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

state in the end as to wonder whether I had changed personally, and a strong desire came over me to see my own face in the glass as I shouted “Hurrah.”

My enthusiasm has gone today and my fear too. Nothing on earth would make me open my mouth to shout or to sing. I am filled with a dull aching despair. My God, what is the use of it all? As a good Russian I can’t help being pleased at the prospect of the Straits and Tsar-Grad becoming ours, but my pleasure is not altogether unalloyed. We have got on quite well without Tsar-Grad so far, and what is to happen to my fat little Turk, Ibragim-Bey, who can’t escape being killed? I must be sorry for him.

I don’t know why I compare myself to that fat little Turk, for I am not fat at all. It seems such a pity that he should be hurt when he never hurt anyone. His blood will rise, of course, for the Turks are a fiery race, but why should he be roused at all? Even the gentlest dog will turn on his master when teased enough. I dislike this war intensely, for all the fine talk of the men in our office.

I was foolish enough today to try to explain to Lidotchka something about the war and Turkey. I even pointed Turkey out to her on the map. The little thing didn’t understand, of course; she was more interested in the idea that there was so much water. She made me leave my paper to come and watch her skipping. Skip away, my child, skip away, and rejoice that you are not a Belgian or Polish child, for you would have perished in the flames or been killed by a bomb dropped from the clouds.

How horrible to think that even children are being slaughtered!

2nd November.

There is an alarming rumour that Warsaw has been taken by the Germans. All the men in our office are deeply depressed, and as for Zvoliansky, the Pole, it makes my heart ache to look at him.

There has been a lot of unpleasantness at home, too. Mother has come to live with us for good, owing to a fearful scandal in Nikolai’s family about Nikolai’s wife and Kindiakov, the lawyer. Husband and wife have separated. Sasha tells me that Nikolai tried to shoot Kindiakov, but missed aim, fortunately, and the matter was hushed up. Mother happened to spend that night with us, and was consequently spared the disgraceful scene. How people can busy themselves with love and jealousy at a time like the present is more than I can understand. A most disgraceful business! Nikolai has departed for the Caucasus, his wife has gone off with Kindiakov, and we hear that she wants to go on the stage, or something.

We’ve had no news of Pavel for three weeks, so one can easily imagine the family’s mood. Three weeks is not a long time, when one takes into consideration the slowness and uncertainty of the army posts, but mother refuses to consider these things, and depresses us all by her terrible anxiety. Added to her other misfortunes, the poor old lady is ill at ease and rather afraid of me. The thought of her dependence on us is wounding to her pride. She seems to think she has no right to live with us. When I try to reassure her on Pavel’s account by pointing out the uncertainty of the posts, she is over eager to agree with me, yet looking so scared, as though, in some subtle way, I had asked her to leave the house. I rebuked her on one occasion, unable to contain myself. “You really ought to be ashamed to think of me as you do, Mother; you put me in a very awkward position. I am only thinking of your good, and you look upon me as no better than a German straight from Berlin.” This only made her more nervous than ever. How ridiculous it is! When I am absent she does nothing but cry, I am told, but when I am at home, she tries to appear cheerful, and by the way she confuses her words when she is making some joke, one can see what she is really feeling. She has just brought me some coffee, for example, and forgotten the sugar. I hate the old lady’s having to wait on me; she can hardly keep up as it is!

The thing, however, that causes me the greatest anxiety, is my dear Sashenka. I don’t know what to do with her. This is a subject one can only speak of in a diary. I have mentioned before, I think, that a small hospital has been opened in our block of flats, to be supported by the various inhabitants. It is not the money I grudge, though there is little enough of it, God knows, but with the arrival of the first batch of wounded, Sashenka can’t be got away from the place, in her womanly kindness; she is there day and night. She is a staff nurse now, or a probationer, perhaps, since she has not been through the training, but I think it must be a nurse, though.

It seems that one could raise little objection to such a truly Christian spirit. All our friends admire Sashenka for what she is doing, the soldiers adore her, and she herself finds satisfaction in her work. What objections could there be to raise in such a splendid arrangement? I can do nothing but keep them to myself, for no matter how right I might be, no one would give me the credit of it. I should only be censured by people and annoyed by their distrust. I should gain the reputation of being a hopeless egoist, and a tyrant, who wouldn’t allow his wife to work in a hospital. It is certainly difficult for a man to prove his case when