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

flat and high If you happened to fall from the top there would be nothing to clutch hold of to stop you. I can’t get rid of a tormenting thought that I’ve fallen from the roof, down, down, to the pavement past windows and cornices. The sensation is so real as to make me sick. To get away from the sight of that wall I pace the room, but there is little comfort in that. I step cautiously over the creaking floor, barefoot, in pants only, seeming more and more like a lunatic or a hunted murderer. And still it is light! And still it is light!

I can’t go on like this! In like conditions, I suppose, men write the words, “Accuse no one of my death; I am tired of life.”

What rubbish I allow myself to talk! I am simply not well, and must treat myself. I really must be more careful of my health.

Lidotchka, my angel, set me free. Give me tears that I may weep for you! I can’t go on as I am. Pray to God for me; you are so near to Him; you can look into His eyes. Ask Him to have mercy on your father, Lidotchka, my darling, my silent angel; remember how I carried you from the bed to the table, and held you close, oh, so close.⁠ ⁠…

21st July.

What a hard time we are going through. God spare Russia! From end to end of the vast land people are praying for Russia’s salvation.

I am ashamed to confess in what a vain frame of mind I set out for the Kazan Cathedral, where a public service was to be held. I don’t know at what moment I suddenly began to see and understand. I only remember that at first I smiled superciliously and cast my eye about for other clever fellows like myself, with whom to exchange knowing glances. I was horribly annoyed at the pushing and shoving, and stuck out my elbows ostentatiously for the benefit of my neighbours. But when did daylight come?

No words can describe the impressiveness of the sight. From every street and alley hundreds of thousands of people were streaming to one particular spot to offer up their common prayers to God. It seemed like some practical joke at first, or a showy parade; but when they came and came, and there was no breathing space, and still they kept on coming, the solemnity of it made cold shivers run down my back. “What does it mean?” you asked yourself with a shudder, but no one heard you, and no one replied, and still the people kept on coming and coming. The solemnity and gravity was enhanced by the very fact that no one paid any heed to you, and you paid no heed to them. Your heart began to beat fast. What a vital occasion it must be to bring so many people together so intent for the purposes of prayer! Is it for my small mind to question and criticise?

Men were not ashamed to weep; some even forgot to dry their tears. All restraint was abandoned. “How naive the people are!” I thought like a fool, as I eyed a robust-looking peasant, a yard-porter, or cabman, no doubt, whose tears were streaming down his cheeks. Suddenly I felt a moistness in my own eyes, dry for so long, and I wept shamefacedly, not yet appreciating the value of my tears, and raising my eyes artfully to heaven, lest someone should see. “God, how far away Thou art, yet how near!” I thought.

All at once a shudder went through me, and I seemed to be pierced by a heavenly fire. On wings invisible I seemed to soar on high to the white clouds, and from that height I looked down on this land we call Russia. I saw that it was she, and no other land, that was menaced by misery indescribable! It was against her the enemy was marching with fire and bomb! And it was for Russia, for Russia’s salvation, we were praying! Once more I looked at the people; they wept, and I wept with them. They did not spurn me, those near me, but leant trustingly, against my breast. Lunatic! What had I been thinking of before? An intense love for these people came over me. I could hardly contain myself. I could have cried aloud for love of them, I could cry aloud at this moment when I recall the sensation.

It’s difficult to express what I felt. Though only a few hours have gone by since the great moment, I cannot see Russia as I saw her then. She is only a map to me now, yet then I had seen and known so clearly. I do remember, I suppose, but I cannot express it in words. Oh, God, save Russia! Spare her, foolish as she is!

I ought to leave off now, but the tears will come, and why shouldn’t I let them? Yesterday when I got home and saw mother wiping Peter’s nose with her trembling hand, I remembered Pavel, and, unable to contain myself, I sobbed aloud like a child. I fell on my knees before mother and kissed her wrinkled, aged hand. Nurse was there, and she, too, could not keep back her tears. How guilty I feel before all decent people! I had good reason to cry!

I must stop now or I shall become unintelligible. My thoughts come so quickly. Let them come.

The same night.

Once more I can’t sleep. My heart is filled with anxiety. I am shivering with cold. I am still thinking of Russia.

Man is not slow to utilise his experiences to his advantage. There is something very subtle about it. I had no sooner learned to love Russia than I hastened home to lavish affection on my own children, Peter and Jena. The very desire to love them was wonderful after my coldness and hardness of heart that had