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

with phantoms of sorrow, and yet say nothing? And whence comes this night? And whence comes my sorrow? Are you sighing, sir, or is it the sigh of the ocean blending with your voice? My hearing is beginning to fail me, my master, my dear master.”

The sad voice replies:

“It is my sigh, Haggart. My great sorrow is responding to your sorrow. You see at night like an owl, Haggart; then look at my thin hands and at my rings. Are they not pale? And look at my face⁠—is it not pale? Is it not pale⁠—is it not pale? Oh, Haggart, my dear Haggart.”

They grieve silently. The heavy ocean is splashing, tossing about, spitting and snorting and sniffing peacefully. The sea is calm tonight and alone, as always.

“Tell Haggart⁠—” says the sad voice.

“Very well. I will tell Haggart.”

“Tell Haggart that I love him.”

Silence⁠—and then a faint, plaintive reproach resounds softly:

“If your voice were not so grave, sir, I would have thought that you were laughing at me. Am I not Haggart that I should tell something to Haggart? But no⁠—I sense a different meaning in your words, and you frighten me again. And when Haggart is afraid, it is real terror. Very well, I will tell Haggart everything you have said.”

“Adjust my cloak; my shoulder is cold. But it always seems to me that the light over there is going out. You called it the lighthouse of the Holy Cross, if I am not mistaken?”

“Yes, it is called so here.”

“Aha! It is called so here.”

Silence.

“Must I go now?” asks Haggart.

“Yes, go.”

“And you will remain here?”

“I will remain here.”

Haggart retreats several steps.

“Goodbye, sir.”

“Goodbye, Haggart.”

Again the cobblestones rattle under his cautious steps; without looking back, Haggart climbs the steep rocks.

Of what great sorrow speaks this night?

V

“Your hands are in blood, Haggart. Whom have you killed, Haggart?”

“Silence, Khorre, I killed that man. Be silent and listen⁠—he will commence to play soon. I stood here and listened, but suddenly my heart sank, and I cannot stay here alone.”

“Don’t confuse my mind, Noni; don’t tempt me. I will run away from here. At night, when I am already fast asleep, you swoop down on me like a demon, grab me by the neck, and drag me over here⁠—I can’t understand anything. Tell me, my boy, is it necessary to hide the body?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Why didn’t you throw it into the sea?”

“Silence! What are you prating about? I have nothing to throw into the sea.”

“But your hands are in blood.”

“Silence, Khorre! He will commence soon. Be silent and listen⁠—I say to you⁠—Are you a friend to me or not, Khorre?”

He drags him closer to the dark window of the church. Khorre mutters:

“How dark it is. If you raised me out of bed for this accursed music⁠—”

“Yes, yes; for this accursed music.”

“Then you have disturbed my honest sleep in vain; I want no music, Noni.”

“So! Was I perhaps to run through the street, knock at the windows and shout: ‘Eh, who is there; where’s a living soul? Come and help Haggart, stand up with him against the cannons.’ ”

“You are confusing things, Noni. Drink some gin, my boy. What cannons?”

“Silence, sailor.”

He drags him away from the window.

“Oh, you shake me like a squall!”

“Silence! I think he looked at us from the window; something white flashed behind the window pane. You may laugh. Khorre⁠—if he came out now I would scream like a woman.”

He laughs softly.

“Are you speaking of Dan? I don’t understand anything, Noni.”

“But is that Dan? Of course it is not Dan⁠—it is someone else. Give me your hand, sailor.”

“I think that you simply drank too much, like that time⁠—remember, in the castle? And your hand is quivering. But then the game was different⁠—”

“Tss!”

Khorre lowers his voice:

“But your hand is really in blood. Oh, you are breaking my fingers!”

Haggart threatens:

“If you don’t keep still, dog, I’ll break every bone of your body! I’ll pull every vein out of your body, if you don’t keep still, you dog!”

Silence. The distant breakers are softly groaning, as if complaining⁠—the sea has gone far away from the black earth. And the night is silent. It came no one knows whence and spread over the earth; it spread over the earth and is silent; it is silent, waiting for something. And ferocious mists have swung themselves to meet it⁠—the sea breathed phantoms, driving to the earth a herd of headless submissive giants. A heavy fog is coming.

“Why doesn’t he light a lamp?” asks Khorre sternly but submissively.

“He needs no light.”

“Perhaps there is no one there any longer.”

“Yes, he’s there.”

“A fog is coming. How quiet it is! There’s something wrong in the air⁠—what do you think, Noni?”

“Tss!”

The first soft sounds of the organ resound. Someone is sitting alone in the dark and is speaking to God in an incomprehensible language about the most important things. And however faint the sounds⁠—suddenly the silence vanishes, the night trembles and stares into the dark church with all its myriads of phantom eyes. An agitated voice whispers:

“Listen! He always begins that way. He gets a hold of your soul at once! Where does he get the power? He gets a hold of your heart!”

“I don’t like it.”

“Listen! Now he makes believe he is Haggart, Khorre! Little Haggart in his mother’s lap. Look, all hands are filled with golden rays; little Haggart is playing with golden rays. Look!”

“I don’t see it, Noni. Leave my hand alone, it hurts.”

“Now he makes believe he is Haggart! Listen!”

The oppressive chords resound faintly. Haggart moans softly.

“What is it, Noni? Do you feel any pain?”

“Yes. Do you understand of what he speaks?”

“No.”

“He speaks of the most important⁠—of the most vital, Khorre⁠—if we could only understand it⁠—I want to understand it. Listen, Khorre, listen! Why does he make believe that he is Haggart? It is not my soul. My soul does not know this.”

“What, Noni?”

“I don’t know. What terrible dreams there are in this land! Listen. There! Now he will cry and he will say: ‘It is Haggart crying.’ He will call