Short Fiction - Ivan Bunin (fantasy novels to read .txt) 📗

hand and dragging the accordion by the other. His eyes were lowered, and he was all white, and he spoke meek-like, all acquiver:

“May your hands wither. What you’ve done is a sin, Nastiya.”

And that was all.⁠ ⁠… True, he was a peaceful one.

He was losing flesh at that time, not by the day but by the hour; and the doctor had already said that he wasn’t long for this world, that he was bound to die from a consumption. It made me shudder even as much as to touch him. But then a poor person ain’t got no call to be particular⁠—money can do anything, and so he started in to bribe me. Just as soon as everybody used to fall asleep, right off he’d call me to him⁠—either into the garden or into his room. (He lived apart from everybody, living downstairs; his room was large, warm, and yet bleak; all the windows looked out into the yard, the ceiling was low, the wall paper was old and brown.)

“You just sit with me a while,” he says, “and I’ll give you some money for that. I don’t want anything from you⁠—I have simply fallen in love with you, and want to be with you; these walls have near drove me crazy.”

Well, I’d take the money and sit for a while, and I got together about half a hundred in that way. And then I had about four hundred of wages and interest laid by. So, thinks I to myself, it’s about time now for me to be crawling out of the harness, bit by bit. But, to tell the honest truth, it was a pity to do so⁠—I wanted to bide my time for another year or so, to save up a little more. But the main thing was⁠—he had let it slip once when he was talking with me⁠—he had a little toy saving bank that he was keeping most secret⁠—he had gotten over two hundred roubles in trifling sums from his mother. Naturally, with him lying sick, always abed, and all alone, his mother would thrust the money upon him to cheer him up. But no matter how I tried not to, I still would think once in a while: “The Lord forgive my transgression, but it would be best if he gave that money to me! It’s of no use to him, anyway; he’s like to die at any moment; whereas I’d be well-fixed for all time with it.” I just waited to see how this business might be worked, as cleverly as possible. I became more kind to him, of course; began to sit with him more often. I used to come into his room, and then look over my shoulder on purpose, as though I had come in by stealth. I’d close the door and begin speaking in a low whisper:

“There now,” I’d say, “I’ve got away; let’s sit together like a lovin’ couple.”

Making believe, that is, like I had a meeting arranged with him, but that I was losing my courage, and yet at the same time was glad that I had got through with my work and could now be with him. Then I began to put on a weary air, to pretend I was in deep thought. And he was always trying to get the reason out of me:

“Nast, why have you grown so sad?”

“Oh, just so! I’ve got more than my share of trouble!”

And then I’d top that with a sigh, become quiet, and lean my cheek on my hand.

“But just what,” he’d say, “is the matter?”

“Well,” I says, “poor folks got a lot of things the matter with them, but who ever worries about them? I wouldn’t even want to bore you with them.”

Well, he guessed what was what pretty soon. He was clever, like I said⁠—he’d be a match even for a healthy person. One day I came into his room⁠—it was, as I remember even now, in mid-Lent; the weather was sort of gloomy, wet, with a fog outside; everybody in the house was sleeping after dinner. I come into his room with some needlework in my hands⁠—I was sewing something or other for myself; I sat down near his bed and was just wanting to heave a sigh, and again make believe I was aweary, and then start leading him on to my idea easy-like, when he starts in talking about it himself. I can see him right now, lying in his pink blouse⁠—brand new, never yet washed; in blue wide trousers; in new small boots with patent-leather tops; his legs laid one acrost the other, and him looking out of the corner of his eye. His sleeves was wide, the trousers wider still, and his little legs and arms like matchsticks; his head was heavy, big, and he were all little himself⁠—it even made a body unwell to see him. To look at him, he seemed a boy, yet his face was that of an old man, although it was somehow youngish at the same time⁠—that was on account of him being clean-shaved⁠—and he had a thick moustache. (Come to think of it, he shaved himself every day, that’s how fast his beard would grow; his hands looked like they was covered with tow, and the hair upon them was all red, too.) Well, as I was saying, he’s lying there, his hair parted on one side, his face turned toward the wall; he was picking at the wallpaper, and all of a sudden he says:

“Nast!”

I even shuddered all over.

“What is it, Nicanor Matveich?”

And meanwhile my own heart rolled up to my mouth.

“Do you know where my toy bank is lying?”

“No,” I says, “how should I know that, Nicanor Matveich? I never had no evil designs in my mind upon you.”

“Get up; draw out the bottom drawer in the wardrobe; take out the old accordion⁠—that’s where the toy bank is. Let me have it here.”

“But what do you want it for?”

“Just so⁠—I want to count the