Short Fiction, Leonid Andreyev [good e books to read .TXT] 📗

the wild, incomprehensible act that ruined his life. It may have been a frenzy that sometimes unaccountably seizes hold of the strongest and calmest minds; or it may have been actually that, through the drunken scraping of a fiddle somewhere in that bawdy house, through the sorcery of the downcast eyes of a prostitute, he discovered a last new terrible truth of life, a truth of his own, which none other could see and understand. Whichever it were⁠—insanity or revelation, lies or truth, this new understanding of his⁠—he accepted it manfully and unconditionally, with that inflexible spirit which had drawn his previous life along one straight, fiery line, directing its flight like the feathers on an arrow.

He passed his hand slowly, very slowly, over his hard, bristly skull, and, without even shutting the door, simply returned and sat in his former place on the bed. His broad cheekbones, his paleness, made him look more than ever a foreigner.

“What’s the matter? Have you forgotten something?”

The girl was astonished. She no longer expected anything.

“No.”

“What is it? Why don’t you go?”

Quietly, with the expression of a stone on which life has engraved one last commandment, grim and new, he answered:

“I do not wish to be fine.”

She still waited, not daring to believe, suddenly shrinking from what she had so much sought and yearned for. She knelt down. He smiled gently, and in the same new and impressive manner stood over her and placed his hand on her head and repeated:

“I do not want to be fine.”

The woman busied herself swiftly in her joy. She undressed him like a child, unlaced his boots, fumbling at the knots, stroked his head, his knees, and never so much as smiled⁠—so full was her heart. Then she looked up into his face and was afraid.

“How pale you are! Drink something now⁠—at once! Are you feeling ill, Peter?”

“My name is Alexis.”

“Never mind that. Here, let me give you some in a glass. Well, take care then; don’t choke yourself! If you’re not used to it, it’s not so easy as out of a glass.”

She opened her mouth, seeing him drink with slow, sceptical gulps. He coughed.

“Never mind! You’ll be a good drinker, I can see that! Oh, how happy I am!”

With an animal cry she leapt on him, and began smothering him with short, vigorous kisses, to which he had no time to respond. It was funny⁠—she was a stranger, yet kissed so hard! He held her firmly for a moment, held her immovable, and was silent awhile, himself motionless⁠—held her as though he too felt the strength of quiescence, the strength of a woman, as his own strength. And the woman, joyously, obediently, became limp in his arms.

“So be it!” he said, with an imperceptible sigh.

The woman bestirred herself anew, burning in the savagery of her joy as in a fire. Her movements filled the room, as if she were not one but a score of half-witted women who spoke, stirred, went to and fro, kissed him. She plied him with cognac, and drank more herself. Then a sudden recollection seized her; she clasped her hands.

“But the revolver⁠—we forgot that! Give it to me⁠—quick, quick! I must take it to the office.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I’m scared of the thing! Would it go off at once?”

He smiled, and repeated:

“Would it go off at once? Yes, it would. At once!”

He took out his revolver, and, deliberately weighing in his hand that silent and obedient weapon, gave it to the girl. He also handed her the cartridge clips.

“Take them!”

When he was left alone and without the revolver he had carried so many years, the half open door letting in the sound of strange voices and the clink of spurs, he felt the whole weight of the great burden he had taken on his shoulders. He walked silently across the room in the direction where They were to be found, and said one word:

“Well?”

A chill came over him as he crossed his arms, facing Them; and that one little word held many meanings⁠—a last farewell⁠—some obscure challenge, some irrevocable evil resolution to fight everyone, even his own comrades⁠—a little, a very little, sense of reproach.

He was still standing there when Liuba ran in, excitedly calling to him from the door.

“Dearie, dearie, now don’t be angry. I’ve asked my friends here, some of them. You don’t mind? You see, I want so much to show them my sweetheart, my darling; you don’t mind? They’re dears! Nobody has taken them this evening and they’re all alone. The officers have gone to bed now. One of them noticed your revolver and liked it. A very fine one, he said. You don’t mind? You don’t mind, dear?” And the girl smothered him with short, sharp kisses.

The women were already coming in, chattering and simpering⁠—five or six of the ugliest or oldest of the establishment⁠—painted, with drooping eyes, their hair combed up over their brows. Some of them affected attitudes of shame, and giggled; others quietly eyed the cognac, and looking at him earnestly shook hands. Apparently they had already been to bed; they were all in scanty wrappers; one very fat woman, indolent and indifferent, had come in nothing but a petticoat, her bare arms and corpulent bosom incredibly fat. This fat woman, and another one with an evil birdlike aged face, on which the white paint lay like dirty stucco on a wall, were quite drunk; the others were merry. All this mob of women, half naked, giggling, surrounded him; and an intolerable stench of bodies and stale beer rose and mingled with the clammy, soapy air of the room. A sweating lackey hurried in with cognac, dressed in a tight frocks coat much too small for him, and the girls greeted him with a chorus of:

“Màrkusha! Oh, Màrkusha! Dear Màrkusha!”

Apparently it was a custom of the house to greet him with such exclamations, for even the fat drunken woman murmured lazily, “Màrkusha!”

They drank and clinked glasses, all talking at once about affairs of their own.