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

and old, women and children, roamed along the coast in anxiety, scaled the cliffs and climbed up the Genoese fortress which overshadows the city with its two ancient battlements. Telegrams were sent all over the world: to the commander of the Black Sea ports, the bishop of our diocese, the lighthouses, the lifesaving stations, the minister of the navy, the minister of ways of communication, to Yalta, Sebastopol, Constantinople, and Odessa, to the Patriarch of Greece, the governor, and also, for no earthly reason at all, to the Russian consul at Damascus, who happened to be an acquaintance of a Greek aristocrat of Balaklava, a dealer in flour and cement.

The ancient, immemorial ties which weld man with man came again to life, the deep feeling of comradeship, so little noticeable amidst the petty calculations and the bustle of everyday life, and the voice of the forebears rang again in every heart, of the forebears who, thousands of years ago, long before the time of Ulysses, stood out together against bora, on days and nights like these.

No one slept. At night the fishermen built a huge fire on the mountain, and people roamed about the coast with lanterns, as they do at Easter. But no one laughed or sang, and the coffeehouses were empty.

What a delightful, unforgetable moment it was, when, in the morning, at about eight o’clock, Yura Paratino, who stood on the summit of a cliff above the White Stones, screwed up his eyes, bent forward, bored the distance with his sharp gaze, and suddenly shouted:

“They’re coming!”

No one but Yura Paratino could have descried the boat on the blue-black sea, which was still rolling heavily and viciously, but was slowly calming down. But five, ten minutes later any boy could see clearly that St. George the Conqueror was making for the bay, tacking about and running under sail. A great joy welded together hundreds of human beings into one body and one soul!

Before entering the bay they lowered their sails and took to oars; their entry was at top speed, as triumphant as though they returned after an excellent catch of sturgeon. All around people wept with joy: mothers, wives, brides, sisters, little brothers. Do you think that even one of the crew softened, burst into tears, or wept on someone’s bosom? Not at all! Soaked, hoarse, and windswept, the six of them made straight for Yura’s coffeehouse, ordered wine and music, and for hours shouted songs and danced like madmen, leaving pools of salt water on the floor. Late at night their comrades carried them, drunk and exhausted, to their homes; there every one of them slept twenty hours at a stretch. And when they awoke, their journey appeared to them like a trip to Sebastopol, where they had had a good time, and then returned home.

VII The Divers I

Probably since the Crimean War no steamer, except perhaps an occasional torpedo-boat on manoeuvres, has entered the narrow-mouthed, sinuous, and oblong Balaklava Bay. And really what business could bring steamers to this out-of-the-way fishing settlement, half village, half town? Its only cargo, fish, is bought up on the spot by middlemen and is carted to the markets of Sebastopol, thirteen versts away. It is also from Sebastopol that a few people come to spend the summer months at Balaklava, using for that purpose the mail-coach, which charges them fifty copecks for the trip. The small but desperately brave steam-tug, The Hero, which plies daily between Yalta and Alupka, panting like a fagged-out dog, and tossing and pitching in the slightest breeze as if caught in a hurricane, tried to establish passenger communication with Balaklava. But this attempt, repeated three or four times, resulted merely in a waste of time and coal. The Hero came and left empty. And the Balaklava Greeks, the distant descendants of the bloodthirsty Homeric Laestrygonians, standing on the landing-place with their hands in their pockets, greeted it and saw it off with cutting words, ambiguous advice, and stinging Godspeeds.

But during the siege of Sebastopol the charming pale-blue Balaklava Bay sheltered almost a quarter of the allied fleet. That heroic epoch has left some authentic traces at Balaklava, such as the steep road, which was cut by the English sappers in the ravine of Kefalo-Vrisi; the Italian cemetery, hidden among the vineyards on the top of the Balaklava hills, and the short plaster-of-Paris and bone pipes, which the allied soldiers smoked half a century ago, and which are unearthed from time to time by vineyard tillers.

But the legend blossoms forth more gorgeously. The Balaklava Greeks are even now convinced that it was only owing to the sturdy resistance of their own Balaklava battalion that Sebastopol was able to hold out so long? Yes, in former days Balaklava was inhabited by iron-hearted and proud men. Popular tradition has handed down the years a story which well illustrates their pride.

I do not know whether the late Emperor Nicholas I ever visited Balaklava. It stands to reason that during the Crimean War he had not the time to come to Balaklava. But the local annals relate, with a great deal of assurance, that during a military muster the terrible Emperor, having ridden up close to the Balaklava battalion, was struck by their martial air, fiery eyes, and huge black mustaches. In a thundering and joyous voice he shouted:

“Good morning, men!”

But the battalion kept silent.

The Tsar repeated his greeting several times, rapidly working up into a rage. Not a sound from the soldiers! Finally, quite beside himself, the Emperor dashed up to the officer who was in charge of the battalion, and exclaimed in his fearful voice:

“Why, the devil take them, don’t they answer? Haven’t I said in plain Russian: ‘Good morning, men!’ ”

“There are no men here,” answered the officer meekly. “They are all captains.”

Then Nicholas, so the story goes, laughed⁠—what else could he do?⁠—and shouted again:

“Good morning, captains!”

And the gallant Laestrygonians gayly responded:

“Kále méra (Good day), your