Short Fiction, Vsevolod Garshin [howl and other poems .txt] 📗

“Yes, I must go.⁠ ⁠…”

“You must?⁠ ⁠… Again there? Nadejda Nicolaievna! Yes, better for me to kill you at once!”

He said this in a whisper, having seized me by the arm and looking at me with a troubled expression in his dilated eyes.

“Is it better? Tell me!”

“But you know, Ivan Ivanovich, that you will go to Siberia for it. And I don’t want that at all.”

“To Siberia!⁠ ⁠… And is it only out of fear of Siberia that I cannot kill you?⁠ ⁠… No, that is not why.⁠ ⁠… I cannot kill you because⁠ ⁠… but how can I kill you? How can I kill you?” he murmured chokingly,⁠ ⁠… “I⁠ ⁠…”

And he seized me, lifted me up as if I had been a child, crushing me in his embrace, and raining kisses on my face, lips, eyes, and hair. Then, just as suddenly as this had all happened, he put me down and said quickly:

“Well, go! go!⁠ ⁠… Forgive me, but it is the first and last time. Don’t be angry with me. Go, Nadejda Nicolaievna!”

“I am not angry, Ivan Ivanovich.⁠ ⁠…”

“Go! Go! Thank you for coming.”

He saw me to the door, and immediately afterwards locked it. I began to go down the staircase. I was feeling more depressed than before.

Let him go and forget me. I will stay and live out my time. Enough of sentimentality. I’ll go home.

I quickened my pace, and began to think of what dress I should wear and where to go in the evening. And so my romance has ended, a momentary halt on the slippery path! Now I shall go on without let or hindrance ever lower and lower.⁠ ⁠…

But if he means to shoot himself now! suddenly something cried out within me. I stopped as if transfixed. My eyes became dark, cold shivers ran down my back. I could not breathe.⁠ ⁠… Yes, he is at this moment killing himself! He slammed the drawer⁠—he was looking at a revolver. He had written a letter.⁠ ⁠… The last time.⁠ ⁠… Run! Perhaps I shall yet be in time. Oh God! stop him! God! leave him for me!

A mortal strange fear seized me. I rushed back as if possessed, tearing my way through passersby. I do not remember how I tore up the stairs. I only remember the vacant face of the Finn servant who let me in. I remember the long, dark corridor with its row of doors. I remember how I threw myself at his door; but as I seized the handle a shot resounded from inside. People rushed out from all sides, everything swam around me, people, corridor, doors, walls. And I fell⁠ ⁠… everything in my head also swam and disappeared.⁠ ⁠…

Frost and cold. January is approaching, and is making its coming known to every unfortunate being⁠—dvorniks and gorodovois⁠—unable to hide their noses in some warm place. It is also letting me know. Not because I have been unable to find a warm corner, but through a whim of mine.

As a matter of fact, why am I stumping along this deserted quay? The lamps are shining brightly, although the wind keeps forcing its way inside them and making the gas-jets dance. Their bright light makes the dark mass of the sumptuous Palace, and especially its windows, look all the more gloomy. The wind is moaning and howling across the icy waste of the Neva. Through the gusts of wind comes the sound of the chimes of the Fortress Cathedral, and every stroke of the mournful bells keeps time with the tap of my wooden leg on the ice-covered granite slabs of the pavement and with the beating of my aching heart against the walls of its narrow cell.

I must present myself to the reader. I am a young man with a wooden leg. Perhaps you will say I am imitating Dickens. You remember Silas Wegg, the literary gent with the wooden leg (in Our Mutual Friend)? No, I am not copying him. I really am a young man with a wooden leg. Only I have become so recently.

“Dingdong, dingdong!” The chimes again ring out their doleful chant, and then one o’clock strikes. Only one o’clock! Still seven hours before daylight, then this black winter night, with its cold, wet snow, will give place to a grey day. Shall I go home? I do not know. It is absolutely all the same to me. I have no need of sleep.

In the spring, also, I loved to spend whole nights walking up and down this quay. Ah, what nights those are! What can surpass them? They are not the scented nights of the South, with their strange black heaven and big stars with their pursuing gaze. Here all is light and bright. The sky with its varied hues is coldly beautiful, and throughout the night remains gilded north and east with the rays of a scarce-setting sun. The air is fresh and keen. The limpid Neva rolls onwards proudly, its dancing wavelets contentedly lapping against the stonework of the quay. I am standing on this quay, and on my arm a young girl is leaning. And this girl⁠—

Ah, good people! why have I begun to tell you of my wounds? But such is the stupidity of the poor human heart. When it is stricken it dreams of seeking relief from each it meets, and does not find it. This is, however, quite intelligible. Who is in want of an old undarned stocking? Everyone endeavours to throw it away⁠—the farther the better.

My heart was in no need of mending when in the spring of this year I met Masha⁠—the best of all Mashas in this world. I met her on this same quay, which was not, however, as cold as it is now. And I had a real leg instead of this disgusting wooden stump⁠—a real well-made leg, like the one that I have left me. Taking me all round, I was a well-made fellow, and, of course, did