The water flowed slowly in with an indolent gurgle. In running with a filled bucket, a man can adopt but one kind of gait. One of a "swing" team was suddenly smitten quivering to the ground, and his maddened brethren dragged his torn body in their struggle to escape from this turmoil and danger.
The artillery officer who had fallen in this meadow had been making groans in the teeth of the tempest of sound. And it was as if this arm was not at all a part of him, but belonged to another man. I never thought Fred Collins had the blood in him for that kind of business. From the ruck of bleeding and prostrate horses, the men of the infantry could see one animal raising its stricken body with its fore legs, and turning its nose with mystic and profound eloquence toward the sky.
The long animal-like thing moved slightly. A young soldier astride one of the leaders swore and fumed in his saddle and furiously jerked at the bridle. His face had now turned grey, and in his eyes was all terror.
The men of the battery wore white duck trousers, which somehow emphasised their legs: The grimed faces were wrinkled in laughter.
He wondered at this, because human expression had said loudly for centuries that men should feel afraid of certain things, and that all men who did not feel this fear were phenomena--heroes. An officer screamed out an order so violently that his voice broke and ended the sentence in a falsetto shriek.
There was a quarrel in A Company. On the top of the hill a battery was arguing in tremendous roars with some other guns, and to the eye of the infantry, the artillerymen, the guns, the caissons, the horses, were distinctly outlined upon the blue sky.
He was sinking to the ground, to lie face downward. After all, heroes were not much. He saw that, in this matter of the well, the canteens, the shells, he was an intruder in the land of fine deeds.
He could feel his dulled mid groping after the form and colour of this incident. The canteen filled with a maddening slowness, in the manner of all bottles.
His face contorted and blanched from pain, he was about to utter some great beseeching cry. When at home his mother had aroused him for the early labour of his life on the farm, it had often been his fashion to be irritable, childish, diabolical; and his mother had died since he had come to the war.
A shell had blown the well-house to fragments. From beyond a curtain of green woods there came the sound of some stupendous scuffle, as if two animals of the size of islands were fighting.
When they inspected him carefully, it was somewhat like the examination that grooms give a horse before a race; and they were amazed, staggered by the whole affair. They played over it in their fashion.
They mingled with the shells and the pieces of shells until the air was torn in all directions by hootings, yells, howls. The sky was full of fiends who directed all their wild rage at his head.
Add A Mystery of Heroism to your own personal library. Note the intense realism of this description. He suffered that disappointment which we would all have if we discovered that we were ourselves capable of those deeds which we most admire in history and legend.
Soldiers and officers are shown to be vulnerable to the intense pressure they are under, swearing and shrieking. As he neared the house, each detail of the scene became vivid to him.
And there was a massacre of the young blades of grass.
He turned his horse toward the meadow. Around this motionless pair the shells still howled. At a distance there were occasional appearances of swift- moving men, horses, batteries, flags, and, with the crashing of infantry volleys were heard, often, wild and frenzied cheers.
He leaned over until it seemed as if he intended to try to push water into it with his hands. The little line of men ran forward. Presently he recovered his strength and addressed a screaming oath to it. So through this terrible field, over which screamed practical angels of death, Collins ran in the manner of a farmer chased out of a dairy by a bull.
In the midst of the questions, the advice, the warnings, all the excited talk of his company mates, he maintained a curious silence.Start studying Realism vs. Naturalism Test. Learn vocabulary, terms, and more with flashcards, games, and other study tools.
Stephen Crane (naturalism) A Mystery of Heroism. Stephen Crane (naturalism) War is Kind. Chief Joseph. I Will Fight No More Forever. Robert E. Lee. Letter to His Son. Jack London and Stephen Crane also participated in this tradition of literary naturalism, writing about city life, social class, industry, and, in two memorable short stories, the callous indifference of nature.
American writer Stephen Crane revolutionized fiction with his combination of gritty naturalism and vivid impressionism. His work conveys uncompromising truths about the human condition by using realistic details that feel deeply personal, as if he were describing events seen firsthand.
All of the pieces of Crane’s writings show the evidence of his use of naturalism throughout his life. The reason behind his use of this movement is hidden in his family life and lifestyle.
Stephen Crane was born in Newark, New Jersey in into a family of fourteen children. A Mystery of Heroism by Stephen Crane Summary: A Mystery of Heroism is about Fred Collins whom is in the middle of a battle during a war, people are dying around him and the ground is being dug up by explosive shells when he says he wants a drink of water from a well in the middle of the battle field.
A Mystery of Heroism by Stephen Crane. The dark uniforms of the men were so coated with dust from the incessant wrestling of the two armies that the regiment almost seemed a part of the clay bank which shielded them from the shells.Download