Short Fiction

I

My dear boy, when you grow up will you remember how, one winter evening, you came into the dining room, stopped on the threshold, for it was after one of our quarrels, and lowered your eyes with such a sad expression on your face?

I must tell you that you were dreadfully mischievous at that age. You never knew when to stop once you became excited over something. Sometimes you would give us no rest with your incessant running about the house. And yet I know of nothing that would be more touching than the sight of you, when, weary with your racing about, you would become quiet, walk around a little, and then come to me and put your little head against my shoulder, an expression of complete loneliness on your face! And if it happened to be right after a quarrel, did I say but one caressing word to you, what didn’t you do with my heart? How you threw yourself on my neck, how you kissed me, full of that absolute loyalty, of that passionate tenderness, of which only children are capable!

But this time it was too great a quarrel.

Do you remember that on that evening you did not even approach me?

“Good night, uncle,” you said quietly, and made a very ceremonious bow.

Of course, after all your misdeeds you wished to appear particularly well-bred and polite. Your old nurse had taught you that ceremonious bow as the only sign of politeness and good manners known to her. And, in order to regain my goodwill, you decided to use good manners as your last resort. And I understood all this, and hastened to reply as if nothing had happened between us, though rather reservedly,

“Good night.”

But could you be satisfied with a peace like this? And you were too young then to be a hypocrite. Having suffered through your sorrow, your heart again turned passionately to the dream that had been fascinating you all day. And in the evening, when the dream again overpowered you, you forgot completely your former resentment, and your self-love, and your firm decision to hate me all your life. You were silent for a moment, then, suddenly, you began to speak hurriedly and excitedly.

“Uncle, please forgive me … I’ll never do it again … And please show me the figures, after all! Please!”

Could anyone be slow in responding to such an appeal? Yet, I delayed my response. You can see what a wise uncle I am.

II

That morning you awoke with a new thought, a new dream, that overmastered your whole soul.

You were suddenly filled with an ambition to taste of pleasures heretofore unknown: to own your own books with pictures, your own pen-case, your own colored pencils—there was no question about their being colored—to learn how to read, draw, make figures. All this was to be acquired immediately, that very day. The moment you opened your eyes, you called me into your room and began to beg me to subscribe to a magazine for children, to buy you books, pencils, paper, and to begin immediately to teach you figures.

“But this is a holiday, everything is closed,” said I, knowing perfectly well that I lied, but trying to postpone the matter until the evening or the next day; for I had not the slightest desire of going to the city.

But you began to shake your head.

“It isn’t a holiday, at all!” You almost screamed this, raising your eyebrows. “I know it isn’t a holiday.”

“But I’m telling you it is.”

“And I know that it isn’t. Now, please!”

“If you are going to bother me like this,” said I sternly and firmly, as all uncles say to children on such occasions, “if you are going to bother me, I won’t buy you anything at all.”

You became thoughtful.

“Well,” said you with a sigh, “if it’s a holiday, let it be a holiday. But what about the figures?” This was said in a much calmer tone. “You can show me the figures on a holiday, can’t you?”

“No, he can’t,” said grandma. “A policeman will come and arrest you. Stop bothering your uncle.”

“That isn’t it at all,” said I to grandma. “Only, I don’t want to do it now. I’ll do it tonight, or tomorrow.”

“No, you’ll do it now.”

“I don’t want to do it now. I said tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes, you said tomorrow. And tomorrow you’ll tell me the same thing. No, do it now.”

My heart was whispering to me that I was committing a great sin, for I was depriving you of happiness, of joy … But a wise principle came into my head: it is harmful to let children have their own way. And I answered sternly:

“Tomorrow. I said tomorrow, and it’s going to be tomorrow.”

“Well, all right uncle,” said you in a threatening tone. “You’ll remember this.”

Then you began to dress rapidly. And as soon as you were dressed, and said the prayers with grandma, and swallowed down a cup of milk, you rushed into the sitting room. A moment later we already heard the rumbling of overturned chairs and your loud shouts …

All day we could not get you to quiet down. You hardly ate anything at lunch time, sitting restlessly in your chair, swinging your feet, and regarding me all the time with your strangely shining eyes.

“Will you show it to me?” you asked several times.

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“Fine! Why doesn’t that tomorrow come quickly? Why doesn’t it come?”

But your joy, mingled with impatience, made you more and more excited. And in the afternoon, when your mother, grandma, and I sat down to tea, you found another way of giving vent to your emotions.