The cycle of stories "Notes of a Hunter" by Turgenev was published in 1847-1851 in the journal Sovremennik. The book was published as a separate edition in 1852. The protagonist of the collection, on whose behalf the narration is being conducted, is a young master, hunter Pyotr Petrovich, he travels to the nearest villages and retells his impressions of the life of Russian landowners, peasants, describes the picturesque nature.

main characters

Peter Petrovich (narrator)- young master, hunter, main character collection, from his face the narration is conducted. He travels to the nearest villages and retells his impressions about the life of Russian landowners, peasants, describes the picturesque nature.

Yermolai- a hunter, a "carefree and good-natured" man of 45 years old, who belonged to Pyotr Petrovich's neighbor - "a landowner of an old cut". He delivered black grouse and partridges to the master's kitchen, hunted with the narrator; He was married, but treated his wife rudely.

Khor and Kalinich

The narrator meets a hunter - a small Kaluga landowner Polutykin. On the way to Polutykin, they stop by the peasant of the landowner - Khory, who has been living with children for 25 years in a lonely estate in the forest. The next day, during the hunt, the narrator meets another peasant Polutykin and Khory's friend Kalinich. The narrator spends three days with the rationalist Khory, comparing him with the dreamy Kalinich. Kalinych kept an apiary, got along with animals, "stood closer to nature", while Khor - "to people, to society."

Yermolai and the miller's wife

The narrator went with the hunter Yermolai on a night hunt. Yermolai was a 45-year-old man who belonged to the narrator's neighbor - "a landowner of the old cut." A peasant delivered black grouse and partridges to the master's kitchen. Yermolai was married, but treated his wife rudely. The hunters decided to spend the night in the mill. When the men were sitting around the fire, the miller's wife Arina came to them. Yermolai called her to visit him, promising to expel his wife. The narrator in the miller's house recognized the girl whom the master had once taken away from the family and taken to St. Petersburg to serve him. Arina said that the miller bought her back.

raspberry water

On a hot day, while hunting, the narrator went down to the crimson water spring. Not far away, by the river, he saw two old men - Shumikhinsky Stepushka - a poor, rootless man, and Mikhail Savelyev, nicknamed Fog. The narrator met Stepushka at the gardener Mitrofan's. The narrator joined the men. The fog remembered his late count, who liked to organize holidays. The peasant Vlas, who approached them, said that he had gone to Moscow to the master to reduce the quitrent, but the master refused. You have to pay dues, but Vlas has nothing, but at home his hungry wife is waiting for him.

County doctor

One autumn, the narrator fell ill - a fever found him in a hotel in a county town. The doctor prescribed him medication. The men started talking. The doctor told how he treated a girl of about twenty, Alexandra Andreevna, from a fatal illness. The girl did not recover for a long time and during this time mutual sympathy arose between them. Before Alexandra died, she told her mother that they were engaged. After some time, the doctor married a merchant's daughter.

My neighbor Radilov

Somehow hunting with Yermolai for partridges, the narrator discovered an abandoned garden. Its owner turned out to be the landowner Radilov, a neighbor of the narrator. He invited the hunters to dine. The host introduced the guests to his mother, the former landowner Fyodor Mikheich, the sister of his late wife Olya. At dinner, the narrator could not in any way “discover passions” for something in a neighbor. Over tea, the host reminisced about his wife's funeral; how he lay in a Turkish hospital with a rotten fever. The narrator noted that any misfortune can be endured. A week later, the narrator learned that Radilov had gone somewhere with his sister-in-law, leaving his mother behind.

Ovsyannikov Odnodvorets

Luka Petrovich Ovsyannikov - full tall man 70 years old. He reminded the narrator of "Russian boyars of pre-Petrine times". He lived with his wife, did not pretend to be a nobleman or landowner. The narrator met him at Radilov's. During the conversation, Ovsyannikov recalled the past, the narrator's grandfather - how he took away a wedge of land from them; as he was in Moscow and saw the nobles there. Odnodvorets noted that now the nobles, although they have “learned all the sciences”, but “do not understand the affairs of the present”.

Lgov

Once Yermolai suggested that the narrator go to Lgov, a large steppe village on a swampy river. To help them joined the local hunter Vladimir, a freed yard man. He was literate, studied music, and expressed himself gracefully. After the boat, Vladimir went to Bitch, the master's fisherman. Suchok said that he managed to visit various gentlemen as a coachman, a cook, a coffee man, an actor, a Cossack, a gardener. The men went out to hunt ducks. The boat began to leak a little and at some point capsized. Yermolai found a ford and soon they were warming themselves in the hay shed.

Bezhin meadow

The narrator was returning from hunting in the evening and got lost in the twilight. Unexpectedly, he came to a "huge plain" called "Bezhin Meadow". Peasant children were sitting near two fires, guarding a herd of horses. The narrator joined them. The boys told stories about the brownie, the mermaid, the goblin, the late master, beliefs about parental Saturday, and other folk tales about "evil spirits". Pavlusha went to fetch water, and returning said that it seemed to him that the drowned man was calling him from under the water. In the same year, the boy was killed by falling from a horse.

Kasian with Beautiful Swords

The narrator and the coachman were driving from the hunt, they met a funeral train - they were burying Martin the carpenter. The narrator's cart broke down, they somehow got to the nearest settlements. Here the narrator met the holy fool Kasyan, "a dwarf of about fifty" nicknamed Bloch. Kasyan gave his cart, and then went hunting with the narrator.

Seeing that the narrator was shooting birds for fun, Bloch said that "it is a great sin to show blood to the light." Kasyan himself was engaged in catching nightingales, treated with herbs. The coachman said that Bloch had taken in the orphan Annushka.

Burmister

The narrator is staying with a young landowner, Arkady Pavlych Penochkin. Penochkin had a good education, was known as an enviable groom, with subjects he was "strict, but fair." However, the narrator visited him reluctantly. The men go to the village of Penochkin Shipilovka. Burmister Sofron Yakovlich was in charge of everything there. Things were going well in the village. However, the steward, without the knowledge of the landowner, traded in land, horses, mocked the peasants, and was the actual owner of the village.

Office

Fleeing from the rain, the narrator stopped in the nearest village, in the "main master's office". He was told that this is the estate of Mrs. Losnyakova Elena Nikolaevna, 7 people work in the office, and the lady herself manages everything. By chance, the narrator overheard the conversation - the merchants pay the chief clerk Nikolai Yeremeich before making a deal with the lady herself. Eremeich, in order to take revenge on the paramedic Pavsh for unsuccessful treatment, forbade Pavel's bride Tatyana to marry. After a while, the narrator learned that the lady had exiled Tatyana.

Biryuk

The narrator is caught in a strong thunderstorm in the forest. He decides to wait out the bad weather, but the local forester comes up and takes him to his house. The forester Foma, nicknamed Biryuk, lived with his twelve-year-old daughter in a small hut. The forester's wife ran away with the tradesman a long time ago, leaving him two children. When the rain stopped, Biryuk went to the sound of an ax and caught a thief cutting down the forest. The thief turned out to be poor. At first he asked to be released, and then he began to scold Biryuk, calling him a "beast". The narrator was going to protect the poor man, but Biryuk, although angry, let the thief go himself.

Two landowners

The narrator introduces readers to two landowners, whom he often hunted. “Retired Major General Vyacheslav Illarionovich Khvalynsky” - a man “in adulthood, at the very time”, kind, but cannot treat poor and non-official noblemen as his equal and a bad owner, reputed to be a miser; loves women very much, but is not married.

Mardariy Apollonych Stegunov is his complete opposite - "hospitable and joker", lives in the old way. The peasants, although the master punished them, believed that he was doing everything right and such a gentleman as theirs, "you will not find in the whole province."

Lebedyan

About five years ago, the narrator ended up in Lebedyan "at the very collapse of the fair." After dinner in a coffee house, I found the young prince N. with the retired lieutenant Khlopakov. Khlopakov knew how to live at the expense of rich friends.

The narrator went to watch the horses at the horse-dealer Sitnikov. He offered horses at too high a price, and when Prince N. arrived, he completely forgot about the narrator. The narrator went to the famous breeder Chernobay. The breeder praised his horses, but sold the narrator a "burnt and lame" horse, and then did not want to take it back.

Tatyana Borisovna and her nephew

Tatyana Borisovna is a woman of about 50, a free-thinking widow. She lives without a break in her small estate, she has little contact with other landowners. About 8 years ago, she sheltered the son of her late brother Andryusha, who loved to draw. The collegiate adviser Benevolensky, who was familiar to the woman and who “burned with a passion for art,” without understanding anything about it, took the talented boy to St. Petersburg. After the death of the patron, Andryusha returned to his aunt. He has completely changed, lives on his aunt's money, says that he is a talented artist, but is not going to St. Petersburg again.

Death

The narrator goes to the place of logging with his neighbor Ardalion Mikhailovich. One of the men was crushed to death by a tree. After what he saw, the narrator thought about the fact that the Russian peasant "dies, as if performing a rite: cold and simple." The narrator recalled how another of his neighbors "in the village burned a man in a barn." As in a village hospital, a peasant, having learned that he might die, went home to give the last orders about the housework. remembered last days his friend student Avenil Sorokoumov. He remembered how the landowner was dying and trying to pay the priest "for her waste."

singers

The narrator, fleeing the heat, enters the Prytynny tavern, which belonged to Nikolai Ivanovich. The narrator witnesses a competition in singing between "the best singer in the neighborhood" Yashka-Turk and a hawker. The hawker sang a dance song, those present sang along with him. Yashka performed a mournful, and "Russian, truthful, hot soul sounded and breathed in him." The narrator was in tears. Won the competition Yashka. The narrator, in order not to spoil the impression, left. Visitors to the tavern celebrated Yashka's victory until late at night.

Petr Petrovich Karataev

Five years ago, the narrator, staying at the post office, met the small-scale nobleman Pyotr Petrovich Karataev. He went to Moscow to serve and shared his story. The man fell in love with the serf Matryona and wanted to ransom her, but the lady refused. Karataev stole Matryona. But once, in order to "show off" Matryona went to the village of the lady and ran into the master's cart. They recognized the girl and wrote a complaint against Karataev. To pay off, he went into debt. Pitying Peter, Matryona herself returned to her master. A year later, the narrator met Karataev in Moscow in a billiard room. He sold the village and looked disappointed in life.

Date

The narrator fell asleep in a birch grove, hiding in the shade of the trees. When I woke up, I saw a young peasant girl Akulina sitting nearby. The "spoiled" valet of a wealthy gentleman, Viktor Alexandrych, came to her. The valet said that he was leaving tomorrow, so they would not see each other next year. The girl burst into tears, but Victor treated her indifferently. When the valet left, the narrator wanted to console the girl, but she ran away in fright.

Hamlet of Shchigrovsky district

During one of the trips, the narrator spent the night with the landowner and hunter Alexander Mikhailych G ***. The narrator could not sleep and the roommate told him his story. He was born in the Kursk province, then entered the university, joined the circle. At the age of 21, he left for Berlin, fell in love with the daughter of a professor he knew, but ran away. For two years he wandered around Europe, returned to his village. He married the daughter of a neighbor's widow. Having been widowed, he served in the provincial town. Now I realized that he was unoriginal and insignificant person. Instead of introducing himself, he told the narrator to call him "Hamlet of the Shchigrovsky district".

Chertophanov and Nedolyuskin

Returning from hunting, the narrator met two friends - Pantel Eremeich Chertopkhanov and Tikhon Ivanovich Nedolyuskin. Nedolyuskin lived with Chertop-hanov. Pantelei was known as a proud, bully, did not communicate with his fellow villagers.

Nedolyuskin's father, having served in the army, achieved the nobility and placed his son as an official in the office. After his death, the lazy and gentle Tikhon was both a majordomo, and a freeloader, and half a butler, half a jester.

The lady bequeathed the village to Nedolyuskin. The men became friends when Tchertop-hanov saved him from the bullying of the other heirs of the mistress.

End of Chertophanov

Chertopkhanov was abandoned by his beloved Masha two years ago. Only he survived this, as Nedolyuskin died. Tchertop-hanov sold the estate he inherited from a friend and ordered a beautiful statue for Nedolyuskin's grave. Once Tchertop-hanov saw how the peasants were beating a Jew. For saving the Jew gave him a horse, but Panteleimon promised to pay 250 rubles for it. Pateleimon got used to the horse, calling him Malek-Adel, but the animal was stolen. Tchertop-hanov spent a year wandering in search of a horse. He returned with a horse, but he was given arguments that it was not Malek-Adel. Panteleimon released the horse into the forest, but he returned. Then Chertop-hanov shot the animal, and then he drank for a whole week and died.

living relics

In rainy weather, Yermolai and the narrator stopped at the farmstead of the narrator's mother. In the morning, in the apiary, Lukerya, a woman of 28-29 years old, a former beauty who now looked like a mummy, called out to the narrator. About 6 - 7 years ago, she accidentally fell and after that she began to dry and wither away. The narrator offered to take her to the hospital, but the woman refused. Lukerya recounted her dreams to Pyotr Petrovich: in one she dreamed that "Christ himself" came out to meet her, calling her his bride; and in the other, her own death, which did not want to take her away.

From the farm tenant, the narrator learned that Lukerya is called "Living relics". A few weeks later the woman died.

knocking

The narrator with the peasant Filofey went to Tula for shot. On the way, the cart fell into the river - the conductor dozed off. After they got out of the water, the narrator fell asleep and woke up from the sound of the cart, the clatter of hooves. Felofey with the words: “Knocks!” , said they were robbers. Soon they were overtaken by drunken men, one of them ran up to the narrator's cart, asked for money to get drunk, and the company left. The narrator saw a cart of men in Tula near a tavern. After Yermolai said that on the night of their trip on the same road, a merchant was robbed and killed.

Forest and steppe

The narrator reflects that "hunting with a gun and a dog is beautiful in itself." Describes the beauty of nature at dawn, the view that opens before the hunter, as "it is gratifying to wander through the bushes at dawn." How gradually it becomes hot. Having descended to the bottom of the ravine, the hunter quenches his thirst with water from the source, and then rests in the shade of the trees. Suddenly, a thunderstorm begins, after which "it smells of strawberries and mushrooms." Evening comes, the sun sets, the hunter returns home. Both the forest and the steppe are good at any time of the year. "But it's time to end<…>in the spring it is easy to part, in the spring the happy ones are drawn into the distance ... ".

Conclusion

In the collection of short stories "Notes of a Hunter" Turgenev depicts ordinary Russian serfs, showing their high moral and moral qualities. The author exposes the moral impoverishment of Russian landowners, leading to the idea of ​​protest against serfdom. After the abolition of serfdom in Russia, Alexander II asked to be told to Turgenev that the essays played a big role in his decision to free the peasants.

We recommend that you read brief retelling"Notes of a hunter", and evaluate the cycle of stories by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev in full.

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Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

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'm being 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. der Koka. My neighbor has recently taken over the estate himself. He inherited it from his aunt, state councilor Kardon-Katayeva, an unusually fat woman who, even lying in bed, groaned for a long time and plaintively. 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 quiche 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. Desire Fleury, a kindest man (who, however, 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 it 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. The disastrous, snowless winter of 1940 did not spare my old friends - oaks and ash trees; withered, naked, in some places covered with consumptive greenery, they towered sadly above the young grove, which "replaced them without replacing them." Others, still overgrown with leaves below, as if with reproach and despair lifted up their lifeless, broken branches; in others, thick, dry, dead branches stuck out of the foliage, which was still rather dense, although not abundant, not excessive as before; with others, the bark has already fallen off; others finally fell down altogether and rotted like corpses on the ground. Who could have foreseen this - shadows, shadows could not be found anywhere in Chaplygin! What, I thought, looking at the dying trees: tea, are you ashamed and bitter? .. I remembered Koltsov:

Where did it go
The speech is high
Power proud,
Royal prowess?
Where is yours now
May be green?

How is it, Ardalion Mikhailovich, - I began, - why weren't these trees cut down the next year? After all, now they will not give a tenth share for them against the former.

He just shrugged.

They would have asked my aunt, but the merchants came, brought money, pestered.

Mein Gott! Mein Gott! von der Kok exclaimed at every step. - What a prank! what a prank!

What a prank? my neighbor remarked with a smile.

That ist how crazy, I wanted to save. (It is known that all the Germans, who have finally overcome our letter "people", surprisingly press on it.)

The oaks lying on the ground especially aroused his regret - and indeed: a different miller would have paid dearly for them. On the other hand, Arkhip the tenth kept calm, imperturbable and did not grieve at all; on the contrary, he even, not without pleasure, jumped over them and lashed them with a whip.

We were making our way to the felling site, when suddenly, following the noise of a fallen tree, there was a shout and talk, and after a few moments a young man, pale and disheveled, jumped out of the thicket to meet us.

What? where are you running? asked Ardalion Mikhailovich.

He stopped immediately.

Oh, father, Ardalion Mikhailovich, trouble! What?

Maxim, father, was hit by a tree.

How is it?.. Contractor Maxim?

Contractor, dad. We began to chop the ash tree, and he stood and looked ... He stood, stood, and go to the well for water: listen, I wanted to drink. Suddenly, the ash tree crackles right at him. We shout to him: run, run, run ... He would have to rush to the side, but he would take it straight and run ... he became timid, you know. The ash-tree covered it with its upper branches. And why did it fall down so soon - the Lord knows ... Was the core rotten?

Well, and killed Maxim?

Killed, dad.

To death?

No, father, he is still alive, but what: his legs and arms were hurt. I ran after Seliverstych, after the doctor.

Ardalion Mikhailych ordered the tenth to gallop to the village after Seliverstich, and he himself rode forward at a large trot to the misfires ... I followed him.

We found poor Maxim on the ground. About ten men stood near him. We got off our horses. He hardly groaned, occasionally opened and widened his eyes, as if looking around in surprise and biting his blue lips ... His chin was trembling, his hair stuck to his forehead, his chest rose unevenly: he was dying. The light shadow of a young linden glided quietly across his face.

The theme of death is heard in most of the prose works of the remarkable Russian writer Ivan Turgenev, including in the story "Death". In it, the writer acts as an observer and narrator, realistically describing the dying state of the characters and the very moment of death.

When cutting down an oak and ash forest, the contractor Maxim dies, the teacher Sorokoumov dies of consumption, another old landowner goes into the world, a miller suffering from a hernia, leaves the hospital, realizing all the hopelessness of his situation.

Representatives of different social strata in the face of death behave calmly and with dignity, ask for forgiveness from others, give orders for the arrangement of affairs. Last words and the last actions of the dying are filled with concern for their loved ones.

As a result of his observations of such a mysterious phenomenon as death, Turgenev concludes how amazingly Russian people are able to die.

Just as worthy as his literary heroes, Ivan Sergeevich himself met death, although spinal cancer caused him unbearable suffering. This sad event happened in France in 1883. Before his death, the great writer for some reason refused to take communion.

Picture or drawing Death

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"Hunter's Notes - Death"

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 look at Chaplygino; you know, my oak forest? They cut it 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. der Koka. My neighbor has recently taken over the estate himself. He inherited it from his aunt, state councilor Kardon-Katayeva, an unusually fat woman who, even lying in bed, groaned for a long time and plaintively. 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 quiche 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. Desire Fleury, a kindest man (who, however, 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 heat of the day, at noon, the night is real: silence, smell, freshness ... I spent my time merrily in Chaplygin, and therefore, I confess, it was not without a sad feeling that I now drove into the forest that was too familiar to me. The disastrous, snowless winter of 1940 did not spare my old friends - oaks and ash trees; withered, naked, in some places covered with consumptive greenery, they towered sadly above the young grove, which "replaced them without replacing them" (In the 40th year, during severe frosts, snow did not fall until the very end of December; the greenery was all frozen, and many beautiful oak forests have been destroyed by this merciless winter. It is difficult to replace them: the productive power of the earth is apparently depleted; on "ordered" (with images bypassed) wastelands, instead of the former noble trees, birches and aspens grow by themselves; otherwise we do not know how to plant groves . ). Others, still overgrown with leaves below, as if with reproach and despair lifted up their lifeless, broken branches; in others, thick, dry, dead branches stuck out of the foliage, which was still rather dense, although not abundant, not excessive as before; with others, the bark has already fallen off; others finally fell down altogether and rotted like corpses on the ground. Who could have foreseen this - shadows, shadows could not be found anywhere in Chaplygin! What, I thought, looking at the dying trees: tea, are you ashamed and bitter? .. I remembered Koltsov:

Where did it go

The speech is high

Power proud,

Royal prowess?

Where is yours now

May be green?

How is it, Ardalion Mikhailovich, - I began, - why weren't these trees cut down the next year? After all, now they will not give a tenth share for them against the former.

He just shrugged.

They would have asked my aunt, but the merchants came, brought money, pestered.

Mein Gott! Mein Gott! von der Kok exclaimed at every step. - What a prank! what a prank!

What a prank? my neighbor remarked with a smile.

That ist how crazy, I wanted to save. (It is known that all the Germans, who have finally overcome our letter "people", surprisingly press on it.)

The oaks lying on the ground especially aroused his regret - and indeed: a different miller would have paid dearly for them. On the other hand, Arkhip the tenth kept calm, imperturbable and did not grieve at all; on the contrary, he even, not without pleasure, jumped over them and lashed them with a whip.

We were making our way to the felling site, when suddenly, following the noise of a fallen tree, there was a shout and talk, and after a few moments a young man, pale and disheveled, jumped out of the thicket to meet us.

What? where are you running? asked Ardalion Mikhailovich.

He stopped immediately.

Oh, father, Ardalion Mikhailovich, trouble! What?

Maxim, father, was hit by a tree.

How is it?.. Contractor Maxim?

Contractor, dad. We began to chop the ash tree, and he stood and looked ... He stood, stood, and go to the well for water: listen, I wanted to drink. Suddenly, the ash tree crackles right at him. We shout to him: run, run, run ... He should have rushed to the side, but he would take it straight and run ... he became timid, you know. The ash-tree covered it with its upper branches. And why did it fall down so soon - the Lord knows ... Was the core rotten.

Well, and killed Maxim?

Killed, dad.

To death?

No, father, he is still alive, but what: his legs and arms were hurt. I ran after Seliverstych, after the doctor.

Ardalion Mikhailych ordered the tenth to gallop to the village after Seliverstich, and he himself rode forward at a large trot to the misfires ... I followed him.

We found poor Maxim on the ground. About ten men stood near him. We got off our horses. He scarcely groaned, occasionally opening and widening his eyes, as if he were looking around in surprise and biting his blue lips... His chin was trembling, his hair stuck to his forehead, his chest rose unevenly: he was dying. The light shadow of a young linden glided quietly across his face.

We leaned towards him. He recognized Ardalion Mikhailovich.

Father, - he spoke hardly intelligibly, - for the priest ... send ... order ... The Lord ... punished me ... legs, arms, everything is broken ... today ... Sunday ... and I ... and I ... here ... I didn’t dismiss the guys.

He paused. His breath spiraled.

Yes, my money ... to my wife ... give my wife ... minus ... Onesimus knows ... to whom I ... what I owe ...

We sent for the doctor, Maxim, - my neighbor spoke up, - maybe you won't die yet.

He opened his eyes and raised his eyebrows and eyelids with an effort.

No, I'll die. Here ... here she comes, here she is, here ... Forgive me, guys, if in anything ...

God forgive you, Maxim Andreevich, - the peasants spoke in a dull voice with one voice and took off their hats, - forgive us.

He suddenly shook his head desperately, puffed out his chest sadly, and sank down again.

He must not, however, die here, - exclaimed Ardalion Mikhailovich, - guys, let's get the matting off the cart, take him to the hospital.

Two people rushed to the cart.

I'm from Yefim ... Sychovsky ... - the dying man babbled, - I bought a horse yesterday ... I gave a deposit ... so my horse ... to her wife ... too ...

They began to put him on the matting ... He trembled all over, like a shot bird, straightened up.

Dead, the men muttered.

We silently mounted our horses and rode off.

The death of poor Maxim made me think. Surprisingly, a Russian peasant dies! His state before death cannot be called either indifference or stupidity; he dies as if performing a ritual: cold and simple.

A few years ago, another of my neighbors in the village had a man in a barn burned. (He would have remained in the barn, but the visiting tradesman pulled him out half-dead: he plunged into a tub of water, and from a running start and knocked out the door under a blazing canopy.) I went into his hut. It is dark in the hut, stuffy, smoky. I ask: where is the patient? "And there, father, on the couch," the grieving woman answers me in a singsong voice. I go up - a man is lying, covered with a sheepskin coat, breathing heavily. "What, how do you feel?" The patient was brought in on the stove, he wants to get up, but all in wounds, near death. "Lie down, lie down, lie down... Well, what? How?" - "Vestimo, it's bad," he says. "Does it hurt you?" Silent. "Do you need something?" Silent. "Shall I send you tea, or what?" - "No need". I walked away from him, sat down on a bench. I sit for a quarter of an hour, I sit for half an hour - deathly silence in the hut. In the corner, at the table under the images, a girl of about five is hiding, eating bread. Her mother occasionally threatens her. In the passage they walk, knock, talk: my brother's wife is chopping cabbage. "Ah, Aksinya!" the patient finally spoke. "What?" - Give me kvass. Aksinya gave him kvass. Silence again. I ask in a whisper: "Have you communed him?" - "Communion." Well, therefore, everything is in order: he is waiting for death, and nothing more. I couldn't resist and left...

And then, I remember, I once turned to the hospital of the village of Krasnogorye, to the paramedic Captain, whom I knew, a passionate hunter.

This hospital consisted of the former master's wing; the landowner herself arranged it, that is, she ordered to nail a blue board over the door with the inscription in white letters: "Krasnogorsk hospital", and she herself handed Kapiton a beautiful album for recording the names of the patients. On the first page of this album, one of the sycophants and servants of the benevolent landowner wrote the following rhymes:

Dans ces beaux lieux, ou regne l "allegresse,

Ce temple fut ouvert par la Beaute;

De vos seigneurs admirez la tendresse,

Bons habitants de Krasnogorie!* -

* In beautiful places where fun reigns,

Beauty itself erected this temple;

Admiring the generosity of your masters,

Good inhabitants of the Redridge!

and another gentleman below added:

Et my aussi J "aime ia nature!

Jean Kobyliatnikoff"*.

* And I love nature too!

Ivan Kobylyatnikov

The paramedic bought six beds with his own money and set off, blessed, to heal the people of God. In addition to him, there were two people at the hospital: the carver Pavel, who was prone to madness, and the dry-handed woman Melikitris, who served as a cook. They both prepared medicines, dried and infused herbs; they also tamed feverish patients. The mad carver looked gloomy and stingy with words; at night he sang a song "about the beautiful Venus" and approached every passer-by with a request to allow him to marry some girl Malanya, who had long since died. The withered woman beat him and forced him to guard the turkeys. Here, once I was sitting with the paramedic Kapiton. We began to talk about our last hunt, when suddenly a cart drove into the yard, harnessed by an unusually fat gray horse, such as only millers have. In the cart sat a stout peasant in a new coat, with a multicolored beard. "Ah, Vasily Dmitritch," cried Kapiton from the window, "you are welcome... The Lybovshinsky miller," he whispered to me. The peasant, groaning, got down from the cart, entered the paramedic's room, looked for the image with his eyes and crossed himself. "Well, Vasily Dmitritch, what's new? ... Yes, you must be unwell: your face is not good." - "Yes, Captain Timofeich, something is wrong." - "What's wrong with you?" - "Yes, that's what, Kapiton Timofeich. Recently I bought millstones in the city; well, I brought them home, but as soon as I began to lay them out from the cart, I tried, I know, or something, in my stomach, it skipped a beat, as if it had broken that ... yes, since then everything has been unwell. Today it even hurts badly. - "Hm," said Kapiton and sniffed the tobacco, "that means a hernia. How long ago did this happen to you?" - "Yes, the tenth day has gone." - "Tenth? (The paramedic sucked in air through his teeth and shook his head.) Let me feel you. Well, Vasily Dmitritch," he said at last, in earnest; stay here with me; for my part, I will make every effort, but, by the way, I can’t vouch for anything. - "As if so bad?" muttered the astonished miller. "Yes, Vasily Dmitritch, it's bad; if you had come to me a couple of days earlier - and it would have been nothing, as if by hand; and now you have inflammation, that's what; just look, Antonov's fire will be done." - "Yes, it can't be, Kapiton Timofeitch." - "I'm telling you." - "Yes, how is it! (The paramedic shrugged his shoulders.) And I should die because of this rubbish?" "That's not what I'm saying... just stay here." The peasant thought, thought, looked at the floor, then looked at us, scratched his head and his hat. "Where are you going, Vasily Dmitritch?" - "Where? We know where - home, if it's so bad. Order should be, if so." - "Yes, you will make trouble for yourself, Vasily Dmitritch, have mercy; I'm already surprised how you got there? stay."

- "No, brother Kapiton Timofeich, to die, so die at home; otherwise what am I going to die here - at my house and the Lord knows what will happen." - "It is still unknown, Vasily Dmitritch, how things will go ... Of course, it is dangerous, very dangerous, no doubt ... but that's why you should stay." (The peasant shook his head.) "No, Kapiton Timofeyich, I won't stay... but perhaps prescribe a medicine." "Medicine alone won't help." - "I won't stay, they say," - "Well, as you wish ... mind you, then do not blame!"

The paramedic ripped out a page from the album and, having prescribed a prescription, advised what else to do. The peasant took the paper, gave Kapiton fifty kopecks, left the room and got into the cart. "Well, goodbye, Kapiton Timofeich, don't remember dashingly, and don't forget the orphans, if anything..." - "Hey, stay, Vasily!" The peasant only shook his head, hit the horse with the reins, and rode out of the yard. I went outside and looked after him. The road was muddy and bumpy; the miller rode carefully, slowly, deftly driving his horse and bowing to those he met ... On the fourth day he died.

In general, Russian people die surprisingly. Many dead come to my mind now. I remember you, my old friend, half-educated student Avenir Sorokoumov, a wonderful, noble man! I see again your consumptive greenish face, your thin blond hair, your meek smile, your enthusiastic look, your long limbs; I hear your weak, gentle voice. You lived with the Great Russian landowner Gur Krupynikov, taught his children Fofa and Zezya Russian literacy, geography and history, patiently endured the difficult jokes of Gur himself, the rude courtesies of the butler, the vulgar pranks of evil boys, not without a bitter smile, but without grumbling fulfilled the whimsical demands of a bored ladies; on the other hand, it happened how you rested, how you were blissful in the evening, after supper, when, having finally got rid of all duties and occupations, you sat down in front of the window, pensively lit your pipe or greedily leafed through the mutilated and greasy number of a thick magazine brought from the city by a surveyor, the same homeless wretch like you! How you liked then all sorts of poems and all sorts of stories, how easily tears welled up in your eyes, with what pleasure you laughed, with what sincere love for people, with what noble sympathy for everything good and beautiful your childishly pure soul was imbued! I must tell the truth: you were not distinguished by excessive wit; nature has not endowed you with either memory or diligence; at the university you were considered one of the worst students; at lectures you slept, at exams you remained solemnly silent; but whose eyes shone with joy, who took their breath away from success, from the good fortune of a comrade? At Abner... Who blindly believed in the high calling of his friends, who extolled them with pride, defended them with bitterness? Who knew neither envy nor pride, who selflessly sacrificed himself, who willingly obeyed people who were not worth untying the belt from his boots? .. All of you, all of you, our good Avenir! I remember: with a contrite heart you parted with your comrades, leaving for "condition"; evil forebodings tormented you... And for sure: you had a bad time in the Village; in the countryside you had no one to reverently listen to, no one to be surprised, no one to love ... Both the steppe inhabitants and the educated landowners treated you like a teacher, some - rudely, others - carelessly. Moreover, you did not take a piece either; shy, blushed, sweated, stuttered... The rural air did not even improve your health: you melted like a candle, poor man! True: your little room overlooked the garden; bird cherry trees, apple trees, lindens poured their light flowers on your table, on the inkwell, on books; on the wall hung a blue silk cushion for the watch, given to you at your farewell hour by a kindly sensitive German governess with blond curls and blue eyes; sometimes an old friend from Moscow came to visit you and delighted you with other people's or even his own poems: but loneliness, but the unbearable slavery of a teacher's title, the impossibility of liberation, but endless autumns and winters, but a relentless illness. .. Poor, poor Avenir!

I visited Sorokoumov shortly before his death. He almost couldn't walk anymore. The landowner Gur Krupynikov did not drive him out of the house, but he stopped giving him a salary and hired Zeze another teacher ... Fof was sent to cadet corps. Abner sat near the window in old Voltaire chairs. The weather was wonderful. The bright autumn sky gleamed merrily blue above the dark brown ridge of bare lindens; in some places the last, bright golden leaves stirred and murmured on them. The frost-bitten earth sweated and thawed in the sun; its slanting, ruddy rays grazed the pale grass; there was a slight crackle in the air; the voices of the workers sounded clear and audible in the garden. Avenir was wearing an old Bukhara dressing gown; the green neckerchief threw a deathly shade over his terribly emaciated face. He was very pleased with me, stretched out his hand, spoke and coughed. I let him calm down, sat down next to him... On Avenir's lap lay a notebook of Koltsov's poems, carefully copied; he tapped it with his hand with a smile. "Here is a poet," he murmured, suppressing his cough with an effort, and began to recite in a barely audible voice:

Al at the falcon

Are the wings connected?

Al way him

All ordered?

I stopped him: the doctor forbade him to talk. I knew how to please him. Sorokoumov never, as they say, "followed" science, but he was curious to know what, they say, what great minds have now reached? It used to happen that he would catch a comrade somewhere in the corner and begin to question him: he listens, is surprised, takes his word for it, and only then repeats after him. He was particularly interested in German philosophy. I began to talk to him about Hegel (things of bygone days, as you see). Abner shook his head in the affirmative, raised his eyebrows, smiled, whispered: "I understand, I understand! .. ah! good, good! .." The childish curiosity of a dying, homeless and abandoned poor man, I confess, touched me to tears. It should be noted that Avenir, in contrast to all consumptives, did not deceive himself in the least about his illness ... and what then? - he did not sigh, did not lament, did not even once hint at his position ...

Gathering his strength, he spoke about Moscow, about his comrades, about Pushkin, about the theater, about Russian literature; he recalled our feasts, the heated debates of our circle, with regret he uttered the names of two or three dead friends ...

Do you remember Dasha? - he added at last, - that was a golden soul! that was the heart! And how she loved me!.. What is the matter with her now? Tea, withered, withered, poor thing?

I did not dare to disappoint the patient - and in fact, why did he need to know that Dasha was now thicker across him, hanging out with merchants - the Kondachkov brothers, whitening and blushing, squeaking and scolding.

However, I thought, looking at his exhausted face, is it possible to get him out of here? Perhaps there is still an opportunity to cure him... But Abner did not let me finish my sentence.

No, brother, thank you," he said, "it doesn't matter where you die. After all, I won't live to see winter... Why bother people in vain? I'm used to this house. It's true, gentlemen...

Evil ones, right? I picked up.

No, not evil: some kind of pieces of wood. However, I can't complain about them. There are neighbors: the landowner Kasatkin has a daughter, an educated, amiable, kind girl ... not proud ...

Sorokoumov coughed again.

It would be all right, ”he continued, having rested,“ if they let me smoke a pipe ... But I won’t die like that, I’ll smoke a pipe! he added, winking slyly. - Thank God, lived enough; With good people knew...

Yes, you should at least write to your relatives, - I interrupted him.

What to write to relatives? Help - they won't help me; die, they know. But what can I say about it ... Tell me better, what did you see abroad?

I started talking. He got into me like that. By evening I left, and ten days later I received the following letter from Mr. Krupynikov:

"I have the honor to inform you, my gracious sir, that your friend, a student living in my house, Mr. Avenir Sorokoumov, died on the fourth day at two o'clock in the afternoon and was buried today at my expense in my parish church. He asked me to be sent to the books and notebooks attached to you. He had 22 rubles and a half in money, which, together with his other things, will be delivered to relatives. Your friend died in perfect memory and, one might say, with the same insensitivity, without showing any signs regret, even when we said goodbye to him as a whole family. My wife Cleopatra Alexandrovna bows to you. The death of your friend could not but affect her nerves; as for me, thank God, I am healthy and have the honor to stay

Your most obedient servant.

G. Krupynikov".

Many other examples come to mind, but you can’t retell everything. I'll limit myself to one.

The old landowner was dying in my presence. The priest began to read over her the waste, but suddenly noticed that the patient was really leaving, and quickly gave her the cross. The landlady moved away in displeasure. “Where are you in a hurry, father,” she said in a stagnant tongue, “you’ll have time ...” She kissed, put her hand under the pillow and let out her last breath. Under the pillow lay a ruble: she wanted to pay the priest for her own waste ...

Yes, the Russian people are dying amazingly!

Ivan Turgenev - Notes of a hunter - Death, read text

See also Turgenev Ivan - Prose (stories, poems, novels ...):

Hunter's Notes - Knocks!
“What am I going to report to you,” Yermolai said, entering my hut, “but I ...

Hunter's notes - Tatyana Borisovna and her nephew
Give me your hand, dear reader, and come along with me. Weather...

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

"Death"

One beautiful July morning, I stopped by my young neighbor Ardalion Mikhailovich with an offer to hunt black grouse. He agreed on the condition that on the way we would call on him in Chaplygino, where an oak forest is cut down. The neighbor took with him the tenth Arkhip, a fat and squat peasant with a square face, and the manager Gottlieb von der Kock, a young man of 19, thin, blond, short-sighted, with sloping shoulders and a long neck. The estate was recently inherited by Ardalion from his aunt.

The oak forest of Ardalion Mikhailovich was familiar to me from childhood - I often walked here with my tutor. The snowless and frosty winter of 1940 destroyed centuries-old oaks and ash trees. It was bitter for me to look at the dying forest. We were making our way to the cutting site, when suddenly we heard the sound of a fallen tree and a scream. A pale peasant jumped out of the thicket and said that Maxim's contractor had been crushed by a felled ash tree. When we ran up to Maxim, he was already dying.

At the sight of this death, I thought that the Russian peasant was dying, as if performing a ritual: cold and simple. A few years ago, in the village of another neighbor of mine, a man burned himself in a barn. When I went to him, he was dying, and in the hut there was an ordinary one, everyday life. I couldn't take it and left.

Still, I remember, I once turned to the hospital of the village of Krasnogorye, to the familiar paramedic Kapiton. Suddenly, a cart drove into the yard, in which sat a stout man with a multi-colored beard. It was the miller Vasily Dmitrievich. Raising the millstones, he strained himself. Kapiton examined him, found a hernia and began to persuade him to stay in the hospital. The miller flatly refused and hurried home to dispose of his property. On the fourth day he died.

I also remembered my old friend, the half-educated student Avenir Sorokoumov. He taught children from the Great Russian landowner Gur Krupynikov. Abner was not distinguished by either intelligence or memory, but no one knew how to rejoice in the success of his friends like he did. I visited Sorokoumov shortly before his death from consumption. The landowner did not drive him out of the house, but he stopped paying his salary and hired a new teacher for the children. Abner recalled his student youth and eagerly listened to my stories. He died 10 days later.

Many more examples come to mind, but I will limit myself to one. An old landowner was dying in my presence. The priest gave her a cross. Having venerated the cross, she put her hand under the pillow, where the ruble was lying - the payment to the priest, and expired. Yes, Russian people are dying amazingly. retold Yulia Peskovaya

The author's story about how one day he and his young neighbor Ardalion Mikhailovich, who had recently inherited an estate, gathered to go hunting. On the way, they decided to look at his site, where the peasants are cutting down an oak forest. This old oak forest was familiar to the author from childhood. Severe and frosty winter killed ancient oaks and ash trees. And it was bitter to see how these trees were cut down now. When they made their way to the felling site, there was a sharp noise of a falling tree and a desperate cry. A man ran out to meet him and said that the contractor Maxim had fallen under a felled ash tree. When they arrived at the place, Maxim was already breathing his last breaths.

At the sight of the coming death, thoughts came that the death of a Russian person looks like some kind of rite: cold and unremarkable. I recalled such a case when another neighbor burned a man in a barn during a fire. The usual bustle of life was going on in the house, and a man was dying nearby. It was difficult to look at this, and the author left.

There was also such a case when a cart drove into the Krasnogorye hospital, on which the miller Vasily Dmitrievich was sitting - a healthy and dense man with a wide beard. It turned out that he overstrained himself, shifting heavy millstones. Paramedic Kapiton, having examined him, discovered a hernia and offered him treatment in the hospital. The miller categorically refused and went home to make the necessary instructions about the household. He died after only four days.

I also remembered the half-educated student Avenir Sorokoumov, who taught the children of the landowner Gur Krupynikov. He fell ill with consumption and lay in the house of the landowner, who did not drive him away, but no longer paid him a salary. And the children were taught by a new teacher. When the author visited him, Avenir recalled his student years and enthusiastically listened to stories. He died peacefully ten days later.

Especially memorable is the case when the dying old landowner, kissing the cross given by the father, took out a ruble bill from under the pillow, handed it to the priest and immediately died. The Russian people are dying surprisingly calmly.