Full version 20 minutes (≈7 A4 pages), summary 2 minutes.

Main characters

Anna Gerasimovna (aunt of the main character)

Arseny Semenovich (brother-in-law of the main character)

The author sadly recalls the fading happy life of Russian landowners. Early autumn with good weather, a garden with golden foliage, the pleasant aroma of fallen leaves and Antonov apples emerges in his memory.

The autumn gathering of “Antonovka” was a real holiday, at which the boundaries between classes were blurred. Peasants, townspeople and nobles experienced genuine joy as they ended the economic year. The author especially remembers the starry autumn nights, when the thirst for life was especially acute.

The narrator keeps the warmest memories of his family village of Vyselki, which “from time immemorial” was famous for its wealth and long-livers. The houses there were made of brick. In their lifestyle, occupations and living conditions, the landowners resembled rich men.

The author no longer saw serfdom, but felt the spirit of serfdom on the estate of his aunt, Anna Gerasimovna. The small estate was surrounded by hundred-year-old trees. My aunt's garden was famous for its apple trees and birds. The smell of apples constantly hung in the estate. Anna Gerasimovna was a very hospitable woman. Her guests were always treated to a hearty meal and pleasant conversation about old times.

The author believes that the famous Russian hunting was a very important means of maintaining the noble spirit. His brother-in-law, Arseny Semenych, was an exemplary hunter. In his house there was always a large number of to the people. After a hearty lunch, all the guests went hunting together. Horns were blown in the yard and dogs howled. Arseny Semenych could fire a revolver right in the house.

The narrator’s memory vividly recalls a frenzied horse race, trees rushing past, the cries of hunters and barking dogs, the smell of mushroom dampness and wet bark coming from the ravines. After the hunt, the whole noisy company could burst into the house of some unfamiliar neighboring landowner and spend several days there. If the author woke up hunting the next morning, he walked around an unfamiliar house and garden, went into the library, looked at old books and magazines. The portraits hung on the walls were reminiscent of ancient aristocratic life.

The past irrevocably leaves along with the people: there are no old people left in Vyselki, the author’s aunt died, his brother-in-law shot himself. The time has come for small landed nobles who have reached a beggarly state. But such a life is also good in its own way. The narrator remembers his ruined neighbors.

In the fall, a small-scale nobleman woke up early, first of all lit a cigarette and ordered the samovar to be warmed. Then he put on his boots and went out to inspect his modest farm. There he was surrounded by hounds. Great day to hunt. Only what is needed is not hounds, but greyhounds, which, unfortunately, were not available. But by winter, the impoverished neighbors gathered together, drank away their last money and disappeared for days in the snow-covered fields. In the evenings, to the sound of a guitar, the nobles sadly sang ancient songs...

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin

"Antonov apples"

The author-narrator recalls the recent past. He remembers the early fine autumn, the whole golden, dried up and thinning garden, the subtle aroma of fallen leaves and the smell of Antonov apples: gardeners are pouring apples onto carts to send them to the city. Late at night, having run out into the garden and talked with the guards guarding the garden, he looks into the dark blue depths of the sky, crowded with constellations, looks for a long, long time until the earth floats under his feet, feeling how good it is to live in the world!

The narrator recalls his Vyselki, which since the time of his grandfather had been known in the area as a rich village. Old men and women lived there for a long time - the first sign of prosperity. The houses in Vyselki were brick and strong. The average noble life had much in common with the rich peasant life. He remembers his aunt Anna Gerasimovna, her estate - small but strong, old, surrounded by hundred-year-old trees. My aunt’s garden was famous for its apple trees, nightingales and turtle doves, and the house for its roof: its thatched roof was unusually thick and high, blackened and hardened by time. In the house, first of all, the smell of apples was felt, and then other smells: old mahogany furniture, dried linden blossom.

The narrator remembers his late brother-in-law Arseny Semenych, a landowner-hunter, in whose large house many people gathered, everyone had a hearty dinner, and then went hunting. A horn blows in the yard, dogs howl in different voices, the owner’s favorite, a black greyhound, climbs onto the table and devours the remains of a hare with sauce from the dish. The author remembers himself riding an angry, strong and squat “Kyrgyz”: trees flash before his eyes, the screams of hunters and the barking of dogs are heard in the distance. From the ravines there is a smell of mushroom dampness and wet tree bark. It gets dark, the whole gang of hunters pours into the estate of some almost unknown bachelor hunter and, it happens, lives with him for several days. After a whole day spent hunting, the warmth of a crowded house is especially pleasant. When I happened to oversleep the hunt the next morning, I could spend the whole day in the master's library, leafing through old magazines and books, looking at the notes in their margins. Family portraits look from the walls, an old dreamy life appears before your eyes, your grandmother is sadly remembered...

But the old people in Vyselki died, Anna Gerasimovna died, Arseny Semenych shot himself. The kingdom of small landed nobles, impoverished to the point of beggary, is coming. But this small-scale life is also good! The narrator happened to visit a neighbor. He gets up early, orders the samovar to be put on, and, putting on his boots, goes out onto the porch, where he is surrounded by hounds. It will be a nice day for hunting! Only they don’t hunt along the black trail with hounds, oh, if only they were greyhounds! But he doesn’t have greyhounds... However, with the onset of winter, again, as in the old days, the small estates come together, drink with their last money, and disappear for whole days in the snowy fields. And in the evening, on some remote farm, the outbuilding windows glow far away in the darkness: candles are burning there, clouds of smoke are floating, they are playing the guitar, singing...

This story tells about the author's recent memories. Beautiful autumn, a golden garden with slightly dried out trees and the sweet smell of the famous Antonov apples. The night sky and a long gaze at the bright stars. Life is wonderful, the narrator understands.

The village where the author grew up is called Vyselki. People living here are distinguished by longevity and prosperity. The houses here are built to last - strong, brick. He remembers his aunt Anna Gerasimovna and her old small estate, in which the most delicious apple trees in the world grew. Even her entire house was saturated with this pleasant aroma.

Memories also lead to the noisy and crowded house of his late brother-in-law, hunter Arseny Semenych. People here had a hearty lunch and went hunting. Barking dogs, the sound of gunfire. The landowner had a favorite dog - a black greyhound. This whole hunting procession was always exciting and interesting. The forest had a special smell - simultaneously wet wood and mushroom dampness. It used to be that a company would go hunting and spend the night with some single hunter. And in the morning we go back to battle. Sometimes, when you slept through the hunt, you had to spend time in the owner’s library, where there were many old magazines and books around, and family portraits hung on the walls - dreamy memories of the grandmother.

But life passes. The old people in the village died, the aunt died, and the landowner Arseny Semenych shot himself. All around are the small landed nobility, impoverished to the point of beggary. But this life is good in its own way. One day the author was visiting a neighbor. Every morning he got up early, put on a huge samovar and went out onto the porch surrounded by hounds. Glory days for hunting, but there are no old greyhounds in the area.

And in winter everything falls into place again. Small-scale residents come to visit each other and drink alcohol with their last money. In the evening you can see the dim light from candles in the windows of the farm outbuilding, where guitars and sonorous songs can be heard joyfully and cheerfully. And clouds of smoke stream from the houses.

Essays

The author-narrator recalls the recent past. He remembers the early fine autumn, the whole golden, dried up and thinning garden, the subtle aroma of fallen leaves and the smell of Antonov apples: gardeners are pouring apples onto carts to send them to the city. Late at night, running out into the garden and talking with the guards guarding the garden, he looks into the dark blue depths of the sky, crowded with constellations, looks for a long, long time until the earth floats under his feet, feeling how good it is to live in the world!

The narrator recalls his Vyselki, which since the time of his grandfather had been known in the area as a rich village. Old men and women lived there for a long time - the first sign of prosperity. The houses in Vyselki were brick and strong. The average noble life had much in common with the rich peasant life. He remembers his aunt Anna Gerasimovna, her estate - small, but strong, old, surrounded by hundred-year-old trees. My aunt’s garden was famous for its apple trees, nightingales and turtle doves, and the house for its roof: its thatched roof was unusually thick and high, blackened and hardened by time. In the house, first of all, the smell of apples was felt, and then other smells: old mahogany furniture, dried linden blossom.

The narrator remembers his late brother-in-law Arseny Semenych, a landowner-hunter, in whose large house many people gathered, everyone had a hearty dinner, and then went hunting. A horn blows in the yard, dogs howl in different voices, the owner’s favorite, a black greyhound, climbs onto the table and devours the remains of a hare with sauce from the dish. The author remembers himself riding an angry, strong and squat “Kyrgyz”: trees flash before his eyes, the screams of hunters and the barking of dogs are heard in the distance. From the ravines there is a smell of mushroom dampness and wet tree bark. It gets dark, the whole gang of hunters pours into the estate of some almost unknown bachelor hunter and, it happens, lives with him for several days. After a whole day spent hunting, the warmth of a crowded house is especially pleasant. When I happened to oversleep the hunt the next morning, I could spend the whole day in the master's library, leafing through old magazines and books, looking at the notes in their margins. Family portraits look from the walls, an old dreamy life appears before your eyes, your grandmother is sadly remembered...

But the old people in Vyselki died, Anna Gerasimovna died, Arseny Semenych shot himself. The kingdom of small landed nobles, impoverished to the point of beggary, is coming. But this small-scale life is also good! The narrator happened to visit a neighbor. He gets up early, orders the samovar to be put on, and, putting on his boots, goes out onto the porch, where he is surrounded by hounds. It will be a nice day for hunting! Only they don’t hunt along the black trail with hounds, oh, if only they were greyhounds! But he doesn’t have greyhounds... However, with the onset of winter, again, as in the old days, the small estates come together, drink with their last money, and disappear for whole days in the snowy fields. And in the evening, on some remote farm, the outbuilding windows glow far away in the darkness: candles are burning there, clouds of smoke are floating, they are playing the guitar, singing...

Bunin wrote the story “Antonov Apples” in 1900. The work is a lyrical monologue-memory, constructed using the “association technique”.

Main characters

Narrator- “young barchuk”, the story is spoken on his behalf, he recalls episodes from the past, is nostalgic.

Anna Gerasimovna- the narrator's aunt.

Arseny Semenych- the landowner with whom the narrator went hunting.

Chapter I

The narrator recalls an early fine autumn, August, “a dried up and thinning garden,” “the smell of Antonov apples.” From the garden the road leads to a large hut, “near which the townspeople acquired a whole farm over the summer.” On holidays, fairs were held here, where villagers gathered and crowded here until the evening.

Late at night the narrator comes to the garden. Taking a gun from the tradesman Nikolai, he shoots, and then peers for a long time into the “dark blue depths of the sky” and returns home along the alley. “How good it is to live in the world!”

Chapter II

If Antonovka was born, then bread was born. The narrator recalls that Vyselki from time immemorial was famous for its “wealth”: “old men and women lived in Vyselki for a very long time.” He cites Pankrat as an example - the man remembered his fellow villager Platon Apollonych, which means Pankrat himself was “at least a hundred.”

“Rich men had huts in two or three connections.” Bees were bred here, “thick and fat hemp plants grew dark on the threshing floors,” and all sorts of goods were stored in barns. The narrator “at times seemed extremely tempting to be a man.”

Even in his memory, “the lifestyle of an average nobleman’s life” had “much in common with the lifestyle of a rich peasant life.” This “was the estate of Aunt Anna Gerasimovna, who lived about twelve versts from Vyselki.” Her serfdom was already felt in her yard. There were many low outbuildings made of oak logs.

“My aunt’s garden was famous for its neglect, nightingales, turtle doves and apples,” and the house was famous for its thick thatched roof. “You walk into the house and the first thing you smell is apples.” While talking about antiquity, the aunt served treats, apples of different varieties - Antonovsky, "Bel-Barynya", Borovinka, "Flodovitka".

Chapter III

"Behind last years one thing supported the fading spirit of the landowners - hunting.”

The narrator remembers how he gathered with other hunters at the estate of Arseny Semenych. One day, “the black greyhound, Arseny Semenych’s favorite,” began to “devour the remains of the hare with sauce from the dish.” Arseny Semenych, who came out of the office, fired a revolver and, laughing and playing with his eyes, said: “It’s a pity that I missed!” .

The narrator remembers how he was riding with the “noisy gang of Arseny Semenych”, hunting. After the hunt, they stopped to spend the night at the estate of “some almost unknown bachelor landowner.”

But “when I happened to oversleep the hunt, the rest was especially pleasant.” After a walk in the garden, the narrator went to the library, where his grandfather’s books were kept. Among them are novels, “magazines with the names: Zhukovsky, Batyushkov, lyceum student Pushkin” and others. He sadly recalled how his grandmother played the clavichord and read Eugene Onegin.

Chapter IV

“The smell of Antonov apples disappears from the landowners’ estates.”

“The old people in Vyselki died, Anna Gerasimovna died, Arseny Semenych shot himself... The kingdom of the small estates, impoverished to the point of beggary, is coming!”

The narrator comes again to the village in late autumn. “Sometimes some small-scale neighbor will stop by and take me away for a long time... The life of a small-scale estate is good too!” “The small-timer gets up early.” Waking up, he goes to work. “Often he glances at the field... Soon, soon the fields will turn white, winter will soon cover them...”

In winter, “again, as in former times, small-scale residents gather together” and “disappear for whole days in the snowy fields” - they hunt.

Conclusion

In the story “Antonov Apples,” Bunin correlates the ruin and gradual disappearance of noble nests with the inevitability of the change of seasons, starting from early autumn and ending in winter. However, the narrator perceives these changes as something natural, remembering the past with light sadness and nostalgia.

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Early fine autumn. The cool silence of the morning is broken only by the well-fed clucking of blackbirds on the coral rowan trees in the thicket of the garden, voices and the booming sound of apples being poured into measures and tubs. In the thinned garden the road to the large hut is visible in the distance. Everywhere there is a strong smell of apples, especially here. An earthen stove has been dug near the hut. At noon, a magnificent kulesh with lard is cooked in it, in the evening the samovar is heated, and a long strip of bluish smoke spreads across the garden, between the trees. On holidays there is a whole fair here. A crowd of lively single-yard girls, the “lordly ones” come, a young headwoman, pregnant, with a wide, sleepy face and as important as a Kholmogory cow, is fussing about, there are also barefoot boys in white fluffy shirts and short portages, they walk in twos, threes, glancing cautiously on a shepherd tied to an apple tree. There are many buyers, trade is brisk and the consumptive tradesman is cheerful.

By night it becomes cold and dewy. Having inhaled the rye aroma of new straw and chaff on the threshing floor, you cheerfully go home. It's getting dark. And here’s another smell: there’s a fire in the garden, and there’s a strong wafting of fragrant smoke from cherry branches. In the darkness, in the depths of the garden, there is a fabulous picture: in the corner of the garden there is a crimson flame, surrounded by darkness, black silhouettes are moving around, giant shadows from them are walking across the apple trees.

Late at night, when the lights go out, rustling through dry leaves like a blind man, you will reach the hut.

Is that you, barchuk? - someone will quietly call out from the darkness.

We listen for a long time and notice trembling in the ground. The trembling turns into noise, grows, and now, as if just outside the garden, the noisy beat of the wheels is rapidly beating out: rumbling and knocking, the train rushes... closer, closer, louder and angrier... And suddenly it begins to subside, stall, as if going into the ground...

And the black sky is lined with fiery stripes of falling stars. You look for a long time into its dark blue depths, overflowing with constellations, until the earth begins to float under your feet. Then you will wake up and, hiding your hands in your sleeves, quickly run along the alley to the house... How cold, dewy and how good it is to live in the world!

At early dawn, when the roosters are still crowing and the huts are smoking black, you would open a window into a cool garden, filled with a lilac fog, through which the morning sun shines brightly* and you can’t resist - you order to quickly saddle the horse, and you run to wash yourself to the pond - and to hunt. Autumn is the time for patronal feasts, and at this time the people are tidy and happy, the appearance of the village is not at all the same as at other times. If the year is fruitful, it’s not bad at all in the village. In addition, our Vyselki have been famous for their “wealth” since time immemorial, since the time of our grandfather. The courtyards in Vyselki are brick, built by our grandfathers. Rich men had huts in two or three connections, because sharing was not yet fashionable. In such families they kept bees, were proud of the stallion and kept the estate in order. Even in my memory, very recently, the lifestyle of the average nobleman had much in common with the lifestyle of a wealthy peasant in its homeliness and rural well-being. Such, for example, was the estate of Aunt Anna Gerasimovna.

I didn’t know or see serfdom, but I remember feeling it at my aunt’s. The last Mohicans of the courtyard class peek out from the long, blackened people's room - some decrepit old men and women, a decrepit retired cook who looks like Don Quixote. They all pull themselves up and bow low and low when you drive into the yard. My aunt’s garden was famous for its neglect, nightingales and apples, and the house for its roof. Its front facade always seemed to me to be alive: as if an old face was looking out from under a huge hat with sockets of eyes - windows with mother-of-pearl glass from the rain and sun. And the guest felt comfortable in this nest under the turquoise autumn sky! You will enter the house and first of all you will hear the smell of apples, and then others: old furniture, dried linden blossoms, which have been lying on the windows since June. There is silence and cleanliness everywhere. And then a cough is heard: the aunt comes out. She comes out important, but friendly, and now, amid endless conversations about antiquity, treats begin to appear: first apples, and then an amazing lunch. The windows to the garden are raised, and coolness blows from there...

In recent years, one thing has supported the fading spirit of the landowners - hunting. Previously, estates like Anna Gerasimovna’s were not uncommon. Some of the estates are still preserved, but there is no life in them anymore... There are no troikas, no riding horses, no hounds and greyhounds, no servants and no owner of all this - the landowner-hunter, like my late brother-in-law Arseny Semenych.

Since the end of September, our gardens and threshing floors have been emptying, the weather has changed dramatically. The wind tore and tore the trees for days on end, and the rains watered them from morning to night.

From such a scolding, the garden emerged almost naked, somehow quiet, resigned... But how beautiful it was when the weather was clear. Farewell autumn holiday! The black garden will shine through the cold turquoise sky and dutifully wait for winter, warming itself in the sunlight. And the fields are already turning sharply black with arable land and brightly green with winter crops... It's time to hunt!

A lot of people gather. And in the yard the horn blows and the dogs howl. I still remember how greedily and capaciously the young breast breathed in the cold of a clear and damp day in the evening. You ride on an angry and strong “Kyrgyz”, holding it tightly with the reins. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, another answered passionately - and suddenly the forest thundered with violent barking and screaming. A shot rang out loudly among this din - and everything “cooked up” and rolled off into the distance. Chase. Only the trees flash before your eyes and the dirt from under the horse’s hooves sticks into your face. You’ll jump out of the forest, see an animal, rush to cross it until the flock disappears from view along with a frenzied bark and groan. Then, all wet and trembling from tension, you rein in your horse and greedily swallow the icy dampness of the forest valley. The screams and barking of dogs fade away in the distance, and there is dead silence around you. From the ravines there is a strong smell of mushroom dampness, rotted leaves and wet tree bark. It's time for an overnight stay.

It happened that a hospitable neighbor's hunt lasted for several days. At early morning dawn, in the icy wind and the first winter, they went into the forests and fields, and by dusk they returned again, all covered in mud. And the drinking began. After vodka and food, you feel such sweet fatigue, such the bliss of youthful sleep, that you can hear people talking as if through water.

When I happened to oversleep the hunt, the rest was especially pleasant. There is silence throughout the whole house. Ahead lies a whole day of peace in the already silent, winter-like estate. Slowly get dressed, wander around the garden, find a cold and wet apple accidentally forgotten in the wet leaves, and for some reason it seems unusually tasty. Then you’ll get to work on books... But here are magazines with the names of Zhukovsky, Batyushkov, lyceum student Pushkin. And with sadness you will remember your grandmother, her polonaises on the clavichord, reading from Eugene Onegin. And the old dreamy life will appear before you. Good girls and women once lived in noble estates!

The smell of Antonov apples disappears from the landowners' estates. The kingdom of small estates is coming, impoverished to the point of beggary.

I see myself back in the village. All day long I wander the empty plains with a gun. The days are bluish and cloudy. Hungry and chilled, I return to the estate, and my soul becomes so warm and joyful when the lights of Vyselok flash and smoke wafts out of the estate. I remember that in our house at this time we liked to “go twilight”, not light a fire and conduct conversations in the semi-darkness.

Winter, first snow! Winter is coming. And here again, as in the old days, small-scale families gather together, drink with their last money, and disappear for whole days in the snowy fields. And in the evening, on some remote farm, the windows of the outbuilding glow far away in the night... Clouds of smoke float, a guitar is being tuned.