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

id="the-confessions-of-a-little-man-during-great-days-2-25" epub:type="z3998:diary-entry">

12th August.

I follow the speeches in the Duma carefully, and each day I seem to ascend higher up a mountain that opens out new visions before me. And what horrible visions they are! The Germans are still in possession of Warsaw and advancing steadily. When is this alarming advance to stop? Our military experts declare that they cannot come beyond the forts of Vilna and Grodno, before whose impregnable walls they will crumple up. Ought not this to reassure us? But I am not reassured; I seem to feel their physical nearness and never turn a street corner without an absurd fear of seeing a German come rushing out. How clearly I see his German face, and spiked helmet! I can almost hear his insolent Teutonic speech. God forbid that it should come to pass!

Talking of visions, they make one’s hair stand on end. Why am I small and insignificant? I am honest enough, how is it I didn’t see and understand? Why did I trust as idiotically as a bewitched ass⁠—if one can use the expression⁠—when the country was in danger? The country in danger⁠—what appalling words! What use am I to the country? Any horse is far more useful than I, for all my wretched honesty. Wretched is the very word for it.

God save Russia! The words are heard on all hands, even among the sceptical fellows in the office. Supposing God refuses to save her? Supposing God were to say, “Perish with your Miasoyedovs, since you are so stupid and corrupt!” Should we have to go under? I shudder at the thought! I can’t admit it; I will fight against it with every ounce of strength I possess! And my heart is cold and apprehensive and desperate. What can I do? The country needs Samsons and heroes, and what kind of a hero am I? A sinner stripped I stand at the last judgment, quaking and unable to say a word in my own defence, for earthly subterfuges are over.

This is the case of Ilya Petrovitch Dementev, a clerk, who lived through the great war.

Part III

18th August.

In my excitement of the last few days I have accused myself of many unjust things. Excitement is a poor guide when a man wants to take a sober view of things. I must have been too upset by these unexpected revelations that flowed from the mouths of our Duma Ciceros as freely as abundance from the horn of plenty. If I had been blind, what were our Ciceros doing? Their eyes, at any rate, ought to have been more penetrating. I don’t deny that I am powerless, but unfortunately it is not my fault that I am so. I am what I am. Had I been born a Samson or a Joffre, I should have been a Samson or a Joffre. No man is fool enough, knowing me to be no mathematician, to set me a problem of integral calculus to solve; in the same way, how can I be expected to solve the problem of the Great War and Russian corruption? I didn’t begin the war! I’m not responsible for the filthy mess we have got into, and I don’t see why it should be put upon my shoulders! It’s both absurd and unjust. To tell a man to clear away a mountain, and not give him so much as a spade to do it with! I should like to see those gentlemen tackling the job!

The office has settled down quietly again, thank God, and I’m glad to say the children are well. Mother had a slight stomach trouble, but is better now. The old lady is very tough, and may outlast the lot of us, I shouldn’t wonder. But she has absolutely no memory.

I’ve thought of having the walls in the nursery and the study repapered at my own expense. The paper in my study reminds me of those terrible white July nights, when, like a madman, I used to sit, almost naked, on my windowsill, or paced the floor, barefoot. I used to count each flower in the pattern, and knew each curve and spot by heart.

I was uncertain at first, whether this was the right time for doing it, but on reflection, I came to the conclusion that this was the very best time indeed. Why should one let circumstances get the better of one, and because there’s a war, live like a pig? The war may go on if it likes, but my house and my children are my own.

Jena made me laugh last night when I watched him getting to bed. The little rascal has grown quite fat and rosy of late. He’s a dear boy! When he had finished a prayer I had taught him, in which he prayed for his father and mother and the soldiers at the front, and ended up with the words, “Merciful God, let me wake tomorrow, sinner that I am,” he promptly stood on his head, exposing his naked little body, and turned a somersault with huge delight. I wish all sinners could be like him.

Sashenka approved of my letter to her brother. She thought it showed fine feeling. He hasn’t replied, but I hardly expected him to.

20th August.

I am putting the house to rights. It has been woefully neglected. The heavy curtains and the couch and chairs in my study are full of moth. Just to make a change, I have shifted the furniture and converted the dining-room into my study. I am not sure that it looks better, but it is certainly an improvement to get a different view from my window. I come to hate my former view of the smug house opposite with its many windows. They used to depress me and make me feel sick at heart. Many was the time I could see myself falling past them and past the flat, disgusting walls. How strangely man is constituted! I