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

I could still give to you, Gart. Have I not given you everything? But that is so little⁠—everything! There is but one thing I want to do⁠—to keep on giving to you, giving! When the sun sets, I present you the sunset; when the sun rises, I present you the sunrise⁠—take it, Gart! And are not all the storms yours? Ah, Haggart, how I love you!

Haggart⁠—I am going to toss little Noni so high today that I will toss him up to the clouds. Do you want me to do it? Let us laugh, dear little sister Mariet. You are exactly like myself. When you stand that way, it seems to me that I am standing there⁠—I have to rub my eyes. Let us laugh! Some day I may suddenly mix things up⁠—I may wake up and say to you: “Good morning, Haggart!”

Mariet⁠—Good morning, Mariet.

Haggart⁠—I will call you Haggart. Isn’t that a good idea?

Mariet⁠—And I will call you Mariet.

Haggart⁠—Yes⁠—no. You had better call me Haggart, too.

“You don’t want me to call you Mariet?” asks Mariet sadly.

The abbot and old Dan appear. The abbot says in a loud, deep voice:

“Here I am. Here I am bringing you a prayer, children. I have just composed it; it has even made me feel hot. Dan, why doesn’t the boy ring the bell? Oh, yes, he is ringing. The fool⁠—he isn’t swinging the right rope, but that doesn’t matter; that’s good enough, too. Isn’t it, Mariet?”

Two thin but merry bells are ringing.

Mariet is silent and Haggart answers for her:

“That’s good enough. But what are the bells saying, abbot?”

The fishermen who have gathered about them are already prepared to laugh⁠—the same undying jest is always repeated.

“Will you tell no one about it?” says the abbot, in a deep voice, slyly winking his eye. “Pope’s a rogue! Pope’s a rogue!”

The fishermen laugh merrily.

“This man,” roars the abbot, pointing at Haggart, “is my favourite man! He has given me a grandson, and I wrote the Pope about it in Latin. But that wasn’t so hard; isn’t that true, Mariet? But he knows how to look at the water. He foretells a storm as if he himself caused it. Gart, do you produce the storm yourself? Where does the wind come from? You are the wind yourself.”

All laugh approval. An old fisherman says:

“That’s true, father. Ever since he has been here, we have never been caught in a storm.”

“Of course it is true, if I say it. ‘Pope’s a rogue! Pope’s a rogue!’ ”

Old Dan walks over to Khorre and says something to him. Khorre nods his head negatively. The abbot, singing “Pope’s a rogue,” goes around the crowd, throws out brief remarks, and claps some people on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

“Hello, Katerina, you are getting stout. Oho! Are you all ready? And Thomas is missing again⁠—this is the second time he has stayed away from prayer. Anna, you are rather sad⁠—that isn’t good. One must live merrily, one must live merrily! I think that it is jolly even in hell, but in a different way. It is two years since you have stopped growing, Philipp. That isn’t good.”

Philipp answers gruffly:

“Grass also stops growing if a stone falls upon it.”

“What is still worse than that⁠—worms begin to breed under the rock.”

Mariet says softly, sadly and entreatingly:

“Don’t you want me to call you Mariet?”

Haggart answers obstinately and sternly:

“I don’t. If my name will be Mariet, I shall never kill that man. He disturbs my life. Make me a present of his life, Mariet. He kissed you.”

“How can I present you that which is not mine? His life belongs to God and to himself.”

“That is not true. He kissed you; do I not see the burns upon your lips? Let me kill him, and you will feel as joyful and carefree as a seagull. Say ‘yes,’ Mariet.”

“No; you shouldn’t do it, Gart. It will be painful to you.”

Haggart looks at her and speaks with deep irony.

“Is that it? Well, then, it is not true that you give me anything. You don’t know how to give, woman.”

“I am your wife.”

“No! A man has no wife when another man, and not his wife, grinds his knife. My knife is dull, Mariet!”

Mariet looks at him with horror and sorrow.

“What did you say, Haggart? Wake up; it is a terrible dream, Haggart! It is I⁠—look at me. Open your eyes wider, wider, until you see me well. Do you see me, Gart?”

Haggart slowly rubs his brow.

“I don’t know. It is true I love you, Mariet. But how incomprehensible your land is⁠—in your land a man sees dreams even when he is not asleep. Perhaps I am smiling already. Look, Mariet.”

The abbot stops in front of Khorre.

“Ah, old friend, how do you do? You are smiling already. Look, Mariet.”

“I don’t want to work,” ejaculates the sailor sternly.

“You want your own way? This man,” roars the abbot, pointing at Khorre, “thinks that he is an atheist. But he is simply a fool; he does not understand that he is also praying to God⁠—but he is doing it the wrong way, like a crab. Even a fish prays to God, my children; I have seen it myself. When you will be in hell, old man, give my regards to the Pope. Well, children, come closer, and don’t gnash your teeth. I am going to start at once. Eh, you, Mathias⁠—you needn’t put out the fire in your pipe; isn’t it the same to God what smoke it is, incense or tobacco, if it is only well meant. Why do you shake your head, woman?”

Woman⁠—His tobacco is contraband.

Young fisherman⁠—God wouldn’t bother with such trifles. The abbot thinks a while:

“No; hold on. I think contraband tobacco is not quite so good. That’s an inferior grade. Look here; you better drop your pipe meanwhile, Mathias; I’ll think the matter over later. Now, silence, perfect silence. Let God take a look at us first.”

All stand silent and serious. Only a few have lowered