And when, having made corpses of half their number, they would gather at the entrance in a trembling, tattered group of shamefaced animals, with a false smile upon their lips, I would go on to the stage and say with a laugh,--
"It has all happened because you killed my brother." Yes, I would say with a laugh: "It has all happened because you killed my brother."
I must have whispered something aloud, for my neighbour on the right-hand side moved angrily in his chair and said,--
I felt merry and wanted to play a joke. Assuming a warning severe expression, I stooped towards him.
"What is it?" he asked suspiciously. "Why do you look at me so?"
"Hush, I implore you," whispered I with my lips. "Do you not perceive a smell of burning? There is a fire in the theatre."
He had enough power of will and good sense not to cry out. His face grew pale, his eyes starting out of their sockets and almost protruding over his cheeks, enormous as bladders, but he did not cry out. He rose quietly and, without even thanking me, walked totteringly towards the entrance, convulsively keeping back his steps. He was afraid of the others guessing about the fire and preventing him getting away--him, the only one worthy of being saved.
I felt disgusted and left the theatre also; besides I did not want to make known my _incognito_ too soon. In the street I looked towards that part of the sky where the war was raging; everything was calm, and the night clouds, yellow from the lights of the town, were slowly and calmly drifting past.
"Perhaps it is only a dream, and there is no war?" thought I, deceived by the stillness of the sky and town.
But a boy sprang out from behind a corner, crying joyously,--
"A terrible battle. Enormous losses. Buy a list of telegrams--night telegrams!"
I read it by the light of the street lamp. Four thousand dead. In the theatre, I should say, there were not more than one thousand. And the whole way home I kept repeating--"Four thousand dead."
Now I am afraid of returning to my empty house. When I put my key into the lock and look at the dumb, flat door, I can feel all its dark empty rooms behind it, which, however, the next minute, a man in a hat would pass through, looking furtively around him. I know the way well, but on the stairs I begin lighting match after match, until I find a candle. I never enter my brother's study, and it is locked with all that it contains. And I sleep in the dining-room, whither I have shifted altogether: there I feel calmer, for the air seems to have still retained the traces of talking and laughter and the merry clang of dishes. Sometimes I distinctly hear the scraping of a dry pen--and when I lay down on my bed....