Ivan Bunin nationality parents education. Stormy intimate life of Ivan Bunin and its influence on the poet's work

Bunin Ivan Alekseevich (1870-1953) - Russian poet and writer, his work belongs to the Silver Age of Russian art, in 1933 he received the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Childhood

Ivan Alekseevich was born on October 23, 1870 in the city of Voronezh, where the family rented housing on Dvoryanskaya Street in the German estate. The Bunin family belonged to a noble landowner family, among their ancestors were the poets Vasily Zhukovsky and Anna Bunina. By the time Ivan was born, the family was impoverished.

Father, Bunin Alexey Nikolaevich, served as an officer in his youth, then became a landowner, but in a short time he squandered the estate. Mother, Bunina Lyudmila Alexandrovna, nee belonged to the Chubarov family. The family already had two older boys: Julius (13 years old) and Evgeny (12 years old).

The Bunins moved to Voronezh three cities before Ivan's birth to educate their eldest sons. Julius had an unusually amazing ability in languages ​​and mathematics, he studied very well. Eugene was not at all interested in studying, due to his boyish age he liked to chase pigeons through the streets, he left the gymnasium, but in the future he became a gifted artist.

But about the younger Ivan, mother Lyudmila Alexandrovna said that he was special, from birth he was different from older children, “no one has such a soul as Vanechka.”

In 1874 the family moved from the city to the countryside. It was the Oryol province, and on the Butyrka farm of the Yelets district, the Bunins rented an estate. By this time, the eldest son Julius graduated from the gymnasium with a gold medal and in the fall he was going to go to Moscow to enter the university at the mathematical faculty.

According to the writer Ivan Alekseevich, all his childhood memories are peasant huts, their inhabitants and endless fields. His mother and servants often sang folk songs and told him stories. Vanya spent whole days from morning to evening with peasant children in the nearest villages, he was friends with many, grazed cattle with them, and traveled at night. He liked to eat with them radish and black bread, bumpy rough cucumbers. As he later wrote in his work “The Life of Arseniev”, “without realizing it, at such a meal the soul was attached to the earth.”

Already at an early age, it became noticeable that Vanya perceives life and the world around him artistically. He liked to show people and animals with facial expressions and gestures, and was also known in the village as a good storyteller. At the age of eight, Bunin wrote his first poem.

Studies

Until the age of 11, Vanya was brought up at home, and then he was sent to the Yelets gymnasium. Immediately the boy began to study well, the subjects were given to him easily, especially literature. If he liked a poem (even a very large one - a whole page), he could remember it from the first reading. He was very fond of books, as he himself said, “read anything at that time” and continued to write poetry, imitating his favorite poets ─ Pushkin and Lermontov.

But then the training began to decline, and already in the third grade the boy was left for the second year. As a result, he did not graduate from the gymnasium, after the winter holidays in 1886 he announced to his parents that he did not want to return to the educational institution. Julius, at that time a candidate of Moscow University, took up further education of his brother. As before, literature remained Vanya's main hobby, he re-read all the domestic and foreign classics, even then it became clear that he would devote his future life to creativity.

First creative steps

At the age of seventeen, the poet's poems were no longer youthful, but serious, and Bunin made his debut in print.

In 1889, he moved to the city of Oryol, where he got a job in the local publication "Orlovsky Vestnik" to work as a proofreader. Ivan Alekseevich was in great need at that time, since literary works did not yet bring good earnings, but he had nowhere to wait for help. The father completely went bankrupt, sold the estate, lost his estate and moved to live with his own sister in Kamenka. The mother of Ivan Alekseevich with his younger sister Masha went to relatives in Vasilyevskoye.

In 1891, the first poetry collection of Ivan Alekseevich, entitled "Poems", was published.

In 1892, Bunin and his common-law wife Varvara Pashchenko moved to live in Poltava, where his elder brother Julius worked as a statistician in the provincial zemstvo council. He helped Ivan Alekseevich and his civil wife get a job. In 1894, Bunin began to publish his works in the newspaper Poltavskiye Provincial Gazette. And also the zemstvo ordered him essays on grain and grass harvests, on the fight against pests.

literary path

While in Poltava, the poet began to collaborate with the Kievlyanin newspaper. In addition to poetry, Bunin began to write a lot of prose, which was increasingly published in quite popular publications:

• "Russian wealth";
• "Bulletin of Europe";
• "World of God".

The luminaries of literary criticism drew attention to the work of the young poet and prose writer. One of them spoke very well about the story "Tanka" (at first it was called "The Village Sketch") and said that "the author will make a great writer."

In 1893-1894, there was a period of special love for Bunin in Tolstoy, he traveled to the Sumy district, where he communicated with sectarians who, in their views, were close to the Tolstoyans, visited Tolstoy colonies near Poltava, and even went to Moscow to meet the writer himself, which produced Ivan Alekseevich made an indelible impression.

In the spring and summer of 1894, Bunin took a long trip around Ukraine, he sailed on the steamer "Chaika" along the Dnieper. The poet, in the literal sense of the word, was in love with the steppes and villages of Little Russia, longed to communicate with the people, listened to their melodic songs. He visited the grave of the poet Taras Shevchenko, whose work he loved very much. Subsequently, Bunin did a lot of translations of Kobzar's works.

In 1895, after breaking up with Varvara Pashchenko, Bunin left Poltava for Moscow, then for St. Petersburg. There he soon entered the literary environment, where in the autumn the first public performance of the writer took place in the hall of the Credit Society. At a literary evening with great success, he read the story "To the End of the World."

In 1898, Bunin moved to Odessa, where he married Anna Tsakni. In the same year, his second collection of poetry, Under the Open Air, was released.

In 1899, Ivan Alekseevich traveled to Yalta, where he met Chekhov and Gorky. Subsequently, Bunin visited Chekhov in the Crimea more than once, stayed for a long time and became "their own person" for them. Anton Pavlovich praised Bunin's works and was able to discern in him the future great writer.

In Moscow, Bunin became a regular member of literary circles, where he read his works.

In 1907, Ivan Alekseevich made a trip to the eastern countries, visited Egypt, Syria, Palestine. Returning to Russia, he published a collection of short stories "The Shadow of a Bird", where he shared his impressions of a long journey.

In 1909, Bunin received the second Pushkin Prize for his work and was elected to the St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences in the category of fine literature.

Revolution and emigration

Bunin did not accept the revolution. When the Bolsheviks occupied Moscow, he left with his wife for Odessa and lived there for two years, until the Red Army came there too.

In early 1920, the couple emigrated on the ship "Sparta" from Odessa, first to Constantinople, and from there to France. The whole further life of the writer passed in this country, the Bunins settled in the south of France not far from Nice.

Bunin passionately hated the Bolsheviks, all this was reflected in his diary called "Cursed Days", which he kept for many years. He called "Bolshevism the basest, despotic, evil and deceitful activity in the history of mankind."

He suffered greatly for Russia, he wanted to go home, he called his entire life in exile an existence at the junction station.

In 1933, Ivan Alekseevich Bunin was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature. He spent 120,000 francs from the money he received to help emigrants and writers.

During World War II, Bunin and his wife hid Jews in their rented villa, for which in 2015 the writer was posthumously nominated for a prize and the title Righteous Among the Nations.

Personal life

Ivan Alekseevich's first love happened at a fairly early age. He was 19 years old when at work he met Varvara Pashchenko, an employee of the Orlovsky Vestnik newspaper, where the poet himself worked at that time. Varvara Vladimirovna was more experienced and older than Bunin, from an intelligent family (she is the daughter of a famous Yelets doctor), she also worked as a proofreader, like Ivan.

Her parents were categorically against such a passion for their daughter, they did not want her to marry a poor poet. Varvara was afraid to disobey them, so when Bunin suggested that she get married, she refused to get married, but they began to live together in a civil marriage. Their relationship could be called "from one extreme to the other" - sometimes passionate love, sometimes painful quarrels.

Later it turned out that Varvara was unfaithful to Ivan Alekseevich. Living with him, she secretly met with the wealthy landowner Arseny Bibikov, whom she later married. And this despite the fact that Varvara's father, in the end, gave his blessing to the marriage of his daughter with Bunin. The poet suffered and was disappointed, his youthful tragic love was later reflected in the novel "The Life of Arseniev". But all the same, relations with Varvara Pashchenko remained pleasant memories in the soul of the poet: "First love is a great happiness, even if it is unrequited".

In 1896, Bunin met with Anna Tsakni. A stunningly beautiful, artistic and wealthy woman of Greek origin, men spoiled her with their attention and admired her. Her father, Nikolai Petrovich Tsakni, a rich Odessan, was a populist revolutionary.

In the autumn of 1898, Bunin and Tsakni got married, a year later they had a son, but in 1905 the baby died. The couple lived together very little, in 1900 they parted, ceased to understand each other, their outlook on life was different, alienation occurred. And again Bunin experienced this painfully, in a letter to his brother he said that he did not know if he could continue to live.

Calmness came to the writer only in 1906 in the person of Vera Nikolaevna Muromtseva, whom he met in Moscow.

Her father was a member of the Moscow City Council, and her uncle presided over the First State Duma. Vera was of noble origin and grew up in an intelligent family of professors. At first glance, she seemed a little cold and always calm, but it was this woman who was able to become Bunin's patient and caring wife and be with him until the end of his days.

In 1953, in Paris, Ivan Alekseevich died in his sleep on the night of November 7-8, next to the body on the bed lay Leo Tolstoy's novel "Sunday". Bunin was buried in the French cemetery of Sainte-Genevieve-des-Bois.

Continuation

In memory of Ivan Bunin

Before my last trip to Efremov, I accidentally met the literary critic Alexander Kuzmich Baboreko in Moscow, and when he heard about where I was going to go, he asked me to look for Bunin's nephews, the children of his brother Yevgeny Alekseevich, who for some reason did not respond to letters. I, of course, undertook to fulfill the request with great willingness.

On the road, everyone thought about Bunin, about his fate and path. On December 13, 1941, in the south of France, he wrote in his diary: “The Russians took back Efremov, Livny and something else. There were Germans in Efremov! Nastya, and our mother!" This entry is given in Baboreko's book "I. A. Bunin. Materials for a biography." Words from the writer's notebook come alive in a strange and exciting way in places once marked by his life, many of its days, experiences. It happens, as something actually created, the revival of the connecting principles. And the soul is illuminated by a special intimate feeling of the presence of the one into whose innermost core of life you dared to look. Bunin in that December entry of the forty-first year conveys a stunned feeling: the world war that covered Western Europe, and then Russia, has sunk into the deep backwaters of his youth. The most reserved layers of his memory trembled.

"Ofremov's" old-timers"

Efremov is a sprawling city, as if larger than itself, with new industrial features that catch the eye, and old, county features that are also visible. Green and dusty at the same time, with long winding circular paths-streets, crossed by the River Beautiful Mech, which is quite wide here. With construction sites and rising block high-rises, with a synthetic rubber plant, with other factories, with dirty-whitening old squat houses, with several old buildings of red brick, blackened by time. On both sides of the Tula highway - between the center of the old city and the distant new district - stretch, stretch one-story, mostly wooden houses. Some of them are lively, others are boarded up. And orchards: garden after garden, cheerful, well-groomed, selected and half-groomed, and completely abandoned, deaf ... But in the yards, between multi-storey buildings in the new area, there is an unusual amount of grass: dodder, and mint, and plantain, and wormwood . Green, voluntary. Preserving the blissful slowness of the passage of time - either tender, bright, or dusty dull grass-ant. From it or something, the all-penetrating grass-ant, this special exciting summer smell of small towns, dear to the heart, for some reason comforting. And in Efremov, there is also the smell of many orchards, persistent in the breeze, the smell of apples.

For a long time we had to stray with two local historians before we found the apartment of Arseny Bunin (Margarita Evgenievna, in a hurry to give me her brother's address, wrote from memory and got it wrong, in a hurry rearranging the numbers of the house and apartment). And when we finally found both, it turned out that Arseniy Evgenievich and his wife had gone away for a week to their relatives, somewhere in the Voronezh region. It's a shame, of course, but what can you do. They decided to look for one of his sons, who live separately, in the evening, and in the meantime, Dmitry Stepanovich Povolyaev, director of the district library, suggested going to the old Efremov cemetery, where Bunin's mother, brother Evgeny, brother's wife are buried. And we again went on some long circuitous path (and there was no other way!), On which our own long time flowed. Along the curvilinear street again, sometimes boiling over with heavy branches behind the hedge, gardens, gardens, and many abandoned, shaded, darkening in their depths flowed and stretched. Next to one of them, not even abandoned, but somehow dense, a lively fellow in overalls was selling a cherry tree, completely strewn with sweetly darkening berries. There were two buyers, also young, husband and wife, probably. He is in a yellow T-shirt, she is in a blue cotton dress, very pretty. From the conversation that flew by, I realized that the owner was in a hurry and sold them the whole tree for half a liter of vodka, they say, deal with it and rob it yourself. Behind this fleeting bargain of cherries, too, one could imagine a happy and lazy flow of summer time.

The old cemetery, closed long ago, seems to have ceased to exist. Many graves have lost their shape, turning into green bumps of indefinite shape, merging with other bumps. A green, slightly wavy, uneven surface appeared, walking on which no, no, and even stumbling. And from afar, when you turn around, you will see the sadly stopped green waves. Looks like they'll be straightened out soon. Maybe an urban outskirts grove will appear here? And at the top of the hill, they say, a new relay television tower will rise. In some places one can see overturned tombstones. Several tombstones stand in their place: these graves, apparently, are cared for by relatives. In this corner of the cemetery - only in this one - on some strange, rather large hill, wildly, discordantly growing, blazing, rising above the faded unpleasant weeds, painfully fiery, velvety and ghostly-winged flowers, it seems, not planted by anyone. Most of all mallow. And to the left, at a sufficient distance from this hill, there are three slabs apart in one iron fence, not painted for a long time, slightly rusted in different places, especially at the junctions. “Here,” says Dmitry Stepanovich, “the graves of Bunin’s relatives were recreated, on the centenary of his birth. In general, they were in other places. Mother, Lyudmila Aleksandrovna, nee Chubarova, was buried separately. But the old graves were lost.”

On the plates there are inscriptions: "Evgeny Alekseevich Bunin. Brother of the Russian writer I. A. Bunin." And years of life: 1858-1932. "Bunina Anastasia Karlovna. Wife of the writer's brother" (years of life are not indicated). "Bunina Lyudmila Alexandrovna. Mother of the writer Bunin". And her years of life: 1836-1910. “Ivan Alekseevich, as you remember,” Povolyaev continued, “left Efremov a few days before the death of his mother. He could not bear the picture of death, and even such a close person. Relatives knew this feature of Ivan Alekseevich. , promised his mother to come to her grave. Whether he has ever been, it's hard to say. "

Baboreko said that Bunin soon passed as if not far from these places, he wanted to turn into Efremov specifically to visit his mother's grave, but he never turned.

“Many of the old-timers of Efremov,” noted Dmitry Stepanovich, “or, as they used to say here, “ofremov’s”, condemned Bunin for this. Yes, and ofremov’s only! sensually closer than to him! Mother, they say, in the years of his adolescence prayed to God that Vanichka would be less impressionable. Of course, I don’t justify Ivan Alekseevich, but I don’t presume to condemn either.

What actions, what kind of life can be considered justified? - I thought, listening to Povolyaev's reasoning. Vera Nikolaevna, the writer's wife, recalled that he almost never spoke of his mother out loud. This memory was intimate. He spoke about his father, recalled that he was an excellent storyteller, recalled the frankness of his character and how he liked to repeat: "I am not a gold coin to please everyone." He didn't talk about his mother. One Bunin entry came to mind: “I still remember, or maybe it was my mother who told me that sometimes, when she was sitting with guests, I called her, beckoning with my finger so that she would give me breasts - she fed me for a very long time, not like other kids." After all, he was also a mother, and later considered Vera Nikolaevna an integral part of his life. That is probably why you will not find a single dedication to his wife in his writings.

Talking briefly, finding out something for ourselves, we were in no hurry to leave this strange deserted space of ruined memory. At this time, two people approached us, apparently, newcomers: a lean, gray-haired, darkly tanned man of about fifty or fifty-five, in a beret, with a camera, and a young, tall woman - a head taller than her companion. Silently began to listen.

“By the way, there was a confusion with the date of Yevgeny Alekseevich’s death,” Povolyaev noted, “you see on the stove - the thirty-second year. In the second book of the Bunin volume of Literary Heritage, the same date is indicated as the thirty-fifth year. Meanwhile, Evgeny Alekseevich Bunin died on November 21 1933. Record of the act of death No. 949 dated November 23, 1933, where it is recorded that he died from senile decrepitude. They said that he died on the street. He was walking somewhere and felt bad, exhausted. Probably, something happened to him what is now called heart failure.

I remembered that at that time, in the thirty-third year, his Nobel days, joyful for Ivan Bunin, were just passing. On November 9, a message arrived in Grasse, where he lived, that he had been awarded the Nobel Prize. And something whirled, rustled, sparkled around him that had never happened in his life: congratulatory phone calls from Stockholm, from Paris, from many cities, congratulatory telegrams, interviews and endless portraits of him in newspapers, radio appearances, filming for cinema, grandiose dinners and evenings in his honor. What did he do on November 21, did he even vaguely feel misfortune, the death of his brother in a distant Russian city? Then December, and an exciting trip to Sweden, to Stockholm.

Povolyaev, continuing to talk about Evgeny Alekseevich and answering some question of an unfamiliar man in a beret, noticed that the elder brother of the writer was a gifted portrait painter. Ivan, in adolescence, also at one time passionately desired to become an artist, painted watercolors, observed heavenly colors and shades at different hours of the day and in different weather, tried not to miss anything, to capture. But the formidable shadow of ruin covered the family. Before the eyes of the future writer, one of the older brothers - Eugene, not at all of his own free will, but by the will of circumstances, began to live an almost peasant life. A student of Professor Myasoedov, leaving painting, he plunged headlong into the household, trying with all his might to improve the situation of the family. He was engaged in agriculture, trade (at one time he started a shop), with peasant frugality and perseverance he collected a fortune, but still did not pull it out. Life landslide destroyed all plans and hopes. “He was also a literary gifted man,” Povolyaev said, “extremely observant, sensitive to colloquial speech, memory of the word ... In recent years, he worked as a drawing teacher at school.”

And I saw the death of an old artist under the open sky in the cold, provincial November Efremov, blown by the autumn wind: a limply sagging body, a transparently bright, glazed look.

After him there was a notebook in a cardboard cover - memoirs written in pencil and ink, "Excavations of distant dark antiquity": "I am writing exclusively for my brother Vanya, - as if justifying himself to someone, says Evgeny Alekseevich, - I touch on his childhood and youth, as well as my young, unpretentious and little interesting life... My childhood and youth were spent in the provincial farms of my father, overgrown with bread and weeds ... "

The writer heard a lot from his brother, an excellent storyteller and a connoisseur of the village, who remembered many cases that were in reality. In Bunin's notes from the period of work on the story "The Village" one can read about the prototypes of Young and Rodka: "Evgeny stayed with us and wonderfully talked about Donka Simanova and her husband. Thin, strong, like a monkey, cruel, calm," What are you talking about? "And with a whip it will twist so that she will twist all over with a screw. She sleeps on her back, her face is important and gloomy." We find all this in the "Village".

No, not only about the vicissitudes of fate, not only about the ruthless turns and breaks of Russian life, I thought, leaving the old, almost disappeared Efremov cemetery, but also about Bunin, in spite of everything, the will to create, the will to live, to asceticism, to overcome generic weaknesses, the same carelessness.

On the way back, the conversation gradually turned to holding Bunin's evenings in Efremov. “In Yelets,” I remarked, “they hold Bunin’s readings in the former gymnasium where he studied. And in Efremov, Bunin’s evenings would be just right, with the reading of his poems and prose, with speeches by writers, scientists, teachers of the Russian language and literature, with music, with the performance of folk songs, the music of Sergei Vasilyevich Rachmaninov, with whom he was friends, with everything that warms life in the provinces.And you never know what else can be heard at these evenings, for example, the prose of Chekhov, Leo Tolstoy ..." Dmitry Stepanovich and another "Oremovsky" old-timer Ivan Vasilyevich Tyurin warmly supported this idea, especially since, in their opinion, it would breathe life into the Bunins' house in Efremov, which had long been restored, altered many times and still by this time was not open. Only Roman Matveyevich Ostrovsky, an old acquaintance of mine, who was once a librarian in Tula, for some reason doubted:

Will there be such evenings? Isn't it narrow? Maybe somehow take a wider view, dedicate more than one to Bunin. For example, I confess that I do not like Bunin very much. Kuprin, for example, is a completely different matter!

Roman Matveyevich is not tall, brown-eyed, hot, agile, with a steep, slightly silvered forelock running over his forehead. Very energetic.

Yes, yes, I remember, you wrote this to me in letters, - I confirmed, - but Bunin is connected with Efremov, not Kuprin. I don't understand your logic.

Roman Matveyevich, well, you are an eccentric! Tyurin exclaimed good-naturedly. - Let's turn on Kuprin in Bunin's evenings. With great pleasure! Ivan Alekseevich would only be glad.

No, no, it’s better not to call it that, after all, ”he stubbornly repeated.

Knowing some of the features of the character of Roman Matveyevich, I, as it were, noticed by the way that Bunin was highly appreciated not only by his outstanding contemporaries in Russia, but also by such luminaries of Western culture as Thomas Mann, Romain Rolland, Rainer Maria Rilke ... Romain Rolland, having read Bunin, exclaimed: "What a brilliant artist! And, in spite of everything, what a new revival of Russian literature he testifies to." And Thomas Mann wrote that the story "The Gentleman from San Francisco" in its moral power and strict plasticity can be placed next to "Polikushka" and "The Death of Ivan Ilyich" by Tolstoy. He also expressed his admiration for the penetration of "Mitya's Love", noting that Bunin's story reflected "the incomparable epic tradition and culture of his country."

Yeah! But I didn’t know,” Roman Matveyevich drawled in surprise and seemed to soften.

And what an inexplicable beauty and freshness of style breathes his translation of Henry Longfellow's "Song of Hiawatha," I added.

Well, okay, he said grimly. - You can at least call these meetings "Efremov's literary evenings." I would support this, as they say, for a sweet soul. And others, I think, will support.

The conversation about Bunin's evenings continued, and the two strangers who had approached us at the cemetery were already taking part in it. They spoke so interestedly, as if it was Bunin who led them from Moscow to the Efremov places. They turned out to be employees of the Moscow "Planetarium", hunters for the local "blue stones". They went, traveled many hundreds of miles of central Russia. A man in a beret, with a dark face, as if cut by the solar wind, blown with road dust, a field spirit. At the same time, he has strange, motionless, some kind of enchanted eyes. His companion is tall, moon-faced, talking animatedly. Both of them are obsessed with the search for ancient stone astronomical landmarks and even, perhaps, entire observatories - it seems to them so! - in the area of ​​​​Kulikov Field, Beautiful Swords, many areas of the steppe, capturing the Oryol, Kursk, Voronezh lands. They arrived in Efremov, having wandered, it seems, for three weeks in the Oryol and Kursk regions. The blocks of stone that attract their close attention are of different sizes and have acquired indefinite shapes over many centuries. Blocks and blocks, past which you will pass and drive a thousand times without paying any attention to them. Meanwhile, some of them are marked with special signs, and the eye of a naturalist finds in them various kinds of marks, gutters, holes, sometimes through, - traces of the once-existing explicit connection of ancient people with the movement of the daylight and the arrangement of stars in the night sky. These touches on ancient life, the unraveling of its secrets, its spiritualization - completely deprive some impressionable natures of rest, throw them from one place to another, constantly drag them on the road. The trace of the ancient, reviving under the ray of thought and beginning to flicker lukewarmly life intoxicates, subtly intoxicates the soul with the sweet torment of penetrating into the unknown. This trace, it turns out, did not disappear anywhere, but only lurked in the millennial everyday life and suddenly arose with a sharp evidence of its presence in the present. Miracle! This is not at all the cunning tricks of the wind freemen, this is the work of human hands, inexpressibly distant, but infinitely akin to our spirit. People's vision also noted precisely these stones, calling them "blue", although usually they are not blue at all, but rather some kind of dirty sand color or grayish-gray. However, after rain for a while, until they dry out, wet stones become bluish, acquire an indistinct blue tint.

The hunters for the blue stones spoke animatedly to us about Bunin, whom they both loved. Their quick, as if adolescent, responsiveness, beyond their age, a certain detachment and businesslike mobility - all together unexpectedly and firmly connected with our reflections and concerns about the organization of the Bunin evenings in Efremov. Random meeting. Conversation on a long crooked street immersed in old overgrown gardens. Most likely, early tomorrow morning they will go further, for their blue stones. And in our life, it means that wanderers have not disappeared. So this is necessary for the fullness of life itself, for its strength, freshness, earthly diversity. Did Bunin notice these same secretive blue stones, driving along country roads between farms and villages? Did you see them changing color after rain or fog settled? Did you know their true meaning? After all, he passionately loved to travel, to find, to feel the trace of ancient life. In adolescence, at one time he studied the mysterious night life. And it has always been connected by countless threads - sight, feeling, thought - with the depths of the open sky shimmering with starlight.

In the evening I decided to visit one of the younger Bunins, the grandchildren of Yevgeny Alekseevich. And again I was surprised that none of the old-timers-local historians, even such meticulous as Povolyaev, who keeps in memory many details from Efremov's life, knows exactly how many grandchildren Yevgeny Alekseevich has, or where they live. They remembered Agrippina Petrovna Kryukova, an old activist who worked in the 30s as a so-called women's organizer at Efremov's construction sites, the aunt of Arseny Evgenievich's wife. She was delighted with us, it turned out that she once knew my father. She said that Arseniy Evgenievich fought, and after the war for many years he worked as an electric welder at a factory, that his wife's name was Anna Yakovlevna, that they had three children. Daughter Tatyana, by Rodionov's husband. And sons - Vladimir and Mikhail. They were all born, raised and educated here. Vladimir works as a foreman in the instrumentation shop at a synthetic rubber plant. Michael - at the chemical plant. Here, in Efremov, the Bunin tree branched out: Vladimir Arsenyevich had a fifteen-year-old son, Volodya. Tatyana Arsenievna has a two-year-old Seryozha.

Agrippina Petrovna has long since retired. But she still has a thirties haircut, short straight hair. Big facial features. Unfeminine movements. Short and clear sentence. Certainty, clarity of memory. And not lost, despite the age, the energy of interest in what is happening.

She dictated the addresses of the younger Bunins from memory, clearly, never straying.

I came to Vladimir Arsenievich Bunin quite late, around nine o'clock in the evening. So it happened: several times they moved from end to end of Efremov. We dined at the house of Roman Matveyevich, the same one whom Kuprina prefers to Bunin. He and his wife live in a four-story block house overlooking the road, on the top floor. The walls in the entrance are scratched with various inscriptions. The flights of stairs have not been cleaned for a long time. Whitish dust lies in a puffy layer. Feet are slightly buried in it. And you cross the threshold of the apartment, from the very threshold - cleanliness and tidiness. Following the owner, you immediately take off your shoes. So, in socks and talked, dined. In the corner of the empty living room there is a moonshine still covered with a dark board. They drank slivyanka and homemade sour apple wine.

A sleepy summer evening came, a slight coolness blew. It became dark. The lanterns lit up. Buses have become less frequent.

When Vladimir Arsenievich opened the door for me, I involuntarily smiled: his pleasant face seemed very familiar to me. I introduced myself and said that Agrippina Petrovna had given me the address. Then he smiled and invited me to come into the rooms.

They were alone with his wife Vera Mikhailovna. Son Volodya was in a summer camp. They did not expect guests, especially later ones. But they were dressed neatly, simply, even with subtle elegance. It looks like a Bunin ancestral trait. And in everything a pleasant, easily outlined naturalness. And books - quite a lot of books - stand alive on the shelves that rise high. On the table near the shelves there is such an arrangement of objects - books, papers - as if it were a modest desktop of a person who writes and loves the word. In any case, one can imagine that a prose writer is working behind him. And the things around are organized in such a way that they give the space a contemplative quietness. Vera Mikhailovna turned off the television as soon as I entered. And the conversation went naturally, without any pressure.

Your library, I see, is not randomly selected. And it looks like you've been collecting for a long time.

For a long time. Both me and Vera are both interested. Purchase if possible.

Do you have many books by Ivan Alekseevich?

There are some publications, but not all. I would like to have, of course. But you know how it is now with books, how to get them. After all, Vera and I are far from this, there are no acquaintances in the bookstore, I am at the factory, she works in a pharmacy.

For some reason, I wanted to ask bluntly, bluntly, do you like the writer Bunin? But, of course, I restrained myself. Yes, and what right did I have to question, even mentally, the great-nephew of Ivan Bunin, also Bunin! This thought, probably, could not even have occurred to me if there weren’t today’s daily disputes and conversations about what kind of evenings to spend in Efremov, Buninskaya or otherwise called. Vladimir Arsenievich looked at me with serious bright eyes that for a moment smiled vaguely, in which a deep unambiguous attitude towards his great relative, an interest in his artistic, and perhaps spiritual world, was illuminated. Interest, as I understood from our further conversation, is far from being satisfied.

Do you have rare photographs associated with Ivan Alekseevich in your family?

I don't know how rare they are. But Uncle Kolya brought a lot of photos.

Nikolai Iosifovich Laskarzhevsky?

Yes. He gave some of them to my father... My father and his sister, my aunt, had to endure a lot. My grandfather died in a famine. In the last years of his life, in order to feed his family, he painted portraits of various influential people in the city.

Vladimir Arsenievich speaks with great respect and perhaps even tenderness of Agrippina Petrovna, who obviously took a considerable part in his upbringing. Now he is thirty-five years old, brother Mikhail is thirty-three. He remembers his grandmother, but not Nastasya Karlovna, but Natalya Petrovna, the true mother of his father, a peasant woman who lived all her life in the village and was buried thirty kilometers from Efremov. She then had her own family and, it seems, had children not only from Evgeny Alekseevich. Here some places from his memoirs involuntarily began to emerge in my memory: the village of Novoselki ... Evgeny Alekseevich himself, an artist and a good harmonist, and therefore a frequent guest at weddings, "wedding conversations", as they called song games and beats at hen parties , at wedding feasts. A young peasant woman, his sweetheart, runs out to him from a hot hut ringing with songs into the autumn cold. He catches her. She clings to him, beckons him into the hut, whispers: "Come ... We will beat you." Maybe it's not Natalya Petrovna at all. Evgeny Alekseevich, apparently, met with her later. But some kind of sewing thread flickers here, somehow connects these games in my mind with a later meeting, with the appearance of the illegitimate children of Evgeny Alekseevich - Arseny and Margarita. Vladimir Arsenyevich remembers well how his father took them, children, to the village several times to his real mother, whom he loved. The Bunin clan is so deeply and inextricably branched, dispersed in Russian soil.

I asked Vladimir Arsenievich about his son, fifteen-year-old Volodya, whether he had any inclinations towards literature and art.

He loves to draw and is observant, - said Vladimir Arsenievich, - but his inclinations are still indefinite, it is not known where nature will pull and where life will turn.

The Bunin family is known to be rich in talents, - I noticed, - and before Ivan Alekseevich they were, and therefore still will be.

It would be nice, - he said, opening up like a child. - Let's hope.

In him, and he himself felt some still undiscovered possibilities, some kind of root that had not yet sprouted.

You know, - I noticed, - it's a pity that you are far from the Efremov local historians. They didn't even know your address. If not for Agrippina Petrovna, perhaps we would not have met this time. And another time they would have missed each other, like today with your father.

But none of them contacted us. And without it, somehow awkward, and why? Maybe they don't need us at all...

What does it mean - not needed! The Bunin house, which is being restored, is the house of your own grandfather. And your father lived in it. You know this better than me, but you say: "We don't need it."

I say, maybe they are not needed, since they do not apply. Now, if Uncle Kolya lived here, he would, of course, stir everyone up, but he is old and lives in Bobruisk ...

Vera Mikhailovna was silent almost all the time during our conversation. But she was not absently silent, but as if silently took part in the conversation, responding sympathetically in a number of cases. A sweet, delicate, fair-haired woman. In the atmosphere of the house, one could feel the evenness of the indigenous characters of the steppe - after all, there have long been many such characters in the steppe, not prone to gloom, irascibility, revelry, on the contrary, conducive to long friendship, to cordial conversations. Perhaps I was mistaken in drawing too hasty conclusions about the evenness of the characters of my new acquaintances. But the arrangement of things in the apartment also bore the imprint of the evenness of the character of their owners - this could not deceive and left a pleasant impression in me. Soft floor lamp light. A window open to the warm, rustling night of the steppe, with occasional breaths, like a deep breath.

Vladimir Arsenievich volunteered to see me off in order to take me to the hotel by the shortest route. Tall, well-built, fit - Bunin's stature. And the characteristic face, vaguely reminiscent of Ivan Alekseevich, and therefore seemed familiar from the first minutes. The movements are restrained and at the same time light. And generally easy to climb. And on the go is easy, beautiful. On the way, I felt his unexpected animation. Yes, and he himself felt an uplifted mood, something unreasonably pleasing, liberated. The air, light, dry, warm, blew over the night, touched or did not touch the face.

I just saw young Bunin, - I said. - He was then much younger than you and not much older than your Volodya. He lived a tense, subtle spiritual life. I felt that somewhere nearby, within reach, lives, Leo Tolstoy thinks. This did not give him peace. And then one day he passionately wanted to go to Tolstoy and talk with him with great frankness. From his outback, hot horse, he rushed off, flew to Yasnaya Polyana. But on the way he changed his mind, he was seized by fear of Tolstoy, what could he say to the great man? I just rode to Efremov and stopped short, felt the impossibility of entering the universe of Leo Tolstoy, turned back. However, it was too late to return home, and he spent the night in Efremov, on a bench in some public garden. Perhaps the night was just as warm, with light breezes, exhilarating with the fullness of life.

It is not easy to understand him, - said Vladimir Arsenievich. - But I think more and more about him as a native person, I want to understand my family in him.

He led me out of the darkness into a lighted street, about a hundred meters from the hotel. We said goodbye. For a moment I felt his strong, definite, light hand in my palm, again I felt the kindness of his nature and thought that such a hand would not be plump at fifty or sixty. She is rather prone to dryness, endurance - a sign of longevity. And yet there was a vaguely perceptible mild, not conspicuous humor in it. Many who knew Ivan Alekseevich well noted his innate humor and even acting during friendly conversations. But, here's a strange thing, this natural humor almost did not penetrate into Bunin's writings at all. The tragic features of the observed life, its very spirit did not allow the manifestation of these qualities in his writing. Here humor for Bunin was, as it were, out of place. In any case, it can be assumed so.

In the corridor of a small hotel, I again ran into a gray-haired astrologer from Moscow. We rejoiced at each other like old friends. He said that they would stay in Efremov for another day or two: weather forecasters promise light rains at times. There will be a good opportunity to shoot mysterious stones on color film. I asked if I could go with them. He nodded his head in the affirmative. And then he started talking about the fact that they, engaged in identifying ancient astronomical signs on the territory of Russia, discover many unexpected things in the depths of it. A lot depends on the place. Here in Efremov, Bunin opened up for them in a new way.

At night I did not sleep for a long time, experiencing a kind of vision through a dream: contemplation of the apparent stillness of the night. I wanted to stay at least a little under the open, quiet, magnificent starry sky. The most beautiful and precious thing in small, poor Russian cities is, of course, the night sky above them in clear weather. You will not see this in large and gigantic cities with their broken celestial line. I left the hotel and went to see the Beautiful Sword at night. She, shining, motionlessly flowed, aspired in the moonlight, enchanted and deserted. And Vladimir Arsenyevich and I, who had just walked through dark back streets, and young Ivan Bunin, spending the night in some Efremov public garden, experiencing Leo Tolstoy as some kind of cosmic phenomenon, experiencing fear and admiration for his personality, and hunters for blue stones - all suddenly appeared on the same plane of existence. Impossibly palpable.

What was Ivan Bunin thinking about at night in Efremov, on a cold bench, in the open air? What did his soul see through in solitude, prone to contemplation, unknown to almost anyone then, lost in the depths of the Russian outback? Mother nature, as if observing the gradual destruction of the family tree (one of many), gave him, Ivan Bunin, great vision, as if in order for him to feel, recreate this tree in all its fullness and branching. Bunin, with rare diligence, gathered in his soul all this disappearing and disappeared and imprinted it in Bunin's prose poetry, trembling, living, shimmering with all the uncaptured colorful words, taking on a special, precious shade of writing itself, equally refined and substantive. Imprinted in the desire for eternal life and in the rejection of extinction.

Vladimir Lazarev

What do you know about Ivan Bunin's personal life? Read all the details and secrets of the poet's personal life in this article.
On December 10, 1933, the Nobel Prize ceremony was held in Sweden. This day became something of a sensation. For the first time, the Russian writer Ivan Bunin received an award in literature from the hands of King Gustav V. The joy of recognizing the merits of a genius was shared by both his wife and his mistress, who went up on stage with him.

Love has always been the engine for Bunin's creativity, it was under the influence of the strongest feelings that his best works were born. Who were these women who became his muses at different stages of his difficult life?

Varvara Pashchenko - Bunin's first love and civil wife

The newspaper "Orlovsky Vestnik" became the first place of work for young Ivan. He was only 19 years old, but he was known to her publishers. The fact is that Bunin had been trying his literary powers for several years already, sending his poems and stories to magazines in Moscow and St. Petersburg, they were published, critics favored them. It was also published in the Orlovsky Bulletin. The newspaper was considered advanced, articles were always on the topic of the day, and "new blood" was required in the literary section. The publisher Nadezhda Semyonova personally noticed a talented young man and invited him to the post of assistant editor.

In the newspaper, Bunin met Varvara Pashchenko, who worked there as a proofreader. Her father was a well-known doctor in the city (previously he even owned an opera house in Kharkov) and protested against marriage to a poor and unpromising, in his opinion, author. Varya and Ivan began to live in secret, without getting married. Their relationship lasted about five years, they parted, then converged again. In the end, Varvara went to Bunin's friend, the writer and actor Arseny Bibikov. He was born into a wealthy noble family and did not experience material problems that so darkened the family life of Vari and Ivan. By that time, the girl's father had changed his anger to mercy and gave his blessing to marry Bunin, but she hid this fact, preferring a more wealthy husband.

Ivan's experiences are reflected in the autobiographical book "The Life of Arseniev", Varvara became the prototype of Lika.

Anna Tsakni - the Greek beauty who caused the "sunstroke"

After some time, having slightly recovered from the experiences associated with the departure of Varvara, Bunin travels to Odessa - to the country house to his new acquaintance, the poet and playwright Alexander Fedorov. Fedorov is friends with the Greek Nikolai Tsakni, a man who recently bought the newspaper Southern Review. The publication is still unprofitable and desperately needs well-known authors and competent editors. Fedorov pushes Ivan's candidacy for the vacancy of the second editor. Bunin is ready to work and invest all his skills, but, looking ahead, let's say that neither he became an official employee of the newspaper, nor the publication ever reached a payback. But Ivan met a new love - the young beauty Anna, daughter of Tsakni.

Anna Tsakni

Seeing the girl for the first time, he was so struck by her dazzling appearance that in the future, remembering Anya, he called her only “sunstroke” (later he would create the famous work of the same name). The flared feeling struck Bunin on the spot - he made an offer a few days after they met.

Tsakni was rich and spoiled by fans, but she agreed to the marriage. It is unlikely that she loved the writer, most likely, she felt the power of his outstanding personality and talent. The big difference in age (10 years) and intellect destroyed the union very quickly.

The sharp-tongued Bunin would write years later: "She is stupid and undeveloped, like a puppy." The marriage broke up after 1.5 years, Anna left, being pregnant, to Alexander Deribas, a descendant of the famous founder of Odessa, Joseph Deribas. With an only child, Bunin was practically not allowed to see his wife's parents, the boy Kolya died of an illness before he reached the age of five. The writer suffered greatly because of the broken family and even tried to commit suicide. He will dedicate the poem "You are a stranger ..." to Anna. He will carry a photo of his son in his pocket until his last day.

Vera Muromtseva - Bunin's woman, who became a guardian angel

So many trials fell on the lot of this woman that few people can survive such a thing. Vera was of noble origin, was well educated, knew four foreign languages ​​and had a penchant for research work. The acquaintance took place on November 04, 1906 during a literary evening held by the writer Boris Zaitsev. Bunin conquered Muromtseva, far from romantic sighs, from the first line of his poems. He was already quite famous, butstill not rich. Again, the bride's high-ranking parents were against the marriage. In addition, Anna Tsakni, living with another man, did not give a divorce until 1922!

Vera Muromtseva

Did Bunin love Vera? After the suffering caused by his marriage to a Greek beauty, he vowed never to marry again. Muromtseva became him, first of all, a reliable and faithful friend, assistant and editor, as well as a person who took care of all domestic issues.

They were united by common interests, they always had something to talk about. They traveled a lot, both did not accept the revolution, leaving first for Odessa, then for Istanbul (at that time in Constantinople), then to France. Vera quit her favorite chemistry classes, because. Bunin decided that she would be engaged in translations, and everyone would have their own occupation, not interfering with the other.

After a divorce from Tsakni, already living in exile, in 1922 they nevertheless got married. Bunin took Muromtseva's feelings and her daily care for granted. And when he was asked if he loves his wife, he answered in his caustic manner: “To love Vera? It's like loving your arm or leg." Soon the writer will meet a new love, which has become fatal for all participants in the events.

Love polyhedron in the life of Ivan Bunin

In the summer of 1926, Bunin, walking along the beach with his friend Mikhail Hoffman, met a young married couple, also immigrants from Russia. Galina Kuznetsova was an aspiring writer, rather friendly to critics and regularly published in various publications. Husband Dmitry, being a former white officer, tried himself as a lawyer, but clients were extremely rare. In the end, he began to work as a taxi driver, the family did not have enough money.

Young Galya (she had just turned 26), who moved in literary circles, was fascinated by the venerable and famous writer. And Bunin decided that this is the very love that is now for life. They started dating. If Vera Muromtseva still tried to turn a blind eye to her husband's frequent absences from home, then Dmitry did not tolerate this state of affairs. Galina left him and rented an apartment in Paris. Bunin came to her from Grasse more and more often.

Galina Kuznetsova

Ultimately, the 56-year-old writer decided to settle Galina Kuznetsova at home. He announced to Vera that this was his student, and he would be her mentor in literature. If the wife saw Maitre Galya coming out of the bedroom in the morning, he shamelessly said that they had been working all night. Muromtseva, on the other hand, believed that she had no right to forbid Ivan to love the one he wanted. The emigrant environment seethed with indignation, gossips claimed that Bunin had gone mad in his old age, but most of all they condemned Vera, who resigned herself to an unambiguous situation.

In fairness, we note that Bunin burned his notes of this period, and Galina does not write about intimate moments in her Grasse Diary. She does not deal with her works during this period of time: she rewrites the drafts of Arseniev's Life, fulfills all the orders of the master, conducts his correspondence, receives guests if Vera is not at home.

Nevertheless, Galya at first believed that Bunin would divorce his middle-aged wife, relations with Muromtseva were very strained. This love union lasted 6 years. Gradually, communication between women became friendly, Vera began to play the role of a mother for a young writer and a husband distraught with love. She consoled Galya, Kuznetsova, in view of the lack of money in the "family", shared her wardrobe with her.

In 1929, the life of the Bunin couple and Galina Kuznetsova becomes even more intense: the novice writer Leonid Zurov comes to visit and ... stays forever. Remarkably, Bunin himself invited him, promised to help with employment, but Zurov got bored of him after a week, and it would be impolite to kick him out. Leonid is talented, but mentally unbalanced, he needs treatment from time to time. In addition, he falls in love with Vera Muromtseva and shows it in every possible way. Vera is much older and does not return his feelings, Zurov regularly threatens suicide. The situation in the house is heating up to the limit. But what was it - love between all the neighbors or forced cohabitation due to lack of money?

All those living in the Bunins' villa are interrupted by odd jobs. The writer has already been nominated for the Nobel Prize twice, but did not receive it, but how great it would be to give away all the debts and end the financial problems! Today will be the vote for the third time. Bunin no longer hopes to become a laureate, therefore, in order not to sit in nervous tension at home, he goes to the cinema with Galya. But Zurov did not let them see it, who came running to tell the good news. Bunin goes to Stockholm for the ceremony with Vera and Galina, it was decided to leave Leonid at home in order to avoid his mental breakdowns in public.

On the way back, Galina fell seriously ill, Bunin agreed with his acquaintance, the philosopher Fyodor Stepun, that he would shelter her for the duration of treatment in his house in Berlin. There Kuznetsova met his sister, the opera singer Margarita, whom everyone called Marga, and ... fell in love. Tired of Bunin's egoism, Zurov's neurasthenia and Muromtseva's silent tolerance, Galya succumbed to the influence and talent of a new liberated personality. Upon returning to the "family" began a stormy correspondence. About a year later, Marga came to visit, and then it became clear that they were not just girlfriends. Desperate Bunin wrote in his memoirs: “I thought some dude with a glass parting in his hair would come. And my grandmother took her away from me ... ". Marga and Galina left for Germany. Suffering Bunin wrote the famous "Dark Alleys".

The last years of Bunin's family life with his wife and mistress

The outbreak of the world war brought Marga and Galya back under the roof of the Bunins to the safe provincial Grasse. Now the secretary Bahrakh still lived here. The Nobel Prize was spent a long time ago and very quickly. Six people lived from hand to mouth, doing odd jobs. Those around him took the situation in stride. The writer Vasily Yanovsky, meeting Bunin, would certainly ask: “How are you, Ivan Alekseevich, in the sexual sense? “Here I’ll give it between the eyes, so you’ll know,” was the answer.

Margarita and Galina left only after the war, they managed to find a job in the United States in the Russian department of the UN, until their death they were together.

Bunin died in 1953, never having recovered from the loss of Kuznetsova, after her departure he could no longer create, limiting himself to publishing memoirs and caustic stories about familiar writers.

Faithful Muromtseva survived him by 8 years, receiving a pension from the USSR after Ivan's death as "the widow of an outstanding Russian writer." According to the will, she was buried in the same grave with Bunin. The days of Vera were brightened up by Leonid Zurov, who later inherited the couple's writers' archive. Zurov ended his earthly journey in 1971 in a psychiatric clinic. And we got the outstanding works of the great Russian writer, written under the influence of incredible love passions.

Video: The story of the life and love of Ivan Bunin

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin was born on November 10 (22 according to the new style) November 1870 in Voronezh, in an old impoverished noble family. In his family there were such outstanding figures of Russian culture and science as V.A. Zhukovsky, brothers I.V. and P.V. Kireevsky, the great traveler P.P. Semenov-Tyan-Shansky.

The father of the future poet, Alexei Nikolaevich Bunin (1827-1906), a participant in the Crimean War, led a stormy life of a reveler and a player. In the end, he ruined the family, and the Bunins had to move to their father's family farm - Butyrka in the Yelets district of the Oryol province. Bunin's mother, Lyudmila Alexandrovna (née Chubarova) (1835-1910), also came from the nobility. She was her husband's niece.
In total, the Bunin family had nine children. Five died in infancy. Ivan, his two older brothers, Julius and Evgeny, and sister Maria* remained.

* Julius Alekseevich Bunin (1857-1921) - People's Will, writer and journalist. He accompanied Ivan Alekseevich to emigration. He died in Moscow from exhaustion during a famine. He was buried in the cemetery of the Donskoy Monastery. Evgeny Alekseevich Bunin (1858-1933). He was a talented portrait painter, but when the family was on the verge of ruin, in order to save the remnants of his fortune, he took up farming and trade, and had a shop. After the revolution, he worked as an art teacher at a local school. He was buried in the city of Efremov, in an abandoned cemetery, next to his mother. Their real graves were lost, and by the 100th anniversary of the writer they were symbolically restored. Maria Alekseevna Bunina (married Laskarzhevskaya) (1873-1930).

In 1881, Vanya Bunin entered the Yelets Gymnasium, but left it four years later due to a serious illness. He spent the next four years in the village of Ozerki. Once, their elder brother, Yuli, was exiled here for three years for revolutionary activities, who by that time had already graduated from the mathematical faculty of Moscow and the law faculty of Kharkov universities, and also managed to serve a year in prison for political activities. It was he who went through the entire gymnasium course with Ivan, studied languages ​​with him, read the rudiments of philosophy, psychology, social and natural sciences. Both were especially passionate about literature. From about the age of seventeen, Ivan began to compose poetry. It can be said without exaggeration what exactly Julius made of the great writer's younger brother.

Bunin wrote his first poem at the age of eight. At the age of sixteen, his first publication appeared in print, when in 1887 the poems “Over the grave of S.Ya. Nadson" and "Village Beggar".

In 1889, eighteen-year-old Ivan left the impoverished estate, according to his mother, "with one cross on his chest," and was forced to look for work in order to secure a modest existence (he worked as a proofreader, statistician, librarian, and collaborated in a newspaper). He often moved - he lived either in Orel, then in Kharkov, then in Poltava, then in Moscow. And he wrote poetry. In 1891, his first collection of poetry, Poems, was published.

Then the first love came to Ivan Alekseevich. Varvara Vladimirovna Pashchenko (1870-1918), the daughter of a Yelets doctor, worked as a proofreader in the Orlovsky Vestnik newspaper, where Bunin published. The young people fell in love with each other, and Ivan Alekseevich proposed to the girl. However, Varvara's parents opposed the marriage of their daughter to a beggar. In response, the young began to live in a civil marriage, while they had to move to Poltava and work there as statisticians.

The turning point was 1895. Varvara Vladimirovna was inflamed with love for the poet's friend Arseny Nikolaevich Bibikov (1873-1927) and went to him. She hid from her former lover that her parents had already agreed to her marriage to Bibikov. This love story is reflected in the fifth book of Arseniev's Life.

Shocked by the betrayal of his beloved, Ivan Alekseevich quit his service and left first for St. Petersburg, then for Moscow. There he soon became acquainted with outstanding writers and poets of Russia and entered the literary environment of both capitals on an equal footing.

Bunin's books began to be published one after another. At the same time, it must be remembered that Ivan Alekseevich all his life considered himself first of all a poet, and only then a prose writer. It was during this period that he made the famous translation of Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha.

In 1896, while in Odessa, Bunin met Anna Nikolaevna Tsakni (1879-1963) and fell in love with her. Initially, the girl reciprocated. After two years of dating, they got married. Tsakni was the daughter of a wealthy Odessa entrepreneur, and this marriage turned out to be unequal, so no one except Bunin himself doubted its short duration. That's how it all happened. Despite the birth of a common child, Kolya *, Anna Nikolaevna left Ivan Alekseevich after a year and a half.

* Kolya Bunin was the only child of the writer. He died in 1905. All his life Ivan Nikolaevich wore a portrait of a boy in a medallion on his chest.

Literary fame came to the writer in 1900, when the story "Antonov apples" was published. At the same time, Bunin undertook his first trip abroad, visited Berlin, Paris and traveled around Switzerland.

In early 1901, the Scorpion Publishing House in Moscow published a collection of Bunin's poems, Falling Leaves. Critics received the book ambiguously. But in 1903, the collection "Leaf Fall" and the translation of "The Song of Hiawatha" were awarded, perhaps, the most honorable award in the poet's life - the Pushkin Prize of the Russian Academy of Sciences.

On November 4, 1906, Bunin met in Moscow, in the house of Boris Zaitsev *, with Vera Nikolaevna Muromtseva (1881-1961), the daughter of a member of the Moscow City Council Nikolai Andreevich Muromtsev (1852-1933) and the niece of the chairman of the First State Duma Sergei Andreevich Muromtsev (1850-1961 1910). On April 10, 1907, Bunin and Muromtseva set off from Moscow on a journey through the countries of the East - to Egypt, Syria, Palestine. From this journey began their life together. Subsequently, Ivan Alekseevich said to Vera Nikolaevna:

* Boris Konstantinovich Zaitsev (1881-1972) - a great Russian writer. After the October Revolution he lived in exile.

I wouldn't have written anything without you. Would be lost!

In the autumn of 1909, Bunin was awarded the second Pushkin Prize for the book "Poems 1903-1906", as well as for the translation of J. Byron's drama "Cain" and Longfellow's book "From the Golden Legend". Then the writer was elected an honorary academician of the Russian Academy of Sciences in the category of fine literature. At that time, Ivan Alekseevich worked hard on his first big story - "The Village".

All his life Bunin waited and was afraid of death. There are many memories of this. But the death of his mother in 1910 was the worst blow for him. The son was at the bedside of the dying, but Lyudmila Alexandrovna, noticing his condition, sent Ivan away herself, taking from him a promise to come to her grave without fail. Ivan Alekseevich swore tearfully, but later he never dared to fulfill his promise.

The pre-war and war years became a time of high creative activity of the writer.

In the summer of 1914, while traveling along the Volga, Bunin learned about the beginning of the First World War. Elder brother Julius Alekseevich then predicted:

Well, that's the end of us! Russia's war for Serbia, and then the revolution in Russia. The end of all our former lives!

Soon this prophecy will come true...

January and February 1917 Bunin lived in Moscow. The writer understood the February Revolution as a terrible omen of the all-Russian collapse. The poet spent the summer and autumn of 1917 in the countryside, he and Muromtseva left for Moscow on October 23, and soon the news of the October Revolution came. Bunin did not accept it decisively and categorically, because he rejected any violent attempt to rebuild human society. Ivan Alekseevich assessed the revolution as a whole as "bloody madness" and "general madness."

On May 21, 1918, the Bunins left Moscow for Odessa. There the poet continued to work, collaborated in newspapers, met with writers and artists. The city changed hands many times, power changed, orders changed. All these events are authentically reflected in the second part of Bunin's Cursed Days.

Here we have to make a small but significant digression. Since the end of the 1980s and to this day, the Russian liberal intelligentsia openly distorts the meaning of Bunin's "Cursed Days", portraying Ivan Alekseevich as a kind of original hater of Soviet power. In fact, the writer in this brilliant work opposed the revolution in general, primarily against the February liberal coup of 1917, and he considered and described the October Revolution only as a consequence of the February events. In other words, Bunin did not so much denounce the Bolsheviks as he beat Westerners in general, and attempts to portray him as a fighter for Russian capitalism are, to put it mildly, deliberately false. However, how false is the whole of modern Russian liberalism.

On January 26, 1920, on the foreign ship Sparta, Bunin and Muromtseva sailed to Constantinople, leaving Russia forever. Ivan Alekseevich painfully experienced the tragedy of separation from his homeland. By March, the refugees had reached Paris. The whole further life of the writer is connected with France, not counting short trips to other countries.

After the revolution, Ivan Alekseevich almost did not write poetry, he only republished what had already been created. But among the few that he wrote, there are many poetic masterpieces - “And flowers, and bumblebees, and grass, and ears ...”, “Mikhail”, “The bird has a nest, the beast has a hole ...”, “Rooster on church cross" and others.

The writer worked mainly with prose. In particular, from 1927 to 1933, Bunin wrote his largest work - the novel "The Life of Arseniev".

In France, the writer lived in Paris for the winter, and went to Grasse for the summer. I must say that for many years Ivan Alekseevich did not have his own house, all the time he rented other people's houses and apartments. Only in Paris, he and his wife bought themselves a small apartment at number 1 on Rue Jacques Offenbach. In this apartment the writer died in 1953

In 1926, Bunin was in his fifty-sixth year. And then one summer in Grasse, on the ocean, he met a young woman, an emigrant from Russia, Galina Nikolaevna Kuznetsova (1900-1976). Despite the fact that four years earlier he had legalized his relationship with Muromtseva, the writer fell in love.

A week after their first meeting, Kuznetsova left her husband forever. She became the mistress of Ivan Alekseevich, and eventually moved to his house. Vera Nikolaevna was faced with a choice: either to leave forever into the unknown from her beloved man, or to come to terms with the current situation. Reluctantly, she chose the second option, even became friends with Kuznetsova. (Kuznetsova left them in 1942).

Since the mid-1920s, every year the Nobel Committee considered the issue of awarding Ivan Alekseevich a prize, but each time rejected his candidacy. But in 1933, a warrant came from European politicians - in defiance of the Stalinist USSR, which was rapidly gaining international prestige and, despite the general boycott, was turning into a powerful industrial power, it was necessary to reward one of the Russian émigré writers. There were two candidates - Ivan Alekseevich Bunin and Dmitry Sergeevich Merezhkovsky *. Since Bunin claimed the award for a long time, the choice fell on him.

* Dmitry Sergeevich Merezhkovsky (1866-1941) - the great Russian writer and religious philosopher, author of the famous trilogy "Christ and Antichrist".

In 1933, Bunin was awarded the Nobel Prize, and the writer was able to breathe easy for a while and live a prosperous life for a while.

In those days when the Bunins and Kuznetsova went to receive the Nobel Prize, in Russia, in the small town of Efremov, Yevgeny, the writer's brother, his last truly dear person, died. He fell right on the street and died of heart failure.

On the way back from Stockholm, where Bunin received the Nobel Prize, Kuznetsova fell ill. They had to stay in Dresden, in the house of a good friend of the Bunins, philosopher Fyodor Avgustovich Stepun (1884-1965). There Kuznetsova met the owner's sister Margarita Augustovna Stepun (1895-1971). Both women turned out to be lesbians and passionately fell in love with each other. They did not part all their lives, and for several years they lived in the house and at the expense of Bunin, who hated them.

Of the prizes received, Ivan Alekseevich distributed about half to those in need. Only Kuprin he gave five thousand francs at once. Sometimes money was given to complete strangers. Bunin himself said:

As soon as I received the prize, I had to give away about 120,000 francs*.

* The entire premium was then 750,000 francs.

The Bunins spent the years of World War II in Grasse, for some time under German occupation. Ivan Alekseevich was even arrested, searched, but released. During these years, the writer created "Dark Alleys". The book was published in America, but it went unnoticed. Ivan Alekseevich met the victory of the USSR in the Great Patriotic War with great joy.

In the following years, Bunin was not published in the West, so he had nothing to live on. And then the writer began to prepare for his return to his homeland. He even himself left the Paris Union of Russian Writers and Journalists, which began to exclude from its membership writers who decided to leave for the USSR. After the Decree of the Soviet government in 1946 "On the restoration of citizenship of the USSR subjects of the former Russian Empire" many emigrants received an invitation to return. The celebrated poet Konstantin Mikhailovich Simonov (1915-1979) came to Paris to persuade Bunin to return.

It was then that the Russian emigration of the first wave, headed by Mark Aleksandrovich Aldanov (1886 - 1957), was alarmed. No one was going to publish Bunin, but the moral pressure on him was severe. Bunin was finally turned away from his homeland by the film actor Marina Alekseevna Ladynina (1908-2003), a lady, to put it mildly, stupid. She just "made a tour" of France. At a reception at the Soviet embassy, ​​Ladynina whispered to Bunin that, upon arrival in the USSR, he would immediately be escorted from the station to the Lubyanka, since Stalin was preparing a trial for him and Siberian camps. Ivan Alekseevich believed the stupid woman and remained to drag out a miserable existence in France. Ladynina, until the end of her days, with pathos assured her acquaintances that she had saved the life of the great Russian writer - she sincerely believed in her narrow-mindedness. Contemporary liberal biographers of Bunin linger on the story of his indignation at the 1946 Soviet government decree on the magazines Moskva and Leningrad, which allegedly discouraged Ivan Alekseevich from returning to Russia. This is an outright lie.

Subsequently, Ivan Alekseevich literally tore his hair out when he found out that his large author's book was published in the USSR in a large circulation. It was especially hard for Bunin because the Russian emigration gave him an obstruction.

The last years of the writer's life were spent in egregious poverty and illness. He suffered from lung disease. Faithful wife Vera Nikolaevna looked after the sick.

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin died quietly and calmly, in his sleep. It happened in the Paris apartment of the Bunins on the night of November 7-8, 1953. On the writer's bed lay a battered volume of Leo Tolstoy's novel Resurrection. They buried Ivan Alekseevich in a crypt at the Russian cemetery of Sainte-Genevieve-des-Bois near Paris, in the expectation that his ashes would be reburied in Russia. This hasn't happened yet.

leaf fall

Forest, like a painted tower,
Purple, gold, crimson,
Cheerful, colorful wall
It stands over a bright meadow.

Birches with yellow carving
Shine in blue azure,
Like towers, Christmas trees darken,
And between the maples they turn blue
Here and there in the foliage through
Clearances in the sky, that windows.
The forest smells of oak and pine,
During the summer it dried up from the sun,
And Autumn is a quiet widow
He enters his motley tower.
Today in an empty meadow
In the middle of a wide courtyard
Air web fabric
Shine like a net of silver.
Playing all day today
The last moth in the yard
And like a white petal
Freezes on the web
warmed by the warmth of the sun;
Today it's so bright all around
Such dead silence
In the forest and in the blue sky
What is possible in this silence
Hear the rustle of a leaf.
Forest, like a painted tower,
Purple, gold, crimson,
Standing above the sunny meadow,
Enchanted by silence;
The thrush quacks, flying
Among the podsed, where thick
Foliage an amber reflection pours;
Playing in the sky will flash
Scattered flock of starlings -
And everything will freeze again.
Last moments of happiness!
Autumn already knows what it is
Deep and mute peace -
A harbinger of a long storm.
Deep, strange forest was silent
And at dawn, when from sunset
Purple glitter of fire and gold
The tower illuminated with fire.
Then it darkened gloomily.
The moon is rising, and in the forest
Shadows fall on the dew...
It's cold and white
Among the glades, among the through
Dead autumn thicket,
And terribly one Autumn
In the desert silence of the night.

Now the silence is different:
Listen - it grows
And with her, frightening with pallor,
And the moon slowly rises.
He made all the shadows shorter
Transparent smoke brought to the forest
And now he looks straight into the eyes
From the misty heights of the sky.
0, dead dream of autumn night!
0, a terrible hour of night miracles!
In the silvery and damp fog
Light and empty in the clearing;
Forest filled with white light
With its frozen beauty
As if death is prophesying for itself;
The owl is silent too: it sits
Yes, it looks stupidly from the branches,
Sometimes wildly laughing
Will break with noise from a height,
flapping soft wings,
And sit on the bushes again
And looks with round eyes
Driving with an eared head
On the sides, as in amazement;
And the forest stands in a daze,
Filled with pale, light haze
And rotten dampness of leaves ...
Do not wait: the next morning will not glimpse
The sun is in the sky. Rain and haze
The forest is fogged with cold smoke, -
No wonder the night is over!
But Autumn will hold deep
Everything she's been through
In the silent night and lonely
Shut up in his terem:
Let the forest rage in the rain
Let the dark and rainy nights
And in the clearing wolf eyes
Glow green with fire!
Forest, like a tower without a prize,
All darkened and shed,
September, circling through the thickets of boron,
He removed the roof in places
And the entrance was strewn with damp foliage;
And there the winter fell at night
And he began to melt, killing everything ...

Horns are blowing in distant fields,
Their copper overflow rings,
Like a sad cry, among the wide
Rainy and foggy fields.
Through the noise of the trees, beyond the valley,
Lost in the depths of the forests
Turin's horn howls sullenly,
Clicking on the prey of dogs,
And the sonorous din of their voices
The noise of the desert spreads storms.
It's raining, cold as ice
Leaves are spinning across the fields,
And geese in a long caravan
They fly over the forest.
But the days go by. And now the smoke
Rise like pillars at dawn,
The forests are scarlet, motionless,
Earth in frosty silver
And in ermine shugai,
Wash your pale face,
Meeting the last day in the forest,
Autumn comes out on the porch.
The yard is empty and cold. At the gate
Among two dried aspens,
She can see the blue of the valleys
And the expanse of the desert swamp,
Road to the Far South:
There from winter storms and blizzards,
From the winter cold and blizzard
The birds have long since departed;
There and autumn in the morning
He will direct his lonely path
And forever in an empty forest
The open tower will leave its own.

Forgive me, forest! Sorry, goodbye,
The day will be gentle, good,
And soon soft powder
The dead edge will turn silver.
How strange will be in this white,
Deserted and cold day
And the forest, and the empty tower,
And the roofs of quiet villages,
And heaven, and without borders
In them leaving fields!
How happy the sables will be
And ermines, and martens,
Playing and basking on the run
In soft snowdrifts in the meadow!
And there, like a violent dance of a shaman,
Break into the naked taiga
Winds from the tundra, from the ocean,
Buzzing in the swirling snow
And howling in the field like a beast.
They will destroy the old tower,
Leave stakes and then
On this empty island
Hang frost through,
And they will be in the blue sky
Shine halls of ice
And crystal and silver.
And at night, between their white divorces,
The fires of heaven will ascend,
The star shield Stozhar will sparkle -
At that hour, when in the midst of silence
Frosty glowing fire,
Bloom of the aurora.

And flowers, and bumblebees, and grass, and ears of corn,
And azure, and midday heat ...
The time will come - the Lord of the prodigal son will ask:
“Were you happy in your earthly life?”

And I'll forget everything - I'll only remember these
Field paths between ears and grasses -
And from sweet tears I will not have time to answer,
Falling on merciful knees.

The bird has a nest, the beast has a hole.
How bitter was the young heart,
When I left my father's yard,
Say sorry to your home!

The beast has a hole, the bird has a nest,
How the heart beats, sadly and loudly,
When I enter, being baptized, into a strange, hired house
With his old knapsack!

Black as a spear, where is the sun, where is the diamond.
The squeamish look of half-closed eyes
Languishing, drunk, it flickers with a threat,
That is a fatal and relentless dream.

Torment, intoxicate short circles,
Measured inaudible steps, -
Here lies down in regal contempt
And again he looks into himself, into his hot dream.

Squinting, he turns his eyes away,
How would this dream and night blind them,
Where the black mines are a sultry crucible,
Where the burning suns are a diamond grave.

Rooster on a church cross

Floats, flows, runs like a boat,
And how high above the ground!
The whole sky goes back
And he goes ahead - and everything sings.

Sings that we live
That we will die, that day by day
Years go by, centuries flow -
It's like a river, like clouds.

Sings that everything is a lie,
What is only for a moment given by fate
And the father's house, and dear friend,
And the circle of children, and the circle of grandchildren,

Yes, only the dream of the dead is eternal,
Yes, God's temple, yes the cross, yes He.

An excerpt from Longfellow's "Song of Hiawatha"

Introduction

If you ask where
These fairy tales and legends
With their forest fragrance,
The damp freshness of the valley,
Blue smoke of wigwams,
The sound of rivers and waterfalls
Noise, wild and hundred-sounding,
How does thunder roll in the mountains? -
I will tell you, I will answer:

"From forests, desert plains,
From the lakes of the Midnight Country,
From the country of the Ojibway,
From the land of the wild Dakotas,
From the mountains and tundra, from the swamps,
Where among the sedge wanders
Gray heron, Shuh-shukh-ga.
I repeat these stories
These old legends
By sweet-sounding tunes
Musician Navadaga.

If you ask me where I heard
Where did Navadaga find them, -
I will tell you, I will answer:
"In the nests of songbirds, in the groves,
On ponds, in beaver burrows,
In the meadows, in the tracks of bison,
On the rocks, in the eagles' nests.

These songs were distributed
In swamps and swamps,
In the tundra of the sad north:
Cheetowak, plover, he sang them there,
Mang, dive, wild goose, wawa,
Gray heron, Shuh-shukh-ha,
And a capercaillie, Mushkodaza.

"In the middle of the Tavazenta valley,
In the silence of green meadows,
At radiant streams,
Once lived Navadaga.
Around the Indian village
Fields, valleys spread,
And in the distance stood pines,
Bor stood, green - in the summer,
White - in winter frosts,
Full of sighs, full of songs.

Those merry streams
Were seen in the valley
According to their spills - in the spring,
On silver alders - in summer,
Through the fog - on an autumn day,
Downstream - cold in winter.
Near them lived Navadaga
In the middle of the Tavazenta valley,
In the silence of green meadows.

There he sang about Hiawatha,
He sang to me the Song of Hiawatha,
About his wondrous birth
On his great life:
How to fast and pray
How Hiawatha worked
To make his people happy
So that he goes to goodness and truth.

You who love nature -
The dusk of the forest, the whisper of the leaves,
In the sunshine of the valley
Stormy downpour and blizzards
And rushing rivers
In the impregnable wilds of boron,
And thunder in the mountains
What's like the flapping of eagles
Heavy wings are distributed, -
I brought you these sagas,
This Song of Hiawatha!

You who love legends
And folk ballads
This voice of days gone by
The voice of the past, alluring
To silent contemplation
Speaking so childishly
That barely catches the ear
Is it a song or a fairy tale, -
I brought you from the wild countries
This Song of Hiawatha!

You, in whose young, pure heart
Maintained faith in God
In the spark of God in man;
You who remember that forever
human heart
Knew grief, doubt
And impulses to the bright truth,
That in the deep darkness of life
Leads and strengthens us
Providence is invisible, -
I sing to you artlessly
This Song of Hiawatha!

You who, wandering
Around the green
Where, leaning on the fence,
gray with moss,
Barberry hangs, blushing,
forget yourself sometimes
On a neglected graveyard
And read in thought
The inscription on the gravestone
Clumsy, simple
But full of sorrow
And love, and pure faith, -
Read these runes
This Song of Hiawatha!

Peace Pipe

On the mountains of the Great Plain,
On top of the Red Rocks
There stood the Lord of Life,
Gitchie Manito mighty,
And from the top of the Red Stones
Called the nations to him
Called people from all over.

From his traces flowed,
Fluttered in the morning light
The river, breaking into the abyss,
Iskudoy, ​​fire, sparkling.
And with the finger of the Lord of Life
I drew her across the valley
The path is radiant, saying:
“Here is your path from now on!”

Taking a stone from the cliff,
He made a pipe out of stone
And he made figures on it.
Over the river, by the shore
Pulled out a reed on a chubuk,
All in green, long leaves;
He filled his pipe with bark,
red willow bark,
And breathed into the neighboring forest,

Noisy from the breath of the branch
Rocked and collided
They lit up with a bright flame;
And, standing on the mountain heights,
Lit the Lord of Life
Peace Pipe, calling
All peoples to the meeting.

The smoke flowed quietly, quietly
In the sunshine of the morning
Before - a dark stripe,
After - thicker, blue steam,
Turned white in the meadows with clubs,
Like the tops of a forest in winter
Floated higher, higher, higher, -
Finally touched the sky
And waves in the vaults of the sky
Rolled over the earth.

From the valley of Tawazenta,
From the Wyoming valley
From wooded Tuscaloosa,
From the Rocky Mountains far away,
From the lakes of the Midnight Country
All nations have seen
The distant smoke of Pokwana
Conscription smoke Pipes of the World.

And the prophets of all nations
They said: “That is Pokvana!
This distant smoke
That bends like a willow
Like a hand, nods, beckons,
Gitch Manito mighty
Tribes of people calls,
He calls the nations to council.

Along the streams, across the plains,
There were leaders from all nations,
There were Choctos and Comanches,
There were Shoshone and Omogi,
The Hurons and Mandans walked,
Delaware and Mogoki
Blackfoot and Pony
Ojibway and Dakota -
We went to the mountains of the Great Plain,
Before the face of the Lord of Life.

And in armor, in bright colors, -
Like autumn trees
Like the sky at dawn
They gathered in the valley
Looking wildly at each other.
In their eyes - a deadly challenge,
In their hearts - deaf enmity,
Age-old thirst for revenge -
Fatal testament from the ancestors.

Gitchie Manito all-powerful,
Creator of all nations,
Looked at them with compassion
With father's pity, with love, -
He looked at their fierce anger,
As for the malice of minors,
Like a quarrel in children's games.

He stretched out to them the shadow of the right hand,
To soften their stubborn temper,
To humble their insane fervor
With a wave of the right hand.
And a majestic voice
A voice like the sound of the waters
The noise of distant waterfalls,
Resounded to all nations
Saying: “O children, children!
Listen to the word of wisdom
A word of gentle advice
From the one who created you all!

I gave land for hunting,
Gave for fishing water,
Gave a bear and a bison,
Gave deer and roe deer,
I gave you a beaver and a goose;
I filled the rivers with fish
And swamps - a wild bird:
What makes you walk
To hunt each other?

I'm tired of your strife
I'm tired of your arguments
From the bloody struggle
From prayers for blood vengeance.
Your strength is only in agreement,
And powerlessness is in discord.
Reconcile, O children!
Be brothers to each other!

And the Prophet will come to earth
And show the way to salvation;
He will be your mentor
Will live and work with you.
To all his advice to the wise
You must listen humbly -
And all generations will multiply,
And years of happiness will come.
If you are deaf,
You will perish in strife!

Dive into this river
Wash away the war paints
Wash the blood stains off your fingers;
Bury bows in the ground
Make pipes out of stone
Harvest reeds for them,
Decorate brightly with feathers,
Light the Peace Pipe
And continue to live like brothers!”

So said the Lord of Life.
And all the warriors to the ground
Immediately threw the armor
All their clothes shone
Boldly jumped into the river
War paint washed off.
Light, pure wave
Above them the water poured -
From the traces of the Lord of Life.
Muddy, red wave
Below them the water flowed,
As if mixed with blood.

Wash off the paints of battle,
The soldiers went to the shore
They buried clubs in the ground,
Armor buried in the ground.
Gitchie Manito mighty,
Great Spirit and Creator,
Met the warriors with a smile.

And in silence all nations
Pipes made of stone
Reeds were plucked for them,
Chubuki removed in feathers
And set off on the way back -
At that moment, like a veil
The clouds hesitated
And at the doors of the open sky
Gitchy Manito went into hiding
Surrounded by clouds of smoke
From Yokwanah, Pipe of the World.

Ludmila Aleksandrovna Bunina

The Bunin family is very bright, self-sufficient, with pronounced character traits, passions and talents. Despite the eternal disputes between some members of this family, often turning into quarrels, and even faster passing again, they were all strongly attached to each other, easily forgiving the shortcomings of each, and considered themselves some kind of special family, as is often the case in families. , where the mother is selfless, loves children to self-forgetfulness and, probably imperceptibly, inspires them that there is no one better than them in the world.

Margarita Valentinovna Golitsyna(nee Ryshkova), second cousin of Bunin:

As far as I remember Lyudmila Alexandrovna ‹…›, she was small, always pale, with blue eyes, invariably sad, concentrated in herself, and I don’t remember her ever smiling.

Vera Nikolaevna Muromtseva-Bunina:

Lyudmila Alexandrovna, born Chubarova, came ‹…› from a good family. She was a distant relative of Alexei Nikolaevich (Bunin's father. - Comp.), and Bunin's blood flowed in her. Her mother was nee Bunina, daughter of Ivan Petrovich.

Lyudmila Alexandrovna was more cultured than her husband, she was very fond of poetry, she read Pushkin, Zhukovsky and other poets in the old singsong voice. Her sad poetic soul was deeply religious, and all her interests focused on the family, most importantly, on children. ‹…›

In the village, she felt lonely: in Voronezh, Alexei Nikolayevich almost never left for a long time, there were both acquaintances and relatives. And here he disappeared for weeks hunting, visiting neighbors, and she only went to the village of Christmas, and to her mother in Ozerki, only on big holidays. The eldest sons were busy with their own: Julius spent whole days reading Dobrolyubov, Chernyshevsky, so that the nanny told him: “If you look at the book all the time, then your nose will stretch out very much ...” Yes, and he lived in the village only on vacation, and the mother's heart sank at the thought that her firstborn was about to leave four hundred miles from home! Eugene did a little housekeeping, he liked it; I went to the "street" - to a gathering of village youth, where they danced and "suffered" to harmony. ‹…› He bought himself an expensive accordion-livenka and practiced on it all his leisure time. And the mother spent all the time with Vanya, becoming more and more attached to him, spoiled him utterly.

Lidia Valentinovna Ryshkova-Kolbasnikova:

Lyudmila Alexandrovna was a stern, unfriendly woman, she had to go through a lot because of her husband's carelessness.

Vera Nikolaevna Muromtseva-Bunina:

The mother had a melancholy character. She prayed for a long time in front of her dark large icons, stood idle for hours on her knees at night, often cried, was sad. ‹…›

And she already had good reasons to worry and grieve: her debts kept growing, there was little income from the farm, and her family was growing - there were already five children.

Evgeny Alekseevich Bunin(1858–1935), older brother of the writer:

We also had a little brother Anatoly, and the nurse Natalya went after him. She was a soldier at the time. Somehow, in the absence of my parents, her husband, drunk, showed up from the soldiers, began to find fault with her and wanted to hit her. She, thinking that he would not dare to beat her with a child, framed the child, and he swung, the blow fell on the child, he rolled furiously. All this was hidden. My mother came and could not understand why the boy was screaming so much, but the nurse did not say. There was nothing to take him down. They sent for a paramedic, he examined and said that he had a broken collarbone. They took him to Yelets, but it was too late. His mother carried him day and night in her arms, so that, I remember, her entire shoulder was black. He, the poor man, suffered terribly ... and how sad it was to listen when the unfortunate man wept. Mother so, poor, shed tears that, I think, shed not streams, but rivers of tears. Of course, he soon died in agony.

Vera Nikolaevna Muromtseva-Bunina:

In general, she was a strong and healthy woman before her asthma - it cost her nothing, for example, to carry children from the bath in her arms until almost the age of fourteen, so that they would not catch a cold.

Evgeny Alekseevich Bunin:

My brother Julius and I were taken to Yelets, to a private boarding school to prepare for the gymnasium‹…› Our parents and three children remained at home in Butyrki. The eldest Kostya, about five years old, sickly, very pale blond with charming black eyes, for which he was called a woodcock, sister Shura, three years old, and the boy Seryozha, I think, nine months old. And then somehow my father's sister comes to them - an old maid, a saint, like grandmother Olga Dmitrievna. Out of diligence, she anointed all three children with holy oil. My mother, of course, did not suspect that this crazy aunt had previously walked around the courtyards of the village of Kamenka and smeared sick peasant children with this oil. On the second or third day all children fall ill and die of croup in the same week. You can imagine what it must have been like for my mother.