The small village of Kolotovka lies on the slope of a bare hill, dissected by a deep ravine that winds through the very middle of the street. A few steps from the beginning of the ravine there is a small quadrangular hut, covered with straw. This is the “Pritynny” tavern. It is visited much more willingly than other establishments, and the reason for this is the kisser Nikolai Ivanovich. This unusually fat, gray-haired man with a swollen face and slyly good-natured eyes has been living in Kolotovka for more than 20 years. Not being particularly polite or talkative, he has the gift of attracting guests and knows a lot about everything that is interesting to a Russian person. He knows about everything that happens in the area, but he never spills the beans.
Nikolai Ivanovich enjoys respect and influence among his neighbors. He is married and has children. His wife is a lively, sharp-nosed, quick-eyed bourgeois, Nikolai Ivanovich relies on her for everything, and the loud-mouthed drunkards are afraid of her. Nikolai Ivanovich's children took after their parents - smart and healthy guys.
It was a hot July day when, tormented by thirst, I approached the Pritynny tavern. Suddenly, a tall, gray-haired man appeared on the threshold of the tavern and began to call someone, waving his hands. A short, fat and lame man with a sly expression on his face, nicknamed Morgach, responded to him. From the conversation between Morgach and his friend Obolduy, I understood that a singing competition was being started in the tavern. The best singer in the area, Yashka Turok, will show his skills.
Quite a lot of people had already gathered in the tavern, including Yashka, a thin and slender man of about 23 years old with large gray eyes and light brown curls. Standing next to him was a broad-shouldered man of about 40 with black shiny hair and a fierce, thoughtful expression on his Tatar face. His name was Wild Master. Opposite him sat Yashka's rival - a clerk from Zhizdra, a stocky, short man of about 30, pockmarked and curly-haired, with a blunt nose, brown eyes and a thin beard. The Wild Master was in charge of the action.
Before describing the competition, I want to say a few words about those gathered in the tavern. Evgraf Ivanov, or Stunned, was a bachelor on a spree. He could neither sing nor dance, but not a single drinking party was complete without him - his presence was endured as a necessary evil. Morgach's past was unclear, they only knew that he was a coachman for a lady, became a clerk, was released and became rich. This is an experienced person with his own mind, neither good nor evil. His entire family consists of a son who took after his father. Yakov, who was descended from a captured Turkish woman, was an artist at heart, and by rank he was a scooper at a paper factory. No one knew where the Wild Master (Perevlesov) came from and how he lived. This gloomy man lived without needing anyone and enjoyed enormous influence. He did not drink wine, did not date women, and was passionate about singing.
The clerk was the first to sing. He sang a dance song with endless decorations and transitions, which brought a smile from the Wild Master and the stormy approval of the rest of the listeners. Yakov began with excitement. In his voice there was deep passion, and youth, and strength, and sweetness, and fascinatingly carefree, sad grief. The Russian soul sounded in him and grabbed his heart. Tears appeared in everyone's eyes. The rower himself admitted defeat.
I left the tavern, so as not to spoil the impression, got to the hayloft and fell fast asleep. In the evening, when I woke up, the tavern was already celebrating Yashka’s victory with might and main. I turned away and began to walk down the hill on which Kolotovka lies.
Tenth graders analyze the text of I. Turgenev
Analysis of the story “Singers”
The story “The Singers” is part of Turgenev’s series of stories “Notes of a Hunter,” in which the narration is told from the perspective of a nobleman hunter. The central event of the “Singers” is the singing competition between Yakov Turk, a dredger from a paper mill, and a row worker from Zhizdra. But, before talking about the competition, the narrator gives several long descriptions of the scene - the village of Kolotovka: “The small village of Kolotovka<...>lies on the slope of a bare hill, cut from top to bottom by a terrible ravine, which, gaping like an abyss, winds, dug up and washed out, along the very middle of the street.” The wretchedness of the surroundings causes the narrator excruciating boredom, but it turns out that all the surrounding residents “are well aware of the road to Kolotovka: they go there willingly and often.” The reason for this is the owner of the tavern, the kisser Nikolai Ivanovich. It would seem that if Nikolai Ivanovich attracts people to a place like Kolotovka, then there must be something wonderful about it. Turgenev intrigues the reader by saying that Nikolai Ivanovich had “a special gift for attracting and keeping guests,” and gives a very detailed portrait of him, in which there is nothing remarkable and even a touch of comedy: “an unusually fat, already gray-haired man with a tear-stained face" were thin legs! On the one hand, the description of the kisser, his family, and habits creates the impression that Nikolai Ivanovich is one of the main characters (and later it turns out that N.I. takes almost no part in the action at all!), on the other hand, there is a detailed portrait of N. I., “pictures of the village”, “which at no time of the year presented a pleasant sight”, slowly build up tension. The word itself voltage appears in several places: approaching the tavern, the hunter arouses “tense, meaningless contemplation” in the children he meets; from the thin lips of Morgach, leaving the hut, “a tense smile did not leave, already in the tavern, when they drew lots for who would sing first,” “all the faces expressed tense expectation” (this “tense expectation” is expressed through the appearance of the heroes: “the Wild Master himself squinted, the little man in the tattered scroll craned his neck”).
It is characteristic that the narrator describes the rowdy’s singing objectively, without saying anything about his emotions, but only about the reaction to the singing of those around him. And when talking about Yakov’s song, the narrator describes his feelings, and they coincide with the feelings of the rest of the listeners: “I felt tears boiling in my heart and rising to my eyes;<...>I looked around - the kisser’s wife was crying, leaning her chest against the window.” Yakov’s song unites all the visitors to the tavern; the narrator, being a nobleman, says “we” to himself and ordinary men: “this sound had a strange effect on all of us.”
The rower’s song is neither lexically nor emotionally separated from the rest of the text of the story: “So, the rower stepped forward and sang in the highest falsetto.” For the rower himself, the singing did not evoke feelings; and he is worried only because he is afraid that the listeners will not like him. Yakov, when he came out, “was silent, covered himself with his hand, and when he opened his face, it was pale, like a dead man’s.” After Yakov’s song, the listeners remain silent for some time: they were so amazed by the singing. Thus, Jacob's song is separated on both sides from the rest of the text by "excited silence."
The clerk’s voice was “rather pleasant and sweet,” in Yakov’s voice “there was genuine deep passion, youth, strength, sweetness, and some kind of fascinating, carefree, sad sorrow.” Sweetness is the essence of the rower’s voice and only one of the shades of Yakov’s multifaceted voice. It is interesting that the narrator calls the rower “Russian tenore di grazia, tenore leger” (which in itself is quite contradictory), and Yakov’s voice contained a “Russian, truthful, ardent soul.” The rower's voice waved like a top, Yakov's voice evokes in the narrator's memory a completely different image - the image of a seagull on the seashore.
The rower, trying to please, “simply went out of his way”; Yakov, timid at first, began to sing and “surrendered himself entirely to his happiness.” Singing is happiness for Yakov; he doesn’t try to please anyone, he just sings.
After a while, the narrator comes to the window of the tavern and sees a drunken Yakov, humming “some kind of dance song in a hoarse voice.” Having drunk, Yakov becomes like the rower who sang the same dance song during the competition in the same hoarse voice.
The narrator, going down the hill, hears a boy shout: “Antropka! Antropka-ah! There is “joyful anger” in his voice, and on this note the story ends.
The entire story “The Singers” is built on sounds located symmetrically in mood around Yakov’s song: “the angry barking of a dog” – “the dance song of a rower with a somewhat hoarse voice” – Yakov’s song – the dance song of the hoarse Yakov – the cry of a boy, in which there is a sound of “joyful anger " The sound does not disappear; the narrator first “sounded in his ears for a long time the irresistible voice of Yakov,” and then the boy’s cry for a long time “seemed to him in the air.”
“The Singers” is a picture of a world in which there is a miracle of creativity, and the wretchedness of life, and anger, and the opportunity to see beauty in such a life.
Olga VAKHRUSHEVA
10th grade,
School No. 57, Moscow
Analysis of the story “Singers”
(fragment)
The story “Singers” is part of the cycle by I.S. Turgenev "Notes of a Hunter". The peculiarity of these stories is that we are captivated by vivid descriptions: landscapes, portraits, stories of heroes. The narrator tells the story slowly, thoroughly, without missing a single detail.
In “The Singers,” he tells a simple story, but when you look closely, you notice that this story contains a living picture of the world. The singing of Yashka the Turk is the very moment when the story goes beyond its narrow boundaries. The descriptions before and after the song are in stark contrast to each other.
The landscape in the first part, before the singing, expresses melancholy and despondency: “The sun flared up in the sky, as if growing fierce, soared and burned relentlessly, the air was almost completely saturated with stifling dust.” All sounds and human voices are muffled: Morgach “babbled,... raising his thick eyebrows with effort...”, “a rattling voice was heard.” All actions are slowed down: “Oh, brother, you’re crawling, that’s right.” The colors are local, boring, expressing the deadness of everything around: “...at the very bottom, dry and yellow as copper, lie huge slabs of clay stone.”
In the second part, everything changes dramatically, poetry, movement, poetic images appear, such as a seagull, a swimmer, the steppe. The colors become brighter, the descriptions become more detailed: “in the dark blue sky, some small, bright lights seemed to be spinning through the finest, almost black dust.” Everything was transformed: “When I woke up, the scattered grass around was a little damp, pale stars were faintly blinking through the thin poles of the half-open roof. I went out, the dawn had long gone out, and the last trace was barely white in the sky...” If at first “the air was all saturated with stuffy dust,” now the trail of dawn “barely turned white,” the stars “blinked faintly,” and the warmth remaining from the night’s heat “was felt through the night’s freshness.”
In describing the daytime, sultry nature, the narrator’s gaze moves from top to bottom, as if imitating the sheep, which “with sad patience bow their heads as low as possible, as if waiting for this unbearable heat to pass.” After the singing of Yashka the Turk, the gaze not only rises upward to the sky, but its range also expands: “it (the plain) seemed even more vast and seemed to merge with the darkened sky.” ………………
Anastasia SOROTOKINA
10th grade,
School No. 57, Moscow
Turgenev wrote the story “The Singers” in 1850. The work is included in the collection of essays by the writer “Notes of a Hunter.”
Main characters
Narrator- landowner, hunter; The story is narrated on his behalf.
Yashka the Turk– 23 years old, “thin and slender”; “descended from a captured Turkish woman.”
Ryadchik- 30 years old, man from Zhizdra, “short, pockmarked and curly-haired.”
Other characters
Nikolay Ivanovich- tselovalnik (as the seller in the tavern was previously called), owner of the "Prytynny" tavern.
Wild Master (Perevlesov)– 40 years old, “broad-shouldered, wide-cheeked” with Tatar eyes.
Stupid (Evgraf Ivanov)- “a spree, single man”, whom the gentlemen abandoned.
Morgach– tradesman, former coachman; “a grated kalach who knows people.”
In the small village of Kolotovka, lying on the “slope of a bare hill”, a small hut stood separately from the others - the “Prytynny” tavern. It was famous thanks to its owner, the kisser Nikolai Ivanovich.
Nikolai Ivanovich was “quick and quick-witted” and had the gift of “attracting and keeping guests.” He knew a lot about everything that was “important or interesting for a Russian person.” Nikolai Ivanovich was respected by his neighbors, he was a “man of influence,” he had a wife and children.
On a hot July day, the narrator decided to go to a tavern. Even on the threshold I heard the men talking about how Turok-Yashka and the rower would compete in singing - they had bet on an octam of beer. The narrator has heard more than once about Yashka the Turk “as the best singer in the area.”
In the tavern “a fairly large society had gathered,” which the narrator describes in detail. The stunner had no position, did not receive a salary, but knew how to “have fun at someone else’s expense.” It was known about Morgach that “he was once a coachman” for an old lady, he ran away from her, then returned, after the death of the landowner he was released, registered as a bourgeois and soon became rich. Yakov the Turk “was like an artist,<…>and by rank - a scooper at a paper mill." The past of the Wild Master was unknown, but the man “enjoyed enormous influence throughout the entire district.”
The narrator noticed that Yashka was worried. To determine who would sing first, lots were cast. It fell to the rower. The rower stepped forward and “sang in the highest falsetto.” “His voice was quite pleasant and sweet.” The rower sang a cheerful dance song. Those present sang along with him and afterwards praised him very much.
Next we should sing to Yakov. He covered his face with his hand, and when he opened it, “it was pale, like a dead man’s.” Sighing, Yakov started a mournful song, “There was more than one path in the field.” His voice “ringed as if cracked.” “The Russian, truthful, ardent soul sounded and breathed in him and grabbed you by the heart, grabbed you right by its Russian strings.” The narrator's eyes welled up with tears. Everyone understood that Yakov had won.
In order not to spoil the impression, the narrator went to sleep in the hayloft. At night, passing by the tavern again, he heard that the festivities were continuing there - Yakov was singing some kind of dance song. The narrator “with quick steps began to descend from the hill on which Kolotovka lies,” from a distance some boy loudly called Antropka.
Conclusion
The story “The Singers” is written in the tradition of realism (a trend in Russian literature). In the work, the author touches on the theme of folk art that exists in the ordinary, dark life of peasants.
Story test
Test your memorization summary test:
Retelling rating
Average rating: 4.1. Total ratings received: 1038.
The small village of Kolotovka, which once belonged to a landowner, nicknamed Stryganikha in the neighborhood for her dashing and lively disposition (her real name remains unknown), and now owned by some St. Petersburg German, lies on the slope of a bare hill, cut from top to bottom by a terrible ravine, which, gaping like an abyss, it winds, dug up and washed away, in the very middle of the street and more than the river - at least you can build a bridge across the river - separating both sides of the poor village. Several skinny willow trees timidly descend along its sandy sides; at the very bottom, dry and yellow as copper, lie huge slabs of clay stone. It’s a gloomy look, there’s nothing to say, but meanwhile all the surrounding residents know the road to Kolotovka well: they go there willingly and often. At the very head of the ravine, a few steps from the point where it begins with a narrow crack, there is a small quadrangular hut, standing alone, separate from the others. It is thatched, with a chimney; one window, like a watchful eye, faces the ravine and on winter evenings, illuminated from the inside, is visible far away in the dim fog of frost and twinkles as a guiding star to more than one passing peasant. There is a blue board nailed above the door of the hut: this hut is a tavern, nicknamed “Pritynny”. In this tavern, wine is probably not sold cheaper than the stated price, but it is visited much more diligently than all the surrounding establishments of the same kind. The reason for this is the kisser Nikolai Ivanovich. Nikolai Ivanovich - once a slender, curly and ruddy guy, now an unusually fat, already graying man with a swollen face, slyly good-natured eyes and a fat forehead, tied with wrinkles like threads - has been living in Kolotovka for more than twenty years. Nikolai Ivanovich is a quick and quick-witted man, like most of the kissers. Not being particularly polite or talkative, he has the gift of attracting and retaining guests who find it somehow fun to sit in front of his counter, under the calm and friendly, although watchful gaze of the phlegmatic owner. He has a lot of common sense; he is well acquainted with the life of a landowner, a peasant, and a bourgeois; in difficult cases, he could give intelligent advice, but, as a cautious and selfish person, he prefers to remain on the sidelines and, perhaps, with distant hints, as if without any intention, leads his visitors - and even his beloved visitors - to the path of truth. He knows a lot about everything that is important or interesting for a Russian person: horses and cattle, timber, bricks, dishes, red goods and leather goods, songs and dances. When he does not have a visit, he usually sits like a sack on the ground in front of the door of his hut, with his thin legs tucked under him, and exchanges affectionate words with all passers-by. He has seen a lot in his life, has outlived dozens of small nobles who came to him for “purified” things, knows everything that is going on a hundred miles around, and never blurts out, does not even show that he knows something that he does not the most perceptive police officer suspects. Know that he is silent, but chuckles, and moves his glasses. His neighbors respect him: civilian General Shcherepetenko, the first-ranking owner in the district, bows condescendingly to him every time he passes by his house. Nikolai Ivanovich is a man of influence: he forced a famous horse thief to return a horse that he had taken from the yard of one of his friends, brought some sense to the peasants of a neighboring village who did not want to accept a new manager, etc. However, one should not think that he did this out of love for justice, out of zeal for others - no! He simply tries to prevent everything that could somehow disturb his peace of mind. Nikolai Ivanovich is married and has children. His wife, a lively, sharp-nosed and quick-eyed bourgeois, Lately She also became somewhat heavier in body, like her husband. He relies on her for everything, and she has the money under the key. Screaming drunkards are afraid of her; she doesn’t like them: there is little benefit from them, but there is a lot of noise; silent, gloomy ones are more to her heart. Nikolai Ivanovich's children are still small; the first ones all died, but the remaining ones took after their parents: it’s fun to look at the smart faces of these healthy kids. It was an unbearably hot July day when I, slowly moving my legs, together with my dog, climbed along the Kolotovsky ravine in the direction of the Prytynny tavern. The sun flared up in the sky, as if becoming fierce; it steamed and burned relentlessly; the air was completely saturated with stifling dust. Glossy rooks and crows, with their noses open, looked pitifully at those passing by, as if asking for their fate; Only the sparrows did not grieve and, fluffing their feathers, chirped and fought even more furiously over the fences, took off in unison from the dusty road, and hovered like gray clouds over the green hemp fields. Thirst tormented me. There was no water nearby: in Kolotovka, as in many other steppe villages, the men, lacking keys and wells, drink some kind of liquid mud from the pond... But who would call this disgusting swill water? I wanted to ask Nikolai Ivanovich for a glass of beer or kvass. Frankly, at no time of the year does Kolotovka present a pleasant sight; but it arouses a particularly sad feeling when the sparkling July sun with its inexorable rays floods the brown half-swept roofs of houses, and this deep ravine, and the scorched, dusty pasture along which thin, long-legged hens hopelessly wander, and the gray aspen frame with holes instead of windows, the remnant of the former manor's house, all around overgrown with nettles, weeds and wormwood, and covered with goose down, black, like a hot pond, with a border of half-dried mud and a dam knocked to one side, near which, on the finely trampled, ash-like ground, sheep, barely breathing and sneezing from the heat , they sadly crowd together and with sad patience bow their heads as low as possible, as if waiting for this unbearable heat to finally pass. With tired steps I approached Nikolai Ivanovich’s home, arousing, as usual, amazement in the children, reaching the point of tense, meaningless contemplation, indignation in the dogs, expressed by barking so hoarse and angry that it seemed that their entire insides were being torn off, and They themselves were coughing and choking when suddenly a tall man appeared on the threshold of the tavern, without a hat, in a frieze overcoat, belted low with a blue sash. In appearance he seemed like a courtyard; Thick gray hair rose in disarray over his dry and wrinkled face. He was calling to someone, hastily moving his arms, which apparently were swinging much further than he himself wanted. It was noticeable that he had already had a drink. - Go, go! - he babbled, raising his thick eyebrows with effort, - go, Morgach, go! How are you, brother, crawling, really? This is not good, brother. They are waiting for you here, and here you are crawling... Go. “Well, I’m coming, I’m coming,” a rattling voice was heard, and from behind the hut to the right a short, fat and lame man appeared. He was wearing a rather neat cloth jacket, threaded onto one sleeve; a tall, pointed hat, pulled straight down over his eyebrows, gave his round, plump face a sly and mocking expression. His small yellow eyes kept darting around, a restrained, tense smile never left his thin lips, and his nose, sharp and long, impudently pushed forward like a steering wheel. “I’m coming, my dear,” he continued, hobbling in the direction of the drinking establishment, “why are you calling me?.. Who’s waiting for me?” - Why am I calling you? - said the man in the frieze overcoat reproachfully. - What a wonderful little brother you are, Morgach: they call you to the tavern, and you still ask why. And all the good people are waiting for you: Turk-Yashka, and Wild Master, and the clerk from Zhizdra. Yashka and the rower made a bet: they set an octagon of beer - whoever defeats who will sing better, that is... you understand? - Will Yashka sing? - the man nicknamed Morgach said with liveliness. - And you’re not lying, Stupid? “I’m not lying,” answered Stunned with dignity, “but you’re lying.” Therefore, he will sing, if he made a bet, ladybug You are such a rogue, Morgach! “Well, let’s go, simplicity,” Morgach objected. “Well, at least kiss me, my soul,” babbled Stunned, opening his arms wide. “Look, Ezop is effeminate,” Morgach answered contemptuously, pushing him away with his elbow, and both, bending down, entered the low door. The conversation I heard greatly aroused my curiosity. More than once I had heard rumors about Yashka the Turk as the best singer in the area, and suddenly I had the opportunity to hear him in competition with another master. I doubled my steps and entered the establishment. Probably not many of my readers have had the opportunity to look into village taverns: but our brother, the hunter, where he does not go! Their design is extremely simple. They usually consist of a dark entryway and a white hut, divided in two by a partition, behind which no visitor has the right to enter. In this partition, above the wide oak table, a large longitudinal hole was made. Wine is sold on this table, or stand. Sealed damasks of different sizes stand in a row on shelves, directly opposite the hole. In the front part of the hut, provided to visitors, there are benches, two or three empty barrels, and a corner table. Village taverns are for the most part quite dark, and you will almost never see on their log walls any brightly colored popular prints, which few huts can do without. When I entered the Prytynny tavern, a fairly large crowd had already gathered there. Behind the counter, as usual, almost the entire width of the opening, stood Nikolai Ivanovich, in a motley cotton shirt, and, with a lazy grin on his plump cheeks, poured with his full and white hand two glasses of wine to his friends who came in, Blink and Stunned; and behind him, in the corner, near the window, his sharp-eyed wife could be seen. In the middle of the room stood Yashka the Turk, a thin and slender man of about twenty-three, dressed in a long-skirted blue nankeen caftan. He looked like a dashing factory fellow and, it seemed, could not boast of excellent health. His sunken cheeks, large restless gray eyes, a straight nose with thin, mobile nostrils, a white sloping forehead with light brown curls thrown back, large but beautiful, expressive lips - his whole face revealed an impressionable and passionate man. He was in great excitement: he was blinking his eyes, breathing unevenly, his hands were trembling as if in a fever - and he definitely had a fever, that alarming, sudden fever that is so familiar to all people who speak or sing before a meeting. Next to him stood a man of about forty, broad-shouldered, high-cheeked, with a low forehead, narrow Tatar eyes, a short and flat nose, a quadrangular chin and black shiny hair, stiff as stubble. The expression of his dark, leaden face, especially his pale lips, could be called almost ferocious if it were not so calm and thoughtful. He hardly moved and only slowly looked around, like a bull from under a yoke. He was dressed in some kind of shabby frock coat with smooth copper buttons; an old black silk scarf wrapped around his huge neck. His name was Wild Master. Sitting directly opposite him, on a bench under the icons, was Yashka’s rival, a soldier from Zhizdra. He was a short, stocky man of about thirty, pockmarked and curly-haired, with a blunt upturned nose, lively brown eyes and a thin beard. He looked around briskly, tucked his arms under him, carelessly chatted and tapped his feet, shod in smart boots with trim. He was wearing a new thin overcoat made of gray cloth with a corduroy collar, from which the edge of a scarlet shirt, tightly buttoned around the throat, was sharply separated. In the opposite corner, to the right of the door, a peasant in a narrow, worn-out retinue, with a huge hole in his shoulder, was sitting at a table. sunlight flowed in a liquid yellowish stream through the dusty glass of two small windows and, it seemed, could not overcome the usual darkness of the room: all objects were sparingly illuminated, as if in spots. But it was almost cool inside, and the feeling of stuffiness and heat, like a burden, fell from my shoulders as soon as I crossed the threshold. My arrival—I could notice it—at first somewhat embarrassed Nikolai Ivanovich’s guests; but, seeing that he bowed to me as if he were a familiar person, they calmed down and no longer paid attention to me. I asked myself a beer and sat down in a corner, next to a peasant in a tattered retinue. - Well! - Stunned suddenly cried out, drinking a glass of wine in spirit and accompanying his exclamation with those strange waving of his hands, without which he, apparently, did not utter a single word. - What else are you waiting for? Start like this. A? Yasha?.. “Start, start,” Nikolai Ivanovich chimed in approvingly. “Let’s get started,” the clerk said coolly and with a self-confident smile, “I’m ready.” “And I’m ready,” Yakov said with excitement. “Well, start, guys, start,” Morgach squeaked. But, despite the unanimously expressed desire, no one began; the rower didn’t even rise from his bench—everyone seemed to be waiting for something. - Start! - Wild Master said gloomily and sharply. Yakov shuddered. The clerk stood up, pulled down his sash and cleared his throat. - Who should start? - he asked in a slightly changed voice to the Wild Master, who continued to stand motionless in the middle of the room, with his thick legs spread wide and his powerful hands thrust almost to the elbows into the pockets of his trousers. “To you, to you, row guy,” the Stunned Man babbled, “to you, brother.” The Wild Master looked at him from under his brows. The stunner squeaked weakly, hesitated, looked somewhere at the ceiling, shrugged his shoulders and fell silent. “Toss the lot,” said the Wild Master with emphasis, “up to an eighth on the stand.” Nikolai Ivanovich bent down, grunting, and took out an octopus from the floor and put it on the table. The Wild Master looked at Yakov and said: “Well!” Yakov dug into his pockets, took out a penny and marked it with his teeth. The clerk took out a new leather wallet from under the skirt of his caftan, slowly unraveled the lace and, pouring a lot of change into his hand, chose a brand new penny. The stunner presented his worn-out cap with a broken and detached visor; Yakov threw his penny at him, and the clerk threw his. “You choose,” said the Wild Master, turning to Morgach. The blinker grinned smugly, took the cap in both hands and began to shake it. Instantly, deep silence reigned: the pennies clinked faintly, hitting each other. I looked around carefully: all the faces expressed tense expectation; The Wild Master himself narrowed his eyes; my neighbor, a little man in a tattered scroll, and he even craned his neck with curiosity. The morgach put his hand into his cap and took out rows of pennies; everyone sighed. Yakov blushed, and the clerk ran his hand through his hair. “I told you what,” exclaimed Stunned, “I told you so.” - Well, well, don’t “circus”! - the Wild Master remarked contemptuously. “Begin,” he continued, shaking his head at the clerk. - What song should I sing? - asked the clerk, getting excited. “Whatever you want,” answered Morgach. - Sing whatever you want. “Of course, whichever one you want,” added Nikolai Ivanovich, slowly folding his hands on his chest. - There is no decree for you in this. Sing whatever you want; just sing well; and then we will decide according to our conscience. “Of course, in good faith,” said Stunned and licked the edge of the empty glass. “Let me clear my throat a little, brothers,” said the clerk, running his fingers along the collar of his caftan. - Well, well, don’t be idle - get started! - Wild Master decided and looked down. The rower thought for a moment, shook his head and stepped forward. Yakov glared at him... But before I begin to describe the competition itself, I think it would not be superfluous to say a few words about each of characters my story. The life of some of them was already known to me when I met them in the Prytynny tavern; I collected information about others later. Let's start with Obalduya. This man's real name was Evgraf Ivanov; but no one in the whole neighborhood called him anything other than Stupid, and he himself called himself by the same nickname: it stuck so well to him. And indeed, it suited his insignificant, eternally anxious features perfectly. He was a debauched, single courtyard man, whom his own masters had abandoned long ago and who, having no position and not receiving a penny of salary, nevertheless found a way every day to carouse at someone else’s expense. He had many acquaintances who gave him wine and tea, without knowing why, because not only was he not funny in society, but, on the contrary, he bored everyone with his meaningless chatter, unbearable obsession, feverish body movements and incessant unnatural laughter. He could neither sing nor dance; I’ve never said anything smart, or even worthwhile, in my life: I’ve always been playing around and lying about everything - straight up Stupid! And yet, not a single drinking party for forty miles around was complete without his lanky figure hovering right there among the guests - they had become so accustomed to him and tolerated his presence as a necessary evil. True, they treated him with contempt, but only the Wild Master knew how to tame his absurd impulses. Blinker did not at all resemble the Stunner. The name Morgach also suited him, although he did not blink his eyes more than other people; It’s a well-known fact: the Russian people are nicknamed master. Despite my efforts to find out in more detail the past of this man, in his life there remained for me - and, probably, for many others - dark spots, places, as the scribes put it, covered in the deep darkness of the unknown. I only learned that he had once been a coachman for an old childless lady, ran away with the three horses entrusted to him, disappeared for a whole year and, apparently having become convinced in practice of the disadvantages and disasters of a wandering life, returned on his own, but already lame, threw himself at his feet. mistress and, over the course of several years, having made amends for his crime with exemplary behavior, he gradually came into her favor, finally earned her full power of attorney, became a clerk, and after the death of the lady, no one knows how, he was released, registered as a bourgeois, and began renting Bakshi's neighbors, got rich and now lives happily ever after. This is an experienced person, on his own, not evil and not kind, but more calculating; This is a grated kalach who knows people and knows how to use them. He is careful and at the same time enterprising, like a fox; talkative, like an old woman, and never lets slip, but forces everyone else to speak out; however, he does not pretend to be a simpleton, as other cunning people of the same dozen do, and it would be difficult for him to pretend: I have never seen more penetrating and intelligent eyes than his tiny, crafty “peepers.” They never just look - they look and spy on everything. A blinker sometimes spends whole weeks thinking about some apparently simple undertaking, and then suddenly decides on a desperately bold undertaking; It seems like he’s about to break his head... you look - everything worked out, everything went like clockwork. He is happy and believes in his happiness, believes in signs. He is generally very superstitious. They don’t like him because he doesn’t care about anyone, but they respect him. His entire family consists of one son, in whom he dotes and who, raised by such a father, will probably go far. “And Morgachonok took after his father,” the old people are already talking about him in low voices, sitting on the rubble and talking among themselves in summer evenings; and everyone understands what this means and no longer adds a word. There is no need to dwell at length on Yakov the Turk and the rower. Yakov, nicknamed the Turk, because he really was descended from a captive Turkish woman, was by heart an artist in every sense of the word, and by rank a scooper at a merchant’s paper mill; As for the contractor, whose fate, I admit, remained unknown to me, he seemed to me a resourceful and lively city tradesman. But it’s worth talking about the Wild Master in a little more detail. The first impression that the sight of this man made on you was a feeling of some kind of rough, heavy, but irresistible strength. He was built clumsily, “knocked down,” as we say, but he reeked of indestructible health, and - a strange thing - his bearish figure was not devoid of some kind of peculiar grace, which perhaps came from a completely calm confidence in own power. It was difficult to decide at first what class this Hercules belonged to; he did not look like a serf, or a tradesman, or an impoverished retired clerk, or a small, bankrupt nobleman - a huntsman and a fighter: he was certainly on his own. Nobody knew where he came from in our district; it was rumored that he was descended from members of the same palace and seemed to have been in the service somewhere before; but they didn’t know anything positive about it; and from whom was it possible to find out - not from himself: there was no more silent and gloomy person. Also, no one could positively say what he lived by; he did not engage in any craft, did not travel to anyone, knew almost no one, but he had money; True, they were small, but they were found. He behaved not only modestly - there was nothing modest about him at all - but quietly; he lived as if he didn’t notice anyone around him and absolutely didn’t need anyone. Wild Master (that was his nickname; his real name was Perevlesov) enjoyed enormous influence throughout the entire district; they obeyed him immediately and willingly, although he not only had no right to order anyone, but he himself did not even express the slightest claim to the obedience of people whom he chanced to encounter. He spoke - they obeyed him; strength will always take its toll. He hardly drank wine, did not date women, and passionately loved singing. There was a lot of mystery about this man; it seemed as if some enormous forces rested sullenly within him, as if knowing that once they had risen, that once they had broken free, they must destroy themselves and everything they touched; and I am sorely mistaken if such an explosion had not already happened in this man’s life, if he, taught by experience and having barely escaped death, now inexorably kept himself under a tight rein. What especially struck me in him was the mixture of some kind of innate, natural ferocity and the same innate nobility - a mixture that I had not encountered in anyone else. So, the rower stepped forward, closed his eyes halfway and sang in the highest falsetto. His voice was quite pleasant and sweet, although somewhat hoarse; he played and wiggled this voice like a top, constantly poured and shimmered from top to bottom and constantly returned to the upper notes, which he sustained and pulled out with special diligence, fell silent and then suddenly picked up the previous tune with some kind of rollicking, arrogant prowess. His transitions were sometimes quite bold, sometimes quite funny: to a connoisseur they would give a lot of pleasure; a German would be indignant at them. It was the Russian tenore di grazia, tenor léger. He sang a cheerful, dancing song, the words of which, as far as I could catch through the endless decorations, added consonants and exclamations, were as follows:I will open it, young and young,
The earth is small;
I will sow, young and young,
Tsvetika alenka.
Yashka the Turk (Yakov) is one of the heroes of I. S. Turgenev’s story “The Singers” from the series “Notes of a Hunter.” Yakov's mother was a captive Turkish woman, which is why he got his nickname. Everyone in the area knew that he was the best singer in the area. He looked to be 23 years old, slender, thin, with large gray eyes and light brown curls. His face was impressionable and passionate. An artist at heart, in fact, he worked as a scooper in a paper mill for a merchant. One July day, in the “Prytynny” tavern in the village of Kotlovka, he competed in singing with a clerk and Zhizdra. Yashka put on his blue caftan and looked like a dashing factory fellow in it. He was very worried.
The rower sang first. His song was a dance song with endless decorations and transitions. His voice was sweet and pleasant. He tried his best to please the assembled audience. When he finished singing, everyone was sure that victory belonged to the dodgy rower. It was Jacob's turn. He first covered himself with his hand, then took a deep breath and began to sing. Everyone around froze. The narrator was amazed by his voice, so ringing, hysterical and full of sad sorrow. His voice touched everyone's soul. Many had tears rolling down their eyes. Even the Wild Master could not resist and shed a stingy tear. Unlike the clerk, Yakov did not try to please everyone. He simply sang with all his soul, giving himself entirely to his happiness. When he finished singing, the rower himself realized that he had lost. And in the evening in the tavern everyone celebrated Yashkin’s victory.
