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

six-year-old little girl who died a natural death? Weren’t there enough six-year-old little girls in the world?

I was led to understand, though it was gently done, that I had acted inconsiderately in flaunting my grief before the eyes of others. It was as though I had got drunk in the midst of the general sobriety. A casual acquaintance met in the street made me realise this to the full with his exclamation of “A little girl? Oh!”

But do I argue? I have submitted to public opinion and put my band of crêpe in my pocket. I must be careful of other people’s feelings. As a patriot I have no right to hurt anyone. A patriot or a worm, I wonder?

But I hold my tongue.

3rd July.

It was raining and I walked under my umbrella, wondering what was the most important of all things. The most important thing of all is to bury. Killing doesn’t matter, it will happen sometimes, but to bury is essential. As soon as things are covered up and nothing is to be seen, all is well. What would it be like if the four or five million who have now been killed had been left unburied? What a stench there would be, and how many torn uniforms!

Despair, and no way to express it. Like a fool I can’t say what’s in my heart. And how long my legs have grown! I can feel how long they are as I walk. Am I going mad?

The same night.

You may call me a heartless blackguard, a criminal or anything you like, but by God, I am not in the least sorry for our killed. I don’t care what happens to our men. I didn’t order them to be killed. If men will rend and kill each other, let them, by all means; it has nothing to do with me.

The house seems deserted and full of horrors invisible. Last year, at this time, we were in the country, Lidotchka was with us and no foreboding of ill.

I wonder sometimes when I look at Peter and Jena, my two youngest children, whether it wouldn’t be best to tie a piece of cord around their necks and jump off the Troitsky Bridge with them into the water. No one wants them, they are miserable, neglected little “cells.” They keep on crying all the time. Peter nearly cut his head against the table, and came to me to kiss his bump and pity him, but I can’t pity. Poor children! Their mother is in the hospital looking after the wounded⁠—doing her duty; their father, like Satan, rummages about the streets for peace of mind, and they are left with a stupid nurse and a half-witted grandmother. What an existence!

What a strange animal man is! I can make my blood flow with one prick of my knife⁠—but I can’t wring a single tear. I can’t sleep in consequence, and am frightened of my sofa. I sleep in my study now, on the sofa. That is to say, I toss about the livelong white night. The light comes in at window, for there are no curtains over it.

Last night, tired of tossing about, I got up, and from three to five o’clock I sat on my windowsill smoking, and looking out on the dead town. It was as light as day and not a soul to be seen anywhere. Like ours, the house opposite has many windows, both up- and downstairs. Not a single sign of life was to be seen in any of them.

I had nothing on but my pants and shirt, and I sat there or paced the room, barefoot, wondering whether I had gone mad.

By day my study is an ordinary room, and I an ordinary man, but I wonder what people would think if they saw us at night? I am barefoot at this moment, and have nothing on but my pants.

What makes me write all this?

6th July.

I am a completely changed man. I’ve no pity or affection for anyone, not even for my children. Pure hatred only inspires me. When I walk through the town and look at the houses and people, I think, and even smile at the thought, “I wish the earth would open and swallow you all up!” A beggar stretched his hand out to me today, and I gave him such a look that his tongue stuck, and his hand dropped to his side. What a look it must have been!

I can’t cry; I can’t remember how it’s done. Not only my tears have dried up, altogether I seem to have become dry; on the hottest day I never perspire. A curious thing; I must ask a doctor about it.

Sashenka took notice of me today. She cried to see me like this. But like what? She wondered that I did not read the newspapers, but what can one learn from the papers? That we have Miasoyedovs, that wholesale slaughter is going on, we know without their aid. I don’t want to read them.

“How is your digestion?” Sashenka asked.

“My digestion? Why? Have I got a digestion? Oh, yes! It’s quite well, thank you. How are your wounded?”

“They are your wounded, too.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t make them.”

“Why are you so hardhearted, Ilenka?” she asked through her tears.

“How? my kindhearted Sashenka?”

She was annoyed at that and went back to the hospital, not forgetting to slam the door behind her, like a truly affectionate wife. I don’t care, only it’s not good for the children: and one must think of them sometimes.

I can hardly believe I have a wife; we so rarely see each other. She is always at the hospital. A great many wounded arrived on Saturday, so many that there were not enough beds for them all, and some had to be put on the floor. Sasha did not come home that day for the children’s bath. This is not the first occasion on which it has happened. Nurse usually