The Outrage Page #4

"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

								

affably. ‘I should like to ask one question--that is if it is not too
indiscreet--what is your own speciality?’

‘Mine.... H’m.... No, how could it be an indiscretion?... I work the
big diamond shops ... and my other business is banks,’ answered the
orator with a modest smile. ‘Don’t think this occupation is easier
than others. Enough that I know four European languages, German,
French, English, and Italian, without speaking of Polish, Ukrainian and
Yiddish. But shall I show you some more experiments, Mr. Chairman?’

The chairman looked at his watch.

‘Unfortunately the time is too short,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t it be better
to pass on to the substance of your business? Besides the experiments
we have just seen have amply convinced us of the talent of your
esteemed associates.... Am I not right, Isaac Abramovich?’

‘Yes, yes ... absolutely,’ the Karaim barrister readily confirmed.

‘Admirable,’ the gentleman in the sandy suit kindly agreed. ‘My dear
Count’--he turned to a blonde, curly-haired man, with a face like a
billiard-maker on a bank-holiday--‘put your instruments away. They will
not be wanted. I have only a few words more to say, gentlemen. Now
that you have convinced yourselves that our art, although it does not
enjoy the patronage of high-placed individuals, is nevertheless an art;
and you have probably come to my opinion that this art is one which
demands many personal qualities besides constant labour, danger, and
unpleasant misunderstandings--you will also, I hope, believe that it is
possible to become attached to its practice and to love and esteem it,
however strange that may appear at first sight. Picture to yourselves
that a famous poet of talent, whose tales and poems adorn the pages
of our best magazines, is suddenly offered the chance of writing
verses at a penny a line, signed into the bargain, as an advertisement
for “Cigarettes Jasmine”--or that a slander was spread about one of
you distinguished barristers, accusing him of making a business of
concocting evidence for divorce cases, or of writing petitions from
the cabmen to the governor in public-houses! Certainly your relatives,
friends and acquaintances wouldn’t believe it. But the rumour has
already done its poisonous work, and you have to live through minutes
of torture. Now picture to yourselves that such a disgraceful and
vexatious slander, started by God knows whom, begins to threaten not
only your good name and your quiet digestion, but your freedom, your
health, and even your life!

‘This is the position of us thieves, now being slandered by the
newspapers. I must explain. There is in existence a class of
scum--passez-moi le mot--whom we call their “Mothers’ Darlings.”
With these we are unfortunately confused. They have neither shame
nor conscience, a dissipated riff-raff, mothers’ useless darlings,
idle, clumsy drones, shop assistants who commit unskilful thefts. He
thinks nothing of living on his mistress, a prostitute, like the
male mackerel, who always swims after the female and lives on her
excrements. He is capable of robbing a child with violence in a dark
alley, in order to get a penny: he will kill a man in his sleep and
torture an old woman. These men are the pests of our profession. For
them the beauties and the traditions of the art have no existence. They
watch us real, talented thieves like a pack of jackals after a lion.
Suppose I’ve managed to bring off an important job--we won’t mention
the fact that I have to leave two-thirds of what I get to the receivers
who sell the goods and discount the notes, or the customary subsidies
to our incorruptible police--I still have to share out something to
each one of these parasites, who have got wind of my job, by accident,
hearsay, or a casual glance.

‘So we call them Motients, which means “half,” a corruption of
moitié.... Original etymology. I pay him only because he knows and
may inform against me. And it mostly happens that even when he’s
got his share he runs off to the police in order to get another
half-sovereign. We, honest thieves.... Yes, you may laugh, gentlemen,
but I repeat it: we honest thieves detest these reptiles. We have
another name for them, a stigma of ignominy; but I dare not utter it
here out of respect for the place and for my audience. Oh, yes, they
would gladly accept an invitation to a pogrom. The thought that we may
be confused with them is a hundred times more insulting to us even
than the accusation of taking part in a pogrom.

‘Gentlemen! While I have been speaking, I have often noticed smiles on
your faces. I understand you: our presence here, our application for
your assistance, and above all the unexpectedness of such a phenomenon
as a systematic organisation of thieves, with delegates who are
thieves, and a leader of the deputation, also a thief by profession--it
is all so original that it must inevitably arouse a smile. But now I
will speak from the depth of my heart. Let us be rid of our outward
wrappings, gentlemen, let us speak as men to men.

‘Almost all of us are educated, and all love books. We don’t only read
the adventures of Roqueambole, as the realistic writers say of us. Do
you think our hearts did not bleed and our cheeks did not burn from
shame, as though we had been slapped in the face, all the time that
this unfortunate, disgraceful, accursed, cowardly war lasted. Do you
really think that our souls do not flame with anger when our country is
lashed with Cossack-whips, and trodden underfoot, shot and spit at by
mad, exasperated men? Will you not believe that we thieves meet every
step towards the liberation to come with a thrill of ecstasy?

‘We understand, every one of us--perhaps only a little less than you
barristers, gentlemen--the real sense of the pogroms. Every time
that some dastardly event or some ignominious failure has occurred,
after executing a martyr in a dark corner of a fortress, or after
deceiving public confidence, some one who is hidden and unapproachable
gets frightened of the people’s anger and diverts its vicious element
upon the heads of innocent Jews. Whose diabolical mind invents these
pogroms--these titanic blood-lettings, these cannibal amusements for
the dark, bestial souls?

‘We all see with certain clearness that the last convulsions of the
bureaucracy are at hand. Forgive me if I present it imaginatively.
There was a people that had a chief temple, wherein dwelt a
bloodthirsty deity, behind a curtain, guarded by priests. Once fearless
hands tore the curtain away. Then all the people saw, instead of a
god, a huge, shaggy, voracious spider, like a loathsome cuttlefish.
They beat it and shoot at it: it is dismembered already; but still in
the frenzy of its final agony it stretches over all the ancient temple
its disgusting, clawing tentacles. And the priests, themselves under
sentence of death, push into the monster’s grasp all whom they can
seize in their terrified, trembling fingers.

‘Forgive me. What I have said is probably wild and incoherent. But I
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