The White Poodle Page #4

"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.

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spoke:

"Whatever does it mean--who permitted them--who let them through?
March! Clear out!..."

The organ became silent in a melancholy whimper.

"Fine gentleman, allow us to explain," began the old man delicately.

"No explanations whatever! March!" roared the lackey in a hoarse, angry
whisper.

His whole fat face turned purple, and his eyes protruded to such a
degree that they looked as if they would suddenly roll out and run away
like wheels. The sight was so dreadful that grandfather involuntarily
took two steps backward.

"Put the things up, Sergey," said he, hurriedly jolting the organ on to
his back. "Come on!"

But they had not succeeded in taking more than ten steps when the child
began to shriek even worse than ever:

"Ai-yai-yai! Give it me! I wa-ant it! A-a-a! Give it! Call them back!
Me!"

"But, Trilly!... Ah, God in heaven, Trilly; ah, call them back!" moaned
the nervous lady. "Tfu, how stupid you all are!... Ivan, don't you hear
when you're told? Go at once and call those beggars back!..."

"Certainly! You! Hey, what d'you call yourselves? Organ grinders! Come
back!" cried several voices at once.

The stout lackey jumped across the lawn, his side-whiskers waving in
the wind, and, overtaking the artistes, cried out:

"Pst! Musicians! Back! Don't you hear, friends, you're called back?"
cried he, panting and waving both arms. "Venerable old man!" said he
at last, catching hold of grandfather's coat by the sleeve. "Turn the
shafts round. The master and mistress will be pleased to see your
pantomime."

"Well, well, business at last!" sighed grandfather, turning his head
round. And the little party went back to the balcony where the people
were collected, and the old man fixed up his organ on the stick and
played the hideous galop from the very point at which it had been
interrupted.

The rumpus had died down. The lady with her little boy, and the
gentleman in the gold spectacles, came forward. The others remained
respectfully behind. Out of the depths of the shrubbery came the
gardener in his apron, and stood at a little distance. From somewhere
or other the yard-porter made his appearance, and stood behind the
gardener. He was an immense bearded peasant with a gloomy face, narrow
brows, and pock-marked cheeks. He was clad in a new rose-coloured
blouse, on which was a pattern of large black spots.

Under cover of the hoarse music of the galop, Sergey spread his little
mattress, pulled off his canvas breeches--they had been cut out of
an old sack, and behind, at the broadest part, were ornamented by a
quadrilateral trade mark of a factory--threw from his body his torn
shirt, and stood erect in his cotton underclothes. In spite of the
many mends on these garments he was a pretty figure of a boy, lithe
and strong. He had a little programme of acrobatic tricks which he
had learnt by watching his elders in the arena of the circus. Running
to the mattress he would put both hands to his lips, and, with a
passionate gesture, wave two theatrical kisses to the audience. So his
performance began.

Grandfather turned the handle of the organ without ceasing, and whilst
the boy juggled various objects in the air the old music-machine gave
forth its trembling, coughing tunes. Sergey's repertoire was not a
large one, but he did it well and with enthusiasm. He threw up into
the air an empty beer-bottle, so that it revolved several times in its
flight, and suddenly catching it neck downward on the edge of a tray
he balanced it there for several seconds; he juggled four balls and
two candles, catching the latter simultaneously in two candlesticks;
he played with a fan, a wooden cigar and an umbrella, throwing them to
and fro in the air, and at last having the open umbrella in his hand
shielding his head, the cigar in his mouth, and the fan coquettishly
waving in his other hand. Then he turned several somersaults on the
mattress; did "the frog"; tied himself into an American knot; walked
on his hands, and having exhausted his little programme sent once
more two kisses to the public, and, panting from the exercise, ran to
grandfather to take his place at the organ.

Now was Arto's turn. This the dog perfectly well knew, and he had for
some time been prancing round in excitement, and barking nervously.
Perhaps the clever poodle wished to say that, in his opinion, it was
unreasonable to go through acrobatic performances when Réaumur showed
thirty-two degrees in the shade. But grandfather Lodishkin, with a
cunning grin, pulled out of his coat-tail pocket a slender kizil
switch. Arto's eyes took a melancholy expression. "Didn't I know it!"
they seemed to say, and he lazily and insubmissively raised himself on
his hind paws, never once ceasing to look at his master and blink.

"Serve, Arto! So, so, so...," ordered the old man, holding the switch
over the poodle's head. "Over. So. Turn ... again ... again.... Dance,
doggie, dance! Sit! Wha-at? Don't want to? Sit when you're told!
A-a.... That's right! Now look! Salute the respected public. Now,
Arto!" cried Lodishkin threateningly.

"Gaff!" barked the poodle in disgust. Then he followed his master
mournfully with his eyes, and added twice more, "Gaff, gaff."

"No, my old man doesn't understand me," this discontented barking
seemed to say.

"That's it, that's better. Politeness before everything. Now we'll have
a little jump," continued the old man, holding out the twig at a short
distance above the ground. "Allez! There's nothing to hang out your
tongue about, brother. Allez! Gop! Splendid! And now, please, noch
ein mal ... Allez! ... Gop! Allez! Gop! Wonderful doggie. When you
get home you shall have carrots. You don't like carrots, eh? Ah, I'd
completely forgotten. Then take my silk topper and ask the folk. P'raps
they'll give you something a little more tasty."

Grandfather raised the dog on his hind legs and put in his mouth the
old greasy cap which, with such delicate irony, he had named a silk
topper. Arto, standing affectedly on his grey hind legs, and holding
the cap in his teeth, came up to the terrace. In the hands of the
delicate lady there appeared a small mother-of-pearl purse. All those
around her smiled sympathetically.

"What? Didn't I tell you?" asked the old man of Sergey, teasingly. "Ask
me if you ever want to know anything, brother, for I know. Nothing
less than a rouble."

At that moment there broke out such an inhuman yowl that Arto
involuntarily dropped the cap and leapt off with his tail between his
legs, looked over his shoulders fearfully, and came and lay down at his
master's feet.

"I wa-a-a-nt him," cried the curly-headed boy, stamping his feet.
"Give him to me! I want him. The dog, I tell you! Trilly wa-ants the
do-og!"

"Ah, God in heaven! Ah, Nikolai Apollonovitch! ... Little father,
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