China
To be clear, China's modernisation is worth boasting about. China has not just become wealthier. Newly paved roads have saved mountain villages from being cut off by heavy rains. In every rural county, highway tunnels and bridges have reduced journey times by hours. Urban landscapes have been transformed. Air and water pollution have declined dramatically. Across China on a typical evening, newly built parks and cleaned-up rivers attract strolling families or pensioners who gather to play Chinese chess or practise tai-chi. Cities are more orderly and street crime rarer. Ask middle-aged Chinese whether they have better lives than their parents, and they answer yes almost in unison. Others note the weakening of cruel traditions, such as the migrant worker in Chongqing who recalled that, in the hometown of his youth, women could dine only after their male guests had eaten their fill.
NINE years ago，Pyotr Sergeyitch, the deputy prosecutor, and I were riding towards evening in hay-making time to fetch the letters from the station.
The weather was magnificent, but on our way back we heard a peal of thunder and saw an angry black storm-cloud which was coming straight towards us. The storm-cloud was approaching us, and we were approaching it.
Against the background of it, our house and church looked white, and the tall poplars shone like silver. There was a scent of rain and mown hay. My companion was in high spirits. He kept laughing and talking all sorts of nonsense. He said it would be nice if we could suddenly come upon a medieval castle with turreted towers, with moss on it and owls, in which we could take shelter from the rain and in the end be killed by a thunderbolt. . .
Then the first wave raced through the rye and a field of oats, there was a gust of wind, and the dust flew round and round in the air. Pyotr Sergeyitch laughed and spurred on his horse.
"It's fine!" he cried, "it's splendid!"
Infected by his gaiety, I too began laughing at the thought that in a minute I should be drenched to the skin and might be struck by lightning.
Riding swiftly in a hurricane when one is breathless with the wind, and feels like a bird, thrills one and puts one's heart in a flutter. By the time we rode into our courtyard the wind had gone down, and big drops of rain were pattering on the grass and on the roofs. There was not a soul near the stable.
Pyotr Sergeyitch himself took the bridles off and led the horses to their stalls. I stood in the doorway waiting for him to finish and watching the slanting streaks of rain; the sweetish, exciting scent of hay was even stronger here than in the fields; the storm-clouds and the rain made it almost twilight.
"What a crash!" said Pyotr Sergeyitch, coming up to me after a very loud rolling peal of thunder when it seemed as though the sky were split in two. "What do you say to that?"
He stood beside me in the doorway and, still breathless from his rapid ride, looked at me. I could see that he was admiring me.
"Natalya Vladimirovna," he said, "I would give anything only to stay here a little longer and look at you. You are lovely today."
His eyes looked at me with delight and supplication, his face was pale. On his beard and moustache were glittering raindrops, and they, too, seemed to be looking at me with love.
"I love you," he said. "I love you, and I am happy at seeing you. I know you cannot be my wife, but I want nothing, I ask nothing; only know that I love you. Be silent, do not answer me, take no notice of it, but only know that you are dear to me and let me look at you."
His rapture affected me too; I looked at his enthusiastic face, listened to his voice which mingled with the patter of the rain, and stood as though spellbound, unable to stir.
