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

it and send to God seven of His holy hours.”

He takes the rope of the bell and strikes the hour⁠—seven ringing and slow strokes. The wind plays with them, it drops them to the ground, but before they touch it, it catches them tenderly, sways them softly and with a light accompaniment of whistling carries them off to the dark coast.

“Oh, no!” mutters Dan. “Bad hours, they fall to the ground. They are not His holy hours and He will send them back. Oh, a storm is coming! O Lord, have mercy on those who are perishing at sea!”

He mutters and coughs.

“Dan, I have seen the ship again today. Do you hear, Dan?”

“Many ships are going out to sea.”

“But this one had black sails. It was again going toward the sun.”

“Many ships are going out to sea. Listen, Mariet, there was once a wise king⁠—Oh, how wise he was!⁠—and he commanded that the sea be lashed with chains. Oho!”

“I know, Dan. You told me about it.”

“Oho, with chains! But it did not occur to him to christen the sea. Why did it not occur to him to do that, Mariet? Ah, why did he not think of it? We have no such kings now.”

“What would have happened, Dan?”

“Oho!”

He whispers softly:

“All the rivers and the streams have already been christened, and the cross of the Lord has touched even many stagnant swamps; only the sea remained⁠—that nasty, salty, deep pool.”

“Why do you scold it? It does not like to be scolded,” Mariet reproaches him.

“Oho! Let the sea not like it⁠—I am not afraid of it. The sea thinks it is also an organ and music for God. It is a nasty, hissing, furious pool. A salty spit of satan. Fie! Fie! Fie!”

He goes to the doors at the entrance of the church muttering angrily, threatening, as though celebrating some victory:

“Oho! Oho!”

“Dan!”

“Go home.”

“Dan! Why don’t you light candles when you play? Dan, I don’t love my betrothed. Do you hear, Dan?”

Dan turns his head unwillingly.

“I have heard it long ago, Mariet. Tell it to your father.”

“Where is my mother, Dan?”

“Oho! You are mad again, Mariet? You are gazing too much at the sea⁠—yes. I am going to tell⁠—I am going to tell your father, yes.”

He enters the church. Soon the sounds of the organ are heard. Faint in the first, long-drawn, deeply pensive chords, they rapidly gain strength. And with a passionate sadness, their human melodies now wrestle with the dull and gloomy plaintiveness of the tireless surf. Like seagulls in a storm, the sounds soar amidst the high waves, unable to rise higher on their overburdened wings. The stern ocean holds them captive by its wild and eternal charms. But when they have risen, the lowered ocean roars more dully; now they rise still higher⁠—and the heavy, almost voiceless pile of water is shaking helplessly. Varied voices resound through the expanse of the resplendent distances. Day has one sorrow, night has another sorrow, and the proud, ever rebellious, black ocean suddenly seems to become an eternal slave.

Her cheek pressed against the cold stone of the wall, Mariet is listening, all alone. She is growing reconciled to something; she is grieving ever more quietly.

Suddenly, firm footsteps are heard on the road; the cobblestones are creaking under the vigorous steps⁠—and a man appears from behind the church. He walks slowly and sternly, like those who do not roam in vain, and who know the earth from end to end. He carries his hat in his hands; he is thinking of something, looking ahead. On his broad shoulders is set a round, strong head, with short hair; his dark profile is stern and commandingly haughty, and, although the man is dressed in a partly military uniform, he does not subject his body to the discipline of his clothes, but masters it as a free man. The folds of his clothes fall submissively.

Mariet greets him:

“Good evening.”

He walks on quite a distance, then stops and turns his head slowly. He waits silently, as though regretting to part with his silence.

“Did you say ‘Good evening’ to me?” he asks at last.

“Yes, to you. Good evening.”

He looks at her silently.

“Well, good evening. This is the first time I have been greeted in this land, and I was surprised when I heard your voice. Come nearer to me. Why don’t you sleep when all are sleeping? Who are you?”

“I am the daughter of the abbot of this place.”

He laughs:

“Have priests children? Or are there special priests in your land?”

“Yes, the priests are different here.”

“Now, I recall, Khorre told me something about the priest of this place.”

“Who is Khorre?”

“My sailor. The one who buys gin in your settlement.”

He suddenly laughs again and continues:

“Yes, he told me something. Was it your father who cursed the Pope and declared his own church independent?”

“Yes.”

“And he makes his own prayers? And goes to sea with the fishermen? And punishes with his own hands those who disobey him?”

“Yes. I am his daughter. My name is Mariet. And what is your name?”

“I have many names. Which one shall I tell you?”

“The one by which you were christened.”

“What makes you think that I was christened?”

“Then tell me the name by which your mother called you.”

“What makes you think that I had a mother? I do not know my mother.”

Mariet says softly:

“Neither do I know my mother.”

Both are silent. They look at each other kindly.

“Is that so?” he says. “You, too, don’t know your mother? Well, then, call me Haggart.”

“Haggart?”

“Yes. Do you like the name? I have invented it myself⁠—Haggart. It’s a pity that you have been named already. I would have invented a fine name for you.”

Suddenly he frowned.

“Tell me, Mariet, why is your land so mournful? I walk along your paths and only the cobblestones creak under my feet. And on both sides are huge rocks.”

“That is on the road to the castle⁠—none of us ever go there. Is it true that these stones stop the passersby with the question: ‘Where are you going?’ ”

“No, they are