Behind the last hut of our steppe village, our former road to the city disappeared in the rye. And by the road, in the grain, at the beginning of the sea of ears of grain stretching towards the horizon, there stood a white-trunked and spreading weeping birch tree. The deep ruts of the road were overgrown with grass with yellow and white flowers, the birch tree was twisted by the steppe wind, and under its light through canopy a dilapidated, gray cabbage roll had long ago risen - a cross with a triangular plank roof, under which the Suzdal icon was kept from the weather mother of god.
Silky green, white-trunked tree in golden loaves! Once upon a time, the one who first came to this place put a cross with a roof on his tithe, called a priest and consecrated the “Protection of the Most Holy Theotokos.” And since then, the old icon guarded the old steppe road day and night, invisibly extending its blessing to the working peasant happiness. As children, we felt fear of the gray cross, we never dared to look under its roof - only swallows dared to fly there and even build nests there. But we also felt reverence for him, because we heard our mothers whisper on the dark autumn nights:
- Most Holy Theotokos, protect us with your protection!
Autumn came to us bright and quiet, so peacefully and calmly that it seemed there would be no end to the clear days. She made the distances soft blue and deep, the sky clean and meek. Then it was possible to discern the most distant mound in the steppe, on an open and spacious plain of yellow stubble. Autumn also dressed the birch tree in a golden headdress. And the birch tree rejoiced and did not notice how short-lived this dress was, how it fell off leaf by leaf, until finally it was all naked on its golden carpet. Enchanted by autumn, she was happy and submissive and all radiant, illuminated from below by the glow of dry leaves. And the rainbow cobwebs quietly flew near her in the brilliance of the sun, quietly landed on the dry, prickly stubble... And the people called them beautifully and tenderly - “the yarn of the Virgin Mary.”
But the days and nights were eerie when autumn shed its meek disguise. Then the wind mercilessly ruffled the bare branches of the birch! The huts stood ruffled like chickens in bad weather, the fog at dusk ran low across the bare plains, the eyes of wolves glowed at night in the backyards. Evil spirits often throws them off, and it would be scary on such nights if there weren’t an old cabbage roll outside the village. And from the beginning of November until April, storms tirelessly covered the fields, the village, and the birch tree up to the cabbage roll with snow. It used to be that you would look out of the entryway into a field, and a harsh blizzard would whistle under the cabbage rolls, smoke over the sharp snowdrifts, and sweep across the plain with a groan, sweeping away traces along the bumpy road as it ran. A lost traveler was baptized with hope at such a time, seeing a cross sticking out of the snowdrifts in the smoke of a blizzard, knowing that here the Queen of Heaven herself was awake over the wild snowy desert, that she was protecting her village, her field, which was dead for the time being.
The field was dead for a long time, but the steppe people were previously hardy. And finally, the cross began to grow out of the settling gray snow. The humpbacked manure road was also melting, and warm and thick March fogs were setting in. From the fogs and rains, the roofs of the huts turned black and smoked on the gloomy days... Then the fogs immediately gave way to on sunny days. And the entire snow field was saturated with water, melted and, melted, shone under the sun, trembling with countless streams. In one or two days the steppe took new look: the plains were darkening like spring, bordered by a pale bluish distance. Rough cattle were released from the barns; Horses and cows, exhausted during the winter, wandered and lay in the pasture, and jackdaws sat on their thin backs and tugged the wool with their beaks for their nests. But a friendly spring means good feed - the cattle will have a walk in the warm dew! The larks were already singing on clear afternoons, the shepherd boys were already sunbathing from the winds and sun that dried the earth. When the spring rain washed her and awakened the thunder, the Lord blessed her in the quiet starry nights bread and herbs to grow, and, reassured by her fields, the old icon meekly looked out from the cabbage roll. There was a subtle smell of greenery in the clean night air, it was peaceful in the steppe, quiet in the dark village, where the fires were no longer blown from the Annunciation, and in the evening the songs of the girls saying goodbye to their betrothed friends died away.
And then everything changed by leaps and bounds. The pasture was green, the willows in front of the huts were green, the birch tree was green. It rained, hot June days passed, cysts bloomed, cheerful haymaking began... I remember how softly and carefree the summer wind rustled in the silky foliage of the birch, tangling this foliage and bending the thin, flexible branches to the very ears; I remember the sunny morning on Trinity Sunday, when even the bearded men, like true descendants of the Russians, smiled from under huge birch wreaths; I remember rude but powerful songs on Spiritual Day, when at sunset we went into a nearby oak forest and there we cooked porridge, placed it in shards on mounds and “begged the cuckoo” to be a merciful prophet; I remember the “games of the sun” on Peter’s Day, I remember majestic songs and noisy weddings, I remember touching prayers before the meek intercessor of all those who mourn - in the field, under open air...
Life does not stand still - the old goes away, and we often see it off with great sadness. Yes, but isn’t life good because it is in constant renewal? Childhood is over. We were drawn to look beyond what we saw beyond the outskirts of the village, the more strongly because the village became more and more boring, and the birch trees were no longer so densely green in the spring, and the cross by the road was dilapidated, and people exhausted the field that it guarded. And since misfortune does not go alone, it seemed that heaven itself began to be angry with people. Hot and dry winds drove away the clouds, raising whirlwinds along the road, the sun mercilessly scorched the bread and grass. The skinny rye and oats dried out before their time. It was painful to look at them, because there is nothing sadder and more humble than skinny rye. How helplessly she bends from the hot wind with light empty ears, how lonely she rustles! Dry arable land shines through between its stems, dry cornflowers are visible among them... And wild silver quinoa, a harbinger of desolation and famine, takes the place of fat grain along the old country road. Beggars and blind people increasingly began to walk around the village with plaintive choruses. And the village stood silently in the heat - indifferent, sad.
Then, as if in grief, the gentle face of the Mother of God darkened from the dusty winds. Years passed - she repented of being indifferent to the fate of her field. And people little by little began to leave along the road to the city, leaving for distant Siberia. They sold their meager belongings, boarded up the windows of the huts, harnessed their horses and left the village forever in search of new happiness. And the village was empty.
- Not a soul! - said the wind, flying around the entire village and swirling the dust on the road in aimless daring.
But the birch tree did not answer him as it had answered before. She weakly moved the branches and dozed off again. She already knew that the pasture in the village was overgrown with tall weeds, that dull nettles had risen at the thresholds, that wormwood was silvering on the half-open roofs. The steppe around was dead, and the dozen surviving huts could from afar be mistaken for nomadic tents abandoned in the field after a battle or plague. And the cabbage roll was already looking sideways under the birch tree, at the top of which dry white branches were sticking out. Now, at dusk, when the sunset was faintly red behind the dark fields, only rooks and crows spent the night on it, who had seen many changes in this world...
New people began to appear on the steppe. More and more often they come along the road from the city and camp near the village. At night they light fires, dispelling the darkness, and the shadows run far away from them along the roads. At dawn they go out into the field and drill the ground with long drills. The entire surrounding area turns black in heaps, like grave hills. People without regret trample the rare rye that still grows here and there without sowing, without regret they cover it with earth, because they are looking for sources of new happiness - they are looking for them already in the bowels of the earth, where the talismans of the future lurk...
Ore! Maybe soon the chimneys of the factories here will begin to smoke, strong railway tracks on the site of the old road, a city will rise on the site of a wild village. And what sanctified the old life here - the gray cross that fell to the ground - will be forgotten by everyone... The new people will sanctify theirs with something new life? Whose blessing will they call upon for their vigorous and noisy work?
Behind the last hut of our steppe village, our former road to the city disappeared in the rye. And by the road, in the grain, at the beginning of the sea of ears of grain stretching towards the horizon, there stood a white-trunked and spreading weeping birch tree. The deep ruts of the road were overgrown with grass with yellow and white flowers, the birch tree was twisted by the steppe wind, and under its light, through canopy, a dilapidated, gray cabbage roll had long ago risen - a cross with a triangular plank roof, under which the Suzdal icon of the Mother of God was kept from the weather.
Silky green, white-trunked tree in golden loaves! Once upon a time, the one who first came to this place put a cross with a roof on his tithe, called a priest and consecrated the “Protection of the Most Holy Theotokos.” And since then, the old icon guarded the old steppe road day and night, invisibly extending its blessing to the working peasant happiness. As children, we felt fear of the gray cross, we never dared to look under its roof - only swallows dared to fly there and even build nests there. But we also felt reverence for him, because we heard our mothers whisper on the dark autumn nights:
Most Holy Theotokos, protect us with your protection!
Autumn came to us bright and quiet, so peacefully and calmly that it seemed there would be no end to the clear days. She made the distances soft blue and deep, the sky clean and meek. Then it was possible to discern the most distant mound in the steppe, on an open and spacious plain of yellow stubble. Autumn also dressed the birch tree in a golden headdress. And the birch tree rejoiced and did not notice how short-lived this decoration was, how it fell off leaf by leaf, until finally it was all naked on its golden carpet. Enchanted by autumn, she was happy and submissive and all radiant, illuminated from below by the glow of dry leaves. And the rainbow cobwebs quietly flew near her in the brilliance of the sun, quietly landed on the dry, prickly stubble... And the people called them beautifully and tenderly - “the yarn of the Virgin Mary.”
But the days and nights were eerie when autumn shed its meek disguise. Then the wind mercilessly ruffled the bare branches of the birch! The huts stood ruffled like chickens in bad weather, the fog at dusk ran low across the bare plains, wolf eyes glowed at night in the backyards. They often throw off evil spirits, and it would be scary on such nights if there weren’t an old cabbage roll outside the village. And from the beginning of November until April, storms tirelessly covered the fields, the village, and the birch tree up to the cabbage roll with snow. It used to be that you would look out of the entryway into a field, and a harsh blizzard would whistle under the cabbage rolls, smoke over the sharp snowdrifts, and sweep across the plain with a groan, sweeping away traces along the bumpy road as it ran. A lost traveler was baptized with hope at such a time, seeing a cross sticking out of the snowdrifts in the smoke of a blizzard, knowing that here the Queen of Heaven herself was awake over the wild snowy desert, that she was protecting her village, her field, which was dead for the time being.
The field was dead for a long time, but the steppe people were previously hardy. And finally, the cross began to grow out of the settling gray snow. The humpbacked manure road was also melting, and warm and thick March fogs were setting in. From fogs and rains, the roofs of the huts turned black and smoked on the gloomy days... Then the fogs immediately gave way to sunny days. And the entire snow field was saturated with water, melted and, melted, shone under the sun, trembling with countless streams. In one or two days the steppe took on a new look: the plains darkened like spring, bordered by a pale bluish distance. Rough cattle were released from the barns; Horses and cows, exhausted during the winter, wandered and lay in the pasture, and jackdaws sat on their thin backs and tugged the wool with their beaks for their nests. But a friendly spring means good feed - the cattle will have a walk in the warm dew! The larks were already singing on clear afternoons, the shepherd boys were already sunbathing from the winds and sun that dried the earth. When the spring rain washed it and awakened the hole thunder, the Lord blessed the grain and herbs to grow on the quiet starry nights, and, reassured by its fields, the old icon meekly looked out from the cabbage roll. There was a subtle smell of greenery in the clean night air, it was peaceful in the steppe, quiet in the dark village, where the fires were no longer blown from the Annunciation, and in the evening the songs of girls saying goodbye to their betrothed friends died away.
And then everything changed by leaps and bounds. The pasture was green, the willows in front of the huts were green, the birch tree was green. It rained, hot June days passed, cysts bloomed, cheerful haymaking began... I remember how softly and carefree the summer wind rustled in the silky foliage of the birch, tangling this foliage and bending the thin, flexible branches to the very ears; I remember the sunny morning on Trinity Sunday, when even the bearded men, like true descendants of the Russians, smiled from under huge birch wreaths; I remember rude but powerful songs on Spiritual Day, when at sunset we went into a nearby oak forest and there we cooked porridge, placed it in shards on mounds and “begged the cuckoo” to be a merciful prophet; I remember the “games of the sun” on Peter’s Day, I remember majestic songs and noisy weddings, I remember touching prayers before the meek intercessor of all those who mourn, in the field, in the open air...
Life does not stand still - the old goes away, and we often see it off with great sadness. Yes, but isn’t life good because it is in constant renewal? Childhood is over. We were drawn to look beyond what we saw beyond the outskirts of the village, the more strongly because the village became more and more boring, and the birch trees were no longer so densely green in the spring, and the cross by the road was dilapidated, and people exhausted the field that it guarded. And since misfortune does not go alone, it seemed that heaven itself began to be angry with people. Hot and dry winds drove away the clouds, raising whirlwinds along the road, the sun mercilessly scorched the bread and grass. The skinny rye and oats dried out before their time. It was painful to look at them, because there is nothing sadder and more humble than skinny rye. How helplessly she bends from the hot wind with light empty ears, how lonely she rustles! Dry arable land shines through between its stems, dry cornflowers are visible among them... And wild silver quinoa, a harbinger of desolation and famine, takes the place of fat grain along the old country road. Beggars and blind people increasingly began to walk around the village with plaintive choruses. And the village stood silently in the heat - indifferent, sad.
Then, as if in grief, the gentle face of the Mother of God darkened from the dusty winds. Years passed - she repented of being indifferent to the fate of her field. And people little by little began to leave along the road to the city, leaving for distant Siberia. They sold their meager belongings, boarded up the windows of the huts, harnessed their horses and left the village forever in search of new happiness. And the village was empty.
Not a soul! - said the wind, flying around the entire village and swirling the dust on the road in aimless daring.
But the birch tree did not answer him as it had answered before. She weakly moved the branches and dozed off again. She already knew that the pasture in the village was overgrown with tall weeds, that dull nettles had risen at the thresholds, that wormwood was silvering on the half-open roofs. The steppe around was dead, and the dozen surviving huts could from afar be mistaken for nomadic tents abandoned in the field after a battle or plague. And the cabbage roll was already looking sideways under the birch tree, at the top of which dry white branches were sticking out. Now, at dusk, when the sunset was faintly red behind the dark fields, only rooks and crows spent the night on it, who had seen a lot of changes in this world...
New people began to appear on the steppe. More and more often they come along the road from the city and camp near the village. At night they light fires, dispelling the darkness, and the shadows run far away from them along the roads. At dawn they go out into the field and drill the ground with long drills. The entire surrounding area turns black in heaps, like grave hills. People without regret trample the rare rye that still grows here and there without sowing, without regret they cover it with earth, because they are looking for sources of new happiness - they are looking for them already in the bowels of the earth, where the talismans of the future lurk...
Ore! Perhaps soon the chimneys of the factories here will begin to smoke, strong iron tracks will be laid in place of the old road, and a city will rise in place of a wild village. And what sanctified the old life here - the gray cross that fell to the ground - will be forgotten by everyone... Will new people sanctify their new life with something? Whose blessing will they call upon for their vigorous and noisy work?
"Epitaph"- this is a little nostalgic sad story by Ivan Alekseevich Bunin about the exodus of peasants and the desolation of the Russian countryside. Written in 1900.
Epitaph (story)
Behind the last hut of our steppe village, our former road to the city disappeared in the rye. And by the road, in the grain, at the beginning of the sea of ears of grain stretching towards the horizon, there stood a white-trunked and spreading weeping birch tree. The deep ruts of the road were overgrown with grass with yellow and white flowers, the birch tree was twisted by the steppe wind, and under its light through canopy a dilapidated, gray cabbage roll had long ago risen - a cross with a triangular plank roof, under which the Suzdal icon of the Mother of God was kept from the weather.
Silky green, white-trunked tree in golden loaves! Once upon a time, the one who first came to this place put a cross with a roof on his tithe, called a priest and consecrated the “Protection of the Most Holy Theotokos.” And since then, the old icon guarded the old steppe road day and night, invisibly extending its blessing to the working peasant happiness. As children, we felt fear of the gray cross, we never dared to look under its roof - only swallows dared to fly there and even build nests there. But we also felt reverence for him, because we heard our mothers whisper on the dark autumn nights:
Autumn came to us bright and quiet, so peacefully and calmly that it seemed there would be no end to the clear days. She made the distances soft blue and deep, the sky clean and meek. Then it was possible to discern the most distant mound in the steppe, on an open and spacious plain of yellow stubble. Autumn also dressed the birch tree in a golden headdress. And the birch tree rejoiced and did not notice how short-lived this dress was, how it fell off leaf by leaf, until finally it was all naked on its golden carpet. Enchanted by autumn, she was happy and submissive and all radiant, illuminated from below by the glow of dry leaves. And the rainbow cobwebs quietly flew near her in the brilliance of the sun, quietly landed on the dry, prickly stubble... And the people called them beautifully and tenderly - “the yarn of the Virgin Mary.”
But the days and nights were eerie when autumn shed its meek disguise. Then the wind mercilessly ruffled the bare branches of the birch! The huts stood ruffled like chickens in bad weather, the fog at dusk ran low across the bare plains, wolf eyes glowed at night in the backyards. They often throw off evil spirits, and it would be scary on such nights if there weren’t an old cabbage roll outside the village. And from the beginning of November until April, storms tirelessly covered the fields, the village, and the birch tree up to the cabbage roll with snow. It used to be that you would look out of the entryway into a field, and a harsh blizzard would whistle under the cabbage rolls, smoke over the sharp snowdrifts, and sweep across the plain with a groan, sweeping away traces along the bumpy road as it ran. A lost traveler was baptized with hope at such a time, seeing a cross sticking out of the snowdrifts in the smoke of a blizzard, knowing that here the Queen of Heaven herself was awake over the wild snowy desert, that she was protecting her village, her field, which was dead for the time being.
The field was dead for a long time, but the steppe people were previously hardy. And finally, the cross began to grow out of the settling gray snow. The humpbacked manure road also thawed, and warm and thick March fogs set in. From fogs and rains, the roofs of the huts turned black and smoked on the gloomy days... Then the fogs immediately gave way to sunny days. And the entire snow field was saturated with water, melted and, melted, shone under the sun, trembling with countless streams. In one or two days the steppe took on a new look: the plains darkened like spring, bordered by a pale bluish distance. Rough cattle were released from the barns; Horses and cows, exhausted during the winter, wandered and lay in the pasture, and jackdaws sat on their thin backs and tugged the wool with their beaks for their nests. But a friendly spring means good feed - the cattle will have a walk in the warm dew! The larks were already singing on clear afternoons, the shepherd boys were already sunbathing from the winds and sun that dried the earth. When the spring rain washed it and awakened the hole thunder, the Lord blessed the grain and herbs to grow on the quiet starry nights, and, reassured by its fields, the old icon meekly looked out from the cabbage roll. There was a subtle smell of greenery in the clean night air, it was peaceful in the steppe, quiet in the dark village, where the fires were no longer blown from the Annunciation, and in the evening the songs of girls saying goodbye to their betrothed friends died away.
And then everything changed by leaps and bounds. The pasture was green, the willows in front of the huts were green, the birch tree was green. It rained, hot June days passed, cysts bloomed, cheerful haymaking began... I remember how softly and carefree the summer wind rustled in the silky foliage of the birch, tangling this foliage and bending the thin, flexible branches to the very ears; I remember the sunny morning on Trinity Sunday, when even the bearded men, like true descendants of the Russians, smiled from under huge birch wreaths; I remember rude but powerful songs on Spiritual Day, when at sunset we went into a nearby oak forest and there we cooked porridge, placed it in shards on mounds and “begged the cuckoo” to be a merciful prophet; I remember the “games of the sun” on Peter’s Day, I remember majestic songs and noisy weddings, I remember touching prayers before the meek intercessor of all those who mourn, in the field, in the open air...
Life does not stand still - the old goes away, and we often see it off with great sadness. Yes, but isn’t life good because it is in constant renewal? Childhood is over. We were drawn to look beyond what we saw beyond the outskirts of the village, the more strongly because the village became more and more boring, and the birch trees were no longer so densely green in the spring, and the cross by the road was dilapidated, and people exhausted the field that it guarded. And since misfortune does not go alone, it seemed that heaven itself began to be angry with people. Hot and dry winds drove away the clouds, raising whirlwinds along the road, the sun mercilessly scorched the bread and grass. The skinny rye and oats dried out before their time. It was painful to look at them, because there is nothing sadder and more humble than skinny rye. How helplessly she bends from the hot wind with light empty ears, how lonely she rustles! Dry arable land shines through between its stems, dry cornflowers are visible among them... And wild silver quinoa, a harbinger of desolation and famine, takes the place of fat grain along the old country road. Beggars and blind people increasingly began to walk around the village with plaintive choruses. And the village stood silently in the heat - indifferent, sad.
Then, as if in grief, the gentle face of the Mother of God darkened from the dusty winds. Years passed, and she seemed indifferent to the fate of her field. And people little by little began to leave along the road to the city, leaving for distant Siberia. They sold their meager belongings, boarded up the windows of the huts, harnessed their horses and left the village forever in search of new happiness. And the village was empty.
- Not a soul! - said the wind, flying around the entire village and swirling the dust on the road in aimless daring.
But the birch tree did not answer him as it had answered before. She weakly moved the branches and dozed off again. She already knew that the pasture in the village was overgrown with tall weeds, that dull nettles had risen at the thresholds, that wormwood was silvering on the half-open roofs. The steppe around was dead, and the dozen surviving huts could from afar be mistaken for nomadic tents abandoned in the field after a battle or plague. And the cabbage roll was already looking sideways under the birch tree, at the top of which dry white branches were sticking out. Now, at dusk, when the sunset was faintly red behind the dark fields, only rooks and crows spent the night on it, who had seen a lot of changes in this world...
New people began to appear on the steppe. More and more often they come along the road from the city and camp near the village. At night they light fires, dispelling the darkness, and the shadows run far away from them along the roads. At dawn they go out into the field and drill the ground with long drills. The entire surrounding area turns black in heaps, like grave hills. People without regret trample the rare rye that still grows here and there without sowing, without regret they cover it with earth, because they are looking for sources of new happiness - they are looking for them already in the bowels of the earth, where the talismans of the future lurk...
Ore! Perhaps soon the chimneys of the factories here will begin to smoke, strong iron tracks will be laid in place of the old road, and a city will rise in place of a wild village. And what sanctified the old life here - the gray cross that fell to the ground - will be forgotten by everyone... Will new people sanctify their new life with something? Whose blessing will they call upon for their vigorous and noisy work?
1900, Ivan Bunin
Ivan Alekseevich Bunin
Ivan Bunin, according to some literary critics, - the last Russian classic who captured Russia late XIX- beginning of the 20th century. He himself considered himself more of the generation of Ivan Turgenev and Leo Tolstoy than of the generation of Gorky and Veresaev. “...One of the last rays of some wonderful Russian day,” wrote critic G. V. Adamovich about Bunin.
“There are people who have a heightened sense of death from infancy. I am one of those people.”, noted Ivan Bunin in “The Life of Arsenyev”
“Life is, undoubtedly, love, kindness, and a decrease in love, kindness is... already death”- this phrase, absolutely Tolstoyan in spirit, belongs to Bunin.
Ivan Bunin died in Paris on November 8, 1953, in a modest apartment on the street of the composer Offenbach, without having time to finish a book about Chekhov.
Behind the last hut of our steppe village, our former road to the city disappeared in the rye. And by the road, in the grain, at the beginning of the sea of ears of grain stretching towards the horizon, there stood a white-trunked and spreading weeping birch tree. The deep ruts of the road were overgrown with grass with yellow and white flowers, the birch tree was twisted by the steppe wind, and under its light, through canopy a dilapidated, gray cabbage roll had long ago risen - a cross with a triangular plank roof, under which the Suzdal icon of the Mother of God was kept from the weather.
Silky green, white-trunked tree in golden loaves! Once upon a time, the one who first came to this place put a cross with a roof on his tithe, called a priest and consecrated the “Protection of the Most Holy Theotokos.” And since then, the old icon guarded the old steppe road day and night, invisibly extending its blessing to the working peasant happiness. As children, we felt fear of the gray cross, we never dared to look under its roof - only swallows dared to fly there and even build nests there. But we also felt reverence for him, because we heard our mothers whisper on the dark autumn nights:
- Most Holy Theotokos, protect us with your protection!
Autumn came to us bright and quiet, so peacefully and calmly that it seemed there would be no end to the clear days. She made the distances soft blue and deep, the sky clean and meek. Then it was possible to discern the most distant mound in the steppe, on an open and spacious plain of yellow stubble. Autumn also dressed the birch tree in a golden headdress. And the birch tree rejoiced and did not notice how short-lived this dress was, how it fell off leaf by leaf, until finally it was all naked on its golden carpet. Enchanted by autumn, she was happy and submissive and all radiant, illuminated from below by the glow of dry leaves. And the rainbow cobwebs quietly flew near her in the brilliance of the sun, quietly landed on the dry, prickly stubble... And the people called them beautifully and tenderly - “the yarn of the Virgin Mary.”
But the days and nights were eerie when autumn shed its meek disguise. Then the wind mercilessly ruffled the bare branches of the birch! The huts stood ruffled like chickens in bad weather, the fog at dusk ran low across the bare plains, wolf eyes glowed at night in the backyards. They often throw off evil spirits, and it would be scary on such nights if there weren’t an old cabbage roll outside the village. And from the beginning of November until April, storms tirelessly covered the fields, the village, and the birch tree up to the cabbage roll with snow. It used to be that you would look out of the entryway into a field, and a harsh blizzard would whistle under the cabbage rolls, smoke over the sharp snowdrifts, and sweep across the plain with a groan, sweeping away traces along the bumpy road as it ran. A lost traveler was baptized with hope at such a time, seeing a cross sticking out of the snowdrifts in the smoke of a blizzard, knowing that here the Queen of Heaven herself was awake over the wild snowy desert, that she was protecting her village, her field, which was dead for the time being.
The field was dead for a long time, but the steppe people were previously hardy. And finally, the cross began to grow out of the settling gray snow. The humpbacked manure road was also melting, and warm and thick March fogs were setting in. From fogs and rains, the roofs of the huts turned black and smoked on the gloomy days... Then the fogs immediately gave way to sunny days. And the entire snow field was saturated with water, melted and, melted, shone under the sun, trembling with countless streams. In one or two days the steppe took on a new look: the plains darkened like spring, bordered by a pale bluish distance. Rough cattle were released from the barns; Horses and cows, exhausted during the winter, wandered and lay in the pasture, and jackdaws sat on their thin backs and tugged the wool with their beaks for their nests. But a friendly spring means good feed - the cattle will have a walk in the warm dew! The larks were already singing on clear afternoons, the shepherd boys were already sunbathing from the winds and sun that dried the earth. When the spring rain washed it and awakened the hole thunder, the Lord blessed the grain and herbs to grow on the quiet starry nights, and, reassured by its fields, the old icon meekly looked out from the cabbage roll. There was a subtle smell of greenery in the clean night air, it was peaceful in the steppe, quiet in the dark village, where the fires were no longer blown from the Annunciation, and in the evening the songs of girls saying goodbye to their betrothed friends died away.
And then everything changed by leaps and bounds. The pasture was green, the willows in front of the huts were green, the birch tree was green. It rained, hot June days passed, cysts bloomed, cheerful haymaking began... I remember how softly and carefree the summer wind rustled in the silky foliage of the birch, tangling this foliage and bending the thin, flexible branches to the very ears; I remember the sunny morning on Trinity Sunday, when even the bearded men, like true descendants of the Russians, smiled from under huge birch wreaths; I remember rude but powerful songs on Spiritual Day, when at sunset we went into a nearby oak forest and there we cooked porridge, placed it in shards on mounds and “begged the cuckoo” to be a merciful prophet; I remember the “games of the sun” on St. Peter’s Day, I remember majestic songs and noisy weddings, I remember touching prayers before the meek intercessor of all those who mourn, in the field, in the open air...
Life does not stand still - the old goes away, and we often see it off with great sadness. Yes, but isn’t life good because it is in constant renewal? Childhood is over. We were drawn to look beyond what we saw beyond the outskirts of the village, the more strongly because the village became more and more boring, and the birch trees were no longer so densely green in the spring, and the cross by the road was dilapidated, and people exhausted the field that it guarded. And since misfortune does not go alone, it seemed that heaven itself began to be angry with people. Hot and dry winds drove away the clouds, raising whirlwinds along the road, the sun mercilessly scorched the bread and grass. The skinny rye and oats dried out before their time. It was painful to look at them, because there is nothing sadder and more humble than skinny rye. How helplessly she bends from the hot wind with light empty ears, how lonely she rustles! Dry arable land shines through between its stems, dry cornflowers are visible among them... And wild silver quinoa, a harbinger of desolation and famine, takes the place of fat grain along the old country road. Beggars and blind people increasingly began to walk around the village with plaintive choruses. And the village stood silently in the heat - indifferent, sad.
Then, as if in grief, the gentle face of the Mother of God darkened from the dusty winds. Years passed - she repented of being indifferent to the fate of her field. And people little by little began to leave along the road to the city, leaving for distant Siberia. They sold their meager belongings, boarded up the windows of the huts, harnessed their horses and left the village forever in search of new happiness. And the village was empty.
- Not a soul! - said the wind, flying around the entire village and swirling the dust on the road in aimless daring.
But the birch tree did not answer him as it had answered before. She weakly moved the branches and dozed off again. She already knew that the pasture in the village was overgrown with tall weeds, that dull nettles had risen at the thresholds, that wormwood was silvering on the half-open roofs. The steppe around was dead, and the dozen surviving huts could from afar be mistaken for nomadic tents abandoned in the field after a battle or plague. And the cabbage roll was already looking sideways under the birch tree, at the top of which dry white branches were sticking out. Now, at dusk, when the sunset was faintly red behind the dark fields, only rooks and crows spent the night on it, who had seen a lot of changes in this world...
New people began to appear on the steppe. More and more often they come along the road from the city and camp near the village. At night they light fires, dispelling the darkness, and the shadows run far away from them along the roads. At dawn they go out into the field and drill the ground with long drills. The entire surrounding area turns black in heaps, like grave hills. People without regret trample the rare rye that still grows here and there without sowing, without regret they cover it with earth, because they are looking for sources of new happiness - they are looking for them already in the bowels of the earth, where the talismans of the future lurk...
Ore! Perhaps soon the chimneys of the factories here will begin to smoke, strong iron tracks will be laid in place of the old road, and a city will rise in place of a wild village. And what sanctified the old life here - the gray cross that fell to the ground - will be forgotten by everyone... Will new people sanctify their new life with something? Whose blessing will they call upon for their vigorous and noisy work?
1900
Ivan Bunin
Epitaph
Behind the last hut of our steppe village, our former road to the city disappeared in the rye. And by the road, in the grain, at the beginning of the sea of ears of grain stretching towards the horizon, there stood a white-trunked and spreading weeping birch tree. The deep ruts of the road were overgrown with grass with yellow and white flowers, the birch tree was twisted by the steppe wind, and under its light, through canopy, a dilapidated, gray cabbage roll had long ago risen - a cross with a triangular plank roof, under which the Suzdal icon of the Mother of God was kept from bad weather.
Silky green, white-trunked tree in golden loaves! Once upon a time, the one who first came to this place put a cross with a roof on his tithe, called a priest and consecrated the “Protection of the Most Holy Theotokos.” And since then, the old icon guarded the old steppe road day and night, invisibly extending its blessing to the working peasant happiness. As children, we felt fear of the gray cross, we never dared to look under its roof - only swallows dared to fly there and even build nests there. But we also felt reverence for him, because we heard our mothers whisper on the dark autumn nights:
– Holy Mother of God, protect us with your cover!
Autumn came to us bright and quiet, so peacefully and calmly that it seemed there would be no end to the clear days. She made the distances soft blue and deep, the sky clean and meek. Then it was possible to discern the most distant mound in the steppe, on an open and spacious plain of yellow stubble. Autumn also dressed the birch tree in a golden headdress. And the birch tree rejoiced and did not notice how short-lived this dress was, how it fell off leaf by leaf, until, finally, it remained all naked on its golden carpet. Enchanted by autumn, she was happy and submissive and all radiant, illuminated from below by the glow of dry leaves. And the rainbow cobwebs quietly flew near her in the brilliance of the sun, quietly landed on the dry, prickly stubble... And the people called them beautifully and tenderly - “the yarn of the Virgin Mary.”
But the days and nights were eerie when autumn shed its meek disguise. Then the wind mercilessly ruffled the bare branches of the birch! The huts stood ruffled like chickens in bad weather, the fog at dusk ran low across the bare plains, wolf eyes glowed at night in the backyards. They often throw off evil spirits, and it would be scary on such nights if there weren’t an old cabbage roll outside the village. And from the beginning of November until April, storms tirelessly covered the fields, the village, and the birch tree up to the cabbage roll with snow. It used to be that you would look out of the entryway into a field, and a harsh blizzard would whistle under the cabbage rolls, smoke over the sharp snowdrifts, and sweep across the plain with a groan, sweeping away traces along the bumpy road as it ran. A lost traveler was baptized with hope at such a time, seeing a cross sticking out of the snowdrifts in the smoke of a blizzard, knowing that here the Queen of Heaven herself was awake over the wild snowy desert, that she was protecting her village, her field, which was dead for the time being.
The field was dead for a long time, but the steppe people were previously hardy. And finally, the cross began to grow out of the settling gray snow. The humpbacked manure road was also melting, and warm and thick March fogs were setting in. From fogs and rains, the roofs of the huts turned black and smoked on the gloomy days... Then the fogs immediately gave way to sunny days. And the entire snow field was saturated with water, melted and, melted, shone under the sun, trembling with countless streams. In one or two days the steppe took on a new look: the plains darkened like spring, bordered by a pale bluish distance. Rough cattle were released from the barns; Horses and cows, exhausted during the winter, wandered and lay in the pasture, and jackdaws sat on their thin backs and tugged the wool with their beaks for their nests. But a friendly spring means good feed - the cattle will have a walk in the warm dew! The larks were already singing on clear afternoons, the shepherd boys were already sunbathing from the winds and sun that dried the earth. When the spring rain washed it and the first thunder awakened, the Lord blessed the grain and herbs to grow on the quiet starry nights, and, reassured by its fields, the old icon meekly looked out from the cabbage roll. There was a subtle smell of greenery in the clean night air, it was peaceful in the steppe, quiet in the dark village, where the fires were no longer blown from the Annunciation, and the songs of the girls saying goodbye to their betrothed friends died away in the evening dawn.
And then everything changed by leaps and bounds. The pasture was green, the willows in front of the huts were green, the birch trees were green... It rained, the hot June days passed, flowers bloomed, cheerful haymaking began... I remember how softly and carefree the summer wind rustled in the silky foliage of the birch, tangling this foliage and bending the thin ears to the very ears, flexible branches; I remember the sunny morning on Trinity Sunday, when even the bearded men, like true descendants of the Russians, smiled from under huge birch wreaths; I remember rude but powerful songs on Spiritual Day, when at sunset we went into a nearby oak forest and there we cooked porridge, placed it in shards on mounds and “begged the cuckoo” to be a merciful prophet; I remember the “games of the sun” on Peter’s Day, I remember majestic songs and noisy weddings, I remember touching prayers before the meek Intercessor of all those who mourn, in the field, in the open air...
Life does not stand still - the old goes away, and we often see it off with great sadness. Yes, but isn’t life good because it is in constant renewal? Childhood is over. We were drawn to look beyond what we saw beyond the outskirts of the village, the more strongly because the village became more and more boring, and the birch trees were no longer so densely green in the spring, and the cross by the road was dilapidated, and people exhausted the field that it guarded. And since misfortune does not go alone, it seemed that heaven itself began to be angry with people. Hot and dry winds drove away the clouds, raising whirlwinds along the road, the sun mercilessly scorched the bread and grass. The skinny rye and oats dried out before their time. It was painful to look at them, because there is nothing sadder and more humble than skinny rye. How helplessly she bends from the hot wind with light empty ears, how lonely she rustles! Dry arable land shines through between its stems, dry cornflowers are visible among them... And wild silver quinoa, a harbinger of desolation and famine, takes the place of fat grain along the old country road. Beggars and blind people increasingly began to walk around the village with plaintive choruses. And the village stood silently in the heat - indifferent, sad.
Then, as if in grief, the meek face of the Mother of God darkened from the dusty winds. Years passed, and she seemed indifferent to the fate of her field. And people little by little began to leave along the road to the city, leaving for distant Siberia. They sold their meager belongings, boarded up the windows of the huts, harnessed their horses and left the village forever in search of new happiness. And the village was empty.