Bunin Antonov apples. Great Bunin. fine autumn

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 too good sign: “There’s a lot of netting in the Indian summer - autumn is vigorous”... I remember an early, fresh, quiet morning... I remember a large, all golden, dried up and thinned 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 at the starry sky, smell the tar in fresh air and listen to how the long convoy carefully 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:
- Go ahead, eat your fill, there’s nothing to do! When pouring, everyone drinks honey.
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 a 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 vest is corduroy, the curtain is long, and the poneva is black and purple with stripes brick color and lined at the hem with a wide gold “prose”...
- Economic butterfly! - the tradesman says about her, shaking his head. - These are now being translated...
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 darkness, in the depths of the garden, there is a fabulous 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 wood, 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 gate itself...
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 it you, barchuk? - someone quietly calls out from the darkness.
- I am. 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!

The great writer Ivan Alekseevich Bunin wrote his work “Antonov Apples” quickly, in just a few months. But he did not complete the work on the story, because he turned to his story again and again, changing the text. Each edition of this story had already changed and edited text. And this could easily be explained by the fact that the writer’s impressions were so vivid and deep that he wanted to show all this to his reader.

But a story like “Antonov Apples,” where there is no plot development, and the basis of the content is Bunin’s impressions and memories, is difficult to analyze. It is difficult to capture the emotions of a person who lives in the past. But Ivan Alekseevich manages to accurately convey sounds and colors, showing his unusual literary skill. Reading the story “Antonov Apples” you can understand what feelings and emotions the writer experienced. This is both pain and sadness that all this is left behind, as well as joy and tenderness for the ways of deep antiquity.

Bunin uses bright colors description of colors, for example, black-lilac, gray-iron. Bunin’s descriptions are so deep that he even notices how the shadow of many objects falls. For example, from the flames in the garden in the evening he sees black silhouettes, which he compares with giants. By the way, there are a huge number of metaphors in the text. It is worth paying attention to the sundresses that girls wear at fairs: “sundresses that smell like paint.” Even the smell of Bunin's paint does not cause irritation, and this is another memory. And what words does he choose when he conveys his feelings from water! The writer’s character is not easily cold or transparent, but Ivan Alekseevich uses the following description of it: icy, heavy.

What is happening in the narrator’s soul, how strong and deep his experiences are, can be understood if you analyze those details in the work “Antonov Apples”, where he gives a detailed description of them. There is also in the story main character- barchuk, but his story is never revealed to the reader.

At the very beginning of his work, the writer uses one of the means of artistic expressiveness of speech. The gradation lies in the fact that the author very often repeats the word “remember,” which allows you to create a feeling of how carefully the writer treats his memories and is afraid of forgetting something.

The second chapter contains not only a description of a wonderful autumn, which is usually mysterious and even fabulous in villages. But the work tells about old women who were living out their lives and preparing to accept death. To do this, they put on a shroud, which was wonderfully painted and starched so that it stood like a stone on the body of the old women. The writer also recalled that, having prepared for death, such old women dragged gravestones into the yard, which now stood awaiting the death of their mistress.

The writer’s memories take the reader in the second part to another estate, which belonged to Ivan Alekseevich’s cousin. Anna Gerasimovna lived on her own, so she was always happy to visit her old estate. The road to this estate still appears before the narrator’s eyes: a lush and spacious blue sky, the well-trodden and well-trodden road seems to the writer the most expensive and so dear. Bunin’s description of both the road and the estate itself evokes a great feeling of regret that all this is a thing of the distant past.

The description of the telegraph poles that the narrator encountered on the way to his aunt is sad and sad to read. They were like silver strings, and the birds sitting on them seemed to the writer like musical notes. But even here, on the aunt’s estate, the narrator again remembers the smell of Antonov apples.

The third part takes the reader into deep autumn, when after cold and prolonged rains, the sun finally begins to appear. And again the estate of another landowner - Arseny Semenovich, who was a great lover of hunting. And again one can see the author’s sadness and regret that the spirit of the landowner, who honored both his roots and the entire Russian culture, has now faded away. But now that former way of life has been lost, and it is now impossible to return the former noble way of life in Rus'.

In the fourth chapter of the story “Antonov Apples,” Bunin sums it up by saying that the smell of Antonov apples has disappeared no more than the smell of childhood, which was associated with the life and everyday life of the local nobility. And it is impossible to see either those old people, or the glorious landowners, or those glorious times. And the last lines of the story “I covered the road with white snow” lead the reader to the fact that it is no longer impossible to return the old Russia, its former life.

The story “Antonov Apples” is a kind of ode, enthusiastic, but sad and sad, imbued with love, which is dedicated to Russian nature, life in the villages and the patriarchal way of life that existed in Rus'. The story is small in volume, but quite a lot is conveyed in it. Bunin has pleasant memories of that time; they are filled with spirituality and poetry.

“Antonov Apples” is Bunin’s hymn to his homeland, which, although it remained in the past, far from him, still remained forever in the memory of Ivan Alekseevich, and was for him like the best and purest time, the time of his spiritual development.

Bunin Ivan Alekseevich

Antonov apples

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin

Antonov apples

Come on, eat your fill - there’s nothing to do! When pouring, everyone drinks honey.

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 a 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”...

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 darkness, in the depths of the garden, there is a fabulous 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 wood, 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...

"Vigorous Antonovka - for a fun year." Village affairs are good if the Antonovka crop is cropped, which means that the grain is cropped... I remember a fruitful year.

I.A. Bunin

Antonov apples

(excerpt)

...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 shady stuff 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 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 it creaks in the dark a long convoy along the high road. 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.<>

...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 darkness, in the depths of the garden, there is a fabulous 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 wood, 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 all over the tree, then clearly

two legs will be drawn - 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 gate itself...

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 it you, barchuk? – someone quietly calls out from the darkness.

- I am. Are you still awake, Nikolai?

-We can’t sleep. And it must be too late? Look, it seems

passenger train is coming...

We listen for a long time and distinguish trembling in the ground, trembling

turns into noise, grows, and now, as if just outside the garden, the noisy beat of the wheels is rapidly beating out: thundering and knocking, the train rushes... 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.

Throw a single-barreled shotgun, heavy as a crowbar, into the air and

you'll shoot. 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 Antonovka is bad: that means the grain is bad too...

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 of the small foliage has 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 laziness of the night, 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 sharply 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. 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<>

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 and thick hemp trees, there were barns and barns covered with hair; were in punki and barns 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.

G. Myasoedov. Mowers. Time of suffering

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 his 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!

http://www.artlib.ru/objects/gallery

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 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. Falcons sit on them - completely black icons on music paper.

Ozerki. House-Museum of I.A. Bunina

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!

You will enter the house and first of all you will hear the smell of apples, and then others: old furniture mahogany, dried linden blossom, which has 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.

Interior

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<>.

The smell of Antonov apples disappears from the landowners' estates. These days were so recent, and yet it seems to me that almost a whole century has passed since then...

“...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.” Bourgeois gardeners live here and have rented the garden. “On holidays, there is a whole fair near the hut, and red headdresses constantly flash behind the trees.” Everyone comes for apples. Boys in white fluffy shirts and short porticoes, with white open heads, 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. There are many buyers, trade is brisk, and the consumptive tradesman in a long frock coat and red boots is cheerful. By nightfall the weather becomes very cold and dewy. 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. ““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 a window into a cool garden filled with a lilac fog, through which the morning sun shines brightly here and there... and you would run to the pond to wash your face. Almost all of the small foliage has flown off the coastal vines, and the branches are visible in the turquoise sky. The water under the vines became clear, icy and seemed heavy.” The author describes the village and its inhabitants, buildings, and way of life. We read further: “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... What stands out in size, or better yet, in length, is only the blackened human one, from which the last Mohicans of the courtyard class peek out - some decrepit old men and women, a decrepit retired cook, looking like Don Quixote. All of them, when you enter the yard, pull themselves up and bow low and low... You enter the house and first of all you will hear the smell of apples, and then others: old mahogany furniture, dried linden blossom, which has 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...” “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 the ridges of snowy mountains-clouds slowly floated out... A long, anxious night was coming... From such a bashing, the garden emerged almost completely naked, covered with wet leaves and somehow quiet, 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 hang on the trees until the first winter. The black garden will shine through the cold turquoise sky and obediently wait for winter, warming itself in the sun’s shine.” “When I happened to oversleep the hunt, the rest was especially pleasant. You wake up and lie in bed for a long time... Slowly get dressed, wander around the garden, find in the wet leaves an accidentally forgotten cold and wet apple, and for some reason it seems 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...And you will involuntarily get carried away by the book itself. This is “The Noble Philosopher”... a story about how “a noble philosopher, having the time and the ability to reason about what the human mind can ascend to, once received the desire to compose a plan of light in the vast area of his village...” “ The smell of Antonov apples disappears from the landowners' estates. Those 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, Arseniy Semenych shot himself... The kingdom of the small estates, impoverished to the point of beggary, is coming. But this miserable small-scale life is also good! So I see myself again in the village, deep in the ass. The days are bluish and cloudy. In the morning I get into the saddle and with one dog, a gun and a horn, I ride off 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 the Settlement flash and the smell of smoke and housing draws me out of the estate... Sometimes someone will come by a small-scale neighbor and will take me away for a long time... The life of a small-scale estate is good too!”