The question of the meaning of life is eternal; in the literature of the early twentieth century, discussion of this topic also continued. Now the meaning was seen not in achieving some clear goal, but in something else. For example, according to the theory of “living life”, the meaning human existence in himself, no matter what this life is like. This idea was supported by V. Veresaev, A. Kuprin, I. Shmelev, B. Zaitsev. " Living life” I. Bunin also reflected in his writings; his “Easy Breathing” is a vivid example.
However, the reason for creating the story was not life at all: Bunin conceived the novella while walking through the cemetery. Seeing a cross with a portrait of a young woman, the writer was amazed at how her cheerfulness contrasted with the sad surroundings. What kind of life was it? Why did she, so lively and joyful, leave this world so early? No one could answer these questions anymore. But Bunin’s imagination painted the life of this girl, who became the heroine of the short story “Easy Breathing.”
The plot is outwardly simple: cheerful and precocious Olya Meshcherskaya arouses burning interest among the opposite sex with her feminine attractiveness; her behavior irritates the headmistress of the gymnasium, who decides to give the pupil an instructive conversation about the importance of modesty. But this conversation ended unexpectedly: the girl said that she was no longer a girl, she became a woman after meeting the boss’s brother and a friend of Malyutin’s father. It soon turned out that this was not the only love story: Olya met with a Cossack officer. The latter planned fast wedding. However, at the station, before her lover left for Novocherkassk, Meshcherskaya said that their relationship was insignificant for her and she would not marry. Then she suggested reading diary entry about his fall. A military man shot a flighty girl, and the short story begins with a description of her grave. A cool lady often goes to the cemetery; the student’s fate has become meaningful to her.
Themes
The main themes of the novel are the value of life, beauty and simplicity. The author himself interpreted his story as a story about highest degree simplicity in a woman: “naivety and lightness in everything, both in audacity and in death.” Olya lived without limiting herself by rules and principles, including moral ones. It was in this simple-heartedness, reaching the point of depravity, that the charm of the heroine lay. She lived as she lives, true to theory“living life”: why restrain yourself if life is so beautiful? So she sincerely rejoiced in her attractiveness, not caring about neatness and decency. She also had fun with the courtship of young people, not taking their feelings seriously (school student Shenshin was on the verge of suicide because of his love for her).
Bunin also touched on the theme of the meaninglessness and dullness of existence in the image of the teacher Olya. This “older girl” is contrasted with her student: the only pleasure for her is a suitable illusory idea: “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 persistent thoughts and feelings.”
Issues
- The issue of the balance between passions and decency is revealed quite controversially in the short story. The writer clearly sympathizes with Olya, who chooses the first, sings in her “ easy breath"as a synonym for charm and naturalness. In contrast, the heroine is punished for her frivolity, and punished harshly - by death. The problem of freedom follows from this: society with its conventions is not ready to give the individual permissiveness even in intimate sphere. Many people think that this is good, but they are often forced to carefully hide and suppress the secret desires of their own soul. But to achieve harmony, a compromise is needed between society and the individual, and not the unconditional primacy of the interests of one of them.
- You can also highlight social aspect in the short story: the joyless and dull atmosphere of a provincial town, where anything can happen if no one finds out. In such a place there is really nothing else to do except discuss and condemn those who want to break out of the gray routine of existence, at least through passion. Social inequality manifests itself between Olya and her last lover(“ugly and plebeian in appearance, who had absolutely nothing in common with the circle to which Olya Meshcherskaya belonged”). Obviously, the reason for the refusal was the same class prejudices.
- The author does not dwell on the relationships in Olya’s family, but judging by the heroine’s feelings and events in her life, they are far from ideal: “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 I had ever thought in my life. I dined alone, then played for a whole hour, listening to the music I had the feeling that I would live endlessly and be as happy as anyone.” It is obvious that no one was involved in raising the girl, and her problem lies in abandonment: no one taught her, at least by example, how to balance between feelings and reason.
Characteristics of heroes
- The main and most developed character of the novel is Olya Meshcherskaya. The author pays great attention to her appearance: the girl is very beautiful, graceful, graceful. But oh inner world little is said, the emphasis is only on frivolity and frankness. Having read in a book that the basis of female charm is light breathing, she began to actively develop it both externally and internally. She not only sighs shallowly, but also thinks, fluttering through life like a moth. Moths, circling around the fire, invariably scorch their wings, and so the heroine died in the prime of her life.
- The Cossack officer is a fatal and mysterious hero; nothing is known about him except for his sharp difference from Olya. How they met, the motives for the murder, the course of their relationship - one can only guess about all this. Most likely, the officer is a passionate and addicted person, he fell in love (or thought that he fell in love), but he was clearly not satisfied with Olya’s frivolity. The hero wanted the girl to belong only to him, so he was even ready to take her life.
- The cool lady suddenly appears in the finale as an element of contrast. She has never lived for pleasure; she sets goals for herself, living in an imaginary world. She and Olya are two extremes of the problem of balance between duty and desire.
Composition and genre
Genre " Easy breathing» - short story (short) plot story), a small volume reflects many problems and topics, paints a picture of life different groups society.
The composition of the story deserves special attention. The narrative is sequential, but it is fragmented. First we see Olya’s grave, then she is told about her fate, then we return to the present again - a visit to the cemetery by a classy lady. Speaking about the life of the heroine, the author chooses a special focus in the narrative: he describes in detail the conversation with the head of the gymnasium, the seduction of Olya, but her murder, acquaintance with the officer is described in a few words. Bunin concentrates on feelings, sensations, colors, his story seems to be written in watercolors, it is filled with airiness and softness, therefore the unpleasant is described captivatingly.
Meaning of the name
“Easy breathing” is the very first component of female charm, according to the creators of the books that Olya’s father has. The girl wanted to learn lightness, turning into frivolity. And she achieved her goal, although she paid the price, but “this light breath dissipated again in the world, in this cloudy sky, in this cold spring wind."
The lightness is also associated with the style of the short story: the author carefully avoids sharp corners, although he talks about monumental things: true and fictitious love, honor and dishonor, illusory and real life. But this work, according to the writer E. Koltonskaya, leaves the impression of “bright gratitude to the Creator for the fact that there is such beauty in the world.”
You can have different attitudes towards Bunin, but his style is full of imagery, beauty of presentation and courage - that’s a fact. He talks about everything, even the forbidden, but knows how not to cross the line of vulgarity. That is why this talented writer is still loved to this day.
Interesting? Save it on your wall!Ivan Bunin
Easy breath
In the cemetery, above a fresh clay mound, there is a new cross made of oak, strong, heavy, smooth.
April, gray days; The monuments of the cemetery, spacious, county, are still visible far away through the bare trees, and the cold wind rings and rings the porcelain 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 any way in the crowd of brown school 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 classy lady gave her ? Then she began to blossom and develop by leaps and bounds. At the age of fourteen, she had thin waist and slender legs, breasts and all those forms were already clearly outlined, the charm of which has never yet been expressed by human words; at fifteen she was already considered a beauty. How carefully some of her friends combed their hair, how clean they were, how careful they were about their restrained movements! But she was not afraid of anything - not ink stains on her fingers, not a flushed face, not disheveled hair, not a knee that became bare when falling while running. Without any of her worries or efforts and somehow imperceptibly, everything that distinguished her from the entire gymnasium in the last two years came to her - grace, elegance, dexterity, the clear sparkle of her eyes... No one danced at balls like Olya Meshcherskaya , no one ran on skates like she did, no one was courted as much at balls as she was, and for some reason no one was loved as much by the junior classes as she was. Imperceptibly she became a girl, and her high school fame was imperceptibly strengthened, and rumors had already spread that she was flighty, could not live without admirers, that the school student Shenshin was madly in love with her, that she supposedly loved 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 tall spruce forest of the snowy gymnasium garden, invariably fine, radiant, promising frost and sun for tomorrow, a walk on Sobornaya Street, an ice skating rink in the city garden, a pink evening, music and this in all directions the crowd gliding on the skating rink, in which Olya Meshcherskaya seemed the most carefree, the happiest. And then one day, during a big break, when she was rushing around the assembly hall like a whirlwind from the first-graders chasing her and squealing blissfully, she was unexpectedly called to the boss. She stopped running, took only one deep breath, straightened her hair with a quick and already familiar feminine movement, pulled the corners of her apron to her shoulders and, her eyes shining, ran upstairs. The boss, young-looking but gray-haired, sat calmly with knitting in her hands at her desk, under royal portrait.
“Hello, Mademoiselle Meshcherskaya,” she said in French, without raising 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, madame,” Meshcherskaya answered, approaching the table, looking at her clearly and vividly, but without any expression on her face, and sat down as easily and gracefully as only she could.
“You won’t listen to me well, I, unfortunately, am convinced of this,” said the boss and, pulling the thread and spinning a ball on the varnished floor, which Meshcherskaya looked at with curiosity, she raised her eyes. “I won’t repeat myself, I won’t 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 shiny Dutch dress and the freshness of lilies of the valley on the desk. She looked at the young king, depicted in full height in the middle of some brilliant hall, at the even parting in the milky, neatly crimped hair of the boss and was silent expectantly.
“You’re not a girl anymore,” the boss said meaningfully, secretly beginning to get irritated.
“Yes, madame,” Meshcherskaya answered simply, almost cheerfully.
“But not a woman either,” the boss said even more meaningfully, and her matte face turned slightly red. – First of all, what kind of hairstyle is this? This is a women's hairstyle!
“It’s not my fault, madame, that I have good hair,” Meshcherskaya answered and slightly touched her beautifully decorated head with both hands.
- Oh, that’s it, it’s not your fault! - said the boss. - It’s not your fault for your hairstyle, it’s not your fault for these expensive combs, it’s not your fault that you’re ruining your parents for shoes that cost twenty rubles! But, I repeat to you, you completely lose sight of the fact that you are still only a high school student...
And then Meshcherskaya, without losing her simplicity and calmness, suddenly politely interrupted her:
- Excuse me, madame, you are mistaken: I am a woman. And you know who is to blame for this? Dad's friend and neighbor, and your brother Alexey Mikhailovich Malyutin. This happened last summer in the village...
And a month after this conversation, a Cossack officer, ugly and plebeian in 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 who had just arrived by 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, vowed to be his wife, and at the station, on the day of the murder, accompanying him 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 she gave him to read that page of the diary that talked 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 diary wrote the following:
“It’s two o’clock in the morning. I fell fast asleep, but immediately woke up... Today I have become a woman! Dad, mom and Tolya 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 I had ever thought in my life. I had lunch alone, then played for a whole hour, listening to the music I had the feeling that I would live endlessly and be as happy as anyone. Then I fell asleep in my dad’s office, and at four o’clock Katya woke me up and said that Alexey Mikhailovich had arrived. I was very happy about him, I was so pleased to accept him and keep him busy. He arrived in a pair of his Vyatkas, 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 the evening. He regretted that he didn’t find dad, he 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 walked around the garden before tea, the weather was again lovely, the sun shone through the entire wet garden, although it had become completely cold, and he led me by the arm and said that he was Faust with Margarita. 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 - he smells of English cologne, and his eyes are very young, black, and his beard is gracefully divided into two long parts and completely silver. Over tea we sat on the glass veranda, I felt as if unwell and lay down on the ottoman, and he smoked, then moved to me, began again to say some pleasantries, then examined and kissed my hand. I covered my face with a silk scarf, and he kissed me on the lips through the scarf several times... I don’t understand how this could happen, I’m crazy, I never thought I was like this! Now I have only one way out... I feel such disgust for him that I can’t get over it!..”
During these April days, the city became clean, dry, its stones turned white, and it was easy and pleasant to walk along them. Every Sunday, after mass, a small woman in mourning, wearing black kid gloves and carrying an ebony umbrella, walks along Cathedral Street, leading to the exit from the city. She crosses a dirty square along the highway, where there are many smoky forges and the fresh air of the field blows; further, between the monastery and the fort, 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 left, you will see what appears to be a large low garden, surrounded by a white fence, above the gate of which is written the Dormition of the Mother of God. The little woman makes the sign of the cross and walks habitually along the main alley. 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 kid 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 would not be before her eyes. This wreath, this mound, the 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 can we combine with this pure gaze the terrible thing that is now associated with the name of Olya Meshcherskaya? But deep down, the little woman is happy, like all people devoted to some passionate dream.
In the cemetery, over a fresh clay mound stands a new cross.
made of oak, strong, heavy, smooth.
April, gray days; monuments of a cemetery, spacious,
district, still far visible through the bare trees, and cold
the wind rings and tinkles the porcelain wreath at the foot of the cross.
The cross itself has a rather large, convex
porcelain medallion, and in the medallion - a photographic portrait
schoolgirls with joyful, amazingly lively eyes.
This is Olya Meshcherskaya.
As a girl, she didn't stand out in any way in the crowd of browns.
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 towards those
the instructions that the cool lady gives her? Then she became
blossom, develop by leaps and bounds. At fourteen
she's already good years old, with a thin waist and slender legs
breasts and all those forms were outlined, the charm of which is still
never expressed by human words; at fifteen she had a reputation
already a beauty. How carefully some of her hair was combed
friends, how clean they were, how they looked after their
with restrained movements! And she was not afraid of anything - not even
ink stains on fingers, no flushed face, no
disheveled hair, no hair when falling while running
knee Without any of her worries and efforts and somehow unnoticeably it came
to her everything that distinguished her so much in the last two years from all
gymnasium - grace, elegance, dexterity, clear brilliance
eye... No one danced like Olya Meshcherskaya at balls,
no one skated like she did, no one followed anyone at balls
they looked after her as much as they looked after her, and for some reason they didn’t love anyone
so junior classes like hers. Imperceptibly she became a girl, and
her gymnasium fame had imperceptibly strengthened, and rumors had already begun that
that she is flighty, cannot live without fans, that they are into her
High school student Shenshin is madly in love, it’s as if she loves him too,
but she was so changeable in her treatment of him that he attempted
suicide.
During her last winter, Olya Meshcherskaya went completely crazy from
fun, as they said in the gymnasium. The winter was snowy, sunny,
frosty, the sun set early behind the tall snowy spruce forest
gymnasium garden, invariably fine, radiant, promising and
tomorrow there will be frost and sun, a party on Sobornaya Street, an ice skating rink in
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, on a big day
change, when she rushed like a whirlwind around the assembly hall from
the first-graders chasing her and squealing blissfully, her
unexpectedly called to the boss. She stopped running
took only one deep breath, quick and already familiar
straightened her hair with a feminine movement, pulled the corners of her apron towards
shoulders and, eyes shining, ran upstairs. Boss, young-looking,
but gray-haired, she sat calmly with knitting in her hands, writing
table, under the royal portrait.
“Hello, Mademoiselle Meshcherskaya,” she said
in French, without raising his eyes from his knitting. - Unfortunately, I
This is not the first time I have been forced to call you here to
talk to you about your behavior.
“I’m listening, madame,” Meshcherskaya answered, approaching
table, looking at her clearly and vividly, but without any expression on
face, and sat down as easily and gracefully as only she could
I could.
- You will listen to me badly, I, unfortunately, am convinced
in this,” said the boss and, pulling the thread and twisting it
on the varnished floor a ball, which she looked at with curiosity
Meshcherskaya raised her eyes. “I won’t repeat myself, I won’t.”
speak at length,” she said.
Meshcherskaya really liked this unusually clean and
a large office that breathed warmth so well on frosty days
shiny Dutch dress and the freshness of lilies of the valley on the desk.
She looked at the young king, written in full height among
some brilliant hall, evenly parted in the dairy,
neatly crimped hair of the boss and expectantly
was silent.
“You’re not a girl anymore,” she said meaningfully.
boss, secretly starting to get annoyed.
“Yes, madame,” Meshcherskaya answered simply, almost cheerfully.
“But not a woman either,” she said even more meaningfully
the boss, and her matte face turned slightly red. - First of all, -
what kind of hairstyle is this? This is a women's hairstyle!
“It’s not my fault, madame, that I have good hair,”
Meshcherskaya answered and slightly touched her beautiful
removed head.
- Oh, that’s it, it’s not your fault! - said the boss. -
It's not your fault for your hairstyle, it's not your fault for those expensive combs,
It's not your fault that you're ruining your parents for shoes
twenty rubles! But, I repeat to you, you are completely missing the point.
I see that you are still only a high school student...
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? Dad's friend and neighbor, and your brother Alexey
Mikhailovich Malyutin. It happened last summer in the village...
And a month after this conversation, the Cossack officer,
ugly and plebeian in appearance, having 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 with the train. And the incredible thing that stunned the boss
Olya Meshcherskaya’s confession was completely confirmed: the officer said
to the judicial investigator that Meshcherskaya lured him, was with him
close, vowed to be his wife, and at the station, on the day
murder, accompanying him to Novocherkassk, suddenly told him that
she never thought of loving him, that all this talk about
marriage - one of her mockery of him, and she gave him to read that
a diary page that talked about Malyutin.
- I ran through these lines and right there, on the platform where she
was walking, 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. It was in the diary
the following is written: “It’s two o’clock in the morning. I’m fast asleep,
but I woke up immediately... Today I have become a woman! Dad, mom and
Tolya, everyone left for the city, I was left alone. I was like that
I'm happy to be alone! In the morning I walked in the garden, in the field, was in
forest, it seemed to me that I was alone in the whole world, and I thought so
better than ever in my life. I had lunch alone, then for a whole hour
played, to the music I had the feeling that I would live
endlessly 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 and said that
Alexey Mikhailovich arrived. I was very happy about him, I felt
It’s so nice to accept him and occupy him. He arrived in a couple 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 out. He regretted that he had not found dad, he was very animated and
behaved like a gentleman with me, joked a lot that he had long
in love with me. When we were walking around the garden before tea, there was again
lovely weather, the sun shone through the entire wet garden, although
it became completely cold, and he led me by the arm and said that he
Faust with Margarita. 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 - he smells of English cologne, and his eyes
very young, black, and the beard is gracefully divided into two
long parts and completely silver. Over tea we sat on
glass veranda, I felt as if unwell and
I lay down on the ottoman, and he smoked, then he moved to me and began again
say some pleasantries, then look at and kiss
my hand. I covered my face with a silk scarf, and he
kissed me on the lips through a handkerchief... I don’t understand how it’s
could have happened, I'm crazy, I never thought that I
like that! Now I have only one way out... I feel this way about him
I’m disgusted that I can’t survive this!..”
During these April days the city became clean, dry, its stones
they turned white, and it was easy and pleasant to walk on them. Every Sunday,
after mass, along Sobornaya Street leading to the exit from the city,
a small woman in mourning, in black kid's, is heading towards
gloves, with an ebony umbrella. She's crossing the highway
a dirty square, where there are many smoky forges and a fresh breeze
field air; further, between the monastery and the fort,
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 monastery wall and turn
to the left, you will see what looks like a large low garden, surrounded by white
fence, above the gate of which is written the Assumption mother of god.
The little woman makes the sign of the cross and walks habitually along the main road.
alley. Having reached the bench opposite the oak cross, she sits on
the wind and the spring cold for an hour or two, until she was completely frozen
feet in light boots and a hand in a narrow kid. Listening to the spring
birds singing sweetly and in the cold, listening to the sound of the wind in the porcelain
wreath, she sometimes thinks that she would give half her life if only not
there was before her eyes this dead wreath. This wreath, this one
hillock, oak cross! Is it possible that underneath is the one whose eyes
so immortally shine from this convex porcelain medallion
on the cross, and how to combine with this pure look that terrible
What is now connected with the name of Olya Meshcherskaya? - But in the depths
the soul of the little woman is happy, like all the devotees
some passionate dream of people.
This woman is a cool lady Olya Meshcherskaya, middle-aged
a girl who has been living for a long time with some kind of fiction that replaces her
real life. At first such an invention was her brother, poor
and an in no way remarkable ensign,” she combined all her
soul with him, with his future, which for some reason seemed
she's brilliant. When he was killed near Mukden, she convinced herself
that she is an ideological worker. The death of Olya Meshcherskaya captivated her
a new dream. Now Olya Meshcherskaya is the subject of her persistent
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 a coffin, among flowers - and that one day
overheard: one day, during a big break, walking around
gymnasium garden, Olya Meshcherskaya spoke quickly, quickly
to his beloved friend, plump, tall Subbotina:
- I'm in one of my dad's books - he has a lot of old
funny books, - I read what kind of beauty a woman should have...
There, you see, there is so much said that you can’t remember everything: well,
of course, black eyes boiling with resin - by God, so
written: boiling with resin! - eyelashes black as night, gently
playful blush, thin figure, 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 almost learned a lot by heart, so
all this is true! - but the main thing is, you know what? -- Easy breath!
But I have it - listen to how I sigh - after all
really, there is?
Bunin Ivan Alekseevich (1870 - 1953) was born on October 10 in Voronezh into a noble family. Childhood years passed in family estate on the Butyrka farm in 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 man”, who captivated his student with painting, from which he “had quite a long insanity”, in the rest gave little.
In 1889, Bunin left the estate and was forced to look for work to ensure a modest existence for himself (he worked as a proofreader, statistician, librarian, and contributed to a newspaper). He moved often - he lived 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, in next year 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 turned entirely to literary creativity.
In 1898, a collection of poems "Under open air", in 1901 - the collection "Leaf Fall", for which he was awarded the highest prize of the Academy of Sciences - Pushkin Prize(1903). In 1899 he met M. Gorky, who attracted him to cooperation in the publishing house "Knowledge", where they appeared best stories that time: " Antonov apples"(1900), "Pines" and "New Road" (1901), "Chernozem" (1904).
Gorky will write: “...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 Sci. The story "The Village", published in 1910, brought its author a wide reader fame. In 1911 - the story "Sukhodol" - a chronicle of the degeneration of the estate nobility. In subsequent years, a series of significant stories and novellas appeared: " Ancient man", "Ignat", "Zakhar Vorobyov", " A good life", "Mr. from San Francisco."
Having met with hostility October Revolution, the writer left Russia forever in 1920. Through Crimea, and then through Constantinople, he emigrated to France and settled in Paris. Everything he wrote in exile concerned Russia, Russian people, Russian nature: "Mowers", "Lapti", "Distant", "Mitya's Love", a cycle of short stories " Dark alleys", novel "The Life of Arsenyev", 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 it.
In the cemetery, above a fresh clay mound, there is a new cross made of oak, strong, heavy, smooth.
April, gray days; The monuments of the cemetery, spacious, county, are still visible far away through the bare trees, and the cold wind rings and rings the porcelain 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 any way in the crowd of brown school 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 classy lady gave her ?
Then she began to blossom and develop by leaps and bounds. At the age of fourteen, with a thin waist and slender legs, her breasts and all those forms, the charm of which had never yet been expressed by human words, were already clearly outlined; at fifteen she was already considered a beauty. How carefully some of her friends combed their hair, how clean they were, how careful they were about their restrained movements!
But she was not afraid of anything - not ink stains on her fingers, not a flushed face, not disheveled hair, not a knee that became bare when falling while running. Without any of her worries or efforts, and somehow imperceptibly, everything that had so distinguished her from the entire gymnasium in the last two years came to her - grace, elegance, dexterity, the clear sparkle of her eyes...
No one danced at balls like Olya Meshcherskaya, no one ran on skates like she did, no one at balls was looked after as much as she was, and for some reason no one was loved as much by the junior classes as she was. Imperceptibly she became a girl, and her high school fame was imperceptibly strengthened, and rumors had already spread that she was flighty, could not live without admirers, that the school student Shenshin was madly in love with her, that she supposedly loved 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 tall spruce forest of the snowy gymnasium garden, invariably fine, radiant, promising frost and sun for tomorrow, a walk on Sobornaya Street, an ice skating rink in the city garden, a pink evening, music and this in all directions the crowd gliding on the skating rink, in which Olya Meshcherskaya seemed the most carefree, the happiest.
And then one day, during a big break, when she was rushing around the assembly hall like a whirlwind from the first-graders chasing her and squealing blissfully, she was unexpectedly called to the boss. She stopped running, took only one deep breath, straightened her hair with a quick and already familiar feminine movement, pulled the corners of her apron to her shoulders and, her eyes shining, ran upstairs. The boss, young-looking but gray-haired, sat calmly with knitting in her hands at her desk, under the royal portrait.
“Hello, mademoiselle Meshcherskaya,” she said in French, without raising 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, madame,” Meshcherskaya answered, approaching the table, looking at her clearly and vividly, but without any expression on her face, and sat down as easily and gracefully as only she could.
You won’t listen to me well, I, unfortunately, am convinced of this,” the boss said and, pulling the thread and spinning a ball on the varnished floor, which Meshcherskaya looked at with curiosity, raised her eyes. “I won’t repeat myself, I won’t 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 shiny Dutch dress and the freshness of lilies of the valley on the desk. She looked at the young king, depicted in full height in the middle of some brilliant hall, at the even parting in the milky, neatly crimped hair of the boss and was silent expectantly.
“You’re not a girl anymore,” the boss said meaningfully, secretly starting to get irritated.
Yes, madame,” Meshcherskaya answered simply, almost cheerfully.
But not either woman - still The boss said more meaningfully, and her matte face turned slightly red. “First of all, what kind of hairstyle is this?” This is a women's hairstyle!
“It’s not my fault, madame, that I have good hair,” Meshcherskaya answered and slightly touched her beautifully decorated head with both hands.
Oh, that's it, it's not your fault! - said the boss. “It’s not your fault for your hairstyle, it’s not your fault for these expensive combs, it’s not your fault that you’re ruining your parents for shoes that cost twenty rubles!” But, I repeat to you, you completely lose sight of the fact that you are still only a high school student...
And then Meshcherskaya, without losing her simplicity and calmness, suddenly politely interrupted her:
Sorry, madame, you are mistaken: I am a woman. And you know who is to blame for this? Dad's friend and neighbor, and your brother Alexey 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 in common with the circle to which Olya Meshcherskaya belonged, shot her on the station platform, among a large crowd of people who had just arrived by 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, vowed to be his wife, and at the station, on the day of the murder, accompanying him 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 she gave him to read that page of the diary that talked 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’s now two o’clock in the morning. I fell asleep soundly, but woke up immediately... Today I have become a woman! Dad, mom and Tolya all 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 it was as good as ever in my life. I had lunch alone, then played for a whole hour, listening to music. there was a feeling that I would live endlessly and be as happy as anyone.
Then I fell asleep in my dad’s office, and at four o’clock Katya woke me up and said that Alexey Mikhailovich had arrived. I was very happy about him, I was so pleased to accept him and keep him busy. He arrived in a pair of his Vyatkas, 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 the evening. He regretted that he didn’t find dad, he 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 walked around the garden before tea, the weather was again lovely, the sun shone through the entire wet garden, although it had become completely cold, and he led me by the arm and said that he was Faust with Margarita. 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 - he smells of English cologne, and his eyes are very young, black, and his beard is gracefully divided into two long parts and completely silver.
Over tea we sat on the glass veranda, I felt as if unwell and lay down on the ottoman, and he smoked, then moved to me, began again to say some pleasantries, then examined and kissed my hand. I covered my face with a silk scarf, and he kissed me on the lips through the scarf several times... I don’t understand how this could happen, I’m crazy, I never thought I was like this! Now I have only one way out... I feel such disgust for him that I can’t get over it!..”
During these April days, the city became clean, dry, its stones turned white, and it was easy and pleasant to walk along them. Every Sunday, after mass, a small woman in mourning, wearing black kid gloves and carrying an ebony umbrella, walks along Cathedral Street, leading to the exit from the city. She crosses a dirty square along the highway, where there are many smoky forges and the fresh air of the field blows; further, between the monastery and the fort, the cloudy slope of the sky turns white and the spring field turns grey, and then, when you make your way among the puddles under the wall of the monastery and turn left, you will see what appears to be a large low garden, surrounded by a white fence, above the gate of which is written the Dormition of the Mother of God.
The little woman makes the sign of the cross and walks habitually along the main alley. 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 kid 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 would not be before her eyes. This wreath, this mound, the 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 can we combine with this pure gaze the terrible thing that is now associated with the name of Olya Meshcherskaya? But deep down, the little woman is happy, like all people devoted to some passionate dream.
This woman is the cool lady Olya Meshcherskaya, a middle-aged girl who has long lived 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 entire 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 persistent thoughts and feelings. She goes to her grave every holiday, does not take her eyes off the oak cross for hours, remembers the pale face of Olya Meshcherskaya in the coffin, among the flowers - and what she once overheard: one day, during a long break, walking through the gymnasium garden, Olya Meshcherskaya quickly, quickly said to her beloved friend, plump, tall Subbotina:
I read in one of my dad’s books - he has a lot of old funny books - what kind of beauty a woman should have... There, you know, there are so many sayings that you can’t remember everything: well, of course, black eyes boiling with resin - she -God, it’s written: boiling with resin! -eyelashes black as night, a gentle blush, a thin figure, longer than an ordinary arm, - you know, longer than an ordinary one! - small leg, moderately large breasts, regularly rounded calves, colored knees shells, sloping shoulders - I almost learned a lot by heart, so it’s all true! - but most importantly, you know what? - Easy breath! But I have it, - listen to how I sigh, - I really do, don’t I?
Now this light breath has again dissipated in the world, in this cloudy sky, in this cold spring wind.
Current page: 41 (book has 41 pages total) [available reading passage: 23 pages]
Easy breath
In the cemetery, above a fresh clay mound, there is a new cross made of oak, strong, heavy, smooth.
April, gray days; The monuments of the cemetery, spacious, county, are still visible far away through the bare trees, and the cold wind rings and rings the porcelain 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 any way in the crowd of brown school 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 classy lady gave her ? Then she began to blossom and develop by leaps and bounds. At the age of fourteen, with a thin waist and slender legs, her breasts and all those forms, the charm of which had never yet been expressed by human words, were already clearly outlined; at fifteen she was already considered a beauty. How carefully some of her friends combed their hair, how clean they were, how careful they were about their restrained movements! But she was not afraid of anything - not ink stains on her fingers, not a flushed face, not disheveled hair, not a knee that became bare when falling while running. Without any of her worries or efforts and somehow imperceptibly, everything that distinguished her from the entire gymnasium in the last two years came to her - grace, elegance, dexterity, the clear sparkle of her eyes... No one danced at balls like Olya Meshcherskaya , no one ran on skates like she did, no one was courted as much at balls as she was, and for some reason no one was loved as much by the junior classes as she was. Imperceptibly she became a girl, and her high school fame was imperceptibly strengthened, and rumors had already spread that she was flighty, could not live without admirers, that the school student Shenshin was madly in love with her, that she supposedly loved 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 tall spruce forest of the snowy gymnasium garden, invariably fine, radiant, promising frost and sun for tomorrow, a walk on Sobornaya Street, an ice skating rink in the city garden, a pink evening, music and this in all directions the crowd gliding on the skating rink, in which Olya Meshcherskaya seemed the most carefree, the happiest. And then one day, during a big break, when she was rushing around the assembly hall like a whirlwind from the first-graders chasing her and squealing blissfully, she was unexpectedly called to the boss. She stopped running, took only one deep breath, straightened her hair with a quick and already familiar feminine movement, pulled the corners of her apron to her shoulders and, her eyes shining, ran upstairs. The boss, young-looking but gray-haired, sat calmly with knitting in her hands at her desk, under the royal portrait.
“Hello, Mademoiselle Meshcherskaya,” she said in French, without raising 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, madame,” Meshcherskaya answered, approaching the table, looking at her clearly and vividly, but without any expression on her face, and sat down as easily and gracefully as only she could.
“You won’t listen to me well, I, unfortunately, am convinced of this,” said the boss and, pulling the thread and spinning a ball on the varnished floor, which Meshcherskaya looked at with curiosity, she raised her eyes. “I won’t repeat myself, I won’t 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 shiny Dutch dress and the freshness of lilies of the valley on the desk. She looked at the young king, depicted in full height in the middle of some brilliant hall, at the even parting in the milky, neatly crimped hair of the boss and was silent expectantly.
“You’re not a girl anymore,” the boss said meaningfully, secretly beginning to get irritated.
“Yes, madame,” Meshcherskaya answered simply, almost cheerfully.
“But not a woman either,” the boss said even more meaningfully, and her matte face turned slightly red. – First of all, what kind of hairstyle is this? This is a women's hairstyle!
“It’s not my fault, madame, that I have good hair,” Meshcherskaya answered and slightly touched her beautifully decorated head with both hands.
- Oh, that’s it, it’s not your fault! - said the boss. - It’s not your fault for your hairstyle, it’s not your fault for these expensive combs, it’s not your fault that you’re ruining your parents for shoes that cost twenty rubles! But, I repeat to you, you completely lose sight of the fact that you are still only a high school student...
And then Meshcherskaya, without losing her simplicity and calmness, suddenly politely interrupted her:
- Excuse me, madame, you are mistaken: I am a woman. And you know who is to blame for this? Dad's friend and neighbor, and your brother Alexey Mikhailovich Malyutin. This happened last summer in the village...
And a month after this conversation, a Cossack officer, ugly and plebeian in 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 who had just arrived by 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, vowed to be his wife, and at the station, on the day of the murder, accompanying him 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 she gave him to read that page of the diary that talked 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’s now two o’clock in the morning. I fell asleep soundly, but woke up immediately... Today I have become a woman! Dad, mom and Tolya all 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 it was as good as ever in my life. I had lunch alone, then I played for a whole hour, I had such a feeling while listening to music. a feeling that I would live forever and be as happy as anyone. Then I fell asleep in my dad’s office, and at four o’clock Katya woke me up and said that Alexei Mikhailovich had arrived. I was very happy with him, I was so pleased to receive him. He arrived in a pair of his Vyatkas, 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 the evening. He regretted that he did not find dad, he was very animated and held. He treated me like a gentleman, joked a lot that he had been in love with me for a long time. When we walked around the garden before tea, the weather was again lovely, the sun shone through the entire wet garden, although it had become completely cold, and he led me by the arm and said that he is Faust with Margarita. 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 - he smells of English cologne, and his eyes are very young, black, and his beard is gracefully divided into two long parts and completely silver. Over tea we sat on the glass veranda, I felt as if unwell and lay down on the ottoman, and he smoked, then moved to me, began again to say some pleasantries, then examined and kissed my hand. I covered my face with a silk scarf, and he kissed me on the lips through the scarf several times... I don’t understand how this could happen, I’m crazy, I never thought I was like this! Now I have only one way out... I feel such disgust for him that I can’t get over it!..”
During these April days, the city became clean, dry, its stones turned white, and it was easy and pleasant to walk along them. Every Sunday, after mass, a small woman in mourning, wearing black kid gloves and carrying an ebony umbrella, walks along Cathedral Street, leading to the exit from the city. She crosses a dirty square along the highway, where there are many smoky forges and the fresh air of the field blows; further, between the monastery and the fort, the cloudy slope of the sky turns white and the spring field turns grey, and then, when you make your way among the puddles under the wall of the monastery and turn left, you will see what appears to be a large low garden, surrounded by a white fence, above the gate of which is written the Dormition of the Mother of God. The little woman makes the sign of the cross and walks habitually along the main alley. 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 kid 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 would not be before her eyes. This wreath, this mound, the 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 can we combine with this pure gaze the terrible thing that is now associated with the name of Olya Meshcherskaya? “But deep down in her soul, the little woman is happy, like all people devoted to some passionate dream.
This woman is the cool lady Olya Meshcherskaya, a middle-aged girl who has long lived 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 persistent thoughts and feelings. She goes to her grave every holiday, does not take her eyes off the oak cross for hours, remembers the pale face of Olya Meshcherskaya in the coffin, among the flowers - and what she once overheard: one day, during a long break, walking through the gymnasium garden, Olya Meshcherskaya quickly, quickly said to her beloved friend, plump, tall Subbotina:
“I read in one of my dad’s books—he has a lot of old funny books—what kind of beauty a woman should have... There, you know, there are so many sayings that you can’t remember everything: well, of course, black eyes boiling with resin,” she— God, that’s what it’s written: boiling with pitch! - eyelashes as black as night, a gentle blush, a thin figure, longer than an ordinary arm - you know, longer than usual! - small legs, moderately large breasts, properly rounded calves, shell-colored knees, sloping shoulders - I almost learned a lot by heart, it’s all so true! – but most importantly, you know what? - Easy breath! But I have it,” listen to how I sigh, “I really have it, don’t I?”
Now this light breath has again dissipated in the world, in this cloudy sky, in this cold spring wind.
