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

“ ‘Don’t be afraid, he won’t touch it,’ said the woman to the idiot, coming forward. And then to me⁠—‘What can I do for you?’ she added.

“I gave my name and reminded her of my father. She was glad to see me, her face brightened up, she exclaimed in surprise and began to apologise for not having the room in order. The idiot boy came closer to me, and cried out more loudly, oorli, oorli.⁠ ⁠…

“ ‘This is my boy, he’s been like that from birth,’ said Alexandra Ivanovna with a sad smile. ‘What of it.⁠ ⁠… It’s the will of God. His name is Stepan.’

“Hearing his name the idiot cried out in a shrill, birdlike voice:

“‘Papan!’

“Alexandra Ivanovna patted him caressingly on the shoulder.

“ ‘Yes, yes, Stepan, Stepan.⁠ ⁠… You see, he guessed we were speaking about him and so he introduced himself.’

“‘Papan!’ cried the idiot again, turning his eyes first on his mother and then on me.

“In order to show some interest in the boy I said to him, ‘How do you do, Stepan,’ and took him by the hand. It was cold, puffy, lifeless. I felt a certain aversion, and only out of politeness went on:

“ ‘I suppose he’s about sixteen.’

“ ‘Oh, no,’ answered the mother. ‘Everybody thinks he’s about sixteen, but he’s over twenty-nine.⁠ ⁠… His beard and moustache have never grown.’

“We talked together. Alexandra Ivanovna was a quiet, timid woman, weighed down by need and misfortune. Her sharp struggle against poverty had entirely killed all boldness of thought in her and all interest in anything outside the narrow bounds of this struggle. She complained to me of the high price of meat, and about the impudence of the cab drivers; told me of some people who had won money in a lottery, and envied the happiness of rich people. All the time of our conversation Stepan kept his eyes fixed on me. He was apparently struck by and interested in my military overcoat. Three times he put out his hand stealthily to touch the shining buttons, but drew it back each time as if he were afraid.

“ ‘Is it possible your Stepan cannot say even one word?’ I asked.

“Alexandra Ivanovna shook her head sadly.

“ ‘No, he can’t speak. He has a few words of his own, but they’re not really words⁠—just mutterings. For example, he calls himself Papan; when he wants something to eat he says mnya; he calls money teki. Stepan,’ she continued, turning to her son, ‘where is your teki; show us your teki.’

“Stepan jumped up quickly from his chair, ran into a dark corner, and crouched down on his heels. I heard the jingling of some copper coins and the boy’s voice saying oorli, oorli, but this time in a growling, threatening tone.

“ ‘He’s afraid,’ explained the mother; ‘though he doesn’t understand what money is, he won’t let anyone touch it⁠ ⁠… he won’t even let me.⁠ ⁠… Well, well, we won’t touch your money, we won’t touch it,’ she went to her son and soothed him.⁠ ⁠…

“I began to visit them frequently. Stepan interested me, and an idea came to me to try and cure him according to the system of a certain Swiss doctor, who tried to cure his feebleminded patients by the slow road of logical development. ‘He has a few weak impressions of the outer world and of the connection between phenomena,’ I thought. ‘Can one not combine two or three of these ideas, and so give a fourth, a fifth, and so on? Is it not possible by persistent exercise to strengthen and broaden this poor mind a little?’

“I brought him a doll dressed as a coachman. He was much pleased with it, and laughed and exclaimed, showing the doll and saying Papan! The doll, however, seemed to awaken some doubt in his mind, and that same evening Stepan, who was usually well-disposed to all that was small and weak, tried to break the doll’s head on the floor. Then I brought him pictures, tried to interest him in boxes of bricks, and talked to him, naming the different objects and pointing them out to him. But either the Swiss doctor’s system was not a good one or I didn’t know how to put it into practice⁠—Stepan’s development seemed to make no progress at all.

“He was very fond of me in those days. When I came to visit them he ran to meet me, uttering rapturous cries. He never took his eyes off me, and when I ceased to pay him special attention he came up and licked my hands, my shoes, my uniform, just like a dog. When I went away he stood at the window for a long time, and cried so pitifully that the other lodgers in the house complained of him to the landlady.

“But my personal affairs were in a bad way. I failed at the examination, failed unusually badly in the last but one examination in fortifications. Nothing remained but to collect my belongings and go back to my regiment. I don’t think that in all my life I shall ever forget that dreadful moment when, coming out of the lecture-hall, I walked across the great vestibule of the Academy. Good Lord! I felt so small, so pitiful and so humbled, walking down those broad steps covered with grey felt carpet, having a crimson stripe at the side and a white linen tread down the middle.

“It was necessary to get away as quickly as possible. I was urged to this by financial considerations⁠—in my purse I had only ten copecks and one ticket for a dinner at a student’s restaurant.

“I thought to myself: ‘I must get my “dismissal” quickly and set out at once. Oh, the irony of that word “dismissal.” ’ But it seemed the most difficult thing in the world. From the Chancellor of the Academy I was sent to the General Staff, thence to the Commandant’s office, then to the local intendant, then back to the Academy, and at