Grammar of love main characters list. Analysis of Bunin's story grammar of love essay

Once, at the beginning of June, a certain Ivlev was traveling to the far end of his county. At first the trip was pleasant: it was a warm day, a well-knurled road stretched ahead. But soon the weather became dull, the sky was covered with clouds, and when a village appeared before Ivlev, he decided to call on the count. An old man plowed near the village said that the count was not at home, only the young countess was at home, but Ivlev nevertheless stopped by.

The countess wore a pink hood, her powdered breasts were exposed; she smoked, and now and then straightened her hair, exposing her round and tight arms to her shoulders.

The countess reduced all conversations to love and, as if by the way, spoke about the landowner Khvoshchinsky, her neighbor, who died this winter and, as Ivlev knew from childhood, had been in love all his life with his maid Lushka, who had left this world in her early youth .

Ivlev went on, meanwhile the rain really dispersed. Ivlev thought that Khvoshchinsky had died, and he must definitely stop by to look at the sanctuary of the mysterious Lushka, which was already empty ... What kind of person was Khvoshchinsky? Was he crazy? Or was it a stunned soul? The old landowners said that Khvoshchinsky was once known in the county as a rare clever girl. And suddenly Lushka appeared - and everything went to dust: the landowner closed himself in Lushka's room, where she lived and died, and sat on her bed for more than twenty years ...

It was getting dark, the rain began to calm down, the Khvoshchinskoye estate appeared behind the forest. The hero looked at the approaching estate, and it seemed to him that Lushka lived and died not two decades ago, but rather in time immemorial.

The facade of the estate looked boring: small windows, gloomy porches, thick walls. On one of the porches stood a young man, dressed in a gymnasium blouse, with beautiful eyes, black, and very pretty, though freckled.

Ivlev justifies his arrival by the fact that he wants to see and, possibly, purchase the library of the late master. A deep blush appeared on the young man's cheeks. Ivlev realized that Lushka's son was in front of him. The young man led the hero into the house.

Young Khvoshchinsky answered Ivlev's questions in monosyllables and hastily, apparently from shyness, to which greed was mixed: he was very glad to be able to sell books dearly. Together with the young man, through the half-dark passage lined with straw, Ivlev entered a large and gloomy hall covered with newspapers. After we went into a cold hall, which occupied almost half the house. On a dark ancient image in a deity, in a silver riza, there were wedding candles. The young man muttered in embarrassment that the priest bought candles after Lushka's death and even always wore a wedding ring. Dry bees lay on the floor of the hall, as in the empty living room. Then Ivlev got into a gloomy room with a sunbed, with difficulty the young man unlocked the low door, and Ivlev's gaze appeared to be a closet with two windows; against one wall was a bare bed, opposite was a library, which consisted of two bookcases.

This library was made up of very strange books: "The Morning Star and the Night Demons", "The Accursed Tract", "Reflections on the Mysteries of the Universe", "The Newest Dream Book", "A Wonderful Journey to a Magical Land". The soul of the recluse was far from the real world. But then the purple clouds parted, the sun came out from behind them and illuminated this unfortunate shelter of love, which turned the life of a person, which could have been ordinary, into an ecstatic life. But the mysterious Lushka appeared in the life of this man, and everything changed.

Then Ivlev noticed on the middle shelf a very small book, similar to a prayer book, and a darkened box in which lay a necklace that belonged to the late Lushka. It was a cheap sale of blue balloons. Ivlev was seized with deep excitement, his heart began to beat at the thought that this necklace was lying around the neck of a woman once dearly loved by someone. Ivlev put down the box and took the little book. It was "The Grammar of Love, or the Art of Loving and Being Mutually Loved", an edition of almost a century. The young man noted that he did not sell this book because it was very expensive. Ivlev felt embarrassed, but he began to leaf through the Grammar. The book was divided into separate chapters: “On the Heart”, “On Beauty”, “On the Signs of Love”, “On the Mind”, etc. Each chapter contained short and elegant maxims, some of which were marked with a pen next to them. Ivlev read that love is not just an episode in life. A woman rules over an ideal dream and is therefore worthy of adoration. The first step belongs to a sweet woman, the second - to a beautiful woman. It is the sweet woman who becomes the mistress of the heart: before we form an opinion about her, our heart becomes the slave of eternal love. Further in the book, an "explanation of the language of flowers" was given, and notes were also made in the margins. At the very end, on a blank page, a quatrain was written in small beaded handwriting. The master’s son explained: “They themselves composed it ...”

Half an hour later, Ivlev said goodbye to the young man. Of all the books, the hero bought only a small book, paying dearly for it. On the way back, the coachman talked about the young Khvoshchinsky, that he lives with the deacon's wife, but Ivlev did not listen to him, thinking about Lushka and her necklace, which plunged him into confused feelings, reminding him of those that he had once experienced in a small Italian town, looking at the relics of a saint. Ivlev thought that this woman entered his life forever. He took out the Grammar of Love from his pocket, opened the last page, and slowly reread the pen verses.

The beginning of June. Ivlev goes to the far end of his county. At first it is pleasant to go: a warm, dim day, a well-knurled road. Then clouds cover the sky. and Ivlev decides to call on the count, whose village is just down the road. An old man working near the village reports that only the young countess is at home, but Ivlev still stops by.

The countess in a pink hood, with an open powdered chest, smokes, often straightening her hair and exposing her tight and round arms to her shoulders. She reduces all conversations to love and, among other things, talks about her neighbor, the landowner Khvoshchinsky, who died this winter and was obsessed with love for his maid Lushka, who died at an early age.

Ivlev rides on, thinks what kind of person the landowner Khvoshchinsky was, and wants to look "at the deserted sanctuary of the mysterious Lushka." According to the stories of the old landowners, Khvoshchinsky was once known in the county as a rare clever girl, but fell in love - and everything went to pieces. He shut himself up in the room where Lushka lived and died, and spent more than twenty years sitting on her bed...

It is getting dark, Khvoshchinskoe is shown behind the forest. On the gloomy porch of the estate, Ivlev notices a pretty young man in a gymnasium blouse. Ivlev justifies his arrival with the desire to see and, possibly, buy the library of the late master. The young man leads him into the house, and Ivlev guesses that he is the son of the famous Lushka.

The young man answers questions hastily, but in monosyllables. He is terribly glad of the opportunity to sell books dearly. Through a semi-dark entrance hall and a large entrance hall, he leads Ivlev into a cold hall, which occupies almost half of the house. Wedding candles lie on a dark ancient image in a silver riza. The young man says that “father they bought them after her death ... and even the wedding ring was always worn ...”.

From the hall they go into a gloomy room with a couch, and the young man hardly unlocks the low door. Ivlev sees a closet through two windows; against one wall stands a bare bunk, against the other, a library in two bookcases.

Ivlev discovers that the library is made up of very strange books. Mystical novels and dream books - this is what the lonely soul of a recluse ate. On the middle shelf, Ivlev finds a very small book, similar to a prayer book, and a darkened box with the deceased Lushka's necklace - a string of cheap blue balls.

When looking at this necklace, which lay around the neck of a once so beloved woman, Ivlev is overcome with excitement. He carefully puts the box back in its place and takes the little book. It turns out to be the Grammar of Love, or the Art of Loving and Being Mutually Loved, charmingly published almost a hundred years ago. The young man considers it the most expensive book in the library.

Ivlev slowly flips through Grammar. It is divided into small chapters: "On beauty", "On the heart", "On the mind", "On the signs of love" ... Each chapter consists of short and elegant maxims, some of which are delicately marked with a pen. Then comes the "explanation of the language of flowers", and again something is noted. And on a clean page at the very end, a quatrain is written in small, beaded letters with the same pen. The young man explains with a feigned grin: "They themselves composed this...".

Half an hour later, Ivlev says goodbye to him with relief. Of all the books, he buys only this little book for a lot of money. On the way back, the coachman tells that the young Khvoshchinsky lives with the deacon's wife, but Ivlev does not listen. He thinks about Lushka, about her necklace, which left him with a complex feeling, similar to the one he experienced in one Italian town when looking at the relics of a saint. “She entered my life forever!” - Ivlev thinks and rereads the verses written with a pen on a blank page of the “Grammar of Love”: “The hearts of those who loved will say to you:“ Live in sweet legends! And grandchildren, great-grandchildren will be shown this Grammar of Love.

Someone Ivlev was driving one day at the beginning of June to the far end of his county. At first it was pleasant to drive: a warm, dull day, a well-knurled road. Then the weather became dull, the clouds pulled up, and when the village appeared ahead, Ivlev decided to call on the count. An old man who was plowing near the village said that there was only one young countess at home, but nevertheless they stopped by.

The countess was in a pink hood, with an open powdered chest; she smoked, often straightened her hair, exposing her tight and round arms to her shoulders. She reduced all conversations to love and, among other things, told about her neighbor, the landowner Khvoshchinsky, who died this winter and, as Ivlev knew from childhood, was obsessed with love for his maid Lushka all his life who died at an early age.

When Ivlev drove on, the rain broke up in a real way. “So Khvoshchinsky died,” thought Ivlev. - We must definitely stop by, look at the deserted sanctuary of the mysterious Lushka ... What kind of person was this Khvoshchinsky? Crazy? Or just a dumbfounded soul? According to the stories of the old landowners, Khvoshchinsky was once known in the county as a rare clever girl. And suddenly this Lushka fell on him - and everything went to dust: he closed himself in the room where Lushka lived and died, and spent more than twenty years sitting on her bed ...

It was evening, the rain had thinned, behind the forest Khvoshchinskoe showed itself behind the moose. Ivlev looked at the approaching estate, and it seemed to him that Lushka lived and died not twenty years ago, but almost in times immemorial.

The facade of the estate, with its small windows in the thick walls, was unusually boring. But the gloomy porches were huge, on one of which stood a young man in a gymnast's blouse, black, with beautiful eyes and very pretty-looking, although he was completely freckled.

In order to somehow justify his arrival, Ivlev said that he wanted to look at and, perhaps, buy the late gentleman's library. The young man, blushing deeply, led him into the house. “So he is the son of the famous Lushka!” Ivlev thought, looking around the house and, gradually, its owner.

The young man answered the questions hurriedly, but in the same way, from shyness, apparently, and from greed: he was so terribly trained to be able to sell books at a high price. Through a semi-dark vestibule lined with straw, he led Ivlev into a large and inhospitable front hall, pasted over with newspapers. Then they entered the cold hall, which occupied almost half of the whole house. In the shrine, on a dark ancient image in a silver riza, were wedding candles. “Batiushka bought them after her death,” the young man parted, “and even the wedding ring was always worn ...”. The floor in the hall was all covered with dry bees, as was the empty living room. Then they passed some kind of gloomy room with a couch, and the young man unlocked the low door with great difficulty. Ivlev saw a closet with two windows; against one wall stood a bare bunk, against the other two bookcases—a library.

Strange books made up this library! “The cursed tract”, “Morning star and night demons”, “Reflections on the mysteries of the world-building”, “Wonderful journey to a magical land”, “The newest dream book” - this is what a lonely soul ate a recluse, "there is being ... it is neither a dream, nor a vigil ...". The sun peeked out from behind the lilac clouds and strangely illuminated this poor haven of love, which turned a whole human life into some kind of ecstatic life, a life that could to be the most ordinary life, do not be mysterious in your charm of Lushka ...

"What is it?" Ivlev asked, leaning over to the middle shelf, on which lay only one very small book, resembling a prayer-box, and there was a darkened casket. In the casket lay the deceased Lushka's necklace, a bundle of cheap blue balls. And such excitement seized Ivlev at the sight of this necklace, which lay around the neck of the once beloved woman, that his heart began to beat furiously. Ivlev carefully put the box back in its place and took up the little book. It was the Grammar of Love, or the Art of Loving and Being Mutually Loved, beautifully published almost a hundred years ago.

“I, unfortunately, cannot sell this book,” the young man said with difficulty, “it is very expensive ...” Overcoming awkward bone, Ivlev began to slowly re-list “Gram -ma-tik.

It was all divided into small chapters: "On Beauty", "On the Heart", "On the Mind", "On the Signs of Love" ... Each chapter consisted of short and elegant maxims, some of which were divided -katno marked with a pen: “Love is not a simple episode in our life. - We adore a woman because she rules over our ideal dream. - A beautiful woman should occupy the second step; the first belongs to a lovely woman. This becomes the mistress of our heart: before we give an account of it to ourselves, our heart becomes a slave of love forever ... "Then there was an" explanation of the language of flowers ", and again some what was noted. And on a clean page, at the very end, there was a four-verse written in small, beaded letters with the same pen. The young man craned his neck and said with a feigned grin: “They composed it themselves ...”

Half an hour later, Ivlev said goodbye to him with relief. Of all the books, he bought only this little book for a high price. On the way back, the coachman told me that young Khvoshchinsky was living with the deacon's wife, but Ivlev did not listen. He kept thinking about Lushka, about her necklace, which left him with a complex feeling, similar to what he once experienced in an Italian town when looking at the relics of a saint. “She entered my life forever!” he thought. And, taking out the Grammar of Love from his pocket, he slowly re-read the verses written on its last page: “The hearts of those who loved will say to you: / Live in sweet legends!” great-grandchildren will be shown / This Gram-ma-tik of Love.”

Bunin Ivan Alekseevich

Grammar of love

I. A. Bunin

Grammar of love

Someone Ivlev was driving one day at the beginning of June to the far end of his county.

A tarantass with a crooked, dusty top was given to him by his brother-in-law, on whose estate he spent the summer. He hired a trio of horses "small, but well-managed, with thick, knocked-down manes, in the village, from a rich peasant. They were ruled by the son of this peasant, a young man of about eighteen, stupid, economic. He kept thinking displeasedly about something, seemed to be something then he was offended, did not understand jokes. And, making sure that you would not talk to him, Ivlev gave himself up to that calm and aimless observation that goes so well to the fret of hooves and the rumble of bells.

At first it was pleasant to drive: a warm, dull day, a well-trodden road, a lot of flowers and larks in the fields; from the loaves, from the low gray rye that stretched as far as the eye could see, a sweet breeze blew, carrying flower dust along their jambs, in places it smoked it, and far from it it was even foggy. Small, in a new cap and a clumsy luster jacket. sat straight; the fact that the horses were completely entrusted to him and that he was dressed up made him especially serious. And the horses coughed and ran unhurriedly, the left tie-down at times scratched the wheel, at times tightened, and at times a worn horseshoe flashed under it like white steel.

Shall we visit the Count? asked the fellow, without turning around, when a village appeared ahead, closing the horizon with its vines and garden.

What for? Ivlev asked.

The little one was silent for a while, and, knocking down a large gadfly stuck to the horse with a whip, answered gloomily:

Let's drink tea...

Do not have tea in your head, - said Ivlev. - You feel sorry for all the horses.

The horse is not afraid of riding, it is afraid of the stern, - the fellow answered instructively.

Ivlev looked around: the weather had become dull, molting clouds had pulled in from all sides and it was already dripping - these modest days always end in regular rains ... An old man who plowed near the village said that there was only one young countess at home, but still stopped by. The little one pulled on his coat and, contented that the horses were resting, calmly soaked in the rain on the goats of the tarantass, which stopped in the middle of a dirty yard, near a stone trough, rooted into the ground, poked by the hooves of cattle. He looked at his boots, straightened the harness on the root with a whip, and Ivlev sat in the drawing room darkened from the rain, chatted with the countess and waited for tea; there was already the smell of a burning torch, the green smoke of the samovar was thickly floating past the open windows, which the barefoot girl stuffed on the porch with bundles of chips of brightly blazing red-brown fire, dousing them with kerosene. The countess was in a wide pink bonnet, with an open powdered chest; she smoked, inhaling deeply, often straightening her hair, exposing her tight and round arms to her shoulders; inhaling and laughing, she kept reducing the conversation to love and, among other things, talked about her close neighbor, the landowner Khvbshchinsky, who, as Ivlev knew from childhood, was obsessed with love for his maid Lushka, who died in early youth. “Ah, this legendary Lushka!” Ivlev remarked jokingly, slightly embarrassed by his confession. “Because this eccentric idolized her, devoted his whole life to crazy dreams about her, in my youth I was almost in love with her, imagined, thought about her, God knows what, although she, they say, was not at all good herself. - "Yes?" said the countess, not listening. - He died this winter. And Pisarev, the only one whom he sometimes allowed to visit him out of old friendship, claims that in everything else he was not at all crazy, and I quite believe this - just he was not the present couple..." Finally, the barefoot girl, with extraordinary care, served on an old silver tray a glass of strong gray tea from a pond and a basket of cookies infested with flies.

When we went further, the rain broke up for real. I had to raise the top, cover myself with a red-hot, shriveled apron, and sit bent over. Horses rumbled like capercaillie, streams ran down their dark and shiny haunches, grass rustled under the wheels of some boundary among the bread, where the kid rode in the hope of shortening the path, a warm rye spirit gathered under the horseback, interfering with the smell of an old tarantass ... "So here "Is Khvoshchinsky dead," Ivlev thought. "We must definitely stop by, at least to look at this empty sanctuary of the mysterious Lushka ... But what kind of person was this Khvoshchinsky? Crazy or just some kind of stunned, all focused soul?" According to the stories of old landowners, Khvoshchinsky's peers, he was once known in the district for a rare clever man. And suddenly this love fell on him, this Lushka, then her unexpected death, - and everything went to dust: he shut himself up in the house, in the room where Lushka lived and died, and for more than twenty years he sat on her bed, not only did not go anywhere , and even at his estate he did not show himself to anyone; the mattress on Lushka's bed sat through and through and attributed to Lushkin's influence literally everything that happened in the world: a thunderstorm comes - this is Lushka sending a thunderstorm, war is declared - that means that Lushka decided, crop failure happened - the peasants did not please Lushka ...

Are you going to Khvoshchinskoye, or something? Ivlev shouted, leaning out into the rain.

To Khvoshchinskoye, - the small one answered indistinctly through the sound of rain, from the drooping cap of which water was already flowing. - On Pisarev top ...

Ivlev did not know such a path. Places became poorer and more deaf. The frontier was over, the horses walked at a pace and lowered the rickety tarantass with a blurry pothole downhill, into some still unmowed meadows, the green slopes of which stood out sadly against the low clouds. Then the road, now disappearing, then resuming, began to move from one side to another along the bottoms of ravines, along gullies in alder bushes and willows ... There was someone's small apiary, several stocks standing on a slope in tall grass, reddening with strawberries. .. We drove around some old dam, drowned in nettles, and a long-dry pond - a deep yaruga, overgrown with weeds taller than human height ... A pair of black sandpipers rushed out of them with a cry into the rainy sky ... a large old bush bloomed with small pale pink flowers, that sweet tree, which is called "God's tree" - and suddenly Ivlev remembered the places, remembered that he had ridden here more than once in his youth ...

They say she drowned herself here, ”the fellow said unexpectedly.

Are you talking about Khvoshchinsky's mistress, or what? Ivlev asked. - This is not true, she did not even think of drowning herself.

No, she drowned, - said the kid. - Well, I just think that he most likely went mad from poverty from his own, and not from her ... And, after a pause, he added rudely:

And we have to stop by again ... to this, to Khvoshchino ... Look, how tired the horses are!

Do me a favor, - said Ivlev.

On a hillock, where a road made of tin from rainwater led, in the place of a reduced forest, among wet, rotting wood chips and leaves, among stumps and young aspen shoots, smelling bitter and fresh, a hut stood alone. Not a soul was around, only oatmeal, sitting on tall flowers in the rain, rang to the whole rare forest that rose behind the hut, but when the troika, splashing through the mud, caught up with its threshold, a whole horde of huge dogs, black , chocolate, smoky, and boiled around the horses with a furious bark, soaring up to their very muzzles, turning over on the fly and spinning even under the top of the tarantass. At the same time, and just as unexpectedly, the sky above the tarantass was split by a deafening thunderclap, the fellow rushed furiously to beat the dogs with a whip, and the horses galloped among the aspen trunks that flashed before their eyes ...

Khvoshchinskoye was already visible behind the forest. The dogs fell behind and immediately became silent, busily ran back, the forest parted, and the fields opened again in front. It was evening, and the clouds were either parting or now coming in from three sides: on the left, almost black, with blue gaps, on the right, gray-haired, rumbling with continuous thunder, and from the west, because of the Khvoshchinsky estate, because of the slopes above the river valley, - dull blue, in dusty stripes of rain, through which mountains of distant clouds rose pink. But over the tarantass the rain thinned, and, rising, Ivlev, all covered with mud, with pleasure heaped back the heavy top and breathed freely in the fragrant dampness of the field.

He looked at the approaching estate, finally saw what he had heard so much about, but as before it seemed that Lushka lived and died not twenty years ago, but almost in time immemorial. Along the valley, the trace of a small river was lost in the kug, white fishing flew over it. Farther on, on a semimountain, lay rows of hay, darkened by the rain; among them, far apart, were scattered old silvery poplars. The house, rather large, once whitewashed, with a shiny wet roof, stood on a completely bare spot. There was no garden around, no buildings, - only two brick pillars in place of the gate and burdock along the ditches. When the horses forded the river and climbed the mountain, a woman in a man's summer coat, with drooping pockets, was driving turkeys over the mugs. The facade of the house was unusually dull: there were few windows in it, and all of them were small, sitting in thick walls. But the gloomy porches were huge. From one of them, a young man in a gray gymnasium blouse, belted with a wide belt, black, with beautiful eyes and very pretty, looked in surprise at the approaching, although his face was pale and mottled with freckles, like a bird's egg.