The whole picture flashes brightly in my mind. Four days

The story describes one of the episodes of the Russian-Turkish war. Soldier Ivanov runs along with everyone to take the height. He is very scared. Scary and huge Turk, who was right in front of him. Ivanov turned out to be more agile and stuck a bayonet right in the Turk's heart. The soldier himself was wounded in this battle.

Consciousness slowly returned: he remembers that they shouted "Hurrah!" and ran forward. And now I saw only ants and a piece of land. The soldier realized that he was wounded in both legs. It is difficult, unbearably painful, he cannot move. I want to drink.

On the side of the Turk he killed hangs a large flask of water. Overcoming himself, Ivanov crawls to the dead man and takes the flask. The decay has already touched the corpse: the skin is bubbling and sliding off the face, there is a disgusting smell. Water helps you to relax. A soldier talks about a Turk who, against his will, came to war and died from a bayonet. His old mother will be waiting for her son.

Before the clouded consciousness of the wounded man passes his life. He remembers his mother and girlfriend Masha. A crushed white dog comes to mind, which the janitor hit to finish off and threw into the dustbin. And the dog lived for the whole day. The soldier compares himself to this dog and regrets that death does not come to him.

It is impossible to be near the corpse of a Turk. The smell is such that the soldier turns inside out. Suddenly he hears voices, but is afraid to scream: what if they are Turks. Then he regrets it: it would be better if they finished him off. Loses consciousness again.

They found him four days later. They wondered how he could survive. One leg had to be amputated.

The story teaches you to never give up.

Picture or drawing Four days

Other retellings for the reader's diary

Summary Wild landowner Saltykov-Shchedrin
The story tells about a wealthy landowner who had everything except his mind. More than anything in the world, simple peasants saddened him, and he really wanted them not to be on his land. It so happened that his wish came true, and he was left alone in his estate.
O.Henry
Summary of Pushkin The Captain's Daughter
The novel tells about the life of a young officer, Pyotr Andreevich Grinev, who unwittingly became a participant in the events that took place during the reign of Catherine II. These events are recorded in history as "Pugachevshchina"
Summary Gogol Enchanted place
The story tells about the life story of a grandfather who fell into very mysterious circumstances. A man (being already at an advanced age) finds himself in an "enchanted place".
Summary of Turgenev Sparrow

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Attention! The slide preview is for informational purposes only and may not represent the full extent of the presentation. If you are interested in this work, please download the full version.

Goals:

to form the skills of independent work with the text, the ability to systematize the information received;

develop the ability to analyze the text, express their thoughts;

to develop the thinking of students, the ability to sympathize and empathize.

Equipment:

prepared texts of the story,
presentation

During the classes

1. Introductory speech of the teacher:

Let's start the work in the lesson with a virtual visit to the Tretyakov Gallery and stop at the painting by I.E. Repin “Ivan the Terrible and his son Ivan”, written in 1885. (Slide #3)

“Somehow in Moscow in 1881 I heard a new piece by Rimsky-Korsakov - “Revenge”. These sounds took possession of me, and I thought whether it was possible to embody in painting the mood that was created in me under the influence of this music. I remembered Tsar Ivan,” writes Repin.

The painting is based on a plot from Russian history of the 16th century. Repin's temperamental brush saturates historical images of the past with powerful emotional force. Tsarevich Ivan, the son of the Terrible, died only a week after being hit with a staff, and such an amount of blood as shown in the picture could not have been with such a wound. But Repin needed to sharpen the very moment of the murder, "which happened in an instant."

The artist himself described the work on the creation of the picture:

“I worked like a charm. I got scared for a few minutes. I turned away from this picture... I hid it... But something drove me to this picture, and I worked on it again...

... The picture began with inspiration, went in volleys ... Feelings were overloaded with the horrors of our time ... In the midst of the blows of successful places, I shivered, and then, of course, the feeling of a nightmare dulled, I took fatigue and disappointment ... I hid the picture ... Weakly, weakly it all seemed ...

But in the morning I feel a thrill again ... And there is no way to resist - again on the attack. No one wanted to show this horror ... I turned into some miser, secretly living his terrible picture ...

And finally, at one of my evenings, on Thursdays, I decided to show the picture to my artist friends ... There were: Kramskoy, Shishkin, Yaroshenko, P. Bryullov and others. The picture was well lit with lamps, and its impact on my audience exceeded all my expectations ... ”

Look at it, how much tragedy is here! Dark chambers, a rod thrown aside - a murder weapon, a carpet covered in blood, a king sitting on the floor - a madman who had just mortally wounded his son. He presses his head to his chest, as if trying to keep him among the living.

What do you think Repin told with this picture? (About the cruelty of autocracy, the horrors of despotism).

The autocratic power hung, rotted in prisons, drove to hard labor, strangled the best sons of Russia with forced silence.

It was no coincidence that this picture inspired the creation of poems: (a student reads a poem)

I see an old Moscow palace
And blood on the sofa cushions.
There, the father kills his own son,
Ivan kills Ivan.
Self-destructive killer
I don't risk blaming him.
Blame forefather Abraham,
Conceived such a sacrifice,
Who, unable to overcome love,
Ready for death torment
Not knowing what the Lord will keep
His raised hand.

Alexander Gorodnitsky

2. Acquaintance with the creative destiny of V. Garshin.

And, probably, few people know that Tsarevich Ivan Repin wrote from a famous writer. This is Vsevolod Garshin. (Slide number 5). With his martyrdom, with his sacrifice, the ability to empathize with the suffering of others in the most difficult moment of his life - with all his fate. (Appendix 1)

3. The history of the creation of the story “Four days”.

In 1877, the Russian-Turkish war began. Russia stood up for the Bulgarians, who were under the dominion of the Turkish Sultan and were subjected to the most severe oppression.

V.M. Garshin, then a student at the Mining Institute, decided to go to the front as a volunteer. He was enlisted as a private in an infantry regiment and sent to the front lines. In one of his letters to his mother, he wrote:

“...our battalion went to the battlefield<...>remove the dead, and I saw a not-so-pretty picture. The Turks are a huge people, fat and even more bloated from lying in the heat. The stench is terrible. But we were rewarded for everything - we found the wounded. For five days he lay in the bushes with a broken leg. Several times the Turks drove past him, but did not notice. Finally, on July 19, five days after the battle, our 6th company came across the unfortunate. They picked him up and brought him to Kotselevo. His life is out of danger. That's right, saved by a miracle!

The amazing incident struck V. Garshin so much that, having arrived at the bivouac, he immediately began to write his story. Finished it quickly. Two months later, he appeared in the journal Otechestvennye Zapiski.

Garshin hated blood, violence, so the lines of his stories about the war sound like piercing pain. But then he did not yet know to what extent his views on the war, on the tragedy of an individual in the war, coincide with the views of the Russian artist V. Vereshchagin. (Slide number 6).

4. Acquaintance with the paintings of the artist V. Vereshchagin.

In 1876, Vereshchagin came to Turkestan and found himself a witness and participant in a cruel war. Since then, a man at war has become the main character in his paintings. (View slides #7-10 of the presentation).

Let's take a look at these pictures:

1. Sun-drenched Central Asia, sultry skies, sultry sands. Here is the mortally wounded one. Clutching the wound on his chest, he is still running. But this is the run of a dying man. Dead eyes. Another moment and the person will not be.

2. And here is the picture “Forgotten”. A fallen soldier, forgotten on the battlefield, dies in the hot sands.

3. "Luck" - two Bukharans admiring the severed head of a Russian soldier. Now it will be put into a purse. For the head of the murdered will pay generously.

4. And here is "After luck." The corpses of these same Bukharans lie near the fortress wall, and a Russian soldier is smoking a pipe nearby.

How does V. Vereshchagin see the war? (He shows the most terrible thing - indifference and spiritual emptiness. The artist has a tragic face of war. Cruelty, suffering and death of people give rise to inhumanity).

Yes, he portrays war as a terrible evil. The same sees the war and V. Garshin. Both of these artists - the artist of the brush and the artist of the word - denounced the war as a phenomenon. It was on the canvases of the artist that Garshin first saw the war, and three years later he himself became a participant in it.

5. Analysis of the story "Four days".

At home, you read Vsevolod Garshin's story “Four Days” (Appendix 2). With the plot of what picture of V. Vereshchagin does it echo? ("Forgotten")

What did you find special when you read the story? What makes it different from other works? (Many indefinite pronouns).

What feeling fills the whole being of a Russian soldier? (Pain and longing).

What is he thinking about? (About many things, about the house). He asks himself many questions.

How do questions characterize the thoughts of the hero, serve to implement the author's intention?

What suffering? Support with text examples. (Physical - pain in the legs, burning sun, thirst. Moral - he killed a man, an innocent man. This is the nerve of the story).

Was the hero consciously going to kill? (We read the text: I did not want this. I did not want harm to anyone ...).

These lines express the state of mind, probably, of the writer himself.

Is the Turk he killed guilty? (We read the text: And this unfortunate fellah ... he is even less guilty. He was told to go, and he went ...)

Vocabulary work. (Slide number 12).

Fellah is a peasant.

So none of them are to blame.

6. Task. Follow the text how the attitude of the hero towards the Turk changes throughout the story. Make a quote plan.

Plan (Slide number 13):

“Maybe he, like me, has an old mother.”

“Yes, this is a Turk, a corpse. What a huge one."

"You save me, my victim."

"My neighbor - what will become of you?"

What feelings do these quotes convey? (Pity. How many good deeds he could have done if not for the war).

Here they are, the victims of the war. Why doesn't the author say who are the true culprits of the war?

(The main thing for him is to show the unnaturalness of war, its monstrosity, the terrible face of war).

7. Listen to the episode. The student expressively reads the episode of the story. (Slide number 14)

Yes, he was terrible. His hair began to fall out. His skin, naturally black, turned pale and yellow; her swollen face tightened until it burst behind her ear. There were worms. The legs, wrapped in boots, swelled up, and huge bubbles crawled out between the hooks of the boots. And he was all swollen with a mountain.

He didn't have a face. It slipped from the bones. The terrible bone smile seemed to me so disgusting, so terrible as ever. ..This skeleton in a uniform with bright buttons made me shudder.

Here it is, the true face of war, which shudders. The artist Vereshchagin also sees the face of war in a similar way. The finale of his Turkestan series was the painting Apotheosis of War” (Slide No. 15). A mountain of human skulls in the midst of devastation. There is an inscription on the frame: “Dedicated to all great conquerors: past, present and future”.

Explain the meaning of this dedication.

8. Lesson conclusions:

How do you understand the meaning of the title of the story?

What was the key word in our lesson? (War)

Unfortunately, in the history of mankind there are many wars, large and small. And the more civilized this humanity became, the bloodier the wars were. And the task of each of us is to never repeat these four days.

I remember how we ran through the forest, how the bullets buzzed, how the branches they torn off fell, how we made our way through the hawthorn bushes. The shots became more frequent. Something red appeared through the edge, flickering here and there. Sidorov, a young soldier of the first company (“how did he get into our chain?” flashed through my head), suddenly sat down on the ground and silently looked around at me with large, frightened eyes. A stream of blood flowed from his mouth. Yes, I remember it well. I also remember how already almost at the edge, in dense bushes, I saw ... his. He was a huge fat Turk, but I ran straight at him, although I was weak and thin. Something slammed, something huge, it seemed to me, flew past; ringing in my ears. “He shot me,” I thought. And with a cry of horror, he pressed his back against a thick hawthorn bush. It was possible to bypass the bush, but from fear he did not remember anything and climbed onto the thorny branches. With one blow I knocked out his gun, with another I stuck my bayonet somewhere. Something growled, something groaned. Then I ran on. Our shouted "Hurrah!", fell, fired. I remember, and I made several shots, having already left the forest, in a clearing. Suddenly, the "cheers" sounded louder, and we immediately moved forward. That is, not us, but ours, because I stayed. It seemed strange to me. Even stranger was the fact that all of a sudden everything disappeared; all screams and shots fell silent. I did not hear anything, but only saw something blue; it must have been heaven. Then it disappeared too.

I have never been in such a strange position. I seem to be lying on my stomach and see in front of me only a small piece of land. A few blades of grass, an ant crawling upside down with one of them, some pieces of litter from last year's grass - that's my whole world, And I see it with only one eye, because the other is clamped by something hard, it must be a branch on which rests my head. I'm terribly embarrassed, and I want, but I really don't understand why I can't, move. This is how time passes. I hear the crackling of grasshoppers, the buzzing of bees. There is nothing more. Finally, I make an effort, release my right hand from under me and, resting both hands on the ground, I want to kneel.

Something sharp and fast, like lightning, pierces my entire body from my knees to my chest and head, and I fall again. Again darkness, again nothing.

* * *

I woke up. Why do I see stars that shine so brightly in the black and blue Bulgarian sky? Am I not in a tent? Why did I get out of it? I move and feel excruciating pain in my legs.

Yes, I am wounded in battle. Dangerous or not? I grab my feet where it hurts. Both the right and left legs were covered with hardened blood. When I touch them with my hands, the pain is even worse. Pain, like a toothache: constant, pulling at the soul. Ringing in the ears, head heavy. I vaguely understand that I am wounded in both legs. What is it? Why didn't they pick me up? Have the Turks defeated us? I begin to remember what happened to me, at first vaguely, then more clearly, and I come to the conclusion that we are not at all broken. Because I fell (I don’t remember this, however, but I remember how everyone ran forward, but I couldn’t run, and I only had something blue in front of my eyes) - and fell in a clearing at the top of a hill. Our little battalion showed us to this clearing. "Guys, we'll be there!" he shouted to us in his sonorous voice. And we were there: it means that we are not defeated ... Why didn’t they pick me up? After all, here, in the clearing, an open place, everything is visible. After all, I'm probably not the only one lying here. They fired so often. You need to turn your head and look. Now it is more convenient to do this, because even when I woke up and saw grass and an ant crawling upside down, I, trying to get up, did not fall back to my previous position, but turned on my back. That's why I can see these stars.

I get up and sit down. This is difficult when both legs are broken. Several times you have to despair; Finally, with tears in my eyes, which came out from the pain, I sit down.

Above me is a piece of black-blue sky, on which a large star and several small ones are burning, around something dark, high. These are bushes. I'm in the bushes: they didn't find me!

Garshin Vsevolod Mikhailovich

Four days

Garshin Vsevolod Mikhailovich

Four days

I remember how we ran through the forest, how the bullets buzzed, how the branches they torn off fell, how we made our way through the hawthorn bushes. The shots became more frequent. Something red appeared through the edge, flickering here and there. Sidorov, a young soldier of the first company (“how did he get into our chain?” flashed through my head), suddenly sat down on the ground and silently looked around at me with large, frightened eyes. A stream of blood flowed from his mouth. Yes, I remember it well. I also remember how already almost at the edge, in dense bushes, I saw ... him. He was a huge fat Turk, but I ran straight at him, although I was weak and thin. Something popped, something, it seemed to me; a huge one flew by; ringing in my ears. "He shot me," I thought. And with a cry of horror, he pressed his back against a thick hawthorn bush. It was possible to bypass the bush, but from fear he did not remember anything and climbed onto the thorny branches. With one blow I knocked out his gun, with another I stuck my bayonet somewhere. Something growled, something groaned. Then I ran on. Our shouted "Hurrah!", fell, fired. I remember, and I made several shots, having already left the forest, in a clearing. Suddenly, "cheers" were heard louder, and we immediately moved forward. That is, not us, but ours, because I stayed. It seemed strange to me. Even stranger was the fact that all of a sudden everything disappeared; all screams and shots fell silent. I did not hear anything, but only saw something blue; it must have been heaven. Yotom and it disappeared.

Something sharp and fast, like lightning, pierces my entire body from my knees to my chest and head, and I fall again. Again darkness, again nothing.

I woke up. Why do I see stars that shine so brightly in the black and blue Bulgarian sky? Am I not in a tent? Why did I get out of it? I move and feel excruciating pain in my legs.

Yes, I am wounded in battle. Dangerous or not? I grab my feet where it hurts. Both the right and left legs were covered with hardened blood. When I touch them with my hands, the pain is even worse. Pain, like a toothache: constant, pulling at the soul. Ringing in the ears, head heavy. I vaguely understand that I am wounded in both legs. What is it? Why didn't they pick me up? Have the Turks defeated us? I begin to remember what happened to me, at first vaguely, then more clearly, and I come to the conclusion that we are not at all broken. Because I fell (I don’t remember this, however, but I remember how everyone ran forward, but I couldn’t run, and I only had something blue before my eyes) - and fell in a clearing at the top of a hill. Our little battalion showed us to this clearing. "Guys, we'll be there!" he shouted to us in his sonorous voice. And we were there: it means that we are not defeated ... Why didn’t they pick me up? After all, here, in the clearing, an open place, everything is visible. After all, I'm probably not the only one lying here. They fired so often. You need to turn your head and look. Now it is more convenient to do this, because even when I woke up and saw grass and an ant crawling upside down, I, trying to get up, did not fall back to my previous position, but turned on my back. That's why I can see these stars.

I get up and sit down. This is difficult when both legs are broken. Several times you have to despair; Finally, with tears in my eyes, which came out from the pain, I sit down.

Above me is a piece of black-blue sky, on which a large star and several small ones are burning, around something dark, high. These are bushes. I'm in the bushes: they didn't find me!

I can feel the roots of the hair on my head moving.

However, how did I end up in the bushes when they shot at me in the clearing? Probably wounded, I crawled here, unconscious from pain. It is only strange that now I cannot move, but then I managed to drag myself to these bushes. Or maybe I had only one wound then and another bullet finished me already here.

Pale pinkish spots came around me. The big star turned pale, several small ones disappeared. It's the moon rising. It's good to be home now!

Some strange sounds reach me... As if someone is moaning. Yes, this is a moan. Is there someone just as forgotten lying next to me, with broken legs or with a bullet in his stomach? No, the groans are so close, and there seems to be no one around me ... My God, but it's me! Quiet, plaintive moans; do i really hurt that much? Must be. Only I do not understand this pain, because I have a fog in my head, lead. It's better to lie down and fall asleep, sleep, sleep... But will I ever wake up? It does not matter.

At the moment when I am about to be caught, a wide, pale streak of moonlight clearly illuminates the place where I am lying, and I see something dark and large, lying about five paces from me. In some places, it shows glare from moonlight. These are buttons or ammunition. Is it dead or wounded

Anyway, I'm going to bed...

No, it can not be! Ours didn't leave. They are here, they drove out the Turks and remained in this position. Why is there no talk, no crackling fires? Why, I hear nothing from weakness. They are probably here.

Help!.. Help!

Wild, insane hoarse screams come out of my chest, and there is no answer to them. They are loud in the night air. Everything else is silent. Only the crickets are still chirping restlessly. The moon looks at me plaintively with a round face.

If he had been wounded, he would have woken up from such a cry. This is a corpse. Ours or the Turks? Oh my god! It doesn't seem to matter! And sleep descends on my inflamed eyes!

I lie with my eyes closed, although I have long since woken up. I don't want to open my eyes, because I feel sunlight through my closed eyelids: if I open my eyes, it will cut them. And it's better not to move... Yesterday (I think it was yesterday?) I was wounded; a day has passed, others will pass, I will die. Doesn't matter. Better not move. Let the body be still. How nice it would be to stop the work of the brain! But nothing can stop her. Thoughts, memories crowded in my head. However, all this is not for long, soon the end. Only a few lines will remain in the newspapers that, they say, our losses are insignificant: so many were wounded; Ivanov, a private from the volunteers, was killed. No, and the names will not be written; they will simply say: one was killed. One private, like that one little dog...

Current page: 1 (total book has 2 pages)

Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin

Four days

Something sharp and fast, like lightning, pierces my entire body from my knees to my chest and head, and I fall again. Again darkness, again nothing.

* * *

I woke up. Why do I see stars that shine so brightly in the black and blue Bulgarian sky? Am I not in a tent? Why did I get out of it? I move and feel excruciating pain in my legs.

I get up and sit down. This is difficult when both legs are broken. Several times you have to despair; Finally, with tears in my eyes, which came out from the pain, I sit down.

Above me is a piece of black-blue sky, on which a large star and several small ones are burning, around something dark, high. These are bushes. I'm in the bushes: they didn't find me!

I can feel the roots of the hair on my head moving.

However, how did I end up in the bushes when they shot at me in the clearing? Probably wounded, I crawled here, unconscious from the pain. It is only strange that now I cannot move, but then I managed to drag myself to these bushes. Or maybe I had only one wound then and another bullet finished me already here.

Pale pinkish spots came around me. The big star turned pale, several small ones disappeared. It's the moon rising. It's good to be home now!

Some strange sounds reach me ... As if someone is groaning. Yes, this is a moan. Is there someone just as forgotten lying next to me, with broken legs or with a bullet in his stomach? No, the groans are so close, and there seems to be no one around me ... My God, but it's me! Quiet, plaintive moans; do i really hurt that much? Must be. Only I do not understand this pain, because I have a fog in my head, lead. It's better to lie down and fall asleep, sleep, sleep ... But will I ever wake up? It does not matter.

At the moment when I am about to lie down, a wide, pale streak of moonlight clearly illuminates the place where I am lying, and I see something dark and large, lying about five paces from me. In some places, it shows glare from moonlight. These are buttons or ammunition. It is a corpse or a wounded man.

Anyway, I'm going to bed...

- Help! .. Help!

If is he was wounded, he would wake up from such a cry. This is a corpse. Ours or the Turks? Oh my god! It doesn't seem to matter! And sleep falls on my sore eyes.

* * *

I lie with my eyes closed, although I have long since woken up. I don't want to open my eyes, because I feel sunlight through my closed eyelids: if I open my eyes, it will cut them. And it’s better not to move… Yesterday (I think it was yesterday?) I was wounded; a day has passed, others will pass, I will die. Doesn't matter. Better not move. Let the body be still. How nice it would be to stop the work of the brain! But nothing can stop her. Thoughts, memories crowded in my head. However, all this is not for long, soon the end. Only a few lines will remain in the newspapers that, they say, our losses are insignificant: so many were wounded; Ivanov, a private from the volunteers, was killed. No, and the names will not be written; they will simply say: one was killed. One private, like that one little dog...

The whole picture flashes brightly in my mind. It was a long time ago; however, everything, my whole life, that life, when I was not yet lying here with broken legs, was so long ago ... I was walking along the street, a bunch of people stopped me. The crowd stood and silently looked at something white, bloody, plaintively squealing. It was a pretty little dog; the carriage of the horse-drawn railway ran over her. She was dying, that's how I am now. Some janitor pushed the crowd aside, took the dog by the scruff of the neck and carried it away. The crowd dispersed.

Will someone take me away? No, lie down and die. And how good life is!.. That day (when the misfortune happened to the dog) I was happy. I was walking in some kind of intoxication, and it was from what. You memories, don't torment me, leave me! Former happiness, real torment ... let only torment remain, let me not be tormented by memories that involuntarily force me to compare. Ah, longing, longing! You are worse than wounds.

However, it gets hot. The sun burns. I open my eyes, I see the same bushes, the same sky, only in daylight. And here is my neighbor. Yes, this is a Turk, a corpse. How huge! I recognize him, he's the one...

In front of me lies the man I killed. Why did I kill him?

He lies here dead, bloody. Why did fate bring him here? Who is he? Perhaps he, like me, has an old mother. For a long time in the evenings she will sit at the door of her wretched hut and look at the far north: is her beloved son, her worker and breadwinner, coming? ..

And I? And I also... I would even switch with him. How happy he is: he hears nothing, feels no pain from his wounds, no mortal anguish, no thirst... The bayonet went right into his heart. . . Here is a large black hole on the uniform; there is blood around her. I did it.

I didn't want this. I did not want to harm anyone when I went to fight. The thought that I would have to kill people somehow escaped me. I just imagined how I I will substitute my chest under the bullets. And I went and framed.

So what? Fool, fool! And this unfortunate fellah (he is wearing an Egyptian uniform) - he is even less guilty. Before they were put, like herring in a barrel, on a steamer and taken to Constantinople, he had not heard of Russia or Bulgaria. He was told to go, and he went. If he had not gone, they would have beaten him with sticks, otherwise, perhaps, some pasha would have put a bullet into him from a revolver. He walked a long, difficult march from Istanbul to Ruschuk. We attacked, he defended. But, seeing that we, terrible people, not afraid of his patented English Peabody and Martini rifles, keep climbing and climbing forward, he was horrified. When he was about to leave, some little man, whom he could have killed with one blow of his black fist, jumped up and stuck a bayonet in his heart.

Why is he to blame?

And what is my fault, even though I killed him? What am I to blame? Why am I thirsty? Thirst! Who knows what that word means! Even when we were walking across Romania, making fifty verst marches in the terrible forty-degree heat, then I did not feel what I feel now. Ah, if someone would come!

My God! Yes, he probably has water in this huge flask! But you have to get to it. What will it cost! Anyway, I'll get there.

I'm crawling. Legs drag, weakened hands barely move the motionless body. There are two sazhens to the corpse, but for me it is more - not more, but worse - tens of miles. You still need to crawl. Throat burns, burns like fire. Yes, and you will die without water sooner. Still, maybe...

And I'm crawling. Feet cling to the ground, and every movement causes unbearable pain. I scream, I scream with cries, but still I crawl. Finally, here he is. Here is a flask ... it has water - and how much! Seems to be more than half a flask. O! I will have enough water for a long time ... until my death!

You save me, my victim! .. I began to untie the flask, leaning on one elbow, and suddenly, losing my balance, fell face down on the chest of my savior. A strong cadaverous smell was already audible from him.

* * *

I got drunk. The water was warm, but not spoiled, and there was plenty of it. I will live for a few more days. I remember that in the "Physiology of Everyday Life" it is said that without food a person can live for more than a week, if only there was water. Yes, there is also a story of a suicide who starved himself to death. He lived a very long time because he drank.

So what? If I live another five or six days, what will come of it? Ours left, the Bulgarians fled. There is no road nearby. Anyway, to die. Only instead of a three-day agony, I made myself a week. Isn't it better to finish? Near my neighbor lies his gun, an excellent English work. One has only to lend a hand; then - one moment, and the end. The cartridges are lying around right there, in a heap. He didn't get everyone out.

So finish or submit? What? Deliverance? Of death? Wait for the Turks to come and start skinning my wounded legs? It's better to…

No, no need to lose heart; I will fight to the end, to the last strength. Because if they find me, I'm saved. Perhaps the bones are not touched; I will be cured. I will see my homeland, mother, Masha ...

Lord, don't let them know the whole truth! Let them think that I was killed on the spot. What will happen to them when they find out that I suffered for two, three, four days!

Dizzy; my trip to the neighbor completely exhausted me. And then there's that awful smell. How he turned black ... what will happen to him tomorrow or the day after tomorrow? And now I'm lying here only because I don't have the strength to pull myself away. I will rest and crawl to the old place; By the way, the wind blows from there and will carry the stench away from me.

I lie in complete exhaustion. The sun burns my face and hands. Nothing to cover. If only the night would be faster; this seems to be the second one.

Thoughts get confused and I forget.

* * *

I slept for a long time, because when I woke up it was already night. Everything is the same: the wounds hurt, the neighbor lies, just as huge and motionless.

I can't stop thinking about him. Have I really abandoned everything dear, dear, walked here a thousand-mile hike, starved, cold, tormented by the heat; Is it possible, finally, that I am now lying in these torments - only so that this unfortunate person stops living? But have I done anything useful for military purposes other than this murder?

Murder, murderer... And who is it? I!

When I started going to fight, my mother and Masha dissuaded me, although they wept over me. Blinded by the idea, I did not see those tears. I did not understand (now I understand) what I was doing with the beings close to me.

Do you remember? You can't bring back the past.

And what a strange attitude to my act appeared among many acquaintances! "Well, holy fool! Climbing, not knowing what!” How could they say this? How do these words relate to them ideas about heroism, love for the motherland and other such things? After all, in them I imagined all these virtues in my eyes. And yet - I'm "holy fool".

And so I'm going to Chisinau; They put a knapsack and all sorts of military equipment on me. And I go along with thousands, of which there are only a few, like me, who go willingly. The rest would have stayed at home if they had been allowed to. However, they walk the same way as we, the “conscious”, travel thousands of miles and fight just like us, or even better. They fulfill their duties, despite the fact that they would immediately leave and leave - if only they would allow it.

It was blown by a sharp morning breeze. The bushes stirred, a half-asleep bird flew up. The stars have faded. The dark blue sky turned grey, covered with delicate cirrus clouds; gray twilight rose from the ground. It was the third day of my... What do you call it? A life? Agony?

Third... How many of them are left? In any case, a little ... I am very weak and it seems that I will not even be able to move away from the corpse. Soon we will catch up with him and will not be unpleasant to each other.

Need to get drunk. I will drink three times a day: in the morning, at noon and in the evening.

* * *

The sun rose. Its huge disk, all crossed and divided by black branches of bushes, is red as blood. It looks like it's going to be hot today. My neighbor - what will become of you? You are terrible now.

Yes, he was terrible. His hair began to fall out. His skin, black by nature, turned pale and yellow; her swollen face pulled her up until she burst behind her ear. There were worms. The legs, wrapped in boots, swelled up, and huge bubbles crawled out between the hooks of the boots. And he was all swollen with a mountain. What will the sun do to him today?

Lying so close to him is unbearable. I have to crawl away no matter what. But can I? I can still raise my hand, open a flask, get drunk; but to move your heavy, motionless body? Still, I will move, at least a little, at least half a step per hour.

I spend the whole morning in this movement. The pain is strong, but what is it to me now? I don’t remember, I can’t imagine the sensations of a healthy person. I even like getting used to the pain. This morning I crawled away two fathoms and found myself in the same place. But I did not enjoy the fresh air for long, if there can be fresh air within six paces of a rotting corpse. The wind shifts and brings back a stench so strong it makes me sick. The empty stomach contracts painfully and convulsively; all internals are turned over. And the fetid, contaminated air floats on me.

I get frustrated and cry...

* * *

Completely broken, besotted, I lay almost unconscious. Suddenly ... Isn't this a deception of a frustrated imagination? It seems to me that no. Yes, this is a speech. Horse stomp, human dialect. I almost screamed, but I held on. What if they are Turks? What then? To these torments will be added still others, more terrible, from which the hair stands on end, even when you read about them in the newspapers. They will peel off the skin, roast the wounded legs ... Well, if only this; but they are inventive. Is it really better to end your life in their hands than to die here? What if it's ours? O cursed bushes! Why are you overgrown around me with such a thick fence? I see nothing through them; only in one place, as if a window between the branches, opens up a view to me into the distance, into the hollow. There seems to be a brook from which we drank before the fight. Yes, there is also a huge sandstone slab laid across the stream like a bridge. They will probably go through it. The conversation is silent. I can't hear the language they speak: my hearing has also become weak. God! If it's ours... I'll scream for them; they will hear me from the stream. It's better than risking the bashi-bazouks. Why don't they go for so long? I am tired of impatience; I do not even notice the smell of the corpse, although it has not weakened in the least.

And suddenly Cossacks appear at the crossing of the stream! Blue uniforms, red stripes, pikes. There are fifty of them. In front, on an excellent horse, is a black-bearded officer. Fifty had just crossed the stream, he turned his whole body back on the saddle and shouted:

- Trot, ma-arsh!

- Stop, stop, for God's sake! Help, help, brothers! - I shout; but the clatter of stout horses, the clatter of sabers, and the noisy Cossack conversation is louder than my wheezing—and they don't hear me!

Oh curse! Exhausted, I fall face down on the ground and begin to sob. From the flask I overturned flows water, my life, my salvation, my reprieve of death. But I notice this already when there is no more than half a glass of water left, and the rest has gone into the greedy dry earth.

Can I remember the numbness that took possession of me after this terrible incident? I lay motionless, with half-closed eyes. The wind constantly changed and now blew on me with fresh, clean air, then again doused me with a stench. The neighbor that day became more terrible than any description. Once, when I opened my eyes to look at him, I was horrified. He no longer had a face. It slipped from the bones. The terrible skeletal smile, the eternal smile, seemed to me as disgusting, as terrible as ever, although I had happened more than once to hold skulls in my hands and dissect whole heads. This skeleton in a uniform with bright buttons made me shudder. “This is war,” I thought, “here is its image.”

And the sun burns and bakes as before. My hands and face have been burned for a long time. I drank all the rest of the water. The thirst tormented me so much that, having decided to take a small sip, I swallowed everything in one gulp. Oh, why didn't I shout to the Cossacks when they were so close to me! Even if they were Turks, it would still be better. Well, they would have tormented me for an hour or two, but here I don’t know how long I’ll have to wallow here and suffer. My mother, my dear! You will tear out your gray braids, hit your head against the wall, curse the day when you gave birth to me, curse the whole world that you invented war for the suffering of people!

But you and Masha must not hear about my torments. Farewell mother, farewell my bride, my love! Oh, how hard, how bitter! Something under the heart...

That little white dog again! The janitor did not take pity on her, banged her head against the wall and threw her into a pit where rubbish is thrown and slops are poured. But she was alive. And she suffered all day long. And I am more unhappy than her, because I have been tormented for three whole days. Tomorrow - the fourth, then the fifth, the sixth... Death, where are you? Go, go! Take me!

But death does not come and take me. And I lie under this terrible sun, and I do not have a sip of water to refresh my sore throat, and the corpse infects me. He completely melted. Myriads of worms fall from it. How they swarm! When he's eaten and all that's left of him is bones and uniform, then it's my turn. And I will be the same.

Day passes, night passes. All the same. Morning comes. All the same. Another day goes by...

The bushes move and rustle, as if they were talking quietly. "Here you die, die, die!" they whisper. "You won't see, you won't see, you won't see!" - answer the bushes on the other side.

- You won't see them here! – is heard loudly around me.

I shudder and immediately come to my senses. The kind blue eyes of Yakovlev, our corporal, look at me from the bushes.

- Spades! he shouts. “There are two more, ours and theirs.

"No need for shovels, no need to bury me, I'm alive!" I want to scream, but only a faint moan comes out of parched lips.

- God! Is he still alive? Barin Ivanov! Guys! Get in here, our master is alive! Call the doctor!

* * *

Half a minute later they pour water, vodka and something else into my mouth. Then everything disappears.

Swinging steadily, the stretcher moves. This measured movement lulls me to sleep. I wake up, then I forget again. Bandaged wounds do not hurt; some inexpressibly pleasurable feeling is diffused throughout the body ...

- Hundred-oh-oh! 0-drop-ah! Orderlies, fourth shift, march! For a stretcher! Get it, get it up!

This is commanded by Pyotr Ivanovich, our infirmary officer, a tall, thin and very kind man. He is so tall that, turning my eyes in his direction, I constantly see his head with a sparse long beard and shoulders, although four tall soldiers carry a stretcher on their shoulders.

- Pyotr Ivanovich! I whisper.

- What, dove?

Pyotr Ivanovich leans over me.

- Pyotr Ivanovich, what did the doctor tell you? Will I die soon?

- What are you, Ivanov, completeness! You won't die. After all, you have all the bones intact. Such a lucky man! No bones, no arteries. But how did you survive these four and a half days? What did you eat?

- Nothing.

- Did you drink?

- I took a flask from the Turk. Pyotr Ivanovich, I can't talk now. After.

- Well, the Lord is with you, my dear, sleep yourself.

Again a dream, oblivion ...

* * *

I woke up in the divisional infirmary. Doctors and sisters of mercy are standing over me, and besides them, I see the still familiar face of the famous St. Petersburg professor, bending over my feet. His hands are covered in blood. He fumbles at my feet for a short time and turns to me:

- Well, your God is happy, young man! You will be alive. We took one leg from you; Well, yes, it's rubbish. Can you speak?

I can speak and tell them everything that is written here.