Short Fiction by Aleksandr Kuprin (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

and wrinkled his brows, it might have been thought that he slept. By his side, trembling from agitation and the cold of the early morning, sat a fine well-kept greyhound, with long thin legs and sharp-pointed head. She yawned nervously from time to time, rolling up her rosy little tongue into a tube, accompanying the yawn with a long-drawn-out, high-pitched whine.⁠ ⁠… Near the back of the cage, pressed close up to the bars, was a black dachshund, with smooth skin dappled with yellow on the breast and above the eyes. She could not get over her astonishment at her position, and she looked a strangely comical figure with her flopping paws and crocodile body, and the serious expression of her head with its ears reaching almost to the ground.

Besides this more or less distinguished society, there were in the cage two unmistakable yard dogs. One of them was that sort of dog which is generally called Bouton, and is always noted for its meanness of disposition. She was a shaggy, reddish-coloured animal with a shaggy tail, curled up like the figure 9. She had been the first of the dogs to be captured, and she had apparently become so accustomed to her position that she had for some time past made many efforts to begin an interesting conversation with someone. The last dog of all was out of sight, he had been driven into the darkest corner, and lay there curled up in a heap. He had only moved once all the time, and that had been to growl at Jack when he had found himself near him. Everyone in the company felt a strong antipathy against him. In the first place, he was smeared all over with a violet colour, the work of certain journeyman whitewashers; secondly, his hair was rough and bristly and uncombed; thirdly, he was evidently mangy, hungry, strong and daring⁠—this had been quite evident in the resolute push of his lean body with which he had greeted the arrival of the unconscious Jack.

There was silence for a quarter of an hour. At last Jack, whose healthy sense of humour never forsook him under any circumstances, remarked in a jaunty tone:

“The adventure begins to be interesting. I am curious to know where these gentlemen will make their first stopping place.”

The old poodle did not like the frivolous tone of the brown pointer. He turned his head slowly in Jack’s direction, and said sharply, with a cold sarcasm:

“I can satisfy your curiosity, young man. These gentlemen will make their first stopping place at the slaughterhouse.”

“Where? Pardon me, please, I didn’t catch the word,” muttered Jack, sitting down involuntarily, for his legs had suddenly begun to tremble. “You were pleased to say⁠—at the s‑s⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, at the slaughterhouse,” repeated the poodle coldly, turning his head away.

“Pardon me, but I don’t quite understand.⁠ ⁠… Slaughterhouse?⁠ ⁠… What kind of an institution is that? Won’t you be so good as to explain?”

The poodle was silent. But as the greyhound and the terrier both joined their petition to Jack’s, the old poodle, who did not wish to appear impolite in the presence of ladies, felt obliged to enter into certain details.

“Well, you see mesdames, it is a sort of large courtyard surrounded by a high fence with sharp points, where they shut in all dogs found wandering in the streets. I’ve had the unhappiness to be taken there three times already.”

“I’ve never seen you!” was heard in a hoarse voice from the dark corner. “And this is the seventh time I’ve been there.”

There was no doubt that the voice from the dark corner belonged to the violet-coloured dog. The company was shocked at the interruption of their conversation by this rude person, and so pretended not to hear the remark. But Bouton, with the cringing eagerness of an upstart in society, cried out: “Please don’t interfere in other people’s conversation unless you’re asked,” and then turned at once to the important-looking mouse-coloured dog for approbation.

“I’ve been there three times,” the poodle went on, “but my master has always come and fetched me away again. I play in a circus, and you understand that I am of some value. Well, in this unpleasant place they have a collection of two or three hundred dogs.⁠ ⁠…”

“But, tell me⁠ ⁠… is there good society there?” asked the greyhound affectedly.

“Sometimes. They feed us very badly and give us little to eat. Occasionally one of the dogs disappears, and then they give us a dinner of⁠ ⁠…”

In order to heighten the effect of his words, the poodle made a slight pause, looked round on his audience, and then added with studied indifference:

—“Of dog’s flesh.”

At these words the company was filled with terror and indignation.

“Devil take it⁠ ⁠… what low-down scoundrelism!” exclaimed Jack.

“I shall faint⁠ ⁠… I feel so ill,” murmured the greyhound.

“That’s dreadful⁠ ⁠… dreadful⁠ ⁠…” moaned the dachshund.

“I’ve always said that men were scoundrels,” snarled the mouse-coloured dog.

“What a strange death!” sighed Bouton.

But from the dark corner was heard once more the voice of the violet-coloured dog. With gloomy and cynical sarcasm he said:

“The soup’s not so bad, though⁠—it’s not at all bad, though, of course, some ladies who are accustomed to eat chicken cutlets would find dog’s flesh a little too tough.”

The poodle paid no attention to this rude remark, but went on:

“And afterwards I gathered from the manager’s talk that our late companion’s skin had gone to make ladies’ gloves. But⁠ ⁠… prepare your nerves, mesdames⁠ ⁠… but, this is nothing.⁠ ⁠… In order to make the skin softer and more smooth, it must be taken from the living animal.”

Cries of despair broke in upon the poodle’s speech.

“How inhuman!”

“What mean conduct!”

“No, that can’t be true!”

“O Lord!”

“Murderers!”

“No, worse than murderers!”

After this outburst there was a strained and melancholy silence. Each of them had a mental picture, a fearful foreboding of what it might be to be skinned alive.

“Ladies and gentlemen, is there no way of getting all honourable dogs free, once and for all, from their shameful slavery to mankind?” cried Jack passionately.

“Be so good as to