Sevastopol stories December read short. Sevastopol stories. Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy

Lev Nikolaevich TOLSTOY

In 1851-53, Tolstoy took part in military operations in the Caucasus (first as a volunteer, then as an artillery officer), and in 1854 he went to the Danube Army. Soon after the start of the Crimean War, at his personal request, he was transferred to Sevastopol (in the besieged city, he fought on the famous 4th bastion). Army life and episodes of the war provided Tolstoy with material for the stories “Raid” (1853), “Cutting Wood” (1853-55), as well as for artistic essays “Sevastopol in December,” “Sevastopol in May,” “Sevastopol in August 1855.” of the year" (all published in Sovremennik in 1855-56). These essays, traditionally called “ Sevastopol stories”, boldly combined document, reportage and narrative storytelling; they made a huge impression on Russian society. The war appeared to them as an ugly bloody massacre, contrary to human nature. The final words of one of the essays, that its only hero is the truth, became the motto of all subsequent literary activity writer. Trying to determine the originality of this truth, N. G. Chernyshevsky insightfully pointed out two character traits Tolstoy’s talent - “dialectics of the soul” as a special form of psychological analysis and “immediate purity of moral feeling” (Poln. sobr. soch., vol. 3, 1947, pp. 423, 428).

SEVASTOPOL IN DECEMBER

The morning dawn is just beginning to color the sky above Sapun Mountain; the dark blue surface of the sea has already thrown off the darkness of the night and is waiting for the first ray to sparkle with a cheerful shine; it blows cold and fog from the bay; there is no snow - everything is black, but the sharp morning frost grabs your face and crackles under your feet, and the distant, incessant roar of the sea, occasionally interrupted by rolling shots in Sevastopol, alone disturbs the silence of the morning. On ships the eighth glass sounds dully.

In the North, daytime activity is gradually beginning to replace the tranquility of the night: where the shift of guards passed, rattling their guns; where the doctor is already rushing to the hospital; where the soldier crawled out of the dugout, washed his tanned face with icy water and, turning to the blushing east, quickly crossed himself, praying to God; where a tall, heavy majara on camels creakingly dragged itself to the cemetery to bury the bloody dead, with which it was almost piled to the top... You approach the pier - a special smell coal, manure, dampness and beef amazes you; thousands of different objects - firewood, meat, aurochs, flour, iron, etc. - lie in a heap near the pier; soldiers of different regiments, with bags and guns, without bags and without guns, crowd here, smoking, cursing, dragging loads onto the steamer, which, smoking, stands near the platform; free skiffs filled with all kinds of people - soldiers, sailors, merchants, women - moor and cast off from the pier.

- To Grafskaya, your honor? Please, - two or three retired sailors offer their services to you, getting up from their skiffs.

You choose the one that is closest to you, step over the half-rotten corpse of some bay horse, which is lying in the mud near the boat, and go to the helm. You set sail from the shore. All around you is the sea, already shining in the morning sun, in front of you is an old sailor in a camel coat and a young white-headed boy, who are silently working diligently with the oars. You look at the striped hulks of ships scattered near and far across the bay, and at the small black dots of boats moving across the brilliant azure, and at the beautiful light buildings of the city, painted with the pink rays of the morning sun, visible on the other side, and at the foaming white line booms and sunken ships, from which here and there the black ends of the masts sadly stick out, and at the distant enemy fleet looming on the crystal horizon of the sea, and at the foaming streams in which salt bubbles, lifted by the oars, jump; you listen to the uniform sounds of oar strikes, the sounds of voices reaching you across the water, and the majestic sounds of shooting, which, as it seems to you, is intensifying in Sevastopol.

It cannot be that, at the thought that you are in Sevastopol, feelings of some kind of courage, pride will not penetrate your soul, and that the blood will not begin to circulate faster in your veins...

- Your honor! keep straight under Kistentin,” the old sailor will tell you, turning back to check the direction you are giving the boat, “right rudder.”

“But it still has all the guns,” the white-haired guy will note, walking past the ship and looking at it.

“But of course: it’s new, Kornilov lived on it,” the old man will note, also looking at the ship.

- See where it broke! - the boy will say after a long silence, looking at the white cloud of diverging smoke that suddenly appeared high above the South Bay and was accompanied by the sharp sound of a bomb exploding.

“He’s the one firing from the new battery today,” the old man will add, indifferently spitting on his hand. - Well, come on, Mishka, we’ll move the longboat. “And your skiff moves forward faster along the wide swell of the bay, actually overtakes the heavy longboat, on which some coolies are piled and awkward soldiers are rowing unevenly, and lands between the many moored boats of all kinds at the Count’s pier.

Crowds of gray soldiers, black sailors and colorful women are noisily moving on the embankment. Women are selling rolls, Russian men with samovars are shouting hot sbiten, and right there on the first steps are lying rusty cannonballs, bombs, buckshot and cast iron cannons of various calibers. A little further there is a large area on which some huge beams, cannon machines, and sleeping soldiers are lying; there are horses, carts, green guns and boxes, infantry boxes; soldiers, sailors, officers, women, children, merchants are moving; carts with hay, bags and barrels drive by; Here and there a Cossack and an officer on horseback will pass, a general on a droshky. To the right, the street is blocked by a barricade, on which there are some small cannons in the embrasures, and a sailor sits near them, smoking a pipe. To the left is a beautiful house with Roman numerals on the pediment, under which stand soldiers and bloody stretchers - everywhere you see unpleasant traces of a military camp. Your first impression is certainly the most unpleasant: the strange mixture of camp and city life, a beautiful city and a dirty bivouac is not only not beautiful, but seems like a disgusting mess; It will even seem to you that everyone is scared, fussing, and doesn’t know what to do. But take a closer look at the faces of these people moving around you, and you will understand something completely different. Just look at this Furshtat soldier, who is leading some bay troika to drink and is so calmly purring something under his breath that, obviously, he will not get lost in this heterogeneous crowd, which does not exist for him, but that he is fulfilling his the business, whatever it may be - watering horses or carrying guns - is as calm, self-confident, and indifferent as if all this was happening somewhere in Tula or Saransk. You read the same expression on the face of this officer, who walks past in immaculate white gloves, and in the face of the sailor, who smokes, sitting on the barricade, and in the face of the working soldiers, waiting with a stretcher on the porch of the former Assembly, and in the face of this girl , who, afraid to get her pink dress wet, jumps across the street on the pebbles.

Sevastopol in December.

Morning. There is an incredibly beautiful dawn above Sapun Mountain: dark blue sea, slight chill and fog. There is no more snow, but the frost still burns your cheeks, and the sound of the sea is interrupted by gunfire in the city of Sevastopol. When looking at this beautiful city, the thought of a certain courage, great pride arises, and the blood seems to freeze in all the veins.

The war is still raging in Sevastopol, but if you look past everything that is happening, life goes on, and various goods are sold in the markets. Everything has been mixed up here for a long time, people don’t pay attention to anything, they are busy with their own problems. Only on the bastions is it possible to see heartbreaking sights.

In hospitals, the wounded share their impressions of the fighting and how each of them lost their health. In the next room, operations are carried out and the wounded are bandaged. Everyone is very embarrassed and scared, because the doctors easily remove body parts and indifferently throw them into the corner.

One of the officers behaves very strangely, complaining about the dirt, and not about the bombs falling on their heads. But no one here has been paying attention to this for a long time, because people are in shock. There are a lot of military men and quite a lot of wounded in the fourth bastion. But despite this, the artilleryman is very calm. The artillery officer shares that recently they had only one weapon left, and there were almost no assistants at all, but by morning, as if nothing had happened, he stood on the gun. He told how 11 people died from one explosion.

The whole Russian spirit is clearly visible in the faces of the soldiers: there is stubbornness, anger, simplicity with dignity. Anger is expressed in revenge on the enemy. All soldiers are scared, but when a bomb flies above them, it creates a feeling of fascination and a game of life and death. But the Russian people are unshakable, and will never give up their Sevastopol to the enemy. Love for the homeland overcomes all fears and doubts, and all unbearable conditions pale in comparison with the shame that the people will experience if they give up their city of Sevastopol. And the heroic Russian people of this great city will forever leave a mark on history.

Sevastopol in May

Fighting It's been six months now. The fairest and most original way out of the conflict would be if one person from each side of the armies fought, and the one who could win and win would win the whole battle. Since this method would be safer for civilians and all citizens in general. Wars are not at all logical and primitive, Tolstoy believes. War is madness, and people themselves create this madness.

People in military uniform wander the streets of Sevastopol every day. Mikhailov, who is a staff captain, is one of them; he is a tall, stooped man. Mikhailov received a message from a friend a few days ago; it said that his wife was watching how the officer’s regiment was moving and his achievements.

The staff captain sadly recalled his former circle of friends. After all, then he was at the balls of the governor himself, playing cards with the general, everyone respected him, but with distrust and indifference, and he had to defend his positions. Mikhailov wonders when he will be promoted.

Having met Obzhogov and Suslikov, who serve in his regiment, he shakes hands without much desire, but he has not wanted to do business with them for a long time. Aristocrats are very vain, but it is not aristocrats who behave in this way, but since there are a great many people in the city and death has been hanging over everyone’s heads for six months, the civilians have already begun to behave with a certain vanity.

This is most likely the case in every war in order to somehow survive. At this time, there are three types of citizens: those only embarking on the path of vanity, those who accept it as a condition of survival, and the herd that follows the first two... The staff captain does not want to meet anyone, but after walking around a little, he approaches the “aristocrats.” Before that, he was afraid of them, since they could prick the most “tender” and painful, and in general they might not even deign to say hello.

The “aristocrats” treat the staff officer very arrogantly; Galtsin takes him by the hand and takes him for a walk because he wants to give Mikhailov a little pleasure. But after a little while everyone stops paying any attention to him, and Mikhailov realizes that they are not very happy for him here.

Mikhailov returns home with the memory that he promised to go to work in the morning, replacing an officer. Mikhailov cannot shake the feeling that he will either die or be promoted. He believes that he is acting honestly. On the road, he tries to guess where he will be wounded.

Everyone gathers at Kalugin's to drink tea, play the piano and remember life before the war. They are all extremely pompous, and show themselves as important personalities, as if explaining that they are “aristocrats”.

An infantry officer comes to the general to tell him something important; everyone in the room pretends not to see him. As soon as the messenger leaves, Kalugin begins to worry. Galtsin asks a question about leaving, Kalugin dissuades him, knowing that he is not going to leave. Galtsin gets nervous and begins to walk around, asking passers-by how the battle is going.

Staff officer Kalugin goes to the bastion, demonstrating to those around him along the way that he is a brave man. He doesn't notice the bullet above his head, striking various poses. He is perplexed that the commander is afraid. Kalugin goes to inspect the bastion, accompanied by a young officer. Praskukhin notifies the battalion headquarters captain about the relocation.

Mikhailov and Praskukhin begin to move at night, but each of them thinks about how he looks in the eyes of the other. Praskukhin dies, and Kalugin is wounded in the head. Mikhailov does not go to the bandage, because he believes that duty comes first. He doesn’t yet know that his comrade is dead, so, no matter what, he crawls back. Clouds of bloody corpses, which just recently were full of desires and hopes, lie on a flowering field. The walls of Sevastopol have never seen so much groaning and suffering.

And the dawn continues to rise day after day over Sapun Mountain: already faded stars, thick fog of an almost black sea, scattered clouds along the bright red horizon, which still promise beautiful, joyful days, and peace in the whole world. The next day, all the military men walk along the alley and retell the events of the past day, showing others all their courage.

They all feel like Napoleons, because they are ready to take the battle path again in order to be able to catch a star and an increased salary. The Russians and the French declare a truce, the military easily communicate with each other, and there is absolutely no hostility in this. They are even happy to have such communication, suspecting the intelligence of each party. They understand how inhumane war is.

The boy walks through the clearing and, not noticing the corpses around, collects wildflowers. There are white flags around. An endless number of people smile at those around them. They all worship the same god, they all profess the same laws of life and love, but still they will not be able to fall to their knees and ask for forgiveness for the death of their loved ones.

But the flags have been removed. And again citizens of both sides take up guns, and again red rivers flow, and frantic groans are heard from every corner of the city. But the hero of this story is beautiful and courageous, he was able to prove himself as an officer, who cannot be more worthy; people like him, although rare, still live in all countries and at all times.

Sevastopol in August 1855.

After treatment, Kozeltsov appears on the battlefield; this highly respected officer is independent in his reasoning. He is not at all stupid and very talented. Knows how to draw up government papers. He had a certain kind of self-esteem that had long since merged with everyday life, with him it is possible to humiliate and excel at the same time.

All the carts with horses were gone, and quite a lot of residents gathered at the stop. Some officers have absolutely no means of subsistence. Mikhail Kozeltsev’s brother named Vladimir is also here. Despite his plans, he did not join the guard and was appointed a soldier. Like any newbie, he enjoys combat.

Vladimir is proud of his brother and goes with him to Sevastopol. Vladimir is somewhat embarrassed, he is no longer so eager to fight, sitting at the station, he lost money. His older brother helps pay off the debt and they hit the road. Volodya is waiting for the heroic deeds that he thinks he will accomplish with Mikhail. He thinks about how he will be killed and all the reproaches that he will say before his death to people who do not know how to value life.

When they arrive, they are sent to a booth. In the booth, an officer sits over a pile of money that he has to count. Nobody understands why Vladimir came to Sevastopol. The brothers go to bed at Bastion 5, but before going to bed they still have to visit their dying friend in the hospital. The brothers disperse.

The commander invited Vladimir to spend the night, although Vlang was already sleeping on their bed. He gives way to the arriving warrant officer. Vladimir has difficulty falling asleep, the night frightens him before going to bed, and he thinks about his death. But still he falls asleep to the whistling bullets. Mikhail puts himself at the disposal of his commander, who most recently was in the same position with him.

The new commander is outraged by Kozeltsov’s entry into service. But everyone else is glad to see him back, he is popular with everyone, and they give him a very warm welcome. In the morning, hostilities pick up speed again. Vladimir is part of the circles of artillery officers. Everyone here sympathizes with him. But Junker Vlang pays special attention to him. He tries in every possible way to please the new warrant officer Vladimir.

Captain Kraut unexpectedly returned from the war; he is German by origin, but he speaks in Russian, as in his native language, very beautifully and without errors. A conversation begins between them about legal theft in high positions. Vladimir blushes and assures everyone that if he lives to reach such a position, he will never act like that.

Vladimir ends up at the commander's lunch. There are quite a lot of interesting conversations going on there, and even the modest menu does not interfere with the conversations. The chief of artillery sends a letter, it says that an officer is needed for a mortar in the city of Malakhov, but since this is a troubled place, no one agrees. Someone proposes Vladimir for this position, and after a while he agrees. Vlang goes with him.

The officer begins to study artillery combat. But as soon as he arrives at his destination, all his knowledge is not accepted, since the war occurs without order, and everything that is described in the books is not even close to real combat operations. There is no one even to repair the military weapons. The officer came close to death several times. Juncker is scared, he can only think about death. Volodya treats everything with a certain sense of humor. Volodya likes to communicate with Melnikov, because he believes that he will not die in war. Vladimir finds it very quickly mutual language with the commander.

The soldiers are talking, because soon the help of Prince Constantine is going to arrive to them, and they will finally be able to rest a little. Volodya talks with Melnikov until the morning, on the threshold of the house, he no longer pays attention to either bullets or bombs. Vladimir, having forgotten about fear, is sincerely pleased with the high quality of performance of his own duties.

Storm. Sleepy Kozeltsev goes into battle, he is not embarrassed by his sleep-deprived state, he is much more worried about not being considered a coward. Snatching his saber, he rushes towards the French. Volodya is seriously wounded.

The priest, in order to make Volodya happy before his death, says that the Russians have won. He is very glad that he was able to serve his homeland, and until his last breath he thinks about his older brother. Volodya continues to command, but after a while he realizes that the French troops are bypassing them. Not far from him lies the corpse of Melnikov. Vlang is still fighting, not noticing the death of his commanders. The French banner appears over the Malakhov mound. Vlang drives away to safety. Soldiers are watching the abandoned Sevastopol...

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Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy
Sevastopol stories

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About "Sevastopol Stories"

In besieged Sevastopol in the winter, spring and summer of 1855, at the most distant points of the defensive line, a short, lean officer, an ugly face, with deeply sunken, piercing eyes, greedily peering into everything, was repeatedly noticed.

He often appeared in places where he was not at all obliged to be on duty, and mainly in the most dangerous trenches and bastions. It was this very little-known young lieutenant and writer who was destined to glorify both himself and the Russian people who gave birth to him - Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy. The people who observed him then later wondered how he managed to survive amid the continuous, terrible carnage, when he seemed to be deliberately running into danger every day.

In the young, starting his great life There were two people living in Leo Tolstoy at that time: the defender of a Russian city besieged by enemies and a brilliant artist who peered and listened attentively to everything that happened around him. But there was one feeling in him then that guided his military and official actions and directed and inspired his gift as a writer: a feeling of love for his homeland, which was in grave trouble, a feeling of the most ardent patriotism in the best sense of the word. Leo Tolstoy never expounded on how much he loved suffering Russia, but this feeling permeates all three Sevastopol stories and every page in each of them. At the same time, the great artist, describing people and events, speaking about himself and about other people, talking about Russians and the enemy, about officers and soldiers, sets himself the direct goal of absolutely not embellishing anything, but to give the reader the truth - and nothing but truth.

“The hero of my story,” this is how Tolstoy ends his second story, “whom I love with all the strength of my soul, whom I tried to reproduce in all his beauty and who has always been, is and will be beautiful, is true.”

And now the heroic defense of Sevastopol is resurrected before us under the brilliant pen.

Only three moments were taken, only three pictures were snatched from the desperate, unequal struggle, which for almost a whole year did not subside and was not silent near Sevastopol. But how much these pictures give!

This small book is not only great piece of art, but also truthful historical document, the testimony of an astute and impartial eyewitness, the testimony of a participant precious to the historian.

The first story speaks of Sevastopol in December 1854. This was a moment of some weakening and slowing down of military operations, the interval between the bloody battle of Inkerman (October 24/November 5, 1854) and the battle of Yevpatoria (February 5/17, 1855). But if the Russian field army stationed in the vicinity of Sevastopol could rest a little and recover, then the city of Sevastopol and its garrison did not know a respite even in December and forgot what the word “peace” means.

The bombardment of the city by French and English artillery did not stop. The head of the engineering defense of Sevastopol, Colonel Totleben, was in a great hurry with the excavation work, with the construction of more and more fortifications.

Soldiers, sailors, workers worked in the snow, in the cold rain without winter clothes, half-starved, and they worked so hard that the enemy commander-in-chief, the French General Canrobert, forty years later could not remember these Sevastopol workers, their selflessness and fearlessness, without delight. indestructibly steadfast soldiers, about these, finally, sixteen thousand sailors, who almost all died along with their three admirals - Kornilov, Nakhimov and Istomin, but did not yield to the lines assigned to them in the defense of Sevastopol.

Tolstoy talks about a sailor with a severed leg, who is being carried on a stretcher, and he asks to stop the stretcher to look at the volley of our battery. The original documents preserved in our archives cite any number of exactly the same facts. “Nothing, there are two hundred of us here on the bastion, We still have enough for two more days!“Such answers were given by soldiers and sailors, and none of them even suspected what a courageous person, despising death, one must be in order to talk so simply, calmly, businesslikely about one’s own inevitable death tomorrow or the day after tomorrow! And when we read that in these stories Tolstoy talks about women, then every line of his can be confirmed by a dozen irrefutable documentary evidence.

Every day the wives of workers, soldiers, and sailors brought lunch to their husbands in their bastions, and often one bomb ended the whole family, slurping cabbage soup from the brought pot. These friends, worthy of their husbands, endured terrible injuries and death without complaint. At the height of the assault on June 6/18, the wives of soldiers and sailors carried water and kvass to the bastions - and how many of them lay down on the spot!

The second story dates back to May 1855, and this story was dated June 26, 1855. In May, a bloody battle of the garrison took place against almost the entire besieging enemy army, which wanted at all costs to capture three advanced fortifications advanced in front of the Malakhov Kurgan: the Selenga and Volyn redoubts and the Kamchatka lunette. These three fortifications had to be abandoned after a desperate battle, but on June 6/18, the Russian defenders of the city won a brilliant victory, repelling the general assault launched by the French and British with heavy losses for the enemy. Tolstoy does not describe these bloody May and June meetings, but it is clear to the reader of the story that quite recently, very large events have just taken place near the besieged city.

Tolstoy, by the way, describes one short truce and listens to peaceful conversations between the Russians and the French. Obviously, he means the truce that was declared by both sides immediately after the battle on May 26/June 7, in order to have time to remove and bury the many corpses that covered the ground near the Kamchatka lunette and both redoubts.

In this description of the truce, the current reader will probably be struck by the picture drawn here by Tolstoy. Can enemies, who have just cut and stabbed each other in a fierce hand-to-hand fight, speak so friendly, with such affection, treat each other so kindly and considerately?

But here, as elsewhere, Tolstoy is strictly truthful and his story is completely consistent with history. When I was working on documents on the defense of Sevastopol, I constantly came across such exact descriptions of truces, and there were several of them during the Crimean War.

Tolstoy's third story concerns Sevastopol in August 1855. This was the last, most terrible month of a long siege, a month of continuous, brutal, day and night bombing, a month that ended with the fall of Sevastopol on August 27, 1855. As in his previous two stories, Tolstoy describes the events as they unfold before the eyes of the two or three participants he selected and observers of everything that happens.

It fell to one of the greatest sons of Russia, Leo Tolstoy, to glorify two Russian national epics with his unsurpassed creations: first Crimean War in “Sevastopol Stories”, and subsequently the victory over Napoleon in “War and Peace”.

E. Tarle

Sevastopol in December

She creakingly dragged herself on camels to the cemetery to bury the bloody dead, with whom she was almost completely covered... You approach the pier - the special smell of coal, manure, dampness and beef strikes you; thousands of different items - firewood, meat, tours 2
Tours are specially constructed braids of twigs filled with earth.

Flour, iron, etc. are lying in a heap near the pier; soldiers of different regiments, with bags and guns, without bags and without guns, crowd here, smoking, cursing, dragging loads onto the steamer, which, smoking, stands near the platform; free skiffs filled with all kinds of people - soldiers, sailors, merchants, women - moor and cast off from the pier.

- To Grafskaya, your honor? Please, - two or three retired sailors offer their services to you, getting up from their skiffs.

And the sunken ships, from which here and there the black ends of the masts sadly stick out, and at the distant enemy fleet looming on the crystal horizon of the sea, and at the foaming streams in which salt bubbles, lifted by the oars, jump; you listen to the uniform sounds of oar strikes, the sounds of voices reaching you across the water, and the majestic sounds of shooting, which, as it seems to you, is intensifying in Sevastopol.

- Your honor! right below Kistentina 4
The ship "Constantine". ( Note L. N. Tolstoy.)

Keep,” the old sailor will tell you, turning back to check the direction you are giving the boat, “to the right of the rudder.”

“But it still has all the guns,” the white-haired guy will note, walking past the ship and looking at it.

“But of course: it’s new, Kornilov lived on it,” the old man will note, also looking at the ship.

- This He“It’s firing now from the new battery,” the old man will add, indifferently spitting on his hand. - Well, come on, Mishka, we’ll move the longboat. “And your skiff moves forward faster along the wide swell of the bay, actually overtakes the heavy longboat, on which some coolies are piled and awkward soldiers are rowing unevenly, and lands between the many moored boats of all kinds at the Count’s pier.

Crowds of gray soldiers, black sailors and colorful women are noisily moving on the embankment. Women are selling rolls, Russian men with samovars are shouting: sbiten hot5
Hot sbiten is a drink made from honey and spices.

And right there on the first steps there are rusted cannonballs, bombs, buckshot and cast iron cannons of various calibers. A little further there is a large area on which some huge beams, cannon machines, and sleeping soldiers are lying; there are horses, carts, green guns and boxes, infantry goats; soldiers, sailors, officers, women, children, merchants are moving; carts with hay, bags and barrels drive by; Here and there a Cossack and an officer on horseback will pass, a general on a droshky. To the right, the street is blocked by a barricade, on which there are some small cannons in the embrasures, and a sailor sits near them, smoking a pipe. To the left is a beautiful house with Roman numerals on the pediment, under which stand soldiers and bloody stretchers - everywhere you see unpleasant traces of a military camp. Your first impression is certainly the most unpleasant: the strange mixture of camp and city life, a beautiful city and a dirty bivouac is not only not beautiful, but seems like a disgusting mess; It will even seem to you that everyone is scared, fussing, and doesn’t know what to do. But take a closer look at the faces of these people moving around you, and you will understand something completely different. Just look at this Furshtat soldier 6
Furshtat soldier is a soldier from the convoy unit.

Who is leading some bay troika to drink and is so calmly purring something under his breath that, obviously, he will not get lost in this heterogeneous crowd, which does not exist for him, but that he is doing his job, whatever it may be - watering horses or carrying guns - just as calmly, self-confidently, and indifferently as if all this was happening somewhere in Tula or Saransk. You read the same expression on the face of this officer, who walks past in immaculate white gloves, and in the face of the sailor, who smokes, sitting on the barricade, and in the face of the working soldiers, waiting with a stretcher on the porch of the former Assembly, and in the face of this girl , who, afraid to get her pink dress wet, jumps across the street on the pebbles.

Yes! you will certainly be disappointed if you are entering Sevastopol for the first time. In vain will you look for traces of fussiness, confusion or even enthusiasm, readiness for death, determination on even one face - there is none of this: you see everyday people, calmly busy with everyday business, so perhaps you will reproach yourself for being too enthusiastic, doubt a little the validity of the concept of the heroism of the defenders of Sevastopol, which you formed from stories, descriptions and the sights and sounds from the North side. But before you doubt, go to the bastions 7
Bastion is a five-sided defensive fortification, consisting of two faces (front sides), two flanks ( sides) and gorzhi (back part).

Look at the defenders of Sevastopol at the very place of defense, or, better yet, go directly opposite to this house, which was formerly the Sevastopol Assembly and on the porch of which there are soldiers with stretchers - you will see the defenders of Sevastopol there, you will see there terrible and sad, great and funny, but amazing spectacles that elevate the soul.

You enter the large Assembly hall. As soon as you open the door, the sight and smell of forty or fifty amputation and most seriously wounded patients, alone on beds, mostly on the floor, suddenly strikes you. Do not believe the feeling that keeps you on the threshold of the hall - this is a bad feeling - go forward, do not be ashamed of the fact that you seem to have arrived look to the sufferers, do not be ashamed to approach and talk to them: the unfortunate love to see a human sympathetic face, they love to talk about their suffering and hear words of love and sympathy. You walk through the middle of the beds and look for a less stern and suffering person, to whom you decide to approach to talk.

-Where are you wounded? - you ask hesitantly and timidly of one old, emaciated soldier, who, sitting on a bed, watches you with a good-natured look and seems to be inviting you to come to him. I say, “You ask timidly,” because suffering, in addition to deep sympathy, for some reason inspires fear of offending and high respect for the one who endures it.

“In the leg,” the soldier answers; but at this very time you yourself notice from the folds of the blanket that his legs are not above the knee. “Thank God now,” he adds, “I want to be discharged.”

- How long have you been injured?

- Yes, the sixth week has begun, your honor!

- What, does it hurt you now?

- No, now it doesn’t hurt, nothing; It’s just that my calf seems to ache when there’s bad weather, otherwise it’s nothing.

- How were you wounded?

- On the fifth baksion, your honor, as the first bandit was: he aimed a cannon, began to retreat, in a sort of manner, to another embrasure, like He will hit me on the leg, just like I stepped into a hole. Lo and behold, there are no legs.

“Didn’t it really hurt in that first minute?”

- Nothing; just like something hot was shoved into my leg.

- Well, what then?

- And then nothing; As soon as they began to stretch the skin, it felt as if it was raw. This is the first thing, your honor, don't think too much: no matter what you think, it’s nothing to you. Everything depends on what a person thinks.

At this time, a woman in a gray striped dress and a black scarf comes up to you; she intervenes in your conversation with the sailor and begins to tell about him, about his suffering, about the desperate situation in which he was for four weeks, about how, having been wounded, he stopped the stretcher in order to look at the volley of our battery, like the great The princes spoke to him and granted him twenty-five rubles, and he told them that he again wanted to go to the bastion in order to teach the young, if he himself could no longer work. Saying all this in one breath, this woman looks first at you, then at the sailor, who, turning away and as if not listening to her, is pinching lint on his pillow 8
Lint is thread plucked from clean rags that was used for bandaging instead of cotton wool.

And her eyes sparkle with some special delight.

- This is my mistress, your honor! - the sailor remarks to you with such an expression as if he is saying: “Please excuse her. It’s common knowledge that it’s a woman’s thing to say stupid things.”

You begin to understand the defenders of Sevastopol; For some reason you feel ashamed of yourself in front of this person. You would like to say too much to him to express your sympathy and surprise; but you cannot find the words or are dissatisfied with those that come to your mind - and you silently bow before this silent, unconscious greatness and fortitude, this modesty before your own dignity.

“Well, may God grant you to get well soon,” you tell him and stop in front of another patient who is lying on the floor and, it seems, awaiting death in unbearable suffering.

He is a blond man with a plump and pale face. He lies on his back, thrown back left hand, in a position expressing severe suffering. The dry, open mouth hardly lets out wheezing breath; blue pewter eyes are rolled up, and the rest of his right hand, wrapped in bandages, sticks out from under the tangled blanket. The heavy smell of a dead body strikes you more strongly, and the consuming internal heat that penetrates all the members of the sufferer seems to penetrate you too.

- What, is he unconscious? - you ask the woman who follows you and looks at you affectionately, as if you were a family member.

“No, he can still hear, but it’s very bad,” she adds in a whisper. “I gave him tea today—well, even though it’s a stranger, you still have to have pity—but I barely drank it.”

- How do you feel? – you ask him.

- My heart is burning.

A little further on you see an old soldier changing his linen. His face and body are some kind of brown and thin, like a skeleton. He has no arm at all: it is peeled off at the shoulder. He sits cheerfully, he has gained weight; but from the dead, dull look, from the terrible thinness and wrinkles of the face, you see that this is a creature that has already suffered the best part of its life.

On the other side, you will see on the bed the pained, pale and tender face of a woman, on which a feverish blush plays all over her cheek.

“It was our sailor girl who was hit in the leg by a bomb on the fifth,” your guidebook will tell you, “she was taking her husband to the bastion for dinner.”

- Well, they cut it off?

“They cut it off above the knee.”

Now, if your nerves are strong, go through the door to the left: dressings and operations are performed in that room. You will see there doctors with bloody hands up to the elbows and pale, gloomy faces, busy around the bed on which, with open eyes and speaking, as if in delirium, meaningless, sometimes simple and touching words, lies a wounded man under the influence of chloroform. Doctors are engaged in the disgusting but beneficial business of amputations. You will see how a sharp curved knife enters a white healthy body; you will see how, with a terrible, tearing scream and curses, the wounded man suddenly comes to his senses; you will see the paramedic throw his severed hand into the corner; you will see how another wounded man lies on a stretcher in the same room and, looking at the operation of a comrade, writhes and groans not so much from physical pain as from the moral suffering of waiting - you will see terrible, soul-shattering sights; you will see war not in a correct, beautiful and brilliant system, with music and drumming, with waving banners and prancing generals, but you will see war in its true expression - in blood, in suffering, in death...

Coming out of this house of suffering, you will certainly experience a joyful feeling, breathe in the fresh air more fully, feel pleasure in the consciousness of your health, but at the same time, in the contemplation of these sufferings, you will gain the consciousness of your insignificance and calmly, without hesitation, you will go to the bastions...

“What does the death and suffering of such an insignificant worm like me mean in comparison with so many deaths and so many sufferings? “But the sight of a clear sky, a brilliant sun, a beautiful city, an open church and military people moving in different directions will soon lead your spirit to a normal state of frivolity, small worries and passion for the present alone.

You will come across, perhaps from the church, the funeral of some officer, with a pink coffin and music and fluttering banners; Perhaps the sounds of shooting from the bastions will reach your ears, but this will not lead you to your previous thoughts; the funeral will seem to you a very beautiful warlike spectacle, the sounds - very beautiful warlike sounds, and you will not connect either with this sight or with these sounds a clear thought, transferred to yourself, about suffering and death, as you did at the dressing station.

After passing the church and the barricade, you will enter the most lively part of the city. On both sides there are signs of shops and taverns. Merchants, women in hats and headscarves, dapper officers - everything tells you about the strength of spirit, self-confidence, and safety of the inhabitants.

Go to the tavern on the right if you want to listen to the talk of sailors and officers: there are probably stories about this night, about Fenka, about the case of the twenty-fourth, about how expensive and bad the cutlets are served, and about how he was killed so-and-so comrade.

- Damn it, how bad things are today! - a blond, beardless naval officer in a green knitted scarf says in a deep voice.

- Where are we? - another asks him.

“On the fourth bastion,” the young officer answers, and you will certainly look at the fair-haired officer with greater attention and even some respect when he says: “on the fourth bastion.” His too much swagger, waving of his arms, loud laughter and voice, which seemed impudent to you, will seem to you that special bratty mood of spirit that other very young people acquire after danger; but still you will think that he will tell you how bad it is on the fourth bastion from bombs and bullets: it hasn’t happened at all! It's bad because it's dirty. “You can’t go to the battery,” he will say, pointing to the boots, covered with mud above the calves. “And today my best gunner was killed, hit right in the forehead,” another will say. “Who is this? Mityukhin? - “No... But what, will they give me veal? Here are the rascals! - he will add to the tavern servant. – Not Mityukhin, but Abrosimova. Such a good guy - he was in six sorties.”

On the other corner of the table, behind plates of cutlets with peas and a bottle of sour Crimean wine called “Bordeaux,” sit two infantry officers: one, young, with a red collar and two stars on his overcoat, is telling the other, old, with and without a black collar asterisks, about the Alma case. The first one has already drunk a little, and judging by the stops that occur in his story, by the hesitant look expressing doubt that they believe him, and most importantly, that the role he played in all this is too great, and everything is too scary, noticeable, that it deviates greatly from the strict narrative of truth. But you have no time for these stories, which you will listen to for a long time in all corners of Russia: you want to quickly go to the bastions, specifically to the fourth, about which you have been told so much and in so many different ways. When someone says that he was on the fourth bastion, he says it with special pleasure and pride; when someone says: “I’m going to the fourth bastion,” a little excitement or too much indifference is certainly noticeable in him; when they want to make fun of someone, they say: “They should put you on the fourth bastion”; when they meet a stretcher and ask: “Where from?” - for the most part they answer: “From the fourth bastion.” In general, there are two completely different opinions about this terrible bastion: those who have never been to it and who are convinced that the fourth bastion is a sure grave for everyone who goes to it, and those who live on it, like the fair-haired midshipman, and who, speaking about the fourth bastion, will tell you whether it is dry or dirty there, warm or cold in the dugout, etc.

In the half hour that you spent in the tavern, the weather managed to change: the fog spreading across the sea gathered into gray, boring, damp clouds and covered the sun; some kind of sad drizzle pours down from above and wets the roofs, sidewalks and soldiers’ greatcoats...

After passing another barricade, you exit the doors to the right and go up the large street. Behind this barricade, the houses on both sides of the street are uninhabited, there are no signs, the doors are closed with boards, the windows are broken, where the corner of the wall is broken, where the roof is broken. The buildings seem to be old, veterans who have experienced all kinds of grief and need, and seem to look at you proudly and somewhat contemptuously. Along the way, you stumble over strewn cannonballs and into holes with water dug in the stone ground by bombs. Along the street you meet and overtake teams of soldiers, soldiers, and officers; Occasionally a woman or child is seen, but the woman is no longer wearing a hat, but a sailor girl in an old fur coat and soldier’s boots. Walking further along the street and going down under a small curve, you notice around you no longer houses, but some strange piles of ruined stones, boards, clay, logs; in front of you on a steep mountain you see some kind of black, dirty space, pitted with ditches, and this ahead is the fourth bastion... Here there are even fewer people, women are not visible at all, the soldiers are walking quickly, drops of blood come across the road, and of course you will meet here four soldiers with a stretcher and on the stretcher a pale yellowish face and a bloody overcoat. If you ask: “Where are you wounded? “- the bearers will angrily, without turning to you, say: in the leg or in the arm, if he is slightly wounded; or they will remain sternly silent if the head is not visible from behind the stretcher and he is already dead or seriously wounded.

The nearby whistle of a cannonball or bomb, just as you are climbing the mountain, will give you an unpleasant shock. You will suddenly understand, and in a completely different way than you understood before, the meaning of those sounds of gunfire that you listened to in the city. Some quietly joyful memory will suddenly flash in your imagination; your own personality will begin to occupy you more than observations; you will become less attentive to everything around you, and some unpleasant feeling of indecision will suddenly take possession of you. Despite this petty voice at the sight of danger, which suddenly spoke inside you, you, especially looking at the soldier who, waving his arms and slipping downhill, through the liquid mud, trots and laughs, runs past you - you silence this voice, involuntarily straighten your chest, raise your head higher and climb up the slippery clay mountain. You’ve just climbed a little up the mountain, and fittings start buzzing to your right and left. 9
Shtutser (nozzle) is the original name for a rifled gun.

Bullets, and you may be wondering whether you should follow the trench that runs parallel to the road; but this trench is filled with such liquid, yellow, stinking mud above the knee that you will certainly choose the road along the mountain, especially since you see everyone is walking along the road. After walking about two hundred steps, you enter a pitted, dirty space, surrounded on all sides by aurochs, embankments, cellars, platforms, dugouts, on which large cast-iron guns stand and cannonballs lie in regular heaps. It all seems piled up without any purpose, connection or order. Where a bunch of sailors are sitting on a battery, where in the middle of the platform, half drowned in the mud, lies a broken cannon, where an infantry soldier is crossing the batteries with a gun and with difficulty pulling his feet out of the sticky mud. But everywhere, from all sides and in all places, you see shards, unexploded bombs, cannonballs, traces of the camp, and all this is submerged in liquid, viscous mud. It seems to you that not far from you you hear the impact of a cannonball, from all sides you seem to hear various sounds of bullets - buzzing like a bee, whistling, fast or squealing like a string - you hear the terrible roar of a shot that shocks all of you, and which you seems like something terribly scary.

“So here it is, the fourth bastion, here it is, this is a terrible, truly terrible place!” - you think to yourself, feeling a small feeling of pride and a large feeling of suppressed fear. But be disappointed: this is not the fourth bastion yet. This is the Yazonovsky redoubt 10
A redoubt is a field fortification surrounded by an earthen rampart.

– the place is relatively very safe and not at all scary. To go to the fourth bastion, take the right along this narrow trench along which an infantry soldier, bending down, wandered. Along this trench you will perhaps again meet stretchers, a sailor, soldiers with shovels, you will see mine conductors, dugouts in the mud, into which, bent over, only two people can fit, and there you will see the soldiers of the Black Sea battalions, who change their shoes there, eat, they smoke pipes, live, and you will again see everywhere the same stinking dirt, traces of the camp and abandoned cast iron in all kinds of forms. After walking another three hundred steps, you again come out to the battery - to an area dug with pits and furnished with tours filled with earth, guns on platforms and earthen ramparts. Here you will see maybe five sailors playing cards under the parapet, and a naval officer who, noticing a new, curious person in you, will be happy to show you his farm and everything that might be interesting to you. This officer so calmly rolls up a cigarette out of yellow paper while sitting on a gun, so calmly walks from one embrasure to another, speaks to you so calmly, without the slightest affectation, that, despite the bullets that are buzzing above you more often than before, you You yourself become cool-headed and carefully question and listen to the officer’s stories. This officer will tell you - but only if you ask him - about the bombardment on the fifth, he will tell you how on his battery only one gun could work, and out of all the servants there were only eight people left, and how, nevertheless, on the next morning, on the sixth , He fired11
The sailors keep saying to fire, not to shoot. ( Note L. N. Tolstoy.)

Of all the weapons; will tell you how on the fifth a bomb hit a sailor's dugout and killed eleven people; From the embrasure he will show you the enemy’s batteries and trenches, which are no more than thirty to forty fathoms away. I am afraid of one thing, that under the influence of the buzzing of bullets, leaning out of the embrasure to look at the enemy, you will not see anything, and if you see, you will be very surprised that this white rocky rampart, which is so close to you and on which white smoke flares, this -that white shaft is the enemy - as the soldiers and sailors say.

SEVASTOPOL IN DECEMBER

"The morning dawn is just beginning to color the sky above Sapun Mountain; the dark blue surface of the sea has already thrown off the darkness of the night and is waiting for the first ray to sparkle with a cheerful shine; it carries cold and fog from the bay; there is no snow - everything is black, but the morning is sharp the frost grabs your face and crackles under your feet, and the distant, incessant roar of the sea, occasionally interrupted by rolling shots in Sevastopol, alone disturbs the silence of the morning... It cannot be that at the thought that you are in Sevastopol, a feeling of what kind does not penetrate your soul -something of courage, pride, and so that the blood does not circulate faster in your veins...” Despite the fact that there is fighting in the city, life goes on as usual: traders sell hot rolls, and men sell sbiten. It seems that camp and peaceful life are strangely mixed here, everyone is fussing and frightened, but this is a deceptive impression: most people no longer pay attention to shots or explosions, they are busy with “everyday business.” Only on the bastions “you will see... the defenders of Sevastopol, you will see there terrible and sad, great and funny, but amazing, soul-elevating spectacles.”

In the hospital, wounded soldiers talk about their impressions: the one who lost his leg does not remember the pain because he did not think about it; A woman, who was taking lunch to her husband at the bastion, was hit by a shell, and her leg was cut off above the knee. Dressings and operations are performed in a separate room. The wounded, waiting their turn for surgery, are horrified to see how doctors amputate their comrades' arms and legs, and the paramedic indifferently throws the severed body parts into the corner. Here you can see “terrible, soul-shattering spectacles... war not in the correct, beautiful and brilliant order, with music and drumming, with fluttering banners and prancing generals, but... war in its true expression - in blood, in suffering , in death..." A young officer who fought on the fourth, most dangerous bastion, complains not about the abundance of bombs and shells falling on the heads of the bastion’s defenders, but about the dirt. This is his defensive reaction to danger; he behaves too boldly, cheekily and at ease.

On the way to the fourth bastion, non-military people are encountered less and less often, and stretchers with the wounded are increasingly encountered. Actually, on the bastion, the artillery officer behaves calmly (he is accustomed to both the whistle of bullets and the roar of explosions). He tells how during the assault on the fifth there was only one working gun left in his battery and very few servants, but still the next morning he was firing all the guns again.

The officer recalls how a bomb hit the sailor's dugout and killed eleven people. In the faces, posture, and movements of the defenders of the bastion one can see “the main features that make up the strength of the Russian - simplicity and stubbornness; but here on every face it seems to you that the danger, anger and suffering of war, in addition to these main signs, have laid traces of consciousness of one’s dignity and high thoughts and feelings... The feeling of anger, revenge on the enemy... lurks in everyone’s soul.” When the cannonball flies directly at a person, he is not left with a feeling of pleasure and at the same time fear, and then he himself waits for the bomb to explode closer, because “there is a special charm” in such a game with death. “The main, gratifying conviction that you have made is the conviction that it is impossible to take Sevastopol, and not only to take Sevastopol, but to shake the power of the Russian people anywhere... Because of the cross, because of the name, because of the threat can people accept these terrible conditions: there must be another high motivating reason - this reason is a feeling that is rarely manifested, bashful in a Russian, but lies in the depths of the soul of everyone - love for the homeland... This epic of Sevastopol will leave great traces in Russia for a long time, of which the Russian people were the hero..."

SEVASTOPOL IN MAY

Six months have passed since the start of hostilities in Sevastopol. “Thousands of human pride have managed to be offended, thousands have managed to be satisfied and pout, thousands have managed to calm down in the arms of death.” The most fair solution to the conflict seems to be an original way; if two soldiers fought (one from each army), and victory would remain with the side whose soldier emerges victorious. This decision is logical, because it is better to fight one on one than one hundred and thirty thousand against one hundred and thirty thousand. In general, war is illogical, from Tolstoy’s point of view: “one of two things: either war is madness, or if people do this madness, then they are not at all rational creatures, as for some reason we tend to think.”

In besieged Sevastopol, military personnel walk along the boulevards. Among them is the infantry officer (staff captain) Mikhailov, a tall, long-legged, stooped and awkward man. He recently received a letter from a friend, a retired uhlan, in which he writes how his wife Natasha (a close friend of Mikhailov) enthusiastically follows the movements of his regiment and the exploits of Mikhailov himself in newspapers. Mikhailov recalls with bitterness his former circle, which was “so much higher than the current one that when, in moments of frankness, he happened to tell his infantry comrades how he had his own droshky, how he danced at the governor’s balls and played cards with a civilian general.” , they listened to him indifferently and distrustfully, as if not wanting to contradict and prove the opposite.

Mikhailov dreams of a promotion. On the boulevard he meets Captain Obzhogov and Ensign Suslikov, employees of his regiment, and they shake his hand, but he wants to deal not with them, but with “aristocrats” - that’s why he walks along the boulevard. “And since there are a lot of people in the besieged city of Sevastopol, therefore, there is a lot of vanity, that is, aristocrats, despite the fact that every minute death hangs over the head of every aristocrat and non-aristocrat... Vanity! It must be a characteristic and special feature the disease of our age... Why in our age there are only three kinds of people: some - those who accept the principle of vanity as a fact that necessarily exists, therefore just, and freely submit to it; others - who accept it as an unfortunate but insurmountable condition, and others - unconsciously, slavishly acting under his influence..."

Mikhailov twice hesitantly walks past the circle of “aristocrats” and finally dares to approach and say hello (previously he was afraid to approach them because they might not deign to answer his greeting at all and thereby prick his sick pride). The “aristocrats” are Adjutant Kalugin, Prince Galtsin, Lieutenant Colonel Neferdov and Captain Praskukhin. In relation to Mikhailov, who has approached, they behave quite arrogantly; for example, Galtsin takes him by the arm and walks back and forth a little just because he knows that this sign of attention should bring pleasure to the staff captain. But soon the “aristocrats” begin to demonstratively talk only to each other, thereby making it clear to Mikhailov that they no longer need his company.

Returning home, Mikhailov remembers that he volunteered to go to the bastion in place of the sick officer the next morning. He feels that they will kill him, and if they don’t kill him, then they will certainly reward him. Mikhailov consoles himself that he acted honestly, that going to the bastion is his duty. On the way, he wonders where he might be wounded - in the leg, stomach or head.

Meanwhile, the “aristocrats” are drinking tea at Kalugin’s in a beautifully furnished apartment, playing the piano, and reminiscing about their St. Petersburg acquaintances. At the same time, they do not behave at all as unnaturally, importantly and pompously as they did on the boulevard, demonstrating to others their “aristocratism”. An infantry officer enters with an important assignment to the general, but the “aristocrats” immediately take on their former “pouty” appearance and pretend that they do not notice the newcomer at all. Only after escorting the courier to the general, Kalugin is imbued with the responsibility of the moment and announces to his comrades that a “hot” matter lies ahead.

Galtsin asks if he should go on a sortie, knowing that he won’t go anywhere because he’s afraid, and Kalugin begins to dissuade Galtsin, also knowing that he won’t go anywhere. Galtsin goes out into the street and begins to walk aimlessly back and forth, not forgetting to ask the wounded passing by how the battle is going and scolding them for retreating. Kalugin, having gone to the bastion, does not forget to demonstrate his courage to everyone along the way: he does not bend down when bullets whistle, he takes a dashing pose on horseback. He is unpleasantly struck by the “cowardice” of the battery commander, whose bravery is legendary.

Not wanting to take unnecessary risks, the battery commander, who spent six months on the bastion, in response to Kalugin’s demand to inspect the bastion, sends Kalugin to the guns along with a young officer. The general gives the order to Praskukhin to notify Mikhailov’s battalion about the relocation. He successfully delivers the order. In the dark, under enemy fire, the battalion begins to move. At the same time, Mikhailov and Praskukhin, walking side by side, think only about the impression they make on each other. They meet Kalugin, who, not wanting to “expose himself” again, learns about the situation on the bastion from Mikhailov and turns back. A bomb explodes next to them, Praskukhin is killed, and Mikhailov is wounded in the head. He refuses to go to the dressing station, because his duty is to be with the company, and besides, he is entitled to a reward for his wound. He also believes that his duty is to take the wounded Praskukhin or make sure that he is dead. Mikhailov crawls back under fire, becomes convinced of Praskukhin’s death and returns with a clear conscience.

“Hundreds of fresh bloody bodies of people, two hours ago full of various high and small hopes and desires, with numb limbs, lay on the dewy flowering valley separating the bastion from the trench, and on the flat floor of the chapel of the Dead in Sevastopol; hundreds of people - with curses and with prayers on parched lips - they crawled, tossed and groaned - some between the corpses in the flowering valley, others on stretchers, on cots and on the bloody floor of the dressing station; and still, just as in the previous days, the lightning lit up over Sapun Mountain , the twinkling stars turned pale, a white fog pulled in from the noisy dark sea, a scarlet dawn lit up in the east, long crimson clouds scattered across the light azure horizon, and everything was the same as in the old days, promising joy, love and happiness to the whole revived world, a mighty, beautiful luminary floated out."

The next day, “aristocrats” and other military men walk along the boulevard and vying with each other to talk about yesterday’s “case,” but in such a way that they mainly state “the participation that he took and the courage that the speaker showed in the case.” “Each of them is a little Napoleon, a little monster, and now he’s ready to start a battle, kill a hundred people just to get an extra star or a third of his salary.”

A truce has been declared between the Russians and the French, ordinary soldiers communicate freely with each other and do not seem to feel any hostility towards the enemy. The young cavalry officer is simply delighted to have the chance to chat in French, thinking he is incredibly smart. He discusses with the French how inhumane they have started together, meaning war. At this time, the boy walks around the battlefield, collects blue wildflowers and looks sideways in surprise at the corpses. White flags are displayed everywhere.

"Thousands of people crowd, look, talk and smile at each other. And these people are Christians, professing one great law of love and self-sacrifice, looking at what they have done, will not suddenly fall on their knees with repentance before the one who gave them life , put into the soul of everyone, along with the fear of death, a love for the good and the beautiful, and with tears of joy and happiness they will not embrace as brothers? No! The white rags are hidden - and again the instruments of death and suffering whistle, again pure innocent blood flows and groans are heard and curses... Where is the expression of evil, which should be avoided? Where is the expression of good, which should be imitated in this story? Who is the villain, who is its hero? Everyone is good and everyone is bad... The hero of my story, whom I love with all the strength of my soul , which I tried to reproduce in all its beauty and which has always been, is and will be beautiful - the truth."

SEVASTOPOL IN AUGUST 1855

Lieutenant Mikhail Kozeltsov, a respected officer, independent in his judgments and actions, intelligent, talented in many ways, a skillful compiler of government papers and a capable storyteller, returns from the hospital to his position. “He had one of those prides that merged with life to such an extent and which most often develops in some men’s, and especially military circles, that he did not understand any other choice but to excel or be destroyed, and that pride was the engine of even his inner motives."

There were a lot of people passing through the station: there were no horses. Some officers heading to Sevastopol do not even have travel money, and they do not know how to continue their journey. Among those waiting is Kozeltsov’s brother, Volodya. Contrary to family plans, Volodya did not join the guard for minor offenses, but was sent (at his own request) to the active army. He, like everyone else young officer, I really want to “fight for the Fatherland,” and at the same time serve in the same place as my older brother.

Volodya is a handsome young man, he is both shy in front of his brother and proud of him. The elder Kozeltsov invites his brother to immediately go with him to Sevastopol. Volodya seems embarrassed; he no longer really wants to go to war, and besides, he managed to lose eight rubles while sitting at the station. Kozeltsov uses his last money to pay off his brother’s debt, and they set off. On the way, Volodya dreams of the heroic deeds that he will certainly accomplish in the war together with his brother, of his beautiful death and dying reproaches to everyone else for not being able to appreciate during their lifetime “those who truly loved the Fatherland,” etc.

Upon arrival, the brothers go to the baggage officer's booth, who is counting a lot of money for the new regimental commander, who is acquiring a “household.” No one understands what made Volodya leave his quiet home in the distant rear and come to warring Sevastopol without any benefit for himself. The battery to which Volodya is assigned is located on Korabelnaya, and both brothers go to spend the night with Mikhail on the fifth bastion. Before this, they visit Comrade Kozeltsov in the hospital. He is so bad that he does not immediately recognize Mikhail and is waiting for a quick death as a release from suffering.

After leaving the hospital, the brothers decide to go their separate ways, and, accompanied by the orderly Mikhail, Volodya goes to his battery. The battery commander invites Volodya to spend the night in the staff captain’s bunk, who is located on the bastion itself. However, Junker Vlang is already sleeping on the bed; he has to give way to the arriving warrant officer (Volodya). At first Volodya cannot sleep; he is either frightened by the darkness or by the premonition of imminent death. He fervently prays for deliverance from fear, calms down and falls asleep to the sound of falling shells.

Meanwhile, Kozeltsov Sr. arrives at the disposal of a new regimental commander - his recent comrade, now separated from him by a wall of chain of command. The commander is unhappy that Kozeltsov is returning to duty prematurely, but instructs him to take command of his former company. In the company, Kozeltsov is greeted joyfully; it is noticeable that he is highly respected among the soldiers. Among the officers, he also expects a warm welcome and sympathetic attitude towards the injury.

The next day the bombing continues from new strength. Volodya begins to join the circle of artillery officers; their mutual sympathy for each other is visible. Volodya is especially liked by Junker Vlang, who in every possible way anticipates any desires of the new ensign. The kind staff captain Kraut, a German who speaks Russian very correctly and too beautifully, returns from his position. There is talk about abuses and legalized theft in senior positions. Volodya, blushing, assures those gathered that such an “ignoble” deed will never happen to him.

At the battery commander's dinner, everyone is interested, the conversations do not stop despite the fact that the menu is very modest. An envelope arrives from the chief of artillery; An officer and servants are required for a mortar battery on Malakhov Kurgan. This is a dangerous place; no one volunteers to go. One of the officers points to Volodya and, after a short discussion, he agrees to go “to take fire.” Vlang is sent along with Volodya. Volodya begins to study the "Manual" on artillery shooting. However, upon arrival at the battery, all “rear” knowledge turns out to be unnecessary: the shooting is carried out randomly, not a single cannonball in weight even resembles those mentioned in the “Manual”, there are no workers to repair the broken guns. In addition, two soldiers of his team are wounded, and Volodya himself is repeatedly on the verge of death.

Vlang is very scared; he is no longer able to hide it and thinks exclusively about salvation own life at any cost. Volodya is “a little creepy and cheerful.” His soldiers are also holed up in Volodya’s dugout. He communicates with interest with Melnikov, who is not afraid of bombs, being sure that he will die a different death. Having become accustomed to the new commander, the soldiers begin to discuss under Volodya how the allies under the command of Prince Constantine will come to their aid, how both warring sides will be given rest for two weeks, and then they will be fined for each shot, how in war a month of service will be counted as year, etc.

Despite Vlang's pleas, Volodya leaves the dugout into the fresh air and sits with Melnikov on the threshold until the morning, while bombs fall around him and bullets whistle. But in the morning the battery and guns are already in order, and Volodya completely forgets about the danger; he is only glad that he fulfills his duties well, that he does not show cowardice, but, on the contrary, is considered brave.

The French assault begins. Half-asleep, Kozeltsov rushes out to the company, half-asleep, most concerned about not being considered a coward. He grabs his small saber and runs at the enemy ahead of everyone, inspiring the soldiers with a shout. He is wounded in the chest. Having woken up, Kozeltsov sees the doctor examining his wound, wiping his fingers on his coat and sending a priest to him. Kozeltsov asks if the French have been knocked out; the priest, not wanting to upset the dying man, says that victory remained with the Russians. Kozeltsov is happy; “He thought with an extremely gratifying feeling of self-satisfaction that he had done his duty well, that for the first time in his entire service he had acted as well as he could, and could not reproach himself for anything.” He dies with the last thought of his brother, and Kozeltsov wishes him the same happiness.

The news of the assault finds Volodya in the dugout. “It was not so much the sight of the soldiers’ calmness as the pitiful, undisguised cowardice of the cadet that excited him.” Not wanting to be like Vlang, Volodya commands easily, even cheerfully, but soon hears that the French are bypassing them. He sees enemy soldiers very close, it amazes him so much that he freezes in place and misses the moment when he can still escape. Next to him, Melnikov dies from a bullet wound. Vlang tries to shoot back, calls Volodya to run after him, but, jumping into the trench, he sees that Volodya is already dead, and in the place where he just stood, the French are and are shooting at the Russians. The French banner flutters over the Malakhov Kurgan.

Vlang with the battery arrives by boat in a safer part of the city. He bitterly mourns the fallen Volodya; which I became truly attached to. The retreating soldiers, talking among themselves, notice that the French will not be staying in the city for long. “It was a feeling that seemed similar to remorse, shame and anger. Almost every soldier, looking from the northern side at the abandoned Sevastopol, sighed with inexpressible bitterness in his heart and threatened his enemies.”

April 23, 2015

In this article we will look at three stories by Tolstoy: we will describe them summary, let's conduct an analysis. "Sevastopol Stories" was published in 1855. They were written during Tolstoy’s stay in Sevastopol. Let us first describe the summary, and then talk about the work “Sevastopol Stories”. The analysis (the described events take place in December 1854, May and August 1955) will be easier to perceive by remembering the main points of the plot.

Sevastopol in December

Despite the fact that hostilities continue in Sevastopol, life goes on as usual. Trade women sell hot rolls, men sell sbiten. Peaceful and camp life are strangely mixed here. Everyone is scared and fussing, but this is a deceptive impression. Many people no longer notice explosions and gunshots while going about their “everyday business.” Only on the bastions can you see the defenders of Sevastopol.

Hospital

Tolstoy continues his description of the hospital in Sevastopol Stories. The summary of this episode is as follows. Wounded soldiers in the hospital share their impressions. The person who lost his leg does not remember the pain, because he did not think about it. A woman carrying lunch to the bastion was hit by a shell, and her leg was cut off above the knee. Operations and dressings are performed in a separate room. The wounded waiting in line watch in horror as the doctor amputates the legs and arms of their comrades, and the paramedic indifferently throws the severed body parts into the corner. Thus, describing the details, Tolstoy conducts an analysis in the work “Sevastopol Stories”. In August, nothing will essentially change. People will suffer in the same way, and no one will understand that war is inhumane. Meanwhile, these spectacles shake the soul. War appears not in a brilliant, beautiful system, with drumming and music, but in its real expression - in death, suffering, blood. A young officer who fought on the most dangerous bastion complains not about the abundance of shells and bombs falling on his heads, but about the dirt. This is a reaction to danger. The officer behaves too casually, cheekily and boldly.

On the way to the fourth bastion

Non-military people are encountered less and less often on the road to the fourth bastion (the most dangerous). More and more often we come across stretchers with wounded people. The artillery officer behaves calmly here, as he is accustomed to the roar of explosions and the whistling of bullets. This hero tells how in his battery during the assault there was only one working gun left, as well as very few servants, but the next morning he was firing all the guns again.

The officer recalls how a bomb hit the sailor's dugout, killing 11 people. In the movements, posture, and faces of the defenders, the main features that make up the strength of the Russian person are visible - stubbornness and simplicity. However, it seems, as the author notes, that suffering, anger and the danger of war added to them traces of high thought and feeling, as well as a consciousness of self-worth. Tolstoy spends in the work psychological analysis("Sevastopol Stories"). He notes that a feeling of revenge on the enemy, anger lurks in everyone’s soul. When a cannonball flies directly at a person, some pleasure does not leave him along with a feeling of fear. Then he himself waits for the bomb to explode closer - there is a “special charm” in such a game with death. The feeling of love for the Motherland lives among the people. The events in Sevastopol will leave great traces in Russia for a long time.

Sevastopol in May

The events of the work "Sevastopol Stories" continue in May. Analyzing the time of action, it should be noted that six months have passed since the beginning of the fighting in this city. Many died during this period. The most fair solution seems to be the original way of conflict: if two soldiers fought, one each from the Russian and French armies, and victory would go to the side for which the winner fought. This decision is logical, since it is better to fight one on one than 130 thousand against 130 thousand. From the point of view of Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy, war is illogical. This is either madness, or people are not such intelligent creatures as is commonly thought.

Officer Mikhailov

Soldiers walk along the boulevards in a besieged city. Among them is the infantry officer Mikhailov, a long-legged, tall, awkward and stooped man. He recently received a letter from a friend. In it, a retired uhlan writes how Natasha, his wife (a close friend of Mikhailov), enthusiastically follows in the newspapers how his regiment moves, as well as Mikhailov’s exploits. He recalls with bitterness his former circle, which was higher than the current one to such an extent that the soldiers, when he told them about his life (how he played cards with a civilian general or danced at governor’s balls), listened to him indifferently and incredulously.

Mikhailov's dream

This officer dreams of promotion. On the boulevard he meets Obzhogov, the captain, as well as ensign Suslikov. These are employees of his regiment. They greet Mikhailov and shake his hand. However, the officer does not want to deal with them. He yearns for the company of aristocrats. Lev Nikolaevich talks about vanity and analyzes it. “Sevastopol Stories” is a work in which there are many author’s digressions and reflections on philosophical topics. Vanity, according to the author, is “the disease of our age.” Therefore there are three types of people. The first accept the beginning of vanity as a necessarily existing fact, and therefore just. These people obey him freely. Others view it as an insurmountable, unfortunate condition. Still others act slavishly, unconsciously under the influence of vanity. This is how Tolstoy argues (“Sevastopol Stories”). Its analysis is based on personal participation in the events described and on observations of people.

Twice Mikhailov hesitantly passes by a circle of aristocrats. Finally he dares to say hello. Previously, this officer was afraid to approach them because these people might not deign to answer his greeting at all and thereby prick his sick pride. The aristocratic society is Prince Galtsin, Adjutant Kalugin, Captain Praskukhin and Lieutenant Colonel Neferdov. They behave rather arrogantly towards Mikhailov. Galtsin, for example, takes an officer by the arm and walks with him a little only because he knows that this will give him pleasure. However, they soon begin to talk demonstratively only to each other, making it clear to Mikhailov that they no longer need his company.

The staff captain, returning home, recalls that the next morning he volunteered to go to the bastion in place of the sick officer. It seems to him that he will be killed, and if this does not happen, then he will probably be rewarded. The staff captain consoles himself that it is his duty to go to the bastion, that he acted honestly. He wonders along the way where he might be wounded - in the head, stomach or leg.

Assembly of aristocrats

Meanwhile, the aristocrats are drinking tea at Kalugin's and playing the piano. At the same time, they behave not at all as pompously, importantly and unnaturally as on the boulevard, demonstrating their “aristocratism” to those around them, as Tolstoy notes (“Sevastopol Stories”). Analysis of the behavior of the characters in the work occupies an important place. An infantry officer enters with an order to the general, but immediately the aristocrats again take on a pouty appearance, pretending that they did not notice the newcomer. Kalugin, having escorted the courier to the general, is imbued with the responsibility of the moment. He reports that there is a “hot business” ahead.

The defense of Sevastopol in “Sevastopol Stories” is described in some detail, but we will not dwell on this. Galtsin volunteers to go on a sortie, knowing that he won’t go anywhere because he’s afraid. Kalugin begins to dissuade him, also knowing that he will not go. Going out into the street, Galtsin begins to walk aimlessly, not forgetting to ask the wounded passing by how the battle is going, and also scold them for retreating. Having gone to the bastion, Kalugin does not forget to demonstrate courage along the way: when bullets whistle, he does not bend down, and takes a dashing pose on his horse. He is unpleasantly struck by the “cowardice” of the battery commander. But there are legends about the courage of this man.

Mikhailov is wounded

Having spent six months on the bastion and not wanting to take unnecessary risks, the battery commander sends Kalugin in response to his demand to inspect the bastion to the guns with a young officer. The general gives the order to Praskukhin to notify Mikhailov’s battalion about the relocation. He delivers it successfully. Under fire in the dark, the battalion begins to move. Praskukhin and Mikhailov, walking side by side, think only about the impression they make on each other. They meet Kalugin, who does not want to expose himself to danger once again, who learns from Mikhailov about the situation and turns back. A bomb explodes next to him. Praskukhin dies, Mikhailov is wounded in the head, but does not go to the bandage, believing that duty comes first.

The next day, all the military men walk along the alley and talk about yesterday's events, showing their bravery to others. A truce has been declared. The French and Russians communicate with each other easily. There is no enmity between them. These heroes understand how inhumane war is. The author himself notes this when conducting an analysis in the work “Sevastopol Stories”.

In August 1855

Kozeltsov appears on the battlefield after treatment. He is independent in his judgment, very talented and very intelligent. All the carts with horses disappeared, and many residents gathered at the bus stop. Some officers have absolutely no means of subsistence. Vladimir, Mikhail Kozeltsev’s brother, is also here. He did not join the guard, despite his plans, but was appointed a soldier. He likes fighting.

Sitting at the station, Vladimir is no longer so eager to fight. He lost money. Helps pay off debt younger brother. Upon arrival they are assigned to the battalion. Here an officer sits above a pile of money in a booth. He must count them. The brothers disperse, having gone to sleep on the fifth bastion.

The commander offers Vladimir to spend the night at his place. He falls asleep with difficulty under the whistling bullets. Mikhail goes to his commander. He is outraged by the entry of Kozeltsev, who was recently in the same position with him, into service. However, the others are happy to see him back.

In the morning, Vladimir enters officer circles. Everyone sympathizes with him, especially Junker Vlang. Vladimir ends up at a dinner arranged by the commander. There's a lot of talk going on here. The letter sent by the chief of artillery says that an officer is required in Malakhov, but since this is a troubled place, no one agrees. However, Vladimir decides to go. Vlang goes with him.

Vladimir in Malakhov

Arriving at the place, he finds military weapons in disarray, which there is no one to repair. Volodya communicates with Melnikov, and also quickly finds a common language with the commander.

The assault begins. Kozeltsov, sleepy, goes out to fight. He rushes towards the French, drawing his saber. Volodya is seriously wounded. To make him happy before his death, the priest reports that the Russians have won. Volodya is glad that he was able to serve the country, and thinks about his older brother. Volodya is still in command, but after a while he realizes that the French have won. Melnikov's corpse lies nearby. The French banner appears above the mound. Vlang leaves for a safe place. This is how Tolstoy ends “Sevastopol Stories,” a summary of which we have just described.

Analysis of the work

Lev Nikolaevich, finding himself in besieged Sevastopol, was shocked by the heroic spirit of the population and troops. He began writing his first story, “Sevastopol in December.” Then two others came out, telling about events in May and August 1855. All three works are united under the title “Sevastopol Stories”.

We will not analyze each of them, we will only note common features. From the struggle, which did not subside for almost a year, only three paintings were snatched. But how much they give! When analyzing the work “Sevastopol Stories,” it should be noted that Tolstoy’s critical pathos gradually intensifies, from work to work. An increasingly accusatory beginning is emerging. The narrator of the work "Sevastopol Stories", the analysis of which we are analyzing, is struck by the difference between the true greatness of the soldiers, the naturalness of their behavior, the simplicity and vain desire of the officers to start a battle in order to get an "star". Communication with soldiers helps officers gain courage and resilience. Only the best of them are close to the people, as the analysis shows.

Tolstoy's Sevastopol Stories marked the beginning of a realistic depiction of war. The writer's artistic discovery was her perception from the point of view of ordinary soldiers. Later in “War and Peace” he uses the experience of working on the work “Sevastopol Stories” by Tolstoy. Analysis of the work shows that the writer was primarily interested in inner world a person who finds himself in war, and the “trench” truth.