Chapter 10 Research on the Origin and Development of Goliusinuo Village

If God has given me readers, they will probably want to know out of curiosity how I made up my mind to write this study of the origins of Goliusino village.To do this, I must describe certain details in advance. I was born on the 1st of April, 1801, in the village of Goliusino, to parents of decent dignity.I received enlightenment education from the deacon of the church in my village.I was greatly indebted to that venerable gentleman, to whom I later developed a love of reading and, in general, a love of writing and calligraphy.My progress has been slow but steady, so that in my tenth year I have mastered everything that is still in my head.My mind is born weak, and the same weak bones of the body do not allow me to burden it any more.

The reputation of a writer is most enviable to me.Although my parents are the most admirable people, they are simple people, their education is old-fashioned, and they never read a word of books. Except for the "literacy textbook", the imperial calendar and "the latest rulers and slips" that the whole family bought for me , and none of the other books.Reading "The Complete Book of Chidots" has long been something I am happy to forget about. I can memorize it by heart, but even so, I still find new and beautiful places in it every day.Kurganov seemed to me the greatest of men besides General Premyankov, to whom my father had been an adjutant.About him, I asked everyone I met, but unfortunately, no one could satisfy my curiosity, no one knew what he was like, and there was only one answer to my many questions: Written by Kurganov I have already published "The Complete Collection of Latest Chidu", and I have long been convinced of this.A mass of unknown darkness enveloped this figure, as if he were an ancient demigod, and sometimes I even doubted whether he was really a person.I think his name is fictitious, and the legend about him seems to be an illusory myth, which needs to be verified by a new Niebuhr.After all, this man continued to follow my imagination, and I tried my best to give some definite shape to his mysterious features, and finally decided that he should resemble Kryuchkin, the secretary of the Zemstvo, a little boy. An old man with a red nose and twinkling eyes.

① Niebuhr Bartol George (1776-1831), German ancient historian, author of "History of Rome". In 1812 I was sent to Moscow and entered the boarding school of Karl Ivanovich Meller.I stayed there less than three months, because the enemy let us go home before Napoleon attacked.I'm back in the country again.After driving off the enemy army speaking twelve languages, they wanted to send me to Moscow again to see what was going on.Has Karl Ivanovich returned to the rubble of the old school?Or, in the reverse case, to send me to another school.But I begged my mother to keep me in the country, as my ill health did not permit me to rise at seven o'clock in the morning, as is usually the case in all boarding schools.So, when I was sixteen, I remained in the rudimentary stage, and playing stick-and-stick with my gang of rascals was my only subject, a subject to which I had acquired a fair amount of knowledge while I was at the boarding school.

At this time, I entered the ×× Infantry Regiment as a non-commissioned officer.I stayed in the regiment until last year, that is, 18××.The few years I have been in the regiment have left me with few pleasant impressions, except for two incidents, promotion to officer, and a sudden win of two hundred kopeks when there was only one ruble and sixty kopeks in my trouser pockets. Forty-five rubles.My loving parents passed away one after another, so I had to leave the army and return to my ancestral home. My life during this period was very important to me, so I intend to say a few more words.I must first ask the forgiveness of the good reader if I have misused his condescension.

It was a rainy day in late autumn.After arriving at the post station, I had to turn back to the village of Goliusino, so I hired a carriage and went home along the path.Quiet as I am by nature, the impatience to see the places where I spent my better days took possession of me so strongly that now and then I urged the coachman, now promised him a drink, now threatened to beat him badly. , I stabbed him two or three times in the back, it was very effective, and the effect was faster than taking out and untying the wallet.Well, I have to admit, it was the first time in my life that I knocked him two or three times, because the coachman gang, I don't know why, always feel very right.The coachman was driving a troika, but I felt that he was following the old rules of the coachman, waving the whip and pulling the reins, and indeed exhorting his horses.Finally, the bushes of the village of Goliucino were in the distance.Ten minutes later, the carriage drove into the courtyard.My heart was beating violently, I was indescribably excited, and I looked around. It had been eight years since I had not seen Goliucino!The white birches, I saw them planted by the fence with my own eyes, have grown up now, with luxuriant branches and leaves, pointing to the blue sky.In the courtyard, three square flower beds were built in the old days, with a sandy path in between, but now it has become an unmowed grassland, on which a black cow is grazing.My car stopped before the steps.The servant ran to open the door, but the latch was locked.The shutters were open, and the house seemed to be still inhabited, when a woman came out of the servants' wing and asked who I was looking for.When she learned that the master himself was back, she ran back to the room again.Then, groups of servants surrounded me.I was touched from the bottom of my heart, seeing familiar and unfamiliar faces, I kissed them friendly one by one.The naughty ghost of my youth is now the head of the family, and the little girl who sat on the floor to be driven is now the housewife with children.The men all cried.When I spoke to women, I was not polite: "You are old!" I was answered affectionately: "And you, sir? You are getting ugly!" They took me to the back steps, my The nurse rushed to meet me, hugged me, and cried and howled, as if I had become Odysseus who had experienced hardships.Someone ran to light a fire in the bathhouse.The cook, who had grown a great beard from idleness, volunteered to get me lunch, or maybe supper—for it was getting dark.Immediately clean the room for me. The nanny and my first mother's maid used to live in that room.I find myself in the comfortable ancestral comfort zone in which I was born twenty-three years ago.

For nearly three weeks, I was busy and busy.I made friends with jurors, chief representatives of the nobility, and various officials of the province.Eventually I accepted the inheritance and took over this ancestral estate.I settled down, but soon a boredom of doing nothing began to torment me.At that time, I hadn't met the kind and respectable neighbor ××.I'm not good at running the business of the Grange.The tales told by my wet nurse, whom I had appointed as keeper of the keys, consisted of fifteen family anecdotes in all, which should have been of great interest to me, but which, once uttered, were forever monotonous.For me, therefore, she herself became another "Compendium of Latest Rulers and Letters" in which I knew which line to find on which page.I found the veritable "Compendium of Rulers and Letters" among a pile of tatters in the warehouse, and it looked very embarrassed.I brought it out to the light of day and worked on it, but Kurganov had lost its old charm for me, and I read it again and never looked at it again.

In this extremely narrow realm, I had an idea, why not try to write something by myself?The reader who prefers me has learned that I read for a jingle of silver, and that I have no chance of acquiring what slips away, grew up to sixteen and played with servants' children, and then, Moving from province to province, house to house, hanging out with Jews and shop boys, playing pinball on broken tables, driving down dirt roads. Besides, being a writer I found so difficult, so out of reach for me, that I terrified myself when I even started to write.What hope did I have of being a writer when my burning desire to meet one was impossible?However, this reminds me of one incident, which I want to say in order to confirm my consistent love for the literature of my country.

In 1820, when I was a cadet, I came to Petersburg on a business trip and stayed there for a week.Although I didn't have a single acquaintance there, the time passed happily.Every day I go to the theater quietly and sit in a box on the fourth floor.I knew all the actors by name and was passionately in love with Khun, who played Amalia brilliantly in the Sunday play "Hatred of Man and Confession."In the morning, when I came back from the General Staff Headquarters, I usually went to a low snack bar, ordered a cup of chocolate, and read a literary magazine.Once I was sitting absorbed in a critical article in the Goodness magazine, and a man in a turquoise overcoat came up to me and gently drew a copy of the Hamburger Zeitung from under my little book.I was so absorbed in my reading that I didn't even lift my eyes.The guest ordered a steak and sat down across from me.I was still reading, not paying attention to him.At this time, he was eating breakfast, angrily scolded the waiter for his poor hospitality, drank half a bottle of wine and left.Two young men also had breakfast here.

① An operetta by the German writer Kozerbüh. "Do you know who he is?" one young man asked the other. "He is ①, a writer." ① Alluding to the writer Bulgarin. "Writer?" I involuntarily yelled.So I threw down the unfinished magazine and unfinished cup of chocolate, ran to pay the bill, and ran out into the street before I got my change.I looked around and saw the turquoise coat from a distance, so I let go of my legs and followed along Nevsky Prospekt, almost running.After taking a few steps, I suddenly felt that someone stopped me. When I saw it, an officer of the Guards reminded me that I should not knock him off the sidewalk, but should stand at attention and salute him.After this reprimand, I became cautious.Unfortunately, I keep running into officers, I have to stop every now and then, and the writer is always far away.Never in my life had my soldier's greatcoat looked so heavy, never had my officer's epaulets so envied me.At last, when I arrived at the Anich Gold Bridge, I managed to catch up with the man in the turquoise coat.

"Excuse me," I began, raising my hand in a military salute, "is your name Mr. E? Your excellent article has been honored for me to have read it in the "Educational Competitor" magazine." "You're wrong, sir!" he answered. "I'm not a writer, I'm an attorney. But Mr. E. is an acquaintance of mine. I just met him a quarter of an hour ago at the Pont des Constables." So my reverence for Russian literature was only worth the thirty kopecks I lost in change, and besides, reprimand for dereliction of duty and almost imprisonment—for nothing!

In spite of my intellectual protests, the bold idea of ​​being a writer kept intruding on my head.Finally, unable to resist the development trend of nature, I ordered a thick notebook for myself, with the tenet of never turning back, no matter what I wrote, I had to fill it up.Having analyzed and evaluated every genre of poetry (since I had no time for submissive prose), I decided to immediately proceed to an epic poem, drawn from the history of my country.It was not long before I found my hero.I chose Rurik.I set to work. When it comes to writing poetry, I have learned some tricks, which I learned when I copied "Dangerous Neighbors", "Comment on Moscow Boulevard", "Plesnin Pond", etc. in notebooks (these notebooks passed on among the officers).Even so, my long poem progressed slowly.By the third line of the poem, I threw it away.I thought that the genre of epic poetry was not my genre, so I set out to write the tragedy "Rulik".Tragedy is also difficult to deliver.I just wanted to try to change this tragedy into a narrative poem, but the narrative poem would not be convenient.Finally, the inspiration illuminated my heart, and I picked up the pen again, and finally finished the few lines of inscriptions under Rurik's portrait with ease. ① "The Dangerous Neighbor" is a satirical poem by Pushkin. ② "Comment on the Boulevard in Moscow" and "Plesnin Pond" are two anonymous satirical poems copied at that time. Not to mention that I was not entirely dismissive of my inscription as a young poet's first foray, but I was satisfied with this preliminary experience, knowing that I was not a born poet.From then on my creative experience bound me to a literary career, and I could not separate myself from the manuscript and the inkwell.I want to relegate to prose.When the opportunity comes, I am too lazy to study the materials before creation, too lazy to draw up an outline, too lazy to arrange chapters, etc. I plan to pick up scattered thoughts at my fingertips, regardless of its cause and effect, regardless of its sequence, and write down the thoughts just now with a swipe of a pen. The appearance of a moment when it popped up.In this way, for two full days, I searched my brains and came up with the following maxim: "Whoever disobeys the laws of reason and submits to the mercy of passion will go astray, and he will regret it too late!" This idea is certainly correct, but it is not new at all.Throw aside thoughts for the time being, and I will catch novels.However, because I am not good at dealing with fictional stories, I choose some anecdotes and anecdotes I have heard from various people, and try my best to exaggerate them vividly, sometimes even trying to embellish the truth with my own whimsical flowers and plants.When writing such novels, I gradually formed my own style and learned to express correctly, smoothly and freely.However, soon my accumulated materials ran out, and I had to look for objects for literary activities again. The idea that I should throw away the trivial and dubious anecdotes and engage in the description of truly great events has long excited my imagination.To be an impartial judge, observer, and seer of many centuries and peoples is, I think, the highest state a writer can achieve.But what kind of history can I write with my poor education?Loyal and erudite people, there are so many talents, haven't they already surpassed me?Is there any historical theme that they have not exhausted?Tell me to write a general history of the world? ——Does the immortal tome of Abbot Milot not exist anymore?Tell me to turn to the general history of the country?So what can I say after Tatyshev Balzin and Gorikov?Can I find the hidden meaning of ancient texts buried in the pile of old papers of the chronicle when I am not even familiar with the numbers in Slavic?I plan to do some small-scale history, such as the Provincial Chronicle of our province, but there are many obstacles in this matter, which I can hardly overcome.To go into town, call upon prefects and bishops, ask permission to enter archives and monastery repositories, and so on.It is much more convenient for me to compile the county annals of this county, but this kind of county annals is of little interest to philosophers or pragmatists, and it cannot provide materials for expert writers. The name change of ×× to the county seat began in 17××, and the only prominent event recorded in its history was a fire ten years ago that burned Quanyechang and the county government office. An unexpected opportunity solved my problem.My washerwoman was drying her clothes in the attic and found a basket full of rags, shavings, and books.Everyone in my family knows that I love reading.My housekeeper was sitting with me at this moment.Facing my manuscript, I was biting the tip of my pen, thinking about summarizing the experience of talking long and short in the countryside.Complacent, the housekeeper dragged a basket into my room and exclaimed happily: "There are books! There are books!" "There are books!" I responded, and ran to the basket in ecstasy.Indeed, I saw a pile of books, with green and blue covers—a batch of old imperial calendars.This discovery immediately cooled my enthusiasm, but I was finally happy to get this unexpected thing, because it was a book after all!For the generosity, I gave the washerwoman half a silver ruble. When I was left alone, I flipped through these imperial calendars, and soon I was strongly attracted to them.These imperial calendars, from 1744 to 1799, went without interruption for fifty-five years.A blue sheet of paper usually attached to an almanac for record purposes, filled with words in an old-fashioned font.Glancing at these texts, I was surprised to find that they not only recorded the changes in the wind and rain and the old journal accounts, but also a brief narrative about the history of Goliusino Village.I immediately set to work analyzing this precious collection of notes and soon found that they were kept in strict chronological order and constituted a complete history of my ancestral estate for almost a full century.In addition, it contains inexhaustible material on economic, statistical, meteorological, and other scientific observations.Since then, the study of these notes has taken up all my time, for I saw the possibility of making well-structured, refreshing, and instructive essays out of them.While delving into this batch of incomparably precious documents, I began to look for new roots in the history of the village of Goliucino.Then, I was amazed by the sheer abundance of evidence obtained.I spent a full six months doing material research, and then entered the long-awaited writing work. Thanks to the grace of God, I finally completed the work on the third day of Shanghuanzhi in November 1827. . At this moment, like that historian whose name I have forgotten, I have completed a great work of self-knowledge. I put down my pen, sadly, and stepped into the garden, thinking: What a feat I have accomplished. !I feel that after writing the examination of the origins of Goliucino Village, this great world no longer needs me, I have done my duty, and I should rest in peace! ※ ※ ※ Here I provide a list of the original materials that I compiled the research on the origin and development of Goliucino Village as follows: 1.Collection of old imperial calendars.A total of fifty-four.The first twenty volumes are all old-fashioned calligraphy and official titles.Its chronological record is the work of my great-grandfather Andrey Sdypanovich Belkin.This description is clear and short.Example: Fourth of May, snow.Trishka was beaten due to illness.On the sixth day the sorrel cow died.Sennica was beaten for drinking.On the eleventh, the weather was fine.light snow.Three hunting rabbits.and so on.There is nothing trivial in it... The remaining thirty-five volumes are obviously written by many people. Most of them are written in the so-called shopkeeper's style, with titles or without titles. The writing is generally long-winded, incoherent, and does not follow the rules of spelling .Occasionally, women's brushstrokes are also found.This part contains the notes of my grandfather Ivan Andreyevich Berkin and my grandmother, Yevpraksya Andreyevna, my grandfather's wife, as well as the steward Gorpo Witsky's record. 2.Chronicle written by the deacon of the village church of Goliusino.This marvelous manuscript I found in the house of the priest, who married the chronicler's daughter.The first few pages were torn out, and the priest's sons used them to paste kites.A kite fell into my garden.I picked it up and planned to return it to the child, but suddenly found that it was covered with words.After reading a few lines, I knew that this kite was made by the Chronicle. Fortunately, I still had time to save the remaining part.I bought this chronicle for two and a half buckets of oatmeal. Its profound conception and gorgeous diction are really amazing! 3.Oral legends.I myself have never taken any rumours lightly.But this time Agrafina Trifonovna was especially to be thanked.She was the mother of the village chief, Afjay, and was said to have been the concubine of the head of the village, Gorpovitsky. 4.Account roster.Attached are the comments of previous village chiefs (demographic statistics and death records), which are related to the villagers' morality and economic status. ※ ※ ※ This land, called Goliusino according to the name of its capital, occupies more than two hundred and forty dessiatines on the earth, and has a population of sixty-three.To the north it adjoins the villages of Lukhov and Berkukhov, whose inhabitants are poor, thin, and small, and whose haughty riches are martial, that is to say, hare-hunting.It is bounded on the south by the Sivka River, and on the opposite side is the territory of the free peasants of Karacheyevo.These free farmers are a group of restless people, known for their bravery and brutality.On its western edge stretched green fields, and that was Chaharinno, peacefully ruled by wise and enlightened landowners.To the east lies a barren land and an impassable marsh, where only cranberries grow, where there is only the monotonous sound of frogs, and where superstitions say there are ghosts. Note The swamp is called the Ghost Hole.It is said that there once seemed to be a not very clever pig shepherd herding pigs not far from that deserted place.She was pregnant, but in any case she couldn't explain the conception satisfactorily.The common people agreed that it was the devil in the swamp who did the crime.But this legend does not deserve the attention of historians, and after Niebuhr it is inexcusable to believe such nonsense. ※ ※ ※ Since ancient times, Goliucino Village has been known for its rich products and pleasant climate.Rye, oats, barley and buckwheat thrive in its fertile soil.Birch forests and pine forests provide residents with pillars and dead branches, either for construction or as firewood.There is never a shortage of walnuts, strawberries, raspberries and bilberries.Mushrooms are plentiful, and drowned in sour cream, they are delicious, though not healthy.The ponds are full of crucian carp, and in the Sivka there are pike and cod. ※ ※ ※ The inhabitants of the village of Goliusino are mostly of medium height, solidly built, powerfully built, with gray eyes, and hazel or fiery red hair.The women have slightly upturned noses, high cheekbones, and rich bodies. Notes: The name "strong woman" is often seen in the comments made by the village head on the roster of household registration. The men were honest, laboring (especially on their own fields), and brave: many of them dared to hunt bears alone, and became famous around them as boxing fighters.Most of them love to drink.In addition to doing housework, women also share most of the labor of men, and they are as brave as men. Few of them are afraid of the village chief.They formed a strong guard and patrolled the master's yard all night long. They were called the "Women's Army of Zhi Ge" (from the Slavic word "Ge Spear").An important duty of the Zhige Women's Army is to hit the iron plate with stones to warn the gangsters.They are as chaste as they are beautiful.For indecent behavior, they will give a serious and straightforward answer. The inhabitants of the village of Goliusino have long produced abundant goods: birch bark, baskets made of bark, and shoes.The Sivka River facilitated their business.When the water rose in spring, they crossed the river in canoes, like the ancient Scandinavians.During the rest of the season, they waded across rivers, with their trousers rolled up to their knees first. The language of the village of Goliusino is undoubtedly a Slavic one, but like Russian, it is somewhat different from Slavic.It has many ellipsis and endings, and several letters disappear completely or are replaced by others.However, the Great Russians and the Goryushinos can easily understand each other in conversation. A man usually marries a twenty-year-old woman at the age of thirteen.A wife beats her husband for four or five years, after which the husband starts beating his wife.From this point of view, both men and women have their own time limits for exercising power, and neither will suffer, and this balance of power has been maintained. The funeral ceremony will be held as follows.On the day when the dead person ascends to heaven, he will be carried to the cemetery. This is to prevent the dead from occupying an extra place in the hut for no reason.For this reason, it sometimes happens that when the dead man is being carried into the graveyard in the coffin, he sneezes or yawns there, which makes his parents happy to die.The widow wept for her husband, and wailed: "My light! My heroic head! To whom have you thrown me? What have I mourned for you?" After returning from the cemetery, funerals were opened to mourn The spirit of the deceased is in the sky, and relatives and friends will get drunk for two or three days, or a whole week, depending on the degree of devotion and enthusiasm for the deceased's drink offering.These rural funeral rites are preserved to this day. The attire of the people in the village of Goliusino is to put the jacket over the trousers, which is a characteristic that originated from the Slavs.In winter they wear sheepskin jackets, but more for looking good than for keeping out the cold.Because sheepskin jackets are usually only hung on one shoulder, and when they need to move their muscles and bones for light labor, they simply take off the leather jackets. Science, art and poetry have flourished in Goliucino since ancient times.Not to mention priests and church clergy, most of the residents are literate.The chronicle records that there was a Zemstvo secretary named Jin Lianqi who lived around 1767. He could write not only with his right hand, but also with his left hand.This remarkable man was known for writing letters, petitions and personal papers of all kinds.He suffered more than once for his art, for his meddling, for his meddling in various important affairs.When he died in his dying years, he was practicing writing with his right foot, because writing with two hands was already too famous.He has played an important role in the history of the village of Goliushino, as the reader will understand below. Music has always been the favorite art of the educated Goliusinos.The shamisen and bagpipes delight the sensitive soul, and are still played in every household, especially in the surviving guild halls, decorated with carvings of pine trees and double-headed eagles. Poetry also flourished in the ancient village of Goliusino.Alkhip Resoy's poems are still fresh in the memory of the younger generation. In terms of their gentle and honest purpose, those poems are no less than the pastoral songs of the famous Wei Jier, and in terms of their description of everything, they are far superior to Mr. Sumarokov.Although they are slightly inferior to the latest works of our country's poetic gods in terms of flamboyant rhetoric and rhetoric, they are comparable in terms of craftsmanship and sharpness. ① Wei Gil (70-19 BC), a Roman poet, whose main work is "Aeneid". ② Sumarokov (1717-1777), Russian poet and dramatist. Here is an example of a satirical poem: Village Chief Anton was in a hurry, The record book is hidden in the bosom, (repeat) Hasten to the lord's garden, (repeat) Hurry up and present the brochure. The master picked it up and took a look, I can't figure out what is written on it. oops!Village Chief Anton! You stole all the nobles and lords, and forced the whole village to beg for food, So he also offered his wife. Above, I have introduced to my readers the folklore and statistics of the village of Goliusino, as well as the customs of its residents, and now I will go directly to the topic. The age of nonsense Mayor Trifon The form of governance in the village of Goliucino has undergone several changes.The management power was originally in the hands of the elders elected by the village community, but later it was taken over by the general manager appointed by the landlord, and finally, the landlord took charge of it himself.The advantages and disadvantages of the three forms of governance I will discuss one by one in the following narrative. The origins of the village of Goliucino and its original inhabitants have been lost in obscurity and cannot be traced.Vague legends tell us that at one time Goliucino was a large and wealthy village, whose inhabitants were well fed and fed, and who paid rent once a year in lieu of servants, and sent a few wagons of grain to some unknown person.At that time, everyone bought cheap and sold expensive, but there was no manager.The village head does not bully the people.The inhabitants do very little, and their lives are sung to their heart's content.The shepherd boy wears leather boots to graze the cattle.We should not be fooled by such fascinating pictures.People of all ethnic groups all dream of a golden age, which just proves that people are always dissatisfied with the status quo, and know from experience that they should not have too much hope for the future, so they use their imagination to beautify the past with various beautiful colors.See the compelling facts below: The village of Goriushino has belonged to the Belgin family since ancient times.However, my ancestors, who owned many hereditary properties, ignored this remote property.Goliucino paid very little rent, and the village was managed by elders, who were elected by the people's 1, that is, the village assembly. ①Ancient Russian town meeting. However, with the passage of time, the Belkin family split up and the property withered.The impoverished descendants of rich ancestors, unable to abandon their extravagant habits, insisted on collecting the same amount of rent and tribute from tenfold smaller holdings.One after another, demanding rent-demanding letters urged.The village head read these letters aloud on Weiche, and the elders talked about it, and the village communal commotion broke out.And the lords, instead of double rent, received cunning excuses and mournful complaints, written on oily paper and sealed with copper coins. An ominous cloud hung over Goliucino, but no one thought about it.Under the rule of Trifon, the last village chief elected by the people, on the day of the incense festival, all the residents were busily gathering around the Happy Hall (an alias for small and medium hotels in the common saying), or strolling on the street, Embracing each other and singing Alkhip Resoy songs with open throats.At this moment, a wagon with two old horses that were neither dead nor alive drove into the village, and a poorly dressed Jew sat on the driver's seat.A head stuck out of the car window, wearing a top hat, and this head seemed to be watching the merry-go-round with curiosity.The crowd greeted the carriage with laughter and coarse jeers. (Note: Some daredevils rolled up their skirts into a trumpet, mocked the Jewish coachman, and shouted comically: "Jewish ghost! Jewish ghost! Eat pig's ears!" - by the deacon of the village church in Zagoliusino "chronicle").But then they were taken aback, for the carriage stopped in the middle of the village, and its occupants jumped out of it, and demanded to see Trifon, the mayor, with orders.But the senior official was in the Happy Hall, from there, two elders respectfully helped him up.The stranger looked him up and down sternly, and handed him a letter, ordering him to read it at once.It was the custom of the elders of the village of Goliusino never to read anything.The village chief is also illiterate.So someone was sent to find Afjay, secretary of the Zemstvo.Having found him, he was sleeping by the fence in an alley not far from here, and brought him to meet the stranger.However, because he was afraid of officials, or because of sudden fright, or because he felt that the omen was not good, the words on the letter, which were clearly written, seemed to him blurred, and he could hardly decipher them.The stranger cursed, sent the mayor Trifon and the Zemstvo secretary Afjay to bed, ordered the letter to be read until tomorrow, and went into the office, where the Jew brought him a small suitcase. The people of Goshushino Village were silently surprised when they saw this extraordinary event.However, the carriage, the jewish ghost, and the stranger were quickly forgotten.After all, they spent the day happily and lively.The village of Goliusino fell into a deep sleep, never foreseeing any good or bad luck waiting for it... The sun had just risen, and the residents were awakened by the knocking on the windows, telling them to go to the village meeting.One by one, the citizens arrived in the courtyard of the official office, which was temporarily used as the Zhiche square.They were sleepy-eyed, with reddened whites and puffy faces.They yawned, scratched their scalps, and watched the man in the bowler hat and the old blue suit strutting grandly on the office steps.They thought hard, but this person seemed familiar.Trifon, the mayor, and Afjay, secretary of the Zemstvo, stood beside him, with their hats off, servile and pitiful. "Is it all here?" asked the stranger. "Is it really all here?" The village head asked again. "It's all here, that's right!" Everyone replied. At this time, the village head announced that the master issued a document, and now he ordered the secretary of the local self-government association to read it aloud, and all the villagers listened attentively.Afjay stepped forward and read the document aloud as follows (Note: I found a copy of this sternly worded document from the headman of the village of Trifon. Other memorabilia of the period. I have no way of finding the original of this meaningful document): Trifon Ivan Province! The person holding this letter, my agent XX, is going to the hereditary land estate Goliuxinuo Village, and I will order him to manage the place.On the day of his arrival, you should immediately call all the tenants together and announce the master's intention as follows, that is, the order of the agent is also the master's order, and all the tenants must obey and execute without error.Whatever he takes and asks for, you must offer them without neglect, and if he does not, he has the right to impose the most severe punishment.I have no choice but to make such a bad move!You tenants are devoid of conscience and are determined to cause trouble, but Rutrifon Ivanov is cunning and tolerant. Is it tolerable, which one is not tolerable?Cut it! NN signed At this time, the agent ×× spread his legs like a letter "X" and put his hands on his hips like a letter "H", and said the following short and powerful words: "What do you think I should do? Don't be smart! I know, you are spoiled. Look at me! Watch me wake you up from yesterday's drunkenness, but it's even faster to open your dead brains!" No matter who has no brains醉意了。戈琉辛诺人，好一似五雷轰顶，个个垂头丧气，失魂落魄，各自回家。 总管××的施政 ××总管一朝权在手，便把令来行。他当即着手实行其施政纲领。那是值得特别研究的。 那政纲的主要基础便是遵循如下原理：佃户越富有就越放荡，越贫穷就越驯良。因此之故，××便尽力要佃户都变得驯良听话，把这一项当成对农民的主要德政。他要求给农民进行登记，把他们分成两类：富人和穷人。第一：欠缴租税分摊给各富裕佃户，追缴时可采用极严厉之手段。第二：穷汉跟二流子立即责令其耕种。如若他们的劳动不够抵偿，则赐予其他佃户作农奴，可随意付给报酬，陷身为奴者有赎身的全权，只须除欠缴租金之外再缴纳一年两倍的代役租。全部社会义务都落到富足农民肩上。征兵活动成了谋取私利的代理人的生财之道。因为富有农民从他那里花钱可以免征，其结果，选举时决不会选上恶棍和亡命之徒（原注）。村社大会已被取销。代役租每次收得不多，但一年到头收个不停。除此之外，他还会巧立名目进行搜刮。看起来，佃户们都照付了，比过去也不见得坏到哪里去，但是，无论如何总不能够有效地工作，不能够挣到余钱剩米。三年工夫，戈琉辛诺村兜底穷了下来。 戈琉辛诺蔫了，市场空空荡荡，阿尔希普-雷索伊的歌曲已不再唱。娃娃们逃散四方去要饭。一半农民在耕种，而另一半陷身为农奴。按编年史家的说法，进香节已不再是快活与狂欢的节日，却变成痛楚与伤心的纪念日了。……（原注）千刀万剐的总管把安东·季莫菲耶夫锁上铁链，老头子季莫菲便出一百卢布赎出儿子。总管又把彼德卢希卡·叶列米耶夫上了锁，他父亲花六十八个卢布赎出儿子。万恶的总管又打算锁住列哈·塔拉索夫，但他逃到森林里去了。为了这事，总管神魂不安，并且大发雷霆。他还把酒鬼万卡送进城，交给征兵局（据戈疏辛诺村农民诉说）。