Ivan Bunin light breathing completely. Analysis of Bunin’s work “Easy Breathing”
Ivan Alekseevich Bunin
Easy breath
“A summer evening, a coachman's troika, an endless deserted highway...” Bunin's music of prose writing cannot be confused with any other, colors, sounds, smells live in it... Bunin did not write novels. But he brought the purely Russian genre of short story or short story, which received worldwide recognition, to perfection.
This book includes the most famous novels and short stories of the writer: “ Antonov apples", "Village", "Sukhodol", "Easy Breathing".
Ivan Bunin
Easy breath
In the cemetery, over a fresh clay mound stands new cross made of oak, strong, heavy, smooth.
April, gray days; the monuments of the cemetery, spacious, county, are still far visible through the bare trees, and cold wind the porcelain wreath at the foot of the cross rings and rings.
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 skated like she did, no one was courted at balls as much as she was, and for some reason no one was loved as much junior classes like her. 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 and took only one deep breath, quick and already familiar. women's movement straightened her hair, 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.
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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 spacious county cemetery are still visible far away through the bare trees, and the cold wind 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 is one of the pretty, rich and happy girls, that she is capable, but playful and very careless about the instructions given to her cool lady? 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 in human words, were already well outlined; at fifteen she was already known as a beauty. How carefully some of her friends combed their hair, how clean they were, how they watched 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 was looked after at balls as much as she was, and for some reason no one was loved by the junior classes like her. She imperceptibly 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, 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 party on Sobornaya Street, an ice skating rink in the city garden, a pink evening, music and this crowd sliding in all directions 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 like a whirlwind around the assembly hall from the first-graders chasing her and blissfully squealing, 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, 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 breathed so well in frosty days 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 simply answered 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 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: “Forgive 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 said him that she never thought of loving 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 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 alone! I was in the garden, in the field, in the forest in the morning, it seemed to me that I was alone in the whole world, and I thought as well as never in my life. I had lunch alone, then played for a whole hour, under 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 with him. I was so pleased to receive him and entertain 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, he wanted it to dry out by the evening. He was sorry, that he didn’t find dad, he was very animated and behaved like a gentleman with me, joked a lot that he had been in love with me for a long time. When we walked through the salo before tea, the weather was again lovely, the sun shone throughout wet garden, although it became 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 - I just didn’t like 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 -purely silver. Over tea we sat on the glass veranda, I felt as if I was unwell and lay down on the ottoman, and he smoked, then he moved over to me, again began 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 went crazy. I never thought I was like this! Now I have only one way out... I feel such disgust for it that I can’t survive it!..." During these April days, the city became clean, dry, its stones turned white, and it’s easy and pleasant to walk along them. Every Sunday, after mass, along Sobornaya Street, leading to the exit from the city, a small woman in mourning, in black kid gloves, with an umbrella made of ebony wood, is heading along the highway. She crosses a dirty square along the highway, where there are many smoky forges and the fresh breeze of the 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 wall of the monastery and turn left, you will see what looks like a large low garden, surrounded by a white fence, above the gate of which is written Dormition 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 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 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 one 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 whole soul with him, with his future, which for some reason seemed brilliant to her. When he was killed near Muk-den, 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: once, at a big break, walking around the gymnasium hall, Olya Meshcherskaya quickly, quickly spoke to her beloved friend, plump, tall Saturday: “I read in one of my father’s books,” he has a lot of old funny books, “what kind of beauty a woman should have... There, you know, so much is said.” , that you can’t remember everything: well, of course, black eyes boiling with tar - by God, that’s what it says: boiling with tar! - eyelashes black as night, a gentle blush, a thin figure, longer than an ordinary arm - you know, longer than usual! - a small leg, a moderately large chest, a properly rounded calf, shell-colored knees, 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 dispersed into the world, in this cloudy sky, in this cold spring wind. 1916Bunin Ivan Alekseevich
Easy breath
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.
Embedded in the cross itself is a rather large, convex porcelain medallion, 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 like that at balls, like Olya Meshcherskaya, no one ran on skates like she did, no one was looked after at balls as much as she was, and for some reason no one was loved as much by the 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, raised her eyes. “I won’t repeat myself, I won’t say extensively,” 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 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.
