Steam poured out of the samovar like from a steam locomotive (According to Andreev) (Unified State Examination in Russian). How to write an Unified State Exam essay based on the text by L.N. Andreev “Steam poured out of the samovar like from a steam locomotive...

... around the samovar, around a real samovar, from which steam was pouring out, like from a steam locomotive - even the glass in the lamp became a little foggy: the steam was coming out so much. And the cups were the same, blue on the outside and white on the inside, very beautiful cups that were given to us at the wedding. My wife's sister gave it to her - she is very nice and kind woman.

- Is everyone safe? – I asked incredulously, stirring the sugar in a glass with a clean silver spoon.

“One was broken,” the wife said absentmindedly: at that time she was holding the tap turned off, and hot water was running beautifully and easily from there.

I laughed.

-What are you doing? - asked the brother.

- So. Well, take me to the office one more time. Work hard for the hero! You've been messing around without me, now that's it, I'll pick you up. - And I jokingly, of course, sang: “We bravely rush to the enemies, to the battle, friends, ...”

They understood the joke and also smiled, only the wife did not raise her face: she was rubbing the cups with a clean embroidered towel. In the office I again saw blue wallpaper, a lamp with a green cap and a table on which stood a decanter of water. And it was a little dusty.

“Pour me some water from here,” I ordered cheerfully.

- You were drinking tea just now.

- Nothing, nothing, pour it. And you,” I said to my wife, “take your little son and sit in that room for a while.” Please.

And I drank the water in small sips, enjoying it, but my wife and son were sitting in the next room, and I didn’t see them.

- Yes, good. Now come here. But why does he stay up so late?

- He's glad you're back. Honey, go to your father.

But the child began to cry and hid at his mother’s feet.

- Why is he crying? – I asked in bewilderment and looked around. - Why are you all so pale, and silent, and follow me like shadows?

The brother laughed loudly and said:

- We are not silent.

And the sister repeated:

– We talk all the time.

“I’ll take care of dinner,” said the mother and hurriedly left.

“Yes, you are silent,” I repeated with unexpected confidence. - Since the very morning I haven’t heard a word from you, I’m just chatting, laughing, rejoicing. Aren't you glad to see me? And why do you all avoid looking at me, have I changed so much? Yes, that has changed. I don't even see mirrors. Have you removed them? Give me a mirror here.

“I’ll bring it now,” the wife answered and did not return for a long time, and the maid brought the mirror. I looked into it, and - I already saw myself in the carriage, at the station - it was the same face, a little older, but very ordinary. And for some reason they seemed to expect me to scream and faint - they were so happy when I calmly asked:

– What’s unusual here?

Laughing louder and louder, the sister hurriedly left, and the brother said confidently and calmly:

- Yes. You haven't changed much. Got a little bald.

“Thank you for the fact that you still have your head,” I answered indifferently. – But where do they all run away: first one, then the other. Take me around the rooms some more. Which comfortable chair, completely silent. How much did you pay? And I won’t spare the money: I’ll buy myself these legs, better yet... A bicycle!

It was hanging on the wall, still completely new, only with the tires falling off without air. There was a piece of dirt stuck on the rear tire from the last time I rode. The brother was silent and did not move his chair, and I understood this silence and this indecision.

“There are only four officers left alive in our regiment,” I said gloomily. - I’m very happy... Take it for yourself, take it tomorrow.

“Okay, I’ll take it,” my brother agreed obediently. - Yes, you are happy. We have half the city in mourning. And the legs are, really...

- Certainly. I'm not a postman.

The brother suddenly stopped and asked:

- Why is your head shaking?

- Nonsense. It will pass, the doctor said!

-And your hands too?

- Yes, yes. And hands. Everything will pass. Please take me, I'm tired of standing.

They upset me, these dissatisfied people, but joy returned to me again when they began to prepare a bed for me - a real bed, on a beautiful bed, on the bed that I bought before the wedding, four years ago. They laid out a clean sheet, then fluffed up the pillows, wrapped the blanket - and I looked at this solemn ceremony, and there were tears of laughter in my eyes.

“Now undress me and put me down,” I told my wife. - How good!

- Now, honey.

- Hurry up!

- Now, honey.

- What are you doing?

- Now, honey.

She stood behind me, near the toilet, and I turned my head in vain to see her. And suddenly she screamed, screamed as they scream only in war:

- What is this! - And she rushed to me, hugged me, fell next to me, hiding her head at the cut off legs, moving away from them in horror and falling down again, kissing these scraps and crying.

- What a person you were! After all, you are only thirty years old. He was young and handsome. What is this! How cruel people are. Why is this? Who needed it? You, my meek, my pitiful, my dear, dear...

And then they all came running to the cry, my mother, my sister, my nanny, and they all cried, said something, lay at my feet and cried. And on the threshold stood the brother, pale, completely white, with a shaking jaw, and shouted shrilly:

“I’m going crazy with you here.” I'll go crazy!

And the mother crawled near the chair and no longer screamed, but only wheezed and banged her head on the wheels. And clean, with fluffed pillows, with a wrapped blanket, there was a bed, the same one that I bought four years ago - before the wedding...

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(1) I was sitting in a bathtub with hot water, and my brother was restlessly turning around the small room, grabbing soap and a sheet in his hands, bringing them close to his myopic eyes and putting them back again. (2) Then he stood facing the wall and continued passionately:

- (3) Judge for yourself. (4) We were taught goodness, intelligence, logic - we were given consciousness. (5) The main thing is consciousness. (6) You can become ruthless, but how is it possible, having learned the truth, to throw it away? (7) Since childhood, I was taught not to torture animals, to be compassionate. (8) The books I read taught me the same thing, and I am painfully sorry for those who suffer in your damned war. (9) But time passes, and I begin to get used to all the suffering, I feel that in everyday life I am less sensitive, less responsive and respond only to the strongest stimulation. (10) But I cannot get used to the very fact of war; my mind refuses to understand and explain what is fundamentally insane. (11) Millions of people, gathered in one place and trying to give correctness to their actions, kill each other, and everyone is equally hurt, and everyone is equally unhappy - what is this, because this is madness? (12) Brother turned around and stared at me questioningly with his myopic eyes.

– (13) I’ll tell you the truth. – (14) My brother trustingly put his cold hand on my shoulder. - (15) I can’t understand what is happening. (16) I can’t understand, and it’s terrible. (17) If someone could explain it to me, but no one can. (18) You were in the war, you saw it - explain to me.

- (19) What an eccentric you are, brother! (20) Let me have some more hot water. –

(21) It was so good for me to sit in the bathtub, as before, and listen to a familiar voice, without thinking about the words, and see everything familiar, simple, ordinary: a copper, slightly green faucet, walls with a familiar pattern, photographic accessories, in order laid out on shelves. (22) I will take up photography again, take pictures of simple and quiet views of my son: how he walks, how he laughs and plays pranks. (23) And I will write again - about smart books, about new successes of human thought, about beauty and peace. (24) And what he said was the fate of all those who, in their madness, become close to the madness of war. (25) I seemed to have forgotten at that moment, splashing in the hot water, everything that I saw there.

“(26) I need to get out of the bath,” I said frivolously, and my brother smiled at me, like a child, like a younger one, although I was three years older than him, and thought - like an adult, like an old man who has big and heavy thoughts . (27) My brother called a servant, and together they took me out and dressed me. (28) Then I drank fragrant tea from my glass and thought that I could live without legs, and then they took me to the office to my desk, and I got ready to work. (29) My joy was so great, the pleasure so deep that I did not dare to start reading and only sorted through the books, gently caressing them with my hand. (30) How much intelligence and sense of beauty there is in all this! (I was sitting in a bathtub with hot water...

(L. Andreev)

Leonid Nikolaevich Andreev (1871-1919) – Russian writer. Author of such works as “Bargamot and Garaska”, “The Tale of the Seven Hanged Men”, “Sava”, “The Life of Vasily of Fiveysky”, “Red Laughter”, “Days of Our Lives”, “Human Life”, etc.

War. What effect does it have on people? It is this problem that L.N. considers. Andreev in the text proposed for analysis.

The writer involves readers in the circle of his brother’s experiences lyrical hero, describing its internal state. The brother is very concerned that the war has forced people to act contrary to the principles of goodness, intelligence and logic. His mind refuses to understand war - a symbol of madness, what makes people cruel.

The writer does not directly express his attitude to what is happening, but we, the readers, understand perfectly well that L.N. Andreev is convinced: war leads to the destruction of good.

Russian classical writers spoke about this repeatedly in their works. Let us remember the novel by L.N. Tolstoy "War and Peace". In this work, the great Russian writer expresses confidence: war is a phenomenon contrary to human reason, it is madness, the most disgusting thing that can happen in life. And it becomes clear that there is not and cannot be a drop of good in war, it only leads to suffering. Therefore, under no circumstances should war be glorified.

I'll give you another one literary example, which shows: war destroys beauty. In the novel M.A. Sholokhov " Quiet Don» Mishka Koshevoy and Grigory Melekhov were once friends. But civil war turned everything upside down. Their Political Views did not coincide, and Koshevoy forever hated Grigory and all the whites. Koshevoy, without a drop of regret, killed Petro Melekhov, Grigory’s brother. In general, he was particularly cruel and loved to deal with his enemies. This cruelty was in him since childhood, but the war only worsened it. Koshevoy, apparently, no longer considered whites to be people. Even when Grigory Melekhov renounced his previous beliefs, Koshevoy did not want to forgive him. This is how war destroyed friendship.

War, destroying the beautiful, has a destructive effect on people's lives.

What other arguments can be given to prove this point of view?

(1) Steam poured out of the samovar like from a steam locomotive - even the glass in the lamp became a little foggy: the steam was coming out so strongly. (2) And the cups were the same, blue on the outside and white on the inside, very beautiful cups that were given to us at the wedding. (3) My wife’s sister gave it to her - she is a very nice and kind woman.

Composition

The twentieth century turned into a series of terrible, destructive events for the history of our country. Sorrow and pain fill the hearts of our compatriots to this day, and many works written during the war period do not allow us to forget about the feat of each hero. In this passage, L. Andreev discusses precisely the problem of the influence of war on a person.

We get acquainted with the history of a family, one of whose members went to war and returned from it, it seems, as a completely different person. The author focuses our attention on such details as frequent pauses in speech and silence, pallor of the face and gloomy appearance of those who were waiting for their hero. The writer supplements the indignation and scream frozen on the lips of each family member, hysterics and tears from the realization of what is happening with such contrasting details as the positivity and “happiness” of the hero who survived and returned from the war, as well as “clean, with fluffed pillows, with a wrapped blanket... bed, the same one” that was symbolically purchased 4 years ago, before the wedding.

The author’s opinion is clear to me: L. Andreev believes that war cripples people’s destinies and brings grief, pain and suffering to families. And regardless of the outcome of past events, the sacrifices suffered by the war cannot be compared with anything.

I cannot but agree with the writer's thoughts. Of course, there is nothing worse than war. This element is inhumane in all respects: it cripples the destinies of both soldiers and those who are left waiting for loved ones in the rear, and the events themselves irrevocably change the soldier’s attitude to life, his once-existing dreams and aspirations, and often even kill him in a person, leaving a psychological scar for the rest of his life.

A good example is the hero of the story M.A. Sholokhov "The Fate of Man". With the onset of the fateful date, Andrei Sokolov’s life, like that of many other soldiers, was divided into “before” and “after” - he lost his entire family and fought every day for own life: in captivity and on the battlefield. His plans for the future were erased in an instant, the fire in his eyes disappeared, and in his thoughts there was only the desire to reach the end and make sure that all these sacrifices were not in vain. Back to the past peaceful life Andrei Sokolov, of course, did not succeed, but on his way he met an equally crippled fate, a small unfortunate boy left completely alone, with him the hero continued his post-war life - two torn, lonely, but persistent hearts on the path to a bright future .

In V. Zakrutkin’s story “Mother of Man” we are introduced to another tormented, crippled fate. The war took away main character everything: the Nazis hanged her husband and son in front of the woman, and it’s hard to even imagine what thoughts and emotions overwhelmed the girl. However, maternal instinct did not allow Maria to go crazy and helped her move on: she fulfills an invaluable duty and saves many children and even a wounded German from certain death, thereby showing that it is impossible to kill mercy in the heart of a Russian woman.

The conclusion of all of the above is simple: there is nothing more terrible and destructive for a person than war, because even the surviving soldiers run the risk of never being able to love life again.

I think that many people have a good idea of ​​what a samovar is.
In any case, they probably saw it, if not live, then at least in movies or in pictures.

Samovar- a device for boiling water and making tea. Initially, the water was heated by an internal firebox, which was a tall tube filled with charcoal.Later other species appearedsamovars- kerosene, electric, etc.

Today I want to tell you about that very “original” or coal samovar, and about its successful use in our age of electronics and cybernetics, “when spaceships roam the open spaces Bolshoi Theater" (With).

Actually, my brother, a great lover of travel and all sorts of antique wonders, introduced me to the “samovar business”.
I will not go into details of how and where our first coal samovar came from, but I will immediately note that the coal samovar is for lovers of road trips, as well as summer residents, picnic lovers, water tourists, fishermen, boatmen and other lovers of active recreation, not very constrained in terms of the volume and weight of the luggage being transported, this is an ideal accessory that allows you to diversify your party (and not only) leisure time in a beautiful, romantic and healthy way.

The romance, originality and attractiveness of tea parties comes from samovar is so large that with light hand Your humble servant, coal (or, in other words, “heat” samovars) have become very popular among cyclists in Samara and Togliatti.

Judge for yourself:
What could be more romantic than drinking tea from a samovar right in the middle of the fields...

At the edge of the forest...

Or right on the beach by the water?

The process of igniting a samovar itself is a kind of sacrament that produces an undoubted wow effect on an unprepared viewer, and at the same time gives pleasure to a true connoisseur:

So you poured water into the samovar, loaded coals into the firebox, fanned them...

They threw in wood chips, twigs or pine cones, carefully maintaining the fire - and after a while the samovar was already smoking, making noise, and ordered him to drink tea:

Since I don’t sell samovars, but only use them with pleasure, I will offer you not a samovar product, but several practical advice, based on my own many years of experience using this gadget.

So let's start with optimal samovar size.
In my experience, the most optimal would be a fire samovar designed for a water volume of about 5 liters:
- it is not so bulky that it would be inconvenient to carry it with you (friends even carry it on a bicycle - in a backpack)
- a standard 5-liter bottle of water is enough to refill it
- the volume is sufficient for drinking tea with a group of 3-6 people. and a larger crowd with appropriate periodic refueling with water (tested more than once at the Openings of the Velosamara Cycling Season)
- does not require very much fuel for operation

The second most popular question is How to heat a hot samovar.
My brother and I tried a wide variety of fuel - from wood chips and twigs to coals from a fire or ready-made charcoal for a barbecue, but we consider dry pine cones to be the most optimal fuel.
Pine itself burns well, but the problem of a small samovar is not only the fuel of a size suitable for its firebox, but also the constant unhindered access of oxygen - and a dry and, accordingly, open pine cone perfectly allows air to pass through, no matter how many of them you throw into the firebox - accordingly , the buds burn powerfully, evenly and practically do not smoke.

Next question - does a samovar need a pipe.
Experience shows that it is quite possible to do without a pipe - you definitely won’t be left without tea, but the pipe allows you to increase draft and, accordingly, combustion efficiency and fuel efficiency - as you can see for yourself in the photo above: the cones in a samovar with a pipe burn with noise and a torch of flame rising above the chimney, reminiscent of an interceptor engine in afterburner;-).

In the first photos you can see the signature samovar pipe of my brother's antique samovar - it is a work of art in itself and gives purely aesthetic pleasure - but it works just as effectively as an ordinary black tin pipe in the last photo.

The pipe can be straight or bent - in my opinion, this is completely unimportant, but the presence of a handle with a heat-insulating lining is simply necessary.

There is no pipe - no problem, the samovar will work without it.

Let's decide on the structure of the samovar:

If you received not a new, but a well-worn antique samovar, its jug may be covered with a thick layer of scale, and some of its parts may be missing.

One of the parts of the samovar that is not always preserved intact is steam valve, or vent(in the photo below - to the right of the samovar lid handle).
Its purpose is to relieve pressure in the samovar after the water boils.

Actually, the remaining parts are usually present in samovars - or, in extreme cases, can be found at flea markets.

Perhaps the least common thing that remains is the caps on the burner - but they are not at all very necessary.
The burner will be useful for heating the teapot. but, in principle. and you can do without it - what is more important is the presence of heat-insulated (usually wooden or ebonite) handles on the jug and lid - without them you will not be able to add water to the samovar or move it under steam.

At the bottom of the samovar pan there is usually an ash pan lid (ash pan) - it allows you to remove ash and prevent hot coals from falling through the grate onto the surface on which the samovar stands - but in any case, it is desirable that this surface be made of non-combustible material.

The most important part of the samovar is tap.
Without a serviceable and well-lapped faucet, it will be very difficult for you to use it; faucets are easily lost or stuck - therefore they require constant care and attention.

How to descale a samovar.

Over time, especially if the water is hard. Scale forms on the inside of the samovar. In antique samovars, its thickness can reach several millimeters, which significantly reduces the thermal conductivity of the walls and, accordingly, the heating efficiency.
The easiest way to descale a samovar is to boil it several times with several liters of table vinegar - the calcium, potassium and magnesium carbonates that make up the scale will become water-soluble, and the scale will come off after several procedures.
Do not forget to boil the samovar after this clean water"idle".

How to heat a samovar.

Actually. there are no technological mega-tricks here - before filling with water, you need to shake out the remaining ash from the samovar firebox, close the vent from below (if there is one), check the serviceability of the tap, put the samovar on smooth and non-flammable (important!!!) stand (in the photo there is a granite barbecue tile as a stand), pour water to the top narrowing of the jug - and you can light it.

If you heat with wood chips, then lower the burning wood chips through the burner.
If the coals are from a fire, then you will need either fireplace tongs or a fireplace scoop.
I prefer to light the samovar with strips of birch bark and heat it with pine cones.
As soon as the flame begins to flare up, install the pipe.
The cones can be easily thrown directly through the pipe - that's the main thing. follow the sound that they fly to the firebox. rather than getting stuck in the pipe along the way.

When the samovar boils (this can be seen from the streams of steam from the vent hole, see photo below, and the specific noise), all that remains is to drain a little water from the spout - due to the design features, it does not boil in it, and it is advisable to drain half a cup.
Now you can brew and pour tea; to speed up the brewing, you can heat the teapot on the burner - but if you have a porcelain antique teapot, you can thereby smoke it ;-).

Well, that's probably all my advice.

Do you have a samovar?

Excerpts from the found manuscript

Part I

Excerpt one

...madness and horror. The first time I felt this was when we were walking along the Ensk road - we walked for ten hours continuously, without stopping, without slowing down, without picking up those who had fallen and leaving them to the enemy, who moved in solid masses behind us and after three or four hours erased the traces of our feet with their own. feet. It was hot. I don’t know how many degrees it was: forty, fifty or more; I only know that it was continuous, hopelessly even and deep. The sun was so huge, so fiery and scary, as if the earth had approached it and would soon burn in this merciless fire. And the eyes did not look. A small, narrowed pupil, small as a poppy seed, vainly sought the darkness under the shadow of closed eyelids: the sun pierced the thin shell and entered the tormented brain with a bloody light. But still, it was better this way, and I walked for a long time, perhaps several hours, with my eyes closed, hearing the crowd moving around me: the heavy and uneven tramp of feet, human and horse, the grinding of iron wheels crushing small stones, - heavy, strained breathing and dry smacking with parched lips. But I didn't hear the words. Everyone was silent, as if an army of mutes were moving, and when someone fell, he fell silently, and others stumbled upon his body, fell, rose silently and, without looking back, moved on - as if these mutes were also deaf and blind. I myself stumbled and fell several times, and then I involuntarily opened my eyes - and what I saw seemed like a wild fantasy, a heavy delirium of a maddened earth. The hot air trembled, and the stones trembled silently, as if ready to flow; and the distant rows of people at the turn, guns and horses separated from the ground and swayed silently, gelatinously - as if it were not living people who were walking, but an army of disembodied shadows. The huge, close, terrible sun on every gun barrel, on every metal plaque lit up thousands of small dazzling suns, and they climbed into my eyes from everywhere, from the sides and below, fiery white, sharp, like the ends of white-hot bayonets. And the withering, scorching heat penetrated into the very depths of the body, into the bones, into the brain, and at times it seemed that it was not the head that was swaying on the shoulders, but some strange and extraordinary ball, heavy and light, alien and terrible. And then - and then suddenly I remembered the house: a corner of the room, a piece of blue wallpaper and a dusty, untouched decanter of water on my table - on my table, which has one leg shorter than the other two and a folded piece of paper placed under it. And in the next room, and I don’t see them, it’s as if my wife and son are there. If I could scream, I would scream - so extraordinary was this simple and peaceful image, this piece of blue wallpaper and the dusty, untouched decanter. I know that I stopped with my hands up, but someone pushed me from behind; I quickly walked forward, parting the crowd, hurrying somewhere, no longer feeling either heat or fatigue. And I walked like this for a long time through the endless silent rows, past the red, burned heads, almost touching the helplessly lowered hot bayonets, when the thought of what I was doing, where I was going so hastily, stopped me. Just as hastily, I turned to the side, made my way into the open space, climbed over some ravine and anxiously sat down on a stone, as if this rough, hot stone was the goal of all my aspirations. And then for the first time I felt it. I clearly saw that these people, silently walking in the sunshine, deadened by fatigue and heat, swaying and falling, were crazy. They don't know where they are going, they don't know what the sun is for, they don't know anything. They don't have a head on their shoulders, but strange and scary balls. Here one, like me, hastily makes his way through the ranks and falls; here's another one, a third one. Here the head of a horse with red crazy eyes and a wide grinning mouth rose above the crowd, only hinting at some terrible and unusual cry, rose, fell, and in this place the people condensed for a minute, paused, hoarse, muffled voices were heard, a short shot, and then again silent, endless movement. I’ve been sitting on this stone for an hour now, and everyone is walking past me, and the earth, and the air, and the distant ghostly rows are still trembling. The withering heat penetrates me again, and I no longer remember what I imagined for a second, but everyone is walking past me, walking, and I don’t understand who it is. An hour ago I was alone on this stone, and now a group of gray people have already gathered around me: some are lying and motionless, perhaps dead; others sit and look dumbfounded at those passing by, just like me. Some have guns and look like soldiers; others are stripped almost naked, and the skin on their bodies is so crimson-red that you don’t want to look at it. Not far from me there is someone lying naked with his back up. By the way he indifferently rested his face on a sharp and hot stone, by the whiteness of the palm of his overturned hand, it is clear that he is dead, but his back is red, as if he were alive, and only a light yellowish coating, like in smoked meat, speaks of death. I want to move away from him, but I don’t have the strength, and, swaying, I look at the endlessly moving, ghostly swaying rows. Judging by the state of my head, I know that it will happen to me now too. sunstroke, but I wait for this calmly, as in a dream, where death is only a stage on the path of wonderful and confusing visions. And I see a soldier standing out from the crowd and resolutely heading in our direction. For a minute he disappears in the ditch, and when he gets out of there and walks again, his steps are unsteady, and something last is felt in his attempts to collect his scattered body. He's coming so straight at me that through the heavy drowsiness that has taken over my brain, I get scared and ask:- What do you want? He stops, as if he was only waiting for a word, and stands there, huge, bearded, with a torn collar. He doesn’t have a gun, his pants are held on by one button, and through the hole you can see his white body. His arms and legs are scattered, and he, apparently, is trying to collect them, but cannot: he brings his arms together, and they immediately fall apart. - What are you doing? “You better sit down,” I say. But he stands, unsuccessfully approaching, is silent and looks at me. And I involuntarily rise from the stone and, staggering, look into his eyes - and see in them an abyss of horror and madness. Everyone’s pupils are constricted, but his eyes are wide open: what a sea of ​​fire he must see through these huge black windows! Perhaps it seemed to me, perhaps there was only death in his gaze, but no, I am not mistaken: in those black, bottomless pupils, surrounded by a narrow orange circle, like those of birds, there was more than death, more than horror death. - Leave! - I shout, retreating. - Leave! And as if he was only waiting for a word - he falls on me, knocking me off my feet, still just as huge, scattered and silent. With a shudder, I release my pinned legs, jump up and want to run - somewhere away from people, into the sunny, deserted, trembling distance, when to the left, at the top, a shot booms and is immediately followed, like an echo, by two others. Somewhere, overhead, with a joyful, multi-voiced squeal, scream and howl, a grenade flies by. We've been passed over! There is no more deadly heat, no fear, no fatigue. My thoughts are clear, my ideas are clear and sharp; when, out of breath, I run up to the lining up rows, I see brightened, seemingly joyful faces, I hear hoarse but loud voices, orders, jokes. The sun seemed to have climbed higher, so as not to interfere, it dimmed, became quiet - and again, with a joyful squeal, like a witch, the pomegranate cut the air. I approached.

Excerpt two

...almost all horses and servants. Same thing on the eighth battery. On our twelfth, at the end of the third day, only three guns remained - the rest were knocked out - six servants and one officer - me. For twenty hours now we had not slept or eaten anything; for three days the satanic roar and screeching had enveloped us in a cloud of madness, separating us from the earth, from the sky, from our own people - and we, the living ones, wandered around - like sleepwalkers. The dead lay quietly, and we moved, did our job, talked and even laughed, and were like sleepwalkers. Our movements were confident and quick, our orders were clear, our execution was precise, but if we suddenly asked everyone who he was, he would hardly have found the answer in his darkened brain. As in a dream, all the faces seemed familiar for a long time, and everything that happened also seemed familiar, understandable, and had already happened once; and when I began to gaze intently at some face or weapon, or listened to the roar, everything struck me with its novelty and endless mystery. Night came unnoticed, and before we had time to see it and wonder where it came from, the sun was already burning above us again. And only from those who came to the battery did we learn that the battle was starting on the third day, and we immediately forgot about it: it seemed to us that it was all one endless, beginningless day, sometimes dark, sometimes bright, but equally incomprehensible, equally blind. And none of us was afraid of death, since no one understood what death was. On the third or fourth night, I don’t remember, I lay down for one minute behind the parapet, and as soon as I closed my eyes, the same familiar and unusual image entered them: a piece of blue wallpaper and an untouched, dusty decanter on my table. And in the next room - and I don’t see them - it’s as if my wife and son are there. But now a lamp with a green cap was burning on the table, which meant it was evening or night. The image stopped motionless, and for a long time, very calmly, very carefully, I looked at how the fire played in the crystal of the decanter, looked at the wallpaper and thought why my son was not sleeping: it was already night, and it was time for him to sleep. Then I looked at the wallpaper again, all these curls, silver flowers, some kind of bars and pipes - I never thought that I knew my room so well. Sometimes I opened my eyes and saw black sky with some beautiful fiery stripes, and closed them again, and again looked at the wallpaper, the shiny decanter, and thought why his son was not sleeping: it was already night, and he needed to sleep. Once a grenade exploded not far from me, shaking my legs with something, and someone shouted loudly, louder than the explosion itself, and I thought: “Someone has been killed!” - but did not get up and did not take his eyes off the blue wallpaper and the decanter. Then I got up, walked around, gave orders, looked into faces, aimed the gun, and I kept thinking: why isn’t my son sleeping? Once I asked the driver about this, and he explained something to me at length and in detail, and we both nodded our heads. And he laughed, and his left eyebrow twitched, and his eye winked slyly at someone behind him. And from behind you could see the soles of someone’s feet - and nothing more. At this time it was already light, and suddenly it began to rain. Rain is like ours, just ordinary droplets of water. It was so unexpected and inappropriate, and we were all so afraid of getting wet that we dropped our guns, stopped shooting and started hiding anywhere. The driver, with whom we had just spoken, crawled under the gun carriage and dozed down there, although he could be run over every minute, the fat fireworksman for some reason began to undress the dead man, and I rushed around the battery and looked for something - a raincoat, or an umbrella. And immediately, throughout the entire vast space, where rain began to drip from the rushing cloud, an extraordinary silence fell. Belatedly, the shrapnel squealed and exploded, and it became quiet—so quiet that you could hear the thick fireworks wheezing and the raindrops hitting the stone and the guns. And this quiet and fractional knock, reminiscent of autumn, and the smell of soaked earth, and silence - seemed to break for a moment the bloody and wild nightmare, and when I looked at the wet weapon, shining from the water, it unexpectedly and strangely reminded me of something sweet, quiet , either my childhood or my first love. But in the distance the first shot sounded especially loud, and the charm of instant silence disappeared; with the same suddenness with which people were hiding, they began to crawl out from under their covers; a fat firecracker screamed at someone; a gun crashed, followed by a second - and again a bloody, inextricable fog clouded the exhausted brains. And no one noticed when the rain stopped; I only remember that water was rolling off the dead fireworksman, from his fat, flabby yellow face - the rain probably continued for quite a long time... ...A young volunteer stood in front of me and reported, holding his hand to his visor, that the general was asking us to hold out for only two hours, and then reinforcements would arrive. I thought about why my son was not sleeping, and answered that I could hold out as long as I wanted. But for some reason his face interested me, probably because of its extraordinary and striking pallor. I have never seen anything whiter than this face: even the dead have more color in their faces than on this young, beardless one. He must have been very frightened on the way to us and could not recover; and he held his hand near the visor so that with this familiar and simple movement drive away crazy fear. -Are you afraid? — I asked, touching his elbow. But his elbow was like wood, and he himself smiled quietly and was silent. Or rather, only his lips twitched in a smile, and in his eyes there was only youth and fear - and nothing more. -Are you afraid? - I repeated affectionately. His lips twitched, trying to utter a word, and at the same instant something incomprehensible, monstrous, supernatural happened. IN right cheek a warm wind blew on me, shook me strongly - and that’s all, and before my eyes, in place of the pale face, there was something short, dull, red, and blood poured from there, as if from an uncorked bottle, as they are depicted on bad signs. And in this short, red, current, some kind of smile continued, a toothless laugh - a red laugh. I recognized it, that red laugh. I searched and found it, this red laugh. Now I understood what was in all these mutilated, torn, strange bodies. It was a red laugh. It is in the sky, it is in the sun, and soon it will spread throughout the entire earth, this red laughter! And they, clearly and calmly, like sleepwalkers...

Excerpt three

...madness and horror. They say that many mentally ill people appeared in our and the enemy’s army. We already have four psychiatric wards open. When I was at headquarters, the adjutant showed me...

Excerpt four

...coiled like snakes. He saw how the wire, cut off at one end, cut through the air and wrapped itself around three soldiers. The thorns tore their uniforms, pierced their bodies, and the soldiers whirled around madly, screaming, and two were dragging behind them the third, who was already dead. Then there was only one survivor, and he pushed two dead men away from him, and they dragged, circled, rolled over one another and over him - and suddenly everyone immediately became motionless. He said that at least two thousand people died at this fence alone. While they were cutting the wire and getting entangled in its snake-like coils, they were showered with a continuous rain of bullets and grapeshot. He assures that it was very scary, and that this attack would have ended in a stampede if they had known in which direction to run. But ten or twelve continuous rows of wire and the struggle with it, a whole labyrinth of wolf pits, with stakes packed at the bottom, made our heads so dizzy that it was absolutely impossible to determine the direction. Some, as if blind, fell into deep funnel-shaped holes and hung with their bellies on sharp stakes, twitching and dancing like toy clowns; they were pressed down by new bodies, and soon the entire pit to the brim turned into a swarming pile of bloody living and dead bodies. Hands reached out from everywhere below, and the fingers on them contracted convulsively, grabbing everything, and whoever fell into this trap could no longer get out: hundreds of fingers, strong and blind, like claws, squeezed the legs, clung to clothes, and pulled the person down on themselves. , stabbed in the eyes and choked. Many, like drunks, ran straight to the wire, hung on it and started screaming until the bullet ended them. In general, everyone seemed to him like drunk people: some cursed terribly, others laughed when the wire grabbed them by the arm or leg, and immediately died. He himself, although he had not drunk or eaten anything since the morning, felt very strange: his head was spinning, and fear for minutes was replaced by wild delight - the delight of fear. When someone next to him began to sing, he took up the song, and soon a whole, very friendly choir formed. He doesn’t remember what they sang, but something very cheerful and dancing. Yes, they sang - and everything around was red with blood. The sky itself seemed red, and one might think that some kind of catastrophe had occurred in the universe, some strange change and disappearance of colors: blue and green and other familiar and quiet colors disappeared, and the sun lit up with a red sparkler. “Red laugh,” I said. But he didn't understand. - Yes, and they laughed. I already told you. Like drunk. Maybe they even danced, something happened. At least the movements of those three resembled dancing. He clearly remembers: when he was wounded in the chest and fell, for some time, until he lost consciousness, he kicked his legs, as if he were dancing with someone. And now he remembers this attack with a strange feeling: partly with fear, partly as if with a desire to experience the same thing again. - And again a bullet in the chest? - I asked. - Well, I don’t get a bullet every time. It would be nice, comrade, to receive an order for bravery. He lay on his back, yellow, sharp-nosed, with prominent cheekbones and sunken eyes - he lay like a dead man, and dreamed of an order. He had already developed an abscess, had a strong fever, and in three days they would have to dump him in a pit, among the dead, but he lay there, smiling dreamily and talking about the order. — Did you send a telegram to your mother? - I asked. He looked at me in fear, but sternly and angrily and did not answer. And I fell silent, and I could hear the wounded moaning and raving. But when I got up to leave, he squeezed my hand with his hot, but still strong hand and, confused and sad, stared at me with his sunken, burning eyes. - What is this, huh? What is this? — he asked timidly and persistently, tugging at my hand.- What? - Yes, in general... all of this. Is she waiting for me? I can't. Fatherland - can you explain to her what the fatherland is? “Red laughter,” I answered. - Ah! You're joking, but I'm serious. It is necessary to explain, but can you explain it to her? If only you knew what she writes! What is she writing? And you don’t know, her words are gray. And you... - He looked at my head with curiosity, pointed his finger and, unexpectedly laughing, said: - And you’ve gone bald. Did you notice? - There are no mirrors here. — There are a lot of gray-haired and bald people here. Listen, give me a mirror. Give it! I feel white hair coming out of my head. Give me a mirror! He began to become delirious, he cried and screamed, and I left the infirmary. That evening we arranged a feast for ourselves—a sad and strange feast, at which the shadows of the dead were present among the guests. We decided to get together in the evening and drink tea, like at home, like on a picnic, and we took out a samovar, and even took out lemon and glasses, and settled down under a tree - like at home, like on a picnic. One, two, three at a time, the comrades gathered and approached noisily, talking, joking, full of cheerful anticipation, but soon fell silent, avoiding looking at each other, for there was something terrible in this gathering of surviving people. Ragged, dirty, scratching as if in severe scabies, overgrown with hair, thin and emaciated, having lost our familiar and familiar appearance, it was as if we were just behind the samovar, saw each other - we saw and were afraid. I searched in vain for familiar faces in this crowd of confused people, but I couldn’t find them. These people, restless, hasty, with jerky movements, flinching at every knock, constantly looking for something behind them, trying with an excess of gestures to fill that mysterious void into which they were afraid to look - they were new, strangers whom I did not know. And the voices sounded differently, abruptly, in jerks, with difficulty pronouncing words and easily, for an insignificant reason, turning into a scream or meaningless, uncontrollable laughter. And everything was foreign. The tree was alien, and the sunset was alien, and the water was alien, with a special smell and taste, as if, together with the dead, we had left the earth and moved into some other world - a world of mysterious phenomena and ominous cloudy shadows. The sunset was yellow and cold; Black, unlit, motionless clouds hung heavily above him, and the ground below him was black, and our faces in this ominous light were yellow, like the faces of the dead. We all looked at the samovar, but it went out, reflected the yellowness and threat of sunset on its sides and also became alien, dead and incomprehensible. - Where are we? - someone asked, and there was anxiety and fear in his voice. Someone sighed. Someone cracked their fingers convulsively, someone laughed, someone jumped up and quickly walked around the table. Now one could often meet these people walking quickly, almost running, sometimes strangely silent, sometimes strangely muttering something. “At war,” answered the one who was laughing, and again he laughed with a dull, prolonged laugh, as if he was choking on something. -What does he want? - someone was indignant. - Listen, stop it! He choked again, giggled and obediently fell silent. It was getting dark, a cloud was pressing on the ground, and we could hardly distinguish each other’s yellow, ghostly faces. Someone asked: - Where is Botik? “Botik” - that’s what we called our comrade, a little officer in big waterproof boots. - He was here now. Botik, where are you? - Botik, don’t hide! We can smell your boots. Everyone laughed, and, interrupting the laughter, a rough, indignant voice sounded from the darkness: - Stop it, it’s a shame. Botik was killed this morning on reconnaissance. - He was here just now. This is a mistake. - It seemed to you. Hey, get the samovar, quickly cut me a lemon.- Me too! Me too! - All the lemon. “What is this, gentlemen,” a quiet and offended voice sounded sadly, almost crying, “And I only came for the lemon.” He laughed again, loudly and dully, and no one stopped him. But he soon fell silent. He chuckled again and fell silent. Someone said: - Tomorrow is the offensive. And several voices shouted irritably: - Leave it! What an offensive there is! - You know it yourself... - Leave it. Can't we talk about something else? What is this! The sunset has faded. The cloud lifted, and it seemed to become lighter, and the faces became familiar, and the one that was circling around us calmed down and sat down. - How are things at home now? “he asked vaguely, and a somewhat guilty smile could be heard in his voice. And again everything became scary, and incomprehensible, and alien - to the point of horror, almost to the point of loss of consciousness. And we all immediately started talking, screaming, fussing about, moving glasses, touching each other on the shoulders, hands, knees - and immediately fell silent, yielding to the incomprehensible. - At home? - someone shouted from the darkness. His voice was hoarse from excitement, from fear, from anger and trembled. And some words didn’t come out, as if he had forgotten how to say them. - At home? What kind of house, is there a house anywhere? Don't interrupt me, otherwise I'll start shooting. At home, I took baths every day—you know, water baths—with water all the way up to the edges. And now I don’t wash my face every day, and I have scabs on my head, some kind of scab, and my whole body itches, and crawling and crawling all over my body... I’m going crazy from the dirt, and you say - home! I am like cattle, I despise myself, I do not recognize myself, and death is not at all so terrible. You're tearing my brain apart with your shrapnel, my brain! Wherever they shoot, everything hits my brain - you say - home. What house? The street, the windows, the people, but I wouldn’t go out into the street now—I’m ashamed. You brought a samovar, but I was ashamed to look at it. To the samovar. He laughed again. Someone shouted: - This is the devil knows what. I'll go home.- Home? -You don’t understand what a house is!.. - Home? Listen: he wants to go home! There was general laughter and a terrible cry - and again everyone fell silent, yielding to the incomprehensible. And here it was not just me, but all of us, no matter how many of us there were, who felt This. It came at us from these dark, mysterious and alien fields; it rose from the deep black gorges, where perhaps the forgotten and lost among the stones were still dying, it poured from this alien, unprecedented sky. Silently, losing consciousness from horror, we stood around the extinguished samovar, and from the sky a huge shapeless shadow, rising above the world, gazed at us intently and silently. Suddenly, very close to us, probably near the regimental commander, music began to play, and wildly cheerful, loud sounds seemed to flare up in the middle of the night and silence. She played with mad joy and defiance, hurried, discordant, too loud, too cheerful, and it was clear that both those who play and those who listen see, just like us, this huge shapeless shadow rising above the world . And the one in the orchestra who played the trumpet already carried, apparently, within himself, in his brain, in his ears, this huge, silent shadow. The abrupt and broken sound rushed, and jumped, and ran somewhere away from the others - lonely, trembling with horror, insane. And the rest of the sounds seemed to be looking back at him; so awkwardly, stumbling, falling and rising, they ran in a torn crowd, too loud, too cheerful, too close to the black gorges, where people, perhaps forgotten and lost among the stones, were still dying. And for a long time we stood around the extinguished samovar and were silent.

Excerpt five

...I was already asleep when the doctor woke me up with careful pushes. I screamed, waking up and jumping up, as we all screamed when we were woken up, and rushed to the exit from the tent. But the doctor held my hand tightly and apologized: - I scared you, sorry. And I know that you want to sleep... “Five days...” I muttered, falling asleep, and fell asleep and slept for what seemed like a long time, when the doctor spoke again, gently pushing my sides and legs. - But it’s very necessary. Darling, please, this is necessary. Everything seems to me... I can't. It still seems to me that there are still wounded there... — Which wounded? You've been driving them around all day. Leave me alone. It's not fair, I haven't slept for five days! “Darling, don’t be angry,” the doctor muttered, awkwardly putting his cap on my head. - Everyone is sleeping, you can’t wake them up. I got a locomotive and seven carriages, but we need people. I understand... Darling, I beg you. Everyone is sleeping, everyone is refusing. I'm afraid to fall asleep myself. I don't remember when I slept. I think I'm starting to hallucinate. Darling, lower your legs, well, one leg, well, so, so... The doctor was pale and swaying, and it was obvious that if he just lay down, he would fall asleep for several days in a row. And my legs gave way under me, and I am sure that I fell asleep while we were walking - so suddenly and unexpectedly, from nowhere, a row of black silhouettes appeared in front of us - a locomotive and carriages. Some people were slowly and silently wandering around them, barely visible in the darkness. There was not a single lantern on the locomotive or in the carriages, and only a reddish, dim light fell on the canvas from the closed vent. - What is this? - I asked, retreating. - After all, we are going. Have you forgotten? “We’re going,” the doctor muttered. The night was cold, and he was shivering from the cold, and, looking at him, I felt the same frequent tickling trembling throughout my body. - The devil knows you! - I shouted loudly. - You couldn’t take another... - Quiet, please, quiet! “The doctor grabbed my hand. Someone from the darkness said: “Now fire a salvo from all the guns, and no one will move.” They are also sleeping. You can come up and bandage everyone who is sleepy. I just passed by the sentry himself. He looked at me and didn’t say anything, didn’t move. He's probably sleeping too. And as soon as he doesn't fall. The speaker yawned, and his clothes rustled: apparently, he was stretching. I lay down with my chest on the edge of the carriage to climb up - and sleep immediately overtook me. Someone lifted me from behind and laid me down, and for some reason I pushed him away with my feet - and I fell asleep again, and as if in a dream I heard fragments of a conversation: - At the seventh mile. - Did you forget the lanterns? - No, he won't go. - Come here. Siege a little. So. The carriages jerked in place, something was knocking. And gradually, from all these sounds and because I lay down comfortably and calmly, sleep began to leave me. But the doctor fell asleep, and when I took his hand, it was like a dead man’s: limp and heavy. The train was already moving slowly and carefully, shuddering slightly and as if groping for the road. The student orderly lit a candle in the lantern, illuminated the walls and the black hole of the doors and said angrily: - What the hell! They really need us now. And you will wake him up before he falls asleep. Then you can’t do anything, I know from myself. We pushed the doctor aside, and he sat down, looking around in bewilderment. I wanted to fall in again, but we didn’t allow it. “It would be nice to take a sip of vodka now,” said the student. We took a sip of cognac, and the sleep passed away completely. The large, black quadrangle of doors began to turn pink and red - somewhere behind the hills a huge silent glow appeared, as if the sun was rising in the middle of the night. - It's far away. About twenty versts. “I’m cold,” said the doctor, gnashing his teeth. The student looked out the door and beckoned me with his hand. I looked: in different places on the horizon, in a silent chain, stood the same motionless glow, as if dozens of suns were rising at the same time. And it was no longer so dark. The distant hills were thickly black, clearly cutting out a broken line and wavy line, and nearby everything was flooded with a red, quiet light, silent and motionless. I looked at the student: his face was painted in the same red ghostly color of blood that had turned into air and light. — Are there many wounded? - I asked. He waved his hand. - Lots of crazy people. More than wounded.- Real ones? - What kind? He looked at me, and in his eyes there was the same stopped, wild, full of cold horror, like that of the soldier who died of sunstroke. “Stop it,” I said, turning away. - The doctor is crazy too. Look at him. The doctor didn't hear. He sat with his legs crossed, like the Turks sit, and swayed, and silently moved his lips and fingertips. And in his gaze there was the same stopped, dumbfounded, stupidly amazed look. “I’m cold,” he said and smiled. - Well, to hell with you all! - I shouted, retreating to the corner of the car. - Why did you call me? Nobody answered. The student looked at the silent, growing glow, and the back of his head with curly hair was young, and when I looked at him, for some reason I kept imagining a thin female hand combing this hair. And this performance was so unpleasant that I began to hate the student and could not look at him without disgust. - How old are you? - I asked, but he didn’t turn around and didn’t answer. The doctor swayed.- I'm cold. “When I think,” said the student, without turning around, “when I think that there are streets, houses, a university somewhere... He interrupted, as if he had said everything, and fell silent. The train stopped almost suddenly, so I hit the wall, and voices were heard. We jumped out. Just in front of the locomotive there was something lying on the canvas, a small lump with a leg sticking out of it.- Wounded? - No, he was killed. The head is torn off. Just do what you want, and I’ll light the front lamp. Otherwise you'll crush it. The lump with the protruding leg was thrown to the side; his leg lifted upward for a moment, as if he wanted to run through the air, and everything disappeared into a black ditch. The lantern caught fire, and the locomotive immediately turned black. - Listen! - With quiet horror someone whispered. How have we not heard before! From everywhere—it was impossible to pinpoint the exact location—came an even, scraping groan, surprisingly calm in its breadth and even seemingly indifferent. We heard a lot of screams and moans, but it was unlike anything we had ever heard. The eye could not catch anything on the vague reddish surface, and therefore it seemed as if it was the earth itself or the sky, illuminated by the non-rising sun, groaning. “The fifth mile,” said the driver. “This is from there,” the doctor pointed forward with his hand. The student shuddered and slowly turned to us: - What is this? After all, you can’t hear this!- Let's move! We walked ahead of the locomotive, and from us a continuous long shadow lay on the canvas, and it was not black, but vaguely red from that quiet, motionless light that silently stood at different ends of the black sky. And with every step we took, this wild, unheard groan, which had no visible source, ominously grew in intensity—as if the red air was groaning, as if the earth and sky were groaning. In its continuity and strange indifference, it was reminiscent at times of the chattering of grasshoppers in a meadow - the smooth and hot chattering of grasshoppers in a summer meadow. And corpses began to appear more and more often. We quickly examined them and threw them off the canvas - these indifferent, calm, sluggish corpses, leaving dark oily stains of absorbed blood where they lay, and at first we counted them, and then they got lost and stopped. There were many of them - too many for this ominous night, which breathed cold and groaned with every particle of its being. - What is this! - the doctor shouted and shook his fist at someone. - You - listen... The sixth mile was approaching, and the groans became more definite, sharper, and you could already feel the twisted mouths emitting these voices. We were anxiously peering into the pink darkness, deceptive in its ghostly light, when almost nearby, near the canvas, below, someone moaned loudly with an inviting, crying moan. We immediately found him, this wounded man, who had only eyes on his face - they seemed so large when the light of the lantern fell on his face. He stopped moaning and only turned his eyes one by one at each of us and at our lanterns, and in his gaze there was an insane joy from the fact that he sees people and lights, and an insane fear that now all this will disappear like a vision. Perhaps he had more than once dreamed of people bending down with lanterns and disappearing into a bloody and vague nightmare. We moved on and almost immediately came across two wounded; one was lying on the canvas, the other was moaning in the ditch. When they were picked up, the doctor, trembling with anger, said to me: - Well? - And he turned away. After a few steps we met a slightly wounded man who was walking on his own, supporting one hand with the other. He moved with his head thrown back, straight at us and certainly didn’t notice when we parted to give him way. It seems he hasn't seen us. He stopped for a moment at the locomotive, walked around it and walked along the carriages. - You should sit down! - the doctor shouted, but he did not answer. These were the first ones that terrified us. And then, more and more often, they began to appear on and around the canvas, and the entire field, flooded with the motionless red glow of the fires, began to stir, as if alive, and lit up with loud cries, screams, curses and groans. These dark tubercles swarmed and crawled, like sleepy crayfish released from a basket, splayed out, strange, hardly human-like in their ragged, vague movements and heavy immobility. Some were silent and obedient, others moaned, howled, cursed and hated us, who saved them, so passionately, as if we had created this bloody, indifferent night, and their loneliness in the middle of the night and the corpses, and these terrible wounds. There was no longer enough space in the carriages, and all our clothes became wet with blood, as if we had been standing for a long time in the bloody rain, while the wounded were still being carried, and the revived field was still swarming wildly. Some crawled up on their own, others approached, staggering and falling. One soldier almost ran up to us. His face was smashed, and only one eye remained, burning wildly and fearfully, and he was almost naked, as if he had come out of a bathhouse. Pushing me, he found the doctor with his eye and quickly grabbed him by the chest with his left hand. - I'll punch you in the face! - he shouted and, shaking the doctor, he added a cynical curse at length and caustically. - I'll punch you in the face! Bastards! The doctor broke free and, stepping on the soldier, choking, shouted: “I’ll put you on trial, scoundrel!” To the punishment cell! You're stopping me from working! Scoundrel! Animal! They were pulled away, but for a long time the soldier shouted: - Bastards! I'll punch you in the face! I was already losing strength and went to the side to smoke and rest. The dried blood made the hands look like black gloves, and the fingers had difficulty bending, losing cigarettes and matches. And when I lit a cigarette, the tobacco smoke seemed so new and strange to me, a very special taste that I had not felt either before or later. Then the nursing student approached me, the one who was traveling here, but it seemed to me that I had seen him several years ago, and I could not remember where. He walked firmly, as if he were marching, and looked through me somewhere further and higher. “And they’re sleeping,” he said as if completely calmly. I flared up, as if the reproach concerned me. You forget that they fought like lions for ten days. “And they’re sleeping,” he repeated, looking through me and above. Then he leaned towards me and, shaking his finger, continued in the same dry and calm manner: - I'll tell you. I'll tell you.- What? He leaned lower and lower towards me, meaningfully shook his finger and repeated as if a complete thought: - I'll tell you. I'll tell you. Tell them. And, still looking sternly at me and once again wagging his finger, he took out a revolver and shot himself in the temple. And this did not surprise or frighten me at all. Having transferred the cigarette to left hand, I tried the wound with my finger and went to the carriages. — The student shot himself. It seems he’s still alive,” I told the doctor. He grabbed his head and groaned: - Oh, damn it!.. After all, we don’t have room. That one over there is about to shoot himself too. And I give you my word of honor,” he shouted angrily and threateningly. - Me too! Yes! And I ask you - if you please, go on foot. There are no places. You can complain if you want. And, still continuing to shout, he turned away, and I approached the one who was about to shoot himself. It was an orderly, also, it seems, a student. He stood with his forehead pressed against the wall of the carriage, and his shoulder shook with sobs. “Stop it,” I said, touching his trembling shoulder. “But he didn’t turn around, didn’t answer, and cried.” And the back of his head was young, like that one, and also terrible, and he stood, stretched out absurdly, like a drunken man who was vomiting; and his neck was bleeding - he must have grabbed it with his hands. - Well? - I said impatiently. He rocked out of the carriage and, lowering his head, hunched over like an old man, walked somewhere into the darkness, away from all of us. I don’t know why, and I followed him, and we walked for a long time, all somewhere to the side, away from the carriages. He seemed to be crying; and I became bored and wanted to cry myself. - Stop! - I shouted, stopping. But he walked, moving his legs heavily, hunched over, looking like an old man, with his narrow shoulders and shuffling gait. And soon he disappeared into the reddish darkness, which seemed like light and illuminated nothing. And I was left alone. To the left, already far from me, a row of dim lights floated by - the train had left. I was alone among the dead and dying. How many of them are left? Near me everything was motionless and dead, but further on the field was swarming as if alive - or it seemed to me because I was alone. But the groan did not subside. It lay on the ground - thin, hopeless, like a child's cry or the squeal of a thousand abandoned and freezing puppies. Like a sharp, endless icy needle it entered the brain and slowly moved back and forth, back and forth...

Excerpt six

...they were ours. Among the strange confusion of movements that last month pursued both armies, ours and the enemy’s, breaking all orders and plans, we were sure that the enemy was approaching us, namely the fourth corps. And everything was ready for the attack when someone through binoculars clearly distinguished our uniforms, and ten minutes later the guess turned into a calm and happy confidence: they were ours. And they apparently recognized us: they moved towards us completely calmly; in this calm movement one could feel the same happy smile of an unexpected meeting as we did. And when they started shooting, for some time we could not understand what it meant, and we were still smiling - under a whole hail of shrapnel and bullets that showered us and immediately snatched up hundreds of people. Someone shouted about the mistake, and - I remember this clearly - we all saw that it was the enemy, and that this uniform was his, not ours, and immediately responded with fire. Probably about fifteen minutes into this strange battle, both legs were torn off, and I came to my senses in the infirmary, after the amputation. I asked how the battle ended, but they gave me an evasive, reassuring answer, from which I understood that we were defeated; and then I, legless, was overcome with joy that I would now be sent home, that I was still alive—alive for a long time, forever. And only a week later I learned some details that again pushed me to doubts and a new, not yet experienced fear. Yes, it seems they were ours - and our grenade, fired from our cannon by our soldier, tore off my legs. And no one could explain how it happened. Something happened, something darkened their vision, and two regiments of one army, standing a mile away from each other, mutually destroyed each other for an entire hour, in full confidence that they were dealing with the enemy. And they remembered this incident reluctantly, in half words, and - this is most surprising - it was felt that many of those who spoke still did not realize the mistake. Or rather, they recognize it, but they think that it happened later, and at the beginning they really were dealing with the enemy, who disappeared somewhere during the general commotion and exposed us to their own shells. Some spoke openly about it, giving precise explanations that seemed plausible and clear to them. I myself still cannot quite confidently say how this strange misunderstanding began, since I saw equally clearly first our red uniform, and then their orange one. And somehow very soon everyone forgot about this incident, they forgot so much that they talked about it as a real battle, and in this sense many, quite sincere correspondence were written and sent; I already read them at home. At first, the attitude towards us, wounded in this battle, was somewhat strange - they seemed to feel less sorry for us than the other wounded, but soon this evened out. And only new cases like the one described, and the fact that in the enemy army two detachments actually killed each other almost completely, reaching hand-to-hand combat at night, gives me the right to think that there was a mistake. Our doctor, the one who performed the amputation, a dry, bony old man, stinking of iodoform, tobacco smoke and carbolic acid, always smiling at something through his thin yellow-gray mustache, said to me, narrowing his eyes: - You are lucky that you are going home. Something's wrong here.- What's happened? - Yes, yes. Something's wrong. In our time it was simpler. He was a participant in the last European war, which took place almost a quarter of a century ago, and often recalled it with pleasure. But I didn’t understand this one and, as I noticed, I was afraid. “Yes, something’s wrong,” he sighed and frowned, disappearing into a cloud of tobacco smoke. “I would leave here myself if it were possible.” And, leaning towards me, he whispered through his yellow, smoky mustache: “Soon the moment will come when no one will leave here.” Yes. Not me, no one. And in his close old eyes I saw the same stopped, stupidly amazed look. And something terrible, unbearable, like the fall of a thousand buildings, flashed in my head, and, cold with horror, I whispered:- Red laughter. And he was the first who understood me. He hastily nodded his head and confirmed: - Yes. Red laughter. Sitting very close to me and looking around, he whispered quickly, moving his sharp gray beard like an old man: - You will leave soon, and I will tell you. Have you ever seen a fight in a madhouse? No? And I saw it. And they fought like they were healthy. You see, how healthy they are! He repeated this phrase meaningfully several times. - So what? - I asked in the same whisper and fear. - Nothing. How healthy! “Red laugh,” I said. - They were spilled with water. I remembered the rain that had scared us so much, and I got angry. -Are you crazy, doctor! - No more than you. At least not anymore. He wrapped his arms around the sharp old knees and giggled, and, looking sideways at me over his shoulder, still keeping the echoes of this unexpected and heavy laughter on his dry lips, he winked at me several times slyly, as if only the two of us knew something very funny, what no one knows. Then, with the solemnity of a professor of magic performing magic tricks, he raised his hand high, lowered it smoothly and carefully, with two fingers, touched the place of the blanket under which my legs would have been if they had not been cut off. - Do you understand this? - he asked mysteriously. Then, just as solemnly and meaningfully, he gestured with his hand to the rows of beds on which the wounded lay, and repeated: -Can you explain this? “Wounded,” I said. - Wounded. “The wounded,” he repeated like an echo. - Wounded. Without legs, without arms, with torn stomachs, crushed chests, torn out eyes. Do you understand this? I'm very glad. So you will understand this too?.. With a flexibility unexpected for his age, he swung himself down and stood on his hands, balancing in the air with his legs. His white robe was turned down, his face was flushed with blood, and, persistently looking at me with a strange upside-down gaze, he hardly uttered abrupt words: - And this... you also... understand? “Stop it,” I whispered in fear. - Otherwise I’ll scream. He turned over, took a natural position, sat down again by my bed and, puffing, instructively remarked: - And no one understands this. - Yesterday they shot again. - And yesterday they shot. And they shot three days ago,” he shook his head affirmatively. - I want to go home! - I said sadly. - Doctor, honey, I want to go home. I can't stay here. I stop believing that there is a home where it is so good. He was thinking about something and didn’t answer, and I cried: - Lord, I have no legs. I loved cycling, walking, running so much, and now I have no legs. I rocked my son on my right leg, and he laughed, and now... Damn you! Why am I going? I'm only thirty years old... Damn you! And I sobbed, sobbed, remembering my dear, my fast legs, strong legs. Who took them from me, who dared to take them away! “Listen,” said the doctor, looking to the side. - Yesterday I saw: a crazy soldier came to us. Enemy soldier. He was stripped almost naked, beaten, scratched and hungry like an animal; he was all overgrown with hair, like all of us, and he looked like a savage, like primitive man, to the monkey. He waved his arms, made faces, sang and shouted and started to fight. They fed him and drove him back into the field. Where should we put them? Days and nights, ragged, ominous ghosts, they wander through the hills back and forth, and in all directions, without a road, without a goal, without shelter. They wave their arms, laugh, shout and sing, and when they meet, they start a fight, or perhaps they don’t see each other and pass by. What do they eat? Probably nothing, and perhaps corpses, along with the animals, along with those fat, overfed wild dogs who fight and squeal on the hills all night long. At night, like birds awakened by a storm, like ugly moths, they flock to the fire, and it is worth making a fire from the cold, so that in half an hour a dozen loud, ragged, wild silhouettes, similar to chilled monkeys, will grow around it. They are sometimes shot at by mistake, sometimes on purpose, driven out of patience by their stupid, frightening scream... - I want to go home! - I shouted, covering my ears. And, as if through cotton wool, new terrible words hammered dully and ghostly into my tormented brain: -...There are many of them. They die in hundreds in abysses, in wolf pits prepared for the healthy and intelligent, on the remains of barbed wire and stakes; they intervene in the right, reasonable battles and fight like heroes - always ahead, always fearless; but they often beat their own. I like them. Now I’m just going crazy and that’s why I’m sitting and talking with you, and when my mind finally leaves me, I’ll go out into the field - I’ll go out into the field, I’ll call out the cry - I’ll call out the cry, I’ll gather around me these brave men, these knights without fear, and I will declare war on the whole world. In a cheerful crowd, with music and songs, we will enter the cities and villages, and wherever we pass, everything will be red, everything will spin and dance like fire. Those who have not died will join us, and our brave army will grow like an avalanche and cleanse this entire world. Who said that you can’t kill, burn and rob?.. He was already screaming, this crazy doctor, and with his scream he seemed to awaken the sleeping pain of those whose chests and stomachs were torn, and their eyes were torn out, and their legs were chopped off. A wide, scraping, crying groan filled the room, and from everywhere pale, yellow, emaciated faces turned to us, some without eyes, others in such monstrous deformity, as if they had returned from hell. And they moaned and listened, and a black shapeless shadow, rising above the world, cautiously peered into the open door, and a crazy old man shouted, stretching out his hands: - Who said that you can’t kill, burn and rob? We will kill, and rob, and burn. Cheerful, carefree band of brave men - we will destroy everything: their buildings, their universities and museums; cheerful guys, full of fiery laughter - we will dance on the ruins. I will declare a madhouse our fatherland; our enemies and madmen - all those who have not yet gone mad; and when the great, invincible, joyful, I reign over the world, its only ruler and master, what cheerful laughter will echo the universe! - Red laughter! - I shouted, interrupting. - Save me! I hear red laughter again! - Friends! - the doctor continued, addressing the groaning, disfigured shadows. - Friends! We will have a red moon and a red sun, and the animals will have red cheerful fur, and we will flay those who are too white, who are too white... Have you tried drinking blood? She's a little sticky, she's a little warm, but she's red, and she has such a funny red laugh!..

Excerpt seven

...it was godless, it was lawless. The Red Cross is respected by the whole world as a shrine, and they saw that this train was coming not with soldiers, but with harmless wounded, and they should have warned about the mine. Unhappy people, they were already dreaming about home...

Excerpt eight

...around the samovar, around a real samovar, from which steam was pouring out, like from a steam locomotive - even the glass in the lamp became a little foggy: the steam was coming out so strongly. And the cups were the same, blue on the outside and white on the inside, very beautiful cups that were given to us at the wedding. My wife's sister gave it to me - she is a very nice and kind woman. - Is everyone safe? — I asked incredulously, stirring the sugar in a glass with a clean silver spoon. “One was broken,” the wife said absently: at that time she was holding the tap turned off, and hot water was running beautifully and easily from there. I laughed. -What are you doing? - asked the brother. - So. Well, take me to the office one more time. Work hard for the hero! You’ve been idle without me, now that’s it, I’ll pull you up,” and I jokingly, of course, sang: “We bravely rush to the enemies, to the battle, friends, in a hurry...” They understood the joke and also smiled, only the wife did not raise her face: she was rubbing the cups with a clean embroidered towel. In the office I again saw blue wallpaper, a lamp with a green cap and a table on which stood a decanter of water. And it was a little dusty. “Pour me some water from here,” I ordered cheerfully. - You were drinking tea just now. - Nothing, nothing, pour it. And you,” I said to my wife, “take your little son and sit in that room for a while.” Please. And I drank the water in small sips, enjoying it, but my wife and son were sitting in the next room, and I didn’t see them. - Yes, okay. Now come here. But why does he stay up so late? - He's glad you're back. Honey, go to your father. But the child began to cry and hid at his mother’s feet. - Why is he crying? — I asked in bewilderment and looked around. “Why are you all so pale and silent and following me like shadows?” The brother laughed loudly and said:- We are not silent. And the sister repeated: - We talk all the time. “I’ll take care of dinner,” said the mother and hurriedly left. “Yes, you are silent,” I repeated with unexpected confidence. - Since the very morning I haven’t heard a word from you, I’m just chatting, laughing, rejoicing. Aren't you glad to see me? And why do you all avoid looking at me, have I changed so much? Yes, that has changed. I don't even see mirrors. Have you removed them? Give me a mirror here. “I’ll bring it now,” the wife answered and did not return for a long time, and the maid brought the mirror. I looked into it, and - I already saw myself in the carriage, at the station - it was the same face, a little older, but very ordinary. And for some reason they seemed to expect me to scream and faint - they were so happy when I calmly asked: - What’s unusual here? Laughing louder and louder, the sister hurriedly left, and the brother said confidently and calmly: - Yes. You haven't changed much. Got a little bald. “Thank you for the fact that you still have your head,” I answered indifferently. - But where do they all run away: first one, then the other. Take me around the rooms some more. What a comfortable chair, completely silent. How much did you pay? And I won’t spare the money: I’ll buy myself such legs, better... A bicycle! It was hanging on the wall, still completely new, only with the tires falling off without air. There was a piece of dirt stuck to the rear tire from the last time I rode. The brother was silent and did not move his chair, and I understood this silence and this indecision. “There are only four officers left alive in our regiment,” I said gloomily. - I’m very happy... Take it for yourself, take it tomorrow. “Okay, I’ll take it,” my brother agreed obediently. - Yes, you are happy. We have half the city in mourning. And the legs are, really... - Certainly. I'm not a postman. The brother suddenly stopped and asked: - Why is your head shaking? - Nonsense. It will pass, the doctor said!- And your hands too? - Yes, yes. And hands. Everything will pass. Please take me, I'm tired of standing. They upset me, these dissatisfied people, but joy returned to me again when they began to prepare a bed for me - a real bed, on a beautiful bed, on the bed that I bought before the wedding, four years ago. They laid out a clean sheet, then fluffed up the pillows, wrapped the blanket - and I looked at this solemn ceremony, and there were tears of laughter in my eyes. “Now undress me and put me down,” I told my wife. - How good!- Now, honey. - Hurry up! - Now, honey. - What are you doing? S—now, honey. She stood behind me, near the toilet, and I turned my head in vain to see her. And suddenly she screamed, screamed as they scream only in war: - What is this! - And she rushed to me, hugged me, fell next to me, hiding her head at the cut off legs, moving away from them in horror and falling down again, kissing these scraps and crying. - What a person you were! After all, you are only thirty years old. He was young and handsome. What is this! How cruel people are. Why is this? Who needed it? You, my meek, my pitiful, my dear, dear... And then they all came running to the cry, my mother, my sister, my nanny, and they all cried, said something, lay at my feet and cried. And on the threshold stood the brother, pale, completely white, with a shaking jaw, and shouted shrilly: - I'm going crazy with you here. I'll go crazy! And the mother crawled near the chair and no longer screamed, but only wheezed and banged her head on the wheels. And clean, with fluffed pillows and a wrapped blanket, there was a bed, the same one that I bought four years ago - before the wedding...

Excerpt Nine

...I was sitting in a bathtub with hot water, and my brother was restlessly spinning around the small room, sitting down, getting up again, grabbing soap and a sheet, bringing them close to his myopic eyes and putting them back again. Then he stood facing the wall and, picking at the plaster with his finger, continued passionately: “Judge for yourself: you can’t teach pity, intelligence, logic, and give consciousness for decades and hundreds of years with impunity.” The main thing is consciousness. You can become ruthless, lose sensitivity, get used to the sight of blood, and tears, and suffering - like butchers, or some doctors, or military men; but how is it possible, having learned the truth, to refuse it? In my opinion, this is not possible. Since childhood, I was taught not to torture animals, to be compassionate; All the books I read taught me the same thing, and I am painfully sorry for those who suffer in your damned war. But time passes, and I begin to get used to all this death, suffering, blood; I feel that in everyday life I am less sensitive, less responsive and respond only to the most powerful stimuli - but I cannot get used to the very fact of war, my mind refuses to understand and explain what is fundamentally insane. A million people, gathered in one place and trying to give correctness to their actions, kill each other, and everyone is equally hurt, and everyone is equally unhappy - what is this, because this is madness? My brother turned around and looked at me questioningly with his short-sighted, slightly naive eyes. “Red laughter,” I said cheerfully, splashing around. - And I will tell you the truth. “My brother trustingly put a cold hand on my shoulder, but seemed to be afraid that it was bare and wet, and quickly pulled it away. “I’ll tell you the truth: I’m very afraid of going crazy.” I can't understand what is happening. I can't understand and it's terrible. If only someone could explain it to me, but no one can. You were in the war, you saw it, explain it to me. - Get the hell out! — I answered jokingly, splashing around. “So are you,” said the brother sadly. - Nobody can help me. It's horrible. And I cease to understand what is possible and what is not, what is reasonable and what is crazy. If now I take you by the throat, first quietly, as if caressing you, and then harder, and choke you, what will it happen? - You're talking nonsense. Nobody does this. The brother rubbed his cold hands, smiled quietly and continued: “When you were still there, there were nights in which I did not sleep, could not fall asleep, and then strange thoughts came to me: take an ax and go kill everyone: my mother, my sister, the servant, our dog.” Of course, these were just thoughts and I would never do it. “I hope so,” I smiled, splashing around. “I’m also afraid of knives, anything sharp or shiny: it seems to me that if I pick up a knife, I’ll certainly stab someone.” It’s true, why not stab him if the knife is sharp? - The reason is sufficient. What an eccentric you are, brother! Let me have some more hot water. The brother turned off the tap, let water in and continued: “I’m also afraid of crowds, of people, when a lot of them gather.” When in the evening I hear a noise on the street, a loud scream, I shudder and think that this has already begun... a massacre. When several people are standing opposite each other and I can’t hear what they are talking about, it begins to seem to me that now they will scream, rush at one another, and the murder will begin. And you know,” he leaned mysteriously towards my ear, “the newspapers are full of reports of murders, of some strange murders. It is a nonsense that there are many people and many minds - humanity has one mind, and it begins to become clouded. Try my head, how hot it is. There's fire in her. And sometimes it becomes cold, and everything in it freezes, becomes numb, turns into terrible dead ice. I must go crazy, don’t laugh, brother: I must go crazy... It’s already a quarter of an hour, it’s time for you to get out of the bath. - A little more. Just a minute. It felt so good to sit in the bath, as before, and listen to a familiar voice, without thinking about the words, and see everything familiar, simple, ordinary: a copper, slightly green faucet, walls with a familiar pattern, photographic accessories, neatly laid out on the shelves . I will take up photography again, take pictures of simple and quiet views of my son: how he walks, how he laughs and plays pranks. This can be done without legs. And I will write again - about smart books, about new successes of human thought, about beauty and peace. - Ho-ho-ho! - I rumbled, splashing. - What's wrong with you? - The brother was frightened and turned pale. - So. It's fun that I'm home. He smiled at me, like a child, like a younger one, although I was three years older than him, and thought - like an adult, like an old man who has big, heavy and old thoughts. - Where to go? - he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Every day, at about one o’clock, the newspapers short-circuit the current, and all of humanity trembles. This simultaneity of sensations, thoughts, suffering and horror deprives me of support, and I am like a sliver on a wave, like a speck of dust in a whirlwind. I am violently torn away from the usual, and every morning there is one terrible moment when I hang in the air above the black abyss of madness. And I will fall into it, I must fall into it. You don't know everything yet, brother. You don’t read the newspapers, they hide a lot from you—you don’t know everything yet, brother. And what he said, I considered it a bit of a dark joke - this was the fate of all those who, in their madness, become close to the madness of war and warned us. I considered it a joke - as if I had forgotten at that moment, splashing in the hot water, everything that I had seen there. “Well, let them hide it for themselves, but I need to get out of the bath,” I said frivolously, and my brother smiled and called the servant, and together they took me out and dressed me. Then I drank fragrant tea from my ribbed glass and thought that I could live without legs, and then they took me to the office to my desk, and I got ready to work. Before the war, I was a reviewer for a magazine. foreign literature, and now next to me, at arm’s length, lay a pile of these cute ones, wonderful books in yellow, blue, brown covers. My joy was so great, the pleasure so deep that I did not dare to start reading and only sorted through the books, gently caressing them with my hand. I felt a smile spreading across my face, probably a very stupid smile, but I could not hold it back, admiring the fonts, vignettes, and the strict and beautiful simplicity of the design. There is so much intelligence and sense of beauty in all this! How many people had to work, search, how much talent and taste had to be invested in order to create even this letter, so simple and elegant, so smart, so harmonious and eloquent in its intertwined lines. “Now we have to work,” I said seriously, with respect for work. And I took the pen to write the title, and like a frog tied on a thread, my hand slapped across the paper. The pen poked at the paper, creaked, twitched, slid uncontrollably to the side and drew ugly lines, torn, crooked, meaningless. And I didn’t scream, and I didn’t move - I grew cold and froze in the consciousness of the approaching terrible truth; and the hand jumped on the brightly lit paper, and each finger in it shook in such a hopeless, living, insane horror, as if they, these fingers, were still there, at war, and saw the glow and blood, and heard groans and screams of unspeakable pain . They separated from me, they lived, they became ears and eyes, these insanely trembling fingers; and, growing cold, not having the strength to scream or move, I followed their wild dance across a clean, bright white sheet. And it was quiet. They thought I was working and closed all the doors so as not to disturb me with the sound - alone, unable to move, I sat in the room and obediently watched my hands tremble. “It’s nothing,” I said loudly, and in the silence and loneliness of the office my voice sounded hoarse and bad, like the voice of a madman. - It's nothing. I will dictate. After all, Milton was blind when he wrote his Paradise Regained. I can think - that's the main thing, that's all. And I began to compose a long, clever phrase about blind Milton, but the words got confused, fell out as if from a bad set, and when I came to the end of the phrase, I had already forgotten its beginning. I wanted to remember then how it began, why I was composing this strange, meaningless phrase about some Milton - and I could not. “Paradise returned,” “Paradise returned,” I repeated and did not understand what it meant. And then I realized that in general I was forgetting a lot, that I had become terribly absent-minded and was confusing familiar faces; that even in a simple conversation I lose words, and sometimes, even knowing a word, I cannot understand its meaning. I clearly imagined my current day: some strange, short, chopped off, like my legs, with empty, mysterious places- long hours of loss of consciousness or insensibility, about which I cannot remember anything. I wanted to call my wife, but I forgot her name - this no longer surprised or frightened me. Quietly I whispered:- Wife! The awkward, unusual word sounded quietly and died away, not eliciting a response. And it was quiet. They were afraid to interfere with my work with a careless sound, and it was quiet - a real scientist’s office, cozy, quiet, conducive to contemplation and creativity. “Dear ones, how they take care of me!” — I thought, touched. ...And inspiration, holy inspiration dawned on me. The sun lit up in my head, and its hot creative rays splashed across the whole world, dropping flowers and songs. And all night I wrote, not knowing fatigue, freely soaring on the wings of powerful, holy inspiration. I wrote great things, I wrote immortal things - flowers and songs. Flowers and songs...