home Medicines from A to Z Ivan Turgenev - forest and steppe. Forest and steppe (Turgenev I.S.) Forest and steppe Turgenev problem

Ivan Turgenev - forest and steppe. Forest and steppe (Turgenev I.S.) Forest and steppe Turgenev problem

Lesson objectives:

Personal

improvement of spiritual and moral qualities, respectful attitude towards Russian literature;
improving the ability to solve cognitive problems using various sources information.

Metasubject

develop the ability to understand a problem and put forward a hypothesis;
develop the ability to select material for argumentation own position, formulate conclusions;
develop the ability to work with different sources of information.

Subject

develop the ability to understand the connection of literary works with the era of their writing, to identify the timeless moral values inherent in the work and their modern meaning;
develop the ability to analyze literary work, determine its belonging to one of the literary genera and genres;
develop the ability to understand and formulate the theme and idea of the work, the moral pathos of the work;
consolidation of the ability to determine the elements of the plot of a work, the role of figurative and expressive means of language;
consolidating the ability to understand the author’s position and formulate one’s position in relation to it;
strengthening the skill of answering questions based on the text read, conducting a dialogue
consolidation of the ability to write an essay related to the problems of the studied work.

During the classes

1. Organizing time(1 min)

2. Updating knowledge (checking homework) (2 min)

Essay: Why should a person be in harmony with nature? What can a disruption in the connection between man and nature lead to?

Where and how did the discord arise?
And why in the general choir
The soul doesn’t sing like the sea,
And the thinking reed murmurs?
(F.I. Tyutchev)

3. Setting the goal of the lesson, putting forward a hypothesis. (3 min)

Read the epigraph to the lesson. Slide 1

No matter how many more stories and dramas you write, you will not get ahead of your Iliad, your “Notes of a Hunter”: there are no mistakes there, you are simple, lofty, classical, there lie the pearls of your muse.”

What work will be discussed in the lesson? Slide 2

How did you understand Goncharov’s statement?

Slide 3. Lesson objective

From what point of view do we always analyze a literary work? (understand the main idea of the author)

Slide 4. Hypothesis

Make a guess, i.e. formulate a hypothesis, what is Turgenev’s main idea in the story “Forest and Steppe”?

By what means does the writer lead the reader to this idea?

4. Vocabulary work. (2 minutes)

The story contains references to words that may not be clear.

Tether horses Slide 5
Lucina Slide 6
Racing droshky Slide 7
Quail Slide 8
Robin Slide 9
Lark Slide 10
Chibis Slide 11
Woodcock Slide 12
Bustard Slide 13
Rakita Slide 14
Loznyak Slide 15

5. Analysis of collected materials. Group work. (14 min)

How can you conventionally title parts of the story “Forest and Steppe”? Slide 16

At first glance, the story has no plot. It seems purely descriptive. But if you trace the arrangement of the parts, what conclusion can you draw?

(The plot of the story is based on the change of seasons. This is the natural course of life in nature.)

Pupils at home selected and wrote out words and phrases in groups from I.S. Turgenev’s story “Forest and Steppe”. All students wrote down words and expressions denoting color. Then the students in groups compiled a list of words denoting the sounds, tactile sensations, smells and feelings of a person that are mentioned in Turgenev’s story “The Forest and the Steppe.” Printouts of the collected materials are on the desks.

Analyze the collected material. What is unique about Turgenev’s use of color in this story? (Cm. appendix 2)

What does the writer pay attention to? Special attention? (sky, air)

Give examples of expressions that emphasize the effect of shine and sparkle?

What primary colors does Turgenev use? ? Slide 17

(Turgenev uses the primary colors of the spectrum)

Which part of speech is most often used to indicate color? (verb)

This means that the color is transmitted dynamically.

When do colors become brighter? (at sunrise and sunset)

What general conclusion can be drawn about the use of color in the story? Slide 18

(The coloring is varied; Turgenev often uses verbs to depict colors, which means the colors are shown in dynamics)

What linguistic means of expression does Turgenev use to create color?

6. Comparison of paintings by I. Levitan (3 min)

Compare paintings on the same theme by one artist - I.I. Levitan, which are stored in the State Russian Museum.

Isaac Ilyich Levitan. River valley. Autumn. Slide 19, 20

Late fall. Slide 21

Autumn landscape with church Slide 22

Which picture seems more cheerful? Why?

Which part of Turgenev's story does each painting correspond to?

Which part of the story does the drawing made by Varvara Bochkova correlate with? Slide 23, 24

July evening

7. Sounds, tactile sensations, smells in the story “Forest and Steppe.” (3 min)

What conclusions can be drawn by analyzing the written words? Slide 25

( The sounds are varied, but the narrator also enjoys the silence. In one sentence you can read: “Everything is awake, and everything is silent”)

8. Listening to singing (5 min)

Lark Slide 26
Quail Slide 27
Robins Slide 28

What conclusions can be drawn by analyzing the expressions that define smells and tactile sensations in the story?

(The smell of herbs, hay, and flowers predominates. A person feels the touch of the wind, bush branches, moss, rye, flowers, a feeling of the elasticity of the earth, cold and heat)

Why does Turgenev describe not only the colors in the landscape, but also sounds and tactile sensations?

(This makes the image three-dimensional)

9. Human feelings (3 min)

Which feeling prevails? (joy)

What syntactic device does Turgenev use to describe a person’s feelings? (rhetorical questions and rhetorical exclamations)

What sentences bring the narrator and the reader closer? (rhetorical questions)

What other syntactic and lexical means of expression does Turgenev use? (metaphors, personification, comparisons, lexical repetition)

Pay attention to the extended metaphor in the “Late Autumn” part. (life is like a scroll)

Read it in context. What meaning does it take on?

10. Summarizing. (5 minutes)

- What is the topic of the lesson? Slide 29

What was the goal of the lesson? (understand the author’s main idea, as well as by what means he creates the work and conveys his thought to the reader) Slide 30

What is the main idea of Turgenev's story? (to show that only alone with nature can a person achieve inner harmony, alone with nature, he can get pleasure for the soul and the opportunity to reflect on life)

What hypothesis was put forward? Slide 31

Compare your thoughts about nature that you wrote at home with our conclusion.

What linguistic means of expression does Turgenev use? Slide 32

How is Turgenev’s skill as a landscape painter manifested in the story “Forest and Steppe”?

What is special about the use of color in this story?

Why doesn't Turgenev limit himself to just describing colors? (image volume)

Why did Turgenev place this work last in the “Notes of a Hunter” cycle?

11. Reflection. Slide 33 (3 min)

What new did you learn in the lesson?

What surprised you during the analysis?

What expression of Turgenev do you especially remember?

12. Homework. Slide 34 (1 min)

Essay “Man and nature in Turgenev’s story “Forest and Steppe.”

IN mid-19th century century, the magazine Sovremennik published stories by Ivan Turgenev from the series Notes of a Hunter. In 1852 they were published as a separate publication. Almost all the stories in the collection have a plot and dialogue. The only exception is the work "Forest and steppe". Critics, by the way, were never able to “agree” on his literary form. Some consider “Forest and Steppe” an essay, others insist that it is a story.

There is no direct speech in the work; the entire narrative is a monologue of the avid hunter Pyotr Petrovich Karataev. He - main character collection, an observant person, with progressive views, passionately loving his native nature. To a large extent, the hunter expresses the thoughts and feelings of the writer himself.

“Forest and Steppe” is a kind of epilogue to “Notes of a Hunter,” as well as a poetic hymn to Russian nature. The main text is preceded by an epigraph, which is very unusual for Turgenev's works. This is an excerpt from his own unpublished poem.

Turgenev is an unsurpassed master of landscape, as Belinsky enthusiastically wrote: “He loves nature not as an amateur, but as an artist.” It is difficult to find a writer whose landscapes would be so perfect. “There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; an autumn smell, similar to the smell of wine, is diffused in the soft air; a thin fog stands in the distance over the yellow fields. The damp earth is elastic underfoot.” In this short excerpt from the work “Forest and Steppe,” the author conveyed almost all the nuances of the perception of nature: color, movement, smell, sound, light, as well as tactile sensations (elastic earth). And the reader clearly sees a picture of late autumn.

For the image of beauty middle zone Russia, Ivan Sergeevich uses a variety of techniques, the widest palette of colors and shades, all the richness linguistic means: adverbs, simple and complex adjectives, verbs. For example, Turgenev’s sky "pale blue", "vaguely clear", then it "turns pale". Adjectives act not only as epithets, but also metaphors: "fiery sea of sunset", "lead streak in the sky", "golden stripes".

But Turgenev’s mastery is manifested not only in his filigree command of words. The description of nature is always captured by feeling and is directly related to the experiences of the characters. The element illuminates inner world person, affects his mood. In summer "it's fun to make your way along a narrow path", your heart flutters on a spring morning, and in the fall you are overwhelmed by bright memories. It is significant that the autumn landscape does not cause sadness in the author: the waters of the river rush joyfully, and it is easy and fun to stand naked in the grove.

Turgenev constantly personifies nature. His aspens are babbling, and the mighty oak tree looks like a strong fighter who demonstrates his power to the beautiful linden tree. The writer masterfully uses smells, the mention of which makes the landscape brighter, more colorful, and more emotional. We feel the fresh breath of spring or summer air, filled with buckwheat honey and the bitterness of wormwood so that our heads are dizzy from the fragrance. After a thunderstorm it smells like mushrooms and strawberries; in winter it’s nice to breathe in the sharp, frosty air.

And how diverse and "delicious" sounds! Here - the faint noise of night trees, the clanging of a scythe, the creaking of a cart, the golden voice of a robin and the silence of the forest. The horses snort, the watchman snores, the mill knocks, the dog barks loudly, the larks sing.

The work is woven from descriptions of forest, meadow and steppe landscapes in the early morning, at noon, at sunset and at moonrise. Turgenev admires hunting in all seasons. This technique allows the author to show the moment-to-moment beauty of the Russian landscape, to compositionally complete the work “Forest and Steppe,” as well as the entire collection. The result is a powerful and life-affirming chord of the hunting cycle. It can be briefly expressed in the words of the author himself: “Fresh, fun, love!”

“Forest and Steppe,” a summary of Turgenev’s story
“Fathers and Sons”, a summary of the chapters of Turgenev’s novel
“Fathers and Sons”, analysis of the novel by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
“First Love”, a summary of the chapters of Turgenev’s story

"was written in the period 1847 - 1874. The collection was first published as a separate edition in 1852.

The reader may already be bored with my notes; I hasten to reassure him with a promise to limit myself to printed passages; but, parting with him, I cannot help but say a few words about hunting.

Hunting with a gun and a dog is beautiful in itself, für sich, as they used to say in the old days; but suppose you were not born a hunter: you still love nature; you, therefore, cannot help but envy our brother... Listen.

Do you know, for example, what a pleasure it is to go out before dawn in the spring? You go out onto the porch... In the dark gray sky, stars twinkle here and there, a damp breeze occasionally comes in a light wave, a restrained, unclear whisper of the night is heard, the trees make a faint noise, bathed in shadow. They put a carpet on the cart and put a box with a samovar at its feet. Those who are attached shudder, snort and step their feet smartly; A pair of white geese that have just woken up silently and slowly move across the road. Behind the fence, in the garden, the watchman is snoring peacefully; every sound seems to stand in frozen air, stands and does not pass. So you sat down; the horses started off at once, the cart rattled loudly... You are driving - you are driving past the church, down the mountain to the right, across the dam... The pond is barely starting to smoke. You are a little cold, you cover your face with your hissing collar; you are dozing. The horses splash their feet noisily through the puddles; the coachman whistles. But now you’ve gone about four miles... The edge of the sky turns red; jackdaws wake up in the birch trees, awkwardly fly; sparrows chirp near the dark stacks. The air brightens, the road becomes clearer, the sky becomes clearer, the clouds turn white, the fields turn green. In the huts, splinters burn with red fire, and sleepy voices can be heard outside the gates. Meanwhile, the dawn flares up; now golden stripes stretch across the sky, steam swirls in the ravines; The larks sing loudly, the pre-dawn wind blows - and the crimson sun quietly rises. The light will just flow in like a stream; your heart will flutter like a bird. Fresh, fun, loving! You can see far all around. There's a village behind the grove; there is another one with a white church further away, there is a birch forest on the mountain; Behind it is a swamp, where you are going... Lively, horses, lively! At a fast trot forward!.. Three versts left, no more. The sun is rising quickly; the sky is clear... The weather will be nice. The herd reached out from the village towards you. You climbed the mountain... What a view! The river meanders for ten miles, dimly blue through the fog; behind it are watery green meadows; beyond the meadows there are gentle hills; in the distance, lapwings hover screaming over the swamp; through the damp shine diffused in the air, the distance clearly appears... not like in the summer. How freely the chest breathes, how cheerfully the limbs move, how the whole person grows stronger, embraced by the fresh breath of spring!..

And a summer, July morning! Who, besides the hunter, has experienced how pleasant it is to wander through the bushes at dawn? The trace of your feet lies like a green line across the dewy, whitened grass. If you part the wet bush, you will be bombarded with the accumulated warm smell of the night; the whole air is filled with the fresh bitterness of wormwood, buckwheat honey and “porridge”; In the distance, an oak forest stands like a wall and shines and turns red in the sun; It’s still fresh, but you can already feel the heat coming. The head is languidly spinning from the excess of fragrances. There is no end to the bush... Here and there, in the distance, ripening rye turns yellow, and buckwheat turns red in narrow stripes. The cart creaked; A man makes his way at a step, puts his horse in the shade in advance... You greeted him, walked away - the sonorous clang of a scythe can be heard behind you. The sun is getting higher and higher. The grass dries quickly. It's already getting hot. An hour passes, then another... The sky darkens around the edges; The still air swells with a prickly heat.

- Where can I get a drink here, brother? - you ask the mower.

- And there, in the ravine, is a well.

Through dense hazel bushes, tangled with tenacious grass, you descend to the bottom of the ravine. Exactly: right under the cliff there is a source; the oak bush greedily spread its clawed branches over the water; large silvery bubbles, swaying, rise from the bottom covered with fine, velvety moss. You throw yourself on the ground, you are drunk, but you are too lazy to move. You are in the shade, you breathe the odorous dampness; you feel good, but opposite you the bushes heat up and seem to turn yellow in the sun. But what is it? The wind suddenly came and rushed by; the air trembled all around: was it thunder? You are coming out of the ravine... what is that lead stripe in the sky? Is the heat getting thicker? Is a cloud approaching?.. But lightning flashed faintly... Eh, yes, it’s a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud grows: its front edge stretches out like a sleeve, tilts like an arch. The grass, the bushes, everything suddenly went dark... Hurry! over there, it seems, you can see the hay barn... quickly!.. You ran, entered... How is the rain? what are lightning? Here and there, through the thatched roof, water dripped onto the fragrant hay... But then the sun began to shine again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how cheerfully everything sparkles around, how fresh and liquid the air is, how it smells of strawberries and mushrooms!..

But then evening comes. The dawn burst into flames and engulfed half the sky. The sun is setting. The air nearby is somehow especially transparent, like glass; soft steam lies in the distance, warm in appearance; along with the dew, a scarlet shine falls onto the clearings, recently doused with streams of liquid gold; Long shadows ran from the trees, from the bushes, from the tall haystacks... The sun had set; the star has lit up and trembles in the fiery sea of sunset... Now it is turning pale; the sky turns blue; individual shadows disappear, the air fills with darkness. It's time to go home, to the village, to the hut where you spend the night. Throwing the gun over your shoulders, you walk quickly, despite your fatigue... Meanwhile, night comes; twenty steps away it’s no longer visible; the dogs barely turn white in the darkness. Over there, above the black bushes, the edge of the sky becomes vaguely clear... What is this? fire?.. No, it's the moon rising. And down below, to the right, the lights of the village are already flashing... Here is your hut at last. Through the window you see a table covered with a white tablecloth, a burning candle, dinner...

Otherwise, you’ll order a racing droshky and go into the forest to hunt hazel grouse. It's fun to make your way along the narrow path between two walls of tall rye. Ears of corn quietly hit you in the face, cornflowers cling to your legs, quails scream all around, the horse runs at a lazy trot. Here is the forest. Shadow and silence. Stately aspens they babble high above you; the long, hanging branches of the birches barely move; a mighty oak tree stands like a fighter next to a beautiful linden tree. You are driving along a green path dotted with shadows; large yellow flies hang motionless in the golden air and suddenly fly away; midges curl in a column, lighter in the shade, darker in the sun; the birds sing peacefully. The golden voice of the robin sounds with innocent, chatty joy: it goes to the smell of lilies of the valley. Further, further, deeper into the forest... The forest becomes deaf... An inexplicable silence sinks into the soul; and everything around is so drowsy and quiet. But then the wind came, and the tops rustled like falling waves. Here and there they grow through last year's brown leaves tall grass; The mushrooms stand separately under their caps. The hare will suddenly jump out, the dog will rush after him with a ringing bark...

And how good this same forest is late autumn when the woodcocks arrive! They do not stay in the middle of nowhere: you need to look for them along the edge of the forest. There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; an autumn smell, similar to the smell of wine, is diffused in the soft air; a thin fog stands in the distance over the yellow fields. Through the bare, brown branches of the trees the motionless sky peacefully whitens; Here and there the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; the tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glisten on the pale grass. The chest breathes calmly, but a strange anxiety enters the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look after the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, long-dormant impressions suddenly awaken; the imagination soars and flutters like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before the eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then it will irrevocably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly, like a scroll; A person owns all his past, all his feelings, his powers, his entire soul. And nothing around him bothers him - no sun, no wind, no noise...

And an autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when a birch tree, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in the pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than a summer one, a small aspen grove sparkles through and through, as if it is fun and easy for her to stand naked, the frost is still white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind gently stirs and drives away the fallen, warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, rhythmically lifting scattered geese and ducks; in the distance the mill knocks, half-hidden by willows, and, dappling the bright air, pigeons quickly circle above it...

Summer foggy days are also good, although hunters do not like them. On such days you cannot shoot: the bird, having fluttered out from under your feet, immediately disappears into the whitish darkness of the motionless fog. But how quiet, how inexpressibly quiet everything is all around! Everything is awake and everything is silent. You pass by a tree - it does not move: it luxuriates. Through the thin steam, evenly spread in the air, a long strip blackens in front of you. You take it for a nearby forest; you approach - the forest turns into a high bed of wormwood at the boundary. Above you, all around you, there is fog everywhere... But then the wind moves slightly - a piece of pale blue sky will vaguely appear through the thinning, as if smoky steam, a golden-yellow ray will suddenly burst in, flow in a long stream, hit the fields, rest against the grove - and now everything is clouded again. This struggle continues for a long time; But how unspeakably magnificent and clear the day becomes when the light finally triumphs and the last waves of warmed fog either roll down and spread like tablecloths, or soar and disappear into the deep, gently shining heights...

But now you are gathered in the departing field, in the steppe. You made your way about ten versts along country roads - finally, here’s a big one. Past endless carts, past inns with a hissing samovar under a canopy, wide open gates and a well, from one village to another, through vast fields, along green hemp fields, you drive for a long, long time. Magpies fly from willow to willow; women, with long rakes in their hands, wander into the field; a passerby in a worn nankeen caftan, with a knapsack over his shoulders, trudges along with a tired step; a heavy landowner's carriage, drawn by six tall and broken horses, is sailing towards you. The corner of a pillow sticks out of the window, and on the back of a bag, holding on to a string, sits sideways a footman in an overcoat, splashed to the very eyebrows. Here is a provincial town with wooden crooked houses, endless fences, merchant uninhabited stone buildings, an ancient bridge over a deep ravine... Further, further!.. Off to the steppe places. If you look from the mountain - what a view! Round, low hills, plowed and sown to the top, scatter in wide waves; ravines overgrown with bushes meander between them; small groves are scattered on oblong islands; Narrow paths run from village to village; churches turn white; between the vineyards the river sparkles, intercepted by dams in four places; far out in the field the wood sticks out in single file; an old manor house with its services, an orchard and a threshing floor nestled next to a small pond. But further, further you go. The hills are getting smaller and smaller, there is almost no tree to be seen. Here it is at last - the boundless, vast steppe!

And on a winter day, walking through high snowdrifts following hares, breathing in the frosty, sharp air, involuntarily squinting at the dazzling fine sparkle of soft snow, admiring green sky over the reddish forest!.. And the first spring days when everything around is shining and crumbling, through the heavy steam of melted snow there is already the smell of warmed earth, in the thawed patches, under the slanting ray of the sun, larks trustingly sing, and, with a cheerful noise and roar, streams swirl from ravine to ravine...

However, it's time to end. By the way, I started talking about spring: in spring it is easy to part, in spring even the happy are drawn into the distance... Farewell, reader; I wish you continued well-being.

Turgenev is known as the author of numerous landscape descriptions. Russian nature on the pages of his books comes to life before the reader’s mind’s eye. Turgenev writes: “...in nature itself there is nothing cunning and sophisticated, it never flaunts anything, does not flirt; in her very whims she is good-natured.” The origins of the writer's love for nature come from the place where the writer was born. His family nest in the Oryol region is Spasskoye-Lutovinovo. Landscape descriptions in “Notes of a Hunter” captivate many generations of readers.

Sensory space is the space of sensations. “There are... five nested sensory spaces: visual, auditory, olfactory, tactile and gustatory.” In accordance with this, we can distinguish sensory worlds directly related to experience life situations. “Within each sensory space, a certain fund of artifacts and stereotypes accumulates, a fund that allows you to own one or another sensory space. The fullness of being necessarily includes sensory fullness.”

Analysis of sensory spaces in Turgenev’s story “Forest and Steppe” from the series “Notes of a Hunter” allows us to feel the fusion of nature with the human soul. Character I.S. Turgenev lives every moment of his stay in nature with all the senses available to him, and here we completely agree with researcher K.S. Pigrov, who wrote: “The direct experience of the fullness of being is given not only and not so much rationally as emotionally... The emotional is the very content of life.” Since “the fullness of being necessarily includes everyday fullness,” I.S. Turgenev, setting out to convey happiness and fullness of life, could not ignore any of the sensations, accessible to man, and tried to reflect everything that a person experiences alone with nature.

The work begins with a landscape lyric poem. The musicality of the lyrics allows us to immerse ourselves in the sonic sensory space of nature. The musicality of I.S.’s prose is well known. Turgenev. No wonder in his novels they sound classical works. His works are filled with more than just instrumental music; musicality is also inherent in his short prose, and lies in nature itself. The reader is immersed in the sound sensory space, because it means no less than a visual description of the landscape, and the master of words understands this.

There are so many sounds of nature, and very few people here, except perhaps the snoring of a watchman or a conversation. We hear the rustling of trees from the wind, the sounds of a thunderstorm, rain, the singing and chirping of birds, the snorting of horses... How magnificent nature is in Turgenev’s story, and how small a particle is man represented here! There are fewer and fewer such magnificent landscapes left in our time. And Turgenev’s story immerses us in a forgotten, but somehow familiar picture from childhood.

Most of all, the author likes the silence of the forest and the individual sounds that arise against its background: “But then the wind came, and the tops rustled like falling waves”; “The hare will suddenly jump out, the dog will rush after him with a ringing bark...” These sounds are reflected, an echo appears: “Every sound seems to stand in frozen air, stands and does not pass.” This is how the writer conveys the grandeur and spaciousness of the Russian national landscape.

Russian nature, like any other, is characterized by certain visual images. These are the plants that the author lists: linden, lilies of the valley, willows over the water, oak, nettle, rye, and this whole landscape is illuminated sun rays. Such a landscape is unique to Russian nature and is an important component of the national picture of the world.

The basis of the visual space of the story is the color palette and light. The writer masterfully uses various shades, lighting, shading, evening and night lighting. Soviet writer I.A. Novikov called this organization of visual space “Turgenev’s chiaroscuro.”

The stunning harmony of light and shadow is conveyed by I.S. Turgenev: “the trees make a faint noise, bathed in shadow”; “the light will just flow like a stream”; “the sky is darkening at the edges; the air nearby is somehow especially transparent; individual shadows disappear, the air fills with darkness.”

The color palette is also very rich in shades, making possible an extreme breadth and versatility of color associations. The sensations and emotions evoked by a color are traditionally caused by an object or phenomenon that is constantly painted in that color. Such associations may be archetypal or innate. For example, light colors are a priori perceived by a person as light, and dark colors as heavy.

The predominant colors in the story by I.S. Turgenev are red, white, blue, yellow and green, as well as their many shades: scarlet, crimson, reddish, fiery; watery green; lead, pale blue, cornflower blue, brown, silver; golden yellow, golden, golden. The palette of the story is close to the color traditions of Russian icon painting. Yellow, or gold, in Russian iconography is a symbol of the Divine presence, heavenly light. White color symbolizes innocent purity, holiness, the radiance of Divine glory. The color red can symbolize the martyrdom and humanity of Christ. Blue and light blue colors symbolize eternity, mystery, wisdom, depth. Green is the color of harmony and eternal life. Light colors predominate; there are practically no dark, “heavy” colors in the story.

Thus, the peculiarity of Turgenev’s palette lies in its airiness, “watercolor”, and lightness of colors. The writer is a master of halftones, the finest shades, color shifts. He does not use sharp, defined colors, clear, rough lines.

If it is easy to find equivalents of visual and auditory images, then the space of smell, the space of touch are completely different worlds. It is difficult to find forms that can capture these sensations. “Touch in all its existentially significant diversity, as far as I know, has not yet been cataloged at all... Artifacts in all these contact (or intermediate, like smell) sensory spaces are problematic.” Many writers and poets try to artistically comprehend and convey the world of smells, but not everyone succeeds. But I.S. Turgenev copes with this task with ease.

Turgenev's landscapes are lively and realistic, tangibly concrete. This is created thanks to the tactile and olfactory “saturation” of nature’s pictures. The artist of the word masterfully conveys the summer morning heat and night freshness, the spring wind and the frosty winter air felt by the character. We conditionally divided all tactile, tactile and emotional sensations into 4 groups: temperature, emotional, characterizing the mental and physical state.

Temperature sensations: “You’re a little cold,” “I feelthe heat is approaching”, “it has already become hot”, “the still air is filled with a prickly heat”, “the heat is thickening”, “how the air is fresh and liquid”; “soft steam, warm in appearance”, “frosty, sharp air”.

Emotional sensations: “your heart will flutter like a bird”; “fresh, fun, love!”; “What a pleasure it is to go out before dawn in the spring.”

Physical state and physical sensations: “How freely the chest breathes, how cheerfully the limbs move, how the whole person grows stronger, embraced by the fresh breath of spring!..”; “The chest breathes calmly.”

Mental condition: “you are dozing”, “laziness will stir", "a strange uneasiness comes over my soul."

The group of temperature sensations is the most widely represented. Turgenev describes the smallest changes in weather, be it heat, steam or air.

The story is imbued with a feeling of admiration for the beauty of Russian nature. It gives rise in a person not only a feeling of beauty, but also philosophical reflections about the grandeur of the universe: “you walk along the edge of the forest, look after the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, long-dormant impressions suddenly awaken ... All life unfolds easily and quickly, like a scroll; A person owns all his past, all his feelings, all his powers, all his soul.”

We completely agree with L.A. Krylova, who notes: “Everything earthly and living in its many manifestations, fragmented into separate smells, sounds, colors is an independent subject of the writer’s depiction, suggesting not only the inextricable unity of man and nature, but also the memory of the culture of the past.”

Not every modern man can experience merging with nature. And we can state that most of humanity is in a state of sensory hunger, that is, emotional hunger. Hence - acute dissatisfaction with life, the fatal disappearance of the feeling of the fullness of being. Immersing yourself in the world created by the writer, “you see not only the landscape of the soul of a Russian person, but the sensory inclusion of the existence of nature in the human world.” The Russian landscape can be understood by a person spiritually connected with culture and tradition.

Bibliography:

Pigrov K.S. Philosophy in sensory spaces // Sounding philosophy. Collection of conference materials. – St. Petersburg, 2006. P.147-158.
Krylova L.A. Sensory spaces Russian estate in the story by I.A. Bunin "Antonov apples". // Philological sciences / 1. Methods of teaching language and literature.
Turgenev I.S. Complete collection of works and letters in thirty volumes. T. 3. M.: "Science", 1979.

Turgenev I.S.

And little by little it started back
To pull him: to the village, to the dark garden,
Where the linden trees are so huge and so shady,
And the lilies of the valley are so virginally fragrant,
Where are the round willows above the water?
A line of people leaned down from the dam,
Where a fat oak tree grows above a fat cornfield,
Where it smells like hemp and nettles...
There, there, in the wild fields,
Where the earth turns black like velvet,
Where is the rye, wherever you cast your eyes,
Flows quietly in soft waves.
And a heavy yellow ray falls
Because of the transparent, white, round clouds;
It's good there................................................ ........

(From a poem dedicated to burning.)

The reader may already be bored with my notes; I hasten to reassure him with a promise to limit myself to printed passages; but, parting with him, I cannot help but say a few words about hunting.

Hunting with a gun and a dog is beautiful in itself, fur sich, as they used to say in the old days; but suppose you were not born a hunter: you still love nature; you, therefore, cannot help but envy our brother... Listen.

Do you know, for example, what a pleasure it is to go out before dawn in the spring? You go out onto the porch... In the dark gray sky, stars are blinking here and there; a damp breeze occasionally comes in a light wave; the restrained, indistinct whisper of the night is heard; the trees make a faint noise, bathed in shadow. They put a carpet on the cart and put a box with a samovar at its feet. Those who are attached shudder, snort and step their feet smartly; A pair of white geese that have just woken up silently and slowly move across the road. Behind the fence, in the garden, the watchman is snoring peacefully; every sound seems to stand in frozen air, stands and does not pass. So you sat down; the horses started off at once, the cart rattled loudly... You are driving - you are driving past the church, down the mountain to the right, across the dam... The pond is barely starting to smoke. You are a little cold, you cover your face with your hissing collar; you are dozing. The horses splash their feet noisily through the puddles; the coachman whistles. But now you’ve gone about four miles... The edge of the sky turns red; jackdaws wake up in the birch trees, awkwardly fly; sparrows chirp near the dark stacks. The air brightens, the road becomes clearer, the sky becomes clearer, the clouds turn white, the fields turn green. In the huts, splinters burn with red fire, and sleepy voices can be heard outside the gates. Meanwhile, the dawn flares up; now golden stripes stretch across the sky, steam swirls in the ravines; The larks sing loudly, the pre-dawn wind blows - and the crimson sun quietly rises. The light will just flow in like a stream; your heart will flutter like a bird. Fresh, fun, loving! You can see far all around. There's a village behind the grove; there is another one with a white church further away, there is a birch forest on the mountain; Behind it is a swamp, where you are going... Lively, horses, lively! At a fast trot forward!.. Three versts left, no more. The sun is rising quickly; the sky is clear... The weather will be nice. The herd reached out from the village towards you. You climbed the mountain... What a view! The river meanders for ten miles, dimly blue through the fog; behind it are watery green meadows; beyond the meadows there are gentle hills; in the distance, lapwings hover screaming over the swamp; through the damp shine diffused in the air, the distance clearly appears... not like in the summer. How freely the chest breathes, how cheerfully the limbs move, how the whole person grows stronger, embraced by the fresh breath of spring!..

Where can I get a drink here, brother? - you ask the mower.

And there, in the ravine, is a well.

Otherwise, you’ll order a racing droshky and go into the forest to hunt hazel grouse. It's fun to make your way along the narrow path between two walls of tall rye. Ears of corn quietly hit you in the face, cornflowers cling to your legs, quails scream all around, the horse runs at a lazy trot. Here is the forest. Shadow and silence. Stately aspens babble high above you; the long, hanging branches of the birches barely move; a mighty oak tree stands like a fighter next to a beautiful linden tree. You are driving along a green path dotted with shadows; large yellow flies hang motionless in the golden air and suddenly fly away; midges curl in a column, lighter in the shade, darker in the sun; the birds sing peacefully. The golden voice of the robin sounds with innocent, chatty joy: it goes to the smell of lilies of the valley. Further, further, deeper into the forest... The forest becomes deaf... An inexplicable silence sinks into the soul; and everything around is so drowsy and quiet. But then the wind came, and the tops rustled like falling waves. Tall grasses grow here and there through last year's brown leaves; The mushrooms stand separately under their caps. The hare will suddenly jump out, the dog will rush after him with a ringing bark...

And how beautiful this same forest is in late autumn, when the woodcocks arrive! They do not stay in the middle of nowhere: you need to look for them along the edge of the forest. There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; an autumn smell, similar to the smell of wine, is diffused in the soft air; a thin fog stands in the distance over the yellow fields. Through the bare, brown branches of the trees the motionless sky peacefully whitens; Here and there the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; the tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glisten on the pale grass. The chest breathes calmly, but a strange anxiety enters the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look after the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, long-dormant impressions suddenly awaken; the imagination soars and flutters like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before the eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then it will irrevocably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly, like a scroll; A person owns all his past, all his feelings, his powers, his entire soul. And nothing around him bothers him - no sun, no wind, no noise...

Summer foggy days are also good, although hunters do not like them. On such days you cannot shoot: the bird, having fluttered out from under your feet, immediately disappears into the whitish darkness of the motionless fog. But how quiet, how inexpressibly quiet everything is all around! Everything is awake and everything is silent. You pass by a tree - it does not move: it luxuriates. Through the thin steam, evenly spread in the air, a long strip blackens in front of you. You take it for a nearby forest; you approach - the forest turns into a high bed of wormwood at the boundary. Above you, all around you, there is fog everywhere... But then the wind moves slightly - a piece of pale blue sky will vaguely appear through the thinning, like smoky steam, a golden-yellow ray will suddenly burst in, flow in a long stream, hit the fields, rest against the grove - and now everything is clouded again. This struggle continues for a long time; But how unspeakably magnificent and clear the day becomes when the light finally triumphs and the last waves of warmed fog either roll down and spread like tablecloths, or soar and disappear into the deep, gently shining heights...

But now you are gathered in the departing field, in the steppe. You made your way about ten versts along country roads - finally, here is a big one. Past endless carts, past inns with a hissing samovar under a canopy, wide open gates and a well, from one village to another, through vast fields, along green hemp fields, you drive for a long, long time. Magpies fly from willow to willow; women, with long rakes in their hands, wander into the field; a passerby in a worn nankeen caftan, with a knapsack over his shoulders, trudges along with a tired step; a heavy landowner's carriage, drawn by six tall and broken horses, is sailing towards you. The corner of a pillow sticks out of the window, and on the back of a bag, holding on to a string, sits sideways a footman in an overcoat, splashed to the very eyebrows. Here is a provincial town with wooden crooked houses, endless fences, merchant uninhabited stone buildings, an ancient bridge over a deep ravine... Further, further!.. Off to the steppe places. If you look from the mountain - what a view! Round, low hills, plowed and sown to the top, scatter in wide waves; ravines overgrown with bushes meander between them; small groves are scattered on oblong islands; Narrow paths run from village to village; churches turn white; between the vineyards the river sparkles, intercepted by dams in four places; far out in the field the wood sticks out in single file; an old manor house with its services, an orchard and a threshing floor nestled next to a small pond. But further, further you go. The hills are getting smaller and smaller, there is almost no tree to be seen. Here it is at last - the boundless, vast steppe!

And on a winter day, walking through high snowdrifts following hares, breathing in the frosty, sharp air, involuntarily squinting at the dazzling fine sparkle of soft snow, admiring the green color of the sky over the reddish forest!.. And the first spring days, when everything around shines and collapses, through the heavy the steam of melted snow already smells of warmed earth, in the thawed patches, under the slanting ray of the sun, larks trustingly sing, and, with a cheerful noise and roar, streams swirl from ravine to ravine...

Diagnostics and diseases. Medicines from A to Z

Ivan Turgenev - forest and steppe. Forest and steppe (Turgenev I.S.) Forest and steppe Turgenev problem