The White Poodle Page #2

"The White Poodle" is a novella by Russian author Aleksandr Kuprin, known for its captivating narrative and rich character development. The story revolves around a young boy who becomes infatuated with a beautiful white poodle that symbolizes innocence and beauty in a sometimes harsh world. Through the boy’s experiences and his bond with the poodle, Kuprin explores themes of love, loss, and the fleeting nature of happiness. The tale poignantly captures the bittersweet moments of childhood and the profound impact that animals can have on our lives.

• Novel

								

Crimea is filled with rich, fashionable, and pleasure-loving visitors.
The bright magnificence of southern Nature did not touch the old
man, but it enraptured Sergey, who was there for the first time. The
magnolias, with their hard and shiny leaves, shiny as if lacquered
or varnished, with their large white blossoms, each almost as big as
a dinner-plate; the summer-houses of interwoven vines hanging with
heavy clusters of fruit; the enormous century-old plane trees, with
their bright trunks and mighty crowns; tobacco plantations, rivulets,
waterfalls, and everywhere, in flower-beds, gardens, on the walls of
the villas, bright sweet-scented roses--all these things impressed
unceasingly the naïve soul of the boy. He expressed his admiration of
the scene, pulling the old man's sleeve and crying out every minute:

"Grandfather Lodishkin, but, grandfather, just look, goldfish in the
fountain!... I swear, grandfather, goldfish, if I die for it!" cried
the boy, pressing his face to a railing and staring at a large tank in
the middle of a garden. "I say, grandfather, look at the peaches! Good
gracious, what a lot there are. Look, how many! And all on one tree."

"Leave go, leave go, little stupid. What are you stretching your
mouth about?" joked the old man. "Just wait till we get to the town
of Novorossisk, and give ourselves to the South. Now, that's a place
indeed; there you'll see something. Sotchi, Adler, Tuapse, and then,
little brother, Sukhum, Batum.... Your eyes'll drop out of your
head.... Palms, for instance. Absolutely astonishing; the trunks all
shaggy like felt, and each leaf so large that we could hide ourselves
in one."

"You don't mean it!" cried Sergey, joyfully.

"Wait a bit and you'll see for yourself. Is there little of anything
there? Now, oranges for instance, or, let us say, lemons.... You've
seen them, no doubt, in the shops?"

"Well?"

"Well, you see them simply as if they were growing in the air. Without
anything, just on the tree, as up here you see an apple or a pear....
And the people down there, little brother, are altogether out of the
way: Turks, Persians, different sorts of Cherkesses, and all in gowns
and with daggers, a desperate sort of people! And, little brother,
there are even Ethiopians. I've seen them many times in Batum!"

"Ethiopians, I know. Those with horns," cried Sergey, confidently.

"Well, horns I suppose they have not," said grandfather; "that's
nonsense. But they're black as a pair of boots, and shine even. Thick,
red, ugly lips, great white eyes, and hair as curly as the back of a
black sheep."

"Oi, oi, how terrible!... Are Ethiopians like that?"

"Well, well, don't be frightened. Of course, at first, before you're
accustomed, it's alarming. But when you see that other people aren't
afraid, you pick up courage.... There's all sorts there, little
brother. When we get there you'll see. Only one thing is bad--the
fever. All around lie marshes, rottenness; then there is such terrible
heat. The people who live there find it all right, but it's bad for
new-comers. However, we've done enough tongue-wagging, you and I,
Sergey, so just climb over that stile and go up to the house. There are
some really fine people living there.... If ever there's anything you
want to know, just ask me; I know all."

But the day turned out to be a very unsuccessful one for them. At one
place the servants drove them away almost before they were seen even
from a distance by the mistress; at another the organ had hardly made
its melancholy beginning in front of the balcony when they were waved
away in disgust; at a third they were told that the master and mistress
had not yet arrived. At two villas they were indeed paid for their
show, but very little. Still, grandfather never turned his nose up even
at the smallest amounts. Coming out at the gate on to the road he would
smile good-naturedly and say:

"Two plus five, total seven ... hey hey, brother Serozhenka, that's
money. Seven times seven, and you've pretty well got a shilling, and
that would be a good meal and a night's lodging in our pockets, and
p'raps, old man Lodishkin might be allowed a little glass on account of
his weakness.... Ai, ai, there's a sort of people I can't make out; too
stingy to give sixpence, yet ashamed to put in a penny ... and so they
surlily order you off. Better to give, were it only three farthings....
I wouldn't take offence, I'm nobody ... why take offence?"

Generally speaking, Lodishkin was of a modest order, and even when he
was hounded out of a place he would not complain. However, on this
day of which we are writing, he was, as it happened, disturbed out of
his usual equanimity by one of the people of these Crimean villas, a
lady of a very kind appearance, the owner of a beautiful country house
surrounded by a wonderful flower-garden. She listened attentively to
the music; watched Sergey's somersaults and Arto's tricks even more
attentively; asked the little boy's age, what was his name, where he'd
learned gymnastics, how grandfather had come by him, what his father
had done for a living, and so on, and had then bidden them wait, and
had gone indoors apparently to fetch them something.

Ten minutes passed, a quarter of an hour, and she did not appear, but
the longer she stayed the greater became the vague hopes of the troupe.
Grandfather even whispered to Sergey, shielding his mouth with his
palm the while:

"Eh, Sergey, this is good, isn't it? Ask me if you want to know
anything. Now we're going to get some old clothes or perhaps a pair of
boots. A sure thing!..."

At last the lady came out on her balcony again, and flung into Sergey's
held-out hat a small silver coin. And then she went in again. The
coin turned out to be an old worn-out threepenny bit with a hole in
it. No use to buy anything with. Grandfather held it in his hand and
considered it a long while distrustfully. He left the house and went
back to the road, and all the while he still held the bit of money in
his open and extended palm, as if weighing it as he went.

"Well, well.... That's smart!" said he at last, stopping suddenly. "I
must say.... And didn't we three blockheads do our best. It'd a-been
better if she'd given us a button. That, at least, we could have sewn
on somewhere. What's the use of this bit of rubbish? The lady, no
doubt, thought that it would be all the same as a good coin to me. I'd
pass it off on someone at night. No, no, you're deeply mistaken, my
lady. Old man Lodishkin is not going to descend so low. Yes, m'lady,
there goes your precious threepenny bit! There!"

And with indignation and pride he flung the coin on to the road, and it
gently jingled and was lost in the dust.

So the morning passed, and the old man and the boy, having passed all
the villas on the cliff, prepared to go down to the sea. There remained
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