Cold autumn. Ivan Bunin. "Cold autumn Bunin cold morning read

Ivan Bunin's story "Cold Autumn" can be grasped at a glance, like a picture, and at the same time, its meaning is deeper than a simple description. Why does the hero quote only the first stanza of the poem? Why does the heroine remember a single evening for thirty years? We bring to your attention the experience of a careful reading of the story "Cold Autumn".

Feral children - human children who grew up in conditions of extreme social isolation - without contact with people from an early age - and experienced little care and love from another person, had no experience of social behavior and communication. Such children, abandoned by their parents, are raised by animals or live in isolation.

If children had some social behavior skills before isolation from society, the process of their rehabilitation is much easier. Those who lived in the animal society for the first 3.5-6 years of their lives practically cannot master the human language, walk straight, communicate meaningfully with other people, despite the years spent later in the society of people, where they received enough care. This once again shows how important the first years of his life are for the development of the child.

These children are not human. If a person has not spoken before the age of six, then he is unlikely to speak. That is, who we are is a product of our culture, and culture is what we remember.

A person can not always formulate what he thought. There are “thoughts” or emotions when you later read about it and say that you thought so, but could not formulate it. In fact, it was a “thought-child”, there was no adult thought yet. And literature and art help to find a form for this thought.

Memory in relation to a person is not an exact word, especially now, when the word is firmly connected with memory computer. When a person memorizes something, assimilates information, then the memory changes him, and the computer does not change from what is entered into its memory.

Many great writers thought about memory. For example, V.V. Nabokov in "Memory, Speak" Camus also gives occasion for deep reflection. The hero of his work "The Outsider" has been in solitary confinement in prison for quite a long time. This is what he felt after a certain time:

“Yes, I had to endure some troubles, but I was not very unhappy. The most important thing, I will say again, was to kill time. But since I learned to remember, I have not been bored. Sometimes I remembered my bedroom: I imagined how I went out of one corner and, having passed through the room, came back; I went over in my mind everything that I met on my way. In the beginning, I got over it quickly. But each time the journey took more and more time. I remembered not only a cabinet, a table or a shelf, but all the things that were there, and I drew each thing for myself in every detail: color and material, inlay pattern, crack, jagged edge. He tried his best not to lose the thread of his inventory, not to forget a single item. After a few weeks, I could spend hours describing everything that was in my bedroom. The more I thought about it, the more forgotten or neglected things popped up in my memory. And then I realized that a person who lived in the world for at least one day could easily spend a hundred years in prison. He would have enough memories to not be bored. In a way, it was beneficial."

A. Camus. "Outsider"

In the story "Cold Autumn" one can just see the process of forming thought and memory. The protagonist quotes Fet's poems:

“Dressing in the hallway, he continued to think something, with a sweet smile he remembered Fet’s poems:

What a cold autumn!

Put on your shawl and hood...

I don't remember, it seems like this:

Look - between the blackening pines

As if the fire rises ... "

I.A. Bunin. "Cold autumn"

He helps his future wife to make the last evening of their meeting so bright and strong that at the end of her life she says:

“But, remembering everything that I have experienced since then, I always ask myself: yes, but what did happen in my life? And I answer myself: only that cold autumn evening. Has he ever been? Still, there was. And that's all that was in my life - the rest is an unnecessary dream.

I.A. Bunin. "Cold autumn"

Remember the beginning of the piece:

“In June of that year, he visited us on the estate - he was always considered our man: his late father was a friend and neighbor of my father. On June 15, Ferdinand was killed in Sarajevo. On the morning of the sixteenth they brought newspapers from the post office. Father left the office with a Moscow evening newspaper in his hands into the dining room, where he, mother and I were still sitting at the tea table, and said:

- Well, my friends, war! Austrian crown prince killed in Sarajevo. This is war!

On Peter's Day, a lot of people came to us - it was my father's name day - and at dinner he was announced as my fiance. But on the nineteenth of July, Germany declared war on Russia...

In September, he came to us for just a day - to say goodbye before leaving for the front (everyone then thought that the war would end soon, and our wedding was postponed until spring). And then came our farewell party. After supper, as usual, a samovar was served, and, looking at the windows fogged up from its steam, the father said:

- Surprisingly early and cold autumn!

We sat quietly that evening, only occasionally exchanging insignificant words, exaggeratedly calm, hiding our secret thoughts and feelings. With feigned simplicity, my father said about autumn. I went to the balcony door and wiped the glass with a handkerchief: in the garden, in the black sky, pure ice stars sparkled brightly and sharply..

I.A. Bunin. "Cold autumn"

This is a story about how poetry helps to see the beauty of the world, how they create a mood, how they help to live through difficult moments.

The main character is a very talented person, he knows how to see and live what is needed. Note that he only quotes the first stanza of Fet's poem. Perhaps, he remembered the second stanza, but quoted the first. Because it is felt that his beloved has not yet unfolded as a person, has not had time to fall in love, she is still only in anticipation of the emotions that she will have. He understands that she is not yet ready for this love. He saw her coldness, non-involvement in the present moment. Therefore, he quotes only the first stanza. The second one goes like this:

"Shine of the northern night

I remember always near you

And phosphorescent eyes shine,

They just don't warm me up."

The hero, feeling his chosen one, recalls the second stanza, but, as a delicate person, he quotes the first. He anticipates that he will be her only one, he does not need to rush. For their happiness, even his love is enough. In her coldness, he is able to see the beauty.

Bunin has wonderful poems:

We always remember happiness

And happiness is everywhere. Maybe it

This autumn garden behind the barn

And clean air pouring through the window.

In the bottomless sky with a light white edge

Rise, the cloud shines. For a long time

I follow him ... We see little, we know

And happiness is given only to those who know.

The window is open. She squeaked and sat down

A bird on the windowsill. And from books

I look away tired for a moment.

The day is getting dark, the sky is empty,

The hum of the thresher is heard in the threshing floor...

I see, I hear, I am happy. Everything is in me.

I.A. Bunin. "Evening"

The hero of the story understands how to feel happiness, enjoy it.

The heroine says a banal thing, and he guesses her thoughts from this banality:

“I thought: “What if the truth is killed? And will I really forget it in some short period of time - after all, everything is eventually forgotten? And hastily answered, frightened by her thought:

- Do not say that! I won't survive your death!

After a pause, he spoke slowly:

- Well, if they kill you, I'll wait for you there. You live, rejoice in the world, then come to me.

I.A. Bunin. "Cold autumn"

The fact that someone will not survive someone's death is usually said when they do not want to communicate on this important topic for the interlocutor. For example, a person knows that he is mortally ill and says that he will die soon. He wants to talk about this topic, even though it is difficult. And often loved ones leave this conversation, despite the fact that it is their support that is needed.

In the story, we see that, due to her youth, the heroine does not know how to talk about this topic. Then she herself says that she survived the loss and lived on. She had a long life, but he was the only one for her - this evening. And this evening was decorated by the hero himself with his quote, by what he said:

“- Look how very special, in autumn, the windows of the house shine. I will be alive, I will always remember this evening ... "

I.A. Bunin. "Cold autumn"

Pay attention to the poetry of his phrase.

If we imagine that he would not have turned out to be such a person, would not have quoted Fet, would not have expressed feelings in verse, then this evening would not have remained in her memory for the rest of her life. This example clearly shows how important literature is, how it helps.

Bunin, like his heroine, died in exile.

Bunin was very upset by what happened to Russia. Probably, before his death, he dreamed of joining her there, who was killed in wars:

“How can we forget the Motherland? Can a person forget his homeland? She is in the soul. I am a very Russian person. It doesn't disappear over the years."

I.A. Bunin

Motherland

Under a leaden sky

Gloomy winter day fades,

And there is no end to the pine forests,

And far from the villages.

One mist is milky blue,

Like someone's mild sorrow,

Above this snowy desert

Softens the gloomy distance.

I.A. Bunin

Note that there are no names of the characters in the story. There is only the name of Duke Ferdinand. Truly close people live for us without a name, we do not need to name them. They just occupy some part of us.

It is worth noting that the main word in the story is soul. You can even catch a reference to Pushkin's Tatyana:

“Tatyana stood in front of the windows,

Breathing on cold glass

Thinking my soul

Written with a lovely finger

On a foggy window

Treasured monogram O yes E.

A.S. Pushkin. "Eugene Onegin"

And about what happened to the main character that evening in the cold autumn, Bunin clearly says in his other story:

“However, there was no one, and I stood, trembling with excitement and listening to the small, sleepy babble of aspens. Then I sat down on a damp bench ... I was still waiting for something, sometimes I glanced quickly into the dusk of dawn ... And for a long time a close and elusive breath of happiness was felt around me - that terrible and great that at one time or another meets all of us on the threshold of life . It suddenly touched me - and, perhaps, did exactly what it needed to do: touch and leave. I remember that all those tender words that were in my soul finally brought tears to my eyes. Leaning against the trunk of a damp poplar, I caught, like someone’s consolation, the faintly arising and fading babble of leaves and was happy with my soundless tears ... "

I.A. Bunin. "Dawn all night"

The story "Cold Autumn" teaches attention to the world, the ability to see the important in what surrounds us. But he himself requires careful reading. When an author writes a work and quotes other authors in it, he implies that the reader knows the cited work in full. In the age of the internet, it's pretty easy to find out exactly what an author was quoting, whenever they wrote it.

This story teaches a careful and careful attitude to one's life. Because what happens to a person turns into his memories and changes him, makes him a different person.

The most detailed description of the properties of memory is in the famous work of Proust, in which memories, the ability to remember, are put in one of the first places:

“Suddenly the memory came alive. It was the taste of a piece of biscuit, which in Combray every Sunday morning (on Sundays I did not leave the house before Mass) treated me, soaked in tea or lime blossom, Aunt Leonie, when I came to greet her. The very sight of a biscuit awakened nothing in me until I had tasted it; perhaps because I later often saw this cake on the shelves of pastry shops, but did not eat it, its image left Combray and merged with more recent impressions; perhaps because not a single one of the memories that fell out of memory a long time ago was resurrected, they all crumbled; the forms—including the shell-cakes, which aroused keenly sensuous perception with each of their austere and pious folds—died out or, immersed in sleep, lost the ability to spread, thanks to which they could reach consciousness. But when there was nothing left of the distant past, when living beings died out, and things collapsed, only the smell and taste, more fragile, but more tenacious, more immaterial, more resistant, more reliable, for a long time, like the souls of the dead, remind of for themselves, they hope, they wait, and they, these barely perceptible crumbs, among the ruins carry, without bending, a huge building of remembrance.

M. Proust. "Toward Swann"

Sometimes a memory tries to emerge in memory, but it does not work out, and some little thing helps to remember everything at once.

Cold autumn
Ivan Alekseevich Bunin

Bunin Ivan Alekseevich

Cold autumn

Ivan Bunin

Cold autumn

In June of that year, he was a guest at our estate - he was always considered our man: his late father was a friend and neighbor of my father. On June 15, Ferdinand was killed in Sarajevo. On the morning of the sixteenth they brought newspapers from the post office. Father left the office with a Moscow evening newspaper in his hands into the dining room, where he, mother and I were still sitting at the tea table, and said:

Well, my friends, war! Austrian crown prince killed in Sarajevo. This is war!

On Peter's Day, a lot of people came to us - it was my father's name day - and at dinner he was announced as my fiance. But on the nineteenth of July, Germany declared war on Russia...

In September, he came to us for just a day - to say goodbye before leaving for the front (everyone then thought that the war would end soon, and our wedding was postponed until spring). And then came our farewell party. After supper, as usual, a samovar was served, and, looking at the windows fogged up from its steam, the father said:

Amazingly early and cold autumn!

We sat quietly that evening, only occasionally exchanging insignificant words, exaggeratedly calm, hiding our secret thoughts and feelings. With feigned simplicity, my father said about autumn. I went to the balcony door and wiped the glass with a handkerchief: in the garden, in the black sky, pure ice stars sparkled brightly and sharply. Father was smoking, leaning back in his armchair, gazing absently at a hot lamp hanging over the table, mother, in glasses, was diligently sewing up a small silk bag under its light - we knew which one - and it was both touching and creepy. Father asked:

So you still want to go in the morning and not after breakfast?

Yes, if you will, in the morning,” he replied. “It’s very sad, but I haven’t quite ordered the housework yet. Father sighed lightly.

Well, as you wish, my soul. Only in this case, it’s time for mom and me to sleep, we certainly want to see you off tomorrow ...

Mom got up and crossed her future son, he leaned towards her hand, then to the hand of his father. Left alone, we stayed a little longer in the dining room, I decided to play solitaire, - he silently walked from corner to corner, then asked:

Do you want to walk a little?

My heart was becoming more and more difficult, I answered indifferently:

Fine...

Dressing in the hallway, he continued to think something, with a sweet smile he remembered Fet's poems:

What a cold autumn!

Put on your shawl and hood...

I do not remember. It seems so:

Look - between the blackening pines

As if the fire is rising...

What fire?

Moonrise, of course. There is some rustic autumn charm in these verses: "Put on your shawl and bonnet..." The times of our grandparents... Oh, my God, my God!

Nothing, dear friend. Still sad. Sad and good. I very-very love you...

Having dressed, we went through the dining-room to the balcony, and descended into the garden. At first it was so dark that I held on to his sleeve. Then black boughs began to appear in the brightening sky, showered with minerally shining stars. He paused and turned towards the house.

Look how very special, in autumn, the windows of the house shine. I will be alive, I will always remember this evening ...

I looked and he hugged me in my Swiss cape. I pulled the shawl away from my face, tilted my head slightly so that he kissed me. He kissed me and looked into my face.

How bright the eyes are, he said. - Are you cold? The air is very wintry. If they kill me, you won't forget me right away, will you?

I thought: "What if the truth is killed, and really I will forget him in some short time - after all, everything is eventually forgotten?" And hastily answered, frightened by her thought:

Do not say that! I won't survive your death! After a pause, he spoke slowly:

Well, if you get killed, I'll be waiting for you there. You live, rejoice in the world, then come to me.

I cried bitterly...

He left in the morning. Mama put around his neck that fateful pouch that she had sewn up in the evening—it contained a golden icon that her father and grandfather had worn in the war—and we crossed it with a kind of impetuous despair. Looking after him, we stood on the porch in that stupefaction that always happens when you see someone off for a long time, feeling only an amazing incompatibility between us and the joyful, sunny, sparkling frost on the grass that surrounded us in the morning. After standing, they entered the deserted house. I went through the rooms with my hands behind my back, not knowing what to do with myself now and whether I should sob or sing at the top of my voice ...

I was also engaged in trade, selling, as many sold then, to soldiers in hats and unbuttoned overcoats, some of what was left with me, then some kind of ring, then a cross, then a fur collar beaten by moths, and here, trading on the corner of the Arbat and the market, met a man of rare, beautiful soul, an elderly retired military man, whom she soon married and with whom she left for Yekaterinodar in April. We went there with him and his nephew, a boy of about seventeen, who also made his way to the volunteers, for almost two weeks - I was a woman, in bast shoes, he was in a worn Cossack zipun, with a black and gray beard let go - and stayed on the Don and on Kuban more than two years. In winter, in a hurricane, we sailed with a myriad of other refugees from Novorossiysk to Turkey, and on the way, at sea, my husband died of typhus. After that, I had only three relatives left in the whole world: my husband's nephew, his young wife and their girl, a child of seven months. But my nephew and his wife sailed away after some time to the Crimea, to Wrangel, leaving the child in my arms. There they went missing. And I lived for a long time in Constantinople, earning for myself and for the girl with very hard black labor. Then, like many, wherever I wandered with her! Bulgaria, Serbia, Czech Republic, Belgium, Paris, Nice...

The girl grew up a long time ago, stayed in Paris, became completely French, very pretty and completely indifferent to me, worked in a chocolate shop near Madeleine, wrapped boxes in satin paper with sleek hands with silver nails and tied them with gold cords; but I lived and still live in Nice than God sends ... I was in Nice for the first time in 1912 - and could I have thought in those happy days what it would one day become for me!

And so I survived his death, recklessly saying once that I would not survive it. But, remembering everything that I have experienced since then, I always ask myself: yes, but what happened in my life after all? And I answer myself: only that cold autumn evening. Has he ever been? Still, there was. And that's all that was in my life - the rest is an unnecessary dream. And I believe, fervently believe: somewhere he is waiting for me - with the same love and youth as on that evening. "You live, rejoice in the world, then come to me ..." I lived, rejoiced, now I will come soon.