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

an animal nowadays? It was something quite different. Some convulsion must have taken place in my brain as to make the world seem upside down⁠—literally upside down⁠—so that I seemed to be walking not on my feet, but on hands like an acrobat.

I remember, too, how everything astonished me on the road that day; the most ordinary little thing with no claim to the remarkable whatever. For instance, a man would be coming down the road, and as I watched him moving his legs, I thought, “Fancy that, he’s walking!” Or a hen would run out of some yard, or a little kitten would sit on a patch of weeds, and again I wonder, “A kitten!” Or a “Good morning” said to some tradesman would make me marvel that he replied “Good morning,” and not some unintelligible bla, bla! We saw the streets in the town⁠—again a surprise. And the policeman, too, standing at the corner, and one we knew into the bargain, brought fresh exclamations of surprise, as though at the words from Wilhelm “War is declared” kittens and policemen and streets should have disappeared into the infernal regions, and the human tongue changed to the unintelligible roar of the beasts. What wild ideas a panic will create, to be sure!

It seems ridiculous to me now, and I’m ashamed to think of it. Another incident, besides the one of Lidotchka’s flower, bothers my conscience. Whether I am a coward or not, after what I have stated above, is open to conjecture, but of my honesty I have always been assured. Here in my diary, alone with God and my own conscience, I may even say more; I am not only honest, but remarkably so, and am naturally proud of the fact, but, however, people know what I am. And still, notwithstanding my honesty and decency, on the 2nd August, accursed day, I left out cook, Annisia, behind in Shuvalov, though she shed tears and entreated me to take her.

Even this incident produces nothing but a smile now. What could have happened to the silly thing there? And what did happen, in point of fact? She appeared home a couple of days later, having managed to conceal herself on a train, bringing back a jar of pickled cucumbers. That day, of course, the thing had an ugly look about it. There was I running away to save my family from some impending disaster, and leaving the poor girl behind, because there wasn’t room enough for her in the cart, or because I had to leave someone behind to look after my property! Under no circumstances did I forget my property!

It is consoling to think that, though Annisia cried and begged to be taken, she bore us no grudge for having left her. Foolish woman!

29th August.

I write this diary in the evenings on the pretext of working on some papers I sometimes bring home from the office. My wife is a wonderful creature in every respect; she is a woman in a thousand, good-natured, intelligent and responsive, still, even a man’s nearest and dearest hinder him from expressing his thoughts as he would like. To secure freedom of thought and expression, I must be perfectly sure that no one will read what I write. Apart from the fact that one doesn’t like to disclose certain things even to those one loves, there are dangers and pitfalls to be avoided that a man less wary than I might fall into. I don’t interfere with other people’s thoughts, and I don’t want anyone to interfere with me.

I am going to make a great confession. Notwithstanding the general misery I am a shamelessly happy man! Over there a bloody war is raging, full of horrors, while here, Sashenka, my wife, is bathing the children. She has finished darling little Lidotchka and that rascal Peter, and is doing Jena. How sweetly she is smiling to herself! When she has put the children to bed she will go about her own affairs, such as getting things ready for tomorrow, which will be Sunday, or she will play something on the piano, perhaps.

Yesterday we had a postcard from her brother Pavel, so Sashenka will be happy and contented for a week. Of course, we can’t tell what may happen, but if we don’t look too far ahead, our life may be said to be a truly happy one. Sashenka’s piano is a hired one; Sashenka is very fond of music, and was to have entered the conservatoire. To economise in wartime she offered to give up the piano, but I wouldn’t hear of it. Five roubles a month is a paltry sum for which to deprive the household of the pleasure of hearing her play. And Lidotchka, too, is beginning to learn. She shows remarkable talent for a child of six and a half.

Yes, I am truly a happy man. I will mention some of the reasons of my happiness here, though I would not talk of them to a living soul. For one thing, I am forty-five years old, and no matter what happens I will never under any circumstances be called to the colours. This is a thing it would hardly be safe to say to others; it might lead to so much misunderstanding. I have to be somewhat of a humbug at times and pretend, as all the rest do, that if I were younger and stronger and so on, I should most certainly join as a volunteer, but at bottom I can’t help rejoicing, that without in any way breaking the law, I can stop at home and not have to expose myself to some silly bullet.

I confess, too, that when the men in our office stand round the map loudly maintaining that this is a great war, essential to some great purpose, I make no attempt to argue with them. What would be the use of any little objection I might make? They would only laugh at or make