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

The star-shaped white flowers in the garden had a stronger odor in the midst of the darkness and coolness.

Speshnikov, the vice-governor, and Colonel Ponamarev had left some time ago and promised to send the carriage back from the station to take the commandant over. The remaining guests sat on the piazza. Despite his protests, the general was compelled to put on an overcoat and to agree to have his feet covered with a rug. A bottle of his favorite red Pommard wine was standing before him, while the two sisters were sitting by his side, filling his glass with the old wine, slicing the cheese for him, and striking matches to light his cigar. The old commandant was completely happy.

“Y‑yes.⁠ ⁠… Autumn is here, all right,” he was saying, gazing at the candle flame and thoughtfully shaking his head. “It’s time for me to get back. And I must say, I don’t feel like going. Now is the best time to live at the seashore, in quiet and calm.⁠ ⁠…”

“Why don’t you stay with us, grandpa?” said Vera.

“Can’t do it, my dear, can’t do it. Service won’t let me. My furlough is over.⁠ ⁠… How I should like to stay here, though! The roses have such a fine odor now. In summer only the acacia has any odor, and it smells more like candy.”

Vera took two small roses out of a vase and inserted them into the buttonhole of the general’s coat.

“Thank you, Vera.” Anosov bent his head, smelled the flowers, and then smiled with that fine smile of his.

“This reminds me of how we came to Bukharest. Once I was walking in the street, when a very strong odor of roses stopped me. In front of me were two soldiers holding a beautiful cut-glass bottle of rose oil. They had already rubbed their boots with it and oiled their rifle locks. ‘What have you got there?’ I asked them. ‘Some kind of oil, your Honor. We tried to use it in cooking, but it doesn’t work. And it smells fine!’ I gave them a rouble, and they were very glad to part with the bottle. Although the bottle was no more than half full, the way prices stood then, the oil was worth at least sixty roubles. The soldiers, greatly pleased with the bargain, added: ‘And here is some kind of Turkish peas, your Honor. We tried to cook them but they are as hard as before.’ It was coffee. I said to them: ‘This is good only for the Turks, it will never do for our soldiers!’ It was luck that they didn’t eat any opium. I saw opium tablets in several places.”

“Grandpa, tell me frankly,” said Anna, “were you ever afraid during battles?”

“That’s a funny question to ask, Anna. Of course I was afraid. Don’t you believe the people who tell you that they are not afraid and that the whistle of bullets is the sweetest music in the world to them. A man like that is either crazy or else he is boasting. Everybody is afraid. Only one fellow will lose all self-control, and another holds himself well in hand. You see, the fear always remains the same, but the ability to hold yourself in hand develops with practice; that’s why we have heroes and great men. And yet, there was one occasion when I was almost frightened to death.”

“Won’t you tell us about it, grandpa?” asked both sisters together. They were still fond of listening to Anosov’s stories, just as they had been in early childhood. Anna even placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin on the palms of her hands, just as she had done when she was a child. There was a peculiar charm in his slow and artless manner of narrating. Even the phraseology with which he narrated his reminiscences often assumed a peculiarly awkward, somewhat bookish character. Sometimes it seemed that he had learned a story in some dear old volume.

“It isn’t a long story,” said Anosov. “It was in winter, at Shipka, after I was wounded in the head. There were four of us living in a dugout, and it was there that a peculiar thing happened to me. One morning, as I was getting up, it suddenly appeared to me that my name was not Yakov but Nikolay, and I could not possibly convince myself of the fact that it was Yakov. I realized that I was losing my senses and cried for some water, with which I moistened my head, and that brought me back to myself.”

“I can just imagine how many conquests you made among the women there, Yakov Mikhailovich,” said Jennie Reiter. “You must have been very handsome in your youth.”

“Oh, our grandpa is still handsome!” exclaimed Anna.

“No, I guess I never was very handsome,” said Anosov, with a quiet smile. “But I was never disliked, overmuch, either. A rather touching incident occurred in Bukharest. When we entered the city, the inhabitants met us with salutes of cannon from the public square, which damaged many windowpanes. But the windows, on whose sills stood glasses of water, were not damaged. And this is how I found it out. When I came to the house to which I was billeted, I saw a small cage over which stood a large cut-glass bottle, filled with water. There were fishes swimming in the water, and among them sat a canary. That astonished me. But when I looked closely, I saw that the bottom of the bottle was so blown that it formed an arched space over the open top of the cage, and the canary could fly in and sit on a perch. Afterward I admitted to myself that I was rather slow in grasping things.

“I went into the house and saw a beautiful little Bulgarian girl. I showed her my card, and asked her, by the way, why their windowpanes were not broken. She said that it was on account of the water, and explained to me about the