Short Fiction by Leonid Andreyev (fastest ebook reader TXT) 📕

God and will say: ‘Haggart is calling.’ He lies⁠—Haggart did not call, Haggart does not know God.”

He moans again, trying to restrain himself.

“Do you feel any pain?”

“Yes⁠—Be silent.”

Haggart exclaims in a muffled voice:

“Oh, Khorre!”

“What is it, Noni?”

“Why don’t you tell him that it isn’t Haggart? It is a lie!” whispers Haggart rapidly. “He thinks that he knows, but he does not know anything. He is a small, wretched old man with red eyes, like those of a rabbit, and tomorrow death will mow him down. Ha! He is dealing in diamonds, he throws them from one hand to the other like an old miser, and he himself is dying of hunger. It is a fraud, Khorre, a fraud. Let us shout loudly, Khorre, we are alone here.”

He shouts, turning to the thundering organ:

“Eh, musician! Even a fly cannot rise on your wings, even the smallest fly cannot rise on your wings. Eh, musician! Let me have your torn hat and I will throw a penny into it; your lie is worth no more. What are you prating there about God, you rabbit’s eyes? Be silent, I am shamed to listen to you. I swear, I am ashamed to listen to you! Don’t you believe me? You are still calling? Whither?”

“Strike them on the head, Noni.”

“Be silent, you dog! But what a terrible land! What are they doing here with the human heart? What terrible dreams there are in this land?”

He stops speaking. The organ sings solemnly.

“Why did you stop speaking, Noni?” asks the sailor with alarm.

“I am listening. It is good music, Khorre. Have I said anything?”

“You even shouted, Noni, and you forced me to shout with you.”

“That is not true. I have been silent all the time. Do you know, I haven’t even opened my mouth once! You must have been dreaming, Khorre. Perhaps you are thinking that you are near the church? You are simply sleeping in your bed, sailor. It is a dream.”

Khorre is terrified.

“Drink some gin, Noni.”

“I don’t need it. I drank something else already.”

“Your hands?”

“Be silent, Khorre. Don’t you see that everything is silent and is listening, and you alone are talking? The musician may feel offended!”

He laughs quietly. Brass trumpets are roaring harmoniously about the triumphant conciliation between man and God. The fog is growing thicker.

A loud stamping of feet⁠—someone runs through the deserted street in agitation.

“Noni!” whispers the sailor. “Who ran by?”

“I hear.”

“Noni! Another one is running. Something is wrong.”

Frightened people are running about in the middle of the night⁠—the echo of the night doubles the sound of their footsteps, increasing their terror tenfold, and it seems as if the entire village, terror-stricken, is running away somewhere. Rocking, dancing silently, as upon waves, a lantern floats by.

“They have found him, Khorre. They have found the man I killed, sailor! I did not throw him into the sea; I brought him and set his head up against the door of his house. They have found him.”

Another lantern floats by, swinging from side to side. As if hearing the alarm, the organ breaks off at a high chord. An instant of silence, emptiness of dread waiting, and then a woman’s sob of despair fills it up to the brim.

The mist is growing thicker.

VI

The flame in the oil-lamp is dying out, having a smell of burning. It is near sunrise. A large, clean, fisherman’s hut. A skilfully made little ship is fastened to the ceiling, and even the sails are set. Involuntarily this little ship has somehow become the centre of attraction and all those who speak, who are silent and who listen, look at it, study each familiar sail. Behind the dark curtain lies the body of Philipp⁠—this hut belonged to him.

The people are waiting for Haggart⁠—some have gone out to search for him. On the benches along the walls, the old fishermen have seated themselves, their hands folded on their knees; some of them seem to be slumbering; others are smoking their pipes. They speak meditatively and cautiously, as though eager to utter no unnecessary words. Whenever a belated fisherman comes in, he looks first at the curtain, then he silently squeezes himself into the crowd, and those who have no place on the bench apparently feel embarrassed.

The abbot paces the room heavily, his hands folded on his back, his head lowered; when anyone is in his way, he quietly pushes him aside with his hand. He is silent and knits his brows convulsively. Occasionally he glances at the door or at the window and listens.

The only woman present there is Mariet. She is sitting by the table and constantly watching her father with her burning eyes. She shudders slightly at each loud word, at the sound of the door as it opens, at the noise of distant footsteps.

At night a fog came from the sea and covered the earth. And such perfect quiet reigns now that long-drawn tolling is heard in the distant lighthouse of the Holy Cross. Warning is thus given to the ships that have lost their way in the fog.

Someone in the corner says:

“Judging from the blow, it was not one of our people that killed him. Our people can’t strike like that. He stuck the knife here, then slashed over there, and almost cut his head off.”

“You can’t do that with a dull knife!”

“No. You can’t do it with a weak hand. I saw a murdered sailor on the wharf one day⁠—he was cut up just like this.”

Silence.

“And where is his mother?” asks someone, nodding at the curtain.

“Selly is taking care of her. Selly took her to her house.”

An old fisherman quietly asks his neighbour:

“Who told you?”

“Francina woke me. Who told you, Marle?”

“Someone knocked on my window.”

“Who knocked on your window?”

“I don’t know.”

Silence.

“How is it you don’t know? Who was the first to see?”

“Someone passed by and noticed him.”

“None of us passed by. There was nobody among us who passed by.”

A fisherman seated at the other end, says:

“There was nobody among us who passed by.