Turgenev Ivan Sergeevich. Chertophanov and Nedolyuskin
Let's consider in the article the most popular stories, which are often called essays, and which most clearly characterize the entire cycle of "Hunter's Notes".
Comparing the two provinces, Kaluga and Oryol, the author comes to the conclusion that they differ not only in the beauty of nature and the variety of animals that can be hunted, but also in people, their appearance, character, and thoughts. Acquaintance with the landowner Polutykin, who invited the hunter to stay in his possessions for joint hunting, led the author to the house of the peasant Khor. It is there that a meeting takes place with two such different people as Khor and Kalinich.
Khor is a prosperous, stern, round-shouldered man. He lives in a strong aspen house in the swamps. Many years ago, his father's house burned down and he begged the landlord for the opportunity to live further away, in the swamps. At the same time, they agreed to pay dues. Since then, the large and strong Khory family has been living there.
Kalinich is a cheerful, tall, smiling, light-tempered, unambitious person. Trades on weekends and holidays. Without him, a little strange, but a passionate hunter, the landowner Polutykin never went hunting. Throughout his life, Kalinich never built a home for himself, did not start a family.
Being so different, Khor and Kalinich are bosom friends. The author with amazing accuracy, to the smallest detail, draws all the features of their characters. They enjoy spending time together. During the three days spent at Khory's, the hunter managed to get used to them and left them reluctantly.
After spending the day in a birch grove, the heroes decided to spend the night at the mill. The hosts allowed to sit in the hayloft, under a canopy on the street. In the middle of the night, the author woke up from a quiet whisper. Listening, I realized that the miller's wife Arina was telling Yermolai about her life. She was a maid with Countess Zverkova, who was distinguished by a cruel character and a special requirement that her maids be unmarried. After serving 10 years, Arina began to ask to be let go to marry Peter, a lackey. The girl was refused. And after a while it turned out that Arina was pregnant. For which the girl was cut, exiled to the village and passed off as a miller. Her child died. Peter was sent to the army.
On a beautiful August day, hunting took place near the Ista River. The tired and exhausted hunter decided to rest in the shade of the trees not far from the spring with the beautiful name Raspberry Water. The story is about the fate of three men.
Stepushka, a man who appeared out of nowhere, whom no one asked about anything, and he himself prefers to remain silent. He lived with Mitrofan, a gardener, helping him with the housework, receiving only food in return.
Mikhailo Savelievich, nicknamed the Fog, was a freedman and for a long time served as a butler to a ruined count in an inn; vividly and colorfully described the Fog feasts that the count threw.
The peasant Vlas, who appeared in the midst of the conversation, said that he had gone to Moscow to the master, asking him to reduce the amount of dues; earlier, the quitrent was paid by the son of Vlas, who had recently died, at which the master became angry and drove the poor fellow out.
And what to do now, the peasant did not know, because there was nothing to take from him. After a pause for half an hour, the companions parted ways.
The story was compiled from the words of a county doctor, who told how many years ago he was called to the patient, who lived in the family of a poor widow, far enough from the city. The doctor saw that despite her illness, the girl was very beautiful. At night he could not sleep and spent most of the time at the sick bed.
Having experienced a disposition towards the girl's family, whose members, although they were not rich, were well-read and educated, the doctor decided to stay. The patient's mother and sisters accepted this with gratitude, as they saw that Alexandra believed the doctor and carried out all his instructions. But every day the girl was getting worse, and the roads broken by bad weather did not receive medicines in a timely manner.
Before her death, Alexandra opened up to the doctor, confessed her love to him and announced her engagement to her mother. They spent the last three nights together, after which the girl died. Later, the doctor married the daughter of a wealthy merchant, but she turned out to be lazy and angry.
My neighbor Radilov
Once, while hunting in one of the neglected gardens of the Oryol province, the author and Yermolai met the landowner Radilov, who invited them to dinner. At the table were present: the mother of the landowner, a little sad old woman, Fyodor Mikheich, who was ruined, took root, and the sister of Radilov's late wife, Olga. During dinner, casual conversation was carried on, but it was noticeable that the landowner and his sister-in-law were watching each other.
Visiting Radilov a week later, the hunter learned that the landowner and Olga had left, leaving the old mother alone and sad.
Ovsyannikov Odnodvorets
The author met the elderly nobleman Ovsyannikov from the landowner Radilov. At 70, Ovsyannikov has earned a reputation as an intelligent, educated and worthy person. Conversations with him were profound. Especially to the liking of the author were the arguments of the one-palace regarding the comparison of modern mores and the foundations of Catherine's times. At the same time, the sides of the conversation never came to an unequivocal conclusion. Previously, there was more lack of rights of the weaker before the prosperous and strong, however, life was quieter and calmer.
Modern ideas of humanism and equality, promoted by "advanced people", such as Ovsyannikov's nephew Mitya, frighten and confuse the elderly nobleman, since there are a lot of empty talks, and no one takes concrete actions.
Once the author was offered duck hunting on the lake, near the large village of Lgov. Hunting on the overgrown lake was rich, but it became difficult to get prey. So it was decided to take a boat. During the hunt, the author meets two interesting people:
A freedman, named Vladimir, was distinguished by literacy, erudition, he had previously served as a valet and even studied music;
An elderly peasant, Suchok, who has changed many owners and jobs in his long life.
While working, Bitch's leaky boat begins to sink. Only in the evening, tired hunters manage to get out of the lake.
Bezhin meadow
While hunting black grouse in the Tula province, the author got a little lost. With the onset of night, he went out to the meadow, the people called Bezhin. Here the hunter meets a group of peasant boys who were tending horses. Having settled down by the fire, the children start talking about all the evil spirits that were found in the district.
Children's stories were about a brownie who allegedly settled in a local factory; the mysterious mermaid, who invited the carpenter Gavrila to her; about a talking white lamb living on the grave of a drowned man, who was seen by the kennel Yermila, and much more. Everyone tried to tell something unusual and mysterious. The conversation about evil spirits lasted almost until dawn.
Kasyan with beautiful swords
Returning from the hunt, the coachman and the author meet the funeral procession. Realizing that this was a bad sign, the coachman hurried to overtake the procession, however, the axle of the cart broke. In search of a new axis, the author goes to Yudina settlements, where he meets the dwarf Kasyan, a migrant from Krasivaya Mechi, who was considered by the people to be a holy fool, but often turned to him for herbal treatment. He lived with an adopted girl, Alyonushka, and loved nature.
The axis was replaced, the hunt continued, but to no avail. As Kasyan explained, it was he who led the animals away from the hunter.
Burmister
The next morning they decided together to go to Shipilovka, which was not far from Ryabovo, where the author was supposed to hunt. There the landowner proudly showed the estate, house and surroundings. Until the mayor Safron arrived, who began to complain about the increase in requisitions, a small amount of land.
Output
The main idea of the entire collection of "Notes of a Hunter" is the desire to show the life of different strata of society, its culture, aspirations, morality, and high humanity. The stories give a complete picture of the life of the landlords and their peasants, which makes Turgenev's works not only literary, but also historical masterpieces.
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The Russian people are original, not everyone understands traditions and beliefs, but there is an understanding that each people has its own characteristics. And when you learn more about them, you begin to love your homeland even more. Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev in the book "Notes of a Hunter" perfectly displayed the Russian people with their unique soul and characteristics. The writer spent the summer and autumn of 1846 in the Oryol province, where he often went hunting and talked a lot with people. He wrote little then, but he learned a lot of interesting and curious things, which he later told about in the “Notes of a Hunter”.
Each of the stories is beautiful in its own way, has its own value. They are different in plot, they show different characters with their life problems, stories, destinies. And at the same time, they have a common depth, there is an understanding of how wise a person can be, how well he feels the world around him, nature.
The writer shows how ordinary people live: serfs, courtyards and small landowners. They also know love, loss, compassion, the desire to be happy, and self-sacrifice. Listening to the story of each of them, you feel sympathy, you feel a special atmosphere.
Turgenev writes a lot about nature, which he sincerely loves, noticing the slightest changes. The unity of man and nature is especially noticeable when people feel changes and see signs in them. Reading, it is as if you are transported to another wonderful world and study it carefully and with curiosity, feeling how your soul becomes warmer.
On our website you can download the book "Notes of a Hunter" Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev for free and without registration in fb2, pdf, epub, txt format, read the book online or buy a book in an online store.
Anyone who happened to move from the Bolkhovsky district to Zhizdrinsky was probably struck by the sharp difference between the breed of people in the Oryol province and the Kaluga breed. The Oryol muzhik is small in stature, round-shouldered, gloomy, looks frowningly, lives in wretched aspen huts, goes to corvee, does not engage in trade, eats poorly, wears bast shoes; The Kaluga quitrent peasant lives in spacious pine huts, is tall, looks bold and cheerful, has a clean and white face, sells oil and tar, and wears boots on holidays. The Oryol village (we are talking about the eastern part of the Oryol province) is usually located among plowed fields, near a ravine, somehow turned into a dirty pond. Except for a few willows, always ready for service, and two or three skinny birches, you won’t see a tree for a mile around; The hut is molded to the hut, the roofs are thrown over with rotten straw ... The Kaluga village, on the contrary, is mostly surrounded by forest; the huts stand freer and straighter, covered with boards; the gates are tightly locked, the wattle fence in the backyard is not swept away and does not fall out, it does not invite any passing pig to visit ... And it is better for a hunter in the Kaluga province. In the Oryol province, the last forests and squares will disappear in five years, and there are no swamps at all; in Kaluga, on the contrary, the notches stretch for hundreds, swamps for tens of miles, and the noble bird of the black grouse has not yet died out, there is a good-natured great snipe, and the bustling partridge amuses and frightens the shooter and the dog with its impetuous rise.
As a hunter, while visiting the Zhizdrinsky district, I met in the field and made the acquaintance of one Kaluga small landowner, Polutykin, a passionate hunter and, therefore, an excellent person. True, there were some weaknesses behind him: for example, he wooed all the rich brides in the province and, having been refused by the hand and from the house, with a contrite heart he trusted his grief to all friends and acquaintances, and continued to send sour peaches as a gift to the parents of the brides. and other raw produce of his garden; he liked to repeat the same anecdote, which, despite Mr. Polutykin's respect for his merits, definitely never made anyone laugh; praised the works of Akim Nakhimov and the story Pinnu; stuttered; called his dog Astronomer; instead of but said alone and started French cuisine in his house, the secret of which, according to the concepts of his cook, consisted in a complete change in the natural taste of each dish: the meat of this artisan was reminiscent of fish, fish - mushrooms, pasta - gunpowder; but not a single carrot fell into the soup without taking the form of a rhombus or a trapezoid. But, with the exception of these few and insignificant shortcomings, Mr. Polutykin was, as has already been said, an excellent person.
On the very first day of my acquaintance with Mr. Polutykin, he invited me to spend the night at his place.
“It will be five versts to me,” he added, “it’s a long way to go on foot; Let's go to Khory first. (The reader will allow me not to convey his stutter.)
- And who is Khor?
- And my man ... He's not far from here.
We went to him. In the middle of the forest, on a cleared and developed clearing, the lonely estate of Khorya towered. It consisted of several pine log cabins connected by fences; in front of the main hut stretched a canopy supported by thin posts. We entered. We were met by a young guy, about twenty, tall and handsome.
- Oh, Fedya! Home Khor? Mr. Polutykin asked him.
“No, Khor has gone to the city,” answered the guy, smiling and showing a row of snow-white teeth. - Will you order to lay the cart?
- Yes, brother, a cart. Yes, bring us kvass.
We entered the hut. Not a single Suzdal painting covered clean log walls; in the corner, in front of a heavy image in a silver setting, a lamp was glowing; the lime table had recently been scraped and washed; frisky Prussians did not wander between the logs and along the jambs of windows, and thoughtful cockroaches did not hide. The young lad soon appeared with a large white mug filled with good kvass, a huge slice of wheat bread, and a dozen pickles in a wooden bowl. He put all these supplies on the table, leaned against the door and began to look at us with a smile. Before we had finished our snack, the cart was already rattling in front of the porch. We went out. A boy of about fifteen, curly-haired and ruddy-cheeked, sat as a coachman and with difficulty kept a well-fed piebald stallion. Around the cart stood about six young giants, very similar to each other and to Fedya. "All the children of Khory!" Polutykin remarked. “All the Khorkas,” Fedya picked up, who followed us onto the porch, “and not all of them: Potap is in the forest, and Sidor left with old Khor for the city ... Look, Vasya,” he continued, turning to the coachman, “in spirit somchi: you are taking the gentleman. Only at the jolts, look, be quieter: you’ll ruin the cart, and you’ll disturb the master’s belly! The rest of the Ferrets chuckled at Fedya's antics. "Help the Astronomer!" Mr. Polutykin solemnly exclaimed. Fedya, not without pleasure, lifted the forced smiling dog into the air and laid it at the bottom of the cart. Vasya gave the reins to the horse. We rolled. “But this is my office,” Mr. Polutykin suddenly said to me, pointing to a small low house, “do you want to come in?” - "Excuse me." “It has now been abolished,” he remarked, getting down, “but everything is worth seeing.” The office consisted of two empty rooms. The watchman, a crooked old man, came running from the backyard. “Hello, Minyaich,” said Mr. Polutykin, “but where is the water?” The crooked old man disappeared and immediately returned with a bottle of water and two glasses. “Taste,” Polutykin told me, “I have good, spring water.” We drank a glass, and the old man bowed to us from the waist. “Well, now it seems we can go,” my new friend remarked. “In this office, I sold four acres of timber to the merchant Alliluyev at a bargain price.” We got into the cart and in half an hour we were already driving into the yard of the manor's house.
I have a neighbor, a young master and a young hunter. One beautiful July morning, I rode up to him with a proposal to go together on black grouse. He agreed. “Only,” he says, “let's go on my little things, to Zusha; By the way, I'll take a look at Chaplygino; you know my oak forest? I have it cut down." - "Let's go." He ordered the horse to be saddled, put on a green frock coat with bronze buttons depicting boars' heads, a game bag embroidered with garus, a silver flask, threw a brand new French gun over his shoulder, turned around in front of the mirror not without pleasure and called his dog Esperance, presented to him by his cousin, an old maid with excellent heart but no hair. We went. My neighbor took with him the tenth Arkhip, a fat and squat peasant with a square face and antediluvianly developed cheekbones, and a recently hired steward from the Baltic provinces, a youth of about nineteen, thin, blond, blind-sighted, with drooping shoulders and a long neck, Mr. Gottlieb von der Koka. My neighbor has recently taken over the estate himself. He inherited it from his aunt, state councilor Karda-Katayeva, an unusually fat woman who, even lying in bed, groaned for a long time. We entered the "little things". “Wait for me here in the clearing,” said Ardalion Mikhailych (my neighbor), turning to his companions. The German bowed, got off his horse, took out a book from his pocket, I think it was a novel by Johanna Schopenhauer, and sat down under a bush; Arkhip remained in the sun and did not move for an hour. We circled the bushes and did not find a single brood. Ardalion Mikhailovich announced that he intended to go to the forest. On that day, I myself could not believe in the success of the hunt: I also trudged along after him. We returned to the meadow. The German noticed the page, got up, put the book in his pocket, and sat down, not without difficulty, on his short, defective mare, who squealed and bucked at the slightest touch; Arkhip started up, twitched both reins at once, dangled his legs, and finally moved his stunned and crushed horse from its place. We went.
The forest of Ardalion Mikhailovich was familiar to me from childhood. Together with my French tutor, Mr. Désiré Fleury, a kindest man (who, incidentally, almost ruined my health forever by forcing me to drink Leroy's medicine in the evenings), I often went to Chaplygino. This entire forest consisted of some two or three hundred huge oaks and ash trees. Their stately, mighty trunks splendidly blackened against the golden-transparent green of hazels and mountain ash; rising higher, they were drawn harmoniously on the clear azure, and there they already spread their wide knotted branches like a tent; hawks, red-footed falcons, kestrels whistled over the motionless tops, motley woodpeckers thumped hard on the thick bark; the sonorous melody of the blackbird suddenly resounded through the dense foliage following the iridescent cry of the oriole; below, in the bushes, robins, siskins, and warblers chirped and sang; finches ran nimbly along the paths; the hare crept along the edge of the forest, cautiously "crutching"; a red-brown squirrel jumped briskly from tree to tree and suddenly sat down, raising its tail above its head. In the grass, near tall anthills, under the light shade of carved beautiful fern leaves, violets and lilies of the valley bloomed; on the lawns, among the broad bushes, there were red strawberries... And what a shade there was in the forest! In the very heat, at noon, the night is real: silence, smell, freshness ... I spent my time in Chaplygin merrily, and therefore, I confess, I now drove into the forest that was too familiar to me, not without a sad feeling.
Anyone who happened to move from the Bolkhovsky district to Zhizdrinsky was probably struck by the sharp difference between the breed of people in the Oryol province and the Kaluga breed. The Oryol muzhik is small in stature, round-shouldered, gloomy, looks frowningly, lives in wretched aspen huts, goes to corvee, does not engage in trade, eats poorly, wears bast shoes; The Kaluga quitrent peasant lives in spacious pine huts, is tall, looks bold and cheerful, has a clean and white face, sells oil and tar, and wears boots on holidays. The Oryol village (we are talking about the eastern part of the Oryol province) is usually located among plowed fields, near a ravine, somehow turned into a dirty pond. Except for a few willows, always ready for service, and two or three skinny birches, you won’t see a tree for a mile around; The hut is molded to the hut, the roofs are thrown over with rotten straw ... The Kaluga village, on the contrary, is mostly surrounded by forest; the huts stand freer and straighter, covered with boards; the gates are tightly locked, the wattle fence in the backyard is not swept away and does not fall out, it does not invite any passing pig to visit ... And it is better for a hunter in the Kaluga province. In the Oryol province, the last forests and squares will disappear in five years, and there are no swamps at all; in Kaluga, on the contrary, the notches stretch for hundreds, swamps for tens of miles, and the noble bird of the black grouse has not yet died out, there is a good-natured great snipe, and the bustling partridge amuses and frightens the shooter and the dog with its impetuous rise.
As a hunter, while visiting the Zhizdrinsky district, I met in the field and made the acquaintance of one Kaluga small landowner, Polutykin, a passionate hunter and, therefore, an excellent person. True, there were some weaknesses behind him: for example, he wooed all the rich brides in the province and, having been refused by the hand and from the house, with a contrite heart he trusted his grief to all friends and acquaintances, and continued to send sour peaches as a gift to the parents of the brides. and other raw produce of his garden; he liked to repeat the same anecdote, which, despite Mr. Polutykin's respect for his merits, definitely never made anyone laugh; praised the works of Akim Nakhimov and the story Pinnu; stuttered; called his dog Astronomer; instead of but said alone and started French cuisine in his house, the secret of which, according to the concepts of his cook, consisted in a complete change in the natural taste of each dish: the meat of this artisan was reminiscent of fish, fish - mushrooms, pasta - gunpowder; but not a single carrot fell into the soup without taking the form of a rhombus or a trapezoid. But, with the exception of these few and insignificant shortcomings, Mr. Polutykin was, as has already been said, an excellent person.
On the very first day of my acquaintance with Mr. Polutykin, he invited me to spend the night at his place.
“It will be five versts to me,” he added, “it’s a long way to go on foot; Let's go to Khory first. (The reader will allow me not to convey his stutter.)
- And who is Khor?
- And my man ... He's not far from here.
We went to him. In the middle of the forest, on a cleared and developed clearing, the lonely estate of Khorya towered. It consisted of several pine log cabins connected by fences; in front of the main hut stretched a canopy supported by thin posts. We entered. We were met by a young guy, about twenty, tall and handsome.
- Oh, Fedya! Home Khor? Mr. Polutykin asked him.
“No, Khor has gone to the city,” answered the guy, smiling and showing a row of snow-white teeth. - Will you order to lay the cart?
- Yes, brother, a cart. Yes, bring us kvass.
We entered the hut. Not a single Suzdal painting covered clean log walls; in the corner, in front of a heavy image in a silver setting, a lamp was glowing; the lime table had recently been scraped and washed; frisky Prussians did not wander between the logs and along the jambs of windows, and thoughtful cockroaches did not hide. The young lad soon appeared with a large white mug filled with good kvass, a huge slice of wheat bread, and a dozen pickles in a wooden bowl. He put all these supplies on the table, leaned against the door and began to look at us with a smile. Before we had finished our snack, the cart was already rattling in front of the porch. We went out. A boy of about fifteen, curly-haired and ruddy-cheeked, sat as a coachman and with difficulty kept a well-fed piebald stallion. Around the cart stood about six young giants, very similar to each other and to Fedya. "All the children of Khory!" Polutykin remarked. “All the Khorkas,” Fedya picked up, who followed us onto the porch, “and not all of them: Potap is in the forest, and Sidor left with old Khor for the city ... Look, Vasya,” he continued, turning to the coachman, “in spirit somchi: you are taking the gentleman. Only at the jolts, look, be quieter: you’ll ruin the cart, and you’ll disturb the master’s belly! The rest of the Ferrets chuckled at Fedya's antics. "Help the Astronomer!" Mr. Polutykin solemnly exclaimed. Fedya, not without pleasure, lifted the forced smiling dog into the air and laid it at the bottom of the cart. Vasya gave the reins to the horse. We rolled. “But this is my office,” Mr. Polutykin suddenly said to me, pointing to a small low house, “do you want to come in?” - "Excuse me." “It has now been abolished,” he remarked, getting down, “but everything is worth seeing.” The office consisted of two empty rooms. The watchman, a crooked old man, came running from the backyard. “Hello, Minyaich,” said Mr. Polutykin, “but where is the water?” The crooked old man disappeared and immediately returned with a bottle of water and two glasses. “Taste,” Polutykin told me, “I have good, spring water.” We drank a glass, and the old man bowed to us from the waist. “Well, now it seems we can go,” my new friend remarked. “In this office, I sold four acres of timber to the merchant Alliluyev at a bargain price.” We got into the cart and in half an hour we were already driving into the yard of the manor's house.
“Tell me, please,” I asked Polutykin at dinner, “why do Khor live separately from your other peasants?”
- And here's why: he's a smart guy. About twenty-five years ago his hut burned down; so he came to my late father and said: they say, let me, Nikolai Kuzmich, settle in your forest in a swamp. I will pay you a good quitrent. “But why would you settle in a swamp?” - “Yes, it is; only you, father, Nikolai Kuzmich, don’t please use me for any work, but lay a quitrent, which you yourself know. - "Fifty rubles a year!" - "Excuse me." - “Yes, I have no arrears, look!” - "It is known, without arrears ..." So he settled in the swamp. Since then, Horem and nicknamed him.
- Well, did you get rich? I asked.
- He got rich. Now he pays me a hundred rubles dues, and I’ll probably put some more on it too. I told him more than once: “Pay off, Khor, hey, pay off!..” And he, the beast, assures me that there is nothing; money, they say, no ... Yes, no matter how it is! ..
The next day, immediately after tea, we again went hunting. Passing through the village, Mr. Polutykin ordered the coachman to stop at a low hut and loudly exclaimed: "Kalinich!" - "Now, father, now," a voice from the yard rang out, "I'm tying up the bast shoes." We went walking; behind the village a man of about forty, tall, thin, with a small head bent back, caught up with us. It was Kalinich. His good-natured swarthy face, in some places marked with rowans, I liked at first sight. Kalinich (as I found out later) went hunting with the master every day, carried his bag, sometimes a gun, noticed where the bird perched, got water, gathered strawberries, set up huts, ran after the droshky; without him, Mr. Polutykin could not take a step. Kalinich was a man of the most cheerful, meekest disposition, sang incessantly in an undertone, looked carelessly in all directions, spoke a little through his nose, smiling, screwed up his light blue eyes, and often took his thin, wedge-shaped beard with his hand. He walked slowly, but with large steps, slightly propped up by a long and thin stick. During the day, he spoke to me more than once, served me without servility, but watched the master as if he were a child. When the unbearable midday heat forced us to seek refuge, he led us to his apiary, in the very depths of the forest. Kalinich opened for us a hut, hung with bunches of dry fragrant herbs, laid us down on fresh hay, and he himself put a kind of bag with a net on his head, took a knife, a pot and a firebrand and went to the apiary to cut out a honeycomb for us. We washed down the transparent warm honey with spring water and fell asleep to the monotonous buzz of bees and the chatty babble of leaves.
