In the cemetery, over a fresh earthen mound, there is a new cross
oak, strong, heavy, smooth.
April, the days are gray; cemetery monuments, spacious,
district, still far visible through the bare trees, and cold
the wind chimes and chimes the porcelain wreath at the foot of the cross.
A fairly large, convex
a porcelain medallion, and in the medallion a photographic portrait
schoolgirls with joyful, amazingly lively eyes.
This Olya Meshcherskaya.
As a girl, she did not stand out in a crowd of brown
gymnasium dresses: what could be said about her, except
that she is one of the pretty, rich and happy
girls that she is capable, but playful and very careless to those
the instructions she gives cool lady? Then she became
flourish, develop by leaps and bounds. At fourteen
her years, thin waist and slender legs, already good
breasts and all those forms, the charm of which is still
never expressed the human word; at fifteen she was reputed
already a beauty. How carefully some of her
friends, how clean they were, how they looked after their
restrained movements! And she was not afraid of anything - not
ink stains on the fingers, no flushed face, no
disheveled hair, not naked when falling on the run
knee. Without any of her worries and efforts, and somehow imperceptibly came
to her everything that so distinguished her in the last two years from all
gymnasium - grace, elegance, dexterity, clear brilliance
eye ... Nobody danced like Olya Meshcherskaya at balls,
no one ran as fast on skates as she did, no one at the balls did not
courted as much as for her, and for some reason did not love anyone
So junior classes like her. Imperceptibly she became a girl, and
her gymnasium fame has imperceptibly strengthened, and rumors have already begun,
that she is windy, cannot live without admirers, that she
the schoolboy Shenshin is madly in love, as if she loves him too,
but so volatile in her treatment of him that he encroached on
suicide.
Olya Meshcherskaya went completely crazy during her last winter.
fun, as they said in the gymnasium. The winter was snowy, sunny,
frosty, the sun went down early behind a tall snowy spruce forest
gymnasium garden, invariably fine, radiant, promising and
frost and sun for tomorrow, a walk on Cathedral Street, a skating rink in
city garden, pink evening, music and this one in all directions
the crowd sliding on the skating rink, in which Olya Meshcherskaya seemed
the most carefree, the happiest. And then one day, on a big
change as she whirled around the assembly hall from
chasing her and blissfully squealing first-graders, her
unexpectedly called to the boss. She stopped running
took only one deep breath, quick and already familiar
straightened her hair with a feminine gesture, pulled the corners of her apron to
shoulders and, beaming eyes, ran upstairs. chief, youthful,
but gray-haired, calmly sat with knitting in her hands at a written
table, under the royal portrait.
"Hello, mademoiselle Meshcherskaya," she said
in French, without looking up from knitting. - I, unfortunately,
this is not the first time I have been compelled to call you here in order to
talk to you about your behavior.
"I'm listening, madam," answered Meshcherskaya, going up to
table, looking at her clearly and vividly, but without any expression on
face, and crouched as lightly and gracefully as she
knew how.
- You will listen to me badly, I, unfortunately, was convinced
in this,” said the headmistress, and, pulling the thread and twisting it
lacquered floor, a tangle, which I looked at with curiosity
Meshcherskaya, raised her eyes. - I will not repeat myself, I will not
talk at length, she said.
Meshcherskaya really liked this unusually clean and
big office, so well breathed in frosty days warmth
brilliant dutch and the freshness of lilies of the valley on the desk.
She looked at the young king, written to his full height among
some brilliant hall, in an even parting in the dairy,
neatly crimped hair of the boss and expectantly
was silent.
"You're not a girl anymore," she said pointedly.
boss, secretly starting to get annoyed.
"Yes, madame," Meshcherskaya answered simply, almost cheerfully.
-- But not woman, still said more meaningfully
boss, and her dull face turned a little red.-- First of all--
what is this hairstyle? It's a woman's hairstyle!
- It's not my fault, madame, that I have good hair -
answered Meshcherskaya, and slightly touched her beautifully with both hands.
removed head.
"Ah, that's how it is, you're not to blame!" said the headmistress.
You are not to blame for the hair, not to blame for these expensive combs,
not to blame for ruining your parents for shoes in
twenty rubles! But, I repeat to you, you are completely missing out on
mind that you are still only a high school student ...
And then Meshcherskaya, without losing her simplicity and calmness, suddenly
interrupted her politely:
“Forgive me, madam, you are mistaken: I am a woman. And to blame
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 Cossack officer,
ugly and of a plebeian appearance, who had absolutely nothing in common with
the circle to which Olya Meshcherskaya belonged, shot her
on the station platform, among a large crowd of people, just
arrived by train. And the incredible, stunned boss
Olya Meshcherskaya's confession was completely confirmed: the officer declared
to the judicial investigator that Meshcherskaya lured him, was with him
close, swore to be his wife, and at the station, on the day
murder, seeing him off to Novocherkassk, suddenly told him that
she never thought to love him, what all this talk about
marriage - one of her mockery of him, and gave him to read that
page of the diary, where it was said about Malyutin.
“I ran through these lines and right there, on the platform where she
walked, waiting for me to finish reading, shot at her -
said the officer. - This diary, here it is, look what happened
written in it on the tenth of July last year. The diary was
the following is written: "It is now the second hour of the night. I fell asleep soundly,
but I woke up at once ... Today I have become a woman! dad, mom and
Tolya, everyone 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, I was in
forest, it seemed to me that I was alone in the whole world, and I thought so
good as ever. I dined alone, then whole hour
played, to the music I had the feeling that I would live
without end and I will be as happy as anyone. Then I fell asleep at my dad's
in the office, and at four o'clock Katya woke me up, said that
Alexei Mikhailovich arrived. I was very happy with him, I was
so nice to take it and borrow it. He came with a pair of his
vyatok, very beautiful, and they stood at the porch all the time, he
stayed because it was raining and he wanted to
dried up. He regretted that he did not find his father, he was very animated and
behaved with me as a gentleman, he joked a lot that he had long
in love with me. When we were walking in the garden before tea, there was again
lovely weather, the sun shone through the wet garden, though
it became quite cold, and he led me by the arm and said that he
Faust with Marguerite. He is fifty-six years old, but he is still very
handsome and always well dressed - the only thing I didn't like was that
he arrived in a lionfish, - it smells of English cologne, and his eyes
very young, black, and the beard is elegantly divided into two
long pieces and completely silver. We sat for tea
glass veranda, I felt as if I was unwell and
lay down on the ottoman, and he smoked, then moved to me, became again
say some kindness, then consider and kiss
my hand. I covered my face with a silk handkerchief, and several times he
kissed me on the lips through a handkerchief ... I don’t understand how it
could happen, I went crazy, I never thought that I
such! Now I have one way out ... I feel this way for him
I'm disgusted that I can't get over 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, along Cathedral Street leading to the exit from the city,
a little woman in mourning, in black kid
gloves, with an ebony umbrella. She crosses the highway
dirty square, where there are a lot of smoky forges and a fresh breeze
field air; further, between monastery and sharp,
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 white
fence, above the gate of which the Assumption of the Mother of God is written.
A small woman crosses herself small and habitually walks along the main
alley. Having reached the bench opposite the oak cross, she sits on
wind and in the spring cold for an hour or two, until she is completely chilled
legs in light boots and a hand in a narrow husky. Listening to the spring
birds singing sweetly and in the cold, listening to the sound of the wind in porcelain
wreath, she sometimes thinks that she would give half her life, if only not
was before her eyes this dead wreath. This wreath, this
mound, oak cross! Is it possible that under him is the one whose eyes
so immortally shine from this convex porcelain locket
on the cross, and how to combine with this pure look that terrible,
what is now connected with the name of Olya Meshcherskaya? - But deep down
the soul of a small woman is happy, like all devotees
some passionate dream people.
This woman is a classy lady Olya Meshcherskaya, middle-aged
a girl who has long been living on some fiction that replaces her
real life. At first, her brother, poor
and an unremarkable ensign, - she combined all her
soul with him, with his future, which for some reason seemed
her brilliant. When he was killed near Mukden, she convinced herself
that she is an ideological worker. The death of Olya Meshcherskaya captivated her
new dream. Now Olya Meshcherskaya is the subject of her relentless
thoughts and feelings. She goes to her grave every holiday, by the hour
does not take his eyes off the oak cross, remembers the pale face
Olya Meshcherskaya in the coffin, among the flowers - and the fact that one day
overheard: once, at a big break, walking along
gymnasium garden, Olya Meshcherskaya spoke quickly, quickly
to his beloved friend, full, tall Subbotina:
- I'm in one of my father's books - he has a lot of old
funny books - I read what beauty a woman should have ...
There, you know, so much is said that you can’t remember everything: well,
of course, black eyes boiling with tar - by God, so
it is written: boiling with resin! - black as night, eyelashes, gently
a playful blush, a thin camp, longer than an ordinary arm, -
you know, longer than usual! - a small leg, in moderation
big breasts, correctly rounded calf, color knees
shells, sloping shoulders - I learned a lot almost by heart, so
all this is true! But the main thing, you know what? -- Easy breath!
But I have it - you listen to how I sigh - after all
is there really?
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 a classy 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, shining in 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 woman 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.
Oh, that's how, you're not to blame! - said the headmistress. - You are not to blame for the hair, not to blame for these expensive combs, 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. I had 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 he came in 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. and behaved like a cavalier with me, joking 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 again lovely, the sun shone through the whole wet garden, although it became quite cold, and he led me by the arm and spoke that he is 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! .. "
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 a classy 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, shining in 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 woman 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.
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 ink stains on her fingers, nor a flushed face, nor 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 fans, 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 around the gymnasium garden during the big break, 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 eyes boiling with resin - black as night, eyelashes, gently playing blush, thin waist, longer than an ordinary arm ... a small leg, moderately large breasts, correctly rounded calf, shell-colored 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.”
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 rather 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 a classy 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 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 ran on skates 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 lower 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, shining in 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 woman 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.
