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

I got at the drawer, opened the cover of the accordion⁠—and there, stuffed into the bellows, was a tin elephant⁠—feeling pretty heavy. I take it out and hand it to him. He takes it, rattles it, lays it by him⁠—just like a baby, he was, honest to God⁠—and goes off into thought about something. He keeps silent, and he keeps silent; then he smiles, and says:

“Today, Nast, I had a fine dream. I even woke up before daybreak on account of it, and it has made me feel very good all day, up to dinner. Just look⁠—I have even shaved myself, and have got all dressed up for you.”

“But then, Nicanor Matveich, you always go about neat-dressed, anyway.”

And I don’t understand myself what I’m saying, I’m that excited.

“Well,” says he, “I guess I will be able to go about in the other world. You can’t even imagine what a good-looking fellow I’m going to be in the other world!”

I even got to feeling sorry for him.

“It’s a sin to make fun of such things, Nicanor Matveich, and I can’t even understand why you say such things. Perhaps,” I says, “God will send you health yet. You’d do better to tell me what your dream was.”

He started in beating about the bush again; started in to smile wryly⁠—“What good am I alive!” he says. Then he began, without rhyme or reason, to talk about a cow we had:

“For God’s sake,” says he, “tell mother to sell it; I can’t stand it no more, that’s how tired I am of it; I lie here in bed and look at the little barn where she’s kept, and she always looks back at me through the bars,”⁠—and all the while he’s rattling the money, and keeps from looking me in the eyes. And I listen, and also can’t understand half of what he’s saying⁠—just like two persons out of their minds, we was, saying anything that came into our heads. Finally I couldn’t stand it no more; for, thinks I, everybody will wake up at any second, and they’ll be calling for a samovar, and then the whole business falls through! And so I interrupt him as soon as I can, going in for cunning:

“But no,” I says, “you’d better tell me what dream you saw.⁠ ⁠… Was it anything about us two?”

Of course, I wanted to say something that would please him, and I struck it so right that he even changed colour entirely, and cast his eyes down. All of a sudden he takes the toy bank, gets a little key out of his trousers’ pocket, and wants to open it⁠—and can’t, nohow; just, can’t get at the keyhole, his hands are trembling so. At last he does manage to open it and pours out all it held onto his belly⁠—I remember it all like it was now: there was two paper bills and eight gold pieces; he scoops it all into his hand, and suddenly says in a whisper:

“Could you kiss me just once?”

My hands and feet just got numb from fright. But he’s carrying on like he was going out of his mind, whispering, stretching upward to me:

“Nastechka, just once! God is my witness I will never say another word, never ask again!”

I looked over my shoulder⁠—well, thinks I, I might just as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb⁠—and I kissed him. So he was all just gasping; he grabbed me around the neck, caught my lips, and I guess he didn’t let me go for a whole minute. Then he shoves all the money into my hand⁠—and turns his face to the wall.

“Go,” he says.

I ran out and went straight into my room. I put the money away under lock and key, grabbed hold of a lemon, and started in to rub my lips. I rubbed them so hard that they simply turned all white. I was awful afraid, to tell the truth, that I might get a consumption from him.⁠ ⁠…

Well and good⁠—this business, then, turned out all right, glory be to God; so I begin to lay my plans for the next move, of more importance⁠—the one which I had the most struggles about. I felt that there was trouble brewing; I was afraid he wouldn’t let me leave my place. “He’ll start in,” thinks I, “to pester me with his love, will want to become my husband on account of this money.” But no; nothing happens, I see. He don’t try to annoy me; he treats me rightly, the same like before, as though nothing had taken place between us⁠—even more modestly, it looks like⁠—and he don’t call me into his room: that meant he was keeping his word. Then I bring the talk around to my going away, putting it up to my master and mistress: it’s time for me to see about my son a little, now; to be free for a little while. They won’t even hear of it. And as for him, you can understand how he felt, without my saying a word about it. I hinted about my going away to him at one time⁠—so he just got all white. He turns his face to the wall, and says with a sort of a bitter little smile:

“You have no right to do it,” he says. “You have led me on, have got me used to you. You must wait⁠—I will die soon. But if you go away now, I will strangle myself.”

A fine modest fellow he turned out to be, didn’t he? “Ah,” thinks I, “damn your shameless eyes! Here I have forced myself to do like you wanted, but you take to threatening me! Oh, no, you haven’t come across one of that sort in me!” And I started looking for an excuse harder than ever. About that time, most luckily, the mistress gave birth to another girl, and a wet-nurse was hired for her; so I picked on that, saying that I couldn’t get along with her.