The following story is not the fruit of idle fiction. Everything that I described really happened in Kiev about thirty years ago and is still sacred, down to the smallest details, in the legends of the family that will be discussed. 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.
Grisha, and Grisha! Look, little pig ... Laughs ... Yes. And in his mouth! .. Look, look ... grass in his mouth, by God, grass! .. Here's a thing!
And two boys, standing in front of a huge, solid glass window of a grocery store, began to laugh irresistibly, pushing each other in the side with their elbows, but involuntarily dancing from the cruel cold. They had been stuck in front of this magnificent exhibition for more than five minutes, which excited their minds and stomachs alike. Here, illuminated by the bright light of hanging lamps, towered whole mountains of strong red apples and oranges; there were regular pyramids of tangerines, delicately gilded through the tissue paper enveloping them; huge smoked and pickled fish stretched out on the dishes, with ugly open mouths and bulging eyes; below, surrounded by garlands of sausages, flaunted juicy cut hams with a thick layer of pinkish bacon ... Countless jars and boxes of salted, boiled and smoked snacks completed this spectacular picture, looking at which both boys forgot for a minute about twelve degrees of frost and an important assignment , entrusted to them by their mother, - an assignment that ended so unexpectedly and so deplorably.
The older boy was the first to break away from contemplation of the charming sight. He tugged at his brother's sleeve and said sternly:
Well, Volodya, let's go, let's go ... There is nothing here ...
At the same time, suppressing a heavy sigh (the eldest of them was only ten years old, and besides, both had not eaten anything in the morning except empty cabbage soup) and throwing a last, greedy-loving glance at the gastronomic exhibition, the boys hurriedly ran down the street. Sometimes, through the foggy windows of a 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 from themselves the seductive thought: glass.
As the boys walked, the streets became less crowded and darker. Fine shops, shining Christmas trees, trotters racing under their blue and red nets, the screeching of runners, the festive revival of the crowd, the cheerful hum of shouts and conversations, the frosty laughing faces of elegant ladies - everything was left behind. Wastelands, crooked, narrow alleys, gloomy, unlit hills stretched out ... Finally they reached a ramshackle dilapidated house that stood apart; the bottom of it - the basement itself - was stone, and the top was wooden. Walking around the narrow, icy and dirty courtyard, which served as a natural cesspool for all the residents, they went down to the basement, walked in a common corridor in the darkness, groped for their door and opened it.
For over a year the Mertsalovs have lived in this dungeon. Both boys had long since become accustomed to these smoky walls weeping from dampness, and to the wet pieces 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 glee that they felt everywhere, their little children's hearts sank with acute, childish suffering. In the corner, on a wide dirty bed, lay a girl of about seven; her face was burning, her breathing was short and difficult, her wide, shining eyes looked intently and aimlessly. Next to the bed, in a cradle suspended from the ceiling, a baby was screaming, grimacing, straining and choking. A tall, thin woman, with an emaciated, tired face, as if blackened with grief, knelt beside the sick girl, straightening her pillow and at the same time not forgetting to nudge the swinging cradle with her elbow. When the boys entered and followed them swiftly into the basement, white clouds of frosty air, 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, which had been 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, he says, from here ... You bastards ..."
Who is this? Who spoke to you? .. Speak plainly, Grisha!
The doorman was talking ... Who else? I told him: "Take, uncle, the letter, pass it on, and I'll wait for the answer here below." 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, said: "There is, they say, there is nothing ... Mashutka is sick ... She is dying ..." I say: "As dad finds a place, he will thank you, Savely Petrovich, by God, he will thank you." ... Well, at this time the bell rings as soon as it rings, and he says to us: "Get out of here to the devil! 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 anxiously rummaging in the deep pockets of his robe. Finally pulling out the crumpled envelope from there, he put it on the table and said:
Here it is, a letter ...
Mother did not ask any more. For a long time in the stuffy, dank room, only the frantic cry of a baby and the short, rapid breathing of Mashutka were heard, more like continuous monotonous groans. Suddenly the mother said, looking back:
There is borscht there, left from dinner ... Maybe you should eat? Only cold - there is nothing to warm it up with ...
At this time in the corridor someone heard unsteady steps and the rustling of a hand, looking for a door in the darkness. The mother and both boys - all three of them even pale with intense anticipation - turned in this direction.
Mertsalov entered. He wore a summer coat, a summer felt hat and no galoshes. His hands were swollen and blue with frost, his eyes sagged, his cheeks were sticking 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 mercilessly fell on Mertsalov and his family. At first he himself contracted typhoid fever, and all their meager savings were spent on his treatment. Then, when he recovered, he found out that his place, the modest place of a house manager for twenty-five rubles a month, was already occupied by another ... A desperate, convulsive pursuit of odd jobs, correspondence, an insignificant place, pledge and re-pledging of things began. , the sale of all household rags. And then the children went to get sick. Three months ago, one girl died, now the other lies in the heat and unconscious. Elizaveta Ivanovna had to take care of the sick girl at the same time, breastfeed the little one and go almost to the other end of the city to the house where she washed her clothes every day.
All today I have been busy trying to squeeze out at least a few kopecks from somewhere for Mashutka's medicine through inhuman 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 master whose house was ruled by Mertsalov ... But everyone tried to dissuade themselves either by festive chores or by the lack of money ... Others, for example, the doorman of the 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 trunk on which he had been sitting until now, and with a decisive movement pushed his frayed hat deeper onto his forehead.
Where are you going? Elizaveta Ivanovna asked anxiously.
Mertsalov, already grasping the door handle, turned around.
Still, sitting won't help, ”he replied hoarsely. - I'll go again ... At least I'll try to beg for alms.
Going out into the street, he walked aimlessly forward. He did not seek anything, did not 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 receive an inheritance from an unknown second cousin's uncle. Now he was possessed by an uncontrollable desire to run anywhere, to run without looking back, so as not to see the silent despair of a hungry family.
Begging for alms? He has already tried this remedy twice today. But the first time some gentleman in a raccoon coat read him an admonition that he must work, not beg, and the second time he was promised to be sent to the police.
Unbeknownst to himself, Mertsalov found himself in the center of the city, near the fence of a dense public garden. Since he had to go up the hill all the time, he was out of breath and felt tired. Mechanically he turned into the gate and, passing a long avenue of lindens covered with snow, sank down on a low garden bench.
It was quiet and solemn here. The trees, wrapped in their white robes, dozed in motionless grandeur. Sometimes a piece of snow fell from the upper 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 tortured soul an intolerable thirst for the same calmness, the same silence.
“I ought to lie down and fall asleep,” he thought, “and forget about his wife, about hungry children, about the sick Mashutka.” Sliding his hand under the waistcoat, Mertsalov felt a rather thick rope that served as his belt. The thought of suicide was quite clear in his head. But he was not horrified by this thought, not for a moment shuddered before the darkness of the unknown.
"Rather than perishing slowly, isn't it better to take a shorter path?" He was about to get up in order to fulfill his terrible intention, but at that time at the end of the alley there was heard the creak of footsteps, distinctly heard in the frosty air. Mertsalov turned in this direction angrily. Someone was walking along the alley. At first the light of a cigar flashing and extinguished was seen. Then Mertsalov, little by little, could make out an old man of small stature, in a warm hat, fur coat and high galoshes. Having reached the bench, the stranger suddenly turned sharply towards Mertsalov and, slightly touching his cap, asked:
Will you let me 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 was smoking a cigar and (Mertsalov felt it) sideways watched his neighbor.
What a glorious night, ”the stranger suddenly spoke up. - Frosty ... quiet. What a beauty - Russian winter!
But I bought some presents for the kids I know, - the stranger continued (he had several parcels in his hands). - Yes, on the way I could not resist, I made a circle to go through the garden: it is very good here.
Mertsalov was generally a meek and shy man, but at the last words of the stranger he was suddenly seized by a surge of desperate anger. With a sharp movement he turned towards the old man and shouted, absurdly waving his arms and gasping for breath:
Presents! .. Presents! .. Presents for familiar children! .. And I ... and I, my dear sir, at the present moment my children are dying of hunger at home ... Presents! .. And my wife's milk has disappeared, and breast milk the child did not eat all day ... Presents! ..
Mertsalov expected the old man to rise and leave after these disordered, angry screams, but he was mistaken. The old man brought his intelligent, serious face with gray tanks closer to him and said in a friendly but serious tone:
Wait ... don't worry! Tell me everything in order and as short as possible. Maybe together we can come up with something for you.
There was something so calm and trustworthy in the stranger's extraordinary face that Mertsalov immediately, without the slightest concealment, but terribly agitated and in a hurry, conveyed his story. He talked about his illness, about the loss of his place, about the death of a child, about all his misfortunes, up to the present day. The stranger listened, not interrupting him with a word, and only looked more and more inquiringly into his eyes, as if wishing to penetrate into the very depths of this sore, indignant soul. Suddenly, with a quick, very youthful movement, he jumped up from his seat and grabbed Mertsalov by the arm. Mertsalov also got up involuntarily.
Let's go! - said the stranger, pulling Mertsalov by the hand. - Let's go quickly! .. Your happiness that you met with the doctor. Of course, I can't vouch for anything, but ... let's go!
In about ten minutes Shimmer and the doctor were already entering the basement. Elizaveta Ivanovna lay on the bed next to her sick daughter, her face buried in the dirty, oily pillows. The boys were eating 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 profusely into the smoked iron pot. Entering the room, the doctor took off his coat and, remaining in an old-fashioned, rather shabby coat, went up to Elizaveta Ivanovna. She didn’t even look up at his approach.
Well, full, full, my dear, - the doctor spoke up, affectionately stroking the woman on the back. - Get up! Show me your patient.
And just like recently in the garden, something affectionate and convincing that sounded in his voice made Elizaveta Ivanovna instantly get out of bed and unquestioningly fulfill everything the doctor said. Two minutes later Grishka was already lighting the stove with wood, which the wonderful doctor sent to the neighbors for, Volodya was fanning the samovar with all his might, Elizaveta Ivanovna was wrapping Mashutka with a warming compress ... A little later, Mertsalov also appeared. For three rubles, received from the doctor, he managed to buy tea, sugar, rolls during this time and get hot food from the nearest tavern. The doctor was sitting at the table and was writing something on a piece of paper, which he tore out of his notebook. After finishing this lesson and depicting some kind of hook below instead of a signature, he got up, covered what he had written with a tea saucer and said:
With this piece of paper you will go to the pharmacy ... let's take a teaspoon in two hours. This will cause the baby to cough up ... Continue the warming compress ... In addition, even if your daughter has done better, in any case invite Dr. Afrosimov tomorrow. He is a good doctor and a good person. I'll warn him right now. Then goodbye gentlemen! God grant that the coming year will treat you a little more indulgently than this one, and most importantly - never lose heart.
After shaking hands with Mertsalov and Elizaveta Ivanovna, who still had not recovered from amazement, and patting Volodya's open mouth in passing on the cheek, the doctor quickly thrust his legs 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 my children pray for you at least!
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 old voice said:
Eh! Here are some other trifles invented! .. Come back home soon!
When he returned, a surprise awaited him: under the tea saucer, along with the miraculous doctor's recipe, were several large bank notes ...
On the same evening, Mertsalov also learned the name of his unexpected benefactor. On the pharmacy label, attached to the bottle with the medicine, in the clear hand of the pharmacist was written: "According to the prescription of Professor Pirogov."
I heard this story, and more than once, from the lips of Grigory Yemelyanovich Mertsalov himself - the very Grishka who, on the Christmas Eve I described, shed tears into a smoky pot with empty borscht. Now he occupies a fairly large, responsible post in one of the banks, reputed to be a model of honesty and responsiveness to the needs of poverty. And each time, finishing his story about the miraculous doctor, he adds in a voice trembling from hidden tears:
From then on, like a beneficent angel descended into our family. Everything has changed. At the beginning of January, my father found a place, Mashutka got to her feet, my brother and I managed to get attached to the gymnasium at the state expense. This holy man performed a miracle. And we have seen our wonderful doctor only once since then - this is when he was transported dead to his own estate Cherry. And even then they did not see him, because that great, powerful and holy that lived and burned in the wonderful doctor during his lifetime, extinguished irrevocably.
Wonderful Doctor
The following story is not the fruit of idle fiction. Everything that I described really happened in Kiev about thirty years ago and is still sacred, down to the smallest details, in the legends of the family that will be discussed. 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.
Grisha, and Grisha! Look, piggy ... Laughs ... Yes. And in his mouth! .. Look, look ... grass in your mouth, by God, grass! .. Here's 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 stuck in front of this magnificent exhibition for more than five minutes, which excited their minds and stomachs alike. Here, illuminated by the bright light of hanging lamps, towered whole mountains of strong red apples and oranges; there were regular pyramids of tangerines, delicately gilded through the tissue paper enveloping them; huge smoked and pickled fish stretched out on the dishes, with ugly open mouths and bulging eyes; below, surrounded by garlands of sausages, flaunted juicy cut hams with a thick layer of pinkish bacon ... Countless jars and boxes of salted, boiled and smoked snacks completed this spectacular picture, looking at which both boys forgot for a minute about the twelve degrees of frost and the important task assigned on them as a mother, - an assignment that ended so unexpectedly and so deplorably.
The older boy was the first to break away from contemplation of the charming sight. He tugged at his brother's sleeve and said sternly:
Well, Volodya, let's go, let's go ... There is nothing here ...
At the same time, suppressing a heavy sigh (the eldest of them was only ten years old, and besides, both had not eaten anything in the morning except empty cabbage soup) and having thrown their last greedy-loving glance at the gastronomic exhibition, the boys hurriedly ran down the street. Sometimes, through the foggy windows of a 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 from themselves the seductive thought: to stop for a few seconds and cling to the glass with an eye.
As the boys walked, the streets became less crowded and darker. Fine shops, shining Christmas trees, trotters racing under their blue and red nets, the screeching of runners, the festive revival of the crowd, the cheerful hum of shouts and conversations, the frosty laughing faces of elegant ladies - everything was left behind. Wastelands, crooked, narrow alleys, gloomy, unlit hills stretched out ... Finally they reached a ramshackle dilapidated house that stood alone; the bottom of it - the basement itself - was stone, and the top was wooden. Walking around the narrow, icy and dirty courtyard, which served as a natural cesspool for all the residents, they went down to the basement, walked in a common corridor in the darkness, groped for their door and opened it.
For over a year the Mertsalovs have lived in this dungeon. Both boys had long since become accustomed to these smoky walls weeping from dampness, and to the wet pieces 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 glee that they felt everywhere, their little children's hearts sank with acute, childish suffering. In the corner, on a wide dirty bed, lay a girl of about seven; her face was burning, her breathing was short and difficult, her wide, shining eyes looked intently and aimlessly. Next to the bed, in a cradle suspended from the ceiling, a baby was screaming, grimacing, straining and choking. A tall, thin woman, with an emaciated, tired face, as if blackened with grief, knelt beside the sick girl, straightening her pillow and at the same time not forgetting to nudge the swinging cradle with her elbow. When the boys entered and followed them swiftly into the basement, white clouds of frosty air, 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, which had been 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, he says, from here ... You bastards ..."
Who is this? Who spoke to you? .. Speak plainly, Grisha!
The doorman was talking ... Who else? I tell him: "Take, uncle, the letter, pass it on, and I'll wait for the answer here below." 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, said: "There is, they say, there is nothing ... Masutka is sick ... She is dying ..." I say: "As dad finds a place, he will thank you, Savely Petrovich, by God, he will thank you." Well, at this time the bell rings as soon as it rings, and he says to us: “Get the hell out of here sooner! So that your spirit is not here! .. ”And Volodka even hit 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 anxiously rummaging in the deep pockets of his robe. Finally pulling out the crumpled envelope from there, he put it on the table and said:
Here it is, a letter ...
Mother did not ask any more. For a long time in the stuffy, dank room, only the frantic cry of a baby and the short, rapid breathing of Mashutka were heard, more like continuous monotonous groans. Suddenly the mother said, looking back:
There is borscht there, left from dinner ... Maybe you should eat? Only cold - there is nothing to warm it up with ...
At this time in the corridor someone heard unsteady steps and the rustling of a hand, looking for a door in the darkness. The mother and both boys - all three of them even pale with intense anticipation - turned in this direction.
Mertsalov entered. He wore a summer coat, a summer felt hat and no galoshes. His hands were swollen and blue with frost, his eyes sagged, his cheeks were sticking 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 mercilessly fell on Mertsalov and his family. At first he himself contracted typhoid fever, and all their meager savings were spent on his treatment. Then, when he recovered, he found out that his place, the modest place of a house manager for twenty-five rubles a month, was already occupied by another ... A desperate, convulsive pursuit of odd jobs, correspondence, an insignificant place, pledge and re-pledging of things began, sale any household rags. And then the children went to get sick. Three months ago, one girl died, now the other lies in the heat and unconscious. Elizaveta Ivanovna had to take care of the sick girl at the same time, breastfeed the little one and go almost to the other end of the city to the house where she washed her clothes every day.
All today I have been busy trying to squeeze out at least a few kopecks from somewhere for Mashutka's medicine through inhuman 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 was ruled by Mertsalov ... But everyone tried to dissuade themselves either with festive chores or lack of money ... Others, such as the former patron doorman, simply drove the petitioners from the porch ...
For ten minutes no one could utter a word. Suddenly Mertsalov quickly got up from the trunk on which he had been sitting until now, and with a decisive movement pushed his frayed hat deeper onto his forehead.
Where are you going? Elizaveta Ivanovna asked anxiously.
Mertsalov, already grasping the door handle, turned around.
Still, sitting won't help, ”he replied hoarsely. - I'll go again ... At least I'll try to beg for alms.
Going out into the street, he walked aimlessly forward. He did not seek anything, did not 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 receive an inheritance from an unknown second cousin's uncle. Now he was possessed by an uncontrollable desire to run anywhere, to run without looking back, so as not to see the silent despair of a hungry family.
Begging for alms? He has already tried this remedy twice today. But the first time some gentleman in a raccoon coat read him an admonition that he must work, not beg, and the second time he was promised to be sent to the police.
Unbeknownst to himself, Mertsalov found himself in the center of the city, near the fence of a dense public garden. Since he had to go up the hill all the time, he was out of breath and felt tired. Mechanically he turned into the gate and, passing a long avenue of lindens covered with snow, sank down on a low garden bench.
It was quiet and solemn here. The trees, wrapped in their white robes, dozed in motionless grandeur. Sometimes a piece of snow fell from the upper 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 tortured soul an intolerable thirst for the same calmness, the same silence.
“I ought to lie down and fall asleep,” he thought, “and forget about my wife, about hungry children, about the sick Mashutka.” Putting his hand under the waistcoat, Mertsalov felt a rather thick rope that served as his belt. The thought of suicide was quite clear in his head. But he was not horrified by this thought, not for a moment shuddered before the darkness of the unknown.
"Rather than perishing slowly, isn't it better to take a shorter path?" He was about to get up in order to fulfill his terrible intention, but at that time at the end of the alley there was heard the creak of footsteps, distinctly heard in the frosty air. Mertsalov turned in this direction angrily. Someone was walking along the alley. At first, the light was seen flashing, then extinguishing cigar. Then Mertsalov, little by little, could make out an old man of small stature, in a warm hat, fur coat and high galoshes. Having reached the bench, the stranger suddenly turned sharply towards Mertsalov and, slightly touching his cap, asked:
Will you let me 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 was smoking a cigar and (Mertsalov felt it) sideways watched his neighbor.
What a glorious night, ”the stranger suddenly spoke up. - It's frosty ... quiet. What a beauty - Russian winter!
But I bought some presents for the kids I know, - the stranger continued (he had several parcels in his hands). - Yes, on the way I could not resist, I made a circle to go through the garden: it is very good here.
Mertsalov was generally a meek and shy man, but at the last words of the stranger he was suddenly seized by a surge of desperate anger. With a sharp movement he turned towards the old man and shouted, absurdly waving his arms and gasping for breath:
Presents! .. Presents! .. Presents for familiar children! .. And I ... and I, my dear sir, at the present moment my children are dying of hunger at home ... Presents! .. But my wife's milk has disappeared, and the baby has not been ate ... Presents! ..
Mertsalov expected the old man to rise and leave after these disordered, angry screams, but he was mistaken. The old man brought his intelligent, serious face with gray tanks closer to him and said in a friendly but serious tone:
Wait ... don't worry! Tell me everything in order and as short as possible. Maybe together we can come up with something for you.
There was something so calm and trustworthy in the stranger's extraordinary face that Mertsalov immediately, without the slightest concealment, but terribly agitated and in a hurry, conveyed his story. He talked about his illness, about the loss of his place, about the death of a child, about all his misfortunes, up to the present day. The stranger listened, not interrupting him with a word, and only looked more and more inquiringly into his eyes, as if wishing to penetrate into the very depths of this sore, indignant soul. Suddenly, with a quick, very youthful movement, he jumped up from his seat and grabbed Mertsalov by the arm. Mertsalov also got up involuntarily.
Let's go! - said the stranger, pulling Mertsalov by the hand. - Let's go quickly! .. Your happiness that you met with the doctor. Of course, I can't vouch for anything, but ... let's go!
In about ten minutes Shimmer and the doctor were already entering the basement. Elizaveta Ivanovna lay on the bed next to her sick daughter, her face buried in the dirty, oily pillows. The boys were eating 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 profusely into the smoked iron pot. Entering the room, the doctor took off his coat and, remaining in an old-fashioned, rather shabby coat, went up to Elizaveta Ivanovna. She didn’t even look up at his approach.
Well, full, full, my dear, - the doctor spoke up, affectionately stroking the woman on the back. - Get up! Show me your patient.
And just like recently in the garden, something affectionate and convincing that sounded in his voice made Elizaveta Ivanovna instantly get out of bed and unquestioningly fulfill everything the doctor said. Two minutes later Grishka was already lighting the stove with wood, for which the wonderful doctor sent to the neighbors, Volodya was fanning the samovar with all his might, Elizaveta Ivanovna was wrapping Mashutka with a warming compress ... A little later Mertsalov also appeared. For three rubles, received from the doctor, he managed to buy tea, sugar, rolls during this time and get hot food from the nearest tavern. The doctor was sitting at the table and was writing something on a piece of paper, which he tore out of his notebook. After finishing this lesson and depicting some kind of hook below instead of a signature, he got up, covered what he had written with a tea saucer and said:
With this piece of paper you will go to the pharmacy ... let's take a teaspoon in two hours. This will cause the baby to cough up ... Continue the warming compress ... In addition, even if your daughter has done better, in any case invite Dr. Afrosimov tomorrow. He is a good doctor and a good person. I'll warn him right now. Then goodbye gentlemen! God grant that the coming year will treat you a little more indulgently than this one, and most importantly - never lose heart.
After shaking hands with Mertsalov and Elizaveta Ivanovna, who still had not recovered from amazement, and patting Volodya's open mouth in passing on the cheek, the doctor quickly thrust his legs 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 my children pray for you at least!
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 old voice said:
Eh! Here are some other trifles invented! .. Come back home soon!
When he returned, a surprise awaited him: under the tea saucer, along with the miraculous doctor's recipe, there were several large bank notes ...
On the same evening, Mertsalov also learned the name of his unexpected benefactor. On the pharmacy label, attached to the bottle with the medicine, in the clear hand of the pharmacist was written: "According to the prescription of Professor Pirogov."
I heard this story, and more than once, from the lips of Grigory Yemelyanovich Mertsalov himself - the very Grishka who, on the Christmas Eve I described, shed tears into a smoky pot with empty borscht. Now he occupies a fairly large, responsible post in one of the banks, reputed to be a model of honesty and responsiveness to the needs of poverty. And each time, finishing his story about the miraculous doctor, he adds in a voice trembling from hidden tears:
From then on, like a beneficent angel descended into our family. Everything has changed. At the beginning of January, my father found a place, Mashutka got to her feet, my brother and I managed to get attached to the gymnasium at the state expense. This holy man performed a miracle. And we have seen our wonderful doctor only once since then - this is when he was transported dead to his own estate Cherry. And even then they did not see him, because that great, powerful and holy that lived and burned in the wonderful doctor during his lifetime, extinguished irrevocably.
The following story is not the fruit of idle fiction. Everything that I described really happened in Kiev about thirty years ago and is still sacred, down to the smallest details, in the legends of the family that will be discussed. 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.
- Grisha, and Grisha! Look, little pig ... Laughs ... Yes. And in his mouth! .. Look, look ... grass in your mouth, by God, grass! .. Here's 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 stuck in front of this magnificent exhibition for more than five minutes, which excited their minds and stomachs alike. Here, illuminated by the bright light of hanging lamps, towered whole mountains of strong red apples and oranges; there were regular pyramids of tangerines, delicately gilded through the tissue paper enveloping them; huge smoked and pickled fish stretched out on the dishes, with ugly open mouths and bulging eyes; below, surrounded by garlands of sausages, flaunted juicy cut hams with a thick layer of pinkish bacon ... Countless jars and boxes of salted, boiled and smoked snacks completed this spectacular picture, looking at which both boys forgot for a minute about the twelve degrees of frost and the important task assigned on them as a mother, - an assignment that ended so unexpectedly and so deplorably.
The older boy was the first to break away from contemplation of the charming sight. He tugged at his brother's sleeve and said sternly:
- Well, Volodya, let's go, let's go ... There is nothing here ...
At the same time, suppressing a heavy sigh (the eldest of them was only ten years old, and besides, both had not eaten anything in the morning except empty cabbage soup) and throwing a last, greedy-loving look at the gastronomic exhibition, the boys hurriedly ran down the street. Sometimes, through the foggy windows of a 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 from themselves the seductive thought: to stop for a few seconds and cling to the glass.
As the boys walked, the streets became less crowded and darker. Fine shops, shining Christmas trees, trotters racing under their blue and red nets, the screeching of runners, the festive revival of the crowd, the cheerful hum of shouts and conversations, the frosty laughing faces of elegant ladies - everything was left behind. Wastelands stretched, crooked, narrow alleys, gloomy, unlit hills ...
Finally they reached a ramshackle, dilapidated house that stood alone; its bottom - the basement itself - was stone, and the top was wooden. Walking around the narrow, icy and dirty courtyard, which served as a natural cesspool for all the residents, they went down to the basement, walked in a common corridor in the darkness, groped for their door and opened it.
The Mertsalovs have lived in this dungeon for over a year. Both boys had long since become accustomed to these smoky walls weeping from dampness, and to the wet pieces 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 glee that they felt everywhere, their little children's hearts contracted with acute, childish suffering. In the corner, on a wide dirty bed, lay a girl of about seven; her face was burning, her breathing was short and difficult, her wide-open, shining eyes looked intently and aimlessly. Next to the bed, in a cradle suspended from the ceiling, a baby was screaming, grimacing, straining and choking. A tall, thin woman, with an emaciated, tired face, as if blackened with grief, was kneeling beside the sick girl, adjusting her pillow and at the same time not forgetting to nudge the swinging cradle with her elbow. When the boys entered and after them white clouds of frosty air rushed into the basement, 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, which had been made from an old cotton robe.
- Did you take the letter? .. Grisha, I'm asking you, did you give the letter?
“I gave it away,” Grisha answered in a voice hoarse from the frost.
- So what? What did you say to him?
- Yes, everything as you taught. Here, I say, is a letter from Mertsalov, from your former manager. And he scolded us: "Get out, he says, from here ... You bastards ..."
- Who is it? Who spoke to you? .. Speak plainly, Grisha!
- The doorman was talking ... Who else? I tell him: "Take, uncle, the letter, pass it on, and I'll wait for the answer here below." 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, said: "There is, they say, there is nothing ... Masutka is sick ... She is dying ..." I say: "As dad finds a place, he will thank you, Savely Petrovich, by God, he will thank you." Well, at this time the bell rings as soon as it rings, and he says to us: “Get the hell out of here sooner! So that your spirit is not here! .. ”And Volodka even hit the back of the head.
“And he hit the back of my head,” said Volodya, who was following his brother’s story with attention, and scratched the back of his head.
The older boy suddenly began anxiously rummaging in the deep pockets of his robe. Finally pulling out the crumpled envelope from there, he put it on the table and said:
- Here it is, a letter ...
Mother did not ask any more. For a long time in the stuffy, dank room, only the frantic cry of a baby and the short, rapid breathing of Mashutka were heard, more like continuous monotonous groans. Suddenly the mother said, looking back:
- There is borscht, left from dinner ... Maybe you should eat? Only cold - there is nothing to warm it up with ...
At this time in the corridor someone heard unsteady steps and the rustling of a hand, looking for a door in the darkness. The mother and both boys - all three even pale with intense anticipation - turned in this direction.
Mertsalov entered. He wore a summer coat, a summer felt hat and no galoshes. His hands were swollen and blue with frost, his eyes sagged, his cheeks were sticking 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 mercilessly fell on Mertsalov and his family. At first he himself contracted typhoid fever, and all their meager savings were spent on his treatment. Then, when he recovered, he found out that his place, the modest place of a house manager for twenty-five rubles a month, was already occupied by another ... A desperate, convulsive pursuit of odd jobs, correspondence, an insignificant place, pledge and re-pledging of things began, sale any household rags. And then the children went to get sick. Three months ago, one girl died, now the other lies in the heat and unconscious. Elizaveta Ivanovna had to take care of the sick girl at the same time, breastfeed the little one and go almost to the other end of the city to the house where she washed her clothes every day.
All today I have been busy trying to squeeze out at least a few kopecks from somewhere for Mashutka's medicine through inhuman 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 was ruled by Mertsalov ... But everyone tried to dissuade themselves either with festive chores or lack of money ... Others, such as the former patron doorman, simply drove the petitioners from the porch ...
For ten minutes no one could utter a word. Suddenly Mertsalov quickly got up from the trunk on which he had been sitting until now, and with a decisive movement pushed his frayed hat deeper onto his forehead.
- Where are you going? Elizaveta Ivanovna asked anxiously.
Mertsalov, already grasping the door handle, turned around.
“All the same, sitting won't help anything,” he answered hoarsely. “I'll go again ... At least I'll try to beg for alms.
Going out into the street, he walked aimlessly forward. He did not seek anything, did not 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 receive an inheritance from an unknown second cousin's uncle. Now he was possessed by an uncontrollable desire to run anywhere, to run without looking back, so as not to see the silent despair of a hungry family.
Begging for alms? He has already tried this remedy twice today. But the first time some gentleman in a raccoon coat read him an admonition that he must work, not beg, and the second time he was promised to be sent to the police.
Unbeknownst to himself, Mertsalov found himself in the center of the city, near the fence of a dense public garden. Since he had to go up the hill all the time, he was out of breath and felt tired. Mechanically he turned into the gate and, passing a long avenue of lindens covered with snow, sank down on a low garden bench.
It was quiet and solemn here. The trees, wrapped in their white robes, dozed in motionless grandeur. Sometimes a piece of snow fell from the upper 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 tortured soul an intolerable thirst for the same calmness, the same silence.
“I ought to lie down and fall asleep,” he thought, “and forget about my wife, about hungry children, about the sick Mashutka.” Sliding his hand under the waistcoat, Mertsalov felt a rather thick rope that served as his belt. The thought of suicide was quite clear in his head. But he was not horrified by this thought, not for a moment shuddered before the darkness of the unknown.
"Rather than perishing slowly, isn't it better to take a shorter path?" He was about to get up in order to fulfill his terrible intention, but at that time at the end of the alley there was heard the creak of footsteps, distinctly heard in the frosty air. Mertsalov turned in this direction angrily. Someone was walking along the alley. At first, the light was seen flashing, then extinguished cigar. Then Mertsalov, little by little, could make out an old man of small stature, in a warm hat, fur coat and high galoshes. Having reached the bench, the stranger suddenly turned sharply towards Mertsalov and, slightly touching his cap, asked:
- Will you let me 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 was smoking a cigar and (Mertsalov felt it) sideways watched his neighbor.
“What a glorious night,” the stranger suddenly spoke up. “It's frosty… quiet. What a beauty - Russian winter!
His voice was soft, gentle, senile. Mertsalov was silent, without turning around.
“But I bought some presents for the kids I know,” the stranger continued (he had several parcels in his hands).
Mertsalov was generally a meek and shy man, but at the last words of the stranger he was suddenly seized by a surge of desperate anger. With a sharp movement he turned towards the old man and shouted, absurdly waving his arms and gasping for breath:
- Presents! .. Presents! .. Presents for familiar kids! .. And I ... and I, my dear sir, at the present moment my kids are dying of hunger at home ... Presents! .. But my wife's milk has disappeared, and the baby is all day did not eat ... Presents! ..
Mertsalov expected the old man to rise and leave after these disordered, angry screams, but he was mistaken. The old man brought his intelligent, serious face with gray tanks closer to him and said in a friendly but serious tone:
- Wait ... don't worry! Tell me everything in order and as short as possible. Maybe together we can come up with something for you.
There was something so calm and trustworthy in the stranger's extraordinary face that Mertsalov immediately, without the slightest concealment, but terribly agitated and in a hurry, conveyed his story. He talked about his illness, about the loss of his place, about the death of a child, about all his misfortunes, up to the present day.
The stranger listened, not interrupting him with a word, and only looked more and more inquiringly into his eyes, as if wishing to penetrate into the very depths of this sore, indignant soul. Suddenly, with a quick, very youthful movement, he jumped up from his seat and grabbed Mertsalov by the arm. Mertsalov also got up involuntarily.
- Let's go! - said the stranger, pulling Mertsalov by the hand. - Let's go quickly! .. It is your happiness that you met the doctor. Of course, I can't vouch for anything, but ... let's go!
In about ten minutes Shimmer and the doctor were already entering the basement. Elizaveta Ivanovna lay on the bed next to her sick daughter, her face buried in the dirty, oily pillows. The boys were eating 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 profusely into the smoked iron pot.
Entering the room, the doctor took off his coat and, remaining in an old-fashioned, rather shabby coat, went up to Elizaveta Ivanovna. She didn’t even look up at his approach.
“Well, full, full, my dear,” the doctor began, patting the woman on the back affectionately. “Get up! Show me your patient.
And just like recently in the garden, something affectionate and convincing that sounded in his voice made Elizaveta Ivanovna instantly get out of bed and unquestioningly fulfill everything the doctor said. Two minutes later Grishka was already lighting the stove with wood, which the wonderful doctor sent to the neighbors for, Volodya was fanning the samovar with all his might, Elizaveta Ivanovna was wrapping Mashutka with a warming compress ... A little later, Mertsalov also appeared. For three rubles, received from the doctor, he managed to buy tea, sugar, rolls during this time and get hot food from the nearest tavern. The doctor was sitting at the table and was writing something on a piece of paper, which he tore out of his notebook. After finishing this lesson and depicting some kind of hook below, instead of a signature, he got up, covered what he had written with a tea saucer and said:
- With this piece of paper you will go to the pharmacy ... let's take a teaspoon in two hours. This will cause the baby to cough up ... Continue the warming compress ... In addition, even if your daughter has done better, in any case invite Dr. Afrosimov tomorrow. He is a good doctor and a good person. I'll warn him right now. Then goodbye gentlemen! May God grant that the coming year will treat you a little more leniently than this one, and most importantly - never lose heart.
After shaking hands with Mertsalov and Elizaveta Ivanovna, who still had not recovered from amazement, and patting Volodya's open mouth in passing on the cheek, the doctor quickly thrust his legs 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 my children pray for you at least!
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 old voice said:
- Eh! Here are some other trifles invented! .. Come back home soon!
When he returned, a surprise awaited him: under the tea saucer, along with the miraculous doctor's recipe, there were several large bank notes ...
On the same evening, Mertsalov also learned the name of his unexpected benefactor. On the pharmacy label, attached to the vial of medicine, in the clear hand of the pharmacist was written: “According to the prescription of the professor Pirogov».
I heard this story, and more than once, from the lips of Grigory Yemelyanovich Mertsalov himself - the very Grishka who, on the Christmas Eve I described, shed tears into a smoky pot with empty borscht. Now he occupies a fairly large, responsible post in one of the banks, reputed to be a model of honesty and responsiveness to the needs of poverty. And each time, finishing his story about the miraculous doctor, he adds in a voice trembling from hidden tears:
- Since then, like a beneficent angel descended into our family. Everything has changed. At the beginning of January, my father found a place, Mashutka got to her feet, my brother and I managed to get attached to the gymnasium at the state expense. This holy man performed a miracle. And we have seen our wonderful doctor only once since then - this is when he was transported dead to his own estate Cherry. And even then they did not see him, because that great, powerful and holy that lived and burned in the wonderful doctor during his lifetime, extinguished irrevocably.
A. I. Kuprin
Wonderful Doctor
The following story is not the fruit of idle fiction. Everything that I described really happened in Kiev about thirty years ago and is still sacred, down to the smallest details, in the legends of the family that will be discussed. 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.
- Grisha, and Grisha! Look, little pig ... Laughs ... Yes. And in his mouth! .. Look, look ... grass in your mouth, by God, grass! .. Here's 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 stuck in front of this magnificent exhibition for more than five minutes, which excited their minds and stomachs alike. Here, illuminated by the bright light of hanging lamps, towered whole mountains of strong red apples and oranges; there were regular pyramids of tangerines, delicately gilded through the tissue paper enveloping them; huge smoked and pickled fish stretched out on the dishes, with ugly open mouths and bulging eyes; below, surrounded by garlands of sausages, flaunted juicy cut hams with a thick layer of pinkish bacon ... Countless jars and boxes of salted, boiled and smoked snacks completed this spectacular picture, looking at which both boys forgot for a minute about the twelve-degree frost and the important task assigned on them as a mother, - an assignment that ended so unexpectedly and so deplorably.
The older boy was the first to break away from contemplation of the charming sight. He tugged at his brother's sleeve and said sternly:
- Well, Volodya, let's go, let's go ... There is nothing here ...
At the same time, suppressing a heavy sigh (the eldest of them was only ten years old, and besides, both had not eaten anything in the morning except empty cabbage soup) and having thrown their last greedy-loving glance at the gastronomic exhibition, the boys hurriedly ran down the street. Sometimes, through the foggy windows of a 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 from themselves the seductive thought: to stop for a few seconds and cling to the glass with an eye.
As the boys walked, the streets became less crowded and darker. Fine shops, shining Christmas trees, trotters racing under their blue and red nets, the screeching of runners, the festive revival of the crowd, the cheerful hum of shouts and conversations, the frosty laughing faces of elegant ladies - everything was left behind. Wastelands, crooked, narrow alleys, gloomy, unlit hills stretched out ... Finally they reached a ramshackle dilapidated house that stood alone; the bottom of it - the basement itself - was stone, and the top was wooden. Walking around the narrow, icy and dirty courtyard, which served as a natural cesspool for all the residents, they went down to the basement, walked in a common corridor in the darkness, groped for their door and opened it.
The Mertsalovs have lived in this dungeon for over a year. Both boys had long since become accustomed to these smoky walls weeping from dampness, and to the wet pieces 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 glee that they felt everywhere, their little children's hearts contracted with acute, childish suffering. In the corner, on a wide dirty bed, lay a girl of about seven; her face was burning, her breathing was short and difficult, her wide-open, shining eyes looked intently and aimlessly. Next to the bed, in a cradle suspended from the ceiling, a baby was screaming, grimacing, straining and choking. A tall, thin woman, with an emaciated, tired face, as if blackened with grief, was kneeling beside the sick girl, adjusting her pillow and at the same time not forgetting to nudge the swinging cradle with her elbow. When the boys entered and after them white clouds of frosty air rushed into the basement, 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, which had been 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 as you taught. Here, I say, is a letter from Mertsalov, from your former manager. And he scolded us: "Get out, he says, from here ... You bastards ..."
- Who is it? Who spoke to you? .. Speak plainly, Grisha!
- The doorman was talking ... Who else? I tell him: "Take, uncle, the letter, pass it on, and I'll wait for the answer here below." 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, said: "There is, they say, there is nothing ... Masutka is sick ... She is dying ..." I say: "As dad finds a place, he will thank you, Savely Petrovich, by God, he will thank you." Well, at this time the bell rings as soon as it rings, and he says to us: “Get the hell out of here sooner! So that your spirit is not here! .. ”And Volodka even hit the back of the head.
“He hit the back of my head,” said Volodya, who was following his brother’s story with attention, and scratched the back of his head.
The older boy suddenly began anxiously rummaging in the deep pockets of his robe. Finally pulling out the crumpled envelope from there, he put it on the table and said:
- Here it is, a letter ...
Mother did not ask any more. For a long time in the stuffy, dank room, only the frantic cry of a baby and the short, rapid breathing of Mashutka were heard, more like continuous monotonous groans. Suddenly the mother said, looking back:
- There is borscht, left from dinner ... Maybe you should eat? Only cold - there is nothing to warm it up with ...
At this time in the corridor someone heard unsteady steps and the rustling of a hand, looking for a door in the darkness. The mother and both boys - all three even pale with intense anticipation - turned in this direction.
Mertsalov entered. He wore a summer coat, a summer felt hat and no galoshes. His hands were swollen and blue with frost, his eyes sagged, his cheeks were sticking 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 mercilessly fell on Mertsalov and his family. At first he himself contracted typhoid fever, and all their meager savings were spent on his treatment. Then, when he recovered, he found out that his place, the modest place of a house manager for twenty-five rubles a month, was already occupied by another ... A desperate, convulsive pursuit of odd jobs, correspondence, an insignificant place, pledge and re-pledging of things began, sale any household rags. And then the children went to get sick. Three months ago, one girl died, now the other lies in the heat and unconscious. Elizaveta Ivanovna had to take care of the sick girl at the same time, breastfeed the little one and go almost to the other end of the city to the house where she washed her clothes every day.
All today I have been busy trying to squeeze out at least a few kopecks from somewhere for Mashutka's medicine through inhuman 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 was ruled by Mertsalov ... But everyone tried to dissuade themselves either with festive chores or lack of money ... Others, such as the former patron doorman, simply drove the petitioners from the porch ...
For ten minutes no one could utter a word. Suddenly Mertsalov quickly got up from the trunk on which he had been sitting until now, and with a decisive movement pushed his frayed hat deeper onto his forehead.
- Where are you going? Elizaveta Ivanovna asked anxiously.
Mertsalov, already grasping the door handle, turned around.
“Anyway, sitting won't help,” he replied hoarsely. - I'll go again ... At least I'll try to beg for alms.
Going out into the street, he walked aimlessly forward. He did not seek anything, did not 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 receive an inheritance from an unknown second cousin's uncle. Now he was possessed by an uncontrollable desire to run anywhere, to run without looking back, so as not to see the silent despair of a hungry family.
Begging for alms? He has already tried this remedy twice today. But the first time some gentleman in a raccoon coat read him an admonition that he must work, not beg, and the second time he was promised to be sent to the police.