Russian Short Stories by Various Russian - HTML preview

the eyes of Lazarus—and his joy ended forever. Thereafter he was

always drunk. He drank no more, but was drunk all the time,

shadowed by fearful dreams, instead of the joyous reveries that

wine gives. Fearful dreams became the food of his broken spirit.

Fearful dreams held him day and night in the mists of monstrous

fantasy, and death itself was no more fearful than the apparition of

its fierce precursor.

Lazarus came to a youth and his lass who loved each other and

were beautiful in their love. Proudly and strongly holding in his

arms his beloved one, the youth said, with gentle pity: "Look at us, Lazarus, and rejoice with us. Is there anything stronger than love?"

And Lazarus looked at them. And their whole life they continued

to love one another, but their love became mournful and gloomy,

even as those cypress trees over the tombs that feed their roots on

the putrescence of the grave, and strive in vain in the quiet evening

hour to touch the sky with their pointed tops. Hurled by fathomless

life-forces into each other's arms, they mingled their kisses with

tears, their joy with pain, and only succeeded in realising the more

vividly a sense of their slavery to the silent Nothing. Forever

united, forever parted, they flashed like sparks, and like sparks

went out in boundless darkness.

Lazarus came to a proud sage, and the sage said to him: "I already

know all the horrors that you may tell me, Lazarus. With what else

can you terrify me?"

Only a few moments passed before the sage realised that the

knowledge of the horrible is not the horrible, and that the sight of

death is not death. And he felt that in the eyes of the Infinite

wisdom and folly are the same, for the Infinite knows them not.

And the boundaries between knowledge and ignorance, between

truth and falsehood, between top and bottom, faded and his

shapeless thought was suspended in emptiness. Then he grasped

his grey head in his hands and cried out insanely: "I cannot think! I cannot think!"

Thus it was that under the cool gaze of Lazarus, the man

miraculously raised from the dead, all that serves to affirm life, its

sense and its joys, perished. And people began to say it was

dangerous to allow him to see the Emperor; that it were better to

kill him and bury him secretly, and swear he had disappeared.

Swords were sharpened and youths devoted to the welfare of the

people announced their readiness to become assassins, when

Augustus upset the cruel plans by demanding that Lazarus appear

before him.

Even though Lazarus could not be kept away, it was felt that the

heavy impression conveyed by his face might be somewhat

softened. With that end in view expert painters, barbers and artists

were secured who worked the whole night on Lazarus' head. His

beard was trimmed and curled. The disagreeable and deadly

bluishness of his hands and face was covered up with paint; his

hands were whitened, his cheeks rouged. The disgusting wrinkles

of suffering that ridged his old face were patched up and painted,

and on the smooth surface, wrinkles of good-nature and laughter,

and of pleasant, good-humoured cheeriness, were laid on

artistically with fine brushes.

Lazarus submitted indifferently to all they did with him, and soon

was transformed into a stout, nice-looking old man, for all the

world a quiet and good-humoured grandfather of numerous

grandchildren. He looked as though the smile with which he told

funny stories had not left his lips, as though a quiet tenderness still

lay hidden in the corner of his eyes. But the wedding-dress they

did not dare to take off; and they could not change his eyes—the

dark, terrible eyes from out of which stared the incomprehensible

There.

VI

Lazarus was untouched by the magnificence of the imperial

apartments. He remained stolidly indifferent, as though he saw no

contrast between his ruined house at the edge of the desert and the

solid, beautiful palace of stone. Under his feet the hard marble of

the floor took on the semblance of the moving sands of the desert,

and to his eyes the throngs of gaily dressed, haughty men were as

unreal as the emptiness of the air. They looked not into his face as

he passed by, fearing to come under the awful bane of his eyes; but

when the sound of his heavy steps announced that he had passed,

heads were lifted, and eyes examined with timid curiosity the

figure of the corpulent, tall, slightly stooping old man, as he slowly

passed into the heart of the imperial palace. If death itself had

appeared men would not have feared it so much; for hitherto death

had been known to the dead only, and life to the living only, and

between these two there had been no bridge. But this strange being

knew death, and that knowledge of his was felt to be mysterious

and cursed. "He will kill our great, divine Augustus," men cried with horror, and they hurled curses after him. Slowly and stolidly

he passed them by, penetrating ever deeper into the palace.

Caesar knew already who Lazarus was, and was prepared to meet

him. He was a courageous man; he felt his power was invincible,

and in the fateful encounter with the man "wonderfully raised from

the dead" he refused to lean on other men's weak help. Man to

man, face to face, he met Lazarus.

"Do not fix your gaze on me, Lazarus," he commanded. "I have heard that your head is like the head of Medusa, and turns into

stone all upon whom you look. But I should like to have a close

look at you, and to talk to you before I turn into stone," he added in a spirit of playfulness that concealed his real misgivings.

Approaching him, he examined closely Lazarus' face and his

strange festive clothes. Though his eyes were sharp and keen, he

was deceived by the skilful counterfeit.

"Well, your appearance is not terrible, venerable sir. But all the

worse for men, when the terrible takes on such a venerable and

pleasant appearance. Now let us talk."

Augustus sat down, and as much by glance as by words began the

discussion. "Why did you not salute me when you entered?"

Lazarus answered indifferently: "I did not know it was necessary."

"You are a Christian?"

"No."

Augustus nodded approvingly. "That is good. I do not like the

Christians. They shake the tree of life, forbidding it to bear fruit,

and they scatter to the wind its fragrant blossoms. But who are

you?"

With some effort Lazarus answered: "I was dead."

"I heard about that. But who are you now?"

Lazarus' answer came slowly. Finally he said again, listlessly and

indistinctly: "I was dead."

"Listen to me, stranger," said the Emperor sharply, giving

expression to what had been in his mind before. "My empire is an

empire of the living; my people are a people of the living and not

of the dead. You are superfluous here. I do not know who you are,

I do not know what you have seen There, but if you lie, I hate your

lies, and if you tell the truth, I hate your truth. In my heart I feel the pulse of life; in my hands I feel power, and my proud thoughts,

like eagles, fly through space. Behind my back, under the

protection of my authority, under the shadow of the laws I have

created, men live and labour and rejoice. Do you hear this divine

harmony of life? Do you hear the war cry that men hurl into the

face of the future, challenging it to strife?"

Augustus extended his arms reverently and solemnly cried out:

"Blessed art thou, Great Divine Life!"

But Lazarus was silent, and the Emperor continued more severely:

"You are not wanted here. Pitiful remnant, half devoured of death,

you fill men with distress and aversion to life. Like a caterpillar on

the fields, you are gnawing away at the full seed of joy, exuding

the slime of despair and sorrow. Your truth is like a rusted sword

in the hands of a night assassin, and I shall condemn you to death

as an assassin. But first I want to look into your eyes. Mayhap only

cowards fear them, and brave men are spurred on to struggle and

victory. Then will you merit not death but a reward. Look at me,

Lazarus."

At first it seemed to divine Augustus as if a friend were looking at

him, so soft, so alluring, so gently fascinating was the gaze of

Lazarus. It promised not horror but quiet rest, and the Infinite

dwelt there as a fond mistress, a compassionate sister, a mother.

And ever stronger grew its gentle embrace, until he felt, as it were,

the breath of a mouth hungry for kisses… Then it seemed as if iron

bones protruded in a ravenous grip, and closed upon him in an iron

band; and cold nails touched his heart, and slowly, slowly sank

into it.

"It pains me," said divine Augustus, growing pale; "but look, Lazarus, look!"

Ponderous gates, shutting off eternity, appeared to be slowly

swinging open, and through the growing aperture poured in, coldly

and calmly, the awful horror of the Infinite. Boundless Emptiness

and Boundless Gloom entered like two shadows, extinguishing the

sun, removing the ground from under the feet, and the cover from

over the head. And the pain in his icy heart ceased.

"Look at me, look at me, Lazarus!" commanded Augustus,

staggering…

Time ceased and the beginning of things came perilously near to

the end. The throne of Augustus, so recently erected, fell to pieces,

and emptiness took the place of the throne and of Augustus. Rome

fell silently into ruins. A new city rose in its place, and it too was

erased by emptiness. Like phantom giants, cities, kingdoms, and

countries swiftly fell and disappeared into emptiness—swallowed

up in the black maw of the Infinite…

"Cease," commanded the Emperor. Already the accent of

indifference was in his voice. His arms hung powerless, and his

eagle eyes flashed and were dimmed again, struggling against

overwhelming darkness.

"You have killed me, Lazarus," he said drowsily.

These words of despair saved him. He thought of the people,

whose shield he was destined to be, and a sharp, redeeming pang

pierced his dull heart. He thought of them doomed to perish, and

he was filled with anguish. First they seemed bright shadows in the

gloom of the Infinite.—How terrible! Then they appeared as

fragile vessels with life-agitated blood, and hearts that knew both

sorrow and great joy.—And he thought of them with tenderness.

And so thinking and feeling, inclining the scales now to the side of

life, now to the side of death, he slowly returned to life, to find in

its suffering and joy a refuge from the gloom, emptiness and fear

of the Infinite.

"No, you did not kill me, Lazarus," said he firmly. "But I will kill you. Go!"

Evening came and divine Augustus partook of food and drink with

great joy. But there were moments when his raised arm would

remain suspended in the air, and the light of his shining, eager eyes

was dimmed. It seemed as if an icy wave of horror washed against

his feet. He was vanquished but not killed, and coldly awaited his

doom, like a black shadow. His nights were haunted by horror, but

the bright days still brought him the joys, as well as the sorrows, of

life.

Next day, by order of the Emperor, they burned out Lazarus' eyes

with hot irons and sent him home. Even Augustus dared not kill

him.

* * * * *

Lazarus returned to the desert and the desert received him with the

breath of the hissing wind and the ardour of the glowing sun.

Again he sat on the stone with matted beard uplifted; and two

black holes, where the eyes had once been, looked dull and

horrible at the sky. In the distance the Holy City surged and roared

restlessly, but near him all was deserted and still. No one

approached the place where Lazarus, miraculously raised from the

dead, passed his last days, for his neighbours had long since

abandoned their homes. His cursed knowledge, driven by the hot

irons from his eyes deep into the brain, lay there in ambush; as if

from ambush it might spring out upon men with a thousand unseen

eyes. No one dared to look at Lazarus.

And in the evening, when the sun, swollen crimson and growing

larger, bent its way toward the west, blind Lazarus slowly groped

after it. He stumbled against stones and fell; corpulent and feeble,

he rose heavily and walked on; and against the red curtain of

sunset his dark form and outstretched arms gave him the

semblance of a cross.

It happened once that he went and never returned. Thus ended the

second life of Lazarus, who for three days had been in the

mysterious thraldom of death and then was miraculously raised

from the dead.

THE REVOLUTIONIST

BY MICHAÏL P. ARTZYBASHEV

I

Gabriel Andersen, the teacher, walked to the edge of the school

garden, where he paused, undecided what to do. Off in the

distance, two miles away, the woods hung like bluish lace over a

field of pure snow. It was a brilliant day. A hundred tints glistened

on the white ground and the iron bars of the garden railing. There

was a lightness and transparency in the air that only the days of

early spring possess. Gabriel Andersen turned his steps toward the

fringe of blue lace for a tramp in the woods.

"Another spring in my life," he said, breathing deep and peering up at the heavens through his spectacles. Andersen was rather given to

sentimental poetising. He walked with his hands folded behind

him, dangling his cane.

He had gone but a few paces when he noticed a group of soldiers

and horses on the road beyond the garden rail. Their drab uniforms

stood out dully against the white of the snow, but their swords and

horses' coats tossed back the light. Their bowed cavalry legs

moved awkwardly on the snow. Andersen wondered what they

were doing there Suddenly the nature of their business flashed

upon him. It was an ugly errand they were upon, an instinct rather

that his reason told him. Something unusual and terrible was to

happen. And the same instinct told him he must conceal himself

from the soldiers. He turned to the left quickly, dropped on his

knees, and crawled on the soft, thawing, crackling snow to a low

haystack, from behind which, by craning his neck, he could watch

what the soldiers were doing.

There were twelve of them, one a stocky young officer in a grey

cloak caught in prettily at the waist by a silver belt. His face was so

red that even at that distance Andersen caught the odd, whitish

gleam of his light protruding moustache and eyebrows against the

vivid colour of his skin. The broken tones of his raucous voice

reached distinctly to where the teacher, listening intently, lay

hidden.

"I know what I am about. I don't need anybody's advice," the

officer cried. He clapped his arms akimbo and looked down at

some one among the group of bustling soldiers. "I'll show you how

to be a rebel, you damned skunk."

Andersen's heart beat fast. "Good heavens!" he thought. "Is it possible?" His head grew chill as if struck by a cold wave.

"Officer," a quiet, restrained, yet distinct voice came from among the soldiers, "you have no right—It's for the court to decide—you

aren't a judge—it's plain murder, not—" "Silence!" thundered the officer, his voice choking with rage. "I'll give you a court. Ivanov, go ahead."

He put the spurs to his horse and rode away. Gabriel Andersen

mechanically observed how carefully the horse picked its way,

placing its feet daintily as if for the steps of a minuet. Its ears were pricked to catch every sound. There was momentary bustle and

excitement among the soldiers. Then they dispersed in different

directions, leaving three persons in black behind, two tall men and

one very short and frail. Andersen could see the hair of the short

one's head. It was very light. And he saw his rosy ears sticking out

on each side.

Now he fully understood what was to happen. But it was a thing so

out of the ordinary, so horrible, that he fancied he was dreaming.

"It's so bright, so beautiful—the snow, the field, the woods, the

sky. The breath of spring is upon everything. Yet people are going

to be killed. How can it be? Impossible!" So his thoughts ran in

confusion. He had the sensation of a man suddenly gone insane,

who finds he sees, hears and feels what he is not accustomed to,

and ought not hear, see and feel.

The three men in black stood next to one another hard by the

railing, two quite close together, the short one some distance away.

"Officer!" one of them cried in a desperate voice—Andersen could not see which it was—"God sees us! Officer!"

Eight soldiers dismounted quickly, their spurs and sabres catching

awkwardly. Evidently they were in a hurry, as if doing a thief's job.

Several seconds passed in silence until the soldiers placed

themselves in a row a few feet from the black figures and levelled

their guns. In doing so one soldier knocked his cap from his head.

He picked it up and put it on again without brushing off the wet

snow.

The officer's mount still kept dancing on one spot with his ears

pricked, while the other horses, also with sharp ears erect to catch

every sound, stood motionless looking at the men in black, their

long wise heads inclined to one side.

"Spare the boy at least!" another voice suddenly pierced the air.

"Why kill a child, damn you! What has the child done?"

"Ivanov, do what I told you to do," thundered the officer, drowning the other voice. His face turned as scarlet as a piece of red flannel.

There followed a scene savage and repulsive in its gruesomeness.

The short figure in black, with the light hair and the rosy ears,

uttered a wild shriek in a shrill child's tones and reeled to one side.

Instantly it was caught up by two or three soldiers. But the boy

began to struggle, and two more soldiers ran up.

"Ow-ow-ow-ow!" the boy cried. "Let me go, let me go! Ow-ow!"

His shrill voice cut the air like the yell of a stuck porkling not quite done to death. Suddenly he grew quiet. Some one must have struck

him. An unexpected, oppressive silence ensued. The boy was being

pushed forward. Then there came a deafening report. Andersen

started back all in a tremble. He saw distinctly, yet vaguely as in a

dream, the dropping of two dark bodies, the flash of pale sparks,

and a light smoke rising in the clean, bright atmosphere. He saw

the soldiers hastily mounting their horses without even glancing at

the bodies. He saw them galloping along the muddy road, their

arms clanking, their horses' hoofs clattering.

He saw all this, himself now standing in the middle of the road, not

knowing when and why he had jumped from behind the haystack.

He was deathly pale. His face was covered with dank sweat, his

body was aquiver. A physical sadness smote and tortured him. He

could not make out the nature of the feeling. It was akin to extreme

sickness, though far more nauseating and terrible.

After the soldiers had disappeared beyond the bend toward the

woods, people came hurrying to the spot of the shooting, though

till then not a soul had been in sight.

The bodies lay at the roadside on the other side of the railing,

where the snow was clean, brittle and untrampled and glistened

cheerfully in the bright atmosphere. There were three dead bodies,

two men and a boy. The boy lay with his long soft neck stretched

on the snow. The face of the man next to the boy was invisible. He

had fallen face downward in a pool of blood. The third was a big

man with a black beard and huge, muscular arms. He lay stretched

out to the full length of his big body, his arms extended over a

large area of blood-stained snow.

The three men who had been shot lay black against the white

snow, motionless. From afar no one could have told the terror that

was in their immobility as they lay there at the edge of the narrow

road crowded with people.

That night Gabriel Andersen in his little room in the schoolhouse

did not write poems as usual. He stood at the window and looked

at the distant pale disk of the moon in the misty blue sky, and

thought. And his thoughts were confused, gloomy, and heavy as if

a cloud had descended upon his brain.

Indistinctly outlined in the dull moonlight he saw the dark railing,

the trees, the empty garden. It seemed to him that he beheld

them—the three men who had been shot, two grown up, one a

child. They were lying there now at the roadside, in the empty,

silent field, looking at the far-off cold moon with their dead, white

eyes as he with his living eyes.

"The time will come some day," he thought, "when the killing of people by others will be an utter impossibility The time will come

when even the soldiers and officers who killed these three men will

realise what they have done and will understand that what they

killed them for is just as necessary, important, and dear to them—

to the officers and soldiers—as to those whom they killed.

"Yes," he said aloud and solemnly, his eyes moistening, "that time will come. They will understand." And the pale disk of the moon

was blotted out by the moisture in his eyes.

A large pity pierced his heart for the three victims whose eyes

looked at the moon, sad and unseeing. A feeling of rage cut him as

with a sharp knife and took possession of him.

But Gabriel Andersen quieted his heart, whispering softly, "They

know not what they do." And this old and ready phrase gave him

the strength to stifle his rage and indignation.

II

The day was as bright and white, but the spring was already

advanced. The wet soil smelt of spring. Clear cold water ran

everywhere from under the loose, thawing snow. The branches of

the trees were springy and elastic. For miles and miles around, the

country opened up in clear azure stretches.

Yet the clearness and the joy of the spring day were not in the

village. They were somewhere outside the village, where there

were no people—in the fields, the woods and the mountains. In the

village the air was stifling, heavy and terrible as in a nightmare.

Gabriel Andersen stood in the road near a crowd of dark, sad,

absent-minded people and craned his neck to see the preparations

for the flogging of seven peasants.

They stood in the thawing snow, and Gabriel Andersen could not

persuade himself that they were people whom he had long known

and understood. By that which was about to happen to them, the

shameful, terrible, ineradicable thing that was to happen to them,

they were separated from all the rest of the world, and so were

unable to feel what he, Gabriel Andersen, felt, just as he was

unable to feel what they felt. Round them were the soldiers,

confidently and beautifully mounted on high upon their large

steeds, who tossed their wise heads and turned their dappled

wooden faces slowly from side to side, looking contemptuously at

him, Gabriel Andersen, who was soon to behold this horror, this

disgrace, and would do nothing, would not dare to do anything. So

it seemed to Gabriel Andersen; and a sense of cold, intolerable

shame gripped him as between two clamps of ice through which he

could see everything without being able to move, cry out or utter a

groan.

They took the first peasant. Gabriel Andersen saw his strange,

imploring, hopeless look. His lips moved, but no sound was heard,

and his eyes wandered. There was a bright gleam in them as in the

eyes of a madman. His mind, it was evident, was no longer able to

comprehend what was happening.

And so terrible was that face, at once full of reason and of

madness, that Andersen felt relieved when they put him face

downward on t