1.First autumn test
This autumn has been especially joyful and cheerful. Jubilant. Every day the death of summer was seen more and more clearly and autumn triumphed over the dying enemy in delightful yellow and orange.
It rained and (not) paying attention to this precious gift of heaven, people scurried around the streets. They got out of the taxi, loudly slamming the door, studied the windows of shops or glanced at them as they passed by, stood at tram stops, made appointments in passing. And many had umbrellas in their hands, cute and kind mechanisms. The most innocent thing that people have invented.
Then the sun appeared again, highlighting the wet, chilled leaves on the sidewalks, and the smell of fallen leaves, a pungent autumn smell, excited the soul and filled it with (in)comparable melancholy. But (not) aching, but a sweet and cheerful melancholy, as if people wandering through the autumn city at dusk were not reality but a dear memory.
(D. Rubina)
Grammar tasks for the text
1. Copy the text, inserting missing punctuation marks and letters, opening parentheses. Title the text.
2. Number all punctuation marks and decipher them.
For example: comma
1 - complex sentence (SSP);
3-4 - isolated circumstance, expressed participial phrase, etc.
3. Do parsing 4th sentence.
4 . Make an outline of the 5th sentence.
2.Since the end of September, our gardens and threshing floors have been emptying, the weather has changed dramatically. The liquid sparkled coldly and brightly in the north above the lead clouds. blue sky, and from behind these clouds ridges of snowy mountain-clouds slowly emerged.The wind tore up the continuously flowing stream of human smoke from the chimney and again caught up with the ominous strands of ash clouds. They ran low and fast - and quickly, like smoke. The sun was clouded. Its shine faded, the window into the blue sky closed, and the garden became deserted and boring. And the rain began to fall again, at first quietly, carefully, then it's getting thicker and, finally, it turned into a downpour with storm and darkness.
After such a scolding, the garden emerged almost completely naked, covered with wet leaves and somehow quiet and resigned. The preserved foliage will now hang on the trees until the first winter. The black garden will shine through the cold turquoise sky and dutifully wait for winter, warming itself in the sunshine. And the fields are already turning sharply black with arable land and brightly green with overgrown winter crops.
(According to I. Bunin. 148 words)
Grammar task.
1. Title the text.
2. Parse the sentence syntactically
Option I - And the fields are already sharply turning black with arable land and brightly green with overgrown winter crops.
Option II - Since the end of September, our gardens and threshing floors have been emptying, the weather has changed dramatically.
3. Perform morphological analysis of words
Option I - preserved foliage Option II - warming up.
I. Sokolov-Mikitov
The chirping swallows have long since flown south, and even earlier, as if on cue, the swift swifts disappeared.
IN autumn days The boys heard the passing cranes crowing in the sky as they said goodbye to their dear homeland. They looked after them for a long time with some special feeling, as if the cranes were taking summer with them.
Quietly talking, the geese flew to the warm south...
Getting ready for cold winter People. The rye and wheat were mowed long ago. We prepared feed for the livestock. The last apples are being picked from the orchards. They dug up potatoes, beets, and carrots and put them away for the winter.
The animals are also preparing for winter. The nimble squirrel accumulated nuts in the hollow and dried selected mushrooms. Little voles brought grains into the holes and prepared fragrant soft hay.
In late autumn, a hardworking hedgehog builds its winter lair. He dragged a whole heap of dry leaves under an old stump. You will sleep peacefully all winter under a warm blanket.
The autumn sun warms less and less often, more and more sparingly.
Soon, soon the first frosts will begin.
Mother Earth will freeze until spring. Everyone took from her everything she could give.
Autumn
A fun summer has flown by. So autumn has come. It's time to harvest the harvest. Vanya and Fedya are digging potatoes. Vasya collects beets and carrots, and Fenya collects beans. There are a lot of plums in the garden. Vera and Felix collect fruit and send it to the school cafeteria. There everyone is treated to ripe and tasty fruits.
In the forest
Grisha and Kolya went into the forest. They picked mushrooms and berries. They put mushrooms in a basket and berries in a basket. Suddenly thunder struck. The sun has disappeared. Clouds appeared all around. The wind bent the trees towards the ground. It began to rain heavily. The boys went to the forester's house. Soon the forest became quiet. Rain stopped. The sun came out. Grisha and Kolya went home with mushrooms and berries.
Mushrooms
The guys went into the forest to pick mushrooms. Roma found a beautiful boletus under a birch tree. Valya saw a small oil can under the pine tree. Seryozha spotted a huge boletus in the grass. In the grove they collected full baskets of various mushrooms. The guys returned home happy and happy.
Forest in autumn
I. Sokolov-Mikitov
The Russian forest is beautiful and sad in the early autumn days. Bright spots of red-yellow maples and aspens stand out against the golden background of yellowed foliage. Slowly circling in the air, light, weightless yellow leaves fall and fall from the birches. Thin silver threads of light cobwebs stretched from tree to tree. Late autumn flowers are still blooming.
The air is transparent and clean. The water in forest ditches and streams is clear. Every pebble at the bottom is visible.
Quiet in autumn forest. Only fallen leaves rustle underfoot. Sometimes a hazel grouse whistles subtly. And this makes the silence even more audible.
It's easy to breathe in the autumn forest. And I don’t want to leave it for a long time. It’s good in the autumn flowery forest... But something sad, farewell is heard and seen in it.
Nature in autumn
The mysterious princess Autumn will take tired nature into her hands, dress her in golden outfits and drench her in long rains. Autumn will calm the breathless earth, blow away the last leaves with the wind and lay it in the cradle of a long winter sleep.
Autumn day in a birch grove
I was sitting in a birch grove in the fall, around mid-September. From the very morning there was a light rain, replaced at times by warm sunshine; the weather was changeable. The sky was either covered with loose white clouds, then suddenly cleared in places for a moment, and then, from behind the parted clouds, azure appeared, clear and gentle...
I sat and looked around and listened. The leaves rustled slightly above my head; by their noise alone one could find out what time of year it was then. It was not the cheerful, laughing trembling of spring, not the soft whispering, not the long chatter of summer, not the timid and cold babbling of late autumn, but barely audible, drowsy chatter. A weak wind pulled slightly over the tops. The interior of the grove, wet from the rain, was constantly changing, depending on whether the sun was shining or covered with clouds; She then lit up all over, as if suddenly everything in her was smiling... then suddenly everything around her turned slightly blue again: the bright colors instantly faded... and stealthily, slyly, the smallest rain began to fall and whisper through the forest.
The foliage on the birches was still almost all green, although noticeably paler; only here and there stood one young girl, all red or all gold...
Not a single bird was heard: everyone took refuge and fell silent; only occasionally did the mocking voice of a tit ring like a steel bell.
An autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when a birch tree, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in the pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than a summer one, a small aspen grove sparkles through and through, as if it it’s fun and easy to stand naked, the frost is still white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives away the fallen, warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, quietly lifting up the scattered geese and ducks; in the distance the mill knocks, half-hidden by willows, and, dappling the light air, pigeons quickly circle above it...
By the beginning of September the weather suddenly changed dramatically and completely unexpectedly. Quiet and cloudless days immediately arrived, so clear, sunny and warm, which were not even in July. On the dried, compressed fields, on their prickly yellow stubble, an autumn cobweb glistened with a mica sheen. The calmed trees silently and obediently dropped their yellow leaves.
Late fall
Korolenko Vladimir Galaktionovich
Coming late fall. The fruit has become heavy; he breaks down and falls to the ground. He dies, but the seed lives in him, and in this seed lives in “possibility” the entire future plant, with its future luxurious foliage and its new fruit. The seed will fall to the ground; and the cold sun is already rising low above the earth, a cold wind is running, cold clouds are rushing... Not only passion, but life itself freezes quietly, imperceptibly... The earth is increasingly emerging from under the greenery with its blackness, cold tones dominate in the sky ... And then the day comes when millions of snowflakes fall on this resigned and quiet, as if widowed earth, and it all becomes smooth, monochromatic and white... White color- this is the color of cold snow, the color of the highest clouds that float in the unattainable cold of the heavens height, - color majestic and barren mountain peaks...
Antonov apples
Bunin Ivan Alekseevich
I remember an early fine autumn. August had warm rains at the right time, in the middle of the month. I remember an early, fresh, quiet morning... I remember a large, all golden, dried up and thinning garden, I remember maple alleys, the subtle aroma of fallen leaves and the smell of Antonov apples, the smell of honey and autumn freshness. The air is so clean, it’s as if there is none at all. There is a strong smell of apples everywhere.
By night it becomes very cold and dewy. Having inhaled the rye aroma of new straw and chaff on the threshing floor, you cheerfully walk home for dinner past the garden rampart. Voices in the village or the creaking of gates can be heard unusually clearly in the chilly dawn. 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: as if in a corner of hell, a crimson flame is burning near a hut, surrounded by darkness...
“Vigorous Antonovka - for a fun year.” Village affairs are good if the Antonovka crop is cropped: that means the grain crop is cropped... I remember a fruitful year.
At early dawn, when the roosters were still crowing, you would open a window into a cool garden filled with a purple fog, through which the morning sun shines brightly here and there... You would run to the pond to wash your face. Almost all the small foliage has flown off the coastal vines, and the branches show through in the turquoise sky. The water under the vines became clear, icy, and seemingly heavy. It instantly drives away nighttime laziness.
You enter the house and first of all you will hear the smell of apples, and then others.
Since the end of September, our gardens and threshing floors have been empty, and the weather, as usual, has changed dramatically. The wind tore and tore the trees for days on end, and the rains watered them from morning to night.
The liquid blue sky shone coldly and brightly in the north above the heavy lead clouds, and from behind these clouds the ridges of snowy mountains-clouds slowly floated out, the window into the blue sky closed, and the garden became deserted and boring, and the rain began to fall again... at first quietly, carefully, then more and more thickly and finally turned into a downpour with storm and darkness. A long, anxious night was coming...
From such a scolding the garden emerged completely naked, covered with wet leaves and somehow quiet and resigned. But how beautiful it was when clear weather came again, clear and cold days of early October, the farewell holiday of autumn! The preserved foliage will now hang on the trees until the first frost. The black garden will shine through the cold turquoise sky and dutifully wait for winter, warming itself in the sunshine. And the fields are already turning sharply black with arable land and brightly green with bushy winter crops...
You wake up and lie in bed for a long time. 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 will seem unusually tasty, not at all like the others.
Dictionary of native nature
It is impossible to list the signs of all seasons. Therefore, I skip summer and move on to autumn, to its first days, when “September” already begins.
The earth is withering, but the “Indian summer” is still ahead with its last bright, but already cold, like the shine of mica, radiance of the sun. From the thick blue of the sky, washed with cool air. With a flying web (“the yarn of the Virgin Mary,” as earnest old women still call it in some places) and a fallen, withered leaf covering the empty waters. Birch groves stand like crowds of beautiful girls in shawls embroidered with gold leaf. “A sad time is a charm of the eyes.”
Then - bad weather, heavy rains, the icy northern wind “Siverko”, plowing through the leaden waters, cold, coldness, pitch-black nights, icy dew, dark dawns.
So everything goes on until the first frost grabs and binds the earth, the first powder falls and the first path is established. And there is already winter with blizzards, blizzards, drifting snow, snowfall, gray frosts, poles in the fields, the creaking of cuttings on the sledges, a gray, snowy sky...
Often in the fall I closely watched the falling leaves in order to catch that imperceptible split second when the leaf separates from the branch and begins to fall to the ground, but for a long time I was not able to do this. I've read in old books about the sound of falling leaves, but I've never heard that sound. If the leaves rustled, it was only on the ground, under a person’s feet. The rustle of leaves in the air seemed as implausible to me as stories about hearing grass sprouting in the spring.
I was, of course, wrong. Time was needed so that the ear, dulled by the grinding of city streets, could rest and catch the very pure and precise sounds of the autumn land.
One late evening I went out into the garden to the well. I placed a dim kerosene lantern on the log house." bat" and took out water. Leaves were floating in the bucket. They were everywhere. There was no way to get rid of them anywhere. Brown bread from the bakery was brought with wet leaves stuck to it. The wind threw handfuls of leaves on the table, on the bed, on the floor. on books, and it was difficult to groom along the paths of tallow: you had to walk on the leaves, as if through deep snow. We found leaves in the pockets of our raincoats, in our caps, in our hair - everywhere. We slept on them and were thoroughly saturated with their smell.
There are autumn nights, deaf and silent, when there is no wind over the black wooded edge and only the watchman's beater can be heard from the village outskirts.
It was such a night. The lantern illuminated the well, the old maple under the fence and the nasturtium bush tousled by the wind in the yellowed flowerbed.
I looked at the maple and saw how a red leaf carefully and slowly separated from the branch, shuddered, stopped in the air for an instant and began to fall obliquely at my feet, slightly rustling and swaying. For the first time I heard the rustling of a falling leaf - an unclear sound, like a child’s whisper.
My house
Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich
It’s especially good in the gazebo on quiet autumn nights, when the slow, sheer rain is making a low noise in the sala.
The cool air barely moves the candle tongue. Corner shadows from grape leaves lie on the ceiling of the gazebo. Moth, looking like a lump of gray raw silk, sits on an open book and leaves the finest shiny dust on the page. It smells like rain - a gentle and at the same time pungent smell of moisture, damp garden paths.
At dawn I wake up. The fog rustles in the garden. Leaves are falling in the fog. I pull a bucket of water out of the well. A frog jumps out of the bucket. I douse myself with well water and listen to the shepherd’s horn - he is still singing far away, right at the outskirts.
It's getting light. I take the oars and go to the river. I'm sailing in the fog. The East is turning pink. The smell of smoke from rural stoves can no longer be heard. All that remains is the silence of the water and the thickets of centuries-old willows.
Ahead is a deserted September day. Ahead - lost in this huge world fragrant foliage, grass, autumn withering, calm waters, clouds, low sky. And I always feel this confusion as happiness.
What types of rains are there?
Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich
(Excerpt from the story “Golden Rose”)
The sun sets in the clouds, smoke falls to the ground, swallows fly low, roosters crow endlessly in the courtyards, clouds stretch across the sky in long, misty strands - all these are signs of rain. And shortly before the rain, although the clouds have not yet gathered, a gentle breath of moisture can be heard. It must be brought from where the rains have already fallen.
But now the first drops begin to drip. People's word“drip* well conveys the occurrence of rain when rare drops leave dark specks on dusty paths and roofs.
Then the rain disperses. It is then that the wonderful cool smell of earth, moistened for the first time with the squeeze, appears. It doesn't last long. It is replaced by the smell of wet grass, especially nettle.
It is characteristic that, no matter what kind of rain it will be, as soon as it begins, it is always called very affectionately - rain. “The rain is gathering”, “the rain is falling”, “the rain is washing the grass”...
How, for example, does spore rain differ from mushroom rain?
The word “sporey” means fast, fast. The stinging rain is pouring vertically and heavily. He always approaches with a rushing noise.
The spore rain on the river is especially good. Each drop of it knocks out a round depression in the water, a small water bowl, jumps up, falls again, and is still visible at the bottom of this water bowl for a few moments before disappearing. The drop shines and looks like pearls.
At the same time, there is a glass ringing all over the river. By the height of this ringing you can guess whether the rain is gaining strength or subsiding.
And a fine mushroom rain sleepily falls from the low clouds. The puddles from this rain are always warm. He doesn’t ring, but whispers something of his own, soporific, and barely noticeably fidgets in the bushes, as if touching first one leaf and then another with a soft paw.
Forest humus and moss absorb this rain slowly and thoroughly. Therefore, after it, mushrooms begin to grow wildly - sticky boletus, yellow chanterelles, boletus mushrooms, ruddy saffron milk caps, honey mushrooms and countless toadstools.
During mushroom rains, the air smells of smoke and the cunning and cautious fish - the roach - takes it well.
People say about blind rain falling in the sun: “The princess is crying.” The sparkling sunny drops of this rain look like large tears. And who should cry such shining tears of grief or joy if not the fairy-tale beauty princess!
You can spend a long time following the play of light during the rain, the variety of sounds - from a measured knock on a plank roof and a liquid ringing in a drainpipe to a continuous, intense roar when the rain pours, as they say, like a wall.
All this is only an insignificant part of what can be said about rain...
The publication consists of two parts: “Dictations” and “Expositions”. The "Dictations" section contains spelling, punctuation and complex dictations, aimed both at practicing students' spelling skills and at testing knowledge. The section "Executions" presents a variety of texts for writing expositions with creative task And detailed statements. Fragments of works of Russian classical and foreign literature, popular science and journalistic articles. The manual is intended for teachers and students of secondary schools.
Autumn garden.
Since the end of September, the gardens have been empty, the weather, as usual, has changed dramatically. The wind tore and tore the trees for days on end, and the rains watered them from morning to night. Sometimes in the evening, between the gloomy low clouds, the flickering golden light of the low sun made its way in the west; the air became clean and clear, and sunlight sparkled dazzlingly between the foliage, between the branches that moved like a living net and were agitated by the wind. The liquid blue sky shone coldly and brightly in the north above the warm lead clouds, and from behind these clouds the ridges of snowy mountain-clouds slowly floated out. The wind did not subside. It disturbed the garden, tore up the continuously flowing stream of smoke from the chimney, and again brought up the ominous wisps of ash clouds. They ran low and fast. Its shine faded, the window into the blue sky closed, and the garden became deserted and boring, and the rain began to fall again... At first quietly, carefully, then more and more thickly and, finally, it turned into a downpour with storm and darkness.
From such a scolding, the garden emerged completely naked, covered with wet red leaves and somehow quiet and resigned. But how beautiful it was when clear weather came again, clear and cold days of early October, the farewell holiday of autumn! The preserved foliage will now hang on the trees until the first winter. The black garden will shine through the cold turquoise sky and dutifully wait for winter, warming itself in the sunshine.
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...I remember an early fine autumn. August was full of warm rains, as if falling on purpose for sowing, with rains right at the right time, in the middle of the month, around the feast of St. Lawrence. And “autumn and winter live well if the water is calm and there is rain on Laurentia.” After Indian summer a lot of cobwebs settled on the fields. This is also a good sign: “There is a lot of shade in the Indian summer - autumn is vigorous”... I remember an early, fresh, quiet morning... I remember a large, all golden, dried up and thinning garden, I remember maple alleys, the subtle aroma of fallen leaves and - the smell Antonov apples, the smell of honey and autumn freshness. The air is so clean, it’s as if there is no air at all; voices and the creaking of carts can be heard throughout the garden. These Tarkhans, bourgeois gardeners, hired men and poured apples in order to send them to the city at night - certainly on a night when it is so nice to lie on a cart, look into the starry sky, smell tar in the fresh air and listen to how carefully it creaks in the dark a long convoy along the high road. The man pouring the apples eats them with a juicy crackle one after another, but such is the establishment - the tradesman will never cut it off, but will also say: - Go ahead, eat your fill, there’s nothing to do! When pouring, everyone drinks honey. And the cool silence of the morning is disturbed only by the well-fed cackling 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 one can see far away the road to the large hut, strewn with straw, and the hut itself, near which the townspeople acquired an entire household over the summer. Everywhere there is a strong smell of apples, especially here. There are beds in the hut, there is a single-barreled gun, a green samovar, and dishes in the corner. Near the hut there are mats, boxes, all sorts of tattered belongings, and an earthen stove has been dug. At noon, a magnificent kulesh with lard is cooked on 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 near the hut, and red headdresses constantly flash behind the trees. There is a crowd of lively single-yard girls in sundresses that smell strongly of paint, the “lords” come in their beautiful and rough, savage costumes, a young elder woman, pregnant, with a wide, sleepy face and as important as a Kholmogory cow. She has “horns” on her head - the braids are placed on the sides of the crown and covered with several scarves, so that the head seems huge; the legs, in ankle boots with horseshoes, stand stupidly and firmly; the sleeveless vest is velvet, the curtain is long, and the poneva is black and purple with brick-colored stripes and lined at the hem with a wide gold “prose”... - Household butterfly! - the tradesman says about her, shaking his head. — These are now being translated... And the boys in fancy white shirts and short porticoes, with white with open heads, everyone comes up. They walk in twos and threes, shuffling their bare feet, and glance sideways at the shaggy shepherd dog tied to an apple tree. Of course, only one buys, because the purchases are only for a penny or an egg, but there are many buyers, trade is brisk, and the consumptive tradesman in a long frock coat and red boots is cheerful. Together with his brother, a burry, nimble half-idiot who lives with him “out of mercy,” he trades in jokes, jokes and even sometimes “touches” the Tula harmonica. And until the evening there is a crowd of people in the garden, you can hear laughter and talking around the hut, and sometimes the clatter of dancing... By nightfall the weather becomes very cold and dewy. Having inhaled the rye aroma of new straw and chaff on the threshing floor, you cheerfully walk home for dinner past the garden rampart. Voices in the village or the creaking of gates can be heard unusually clearly in the chilly dawn. 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: as if in a corner of hell, a crimson flame, surrounded by darkness, is burning near the hut, and someone’s black silhouettes, as if carved from ebony wood, are moving around the fire, while giant shadows from them walk across the apple trees . Either a black hand several arshins in size will fall across the entire tree, then two legs will clearly appear - two black pillars. And suddenly all this will slide from the apple tree - and the shadow will fall along the entire alley, from the hut to the gate itself... Late at night, when the lights in the village go out, when the diamond constellation Stozhar is already shining high in the sky, you will run into the garden again. Rustle through the dry leaves, like a blind man, you will reach the hut. There in the clearing it is a little lighter, and the Milky Way is white above your head. - Is it you, barchuk? - someone quietly calls out from the darkness. - I am. Are you still awake, Nikolai? - We can't sleep. And it must be too late? Look, there seems to be a passenger train coming... We listen for a long time and discern trembling in the ground, the trembling turns into noise, grows, and now, as if already just outside the garden, the noisy beat of the wheels is rapidly beating out: rumbling and knocking, the train rushes by... closer, closer, louder and angrier... And suddenly it begins to subside, die out, as if going into the ground... - Where is your gun, Nikolai? - But next to the box, sir. You throw up a single-barreled shotgun, heavy as a crowbar, and shoot straight away. The crimson flame will flash towards the sky with a deafening crack, blind for a moment and extinguish the stars, and a cheerful echo will ring out like a ring and roll across the horizon, fading far, far away in the clean and sensitive air. - Wow, great! - the tradesman will say. - Spend it, spend it, little gentleman, otherwise it’s just a disaster! Again they shook off all the gunk on the shaft... 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!II
“Vigorous Antonovka - for a fun year.” Village affairs are good if the Antonovka crop is cropped: that means the grain crop is cropped... I remember a fruitful year. At early dawn, when the roosters were still crowing and the huts were smoking black, you would open the window into a cool garden filled with a lilac fog, through which the morning sun shines brightly here and there, and you couldn’t resist - you ordered to quickly saddle the horse, and you yourself ran wash at the pond. Almost all of the small foliage has flown off the coastal vines, and the branches are visible in the turquoise sky. The water under the vines became clear, icy, and seemingly heavy. It instantly drives away the laziness of the night, and, having washed and had breakfast in the common room with the workers, hot potatoes and black bread with coarse raw salt, you enjoy feeling the slippery leather of the saddle under you as you ride through Vyselki 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 and a whole golden city rises on the threshing floors, and geese cackle loudly and sharply on the river in the morning, then 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 old men and women lived in Vyselki for a very long time - the first sign of a rich village - and they were all tall, big and white, like a harrier. All you heard was: “Yes,” Agafya waved off her eighty-three year old!” - or conversations like this: - And when will you die, Pankrat? I suppose you will be a hundred years old? - How would you like to speak, father? - How old are you, I ask! - I don’t know, sir, father. - Do you remember Platon Apollonich? “Why, sir, father,” I clearly remember. - You see now. That means you are no less than a hundred. The old man, who stands stretched out in front of the master, smiles meekly and guiltily. Well, they say, what to do - it’s my fault, it’s healed. And he probably would have prospered even more if he had not eaten too much onions in Petrovka. I remember his old woman too. Everyone used to sit on a bench, on the porch, bent over, shaking his head, gasping for breath and holding onto the bench with his hands, all thinking about something. “About her goods,” the women said, because, indeed, she had a lot of “goods” in her chests. But she doesn’t seem to hear; he looks half-blindly into the distance from under sadly raised eyebrows, shakes his head and seems to be trying to remember something. She was a big old woman, kind of dark all over. Paneva is almost from the last century, the chestnuts are like those of a deceased person, the neck is yellow and withered, the shirt with rosin joints is always white-white, “you could even put it in a coffin.” And near the porch lay a large stone: I bought it for my grave, as well as a shroud, an excellent shroud, with angels, with crosses and with a prayer printed on the edges. The courtyards in Vyselki also matched the old people: brick, built by their grandfathers. And the rich men - Savely, Ignat, Dron - had huts in two or three connections, because sharing in Vyselki was not yet fashionable. In such families they kept bees, were proud of their gray-iron-colored bull stallion, and kept their estates in order. On the threshing floors there were dark and thick hemp trees, there were barns and barns covered with hair; in the bunks and barns there were iron doors, behind which canvases, spinning wheels, new sheepskin coats, type-setting harnesses, and measures bound with copper hoops were stored. Crosses were burned on the gates and on the sleds. And I remember that sometimes it seemed extremely tempting to me to be a man. When you used to drive through the village on a sunny morning, you kept thinking about how good it would be to mow, thresh, sleep on the threshing floor in brooms, and on a holiday to rise with the sun, under the thick and musical blast from the village, wash yourself near the barrel and put on a clean pair of clothes. a shirt, the same trousers and indestructible boots with horseshoes. If, I thought, I add to this a healthy and beautiful wife in festive attire, and a trip to mass, and then dinner with my bearded father-in-law, a dinner with hot lamb on wooden plates and with rushes, with honeycomb honey and mash, then I could only wish for more impossible! 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, old-world prosperity. Such, for example, was the estate of Aunt Anna Gerasimovna, who lived about twelve versts from Vyselki. By the time you get to this estate, it’s already completely impoverished. With dogs in packs you have to walk at a pace, and you don’t want to rush - it’s so much fun in an open field on a sunny and cool day! The terrain is flat, you can see far away. The sky is light and so spacious and deep. The sun sparkles from the side, and the road, rolled by carts after the rains, is oily and shines like rails. Fresh, lush green winter crops are scattered around in wide schools. A hawk will fly up from somewhere in the transparent air and freeze in one place, fluttering its sharp wings. And clearly visible ones run away into the clear distance telegraph poles, and their wires, like silver strings, slide along the slope of the clear sky. There are falcons sitting on them - completely black icons on music paper. I didn’t know or see serfdom, but I remember feeling it at my aunt Anna Gerasimovna’s. You drive into the yard and immediately feel that it is still quite alive here. The estate is small, but all old, solid, surrounded by hundred-year-old birch and willow trees. There are a lot of outbuildings - low, but homely - and all of them seem to be made of dark oak logs under thatched roofs. The only thing that stands out in size, or better yet, in length, is the blackened human one, from which the last Mohicans of the courtyard class peek out - some decrepit old men and women, a decrepit retired cook, looking like Don Quixote. When you drive into the yard, they all pull themselves up and bow low and low. A gray-haired coachman, heading from the carriage barn to pick up a horse, takes off his hat while still at the barn and walks around the yard with his head bare. He rode as a postilion for his aunt, and now he takes her to mass - in the winter in a cart, and in the summer in a strong, iron-bound cart, like those that priests ride on. My aunt’s garden was famous for its neglect, nightingales, turtle doves and apples, and the house was famous for its roof. He stood at the head of the courtyard, right next to the garden - the branches of the linden trees hugged him - he was small and squat, but it seemed that he would not last a century - so thoroughly did he look from under his unusually high and thick thatched roof, blackened and hardened by time. 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 on the sides of these eyes there were porches - two old large porches with columns. Well-fed pigeons always sat on their pediment, while thousands of sparrows rained from roof to roof... 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 mahogany, dried linden blossom, which has been lying on the windows since June... In all the rooms - in the servant's room, in the hall, in the living room - it is cool and gloomy: this is because the house is surrounded by a garden, and the upper glass of the windows is colored: blue and purple . Everywhere there is silence and cleanliness, although it seems that the chairs, tables with inlays and mirrors in narrow and twisted gold frames have never been moved. And then a cough is heard: the aunt comes out. It is small, but, like everything around, it is durable. She has a large Persian shawl draped over her shoulders. She will come out importantly, but affably, and now, amid endless conversations about antiquity, about inheritances, treats begin to appear: first, “duli”, apples, Antonovsky, “bel-barynya”, borovinka, “plodovitka” - and then an amazing lunch : all through and through pink boiled ham with peas, stuffed chicken, turkey, marinades and red kvass - strong and sweet-sweet... The windows to the garden are raised, and the cheerful autumn coolness blows from there.III
Behind last years one thing supported the fading spirit of the landowners - hunting. Previously, such estates as the estate of Anna Gerasimovna were not uncommon. There were also decaying, but still living in grand style, estates with a huge estate, with a garden of twenty dessiatines. True, some of these estates have survived to this day, but there is no longer life in them... There are no troikas, no riding "Kirghiz", 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 empty, and the weather, as usual, has changed dramatically. The wind tore and tore the trees for days on end, and the rains watered them from morning to night. Sometimes in the evening, between the gloomy low clouds, the flickering golden light of the low sun made its way in the west; the air became clean and clear, and the sunlight sparkled dazzlingly between the foliage, between the branches, which moved like a living net and were agitated by the wind. The liquid blue sky shone coldly and brightly in the north above the heavy lead clouds, and from behind these clouds ridges of snowy mountain-clouds slowly floated out. You stand at the window and think: “Maybe, God willing, the weather will clear up.” But the wind did not subside. It disturbed the garden, tore up the continuously flowing stream of human smoke from the chimney, and again drove up the ominous strands of ash clouds. They ran low and fast - and soon, like smoke, they clouded the sun. Its shine faded, the window into the blue sky closed, and the garden became deserted and boring, and the rain began to fall again... at first quietly, carefully, then more and more thickly and, finally, it turned into a downpour with storm and darkness. A long, anxious night was coming... After such a scolding, the garden emerged almost completely naked, covered with wet leaves and somehow quiet and resigned. But how beautiful it was when clear weather came again, clear and cold days of early October, the farewell holiday of autumn! The preserved foliage will now hang on the trees until the first winter. The black garden will shine through the cold turquoise sky and dutifully wait for winter, warming itself in the sunshine. And the fields are already turning sharply black with arable land and brightly green with overgrown winter crops... It's time to hunt! And now I see myself in the estate of Arseny Semenych, in a big house, in a hall full of sun and smoke from pipes and cigarettes. There are a lot of people - all the people are tanned, with weathered faces, wearing shorts and long boots. They have just had a very hearty lunch, are flushed and excited by noisy conversations about the upcoming hunt, but do not forget to finish the vodka after dinner. And in the yard a horn blows and dogs howl in different voices. The black greyhound, Arseny Semenych's favorite, climbs onto the table and begins to devour the remains of the hare with sauce from the dish. But suddenly he lets out a terrible squeal and, knocking over plates and glasses, rushes off the table: Arseny Semenych, who came out of the office with an arapnik and a revolver, suddenly deafens the room with a shot. The hall fills with smoke even more, and Arseny Semenych stands and laughs. - It's a pity that I missed! - he says, playing with his eyes. He is tall, thin, but broad-shouldered and slender, with a handsome gypsy face. His eyes sparkle wildly, he is very dexterous, wearing a crimson silk shirt, velvet trousers and long boots. Having frightened both the dog and the guests with a shot, he jokingly and importantly recites in a baritone voice:It's time, it's time to saddle the agile bottom
And throw the ringing horn over your shoulders! —
And he says loudly:
- Well, however, there is no need to waste golden time! I can still feel how greedily and capaciously my young breast breathed in the cold of a clear and damp day in the evening, when you used to ride with Arseny Semenych’s noisy gang, excited by the musical din of dogs abandoned in the black forest, to some Krasny Bugor or Gremyachiy Island, Its name alone excites the hunter. You ride on an angry, strong and squat “Kyrgyz”, holding it tightly with the reins, and you feel almost fused with it. He snorts, asks to trot, rustles noisily with his hooves on the deep and light carpets of black crumbling leaves, and every sound resounds echoingly in the empty, damp and fresh forest. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, another, a third answered it passionately and pitifully - and suddenly the whole forest began to rattle, as if it were all made of glass, from violent barking and screaming. A shot rang out loudly among this din - and everything “cooked up” and rolled off into the distance. - Take care! - someone screamed in a desperate voice throughout the forest. “Oh, take care!” - an intoxicating thought flashes through your head. You whoop at your horse and, like someone who has broken free from a chain, you rush through the forest, not understanding anything along the way. Only the trees flash before my eyes and the mud from under the horse’s hooves hits my face. You will jump out of the forest, you will see a motley pack of dogs on the greens, stretched out on the ground, and you will push the “Kirghiz” even more against the beast - through the greens, shoots and stubbles, until, finally, you roll over to another island and the pack disappears from sight along with its frantic barking and moaning. Then, all wet and trembling from exertion, you rein in the foaming, wheezing horse and greedily swallow the icy dampness of the forest valley. The cries of hunters and the barking of dogs fade away in the distance, and there is dead silence around you. The half-opened timber stands motionless, and it seems that you have found yourself in some kind of protected palace. The ravines smell strongly of mushroom dampness, rotten leaves and wet tree bark. And the dampness from the ravines is becoming more and more noticeable, the forest is getting colder and darker... It's time to spend the night. But collecting dogs after a hunt is difficult. For a long time and hopelessly sadly the horns ring in the forest, for a long time you can hear the screams, swearing and squealing of dogs... Finally, already completely in the dark, a band of hunters bursts into the estate of some almost unknown bachelor landowner and fills the entire courtyard of the estate with noise, which is illuminated lanterns, candles and lamps brought out from the house to greet guests... It happened that with such a hospitable neighbor the hunt lasted for several days. At early morning dawn, in the icy wind and the first wet winter, they left for the forests and fields, and by dusk they returned again, all covered in dirt, with flushed faces, smelling of horse sweat, the hair of a hunted animal - and the drinking began. The bright and crowded house is very warm after a whole day in the cold in the field. Everyone walks from room to room in unbuttoned shirts, drinking and eating randomly, noisily conveying to each other their impressions of the dead man. like a seasoned wolf, who, baring his teeth and rolling his eyes, lies with his fluffy tail thrown to the side in the middle of the hall and stains the floor with his pale and already cold blood. 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. Your weathered face is burning, and if you close your eyes, the whole earth will float under your feet. And when you lie down in bed, in a soft feather bed, somewhere in a corner old room with an icon and a lamp, ghosts of fiery-colored dogs flash before your eyes, a feeling of galloping ache in your whole body, and you won’t notice how you’ll drown along with all these images and sensations in sweets and healthy sleep, even forgetting that this room was once the prayer room of an old man, whose name is surrounded by gloomy serf legends, and that he died in this prayer room, probably on the same bed. When I happened to oversleep the hunt, the rest was especially pleasant. You wake up and lie in bed for a long time. There is silence throughout the whole house. You can hear the gardener carefully walking through the rooms, lighting the stoves, and the firewood crackling and shooting. Ahead lies a whole day of peace in the already silent winter 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 will seem unusually tasty, not at all like the others. Then you’ll get to work on books—grandfather’s books in thick leather bindings, with gold stars on morocco spines. These books, similar to church breviaries, smell wonderful with their yellowed, thick, rough paper! Some kind of pleasant sour mold, old perfume... The notes in their margins are also good, large and with round soft strokes made with a quill pen. You unfold the book and read: “A thought worthy of ancient and modern philosophers, the color of reason and feelings of the heart”... And you will involuntarily become carried away by the book itself. This is “The Noble Philosopher,” an allegory published a hundred years ago by the dependent of some “chevalier of many orders” and printed in the printing house of the order of public charity, a story about how “a noble philosopher, having time and the ability to reason, to to which the human mind can rise, I once received the desire to compose a plan of light in a spacious place of my village. Erasmus composed in the sixth and tenth centuries a praise of tomfoolery (mannerly pause, full stop); you command me to extol reason before you...” Then from Catherine’s antiquity you will move on to romantic times, to almanacs, to sentimentally pompous and long novels... The cuckoo jumps out of the clock and crows mockingly and sadly at you in an empty house. And little by little a sweet and strange melancholy begins to creep into my heart... Here is “The Secrets of Alexis”, here is “Victor, or the Child in the Forest”: “Midnight strikes! Sacred silence takes the place of daytime noise and funny songs villagers Sleep spreads its dark wings over the surface of our hemisphere; he shakes off darkness and dreams from them... Dreams... How often do they continue only the suffering of the ill-fated!..” And favorite ancient words flash before their eyes: rocks and oak groves, pale moon and loneliness, ghosts and phantoms, “herots”, roses and lilies, “the pranks and frolics of young rascals,” the lily hand, Lyudmila and Alina... And here are the magazines with the names: Zhukovsky, Batyushkov, lyceum student Pushkin. And with sadness you will remember your grandmother, her polonaises on the clavichord, her languid reading of poems from Eugene Onegin. And the old dreamy life will appear before you... Good girls and women once lived in noble estates! Their portraits look at me from the wall, aristocratically beautiful heads in ancient hairstyles meekly and femininely lower their long eyelashes onto sad and tender eyes...
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