"Pass"

The night is long ago, and I am still wandering through the mountains towards the pass, wandering in the wind, among the cold fog, and hopelessly, but obediently, a wet, tired horse follows me on the reins, clanking with empty stirrups.

At dusk, resting at the foot pine forests, beyond which this bare, deserted ascent begins, I looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look with high altitude. It was still possible to discern lights in the darkening valley far below, on the coast of a narrow bay, which, going to the east, kept expanding and, rising like a foggy blue wall, embraced half the sky. But night was already falling in the mountains. It was getting dark quickly, I walked, approached the forests - and the mountains grew more and more gloomy and majestic, and thick fog, driven by a storm from above, fell into the spans between their spurs with stormy swiftness. He fell from the plateau, which he enveloped in a gigantic loose ridge, and with his fall seemed to increase the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. It had already smoked the forest, approaching me along with the dull, deep and unsociable roar of the pine trees. There was a whiff of winter freshness, carried with snow and wind... Night fell, and I walked for a long time under the dark arches of a mountain forest, humming in the fog, bowing my head from the wind.

“The pass is coming soon,” I told myself. “Soon I will be in a calm, behind the mountains, in a bright, crowded house...”

But half an hour passes, an hour... Every minute it seems to me that the pass is two steps away from me, and the bare and rocky ascent does not end. We've been downstairs for a long time now pine forests, the stunted, twisted bushes have long passed, and I begin to get tired and falter. I remember several graves among the pines not far from the pass, where some woodcutters were buried, thrown from the mountains by a winter storm. I feel what a wild and deserted height I am at, I feel that there is only fog and cliffs around me, and I think: how will I get past the lonely stone monuments when they, like human figures, turn black among the fog? Will I have the strength to go down from the mountains when I am already losing the concept of time and place?

Ahead, something vaguely blackens among the running fog... some dark hills that look like sleeping bears. I make my way along them, from one stone to another, the horse, breaking loose and clanging its horseshoes on the wet pebbles, barely climbs behind me - and suddenly I notice that the road again begins to slowly climb up the mountain! Then I stop, and despair overcomes me. I’m trembling all over from tension and fatigue, my clothes are all wet from the snow, and the wind is cutting right through them. Should I shout? But now even the shepherds are huddled in their Homeric huts along with the goats and sheep - who will hear me? And I look around in horror:

My God! Am I really lost?

Late. Bor hums dully and sleepily in the distance. The night is becoming more and more mysterious, and I feel it, although I know neither the time nor the place. Now the last light in the deep valleys has gone out, and a gray fog reigns over them, knowing that its hour has come, a long hour, when it seems that everything has died out on earth and the morning will never come, but the fogs will only increase, enveloping the majestic in their the midnight watch of the mountains, the forests will hum dully across the mountains and the snow will fly thicker and thicker on the deserted pass.

Shielding myself from the wind, I turn to the horse. The only thing Living being, remaining with me! But the horse doesn't look at me. Wet, chilled, hunched over under the high saddle that awkwardly sticks out on her back, she stands with her head submissively bowed and her ears flattened. And I angrily tug on the reins, and again expose my face to the wet snow and wind, and again stubbornly walk towards them. When I try to see what surrounds me, I see only a gray running darkness that blinds me with snow. When I listen closely, I can only distinguish the whistling of the wind in my ears and the monotonous jingling behind me: these are stirrups knocking, colliding with each other...

But strangely, my despair begins to strengthen me! I begin to walk more boldly, and an angry reproach to someone for everything I endure makes me happy. He is already moving into that gloomy and persistent submission to everything that must be endured, in which hopelessness is sweet...

Finally here is the pass. But I don't care anymore. I walk along the flat and flat steppe, the wind carries the fog in long strands and knocks me off my feet, but I don’t pay attention to it. Just from the whistle of the wind and from the fog one can feel how deeply the late night has taken hold of the mountains - for a long time now little people have been sleeping in the valleys, in their small huts; but I’m in no hurry, I walk, gritting my teeth, and muttering to the horse:

Go, go. We will wander until we fall. How many of these difficult and lonely passes have I already had in my life! Like night, sorrows, suffering, illness, betrayal of loved ones and bitter insults of friendship approached me - and the hour of separation came from everything with which I became close. And, having steeled my heart, I again took my wandering staff in my hands. And the ascent to new happiness was high and difficult, night, fog and storm greeted me at the heights, terrible loneliness seized me on the passes... But - let's go, let's go!

Stumbling, I wander as if in a dream. The morning is far away. You will have to go down to the valleys all night and only at dawn will you be able to sleep somewhere dead asleep, - shrink and feel only one thing - the sweetness of warmth after the cold.

The day will again delight me with people and the sun and again will deceive me for a long time... Will I fall somewhere and forever remain in the middle of the night and blizzards on the bare and deserted mountains for centuries?

See also Bunin Ivan - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

Song about Gotz
The river flows to the sea, year after year. Every year the sulfur turns green...

Looped ears
Extraordinary A tall man, who called himself a former sailor, Hell...

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin “The Pass” It’s been a long night, and I’m still wandering through the mountains to the pass, wandering in the wind, among the cold fog, and hopelessly, but obediently, a wet, tired horse follows me on the reins, clanking with empty stirrups. At dusk, resting at the foot of the pine forests, beyond which this bare, deserted ascent begins, I looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look from a great height. It was still possible to discern lights in the darkening valley far below, on the coast of a narrow bay, which, going to the east, kept expanding and, rising like a foggy blue wall, embraced half the sky. But night was already falling in the mountains. It was getting dark quickly, I walked, approached the forests - and the mountains grew more and more gloomy and majestic, and thick fog, driven by a storm from above, fell into the spans between their spurs with stormy swiftness. He fell from the plateau, which he enveloped in a gigantic loose ridge, and with his fall seemed to increase the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. It had already smoked the forest, approaching me along with the dull, deep and unsociable roar of the pine trees. There was a whiff of winter freshness, carried with snow and wind... Night fell, and I walked for a long time under the dark arches of a mountain forest, humming in the fog, bowing my head from the wind. “Soon the pass will pass,” I said to myself. “Soon I will be in a calm, behind the mountains, in a bright, crowded house...” But half an hour passes, an hour... Every minute it seems to me that the pass is two steps away from me, and the bare and rocky climb never ends. The pine forests below have long been left behind, the stunted, twisted bushes have long gone, and I am beginning to get tired and falter. I remember several graves among the pines not far from the pass, where some woodcutters were buried, thrown from the mountains by a winter storm. I feel what a wild and deserted height I am at, I feel that there is only fog and cliffs around me, and I think: how will I get past the lonely stone monuments when they, like human figures, turn black among the fog? Will I have the strength to go down from the mountains when I am already losing the concept of time and place? Ahead, something vaguely blackens among the running fog... some dark hills that look like sleeping bears. I make my way along them, from one stone to another, the horse, breaking loose and clanging its horseshoes on the wet pebbles, barely climbs behind me - and suddenly I notice that the road again begins to slowly climb up the mountain! Then I stop, and despair overcomes me. I’m trembling all over from tension and fatigue, my clothes are all wet from the snow, and the wind is cutting right through them. Should I shout? But now even the shepherds are huddled in their Homeric huts along with the goats and sheep - who will hear me? And I look around in horror: - My God! Am I really lost? Late. Bor hums dully and sleepily in the distance. The night is becoming more and more mysterious, and I feel it, although I know neither the time nor the place. Now the last light in the deep valleys has gone out, and a gray fog reigns over them, knowing that its hour has come, a long hour, when it seems that everything has died out on earth and the morning will never come, but the fogs will only increase, enveloping the majestic in their the midnight watch of the mountains, the forests will hum dully across the mountains and the snow will fly thicker and thicker on the deserted pass. Shielding myself from the wind, I turn to the horse. The only living creature left with me! But the horse doesn't look at me. Wet, chilled, hunched over under the high saddle that awkwardly sticks out on her back, she stands with her head submissively bowed and her ears flattened. And I angrily tug on the reins, and again expose my face to the wet snow and wind, and again stubbornly walk towards them. When I try to see what surrounds me, I see only a gray running darkness that blinds me with snow. When I listen closely, I can only distinguish the whistling of the wind in my ears and the monotonous jingling behind me: these are stirrups knocking, colliding with each other... But strangely, my despair begins to strengthen me! I begin to walk more boldly, and an angry reproach to someone for everything I endure makes me happy. He is already moving into that gloomy and persistent submission to everything that must be endured, in which hopelessness is sweet... Finally, there is a pass. But I don't care anymore. I walk along the flat and flat steppe, the wind carries the fog in long strands and knocks me off my feet, but I don’t pay attention to it. Just from the whistle of the wind and from the fog one can feel how deeply the late night has taken hold of the mountains - for a long time now little people have been sleeping in the valleys, in their small huts; but I’m in no hurry, I walk, gritting my teeth, and muttering to the horse: “Go, go.” We will wander until we fall. How many of these difficult and lonely passes have I already had in my life! Like night, sorrows, suffering, illness, betrayal of loved ones and bitter insults of friendship approached me - and the hour of separation came from everything with which I became close. And, having steeled my heart, I again took my wandering staff in my hands. And the ascent to new happiness was high and difficult, night, fog and storm greeted me at the heights, terrible loneliness seized me on the passes... But - let's go, let's go! Stumbling, I wander as if in a dream. The morning is far away. The whole night will have to go down to the valleys and only at dawn will it be possible to fall asleep somewhere like a dead sleep - to shrink and feel only one thing - the sweetness of warmth after the cold. The day will again delight me with people and the sun and again will deceive me for a long time... Will I fall somewhere and forever remain in the middle of the night and blizzards on the bare and deserted mountains for centuries? 1892-1898

I. A. Bunin († 1953)

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin(1870 – 1953) - Russian writer. He belonged to an old noble family. Born on October 22, 1870 in Voronezh. He spent his early childhood on a small family estate (the Butyrka farmstead of the Yeletsk district of the Oryol province). At the age of ten he was sent to the Yeletsk gymnasium, where he studied for four and a half years, was expelled (for non-payment of tuition fees) and returned to the village. Received home education. Already in childhood, B.'s extraordinary impressionability and perceptiveness manifested themselves, qualities that formed the basis of his artistic personality and gave rise to an image of the surrounding world hitherto unprecedented in Russian literature in terms of sharpness and brightness, as well as richness of shades. B. recalled: “ My vision was such that I saw all seven stars in the Pleiades, I could hear the whistle of a marmot a mile away in the evening field, I got drunk, smelling the smell of lily of the valley or an old book" B. made his debut as a poet in 1887. In 1891, the first book of poems was published in Orel. At the same time, the writer began to publish in metropolitan magazines, and his work attracted the attention of literary celebrities (critic N.K. Mikhailovsky, poet A.M. Zhemchuzhnikov), who helped B. publish poems in the magazine “Bulletin of Europe”. In 1896, Bunin published his translation of “The Song of Hiawatha” by G. Longfellow. With the publication of the collection “To the End of the World” (1897), “Under the Open Sky” (1898), “Poems and Stories” (1900), “Leaf Fall” (1901), Bunin gradually asserts his original place in artistic life Russia. more>>

Works

I. A. Bunin († 1953)
Stories.

Pass.

N It’s been a long time, and I’m still wandering through the mountains towards the pass, wandering in the wind, among the cold fog, and hopelessly, but obediently following me on the reins is a wet, tired horse, clanking with empty stirrups.

IN At dusk, resting at the foot of the pine forests, beyond which this bare and deserted ascent begins, I still cheerfully looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look from a great height. There, far below, it was still possible to discern lights in the darkening valley, on the coast of a cramped bay, which, going to the east, expanded more and more and, rising like a foggy blue wall, hugged the sky high. But night was already falling in the mountains. It got dark quickly, and as I approached the forests, the mountains grew darker and more majestic, and into the spans between their spurs, oblique, long clouds of thick gray fog, driven by the storm from above, poured with stormy speed. He fell from the heights of the plateau, which he enveloped in a gigantic loose ridge, and with his fall sharply emphasized the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. It had already smoked the pine forest, growing in front of me along with the dull, deep and unsociable roar of the pines. It smelled like winter freshness, was blown away by snow and wind... Night fell, and I walked for a long time under the dark arches of the mountain forest, humming in the fog, trying to somehow protect myself from the wind.

« WITH The pass is coming soon, I told myself. - The area is safe and familiar, and in two or three hours I will be in the calm beyond the mountains, in a bright and crowded house. Now it’s getting dark early.”

N But half an hour passes, an hour... Every minute it seems to me that the pass is two steps away from me, and the bare and rocky ascent does not end. The pine forests below have long been left, the stunted bushes twisted by storms have long gone, and I am beginning to get tired and tremble from the cold wind and fog. I remember the cemetery of those killed at this height - several graves among a bunch of pine trees not far from the pass, in which some Tatar woodcutters were buried, thrown from Yaila by a winter blizzard. These graves are already not far away - I feel what a wild and deserted height I am on, and from the consciousness that there is now only fog and cliffs around me, my heart clench. How will I pass by the lonely monument stones when they, like human figures, are blackened among the fog? Is it really only in the dead of midnight that I will reach the pass? And will I have the strength to go down from the mountains, when even now I am losing the idea of ​​time and place? But there is no time to think - we have to go!

D Far ahead, something vaguely blackens among the running fog... These are some dark hills, similar to sleeping bears. I move along them from one stone to another, the horse, breaking loose and clanging its horseshoes on the wet pebbles, with difficulty climbs behind me - and suddenly I notice that the road again begins to slowly climb up the mountain! Then I stop, and despair overtakes me. I’m trembling all over from tension and fatigue, my clothes are all wet from the snow, and the wind is cutting right through them. Should I shout for help? But now even the shepherds have huddled in their Homeric huts along with the goats and sheep, which means absolutely no one will hear me. And, looking around, I think with horror:

« B my dear! Am I really lost? Is this really my last night? And if not, then how and where will I spend it?..”

P It’s late, the forest hums dully and sleepily in the distance. The night is becoming more and more mysterious, and I feel it well, despite the fact that I don’t know either the time or the place. Now the last light has gone out in the deep valleys, and a gray fog reigns over them, knowing that its hour has come - a long and terrible hour, when it seems that everything has died out on the earth and the morning will never come, and the fogs will only increase, enveloping majestic in their midnight guard, the forests will hum dully across the mountains, and the snow will fly thicker and thicker on the deserted pass.

Z Shielding myself from the wind, I turn to the horse. The only living creature that stayed with me! But the horse doesn't look at me. Wet, chilled, hunched over under the high saddle that awkwardly sticks out on her back, she stands with her head submissively lowered with her ears flattened. And I angrily pull her by the reins and again expose my face to the wet snow and wind, and again stubbornly walk towards them. When I try to see what surrounds me, I see only a gray, running haze that is blinding with snow, and I feel slippery, rocky soil under my feet. When I listen closely, I can only distinguish the whistling of the wind in my ears and the monotonous jingling behind me: these are stirrups knocking, colliding with each other...

N oh, strange - my despair begins to strengthen me! I begin to walk more boldly, and an angry reproach to someone for everything I endure makes me happy. He is already moving into that gloomy and persistent submission to everything that must be endured, in which it is sweet to feel his growing grief and hopelessness...

IN from, finally, the pass. Now it’s clear that I’m at the highest point of the climb, but I don’t care. I walk along a flat and flat steppe, the wind carries the fog in long strands and knocks me off my feet, but I don’t pay attention to it. Just from the whistle of the wind and from the fog one can feel how deeply the late night has taken possession of the mountains - for a long time now little people have been sleeping in the valleys in their small huts; but I’m in no hurry, I walk, gritting my teeth, and muttering to the horse:

- N nothing, nothing, go! We will wander until we fall. - How many of these difficult and lonely passes have already happened in my life! From early youth I entered from time to time into their fatal period. Like night, sorrows, sufferings, illnesses and helplessness of myself and those close to me were approaching me, betrayals of loved ones and bitter resentments of friendship were accumulating, and the hour of separation was coming from everything that I was used to and became close to. And, steeling my heart, I took my wandering staff in my hands. And the ascent to new happiness was high and difficult, night, fog and storm greeted me at the heights, and terrible loneliness seized me on the passes... Never mind, we will wander until we fall!

WITH stumbling, I wander as if in a dream. The morning is far away. The whole night will have to go down to the valleys and only at dawn will it be possible, perhaps, to fall asleep somewhere like a dead sleep - to curl up and feel only one thing - the joy of warmth after the piercing cold and sweet rest - after a painful road.

D Tomorrow will again delight me with people and the sun, and again it will deceive me for a long time and make me forget about the passes. But they will happen again, and the most difficult and lonely one will be the last... Will I fall somewhere and forever remain in the middle of the night and the blizzard on the bare mountains, deserted for centuries?

Source: Iv. Bunin. Volume one: Stories. - Third edition. - St. Petersburg: Publication of the “Knowledge” partnership, 1904. - P. 1-5.

From Guest >>

50 points guys, help with dz
It’s long past night, and I’m still wandering through the mountains towards the pass. I wander in the wind among the cold fog, and a tired horse, clanking, follows me hopelessly but obediently.
empty stirrups. Resting at the foot of the pine forests, behind which this deserted ascent begins, I looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look from a great height. It was still possible to discern lights in the darkening valley below, on the coast of a narrow bay, which, going to the east, expanded and embraced half the sky, rising like a foggy blue wall. But night had already fallen in the mountains. It was getting dark quickly. I was approaching the forests, and the mountains grew more and more gloomy and majestic, and thick fog, driven by a storm from above, fell in long clouds with stormy swiftness into the spans between them. He fell from the plateau, which he enveloped in a gigantic ridge, and with his fall seemed to increase the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. It had already smoked the forest, approaching me along with the unsociable roar of the pine trees. There was a whiff of freshness, but it was blown away by snow and wind.
Grammar task
you need to find impersonal sentences, vaguely personal and definitely personal
and separate circumstances and separate additions and separate definitions

Left a reply Guest

Walking in the wind among the cold fog(definitive-personal), and hopelessly, but obediently the tired horse follows me, jingling
empty stirrups.(separate circumstances, expressed in adverbial phrases) Relaxing at the foot of the pine forests(isolated circumstances, expressed in adverbial phrases), behind which this deserted ascent begins, I looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength, with whom you always look with great heights.(definitive-personal) It was still possible to distinguish the lights in the darkening valley below (impersonal), on the coast of a narrow bay,(circumstances - clarification) which, going east, (special circumstances, expressed in adverbial terms) expanded and embraced half the sky, rising foggy-blue wall. (separate circumstances, expressed in adverbial phrases) But night had already fallen in the mountains. It was getting dark quickly. (impersonal) I approached the forests, and the mountains grew darker and more majestic, and thick fog fell in long clouds between them with stormy speed, storm driven from above .(isolated definition, expressed by a participial phrase) He fell from the plateau, which he enveloped in a gigantic ridge, and with his fall, as it were, he increased the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. He has already smoked the forest, approaching onme along with the unsociable hum of the pine trees. (separate circumstances, expressed in adverbial phrase)It smelled of freshness (impersonal), but was carried away by snow and wind. (impersonal)

The night is long ago, and I am still wandering through the mountains towards the pass, wandering in the wind, among the cold fog, and hopelessly, but obediently, a wet, tired horse follows me on the reins, clanking with empty stirrups. At dusk, resting at the foot of the pine forests, beyond which this bare, deserted ascent begins, I looked into the immense depths below me with that special feeling of pride and strength with which you always look from a great height. It was still possible to discern lights in the darkening valley far below, on the coast of a narrow bay, which, going to the east, kept expanding and, rising like a foggy blue wall, embraced half the sky. But night was already falling in the mountains. It was getting dark quickly, I walked, approached the forests - and the mountains grew more and more gloomy and majestic, and thick fog, driven by a storm from above, fell into the spans between their spurs with stormy swiftness. He fell from the plateau, which he enveloped in a gigantic loose ridge, and with his fall seemed to increase the gloomy depth of the abysses between the mountains. It had already smoked the forest, approaching me along with the dull, deep and unsociable roar of the pine trees. There was a whiff of winter freshness, carried with snow and wind... Night fell, and I walked for a long time under the dark arches of a mountain forest, humming in the fog, bowing my head from the wind. “Soon the pass will pass,” I said to myself. “Soon I will be in a calm, behind the mountains, in a bright, crowded house...” But half an hour passes, an hour... Every minute it seems to me that the pass is two steps away from me, and the bare and rocky climb never ends. The pine forests below have long been left behind, the stunted, twisted bushes have long gone, and I am beginning to get tired and falter. I remember several graves among the pines not far from the pass, where some woodcutters were buried, thrown from the mountains by a winter storm. I feel what a wild and deserted height I am at, I feel that there is only fog and cliffs around me, and I think: how will I get past the lonely stone monuments when they, like human figures, turn black among the fog? Will I have the strength to go down from the mountains when I am already losing the concept of time and place? Ahead, something vaguely blackens among the running fog... some dark hills that look like sleeping bears. I make my way along them, from one stone to another, the horse, breaking loose and clanging its horseshoes on the wet pebbles, barely climbs behind me - and suddenly I notice that the road again begins to slowly climb up the mountain! Then I stop, and despair overcomes me. I’m trembling all over from tension and fatigue, my clothes are all wet from the snow, and the wind is cutting right through them. Should I shout? But now even the shepherds are huddled in their Homeric huts along with the goats and sheep - who will hear me? And I look around in horror: - My God! Am I really lost? Late. Bor hums dully and sleepily in the distance. The night is becoming more and more mysterious, and I feel it, although I know neither the time nor the place. Now the last light in the deep valleys has gone out, and a gray fog reigns over them, knowing that its hour has come, a long hour, when it seems that everything has died out on earth and the morning will never come, but the fogs will only increase, enveloping the majestic in their the midnight watch of the mountains, the forests will hum dully across the mountains and the snow will fly thicker and thicker on the deserted pass. Shielding myself from the wind, I turn to the horse. The only living creature left with me! But the horse doesn't look at me. Wet, chilled, hunched over under the high saddle that awkwardly sticks out on her back, she stands with her head submissively bowed and her ears flattened. And I angrily tug on the reins, and again expose my face to the wet snow and wind, and again stubbornly walk towards them. When I try to see what surrounds me, I see only a gray running darkness that blinds me with snow. When I listen closely, I can only distinguish the whistling of the wind in my ears and the monotonous jingling behind me: these are stirrups knocking, colliding with each other... But strangely, my despair begins to strengthen me! I begin to walk more boldly, and an angry reproach to someone for everything I endure makes me happy. He is already moving into that gloomy and persistent submission to everything that must be endured, in which hopelessness is sweet... Finally, there is a pass. But I don't care anymore. I walk along the flat and flat steppe, the wind carries the fog in long strands and knocks me off my feet, but I don’t pay attention to it. Just from the whistle of the wind and from the fog one can feel how deeply the late night has taken hold of the mountains - for a long time now little people have been sleeping in the valleys, in their small huts; but I’m in no hurry, I walk, gritting my teeth, and muttering to the horse: “Go, go.” We will wander until we fall. How many of these difficult and lonely passes have I already had in my life! Like night, sorrows, suffering, illness, betrayal of loved ones and bitter insults of friendship approached me - and the hour of separation came from everything with which I became close. And, having steeled my heart, I again took my wandering staff in my hands. And the ascent to new happiness was high and difficult, night, fog and storm greeted me at the heights, terrible loneliness seized me on the passes... But - let's go, let's go! Stumbling, I wander as if in a dream. The morning is far away. The whole night will have to go down to the valleys and only at dawn will it be possible to fall asleep somewhere like a dead sleep - to shrink and feel only one thing - the sweetness of warmth after the cold. The day will again delight me with people and the sun and again will deceive me for a long time... Will I fall somewhere and forever remain in the middle of the night and blizzards on the bare and deserted mountains for centuries? 1892-1898