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

pent up together, added to their nervousness and irritability, spoiled their relations. The King of Sardinia would remark most politely to the Duke of St. Bernard:

“I hope, your Highness, that you have not put away an extra ace of clubs, as you did on a former occasion?”

“Only the activity of my enemies and the lowering of the standard of morality could compel me to live in the same cage with such an old monkey as you, sir.”

They all knew perfectly well that the card representing the queen of diamonds had a corner torn off, and that the nine of spades had an ink stain on its back. But, making a little compromise with conscience, they secretly made use of these signs.

Sometimes at dinner they would still repeat high-sounding phrases, like the following:

“My people and my army.⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh, if you only knew how my father was loved by his subjects.⁠ ⁠… And they are still.⁠ ⁠… Why, I could show you a letter which I have received from my party.⁠ ⁠… Only I don’t know where it is just now.”

“Yes. And I, too, have received information about a powerful movement on foot in my country.⁠ ⁠…”

“People must at last come back to their senses and return to the legitimate order of things.⁠ ⁠…”

But no one ever heard these mutterings, and if anyone had heard, he would not have believed them. They all had but one loyal subject, a thoroughly convinced advocate of royal prerogatives, their half-blind, deaf, one-hundred-year-old servant, a former soldier.

Their empty life was full of intrigues, gossip, spying. They would look into each others’ cups and pots, table-drawers, beds; would reproach each other with having all sorts of diseases and old-age infirmities, and were all jealous of the Count of Loire, whose wife had opened a little store near the park and thus was able to send cigars to her royal husband.

Their sons and daughters had left them long ago in order to lose their identity in the masses of the people. But on holidays the princes were visited by their wives and their old mothers, who, like all women, were not permitted to go to the “House of Kings” on weekdays. They brought with them all the gossip that they had heard in the streets and on the public squares; they spoke to their children of hopes which could never come true, and together with them dreamed of improving the methods of agriculture and spoke of how necessary and important it was for the country to grow Swiss roses, asparagus, and to raise Angora cats. And after such conversations the poor old kings saw in their night dreams fireworks and parades, and balls and triumphs, and vast mobs of people howling with joy. And after sleepless nights, they would awaken ill and uncomfortable, and would watch each other for the results of the medicine they would have to take.

The spring came again, as it had been coming for thousands of years past. Whatever happens, spring always remains a dear, bright, joyful holiday, just as its invariable companion, the Easter egg, always remains a symbol of the endlessness and fertility of life.

Fragrant poplar buds were already opening in the Park of Kings, the grass was turning green, and the still bare, soft earth, performing again the great mystery of motherhood, was exhaling a powerful and sweet odor. The old, beautiful, azure sky was again smiling through the branches of trees.

The crowned personages came out of their rooms and were walking slowly up and down the park paths, supporting themselves on their crutches. Spring always has an imperative appeal for young hearts, but even in the old blood of the kings it awakened a sad and undefined restlessness. To the young people who crowded the beautiful park on such fine days, they seemed even more distant, strange, and foreign, as though they had come out of the grave.

The old, lonesome, childless, widowed King of Trapesund, an old man of majestic appearance with a conical-shaped head, an aquiline nose, and a long silver beard, sat down on a green bench in the most secluded and faraway alley of the park. The spring sun and air enfeebled his body as though intoxicating him, and filled his soul with a quiet sadness. As though in sleep, he heard the familiar remarks which occasional passersby exchanged on seeing him.

“This is the King of Trapesund. You can see the portrait of his great-grandfather, Charles XV, surnamed the Indomitable, in the National Museum. Their faces are identical.”

“And have you heard of his ancestor, Alfonso XIX, who ruined his country for the sake of his mistress, a French actress, and even sold the plans of his own fortifications to the spies of other countries?”

“And what about Louis the Bloody? Twenty thousand men were shot to death one morning in front of the barrack walls.”

But the proud soul of the monarch who was rejected by his own people did not quiver and did not shrink before this ominous obituary. Yes, his forefathers were right in acting thus. Not only the king’s wishes, but his whims as well, should be sacred to the people. And every man who dares to question divine power is worthy of death.

But suddenly he heard a gentle, childish voice, the sound of which caused him to raise his white head.

“Grandpa, why are you always so sad? Has anybody hurt you? Grandpa, let me give you this sugar Easter egg. You should not be sad on such a fine holiday. Look, grandpa, there is a little glass here, and back of it is a little lamb, eating grass. And when you are tired of looking at the egg, you can eat it. It is made of sugar.”

The king drew toward him this kind, light-haired, blue-eyed girl, hitherto unknown to him, and said with a sad smile:

“No, my dear child, I cannot eat it. I have no teeth with which to eat sugar.”

Now it was the girl’s turn to stroke his wrinkled cheek with her little hand, as she said in