The Last Word Page #2

"The Last Word" by Aleksandr Kuprin is a poignant novella that explores themes of love, loss, and the human experience. Set in the backdrop of early 20th-century Russia, the story revolves around a young soldier who finds himself torn between his duties and his deep emotional connection to a woman he loves. As he grapples with the realities of war and the fleeting nature of life, Kuprin delivers a profound meditation on the impact of choice and the inevitable passage of time. The narrative is rich with Kuprin’s characteristic lyrical prose, highlighting the beauty and tragedy of human relationships.

• Novel

								


"M.D. ... P.A.P.... Talotchka and Achmet."

"Ivanof."

"Trophim Sinepupof. Samara Town."

"Ivanof."

"Adel Soloveitchik from Minsk."

"Ivanof."

"From this height I delighted in the view of the sea.--C. NICODEMUS
IVANOVITCH BEZUPRECHNY."

"Ivanof."

I have read his verses and remarks in all visiting books, and in
Puskhin's house, at Lermontof's Cliff, and in the ancient monasteries
have read: "The Troakofs came here from Penza, drank kvas and ate
sturgeon. We wish the same to you," or "Visited the natal ash-tray of
the great Russian poet, Chichkin, teacher of caligraphy, Voronezh High
School for Boys," or--

    "Praise to thee, Ai Petri, mountain white,
      In dress imperial of fir.
    I climbed up yesterday unto thy height,
      Retired Staff-Captain Nikoli Profer."

I needed but to pick up my favourite Russian book, and I came upon
him at once. "I have read this book.--PAFNUTENKO." "The author is a
blockhead." "Mr. Author hasn't read Karl Marx." I turn over the pages,
and I find his notes in all the margins. Then, of course, no one like
he turns down corners and makes dog-ears, tears out pages, or drops
grease on them from tallow candles.

Gentlemen, judges, it is hard for me to go on. This man has abused,
fouled, vulgarised all that was dear to me, delicate and touching. I
struggled a long while with myself. Years went by. My nerves became
more irritable I saw there was not room for both of us in the world.
One of us had to go.

I foresaw for a long while that it would be just some little trifle
that would drive me to the crime. So it was.

You know the particulars. In the compartment there was a crush; the
passengers were sitting on one another's heads. He, with his wife, his
son, a schoolboy in the preparatory class, and a pile of luggage, were
occupying four seats. Upon this occasion he was wearing the uniform of
the Department of Popular Education. I went up to him and asked:

"Is there not a free seat here?"

He answered like a bulldog with a bone, not looking at me:

"No. This seat is taken by another gentleman. These are his things.
He'll be back in a minute."

The train began to move.

I waited, standing, where I was. We went on about ten miles. The
gentleman didn't come. I was silent, and I looked into the face of
the pedagogue, thinking that there might yet be in him some gleam of
conscience.

But no. We went another fifteen miles. He got down a basket of
provisions and began to eat. He went out with a kettle for hot water,
and made himself tea. A little domestic scandal arose over the sugar
for the tea.

"Peter, you've taken a lump of sugar on the sly!"

"Word of honour, by God, I haven't! Look in my pockets, by God!"

"Don't swear, and don't lie. I counted them before we set out, on
purpose.... There were eighteen and now there are seventeen."

"By God!!"

"Don't swear. It is shameful to lie. I will forgive you everything,
only tell me straight out the truth. But a lie I can never forgive.
Only cowards lie. One who is capable of lying is capable of murdering,
of stealing, of betraying his king and his country...."

So he ran on and ran on. I had heard such utterances from him in my
earliest childhood, when he was my governess, afterwards when he was my
class teacher, and again when he wrote in the newspaper.

I interrupted.

"You find fault with your son for lying, and yet you yourself have, in
his presence, told a whopping lie. You said this seat was occupied by a
gentleman. Where is that gentleman? Show him to me."

The pedagogue went purple, and his eyes dilated.

"I beg you, don't interfere with people who don't interfere with you.
Mind your own business. How scandalous! Conductor, please warn this
passenger that he will not be allowed to interfere with other people in
the railway carriage. Please take measures, or I'll report the matter
to the gendarme, and write in the complaint book."

The conductor screwed up his eyes in a fatherly expression, and went
out. But the pedagogue went on, unconsoled:

"No one speaks to you. No one was interfering with you. Good Lord!
a decent-looking man too, in a hat and a collar, clearly one of the
intelligentia. ... A peasant now, or a workman ... but no, an
intelligent!"

Intel-li-gent! The executioner had named me executioner! It was
ended.... He had pronounced his own sentence.

I took out of the pocket of my overcoat a revolver, examined the
charge, pointed it at the pedagogue between the eyes, and said calmly:

"Say your prayers."

He turned pale and shrieked:

"Guard-d-d!..."

That was his last word. I pulled the trigger.

I have finished, gentlemen. I repeat: I do not repent. There is no
sorrow for him in my soul. One desolating doubt remains, however, and
it will haunt me to the end of my days, should I finish them in prison
or in an asylum.

He has a son left! What if he takes on his father's nature?
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