The Outrage Page #2

"The Outrage" by Aleksandr Kuprin is a poignant short story that explores the themes of passion, societal norms, and the complexity of human emotions. Set in early 20th-century Russia, the narrative follows a love affair between a young soldier and a beautiful woman, exposing the tension between their desires and the rigid moral expectations of society. Through vivid characterizations and rich prose, Kuprin delves into the struggles of individuality against the backdrop of social constructs, ultimately highlighting the tragic consequences of love and societal outrage.

• Novel

								

me, you will never repent your attention to the representatives of our
... well, let us say, slippery, but nevertheless difficult, profession.
“So we begin,” as Giraldoni sings in the prologue to Pagliacci.

‘But first I would ask your permission, Mr. Chairman, to quench my
thirst a little.... Porter, bring me a lemonade and a glass of English
bitter, there’s a good fellow. Gentlemen, I will not speak of the moral
aspect of our profession nor of its social importance. Doubtless you
know better than I the striking and brilliant paradox of Proudhon:
La propriété c’est le vol--a paradox if you like, but one that has
never yet been refuted by the sermons of cowardly bourgeois or fat
priests. For instance: a father accumulates a million by energetic and
clever exploitation, and leaves to his son--a rickety, lazy, ignorant,
degenerate idiot, a brainless maggot, a true parasite. Potentially a
million roubles is a million working days, the absolutely irrational
right to labour, sweat, life, and blood of a terrible number of men.
Why? What is the ground or reason? Utterly unknown. Then why not
agree with the proposition, gentlemen, that our profession is to some
extent as it were a correction of the excessive accumulation of values
in the hands of individuals, and serves as a protest against all the
hardships, abominations, arbitrariness, violence, and negligence of
the human personality, against all the monstrosities created by the
bourgeois capitalistic organisation of modern society? Sooner or
later, this order of things will assuredly be overturned by the social
revolution. Property will pass away into the limbo of melancholy
memories and with it, alas! we will disappear from the face of the
earth, we, les braves chevaliers d’industrie.’

The orator paused to take the tray from the hands of the porter, and
placed it near to his hand on the table.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen.... Here, my good man, take this ... and by the
way, when you go out shut the door close behind you.’

‘Very good, your Excellency!’ the porter bawled in jest.

The orator drank off half a glass and continued: ‘However, let us
leave aside the philosophical, social, and economic aspects of the
question. I do not wish to fatigue your attention. I must nevertheless
point out that our profession very closely approaches the idea of that
which is called art. Into it enter all the elements which go to form
art--vocation, inspiration, fantasy, inventiveness, ambition, and a
long and arduous apprenticeship to the science. From it is absent
virtue alone, concerning which the great Karamzin wrote with such
stupendous and fiery fascination. Gentlemen, nothing is further from
my intention than to trifle with you and waste your precious time
with idle paradoxes; but I cannot avoid expounding my idea briefly.
To an outsider’s ear it sounds absurdly wild and ridiculous to speak
of the vocation of a thief. However, I venture to assure you that
this vocation is a reality. There are men who possess a peculiarly
strong visual memory, sharpness and accuracy of eye, presence of mind,
dexterity of hand, and above all a subtle sense of touch, who are as it
were born into God’s world for the sole and special purpose of becoming
distinguished card-sharpers. The pickpockets’ profession demands
extraordinary nimbleness and agility, a terrific certainty of movement,
not to mention a ready wit, a talent for observation and strained
attention. Some have a positive vocation for breaking open safes:
from their tenderest childhood they are attracted by the mysteries
of every kind of complicated mechanism--bicycles, sewing machines,
clock-work toys and watches. Finally, gentlemen, there are people
with an hereditary animus against private property. You may call this
phenomenon degeneracy. But I tell you that you cannot entice a true
thief, and thief by vocation, into the prose of honest vegetation by
any gingerbread reward, or by the offer of a secure position, or by the
gift of money, or by a woman’s love: because there is here a permanent
beauty of risk, a fascinating abyss of danger, the delightful sinking
of the heart, the impetuous pulsation of life, the ecstasy! You are
armed with the protection of the law, by locks, revolvers, telephones,
police and soldiery; but we only by our own dexterity, cunning and
fearlessness. We are the foxes, and society--is a chicken-run guarded
by dogs. Are you aware that the most artistic and gifted natures in
our villages become horse-thieves and poachers? What would you have?
Life has been so meagre, so insipid, so intolerably dull to eager and
high-spirited souls!

‘I pass on to inspiration. Gentlemen, doubtless you have had to read of
thefts that were supernatural in design and execution. In the headlines
of the newspapers they are called “An Amazing Robbery,” or “An
Ingenious Swindle,” or again “A Clever Ruse of the Mobsmen.” In such
cases our bourgeois pater-familias waves his hands and exclaims: “What
a terrible thing! If only their abilities were turned to good--their
inventiveness, their amazing knowledge of human psychology, their
self-possession, their fearlessness, their incomparable histrionic
powers! What extraordinary benefits they would bring to the country!”
But it is well known that the bourgeois pater-familias was specially
devised by Heaven to utter commonplaces and trivialities. I myself
sometimes--we thieves are sentimental people, I confess--I myself
sometimes admire a beautiful sunset in Alexandra Park or by the
sea-shore. And I am always certain beforehand that some one near me
will say with infallible aplomb: “Look at it. If it were put into a
picture no one would ever believe it!” I turn round and naturally I see
a self-satisfied, full-fed pater-familias, who delights in repeating
some one else’s silly statement as though it were his own. As for our
dear country, the bourgeois pater-familias looks upon it as though it
were a roast turkey. If you’ve managed to cut the best part of the
bird for yourself, eat it quietly in a comfortable corner and praise
God. But he’s not really the important person. I was led away by my
detestation of vulgarity and I apologise for the digression. The real
point is that genius and inspiration, even when they are not devoted to
the service of the Orthodox Church, remain rare and beautiful things.
Progress is a law--and theft too has its creation.

‘Finally, our profession is by no means as easy and pleasant as it
seems to the first glance. It demands long experience, constant
practice, slow and painful apprenticeship. It comprises in itself
hundreds of supple, skilful processes that the cleverest juggler
cannot compass. That I may not give you only empty words, gentlemen,
I will perform a few experiments before you, now. I ask you to have
every confidence in the demonstrators. We are all at present in the
enjoyment of legal freedom, and though we are usually watched, and
every one of us is known by face, and our photographs adorn the albums
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