And the garden dressed all day, the nightingale sang. Bunin Ivan Alekseevich - the life of Arseniev

The garden faded and dressed, the nightingale sang in the garden all day, the lower frames of the windows in my room were raised all day, which became even dearer to me than the old one, these windows, made up of small squares, a dark oak ceiling, oak armchairs and the same bed with smooth and sloping dumps.

The nights were moonlit, and I sometimes woke up in the middle of the night at its deepest hour, when even the nightingale did not sing.

And all the time, blissfully bored, day by day, here and there, one or another nightingale chirped.

A nightingale chirped drowsily somewhere, and the scent of mignonette wafted indistinctly from the flower garden by the balcony.

In the garden the nightingale sang its last, pre-dawn song.

Lavretsky remembered that a nightingale sang in the Kalitins' garden too; he also remembered the quiet movement of Lisa's eyes when, at the first sound of it, they turned to the dark window.

In the Kalitins' garden, in a large lilac bush, lived a nightingale; his first evening sounds were heard in the intervals of eloquent speech; the first stars lit up in the rosy sky above the motionless tops of the lindens.

All was quiet in the room; only a faint crackle was heard wax candles; Yes, sometimes the knock of a hand on the table, Yes, an exclamation or counting points, Yes, a broad wave poured into the windows, along with a dewy coolness, a mighty, insolently ringing, song of a nightingale.

They were sitting near Marfa Timofeevna and seemed to be following her game; Yes, they really followed her, - but meanwhile, each of them had a heart growing in their chest, and nothing was lost for them: the nightingale sang for them, and the stars burned, and the trees whispered softly, lulled by both sleep and the bliss of summer, and warmth.

Hor spoke little, chuckled and understood to himself; Kalinich explained himself with fervour, although he did not sing like a nightingale, like a brisk factory man.

It was already completely dark and beginning to get colder; a nightingale chirped loudly in the grove.

They walk in a shady grove and listen to the singing of a nightingale.

Porfiry Vladimirych felt that the holiday had arrived in his street, and he dispersed like a nightingale.

One must not think that Judas was a hypocrite in the sense of, for example, Tartuffe or any modern French bourgeois who crumbles like a nightingale over part of the social foundations.

Unconsciously, staggering and bending over, she stood there for a quarter of an hour, and suddenly Lubinka appeared to her, who, perhaps at that very moment, was spilling like a nightingale in some Kremenchug, among a merry company.

The thaw is the singing of the nightingale, the pensive whistle of the oriole, the awakening of all the sounds that fill the world of God, as if nature, all in sounds, is looking for and eager to pour out after a long forced silence; the thaw is the croaking of a crow, on a par with a nightingale rejoicing in the warmth.

Finally, the rivers turned blue and overflowed; the first young grass appeared in the field; frogs chirped in a nearby pond, a nightingale chirped in a nearby grove.

Then, jam, jam, jam, cream, cream, cream, at night let the nightingale in.

A general protest begins: the pedestal protests against the statue of Juno, the wasp against the eagle, the bullfinch against the nightingale, and most of all the author of the manuscript protests against the bad habit of protesting.

Ivan Timofeich was overflowing like a nightingale, telling the details of our miraculous conversion to the path of benevolence.

The former head of the nozzles, the new one - clicks like a nightingale.

The majestic thunder of the Ukrainian nightingale is pouring, and it seems that even the moon has heard it in the middle of the sky.

Everything was quiet; in the deep thicket of the forest only the rumbles of the nightingale were heard.

The garden faded and dressed, the nightingale sang in the garden all day, the lower frames of the windows in my room were raised all day, which became even dearer to me than the old one, these windows, made up of small squares, a dark oak ceiling, oak armchairs and the same bed with smooth and sloping dumps ... At first, all I did was lie with a book in my hands, either reading absently, or listening to the nightingale's clatter, thinking about that "full" life that I should live from now on, and sometimes unexpectedly falling asleep short and deep sleep, from which I woke up every time with a particularly fresh astonishment at the novelty and charm of the surroundings and wanted to eat so much that I jumped up and went either for jam to the pantry, that is, to an abandoned closet, the glass door of which opened into the hall, or for black bread in the people's room. , where during the day it was always empty - only Leonty lay in a dark corner on a hot and weedy stove, long and incredibly thin, densely overgrown with yellow bristles and all peeling from old age, a former grandmother's cook, who for many years for some reason defended his own from imminent death incomprehensible, completely cave existence ... Hopes for happiness, for happy life which is about to begin! But for this it is often enough to wake up like this after a sudden and short sleep and run for a crust of black bread or hear that they are calling to the balcony for tea, and after tea think that now you need to go saddle a horse and roll where your eyes look at the evening high road…

The nights were moonlit, and I sometimes woke up in the middle of the night at its deepest hour, when even the nightingale did not sing. There was such silence all over the world that I seemed to wake up from the excess of this silence. For a moment I was seized by fear, - Pisarev suddenly remembered, a tall shadow seemed to be near the door to the living room ... But after a moment this shadow was gone, only a simple corner was visible, darkening through the thin twilight of the room, and behind the open windows it shone and called into its bright silent kingdom lunar garden. And I got up, cautiously opened the door to the living room, saw in the twilight a portrait of my grandmother in a cap looking at me from the wall, looked into the hall where I spent so many wonderful hours in moonlit nights in winter ... it now seemed more mysterious and lower, because the moon, which went in the summer to the right of the house, did not look into it, and it itself became gloomier: the linden behind its northern windows, densely covered with foliage, closely blocked these windows with its dark huge tent ... to the balcony, every time I again and again, to bewilderment, even to some anguish, marveled at the beauty of the night: what is it and what to do with it!

I still experience something similar on nights like these. What happened then when all this was new, when there was such a sense of smell that the smell of dewy burdock differed from the smell of damp grass! The extraordinarily high triangle of spruce, illuminated by the moon only from one side, still ascended with its jagged tip into the transparent night sky, where several rare stars glowed, small, peaceful, and so infinitely distant and marvelous, truly Lord's, that I wanted to kneel and cross myself. on them. The empty clearing in front of the house was flooded with a strong and strange light. To the right, above the garden, the full moon shone in the clear and empty sky, with the slightly darkening reliefs of its deathly pale face filled with a bright, luminous whiteness from within. And she and I, now long known to each other, looked at each other for a long time, silently and silently expecting something from each other ... What? I only knew that something was missing for us with her ...

Then I walked with my shadow along the dewy, iridescent grass of the clearing, entered the motley twilight of the alley leading to the pond, and the moon obediently followed me. I walked, looking back - it, shining like a mirror and splitting, rolled through the black and in places brightly shining pattern of branches and leaves. I stood on a dewy slope towards a full-flowing pond, shining widely with its golden surface near the dam to the right. I stood and looked - and the moon stood and looked. Near the shore, under me, there was a shaky, dark-mirror abyss of the underwater sky, on which ducks hung, slept lightly, hiding their heads under their wings and deeply reflected in it, ducks; behind the pond to the left, in the distance, the estate of Uvarov, the landowner, whose illegitimate son was Glebochka, darkened in the distance; across the pond opposite lay clay slopes at point-blank range illuminated by the moon, and further on - a village pasture, bright at night, and a row of blackened huts behind it ... What silence - only something living can be silent like that! The wildly alarming cry of ducks suddenly awakening and rocking their unsteady mirror sky under them sounded like thunder through the surrounding gardens ... When I slowly walked further, along the pond to the right, the moon again quietly rolled next to me above the dark tops of the trees frozen in their nightly beauty ...

And so we circled the whole garden. It seemed that we were thinking together - and all about one thing: about the mysterious, languishing-love happiness of life, about my mysterious future, which must certainly be happy, and, of course, all the time about Ankhen. The image of Pisarev, both alive and dead, was forgotten more and more. What's left of grandma besides her portrait on the wall in the living room? So did Pisarev: thinking about him, I now saw in my mind only his large portrait hanging in the sofa room of the Vasilyevsky house, a portrait of the time when he had just married (and, truly, I hoped to live forever!). The former still came to mind: where is this man now, what has become of him, what is that immortal life where does he seem to be? But the unanswered questions no longer plunged into anxious bewilderment, there was even something consoling in them: where he is - only God knows, whom I do not understand, but in whom I must believe and believe in order to live and be happy.

Ankhen tormented longer. Even during the day, no matter what I looked at, no matter what I felt, read, or thought, she was behind everything, tenderness for her, memories associated with her, pain, that there was no one to tell how much I love her and how much beauty in the world that we could enjoy together; there is nothing to say about the night - here she completely controlled me. But time passed - and now Ankhen also gradually began to turn into a legend, lose her living appearance: somehow I could not believe that she had once been with me and that she was still somewhere; already thinking about it and feeling it, I began only poetically, with longing in general about love, about some common beautiful female image, mixed with the images of the poems of Pushkin, Lermontov, Byron ...

VII

Somehow, at the beginning of the summer, I read in Nedelya, which I subscribed to that year, about the publication of complete collection poems by Nadson. What delight aroused then even in the most remote province this name! I had already read some of Nadson's books and, no matter how hard I tried, I could not move myself. "Let the poison of ruthless doubts in the tormented chest freeze" - it seemed to me only bad idle talk. I could not have much respect for the verses where it was said that the marsh sedge grows over the pond and even bends over it with "green branches". But all the same - Nadson was "an untimely deceased poet", a young man with a beautiful and sad look, "faded among roses and cypresses on the shores of the azure southern sea ..." When I read in the winter about his death and that his metal coffin, "drowned in flowers", sent for a solemn burial "to frosty and foggy Petersburg", I went out to dinner so pale and agitated that even my father began to look at me anxiously and calmed down only when I explained the cause of my grief. “Ah, is that all? he asked in surprise, having learned that this reason was the death of Nadson.

And he added angrily with relief: “What nonsense is getting into your head, though!” Now the note of the "Week" again excited me terribly. Over the winter, Nadson's fame increased even more. And the thought of this glory suddenly hit me in the head like that, suddenly aroused such an ardent desire and own glory, to achieve which it was necessary to begin this very minute, without delaying a single moment, that tomorrow I decided to follow Nadson to the city in order to find out already properly what he is, what he, in addition to his poetic death, still leads to such admiration throughout Russia. There was nothing to ride on: the Kabardinka was lame, the working horses were too thin and ugly - it was necessary to go on foot. And so I went, although the city was at least thirty miles away. I got out early, walked along the hot and empty high road without rest, and at three o'clock was already entering the library on Torgovaya Street. A young lady with curls on her forehead, bored alone in a narrow room lined from top to bottom with upholstered books, looked at me, exhausted by the road and the sun, for some reason very curiously. "Nadson's turn," she said casually. “Don’t wait until a month before…

I was taken aback, confused - what is it like to wave thirty miles away for free! - however, it turned out that she only wanted to torment me a little: - But you are also a poet? she added at once, smiling. - I know you, I Vidal was a high school student ... I will give you my own copy ...

I burst into gratitude and, all red with embarrassment and pride, ran out into the street with a precious book so joyfully that I almost knocked down some thin girl of about fifteen in a gray linen dress, who had just left the tarantass, which was standing near pavement. The tarantass was harnessed by a trio of strange horses - they were all piebald, all strong and small, suit for suit, harmony for harmony.

But the father was no longer the same as before; he seemed to have given up on everything now, he was most often intoxicated - and what was I supposed to experience when I saw his constantly excited face, gray unshaven chin, majestically disheveled head, broken shoes, tattered arkhaluk of Sevastopol times? And what pain sometimes caused me thoughts about my aging mother, about the growing Olya! I often felt cruel pity for myself, having dined, for example, with one okroshka and returning to my room, to my books and my only wealth - my grandfather's box made of Karelian birch, where all my most cherished things were kept: covered with "elegies" and "stanzas "sheets of gray, smelling of mint shag, paper, bought in our village shop ...

I sometimes thought about my father's youth: what a terrible difference from my youth! He had almost everything that befitted a happy youth of his environment, rank and needs, he grew up and lived in a carelessness quite natural in that still large nobility, which he so freely and calmly used, he knew no barriers to his young whims and desires, everywhere with every right and cheerful arrogance felt like Arseniev. And I had only a box made of Karelian birch, an old double-barreled shotgun, a thin Kabardinka, a worn-out Cossack saddle ...

How I sometimes wanted to be smart, shiny! And when I was going to visit, I had to put on the same gray jacket of brother Georgy, in which they had once taken him to prison in Kharkov and for which I secretly suffered from acute shame while visiting. I was deprived of a sense of ownership, but how I sometimes dreamed of wealth, of beautiful luxury, of all kinds of freedom and all the bodily and spiritual joys associated with them! I dreamed of distant travels, of extraordinary female beauty, about friendship with some imaginary wonderful young men, peers and comrades in aspirations, in heartfelt ardor and tastes ...

But didn’t I realize at times that my foot had never set foot further than our county town, that the whole world was still closed to me by fields and slopes that had long been familiar to me, that I saw only peasants and women, that our entire circle of acquaintances was limited to two or three small local estates and Vasilevsky, and the shelter of all my dreams - my old corner room with rotting lifting frames and colored upper glass of two windows to the garden?

The garden faded and dressed, the nightingale sang in the garden all day, the lower frames of the windows in my room were raised all day, which became even dearer to me than the old one, these windows, made up of small squares, a dark oak ceiling, oak armchairs and the same bed with smooth and sloping dumps ... At first, all I did was lie with a book in my hands, now absent-mindedly reading, now listening to the clatter of a nightingale, thinking about that “full” life that I should live from now on, and sometimes unexpectedly falling into a short and deep sleep, waking up from which, every time, I was somehow especially freshly amazed at the novelty and charm of the surroundings, and I was so hungry that I jumped up and went either for jam to the pantry, that is, to an abandoned closet, the glass door of which opened into the hall, or for black bread into the people's room, where it was always empty during the day, - only Leonty lay in a dark corner on a hot and weedy stove, long and incredibly thin, densely overgrown with yellow bristles and all peeling from old age, a former grandmother's cook, who for many years for some reason defended his incomprehensible from imminent death , a completely cave existence ... Hopes for happiness, for a happy life, which is about to begin! But for this it is often enough to wake up like this after a sudden and short sleep and run for a crust of black bread or hear that they are calling to the balcony for tea, and for tea to think that now you need to go saddle a horse and roll aimlessly along the evening high road …

The nights were moonlit, and I sometimes woke up in the middle of the night at its deepest hour, when even the nightingale did not sing. There was such silence all over the world that I seemed to wake up from the excess of this silence. For a moment I was seized by fear, - Pisarev suddenly remembered, a tall shadow seemed to be near the door to the living room ... But after a moment this shadow was gone, only a simple corner was visible, darkening through the thin twilight of the room, and behind the open windows it shone and called into its bright silent kingdom lunar garden.

I sometimes thought about my father's youth: what a terrible difference from my youth! He had almost everything that befitted a happy youth of his environment, rank and needs, he grew up and lived in a carelessness quite natural in that still large nobility, which he so freely and calmly used, he knew no barriers to his young whims and desires, everywhere with every right and cheerful arrogance felt like Arseniev. And I had only a box made of Karelian birch, an old double-barreled shotgun, a thin Kabardinka, a worn-out Cossack saddle ...

How I sometimes wanted to be smart, shiny! And when I was going to visit, I had to put on the same gray jacket of brother Georgy, in which they had once taken him to prison in Kharkov and for which I secretly suffered from acute shame while visiting. I was deprived of a sense of ownership, but how I sometimes dreamed of wealth, of beautiful luxury, of all kinds of freedom and all the bodily and spiritual joys associated with them! I dreamed of distant travels, of extraordinary female beauty, of friendship with some imaginary wonderful young men, peers and comrades in aspirations, in heartfelt ardor and tastes ...

But didn’t I realize at times that my foot had never set foot further than our county town, that the whole world was still closed to me by fields and slopes that had long been familiar to me, that I saw only peasants and women, that our entire circle of acquaintances was limited to two or three small local estates and Vasilevsky, and the shelter of all my dreams - my old corner room with rotting lifting frames and colored upper glass of two windows to the garden?

The garden faded and dressed, the nightingale sang in the garden all day, the lower frames of the windows in my room were raised all day, which became even dearer to me than the old one, these windows, made up of small squares, a dark oak ceiling, oak armchairs and the same bed with smooth and sloping dumps ... At first, all I did was lie with a book in my hands, now absent-mindedly reading, now listening to the clatter of a nightingale, thinking about that “full” life that I should live from now on, and sometimes unexpectedly falling into a short and deep sleep, waking up from which, every time, I was somehow especially freshly amazed at the novelty and charm of the surroundings, and I was so hungry that I jumped up and went either for jam to the pantry, that is, to an abandoned closet, the glass door of which opened into the hall, or for black bread into the people's room, where it was always empty during the day, - only Leonty lay in a dark corner on a hot and weedy stove, long and incredibly thin, densely overgrown with yellow bristles and all peeling from old age, a former grandmother's cook, who for many years for some reason defended his incomprehensible from imminent death , a completely cave existence ... Hopes for happiness, for a happy life, which is about to begin! But for this it is often enough to wake up like this after a sudden and short sleep and run for a crust of black bread or hear that they are calling to the balcony for tea, and for tea to think that now you need to go saddle a horse and roll aimlessly along the evening high road …

The nights were moonlit, and I sometimes woke up in the middle of the night at its deepest hour, when even the nightingale did not sing. There was such silence all over the world that I seemed to wake up from the excess of this silence. For a moment I was seized by fear, - Pisarev suddenly remembered, a tall shadow seemed to be near the door to the living room ... But after a moment this shadow was gone, only a simple corner was visible, darkening through the thin twilight of the room, and behind the open windows it shone and called into its bright silent kingdom lunar garden. And I got up, carefully opened the door to the living room, saw in the dusk a portrait of my grandmother in a cap looking at me from the wall, looked into the hall where I spent so many beautiful hours on moonlit nights in winter ... it seemed now more mysterious and lower, because the moon that walked in the summer to the right of the house, did not look into it, and it itself became gloomier: the linden behind its northern windows, densely covered with foliage, closely blocked these windows with its dark huge tent ... Going out onto the balcony, each time I again and again, to bewilderment, even to some torment, marveled at the beauty of the night: what is it and what to do with it!

I still experience something similar on nights like these. What happened then when all this was new, when there was such a sense of smell that the smell of dewy burdock differed from the smell of damp grass! The extraordinarily high triangle of spruce, illuminated by the moon only from one side, still ascended with its jagged tip into the transparent night sky, where several rare stars glowed, small, peaceful, and so infinitely distant and marvelous, truly Lord's, that I wanted to kneel and cross myself. on them. The empty clearing in front of the house was flooded with a strong and strange light. To the right, above the garden, the full moon shone in the clear and empty sky, with the slightly darkening reliefs of its deathly pale face filled with a bright, luminous whiteness from within. And she and I, now long known to each other, looked at each other for a long time, silently and silently expecting something from each other ... What? I only knew that something was missing for us with her ...

Then I walked with my shadow along the dewy, iridescent grass of the clearing, entered the motley twilight of the alley leading to the pond, and the moon obediently followed me. I walked, looking back - it, shining like a mirror and splitting, rolled through the black and in places brightly shining pattern of branches and leaves. I stood on a dewy slope towards a full-flowing pond, shining widely with its golden surface near the dam to the right. I stood and looked - and the moon stood and looked. Near the shore, under me, there was a shaky, dark-mirror abyss of the underwater sky, on which ducks hung, slept lightly, hiding their heads under their wings and deeply reflected in it, ducks; behind the pond to the left, in the distance, the estate of Uvarov, the landowner, whose illegitimate son was Glebochka, darkened in the distance; across the pond opposite lay clay slopes at point-blank range illuminated by the moon, and further on - a village pasture, bright at night, and a row of blackened huts behind it ... What silence - only something living can be silent like that! The wildly alarming cry of ducks suddenly awakening and rocking their unsteady mirror sky under them sounded like thunder through the surrounding gardens ... When I slowly walked further, along the pond to the right, the moon again quietly rolled next to me above the dark tops of the trees frozen in their nightly beauty ...

And so we circled the whole garden. It seemed that we were thinking together - and all about one thing: about the mysterious, languishing-love happiness of life, about my mysterious future, which must certainly be happy, and, of course, all the time about Ankhen. The image of Pisarev, both alive and dead, was forgotten more and more. What's left of grandma besides her portrait on the wall in the living room? So did Pisarev: thinking about him, I now saw in my mind only his large portrait hanging in the sofa room of the Vasilyevsky house, a portrait of the time when he had just married (and, truly, I hoped to live forever!). The former still came to mind: where is this man now, what has become of him, what is that eternal life where he supposedly resides? But the unanswered questions no longer plunged into anxious bewilderment, there was even something consoling in them: where he is - only God knows, whom I do not understand, but in whom I must believe and believe in order to live and be happy.

Ankhen tormented longer. Even during the day, no matter what I looked at, no matter what I felt, read, or thought, she was behind everything, tenderness for her, memories associated with her, pain, that there was no one to tell how much I love her and how much beauty in the world that we could enjoy together; there is nothing to say about the night - here she completely controlled me. But time passed - and now Ankhen also gradually began to turn into a legend, lose her living appearance: somehow I could not believe that she had once been with me and that she was still somewhere; already I began to think about her and feel her only poetically, with longing for love in general, for some general beautiful female image, mixed with the images of the poems of Pushkin, Lermontov, Byron ...

Somehow, at the beginning of the summer, I read in Nedelya, which I subscribed to that year, about the publication of a complete collection of Nadson's poems. What delight aroused then even in the most remote province this name! I had already read some of Nadson's books and, no matter how hard I tried, I could not move myself. "Let the poison of ruthless doubts in the tormented chest freeze" - it seemed to me only bad idle talk. I could not have much respect for the verses that said that the marsh sedge grows over the pond and even bends over it with "green branches." But still - Nadson was "an untimely deceased poet", a young man with a beautiful and sad look, "faded among roses and cypresses on the shores of the azure southern sea ..." When I read in the winter about his death and that his metal coffin, "drowned in flowers”, sent for a solemn burial “to frosty and foggy Petersburg”, I went out to dinner so pale and agitated that even my father began to look at me anxiously and calmed down only when I explained the reason for my grief. “Ah, is that all? he asked in surprise, having learned that this reason was the death of Nadson.