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

said I, knowing perfectly well that I lied, but trying to postpone the matter until the evening or the next day; for I had not the slightest desire of going to the city.

But you began to shake your head.

“It isn’t a holiday, at all!” You almost screamed this, raising your eyebrows. “I know it isn’t a holiday.”

“But I’m telling you it is.”

“And I know that it isn’t. Now, please!”

“If you are going to bother me like this,” said I sternly and firmly, as all uncles say to children on such occasions, “if you are going to bother me, I won’t buy you anything at all.”

You became thoughtful.

“Well,” said you with a sigh, “if it’s a holiday, let it be a holiday. But what about the figures?” This was said in a much calmer tone. “You can show me the figures on a holiday, can’t you?”

“No, he can’t,” said grandma. “A policeman will come and arrest you. Stop bothering your uncle.”

“That isn’t it at all,” said I to grandma. “Only, I don’t want to do it now. I’ll do it tonight, or tomorrow.”

“No, you’ll do it now.”

“I don’t want to do it now. I said tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes, you said tomorrow. And tomorrow you’ll tell me the same thing. No, do it now.”

My heart was whispering to me that I was committing a great sin, for I was depriving you of happiness, of joy⁠ ⁠… But a wise principle came into my head: it is harmful to let children have their own way. And I answered sternly:

“Tomorrow. I said tomorrow, and it’s going to be tomorrow.”

“Well, all right uncle,” said you in a threatening tone. “You’ll remember this.”

Then you began to dress rapidly. And as soon as you were dressed, and said the prayers with grandma, and swallowed down a cup of milk, you rushed into the sitting room. A moment later we already heard the rumbling of overturned chairs and your loud shouts⁠ ⁠…

All day we could not get you to quiet down. You hardly ate anything at lunch time, sitting restlessly in your chair, swinging your feet, and regarding me all the time with your strangely shining eyes.

“Will you show it to me?” you asked several times.

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“Fine! Why doesn’t that tomorrow come quickly? Why doesn’t it come?”

But your joy, mingled with impatience, made you more and more excited. And in the afternoon, when your mother, grandma, and I sat down to tea, you found another way of giving vent to your emotions.

III

You devised an excellent game. You would jump up into the air, then strike the ground with your feet, as hard as you could, and accompany this with a shriek that caused our eardrums to approach the bursting point.

“Stop it, Eugene,” said your mother.

Instead of replying, you struck the floor harder than ever.

“Stop it, dear, mamma is asking you,” said grandma.

But you are not afraid of your grandma at all. Bing!

“Oh, stop it,” said I, trying to appear calm, and to continue the conversation.

“Stop it yourself,” you shouted, struck the floor again, and shrieked even louder than before.

I shrugged my shoulders and pretended to pay no attention to you. But it is here that the whole thing began.

I said that I pretended not to pay any attention to you. But, shall I tell you the truth? I not only did not forget about you after your insolent shout, but I began to experience a feeling of hatred for you. I had to make an effort to pretend that I did not notice you and to appear calm. But this did not end the matter. You shouted again, shouted so that everything that was going on in your soul at that time must have been in your shout, for it was so full of pure, divine joy, that God himself would have smiled had he heard you. But I jumped up from my chair in fury.

“Stop it!” I bellowed suddenly, myself astonished by the loudness of my tone. What devil was it that poured a whole barrel of fury upon me at that moment? I did not know what I was doing. For an instant your face became distorted with a lightning-like streak of horror.

“Ah!” you shouted again, and, just to show me that you were not afraid, you struck the floor again.

And I, I rushed at you, seized you by the arm so that you turned almost completely around, slapped you with a keen sense of satisfaction, and pushed you out of the room.

There’s figures for you!

IV

The pain of the blow, the sudden and sharp humiliation that struck your very heart in one of the most joyful moments of your childhood, caused you to set up such a dreadful cry, in such a high-pitched voice, that the best singer in the world would have envied the reach of your register. Then you were silent for a long time⁠ ⁠… But, filling your lungs with more air, you raised your voice to an even higher pitch, and the crying continued.

Gradually, the intervals between your high and your low notes began to decrease, and the cries followed each other in rapid succession. Then you began to call for help and, with a sense of painful pleasure, play the part of the dying.

“O⁠—oh, it hurts! Mamma, I’m dying!”

“Never mind, you won’t die,” said I coldly. “You’ll shout for a while, and then stop all right.”

You still kept it up. Our conversation was broken off, of course. I was beginning to feel ashamed of myself. I lit a cigarette, without lifting my eyes to where grandma was sitting. And suddenly, her lips began to shake, she turned her face towards the window, and began to drum on the table with a teaspoon.

“He’s an awfully spoiled child,” said your mother, trying to appear perfectly fair, and resuming her knitting. “Dreadfully spoiled.”

“Oh, grandma, grandma, dear!” you were crying in the meantime, appealing to your last refuge.

And grandma had the hardest time in the world trying to remain in her