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

purifying.”

And the fourth said:

“I love the air⁠—stretching out so broad and high⁠—the light breath of life.”

And this is what life brought to them.

The first became a miner, and while he was at work a shaft fell and buried him in the earth.

And the second shed tears like water, and at length was drowned.

And the third perished by fire in a burning house.

And the fourth was hanged.

Poor innocent elements! Foolish desiring ones!

Oh, why did Will lead them forth from the happy place of nonexistence!

The Road and the Light

On a long country road came people with horses and wagons, and only the stars gave them light.

The night was a long one, but their eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and they were able to distinguish all the unevennesses and windings of the road.

But the way being long it became dull for one of the men, and he said:

“Hadn’t we better light lanterns so as to see the way? Then the horses will move more quickly and we shall get to our destination sooner.”

The others believed him and lighted lanterns, and not content with that, broke off branches from the trees and made torches⁠—they even lighted bonfires, taking much trouble over the lighting of the way.

The horses stood still. “Never mind,” said the men, “we shall get on quicker afterwards.”

And all around them was a bright light, and the light of the stars was darkened. Then the wayfarers saw that there was not one road only, but many sidetracks and bypaths. And each road seemed to someone the shortest road to take.

They quarrelled among themselves as to which road to take, and they separated. The morning light found them all on different ways and far from the place whither they were bound.

The Keys

A skeleton-key said to her neighbour:

“I go about everywhere, but you lie still. Where have I not been, but you’ve always remained at home. What are you thinking about?”

The old key did not want to answer, but she said:

“There is a strong oaken door. I lock it, and when the time comes I unlock it again.”

“Well,” said the skeleton-key, “but aren’t there a great many doors in the world?”

“I don’t need to know about any other doors,” said the key. “I can’t open them.”

“Can’t you? But I can open every door!”

And the skeleton-key thought to herself:

“This key is really stupid if it can only open one door.” But the key said to her:

“You’re a thieves’ skeleton-key, but I am a true and honest door-key.”

This the skeleton-key did not understand. She did not know what truth and honesty were, and she thought that the door-key was so old that she had gone out of her mind.

The Independent Leaves

Some leaves with very strong stalks were hanging from a branch, and they found life very dull. It was very unpleasant⁠—they could see the birds flying and the kittens running about; even the clouds were being carried along⁠—and they were still on the branch. They swung themselves about, trying to break off from their stalks and be free.

They said to one another:

“We can live independent lives. We are quite grown up. But here we are under guardianship, stuck fast to this old stupid branch.”

They swung themselves about and at last got free. They fell to the ground and withered. Presently the gardener came and swept them away with the refuse.

The Crimson Ribbon I

The old professor, Edward Henriovitch Roggenfeldt, and his aged wife, Agnes Rudolfovna, had been accustomed for many years to live from May to September in the same watering-place, in Esthonia on the southern shore of the Gulf of Finland. Every year they occupied the same beautiful country villa standing in its own grounds. From the balcony of this villa they had a broad and delightful outlook over the waters of the gulf, the meadows near the sea, and the beach.

Although this watering-place was inhabited for the most part by families of Germans, professors and physicians, and bore the stupid ridiculous name of Très-joli, it was a very pleasant and convenient place in which to live. All the people who owned villas there were firmly convinced that Esthonia was the healthiest place in the world and that Très-joli was the most beautiful spot in Northwest Russia. They declared that this was printed in the Encyclopaedia in which other reliable information could be found of this sort, for example, that Edgar Poe lived a degraded life, and was a lying and evil-living man.

The peasants of the place⁠—Estonians⁠—were peaceful and honest and well-behaved; no one ever heard of fights or robberies there. There was a post and telegraph office quite near, only four versts away. The postman came twice a day, and not only brought the post but collected the letters.

There were two cafés in the neighbourhood, one on the seashore, the other inland, near the baron’s estate, with very fine gardens. Once a week there was music in the café on the shore. Not far away, also at a distance of four versts, was an Assembly Room where there was a public dance once a week, and where one could get wine and beer or have dinners or suppers. But all this was not too near⁠—the people who lived at Très-joli could enjoy a peaceful quietude and yet not be deprived of the conveniences of civilisation. The tradesmen brought their goods to the very doors of the villas⁠—a great convenience, which fully compensated for not living near the town markets.

The houses in Très-joli stood on a high cliff. The bank sloped down to the sea, with here and there steep ravines in which were trees and bushes and wild narcissus, but in places the cliff was bare and laminated, rejoicing the hearts of professors and students, who found there ancient Silurian remains, green and brown and yellow layers of limestone and sandstone. Along the edge of the sea stretched a broad strip