Short Fiction, Fyodor Sologub [most popular novels of all time .txt] 📗

want? Think what will happen if you kill him? How can we live without him? You will overthrow all the traditions of our ancestors⁠—but upon what will you rebuild our life?”

Alack! We did not know about that, nor did we care to think. All we wished was to be rid of the cruel beast!

And, behold, one morning there were joyful shouts ringing through the village streets, and all the children ran about crying, “The beast is wounded! The beast is dying!”

The girls of the village clapped their hands and danced and sang, saying, “The beast is dead, is dead!”

On the banks of the river Mairure the beast lay dying, wounded by a poisoned arrow. His green eyes burned with powerless rage, and his fearful claws tore the earth and the herbage, all defiled by his foul blood.

Those who still feared the beast hid themselves in their huts and wept.

But we rejoiced that day.

We didn’t think how we were going to live.

We did not consider who might come to the shore of the river Mairure and enslave us by another and more evil tyranny.

The Candles

There were two candles burning, and many lamps along the walls. A man was reading from an exercise-book, and others were silent and listened.

The flames trembled. The candles also listened⁠—they liked listening; but there was a draught from somewhere, and they trembled.

The man finished. The candles were blown out and the people went away.

And it was just as before.

There was one grey candle burning. A woman sat and sewed. A child slept, and coughed in his sleep. There was a draught from the walls. The candles wept white, heavy tears. The tears trickled away and froze. It began to dawn. The woman with red eyes still sewed on. She blew out the candle. She sewed on.

And it was just as before.

Three yellow candles were burning. A man lay in a coffin⁠—yellow and cold. Someone was reading from a book. A woman wept. The candles were dying from fear and sorrow. A crowd arrived. They sang; they flung incense. They lifted up the coffin. The candles were blown out. They went away.

And it was just as before.

He Became Better

There are all sorts of boys in this world, good ones and bad ones.

Once there were two boys, a good boy and a truant. A magician came to them⁠—it was Uncle Better.

He asked them:

“Would you like to be better?”

“I’d like to be better, uncle dear,” replied the good boy. “A good man is well off everywhere.”

“There’s no need for me to be better,” said the truant. “I am good enough as I am. Too much goodness might tear my mouth apart with yawning.”

“Well, remain a truant,” Uncle Better said to him. “As for you, my good boy, you will become so sweet that everyone will marvel at you.”

Then he went away.

The good boy became so sweet that he began to ooze with treacle. Hardly anyone was glad to see him. Wherever he went he made the place sticky with treacle. His mother was angry with him.

“On account of your sweetness,” she said, “it’s impossible to keep you supplied with clothes. I’d much rather see you a hooligan.”

The good boy enjoyed gathering in the outpour of treacle. So he remained. He grew up, and gave pleasure to others: he rolled pound horns out of paper, and poured treacle into them, and gave them to the poor.

Three Gobs of Spit

A man went by, and spat three gobs of spit.

He walked away, the gobs remained.

Said one of the gobs:

“We are here, but the man is not here.”

Said the second:

“He has gone.”

Said the third:

“He came precisely for the purpose of planting us here. We are the goal of man’s life. He has gone, but we have remained.”

Fairy Tales in the Garden, and Fairy Tales at Court

There was a garden in which fairy tales grew in the beds along the paths.

All sorts of fairy tales grew there⁠—white ones, red ones, blue ones, purple ones, and yellow ones. Some of the tales had an agreeable perfume, while others made up in beauty what they lacked in perfume.

The gardener’s little son went every morning into the garden to delight in the fairy tales.

He learnt them all, and often told them to his companions in the street; no common children were permitted into the garden, for it was the garden of a great queen.

The children told about these fairy tales to their mammas and papas, and these told them to their acquaintances, until their fame spread far and wide. The queen also heard at last that fairy tales grew in her garden. She asked to see them.

And so one early morning the gardener cut down many of the fairy tales, gathered them into a beautiful sumptuous bouquet, and sent them to Court.

The gardener’s young son cried because they were cutting down the fairy tales, but no one would listen to him.

As if there were not enough things that one might choose to cry about!

The queen looked at the fairy tales, and asked in astonishment:

“What’s interesting about them? Why do you call them fairy tales? They are the most common flowers.”

They threw the poor fairy tales into the backyard, and gave the gardener’s little son a birching so that he should not speak such nonsense again.

A Marriage

A drop of rain fell through the air, a speck of dust lay on the ground.

The drop wished to unite with a hard substance; it was tired of its free, active existence.

It joined itself to the speck of dust⁠—and lay on the ground a blob of mud.

Captive Death

A long time ago there lived a brave and invincible Knight.

One day he happened to capture Death herself.

He brought her to his strong castle, and put her in a cell.

Death sat there⁠—and people ceased to die.

The Knight was overjoyed, and thought:

“Now it is well, but it