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

I watched this harebrained and irrepressible man fade more and more with every year. Subsequently he changed from the S.R.’s (Social Revolutionaries) to the Laborites; thence he dived into the ranks of the conservative Cadets; and, finally, sunk until he touched the Octobrists. Frequently of evenings, when I would be alone, I pondered on the destiny of this amazing fellow. “What drew him toward all these strange⁠—let us say⁠—changes of views? Can it be,” thought I, “an echo of the peculiarly Russo-Tartarian restlessness and wanderlust? Or is it simply lack of steadfastness in spirit, so deeply inherent in the nature of our splendid nation?” And immediately I would contradict myself, saying that this man was sober, continent, a vegetarian, and a nonsmoker.⁠ ⁠… But at the same time I could not admit that he was mad.

And then, a few months later, the Balkan War begins⁠—probably the cruelest war of all those that have been fought in this world. With huge amazement I read in the papers that my friend is Little-Johnny-on-the-spot; the Black Roach is now in the ranks of the Bulgarian troops.

Thereupon I begin to be interested in his destiny. Through certain friends I contrive to telegraph inquiries about him. But no! The waters seem to have swallowed him up, as the saying is. “Must have reached the end of his game,” thought I; “probably he is lying in some ditch or hollow, crushed under scores of corpses; or, perhaps, he is asprawl in some field, with his ears and nose cut off, with his eyes gouged out⁠—or has he, perhaps, been turned into corruption and dust long since?”

I must confess that a genuine, sincere regret possessed me.

But life runs on and on, and to make it pause is a difficult matter.⁠ ⁠… And the troubles of the day make everything in the world to be lightly forgotten. And I almost forgot about the friend of my youth⁠—and then suddenly I received a curious postal card from Athos. Some monastery was depicted upon the side of it, with white buildings, surrounded by green trees; upon the other was the address⁠—in an obviously tremulous handwriting; and right near the address, to the left, a few lines were tacked on, written in the same jumpy handwriting. At the beginning of these lines stood a funerary cross, done in ink:

and then the following words:

“Tomorrow I am invested with the Great Schema,21 and take a vow of silence. I bless you and everybody else, and always remember all of you in my ardent prayers. I pray God that He may send contrition, love, and compassion into all your hearts as well. This is the last letter that I shall write as long as I live⁠—tomorrow I shall be dead for the world forever. My library is still there, at the Sokolniki, with the landlady; take it, and, I beg of you, distribute the books among all those who remember me. And may the mercy of God be over you.

“The lowly monk of the schema,
Agathangel.”

Well, what was to be done? The thing was over with. I wept over this bit of tidings, come from God knows what land. And what touched me was not so much the fate of my friend, as the fate of the entire turbulent Russian people, ever seeking something, it knows not what. And truly! Was he not the most faithful, the most typical representative of it? I pictured him to myself⁠—the erstwhile bretteur and horseman⁠—sitting in a cell, sustaining himself with a single red cross bun a day, sleeping in a coffin of cypress wood, which he had made with his own hands, and, most terrible of all, keeping silent⁠—he! the indefatigable, the irrepressible!

The Disciple I

The great white double-decked steamer, built after an American pattern, was gayly floating down the Volga. It was the time of sultry, languid July days. The passengers passed half the day on the little outside western balcony, and the other half on the eastern⁠—it all depended on which side the shade was. They got on and clambered off at the intermediate stops, and finally there was formed a permanent complement of travelers, whose faces had long since become mutually familiar and who had grown rather tedious to one another.

During the day they occupied themselves with indolent flirting, with buying strawberries, sun-cured, stringy fish, milk, cracknels, and sturgeons that smelt of kerosene. They ate without cease all day long, as is always the case on steamers, where the jolting of the vessel, the fresh air, the proximity of the water, and the ennui all develop an inordinate appetite.

In the evening, when it grew cooler, the scent of new-mown hay and of honey-yielding flowers would be borne to the deck from the river banks, and, when a dense summer mist would arise from the river, everybody gathered in the saloon.

A thin little miss from Moscow, who had studied at a conservatory⁠—the bones of her breast stood out sharply from her low-cut little blouse, while her eyes had an unnatural sparkle and her cheeks flamed with hectic spots⁠—sang the ballads of Dargomizhsky, in a voice tiny, but of an unusually pleasant timbre. Then, for a brief while, followed disputes about internal politics.

A thirty-year-old landowner of Simbir served as the general laughingstock and source of diversion⁠—he was as rosy and smooth-skinned as a Yorkshire suckling pig; his flaxen hair was clipped so short that it stood up like the quills of a hedgehog; his mouth gaped; the distance from his nose to his upper lip was enormous; his eyelashes were white, and his mustaches were shockingly so. He exuded an atmosphere of the ingenuous silliness, freshness, naivete and assiduity of the man who is close to the rich, black-loam land. He was just married, had put up his bonds, and had been appointed a justice of the peace.