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

on the tablecloths, transforming the colours of the Easter eggs into purple and sapphire, and making the flowers⁠—hyacinths, pansies, tulips, violets, wallflowers, forget-me-nots⁠—glow with living fire.

The other first-class passenger also came down for tea. Voznitsin threw a passing glance at her. She was neither young nor beautiful, but she had a tall, well-preserved, rather stout figure, and was well and simply dressed in an ample light-coloured cloak with silk collar and cuffs. Her head was covered with a light-blue, semitransparent gauze scarf. She drank her tea and read a book at the same time, a French book Voznitsin judged by its small compact shape and pale yellow cover.

There was something strangely and remotely familiar about her, not so much in her face as in the turn of her neck and the lift of her eyebrows when she cast an answering glance at him. But this unconscious impression was soon dispersed and forgotten.

The heat of the saloon soon sent the passengers on deck, and they sat down on the seats on the sheltered side of the boat. The lady continued to read, though she often let her book fall on to her knee while she gazed upon the sea, on the dolphins sporting there, on the distant cliffs of the shore, purple in colour or covered with a scant verdure.

Voznitsin began to pace up and down the deck, turning when he reached the cabin. Once, as he passed the lady, she looked up at him attentively with a kind of questioning curiosity, and once more it seemed to him that he had met her before somewhere. Little by little this insistent feeling began to disquiet him, and he felt that the lady was experiencing the same feelings. But try as he would he could not remember meeting her before.

Suddenly, passing her for the twentieth time, he almost involuntarily stopped in front of her, saluted in military fashion, and lightly clicking his spurs together said:

“Pardon my boldness⁠ ⁠… but I can’t get rid of a feeling that I know you, or rather that long ago I used to know you.”

She was quite a plain woman, of blonde almost red colouring, grey hair⁠—though this was only noticeable at a near view owing to its original light colour⁠—pale eyelashes over blue eyes, and a faded freckled face. Her mouth only seemed fresh, being full and rosy, with beautifully curved lips.

“And I also,” said she. “Just fancy, I’ve been sitting here and wondering where we could have met. My name is Lvova⁠—does that remind you of anything?”

“I’m sorry to say it doesn’t,” answered he, “but my name is Voznitsin.”

The lady’s eyes gleamed suddenly with a gay and familiar smile, and Voznitsin saw that she knew him at once.

“Voznitsin, Kolya Voznitsin,” she cried joyfully, holding out her hand to him. “Is it possible I didn’t recognise you? Lvova, of course, is my married name.⁠ ⁠… But no, no, you will remember me in time.⁠ ⁠… Think: Moscow, Borisoglebsky Street, the house belonging to the church.⁠ ⁠… Well? Don’t you remember your school chum, Arkasha Yurlof⁠ ⁠… ?”

Voznitsin’s hand trembled as he pressed hers. A flash of memory enlightened him.

“Well, I never!⁠ ⁠… It can’t be Lenotchka? I beg your pardon, Elena⁠ ⁠… Elena.⁠ ⁠…”

“Elena Vladimirovna,” she put in. “You’ve forgotten.⁠ ⁠… But you, Kolya, you’re just the same Kolya, awkward, shy, touchy Kolya. How strange for us to meet like this! Do sit down.⁠ ⁠… How glad I am.⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes,” muttered Voznitsin, “the world is really so small that everyone must of necessity meet everyone else”⁠—a by no means original thought. “But tell me all that has happened. How is Arkasha⁠—and Alexandra Millievna⁠—and Oletchka?”

At school Voznitsin had only been intimate with one of his companions⁠—Arkasha Yurlof. Every Sunday he had leave he used to visit the family, and at Easter and Christmas-time he had sometimes spent his holidays with them. Before the time came for them to go to college, Arkasha had fallen ill and had been ordered away into the country. And from that time Voznitsin had lost sight of him. Many years ago he had heard by chance that Lenotchka had been betrothed to an officer having the unusual surname of Jenishek, who had done a thing at once foolish and unexpected⁠—shot himself.

“Arkasha died at our country house in 1890,” answered the lady, “of cancer. And mother only lived a year after. Oletchka took her medical degree and is now a doctor in the Serdobsky district⁠—before that she was assistant in our village of Jemakino. She has never wished to marry, though she’s had many good offers. I’ve been married twenty years,” said she, a gleam of a smile on her compressed lips. “I’m quite an old woman.⁠ ⁠… My husband has an estate in the country, and is a member of the Provincial Council. He hasn’t received many honours, but he’s an honest fellow and a good husband, is not a drunkard, neither plays cards nor runs after women, as others do.⁠ ⁠… God be praised for that!⁠ ⁠…”

“Do you remember, Elena Vladimirovna, how I was in love with you at one time?” Voznitsin broke in suddenly.

She smiled, and her face at once wore a look of youth. Voznitsin saw for a moment the gleam of the gold stopping in her teeth.

“Foolishness!⁠ ⁠… Just lad’s love.⁠ ⁠… But you weren’t in love with me at all; you fell in love with the Sinyelnikofs, all four of them, one after the other. When the eldest girl married you placed your heart at the feet of the next sister, and so on.”

“Ah-ha! You were just a little jealous, eh?” remarked Voznitsin with jocular self-satisfaction.

“Oh, not at all!⁠ ⁠… You were like Arkasha’s brother.⁠ ⁠… Afterwards, later, when you were about seventeen perhaps, I was a little vexed to think you had changed towards me.⁠ ⁠… You know, its ridiculous, but girls have hearts like women. We may not love a silent adorer, but we are jealous if he pays attentions to others.⁠ ⁠… But that’s all nonsense. Tell me more about yourself, where you live, and what you do.”

He told her of his life⁠—at college, in