Ivan Bunin - late hour. Bunin

In Moscow, on Arbat, the mysterious love meetings pass, and the lady married, it rarely comes and briefly, suspecting that the husband is guessing and follows her. Finally, they negotiate together to go to the Black Sea coast in one train for 3-4 weeks. The plan succeeds and they are leaving. Knowing that the husband goes next. She gives him two addresses in Gelendzhik and Gagra, but they do not stop there, but hiding elsewhere, enjoying love. Husband, not finding her at one address, closes in the hotel room and shoots himself in whiskey at once from two pistols.

No longer a young hero lives in Moscow. He has money, but he suddenly decides to study painting and he even appears some successes. One day, a girl who seems to be a muse that is suddenly comes to him in the apartment. She says he heard about him, as an interesting person and wants to meet him. After a short conversation and tea, Muse suddenly kisses him for a long time in his lips and says - today it is impossible, until the day after tomorrow. From that day they already lived as newlyweds, were always together. In May, he moved to the estate near Moscow, she constantly went to him, and in June moved at all and began to live with him. On a visit to them often walked vilitary, local landowner. One day the main character came from the city, and there is no muse. I decided to go tovilovsky, complain that she was not. Having come to him, he was surprised to find it there. Coming out of the bedroom of the landowner, she said - all over, scenes are useless. Fucking, he went home.

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Ivan Alekseevich Bunin
Late hour

Oh, how long ago I was not there, I said to myself. From nineteen years old. He once lived in Russia, felt her his own, had complete freedom to drive around anywhere, and was not great to travel some three hundred miles. And everything did not go, everything was postponed. And we went and passed years, decades. But already you can not postpone more: or now, or never. It is necessary to use the only and most recent case, the benefit of the hour later and no one will meet me.

And I went on the bridge across the river, Far seeking everything around in the monthly light of the July night.

The bridge was such a friend, the former, for sure I saw him yesterday: Grub-ancient, humpbalance and as if not even a stone, and some kind of petrifying from time to eternal disadvantage, I thought the gymnasium that he was still with Bat. However, only some traces of urban walls on the cliff under the cathedral and this bridge speak about the antiquity of the city. All other old, provincial, no more. One thing was strange, one indicated that something else had changed in the world since I was a boy, young men: before the river was not shipping, and now it, right, looked down, cleared it; The month was to the left of me, pretty far over the river, and in his brightness of the world and in a shimmering, trembling glitter of Water Bell Wheel steamer, which seemed empty - so silent it was, - although all his portholes were illuminated, like fixed golden eyes And everyone was reflected in the water with a laid gold column: a steamer exactly on them and stood. It was in Yaroslavl, and in Suez Channel, and at Nile. In Paris, the nights are raw, dark, pose with a hazy glow on the impenetrable sky, the hay flows under the black resin bridges, but under them the string pillars of reflections from the lanterns on the bridges are hanging, only they are three-color: white, blue, red - Russian national flags. There is no lanterns on the bridge, and it is dry and dusty. And ahead, at the waters, darkening the garden, the fire calans sticks out above the gardens. Oh my God, what it was an unspeakable happiness! This, during a night fire, I first kissed your hand and you squeezed my answer - I will never forget this secret consent. The whole street of Chernela from the people in ominous, unusual insight. I was visiting you when suddenly scored a nabath and rushed to the windows, and then for the gate. It was burning far behind the river, but it's terribly hot, greedily hastily. There are thickly poured with black-bug man's rune clubs of smoke, the kuman panels of flames were highly pulled out of them, they were treated near us, trembling, copperly chopped in the dome of Mikhaila-Archangel. And in the cramp, in the crowd, among the alarming, then a foul, then a joyful show from everywhere escaped the simpleness, I heard the smell of your maiden hair, neck, a canvas dress - and that suddenly decided, took, having simping, your hand ...

Behind the bridge, I rose at the waters, went to the city with a paved road.

There was no single fire anywhere in the city, not a single living soul. Everything was a little and spacious, calm and sad - sadness of the Russian steppe night, sleeping steppe city. Some gardens are slightly audible, carefully trembled by foliage from the smooth current of the weak July wind, which drove from somewhere with the fields, gently blowing me. I walked - the big month was also walking, roll and through the branches in the black branches; The wide streets lay in the shadows - only in houses to the right, to which the shadow did not reach, were covered with white walls and a mourning gloss was overflowed; And I walked into the shadows, stepped on a spotted sidewalk, - he was black silk lace. She had such an evening dress, very elegant, long and slim. It unusually went to her thin mill and black young eyes. She was mysterious in him and offensively did not pay attention to me. Where was it? Visiting who?

My goal was to visit the old street. And I could go there to others, near. But I turned out to turn into these spacious streets in the gardens that I wanted to look at the gymnasium. And, having reached her, again wound up: and then everything remains like half a century ago; Stone fence, a stone courtyard, a large stone building in the yard - everything is also calm, boring, as was once, with me. I remembered at the gate, I wanted to induce sadness, the pity of the memories - and could not: Yes, it was one of the first-grader who was cut in the first-grader in a new blue Cartome with silver pallets over the visor and in a new cinema with silver buttons, then thin young man in gray jacket and in the pantle pantals with strips; But is it me?

The old street seemed to me only a little already, what seemed before. All the other was invariably. The bumpy pavement, not a single tree, on both sides of a dusty merchant houses, sidewalks are also bumpy, such that it is better to go among the streets, in a complete monthly light ... and the night was almost the same as that. Only that was at the end of August, when the whole city smells like apples, which mountains lie in the bazaars, and so the heat that the pleasure was to go in one spite of overgrown with the Caucasian strap ... Is it possible to remember this night somewhere in the sky?

I still did not decide to walk to your home. And he, right, did not change, but the worst of seeing him. Some strangers, new people live in it now. Your father, your mother, your brother - everyone survived you, young, but in his time they died too. Yes, and I all died; And not only relatives, but many, many, with whom I, in friendship or friendship, began life, have long been started, and they are sure that it will not be end, and it all started, flowed and ended in my eyes, - So quickly and in my eyes! And I sat down at the end of some merchant house, impregnable for my castles and gates, and began to think what she was in those distant, our times with her: just cleaned dark hair, a clear look, light tan of a young face, light summer The dress under which the impassionment, fortress and freedom of a young body ... It was the beginning of our love, time is still no darkened happiness, intimacy, gullibility, enthusiastic tenderness, joy ...

There is something very special in warm and bright nights of Russian county cities at the end of summer. What a world, what well-being! The old man with a beater is wandering along the nightly city, but only for his own pleasure: there is nothing to spin, sleep calmly, good people, you wakes up God's favor, this is a high shining sky, which carelessly looks the old man, wandering around the bridge and only occasionally, For fun, launching a beater dance trill. And here in this night, at that late hour, when he didn't sleep in the city alone, you waited for me in your already sniffed to the fall of the garden, and I secretly slipped into it: quietly challenged the gate, in advance of you, quietly, quietly and quickly ran In the yard and behind the barn, in the depths of the courtyard, entered the motley garde, where weakly Belejle away, on the bench under the apple trees, your dress, and, quickly approach, with joyful fright met the shine of your waiting eyes.

And we sat, sat in some perplexity of happiness. I hugged you with one hand, hearing the beat of your heart, to the other he kept your hand, feeling all of you through it. And it was already so late that even the beater was not heard, - I went somewhere on the bench and tried with a tube in the teeth of the old man, basking in the monthly light. When I looked to the right, I saw how high and sinlessly shines over the courtyard month and the roof of the house glitter. When I looked left, I saw the track with dry herbs, which disappeared under the other herbs, and there was a low green star low because of some other garden, a lonely green star, a thermally relaxed and at the same time, who was waiting for something silent. But the courtyard and the star I saw only a glimpse - one was in the world: lightweight dusk and radiant flickering of your eyes in dusk.

And then you spent me to the wicket, and I said:

- If there is a future life and we will meet in her, I will be on your knees and kiss your feet for everything you gave me on earth.

I left the middle of a light street and went to my distance. Wrapped, I saw that everything else was white in the gate.

Now, rising from the cabinet, I went back the same way, which came. No, I was, except for the old street, and another goal in which I was scared to confess myself, but the execution of which, I knew was inevitably. And I went - look and leave already forever.

The road was familiar again. Everything is straight, then to the left, in the bazaar, and from the bazaar - in monastic - to the departure from the city.

Bazaar - as if another city in the city. Very odorous ranks. In the root row, under the canopies over long tables and benches, gloomy. In the hardware hanging on the chain over the middle passage of the icon of the big-eyed rescue in a rusty salary. In the fluttering in the morning they always ran, roared on the pavement of the whole packs of pigeons. You go to the gymnasium - how many of them! And all the fat, with rainbow gobles - pee and run, feminine, shyly, wagging, shaking, twitching the heads very much, as if not noticing you: take off, whistling with wings, only then when you almost come to some of them. And at night, large dark rats, nasty and terrible rushes quickly and concernedly.

Monastery Street - a span in the fields and the road: one of the city home, to the village, others - to the city of the dead. In Paris, two days allocated the house number such on such a street from all other houses of the plating, his mourning with silver framed, two days lies in the entrance on the mourning cover of the table of paper in a mourning kime - on it samples polite visitors; Then, in a certain deadline, it stops at the entrance to a huge, mourning dietary, chariot, the tree of which is black and resin, like a plane coffin, roundly carved floors of the Baldakhin testify to the heavens of large white stars, and the corners of the roof are crowned with black sultans - the feathers of ostrich from underworld; In the chariot, the tall monsters in coal horned abacks with white rings of the eye were pronounced; At endlessly high goats sits and waiting for the old rugger, also symbolically fitted in the butaforous sobric uniform and the same triangular hat, internally, must always be grinning for these solemn words: "Requiem Aeternam Dona Eis, Domine, Et Lux Perpetua Luseat EIS" 1
God give them eternal peace, Lord, and yes the eternal light shines them (Lat.).

. - everything is different. Blowing from the fields in the monastic breeze, and they carry the open coffin on the towels towels, rice a rice face with a motley wedge on his forehead, over closed convex centuries. So carried it and her.

On the road, to the left of the highway, the monastery of the Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich, the serfs, always closed gates and the fortress walls, because of which the gilded reins of the cathedral are shiny. Further, completely in the field, a very extensive square of other walls, but low: a whole grove was concluded, broken by intersecting long prospectuses, on the sides of which, under old knitters, limes and birchings, are all dirty with various crosses and monuments. The gate was revealed here, and I saw the main prospectus, even, endless. I looked off my hat and entered. As late and as a nebo! The month stood behind the trees is already low, but everything around, as far as the eyes grabbed, it was still clearly visible. The whole space of this grove of the dead, crosses and monuments of her patorno variety in a transparent shadow. The wind verse to the predestrous hour is light and dark spots, all those who twisted under the trees were sleeping. In gave groves, because of the cemetery church, suddenly something flashed and with mad speed, the dark ball rushed at me - I, beyond myself, stagged to the side, my head immediately gottennell and strung out, the heart rushed and froze ... what It was? Swept and disappeared. But the heart in the chest remains standing. And so, with a heart stopped, carrying him in himself as a serious bowl, I moved further. I knew where to go, I walked everything directly on the avenue - and at the very end of him, already a few steps from the back wall, stopped: in front of me, in a flat place, among dry herbs, lonely lay an extended and pretty narrow stone, head to Wall. Because of the wall, the wonderful gem was glared a low green star, radiant, like that, former, but dumb, fixed.

Late hour

Oh, how long ago I was not there, I said to myself. From nineteen years old. He once lived in Russia, felt her his own, had complete freedom to drive around anywhere, and was not great to travel some three hundred miles. And everything did not go, everything was postponed. And we went and passed years, decades. But already you can not postpone more: or now, or never. It is necessary to use the only and most recent case, the benefit of the hour later and no one will meet me.

And I went on the bridge across the river, Far seeking everything around in the monthly light of the July night.

The bridge was such a friend, the former, for sure I saw him yesterday: Grub-ancient, humpbalance and as if not even a stone, and some kind of petrifying from time to eternal disadvantage, I thought the gymnasium that he was still with Bat. However, only some traces of urban walls on the cliff under the cathedral and this bridge speak about the antiquity of the city. All other old, provincial, no more. One thing was strange, one indicated that something else had changed in the world since I was a boy, young men: before the river was not shipping, and now it, right, looked down, cleared it; The month was to the left of me, pretty far over the river, and in his brightness of the world and in a shimmering, trembling glitter of Water Bell Wheel steamer, which seemed empty - so silent it was, - although all his portholes were illuminated, like fixed golden eyes And everyone was reflected in the water with a laid gold column: a steamer exactly on them and stood. It was in Yaroslavl, and in Suez Channel, and at Nile. In Paris, the nights are raw, dark, pose with a hazy glow at the impenetrable sky, the hay flows under the bridges of black resin, but under them the string pillars of reflections from the lanterns on the bridges are also hanging, only they are three-color: white, blue and red - Russian national flags. There is no lanterns on the bridge, and it is dry and dusty. And ahead, at the waters, darkening the garden, the fire calans sticks out above the gardens. Oh my God, what it was an unspeakable happiness! This, during a night fire, I first kissed your hand and you squeezed my answer - I will never forget this secret consent. The whole street of Chernela from the people in ominous, unusual insight. I was visiting you when suddenly scored a nabath and rushed to the windows, and then for the gate. It was burning far behind the river, but it's terribly hot, greedily hastily. There were thickly piled with black-and-bug manrooms of smoke clubs, the kuman panels of flames were highly broken out of them, near us, trembling, trembling, copperly chopped in the dome Mikhail Archangel. And in the cramped, in the crowd, among the alarming, then a lifelby, then a joyful show from everywhere escaped common people, I heard the smell of your maiden hair, neck, a canvas dress - and so suddenly decided, I took it all silence, your hand ...

Behind the bridge, I rose at the waters, went to the city with a paved road.

There was no single fire anywhere in the city, not a single living soul. Everything was a little and spacious, calm and sad - sadness of the Russian steppe night, sleeping steppe city. Some gardens are slightly audible, carefully trembled by foliage from the smooth current of the weak July wind, which drove from somewhere with the fields, gently blowing me. I walked - the big month was also walking, roll and through the branches in the black branches; The wide streets lay in the shadows - only in houses to the right, to which the shadow did not reach, were covered with white walls and a mourning gloss was overflowed; And I walked into the shadows, stepped on a spotted sidewalk, - he was black silk lace. She had such an evening dress, very elegant, long and slim. It unusually went to her thin mill and black young eyes. She was mysterious in him and offensively did not pay attention to me. Where was it? Visiting who?

My goal was to visit the old street. And I could go there to others, near. But I turned out to turn into these spacious streets in the gardens that I wanted to look at the gymnasium. And, having reached her, again wound up: and then everything remains like half a century ago; Stone fence, a stone courtyard, a large stone building in the yard - everything is also calm, boring, as was once, with me. I remembered at the gate, I wanted to call sadness, the pity of the memories - and could not: Yes, he entered the first-grader's first-graded barking on the bark in a new blue cardue with silver pallets over the visor and in a new cinema with silver buttons, then a thin young man in gray jacket and in the pantle pantals with strips; But is it me?

The old street seemed to me only a little already, what seemed before. All the other was invariably. The bumpy pavement, not a single tree, on both sides of a dusty merchant houses, sidewalks are also bumpy, such that it is better to go among the streets, in a complete monthly light ... and the night was almost the same as that. Only that was at the end of August, when the whole city smells like apples, which the mountains lie in the bazaars, and so the warmth that the pleasure was to go in one spite of the Caucasian strap ... Is it possible to remember this night somewhere in Heaven?