The red laugh: fragments of a discovered manuscriptAndreyev, Leonid
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The red laugh: fragments of a discovered manuscript
Andreyev, Leonid
Russian fiction -- Translations into English
Somebody very tall gave him a blow and knocked him off the pillar; the
flag rose once again and fell. I had no time to see the face of the
man who struck him, as instantly everything turned into a nightmare.
Everything became commotion, became agitated and howled; stones and
logs of wood went flying through the air, fists, that were beating
somebody, appeared above the heads. The crowd, like a living, roaring
wave, lifted me up, carried me along several steps and threw me
violently against a fence, then carried me back and away somewhere, and
at last pressed me against a high pile of wood, that inclined forwards,
threatening to fall down upon somebody's head. Something crackled
and rattled against the beams in rapid dry succession; an instant's
stillness--and again a roar burst forth, enormous, open-mouthed,
terrible in its overwhelming power. And then the dry rapid crackling
was heard again and somebody fell down near me with the blood flowing
out of a red hole where his eye had been. And a heavy log of wood came
whirling through the air and struck me in the face, and I fell down and
began crawling, whither I knew not, amidst the trampling feet, and
came to an open space. Then I climbed over some fences, breaking all
my nails, clambered up piles of wood; one pile fell to pieces under
me and I fell amidst a cataract of thumping logs; at last I succeeded
with difficulty in getting out of a closed-in space--while behind me
all crashed, roared, howled and crackled, trying to overtake me. A
bell was ringing somewhere; something fell with a thundering crash, as
if it were a five-storey house. The twilight seemed to have stopped
still, keeping back the night, and the roar and shots, as if steeped in
red, had driven away the darkness. Jumping over the last fence I found
myself in a narrow, crooked lane resembling a corridor, between two
obscure walls, and began running. I ran for a long time, but the lane
seemed to have no outlet: it was terminated by a wall, behind which
piles of wood and scaffolding rose up black against the sky. And again
I climbed over the mobile, shifting piles, falling into pits, where all
was still and smelt of damp wood, getting out of them again into the
open, not daring to look back, for I knew quite well what was happening
by the dull reddish colour that tinged the black beams and made them
look like murdered giants. My smashed face had stopped bleeding and
felt numbed and strange, like a mask of plaster; and the pain had
almost quite disappeared. I believe I fainted and lost consciousness in
one of the black holes into which I had fallen, but I am not certain
whether I only imagined it or was it really so, as I can only remember
myself running.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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