A summary of the story at the mill. Anton chekhov - at the mill

Melnik Alexei Biryukov, a huge, middle-aged man with a clumsy figure and face, was smoking a pipe on the doorstep of his house. Despite the cold and damp weather, he was dressed lightly - apparently, his thick-skinned, "callous" body did not feel cold. Small, swollen eyes on his red, fleshy face looked sullenly around.

Two monks were working near the mill - they were unloading sacks of rye brought for grinding from the cart. Nearby sat a completely drunk worker Biryukov and pretended to be fixing the network.

After observing a little at the work of the monks, Biryukov began to quarrel with them. At first he grumbled for a long time that the monks were fishing in "his river."

I am in the settlement and I have taken over the river from you, I pay you the money, therefore, the fish is mine and no one has the full right to catch it. Pray to God, but do not consider stealing for sin.

The monks objected that the miller had paid only for the right to set up nets on the monastery bank, and the river was God's and cannot be someone's. Biryukov did not calm down, threatened to complain to the magistrate, showered the monks with black abuse, promised to catch them catching his fish and beat them. The miller raised his hand against the servants of God more than once, so the monks endured the abuse in silence.

Having exhausted the "fish question", Biryukov switched to a drunk worker and began to honor him with such disgusting words that one of the monks could not stand it and said that going to the mill is the most painful job in the monastery. You come to Biryukov - as if you go to hell. And you can not go: there are no more mills in the area. The miller continued to use foul language.

It was evident that grunting and swearing were as much a habit for him as sucking a pipe.

The miller fell silent only when a small, round old woman in a striped solopik from someone else's shoulder appeared on the dam. It was the miller's mother. She missed her son, whom she had not seen for a long time, but Biryukov did not show great joy ... and said that it was time for him to leave.

The old woman began to complain of poverty. She lived with her younger son, a bitter drunkard, six of them in one room. There are not enough salaries for food, the children are starving, and then there is also an old woman sitting on her neck. And Alyoshenka, her eldest son, is still single, he has no one to take care of. So will he really not help his brother and four nephews?

Biryukov listened to his mother, was silent and looked away. Realizing that her son would not give money, the old woman began to ask for a neighbor, from whom Biryukov took rye for grinding, but never gave it back. The miller advised his mother not to interfere in other people's affairs. The old woman sighed: her son is good to everyone - and handsome and rich, but he has no heart. Always gloomy, unfriendly, "like a beast." And there are bad rumors about him, as if he and his employees rob passers-by and steal horses at night. Biryukov's mill is considered a cursed place, "girls and boys are afraid to come close" and call the miller Cain and Herod.

Wherever you step, the grass does not grow, wherever you breathe, the fly does not fly.

These speeches had no effect on the miller, he was getting ready to leave and began to harness the cart, and the mother walked around, looking into the face of her son. Biryukov was already pulling on his caftan when his mother remembered that she had brought him a present - a small mint gingerbread, which she had been treated to at the deaconess's. The miller pushed his mother's hand away, the gingerbread fell into the dust, and the old woman "quietly trudged towards the dam."

The monks threw up their hands in horror, and even the worker sobered up. Maybe the miller noticed the painful impression he made, or maybe "a feeling that had long since been asleep stirred in his chest," but something like fear was reflected on his face. He caught up with his mother, rummaged for a long time in a purse filled with bills and silver, found the smallest coin - a two-kopeck coin - and, turning purple, handed it to the old woman.

Classical literature teaches life. The concept is so broad that it covers all human senses. But there is one thing that is considered the basis of existence - love for the mother. The story "At the Mill" is a work that allows you to see what a person who has lost this feeling turns into.

There are only a few characters in the story, but two of them are the most significant: Alexei Biryukov and his mother. Everything in these images is built on opposition, so it is difficult to perceive that these are the closest relatives - mother and son. The woman who gave birth to a hefty man is small and poor. She addresses the miller respectfully, kindly, smiles tenderly, looks into his eyes. But she gets nothing in return. The soul freezes when in the story "At the Mill" one has to read the lines about the mint gingerbread carried by the poor woman as a present. The gingerbread falls into the mud, not accepted by the rich miller, a man who has become impoverished in soul. A large purse that appeared in the hands of his son still raises hope for awakening the miller's feelings, but this is a momentary movement. He gives the leaving mother a two-kopeck piece. It is scary for people who are nearby, for involuntary spectators, and for the reader. No one wants to meet such a miller on the way, to become one. The text teaches simple truths: children should be a support, help to old people, we should not forget about gratitude to parents for their appearance in this world.

Anton Pavlovich Chekhov

At the mill

The miller Alexei Biryukov, a hefty, stocky man of middle age, with a figure and face similar to those clumsy, thick-skinned and heavy-treading sailors who dream of children after reading Jules Verne, was sitting at the threshold of his hut and lazily sucking on an extinct pipe. This time he was in gray trousers made of rough soldier's cloth, in big heavy boots, but without a frock coat and without a hat, although it was real autumn, damp and cold outside. Damp haze penetrated freely through his unbuttoned waistcoat, but the miller’s large, calloused body did not seem to feel the cold. His red, fleshy face, as usual, was apathetic and flabby, as if asleep, small, swollen eyes sullenly sullenly looked from side to side, now at the dam, now at two sheds with sheds, now at old, clumsy willows.

Near the sheds, two newly arrived monastic monks were bustling about: one Kliopa, a tall and gray-haired old man in a mud-splattered cassock and a patched skufeika, the other Diodorus, black-bearded and dark-skinned, apparently, a Georgian by birth, in an ordinary peasant sheepskin coat. They removed from the carts the sacks of rye they had brought for grinding. Somewhat at a distance from them, on the dark, dirty grass, sat the worker Yevsey, a young, beardless guy in a tattered sheepskin coat and completely drunk. He crumpled a fishing net in his hands and pretended to mend it.

The miller glanced around for a long time and was silent, then stared at the monks carrying the sacks, and spoke in a thick bass:

- You, monks, why are you fishing in the river? Who allowed you?

The monks did not answer and did not even glance at the miller.

He paused, lit his pipe and continued:

- You catch it yourself, and even allow the townspeople to do it. I am in the settlement and I have taken over the river from you, I pay you the money, therefore, the fish is mine and no one has the full right to catch it. Pray to God, but do not consider stealing for sin.

The miller yawned, was silent and continued to grumble:

- Look, what fashion have you taken! They think that as monks, they have signed up as saints, so there is no council for them. I'll take it and give it to the world. The World Warrior will not look at your cassock, you sit there in the cold. And then I myself, without the world can cope. If I get on the river, I'll knock my neck so hard that you won't want fish until the doomsday!

- You are in vain to say such words, Alexey Dorofeich! Said Kliopa in a quiet tenor voice. - Kind people who are afraid of God do not say such words to a dog, but we are monks!

“Monks,” the miller mimicked. - Do you need fish? Yes? So you buy from me, don't steal!

- Lord, why are we stealing? Kliopa winced. - Why such words? Our novices were fishing, that's for sure, but they had permission from the archimandrite's father to do this. Father Archimandrite thinks so that money was not taken from you for the whole river, but only for the fact that you had the right to set up nets on our bank. The river is not given to you all ... It is not yours and not ours, but God's ...

“And the archimandrite is just like you,” grumbled the miller, tapping his boot with his pipe. - Likes to sheathe, too! And I will not disassemble. For me, the archimandrite is not the same as you or Yevsey. I hit him on the river, and he will fly in ...

- And what are you going to beat the monks, so it is as you please. It will be better for us in the next world. You have already beaten Vissarion and Antipius, so beat the others.

- Shut up, don't touch him! - said Diodorus, tugging on the sleeve of Kliopa.

Kliopa caught himself, fell silent and began to carry sacks, while the miller continued to swear. He grumbled lazily, sucking on his pipe after each phrase and spitting. When the fish question dried up, he remembered about some of his own two sacks, which the monks allegedly "cheated" once, and began to scold because of the sacks, then, noticing that Yevsey was drunk and not working, he left the monks alone and pounced on the worker, swelling the air with selected, disgusting abuse.

At first the monks braced themselves and only sighed loudly, but soon Kliopa could not bear it ... He threw up his hands and said in a crying voice:

- Holy Vladyka, there is nothing more painful for me to obey, how to go to the mill! Real hell! Hell, truly hell!

- Don't go! - snapped the miller.

- Queen of Heaven, we would be glad not to come here, but where can we get another mill? Judge for yourself, except for you there is not a single mill around here! Just die of hunger or eat unmilled grain!

The miller did not let up and continued to pour abuse in all directions. It was evident that grunting and swearing were as much a habit for him as sucking a pipe.

Anton Pavlovich Chekhov

At the mill

The miller Alexei Biryukov, a hefty, stocky man of middle age, with a figure and face similar to those clumsy, thick-skinned and heavy-treading sailors who dream of children after reading Jules Verne, was sitting at the threshold of his hut and lazily sucking on an extinct pipe. This time he was in gray trousers made of rough soldier's cloth, in big heavy boots, but without a frock coat and without a hat, although it was real autumn, damp and cold outside. Damp haze penetrated freely through his unbuttoned waistcoat, but the miller’s large, calloused body did not seem to feel the cold. His red, fleshy face, as usual, was apathetic and flabby, as if asleep, small, swollen eyes sullenly sullenly looked from side to side, now at the dam, now at two sheds with sheds, now at old, clumsy willows.

Near the sheds, two newly arrived monastic monks were bustling about: one Kliopa, a tall and gray-haired old man in a mud-splattered cassock and a patched skufeika, the other Diodorus, black-bearded and dark-skinned, apparently, a Georgian by birth, in an ordinary peasant sheepskin coat. They removed from the carts the sacks of rye they had brought for grinding. Somewhat at a distance from them, on the dark, dirty grass, sat the worker Yevsey, a young, beardless guy in a tattered sheepskin coat and completely drunk. He crumpled a fishing net in his hands and pretended to mend it.

The miller glanced around for a long time and was silent, then stared at the monks carrying the sacks, and spoke in a thick bass:

- You, monks, why are you fishing in the river? Who allowed you?

The monks did not answer and did not even glance at the miller.

He paused, lit his pipe and continued:

- You catch it yourself, and even allow the townspeople to do it. I am in the settlement and I have taken over the river from you, I pay you the money, therefore, the fish is mine and no one has the full right to catch it. Pray to God, but do not consider stealing for sin.

The miller yawned, was silent and continued to grumble:

- Look, what fashion have you taken! They think that as monks, they have signed up as saints, so there is no council for them. I'll take it and give it to the world. The World Warrior will not look at your cassock, you sit there in the cold. And then I myself, without the world can cope. If I get on the river, I'll knock my neck so hard that you won't want fish until the doomsday!

- You are in vain to say such words, Alexey Dorofeich! Said Kliopa in a quiet tenor voice. - Kind people who are afraid of God do not say such words to a dog, but we are monks!

“Monks,” the miller mimicked. - Do you need fish? Yes? So you buy from me, don't steal!

- Lord, why are we stealing? Kliopa winced. - Why such words? Our novices were fishing, that's for sure, but they had permission from the archimandrite's father to do this. Father Archimandrite thinks so that money was not taken from you for the whole river, but only for the fact that you had the right to set up nets on our bank. The river is not given to you all ... It is not yours and not ours, but God's ...

“And the archimandrite is just like you,” grumbled the miller, tapping his boot with his pipe. - Likes to sheathe, too! And I will not disassemble. For me, the archimandrite is not the same as you or Yevsey. I hit him on the river, and he will fly in ...

- And what are you going to beat the monks, so it is as you please. It will be better for us in the next world. You have already beaten Vissarion and Antipius, so beat the others.

- Shut up, don't touch him! - said Diodorus, tugging on the sleeve of Kliopa.

Kliopa caught himself, fell silent and began to carry sacks, while the miller continued to swear. He grumbled lazily, sucking on his pipe after each phrase and spitting. When the fish question dried up, he remembered about some of his own two sacks, which the monks allegedly "cheated" once, and began to scold because of the sacks, then, noticing that Yevsey was drunk and not working, he left the monks alone and pounced on the worker, swelling the air with selected, disgusting abuse.

At first the monks braced themselves and only sighed loudly, but soon Kliopa could not bear it ... He threw up his hands and said in a crying voice:

- Holy Vladyka, there is nothing more painful for me to obey, how to go to the mill! Real hell! Hell, truly hell!

- Don't go! - snapped the miller.

- Queen of Heaven, we would be glad not to come here, but where can we get another mill? Judge for yourself, except for you there is not a single mill around here! Just die of hunger or eat unmilled grain!

The miller did not let up and continued to pour abuse in all directions. It was evident that grunting and swearing were as much a habit for him as sucking a pipe.

- Though you do not remember the unclean! - pleaded Kliopa, blinking his eyes dumbfounded. - Well, shut up, do mercy!

Soon the miller fell silent, but not because Kliopa begged him. On the dam appeared some old woman, small, round, with a good-natured face, in some strange striped coat that looked like the back of a beetle. She carried a small bundle and propped herself up with a small stick ...

- Hello, priests! She whispered, bowing low to the monks. - God help! Hello, Alyoshenka! Hello, Evseyushka! ..

- Hello, mamma, - muttered the miller, not looking at the old woman and frowning.

- And I'll visit you, my dear! She said, smiling and looking tenderly into the miller's face. - I haven't seen it for a long time. Read it, we haven’t seen each other since the Dormition day ... I’m glad, not happy, but accept it! And you seem to have lost weight as if ...

The old woman sat down next to the miller, and around this huge man her coat began to resemble a beetle even more.

- Yes, since the Assumption Day! She continued. - I missed you, my whole soul is sick for you, son, but when I get together to you, it will either rain or get sick ...

- Are you from the posad now? The miller asked gloomily.

- From the posad ... Straight from home ...

- With your illnesses and with such a complexion, you need to sit at home, and not go to the guests. Well, why did you come? It’s not a pity for Bashmakov!

“I came to look at you… I have two sons,” she turned to the monks, “this one, and even Vasily, who is in the posad. Two points. They don’t care if I’m alive or dead, but they’re my relatives, consolation ... They can do it without me, but I wouldn’t live a day without them ... it is hard for him from the posad.

There was a silence. The monks carried the last sack into the shed and sat down on the cart to rest ... The drunk Yevsey was still crumpled in his hands with the net and nodding.

“They came at the wrong time, mamma,” said the miller. - Now I need to go to Karyazhino.

- Go! with God! The old woman sighed. - Do not give up because of me the case ... I will rest for an hour and go back ... You, Alyoshenka, Vasya bows with the children ...

- Still cracking vodka?

- Not that much, but he drinks. There is nothing to hide, he drinks ... To drink a lot, you know, there is nothing for it, and so perhaps sometimes good people will offer ... His bad life, Alyoshenka! I was worn out, looking at him ... There is nothing, the children are tattered, he himself is ashamed to show his eyes to the street, all the pants are in holes and there are no boots ... All of us, six of us, are sleeping in the same room. Such poverty, such poverty, that it’s impossible to think of anything bitter… So I went to you to ask for poverty… You, Alyoshenka, respect the old woman, help Vasily… Brother, after all!