, or if he had pronounced it. It rang on every side, and menaced him like lightning overhead. Then came a long time of bewilderment; hasty disbanding of thoughts, and painful shattering of ideas⁠—finally, a calm⁠—so complete that it seemed indifference!⁠ ⁠…

The windows of the forcing house twinkled in the sunshine among the trees, and the wild grapevine’s red leaves glowed like bloodstains against the white angles of its walls. Following his custom, the Governor turned down the narrow path between the empty hotbeds and stepped into the forcing-house. Only one workman was pottering about, old Jegor.

“Is the gardener not here?”

“No, your Excellency. He has gone to town for cuttings today; this is Friday.”

“Aha!⁠ ⁠… And is everything doing well?”

“Thanks be!”

The sunshine streamed through the open windows, driving out the close, heavy dampness. You felt how hot and strong the sun was, and yet how gentle⁠—how beneficent! The Governor sat down, the light sparkling on the metal of his uniform. He undid his jacket and, watching the old man attentively, said: “Well, how goes it, Brother Jegor?”

The old fellow answered this friendly but somewhat indefinite question with a polite smile. He stood up and rubbed his dirty hands together.

“Tell me, Jegor⁠—I hear they’re going to kill me⁠—on account of the workmen that time, you know!” Jegor kept on smiling politely, but no longer rubbed his hands⁠—he hid them behind his back and was speechless! “What do you think about it, my man⁠—will they kill me, or not? Can you read and write?⁠ ⁠… Then tell me what you think.⁠ ⁠… We two old fellows can talk it over frankly, can’t we?”

Jegor shook his head until a lock of soft grey fell over his eyes, stared at the Governor, and answered: “Who can tell? It may be so, Peter Iljitch!”

“And who is to kill me?”

“Why, the people, to be sure! ‘The Community,’ as they say in the village.”

“And what does the gardener think about it?”

“I don’t know, Peter Iljitch.⁠ ⁠… I haven’t heard.”

Both sighed deeply.

“It looks rather bad for us, doesn’t it, old fellow?⁠ ⁠… But sit down!”

Jagor did not