It was getting dark quickly, I walked closer to the forests. I. A. Bunin “The Pass” The night is long, and I am still wandering through the mountains to the pass, wandering under the wind, among the cold fog, and hopelessly, but obediently, a wet, tired horse follows me, clinking empty stirrups.

I. A. Bunin († 1953)

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin(1870 - 1953) - Russian writer. Belonged to an old noble family. Born October 22, 1870 in Voronezh. He spent his early childhood in a small family estate (farm Butyrki, Yelets district, Oryol province). At the age of ten he was sent to the Yelets Gymnasium, where he studied for four and a half years, was expelled (for non-payment of tuition fees) and returned to the village. Received home education. Already in childhood, B.'s extraordinary impressionability and susceptibility manifested itself, qualities that formed the basis of his artistic personality and caused an image of the surrounding world hitherto unseen in Russian literature in terms of sharpness and brightness, as well as the richness of shades. B. recalled: “ My eyesight was such that I saw all the seven stars in the Pleiades, heard the whistle of a marmot in the evening field a mile away, got drunk, smelling the smell of a lily of the valley or an old book". B. made his debut as a poet in 1887. In 1891, the first book of poems was published in Orel. At the same time, the writer began to be published in the capital's magazines, and his work attracted the attention of literary celebrities (criticism of N. K. Mikhailovsky, poet A. M. Zhemchuzhnikov), who helped B. publish poems in the journal Vestnik Evropy. In 1896, Bunin published his translation of G. Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha. With the release of the collection "To the End of the World" (1897), "Under the Open Sky" (1898), "Poems and Stories" (1900), "Leaf Fall" (1901), Bunin gradually asserts his original place in the artistic life of Russia. more>>

Works

I. A. Bunin († 1953)
Stories.

Pass.

H It's been a long time, but I'm still wandering through the mountains to the pass, wandering under the wind, in the midst of a cold fog, and hopelessly, but obediently, a wet, tired horse follows me, clinking empty stirrups.

AT twilight, resting at the foot of the pine forests, behind which this bare and deserted ascent begins, I still cheerfully looked into the immense depth below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look from a great height. There, far below, one could still make out the lights in the darkening valley, on the shores of the narrow bay, which, leaving to the east, expanded more and more and, rising like a foggy blue wall, hugged the sky high. But night was already falling in the mountains. It grew dark quickly, and as I approached the forests, the mountains grew more and more gloomy and majestic, and into the spans between their spurs, with stormy swiftness, thick gray fog fell in oblique, long clouds, driven by a storm from above. He fell from the height of the plateau, which he enveloped in a giant loose ridge, and with his fall sharply emphasized the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. It has already smoked the pine forest, growing before me together with the deaf, deep and unsociable hum of the pines. There was a breeze of winter freshness, a rush of snow and wind... Night fell, and I walked for a long time under the dark vaults of the mountain forest, buzzing in the fog, trying somehow to protect myself from the wind.

« With short pass, I said to myself. - The area is safe and familiar, and in two or three hours I will be in the calm behind the mountains, in a bright and crowded house. Now it's getting dark early."

H Oh, half an hour, an hour passes ... Every minute it seems to me that the pass is two steps away from me, and the bare and rocky ascent does not end. The pine forests have long been left below, the stunted bushes twisted by storms have long since passed, and I begin to get tired and tremble from the cold wind and fog. I remember the cemetery of those who died at this height - several graves among a bunch of pines not far from the pass, in which some kind of Tatars-woodcutters are buried, thrown down from Yayla by a winter blizzard. These graves are already not far away - I feel what a wild and deserted height I am on, and from the realization that now there is only fog and cliffs around me, my heart shrinks. How will I get past the lonely memorial stones when they, like human figures, blacken in the mist? Can it be that only at the dead of midnight will I reach the pass? And will I have the strength to descend from the mountains, when even now I am losing the idea of time and place? But there is no time to think - you need to go!.

D far ahead, something vaguely blackens among the running fog ... These are some kind of dark hills, similar to sleeping bears. I climb over them from one stone to another, the horse, breaking off and clanging its horseshoes on wet pebbles, climbs with difficulty after me - and suddenly I notice that the road is again starting to slowly climb up the mountain! Then I stop, and despair seizes me. I tremble all over with tension and fatigue, my clothes are all soaked with snow, and the wind pierces through them. Shouldn't you scream for help? But now even the shepherds have crowded into their Homeric huts together with goats and sheep, which means that absolutely no one will hear me. And, looking around, I think with horror:

« B oh my! Am I lost? Is this my last night? And if not, how and where will I spend it? .. "

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

Z shielding myself from the wind, I turn to the horse. The only living being left with me! But the horse does not look at me. Wet, chilled, hunched under a high saddle, which clumsily sticks out on her back, she stands, obediently lowering her head with her ears flattened. And I angrily pull her by the reins and again expose my face to wet snow and wind, and again I stubbornly go towards them. When I try to see what surrounds me, I see only a gray, running mist that is blinding with snow, and I feel slippery, stony soil under my feet. When I listen closely, I distinguish only the whistling of the wind in my ears and the monotonous tinkling behind my back: these are stirrups knocking, colliding with each other ...

H oh, strange—my despair is beginning to strengthen me! I begin to walk more boldly, and a vicious reproach to someone for everything that I endure makes me happy. He is already moving into that gloomy and steadfast resignation to everything that needs to be endured, in which it is sweet to feel his growing grief and hopelessness ...

AT from, finally, and the pass. Now it is clear that I am at the highest point of the ascent, but I do not care. I am walking on a level and flat steppe, the wind carries the fog in long tufts and knocks me down, but I pay no attention to it. Already by one whistle of the wind and through the fog one can feel how deeply the late night has taken possession of the mountains, - for a long time already small people have been sleeping in the valleys in their small huts; but I'm not in a hurry, I go, gritting my teeth, and muttering, turning to the horse:

- H nothing, nothing, go! Let's trudge until we fall. - How many of these difficult and lonely passes have already been in my life! From early youth I entered from time to time into their fateful streak. Like night, sorrows, sufferings, illnesses and helplessness of my own and loved ones approached me, betrayals of my loved ones and bitter insults of friendship accumulated, and the hour of separation from everything I was used to and with which I was related came. And, reluctantly, I took in my hands my wandering staff. And the ascents to new happiness were high and difficult, night, fog and storm met me on the heights, and terrible loneliness seized me on the passes ... Never mind, we will trudge until we fall down!

With stumbling, I wander as in a dream. Far from morning. The whole night will have to go down to the valleys and only at dawn will it be possible, perhaps, to fall asleep somewhere in a dead sleep - to shrink and feel only one thing - the joy of warmth after the piercing cold and sweet rest - after the painful road.

D The day will again delight me with people and the sun, and again will deceive me for a long time and make me forget about the passes. But they will be again, and the most difficult and lonely - will be the last ... Somewhere I will fall and will forever remain in the middle of the night and blizzards on the bare and deserted mountains from time immemorial?

Source: Iv. Bunin. Volume One: Stories. - Third edition. - St. Petersburg: Publication of the partnership "Knowledge", 1904. - S. 1-5.

The night is long, and I am still wandering through the mountains to the pass, wandering under the wind, among the cold fog, and hopelessly, but obediently, a wet, tired horse follows me in a bridle, clinking empty stirrups. At dusk, resting at the foot of the pine forests, behind which this bare, desert ascent begins, I looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look from a great height. You could still make out the lights in the darkening valley far below, on the coast of a narrow bay, which, leaving to the east, kept expanding and, rising like a foggy blue wall, embraced half the sky. But it was already night in the mountains. It was getting dark quickly, I walked, approached the forests - and the mountains grew more and more gloomy and majestic, and thick fog, driven by a storm from above, fell into the spans between their spurs with stormy swiftness in oblique, long clouds. He fell off the plateau, which he enveloped in a giant loose ridge, and with his fall, as it were, increased the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. He was already smoking the forest, advancing on me along with the deaf, deep and unsociable rumble of pines. There was a breath of winter freshness, snow and wind blew ... Night fell, and I walked for a long time under the dark vaults of the mountain forest, buzzing in the fog, bowing my head from the wind. “Soon the pass,” I said to myself. “Soon I’ll be in a calm, behind the mountains, in a bright, crowded house ...” But half an hour, an hour passes ... Every minute it seems to me that the pass is two steps away from me, and the bare and stony ascent does not end. The pine forests have long been left below, the stunted, twisted bushes have long since passed, and I begin to get tired and tremble. I remember several graves among the pines not far from the pass, where some woodcutters are buried, thrown from the mountains by a winter storm. I feel at what a wild and deserted height I am, I feel that around me there is only fog, cliffs, and I think: how will I get past the lonely monument stones when they, like human figures, blacken among the fog? will I have the strength to descend from the mountains when I am already losing the idea of time and place? Ahead, something vaguely blackens among the running fog ... some dark hills that look like sleeping bears. I make my way along them, from one stone to another, the horse, breaking off and clanging with horseshoes on wet pebbles, climbs with difficulty after me - and suddenly I notice that the road is slowly starting to climb uphill again! Then I stop and despair seizes me. I am trembling all over with tension and fatigue, my clothes are all soaked with snow, and the wind pierces through them. Shouldn't you shout? But now even the shepherds have crowded into their Homeric huts along with the goats and sheep - who will hear me? And I look around in horror: - My God! Am I lost? Late. Bohr hums muffled and sleepy in the distance. The night is becoming more and more mysterious, and I feel it, although I do not know either the time or the place. Now the last light has gone out in the deep valleys, and a gray fog reigns over them, knowing that its hour has come, a long hour, when it seems that everything has died out on earth and the morning will never come, but the mists will only grow, enveloping the majestic in their the midnight guard of the mountain, the forests will hum dully over the mountains and the snow will fly thicker and thicker on the desert pass. Shielding myself from the wind, I turn to the horse. The only living being left with me! But the horse does not look at me. Wet, chilled, hunched under a high saddle, which clumsily sticks out on her back, she stands with her head obediently lowered with her ears flattened. And I viciously pull the reins, and again expose my face to wet snow and wind, and again stubbornly go towards them. When I try to see what surrounds me, I see only gray running darkness that blinds me with snow. When I listen closely, I distinguish only the whistling of the wind in my ears and the monotonous tinkling behind my back: these are stirrups knocking, colliding with each other ... But strangely - my despair begins to strengthen me! I begin to walk more boldly, and a vicious reproach to someone for everything that I endure makes me happy. He is already passing into that gloomy and steadfast obedience to everything that needs to be endured, in which hopelessness is sweet ... Finally, the pass. But I don't care anymore. I am walking on a level and flat steppe, the wind carries the fog in long tufts and knocks me down, but I pay no attention to it. Already by one whistle of the wind and through the fog one can feel how deeply the late night has taken possession of the mountains, - for a long time the little people have been sleeping in the valleys, in their small huts; but I'm not in a hurry, I'm walking, gritting my teeth, and muttering to the horse: - Go, go. We'll trudge until we fall. How many of these difficult and lonely passes have already been in my life! Like night, sorrows, sufferings, illnesses, betrayals of loved ones and bitter resentments of friendship approached me - and the hour of separation from everything with which I was related came. And, reluctantly, I again took up my wandering staff. And the ascents to new happiness were high and difficult, night, fog and storm met me at a height, terrible loneliness seized me on the passes ... But - let's go, let's go! Stumbling, I wander like in a dream. Far from morning. The whole night will have to go down to the valleys, and only at dawn will it be possible, perhaps, to fall asleep somewhere like a dead sleep - to shrink and feel only one thing - the sweetness of warmth after the cold. The day will again delight me with people and the sun, and again will deceive me for a long time ... Somewhere I will fall and forever remain in the middle of the night and blizzards on the bare and deserted mountains for centuries? 1892-1898

The night is long, and I am still wandering through the mountains to the pass, wandering under the wind, among the cold fog, and hopelessly, but obediently, a wet, tired horse follows me in a bridle, clinking empty stirrups.
At dusk, resting at the foot of the pine forests, behind which this bare, desert ascent begins, I looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look from a great height. You could still make out the lights in the darkening valley far below, on the coast of a narrow bay, which, leaving to the east, kept expanding and, rising like a foggy blue wall, embraced half the sky. But it was already night in the mountains. It was getting dark quickly, I walked, approached the forests - and the mountains grew more and more gloomy and majestic, and thick fog, driven by a storm from above, fell into the spans between their spurs with stormy swiftness in oblique, long clouds. He fell off the plateau, which he enveloped in a giant loose ridge, and with his fall, as it were, increased the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. He was already smoking the forest, advancing on me along with the deaf, deep and unsociable rumble of pines. There was a breath of winter freshness, snow and wind blew ... Night fell, and I walked for a long time under the dark vaults of the mountain forest, buzzing in the fog, bowing my head from the wind.
"Soon the pass," I said to myself. "Soon I'll be in the calm, beyond the mountains, in a bright, crowded house..."
But half an hour, an hour passes ... Every minute it seems to me that the pass is two steps away from me, and the bare and rocky ascent does not end. The pine forests have long been left below, the stunted, twisted bushes have long since passed, and I begin to get tired and tremble. I remember several graves among the pines not far from the pass, where some woodcutters are buried, thrown from the mountains by a winter storm. I feel at what a wild and deserted height I am, I feel that around me there is only fog, cliffs, and I think: how will I get past the lonely monument stones when they, like human figures, blacken among the fog? will I have the strength to descend from the mountains when I am already losing the idea of time and place?
Ahead, something vaguely blackens among the running fog ... some dark hills that look like sleeping bears. I make my way along them, from one stone to another, the horse, breaking off and clanging with horseshoes on wet pebbles, climbs with difficulty after me - and suddenly I notice that the road is slowly starting to climb uphill again! Then I stop and despair seizes me. I am trembling all over with tension and fatigue, my clothes are all soaked with snow, and the wind pierces through them. Shouldn't you shout? But now even the shepherds have crowded into their Homeric huts along with the goats and sheep - who will hear me? And I look around in horror:
- My God! Am I lost?
Late. Bohr hums muffled and sleepy in the distance. The night is becoming more and more mysterious, and I feel it, although I do not know either the time or the place. Now the last light has gone out in the deep valleys, and a gray fog reigns over them, knowing that its hour has come, a long hour, when it seems that everything has died out on earth and the morning will never come, but the mists will only grow, enveloping the majestic in their the midnight guard of the mountain, the forests will hum dully over the mountains and the snow will fly thicker and thicker on the desert pass.
Shielding myself from the wind, I turn to the horse. The only living being left with me! But the horse does not look at me. Wet, chilled, hunched under a high saddle, which clumsily sticks out on her back, she stands with her head obediently lowered with her ears flattened. And I viciously pull the reins, and again expose my face to wet snow and wind, and again stubbornly go towards them. When I try to see what surrounds me, I see only gray running darkness that blinds me with snow. When I listen closely, I distinguish only the whistling of the wind in my ears and the monotonous tinkling behind my back: these are stirrups knocking, colliding with each other ...
But strangely - my despair is beginning to strengthen me! I begin to walk more boldly, and a vicious reproach to someone for everything that I endure makes me happy. He is already passing into that gloomy and steadfast resignation to everything that needs to be endured, in which hopelessness is sweet ...
Here is the pass at last. But I don't care anymore. I am walking on a level and flat steppe, the wind carries the fog in long tufts and knocks me down, but I pay no attention to it. Already by one whistle of the wind and through the fog one can feel how deeply the late night has taken possession of the mountains, - for a long time the little people have been sleeping in the valleys, in their small huts; but I'm not in a hurry, I go, gritting my teeth, and muttering to the horse:
- Go, go. We'll trudge until we fall. How many of these difficult and lonely passes have already been in my life! Like night, sorrows, sufferings, illnesses, betrayals of loved ones and bitter resentments of friendship approached me - and the hour of separation from everything with which I was related came. And, reluctantly, I again took up my wandering staff. And the ascents to new happiness were high and difficult, night, fog and storm met me at a height, terrible loneliness seized me on the passes ... But - let's go, let's go!
Stumbling, I wander like in a dream. Far from morning. The whole night will have to go down to the valleys, and only at dawn will it be possible, perhaps, to fall asleep somewhere like a dead sleep - to shrink and feel only one thing - the sweetness of warmth after the cold.
The day will again delight me with people and the sun, and again will deceive me for a long time ... Somewhere I will fall and forever remain in the middle of the night and blizzards on the bare and deserted mountains for centuries?

"Pass"

At dusk, resting at the foot of the pine forests, behind which this bare, desert ascent begins, I looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look from a great height. You could still make out the lights in the darkening valley far below, on the coast of a narrow bay, which, leaving to the east, kept expanding and, rising like a foggy blue wall, embraced half the sky. But it was already night in the mountains. It was getting dark quickly, I walked, approached the forests - and the mountains grew more and more gloomy and majestic, and thick fog, driven by a storm from above, fell into the spans between their spurs with stormy swiftness in oblique, long clouds. He fell off the plateau, which he enveloped in a giant loose ridge, and with his fall, as it were, increased the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. He was already smoking the forest, advancing on me along with the deaf, deep and unsociable rumble of pines. There was a breath of winter freshness, snow and wind blew... Night fell, and I walked for a long time under the dark vaults of the mountain forest, buzzing in the fog, bowing my head from the wind.

“The pass is coming soon,” I said to myself. - Soon I will be in a calm, beyond the mountains, in a bright, crowded house ... "

But half an hour, an hour passes ... Every minute it seems to me that the pass is two steps away from me, and the bare and rocky ascent does not end. The pine forests have long been left below, the stunted, twisted bushes have long since passed, and I begin to get tired and tremble. I remember several graves among the pines not far from the pass, where some woodcutters are buried, thrown from the mountains by a winter storm. I feel at what a wild and deserted height I am, I feel that around me there is only fog, cliffs, and I think: how will I get past the lonely monument stones when they, like human figures, blacken among the fog? will I have the strength to descend from the mountains when I am already losing the idea of time and place?

Ahead, something vaguely blackens among the running fog ... some dark hills that look like sleeping bears. I make my way along them, from one stone to another, the horse, breaking off and clanging with horseshoes on wet pebbles, climbs with difficulty after me - and suddenly I notice that the road is slowly starting to climb uphill again! Then I stop and despair seizes me. I am trembling all over with tension and fatigue, my clothes are all soaked with snow, and the wind pierces through them. Shouldn't you shout? But now even the shepherds have crowded into their Homeric huts along with the goats and sheep - who will hear me? And I look around in horror:

My God! Am I lost?

Late. Bohr hums muffled and sleepy in the distance. The night is becoming more and more mysterious, and I feel it, although I do not know either the time or the place. Now the last light has gone out in the deep valleys, and a gray fog reigns over them, knowing that its hour has come, a long hour, when it seems that everything has died out on earth and the morning will never come, but the mists will only grow, enveloping the majestic in their the midnight guard of the mountain, the forests will hum dully over the mountains and the snow will fly thicker and thicker on the desert pass.

Shielding myself from the wind, I turn to the horse. The only living being left with me! But the horse does not look at me. Wet, chilled, hunched under a high saddle, which clumsily sticks out on her back, she stands with her head obediently lowered with her ears flattened. And I viciously pull the reins, and again expose my face to wet snow and wind, and again stubbornly go towards them. When I try to see what surrounds me, I see only gray running darkness that blinds me with snow. When I listen closely, I distinguish only the whistling of the wind in my ears and the monotonous tinkling behind my back: these are stirrups knocking, colliding with each other ...

But strangely - my despair is beginning to strengthen me! I begin to walk more boldly, and a vicious reproach to someone for everything that I endure makes me happy. He is already passing into that gloomy and steadfast resignation to everything that needs to be endured, in which hopelessness is sweet ...

Here is the pass at last. But I don't care anymore. I am walking on a level and flat steppe, the wind carries the fog in long tufts and knocks me down, but I pay no attention to it. Already by one whistle of the wind and through the fog one can feel how deeply the late night has taken possession of the mountains, - for a long time the little people have been sleeping in the valleys, in their small huts; but I'm not in a hurry, I go, gritting my teeth, and muttering to the horse:

Go, go. We'll trudge until we fall. How many of these difficult and lonely passes have already been in my life! Like night, sorrows, sufferings, illnesses, betrayals of loved ones and bitter resentments of friendship approached me - and the hour of separation from everything with which I was related came. And, reluctantly, I again took up my wandering staff. And the ascents to new happiness were high and difficult, night, fog and storm met me at a height, terrible loneliness seized me on the passes ... But - let's go, let's go!

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

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

Works

"Pass"

See also Bunin Ivan - Prose (stories, poems, novels ...):