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

“Gautami!” spake he to her. “I see thee not but I feel thy approach. Gautami, may thy path be blessed!”

And she kissed the knee of the beggar and went on upon her way; and upon her way, in the hot, sun-filled groves, among the satin trees, she did give birth to her child before its time.

And blissfully, having rested with tears of happiness after her sore travail, she returned with the child in her arms into the palace of the prince and gave full rein to her ceaseless ecstasy and tender delight, to an emotion of bodily love for the newborn, to the delectable disquiet of seeing, scenting, touching, and pressing to her bosom this growing being, that with every day became more and more awake to thought and consciousness.

“My soul hath recalled thee!”⁠—these words had not been uttered by the prince to Gautami when he had become as one with her, even though she had been dear to him, even though they had borne her to the palace of the king with music, upon bullocks adorned with ribbands and flowers, having arrayed her as for a bridal, dressing her black hair smoothly, putting rouge on her cheeks, and blackening her eyelashes with kohl.

And Gautami, having given birth to the child, received submissively the youth’s having grown cold toward her, and removed herself from his sight, that he might not feel troubled and guilty upon meeting her by chance.

And, remaining within the enclosure of the palace, she settled in a simple hut on the banks of the ponds, taking upon herself the duty of feeding the swans that swam in those ponds among the grasses and flowers.

And for a time she was happy, preparing, without herself knowing it, for those great sorrows which were destined to come in ordained replacement of this happiness, and to put her upon the sole true path, into the society of the religious brotherhood of those that go clad in yellow.

Blessed are the meek at heart, who have riven their chain.

In an abode of the highest joy do we dwell, who love nothing in this universe, and like to a bird are we, that beareth nothing with it but its wings.

October 7th, 19⁠—

On this picture postcard with a grand and gloomy view of the shores of the Atlantic by moonlight, I hasten to write my warm thanks to you for your last book. This place⁠—my adopted country⁠—is the furthest point on the west coast of Great Britain, so you see from how very far one of your unknown friends sends you greetings. Be happy and God keep you.

October 8th.

Here is another view of the desolate country where I am destined to live for the rest of my life.

Yesterday in a terrible downpour of rain⁠—it is always raining here I went to the town on business; I happened to buy your book and was reading it all the way back to the house where we have been living for the last year on account of my health. It was almost dark with the rain and the clouds, the colour of the flowers and the trees in the garden was unusually bright, the empty train rushed along throwing out violent sparks and I read on and on feeling almost painfully happy, I do not know why.

Goodbye, thank you again. There is something else I want to tell you, but what? I do not know, I cannot define it.

October 10th.

I cannot resist writing to you again. I expect you receive too many letters of this sort. But then they are the response of those very minds for whom you produce your work⁠—so why shouldn’t I write? You were the first to communicate with me by publishing your book, for everyone⁠—and therefore for me⁠—to read.

Today, too, it has been raining ever since the morning; our garden is almost unnaturally green and it is half dark in my room; I have had a fire all day. There is much I would like to tell you, but you know better than anyone how difficult, almost impossible, it is to express oneself! I am still under the impression of something insoluble, incomprehensible, but beautiful which I owe to you⁠—tell me, what is this feeling? What is it people experience when they surrender themselves to the influence of art? Is it the fascination of human skill and power? Is it the longing for personal happiness⁠—a longing that is never extinguished in us and becomes particularly intense when something affects our senses⁠—music, poetry, visual image, a scent? Or is it the joy of recognizing the divine beauty of the human soul, revealed to us by a few such as you, who remind one that this divine beauty does, after all, exist? It often happens to me to read something⁠—even something horrible and suddenly to say to myself, “Oh, how beautiful it is!” What does this mean? Perhaps it means that life is beautiful, in spite of all.

Goodbye, I will soon write to you again. I do not think there is anything improper in this, writing to authors is quite a recognized thing, isn’t it? Besides, you need not read my letters⁠ ⁠… though, of course, I should be grieved if you did not.