Short Fiction, Aleksandr Kuprin [the speed reading book txt] 📗

of a noble family be honored by his choice? He celebrated a wild wedding, drank wine, cast handfuls of diamonds to his servants, and constantly gazed at his young wife with his enormous, wild, colorless eyes. She was the daughter of a poor artist.

A long, long year went by, then another, and still another. The young wife grew pale and more pale; the dreadful eyes of the prince became more and more terrible. Villages blazed at night. Half-wild dogs devoured the entrails of the captive women sentenced to death.

Thousands of eyes attended upon the beautiful woman. But there was one pair that gazed upon her with gentle passion, that spoke to her: “Here is my life. Take it, if it is needed. I love you!⁠ ⁠…”

One day⁠—so reads the dark legend⁠—the prince returned from an expedition and found a young page on his knees before the princess. He ordered the page led into the courtyard, and there put him to death by sending a bullet into his right eye.

He did not touch his wife. But he gathered his obedient, boisterous company, gave each one gold with the generosity of a king, and said to them:

“You are free. Go wherever you will.”

And when the last of them had crossed the iron bridge, the prince himself raised it, broke the chain, and locked the great gates of the castle.

The knights turned around to cast a last gaze upon the castle, and, as they did so, they saw the prince appear in the highest window of the tower and cast the great iron key that locked the castle gates into the fathomless lake.

Year after year went by. No one ever learned the secret of the old, sombre castle. Now nothing remains of it but ruins, mosses, and dirt, where green lizards are creeping back and forth, and honeysuckles scent the silent air. What happened to those two human beings? Did they suffer much and long? Which of them suffered more?

No one, no one will ever learn the secret. The waves are dashing against the stone casements.⁠ ⁠… The old, terror-inspiring hoof-beats of galloping horses seem to resound through their splashing. No one will ever know the secret.⁠ ⁠…

And the quiet waves are splashing on the shore.⁠ ⁠…

Both became silent at the same time, the violinist and the improviser. And amidst the quivering silence that still reigned around, the host sniffed sneeringly, and said:

“Is that all? Y‑yes. Not much, but rather sad.”

Demir-Kayá (An Eastern Legend)

The wind has subsided. It is possible that we shall have to spend the night in the open sea. It is about thirty versts to the shore. The two-mast ship is lazily rolling from side to side. The white sails are hanging helplessly.

A white fog envelops our boat. Neither the stars, nor the sky, nor the sea, nor the night are visible. We strike no light.

Seid-Ahbly, the old, barefooted, mud-covered captain of the boat, tells us a story in the truth of which I believe with my whole heart. His voice is low, dignified, and deep. And I believe in the truth of his story because the night is so strangely silent, because the invisible sea is slumbering under our feet.

And, enveloped by the fog, we are sailing slowly in the midst of the thick white clouds.

His name was Demir-Kayá. In your language, it means “Iron Rock.” He was given this name because he knew neither pity, nor shame, nor fear.

His band of robbers was active in the vicinity of Stamboul, in blessed Thessaly, in mountainous Macedonia, and in the fertile pastures of Bulgaria. He himself had killed ninety-nine human beings, and among them were women, old men, and children.

But one day a powerful army of the Padishah⁠—may Allah bless his days!⁠—surrounded him in the mountains. For three days Demir-Kayá defended himself like a wolf brought to bay by a pack of dogs. On the morning of the fourth day, he cut his way through the ranks of his besiegers and escaped⁠—alone. Part of his band perished during the struggle, the other found death at the hands of the hangman upon the round square of Stamboul.

Wounded and bleeding, Demir-Kayá lay by the fire in the inaccessible cave where he found refuge with wild shepherds of the mountains. But in the middle of the night a bright angel with a flaming sword appeared before him. And Demir-Kayá recognized Azrail, the messenger of death sent from heaven. And he said:

“Let the will of Allah be done. I am ready.”

But the angel said:

“No, Demir-Kayá, your hour has not yet come. Hearken now to the will of God. When you will arise from what is almost your deathbed, go forth and dig out of the earth all your treasures and convert them into gold. Then you will walk on toward the east, on and on, until you come to a place where seven roads meet. There you will build for yourself a house with large, cool rooms, with broad divans, with fountains of pure water, with a place where travellers can partake of your repast, drink aromatic coffee, and rest when they are tired. Invite them to your house, all who go past, and serve them as though you were their slave. Let your house be their house, let your gold be their gold, let your labor be rest to them. And know that the time will come when Allah will forgive your heavy sins, will forgive you the blood of his children.”

“But what sign will the Lord send me to show that my sins have been forgiven?”

And the angel replied:

“Out of the fire that is smouldering by your side take a burnt log, covered with ashes, and plant it in the ground. And when the dead tree will become covered with bark, and will begin to bloom, then the hour of your deliverance will have arrived.”

Twenty years went by. Throughout the whole land of the Sultan⁠—may Allah bless his days!⁠—the house at the crossing of the seven roads, on the way from