SUNSTROKE

translated and introduced by Robert Chandler

The first published works by Ivan Alekseyevich Bunin (1870-1953) were in verse, but he soon became better known for his prose; his models were Pushkin, Tolstoy and Chekhov. He left Russia in 1920 and settled in France, remaining fiercely hostile to the Soviet regime. In 1933 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.

In his autobiographical novel Life of Arseniev (written 1930-39), Bunin wrote of himself as a young man: 'My sight was so good that I could see all seven stars of the Pleiades; I could hear the whistle of a marmot over half a mile away in the evening fields, and the smell of a lily of the valley or an old book could make me drunk.' His mature prose is sensual, musical and perfectly controlled. He claimed that prose, like verse, 'must be in a definite key'; he also spoke about the need to establish 'the general resonance' of a work.

Bunin was first translated into English as early as 1916, and was admired by such writers as Katherine Mansfield, Virginia and Leonard Woolf and D. H. Lawrence. During the second half of the twentieth century, however, he was somewhat forgotten in the English-speaking world - perhaps because his best stories are very hard to translate, perhaps because, during the Cold War, it seemed more important to try to understand the Soviet Union than to read the work of émigrés. 

'Sunstroke' (1925) is unusually vivid; Andrey Tarkovsky said several times that he wanted to make it into a film. Although the story seems tragic, its overall effect - like that of most of Bunin's greatest work - is one of joy and wonder.

*

After dinner they left the bright hot lights of the dining room, went out onto the deck and stood by the rail. She closed her eyes, laid the back of her hand against her cheek, laughed her unaffected, charming laugh - everything about this petite woman was charming - and said, 'I seem to be drunk. Where did you spring from? Three hours ago I didn't even suspect you existed. I don't even know where you came on board. Samara? But still... Is it my head going round or are we changing course?'

Ahead lay darkness and lights. Out of the darkness a strong soft wind was blowing into their faces while the lights went rushing by, now somewhere off to one side; the steamer, with true Volga panache, had swung into a wide arc as it approached a small landing stage.
 
The lieutenant took her hand and lifted it to his lips. The hand, small and strong, smelled of warm sun. Blissfully, fearfully, his heart missed a beat as he thought how strong and tanned all of her must be, under her light gingham dress, after a whole month of lying under a southern sun, on hot sea sand (she had told him she was on her way back from Anapa). The lieutenant muttered: 'Let's get off...'
 
'Where?' she asked in surprise.
 
'At this landing stage.'
 
'Why?'
 
He remained silent. Again she laid the back of her hand against her hot cheek.
 
'This is madness.'
 
'Let's get off,' he repeated blankly. 'I beg you...'
 
'Oh... whatever you like,' she sighed, turning away.
 
The steamer's momentum carried it with a soft thud against the dimly lit landing stage, and they almost fell on top of one another. Over their heads flew the end of a cable, the steamer moved back, water churned noisily, the gangplank rattled... The lieutenant rushed off to collect their things.
 
Within a minute they had walked through the sleepy little ticket office, stepped out into hub-deep sand, and sat down, without a word, in a dusty cab. The gradual climb up the hill, past occasional crooked lamp posts, along a road soft with dust, seemed endless. But now at last they were at the top, clattering over cobblestones -- here was a square of some kind, public buildings, an observation tower, all the warmth and smells of a provincial town on a summer night. The driver stopped by a lighted entrance beyond whose open doors could be seen an old wooden staircase, climbing steeply up; an old unshaven footman in a pink Russian shirt and a frock coat grumpily took their things and went on ahead on his worn-out legs. They entered a large but terribly airless room, still burning hot from the day's sun, with white curtains over the windows and two unused candles on the dressing table - and as soon as they were inside and the footman had closed the door, the lieutenant rushed at her so impetuously and they were drawn into so breathless a kiss that they went on remembering this moment for many years - a moment the like of which neither of them had ever known or would ever know again.
 
At ten o'clock in the morning - a hot, sunny, happy morning, with pealing church bells, with a market on the square in front of the hotel, with a smell of hay and tar and, once again, all the powerful complex smells to be smelt in a Russian provincial town - she, this petite nameless woman who jokingly referred to herself as 'the beautiful stranger' and never did tell him her name, went on her way. They had slept little but, when she emerged from behind the screen by the bed, after taking five minutes to wash and get dressed, she was as fresh as if she were seventeen. Was she embarrassed? No, hardly at all. As before, she was straightforward and cheerful; and now, she was sensible too.
 
'No, no, my dear,' she answered when he asked if they could travel on together. 'No, you must wait for the next steamer. If we go on together, everything will be spoiled. I should hate that. I'm not at all what you may have thought me to be -- I give you my word of honour. Nothing in the least like this has ever happened to me, nor will it ever happen again. Something came over me, it was like a blackout, an eclipse...   Or maybe both of us had a kind of sunstroke...'
 
And somehow the lieutenant lightly agreed with her. Lightly and happily he took her to the landing stage - just in time to catch another pink Samolyot  steamer - kissed her on deck, in front of everyone, and managed to leap back onto the gangway as it was being pulled away.
 
Feeling no less light and carefree, he went back to the hotel. But something had changed. The room seemed quite different from how it had been when she was there. The room was both full of her and empty. It was strange. He could still smell her fine English eau-de-cologne, her half-drunk cup of tea was still there on the tray - but she was no longer there. And suddenly the lieutenant's heart was gripped by such a feeling of tenderness that he quickly lit a cigarette and paced up and down the room several times.
 
'What a curious adventure,' he said out loud, laughing and feeling his eyes fill with tears. '"I'm not at all what you may have thought me to be -- I give you my word of honour..." And now she's gone.'
 
The screen had been moved aside, the bed was still unmade. And he felt he just couldn't bear to look at that bed now. He put the screen back, closed the windows so as not to hear voices from the marketplace and the squeaking of wheels, lowered the frothy white curtains and sat down on the sofa. So his 'traveller's adventure' was over! She had gone and now she was far away -- sitting, probably, in a white glassy lounge, or else up on deck, looking at the huge river gleaming in the sun, at rafts coming downstream, at yellow sandbars, at a shimmering expanse of water and sky, all this endless space of the Volga. And goodbye -- goodbye for ever, for ever and ever...   Because where could they meet now? 'I can't,' he thought, 'I can't just suddenly arrive in the same town where her husband is -- and her three-year-old daughter, and all the rest of the family, and all of her ordinary life.' And this town began to seem so precious, so forbidden, and the thought of her living her lonely life there, perhaps often remembering him, remembering their chance meeting, their fleeting encounter, the thought that he would never see her again - this thought amazed and stunned him. No, it was impossible. It would be too crazy, too unnatural, too incredible. And the thought of the life he would live, the pain and futility of a whole life to be lived without her, filled him with horror and despair. 'For the love of God!' he thought, getting up and pacing up and down the room again and trying not to look at the bed behind the screen. 'What's happening to me? What is it about her? What is it, exactly, that's happened? It really is like some kind of sunstroke! And the real question is: without her, how can I get through a whole day in this backwater?'
 
He could still remember all of her, everything about her; he could remember the smell of her gingham dress and her tanned skin, her strong body, the lively, straightforward and merry sound of her voice... He could still feel with extraordinary vividness the delight he had taken, only a few hours ago, in all of her womanliness, all of her loveliness, but what mattered now was this other, completely new feeling, this strange, incomprehensible feeling which hadn't been there at all while the two of them were together, which he couldn't even have imagined himself feeling when he embarked, less than a day ago, on what he thought would be simply an amusing friendship - and now it was quite impossible to tell her about it! 'And the worst of it,' he thought, 'is that it never will be possible! And what can I do? How can I get through this endless day, with these memories, with this pain that won't go away, in this God-forsaken little town up above the Volga - the same shining Volga she's now sailing along in that pink steamer that carried her off?'
 
He had to find a way out; he had to distract himself, to find something to do with himself; he had to go somewhere. He resolutely put on his cap, picked up his swagger-stick, then quickly walked down the empty corridor, spurs jingling, and ran down the steep staircase to the front entrance... But where was he going to go? A cab was standing outside; the young driver was wearing a smart, side-buttoned coat and calmly smoking a small cigar. The lieutenant looked at him with dismay and astonishment: how was it possible to sit so calmly on a box, to smoke and generally look so straightforward, carefree and unconcerned? 'I doubt if there's anyone as miserable as me in the whole of this town,' he said to himself as he set off towards the market.
 
The market was nearly over. For some reason he began to wander among fresh horse-droppings lying between waggon-loads of cucumbers, between new pots and bowls, while peasant women sitting on the ground all tried to outshout one another, holding up pots and showing how sound they were by rapping their knuckles on them till they rang like bells, and the men deafened him with cries of, 'The very best cucumbers, your honour!' And all this was so stupid, so absurd that he had to flee the market place. He went into the cathedral -- where the choir was already singing, loud, cheerful and determined, conscious that they were fulfilling a duty - and then, for a long time, he walked round and round a hot and neglected little garden on the slope of the hill, up above a river that was too vast and steel-bright for his eyes to take in... His shoulder-straps and the buttons of his tunic were now too hot to touch. The band on the inside of his cap was damp with sweat, his face was on fire... Back at the hotel, it was a pleasure to enter the large cool empty dining room on the ground floor; it was with pleasure that he took off his cap, sat down at a table by an open window, which let in the heat but at least some air came in too, and then ordered chilled fish soup. All was well, in everything was immense happiness, great joy; joy was everywhere, even in the blazing heat, in all the smells of the market place, in the whole of this unfamiliar little town, in this old provincial hotel, and yet, in spite of this joy, his heart was being torn to pieces. He drank several glasses of vodka, following each glass with a bite of cucumber lightly pickled in dill and feeling that he would willingly die tomorrow if only by some miracle he could bring her back, if only he could spend one more day with her, spend today with her - but only, only so that he could tell her everything, so that he could convince her, so that he could somehow prove to her, how tormentedly and ecstatically he loved her... Why must he prove this? Why must he convince her? He didn't know, but this was more essential than life itself.
 
'My nerves are all haywire!' he said, pouring out a fifth glass of vodka.
 
He pushed away the fish soup, asked for black coffee, lit a cigarette and began thinking furiously: what could he do now, how could he escape from this sudden, unexpected love? But escape - he sensed all too clearly - was impossible. And suddenly he jumped to his feet again, took his cap and swagger-stick, asked where the post-office was and rushed off towards it, the words of a telegram already complete in his head: 'From this day on my life belongs to you, it lies forever in your power.' But, on reaching the old thick-walled building of the post and telegraph office, he stopped in horror: he knew the town where she lived, he knew that she had a husband and a three-year-old daughter, but he knew neither her surname nor her first name! He had asked her several times the day before, over dinner and in the hotel, and each time she had laughed and said, 'But why do you need to know? What does it matter who I am?'
 
Near the post office, on the corner of the street was the window of a photographer's shop. He gazed for a long time at a large portrait of some army officer with thick epaulettes, bulging eyes, a low forehead, magnificent sideburns and an extraordinarily broad chest, entirely covered with medals. How mad, how absurd, how terrible every ordinary, everyday thing becomes when the heart is struck -- struck down, yes, he could see that now - by a terrible 'sunstroke', a love too great, a too great happiness. He glanced at a couple of newlyweds - a young man with close-cropped hair, in a long frock coat and white tie, standing to attention, arm in arm with a young girl in a bridal veil; then he looked at a portrait of a pretty, impassioned-looking young lady with a student's cap perched on one side of her head... Then, painfully envious of all these people he didn't know, all these people who weren't suffering, he began to stare intently down the street.
 
'Where can I go? What can I do?'
 
The street was completely empty. The houses were all identical, white, two-storeyed merchant houses with large gardens, and there wasn't a soul to be seen in any of them; white thick dust lay on the road; and everything dazzled, everything was drenched in sunshine that was hot and fiery and joyful and seemingly pointless. In the distance the street climbed up higher, arching its humped back against the cloudless, greyish gleam of the horizon. There was something southern about all this; it reminded him of Sevastopol, Kerch... and Anapa. That was especially unbearable. And the lieutenant, his head drooping, narrowing his eyes against the glare as he gazed fixedly down at the ground, staggering and stumbling as one spur caught against the other, began to make his way back.
 
He returned to the hotel, as shattered by exhaustion as if he had just completed a huge trek somewhere in Turkestan or the Sahara. Gathering the last of his strength, he went into his large empty room. The room had been tidied, every trace of her had been removed; there was just one hairpin she had left behind, lying on the bedside table. He took off his tunic and glanced at himself in the mirror: his face - the face of an ordinary officer, a little tanned by the sun, with a pale sun-bleached moustache, with eyes whose bluish whites shone even whiter against his tan - had taken on an agitated, mad expression, while there was something young and deeply sad about his fine white shirt and its high starched collar. He lay on his back on the bed, resting his dust-covered boots on the end-rail. The windows were open, the curtains down, and from time to time the curtains billowed in a light breeze that carried into the room the fierce heat of the metal roofs and the whole of this luminous world of the Volga, a world now entirely deserted and silent. He lay there, staring straight in front of him, his hands clasped behind his head. Then he clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, felt tears slip out from between the lids and roll down his cheeks, and eventually fell asleep; when he opened his eyes again, the evening sun was already glowing reddish-yellow behind the curtains. The wind had died down and it was dry and stifling in the room, like in an oven. It was as if both yesterday evening and this morning had happened ten years ago.
 
He got up unhurriedly, washed unhurriedly, pulled up the curtains, rang for a samovar and the bill, then sat for a long time sipping lemon tea. He ordered a cab, had his things taken out and, as he sat on the faded, rust-coloured seat, gave five whole roubles to the old footman.
 
'Seems it was me who brought you here last night, your honour!' the driver said cheerfully as he picked up the reins.
 
When they got down to the landing-stage, a summer night already lay deep blue over the Volga, different-coloured lights were already scattered over the water, and still brighter lights hung from the mast of a swiftly approaching steamer.
 
'I've timed it just right!' said the driver ingratiatingly.
 
The lieutenant gave five roubles to him too, bought a ticket and went out onto the landing-stage... Just as before, there was a soft thud against the moorage and a feeling of slight giddiness from the boards rocking beneath his feet; then came a flying rope-end and the sound of water seething forward beneath the paddles as the engines went briefly into reverse... And there seemed to be something good, something uncommonly welcoming about a steamer with so many people on board - and that was already all lit up and smelling of cooking. 
 
A minute later they were under way, hurrying upstream, going where she too had gone only that morning.
 
Far ahead the dark glow of a summer evening was fading away; its many colours shone back dreamily and drowsily from a river whose ripples, here and there in the distance, were still shimmering beneath this glow -- and the lights scattered in the surrounding darkness kept drifting further and further back.
 
The lieutenant sat on deck, under an awning, feeling he had aged ten years.
 

Alpes Maritimes, 1925