A Slav Soul

"A Slav Soul" by Aleksandr Kuprin is a poignant exploration of Russian identity, culture, and the complexities of human experience. Through a series of interconnected stories, Kuprin delves into the lives of various characters, revealing their struggles, desires, and the essence of the Russian spirit. The narratives highlight themes of love, loss, and the harsh realities of life, all while celebrating the richness of Slavic heritage. Kuprin’s lyrical prose captures the depth of emotion and the nuances of character, making it a powerful reflection on what it means to be a Slav.

• Novel

								
The farther I go back in my memory of the past, and the nearer I get to
remembering incidents connected with my childhood, the more confused
and doubtful do my recollections become. Much, no doubt, was told me
afterwards, in a more conscious stage of my existence, by those who,
with loving care, noticed my early doings. Perhaps many of the things
that I recall never happened to me; I heard or read them some time
or other and their remembrance grew to be part of myself. Who can
guarantee which of these recollections are of real facts and which of
tales told so long ago that they have all the appearance of truth--who
can know where one ends and the other begins?

My imagination recalls with special vividness the eccentric figure
of Yasha and the two companions--I might almost call them friends--who
accompanied him along the path of life: Matsko, an old rejected cavalry
horse, and the yard-dog Bouton.

Yasha was distinguished by the deliberate slowness of his speech
and actions, and he always had the air of a man whose thoughts were
concentrated on himself. He spoke very seldom and considered his
speech; he tried to speak good Russian, though at times when he was
moved he would burst out in his native dialect of Little-Russian. Owing
to his dress of a dark colour and sober cut, and to the solemn and
almost melancholy expression of his shaven face and thin pursed lips,
he always gave the impression that he was an old servant of a noble
family of the good old times.

Of all the human beings that he knew, Yasha seemed to find my father
the only one besides himself worthy of his veneration. And though to
us children, to my mother, and to all our family and friends, his
manner was respectful, it was mingled with a certain pity and slighting
condescension. It was always an enigma to me--whence came this
immeasurable pride of his. Servants have often a well-known form of
insolence; they take upon themselves some of that attractive authority
which they have noticed in their masters. But my father, a poor doctor
in a little Jewish village, lived so modestly and quietly that Yasha
could never have learnt from him to look down upon his neighbours.
And in Yasha himself there was none of the ordinary insolence of a
servant--he had no metropolitan polish and could not overawe people
by using foreign words, he had no overbearing manners towards country
chambermaids, no gentle art of tinkling out touching romances on the
guitar, an art by which so many inexperienced souls have been ruined.
He occupied his leisure hours in lying in sheer idleness full-length
on the box in which he kept his belongings. He not only did not read
books, but he sincerely despised them. All things written, except in
the Bible, were, in his opinion, written not for truth's sake but
just to get money, and he therefore preferred to any book those long
rambling thoughts which he turned over in his mind as he lay idly on
his bed.

Matsko, the horse, had been rejected from military service on account
of many vices, the chief of which was that he was old, far too old.
Then his forelegs were crooked, and at the places where they joined the
body were adorned with bladder-like growths; he strutted on his hind
legs like a cock. He held his head like a camel, and from old military
habit tossed it upward and thrust his long neck forward. This, combined
with his enormous size and unusual leanness, and the fact that he had
only one eye, gave him a pitiful war-like and serio-comic expression.
Such horses are called in the regiments "star-gazers."

Yasha prized Matsko much more than Bouton, who sometimes displayed a
frivolity entirely out of keeping with his size. He was one of those
shaggy, long-haired dogs who at times remind one of ferrets, but
being ten times as large, they sometimes look like poodles; they are
by nature the very breed for yard-dogs. At home Bouton was always
overwhelmingly serious and sensible in all his ways, but in the streets
his behaviour was positively disgraceful. If he went out with my father
he would never run modestly behind the carriage as a well-behaved dog
should do. He would rush to meet all other dogs, jump about them and
bark loudly in their very noses, only springing away to one side in
affright if one of them with a snort of alarm bent his head quickly and
tried to bite him. He ran into other people's yards and came tearing
out again after a second or so, chased by a dozen angry dogs of the
place. He wandered about on terms of deepest friendship with dogs of a
known bad reputation.

In our districts of Podolia and Volhynia nothing was thought so much of
as a person's way of setting out from his house. A squire might long
since have mortgaged and re-mortgaged his estate, and be only waiting
for the officers of the Crown to take possession of his property,
but let him only on a Sunday go out to "Holy Church," it must be in
a light tarantass drawn by four or six splendid fiery Polish horses,
and driving into the market square of the village he must cry to the
coachman--"Lay on with the whip, Joseph." Yet I am sure that none of
our rich neighbours started off in such pomp as Yasha was able to
impart to our equipage when my father made up his mind to journey
forth. Yasha would put on a shining hat with a shade in front and
behind, and a broad yellow belt. Then the carriage would be taken out
about a hundred yards from the house--an antique coach of the old
Polish days--and Matsko put in. Hardly would my father show himself at
the house-door than Yasha would give a magnificent crack with his whip,
Matsko would wave his tail some time in hesitation and then start at
a sober trot, flinging out and raising his hind legs, and strutting
like a cock. Coming level with the house-door Yasha would pretend that
only with great difficulty could he restrain the impatient horses,
stretching out both his arms and pulling back the reins with all his
might. All his attention would seem to be swallowed up by the horses,
and whatever might happen elsewhere round about him, Yasha would never
turn his head. Probably he did all this to sustain our family honour.

Yasha had an extraordinarily high opinion of my father. It would happen
upon occasion that some poor Jew or peasant would be waiting his turn
in the anteroom while my father was occupied with another patient.
Yasha would often enter into a conversation with him, with the simple
object of increasing my father's popularity as a doctor.

"What do you think?" he would ask, taking up a position of importance
on a stool and surveying the patient before him from head to foot.
"Perhaps you fancy that coming to my master is like asking medical
advice of the clerk at the village police-station. My master not only
stands higher than such a one, brother, but higher than the chief of
police himself. He knows about everything in the world, my brother.
Yes, he does. Now, what's the matter with you?"

"There's something wrong with my inside ..." the sick person would say,

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