Short Fiction by Fyodor Sologub (hot novels to read txt) 📕

possible for him to be a spy or a conspirator or a hangman? How dreadful to think of such things! But whatever he may do I love him all the same⁠—for me he is Lohengrin, and if it is terrible and difficult to live with him, to die with my beloved will be sweet to me.”

She got up from her chair, put her arms tenderly round the young man’s neck, and still weeping bitterly, exclaimed:

“Lohengrin, my Lohengrin, whoever thou mayest be I love thee. Whithersoever thou wilt lead me I will follow thee. In whatsoever thou doest I will be thy aid⁠—in life and in death. I love thee as thou dost wish, dear Lohengrin. I love thee as maidens loved their knights in the stories of old.”

IX

Confident and happy, Lohengrin, the accepted lover of Mashenka, departed. Mashenka still mingled her tears and laughter. Her mother was astonished at the news.

“How can you think of marrying him, Mashenka?” said she. “You don’t mean to say you have promised without knowing anything about him? You’ll find out suddenly one day that he’s an escaped convict or something of that sort.”

But Mashenka only blushed, and repeated obstinately:

“It doesn’t matter if he’s a convict or a spy or even a hangman. I shall be one too, for I love him.”

And Serezha whispered in her ear:

“If he is the leader of a robber band ask him to let me be one of his men. I’m small enough to climb through the little windows.”

And Mashenka laughed.

But when Lohengrin reached home he resolved that his secret was no longer worth keeping. He put his visiting card into an envelope and posted it to Mashenka.

Next day when she got home from school, Serezha met her and said with an air of mystery:

“There’s a letter for you. I expect it’s from Lohengrin, arranging to meet you somewhere.”

Mashenka ran off to her own room with the letter, tore open the envelope, and found a scrap of cardboard with something printed on it and a few lines of writing in violet ink. Her hands trembled, her eyes grew dim; it was with difficulty she managed to read the simple words:

Nikolai Stepanovitch Balkashin

Skilled bookbinder

48 Matthew Street.

And below was written:

I hid my real occupation from you, dear Mashenka, fearing that you might despise an artisan, but now I am no longer afraid, being convinced that your love for me cannot change.

Both Mashenka and her mother rejoiced that the secret held nothing terrible. The mother felt inclined to grumble a little at having a workman for her son-in-law, but allowed herself to be pacified when Mashenka assured her that his bookbinding would be done in an artistic manner, and that this branch of the work could be extended. But Serezha was really disappointed; he had dreamed of night expeditions, but there was now no opportunity for him to climb through the windows of houses.

Perhaps Mashenka was a little disappointed also that everything had turned out so simple and ordinary. But in spite of everything Lohengrin would always remain her Lohengrin, and the image of her dream would never fade away; for love is not only stronger than death, but it is able to triumph over the terrible dullness of ordinary everyday life.

Who Art Thou? I

One year follows after another, the centuries pass away, and still to man is never revealed the mystery of the world and the greater mystery of his own soul.

Man seeks and questions, but does not find an answer. Wise men are as children; they do not know. And there are some people who have not even got so far as to ask the question:

“Who am I?”

It was the end of May and already hot weather in the large town. In the side-street it was hot and stifling, and still worse in the courtyard. The brownish-red iron roofs of the five-storey stone buildings on each of the four sides of the yard were burning hot, as were also the large cobblestones of its dirty pavement. A new house was being built at the side, just such another ugly heap of pretension, a modern building with an ugly front. From this building came a pungent smell of lime and dry brick-dust.

Several children were running about in the yard, shrieking and quarrelling. They belonged to the doorkeeper, the servants, and the humbler inhabitants of the building. Little twelve-year-old Grishka, the son of Anushka, the cook at No. 17, looked out on them all from the fourth-floor kitchen window. He lay on his stomach in the window-seat, his thin little legs in their short dark-blue knickers, and his bare feet stretched out behind him.

Grishka’s mother wouldn’t let him go out into the yard this morning; she was in a bad temper. She remembered that Grishka had broken a cup yesterday; and though he had been beaten then as a punishment, she had reminded him of it again this morning.

“You’re just spoilt,” said she. “There’s no need for you to run about in the yard. You’ll stay indoors today, and you can learn your lessons.”

“I haven’t got any examination,” Grishka reminded her with some pride. And as usual, when he remembered his school triumphs he laughed joyfully. But his mother looked sternly at him and said:

“Well, all the same, you’ll stay indoors unless you want a whipping. What are you grinning at? If I were you I shouldn’t find anything to laugh about.”

Anushka was fond of repeating this phrase⁠—quite enigmatical to Grishka. Ever since her husband’s death, which obliged her to go out as a servant, she had looked upon Grishka and herself as unhappy creatures, and when she thought about the child’s future she always painted it in dark colours. Grishka ceased to smile and began to feel uncomfortable.

However, he didn’t much want to go into the yard. He wasn’t dull indoors. He had a picture-book which he hadn’t yet read, and he betook himself to that enjoyment. But he didn’t