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

They walk firmly, but openly; even a girl could trust them.”

“Oh, look out!”

Frightened and cautious laughter.

“No, don’t laugh. He walks without looking at the ground; he puts his feet down as if the ground itself must take them cautiously and place them.”

“But if there’s a stone on the road? We have many stones here.”

“He does not bend down, nor does he hide his head when a strong wind blows.”

“Of course not. Of course not. He does not hide his head.”

“Is it true that he is handsome? Who has seen him at close range?”

“I,” says Mariet.

“No, no, don’t speak of him; I shall not be able to sleep all night. Since they settled on that hill, in that accursed castle, I know no rest; I am dying of fear. You are also afraid. Confess it.”

“Well, not all of us are afraid.”

“What have they come here for? There are two of them. What is there for them to do here in our poor land, where we have nothing but stones and the sea?”

“They drink gin. The sailor comes every morning for gin.”

“They are simply drunkards who don’t want anybody to disturb their drinking. When the sailor passes along the street he leaves behind him an odour as of an open bottle of rum.”

“But is that their business⁠—drinking gin? I fear them. Where is the ship that brought them here? They came from the sea.”

“I saw the ship,” says Mariet.

The women begin to question her in amazement.

“You? Why, then, didn’t you say anything about it? Tell us what you know.”

Mariet maintains silence. Suddenly one of the women exclaims:

“Ah, look! They have lit a lamp. There is a light in the castle!”

On the left, about half a mile away from the village, a faint light flares up, a red little coal in the dark blue of the twilight and the distance. There upon a high rock, overhanging the sea, stands an ancient castle, a grim heritage of grey and mysterious antiquity. Long destroyed, long ruined, it blends with the rocks, continuing and delusively ending them by the broken, dented line of its batteries, its shattered roofs, its half-crumbled towers. Now the rocks and the castle are covered with a smoky shroud of twilight. They seem airy, devoid of any weight, and almost as fantastic as those monstrous heaps of structures which are piled up and which are falling so noiselessly in the sky. But while the others are falling this one stands, and a live light reddens against the deep blue⁠—and it is just as strange a sight as if a human hand were to kindle a light in the clouds.

Turning their heads in that direction, the women look on with frightened eyes.

“Do you see,” says one of them. “It is even worse than a light on a cemetery. Who needs a light among the tombstones?”

“It is getting cold toward night and the sailor must have thrown some branches into the fireplace, that’s all. At least, I think so,” says Mariet.

“And I think that the abbot should have gone there with holy water long ago.”

“Or with the gendarmes! If that isn’t the devil himself, it is surely one of his assistants.”

“It is impossible to live peacefully with such neighbours close by.”

“I am afraid for the children.”

“And for your soul?”

Two elderly women rise silently and go away. Then a third, an old woman, also rises.

“We must ask the abbot whether it isn’t a sin to look at such a light.”

She goes off. The smoke in the sky is ever increasing and the fire is subsiding, and the unknown city is already near its dark end. The sea odour is growing ever sharper and stronger. Night is coming from the shore.

Their heads turned, the women watch the departing old woman. Then they turn again toward the light.

Mariet, as though defending someone, says softly:

“There can’t be anything bad in light. For there is light in the candles on God’s altar.”

“But there is also fire for Satan in hell,” says another old woman, heavily and angrily, and then goes off. Now four remain, all young girls.

“I am afraid,” says one, pressing close to her companion.

The noiseless and cold conflagration in the sky is ended; the city is destroyed; the unknown land is in ruins. There are no longer any walls or falling towers; a heap of pale blue gigantic shapes have fallen silently into the abyss of the ocean and the night. A young little star glances at the earth with frightened eyes; it feels like coming out of the clouds near the castle, and because of its inmost neighbourship the heavy castle grows darker, and the light in its window seems redder and darker.

“Good night, Mariet,” says the girl who sat alone, and then she goes off.

“Let us also go; it is getting cold,” say the other two, rising. “Good night, Mariet.”

“Good night.”

“Why are you alone, Mariet? Why are you alone, Mariet, in the daytime and at night, on week days and on merry holidays? Do you love to think of your betrothed?”

“Yes, I do. I love to think of Philipp.”

The girl laughs.

“But you don’t want to see him. When he goes out to sea, you look at the sea for hours; when he comes back⁠—you are not there. Where are you hiding yourself?”

“I love to think of Philipp.”

“Like a blind man he gropes among the houses, forever calling: ‘Mariet! Mariet! Have you not seen Mariet?’ ”

They go off laughing and repeating:

“Good night, Mariet. ‘Have you not seen Mariet! Mariet!’ ”

The girl is left alone. She looks at the light in the castle. She hears soft, irresolute footsteps.

Old Dan, of small stature, slim, a coughing old man with a clean-shaven face, comes out from behind the church. Because of his irresoluteness, or because of the weakness of his eyes, he steps uncertainly, touching the ground cautiously and with a certain degree of fear.

“Oho! Oho!”

“Is that you, Dan?”

“The sea is calm, Dan. Are you going to play tonight?”

“Oho! I shall ring the bell seven times. Seven times I shall ring