Short Fiction by Vsevolod Garshin (always you kirsty moseley TXT) 📕

I have consumption. And, thirdly, a still more terrible disease is helping it. I cannot for one minute forget Nadejda Nicolaievna and Bezsonow. The appalling details of that last day stand eternally before my mental gaze, and a voice without ceasing whispers into my ear that I have killed a man.

They did not try me. The case was quashed. It was recognized that I killed in self-defence.

But for the human conscience there are no written laws, no doctrine of irresponsibility, and I am suffering punishment for my crime. I shall not suffer it long. Soon the All-Merciful will forgive me, and we three will meet where our passions and sufferings will seem insignificant in the light of everlasting love.

The Action at Aislar I

We halted two weeks at Kovachitsa. Camp-life is wearisome and monotonous when there is nothing to do, especially in such an out-of-the-way spot; at the same time it would not be just to call Kovachitsa by such a name. The staff of our corps had its quarters in the place and there was a postal section⁠—in a word, the means of finding out what was going on in the world surrounding us, but chiefly at the two theatres of war and in our dear, faraway Homeland. However, it must be said in all justice that we were not spoiled by the freshness and wealth of the news, and it often appeared to us to be mutilated and exaggerated. Sombre rumours of the early failures at Plevna were so exaggerated that only papers two or three weeks old dispersed the gloom reigning amongst the officers. It seemed that the direct road from Plevna was not as close to us as the route via Petersburg and Moscow; however, “the shortest cut is the longest way round,” as the saying goes.

Our brigade began to get bored. It is true that once a portion of the Niejinsky Regiment went out reconnoitring, or, more correctly speaking, to punish the armed inhabitants of Lom, who had risen. Having taught them a lesson, the regiment returned with the loss of one killed. Another soldier escaped by a miracle, as will be seen from the following narrative of his:

“We had begun to turn back, and the Bashi-Bazouks commenced to fire from afar. I lagged behind a little, and turned to fire. I had only just started to overtake them when it hit me in the back. But it was a bad shot⁠—it buried itself in my greatcoat. It went through seven folds and stuck in the eighth.”

“It” was, of course, a bullet. When the soldier opened out his greatcoat there were actually seven holes in it.

“And I had only time to cross myself when⁠—look!⁠—my ration-bag had two holes in the very bottom of it, and biscuit crumbs began to dribble out.”

It had a bite of them and went.

“Our Russian biscuits are not tasty,” said somebody jokingly.

Meanwhile, whilst we were halted in Kovachitsa, and, to use the popular expression, “were going sour,” there were constant skirmishes ahead of us at the front, near Papkio.

On the 9th of August our regimental doctor ordered a “medical inspection” to assemble in the lines of the third battalion (which was camped apart from us). Our company was the first of all to muster, and after they had formed us up, we were marched to the appointed parade-ground. It was not a large piece of ground, but was free of tents and guns. Here we halted. There was no doctor, and we were obliged to wait for him. Having nothing to do I began to gaze at the camp. A camp in time of war presents a strange appearance. The little tents of the soldiers shone brightly white bathed in sunshine. The piles of arms and different coloured figures of soldiers lent a variety to this white background. Lilac-coloured shirts predominated; then came red, yellow, crimson, and green. The black tunics were only worn if on some duty. Everyone preferred the most immoderate dèshabille. Some were barefooted, others with bared chest and back. Boots were not worn because of the heat, besides which a thousand versts’ march had taught the men the necessity of taking care of them.

We waited quite a time. Someone went to inform the doctor that the men were on parade. But it became evident to us that we were not to undergo a “medical inspection.” The regimental Adjutant rushed into the tent of the commandant of the third battalion, and almost instantaneously stout little Major A. ran out of his tent nearly naked, having divested himself of most of his clothing owing to the heat, and gave the order:

“Third battalion, strike tents! Leave knapsacks behind.” He then disappeared into his tent, which was immediately struck, revealing the Major sitting on a folding-chair and being assisted into various necessary articles of clothing by his servant. At the same time there was an immediate change in the appearance of the third battalion. Men came crawling out of every tent like ants, hurriedly putting on their uniforms. Tents disappeared and were folded up, and greatcoats were rolled. Within five minutes of the Major’s command, the variegated, quiet bivouac had become transformed into regular sombre-coloured ranks of men. Here and there the sunlight played on the bayonets and rifle-barrels. Officers came running towards the battalion fastening on their sword-belts as they ran. The Major himself appeared before the battalion, mounted his horse with outside assistance, and gave a command, which was taken up by the company commanders. The mass of humanity stirred, and began, snakelike to draw out into column, of route. Where was it going? The Major, having led the way on to the road, turned to the left and took the column towards Papkio. The battalion had not had time to get on to the road before our own orderly appeared.

“Kuzma Zakharich, call up the company; we are advancing.”

“Without knapsacks?” asked a number of voices at once.

The question was