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Story " Easy breath» dedicated eternal problems- beauty and death, love and separation, freedom and necessity.
Basic compositional principle story is a contrast. It creates an image main character expresses the author's position.
From the very beginning, a dual feeling arises: a sad, deserted cemetery, a gray April day, bare trees, a cold wind “rings and rings a porcelain wreath at the foot of the cross”, “strong, heavy, smooth”, and on the cross “a photographic portrait of a schoolgirl with joyful, amazingly lively eyes. Death and life, sadness and joy are the symbol of the fate of Olya Meshcherskaya.
Bunin creates complex composition- from the fact of death to the childhood of the heroine, then to the recent past and its origins.
The author expressively conveys the strange logic of Olya's behavior. Circling through life: at balls, at the rink, in the gymnasium, the rapidity of change, unexpected actions. “She has completely lost her mind,” they say about her; “I went completely crazy,” she says.
The tragedy of the girl's fate is largely predetermined by the monotony and soullessness of her environment. Around her are extremely indifferent people, the chain of which closes with the last link - the “classy lady”.
Olino's inner burning is genuine and could evoke a great feeling. If not for the crazy fluttering through life, not for the primitive idea of happiness, not for the vulgar environment. The author reveals not only the beauty of the girl, but also her undeveloped spiritual abilities. They, according to the writer, cannot disappear, just as the craving for beauty, fortunately, for perfection, never disappears.
At the end of the story, Olya tells her friend that she read in one book what beauty a woman should have. She really possessed a light, natural breath - a thirst for some special, unique fate, worthy only of the elect.
The theme of love is devoted to many works by I.A. Bunin and the whole cycle of stories " Dark alleys". "All the stories in this book are only about love, about its "dark" and most often very gloomy and cruel alleys," Bunin wrote in one of his letters. Bunin himself considered this book to be the most perfect in skill. Bunin sang not platonic, but sensual love, surrounded by a romantic halo. Love, in the understanding of Bunin, is contraindicated in everyday life, any duration, even in a desired marriage, it is an insight, " sunstroke", often leading to death. He describes love in all its states, where it barely dawns and will never come true ("Old Port"), and where the unrecognized one languishes ("Ida"), and where it turns into passion ("Killer" ) Love captures all thoughts, all the spiritual and physical potentials of a person - but this state cannot last long. So that love does not run out of steam, does not exhaust itself, it is necessary to part - and forever, If the heroes themselves do not do this, then fate interferes in their life , fate: one of the lovers dies.The story "Mitya's love" ends with the suicide of the hero.Death is interpreted here as the only way to liberation from love.
The stories of the cycle “Dark Alleys” are an example of an amazing Russian psychological prose in which love has always been one of those eternal secrets, which the artists of the word sought to reveal. Ivan Alekseevich Bunin, in my opinion, was one of those brilliant writers who came closest to unraveling this mystery.
The book "Dark Alleys" is usually called the "encyclopedia of love." I. A. Bunin in this cycle of stories tried to show the relationship of two with different parties, in all its variety of manifestations. “Dark Alleys” is the writer's favorite brainchild, which has been created for many years. Here the author's thoughts about love were embodied. This was the topic to which Bunin devoted all his creative energies. The book is as multifaceted as love itself. The name “Dark Alleys” was taken by Bunin from N. Ogaryov’s poem “ ordinary story". It is about the first love, which did not end with the union of two lives. The image of "dark alleys" comes from there, but there is no story with that title in the book, as one might expect. It's just a symbol general mood all stories. Bunin believed that a true, high feeling not only never has a successful ending, but even has the property of avoiding marriage. The writer has said this over and over again. He also quite seriously quoted Byron's words: "It is often easier to die for a woman than to live with her." Love is the intensity of feelings, passions. A person, alas, cannot always be on the rise. He will certainly begin to fall precisely when he has reached the highest point in anything. After all, above high peak don't get up! In "Dark Alleys" we do not find a description of the irresistible attraction of two people, which would end in a wedding and a happy family life. Even if the heroes decide to tie their fates, last moment a catastrophe occurs, something unforeseen that destroys both lives. Often such a catastrophe is death. It seems that it is easier for Bunin to imagine the death of a hero or heroine at the very beginning. life path than their joint existence during years. To live to old age and die on the same day - for Bunin, this is not at all the ideal of happiness, rather, on the contrary. Thus, Bunin, as it were, stops time at the highest take-off of feelings. Love reaches its climax, but it knows no fall. We will never meet a story that tells of the gradual fading of passion. It breaks off at a moment when the routine has not yet had time to have a detrimental effect on feelings. However, such fatal outcomes do not in the least exclude the credibility and plausibility of the stories. It was alleged that Bunin spoke of cases from own life. But he did not agree with this - the situations are completely fictional. The characters of the heroines, he often wrote with real women. The book “Dark Alleys” is a whole gallery portraits of women. Here you can meet early grown-up girls, and self-confident young women, and respectable ladies, and prostitutes, and models, and peasant women. Each portrait, written in short strokes, is surprisingly real. One can only be surprised at the talent of the author, who knew how to present to us in a few words such different women. The main thing is that all the characters are surprisingly Russian and the action almost always takes place in Russia. Women's images play in stories leading role, male - auxiliary, secondary. More attention is paid to male emotions, their reactions to various situations, their feelings. The heroes of the stories themselves recede into the background, into the fog. The stories also amaze with a huge variety of shades of love: the simple-hearted, but indestructible attachment of a peasant girl to the master who seduced her (“Tanya”); fleeting dacha hobbies (“Zoyka and Valeria”); a short one-day novel (“Antigone”, “ Business Cards”); passion leading to suicide (“Galya Ganskaya”); the ingenuous confession of a young prostitute (“Madrid”). In a word, love in all possible manifestations. It appears in any guise: it can be a poetic, sublime feeling, a moment of enlightenment, or, conversely, an irresistible physical attraction without spiritual intimacy. But whatever it may be, for Bunin it is only a brief moment, lightning in fate. The heroine of the story Cold fall”, who lost her fiancé, loves him for thirty years and believes that in her life there was only one autumn evening, and everything else is “unnecessary sleep”. In many stories of the cycle, Bunin describes female body. This is something sacred for him, the embodiment true beauty. These descriptions never descend to crude naturalism. The writer knows how to find words to describe the most intimate human relationships without any vulgarity. Without a doubt, this is given only at the cost of great creative torment, but it is easy to read, in one breath. I. A. Bunin in the cycle of stories “Dark Alleys” managed to display many facets of human relations, created a whole galaxy female images. And what unites all this diversity is the feeling to which Bunin dedicated most his creativity - Love.
Analysis of the story by I. Bunin "Easy breathing"
Man is the reason for the explosion.
(Why do volcanoes explode?).
Sometimes volcanoes explode with treasures.
Letting it explode is more than getting it.
M. Tsvetaeva.
Starting to write this essay, I set myself the goal of understanding why people who are extraordinary, unusual, people who "explode with treasures" remain unrecognized, rejected by society. Olya Meshcherskaya is one of those people. Radiating an unfading light, good spirits, cheerfulness, lightness, it aroused envy in some, hostility in others. Although all these people, it seems to me, deep down admired her carelessness, courage, admired her fate, behavior, her unbridled happiness. Undoubtedly, the personality of Olya Meshcherskaya, her character and lifestyle are ambiguous. On the one hand, this strong personality lives without fear of being misunderstood. But on the other hand, Olya is unable to resist society, she cannot withstand this cruel struggle with prejudices, "moral foundations" that the crowd creates, a gray and faceless mass of people who do not have an individuality, do not have their own life, condemning even attempts to live like this. as you like. "She was not afraid of anything - neither an ink stain on her fingers, nor a flushed face, nor disheveled hair, nor a knee that became naked when she fell on the run" - that's what you should admire! That's something to be jealous of! rare person can behave so fearlessly, without thinking about the consequences, doing everything sincerely and easily. All her words, actions (that is, deeds) - all this came from pure heart. She lived for today, not afraid of the future, truly enjoying life. To be honest, I'm jealous! I probably could not live like this, behave so carelessly, and few people could. This is the uniqueness of Olya, her individuality, such a fate as a gift, she should be proud of. The idea of the story is in the contradiction of two worlds: gray, boring, faceless society and light, bright inner world Olya Meshcherskaya. Here is an interpersonal conflict: "... rumors spread that she (Olya) is windy, cannot live without fans ..." The society did not accept Olya's behavior, because it went beyond it, Olya, in turn, perhaps even with excessive treated with ease increased attention surrounding. Every time underestimating the enemy, a person is doomed to defeat in the struggle. Here, in Easy Breath, the conflict between the two worlds is also reflected in the landscape: on the one hand, "... April, the days are gray; a cold wind rings a wreath at the foot of the cross," and on the other, a medallion in which "a photographic portrait of a schoolgirl with joyful, amazingly lively eyes. And this lightness, joy, liveliness is everywhere. Reading the story, you become infected with that seething, seething energy of Olya, you are as if pierced by biocurrents sent by the high school student Meshcherskaya: "elegance, elegance, dexterity, a clear sparkle in her eyes", "Olya Meshcherskaya seemed the most carefree, the happiest", "beaming her eyes, she ran upstairs" , "... looking at her clearly and vividly", "... as easily and gracefully as only she could do it", "... Meshcherskaya answered simply, almost cheerfully." Olya's carelessness and desire to know everything led her to a dead end. This is the main contradiction: living her own destiny, Olya discovered new world, but at the same time, wanting everything at once, without thinking about the meaning of her life, she hopelessly lost her childhood, youth, youth. Too early, she knew the vulgar side of love, never unraveling the mystery of romantic feelings. Only later, realizing this, or rather, feeling fear, disappointment and shame, perhaps for the first time in her life, Olya was frightened: “I don’t understand how this could happen, I went crazy, I never thought that I was like that. Now I have one way out ... I feel such disgust for him that I can’t survive this! .. " Only now it becomes clear how weak Olya is. She is unable to fight. Having descended from heaven to earth, she was frightened. And the only possible way out for her from this situation is death. Olya understood this well. I think death was the natural result of her reckless behavior. Many questions arise when you re-read the text again and again. Malyutin and this Cossack officer who killed Olya - is it one person or not? And the woman we see at the grave of Meshcherskaya at the end of the story, and the boss? It is difficult to answer unambiguously. One thing is clear: in principle, and it does not matter, because these people are a crowd, and it is not at all necessary to know who they are, because they are all, in fact, the same. The only one vivid image in the story - Olya Meshcherskaya, and Bunin draws her to us in all details, for people like her are few. “Now Olya Meshcherskaya is the subject of her relentless thoughts and feelings,” we are talking about the worship of the classy lady Olya as an ideal. Due to such people, the world exists: they give others that energy, that lightness, which is lacking in the world of mere mortals. Although these people are weak and unable to resist both their passions and the contempt of others, people like Olya live their allotted time with dignity, in pleasure. And even one human destiny, I believe, is capable of turning the whole world upside down, which a faceless crowd can never do. The high school student Olya, a young girl who was just beginning to live, left a deep mark on the soul of everyone who knew her story. Behind short period In her life, she was able to do what many fail to do in a lifetime: she stood out from the crowd. "... But the main thing, you know what? Light breathing! But I have it, - you listen to me sigh, - is it true?" Of course, she had this lightness that she gave to everyone. "Is it possible that under it (under the porcelain wreath) is the one whose eyes shine so immortally from this convex porcelain medallion on the cross ..?" Of course not, only the body is buried in the earth, but Olya's life, her smile, her pure look, her lightness will forever remain in the hearts of people: "Now this light breath has again dissipated in the world, in this cloudy sky, in this cold spring wind." Such people are immortal, because they give life to others, full, real, genuine life. So why was Olya rejected by society? There is only one answer: envy. All those faceless beings envied her" black envy". Realizing that they will never become SUCH as Meshcherskaya, people made her an outcast. The stubborn crowd did not want to accept anything that did not fit into its framework. But the main trouble of people like Olya is not this. They just live their lives, completely forget about harsh reality, which does not cost anything to break all their dreams, joys, their whole life. But nevertheless, I admire Olya Meshcherskaya, her talent to live beautifully, wrong, but interesting, small, but bright and easy!!! …It’s a pity that light breathing is rare.
Ivan Bunin
Easy breath
In the cemetery, over a fresh earthen mound, there is a new cross made of oak, strong, heavy, smooth.
April, the days are gray; the monuments of the cemetery, spacious, county, are still far away visible through the bare trees, and the cold wind tinkles and tinkles the china wreath at the foot of the cross.
A fairly large, convex porcelain medallion is embedded in the cross itself, and in the medallion is a photographic portrait of a schoolgirl with joyful, amazingly lively eyes.
This is Olya Meshcherskaya.
As a girl, she did not stand out in any way in the crowd of brown gymnasium dresses: what could be said about her, except that she was one of the pretty, rich and happy girls, that she was capable, but playful and very careless about the instructions that she was given by cool lady? Then it began to flourish, to develop by leaps and bounds. At fourteen, she had thin waist and slender legs, breasts and all those forms were already well outlined, the charm of which the human word has never yet expressed; at fifteen she was already a beauty. How carefully some of her friends combed their hair, how clean they were, how they watched their restrained movements! And she was not afraid of anything - not ink spots on her fingers, not a flushed face, not disheveled hair, not a knee that became naked when she fell on the run. Without any of her worries and efforts, and somehow imperceptibly, everything that so distinguished her in the last two years from the whole gymnasium came to her - grace, elegance, dexterity, a clear sparkle in her eyes ... Nobody danced at balls like Olya Meshcherskaya , no one skated like she did, no one was looked after at balls as much as she was, and for some reason no one was loved so much junior classes like her. She imperceptibly became a girl, and her gymnasium fame imperceptibly strengthened, and there were already rumors that she was windy, could not live without admirers, that the schoolboy Shenshin was madly in love with her, that she seemed to love him too, but was so changeable in her treatment of him. that he attempted suicide...
During her last winter, Olya Meshcherskaya went completely crazy with fun, as they said in the gymnasium. The winter was snowy, sunny, frosty, the sun set early behind the high spruce forest of the snowy gymnasium garden, invariably fine, radiant, promising frost and sun tomorrow, a walk on Cathedral Street, a skating rink in the city garden, pink evening, music and this in all directions the crowd sliding on the skating rink, in which Olya Meshcherskaya seemed the most carefree, the happiest. And then one day, at a big break, when she was running like a whirlwind around the assembly hall from the first-graders chasing after her and squealing blissfully, she was unexpectedly called to the headmistress. She stopped in a hurry, took only one deep breath, straightened her hair with a quick and already familiar female movement, pulled the corners of her apron to her shoulders and, beaming her eyes, ran upstairs. The headmistress, youthful but gray-haired, sat calmly with knitting in her hands at the desk, under the royal portrait.
“Hello, mademoiselle Meshcherskaya,” she said in French, without looking up from her knitting. “Unfortunately, this is not the first time I have been forced to call you here to speak with you about your behavior.
“I’m listening, madam,” Meshcherskaya replied, going up to the table, looking at her clearly and vividly, but without any expression on her face, and sat down as easily and gracefully as she alone could.
“It will be bad for you to listen to me, I, unfortunately, was convinced of this,” said the headmistress, and, pulling the thread and twisting a ball on the lacquered floor, at which Meshcherskaya looked with curiosity, she raised her eyes. “I won't repeat myself, I won't talk at length,” she said.
Meshcherskaya really liked this unusually clean and large office, which on frosty days breathed so well with the warmth of a brilliant Dutch and the freshness of lilies of the valley on the desk. She looked at the young king, painted to his full height in the midst of some brilliant hall, at the even parting in the milky, neatly frilled hair of the boss, and was expectantly silent.
“You are no longer a girl,” the headmistress said meaningfully, secretly starting to get annoyed.
“Yes, madam,” Meshcherskaya answered simply, almost cheerfully.
“But not a woman either,” the headmistress said even more significantly, and her matte face flushed slightly. First of all, what is this hairstyle? It's a woman's hairstyle!
“It’s not my fault, madame, that I have good hair,” Meshcherskaya answered, and slightly touched her beautifully trimmed head with both hands.
“Ah, that’s how it is, it’s not your fault! - said the headmistress. “You are not to blame for your hair, you are not to blame for these expensive combs, you are not to blame for ruining your parents for shoes worth twenty rubles!” But, I repeat to you, you completely lose sight of the fact that you are still only a schoolgirl...
And then Meshcherskaya, without losing her simplicity and calmness, suddenly politely interrupted her:
“Excuse me, madame, you are mistaken: I am a woman. And to blame for this - you know who? Friend and neighbor of the pope, and your brother Alexei Mikhailovich Malyutin. It happened last summer in the village...
And a month after this conversation, a Cossack officer, ugly and plebeian in appearance, who had absolutely nothing to do with the circle to which Olya Meshcherskaya belonged, shot her on the station platform, among a large crowd of people who had just arrived with the train. And the incredible confession of Olya Meshcherskaya, which stunned the boss, was completely confirmed: the officer told the judicial investigator that Meshcherskaya had lured him, was close to him, swore to be his wife, and at the station, on the day of the murder, seeing him off to Novocherkassk, she suddenly told him that she and never thought to love him, that all this talk about marriage was just her mockery of him, and gave him to read that page of the diary that spoke about Malyutin.
“I ran through these lines and right there, on the platform where she was walking, waiting for me to finish reading, I shot at her,” said the officer. - This diary is here, look what was written in it on the tenth of July last year.
The following was written in the diary:
“It is now the second hour of the night. I fell asleep soundly, but immediately woke up ... Today I have become a woman! Dad, mom and Tolya, they all left for the city, I was left alone. I was so happy to be alone! In the morning I walked in the garden, in the field, was in the forest, it seemed to me that I was alone in the whole world, and I thought as well as never before in my life. I dined alone, then whole hour I played, to the music I had the feeling that I would live without end and be as happy as anyone. Then I fell asleep in my father's office, and at four o'clock Katya woke me up and said that Alexei Mikhailovich had arrived. I was very happy with him, it was so pleasant for me to receive him and occupy him. He arrived on a pair of his vyatki, very beautiful, and they stood at the porch all the time, he stayed because it was raining, and he wanted it to dry out by evening. He regretted that he did not find dad, was very animated and behaved like a gentleman with me, he joked a lot that he had been in love with me for a long time. When we were walking in the garden before tea, the weather was lovely again, the sun shone through the whole wet garden, although it became quite cold, and he led me by the arm and said that he was Faust with Marguerite. He is fifty-six years old, but he is still very handsome and always well dressed - the only thing I did not like was that he arrived in a lionfish - he smells of English cologne, and his eyes are very young, black, and his beard is elegantly divided into two long parts and completely silver. We were sitting at tea on the glass veranda, I felt as if I was unwell and lay down on the couch, and he smoked, then moved to me, began again to say some courtesies, then to examine and kiss my hand. I covered my face with a silk handkerchief, and he kissed me several times on the lips through the handkerchief ... I don’t understand how this could happen, I went crazy, I never thought that I was like that! Now there is only one way out for me ... I feel such disgust for him that I can’t survive this! .. ”
During these April days, the city became clean, dry, its stones turned white, and it is easy and pleasant to walk on them. Every Sunday after mass, a little woman in mourning, wearing black kid gloves, and carrying an ebony umbrella, walks down Cathedral Street, which leads out of the city. She crosses along the highway a dirty square, where there are many smoky forges and fresh field air blows; further, between monastery and a prison, the cloudy slope of the sky turns white and the spring field turns gray, and then, when you make your way among the puddles under the wall of the monastery and turn to the left, you will see, as it were, a large low garden, surrounded by a white fence, above the gates of which the Assumption of the Mother of God is written. The little woman makes a small cross and habitually walks along the main avenue. Having reached the bench opposite the oak cross, she sits in the wind and in the spring cold for an hour or two, until her feet in light boots and her hand in a narrow husky are completely cold. listening spring birds singing sweetly even in the cold, listening to the sound of the wind in a porcelain wreath, she sometimes thinks that she would give half her life if only this dead wreath was not in front of her eyes. This wreath, this mound, this oak cross! Is it possible that under him is the one whose eyes shine so immortally from this convex porcelain medallion on the cross, and how to combine with this pure look that terrible thing that is now connected with the name of Olya Meshcherskaya? But in the depths of her soul, the little woman is happy, like all people devoted to some passionate dream.
Easy breath. “At the cemetery, over a fresh earthen embankment, there is a new cross made of oak, strong, heavy, smooth.” On cold, gray April days, the monuments of the spacious county cemetery are clearly visible through the bare trees. The porcelain wreath at the foot of the cross rings sadly and lonely. “A rather large, convex porcelain medallion is embedded in the very cross, and in the medallion there is a photographic portrait of a schoolgirl with joyful, amazingly lively eyes. This is Olya Meshcherskaya.
She did not stand out among her peers, although she was "one of the pretty, rich and happy girls." Then she suddenly began to blossom and surprisingly prettier: “At the age of fourteen, with a thin waist and slender legs, her breasts and all those forms were already well outlined, the charm of which the human word had never yet expressed; at fifteen she was already known as a beauty. Everything was to her liking, and it seemed that nothing could harm her beauty: neither the ink stains on her fingers, nor her flushed face, nor her disheveled hair. Olya Meshcherskaya was the best dancer at balls and skating, no one was looked after as much as she was, and no one was loved by the younger classes as much as she was. They said about her that she was windy and could not live without admirers, that one of the schoolboys was madly in love with her, who, because of her changeable treatment of him, even attempted suicide.
“Olya Meshcherskaya went completely crazy with fun during her last winter, as they said in the gymnasium.” The winter was beautiful - snowy, frosty and sunny. Pink evenings were beautiful, when music sounded and a smart crowd merrily glided over the ice of the rink, "in which Olya Meshcherskaya seemed the most carefree, the happiest."
Once, when Olya Meshcherskaya was playing with first-graders at a big break, she was summoned to the head of the gymnasium. Stopping in a hurry, she took a deep breath, smoothed her hair, straightened her apron, and ran up the stairs with shining eyes. “The boss, youthful, but gray-haired, calmly sat with knitting in her hands at the desk, under the royal portrait,”
She began to reprimand Meshcherskaya: it is not befitting for her, a schoolgirl, to behave like that, to wear expensive combs, “shoes worth twenty rubles”, and, finally, what kind of hairstyle does she have? It's a woman's hair! “You are no longer a girl,” the boss said pointedly, “... but not a woman either ...” Without losing her simplicity and calmness, Meshcherskaya boldly objected: “Forgive me, madame, you are mistaken: I am a woman. And to blame for this - you know who? Dad's friend and neighbor, and your brother Alexei Mikhailovich Malyutin. It happened last summer in the village ... "
And a month after this conversation, the incredible confession that stunned the boss was unexpectedly and tragically confirmed. “... A Cossack officer, ugly and plebeian in appearance, who had absolutely nothing to do with the circle to which Olya Meshcherskaya belonged, shot her on the station platform, among a large crowd of people who had just arrived with a train.” He told the investigator that Meshcherskaya was close to him, swore to be his wife, and at the station, seeing him off to Novocherkassk, she suddenly told him that she had never thought to love him, that all the talk about marriage was just her mockery of him, and let me read that page of her diary, which spoke about Milyutin.
On a page labeled July 10 last year, Meshcherskaya described what had happened in detail. On that day, her parents and brother left for the city, and she was left alone in their country house. It was a wonderful day. Olya Meshcherskaya walked for a long time in the garden, in the field, was in the forest. She was as good as ever in her life. She fell asleep in her father's study, and at four o'clock the maid woke her up and said that Alexei Mikhailovich had arrived. The girl was very happy to see him. Despite his fifty-six years, he was "still very handsome and always well dressed." He smelled pleasantly of English cologne, and his eyes were very young, black. Before tea they walked in the garden, he held her by the arm and said that they were like Faust and Marguerite. What happened afterwards between her and this elderly man, a friend of her father, was impossible to explain: “I don’t understand how this could happen, I went crazy, I never thought that I was like that! ... I feel such disgust for him I can't bear this!.."
Having given the diary to the officer, Olya Meshcherskaya walked along the platform, waiting for him to finish reading. Here she died...
Every Sunday, after mass, a little woman in mourning goes to the cemetery, which looks like "a large low garden, surrounded by a white fence, above the gate of which is written" Assumption Mother of God". Smallly baptized on the go, woman walking along the cemetery alley to the bench opposite the oak cross over the grave of Meshcherskaya. Here she sits in the spring wind for an hour or two, until she becomes completely cold. Listening to the singing of birds and the sound of the wind in a porcelain wreath, a little woman sometimes thinks that she would not regret half her life if only this “dead wreath” were not in front of her eyes. It is hard for her to believe that under the oak cross lies “the one whose eyes shine so immortally from this convex porcelain medallion on the cross, and how to combine with this pure look that terrible thing that is now connected with the name of Olya Meshcherskaya?”
This woman is the cool lady Olya Meshcherskaya, "a middle-aged girl who has long been living in some kind of fiction that replaces her real life." Previously, she believed in the brilliant future of her brother, "an unremarkable ensign." After his death near Mukden, the sister began to convince herself "that she is an ideological worker." The death of Olya Meshcherskaya gave her food for new dreams and fantasies. She recalls a conversation that Meshcherskaya accidentally overheard with her beloved friend, plump, tall Subbotina. Walking in the big recess in the gymnasium garden, Olya Meshcherskaya excitedly recounted to her the description of the perfect female beauty read in one of the old books. Much seemed so true to her that she even learned by heart. Among the obligatory qualities of the beauty were mentioned: “black, resin-boiling eyes - black as night, eyelashes, gently playing blush, thin waist, longer than an ordinary arm ... a small leg, in moderation big breasts, properly rounded calf, shell-coloured knees, sloping shoulders…but most importantly…easy breathing!” “But I have it,” Olya Meshcherskaya said to her friend, “you listen to me sigh, is it true?”
“Now that light breath has been scattered again in the world, in this cloudy sky, in this cold spring wind.”
Bunin Ivan Alekseevich
Easy breath
Ivan Bunin
Easy breath
In the cemetery, over a fresh earthen mound, there is a new cross made of oak, strong, heavy, smooth.
April, the days are gray; the monuments of the cemetery, spacious, county, are still far away visible through the bare trees, and the cold wind tinkles and tinkles the china wreath at the foot of the cross.
A fairly large, convex porcelain medallion is embedded in the cross itself, and in the medallion is a photographic portrait of a schoolgirl with joyful, amazingly lively eyes.
This is Olya Meshcherskaya.
As a girl, she did not stand out in the crowd of brown gymnasium dresses: what could be said about her, except that she was one of the pretty, rich and happy girls, that she was capable, but playful and very careless about the instructions that the class lady gives her ? Then it began to flourish, to develop by leaps and bounds. At fourteen, with a thin waist and slender legs, her breasts and all those forms were already well outlined, the charm of which the human word had never yet expressed; at fifteen she was already a beauty. How carefully some of her friends combed their hair, how clean they were, how they watched their restrained movements! And she was not afraid of anything - not ink stains on her fingers, not a flushed face, not disheveled hair, not a knee that became naked when she fell on the run. Without any of her worries and efforts, and somehow imperceptibly, everything that had distinguished her so much in the last two years from the whole gymnasium came to her - grace, elegance, dexterity, a clear sparkle in her eyes ... No one danced like that at balls, like Olya Meshcherskaya, no one skated like she did, no one was looked after at balls as much as she was, and for some reason no one was loved as much by the younger classes as she was. She imperceptibly became a girl, and her gymnasium fame imperceptibly strengthened, and there were already rumors that she was windy, could not live without admirers, that the schoolboy Shenshin was madly in love with her, that she seemed to love him too, but was so changeable in her treatment of him. that he attempted suicide.
During her last winter, Olya Meshcherskaya went completely crazy with fun, as they said in the gymnasium. The winter was snowy, sunny, frosty, the sun set early behind the high spruce forest of the snowy gymnasium garden, invariably fine, radiant, promising frost and sun tomorrow, a walk on Cathedral Street, a skating rink in the city garden, pink evening, music and this in all directions the crowd sliding on the skating rink, in which Olya Meshcherskaya seemed the most carefree, the happiest. And then one day, at a big break, when she was running like a whirlwind around the assembly hall from the first-graders chasing after her and squealing blissfully, she was unexpectedly called to the headmistress. She stopped in a hurry, took only one deep breath, straightened her hair with a quick and already familiar female movement, pulled the corners of her apron to her shoulders and, beaming her eyes, ran upstairs. The headmistress, youthful but gray-haired, sat calmly with knitting in her hands at the desk, under the royal portrait.
Hello, mademoiselle Meshcherskaya,” she said in French, without lifting her eyes from her knitting. “Unfortunately, this is not the first time I have been forced to call you here to talk to you about your behavior.
I’m listening, madam,” Meshcherskaya answered, going up to the table, looking at her clearly and vividly, but without any expression on her face, and sat down as lightly and gracefully as she alone could.
You will listen to me badly, I, unfortunately, was convinced of this, - said the headmistress, and, pulling the thread and twisting a ball on the varnished floor, which Meshcherskaya looked at with curiosity, she raised her eyes. - I will not repeat myself, I will not speak wide, she said.
Meshcherskaya really liked this unusually clean and large office, which on frosty days breathed so well with the warmth of a brilliant Dutch and the freshness of lilies of the valley on the desk. She looked at the young king, painted to his full height in the midst of some brilliant hall, at the even parting in the milky, neatly frilled hair of the boss, and was expectantly silent.
You are no longer a girl,” the headmistress said meaningfully, secretly beginning to get annoyed.
Yes, madame, Meshcherskaya answered simply, almost cheerfully.
But not a woman either,” the headmistress said even more significantly, and her dull face turned slightly red. “First of all, what kind of hairstyle is this? It's a woman's hairstyle!
It’s not my fault, madame, that I have good hair,” Meshcherskaya answered, and slightly touched her beautifully trimmed head with both hands.
Bunin Ivan Alekseevich (1870 - 1953) was born on October 10 in Voronezh in noble family. Childhood years passed in family estate on the Butyrka farm of the Oryol province, among the "sea of bread, herbs, flowers", "in the deepest silence of the field" under the supervision of a teacher and educator, a "strange person" who carried away his student with painting, from which he "had a rather long insanity", in the rest gave little.
In 1889, Bunin left the estate and was forced to look for work in order to secure a modest existence for himself (he worked as a proofreader, statistician, librarian, and collaborated in a newspaper). He often moved - he lived either in Orel, then in Kharkov, then in Poltava, then in Moscow. In 1891, his collection Poems was published, full of impressions from his native Oryol region.
Ivan Bunin in 1894 in Moscow met with L. Tolstoy, who kindly received the young Bunin, the next year he met A. Chekhov. In 1895, the story "To the End of the World" was published, which was well received by critics. Inspired by success, Bunin completely turns to literary creativity.
In 1898, a collection of poems "Under open sky", in 1901 - the collection "Leaf Fall", for which he was awarded highest award Academy of Sciences - Pushkin Prize(1903). In 1899 he met M. Gorky, who attracted him to cooperate in the publishing house "Knowledge", where he appeared best stories that time: " Antonov apples(1900), "Pines" and " new road"(1901), "Chernozem" (1904).
Gorky writes: "... if they say about him: this is the best stylist of our time - there will be no exaggeration." In 1909 Bunin became an honorary member Russian Academy Sciences. The story The Village, published in 1910, brought its author wide readership. In 1911 - the story "Dry Valley" - a chronicle of the degeneration of the estate nobility. In subsequent years, a series of significant short stories and novellas appeared: " ancient man", "Ignat", "Zakhar Vorobyov", " A good life"," Gentleman from San Francisco ".
Hostilely meeting October revolution, the writer left Russia forever in 1920. Through the Crimea, and then through Constantinople, he emigrated to France and settled in Paris. Everything written by him in exile concerned Russia, Russian people, Russian nature: Mowers, Bast Shoes, Far, Mitina's Love, the cycle of short stories Dark Alleys, the novel Arseniev's Life, 1930, etc. .
In 1933 Bunin was awarded the Nobel Prize.
Bunin lived long life, survived the invasion of fascism in Paris, rejoiced at the victory over him.
In the cemetery, over a fresh earthen mound, there is a new cross made of oak, strong, heavy, smooth.
April, the days are gray; the monuments of the cemetery, spacious, county, are still far away visible through the bare trees, and the cold wind tinkles and tinkles the china wreath at the foot of the cross.
A fairly large, convex porcelain medallion is embedded in the cross itself, and in the medallion is a photographic portrait of a schoolgirl with joyful, amazingly lively eyes.
This is Olya Meshcherskaya.
As a girl, she did not stand out in the crowd of brown gymnasium dresses: what could be said about her, except that she was one of the pretty, rich and happy girls, that she was capable, but playful and very careless about the instructions that the class lady gives her ?
Then it began to flourish, to develop by leaps and bounds. At fourteen, with a thin waist and slender legs, her breasts and all those forms were already well outlined, the charm of which the human word had never yet expressed; at fifteen she was already a beauty. How carefully some of her friends combed their hair, how clean they were, how they watched their restrained movements!
And she was not afraid of anything - neither ink stains on her fingers, nor a flushed face, nor disheveled hair, nor a knee that became naked when she fell on the run. Without any of her worries and efforts, and somehow imperceptibly, everything that had so distinguished her in the last two years from the whole gymnasium came to her - grace, elegance, dexterity, a clear sparkle in her eyes ...
No one danced at balls like Olya Meshcherskaya, no one ran like she did on skates, no one was looked after at balls as much as she was, and for some reason no one was loved as much by the younger classes as she was. She imperceptibly became a girl, and her gymnasium fame imperceptibly strengthened, and there were already rumors that she was windy, could not live without admirers, that the schoolboy Shenshin was madly in love with her, that she seemed to love him too, but was so changeable in her treatment of him. that he attempted suicide.
During her last winter, Olya Meshcherskaya went completely crazy with fun, as they said in the gymnasium. The winter was snowy, sunny, frosty, the sun set early behind the high spruce forest of the snowy gymnasium garden, invariably fine, radiant, promising frost and sun tomorrow, a walk on Cathedral Street, a skating rink in the city garden, pink evening, music and this in all directions the crowd sliding on the skating rink, in which Olya Meshcherskaya seemed the most carefree, the happiest.
And then one day, at a big break, when she was running like a whirlwind around the assembly hall from the first-graders chasing after her and squealing blissfully, she was unexpectedly called to the headmistress. She stopped in a hurry, took only one deep breath, straightened her hair with a quick and already familiar female movement, pulled the corners of her apron to her shoulders and, beaming her eyes, ran upstairs. The headmistress, youthful but gray-haired, sat calmly with knitting in her hands at the desk, under the royal portrait.
Hello, mademoiselle Meshcherskaya,” she said in French, without looking up from her knitting. “Unfortunately, this is not the first time I have been forced to call you here to talk to you about your behavior.
I’m listening, madam,” Meshcherskaya answered, going up to the table, looking at her clearly and vividly, but without any expression on her face, and sat down as lightly and gracefully as she alone could.
You will listen to me badly, I, unfortunately, was convinced of this, ”said the boss, and, pulling the thread and twisting a ball on the lacquered floor, at which Meshcherskaya looked with curiosity, she raised her eyes.“ I will not repeat myself, I will not speak at length, - she said.
Meshcherskaya really liked this unusually clean and large office, which on frosty days breathed so well with the warmth of a brilliant Dutch and the freshness of lilies of the valley on the desk. She looked at the young king, painted to his full height in the midst of some brilliant hall, at the even parting in the milky, neatly frilled hair of the boss, and was expectantly silent.
You are no longer a girl, - the headmistress said meaningfully, secretly starting to get annoyed.
Yes, madame, Meshcherskaya answered simply, almost cheerfully.
But not woman, still the headmistress said more meaningfully, and her dull face flushed slightly. “First of all, what kind of hairstyle is this?” It's a woman's hairstyle!
It’s not my fault, madame, that I have good hair, ”Meshcherskaya answered, and slightly touched her beautifully trimmed head with both hands.
Oh, that's how, you're not to blame! - said the headmistress. - You are not to blame for your hair, you are not to blame for these expensive combs, you are not to blame for ruining your parents for shoes worth twenty rubles! But, I repeat to you, you completely lose sight of the fact that you are still only a schoolgirl...
And then Meshcherskaya, without losing her simplicity and calmness, suddenly politely interrupted her:
Excuse me, madam, you are mistaken: I am a woman. And to blame for this - you know who? Friend and neighbor of the pope, and your brother Alexei Mikhailovich Malyutin. It happened last summer in the village...
And a month after this conversation, a Cossack officer, ugly and plebeian in appearance, who had absolutely nothing to do with the circle to which Olya Meshcherskaya belonged, shot her on the station platform, among a large crowd of people who had just arrived with the train. And the incredible confession of Olya Meshcherskaya, which stunned the boss, was completely confirmed: the officer told the judicial investigator that Meshcherskaya had lured him, was close to him, swore to be his wife, and at the station, on the day of the murder, seeing him off to Novocherkassk, she suddenly told him that she and never thought to love him, that all this talk about marriage was just her mockery of him, and gave him to read that page of the diary that spoke about Malyutin.
I ran through these lines and right there, on the platform where she was walking, waiting for me to finish reading, I shot at her, - said the officer. - This diary, here it is, look what was written in it on the tenth of July last year.
The following was written in the diary: “It is now the second hour of the night. I fell asleep soundly, but immediately woke up ... Today I became a woman! Dad, mom and Tolya, everyone left for the city, I was left alone. I was so happy that I was alone In the morning I walked in the garden, in the field, was in the forest, it seemed to me that I was alone in the whole world, and I thought as well as ever in my life. there was a feeling that I would live without end and be as happy as anyone.
Then I fell asleep in my father's office, and at four o'clock Katya woke me up and said that Alexei Mikhailovich had arrived. I was very happy with him, it was so pleasant for me to receive him and occupy him. He arrived on a pair of his vyatki, very beautiful, and they stood at the porch all the time, he stayed because it was raining, and he wanted it to dry out by evening. He regretted that he did not find dad, was very animated and behaved like a gentleman with me, he joked a lot that he had been in love with me for a long time.
When we were walking in the garden before tea, the weather was lovely again, the sun shone through the whole wet garden, although it became quite cold, and he led me by the arm and said that he was Faust with Marguerite. He is fifty-six years old, but he is still very handsome and always well dressed - the only thing I did not like was that he arrived in a lionfish - he smells of English cologne, and his eyes are very young, black, and his beard is elegantly divided into two long parts and completely silver.
We were sitting at tea on the glass veranda, I felt as if I was unwell and lay down on the couch, and he smoked, then moved to me, began again to say some courtesies, then to examine and kiss my hand. I covered my face with a silk handkerchief, and he kissed me several times on the lips through the handkerchief ... I don’t understand how this could happen, I went crazy, I never thought that I was like that! Now there is only one way out for me ... I feel such disgust for him that I can not survive this! .. "
During these April days, the city became clean, dry, its stones turned white, and it is easy and pleasant to walk on them. Every Sunday after mass, a little woman in mourning, wearing black kid gloves, and carrying an ebony umbrella, walks down Cathedral Street, which leads out of the city. She crosses along the highway a dirty square, where there are many smoky forges and fresh field air blows; farther, between the monastery and the prison, the cloudy slope of the sky turns white and the spring field turns gray, and then, when you make your way among the puddles under the wall of the monastery and turn to the left, you will see, as it were, a large low garden, surrounded by a white fence, over the gates of which the Assumption of the Mother of God is written.
The little woman makes a small cross and habitually walks along the main avenue. Having reached the bench opposite the oak cross, she sits in the wind and in the spring cold for an hour or two, until her feet in light boots and her hand in a narrow husky are completely cold. Listening to the spring birds singing sweetly even in the cold, listening to the sound of the wind in a porcelain wreath, she sometimes thinks that she would give half her life if only this dead wreath were not in front of her eyes. This wreath, this mound, this oak cross! Is it possible that under him is the one whose eyes shine so immortally from this convex porcelain medallion on the cross, and how to combine with this pure look that terrible thing that is now connected with the name of Olya Meshcherskaya? But in the depths of her soul, the little woman is happy, like all people devoted to some passionate dream.
This woman is a classy lady Olya Meshcherskaya, a middle-aged girl who has long been living in some kind of fiction that replaces her real life. At first, her brother, a poor and unremarkable ensign, was such an invention - she united her whole soul with him, with his future, which for some reason seemed brilliant to her. When he was killed near Mukden, she convinced herself that she was an ideological worker.
The death of Olya Meshcherskaya captivated her with a new dream. Now Olya Meshcherskaya is the subject of her relentless thoughts and feelings. She goes to her grave every holiday, keeps her eyes on the oak cross for hours, remembers the pale face of Olya Meshcherskaya in the coffin, among the flowers - and what she once overheard: once, at a big break, walking in the gymnasium garden, Olya Meshcherskaya quickly, she quickly said to her beloved friend, plump, tall Subbotina:
In one of my father's books - he has a lot of old funny books - I read what beauty a woman should have ... - God, it’s written: boiling with resin! - Black as night, eyelashes, gently playing blush, thin waist, longer than an ordinary arm, - you know, longer than usual! - A small leg, moderately large breasts, correctly rounded calf, knees of color shells, sloping shoulders - I learned a lot almost by heart, so all this is true! But more importantly, you know what? - Easy breath! But I have it, - you listen to how I sigh, - is it true, is it?
Now that light breath has dissipated again in the world, in that cloudy sky, in that cold spring wind.
