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

“No, it’s not foolishness,” said Vera, stamping her toot. “Nobody wants you to go and apologise. But, don’t you see, if there aren’t any silly old trees there we’d better go and put some.”

“Put some⁠—trees!” exclaimed Nikolai Yevgrafovitch, his eyes staring.

“Yes, put some there. If you didn’t speak the truth, then you must make it true. Come along, get ready. Give me my hat⁠ ⁠… and coat. No, not there; in the cupboard.⁠ ⁠… Umbrella!”

And while Almazof, finding his objections entirely ignored, began to look for the hat and coat, Vera opened drawers and brought out various little boxes and cases.

“Earrings.⁠ ⁠… No, they’re no good. We shan’t get anything on them. Ah, here’s this ring with the valuable stone. We’ll have to buy that back some time. It would be a pity to lose it. Bracelet⁠ ⁠… they won’t give much for that either, it’s old and bent.⁠ ⁠… Where’s your silver cigar-case, Kolya?”

In five minutes all their valuables were in her handbag, and Vera, dressed and ready, looked round for the last time to assure herself she hadn’t overlooked anything.

“Let us go,” she said at last, resolutely.

“But where?” Almazof tried again to protest. “It’s beginning to get dark already, and the place is ten versts away.”

“Stupid! Come along.”

First of all they went to the pawnshop. The pawnbroker had evidently got accustomed long ago to the sight of people in distress, and could not be touched by it. He was so methodical about his work, and took so long to value the things, that Vera felt she should go crazy. What specially vexed her was that the man should test her ring with acid, and then, after weighing it, he valued it at three roubles only.

“But it’s a real brilliant,” said poor Vera. “It cost thirty-seven roubles, and then it was a bargain.”

The pawnbroker closed his eyes with the air of a man who is frankly bored.

“It’s all the same to us, madam,” said he, putting the next article into the scales. “We don’t take the stones into consideration, only the metals.”

To Vera’s astonishment, her old and bent bracelet was more valuable. Altogether they got about twenty-three roubles, and that was more than was really necessary.

When they got to the gardener’s house, the white Petersburg night had already spread over the heavens, and a pearly light was in the air. The gardener, a Tchekh, a little old man with gold eyeglasses, had only just sat down to supper with his family. He was much surprised at their request, and not altogether willing to take such a late order. He was doubtless suspicious of a practical joke, and answered dryly to Vera’s insistent demands:

“I’m very sorry. But I can’t send my workmen so far at night. If it will do tomorrow morning, I’m quite at your service.”

There was no way out of the difficulty but to tell the man the whole story of the unfortunate blot, and this Verotchka did. He listened doubtfully at first, and was almost unfriendly, but when Vera began to tell him of her plan to plant some bushes on the place, he became more attentive and smiled sympathetically several times.

“Oh, well, it’s not much to do,” he agreed, when Vera had finished her story. “What sort of bushes do you want?”

However, when they came to look at his plants, there was nothing very suitable. The only thing possible to put on the spot was a clump of lilacs.

It was in vain for Almazof to try and persuade his wife to go home. She went all the way with him, and stayed all the time the bushes were planted, feverishly fussing about and hindering the workmen. She only consented to go home when she was assured that the turf under the bushes could not be distinguished from the rest of the grass round about.

Next day Vera felt it impossible to remain in the house. She went out to meet her husband. Quite a long way off she knew, by a slight spring in his walk, that everything had gone well.⁠ ⁠… True, Almazof was covered in dust, and he could hardly move from weariness and hunger, but his face shone with the triumph of victory.

“It’s all right! Splendid!” cried he when within ten paces of his wife, in answer to the anxious expression on her face. “Just think, we went together to those bushes, and he looked and looked at them⁠—he even plucked a leaf and chewed it. ‘What sort of a tree is this?’ says he.”

“ ‘I don’t know, your Excellency,’ said I.

“ ‘It’s a little birch, I suppose,’ says he.

“ ‘Yes, probably, your Excellency.’ ”

Then he turned to me and held out his hand.

“ ‘I beg your pardon, lieutenant,’ he says. ‘I must be getting old, that I didn’t remember those bushes.’ He’s a fine man, that professor, and he knows a lot. I felt quite sorry to deceive him. He’s one of the best professors we have. His learning is simply wonderful. And how quick and accurate he is in marking the plans⁠—marvellous!”

But this meant little to Vera. She wanted to hear over and over again exactly what the professor had said about the bushes. She was interested in the smallest details⁠—the expression on the professor’s face, the tone of his voice when he said he must be growing old, exactly how Kolya felt.⁠ ⁠…

They went home together as if there had been no one in the street except themselves, holding each other by the hand and laughing at nothing. The passersby stopped to look at them; they seemed such a strange couple.

Never before had Nikolai Yevgrafovitch enjoyed his dinner so much as on that day. After dinner, when Vera brought a glass of tea to him in the study, husband and wife suddenly looked at one another, and both laughed.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Vera.

“Well, why did you laugh?” said her husband.

“Oh, only foolishness. I was thinking all about those lilacs. And you?”

“Oh, mine was foolishness too⁠—and the lilacs. I was just going to