Short Fiction by Leonid Andreyev (fastest ebook reader TXT) ๐
Description
Leonid Andreyev was a Russian playwright and author of short stories and novellas, writing primarily in the first two decades of the 20th century. Matching the depression he suffered from an early age, his writing is always dark of tone with subjects including biblical parables, Russian life, eldritch horror and revolutionary fervour. H. P. Lovecraft was a reader of his work, and The Seven Who Were Hanged (included here) has even been cited as direct inspiration for the assassination of Arch-Duke Ferdinand: the event that started the first World War. Originally a lawyer, his first published short story brought him to the attention of Maxim Gorky who not only became a firm friend but also championed Andreyevโs writing in his collections to great commercial acclaim.
Widely translated into English during his life, this collection comprises the best individual translations of each of his short stories and novellas available in the public domain, presented in chronological order of their original publication in Russian.
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- Author: Leonid Andreyev
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The father and son did not look at one another: their sick hearts grieved, wept, and rejoiced apart. But there was a something in their thoughts which fused their hearts in one, and annihilated that bottomless abyss which separates man from man and makes him so lonely, unhappy, and weak. The father with an unconscious motion put his arm around the neck of his son, and the sonโs head rested equally without conscious volition upon his fatherโs consumptive chest.
โShe it was who gave it to thee, was it not?โ whispered the father, without taking his eyes off the little angel.
At another time Sashka would have replied with a rude negation, but now the only reply possible resounded of itself within his soul, and he calmly pronounced the pious fraud: โWho else? of course she did.โ
The father made no reply, and Sashka relapsed into silence.
Something grated in the adjoining room, then clicked, and then was silent for a moment, and then noisily and hurriedly the clock struck โOne, two, three.โ
โSashka, do you ever dream?โ asked the father in a meditative tone.
โNo! Oh, yes,โ he admitted, โonce I had one, in which I fell down from the roof. We were climbing after the pigeons, and I fell down.โ
โBut I dream always. Strange things are dreams. One sees the whole past, one loves and suffers as though it were reality.โ
Again he was silent, and Sashka felt his arm tremble as it lay upon his neck. The trembling and pressure of his fatherโs arm became stronger and stronger, and the sensitive silence of the night was all at once broken by the pitiful sobbing sound of suppressed weeping. Sashka sternly puckered his brow, and cautiouslyโ โso as not to disturb the heavy trembling armโ โwiped away a tear from his eyes. So strange was it to see a big old man crying.
โAh! Sashka, Sashka,โ sobbed the father, โwhat is the meaning of everything?โ
โWhy, whatโs the matter?โ sternly whispered Sashka. โYouโre crying just like a little boy.โ
โWell, I wonโt, then,โ said the father with, a piteous smile of excuse. โWhatโs the good?โ
Feoktista Petrovna turned on her bed. She sighed, cleared her throat, and mumbled incoherent sounds in a loud and strangely persistent manner.
It was time to go to bed. But before doing so the little angel must be disposed of for the night. He could not be left on the floor, so he was hung up by his string, which was fastened to the flue of the stove. There it stood out accurately delineated against the white Dutch-tiles. And so they could both see him, Sashka and his father.
Hurriedly throwing into a corner the various rags on which he was in the habit of sleeping, Sashka lay down on his back, in order as quickly as possible to look again at the little angel.
โWhy donโt you undress?โ asked his father as he shivered and wrapped himself up in his tattered blanket, and arranged his clothes, which he had thrown over his feet.
โWhatโs the good? I shall soon be up again.โ
Sashka wished to add that he did not care to go to sleep at all, but he had no time to do so, since he fell to sleep as suddenly as though he had sunk to the bottom of a deep swift river.
His father presently fell asleep also. And gentle sleep and restfulness lay upon the weary face of the man who had lived his life, and upon the brave face of the little man who was just beginning his life.
But the little angel hanging by the hot stove began to melt. The lamp, which had been left burning at the entreaty of Sashka, filled the room with the smell of kerosene, and through its smoked glass threw a melancholy light upon a scene of gradual dissolution. The little angel seemed to stir. Over his rosy fingers there rolled thick drops which fell upon the bench. To the smell of kerosene was added the stifling scent of melting wax. The little angel gave a tremble as though on the point of flight, andโ โfell with a soft thud upon the hot flags.
An inquisitive cockroach singed its wings as it ran round the formless lump of melted wax, climbed up the dragonfly wings, and twitching its feelers went on its way.
Through the curtained window the grey-blue light of coming day crept in, and the frozen water-carrier was already making a noise in the courtyard with his iron scoop.
Petka at the BungalowOsip Abramovich, the barber, arranged a dirty sheeting on his customerโs chest, and tucking it into his collar, shouted abruptly in a sharp tone, โBoy! water!โ
The customer, examining his face in the glass with that sharpened intentness and interest which is exhibited only at the barberโs, observed that another pimple had appeared on his chin, and turning his eyes away in dissatisfaction they fell straight on a thin little hand, which stretched out from somewhere at the side, and put a tin of hot water down on the ledge below the looking-glass. When he raised his eyes still higher, they caught the strange and distorted looking reflection of the barber, and he noticed the sharp threatening glance which he was casting down on the head of someone,
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