The purpose of the lesson: attract the attention of students to discuss issues related to the concept of humanity; draw attention to the actions of historical figures. Continue to get acquainted with the life of the wonderful writer and person A.I. Kuprin; work on the content of the story “ Wonderful doctor”.
Lesson objectives:
- nurturing: to cultivate a culture of ethical and moral feelings that influence all student behavior;
- educational: direct communication with a work of art. Form a holistic impression of it, affecting personal experiences; teach how to work with text;
- developing: develop a culture of artistic perception, the ability to listen and read. Develop artistic vigilance.
“Talents (like people) can be good and evil, funny and sad, bright and dark. When I think about Kuprin, I immediately want to say: a good talent. All the writer’s works are imbued with this infinite kindness or, in his own words, love “for all living things - a tree, a dog, water, earth, man, sky.”
Oleg Mikhailov.
Methods: reproductive, search.
Techniques: expressive reading, retelling, conversation.
During the classes
1. Organizational moment.
2. Introductory speech by the teacher.
Guys, we are already familiar with the works of A.I. Kuprin. Now, in today's lesson, we will meet again with a wonderful writer. I think this is not the last meeting with this wonderful man. I took the words of Oleg Mikhailov as the epigraph for our lesson. Listen to them please.
A.I. Kuprin, guys, lived in a different time from us, knew a completely different world, much of which is irretrievably gone. But the feelings that worried his heroes - young officers, circus performers, cheerful tramps, sea-salted pilots - worry us to the same extent today. And this is the key to Kuprin’s popularity among readers. He openly defended the weak, sang holy love, selfless friendship, he taught to be better, more beautiful, more noble even in the most difficult everyday circumstances. And it doesn’t matter that today there are no cadets, no traveling artists, no policemen, no scribes in the treasury chamber. After all, honesty and lies, courage and cowardice, nobility and baseness, good and evil still wage an irreconcilable struggle among themselves.
And the “river of life” (that’s the name of one of Kuprin’s stories) still flows non-stop on its banks, requiring us to make daily decisions and choices: “for” or “against”. And here, guys, A.I. Kuprin remains our mentor and senior friend.
Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin was born in the Penza province into the family of a minor official. The mother was of noble origin, belonged to an old princely Tatar family. His father died when the boy was not even a year old. The mother was forced to settle in a Moscow widow's house. When the boy was 6 years old, his mother sent him to the Razumovsky orphanage, where he lived for 4 years. In 1880, he entered the second Moscow military gymnasium, which 2 years later was transformed into a cadet corps. The difficult life of the “official boy” was later depicted by him in the story “At the Turning Point”. Later, Kuprin collaborates in newspapers and becomes a professional writer. In 1919, Kuprin went abroad and constantly missed Russia. In 1937 he returned to his native Moscow. “Even the flowers at home smell different,” he said.
A.I. Kuprin was a man with enormous vitality. This power made him vigilant, curious, inquisitive. He once said that for a few minutes he would like to become every person he met, every animal, fly or plant, so that he could know what they were thinking, what they were feeling.
Guys, this is what his daughter Ksenia said about Kuprin. When the writer wrote a story about a horse (“Emerald”), he spent all his time in the stable and even once, to the horror of Kuprin’s wife, brought the horse into the bedroom for several days to watch how she slept and find out if she could see dreams. When Kuprin's daughter was a little girl, they got cockroaches. Alexander Ivanovich decided to watch them. They marked several of them with different paints and gave them names. And then, squatting, we patiently watched these insects.
All animals: dogs, horses, cats, goats, monkeys, bears were members of A.I.’s family. Kuprina.
Kuprin wrote: “Animals are distinguished by their memory, reason, and ability to distinguish time, space, colors and sounds. They have attachments and aversion, love and hatred, gratitude, appreciation, fidelity, joy and grief, anger, humility, cunning, honesty and downtroddenness.”
Very often Kuprin's friends, laughing, said that he attributes feelings and intelligence to animals, but they only have conditioned reflexes. But Kuprin firmly believed that this was not so. It is not for nothing that next to the title of the story “Zaviraika” he put “The Soul of a Dog” in parentheses. The writer loved animals very much.
He always took part in children's performances organized by his daughter Ksenia. He got excited and argued like a child.
Kuprin loved the circus, cheerful, brave, dexterous, hardworking people and circus animals. He was a brave man, he always wanted to experience for himself what he wrote about. He climbed to a height of 1200 meters at hot-air balloon, flew the first wooden airplanes in the early 20th century, when flying was a novelty; sank to the seabed in a spacesuit. Once he even entered a cage with tigers. Then the writer admitted that it was the most terrible thing he had ever experienced, that he did not remember anything from his feelings except the red fog before his eyes.
Everything was interesting to the kind, inquisitive eye of the writer. Kuprin found it easily mutual language with man’s “younger brothers” – animals. He understood how much the animal needs human help and protection.
What stories by Kuprin about animals and birds have you read?
In the story “Starlings,” he addresses the children directly: “Try throwing worms or crumbs of bread to the bird, first from afar, then decreasing the distance. You will achieve the fact that after a while the starling will take food from your hands and sit on your shoulder. Just don't betray his trust. The only difference between you both is that he is small and you are big.” A. Exupery in his fairy tale “The Little Prince”, through the lips of the prince, said the following phrase: “We are responsible for those we have tamed.”
3. Analysis of the story.
Guys, in his stories Kuprin addressed not only the theme of animals; the themes of his works are diverse. The writer was also concerned about the person. Very often in the stories of A.I. there is magic, good always triumphs over evil, children and adults in need of help are always helped by other honest, decent, wonderful people. Kuprin taught to see a person in a person.
Guys, we’ll talk about another story in which miracles happen in today’s lesson. The story is called “The Wonderful Doctor.”
Choose words with the same root for the word “wonderful” (miracle, eccentric, eccentricity, wonderful, eccentric, wonderful, wonderful, monster).
How do you understand the meaning of the word “wonderful”? (dictionary definition of the word miraculous: 1) being a miracle, magical, supernatural;
2) imbued with fantasy, full of miracles, amazing, unusual;
3)wonderful, wonderful.)
Guys, what time of year does the story take place?
What did the boys see in the store window?
How can you explain the impression that the “magnificent exhibition” of the window made on the boys?
How do you feel about the holidays?
How do you feel when they approach?
Guys, could the Mertsalov family hope for surprises and gifts during the holidays?
Where did the Mertsalovs live?
Tell us what happened in the family?
Why did they end up in the basement and live in such terrible conditions?
What was the situation and atmosphere like in the Mertsalovs’ house? (Read, give examples).
Was Mertsalov trying to get money?
Why did everyone whom Mertsalov turned to for help refuse him?
What did he do?
Why does Mertsalov leave the dungeon?
What state was Mertsalov in before meeting the stranger? (He was overcome by despair because he had nowhere to wait for help, he could not count on the compassion of others)
How do you understand the statement of the modern scientist Ilya Shevelev: “The harder life is, the more callous some people become, and others more merciful”? Which character in the story could you apply these words to?
Why did the stranger sit down on the bench next to Mertsalov?
Why didn’t he leave after Mertsalov’s “angry screams”? (Because he saw that the person was in a desperate situation, and the stranger belonged to that number of people who become more merciful from life’s failures). What help does the stranger provide to the Mertsalov family? Who he is by profession?
Why did the stranger, leaving the Mertsalovs, not say his name? (He was a humble man)
Why didn't you give the money openly? (Because I was afraid to embarrass myself, I didn’t want to offend or somehow offend the owners)
Please determine how the shades of meaning of the word “wonderful” are manifested in the text?
What was “miraculous” about the stranger’s actions?
Do you know anything about Nikolai Ivanovich Pirogov?
(1810-1881. Surgeon, anatomist, teacher, founder of military field surgery, contributed to the training of sisters of mercy in Russia during the military operations in Crimea in 1853-1856. Later this social movement received the name of the Red Cross.)
Please tell me, did this meeting with a wonderful stranger change the life of the Mertsalovs?
Guys, what is the main idea of the story? (Don’t be discouraged, don’t lose heart, remain human in any situation)
What does he teach us?
4. Summary. Conclusion.
So, I want to conclude our lesson by reading an aphorism by John Rusken. And I would like the stories of the wonderful writer A.I. Kuprin to help your good endeavors. Believe in miracles, and a miracle will definitely happen. Try to be honest, kind, decent, wonderful people in any situation.
5. Homework.
Have you or any of your family members ever had to help someone in a difficult situation? Prepare a story about this for the class.
Write your own memo “How to become a kind person?”
The following story is not the fruit of idle fiction. Everything I described actually happened in Kyiv about thirty years ago and is still sacred, down to the smallest detail, preserved in the traditions of the family in question. For my part, I just changed the names of some characters I gave this touching story an oral history written form.
- Grish, oh Grish! Look, the little pig... He's laughing... Yes. And in his mouth!.. Look, look... there is grass in his mouth, by God, grass!.. What a thing!
And two boys, standing in front of a huge solid glass window of a grocery store, began to laugh uncontrollably, pushing each other in the side with their elbows, but involuntarily dancing from the cruel cold. They had been standing for more than five minutes in front of this magnificent exhibition, which excited their minds and stomachs in equal measure. Here, illuminated by the bright light of hanging lamps, towered whole mountains of red, strong apples and oranges; there were regular pyramids of tangerines, delicately gilded through the tissue paper enveloping them; stretched out on the dishes, with ugly gaping mouths and bulging eyes, huge smoked and pickled fish; below, surrounded by garlands of sausages, juicy cut hams with a thick layer of pinkish lard flaunted... Countless jars and boxes with salted, boiled and smoked snacks completed this spectacular picture, looking at which both boys for a moment forgot about the twelve-degree frost and about the important assignment assigned their mother, an assignment that ended so unexpectedly and so pitifully.
The eldest boy was the first to tear himself away from contemplating the enchanting spectacle. He tugged at his brother's sleeve and said sternly:
- Well, Volodya, let’s go, let’s go... There’s nothing here...
At the same time suppressing a heavy sigh (the eldest of them was only ten years old, and besides, both of them had eaten nothing since the morning except empty cabbage soup) and casting one last lovingly greedy glance at the gastronomic exhibition, the boys hurriedly ran down the street. Sometimes, through the foggy windows of some house, they saw a Christmas tree, which from a distance seemed like a huge cluster of bright, shining spots, sometimes they even heard the sounds of a cheerful polka... But they courageously drove away the tempting thought: to stop for a few seconds and press their eyes to the glass.
But as the boys walked, the streets became less crowded and darker. Beautiful shops, shining Christmas trees, trotters racing under their blue and red nets, the squealing of runners, the festive excitement of the crowd, the cheerful hum of shouts and conversations, the laughing faces of elegant ladies flushed with frost - everything was left behind. There were vacant lots, crooked, narrow alleys, gloomy, unlit slopes... Finally they reached a rickety, dilapidated house that stood alone; its bottom - the basement itself - was stone, and the top was wooden. Having walked around the cramped, icy and dirty courtyard, which served as a natural cesspool for all residents, they went downstairs to the basement, walked in the darkness along a common corridor, groped for their door and opened it.
The Mertsalovs had been living in this dungeon for more than a year. Both boys had long since gotten used to these smoky walls, weeping from dampness, and to the wet scraps drying on a rope stretched across the room, and to this terrible smell of kerosene fumes, children's dirty laundry and rats - the real smell of poverty. But today, after everything they saw on the street, after this festive rejoicing that they felt everywhere, their little children’s hearts sank from acute, unchildish suffering. In the corner, on a dirty wide bed, lay a girl of about seven years old; her face was burning, her breathing was short and labored, her wide, shining eyes looked intently and aimlessly. Next to the bed, in a cradle suspended from the ceiling, a baby was screaming, wincing, straining and choking. A tall, thin woman, with a gaunt, tired face, as if blackened by grief, was kneeling next to the sick girl, straightening her pillow and at the same time not forgetting to push the rocking cradle with her elbow. When the boys entered and white clouds of frosty air quickly rushed into the basement after them, the woman turned her alarmed face back.
- Well? What? – she asked abruptly and impatiently.
The boys were silent. Only Grisha noisily wiped his nose with the sleeve of his coat, made from an old cotton robe.
– Did you take the letter?.. Grisha, I’m asking you, did you give the letter?
- So what? What did you say to him?
- Yes, everything is as you taught. Here, I say, is a letter from Mertsalov, from your former manager. And he scolded us: “Get out of here,” he says, “you bastards...”
-Who is this? Who was talking to you?.. Speak clearly, Grisha!
- The doorman was talking... Who else? I tell him: “Uncle, take the letter, pass it on, and I’ll wait for the answer here downstairs.” And he says: “Well,” he says, “keep your pocket... The master also has time to read your letters...”
- Well, what about you?
“I told him everything, as you taught me: “There’s nothing to eat... Mashutka is sick... She’s dying...” I said: “As soon as dad finds a place, he’ll thank you, Savely Petrovich, by God, he’ll thank you.” Well, at this time the bell will ring as soon as it rings, and he tells us: “Get the hell out of here quickly! So that your spirit is not here!..” And he even hit Volodka on the back of the head.
“And he hit me on the back of the head,” said Volodya, who was following his brother’s story with attention, and scratched the back of his head.
- Professor Pirogov- famous doctor. He was very kind and responsive.
- Mertsalov family— poor people who did not have money to buy medicine for their children.
The plight of the Mertsalovs
This story took place in Kyiv, in the second half of the 19th century on Christmas Eve. For a year now, the Mertsalov family has been living in the damp basement of an old house. Emelyan Mertsalov was laid off from his job and his relatives began to live in poverty. Most youngest child, who is still lying in the cradle, wants to eat and therefore he screams loudly. His sister, who was a little older than him, rose heat, but my parents don’t have money to buy medicine.
The mother of the family sends her two eldest sons to the manager for whom her husband previously worked, in the hope that he will help them. But the poor boys are driven away without giving them a penny. It should be explained why Mertsalov lost his job. He fell ill with typhus. While the man was being treated, another person was taken in his place. All savings were spent on medicine, so the Mertsalovs had to move to the basement.
One after another, the children began to get sick. One of their girls passed away 3 months ago, and now Masha is also sick. Their father tried to get money: he walked all over the city, begged, humiliated himself, but no one helped him. When the sons returned from the manager with nothing, Mertsalov leaves. He is possessed by a painful desire to run away, to hide somewhere, so as not to see the torment of his relatives.
Meeting with a kind professor
A man simply wanders around the city and ends up in a public garden. There was no one there and silence reigned. Mertsalov wanted to find peace and the thought of suicide arose in his head. He had almost gathered his strength, but suddenly an unfamiliar old man in a fur coat sat down next to him. He starts a conversation with him about New Year's gifts, and from his words Mertsalov is seized with a fit of anger. His interlocutor is not offended by what he said, but only asks him to tell him everything in order.
After 10 minutes, Mertsalov returns home with a mysterious old man, who turned out to be a doctor. With his arrival, firewood and food appear in the house. The good doctor writes a free prescription for medicine, leaves the family some large bills and leaves. The Mertsalovs discover the identity of their savior, Professor Pirogov, on a label attached to the medicine.
After the meeting with Pirogov, it was as if grace descended into the Mertsalovs’ house. The father of the family finds himself a new one Good work, and the children are on the mend. They meet their benefactor, Doctor Pirogov, only once - at his funeral. This amazing and truly magical story is told to the narrator by one of the Mertsalov brothers, who holds an important position in the bank.
Test on the story The Wonderful Doctor
Wonderful doctor
The following story is not the fruit of idle fiction. Everything I described actually happened in Kyiv about thirty years ago and is still sacred, down to the smallest detail, preserved in the traditions of the family in question. For my part, I only changed the names of some of the characters in this touching story and gave the oral story a written form.
Grish, oh Grish! Look, the little pig... He's laughing... Yes. And in his mouth!.. Look, look... there is grass in his mouth, by God, grass!.. What a thing!
And two boys, standing in front of a huge solid glass window of a grocery store, began to laugh uncontrollably, pushing each other in the side with their elbows, but involuntarily dancing from the cruel cold. They had been standing for more than five minutes in front of this magnificent exhibition, which excited their minds and stomachs in equal measure. Here, illuminated by the bright light of hanging lamps, towered whole mountains of red, strong apples and oranges; there were regular pyramids of tangerines, delicately gilded through the tissue paper enveloping them; stretched out on the dishes, with ugly gaping mouths and bulging eyes, huge smoked and pickled fish; below, surrounded by garlands of sausages, juicy cut hams with a thick layer of pinkish lard flaunted... Countless jars and boxes with salted, boiled and smoked snacks completed this spectacular picture, looking at which both boys for a moment forgot about the twelve-degree frost and about the important assignment assigned their mother, an assignment that ended so unexpectedly and so pitifully.
The eldest boy was the first to tear himself away from contemplating the enchanting spectacle. He tugged at his brother's sleeve and said sternly:
Well, Volodya, let's go, let's go... There's nothing here...
At the same time suppressing a heavy sigh (the eldest of them was only ten years old, and besides, both of them had eaten nothing since the morning except empty cabbage soup) and casting one last lovingly greedy glance at the gastronomic exhibition, the boys hurriedly ran down the street. Sometimes, through the foggy windows of some house, they saw a Christmas tree, which from a distance seemed like a huge cluster of bright, shining spots, sometimes they even heard the sounds of a cheerful polka... But they courageously drove away the tempting thought: to stop for a few seconds and press their eyes to the glass.
As the boys walked, the streets became less crowded and darker. Beautiful shops, shining Christmas trees, trotters racing under their blue and red nets, the squealing of runners, the festive excitement of the crowd, the cheerful hum of shouts and conversations, the laughing faces of elegant ladies flushed with frost - everything was left behind. There were vacant lots, crooked, narrow alleys, gloomy, unlit slopes... Finally they reached a rickety, dilapidated house that stood alone; its bottom - the basement itself - was stone, and the top was wooden. Having walked around the cramped, icy and dirty courtyard, which served as a natural cesspool for all residents, they went downstairs to the basement, walked in the darkness along a common corridor, groped for their door and opened it.
The Mertsalovs had been living in this dungeon for more than a year. Both boys had long since gotten used to these smoky walls, crying from the dampness, and to the wet scraps drying on a rope stretched across the room, and to this terrible smell of kerosene fumes, children's dirty linen and rats - the real smell of poverty. But today, after everything they saw on the street, after this festive rejoicing that they felt everywhere, their little children’s hearts sank from acute, unchildish suffering. In the corner, on a dirty wide bed, lay a girl of about seven years old; her face was burning, her breathing was short and labored, her wide, shining eyes looked intently and aimlessly. Next to the bed, in a cradle suspended from the ceiling, a baby was screaming, wincing, straining and choking. A tall, thin woman, with a gaunt, tired face, as if blackened by grief, was kneeling next to the sick girl, straightening her pillow and at the same time not forgetting to push the rocking cradle with her elbow. When the boys entered and white clouds of frosty air quickly rushed into the basement behind them, the woman turned her worried face back.
Well? What? - she asked abruptly and impatiently.
The boys were silent. Only Grisha noisily wiped his nose with the sleeve of his coat, made from an old cotton robe.
Did you take the letter?.. Grisha, I’m asking you, did you give the letter?
So what? What did you say to him?
Yes, everything is as you taught. Here, I say, is a letter from Mertsalov, from your former manager. And he scolded us: “Get out of here, he says... You bastards...”
Who is this? Who was talking to you?.. Speak clearly, Grisha!
The doorman was talking... Who else? I tell him: “Uncle, take the letter, pass it on, and I’ll wait for the answer here downstairs.” And he says: “Well, he says, keep your pocket... The master also has time to read your letters...”
Well, what about you?
I told him everything, as you taught me: “There’s nothing to eat... Mashutka is sick... She’s dying...” I said: “As soon as dad finds a place, he’ll thank you, Savely Petrovich, by God, he’ll thank you.” Well, at this time the bell will ring as soon as it rings, and he tells us: “Get the hell out of here quickly! So that your spirit is not here!..” And he even hit Volodka on the back of the head.
And he hit me on the back of the head,” said Volodya, who was following his brother’s story with attention, and scratched the back of his head.
The older boy suddenly began to anxiously rummage through the deep pockets of his robe. Finally pulling out the crumpled envelope, he put it on the table and said:
Here it is, the letter...
The mother didn't ask any more questions. For a long time in the stuffy, dank room, only the frantic cry of the baby and Mashutka’s short, rapid breathing, more like continuous monotonous moans, could be heard. Suddenly the mother said, turning back:
There is borscht there, left over from lunch... Maybe we could eat it? Only cold, there’s nothing to warm it up with...
At this time, someone’s hesitant steps and the rustling of a hand were heard in the corridor, searching for the door in the darkness. The mother and both boys - all three even turning pale from tense anticipation - turned in this direction.
Mertsalov entered. He was wearing a summer coat, a summer felt hat and no galoshes. His hands were swollen and blue from the frost, his eyes were sunken, his cheeks were stuck around his gums, like a dead man’s. He didn’t say a single word to his wife, she didn’t ask him a single question. They understood each other by the despair they read in each other's eyes.
In this terrible, fateful year, misfortune after misfortune persistently and mercilessly rained down on Mertsalov and his family. First, he himself fell ill with typhoid fever, and all their meager savings were spent on his treatment. Then, when he recovered, he learned that his place, the modest place of managing a house for twenty-five rubles a month, was already taken by someone else... A desperate, convulsive pursuit began for odd jobs, for correspondence, for an insignificant place, pledging and re-pledge of things, selling all kinds of household rags. And then the children started getting sick. Three months ago one girl died, now another lies in the heat and unconscious. Elizaveta Ivanovna had to simultaneously care for a sick girl, breastfeed a little one and go almost to the other end of the city to the house where she washed clothes every day.
All day today I was busy trying to squeeze out from somewhere at least a few kopecks for Mashutka’s medicine through superhuman efforts. For this purpose, Mertsalov ran around almost half the city, begging and humiliating himself everywhere; Elizaveta Ivanovna went to see her mistress, the children were sent with a letter to the master whose house Mertsalov used to manage... But everyone made excuses either with holiday worries or lack of money... Others, like, for example, the doorman of the former patron, simply drove the petitioners off the porch .
For ten minutes no one could utter a word. Suddenly Mertsalov quickly rose from the chest on which he had been sitting until now, and with a decisive movement pulled his tattered hat deeper onto his forehead.
Where are you going? - Elizaveta Ivanovna asked anxiously.
Mertsalov, who had already grabbed the door handle, turned around.
“Anyway, sitting won’t help anything,” he answered hoarsely. - I’ll go again... At least I’ll try to beg.
Going out into the street, he walked forward aimlessly. He didn't look for anything, didn't hope for anything. He had long ago experienced that burning time of poverty when you dream of finding a wallet with money on the street or suddenly receiving an inheritance from an unknown second cousin. Now he was overcome by an uncontrollable desire to run anywhere, to run without looking back, so as not to see the silent despair of a hungry family.
Beg for alms? He has already tried this remedy twice today. But the first time, some gentleman in a raccoon coat read him an instruction that he should work and not beg, and the second time, they promised to send him to the police.
Unnoticed by himself, Mertsalov found himself in the center of the city, near the fence of a dense public garden. Since he had to walk uphill all the time, he became out of breath and felt tired. Mechanically he turned through the gate and, passing a long alley of linden trees covered with snow, sat down on a low garden bench.
It was quiet and solemn here. The trees, wrapped in their white robes, slumbered in motionless majesty. Sometimes a piece of snow fell from the top branch, and you could hear it rustling, falling and clinging to other branches. The deep silence and great calm that guarded the garden suddenly awakened in Mertsalov’s tormented soul an unbearable thirst for the same calm, the same silence.
“I wish I could lie down and go to sleep,” he thought, “and forget about my wife, about the hungry children, about the sick Mashutka.” Putting his hand under his vest, Mertsalov felt for a rather thick rope that served as his belt. The thought of suicide became quite clear in his head. But he was not horrified by this thought, did not shudder for a moment before the darkness of the unknown.
“Rather than perish slowly, isn’t it better to choose more shortcut? He was about to get up to fulfill his terrible intention, but at that time, at the end of the alley, the creaking of steps was heard, clearly heard in the frosty air. Mertsalov turned in this direction with anger. Someone was walking along the alley. At first, the light of a cigar flaring up and then going out was visible. Then Mertsalov little by little could see an old man of short stature, wearing a warm hat, a fur coat and high galoshes. Having reached the bench, the stranger suddenly turned sharply in the direction of Mertsalov and, lightly touching his hat, asked:
Will you allow me to sit here?
Mertsalov deliberately turned sharply away from the stranger and moved to the edge of the bench. Five minutes passed in mutual silence, during which the stranger smoked a cigar and (Mertsalov felt it) looked sideways at his neighbor.
“What a nice night,” the stranger suddenly spoke. - Frosty... quiet. What a delight - Russian winter!
“But I bought gifts for the children of my friends,” the stranger continued (he had several packages in his hands). - Yes, I couldn’t resist on the way, I made a circle to go through the garden: it’s very nice here.
Mertsalov was generally a meek and shy person, but at the last words of the stranger he was suddenly overcome by a surge of desperate anger. He turned with a sharp movement towards the old man and shouted, absurdly waving his arms and gasping:
Presents! ate... Gifts!..
Mertsalov expected that after these chaotic, angry screams the old man would get up and leave, but he was mistaken. The old man brought his intelligent, serious face with gray sideburns closer to him and said in a friendly but serious tone:
Wait... don't worry! Tell me everything in order and as briefly as possible. Maybe together we can come up with something for you.
There was something so calm and trust-inspiring in the stranger’s extraordinary face that Mertsalov immediately, without the slightest concealment, but terribly worried and in a hurry, conveyed his story. He spoke about his illness, about the loss of his place, about the death of his child, about all his misfortunes, right up to the present day. The stranger listened without interrupting him with a word, and only looked more and more inquisitively into his eyes, as if wanting to penetrate into the very depths of this painful, indignant soul. Suddenly, with a quick, completely youthful movement, he jumped up from his seat and grabbed Mertsalov by the hand. Mertsalov involuntarily also stood up.
Let's go! - said the stranger, dragging Mertsalov by the hand. - Let's go quickly!.. You are lucky that you met with the doctor. Of course, I can’t vouch for anything, but... let’s go!
Ten minutes later Mertsalov and the doctor were already entering the basement. Elizaveta Ivanovna lay on the bed next to her sick daughter, burying her face in dirty, oily pillows. The boys were slurping borscht, sitting in the same places. Frightened by the long absence of their father and the immobility of their mother, they cried, smearing tears over their faces with dirty fists and pouring them abundantly into the smoky cast iron. Entering the room, the doctor took off his coat and, remaining in an old-fashioned, rather shabby frock coat, approached Elizaveta Ivanovna. She didn't even raise her head when he approached.
Well, that’s enough, that’s enough, my dear,” the doctor spoke, affectionately stroking the woman on the back. - Get up! Show me your patient.
And just like recently in the garden, something affectionate and convincing sounding in his voice forced Elizaveta Ivanovna to instantly get out of bed and unquestioningly do everything the doctor said. Two minutes later, Grishka was already heating the stove with firewood, for which the wonderful doctor had sent to the neighbors, Volodya was inflating the samovar with all his might, Elizaveta Ivanovna was wrapping Mashutka in a warming compress... A little later Mertsalov also appeared. With three rubles received from the doctor, during this time he managed to buy tea, sugar, rolls and get them at the nearest tavern hot food. The doctor was sitting at the table and writing something on a piece of paper that he had torn out of his notebook. Having finished this lesson and depicting some kind of hook below instead of a signature, he stood up, covered what he had written with a tea saucer and said:
With this piece of paper you will go to the pharmacy... give me a teaspoon in two hours. This will cause the baby to cough up... Continue the warming compress... Besides, even if your daughter feels better, in any case, invite Doctor Afrosimov tomorrow. This is a good doctor and good man. I'll warn him right now. Then farewell, gentlemen! God grant that the coming year treats you a little more leniently than this one, and most importantly, never lose heart.
Having shaken the hands of Mertsalov and Elizaveta Ivanovna, who was still reeling from amazement, and casually patting Volodya, who was open-mouthed, on the cheek, the doctor quickly put his feet into deep galoshes and put on his coat. Mertsalov came to his senses only when the doctor was already in the corridor, and rushed after him.
Since it was impossible to make out anything in the darkness, Mertsalov shouted at random:
Doctor! Doctor, wait!.. Tell me your name, doctor! Let at least my children pray for you!
And he moved his hands in the air to catch the invisible doctor. But at this time, at the other end of the corridor, a calm, senile voice said:
Eh! Here are some more nonsense!.. Come home quickly!
When he returned, a surprise awaited him: under the tea saucer, along with the wonderful doctor’s prescription, lay several large credit notes...
That same evening Mertsalov learned the name of his unexpected benefactor. On the pharmacy label attached to the bottle of medicine, in the clear hand of the pharmacist it was written: “According to the prescription of Professor Pirogov.”
I heard this story, more than once, from the lips of Grigory Emelyanovich Mertsalov himself - the same Grishka who, on the Christmas Eve I described, shed tears into a smoky cast iron pot with empty borscht. Now he occupies a fairly large, responsible position in one of the banks, reputed to be a model of honesty and responsiveness to the needs of poverty. And every time, finishing his story about the wonderful doctor, he adds in a voice trembling from hidden tears:
From then on, it was as if a beneficent angel descended into our family. Everything has changed. At the beginning of January, my father found a place, Mashutka got back on her feet, and my brother and I managed to get a place in the gymnasium at public expense. This holy man performed a miracle. And we have only seen our wonderful doctor once since then - this was when he was transported dead to his own estate Vishnya. And even then they didn’t see him, because that great, powerful and sacred thing that lived and burned in the wonderful doctor during his lifetime died out irrevocably.
The following story is not the fruit of idle fiction. Everything I described actually happened in Kyiv about thirty years ago and is still sacred, down to the smallest detail, preserved in the traditions of the family in question. For my part, I only changed the names of some of the characters in this touching story and gave the oral story a written form.
- Grish, oh Grish! Look, the little pig... He's laughing... Yes. And in his mouth!.. Look, look... there is grass in his mouth, by God, grass!.. What a thing!
And two boys, standing in front of a huge solid glass window of a grocery store, began to laugh uncontrollably, pushing each other in the side with their elbows, but involuntarily dancing from the cruel cold. They had been standing for more than five minutes in front of this magnificent exhibition, which excited their minds and stomachs in equal measure. Here, illuminated by the bright light of hanging lamps, towered whole mountains of red, strong apples and oranges; there were regular pyramids of tangerines, delicately gilded through the tissue paper enveloping them; stretched out on the dishes, with ugly gaping mouths and bulging eyes, huge smoked and pickled fish; below, surrounded by garlands of sausages, juicy cut hams with a thick layer of pinkish lard flaunted... Countless jars and boxes with salted, boiled and smoked snacks completed this spectacular picture, looking at which both boys for a moment forgot about the twelve-degree frost and about the important assignment assigned their mother, an assignment that ended so unexpectedly and so pitifully.
The eldest boy was the first to tear himself away from contemplating the enchanting spectacle. He tugged at his brother's sleeve and said sternly:
- Well, Volodya, let’s go, let’s go... There’s nothing here...
At the same time suppressing a heavy sigh (the eldest of them was only ten years old, and besides, both of them had eaten nothing since the morning except empty cabbage soup) and casting one last lovingly greedy glance at the gastronomic exhibition, the boys hurriedly ran down the street. Sometimes, through the foggy windows of some house, they saw a Christmas tree, which from a distance seemed like a huge cluster of bright, shining spots, sometimes they even heard the sounds of a cheerful polka... But they courageously drove away the tempting thought: to stop for a few seconds and press their eyes to the glass.
But as the boys walked, the streets became less crowded and darker. Beautiful shops, shining Christmas trees, trotters racing under their blue and red nets, the squealing of runners, the festive excitement of the crowd, the cheerful hum of shouts and conversations, the laughing faces of elegant ladies flushed with frost - everything was left behind. There were vacant lots, crooked, narrow alleys, gloomy, unlit slopes... Finally they reached a rickety, dilapidated house that stood alone; its bottom - the basement itself - was stone, and the top was wooden. Having walked around the cramped, icy and dirty courtyard, which served as a natural cesspool for all residents, they went downstairs to the basement, walked in the darkness along a common corridor, groped for their door and opened it.