Chapter 5 Part 2 1-5

one The day I left Kamenka, I didn't know it would be gone forever.When I was sent to the secondary school, I took a Chernavsk avenue that I had never taken.For the first time, I felt the poetry of those forgotten avenues, the first time I felt the disappearing Russian antiquity.Many avenues are outdated, and Chernavsk Avenue is no exception.Its former ruts were overgrown with grass, and some old white willows grew on both sides of the wide and barren roadbed, making it look lonely and desolate.I especially remember a white willow tree. I remember that its trunk that was split by lightning was full of big holes and small eyes, and there was a big crow squatting on the branch, like a piece of black, burnt wood.My father said that crows can live for hundreds of years, and this crow probably existed during the time of the Tartars.This statement surprised me so much that I could hardly imagine it... What was the charm of what he said, and what did I think at the time?Could it be that I already feel the existence of Russia, that she is my motherland?Or do I feel that I have a close relationship with the past, distant and common cause?The cause not only opens our hearts and expands our personal lives, but it reminds us to be part of it.

My father said that Ma Mai himself had walked through this area.He devastated our city on the way to Moscow.Later, at the Stanov Station that we were about to pass, Ma Mai was finally captured. Afterwards, instead of letting him die, he was dragged to death with a horse.Stanov Station was not so long ago a large village famous for its bandits, and especially for a terrible murderer named Mitka.I remember that at this moment, between Stanov station and us, a train I had never seen was running on the left side of the boulevard.Behind us, the sun that was about to set still stubbornly shone on the seemingly small but impressive locomotive.Like a wind-up toy, the locomotive headed straight for the city and overtook us.A thick puff of smoke rose from the chimney of the big head and trailed behind it like a tail.The sun shone down on the green, yellow, and blue carriages.The thick smoke was mixed with the flying wheels under the carriage.The front and the carriage, with the windows reflecting the setting sun, the wheels rolling rapidly and monotonously—it was all so wonderful and interesting that I wished I could live in that carriage!But I clearly remember that what attracted me more at that time was the mysterious and terrifying willow bushes looming outside the railway station at Stanov Station. I imagined what happened in the past, imagined the Tatars, Mamai, Mikika... There is no doubt that in this evening I realized for the first time that I am Russian and live in Russia, not just in Kamenka, in a certain county, in a certain province .I suddenly felt this Russia, felt her past and present, her savage and terrible but still haunting features and my kinship with her...

————— ①Mamai was the Khan of the Golden Horde. After his failure in 1380, he fled to Crimea and was killed in Kaffa. two Everything I experienced as a boy was purely Russian. The same is true of this Stanov station.Afterwards I have been here more than once, and I am fully convinced that there are no robbers here.However, my opinion on it is not very single.It always seemed to me that it was not for nothing that the inhabitants were still known as unborn gangsters.Further on, there is the notorious Upper Stanovlyan.Near the Stanov station there is a main road that goes down to a considerable depth.We call it the "upper" canyon.This place, all year round, inspires an almost superstitious dread in every traveler who is too late for his journey.I also experienced this purely Russian fear more than once when I walked to Stanov Station in my youth.On Chernavsk Boulevard there were many well-known places.There was a time when good men of these lands, at a darkly appointed hour, came out of hidden valleys and gullies to the high road.They listened alertly in the stillness of night to the distant cry of a little bell or the jolt of an ordinary carriage.But all this is more famous in Upper Stanovlyan.At night, as soon as I walked near the upper part, my heart couldn't help constricting: should I continue to speed up the horse, or should I walk slowly step by step, paying attention to the slightest sound?You just can't tell which is worse.This happens quite often.When you look at them, they appear in front of you, swaggeringly blocking your way.He held an ax in his hand, and his waist was tightly girded, and his hat shaded his keen eyes.Suddenly they stopped and ordered in a low, very composed voice: "Stop, merchants..." In the soundless silence, in the quiet and dark fields of a summer night, under the noisy winter blizzard, this was heard. or in the half-darkness of the starlight, cold and piercing in autumn, to see the black, lifeless land around you, and hear your wheels rattle violently on the frozen stone road, What could be more terrifying than these?

After passing the Stanov Station, there is a road across the avenue, and then you will reach the Chengguan.There is a checkpoint here, you have to stop and wait for one of Nikolai's soldiers to come out of the sentry box, which is painted with black and white stripes like a funeral parlor.The soldier let go of a bar painted with the same black and white stripes, which rose slowly upwards with a clang of chains (for this a tribute of two kopeks, which passers-by called road money) was let go.Afterwards, the main road extends along Beglaya-Sloboda.Later, we passed an endless swamp, filthy and horribly named.Finally, we walked on the road between the castle and an old monastery.The city is also proud of its antiquity, and it has every right to, for it is indeed one of the oldest Russian cities.It sits in the vast black earth region of Podstjebey, on that troubled border.On the other side of the border, there was a period of time in the past that was a "wild land", but in the era of Suzdal and the Principality of Vladimir, it belonged to one of the most important cities of Rus.The annals record that the dreadful cloud of Asia often hung over the Rus, and that these Rus' citadels were the first to bear the brunt of the storms, dust, and cold that these clouds brought upon them.They were the first to see the terrible light that the invaders set on fire day and night, the first to let Moscow know of the impending disaster, and the first to die for the sake of Rus.Naturally, one can imagine everything that this fortress experienced at that time: in this or that century, this or that khan "destroyed it", sometimes it was a fire, sometimes famine, sometimes plague and earthquakes , Turn it into ruins... Under such conditions, it is of course impossible to preserve all historical relics, but its antiquity can be seen everywhere.In the inherited customs of merchant and burgher life, it can be seen in the joustings and boxing matches of the inhabitants of the suburbs, that is, of Cernaya-Sloboda, Zarechye, Algamatsa.These residents live on some loess cliffs on both sides of the river.Legend has it that a Tatar duke fell into the river from this cliff with his man and horse.The city smells really good!When I was still at Chengguan, I could vaguely see the city, and saw countless churches shining on a large depression, and I could smell its various smells: first it was the smell of the swamp with a bad name, and later it was the leather factory. And the smell of the sun-baked iron roof, and then the smell of the square.On the square, farmers who came to the market from all directions set up tents and set up small stalls to do business.At this time, you can't tell at all what is unique to this ancient Russian city...

three I spent four years at the secondary school, boarding and lodging at the home of a townsman, Rostovtsev.These are two poor small families.I can't go to other people's houses, because rich citizens don't need a companion. How dreadful the beginning of this life!Take, for example, my first night in town.It was my first night after my separation from my parents, my first night in a new and humble environment.There were only two small rooms in the house, and in such an environment everything felt strange to me, and it seemed absurd to live among people who, as my young master, naturally regarded as humble, but who suddenly had the right to come to dominate me—that alone is terrible enough.The Rostovtsevs had another lodger, a classmate of my own age, a red-haired Glebochka, the illegitimate son of a landowner in Baturino.There was no interaction between us that night, and he sat timidly in the corner of the room like a little animal trapped in a cage, silent and very strange.He frowned and gave me a look of animal suspicion, but I was in no hurry to strike up a friendly conversation with him.By the way, this is because I don't think he is a very ordinary kid, and I have to guard three points against this kind of person.I knew in Kamenka that he was going to live with me, but one day I overheard our nurse scolding him very hard when he learned that he had been born out of wedlock.That night outside the house, it was dark, as if deliberately embarrassing, and it began to rain in the evening.From the window, I looked at the long stone street, which was lifeless and desolate. Behind the opposite fence, there was a crow arching its back in a half-bare tree, cooing sadly, which was an ominous omen.On the far side of the dusty iron roof, a towering bell tower pierced into the rainy sky, and every quarter of an hour there was a chime, weak, sad, and desperate... On such nights, my father would immediately ask someone to light the lamp, A samovar is brought in, or dinner is served early—"I can't stand this bad mood!" But there is a time for everything here, and the lamps are never lit until it's time to sit down to eat.That's it now.They lighted the lamps only when the night fell completely and the master came back from the city.The master is tall and well-proportioned, with a brown face and clear outlines, and a dry, rough black beard that has turned gray.He doesn't talk much, but he keeps his word, is strict, sets an example, and abides by the rules for himself and others, saying that these rules are "not by us fools, but by our grandparents" once and for all for the happiness of family and society. And created.He is engaged in the work of buying and reselling grain animals, so he often travels around.But even when he was out, there was an atmosphere of strictness and elegance formed by him at home.An amiable and quiet wife, two girls with round necks and a sixteen-year-old son are all taciturn, conscientious and orderly, and every word and deed requires prior permission... At this time, in this gloomy evening , the mistress and daughter sat down to do their needlework, and waited attentively for the master to come back for supper.As soon as the fence door outside knocked, they immediately beamed with joy.

"Mania, Ketusha, let's serve!" the hostess whispered, standing up, and going into the kitchen. The master entered the house, took off his cap and pea coat in the little antechamber, and put on only a gray light coat with pleats at the waist.The coat, the embroidered slanted-neck shirt, and the smart boots all showed his Russian style.After he said a few kind words to his wife in a measured manner, he washed his face carefully.Then he wrung out the towel and shook his hands under a copper kettle hanging above the kitchen tub.Little sister Kexiusa closed her eyes and handed him a long clean towel.He wiped his hands slowly, and threw the towel on her head with a sneer--which made her blush with pleasure.He walked into the room, swiped ten strokes respectfully, and then bowed to the statue in the corner of the room...

I am in the Rostovtsev's house.A dinner is once in a lifetime - and not just because I thought the dishes were too exotic.First they brought gruel, and then, in a log tub, some gray, rough rumen, which made me shudder to see and smell them, while the master cut them up. Open it, break it up, grab it with your hands, and mix the salted watermelon with the rumen, and serve milk oatmeal at the end.But the problem is not here, but seeing that I only ate porridge and watermelon, the master glanced at me, and then he said sternly: "Master, you have to get used to everything. We are ordinary Russians, we are used to eating honey biscuits, we don't have special dishes...".

I think the tone of his last sentence is almost haughty, especially powerful, especially moving—here.For the first time, I felt something that I later felt strongly in the city: pride. Four In short, there is often a sense of pride in Rostovtsev's words.What are you proud of?Of course, we are proud that our Rostovtsev family is Russian.Real Russians; proud that we live a completely unique, simple life, real Russian life, there is no and can not be a better life than this, because simplicity is only appearance, but substance is abundance; Everywhere there is a legitimate product of the historical spirit of Russia, which is richer, stronger, more just, and more honorable than all the nations of the world.Was it only Rostovtsev who had this pride?I later found that this pride was shared by many, many people, and I see now, in addition, that even then this pride was characteristic of the times and could be felt with special intensity, and not only in our in a city.

… I grew up in a time when Russia showed its greatest strength and knew it well.The vision of my youth was very narrow, but everything I observed at that time, I repeat, was typical.Yes, I later learned that Rostovtsev was far from alone in making such remarks.I have often heard such modest remarks from them: We are ignorant philistines, and our Emperor Alexander Alexandrovitch himself wears only oiled boots.But I have no doubt now that this excessive self-effacing said a lot not only of our city, but of all the feelings of the Russians at that time.When Russians express these feelings, of course there are a lot of pretense.For example, every person in a pea coat behaves like this at every crossroads: After seeing the church on the other side of the street, they take off their caps, cross themselves, bow deeply, and almost miss On the ground, but they often gamble away, often say insincerely, express their emotions with opposite things, you can hardly figure out what is the most important thing?

————— ① Refers to Alexander III (1845-1894), the Russian emperor from 1881 to 1894. One day Rostovtsev pointed to some marks he had written with chalk on the window sills and said: "What do we want promissory notes for? It's not a Russian thing, there was no such thing in the old days. It's always been like that in business. Write down what others owe with chalk on the lintel. The debtor is overdue for the first time." , the businessman reminds him politely, and when the second time expires, he warns him: Hey, be careful, don’t forget the third time, or I will simply erase all the marks. Then you will Disgraceful."

Of course, there are not many people like him.He was a "rich peasant" by profession, but he certainly did not and should not consider himself a rich peasant, he justly called himself a trader, and he was not only not compared with other rich peasants at that time, but with many ordinary ones. Citizens are not comparable.He occasionally comes to those of us who are partners, and sometimes he will suddenly ask with a sneer. "Shall I teach you to read poetry now?" we say: "Teach." "What poetry do you teach?" We mutter: "'In the hour of patrol—the moon walks across the sky—it shines through the patterns of the frozen windows—a ray of light...'" "Well, it's kind of incoherent," he said. "'The moon walks the sky on patrol time' - I kind of don't get it." We don't understand either, because somehow we never noticed the missing comma after "walking".It seems really incoherent.We have nothing to say, but he cross-asked: ————— ① Russian adverb sentences must have back signs, but the original poem does not, so it is incoherent and confusing, but the Chinese translation cannot express it. "What else?" "And: 'A bird with a loud song fell in love with the shade of the tall old oak, and found shelter and peace in its storm-broken boughs...'" "Here, that's all right. It sounds pleasant and lovely. Now read some poems about your prayers all night, 'Under the Great Canopy.'" So I embarrassedly began to read. "'Come, you feeble one, come, you happy one, and go to your all-night prayers, your prayers of consolation...'" He listened, closing his eyes slightly.Later I read Nikitin's poem: "Under the great and boundless sky, I saw a grassland stretching in the distance..." This is a bold and passionate poem describing Russia's vast territory and rich resources. A poem of strength and deeds... ————— ① Ivan Savage Nikitin (1824-1861) a famous Russian poet. "Oh, this is poetry!" He opened his eyes, tried his best to keep calm, stood up and was about to leave. "Study hard! Do you want to know who wrote this? It's our petty citizen, our fellow townsman!" The other "buyers" in our city, big and small, I repeat, are not like the Rostovtsevs.They often only talk nicely, when in fact they are downright predatory, "set on to flay the skin from the living and the dead," and they are as short and short as the worst of swindlers. , refraining from every detail, telling lies, betting false curses, and being shameless.To the best of their conscience, they lived dirty, rough lives, slandered each other, looked down on each other, hated each other, envied and mistrusted each other, they saw fools and silly girls, cripples and dumb people roaming the streets of the city. Man entertains them with horrific cruelty and meanness, treats peasants with open contempt, "fools" them with mischievous audacity, cunning, and merrymaking... Fives I never expected that the beginning of my high school life was so terrible.Such is the first evening in the city that one thinks it is all over!But soon I shall submit to fate, perhaps even more terrible.My middle school life was pretty ordinary, if not counting the feeling that I wasn't exactly ordinary.The morning when I first walked into the secondary school with Glebochka was sunny, and that alone was enough to make us happy.Besides, we were all well dressed, and we all had new clothes, and everything was strong and fit, and everything was pleasant.Polished leather boots, light gray woolen socks, a blue uniform with silver buttons on it, a shiny blue cap on a freshly cut head, a squeaky leather-smelling knapsack, inside There are textbooks, pencil cases, pencils and exercise books just bought yesterday... Later, it is obvious that it is a holiday-like freshness in the middle school: the clean stone compound, the glass windows shining with sunlight and the gate of the entrance. Brass handles, corridors freshly painted since the summer, bright classrooms, clean, spacious and resonant halls and stairs, loud and loud shouts of countless teenagers.Students redoubled their excitement after the summer break and are now rushing back into the classroom.The first solemn and solemn prayer in the assembly hall before class, the first time arranged by grade, led by a real soldier-a retired captain at the front.The leader yells "Two walks - go!", the quick practice of footwork, the first fight for a seat at a desk, and finally, the teacher's first appearance in the classroom.The teacher is wearing a tuxedo with a crane tail, wearing shiny glasses, his eyes are staring, as if frightened, his beard is raised, and he has a purse under his arm... After a few days, he got used to all this, as if he had always been there It's like living like this.Day by day, week by week, month by month flew by... I took it easy, only the subjects I liked more or less were good, and the rest were so-so.With the exception of the very annoying lessons, such as the short forms of verbs, I showed my talent for everything and quickly mastered it.Three quarters of the lessons we take are of no use to us, leave no trace on the mind, and are taught dryly and formalistically.Most of our teachers were mediocrity, with a few eccentrics standing out, and naturally the class tried to amuse them.In addition, there were two or three true lunatics, one of whom stood out in particular.He was dead silent, very afraid of dirt, human breath, and human contact, and always walked in the middle of the street. At school, as soon as he took off his gloves, he immediately took out his handkerchief and used it to hold the doorknob. Come and drag the chair in front of the podium.He is small and thin, with beautiful hair.Curly chestnut hair rolled back, the corners of his forehead were extremely white, his pale face was surprisingly small, his pair of fixed, dull eyes were always looking sadly and quietly at the vast space... What else can be said about my school days?Over the years I have grown from a child to a teenager.But how this transformation was accomplished, only God knows.Naturally, on the surface, my life is monotonous and ordinary.Always going to class, always morosely and unwillingly preparing every night for the next day's lessons, always miscellaneously imagining future vacations, always counting how many days until Christmas and summer vacation--kiss if you can hurry How nice it would be to click here!