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

the time that I had to lean against the wall to keep myself from falling. She left me for a while to make some arrangement, and, grown calmer, I cast about the room where it had all taken place, wiping away my tears. My eyes fell upon a white overall with a red cross hanging on the wall, and again my tears gushed forth. Henceforth the red cross will be as sacred to me as my Sashenka.

In that condition Sashenka took me home. I turned my face away from the porter as he opened the door⁠—we live up a different staircase. I tried to speak, but my words were unintelligible, and Sashenka stopped me. “Don’t talk now,” she said, “wait till you are calmer. We can talk tomorrow.” She had asked for a few days’ leave.

I have no clear recollection, too, of what happened when we got home. The rooms seemed very bright and festive; they might have been prepared for a party. I kissed the sleeping children, each in turn, I kissed mother, whom Sashenka had roused, and we all cried together, smiling happily and foolishly. Then the samovar was prepared, and as I drank the hot tea, the tears fell into my cup. I couldn’t stop crying for joy and pity.

Sashenka made me a bed in my study, thinking I should be quieter there. She put on clean sheets and gave me clean night things, and when I got into the fragrant fresh bed, and lay down on my back with my hands on the coverlet, and Sashenka put a green reading-lamp on a little table by my side, and opened a book to read to me, I did indeed feel as if I had been badly wounded, and was now recovering. How pleasant was the very weakness with which I raised my eyes to the bright patch of light cast by the lamp on the ceiling, to the lamp itself, to Sashenka’s chin, which was all I could see of her face!

She was reading something from Gogol, and though I only caught fragments of the story, it was as sweet and soothing as a pleasant dream about strange people, fields, country roads. “Selefan, Petrushka, the trap.” I heard the words, I could see the people, yet there was the dark river, the motorcars, the man seizing my hand on the bridge, then again came the trap and bells, and a long, winding country road. I fell asleep, but started up with a shudder, and when I saw the patch of light and heard Sashenka’s reassuring voice, I dropped into a sound, peaceful sleep at last.

When I awoke in the morning Sashenka was sitting by the little table with tears in her eyes. She had just finished reading this stupid diary, and looked so sweet after her sleepless night spent by my side. Dear, divine Sashenka!

25th September.

We have moved to the house of Sashenka’s friend, Fimotchka, with whom we have rented two rooms, inhabited formerly by some refugee. The refugee was ignominiously turned out; we, too, were refugees. Fimotchka is the jolliest person imaginable; she is always laughing. God knows how I love these two tiny rooms, and Fimotchka’s jokes against my sensibility.

I might have moved to a palace for I feel as free as a king. Fimotchka has a canary, and I foolishly stand at its cage watching its antics for half an hour at a time.

I can’t talk about important things now, that must come later.

The Germans continue to advance.

26th September.

I find it difficult to see myself as Sashenka describes me, but I have faith in each of my blessed angel’s words. What a horrible picture it is of myself, to be sure! No wonder I was such a stranger to Sashenka. Absorbed as I was in my own sorrows, I failed to notice her tears; to each kind word I answered with a vicious growl⁠—like a dog who had been deprived of a bone. How incredibly vain were my fears and my pride when I had lost my work! Other men might lose their work and have to beg, only I was too exalted for that! Other men might lose their children, only I must cry aloud and beat my breast! Other men might have their houses burnt and their property destroyed, and be subjected to all kinds of misfortunes, only I must be guarded sacredly against any ill wind! Other men might fight and suffer, while I, like a retired schoolmaster, must sit up at night to prepare my lessons, to moralise to unwilling ears, and to set the conduct marks. Here’s minus for you, Germany! Go into the corner! All you fools must stand in the corner! I’m the only sensible person among you, and I will sit in the cathedra and sing my own praises!

I wonder how Sashenka came to see it? What a dear she is! She says it’s so plain to anyone. If it is, what made me so blind? The same reason, no doubt, that prompts me to ask these useless questions. I see it all so clearly, yet will put marks of interrogation from force of habit. How stupid of me!

There seems nothing to which I can compare my present lightness of heart. I am afraid of nothing. Nothing in the world is terrible; I created my own terror. If the Germans come, what of it? If we must run away, we will run away; if we must die, we will die. Peter and Jena are dearer to me than ever, but even the thought of their death does not fill me with dread. I should mourn for them bitterly, no doubt, but I refuse to bow down to death, I refuse to invite her as my guest! Besides, the idea of death is ridiculous; those we love never die, Sashenka says.

Last night Fimotchka kept on calling me old man. It was “Well, old man” here, “well, old man” there, until Sashenka