Of course, first and foremost, they were worried about the weather. Fyodor Dostoevsky, author of ‘Crime and Punishment’, wrote to his brother while in the Peter and Paul Fortress (he spent eight months there as a member of the circle of the Petrashevists): “Now the difficult fall months are approaching and with them my hypochondria. Now, the sky is already frowning and the bright patch of sky visible from my case mate is a guarantee of my health and good mood. But, still, for now, I am still alive and well. And this is a fact for me. And so please do not think anything particularly bad about me. For now, everything is fine regarding health. I expected much worse and now I see that I have so much vitality stored up in me that you can’t exhaust it.”
Anton Chekhov solved the problem with the weather simply – he went abroad, for example, to Nice. “It’s warm here; even in the evenings, it doesn’t feel like fall. The sea is gentle, touching. The Promenade des Anglais is all overgrown with greenery and shines in the sun; in the mornings, I sit in the shade and read the newspaper. I walk a lot,” he wrote to publisher Alexei Suvorin.
“What kind of weather do we have! I’ve been walking and riding for three days now. I’ll waste my fall like this and if God doesn’t send us a decent frost, I’ll return to you without having done anything,” Alexander Pushkin wrote to his wife from the Mikhailovskoe Estate.
Ivan Bunin watched as the bright green of summer changed into fall’s golden colors. “A rather strong and cool wind. The garden hisses and boils. Almost the entire sky is in a slate haze, cloudiness. It is lighter where the sun is. Even more yellow, blushing, red-orange peaks. There were clouds and wind. The night was amazingly clear, the moon was unusually clear, not a single cloud in the sky, so much did the sharp wind tear through everything."
And Mikhail Bulgakov complained about the neighbors: "Today, they flooded [the radiators with hot water] for the first time. I spent the whole evening sealing the windows [to prevent the heat from escaping]. The first heating was marked by the fact that the famous Annushka left the kitchen window wide open overnight! I positively do not know what to do with the bastard who inhabits this apartment."
When finances were tight, Chekhov would go to Crimea instead of France. True, fall was cooler there. "Fall is beginning in Yalta. It rained in the morning and, now, in the evening, a fierce wind is blowing, from which you can’t hide. Please buy me (from Myur, perhaps) a softer and more expensive hood and send it. Also, take my warm plush vest and give it to the tailor so that he can trim it with braid and generally mend it, then send it to me in a parcel. Here, with the bad stoves, you can’t live without a vest; you shiver like a son of a bitch,” the writer complained to his sister Maria Pavlovna.
Dostoevsky was not delighted with the damp Petersburg fall: “Winters in Petersburg are cold and falls are very damp and unhealthy. From which it follows that it is obvious that you can’t go without a coat, otherwise you can stretch your legs. Of course, there is a very noble proverb about this - ‘the road leads that way’! But, this proverb is used only in extreme cases and I have not reached the extreme.”
Ivan Bunin was not embarrassed by the fall cold. “It’s six o’clock in the evening. I was just leaving. How wonderful. My fall coat fits perfectly. A pleasant chill runs down my arms. What happiness to breathe in this sweet cool wind that has been blowing steadily from the south for many days now, to walk on dry ground, to look at the garden, at the tree that still has brownish foliage, blushing either from the dawn (although the dawn is almost colorless), or from its own color."
"My God, how beautiful fall is… Not when it’s dirty and wet, but when the sky is completely transparent and calm… There is something about a fine fall day that reminds me of Louis XIV in old age… You will laugh at my comparison. Well, so much the better!" exclaimed Ivan Turgenev, author of ‘A Nobleman's nest’.
Chekhov, meanwhile, confessed his love for this time of year: "It smells like fall. And I love Russian fall. Something unusually sad, welcoming and beautiful. I would just fly away somewhere with the cranes. Once, as a child, I would catch songbirds in the fall and sell them at the market. What a pleasure it was! It’s better than selling books.”
Leo Tolstoy found grounds for philosophical reflection even in the changing seasons. “I went for a walk. A wonderful fall morning, quiet, warm, green, the smell of leaves. And people, instead of this wonderful nature, with fields, forests, water, birds, animals, arrange for themselves in the cities another, artificial nature, with factory chimneys, palaces, steam engines, phonographs… It's terrible and there's no way to fix it…”
Konstantin Paustovsky also admired the beauty of fall’s nature. “Everything turns yellow - the Pozhalostipsky garden, the willows, grass, seaweed and even the eyes of the thieving cats exude a special autumn yellowness. Fall has entered Solotcha and, it seems, firmly. Everything is in cobwebs and sunshine. There is a calm, such as was not even in the summer - the floats stand as if enchanted - and the finest bite is visible. I decided to go to the Black Lake as soon as my leg heals. I write, read and indulge in sometimes sad, sometimes happy thoughts, depending on the winds. The nights are already long and thickly sprinkled with stars - it's a pity that you don't see the fall here, perhaps it's the best time. ‘And every fall I blossom again’."
For some, the most romantic time was spring, but someone believed that fall awakens true passion in the heart. "Even in fall, I seemed to be waiting for something, the blood was wandering in me and my heart ached so sweetly and even, at times, I cried, not knowing why; but even through the tears and sadness, inspired by the beauty of nature or poetry, a joyful, bright feeling of youth boiled in me, like young grass in the spring. I will certainly fall in love, I thought," Bunin admitted.
Turgenev also greeted fall in anticipation of romantic feelings. “I wrote to Skachkov that there was a smell of gunpowder in the air. This is nonsense, this is an unfortunate political witticism; for me, there is a smell of love in the air. It is a very, very fateful time for me; I am such an oddball: for others it is spring, but, for me, it is the quiet sadness of nature, this pale blue sky, a layer of yellow leaves along long alleys, naked, dark-brown branches, the cry of tits, all the charm of fall irresistibly falls on my soul and I languish, ready to fall in love.”
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