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

bathes them under these circumstances, but that day it came into my head to do Jena myself. The boy has grown awfully thin. I could count all his ribs; he has such small bones. When I rubbed down his poor little body and thin hair, I wondered why I couldn’t cry. Even when I scratched the poor child in my clumsiness, and he burst into tears, I still felt no pity. His crying only annoyed me, and I handed him over to the nurse. What is the matter with me? There was a time, old men tell us, when people in my condition were healed by prayer in church, but who would pray for me? What nonsense I am talking, to be sure!

There is no pity in my heart for Russia even; her groans affect me not. I have no pity for myself, and I think if Sasha were to die this moment, I wouldn’t turn a hair. There is a rumour of cholera in town, but what do I care? Let there be cholera or an epidemic of smallpox or the plague, it makes no difference to me.

9th July.

There was quite a sensation in our office today. Zvoliansky, the Pole, has joined the army as a volunteer. He wants to defend Warsaw with his own hand, so to speak. At first we thought he was only bragging, but it turned out to be true. Who would have expected it of him? He used to brag so much that no one would have given him the credit of it. The other fellows arranged all sorts of treats for him, of course, but I did not take part in them, saying that I was not well. Let them parade their patriotism without my aid. I am not afraid of their sneers and suspicions!

In the private talks I’ve had with Zvoliansky, I’ve always heard him say, in high flown terms, that if he did not take part in the war now his conscience would never give him any peace afterwards. Conscience indeed! One can understand his anxiety about Poland, but the least said about conscience, the better.

Conscience, conscience; you can’t get away from it, no matter how hard you try. Conscientious people are to be seen everywhere. They quite alarm a fool like me. To plunder, to betray, to starve children, is all done in the name of conscience. No one can raise any objections. It’s war time, you see, and can’t be helped! So the war and the tears only serve to make unscrupulous tradesmen and manufacturers grow fat and to build them big houses and motorcars that the public admire. They deserve to be hanged, every man of them, but it can’t be done because of conscience.

I happened to notice that our poor old mother always conceals her feet under her skirt when she sits down, and I couldn’t understand the reason of it, until I discovered that the old lady’s shoes were so worn that her toes came through. Poor soul! When I said to her, “Mother, aren’t you ashamed? Why didn’t you tell me or Sashenka?” she burst into tears. I couldn’t get a word out of her in explanation. Some absurd idea of economy of hers, no doubt, that I had upset. It seems so ridiculous to economise and be careful of every farthing when, sooner or later, a farthing saved is sure to find its way into some contractor’s pocket. It is worked like a conjuring trick.

I bought mother a pair of prunella shoes and presented them to her solemnly with the due feelings of a benefactor. She burst into tears again, of course, and as I watched them roll down her cheeks, I thought, “If only she’d give me one of them!”

16th July.

Andrei Vasilevitch, the man who was to have read my diary, was badly wounded, and died in a hospital in Warsaw. All peace to his soul! No one will read my diary now. It is as well, perhaps. I seem to be alone in hell, surrounded by dancing demons and beckoning sinners. What good am I or my diary to anyone? It seems absurd, but my wife has known for a long time that I keep a diary, and has never expressed the smallest desire or curiosity to see it. Writing a diary or cracking sunflower seeds is all the same to her!

Even a mouse gets more attention; one hurls a boot at it when it makes a noise.

But what right has a little worm like me to attention and sympathy when so many more worthy than I go under daily? It would be a fine thing, indeed, if every little “cell” doomed to perdition were to begin to howl and object like a full-grown organism!

I saw some refugees from Poland in the Morskaya today. Pretty figures they make!

17th July.

I can’t exist like this! I wasn’t made for wicked, vicious thoughts, and can find no others in my wretched soul. Sleep has deserted me. I am consumed inwardly by a white flame like a tree that is drying at the roots. I am afraid to look at my contorted face in the glass. I wander about until I am ready to drop and my legs are as heavy as lead, then I fling myself on my bed, and go to sleep instantly; but at three in the morning I start up, as at the sound of a drum, and go to my windowsill, and there I sit until five or six, staring aimlessly at the Petrograd night, also sleepless. Horrible light! horrible night! Whether it’s pouring with rain and the walls of the house are soaking wet, or the sun is playing among the chimney pots, it is appalling alike in this dead, motionless town. It seems as if the prophecy was fulfilled and mankind was destroyed, and over the scene of destruction shone the useless light of a useless day.

The house opposite is