The author-narrator remembers the recent past. He recalled the early weathering autumn, the entire golden, dried up and thinned garden, the delicate aroma of fallen leaves and the smell of Antonov apples: the gardeners pour apples on carts to send them to the city. Late at night, when he ran out into the garden and talked with the watchmen guarding the garden, he looked into the deep blue of the sky, overflowing with constellations, looking for a long time until the ground floated beneath his feet, feeling how good it was to live in the world!
The narrator remembers his Vyselki, which since his grandfather’s time was known in the district as a rich village. Old people and old women lived there for a long time – the first sign of well-being. The houses in the settlements were brick, strong. Average noble life had much in common with a rich peasant. I remember his aunt Anna Gerasimovna, her estate is small, but strong, old, surrounded by centuries-old trees. His aunt’s garden was famous for its apple trees, nightingales and turtledoves, and the house was a roof: the thatched roof was unusually thick and tall, blackened and hardened from time to time. In the house, first of all, the smell of apples, and then the other smells: the old furniture of mahogany, dried lime-colored.
I remember the story of his late brother-in-law Arseniy Semenych, a landowner-hunter, who gathered a lot of people in a large house, all had a hearty dinner, and then went
But old people perished in the settlement, Anna Gerasimovna died, Arseny Semenych shot himself. There comes the kingdom of small noblemen, impoverished to beggary. But this small life is also good! The narrator had a chance to visit his neighbor. He gets up early, orders us to set up the samovar and, putting on his boots, goes out onto the porch, where he is surrounded by hounds. It will be a nice day for hunting! Only on the black androck with the hounds do not hunt, eh, if they are greyhounds! But he does not have greyhounds… However, with the onset of winter again, as in former times, small-sized people come to each other, drink for the last money, for whole days disappear in snowy fields. And in the evening on some remote farm far away in the darkness the windows of the wing glow: candles are burning, smoke clouds are floating, they are playing guitar, singing…