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

I smiled:

“Bread⁠—it is so strange.”

She glanced at the bread, at the stale, dry crust of bread, and for some reason her face became sad. Still continuing to look at it, she silently adjusted her apron with her hands and her head turned slightly, very slightly, in the direction where the children were sleeping.

“Do you feel sorry for them?” I asked.

She shook her head without removing her eyes from the bread.

“No, but I was thinking of what happened in our life before.”

How incomprehensible! As one who awakens from a long sleep, she surveyed the room with her eyes and all seemed to her so incomprehensible. Was this the place where we had lived?

“You were my wife.”

“And there are our children.”

“Here, beyond the wall, your father died.”

“Yes. He died. He died without awakening.”

The smallest child, frightened at something in her sleep, began to cry. And this simple childish cry, apparently demanding something, sounded so strange amid these phantom walls, while there, below, people were building barricades.

She cried and demanded⁠—caresses, certain queer words and promises to soothe her. And she soon was soothed.

“Well, go!” said my wife in a whisper.

“I should like to kiss them.”

“I am afraid you will wake them up.”

“No, I will not.”

It turned out that the oldest child was awake⁠—he had heard and understood everything. He was but nine years old, but he understood everything⁠—he met me with a deep, stern look.

“Will you take your gun?” he asked thoughtfully and earnestly.

“I will.”

“It is behind the stove.”

“How do you know? Well, kiss me. Will you remember me?”

He jumped up in his bed, in his short little shirt, hot from sleep, and firmly clasped my neck. His arms were burning⁠—they were so soft and delicate. I lifted his hair on the back of his head and kissed his little neck.

“Will they kill you?” he whispered right into my ear.

“No, I will come back.”

But why did he not cry? He had cried sometimes when I had simply left the house for a while: Is it possible that it had reached him, too? Who knows? So many strange things happened during the great days.

I looked at the walls, at the bread, at the candle, at the flame which had kept flickering, and took my wife by the hand.

“Well⁠—till we meet again!”

“Yes⁠—till we meet again!”

That was all. I went out. It was dark on the stairway and there was the odour of old filth. Surrounded on all sides by the stones and the darkness, groping down the stairs, I was seized with a tremendous, powerful and all-absorbing feeling of the new, unknown and joyous something to which I was going.

… And then there came the giant, the big, great Giant. Such a great, big one. There he came, on and on. Such a funny Giant⁠ ⁠… His hands are huge and thick, and his fingers are outspread, and his feet are huge, and so thick. That’s how thick they are. Then he came⁠ ⁠… and then, down he fell. You understand, he fell, fell right down. His foot caught on a stair, such a stupid Giant he is, such a funny one. So, you see, his foot caught on a stair. He opened his mouth, and⁠ ⁠… there he is lying, lying right down, as funny as a chimney-sweep. What have you come here for, Mister Giant? Get out of here, Mister Giant. Sasha is such a dear, such a nice, good little boy; he clings so gently to his mother, to her heart⁠ ⁠… to her heart, such a dear, lovely little child. He has such dear, fine eyes, clear, clean; and everybody loves him so much. And he has such a nice litle nose, and little lips, and he is not naughty at all. It was such a long time ago that he was naughty; he ran and shouted and rode a hobbyhorse. You know, Giant, Sasha has a horsie, a fine horsie, a big one, with a tail, and he mounts it and rides far, far away, to the little river and to the forest. And down in the little river there are little fishes. Do you know, Giant, what fishes are? No, no, Giant, you do not know, you are stupid, but Sasha knows: they are so little and nice. The sun shines over the water, and they play, little, cunning, lively fishes. Yes, stupid Giant, but you do not know that⁠ ⁠…

—What a funny Giant; he came and fell down. That’s what I call funny! He was going up the stairs, and his foot caught on the stair, and⁠ ⁠… down he fell. What a stupid Giant! Serves you right, Giant, do not come here; nobody has called you, stupid Giant that you are. It was long ago that Sasha was naughty, was shouting and running, but now he is gentle, so dear, and mamma loves him so dearly, dearly. She loves him so much, more than anybody else in the world, more than herself, more than life. He is her little sun, her happiness, her joy. See, now he is a tiny, quiet, little child, and his life is tiny, but later he will grow big, big like the Giant; he will have a big beard, big, big whiskers, and his life will be a big, shining, beautiful one. He will be good, clever, and strong, like the Giant, such a strong, clever man, and everybody will love him, and everybody will love him, and everybody will look at him and be glad. There will be sorrow in his life⁠—every man meets sorrow⁠—but there will be joys also, great, shining like the sun. He will enter the world, fair and intelligent, and the blue sky will shine over his head, and birds will sing songs to him, and brooks will murmur gently. And he will look at it all and say: How wonderful the world is⁠ ⁠… how wonderful the world is⁠ ⁠…

—This is impossible. I hold you, my little boy, firmly and tenderly, tenderly. Are