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

“Ah, God in heaven! Ah, Nikolai Apollonovitch!⁠ ⁠… Little father, master!⁠ ⁠… Be calm, Trilly, I beseech you,” cried the voices of the people.

“The dog! Give me the dog; I want him! Scum, demons, fatheads!” cried the boy, fairly out of his mind.

“But, angel mine, don’t upset your nerves,” lisped the lady in the blue dressing-jacket. “You’d like to stroke the doggie? Very well, very well, my joy, in a minute you shall. Doctor, what do you think, might Trilly stroke this dog?”

“Generally speaking, I should not advise it,” said the doctor, waving his hands. “But if we had some reliable disinfectant as, for instance, boracic acid or a weak solution of carbolic, then⁠ ⁠… generally⁠ ⁠…”

“The do‑og!”

“In a minute, my charmer, in a minute. So, doctor, you order that we wash the dog with boracic acid, and then.⁠ ⁠… Oh, Trilly, don’t get into such a state! Old man, bring up your dog, will you, if you please. Don’t be afraid, you will be paid for it. And, listen a moment⁠—is the dog ill? I wish to ask, is the dog suffering from hydrophobia or skin disease?”

“Don’t want to stroke him, don’t want to,” roared Trilly, blowing out his mouth like a bladder. “Fatheads! Demons! Give it to me altogether! I want to play with it.⁠ ⁠… For always.”

“Listen, old man, come up here,” cried the lady, trying to outshout the child. “Ah, Trilly, you’ll kill your own mother if you make such a noise. Why ever did they let these music people in? Come nearer⁠—nearer still; come when you’re told!⁠ ⁠… That’s better.⁠ ⁠… Oh, don’t take offence! Trilly, your mother will do all that you ask. I beseech you, miss, do try and calm the child.⁠ ⁠… Doctor, I pray you.⁠ ⁠… How much d’you want, old man?”

Grandfather removed his cap, and his face took on a respectfully piteous expression.

“As much as your kindness will think fit, my lady, your Excellency.⁠ ⁠… We are people in a small way, and anything is a blessing for us.⁠ ⁠… Probably you will not do anything to offend an old man.⁠ ⁠…”

“Ah, how senseless! Trilly, you’ll make your little throat ache.⁠ ⁠… Don’t you grasp the fact that the dog is yours and not mine.⁠ ⁠… Now, how much do you say? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty?”

“A-a-a; I wa‑ant it, give me the dog, give me the dog,” squealed the boy, kicking the round stomach of the lackey who happened to be near.

“That is⁠ ⁠… forgive me, your Serenity,” stuttered Lodishkin. “You see, I’m an old man, stupid.⁠ ⁠… It’s difficult to understand at once.⁠ ⁠… What’s more, I’m a bit deaf⁠ ⁠… so I ought to ask, in short, what were you wishing to say?⁠ ⁠… For the dog?⁠ ⁠…”

“Ah, God in heaven! It seems to me you’re playing the idiot on purpose,” said the lady, boiling over. “Nurse, give Trilly some water at once! I ask you, in the Russian language, for how much do you wish to sell your dog? Do you understand⁠—your dog, dog?⁠ ⁠…”

“The dog! The do‑og!” cried the boy, louder than ever.

Lodishkin took offence, and put his hat on again.

“Dogs, my lady, I do not sell,” said he coldly and with dignity. “And, what is more, madam, that dog, it ought to be understood, has been for us two”⁠—he pointed with his middle finger over his shoulder at Sergey⁠—“has been for us two, feeder and clother. It has fed us, given us drink, and clothed us. I could not think of anything more impossible than, for example, that we should sell it.”

Trilly all the while was giving forth piercing shrieks like the whistle of a steam-engine. They gave him a glass of water, but he splashed it furiously all over the face of his governess.

“Listen, you crazy old man!⁠ ⁠… There are no things which are not for sale, if only a large enough price be offered,” insisted the lady, pressing her palms to her temples. “Miss, wipe your face quickly and give me my headache mixture. Now, perhaps your dog costs a hundred roubles! What then, two hundred? Three hundred? Now answer, image. Doctor, for the love of the Lord, do say something to him!”

“Pack up, Sergey,” growled Lodishkin morosely. “Image, im‑a‑age.⁠ ⁠… Here, Arto!⁠ ⁠…”

“Hey, wait a minute, if you please,” drawled the stout gentleman in the gold spectacles in an authoritative bass. “You’d better not be obstinate, dear man, now I’m telling you. For your dog, ten roubles would be a beautiful price, and even for you into the bargain.⁠ ⁠… Just consider, ass, how much the lady is offering you.”

“I most humbly thank you, sir,” mumbled Lodishkin, hitching his organ on to his shoulders. “Only I can’t see how such a piece of business could ever be done, as, for instance, to sell. Now, I should think you’d better seek some other dog somewhere else.⁠ ⁠… So good day to you.⁠ ⁠… Now, Sergey, go ahead!”

“And have you got a passport?” roared the doctor in a rage. “I know you⁠—canaille.”

“Porter! Semyon! Drive them out!” cried the lady, her face distorted with rage.

The gloomy-looking porter in the rose-coloured blouse rushed threateningly towards the artistes. A great hubbub arose on the terrace, Trilly roaring for all he was worth, his mother sobbing, the nurse chattering volubly to her assistant, the doctor booming like an angry cockchafer. But grandfather and Sergey had no time to look back or to see how all would end. The poodle running in front of them, they got quickly to the gates, and after them came the yard porter, punching the old man in the back, beating on his organ, and crying out:

“Out you get, you rascals! Thank God that you’re not hanging by your neck, you old scoundrel. Remember, next time you come here, we shan’t stand on ceremony with you, but lug you at once to the police station. Charlatans!”

For a long time the boy and the old man walked along silently together, but suddenly, as if they had arranged the time beforehand, they both looked at one another and laughed. Sergey, simply burst into laughter, and