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

the mountains of Moab, he did look, and beheld not his shadow upon the white stones nigh him. And he was seized with a fit of trembling from fear, and his head was confused, like that of a man that is fever-stricken. Thereupon he did go toward his tent, with the steps of a wounded beast advancing upon its adversary. And he girt a sword about him, and did command food to be brought to him. And he did eat much thereof, full greedily, till that he was sated. And he did feel aches and nausea, as though from poison, as though from the fruit plucked from the tree of hell; and he did wax green in the face, and was bathed in sweat, even as a woman in travail; and he did lie down upon the ground, crying out wildly: “Behold, I am dying⁠—bare your swords and arise in my defense!” Thus did he cry out upon the first day. On the second, his aches did wax greater, and he began to implore, moaning and wrathful: “Summon a physician for me!” But when the physician had revealed his impotence, and the third day had come, the prophet uttered low: “Oh, have mercy upon me! Death is unconquerable!” And he did grow weaker, and fell into a slumber, and did sleep through all the day, and his aches did depart from him. And, having come to, he beheld that it was already night and that he was alone, and again did he feel the delight of living, and the sorrow of parting with life. Whereupon two dark angels did enter in to him, that they might console and prepare him.

One sat down at the head of the couch; the other, at the feet of the prophet. “Speak!” said they. But he kept silent and made no reply to them, for he was in deep thought. He gazed out into the night, beyond the raised side of the tent, sensing their presence with dread, for truth had not yet entered within all his veins. And it was so quiet in the tent and the desert that all the three could hear the rustling of the hot wind as it swept by in the darkness. And the stars were flaming sombrely, as on all sultry nights.

“God is compassionate to all His creatures,” spake the angel who was sitting at the head of the prophet’s couch.

“Yet here is a man in torment; he was dying, and is dying now,” spake the angel sitting at the prophet’s feet.

They wanted to test the prophet, but he understood this. And he made answer, in his thoughts:

“This was not death, but an illness, a chastisement. Is it not better to think thus? For he that hath tasted of death cannot speak about it. We know not what it is.”

“The sun is the source of life,” spake the angel sitting at the head of the couch.

“But then, it is also as deadly as the horned viper,” spake the angel seated opposite him.

They wanted to test the prophet, but he understood this. And he made answer, in his thoughts:

“We do not know God’s purpose. But He is benign, and His purpose also is benign. Is it not better to think thus? Man ought to dedicate his every moment to life, recalling death only that he may weigh all his deeds upon its scales, and that he may meet the inevitable hour without fear. How would he that trades know that he is dealing fairly with him that buys, how would he know that he is giving him that which is his due, if there were no scales? How would a man spend his day, if his heart were never to be forsaken by indignation over the thought that the sun would sink at its wonted hour, and if he were to be possessed with the desire of preventing it? He would be insane and futile.”

“The slumber of the dead is sweet,” spake the angel sitting at the head of the couch.

“But, just now, a man has died in the camp of the Hebrews⁠—happy, young, beloved,” spake the angel seated opposite him. “Just hearken: there is the rustle of the hot wind; the stars flame sombrely; and the hyenas whine and whimper in their evil joy, hurriedly digging open the grave, sniffing its stench and anticipating the devouring of his entrails. But the sorrow of the dead man’s near ones is more dreadful than the grave itelf.”

They wanted to test the prophet, and they did succeed in wounding his heart with the last. But, in his thoughts, he spake to them:

“I am recalling every moment of my life; every moment of my sweet childhood, my joyous youth, my laborious manhood⁠—and I lament them. Ye speak of the grave⁠—and my hands grow chill from fear. I beseech ye⁠—console me not, for consolation depriveth one of courage. I beseech ye⁠—remind me not of the flesh, for it will turn to corruption. Is it not better to think otherwise? Even his halting place, in a vale sheltered from the winds, where he may have passed but a day, a man will abandon with regret; but it is his duty to go on, if to go on be necessary. Speaking with dread of the grave, are we not speaking in the words of the ancients, that knew the flesh, but knew not God and the immortality of souls? Dreadful is the majesty of the deeds of God. Do we not mistake this dread for the dread of death? Say ye to yourselves more often: ‘The hour of death is not as dreadful as we deem it. Else, neither the universe nor man could exist.’ ”

“He is a sage,” spake the angel sitting at the head of the couch.

“He was refractory and arrogant,” spake the angel seated opposite the first. “He dreamed of wrestling with God⁠—and now he shall be punished anew: never a mortal shall point to his grave in the mountains of Moab. And