The Crushed Flower and Other Stories | Page 8

louder in order to divert any suspicion. But he did not go to her arms; he clung more closely to father, so that father had to carry him into his room. But it seemed that he himself did not want to part with Yura. As soon as he carried him out of the room where the guests were he began to kiss him, and he repeated:
"Oh, my dearest! Oh, my dearest!"
And he said to mamma, who walked behind him:
"Just think of the boy!"
Mamma said:
"That is all due to your whist. You were scolding each other so, that the child was frightened."
Father began to laugh, and answered:
"Yes, he does scold harshly. But Yura, oh, what a dear boy!"
In his room Yura demanded that father himself undress him. "Now, you are getting cranky," said father. "I don't know how to do it; let mamma undress you."
"But you stay here."
Mamma had deft fingers and she undressed him quickly, and while she was removing his clothes Yura held father by the hand. He ordered the nurse out of the room; but as father was beginning to grow angry, and he might guess what had happened in the arbour, decided to let him go. But while kissing him he said cunningly:
"He will not scold you any more, will he?"
Papa smiled. Then he laughed, kissed Yura once more and said:
"No, no. And if he does I will throw him across the fence."
"Please, do," said Yura. "You can do it. You are so strong."
"Yes, I am pretty strong. But you had better sleep! Mamma will stay here with you a while."
Mamma said:
"I will send the nurse in. I must attend to the supper."
Father shouted:
"There is plenty of time for that! You can stay a while with the child."
But mamma insisted:
"We have guests! We can't leave them that way."
But father looked at her steadfastly, and shrugged his shoulders. Mamma decided to stay.
"Very well, then, I'll stay here. But see that Maria does not mix up the wines."
Usually it was thus: when mamma sat near Yura as he was falling asleep she held his hand until the last moment--that is what she usually did. But now she sat as though she were all alone, as though Yura, her son, who was falling asleep, was not there at all--she folded her hands in her lap and looked into the distance. To attract her attention Yura stirred, but mamma said briefly:
"Sleep."
And she continued to look. But when Yura's eyes had grown heavy and he was falling asleep with all his sorrow and his tears, mamma suddenly went down on her knees before the little bed and kissed Yura firmly many, many times. But her kisses were wet--hot and wet.
"Why are your kisses wet? Are you crying?" muttered Yura.
"Yes, I am crying."
"You must not cry."
"Very well, I won't," answered mother submissively.
And again she kissed him firmly, firmly, frequently, frequently. Yura lifted both hands with a heavy movement, clasped his mother around the neck and pressed his burning cheek firmly to her wet and cold cheek. She was his mother, after all; there was nothing to be done. But how painful; how bitterly painful!

A STORY WHICH WILL NEVER BE FINISHED

Exhausted with the painful uncertainty of the day, I fell asleep, dressed, on my bed. Suddenly my wife aroused me. In her hand a candle was flickering, which appeared to me in the middle of the night as bright as the sun. And behind the candle her chin, too, was trembling, and enormous, unfamiliar dark eyes stared motionlessly.
"Do you know," she said, "do you know they are building barricades on our street?"
It was quiet. We looked straight into each other's eyes, and I felt my face turning pale. Life vanished somewhere and then returned again with a loud throbbing of the heart. It was quiet and the flame of the candle was quivering, and it was small, dull, but sharp-pointed, like a crooked sword.
"Are you afraid?" I asked.
The pale chin trembled, but her eyes remained motionless and looked at me, without blinking, and only now I noticed what unfamiliar, what terrible eyes they were. For ten years I had looked into them and had known them better than my own eyes, and now there was something new in them which I am unable define. I would have called it pride, but there was something different in them, something new, entirely new. I took her hand; it was cold. She grasped my hand firmly and there was something new, something I had not known before, in her handclasp.
She had never before clasped my hand as she did this time.
"How long?" I asked.
"About an hour already. Your brother has gone away. He was apparently afraid that you would not let him go, so he went away quietly. But I saw it."
It was true then; the time