The River of Life Page #7

"The River of Life" by Aleksandr Kuprin is a poignant novella that explores themes of love, nature, and the human spirit. Set against the backdrop of the Russian landscape, the story follows the lives of fishermen and their interactions with the river that nourishes and sustains them. Kuprin skillfully weaves a narrative filled with rich imagery and deep philosophical reflections, addressing the struggle between personal desires and the relentless forces of nature. Through its vivid portrayal of the characters' lives and their connection to the river, the novella invites readers to contemplate the beauty and transience of existence.

• Novel

								

burning, and the clock on the commode ticked hurriedly.

A short procès-verbal was composed in wooden official terms, and
the suicide’s letter attached to it.... The two caretakers and the
policeman carried the corpse downstairs. Arseny lighted the way,
lifting the lamp above his head. Anna Friedrichovna, the police
inspector and the lieutenant looked on through the window in the
corridor upstairs. The bearers’ movements got out of step at the
turning; they jammed between the wall and the banisters, and the one
who was supporting the head from behind let go his hands. The head
knocked sharply against the stairs--one, two, three....

‘Serves him right, serves him right,’ angrily cried the landlady from
the window. ‘Serves him right, the scoundrel! I’ll give you a good tip
for that!’

‘You’re very bloodthirsty, Madame Siegmayer,’ the police inspector
remarked playfully, twisting his moustache, and looking sideways at the
end of it.

‘Why, he’ll get me into the papers, now. I’m a poor working woman; and
now, all along of him, people will keep away from my hotel.’

‘Naturally,’ the inspector kindly agreed. ‘I can’t understand these
student fellows. They don’t want to study. They brandish a red flag,
and then shoot themselves. They don’t want to understand what their
parents must feel. They’re bought by Jewish money, damn them! But
there are decent men at the same game, sons of noblemen, priests,
merchants.... A nice lot! However, I give you my compliments....’

‘No, no, no, no! Not for anything in the world!’ The landlady pulled
herself together. ‘We’ll have supper in a moment. A nice little bit of
herring. Otherwise, I won’t let you go, for anything.’

‘To tell the truth----’ The inspector spoke in perplexity. ‘Very well.
As a matter of fact, I was going to drop in to Nagourno’s opposite for
something. Our work,’ he said, politely making way for the landlady
through the door, ‘is hard. Sometimes we don’t get a bite all day long.’

All three had a good deal of vodka at supper. Anna Friedrichovna,
red all over, with shining eyes and lips like blood, slipped off one
of her shoes beneath the table and pressed the inspector’s foot. The
lieutenant frowned, became jealous, and all the while tried to begin
a story of ‘In the regiment----’ The inspector did not listen, but
interrupted with terrific tales of ‘In the police----’ Each tried to be
as contemptuous of and inattentive to the other as he could. They were
both like a couple of young dogs that have just met in the yard.

‘You’re everlastingly talking of “In the regiment,”’ said the
inspector, looking not at the lieutenant, but the landlady. ‘Would you
mind my asking what was the reason why you left the service?’

‘Well, ...’ the lieutenant replied, offended. ‘Would you like me to ask
you how you came to be in the police; how you came to such a life?’

Here Anna Friedrichovna brought the ‘Monopan’ musical box out of the
corner and made Tchijhevich turn the handle. After some invitation
the inspector danced a polka with her--she jumped about like a little
girl, and the curls on her forehead jumped with her. Then the inspector
turned the handle while the lieutenant danced, pressing the landlady’s
arm to his left side, with his head flung back. Alychka also danced
with downcast eyes, and her tender dissipated smile on her lips. The
inspector was saying his last good-bye, when Romka appeared.

‘There, I’ve been seeing the student off, and while I was away you’ve
been---- I’m treated like a do-o-og.’

And what was once a student now lay in the cold cellar of an anatomical
theatre, in a zinc box, standing on ice--lit by a yellow gas flame,
yellow and repulsive. On his bare right leg above the knee in gross
ink figures was written ‘14.’ That was his number in the anatomical
theatre.
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