A Slav Soul Page #2

"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

								

"my chest burns...."

"Ah, you see--what causes that? What will cure you? You don't know, and
I don't. But my master will only throw a glance at you and he'll tell
you at once whether you'll live or die."

Yasha lived very economically, and he spent his money in buying various
things which he carefully stored away in his large tin-bound wooden
trunk. Nothing gave us children greater pleasure than for Yasha to
let us look on while he turned out these things. On the inside of the
lid of the trunk were pasted pictures of various kinds. There, side
by side with portraits of terrifying green-whiskered generals who had
fought for the fatherland, were pictures of martyrs, engravings from
the Neva,[1] studies of women's heads, and fairy-tale pictures of the
robber-swallow in an oak, opening wide his right eye to receive the
arrow of Ilya-Muromets. Yasha would bring out from the trunk a whole
collection of coats, waistcoats, top-coats, fur-caps, cups and saucers,
wire boxes ornamented with false pearls and with transfer pictures of
flowers, and little circular mirrors. Sometimes, from a side pocket of
the trunk, he would bring out an apple or a couple of buns strewn with
poppy-seed, which we always found especially appetising.

[1] A popular Russian magazine which presents its readers with many
supplements.

Yasha was usually very precise and careful. Once he broke a large
decanter and my father scolded him for it. The next day Yasha appeared
with two new decanters. "I daresay I shall break another one," he
explained, "and anyhow we can find a use for the two somehow." He kept
all the rooms of the house in perfect cleanliness and order. He was
very jealous of all his rights and duties, and he was firmly convinced
that no one could clean the floors as well as he. At one time he had a
great quarrel with a new housemaid, Yevka, as to which of them could
clean out a room better. We were called in as expert judges, and in
order to tease Yasha a little we gave the palm to Yevka. But children
as we were, we didn't know the human soul, and we little suspected what
a cruel blow this was to Yasha. He went out of the room without saying
a word, and next day everybody in the village knew that Yasha was drunk.

Yasha used to get drunk about two or three times a year, and these
were times of great unhappiness for him and for all the family. There
was nobody then to chop wood, to feed the horses, to bring in water.
For five or six days we lost sight of Yasha and heard nothing of his
doings. On the seventh day he came back without hat or coat and in a
dreadful condition. A crowd of noisy Jews followed about thirty paces
behind him, and ragged urchins called names after him and made faces.
They all knew that Yasha was going to hold an auction.

Yasha came into the house, and then in a minute or so ran out again
into the street, carrying in his arms almost all the contents of his
trunk. The crowd came round him quickly.

"How's that? You won't give me any more vodka, won't you?" he shouted,
shaking out trousers and waistcoats and holding them up in his hands.
"What, I haven't any more money, eh? How much for this? and this, and
this?"

And one after another he flung his garments among the crowd, who
snatched at them with tens of rapacious fingers.

"How much'll you give?" Yasha shouted to one of the Jews who had
possessed himself of a coat--"how much'll you give, mare's head?"

"We--ll, I'll give you fifty copecks," drawled the Jew, his eyes
staring.

"Fifty copecks, fifty?" Yasha seemed to fall into a frenzy of despair.
"I don't want fifty copecks. Why not say twenty? Give me gold! What's
this? Towels? Give me ten copecks for the lot, eh? Oh that you had died
of fever! Oh that you had died when you were young!"

Our village has its policeman, but his duties consist mainly in
standing as godfather to the farmers' children, and on such an occasion
as this "the police" took no share in quelling the disorder, but acted
the part of a modest and silent looker-on. But my father, seeing the
plunder of Yasha's property, could no longer restrain his rage and
contempt. "He's got drunk again, the idiot, and now he'll lose all
his goods," said he, unselfishly hurling himself into the crowd. In
a second the people were gone and he found himself alone with Yasha,
holding in his hands some pitiful-looking razor-case or other. Yasha
staggered in astonishment, helplessly raising his eyebrows, and then he
suddenly fell heavily on his knees.

"Master! My own dear master! See what they've done to me!"

"Go off into the shed," ordered my father angrily, pulling himself away
from Yasha, who had seized the tail of his coat and was kissing it. "Go
into the shed and sleep off your drunkenness so that to-morrow even the
smell of you may be gone!"

Yasha went away humbly into the shed, and then began for him those
tormenting hours of getting sober, the deep and oppressive torture of
repentance. He lay on his stomach and rested his head on the palms
of his hands, staring fixedly at some point in front of him. He knew
perfectly well what was taking place in the house. He could picture to
himself how we were all begging my father to forgive him, and how my
father would impatiently wave his hands and refuse to listen. He knew
very well that probably this time my father would be implacable.

Every now and then we children would be impelled by curiosity to go and
listen at the door of the shed, and we would hear strange sounds as of
bellowing and sobbing.

In such times of affliction and degradation Bouton counted it his
moral duty to be in attendance upon the suffering Yasha. The sagacious
creature knew very well that ordinarily when Yasha was sober he would
never be allowed to show any sign of familiarity towards him. Whenever
he met the stern figure of Yasha in the yard Bouton would put on an
air of gazing attentively into the distance of being entirely occupied
in snapping at flies. We children used to fondle Bouton and feed him
occasionally, we used to pull the burrs out of his shaggy coat while
he stood in patient endurance, we even used to kiss him on his cold,
wet nose. And I always wondered that Bouton's sympathy and devotion
used to be given entirely to Yasha, from whom he seemed to get nothing
but kicks. Now, alas! when bitter experience has taught me to look all
round and on the under side of things, I begin to suspect that the
source of Bouton's devotion was not really enigmatical--it was Yasha
who fed Bouton every day, and brought him his dish of scraps after
dinner.

In ordinary times, I say, Bouton would never have risked forcing
himself upon Yasha's attention. But in these days of repentance he
went daringly into the shed and planted himself by the side of Yasha,
staring into a corner and breathing deeply and sympathetically. If
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