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

mute. Why is your land so mournful? It is almost a week since I’ve seen my shadow. It is impossible! I don’t see my shadow.”

“Our land is very cheerful and full of joy. It is still winter now, but soon spring will come, and sunshine will come back with it. You shall see it, Haggart.”

He speaks with contempt:

“And you are sitting and waiting calmly for its return? You must be a fine set of people! Ah, if I only had a ship!”

“What would you have done?”

He looks at her morosely and shakes his head suspiciously.

“You are too inquisitive, little girl. Has anyone sent you over to me?”

“No. What do you need a ship for?”

Haggart laughs good-naturedly and ironically:

“She asks what a man needs a ship for. You must be a fine set of people. You don’t know what a man needs a ship for! And you speak seriously? If I had a ship I would have rushed toward the sun. And it would not matter how it sets its golden sails, I would overtake it with my black sails. And I would force it to outline my shadow on the deck of my ship. And I would put my foot upon it this way!”

He stamps his foot firmly. Then Mariet asks, cautiously:

“Did you say with black sails?”

“That’s what I said. Why do you always ask questions? I have no ship, you know. Goodbye.”

He puts on his hat, but does not move. Mariet maintains silence. Then he says, very angrily:

“Perhaps you, too, like the music of your old Dan, that old fool?”

“You know his name?”

“Khorre told me it. I don’t like his music, no, no. Bring me a good, honest dog, or beast, and he will howl. You will say that he knows no music⁠—he does, but he can’t bear falsehood. Here is music. Listen!”

He takes Mariet by the hand and turns her roughly, her face toward the ocean.

“Do you hear? This is music. Your Dan has robbed the sea and the wind. No, he is worse than a thief, he is a deceiver! He should be hanged on a sailyard⁠—your Dan! Goodbye!”

He goes, but after taking two steps he turns around.

“I said goodbye to you. Go home. Let this fool play alone. Well, go.”

Mariet is silent, motionless. Haggart laughs:

“Are you afraid perhaps that I have forgotten your name? I remember it. Your name is Mariet. Go, Mariet.”

She says softly:

“I have seen your ship.”

Haggart advances to her quickly and bends down. His face is terrible.

“It is not true. When?”

“Last evening.”

“It is not true! Which way was it going?”

“Toward the sun.”

“Last evening I was drunk and I slept. But this is not true. I have never seen it. You are testing me. Beware!”

“Shall I tell you if I see it again?”

“How can you tell me?”

“I shall come up your hill.”

Haggart looks at her attentively.

“If you are only telling me the truth. What sort of people are there in your land⁠—false or not? In the lands I know, all the people are false. Has anyone else seen that ship?”

“I don’t know. I was alone on the shore. Now I see that it was not your ship. You are not glad to hear of it.”

Haggart is silent, as though he has forgotten her presence.

“You have a pretty uniform. You are silent? I shall come up to you.”

Haggart is silent. His dark profile is stern and wildly gloomy; every motion of his powerful body, every fold of his clothes, is full of the dull silence of the taciturnity of long hours, or days, or perhaps of a lifetime.

“Your sailor will not kill me? You are silent. I have a betrothed. His name is Philipp, but I don’t love him. You are now like that rock which lies on the road leading to the castle.”

Haggart turns around silently and starts.

“I also remember your name. Your name is Haggart.”

He goes away.

“Haggart!” calls Mariet, but he has already disappeared behind the house. Only the creaking of the scattered cobblestones is heard, dying away in the misty air. Dan, who has taken a rest, is playing again; he is telling God about those who have perished at sea.

The night is growing darker. Neither the rock nor the castle is visible now; only the light in the window is redder and brighter.

The dull thuds of the tireless breakers are telling the story of different lives.

II

A strong wind is tossing the fragment of a sail which is hanging over the large, open window. The sail is too small to cover the entire window, and, through the gaping hole, the dark night is breathing inclement weather. There is no rain, but the warm wind, saturated with the sea, is heavy and damp.

Here in the tower live Haggart and his sailor, Khorre. Both are sleeping now a heavy, drunken sleep. On the table and in the corners of the room there are empty bottles, and the remains of food; the only taburet is overturned, lying on one side. Toward evening the sailor got up, lit a large illumination lamp, and was about to do more, but he was overcome by intoxication again and fell asleep upon his thin mattress of straw and seagrass. Tossed by the wind, the flame of the illumination-lamp is quivering in yellow, restless spots over the uneven, mutilated walls, losing itself in the dark opening of the door, which leads to the other rooms of the castle.

Haggart lies on his back, and the same quivering yellow shades run noiselessly over his strong forehead, approach his closed eyes, his straight, sharply outlined nose, and, tossing about in confusion, rush back to the wall. The breathing of the sleeping man is deep and uneven; from time to time his heavy, strange hand lifts itself, makes several weak, unfinished movements, and falls down on his breast helplessly.

Outside the window the breakers are roaring and raging, beating against the rocks⁠—this is the second day a storm is raging in the ocean. The ancient tower is quivering from the violent