Full version 20 minutes (≈7 A4 pages), summary 2 minutes.

main characters

Anna Gerasimovna (aunt of the main character)

Arseny Semenovich (brother-in-law of the protagonist)

The author regrets with sadness the happy life of Russian landowners that is passing into the past. He remembers early autumn with good weather, a garden with golden foliage, a pleasant aroma of fallen leaves and Antonov apples.

The autumn collection of "Antonovka" was a real holiday, which blurred the boundaries between the estates. Peasants, bourgeois and noblemen felt genuine joy at the end of the economic year. The author especially remembers the starry autumn nights, when the thirst for life was especially acute.

The narrator keeps the warmest memories of the ancestral village of Vyselki, which "from time immemorial" was famous for its wealth and long-livers. The houses there were made of bricks. In their way of life, occupation and living conditions, the landowners resembled rich peasants.

The author no longer found serfdom, but felt the spirit of serfdom in the estate of his aunt, Anna Gerasimovna. The small estate was surrounded by century-old trees. My aunt's garden was famous for apple trees and birds. The scent of apple was constantly in the manor. Anna Gerasimovna was a very hospitable woman. An abundant meal and a pleasant conversation about the old days always awaited her guests.

The author believes that the famous Russian hunting was a very important means for maintaining the spirit of the nobility. An exemplary hunter was his brother-in-law, Arseny Semyonitch. There were always a large number of people in his house. After a hearty dinner, all the guests went hunting together. In the courtyard, a horn was blown, dogs were howling. Arseny Semyonich could have fired a revolver right in the house.

In the memory of the narrator, a mad gallop on horseback vividly emerges, trees sweeping past, the cries of hunters and the barking of dogs, the smell of mushroom dampness and wet bark coming from the ravines. After the hunt, the whole noisy company could burst into the house of some unfamiliar neighbor landowner and spend several days there. If the author woke up hunting the next morning, he strolled through the unfamiliar house and garden, went to the library, looked at old books and magazines. The portraits hung on the walls reminded of the old aristocratic life.

The past irrevocably leaves with people: there are no old people left in Vyselki, the author's aunt died, his brother-in-law shot himself. The time has come for the small landed nobles, who have reached a beggarly state. But this life is also good in its own way. The narrator recalls his bankrupt neighbors.

In the fall, a small-scale nobleman woke up early, lit a cigarette first and ordered the samovar to be warmed up. Then he put on his boots and went out to inspect his modest household. There he was surrounded by hounds. A great day to hunt. Only hounds are not needed, but greyhounds, which, unfortunately, were not. But by winter, the impoverished neighbors gathered together, drank their last money and disappeared all day in the snow-covered fields. In the evenings, the nobles sang old songs with sadness to the sound of a guitar ...

Bunin wrote his story "Antonov apples" in 1900. The work is a lyrical recollection-monologue, built with the help of the "technique of associations." On our site you can read a summary of the "Antonov apples". Retelling will help prepare for a literature lesson, test work.

The main characters of the story

Main characters:

• The narrator is a "young barchuk", in the story the speech is made on his behalf, he recalls episodes from the past, is nostalgic.
• Anna Gerasimovna is the aunt of the narrator.
• Arseny Semyonich is a landowner with whom the narrator went hunting.

Bunin "Antonovskie apples" summary

The author of the story is a hereditary nobleman and landowner. In his estate there was a garden with Antonov apples. For the author, apples are a symbol of his carefree youth, rich landlord life. He has many memories associated with the smell of apples.

At first, he recalls how apples were harvested on his estate and taken out for sale in whole carts. Then he remembers his peasants and their way of life. The peasants lived well. There were many centenarians among them. Now they are no longer alive.

Then the author recalls the estate of his aunt Anna Gerasimovna, who lived nearby. Her house also smelled of apples. In the aunt's estate, everything reminded of the times of serfdom: strong outbuildings, elderly servants who remained with the lady to live out their days. Now the aunt is no longer alive.

The author also recalls his brother-in-law, the landowner Arseny Semyonich, an inveterate hunter. The author went on a grand hunt with him more than once. Sometimes the hunt lasted for several days. Arseny Semyonitch is also dead: he shot himself.

In conclusion, the author admits that after the abolition of serfdom, the landlords began to become impoverished. However, the author himself does not complain about life. Yes, now the impoverished landowners get up earlier and are more engaged in farming. But they still have fun with their last money and go hunting, sadly recalling the carefree times of serfdom.

A short retelling of "Antonov apples" by Bunin

The author-narrator recalls the recent past. He recalls the early, fine autumn, the whole golden, dried and thinned garden, the delicate scent of fallen leaves and the smell of Antonov's apples: gardeners pour apples on carts to send them to the city. Late at night, running out into the garden and talking with the guards guarding the garden, he looks into the dark blue depths of the sky overflowing with constellations, looks for a long, long time, until the earth floats under his feet, feeling how good it is to live in the world!

The narrator recalls his Vyselki, which since the time of his grandfather were known in the district as a rich village. Old men and women lived there for a long time - the first sign of well-being. The houses in Vyselki were brick and strong. The average noble life had much in common with the rich peasant.

He remembers his aunt Anna Gerasimovna, her estate is small, but solid, old, surrounded by hundred-year-old trees. My aunt's garden was famous for its apple trees, nightingales and turtle doves, and the house was famous for its roof: its thatched roof was unusually thick and high, blackened and hardened from time to time. In the house, first of all, the smell of apples was felt, and then other smells: old mahogany furniture, dried linden blossom.

The narrator recalls his late brother-in-law Arseny Semyonich, a landowner-hunter, in whose big house many people gathered, everyone had a hearty dinner, and then went hunting. In the courtyard a horn blows, dogs howl at different voices, the owner's favorite, a black greyhound, climbs onto the table and devours the remains of a hare with sauce from the dish. The author recalls himself riding an evil, strong and squat "Kirghiz": trees flicker before his eyes, in the distance one can hear the cries of hunters, barking of dogs.

From the ravines it smells of mushroom dampness and wet tree bark. It gets dark, the whole band of hunters bursts into the estate of some almost unknown bachelor hunter and, it happens, lives with him for several days. After a day on the hunt, the warmth of a crowded house is especially pleasant. When it happened to oversleep the next morning hunting, it was possible to spend the whole day in the master's library, leafing through old magazines and books, looking at the notes in their fields. Family portraits are looked at from the walls, an old dreamy life rises before my eyes, grandmother is remembered with sadness ...

But the old people in Vyselki died, Anna Gerasimovna died, Arseny Semyonich shot himself. The kingdom of the small landed nobles, impoverished to the point of begging, is coming. But this small-scale life is also good! The narrator happened to visit a neighbor. He gets up early, orders the samovar to be put on and, putting on his boots, goes out onto the porch, where he is surrounded by hounds. It will be a nice day for hunting!

Only on the blacktrope with hounds do not hunt, oh, if only greyhounds! But he has no greyhounds ... However, with the onset of winter, again, as in the old days, small people come to each other, drink with their last money, and disappear for days on end in the snow fields. And in the evening on some remote farm, far away, the windows of the outbuilding glow in the dark: candles are burning there, clouds of smoke are floating, they are playing the guitar, singing ...

This is interesting: The story was written in 1916. The peculiarity of this work is that it is conducted on behalf of the dog, in whose dreams and memories the dramatic life story of its owner is reflected.

Contents "Antonov apples" by chapters

Antonov apples a summary with a description of each chapter:

Chapter I

The narrator recalls the early, fine autumn, August, "a dried up and thinned garden", "the smell of Antonov apples." From the garden, the road leads to a large hut, "near which the bourgeoisie acquired a whole farm over the summer." On holidays, fairs were held here, where village people gathered and crowded here until the evening.

Late at night, the narrator comes to the garden. Taking a gun from the petty bourgeois Nikolai, he shoots, and then peers for a long time into the "dark blue depth of the sky" and returns home along the alley. "How good it is to live in the world!"

Chapter II

If Antonovka was born, then bread was also born. The narrator recalls that Vyselki from time immemorial was famous for "wealth": "old men and women lived in Vyselki for a very long time." He cites Pankrat as an example - the peasant also remembered his fellow villager Platon Apollonich, which means that Pankrat himself was "not less than a hundred."

“The rich men had two or three connections in their huts.” Here they bred bees, “thick and fat hemp-grows darkened on the threshing floors,” all goods were kept in barns. The narrator "sometimes found it extremely tempting to be a man."

Even in his memory, "the warehouse of an average noble life" had "much in common with the warehouse of a rich peasant life." Such "was the estate of Anna Gerasimovna's aunt, who lived twelve versts from Vyselki." Her serfdom was already felt in the yard. There were many low outbuildings of oak logs.

"My aunt's garden was famous for its neglect, nightingales, turtle doves and apples," and the house was famous for its thick thatched roof. "When you enter a house, first of all you will hear the smell of apples." While talking about the old days, they served treats at the aunt's, apples of various sorts - Antonovskie, "Bel-Lady", Borovinka, "Fertile".

Chapter III

"In recent years, one thing has kept the dying spirit of the landowners alive - hunting."

The narrator recalls how he gathered with other hunters at the estate of Arseny Semyonitch. Somehow, the "black greyhound, favorite of Arseny Semyonitch" began to "devour the remains of a hare with sauce" from the dish. Arseny Semyonitch, who came out of the office, fired from a revolver and, laughing and playing with his eyes, said: "It's a pity that he missed!"

The narrator recalls how he rode with “a noisy gang of Arseny Semyonitch,” hunting. After the hunt, they stopped to spend the night in the estate with "some almost unfamiliar bachelor landowner."

But "when it happened to oversleep the hunt, the rest was especially pleasant." After a walk in the garden, the narrator went to the library, where his grandfather's books were kept. Among them are novels, "magazines with the names: Zhukovsky, Batyushkov, Lyceum student Pushkin" and others. He sadly recalled how his grandmother played the clavichord, read "Eugene Onegin".

Chapter IV

"The smell of Antonov's apples disappears from the landowners' estates."

"The old people died in Vyselki, Anna Gerasimovna died, Arseny Semyonich shot himself ... The kingdom of the small-class people, impoverished to begging, is coming!"

The narrator comes back to the village in late autumn. “Sometimes some small-scale neighbor will come and take me to his place for a long time ... Small-scale life is also good!” "The small man gets up early." Waking up, he goes to work. "Often he looks in the field ... Soon, soon the fields will turn white, soon the winter will cover them ..."

In winter, “again, as in the old days, the small-sized people come to each other” and “disappear for whole days in the snow fields” - they hunt.

Early mild autumn. The cool silence of the morning is broken only by the well-fed cackling of thrushes on the coral rowan trees in the thicket of the garden, the voices and the resounding thud of apples poured into the measures and tubs. In the thinned garden, the road to a large hut is far visible. Everywhere it smells strongly of apples, here - especially. An earthen stove was dug near the hut. At noon, a magnificent kulesh with bacon is cooked in it, a samovar is heated in the evening, and a long strip of bluish smoke spreads across the garden, between the trees. On holidays, there is a whole fair here. A crowd of lively girls, one-yard girls, come "lordly", a young head woman, pregnant, with a wide sleepy face and important as a Kholmogory cow, is bustling about, there are barefoot boys in white mannered shirts and short pantyhose, they walk in twos, threes, cautiously looking sideways on a shepherd dog tied to an apple tree. There are many buyers, trade is brisk and the consumptive tradesman is cheerful.

By nightfall it becomes cold and dewy. Breathing in the rye aroma of new straw and chaff on the threshing floor, you cheerfully go home. It gets dark. And here's another smell: there is a fire in the garden, and the cherry branches tightly pulls with fragrant smoke. In the dark, in the depths of the garden, there is a fabulous picture: in the corner of the garden there is a crimson flame surrounded by darkness, black silhouettes move around, giant shadows from them walk over the apple trees.

Late at night, when the lights go out, rustling on dry foliage like a blind man, you will reach the hut.

Is that you, barchuk? - someone from the darkness will call softly.

We listen for a long time and distinguish tremors in the ground. The tremor turns into noise, grows, and now, as if already behind the garden, the noisy beat of the wheel is quickly knocked out: rumbling and pounding, the train rushes ... closer, closer, louder and angrier ... And suddenly it begins to subside, to go deaf, as if going into the ground ...

And the black sky is drawn with fiery stripes of shooting stars. You gaze for a long time into its dark blue depth, overflowing with constellations, until the ground floats under your feet. Then you will start up and, hiding your hands in your sleeves, you will quickly run along the alley to the house ... How cold, dewy and how good it is to live in the world!

At early dawn, when the roosters are still crowing and the huts are smoking in a black way, you would open a window into a cool garden filled with a lilac fog, through which the morning sun shines brightly * and you cannot bear it - you tell the horse to sit down as soon as possible, and you yourself will run to wash to the pond - and to hunt. Autumn is the time for patronal holidays, and the people at this time are tidied up, happy, the view of the village is not at all the same as at another time. If the year is fruitful, it’s not bad at all in the village. In addition, our Vyselki from time immemorial, since the time of grandfather, were famous for their "wealth". The yards in Vyselki are brick-built, built by their grandfathers. The rich men had two or three connections in huts, because sharing was not yet fashionable. In such families, bees were taken, they were proud of the stallion and the estates were kept in order. The warehouse of the average noble life, even in my memory, very recently, had much in common with the warehouse of a rich peasant life in terms of its housekeeping and rural well-being. Such, for example, was the estate of Anna Gerasimovna's aunt.

I did not know and did not see serfdom, but I remember I felt it at my aunt's. The last Mohicans of the courtyard class peep out of the long blackened room - some decrepit old men and women, a decrepit retired cook, like Don Quixote. They all pull themselves up and bow low and low when you enter the courtyard. Aunt's garden was famous for its neglect, nightingales and apples, and the house was famous for its roof. Its front façade seemed to me always alive: as if an old face looked out from under a huge cap with hollows of eyes - windows with mother-of-pearl glass from rain and sun. And the guest felt comfortable in this nest under the turquoise autumn sky! You enter the house and first of all you will hear the smell of apples, and then others: old furniture, dried linden blossom, which has been on the windows since June. Silence and cleanliness are everywhere. And then a cough is heard: the aunt comes out. She will come out important, but friendly, and right now, amid endless conversations about antiquity, treats begin to appear: first apples, and then an amazing dinner. The windows to the garden are raised, and coolness blows from there ...

In recent years, one thing has kept the dying spirit of the landowners alive - hunting. Previously, such estates as Anna Gerasimovna's were not uncommon. Some of the estates are still preserved, but they no longer have life ... There are no triplets, no riding, no hounds and greyhounds, no courtiers and no owner of all this - a landowner-hunter, like my late brother-in-law Arseny Semyonich.

Since the end of September, our gardens and threshing floor have been emptied, the weather has changed abruptly. The wind tore and ruffled the trees all day long, rains poured them from morning to night.

From such a bashing, the garden came out almost naked, somehow subdued, resigned ... But how beautiful it was when the weather was clear. Farewell Autumn Festival! The black garden will shine through the cold turquoise sky and humbly wait for winter, warming up in the sunlight. And the fields are already sharply turning black with arable land and bright green with winter crops ... It's time to hunt!

A lot of people gather. And in the yard the horn blows and the dogs howl. I still remember how greedily and deeply the young breast breathed in the cold of a clear and damp day in the evening. You ride an evil and strong "Kirghiz", tightly restraining it with the reins. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, another answered passionately - and suddenly the forest thundered from violent barking and screaming. A shot rang out in the midst of this din - and everything was "brewed" and rolled somewhere into the distance. Chase. Only trees flicker in front of your eyes and molds dirt into your face from under the horse's hooves. You will jump out of the forest, you will see the beast, you will rush across it until the flock disappears from your eyes, along with frantic barking and groaning. Then, all wet and trembling with tension, you sit down your horse and greedily swallow the icy dampness of the forest valley. In the distance, the screams and barking of dogs die away, and around you there is a dead silence. It smells strong from the ravines of mushroom dampness, rotted leaves and wet tree bark. It's time to spend the night.

It happened that the hunt lived with a hospitable neighbor for several days. In the early morning dawn, in the icy wind and the first winter, they left for the forests and the fields, and by dusk they returned again, all covered in mud. And the binge began. After vodka and food, you feel such sweet fatigue, such a bliss of youthful sleep, that you can hear a talk like through water.

When it happened to oversleep the hunt, the rest was especially pleasant. There is silence throughout the house. Ahead is a whole day of rest in the already silent winter estate. You will slowly get dressed, wander around the garden, find in the wet foliage an accidentally forgotten cold and wet apple, and for some reason it will seem unusually tasty. Then you will start reading books ... But the magazines with the names of Zhukovsky, Batyushkov, Lyceum student Pushkin. And with sadness you will remember your grandmother, her polonaises on the clavichord, reading from Eugene Onegin. And the old dreamy life will rise before you. Good girls and women once lived in noble estates!

The smell of Antonov apples disappears from the manor houses. The kingdom of the small-class, impoverished to poverty, is coming.

I see myself in the village again. All day I roam the empty plains with my gun. The days are bluish and cloudy. Hungry and vegetated, I return to the estate, and my soul becomes so warm and gratifying when the Vyselok lights flash and pull smoke from the estate. I remember that in our house at this time they liked to "twilight", not to light a fire and conduct conversations in the semi-darkness.

Zazimok, first snow! Winter is coming. And here again, as in the old days, the small people come to each other, drink with their last money, and disappear for days on end in the snowy fields. And in the evening on some remote farm, far away, the windows of the outbuilding shine in the night ... Puffs of smoke are floating, the guitar is tuned.

"Antonov apples" Bunin I.A.

I

Early mild autumn. The cool silence of the morning is broken only by the well-fed cackling of thrushes on the coral rowan trees in the thicket of the garden, the voices and the resounding thud of apples poured into the measures and tubs. In the thinned garden, the road to a large hut is far visible. Everywhere it smells strongly of apples, here - especially. An earthen stove was dug near the hut. At noon, a magnificent kulesh with bacon is cooked in it, a samovar is heated in the evening, and a long strip of bluish smoke spreads across the garden, between the trees. On holidays, there is a whole fair here. A crowd of lively girls, one-yard girls, come "lordly", a young head woman, pregnant, with a wide sleepy face and important as a Kholmogory cow, is bustling about, there are barefoot boys in white dress-up shirts and short pantyhose, they walk in twos, threes, fearfully looking sideways on a shepherd dog tied to an apple tree. There are many buyers, trade is brisk and the consumptive tradesman is cheerful.

By nightfall it becomes cold and dewy. Breathing in the rye aroma of new straw and chaff on the threshing floor, you cheerfully go home. It gets dark. And here's another smell: there is a fire in the garden, and the cherry branches tightly pulls with fragrant smoke. In the dark, in the depths of the garden, there is a fabulous picture: in the corner of the garden there is a crimson flame surrounded by darkness, black silhouettes move around, giant shadows from them walk over the apple trees.

Late at night, when the lights go out, rustling on dry foliage like a blind man, you will reach the hut.

- Is that you, barchuk? - someone from the darkness will call softly.

We listen for a long time and distinguish tremors in the ground. The tremor turns into noise, grows, and now, as if already behind the garden, the noisy beat of the wheel is quickly knocked out: rumbling and pounding, the train rushes ... closer, closer, louder and angrier ... And suddenly it begins to subside, to go deaf, as if going into the ground ...

And the black sky is drawn with fiery stripes of shooting stars. You gaze for a long time into its dark blue depth, overflowing with constellations, until the ground floats under your feet. Then you will start up and, hiding your hands in your sleeves, you will quickly run along the alley to the house ... How cold, dewy and how good it is to live in the world!

II

At early dawn, when the roosters are still crowing and the huts are smoking in a black way, you would open a window into a cool garden filled with a lilac mist, through which the morning sun shines brightly * and you cannot bear it - you tell the horse to sit down as soon as possible, and you yourself will run to wash to the pond - and to hunt. Autumn is the time for patronal holidays, and the people at this time are tidied up, happy, the view of the village is not at all the same as at another time. If the year is fruitful, it’s not bad at all in the village. In addition, our Vyselki from time immemorial, since the time of grandfather, were famous for their "wealth". The yards in Vyselki are brick-built, built by their grandfathers. The rich men had two or three connections in huts, because there was no fashion yet to share. In such families, bees were taken, they were proud of the stallion and the estates were kept in order. The warehouse of the average noble life, even in my memory, very recently, had much in common with the warehouse of a rich peasant life in terms of its housekeeping and rural well-being. Such, for example, was the estate of Anna Gerasimovna's aunt.

I did not know and did not see serfdom, but I remember I felt it at my aunt's. From the long blackened room peep out the last Mohicans of the courtyard class — some decrepit old men and women, a decrepit retired cook, like Don Quixote. They all pull themselves up and bow low and low when you enter the courtyard. Aunt's garden was famous for its neglect, nightingales and apples, and the house was famous for its roof. Its front façade seemed to me always alive: as if an old face looked out from under a huge cap with hollows of eyes - windows with mother-of-pearl glass from rain and sun. And the guest felt comfortable in this nest under the turquoise autumn sky! You enter the house and first of all you will hear the smell of apples, and then others: old furniture, dried linden blossom, which has been on the windows since June. Silence and cleanliness are everywhere. And then a coughing is heard: the aunt comes out. She will come out important, but friendly, and right now, amid endless conversations about antiquity, treats begin to appear: first apples, and then an amazing dinner. The windows to the garden are raised, and coolness blows from there ...

III

In recent years, one thing has kept the dying spirit of the landowners alive - hunting. Previously, such estates as Anna Gerasimovna's were not uncommon. Some of the estates are still preserved, but they no longer have life ... There are no triplets, no riding, no hounds and greyhounds, no courtiers and no owner of all this - a landowner-hunter, like my late brother-in-law Arseny Semyonich.

Since the end of September, our gardens and threshing floor have been emptied, the weather has changed abruptly. The wind tore and ruffled the trees all day long, rains poured them from morning to night.

From such a bashing, the garden came out almost naked, somehow subdued, resigned ... But how beautiful it was when the weather was clear. Farewell Autumn Festival! The black garden will shine through the cold turquoise sky and humbly wait for winter, warming up in the sunlight. And the fields are already sharply turning black with arable land and bright green with winter crops ... It's time to hunt!

A lot of people gather. And in the yard the horn blows and the dogs howl. I still remember how greedily and deeply the young breast breathed in the cold of a clear and damp day in the evening. You ride an evil and strong "Kirghiz", tightly restraining it with the reins. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, another answered passionately - and suddenly the forest thundered from violent barking and screaming. A shot rang out in the midst of this din - and everything was "brewed" and rolled somewhere into the distance. Chase. Only trees flicker in front of your eyes and molds dirt into your face from under the horse's hooves. You will jump out of the forest, you will see the beast, you will rush across it until the flock disappears from your eyes, along with frantic barking and groaning. Then, all wet and trembling with tension, you sit down your horse and greedily swallow the icy dampness of the forest valley. In the distance, the screams and barking of dogs die away, and around you there is a dead silence. It smells strong from the ravines of mushroom dampness, rotted leaves and wet tree bark. It's time to spend the night.

It happened that the hunt lived with a hospitable neighbor for several days. In the early morning dawn, in the icy wind and the first winter, they left for the forests and the fields, and by dusk they returned again, all covered in mud. And the binge began. After vodka and food, you feel such sweet fatigue, such a bliss of youthful sleep, that you can hear a talk like through water.

When it happened to oversleep the hunt, the rest was especially pleasant. There is silence throughout the house. Ahead is a whole day of rest in the already silent winter estate. You will slowly get dressed, wander around the garden, find in the wet foliage an accidentally forgotten cold and wet apple, and for some reason it will seem unusually tasty. Then you will start reading books ... But the magazines with the names of Zhukovsky, Batyushkov, Lyceum student Pushkin. And with sadness you will remember your grandmother, her polonaises on the clavichord, reading from Eugene Onegin. And the old dreamy life will rise before you. Good girls and women once lived in noble estates!

IV

The smell of Antonov apples disappears from the manor houses. The kingdom of the small-class, impoverished to poverty, is coming.

I see myself in the village again. All day I roam the empty plains with my gun. The days are bluish and cloudy. Hungry and vegetated, I return to the estate, and my soul becomes so warm and gratifying when the Vyselok lights flash and pull smoke from the estate. I remember that in our house at this time they liked to "twilight", not to light a fire and conduct conversations in the semi-darkness.

Zazimok, first snow! Winter is coming. And here again, as in the old days, the small people come to each other, drink with their last money, and disappear for days on end in the snowy fields. And in the evening on some remote farm, far away, the windows of the outbuilding shine in the night ... Puffs of smoke are floating, the guitar is tuned.

Heroes of the work:

• The narrator- hereditary landowner. Apple trees grew on his estate. Antonov apples for a nobleman are a symbol of a carefree life, wealth and youth.
• Anna Gerasimovna- the aunt of the author of the story.
• Arseny Semyonich- a landowner who took the narrator with him on a hunt.

Part 1

The narrator remembers early autumn, the garden and the smell of Antonov's apples. The smell of apples merges with the smell of honey, the glitter of stars in the sky. The man eats apples with a juicy crackle, causing envy and a great desire to eat his fill. The morning is filled with the cackling of blackbirds. On a holiday among apples, a whole fair is going to: girls, women. There is an image of a pregnant young elder, important as a Kholmogory cow. Boys rush around, trade is brisk, noise and dances with songs in the village until evening. Closer to night it gets cool, a fabulous picture of a quiet garden is created. A shadow slips from the apple trees. The Milky Way, the constellation Stozhar all melts at the sound of a shot. The bourgeois asks to frighten off the thieves who are cleaning the manor's gardens. Together with the shot, the stars fall into the depths of the garden. A feeling of happiness and delight of what is called the word "life" is created.

Part 2

The life of the village was subject to signs.

"Vigorous Antonovka - for a merry year."

There are a lot of apples - there will be a harvest of bread. Vyselki is a solid village with brick houses, a warehouse and barns. Long-livers are a sign of strength. Agafya has already lived for 83 years, old man Pankrat does not remember how old he is, but no less than a hundred. The old man stands before the master meekly and guiltily, stretched out and smiling. He doesn't know how to explain why he lives for so long. Old men and women were tall and gray-haired:

"Big and white as a harrier."

Pankrat's wife was sitting on a bench and looking into the distance. She prepared everything for death: a shroud, a prayer, even a large gravestone.

The author of the memoirs says that he saw serfdom in the house of Anna Gerasimovna's aunt, he, a boy, was comfortable visiting. The building looked like an old man, strong and healthy. The house smelled of apples, different varieties of which appeared from nowhere, from which any treat began.

Part 3

The spirit of landlord Russia is hunting. It gradually faded away and became a thing of the past. The narrator remembered the hunting enthusiast, "the late brother-in-law of Arseny Semyonitch." Before the hunt, the guests gathered in the house, there were so many of them that they seemed to be everywhere: in the house, in the yard, in the garden. Hunters don't forget to finish their vodka. Arseny Semyonitch could shoot in a hall full of people, and, grinning, say that he missed. The author remembers the smell of a damp forest, the cold of the evening, the noise of a gang of adult men. The screams suddenly change into complete silence, and again the horns sound, the dogs squeal. The whole landowner's company is sent to spend the night at the estate to a little familiar bachelor. Hunters live in the house for several days. At dawn, everyone left for the woods, and then returned again, continuing their drinking. The landowners shared their impressions. The dead wolf, teeth bared, lay in the middle of the room, blood staining the floor. The earth escaped from under the feet of the narrator, only sleep stopped the gloomy serf legends.

The narrator loved to sit in the library and look at books, recalled how his grandmother played and read him a novel by Pushkin.

Part 4

The smell of apples is gradually leaving the landlord estates. There are no longer those people who linger in memory:

"Anna Gerasimovna died, Arseny Semyonich shot himself."

The narrator comes to the village in the fall, sees the threshing and work of the girls. He likes small-scale life. In winter, the landowners gather again to hunt, but it is already quieter and calmer.