FICTION.
A SLAV 801314
Mn. Mulls's) WILLIAMS, in the chapter on Literature in his admirable Russia of the Russians, places Kuprin among the realists. "He is a born story-teller with a power of vivid description and virile rapid narration that is displayed at its beet in his early work," and especially in dealing with army life, of which he writes from professional experience. "Sometimes ho relapses Into declamation on social questions, sometimes he is sentimental, but generally his humour and his own keen interest in the story carry him safely through. The best known of his works is The Duel, a longish tale depicting the cheerless life of the average officer in a remote provincial town. Staff Captain Rubinkoty, a story of a Japanese spy, is, as a sheer rattling story, one of the best that has been written in Russia during recent years. Unfortunately Kuprin has almost ceased to write, and when he does write he shows only faint gleams of his old power." It is no easy task to do justice to a writer so prodigal of talent and so productive as Kuprin in a single paragraph, though Mr. Harold Williams is perhaps more likely to achieve a judicial estimate within the limits at his disposal than any other English writer. None the less in our ignorance of Kuprin's mores de longue haleine we are heartily glad that in this delightful collection Mr. Stephen Graham and his wife have seen their way to include specimens of his sentimental and non-military stories. Mr. Harold Williams may be right, and his novels of army life may represent his high-water mark of achievement, but if he is, then Kuprin is a very great writer, for while the soldiers' stories in this volume are remarkable, there are at least half-a-dozen .others which bear the unmistakable impress of genius. Mr. Stephen Graham, we may add, is a sincere but not undiscriminating admirer of Kuprin. He considers him to be perhaps the greatest of living Russian novelists, "exalted, hysterical, Rabelaisian Kuprin." But he finds a considerable admixture of clay • Filibustere and Financiers: the Story of William Walker and his Auociatee. By W. 0. Serous. London : Macmillan and Co. [10e. 0d. net.] f A Slav Said: and other Stories. By Alexander liner:a. with an Introduction by Steulion Chatham. Loudon: Constable and Cu. PC net.] with the gold, and in making this selection he deliberately rules on the stories which reflect Kuprin in his grosser moods for the following reason : " His poorest work is his coarse work. Nothing ugly is worth reproducing, however curious the ugliness may be. We do not want the ugly, and are interested more in brightest Russia than in darkest Russia. My purpose [in the series of volumes which he is editing for Messrs. Constable] is to give what is beautiful, or in any case what is interesting but not ugly, in the living Russian literature of to-day. Consequently I have made, together with my wife, a selection of Kuprin. We have read all his stories through and taken fifteen of those which make him a great writer, just those which should enrich Ufi. Here is Kuprin's humour, sentiment, pathos and delightful and entertaining verbosity." The process is certainly justified by the results, and it in satisfactory to know that it has been sanctioned by Kuprin himself.
When Mr. Graham speaks of Kuprin's verbosity, it must not be thought that he is incapable of compression. Many of those stories and sketches give us, within the compass of a few pages, as much matter for thought as a full-length novel. It is the exuberance of genius, not merely aimless word-spinning. Perhaps the most fascinating of all these stories is the longest—but it does not run to fifty pages. This is "The White Poodle," which describes the adventures of a strange troupe of three itinerant performers in the Crimea in summer- time—an old man with a hurdy-gurdy, a boy acrobat and a dog—. Kuprin, as Mr. Graham observes, loves dogs almost as much as men, and he tells no tales at dogs' expense. The episode is not only full of magic, with its wonderful description of a Crimean summer night, but of humanity. The contrast between the simplicity of this odd trio and the extravagance and meanness of the rich bourgeois who own magnificent villas on the Crimean shores gives Kuprin fine scope for his satire. In the way of surprise nothing could be more striking than the amazing scene of the arrival of the little troupe at one of these villas during a violent spasm of insubordination on the part of the horribly spoiled child of a millionaire engineer. In despair the family sanction the performance as a distraction, with the result that the boy insists on having the poodle for his own. The old man refuses to sell him even for a fancy price, and is driven off with curses and blows by the servants, one of whom follows after him and steals the dog. And then the little acrobat returns to the villa at night and rescues the poodle. The whole story is worthy of Hans Andersen. "The White Poodle" is taken from a volume specially intended to be read aloud to children, and from the same source is another exquisite fantasy called "The Elephant." A little girl, going rapidly into a decline, is suddenly seized with a desire to have a live elephant to play with. She is dis- satisfied with all substitutes, and her father in despair goes off to a menagerie and arranges at great cost with the proprietor to fulfil her wish. The account of the elephant's visit must be read to be appre- ciated. It is ludicrous yet touching—a triumph of circumstantial inven- tion and tender sympathy. Perhaps the finest study of character is "Hamlet," a mordant analysis of the weaknesses of a great actor on the down grade, greedy of praise and money, and sapped in mind and body by intemperance. While on tour his Ophelia fails him at the eleventh hour, no experienced substitute is available, and the situation is saved by a young understudy. As the play progresses and his energy declines, her rising star eclipses the waning glory of the old actor, and he retaliates by brutal rudeness and unchivalrous jealousy. We quote the sequel :—
"All the other actors had left the theatre when Kostromsky came out of his dressing-room. It was almost dark on the stage. Some workmen were wandering about, removing the last decorations. He walked along gropingly, with quiet footfalls, avoiding the heaps. of property rubbish which were scattered everywhere about, and making his way towards the street. Suddenly he was arrested by the sound of the restrained sobbing of a woman.—' Who is there ? ' he cried, going into a corner, with an undefined impulse of pity. The dark figure made no answer; the sobs increased.—' Who's crying there ? ' he asked again, in fear, and at once recognized that it was Yureva who was sobbing there. The girl was weeping, her thin shoulders heaving with convulsive shudders. It was strange. For the first time in his life Kostromsky's hard heart suddenly overflowed with a deep pity for this unprotected girl, whom he had so unjustifiably insulted. He placed his hand on her head and began to speak to her in an impressive and affectionate voice, quite naturally and unaffectedly. --`11y child I I was dreadfully rule to you to-day. I won't ask your forgiveness ; I know I could never atone for your tears. But U you could have known what was happening in my soul, perhaps you would forgive me and be sorry for ms.. . . To-day, only to-day, I have understood that I have outlived my fame. What grief is there to compare with that ? What, in comparison with that, would mean the loss of a mother, of a beloved child, of a lover ? We artists live by terrible enjoyments ; we live and feel for those hundreds and thousands of people who come to look at us. Do you know. . . oh, you must understand that Fm not showing off, I'm speaking quite simply to you. . . . Yes. Do you know that for the last five years there's not been an actor in the world whose name was greater than mine ? Crowds have lain at my feet, at the feet of an illiterate draper's assistant. And suddenly, in one moment, I've fallen headlong from those marvellous heights.. . He covered his face with his hands. 'It's terrible 1' Yureva had stopped weeping, and was looking at Kostromsky with deep compassion.—, You see, my dear,' he went on, taking her cold hands in his.—' You have a great and undoubted talent. Keep on the stage. I won't talk to you about snob trivialities as the envy and intrigues of those who cannot act, or about the equivocal protection afforded by patrons of dramatic art, or about the gossip of that marsh which we call Society. All these are trifles, and not to be compared with those stupendous joys which a eon.
temptible but adoring crowd can give to us. But '—Kostromsky's voice trembled nervously= but do not outlive your fame. Leave the stage directly you feel that the sacred flame in you is burning low. Do not wait, my child, for the public to drive you away.'— And turning quickly away from Yureva, who was trying to say something and even holding out her hands to him, he hurriedly walked off the stage.—' Wait a moment, Alexander Yevgrafitch,' the manager called after him as he went out into the street, come into the office for your money.'—' Get away ! ' said Kostromsky, waving his hand, in vexation, irritably. 'I have finished. I have finished with it all.' "
The portraits of the Deacon with the stentorian voice who refused to pronounce the anathema of the Church on Count Tolstoi—he had been reading his Cossacks the night before ; of the brilliant, arrogant, fascinating Prince, the last of his race, who destroyed his friend's masterpiece in a mad fit of jealousy ; of Yasha, the doctor's servant, a Russian pendant to Caleb Balderstone—are a liberal education in the wonders and weaknesses of the Slav souL In lighter vein we may note the satirical sketches of the pedantic professor, and of the cruder types of the intelligentsia. But wherever we turn we find something rich and strange. The translation is workmanlike rather than elegant, and a reviewer, though ignorant of Russian, may point out that the German waltz-composer mentioned on page 117 should be Lanner and not Launer.
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