Short Fiction by Ivan Bunin (chrysanthemum read aloud txt) 📕

Short Fiction

By Ivan Bunin.

Translated by S. S. Koteliansky, D. H. Lawrence, Leonard Woolf, Bernard Guilbert Guerney, The Russian Review and Natalie A. Duddington.

Table of Contents Titlepage Imprint Foreword Short Fiction Figures I II III IV V VI VII Death A Goodly Life A Night Conversation I II III IV V Elijah, the Prophet “I Say Nothing” An Evening in Spring Brethren The Grammar of Love The Gentleman from San Francisco Son Gentle Breathing Aglaia The Dreams of Chang A Compatriot Kasimir Stanislavovitch Gautami An Unknown Friend Endnotes Colophon Uncopyright Imprint

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Foreword

This edition of Ivan Bunin’s Short Fiction was produced from various translations. “Figures” and “Elijah, the Prophet” were translated by The Russian Review and originally published in 1916. “The Gentleman from San Francisco” was translated by D. H. Lawrence and S. S. Koteliansky, and originally published in 1923. “Son,” “Gentle Breathing,” and “Kasimir Stanislavovitch” were translated by S. S. Koteliansky and Leonard Woolf, and originally published in 1923. “Death,” “A Goodly Life,” “A Night Conversation,” “ ‘I Say Nothing,’ ” “An Evening in Spring,” “Brethren,” “The Grammar of Love,” “Aglaia,” “The Dreams of Chang,” “A Compatriot,” and “Gautami” were translated by Bernard Guilbert Guerney and originally published in 1923. “An Unknown Friend” was translated by Natalie A. Duddington and originally published in 1925.

Robin Whittleton

Malmö, Sweden, March 2021

Short Fiction Figures I

My dear boy, when you grow up will you remember how, one winter evening, you came into the dining room, stopped on the threshold, for it was after one of our quarrels, and lowered your eyes with such a sad expression on your face?

I must tell you that you were dreadfully mischievous at that age. You never knew when to stop once you became excited over something. Sometimes you would give us no rest with your incessant running about the house. And yet I know of nothing that would be more touching than the sight of you, when, weary with your racing about, you would become quiet, walk around a little, and then come to me and put your little head against my shoulder, an expression of complete loneliness on your face! And if it happened to be right after a quarrel, did I say but one caressing word to you, what didn’t you do with my heart? How you threw yourself on my neck, how you kissed me, full of that absolute loyalty, of that passionate tenderness, of which only children are capable!

But this time it was too great a quarrel.

Do you remember that on that evening you did not even approach me?

“Good night, uncle,” you said quietly, and made a very ceremonious bow.

Of course, after all your misdeeds you wished to appear particularly well-bred and polite. Your old nurse had taught you that ceremonious bow as the only sign of politeness and good manners known to her. And, in order to regain my goodwill, you decided to use good manners as your last resort. And I understood all this, and hastened to reply as if nothing had happened between us, though rather reservedly,

“Good night.”

But could you be satisfied with a peace like this? And you were too young then to be a hypocrite. Having suffered through your sorrow, your heart again turned passionately to the dream that had been fascinating you all day. And in the evening, when the dream again overpowered you, you forgot completely your former resentment, and your self-love, and your firm decision to hate me all your life. You were silent for a moment, then, suddenly, you began to speak hurriedly and excitedly.

“Uncle, please forgive me⁠ ⁠… I’ll never do it again⁠ ⁠… And please show me the figures, after all! Please!”

Could anyone be slow in responding to such an appeal? Yet, I delayed my response. You can see what a wise uncle I am.

II

That morning you awoke with a new thought, a new dream, that overmastered your whole soul.

You were suddenly filled with an ambition to taste of pleasures heretofore unknown: to own your own books with pictures, your own pen-case, your own colored pencils⁠—there was no question about their being colored⁠—to learn how to read, draw, make figures. All this was to be acquired immediately, that very day. The moment you opened your eyes, you called me into your room and began to beg me to subscribe to a magazine for children, to buy you books, pencils, paper, and to begin immediately t teach you figures.

“But this is a holiday, everything is closed,”