IA Bunin, "Antonov's apples", short: novel of moods

IA Bunin, "Antonov's apples" (a brief summary follows) is a picture-memory in which juicy autumn apples become the main actor, because without their suffocating aroma there would not be the author himself. Why? Sounds, smells, random pictures, bright images ... It would seem that thousands of millions of them are carried through their whole life. Something is stored for a long time in memory and is gradually forgotten. Something passes without a trace, is erased, as if it never happened. And something remains with us forever. It inconspicuously seeps through the thickness of our consciousness, penetrates deep into and becomes an integral part of ourselves.

Abstract "Antonov's apples", Bunin IA

Early autumn weather. It seemed that yesterday was August with its frequent warm rains. The peasants rejoiced, because when the rain drizzles on Lavrentia, autumn and winter will be good. But time passes, and now there is a lot of cobwebs in the fields. Golden gardens have thinned out, dried up. The air is clear, transparent, as if it is not at all, and at the same time filled up to the top with smells of fallen leaves, honey and Antonov apples ... This is how Ivan Bunin begins his story.

"Antonov's apples": the first memory.

Village Vyselki, the estate of the author's own aunt, where he loved to visit and spent his best years. Gomon and the creaking of carts in the garden: the autumn apples are harvesting. Philistine gardeners recruited peasants to pour apples and send them to the city. The work is boiling, although it's night in the yard. A cautious creak of a long train is heard, in the dark there and then there is a juicy crackling - this man eats apples one after another. And no one stops it, on the contrary, the owners encourage this irrepressible appetite: "Wali, eat your fill, - there's nothing to do!" The thinned garden opens the way to a large hut - a real house with its economy. Everywhere there is an incredible smell of apples, but in this place - especially. In the afternoon people gather near the hut and there is a brisk trade. Who is there just not: and girls-odnodvorki in smelling sarafans, and "lordly" in beautiful and coarse suits, and a young pregnant old age, boys in white shirts ... By the evening, the fuss and noise subsided. It's cold and dewy. Crimson flame in the garden, fragrant smoke, cracking cherry twigs ... "How good it is to live in the world!"

IA Bunin, "Antonovskie apples" (for a brief summary, read on): the second memory.

That year in the village of Vyselki was fruitful. As it was said, if the Antonovka was born, it means that there will be a lot of bread, and the village affairs will be good. So they lived, from the harvest to the harvest, although it can not be said that the peasants were poor, on the contrary, the settlements were considered a rich land. The old people and the old women lived for a long time, which was the first sign of well-being: Pankrat would be a hundred years old, and Agafya was eighty-three years old. There were also old houses in the village: large, brick, two or three under one roof, because it was not customary to live separately. The bees were holding, the stallions were proud, behind the iron doors were new sheepskin coats, canvases, spinning wheels, harness. I remember the estate of Anna Gerasimovna's aunt, who stood from Vyselok in twelve versts. In the middle of the courtyard was her house, around the lime tree, and then the famous apple orchard with nightingales and turtledoves. Sometimes, you cross the threshold, and before the other smells, you can smell the aroma of Antonov apples. Everywhere cleanliness and order. Minute, another, coughing comes: Anna Gerasimovna leaves, and now, under the infinite courts and gossips about the old and the legacy, there are refreshments. At first the apples are Antonovski. And then a delicious dinner: boiled ham, pink with peas, marinades, turkey, stuffed chicken and strong sweet kvass. IA Bunin, "Antonov's apples" (summary): the third memory.

End of September. The weather is getting worse. More and more rains. You stand like this at the window. The street is deserted and boring. The wind does not stop. It begins to sow the rain. At first it is quiet, then stronger, stronger and turns into a thick downpour with leaden darkness and storm. There is an alarming night. The morning after such a battle the apple orchard is almost completely naked. Wet leaves all around. Preserved foliage, already hushed and resigned, and will dangle in the trees until the first frost. Well, it's time to hunt! Usually by this time, all gathered in the estate of Arseny Semyonych: nourishing lunches, vodka, reddened weather-beaten faces, lively talk about the forthcoming hunt. They went out into the yard, and there the trumpet was already sounding, and a noisy band of dogs howled to different voices. It happened - you'll sleep, you'll miss the hunt, but the rest was no less pleasant. You lie in bed for a long time. Around the silence, which is broken only by the crackling of wood in the oven. You dress slowly, you go out into the wet garden, where you will find a cold, wet Antonovo apple, accidentally dropped. Strange, but it seems extraordinarily sweet and tasty, quite different from others. Later you take up books.

Remembering the fourth.

The settlements were emptied. Anna Gerasimovna died, Arseny Semenych shot himself, there are not even those village old men. The aroma of Antonov apples gradually disappears from the once well-to-do landed estates. But this poor, small-landed life is also good. In the fall of the house they loved to not light a fire at the approach of twilight and to lead quiet, intimate conversations in the darkness. In the street rustled under the boots blackened from frost leaves. Winter is coming soon, and means, as in former times, small-sized people will come together to each other, they will drink on the last money and spend the whole day hunting on snow-covered fields, and in the evening sing along with the guitar. IA Bunin, "Antonov's apples", summary: conclusion

Antonov's apples are the first link in an endless chain of memories. Behind him invariably emerge other pictures that, in turn, raise to the surface long-forgotten feelings and emotions, happy, tender, sometimes sad, and sometimes painful. The juicy aroma of Antonov's apples is literally soaked all around. But this is in the beginning of autumn, during the dawn and prosperity in the village. Then their smell gradually disappears, the autumn comes, the village becomes poorer. But life goes on, and, perhaps, this smell will soon be felt again before others. Who knows?