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

in cold water, “don’t we want wine and something else? Or some fruit?”

“Fruit is expensive here.”

“That doesn’t matter. Do you drink wine?”

He had forgotten himself and was addressing her as you; he noticed it, but did not correct himself, for there had been something in that touch of her hand which made him unwilling to use the familiar pronoun, or play the lover and act a part. This feeling, too, passed on to her; she stared at him fixedly, and answered deliberately, with some uncertainty in her voice, though none in the language she used.

“Thank you. I do drink. Wait a moment. I will return at once. I will tell them to bring only two pears and two apples. Will that be enough?”

It was now she who was using the pronoun of politeness, and through the tone of voice in which she spoke the word there could be heard the same irresolution, a slight hesitation and interrogation.

But he paid no attention to this. When he was alone, he went swiftly to work surveying the room from all sides. He tested the closing of the door⁠—it closed splendidly, on the latch and on the key; went to the window, opened both casements⁠—it was high up on the second floor and looked out on the courtyard. He frowned and shook his head. Then he experimented on the lights; there were two of them; when the one on the ceiling was switched off, the other by the bed lit up under a little red hood⁠—just as in the best hotels.

But the bed!

He grinned and raised his shoulders, as though laughing silently, distorting his face as people must who are stealthy and for some reason secretive, even when they are alone.

But the bed!

He walked round it, handled the wadded counterpane, and then with a sudden longing to be gay and saucy in his joy at the sleep he was going to have, he twisted his head like a boy, stuck out his lips, made round eyes⁠—all to express his highest degree of amazement. But at once he became serious again, sat down, and wearily waited for Liuba.

He wanted to think of Thursday, that he was now in a brothel⁠—that he was already there⁠—but the thought rebelled and stubbornly resisted him. Outraged sleep was taking its revenge. There on the street, sleep had been so gentle; now it no longer caressed his face, as with a soft downy hand, but made his own hands and feet writhe, and racked his body as though it would rend him asunder.

Suddenly he began yawning, even to the point of tears. He took out his Browning and three full clips of cartridges, and savagely blew down the barrel, as into a key. It was all in order⁠ ⁠… and he longed insufferably for sleep.

When the wine and fruit were brought in, and Liuba came in after them, he shut the door, only on the latch, and said:

“Well⁠ ⁠… all right⁠ ⁠… please help yourself, Liuba. Please do.”

“And you⁠ ⁠… ?” The girl, surprised, looked at him askance.

“I will⁠ ⁠… later on. For two nights, you see, I have been having a gay time of it and have had no sleep, and now.⁠ ⁠…” He yawned frightfully, straining his jaws.

“Well⁠ ⁠… ?”

“I will⁠ ⁠… later. Just an hour. I will⁠ ⁠… soon. And you, please drink and don’t spare. And eat the fruit. Why did you get so little?”

“But may I go into the hall? There will be some music.”

This was inconvenient. They might begin talking about him, the strange guest who had gone to sleep, and might start guessing⁠ ⁠… and that might be awkward. So, lightly restraining a yawn which was already riving his jaws, he said sedately and earnestly:

“No, Liuba. I shall ask you to stay here. You see, I don’t much like sleeping alone in a room. It’s a mere whim, but you will excuse me.⁠ ⁠…”

“Certainly. You have paid your money and.⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, yes,” and he blushed for the third time, “quite true, but that isn’t what I mean.⁠ ⁠… And, if you like⁠ ⁠… you can lie down too. I will leave room for you. Only please lie next the wall. You don’t mind?”

“No, I don’t want to sleep. I will just sit here.”

“Will you read?”

“There are no books here.”

“Would you like today’s paper? I have it here. There is something interesting in it.”

“No, thank you.”

“As you like. You know best. But⁠ ⁠… with your permission.⁠ ⁠…”

He shut and locked the door and put the key in his pocket, without noticing the strange look with which the girl followed his movements. This courteous and decent conversation, such a curious conversation in this home of misery where the very air was thick with the vapours of drunken brawls, seemed to him perfectly natural and quite convincing. With the same polite air, as though he were in the company of young ladies, he touched the edge of his frock-coat and asked:

“Do you mind if I take off my coat?”

The girl scowled slightly.

“Certainly. Of course.⁠ ⁠…”

“And my waistcoat? It’s so tight.”

The girl did not answer, but merely shrugged her shoulders.

“Here is my pocketbook⁠ ⁠… and money. Will you be so good as to take care of them for me?”

“You had better leave them at the office. We always deposit such things there.”

“Why?” He looked at the girl, and turned aside in confusion. “Oh, of course⁠ ⁠… but that’s silly!”

“But do you know how much you have on you? Some people don’t know, and then afterwards.⁠ ⁠…”

“I understand. Quite. You desire.⁠ ⁠…”

He lay down, politely leaving room for her by the wall. And enchanting sleep, spaciously smiling, came and nestled with its downy cheek against his, gently fondled him, stroking his knees, and mercifully settling to rest with its soft, velvety head on his shoulder. He smiled.

“What makes you smile?” The girl smiled involuntarily.

“Because I am comfortable.⁠ ⁠… How soft your pillows are! Now we can talk awhile. Why don’t you drink something?”

“I think I shall take off my things⁠ ⁠… if you don’t mind? I shall have to sit still so long.”

Her voice had a touch of mockery. But at the sight