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

blows of the waves. It responds to the storm with the rustling of the falling plaster, with the rattling of the little cobblestones as they are torn down, with the whisper and moans of the wind which has lost its way in the passages. It whispers and mutters like an old woman.

The sailor begins to feel cold on the stone floor, on which the wind spreads itself like water; he tosses about, folds his legs under himself, draws his head into his shoulders, gropes for his imaginary clothes, but is unable to wake up⁠—his intoxication produced by a two days’ spree is heavy and severe. But now the wind whines more powerfully than before; something heaves a deep groan. Perhaps a part of a destroyed wall has sunk into the sea. The quivering yellow spots commence to toss about upon the crooked wall more desperately, and Khorre awakes.

He sits up on his mattress, looks around, but is unable to understand anything.

The wind is hissing like a robber summoning other robbers, and filling the night with disquieting phantoms. It seems as if the sea were full of sinking vessels, of people who are drowning and desperately struggling with death. Voices are heard. Somewhere near by people are shouting, scolding each other, laughing and singing, like madmen, or talking sensibly and rapidly⁠—it seems that soon one will see a strange human face distorted by horror or laughter, or fingers bent convulsively. But there is a strong smell of the sea, and that, together with the cold, brings Khorre to his senses.

“Noni!” he calls hoarsely, but Haggart does not hear him. After a moment’s thought, he calls once more:

“Captain. Noni! Get up.”

But Haggart does not answer and the sailor mutters:

“Noni is drunk and he sleeps. Let him sleep. Oh, what a cold night it is. There isn’t enough warmth in it even to warm your nose. I am cold. I feel cold and lonesome, Noni. I can’t drink like that, although everybody knows I am a drunkard. But it is one thing to drink, and another to drown in gin⁠—that’s an entirely different matter. Noni⁠—you are like a drowned man, simply like a corpse. I feel ashamed for your sake, Noni. I shall drink now and⁠—”

He rises, and staggering, finds an unopened bottle and drinks.

“A fine wind. They call this a storm⁠—do you hear, Noni? They call this a storm. What will they call a real storm?”

He drinks again.

“A fine wind!”

He goes over to the window and, pushing aside the corner of the sail, looks out.

“Not a single light on the sea, or in the village. They have hidden themselves and are sleeping⁠—they are waiting for the storm to pass. B-r-r, how cold! I would have driven them all out to sea; it is mean to go to sea only when the weather is calm. That is cheating the sea. I am a pirate, that’s true; my name is Khorre, and I should have been hanged long ago on a yard, that’s true, too⁠—but I shall never allow myself such meanness as to cheat the sea. Why did you bring me to this hole, Noni?”

He picks up some brushwood, and throws it into the fireplace.

“I love you, Noni. I am now going to start a fire to warm your feet. I used to be your nurse, Noni; but you have lost your reason⁠—that’s true. I am a wise man, but I don’t understand your conduct at all. Why did you drop your ship? You will be hanged, Noni, you will be hanged, and I will dangle by your side. You have lost your reason, that’s true!”

He starts a fire, then prepares food and drink.

“What will you say when you wake up? ‘Fire.’ And I will answer, ‘Here it is.’ Then you will say, ‘Something to drink.’ And I will answer, ‘Here it is.’ And then you will drink your fill again, and I will drink with you, and you will prate nonsense. How long is this going to last? We have lived this way two months now, or perhaps two years, or twenty years⁠—I am drowning in gin⁠—I don’t understand your conduct at all, Noni.”

He drinks.

“Either I have lost my mind from this gin, or a ship is being wrecked near by. How they are crying!”

He looks out of the window.

“No, no one is here. It is the wind. The wind feels weary, and it plays all by itself. It has seen many shipwrecks, and now it is inventing. The wind itself is crying; the wind itself is scolding and sobbing; and the wind itself is laughing⁠—the rogue! But if you think that this rag with which I have covered the window is a sail, and that this ruin of a castle is a three-masted brig, you are a fool! We are not going anywhere! We are standing securely at our moorings, do you hear?”

He pushes the sleeping man cautiously.

“Get up, Noni. I feel lonesome. If we must drink, let’s drink together⁠—I feel lonesome. Noni!”

Haggart awakens, stretches himself and says, without opening his eyes:

“Fire.”

“Here it is.”

“Something to drink.”

“Here it is! A fine wind, Noni. I looked out of the window, and the sea splashed into my eyes. It is high tide now and the water-dust flies up to the tower. I feel lonesome, Noni. I want to speak to you. Don’t be angry!”

“It’s cold.”

“Soon the fire will burn better. I don’t understand your actions. Don’t be angry, Noni, but I don’t understand your actions! I am afraid that you have lost your mind.”

“Did you drink again?”

“I did.”

“Give me some.”

He drinks from the mouth of the bottle lying on the floor, his eyes wandering over the crooked mutilated walls, whose every projection and crack is now lighted by the bright flame in the fireplace. He is not quite sure yet whether he is awake, or whether it is all a dream. With each strong gust of wind the flame is hurled from the fireplace, and then the entire tower seems to dance⁠—the last shadows