Essay analysis of the story The Late Hour of Bunin. Late hour

Today we will analyze the story “The Late Hour” written in 1938 by I.A. Bunin. It was during this period that the writer lived in a foreign land and was madly homesick. He conveyed all his longing and nostalgia for Russia in this story.

The story is about an elderly man who has been living abroad for an impressive amount of time, and how he came to terms with his past. He will meet his former love and his former homeland. This meeting is saturated with pain and longing, for the former country in which he felt so good. There is no loved one in the world who left so early and lost her youth irrevocably.

All the time the hero desperately wants to find happiness and regain the paradise he lost. But it’s too late and you can’t take anything back.

The whole story is dedicated to one July walk that took place in the night. He leisurely strolls through places dear to his heart, and is filled with various memories from the past. But then everything got mixed up, the past and the present mixed into a single whole. Although this was to be expected, because his whole life consists of memories of his beloved.

Of course, the most important thing in life is love. It was she who made him happy, and later made him one of the most unfortunate on earth.

The hero constantly remembers moments dear to his heart. The first touch, the very first meeting, half an embrace, he lives by all this. Every day he replays her image in his thoughts.

The hero’s head is a complete mess, then he remembers her dark hair and her pale white dress. He then interweaves them with memorable places from his hometown. Plunging into my youth, where a storm of emotions also raged. All the time he compares the affairs of the past days and what he sees now. And oddly enough, he connects everything with Paris, where he now lives.

For some reason, it seems to him that everything is wrong in Paris. The hero is closer to his homeland and he is overly homesick. He is entirely Russian in soul and thoughts. All that he saw in front of him, the same bazaar and the old street, made up his life. He himself realizes and sadly understands that life has passed.

At the very end, the man comes to the most important place in the cemetery to see her. Which looks very symbolic, because he visited the cemetery at a late time. Everything is coming to an end along with his path, although he himself died long ago along with her.

Perhaps this ending to the story came from Bunin’s thoughts about the transience of our lives. No one will escape death. Everyone experiences this “late hour” which is so clearly expressed in the story. And we can only empathize with the author and realize that the very essence of life is love.

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In the section on the question, Can you please provide a brief retelling of the story “The Late Hour” by I. Bunin. given by the author Legal capacity The best answer is I. A. Bunin's story has an exact date - October 19, 1938. It is known that at this time the writer lived abroad and desperately missed his homeland - Russia. The story “The Late Hour” is filled with this melancholy, bitter nostalgia. The work represents a meeting of an elderly man, who spent a long time abroad, with his past - with his former love and his former country. This meeting is filled with suffering and melancholy - the beloved who passed away so early is no longer alive, the country in which the hero felt so good is no longer alive, there is no longer youth - there is no happiness. In essence, the story “The Late Hour” is the hero’s attempt to meet his happiness, to find the paradise he once lost. However, alas, it’s too late, “late hour”: “We must take advantage of the only and last opportunity, fortunately the hour is late and no one will meet me.” Compositionally, the story is structured as a description of one of the hero’s walks, which he took on a bright July night. The hero walks through well-known places: his observations alternate with memories, which at the beginning of the story separate the route directions from each other: “And I walked along the bridge across the river, seeing everything around far away in the monthly light of the July night,” “Beyond the bridge I climbed the hill, went to the city along a paved road." However, then the past and present are mixed, merging in the hero’s mind into a single whole. This is not surprising - he lives only in the past, his whole life is contained in memories, the main character of which is his beloved.

Late hour

Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve been there, I said to myself. From the age of nineteen. I once lived in Russia, felt it was my own, had complete freedom to travel anywhere, and it was not difficult to travel just three hundred miles. But I didn’t go, I kept putting it off. And years and decades went by and by. But now we can’t put it off any longer: it’s either now or never. I must take advantage of the only and last opportunity, since the hour is late and no one will meet me.

And I walked across the bridge over the river, far away seeing everything around in the month-long light of the July night.

The bridge was so familiar, the same as before, as if I had seen it yesterday: crudely ancient, humpbacked and as if not even stone, but somehow petrified from time to eternal indestructibility - as a high school student I thought that it was still under Batu. However, only some traces of the city walls on the cliff under the cathedral and this bridge speak of the antiquity of the city. Everything else is old, provincial, nothing more. One thing was strange, one thing indicated that something had changed in the world since I was a boy, a young man: before the river was not navigable, but now it has probably been deepened and cleared; The moon was to my left, quite far above the river, and in its unsteady light and in the flickering, trembling shine of the water there was a white paddle steamer, which seemed empty - it was so silent - although all its portholes were illuminated, like motionless golden eyes and all were reflected in the water as flowing golden pillars: the steamer was exactly standing on them. This happened in Yaroslavl, and in the Suez Canal, and on the Nile. In Paris, the nights are damp, dark, a hazy glow turns pink in the impenetrable sky, the Seine flows under the bridges with black tar, but below them also flowing columns of reflections from the lanterns on the bridges hang, only they are three-colored: white, blue and red - Russian national flags. There are no lights on the bridge here, and it is dry and dusty. And ahead, on the hill, the city is darkened by gardens; a fire tower sticks out above the gardens. My God, what an unspeakable happiness it was! It was during the night fire that I first kissed your hand and you squeezed mine in response - I will never forget this secret consent. The whole street turned black with people in an ominous, unusual illumination. I was visiting you when the alarm suddenly sounded and everyone rushed to the windows, and then behind the gate. It was burning far away, across the river, but terribly hot, greedily, urgently. There, clouds of smoke poured out thickly in a black-purple fleece, crimson sheets of flame burst out of them high, and near us they, trembling, shone copper in the dome of the Archangel Michael. And in the cramped space, in the crowd, amid the anxious, sometimes pitiful, sometimes joyful talk of the common people who had come running from everywhere, I heard the smell of your girlish hair, neck, canvas dress - and then suddenly I decided, I took, completely frozen, your hand...

Beyond the bridge I climbed a hill and walked into the city along a paved road.

There was not a single fire anywhere in the city, not a single living soul. Everything was silent and spacious, calm and sad - the sadness of the Russian steppe night, of a sleeping steppe city. Some gardens faintly and cautiously fluttered their leaves from the steady current of the weak July wind, which pulled from somewhere from the fields and blew gently on me. I walked - the big moon also walked, rolling and passing through the blackness of the branches in a mirror circle; the wide streets lay in shadow - only in the houses on the right, which the shadow did not reach, the white walls were illuminated and the black glass shimmered with a mournful gloss; and I walked in the shadows, stepped along the spotted sidewalk - it was see-throughly covered with black silk lace. She had this evening dress, very elegant, long and slender. It suited her slim figure and black young eyes incredibly well. She was mysterious in him and insultingly did not pay attention to me. Where was it? Visiting who?

My goal was to visit Old Street. And I could have gotten there by another, closer route. But I turned into these spacious streets in the gardens because I wanted to look at the gymnasium. And, having reached it, he marveled again: and here everything remained the same as half a century ago; a stone fence, a stone courtyard, a large stone building in the courtyard - everything is just as official, boring as it once was, with me. I hesitated at the gate, I wanted to evoke in myself sadness, the pity of memories - but I could not: yes, first a first-grader with a comb-haired haircut in a brand new blue cap with silver palms above the visor and in a new overcoat with silver buttons entered these gates, then a thin young man in a gray jacket and smart trousers with straps; but is it me?

LATE HOUR

Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve been there, I said to myself. From the age of nineteen. I once lived in Russia, felt it was my own, had complete freedom to travel anywhere, and it was not difficult to travel just three hundred miles. But I didn’t go, I kept putting it off. And years and decades went by and by. But now we can’t put it off any longer: it’s either now or never. I must take advantage of the only and last opportunity, since the hour is late and no one will meet me.

And I walked across the bridge over the river, far away seeing everything around in the month-long light of the July night.

The bridge was so familiar, the same as before, as if I had seen it yesterday: crudely ancient, humpbacked and as if not even stone, but somehow petrified from time to eternal indestructibility - as a high school student I thought that it was still under Batu. However, only some traces of the city walls on the cliff under the cathedral and this bridge speak of the antiquity of the city. Everything else is old, provincial, nothing more. One thing was strange, one thing indicated that something had changed in the world since I was a boy, a young man: before the river was not navigable, but now it has probably been deepened and cleared; The moon was to my left, quite far above the river, and in its unsteady light and in the flickering, trembling shine of the water there was a white paddle steamer, which seemed empty - it was so silent - although all its portholes were illuminated, like motionless golden eyes and all were reflected in the water as flowing golden pillars: the steamer was exactly standing on them. This happened in Yaroslavl, and in the Suez Canal, and on the Nile. In Paris, the nights are damp, dark, a hazy glow turns pink in the impenetrable sky, the Seine flows under the bridges with black tar, but below them also flowing columns of reflections from the lanterns on the bridges hang, only they are three-colored: white, blue and red - Russian national flags. There are no lights on the bridge here, and it is dry and dusty. And ahead, on the hill, the city is darkened by gardens; a fire tower sticks out above the gardens. My God, what an unspeakable happiness it was! It was during the night fire that I first kissed your hand and you squeezed mine in response - I will never forget this secret consent. The whole street turned black with people in an ominous, unusual illumination. I was visiting you when the alarm suddenly sounded and everyone rushed to the windows, and then behind the gate. It was burning far away, across the river, but terribly hot, greedily, urgently. There, clouds of smoke poured out thickly in a black-purple fleece, crimson sheets of flame burst out of them high, and near us they, trembling, shone copper in the dome of the Archangel Michael. And in the cramped space, in the crowd, amid the anxious, now pitiful, now joyful talk of the common people who had come running from everywhere, I heard the smell of your girlish hair, neck, canvas dress - and then suddenly I decided, I took, all trembling, your hand...

Beyond the bridge I climbed a hill and walked into the city along a paved road.

There was not a single fire anywhere in the city, not a single living soul. Everything was silent and spacious, calm and sad - the sadness of the Russian steppe night, of a sleeping steppe city. Some gardens faintly and cautiously fluttered their leaves from the steady current of the weak July wind, which pulled from somewhere from the fields and blew gently on me. I walked - the big moon also walked, rolling and passing through the blackness of the branches in a mirror circle; the wide streets lay in shadow - only in the houses on the right, which the shadow did not reach, the white walls were illuminated and the black glass shimmered with a mournful gloss; and I walked in the shadows, stepped along the spotted sidewalk - it was see-throughly covered with black silk lace. She had this evening dress, very elegant, long and slender. It suited her slim figure and black young eyes incredibly well. She was mysterious in him and insultingly did not pay attention to me. Where was it? Visiting who?

My goal was to visit Old Street. And I could have gotten there by another, closer route. But I turned into these spacious streets in the gardens because I wanted to look at the gymnasium. And, having reached it, he marveled again: and here everything remained the same as half a century ago; a stone fence, a stone courtyard, a large stone building in the courtyard - everything is just as official, boring as it once was, with me. I hesitated at the gate, I wanted to evoke in myself sadness, the pity of memories - but I could not: yes, first a first-grader with a comb-haired haircut in a brand new blue cap with silver palms above the visor and in a new overcoat with silver buttons entered these gates, then a thin young man in a gray jacket and smart trousers with straps; but is it me?

The old street seemed to me only a little narrower than it had seemed before. Everything else was unchanged. Bumpy pavement, not a single tree, on both sides there are dusty merchant houses, the sidewalks are also bumpy, such that it is better to walk in the middle of the street, in full monthly light... And the night was almost the same as that one. Only that one was at the end of August, when the whole city smells of apples that lie in mountains in the markets, and it was so warm that it was a pleasure to walk in one blouse, belted with a Caucasian strap... Is it possible to remember this night somewhere there, as if in sky?

I still didn’t dare go to your house. And he, it’s true, hasn’t changed, but it’s all the more terrifying to see him. Some strangers, new people live in it now. Your father, your mother, your brother - they all outlived you, the young one, but they also died in due time. Yes, and everyone died for me; and not only relatives, but also many, many with whom I, in friendship or friendship, began life; how long ago did they start, confident that there would be no end to it, but it all began, proceeded and ended before my eyes - so quickly and before my eyes! And I sat down on a pedestal near some merchant’s house, impregnable behind its locks and gates, and began to think what she was like in those distant times, our times: simply pulled back dark hair, clear eyes, a light tan of a young face, a light summer look. a dress under which there is purity, strength and freedom of a young body... This was the beginning of our love, a time of unclouded happiness, intimacy, trust, enthusiastic tenderness, joy...

There is something very special about the warm and bright nights of Russian provincial towns at the end of summer. What peace, what prosperity! An old man with a mallet wanders around the cheerful city at night, but only for his own pleasure: there is nothing to guard, sleep peacefully, good people, you will be guarded by God's favor, this high shining sky, which the old man carelessly looks at, wandering along the pavement heated during the day and only occasionally, for fun, starting a dance trill with a mallet. And on such a night, at that late hour, when he was the only one awake in the city, you were waiting for me in your garden, already dry by autumn, and I secretly slipped into it: quietly opened the gate that you had previously unlocked, quietly and quickly ran through the yard and behind the shed in the depths of the yard, he entered the motley gloom of the garden, where your dress faintly whitened in the distance, on a bench under the apple trees, and, quickly approaching, with joyful fear he met the sparkle of your waiting eyes.

LATE HOUR

Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve been there, I said to myself. From the age of nineteen. I once lived in Russia, felt it was my own, had complete freedom to travel anywhere, and it was not difficult to travel just three hundred miles. But I didn’t go, I kept putting it off. And years and decades went by and by. But now we can’t put it off any longer: it’s either now or never. I must take advantage of the only and last opportunity, since the hour is late and no one will meet me. And I walked across the bridge over the river, far away seeing everything around in the month-long light of the July night. The bridge was so familiar, the same as before, as if I had seen it yesterday: crudely ancient, humpbacked and as if not even stone, but somehow petrified from time to eternal indestructibility - as a high school student I thought that it was still under Batu. However, only some traces of the city walls on the cliff under the cathedral and this bridge speak of the antiquity of the city. Everything else is old, provincial, nothing more. One thing was strange, one thing indicated that something had changed in the world since I was a boy, a young man: before the river was not navigable, but now it has probably been deepened and cleared; The moon was to my left, quite far above the river, and in its unsteady light and in the flickering, trembling shine of the water there was a white paddle steamer, which seemed empty - it was so silent - although all its portholes were illuminated, like motionless golden eyes and all were reflected in the water as flowing golden pillars: the steamer was exactly standing on them. This happened in Yaroslavl, and in the Suez Canal, and on the Nile. In Paris, the nights are damp, dark, a hazy glow turns pink in the impenetrable sky, the Seine flows under the bridges with black tar, but below them also flowing columns of reflections from the lanterns on the bridges hang, only they are three-colored: white, blue and red - Russian national flags.

There are no lights on the bridge here, and it is dry and dusty. And ahead, on the hill, the city is darkened by gardens; a fire tower sticks out above the gardens. My God, what an unspeakable happiness it was! It was during the night fire that I first kissed your hand and you squeezed mine in response - I will never forget this secret consent. The whole street turned black with people in an ominous, unusual illumination. I was visiting you when suddenly the alarm sounded and everyone rushed to the windows, and then behind the gate. It was burning far away, across the river, but terribly hot, greedily, urgently. There, clouds of smoke poured out thickly in black and purple fleeces, crimson sheets of flame burst out of them high, and near us they, trembling, glowed coppery in the dome of Michael the Archangel. And in the cramped space, in the crowd, amid the anxious, sometimes pitiful, sometimes joyful talk of the common people who had come running from everywhere, I heard the smell of your girlish hair, neck, canvas dress - and suddenly I decided, took your hand, completely frozen... Beyond the bridge I He climbed up the hill and went to the city along a paved road. There was not a single fire or a living soul anywhere in the city. Everything was silent and spacious, calm and sad - the sadness of the Russian steppe night, of a sleeping steppe city. Some gardens faintly and cautiously fluttered their leaves from the steady current of the weak July wind, which pulled from somewhere from the fields and blew gently on me. I walked - the big moon also walked, rolling and passing through the blackness of the branches in a mirror circle; the wide streets lay in shadow - only in the houses on the right, which the shadow did not reach, the white walls were illuminated and the black glass shimmered with a mournful gloss; and I walked in the shadows, stepped along the spotted sidewalk - it was see-throughly covered with black silk lace. She had this evening dress, very elegant, long and slender. It suited her slim figure and black young eyes incredibly well. She was mysterious in him and insultingly did not pay attention to me. Where was it? Visiting whom? My goal was to visit Old Street. And I could have gone there by another, closer route. But I turned into these spacious streets in the gardens because I wanted to look at the gymnasium. And, having reached it, he marveled again: and here everything remained the same as half a century ago; a stone fence, a stone courtyard, a large stone building in the courtyard - everything is just as official, boring as it once was, when I was there. I hesitated at the gate, I wanted to evoke in myself sadness, the pity of memories - but I could not: yes, first a first-grader with a combed hair and a new blue cap with silver palms above the visor and in a new overcoat with silver buttons entered these gates, then a thin young man in a gray jacket and smart trousers with straps; but is it me? The old street seemed to me only a little narrower than it had seemed before. Everything else was unchanged. Bumpy pavement, not a single tree, on both sides there are dusty merchant houses, the sidewalks are also bumpy, such that it is better to walk in the middle of the street, in full monthly light... And the night was almost the same as that one. Only that one was at the end of August, when the whole city smells of apples that lie in mountains in the markets, and it was so warm that it was a pleasure to walk in one blouse, belted with a Caucasian strap... Is it possible to remember this night somewhere there, as if in sky? I still didn’t dare to go to your house. And he, it’s true, hasn’t changed, but it’s all the more terrifying to see him. Some strangers, new people live in it now. Your father, your mother, your brother - everyone outlived you, the young one, but they also died in due time. Yes, and everyone died for me; and not only relatives, but also many, many with whom I, in friendship or friendship, began life, how long ago did they begin, confident that there would be no end to it, but it all began, flowed and ended before my eyes - so quickly and before my eyes! And I sat down on a pedestal near some merchant’s house, impregnable behind its locks and gates, and began to think what she was like in those distant times, our times: simply pulled back dark hair, clear eyes, a light tan of a young face, a light summer look. a dress under which there is purity, strength and freedom of a young body... This was the beginning of our love, a time of unclouded happiness, intimacy, trust, enthusiastic tenderness, joy... There is something very special in the warm and bright nights of Russian provincial towns at the end of summer. What peace, what prosperity! An old man with a mallet wanders through the cheerful city at night, but only for his own pleasure: there is nothing to guard, sleep peacefully, good people, God's favor will guard you, this high shining sky, which the old man carelessly looks at, wandering along the pavement that has warmed up during the day and only occasionally, for fun, starting a dance trill with a mallet. And on such a night, at that late hour, when he was the only one awake in the city, you were waiting for me in your garden, already dry by autumn, and I secretly slipped into it: quietly opened the gate that you had previously unlocked, quietly and quickly ran across the yard and behind the shed in the depths of the yard, I entered the motley gloom of the garden, where your dress faintly whitened in the distance, on a bench under the apple trees, and, quickly approaching, with joyful fear I met the sparkle of your waiting eyes. And we sat, sat in some kind of bewilderment of happiness. With one hand I hugged you, hearing your heartbeat, in the other I held your hand, feeling all of you through it. And it was already so late that you couldn’t even hear the beater—the old man lay down somewhere on a bench and dozed off with a pipe in his teeth, basking in the monthly light. When I looked to the right, I saw how high and sinlessly the moon shines over the yard and the roof of the house glistens like a fish. When I looked to the left, I saw a path overgrown with dry grasses, disappearing under other apple trees, and behind them a lone green star peeking low from behind some other garden, glowing impassively and at the same time expectantly, silently saying something. But I saw both the courtyard and the star only briefly - there was only one thing in the world: a light dusk and the radiant twinkle of your eyes in the dusk. And then you walked me to the gate, and I said: “If there is a future life and we meet in it, I will kneel there and kiss your feet for everything that you gave me on earth.” I went out to the middle of the bright street and walked to your yard. Turning around, I saw that everything was still white in the gate. Now, having risen from the pedestal, I went back the same way I came. No, besides Old Street, I had another goal, which I was afraid to admit to myself, but the fulfillment of which, I knew, was inevitable. And I went - take a look and leave forever. The road was familiar again. Everything goes straight, then to the left, along the bazaar, and from the bazaar along Monastyrskaya - to the exit from the city. The bazaar is like another city within the city. Very smelly rows. In Obzhorny Row, under the awnings over the long tables and benches, it is gloomy. In Skobyany, an icon of the big-eyed Savior in a rusty frame hangs on a chain above the middle of the passage. In Muchnoye, a whole flock of pigeons were always running and pecking along the pavement in the morning. You go to the gymnasium - there are so many of them! And all the fat ones, with rainbow-colored crops, peck and run, femininely, delicately wagging, swaying, twitching their heads monotonously, as if not noticing you: they take off, whistling with their wings, only when you almost step on one of them. And at night, large dark rats, nasty and scary, were rushing around quickly and anxiously. Monastyrskaya Street - a flight into the fields and a road: some from the city home to the village, others - to the city of the dead. In Paris, for two days, house number such-and-such on such-and-such a street stands out from all the other houses by the plague props of the entrance, its mournful frame with silver, for two days a sheet of paper with a mourning border lies in the entrance on the mourning cover of the table - they sign it as a sign of sympathy polite visitors; then, at some final time, a huge chariot with a mourning canopy stops at the entrance, the wood of which is black and resinous, like a plague coffin, the rounded carved floors of the canopy indicate the heavens with large white stars, and the corners of the roof are crowned with curly black plumes - ostrich feathers from the underworld; the chariot is harnessed to tall monsters in coal-horned blankets with white eye socket rings; an old drunkard sits on an infinitely high trestle and waits to be taken out, also symbolically dressed up in a fake coffin uniform and the same triangular hat, inwardly probably always grinning at these solemn words: Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. - Everything is different here. A breeze blows from the fields along Monastyrskaya, and an open coffin is carried towards him on towels, a rice-colored face with a motley corolla on its forehead sways, above closed convex eyelids. So they carried her too. At the exit, to the left of the highway, there is a monastery from the time of Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich, serfs, always closed gates and fortress walls, from behind which the gilded turnips of the cathedral shine. Further, completely in the field, there is a very spacious square of other walls, but low: they contain a whole grove, broken up by intersecting long avenues, on the sides of which, under old elms, lindens and birches, everything is dotted with various crosses and monuments. Here the gates were wide open, and I saw the main avenue, smooth and endless. I timidly took off my hat and entered. How late and how dumb! The moon was already low behind the trees, but everything around, as far as the eye could see, was still clearly visible. The entire space of this grove of the dead, its crosses and monuments was patterned in a transparent shadow. The wind died down towards the pre-dawn hour - the light and dark spots that were all colorful under the trees were sleeping. In the distance of the grove, from behind the cemetery church, something suddenly flashed and with furious speed, a dark ball rushed towards me - I, beside myself, shied away to the side, my whole head immediately froze and tightened, my heart rushed and froze... . What was it? It flashed and disappeared. But the heart remained standing in my chest. And so, with my heart stopping, carrying it inside me like a heavy cup, I moved on. I knew where to go, I kept walking straight along the avenue - and at the very end, already a few steps from the back wall, I stopped: in front of me, on level ground, among the dry grasses, lay a lonely elongated and rather narrow stone, with its head to Wall. From behind the wall, a low green star looked out like a wondrous gem, radiant like the old one, but silent and motionless.