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

it will be appropriate to use the word⁠—he played several popular songs through, now slow and passionate, then playfully and slyly provoking, in which one could involuntarily sense an ancient Arabian intricacy, sensuously passionate, indolently languishing. Having played the basal motif, he would begin to vary it, and I will scarcely be mistaken in saying that these variations entered his head but now, even as he lay on the spittle-covered floor and improvised.

Finally he said, in the purest of French:

“Now I shall play for you a waltz by Chopin. Valse Brillante,” he added, in explanation.

Who does not know this waltz, always difficult in technique, as it is executed on the forte piano? And I, with joy and amazement, not only heard, but, so it seems to me, saw, how from the strings stretched over the cigar box there suddenly poured shimmering stones of great value⁠—playing, sparkling, kindling with deep varicolored fires. A god was juggling diamonds.

Having finished, the old man took the instrument in his right hand, and stretched his left upward. At first his intention was not comprehended, and, with a certain insistence he repeated his gesture. K., my fellow traveler, was the first to surmise what the matter was, and took the old man by the hand, helping him to get up. At once scores of hands caught up the old man respectfully and cautiously, and put him on his feet. For a few moments the crowd hid him completely from my view, and it was then that I made a faux pas, at the recollection of which I blush even now, as I dictate these lines. I had not noticed that many of the auditors were extending money to the old man, and that he was courteously and firmly declining these profferings. With a heart moved to tenderness, with a gaucherie common to all people under such circumstances, I squeezed my way through to the old man and extended to him a handful of silver. But probably my humble gift, made with all the sincerity of my soul, was just the very drop that makes the goblet overflow. The old man looked at me, puckering his eyes contemptuously⁠—he had splendid, dark, profound eyes⁠—and said dryly, clipping off each word distinctly:

“I did not play for you, nor for them,” and he made a sweeping gesture that took in all the spectators. “But, had you in reality listened to me attentively, and if you do understand anything at all of music⁠—you must be aware that this is such a rare occasion that it is not you that have to thank me, but I that have to thank you,” and, having plunged his hand into a pocket of the widest of trousers, he drew thence a whole heap of copper coins, and majestically gave them to me.

Completely at a loss, confused, I began to mumble incoherent apologies:

“I am dreadfully ashamed, maître, over my action⁠ ⁠… I am in despair⁠ ⁠… You will confer a great honor upon me and will quiet my conscience if you will consent to sit down at our table and will take a swallow of some wine or other⁠ ⁠…”

The old man was a trifle mollified, and almost smiled, but never the less he declined the invitation.

“I neither drink nor smoke. And I wouldn’t advise you to. Landlord! I’ll have a glass of cold water, please.”

Probably never during his entire checquered life had the landlord⁠—stocky giant, all grown over with hair, with a bared neck like a bull’s⁠—poured out wine for anybody with that profound and attentive respect with which he filled a glass of water for the musician. The old man drank off the water, carelessly thanked the landlord, made a farewell sign with his hand to all of us, and walked out into the darkness of the night. Subsequently, I made a round of all the taverns, bars, and dram-shops of the old city, in the hope of running across a trace of my mysterious musician. But he had concealed himself somewhere, had vanished, just like water that hath flowed away, just like a cloud that has raced by and melted away, just like a magic dream. But one thing consoles me, when ever my recollections turn upon this astonishing man: never an American millionaire; never an Englishman, in the special costume of a tourist, with a pith helmet on his head, with a Baedeker under his armpit, a Kodak in one hand, an alpenstock in the other, and binoculars slung over his shoulder; never a prince of the blood, traveling incognito, never shall any one of them see and never shall any one of them hear anything of the sort. And this thought, willy nilly, gladdens me.

Endnotes

The Karaim are Jews of the pure original stock who entered Russia long before the main immigration and settled in the Crimea. They are free from the ordinary Jewish restrictions. —⁠S. K. and J. M. M. ↩

The Russian P is shaped П, as in Greek. —⁠S. K. and J. M. M. ↩

A popular Russian magazine which presents its readers with many supplements. —⁠S. G. ↩

A desiatin is 2.7 acres. —⁠S. G. ↩

Dranny, means torn or ragged. —⁠S. G. ↩

Perhaps⁠—

“He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders
Of his affection to me.”

The Russian lines do not clearly correspond to any of Shakespeare’s. —⁠S. G. ↩

A vershok is ¹⁄₁₅ of an arshin, i.e., 1¾ inches. —⁠S. G. ↩

Five copecks silver⁠—the smallest silver coin in Russia. —⁠S. G. ↩

A popular Russian journal. —⁠S. G. ↩

The word splew is Russian for “I sleep.” —⁠S. G.