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

as though I had been hanging by my feet, and at moments I nearly choked. I did not shed tears, curiously; my tears were dry for that night. I was filled with a raging fury; I wanted to curse those murderers. I say nothing of the newly massacred men⁠—have we not accustomed ourselves to regard men as sheep, and to be touched only by a conventional emotion in like circumstances? and have we not enough of these “newly slaughtered” in our own slaughterhouse? but the woman and the child! The woman and the child.⁠ ⁠…

She was still living; she might have been hanging like that, head downwards, for half an hour, for an hour, perhaps. What horrible red circles must have danced before her eyes when the blood rushed to her brain? How did she breathe? How did her heart beat? And through the turbid redness, through the dark obscurity of death, she could distinguish the image of her child; she could see only her crawling infant with what remained of her sight, and with all the human force she possessed, she stretched out her purple arms to it, and her purple swollen face. To any other being that horrible purple face would have been terrifying, but the innocent babe strove to get to her, still knowing her to be his mother. “But they could not reach each other.”

In the wildest nightmare the whole of that night I tried to unite those outstretched hands. Each moment it seemed that success was mine, that the hands would touch, and that some eternally glorious life would come about with that contact, but some unknown force seemed to drag them asunder, and me with them. I shook myself, to come to my senses (I regretted that I had given up smoking; a smoke would have been very soothing just then) but again the nightmare returned, and it seemed to have neither beginning nor end. Once more I was trying to unite the hands; they seemed so close; but again that unknown, invisible force dragged them apart. The blood that rushed to my head and the despair nearly choked me. The nightmare became truly awful in the end. The hands no longer strove towards each other, but were stretched out to me, to my throat, and they seemed to grip it like a vice, and there were not four hands only, but numbers and numbers of them.⁠ ⁠…

Fimotchka rushed in when she heard my groans, to find out what was the matter. She gave me some ether and valerian drops, and had a soothing effect on me by the sight of a living person. When she was gone the nightmare returned, but not in its acutest form. The hands were no longer at my throat, but striving vainly to touch each other as at first, and I was holding forth eloquently in our office on the subject, and waving my long arms about. It was not until morning that I fell into a dreamless sleep. Today I was filled with many strange thoughts and emotions. I stared at every pair of hands I saw, whether busy or idle, and longed for their union. I thought of Sashenka’s mother and of mothers in general. I wonder why a mother doesn’t see that in mourning for her own son she is aiming at some other woman’s son, and that all are mourning alike? Perhaps they do see it? the thing is so simple. Another force is at work. Who is it strives for union, and who prevents it? “But they could not reach each other,” the eyewitness said.

My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch. Mother Earth and her Son, the great solution will come. But I will not live to see it. And what have I done to deserve it? As a “cell” I have lived, as a “cell” I must die. The only thing I can ask of fate is that my suffering and my death should not have been wasted. I accept both submissively. But I cannot quite resign myself to this helplessness. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, “Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you.⁠ ⁠…”

And my tears flow fast.

Endnotes

In Russia the windows have double panes during the winter for the purpose of keeping out the cold. —⁠Trans. ↩

Diminutive of dove, a term of endearment very common in Russia. ↩

Murder is punishable in Russia by penal servitude. Only where the crime perpetrated involves military treason, or has a political aspect, is capital punishment resorted to. ↩

This is, of course, only a child’s way of addressing an elder. —⁠Trans. ↩

In Russian schools 5 is the maximum mark. —⁠Trans. ↩

Such as is worn by schoolgirls and girl students. —⁠Trans. ↩

Short of Semyon. —⁠Trans. ↩

The Russian for Constantinople. ↩

Popadya, the wife of a Russian village priest or “pope,” is a distinct type in the social world of the Russian village. ↩

Pet name for Vassily. ↩

Diminutive of Anastasia. ↩

The day in the church calendar dedicated to the saint for whom a Russian child is named. It is celebrated with more solemnity than the birthday. ↩

Diminutive of Anastasia. ↩

1 pood = 36 lbs. ↩

A Russian card game, similar to “Old Maid.” ↩

Contemptuous diminutive for Vassily. ↩

The village church bell is rung during a snowstorm to guide any team or wanderer that may be seeking the road.