Most great writers have, in one way or another, played with the theme of death-in-life. Edgar Allan Poe, Leo Tolstoy are two of the better known on this idea. Ivan Bunin’s most famous short story, the parable of ‘The Gentleman From San Francisco’ is an allegory that shows up the hypocrisy and false smiles of the attendants of the Gentleman With No Name, who presumes on his wealth and arrogance to buy himself unending pleasure; his wife and daughter too live privileged lives which they take for granted as permanently assured to them. The Gentleman indulges in all the pleasure life has to offer: he feels entlitled.
“Life in Naples immediately fell into its set routine. Early in the morning there was breakfast in the gloomy dining-room, an unpromising sky and a throng of guides at the entrance to the vestibule; then came the first smiles of a warm, pinkish sun and from their high overhanging balcony they enjoyed the view.”
But the pleasures only result in boredom:
“...then they would step out to the car and take a slow drive through the crowded, narrow, wet, corridor-like streets, between the tall, many-windowed buildings, visit deadly clean museums, where the light was as even and pleasant but as boring as snow, or inspect cold churches smelling of wax, every one of which offered exactly the same – a magnificent entrance with a heavy leather awning, and then inside a huge empty silence, the faint little flames of a seven-branched candelabrum flickering red on a lace-covered altar at the far end, a solitary old woman among the dark wooden pews, slippery memorial plaques under the feet and someone’s invariably famous Descent from the Cross…”
Or
“...at five there was tea at the hotel, in the elegant salon, made warm by its carpets and blazing fires; and then again the preparations for dinner – again the mighty, imperious boom of the gong which echoed through every floor, again the strings of silk-clad, décolleté ladies reflected in the mirrors and rustling down the stairs, again the wide and hospitably open palatial dining-room with the red-jacketed musicians on the rostrum and the black throng of waiters around the maître d’hôtel who with extraordinary dexterity ladled a thick pink soup into rows of plates …”
In contrast we are shown the simple pleasures of the village, in a song, a joy in nature and the magnificent views from the summit of Capri, and their devout prayers to a wayside shrine to the Madonna.
Life changes abruptly when the Gentleman From San Francisco With No Name dresses for dinner while planning to buy the services of a dancer to pleasure him later that evening. Waiting for his wife and daughter in the lounge before dinner, he has a massive heart attack and collapses. Almost within seconds, the attitudes of the hotel staff changes, not just towards the dead man, but to his widow and daughter as well. His body is stuffed into a ship’s container: “the cabman was cheered by the unexpected bonus brought to him by some gentleman from San Francisco whose lifeless head was rocking in the crate at his back.”
“After many degradations and much human neglect, after a week or so of being shunted from one harbourside warehouse to another, it at last found itself again on that same famous ship in which so recently and with such esteem he had been borne to the Old World.”
The symbols used to trace the presence of death are the classical ones of ominous dreams, “slippery gravestones,” the Descent from the Cross, “invariably famous,” clothing – how each of the three is dressed indicates the scorn with which the Gentleman regards his wife and daughter, while he himself is dressed flamboyantly and inappropriately for his age and status in life. Even the lack of names reveal their complete insignificance.
But what strikes you most about this devastating short story is the terseness, almost staccato strength of the language, the clipped sentences, the weight of every word, and all of it served with elegance and flair.