Vsevolod Garshin - four days. The whole picture flashes brightly in my imagination

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 tore off fell, how we made our way through the hawthorn bushes. The shots became more frequent. Something red appeared through the edge of the forest, flashing 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 to the ground and silently looked back at me with big, frightened eyes. A stream of blood was flowing from his mouth. Yes, I remember it well. I also remember how almost at the edge, in the thick bushes, I saw... him. He was a huge fat Turk, but I ran straight towards him, although I am weak and thin. Something slammed, something, it seemed to me; a huge one flew past; my ears were ringing. “He shot at me,” I thought. And with a cry of horror he pressed his back against a thick hawthorn bush. It was possible to go around the bush, but from fear he did not remember anything and climbed onto the thorny branches. With one blow I knocked his gun out of his hands, with another I stuck my bayonet somewhere. Something either growled or groaned. Then I ran on. Our people shouted “Hurray!”, fell, and shot. I remember, and I fired several shots, having already left the forest, in a clearing. Suddenly the “hurray” sounded louder, and we immediately moved forward. That is, not us, but ours, because I stayed. This seemed strange to me. What was even stranger was that suddenly everything disappeared; all the screams and shots stopped. I didn't hear anything, but saw only something blue; it must have been heaven. Yotom and it disappeared.

I have never been in such a strange position. I seem to be lying on my stomach and see only a small piece of earth in front of me. A few blades of grass, an ant crawling with one of them upside down, some pieces of rubbish from last year’s grass - this is my whole world, and I see it only with one eye, because the other is clamped by something hard, it must be a branch on which my head rests. I feel terribly embarrassed, and I want, but I absolutely don’t understand why I can’t, to move. This is how time passes. I hear the clicking of grasshoppers, the buzzing of bees. There is nothing more. Finally, I make an effort, release my right arm from under me and, pressing 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 glow 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 was wounded in battle. Dangerous or not? I grab my legs where it hurts. Both the right and left legs were covered with crusty blood. When I touch them with my hands, the pain is even worse. The pain is like a toothache: constant, tugging at the soul. There is a ringing in my ears, my head feels heavy. I vaguely understand that I was wounded in both legs. What is this? Why didn't they pick me up? Did the Turks really defeat 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 broken at all. Because I fell (I don’t remember this, however, but I remember how everyone ran forward, but I couldn’t run, and all I had left was something blue before my eyes) - and I fell in a clearing at the top of the hill. Our small battalion showed us to this clearing. "Guys, we'll be there!" - he shouted to us in his ringing voice. And we were there: that means we are not broken... Why didn’t they pick me up? After all, here in the clearing, open place, everything is seen. After all, I’m probably not the only one lying here. They shot so often. You need to turn your head and look. Now it’s more convenient to do this, because even then, when I woke up, I saw grass and an ant crawling upside down, while trying to get up, I did not fall into my previous position, but turned on my back. That's why I can see these stars.

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

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

I 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? I must have been wounded, I crawled here, unconscious from the pain. The only strange thing is that now I can’t move, but then I managed to drag myself to these bushes. Or maybe I only had one wound then and another bullet finished me off here.

Pale pinkish spots appeared around me. The big star turned pale, several small ones disappeared. This is the moon rising. How nice it is to be home now!..

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

At that moment, when I am about to be caught, a wide pale strip of moonlight clearly illuminates the place where I am lying, and I see something dark and large lying about five steps from me. Here and there you can see reflections from the moonlight. These are buttons or ammunition. Is this a corpse or a wounded person?

Anyway, I'll go to bed...

No, it can not be! Ours didn't leave. They are here, they knocked out the Turks and remained in this position. Why is there no talking, no crackling of fires? But because I’m weak, I can’t hear anything. They're probably here.

Help!.. Help!

Wild, crazy hoarse screams burst from my chest, and there is no answer to them. They echo loudly in the night air. Everything else is silent. Only the crickets are still chirping restlessly. Luna looks at me pitifully with her round face.

If he had been wounded, he would have woken up from such a scream. This is a corpse. Ours or the Turks? Oh my god! As if it doesn't matter! And sleep falls on my sore eyes!

I lie with my eyes closed, although I have already woken up a long time ago. I don't want to open my eyes because I feel through my closed eyelids sunlight: if I open my eyes, he 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. It's better not to move. Let the body be still. How nice it would be to stop the brain working too! But nothing can stop her. Thoughts and memories are crowded in my head. However, all this is not for long, it will end soon. Only a few lines will remain in the newspapers, saying that our losses are insignificant: so many were wounded; Private soldier Ivanov was killed. No, they won’t write down their names either; They will simply say: one was killed. One private, like that one little dog...

The whole picture flashes brightly in my imagination.

It was a long time ago; however, everything, my whole life, that life when I was not yet lying here with my legs broken, was so long ago... I was walking down the street, a group of people stopped me. The crowd stood and silently looked at something white, bloody, and squealing pitifully. It was a cute little dog; a horse-drawn railway carriage ran over her. She was dying, just like me now. Some janitor pushed the crowd aside, took the dog by the collar 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 with the dog) I was happy. I walked in some kind of intoxication, and that was why. You, memories, do not torment me, leave me! Past happiness, present torment... let only torment remain, let me not be tormented by memories that involuntarily force me to compare. Ah, melancholy, melancholy! You are worse than the wounds.

Philological analysis of V.M. Garshin’s story “Four Days”
Completed by: Drozdova N., 11B class, Municipal Educational Institution Secondary School No. 8, Tomsk
Checked by: Burtseva E.V., teacher of Russian language and literature

Why was Garshin’s story “Four Days” chosen for analysis? V.M. Garshin once became famous for this story (1); thanks to the special “Garshin” style, which first appeared in this story, he became a famous Russian writer. However, readers of our time have virtually forgotten this story, they do not write about it, they do not study it. However, no
There is no doubt about the artistic merits of the story; its “quality” was written by Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin, the author of the wonderful “Red Flower” and “Attalea Princeps”.
The choice of the author and the work influenced the fact that the subject of attention will primarily be artistic details, which, as a rule, carry the main semantic load in the stories of V.M. Garshin (2). IN little story“Four Days” is especially noticeable. In the analysis we will take into account this feature of the Garshin style.
Garshin's truthful, fresh attitude towards the war was artistically embodied in the form of a new unusual style of sketchy sketches, with attention to seemingly unnecessary details and details. The emergence of such a style, reflecting the author’s point of view on the events of the story, was facilitated not only by Garshin’s deep knowledge of the truth about the war, but also by the fact that he was fond of the natural sciences (botany, zoology, physiology, psychiatry), which taught him to notice “infinitesimal moments” reality. Besides, in student years Garshin was close to the circle of Peredvizhniki artists, who taught him to look at the world insightfully, to see the significant in the small and private.
The theme of the story “Four Days” is easy to formulate: a man at war. This theme was not an original invention of Garshin, it was quite often encountered both in previous periods of the development of Russian literature (for example, “military prose” of the Decembrists F.N. Glinka, A.A. Bestuzhev-Marlinsky, etc.), and among contemporary Garshin authors
(For example, " Sevastopol stories"L.N. Tolstoy). One can even talk about the traditional solution to this topic in Russian literature, which began with V.A. Zhukovsky’s poem “The Singer in the Camp of Russian Warriors” (1812). There was always talk about major historical events that arise as the sum of the actions of individual ordinary people, where in some cases people are aware of their impact on the course of history (if it is, for example, Alexander I, Kutuzov or Napoleon), in others they participate in history unconsciously.
Garshin made some changes to this traditional theme. He brought the topic “man at war” beyond the topic “man and history”, as if he transferred the topic to another problematic and strengthened the independent significance of the topic, which makes it possible to explore existential problematics.
The problematic of Garshin’s story can be defined as philosophical or as a novel. The latter definition is more accurately suitable in this case: the story does not show a person in general, that is, a person not in the philosophical sense, but a specific person experiencing strong, shocking experiences and overestimating his attitude towards life. The horror of war does not lie in the need to perform heroic deeds and sacrifice oneself, these are the picturesque visions that volunteer Ivanov (and, apparently, Garshin himself) imagined before the war, the horror of war lies in something else, in the fact that you can’t even imagine it in advance. Namely:
1) The hero reasons: “I didn’t want harm to anyone when I went to fight. The thought of having to kill people somehow escaped me. I could only imagine how I would expose my chest to bullets. And I went and set it up. So what? Stupid, stupid! (3, p.7). A person in war, even with the most noble and good intentions, inevitably becomes a carrier of evil, a killer of other people.
2) A person in war suffers not from the pain that a wound generates, but from the uselessness of this wound and pain, and also from the fact that a person turns into
an abstract unit that is easy to forget: “There will be a few lines in the newspapers saying that our losses are insignificant: so many were wounded; Private soldier Ivanov was killed. No, they won’t write down their names either; They will simply say: one was killed. One was killed, like that little dog” (3, p.6) There is nothing heroic or beautiful in the wounding and death of a soldier, this is the most ordinary death that cannot be beautiful. The hero of the story compares his fate with the fate of a dog he remembered from childhood: “I was walking down the street, a bunch of people stopped me. The crowd stood and silently looked at something white, bloody, and squealing pitifully. It was a cute little dog; a horse-drawn railway carriage ran over her, she was dying, just like me now. Some janitor pushed the crowd aside, took the dog by the collar and carried it away. The janitor did not take pity on her, hit her head against the wall and threw her into a pit where they throw rubbish and pour slops. But she was alive and suffered for three more days” (3, pp. 6-7, 13) Like that dog, a man in war turns into garbage, and his blood into slop. There is nothing sacred left from a person.
3) War completely changes all values human life, good and evil are confused, life and death change places. The hero of the story, waking up and realizing his tragic situation, realizes with horror that next to him
lies the enemy he killed, a fat Turk: “Before me lies the one I killed
Human. Why did I kill him? He lies here dead, bloodied.
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 mud hut and look at the distant north: is her beloved son, her worker and breadwinner, coming? And I? And I also would even change with him. How happy he is: he hears nothing, feels no pain from his wounds, no mortal melancholy, no thirst” (3, p. 7) A living person envyes a dead, corpse!
The nobleman Ivanov, lying next to the decomposing stinking corpse of a fat Turk, does not disdain the terrible corpse, but almost indifferently observes all the stages of its decomposition: first, “a strong corpse smell was heard” (3, p. 8), then “his hair began to fall out. His skin, naturally black, became pale and yellowed; the swollen ear stretched until it burst behind the ear. There were worms swarming there. The legs, wrapped in boots, swelled, and huge bubbles came out between the hooks of the boots. And he swelled up like a mountain” (3, p. 11), then “he no longer had a face. It slid from the bones” (3, p. 12), finally “he completely blurred. Myriads of worms fall from it” (3, p. 13). A living person does not feel disgust towards a corpse! And so much so that he crawls towards him in order to drink warm water from his flask: “I began to untie the flask, leaning on one elbow, and suddenly, losing my balance, I fell face down on the chest of my savior. A strong cadaverous smell could already be heard from him” (3, p.8). Everything has changed and mixed up in the world if the corpse is the savior
What are the features of Garshin’s style and the meaning of artistic details and details?
The world depicted in the story is distinguished by the fact that it does not have obvious integrity, but, on the contrary, is very fragmented. Instead of the forest in which the battle takes place at the very beginning of the story, details are shown: hawthorn bushes; branches torn off by bullets; thorny branches; ant, “some pieces of rubbish from last year’s grass” (3, p.3); the crackling of grasshoppers, the buzzing of bees, all this diversity is not united by anything whole. The sky is exactly the same: instead of a single spacious vault or endlessly ascending heavens, “I saw only something blue; it must have been heaven. Then it disappeared” (3, p.4). The world does not have integrity, which fully corresponds to the idea of the work as a whole; war is chaos, evil, something meaningless, incoherent, inhuman; war is the disintegration of living life.
The depicted world lacks integrity not only in its spatial aspect, but also in its temporal aspect. Time develops and is not consistent, progressive, irreversible, as in real life, and not cyclically, as is often the case in works of art, here time begins anew every day and each time questions seemingly already resolved by the hero arise anew. On the first day in the life of soldier Ivanov, we see him at the edge of the forest, where a bullet hit him and seriously wounded him. Ivanov woke up and, feeling himself, realized what had happened to him. On the second day, he again solves the same questions: “I woke up. Am I not in a tent? Why did I get out of it? Yes, I was wounded in battle. Is it dangerous or not? (3, p.4) On the third day, he repeats everything again: “Yesterday (it seems like it was yesterday?) I was wounded" (3, p.6).
Time is divided into unequal and meaningless segments, still similar to a clock, into parts of the day; these time units seem to add up in the sequence first day, second day, however, these segments and time sequences do not have any pattern, they are disproportionate, meaningless: the third day exactly repeats the second, and between the first and third days the interval seems to the hero to be much more than a day and so on. The time in the story is unusual: it is not an absence of time, similar to, say, Lermontov’s world, in which the hero-demon lives in eternity and does not realize the difference between a moment and a century (4), Garshin shows dying time, four days pass before the reader’s eyes. the life of a dying person, and it is clearly seen that death is expressed not only in the rotting of the body, but also in the loss of the meaning of life, in the loss of the meaning of time, in the disappearance of the spatial perspective of the world. Garshin showed not a whole or fractional world, but a disintegrating world.
This feature of the artistic world in the story led to the fact that artistic details began to have special significance.
Garshin’s increased attention to detail is not accidental: as mentioned above, he knew the truth about the war from the personal experience of a volunteer soldier, he was fond of the natural sciences, which taught him to notice the “infinitesimal moments” of reality; this is the first, so to speak, “biographical” cause. The second reason for the increased importance of artistic detail in Garshin’s artistic world is the theme, the problematic, the idea of the story: the world is falling apart, splitting into meaningless incidents, random deaths, useless actions, etc.
The most noticeable detail of the artistic world of the story is the sky. As already noted in our work, space and time in the story are fragmented, so even the sky is something indefinite, like a random fragment of the real sky. Having been wounded and lying on the ground, the hero of the story “didn’t hear anything, but saw only something blue; it must have been heaven. Then it disappeared” (3, p.4), after some time waking up from sleep, he will again turn his attention to the sky: “Why do I see stars that shine so brightly in the black-blue Bulgarian sky? Above me is a piece of black-blue sky, on which a large star and several small ones are burning, and there is something dark and tall around. These are bushes” (3, pp. 4-5). This is not even the sky, but something similar to the sky; it has no depth, it is at the level of the bushes hanging over the face of the wounded man; this sky is not an ordered cosmos, but something black and blue, a patch in which, instead of the impeccably beautiful bucket of the constellation Ursa Major, there is some unknown “star and several small ones”, instead of the guiding Polar Star, there is simply a “big star”. The sky has lost its harmony; there is no order or meaning in it. This is another sky, not from this world, this is the sky of the dead. After all, this is the sky above the corpse of a Turk
Since a “piece of sky” is an artistic detail, and not a detail, it (more precisely, it is a “piece of sky”) has its own rhythm, changing as events develop. Lying face up on the ground, the hero sees the following: “Pale pinkish spots were moving around me. The big star turned pale, several small ones disappeared. This is the moon rising” (3, p. 5) The author stubbornly does not call the recognizable constellation Ursa Major by its name and his hero does not recognize it either, this happens because these are completely different stars, and a completely different sky.
It is appropriate to compare the sky of Garshin’s story with the sky of Austerlitz from L. Tolstoy’s “War and Peace”, where the hero finds himself in a similar situation, he is also wounded, he is also looking at the sky. The similarity of these episodes has long been noticed by readers and researchers of Russian literature (1). Soldier Ivanov, listening in the night, clearly hears “some strange sounds”: “It’s as if someone is moaning. Yes, it's a groan. The moans are so close, but it seems like there’s no one around me. My God, it’s me!” (3, p.5). Let’s compare this with the beginning of the “Austerlitz episode” from the life of Andrei Bolkonsky in Tolstoy’s epic novel: “On Pratsenskaya Mountain lay Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, bleeding, and, without knowing it, he moaned a quiet, pitiful and childish groan” (vol. 1, part 3, chapter XIX)(5). Alienation from one’s own pain, one’s groan, one’s own body is the motive connecting two heroes and two works—this is only the beginning of the similarities. Further, the motive of forgetting and awakening coincides, as if the hero is being reborn, and, of course, the image of the sky. Bolkonsky “opened his eyes. Above him was again the same high sky with floating clouds rising even higher, through which a blue infinity could be seen” (5). The difference from the sky in Garshin’s story is obvious: Bolkonsky sees, although the sky is distant, but the sky is alive, blue, with floating clouds. Bolkonsky's wounding and his merging with the heavens is a peculiar situation invented by Tolstoy in order to make the hero realize what is happening, his real role in historical events, and correlate the scale. Bolkonsky's wounding is an episode from a large plot, Austerlitz's high and clear sky is an artistic detail that clarifies the meaning of that grandiose image of the firmament, that quiet, pacifying sky that appears hundreds of times in Tolstoy's four-volume work. This is the root of the difference between similar episodes of the two works.
The narration in the story “Four Days” is told in the first person (“I remember,” “I feel,” “I woke up”), which, of course, is justified in a work whose purpose is to explore the mental state of a senselessly dying person. The lyricism of the narrative does not lead to sentimental pathos, but to increased psychologism, to a high degree of authenticity in the depiction of the hero’s emotional experiences.
The plot and composition of the story is interesting. Formally, the plot can be defined as cumulative, since the plot events seem to be strung together one after another in an endless sequence: day one, day two. However, due to the fact that time and space in the artistic world of the story are, as it were, spoiled, there is no cumulative movement . Under such conditions, a cyclical organization within each plot episode and compositional part becomes noticeable: on the first day, Ivanov tried to determine his place in the world, the events preceding it, possible consequences, and then on the second, third and fourth day he will repeat the same thing again. The plot develops as if in circles, all the time returning to its original state, at the same time the cumulative sequence is clearly visible: every day the corpse of the murdered Turk decomposes more and more, more and more terrible thoughts and deeper answers to the question of the meaning of life come to Ivanov. Such a plot, combining cumulativeness and cyclicity in equal proportions, can be called turbulent.
There is a lot of interesting things in the subjective organization of the story, where the second actor not a living person, but a corpse. The conflict in this story is unusual: it is complex, incorporating the old conflict between the soldier Ivanov and his closest relatives, the confrontation between the soldier Ivanov and the Turk, the complex confrontation between the wounded Ivanov and
the corpse of a Turk and many others. etc. It is interesting to analyze the image of the narrator, who seemed to hide himself inside the hero’s voice.
The story “Four Days” has unexpected intertextual connections with the New Testament Revelation of John the Theologian or Apocalypse, which tells about the last six days of humanity before the Last Judgment. In several places in the story, Garshin places hints or even direct indications of the possibility of such a comparison, for example: “I am more unhappy than her [the dog], because I have been suffering for three whole days. Tomorrow is the fourth, then the fifth, the sixth. Death, where are you? Go, go! Take me!" (3, p.13)
In the future, Garshin’s story, which shows the instant transformation of a person into garbage, and his blood into slop, turns out to be connected with the famous story by A. Platonov “Garbage Wind,” which repeats the motif of the transformation of a person and the human body into garbage and slop.

LITERATURE
Kuleshov V.I. History of Russian literature of the 19th century. (70-90s) - M.: Higher school, 1983. - P.172.
Byaly G.A. Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin. – L.: Education, 1969. – P.15
Garshin V.M. Stories. – M.: Pravda, 1980.
Lominadze S. The poetic world of M.Yu. Lermontov. – M., 1985.
Tolstoy L.N. Collected works in 12 volumes. T.3. – M.: Pravda, 1987. – P.515.

Garshin Vsevolod Mikhailovich

Four days

Garshin Vsevolod Mikhailovich

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

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

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

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

Pale pinkish spots appeared around me. The big star turned pale, several small ones disappeared. This is the moon rising. How nice it is to be home now!..

Anyway, I'll go to bed...

Help!.. Help!

If he had been wounded, he would have woken up from such a scream. This is a corpse. Ours or the Turks? Oh my god! As if it doesn't matter! And sleep falls on my sore eyes!

I lie with my eyes closed, although I have already woken up a long time ago. I don’t want to open my eyes, because I feel the 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. It's better not to move. Let the body be still. How nice it would be to stop the brain working too! But nothing can stop her. Thoughts and memories are crowded in my head. However, all this is not for long, it will end soon. Only a few lines will remain in the newspapers, saying that our losses are insignificant: so many were wounded; Private soldier Ivanov was killed. No, they won’t write down their names either; They will simply say: one was killed. One private, like that one little dog...

Mi kushas kun fermitaj okuloj, malgrau ke jam delonge vekighis. Mi ne volas malfermi la okulojn, char mi sentas tra la fermitaj palpebroj la sunan lumon: se mi malfermos la okulojn, ghi dolorigos ilin. Ja estas pli bone tute ne movighi... Hierau (shajnas, tio estis hierau?) oni min vundis; pasis diurno, pasos alia, kaj mi mortos. Tutegale. Prefer ne movighi. La corpo estu senmova. Kiel bone estus haltigi ankau laboron de la cerbo! Sed ghin oni neniel povas reteni. Pensoj, rememoroj svarmas en la kapo. Tamen chio chi estas ne por longe, baldau estos fino. Nur en jhurnaloj restos kelke da linioj, ke niaj perdoj estas nekonsiderindaj: da vunditoj tiom; mortigita ordinarulo el volontuloj Ivanov. Ne, ech la nomon oni ne skribos; simple diros: mortigita unu. Unu ordinarulo, kiel tiu hundeto.
Tuta bildo hele shaltighas en mia imago. Tio estis antaulonge; tamen, chio, tuta mia vivo, tiu vivo, kiam mi ankorau ne kushis chi tie kun rompitaj kruroj, estis tiel antaulonge... Mi iris lau strato, areto da homoj haltigis min. La homamaso staris kaj silente rigardis al io blanketa, prisangita, kompatige jelpanta. Tio estis malgranda bela hundeto; vagono de chevala urba fervojo transveturis ghin. Ghi estis mortanta, ghuste kiel mi nun. Iu kortisto dispushis la homamason, prenis la hundeton je kolfelo kaj forportis. La amaso disiris.
Chu forportos min iu? Ne, kushu kaj mortadu. Sed kia bela estas la vivo!.. En tiu tago (kiam okazis la malfelicho al la hundeto) mi estis felicha. Mi iris en ia ebrieco, kaj ja estis pro kio. Vi, rememoroj, ne turmentu min, lasu min! Estinta felicho, estantaj turmentoj... restu nur la suferoj, ne turmentu min la rememoroj, kiuj nevole igas komparadi... Ah, sopiro, sopiro! Ci estas pli malbona ol la vundoj.
Dume farighas varmege. La suno pribruligas. Mi malfermas la okulojn, vidas la samajn arbedojn, la saman chielon, nur che taga lumo. Kaj jen mia najbaro. Jes, tio estas turko, kadavro. Kia grandega! Mi rekonas lin, li estas tiu sama...
Antau mi kushas mortigita de mi homo. Pro kio mi lin mortigis?
Li kushas chi tie morta, sanga. Kial la sorto alpelis lin chi tien? Kiu li estas? Povas esti, ankau li, kiel mi, havas maljunan patrinon. Longe shi dum vesperoj sidados che l" pordo de sia mizera kabanacho kaj rigardados al la malproksima nordo: chu ne iras shia amata filo, shia laboranto kaj nutranto?..
What do you mean? Kaj mi same... Mi ech intershanghus kun li. Kiel felicha li estas: li audas nenion, sentas nek doloron pro vundoj, nek mortan sopiron, nek soifon... La bajoneto eniris al li rekte en la koron... Jen sur la uniformo granda nigra truo: chirkau ghi estas sango.Tion faris mi.
Mi ne volis tion. Mi volis malbonon al neniu, kiam mi iris al la milito. Penso, ke ankau mi devos mortigadi, iel ne venis al mi. Mi nur imagadis, kielmi metadosmian bruston sub kuglojn. Kaj mi ekiris kaj metis.
Nu kyo do? Malsaghulo, malsaghulo! Kaj chi tiu malfelicha felaho (sur li estas egipta uniformo) - li estas kulpa ankorau malpli. Antau ol oni ilin metis, kiel sardelojn en barelon, sur shipon kaj ekveturigis al Konstantinopolo, li ech ne audis pri Rusio, nek pri Bulgario. Oni ordonis al li iri, kaj li ekiris. Se li ne ekirus, oni lin batus per bastonoj, au, povas esti, iu pashao enigus en lin kuglon el revolvero. Li iris longan malfacilan vojon de Stambulo ghis Rushchuko. Ni atakis, li defendis sin. Sed, vidante, ke ni, timigaj homoj ne timantaj lian patentan anglan pafilon de Pibodi&Martini chiam rampas kaj rampas antauen, li eksentis teruron. Kiam li volis foriri, iu malgranda hometo, kiun li povus mortigi per unu bato de sia nigra pugno, alsaltis kaj enpikis al li bajoneton en la koron.
Pri kio do li estas kulpa?
Kaj pri kio estas kulpa mi, kvankam mi mortigis lin? Pri kio mi estas kulpa? Pro kio min turmentas la soifo? Soifo! Kiu scias, kion signifas chi tiu vorto! Ech tiam, kiam ni iris tra Rumanio, farante en terura kvardekgrada varmego transirojn po kvindek verstoj, tiam mi ne sentis tion, kion mi sentas nun. Ah, se iu ajn venus!
Dio mia! Ja en lia grandega akvujo eble estas akvo! Sed mi devas ghisrampi lin. Kion tio kostos! Tutegale, mi ghisrampos.
Mi rampas. La kruroj trenighas, la senfortighintaj brakoj apenau movas la senmovan korpon. Ghis la kadavro estas proksimume du klaftoj, sed por mi tio estas pli multe - ne pli multe, sed pli malbone, ol dekoj da verstoj. Tamen estas necese rampi. La gorgho brulas, bruligas, kiel per fajro. Kaj ja sen akvo mi mortos pli baldau. Tamen, povas esti...
Kaj mi rampas. La piedoj sin krochas je tero, kaj chiu movo elvokas netolereblan doloron. Mi krias, sed tamen rampas. Fine jen li. Jen la akvujo... en ghi estas akvo - kaj kiel multe! Shajnas, pli ol duono. Ho! La akvo sufichos al mi por longe... ghis la morto!
Vi savas min, mia viktimo!.. Mi komencis deligi la akvujon, min apoginte sur unu kubuton, kaj subite, perdinte ekvilibron, falis per la vizagho sur la bruston de mia savanto. De li jam estis sentebla forta kadavra odoro.

Dear friend, we are absolutely sure that the story “Four Days” by V. M. Garshin will be instructive for you and you will be able to learn a lesson from it. When faced with such strong, strong-willed and kind qualities of the hero, you involuntarily feel the desire to transform yourself for the better. “Good always triumphs over evil” - on this foundation will be built a creation similar to this one, with early years laying the foundation for our understanding of the world. Thanks to children's developed imagination, they quickly revive colorful pictures of the world around them in their imagination and fill in the gaps with their visual images. All descriptions of the environment are created and presented with a feeling of deepest love and appreciation for the object of presentation and creation. The plot is simple and as old as the world, but each new generation finds in it something relevant and useful. It is sweet and joyful to immerse yourself in a world in which love, nobility, morality and selflessness always prevail, with which the reader is edified. “Four Days” by Garshin V. M. read for free online is very interesting for those who are tired of Shrek, Transformers and other similar and meaningless works.

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

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

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

I 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? I must have been wounded, I crawled here, unconscious from pain. The only strange thing is that now I can’t move, but then I managed to drag myself to these bushes. Or maybe I only had one wound then and another bullet finished me off here.

Pale pinkish spots appeared around me. The big star turned pale, several small ones disappeared. This is the moon rising. How nice it is to be home now!..

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

Anyway, I'll go to bed...

“Help!.. Help!”

If he had been wounded, he would have woken up from such a scream. This is a corpse. Ours or the Turks? Oh my god! As if it doesn't matter! And sleep falls on my sore eyes!
* * *

I lie with my eyes closed, although I have already woken up a long time ago. I don’t want to open my eyes, because I feel the 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. It's better not to move. Let the body be still. How nice it would be to stop the brain working too! But nothing can stop her. Thoughts and memories are crowded in my head. However, all this will not last long, it will end soon. Only a few lines will remain in the newspapers, saying that our losses are insignificant: so many were wounded; Private soldier Ivanov was killed. No, they won’t write down their names either; They will simply say: one was killed. One private, like that one little dog...

The whole picture flashes brightly in my imagination.

The crowd dispersed.

However, it is getting hot. The sun is burning. I open my eyes and 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, this is the same...
The man I killed lies in front of me. Why did I kill him?

He lies here dead, bloodied. 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 mud hut and look at the distant north: is her beloved son, her worker and breadwinner, coming?..

And I? And I too... I would even switch with him. How happy he is: he hears nothing, feels no pain from his wounds, no mortal melancholy, no thirst... The bayonet went straight into his heart... There's a big one on his uniform black hole; there is blood around her. I did it.

I didn't want this. I didn’t mean harm to anyone when I went to fight. The thought that I would have to kill people somehow escaped me. I could only imagine how I would expose my chest to bullets. And I went and set it up.

So what? Stupid, stupid! And this unfortunate fellah [peasant in the Middle East] (he is wearing an Egyptian uniform) - he is even less to blame. Before they were put, like sardines in a barrel, on a steamship and taken to Constantinople, he had never heard of either Russia or Bulgaria. They told him 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 in him from a revolver. He walked a long, difficult hike from Istanbul to Rushchuk [Ruschuk is the Turkish name for the Bulgarian city of Ruse, located on the banks of the Danube]. We attacked, he defended himself. But seeing that we, terrible people, not afraid of his patented English Peabody and Martini rifle, were still climbing and climbing forward, he was horrified. When he wanted 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.

What is his fault?

And why am I to blame, even though I killed him? What is my fault? Why am I thirsty? Thirst! Who knows what this word means! Even when we were walking through Romania, making fifty-mile treks in the terrible forty-degree heat, then I didn’t feel what I feel now. Oh, if only someone would come!

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

I'm crawling. The legs drag, weakened arms barely move the motionless body. The corpse is two fathoms away, but for me it is more - not more, but worse - tens of miles. Still, you need to crawl. The throat burns, burns like fire. And you'll die sooner without water. Still, maybe...

And I'm crawling. My legs cling to the ground, and every movement causes unbearable pain. I scream, scream and scream, but still I crawl. Finally here he is. Here is a flask... there is water in it - and how much! It seems more than half a flask. ABOUT! The water will last me a long time... until I die!

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

I got drunk. The water was warm, but not spoiled, and there was a lot of it. I'll live a few more days. I remember in “The Physiology of Everyday Life” [a book by the English philosopher and literary critic George Henry Lewis] it is said that a person can live without food for more than a week, as long as there is water. Yes, it also tells the story of a suicide who starved himself to death. He lived a very long time because he drank.

So what? Even if I live another five or six days, what will happen? Our people left, the Bulgarians fled. There is no road nearby. It's all the same - dying. Only instead of a three-day agony, I gave myself a week-long one. Isn't it better to cum? Near my neighbor lies his gun, an excellent English work. All you have to do is reach out your hand; then - one moment, and it’s over. The cartridges are lying around in a heap. He didn't have time to let everyone out.

So should I finish or wait? What? Deliverance? Of death? Wait for the Turks to come and start skinning my wounded legs? It's better to do it yourself...

No, there is no need to lose heart; I will fight to the end, to my last strength. After all, if they find me, I'm saved. Perhaps the bones are untouched; I will be cured. I will see my homeland, mother, Masha...

Lord, don't let them find out 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 my neighbor completely exhausted me. And then there's this terrible 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’ll rest and crawl back to my old place; By the way, the wind blows from there and will carry the stench away from me.

I lie there completely exhausted. The sun is burning my face and hands. There is nothing to cover yourself with. If only the night could come sooner; this seems to be the second one.

My thoughts get confused and I forget myself.
* * *

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

I can't help but think about him. Did I really abandon everything dear and dear, walked here on a thousand-mile trek, was hungry, cold, tormented by the heat; Is it really possible that I am now lying in these torments just so that this unfortunate man stops living? But have I done anything useful for military purposes other than this murder?

Murder, murderer... And who? I!

When I decided to go fight, my mother and Masha dissuaded me, although they cried over me. Blinded by the idea, I did not see these tears. I did not understand (now I understand) what I was doing to the creatures close to me.

Should I remember? You can't undo the past.

And what a strange attitude many acquaintances had towards my action! “Well, holy fool! He’s climbing without knowing what!” How could they say this? How do such words fit in with their ideas about heroism, love for the motherland and other such things? After all, in their eyes I represented all these virtues. And yet, I am a “holy fool.”

And now 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 perhaps there are only a few who, like me, come willingly. The rest would have stayed home if they were allowed to. However, they walk just like us, the “conscious” ones, cover thousands of miles and fight just like us, or even better. They fulfill their duties, despite the fact that they would immediately give up and leave - if only they would allow them.

It blew with a sharp morning wind. The bushes began to stir, and a half-asleep bird fluttered up. The stars have faded. The dark blue sky turned grey, covered with delicate feathery clouds; gray twilight rose from the ground. The third day of my... What should I call it? Life? Agony?

Third... How many of them are left? In any case, a little... I am very weak and it seems that I won’t 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: morning, noon and evening.
* * *

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

Yes, he was terrible. His hair began to fall out. His skin, naturally black, became pale and yellowed; the bloated face stretched it until it burst behind the ear. There were worms swarming there. The legs, wrapped in boots, swelled and huge bubbles came out between the hooks of the boots. And he was all swollen with a mountain. What will the sun do to him today?

It's unbearable to lie so close to him. I must crawl away at all costs. But can I? I can still raise my hand, open a flask, drink; but - to move your heavy, motionless body? I will still move, at least a little, at least half a step per hour.

My whole morning passes in this movement. The pain is severe, but what is it to me now? I don’t remember anymore, I can’t imagine the feelings of a healthy person. I even seemed to get used to the pain. This morning I crawled 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 six steps from a rotting corpse. The wind changes and again hits me with a stench so strong that I feel sick. The empty stomach contracts painfully and convulsively; all the insides turn over. And the stinking, contaminated air floats towards me.
I get desperate and cry...
* * *

Completely broken, drugged, I lay almost unconscious. Suddenly... Isn't this a deception of a frustrated imagination? I think not. Yes, this is talk. Horse stomping, human talk. I almost screamed, but held back. What if they are Turks? What then? To these torments will be added other, more terrible ones, which make your hair stand on end, even when you read about them in the newspapers. They will rip off the skin, fry the wounded legs... It’s good if that’s all; but they are inventive. Is it really better to end my life in their hands than to die here? What if it's ours? Oh damned bushes! Why have you built such a thick fence around me? I can't see anything through them; only in one place does it seem like a window between the branches opens up to me a view into the distance into the ravine. It seems there is a stream there from which we drank before the battle. Yes, there is a huge sandstone slab laid across the stream like a bridge. They will probably go through it. The conversation stops. I cannot hear the language they speak: my hearing has weakened. God! If these are ours... I will shout to them; they will hear me even from the stream. It's better than risking falling into the clutches of bashi-bazouks. Why are they taking so long to come? Impatience torments me; I don’t even notice the smell of the corpse, although it has not weakened at all.

And suddenly, at the crossing of the stream, Cossacks appear! Blue uniforms, red stripes, peaks. There are a whole fifty of them. In front, on an excellent horse, is a black-bearded officer. As soon as fifty of them crossed the stream, he turned his whole body backwards in the saddle and shouted:

Trot, maarsh!

Stop, stop, for God's sake! Help, help, brothers! - I shout; but the tramp of strong horses, the knock of sabers and the noisy Cossack talk is louder than my wheezing - and they don’t hear me!

Oh, damn it! 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 from 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 my eyes half closed. The wind constantly changed and then blew fresh, clean air on me, 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 slid off the bones. The terrible bone 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 entire heads. This skeleton in a uniform with light 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 remaining 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 torture me for an hour or two, but here I don’t even know how long I’ll have to lie here and suffer. My mother, my dear! You will tear out your gray braids, hit your head against the wall, curse the day you gave birth to me, curse the whole world for inventing a war to make people suffer!

But you and Masha probably won’t hear about my torment. Farewell mother, farewell my bride, my love! Oh, how hard, how bitter! Something suits my heart...

That little white dog again! The janitor did not take pity on her, hit her head against the wall and threw her into a pit where they throw rubbish and pour slop. But she was alive. And I suffered for another whole day. And I’m more unhappy than she is, because I’ve been suffering 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 don’t have a sip of water to refresh my sore throat, and the corpse infects me. He was completely blurred. Myriads of worms fall from it. How they swarm! When he is eaten and all that remains is his bones and uniform, then it is my turn. And I will be the same.

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

The bushes move and rustle, as if they are quietly talking. “You’re going to die, you’re going to die, you’re going to die!” - they whisper. “You won’t see, you won’t see, you won’t see!” - the bushes answer on the other side.

You won't see them here! - comes loudly near me.

I shudder and come to my senses at once. Kind people look at me from the bushes Blue eyes Yakovlev, our corporal.

Shovels! - he shouts. - There are two more here, ours and theirs.

“No need for shovels, no need to bury me, I’m alive!” - I want to scream, but only a weak groan comes out of my parched lips.

God! Is he alive? Master Ivanov! Guys! Get over here, our master is alive! Yes, call the doctor!
* * *

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

The stretcher moves, rocking rhythmically. This measured movement lulls me to sleep. I'll wake up and then forget myself again. Bandaged wounds do not hurt; some inexpressibly joyful feeling spread throughout my whole body...

Whoa-oh-oh! O-drop-a-y! Orderlies, fourth shift, march! For the stretcher! Get on it, get up!

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

Pyotr Ivanovich! - I whisper.

What, darling?

Pyotr Ivanovich leans over me.

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

What are you talking about, Ivanov? You won't die. After all, all your bones are intact. Such a lucky guy! No bones, no arteries.

-1

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