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

bent over her, the face of a he-goat with stubbly, slobbering lips, clouded eyes, dimmed like frosted glass, distorted and disfigured by a voluptuous grimace, which sickened her because she never shared it.

Besides, they were all rude, exacting and devoid of the elements of shame. They were ludicrously ugly, as only the modern man can be in his underclothes. But this elderly little officer made a new, peculiar, attractive impression on her. His every movement was distinguished by a gentle, insinuating discretion. His kiss, his caress, and his touch were strangely gentle. At the same time he surrounded her imperceptibly with the nervous atmosphere of real and intense passion which even from a distance and against her will arouses a woman’s sensuality, makes her docile, and subject to the male’s desire. But her poor little mind had never passed beyond the round of everyday life in the house, and could not perceive this strange and agitating spell. She could only whisper shyly, happy and surprised, the usual trivial words: “What a nice man you are! You’re my sweet, aren’t you?”

She got up, put the lamp out, and lay beside him again. Through the chinks between the shutters and the wall showed thin threads of the whitening dawn, which filled the room with a misty blue half-light. Behind the partition, somewhere an alarm-clock hurriedly rang. Far away someone was singing sadly in the distance.

“When will you come again?” the woman asked.

“What?” Ribnikov asked sleepily, opening his eyes. “When am I coming? Soon⁠—tomorrow.⁠ ⁠…”

“I know all about that. Tell me the truth. When are you coming? I’ll be lonely without you.”

“M’m.⁠ ⁠… We will come and be alone.⁠ ⁠… We will write to them. They will stay in the mountains⁠ ⁠…” he murmured incoherently.

A heavy slumber enlocked his body; but, as always with men who have long deprived themselves of sleep, he could not sleep at once. No sooner was his consciousness overcast with the soft, dark, delightful cloud of oblivion than his body was shaken by a terrible inward shock. He moaned and shuddered, opened his eyes wide in wild terror, and straightway plunged into an irritating, transitory state between sleep and wakefulness, like a delirium crowded with threatening and confused visions.

The woman had no desire to sleep. She sat up in bed in her chemise, clasping her bended knees with her bare arms, and looked at Ribnikov with timid curiosity. In the bluish half-light his face grew sharper still and yellower, like the face of a dead man. His mouth stood open, but she could not hear his breathing. All over his face, especially about the eyes and mouth, was an expression of such utter weariness and profound human suffering as she had never seen in her life before. She gently passed her hand back over his stiff hair and forehead. The skin was cold and covered all over with clammy sweat. Ribnikov trembled at the touch, cried out in terror, and with a quick movement raised himself from the pillow.

“Ah! Who’s that, who?” he cried abruptly, wiping his face with his shirtsleeve.

“What’s the matter, darling?” the woman asked with sympathy. “You’re not well? Shall I get you some water?”

But Ribnikov had mastered himself, and lay down once more.

“Thanks. It’s all right now. I was dreaming.⁠ ⁠… Go to sleep, dear, do.”

“When do you want me to wake you, darling?” she asked.

“Wake.⁠ ⁠… In the morning.⁠ ⁠… The sun will rise early.⁠ ⁠… And the horsemen will come.⁠ ⁠… We will go in a boat.⁠ ⁠… And sail over the river.⁠ ⁠…” He was silent and lay quiet for some minutes. Suddenly his still, dead face was distorted with terrible pain. He turned on his back with a moan, and there came in a stream from his lips mysterious, wild-sounding words of a strange language.

The woman held her breath and listened, possessed by the superstitious terror which always comes from a sleeper’s delirium. His face was only a couple of inches from hers, and she could not tear her eyes away. He was silent for a while and then began to speak again, many words and unintelligible. Then he was silent again, as though listening attentively to someone’s speech. Suddenly the woman heard the only Japanese word she knew, from the newspapers, pronounced aloud with a firm, clear voice:

“Banzai!”

Her heart beat so violently that the velvet coverlet lifted again and again with the throbbing. She remembered how they had called Ribnikov by the names of Japanese generals in the red cabinet that day, and a far faint suspicion began to stir in the obscurity of her mind.

Someone lightly tapped on the door. She got up and opened.

“Clotilde dear, is that you?” a woman’s gentle whisper was heard. “Aren’t you asleep? Come in to me for a moment. Leonka’s with me, and he’s standing some apricot wine. Come on, dear!”

It was Sonya, the Karaim,1 Clotilde’s neighbour, bound to her by the cloying, hysterical affection which always pairs off the women in these establishments.

“All right. I’ll come now. Oh, I’ve something very interesting to tell you. Wait a second. I’ll dress.”

“Nonsense. Don’t. Who are you nervous about? Leonka? Come, just as you are!”

She began to put on her petticoat.

Ribnikov roused out of sleep.

“Where are you going to?” he asked drowsily.

“Only a minute.⁠ ⁠… Back immediately⁠ ⁠… I must⁠ ⁠…” she answered, hurriedly tying the tape round her waist. “You go to sleep. I’ll be back in a second.”

He had not heard her last words. A dark heavy sleep had instantly engulfed him.

VI

Leonka was the idol of the whole establishment, beginning with Madame, and descending to the tiniest servant. In these places where boredom, indolence, and cheap literature produce feverishly romantic tastes, the extreme of adoration is lavished on thieves and detectives, because of their heroic lives, which are full of fascinating risks, dangers and adventures. Leonka used to appear in the most varied costumes, at times almost made up. Sometimes he kept a meaning and mysterious silence. Above all everyone remembered very well that he often proclaimed that the