The Created Legend by Fyodor Sologub (ebook reader color screen TXT) 📕

very large table, upon which lay books, papers, and several strange objects⁠—hexahedral prisms of an unfamiliar substance, heavy and solid in appearance, dark red in colour, with purple, blue, grey, and black spots, and with veins running across it.

Kirsha knocked on the door and entered⁠—quiet, small, troubled. Trirodov looked at him anxiously. Kirsha said:

“There are two young women in the wood. Such an inquisitive pair. They have been looking over our colony. Now they’d like to come here to take a look round.”

Trirodov let the pale green ribbon with a lightly stamped pattern fall upon the page he was reading and laid the book on the small table at his side. He then took Kirsha by the hand, drew him close, and looked attentively at him, with a slight stir in his eyes; then said quietly:

“You’ve been asking questions of those quiet boys again.”

Kirsha grew red, but stood erect and calm, Trirodov continued to reproach him:

“How often have I told you that this is wicked. It is bad for you and for them.”

“It’s all the same to them,” said Kirsha quietly.

“How do you know?” asked Trirodov.

Kirsha shrugged his shoulders and said obstinately:

“Why are they here? What are they to us?”

Trirodov turned away, then rose abruptly, went to the window, and looked gloomily into the garden. Clearly something was agitating his consciousness, something that needed deciding. Kirsha quietly walked up to him, stepping softly upon the white, warm floor with his sunburnt graceful feet, high in instep, and with long, beautiful, well-formed toes. He touched his father on the shoulder, quietly rested his sunburnt hand there, and said:

“You know, daddy, that I seldom do this, only when I must. I felt very much troubled today. I knew that something would happen.”

“What will happen?” asked his father.

“I have a feeling,” said Kirsha with a pleading voice, “that you must let them in to us⁠—these inquisitive girls.”

Trirodov looked very attentively at his son and smiled. Kirsha said gravely:

“The elder one is very charming. In some way she is like mother. But the other is also nice.”

“What brings them here?” again asked Trirodov. “They might have waited until their elders brought them here.”

Kirsha smiled, sighed lightly, and said thoughtfully, shrugging his small shoulders:

“All women are curious. What’s to be done with them?”

Smiling now joyously, now gravely, Trirodov asked:

“And will mother not come to us?”

“Oh, if she only came, if only for one little minute!” exclaimed Kirsha.

“What are we to do with these girls?” asked Trirodov.

“Invite them in, show them the house,” replied Kirsha.

“And the quiet children?” quietly asked Trirodov.

“The quiet children also like the elder one,” answered Kirsha.

“And who are they, these girls?” asked Trirodov.

“They are our neighbours, the Rameyevs,” said Kirsha.

Trirodov smiled again and said:

“Yes, one can understand why they are so curious.”

He frowned, went to the table, put his hand on one of the dark, heavy prisms and picked it up cautiously, and again carefully put it back in its place, saying at the same time to Kirsha:

“Go, then, and meet them and bring them here.”

Kirsha, growing animated, asked:

“By the door or through the grotto?”

“Yes, bring them through the dark passage, underground.”

Kirsha went out. Trirodov was left alone. He opened the drawer of his writing-table, took out a strangely shaped flagon of green glass filled with a dark fluid, and looked in the direction of the secret door. At that instant it opened quietly and easily. A pale, quiet boy entered and looked at Trirodov with his dispassionate and innocent, but understanding eyes.

Trirodov went up to him. A reproach was ripe on his tongue but he could not say it. Pity and tenderness clung to his lips. Silently he gave the strange-shaped flagon to the boy. The boy went out quietly.

III

The sisters entered a thicket. The path’s many turnings made them giddy. Suddenly the turrets of the old house vanished from sight. Everything around them assumed an unfamiliar look.

“We seem to have lost our way,” said Elena cheerfully.

“Never fear, we’ll find our way out,” replied Elisaveta. “We are bound to get somewhere.”

At that instant there came towards them from among the bushes the small, sunburnt, handsome Kirsha. His dark, closely grown eyebrows and black wavy hair, unspoiled by headgear, gave him the wild look of a wood-sprite.

“Dear boy, where do you come from?” asked Elisaveta.

Kirsha eyed the sisters with an attentive, direct, and innocent gaze. He said:

“I am Kirsha Trirodov. Follow this path, and you’ll find yourselves where you want to go. I’ll go ahead of you.”

He turned and walked on. The sisters followed him upon the narrow path between the tall trees. Here and there flowers were visible⁠—small, white, odorous flowers. They emitted a strange, pungent smell. It made the sisters feel both gay and languid. Kirsha walked silently before them.

At the end of the road loomed a mound, overgrown by tangled, ugly grass. At the foot of the mound was a rusty door which looked as if it were meant to hide some treasure.

Kirsha felt in his pocket, took out a key, and opened the door. It creaked unpleasantly and breathed out cold, dampness, and fear. A long dark passage became discernible. Kirsha pressed a spot near the door. The dark passage became lit up as though by electric light, but the lights themselves were not visible.

The sisters entered the grotto. The light poured from everywhere. But the sources of light remained a mystery. The walls themselves seemed to radiate. The light fell evenly, and neither bright reflections nor shadowy places were to be seen.

The sisters went on. Now they were alone. The door closed behind them with a grating sound. Kirsha ran on ahead. The sisters no longer saw him. The corridor was sinuous. It was difficult to walk fast for some unknown reason. A kind of weight seemed to fetter their limbs. The passage inclined slightly downwards. They walked on like this a long time. It grew hotter and damper the farther they advanced. There was an aroma⁠—strange, sad, and exotic. The