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

The village of Khvoshchinskoë could already be seen beyond the forest. The hounds lost ground and at once grew quiet, trotting back in a businesslike manner; the forest gave way and again fields opened up ahead. Evening was coming on, and one could not determine now whether the storm-clouds, on three sides, were dispersing or encroaching. On the left was one almost black, with blue openings through which light showed; on the right, a hoary one, rumbling with ceaseless thunder; while toward the west, from Khvoshchinsky’s estate, from beyond the sloping hills over the river valley, was a turbidly blue one, with dusty streaks of rain through which could be seen the roseate mountains of clouds piled in the distance. But the rain was abating about the tarantass, and Ivlev, standing up, all bespattered with mud, threw back with pleasure the top, now grown heavy, and freely breathed in the fragrant dampness of the field.

He was looking at the approaching estate, was beholding, at last, that of which he had heard so much; but, even as formerly, it seemed to him that Lushka had lived and died not twenty years ago, but almost in times immemorial. Looking out over the bottomland, all trace of the shallow little river was lost in the lush vegetation, over which a white kingfisher was soaring. Further on, on a mound, lay rows of hay, grown dark from the rain; among them, far apart from one another, were spread out ancient silvery poplars. The house, rather a large one and at one time white, with its wet roof glistening, stood upon an absolutely bare spot. There was neither garden, nor any outbuildings around it⁠—only two pillars of brick in lieu of gates, and with burdocks growing in the ditches. When the horses had crossed the little river by a ford and had gone up the hill, some woman, in a man’s summer overcoat with its pockets hanging down, was driving a few turkey hens through the burdocks. The façade of the house was unusually bleak; it had few windows, and all of them were small, and set within thick walls. But then, the sombre front entrances were enormous. From one of them a young man in the gray blouse of a high school student, belted with a broad strap, was looking with wonder at the arrivals; he was black-haired, with handsome eyes, and of very pleasing appearance, although his face was pale, and as spotted with freckles as a bird’s egg.

It was necessary to explain the visit in some way. Having climbed up to the entrance and given his name, Ivlev said that he wanted to see, and perhaps to buy, the library that, so the countess had said, had been left by the deceased. And the young man, flushing deeply and pulling down his blouse from behind, at once led him into the house. “So this, then, is the son of the famous Lushka!” reflected Ivlev, throwing a rapid glance at everything that met his eyes. He looked back frequently and said anything that came to mind first, just so as to have an additional glance at the master of the house, who appeared too youthful for his years. The latter answered hurriedly, but monosyllabically; he was evidently confused both by his bashfulness and his greed. That he was fearfully glad over the possibility of selling the books, and that he had conceived the notion of not parting with them at a cheap price, was apparent from his very first words, from that awkward hastiness with which he announced that books such as those in his possession could not be gotten for any amount of money. Through the half-dark entry, which was spread with straw rusty from dampness, he led Ivlev into a large anteroom.

“So this is where your father lived?” asked Ivlev, entering and taking off his hat.

“Yes, yes⁠—here,” the young man hastened to answer. “That is, of course, not just here⁠ ⁠… for they used to sit in the bedroom most of all⁠ ⁠… but, of course, they came here also.⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, I know⁠—for he was ill,” said Ivlev.

The young man flared up.

“That is, ill in what way?” he said, and manlier notes sounded in his voice. “That’s all gossip; he was not at all ailing mentally⁠ ⁠… he simply read all the time, and did not go out anywhere, that is all.⁠ ⁠… But no, don’t you take your hat off, please⁠—it’s very cold here, for we don’t live in this half of the building.⁠ ⁠…”

True, it was far chillier in the house than it was out in the air. In the dismal anteroom, its walls pasted with newspapers, upon the sill of a window, dismal from the storm clouds, was standing a quail cage made out of bast. A little gray bag was hopping over the floor of its own volition. Bending down, the young man captured it and put it down on a bench, and Ivlev understood that there was a quail imprisoned in the little bag. They next entered the parlour. This room, with its windows toward the west and toward the north, took up almost half the entire house. Through one window, against the gold of the evening glow that showed through the clearing clouds, could be seen a century-old weeping birch tree, all black; through the remaining window, a tall, withering acacia tree. The front corner was taken up by a shrine without glass, with images standing and hanging within it; among them stood out, both by its great size and its antiquity, one trimmed with silver, and upon this image, their wax gleaming yellow like dead flesh, were lying wedding candles tied with pale-green bows.

“Pardon me, please,” Ivlev was about to ask, overcoming his scruples, “but, did your father really.⁠ ⁠…”

“No, that’s just so,” mumbled the young man, instantly grasping his meaning. “He bought these candles after her death already.⁠ ⁠… And he even wore a wedding ring all the