Short Fiction, Ivan Bunin [reading women .TXT] 📗

“I will try,” she says.

“But then, somehow a body can’t see you trying. Instead of trying, you always stick at home evening after evening. It’s no use,” I says, “to be placing your hopes on Chaikin.”

“I will try. It makes me conscience-struck, just to hear you.”

“A-ah!” I says, “what a conscience you must have, to be sure!”

She’ll try and she’ll try⁠—but there was no trying of any sort, if the truth be told. She did try to get around Chaikin but he wouldn’t even as much as look at her. Then I see that she’s going after my boy. No matter when I look, he’s always hanging around her. All of a sudden, he gets a notion of getting a new jacket.

“Oh, no,” I says, “you’ll wait a while! As it is, I’m dressing you like any fine young gentleman; now it’s boots, now it’s a cap. I, now, used to deny myself everything, used to figure every copper as a gold piece, yet I’d supply you with everything.”

“I’m not a bad-looker,” says he.

“You daft loon,” says I, “what am I to do, sell the house, or something, on account of your good looks?”

I notice that my business is getting poorer. I started having shortages, losses. I’d sit down to drink my tea⁠—and even that had lost its taste for me. I started in to watch. I’d be sitting in the dram shop, and yet be listening all the time⁠—I’d put my ear to the partition, without stirring, and listen. I’d hear them rumbling one day, I’d hear them rumbling the next.⁠ ⁠… I begun scolding him about it.

“And what business is that of yours?” he says. “Maybe I want to marry her.”

“So that’s how⁠—it’s none of your own mother’s business! I see your intention long since,” I says, “only this is never going to be in this eternity.”

“She’s mad in love with me; you can’t understand her; she is tender and shy.”

“A fine love you can expect,” I says, “from a deboshed slut like that! She’s making fun of you, you fool,” I says. “She’s got the bad disease,” I says, “all her legs is covered with sores.”

He seemed turned to stone for a while; his eyes was all puckered up, like he was looking at the bridge of his nose, and he kept silent. “Well,” thinks I, “glory be to the Lord, I got him in the right spot.” But still, I was frightened to death: it was plain to be seen, you understand, that the poor fellow had fallen hard. “So that means,” thinks I, “that I must finish her off as fast as I can.” I take counsel with my gossip, and with Chaikin. “Tell me, now, what am I to do with them?” “Why,” they say, “catch them on the spot, of course, and throw them out⁠—and there’s the long and the short of it.” And here is what they thought up. I made believe I was going out calling. I went away, walked for some time through the streets, and about six o’clock⁠—when Chaikin was relieved, that is⁠—I set out for home, soft and easy. I run up and push the door⁠—just as I thought, it was locked. I knock⁠—no answer. And Chaikin was already standing around the corner. Then I started knocking on the windows, until the panes jarred. Suddenly the latch clicks⁠—and Vanniya comes out. He’s as white as chalk. I hit him on the shoulder with all my might⁠—and go straight into the room. And there is was just like a feast had been laid out⁠—empty beer bottles; weak table wine; sardines; a large herring, all cleaned, as rosy as amber⁠—everything from the store. Phenka was sitting on a chair, with a blue ribbon in her braid. Soon as she saw me, she jumped up, staring at me with all her eyes; she was all white, and her very lips had turned blue from fear⁠—she thought I’d go for her, to beat her. But I just says, natural-like⁠—although I could scarcely breath; I was throwing my shawl open, and then muffling myself up again, by turns:

“What have you got here?” I says; “is it a bethrothal, or something? Or is it somebody’s birthday? Well, why don’t you welcome a body, why don’t you treat me to something?”

They don’t say a word.

“Well,” I says, “why don’t you say something? Why don’t you speak, little son? Is that the kind of a host you are, my pet? So that’s where my hard-earned money flies away, I see!”

He even got his dander up:

“I am of full age myself!”

“So-o,” I says, “and what about me? That means that I’m to rent a hutch or something from your grace and this here little bitch? To get out of my own house? Is that it, eh, So I’ve warmed a viper in my bosom, have I?”

And then he starts yelling at me!

“You have no right to insult her! You have been young yourself at one time⁠—you ought to understand what love is!”

And Chaikin, the minute he heard that uproar, was right there: he jumped in without a word, grabbed Vannka by the shoulders, and straight into a lumber room with him, under lock and key. (An awful strong man, he was⁠—like a bandit or something!) He turns the key on him, and says to Phenka:

“You are listed as a miss, but I can make a wolf out of you!”

(Meaning he’d make a note on her passport that would make her hounded like a wolf.)

“Do you want me to do that,” he says, “or don’t you? Vacate this room for us this very day, so’s there won’t be even a whiff of you left!”

She went into tears. But I added something on top of that.

“Let her first get the money what’s coming to me!” I says. “Or else I won’t even let her take away the least little lousy trunk of hers. Let her get my money ready, or I’ll let the whole town know about her!”

Well, so