120 philosophical essays you must read in your life

Chapter 10

Chapter 1 Section 9 Blacksmith

[French] Zola
The blacksmith was tall and tall, the largest man in the area, his shoulders were full of muscle bumps, his face and arms were blackened by the fire and the iron filings from the hammer.He had a boxy head, with a pair of big boyish blue eyes, bright as steel, beneath a tuft of thick black hair.He also had a broad jaw, and laughed and gasped like his gigantic bellows reveling and whistling; The habitual movements that he has developed-make people seem to forget that he is over fifty years old. He can lift a 25-pound hammer nicknamed "Miss" and wield this incomparably powerful "girl". Go all the way to the west of the village.

I had the good fortune to live with the blacksmith for a year.That year coincided with my illness and the need to recuperate.Emaciated physically and mentally, I left the house and walked aimlessly, looking for a place where I could work in peace and refresh myself.In this way, one evening, I missed the village during the journey, but I saw a blacksmith's shop in the distance, with blazing fire, located on the roadside at the intersection of two main roads, looking so lonely.Sparks shot out from the open gate like a bonfire at a crossroads, and the row of poplars along the brook opposite smoked like torches.In the dusk that ended, the rhythmic sound of hammers was heard from a distance, as if a cavalry regiment was gradually approaching and galloping.It didn't take long before I came to the open door. I stopped in the strong firelight, the deafening noise, and the thunderous vibration.Seeing the scene of human hands curling and straightening the red-hot iron rod, a burst of infinite happiness and relief flooded my heart.

This autumn evening, I saw the blacksmith for the first time.He is striking a piece of iron, he has no shirt on, revealing his thick chest, every time he breathes, his ribs show the ribs of steel and iron bones that have been tempered for a long time.He leaned forward, swung the hammer down with a jerk, and kept shaking his body flexibly and continuously without stopping for a moment, stretching and contracting his muscles tensely and powerfully; the hammer moved in a regular circle. Spin around, burst out sparks, and leave behind trails of light.The blacksmith waved the "Miss" just like that.That, perhaps his son, a young man in his twenties, held the red-hot iron in his tongs and struck from the other side so that he was drowned out by the dizzying dance of the "girl" in the old man's hand.Du, du, du, du, du, like a mother's solemn voice, encouraging the baby to learn to speak. The "Miss" danced happily, shaking the diamonds on the skirt, and every time she jumped and landed on the anvil, the plowshare left a footprint of her.A blood-red flame splashed all the way to the ground, illuminating the burly bodies of the two workers, and sending their huge figures all the way to the dark and messy corner of the blacksmith shop.The blazing fire gradually dimmed, and the "Miss" in the blacksmith's hand stopped dancing.He stood there covered in black, leaning on the handle of the hammer, letting the sweat roll out of his forehead.His ribs were still flapping, and amidst the whirring of the bellows slowly being pushed and pulled by his son, I clearly heard his panting.

That night, I stayed at the blacksmith's house and never left.Above the smithy, there was a vacant attic where the blacksmith let me live.At five o'clock the next morning, before dawn, I was awakened by the sound of laughter that shook the house.Under my garret, the hammer is already flying. "Miss" treated me like a slob, shaking the ceiling downstairs and trying to pull me out of bed with all her might.She rattled my battered room, furnished with a wardrobe, a table, and two chairs, and urged me to get up.I can only get up from the bed and walk down.Downstairs, the furnace fire was red, the bellows whistling, a pile of blue and red flame rose from the coals, burning like a star in the wind blowing coal fire.The blacksmith is planning his day's work.He was moving iron blocks in a corner, turning over the plow that had been made, and carefully observing every flaw on it. When he saw me, he pinched his waist and smiled at me with his big mouth. to the root of the ear.It was a joy to him to be able to wake me up out of bed at five o'clock.I think he beat the hammer on purpose in the morning, so that the terrible noise of the hammer might drag me out of my sweet dreams.He put his thick hands on my shoulders, like a father talking to a child, and leaned down to me and said that if I lived in his scrap metal pile, my body would recover quickly.Then we all sat on the floor of an overturned battered caravan and drank white wine together.

Afterwards, I spent most of my day in the blacksmith's shop.Especially in winter and rainy weather, I'm there all day.Soon, I was fascinated by this kind of labor.The blacksmith manipulated the iron as he pleased, and the protracted battle thrilled me like a heart-warming drama.I watched in amazement as the iron, which had been clipped from the fire and placed on the anvil, curled, stretched, and crumpled like soft wax under the mastery of the blacksmith.When the plow body was finished, I squatted in front of the plow body, but I could no longer recognize the strangely shaped piece of scrap iron from the day before.I looked at each part carefully, and it seemed that powerful fingers had pinched them into this shape without the aid of fire.This makes me can't help but imagine a girl I have seen from afar. Under the window opposite me, she uses her slender hands to make branches and stems with brass wire all day long, and then makes them by hand with velvet. Violet flowers are tied to it.

I've never seen a blacksmith moan.He had to work fourteen hours during the day, but at night he was always happy, smiling, and waving his arms with contentment.He is not sentimental and never tires.Maybe even if the house collapsed, he would be able to withstand it.

In winter, he said he couldn't be more comfortable in his smithy.In summer, he opened the door wide to let the fragrance of hay rush in with the wind.When the sun goes down, I always go to the door and sit down beside him.It is just halfway up the mountain, and you can have a bird's-eye view of the entire vast valley.The plowed fields weave into an endless carpet, disappearing at the end of the horizon, in the lavender twilight of the evening.With this beauty of nature, we feel extremely happy.

The blacksmith, who loved to tell a joke, told me that all this land was his; he also told me that his smithy had supplied the plows for over 200 years in this area.This is his pride.Without him, no crops can grow.On the plain, green in May and golden in July, this tapestry of ever-changing colors has his share.He loves the crops as much as his daughter, and when the weather is sunny, he is as happy as a child; when he sees dark clouds that make people worry, he raises his fist and curses.He used to point out to me some distant fields no bigger than his back, and tell me about a plow he had built for this oat field in a certain year.During the busy farming season, he would occasionally put down his hammer, walk to the side of the road, shade the sun with his hands, and look around.He saw that the countless plows he had made were gnawing at the soil and creating furrows, in front, on the left, and on the right, everywhere.The cattle move forward slowly, like pushing thousands of troops.The plow blades gleamed in the sun, giving off a silvery light.Then he waved to me and told me to go and see what a "sacred work" his plow was doing.

All this iron clinking under my attic is injecting iron into my blood, which works better for me than taking medicine from the pharmacy.I like this noise, I need this music of hammer and anvil in order to hear the taste of life.In the room animated by the roar of the bellows, my body and mind gradually recovered.Tuk, tuk—, tuk, tuk—, the hammer is a happy pendulum regulating my hours of work.At the most tense moment of labor, the blacksmith showed his power, and the red-hot iron blocks clanged under the jump of the enchanted hammer.At this time, my wrist seemed to be infected with a huge vitality, and I really wanted to level the world with a stroke of a pen.Soon, the blacksmith shop returned to calm, and my mind was completely silent.I went downstairs and saw the vanquished and smoking metal, ashamed of my trivial work.

what!How handsome and healthy he was in the heat of the afternoon!His upper body is naked to the waist, his muscles are protruding and hard, like a huge statue created by Michelangelo with great strength.In the blacksmith I found the lines of modern sculpture that our artists painstakingly sought in the flesh of the Greek dead.I unconsciously think that he is the hero made great by labor, the indefatigable son of our time, who forged tomorrow's society with iron in the fire.He also makes games with a hammer.When he was having fun, he picked up "Miss" and beat it with all his strength.And all around him, in the rosy glow of the fire, there was a thunderclap.I seem to hear the voice of the working people.

Here, in this blacksmith's shop, among the plows, my lazy and suspicious habits escaped without a trace.

【Together with you】

The most beautiful and moving picture in the world is not the picture full of graceful autumn wind admiring the moon, nor the majestic picture of mountains and rivers embroidered, but the picture of the hard work of the working people.From the description of the specific character of the blacksmith, Zola allows us to personally experience the situation when the blacksmith is working.And through the microcosm of this society, we can intuitively look forward to the extremely magnificent long scroll of history!Though with the smile of a dear face he draws mother's yearning heart to him,yet his cries, equally purposeful, weave the double bond of pity and love.

(End of this chapter)