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

edge of the road, and would place his tremblng, cold paws upon his staff. He was without a hat; the wind tangled up his gray, shaggy locks, his gray beard⁠—the beard of a muzhik Job. He was barefooted, in short drawers of striped ticking, in a long blouse filthy from cinders and the rubbish of the oven. His legs were black and thin, his torso huge and emaciated. Those whom he had regaled and lectured at one time now rode past him. And Roman⁠—it was not for nothing that Shasha had sprung from his loins⁠—even rejoiced that folks saw him in poverty, in disgrace, and he bowed to the ground before them. And of evenings he would stand in the dark hut before a little painted board hung up in a corner, and with heavy sighs bowed before it still lower then he did before men, saying his prayers now in a whisper, now loudly⁠—warmly and grievously thanking God for all that He had visited upon him, a miserable, stricken old man.⁠ ⁠… Shasha, now, enjoyed his humiliation in a gayer fashion, in low-down inns, in low-down pothouses, drinking away the last scanty remnants of their former prosperity, and paying for his long tongue by being beaten.⁠ ⁠…

Then, from his twenty-fifth year on, his beatings became regular, administered to him upon a previously designated day; and no longer was he beaten the way his father used to beat him; he was beaten with heels now, until he would lose consciousness.

The soldier’s wife remained faithful to the house of Roman. She also moved to the mill. And when Roman died⁠—oh, how proud (with a malignantly joyous pride) Shasha was over this calamity⁠—she passed into Shasha’s hands openly. But in the meanwhile her lawful husband had come home from service. She was as needful to him as snow in the summertime; but nevertheless he held it to be his most sacred duty and his inalienable right to avenge his sullied honour. And he ingeniously timed this revenge with the day of the folk-festival at Limovo.

Every year, on the fifteenth of July, on a great holiday popularly called the Kiriki, a fair is held in Limovo. Rain pours down in chill torrents; one is reminded of the summer only by the rooks in the fields, by the height and the density of the grains and the grasses, and also by the skylarks, that sing above them in the rain and are blown aslant by the wind. But on the common at Limovo a little nomadic city of tents is already springing up. The traders from the city have arrived⁠—and it is an unaccustomed, strange sight to see in the settlement these city people, in their long-skirted coats. In building upon the common, and making it congested, they have changed the simple village picture with their thronging, their big, strong carts laden with goods; together with these goods they have brought the atmosphere of an Asiatic bazaar; their samovars smoke, and their braziers emit the fumes of frying mutton.⁠ ⁠… On the fifteenth, since the early morn, they are already standing behind their counters; while the muzhiks with their women-folk and little ones keep on streaming in, flocking from all directions toward the village; they have dammed up the common so that there isn’t room for a pin to fall. And above all this swarming, babel, hubbub, and creak of carts, booms the festal pealing of bells, summoning to mass.

To the sound of these bells, in full view of all the folks riding through the dirty by-lane that leads past the windmill, Shasha is standing nigh his threshold; his belt is loose, and, bending downward, he holds a wooden vessel with water in one hand and with the other hand, which is wet, he is rubbing his bearded, pockmarked face, all puffy from sleep. How little does this thickset muzhik in broken boots resemble the former Shasha! He appears calmer than before, yet still more morose. His hair is fearfully thick even now, but it is already shaggy, like a muzhik’s. Having washed himself, he tears his hair apart with a wooden comb, combs out his tangled round beard, clears his throat hoarsely, and eyes his little mirror askance⁠—eyes his broad, porous face, with the squashed nose. He hasn’t forgotten that he looks like a hangman. And really, he does look like one⁠—especially now. Having combed himself, he puts on a blouse that he saves for gala occasions⁠—it is of red calico, and its dye will come off on his body when he will begin to perspire. On week days he becomes stultified from ennui, from oversleeping, from the fact that no one any longer pays any attention to him, or listens to him; his boasting about his former state, his hints about that which was supposed to lurk within his soul, and his foul tattling about his runaway wife, have all long since palled upon everybody. But today is a holiday; today people would look with curiosity upon him, the erstwhile man of wealth now walking around on his uppers; today he would be playing before an enormous crowd, today he would be fearfully beaten⁠—beaten until he would lose conscience⁠—right before the eyes of all this crowd.⁠ ⁠… And lo, he is already entering into his role; he is already excited; his jaws are tightly clenched; his eyebrows are distorted.⁠ ⁠… Having togged himself out, he puts on a rusty cap, and, with a constrained step, resolutely and steadily sets out for the village.

The strangest part of all is the piety with which he begins this day. He goes directly toward the church, and, without looking at anybody, but with all his being feeling upon him the eyes of everybody surrounding him, he bows and makes the sign of the cross with all his might. In the church he shoves his way to the very ambo, where at one time he had had his own rightful place, and at that moment he is filled to the marrow of