Aitmatov. Brief summaries of works
- White cloud of Genghis Khan
- White steamer
- Buranny station
- Jamila
- And the day lasts longer than a century
- When the mountains fall
- Red Apple
- The legend of mankurt
- Face to face
- Mother field
- Mother deer
- Piebald dog running by the edge of the sea
- First teacher
- Scaffold
- Farewell, Gyulsary!
- Early cranes
- Little soldier
- Cassandra brand
- My poplar in a red scarf
“Jamila”, summary
It was the third year of the war. There were no adult healthy men in the village, and therefore the wife of my older brother Sadyk (he was also at the front), Jamilya, was sent by the foreman to a purely male job - transporting grain to the station. And so that the elders would not worry about the bride, he sent me, a teenager, along with her. Moreover, he said: I will send Daniyar with them. Jamila was beautiful - slender, stately, with blue-black almond-shaped eyes, tireless, dexterous. She knew how to get along with her neighbors, but if she was insulted, she would not yield to anyone in scolding. I loved Jamila dearly. And she loved me. It seems to me that my mother also secretly dreamed of one day making her the imperious mistress of our family, which lived in harmony and prosperity. On the current I met Daniyar. They said that as a child he was left an orphan, for three years he wandered around the yards, and then went to the Kazakhs in the Chakmak steppe. Daniyar’s wounded leg (he had just returned from the front) did not bend, so they sent him to work with us. He was reserved, and in the village he was considered a strange person. But in his silent, gloomy thoughtfulness there was something lurking that we did not dare to treat him like a friend. And Jamila, as it happened, either laughed at him or did not pay attention to him at all. Not everyone would tolerate her antics, but Daniyar looked at the laughing Jamila with gloomy admiration. However, our tricks with Jamila ended one day sadly. Among the bags there was one huge one, seven pounds in size, and we handled it together. And somehow, while driving, we dumped this bag into our partner’s chaise. At the station, Daniyar looked at the monstrous load with concern, but, noticing how Jamila grinned, he put the bag on his back and went. Jamila caught up with him: “Drop the bag, I was joking!” - “Go away!” - he said firmly and walked along the ladder, leaning harder and harder on his wounded leg... There was dead silence all around. "Drop it!" - people shouted. “No, he won’t quit!” - someone whispered with conviction. The entire next day Daniyar remained calm and silent. We returned from the station late. Suddenly he began to sing. I was amazed by what passion, what burning the melody was saturated with. And suddenly his oddities became clear to me: daydreaming, love of solitude, silence. Daniyar's songs stirred my soul. And how Jamila has changed! Every time we returned to the village at night, I noticed how Jamila, shocked and touched by this singing, came closer and closer to the chaise and slowly extended her hand to Daniyar... and then lowered it. I saw how something was accumulating and ripening in her soul, demanding a way out. And she was afraid of it. One day we were driving from the station, as usual. And when Daniyar’s voice began to gain pitch again, Jamila sat down next to him and lightly leaned her head against his shoulder. Quiet, timid... The song suddenly stopped. It was Jamila who impulsively hugged him, but immediately jumped off the chaise and, barely holding back tears, said sharply: “Don’t look at me, go!” And there was an evening at the lek when, through a dream, I saw how Jamila came from the river, sat down next to Daniyar and fell to him. “Jamilam, Jamaltai!” - Daniyar whispered, calling her the most tender Kazakh and Kyrgyz names. Soon the steppe began to blow, the sky became cloudy, and cold rains began to fall - harbingers of snow. And I saw Daniyar walking with a duffel bag, and Jamila was walking next to him, holding the strap of his bag with one hand. How much talk and gossip there was in the village! The women vied with each other to condemn Jamila: to leave such a family! with the hungry man! Maybe I was the only one who didn’t condemn her.
Aitmatov “Djamilya” - summary
Aitmatov
- all works
Aitmatov
— essays on the work
Page: [ 1 ]
It was the third year of the war. There were no adult healthy men in the village, and therefore the wife of my older brother Sadyk (he was also at the front), Jamilya, was sent by the foreman to a purely male job - transporting grain to the station. And so that the elders would not worry about the bride, he sent me, a teenager, along with her. Moreover, he said: I will send Daniyar with them.
Jamila was beautiful - slender, stately, with blue-black almond-shaped eyes, tireless, dexterous. She knew how to get along with her neighbors, but if she was offended, she would not yield to anyone in scolding. I loved Jamila dearly. And she loved me. It seems to me that my mother also secretly dreamed of someday making her the imperious mistress of our family, which lived in harmony and prosperity.
On the current I met Daniyar. They said that as a child he was left an orphan, for three years he wandered around the yards, and then went to the Kazakhs in the Chakmak steppe. Daniyar’s wounded leg (he had just returned from the front) did not bend, so they sent him to work with us. He was reserved, and in the village he was considered a strange person. But in his silent, gloomy thoughtfulness there was something lurking that we did not dare to treat him like a friend.
And Jamila, as it happened, either laughed at him or did not pay attention to him at all. Not everyone would tolerate her antics, but Daniyar looked at the laughing Jamila with gloomy admiration.
However, our tricks with Jamila ended one day sadly. Among the bags there was one huge one, seven pounds in size, and we handled it together. And somehow, while driving, we dumped this bag into our partner’s chaise. At the station, Daniyar looked at the monstrous load with concern, but, noticing how Jamila grinned, he put the bag on his back and went. Jamila caught up with him: “- he said firmly and walked along the ladder, leaning more and more on his wounded leg: There was dead silence all around. - people shouted. - someone whispered with conviction.
The entire next day Daniyar remained calm and silent. We returned from the station late. Suddenly he began to sing. I was amazed by what passion, what burning the melody was saturated with. And suddenly his oddities became clear to me: daydreaming, love of solitude, silence. Daniyar's songs stirred my soul. And how Jamila has changed!
Every time we returned to the village at night, I noticed how Jamila, shocked and touched by this singing, came closer and closer to the chaise and slowly extended her hand to Daniyar: and then lowered it. I saw how something was accumulating and ripening in her soul, demanding a way out. And she was afraid of it.
One day we were driving from the station, as usual. And when Daniyar’s voice began to gain pitch again, Jamila sat down next to him and lightly leaned her head against his shoulder. Quiet, timid: The song suddenly ended. It was Jamila who impulsively hugged him, but then jumped off the chaise and, barely holding back her tears, said sharply:
And there was an evening at the lek when, through a dream, I saw how Jamila came from the river, sat down next to Daniyar and fell to him.
- Daniyar whispered, calling her the most tender Kazakh and Kyrgyz names. Page 1 ]
Summary of Jamila Chingiz Aitmatov
Ch. T. Aitmatov
Jamila
It was the third year of the war. There were no adult healthy men in the village, and therefore the wife of my older brother Sadyk, Jamilya, was sent by the foreman to a purely male job - transporting grain to the station. And so that the elders would not worry about the bride, he sent me, a teenager, along with her.
Moreover, he said: I will send Daniyar with them.
Jamila was beautiful - slender, stately, with blue-black almond-shaped eyes, tireless, dexterous. She knew how to get along with her neighbors, but if she was insulted, she would not yield to anyone in scolding. I loved Jamila dearly.
And she loved me.
It seems to me that my mother also secretly dreamed of one day making her the imperious mistress of our family, which lived in harmony and prosperity.
On the current I met Daniyar. They said that as a child he was left an orphan, for three years he wandered around the yards, and then went to the Kazakhs in the Chakmak steppe. Daniyar’s wounded leg did not bend, so they sent him to work with us. He was reserved, and in the village he was considered a strange person.
But in his silent, gloomy thoughtfulness there was something lurking that we did not dare to treat him like a friend.
And Jamila, as it happened, or laughed at him,
or didn’t pay attention to him at all. Not everyone would tolerate her antics, but Daniyar looked at the laughing Jamila with gloomy admiration.
However, our tricks with Jamila ended one day sadly. Among the bags there was one huge one, seven pounds in size, and we handled it together. And somehow, while driving, we dumped this bag into our partner’s chaise. At the station, Daniyar looked at the monstrous load with concern, but, noticing how Jamila grinned, he put the bag on his back and went.
Jamila caught up with him: “Drop the bag, I was joking!” - “Go away!” - he said firmly and walked along the ladder, leaning harder and harder on his wounded leg... There was dead silence all around. “Drop it!” - people shouted. “No, he won’t quit!” – someone whispered with conviction.
The entire next day Daniyar remained calm and silent. We returned from the station late. Suddenly he began to sing. I was amazed by what passion, what burning the melody was saturated with.
And suddenly his oddities became clear to me: daydreaming, love of solitude, silence. Daniyar's songs stirred my soul. And how Jamila has changed!
Every time we returned to the village at night, I noticed how Jamila, shocked and touched by this singing, came closer and closer to the chaise and slowly extended her hand to Daniyar... and then lowered it. I saw how something was accumulating and ripening in her soul, demanding a way out. And she was afraid of it.
One day we were driving from the station, as usual. And when Daniyar’s voice began to gain pitch again, Jamila sat down next to him and lightly leaned her head against his shoulder. Quiet, timid...
The song suddenly stopped. It was Jamila who impulsively hugged him, but immediately jumped off the chaise and, barely holding back tears, said sharply: “Don’t look at me, go!”
And there was an evening at the lek when, through a dream, I saw how Jamila came from the river, sat down next to Daniyar and fell to him. “Jamilam, Jamaltai!” – Daniyar whispered, calling her the most tender Kazakh and Kyrgyz names.
Soon the steppe began to blow, the sky became cloudy, and cold rains began to fall - harbingers of snow. And I saw Daniyar walking with a duffel bag, and Jamila was walking next to him, holding the strap of his bag with one hand.
How much talk and gossip there was in the village! The women vied with each other to condemn Jamila: to leave such a family! with the hungry man! Maybe I was the only one who didn’t condemn her.
Summary: Jamila
Ch. T. Aitmatov Jamilya
It was the third year of the war. There were no adult healthy men in the village, and therefore the wife of my older brother Sadyk (he was also at the front), Jamilya, was sent by the foreman to a purely male job - transporting grain to the station. And so that the elders would not worry about the bride, he sent me, a teenager, along with her. And he also said: I will send Daniyar with them.
Jamila was beautiful - slender, stately, with blue-black almond-shaped eyes, tireless, dexterous. She knew how to get along with her neighbors, but if she was offended, she would not yield to anyone in scolding. I loved Jamila dearly. And she loved me. It seems to me that my mother also secretly dreamed of someday making her the imperious mistress of our family, which lived in harmony and prosperity.
On the current I met Daniyar. They said that as a child he was left an orphan, for three years he wandered around the yards, and then went to the Kazakhs in the Chakmak steppe. Daniyar’s wounded leg (he had just returned from the front) did not bend, so they sent him to work with us. He was reserved, and in the village he was considered a strange person. But in his silent, gloomy thoughtfulness there was something lurking that we did not dare to treat him like a friend.
And Jamila, as it happened, either laughed at him or did not pay attention to him at all. Not everyone would tolerate her antics, but Daniyar looked at the laughing Jamila with gloomy admiration.
However, our tricks with Jamila ended one day sadly. Among the bags there was one huge one, seven pounds in size, and we handled it together. And somehow, while driving, we dumped this bag into our partner’s chaise. At the station, Daniyar looked at the monstrous load with concern, but, noticing how Jamila grinned, he put the bag on his back and went. Jamila caught up with him: “Drop the bag, I was joking!” - “Go away!” - he said firmly and walked along the ladder, leaning harder and harder on his wounded leg... There was dead silence all around. "Drop it!" - people shouted. “No, he won’t quit!” - someone whispered with conviction.
The entire next day Daniyar remained calm and silent. We returned from the station late. Suddenly he began to sing. I was amazed by what passion, what burning the melody was saturated with. And suddenly his oddities became clear to me: daydreaming, love of solitude, silence. Daniyar's songs stirred my soul. And how Jamila has changed!
Every time we returned to the village at night, I noticed how Jamilya, shocked and touched by this singing, came closer and closer to the chaise and slowly extended her hand to Daniyar... and then lowered it. I saw how something was accumulating and ripening in her soul, demanding a way out. And she was afraid of it.
One day we were driving from the station, as usual. And when Daniyar’s voice began to gain pitch again, Jamila sat down next to him and lightly leaned her head against his shoulder. Quiet, timid... The song suddenly stopped. It was Jamila who impulsively hugged him, but immediately jumped off the chaise and, barely holding back tears, said sharply: “Don’t look at me, go!”
And there was an evening at the lek when, through a dream, I saw how Jamila came from the river, sat down next to Daniyar and fell to him. “Jamilam, Jamaltai!” - Daniyar whispered, calling her the most tender Kazakh and Kyrgyz names.
Soon the steppe began to blow, the sky became cloudy, and cold rains began to fall - harbingers of snow. And I saw Daniyar walking with a duffel bag, and Jamila was walking next to him, holding the strap of his bag with one hand.
How much talk and gossip there was in the village! The women vied with each other to condemn Jamila: to leave such a family! with the hungry man! Maybe I was the only one who didn’t condemn her.
Aitmatov Ch. Jamilya read summary, retelling
It was the third year of the war. There were no adult healthy men in the village, and therefore the wife of my older brother Sadyk (he was also at the front), Jamilya, was sent by the foreman to a purely male job - transporting grain to the station. And so that the elders would not worry about the bride, he sent me, a teenager, along with her. Moreover, he said: I will send Daniyar with them. Jamila was beautiful - slender, stately, with blue-black almond-shaped eyes, tireless, dexterous. She knew how to get along with her neighbors, but if she was insulted, she would not yield to anyone in scolding. I loved Jamila dearly. And she loved me. It seems to me that my mother also secretly dreamed of one day making her the imperious mistress of our family, which lived in harmony and prosperity. On the current I met Daniyar. They said that as a child he was left an orphan, for three years he wandered around the yards, and then went to the Kazakhs in the Chakmak steppe. Daniyar’s wounded leg (he had just returned from the front) did not bend, so they sent him to work with us. He was reserved, and in the village he was considered a strange person. But in his silent, gloomy thoughtfulness there was something lurking that we did not dare to treat him like a friend. And Jamila, as it happened, either laughed at him or did not pay attention to him at all. Not everyone would tolerate her antics, but Daniyar looked at the laughing Jamila with gloomy admiration. However, our tricks with Jamila ended one day sadly. Among the bags there was one huge one, seven pounds in size, and we handled it together. And somehow, while driving, we dumped this bag into our partner’s chaise. At the station, Daniyar looked at the monstrous load with concern, but, noticing how Jamila grinned, he put the bag on his back and went. Jamila caught up with him: “Drop the bag, I was joking!” - “Go away!” - he said firmly and walked along the ladder, leaning harder and harder on his wounded leg... There was dead silence all around. "Drop it!" - people shouted. “No, he won’t quit!” - someone whispered with conviction. The entire next day Daniyar remained calm and silent. We returned from the station late. Suddenly he began to sing. I was amazed by what passion, what burning the melody was saturated with. And suddenly his oddities became clear to me: daydreaming, love of solitude, silence. Daniyar's songs stirred my soul. And how Jamila has changed! Every time we returned to the village at night, I noticed how Jamila, shocked and touched by this singing, came closer and closer to the chaise and slowly extended her hand to Daniyar... and then lowered it. I saw how something was accumulating and ripening in her soul, demanding a way out. And she was afraid of it. One day we were driving from the station, as usual. And when Daniyar’s voice began to gain pitch again, Jamila sat down next to him and lightly leaned her head against his shoulder. Quiet, timid... The song suddenly stopped. It was Jamila who impulsively hugged him, but immediately jumped off the chaise and, barely holding back tears, said sharply: “Don’t look at me, go!” And there was an evening at the lek when, through a dream, I saw how Jamila came from the river, sat down next to Daniyar and fell to him. “Jamilam, Jamaltai!” - Daniyar whispered, calling her the most tender Kazakh and Kyrgyz names. Soon the steppe began to blow, the sky became cloudy, and cold rains began to fall - harbingers of snow. And I saw Daniyar walking with a duffel bag, and Jamila was walking next to him, holding the strap of his bag with one hand. How much talk and gossip there was in the village! The women vied with each other to condemn Jamila: to leave such a family! with the hungry man! Maybe I was the only one who didn’t condemn her.
