Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

KHOR AND KALINYCH

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 with rotten straw ... The Kaluga village, on the contrary, for the most part 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, visiting the Zhizdrinsky district, I met in the field and made the acquaintance of one Kaluga small landowner, Polutykin, a passionate hunter and, consequently, great 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; I liked to repeat the same anecdote, which, in spite of Mr. Polutykin's respect for his virtues, definitely never made anyone laugh; praised the works of Akim Nakhimov and the story of Pinnu; stuttered; called his dog Astronomer; instead, however, he spoke 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 tasted like 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 will be a long walk; 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 cultivated clearing, stood the lonely estate of Khorya. 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.

Ah, Fedya! Home Khor? Mr. Polutykin asked him.

No, Khor has gone to the city, - answered the guy, smiling and showing a row of teeth as white as snow. - 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; between the logs and on the jambs of the windows did not wander frisky Prussians, did not hide thoughtful cockroaches. 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 red-cheeked, sat as a coachman and with difficulty kept a well-fed piebald stallion. Around the cart stood about six young giants, very similar friend on a friend and on 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 the old Khor and 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!" exclaimed Mr. Polutykin solemnly. 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.

Khor and Kalinich

Thank you for downloading the book for free. electronic library http://turgenevivan.ru/ Enjoy reading! Khor and Kalinich. Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev 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, visiting the Zhizdrinsky district, I met in the field and became acquainted with 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; I liked to repeat the same anecdote, which, in spite of Mr. Polutykin's respect for his virtues, definitely never made anyone laugh; praised the works of Akim Nakhimov and the story of Pinnu; stuttered; called his dog Astronomer; instead, however, he spoke 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 tasted like 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 cultivated clearing, stood the lonely estate of Khorya. 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 went to the city, - answered the guy, smiling and showing a row of teeth as white as snow. - 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; between the logs and on the jambs of the windows did not wander frisky Prussians, did not hide thoughtful cockroaches. 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 red-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 the old Khor and 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!" exclaimed Mr. Polutykin solemnly. 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 you have Khor living separately from your other peasants?” - And here's why: he's a smart man. 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. - “Why do you want to settle in a swamp?” - “Yes, that's right; 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. - 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! .. 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 rang out from the yard, “I’m tying up my bast shoes.” We went walking; outside the village a man of about forty caught up with us, tall, thin, with a small recurved head. 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 was sitting, 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 merry, most meek 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 big steps, slightly supported 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. A light gust of breeze woke me up... I opened my eyes and saw Kalinich: he was sitting on the threshold of a half-open door, carving a spoon with a knife. For a long time I admired his face, meek and clear as the evening sky. Mr. Polutykin woke up too. We didn't get up right away. Nice after a long walk and deep sleep lie motionless on the hay: the body basks and languishes, the face glows with a slight heat, sweet laziness closes its eyes. Finally we got up and again went to wander until the evening. At supper I spoke again about Chora and Kalinich. “Kalinych is a kind peasant,” Mr. Polutykin told me, “an assiduous and obliging peasant; the economy in good order, however, cannot support it: I delay everything. Every day he goes hunting with me ... What kind of economy is there - judge for yourself. I agreed with him and we went to bed. The next day, Mr. Polutykin was forced to go to town on business with his neighbor Pichukov. Neighbor Pichukov plowed his land and carved his own woman on the plowed land. I went hunting alone and in the evening I turned to Khor. On the threshold of the hut, an old man met me - bald, short, broad-shouldered and dense - Khor himself. I looked at this Horya with curiosity. The make-up of his face was reminiscent of Socrates: the same high, knobby forehead, the same small eyes, the same snub-nosed nose. We entered the hut together. The same Fedya brought me milk with black bread. Khor sat down on a bench and, calmly stroking his curly beard, entered into a conversation with me. He seemed to feel his dignity, spoke and moved slowly, occasionally chuckling from under his long mustache. He and I talked about sowing, about the harvest, about peasant life ... He seemed to agree with me; only then did I feel ashamed, and I felt that I was saying the wrong thing ... So it somehow came out strange. Khor sometimes expressed himself in a tricky way, probably out of caution ... Here's an example of our conversation: - Listen, Khor, - I told him, - why don't you pay off

"Notes of a hunter - Khor and Kalinich"

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; In the Oryol province, the last forests and squares ("Squares" in the Oryol province are called large continuous masses of bushes, the Oryol dialect is generally distinguished by a lot of original, sometimes very well-aimed, sometimes rather ugly, words and phrases.) will disappear in five years, and there will be no trace of swamps ; 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, visiting the Zhizdrinsky district, I met in the field and became acquainted with 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; I liked to repeat the same anecdote, which, in spite of Mr. Polutykin's respect for his virtues, definitely never made anyone laugh; praised the works of Akim Nakhimov and the story of Pinnu; stuttered; called his dog Astronomer; instead, however, he spoke 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 tasted like 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 will be a long walk; 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 cultivated clearing, stood the lonely estate of Khorya. 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.

Ah, Fedya! Home Khor? Mr. Polutykin asked him.

No, Khor has gone to the city, - answered the guy, smiling and showing a row of teeth as white as snow. - 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; between the logs and on the jambs of the windows did not wander frisky Prussians, did not hide thoughtful cockroaches. 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 red-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 Khorya!" 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 the old Khor and the city ... Look, Vasya,” he continued, turning to the coachman, - Somchi in spirit: you are taking the master. Only on jolts, look, be quieter: you will ruin the cart, and you will disturb the master's belly! The rest of the Ferrets chuckled at Fedya's antics. "Help the Astronomer!" exclaimed Mr. Polutykin solemnly. 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 is now 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, "and 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 for 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?

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. - "Yes, why would you settle in a swamp?" - "Yes, that's right; only you, father, Nikolai Kuzmich, do not use me for any work, if you please, 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.

Got rich. Now he pays me a hundred rubles dues, and I’ll probably put some more on it too. I have 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 rang out from the yard, "I'm tying up my 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 was sitting, 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 merry, most meek 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.

A light gust of breeze woke me up... I opened my eyes and saw Kalinich: he was sitting on the threshold of a half-open door, carving a spoon with a knife. For a long time I admired his face, meek and clear as the evening sky. Mr. Polutykin woke up too. We didn't get up right away. It is pleasant, after a long walk and a deep sleep, to lie motionless on the hay: the body basks and languishes, the face glows with a slight heat, sweet laziness closes its eyes. Finally we got up and again went to wander until the evening. At supper I spoke again about Chora and Kalinich. “Kalinych is a kind peasant,” Mr. Polutykin told me, “a zealous and obliging peasant; all alone, he can’t keep his household in good order: I delay everything. Every day he goes hunting with me ... judge for yourself." I agreed with him and we went to bed.

The next day, Mr. Polutykin was forced to go to town on business with his neighbor Pichukov. Neighbor Pichukov plowed his land and carved his own woman on the plowed land. I went hunting alone and in the evening I turned to Khor. On the threshold of the hut, an old man met me - bald, short, broad-shouldered and dense - Khor himself. I looked at this Horya with curiosity. The make-up of his face was reminiscent of Socrates: the same high, knobby forehead, the same small eyes, the same snub-nosed nose. We entered the hut together. The same Fedya brought me milk with black bread. Khor sat down on a bench and, calmly stroking his curly beard, entered into a conversation with me. He seemed to feel his dignity, spoke and moved slowly, occasionally chuckling from under his long mustache.

He and I talked about sowing, about the harvest, about peasant life ... He seemed to agree with me; only then did I feel ashamed, and I felt that I was saying the wrong thing ... So it somehow came out strange. Khor sometimes expressed himself in a tricky way, probably out of caution ... Here is an example of our conversation:

Listen, Khor, - I said to him, - why don't you buy off your master?

Why should I buy back? Now I know my master, and I know my quitrent... our master is a good one.

Still, it's better to be free, I said.

Hor looked at me from the side.

Let’s go,” he said.

Well, why don't you pay off?

Horus shook his head.

What, father, will you order to pay off?

All right, old chap...

Khor got into free people, - he continued in an undertone, as if to himself, - whoever lives without a beard, that Khoryu is the largest.

And you shave your beard.

What's a beard? beard - grass: you can mow.

Well, so what?

And, you know, Khor will go straight to the merchants; merchants have a good life, and even those with beards.

And what, you are also engaged in trade? I asked him.

We are trading little by little with oil and tar ... Well, father, will you order the cart to be pawned?

"You are strong on the tongue and a man of your own mind," I thought.

No, I said aloud, I don't need a cart; Tomorrow I'll look around your estate and, if you'll excuse me, I'll stay overnight in your hay shed.

Welcome. Will you be safe in the barn? I will order the women to spread a sheet for you and put a pillow. Hey women! he cried, rising from his seat, “here, women!.. And you, Fedya, go with them. Women are stupid people.

A quarter of an hour later Fedya led me to the shed with a lantern. I threw myself on the fragrant hay, the dog curled up at my feet; Fedya wished me Good night, the door creaked and slammed shut. I couldn't sleep for quite some time. The cow went up to the door, breathed noisily twice; the dog growled at her with dignity; the pig passed by, grunting thoughtfully; a horse somewhere in the vicinity began to chew hay and snort ... I finally dozed off.

At dawn, Fedya woke me up. I liked this cheerful, lively fellow very much; and, as far as I could see, old Khor was also a favorite of him. They both teased each other very kindly. The old man came out to meet me. Whether because I spent the night under his roof, or for some other reason, only Khor treated me much more affectionately than yesterday.

The samovar is ready for you,” he said to me with a smile, “let’s go and drink tea.”

We sat down around the table. A healthy woman, one of his daughters-in-law, brought a pot of milk. All his sons entered the hut in turn.

What a tall people you have! I remarked to the old man.

Yes, - he said, biting off a tiny piece of sugar, - it seems that they have nothing to complain about me and my old woman.

And everyone lives with you?

All. They want to live like that.

And are they all married?

There is one, shot, not getting married, ”he answered, pointing to Fedya, who was still leaning against the door. - Vaska, he is still young, you can wait a bit.

What should I marry? - objected Fedya, - I feel good as it is. What do I need a wife for? Barking with her, right?

Well, you... I already know you! You wear silver rings... You should all smell the yard girls... "Come on, shameless ones!" - continued the old man, mimicking the maids, - I already know you, you kind of white hand!

And what's good about Baba?

Baba is a worker,” Khor remarked importantly. - Baba is a peasant's servant.

What do I need a worker for?

That's it, you love to rake in the heat with the wrong hands. We know your brother.

Well, marry me, if so. A? What! Why are you silent?

Well, full, full, joker. You see, gentleman, we are disturbing you. I suppose Zhenya ... And you, father, do not be angry: the child, you see, is small, he did not have time to gather his mind.

Fedya shook his head...

Home Khor? - a familiar voice was heard outside the door, - and Kalinich entered the hut with a bunch of wild strawberries in his hands, which he had picked for his friend, Khorya. The old man greeted him warmly. I looked in amazement at Kalinich: I confess that I did not expect such "tenderness" from the peasant.

That day I went hunting four hours later than usual, and spent the next three days at Khory's. I was occupied with my new acquaintances. I do not know how I earned their trust, but they spoke to me at ease. I enjoyed listening to them and watching them. Both friends did not resemble each other at all. Khor was a positive, practical man, an administrative head, a rationalist; Kalinich, on the contrary, belonged to the number of idealists, romantics, enthusiastic and dreamy people. Khor understood reality, that is: he settled down, saved up some money, got along with the master and with other authorities; Kalinich walked around in bast shoes and got by somehow. The ferret spawned a large family, submissive and unanimous; Kalinich had once had a wife whom he was afraid of, but there were no children at all. Khor saw right through Mr. Polutykin; Kalinich was in awe of his master. Khor loved Kalinich and patronized him; Kalinich loved and respected Khory. Hor spoke little, chuckled and understood to himself; Kalinich explained himself with fervor, although he did not sing like a nightingale, like a brisk factory man ... But Kalinich was endowed with advantages that Khor himself recognized, for example: he spoke blood, fright, rabies, drove out worms; bees were given to him, his hand was light, Khor, in my presence, asked him to bring a newly bought horse into the stable, and Kalinich, with conscientious gravity, fulfilled the request of the old skeptic. Kalinich stood closer to nature; Ferret - to people, to society; Kalinich did not like to reason and believed everything blindly; Khor even rose to an ironic point of view on life. He saw a lot, knew a lot, and I learned a lot from him. For example, I learned from his stories that every summer, before mowing, a small wagon of a special kind appears in the villages. A man in a caftan sits in this cart and sells scythes. For cash, he takes a ruble twenty-five kopecks - a ruble and a half in banknotes; in debt - three rubles and a ruble. All the men, of course, borrow from him. After two or three weeks, he reappears and demands money. The peasant's oats have just been mowed, so there is money to pay; he goes with the merchant to a tavern and there he is already paying. Some landlords took it into their heads to buy the scythes themselves with cash and lend them to the peasants at the same price; but the peasants turned out to be dissatisfied and even fell into despondency; they were deprived of the pleasure of flicking the scythe, listening, turning it over in their hands and asking the roguish hodgepodge seller twenty times: “Well, doesn’t the scythe hurt that? "The same tricks occur when buying sickles, with the only difference that here the women intervene in the matter and sometimes bring the seller himself to the point of beating them for their own benefit. But the women suffer most of all in this case. Suppliers of material paper mills are entrusted with the purchase of rags of a special kind to people who are called "eagles" in other districts. Such an "eagle" receives two hundred rubles in banknotes from the merchant and goes to booty. But, in contrast to the noble bird from which he got his name, he does not attacks openly and boldly: on the contrary, the "eagle" resorts to cunning and cunning. He leaves his cart somewhere in the bushes near the village, and he himself goes through the backyards and backyards, like some passer-by or just idle. The women guess him by instinct approaching and sneaking towards him.Hurryingly, a trade deal is made.For a few copper pennies, the woman gives the "eagle" not only any unnecessary rag, but often even her husband's shirt and her own paneva. IN Lately the women have found it advantageous to steal from themselves and thus sell hemp, especially "hands" - an important expansion and improvement of the industry of "eagles"! But on the other hand, the peasants, in their turn, pricked up their nerves and at the slightest suspicion, at one distant rumor about the appearance of an "eagle", I quickly quickly set about corrective and protective measures. And really, isn't it embarrassing? It is their business to sell hemp, and they definitely sell it, not in the city - you have to drag yourself into the city - but to visiting traders who, for lack of a steelyard, count a pood of forty handfuls - and you know what a handful and what a palm in a Russian person, especially when he is "zealous"!

I, an inexperienced person and not “living” in the village (as we say in Orel), heard enough of such stories. But Khor did not tell everything, he himself asked me about many things. He found out that I had been abroad, and his curiosity flared up... Kalinich did not lag behind him; but Kalinich was more touched by descriptions of nature, mountains, waterfalls, unusual buildings, big cities; Khorya was occupied with administrative and state issues. He went through everything in order: “What, they have it there just like we do, or otherwise? .. Well, say, father, how is it? ..” - “Ah! oh, Lord, your will! " - exclaimed Kalinich during my story; Khor was silent, knitting his thick eyebrows, and only occasionally noticed that, "they say, this would not work for us, but this is good - this is order." I cannot convey to you all his questions, and there is no need to; but from our conversations I took away one conviction, which, probably, readers do not expect in any way - the conviction that Peter the Great was predominantly a Russian person, Russian precisely in his transformations. The Russian man is so sure of his strength and strength that he is not averse to breaking himself: he is little concerned with his past and boldly looks forward. What is good - he likes it, what is reasonable - give it to him, but where it comes from - he does not care. His common sense willingly teases the lean German mind; but the Germans, according to Khor, are a curious people, and he is ready to learn from them. Thanks to the exclusivity of his position, his actual independence, Khor talked to me about many things that you cannot turn out of another with a lever, as the peasants say, you cannot sweep with a millstone. He really understood his position. While talking with Khor, for the first time I heard the simple, intelligent speech of a Russian peasant. His knowledge was quite, in its own way, extensive, but he could not read; Kalinich - could. "This rogue was given a letter," Khor remarked, "even bees never died from him." - "Did you teach your children to read and write?" Khor was silent. "Fedya knows." - "And the others?" "Others don't know." - "And what?" The old man did not answer and changed the conversation. However, no matter how clever he was, there were many prejudices and prejudices behind him. For example, he despised the women from the depths of his soul, and in a merry hour he amused himself and mocked them. His wife, old and quarrelsome, did not leave the stove all day long and constantly grumbled and scolded; her sons paid no attention to her, but she kept her daughters-in-law in the fear of God. It is not for nothing that the mother-in-law sings in a Russian song: “What a son you are to me, what a family man! but he calmly objected to me that “you don’t want to deal with such ... trifles - let the women quarrel ... It’s worse to separate them, and it’s not worth dirtying your hands.” Sometimes the wicked old woman got down from the stove, called the yard dog out of the passage, saying: "Here, here, doggy!" - and beat her on her thin back with a poker or stood under a canopy and "barked", as Khor put it, with everyone passing by. She, however, was afraid of her husband and, on his orders, retired to her stove. But it was especially interesting to listen to Kalinich argue with Khor when it came to Mr. Polutykin. “You, Khor, don’t touch him at my place,” said Kalinich. "Why doesn't he sew boots for you?" he objected. "Eka, boots! .. what do I need boots for? I'm a peasant ..." - "Yes, here I am a peasant, but you see ..." At this word, Khor raised his leg and showed Kalinich a boot, cut, probably from mammoth skin. "Oh, are you really our brother!" - answered Kalinich. "Well, at least he gave me bast shoes: after all, you go hunting with him; tea, every day, then bast shoes." - "He gives me bast shoes." - "Yes, last year a dime was granted." Kalinich turned away in annoyance, and Khor burst into laughter, and his small eyes disappeared completely.

Kalinich sang rather pleasantly and played the balalaika. The ferret listened, listened to him, suddenly bent his head to one side and began to pull it up in a plaintive voice. He especially loved the song "You are my share, share!". Fedya did not miss a chance to make fun of his father. "What, old man, pity?" But Khor propped his cheek with his hand, closed his eyes and continued to complain about his lot ... But, at another time, there was no person more active than him: he was always digging over something - repairing the cart, propping up the fence, reviewing the harness. However, he did not adhere to special cleanliness and once answered my remarks to me that "it is necessary to de smell of housing."

Look, - I objected to him, - how clean Kalinich's apiary is.

The bees would not live, father, - he said with a sigh.

“And what,” he asked me another time, “do you have your own patrimony?” - "Eat". - "Far away from here?" - "A hundred miles!" - "What are you, father, do you live in your patrimony?" - "I live." - "And more, tea, do you get by with a gun?" - "Confess, yes." - "And it's good, father, you're doing it; shoot black grouse for your health and change the headman more often."

On the fourth day, in the evening, Mr. Polutykin sent for me. I was sorry to part with the old man. Together with Kalinich I got into the cart. "Well, goodbye, Khor, be healthy, - I said ... - Goodbye, Fedya." - "Farewell, father, farewell, do not forget us." We went; the dawn had just flared up. "Glorious weather tomorrow," I remarked, looking up at the bright sky. “No, it’s going to rain,” Kalinich objected to me, “the ducks are splashing over there, and the grass smells painfully strongly.” We entered the bushes. Kalinich sang in an undertone, bouncing on the beam, and kept looking and looking at the dawn...

The next day I left the hospitable home of Mr. Polutykin.

Ivan Turgenev - Notes of a hunter - Khor and Kalinich, read text

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

Hunter's Notes - Chertophanov and Nedopyuskin
On a hot summer day I was returning one day from a hunt in a cart; Yermolai...

Calm - 01
I In a fairly large, recently whitewashed room in the master's wing, ...

Dedicated to Anna Grigoryevna Dostoevskaya

Truly, truly, I say to you, if a grain of wheat, falling into the ground, does not die, it will remain alone; and if he dies, he will bear much fruit.

(Gospel of John, ch. XII, article 24).

From the author

Starting the biography of my hero, Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov, I am in some bewilderment. Namely: although I call Alexei Fyodorovich my hero, I myself know that he is by no means a great person, and therefore I foresee inevitable questions like these: why is your Alexei Fyodorovich remarkable that you chose him as your hero? What did he do? To whom and what is known? Why should I, the reader, take the time to study the facts of his life?

The last question is the most fatal, because I can only answer it: "Perhaps you will see for yourself from the novel." But what if they read the novel and don't see it, don't agree with my Aleksei Fyodorovich's remarkableness? I say this because I regret it. For me it is remarkable, but I strongly doubt whether I will have time to prove it to the reader. The fact is that this is, perhaps, an actor, but an indefinite actor, not cleared up. However, it would be strange to demand clarity from people in a time like ours. One thing, perhaps, is quite certain: this is a strange man, even an eccentric. But strangeness and eccentricity harm rather than give the right to attention, especially when everyone is striving to unite particulars and find at least some common sense in the general nonsense. An eccentric in most cases is particularity and isolation. Is not it?

Now, if you do not agree with this last thesis and answer: "Not so" or "not always so", then I, perhaps, will cheer up in spirit about the significance of my hero Alexei Fyodorovich. For not only is the eccentric "not always" particular and isolated, but on the contrary, it happens that he, perhaps, sometimes carries in himself the core of the whole, and the rest of the people of his era - everything, with some kind of inrushing wind, for a while for some reason they got away with it...

I, however, would not indulge in these very incurious and vague explanations and would start simply and without preface: if you like it, they will read it that way; but the trouble is that I have one biography, but two novels. Main novel the second is the activity of my hero already in our time, precisely in our current current moment. The first novel took place thirteen years ago, and there is almost not even a novel, but only one moment from the first youth of my hero. It is impossible for me to do without this first novel, because much in the second novel would become incomprehensible. But in this way my initial difficulty is further complicated: if I, that is, the biographer himself, find that even one novel, perhaps, would be superfluous for such a modest and indefinite hero, then what is it like to appear with two and how to explain such a arrogance on my part?

Lost in the solution of these questions, I decide to bypass them without any permission. Of course, the perspicacious reader has long guessed that from the very beginning I was driving towards this, and only got annoyed at me, why I waste fruitless words and precious time for nothing. I’ll answer this exactly: I wasted fruitless words and precious time, firstly, out of politeness, and secondly, out of cunning: after all, they say, I warned in advance about something. However, I am even glad that my novel broke up by itself into two stories “with the essential unity of the whole”: having become acquainted with the first story, the reader will already decide for himself: should he take on the second? Of course, no one is bound by anything; you can drop the book from two pages of the first story, so as not to reveal more. But after all, there are such delicate readers who will certainly want to read to the end, so as not to make a mistake in an impartial judgment; such, for example, are all Russian critics. So, before such and such, it’s still easier on the heart: despite all their accuracy and conscientiousness, I still give them the most legitimate excuse to drop the story in the first episode of the novel. Well, that's all the preface. I completely agree that it is superfluous, but since it is already written, then let it remain.

And now to business.

Part one

Book One
The history of one family

I
Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov

Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of the landowner of our district, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, so famous in his time (and still remembered among us) for his tragic and dark death, which happened exactly thirteen years ago and which I will report in its place. Now I will say about this “landowner” (as we called him, although he almost never lived on his estate all his life) only that he was a strange type, quite often, however, encountered, precisely the type of a person not only trashy and depraved, but at the same time stupid - but one of those, however, stupid, who know how to perfectly manage their property deals, and only, it seems, these alone. Fyodor Pavlovich, for example, started out with almost nothing, he was the smallest landowner, ran to dine at other people's tables, strove to be a hanger-on, and yet at the time of his death he had up to a hundred thousand rubles in pure money. And at the same time, all the same, he continued all his life to be one of the most stupid madcaps in our whole district. I repeat again: this is not stupidity; Most of these madcaps are quite clever and cunning - namely, stupidity, and even some kind of special, national one.

He was married twice, and he had three sons: the eldest, Dmitry Fedorovich, from the first wife, and the other two, Ivan and Alexei, from the second. The first wife of Fyodor Pavlovich was from a rather rich and noble family of the Miusov nobles, also landowners of our district. How exactly did it happen that a girl with a dowry, and even a beautiful one, and, moreover, one of the lively smart girls, so common among us in the present generation, but who appeared already in the past, could marry such an insignificant "husk" as all of his then called, I will not explain too much. After all, I knew a girl, back in the previous “romantic” generation, who, after several years of mysterious love for one gentleman, whom, however, she could always marry in the most calm way, ended, however, by inventing irresistible thoughts for herself. obstacles and in a stormy night threw herself from a high bank, like a cliff, into a rather deep and fast river and perished in it decisively from her own whims, solely because of being like Shakespeare's Ophelia, and even so that if this cliff, planned and loved by her so long ago, is not so picturesque, and if in its place there was only a prosaic flat coast, then suicide, perhaps, would not have happened at all. This fact is true, and one must think that in our Russian life, in the last two or three generations, there have been many such or similar facts. Similarly, the act of Adelaida Ivanovna Miusova was no doubt an echo of other people's trends and also a captive thought of irritation. Perhaps she wanted to declare women's independence, to go against social conditions, against the despotism of her kinship and family, but an obliging fantasy convinced her, let's say for one the bravest and most mocking people of that era, transitional to everything better, while he was only an evil jester, and nothing more. The piquant thing was also in the fact that the matter was taken away, and this greatly seduced Adelaide Ivanovna. Fyodor Pavlovich, however, was quite well prepared for all such passages, even in his social position, for he passionately desired to arrange his career at least in whatever way; to cling to good relatives and take a dowry was very tempting. As for mutual love, it seems that there was none at all - neither on the part of the bride, nor on his part, despite even the beauty of Adelaide Ivanovna. So this incident was, perhaps, the only one of its kind in the life of Fyodor Pavlovich, the most voluptuous man in his whole life, in an instant ready to cling to any skirt, if only she beckoned him. And yet this woman alone did not make any special impression on him from a passionate side.