Painting “Troika” by V.G. Perov: history of creation and description

Who among us does not remember the famous “Troika” by Perov: three tired and cold children dragging a sleigh with a barrel full of water along a winter street. An adult man is pushing the cart from behind. An icy wind blows in the children's faces. The cart is accompanied by a dog running on the right in front of the children...

“Troika” is one of the most famous and outstanding paintings by Vasily Perov, telling about the difficulties of peasant life. It was written in 1866. Its full name is “Troika. Artisan apprentices are carrying water.”

“Apprentices” used to be the name given to village children who were brought to large cities to work in “the trade.” Child labor was exploited to its fullest extent in factories, workshops, shops and shops. It is not difficult to imagine the fate of these children.

From the memories of a boy student:

“We were forced to carry boxes weighing three to four pounds from the basement to the third floor. We carried the boxes on our backs using rope straps. While climbing the spiral staircase, we often fell and broke. And then the owner ran up to the fallen man, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head on the cast-iron ladder. All of us, thirteen boys, lived in one room with thick iron bars on the windows. We slept on bunks. Apart from a mattress filled with straw, there was no bed.

After work, we took off our dress and boots, put on dirty dressing gowns, which we belted with a rope, and put supports on our feet. But they didn’t let us rest. We had to chop wood, light stoves, set samovars, run to the bakery, the butcher's, the tavern for tea and vodka, and haul snow from the pavement. On holidays we were also sent to sing in the church choir. Morning and evening we went to the pool with a huge tub for water and brought ten tubs each time...”

This is how the children depicted in Perov’s painting lived. By the way, by the time “Troika” was written, many other paintings by the artist were also dedicated to children - for example, “Orphans” (1864), “Seeing off the Dead Man” (1865), “Boy at the Workshop” (1865).

Farewell to the deceased, 1865. State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow “A craftsman boy staring at a parrot,” 1865. Ulyanovsk Art Museum

The artist paid special attention to the problem of child labor even after writing Troika. All subjects were taken from life and each subsequent picture evoked in the viewer a feeling of deep compassion and empathy. Nevertheless, it was “Troika” that became the “special canvas”. This is partly due to the story accompanying the picture, filled with mental anguish, emotions and pain. The author himself will one day share this story, in the short story “Aunt Marya.” It must be admitted that Vasily Grigorievich was not only an outstanding artist, but also a talented and interesting storyteller. Thanks to this story, the painting entered the top of the most discussed masterpieces of Russian art at the exhibition “Secrets of Old Paintings” in 2016, at the State Tretyakov Gallery.

The story tells us about the tragic fate of the boy - the main, central character of the picture. So, the story “Aunt Marya”, author Vasily Perov:

“Several years ago I painted a picture in which I wanted to represent a typical boy. I looked for him for a long time, but despite all the searching, the type I had in mind did not come across.

However, once in the spring, it was at the end of April, on a magnificent sunny day I was once wandering near the Tverskaya outpost, and I began to meet factory workers and various artisans returning from the villages, after Easter, to their hard summer work; Whole groups of pilgrims, mostly peasant women, passed by immediately, going to worship St. Sergius and the Moscow miracle workers; and right at the outpost, in an empty guardhouse with boarded-up windows, on a dilapidated porch, I saw a large crowd of tired pedestrians.

Some of them sat and chewed some kind of bread; others, having fallen asleep sweetly, scattered under the warm rays of the brilliant sun. The picture was attractive! I began to peer into its details and noticed an old woman with a boy to the side. An old woman was buying something from a fidgety peddler.

As I approached the boy, I was involuntarily amazed by the guy I had been looking for for so long. I immediately started a conversation with the old woman and him and asked them among other things: where are they coming from and where are they going? The old woman was quick to explain that they were from the Ryazan province, had been to New Jerusalem, and were now making their way to Trinity-Sergius and would like to spend the night in Moscow, but did not know where to take shelter. I volunteered to show them a place to stay for the night. We went together.

The old woman walked slowly, limping slightly. Her humble figure with a knapsack on her shoulders and her head wrapped in something white was very pretty. All her attention was directed to the boy, who constantly stopped and looked at everything he came across with great curiosity; The old woman, apparently, was afraid that he would get lost.

Meanwhile, I was thinking about how to begin an explanation with her about my intention to write her companion. Unable to think of anything better, I started by offering her money. The old woman was perplexed and did not dare take them. Then, out of necessity, I immediately told her that I really liked the boy and I would like to paint a portrait of him. She was even more surprised and even seemed shy.

I began to explain my desire, trying to speak as simply and clearly as possible. But no matter how I managed, no matter how I explained, the old woman understood almost nothing, but only looked at me more and more incredulously. I then decided on a last resort and began to persuade him to come with me. The old woman agreed to this last one. Arriving at the studio, I showed them the painting I had started and explained what was going on.

She seemed to understand, but nevertheless stubbornly refused my proposal, citing the fact that they had no time, that this was a great sin, and, in addition, she had also heard that people not only wither from this, but even die. I tried as best I could to assure her that this was not true, that these were just fairy tales, and to prove my words I cited the fact that both kings and bishops allow portraits of themselves to be painted, and St. Evangelist Luke was a painter himself, that there are many people in Moscow from whom portraits were painted, but they do not wither and do not die from it.

The old lady hesitated. I gave her a few more examples and offered her good pay. She thought and thought and finally, to my great joy, agreed to allow the portrait to be taken from her son, as it turned out later, twelve-year-old Vasya. The session began immediately. The old woman settled down right there, not far away, and constantly came and groomed her son, now straightening his hair, now straightening his shirt: in a word, she was terribly in the way. I asked her not to touch or go near it, explaining that it would slow down my work.

She sat down quietly and began to talk about her life, still looking with love at her dear Vasya. From her story it was possible to notice that she was not at all as old as I thought at first glance; She was not many years old, but her work life and grief had aged her before her time, and her tears dimmed her small, meek and affectionate eyes.

The session continued. Aunt Marya, that was her name, kept talking about her hard work and timelessness; about illnesses and hunger sent to them for their great sins; about how she buried her husband and children and was left with one consolation - her son Vasenka. And since then, for several years now, she has been going annually to worship the great saints of God, and this time she took Vasya with her for the first time.

She told a lot of interesting, although not new, stories about her bitter widowhood and peasant poverty. The session was over. She promised to come the next day and kept her promise. I continued my work. The boy sat well, and Aunt Marya again talked a lot. But then she began to yawn and cross her mouth, and finally fell asleep completely. There was an undisturbed silence that lasted for about an hour.

Marya slept soundly and even snored. But suddenly she woke up and began to fuss about restlessly, every minute asking me how long I would keep them, that they had to go, that they would be late, it was well past noon and they should have been on the road long ago. Hastening to finish the head, I thanked them for their work, paid them off and sent them off. So we parted, satisfied with each other.

About four years have passed. I forgot both the old woman and the boy. The painting was sold long ago and hung on the wall of the now famous Tretyakov gallery. Once at the end of Holy Week, returning home, I learned that some old village woman had been with me twice, had been waiting for a long time and, without waiting, wanted to come tomorrow. The next day, as soon as I woke up, they told me that the old woman was here and waiting for me.

I went out and saw in front of me a small, hunched old woman with a large white headband, from under which peeked out a small face, crisscrossed with tiny wrinkles; her thin lips were dry and seemed to curl up inside her mouth; the little eyes looked sad. Her face was familiar to me: I had seen it many times, seen it in the paintings of great painters and in life.

This was not a simple village old woman, of which we meet so many, no - she was a typical personification of boundless love and quiet sadness; there was something in him between the ideal old ladies in Raphael’s paintings and our good old nannies, who are no longer in the world, and it is unlikely that there will ever be others like them.

She stood leaning on a long stick with spirally cut bark; her sheepskin coat was girded with some kind of braid; the rope from the knapsack, thrown over her back, pulled down the collar of her sheepskin coat and exposed her emaciated, wrinkled neck; her unnaturally sized sandals were covered in mud; all this shabby dress, mended more than once, had a kind of sad look, and something depressed, suffering was visible in her whole figure. I asked what she needed.

She silently moved her lips for a long time, fussed aimlessly, and finally, taking eggs tied in a handkerchief out of the car, she handed them to me, asking me to convincingly accept the gift and not refuse her her great request. Then she told me that she had known me for a long time, that about three years ago she was with me and I copied her son, and, as best as she could, she even explained what kind of picture I was painting. I remembered the old woman, although it was difficult to recognize her: she had aged so much at that time!

I asked her what brought her to me? And as soon as I had time to utter this question, instantly the old woman’s whole face seemed to shake up and begin to move: her nose twitched nervously, her lips trembled, her small eyes blinked very often and suddenly stopped. She began some phrase, uttered the same word for a long time and inaudibly and, apparently, did not have the strength to finish this word. “Father, my son,” she began almost for the tenth time, and the tears flowed abundantly and did not allow her to speak.

They flowed and quickly rolled down her wrinkled face in large drops. I gave her water. She refused. He invited her to sit down - she remained on her feet and kept crying, wiping herself with the shaggy hem of her crusty sheepskin coat. Finally, having cried and calmed down a little, she explained to me that her son, Vassenka, fell ill with smallpox last year and died. She told me with all the details about his serious illness and painful death, about how they lowered him into the damp earth, and buried with him all her joys and joys. She did not blame me for his death - no, it was God’s will, but it seemed to me as if I was partly to blame for her grief.

I noticed that she thought the same thing, although she didn’t say it. And so, having buried her dear child, sold all her belongings and worked through the winter, she saved some money and came to me in order to buy a painting where her son was copied. She earnestly asked not to refuse her request. With trembling hands, she untied the scarf where her orphan money was wrapped, and offered it to me. I explained to her that the painting was no longer mine and that I couldn’t buy it. She became sad and began to ask if she could at least look at her.

I made her happy, saying that she could see it, and appointed her to go with me the next day; but she refused, saying that she had already made a promise to spend Holy Saturday, as well as the first day of the Holy Day, with St. saint Sergius, and, if possible, he will come on the next day of Easter. On the appointed day, she arrived very early and kept urging me to go quickly so as not to be late. Around nine o'clock we went to Tretyakov. There I told her to wait, I went to the owner myself to explain to him what was the matter, and, of course, immediately received permission from him to show the picture. We walked through the richly decorated rooms, hung with paintings, but she did not pay attention to anything.

Having arrived in the room where the painting hung, which the old woman so convincingly asked to sell, I left it to her to find this painting herself. I admit, I thought that she would search for a long time, and perhaps not find the features dear to her at all; Moreover, it could be assumed that there were a lot of paintings in this room.

But I was wrong. She looked around the room with her meek gaze and quickly went to the picture where her dear Vasya was actually depicted. Approaching the painting, she stopped, looked at it and, clasping her hands, somehow unnaturally screamed:

“You are mine, my father! You’re my dear, that’s where your tooth got knocked out!”

"Troika". Artisan apprentices carrying water, 1866. State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow

- and with these words, like grass cut by a swing of a mower, it fell to the floor. Having warned the man to leave the old woman alone, I went upstairs to the owner and, after staying there for about an hour, returned downstairs to see what was happening there.

The next scene appeared before my eyes: a man with wet eyes, leaning against the wall, pointed to the old woman and quickly left, and the old woman was on her knees and praying at the picture. She prayed fervently and with concentration for the image of her dear and unforgettable son. Neither my arrival nor the steps of the departed servant distracted her attention; She heard nothing, forgot about everything around her and only saw in front of her what her broken heart was full of. I stopped, not daring to interfere with her holy prayer, and when it seemed to me that she had finished, I went up to her and asked: had she seen enough of her son?

The old woman slowly raised her gentle eyes to me, and there was something unearthly in them. They shone with some kind of delight of a mother at the unexpected meeting of her beloved and dead son. She looked at me questioningly, and it was clear that she either did not understand me or did not hear me. I repeated the question, and she quietly whispered in response: “Can’t I kiss him,” and pointed to the image. I explained that this was not possible due to the tilted position of the painting.

Then she began to ask to be allowed to look at her dear Vassenka for the last time in her life. I left and, returning with the owner, Mr. Tretyakov, an hour and a half later, I saw her, as the first time, still in the same position, kneeling in front of the painting. She noticed us, and a heavy sigh, more like a groan, escaped from her chest. Having crossed herself and bowed several more times to the ground, she said:

“Forgive me, my dear child, forgive me, my dear Vasenka!” - she stood up and, turning to us, began to thank Mr. Tretyakov and me, bowing at our feet. G. Tretyakov gave her some money. She took them and put them in the pocket of her sheepskin coat. It seemed to me that she did it unconsciously.

I, for my part, promised to paint a portrait of her son and send it to her in the village, for which I took her address. She fell to her feet again - it was a lot of work to stop her from expressing such sincere gratitude; but, finally, she somehow calmed down and said goodbye. As she left the yard, she kept crossing herself and, turning around, bowed deeply to someone. I also said goodbye to Mr. Tretyakov and went home.

On the street, overtaking the old woman, I looked at her again: she walked quietly and seemed tired; her head was lowered to her chest; From time to time she would throw up her hands and talk to herself about something. A year later, I fulfilled my promise and sent her a portrait of her son, decorating it with a gilded frame, and a few months later I received a letter from her, where she informed me that “she hung Vasenka’s face on the icons and prayed to God for his peace and my health.”

The entire letter from beginning to end consisted of thanks. A good five or six years have passed, and to this day the image of a little old woman with her small face, cut with wrinkles, with a rag on her head and with calloused hands, but a great soul, often flashes before me. And this simple Russian woman in her wretched attire becomes a high type and ideal of maternal love and humility.

Are you alive now, my unfortunate one? If yes, then I send you my heartfelt greetings. Or perhaps she has been resting for a long time in her peaceful rural cemetery, dotted with flowers in summer and covered with impassable snowdrifts in winter, next to her beloved son Vasenka.

The problem of child slavery and labor is not a problem of one city or one specific country or era - forced child labor was ubiquitous, as was the hopelessness, poverty, hunger and cold of peasants and the poor.

In our modern civilized world, this social problem seems to have been solved, but this is only at first glance.

The child slave trade and the use of child labor have not disappeared anywhere, and according to the International Labor Organization, child slaves are the No. 3 business after the arms and drug trade. Child labor is especially common in Asia, where more than 153 million children are illegally exploited; in Africa - more than 80 million and more than 17 million in Latin America...

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“Troika (Apprentice artisans carrying water)”- an incredibly emotional canvas created by Russian artist Vasily Perov. Three children harnessed to a sleigh are doomedly pulling a huge barrel of water. Very often the picture is cited as an example when talking about the difficult fate of peasants. But the creation of this picture became a real grief for an ordinary village woman.

Vasily Perov I've been working on the painting for a long time. Most of it was written, only the central character was missing, the artist could not find the right type. One day Perov was walking in the vicinity of the Tverskaya Zastava and looking at the faces of the artisans who, after celebrating Easter, were returning from the villages back to the city to work. It was then that the artist saw a boy who would subsequently rivet the viewers’ eyes to his painting. He was from the Ryazan province and went with his mother to the Trinity-Sergius Lavra.

The artist, excited that he had found “the one,” began to emotionally beg the woman to allow him to paint a portrait of her son. The frightened woman did not understand what was happening and tried to speed up her pace. Then Perov invited her to go to his workshop and promised her an overnight stay, because he learned that the travelers had nowhere to stay.

In the studio, the artist showed the woman an unfinished painting. She was even more frightened, saying that it was a sin to draw people: some wither away from it, while others die. Perov persuaded her as best he could. He gave examples of kings and bishops who posed for artists. In the end, the woman agreed.

While Perov was painting a portrait of the boy, his mother talked about her difficult lot. Her name was Aunt Marya. The husband and children died, only Vassenka remained. She doted on him. The next day, the travelers left, and the artist was inspired to finish his canvas. It turned out to be so heartfelt that it was immediately acquired by Pavel Mikhailovich Tretyakov and exhibited in the gallery.

Four years later, Aunt Marya appeared on the threshold of Perov’s workshop again. Only she was without Vasenka. The woman said in tears that her son had contracted smallpox the year before and died. Later, Perov wrote that Marya did not blame him for the boy’s death, but he himself did not leave him feeling guilty for what happened.

Aunt Marya said that she worked all winter, sold everything she had, just to buy a painting of her son. Vasily Perov replied that the painting was sold, but you can look at it. He took the woman to Tretyakov’s gallery. Seeing the picture, the woman fell to her knees and began to sob. “You are my dear! Here’s your knocked out tooth!” - she wailed.

For several hours the mother stood in front of the image of her son and prayed. The artist assured her that he would paint a portrait of Vasenka separately. Perov fulfilled his promise and sent a portrait of the boy in a gilded frame to the village to Aunt Marya.

Few people know how the Russian artist Vasily Perov painted his painting “Troika (Apprentice artisans carrying water).” For a long time he could not choose the image of the central character, and after he finally managed to choose him, he became a participant in a real drama in a simple peasant family.

Vasily Perov has been working on the painting for a long time. Most of it was written, only the central character was missing, the artist could not find the right type. One day Perov was walking in the vicinity of the Tverskaya Zastava and looking at the faces of the artisans who, after celebrating Easter, were returning from the villages back to the city to work. It was then that the artist saw a boy who would subsequently rivet the viewers’ eyes to his painting. He was from the Ryazan province and went with his mother to the Trinity-Sergius Lavra.

The artist, excited that he had found “the one,” began to emotionally beg the woman to allow him to paint a portrait of her son. The frightened woman did not understand what was happening and tried to speed up her pace. Then Perov invited her to go to his workshop and promised her an overnight stay, because he learned that the travelers had nowhere to stay.

In the studio, the artist showed the woman an unfinished painting. She was even more frightened, saying that it was a sin to draw people: some wither away from it, while others die. Perov persuaded her as best he could. He gave examples of kings and bishops who posed for artists. In the end, the woman agreed.
While Perov was painting a portrait of the boy, his mother talked about her difficult lot. Her name was Aunt Marya. The husband and children died, only Vassenka remained. She doted on him. The next day, the travelers left, and the artist was inspired to finish his canvas. It turned out to be so heartfelt that it was immediately acquired by Pavel Mikhailovich Tretyakov and exhibited in the gallery.

Four years later, Aunt Marya appeared on the threshold of Perov’s workshop again. Only she was without Vasenka. The woman said in tears that her son had contracted smallpox the year before and died. Later, Perov wrote that Marya did not blame him for the boy’s death, but he himself did not leave him feeling guilty for what happened.
Aunt Marya said that she worked all winter, sold everything she had, just to buy a painting of her son. Vasily Perov replied that the painting was sold, but you can look at it. He took the woman to Tretyakov’s gallery. Seeing the picture, the woman fell to her knees and began to sob. “You are my dear! Here’s your knocked out tooth!” - she wailed.

The theme of labor and grief in the life of ordinary people was not new for Perov. His canvases, such as “Seeing Away,” are filled with despair and hopelessness, which so often permeated the then life of Russia at the turn of the era. The abolition of serfdom, the emergence of capitalism - all this excited the village, which had lived according to traditions for centuries. A new phenomenon has also emerged - child labor. If previously children were rarely involved in heavy physical work, the spread of “otkhodnichestvo” led to the emergence of the concept of “child worker.” This is exactly what Perov’s painting is about, which is the most ambitious in his entire work. It was written in 1866.

Description

The central plan of the picture is of three children (a boy and two) dragging a sleigh through the snow, on which stands a barrel of water. This is the irony of the work. If three horses are usually called a troika, then here the role of horses went to children. They are pale and emaciated, their clothes are threadbare and have long been in need of repair. Judging by the crust of ice on the barrel, it is very cold, from which the children cannot be protected by their shabby clothes. The barrel is supported from behind by an adult man, whose share of the work falls no less. But he is already quite mature, but the children are straining themselves on the rise - their faces are exhausted, and the boy is already almost at the limit of his strength dragging his load. A dog is running nearby. Against their background are the walls of a certain Kremlin, and a church can be seen behind them. The picture is designed in gray tones, which makes the atmosphere even more gloomy and uncomfortable. An icy wind blows from the canvas. This hill is probably just one of the obstacles that this mournful procession will have to overcome. But she also draws out the strength of her conquerors. Who knows how long they will continue to work like this.

History of creation

The story associated with the creation of the picture is also filled with tragedy. Perov quickly found a model for writing female characters. By the time the prototype of the boy was found, the painting was almost ready. The prototype of the hero was the peasant son Vasya, whose mother Perov met by chance. Realizing that Vasya was his hero, he took them to the studio and showed them the painting, asking permission to copy the boy’s portrait for the role. He received permission.

Vasya was the only child of an unfortunate woman who had previously buried two children and a husband. And his mother soon lost her last son. Coming to Perov four years after the death of her son, she begged to buy the painting, offering all the simple goods that she could collect. Perov explained that the painting had already been bought by Pavel Tretyakov, and the only way he could help was to take her to the Tretyakov Gallery and show the canvas. Seeing the image exactly repeated by the artist’s brush, the woman fell to her knees and began to pray at the painting. Later, the peasant woman received a gift - a portrait of Vasya by Perov.