Ivan Shmelev love story briefly. IV “Love Story” Dasha

The main plot of the book is the struggle between Good and Evil, purity and sin. The hero of the work by I.S. Shmeleva, a fifteen-year-old high school student, a “poor knight,” enters into this struggle.

Ivan Sergeevich Shmelev

Love story

And this spring, everything seemed to stop and let me look at myself, and spring itself looked into my eyes. And I saw and felt all of her, as if she were mine, for me alone. For me – blue and golden puddles, and spring splashing in them; and the see-through snow in the garden, crumbling into grains and beads; and a caressing, gentle voice that makes your heart skip a beat, calling a kitty in a blue bow who has wandered off to our kindergarten; and a light blouse on the gallery, exciting with its flickering, and the air, unusually light, with warmth and chill. For the first time I felt that it’s spring, and it’s calling me somewhere, and it’s wonderful for me, and I’m living.

The smells of that spring are unusually fresh in me - the blossoming poplars, black currant buds, the dug up earth in the flower beds and the golden scents in a thin glass duck, the smell of monpensiers, which I secretly, reverently gave to our beautiful Pasha at Easter. The breeze from her starched dress, white with forget-me-nots, and the surprisingly fresh smell that she brought with her into the rooms from the yard - like the smell of raw nuts and Crimean apples - live strongly in me. I remember the spring air flowing through the windows in the evenings, the pearl rim of the month caught in the poplars, the greenish-blue sky, and the stars so clear, twinkling with happiness. I remember the anxious expectation of something inexplicably joyful, and an incomprehensible sadness, melancholy...

There is a golden stripe of sun on a dazzling white window sill. Outside the open window are the first bright leaves on the poplars, sharp and juicy. A fresh, fragrant bitterness gently wafts into the room. On open book Turgenev - a bright rainbow stain from a crystal glass with dense, blue snowdrops stuck tightly in place. A festive glow flows from this joyful spot, from crystal and snowdrops, and from these two words on the book, so alive and wonderfully new to me.

I just read First Love.

After the wonderful Jules Verne, Aimard and the novels of Zagoskin, the beginning seemed uninteresting, and if my sisters hadn’t argued about who should read it, and if the shaggy-haired librarian hadn’t said, squinting his eye, “yeah, do you want to talk about “first love?” I would give up the first page and take up “Rock of the Seagulls.” But these two circumstances and the surprisingly gentle voice that recently called for the cat disturbed me so much that I read up to the outbuilding opposite Neskuchny - in our area! – to a tall and slender girl in pink dress with stripes, how she clicked the clappers on the foreheads of the gentlemen kneeling in front of her - and then I was picked up and carried away...

Having read to the end without a break, I walked around our garden as if stunned, as if looking for something. It was unbearably boring and terribly ashamed. The garden that I loved so much seemed pitiful to me, with tattered apple trees and raspberry twigs, with heaps of rubbish and manure through which chickens roamed. What poverty! If Zinaida had looked...

Where I had just been, there was an ancient, centuries-old park with noble linden and maple trees, like in Neskuchny, sparkling greenhouses with fragrant peaches and Spanish cherries, graceful young people with canes strolling, and a venerable footman in gloves importantly served food. And she, elusively beautiful, light as a marshmallow, captivated with her smile...

I looked at the gray barns and sheds with red roofs, with the sleighs put away for winter, at the broken boxes and barrels in the corner of the yard, at my worn out school jacket, and I was disgusted to the point of tears. What dullness! On the pavement, behind the garden, the old peddler shouted his favorite thing - “e-e-e-pear-ki-dulki boiled!...” - and his hoarse scream made it even more disgusting. Pears! I wanted something completely different, something unusual, festive, whatever, something new. Radiant Zinaida was with me, emerging from the past as a sweet dream. It was she who dozed in the greenish water, behind the glass, in something large crystal, in diamond scales, in lights, attracted with pearl hands, sighed with a satin breast, an unprecedented fish-woman, “a miracle of the sea”, which we looked at somewhere. It was she who shone, flew under the roof of the circus, clinked her crystal dress, and sent air kisses to me. She fluttered into the theater like a fairy, glided on her toes, trembled her legs, stretched beautiful hands. Now she was peeking out from behind the fence into the garden, flashing in the twilight as a light shadow, tenderly beckoning to the cat - “Mika, Mika!” – she was whitening her blouse in the gallery.

Darling!...” I called to someone in my dreams.

During dinner, I thought about the old footman in a tailcoat and gloves, who was carrying a plate with a ridge of herring, and it seemed incredible to me that the wonderful Zinaida would eat this herring. It was her mother, who, of course, looked like a Moldavian, was gnawing on the herring, and she was served a chicken wing and roses with jam. I looked around the table and thought that she wouldn’t like it with us, it would seem dirty, rude; that Pasha, although beautiful, is still not as decent as a venerable footman in gloves, and, of course, they don’t serve kvass, but Lanin’s water. The beaded painting - “The Wedding of Peter the Great”: in a golden frame, she probably would have liked, but the terrible sofa in the hallway and the boring fuchsia on the windows - it’s terribly ignoble. And the box with green onions on the windowsill - horror, horror! If Zinaida had seen it, she would have thrown it contemptuously - shopkeepers!

I tried to imagine what her face was like? Princess, beauty... Subtle, waxy, proud? And it appeared noble and proud, a little arrogant, like Maria Vechera, with a crescent moon in her hair, whom I saw recently in the Niva; sometimes roguishly sweet, like Pasha’s, but much nobler; sometimes mysteriously interesting, elusive, like a neighbor with a surprisingly gentle voice.

At lunch I ate absentmindedly. Mother said:

-Why are you counting all the flies?

“We’ve learned a lot, we learn everything about the exams...” Pasha intervened.

I was horrified by her ignobility, and I replied:

– Firstly, “exams” are not passed, but passed! And... it's time to learn like a human being!...

- What kind of people, just think! – Pasha became rude and hit me with a plate.

Everyone laughed stupidly, and this made me angry. I said - my head hurts! - He left the table, went into his room and slammed his head into the pillow. I wanted to cry. “God, how rude we are! - I repeated in anguish, remembering how it was there. - “You're counting flies,” “exams”... After all, there are people who are completely different... subtle, noble, gentle... but we only have nasty things! There they tell the servants - you, the footman does not interfere in the conversation, brings it on a silver platter business card... - “Will you order me to accept it?” - “Ask to come into the living room!” - What delicacy! If I were all alone, on a desert island somewhere... with only noble nature, the breath of the boundless ocean... and..."

And Zinaida performed again. Not exactly the same, but similar to her, gathered in me everywhere, tender, like a dream, beautiful...

She was somewhere, somewhere waiting for me.

...It's like we're in the ocean, on a ship. She stands proudly on the deck, not noticing me. She is tall and slim. Thin, noble features give her face something heavenly and angelic. on her blue dress and a wide, lightweight “sombrero” made of gold straw. A light but fresh breeze playfully plays with her lush ash-colored curls, beautifully framing her naive-virgin face, which has never life adversity has not left its depressing trail. I'm dressed like a prairie hunter, with my inseparable carbine, pulled low wide-brimmed hat, which Mexicans usually wear. Elegant gentlemen with canes hover around her. The blue of the sky is as clear as the eyes of a baby, and the vast ocean breathes calmly and evenly. But the barometer fell long ago. The captain, an old sea tramp, lays his rough hand on my shoulder. “What do you say, old man?” - He points his eyebrow at a barely visible speck on the horizon, and his open, honest face expresses stern concern. “The gentlemen will have to dance!” - I respond laconically, casting contempt on the flailing gentlemen with canes. “You’re right, buddy...” the captain says sternly, and an alarming shadow runs across his weather-beaten, ocean-salted face. - But you are with me. Providence itself... - and his voice trembled. – My premonition does not deceive me: this is the last flight!... No, my friend... your consolations are in vain. Or don’t you know the old tramp Jim?... But this beautiful senorita... - he pointed with his gaze to the place under the awning, from where came the serene laughter of a young girl playfully playing with a fan, - entrusted to me by the noble Count d'Alonzo, from Buenos Aires, the ancient friend of our family. Let everyone die, but... - and a treacherous tear welled up in his eyes. - I entrust her to you, my friend. Swear on the sacred memory of your mother, and my foster sister, to deliver her safe and sound to her noble father and say that Old Jim's last dying breath... was a farewell greeting to his friends! Without words I firmly shake an honest hand sea dog, and rebellious tears boil in my eyes. “Now I’m calm!” – the captain whispers with relief, heading to his bridge, but from his hasty steps I can see how excited he is. The speck on the horizon has already turned into a cloud, the wind is getting stronger, begins to whistle in the gear, comes in gusts and turns into a storm. A sudden squall throws the ship like a piece of wood. A creeping monstrous wave washes away the gentlemen with canes, and with the mainmast collapsing before my eyes, it drags the captain into the raging abyss. “We’re drowning! We’re going down!!…” – the sailors roared in wild voices and cut the “ends” of the boats. She, with her wondrous hair flowing, stretches out her hands in silent prayer. But she is indescribably beautiful. I approach calmly and say: “Senorita, here is a friend! Providence itself..." - and excitement interrupts my words. “Oh, is it you?!.” - she exclaims with a prayer, and her eyes, filled with tears, make her even more beautiful, like a creature from another world! “You were not mistaken, senorita... in front of you is the same stranger who was already once, when the bandits of Don Santo d'Arrogazzo, that despicable scoundrel... But don't talk about it. Take heart! Providence itself..."

“Have some pancakes...” I heard a familiar whisper.

This is Pasha. She put a plate on the bed and ran away, interrupting my dreams.

I ate the pancakes without much pleasure. The overwhelming melancholy did not go away. I began to re-read “First Love” again, but they sent me to the library to change books. Sister said:

– Ask for Turgenev’s continuation, two volumes.

It seemed to me that there would be a continuation, and I happily ran to the library. I no longer wanted to part with “First Love” and instead carried the not yet read “Rock of Seagulls”.

Ashamed to look him in the eyes, I asked the shaggy man:

– Please, continuation of Turgenev... two volumes! The shaggy one sniffed the books, poked his glasses into each one, looked at me mockingly, it seemed to me, and, humming under his breath, “continuation... continuation!” – noted and handed out the books.

– Don’t delay, everyone asks “First love”! – he said sternly from under his hair, and it seemed that he was chuckling. I went down to the Alexander Garden, sat down on a bench and began to look for the “continuation”. But there was no continuation.

On way back I went, as always, into the chapel and kissed all the icons, “so that everything would be fine.” And then there was the thought of Zinaida. The old man in the coffee table patted me on the shoulder:

- The Pleasant Father will send you for your zeal!

I was so moved that I put a penny on the plate, and I didn’t have enough for the top of the horse. On the way, I sadly thought that God would probably punish me for such thoughts. So I’m walking, perhaps as a punishment? And it became scary: I wouldn’t fail the exams!

At home I picked up the book again. Having finished reading how Volodya jumped from the high greenhouse at her feet and how she showered him with kisses, I felt such excitement that the letters flowed and my heart began to beat terribly. I was afraid that my heart would break, like our baker’s on Easter, and I began to be baptized, calling on the Great Martyr Barbara. “Maybe this is a warning for bad thoughts? Lord, forgive me my sins!” I feel better. I wet my forehead with kvass and went to the kindergarten to cool off.

I ran around it three times, but my thoughts did not leave me. “Darling!...” I said to the sky, caressing with words. And what happened yesterday seemed miraculous now.

Yesterday I walked around the kindergarten, breaking the ice with my heels. The most last strip, and here it is spring. Our “Red” sat on the barn, ruling the cat’s spring, as Pasha said. And suddenly I heard an exclamation: “My God, they will tear Mika apart! Mi-ka! Mika! This made me shudder. It was a gentle voice, a heavenly voice! He reached for his heart and my heart began to pound. “For God’s sake, young man... scare Mika out of there... run behind him and scare him!” I turned my head and saw nothing. Which Mika? Where does the voice come from?! “Ah!...” I heard a capricious whisper, “what are you... really! Yes, it’s on a post, in a blue bow! Well, kitty! And I finally understood: they were screaming from the neighbors, behind the fence.

“Red” had already risen and was walking along the roof. On the gazebo, with its mouth open, an unfamiliar black cat, disheveled, prickly, and vicious, was hunched over and wagging its tail. And between them, on a fence post, Mika, wearing a blue bow, was licking her breast. I immediately realized what was going on. I ran out of the garden, scared Mika from the side of the yard, threw buckshot at the black cat and earned a “bravo”! “Mika, Michochka... silly! Go, Mika!... Please, scare me some more!..." Mika was still sitting on the fence, from where the voice came. I suddenly scared her and she disappeared behind the fence. “Oh, how grateful I am to you, young man! – I heard a caressing, gentle voice. – You saved Mika for me, my joy! She is still a perfect girl, and these cats are terrible... They would tear her to pieces! Oh, how grateful I am to you, darling! The fence is in the way, otherwise I think I would kiss you! Oh, you such a fool, Mikushka!” And I heard Mika being kissed. “Thank you and... goodbye!” – I heard a rich, charming voice, as if I had been kissed. I muttered something, I don’t remember. When I clung to the fence, it was too late: I flashed blue skirt, and the heels clicked on the gallery. And the words “goodbye!” played tenderly in my ears.

It seemed wonderful now.

The cracked fence to the neighbors seemed just like there. And it seemed like fate was here, that we had the same fence, and an outbuilding behind the fence, and sometimes it appeared. It seemed joyful and eerie that if I looked now, I would see a slender girl, and then it would begin...

And in agonizing anticipation and fear, I pressed myself to the cracks in the fence.

There was a courtyard of one curly haired man, strange man. The shaggy man rattled his poles around the yard from morning to evening, chasing a rooster with a broom, and shouted at the residents for disorder. Sometimes a new resident, a fat woman with warts, would tell him from the gallery that she and her daughter were the most noble and always took the slop to the right place, “and not in the middle of the yard, God forgive me!” The shaggy one was shuffling around with a broom, fiddling with the supports, pressing his hand to his heart and assuring that this did not apply to them, but to these fringe pigs from the ground floor. Grishka recently called him “a heart-rending fool,” and Lately I looked at him with interest. And after one conversation I even hated it.

Even before Mika, the tenants had just moved in, I was surprised at how thin the curly one suddenly spoke.

- Rest assured, I’ll finish them off! – I heard a stupid voice. The shaggy man stood under the gallery like a general and furiously shook his broom. The fat woman watched from the gallery. - Pigs are uneducated! The air is so luxurious... the climate is like spring, it’s nice to drink tea in freedom... and it’s spoiled by all sorts of impurities! Well, tell me please?!.

- How can it be! Hygiene itself begins... - the fat woman assented to him.

- And they pour and pour! But noble people can’t even have slop!…

- What kind of slop we have. My daughter is educated, there are doctors... we always have the smartest conversations...

“Yes, I... For God’s sake, don’t take it at your expense... I beg you!...” the curly-haired man shuffled, fiddling with the supports. - We are all like noble people, and accept my apologetic bow for the trouble, and... if your young lady is in any trouble, and I don’t chase the payment, I’ll drive the pigs away! My dream... in my house is to have only noble ones, like family! And before feminine beauty I always bow down. Keep in mind... I'm a determined person!

I was outraged by his impudence. To talk like that about a young lady!... You are a heart-rending fool!

His last name was Karikh, and at one time I thought that he was a German, until this Karikh pulled me off the fence. But this happened before. He pulled my leg so hard that it flew with my boot, and he swore so much that I immediately realized what a German he was.

She lived in Karikha’s yard, even before “First Love” and before the story with the cat, she attracted my eyes with her luxurious brown hair flowing all over her back and a knitted white blouse that fit her wonderfully. Her face remained elusive to me. But I noticed the blouse a long time ago. We called such blouses “jerseys,” and for some reason this mysterious word worried me. Pasha bought the same blouse for Easter, only blue with stripes - “blue goes better with blonde!” - and from behind the door I saw her spinning in front of the mirrors in the hall, hugging her sides and giggling all the time:

- Mother, what breasts you can see... mother, it’s amazing to look at!...

She saw that I was peeking - and there was no one in the house - and began to twirl around more and preen herself like a fool.

“Well, I’ve become pretty, haven’t I?... What a blonde!...” she said, spinning around and sticking out like a drunk.

I got embarrassed and ran away, and Pasha jumped up and down and laughed. I really liked her, but I was ashamed of something.

The janitor Grishka, who revealed a lot to me in life, once said that these are “all for the lure of love, special gizmos... women love them very much so that they can show off all their guts.”

She also had a cherry velvet cap, like the students in Faust, with a bow on the side, and it gave her such a daring look that sometimes it seemed to me that she was a pretty boy dressed up in costume.

That evening of “First Love” I loitered for a long time by the fence, where there was still a glass strip of snow, but the gooseberries were already turning green, and Grishka inquired whether I had lost a nickel for playing against the wall. I said that I had lost a ten-kopeck piece, and he searched with me. This place itself seemed extraordinary to me. Here she spoke to me! “Oh, how grateful I am to you, young man!” – trembled sweetly in my soul. What a voice, beckoning with caress! Is she really a beauty? It seemed to me from her voice that she was a true beauty, that she had blue-blue eyes, a pink mouth and a noble expression on the face of an aristocrat. How amazingly she said: “Oh, what are you... really!” Capriciously proud. I was annoyed that I didn’t see her. He showed his bad manners and savagery. She will think - what an undeveloped boy! But she must have liked me, she surprisingly said: “The fence is in the way, otherwise I would have kissed you!” I should have said: “Allow me to introduce myself... your neighbor... I’m so pleased to do you this little service, and I’m happy...” It always starts with trifles, and this kitty is just a case of... Kissing! I would have to say to this: “Oh, I’m happy to hear you... this musical voice! Well, what would she say to a compliment? I would immediately understand that I liked it. And now you won’t get to know each other...

I was also very sad that something extraordinary would never happen to me, which I was even afraid to think about, then my heart skipped a beat with joy: what if it would happen?... But what could happen?! I was afraid to imagine: it was so creepy, wonderfully creepy! But what is her face like? Does she look like Zinaida? But what kind of face does Zinaida have? I couldn't imagine it. A lovely, gentle face... I enthusiastically pictured her bending over me and showering me with crazy kisses, as in “First Love” with Volodya, and I froze with happiness. With what delight I would have thrown myself from the highest greenhouse at her feet. But we didn’t have a greenhouse, and the barn was completely different, a terrible disgrace, and some boxes and barrels... and also this stupid Karikh in his supports. Everything seemed so disgusting that I was ashamed and wanted to cry. So, it used to be that you return from the theater after a magical ballet, and the sleepy cook angrily shoves a plate with the remains of a pig with porridge:

- Here, finish your food... but the noodles have gone sour.

I waited at the fence until dark, but she never showed up.

There is a golden stripe of sun on a dazzling white window sill. Outside the open window are the first bright leaves on the poplars, sharp and juicy. A fresh, fragrant bitterness gently wafts into the room. On Turgenev’s open book there is a bright rainbow stain from a crystal glass with thick, blue snowdrops tightly stuck in. A festive glow flows from this joyful spot, from crystal and snowdrops, and from these two words on the book, so alive and wonderfully new to me.

I just read First Love.

After the wonderful Jules Verne, Aimard and the novels of Zagoskin, the beginning seemed uninteresting, and if my sisters hadn’t argued about who should read it, and if the shaggy-haired librarian hadn’t said, squinting his eye, “yeah, do you want to talk about “first love?” I would give up the first page and take up “Rock of the Seagulls.” But these two circumstances and the surprisingly gentle voice that recently called for the cat disturbed me so much that I read up to the outbuilding opposite Neskuchny - in our area! - to a tall and slender girl in a pink dress with stripes, how she clicked the clappers on the foreheads of the gentlemen kneeling in front of her - and then I was picked up and carried away...

Where I had just been, there was an ancient, centuries-old park with noble linden and maple trees, like in Neskuchny, sparkling greenhouses with fragrant peaches and Spanish cherries, graceful young people with canes strolling, and a venerable footman in gloves importantly served food. AND she, elusively beautiful, light as a marshmallow, captivating with her smile...

I looked at the gray barns and sheds with red roofs, with the sleighs put away for winter, at the broken boxes and barrels in the corner of the yard, at my worn out school jacket, and I was disgusted to the point of tears. What dullness! On the pavement, behind the garden, the old peddler shouted his favorite thing - “e-e-e-pear-ki-dulki boiled!...” - and his hoarse scream made it even more disgusting. Pears! I wanted something completely different, something unusual, festive, like there, something new. Radiant Zinaida was with me, emerging from the past as a sweet dream. It was she who dozed in the greenish water, behind the glass, in something large crystal, in diamond scales, in lights, attracted with pearl hands, sighed with a satin breast, an unprecedented fish-woman, “a miracle of the sea”, which we looked at somewhere. It was she who shone, flew under the roof of the circus, clinked her crystal dress, and sent air kisses to me. She fluttered into the theater like a fairy, glided on her toes, trembled her legs, stretched out her beautiful arms. Now she was peeking out from behind the fence into the garden, flashing in the twilight as a light shadow, tenderly beckoning to the cat - “Mika, Mika!” – she was whitening her blouse in the gallery.

Darling!...” I called to someone in my dreams.

During dinner I thought about the old footman in a tailcoat and gloves, who was carrying there a plate with a ridge of herring, and it seemed incredible to me that the wonderful Zinaida would eat this herring. It was her mother, who, of course, looked like a Moldavian, was gnawing on the herring, and she was served a chicken wing and roses with jam. I looked around the table and thought that she wouldn’t like it with us, it would seem dirty, rude; that Pasha, although beautiful, is still not as decent as a venerable footman in gloves, and kvass, of course, them They don’t put it, but Lanin water. The beaded painting - “The Wedding of Peter the Great”: in a golden frame, she probably would have liked, but the terrible sofa in the hallway and the boring fuchsia on the windows - it’s terribly ignoble. And the box with green onions on the windowsill - horror, horror! If Zinaida had seen it, she would have thrown it contemptuously - shopkeepers!

At lunch I ate absentmindedly. Mother said:

-Why are you counting all the flies?

“We’ve learned a lot, we learn everything about the exams...” Pasha intervened.

I was horrified by her ignobility, and I replied:

– Firstly, “exams” are not passed, but passed! And... it's time to learn like a human being!...

- What kind of people, just think! – Pasha became rude and hit me with a plate.

Everyone laughed stupidly, and this made me angry. I said - my head hurts! - He left the table, went into his room and slammed his head into the pillow. I wanted to cry. “God, how rude we are! - I repeated in anguish, remembering how it was there. –“You’re counting flies,” “exams”... After all, there are people who are completely different... subtle, noble, gentle... but we only have nasty things! There they say to the servants - you, the footman does not interfere in the conversation, brings a business card on a silver platter... - “Will you order me to accept it?” - “Ask to come into the living room!” - What delicacy! If I were all alone, on a desert island somewhere... with only noble nature, the breath of the boundless ocean... and..."

And Zinaida performed again. Not really ta, and someone like her, gathered in me everywhere, tender, like a dream, beautiful...

She was somewhere, somewhere waiting for me.

...It's like we're in the ocean, on a ship. She stands proudly on the deck, not noticing me. She is tall and slim. Thin, noble features give her face something heavenly and angelic. She is wearing a blue dress and a wide, light “sombrero” made of gold straw. A light but fresh breeze playfully plays with her lush ash-colored curls, beautifully framing her naive-virgin face, on which not a single adversity in life has yet laid its depressing mark. I am dressed like a prairie hunter, with my inseparable carbine, and a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low, such as the Mexicans usually wear. Near her smart gentlemen with canes are twirling around. The blue of the sky is as clear as the eyes of a baby, and the vast ocean breathes calmly and evenly. But the barometer fell long ago. The captain, an old sea tramp, lays his rough hand on my shoulder. “What do you say, old man?” - He points his eyebrow at a barely visible speck on the horizon, and his open, honest face expresses stern concern. “The gentlemen will have to dance!” - I respond laconically, casting contempt on the flailing gentlemen with canes. “You’re right, buddy...” the captain says sternly, and an alarming shadow runs across his weather-beaten, ocean-salted face. - But you are with me. Providence itself... - and his voice trembled. - My premonition does not deceive me: this last flight!... No, my friend... your consolations are in vain. Or don’t you know the old tramp Jim?... But this beautiful senorita... - he pointed with his gaze to the place under the awning, from where came the serene laughter of a young girl playfully playing with a fan, - entrusted to me by the noble Count d'Alonzo, from Buenos Aires, the ancient friend of our family. Let everyone die, but... - and a treacherous tear welled up in his eyes. - I entrust her to you, my friend. Swear on the sacred memory of your mother, and my foster sister, to deliver her safe and sound to her noble father and say that Old Jim's last dying breath... was a farewell greeting to his friends! Without words, I firmly shake the sea wolf’s honest hand, and rebellious tears boil in my eyes. “Now I’m calm!” - the captain whispers with relief, heading to his bridge, but from his hasty steps I see how excited he is. A speck on the horizon has already turned into a cloud, the wind gets stronger, begins to whistle in the rigging, comes in gusts and turns into a storm. A sudden squall throws the ship, like a sliver. A creeping monstrous wave washes away the gentlemen with canes, and with the mainmast collapsing before my eyes, it drags the captain into the raging abyss. “We are sinking! We are going to the bottom!!...” - the sailors roar in wild voices and chop the “ends” on the boats. She, with marvelous hair flowing, he stretches out his hands in silent prayer. But she is indescribably beautiful. I approach calmly and say: “Senorita, here is a friend! Providence itself..." - and excitement interrupts my words. “Oh, is it you?!.” - she exclaims with a prayer, and her eyes, filled with tears, make her even more beautiful, like a creature from another world! “You were not mistaken, senorita... in front of you is the same stranger who was already once, when the bandits of Don Santo d'Arrogazzo, that despicable scoundrel... But don't talk about it. Take heart! Providence itself..."

Ivan Sergeevich Shmelev

Love story

There is a golden stripe of sun on a dazzling white window sill. Outside the open window are the first bright leaves on the poplars, sharp and juicy. A fresh, fragrant bitterness gently wafts into the room. On Turgenev’s open book there is a bright rainbow stain from a crystal glass with thick, blue snowdrops tightly stuck in. A festive glow flows from this joyful spot, from crystal and snowdrops, and from these two words on the book, so alive and wonderfully new to me.

I just read First Love.

After the wonderful Jules Verne, Aimard and the novels of Zagoskin, the beginning seemed uninteresting, and if my sisters hadn’t argued about who should read it, and if the shaggy-haired librarian hadn’t said, squinting his eye, “yeah, do you want to talk about “first love?” I would give up the first page and take up “Rock of the Seagulls.” But these two circumstances and the surprisingly gentle voice that recently called for the cat disturbed me so much that I read up to the outbuilding opposite Neskuchny - in our area! - to a tall and slender girl in a pink dress with stripes, how she clicked the clappers on the foreheads of the gentlemen kneeling in front of her - and then I was picked up and carried away...

Where I had just been, there was an ancient, centuries-old park with noble linden and maple trees, like in Neskuchny, sparkling greenhouses with fragrant peaches and Spanish cherries, graceful young people with canes strolling, and a venerable footman in gloves importantly served food. AND she, elusively beautiful, light as a marshmallow, captivating with her smile...

I looked at the gray barns and sheds with red roofs, with the sleighs put away for winter, at the broken boxes and barrels in the corner of the yard, at my worn out school jacket, and I was disgusted to the point of tears. What dullness! On the pavement, behind the garden, the old peddler shouted his favorite thing - “e-e-e-pear-ki-dulki boiled!...” - and his hoarse scream made it even more disgusting. Pears! I wanted something completely different, something unusual, festive, like there, something new. Radiant Zinaida was with me, emerging from the past as a sweet dream. It was she who dozed in the greenish water, behind the glass, in something large crystal, in diamond scales, in lights, attracted with pearl hands, sighed with a satin breast, an unprecedented fish-woman, “a miracle of the sea”, which we looked at somewhere. It was she who shone, flew under the roof of the circus, clinked her crystal dress, and sent air kisses to me. She fluttered into the theater like a fairy, glided on her toes, trembled her legs, stretched out her beautiful arms. Now she was peeking out from behind the fence into the garden, flashing in the twilight as a light shadow, tenderly beckoning to the cat - “Mika, Mika!” – she was whitening her blouse in the gallery.

Darling!...” I called to someone in my dreams.

At lunch I ate absentmindedly. Mother said:

-Why are you counting all the flies?

“We’ve learned a lot, we learn everything about the exams...” Pasha intervened.

I was horrified by her ignobility, and I replied:

– Firstly, “exams” are not passed, but passed! And... it's time to learn like a human being!...

- What kind of people, just think! – Pasha became rude and hit me with a plate.

Current page: 1 (book has 18 pages in total)

Ivan Sergeevich Shmelev
Love story

I

There is a golden stripe of sun on a dazzling white window sill. Outside the open window are the first bright leaves on the poplars, sharp and juicy. A fresh, fragrant bitterness gently wafts into the room. On Turgenev’s open book there is a bright rainbow stain from a crystal glass with thick, blue snowdrops tightly stuck in. A festive glow flows from this joyful spot, from crystal and snowdrops, and from these two words on the book, so alive and wonderfully new to me.

I just read First Love.

After the wonderful Jules Verne, Aimard and the novels of Zagoskin, the beginning seemed uninteresting, and if my sisters hadn’t argued about who should read it, and if the shaggy-haired librarian hadn’t said, squinting his eye, “yeah, do you want to talk about “first love?” I would give up the first page and take up “Rock of the Seagulls.” But these two circumstances and the surprisingly gentle voice that recently called for the cat disturbed me so much that I read up to the outbuilding opposite Neskuchny - in our area! - to a tall and slender girl in a pink dress with stripes, how she clicked the clappers on the foreheads of the gentlemen kneeling in front of her - and then I was picked up and carried away...

Where I had just been, there was an ancient, centuries-old park with noble linden and maple trees, like in Neskuchny, sparkling greenhouses with fragrant peaches and Spanish cherries, graceful young people with canes strolling, and a venerable footman in gloves importantly served food. AND she, elusively beautiful, light as a marshmallow, captivating with her smile...

I looked at the gray barns and sheds with red roofs, with the sleighs put away for winter, at the broken boxes and barrels in the corner of the yard, at my worn out school jacket, and I was disgusted to the point of tears. What dullness! On the pavement, behind the garden, the old peddler shouted his favorite thing - “e-e-e-pear-ki-dulki boiled!...” - and his hoarse scream made it even more disgusting. Pears! I wanted something completely different, something unusual, festive, like there, something new. Radiant Zinaida was with me, emerging from the past as a sweet dream. It was she who dozed in the greenish water, behind the glass, in something large crystal, in diamond scales, in lights, attracted with pearl hands, sighed with a satin breast, an unprecedented fish-woman, “a miracle of the sea”, which we looked at somewhere. It was she who shone, flew under the roof of the circus, clinked her crystal dress, and sent air kisses to me. She fluttered into the theater like a fairy, glided on her toes, trembled her legs, stretched out her beautiful arms. Now she was peeking out from behind the fence into the garden, flashing in the twilight as a light shadow, tenderly beckoning to the cat - “Mika, Mika!” – she was whitening her blouse in the gallery.

Darling!...” I called to someone in my dreams.

At lunch I ate absentmindedly. Mother said:

-Why are you counting all the flies?

“We’ve learned a lot, we learn everything about the exams...” Pasha intervened.

I was horrified by her ignobility, and I replied:

– Firstly, “exams” are not passed, but passed! And... it's time to learn like a human being!...

- What kind of people, just think! – Pasha became rude and hit me with a plate.

Everyone laughed stupidly, and this made me angry. I said - my head hurts! - He left the table, went into his room and slammed his head into the pillow. I wanted to cry. “God, how rude we are! - I repeated in anguish, remembering how it was there. –“You’re counting flies,” “exams”... After all, there are people who are completely different... subtle, noble, gentle... but we only have nasty things! There they say to the servants - you, the footman does not interfere in the conversation, brings a business card on a silver platter... - “Will you order me to accept it?” - “Ask to come into the living room!” - What delicacy! If I were all alone, on a desert island somewhere... with only noble nature, the breath of the boundless ocean... and..."

And Zinaida performed again. Not really ta, and someone like her, gathered in me everywhere, tender, like a dream, beautiful...

She was somewhere, somewhere waiting for me.

“Have some pancakes...” I heard a familiar whisper.

This is Pasha. She put a plate on the bed and ran away, interrupting my dreams.

I ate the pancakes without much pleasure. The overwhelming melancholy did not go away. I began to re-read “First Love” again, but they sent me to the library to change books. Sister said:

– Ask for Turgenev’s continuation, two volumes.

I thought it would be continuation, and I happily ran to the library. I no longer wanted to part with “First Love” and instead carried the not yet read “Rock of Seagulls”.

Ashamed to look him in the eyes, I asked the shaggy man:

On the way back, I went, as always, into the chapel and kissed all the icons, “so that everything would be fine.” And then there was the thought of Zinaida. The old man in the coffee table patted me on the shoulder:

- The Pleasant Father will send you for your zeal!

I ran around it three times, but my thoughts did not leave me. “Darling!...” I said to the sky, caressing with words. And what happened yesterday seemed miraculous now.

Yesterday I walked around the kindergarten, breaking the ice with my heels. The very last stripe, and now - spring. Our “Red” sat on the barn, ruling the cat’s spring, as Pasha said. And suddenly I heard an exclamation: “My God, they will tear Mika apart! Mi-ka! Mika! This made me shudder. It was a gentle voice, a heavenly voice! He reached for his heart and my heart began to pound. “For God’s sake, young man... scare Mika out of there... run behind him and scare him!” I turned my head and saw nothing. Which Mika? Where does the voice come from?! “Ah!...” I heard a capricious whisper, “what are you... really! Yes, it’s on a post, in a blue bow! Well, kitty! And I finally understood: they were screaming from the neighbors, behind the fence.

“Red” had already risen and was walking along the roof. On the gazebo, with its mouth open, an unfamiliar black cat, disheveled, prickly, and vicious, was hunched over and wagging its tail. And between them, on a fence post, Mika, wearing a blue bow, was licking her breast. I immediately realized what was going on. I ran out of the garden, scared Mika from the side of the yard, threw buckshot at the black cat and earned a “bravo”! “Mika, Michochka... silly! Go, Mika!... Please, scare me some more!..." Mika was still sitting on the fence, from where the voice came. I suddenly scared her and she disappeared behind the fence. “Oh, how grateful I am to you, young man! – I heard a caressing, gentle voice. – You saved Mika for me, my joy! She is still a perfect girl, and these cats are terrible... They would tear her to pieces! Oh, how grateful I am to you, darling! The fence is in the way, otherwise I think I would kiss you! Oh, you such a fool, Mikushka!” And I heard Mika being kissed. “Thank you and... goodbye!” – I heard a rich, charming voice, as if I had been kissed. I muttered something, I don’t remember. When I clung to the fence, it was too late: a blue skirt flashed and heels clicked on the gallery. And the words “goodbye!” played tenderly in my ears.

It seemed wonderful now.

The cracked fence to the neighbors seemed quite like there. And it seemed that it was fate, that we have the same fence, and an outbuilding behind the fence, and sometimes it appears she. It seemed joyful and creepy that if I looked now, I would see a slender girl, and behold - will begin…

And in agonizing anticipation and fear, I pressed myself to the cracks in the fence.

There was a courtyard of a curly-haired, strange man. The shaggy man rattled his poles around the yard from morning to evening, chasing a rooster with a broom, and shouted at the residents for disorder. Sometimes a new resident, a fat woman with warts, would tell him from the gallery that she and her daughter were the most noble and always took the slop to the right place, “and not in the middle of the yard, God forgive me!” The shaggy one was shuffling around with a broom, fiddling with the supports, pressing his hand to his heart and assuring that this did not apply to them, but to these fringe pigs from the ground floor. Grishka recently called him “a heart-rending fool,” and lately I’ve been looking at him with interest. And after one conversation I even hated it.

Even before Mika, the tenants had just moved in, I was surprised at how thin the curly one suddenly spoke.

- How can it be! Hygiene itself begins... - the fat woman assented to him.

- And they pour and pour! But noble people can’t even have slop!…

- What kind of slop we have. My daughter is educated, there are doctors... we always have the smartest conversations...

“Yes, I... For God’s sake, don’t take it at your expense... I beg you!...” the curly-haired man shuffled, fiddling with the supports. “We are all noble people, and please accept our apologetic bow for the trouble, and... if your young lady is in any trouble, and I don’t chase the payment, I’ll round up the pigs!” My dream... in my house is to have only noble ones, like family! And I always admire female beauty. Keep in mind... I'm a determined person!

I was outraged by his impudence. To talk like that about a young lady!... You are a heart-rending fool!

She lived in Karikha’s yard she, even before “First Love” and before the story with the cat, she attracted my attention with her luxurious brown hair flowing all over her back and a knitted white blouse that fit her wonderfully. Her face remained elusive to me. But I noticed the blouse a long time ago. We called such blouses “jerseys,” and for some reason this mysterious word worried me. Pasha bought the same blouse for Easter, only blue with stripes - “blue goes better with blonde!” - and from behind the door I saw her spinning in front of the mirrors in the hall, hugging her sides and giggling all the time:

- Mother, what breasts you can see... mother, it’s amazing to look at!...

She saw that I was peeking - and there was no one in the house - and began to twirl around more and preen herself like a fool.

“Well, I’ve become pretty, haven’t I?... What a blonde!...” she said, spinning around and sticking out like a drunk.

I got embarrassed and ran away, and Pasha jumped up and down and laughed. I really liked her, but I was ashamed of something.

The janitor Grishka, who revealed a lot to me in life, once said that these are “all for the lure of love, special gizmos... women love them very much so that they can show off all their guts.”

Was at her There was also a cherry velvet cap, like the students’ in Faust, with a bow on the side, and it gave her such a daring look that sometimes it seemed to me that he was a pretty boy dressed up.

That evening of “First Love” I loitered for a long time by the fence, where there was still a glass strip of snow, but the gooseberries were already turning green, and Grishka inquired whether I had lost a nickel for playing against the wall. I said that I had lost a ten-kopeck piece, and he searched with me. This place itself seemed extraordinary to me. I spoke here she with me! “Oh, how grateful I am to you, young man!” – trembled sweetly in my soul. What a voice, beckoning with caress! Is she really a beauty? It seemed to me from her voice that she was a true beauty, that she had blue-blue eyes, a pink mouth and a noble expression on the face of an aristocrat. How amazingly she said: “Oh, what are you... really!” Capriciously proud. I was annoyed that I didn’t see her. He showed his bad manners and savagery. She will think - what an undeveloped boy! But she must have liked me, she surprisingly said: “The fence is in the way, otherwise I would have kissed you!” I should have said: “Allow me to introduce myself... your neighbor... I’m so pleased to do you this little service, and I’m happy...” It always starts with trifles, and this kitty is just a case of... Kissing! I would have to say to this: “Oh, I’m happy that I hear you... that musical voice!” Well, what would she say to a compliment? I would immediately understand that I liked it. And now you won’t get to know each other...

- Here, finish your food... but the noodles have gone sour.

I waited at the fence until dark, but she never showed up.

Ivan Sergeevich Shmelev
Love story

It was spring, the sixteenth in my life, but for me it was the first spring: the previous ones were all mixed up. A blue glow in the sky, behind the still bare poplars of the garden, the falling sparkle of drops, gurgling in icy holes, golden puddles in the yard with splashing ducks, the first grass by the fence that you look at, a thawed patch in the garden, delighting with new things - black earth and crosses chicken feet, - the dazzling shine of glass and the fluttering of “bunnies”, the joyful chime at Easter, red and blue balls bumping against each other in the breeze, through the thin skin of which one can see red and blue trees and many blazing suns... - everything is mixed in a wonderful and ringing shine.
And this spring, everything seemed to stop and let me look at myself, and spring itself looked into my eyes. And I saw and felt all of her, as if she were mine, for me alone. For me – blue and golden puddles, and spring splashing in them; and the see-through snow in the garden, crumbling into grains and beads; and a caressing, gentle voice that makes your heart skip a beat, calling a kitty in a blue bow who has wandered off to our kindergarten; and a light blouse on the gallery, exciting with its flickering, and the air, unusually light, with warmth and chill. For the first time I felt that it’s spring, and it’s calling me somewhere, and it’s wonderful for me, and I’m living.
The smells of that spring are unusually fresh in me - the blossoming poplars, black currant buds, the dug up earth in the flower beds and the golden scents in a thin glass duck, the smell of monpensiers, which I secretly, reverently gave to our beautiful Pasha at Easter. The breeze from her starched dress, white with forget-me-nots, and the surprisingly fresh smell that she brought with her into the rooms from the yard - like the smell of raw nuts and Crimean apples - live strongly in me. I remember the spring air flowing through the windows in the evenings, the pearl rim of the month caught in the poplars, the greenish-blue sky, and the stars so clear, twinkling with happiness. I remember the anxious expectation of something inexplicably joyful, and an incomprehensible sadness, melancholy...
There is a golden stripe of sun on a dazzling white window sill. Outside the open window are the first bright leaves on the poplars, sharp and juicy. A fresh, fragrant bitterness gently wafts into the room. On Turgenev’s open book there is a bright rainbow stain from a crystal glass with thick, blue snowdrops tightly stuck in. A festive glow flows from this joyful spot, from crystal and snowdrops, and from these two words on the book, so alive and wonderfully new to me.
I just read First Love.
After the wonderful Jules Verne, Aimard and the novels of Zagoskin, the beginning seemed uninteresting, and if my sisters hadn’t argued about who should read it, and if the shaggy-haired librarian hadn’t said, squinting his eye, “yeah, do you want to talk about “first love?” I would give up the first page and take up “Rock of the Seagulls.” But these two circumstances and the surprisingly gentle voice that recently called for the cat disturbed me so much that I read up to the outbuilding opposite Neskuchny - in our area! - to a tall and slender girl in a pink dress with stripes, how she clicked the clappers on the foreheads of the gentlemen kneeling in front of her - and then I was picked up and carried away...
Having read to the end without a break, I walked around our garden as if stunned, as if looking for something. It was unbearably boring and terribly ashamed. The garden that I loved so much seemed pitiful to me, with tattered apple trees and raspberry twigs, with heaps of rubbish and manure through which chickens roamed. What poverty! If Zinaida had looked...
Where I had just been, there was an ancient, centuries-old park with noble linden and maple trees, like in Neskuchny, sparkling greenhouses with fragrant peaches and Spanish cherries, graceful young people with canes strolling, and a venerable footman in gloves importantly served food. And she, elusively beautiful, light as a marshmallow, captivated with her smile...
I looked at the gray barns and sheds with red roofs, with the sleighs put away for winter, at the broken boxes and barrels in the corner of the yard, at my worn out school jacket, and I was disgusted to the point of tears. What dullness! On the pavement, behind the garden, the old peddler shouted his favorite thing - “e-e-e-pear-ki-dulki boiled!...” - and his hoarse scream made it even more disgusting. Pears! I wanted something completely different, something unusual, festive, whatever, something new. Radiant Zinaida was with me, emerging from the past as a sweet dream. It was she who dozed in the greenish water, behind the glass, in something large crystal, in diamond scales, in lights, attracted with pearl hands, sighed with a satin breast, an unprecedented fish-woman, “a miracle of the sea”, which we looked at somewhere. It was she who shone, flew under the roof of the circus, clinked her crystal dress, and sent air kisses to me. She fluttered into the theater like a fairy, glided on her toes, trembled her legs, stretched out her beautiful arms. Now she was peeking out from behind the fence into the garden, flashing in the twilight as a light shadow, tenderly beckoning to the cat - “Mika, Mika!” – she was whitening her blouse in the gallery.
Darling!...” I called to someone in my dreams.
During dinner, I thought about the old footman in a tailcoat and gloves, who was carrying a plate with a ridge of herring, and it seemed incredible to me that the wonderful Zinaida would eat this herring. It was her mother, who, of course, looked like a Moldavian, was gnawing on the herring, and she was served a chicken wing and roses with jam. I looked around the table and thought that she wouldn’t like it with us, it would seem dirty, rude; that Pasha, although beautiful, is still not as decent as a venerable footman in gloves, and, of course, they don’t serve kvass, but Lanin’s water. The beaded painting - “The Wedding of Peter the Great”: in a golden frame, she probably would have liked, but the terrible sofa in the hallway and the boring fuchsia on the windows - it’s terribly ignoble. And the box with green onions on the windowsill - horror, horror! If Zinaida had seen it, she would have thrown it contemptuously - shopkeepers!
I tried to imagine what her face was like? Princess, beauty... Subtle, waxy, proud? And it appeared noble and proud, a little arrogant, like Maria Vechera, with a crescent moon in her hair, whom I saw recently in the Niva; sometimes roguishly sweet, like Pasha’s, but much nobler; sometimes mysteriously interesting, elusive, like a neighbor with a surprisingly gentle voice.
At lunch I ate absentmindedly. Mother said:
-Why are you counting all the flies?
“We’ve learned a lot, we learn everything about the exams...” Pasha intervened.
I was horrified by her ignobility, and I replied:
– Firstly, “exams” are not passed, but passed! And... it's time to learn like a human being!...
- What kind of people, just think! – Pasha became rude and hit me with a plate.
Everyone laughed stupidly, and this made me angry. I said - my head hurts! - He left the table, went into his room and slammed his head into the pillow. I wanted to cry. “God, how rude we are! - I repeated in anguish, remembering how it was there. - “You're counting flies,” “exams”... After all, there are people who are completely different... subtle, noble, gentle... but we only have nasty things! There they say to the servants - you, the footman does not interfere in the conversation, brings a business card on a silver platter... - “Will you order me to accept it?” - “Ask to come into the living room!” - What delicacy! If I were all alone, on a desert island somewhere... with only noble nature, the breath of the boundless ocean... and..."
And Zinaida performed again. Not exactly the same, but similar to her, gathered in me everywhere, tender, like a dream, beautiful...
She was somewhere, somewhere waiting for me.
...It's like we're in the ocean, on a ship. She stands proudly on the deck, not noticing me. She is tall and slim. Thin, noble features give her face something heavenly and angelic. She is wearing a blue dress and a wide, light “sombrero” made of gold straw. A light but fresh breeze playfully plays with her lush ash-colored curls, beautifully framing her naive-virgin face, on which not a single adversity in life has yet laid its depressing mark. I am dressed like a prairie hunter, with my inseparable carbine, and a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low, such as the Mexicans usually wear. Elegant gentlemen with canes hover around her. The blue of the sky is as clear as the eyes of a baby, and the vast ocean breathes calmly and evenly. But the barometer fell long ago. The captain, an old sea tramp, lays his rough hand on my shoulder. “What do you say, old man?” - He points his eyebrow at a barely visible speck on the horizon, and his open, honest face expresses stern concern. “The gentlemen will have to dance!” - I respond laconically, casting contempt on the flailing gentlemen with canes. “You’re right, buddy...” the captain says sternly, and an alarming shadow runs across his weather-beaten, ocean-salted face. - But you are with me. Providence itself... - and his voice trembled. – My premonition does not deceive me: this is the last flight!... No, my friend... your consolations are in vain. Or don’t you know the old tramp Jim?... But this beautiful senorita... - he pointed with his gaze to the place under the awning, from where came the serene laughter of a young girl playfully playing with a fan, - entrusted to me by the noble Count d'Alonzo, from Buenos Aires, the ancient friend of our family. Let everyone die, but... - and a treacherous tear welled up in his eyes. - I entrust her to you, my friend. Swear on the sacred memory of your mother, and my foster sister, to deliver her safe and sound to her noble father and say that Old Jim's last dying breath... was a farewell greeting to his friends! Without words, I firmly shake the sea wolf’s honest hand, and rebellious tears boil in my eyes. “Now I’m calm!” - the captain whispers with relief, heading to his bridge, but from his hasty steps I see how excited he is. A speck on the horizon has already turned into a cloud, the wind gets stronger, begins to whistle in the rigging, comes in gusts and turns into a storm. A sudden squall throws the ship is like a piece of wood. A creeping monstrous wave washes away the gentlemen with canes, and with the mainmast collapsing before my eyes, it drags the captain into the raging abyss. “We’re drowning! We’re going down!!…” – the sailors roared in wild voices and cut the “ends” of the boats. She, with her wondrous hair flowing, stretches out her hands in silent prayer. But she is indescribably beautiful. I approach calmly and say: “Senorita, here is a friend! Providence itself..." - and excitement interrupts my words. “Oh, is it you?!.” - she exclaims with a prayer, and her eyes, filled with tears, make her even more beautiful, like a creature from another world! “You were not mistaken, senorita... in front of you is the same stranger who was already once, when the bandits of Don Santo d'Arrogazzo, that despicable scoundrel... But don't talk about it. Take heart! Providence itself..."
“Have some pancakes...” I heard a familiar whisper.
This is Pasha. She put a plate on the bed and ran away, interrupting my dreams.
I ate the pancakes without much pleasure. The overwhelming melancholy did not go away. I began to re-read “First Love” again, but they sent me to the library to change books. Sister said:
– Ask for Turgenev’s continuation, two volumes.
It seemed to me that there would be a continuation, and I happily ran to the library. I no longer wanted to part with “First Love” and instead carried the not yet read “Rock of Seagulls”.
Ashamed to look him in the eyes, I asked the shaggy man:
– Please, continuation of Turgenev... two volumes! The shaggy one sniffed the books, poked his glasses into each one, looked at me mockingly, it seemed to me, and, humming under his breath, “continuation... continuation!” – noted and handed out the books.
– Don’t delay, everyone asks “First love”! – he said sternly from under his hair, and it seemed that he was chuckling. I went down to the Alexander Garden, sat down on a bench and began to look for the “continuation”. But there was no continuation.
On the way back, I went, as always, into the chapel and kissed all the icons, “so that everything would be fine.” And then there was the thought of Zinaida. The old man in the coffee table patted me on the shoulder:
- The Pleasant Father will send you for your zeal!
I was so moved that I put a penny on the plate, and I didn’t have enough for the top of the horse. On the way, I sadly thought that God would probably punish me for such thoughts. So I’m walking, perhaps as a punishment? And it became scary: I wouldn’t fail the exams!
At home I picked up the book again. Having finished reading how Volodya jumped from the high greenhouse at her feet and how she showered him with kisses, I felt such excitement that the letters flowed and my heart began to beat terribly. I was afraid that my heart would break, like our baker’s on Easter, and I began to be baptized, calling on the Great Martyr Barbara. “Maybe this is a warning for bad thoughts? Lord, forgive me my sins!” I feel better. I wet my forehead with kvass and went to the kindergarten to cool off.
I ran around it three times, but my thoughts did not leave me. “Darling!...” I said to the sky, caressing with words. And what happened yesterday seemed miraculous now.
Yesterday I walked around the kindergarten, breaking the ice with my heels. The very last stripe, and now - spring. Our “Red” sat on the barn, ruling the cat’s spring, as Pasha said. And suddenly I heard an exclamation: “My God, they will tear Mika apart! Mi-ka! Mika! This made me shudder. It was a gentle voice, a heavenly voice! He reached for his heart and my heart began to pound. “For God’s sake, young man... scare Mika out of there... run behind him and scare him!” I turned my head and saw nothing. Which Mika? Where does the voice come from?! “Ah!...” I heard a capricious whisper, “what are you... really! Yes, it’s on a post, in a blue bow! Well, kitty! And I finally understood: they were screaming from the neighbors, behind the fence.
“Red” had already risen and was walking along the roof. On the gazebo, with its mouth open, an unfamiliar black cat, disheveled, prickly, and vicious, was hunched over and wagging its tail. And between them, on a fence post, Mika, wearing a blue bow, was licking her breast. I immediately realized what was going on. I ran out of the garden, scared Mika from the side of the yard, threw buckshot at the black cat and earned a “bravo”! “Mika, Michochka... silly! Go, Mika!... Please, scare me some more!..." Mika was still sitting on the fence, from where the voice came. I suddenly scared her and she disappeared behind the fence. “Oh, how grateful I am to you, young man! – I heard a caressing, gentle voice. – You saved Mika for me, my joy! She is still a perfect girl, and these cats are terrible... They would tear her to pieces! Oh, how grateful I am to you, darling! The fence is in the way, otherwise I think I would kiss you! Oh, you such a fool, Mikushka!” And I heard Mika being kissed. “Thank you and... goodbye!” – I heard a rich, charming voice, as if I had been kissed. I muttered something, I don’t remember. When I clung to the fence, it was too late: a blue skirt flashed and heels clicked on the gallery. And the words “goodbye!” played tenderly in my ears.