Kuprin is a doctor. Miraculous doctor text

A. I. Kuprin

Miraculous doctor

The following story is not the fruit of idle fiction. Everything I have described really happened in Kyiv about thirty years ago and is still sacred, down to the smallest detail, preserved in the traditions of the family that will be discussed. I, for my part, only changed the names of some of the characters in this touching story and gave the oral story a written form.

- Grish, and Grish! Look, a piglet ... Laughing ... Yes. And he has something in his mouth! .. Look, look ... weed in his mouth, by God, weed! .. That's something!

And the two little boys, standing in front of the huge, solid glass window of the grocery store, began to laugh uncontrollably, pushing each other in the side with their elbows, but involuntarily dancing from the cruel cold. For more than five minutes they had stood 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 strong red apples and oranges; regular pyramids of tangerines stood, tenderly gilded through the tissue paper wrapping them; stretched out on platters with ugly gaping mouths and bulging eyes, huge smoked and pickled fish; below, surrounded by garlands of sausages, there were juicy cut hams with a thick layer of pinkish fat ... Countless jars and boxes with salted, boiled and smoked snacks completed this spectacular picture, looking at which both boys for a minute forgot about the twelve-degree frost and about the important task entrusted on them as a mother, - an assignment that ended so unexpectedly and so deplorably.

The eldest boy was the first to break away from contemplation of the charming spectacle. He pulled 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 not eaten anything since morning, except for empty cabbage soup) and throwing a last loving-greedy glance at the gastronomic exhibition, the boys hurriedly ran down the street. Sometimes, through the misted windows of some house, they saw a Christmas tree, which from afar seemed like a huge bunch of bright, shining spots, sometimes they even heard the sounds of a cheerful polka ... But they courageously drove away from themselves the tempting thought: to stop for a few seconds and stick an eye to the glass.

As the boys walked, the streets became less crowded and darker. Beautiful shops, shining Christmas trees, trotters rushing under their blue and red nets, the squeal of runners, the festive animation of the crowd, the cheerful hum of shouts and conversations, the laughing faces of smart ladies flushed with frost - everything was left behind. Wastelands stretched out, crooked, narrow lanes, gloomy, unlit slopes ... At last they reached a rickety dilapidated house that stood apart; its bottom - the basement itself - was stone, and the top was wooden. Walking around the cramped, icy and dirty yard, which served as a natural garbage pit for all the residents, they went down to the basement, went through the common corridor in the darkness, found their door by feel and opened it.

For more than a year the Mertsalovs lived in this dungeon. Both boys had long since become accustomed to these smoky, damp-weeping walls, and to wet rags 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 all that they saw on the street, after this festive jubilation 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; her face burned, her breathing was short and difficult, her wide-open shining eyes stared intently and aimlessly. Next to the bed, in a cradle suspended from the ceiling, a baby was crying, grimacing, straining and choking. A tall, thin woman, with a haggard, tired face, as if blackened with grief, was kneeling beside 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 the white puffs of frosty air rushed into the basement after them, the woman turned her anxious face back.

- Well? What? she asked abruptly and impatiently.

The boys were silent. Only Grisha noisily wiped his nose with the sleeve of his overcoat, remade from an old wadded dressing gown.

- Did you take the letter? .. Grisha, I ask you, did you give the letter back?

- So what? What did you say to him?

Yes, just like you taught. Here, I say, is a letter from Mertsalov, from your former manager. And he scolded us: “Get out of here, you say… You bastards…”

– Yes, who is it? Who was talking to you?.. Speak plainly, Grisha!

- The porter was talking ... Who else? I told him: "Take, uncle, a letter, pass it on, and I'll wait for an answer here." 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,: “There is, they say, nothing ... Mashutka is sick ... Dying ...” I say: “When dad finds a place, he will thank you, Savely Petrovich, by God, he will thank you.” Well, at this time, the bell will ring, how it will ring, and he tells us: “Get the hell out of here as soon as possible! So that your spirit is not here! .. ”And he even hit Volodya on the back of the head.

“And he’s on the back of my head,” said Volodya, who followed his brother’s story with attention, and scratched the back of his head.

The older boy suddenly began rummaging preoccupiedly in the deep pockets of his dressing gown. Finally pulling out a crumpled envelope, he laid it on the table and said:

Here it is, the letter...

The mother didn't ask any more questions. Long time in the stuffy, dank room, only the frantic cry of a baby and the short, rapid breathing of Mashutka, more like uninterrupted monotonous groans, were heard. Suddenly the mother said, turning back:

- There is borscht there, left over from dinner ... Maybe we could eat? Only cold - there is nothing to warm up ...

At this time, someone's hesitant steps and the rustling of a hand searching for a door in the darkness were heard in the corridor. The mother and both boys, all three of them even pale with intense 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 cold, his eyes sunken in, his cheeks stuck around his gums like a dead man's. He did not say a single word to his wife, she did not 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 ruthlessly rained down on Mertsalov and his family. First, he himself contracted typhoid fever, and all their meager savings went to his treatment. Then, when he recovered, he learned that his place, the modest position of a house manager for twenty-five rubles a month, was already occupied by another ... any household rags. And then the kids got sick. Three months ago, one girl died, now another is lying in a fever and unconscious. Elizaveta Ivanovna had to simultaneously take care of 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 at least a few kopecks from somewhere for Mashutka's medicine through superhuman efforts. To this end, Mertsalov ran around almost half the city, begging and humiliating himself everywhere; Elizaveta Ivanovna went to her mistress, the children were sent with a letter to that gentleman, whose house Mertsalov used to manage ... But everyone dissuaded either by festive chores, or lack of money ... Others, such as, for example, the doorman former patron, simply drove the petitioners from the porch.

For ten minutes no one could utter a word. Suddenly Mertsalov quickly got up from the chest on which he had been sitting up until now, and with a decisive movement pushed his tattered hat deeper onto his forehead.

- Where are you going? Elizaveta Ivanovna asked anxiously.

Mertsalov, who had already taken hold of the doorknob, turned around.

"It doesn't matter, sitting won't help," he answered hoarsely. - I'll go again ... At least I'll try to ask for alms.

Out on the street, he walked aimlessly forward. He didn't look for anything, didn't hope for anything. He has long gone through 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 seized by an irresistible desire to run anywhere, to run without looking back, so as not to see the silent despair of a hungry family.

Beg for mercy? He has already tried this remedy twice today. But for the first time, some gentleman in a raccoon coat read him an instruction that he had to work, and not beg, and the second time, they promised to send him to the police.

The following story is not the fruit of idle fiction. Everything I have described really happened in Kyiv about thirty years ago and is still sacred, down to the smallest detail, preserved in the traditions of the family that will be discussed. I, for my part, only changed the names of some of the characters in this touching story and gave the oral story a written form.

- Grish, and Grish! Look, a piglet ... Laughing ... Yes. And he has something in his mouth! .. Look, look ... weed in his mouth, by God, weed! .. That's something!

And the two little boys, standing in front of the huge, solid glass window of the grocery store, began to laugh uncontrollably, pushing each other in the side with their elbows, but involuntarily dancing from the cruel cold. For more than five minutes they had stood 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 strong red apples and oranges; regular pyramids of tangerines stood, tenderly gilded through the tissue paper wrapping them; stretched out on platters with ugly gaping mouths and bulging eyes, huge smoked and pickled fish; below, surrounded by garlands of sausages, there were juicy cut hams with a thick layer of pinkish fat ... Countless jars and boxes with salted, boiled and smoked snacks completed this spectacular picture, looking at which both boys for a minute forgot about the twelve-degree frost and about the important task entrusted on them as a mother, - an assignment that ended so unexpectedly and so deplorably.

The eldest boy was the first to break away from contemplation of the charming spectacle. He pulled 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 not eaten anything since morning, except for empty cabbage soup) and throwing a last loving-greedy glance at the gastronomic exhibition, the boys hurriedly ran down the street. Sometimes, through the misted windows of some house, they saw a Christmas tree, which from afar seemed like a huge bunch of bright, shining spots, sometimes they even heard the sounds of a cheerful polka ... But they courageously drove away from themselves the tempting thought: to stop for a few seconds and stick an eye to the glass.

As the boys walked, the streets became less crowded and darker. Beautiful shops, shining Christmas trees, trotters rushing under their blue and red nets, the squeal of runners, the festive animation of the crowd, the cheerful hum of shouts and conversations, the laughing faces of smart ladies flushed with frost - everything was left behind. Wastelands stretched out, crooked, narrow lanes, gloomy, unlit slopes ... At last they reached a rickety dilapidated house that stood apart; its bottom - the basement itself - was stone, and the top was wooden. Walking around the cramped, icy and dirty yard, which served as a natural garbage pit for all the residents, they went down to the basement, went through the common corridor in the darkness, found their door by feel and opened it.

For more than a year the Mertsalovs lived in this dungeon. Both boys had long since become accustomed to these smoky, damp-weeping walls, and to wet rags 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 all that they saw on the street, after this festive jubilation 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; her face burned, her breathing was short and difficult, her wide-open shining eyes stared intently and aimlessly. Next to the bed, in a cradle suspended from the ceiling, a baby was crying, grimacing, straining and choking. A tall, thin woman, with a haggard, tired face, as if blackened with grief, was kneeling beside 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 the white puffs of frosty air rushed into the basement after them, the woman turned her anxious face back.

- Well? What? she asked abruptly and impatiently.

The boys were silent. Only Grisha noisily wiped his nose with the sleeve of his overcoat, remade from an old wadded dressing gown.

- Did you take the letter? .. Grisha, I ask you, did you give the letter back?

- So what? What did you say to him?

Yes, just like you taught. Here, I say, is a letter from Mertsalov, from your former manager. And he scolded us: “Get out of here, you say… You bastards…”

– Yes, who is it? Who was talking to you?.. Speak plainly, Grisha!

- The porter was talking ... Who else? I told him: "Take, uncle, a letter, pass it on, and I'll wait for an answer here." 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,: “There is, they say, nothing ... Mashutka is sick ... Dying ...” I say: “When dad finds a place, he will thank you, Savely Petrovich, by God, he will thank you.” Well, at this time, the bell will ring, how it will ring, and he tells us: “Get the hell out of here as soon as possible! So that your spirit is not here! .. ”And he even hit Volodya on the back of the head.

“And he’s on the back of my head,” said Volodya, who followed his brother’s story with attention, and scratched the back of his head.

The older boy suddenly began rummaging preoccupiedly in the deep pockets of his dressing gown. Finally pulling out a crumpled envelope, he laid 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 the short, frequent breathing of Mashutka, more like uninterrupted monotonous groans, were heard. Suddenly the mother said, turning back:

- There is borscht there, left over from dinner ... Maybe we could eat? Only cold - there is nothing to warm up ...

At this time, someone's hesitant steps and the rustling of a hand searching for a door in the darkness were heard in the corridor. The mother and both boys, all three of them even pale with intense 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 cold, his eyes sunken in, his cheeks stuck around his gums like a dead man's. He did not say a single word to his wife, she did not ask him a single question. They understood each other by the despair they read in each other's eyes.

In this terrible, fatal year, misfortune after misfortune persistently and ruthlessly rained down on Mertsalov and his family. First, he himself contracted typhoid fever, and all their meager savings went to his treatment. Then, when he recovered, he learned that his place, the modest position of a house manager for twenty-five rubles a month, was already occupied by another ... any household rags. And then the kids got sick. Three months ago, one girl died, now another is lying in a fever and unconscious. Elizaveta Ivanovna had to simultaneously take care of 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 at least a few kopecks from somewhere for Mashutka's medicine through superhuman efforts. To this end, Mertsalov ran around almost half the city, begging and humiliating himself everywhere; Elizaveta Ivanovna went to her mistress, the children were sent with a letter to that gentleman, whose house Mertsalov used to manage ... But everyone tried to dissuade him either with festive chores, or lack of money ... Others, like, for example, the doorman of the former patron, simply drove petitioners from the porch .

For ten minutes no one could utter a word. Suddenly Mertsalov quickly got up from the chest on which he had been sitting up until now, and with a decisive movement pushed his tattered hat deeper onto his forehead.

“This story actually happened,” the author claims from the first lines of his story. Let's bring it summary. "The Miraculous Doctor" is distinguished by its capacious meaning and vivid language. The documentary basis gives the story a special intriguing flavor. The end reveals the mystery.

Summary of the story "The Wonderful Doctor" hungry children

In front of a showcase with a gastronomic abundance, two little boys stopped and, swallowing their saliva, they are animatedly discussing what they saw. They are amused by the sight of a ruddy man with a sprig of greenery in his mouth. The author gives the story of the "still life" behind glass in a highly aesthetic and appetizing way. Here are "garlands of sausages" and "pyramids of pale golden tangerines." And the hungry kids cast “love-greedy” looks at them. Kyiv, preparing for the Christmas holidays, looks too contrasting in comparison with the pitiful thin figures of beggar children.

fatal year

Grisha and Volodya went on behalf of their mother with a letter of help. Yes, only the doorman of an influential addressee drove away the little ragamuffins with abuse. And so they returned to their home - a basement with "walls weeping from dampness." The description of the Mertsalov family causes acute compassion. A seven-year-old sister is lying in a fever, next to her in a cradle, a hungry baby is torn from screaming. An emaciated woman “with a face blackened with grief” gives the boys the remnants of cold stew, which there is nothing to warm up. The father appears with his hands “swollen” from frost. We learn that in that fateful year he fell ill with typhus and lost his position as manager, which brought a modest income. One after another, misfortunes rained down: the children began to get sick, all the savings were gone, the daughter died, now another was seriously ill. No one gave alms, and there was no one to ask. Here is a description of the misfortunes, their summary.

Miraculous doctor

Despair seizes Mertsalov, he leaves home, wanders around the city, hoping for nothing. Tired, he sits down on a bench in the city garden and feels the urge to commit suicide. At that moment, a stranger appears in the alley. He sits down next to him and starts a friendly conversation. When the old man mentions the gifts bought for the children he knows, Mertsalov breaks down and begins to shout hotly and angrily that his children are "dying of hunger." The old man listens attentively to the confused story and offers to help: it turns out that he is a doctor. Mertsalov leads him to him. The doctor examines the sick girl, writes out a prescription, gives money to buy firewood, medicine and food. On the same evening, Mertsalov recognizes the name of his benefactor by the label on the bottle of medicine - this is Professor Pirogov, an outstanding Russian physician. Since then, it was like an “angel descended” on the family, and her affairs went uphill. So says Kuprin. The wonderful doctor (let's summarize this conclusion to the end) acted very humanely, and this changed not only the circumstances, but also the worldview of the heroes of the story. The boys grew up, one of them took a big post in the bank and was always especially sensitive to the needs of the poor people.

1. Professor Pirogov famous doctor. He was very kind and responsive.
2. Mertsalov family- poor people who did not have money to buy medicines for 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 work and his relatives began to live in poverty. Most youngest child who is still in the cradle wants to eat and therefore he screams loudly. His sister, who is a little older than him, has a high temperature, but his parents do not have money to buy medicines.

The mother of the family sends her two eldest sons to the manager for whom her husband used to work, 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 medicines, so the Mertsalovs had to move to the basement.

One by one, the children got sick. One of their girls died 3 months ago, and now Masha also fell ill. 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

The man just 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 has almost gathered his strength, but suddenly an unfamiliar old man in a fur coat sits down next to him. He starts a conversation with him about Christmas gifts, and from his words Mertsalov is seized by a fit of anger. His interlocutor is not offended by what he said, but only asks to tell him everything in order.

10 minutes later, Mertsalov returns home with a mysterious old man who turns out to be a doctor. With his arrival, firewood and food appear in the house. kind doctor writes a free prescription for medicine, leaves the family a few large bills and leaves. The identity of their savior, Professor Pirogov, is discovered by the Mertsalovs on a label attached to the medicine.

After meeting with Pirogov, it is as if grace descends into the Mertsalovs' house. The father of the family finds himself a new Good work and the kids are on the mend. With their benefactor, Dr. Pirogov, they meet 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 Wonderful Doctor

The following story is not the fruit of idle fiction. Everything I have described really happened in Kyiv about thirty years ago and is still sacred, down to the smallest detail, preserved in the traditions of the family that will be discussed. I, for my part, only changed the names of some of the characters in this touching story and gave the oral story a written form.

- Grish, and Grish! Look, a piglet ... Laughing ... Yes. And he has something in his mouth! .. Look, look ... weed in his mouth, by God, weed! .. That's something!

And the two little boys, standing in front of the huge, solid glass window of the grocery store, began to laugh uncontrollably, pushing each other in the side with their elbows, but involuntarily dancing from the cruel cold. For more than five minutes they had stood 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 strong red apples and oranges; regular pyramids of tangerines stood, tenderly gilded through the tissue paper wrapping them; stretched out on platters with ugly gaping mouths and bulging eyes, huge smoked and pickled fish; below, surrounded by garlands of sausages, there were juicy cut hams with a thick layer of pinkish fat ... Countless jars and boxes with salted, boiled and smoked snacks completed this spectacular picture, looking at which both boys for a minute forgot about the twelve-degree frost and about the important task entrusted on them as a mother, - an assignment that ended so unexpectedly and so deplorably.

The eldest boy was the first to break away from contemplation of the charming spectacle. He pulled 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 not eaten anything since morning, except for empty cabbage soup) and throwing a last loving-greedy glance at the gastronomic exhibition, the boys hurriedly ran down the street. Sometimes, through the misted windows of some house, they saw a Christmas tree, which from afar seemed like a huge bunch of bright, shining spots, sometimes they even heard the sounds of a cheerful polka ... But they courageously drove away from themselves the tempting thought: to stop for a few seconds and stick an eye to the glass.

But as the boys walked, the streets became less crowded and darker. Beautiful shops, shining Christmas trees, trotters rushing under their blue and red nets, the squeal of runners, the festive animation of the crowd, the cheerful hum of shouts and conversations, the laughing faces of smart ladies flushed with frost - everything was left behind. Wastelands stretched out, crooked, narrow lanes, gloomy, unlit slopes ... At last they reached a rickety dilapidated house that stood apart; its bottom - the basement itself - was stone, and the top was wooden. Walking around the cramped, icy and dirty yard, which served as a natural garbage pit for all the residents, they went down to the basement, went through the common corridor in the darkness, found their door by feel and opened it.

For more than a year the Mertsalovs lived in this dungeon. Both boys had long since become accustomed to these smoky, damp-weeping walls, and to wet rags 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 all that they saw on the street, after this festive jubilation 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; her face burned, her breathing was short and difficult, her wide-open shining eyes stared intently and aimlessly. Next to the bed, in a cradle suspended from the ceiling, a baby was crying, grimacing, straining and choking. A tall, thin woman, with a haggard, tired face, as if blackened with grief, was kneeling beside 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 puffs of frosty air rushed into the basement after 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 overcoat, remade from an old wadded dressing gown.

- Did you take the letter? .. Grisha, I ask you, did you give the letter back?

- So what? What did you say to him?

Yes, just like you taught. Here, I say, is a letter from Mertsalov, from your former manager. And he scolded us: “Get out of here,” he says, “from here ... you bastards ...”

– Yes, who is it? Who was talking to you?.. Speak plainly, Grisha!

- The porter was talking ... Who else? I told him: "Take, uncle, a letter, pass it on, and I'll wait for an answer here." 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,: “There is, they say, nothing ... Mashutka is sick ... Dying ...” I say: “When dad finds a place, he will thank you, Savely Petrovich, by God, he will thank you.” Well, at this time, the bell will ring, how it will ring, and he tells us: “Get the hell out of here as soon as possible! So that your spirit is not here! .. ”And he even hit Volodya on the back of the head.

“And he’s on the back of my head,” said Volodya, who followed his brother’s story with attention, and scratched the back of his head.