Garshin’s realism grew out of his need for writing his own experiences. Though some of his descriptions of the dead Turk, in the following sketch, “Four Days,” are so revoltingly real as to justify the excisions made in the magazine version, I have retained them here, for Garshin’s realism, as a rule, lacks disgusting detail. But it is as faithful to fact as a canvas by Verestchagin, whose paintings, indeed, might be said to exhibit the same method which Garshin applied to literature. Garshin is a pessimist--of course, one is almost forced to add. His heroes are not idealized, even in the hour of their victory. But there is nobility--that priceless tone in literature!--in much of his work, and the body takes its true place in life, as an expression of spirit, and not as the master of the house. All in all, Garshin was a great writer, doing pitifully wonderful things under such stress as makes us love him for his brave, losing fight against black foes within and without. FOUR DAYS _By Wsewolod Garshin_ I remember how we ran through the wood, how the bullets whizzed past us, how the twigs that were hit by them snapped and fell, how we scrambled through the bushes. The firing grew heavier. Looking through to the outer edge, I could see little flashes of red here and there. Sidorov, a young private of Company I--“How did he come to fall into our line?” was the thought that flashed through my head--suddenly sat down on the ground and silently looked at me with open, terrified eyes. A stream of blood trickled from his mouth. Yes, that too I remember well. I also remember how when almost on the edge of the wood I first saw ... _him_ in the thick bushes. He was an enormous, corpulent Turk, but I ran straight at him, although I am weak and small. Something burst, something huge seemed to fly past me; there was a ringing in my ears. “He has shot me,” was my thought. But he, with a cry of terror, pressed his back against the dense foliage. He could have gone around it without difficulty, but in his fright he lost his presence of mind completely, and he tried to crawl through the prickly bushes. With a blow, I knocked the gun out of his hand; I followed this by a thrust with my bayonet. There was an outcry: a roar that died into a moan. I ran on farther. Our soldiers cried, “Hurrah!” fell low, and discharged their guns. I remember that I too fired several times after we had left the wood and were in the field. Suddenly the cry of “Hurrah!” grew louder, and we all in a body moved forward. That is, not we, but my comrades; I remained behind. That seemed strange to me. Still stranger was the fact that suddenly everything vanished; all the cries and firing died away. I could hear nothing, but saw only something blue, which I concluded was the sky. Afterwards, that too passed out of my senses. * * * * *