We walked along the high road, and they mowed a young birch forest nearby - and sang. It was a long time ago, it was an infinitely long time ago, because the life that we all lived at that time will not return forever. They mowed and sang, and the entire birch forest, which had not yet lost its density and freshness, still full of flowers and smells, responded loudly to them. All around us were fields, the wilderness of central, primordial Russia. It was late afternoon on a June day. The old high road, overgrown with curly grass, cut by dead ruts, traces of the ancient life of our fathers and grandfathers, stretched out before us into the endless Russian distance. The sun was leaning to the west, began to set in beautiful light clouds, softening the blue behind the distant hills of the fields and casting great light pillars towards the sunset, where the sky was already golden, as they are painted in church paintings. A flock of sheep was gray in front, an old shepherd with a shepherd sat on the boundary, winding a whip... It seemed that there was no, and there never was, neither time nor its division into centuries, into years in this forgotten - or blessed - country . And they walked and sang among its eternal field silence, simplicity and primitiveness with some kind of epic freedom and selflessness. And the birch forest accepted and picked up their song as freely and freely as they sang. They were “distant”, from Ryazan. A small artel of them passed through our Oryol places, helping our hayfields and moving to the lower ranks, to earn money during the working season in the steppes, even more fertile than ours. And they were carefree, friendly, as people are on a long and long journey, on vacation from all family and economic ties, they were “eager to work,” unconsciously rejoicing in its beauty and efficiency. They were somehow older and more solid than ours - in custom, in behavior, in language - neater and more beautiful clothes, their soft leather shoe covers, white, well-tied footwear, clean trousers and shirts with red, red collars and such or gussets. A week ago they were mowing the forest near us, and I saw, while riding on horseback, how they went to work, having had their afternoon break: they drank spring water from wooden jugs - so long, so sweetly, as only animals and good, healthy Russians drink farm laborers - then they crossed themselves and cheerfully ran to the place with white, shiny, razor-shaped braids on their shoulders, as they ran they entered the line, let the braids all at once, widely, playfully, and walked, walked in a free, even line. And on the way back I saw their dinner. They sat in a fresh clearing near an extinguished fire, using spoons to drag pieces of something pink out of cast iron. I said: - Bread and salt, hello. They answered cordially: - Good health, you are welcome! The clearing descended to the ravine, revealing the west still bright behind the green trees. And suddenly, looking closer, I saw with horror that what they were eating were fly agaric mushrooms, terrible with their dope. And they just laughed: - It’s okay, they’re sweet, pure chicken! Now they sang: “Forgive me, goodbye, dear friend!” - moved through the birch forest, thoughtlessly depriving it of thick grasses and flowers, and sang without noticing it. And we stood and listened to them, feeling that we would never forget this early evening hour and would never understand, and most importantly, not fully express what the wonderful charm of their song was. Its charm was in the responses, in the sonority of the birch forest. Its beauty was that it was in no way on its own: it was connected with everything that we and they, these Ryazan mowers, saw and felt. The beauty was in that unconscious, but blood relationship that was between them and us - and between them, us and this grain-bearing field that surrounded us, this field air that they and we breathed from childhood, this late afternoon, these clouds in the already pinkish west, this fresh, young forest, full of waist-deep honey herbs, countless wild flowers and berries, which they constantly picked and ate, and this big road, its spaciousness and reserved distance. The beauty was that we were all children of our homeland and were all together and we all felt good, calm and loving without a clear understanding of our feelings, because we don’t need them, we shouldn’t understand them when they exist. And there was also a charm (already completely unrecognized by us then) that this homeland, this common home of ours, was Russia, and that only its soul could sing as the mowers sang in this birch forest responding to their every breath. The beauty was that it was as if there was no singing at all, but just sighs, the rise of a young, healthy, melodious chest. One breast sang, as songs were once sung only in Russia and with that spontaneity, with that incomparable ease and naturalness that was characteristic of song only in Russian. It was felt that the man was so fresh, strong, so naive in ignorance of his strengths and talents and so full of song that he only needed to sigh lightly for the whole forest to respond to that kind and affectionate, and sometimes daring and powerful sonority with which these sighs filled him . They moved, without the slightest effort, throwing scythes around them, exposing clearings in wide semicircles in front of them, mowing, knocking out the area of ​​stumps and bushes and sighing without the slightest effort, each in their own way, but in general expressing one thing, doing on a whim something unified, completely integral , extraordinarily beautiful. And beautiful with a very special, purely Russian beauty were those feelings that they told with their sighs and half-words along with the responding distance, the depth of the forest. Of course, they “said goodbye, parted” with their “darling side”, and with their happiness, and with hopes, and with the one with whom this happiness was united:

Forgive me, goodbye, dear friend,
And, darling, oh, goodbye, little side! —

They each spoke and sighed differently, with varying degrees of sadness and love, but with the same carefree, hopeless reproach.

Forgive me, goodbye, my dear, unfaithful one,
Has my heart become blacker than dirt for you? —

They spoke, complaining and yearning in different ways, emphasizing the words in different ways, and suddenly they all merged at once in a completely harmonious feeling of almost delight in the face of their death, youthful audacity in the face of fate and some kind of extraordinary, all-forgiving generosity - as if they were shaking their heads and threw it all over the forest:

If you don’t love, aren’t nice, God be with you,
If you find something better, you’ll forget! —

And all over the forest it responded to the friendly strength, freedom and chesty sonority of their voices, froze and again, loudly thundering, picked up:

Oh, if you find something better, you’ll forget,
If you find something worse, you will regret it!

 What else was the charm of this song, its inescapable joy despite all its seemingly hopelessness? The fact is that man still did not believe, and could not believe, due to his strength and innocence, 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. “Forgive me, goodbye, my dear side!” - the man said - and knew that, after all, there was no real separation for him from her, from his homeland, that wherever his fate threw him, his native sky would still be above him, and around him - the boundless native Rus', disastrous for him, spoiled, perhaps only with its freedom, space and fabulous wealth. “The red sun set behind the dark forests, ah, all the birds fell silent, everyone sat down in their places!” My happiness has ended, he sighed, the dark night with its wilderness surrounds me, - and yet I felt: he is so close to this wilderness, alive for him, virgin and filled with magical powers, that everywhere he has shelter, lodging, food. someone’s intercession, someone’s kind care, 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 troubles, according to his faith, birds and forest animals, beautiful and wise princesses, and even Baba Yaga herself, who pitied him “because of his youth,” helped him out. There were flying carpets for him, invisible hats, rivers of milk flowed, semi-precious treasures were hidden, the keys to all mortal spells were the keys of ever-living water, he knew prayers and spells, miraculous, again according to his faith, he flew away from prisons, throwing himself off like a clear falcon , hitting the damp Mother Earth, dense jungles, black swamps, flying sands defended him from dashing neighbors and enemies - and the merciful God forgave him for all the distant whistles, sharp, hot knives... There was one more thing, I say, 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 for us too: our ancient intercessors abandoned us, prowling animals fled, prophetic birds scattered, self-assembled tablecloths folded, prayers and spells were desecrated, Mother Cheese-Earth dried up, life-giving springs dried up - and the end came , the limit of God's forgiveness. Paris, 1921

We walked along the main road, and they mowed the young birch forest nearby - and sang.
It was a long time ago, it was an infinitely long time ago, because the life that we all lived at that time will not return forever.
They mowed and sang, and the entire birch forest, which had not yet lost its density and freshness, still full of flowers and smells, responded loudly to them.
All around us were fields, the wilderness of central, primordial Russia. It was late afternoon on a June day. The old high road, overgrown with curly grass, cut by dead ruts, traces of the ancient life of our fathers and grandfathers, stretched out before us into the endless Russian distance. The sun was leaning to the west, began to set in beautiful light clouds, softening the blue behind the distant hills of the fields and casting great light pillars towards the sunset, where the sky was already golden, as they are depicted in church paintings. A flock of sheep was gray in front, an old shepherd with a shepherd sat on the boundary, winding a whip... It seemed that there was no time and there never was any time, no division of it into centuries, into years in this forgotten - or blessed - by God country. And they walked and sang among its eternal field silence, simplicity and primitiveness with some kind of epic freedom and selflessness. And the birch forest accepted and picked up their song as freely and freely as they sang.
They were “distant”, from Ryazan. A small artel of them passed through our Oryol places, helping our hayfields and moving to the lower ranks, to earn money during the working season in the steppes even more fertile than ours. And they were carefree, friendly, as people are on a long and long journey, on vacation from all family and economic ties, they were “eager to work,” unconsciously rejoicing in its beauty and efficiency. They were somehow older and more solid than ours - in custom, in behavior, in language - neater and more beautiful clothes, their soft leather shoe covers (1), white well-tied footwear, clean trousers and shirts with red, red collars and the same gussets (2).
A week ago they were mowing the forest near us, and I saw, while riding on horseback, how they went to work, having had their afternoon break: they drank spring water from wooden jugs - so long, so sweetly, as only animals and good, healthy Russians drink farm laborers - then they crossed themselves and cheerfully ran to the place with white, shiny, razor-shaped braids on their shoulders, as they ran they entered the line, let the braids all at once, widely, playfully, and walked, walked in a free, even line. And on the way back I saw their dinner. They sat in a fresh clearing near an extinguished fire, using spoons to drag pieces of something pink out of cast iron.
I said:
- Bread and salt, hello.
They answered cordially:
- Good health, you are welcome!
The clearing descended to the ravine, revealing the west still bright behind the green trees. And suddenly, looking closer, I saw with horror that what they were eating were fly agaric mushrooms, terrible with their dope. And they just laughed:
- Nothing, they are sweet, pure chicken!
Now they sang: “Forgive me, goodbye, dear friend!” - they moved through the birch forest, thoughtlessly depriving it of thick grasses and flowers, and sang without noticing it themselves. And we stood and listened to them, feeling that we would never forget this early evening hour and would never understand, and most importantly, not fully express what the wonderful charm of their singing was.
Its charm was in the responses, in the sonority of the birch forest. Its beauty was that it was in no way on its own: it was connected with everything that we and they, these Ryazan mowers, saw and felt. The beauty was in that unconscious, but blood relationship that was between them and us - and between them, us and this grain-bearing field that surrounded us, this field air that they and we breathed since childhood, this late afternoon, these clouds in the already pinkish west, with this fresh, young forest, full of waist-deep honey herbs, countless wild flowers and berries, which they constantly picked and ate, and this big road, its spaciousness and reserved distance. The beauty was that we were all children of our homeland and were all together and we all felt good, calm and loving without a clear understanding of our feelings, because we don’t need them, we shouldn’t understand them when they exist. And there was also a charm (already completely unconscious to us then) that this homeland, this common home of ours was Russia, and that only its soul could sing the way the mowers sang in this birch forest responding to their every breath.
The beauty was that it was as if there was no singing at all, but just sighs, the rise of a young, healthy, melodious chest. One breast sang, as songs were once sung only in Russia and with that spontaneity, with that incomparable ease, naturalness that was characteristic of the song only to the Russian. It was felt that the man was so fresh, strong, so naive in ignorance of his strengths and talents and so full of song that he only needed to sigh lightly for the whole forest to respond to that kind and affectionate, and sometimes daring and powerful sonority with which these sighs filled him . They moved, without the slightest effort, throwing scythes around them, exposing clearings in wide semicircles in front of them, mowing, knocking out the area of ​​stumps and bushes and sighing without the slightest effort, each in their own way, but in general expressing one thing, doing on a whim something unified, completely integral , extraordinarily beautiful. And beautiful with a very special, purely Russian beauty were those feelings that they told with their sighs and half-words along with the responding distance, the depth of the forest.
Of course, they “said goodbye, parted” with their “darling side” and with their happiness, and with hopes, and with the one with whom this happiness was united:

Forgive me, goodbye, dear friend,
And darling, oh yes, the side forgave! -

They each spoke and sighed differently, with varying degrees of sadness and love, but with the same carefree, hopeless reproach.

Forgive me, goodbye, my dear, unfaithful one,
Has my heart become blacker than dirt for you? -

They spoke, complaining and yearning in different ways, emphasizing the words in different ways, and suddenly they all merged at once in a completely harmonious feeling of almost delight in the face of their death, youthful audacity in the face of fate and some kind of extraordinary, all-forgiving generosity - as if they were shaking their heads and they threw it all over the forest:

If you don’t love, aren’t nice, God is with you,
If you find something better, you’ll forget! -

And all over the forest it responded to the friendly strength, freedom and chesty sonority of their voices, froze and again, loudly thundering, picked up:

Oh, if you find something better, you’ll forget,
If you find something worse, you will regret it!

What else was the charm of this song, its inescapable joy despite all its seemingly hopelessness? The fact is that man still did not believe and could not believe, due to his strength and innocence, in this hopelessness. - “Oh, yes, all the paths are reserved for me, young man!” - he said, sweetly mourning himself. But I'm not crying! Those who really have no way or road anywhere sing sweetly and do not sing of their sorrows. - “Forgive me, goodbye, my dear little side!” - the man said - and knew that, after all, there was no real separation for him from her, from his homeland, that wherever his fate took him, his native sky would still be above him, and around him - the boundless native Rus', disastrous for him, spoiled, perhaps only with its freedom, space and fabulous wealth. - “The red sun set behind the dark forests, ah, all the birds fell silent, everyone sat down in their places!” “My happiness has ended,” he sighed, the dark night with its wilderness surrounds me, “and yet I felt: he is so close to this wilderness, alive for him, virgin and filled with magical powers, that everywhere he has shelter, lodging for the night, there is someone’s intercession, someone’s kind care, 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 troubles, according to his faith, birds and forest animals, beautiful and wise princesses, and even Baba Yaga herself, who pitied him “because of his youth,” helped him out. There were flying carpets for him, invisible hats, milk rivers flowed, semi-precious treasures were hidden, the springs of ever-living water flowed from all mortal spells, he knew prayers and spells, miraculous, again according to his faith, he flew out of prisons, throwing himself off like a clear falcon , hitting the damp Mother Earth, dense jungles, black swamps, flying sands defended him from dashing neighbors and enemies - and the merciful God forgave him for all the daring whistles, sharp, hot knives...
One more thing, I say, was 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 for us too: our ancient intercessors abandoned us, the prowling animals fled, the prophetic birds scattered, self-assembled tablecloths curled up, prayers and spells were desecrated, Mother Cheese-Earth dried up, the life-giving springs dried up - and the end came, limit to God's forgiveness.

Paris, 1921

(1) Shoe covers - ankle boots.
(2) Gussets - insert strips.

Summary 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, “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 helped him out of all sorts of troubles. 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.

A great master of creating short prose works was Ivan Alekseevich Bunin. Readers are impressed by the main motives of his stories, their rare artistic subtlety, and unique techniques. One of the remarkable masterpieces is Bunin's story "Mowers". The analysis of the work presented in this material demonstrates the talent of the main writer of the Russian diaspora. After all, Ivan Alekseevich had to live far from his homeland.

While in exile, the writer dedicated his books to Russia, the Russian people. This also applies to Bunin's story "Mowers". We suggest that you familiarize yourself with a summary of this small work in our article. After reading the story, you will understand why Ivan Alekseevich was awarded the Nobel Prize for recreating the Russian character in prose.

Ivan Alekseevich lived in the Oryol province for a long time before emigrating and was a faithful son of Russia. When he was presented with the prize, he noted that the entire Russian people deserved it.

Bunin. "Mowers." Contents in summary

So, let's try to briefly retell Ivan Alekseevich's small masterpiece. We begin our retelling of Bunin’s “Mowers” ​​with the fact that at the edge of the forest, where young birch trees grow, the author and his companion see mowers at work. The writer notices their noble appearance, neatness and hard work. They enjoy what they do. This friendly company seems completely carefree.

Evening has approached, and the author again wants to meet the mowers. He sees them at mealtimes. They enjoy a dish made from fly agarics, which they find sweetish and reminiscent of chicken. The workers rested and decided to sing. It seemed that their sonorous voices filled the forest air with a special charm, a wondrous charm.

The song seemed sad, but they performed it with particular daring. At that moment the author realized that there is no hopelessness in life. Huge Rus' can help anyone and help anyone out. Until the night the mowers delighted with their songs. The writer enjoyed this moment and inhaled the fresh aromas of honey-like forest herbs, marveling at the harmonious interweaving of man and nature.

The end of the story is a little sad; the author nostalgically recalls the mowers and their singing. He felt happy next to these workers, and their songs gave him true joy. Bunin is sincerely sorry that he cannot return more of those fabulous moments.

Plot Features

Ivan Alekseevich himself claimed that he wrote about beauty in all its forms; he conveyed part of his soul in the description of Russian nature in I. Bunin’s work “Mowers”. The analysis of the story must begin with the features of the plot. Like many other short works of the writer, the story "Mowers" does not have specific plot lines. This is a kind of memory of how he met Ryazan mowers in the field, who sang incredibly beautifully.

The story deeply and heartfeltly conveys the feelings that overwhelmed the writer while they were singing. Even then the narrator understood that he would never forget that early evening hour. The author is surprised how deep the Russian soul is, that even he does not understand all the subtleties of the songs of rural workers.

Compositional and genre originality

There is no clearly defined composition in the story "Mowers". It is worth noting that individual characters do not stand out here either. There is only a separate image of mowers. The author's feelings and thoughts come to the fore in the work.

In his reflections, the writer compares these workers with something enchanting, merged into a single team, sees that their singing is very harmoniously woven into the life of nature, but they don’t even think about it. While singing, the author feels like a part of this people. Their song and the surrounding nature are inseparable from their homeland, Russia.

What genre does this work belong to? Perhaps this is a kind of prose poem, where the writer reflects on the Russian people. After all, Bunin so needed spiritual unity with Russia abroad. It can also be called a poetic sketch, a lyrical essay. The story is full of epithets, metaphors, comparisons.

Nature in Bunin's story "Mowers"

By describing Russian nature in the work, Ivan Alekseevich showed how subtly he felt it. His birch forest seems to respond to the song of the mowers. The author describes the old road, which is overgrown with curly ant, and argues that his grandfathers and great-grandfathers walked along this road so many times. During the day, beautiful light clouds floated across the sky, and in the evening the sky began to turn golden.

Workers feel great in the bosom of this nature. The reader just wants to share the delight and joy conveyed by the author in his description of the area and the process of haymaking. Immediately before my eyes, the paintings of A. A. Plastov “Haymaking” and G. G. Myasoedov “Time of Passion. Mowers” ​​pop up. They can even be called illustrations to Bunin’s story.

The author depicts the kinship of strong workers with nature. These people are not burdened by such hard work. They sing a song that merges with the birch forest. The trees respond to the wondrous singing. The color scheme in the work is also very rich: gray, golden, blue, red, pink, black, red. A feature of this and other stories is repetition, which is why it looks like a prose poem. The word "lovely" is repeated several times. It refers to the nature and song of mowers.

Workers in the story

The mowers not only worked, but also sang. It seemed like they didn't even make much effort at work. The workers waved their scythes around them, and they exposed entire clearings. The writer portrays not the locals, but the Ryazan mowers, who came from another region of Russia, but are distinguished by their cohesion. A special desire for work was noticeable in their movements.

And the author was happy to watch their coordinated work. They let out their braids widely, as if playing. They walked exactly one after another, mowing down stumps and bushes. Even in the sighs of these workers, the writer saw Russian beauty. In this prose poem, Bunin glorifies the work of mowers.

Meaning of folk song

In his work “Mowers,” Ivan Bunin subtly describes the song of field workers, glorifying their homeland, happiness, and hope. Some lines are dedicated to the girl he loves, to unhappy love. The beauty of mowers’ singing is in the sonority responses. They are children of their land, so such a spiritual impulse is characteristic only of them.

Bunin compares the singing of mowers to the singing of the soul. He doesn't even find words to express the beauty of this song. It has a connection with the entire world around it. These naive people, who did not know their strengths and talents, sang so much that even the forest responded to their sounds. They sounded joyful and hopeless at the same time. One of the mowers mourned himself: “Oh, all the paths for me, good fellow, are closed.” Can those who have nowhere to go and roads are closed everywhere sing and mourn so sweetly? These people don't believe in hopelessness. The most important thing in that song is that you cannot return past happy days.

The image of the Motherland in the work

While in exile, Bunin turns to the past and shows it transformed. The writer is drawn to his compatriots, he loves Russia. Therefore, in Bunin's story "Mowers" the Motherland is shown as immeasurable and distant. The writer depicted the Ryazan peasants, their inspired work, a soul-touching song during haymaking on Oryol land. Thus, the author recalls those times when he felt good and calm in his homeland.

It is on Russian material that the works of Ivan Alekseevich’s emigrant period are built. In a foreign land, the writer constantly remembered his native land, its fields, villages, peasants and nobles, and nature. Ivan Bunin knew both the Russian peasant and the Russian nobleman very well. The West is alien to the writer; he could not write about it. Bunin's works were filled with the classical traditions of Russian literature. Also, the master of words did not ignore love, life, the future of the whole world.

The writer calls the Oryol land described in the story “my native side.” And he calls Russia not just the Motherland, but a common home. In the words “boundless native Rus'” he expresses his love for her. He is connected by blood to the unsightly Russian hinterland. The writer claims that no matter where fate takes a person, he will always have his native sky before his eyes.

Sad ending

At the end of the story, readers see a sad memory of the mowers and their song. Once upon a time he too was happy in the Russian expanses. But those days are gone. This makes the author very sad. He would like to return to bygone times. But, unfortunately, he left his homeland due to political views and fear of persecution.

Like the writer’s other works, “Mowers” ​​is filled with anxiety for the fate of Russia. Bunin proves that he is a true analyst of the life of the Russian people, their character, language, traditions. At the end of the story, the writer says that the fairy tale has already passed for the Russian people, God’s mercy has passed.

Idea

The story "Mowers" is called a poetic sketch, which is accompanied by the author's reflection on the fate of Russia. One day, while traveling on a ship, Bunin heard the song of the porters. This was the reason for writing this poem in prose. The writer talks about the Russian people, about the spiritual unity of people with their country. The main thing that Ivan Alekseevich wanted to show: listening to the song of the mowers, everyone feels like one whole - Russia. Everyone should feel their land and be proud of it. After all, the mowers sang as easily and naturally as only a Russian can.