The story of the blue dragonfly. Blue Dragonfly read online, Prishvin Mikhail Mikhailovich

The story Blue Dragonfly Prishvin read

In that first world war of 1914 I went as a war correspondent to the front in the uniform of an orderly and soon found myself in a battle in the west in the Augustow forests. I wrote down all my impressions in my short way, but, I confess, not for a single minute did the feeling of personal uselessness leave me and the impossibility of catching up with my word with the terrible that was happening around me.
I walked along the road towards the war and played with death: either a shell fell, exploding a deep funnel, or a bullet buzzed like a bee, but I kept walking, curiously looking at flocks of partridges flying from battery to battery.
“You are crazy,” a stern voice told me from underground.
I looked and saw the head of Maxim Maksimych: his bronze face with gray mustaches was stern and almost solemn. At the same time, the old captain managed to express both sympathy and patronage to me. A minute later I was slurping cabbage soup in his dugout. Soon, when the matter flared up, he called out to me:
- Yes, how can you, a writer you are so-and-so, not ashamed at such moments to deal with your trifles?
- What should I do? I asked, greatly pleased by his determined tone.
- Run immediately, raise those people out, order the benches from the school to drag, pick up and lay down the wounded.
I lifted people, dragged benches, laid down the wounded, forgot the writer in me, and suddenly I finally felt like a real person, and I was so happy that I was here in the war, not only a writer.
At this time, a dying man whispered to me:
- Here's some water.
At the first word of the wounded man, I ran for water.
But he did not drink and repeated to me:
- Waters, waters, streams.
I looked at him in amazement, and suddenly I understood everything: he was almost a boy with shining eyes, with thin, quivering lips, reflecting the trembling of the soul.
The orderly and I took a stretcher and carried him to the bank of the stream. The orderly left, I remained face to face with the dying boy on the bank of the forest stream.
In the slanting rays of the evening sun, minarets of horsetails, leaves of telorez, water lilies shone with a special green light, as if coming from within the plants, a blue dragonfly circled over the pool. And quite close to us, where the creek ended, the trickles of the stream, uniting on pebbles, sang their usual beautiful song. The wounded man listened with his eyes closed, his bloodless lips moving convulsively, expressing a strong struggle. And so the fight ended with a sweet childish smile, and eyes opened.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Seeing a blue dragonfly flying by the pool, he smiled again, said thanks again, and closed his eyes again.
Some time passed in silence, when suddenly the lips moved again, a new struggle arose, and I heard:
- Is she still flying?
The blue dragonfly was still circling.
- It flies, - I answered, - and how!
He smiled again and fell into oblivion.
Meanwhile, little by little, it grew dark, and I, too, flew far away in my thoughts, and forgot myself. Suddenly I hear him ask:
- Still flying?
“It flies,” I said, without looking, without thinking.
Why can't I see? he asked, opening his eyes with difficulty.
I was frightened. I once happened to see a dying man who, before his death, suddenly lost his sight, and yet spoke to us quite reasonably. Is it not so here: his eyes died earlier. But I myself looked at the place where the dragonfly flew, and saw nothing.
The patient realized that I had deceived him, was upset by my inattention and silently closed his eyes.
It hurt me, and suddenly I saw the reflection of a flying dragonfly in the clear water. We could not notice it against the background of the darkening forest, but the water - these eyes of the earth remain bright when it gets dark: these eyes seem to see in the darkness.
- It flies, it flies! I exclaimed so decisively, so joyfully, that the sick man immediately opened his eyes.
And I showed him the reflection. And he smiled.
I will not describe how we saved this wounded man - apparently, the doctors saved him. But I firmly believe that they, the doctors, were helped by the song of the stream and my resolute and excited words that the blue dragonfly flew over the creek even in the dark.

In that first world war of 1914 I went as a war correspondent to the front in the uniform of an orderly and soon found myself in a battle in the west in the Augustow forests. I wrote down all my impressions in my short way, but, I confess, not for a single minute did the feeling of personal uselessness leave me and the impossibility of catching up with my word with the terrible that was happening around me.

I walked along the road towards the war and played with death: either a shell fell, exploding a deep funnel, or a bullet buzzed like a bee, but I kept walking, curiously looking at flocks of partridges flying from battery to battery.

I looked and saw the head of Maxim Maksimych: his bronze face with gray mustaches was stern and almost solemn. At the same time, the old captain managed to express both sympathy and patronage to me. A minute later I was slurping cabbage soup in his dugout. Soon, when the matter flared up, he called out to me:

- But how can you, a writer you are so-and-so, not ashamed at such moments to deal with your trifles?

- What should I do? I asked, very pleased with his determined tone.

- Run immediately, raise those people over there, order the benches from the school to drag, pick up and lay down the wounded.

I lifted people, dragged benches, laid down the wounded, forgot the writer in me, and suddenly I finally felt like a real person, and I was so happy that I was here in the war, not only a writer.

At this time, a dying man whispered to me:

- Here's some water.

At the first word of the wounded man, I ran for water.

But he did not drink and repeated to me:

- Water, water, stream.

I looked at him in amazement, and suddenly I understood everything: he was almost a boy with shining eyes, with thin, quivering lips, reflecting the trembling of the soul.

The orderly and I took a stretcher and carried him to the bank of the stream. The orderly left, I remained face to face with the dying boy on the bank of the forest stream.

In the slanting rays of the evening sun, minarets of horsetails, leaves of telorez, water lilies shone with a special green light, as if coming from within the plants, a blue dragonfly circled over the pool. And quite close to us, where the creek ended, the trickles of the stream, uniting on pebbles, sang their usual beautiful song. The wounded man listened with his eyes closed, his bloodless lips moving convulsively, expressing a strong struggle. And so the fight ended with a sweet childish smile, and eyes opened.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Seeing a blue dragonfly flying by the pool, he smiled again, said thanks again, and closed his eyes again.

Some time passed in silence, when suddenly the lips moved again, a new struggle arose, and I heard:

What, is she still flying?

The blue dragonfly was still circling.

- It flies, - I answered, - and how!

He smiled again and fell into oblivion.

Meanwhile, little by little, it grew dark, and I, too, flew far away in my thoughts, and forgot myself. Suddenly I hear him ask:

- Still flying?

“It flies,” I said, without looking, without thinking.

Why can't I see? he asked, opening his eyes with difficulty.

I was frightened. I once happened to see a dying man who, before his death, suddenly lost his sight, and yet spoke to us quite reasonably. Is it not so here: his eyes died earlier. But I myself looked at the place where the dragonfly flew, and saw nothing.

The patient realized that I had deceived him, was upset by my inattention and silently closed his eyes.

It hurt me, and suddenly I saw the reflection of a flying dragonfly in the clear water. We could not notice it against the background of the darkening forest, but the water - these eyes of the earth remain bright when it gets dark: these eyes seem to see in the darkness.

- It flies, it flies! I exclaimed so decisively, so joyfully, that the patient immediately opened his eyes.

And I showed him the reflection. And he smiled.

I will not describe how we saved this wounded man - apparently, the doctors saved him. But I firmly believe that they, the doctors, were helped by the song of the stream and my resolute and excited words that the blue dragonfly flew over the creek even in the dark.

In that first world war of 1914 I went as a war correspondent to the front in the uniform of an orderly and soon found myself in a battle in the west in the Augustow forests. I wrote down all my impressions in my short way, but, I confess, not for a single minute did the feeling of personal uselessness leave me and the impossibility of catching up with my word with the terrible that was happening around me.

I walked along the road towards the war and played with death: either a shell fell, exploding a deep funnel, or a bullet buzzed like a bee, but I kept walking, curiously looking at flocks of partridges flying from battery to battery.

I looked and saw the head of Maxim Maksimych: his bronze face with gray mustaches was stern and almost solemn. At the same time, the old captain managed to express both sympathy and patronage to me. A minute later I was slurping cabbage soup in his dugout. Soon, when the matter flared up, he called out to me:

- But how can you, a writer you are so-and-so, not ashamed at such moments to deal with your trifles?

- What should I do? I asked, very pleased with his determined tone.

- Run immediately, raise those people over there, order the benches from the school to drag, pick up and lay down the wounded.

I lifted people, dragged benches, laid down the wounded, forgot the writer in me, and suddenly I finally felt like a real person, and I was so happy that I was here in the war, not only a writer.

At this time, a dying man whispered to me:

- Here's some water.

At the first word of the wounded man, I ran for water.

But he did not drink and repeated to me:

- Water, water, stream.

I looked at him in amazement, and suddenly I understood everything: he was almost a boy with shining eyes, with thin, quivering lips, reflecting the trembling of the soul.

The orderly and I took a stretcher and carried him to the bank of the stream. The orderly left, I remained face to face with the dying boy on the bank of the forest stream.

In the slanting rays of the evening sun, minarets of horsetails, leaves of telorez, water lilies shone with a special green light, as if coming from within the plants, a blue dragonfly circled over the pool. And quite close to us, where the creek ended, the trickles of the stream, uniting on pebbles, sang their usual beautiful song. The wounded man listened with his eyes closed, his bloodless lips moving convulsively, expressing a strong struggle. And so the fight ended with a sweet childish smile, and eyes opened.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Seeing a blue dragonfly flying by the pool, he smiled again, said thanks again, and closed his eyes again.

Some time passed in silence, when suddenly the lips moved again, a new struggle arose, and I heard:

What, is she still flying?

The blue dragonfly was still circling.

- It flies, - I answered, - and how!

He smiled again and fell into oblivion.

Meanwhile, little by little, it grew dark, and I, too, flew far away in my thoughts, and forgot myself. Suddenly I hear him ask:

- Still flying?

“It flies,” I said, without looking, without thinking.

Why can't I see? he asked, opening his eyes with difficulty.

I was frightened. I once happened to see a dying man who, before his death, suddenly lost his sight, and yet spoke to us quite reasonably. Is it not so here: his eyes died earlier. But I myself looked at the place where the dragonfly flew, and saw nothing.

The patient realized that I had deceived him, was upset by my inattention and silently closed his eyes.

It hurt me, and suddenly I saw the reflection of a flying dragonfly in the clear water. We could not notice it against the background of the darkening forest, but the water - these eyes of the earth remain bright when it gets dark: these eyes seem to see in the darkness.

- It flies, it flies! I exclaimed so decisively, so joyfully, that the patient immediately opened his eyes.

And I showed him the reflection. And he smiled.

I will not describe how we saved this wounded man - apparently, the doctors saved him. But I firmly believe that they, the doctors, were helped by the song of the stream and my resolute and excited words that the blue dragonfly flew over the creek even in the dark.

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Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin
blue dragonfly

In that first world war of 1914 I went as a war correspondent to the front in the uniform of an orderly and soon found myself in a battle in the west in the Augustow forests. I wrote down all my impressions in my short way, but, I confess, not for a single minute did the feeling of personal uselessness leave me and the impossibility of catching up with my word with the terrible that was happening around me.

I walked along the road towards the war and played with death: either a shell fell, exploding a deep funnel, or a bullet buzzed like a bee, but I kept walking, curiously looking at flocks of partridges flying from battery to battery.

I looked and saw the head of Maxim Maksimych: his bronze face with gray mustaches was stern and almost solemn. At the same time, the old captain managed to express both sympathy and patronage to me. A minute later I was slurping cabbage soup in his dugout. Soon, when the matter flared up, he called out to me:

- But how can you, a writer you are so-and-so, not ashamed at such moments to deal with your trifles?

- What should I do? I asked, very pleased with his determined tone.

- Run immediately, raise those people over there, order the benches from the school to drag, pick up and lay down the wounded.

I lifted people, dragged benches, laid down the wounded, forgot the writer in me, and suddenly I finally felt like a real person, and I was so happy that I was here in the war, not only a writer.

At this time, a dying man whispered to me:

- Here's some water.

At the first word of the wounded man, I ran for water.

But he did not drink and repeated to me:

- Water, water, stream.

I looked at him in amazement, and suddenly I understood everything: he was almost a boy with shining eyes, with thin, quivering lips, reflecting the trembling of the soul.

The orderly and I took a stretcher and carried him to the bank of the stream. The orderly left, I remained face to face with the dying boy on the bank of the forest stream.

In the slanting rays of the evening sun, minarets of horsetails, leaves of telorez, water lilies shone with a special green light, as if coming from within the plants, a blue dragonfly circled over the pool. And quite close to us, where the creek ended, the trickles of the stream, uniting on pebbles, sang their usual beautiful song. The wounded man listened with his eyes closed, his bloodless lips moving convulsively, expressing a strong struggle. And so the fight ended with a sweet childish smile, and eyes opened.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Seeing a blue dragonfly flying by the pool, he smiled again, said thanks again, and closed his eyes again.

Some time passed in silence, when suddenly the lips moved again, a new struggle arose, and I heard:

What, is she still flying?

The blue dragonfly was still circling.

- It flies, - I answered, - and how!

He smiled again and fell into oblivion.

Meanwhile, little by little, it grew dark, and I, too, flew far away in my thoughts, and forgot myself. Suddenly I hear him ask:

- Still flying?

“It flies,” I said, without looking, without thinking.

Why can't I see? he asked, opening his eyes with difficulty.

I was frightened. I once happened to see a dying man who, before his death, suddenly lost his sight, and yet spoke to us quite reasonably. Is it not so here: his eyes died earlier. But I myself looked at the place where the dragonfly flew, and saw nothing.

The patient realized that I had deceived him, was upset by my inattention and silently closed his eyes.

It hurt me, and suddenly I saw the reflection of a flying dragonfly in the clear water. We could not notice it against the background of the darkening forest, but the water - these eyes of the earth remain bright when it gets dark: these eyes seem to see in the darkness.

- It flies, it flies! I exclaimed so decisively, so joyfully, that the patient immediately opened his eyes.

And I showed him the reflection. And he smiled.

I will not describe how we saved this wounded man - apparently, the doctors saved him. But I firmly believe that they, the doctors, were helped by the song of the stream and my resolute and excited words that the blue dragonfly flew over the creek even in the dark.