Summary of the Hunter’s Notes: Forest and Steppe
I. S. Turgenev
hunter Notes: Forest and Steppe
“Hunting with a gun and a dog is beautiful in itself, – says the author of” Notes “His love of nature and freedom, and it is transmitted to the reader, talented, original paintings cleaned and inspire the soul..
Here the reader, together with the hunter, leaves in the spring until dawn.
“You go out on the porch… In the dark gray sky, where the stars are blinking; The humid breeze occasionally runs through a light wave; there is a restrained, obscure whisper of the night; the trees faintly rustle, shrouded in shadows…
And the summer July morning! .. The sun is higher and higher. The grass dries quickly. It’s already getting hot. An hour passes, another… The sky darkens around the edges; The still air puffs up in the throaty heat… “
And here is the summer July evening. The sun sets, the air near is somehow particularly transparent, like
And then you want to lay running droshky and go to the forest for grouse. It’s fun to make your way along a narrow path, between two walls of high rye. Ears gently beat you on the face, cornflowers cling to their feet, the quail screams around, the horse runs in a lazy trot. Here is the forest. Shadow and silence… An inexplicable silence sinks into the soul;
And how the same forest is good in late autumn, when woodcocks arrive! They do not keep themselves in the wilderness; they must be sought along the edge. Winds of movement; no noise; in the soft air the autumn smell is similar, like the smell of wine; a thin fog stands in the distance above the yellow fields… You walk along the edge of the forest, you look at the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, beloved faces, dead and alive, come to mind, the long-fallen asleep impressions suddenly wake up… All life unfolds easily and fast, like a scroll; All his past, all the senses, forces, his whole soul is owned by man. And nothing around him does not interfere – there is no sun, no wind, no noise “… (All this is only excerpts, only a short, preliminary acquaintance with the amazing text…).
“And the autumn, clear, slightly cold, morning frosty day, when the birch, like a fairy tree, all golden, beautifully drawn in a pale blue sky, when the low sun does not warm, but shines brighter than summer, a small aspen grove all sparkles right through, as if it is cheerful and easy to stand naked, the frost still whitens at the bottom of the valleys, and a fresh breeze quietly stirs and drives fallen fallen leaves…
Summer foggy days are also good, although hunters do not like them. On such days you can not shoot: the bird, fleeing from under your feet, immediately disappears in the whitish haze of a fixed fog… Above you, around you – everywhere fog… But here the wind will move slightly – a patch of pale blue sky vaguely will come out through the thinning golden coulter, like a smoke, suddenly bursts into a long stream, strikes the fields, rests in a grove, and again everything is shrouded. For a long time this struggle continues; but how incredibly magnificent and clear is the day when the light finally triumphs and the last waves of a warmed mist then roll down and spread out with tablecloths, then wriggle and disappear in a blue, gently shining height…
But here you are gathered in the departing field, into the steppe. About ten versts you made your way along country roads – here, at last, it’s big. Past the endless carts, past the courtyards with a hissing samovar under a canopy, wide open with gates and a well, from one village to another through vast fields, along green hemp… Here is a county town with wooden crooked houses, endless fences, merchant uninhabited stone buildings, an ancient bridge over a deep ravine… Further, further! .. Steppe places have gone. You look from the mountain – what a view! Round, low hills, plowed and sown to the top, run wide waves; Overgrown with bushes ravines wind between them; oblong islands scattered small groves; Narrow paths run from village to village; the churches are white; Between the lakes the river is sparkling, in four places intercepted by dams… an old manor house with its services, orchard and threshing floor was sheltered in a small pond. But further, then you go. The hills are smaller and smaller, almost no tree. Here it is, at last – boundless, boundless steppe! ..
And on a winter day, walk on high snowdrifts behind hares, breathe frosty sharp air, involuntarily squint from the dazzling fine sparkle of soft snow… And the first spring days, when everything is shining, … larks sing, and with a merry noise and roar from ravine flows into the ravine… ”
At this point the author of” Notes “says goodbye to the reader:” it’s easy to part in the spring – in the spring and happy pulls into the distance “…
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