II
“Vigorous Antonovka - for a fun year.” Village affairs are good if the Antonovka crop is cropped: that means the grain crop is cropped... I remember a fruitful year. At early dawn, when the roosters were still crowing and the huts were smoking black, you would open the window into a cool garden filled with a lilac fog, through which the morning sun shines brightly here and there, and you couldn’t resist - you ordered to quickly saddle the horse, and you yourself ran wash at the pond. Almost all the small leaves have flown off the coastal vines, and the branches are visible in the turquoise sky. The water under the vines became clear, icy, and seemingly heavy. It instantly drives away the night's laziness, and, having washed and had breakfast in the common room with the workers, hot potatoes and black bread with coarse raw salt, you enjoy feeling the slippery leather of the saddle under you as you ride through Vyselki to hunt. Autumn is the time for patronal feasts, and at this time the people are tidy and happy, the appearance of the village is not at all the same as at other times. If the year is fruitful and a whole golden city rises on the threshing floors, and geese cackle loudly and loudly on the river in the morning, then it’s not bad at all in the village. In addition, our Vyselki have been famous for their “wealth” since time immemorial, since the time of our grandfather. The old men and women lived in Vyselki for a very long time - the first sign of a rich village - and they were all tall, big and white, like a harrier. All you heard was: “Yes,” Agafya waved off her eighty-three year old!” - or conversations like this: - And when will you die, Pankrat? I suppose you will be a hundred years old? - How would you like to speak, father? - How old are you, I ask! - I don’t know, sir, father. - Do you remember Platon Apollonich? “Why, sir, father,” I clearly remember. - Well, you see. That means you are no less than a hundred. The old man, who stands stretched out in front of the master, smiles meekly and guiltily. Well, they say, what to do - it’s my fault, it’s healed. And he probably would have prospered even more if he had not eaten too much onions in Petrovka. I remember his old woman too. Everyone used to sit on a bench, on the porch, bent over, shaking his head, gasping for breath and holding onto the bench with his hands, all thinking about something. “I suppose it’s about her goods,” the women said, because, indeed, she had a lot of “goods” in her chests. But she doesn’t seem to hear; he looks half-blindly into the distance from under sadly raised eyebrows, shakes his head and seems to be trying to remember something. She was a big old woman, kind of dark all over. Paneva is almost from the last century, the chestnuts are like those of a deceased person, the neck is yellow and withered, the shirt with rosin joints is always white-white, “you could even put it in a coffin.” And near the porch big stone lay: she bought it for her grave, just like a shroud, an excellent shroud, with angels, with crosses and with a prayer printed on the edges. The courtyards in Vyselki also matched the old people: brick, built by their grandfathers. And the rich men - Savely, Ignat, Dron - had huts in two or three connections, because sharing in Vyselki was not yet fashionable. In such families they kept bees, were proud of their gray-iron-colored bull stallion, and kept their estates in order. On the threshing floors there were dark, thick hemp fields; there were barns and barns covered with hair; in the bunks and barns there were iron doors, behind which canvases, spinning wheels, new sheepskin coats, type-setting harnesses, and measures bound with copper hoops were stored. Crosses were burned on the gates and on the sleds. And I remember that sometimes it seemed extremely tempting to me to be a man. When you used to drive through the village on a sunny morning, you kept thinking about how good it would be to mow, thresh, sleep on the threshing floor in brooms, and on a holiday to rise with the sun, under the thick and musical blast from the village, wash yourself near a barrel and put on a clean pair of clothes. a shirt, the same trousers and indestructible boots with horseshoes. If, I thought, we add to this a healthy and beautiful wife in festive attire, and a trip to mass, and then dinner with a bearded father-in-law, a dinner with hot lamb on wooden plates and with rushes, with honeycomb honey and mash, then one could only wish for more impossible! Even in my memory, very recently, the lifestyle of the average nobleman had much in common with the lifestyle of a wealthy peasant in its homeliness and rural, old-world prosperity. Such, for example, was the estate of Aunt Anna Gerasimovna, who lived about twelve versts from Vyselki. By the time you get to this estate, it’s already completely impoverished. With dogs in packs you have to walk at a pace, and you don’t want to rush - it’s so much fun in an open field on a sunny and cool day! The terrain is flat, you can see far away. The sky is light and so spacious and deep. The sun sparkles from the side, and the road, rolled by carts after the rains, is oily and shines like rails. Fresh, lush green winter crops are scattered around in wide schools. A hawk will fly up from somewhere in the transparent air and freeze in one place, fluttering its sharp wings. And clearly visible telegraph poles run into the clear distance, and their wires, like silver strings, slide along the slope of the clear sky. There are falcons sitting on them - completely black icons on music paper. I didn’t know or see serfdom, but I remember feeling it at my aunt Anna Gerasimovna’s. You drive into the yard and immediately feel that it is still quite alive here. The estate is small, but all old, solid, surrounded by hundred-year-old birch and willow trees. There are a lot of outbuildings - low, but homely - and all of them are precisely cast from dark oak logs under thatched roofs. The only thing that stands out in size, or better yet, in length, is the blackened human one, from which the last Mohicans of the courtyard class peep out - some decrepit old men and women, a decrepit retired cook, looking like Don Quixote. When you drive into the yard, all of them pull themselves up and bow low and low. A gray-haired coachman, heading from the carriage barn to pick up a horse, takes off his hat while still at the barn and walks around the yard with his head bare. He worked as a postilion for his aunt, and now he takes her to mass - in the winter in a cart, and in the summer in a strong, iron-bound cart, like those that priests ride on. My aunt’s garden was famous for its neglect, nightingales, turtle doves and apples, and the house was famous for its roof. He stood at the head of the courtyard, right next to the garden - the branches of the linden trees hugged him - he was small and squat, but it seemed that he would not last a century - so thoroughly did he look from under his unusually high and thick thatched roof, blackened and hardened by time. Its front facade always seemed to me to be alive: as if an old face was looking out from under a huge hat with sockets of eyes - windows with mother-of-pearl glass from the rain and sun. And on the sides of these eyes there were porches - two old large porches with columns. Well-fed pigeons always sat on their pediment, while thousands of sparrows rained from roof to roof... And the guest felt comfortable in this nest under the turquoise autumn sky! You will enter the house and first of all you will hear the smell of apples, and then others: old mahogany furniture, dried linden blossoms, which have been lying on the windows since June... In all the rooms - in the servant's room, in the hall, in the living room - it is cool and gloomy: this is because the house is surrounded by a garden, and the upper glass of the windows is colored: blue and purple. Everywhere there is silence and cleanliness, although it seems that the chairs, tables with inlays and mirrors in narrow and twisted gold frames have never been moved. And then a cough is heard: the aunt comes out. It is small, but, like everything around, it is durable. She has a large Persian shawl draped over her shoulders. She will come out importantly, but affably, and now, amid endless conversations about antiquity, about inheritances, treats begin to appear: first, “duli”, apples, Antonovsky, “bel-barynya”, borovinka, “plodovitka” - and then an amazing lunch : all through and through pink boiled ham with peas, stuffed chicken, turkey, marinades and red kvass - strong and sweet, sweet... The windows to the garden are raised, and the cheerful autumn coolness blows from there.III
For recent years one thing supported the fading spirit of the landowners - hunting. Previously, such estates as the estate of Anna Gerasimovna were not uncommon. There were also decaying, but still living in grand style, estates with a huge estate, with a garden of twenty dessiatines. True, some of these estates have survived to this day, but there is no longer life in them... There are no troikas, no riding "Kirghiz", no hounds and greyhounds, no servants and no owner of all this - the landowner-hunter, like my late brother-in-law Arseny Semenych. Since the end of September, our gardens and threshing floor have been empty, the weather, as usual, has changed dramatically. The wind tore and tore the trees for days on end, and the rains watered them from morning to night. Sometimes in the evening, between the gloomy low clouds, the flickering golden light of the low sun made its way in the west; the air became clean and clear, and sunlight sparkled dazzlingly between the foliage, between the branches that moved like a living net and were agitated by the wind. The liquid blue sky shone coldly and brightly in the north above the heavy lead clouds, and from behind these clouds ridges of snowy mountain-clouds slowly floated out. You stand at the window and think: “Maybe, God willing, the weather will clear up.” But the wind did not subside. It disturbed the garden, tore up the continuously flowing stream of human smoke from the chimney, and again drove up the ominous strands of ash clouds. They ran low and fast - and soon, like smoke, they clouded the sun. Its shine faded, the window into the blue sky closed, and the garden became deserted and boring, and the rain began to fall again... at first quietly, carefully, then more and more thickly and, finally, it turned into a downpour with storm and darkness. A long, anxious night was coming... From such a scolding, the garden emerged almost completely naked, covered with wet leaves and somehow quiet and resigned. But how beautiful it was when clear weather came again, clear and cold days of early October, the farewell holiday of autumn! The preserved foliage will now hang on the trees until the first winter. The black garden will shine through the cold turquoise sky and dutifully wait for winter, warming itself in the sunshine. And the fields are already turning sharply black with arable land and brightly green with overgrown winter crops... It's time to hunt! And now I see myself in the estate of Arseny Semenych, in big house, in the hall, full of sun and smoke from pipes and cigarettes. There are a lot of people - all the people are tanned, with weathered faces, wearing shorts and long boots. They have just had a very hearty lunch, are flushed and excited by noisy conversations about the upcoming hunt, but do not forget to finish the vodka after dinner. And in the yard the horn blows and they howl different voices dogs. The black greyhound, Arseny Semenych's favorite, climbs onto the table and begins to devour the remains of the hare with sauce from the dish. But suddenly he lets out a terrible squeal and, knocking over plates and glasses, rushes off the table: Arseny Semenych, who came out of the office with an arapnik and a revolver, suddenly deafens the room with a shot. The hall fills with smoke even more, and Arseny Semenych stands and laughs. - It's a pity that I missed! - he says, playing with his eyes. He is tall, thin, but broad-shouldered and slender, with a handsome gypsy face. His eyes sparkle wildly, he is very dexterous, wearing a crimson silk shirt, velvet trousers and long boots. Having frightened both the dog and the guests with a shot, he jokingly and importantly recites in a baritone voice:It's time, it's time to saddle the agile bottom
And throw the ringing horn over your shoulders! —
And he says loudly:
- Well, however, there is no need to waste golden time! I can still feel how greedily and capaciously my young breast breathed in the cold of a clear and damp day in the evening, when you used to ride with Arseny Semyonych’s noisy gang, excited by the musical din of dogs abandoned in the black forest, to some Krasny Bugor or Gremyachiy Island, Its name alone excites the hunter. You ride on an angry, strong and squat “Kyrgyz”, holding it tightly with the reins, and you feel almost fused with it. He snorts, asks to trot, rustles noisily with his hooves on deep and light carpets of black crumbling leaves, and every sound resounds echoingly in the empty, damp and fresh forest. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, another, a third answered it passionately and pitifully - and suddenly the whole forest began to rattle, as if it were all made of glass, from violent barking and screaming. A shot rang out loudly among this din - and everything “cooked up” and rolled off into the distance. - Take care! - someone screamed in a desperate voice throughout the forest. “Oh, take care!” - an intoxicating thought flashes through your head. You whoop at your horse and, like someone who has broken free from a chain, you rush through the forest, not understanding anything along the way. Only the trees flash before my eyes and the dirt from under the horse’s hooves hits my face. You will jump out of the forest, you will see a motley pack of dogs on the greens, stretched out on the ground, and you will push the “Kirghiz” even more against the beast - through the greens, shoots and stubbles, until, finally, you roll over to another island and the pack disappears from sight along with its frantic barking and moaning. Then, all wet and trembling from exertion, you rein in the foaming, wheezing horse and greedily swallow the icy dampness of the forest valley. The cries of hunters and the barking of dogs fade away in the distance, and there is dead silence around you. The half-opened timber stands motionless, and it seems that you have found yourself in some kind of protected palace. The ravines smell strongly of mushroom dampness, rotted leaves and wet tree bark. And the dampness from the ravines is becoming more and more noticeable, the forest is getting colder and darker... It's time to spend the night. But collecting dogs after a hunt is difficult. For a long time and hopelessly sadly the horns ring in the forest, for a long time you can hear the screams, swearing and squealing of dogs... Finally, already completely in the dark, a band of hunters bursts into the estate of some almost unknown bachelor landowner and fills the entire courtyard of the estate with noise, which is illuminated lanterns, candles and lamps brought out from the house to greet guests... It happened that with such a hospitable neighbor the hunt lasted for several days. At early morning dawn, in the icy wind and the first wet winter, they went into the forests and fields, and by dusk they returned again, all covered in dirt, with flushed faces, smelling of horse sweat, the hair of a hunted animal - and the drinking began. The bright and crowded house is very warm after a whole day in the cold in the field. Everyone walks from room to room in unbuttoned undershirts, drink and eat randomly, noisily conveying to each other their impressions of the killed seasoned wolf, which, baring its teeth, rolling its eyes, lies with its fluffy tail thrown to the side in the middle of the hall and paints its pale and already cold blood on the floor After vodka and food you feel such sweet fatigue, such bliss young sleep It’s like you can hear people talking through water. Your weathered face is burning, and if you close your eyes, the whole earth will float under your feet. And when you lie down in bed, in a soft feather bed, somewhere in a corner old room with an icon and a lamp, ghosts of fiery-colored dogs flash before your eyes, a feeling of galloping ache throughout your whole body, and you won’t notice how you’ll drown along with all these images and sensations in a sweet and healthy sleep, even forgetting that this room was once the prayer room of an old man, whose name is surrounded by gloomy serf legends, and that he died in this prayer room, probably on the same bed. When I happened to oversleep the hunt, the rest was especially pleasant. You wake up and lie in bed for a long time. There is silence throughout the whole house. You can hear the gardener carefully walking through the rooms, lighting the stoves, and the firewood crackling and shooting. Ahead lies a whole day of peace in the already silent winter estate. Slowly get dressed, wander around the garden, find a cold and wet apple accidentally forgotten in the wet leaves, and for some reason it will seem unusually tasty, not at all like the others. Then you’ll get down to reading books—grandfather’s books in thick leather bindings, with gold stars on morocco spines. These books, similar to church breviaries, smell wonderful with their yellowed, thick, rough paper! Some kind of pleasant sour mold, old perfume... The notes in their margins are also good, large and with round soft strokes quill pen. You unfold the book and read: “A thought worthy of ancient and modern philosophers, the color of reason and feelings of the heart”... And you will involuntarily become carried away by the book itself. This is “The Noble Philosopher,” an allegory published a hundred years ago by the dependent of some “chevalier of many orders” and printed in the printing house of the order of public charity, a story about how “a noble philosopher, having time and the ability to reason, to to which the human mind can rise, I once received the desire to compose a plan of light in the vast area of his village "... Then you come across "satirical and philosophical works Mr. Voltaire" and for a long time you revel in the sweet and mannered style of the translation: "My sirs! Erasmus composed in the sixth and tenth centuries a praise of tomfoolery (mannerly pause, full stop); you order me to exalt reason before you...” Then from Catherine’s antiquity you will move on to romantic times, to almanacs, to sentimentally pompous and long novels... The cuckoo jumps out of the clock and crows mockingly and sadly at you in an empty house. And little by little a sweet and strange melancholy begins to creep into my heart... Here is “The Secrets of Alexis”, here is “Victor, or the Child in the Forest”: “Midnight strikes! Sacred silence takes the place of daytime noise and cheerful songs of the villagers. Sleep spreads its dark wings over the surface of our hemisphere; he shakes off darkness and dreams from them... Dreams... How often do they continue only the suffering of the ill-fated!..” And their loved ones flash before their eyes old words: rocks and oak groves, pale moon and loneliness, ghosts and ghosts, “herots”, roses and lilies, “pranks and playfulness of young naughty people”, lily hand, Lyudmila and Alina... And here are magazines with the names: Zhukovsky, Batyushkov, lyceum student Pushkin. And with sadness you will remember your grandmother, her polonaises on the clavichord, her languid reading of poems from Eugene Onegin. And the old dreamy life will appear before you... Nice girls and women once lived in noble estates! Their portraits look at me from the wall, aristocratically beautiful heads in ancient hairstyles meekly and femininely lower their long eyelashes to sad and tender eyes...IV
The smell of Antonov apples disappears from landowners' estates. These days were so recent, and yet it seems to me that almost a whole century has passed since then. The old people in Vyselki died, Anna Gerasimovna died, Arseny Semenych shot himself... The kingdom of the small-landed, impoverished to the point of beggary, is coming!.. But this beggarly, small-scale life is also good! So I see myself again in the village, in late autumn. The days are bluish and cloudy. In the morning I get into the saddle and with one dog, a gun and a horn, I go into the field. The wind rings and hums in the barrel of a gun, the wind blows strongly towards, sometimes with dry snow. All day long I wander through the empty plains... Hungry and frozen, I return to the estate at dusk, and my soul becomes so warm and joyful when the lights of Vyselok flash and the smell of smoke and housing draws me out of the estate. I remember that in our house they liked to “go twilight” at this time, not light a fire and conduct conversations in the semi-darkness. Entering the house, I find the winter frames already installed, and this sets me up even more for a peaceful winter mood. In the servant's room, a worker lights the stove, and, as in childhood, I squat down next to a heap of straw, already smelling sharply of winter freshness, and look first into the blazing stove, then at the windows, behind which the dusk, turning blue, sadly dies. Then I go to the people's room. It’s bright and crowded there: the girls are chopping cabbage, the chops are flashing by, I listen to their rhythmic, friendly knocking and friendly, sad and cheerful village songs... Sometimes some small-scale neighbor will come and take me away for a long time... Small-scale life is also good ! The small-timer gets up early. Stretching tightly, he gets out of bed and rolls a thick cigarette made of cheap, black tobacco or simply shag. The pale light of an early November morning illuminates a simple, bare-walled office, yellow and crusty fox skins above the bed and a stocky figure in trousers and a belted blouse, and the mirror reflects the sleepy face of a Tatar warehouse. There is dead silence in the dim, warm house. Behind the door in the corridor, the old cook, who lived in the manor house when she was a girl, is snoring. This, however, does not stop the master from hoarsely shouting to the whole house: - Lukerya! Samovar! Then, putting on his boots, throwing his jacket over his shoulders and not buttoning the collar of his shirt, he goes out onto the porch. The locked hallway smells like a dog; lazily reaching out, yawning and smiling, the hounds surround him. - Burp! - he says slowly, in a condescending bass voice, and walks through the garden to the threshing floor. His chest breathes widely with the sharp air of dawn and the smells of a naked garden, chilled during the night. Leaves curled up and blackened by frost rustle under boots in a birch alley that has already been half cut down. Silhouetted against the low gloomy sky, ruffled jackdaws sleep on the crest of the barn... It will be a glorious day for hunting! And, stopping in the middle of the alley, the master looks for a long time into the autumn field, at the deserted green winter fields through which calves roam. Two hound bitches squeal at his feet, and Zalivy is already behind the garden: jumping over the prickly stubble, he seems to be calling and asking to go to the field. But what will you do now with the hounds? The animal is now in the field, on the rise, on the black trail, but in the forest he is afraid, because in the forest the wind rustles the leaves... Oh, if only there were greyhounds! Threshing begins in Riga. The drum of the thresher hums slowly, dispersing. Lazily pulling on the lines, resting their feet on the dung circle and swaying, the horses walk in the drive. In the middle of the drive, spinning on a bench, the driver sits and shouts monotonously at them, always whipping only one brown gelding, who is the laziest of all and completely sleeps while walking, fortunately his eyes are blindfolded. - Well, well, girls, girls! - the sedate waiter shouts sternly, donning a wide canvas shirt. The girls hastily sweep away the current, running around with stretchers and brooms. - With God! - says the server, and the first bunch of starnovka, launched for testing, flies into the drum with a buzzing and squealing and rises up from under it like a disheveled fan. And the drum hums more and more insistently, the work begins to boil, and soon all the sounds merge into the general pleasant noise of threshing. The master stands at the gate of the barn and watches how red and yellow scarves, hands, rakes, straw flash in its darkness, and all this moves and fusses rhythmically to the roar of the drum and the monotonous cry and whistle of the driver. Proboscis flies towards the gate in clouds. The master stands, all gray from him. He often glances at the field... Soon, soon the fields will turn white, winter will soon cover them... Winter, first snow! There are no greyhounds, there is nothing to hunt in November; but winter comes, “work” with the hounds begins. And here again, as in the old days, small-scale families gather together, drink with their last money, and disappear for whole days in the snowy fields. And in the evening, on some remote farm, the outbuilding windows glow far away in the darkness of the winter night. There, in this small outbuilding, clouds of smoke float, tallow candles burn dimly, a guitar is being tuned...Painting by V. F. Stozharov “Still Life with Apples”
The author-narrator recalls the recent past. He remembers the early fine autumn, the entire golden, dried up and thinning garden, the subtle aroma of fallen leaves and the smell of Antonov apples: gardeners are pouring apples onto carts to send them to the city. Late at night, running out into the garden and talking with the guards guarding the garden, he looks into the dark blue depths of the sky, crowded with constellations, looks for a long, long time until the earth floats under his feet, feeling how good it is to live in the world!
The narrator recalls his Vyselki, which since the time of his grandfather had been known in the area as a rich village. Old men and women lived there for a long time - the first sign of prosperity. The houses in Vyselki were brick and strong. The average noble life had much in common with the rich peasant life. He remembers his aunt Anna Gerasimovna, her estate - small, but strong, old, surrounded by hundred-year-old trees. My aunt’s garden was famous for its apple trees, nightingales and turtle doves, and the house for its roof: its thatched roof was unusually thick and high, blackened and hardened by time. In the house, first of all, the smell of apples was felt, and then other smells: old mahogany furniture, dried linden blossom.
The narrator remembers his late brother-in-law Arseny Semenych, a landowner-hunter, in whose large house many people gathered, everyone had a hearty dinner, and then went hunting. A horn blows in the yard, dogs howl in different voices, the owner’s favorite, a black greyhound, climbs onto the table and devours the remains of a hare with sauce from the dish. The author remembers himself riding an angry, strong and squat “Kyrgyz”: trees flash before his eyes, the screams of hunters and the barking of dogs are heard in the distance. From the ravines there is a smell of mushroom dampness and wet tree bark. It gets dark, the whole gang of hunters pours into the estate of some almost unknown bachelor hunter and, it happens, lives with him for several days. After a whole day spent hunting, the warmth of a crowded house is especially pleasant. When I happened to oversleep the hunt the next morning, I could spend the whole day in the master's library, leafing through old magazines and books, looking at the notes in their margins. Family portraits look from the walls, an old dreamy life appears before your eyes, your grandmother is sadly remembered...
But the old people in Vyselki died, Anna Gerasimovna died, Arseny Semenych shot himself. The kingdom of small landed nobles, impoverished to the point of beggary, is coming. But this small-scale life is also good! The narrator happened to visit a neighbor. He gets up early, orders the samovar to be put on, and, putting on his boots, goes out onto the porch, where he is surrounded by hounds. It will be a nice day for hunting! Only they don’t hunt along the black trail with hounds, oh, if only they were greyhounds! But he doesn’t have greyhounds... However, with the onset of winter, again, as in the old days, small estates come together, drink with their last money, and disappear for whole days in the snowy fields. And in the evening, on some remote farm, the outbuilding windows glow far away in the darkness: candles are burning there, clouds of smoke are floating, they are playing the guitar, singing...
Why are you silent and sitting alone?
Let's knock glass on glass and drink
Sad thoughts with cheerful wine!
If the lady hadn’t come,” says Yakov Petrovich, plucking the strings of the guitar and putting it on the couch. And he tries not to look at Kovalev.
Whom! - responded Kovalev. - Very simple.
God forbid he wanders... I should blow the horn... just in case... Maybe Sudak is coming. After all, it doesn't take long to freeze. We must judge by humanity...
A minute later the old men are standing on the porch. The wind tears their clothes off. The old ringing horn blares wildly and loudly in different voices. The wind picks up the sounds and carries them into the impenetrable steppe, into the darkness of a stormy night.
Hop-hop! - Yakov Petrovich shouts.
Hop-hop! - echoes Kovalev.
And for a long time afterwards, in a heroic mood, the old people did not calm down. All you can hear is:
Understand? They come in thousands from the swamp to the oat field! They're knocking their hats off!.. Yes, they're all seasoned and cracked! No matter what I give you, I’ll just make some porridge!
So, you see, I stood behind the pine tree. And the night of your month - at least count the money! And suddenly it’s rushing... Such a lobby... How I splash it!
Then there are cases of freezing, unexpected rescue... Then the praise of Luchezarovka.
I won't part until I die! - says Yakov Petrovich. - I’m still my own head here. The estate, to tell the truth, is a goldmine. If only I could turn over a little! Now all twenty-eight acres are potatoes, the bank is gone, and again I am the king’s godfather!
All long night a blizzard raged in the dark fields.
It seemed to the old people that they had gone to bed very late, but somehow they couldn’t sleep. Kovalev coughs muffledly, his head covered with a sheepskin coat; Yakov Petrovich tosses and turns and puffs; he's hot. And the storm shakes the walls too menacingly, blinds and covers the windows with snow! The rattle is too unpleasant broken glass in the living room! It’s hard there now, in this cold, uninhabited living room! It is empty, gloomy - the ceilings are low, the embrasures of the small windows are deep. The night is so dark! The glass has a vague, leaden sheen to it. Even if you cling to them, you can barely make out the clogged garden covered with snowdrifts... And then darkness and blizzard, blizzard...
And the old people in their sleep feel how lonely and helpless their farm is in this raging sea of steppe snow.
Oh, my God, my God! - Kovalev’s muttering can sometimes be heard.
But again the noise of the snowstorm envelops him in a strange drowsiness. He coughs more and more quietly, slowly dozes off, as if plunging into some endless space... And again, through his sleep, he feels something ominous... He hears...
Yes, steps! Heavy steps are somewhere upstairs... Someone is walking on the ceiling... Kovalev quickly regains consciousness, but the heavy steps are clearly audible even now... The motherboard creaks...
Yakov Petrovich! - he says. - Yakov Petrovich!
A? What? - asks Yakov Petrovich.
But someone is walking on the ceiling.
Who's walking?
And listen to me!
Yakov Petrovich listens: he walks!
No, it’s always like this, “the wind,” he says finally, yawning. - Yes, and you are a coward, brother! Let's get some sleep.
Indeed, there has been so much talk about these steps on the ceiling. Every bad night!
But still, Kovalev, dozing off, whispers with deep feeling:
Alive in the help of the highest, in the shelter of the heavenly God... Do not be afraid from the fear of the night, from the arrow that flies in the days... Step on the asp and the basilisk and trample the lion and the serpent...
And something bothers Yakov Petrovich in his sleep. Under the noise of the blizzard, he imagines either the roar of an age-old pine forest, or the ringing of a distant bell; one can hear the indistinct barking of dogs somewhere in the steppe, the cry of a Sudak worker... Here the sleigh rustles at the porch, someone’s bast shoes creak on the frozen snow in the entryway... And Yakov Petrovich’s heart contracts with pain and expectation: this is his sleigh, and in the sleigh is Sophia Pavlovna, Glasha... they drive up slowly, clogged with snow, barely visible in the darkness of a stormy night... they drive, drive, for some reason past the house, further and further... They are carried away by the blizzard, covered with snow, and Yakov Petrovich hastily looks for the horn, wants blow the trumpet, call them...
The devil knows what it is! - he mutters, waking up and puffing.
What are you, Yakov Petrovich?
Can't sleep, brother! It must have been a long night!
Yes, a long time ago!
Light a candle and light a cigarette!
The office lights up. Squinting from a candle, the flame of which fluctuates before their sleepy eyes, like a radiant, dull red star, old people sit, smoke, scratch with pleasure and take a break from dreams... It’s good to wake up on a long winter night in a warm, familiar room, smoke, talk, disperse the eerie feeling like a cheerful light!
And I,” says Yakov Petrovich, yawning sweetly, “and now I see in a dream, what do you think?.. After all, I’ll dream!.. As if I was visiting the Turkish Sultan!
Kovalev sits on the floor, hunched over (how old and small he is without a little girl and from sleep!), and replies thoughtfully:
No, is this the Turkish Sultan's! I saw it just now... Do you believe it? One by one, one by one... with horns, in jackets... small, small, smaller... But what kind of trant are they butchering around me!
Both are lying. They saw these dreams, they even saw them more than once, but not at all that night, and they tell them to each other too often, so that they have not believed each other for a long time. And yet they tell. And, having spoken, in the same complacent mood, they put out the candle, go to bed, dress warmly, pull their hats over their foreheads and fall asleep to the sleep of the righteous...
The day is slowly coming. It’s dark, gloomy, the storm doesn’t subside. The snowdrifts under the windows are almost adjacent to the glass and rise up to the roof. Because of this, there is a strange, pale twilight in the office...
Suddenly, bricks fly noisily from the roof. The wind knocked down the pipe...
This bad sign: soon, soon, there must be no trace left of Luzezarovka!
Antonov apples
...I remember an early fine autumn. August was full of warm rains, as if falling on purpose for sowing, with rains right at the right time, in the middle of the month, around the feast of St. Lawrence. And “autumn and winter live well if the water is calm and there is rain on Laurentia.” Then, in the Indian summer, a lot of cobwebs settled in the fields. This is also a good sign: “There is a lot of shading in the Indian summer - autumn is vigorous”... I remember an early, fresh, quiet morning... I remember a large, all golden, dried up and thinning garden, I remember maple alleys, the subtle aroma of fallen leaves and - the smell of Antonov apples, the smell honey and autumn freshness. The air is so clean, it’s as if there is no air at all; voices and the creaking of carts can be heard throughout the garden. These Tarkhans, bourgeois gardeners, hired men and poured apples in order to send them to the city at night - certainly on the night when it is so nice to lie on a cart, look into the starry sky, smell tar in the fresh air and listen to how carefully it creaks in the dark a long convoy along the high road. The man pouring the apples eats them with a juicy crackle one after another, but such is the establishment - the tradesman will never cut it off, but will also say:
Come on, eat your fill - there’s nothing to do! Everyone drinks honey while pouring.
And the cool silence of the morning is disturbed only by the well-fed cackling of blackbirds on the coral rowan trees in the thicket of the garden, voices and the booming sound of apples being poured into measures and tubs. In the thinned garden one can see far away the road to the large hut, strewn with straw, and the hut itself, near which the townspeople acquired an entire household over the summer. Everywhere there is a strong smell of apples, especially here. There are beds in the hut, there is a single-barreled gun, a green samovar, and dishes in the corner. Near the hut there are mats, boxes, all sorts of tattered belongings, and an earthen stove has been dug. At noon, a magnificent kulesh with lard is cooked on it, in the evening the samovar is heated, and a long strip of bluish smoke spreads across the garden, between the trees. On holidays, there is a whole fair around the hut, and red headdresses are constantly flashing behind the trees. There is a crowd of lively single-yard girls in sundresses that smell strongly of paint, the “lords” come in their beautiful and rough, savage costumes, a young elder woman, pregnant, with a wide, sleepy face and as important as a Kholmogory cow. She has “horns” on her head - the braids are placed on the sides of the crown and covered with several scarves, so that the head seems huge; the legs, in ankle boots with horseshoes, stand stupidly and firmly; the sleeveless jacket is corduroy, the curtain is long, and the poneva is black and purple with brick-colored stripes and lined at the hem with a wide gold “prose”...
Story " Antonov apples"Bunin wrote in 1900. The work is a lyrical monologue-memory, constructed using the “association technique”.
Main characters
Narrator- “young barchuk”, the story is spoken on his behalf, he recalls episodes from the past, is nostalgic.
Anna Gerasimovna- the narrator's aunt.
Arseny Semenych- the landowner with whom the narrator went hunting.
Chapter I
The narrator recalls an early fine autumn, August, “a dried up and thinning garden,” “the smell of Antonov apples.” From the garden the road leads to a large hut, “near which the townspeople acquired a whole farm over the summer.” On holidays, fairs were held here, where villagers gathered and crowded here until the evening.
Late at night the narrator comes to the garden. Taking a gun from the tradesman Nikolai, he shoots, and then peers for a long time into the “dark blue depths of the sky” and returns home along the alley. “How good it is to live in the world!”
Chapter II
If Antonovka was born, then bread was born. The narrator recalls that Vyselki from time immemorial was famous for its “wealth”: “old men and women lived in Vyselki for a very long time.” He cites Pankrat as an example - the man remembered his fellow villager Platon Apollonych, which means Pankrat himself was “at least a hundred.”
“Rich men had huts in two or three connections.” Bees were bred here, “thick and fat hemp plants grew dark on the threshing floors,” and all sorts of goods were stored in barns. The narrator “at times seemed extremely tempting to be a man.”
Even in his memory, “the lifestyle of an average nobleman’s life” had “much in common with the lifestyle of a rich peasant life.” This “was the estate of Aunt Anna Gerasimovna, who lived about twelve versts from Vyselki.” She has serfdom was already felt in the yard. There were many low outbuildings made of oak logs.
“My aunt’s garden was famous for its neglect, nightingales, turtle doves and apples,” and the house for its thick thatched roof. “You walk into the house and the first thing you smell is apples.” While talking about antiquity, the aunt served treats, apples different varieties– Antonovskie, “bel-lady”, boletus, “fruit”.
Chapter III
“In recent years, one thing has supported the fading spirit of the landowners - hunting.”
The narrator remembers how he gathered with other hunters at the estate of Arseny Semenych. One day, “the black greyhound, Arseny Semenych’s favorite,” began to “devour the remains of the hare with sauce from the dish.” Arseny Semenych, who came out of the office, fired a revolver and, laughing and playing with his eyes, said: “It’s a pity that I missed!” .
The narrator remembers how he was riding with “Arseny Semenych’s noisy gang,” hunting. After the hunt, they stopped to spend the night at the estate of “some almost unknown bachelor landowner.”
But “when I happened to oversleep the hunt, the rest was especially pleasant.” After a walk in the garden, the narrator went to the library, where his grandfather’s books were kept. Among them are novels, “magazines with the names: Zhukovsky, Batyushkov, lyceum student Pushkin” and others. He sadly recalled how his grandmother played the clavichord and read Eugene Onegin.
Chapter IV
“The smell of Antonov apples disappears from the landowners’ estates.”
“The old people in Vyselki died, Anna Gerasimovna died, Arseny Semenych shot himself... The kingdom of the small estates, impoverished to the point of beggary, is coming!”
The narrator comes again to the village in late autumn. “Sometimes some small-scale neighbor will stop by and take me away for a long time... The life of a small-scale estate is good too!” “The small-timer gets up early.” Waking up, he goes to work. “Often he glances at the field... Soon, soon the fields will turn white, winter will soon cover them...”
In winter, “again, as in former times, small-scale residents gather together” and “disappear in the snowy fields for whole days” - they hunt.
Conclusion
In the story “Antonov Apples,” Bunin correlates the ruin and gradual disappearance of noble nests with the inevitability of the change of seasons, starting with early autumn and ending in winter. However, the narrator perceives these changes as something natural, remembering the past with light sadness and nostalgia.
Story test
Check your memorization of the summary content with the test:
Retelling rating
Average rating: 4.1. Total ratings received: 1566.
I remember an early fine autumn. August had warm rains at the right time, in the middle of the month. I remember an early, fresh, quiet morning... I remember a large, all golden, dried up and thinning garden, I remember maple alleys, the subtle aroma of fallen leaves and the smell of Antonov apples, the smell of honey and autumn freshness. The air is so clean, it’s as if there is none at all. There is a strong smell of apples everywhere. By night it becomes very cold and dewy. Having inhaled the rye aroma of new straw and chaff on the threshing floor, you cheerfully walk home for dinner past the garden rampart. Voices in the village or the creaking of gates can be heard unusually clearly in the chilly dawn. It's getting dark. And here’s another smell: there’s a fire in the garden and there’s a strong wafting of fragrant smoke from cherry branches. In the darkness, in the depths of the garden, there is a fabulous picture: as if in a corner of hell, a crimson flame, surrounded by darkness, is burning near the hut... “Vigorous Antonovka - for a fun year.” Village affairs are good if Antonovka is bad: that means the bread is bad too... I remember a fruitful year. At early dawn, when the roosters are still crowing, you would open a window into a cool garden filled with a purple fog, through which the morning sun shines brightly here and there... You’ll run to the pond to wash. Almost all the small leaves have flown off the coastal vines, and the branches show through in the turquoise sky. The water under the vines became clear, icy, and seemingly heavy. It instantly drives away nighttime laziness. You enter the house and first of all you will hear the smell of apples, and then others. Since the end of September, our gardens and threshing floor have been empty, the weather, as usual, has changed dramatically. The wind tore and tore the trees for days on end, and the rains watered them from morning to night. The liquid blue sky shone coldly and brightly in the north above the heavy lead clouds, and from behind these clouds the ridges of snowy mountains-clouds slowly floated out, the window into the blue sky closed, and the garden became deserted and boring, and the rain began to fall again... at first quietly, carefully, then more and more thickly and finally turned into a downpour with storm and darkness. A long, anxious night was coming... From such a scolding the garden emerged completely naked, covered with wet leaves and somehow quiet and resigned. But how beautiful it was when clear weather came again, clear and cold days of early October, the farewell holiday of autumn! The preserved foliage will now hang on the trees until the first frost. The black garden will shine through the cold turquoise sky and dutifully wait for winter, warming itself in the sunshine. And the fields are already turning sharply black with arable land and brightly green with bushy winter crops. . . You wake up and lie in bed for a long time. There is silence throughout the whole house. Ahead lies a whole day of peace in the already silent, winter-like estate. Slowly get dressed, wander around the garden, find a cold and wet apple accidentally forgotten in the wet leaves, and for some reason it will seem unusually tasty, not at all like the others.
The narrator remembers the place of his childhood once upon a time in the past. After all, when he was little, he lived in a village, which was then considered even a very rich village, because it was there that a lot of things grew and were sold.
The village was called Vyselki. The houses, oddly enough for a village, were made of brick, and this was the first sign at that time that the village was rich. And people lived there for a long time, especially old people and grandmothers. This also showed that the village was very wealthy. By the way, the provision of all the people who lived in this village, oddly enough, was similar. Even those who should have been poor by social level were, in fact, quite wealthy, almost like the richest people in the village.
Also, he remembered Aunt Anna Gerasimovna. And especially her estate. Her estate, which was not too large, but beautiful, and also durable, and also her habitat seemed so ancient, and therefore very unusual.
Also, what the children really remembered and liked was that around her house there had been century-old trees for a long time, which was very beautiful and natural. Also, she had a garden in which there were many apple trees, because this is what she was famous for in the first place. Even nightingales and turtle doves were there, because the birds also liked the garden.
The roof was thatched and very thick, and therefore everyone admired this roof. And what smells were there in Aunt Anna’s house? After all, in the house, first of all, the smell of old furniture, as well as apples, ripe, juicy and tasty.
Even the narrator remembered his brother-in-law. After all, this was a man who loved to hunt. And, besides, a lot of people, friends and their acquaintances always gathered in his house. It was always noisy there, or almost always, everyone was having fun dinner parties, which he gave as a landowner.
Also, he always had a lot of dogs, as he needed them for hunting. The narrator remembers himself at such a dinner party, as he was with everyone after a hearty dinner - on a black horse that rushes too fast, as it seems. Everything around flashes - trees, people on horses, and the path ahead is barely visible.
The dogs are barking, everyone is rushing, there is no stopping. Then, when it gets very dark, all the hunters, with nowhere to go, tired, burst into the house of some hunter near the forest, and stay there overnight. It happens that they live there for several days.
You can use this text for reader's diary
Bunin. All works
- Antonov apples
- Clean Monday
Antonov apples. Picture for the story
Currently reading
- Summary Rodari Adventures of Cipollino
Cipollino lived in a large poor Lukov family. One day, Prince Lemon was inspecting the place near their house. The boy's father accidentally stepped on his foot, for which he was sent to prison. Cipollino came to see his father and found out
- Summary Bondarev Choice
The work reveals to us the theme of the complexity of choice. She is especially clearly represented in the image of the main character Ilya Ramzin.
- Summary of O. Henry Kings and Cabbage
The novel takes place in the country of Anchuria, located on the Latin American continent. Residents of this state live off the export of fruits shipped to the United States
- Summary of Rodari Journey of the Blue Arrow
One fairy, the owner of a toy store, delivered gifts to children on New Year's Eve (which were paid for by adults) and was very pleased with it. She decided, without wasting any time, to fill her store window with new toys.
- Summary About Gorky's Fool Ivanushka
Ivanushka the Fool was handsome, but whatever he did did not work, it turned out funny. One day, they hired him to work in one yard
Antonov apples
I remember an early fine autumn. August was full of warm rains, as if falling on purpose for sowing, with rains right at the right time, in the middle of the month, around the feast of St. Lawrence. And “autumn and winter live well if the water is calm and there is rain on Laurentia.” Then, in the Indian summer, a lot of cobwebs settled in the fields. This is also a good sign: “There is a lot of shade in the Indian summer - vigorous autumn”... I remember an early, fresh, quiet morning... I remember a large, all golden, dried up and thinning garden, I remember maple alleys, the subtle aroma of fallen leaves and - - the smell of Antonov apples, the smell of honey and autumn freshness. The air is so clean, it’s as if there is no air at all; voices and the creaking of carts can be heard throughout the garden. These Tarkhans, bourgeois gardeners, hired men and poured apples in order to send them to the city at night - certainly on a night when it is so nice to lie on a cart, look into the starry sky, smell tar in the fresh air and listen to how carefully a long convoy creaks in the dark along the high road. The man pouring the apples eats them with a juicy crackle one after another, but such is the establishment - the tradesman will never cut it off, but will also say:
Come on, eat your fill - there’s nothing to do! Everyone drinks honey while pouring.
And the cool silence of the morning is disturbed only by the well-fed cackling of blackbirds on the coral rowan trees in the thicket of the garden, voices and the booming sound of apples being poured into measures and tubs. In the thinned garden one can see far away the road to the large hut, strewn with straw, and the hut itself, near which the townspeople acquired an entire household over the summer. Everywhere there is a strong smell of apples, especially here. There are beds in the hut, there is a single-barreled gun, a green samovar, and dishes in the corner. Near the hut there are mats, boxes, all sorts of tattered belongings, and an earthen stove has been dug. At noon, a magnificent kulesh with lard is cooked on it, in the evening the samovar is heated, and a long strip of bluish smoke spreads across the garden, between the trees. On holidays, there is a whole fair around the hut, and red headdresses are constantly flashing behind the trees. There is a crowd of lively single-yard girls in sundresses that smell strongly of paint, the “lords” come in their beautiful and rough, savage costumes, a young elder woman, pregnant, with a wide, sleepy face and as important as a Kholmogory cow. She has “horns” on her head - braids are placed on the sides of the crown and covered with several scarves, so that the head seems huge; the legs, in ankle boots with horseshoes, stand stupidly and firmly; the sleeveless jacket is velvet, the curtain is long, and the poneva is black and purple with brick-colored stripes and lined at the hem with a wide gold “prose”...
Economic butterfly! - the tradesman says about her, shaking his head. - These are also being translated now...
And the boys in fancy white shirts and short porticoes, with white open heads, all come up. They walk in twos and threes, shuffling their bare feet, and glance sideways at the shaggy shepherd dog tied to an apple tree. Of course, only one buys, because the purchases are only for a penny or an egg, but there are many buyers, trade is brisk, and the consumptive tradesman in a long frock coat and red boots is cheerful. Together with his brother, a burry, nimble half-idiot who lives with him “out of mercy,” he trades in jokes, jokes and even sometimes “touches” the Tula harmonica. And until the evening there is a crowd of people in the garden, you can hear laughter and talking around the hut, and sometimes the clatter of dancing...
By nightfall the weather becomes very cold and dewy. Having inhaled the rye aroma of new straw and chaff on the threshing floor, you cheerfully walk home for dinner past the garden rampart. Voices in the village or the creaking of gates can be heard unusually clearly in the chilly dawn. It's getting dark. And here’s another smell: there’s a fire in the garden, and there’s a strong wafting of fragrant smoke from cherry branches. In the dark, deep in the garden -fairy-tale picture: as if in a corner of hell, a crimson flame is burning near the hut, surrounded by darkness, and someone’s black silhouettes, as if carved from ebony, are moving around the fire, while giant shadows from them walk across the apple trees. Either a black hand several arshins in size will fall across the entire tree, then two legs will clearly appear - two black pillars. And suddenly all this will slide from the apple tree - and the shadow will fall along the entire alley, from the hut to the very gate...
Late at night, when the lights in the village go out, when the diamond constellation Stozhar is already shining high in the sky, you will run into the garden again.
Rustle through the dry leaves, like a blind man, you will reach the hut. There in the clearing it is a little lighter, and the Milky Way is white above your head.
Is that you, barchuk? - someone quietly calls out from the darkness.
Me: Are you still awake, Nikolai?
We can't sleep. And it must be too late? Look, there seems to be a passenger train coming...
We listen for a long time and discern trembling in the ground, the trembling turns into noise, grows, and now, as if already just outside the garden, the noisy beat of the wheels is rapidly beating out: rumbling and knocking, the train rushes by... closer, closer, louder and angrier... And suddenly it begins to subside, stall, as if going into the ground...
Where is your gun, Nikolai?
But next to the box, sir.
You throw up a single-barreled shotgun, heavy as a crowbar, and shoot straight away. The crimson flame will flash towards the sky with a deafening crack, blind for a moment and extinguish the stars, and a cheerful echo will ring out like a ring and roll across the horizon, fading far, far away in the clean and sensitive air.
Wow, great! - the tradesman will say. - Spend it, spend it, little gentleman, otherwise it’s just a disaster! Again they shook off all the gunk on the shaft...
And the black sky is lined with fiery stripes of falling stars. You look for a long time into its dark blue depths, overflowing with constellations, until the earth begins to float under your feet. Then you will wake up and, hiding your hands in your sleeves, quickly run along the alley to the house... How cold, dewy and how good it is to live in the world!
"Vigorous Antonovka - for a fun year." Village affairs are good if the Antonovka crop is cropped: that means the grain is cropped... I remember a fruitful year.
At early dawn, when the roosters were still crowing and the huts were smoking black, you would open the window into a cool garden filled with a lilac fog, through which the morning sun shines brightly here and there, and you couldn’t resist - you ordered to quickly saddle the horse, and you you will run to wash your face at the pond. Almost all the small leaves have flown off the coastal vines, and the branches are visible in the turquoise sky. The water under the vines became clear, icy, and seemingly heavy. It instantly drives away the night's laziness, and, having washed and had breakfast in the common room with the workers, hot potatoes and black bread with coarse raw salt, you enjoy feeling the slippery leather of the saddle under you as you ride through Vyselki to hunt. Autumn is the time for patronal feasts, and at this time the people are tidy and happy, the appearance of the village is not at all the same as at other times. If the year is fruitful and a whole golden city rises on the threshing floors, and geese cackle loudly and loudly on the river in the morning, then it’s not bad at all in the village. In addition, our Vyselki have been famous for their “wealth” since time immemorial, since the time of our grandfather. The old men and women lived in Vyselki for a very long time - the first sign of a rich village - and they were all tall, big and white, like a harrier. All you heard was: “Yes,” Agafya waved off her eighty-three years old!” -- or conversations like this:
And when will you die, Pankrat? I suppose you will be a hundred years old?
How would you like to speak, father?
How old are you, I ask!
I don’t know, sir, father.
Do you remember Platon Apollonich?
Well, sir, father, I clearly remember.
Well, you see. That means you are no less than a hundred.
The old man, who stands stretched out in front of the master, smiles meekly and guiltily. Well, they say, what to do - it’s my fault, it’s healed. And he probably would have prospered even more if he had not eaten too much onions in Petrovka.
I remember his old woman too. Everyone used to sit on a bench, on the porch, bent over, shaking his head, gasping for breath and holding onto the bench with his hands, all thinking about something. “About her good,” the women said, because, indeed, she had a lot of “good” in her chests. But she doesn’t seem to hear; he looks half-blindly into the distance from under sadly raised eyebrows, shakes his head and seems to be trying to remember something. She was a big old woman, kind of dark all over. Paneva is almost from the last century, the chunks are like a dead man’s, the neck is yellow and withered, the shirt with rosin joints is always white-white, “you could even put it in a coffin.” And near the porch lay a large stone: I bought it for my grave, as well as a shroud, an excellent shroud, with angels, with crosses and with a prayer printed on the edges.
The courtyards in Vyselki also matched the old people: brick, built by their grandfathers. And the rich men - Savely, Ignat, Dron - had huts in two or three connections, because it was not yet fashionable to share in Vyselki. In such families they kept bees, were proud of their gray-iron-colored bull stallion, and kept their estates in order. On the threshing floors there were dark, thick hemp fields; there were barns and barns covered with hair; in the bunks and barns there were iron doors, behind which canvases, spinning wheels, new sheepskin coats, type-setting harnesses, and measures bound with copper hoops were stored. Crosses were burned on the gates and on the sleds. And I remember that sometimes it seemed extremely tempting to me to be a man. When you used to drive through the village on a sunny morning, you kept thinking about how good it would be to mow, thresh, sleep on the threshing floor in brooms, and on a holiday to rise with the sun, under the thick and musical blast from the village, wash yourself near a barrel and put on a clean pair of clothes. a shirt, the same trousers and indestructible boots with horseshoes. If, I thought, we add to this a healthy and beautiful wife in festive attire, and a trip to mass, and then dinner with a bearded father-in-law, a dinner with hot lamb on wooden plates and with rushes, with honeycomb honey and mash - so much more impossible to wish!
Even in my memory, very recently, the lifestyle of the average nobleman had much in common with the lifestyle of a wealthy peasant in its homeliness and rural, old-world prosperity. Such, for example, was the estate of Aunt Anna Gerasimovna, who lived about twelve versts from Vyselki. By the time you get to this estate, it’s already completely impoverished. With dogs in packs you have to walk at a pace, and you don’t want to rush - it’s so fun in an open field on a sunny and cool day! The terrain is flat, you can see far away. The sky is light and so spacious and deep. The sun sparkles from the side, and the road, rolled by carts after the rains, is oily and shines like rails. Fresh, lush green winter crops are scattered around in wide schools. A hawk will fly up from somewhere in the transparent air and freeze in one place, fluttering its sharp wings. And clearly visible telegraph poles run into the clear distance, and their wires, like silver strings, slide along the slope of the clear sky. There are falcons sitting on them - completely black icons on music paper.
I didn’t know or see serfdom, but I remember feeling it at my aunt Anna Gerasimovna’s. You drive into the yard and immediately feel that it is still quite alive here. The estate is small, but all old, solid, surrounded by hundred-year-old birches and willow trees. There are many outbuildings - low, but homely - and all of them seem to be made of dark oak logs under thatched roofs. The only thing that stands out in size, or better yet, in length, is the blackened human one, from which the last Mohicans of the courtyard class peep out - some decrepit old men and women, a decrepit retired cook, looking like Don Quixote. When you drive into the yard, all of them pull themselves up and bow low and low. A gray-haired coachman, heading from the carriage barn to pick up a horse, takes off his hat while still at the barn and walks around the yard with his head bare. He worked as a postilion for his aunt, and now he takes her to mass, in a cart in the winter, and in a strong, iron-bound cart, like the ones priests ride in in the summer. My aunt’s garden was famous for its neglect, nightingales, turtle doves and apples, and the house for its roof. He stood at the head of the courtyard, right next to the garden - the branches of the linden trees hugged him - he was small and squat, but it seemed that he would not last a century - so thoroughly did he look from under his unusually high and thick thatched roof , blackened and hardened by time. Its front facade always seemed to me to be alive: as if an old face was looking out from under a huge hat with sockets of eyes - windows with mother-of-pearl glass from the rain and sun. And on the sides of these eyes there were porches - two old large porches with columns. Well-fed pigeons always sat on their pediment, while thousands of sparrows rained from roof to roof... And the guest felt comfortable in this nest under the turquoise autumn sky!
I remember an early fine autumn
August was full of warm rains, as if falling on purpose for sowing, with rains right at the right time, in the middle of the month, around the feast of St. Lawrence. And “autumn and winter live well if the water is calm and there is rain on Laurentia.”
Then, in the Indian summer, a lot of cobwebs settled in the fields. This is also a good sign: “There is a lot of shade in the Indian summer - vigorous autumn”... I remember an early, fresh, quiet morning... I remember a large, all golden, dried up and thinning garden, I remember maple alleys, the subtle aroma of fallen leaves and - - the smell of Antonov apples, the smell of honey and autumn freshness. The air is so clean, it’s as if there is no air at all; voices and the creaking of carts can be heard throughout the garden. These Tarkhans, bourgeois gardeners, hired men and poured apples in order to send them to the city at night - certainly on a night when it is so nice to lie on a cart, look into the starry sky, smell tar in the fresh air and listen to how carefully a long convoy creaks in the dark along the high road. The man pouring out the apples eats them with a juicy crackle one after another, but such is the establishment - the tradesman will never cut it off, but will also say: “Go ahead, eat your fill - there’s nothing to do!” Everyone drinks honey while pouring. And the cool silence of the morning is disturbed only by the well-fed cackling of blackbirds on the coral rowan trees in the thicket of the garden, voices and the booming sound of apples being poured into measures and tubs. In the thinned garden one can see far away the road to the large hut, strewn with straw, and the hut itself, near which the townspeople acquired an entire household over the summer. Everywhere there is a strong smell of apples, especially here. There are beds in the hut, there is a single-barreled gun, a green samovar, and dishes in the corner. Near the hut there are mats, boxes, all sorts of tattered belongings, and an earthen stove has been dug. At noon, a magnificent kulesh with lard is cooked on it, in the evening the samovar is heated, and a long strip of bluish smoke spreads across the garden, between the trees. On holidays, there is a whole fair around the hut, and red headdresses are constantly flashing behind the trees. There is a crowd of lively single-yard girls in sundresses that smell strongly of paint, the “lords” come in their beautiful and rough, savage costumes, a young elder woman, pregnant, with a wide, sleepy face and as important as a Kholmogory cow. She has “horns” on her head - braids are placed on the sides of the crown and covered with several scarves, so that the head seems huge; the legs, in ankle boots with horseshoes, stand stupidly and firmly; the sleeveless jacket is corduroy, the curtain is long, and the poneva is black and purple with brick-colored stripes and lined at the hem with a wide gold “prose”... - Household butterfly! - the tradesman says about her, shaking his head. - Now they are transferring... And the boys in white fluffy shirts and short porticoes, with white open heads, all come up. They walk in twos and threes, shuffling their bare feet, and glance sideways at the shaggy shepherd dog tied to an apple tree. Of course, only one buys, because the purchases are only for a penny or an egg, but there are many buyers, trade is brisk, and the consumptive tradesman in a long frock coat and red boots is cheerful. Together with his brother, a burry, nimble half-idiot who lives with him “out of mercy,” he trades in jokes, jokes and even sometimes “touches” the Tula harmonica. And until the evening there is a crowd of people in the garden, you can hear laughter and talking around the hut, and sometimes the clatter of dancing...
Universal systems: installation of air ducts, clamps. Network of official distributors.
Fable – short story, most often in poetry, mainly of a satirical nature. The fable is an allegorical genre, therefore the story about fictional characters(most often about animals) moral and social problems are hidden.
August, the smell of honey and apples, a deep breath, hope for the best, the ringing of bells, the manifestation of Divine greatness in nature and in the soul. All this fleeting, all this important inspired the great Russian writers and poets to create solemn, special works.
Boris Pasternak "August"
I remembered why
The pillow is slightly moistened.
I dreamed that someone was coming to see me off
You walked through the forest one after another.
You walked in a crowd, separately and in pairs,
Suddenly someone remembered that today
The sixth of August in the old days,
Transfiguration.
Usually light without flame
Coming from Tabor on this day,
And autumn, clear as a sign,
Eyes are drawn to you...
Alexander Blok "Transfiguration"
On the bright day of Transfiguration
The madman's spirit is struck:
Out of bondage, out of confusion
He heard Your voice.
Now mournful, now poor,
In the bosom of the Eternal Father,
Close to You, in the pale azure
Longing for a new ending...
Ivan Shmelev "Summer of the Lord"
The Transfiguration of the Lord... A gentle, quiet light from him in the soul - to this day. It must be from the morning garden, from the bright blue sky, from heaps of straw, from pear apples buried in the greenery, in which individual leaves are already turning yellow - green-golden, soft... Golden and blue morning in the cold. There is no crowding in the church. Little bundles float over our heads - all the apples, mallow, apples... There is a special smell in the stale hot air today - fresh apples. They are everywhere, even on the choir, even on banners. Unusual, fun - like guests, and the church is not a church at all. And everyone, it seems to me, only thinks about apples. And the Lord is here with everyone, and He also thinks about apples: They brought them to Him - look, Lord, what they are! And He will look and say to everyone: “Well, good, and eat to your health, children!” And they will eat completely different ones, not store-bought ones, but church apples, holy ones. This is the Transfiguration.
Sergei Yesenin "Transfiguration"
The hour of Transfiguration is ripening,
He will come down, our Bright Guest,
From crucified patience
Remove the rusted nail.
From morning to noon
With thunder singing in the sky,
Our everyday life is like buckets
It will fill with milk.
Ivan Myatlev
...Our Savior on Tabor.
And His gaze shines
Revelatory celebration
He put on the Divinity!
He is in a bright robe, shining,
Like snow, shining all around!
Ivan Bunin "Antonov apples"
“...I remember an early fine autumn. August was with warm rains... Then, in the Indian summer, a lot of cobwebs settled in the fields... I remember an early, fresh, quiet morning... I remember a large, all golden, dried up and thinning garden, I remember maple alleys, the subtle aroma of fallen leaves and - the smell of Antonov apples, the smell of honey and autumn freshness. The air is so clean, as if there is none at all... And the cool silence of the morning is disturbed only by the well-fed cackling of blackbirds on the coral rowan trees in the thicket of the garden, voices and the booming sound of apples being poured into measures and tubs. In the thinned garden one can see the road to a large hut, strewn with straw. Everywhere there is a strong smell of apples, especially here...On holidays there is a whole fair near the hut, and red decorations flash behind the trees every minute.