RUSSIAN PSYCHOANALYTICAL BULLETIN
№ 5, 1996

Alexander LITVINOV

To the 125th anniversary of the birth of the writer

To warn that reading this or that writer requires empathy, that is, mental labor, means deliberately alienating many readers who, on the contrary, want to “relax”, tickle their nerves, and not bother themselves at all. If only for the "artistic pleasure" they might experience. "Why?" Maybe some will take the risk if they say: "For health", referring to the spiritual, but also the physical. The joy of seeing and understanding what is revealed in the symbols of true art is an incomparable gift of nature. Let's try to read Bunin again from the point of view of psychoanalysis, his story "Rusya" (1).

One does not have to be a psychoanalyst to understand that Rusya, the name of the main character of the story, symbolizes the writer's homeland, from which he was forcibly excommunicated. Obviously, when Bunin wrote "Rus", twenty years later, as he left Russia, "having drunk the cup of unspeakable mental suffering" (2), it was especially important for him, as a writer, to project his deep torment in the word. I think this is not only and not so much the pain of an aging man, his unfulfilled love, but the inescapable sadness and resentment of a son who was so early turned into a stepson by his own mother - Russia ...

Does the reader need to decipher it? He knows himself (although sometimes he does not realize). The feelings subtly conveyed by Bunin resurrect in the reader's memory traces of similar (they cannot but be, even in the bud!) Feelings from his life, consonant with the feelings of the author. With all the difference between mental and social experience. We call it projection. This phenomenon was well shown by the famous American psychotherapist M. Erickson at one of his seminars: “... everyone translates what he hears into his own language. As soon as I say “University of Wisconsin,” each of you will think of your own educational institution... I will start talking about my sisters, you will think about yours or that you do not have them. Each word resonates in a person depending on his life experience» (3).

The story "Rusya" begins with the fact that the train on which the hero travels around Russia with his wife makes an emergency stop. The hero recalls the events connected with this place twenty years ago: youth, tutoring for the son of strange owners of one house, “of course, in Russian cottage style”, love for the master's daughter. This reminiscence, regression occurs as a reaction to an obstacle (it is symbolized by a conductor crossing the road with a red lantern) of life moving forward - the train. Consciousness at such moments yields to the unconscious, which speaks to us primarily in the language of symbols, dreams, myths (in the clinic - also symptoms).

Let's try to decipher it. The manor in the hero's memories personifies the feminine aspect of the universe: a house, walls, a fenced garden. Behind the house, we see "some semblance of a garden, behind the garden is not the lake, not the swamp, overgrown with clumps and water lilies, and the inevitable punt near the marshy shore." The feeling of insecurity, neglect is emphasized by the symbol of the cradle - the boat; she, as we learn further, flows, can sink at any moment, she lacks one oar. The feeling of poverty, dullness, decay, apparently, is largely due to memories of the increasing poverty of Bunin's family when he was still a child. The image of the rejecting mother in the story is vividly embodied in the person of Mother Russia. We learn that she was "some kind of princess with oriental blood, she suffered from something like black melancholy." By the way, is it not because, displacing, Bunin prefers to call his heroine only derivatives of the full Russian female name"Marusya", cutting off the first syllable "ma ..."?

The father of Russia is completely faceless, even autistic. This is a retired military man, "silent, dry and tall", throughout the story he remains out of action. An important feature in such a laconic characterization should, in my opinion, be considered precisely dryness.
I recall another Bunin work - "Dry Valley", which sounds in many ways like a sentence to an impoverished noble family, doomed to degeneration without an influx of fresh blood. This further emphasizes the futility and unviability of what Bunin described in Rus.

“Simple and sweet” in this whole company is only the boy who was rehearsed by the hero. Perhaps the boy in the story personifies the creative forces of the unconscious.

Water in the story is another symbol of the unconscious, the essence of the beginning and end of everything on earth and a symbol of immeasurable, eternal Wisdom (4). Perhaps the writer turns to this image in the hope of reconciling what is contradictory in himself - love and hate, triumph and guilt. After physical intimacy with the hero, Rusya takes a bath in the night lake. This can be interpreted as a desire to displace into the unconscious (immerse in water) everything sexual, for the manifestations of which you can pay. But it is also an attempt to save, to immortalize something very significant, referring to water as an intermediary between Life and Death (“In living water hearts, in the pure moisture of love, sadness and tenderness, I immerse the roots of my past ”- I. Bunin).

The unconscious of the author places this water in the lake - the most mysterious of all reservoirs. The lake in human consciousness is associated with the relationship between the deep and the superficial. The ancient Egyptians believed that the sun "sleeps" in an underground lake. And in some temples, for example, in the temple of the god Amun in Karnak, there were artificial lakes, symbolizing the "lower waters" of the first matter. Another interpretation of the lake here is a comparison of its smooth surface with the surface of a mirror, which personifies self-contemplation, reflection and revelation, which both the hero, the author and the reader so need.

Another water-related symbol in the story is the Capricorn in Rus' fantasy. Apparently, this is an allegory of duality: the goat's figure ends in a fish's tail, which means two contradictory tendencies of life: towards the abyss-water and heights-mountains.

One of the walks of the heroes of the story is preceded by the removal with the help of an oar of a snake crawling into the boat - although it is safe, but still a snake. And this again symbolizes duality: the desire for intercourse, on the one hand, and the avoidance of sexuality, on the other. The snake is a symbol of energy as such, libido in the Freudian sense. And this is widely represented in various myths (remember, for example, the snake that kills the Prophetic Oleg). In Bunin, the snake is initially safe (already), and even that is expelled. In a psychological sense, according to K.-G. Jung, the snake is a symbol of suffering, the desire to avoid which in the story drives the snake out of the boat - the love bed. This interpretation can be supplemented by drawing attention to another symbol - a pair of cranes that did not let anyone in except Russia. Among other things, these cranes killed snakes (they could suppress sexual impulses). Perhaps, here it is a symbol of the "ideal Self" - an allegory of a righteous and merciful soul. Something that the hero and his beloved never achieved, but did not achieve.

Another interesting point. During a walk with Rusya on a boat, the hero asks her to put her cap on the bench next to her. Rusya then puts him on her knees, then presses him to her chest. Since the headdress reflects the meaning of what is happening in the head, that is, the meaning of thoughts, we see the projection of the hero's (author's) aspirations to be understood and close to the heart of his beloved (homeland).

But that doesn't happen. The secret becomes clear, and the half-witted mother of Russia shamefully expels the hero from her house, empty shooting at him with a pistol, with which she then cuts his eyebrow (improvisation on the theme of the myth of Oedipus - punishment by encroaching on the organ of vision? ..). This is payback for "sin". The hysterical mother threatens the heroine with suicide, and Rusya renounces her lover.

Twenty years later, over cognac, he recalls a dacha girl with bony feet and talks about her to his wife already in “another life” (in another country, in another culture) in Latin incomprehensible to that one: “Beloved by us, like no other, will not be loved !
Literature
1. Russian novelistics of the Soviet era. Collection of artistic texts. - Budapest: Tankonivkiado, 1977. - S. 45-53.
2. History of Russian literature: XX century Silver Age / Ed. J. Niva, I. Serman, V. Strada and E. Etkind. - M.: Ed. group "Progress" - "Litera", 1995. - 704 p.
3. Seminar with MD Milton G. Erickson // Editorial and commentary by J.K. Zeig. - M.: Independent firm "Class", 1994. - S. 66.
4 . Kerlot Juan Eduardo. Dictionary of symbols. - M.: "REFL-book", 1994. 608 p.

Current page: 1 (total book has 1 pages)

At eleven o'clock in the evening, the express train Moscow - Sevastopol stopped at a small station outside Podolsk, where it was not supposed to stop, and was waiting for something on the second track. On the train, a gentleman and a lady approached the lowered window of the first-class carriage. A conductor with a red lantern in his hanging hand was crossing the rails, and the lady asked:

Listen, why are we standing?

The conductor replied that the oncoming courier was late.

The station was dark and sad. Twilight had long since set in, but in the west, behind the station, behind the blackening wooded fields, the long summer dawn of Moscow still shone deathly. There was a damp smell of swamp in the window. In the silence was heard from somewhere the even and, as it were, raw creak of the twitch.

He leaned against the window, she leaned on his shoulder.

“I once lived in this area on vacation,” he said. - I was a tutor in a country estate, about five miles from here. Boring area. Small forest, magpies, mosquitoes and dragonflies. No view anywhere. In the estate, one could only admire the horizon from the mezzanine. The house, of course, was in the Russian dacha style and very neglected - the owners were impoverished people - behind the house there is some semblance of a garden, behind the garden is not that lake, not that swamp, overgrown with kuga and water lilies, and the inevitable punt near the marshy shore.

- And, of course, the bored country girl that you rolled through this swamp.

- Yes, everything is as it should be. Only the girl was not at all bored. I rolled it more and more at night, and it came out even poetically. In the west, the sky is greenish and transparent all night long, and there, on the horizon, just like now, everything is smoldering and smoldering ... There was only one oar and something like a shovel, and I rowed with it like a savage - then to the right, then to the left. On the opposite bank it was dark from a small forest, but behind it this strange half-light stood all night. And everywhere there is unimaginable silence - only mosquitoes whine and dragonflies fly. I never thought that they fly at night - it turned out that for some reason they fly. Downright scary.

At last the oncoming train rustled, rushed in with a roar and wind, merging into one golden strip of illuminated windows, and rushed past. The wagon immediately moved off. The conductor entered the compartment, lit it up and began to prepare the beds,

“Well, what happened to this girl?” Real romance? For some reason you never told me about her. What was she like?

- Skinny, tall. She wore a yellow cotton sundress and peasant boots on her bare feet, woven from some kind of multi-colored wool.

- Also, then, in the Russian style?

- I think that most of all in the style of poverty. Nothing to wear, well, a sundress. In addition, she was an artist, studied at the Stroganov School of Painting. Yes, she herself was picturesque, even icon-painting. A long black braid on her back, a swarthy face with small dark moles, a narrow, regular nose, black eyes, black eyebrows... Her hair was dry and coarse and slightly curled. All this, with a yellow sundress and white muslin sleeves of a shirt, stood out very beautifully. The ankles and the beginning of the foot in chunks are all dry, with bones protruding under the thin dark skin.

- I know this guy. I had a friend like that in my class. Hysterical, must be.

- Maybe. Moreover, her face was similar to her mother, and her mother, who was born some kind of princess with oriental blood, suffered from something like black melancholy. She only went to the table. He comes out, sits down and is silent, coughs without raising his eyes, and everything shifts now the knife, then the fork. If he suddenly speaks, then so unexpectedly and loudly that you shudder.

- And the father?

- Also silent and dry, tall; retired soldier. Was simple and sweet

end of introduction

Ivan Bunin

Russia

At eleven o'clock in the evening, the express train Moscow-Sevastopol stopped at a small station beyond Podolsk, where it was not supposed to stop, and was waiting for something on the second track. On the train, a gentleman and a lady approached the lowered window of the first-class carriage. A conductor with a red lantern in his hanging hand was crossing the rails, and the lady asked: - Listen. Why are we standing? The conductor replied that the oncoming courier was late. The station was dark and sad. Twilight had long since set in, but in the west, behind the station, behind the blackening wooded fields, the long summer dawn of Moscow still shone deathly. There was a damp smell of swamp in the window. In the silence was heard from somewhere the even and, as it were, raw creak of the twitch. He leaned against the window, she leaned on his shoulder. “I once lived in this area on vacation,” he said. - I was a tutor in a country estate, about five miles from here. Boring area. Small forest, magpies, mosquitoes and dragonflies. No view anywhere. In the estate, one could admire the horizon only from the mezzanine. The house, of course, is in the Russian dacha style and very neglected - the owners were impoverished people - behind the house there is some semblance of a garden, behind the garden is not that lake, not that swamp, overgrown with kuga and water lilies, and the inevitable punt near the marshy shore. “And, of course, the bored dacha girl you rolled through this swamp. — Yes, everything is as it should be. Only the girl was not at all bored. I rolled it most of all at night, and it came out even poetically. In the west, the sky is greenish and transparent all night long, and there, on the horizon, just like now, something is smoldering and smoldering.... then to the left. On the opposite bank it was dark from a small forest, but behind it this strange half-light stood all night. And everywhere there is an unimaginable silence - only mosquitoes whine and dragonflies fly. I never thought that they fly at night - it turned out that for some reason they fly. Downright scary. At last the oncoming train rustled, rushed in with a roar and wind, merging into one golden strip of illuminated windows, and rushed past. The wagon immediately moved off. The conductor entered the compartment, lit it up and began to prepare the beds. “Well, what did you do with this girl?” Real romance? For some reason you never told me about her. What was she like? - Skinny, tall. She wore a yellow cotton sundress and peasant boots on her bare feet, woven from some kind of multi-colored wool. - Also, then, in the Russian style? - I think that most of all in the style of poverty. Nothing to wear, well, a sundress. In addition, she was an artist, studied at the Stroganov School of Painting. Yes, she herself was picturesque, even icon-painting. A long black braid on her back, a swarthy face with small dark moles, a narrow, regular nose, black eyes, black eyebrows ... Her hair was dry and coarse, slightly curly. All this, with a yellow sundress and white muslin sleeves of a shirt, stood out very beautifully. The ankles and the beginning of the foot in chunks are all dry, with bones protruding under the thin dark skin. — I know this guy. I had a friend like that in my class. Hysterical, must be. - Maybe. Moreover, her face was similar to her mother, and her mother, who was born some kind of princess with oriental blood, suffered from something like black melancholy. She only went to the table. He comes out, sits down and is silent, coughs without raising his eyes, and everything shifts now the knife, then the fork. If he suddenly speaks, then so unexpectedly and loudly that you shudder.- And the father? - Also silent and dry, tall; retired soldier. Simple and sweet was only their boy, whom I rehearsed. The conductor came out of the compartment, said that the beds were ready, and wished them good night. - What was her name?- Rusya. - What is that name? - Very simple - Marusya. “So what, you were very in love with her?” “Of course it seemed terrible.- And she? He paused and answered dryly: “Probably she thought so too. But let's go to bed. I was terribly tired during the day. - Very nice! Only interested in gift. Well, tell me at least in a nutshell how and how your romance ended. - Yes, nothing. He left and that was the end of it. Why didn't you marry her? “Obviously, I had a presentiment that I would meet you.- No seriously? - Well, because I shot myself, and she stabbed herself with a dagger ... And, having washed and brushed their teeth, they shut themselves up in the resulting closeness of the compartment, undressed and, with the joy of the journey, lay down under the fresh glossy sheet of sheets and on the same pillows, all sliding from the raised headboard. A blue-purple peephole above the door peered quietly into the darkness. She soon fell asleep, he did not sleep, lay, smoked and mentally looked at that summer ... She also had many small dark moles on her body - this feature was lovely. Because she walked in soft shoes, without heels, her whole body was agitated under a yellow sundress. The sundress was wide, light, and her long girlish body was so free in it. One day she wet her feet in the rain, ran out of the garden into the living room, he rushed to take off her shoes and kiss her wet narrow feet - there was no such happiness in his whole life. The fresh, fragrant rain rustled faster and thicker behind the doors open to the balcony, in the darkened house everyone slept after dinner - and how terribly he and her were frightened by some black cock with a metallic green tint in a large fiery crown, which also suddenly ran in from the garden with the sound of claws on the floor at that very hot moment when they forgot all caution. Seeing how they jumped up from the sofa, he hurriedly and bent over, as if out of delicacy, ran back into the rain with his shiny tail lowered ... At first she kept looking at him; when he spoke to her, she blushed darkly and answered with a mocking mutter; at the table she often offended him, loudly addressing her father: “Don’t treat him, dad, in vain. He doesn't like dumplings. However, he doesn’t like okroshka, and he doesn’t like noodles, and he despises curdled milk, and hates cottage cheese. In the mornings he was busy with the boy, she was doing housework - the whole house was on her. They had dinner at one, and after dinner she went to her mezzanine or, if it was not raining, to the garden, where her easel stood under a birch tree, and, brushing off mosquitoes, painted from life. Then she began to go out onto the balcony, where, after dinner, he sat with a book in a slanted reed armchair, stood with his hands behind his back, and looked at him with an indefinite smile: - May I know what wisdom you deign to study? — History of the French Revolution. — Oh, my God! I didn't even know we had a revolutionary in our house. - And why did you abandon your painting? - I'm about to give up completely. Convinced of her incompetence. “Show me some of your writings. “Do you think you know anything about painting?” “You are terribly selfish. There is that sin... Finally, she offered him a ride on the lake one day, and suddenly said resolutely: — It seems that the rainy period of our tropical places is over. Let's have some fun. Our gas chamber, it is true, is quite rotten and has a bottom full of holes, but Petya and I filled up all the holes with kuga... The day was hot, steaming, the coastal grasses, mottled with the yellow flowers of night blindness, were stiflingly heated by damp heat, and countless pale green moths hovered low over them. He adopted her constant mocking tone and, going up to the boat, said: “At last you have condescended to me! “Finally, you gathered your thoughts to answer me!” she answered briskly and jumped onto the bow of the boat, scaring away the frogs, splashing into the water from all sides, but suddenly she squealed wildly and grabbed the sundress to her knees, stamping her feet:— Oh! Already! He caught a glimpse of the brilliant brownness of her bare legs, grabbed the oar from the bow, hit the snake wriggling along the bottom of the boat with it, and, hooking it, threw it far into the water. She was pale with a kind of Hindu pallor, the moles on her face had become darker, the blackness of her hair and eyes seemed to be even blacker. She breathed a sigh of relief. - Oh, what a mess! No wonder the word horror comes from the snake. We have them everywhere here, both in the garden and under the house ... And Petya, imagine, picks them up! For the first time she spoke to him simply, and for the first time they looked directly into each other's eyes. - But what a fine fellow you are! How well you hit him! She completely came to her senses, smiled and, running from bow to stern, sat down cheerfully. In her fright, she struck him with her beauty, now he thought with tenderness: yes, she is still a girl! But, making an air of indifference, he anxiously stepped into the boat and, resting the oar on the gelatinous bottom, turned it forward with its bow and pulled it through the tangled thicket of underwater grasses onto the green brushes of the kugi and flowering water lilies, which covered everything in front with a continuous layer of their thick, round foliage, brought it out on the water and sat on a bench in the middle, paddling right and left. - Really good? she called. - Very! he answered, taking off his cap, and turned to her: "Be so kind as to throw it near you, otherwise I'll brush it into this trough, which, excuse me, still leaks and is full of leeches." She placed the cap on her knees. - Don't worry, throw it anywhere. She pressed her cap to her chest. No, I'll take care of him! Again his heart trembled tenderly, but again he turned away and began to forcefully launch the oar into the water glistening among the kugi and water lilies. Mosquitoes stuck to the face and hands, everything around was blinded by warm silver: steamy air, unsteady sunlight, the curly white of the clouds, softly shining in the sky and in the clearings of the water among the islands of kuga and water lilies; everywhere it was so shallow that one could see the bottom with underwater grasses, but somehow it did not interfere with that bottomless depth into which the reflected sky with clouds went. Suddenly she screeched again - and the boat fell sideways: she put her hand into the water from the stern and, catching the stalk of a water lily, pulled it towards her so that it collapsed along with the boat - he barely had time to jump up and catch her under the armpits. She laughed and, falling back on the stern, splashed from her wet hand right into his eyes. Then he grabbed her again and, not understanding what he was doing, kissed her laughing lips. She quickly wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him awkwardly on the cheek... Since then, they began to swim at night. The next day, after dinner, she called him to the garden and asked: - Do you love me? He responded warmly, remembering yesterday's kisses in the boat: From the first day we met! “Me too,” she said. - No, at first I hated it - it seemed to me that you did not notice me at all. But, thank God, all this is already in the past. To-night, when everyone has settled down, go there again and wait for me. Just get out of the house as carefully as possible - my mother watches my every step, jealous to the point of madness. At night she came ashore with a plaid on her arm. For joy, he met her bewildered, only asked:- And why the plaid? - What a stupid! We will be cold. Well, hurry up and row to the other shore ... They were silent the whole way. When they swam to the forest on the other side, she said: - Here you go. Now come to me. Where is the plaid? Ah, he's under me. Cover me, I'm cold, and sit down. Like this ... No, wait, yesterday we kissed somehow stupidly, now I'll kiss you first myself, only quietly, quietly. And you hug me... everywhere... Under the sundress she had only a shirt. She gently, barely touching, kissed him on the edges of his lips. He, with a confused head, threw her aft. She hugged him passionately... Lying down in exhaustion, she got up and with a smile of happy fatigue and pain that had not yet subsided said: Now we are husband and wife. Mom says that she will not survive my marriage, but I don’t want to think about it now ... You know, I want to swim, I love it terribly at night ... She undressed over her head, turned white in the dusk with her whole long body and began to tie her head with a scythe, raising her hands, showing dark mice and raised breasts, not ashamed of her nakedness and dark toe under her stomach. She tied him up, kissed him quickly, jumped to her feet, fell flat into the water, throwing her head back, and thumped noisily with her feet. Then, hurrying, he helped her get dressed and wrap herself in a blanket. In the dusk, her black eyes and black hair, tied with a braid, were fabulously visible. He no longer dared to touch her, only kissed her hands and was silent from unbearable happiness. It always seemed that there was someone in the darkness of the coastal forest, silently smoldering in some places with fireflies - standing and listening. Sometimes there was a gentle rustle in there. She raised her head. “Wait, what is this?” “Don't be afraid, it's probably a frog crawling out onto the shore. Or a hedgehog in the forest... - What if it's a Capricorn? What Capricorn? - I do not know. But just think: some ibex comes out of the forest, stands and looks ... I feel so good, I want to talk terrible nonsense! And he again pressed her hands to his lips, sometimes, as if something sacred, kissed her cold breast. What a completely new creature she had become for him! And behind the blackness of the low forest, a greenish half-light stood and did not go out, weakly reflected in the flat whitening water in the distance, sharply, of celery, dewy coastal plants smelled, invisible mosquitoes whined mysteriously, pleadingly - and they flew, flew with a quiet crackle above the boat and further, above this at night glowing water, terrible, sleepless dragonflies. And somewhere something rustled, crawled, made its way ... A week later, he was ugly, shamefully, stunned by the horror of a completely sudden separation, expelled from home. Somehow after dinner they were sitting in the living room and, touching their heads, looked at the pictures in the old rooms of the Niva. - Have you fallen in love with me yet? he asked quietly, pretending to be watching carefully. - Silly. Terribly stupid! she whispered. Suddenly, softly running steps were heard - and her crazy mother stood on the threshold in a black silk tattered dressing gown and worn morocco shoes. Her black eyes sparkled tragically. She ran as if onto a stage and shouted: - I understood everything! I felt, I watched! Scoundrel, she can't be yours! And, throwing up a hand in a long sleeve, she fired deafeningly from an old pistol, with which Petya frightened the sparrows, loading it only with gunpowder. He, in the smoke, rushed to her, grabbed her tenacious hand. She broke free, hit him in the forehead with a pistol, cut his eyebrow into blood, threw it at him, and, hearing that they were running around the house to shout and shot, she began to shout even more theatrically with foam on her bluish lips: - Only over my corpse will she step over to you! If he runs away with you, on the same day I will hang myself, I will throw myself from the roof! Scoundrel, get out of my house! Marya Viktorovna, choose: mother or he! She whispered, "You, you, mother... He woke up, opened his eyes - the blue-lilac peephole above the door was still steadily, mysteriously, gravely looking at him from the black darkness, and all the same, with the same speed steadily rushing forward, springing, swaying, the carriage rushed. Already far, far away was that sad half-station. And as much as twenty years ago, all this happened - copses, magpies, swamps, water lilies, snakes, cranes ... Yes, there were still cranes - how he forgot about them! Everything was strange in that amazing summer, strange and a pair of some kind of cranes, flying from somewhere to the shore of the marsh from time to time, and the fact that they only let her alone and, arching their thin, long necks, with very strict but benevolent curiosity, looked at her from above, when she, softly and easily running up to them in her multi-colored boots, suddenly squatted down in front of them, spreading her yellow sundress on the damp and warm green of the coast, and with childish enthusiasm looked into their beautiful and formidable black pupils, narrowly grasped by a ring of dark gray iris. He looked at her and at them from a distance, through binoculars, and clearly saw their small shiny heads - even their bone nostrils, the wells of strong, large beaks, with which they killed snakes with one blow. Their short bodies with fluffy tufts of tails were tightly covered with steel plumage, the scaly canes of the legs were excessively long and thin - in one they were completely black, in the other greenish. Sometimes they both stood for whole hours on one leg in an incomprehensible immobility, sometimes for no reason they jumped up, opening huge wings; otherwise they strolled about importantly, stepped slowly, measuredly, raised their paws, squeezing their three fingers into a ball, and set them apart, spreading their fingers like predatory claws, and shook their heads all the time ... However, when she ran up to them, he already I didn’t think about anything and didn’t see anything - I saw only her blossoming sundress, shuddering with mortal exhaustion at the thought of her swarthy body under it, of dark moles on it. And on that last day of theirs, on that last sitting side by side in the living room on the sofa, over a volume of the old Niva, she also held his cap in her hands, pressed it to her chest, as then, in the boat, and spoke, shining in his eyes with joyful black-mirror eyes: “And I love you so much now that there is nothing dearer to me than even this smell inside the cap, the smell of your head and your nasty cologne!” Behind Kursk, in the dining car, when after breakfast he drank coffee with cognac, his wife said to him: - Why are you drinking so much? This is already, it seems, the fifth glass. Are you still sad, do you remember your country girl with bony feet? "I'm sad, I'm sad," he replied, smiling unpleasantly. "A country girl... Amata nobis quantum amabitur nulla!" Is that in Latin? What does it mean? “You don't need to know that. “How rude you are,” she said with a casual sigh, and looked out the sunny window. September 27, 1940

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin

At eleven o'clock in the evening, the express train Moscow - Sevastopol stopped at a small station outside Podolsk, where it was not supposed to stop, and was waiting for something on the second track. On the train, a gentleman and a lady approached the lowered window of the first-class carriage. A conductor with a red lantern in his hanging hand was crossing the rails, and the lady asked:

- Listen. Why are we standing?

The conductor replied that the oncoming courier was late.

The station was dark and sad. Twilight had long since set in, but in the west, behind the station, behind the blackening wooded fields, the long summer dawn of Moscow still shone deathly. There was a damp smell of swamp in the window. In the silence was heard from somewhere the even and, as it were, raw creak of the twitch.

He leaned against the window, she leaned on his shoulder.

“I once lived in this area on vacation,” he said. - I was a tutor in a country estate, about five miles from here. Boring area. Small forest, magpies, mosquitoes and dragonflies. No view anywhere. In the estate, one could admire the horizon only from the mezzanine. The house, of course, is in the Russian dacha style and is very neglected - the owners were impoverished people - behind the house there is some semblance of a garden, behind the garden is not that lake, not that swamp, overgrown with kuga and water lilies, and the inevitable punt near the marshy shore.

- And, of course, the bored country girl that you rolled through this swamp.

- Yes, everything is as it should be. Only the girl was not at all bored. I rolled it more and more at night, and it came out even poetically. In the west, the sky is greenish and transparent all night, and there, on the horizon, just like now, everything is smoldering and smoldering ... There was only one oar and something like a shovel, and I rowed with it like a savage - now to the right, then to the left . On the opposite bank it was dark from a small forest, but behind it this strange half-light stood all night. And everywhere there is unimaginable silence - only mosquitoes whine and dragonflies fly. I never thought that they fly at night - it turned out that for some reason they fly. Downright scary.

At last the oncoming train rustled, rushed in with a roar and wind, merging into one golden strip of illuminated windows, and rushed past. The wagon immediately moved off. The conductor entered the compartment, lit it up and began to prepare the beds.

“Well, what happened to this girl?” Real romance? For some reason you never told me about her. What was she like?

- Skinny, tall. She wore a yellow cotton sundress and peasant boots on her bare feet, woven from some kind of multi-colored wool.

- Also, then, in the Russian style?

- I think that most of all in the style of poverty. Nothing to wear, well, a sundress. In addition, she was an artist, studied at the Stroganov School of Painting. Yes, she herself was picturesque, even icon-painting. A long black braid on her back, a swarthy face with small dark moles, a narrow correct nose, black eyes, black eyebrows ... Her hair was dry and coarse, slightly curly. All this, with a yellow sundress and white muslin sleeves of a shirt, stood out very beautifully. The ankles and the beginning of the foot in chunks are all dry, with bones protruding under the thin dark skin.

- I know this guy. I had a friend like that in my class. Hysterical, must be.

- Maybe. Moreover, her face was similar to her mother, and her mother was some kind of princess with oriental blood, she suffered from something like black melancholy. She only went to the table. He comes out, sits down and is silent, coughs without raising his eyes, and everything shifts now the knife, then the fork. If he suddenly speaks, then so unexpectedly and loudly that you shudder.

- And the father?

- Also silent and dry, tall; retired soldier. Simple and sweet was only their boy, whom I rehearsed.

The conductor came out of the compartment, said that the beds were ready, and wished good night.

- What was her name?

– What is that name?

- Very simple - Marusya.

“So what, you were very in love with her?”

“Of course it seemed awful.

He paused and answered dryly:

“Probably she thought so too. But let's go to bed. I was terribly tired during the day.

- Very nice! Only interested in gift. Well, tell me at least in a nutshell how and how your romance ended.

- Yes, nothing. He left and that was the end of it.

Why didn't you marry her?

“Obviously, I had a premonition that I would meet you.

End of introductory segment.

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The study of the epic work in the "non-reading" class.

I. A. Bunin "Rusya"

« Amata nobis guantum amabitur nulla », which in translation means: "Beloved by us, like no other will be loved." The words of this quotation can be main theme works by I. A. Bunin, which will be studied by us in today's lesson.

QUESTION:

What piece are we going to study in today's lesson? ("Rusya")

- have you read it? (Not).

Well, we have those who have read the work, they will be Bunin's assistants who will help you penetrate the secret world of his work "Rus".

LET'S GO TO THE FIRST BOOKLET:

- What do you associate the word Rusya with?

(Russia, girl, Marusya - at the beginning of the lesson; memories, love, feelings, youth, past, farewell - at the end).

The story of Ivan Alekseevich Bunin "Rusya" is included in the book of short stories about love - "Dark Alleys". As in the rest of the works of the cycle, in "Rus" it sounds persistently and tensely. love theme, because it is in her that Bunin sees the "exalted price" of life.

The plot of the story is quite simple.

Reading the work, tell the plot in two or three sentences?

(the train "Moscow - Sevastopol" unexpectedly makes an inappropriate stop, in an area previously familiar to the protagonist. In the first class carriage, a married couple approaches the window. The husband recalls and tells his wife the events that took place in a country estate in this area many years ago , recalls Rusya - his first, and, possibly, only love).

We briefly reviewed the story.

Let's read the first sentence from "Rus".

At eleven o'clock in the evening a fast trainMoscow - Sevastopol stopped at a small station beyond Podolsk, where hestop was not supposed to , and was waiting for something on the second path.

First, let's pay attention to the train route: Moscow - Sevastopol (Ukraine). What does it tell you? (Heroes leave Russia, say goodbye to their homeland, go to another country, are in a state of movement).

Secondly, pay attention to the phrase: "stop was not supposed to." Think about it, is this phrase, and this stop, random? Why does Bunin emphasize this? What thoughts does this lead you to? (an accidental stop turns out to be not at all accidental, the hero, who is in a state of movement, saying goodbye to his homeland, as if for the last time, finds himself in the place of his memories, which turn out to be quite strong).

What is the composition of the story?

(The composition of the story is frame: from a real hero, we are immersed in memories of the past, which acquire an independent meaning in the story - we forget about the events of the present, we are completely absorbed by the events of the past years, but then we again return to the present of the hero)

Indeed, Bunin's lyrics in this story are turned to the past, to memory, to human emotions, inextricably linked with the bygone and irretrievable world. The monologues of the hero testify to the insecurity of a person from memories. Starting to tell the story, the hero does not even suspect what power the past still has over him. And the unscheduled stop of the train awakens past feelings and emotions in the hero.

REFER TO THE BOOKLET: THE WORLD OF THE PRESENT, THE WORLD OF MEMORIES.

At the heart of the story- opposition of two worlds. One is the familiar, ordinary world of the present, the other is a bright, romantic world of memories associated with a beloved girl. The story of the present and even the past is very primitive, but as soon as Russia appears, the hero's world is transformed and colored with bright colors and feelings.

(READ AND FILL OUT THE BOOKLET).

With the advent of Russia, we see how not only the hero’s narrative is transformed, but even his present: the oncoming train becomes like "golden stripe of illuminated windows", a "the conductor entered the compartment, illuminated it."

REFER TO THE BOOKLET: THE IMAGE OF RUSSIA.

Let us turn to the description of Russia.

As in other stories of the "Dark Alleys" cycle, so in "Russ" one can very clearly see that type of woman, which most attracts the writer: ironic, unprejudiced, self-willed, takes the initiative in love affairs, with strong feelings, passions, devoted, natural.

Does Rusya really correspond to the type of girls that I.A. wrote about? Bunin in his cycle "Dark Alleys"? Let's find it on an example from the text (LET'S TRACK THE MOVEMENT OF THE HEROES TO EACH OTHER - after all, the nature of Russia was clearly manifested in it).

REFER TO BOOKLET: LOVE.

We have already touched on the topic of love - we traced its origin, the peak of feelings. But, as in other works of the cycle, in "Rus" love turns out to be such a matter that neither in strong female nor in inept male hands is not held. That is why each story of the cycle (and "Rusya" is no exception) is a story about the death of love - literal or metaphorical.

Let's see how the love of our heroes "died".

Was the hero's love for Rusa the only true love that lives in him to this day? Or was it some kind of hobby? Why do you think?

How is love shown in this story? Is it a kind of spiritual, sublime feeling that is encountered only once, or is it a very real, earthly feeling experienced by every person, inextricably linked with his physical nature?

Why didn't the hero and Rusya stay together? Why did they separate? What main reason?

Let's turn to the BOOKLET - SYMBOLS

What symbols can you trace in this story?

(train, window, swamp, cranes, peephole above the door, cap, forest, night)

Let's listen to the final excerpt from the story "Rusya": from 14:25.

The lyricism of the novel tends to the ideal. Therefore, there is no final usual meaning. "Farewell to memories" does not work. Subtextually, the reader understands: something happened in the soul of the hero, the process of reassessment of values ​​has just begun. When and how it will end, the reader will have to decide for himself.

IN CONCLUSION, WE REFER TO THE BOOKLET WITH A QUOTATION OF I.A. BUNIN:

"Beloved by us, like no other will be loved!" How do you understand this phrase?

SUMMARIZE. Bunin is in love with love. For him, this is the most beautiful feeling on earth, incomparable with anything else. And yet love destroys destinies. The writer did not tire of repeating that any strong love avoids marriage. In the collection "Dark Alleys" you will not find a single story where love would end in marriage. Lovers are separated either by relatives or circumstances. Bunin shows us love at its peak, but never at fading, because fading does not happen in his stories, only the instantaneous disappearance of a bright flame by the will of circumstances. Love as such enters the life of the characters in Bunin's works as a memory of the unique moments of once experienced bliss, bright and beautiful "far away". And the story "Rusya" is no exception, it harmoniously merges into the composition of the "Dark Alleys" cycle.