Read chapter 5 of mowers in summary. Bunin, analysis of the mowing product, plan. Feeling of doom, condensation of time

It was a long time ago, in that life that “will not return forever.” The narrator walked along the high road, and ahead, in a small birch grove, men were mowing grass and singing.

The narrator was surrounded by the fields of “middle, primordial Russia.”

It seemed that there was no, and never had been, neither time nor its division into centuries, into years in this forgotten - or blessed - country.

The mowers walked from afar “through our Oryol places” to even more fertile steppes, along the way helping to cope with the abundant haymaking. They were friendly, carefree and eager

To work". They differed from the local mowers in their dialect, customs and clothing.

A week ago they were mowing in the forest near the narrator’s estate. Driving past, he saw how the mowers “went to work” - they drank spring water, stood in a row and let their mows run in a wide semicircle. When the narrator returned, the mowers were having dinner. He noticed that they were eating “fly agaric mushrooms, terrible for their dope,” boiled in a pot. The narrator was horrified, and the mowers, laughing, said: “Nothing, they are sweet, pure chicken!”

Now they sang, and the narrator listened and could not understand “what is such a wondrous charm of their song.” Lovely

She was in a blood relationship that the narrator felt between himself and these simple mowers, one with the nature that surrounded them.

And there was also... the beauty that this homeland, this ours common Home was Russia, and that only her soul could sing the way the mowers sang in this birch forest responding to their every breath.

The singing was like a single sigh from a strong young chest. It was sung so directly and easily only in Russia. The mowers walked without the slightest effort“exposing the clearings before them” and exhaled a song in which they “parted with their dear side,” they grieved and said goodbye before death, but still did not believe “in this hopelessness.” They knew that there would be no real separation as long as there was “the native sky above them, and around them there was boundless Rus',” spacious, free and full of fabulous riches.

A good fellow cried in a song, and stood up for him motherland, animals and birds helped him out, he received flying carpets and invisible hats, rivers of milk flowed for him and self-assembled tablecloths unfolded. He flew out of prison like a clear falcon, and the dense wilds hid him from his enemies.

And there was also something in this song that both the narrator and the mowers felt: endless happiness. These distant days have passed, for nothing lasts forever, “the ancient intercessors abandoned their children... prayers and spells were desecrated, Mother Cheese Earth dried up.” The end has come, “the limit of God’s forgiveness.”

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It was a long time ago, in that life that “will not return forever.” The narrator walked along the high road, and ahead, in a small birch grove, men were mowing grass and singing.

The narrator was surrounded by the fields of “middle, primordial Russia.”

It seemed that there was no, and never had been, neither time nor its division into centuries, into years in this forgotten - or blessed - country.

The mowers walked from afar “through our Oryol places” to even more fertile steppes, along the way helping to cope with the abundant haymaking. They were friendly, carefree and “eager to work.” They differed from the local mowers in their dialect, customs and clothing.

Now they sang, and the narrator listened and could not understand “what is such a wondrous charm of their song.” The beauty was in the blood relationship that the narrator felt between himself and these simple mowers, one with the nature around them.

And there was also... the beauty that this homeland, this common home of ours was Russia, and that only her soul could sing the way the mowers sang in this birch forest responding to their every breath.

The singing was like a single sigh from a strong young chest. It was sung so directly and easily only in Russia. The mowers walked, without the slightest effort, “exposing the clearings in front of them” and exhaled a song in which they “parted with their dear side,” they grieved and said goodbye before death, but still did not believe “in this hopelessness.” They knew that there would be no real separation as long as there was “the native sky above them, and around them there was boundless Rus',” spacious, free and full of fabulous riches.

A good fellow cried in a song, and his native land stood up for him, animals and birds came to his rescue, he received flying carpets and invisible hats, rivers of milk flowed for him and self-assembled tablecloths unfolded. He flew out of prison like a clear falcon, and the dense wilds hid him from his enemies.

Summary of Bunin's story "Mowers"

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The narrator remembers how they walked along the high road, and in a young birch forest nearby, mowers mowed and sang. It was a long time ago. And the life that everyone lived at that time will never return. There were fields all around. The old high road, cut with ruts, went into the endless Russian distance. The sun was setting to the west, and a flock of sheep was graying ahead. An old shepherd with a hepherd sat on the boundary line. It seemed that there was no division of time in this forgotten - or blessed - country. And the mowers walked and sang in the midst of this eternal silence, and the birch forest answered just as easily and freely. The mowers were distant, from Ryazan, passing through these lands to earn money, moving to more fertile lands. Carefree and friendly, not burdened with anything, they were “eager” to work. And they were better dressed than the locals. A week ago the narrator rode by on horseback and saw them mowing in the nearby forest. They went to work in the afternoon: they drank sweet spring water from wooden jugs and cheerfully ran to the place. They let out their braids at once, playfully. And then he saw their dinner, when they sat near the extinguished fire and dragged pieces of something pink from cast iron. Looking closer, the narrator realized with horror that they were eating fly agaric mushrooms. And they just chuckled: “Nothing, they are sweet, like chicken.”
Now they sang: “Forgive me, goodbye, dear friend!” and moved through the birch forest. And the narrator and his companion stood and listened, realizing that they would never forget this early evening hour, and most importantly, they would never understand what the charm of this song was. And the beauty was in everything - both in the sonority of the birch forest, and in the fact that this song did not exist on its own, but was closely connected with their thoughts and feelings and with the thoughts and feelings of the Ryazan mowers. It was felt that the person was so naive in ignorance of his strengths and talents that if he only sighed a little, the whole forest would immediately respond in response to the song. What else was the charm of this song, its inescapable joy despite all its seemingly hopelessness? The fact is that the person still did not believe, and could not believe in this hopelessness. “Oh, yes, all the paths are closed to me, young man!” - he said, sweetly mourning himself. But those who really have no way or road anywhere do not cry sweetly and do not sing of their sorrows. “My happiness has ended,” he sighed, “ dark night with its wilderness surrounds me,” and so close was he to this wilderness, alive for him, virgin and filled with magical powers! Everywhere for him there was shelter, lodging for the night, someone’s intercession, someone’s voice whispering: “Don’t worry, the morning is wiser than the evening, nothing is impossible for me, sleep well, child!” And from all sorts of man’s troubles, according to his faith, birds and forest animals, beautiful and wise princesses, and even Baba Yaga herself came to the rescue. There were flying carpets for him, invisible hats, rivers of milk flowed, semi-precious treasures were hidden, there were keys to eternally living water from all mortal spells. The merciful God forgave for all the daring whistles, the sharp, hot knives... There was one more thing in this song - this is what both we and they, these Ryazan men knew well, in the depths of our souls, that we were infinitely happy in those days, now already infinitely distant - and irrevocable. For everything has its time, the fairy tale has passed. The end has come, the limit of God's forgiveness.

There were fields all around. The old high road, rugged with ruts, went into the endless Russian distance. The sun was setting to the west, and a flock of sheep was graying ahead. An old shepherd with a hepherd sat on the boundary line. It seemed that there was no division of time in this forgotten - or blessed - country. And the mowers walked and sang in the midst of this eternal silence, and the birch forest answered just as easily and freely.

The mowers were distant, from Ryazan, passing through these lands to earn money, moving to more fertile lands. Carefree and friendly, not burdened with anything, they were “eager” to work. And they were better dressed than the locals.

A week ago the narrator rode by on horseback and saw them mowing in the nearby forest. They went to work in the afternoon: they drank sweet spring water from wooden jugs and cheerfully ran to the place. They let out their braids at once, playfully. And then he saw their dinner, when they sat near the extinguished fire and dragged pieces of something pink from cast iron. Looking closer, the narrator realized with horror that they were eating fly agaric mushrooms. And they just laughed: “Nothing, they are sweet, like chicken.”

Now they sang: “Forgive me, goodbye, dear friend!” and moved through the birch forest. And the narrator and his companion stood and listened, realizing that they would never forget this early evening hour, and most importantly, they would never understand what the charm of this song was. Material from the site

And the beauty was in everything - both in the sonority of the birch forest, and in the fact that this song did not exist on its own, but was closely connected with their thoughts and feelings and with the thoughts and feelings of the Ryazan mowers. It was felt that the person was so naive in ignorance of his strengths and talents that if he only sighed a little, the whole forest would immediately respond to the song. What else was the charm of this song, its inescapable joy despite all its seemingly hopelessness? The fact is that the person still did not believe, and could not believe in this hopelessness. “Oh, yes, all the paths are closed to me, young man!” - he said, sweetly mourning himself. But those who really have no way or road anywhere do not cry sweetly and do not sing of their sorrows. “My happiness has ended,” he sighed, “the dark night with its wilderness surrounds me,” and he was so close to this wilderness, alive for him, virgin and filled with magical powers! Everywhere for him there was shelter, lodging for the night, someone’s intercession, someone’s voice whispering: “Don’t worry, the morning is wiser than the evening, nothing is impossible for me, sleep well, child!” And, according to his faith, birds and forest animals, beautiful and wise princesses, and even Baba Yaga herself, saved him from all sorts of troubles. There were flying carpets for him, invisible hats, rivers of milk flowed, there were treasures of semi-precious stones, and from all mortal spells there were the keys of eternally living water. The merciful God forgave for all the daring whistles, the sharp, hot knives...

There was one more thing in this song - this is what both we and they, these Ryazan men, knew well in the depths of our souls, that we were infinitely happy in those days, now infinitely distant - and irrevocable.

For everything has its time, the fairy tale has passed. The end has come, the limit of God's forgiveness.

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On this page there is material on the following topics:

summary of the story by Bunin Mowers
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Bunin mowers brief
how the mowers were dressed
listen to Bunin's poems

Genre of the work: story

While in Paris, the writer was very homesick, which prompted him to write this touching work, and the summary of the story “Mowers” for reader's diary absorbed his best moments.

Plot:

The narration is told from the point of view of the narrator, who is traveling along one of the major Russian roads. Moving between birch forests and wide steppes, he listens with pleasure to the songs of people with scythes coming from afar, who are walking measuredly across the field, waiting for the end of the working day.

The June day is coming to an end. It’s as if nature has finally revealed all its charms. The sunset is dazzlingly beautiful. He merged with the golden clouds. Against the backdrop of fragrant fields, a shepherd and a flock of sheep rest peacefully.

With a loud, rolling echo, the words from the songs of men who from distant Ryazan region We reached the Oryol places. In search of fertile plots of land, they together, enjoying their work, go towards the goal, along the way lending a helping hand to local haymakers.

Remembering a recent meeting with them, the narrator talks about each of their activities related to eating in the meadow in the form of fly agarics, mowing, emphasizing their friendliness and hospitality, the originality of rituals and clothing.

Now, having heard their sonorous voices again, the hero feels the merging of their songs with everything that surrounds him. A feeling of happiness overwhelms him from the awareness of himself as part of native land, endowed with such magical beauty of open spaces. Inhaling Fresh air, he thinks about the peculiarities of traditions, performance and content of Russian songs.

It was during the mowing process that men, reminiscent of heroes, showed real feelings. Continuing to reveal the mystery of the Russian song, the narrator, first of all, turns to the amazing soul of the singers who, saying goodbye to this land, go to another land. They remember that wherever a person is, there is one sky everywhere, and Russia is the only home where every bush will protect from bad weather.

Caressing the ear, the song gradually revealed its content. It was about a world filled kind people, about the wealth of our country with unique Russian creativity. But everything goes away someday, days like these remain forever only in memory.

I. A. Bunin's story "Mowers" teaches us to cherish the traditions of our people and appreciate beauty folk art, the nature of your favorite region. Remember that the moments of happiness that life brings can be unique.

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