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

“I do believe thee, beautiful one. Thou art so fair.⁠ ⁠…”

“Thou dost mock me. Behold, how black I am.⁠ ⁠…”

She lifts up her small, dark arms, and the broad sleeves lightly slide down towards her shoulders, baring her elbows, that have such a slender and rounded outline.

And she says plaintively:

“My brethren were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyard⁠—and now behold how the sun hath scorched me.”

“O, nay, the sun hath made thee still more fair, thou fairest among women. Lo, thou hast smiled⁠—and thy teeth are like white twin-lambs, which come up from the washing, and none among them hath a blemish. Thy cheeks are like the halves of a pomegranate within thy locks. Thy lips are scarlet⁠—yea, pleasant to gaze upon. As for thy hair⁠ ⁠… Dost know what thy hair is like? Hast thou ever beheld a flock of sheep come down from Mount Gilead at eve? It covers all the mountain, from summit to foot, and from the light of the evening glow and from the dust it seems even as ruddy and as wavy as thy locks. Thine eyes are as deep as the two fishponds in Heshbon, by the gate of Bath-rabbim. O, how fair art thou! Thy neck is straight and graceful, like the tower of David!⁠ ⁠…”

“Like the tower of David!” she repeats in rapture.

“Yea, yea, thou fairest among women. A thousand bucklers hang upon the tower of David, all shields of vanquished chieftains. Lo, I hang my shield also upon thy tower.⁠ ⁠…”

“O, speak on, speak on.⁠ ⁠…”

“And when thou didst turn around in answer to my call, and the wind arose, I did see beneath thy raiment thy two nipples and methought: Here be two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies. This thy stature was like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes.”

The girl cries out faintly, hides her face with her palms, and her bosom with her elbows, and blushes so that even her ears and neck turn crimson.

“And I saw thy hips. They are shapely, like a precious vase, the work of the hands of a cunning workman. Take away thy hands, therefore, maiden. Show me thy face.”

She submissively let her hands drop. A deep, golden radiance glows from the eyes of Solomon and casts a spell over her, makes her head dizzy, and in a sweet, warm tremour streams over the skin of her body.

“Tell me, who art thou?” she says slowly, in perplexity. “Never have I seen any like to thee.”

“I am a shepherd, my beauty. I graze my splendid flocks of white lambs upon the mountains, where the green grass is pied with narcissi. Wilt thou not come with me, unto my pasture?”

But she quietly shakes her head:

“Canst thou think that I will believe this? Thy face has not grown rough from the wind, nor is it scorched by the sun, and thy hands are white. Thou hast on a costly chiton, and the buckle upon it is worth the yearly rental that my brothers bring for our vineyard to Adoniram, the king’s tax-gatherer. Thou hast come from yonder, from beyond the wall. Thou art, surely, one of the men near to the king? Meseems I saw thee once upon the day of a great festival; I even remember running after thy chariot.”

“Thou hast guessed it, maiden. It is hard to be hid from thee. And verily, why shouldst thou be a wanderer nigh the flocks of the shepherds? Yea, I am one of the king’s retinue. I am the chief cook of the king. And thou didst see me when I rode in the chariot of Ammi-nadib on the gala-day of Passover. But why dost thou stand distant from me? Draw nearer, my sister! Sit down here upon the stones of the wall and tell me something of thyself. Tell me thy name.”

“Sulamith,” she says.

“Then, Sulamith, why have thy brothers grown wroth with thee?”

“I am ashamed to speak of it. They received moneys from the sale of their wine, and sent me to the city to buy bread and goat-cheese. But I⁠ ⁠…”

“And thou didst lose the money?”

“Nay, still worse.⁠ ⁠…”

She bends her head low and whispers:

“Besides bread and cheese I bought a little of attar of roses⁠—oh, so little!⁠—from the Aegyptians in the old city.”

“And thou didst keep this from thy brethren?”

“Yea.⁠ ⁠…”

And she utters in a barely audible voice:

“Attar of roses hath so goodly a smell!”

The king caressingly strokes her little rough hand.

“Surely, thou must be lonesome, all alone in thy vineyard?”

“Nay, I work, I sing.⁠ ⁠… At noon food is brought me, and at evening one of my brothers relieves me. At times I dig for the roots of the mandragora, that look like little mannikins.⁠ ⁠… The Chaldaean merchants buy them from us. It is said they make a sleeping potion out of them.⁠ ⁠… Tell me, is it true that the berries of the mandragora help in love?”

“Nay, Sulamith, only love can help in love. Tell me, hast thou a father or a mother?”

“Only a mother. My father died two years ago. My brethren are all older than I⁠—they are from the first marriage; only my sister and I have sprung from the second.”

“Is thy sister as comely as thou?”

“She is little. She is but nine.”

The king laughs quietly, embraces Sulamith, draws her to him, and whispers into her ear:

“Therefore, she hath no such breast as thine? A breast as proud, as warm?⁠ ⁠…”

She is silent, burning with shame and happiness. Her eyes glow and grow dim, with the mist of a happy smile over them. The king feels the riotous beating of her heart within his hand.

“The warmth of thy garments hath a goodlier smell than myrrh, than nard,” he is saying, avidly touching her ear with his lips. “And when thou breathest, the smell of thy nostrils is like that of apples unto me. My sister, my beloved, thou hast ravished my heart with one glance of thy eyes, with