Vsevolod Garshin

“ I try to crawl. My legs are useless; my enfeebled hands scarcely serve to move my helpless body. It is only twelve or fourteen feet to the body, but for me it is more—no, not more but worse—than ten miles. Nevertheless, it is necessary to crawl. My throat burns as if it were on fire. And without water, death would come all the sooner. Yet perchance. . . .
And I drag myself along. My legs catch on the ground and every slightest motion causes insufferable anguish. I scream, I scream and wail, and yet I continue to crawl. At last I attain to it. Here is the canteen. ”

“ I no longer notice even the odor of the corpse, though it is just as foul as ever.
And suddenly in the break in the bushes appear the Cossacks! the blue uniforms, the red stripes, the pikes. A whole company of them. At their head on a splendid horse a black-bearded officer. As soon as the company broke through the bushes, he turned round on his saddle and shouted,—
"Fo-o-r-wa-ard!"
"Wait! wait! for God's sake! Help! Help! comrades!" I cried. But the trampling of the vigorous horses, the clanking of the sabres, and the loud voices of the Cossacks drowned my feeble wail: they do not hear me! ”

“ But it is strange that now I cannot even move when at that time I had the power of dragging myself as far as these bushes! But possibly at that time there was only one wound and another shot had reached me at this place.
Pallid, rosy streaks seemed to gather around me. The great star paled; some of the lesser ones vanished.
That is the moon rising. How lovely it is at home now! . . .
Strange noises reach my ears. It seems as though some one were groaning. Yes, that is a groan. Can some one have also been forgotten near me with broken legs or with a bullet in the body? No! ”

“ The trampling of horses' hoofs, the voices of men. I almost cried out, but restrained myself. Well, supposing it were Turks? What then? To the torments already experienced others still more horrible would be added, such as makes the hair stand on end even when you read about them in the papers. They skin their prisoners alive; they hold wounded limbs over slow fires! . . . All right if that were all; but they are so inventive! Were it not better to end my life even at their hands than perish here? And perhaps it may be our men? Oh, cursed bushes! ”

“ It is worth while to have all of the plays of such a great dramatist in our English tongue. Since the death of Ibsen he is the chief of the Scandinavians. . . The publishers deserve thanks and support for their enterprise. There has long existed a need for just such an edition of contemporary foreign plays. . . ."— THE SUN, Baltimore.
" An idyllic play, filled with romantic machinery of the Northern fairy tales and legends, ... It belongs to a class by itself. ”

“ There is no highway near. It is all the same,—death. Except that instead of a death agony lasting three days, I shall have made it last a week.
Would it not be better to end all?
My neighbor's rifle is lying beside him,—a splendid English weapon. I have only to stretch out my hand; then one flash and all is over. The cartridges have rolled out, a lot of them. He did not have time to fire them all.
Shall I put an end to it or wait? Wait for what? Deliverance? Death? Wait until the Turks come and begin to strip the skin off from my wounded legs? Better myself. ”

“ Our men cannot have gone. They are here; they have defeated the Turk and have rested in this position. But why are there no sounds of voices, no crackling of camp-fires? Of course it is because I am too weak to hear anything. They certainly are here. ”

“ A grim and powerful study by that marvelous Russian, Leonidas Andreiyeff.—The Smart Set.
Leonidas Andreiyeflf is a writer who bites deep into life. In him Slavic talent for introspection is remarkably developed. Poetic, powerfully imaginative, master of stark simplicity, he has written stories stamped with the seal of genius. ”

“ Life? the last agony?
The third. . . . How many more are still left? At most not many. I have grown very weak and apparently cannot get farther away from the corpse. It and I will soon be alike, and then we shall no longer be disagreeable to each other.
I must have a drink of water. I will drink only three times a day: morning, noon, and night.
*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*
The sun has risen. His huge disk, crossed and intersected by the dark branches of the bushes, is as red as blood. It promises to be hot to-day. Neighbor, how is it with thee? Thou art dreadful by this time. ”

“ Let only physical anguish be mine. Let these recollections torment me not, for they involuntarily make me draw comparisons. Ah, regret! regret! thou art worse than wounds.
But, it is growing hot. The sun scorches. I open my eyes, I see the same bushes, the same sky, only save that it is seen by daylight. And here also is my neighbor. Yes, it is a Turk, a corpse. What a big man! I recognize him. It is the very one whom . ”

“ From among the bushes gazed the kind blue eyes of our corporal Yakovlef.
"Spades here!" he cried. "Here are a couple more: one, ours; the other, theirs."
"I don't want a spade; I don't want to be buried! I'm alive," I try to cry, but only a weak groan comes from my parched lips.
"Heavens! he can't be alive, can he? Barin Ivanof! Boys, come here, our barin is alive! Bring the surgeon quick!"
*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*
In half a minute they are pouring water into my mouth, brandy and something else. Then there comes a blank!
Swinging along in step, the bearers carry the stretcher. ”