Lesson based on the story by I.A. Bunin "Antonov apples" educational and methodological manual on literature (grade 11) on the topic

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“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 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. 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?

Well, sir, father, I clearly remember.

You see now. 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 chestnuts are like those of a deceased person, the neck is yellow and withered, the shirt with rosin joints is always white and 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 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; 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 the 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 lunch with his bearded father-in-law, lunch 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. Falcons sit 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 many outbuildings - low, but homely - and all of them are precisely made of dark oak logs under thatched roofs. The only thing that stands out in size, or, better to say, in length, is 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. When you drive into the yard, they all 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 rode 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 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 why that the house is surrounded by a garden, and the upper glass windows are 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-lady”, 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 lesson is dedicated to the theme of withering and desolation of noble estates at the beginning of the 20th century. Light sadness accompanies the passing beauty and dying traditions. But there is hope that someday everything will be revived. During the lesson, materials from painting and music are used, poems by I.A. Bunin and other Russian and foreign poets are used. During the lesson, students observe and identify connections between three types of arts: literature, painting and music. Bunin's story, Ikovsky's music, Levitan's painting most fully show the love of a Russian person for his native land.

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The motive of withering and desolation of noble nests. The story "Antonov apples"

Material for the lesson: Lyrics by I.A. Bunin, the story “Antonov Apples”, reproductions of paintings by I.I. Levitan, recording of music by P.I. Tchaikovsky from the cycle “The Seasons”

Epigraph

“Painting, music, prose, poetry are inseparable in Russia... Together they form a single powerful stream that carries the burden of national culture”

(Alexander Blok)

At the beginning of the lesson, fragments of music by P.Ya. Tchaikovsky

Question:

Each season has its own signs and characteristics, and autumn too. Let's think about what verbal, auditory, visual and mental associations you have with the theme of autumn?

Possible answers:

Boldino autumn, Pushkin, rustling leaves, autumn elegies, sadness, rains, harvest, apples, the smell of fires, time for reflection, golden, brown and orange leaves, music by Tchaikovsky, Vivaldi, paintings by Levitan, Polenov...

Question:

How can you explain the meaning of the epigraph, why to study the story of I.A. Bunin, do we attract music and painting?

Possible answers:

Music and painting may help you to more deeply feel the poetry of I.A.’s story. Bunin "Antonov apples". We can look at works of art to music, we can draw to music, we can depict literary images using painting. Music evokes associations that can be reflected in painting and literature.Music, painting, literature are different types of art that use different methods of expression, but they all affect the human soul and help express his inner world in different ways.

Teacher's word:

The connection between painting and music was discovered not today, but many centuries ago. Leonardo da Vinci also called music the sister of painting. These two arts developed in parallel, complementing each other. For painting, the concepts of movement, scale and color are important. For music - the concepts of symmetry, color sound, cold and warm sound. Sometimes the music is accompanied by a range of colors. These two types of art use the same concepts in order to reveal the essence of the ideas of their works as expressively as possible.Speaking about Russian art of the 19th and 20th centuries, experts often call it “literary-centric.” And indeed, Russian literature largely determined the themes and problems of both music and fine art of its time. Therefore, many paintings by Russian painters seem to be illustrations for novels and stories, and musical works are based on detailed literary associations. The combination of music, painting and literature helps to look at the same phenomenon that surrounds us in life from different sides..

Question:

Why do you think I.I. was chosen to analyze Bunin’s work? Levitan and P.Ya. Chaikovsky?

Possible answers:

The story “Antonov Apples” is full of colors, music, and even smells. As we read the story, we see the colors of autumn and hear its music. And the works of Bunin, Levitan and Tchaikovsky are very close in their depiction of autumn.

Teacher's word:

Yes, the combination of these three great names is not accidental. They are united by the appeal of artistic consciousness to the ideal principles of existence, which is characteristic of Russian culture, which unites man with nature. The ability to express in their art all the diversity of the world and the richness of experiences, combined with simplicity and accessibility, unites Tchaikovsky, Levitan and Bunin. Levitan, for example, very often worked to the sounds of Tchaikovsky's works. The artist’s canvases are often compared with the music of this composer, finding in them a quiet, smooth songfulness. Poems by I.A. Bunin, according to the poet M. Voloshin, are very close to “thin and golden, purely Levitan’s writing.” The plays of the musical cycle “The Seasons” by Tchaikovsky are Russian landscapes. The beauty of Russian nature had an incomprehensible influence on the composer. The Russian distances evoked a similar emotional response from Levitan. Leaving Russia, both Levitan and Tchaikovsky soon began to yearn for Russian nature. Bunin treated her no less reverently. About this affection A.A. Blok said: “Few people can know and love nature like Bunin can.”

Question:

What feelings do the autumn melodies of P.Ya evoke in you? Tchaikovsky and autumn landscapes of I.I. Levitan? How are they related to the story and poems of I.A. Bunin?

Possible answers:

Nature seems to look into the soul and ask questions; the warmth and sadness of Russian life; the state of nature is closely related to the state of the human soul; a combination of joyful and sad, peaceful and menacing, wounding and healing; tender and harsh; beautiful, but fading, fading beauty; in the paintings, in the music, in the story there is an open ending. The authors seem to give us the opportunity to speculate, to think out the continuation of the plot. It’s not even a matter of the similarity of plots, the main thing is the similarity of mental states evoked by these plots...

Teacher's word:

Today we will analyze the famous “autumn” story by I.A. Bunin's "Antonov Apples" and remember his lyrics associated with autumn, especially since the story can be considered as a prose poem. I.A. himself Bunin was convinced that there should be no “division of fiction into prose and poetry” and admitted that such a view seemed to him “unnatural and outdated.” The story was published in 1900 in the magazine “Life” and had the subtitle “Pictures from the book “Epitaphs”.

Question:

What does the word "epitaph" mean? Why did the writer choose this particular subtitle?

Possible answers:

An epitaph is a funeral speech. Bunin did not create such a book, but he wrote paintings for it. Perhaps “Antonov Apples” is an epitaph associated with the “golden” era of Russia. Perhaps the motive of death was introduced to enhance the experience of the lyrical hero, so the wonderful moment remains in memory forever. Beauty and death, love and loneliness, separation and suffering - these are eternal themes that help reveal the personality of the author-narrator.

Question:

What is the composition of the story? How many parts can it be divided into? What are the themes of each part and are they related to each other?

Possible answers:

The story is divided into 4 fragments, each of them has its own theme and intonation. Pictures of autumn in different chapters are shown through the perception of the hero. In the center of the image is not only the change of autumn months, but also the “age” view of the world, for example, a child, a teenager, a young man and a mature person. In the first chapter we see early fine autumn through the eyes of a boy, a “barchuk”. In the second chapter, the hero has largely lost the joy and purity characteristic of childhood perception. In the third and fourth chapters, the light tones diminish and dark, gloomy, dreary tones are established: “Here I see myself again in the village, in late autumn. The days are bluish and cloudy...”

Teacher's word:

In the first chapter we are talking about a strong emotion that often accompanies childhood memories. Purity and spontaneity are characteristic of a child's soul. Together with the author, the mood of joy and cheerfulness overwhelms us.

Exercise: Let's find an example in the text.

(“In the darkness, in the depths of the garden, there is a fabulous picture: as if in a corner of hell, a hut is burning with a crimson flame, 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 " How good it is to live in the world!)

Teacher's word:

In the second chapter the tone is no longer enthusiastic, but calmer. We are talking about the people, their way of life, their epic mood is conveyed. The author has become more mature and can appreciate what is happening. The description of the people and agricultural concerns is imbued with sadness, and irreversible changes are already visible in nature.

Assignment: Find an example in the text.

(“Almost all the small foliage has flown off the coastal vines, and the branches are visible in the turquoise sky. The water under the lozins became clear, icy and as if heavy... When you used to drive through the village on a sunny morning, you kept thinking about how good it is to mow, thresh, sleep on the threshing floor in brooms, and on a holiday to rise with the sun...")

Teacher's word:

In the third chapter we are talking about a short period of flourishing of local culture, but at the same time the author understands, that noble culture is dying. I.A. Bunin recreates the world of a Russian estate at the turn of the century, family traditions of a noble family, irrevocably consigned to the past. And nature mourns along with the author for the unforgettable “golden age”.

Assignment: Find pictures of nature withering in the text.

(“The wind tore and tore the trees for days on end, the rains watered them from morning to night... the wind did not let up. It disturbed the garden, tore up the stream of human smoke continuously flowing 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 rain began to fall more and more often...")

In the fourth chaptera description of late autumn - early winter is given. The colors are fading and there is less sunlight. Silence, sadness. The narrator wanders alone through the already winter forest. Essentially, the story describes the autumn of not one year, but several, and this is constantly emphasized in the text: “I remember a harvest year”; “These were so recent, and yet it seems that almost a whole century has passed since then.” The generalization of time is deepened by the fact that the narrator is in different age forms.

Question:

Possible answers:

The fate of the specific village of Vyselki and specific people is perceived as the common fate of the entire noble class, and of all of Russia as a whole. Estate life is an ideal life, but it is no longer possible.

Teacher's word:

Bunin’s conclusion is clear: only in the imagination, only in memory remains the time of happy, carefree youth, thrills and experiences, harmonious existence with nature, the life of ordinary people, the greatness of the cosmos. Estate life seems to be a kind of “lost paradise”, the bliss of which, of course, cannot be returned by the pitiful attempts of small-scale nobles, who are perceived, rather, as a parody of past luxury.

Question:

Is it possible to accurately determine the plot of the story?

Possible answers:

No, there is no plot in the usual sense, i.e. There is no event dynamics in the story. This is a story about autumn, about Antonov apples. It is a mosaic of heterogeneous impressions.

Teacher's word:

The story does not have a usual specific plot line. The very first words of the work: “...I remember an early fine autumn,” immerse the hero in the world of memories. The plot is the feelings associated with them. The story is structured as a series of memories, heterogeneous digressions, lyrical revelations and philosophical reflections. In the alternation of chapters we see calendar changes in nature and associated associations. The smell of apples is a recurring detail in the story. I.A. Bunin describes a garden with Antonov apples at different times. At the same time, the evening landscape turns out to be no poorer than the morning one. It is decorated with the diamond constellation Stozhar, the Milky Way, whitening overhead, and shooting stars.

Question:

What role do smells play in the story? What smells are these?

Possible answers:

The smell of Antonov apples awakens a variety of associations in the narrator’s soul. Smells change - life itself changes. The breath of beauty that once filled the ancient noble estates, the aroma of Antonov apples gives way to the smells of rottenness, mold, and desolation.

Question ( homework).

How can you title the memories described in 4 parts of the story?

Possible answers:

1. Memories of an early fine autumn. Bustle in the garden.

2. Memories of a “fruitful year.” Silence in the garden.

3. Memories of hunting (small-scale life). Storm in the garden.

4. Memories of deep autumn. Half-cut down, naked garden.

Question:

What is the main subject of memories in all parts of the story, what pictures are depicted especially vividly and vividly?

Possible answers:

There are a lot of bright paintings, but images of a garden are especially common...

Teacher's word:

The garden is a constant background against which the events of the story unfold. Bunin's garden is a mirror reflecting what is happening to the estates and their inhabitants. In the story he appears as a living being with his own mood and character. It is different every time, shown through the prism of the author’s moods.

Question:

How we see the garden in the beautiful Indian summer?

Possible answers:

Golden, dried out, thinned out, and in the early morning - cool, filled with purple fog.

Question:

What is the garden like when late autumn arrives?

Possible answers:

Naked, quiet, resigned, black, submissively waiting for winter, empty, sad (in the last chapter).

Teacher's word:

This is how, against the backdrop of the garden and the hero’s personal feelings and experiences, Bunin depicts the process of degeneration of the nobility, which brings with it irreparable losses in the spiritual and cultural heritage. Poeticizing the past, the author cannot help but think about the future. Let's read the landscape sketch at the end of the story: “Zazimok, first snow! There are no greyhounds, there is nothing to hunt in November; but winter comes, “work” with the hounds begins.”

Question:

What associations do you have? Why does the image of the first snow appear at the end of the story?

Possible answers:

The image of the first snow covering the fields is associated with a blank sheet of paper, with something new, unknown, perhaps tragic.

Teacher's word:

The story “Antonov Apples” was written in 1900, at the junction of two eras, two centuries. Such a time is considered to be a turning point, a crisis. People live on the eve of big changes, but who knows whether they are good or bad? What can we expect from the 20th century, a century of rapidly developing technology, a time of impending wars and cataclysms? What remained in the 19th century - the time of noble culture? What is irretrievably gone, what can never be returned? The question involuntarily arises: “What will the new century write on a blank sheet of paper, what traces will it leave on it?” These questions, of course, worried I. Bunin, who loved Russia and was worried about its fate. After the October Revolution, he finally rejected the Bolshevik regime and was forced to leave his homeland forever.

Question:

Why did Antonov apples become a symbol of the passing home life for Bunin, who in 20 years would become an emigrant?

Possible answers:

Bunin, who had lived in the village for a long time, knew well that Antonov apples are one of the signs of autumn. Antonovka is an old, winter, native Russian, widespread variety of apples. For the emigrant Bunin, they would later become a symbol of Russia.

Question:

What can you say about the sense of time in this work?

Possible answers:

Autumn lasts and lasts, as if time had died or was going in an endless circle. This gives rise to a motive of sadness, but it is a light sadness imbued with love. The running theme of this story is the passage of time. And time seems to have no power over the narrator.

Teacher's word:

Time flows in a very strange way in the story. On the one hand, it seems to be moving forward, but in the memories the narrator always turns back. All events occurring in the past are perceived and experienced by him as momentary, developing before his eyes. This relativity of time is one of the most important features of Bunin’s creativity.

Let's listen to the passage of time in “Seasons” by P.Ya. Tchaikovsky. What mood does his music evoke? Is it possible to find here a correspondence between the moods of the composer’s autumn melodies and the story of I.A. Bunin?

(Excerpts from the autumn melodies of “The Seasons” are played)

Possible answers:

The eternal beauty of nature and eternal time, the smooth flow of life, the sincerity of intonations, here, too, there is duration, going in a circle, and light sadness. In the music you can hear the motive of sigh, regret, sometimes you can hear pain and hopeless sadness... However, in three different plays you can hear different shades that evoke associations with different parts of Bunin’s story.

Teacher's word:

“The Seasons” is called by many an encyclopedia of Russian estate life of the 19th century, which brings this musical work closer to the story of I.A. Bunin "Antonov apples". In these musical pieces, the composer captured the endless Russian expanses, rural life, and scenes from the domestic musical life of Russian people of that time. In Alexander Blok’s poem “I Never Understood,” the famous poet of the Silver Age talks about the influencemusic on the inner world of a person:

I never understood
The art of sacred music,
And now my hearing discerned
There is someone's hidden voice in it.
I loved that dream in her
And those emotions of my soul,
That all the former beauty
They bring it in waves from oblivion.
The past rises to the sound
And it seems clear to those close to us:
Then the dream sings for me,
It smells like a beautiful mystery.

Questions:

1. What is the theme and idea of ​​this poem?
2. How are they related to the epigraph for the lesson?
3. When does a poet begin to understand music?
4. Why does music bring memories of the past? What are these memories?
5. What figurative and expressive means does the poet use?

Possible answers:

Topic: music; idea: the birth of inspiration, the connection between music and poetry. A. Blok speaks not only about the relatedness of the birth of inspiration in musical and literary creativity, but also that music helps the birth of poetic inspiration. The epigraph to the lesson, also by A. Blok, confirms this idea and emphasizes that such a unity of arts is possible in Russia. You begin to understand music with age, having gone through life's trials. Beautiful music revives the past, which can be both light and dark, beautiful and tragic.

Teacher's word:

The most important thing in music, poetry, painting is the impact on the human soul. And if one of the arts does not evoke the necessary associations, then another will help, especially if the themes of the works are the same.

Question ( homework):

What periods of autumn are reflected in the plays of P.I. Tchaikovsky?

Possible answers:

Each play captures one of the months of the year with a significant event occurring in that month. Tchaikovsky loved autumn very much. He reflected his autumn impressions in three plays.First autumn playcalled: “September. Hunting". Many pages of works of Russian literature and paintings by Russian artists are devoted to hunting. Hunting in Russia has always been very noisy, fun and required courage, strength, dexterity, temperament and passion from its participants.Second autumn playcalled: “October. Autumn song." She shows the unique beauties of Russian nature, which in the fall dresses in extraordinary attire.Third autumn playcalled: “November. At three." Although November is considered the last month of autumn, in central Russia it is already the beginning of winter. In November, the trees have already shed their leaves, the rivers freeze, and the first snow falls.

Teacher's word:

If we recall the artists closest to Tchaikovsky, then this is, first of all, I.I. Levitan. No one before Levitan so expressively conveyed the beauty of Russian nature in different seasons. The poet Alexander Kushner has a poem that explains the nationwide love for the work of this artist:

My God, Levitan! After all, we know each other to tears
This forest, this meadow, this moss, this reach,
And about March and the horse in the snow by the porch
It seems like I could talk endlessly
And, must I admit, at times it even seemed
That he’s too much of a relative, or something, he’s my own
And, like childhood, perhaps a little overshadowed
Everything that has happened since then has so many wonderful names!
But we went to the exhibition. We need to take a look
Once again on the path running down to the shore
And once again, probably for the last time
Look at the ocher-tinted longboat...

Question:

Why is the work of I.I. Levitan is not only close to the music of P.I. Tchaikovsky or, perhaps, any other person of art, but close and understandable to everyone?

Possible answers:

For both the musician and the artist, the impetus for inspiration that gave birth to a masterpiece was love for the homeland, spiritual unity with its natural beauty. Any sentient person not only sees the same thing in nature, but experiences the same sensations. If we were artists, we would write the same way. We look at and “get to know” Russian nature indirectly, through Levitan’s work.

Question:

At I.I. Levitan has a lot of paintings that are dedicated to different periods of autumn. Which “autumn pictures” most fully correspond to the theme of the lesson? Why?

Possible answers:

(“Golden Autumn. Slobodka”, “Golden Autumn, 1895”, “Autumn Landscape with a Church”, “Autumn. Hunter”, “Autumn. Estate”). These paintings most fully correspond to the themes and moods of I.A.’s story. Bunin, and music by P.Ya. Tchaikovsky. In the paintings one can feel a light sadness and love for Russia, which is beautiful not only at any time of the year, but also at any historical time. In these paintings there is a beautiful golden time of autumn, and a sad autumn estate, and a lonely hunter in an already leafless forest, and a church, and village houses...

Teacher's word:

Autumn colors caress the eye and make you forget that this beauty is fleeting. Following the warm and dry autumn, rainy days will begin. Nature will quickly shed its festive attire. Now let's return to Bunin's story. Which parts of the story can these pictures and pieces of music illustrate?

Possible answers:

Each of the fragments of Bunin’s story can be found in I.I. Levitan, as well as P.I. Tchaikovsky. (Find matches).

Teacher's word:

What autumn is most often depicted in Levitan's paintings? - Golden! And what kind of autumn do we imagine after listening to the first and second autumn plays by P.Ya. Tchaikovsky? – Gold, because There are very warm musical tones here. And what autumn epithet does Bunin most often use in the initial fragments of the story? - Golden! The meaning of this image is extremely broad: it also has a direct meaning(“golden frames”), and a designation of the color of autumn foliage, and a conveyance of the hero’s emotional state, and a sign of abundance (grain, apples) that was once inherent in Russia, and a symbol of youth, the “golden” time of the hero’s life. Epithet"gold" Bunin refers to the past tense, being a characteristic of a noble, outgoing Russia. This epithet is associated with another concept:"golden age" Russian life, a century of relative prosperity, solidity and solidity of being. This is how I.A. sees it. Bunin's century is passing. This is how P.I. portrays him. Tchaikovsky, and I.I. Levitan.

Question:

What is the central theme of the story? Why does Bunin describe the autumn landscape with such sadness?

Possible answers:

The central theme of the story is the theme of the ruin of noble nests. The author writes that the smell of Antonov apples disappears and the way of life that has developed over centuries is disintegrating. Bunin associates the withering of noble nests with the autumn landscape, with the slow dying of nature.

Teacher's word:

Admiring the past brings an elegiac tone to the work. The author poetizes everyday values: work on the land, a clean shirt and lunch with hot lamb on wooden plates. It is in this work that I.A. expresses. Bunin had an important idea for him: the pattern of average noble life is close to peasant life. For the heir to the noble culture I.A. For Bunin, this was manor Russia, the entire way of life of the landowners, closely connected with nature, agriculture, tribal customs, and the life of the peasants. It is in the world of the Russian estate, according to the writer, that the past and the present, the history of the culture of the golden age and its fate at the turn of the century, the family traditions of the noble family and individual human life are united. Sadness about the noble nests fading into the past is the leitmotif not only of this story, but also of numerous poems by I.A. Bunin, such as: “A high white hall, where there is a black piano...”, “Into the living room through the garden and dusty curtains...”, “On a quiet night the late moon came out...”, “Evening”, “Desolation”, “Falling Leaves”.

Prepared students read and analyze poetry (homework)

Question:

What feelings and associations do these poems evoke? How are they related to the story “Antonov Apples”?

Possible answers:

It’s sad to watch how everything dear to you since childhood irrevocably becomes a thing of the past. The poems convey quiet sadness, sadness, nostalgia, motives of loneliness and abandonment. Desolation, languor...On the threshold of a new century, only memories remained. This is a farewell to youth, to a past that flowed in accordance with nature. The same motives are felt in the story.

Teacher's word:

The leitmotif of decline and destruction is overcome by the poeticization of the past, living in the memory of culture... Bunin's poems about the estate are characterized by picturesqueness and at the same time inspired emotionality, sublimity and poetic feeling. The estate becomes for the lyrical hero an integral part of his individual life and at the same time a symbol of the homeland, the roots of the family. Listen to the poem by I.A. Bunin “Asters are crumbling in the gardens...”:

Asters are falling in the gardens,
The slender maple tree under the window turns yellow,
And cold fog in the fields
It stays white all day long.
The nearby forest becomes quiet, and in it
Lights appeared everywhere,
And he is handsome in his attire,
Dressed in golden foliage.
But under this through foliage
Not a sound is heard in these thickets...
Autumn blows with melancholy
Autumn smells of separation!
Wander around in the last days
Along the alley, long silent,
Look with love and sadness
To familiar fields.
In the silence of village nights
And in the silence of the autumn midnight
Remember the songs that the nightingale sang,
Remember the summer nights
And think that the years go by
What about spring, how will the bad weather pass?
They won't give us back
Deceived by happiness...

Questions:

1. What is the theme and idea of ​​the poem?
2. What is the overall tone of the poem? What words prove this?
3. What are the external and internal themes of this poem?
4. What literary techniques does the author use to achieve the desired sound?
5. Does the author hope for a revival of feelings, life, and Russia? What words prove this?

Possible answers:

The poem is sad, but there is no bitterness in it, only grief (longing, separation, sadness, bad weather). The external theme is autumn, the internal theme is the fate of Russia. Epithets, metaphors and personifications, sound painting not only bring nature to life, but also clearly reveal the image of the lyrical hero. The author loves Russia. But he doesn’t hope for its immediate revival. Happiness, hopes and dreams are in the past (last stanza of the poem).

Question:

What common features have you noticed in musical, poetic andpicturesque image of Russian autumn by I.A. Bunina, P.Ya. Tchaikovsky and I.I. Levitan?

Possible answers:

Light sadness and peace. Love to motherland. Depth of feelings. This is not only a regret about fading nature, but also autumn in a person’s life. The melodiousness of the melody of autumn plays by P.Ya. Tchaikovsky echoes the melodiousness of Russian speech in the story and poems of I.A. Bunin, the range of colors and moods in the landscapes of I. I. Levitan exactly repeat the colors and moods of Bunin’s “autumn” creativity.

Question:

Why does the story “Antonov Apples” begin and end with an ellipsis?

Possible answers:

This means that nothing begins and nothing ends in it. The physical life of a person is finite, but the life of the human soul, the life of nature, the life of art are endless. What will happen next to Russia?

Question:

How is this idea related to the works of Levitan and Tchaikovsky?

Possible answers:

Levitan's paintings and Tchaikovsky's music are not limited by any boundaries. This is the course of life, taken at one point in its development. Eternal nature sheds light on us with colors, music, words, which reflect not only the artist’s soul, but also our soul... And, as already mentioned, all the works under consideration have an open ending.

Teacher's word:

Does this happen only in the works of these great people or is this a general trend in world art? Let's see how the Nobel Prize laureate German writer, poet and artist, connoisseur of classical music Hermann Hesse (1877-1962) speaks about this problem in his poem “Recorded on an April Night”:

Oh, how wonderful it is that there are colors:
Blue, Yellow, White, Red and Green!
Oh, how wonderful it is that there are sounds:
Soprano, Bass, Horn, Oboe!
Oh, how wonderful it is that there is a language:
Words, Poems, Rhymes,
Tenderness of consonance,
March and dance of syntax!
Who played their games
Who felt the taste of their magic,
That's why the world blossoms,
Smiles and reveals to him
Your heart, your essence.

Question:

What unites all these types of art according to Hermann Hesse? Do you agree with his point of view?

Possible answers:

Music, poetry and literature are united by the ability to most fully create the image that is born in the soul. Images coming from the depths of the soul, no matter how they are expressed, are always beautiful because they are true.

Teacher's word:

Literature, music and painting are united by the same reason, the same need - to bear within oneself an image, feeling or sensation in literature, an image of a landscape or a person in painting, a sound image in music, and then give these images life , present them for public viewing in one form or another of art. All this once again shows the versatility of art, the joy bestowed by artistic creativity. And musical and pictorial images often help writers and poets to indirectly reveal the problems of their works, to most fully reveal the characters of the characters in order to give readers the opportunity to think and reflect.

Question:

In what works of Russian and foreign literature do you know that music or painting helped us see the problem and reveal the character’s character?

Possible answers:

A.S. Pushkin “Mozart and Salieri”, A.N. Ostrovsky “Thunderstorm”, “Dowry”, L.N. Tolstoy “War and Peace”, “Kreutzer Sonata”, I.A. Goncharov “Oblomov”, A.I. Kuprin “Garnet Bracelet”, A.P. Chekhov “Ionych”, I.S. Turgenev “Singers”, “Fathers and Sons”, “Nest of Nobles”, V.G. Korolenko “The Blind Musician”, K.G. Paustovsky “Basket with Fir Cones”, Vladimir Orlov “Violist Danilov”, Oscar Wilde “The Picture of Dorian Gray” ...

Final words from the teacher:

Art helps to understand the world, forms a spiritual image, educates a person, broadens his horizons, awakens creative abilities. Perceiving works of art, we remember life experiences, what we have read, and draw associative parallels. The world around us is very multifaceted, interesting and unique. The ordinary and the beautiful are inexplicably harmoniously combined in the world; in the utmost simplicity of sound, color and words one can reflect the incomprehensible greatness of nature and the subtle spiritual experiences of man!

In the story “Antonov Apples” the lyrical and philosophical, narrative and emotional are closely intertwined. It can be called a philosophical reflection on the foundations of life, on the laws of existence, on the unity of human existence. Here I.A Bunin says that happiness can be found in the simplest things that surround us. The main thing is to be happy yourself. “Antonov Apples” are extremely important for understanding Bunin’s work. Feeling that the past cannot be returned, the writer calls not to lose what is worthy of memory, what is beautiful and eternal. In “Antonov Apples” Bunin managed to reproduce timeless values, to reveal the truly beautiful and indestructible under the everyday flow of life in the past. Bunin’s work teaches us not only to see and understand the beauty of the world, not only to admire the beauty of Russian nature and Russian life, but also to think about deep life questions, about the meaning of life.

“...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 the 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 wash your face 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 seemed heavy.”

“I didn’t know or see serfdom, but I remember feeling it at 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. When you drive into the yard, all of them pull themselves up and bow low and low...

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 footman'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 the sunlight sparkled dazzlingly between the foliage, between the branches, which 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 scolding, 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 dutifully wait for winter, warming itself in the sunshine.”

“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 sourish mold, old perfume... The notes in their margins are also good, large and with round soft strokes made with a quill pen... And you will involuntarily be 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. 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, 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 neighbor is good too!”

Autumn

I. Sokolov-Mikitov

The chirping swallows have long since flown south, and even earlier, as if on cue, the swift swifts disappeared.

On autumn days, the children heard the passing cranes crowing in the sky as they said goodbye to their dear homeland. They looked after them for a long time with some special feeling, as if the cranes were taking summer with them.

Quietly talking, the geese flew to the warm south...

People are preparing for a cold winter. The rye and wheat were mowed long ago. We prepared feed for the livestock. The last apples are being picked from the orchards. They dug up potatoes, beets, and carrots and put them away for the winter.

The animals are also preparing for winter. The nimble squirrel accumulated nuts in the hollow and dried selected mushrooms. Little voles brought grains into the holes and prepared fragrant soft hay.

In late autumn, a hardworking hedgehog builds its winter lair. He dragged a whole heap of dry leaves under an old stump. You will sleep peacefully all winter under a warm blanket.

The autumn sun warms less and less often, more and more sparingly.

Soon, soon the first frosts will begin.

Mother Earth will freeze until spring. Everyone took from her everything she could give.

Autumn

A fun summer has flown by. So autumn has come. It's time to harvest the harvest. Vanya and Fedya are digging potatoes. Vasya collects beets and carrots, and Fenya collects beans. There are a lot of plums in the garden. Vera and Felix collect fruit and send it to the school cafeteria. There everyone is treated to ripe and tasty fruits.

In the forest

Grisha and Kolya went into the forest. They picked mushrooms and berries. They put mushrooms in a basket and berries in a basket. Suddenly thunder struck. The sun has disappeared. Clouds appeared all around. The wind bent the trees towards the ground. It began to rain heavily. The boys went to the forester's house. Soon the forest became quiet. Rain stopped. The sun came out. Grisha and Kolya went home with mushrooms and berries.

Mushrooms

The guys went into the forest to pick mushrooms. Roma found a beautiful boletus under a birch tree. Valya saw a small oil can under the pine tree. Seryozha spotted a huge boletus in the grass. In the grove they collected full baskets of various mushrooms. The guys returned home happy and happy.

Forest in autumn

I. Sokolov-Mikitov

The Russian forest is beautiful and sad in the early autumn days. Bright spots of red-yellow maples and aspens stand out against the golden background of yellowed foliage. Slowly circling in the air, light, weightless yellow leaves fall and fall from the birches. Thin silver threads of light cobwebs stretched from tree to tree. Late autumn flowers are still blooming.

The air is transparent and clean. The water in forest ditches and streams is clear. Every pebble at the bottom is visible.

Quiet in the autumn forest. Only fallen leaves rustle underfoot. Sometimes a hazel grouse whistles subtly. And this makes the silence even more audible.

It's easy to breathe in the autumn forest. And I don’t want to leave it for a long time. It’s good in the autumn flowery forest... But something sad, farewell is heard and seen in it.

Nature in autumn

The mysterious princess Autumn will take tired nature into her hands, dress her in golden outfits and drench her in long rains. Autumn will calm the breathless earth, blow away the last leaves with the wind and lay it in the cradle of a long winter sleep.

Autumn day in a birch grove

I was sitting in a birch grove in the fall, around mid-September. From the very morning there was a light rain, replaced at times by warm sunshine; the weather was changeable. The sky was either covered with loose white clouds, then suddenly cleared in places for a moment, and then, from behind the parted clouds, azure appeared, clear and gentle...

I sat and looked around and listened. The leaves rustled slightly above my head; by their noise alone one could find out what time of year it was then. It was not the cheerful, laughing trembling of spring, not the soft whispering, not the long chatter of summer, not the timid and cold babbling of late autumn, but barely audible, drowsy chatter. A weak wind pulled slightly over the tops. The interior of the grove, wet from the rain, was constantly changing, depending on whether the sun was shining or covered with clouds; She then lit up all over, as if suddenly everything in her was smiling... then suddenly everything around her turned slightly blue again: the bright colors instantly faded... and stealthily, slyly, the smallest rain began to fall and whisper through the forest.

The foliage on the birches was still almost all green, although noticeably paler; only here and there stood one young girl, all red or all gold...

Not a single bird was heard: everyone took refuge and fell silent; only occasionally did the mocking voice of a tit ring like a steel bell.

An autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when a birch tree, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in the pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than a summer one, a small aspen grove sparkles through and through, as if it it’s fun and easy to stand naked, the frost is still white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives away the fallen, warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, quietly lifting up the scattered geese and ducks; in the distance the mill knocks, half-hidden by willows, and, dappling the bright air, pigeons quickly circle above it...

By the beginning of September the weather suddenly changed dramatically and completely unexpectedly. Quiet and cloudless days immediately arrived, so clear, sunny and warm, which were not even in July. On the dried, compressed fields, on their prickly yellow stubble, an autumn cobweb glistened with a mica sheen. The calmed trees silently and obediently dropped their yellow leaves.

Late fall

Korolenko Vladimir Galaktionovich

Late autumn is coming. The fruit has become heavy; he breaks down and falls to the ground. He dies, but the seed lives in him, and in this seed lives in “possibility” the entire future plant, with its future luxurious foliage and its new fruit. The seed will fall to the ground; and the cold sun is already rising low above the earth, a cold wind is running, cold clouds are rushing... Not only passion, but life itself freezes quietly, imperceptibly... The earth is increasingly emerging from under the greenery with its blackness, cold tones dominate in the sky ... And then the day comes when millions of snowflakes fall on this resigned and quiet, as if widowed earth, and it all becomes smooth, monochromatic and white... White color is the color of cold snow, the color of the highest clouds that float in unattainable cold heavenly heights, - the color of majestic and barren mountain peaks...

Antonov apples

Bunin Ivan Alekseevich

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 is burning near a hut, surrounded by darkness...

“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, 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 would run to the pond to wash your face. Almost all the small foliage has 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 floors have been empty, and 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.

Dictionary of native nature

It is impossible to list the signs of all seasons. Therefore, I skip summer and move on to autumn, to its first days, when “September” already begins.

The earth is withering, but the “Indian summer” is still ahead with its last bright, but already cold, like the shine of mica, radiance of the sun. From the thick blue of the sky, washed with cool air. With a flying web (“the yarn of the Virgin Mary,” as earnest old women still call it in some places) and a fallen, withered leaf covering the empty waters. Birch groves stand like crowds of beautiful girls in shawls embroidered with gold leaf. “A sad time is a charm of the eyes.”

Then - bad weather, heavy rains, the icy northern wind “Siverko”, plowing through the leaden waters, cold, coldness, pitch-black nights, icy dew, dark dawns.

So everything goes on until the first frost grabs and binds the earth, the first powder falls and the first path is established. And there is already winter with blizzards, blizzards, drifting snow, snowfall, gray frosts, poles in the fields, the creaking of cuttings on the sledges, a gray, snowy sky...

Often in the fall I closely watched the falling leaves in order to catch that imperceptible split second when the leaf separates from the branch and begins to fall to the ground, but for a long time I was not able to do this. I've read in old books about the sound of falling leaves, but I've never heard that sound. If the leaves rustled, it was only on the ground, under a person’s feet. The rustle of leaves in the air seemed as implausible to me as stories about hearing grass sprouting in the spring.

I was, of course, wrong. Time was needed so that the ear, dulled by the grinding of city streets, could rest and catch the very pure and precise sounds of the autumn land.

One late evening I went out into the garden to the well. I placed a dim kerosene bat lantern on the frame and took out some water. Leaves were floating in the bucket. They were everywhere. There was no way to get rid of them anywhere. Brown bread from the bakery was brought with wet leaves stuck to it. The wind threw handfuls of leaves on the table, on the bed, on the floor. on books, and it was difficult to groom along the paths of tallow: you had to walk on the leaves, as if through deep snow. We found leaves in the pockets of our raincoats, in our caps, in our hair - everywhere. We slept on them and were thoroughly saturated with their smell.

There are autumn nights, deaf and silent, when there is no wind over the black wooded edge and only the watchman's beater can be heard from the village outskirts.

It was such a night. The lantern illuminated the well, the old maple under the fence and the nasturtium bush tousled by the wind in the yellowed flowerbed.

I looked at the maple and saw how a red leaf carefully and slowly separated from the branch, shuddered, stopped in the air for an instant and began to fall obliquely at my feet, slightly rustling and swaying. For the first time I heard the rustling of a falling leaf - an unclear sound, like a child’s whisper.

My house

Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich

It’s especially good in the gazebo on quiet autumn nights, when the slow, sheer rain is making a low noise in the sala.

The cool air barely moves the candle tongue. Corner shadows from grape leaves lie on the ceiling of the gazebo. A moth, looking like a lump of gray raw silk, lands on an open book and leaves the finest shiny dust on the page. It smells like rain - a gentle and at the same time pungent smell of moisture, damp garden paths.

At dawn I wake up. The fog rustles in the garden. Leaves are falling in the fog. I pull a bucket of water out of the well. A frog jumps out of the bucket. I douse myself with well water and listen to the shepherd’s horn - he is still singing far away, right at the outskirts.

It's getting light. I take the oars and go to the river. I'm sailing in the fog. The East is turning pink. The smell of smoke from rural stoves can no longer be heard. All that remains is the silence of the water and the thickets of centuries-old willows.

Ahead is a deserted September day. Ahead - lost in this huge world of fragrant foliage, grass, autumn withering, calm waters, clouds, low sky. And I always feel this confusion as happiness.

What types of rains are there?

Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich

(Excerpt from the story “Golden Rose”)

The sun sets in the clouds, smoke falls to the ground, swallows fly low, roosters crow endlessly in the courtyards, clouds stretch across the sky in long, misty strands - all these are signs of rain. And shortly before the rain, although the clouds have not yet gathered, a gentle breath of moisture can be heard. It must be brought from where the rains have already fallen.

But now the first drops begin to drip. The popular word “drip” well conveys the occurrence of rain, when even rare drops leave dark specks on dusty paths and roofs.

Then the rain disperses. It is then that the wonderful cool smell of earth, moistened for the first time with the squeeze, appears. It doesn't last long. It is replaced by the smell of wet grass, especially nettle.

It is characteristic that, no matter what kind of rain it will be, as soon as it begins, it is always called very affectionately - rain. “The rain is gathering”, “the rain is falling”, “the rain is washing the grass”...

How, for example, does spore rain differ from mushroom rain?

The word “sporey” means fast, fast. The stinging rain is pouring vertically and heavily. He always approaches with a rushing noise.

The spore rain on the river is especially good. Each drop of it knocks out a round depression in the water, a small water bowl, jumps up, falls again, and is still visible at the bottom of this water bowl for a few moments before disappearing. The drop shines and looks like pearls.

At the same time, there is a glass ringing all over the river. By the height of this ringing you can guess whether the rain is gaining strength or subsiding.

And a fine mushroom rain sleepily falls from the low clouds. The puddles from this rain are always warm. He doesn’t ring, but whispers something of his own, soporific, and barely noticeably fidgets in the bushes, as if touching first one leaf and then another with a soft paw.

Forest humus and moss absorb this rain slowly and thoroughly. Therefore, after it, mushrooms begin to grow wildly - sticky boletus, yellow chanterelles, boletus mushrooms, ruddy saffron milk caps, honey mushrooms and countless toadstools.

During mushroom rains, the air smells of smoke and the cunning and cautious fish - the roach - takes it well.

People say about blind rain falling in the sun: “The princess is crying.” The sparkling sunny drops of this rain look like large tears. And who should cry such shining tears of grief or joy if not the fairy-tale beauty princess!

You can spend a long time following the play of light during the rain, the variety of sounds - from a measured knock on a plank roof and a liquid ringing in a drainpipe to a continuous, intense roar when the rain pours, as they say, like a wall.

All this is only an insignificant part of what can be said about rain...

Bunin Ivan Alekseevich

Antonov apples

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin

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 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. 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! 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”...

- Household 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 a 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 being rapidly knocked out: rumbling and knocking, the train rushes by... closer, closer, louder and angrier... And suddenly it begins subside, die out, as if going into the ground...

- Where is your gun, Nikolai?

- But next to the box, sir.

- 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...

An extraordinary picture

A wide dark hole appeared in the sky and abundant, summer-warm water poured out; our quiet, peaceful river immediately began to swell and swell. Having overflowed its banks, it flooded the meadows, a field of green oats, golden rye, white flowering buckwheat, and approached the vegetable gardens.

Admiring the extraordinary spectacle, I walked along the shore. A monotonous weak squeak began to reach my ears; I listened and then I saw a tiny hole left by a cow’s hoof. In the hole, huddled in a ball, tiny creatures the size of moles floundered, helpless, like all cubs.

I wanted to know whose cubs these were, and I began to look around. From behind the top of the alder tree, a muskrat looked at me with its black beads. Having met my eyes, she quickly and fearfully swam to the side, but an invisible connection with the cow’s hoof held her as if on a thread.

It could be assumed that the mother, when water poured into the hole, managed to drag the cubs to a dry place. Most likely, the hoof was not the first refuge. But all the previous ones were also flooded with water, as in a quarter of an hour this cold hoof, with a puddle at the bottom, will be flooded.

The muskrat stayed on the water about two meters from me, which is incredible for this extremely cautious, timid animal. It was heroism, it was self-sacrifice on the part of the mother. I finally left so as not to interfere with the mother saving her children.

Task 5. Cross out from this text everything that is a deviation from the topic of the essay.

School duty

I got up early that day, because today we are on duty at school. The morning was sunny and clear. Only here and there were light white clouds visible in the sky.

After breakfast, I quickly collected my books and notebooks, put all my supplies in my briefcase and, humming cheerfully, went to school. On the way to school I met two of my classmates. We talked a little and then we all went to school together.

At eight o'clock all the guys gathered for the line. At the line, the director and our class teacher talked about how we were on duty yesterday and what we should do today. After the lineup, everyone went to their assigned posts. But then the bell began to burst into cheerful song. There was silence in the school.

Our first lesson is history. During the lesson we learned a lot of interesting things about the life of the ancient Greeks. What a pity that the lesson lasts only forty minutes! So it ended. And back on duty.

On the third floor, the children from the 5th grade started a game of tag. We had to calm them down, but without the teacher on duty we couldn’t do anything. We weren't angry with the guys. After all, we indulge ourselves when we are not on duty at school.

Our second lesson is English.

In the third lesson we wrote a dictation. The dictation was difficult and we made a lot of mistakes.

After the third lesson there is a big change. I want to run to the buffet, but I can’t leave my assigned post.

Then we had mathematics, and the fifth lesson was geography. We learned with interest more and more about nature, about rivers, waterfalls, and rapids. This is such a fun subject and the lesson goes by so quickly.

After classes, I walked around the school and checked that the classrooms were cleaned.

Task 6. Read the text. Make a plan for it. Retell in detail in writing one of the points of the plan (optional).

Lake Yaskhan

Among the sands of Turkmenistan lies the amazing Lake Yaskhan. No matter what scientists say about it, this lake still remains a mystery of nature. The lake is as unusual in appearance as it is in the water it contains. Yaskhan is like a horseshoe, one half of which contains fresh water, the other half contains salt water. Fresh water is very cold. It seems that someone specially cooled it to quench the thirst of a tired traveler.

In the hot summer, all the lakes of Turkmenistan dry up, but Yaskhan abounds in beautiful water, and there is just as much of it in the lake as at other times of the year. It is believed that the underground sea of ​​fresh water serves as a good wizard. During the time that the lake has existed, many legends have been created about it.

One of them talks about a kind wanderer who took pity on people, drove the spirits out of the lake and desalinated the water. (From the Popular Encyclopedia of Rivers and Lakes).

Task 7. Find in the text a description of an early autumn morning (a stormy autumn day). Write it down.

Autumn in the village

...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. Lavrentia...

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.

In the thinned garden, you 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, and all sorts of tattered belongings: 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.

“Vigorous Antonovka - for a fun year.” Village affairs are good if the Antonovka crop 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. 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. 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.

Since the end of September, all the gardens and threshing floors were empty, and the weather, as usual, 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 and low clouds, the trembling golden color of the low sun made its way in the west; the air became clean and clear, and the sunlight sparkled dazzlingly between the foliage, between the branches, which 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... (I. Bunin).

1.3 Tasks with insufficient information

Task 1. Insert the missing synonyms.

Sly bear

A bear came into the village. It’ll get a little dark - ... right there. The hunters decided to catch...: they brought a trap, coated it with honey, and sprinkled grains. And... he ate everything and was gone!

Key to the exercise

A bear came into the village. As soon as it gets dark, the clubfoot is right there. The hunters decided to catch the beast: they brought a trap, coated it with honey, and sprinkled grains. And the bear ate everything and was gone!

Task 2. Restore the text.

Potash fertilizers

Firstly, when they enter the cells of plant organisms, they contribute to ________. This allows plants to maintain normal life activity during a temporary lack of moisture in the soil.

Secondly, the presence of potassium promotes ________. Potassium is also necessary for the formation of ________. Plants get sick mainly due to a lack of potassium. ________ appear on the leaves, and ________ also stops.

Key to the exercise

Potassium salts play a very important role in plant life.

Firstly, when they enter the cells of plant organisms, they contribute to the retention of water in the protoplasm. This allows plants to maintain normal life activity during a temporary lack of moisture in the soil.

Secondly, the presence of potassium promotes the formation of starch, sugar, proteins, fats and other substances in cells. Potassium is also necessary for the formation of tubers in root vegetables. Plants get sick mainly due to a lack of potassium. Red dots appear on the leaves, and plant branching also stops.

Therefore, potassium is essential for the life of our green friends.

Task 3. Restore the text. Choose words that stylistically correspond to the content of the passage.

When dad... is still little,... a lot.... He learned... at four years old and... didn’t want anything.... While others...jumped, ran,...to various interesting places..., little dad...and read. Finally... worried grandfather and.... They decided that... it was time to read... They... him books and... read only... hours a day. But... it didn’t help, and the little one... still... from morning until... His rightful... hours he..., sitting in plain sight. ... He was hiding. ... hid under ... and read under the bed, ... in the attic and read .... He went to ... and read in the hayloft. … it was special … and it smelled fresh ….

Key to the exercise

When dad was still little, he read a lot. He learned to read at age four and didn't want to do anything else. While other children were jumping, running, and playing various interesting games, little dad was reading and reading. Finally it bothered the grandparents. They decided that reading all the time was harmful. They stopped giving him books and only allowed him to read three hours a day. But this did not help, and little dad still read from morning to evening. He spent his legal three hours reading, sitting in plain sight. Then he went into hiding. He hid under the bed and read under the bed, hid in the attic and read there. He went to the hayloft and read in the hayloft. It was especially pleasant here and smelled of fresh hay. (Ruskin).

Task 4. Complete the text with participial phrases or single participles.

I... looked at the sea, an unexpected, indescribable feeling overwhelmed me. I saw the warm blue of the sea, ______ the face of a girl who, looking back, entered the water, a guy on a rescue boat with strong tanned arms, ______, the shore, _____, and all this was so softly and clearly lit and there was so much kindness and peace around, that I froze with happiness.

Key to the exercise

I... looked at the sea, an unexpected, indescribable feeling overwhelmed me. I saw the warm blue of the sea, illuminated by the setting sun, the laughing face of a girl who, looking back, entered the water, a guy on a lifeboat with strong tanned arms resting on the oars, a shore dotted with people, and all this was so softly and clearly illuminated and There was so much kindness and peace around that I froze with happiness. (Iskander).

Task 5. Based on the initial sentences of the paragraphs, try to reconstruct the text from which they were taken. Title the text you restored. The full text is contained in the textbook (reader) on literature.

Page 1 of 4

I

...I remember an early fine autumn. August was full of warm rains, as if falling on purpose for sowing - with rains at the very 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 - 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 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. The man pouring out the apples eats them with a juicy crackle one after another, but that’s the way the establishment is - the tradesman will never cut it off, but will also say:

- Get out, 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 near the hut, and red headdresses constantly flash 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 paneva 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 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 a 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 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 seven-star 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 notice trembling in the ground. The 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.

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!

II

“Vigorous Antonovka - for a fun year.” Village affairs are good if the Antonovka crop 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 saddle up the horse as quickly as possible, 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. 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 ever heard was: “Yes,” Agafya waved off her eighty-three year old!” - or conversations like that.