Appreciation of Turgenev's Classic Berry Spring

In early August, the weather is often unbearable. At this time of year, from 12 am to 3 pm, even the most determined fanatics can't resist the high temperature and insist on hunting. At this time, the most loyal hound can only lick its master's spurs or run around with his master, with unhappy eyes, long tongue and panting. When his master scolded him, he could only shake his tail in injustice and look at his master in confusion. It can't run out to catch prey as before. I just go hunting in this weather.

I've always wanted to find a cool place to lie down for a while, even for a short time. My tireless dog is running around in the bushes crazily. Obviously, it doesn't know the meaning of this hot and dry behavior. Finally, this suffocating heat wave forced me to find ways to save energy. So, I came to the small river in Sista (I think my dear readers have heard of this river), slipped down the steep bank, crossed the dam across the river, stepped on the yellow sand and walked in the direction of a spring. This spring is called "Berry Spring" by neighbors.

At an opening on the cliff of the river bank, the gap of the Grand Canyon becomes narrow and deep, and the spring water of raspberry spring gushes out from this gap. The spring water gurgled happily into the river along a 20-step cliff. The spring is covered with velvety grass, and the sun never seems to penetrate the cliff. Because of this, the river is always as cold as silver. I walked to the spring, and there was a cup made of birch on the grass, which was left here by passing farmers for everyone to drink. I drank enough water, lay in the shade and looked around. Not far away, I saw a small cave formed by the impact of water. The water at the mouth of the cave interacts with the surrounding running water to produce ripples. In the cave, two old men sat with their backs to me.

One of them is a fisherman, quite tall and strong, wearing a dark green coat and a wool hat; The other is thin and small, wearing a patched thick cotton-padded coat and no hat. There is a small pot of fish and worms on his knee, and he puts his hand on his gray head from time to time, as if blocking the sun. I looked at it carefully, and it turned out that this person was Skopje of Shumisino. Please be patient and listen to me introduce this man.

A few miles from where I live, there is a big village called Shumchin. There is a stone church in the village for St. Kozima and St. Damian. There used to be a grand landlord's mansion in front of this church, surrounded by various outbuildings, offices, workshops, stables, basements, horse garages, bathhouses, temporary kitchens, rooms for guests or administrators, greenhouses, public swings and other buildings with various purposes. A landlord's family lived in this mansion, and everything became quite smooth until one morning, all these prosperous buildings were cremated to ashes by a big fire.

When the owner moved elsewhere, the mansion declined. This once brilliant big house has turned into a gloomy miscellaneous vegetable garden with piles of bricks everywhere. These bricks were originally the foundation of the house. People quickly built a hut out of the wood that survived the fire, and built a Gothic pavilion as the roof out of the wooden boards they bought ten years ago. Mitrofan, the gardener, his wife Aksiniya and seven children live in this hut.

Mitrofan was instructed to provide vegetables and other things planted in the yard to the owner of One Happy and Fifth a few miles away, while Aksiniya was ordered to look after a Tyrol cow, which was bought from Moscow at a high price, but never gave birth to a drop of milk since it was bought. She also looks after a crowned gray drake, which is the only "elderly" poultry. Their seven children are not assigned special tasks because they are still young, but it is this that makes them all grow up to be real slackers.

I have lived in the gardener's house twice, and every time I pass by their house, I always buy some cucumbers from their house. I don't know why those cucumbers grow huge and tasteless in summer, covered with a thick yellow skin. It was there that I first met Kops. In that place, there were no servants except the Mitro family, an old deaf Gerasim (who was a member of the church because the welfare system allowed him to live in a small house of the widow of a one-eyed soldier). So the Schopkash I want to introduce to you can't simply treat him as a servant. In fact, he is not an ordinary person at all.

But all people, there is always such a position in society, there is always such a relationship. As for domestic servants, even if they don't get paid, they will at least get the so-called "rations". However, Skipkash never followed these two lifestyles. He seems to have nothing to do with anyone. No one knows his existence, not even his past. There is no story about him in the village. I'm afraid there is no such person in the census database. There is an vague rumor that he used to be someone's entourage, but this rumor ends here. As for who he is, where he comes from, whose son he is, how he became a villager in Shumixino village, where he came from, where he lived, and what he lived on ... No one knows all the above questions, even without a clue. Moreover, to be honest, no one actually cares about these problems related to him at all.

Only Mr Trofey Mezzi (who knows the genealogy of four generations of domestic servants like the back of his hand) once said that he remembered that when the late owner Brigadier General Alexei Romanich came back from the battlefield, a Turkish woman was on the trench, and Skopka was a relative of this woman. According to the old Russian custom, every household will put buckwheat pies and vodka on the roadside every holiday to entertain passers-by or give them money directly. But even on such a day, I can't see any tables full of food or barrels full of wine. He never salutes or kisses his master's hand, and never kills a full glass of wine in the housekeeper's hand to wish his master health.

Sometimes, maybe only some kind people pass by and give the poor man a piece of leftover pie. At Easter, people shouted "Jesus is still alive" to him, but he never rolled up his greasy sleeves, never took an Easter egg out of his pocket, blinked and gasped for breath and gave it to a young master or wife. In summer, he lives in a small storage room next to the henhouse; In winter, he lives in the reception room of the bathhouse; When it was colder, he spent the night in the hay shed. Sometimes people will kick him hard, but no one will ever pay attention to him. As for him, it seems that he hasn't opened his mouth since he was born, because he wants to talk.

After the fire, the abandoned guy found a shelter in Mitrofan, the gardener. The gardener never talked to him or said anything like "Come and live with me", but he didn't drive him away. Skipkash doesn't actually live in the gardener's house. He lives in a vegetable garden. He moves and walks quietly, and covers his mouth in fear when sneezing or coughing. He is always as busy as an ant, working back and forth, busy for so long just to fill his stomach. In fact, if he hadn't worked so hard for food all day, our poor friend would have starved to death. The pain of life lies in not knowing where the next meal is!

Sometimes, Supka will sit under the hedge and chew or suck a carrot, or chop up a few dirty Chinese cabbage roots; Sometimes I will go somewhere panting with a bucket of water; Sometimes there is a fire under the small pot, and then a few black feet are taken out from the chest of the coat and put into the small pot; Sometimes in my hut, I knock nails to make a bread shelf. He did all this silently, as if it were a secret: you looked at him and he hid again. Sometimes he suddenly disappears for a day or two, of course, no one will notice that he is gone … and then, in the blink of an eye, he appears again! Somewhere under the hedge, secretly make a fire under the kettle. His face is small, his eyes are light yellow, his hair hangs down to his eyebrows, his nose is pointed, and his ears are big and thin, like bats' ears. It seems that his beard has not been trimmed for two weeks, and he has not improved more or less. This is Skopka. I met him on the bank of Hista River, accompanied by another old man, Shuo Pucas.

I stood up, walked up to him, said hello, and sat next to him. Schopkash's companion is also my acquaintance. He is a serf of Count Peter ilych, nicknamed Mikhail Zavili's "Fog". He is already a free man. He lives in Borhoff, a patient with lung disease. Bochow runs a small hotel. I stayed in that small hotel several times. Even now, young officials, or some leisure travelers (businessmen are generally busy with business, they pay more attention to details, prefer to nest in those striped feather bedding, and have no time to take care of the surrounding scenery) can still see a two-story abandoned building not far from the village of Dan Coe in Troy-the roof has completely collapsed, the windows have been nailed to death, and it has been completely abandoned. On a sunny noon, you can't imagine anything more bleak than this abandoned building. A long time ago, there was an important person named Count Peter ilych. He was very hospitable and famous at that time. During that time, people from all over the province gathered at his house, dancing and having fun with the loud music of family bands and the crackling of firecrackers and fireworks. Now, the old ladies passing by this abandoned mansion are all sorry and miss their lost youth. The count has been holding a ball and lingering among the guests who are constantly flattering him. He smiled happily, but unfortunately, his financial resources simply could not afford such extravagant expenses. When he was completely bankrupt, Peter went to St. Petersburg, hoping to find a job there. But in the end, he didn't earn a penny by his own efforts and died in a hotel room.

Fog used to be the housekeeper of Peter's family. He was free when the count was still alive. Now, he is about seventy years old. He looks ordinary but optimistic and always smiles. Only people in Katrina's time could have this kind of smile: it revealed a gentle and solemn power. When Fog spoke, his lips slowly opened and closed, and his eyes shone affectionately, gently with a nasal sound. Even when he blows his nose and smells snuff, he is so calm as if he is doing something important.

"Hey, Mikhail Zavili," I said, "how's it going? Did you catch a lot of fish? "

"Here it is. Come and look at this fish cage, two bass and five carp, Skopshka. Show him. "

Puska reached out and handed me the fish cage.

"How have you been recently? Skopje? " I asked him.

"Oh ... slut, prostitute ... no ... no ... that's right, sir." Puska stammered to answer me, as if something weighing 1000 pounds had pinned his tongue.

"What happened to Mitrovan?"

"OK ... OK ... OK, sir."

The poor old man turned around.

"But not many fish bite," said Fogg. "It's so hot that the fish are sleeping under the bushes. Give me a bait, Kops. " Kops card took out a bug, put it in his open palm, slapped it twice, put it on the hook, spat again, and gave it to Fogg. "Thanks, Joe Puska ... and you? How are you, my Lord? " He turned to me and continued, "Did you go hunting for fun?"

"You saw it yourself."

"Ah, is your dog English or German?"

The old man likes to show off from time to time, as if to say, "I have seen the world."

"I don't know what breed it is, but it is a good dog."

"Ah, did you take a hound when you went out?"

"Yes, I have two sets of hounds."

"That's true. Some people like dogs very much, while others don't want them for nothing. According to my experience, I keep a dog for dignity ... people should have style when they go out, horses should have style, people who accompany hunting should also have style, and they should all have style. The late Count Peter-God bless his soul-was not a hunter, but he kept dogs, and he took them out for a walk twice a year.

All the accompanying hunters, dressed in costumes with gold and silver bands, gathered in the yard and blew their horns. When the count came out, the horse was led to him. When he gets on the horse, the hunter's head will put his foot in the stirrup, take off his hat, put the whip in the hat and present it to the count. He will whip hard on horseback, and all hunters will shout slogans in unison before going outside. A hunter rode behind the count, holding his two dogs with ribbons, and took good care of them ... Besides, think about it, the hunter who was present sat high on the Cossack's saddle, flushed and rolled his eyes, just like this ... Of course, there were many guests, you know, on that occasion, this was an entertainment and honor activity ... "He suddenly came and pulled him.

"They say the count used to live a rich life?" I asked.

The old man spat at the bug and then threw the hook.

"He is a very good gentleman, and everyone knows it. People from the upper class often come to Petersburg to visit him specially. They often wear colored ribbons on their chests and sit around the dining table to eat together. He really knows how to please them. He sometimes calls me,' Fog, I want some live sturgeon tomorrow. "Go and see if you can catch some for me, do you hear me?"

"'Yes, my Lord.' Embroidered coat, wig, walking stick, perfume, fine cologne, snuff bottle, large oil painting ... he can order directly from Paris. When he gave a dinner party, my god, it was great! Fireworks are soaring and traffic is congested! Sometimes, you shoot. There are 40 people in the orchestra alone. He hired a German as a conductor, but the German was so pushy that he asked to eat at the same table with adults, so the count fired him. "My band," he said, "can play without a conductor. Of course he can say that. He is the boss. "

"Then they will start dancing until dawn, especially the Aeschylus dance with two men and two women, and the Spanish dance Matt Radul ... hey ... boy, take the bait! (The old man pulls a small bass out of the water) Take it, Skopje! Our adults are really role models for all adults, "he continued, throwing the hook again. "His heart is very good, sometimes hitting people, but he forgot before you looked up. Only a little, he has a mistress. Alas, those women, God, please forgive them! They bankrupted adults. You know, adults always choose them from the lower classes. How can they not be greedy for money? Oh, they are greedy for money. They probably have all the most valuable things in Europe! Some people may say,' Why can't adults live according to their own wishes? This is his own business. But it is always wrong to let yourself go bankrupt. Among this group of women, one person is very special. Her name is akulina. Now that she is dead, may God bless her soul! She's the daughter of the Sitoya Watchman. What a bitch! On several occasions, she also slapped adults. But, my Lord, I am completely fascinated by this woman. She sent my nephew to the army because the poor child accidentally spilled cocoa on her new skirt ... her servant was not the only one. Ah, okay, okay, these are old memories! "The old man sighed deeply, lowered his head and stopped talking.

"In my opinion, are you adults very strict?" After a short silence, I asked again

"Strictness was a fashionable thing at that time, my Lord." He shook his head and responded to me like this.

"Toughness is out of fashion now?" I looked him in the eye and asked.

He gave me a squint: "Now, things must be much better." He mumbled and threw the hook hard.

We sat in the shade of a tree, but even so, we couldn't resist the suffocating heat. The hot and humid air condenses into a thick sheet. In such an environment, people can only slowly lift their long-baked faces, eager to breathe some flowing air, but the surroundings are as dull as solids. * * * The blazing sun radiates hot air in the deep blue sky. On the river bank opposite us, there is a field of Huang Chengcheng's wild oats, which is full of absinthe. All the oats did not move, not even a slight shake. A little further on, a farm horse was standing in the river, which was just above the knee, and it was slowly swinging its wet tail. From time to time, under a bush floating on the water, a big fish appeared, spitting a series of bubbles, slowly turned and dived into the water, causing ripples on the water. Locusts are chirping on the charred grass; Quails are weak and can hardly crow; The kite spread its wings and glided smoothly in the wilderness. Suddenly, it flapped its wings quickly, and its tail turned into a semicircle and landed somewhere. We were baked by the sun and sat motionless. At this time, from the valley behind us, there was a sound, and someone was coming towards us on the water. Looking back, I saw a farmer in his fifties, with a dusty face, a shirt and slippers, a wicker basket and a coat on his shoulders. He walked to the spring, had a full meal and then looked up.

"Ah, Frazier!" Fog looked at him and greeted him. "Hello, old friend! Where did it come from? "

"Hello, I'm Mihailo Savelyev!" The farmer came a little closer to us. "How far away!"

"Where have you been?" Fogg asked him.

"I went to Moscow, my host family."

"What did you do?"

"Ask him for a favor."

"Help with what?"

"Oh, let him reduce my service rent a little, or change me to a service rent, or stay in another place, or something ... my son is dead, and I can't handle it alone now."

"Your son is dead?"

"Dead, my son," said the farmer after a pause. "He used to live in Moscow and was a taxi driver. In fact, he always pays my rent. "

"Then you still pay the service rent?"

"Yes, we pay the service charge."

"What did your master say?"

"What did he say? He kicked me out! He said,' How dare you come to me directly? The housekeeper is in charge of these things. You must ... he said,' pay back the service rent you owe first!' He flew into a rage and shouted at me. "

"And then what? Are you back? "

"Well, then I'm back. I want to go to my son's house to see if he left anything behind, but no one will answer me directly. I said to his employer,' I'm Philip's father,' and the man said to me,' I don't know anything, your son, your son left nothing, and he still owes me money!' So I have to go. "

The farmer smiled and talked as if talking about other people's business, but his eyes were wet, tears fell from his eyes and his lips trembled slightly.

"What are you going to do now? Go home? "

"Otherwise, what should we do? Of course I can only go home. I think my wife should be hungry now. "

"It's really time to go back and have a look." Puska suddenly spoke. He looked a little confused, and then quietly began to dig for fish and worms.

"So you went to the housekeeper?" "Fog" continued to ask him, looking at Skopje with a little surprise.

"I went to see him? I still owe him some money. My son was ill for several years before he died. During that time, he couldn't even afford to pay his own service rent. But I won't get tired of it. Anyway, they won't get a penny from me ... that's right, man, play as much as you want. I just have no money! " The farmer burst out laughing.

"Di Chin Xie Miao nage, no matter how smart he is ... as long as ..."

Frazier smiled again.

"Oh, that's not good, Fraser." "Fog" suddenly uttered such a sentence on purpose.

"Not good? What's wrong? " (Fraser's voice suddenly stops) "Why is it so hot!" He changed the subject and went on, wiping his face with his sleeve.

"Who is your master?" I asked him.

"Count Valerian petrovich"

"Is it Peter ilych's son?"

"It's him," replied Fogg. "Peter ilych gave him the village of Fraser before he died."

"How is he now?"

"Very well, thank goodness!" Fraser replied, "My face is red."

"See, sir," Fogg continued, turning to me, "it's really nice to live near Moscow, but if you live here, paying the service fee is another matter."

"How much do you need to pay?"

"Ninety-five rubles." Fraser whispered.

"Well, you see, there is very little land, and it is all the Woods of the host family."

"In addition, I heard that the forest was also sold." The farmer said.

"Oh, look ... Puska, give me a fish bug ... Hey, Puska, what's the matter, are you asleep?"

Puska came to his senses. The farmer sat down beside us. We fell silent again and again. On the other side of the river, someone is singing. Alas, what a sad song it is. Poor Frazier was deeply sad again.

After half an hour, we parted ways.

Guide reading

Why are the fates of the three serfs different?

This paper describes three serfs that hunters met, namely Skopje, Mikhail Zavili and Frasi. These three people should be divided into two types according to their experiences, and Skopje and Frasi should belong to the same category. They are serfs of landlords, and their lives are very difficult, even dark, and they can't survive. As a domestic servant, Kops card can't even get "rations". He seems to have nothing to do with anyone. No one knows his existence, not even his past. There is no story about him in the village. As for who he is, where he comes from, whose son he is, how he became a villager in Shumixino village, where he got that coarse cotton coat that will never be replaced, where he lives, and what he makes a living ... No one knows all these questions, not even the slightest clue. Sometimes, maybe only some kind people pass by and give the poor man a piece of leftover pie. In summer, he lives in a small storage room next to the henhouse; In winter, he lives in the reception room of the bathhouse; When it was colder, he spent the night in the hay shed. Sometimes people will kick him hard, but no one will ever pay attention to him. As for him, it seems that he hasn't opened his mouth since he was born, because he wants to talk. He lives in a vegetable garden. He moves and walks quietly, and covers his mouth in fear when sneezing or coughing. He is always as busy as an ant, working back and forth, busy for so long just to fill his stomach. In fact, if he hadn't worked so hard for food all day, our poor friend would have starved to death. Sometimes, Supka will sit under the hedge and chew or suck a carrot, or chop up a few dirty Chinese cabbage roots; Sometimes I will go somewhere panting with a bucket of water; Sometimes there is a fire under the small pot, and then a few black feet are taken out from the chest of the coat and put into the small pot; Sometimes in my hut, I knock nails to make a bread shelf. He did all this silently, as if it were a secret: you looked at him and he hid again. Sometimes he suddenly disappears for a day or two, of course, no one will notice that he is gone … and then, in the blink of an eye, he appears again! Somewhere under the hedge, secretly make a fire under the kettle. His face is small, his eyes are light yellow, his hair hangs down to his eyebrows, his nose is pointed, and his ears are big and thin, like bats' ears. It seems that his beard has not been trimmed for two weeks, and he has not improved more or less. It can be said that Kops card has lost the minimum qualification and dignity as a person. He has no food, no clothes and no shelter. He can only pick up rubbish. Even so, he must work hard every day, or he may starve to death the next moment. More cruelly, he even lost the right to speak, no one cares who he is, and he doesn't exist in people's hearts.

Fraser was a lonely serf, living a life of slavery. His only son is dead and his wife is starving. Because of the service rent of 95 rubles, he went to Moscow to find his master, but he was kicked out. I was told that I was not qualified to go directly to the master, so I had to go to the housekeeper and ask him to pay off the service rent he owed! From Frasi's experience, we can see that serfs are not qualified for dialogue in the eyes of landlords, nor can they get sympathy.

Mikhail Zavili's husband was another kind of serf. He became a free man because of his master, Count Peter ilych. Count Peter ilych is a very good gentleman. People from the upper class often visit him in Petersburg. Embroidered coat, wig, walking stick, perfume, fine cologne, snuff bottle, large oil painting ... he can order directly from Paris. He is kind-hearted and sometimes hits people, but he forgets before you look up. The count has been holding a ball and lingering among the guests who are constantly flattering him. He smiled happily, but unfortunately, his financial resources simply could not afford such extravagant expenses. When he was completely bankrupt, he had to go to St. Petersburg, hoping to find a job there. But in the end, he didn't earn a penny by his own efforts and died in a hotel room. From the actions of Count Peter ilych, we can see that he is a more enlightened landlord and a landlord in the era of Katrina. In the eyes of Russians, the era of Katrina is a relatively democratic and powerful era, and it is also an era that Turgenev yearns for. People in this era are full of self-confidence and calmness, so is Mikhail Zavili, who lives in this era. Now, he is about seventy years old. He looks ordinary but optimistic, always smiling, showing a gentle and solemn power. Even when he blows his nose and smells snuff, he is so calm as if he is doing something important.

In a calm narrative, the article quietly compares the life and mental state of the two types of serfs, and also compares the landlords of the two eras. In contrast, the author also expressed his political ideals. He hoped that the landlord class was a reformer with humanitarian feelings, lived like Count Peter ilych, looked down on property, liberated serfs, gave them freedom, and rarely beat and scolded serfs. This seems to be the embodiment of the author. We found Turgenev's shadow in Count Peter ilych, who expressed his hope for the Russian future through the image of Count Peter ilych.