Short Fiction by Aleksandr Kuprin (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) π
Description
Aleksandr Kuprin was one of the most celebrated Russian authors of the early twentieth century, writing both novels (including his most famous, The Duel) and short fiction. Along with Chekhov and Bunin, he did much to draw attention away from the βgreat Russian novelβ and to make short fiction popular. His work is famed for its descriptive qualities and sense of place, but it always centers on the souls of the storiesβ subjects. The themes of his work are wide and varied, and include biblical parables, bittersweet romances, spy fiction, and farce, among many others. In 1920, under some political pressure, Kuprin left Russia for France, and his later work primarily adopts his new homeland for the setting.
This collection comprises the best individual translations into English of each of his short stories and novellas available in the public domain, presented in chronological order of their translated publication.
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- Author: Aleksandr Kuprin
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βWhatβs that, dovie, whatβs that? Thatβs not a nice way to joke, daddy. Iβm a nervous woman. No, sweetie, no; you wonβt cause any unpleasantness like that, I hope.β
βAll the same, I may up and do it! What kind of life is mine? The most insignificant! Iβm like a decoy rabbit, I might say. There was lots of hunting near us here, around Gatchino, in the old days. Gentlemen from Petersburg used to come down, and in the course of time killed off all the game. Finally there was just one rabbit left. Old and experienced. Probably about five pounds of No. 3 rabbit shot had lodged in him, and he was still hopping around. He was a kind of lucky rabbit. So the hunters at last made an agreement: They would not kill this rabbit, but shoot past him. To keep their aim good, you see, and for excitement.
βThey used to come down on Sundays, wander around in the bushes and pepper away all day long at this rabbit. And he, you know, would hop around among them, all over the field. He got so bold, the rascal, and was so clever, that sometimes he would sit up on his hind legs, in front of a marksman, and rub his mug with his forepaws. And the hunter at ten paces, blazing away at him, shell after shell.β
βWhatβs the ideaβ βtelling us this yarn?β
βThe point is that my life, in a way, is like that rabbitβs. I canβt complain. I live well enough; nobody picks on me. All the same itβs hard. Every time thereβs some revolutionary holidayβ βin July or in October, for instance, or the birthday of Karl Radek or Steklovβs saintβs dayβ βdown here to Zagvozdka is sure to come a swarm of people. Not only from Petersburgβ βthey come all the way from Moscow. They overrun all the streets. You canβt get through in a cart or on foot. All day and all night they mill around under my windows and howl: βDeath to the bourgeoisie! Long live the dictatorship of the proletariat!β They make speeches from my front steps. Always the same thing.β ββ β¦ It gets dull! Or they start shooting revolvers. Fire away all night. So that your head swells with the racket. Of course I know theyβre firing in the air. But all the same, the day the writer Yasinsky was married, they drilled a hole in a pane in the attic.β
βShow us the son-of-a-gun! Weβll drill holes in him!β
βOh, never mind himβ βthe blockhead! Heβs not worth bothering about. But, take it all in all, Iβm fed up, comrades, with this business of being a bourgeois. I donβt want any more of it. I canβt stand it and donβt want to. Take me into some Soviet post. I beg you respectfullyβ βmost respectfully I beseech you. Even in a Terrorist Tribunalβ βanythingβ ββ β¦β
βWhy, what do you mean, buddyβ βTerrorist Tribunal? Thereβs no work in them, old pal, at all. They play marbles all day and read Nat Pinkerton, and only practice on wooden mannikins just to keep their hand in the game, so to speak. No, you stick it out, angel-face; you stay, as you always have, in the bourgeoisie. Donβt we take good care of you? Donβt we cherish you? Would you like to have us look you up a house that would be more cozy? In Petersburg, in Strielnaβ βyou can even live in red Piter! If you like, old cherub, you can even have a maidservantβ ββ β¦β
βNo, no; whatβs the use?β muttered Rybkin morosely.
βAn autoβmoβmoβbiβiβile?β
βDonβt want one.β
βPerhaps, handsome, youβre not satisfied with your food ration?β
βIβve got no kick. The grubβs all right. A couple of days ago they sent a turkey, a pound of caviar, a ham, three bottles of red wineβ ββ β¦ Thatβs not the point. Iβm not happy insideβ ββ β¦ Iβve got the blues.β
βWell now, comrade, how about marrying? Offspring, you know? Eh?β
βRight you are, boy! Thatβs the idea! Would you like to have us fix you up a wedding? Donβt worryβ βno Soviet stuff. Old styleβ βa church wedding! Weβll write for a priest from abroadβ βa regular one. Weβll give him safe conduct here and back. How about it, life of my heart? Hey? One wink and weβll put it through. You wonβt have time to look around. Well, of course, not without a little hostile demonstration. Weβll have to kick up a little roughhouse, hold a couple of rallies. But arenβt you used to that sort of thing, sweetie?β
Rybkin turned away to the window and wearily waved his hand.
βDrop it! Chuck it! It bores me to tears. Iβm fed up, I tell you. Let me alone. What do you want me for, anyway?β
The commissars, probably for the hundredth time, began to explain to him the importance of his services in the perpetual revolution. First, it was essential to the proletarian masses to have a living object against which to vent periodically the holy wrath of the people. Second, there was the class war, in which the people win their rightsβ ββ β¦ Where were they to find a hostile class if the last bourgeois ran away or surrendered, and there was no one to fight? Finally, what would the comrades in other countries say of Russia? What would the foreign correspondents think? No, Comrade Rybkin must stay at his glorious postβ βnot destroy the work of the revolutionβ ββ β¦ The actor talked so persuasively that a tear even ran down his fat shaven cheek.
Stepan Nilitch apathetically rubbed his forehead with his palm, nodded his head and said:
βAll right. Donβt cry! You make me feel sorry. Iβll serve a year more, and then see. It was just thatβ ββ β¦ well, I was a little off color today. I was sitting here alone and thinkingβ ββ β¦ here, I thought, people used to have Christmas treesβ ββ β¦ there were the childrenβ ββ β¦ lots of candlesβ ββ β¦ gold tinsel glitteringβ ββ β¦ strings of glistening Christmas balls swingingβ ββ β¦ the smell of evergreenβ ββ β¦ and I got to feeling so down in the mouth. Well, never mind; Iβll get over
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