Bunin “The Pass” It’s been a long night, and I’m still wandering through the mountains to the pass, wandering in the wind, among the cold fog, and hopelessly, but obediently, a wet, tired horse follows me on the reins, clanking with empty stirrups. I. A. Bunin “Pass” The night is long ago, but I’m still

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin “The Pass” It’s been a long night, and I’m still wandering through the mountains to the pass, wandering in the wind, among the cold fog, and hopelessly, but obediently, a wet, tired horse follows me on the reins, clanking with empty stirrups. At dusk, resting at the foot of the pine forests, beyond which this bare, deserted ascent begins, I looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look from a great height. It was still possible to discern lights in the darkening valley far below, on the coast of a narrow bay, which, going to the east, kept expanding and, rising like a foggy blue wall, embraced half the sky. But night was already falling in the mountains. It was getting dark quickly, I walked, approached the forests - and the mountains grew more and more gloomy and majestic, and thick fog, driven by a storm from above, fell into the spans between their spurs with stormy swiftness. He fell from the plateau, which he enveloped in a gigantic loose ridge, and with his fall seemed to increase the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. It had already smoked the forest, approaching me along with the dull, deep and unsociable roar of the pine trees. There was a whiff of winter freshness, carried with snow and wind... Night fell, and I walked for a long time under the dark arches of a mountain forest, humming in the fog, bowing my head from the wind. “Soon the pass will pass,” I said to myself. “Soon I will be in a calm, behind the mountains, in a bright, crowded house...” But half an hour passes, an hour... Every minute it seems to me that the pass is two steps away from me, and the bare and rocky climb never ends. The pine forests below have long been left behind, the stunted, twisted bushes have long gone, and I am beginning to get tired and falter. I remember several graves among the pines not far from the pass, where some woodcutters were buried, thrown from the mountains by a winter storm. I feel what a wild and deserted height I am at, I feel that there is only fog and cliffs around me, and I think: how will I get past the lonely stone monuments when they, like human figures, turn black among the fog? Will I have the strength to go down from the mountains when I am already losing the concept of time and place? Ahead, something vaguely blackens among the running fog... some dark hills that look like sleeping bears. I make my way along them, from one stone to another, the horse, breaking loose and clanging its horseshoes on the wet pebbles, barely climbs behind me - and suddenly I notice that the road again begins to slowly climb up the mountain! Then I stop, and despair overcomes me. I’m trembling all over from tension and fatigue, my clothes are all wet from the snow, and the wind is cutting right through them. Should I shout? But now even the shepherds are huddled in their Homeric huts along with the goats and sheep - who will hear me? And I look around in horror: - My God! Am I really lost? Late. Bor hums dully and sleepily in the distance. The night is becoming more and more mysterious, and I feel it, although I know neither the time nor the place. Now the last light in the deep valleys has gone out, and a gray fog reigns over them, knowing that its hour has come, a long hour, when it seems that everything has died out on earth and the morning will never come, but the fogs will only increase, enveloping the majestic in their the midnight watch of the mountains, the forests will hum dully across the mountains and the snow will fly thicker and thicker on the deserted pass. Shielding myself from the wind, I turn to the horse. The only living creature left with me! But the horse doesn't look at me. Wet, chilled, hunched over under the high saddle that awkwardly sticks out on her back, she stands with her head submissively bowed and her ears flattened. And I angrily tug on the reins, and again expose my face to the wet snow and wind, and again stubbornly walk towards them. When I try to see what surrounds me, I see only a gray running darkness that blinds me with snow. When I listen closely, I can only distinguish the whistling of the wind in my ears and the monotonous jingling behind me: these are stirrups knocking, colliding with each other... But strangely, my despair begins to strengthen me! I begin to walk more boldly, and an angry reproach to someone for everything I endure makes me happy. He is already moving into that gloomy and persistent submission to everything that must be endured, in which hopelessness is sweet... Finally, there is a pass. But I don't care anymore. I walk along the flat and flat steppe, the wind carries the fog in long strands and knocks me off my feet, but I don’t pay attention to it. Just from the whistle of the wind and from the fog one can feel how deeply the late night has taken hold of the mountains - for a long time now little people have been sleeping in the valleys, in their small huts; but I’m in no hurry, I walk, gritting my teeth, and muttering to the horse: “Go, go.” We will wander until we fall. How many of these difficult and lonely passes have I already had in my life! Like night, sorrows, suffering, illness, betrayal of loved ones and bitter insults of friendship approached me - and the hour of separation came from everything with which I became close. And, having steeled my heart, I again took my wandering staff in my hands. And the ascent to new happiness was high and difficult, night, fog and storm greeted me at the heights, terrible loneliness seized me on the passes... But - let's go, let's go! Stumbling, I wander as if in a dream. Far from morning. The whole night will have to go down to the valleys and only at dawn will it be possible to fall asleep somewhere like a dead sleep - to shrink and feel only one thing - the sweetness of warmth after the cold. The day will again delight me with people and the sun and again will deceive me for a long time... Will I fall somewhere and forever remain in the middle of the night and blizzards on the bare and deserted mountains for centuries? 1892-1898

From Guest >>

50 points guys, help with dz
It’s long past night, and I’m still wandering through the mountains towards the pass. I wander in the wind among the cold fog, and a tired horse, clanking, follows me hopelessly but obediently.
empty stirrups. Resting at the foot of the pine forests, behind which this deserted ascent begins, I looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look from a great height. It was still possible to discern lights in the darkening valley below, on the coast of a narrow bay, which, going to the east, expanded and embraced half the sky, rising like a foggy blue wall. But night had already fallen in the mountains. It was getting dark quickly. I was approaching the forests, and the mountains grew more and more gloomy and majestic, and thick fog, driven by a storm from above, fell in long clouds with stormy swiftness into the spans between them. He fell from the plateau, which he enveloped in a gigantic ridge, and with his fall seemed to increase the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. It had already smoked the forest, approaching me along with the unsociable roar of the pine trees. There was a whiff of freshness, but it was blown away by snow and wind.
Grammar task
you need to find impersonal sentences, vaguely personal and definitely personal
and separate circumstances and separate additions and separate definitions

Left a reply Guest

Walking in the wind among the cold fog(definitive-personal), and hopelessly, but obediently the tired horse follows me, jingling
empty stirrups.(separate circumstances, expressed in adverbial phrases) Relaxing at the foot of the pine forests(isolated circumstances, expressed in adverbial phrases), behind which this deserted ascent begins, I looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength, with whom you always look with great heights.(definitive-personal) It was still possible to distinguish the lights in the darkening valley below (impersonal), on the coast of a narrow bay,(circumstances - clarification) which, going east, (special circumstances, expressed in adverbial terms) expanded and embraced half the sky, rising foggy-blue wall. (separate circumstances, expressed in adverbial phrases) But night had already fallen in the mountains. It was getting dark quickly. (impersonal) I approached the forests, and the mountains grew darker and more majestic, and thick fog fell in long clouds between them with stormy speed, storm driven from above .(isolated definition, expressed by a participial phrase) He fell from the plateau, which he enveloped in a gigantic ridge, and with his fall, as it were, he increased the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. He has already smoked the forest, approaching onme along with the unsociable hum of the pine trees. (separate circumstances, expressed in adverbial phrase)It smelled of freshness (impersonal), but was carried away by snow and wind. (impersonal)

I. A. Bunin († 1953)

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin(1870 – 1953) - Russian writer. He belonged to an old noble family. Born on October 22, 1870 in Voronezh. He spent his early childhood on a small family estate (the Butyrka farmstead of the Yeletsk district of the Oryol province). At the age of ten he was sent to the Yeletsk gymnasium, where he studied for four and a half years, was expelled (for non-payment of tuition fees) and returned to the village. Received home education. Already in childhood, B.'s extraordinary impressionability and perceptiveness manifested themselves, qualities that formed the basis of his artistic personality and gave rise to an image of the surrounding world hitherto unprecedented in Russian literature in terms of sharpness and brightness, as well as richness of shades. B. recalled: “ My vision was such that I saw all seven stars in the Pleiades, I could hear the whistle of a marmot a mile away in the evening field, I got drunk, smelling the smell of lily of the valley or an old book" B. made his debut as a poet in 1887. In 1891, the first book of poems was published in Orel. At the same time, the writer began to publish in metropolitan magazines, and his work attracted the attention of literary celebrities (critic N.K. Mikhailovsky, poet A.M. Zhemchuzhnikov), who helped B. publish poems in the magazine “Bulletin of Europe”. In 1896, Bunin published his translation of “The Song of Hiawatha” by G. Longfellow. With the publication of the collection “To the End of the World” (1897), “Under the Open Sky” (1898), “Poems and Stories” (1900), “Falling Leaves” (1901), Bunin gradually asserted his original place in the artistic life of Russia. more>>

Works

I. A. Bunin († 1953)
Stories.

Pass.

N It’s been a long time, and I’m still wandering through the mountains towards the pass, wandering in the wind, among the cold fog, and hopelessly, but obediently following me on the reins is a wet, tired horse, clanking with empty stirrups.

IN At dusk, resting at the foot of the pine forests, beyond which this bare and deserted ascent begins, I still cheerfully looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look from a great height. There, far below, it was still possible to discern lights in the darkening valley, on the coast of a cramped bay, which, going to the east, expanded more and more and, rising like a foggy blue wall, hugged the sky high. But night was already falling in the mountains. It got dark quickly, and as I approached the forests, the mountains grew darker and more majestic, and into the spans between their spurs, oblique, long clouds of thick gray fog, driven by the storm from above, poured with stormy speed. He fell from the heights of the plateau, which he enveloped in a gigantic loose ridge, and with his fall sharply emphasized the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. It had already smoked the pine forest, growing in front of me along with the dull, deep and unsociable roar of the pines. It smelled like winter freshness, was blown away by snow and wind... Night fell, and I walked for a long time under the dark arches of the mountain forest, humming in the fog, trying to somehow protect myself from the wind.

« WITH The pass is coming soon, I told myself. - The area is safe and familiar, and in two or three hours I will be in the calm beyond the mountains, in a bright and crowded house. Now it’s getting dark early.”

N But half an hour passes, an hour... Every minute it seems to me that the pass is two steps away from me, and the bare and rocky ascent does not end. The pine forests below have long been left, the stunted bushes twisted by storms have long gone, and I am beginning to get tired and tremble from the cold wind and fog. I remember the cemetery of those killed at this height - several graves among a bunch of pine trees not far from the pass, in which some Tatar woodcutters were buried, thrown from Yaila by a winter blizzard. These graves are already not far away - I feel what a wild and deserted height I am on, and from the consciousness that there is now only fog and cliffs around me, my heart clench. How will I pass by the lonely monument stones when they, like human figures, are blackened among the fog? Is it really only in the dead of midnight that I will reach the pass? And will I have the strength to go down from the mountains, when even now I am losing the idea of ​​time and place? But there is no time to think - we have to go!

D Far ahead, something vaguely blackens among the running fog... These are some dark hills, similar to sleeping bears. I move along them from one stone to another, the horse, breaking loose and clanging its horseshoes on the wet pebbles, with difficulty climbs behind me - and suddenly I notice that the road again begins to slowly climb up the mountain! Then I stop, and despair overtakes me. I’m trembling all over from tension and fatigue, my clothes are all wet from the snow, and the wind is cutting right through them. Should I shout for help? But now even the shepherds have huddled in their Homeric huts along with the goats and sheep, which means absolutely no one will hear me. And, looking around, I think with horror:

« B my dear! Am I really lost? Is this really my last night? And if not, then how and where will I spend it?..”

P It’s late, the forest hums dully and sleepily in the distance. The night is becoming more and more mysterious, and I feel it well, despite the fact that I don’t know either the time or the place. Now the last light has gone out in the deep valleys, and a gray fog reigns over them, knowing that its hour has come - a long and terrible hour, when it seems that everything has died out on the earth and the morning will never come, and the fogs will only increase, enveloping majestic in their midnight guard, the forests will hum dully across the mountains, and the snow will fly thicker and thicker on the deserted pass.

Z Shielding myself from the wind, I turn to the horse. The only living creature that stayed with me! But the horse doesn't look at me. Wet, chilled, hunched over under the high saddle that awkwardly sticks out on her back, she stands with her head submissively lowered with her ears flattened. And I angrily pull her by the reins and again expose my face to the wet snow and wind, and again stubbornly walk towards them. When I try to see what surrounds me, I see only a gray, running haze that is blinding with snow, and I feel slippery, rocky soil under my feet. When I listen closely, I can only distinguish the whistling of the wind in my ears and the monotonous jingling behind me: these are stirrups knocking, colliding with each other...

N oh, strange - my despair begins to strengthen me! I begin to walk more boldly, and an angry reproach to someone for everything I endure makes me happy. He is already moving into that gloomy and persistent submission to everything that must be endured, in which it is sweet to feel his growing grief and hopelessness...

IN from, finally, the pass. Now it’s clear that I’m at the highest point of the climb, but I don’t care. I walk along a flat and flat steppe, the wind carries the fog in long strands and knocks me off my feet, but I don’t pay attention to it. Just from the whistle of the wind and from the fog one can feel how deeply the late night has taken possession of the mountains - for a long time now little people have been sleeping in the valleys in their small huts; but I’m in no hurry, I walk, gritting my teeth, and muttering to the horse:

- N nothing, nothing, go! We will wander until we fall. - How many of these difficult and lonely passes have already happened in my life! Съ early youth From time to time I entered into their fatal streak. Like night, sorrows, sufferings, illnesses and helplessness of myself and those close to me were approaching me, betrayals of loved ones and bitter resentments of friendship were accumulating, and the hour of separation was coming from everything that I was used to and became close to. And, steeling my heart, I took my wandering staff in my hands. And the ascent to new happiness was high and difficult, night, fog and storm greeted me at the heights, and terrible loneliness seized me on the passes... Never mind, we will wander until we fall!

WITH stumbling, I wander as if in a dream. The morning is far away. The whole night will have to go down to the valleys and only at dawn will it be possible, perhaps, to fall asleep somewhere like a dead sleep - to curl up and feel only one thing - the joy of warmth after the piercing cold and sweet rest - after a painful road.

D Tomorrow will again delight me with people and the sun, and again it will deceive me for a long time and make me forget about the passes. But they will happen again, and the most difficult and lonely one will be the last... Will I fall somewhere and forever remain in the middle of the night and the blizzard on the bare mountains, deserted for centuries?

Source: Iv. Bunin. Volume one: Stories. - Third edition. - St. Petersburg: Publication of the “Knowledge” partnership, 1904. - P. 1-5.

The night is long ago, and I am still wandering through the mountains towards the pass, wandering in the wind, among the cold fog, and hopelessly, but obediently, a wet, tired horse follows me on the reins, clanking with empty stirrups. At dusk, resting at the foot of the pine forests, beyond which this bare, deserted ascent begins, I looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look from a great height. It was still possible to discern lights in the darkening valley far below, on the coast of a narrow bay, which, going to the east, kept expanding and, rising like a foggy blue wall, embraced half the sky. But night was already falling in the mountains. It was getting dark quickly, I walked, approached the forests - and the mountains grew more and more gloomy and majestic, and thick fog, driven by a storm from above, fell into the spans between their spurs with stormy swiftness. He fell from the plateau, which he enveloped in a gigantic loose ridge, and with his fall seemed to increase the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. It had already smoked the forest, approaching me along with the dull, deep and unsociable roar of the pine trees. There was a whiff of winter freshness, carried with snow and wind... Night fell, and I walked for a long time under the dark arches of a mountain forest, humming in the fog, bowing my head from the wind. “Soon the pass will pass,” I said to myself. “Soon I will be in a calm, behind the mountains, in a bright, crowded house...” But half an hour passes, an hour... Every minute it seems to me that the pass is two steps away from me, and the bare and rocky climb never ends. The pine forests below have long been left behind, the stunted, twisted bushes have long gone, and I am beginning to get tired and falter. I remember several graves among the pines not far from the pass, where some woodcutters were buried, thrown from the mountains by a winter storm. I feel what a wild and deserted height I am at, I feel that there is only fog and cliffs around me, and I think: how will I get past the lonely stone monuments when they, like human figures, turn black among the fog? Will I have the strength to go down from the mountains when I am already losing the concept of time and place? Ahead, something vaguely blackens among the running fog... some dark hills that look like sleeping bears. I make my way along them, from one stone to another, the horse, breaking loose and clanging its horseshoes on the wet pebbles, barely climbs behind me - and suddenly I notice that the road again begins to slowly climb up the mountain! Then I stop, and despair overcomes me. I’m trembling all over from tension and fatigue, my clothes are all wet from the snow, and the wind is cutting right through them. Should I shout? But now even the shepherds are huddled in their Homeric huts along with the goats and sheep - who will hear me? And I look around in horror: - My God! Am I really lost? Late. Bor hums dully and sleepily in the distance. The night is becoming more and more mysterious, and I feel it, although I know neither the time nor the place. Now the last light in the deep valleys has gone out, and a gray fog reigns over them, knowing that its hour has come, a long hour, when it seems that everything has died out on earth and the morning will never come, but the fogs will only increase, enveloping the majestic in their the midnight watch of the mountains, the forests will hum dully across the mountains and the snow will fly thicker and thicker on the deserted pass. Shielding myself from the wind, I turn to the horse. The only living creature left with me! But the horse doesn't look at me. Wet, chilled, hunched over under the high saddle that awkwardly sticks out on her back, she stands with her head submissively bowed and her ears flattened. And I angrily tug on the reins, and again expose my face to the wet snow and wind, and again stubbornly walk towards them. When I try to see what surrounds me, I see only a gray running darkness that blinds me with snow. When I listen closely, I can only distinguish the whistling of the wind in my ears and the monotonous jingling behind me: these are stirrups knocking, colliding with each other... But strangely, my despair begins to strengthen me! I begin to walk more boldly, and an angry reproach to someone for everything I endure makes me happy. He is already moving into that gloomy and persistent submission to everything that must be endured, in which hopelessness is sweet... Finally, there is a pass. But I don't care anymore. I walk along the flat and flat steppe, the wind carries the fog in long strands and knocks me off my feet, but I don’t pay attention to it. Just from the whistle of the wind and from the fog one can feel how deeply the late night has taken hold of the mountains - for a long time now little people have been sleeping in the valleys, in their small huts; but I’m in no hurry, I walk, gritting my teeth, and muttering to the horse: “Go, go.” We will wander until we fall. How many of these difficult and lonely passes have I already had in my life! Like night, sorrows, suffering, illness, betrayal of loved ones and bitter insults of friendship approached me - and the hour of separation came from everything with which I became close. And, having steeled my heart, I again took my wandering staff in my hands. And the ascent to new happiness was high and difficult, night, fog and storm greeted me at the heights, terrible loneliness seized me on the passes... But - let's go, let's go! Stumbling, I wander as if in a dream. Far from morning. The whole night will have to go down to the valleys and only at dawn will it be possible to fall asleep somewhere like a dead sleep - to shrink and feel only one thing - the sweetness of warmth after the cold. The day will again delight me with people and the sun and again will deceive me for a long time... Will I fall somewhere and forever remain in the middle of the night and blizzards on the bare and deserted mountains for centuries? 1892-1898

Current page: 1 (book has a total of 39 pages) [available reading passage: 10 pages]

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin
Antonov apples

Oleg Mikhailov. Great Exile

[text missing]

Pass

The night is long ago, and I am still wandering through the mountains towards the pass, wandering in the wind, among the cold fog, and hopelessly, but obediently, a wet, tired horse follows me on the reins, clanking with empty stirrups.

At dusk, resting at the foot of the pine forests, beyond which this bare, deserted ascent begins, I looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look from a great height. It was still possible to discern lights in the darkening valley far below, on the coast of a narrow bay, which, going to the east, kept expanding and, rising like a foggy blue wall, embraced half the sky. But night was already falling in the mountains. It was getting dark quickly, I walked, approached the forests - and the mountains grew more and more gloomy and majestic, and thick fog, driven by a storm from above, fell into the spans between their spurs with stormy swiftness. He fell from the plateau, which he enveloped in a gigantic loose ridge, and with his fall seemed to increase the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. It had already smoked the forest, approaching me along with the dull, deep and unsociable roar of the pine trees. There was a whiff of winter freshness, carried with snow and wind... Night fell, and I walked for a long time under the dark arches of a mountain forest, humming in the fog, bowing my head from the wind.

“The pass is coming soon,” I told myself. “Soon I will be in a calm place, behind the mountains, in a bright, crowded house...”

But half an hour passes, an hour... Every minute it seems to me that the pass is two steps away from me, and the bare and rocky climb does not end. The pine forests below have long been left behind, the stunted, twisted bushes have long gone, and I am beginning to get tired and falter. I remember several graves among the pines not far from the pass, where some woodcutters were buried, thrown from the mountains by a winter storm. I feel what a wild and deserted height I am at, I feel that there is only fog and cliffs around me, and I think: how will I get past the lonely stone monuments when they, like human figures, turn black among the fog? Will I have the strength to go down from the mountains when I am already losing the concept of time and place?

Ahead, something vaguely blackens among the running fog... some dark hills that look like sleeping bears. I make my way along them, from one stone to another, the horse, breaking loose and clanging its horseshoes on the wet pebbles, barely climbs behind me - and suddenly I notice that the road again begins to slowly climb up the mountain! Then I stop, and despair overcomes me. I’m trembling all over from tension and fatigue, my clothes are all wet from the snow, and the wind is cutting right through them. Should I shout? But now even the shepherds are huddled in their Homeric huts along with the goats and sheep - who will hear me? And I look around in horror:

- My God! Am I really lost?

Late. Bor hums dully and sleepily in the distance. The night is becoming more and more mysterious, and I feel it, although I know neither the time nor the place. Now the last light in the deep valleys has gone out, and a gray fog reigns over them, knowing that its hour has come, a long hour, when it seems that everything has died out on earth and the morning will never come, but the fogs will only increase, enveloping the majestic in their the midnight watch of the mountains, the forests will hum dully across the mountains and the snow will fly thicker and thicker on the deserted pass.

Shielding myself from the wind, I turn to the horse. The only living creature left with me! But the horse doesn't look at me. Wet, chilled, hunched over under the high saddle that awkwardly sticks out on her back, she stands with her head submissively bowed and her ears flattened. And I angrily tug on the reins, and again expose my face to the wet snow and wind, and again stubbornly walk towards them. When I try to see what surrounds me, I see only a gray running darkness that blinds me with snow. When I listen closely, I can only distinguish the whistling of the wind in my ears and the monotonous jingling behind me: these are stirrups knocking, colliding with each other...

But strangely, my despair begins to strengthen me! I begin to walk more boldly, and an angry reproach to someone for everything I endure makes me happy. He is already moving into that gloomy and persistent submission to everything that must be endured, in which hopelessness is sweet...

Finally here is the pass. But I don't care anymore. I walk along the flat and flat steppe, the wind carries the fog in long strands and knocks me off my feet, but I don’t pay attention to it. Just from the whistle of the wind and from the fog one can feel how deeply the late night has taken hold of the mountains - for a long time now little people have been sleeping in the valleys, in their small huts; but I’m in no hurry, I walk, gritting my teeth, and muttering to the horse:

- Go, go. We will wander until we fall. How many of these difficult and lonely passes have I already had in my life! Like night, sorrows, suffering, illness, betrayal of loved ones and bitter insults of friendship approached me - and the hour of separation came from everything with which I became close. And, having steeled my heart, I again took my wandering staff in my hands. And the ascent to new happiness was high and difficult, night, fog and storm greeted me at the heights, terrible loneliness seized me on the passes... But - let's go, let's go!

Stumbling, I wander as if in a dream. The morning is far away. The whole night will have to go down to the valleys and only at dawn will it be possible, perhaps, to fall asleep somewhere like a dead sleep - to shrink and feel only one thing - the sweetness of warmth after the cold.

The day will again delight me with people and the sun and again will deceive me for a long time... Will I fall somewhere and forever remain in the middle of the night and blizzards on the bare and deserted mountains for centuries?

1892–1898

Tanka

Tanya felt cold and woke up.

Freeing her hand from the blanket in which she had awkwardly wrapped herself at night, Tanka stretched out, took a deep breath and squeezed again. But it was still cold. She rolled up to the very “head” of the stove and pressed Vaska to it. He opened his eyes and looked as brightly as only healthy children look from sleep. Then he turned on his side and fell silent. Tanka also began to doze off. But the door to the hut knocked: the mother, rustling, was dragging an armful of straw out of the hay.

- Is it cold, auntie? – asked the wanderer, lying on the horse.

“No,” answered Marya, “fog.” And the dogs are lying around, which is sure to lead to a blizzard.

She was looking for matches and rattling her grips. The wanderer lowered his feet from the bunk, yawned and put on his shoes. The bluish cold light of the morning glimmered through the windows, and under the bench the awakened lame drake hissed and quacked. The calf stood up on weak, splayed legs, convulsively stretched out its tail, and muttered so stupidly and abruptly that the wanderer laughed and said:

- Orphan! Did you lose the cow?

- Sold.

- And there’s no horse?

- Sold.

Tanya opened her eyes.

The sale of the horse was especially etched in her memory: “When they were still digging potatoes,” on a dry, windy day, her mother was half-hearted in the field, crying and saying that “the piece didn’t go down her throat,” and Tanka kept looking at her throat, not understanding, what's the point?

Then the “Anchichrists” arrived in a large, strong cart with a high front. They both looked alike - black, greasy, belted along the rumps. Another one came after them, even blacker, with a stick in his hand, I shouted something loudly, a little later, I took the horse out of the yard and ran with it across the pasture, my father ran after him, and Tanka thought that he ran to take the horse away, caught up with her and took her into the yard again. The mother stood on the threshold of the hut and cried. Looking at her, Vaska began to roar at the top of his lungs. Then the “black” again took the horse out of the yard, tied it to a cart and trotted down the hill... And the father no longer chased...

The “Anchichrists”, the bourgeois horsemen, were, indeed, fierce in appearance, especially the last one, Taldykin. He came later, and before him the first two only brought down the price. They vied with each other to torture the horse, tore its face, and beat it with sticks.

“Well,” one shouted, “look here, get some money!”

“They’re not mine, take care, you don’t have to take half price,” Korney answered evasively.

- But what is half the price, if, for example, the filly is more years old than you and me? Pray to God!

“There’s no point in talking,” Korney objected absentmindedly.

It was then that Taldykin came, a healthy, fat tradesman with the physiognomy of a pug: shiny, angry black eyes, the shape of his nose, cheekbones - everything about him reminded him of this dog breed.

- What’s all the noise, but there’s no fight? - he said, entering and smiling, if flaring nostrils can be called a smile.

He walked up to the horse, stopped and was silent for a long time, looking at it indifferently. Then he turned around, casually said to his comrades: “Hurry up, it’s time to go, I’ll wait for the rain in the pasture,” and went to the gate.

Korney hesitantly called out:

- Why didn’t you look at the horse?

Taldykin stopped.

“It’s not worth a long look,” he said.

- Come on, let’s have some fun...

Taldykin came up and made lazy eyes.

He suddenly hit the horse under the belly, pulled its tail, felt under its shoulder blades, sniffed its hand and walked away.

- Bad? – trying to joke, asked Korney.

Taldykin chuckled:

- Long-lived?

- The horse is not old.

- Tak. So the first head is on its shoulders?

Korney was confused.

Taldykin quickly thrust his fist into the corner of the horse’s lips, glanced as if briefly at its teeth and, wiping his hand on the floor, asked mockingly and quickly:

- So not old? Didn’t your grandfather go to marry her?.. Well, it’ll do for us, get eleven yellow ones.

And, without waiting for Korney’s answer, he took out the money and took the horse by the turn.

- Pray to God and put half a bottle.

- What are you, what are you? - Korney was offended - You are without a cross, uncle!

- What? - Taldykin exclaimed menacingly, - are you crazy? Don't you want money? Take it while you catch a fool, take it, they tell you!

- What kind of money is this?

- The kind you don’t have.

- No, it’s better not to.

“Well, after a certain number you’ll give it back for seven, you’ll give it back with pleasure, trust your conscience.”

Korney walked away, took an ax and with a businesslike look began to hew a pillow under the cart.

Then they tried the horse on the pasture... And no matter how cunning Korney was, no matter how much he restrained himself, he did not win back!

When October came and white flakes began to flicker and fall in the air, blue from the cold, covering the pasture, the crawl spaces and the heap of the hut, Tanka had to be surprised at her mother every day.

It used to be that with the beginning of winter, true torment began for all the children, stemming, on the one hand, from the desire to escape from the hut, run waist-deep in the snow across the meadow and, rolling on their feet in the first blue ice pond, hitting it with sticks and listening to how it gurgles, and on the other hand, hearing the menacing shouts of its mother.

- Where are you going? Chicher, it’s cold - and she’s screwed up! With the boys to the pond! Now climb onto the stove, otherwise you’ll look at me, little demon!

Sometimes, with sadness, I had to be content with the fact that a cup of steaming crumbly potatoes and a hunk of thickly salted bread, smelling like a cage, was put on the stove. Now the mother did not give any bread or potatoes in the morning, and when asked about this she answered:

- Go, I’ll get you dressed, go to the pond, baby!

Last winter, Tanka and even Vaska went to bed late and could calmly enjoy sitting on the “group” of the stove even until midnight. The air in the hut was steamy and thick; A light bulb without glass was burning on the table, and the soot, like a dark, trembling wick, reached right up to the ceiling. My father was sitting near the table, sewing sheepskin coats; the mother mended shirts or knitted mittens; Her bowed face was at that time meekly and affectionately in a quiet voice, she sang “old” songs that she had heard as a girl, and Tanka often wanted to cry from them. In the dark hut, covered in snow blizzards, Marya remembered her youth, remembered the hot hayfields and evening dawns, when she walked in a crowd of girls along the field road with ringing songs, and behind the rust the sun went down and its dying glow fell like golden dust through the ears of corn. She told her daughter in a song that she too would have the same dawns, that everything that passed so quickly and for a long time would be replaced for a long time by village grief and care.

When her mother was getting ready for dinner, Tanka, wearing only a long shirt, would tear it off the stove and, often shuffling her bare feet, run to the bunk, to the table. Here she, like an animal, squatted down and quickly caught some salsa in the thick stew and snacked on cucumbers and potatoes. Fat Vaska ate slowly and rolled his eyes, trying to fit a big spoon into his mouth... After dinner, with a tight stomach, she just as quickly ran to the stove, fought for space with Vaska, and, when one frosty night dregs looked through the dark windows, she fell asleep in a sweet dream under the prayerful whisper of the mother: “God's saints, the merciful Saint Nikola, the pillar of protection of people, Mother Holy Friday - pray to God for us! Cross in our heads, cross at our feet, cross from the evil one...

Now the mother put her to bed early, said that there was no dinner, and threatened to “gouge out her eyes” and “give her to the blind in a bag” if she, Tanka, did not sleep. Tanka often roared and asked for “at least some caps,” while the calm, mocking Vaska lay there, kicking his legs up and scolding his mother:

“Here’s the brownie,” he said seriously, “go to sleep and sleep!” Let dad wait!

Dad left Kazanskaya, was at home only once, said that there was “trouble” everywhere - they don’t make sheepskin coats, more people die - and he only does repairs here and there for rich men. True, that time they ate herrings, and my dad even brought “such and such a piece” of salted pike perch in a rag. “He was at the kstinah, he says, the day before yesterday, so I hid it for you guys...” But when dad left, they almost stopped eating altogether...

The wanderer put on his shoes, washed, and prayed to God; His broad back in a greasy caftan, similar to a cassock, bent only at the waist; he crossed himself widely. Then he combed his wedge beard and drank from the bottle he took out of his backpack. Instead of a snack, I lit a cigarette. His washed face was wide, yellow and dense, his nose was turned up, his eyes looked sharp and surprised.

“Well, auntie,” he said, “are you burning the straw for nothing and not making the brew?”

- What should I cook? – Marya asked abruptly.

- Like what? Oh, nothing?

“Here’s a brownie…” muttered Vaska.

Marya looked at the stove:

- Ai woke up?

Vaska snorted calmly and evenly.

Tanka snorted.

“They’re sleeping,” Marya said, sat up and lowered her head.

The wanderer looked at her from under his brows for a long time and said:

- There’s no point in grieving, auntie.

Marya was silent.

“Nothing,” repeated the wanderer. - God will give the day, God will give food. I, brother, have neither shelter nor home, I make my way along banks and meadows, boundaries and boundaries and along backyards - and wow... Eh, you didn’t spend the night in the snow under a broom bush - that’s what!

“You didn’t spend the night either,” Marya suddenly answered sharply, and her eyes sparkled, “with hungry children, didn’t hear how they scream in their sleep from hunger!” This is what I give them now, how will they get up? I ran around all the yards before dawn - I asked Christ to God, I got one little piece... and that’s it, thank you. The goat gave... he himself, he says, has no frills left on his bast shoes... But I feel sorry for the guys - they’ve worn out the decoration...

“I’m out there,” she continued, becoming more and more excited, “I drive them to the pond every day... “Give me some capsicums, give me some potatoes...” And what will I give? Well, I drive: “Go and play, baby, run on the ice...”

Marya sobbed, but immediately pulled her sleeve over her eyes, kicked the kitten (“Oh, there is no death for you!..”) and began vigorously raking the straw on the floor.

Tanya froze. Her heart was pounding. She wanted to cry all over the hut, run to her mother, cuddle up to her... But suddenly she came up with something else. She quietly crawled into the corner of the stove, hurriedly, looking around, put on her shoes, wrapped her head in a scarf, climbed off the stove and slipped out the door.

“I’ll go to the pond myself, I won’t ask for potatoes, so she won’t cry,” she thought, hastily climbing over a snowdrift and sliding into the meadow, “I’ll be back by evening...”

Along the road from the city, light “visors” glided smoothly, smoothly rolling to the right and left; the gelding walked in them at a lazy trot. A young man in a new sheepskin coat and boots stiff from the snow, the master's worker, was running lightly near the sleigh. The road was rolling, and every minute he had to, seeing a dangerous place, jump off the front end, run for a while and then manage to hold the sleigh with himself as it rolled and again jump sideways onto the beam.

Sitting in the sleigh was a gray-haired old man with drooping eyebrows, master Pavel Antonich. For four hours now he had been looking into the warm, cloudy air. winter day and on roadside markers in frost.

He had been traveling along this road for a long time... After the Crimean campaign, having lost almost his entire fortune at cards, Pavel Antonich settled in the village forever and became the most zealous owner. But he was not lucky in the village either... His wife died... Then he had to release the serfs... Then he had to accompany his student son to Siberia... And Pavel Antonich became a complete recluse. He was drawn into loneliness, into his meager economy, and they said that in the whole district there was no more greedy and gloomy person. And today he was especially gloomy.

It was freezing, and behind the snow fields, in the west, dimly shining through the clouds, the dawn turned yellow.

“Drive it, touch it, Yegor,” said Pavel Antonich abruptly.

Yegor pulled the reins.

He had lost his whip and was looking sideways.

Feeling awkward, he said:

- God will give us something for spring in the garden: the grafts seem to be all intact, not a single one has been touched by frost.

“It touched me, but not the frost,” Pavel Antonich said abruptly and wiggled his eyebrows.

- What about it?

- Eaten.

- Hares? True, they failed, they were eaten here and there.

- It wasn’t the hares who ate it.

Yegor looked around timidly.

- And who?

- I ate it.

Yegor looked at the master in bewilderment.

“I ate it,” Pavel Antonich repeated, “If I had ordered you, the fool, to wrap them up properly and cover them up, they would have been intact... That means I ate them.”

Yegor stretched his lips into an awkward smile.

- What are you grinning at? Drive!

Yegor, rummaging through the straw in the front end, muttered:

- The whip seems to have slipped off, but the whip handle...

- And the whip? – Pavel Antonich asked sternly and quickly.

- Fractured...

And Yegor, all red, took out the broken whip in two. Pavel Antonich took two sticks, looked and thrust them to Yegor.

- You have two on, give me one. And the whip – it’s a belt one, brother – come back and find it.

- Yes, he may be... near the city.

- All the better. You can buy in the city... Go. You will come on foot. I'll get there alone.

Yegor knew Pavel Antonich well. He got off the front and walked back along the road.

And thanks to this, Tanka spent the night in the master’s house. Yes, in Pavel Antonich’s office there was a table pulled up to the bench, and a samovar was quietly ringing on it. Tanka was sitting on the couch, with Pavel Antonich next to her. Both drank tea with milk.

Tanka began to sweat, her eyes sparkled with clear stars, her silky white hair was combed into a side row, and she looked like a boy. Sitting upright, she drank tea in short sips and blew hard into the saucer. Pavel Antonich was eating pretzels, and Tanka secretly watched as his low gray eyebrows moved, his tobacco-yellow mustache moved, and his jaw moved funny, right up to his temple.

If Pavel Antonich had been a worker, this would not have happened. But Pavel Antonich rode through the village alone. The boys were riding on the mountain. Tanka stood aside and, putting her blue hand in her mouth, warmed it. Pavel Antonich stopped.

- Whose are you? - he asked.

“Korneeva,” Tanka answered, turned and started running.

“Wait, wait,” Pavel Antonich shouted, “I saw my father, I brought a little hotel from him.”

Tanya stopped.

With a gentle smile and a promise to “take her for a ride,” Pavel Antonich lured her into the sleigh and took her away. Dear Tanka was completely gone. She sat on Pavel Antonich's lap. With his left hand he grabbed it along with his fur coat. Tanka sat motionless. But at the gates of the estate she suddenly fidgeted from her fur coat, even got naked all over, and her legs hung behind the sleigh. Pavel Antonich managed to grab her under the arms and began to persuade her again. His old heart grew warmer when he wrapped a ragged, hungry and cold child in fur. God knows what he was thinking, but his eyebrows were moving more and more alive.

In the house, he took Tanka around all the rooms, forced the clock to play for her... Listening to them, Tanka laughed, and then became wary and looked in surprise: where did these quiet chimes and roulades come from? Then Pavel Antonich fed her prunes - Tanka didn’t take them at first - “they’re black, you’ll die anyway,” - he gave her a few lumps of sugar. Tanka hid it and thought:

Pavel Antonich combed her hair and belted it with a blue belt. Tanka smiled quietly, pulled the belt under her armpits and found it very beautiful. She sometimes answered questions very hastily, sometimes she was silent and shook her head.

It was warm in the office. In the distant dark rooms the pendulum was clearly knocking... Tanka listened, but could no longer control herself. Hundreds of vague thoughts swarmed in her head, but they were already enveloped in a sleepy fog.

Suddenly, on the wall, a guitar string trembled faintly and a quiet sound began to sound. Tanka laughed.

- Again? - She said, raising her eyebrows, combining the watch and the guitar into one.

A smile lit up the stern face of Pavel Antonich, and for a long time it had not been illuminated with such kindness, such senile-childish joy.

“Wait,” he whispered, taking the guitar off the wall. First he played “Kachuga”, then “March to Napoleon’s Escape” and moved on to “Zorenka”:

It’s my dawn, little dawn.

Is my dawn clear!

He looked at the dozing Tanka, and it began to seem to him that it was she, already a young village beauty, singing songs with him:

At dawn

I want to play!

A village beauty! What awaits her? What will come of a child who comes face to face with starvation?

Pavel Antonich frowned, tightly grasping the strings...

Now his nieces are in Florence... Tanka and Florence!..

He stood up and quietly kissed Tanya on the head, which smelled like a chicken hut.

And he walked around the room, wiggling his eyebrows.

He remembered the neighboring villages, remembered their inhabitants. There are so many of them, such villages, and everywhere they are languishing from hunger!

Pavel Antonich walked faster and faster around the office, stepping softly with his felt boots, and often stopped in front of the portrait of his son...

And Tanka dreamed of a garden through which she drove to her house in the evening. The sleigh ran quietly in the thickets, covered with frost like white fur. Through them lights swarmed, fluttered and went out, blue, green - stars... It was like white mansions stood all around, frost fell on her face and tickled her cheeks like cold fluff... She dreamed of Vaska, the clock's roulades, she heard her mother either crying or not then he sings ancient songs in a dark, smoky hut...