The Garnet Bracelet, other stories and novellas

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Shelkovnikov resumed his report, but his chief interrupted him again. Where have I heard the name? All right, go on, please. She turned slightly away, but still Kvashnin could see her face, rosy with coquettish pleasure and showing all its pretty moles. At last the report was finished, and Kvashnin passed into the roomy glass compartment built at the end of the carriage. It was a moment which Bobrov thought would have been well worth perpetuating with a good camera. Kvashnin lingered for some reason behind the glass wall, his bulky figure towering above the group that clustered round 83 the carriage entrance, his feet planted wide apart and his face wearing a sullen look, the whole giving the impression of a crudely wrought Japanese idol.

The great man's immobility apparently dismayed those who had come to meet him: The dashing conductors had stiffened into soldierly postures on either side of the door. Glancing by chance at Nina, Bobrov with a pang noticed on her face the same smile as he saw on the other faces, and the same fear of a savage looking at his idol. Perhaps what's at work here is some inconceivable psychological law of servility? In response to the respectful bows of the crowd, which parted quickly to let him pass, he nodded carelessly, thrusting out his thick lower lip, and said in a nasal voice, "Gentlemen, you're dismissed till tomorrow.

It was planned to celebrate the two events with the utmost pomp, and printed invitations had been sent to the iron and steel mills in the neighbouring towns of Krutogori, Voronino, and Lvovo. Two more members of the Board of Directors, four Belgian engineers, and several big shareholders arrived from Petersburg after Kvashnin. It was rumoured among the mill personnel that the Board had allocated about two thousand rubles for the celebration dinner, but so far nothing had happened to bear out these rumours, and the contractors had to shoulder the whole burden of buying wines and food.

Luckily the day of the celebration was fine — one of those bright, limpid days of early 86 autumn when the sky seems so intensely blue and deep and the cool air is like exquisite, strong wine. The square pits, dug out for the foundations of the new blower and bessemer, were surrounded by a dense crowd of workers forming a U.

The priest, attired in a green chasuble embroidered with golden crosses, was standing a little way off, at the head of fifteen workmen who had volunteered to serve as choristers. The open side of the U was taken up by engineers, contractors, senior foremen, clerks — a motley, bustling crowd of two hundred-odd people. A photographer was busy on the embankment, with a black cloth thrown over his head and the camera. Ten minutes later Kvashnin arrived at the site in a troika of magnificent greys. He was all alone in the carriage, for no one else could 87 possibly have squeezed in beside him.

He was followed by five or six more vehicles. Instinctively the workmen at once recognized him as "the boss" and took off their caps as one man. Kvashnin stalked past them and nodded to the priest. The hush that fell was broken by the jarring little nasal tenor of the priest, who chanted meekly, "Bless'd be the Lord, for ever and ever. The workmen — there were some three thousand of them — crossed themselves broadly, doing it simultaneously as they had greeted Kvashnin, bowed their heads, raised them again, and tossed back their hair.

Bobrov could not help looking at them closely. Standing in the two front rows were staid stone-masons, all of them wearing white aprons, and nearly all tow-haired and red-' bearded; behind them were smelters and forge workers in wide, dark blouses styled after 88 those worn by the French and British workmen, their faces grimy with iron dust which could not be washed off; among them appeared the hook-nosed faces of foreign ouvriers; still farther away, behind the smelters and forge workers, you could catch glimpses of limekiln workers, recognizable from afar by their faces, which seemed to be thickly powdered with flour, and by their inflamed, bloodshot eyes.

Whenever the choir chanted in loud unison, "Save Thy servants from calamity, O Lady! Bobrov fancied that there was something elemental and powerful, and at the same time childish and touching, in that common prayer of the huge grey crowd. Next day the workmen would set about their hard twelve-hour toil. Who knew which of them was already doomed to pay for that toil with his life — to fall from a high scaffold, to be scorched with molten metal, or to be buried under a pile 89 of broken stone or bricks?

And was it by any chance this immutable decision of fate that they were thinking of as they made deep bows and tossed back their fair locks, while the choir prayed Our Lady to save her servants from calamity? And in whom but the Virgin could they trust, these big children with stout, simple hearts, these humble heroes who came out daily from their dank, cold mud-huts to carry out their habitual feat of patience and daring?

The Garnet Bracelet, and Other Stories

Such, or almost such, were the thoughts of Bobrov, who had an inclination for vast, poetic pictures; and although he had long since grown out of the habit of praying, a thrill of nervous excitement ran down his spine whenever the priest's jarring, distant voice was succeeded by the harmonious response of the choir. There was something powerful, submissive, and self-sacrificing in the naive prayer of those simple toilers, who had come together from God knew what far-away 90 regions, snatched from their homes for hard and perilous work. The service was over. With a careless air Kvashnin threw a gold coin into the pit, but was unable to bend down with the little spade he held, and so Shelkovnikov did it for him.

Then the group started for the blast-furnaces whose black towers rose on stone foundations. The newly-built Fifth Furnace was going "full blast," to use the technical jargon. A seething white-hot stream of molten slag sent blue sulphur flames darting about as it gushed from a hole pierced in the furnace, about thirty inches above the ground. It flowed down a shoot into ladles placed against the vertical base of the fur-mace, and there hardened into a thick greenish mass like barley sugar.

The workmen standing on top of the furnace kept on feeding it with ore and coal, which went up every other minute in trolleys. The priest sprinkled the furnace on all sides with holy water and hurried off timidly, with the stumbling gait of an old man. The foreman 91 in charge of the furnace, a sinewy, black-faced old man, crossed himself and spat into his palms. His four assistants did the same. Then they picked up a long steel crow-bar, swung it back and forth for a long time and, with one big gasp, rammed it into the lowest part of the furnace. The crow-bar clanked against the clay plug.

The onlookers shut their eyes in nervous expectation, and some of them stepped back. The five men struck for the second, third, and fourth time, and suddenly a dazzling-white jet of molten metal burst forth from where the crow-bar had struck. Then the foreman widened the hole by rotating the crow-bar, and the cast iron flowed sluggishly down a sand furrow, taking the colour of fiery ochre. Clusters of big shining stars came flying out of the hole, crackling and melting in the air.

Flowing at a seemingly lazy pace, the metal sent out such an unbearable heat that the unaccustomed visitors kept on moving farther and farther back, shielding their faces with their hands. Kvashnin had seen to it that the visiting shareholders got a full view of the enormous mill bustling with activity.

He had calculated with absolute accuracy that these gentlemen would be overwhelmed by the wealth of new impressions, and would later report wonders to the general meeting which had sent them. And knowing very well the psychology of business men, he confidently looked forward to a new issue of stock, which would greatly profit him personally and which the general meeting had so far refused. And the shareholders were overwhelmed, so much so that their heads ached and their knees trembled. In the blower shop, pale with excitement, they heard the air, forced into pipes by four vertical fifteen-foot pistons, rush through them with a roar that rocked the stone walls of the building.

Along these massive iron pipes, which were about ten feet in circumference, the air passed through the 93 hot-blast stoves, where burning gases heated it to a thousand degrees, and from there went into the blast-furnace, melting ore and coal with its hot breath. The engineer in charge of the blower department was giving explanations. He bent to the ear of one shareholder after another, and shouted at the top of his voice, straining till his lungs hurt, but the terrific din of the machinery drowned his words and it seemed as if he were just moving his lips, silently and strenuously.

Then Shelkovnikov led the visitors to the puddling-furnace shed, a tall building of such immense length that its far end looked like a barely visible small hole. Along one wall of the shed ran a stone platform with twenty puddling furnaces shaped like railway wagons without wheels. In these furnaces molten iron was mixed with ore and processed into steel, which flowed down pipes and filled high iron moulds — rather like bottomless cases with handles on top — and there hardened to puddles weighing each about three-quarters of 94 a ton.

The other side of the shed was laid with rails along which steam cranes moved up and down like obedient, agile animals, with tensile trunks, snorting, hissing, clanking. But before the bar could reach the floor, a workman would with extraordinary alacrity sling a wrist-thick chain round it.

Another crane would hook the chain, waft away the bar, and put it down next to others on the platform attached to a third crane. The third crane would haul the load to the far end of the shed where a fourth crane, equipped with pincers instead of a hook, would lift the bars from the truck and lower them into the gas furnaces built under the floor. Lastly, a fifth crane would pull them, white with heat, out of the furnaces, put them one by one under a sharp-toothed wheel revolving on a horizontal axle at a terrific speed, and the huge steel bar would be halved in five seconds like a slab of butter.

Each half would then go 95 under the twenty-five thousand pound press of a steam hammer, which shingled it as easily as if it were wax. Workmen would at once grab and load the pieces on trolleys and push them away at a run, the red-hot iron sending a wave of glowing heat against all who came that way. Shelkovnikov went on to show his visitors the rail-rolling mill. A huge bar of red-hot metal would pass through a series of machines, moving from one to another over rollers that were turning under the floor, with only their top parts showing.

Squeezed between two steel cylinders revolving in opposite directions, it would force them apart, the rollers trembling with tension. Farther away was a machine with an even smaller space between its cylinders. As it passed through each machine the bar became thinner and longer; after running several times up and down the rail-mill it would take the shape of a red-hot rail, seventy feet long. In control of the complex operations of the fifteen machines was a single man who was posted above the steam 96 engine, on a raised platform not unlike a ship's bridge.

He would pull a handle and all the cylinders and rollers would start to turn one way, then he would push it back and they would turn the other way. When the rail had been stretched to its final length a circular saw would cut it into three parts with a deafening scream, throwing up a myriad of golden sparks. Now the group proceeded to the turnery where mostly wagon and locomotive wheels were finished. Leather transmission belts coming down from a stout steel shaft running the whole length of the ceiling set in motion two or three hundred machines of the most varied sizes and shapes.

There were so many belts criss-crossing in all directions that they seemed like one tangled, vibrating network. The wheels of some of the machines were making twenty revolutions per second, while others were turning so slowly that you could hardly notice it. Steel, iron, and brass shavings thickly littered the floor in thin long spirals.

The visitors were shown a nut-making machine — rather like two huge steel jaws munching steadily. Two workmen were busy feeding the end of a long red-hot rod into the machine, which bit off its tip regularly to spit out a completely finished nut.

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When they left the turnery Shelkovnikov, who had been addressing his explanations exclusively to the shareholders, suggested that they should inspect the nine-hundred h. By then the gentlemen from Petersburg were sufficiently overwhelmed and exhausted by what they had already seen and heard. Every new impression, far from interesting them, wearied them still more. Their faces were red from the heat of the rail-mill, and their hands and clothes were sooty.

They therefore accepted the manager's invitation with apparent reluctance, and only because they had to maintain the prestige of those who had sent them. Despite its huge size the machine made hardly any noise. Two pistons, each about thirty feet long, moved smoothly and swiftly up and down their cylinders encased in wood. A wheel twenty feet in diameter, with twelve ropes gliding over it, was revolving just as noiselessly and swiftly.

Its sweeping motion sent the hot, dry air rushing through the machine room in strong, regular gusts. The machine supplied power to the blowers and rolling mills and the machinery in the turnery. Having inspected the "Compound," the shareholders felt quite certain that their trials were at an end; but the tireless Shelkovnikov obligingly made a fresh suggestion. But after all that they had seen the "heart of the mill" — twelve cylindrical 99 boilers each thirty-five feet in length and ten feet in height — failed to impress the weary shareholders much.

Their thoughts had long been centring round the dinner awaiting them, and they no longer asked questions but nodded with absent-minded indifference at whatever explanations Shelkovnikov gave. When he had finished they sighed with obvious relief and heartily shook hands with him. Bobrov was now the only one left near the boilers. Standing at the edge of the deep, half- dark stone pit where the furnaces were, he looked for a long time down on the hard work of six men, bare to the waist. It was their duty to stoke the furnaces with coal day and night, without let-up.

Now and again the round" iron doors opened with a clang, and Bobrov could see the dazzling white flames roaring and raging in the furnaces. Now and again the half-naked figures of the workmen, withered by fire and black with the coal dust ingrained in their skin, bent down, all the muscles and vertebrae standing out on their backs. Now and again their lean, wiry hands scooped up a shovelful of coal and thrust it into the blazing orifice with a swift, deft movement.

Another two workmen, standing above, were kept ;as busy shovelling down fresh coal from the huge black piles round the boiler house. There was something depressing and inhuman, Bobrov thought, in the stokers' endless work. It seemed as if a supernatural power had chained them for life to those yawning maws and they must, under penalty of a terrible death, tirelessly feed the insatiable, gluttonous monster.

Bobrov started and all but fell into the pit. He was staggered by the unexpected coincidence of the doctor's facetious exclamation with his own thoughts. For a long time after he regained his composure he could not stop wondering at the strange coincidence. He was always interested and mystified to hear someone beside him suddenly bring up what he had just been reading or thinking about. You came up so quietly — it was quite a surprise.. They're no good at all.

Why worry yourself here? Enjoy six months or so of easy life; drink good wine, ride a lot, try I'amour. Close to fifteen tons each, I should think? Upwards of twenty- five tons. And suppose it occurred to one of them to — er — pop? It would make a fine sight, wouldn't it?

All these buildings would probably be razed to the ground. If you let water in at a moment like that an enormous quantity of steam would form at once, the walls wouldn't be able to stand the pressure, and the boiler would blow M up. Would you like to try? When the water runs quite low in the gauge, you only have to turn that small round lever.

That's all there is to it. And the spread — you'd be amazed. I can't bear those engineers' dinners. Along with railways, blast-furnaces, and mines he carries into the remote corners of the country the seeds of education, the flowers of civilization, and — ' He mentioned some sort of fruits, but I don't remember which.

A super-swindler if there ever was one! Suddenly a shadow came over the doctor's face. No end of sick people, children dying like flies. That's what they call seeds of education! They are in for a nice surprise when typhoid fever breaks loose in Ivankovo. Do you mean to say there've been cases already? It would be dreadful with their barracks crammed the way they are.

One of them died this morning, and the other's sure to die tonight, if he hasn't died yet. And we have neither medicines, beds, nor skilled nurses. Just wait, they'll pay for it yet! Even before Kvashnin arrived there were so many piquant stories bandied about the mill that now no one doubted the real motive of his sudden intimacy with the Zinenko family. The ladies spoke about it with ambiguous smiles and the men, talking among themselves, called a spade a spade with frank cynicism. But nobody knew anything for certain. Everyone was agog for a spicy scandal. The gossip was not wholly groundless.

After paying a visit to the Zinenko family Kvashnin began to spend all his evenings with them. About eleven o'clock every morning, his fine troika of greys would pull up at the Shepetovka estate, and the driver would invariably announce, "My master begs the lady and the young ladies to have breakfast with him. The food was prepared by a French cook whom Kvashnin always took with him on his frequent trips, even when he went abroad.

Kvashnin's attentions to his new acquaintances were of a most peculiar nature. Towards the five girls he at once assumed the blunt manner of a genial unmarried uncle. In three days he was calling them by their diminutive names, to which he added their patronymic; as for the youngest, Kasya, he often took her by the plump, dimpled chin and teased her by calling her a "baby" and a "chick," which made her blush to tears although she did not protest.

Anna Afanasyevna reproached him with playful querulousness, saying that he would completely spoil her girls. Indeed, no sooner did any one of them express a fleeting wish than it was fulfilled. Hardly did Maka mention, quite innocently, that she would like to learn bicycle-riding when, the very next day, a messenger brought from Kharkov an excellent bicycle, which must have cost no less than three hundred rubles. He lost ten pounds of sweets to Beta, with whom he made a bet over some trifle, and for Kasya, as a result of another bet, he bought a brooch set with a coral, an amethyst, a sapphire, and a jasper, indicating the letters of her name.

Two days after, there was brought to her an English thoroughbred mare, perfectly broken in for lady riders. The young ladies were fascinated by this kind fairy who could guess, and at once fulfil, their every whim. Anna Afanasyevna had a vague feeling that there was something improper about this generosity, but she lacked both the courage and the tact to make that clear to Kvashnin in a discreet manner. Whenever she obsequiously reprimanded him, he would dismiss the matter with a wave of his hand, saying in his rough, firm voice, "It's all right, my dear, stop worrying about trifles.

The young men who had once called at the house had obligingly disappeared, but Svezhevsky had become a habitue, whereas formerly he had called no more than twice or three times in all. No one had asked him to come — he came of his own accord, as if at some mysterious invitation, and at once managed to become indispensable to all the members of the family. However, a little incident preceded his appearance in the Zinenko house. About five months ago he had let fall among his colleagues that he dreamt of becoming a millionaire some day and was sure he would by the time he was forty.

Anyway, he might be of service to his all-powerful superior. So he staked his all and boldly thrust himself into Kvashnin's presence with his servile titter. He made advances to him as a gay pup might to a ferocious mastiff, both his face and his voice suggesting his constant readiness to do anything, however dirty, at a wink from Kvashnin. Kviashnin did not mind it. He, who used to sack factory directors and managers without bothering to give the reason, silently put up with the presence of a Svezhevsky. There must be an important service afoot, and the future millionaire was eagerly biding his time.

Passed on by word of mouth, the rumour reached Bobrov's ear. He was not surprised, for he had formed a firm and accurate opinion of the Zinenko family. The only thing which vexed him was that the gossip was bound to brush Nina with its filthy tail. After the talk at the station, the girl had become dearer to him than ever. To him alone she had trustingly revealed her soul, a soul that was beautiful even in its vacillation and weakness. Everybody else knew only her costume and appearance, he thought.

Jealousy — with its cynical distrust, with the constantly piqued pride attending it, with its pettiness and coarseness — was foreign to his trusting and delicate nature. Bobrov had never yet known the warmth of genuine, deep woman's love. He was too shy and diffident to take from life what was perhaps his due.

No wonder that his heart had rushed joyfully out to meet the new, strong feeling. Throughout the last few days he had been under the spell of the talk they had had at the station. He recalled it again and again in minutest detail, each time seeing a deeper meaning in Nina's words. He was irresistibly drawn to the Zinenkos'; he wanted once more to make sure of his happiness, once more to hear from Nina those half-confessions — now timid, now naively bold.

But he was restrained by Kvashnin's presence, and he tried to set his mind at ease by telling himself that in no circumstances could Kvashnin stay in Ivankovo for more than a fortnight. By a lucky chance he saw Nina before Kvashnin left. It happened on a Sunday, three days after the ceremony of blowing in the blast-furnace. Bobrov was riding on Fairway down a broad, hard-beaten road leading from the mill to the station. It was about two o'clock, and the day was cool and cloudless. Fairway was going along at a brisk pace, pricking up his ears and tossing his shaggy head.

At a curve near a warehouse, Bobrov saw a lady in riding-habit coming downhill on a large bay, followed by a rider on a small white Kirghiz horse. Soon he recognized her as Nina wearing a long, flowing dark green skirt, yellow gauntlets, and a low, glossy top hat. She was sitting in the saddle with a confident grace. The slim English mare raised its slender legs high as it carried her along at a round, springy trot, its neck arched into a steep curve.

Nina's companion, Svezhevsky, was lagging far behind; working his elbows, jerking and bouncing, he was trying to catch the dangling stirrup with the toe of his boot. As she sighted Bobrov Nina broke her mount into a gallop. Coming alongside Bobrov, she reined in the horse abruptly, and it began to fidget, dilating its fine wide nostrils, and fretting loudly at the bit which dripped lather. Nina's face was flushed from the ride, and her hair, which had slipped out of the hat at the temples, fell back in long, thin curls.

It's a present from Kvashnin. But seeing the pained look on his face, she softened at once. Suddenly Nina bent forward to Bobrov, gently touched his hand with the tip of her whip, and said under her breath, in the tone of a little girl confessing her guilt, "Don't be cross, now, please. I'll give him back the horse, you grumpy man! You see how much your opinion means to me. But he said nothing and merely drew a deep sigh. Svezhevsky was riding up, bowing and trying to sit his horse carelessly. We're going to Beshenaya Balka. Please come, Andrei Ilyich," Nina put in.

We'll start from the station. But I'm not certain. It's going to be a stupendous affair, I can tell you. But it's a secret so far. The other day I was saying that it would be fun to go on an outing to the woods, and Vasily Terentyevich — " "I'm not coming," said Bobrov brusquely. Nina and Bobrov were riding side by side, Nina smiling and looking into his eyes, and he frowning resentfully. Nobody'll be in our way at the picnic.

The Garnet Bracelet, and Other Stories by Aleksandr Kuprin

He felt tears o-f tender emotion welling up in his eyes, and exclaimed passionately, "Oh, Nina, how I love you! She drew in the reins and forced the horse to change to a walk. And now let's wait for my companion and — goodbye. I must be riding home. Her dark eyes were full of love.

The Garnet Bracelet And Other Stories

IX At four o'clock next Wednesday, the station was packed with the picnickers. Everybody felt gay and at ease. For once Kvashnin's visit was winding up more happily than anybody had dared to expect. He had neither stormed nor hurled thunderbolts at anyone, and nobody had been told to go; in fact, it was rumoured that most of the clerical staff would get a rise in the near future. Besides, the picnic bid fair to be very entertaining. Beshenaya Balka, where it was to be, was less than ten miles away if you rode on horseback, and the road was extremely picturesque.

The sunny weather which had set in a week earlier enhanced the trip. There were some ninety guests; they clustered in animated groups on the platform, talking and laughing loudly. French, German, and Polish phrases could be heard along with Russian conversation. Three Belgians had brought their cameras, hoping to take flash snapshots. General curiosity was roused by the complete secrecy about the details of the picnic. Svezhevsky with a mysterious and important air hinted at certain "surprises" but refused to be more specific.

The first surprise was a special train. At five o'clock sharp, a new ten-wheeled locomotive of American make left its shed. The ladies could not keep hack cries of amazement and delight: Green garlands of oak leaves, intermingled with bunches of asters, dahlias, stocks, and carnations, entwined its steel body in a spiral, wound up the chimney, hung from it down to the whistle, and climbed up again to form a blossoming wall against the cab.

In the golden rays of the setting autumn sun, the steel and brass parts of the engine glistened showily through the greenery and flowers. The six first-class carriages stretching along the platform were to take the picnickers to the th Mile station, from which it was only two hundred yards or so to Beshenaya Balka. A large number of people flocked round him, and he gave them further explanations. He's paying all the expenses. Svezhevsky spun round to find that the venomous question had come from Andreas, who, impassive as usual, was looking at him, hands deep in his trouser pockets.

What was it you said, please? If that's the case, it is my agreeable duty to tell you that, while I accept the favour from Mr. Kvashnin, I may very well refuse to accept it from Air. You've misunderstood me," stammered Svezhevsky. I'm simply — er — his confidant. An agent or something like that," he added with a wry smile.

The Zinenkos, accompanied by Kvashnin and Shelkovnikov, arrived almost simultaneously with the train. But no sooner did Kvashnin alight from the carriage than a tragicomic incident occurred that no one could have foreseen. Since early morning, having heard about the planned picnic, workmen's wives, sisters, and mothers had begun to gather at the station, many of them bringing their babies with them. With a look of stolid patience on their sunburnt, haggard faces, they had been sitting for many long hours on the station steps or on the ground, in the shadow cast by the walls.

There were more than two hundred of them. Asked by the station staff what they wanted, they said they must see "the fat, red-headed boss. Each carriage that pulled up caused a momentary stir among the women, but they settled back the moment they saw that this was not the "fat, red-headed boss. The young, high-mettled horses shied and started at the noise of the crowd; it was all the driver could do to keep them in check by straining hard at the reins.

At first Kvashnin could not make head or tail of it: Kvashnin saw that there was no breaking through the live ring in which he found himself. I can't hear a thing. Let one of you tell me what's up. The hubbub grew louder, and the tears flew even more freely. We can't stand it any more! It's worn us thin! We're dying — children and all! The cold's just killing us! What are you dying of?

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You there, speak up. Even so, there were no less than twenty speaking at a time. It's more than we can stand. They put us into barracks for the winter, but how can you live there? They call 'em barracks, sure enough, but it's chips they're built of. Even now it's terrible cold in them at night — makes your teeth chatter. At least have pity on our little ones — help us, dear master!

At least get stoves built. There's no place to cook our meals — we do our cooking outside. The men are at work all day, soaked and shivering. And when they get back home they can't dry their clothes. Whichever way he turned, his path was barred by prostrate or kneeling women. And when he tried to force his way out, they would cling to his feet and the skirts of his long grey coat. Seeing that he was helpless, he beckoned to Shelkovnikov and, when the other had elbowed his way through the dense crowd, he asked him angrily in French, "Did you hear?

What's the meaning of this? It couldn't be helped. They'll have to put up with it somehow.

We must first make haste about quarters for the clerical staff. He turned to the women and said aloud, "Listen, women! Tomorrow they'll start building stoves for you, and they'll roof your barracks with shingles. Thank you so much! Of course we heard you! Please allow us also to pick up the chips at the building site. Nobody'll harm you," Kvashnin said reassuringly. And be quick about it! Let them look and be happy. See how fat and jolly he is. We'll he warmer with him than by the stove. Even Kvashnin, who at first had been frowning at the manager, laughed when the women asked to be warmed, and took Shelkovnikov by the elbow as a sign of reconciliation.

You may promise them anything you like — aluminium homes, an eight-hour working day, or a steak every morning, but you must do it with a great deal of assurance. I swear I could put down the stormiest popular demonstration in half an hour with mere promises. Three minutes later the train started. The coachmen were told to drive straight to Beshemaya Balka, as the company planned to come back by carriage, with torches. Nina's behaviour perplexed Bobrov. He had awaited her arrival at the station with an excited impatience that had beset him the night before.

His former doubts were gone; he believed that happiness was near, and never had the world seemed to him so beautiful, people so kind, or life so easy and joyful, as they did now.

As he thought of his meeting with Nina, he tried involuntarily to picture it in advance, composing tender, passionate and eloquent phrases and then laughing at himself. Why think up words of love? They would come of themselves when they were needed, and would be much more beautiful, much warmer. Bobrov saw the Zinenkos' two carriages arrive after Kvashnin's troika. Nina was in the first. Wearing a pale-yellow dress trimmed with broad lace of the same colour at the crescent-shaped low neck, and a broad- brimmed white Italian hat adorned with a bouquet of tea-roses, she seemed to him paler and graver than usual.

She caught sight of him from afar, but did not give him a significant look as he would have expected. In fact, he fancied that she deliberately turned away from him. And when he ran up to the carriage to help her to alight, she jumped nimbly out on the other side, as if to forestall him. He felt a pang of foreboding, but hastened to reassure himself. She imagines that now anyone can easily read her inmost thoughts in her eyes. The delightful naivete of it! But she was apparently absorbed by Kvashnin's parley with the women and she never looked back at Bobrov, not even stealthily.

Suddenly his heart began to beat in alarm and anguish. He made up his mind to walk up to the Zinenko family who kept together in a close group — the other ladies seemed to cut them — and, taking advantage of the noise which held the general attention, ask Nina at least by a look why she was so indifferent to him. Bowing to Anna Afanasyevna and kissing her hand, he tried to read in her eyes whether she knew anything.

Yes, she dearly did: Bobrov inferred that Nina had told everything to her mother, who had scolded her. He stepped up to Nina, but she did not so much as glance at him. Her hand lay limp and cold in his trembling hand as he clasped it. Instead of responding to his greeting she turned her head to Beta and exchanged some trivial remarks with her. He read into that hasty manoeuvre of hers something guilty, something cowardly that shrank from a forthright answer. He felt his knees give way, and a chill feeling came into his mouth. He did not know what to think.

Even if Nina had let out her secret to her mother, she could have said to him by one of those swift, eloquent glances that women instinctively command, "Yes, you've guessed right, she does know about our talk. But I haven't changed, dear, I haven't changed, don't worry. The pungent freshness of autumnal woods floated to their flushed faces from afar. The road grew steeper and steeper, disappearing beneath a dark canopy of hazel bushes and honeysuckle. Dead leaves, yellow and curled, rustled underfoot. A scarlet sunset showed through the thicket far ahead.

A wide clearing, flattened and strewn with fine sand, came into view unexpectedly. At one end of it stood an octagonal pavilion decked with bunting and greenery, and at the other was a covered platform for the band. As soon as the first couples came out of the thicket the band struck up a lively march. The gay brass sounds sped playfully through the woods, reverberating among the trees and merging far away into another band that sometimes seemed to outrace, and sometimes to lag behind the first. In the pavilion waiters were bustling round the tables, set in a U shape and covered with white cloths.

Nov 09, Svetlana Wesley rated it it was amazing Shelves: Loved this book in my childhood. Sep 23, Natalie Karr rated it it was amazing. Nov 19, Lilit rated it it was amazing. Jun 16, Kristen rated it really liked it Shelves: I just read The Bracelet of Garnets for a group read. Unrequited love, melancholy and suicide. Could've been an emo song. But really, it's interesting at the end. Jun 11, Larisa rated it it was amazing.

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Aleksandr Ivanovich Kuprin Russian: Vladimir Nabokov styled him the Russian Kipling for his stories about pathetic adventure-seekers, who are often "neurotic and vulnerable. His mother, Liubov' Alekseevna Kuprina, Tatar princess of the Kulunchakovs , like many other nobles in Russia, had lost most of her wealth during the 19th century.

Kuprin attended the Razumovsky boarding school during , and during finished his education in the Second Moscow Military High School Cadet Corps and Alexander Military School, spending a total of ten years in these elite military institutions. His first short story, The Last Debut, was published during in a satirical periodical. Kuprin ended military service during , after which he tried many types of job, including provincial journalism, dental care, land surveying, acting, circus performer, church singer, doctor, hunter, fisher, etc.

Reportedly, "all of these were subsequently reflected in his fiction. Reportedly, "although he lived in an age when writers were carried away by literary experiments, Kuprin did not seek innovation and wrote only about the things he himself had experienced and his heroes are the next generation after Chekhov's pessimists. Aleksandr Kuprin , Alexander Kuprin , available in translation s , Russian classics , Russian literature , Russian writers , short stories. Kuprin is, in fact, a first-tier classic of Russian literature.

Just wanted to let you know.

Men profanity is boundless! Luker must really be ignorant to write this monograph and finish with "Kuprin may not be a first-tier Russian classic". Both sad and ridiculous. Reading ideas from Russian classic and contemporary fiction. Monday, April 7, Two Stories: Anonymous December 22, at 9: Lisa Hayden Espenschade December 23, at 9:

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