(1) I was then only nine years old. (2) Once in the forest, in the midst of deep silence, I clearly and distinctly thought I heard a cry: “The wolf is running!” (3) I screamed and, besides myself with fright, ran out into the clearing, right on the peasant plowing the ground. (4) It was Marey - our serf of about fifty, dense, rather tall, with a strong gray hair in a dark blond beard. (5) I knew him a little, but before that it almost never happened to me to talk to him. (6) As a child, I had little contact with serfs: these strangers, with rude faces and knotty hands, peasants seemed to me dangerous, robber people. (7) Marey stopped the filly when he heard my frightened voice, and when I, running up, clung to his plow with one hand and his sleeve with the other, he saw my fright. − (8) The wolf is running! I shouted out of breath. (9) He threw up his head and involuntarily looked around, for a moment he almost believed me. - (10) What are you, what a wolf, you dreamed: you see! (11) What kind of wolf to be here! he muttered, encouraging me. (12) But I was shaking all over and clung even tighter to his zipun and must have been very pale. (13) He looked with a restless smile, apparently afraid and worried about me. - (14) Look, you got scared, ah-ah! he shook his head. - (15) That's it, dear. (16) Look, kid, ah! (17) He extended his hand and suddenly stroked my cheek. − (18) That's enough, well, Christ is with you, okst. (19) But I didn’t cross myself: the corners of my lips trembled, and it seems that this especially struck him. (20) And then Marey stretched out his thick, black-nailed, soiled finger and gently touched my bouncing lips. - (21) Look, after all, - he smiled at me with some kind of maternal and long smile, - Lord, what is it, look, after all, ah, ah! (22) I finally realized that there was no wolf and that I imagined a cry about a wolf. - (23) Well, I'll go, - I said, looking at him questioningly and timidly. - (24) Well, go, and I'll look after you. (25) I won’t give you to the wolf! he added, still smiling maternally at me. - (26) Well, Christ is with you, - and he crossed me with his hand and crossed himself. (27) While I was walking, Marey still stood with his mare and looked after me, nodding his head every time when I looked back. (28) And even when I was far away and could no longer see his face, I felt that he was smiling just as affectionately. (29) I recalled all this at once now, twenty years later, here, in hard labor in Siberia ... (30) This tender maternal smile of a serf, his unexpected sympathy, shaking his head. (31) Of course, everyone would encourage the child, but in that solitary meeting something completely different happened. (32) And only God, perhaps, saw from above what a deep and enlightened human feeling the heart of a rude, brutally ignorant person was filled with and what subtle tenderness lurked in it. (33) And when here, in hard labor, I got off the bunk and looked around, I suddenly felt that I could look at these unfortunate convicts with a completely different look and that all fear and all hatred in my heart suddenly disappeared. (34) I went, peering into the faces I met. (35) This shaved and defamed man, with brands on his face, drunken, yelling his zealous hoarse song, maybe the same Marey. (36) After all, I can’t look into his heart. (according to F.M. Dostoevsky*)
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The narrator tells how an incident from childhood changed his attitude towards serfs. One peasant "smiled with a kind of motherly smile" when a frightened boy ran up to him. Formerly related to serfs as to "foreign" people "with rough faces and knotty hands", he realized that they, too, can show concern.
The author believes that a person who outwardly seems rude and incapable of a deep feeling can harbor “subtle tenderness” in his heart. It is also important to understand that it is impossible to look into the heart of a stranger, so one should not judge him prematurely.
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The writer and thinker Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky touches upon the problem of mercy in his work, the question of the relationship between the appearance of a person and his inner world.
The author recalls a childhood story when, as a boy, he was frightened of wolves and ran up to a stern-looking serf. Marey, in turn, began to reassure him, and this unexpected sympathy seemed warm and friendly. But he considered the serfs rude and very ignorant.
According to Dostoevsky, one cannot unequivocally judge a person, because even a drunken man yelling a zealous song can in reality turn out to be a kind person capable of compassion. It seems to me that this problem is always relevant: you should not form an opinion about a stranger by his appearance. A formidable-looking person may end up being the sweetest person, and a girl with an angelic face is capable of possessing deceit and other vices.
As proof of such a judgment, one can cite the story “The Fate of a Man” by M.A. Sholokhov.
A lot of trials fell on the share of Andrei Sokolov: he went through the war, captured, lost his whole family, and, it would seem, his heart should harden. However, he is able to give happiness to another person, which confirms his attitude towards the homeless child. Calling himself his father, he gave the child hope for a brighter future.
An example can be given from personal experience. In the camp we had a gloomy leader who seemed withdrawn and angry. However, the first impression was erroneous: an adult turned out to be cheerful and cheerful. At heart, he remained a mischievous boy who talked with children as if they were peers.
Thus, F.M. Dostoevsky is absolutely right when he asserts that one cannot judge a person by his appearance. The main thing is the inner world, which is expressed in deeds and actions.
Updated: 2017-02-22
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Useful material on the topic
- Is the appearance of a person a reflection of his inner world? According to the text of F.M. Dostoevsky "Man Marey" ("I was then only nine years old...")
kindness (Can a good heart be hidden behind a rough exterior?)
Author's position: The heart of a rude, impolite person can be filled with the deepest kindness and tenderness))) pliz))
1. A.P. Platonov's story "Yushka" tells about the blacksmith's assistant, who was completely unsightly, the children were allowed to offend Yushka, adults frightened them. And only after his death, fellow villagers learned his name, surname and patronymic, and most importantly, that this man raised an orphan, gave her an education. And this girl became a doctor and treats the sick. So, in appearance, a completely inconspicuous person had a very kind heart. Internally, Yushka is beautiful.
2. K. G. Paustovsky has a work called "Golden Rose". It tells the story of the Parisian garbage man Jeanne Chamet. Once he served the soldiers, then took care of the commander's daughter Susanna. After many years they met again, Suzanne was unhappy and Shamet decided to give her a golden rose for happiness. For many years he collected gold dust and managed to cast a golden rose. Too bad Susanna didn't know. The author emphasizes the inner wealth and inner beauty of the hero, his desire to give happiness to a complete stranger.
Why can't you judge a person by their outward appearance? It is this question that the Russian writer F. M. Dostoevsky answers.
Let's see how the author reveals the problem. The focus of F.M. Dostoevsky is the story of how the outwardly unpleasant peasant Marey was able to calm and comfort a frightened boy. The author draws the reader's attention to the fact that the appearance of a person does not always coincide with the inner world, noting that even "strangers with rude faces" serfs can be beautiful in their souls.
Marey's "mother's smile" and "unexpected sympathy" sincerely surprise the child. The boy realizes that in the heart of a "brutally ignorant" person there is a "subtle tenderness" that cannot be detected immediately. Narrating a serf, F.M. Dostoevsky encourages readers to build relationships with people based on their actions and inner world, and not focus only on beauty.
The soul of an outwardly unattractive person is sometimes purer and richer than that of others. This idea is conveyed to readers by N. Zabolotsky in the poem "Ugly Girl". The poet notes the inner integrity of the child:
No shadow of envy, no evil intent
Don't know this creature yet.
Everything in the world is so immeasurably new to her,
Everything that is dead for others is so alive!
The girl differs from the rest in sincerity and honesty, the author draws attention to her spiritual beauty, which can work wonders:
I want to believe that this flame is pure,
that burns deep within,
One will hurt all his pain
And melt the heaviest stone!
So, N. Zabolotsky wants to convey the idea that you need to appreciate the rich and pure inner world of even an unattractive person, and not pay attention to empty beauty.
In turn, a nice person can be mean and dishonorable. A striking example of such a personality is the heroine of Leo Tolstoy's epic novel "War and Peace" by Helen Kuragina. Her beauty, which drove many men crazy, turns out to be the only advantage. The heroine often deceives people dear to her, behaves inappropriately. Helen is even capable of betrayal. So, she is attractive only from the outside, she has no inner beauty, purity and honesty.
So, it is categorically impossible to judge a person by appearance, since the wealth of the inner world is most often not associated with beauty.
Updated: 2018-04-29
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I think it is very boring to read, and therefore I will tell you one anecdote, however, not even an anecdote; so, just one distant recollection, which for some reason I really want to tell right here and now, at the end of our treatise on the people. I was then only nine years old... but no, I'd better start with when I was twenty-nine years old.
It was the second day of the bright holiday. It was warm in the air, the sky was blue, the sun was high, “warm”, bright, but in my soul it was very gloomy. I wandered around the barracks, counting them, watching the strong guarded tyn fall, but I didn’t want to count them either, although it was a habit. It was already another day that “a holiday was going on” around the prison; convicts were not taken to work, there were many drunks, curses, quarrels began every minute in all corners. Ugly, nasty songs, Maidans with card games under bunks, several convicts already beaten half to death, for a special riot, by their own court of comrades and covered with sheepskin coats on the bunks, until they come to life and wake up; knives already drawn several times - all this, on the two days of the holiday, tormented me to the point of illness. Yes, and I could never endure without disgust the drunken revelry of the people, and here, in this place, especially. These days, even the authorities did not look into the jail, did not make searches, did not look for wine, realizing that it was necessary to let even these outcasts go for a walk, once a year, and that otherwise it would be worse. Finally, anger burned in my heart. I met the Pole M-tsky, from the political; he looked at me gloomily, his eyes flashed and his lips quivered: "Je hais ces brigands!" - he rasped to me in an undertone and walked past. I returned to the barracks, despite the fact that a quarter of an hour ago I ran out of it like a madman, when six healthy men rushed, all at once, to pacify the drunken Tatar Gazin and began to beat him; they beat him absurdly, a camel could have been killed by such beatings; but they knew that this Hercules was difficult to kill, and therefore they beat him without fear. Now, returning, I noticed at the end of the barracks, on the bunk in the corner, Gazin, already unconscious, with almost no signs of life; he was lying covered with a sheepskin coat, and everyone walked around him in silence: although they firmly hoped that tomorrow morning he would wake up, “but with such beatings, it’s not even an hour, perhaps that a person will die.” I made my way to my seat, opposite the iron-barred window, and lay on my back with my hands behind my head and eyes closed. I liked to lie like that: no one would bother a sleeping person, but meanwhile one could dream and think. But I didn't dream; my heart beat restlessly, and M-tsky's words sounded in my ears: "Je hais ces brigands!" However, what to describe impressions; even now I sometimes dream of this time at night, and I have no more painful words. Perhaps they will also notice that until today I have almost never spoken in print about my life in penal servitude; “Notes from the House of the Dead” was written fifteen years ago, from a fictitious person, from a criminal who allegedly killed his wife. By the way, I will add as a detail that since then very many people think about me and even now they say that I was exiled for the murder of my wife.
Little by little, I really forgot myself and imperceptibly immersed myself in memories. During all my four years of penal servitude, I continually recalled all my past and, it seems, in my recollections I experienced all my former life again. These memories rose of their own accord; I rarely called them out of my own accord. It began with some point, a line, sometimes inconspicuous, and then little by little grew into an integral picture, into some kind of strong and integral impression. I analyzed these impressions, gave new features to what had already been lived for a long time, and, most importantly, corrected it, corrected it incessantly, this was all my fun. This time, for some reason, I suddenly remembered one imperceptible moment from my first childhood, when I was only nine years old - a moment that seemed to be completely forgotten by me; but at that time I especially loved the memories of my very first childhood. I remembered the month of August in our village: the day was dry and clear, but somewhat cold and windy; summer is running out, and soon I have to go to Moscow again to miss French lessons all winter, and I am so sorry to leave the village. I went behind the threshing floor and, descending into the ravine, climbed up to Losk - that was the name we had for the thick shrubbery on the other side of the ravine to the very grove. And so I huddled thicker in the bushes and heard how not far, about thirty paces, in a clearing, a peasant plows alone. I know that he plows steeply uphill and the horse goes hard, and from time to time his cry reaches me: “Well, well!” I know almost all of our peasants, but I don’t know which one is plowing it now, but it doesn’t matter to me, I am completely immersed in my business, I am also busy: I break out a walnut whip for myself to whip frogs with it; whips of hazel are so beautiful and so fragile as compared to birch. I am also interested in insects and bugs, I collect them, there are very elegant ones; I also love small, agile, red-yellow lizards with black spots, but I'm afraid of snakes. However, snakes come across much less often than lizards. There are few mushrooms here; for mushrooms you have to go to the birch forest, and I'm going to go. And I loved nothing in my life so much as the forest with its mushrooms and wild berries, with its insects and birds, hedgehogs and squirrels, with its damp smell of decayed leaves that I love so much. And now, even as I write this, I can still smell the smell of our village birch forest: these impressions remain for a lifetime. Suddenly, in the midst of deep silence, I clearly and distinctly heard a cry: “The wolf is running!” I screamed and, besides myself with fright, shouting out loud, ran out into the clearing, straight at the plowing peasant.
It was our man Marey. I don’t know if there is such a name, but everyone called him Marey, a man of about fifty, thick, rather tall, with a lot of gray hair in a dark blond thick beard. I knew him, but before that I had almost never had the chance to speak to him. He even stopped the mare when he heard my cry, and when I, running up, clung to his plow with one hand and his sleeve with the other, he saw my fright.
The wolf is running! I shouted out of breath.
He tossed his head and involuntarily looked around, almost believing me for a moment.
- Where is the wolf?
“Screamed ... Someone shouted now: “The wolf is running” ...” I murmured.
- What are you, what are you, what a wolf, I imagined; see! What kind of wolf to be here! he muttered, encouraging me. But I was shaking all over and clung even tighter to his zipun, and I must have been very pale. He looked at me with an uneasy smile, apparently afraid and worried about me.
- Look, you got scared, ah-ah! he shook his head. - All right, dear. Oh boy, oh!
He reached out his hand and suddenly stroked my cheek.
- Well, that's enough, well, Christ is with you, wake up. – But I was not baptized; the corners of my lips twitched, and I think this particularly struck him. He quietly stretched out his fat, black-nailed finger, soiled in the ground, and softly touched my bouncing lips.
“Look, after all, ah,” he smiled at me with a kind of motherly and long smile, “Lord, what is it, look, after all, ah, ah!”
I finally realized that there was no wolf and that the cry “The wolf is running” seemed to me. The cry, however, was so clear and distinct, but such cries (not only about wolves) had already seemed to me once or twice before, and I knew about it. (Later, with childhood, these hallucinations disappeared.)
"Well, I'll go," I said, looking inquiringly and timidly at him.
- Well, go, and I'll look after you. I won't give you to the wolf! he added, still smiling motherly at me, “well, Christ is with you, well, go on,” and he crossed me with his hand and crossed himself. I walked, looking back almost every ten steps. Marey, while I walked, stood with his filly and looked after me, each time nodding his head at me when I looked back. I must admit that I was a little ashamed in front of him that I was so frightened, but I walked, still very afraid of the wolf, until I climbed the slope of the ravine, to the first barn; then the fright jumped off completely, and suddenly, out of nowhere, our yard dog Volchok rushed towards me. With Volchk, I was already quite emboldened and turned for the last time to Marey; I could no longer see his face clearly, but I felt that he was smiling kindly at me in exactly the same way and nodding his head. I waved my hand to him, he waved to me too and touched the mare.