Appreciation of Turgenev's classic "The Village"

Countryside

On the last day of July, I crossed a thousand versts of Russian land and was intoxicated by a beautiful countryside.

The long stretch of blue soaked the entire sky, and white clouds were dotted on it, floating and dispersing. It was windless, warm, and the air was as fresh as freshly milked milk.

Skylarks sang; doves hummed; swallows glided and swooped quietly; horses chewed leisurely; dogs stood quietly, wagging their tails.

The smell of smoke and hay, mixed with a bit of tar and popularity, lingers between the nose; the cannabis flowers are in full bloom, and the rich and thick aroma hits the face, conquering the human sense of smell unexpectedly.

Nearby, there is a deep and narrow valley, with rows of willow trees on both sides, with lush branches and strong trunks; there is a stream flowing in the valley, and the pebbles are flowing in the clear water. The stream below is trembling, cute and playful; in the distance, where the sky and the earth meet, there is a big river with rippling blue waves, clearly visible.

Walking along the valley, on one side, there are neatly arranged stables and warehouses with closed doors, clean and tidy; on the other side, there are five or six pine cabins with uniform wooden roofs. There is a tall pillar erected on the roof, and a steel-maned pony made of iron stands at the door of each hut, which is simple and elegant. The broken window glass shone with the brilliance of the rainbow; the shutters were painted with bottles of water and flowers; there was a small bench beside the door; on the small mound, a cat was basking in the sun, its transparent ears raised alertly; high Behind the high threshold is a cool foyer.

I spread my horse clothes on the edge of the valley and lay down comfortably. Surrounded by piles of freshly made hay, the smell of green grass hits your nostrils and is refreshing. In front of the hut, smart farmers threw up hay one by one so that they could lose moisture in the hot sunshine. The hay without moisture was put into the shed. I thought it would be very comfortable to sleep on these hays.

A curly head playfully poked out from behind the haystack, the crested hen was diligently looking for food in the haystack, and the puppy with white hair on its mouth was rolling and playing in the weeds.

The flaxen-haired young man was wearing clean overalls. The belt was loose and almost fell to the crotch. The leather boots on his feet were thick and heavy. They were leaning against a carriage with the harness removed. On the street, they joked with each other, showing their white teeth from time to time and laughing heartily.

A young woman with a round face looked out of the window. She smiled, not sure whether it was because of the jokes of the group of young people or because of the naughty children in the haystack.

Another young woman used her strong arms to pull the bucket up from the well, little by little... The bucket shook, and splashed out bright water drops in accordance with the woman's rhythm. Wet her white arms.

In front of me, stood an old woman wearing a striped skirt and new shoes. A huge rosary was wrapped three times around her dark neck, and her gray head was wrapped with a red dot on a yellow background. The turban covered her forehead, revealing a pair of eyes that were no longer youthful and shining.

But her weathered eyes showed the gentleness of welcoming guests, and her whole wrinkled face was filled with smiles. I dare say that this old woman is already over seventy years old. Even so, her charm of the past is still vaguely discernible.

Her right hand was open, and her tanned fingers were holding a bowl of cold milk that had just been taken out of the cellar and had not yet been skimmed. There were dried milk stains on the rim of the bowl, like pearls. There was a large piece of warm thick bread in the palm of her left hand, and she handed it to me, as if to say: "Eat, welcome, passing guest."

A rooster suddenly began to crow, amusing itself. Flapping its wings happily, a calf in the cowshed responded to it several times leisurely, singing a harmonious duet.

"Ah! look at the oats, how wonderful they are!" I heard my coachman say.

Yes, what great oats! Oh, what a reflection of the beautiful, peaceful, fertile Russian countryside! Oh, this rich land of peace and abundance!

At this moment, I suddenly felt: what is the meaning of the cross erected on the dome of the Holy Saphia Temple in Constantinople and everything that we city people strive for? Woolen cloth?

Introduction

The dreamy hometown is always a quiet and beautiful existence

The hometown described by Turgenev is quiet, and this quietness is reflected in the blue sky. , in the leisurely floating white clouds; this silence is also in the song of the skylark, the tune of the dove, the crowing of the rooster and the response of the calf. The author skillfully uses the technique of combining movement and stillness to artistically reproduce the hometown in the author's eyes and in his heart. This hometown is natural and pure, without a trace of dust, only clear and bright. However, she truly exists in the curling smoke of cooking stoves and in the quiet life of farmers. In this quiet life, there is the smell of smoke and hay filling the nose, there are cannabis flowers in full bloom, and there are great oats. How harmoniously all this interweaves the beauty, tranquility and wealth of the author's hometown. Because of this, horses can chew leisurely; dogs can stand quietly, wagging their tails; young men can lean on a carriage with the harness removed, telling each other jokes, and showing a smile from time to time. Snow-white teeth emit hearty laughter; young women can look out from the window to see men or children smiling happily, or the water splashing from the well has turned into pearls. It is precisely because of this that the vicissitudes of life of the old woman can wear new shoes, and can bring out warm bread and pearl-like milk to greet passers-by. In the author's writings, scenery and people are not only harmonious, but also mutually reinforcing. It is Russia's vast and somewhat primitive fields that have nurtured simple, free and healthy people. Similarly, simple and hard-working people have also made Russia's wilderness rich. The warmth and kindness of cooking smoke.

The author uses the method of writing from far to near. First, he writes about the natural scenery in the distance, and then writes about the scene in the nearby valley. The near scene focuses on the scenes of farm life. , at this point, the beautiful nature and the warm life of farmers form a smart and quiet picture. The author also used the word "intoxicated" everywhere in his writing, describing the comfort and comfort of "I" lying on the hay, and the harmony and harmony between people and scenery, people and things. Everything is... So they live in peace and complement each other.

The feelings expressed by the author in the article are fiery, but the author's writing style is quiet. The whole article is not polished, but only quietly narrates what he sees and hears. This is Turgenev's elegance and tranquility.

The end of the article may seem like idle writing, but in fact it expresses satire on religious hypocrisy in a calm rhetorical question, expressing the author's yearning for a real and beautiful rural life. This article is the author's recollection of the beautiful rural life in the past, thus expressing the author's ideal life.