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

of his unsuspecting glance, and hearing his simple.⁠ ⁠… “Certainly, please do”⁠ ⁠… she explained quite simply and seriously: “My corset is so tight. I shall take it off, too⁠ ⁠… if I may.”

“Certainly, you may.”

He turned away, blushing. But, either because insomnia had so addled his thoughts, or because all his life he had been so innocent, his “you may” sounded quite natural to him⁠ ⁠… in a house where all things were allowed and nobody ever thought of asking anybody’s leave about anything.

He heard a rustling of silk and the unbuttoning of a dress⁠—then a question:

“You are not an author?”

“What⁠ ⁠… an author? No, I am not an author. Er⁠ ⁠… do you like authors?”

“No, I do not.”

“Why? They are men.⁠ ⁠…” He yawned⁠—a long satisfying yawn.

“And what is your name?”

Silence⁠ ⁠… and then:

“My name is⁠ ⁠… N⁠—no! Peter.”

“And what are you? What do you do?”

The girl questioned him gently, but watchfully, and in a firm tone. The impression conveyed by her voice might have been that she was moving towards the bed. But he by now had ceased to hear her; he was already sleeping. For one moment an expiring thought had flickered in a single picture, in which time and space melted into a motley of shadows, gloom and light, motion and repose, a single picture of crowds and endless streets and a ceaseless turning of wheels depicted the whole of those two days and nights of frenzied chase. And in an instant all of this was stilled, dimmed, and had passed away⁠—and then in the soft half-light, in the deep shadow, he had an image of one of the picture galleries where, the day before, for two hours, he had eluded his pursuers. He seemed to be sitting on a red velvet divan, which was extraordinarily soft, and staring fixedly at a huge black picture; and such a restfulness proceeded from that old black cracked canvas, his eyes were so much rested, his thoughts reposing so gently, that for some moments, even in his sleep, he began fighting sleep, confusedly afraid of it, as though of an unknown disquietude.

But the music in the hall played on, the frequent little notes with bare heads hairless jostled up and down, and the thought came: “Now I can sleep.” And all at once he fell into a deep slumber. Triumphantly, eagerly, gentle glossy sleep soothed and embraced him⁠—and in profound silence masking their breathing they went their way into a pellucid melting sea.

Thus he slept on⁠—one hour and then another⁠—on his back in the polite posture he had assumed awake, his right hand in his pocket holding the key and his revolver; the girl, neck and arms bare sitting opposite, smoking, sipping cognac, gazing on him. Now and then, to get a better view, she craned her rather thin, flexible neck, and, when she moved, her lips curled with two deep creases of constraint. She had not thought to turn out the hanging lamp, and under the strong light he was neither young nor old nor strange nor intimate, but some unknown being⁠—the cheeks unknown, the nose ending in a bird’s beak of shape unknown, the breathing, so even and powerful and strong, unknown. His thick hair was cut short in military fashion, and she noticed on the left temple, near the eye, a little whitened scar from some former wound. There was no cross strung round his neck.

The music in the hall died down or started afresh⁠—piano and violin and songs and the pit-a-pat of dancing feet; but she sat on, smoking cigarettes and observing the sleeper. She stretched her neck inquisitively to look at his left hand which was lying on his breast⁠—a very broad palm and strong restful fingers; it seemed to weigh heavily on him, to hurt, so with a careful movement she lifted it and let it down gently at the side of the big body on the bed. Then rose swiftly and noisily, and, as though she wanted to smash the switch, roughly turned out the upper lamp, lighting the lower one under the red hood.

But even then he did not stir. His face in the pink light remained as unknown, as terrifying as before, in its immobility and repose.

She turned aside, clasped her knees with her arms, now softly reddening, threw her head back and stared motionless at the ceiling from the dusky hollows of her unblinking eyes. And in her teeth, tightly pressed, there hung a cigarette, half smoked, cold, dead.

III

Something had happened, something unexpected and terrible, something considerable and of consequence, whilst he was sleeping⁠—this much he understood at a flash, even before he was properly awake, at the first sound of a harsh, unknown voice. He took it in with that sharpened sense of danger which to him and his comrades had developed almost into a new special sense. He was up quickly and sat with his hand pressing his revolver hard, his eyes searchingly and sharply exploring the mist of the room. And when he saw her, in the same attitude, with her shoulders of that transparent rosy hue, and her bared breast, and those eyes so enigmatically dark and unswerving, he thought to himself: “She has betrayed me!” Then he looked again more steadily, sighed deeply, and corrected himself: “She hasn’t yet, but she will.”

How miserable it all was!

He drew a deep breath and asked curtly: “Well, what is it?”

She said nothing. She smiled triumphantly and spitefully, looked at him and was silent⁠—as though she already accounted him her own, and without haste or hurry wanted to gloat over her power.

“What did you say just now?” he repeated, with a frown.

“What I said? I said, get up!⁠—that’s what I said. Get up! You’ve been asleep. It’s time to play the game. This isn’t a dosshouse, my dear!”

“Tum on the light,” he commanded.

“I will not.”

He turned it on himself, and under the white light he saw her eyes infinitely wicked and black and painted, and her mouth compressed with hatred and disdain.