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

“And I thought I was doing the right thing!⁠ ⁠… the shooting, I mean. They were throwing stones, insulting me. They almost hit me!”

“They only do that when they’re in trouble. The other day again, on the marketplace, a drunken man⁠—an apprentice or some such thing⁠—who knows!⁠—began to cry and cry; and then he picked up a stone, and bang! he let it fly!⁠ ⁠… and only just because he was in trouble!”

“They will kill me, and then they’ll be sorry themselves,” said the Governor thoughtfully, trying to call to his mind the face of his son Alexey Petrovitch.

“Sorry they’ll surely be⁠—that’s certain.⁠ ⁠… Oh, how sorry they’ll be! Bitter tears they’ll shed!”

A ray of hope dawned.

“Then why do they want to kill me?⁠ ⁠… That’s nonsense, old man!”

The workman gazed wide-eyed into space, with veiled pupils and a rigid attitude. For an instant he seemed petrified; the soft folds of his worn cotton shirt, the fuzzy hair, the grimy hands, all seemed like an enchantment brought about by a skilful artist who had wrapped the hard stone in soft, downy raiment.

“Who can tell!” answered Jegor, without looking at him. “The people seem to wish it!⁠ ⁠… But don’t trouble about it any more, your Excellency. You know we have to have our foolish gossip.⁠ ⁠… And they’ll take a long time⁠—and talk; and then forget it themselves!”

The ray of hope vanished.

What Jegor had said was nothing new, nor especially clever; but his words had a singular ring of conviction, like those dreams that came to the Governor as he paced his long lonely avenues. The one phrase, “The people wish it,” was a clear expression of what Peter Iljitch had felt⁠—it was convincing, irrefutable! But perhaps this strange conviction lay not so much in the words of Jegor as in his set look⁠—his fuzzy hair, and his broad, earth-stained hands!⁠ ⁠… And the sun still shone!

“Well, goodbye, Jegor.⁠ ⁠… Have you any children?”

“Good health to you, Peter Iljitch!”

The Governor shrugged his shoulders, buttoned his coat, and pulled a rouble from his pocket. “Here, take that, old man! Buy yourself something with it.”

With a nod of thanks, Jegor held out his old flat hand, where the silver balanced as on a roof.

“What singular beings they are!” mused the Governor, as he strode down the walk in the flickering shade; his own figure checkered by sun and shadow as he went. “Very strange creatures!⁠ ⁠… They wear no wedding rings, and you can never tell whether they are married or not.⁠ ⁠… However⁠—No! They do wear rings, but they are silver⁠ ⁠… or tin maybe! How odd! Tin rings!⁠ ⁠… These fellows get married and cannot even afford gold wedding rings for three roubles⁠—What misery!⁠ ⁠… I didn’t notice! Those bodies in the storeroom probably had tin rings on too. Yes, now I recollect: tin rings with a very thin band!”

Lower and lower, in ever-narrowing circles, swung his fancy; like a hawk hovering over a field, and swooping down to pick up one small grain!⁠ ⁠… A woodpecker hammered, a shrivelled leaf fell and floated away, and he himself floated off in a painful, troubled daydream.⁠ ⁠… A workman⁠—his face is young and handsome, but in all the wrinkles black grime of toil has settled⁠—iron filings that have eaten into the skin, and worn the hair prematurely. His broad mouth is hideously wide open⁠ ⁠… he screams! He is calling something. His shirt is torn over his chest, and he tears it yet more open⁠—easily, noiselessly, like soft paper; baring his breast. His chest, and half his throat, are white; but above that line he is dark⁠—as though his figure were like all other men’s, but they had put another sort of head upon it.

“Why do you tear your shirt? It is horrible to see your naked body!” But the bare, white breast is thrust wildly toward him. “Here, take it! Here it is!⁠ ⁠… But give us justice!⁠ ⁠… We want justice!⁠ ⁠…”

“But where shall I find justice? How singular you are!”

A woman speaks.

“The children are all dead! The children are all dead! The children⁠ ⁠… the children⁠ ⁠… the children have all died!”

“That is why it is so lonely down your lane!”

“The children! The children! The children are all dead! The children!”

“But it is impossible that a child should die of hunger! A child⁠ ⁠… a little creature who cannot even reach the cupboard door itself! You do not love your children! If my child were hungry I should give it food!⁠ ⁠… But you even wear tin rings!”

“Ah! We wear iron rings! Our bodies are bound. Our souls are bound. We wear iron rings!”

On the back steps in the shed a maid was brushing Maria Petrovna’s skirt. The kitchen windows stood open: one could see the cook in his spotless jacket. It smelled of refuse⁠ ⁠… it was dirty. “What have I come to!” said the Governor, in amazement.⁠ ⁠… “Why, it’s the kitchen. What was I thinking of? Ah yes! I wanted to see the time! How soon will luncheon be ready? It’s early yet⁠ ⁠… ten o’clock.⁠ ⁠… But it seems to disturb them to have me here.⁠ ⁠… I must go!” And he turned into his accustomed path, and wandered up and down, thinking steadily.

And the manner of his thought was of one who fords a great and unknown river. Now the water reaches to his knees⁠ ⁠… he presses on! But finally sinks from sight; only to struggle up later, breathless and pale!⁠ ⁠… He thought of his son Alexey Petrovitch⁠—tried to think of his office and his affairs; but wherever he led his fancies they always harked back unexpectedly to the catastrophe, and burrowed there as in an inexhaustible mine. It seemed strange that nothing happening before that event had the power to hold his attention⁠ ⁠… the past all seemed so trivial, so superfluous!

It was in the second year of his governorship, some five years ago, that he had ordered the knout for the peasants of Sensiwjejewo. On that occasion also he had received an Honourable Mention from the Minister; and from that event dated the rapid and