Short Fiction, Ivan Bunin [reading women .TXT] 📗
- Author: Ivan Bunin
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“Why,” he says, “you ain’t worth one of her fingernails!”
How was that? Good, eh? He jumped up, yelling till it didn’t sound like his own voice, slammed the door like thunder—and off with him. But I, even though I was no great hand at crying, just went off into tears. I cry one day, I cry another—I had only to think of the words he could find the heart to say to me, and off I’d go. I cry, but I keep one thing in mind—I would never forgive him such an insult till the end of time, and I would drive him off entirely. … But all this time he don’t come home. I hear he’s carrying on a feast at her house, dancing and prancing, drinking through the money he had stolen, and threatening me: “Never mind,” he says, “I’ll settle her; I’ll lay in wait till she’ll be going somewhere in the evening; and I’ll kill her with a stone.” He sends to the store to buy things—to make fun of me, of course; now for ginger cookies, now for herrings. I just quiver all over from vexation, but I hold myself in and give what’s wanted. One day I’m sitting in the store, when suddenly he comes in himself, drunk as a lord. He brings in some herrings—a little wench had bought four of them that morning for his money, of course—and slap with them down on the counter!
“How dare you,” he yells, “send such abominable stuff to your customers? They smell; they’re only fit for dogs to eat!”
He’s yelling, with his nostrils all puffed out—looking for an excuse.
“Don’t you be raising no rumpus here,” I says, “and don’t be yelling; I don’t make the herrings myself, but buy them by the barrel. If you don’t like them, don’t guzzle them—here’s your money back.”
“But what if I had ate them and died?”
“Again,” I says, “you’re swine, and ain’t got no call to be yelling at me—who are you to be giving me orders? Guess you ain’t such a much. You ought to speak decent-like, and not be crowding in with a row into somebody else’s establishment.”
But all on a sudden he grabbed hold of a steelyard off a bin and sort of hisses out:
“I’ll swat you over the head,” he says, “so’s you’ll stretch right out!”
And then he ran out of the shop with all his might. But I, the way I had sat down on the floor, that’s the way I stayed—I just couldn’t get up. …
Then, I hear that they done for him—the Lord had punished him on account of his mother! He was barely alive when they brought him in a cab—unconscious drunk, his head bobbing, his hair caked with blood and covered with dust; his boots and watch had been stolen, his new jacket was all in tatters—there wasn’t as much as a square inch of whole cloth left anywhere. … I figured and I figured—take him in I did, and I even paid the cabby; but that very same day I sends my compliments to Nikolai Ivannich, and say that he be told for sure that he shouldn’t be worried any more over anything; that I had decided about my son, now—I would drive him out without any pity right off when he would wake up. He also sends back his compliments and bids them say: “Very wisely and well done, accept my thanks and sympathy …” and two weeks later he set the date for the wedding. Yes. …
Well, that’s enough; that’s where my story ends. Guess there’s nothing more, to tell about. I’ve gotten along so well with my husband all my days, that it’s just like a rarity nowadays. As I’m saying, what I went through whilst I was struggling to get into this heaven can’t be told in words! But, truth to tell, the Lord hath rewarded me—it is now the twenty-first year that I’m living with my little old man, fenced about as with a stone wall, and I know for sure that he wouldn’t let nothing or nobody hurt me; it’s only to look at him that he’s so quiet! But, of course, no matter how I try, the heart will start yearning once in a while! Especially before Easter, in Lent, for some reason or other. I think I could die now—it’s fine, peaceful; they’ll be after reading litanies in all the churches. … True, I’ve had enough of toiling and moiling in my time—oh, but Nastasiya Semenovna was the persistent one! Ought I, with my mind, to be sitting on the outskirts of a town? My husband calls me Skobele,3 as it is. … Again, once in a while I get to longing for Vanniya. Never a bit of news about him in twenty years. Maybe he’s died long since, but I don’t know about it. I even felt sorry for him that time they brought him in. We dragged him in, and got him up into bed—he slept like he was dead the livelong day. I’d climb up, and listen to his breathing—to see if he was alive, now. … And in the room there was a sour stench of some sort; he’s lying in bed, all tattered, chewed-up, snoring and gagging. … It was a shame and a pity to look at him, and yet it was my own flesh and blood! I’d look and I’d look, and I’d listen—and then walk out. And what an anguish seized hold on me! I forced myself to sup, cleared away the table, put out the light. … Can’t sleep, and that’s all there is to it—I just lie there and shiver. … And it was one moonlit night. Then I hear
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