Short Fiction by Aleksandr Kuprin (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) 📕
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 “great Russian novel” 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 stories’ 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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Frequently he disappeared from our midst, as though he had been swallowed up by the ocean. Nevertheless, fate inevitably threw us together.
The Russo-Japanese War burst into a blaze. And so I was simply convinced that he would prove to be there, “in the war zone.” And I was not mistaken. In one of the relayed dispatches I unexpectedly read that Captain of the Cavalry So-and-so, retired, had distinguished himself by his amazing valor at such-and-such a retreat, and had been awarded the Order of St. Vladimir of the Third Rank (with swords). This man interested me to such a degree—or, rather, had grown so close to my heart—that I, with absolute composure, even though not without a certain secret curiosity, waited to see how he would end.
When the war quieted down, the Roach came back to Russia with two Crosses of St. George and with a black bandage over his left eye.
“It’s abominable! It’s outrageous!” he stormed—the same native of the shores of the Black Sea that he had always been, but by now already markedly gray. “They’ve sold the fatherland, the worthless scoundrels! They made hay while the sun shone! Deserted their positions, in order to lodge complaints! Kept up harems! Oh, if they’d only let me lay my hands on these skunks! …”
And right here came the Ninth of January, the Seventeenth of October, Gapon, Schmidt, and, in general, the whole Russian muddle of the first revolution. Of course he, like an imp or chimney-sweep jack-in-the-box, had to show his mettle even here. He made speeches somewhere, which no one understood—and really, did he understand anything in them himself? Still, he was borne in the arms of the crowds, tossed aloft, and kissed.
But, in the meanwhile, the times were changing with unusual rapidity, and the destinies of the empire with them. Our little society of students was dispersed, every man going his own way. Some died, others became celebrities, fashionable physicians, or well-known lawyers; but for some reason this man, this Black Roach so dear to me, was decreed by fate always to encounter me.
“It’s an outrage!” he clamored, bursting into my rooms like a bomb. “A system of stool-pigeons! Stool-pigeons everywhere! A huge system! Men have lost all shame, fear, and conscience! Why, can one be sure that when a man is carrying a bomb in his hand he has not received four months’ salary for doing it? I can’t bear it any more! I shall expose these worthless scoundrels!”
It was amazing! Neither age, nor the wounds he had received in the war, nor fatigue from the intense life he had led, seemed to have any effect upon him. Every step in the life of Russia as a society was reflected in him as in a mirror—but some sort of a droll mirror, such as are found in dime musees and panopticums, in which a man expands in finitely in breadth, or else suddenly increases in height and becomes as thin as a tapeworm.
And now a comparatively quiet time comes along. The Russian Parliament opens, and my Black Roach dashes off at a mad pace into some province or other, obtains dubious funds somewhere and buys the land necessary to secure an electorate, and exactly one year later, sitting in the galleries of the Tabriz Palace, I hear him delivering a thundering speech—in any case, one not meant for the benefit of the government. I confess that, owing to the memories of my youth, I had preserved a sort of apprehensive tenderness toward him; and, as I listened to him, I feared all the time to see soldiers and jailers enter at any second and put handcuffs and leg-irons upon him, and take him away into tiny, narrow government quarters.
“The waves still mutter the same old thing. … Statute One-hundred-and-twenty still mutters the same old thing. … The many-headed tail of the old regime, having entwined with its sting well nigh one third of the terrestrial globe …”
Here the chairman stopped him and ordered him out of the room. He was muttering something else in the doorway, but I could no longer distinguish anything of what he was saying.
I had almost given up hope of meeting him after this scandal; but you can imagine my astonishment at meeting him both the next year, and the year after that—in short, during all the sessions of Parliament in the self same Tabriz Palace. With horror and with pity
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