Short Fiction by Leonid Andreyev (fastest ebook reader TXT) 📕
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 Andreyev’s 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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“I am thinking of them. I am forever thinking of them.”
“Are you sorry for them?” Haggart frowns.
“Yes, I am sorry for them. But my pity is my hatred, Haggart. I hate them, and I would kill them, more and more!”
“I feel like flying faster—my soul is so free. Let us jest, Mariet! Here is a riddle, guess it: For whom will the cannons roar soon? You think, for me? No. For you? no, no, not for you, Mariet! For little Noni, for him—for little Noni who is boarding the ship tonight. Let him wake up from this thunder. How our little Noni will be surprised! And now be quiet, quiet—don’t disturb his sleep—don’t spoil little Noni’s awakening.”
The sound of voices is heard—a crowd is approaching.
“Where is the captain?”
“Here. Halt, the captain is here!”
“It’s all done. They can be crammed into a basket like herrings.”
“Our boatswain is a brave fellow! A jolly man.”
Khorre, intoxicated and jolly, shouts:
“Not so loud, devils! Don’t you see that the captain is here? They scream like seagulls over a dead dolphin.”
Mariet steps aside a little distance, where little Noni is sleeping.
Khorre—Here we are, Captain. No losses, Captain. And how we laughed, Noni.
Haggart—You got drunk rather early. Come to the point.
Khorre—Very well. The thing is done, Captain. We’ve picked up all our money—not worse than the imperial tax collectors. I could not tell which was ours, so I picked up all the money. But if they have buried some of the gold, forgive us, Captain—we are not peasants to plough the ground.
Laughter. Haggart also laughs.
“Let them sow, we shall reap.”
“Golden words, Noni. Eh, Tommy, listen to what the Captain is saying. And another thing: Whether you will be angry or not—I have broken the music. I have scattered it in small pieces. Show your pipe, Tetyu! Do you see, Noni, I didn’t do it at once, no. I told him to play a jig, and he said that he couldn’t do it. Then he lost his mind and ran away. They all lost their minds there, Captain. Eh, Tommy, show your beard. An old woman tore half of his beard out, Captain—now he is a disgrace to look upon. Eh, Tommy! He has hidden himself, he’s ashamed to show his face, Captain. And there’s another thing: The priest is coming here.”
Mariet exclaims:
“Father!”
Khorre, astonished, asks:
“Are you here? If she came to complain, I must report to you, Captain—the priest almost killed one of our sailors. And she, too. I ordered the men to bind the priest—”
“Silence.”
“I don’t understand your actions, Noni—”
Haggart, restraining his rage, exclaims:
“I shall have you put in irons! Silence!”
With ever-growing rage:
“You dare talk back to me, riffraff! You—”
Mariet cautions him:
“Gart! They have brought father here.”
Several sailors bring in the abbot, bound. His clothes are in disorder, his face is agitated and pale. He looks at Mariet with some amazement, and lowers his eyes. Then he heaves a sigh.
“Untie him!” says Mariet. Haggart corrects her restrainedly:
“Only I command here, Mariet. Khorre, untie him.”
Khorre unfastens the knots. Silence.
Abbot—Hello, Haggart.
“Hello, abbot.”
“You have arranged a fine night, Haggart!”
Haggart speaks with restraint:
“It is unpleasant for me to see you. Why did you come here? Go home, priest, no one will touch you. Keep on fishing—and what else were you doing? Oh, yes—make your own prayers. We are going out to the ocean; your daughter, you know, is also going with me. Do you see the ship? That is mine. It’s a pity that you don’t know about ships—you would have laughed for joy at the sight of such a beautiful ship! Why is he silent, Mariet? You had better tell him.”
Abbot—Prayers? In what language? Have you, perhaps, discovered a new language in which prayers reach God? Oh, Haggart, Haggart!
He weeps, covering his face with his hands. Haggart, alarmed, asks:
“You are crying, abbot?”
“Look, Gart, he is crying. Father never cried. I am afraid, Gart.”
The abbot stops crying. Heaving a deep sigh, he says:
“I don’t know what they call you: Haggart or devil or something else—I have come to you with a request. Do you hear, robber, with a request? Tell your crew not to gnash their teeth like that—I don’t like it.”
Haggart replies morosely:
“Go home, priest! Mariet will stay with me.”
“Let her stay with you. I don’t need her, and if you need her, take her. Take her, Haggart. But—”
He kneels before him. A murmur of astonishment. Mariet, frightened, advances a step to her father.
“Father! You are kneeling?”
Abbot—Robber! Give us back the money. You will rob more for yourself, but give this money to us. You are young yet, you will rob some more yet—
Haggart—You are insane! There’s a man—he will drive the devil himself to despair! Listen, priest, I am shouting to you: You have simply lost your mind!
The abbot, still kneeling, continues:
“Perhaps, I have—by God, I don’t know. Robber, dearest, what is this to you? Give us this money. I feel sorry for them, for the scoundrels! They rejoiced so much, the scoundrels. They blossomed forth like an old blackthorn which has nothing but thorns and a ragged bark. They are sinners. But am I imploring God for their sake? I am imploring you. Robber, dearest—”
Mariet looks now at Haggart, now at the priest. Haggart is hesitating. The abbot keeps muttering:
“Robber, do you want me to call you son? Well, then—son—it makes no difference now—I will never see you again. It’s all the same! Like an old blackthorn, they bloomed—oh, Lord, those scoundrels, those old scoundrels!”
“No,” Haggart replied sternly.
“Then you are the devil, that’s who you are. You are the devil,” mutters the abbot, rising heavily from the ground. Haggart shows his teeth, enraged.
“Do you wish to sell your soul to the devil? Yes? Eh, abbot—don’t you know yet that the devil always pays with spurious money? Let me have a torch, sailor!”
He seizes a torch and lifts
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