Cain Page #2

"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

								

sense of the word. To retire in terror, even in the face of the most
mysterious and immaterial phenomenon, the captain would have reckoned
as much a disgrace as if he had fled before an enemy or uttered a
humiliating appeal for mercy. With a quick, accustomed movement he drew
his revolver from its leathern case and pointed it at the head of his
unknown visitant, and he shouted like a madman,

"If you move, you'll go to the devil!"

The old man slowly turned his head. Across his lips there passed that
same smile which had engraved itself upon the captain's memory in the
morning.

"Don't be alarmed, Captain. I have come to you without evil intention,"
said he. "Try to abstain from murder till the morning."

The voice of the strange visitant was as enigmatical as his smile,
even monotonous, and as it were without timbre. Long, long ago, in
his earliest childhood, Markof had occasionally heard voices like
this when he had been left alone in a room, he had heard such voices
behind him, voices without colour or expression, calling him by his
own name. Obedient to the incomprehensible influence of this smile
and this voice, the captain put his revolver under his pillow and lay
down again, leaning his head on his elbow, and never taking his eyes
from the dark figure of the unknown person. For some minutes the room
was filled with a deep and painful silence; there was only heard the
ticking of Markof's watch, hurriedly beating out the seconds, and the
burnt-out fuel in the grate falling with a weak, yet resounding and
metallic, crackle.

"Tell me, Markof," began the old man at length, "what would you answer,
not to a judge or to the authorities, or even to the emperor, but to
your own conscience, should it ask you, 'Why did you enter upon this
terrible, unjust slaughter?'"

Markof shrugged his shoulders as if in mockery.

"You speak rather freely, old man," said he, "for one who is going to
be shot in four hours' time. However, we'll have a little conversation,
if you like. It's a better occupation for me than to toss about
sleeplessly in fever. How shall I answer my conscience? I shall say
first that I am a soldier, and that it is my duty to obey orders
implicitly; and secondly, I am a Russian by birth, and I would make it
clear to the whole world that he who dares to rise up against the might
of the great power of Russia shall be crushed as a worm under the
heel, and his very tomb shall be made level with the dust...."

"O Markof, Markof, what a wild and bloodthirsty pride speaks in your
words!" replied the old man. "And what untruth! If you look at an
object and put your eyes quite close to it you see only the smallest
of its details, but go further away, and you see it in its true form.
Do you really think that your great country is immortal? Did not the
Persians think so once, and the Macedonians, and proud Rome, who
seized the whole world in her iron claws, and the wild hordes of Huns
who overran Europe, and mighty Spain, lord over three-fourths of the
globe? Yet ask history what has become of their immeasurable power.
And I can tell you that thousands of centuries before these there were
great kingdoms, stronger, prouder, and more cultured than yours. But
life, which is stronger than nations and more ancient than memorials,
has swept them aside in her mysterious path, leaving neither trace nor
memory of them."

"That's foolishness," objected the captain, in a feeble voice, lying
down again upon his back. "History follows out its own course, and we
can neither guide it nor show it the way."

The old man laughed noiselessly.

"You're like that African bird which hides its head in the sand when
it is pursued by the hunter. Believe me, a hundred years hence your
children's children will be ashamed of their ancestor, Alexander
Vassilitch Markof, murderer and executioner."

"You speak strongly, old man! Yes, I've heard of the ravings of those
enthusiastic dreamers who want to change swords into ploughshares....
Ha-ha-ha! I picture to myself the sort of state these scrofulous
neurasthenists and rickety idiots of pacifists would make. No, it is
only wax that can forge out an athletic body and an iron character.
However ..."--Markof pressed his hand to his forehead, striving to
remember something--"however, this is all unimportant. ... But what was
it I wanted to ask you? ... Ah, yes! Somehow I don't think you will
tell me untruths. Do you belong to these parts?"

"No." The old man shook his head.

"But surely you were born in the district?"

"No."

"But you are a--European? What are you, French? English? Russian?
German?"

"No, no...."

Markof, in exasperation, struck the side of the bed with his fist.

"Well, who are you, then? And why the devil do I know your face so
well? Have we ever met anywhere?"

The old man bent his head still lower and sat for a long time saying no
word. At last he began to speak, as if hesitating:

"Yes, we have met, Markof, but you have never seen me. Probably you
don't remember, or you've forgotten, how once, during an epidemic of
plague, your uncle hanged in one morning fifty-nine persons. I was
within two paces of him that day, but he didn't see me."

"Yes ... that's true ... fifty-nine ..." muttered Markof, feeling
himself overwhelmed by an intolerable heat. "But they ... were ...
rioters...."

"I saw your father's cruel exploits at Sevastopol, and your work after
the capture of Ismaila," the old man went on in his hollow voice.
"Before my eyes has been shed enough blood to drown the whole world.
I was with Napoleon on the fields of Austerlitz, Friedland, Jena, and
Borodina. I saw the mob applauding the executioner when he held up
before them on the platform of the guillotine the bloody head of Louis
XVI. I was present on the eve of St. Bartholomew, when the Catholics,
with prayers on their lips, murdered the wives and children of the
Huguenots. In the midst of a crowd of enraged fanatics I gazed whilst
the holy fathers of the Inquisition burned heretics at the stake,
flayed people alive for the glory of God, and poured white-hot lead
into their mouths. I followed the hordes of Attila, Genghis Khan, and
Solyman the Magnificent, whose paths were marked by mountains of human
skulls. I was with the noisy Roman crowd in the circus when they sewed
Christians up in the skins of wild animals and hunted them with dogs,
when they fed the beasts with the bodies of captive slaves ... I have
seen the wild and bloody orgies of Nero, and heard the wailing of the
Jews at the ruined walls of Jerusalem...."

"You're--only my dream ... go away ... you're--only a figure in my
delirium. Go away from me!" Markof's parched lips uttered the words
with difficulty.

The old man got up from the stool. His bent figure became in a moment
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