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

And, left alone face to face with the body of Sulamith, he long contemplated her beautiful features. Her face was pale, and never had it been so fair during her life. The half-parted lips that Solomon had been kissing but half an hour ago were smiling enigmatically and beautifully; and her teeth, still humid, gleamed very faintly from between them.

For long did the king gaze upon his dead leman; then, he softly touched with his fingers her brow, already losing the warmth of life, and with slow steps withdrew from the chamber.

Beyond the doors the high priest Azariah, son of Zadok, was awaiting him. Approaching the king, he asked:

“What shall we do with the body of this woman? It is now the Sabbath.”

And the king recalled how, many years ere this, his father had expired and lay upon the sand, already beginning to decompose rapidly. Dogs, drawn by the scent of carrion, were already prowling about with eyes glaring from hunger and greediness. And, even as now, the high priest, a decrepit old man, the father of Azariah, had then asked him:

“Here lieth thy father; the dogs may rend his corpse.⁠ ⁠… What are we to do? Honour the memory of the king and profane the Sabbath; or observe the Sabbath but leave the corpse of thy father to be devoured of dogs?”

Thereupon Solomon made answer:

“Leave him. A living dog is better than a dead lion.”

And when now, after the words of the high priest, he did recall this, his heart did contract from sadness and fear.

Having made no answer to the high priest, he went on, into the Hall of Judgment.

As always of mornings, two of his scribes, Elihoreph and Ahiah, were already reclining upon mats, one on either side of the throne, holding in readiness their inks, reeds, and rolls of papyrus. Upon the king’s entrance they arose and salaamed to the ground before him. And the king sat down upon his throne of ivory with ornaments of gold, leant his elbow upon the back of a golden lion, and, bowing his head upon his palm, commanded:

“Write!

“Set me as a seal upon thy heart, as a ring upon thy hand; for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as hell: the arrows thereof are arrows of fire.”

And, having kept a silence so prolonged that the scribes held their breath in alarm, he said:

“Leave me to myself.”

And all day, till the first shadows of evening, did the king remain alone with his thoughts; nor durst any enter the vast, empty Hall of Judgment.

St. Nicholas, the miracle-worker of Myra in Lycia, was a Greek by birth, though his remains, taken from Greece by the Italians, have been transferred to Bari. It is kind, simple, sinful Russia, however, that has adopted as her own his beautiful meek image and for ages Nicholas the Merciful has been her best-beloved saint and mediator. Having endowed his spiritual personality with her own homely and guileless traits, she has woven round him many legends, marvelous in their artless sincerity. Here is one of them.

Once upon a time, our Father St. Nicholas was trudging over the Russian land. His way led through towns and villages, thick woods and deep bogs, by roundabout paths and crossroads, on days of snow and rain, in bitter cold and sultry heat. There is always a great deal for him to do in our country: he has to soften the heart of a cruel ruler; denounce an unjust judge; admonish an over-greedy dealer; release an innocent captive from prison; intercede for one condemned to an unmerited death; stretch a helping hand to a drowning man; encourage those in despair; comfort the widow; find a home for the orphan.

Our people are weak and ignorant, and live in darkness; they are covered and overgrown with sin as an old wayside stone is coated with dirt and overgrown with moss. To whom can we turn, in deep trouble, in sickness, at the hour of death? God is too distant and awe-inspiring, and how dare one trouble the Heavenly Mother with the loathsome ills of mankind? All the other saints and confessors have their special duties⁠—they are too busy, all of them, all save St. Nicholas, who is our very own, neither fastidious nor distant; simple, ready, accessible to all. That is the reason why not only the orthodox Christians come to him with their petitions and prayers but all other nations⁠—Tartars even⁠—honour and respect him. People as wicked as bandits and horse-thieves, even they venture to trouble him with their prayers.

And so St. Nicholas was tramping over wide old Russia when suddenly a heavenly messenger appeared to him.

“You have pushed so deep into this wilderness, Holy Father, that it was hard work finding you and meanwhile all your church affairs are being neglected and a frightful disaster is at hand. Wicked Arius-the-Giant has risen against Orthodoxy, trampling the holy books and reviling the holy rites. He boasts loudly that on Holy Week he, Arius-the-Giant, will step into the centre of the Nikitsky Cathedral and before the whole congregation, he will overthrow the true faith.⁠ ⁠… Hasten, Father Nicholas, to the rescue. There is no hope save in you.”

“I will go,” spoke the Blessed Saint.

“Do not tarry, dear one! There is so little time left and you know yourself the distance is long.”

“I will start today, now, directly. You can fly away in peace.”

The Blessed Saint knew a stage-driver named Vassily, a God-fearing man and a first-rate driver. A better one could not be found for such a long journey. To him the Saint repaired.

“Dress yourself, Vassily, give your horses a good drink, and off we go!”

Vassily didn’t even inquire if they were going far, for well he knew that if the business had been near at hand the Saint would have gone on foot and spared the horses.

So Vassily said:

“All right, Holy Father. Sit down in my isba for a minute, while I harness the horses.”

That winter the snow was oh! so