Short Fiction, Vsevolod Garshin [howl and other poems .txt] 📗

die here? But if they are some of ours? You cursed bushes! Why have you surrounded me with so thick a hedge? I can see nothing through them. In one place only is there an opening like a little window between the branches which gives me a view away on to the open ground. Yes, there is the small stream from which we drank before the fight. And there is the huge block of sandstone like a little bridge across the stream. They are sure to come across it. The voices die away, I cannot hear what language they are speaking, even my hearing has become weak. My God! if they are ours⁠—I will call to them. They should hear me even from there. It is better than risking falling into the clutches of Bashi-Bazouks. Why are they so long in coming? In the torments of expectancy I do not even notice the dreadful air, although it has in no way improved.

Then suddenly Cossacks appear crossing the stream. Blue uniforms, red-striped trousers, lances all. A half sotnia2 of them, and in front, on a magnificent horse, is a black-bearded officer. As soon as they are across the stream he turns in his saddle and gives the order, “Tro⁠—t, march!”

“Stop! stop! For God’s sake! Help! help!⁠—Comrades!” I cry, but the trotting horses, rattling scabbards, and loud talking of the Cossacks drown my hoarse cries⁠—and they do not hear me!

Oh, curses on it! Exhausted, I fall face forward on to the ground, and cry in convulsive sobs. The water, my salvation and my insurance against death, is pouring out from the flask, which I have overturned, but it is only when barely half a glassful remains and the rest is soaking into the dry thirsty soil that I notice that in my fall I had knocked over the water-bottle.

Shall I ever forget the awfulness of that moment, the numbness which came over me? I lay motionless with half-closed eyes. The wind kept constantly changing, and blew alternately fresh and clean or almost overpowered me. My neighbour had become too dreadful for words. Once when I opened my eyes to snatch a glance at him I was appalled. There was no longer a face. It had fallen away from the bone. The horrible grinning skull with its everlasting smile appeared too revolting, although (as a medical student) I have frequently handled them, but this corpse in uniform with its bright buttons made me shudder. “And this is war!” I reflected. “This corpse is its symbol!”

The sun is scorching and baking me as usual. My hands and face have long been all blisters. I have drunk all the water that was left. My thirst was so maddening that I decided to take just a sip, but swallowed all that was left at one gulp. Oh, why did I not call to the Cossacks when they were close to me? Even had they been Turks it would have been better. They would have tortured me for perhaps two or even three hours, but now I do not know how long I shall have to writhe and suffer here. Mother, darling mother, you would tear out your grey hair, you would beat your head against a wall and curse the day you bore me⁠ ⁠… you would curse the world which has invented war for the torturing of men did you but know. Goodbye, mother dearest, and farewell, my sweetheart, Masha, my love. How, how bitter!

Again I see that little dog. The dvornik did not pity it, but knocked its head against the wall, and threw it (though still living) into a refuse pit in the courtyard of the house near by, where it lingered for a day. But I⁠ ⁠… I am more unfortunate because I have already suffered three days. Tomorrow will be the fourth day⁠—then there will be a fifth, sixth.

Death, where art thou? Come! Take me!

But death does not come and does not take me. And I lie here under this awful sun, with not a drop of water to cool my burning throat and a corpse which is poisoning me. It has become quite decomposed, and is a seething mass. When nothing but the bones and uniform are left it will be my turn. I shall be like that.

The day passes and the night passes. No change. Another morn is arriving just the same, and yet another day will pass.

The rustling bushes seem to be murmuring, and whisper, “You will die! You will die! You will die!” “You will not see! You will not see! You will not see!” answer the bushes from the other side.

“No, you will not see them,” says a loud voice near me. I give a shudder and at once come to myself. From out of the bushes the kindly blue eyes of Yakoff, our corporal, are looking at me.

“Spades here!” he cries. “Here are two more of theirs.”

No spades are wanted, no need to bury me. I am alive⁠—I try to cry out, but only a feeble groan comes from my parched lips.

“Merciful God! Alive! It is our Ivanoff; he is alive! Come here, mates, our barin is alive! Call the doctor!” In a few moments they are rinsing my mouth with water, brandy and something. Then everything disappears.

The stretcher-bearers move with a gentle and measured swing which lulls me to rest. I awake, then lapse again into oblivion. My bandaged wounds are not hurting, and an inexpressible joyous feeling of comfort pervades my whole being.

“… Ha⁠—alt! Low⁠—er!” and the “relief” take the place of their comrades in carrying the stretcher.

The N.C.O. in charge is Peter Ivanovich, a corporal of our company, and a tall, lanky, but very good fellow. He is so tall that looking towards him I gradually descry his head and shoulders and his long straggly beard, although four stalwart men are carrying the stretcher shoulder high.

“Peter Ivanovich,” I whisper.

“What is it, old friend?” and Peter