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Manya felt like a sorceress, and beneath her hand a new, wonderful world was being born.
She did not even notice when Mama came back.
Mama gasped.
She screamed at Manya and snatched the brush from her hands.
“Never!! Don’t you dare! Touch my paints! And paint on my pictures! You ruined everything! Everything!”
In a rage, she tore the painting apart.
And when Manya burst into tears and tried to hug Mama and ask her forgiveness, Mama pushed the girl away.
“Go away! Don’t touch me! I don’t want to talk to you! You took it and ruined everything! Learn to draw first, little artist!”
Manya quietly went back to her corner, took out a sheet of paper, and began drawing something with her pencils.
And the next day, when Manya was at kindergarten, a miracle happened.
She found a little sheet of paper lying on the floor.
On it, drawn with simple colored pencils, were the most dazzlingly beautiful flowers.
Bluebells.
Manya caught her breath.
She stared at the pale-blue and deep-blue flower heads, and it seemed to her that they were gently swaying in the wind and ringing ever so softly.
And suddenly an idea came to her.
She would take the picture.
She would hide it.
She would bring it home.
And show it to Mama.
And she would say that she, Manya, had drawn it!
And then Mama would surely give her paints and let her move a brush across the paper, and Manya would create her wonderful world all over again!
And that was exactly what she did.
She folded the little sheet into four, put it into her pocket, and that evening proudly unfolded it in front of Mama.
“Look! I did it! I drew it! Do you like it?”
The girl looked into Mama’s eyes with hope and delight.
Mama stared at the drawing in bewilderment.
“Where did you get this? What nonsense are you making up? You think I’m going to believe you drew it?”
“It was me! Today, at kindergarten! Do you like it?”
Mama pressed her lips together sternly.
“Fine. Let’s suppose I believe you. If you really drew it, then you should be able to draw it again. Take your pencils, sit down, and draw. And it has to be exactly the same. Exactly. Just like this. And if you can’t, so much the worse for you. I can’t stand lies!”
Manya shrank into herself and went to her little corner.
She was very tired that day. She just wanted to play.
But obediently she sat down at the table, took her pencils, and began trying very, very hard.
Patiently she copied the curling lines of the flowers, trying to fill them with color and life, so that they would ring in the wind just as beautifully.
Time passed very slowly.
Manya could hear the clock ticking.
Everything grew blurry before her eyes. The hand holding the pencil moved as if in a dream, and her heart clenched with fear.
She tried so hard.
But the bluebells came out crooked, and their colors were not bright but dull.
The strokes were rough and stubbornly went outside the lines.
Manya rubbed and rubbed the paper with her eraser until it began to wrinkle, and the eraser left dirty smudges behind.
Manya kept working, afraid to stop, patiently wetting the tips of her pencils with her tongue to make the colors brighter.
A strange, bitter-sour taste of graphite remained in her mouth.
Then the eraser went to work again.
And when a hole had begun to show through the crumpled paper, Mama suddenly appeared beside her and sharply pulled the drawing out from under her hand.
“Little artist!” Mama said mockingly. “You ought to be whipped for lying! But it’s already late. The neighbors are asleep. Off to bed! And I don’t want to see or hear you! Liar.”
Mama crumpled both drawings and threw them into the wastebasket.
Manya quickly undressed and slipped beneath the blanket.
She tried not to cry, but the tears stubbornly crawled down her cheeks.
Mama turned off the light, and frightening shadows began dancing on the wall.
Manya quietly pulled the blanket over her head.
Complete silence fell.
Only the clock ticked loudly, creaking with every movement.
The tears kept flowing, and Manya felt very bad, very wicked.
She wanted to ask for forgiveness, to hug Mama, to kiss her, and to see that Mama had forgiven her and loved her again.
But Mama was asleep, and Manya could not wake her.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow Manya would ask for forgiveness.
She would hug her.
She would kiss her.
Tomorrow, tomorrow…
With a little sob, Manya buried her nose in the wet corner of her pillow and fell asleep.
She was walking through a field of bluebells.
The flowers shone beneath the rays of the sun, swaying softly in waves in the wind, ringing ever so gently.
And then Mama appeared.
She was walking toward her, stern and angry, striking the bluebells with a belt.
The flowers fell apart.
Their delicate ringing faded, replaced by a long, mournful hum.
“No!” Manya cried out in anguish. “Mama, don’t hit them! I won’t do it anymore!”
But Mama could not hear her.
She walked on, her lips pressed firmly together, and kept lashing the flowers with the belt.
Again and again.
Soon, only the little stems were swaying in the wind.
The sun went out.
Falling Leaves
“It all began with a leaf trembling in the wind.”
J. R. R. Tolkien“Every leaf on a tree becomes a page of sacred scripture,
if one day the soul learns how to read…”
UnknownHow beautiful that frosty autumn day was!
The teacher walked down the street, and behind her, like colorful balloons floating and bobbing impatiently in the air, came the children.
Manya was among them.
People hurried past on their way somewhere, and one young woman paused to look at Manya. She smiled at her, then hurried on.
And finally — the Park!
And an avenue lined with tall, centuries-old maple trees.
The children scattered along the path, while Manya stood still, gazing up at the sky.
Leaves were falling from the sky.
They drifted slowly downward, like weightless feathers, gently settling upon the ground.
“They are enchanted birds,” Manya whispered.
Then she explained to a boy who had come up beside her:
“They used to be wild pigeons. They were wild and free. I know, because I was their Queen!”
“And did you have a crown?” the boy asked innocently.
“Yes. A little golden crown. And we lived in the forest, but we flew wherever we wanted. And one day…”
By now several children had gathered around Manya.
“One day an evil wizard caught us in a net. And he turned all the pigeons into leaves. And now they can only fly when they fall from the trees…”
“And you?”
“He turned me into a girl, because I was the Queen! But I liked being a wild pigeon better…”
“And flying.”
Manya bent down to the black, damp earth and picked up a leaf — bright yellow, with red veins.
She lifted it to her lips and kissed it.
“I remember you,” she whispered. “You were so beautiful!”
“They’re all beautiful,” the boy sighed, enchanted.
“Would you like us to collect some more leaves and bring them to you?”
“Yes,” Manya nodded solemnly.
“And then we’ll have a flock. A flock of beautiful wild pigeons. And I’ll take them home with me, and they’ll be happy there.
“Only choose the most beautiful ones, all right?”
The children scattered along the avenue once more.
Again and again they came back to Manya, showing her the treasures they had found.
“Beautiful? Beautiful?” they asked.
And Manya, with all the dignity of a queen, either nodded in approval or refused to accept a leaf.
Soon she held an autumn-colored fan of leaves in her hands, and her face was glowing.
How beautiful!
A girl who had been watching the children from a distance came up to Manya.
She smiled and asked:
“Can I hold them?”
And held out her hands.
Manya trusted her with her flock of pigeons, trembling in the wind.
But the girl took the leaves, looked at them, then looked at Manya.
And suddenly, with a mocking smile, she threw them onto the ground and began stamping on them.
“There! Take your pigeons! You’re lying! Lying! You’re a liar!”
A deep, ringing silence fell.
It was possible to hear the leaves falling, rustling softly as they touched the ground.
The children surrounded Manya and seemed to be waiting for something.
The whole world seemed to be waiting for something from her.
The children.
The trees.
Even the sky.
Everything had fallen silent in expectation.
And Manya, beside herself with rage, swung her arm and struck the girl in the face.
Blood ran down the girl’s cheek.
It flowed in a slow little stream, like a raindrop sliding down a windowpane.
Then the girl began to cry, and the teacher ran over to her.
The children all began talking at once, breathlessly telling her what had happened.
Manya could not make out their words.
She heard Silence.
Then the teacher shook her roughly by the shoulders for a long time and shouted something at her.
After that, Manya was made to sit on a bench.
And told to sit still.
The children walked silently around her, and Manya caught their admiring glances.
In their eyes, she was a hero.
But inside, Manya felt frightened and confused.
She looked down at her hands, still clenched into fists.
Then she looked at the trampled leaves.
Those crumpled, torn leaves were the souls of the pigeons.
And Manya felt tears on her face.
They flowed like little streams of blood, like raindrops sliding down a window.
Her fists slowly opened.
And she saw the children.
They were timidly approaching her.
In their hands trembled leaves — yellow, red, green.
Royal gifts.
Suddenly the wind rushed in.
It tore the leaves from their hands and swept up the trampled ones from the ground in a swirling whirlwind.
And all of them rose into the sky, flying upward like fragments of a bright mosaic.
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Примечания
1
Quotations from Frances Burnett’s *A Little Princess* are cited here and throughout.
2
“She had been told before that her mother was in heaven, that she had wings and a crown; they had shown her pictures of ladies in snow-white nightgowns, who were called angels,”
3
“There the meadows are all covered with flowers, and there are whole fields of lilies, and a little breeze blows over them and carries their fragrance through the air, and everyone breathes it in — always, because there is always a little breeze there.”
4
“And the little children run about in the meadows, gathering armfuls of lilies, laughing and making wreaths of them. And the streets are sparkling. And no one ever gets tired, no matter how long the road is.”