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

(it is horribly cold in the trenches now), in which we will he down to sleep, damp and hungry. This is not fiction, but naked fact. Do you know what blood on snow looks like, Sashenka? Like a red watermelon. Isn’t it funny?”

In another letter he tells how the men covered themselves with wet straw one night in a thaw, and had to force their way out of it, so hard had it frozen by morning. Poor Pavel! and we rejoiced over his letter!

31st December.

A blizzard has been blowing all day, drifting the snow into every street. Mountains of it have fallen. Walls and cornices and windows are covered with snow. There might not have been a town at all; the houses seemed to be standing in absurd array in the midst of snowy fields. I happened to pass the Isaac Cathedral. The snow had drifted on to pillars and steps. The pillars were so cold that it made one shudder to look at them. Men and women, muffled up, fought their way against the wind; only those who were compelled to, ventured out of doors, the rest kept within. I began to wonder suddenly what it would be like to have no home to go back to, and to be forced to remain in the streets in weather like this. It would be enough to drive one mad. What is it like in the trenches now?

I have no time for my diary nowadays. I bring home so much work from the office as to leave me hardly any breathing space. And my health, I am sorry to say, is anything but good; I am always tired and sleepy and cold⁠—so cold that I find it hard to keep warm in bed with my two heavy blankets. Our house is a warm one, fortunately.

It is nearly Christmas, and still there is no end to the war. In the squares, where in former years Christmas-trees used to be sold, soldiers are drilling. They help to make things jolly, though. You can’t help being drawn to them. I saw a curious sight in the Palace Square the other day, which amused me very much at a first glance. About fifty men were drilling there, and seen from the distance, they looked as though the sun were shining full on them. The effect was strange, for it was a dull day and the sun had not been out at all. I laughed when I came closer. Every man of them had a red beard, which gave the effect of sunlight. My silly laughter died away, however, when I came closer still, for though the beards were red, the faces were old and pale and drawn; there was no light in the eyes; dull despair was expressed in them. They were reservists, men who had families, no doubt. I learnt afterwards that men with red beards were chosen for some special regiment.

I am trying to earn as much as I possibly can to be able to take Sasha and the children to Finland for a few days at Christmas, if only to get away from the newspapers for a bit. It would do Sasha good to get a rest from the hospital, and I, too, am tired. The rooms seem so gloomy, as though we were going blind. We can hardly distinguish each other’s pale faces in the gloom. I am very, very tired.

Monday, 4th January.

Pavel has been killed. God help us!

Night.

Pavel, my poor dear! I never made enough of you, not knowing you would die so soon, and now you are no more, and my bitter tears cannot help you! If I could only gaze once more into your dear, grey eyes, hear your hesitating laugh, see your funny little moustache we used to chaff you about so much! But now you are dead. Dead! I can’t think that it’s true!

My boy, my friend, my defender, my words cannot reach you in the cold earth! If I could only put my arms about you, my poor, lonely boy, and let the warmth of my body pass into yours! And you will never, never know how the war is going to end, and you used to be so keen about it!⁠ ⁠… Pavel, Pavel!⁠ ⁠…

Part II

18th January.

It was Petrov, a volunteer and friend of Pavel’s, who informed me about his death. To spare his mother and Sashenka a sudden shock, Pavel must have arranged with his friend to write to my office address in case of need, so that I should be the one to break the terrible news to his nearest and dearest. I shall never forget the awful moment when I tore open the envelope marked “On active service,” and addressed in an unfamiliar hand, a fact which in itself foreboded evil, and read the few lines it contained.⁠ ⁠… The men in our office were very sympathetic, but what did their sympathy matter to me? I went home at once, wondering, in agony, how I was to break the news to mother and Sashenka. When I reached Sashenka’s hospital I turned away again, not daring to go in, and for a couple of hours I paced the streets; I even wandered aimlessly into the Philipov Café. I can’t remember whether it had been snowing hard that day, but everything seemed deadly white. People and tramcars seemed weird and strange; the sound of a car bell vibrated painfully through the brain; it seemed as though human beings were drowned in silence, and only the car bells rang and rang like mad. I could not cry at the time; my tears were dried by the thought of Sashenka and mother.

Why need I describe a condition that must be so plain to everyone? I must say this, however, I would sooner die a thousand deaths than have to tell any woman that her son has been killed. Rather than go through