Cain

"Cain" by Aleksandr Kuprin is a novella that delves into the profound themes of existence, morality, and the human condition through the lens of a soldier's psychological turmoil. The story follows the protagonist, driven by a deep sense of guilt and existential questioning, as he grapples with his experiences in war and the impact of violence on his psyche. Kuprin's poignant narrative explores the complexities of human nature, touching on the struggle between good and evil, and ultimately reflects on redemption and the search for meaning in a chaotic world. The novella is noted for its lyrical prose and intense emotional depth, making it a compelling exploration of the darker sides of humanity.

• Novel

								
The company of soldiers commanded by Captain Markof had come to take
part in a punitive expedition. Tired, irritable, weary from their long
journey in an uncomfortable train, the men were sullen and morose. On
their arrival at a station with a strange-sounding foreign name, beer
and vodka were served out to them by men who seemed to be peasants. The
soldiers cried "Hurrah!" sang songs and danced, but their faces wore a
look of stony indifference.

Then the work began. The company could not be burdened with prisoners,
and so all suspected persons whom they came across on the road, and all
those who had no passports, were shot without delay. Captain Markof was
not mistaken in his psychological analysis; he knew that the steadily
increasing irritation of his soldiers would find a certain satisfaction
in such bloody chastisement.

On the evening of December 31st the company stopped for the night at a
half-ruined baronial farm. They were fifteen versts from the town, and
the captain reckoned to get there by three o'clock the next afternoon.
He felt certain that his men would have serious and prolonged work
there, and he wanted them to get whatever rest was possible, to quiet
and strengthen them for it. He therefore gave orders that they be
lodged in the various barns and outhouses of the estate. He himself
occupied a large hollow-sounding, empty room, with a Gothic fireplace,
in which a bed, taken from the local clergyman, had been placed.

A dark, starless night, windy and sleety, came down upon the farm,
swiftly and almost unnoticeably. Alone in his immense empty chamber,
Markof sat in front of the fireplace, in which some palings from the
plundered estate were burning brightly. He put his feet on the grate
and spread out a military map upon his bony knees, attentively studying
the neighbourhood between the farm and the town. In the red firelight
his face, with its high forehead, turned-up moustaches and firm,
obstinate chin, seemed more severe than ever.

The sergeant-major came into the room. The water trickled down on to
the floor from his waterproof cloak. He stood still for a moment or
two, and then, convinced that the captain had not noticed his entrance,
coughed discreetly.

"Is it you?" said the captain, bending his head back. "What is it?"

"Everything is in order, your honour. The third platoon is on guard,
the first division at the church wall, the second...."

"All right! What else? Is the pass-word given?"

"Yes, your honour...." The sergeant was silent, as if waiting to hear
more, but as the captain said nothing, he began in a lower tone,

"What's to be done, your honour, with the three who...."

"Shoot them at dawn," interrupted the captain sharply, not allowing the
sergeant to finish his sentence, "And afterwards"--he frowned and
looked meaningly at the soldier--"don't ask me any more questions about
them. Do you understand?"

"Certainly, your honour," answered the soldier emphatically.... And
they were both silent again. The captain lay down on the bed without
undressing, and the sergeant remained at the door in the shadow. For
some reason or other he delayed his departure.

"Is that all?" asked the captain impatiently, without turning his head.

"Yes, that's all, your honour." The soldier fidgeted from one foot to
another, and then said suddenly, with a determined resolution,

"Your honour ... the soldiers want to know ... what's to be done with
... the old man?"

"Get out!" shouted the captain with sudden anger, jumping up from the
bed and making as if to strike him.

The sergeant-major turned dexterously in double-quick time, and opened
the door. But on the threshold he stopped for a moment and said in an
official voice,

"Ah, your honour, permit me to congratulate your honour on the New
Year, and to wish...."

"Thanks, brother," answered the captain dryly. "Don't forget to have
the rifles examined more carefully to-morrow."

Left alone in the room, Markof, neither undressing nor taking off his
sword, flung himself down upon the bed and lay with his face toward the
fire. His countenance changed suddenly, taking on an appearance of age,
and his closely-cropped head drooped on his shoulders; his half-closed
eyes wore an expression of pain and weariness. For a whole week he
had suffered tortures of fever and had only overcome his illness by
force of will. No one in the company knew that at nights he tossed
about in fierce paroxysms, shivering in ague, delirious, only losing
consciousness for moments, and then in fantastic hideous nightmares.

He lay on his back and watched the blue flames of the dying fire,
feeling every moment the stealthy approaches of dizziness and weakness,
the accompaniments of his usual attack of malaria. His thoughts were
connected in a strange fashion with the old man who had been taken
prisoner that morning, about whom the sergeant-major had just been
speaking. Markof's better judgment divined that the sergeant-major
had been right: there was, indeed, something extraordinary about
the old man, a certain magnificent indifference to life, mingled
with gentleness and a deep melancholy. People of his type, people
resembling this old man, though only in a very slight degree, the
captain had seen at Lao-Yan and Mukden, among the unmurmuring soldiers
dying on the fields of battle. When the three men had been brought
before Markof that morning and he had explained to them by the help of
cynically-eloquent gestures that they would be dealt with as spies, the
faces of the two others had at once turned pale and been distorted by a
deadly terror; but the old man had only laughed with a certain strange
expression of weariness, indifference, and even ... even as it were of
gentle condescending compassion towards the captain himself, the head
of the punitive expedition.

"If he is really one of the rebels," Markof reflected, closing his
inflamed eyes, and feeling as if a soft and bottomless abyss of
darkness yawned before him, "then there is no doubt that he occupies an
important position among them, and I've acted very wisely in ordering
him to be shot. But suppose the old man is quite innocent? So much
the worse for him. I can't spare two men to guard him, especially
considering what we've got to do to-morrow. In any case, why should
he escape the destiny of those fifteen whom we shot yesterday? No, it
wouldn't be fair to spare him after what we have done to others."

The captain's eyes opened slowly, and he started up suddenly in mortal
terror.

Seated on a low stool by the bedside, with bent head, and the palms
of his hands resting upon his knees, in a quiet and sadly thoughtful
attitude, was the old man who had been sentenced to death.

Markof, though he believed in the supernatural and wore on his breast a
little bag containing certain holy bones, was no coward in the general

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