On deathbed
Pushkin Alexander Sergeevich (born May 26 (June 6) 1799 - death January 29 (February 10) 1837) - Russian poet. The duel (with pistols) between A. S. Pushkin and Georges de Gekkern (Dantes) took place on January 27 (February 8), 1837 on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, in the area of the Black River. In a duel, Pushkin was mortally wounded and died 2 days later.
The death of Pushkin was described by many of his contemporaries, but his friend, the writer Vladimir Dal, was the most detailed. 1837, January 28 - in the afternoon, Dahl learned about Pushkin's wound and hurried to his home.
“At Pushkin's,” he recalled, “I already found a crowd in the hall and in the hall; a fear of anticipation ran over the pale faces. Dr. Arendt and Dr. Spassky shrugged their shoulders. I went up to the sick man, he gave me his hand, and smiling said: "Bad, brother!" I approached the deathbed and did not leave it until the end of the terrible day. The first time he told me you, - I answered him the same, and fraternized with him no longer for this world.
Pushkin made everyone present become friends with death - he expected it so calmly, he was so firmly convinced that the last hour had struck him. Pletnev said: "Looking at Pushkin, for the first time I am not afraid of death." The patient positively rejected our consolations and my words: "We all hope, do not despair and you!" - answered: “No, I don’t live here; I will die, yes, apparently, it should be done already. " On the night of 29, he repeated this several times; asked, for example, what time is it? and in response to my answer he again asked abruptly and with a disposition: “How long have I been suffering like this? please hurry."
Almost all night he held my hand, often asked for a spoonful of cold water, a piece of ice, and always did it his own way - he took the glass himself from the nearest shelf, rubbed his whiskey with ice, took off and put poultices on his stomach, and always still saying: "That's good, and great!" Actually, he suffered from pain, according to him, not so much as from excessive melancholy, which should be attributed to the inflammation of the abdominal cavity … "Oh, what melancholy," he exclaimed when the seizure intensified, "the heart is languishing!" Then he asked him to pick it up, turn it or straighten the pillow - and, without letting it finish, he would usually stop with the words: "Well, well, well, that's fine, and that's enough, now it's very good!" In general, he was, at least in his treatment of me, obedient and motivated, like a child, did everything I asked him to do.
"Who is my wife?" he asked by the way. I answered: many people take part in you - the hall and the front are full. “Well, thank you,” he answered, “but go and tell your wife that everything, thank God, is easy; otherwise they'll probably tell her there."
Promotional video:
In the morning the pulse was extremely small, weak, pure, but from noon it began to rise, and by six o'clock it was striking a hundred and twenty per minute and the herd was fuller and firmer; at the same time, a slight general fever began to appear … The pulse became more even, less frequent and much softer; I seized, like a drowned man, at a straw and, deceiving myself and my friends, shouted hope in a timid voice. Pushkin noticed that I became more cheerful, took my hand and said: "Dal, tell me the truth, will I die soon?" - "We still hope for you, really, we hope!" He shook my hand and said, "Well, thanks." But, apparently, he was only once seduced by my hope; neither before nor after that did he believe her; asked impatiently: "Is the end soon?" - and added more: "Please, hurry up!"
… During the long, weary night, I looked with heartache at this mysterious struggle between life and death - and could not resist three words from Onegin, three terrible words that were persistently heard in my ears, in my head - the words:
Well? - killed!
ABOUT! how much power and eloquence are in these three words! They are worth Shakespeare's famous fateful question "To be or not to be." Horror involuntarily washed over me from head to toe - I sat, not daring to breathe, and thought: this is where it is necessary to study experienced wisdom, the philosophy of life; here, where the soul is torn from the body, where the living, the thinking makes a terrible transition into the dead and unrequited, which cannot be found either in thick books or in the pulpit!
When anguish and pain overcame him, he strengthened himself vigorously to my words: “You have to endure, dear friend, there is nothing to do; but do not be ashamed of your pain, moan, it will be easier for you,”he answered abruptly:“No, don’t, my wife will hear and it’s funny, so that this nonsense can overpower me!” He still did not stop breathing fast and abruptly, his quiet moan fell silent for a while.
The pulse began to fall and soon disappeared completely, and my hands began to get cold. It struck 2 o'clock in the afternoon, on January 29 - and only three-quarters of an hour remained in Pushkin. The vigorous spirit still retained its power; occasionally only half-drowsiness, oblivion for a few seconds fogged my thoughts and soul. Then the dying man, several times, gave me his hand, squeezed and said: "Well, raise me up, let's go, yes higher, higher, well, let's go."
Having come to his senses, he said to me: "I had a dream that I was climbing with you on these books and shelves high - and my head was spinning." Once or twice he looked closely at me and asked: "Who is this, you?" - "I, my friend." - "What is this," he continued, "I could not recognize you." A little later, he again, without opening his eyes, began to look for my hand and, stretching it out, said: "Well, let's go, please, together!" I approached V. A. Zhukovsky and Count Veliegorsky and said: he is leaving! Pushkin opened his eyes and asked for soaked cloudberries; when they brought her, he said distinctly: "Call your wife, let her feed me." Natalia Nikolaevna knelt at the head of the dying man, brought him a spoon, another - and pressed her face to her husband's brow. Pushkin stroked her head and said: "Well, nothing, thank God, everything is fine."
Friends, neighbors silently surrounded the head of the departing person; I, at his request, took him under the arms and raised him higher. He suddenly seemed to wake up, quickly opened his eyes, his face cleared up, and he quietly said: "Life is over!" I did not hear it and asked quietly: "What's over?" “Life is over,” he answered clearly and positively. “It’s hard to breathe, it’s pressing,” were his last words. An all-over calmness spread over the whole body; hands are cold up to the shoulders, toes, feet and knees as well; abrupt, rapid breathing changed more and more into slow, quiet, prolonged; one more weak, barely perceptible sigh - and an immense abyss, immeasurable, divided the living from the dead. He died so quietly that the others did not notice his death."
A. Lavrin