Ivan Bunin
Epitaph
Behind the extreme hut of our steppe village, our former road to the city disappeared in the rye. And by the road, in the bread, at the beginning of the sea of ears that went to the horizon, stood a white-trunked and spreading weeping birch. The deep ruts of the road were overgrown with grass with yellow and white flowers, the birch was twisted by the steppe wind, and under its light through canopy a dilapidated, gray cabbage roll had long ago risen - a cross with a triangular tiled roof, under which the Suzdal Icon of the Mother of God was kept from bad weather.
Silky-green, white-trunked tree in golden loaves! Once upon a time, the one who first came to this place put a cross with a roof on his tithe, called the priest and consecrated the “Protection of the Most Holy Theotokos”. And since then, the old icon has been guarding the old steppe road day and night, invisibly extending its blessing on the laboring peasant happiness. In childhood, we felt fear of the gray cross, we never dared to look under its roof - only swallows dared to fly there and even build nests there. But we also felt reverence for him, because we heard our mothers whispering on dark autumn nights:
– Holy Mother of God protect us with your cover!
Autumn came to us bright and quiet, so peaceful and calm that it seemed there would be no end to clear days. She made the distance soft blue and deep, the sky clear and meek. Then one could make out the most remote mound in the steppe, on an open and spacious plain of yellow stubble. Autumn cleaned and birch in a golden dress. And the birch rejoiced and did not notice how short-lived this dress was, how it crumbled leaf after leaf, until, finally, all undressed on its golden carpet remained. Fascinated by autumn, she was happy and submissive and shone all over, illuminated from below by the glow of dry leaves. And the rainbow cobwebs quietly flew near her in the brilliance of the sun, quietly sat down on the dry, prickly stubble ... And the people called them beautifully and tenderly - “the yarn of the Virgin”.
But the days and nights were terrible, when autumn threw off its meek mask. Mercilessly then the wind ruffled the bare branches of the birch! The huts stood ruffled like chickens in bad weather, the fog ran low over the bare plains at dusk, the wolf's eyes shone at night in the backyards. Devilry often thrown off by them, and it would be scary on such nights if there weren’t an old cabbage roll outside the village. And from the beginning of November until April, storms tirelessly covered the fields, the village, and the birch tree up to the cabbage roll with snow. It used to happen that you looked out of the porch into the field, and a hard blizzard whistled under the stuffed cabbage, smoked through sharp snowdrifts and rushed along the plain with a groan, covering tracks on the run along a bumpy road. The lost traveler was hopefully baptized at such a time, seeing a cross sticking out of the snowdrifts in the smoke of a snowdrift, knowing that the Queen of Heaven herself was awake here over the wild snowy desert, that she was guarding her village, her dead field for the time being.
The field was dead for a long time, but the steppe people were hardy before. And finally, the cross began to grow out of the settling gray snow. The humpbacked manured road was also thawing, warm and thick March fogs were advancing. From the fogs and rains, the roofs of the huts blackened and smoked on gloomy days ... Then the fogs immediately changed sunny days. And the whole snowy field was saturated with water, melted and, melted, shone under the sun, trembling in countless streams. In one or two days the steppe took the new kind: the plains darkened like spring, bordered by a pale bluish distance. Rough cattle were released from the stables; horses and cows, exhausted during the winter, wandered and lay in the pasture, and jackdaws sat on their thin backs and pulled wool for their nests with their beaks. But a friendly spring means good fodder - the cattle will take a walk in the warm dews! The larks were already singing on clear afternoons, the shepherd boys were already sunbathing from the winds and the sun, which dried the earth. When I washed it Spring rain and awakened the first thunder, the Lord blessed in quiet starry nights to grow bread and herbs, and, reassured by its fields, meekly looked out of the cabbage roll the old icon. There was a subtle smell of greenery in the clear night air, it was peaceful in the steppe, quiet in the dark village, where the fire was no longer blown from the Annunciation, and the songs of the girls who were saying goodbye to their betrothed friends died away at the evening dawn.
And then everything changed by leaps and bounds. The pasture turned green, the willows in front of the huts turned green, the birch turned green ... It rained, the hot June days flowed, flowers bloomed, merry hayfields came ... I remember how softly and carefree the summer wind roared in the silky foliage of the birch, confusing this foliage and bending the thin ones to the very ears, flexible branches; I remember a sunny morning on Trinity, when even bearded men, like true descendants of the Russians, smiled from under huge birch wreaths; I remember the rough but powerful songs on Spirits Day, when at sunset we went to the nearby oak forest and boiled porridge there, arranged it in potsherds on the mounds and “begged the cuckoo” to be a merciful prophetess; I remember the "games of the sun" on Peter's Day, I remember praising songs and noisy weddings, I remember touching prayers before the meek Intercessor of all those who mourn - in the field, under open sky…
"Epitaph" is a little nostalgic sad story by Ivan Alekseevich Bunin about the exodus of the peasants and the desolation of the Russian countryside. Written in 1900.
Epitaph (story)
Behind the extreme hut of our steppe village, our former road to the city disappeared in the rye. And by the road, in the bread, at the beginning of the sea of ears that went to the horizon, stood a white-trunked and spreading weeping birch. The deep ruts of the road were overgrown with grass with yellow and white flowers, the birch was twisted by the steppe wind, and under its light through canopy a dilapidated, gray cabbage roll had long ago risen - a cross with a triangular plank roof, under which the Suzdal icon was kept from bad weather. mother of God.
Silky-green, white-trunked tree in golden loaves! Once upon a time, the one who first came to this place put a cross with a roof on his tithe, called the priest and consecrated the “Protection of the Most Holy Theotokos”. And since then, the old icon has been guarding the old steppe road day and night, invisibly extending its blessing on the laboring peasant happiness. In childhood, we felt fear of the gray cross, we never dared to look under its roof - only swallows dared to fly there and even build nests there. But we also felt reverence for him, because we heard our mothers whispering on dark autumn nights:
Autumn came to us bright and quiet, so peaceful and calm that it seemed there would be no end to clear days. She made the distance soft blue and deep, the sky clear and meek. Then one could make out the most remote mound in the steppe, on an open and spacious plain of yellow stubble. Autumn cleaned and birch in a golden dress. And the birch rejoiced and did not notice how short-lived this dress was, how it crumbled leaf after leaf, until finally all this undressed one remained on its golden carpet. Fascinated by autumn, she was happy and submissive and shone all over, illuminated from below by the glow of dry leaves. And rainbow cobwebs quietly flew near her in the glare of the sun, quietly sat on the dry, prickly stubble ... And the people called them beautifully and affectionately - "the virgin's yarn."
But the days and nights were terrible, when autumn threw off its meek mask. Mercilessly then the wind ruffled the bare branches of the birch! The huts stood ruffled like chickens in bad weather, the fog ran low over the bare plains at dusk, the wolf's eyes shone at night in the backyards. Unclean forces are often thrown off by them, and it would be scary on such nights if there were no old cabbage rolls outside the village. And from the beginning of November until April, storms tirelessly covered the fields, the village, and the birch tree up to the cabbage roll with snow. It used to happen that you looked out of the porch into the field, and a hard blizzard whistled under the stuffed cabbage, smoked through sharp snowdrifts and rushed along the plain with a groan, covering tracks on the run along a bumpy road. The lost traveler was hopefully baptized at such a time, seeing a cross sticking out of the snowdrifts in the smoke of a blizzard, knowing that the queen of heaven herself was awake over the wild snowy desert here, that she was guarding her village, her dead for the time being, for the time being field.
The field was dead for a long time, but the steppe people were hardy before. And finally, the cross began to grow out of the settling gray snow. The humpbacked manured road was also thawing, warm and thick March fogs were advancing. From the fogs and rains, the roofs of the huts blackened and smoked on gloomy days ... Then the fogs immediately gave way to sunny days. And the whole snowy field was saturated with water, melted and, melted, shone under the sun, trembling in countless streams. In one or two days the steppe took on a new look: the plains darkened like spring, bordered by a pale bluish distance. Rough cattle were released from the stables; horses and cows, exhausted during the winter, wandered and lay in the pasture, and jackdaws sat on their thin backs and pulled wool for their nests with their beaks. But a friendly spring means good fodder - the cattle will take a walk in the warm dews! The larks were already singing on clear afternoons, the shepherd boys were already sunbathing from the winds and the sun, which dried the earth. When the spring rain washed over her and awakened the burrow thunder, the Lord blessed the bread and herbs to grow on quiet starry nights, and, reassured by her fields, the old icon meekly looked out of the cabbage roll. There was a subtle smell of greenery in the clear night air, it was peaceful in the steppe, it was quiet in the dark village, where the fire was no longer blown from the Annunciation, and the songs of the girls who were saying goodbye to their betrothed friends died away over the evening pair.
And then everything changed by leaps and bounds. The pasture was green, the willows in front of the huts were green, the birch was green. It was raining, hot June days were flowing, cysts were blooming, merry hayfields were advancing ... I remember how softly and carelessly the summer wind rustled in the silky foliage of a birch, confusing this foliage and bending thin, flexible branches to the very ears; I remember a sunny morning on Trinity, when even bearded men, like true descendants of the Russians, smiled from under huge birch wreaths; I remember the rough but powerful songs on Spirits Day, when at sunset we went to the nearby oak forest and boiled porridge there, arranged it in potsherds on the mounds and “begged the cuckoo” to be a merciful prophetess; I remember the "games of the sun" on Peter's Day, I remember praising songs and noisy weddings, I remember touching prayers before the meek intercessor of all those who mourn - in the field, under the open sky ...
Life does not stand still - the old leaves, and we often see it off with great sadness. Yes, but isn't life good because it is in constant renewal? Childhood is over. We were drawn to look beyond what we saw beyond the outskirts of the village, the stronger it was that the village became more and more boring, and the birch was no longer so densely green in spring, and the cross by the road was dilapidated, and people exhausted the field that it guarded. And since trouble does not go alone, the sky itself seemed to become angry with people. Sultry and dry winds dispersed the clouds, raising whirlwinds along the road, the sun mercilessly burned bread and grass. Skinny rye and oats dried up before the deadline. It hurt to look at them, because there is nothing sadder and more humble than skinny rye. How helplessly it bends from the hot wind with light empty ears, how lonely it rustles! Dry arable land shows through between its stems, dry cornflowers are visible among them ... And wild silvery quinoa, a harbinger of desolation and hunger, takes the place of fat bread by the old country road. The beggars and the blind more and more often began to go around the village with plaintive refrains. And the village silently stood on the shore - indifferent, sad.
Then, as if in sorrow, the meek face of the Mother of God darkened from the dusty winds. Years passed - she seemed indifferent to the fate of her field. And people, little by little, began to leave along the road to the city, to go to distant Siberia. They sold their meager belongings, boarded up the windows of the huts, harnessed the horses and left the village forever in search of new happiness. And the village was deserted.
- Not a soul! - said the wind, flying around the whole village and spinning the dust on the road in an aimless distance.
But the birch did not answer him, as she answered before. She faintly stirred the branches and dozed off again. She already knew that the pasture in the village was overgrown with tall weeds, that deaf nettles had risen near the rapids, that sagebrush silvered on the half-open roofs. The steppe around was dead, and a dozen of the surviving huts could be mistaken from afar for nomad tents abandoned in the field after a battle or a plague. And the cabbage roll was already squinting under the birch, on the top of which dry white boughs stuck out. Now, at twilight, when the sunset was faintly scarlet behind the dark fields, only rooks and crows spent the night on it, which had seen many changes in this world ...
Here new people began to appear on the steppe. More and more often they come along the road from the city and camp near the village. At night, they burn fires, dispersing the darkness, and the shadows run away from them along the roads. At dawn, they go out into the field and drill the ground with long borers. The whole neighborhood turns black in heaps, like grave mounds. People without regret trample the rare rye that still grows in some places without sowing, without regret they throw earth over it, because they are looking for sources of new happiness - they are already looking for them in the bowels of the earth, where the talismans of the future are hidden ...
Ore! Maybe soon the chimneys of factories will smoke here, strong iron tracks will lay down in place old road and a city will rise on the site of a wild village. And what sanctified here old life- the gray cross that fell to the ground will be forgotten by everyone ... New people will sanctify their new life? Whose blessing will they call upon their cheerful and noisy work?
1900 Ivan Bunin
Ivan Alekseevich Bunin
Ivan Bunin, according to a number literary critics, - the last Russian classic who captured Russia late XIX- the beginning of the XX century. He himself considered himself more of the generation of Ivan Turgenev and Leo Tolstoy than of the generation of Gorky and Veresaev. “... One of the last rays of some wonderful Russian day,” critic G. V. Adamovich wrote about Bunin.
“There are people who from infancy have a heightened sense of death. This is what I belong to.”, - Ivan Bunin noted in "The Life of Arseniev"
“Life is, undoubtedly, love, kindness, and a decrease in love, kindness is ... already death”- this phrase, absolutely Tolstoyan in spirit, belongs to Bunin.
Ivan Bunin died in Paris on November 8, 1953, in a modest apartment on the street of the composer Offenbach, without having time to finish the book about Chekhov.
Behind the extreme hut of our steppe village, our former road to the city disappeared in the rye. And by the road, in the bread, at the beginning of the sea of ears that went to the horizon, stood a white-trunked and spreading weeping birch. The deep ruts of the road were overgrown with grass with yellow and white flowers, the birch was twisted by the steppe wind, and under its light through canopy a dilapidated, gray cabbage roll had long ago risen - a cross with a triangular tiled roof, under which the Suzdal icon of the Mother of God was kept from bad weather.
Silky-green, white-trunked tree in golden loaves! Once upon a time, the one who first came to this place put a cross with a roof on his tithe, called the priest and consecrated the “Protection of the Most Holy Theotokos”. And since then, the old icon has been guarding the old steppe road day and night, invisibly extending its blessing on the laboring peasant happiness. In childhood, we felt fear of the gray cross, we never dared to look under its roof - only swallows dared to fly there and even build nests there. But we also felt reverence for him, because we heard our mothers whispering on dark autumn nights:
Holy Mother of God, protect us with your cover!
Autumn came to us bright and quiet, so peaceful and calm that it seemed there would be no end to clear days. She made the distance soft blue and deep, the sky clear and meek. Then one could make out the most remote mound in the steppe, on an open and spacious plain of yellow stubble. Autumn cleaned and birch in a golden dress. And the birch rejoiced and did not notice how short-lived this dress was, how it crumbled leaf after leaf, until finally all this undressed one remained on its golden carpet. Fascinated by autumn, she was happy and submissive and shone all over, illuminated from below by the glow of dry leaves. And the rainbow cobwebs quietly flew near her in the glare of the sun, quietly sat down on the dry, prickly stubble ... And the people called them beautifully and tenderly - "the virgin's yarn."
But the days and nights were terrible, when autumn threw off its meek mask. Mercilessly then the wind ruffled the bare branches of the birch! The huts stood ruffled like chickens in bad weather, the fog ran low over the bare plains at dusk, the wolf's eyes shone at night in the backyards. Unclean forces are often thrown off by them, and it would be scary on such nights if there were no old cabbage rolls outside the village. And from the beginning of November until April, storms tirelessly covered the fields, the village, and the birch tree up to the cabbage roll with snow. It used to happen that you looked out of the porch into the field, and a hard blizzard whistled under the stuffed cabbage, smoked through sharp snowdrifts and rushed along the plain with a groan, covering tracks on the run along a bumpy road. The lost traveler was hopefully baptized at such a time, seeing a cross sticking out of the snowdrifts in the smoke of a blizzard, knowing that the queen of heaven herself was awake over the wild snowy desert here, that she was guarding her village, her dead for the time being, for the time being field.
The field was dead for a long time, but the steppe people were hardy before. And finally, the cross began to grow out of the settling gray snow. The humpbacked manured road was also thawing, warm and thick March fogs were advancing. From the fogs and rains, the roofs of the huts blackened and smoked on gloomy days ... Then the fogs immediately gave way to sunny days. And the whole snowy field was saturated with water, melted and, melted, shone under the sun, trembling in countless streams. In one or two days the steppe took on a new look: the plains darkened like spring, bordered by a pale bluish distance. Rough cattle were released from the stables; horses and cows, exhausted during the winter, wandered and lay in the pasture, and jackdaws sat on their thin backs and pulled wool for their nests with their beaks. But a friendly spring brings good fodder - the cattle will take a walk in the warm dews! The larks were already singing on clear afternoons, the shepherd boys were already sunbathing from the winds and the sun, which dried the earth. When the spring rain washed over her and awakened the burrow thunder, the Lord blessed the bread and herbs to grow on quiet starry nights, and, reassured by her fields, the old icon meekly looked out of the cabbage roll. There was a subtle smell of greenery in the clear night air, it was peaceful in the steppe, it was quiet in the dark village, where the fire was no longer blown from the Annunciation, and the songs of the girls who were saying goodbye to their betrothed friends died away over the evening pair.
And then everything changed by leaps and bounds. The pasture was green, the willows in front of the huts were green, the birch was green. It was raining, hot June days were flowing, cysts were blooming, merry hayfields were advancing ... I remember how softly and carelessly the summer wind rustled in the silky foliage of a birch, confusing this foliage and bending thin, flexible branches to the very ears; I remember a sunny morning on Trinity, when even bearded men, like true descendants of the Russians, smiled from under huge birch wreaths; I remember the rough but powerful songs on Spirits Day, when at sunset we went to the nearby oak forest and boiled porridge there, arranged it in potsherds on the mounds and “begged the cuckoo” to be a merciful prophetess; I remember the "games of the sun" on Peter's Day, I remember praising songs and noisy weddings, I remember touching prayers before the meek intercessor of all those who mourn - in the field, in the open air ...
Life does not stand still - the old leaves, and we often see it off with great sadness. Yes, but isn't life good because it is in constant renewal? Childhood is over. We were drawn to look beyond what we saw beyond the outskirts of the village, the stronger it was that the village became more and more boring, and the birch was no longer so densely green in spring, and the cross by the road was dilapidated, and people exhausted the field that it guarded. And since trouble does not go alone, the sky itself seemed to become angry with people. Sultry and dry winds dispersed the clouds, raising whirlwinds along the road, the sun mercilessly burned bread and grass. Skinny rye and oats dried up before the deadline. It hurt to look at them, because there is nothing sadder and more humble than skinny rye. How helplessly it bends from the hot wind with light empty ears, how lonely it rustles! Dry arable land shows through between its stems, dry cornflowers are visible among them ... And wild silvery quinoa, a harbinger of desolation and hunger, takes the place of fat bread by the old country road. The beggars and the blind more and more often began to go around the village with plaintive refrains. And the village silently stood on the shore - indifferent, sad.
Then, as if in sorrow, the meek face of the Mother of God darkened from the dusty winds. Years passed - she repented indifferent to the fate of her field. And people, little by little, began to leave along the road to the city, to leave for distant Siberia. They sold their meager belongings, boarded up the windows of the huts, harnessed the horses and left the village forever in search of new happiness. And the village was deserted.
Not a soul! - said the wind, flying around the whole village and spinning the dust on the road in aimless distance.
But the birch did not answer him, as she answered before. She faintly stirred the branches and dozed off again. She already knew that the pasture in the village was overgrown with tall weeds, that deaf nettles had risen near the rapids, that sagebrush silvered on the half-open roofs. The steppe around was dead, and a dozen of the surviving huts could be mistaken from afar for nomad tents abandoned in the field after a battle or a plague. And the cabbage roll was already squinting under the birch, on the top of which dry white boughs stuck out. Now, at twilight, when the sunset was faintly scarlet behind the dark fields, only rooks and crows spent the night on it, which had seen many changes in this world ...
Here new people began to appear on the steppe. More and more often they come along the road from the city and camp near the village. At night, they burn fires, dispersing the darkness, and the shadows run away from them along the roads. At dawn, they go out into the field and drill the ground with long borers. The whole neighborhood turns black in heaps, like grave mounds. People without regret trample the rare rye that still grows in some places without sowing, without regret they throw earth over it, because they are looking for sources of new happiness - they are already looking for them in the bowels of the earth, where the talismans of the future are hidden ...
Ore! Perhaps soon the chimneys of factories will smoke here, strong railways will lay down on the site of the old road, and a city will rise on the site of a wild village. And what sanctified the old life here - the gray cross that fell to the ground will be forgotten by everyone ... Will new people sanctify their new life with something? Whose blessing will they call upon their cheerful and noisy work?
Electronic Library of Yabluchansky . Behind the extreme hut of our steppe village, our former road to the city disappeared in the rye. And by the road, in the bread, at the beginning of the sea of ears that went to the horizon, stood a white-trunked and spreading weeping birch. The deep ruts of the road were overgrown with grass with yellow and white flowers, the birch was twisted by the steppe wind, and under its light through canopy a dilapidated, gray cabbage roll had long ago risen - a cross with a triangular tiled roof, under which the Suzdal icon of the Mother of God was kept from bad weather. Silky-green, white-trunked tree in golden loaves! Once upon a time, the one who first came to this place put a cross with a roof on his tithe, called the priest and consecrated the "Protection of the Most Holy Theotokos." And since then, the old icon has been guarding the old steppe road day and night, invisibly extending its blessing on the laboring peasant happiness. In childhood, we felt fear of the gray cross, we never dared to look under its roof - only swallows dared to fly there and even build nests there. But we also felt reverence for him, because we heard our mothers whispering on dark autumn nights: - Holy Mother of God, protect us with your cover! Autumn came to us bright and quiet, so peaceful and calm that it seemed there would be no end to clear days. She made the distance soft blue and deep, the sky clear and meek. Then one could make out the most remote mound in the steppe, on an open and spacious plain of yellow stubble. Autumn cleaned and birch in a golden dress. And the birch rejoiced and did not notice how short-lived this dress was, how it crumbled leaf after leaf, until finally all this undressed one remained on its golden carpet. Fascinated by autumn, she was happy and submissive and shone all over, illuminated from below by the glow of dry leaves. And rainbow cobwebs quietly flew near her in the brilliance of the sun, quietly sat on the dry, prickly stubble ... And the people called them beautifully and affectionately - "the virgin's yarn." But the days and nights were terrible, when autumn threw off its meek mask. Mercilessly then the wind ruffled the bare branches of the birch! The huts stood ruffled like chickens in bad weather, the fog ran low over the bare plains at dusk, the wolf's eyes shone at night in the backyards. Unclean forces are often thrown off by them, and it would be scary on such nights if there were no old cabbage rolls outside the village. And from the beginning of November until April, storms tirelessly covered the fields, the village, and the birch tree up to the cabbage roll with snow. It used to happen that you looked out of the porch into the field, and a hard blizzard whistled under the stuffed cabbage, smoked through sharp snowdrifts and rushed along the plain with a groan, covering tracks on the run along a bumpy road. The lost traveler was hopefully baptized at such a time, seeing a cross sticking out of the snowdrifts in the smoke of a blizzard, knowing that the queen of heaven herself was awake over the wild snowy desert here, that she was guarding her village, her dead for the time being, for the time being field. The field was dead for a long time, but the steppe people were hardy before. And finally, the cross began to grow out of the settling gray snow. The humpbacked manured road was also thawing, warm and thick March fogs were advancing. From the fogs and rains, the roofs of the huts blackened and smoked on gloomy days ... Then the fogs immediately gave way to sunny days. And the whole snowy field was saturated with water, melted and, melted, shone under the sun, trembling in countless streams. In one or two days the steppe took on a new look: the plains darkened like spring, bordered by a pale bluish distance. Rough cattle were released from the stables; horses and cows, exhausted during the winter, wandered and lay in the pasture, and jackdaws sat on their thin backs and pulled wool for their nests with their beaks. But a friendly spring brings good fodder - the cattle will take a walk in the warm dews! The larks were already singing on clear afternoons, the shepherd boys were already sunbathing from the winds and the sun, which dried the earth. When the spring rain washed over her and awakened the burrow thunder, the Lord blessed the bread and herbs to grow on quiet starry nights, and, reassured by her fields, the old icon meekly looked out of the cabbage roll. There was a subtle smell of greenery in the clear night air, it was peaceful in the steppe, it was quiet in the dark village, where the fire was no longer blown from the Annunciation, and the songs of the girls who were saying goodbye to their betrothed friends died away over the evening pair. And then everything changed by leaps and bounds. The pasture was green, the willows in front of the huts were green, the birch was green. It was raining, hot June days were flowing, cysts were blooming, merry hayfields were advancing ... I remember how softly and carelessly the summer wind rustled in the silky foliage of birch, confusing this foliage and bending thin, flexible branches to the very ears; I remember a sunny morning on Trinity, when even bearded men, like true descendants of the Russians, smiled from under huge birch wreaths; I remember the rough but powerful songs on Spirits Day, when at sunset we went to the nearby oak forest and boiled porridge there, arranged it in potsherds on the mounds and "begged the cuckoo" to be a merciful prophetess; I remember the "games of the sun" on Peter's Day, I remember glorious songs and noisy weddings, I remember touching prayers before the meek intercessor of all those who mourn - in the field, under the open sky ... Life does not stand still - the old goes away, and we often see it off with great sadness. Yes, but isn't life good because it is in constant renewal? Childhood is over. We were drawn to look beyond what we saw beyond the outskirts of the village, the stronger it was that the village became more and more boring, and the birch was no longer so densely green in spring, and the cross by the road was dilapidated, and people exhausted the field that it guarded. And since trouble does not go alone, the sky itself seemed to become angry with people. Sultry and dry winds dispersed the clouds, raising whirlwinds along the road, the sun mercilessly burned bread and grass. Skinny rye and oats dried up before the deadline. It hurt to look at them, because there is nothing sadder and more humble than skinny rye. How helplessly it bends from the hot wind with light empty ears, how lonely it rustles! Dry arable land shows through between its stems, dry cornflowers are visible among them ... And wild silvery quinoa, a harbinger of desolation and hunger, takes the place of fat bread by the old country road. The beggars and the blind more and more often began to go around the village with plaintive refrains. And the village silently stood on the shore - indifferent, sad. Then, as if in sorrow, the meek face of the Mother of God darkened from the dusty winds. Years passed - she repented indifferent to the fate of her field. And people, little by little, began to leave along the road to the city, to go to distant Siberia. They sold their meager belongings, boarded up the windows of the huts, harnessed the horses and left the village forever in search of new happiness. And the village was deserted. - Not a soul! - said the wind, flying around the whole village and spinning the dust on the road in aimless distance. But the birch did not answer him, as she answered before. She faintly stirred the branches and dozed off again. She already knew that the pasture in the village was overgrown with tall weeds, that deaf nettles had risen near the rapids, that sagebrush silvered on the half-open roofs. The steppe around was dead, and a dozen of the surviving huts could be mistaken from afar for nomad tents abandoned in the field after a battle or a plague. And the cabbage roll was already squinting under the birch, on the top of which dry white boughs stuck out. Now, at twilight, when the sunset was faintly scarlet behind the dark fields, only rooks and crows spent the night on it, which saw many changes in this world ... New people began to appear on the steppe. More and more often they come along the road from the city and camp near the village. At night, they burn fires, dispersing the darkness, and the shadows run away from them along the roads. At dawn, they go out into the field and drill the ground with long borers. The whole neighborhood turns black in heaps, like grave mounds. People without regret trample the rare rye that still grows in some places without sowing, without regret they throw earth over it, because they are looking for sources of new happiness - they are already looking for them in the bowels of the earth, where the talismans of the future are hidden ... Ore! Perhaps soon the chimneys of factories will smoke here, strong railways will lay down on the site of the old road, and a city will rise on the site of a wild village. And what sanctified the old life here - the gray cross that fell to the ground will be forgotten by everyone ... Will new people sanctify their new life with something? Whose blessing will they call upon their cheerful and noisy work? 1900Ivan Bunin
Epitaph
Behind the extreme hut of our steppe village, our former road to the city disappeared in the rye. And by the road, in the bread, at the beginning of the sea of ears that went to the horizon, stood a white-trunked and spreading weeping birch. The deep ruts of the road were overgrown with grass with yellow and white flowers, the birch was twisted by the steppe wind, and under its light through canopy a dilapidated, gray cabbage roll had long ago risen - a cross with a triangular tiled roof, under which the Suzdal Icon of the Mother of God was kept from bad weather.
Silky-green, white-trunked tree in golden loaves! Once upon a time, the one who first came to this place put a cross with a roof on his tithe, called the priest and consecrated the “Protection of the Most Holy Theotokos”. And since then, the old icon has been guarding the old steppe road day and night, invisibly extending its blessing on the laboring peasant happiness. In childhood, we felt fear of the gray cross, we never dared to look under its roof - only swallows dared to fly there and even build nests there. But we also felt reverence for him, because we heard our mothers whispering on dark autumn nights:
- Holy Mother of God, protect us with your cover!
Autumn came to us bright and quiet, so peaceful and calm that it seemed there would be no end to clear days. She made the distance soft blue and deep, the sky clear and meek. Then one could make out the most remote mound in the steppe, on an open and spacious plain of yellow stubble. Autumn cleaned and birch in a golden dress. And the birch rejoiced and did not notice how short-lived this dress was, how it crumbled leaf after leaf, until, finally, all undressed on its golden carpet remained. Fascinated by autumn, she was happy and submissive and shone all over, illuminated from below by the glow of dry leaves. And the rainbow cobwebs quietly flew near her in the brilliance of the sun, quietly sat down on the dry, prickly stubble ... And the people called them beautifully and tenderly - “the yarn of the Virgin”.
But the days and nights were terrible, when autumn threw off its meek mask. Mercilessly then the wind ruffled the bare branches of the birch! The huts stood ruffled like chickens in bad weather, the fog ran low over the bare plains at dusk, the wolf's eyes shone at night in the backyards. Unclean forces are often thrown off by them, and it would be scary on such nights if there were no old cabbage rolls outside the village. And from the beginning of November until April, storms tirelessly covered the fields, the village, and the birch tree up to the cabbage roll with snow. It used to happen that you looked out of the porch into the field, and a hard blizzard whistled under the stuffed cabbage, smoked through sharp snowdrifts and rushed along the plain with a groan, covering tracks on the run along a bumpy road. The lost traveler was hopefully baptized at such a time, seeing a cross sticking out of the snowdrifts in the smoke of a snowdrift, knowing that the Queen of Heaven herself was awake here over the wild snowy desert, that she was guarding her village, her dead field for the time being.
The field was dead for a long time, but the steppe people were hardy before. And finally, the cross began to grow out of the settling gray snow. The humpbacked manured road was also thawing, warm and thick March fogs were advancing. From the fogs and rains, the roofs of the huts blackened and smoked on gloomy days ... Then the fogs immediately gave way to sunny days. And the whole snowy field was saturated with water, melted and, melted, shone under the sun, trembling in countless streams. In one or two days the steppe took on a new look: the plains darkened like spring, bordered by a pale bluish distance. Rough cattle were released from the stables; horses and cows, exhausted during the winter, wandered and lay in the pasture, and jackdaws sat on their thin backs and pulled wool for their nests with their beaks. But a friendly spring means good fodder - the cattle will take a walk in the warm dews! The larks were already singing on clear afternoons, the shepherd boys were already sunbathing from the winds and the sun, which dried the earth. When the spring rain washed over it and awakened the first thunder, the Lord blessed bread and herbs to grow on quiet starry nights, and, reassured by its fields, the old icon meekly looked out of the cabbage. There was a subtle smell of greenery in the clear night air, it was peaceful in the steppe, quiet in the dark village, where the fire was no longer blown from the Annunciation, and the songs of the girls who were saying goodbye to their betrothed friends died away at the evening dawn.
And then everything changed by leaps and bounds. The pasture turned green, the willows in front of the huts turned green, the birch turned green ... It rained, the hot June days flowed, flowers bloomed, merry hayfields came ... I remember how softly and carefree the summer wind roared in the silky foliage of the birch, confusing this foliage and bending the thin ones to the very ears, flexible branches; I remember a sunny morning on Trinity, when even bearded men, like true descendants of the Russians, smiled from under huge birch wreaths; I remember the rough but powerful songs on Spirits Day, when at sunset we went to the nearby oak forest and boiled porridge there, arranged it in potsherds on the mounds and “begged the cuckoo” to be a merciful prophetess; I remember the "games of the sun" on Peter's Day, I remember praising songs and noisy weddings, I remember touching prayers before the meek Intercessor of all those who mourn - in the field, under the open sky ...
Life does not stand still - the old leaves, and we often see it off with great sadness. Yes, but isn't life good because it is in constant renewal? Childhood is over. We were drawn to look beyond what we saw beyond the outskirts of the village, the stronger it was that the village became more and more boring, and the birch was no longer so densely green in spring, and the cross by the road was dilapidated, and people exhausted the field that it guarded. And since trouble does not go alone, the sky itself seemed to become angry with people. Sultry and dry winds dispersed the clouds, raising whirlwinds along the road, the sun mercilessly burned bread and grass. Skinny rye and oats dried up before the deadline. It hurt to look at them, because there is nothing sadder and more humble than skinny rye. How helplessly it bends from the hot wind with light empty ears, how lonely it rustles! Dry arable land shows through between its stems, dry cornflowers are visible among them ... And wild silvery quinoa, a harbinger of desolation and hunger, takes the place of fat bread by the old country road. The beggars and the blind more and more often began to go around the village with plaintive refrains. And the village silently stood on the shore - indifferent, sad.
Then, as if in grief, the meek face of the Mother of God darkened from the dusty winds. Years passed - she seemed indifferent to the fate of her field. And people, little by little, began to leave along the road to the city, to go to distant Siberia. They sold their meager belongings, boarded up the windows of the huts, harnessed the horses and left the village forever in search of new happiness. And the village was deserted.
