The role of nature in Bezhin Meadow. Landscape in the story by I.S.

But then the playing rays poured out again, and the mighty luminary rose merrily and majestic, as if taking off. Around noon there usually appear many round high clouds, golden-gray, with delicate white edges. Like islands scattered along an endlessly overflowing river, flowing around them with deeply transparent branches of even blue, they hardly move from their place; further, towards the horizon, they move, crowd together, the blue between them is no longer visible; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all thoroughly imbued with light and warmth.

The color of the sky, light, pale lilac, does not change throughout the day and is the same all around; It doesn’t get dark anywhere, the thunderstorm doesn’t thicken; unless here and there bluish stripes stretch from top to bottom: then barely noticeable rain is falling. By evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and vague, like smoke, lie in pink clouds opposite the setting sun; at the place where it set as calmly as it calmly rose into the sky, a scarlet glow stands for a short time over the darkened earth, and, quietly blinking, like a carefully carried candle, the evening star glows on it.

On days like these, the colors are all softened; light, but not bright; everything bears the stamp of some touching meekness. On such days, the heat is sometimes very strong, sometimes even “soaring” along the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses, pushes apart the accumulated heat, and the vortex-gyres - an undoubted sign of constant weather - walk in tall white pillars along the roads through the arable land. The dry and clean air smells of wormwood, compressed rye, and buckwheat; even an hour before night you do not feel damp. The farmer wishes for similar weather for harvesting grain...

The moon has finally risen; I didn’t notice it right away: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night seemed to be as magnificent as before... But many stars, which had recently stood high in the sky, were already leaning towards the dark edge of the earth; everything around was completely silent, as everything usually only calms down in the morning: everything was sleeping in a deep, motionless, pre-dawn sleep. There was no longer such a strong smell in the air; dampness seemed to be spreading in it again... The summer nights were short!.. The boys' conversation faded away along with the lights... The dogs even dozed; the horses, as far as I could discern, in the slightly faltering, weakly pouring light of the stars, also lay with their heads bowed... A faint oblivion attacked me; it turned into dormancy. juju

Composition

I. S. Turgenev is an insightful and perspicacious artist, sensitive to everything, able to notice and describe the most insignificant, small details. Turgenev perfectly mastered the skill of description. All his paintings are alive, clearly presented, filled with sounds. Turgenev's landscape is psychological, connected with the experiences and appearance of the characters in the story, with their everyday life.

Undoubtedly, the landscape in the story “Bezhin Meadow” plays an important role. We can say that the entire story is permeated with artistic sketches that determine the state of the hero, emphasize his mood, feelings, and determine internal tension. “Bezhin Meadow”, in fact, begins with landscape sketches. The author describes a beautiful July day, when “all the colors are softened, light, but not bright,” when the “touching meekness” of nature is felt, the air is dry and clean. These pictures appear before your eyes and the smells of wormwood, compressed rye, and buckwheat, which the author mentions, are felt.

It's a wonderful day! The hero is happy with the grouse hunt. However, the feeling of calm and harmony did not last long. Evening came and it began to get dark. The hero lost his way, got lost, and was overcome by inner restlessness. Using the description of nature, the author manages to show his confusion. The hero was immediately overcome by an unpleasant, motionless dampness, which made him feel eerie. The bats were already “rushing”, and the belated birds were hurrying to their nests. As the hunter realized that he was seriously lost and would no longer be able to get out of the forest in the darkness today, “the night approached and grew like a thundercloud,” and “darkness poured out” from everywhere. And so, when the hero finally abandoned the hope of getting home, he went out to Bezhin meadow, where the village children were sitting around the fire. They were herding a herd of horses. In this romantic setting, they told each other different stories. The hunter joined them. Gradually, the feeling of anxiety went away and was replaced by new feelings: calm, peace. He began to admire the sky, the river, the crackling fire, and enjoy the special, languid and fresh “smell of a Russian summer night.”

The narrator listened to the guys' stories with curiosity. At the most intense moments of the stories, nature, as if listening to them, sent small surprises. Every time, at the most terrible moment, something happened. After Kostya’s story about the meeting of the carpenter Gavrila with the mermaid, the guys hear a “lingering, ringing, almost moaning sound” that suddenly arose from the silence and slowly spread through the air. The story told by Ilyusha about how the huntsman Yermil met evil spirits in the form of a lamb frightens the children even more because suddenly the dogs got up and, barking convulsively, rushed away from the fire and disappeared into the darkness. The story about the dead and the prediction of death makes the children thoughtful. The appearance of a white dove, flying up to the fire out of nowhere, circling in one place and dissolving in the darkness of the night, makes them wonder if this is not a righteous soul flying to heaven. “The strange, sharp, painful cry of a heron,” heard in the silence, serves as a transition to a conversation about mysterious and terrible sounds: this is how a soul can “complain” or a goblin scream. All these pictures convey the anxiety, fear, tension of the children, emphasizing their mood. “God's stars,” to which little Vanya attracts attention, helps all children see the beauty of the night sky.

Turgenev's landscape is psychological, connected with the experiences and appearance of the characters in the story, with their everyday life.

The story also ends with a description of nature. “Everything moved, woke up, sang, rustled, spoke,” a new day, unusually beautiful, sunny and bright, combined with the sounds of a bell and invigorating freshness, serves as the final chord of this wonderful work.

The skill of I. S. Turgenev helps readers feel the beauty of their native nature, pay attention to what happens in it every minute, every hour.

Other works on this work

Characteristics of the main characters of I. S. Turgenev’s story “Bezhin Meadow” Man and nature in I. S. Turgenev’s story “Bezhin Meadow” Characteristics of the main characters of Ivan Turgenev’s story “Bezhin Meadow” How to explain why the story is called “Bezhin Meadow” What is said in the story “Bezhin Meadow”

Ivan Turgenev's story about nature for middle school children. A story about summer, about summer weather, about rain.

BEZHIN LUG (excerpt)

It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that only happen when the weather has settled for a long time. From early morning the sky is clear; The morning dawn does not burn with fire: it spreads with a gentle blush. The sun - not fiery, not hot, as during a sultry drought, not dull crimson, as before a storm, but bright and welcomingly radiant - floats up peacefully under a narrow and long cloud, shines freshly and plunges into its purple fog. The upper, thin edge of the stretched cloud will sparkle with snakes; their brilliance is like the brilliance of forged silver... But then again the playing rays gushed out, and the mighty luminary rises both cheerfully and majestically, as if taking off. Around noon there usually appear many round high clouds, golden-gray, with delicate white edges. Like islands scattered along an endlessly overflowing river, flowing around them with deeply transparent branches of even blue, they hardly move from their place; further, towards the horizon, they move, crowd together, the blue between them is no longer visible; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all thoroughly imbued with light and warmth. The color of the sky, light, pale lilac, does not change throughout the day and is the same all around; It doesn’t get dark anywhere, the thunderstorm doesn’t thicken; unless here and there bluish stripes stretch from top to bottom: then barely noticeable rain is falling. By evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and vague, like smoke, lie in pink clouds opposite the setting sun; at the place where it set as calmly as it calmly rose into the sky, the scarlet glow stands for a short time over the darkened earth, and, quietly blinking, like a carefully carried candle, the evening star glows on it. On days like these, the colors are all softened; light, but not bright; everything bears the stamp of some touching meekness. On such days, the heat is sometimes very strong, sometimes even “soaring” along the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses, pushes apart the accumulated heat, and whirlwind vortices - an undoubted sign of constant weather - walk in tall white columns along the roads through the arable land. The dry and clean air smells of wormwood, compressed rye, and buckwheat; even an hour before night you do not feel damp. The farmer wishes for similar weather for harvesting grain...

On just such a day I was once hunting for black grouse in the Chernsky district of the Tula province. I found and shot quite a lot of game; the filled bag was mercilessly cutting my shoulder, but the evening dawn was already fading, and in the air, still bright, although no longer illuminated by the rays of the setting sun, cold shadows began to thicken and spread when I finally decided to return to my home. With quick steps I walked through a long “square” of bushes, climbed a hill and, instead of the expected familiar plain with an oak forest to the right and a low white church in the distance, I saw completely different, unknown places. At my feet stretched a narrow valley; directly opposite, a dense aspen tree rose like a steep wall. I stopped in bewilderment, looked around... “Hey! — I thought, “Yes, I ended up in the wrong place at all: I took it too far to the right,” and, marveling at my mistake, I quickly went down the hill. I was immediately overcome by an unpleasant, motionless dampness, as if I had entered a cellar; the thick tall grass at the bottom of the valley, all wet, turned white like an even tablecloth; it was somehow creepy to walk on it. I quickly climbed out to the other side and walked, turning to the left, along the aspen tree. Bats were already flying over its sleeping tops, mysteriously circling and trembling in the vaguely clear sky; A belated hawk flew briskly and straight overhead, hurrying to its nest. “As soon as I get to that corner,” I thought to myself, “there will be a road right here, but I gave a detour a mile away!”

I finally reached the corner of the forest, but there was no road there: some uncut, low bushes spread wide in front of me, and behind them a deserted field could be seen far, far away. I stopped again. “What kind of parable?.. But where am I?” I began to remember how and where I went during the day... “Eh! Yes, these are Parakhin bushes! - I finally exclaimed, - exactly! this must be the Sindeevskaya Grove... How did I come here? So far?.. Strange! Now we need to take the right again.”

I went to the right, through the bushes. Meanwhile, the night was approaching and growing like a thundercloud; It seemed that, along with the evening vapors, darkness was rising from everywhere and even pouring from above. I came across some kind of unmarked, overgrown path; I walked along it, carefully looking ahead. Everything around quickly turned black and died down, only the quails screamed occasionally. A small night bird, silently and low rushing on its soft wings, almost stumbled upon me and timidly dived to the side. I went out to the edge of the bushes and wandered across the field. I was already having difficulty distinguishing distant objects; the field was vaguely white around; behind it, looming in huge clouds every moment, rose the gloomy darkness. My steps echoed dully in the frozen air. The pale sky began to turn blue again - but it was already the blue of night. The stars flickered and moved on it.

What I had taken for a grove turned out to be a dark and round mound. “Where am I?” - I repeated again out loud, stopped for the third time and looked questioningly at my English yellow-piebald dog Dianka, decidedly the smartest of all four-legged creatures. But the smartest of the four-legged creatures only wagged her tail, blinked her tired eyes sadly and did not give me any practical advice. I felt ashamed of her, and I desperately rushed forward, as if I had suddenly guessed where I should go, went around the hill and found myself in a shallow, plowed-out ravine all around. A strange feeling immediately took possession of me. This hollow had the appearance of an almost regular cauldron with gentle sides; at the bottom of it stood several large white stones standing upright - it seemed that they had crawled there for a secret meeting - and it was so mute and dull in it, the sky hung so flat, so sadly above it that my heart sank. Some animal squeaked weakly and pitifully between the stones. I hurried to get back onto the hill. Until now I still had not lost hope of finding my way home; but then I was finally convinced that I was completely lost, and, no longer trying at all to recognize the surrounding places, which were almost completely drowned in darkness, I walked straight, following the stars - at random... I walked like this for about half an hour, with difficulty moving my legs. It seemed like I had never been in such empty places in my life: no lights flickered anywhere, no sound was heard. One gentle hill gave way to another, fields stretched endlessly after fields, bushes seemed to suddenly rise out of the ground right in front of my nose. I kept walking and was about to lie down somewhere until the morning, when suddenly I found myself over a terrible abyss.

I quickly pulled back my raised leg and, through the barely transparent darkness of the night, I saw a huge plain far below me. A wide river went around it in a semicircle leaving me. The hill I was on suddenly descended almost vertically; its huge outlines were separated, turning black, from the bluish airy void, and right below me, in the corner formed by that cliff and plain, near the river, which in this place stood as a motionless, dark mirror, under the very steep hill, each other burned and smoked with a red flame there are two lights near the friend. People swarmed around them, shadows wavered, sometimes the front half of a small curly head was brightly illuminated...

I finally found out where I had gone. This meadow is famous in our neighborhoods under the name Bezhina Meadow... But there was no way to return home, especially at night; my legs gave way beneath me from fatigue. I decided to approach the lights and, in the company of those people whom I took to be the herd workers, wait for dawn. I safely went down, but did not have time to let go of the last branch I had grabbed from my hands, when suddenly two large, white, shaggy dogs rushed at me with an angry bark. Children's clear voices were heard around the lights; two or three boys quickly rose from the ground. I responded to their questioning cries. They ran up to me, immediately called back the dogs, who were especially struck by the appearance of my Dianka, and I approached them.

I was mistaken in mistaking the people sitting around those lights for the herd workers. They were simply peasant children from a neighboring village who were guarding the herd. In the hot summer, our horses are driven out to feed in the field at night: during the day, flies and gadflies would not give them rest. Driving out the herd before the evening and bringing in the herd at dawn is a big holiday for peasant boys. Sitting without hats and in old sheepskin coats on the most lively nags, they rush with a cheerful whoop and scream, dangling their arms and legs, jumping high, laughing loudly. Light dust rises in a yellow column and rushes along the road; A friendly stomp can be heard far away, the horses run with their ears pricked up; in front of everyone, with his tail raised and constantly changing his legs, gallops some red-haired cosmach, with burrs in his tangled mane.

I told the boys that I was lost and sat down with them. They asked me where I was from, remained silent, and stood aside. We talked a little. I lay down under a gnawed bush and began to look around. The picture was wonderful: near the lights, a round reddish reflection trembled and seemed to freeze, resting against the darkness; the flame, flaring up, occasionally threw quick reflections beyond the line of that circle; a thin tongue of light will lick the bare branches of the vine and disappear at once; Sharp, long shadows, rushing in for a moment, in turn reached the very lights: darkness fought with light. Sometimes, when the flame burned weaker and the circle of light narrowed, a horse’s head, bay, with a winding groove, or all white, would suddenly stick out from the approaching darkness, looking at us attentively and stupidly, nimbly chewing long grass, and, lowering itself again, immediately disappeared. You could only hear her continue to chew and snort. From an illuminated place it is difficult to see what is happening in the darkness, and therefore everything up close seemed covered with an almost black curtain; but further towards the horizon, hills and forests were vaguely visible in long spots. The dark, clear sky stood solemnly and immensely high above us with all its mysterious splendor. My chest felt sweetly ashamed, inhaling that special, languid and fresh smell - the smell of a Russian summer night. Almost no noise was heard all around... Only occasionally in the nearby river a large fish would splash with sudden sonority and the coastal reeds would rustle faintly, barely shaken by the oncoming wave... Only the lights crackled quietly.

The boys sat around them; Sitting right there were the two dogs who so wanted to eat me. For a long time they could not come to terms with my presence and, sleepily squinting and squinting at the fire, occasionally growled with an extraordinary sense of self-esteem; At first they growled, and then squealed slightly, as if regretting the impossibility of fulfilling their desire. There were five boys: Fedya, Pavlusha, Ilyusha, Kostya and Vanya. (From their conversations I learned their names and now intend to introduce them to the reader.)

The first, the eldest of all, Fedya, you would give about fourteen years. He was a slender boy, with beautiful and delicate, slightly small features, curly blond hair, light eyes and a constant, half-cheerful, half-absent-minded smile. He belonged, by all accounts, to a rich family and went out into the field not out of necessity, but just for fun. He was wearing a motley cotton shirt with a yellow border; a small new army jacket, worn saddle-back, barely rested on his narrow shoulders; A comb hung from a blue belt. His boots with low tops were just like his boots—not his father’s. The second boy, Pavlusha, had tousled black hair, gray eyes, wide cheekbones, a pale, pockmarked face, a large but regular mouth, a huge head, as they say, the size of a beer cauldron, a squat, awkward body. The guy was unprepossessing - needless to say! - but still, I liked him: he looked very smart and straightforward, and there was strength in his voice. He could not flaunt his clothes: they all consisted of a simple, dirty shirt and patched ports. The face of the third, Ilyusha, was rather insignificant: hook-nosed, elongated, blind, it expressed a kind of dull, painful solicitude; his compressed lips did not move, his knitted eyebrows did not move apart - it was as if he was squinting from the fire. His yellow, almost white hair stuck out in sharp braids from under a low felt cap, which he pulled over his ears every now and then with both hands. He was wearing new bast shoes and onuchi; a thick rope, twisted three times around the waist, carefully tied his neat black scroll. Both he and Pavlusha looked no more than twelve years old. The fourth, Kostya, a boy of about ten, aroused my curiosity with his thoughtful and sad gaze. His whole face was small, thin, freckled, pointed downward, like a squirrel’s; lips could barely be distinguished; but his large, black eyes, shining with a liquid brilliance, made a strange impression; they seemed to want to express something for which the language, at least in his language, had no words. He was short, frail in build, and dressed rather poorly. The last one, Vanya, I didn’t even notice at first: he was lying on the ground, quietly huddled under the angular matting, and only occasionally stuck his light brown curly head out from under it. This boy was only seven years old.

So, I lay under a bush to the side and looked at the boys. A small cauldron hung over one of the lights; “potatoes” were boiled in it. Pavlusha watched him and, kneeling, poked a sliver of wood into the boiling water. Fedya lay leaning on his elbow and spreading the tails of his overcoat. Ilyusha sat next to Kostya and still squinted intensely. Kostya lowered his head a little and looked somewhere into the distance. Vanya did not move under his matting. I pretended to be asleep. Little by little the boys started talking again.

They chattered about this and that, about tomorrow's work, about horses...

More than three hours have already passed since I joined the boys. The moon has finally risen; I didn’t notice it right away: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night, it seemed, was still as magnificent as before... But many stars, which had recently stood high in the sky, were already leaning towards the dark edge of the earth; everything around was completely quiet, as everything usually only calms down in the morning: everything was sleeping in a deep, motionless, pre-dawn sleep. There was no longer such a strong smell in the air; dampness seemed to be spreading in it again... The summer nights were short!.. The boys' conversation faded away along with the lights... The dogs even dozed; the horses, as far as I could discern, in the slightly fading, weakly pouring light of the stars, also lay with their heads bowed... A faint oblivion attacked me; it turned into dormancy.

A fresh stream ran across my face. I opened my eyes: the morning was beginning. The dawn had not yet blushed anywhere, but it was already turning white in the east. Everything became visible, although dimly visible, all around. The pale gray sky became lighter, colder, and bluer; the stars blinked with faint light and then disappeared; the earth became damp, the leaves began to sweat, in some places living sounds and voices began to be heard, and the liquid, early breeze had already begun to wander and flutter over the earth. My body responded to him with a light, cheerful trembling. I quickly stood up and went to the boys. They all slept like the dead around the smoldering fire; Pavel alone rose halfway and looked at me intently.

I nodded my head to him and walked home along the smoking river. Before I had gone two miles, it was already pouring all around me across a wide wet meadow, and in front along the green hills, from forest to forest, and behind me along a long dusty road, along sparkling, stained bushes, and along the river, shyly turning blue from under thinning fog - first scarlet, then red, golden streams of young, hot light poured... Everything moved, woke up, sang, rustled, spoke. Everywhere large drops of dew began to glow like radiant diamonds; the sounds of a bell came towards me, clean and clear, as if also washed by the morning cool, and suddenly a rested herd rushed past me, driven by familiar boys...

The story of Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev “Bezhin Meadow” is one of the most beautiful stories about nature. describes the meadow through the eyes of a hunter - a man in love with his land, with his native nature.
The hunter approached the boys who were grazing the horses. He doesn’t want to disturb them, so he admires the night meadow. As he says, the picture that appeared before his eyes was wonderful: “Near the lights, a round reddish reflection trembled and seemed to freeze, resting against the darkness; the flame, flaring up, occasionally threw quick reflections beyond the line of that circle; a thin tongue of light will lick the bare branches of the vine and disappear at once; Sharp, long shadows, rushing in for a moment, in turn reached the very lights: darkness fought with light. From an illuminated place it is difficult to see what is happening in the darkness, and therefore everything up close seemed to be covered with an almost black curtain; but further towards the horizon, hills and forests were vaguely visible in long spots. The dark, clear sky stood solemnly and immensely high above us with all its mysterious splendor. My chest felt sweetly ashamed, inhaling that special, languid and fresh smell - the smell of a Russian summer night. Almost no noise was heard all around... Only occasionally in a nearby river a large fish would splash with sudden sonority and the coastal reeds would rustle faintly, barely shaken by the oncoming wave... Only the lights crackled quietly.”
This night landscape instills harmony, tranquility, and some kind of quiet joy in the hero and the reader. Turgenev paints this landscape so skillfully for us that we not only see it, but also feel the same as the boys gathered around the fire.
Nature is given a lot of space in the story. Turgenev not only shows us the beauty of Russian nature, but also expresses philosophical thoughts. Looking at the night sky, the hunter thinks about the passage of time, about space and other things: “The moon was not in the sky: it rose late at that time. Countless golden stars seemed to flow quietly, twinkling in competition, in the direction of the Milky Way, and, really, looking at them, you seemed to vaguely feel the rapid, non-stop running of the earth ... "
This philosophical mood does not disappear from the hero even at dawn; on the contrary, he feels the beginning of a new day and a new life. Nature seems to be telling him that everything is changing for the better, that after the darkness the dawn will surely come, that the world around him is beautiful and he should be happy about it.
At the end of the story, Turgenev gives a delightful picture of dawn, which infects with optimism and cheerfulness: “...first scarlet, then red, golden streams of young, hot light poured out... Everything moved, woke up, sang, rustled, spoke. Everywhere large drops of dew began to glow like radiant diamonds; the sounds of a bell came towards me, clean and clear, as if also washed by the morning cool, and suddenly a rested herd rushed past me, driven by familiar boys.”

Nature in “Bezhin Meadow” is presented in the richness of its colors, sounds and smells. This is the richness of color Turgenev gives in the picture of the early morning: “I had not gone two miles before... first scarlet, then red, golden streams of young hot light began to pour around me... Large drops of dew began to glow everywhere like radiant diamonds... ."

These are the sounds that permeate Turgenev’s majestic power: “Almost no noise was heard all around... Only occasionally in a nearby river a large fish would splash with sudden sonority, and the coastal reeds would rustle faintly, barely shaken by the oncoming wave... Only the lights crackled quietly.” Or: “Suddenly, somewhere in the distance, a drawn-out, ringing, almost moaning sound was heard, one of those incomprehensible night sounds that sometimes arise in the midst of deep silence, rise, stand in the air and slowly spread, finally, as if dying out. If you listen, it’s as if there’s nothing, but it’s ringing. It seemed as if someone had shouted for a long, long time under the very horizon, and someone else seemed to respond to him in the forest with a thin, sharp laugh. and a weak, hissing whistle rushed along the river.”

And here’s how fun and noisily Turgenev wakes up on a clear summer morning: “Everything moved, woke up, sang, made noise, spoke... the sounds of a bell came towards me, clean and clear, as if... washed by the morning cool.”

Turgenev also loves to talk about the smells of the nature he depicts. The writer is not at all indifferent to the smells of nature. Thus, in his essay “Forest and Steppe” he talks about the warm smell of the night,” that “the whole air is filled with the fresh bitterness of wormwood, the honey of buckwheat and porridge.” Also, describing a summer day in “Bezhin Meadow”, he notes:

“The dry and clean air smells of wormwood, compressed rye, and buckwheat; even an hour before night you don’t feel damp.”

Depicting the night, the writer also talks about its special smell:

“The dark, clear sky stood solemnly and immensely high above us with all its mysterious splendor. My chest felt sweetly ashamed, inhaling that special languid and fresh smell - the smell of a Russian summer night.”

Turgenev depicts nature in motion: in shifts and transitions from morning to day, from day to evening, from evening to night, with a gradual change in colors and sounds, smells and winds, sky and sun. Depicting nature, Turgenev shows the constant manifestations of its full-blooded life.

As a realist writer, Turgenev portrays nature deeply truthfully. His description of the landscape is psychologically based. Thus, to describe a clear summer day, Turgenev preferably uses a visual epithet, because the author sets himself the goal of showing the richness of the colors of sunlit nature and expressing his strongest impressions of it. When depicting the coming night, the character and meaning of the visual means are completely different. This is understandable. Here the author sets the goal of showing not only pictures of the night, but also the growth of nighttime mystery and the feeling of increasing anxiety that arose in him in connection with the onset of darkness and the loss of the road. Therefore, there is no need for a bright figurative epithet. A thoughtful artist, Turgenev uses in this case an emotional, expressive epithet that well conveys the anxious feelings of the narrator. But he is not limited to them either. The author manages to convey the feeling of fear, anxiety and anxiety only through a complex set of linguistic means: an emotionally expressive epithet, a comparison, a metaphor, and personification:

“The night was approaching and growing like a thundercloud; It seemed that, along with the evening vapors, darkness was rising from everywhere and even pouring from above... approaching with every moment, gloomy darkness rose in huge clouds. My steps echoed dully in the frozen air... I desperately rushed forward... and found myself in a shallow hole. a plowed ravine all around. A strange feeling immediately took possession of me. The hollow had the appearance of an almost regular cauldron with gentle sides; at the bottom of it stood several large white stones standing upright - it seemed that they had crawled there for a secret meeting - and it was so mute and dull in it, the sky hung so flat, so sadly above it that my heart sank. Some animal squeaked weakly and pitifully between the stones.”

The writer in this case is not so much concerned with depicting nature as expressing the restless feelings that it evokes in him.

The picture of the onset of night in the figurative means of language

Comparison	Metaphor	Personification
“The night was approaching and growing like a thundercloud”; “the bushes seemed to suddenly rise out of the ground right in front of my nose”; “gloomy darkness rose in huge clouds”	“The darkness rose from everywhere and even poured from above”; “with every moving moment, gloomy darkness rose in huge clouds”; “My heart sank”	“At the bottom of it (the ravine) several large white stones stood upright - it seemed that they had crawled there for a secret meeting.”	“The night bird timidly dived to the side”; “a gloomy darkness rose up”; “my steps echoed dully”; “I desperately rushed forward”; in the ravine “it was mute and deaf, the sky hung so flat, so sadly above it”; “some animal squeaked weakly and pitifully”

The examples given are quite enough to finally convince students of how thoughtfully Turgenev selected the figurative means of language. It should be especially emphasized that the picture of the approaching night is revealed through the perception of a worried, alarmed person who has finally become convinced that he is lost. Hence the darkening of colors in the description of nature: to a troubled imagination everything appears in a gloomy light. This is the psychological basis of the picture of night in its initial stage.

The alarming night landscape is replaced by highly solemn and calmly majestic pictures of nature, when the author finally went out onto the road, saw peasant children sitting around two fires, and sat down with the children near the cheerfully crackling flames. The calmed artist saw the high starry sky in all its splendor and even felt the special pleasant aroma of the Russian summer night.

Summer night at Turgenev's

Signs of the night

Pictures of the night

Visual images

Mysterious sounds

“The dark, clear sky stood solemnly and immensely high above us with all its mysterious splendor”; “I looked around: the night stood solemnly and royally”; “Countless golden stars seemed to flow quietly, twinkling in competition, along the direction of the Milky Way...”

“Almost no noise was heard all around... Only occasionally in a nearby river a large fish would splash with sudden sonority, and the coastal reeds would rustle faintly, barely shaken by the oncoming wave... Only the lights crackled quietly.”

“Suddenly, somewhere in the distance, a drawn-out, ringing, almost moaning sound was heard...”; “it seemed... someone else seemed to respond to him in the forest with a thin, sharp laugh, and a weak, hissing whistle rushed along the river”; “a strange, sharp, painful cry suddenly rang out twice in a row over the river and a few moments later was repeated further”

“My chest felt sweetly ashamed, inhaling that special, languid and fresh smell - the smell of a Russian summer night”; in the morning “there was no longer a strong smell in the air; dampness seemed to be spreading in it again”

“The picture was wonderful!”

“Look, look, guys,” Vanya’s childish voice suddenly rang out, “look at God’s stars, the bees are swarming.”

“The eyes of all the boys rose to the sky and did not fall soon.”

“The boys looked at each other and shuddered”; “Kostya shuddered. -- What is this? “It’s a heron screaming,” Pavel objected calmly.”

Full of mysterious sounds, the nature of the night instills in boys a feeling of unaccountable fear and at the same time enhances their heightened, almost painful curiosity for stories about the mysterious and terrible.

Thus, nature is shown by Turgenev as a force that actively influences both the author and his heroes. And for the reader, we will add on our own behalf.