THE SEVEN WHO WERE HANGED

A STORY

By Leonid Andreyev

Authorized Translation From The Russian By Herman Bernstein. 

DEDICATION

To Count Leo N. Tolstoy This Book is Dedicated, by Leonid Andreyev

The Translation of this Story Is Also Respectfully Inscribed to CountLeo N. Tolstoy by Herman Bernstein

FOREWORD

Leonid Andreyev, who was born in Oryol, in 1871, is the most popular, and next to Tolstoy, the most gifted writer in Russia to-day. Andreyevhas written many important stories and dramas, the best known amongwhich are "Red Laughter, " "Life of Man, " "To the Stars, " "The Life ofVasily Fiveisky, " "Eliazar, " "Black Masks, " and "The Story of the SevenWho Were Hanged. "

In "Red Laughter" he depicted the horrors of war as few men had everbefore done it. He dipped his pen into the blood of Russia and wrote thetragedy of the Manchurian war. 

In his "Life of Man" Andreyev produced a great, imaginative "morality"play which has been ranked by European critics with some of the greatestdramatic masterpieces. 

The story of "The Seven Who Were Hanged" is thus far his most importantachievement. The keen psychological insight and the masterly simplicitywith which Andreyev has penetrated and depicted each of the tragedies ofthe seven who were hanged place him in the same class as an artist withRussia's greatest masters of fiction, Dostoyevsky, Turgenev and Tolstoy. 

I consider myself fortunate to be able to present to the English-readingpublic this remarkable work, which has already produced a profoundimpression in Europe and which, I believe, is destined for a long timeto come to play an important part in opening the eyes of the world tothe horrors perpetrated in Russia and to the violence and iniquity ofthe destruction of human life, whatever the error or the crime. 

New York. HERMAN BERNSTEIN. 

INTRODUCTION

[Translation of the Foregoing Letter in Russian]

I am very glad that "The Story of the Seven Who Were Hanged" will beread in English. The misfortune of us all is that we know so little, even nothing, about one another--neither about the soul, nor the life, the sufferings, the habits, the inclinations, the aspirations of oneanother. Literature, which I have the honor to serve, is dear to me justbecause the noblest task it sets before itself is that of wiping outboundaries and distances. 

As in a hard shell, every human being is enclosed in a cover of body, dress, and life. Who is man? We may only conjecture. What constituteshis joy or his sorrow? We may guess only by his acts, which areoft-times enigmatic; by his laughter and by his tears, which are oftenentirely incomprehensible to us. And if we, Russians, who live soclosely together in constant misery, understand one another so poorlythat we mercilessly put to death those who should be pitied or evenrewarded, and reward those who should be punished by contempt andanger--how much more difficult is it for you Americans, to understanddistant Russia? But then, it is just as difficult for us Russians tounderstand distant America, of which we dream in our youth and overwhich we ponder so deeply in our years of maturity. 

The Jewish massacres and famine; a Parliament and executions; pillageand the greatest heroism; "The Black Hundred, " and Leo Tolstoy--what amixture of figures and conceptions, what a fruitful source for all kindsof misunderstandings! The truth of life stands aghast in silence, andits brazen falsehood is loudly shouting, uttering pressing, painfulquestions: "With whom shall I sympathize? Whom shall I trust? Whom shallI love?"

In the story of "The Seven Who Were Hanged" I attempted to give asincere and unprejudiced answer to some of these questions. 

That I have treated ruling and slaughtering Russia with restraint andmildness may best be gathered from the fact that the Russian censorhas permitted my book to circulate. This is sufficient evidence when werecall how many books, brochures and newspapers have found eternal restin the peaceful shade of the police stations, where they have risen tothe patient sky in the smoke and flame of bonfires. 

But I did not attempt to condemn the Government, the fame of whosewisdom and virtues has already spread far beyond the boundaries of ourunfortunate fatherland. Modest and bashful far beyond all measure ofher virtues, Russia would sincerely wish to forego this honor, butunfortunately the free press of America and Europe has not spared hermodesty, and has given a sufficiently clear picture of her gloriousactivities. Perhaps I am wrong in this: it is possible that many honestpeople in America believe in the purity of the Russian Government'sintentions--but this question is of such importance that it requires aspecial treatment, for which it is necessary to have both time and calmof soul. But there is no calm soul in Russia. 

My task was to point out the horror and the iniquity of capitalpunishment under any circumstances. The horror of capital punishmentis great when it falls to the lot of courageous and honest people whoseonly guilt is their excess of love and the sense of righteousness--insuch instances, conscience revolts. But the rope is still more horriblewhen it forms the noose around the necks of weak and ignorant people. And however strange it may appear, I look with a lesser grief andsuffering upon the execution of the revolutionists, such as Werner andMusya, than upon the strangling of ignorant murderers, miserable inmind and heart, like Yanson and Tsiganok. Even the last mad horror ofinevitably approaching execution Werner can offset by his enlightenedmind and his iron will, and Musya, by her purity and her innocence. ***

But how are the weak and the sinful to face it if not in madness, withthe most violent shock to the very foundation of their souls? And thesepeople, now that the Government has steadied its hands through itsexperience with the revolutionists, are being hanged throughoutRussia--in some places one at a time, in others, ten at once. Childrenat play come upon badly buried bodies, and the crowds which gatherlook with horror upon the peasants' boots that are sticking out of theground; prosecutors who have witnessed these executions are becominginsane and are taken away to hospitals--while the people are beinghanged--being hanged. 

I am deeply grateful to you for the task you have undertaken intranslating this sad story. Knowing the sensitiveness of the Americanpeople, who at one time sent across the ocean, steamers full of breadfor famine-stricken Russia, I am convinced that in this case ourpeople in their misery and bitterness will also find understanding andsympathy. And if my truthful story about seven of the thousands who werehanged will help toward destroying at least one of the barriers whichseparate one nation from another, one human being from another, one soulfrom another soul, I shall consider myself happy. 

Respectfully yours, LEONID ANDREYEV. 

THE SEVEN WHO WERE HANGED

CHAPTER I AT ONE O'CLOCK, YOUR EXCELLENCY!

As the Minister was a very stout man, inclined to apoplexy, theyfeared to arouse in him any dangerous excitement, and it was with everypossible precaution that they informed him that a very serious attemptupon his life had been planned. When they saw that he received the newscalmly, even with a smile, they gave him, also, the details. The attemptwas to be made on the following day at the time that he was to startout with his official report; several men, terrorists, plans had alreadybeen betrayed by a provocateur, and who were now under the vigilantsurveillance of detectives, were to meet at one o'clock in the afternoonin front of his house, and, armed with bombs and revolvers, were to waittill he came out. There the terrorists were to be trapped. 

"Wait!" muttered the Minister, perplexed. "How did they know that I wasto leave the house at one o'clock in the afternoon with my report, whenI myself learned of it only the day before yesterday?"

The Chief of the Guards stretched out his arms with a shrug. 

"Exactly at one o'clock in the afternoon, your Excellency, " he said. 

Half surprised, half commending the work of the police, who had managedeverything skilfully, the Minister shook his head, a morose smile uponhis thick, dark lips, and still smiling obediently, and not desiring tointerfere with the plans of the police, he hastily made ready, and wentout to pass the night in some one else's hospitable palace. His wifeand his two children were also removed from the dangerous house, beforewhich the bomb-throwers were to gather upon the following day. 

While the lights were burning in the palace, and courteous, familiarfaces were bowing to him, smiling and expressing their concern, thedignitary experienced a sensation of pleasant excitement--he felt asif he had already received, or was soon to receive, some greatand unexpected reward. But the people went away, the lights wereextinguished, and through the mirrors, the lace-like and fantasticreflection of the electric lamps on the street, quivered across theceiling and over the walls. A stranger in the house, with itspaintings, its statues and its silence, the light--itself silent andindefinite--awakened painful thoughts in him as to the vanity of boltsand guards and walls. And then, in the dead of night, in the silence andsolitude of a strange bedroom, a sensation of unbearable fear swept overthe dignitary. 

He had some kidney trouble, and whenever he grew strongly agitated, hisface, his hands and his feet became swollen. Now, rising like a mountainof bloated flesh above the taut springs of the bed, he felt, with theanguish of a sick man, his swollen face, which seemed to him to belongto some one else. Unceasingly he kept thinking of the cruel fate whichpeople were preparing for him. He recalled, one after another, all therecent horrible instances of bombs that had been thrown at men of evengreater eminence than himself; he recalled how the bombs had torn bodiesto pieces, had spattered brains over dirty brick walls, had knockedteeth from their roots. And influenced by these meditations, it seemedto him that his own stout, sickly body, outspread on the bed, wasalready experiencing the fiery shock of the explosion. He seemed tobe able to feel his arms being severed from the shoulders, his teethknocked out, his brains scattered into particles, his feet growing numb, lying quietly, their toes upward, like those of a dead man. He stirredwith an effort, breathed loudly and coughed in order not to seem tohimself to resemble a corpse in any way. He encouraged himself withthe live noise of the grating springs, of the rustling blanket; and toassure himself that he was actually alive and not dead, he uttered ina bass voice, loudly and abruptly, in the silence and solitude of thebedroom:

"Molodtsi! Molodtsi! Molodtsi! (Good boys)!"

He was praising the detectives, the police, and the soldiers--all thosewho guarded his life, and who so opportunely and so cleverly had avertedthe assassination. But even though he stirred, even though he praisedhis protectors, even though he forced an unnatural smile, in orderto express his contempt for the foolish, unsuccessful terrorists, henevertheless did not believe in his safety, he was not sure that hislife would not leave him suddenly, at once. Death, which people haddevised for him, and which was only in their minds, in their intention, seemed to him to be already standing there in the room. It seemed tohim that Death would remain standing there, and would not go away untilthose people had been captured, until the bombs had been taken fromthem, until they had been placed in a strong prison. There Death wasstanding in the corner, and would not go away--it could not go away, even as an obedient sentinel stationed on guard by a superior's will andorder. 

"At one o'clock in the afternoon, your Excellency!" this phrase keptringing, changing its tone continually: now it was cheerfully mocking, now angry, now dull and obstinate. It sounded as if a hundred wound-upgramophones had been placed in his room, and all of them, one afteranother, were shouting with idiotic repetition the words they had beenmade to shout:

"At one o'clock in the afternoon, your Excellency!"

And suddenly, this one o'clock in the afternoon to-morrow, which but ashort while ago was not in any way different from other hours, whichwas only a quiet movement of the hand along the dial of his gold watch, assumed an ominous finality, sprang out of the dial, began to liveseparately, stretched itself into an enormously huge black pole whichcut all life in two. It seemed as if no other hours had existed beforeit and no other hours would exist after it--as if this hour alone, insolent and presumptuous, had a right to a certain peculiar existence. 

"Well, what do you want?" asked the Minister angrily, muttering betweenhis teeth. 

The gramophone shouted:

"At one o'clock in the afternoon, your Excellency!" and the black polesmiled and bowed. Gnashing his teeth, the Minister rose in his bed toa sitting posture, leaning his face on the palms of his hands--hepositively could not sleep on that dreadful night. 

Clasping his face in his swollen, perfumed palms, he pictured to himselfwith horrifying clearness how on the following morning, not knowinganything of the plot against his life, he would have risen, would havedrunk his coffee, not knowing anything, and then would have put on hiscoat in the hallway. And neither he, nor the doorkeeper who would havehanded him his fur coat, nor the lackey who would have brought him thecoffee, would have known that it was utterly useless to drink coffee, and to put on the coat, since a few instants later, everything--thefur coat and his body and the coffee within it--would be destroyed by anexplosion, would be seized by death. The doorkeeper would have openedthe glass door. . . . He, the amiable, kind, gentle doorkeeper, with theblue, typical eyes of a soldier, and with medals across his breast--hehimself with his own hands would have opened the terrible door, openedit because he knew nothing. Everybody would have smiled because they didnot know anything. "Oho!" he suddenly said aloud, and slowly removed hishands from his face. Peering into the darkness, far ahead of him, with afixed, strained look, he outstretched his hand just as slowly, felt thebutton on the wall and pressed it. Then he arose, and without puttingon his slippers, walked in his bare feet over the rug in the strange, unfamiliar bedroom, found the button of another lamp upon the wall andpressed it. It became light and pleasant, and only the disarrangedbed with the blanket, which had slipped off to the floor, spoke of thehorror, not altogether past. 

In his night-clothes, with his beard disheveled by his restlessmovements, with his angry eyes, the dignitary resembled any other angryold man who suffered with insomnia and shortness of breath. It was asif the death which people were preparing for him, had made him bare, hadtorn away from him the magnificence and splendor which had surroundedhim--and it was hard to believe that it was he who had so much power, that his body was but an ordinary plain human body that must haveperished terribly in the flame and roar of a monstrous explosion. Without dressing himself and not feeling the cold, he sat down in thefirst armchair he found, stroking his disheveled beard, and fixed hiseyes in deep, calm thoughtfulness upon the unfamiliar plaster figures ofthe ceiling. 

So that was the trouble! That was why he had trembled in fear and hadbecome so agitated! That was why Death seemed to stand in the corner andwould not go away, could not go away!

"Fools!" he said emphatically, with contempt. 

"Fools!" he repeated more loudly, and turned his head slightly towardthe door that those to whom he was referring might hear it. He wasreferring to those whom he had praised but a moment before, who in theexcess of their zeal had told him of the plot against his life. 

"Of course, " he thought deeply, an easy, convincing idea arising in hismind. "Now that they have told me, I know, and feel terrified, but if Ihad not been told, I would not have known anything and would have drunkmy coffee calmly. After that Death would have come--but then, am I soafraid of Death? Here have I been suffering with kidney trouble, and Imust surely die from it some day, and yet I am not afraid--because Ido not know anything. And those fools told me: 'At one o'clock in theafternoon, your Excellency!' and they thought I would be glad. Butinstead of that Death stationed itself in the corner and would not goaway. It would not go away because it was my thought. It is notdeath that is terrible, but the knowledge of it: it would be utterlyimpossible to live if a man could know exactly and definitely the dayand hour of his death. And the fools cautioned me: 'At one o'clock inthe afternoon, your Excellency!'"

He began to feel light-hearted and cheerful, as if some one had toldhim that he was immortal, that he would never die. And, feeling himselfagain strong and wise amidst the herd of fools who had so stupidly andimpudently broken into the mystery of the future, he began to think ofthe bliss of ignorance, and his thoughts were the painful thoughts of anold, sick man who had gone through endless experience. It was not givento any living being--man or beast--to know the day and hour of death. Here had he been ill not long ago and the physicians told him that hemust expect the end, that he should make his final arrangements--but hehad not believed them and he remained alive. In his youth he had becomeentangled in an affair and had resolved to end his life; he had evenloaded the revolver, had "written his letters, and had fixed upon 'thehour for suicide--but before the very end he had suddenly changed hismind. It would always be thus--at the very last moment something wouldchange, an unexpected accident would befall--no one could tell when hewould die. 

"At one o'clock in the afternoon, your Excellency!" those kind asses hadsaid to him, and although they had told him of it only that death mightbe averted, the mere knowledge of its possibility at a certain houragain filled him with horror. It was probable that some day he shouldbe assassinated, but it would not happen to-morrow--it would not happento-morrow--and he could sleep undisturbed, as if he were really immortal. Fools--they did not know what a great law they had dislodged, what anabyss they had opened, when they said in their idiotic kindness: "At oneo'clock in the afternoon, your Excellency!"

"No, not at one o'clock in the afternoon, your Excellency, but no oneknows when. No one knows when! What?"

"Nothing, " answered Silence, "nothing. "

"But you did say something. "

"Nothing, nonsense. I say: to-morrow, at one o'clock in the afternoon!"

There was a sudden, acute pain in his heart--and he understood that hewould have neither sleep, nor peace, nor joy until that accursed blackhour standing out of the dial should have passed. Only the shadow of theknowledge of something which no living being could know stood there inthe corner, and that was enough to darken the world and envelop himwith the impenetrable gloom of horror. The once disturbed fear of deathdiffused through his body, penetrated into his bones. 

He no longer feared the murderers of the next day--they had vanished, they had been forgotten, they had mingled with the crowd of hostilefaces and incidents which surrounded his life. He now feared somethingsudden and inevitable--an apoplectic stroke, heart failure, some foolishthin little vessel which might suddenly fail to withstand the pressureof the blood and might burst like a tight glove upon swollen fingers. 

His short, thick neck seemed terrible to him. It became unbearable forhim to look upon his short, swollen fingers--to feel how short they wereand how they were filled with the moisture of death. And if before, whenit was dark, he had had to stir in order not to resemble a corpse, nowin the bright, cold, inimical, dreadful light he was so filled withhorror that he could not move in order to get a cigarette or to ring forsome one. His nerves were giving way. Each one of them seemed as if itwere a bent wire, at the top of which there was a small head with mad, wide-open frightened eyes and a convulsively gaping, speechless mouth. He could not draw his breath. 

Suddenly in the darkness, amidst the dust and cobwebs somewhere uponthe ceiling, an electric bell came to life. The small, metallic tongue, agitatedly, in terror, kept striking the edge of the ringing cap, became silent--and again quivered in an unceasing, frightened din. HisExcellency was ringing his bell in his own room. 

People began to run. Here and there, in the shadows upon the walls, lamps flared up--there were not enough of them to give light, but therewere enough to cast shadows. The shadows appeared everywhere; they rosein the corners, they stretched across the ceiling; tremulously clingingto each and every elevation, they covered the walls. And it was hardto understand where all these innumerable, deformed silentshadows--voiceless souls of voiceless objects--had been before. 

A deep, trembling voice said something loudly. Then the doctor washastily summoned by telephone; the dignitary was collapsing. The wife ofhis Excellency was also called. 

CHAPTER II CONDEMNED TO BE HANGED

Everything befell as the police had foretold. Four terrorists, threemen and a woman, armed with bombs, infernal machines and revolvers, wereseized at the very entrance of the house, and another woman was laterfound and arrested in the house where the conspiracy had been hatched. She was its mistress. At the same time a great deal of dynamite andhalf finished bomb explosives were seized. All those arrested were veryyoung; the eldest of the men was twenty-eight years old, the youngerof the women was only nineteen. They were tried in the same fortress inwhich they were imprisoned after the arrest; they were tried swiftly andsecretly, as was done during that unmerciful time. 

At the trial all of them were calm, but very serious and thoughtful. Their contempt for the judges was so intense that none of them wishedto emphasize his daring by even a superfluous smile or by a feignedexpression of cheerfulness. Each was simply as calm as was necessary tohedge in his soul, from curious, evil and inimical eyes, the great gloomthat precedes death. 

Sometimes they refused to answer questions; sometimes they answered, briefly, simply and precisely, as though they were answering not thejudge, but statisticians, for the purpose of supplying information forparticular special tables. Three of them, one woman and two men, gavetheir real names, while two others refused and thus remained unknown tothe judges. 

They manifested for all that was going on at the trial a certaincuriosity, softened, as though through a haze, such as is peculiarto persons who are very ill or are carried away by some great, all-absorbing idea. They glanced up occasionally, caught some word inthe air more interesting than the others, and then resumed the thoughtfrom which their attention had been distracted. 

The man who was nearest to the judges called himself Sergey Golovin, theson of a retired colonel, himself an ex-officer. He was still a veryyoung, light-haired, broad-shouldered man, so strong that neither theprison nor the expectation of inevitable death could remove the colorfrom his cheeks and the expression of youthful, happy frankness from hisblue eyes. He kept energetically tugging at his bushy, small beard, to which he had not become accustomed, and continually blinking, keptlooking out of the window. 

It was toward the end of winter, when amidst the snowstorms and thegloomy, frosty days, the approaching spring sent as a forerunner aclear, warm, sunny day, or but an hour, yet so full of spring, soeagerly young and beaming that sparrows on the streets lost their witsfor joy, and people seemed almost as intoxicated. And now the strangeand beautiful sky could be seen through an upper window which wasdust-covered and unwashed since the last summer. At first sight the skyseemed to be milky-gray-smoke-colored--but when you looked longer thedark blue color began to penetrate through the shade, grew into an everdeeper blue--ever brighter, ever more intense. And the fact that it didnot reveal itself all at once, but hid itself chastely in the smoke oftransparent clouds, made it as charming as the girl you love. And SergeyGolovin looked at the sky, tugged at his beard, blinked now one eye, now the other, with its long, curved lashes, earnestly pondering oversomething. Once he began to move his fingers rapidly and thoughtlessly, knitted his brow in some joy, but then he glanced about and his joy diedout like a spark which is stepped upon. Almost instantly an earthen, deathly blue, without first changing into pallor, showed through thecolor of his cheeks. He clutched his downy hair, tore their rootspainfully with his fingers, whose tips had turned white. But the joy oflife and spring was stronger, and a few minutes later his frank youngface was again yearning toward the spring sky. The young, pale girl, known only by the name of Musya, was also looking in the same direction, at the sky. She was younger than Golovin, but she seemed older in hergravity and in the darkness of her open, proud eyes. Only her very thin, slender neck, and her delicate girlish hands spoke of her youth; but inaddition there was that ineffable something, which is youth itself, and which sounded so distinctly in her clear, melodious voice, tunedirreproachably like a precious instrument, every simple word, everyexclamation giving evidence of its musical timbre. She was very pale, but it was not a deathly pallor, but that peculiar warm whiteness of aperson within whom, as it were, a great, strong fire is burning, whosebody glows transparently like fine Sevres porcelain. She sat almostmotionless, and only at times she touched with an imperceptible movementof her fingers the circular mark on the middle finger of her right hand, the mark of a ring which had been recently removed. 

She gazed at the sky without caressing kindness or joyousrecollections--she looked at it simply because in all the filthy, official hall the blue bit of sky was the most beautiful, the purest, the most truthful object, and the only one that did not try to searchhidden depths in her eyes. 

The judges pitied Sergey Golovin; her they despised. 

Her neighbor, known only by the name of Werner, sat also motionless, ina somewhat affected pose, his hands folded between his knees. If a facemay be said to look like a false door, this unknown man closed hisface like an iron door and bolted it with an iron lock. He staredmotionlessly at the dirty wooden floor, and it was impossible to tellwhether he was calm or whether he was intensely agitated, whether he wasthinking of something, or whether he was listening to the testimony ofthe detectives as presented to the court. He was not tall in stature. His features were refined and delicate. Tender and handsome, so that hereminded you of a moonlit night in the South near the seashore, wherethe cypress trees throw their dark shadows, he at the same time gave theimpression of tremendous, calm power, of invincible firmness, of coldand audacious courage. The very politeness with which he gave brief andprecise answers seemed dangerous, on his lips, in his half bow. And ifthe prison garb looked upon the others like the ridiculous costume ofa buffoon, upon him it was not noticeable, so foreign was it to hispersonality. And although the other terrorists had been seized withbombs and infernal machines upon them, and Werner had had but a blackrevolver, the judges for some reason regarded him as the leader of theothers and treated him with a certain deference, although succinctly andin a business--like manner. 

The next man, Vasily Kashirin, was torn between a terrible, dominatingfear of death and a desperate desire to restrain the fear and not betrayit to the judges. From early morning, from the time they had been ledinto court, he had been suffocating from an intolerable palpitation ofhis heart. Perspiration came out in drops all along his forehead; hishands were also perspiring and cold, and his cold, sweat-covered shirtclung to his body, interfering with the freedom of his movements. With asupernatural effort of will-power he forced his fingers not to tremble, his voice to be firm and distinct, his eyes to be calm. He saw nothingabout him; the voices came to him as through a mist, and it was to thismist that he made his desperate efforts to answer firmly, to answerloudly. But having answered, he immediately forgot question as well asanswer, and was again struggling with himself silently and terribly. Death was disclosed in him so clearly that the judges avoided looking athim. It was hard to define his age, as is the case with a corpsewhich has begun to decompose. According to his passport, he was onlytwenty-three years old. Once or twice Werner quietly touched his kneewith his hand, and each time Kashirin spoke shortly:

"Never mind!"

The most terrible sensation was when he was suddenly seized with aninsufferable desire to cry out, without words, the desperate cry of abeast. He touched Werner quickly, and Werner, without lifting his eyes, said softly:

"Never mind, Vasya. It will soon be over. "

And embracing them all with a motherly, anxious look, the fifthterrorist, Tanya Kovalchuk, was faint with alarm. She had never had anychildren; she was still young and red-cheeked, just as Sergey Golovin, but she seemed as a mother to all of them: so full of anxiety, ofboundless love were her looks, her smiles, her sighs. She paid notthe slightest attention to the trial, regarding it as though it weresomething entirely irrelevant, and she listened only to the manner inwhich the others were answering the questions, to hear whether the voicewas trembling, whether there was fear, whether it was necessary to givewater to any one. 

She could not look at Vasya in her anguish and only wrung her fingerssilently. At Musya and Werner she gazed proudly and respectfully, andshe assumed a serious and concentrated expression, and then tried totransfer her smile to Sergey Golovin. 

"The dear boy is looking at the sky. Look, look, my darling!" shethought about Golovin. 

"And Vasya! What is it? My God, my God! What am I to do with him? If Ishould speak to him I might make it still worse. He might suddenly startto cry. "

So like a calm pond at dawn, reflecting every hastening, passing cloud, she reflected upon her full, gentle, kind face every swift sensation, every thought of the other four. She did not give a single thought tothe fact that she, too, was upon trial, that she, too, would be hanged;she was entirely indifferent to it. It was in her house that the bombsand the dynamite had been discovered, and, strange though it may seem, it was she who had met the police with pistol-shots and had wounded oneof the detectives in the head. 

The trial ended at about eight o'clock, when it had become dark. BeforeMusya's and Golovin's eyes the sky, which had been turning ever bluer, was gradually losing its tint, but it did not turn rosy, did not smilesoftly as in summer evenings, but became muddy, gray, and suddenly grewcold, wintry. Golovin heaved a sigh, stretched himself, glanced againtwice at the window, but the cold darkness of the night alone was there;then continuing to tug at his short beard, he began to examine withchildish curiosity the judges, the soldiers with their muskets, andhe smiled at Tanya Kovalchuk. When the sky had darkened Musya calmly, without lowering her eyes to the ground, turned them to the corner wherea small cobweb was quivering from the imperceptible radiations of thesteam heat, and thus she remained until the sentence was pronounced. 

After the verdict, having bidden good-by to their frock-coated lawyers, and evading each other's helplessly confused, pitying and guiltyeyes, the convicted terrorists crowded in the doorway for a moment andexchanged brief words. 

"Never mind, Vasya. Everything will be over soon, " said Werner. 

"I am all right, brother, " Kashirin replied loudly, calmly and evensomewhat cheerfully. And indeed, his face had turned slightly rosy, andno longer looked like that of a decomposing corpse. 

"The devil take them; they've hanged us, " Golovin cursed quaintly. 

"That was to be expected, " replied Werner calmly. 

"To-morrow the sentence will be pronounced in its final form and weshall all be placed together, " said Tanya Kovalchuk consolingly. "Untilthe execution we shall all be together. "

Musya was silent. Then she resolutely moved forward. 

CHAPTER III WHY SHOULD I BE HANGED?

Two weeks before the terrorists had been tried the same militarydistrict court, with a different set of judges, had tried and condemnedto death by hanging Ivan Yanson, a peasant. 

Ivan Yanson was a workman for a well-to-do farmer, in no way differentfrom other workmen. He was an Esthonian by birth, from Vezenberg, andin the course of several years, passing from one farm to another, hehad come close to the capital. He spoke Russian very poorly, and as hismaster was a Russian, by name Lazarev, and as there were no Esthoniansin the neighborhood, Yanson had practically remained silent for almosttwo years. In general, he was apparently not inclined to talk, and wassilent not only with human beings, but even with animals. He would waterthe horse in silence, harness it in silence, moving about it, slowly andlazily, with short, irresolute steps, and when the horse, annoyed by hismanner, would begin to frolic, to become capricious, he would beat it insilence with a heavy whip. He would beat it cruelly, with stolid, angrypersistency, and when this happened at a time when he was suffering fromthe aftereffects of a carouse, he would work himself into a frenzy. Atsuch times the crack of the whip could be heard in the house, with thefrightened, painful pounding of the horse's hoofs upon the board floorof the barn. For beating the horse his master would beat Yanson, butthen, finding that he could not be reformed, paid no more attention tohim. 

Once or twice a month Yanson became intoxicated, usually on those dayswhen he took his master to the large railroad station, where there was arefreshment bar. After leaving his master at the station, he would driveoff about half a verst away, and there, stalling the sled and the horsein the snow on the side of the road, he would wait until the trainhad gone. The sled would stand sideways, almost overturned, the horsestanding with widely spread legs up to his belly in a snow-bank, fromtime to time lowering his head to lick the soft, downy snow, whileYanson would recline in an awkward position in the sled as if dozingaway. The unfastened ear-lappets of his worn fur cap would hang downlike the ears of a setter, and the moist sweat would stand under hislittle reddish nose. 

Soon he would return to the station, and would quickly becomeintoxicated. 

On his way back to the farm, the whole ten versts, he would drive ata fast gallop. The little horse, driven to madness by the whip, wouldrear, as if possessed by a demon; the sled would sway, almost overturn, striking against poles, and Yanson, letting the reins go, would halfsing, half exclaim abrupt, meaningless phrases in Esthonian. But moreoften he would not sing, but with his teeth gritted together in anonrush of unspeakable rage, suffering and delight, he would drivesilently on as though blind. He would not notice those who passed him, he would not call to them to look out, he would not slacken his madpace, either at the turns of the road or on the long slopes of themountain roads. How it happened at such times that he crushed no one, how he himself was never dashed to death in one of these mad rides, wasinexplicable. 

He would have been driven from this place, as he had been driven fromother places, but he was cheap and other workmen were not better, andthus he remained there two years. His life was uneventful. One dayhe received a letter, written in Esthonian, but as he himself wasilliterate, and as the others did not understand Esthonian, the letterremained unread; and as if not understanding that the letter might bringhim tidings from his native home, he flung it into the manure with acertain savage, grim indifference. At one time Yanson tried to makelove to the cook, but he was not successful, and was rudely rejectedand ridiculed. He was short in stature, his face was freckled, and hissmall, sleepy eyes were somewhat of an indefinite color. Yanson took hisfailure indifferently, and never again bothered the cook. 

But while Yanson spoke but little, he was listening to something all thetime. He heard the sounds of the dismal, snow-covered fields, with theirheaps of frozen manure resembling rows of small, snow-covered graves, the sounds of the blue, tender distance, of the buzzing telegraph wires, and the conversation of other people. What the fields and telegraphwires spoke to him he alone knew, and the conversation of the peoplewere disquieting, full of rumors about murders and robberies and arson. And one night he heard in the neighboring village the little church bellringing faintly and helplessly, and the crackling of the flames of afire. Some vagabonds had plundered a rich farm, had killed the masterand his wife, and had set fire to the house. 

And on their farm, too, they lived in fear; the dogs were loose, notonly at night, but also during the day, and the master slept with a gunby his side. He wished to give such a gun to Yanson, only it was an oldone with one barrel. But Yanson turned the gun about in his hand, shookhis head and declined it. His master did not understand the reason andscolded him, but the reason was that Yanson had more faith in the powerof his Finnish knife than in the rusty gun. 

"It would kill me, " he said, looking at his master sleepily with hisglassy eyes, and the master waved his hand in despair. 

"You fool! Think of having to live with such workmen!"

And this same Ivan Yanson, who distrusted a gun, one winter evening, when the other workmen had been sent away to the station, committed avery complicated attempt at robbery, murder and rape. He did it in asurprisingly simple manner. He locked the cook in the kitchen, lazily, with the air of a man who is longing to sleep, walked over to his masterfrom behind and swiftly stabbed him several times in the back with hisknife. The master fell unconscious, and the mistress began to run about, screaming, while Yanson, showing his teeth and brandishing his knife, began to ransack the trunks and the chests of drawers. He found themoney he sought, and then, as if noticing the mistress for the firsttime, and as though unexpectedly even to himself, he rushed upon her inorder to violate her. But as he had let his knife drop to the floor, themistress proved stronger than he, and not only did not allow him to harmher, but almost choked him into unconsciousness. Then the master onthe floor turned, the cook thundered upon the door with the oven-fork, breaking it open, and Yanson ran away into the fields. He was caught anhour later, kneeling down behind the corner of the barn, striking onematch after another, which would not ignite, in an attempt to set theplace on fire. 

A few days later the master died of blood poisoning, and Yanson, whenhis turn among other robbers and murderers came, was tried and condemnedto death. In court he was the same as always; a little man, freckled, with sleepy, glassy eyes. It seemed as if he did not understand in theleast the meaning of what was going on about him; he appeared to beentirely indifferent. He blinked his white eyelashes, stupidly, withoutcuriosity; examined the sombre, unfamiliar courtroom, and picked hisnose with his hard, shriveled, unbending finger. Only those who had seenhim on Sundays at church would have known that he had made an attemptto adorn himself. He wore on his neck a knitted, muddy-red shawl, and inplaces had dampened the hair of his head. Where the hair was wet it laydark and smooth, while on the other side it stuck up in light and sparsetufts, like straws upon a hail-beaten, wasted meadow. 

When the sentence was pronounced--death by hanging--Yanson suddenlybecame agitated. He reddened deeply and began to tie and untie the shawlabout his neck as though it were choking him. Then he waved his armsstupidly and said, turning to the judge who had not read the sentence, and pointing with his finger at the judge who read it:

"He said that I should be hanged. "

"Who do you mean?" asked the presiding judge, who had pronounced thesentence in a deep, bass voice. Every one smiled; some tried to hidetheir smiles behind their mustaches and their papers. Yanson pointed hisindex finger at the presiding judge and answered angrily, looking at himaskance:

"You!"

"Well?"

Yanson again turned his eyes to the judge who had been silent, restraining a smile, whom he felt to be a friend, a man who had nothingto do with the sentence, and repeated:

"He said I should be hanged. Why must I be hanged?"

"Take the prisoner away. "

But Yanson succeeded in repeating once more, convincingly and weightily:

"Why must I be hanged?"

He looked so absurd, with his small, angry face, with his outstretchedfinger, that even the soldier of the convoy, breaking the rule, said tohim in an undertone as he led him away from the courtroom:

"You are a fool, young man!"

"Why must I be hanged?" repeated Yanson stubbornly. 

"They'll swing you up so quickly that you'll have no time to kick. "

"Keep still!" cried the other convoy angrily. But he himself could notrefrain from adding:

"A robber, too! Why did you take a human life, you fool? You must hangfor that!"

"They might pardon him, " said the first soldier, who began to feel sorryfor Yanson. 

"Oh, yes! They'll pardon people like him, will they? Well, we've talkedenough. "

But Yanson had become silent again. 

He was again placed in the cell in which he had already sat for a monthand to which he had grown accustomed, just as he had become accustomedto everything: to blows, to vodka, to the dismal, snow-covered fields, with their snow-heaps resembling graves. 

And now he even began to feel cheerful when he saw his bed, the familiarwindow with the grating, and when he was given something to eat--he hadnot eaten anything since morning. He had an unpleasant recollection ofwhat had taken place in the court, but of that he could not think--hewas unable to recall it. And death by hanging he could not picture tohimself at all. 

Although Yanson had been condemned to death, there were many otherssimilarly sentenced, and he was not regarded as an important criminal. They spoke to him accordingly, with neither fear nor respect, just asthey would speak to prisoners who were not to be executed. The warden, on learning of the verdict, said to him:

"Well, my friend, they've hanged you!"

"When are they going to hang me?" asked Yanson distrustfully. The wardenmeditated a moment. 

"Well, you'll have to wait--until they can get together a whole party. Itisn't worth bothering for one man, especially for a man like you. It isnecessary to work up the right spirit. "

"And when will that be?" persisted Yanson. He was not at all offendedthat it was not worth while to hang him alone. He did not believe it, but considered it as an excuse for postponing the execution, preparatoryto revoking it altogether. And he was seized with joy; the confused, terrible moment, of which it was so painful to think, retreated far intothe distance, becoming fictitious and improbable, as death always seems. 

"When? When?" cried the warden, a dull, morose old man, growing angry. "It isn't like hanging a dog, which you take behind the barn--and it isdone in no time. I suppose you would like to be hanged like that, youfool!"

"I don't want to be hanged, " and suddenly Yanson frowned strangely. "Hesaid that I should be hanged, but I don't want it. "

And perhaps for the first time in his life he laughed, a hoarse, absurd, yet gay and joyous laughter. It sounded like the cackling of a goose, Ga-ga-ga! The warden looked at him in astonishment, then knit his browsternly. This strange gayety of a man who was to be executed was anoffence to the prison, as well as to the very executioner; it made themappear absurd. And suddenly, for the briefest instant, it appearedto the old warden, who had passed all his life in the prison, and wholooked upon its laws as the laws of nature, that the prison and all thelife within it was something like an insane asylum, in which he, thewarden, was the chief lunatic. 

"Pshaw! The devil take you!" and he spat aside. "Why are you gigglinghere? This is no dramshop!"

"And I don't want to be hanged--gaga-ga!" laughed Yanson. 

"Satan!" muttered the inspector, feeling the need of making the sign ofthe cross. 

This little man, with his small, wizened face--he resembled least of allthe devil--but there was that in his silly giggling which destroyed thesanctity and the strength of the prison. If he laughed longer, it seemedto the warden as if the walls might fall asunder, the grating meltand drop out, as if the warden himself might lead the prisoners tothe gates, bowing and saying: "Take a walk in the city, gentlemen; orperhaps some of you would like to go to the village?"

"Satan!"

But Yanson had stopped laughing, and was now winking cunningly. 

"You had better look out!" said the warden, with an indefinite threat, and he walked away, glancing back of him. 

Yanson was calm and cheerful throughout the evening. He repeated tohimself, "I shall not be hanged, " and it seemed to him so convincing, so wise, so irrefutable, that it was unnecessary to feel uneasy. He hadlong forgotten about his crime, only sometimes he regretted that he hadnot been successful in attacking his master's wife. But he soon forgotthat, too. 

Every morning Yanson asked when he was to be hanged, and every morningthe warden answered him angrily:

"Take your time, you devil! Wait!" and he would walk off quickly beforeYanson could begin to laugh. 

And from these monotonously repeated words, and from the fact that eachday came, passed and ended as every ordinary day had passed, Yansonbecame convinced that there would be no execution. He began to loseall memory of the trial, and would roll about all day long on his cot, vaguely and happily dreaming about the white melancholy fields, withtheir snow-mounds, about the refreshment bar at the railroad station, and about other things still more vague and bright. He was well fed inthe prison, and somehow he began to grow stout rapidly and to assumeairs. 

"Now she would have liked me, " he thought of his master's wife. "Now Iam stout--not worse-looking than the master. " But he longed for a drinkof vodka, to drink and to take a ride on horseback, to ride fast, madly. 

When the terrorists were arrested the news of it reached the prison. And in answer to Yanson's usual question, the warden said eagerly andunexpectedly:

"It won't be long now!"

He looked at Yanson calmly with an air of importance and repeated:

"It won't be long now. I suppose in about a week. "

Yanson turned pale, and as though falling asleep, so turbid was the lookin his glassy eyes, asked:

"Are you joking?"

"First you could not wait, and now you think I am joking. We are notallowed to joke here. You like to joke, but we are not allowed to, " saidthe warden with dignity as he went away. 

Toward evening of that day Yanson had already grown thinner. His skin, which had stretched out and had become smooth for a time, was suddenlycovered with a multitude of small wrinkles, and in places it seemed evento hang down. His eyes became sleepy, and all his motions were nowso slow and languid as though each turn of the head, each move ofthe fingers, each step of the foot were a complicated and cumbersomeundertaking which required very careful deliberation. At night he layon his cot, but did not close his eyes, and thus, heavy with sleep, theyremained open until morning. 

"Aha!" said the warden with satisfaction, seeing him on the followingday. "This is no dramshop for you, my dear!"

With a feeling of pleasant gratification, like a scientist whoseexperiment had proved successful again, he examined the condemned manclosely and carefully from head to foot. Now everything would go alongas necessary. Satan was disgraced, the sacredness of the prison and theexecution was re-established, and the old man inquired condescendingly, even with a feeling of sincere pity:

"Do you want to meet somebody or not?"

"What for?"

"Well, to say good-by! Have you no mother, for instance, or a brother?"

"I must not be hanged, " said Yanson softly, and looked askance at thewarden. "I don't want to be hanged. "

The warden looked at him and waved his hand in silence. 

Toward evening Yanson grew somewhat calmer. 

The day had been so ordinary, the cloudy winter sky looked so ordinary, the footsteps of people and their conversation on matters of businesssounded so ordinary, the smell of the sour soup of cabbage was soordinary, customary and natural that he again ceased believing in theexecution. But the night became terrible to him. Before this Yanson hadfelt the night simply as darkness, as an especially dark time, whenit was necessary to go to sleep, but now he began to be aware of itsmysterious and uncanny nature. In order not to believe in death, it wasnecessary to hear and see and feel ordinary things about him, footsteps, voices, light, the soup of sour cabbage. But in the dark everything wasunnatural; the silence and the darkness were in themselves somethinglike death. 

And the longer the night dragged the more dreadful it became. Withthe ignorant innocence of a child or a savage, who believe everythingpossible, Yanson felt like crying to the sun: "Shine!" He begged, heimplored that the sun should shine, but the night drew its long, darkhours remorselessly over the earth, and there was no power that couldhasten its course. And this impossibility, arising for the first timebefore the weak consciousness of Yanson, filled him with terror. Stillnot daring to realize it clearly, he already felt the inevitabilityof approaching death, and felt himself making the first step upon thegallows, with benumbed feet. 

Day quieted him, but night again filled him with fear, and so it wasuntil one night when he realized fully that death was inevitable, thatit would come in three days at dawn with the sunrise. 

He had never thought of what death was, and it had no image to him--butnow he realized clearly, he saw, he felt that it had entered his celland was looking for him, groping about with its hands. And to savehimself, he began to run wildly about the room. 

But the cell was so small that it seemed that its corners were not sharpbut dull, and that all of them were pushing him into the center ofthe room. And there was nothing behind which to hide. And the door waslocked. And it was dark. Several times he struck his body against thewalls, making no sound, and once he struck against the door--it gaveforth a dull, empty sound. He stumbled over something and fell uponhis face, and then he felt that IT was going to seize him. Lying onhis stomach, holding to the floor, hiding his face in the dark, dirtyasphalt, Yanson howled in terror. He lay; and cried at the top of hisvoice until some one came. And when he was lifted from the floor andseated upon the cot, and cold water was poured over his head, he stilldid not dare open his tightly closed eyes. He opened one eye, andnoticing some one's boot in one of the corners of the room, he commencedcrying again. 

But the cold water began to produce its effect in bringing him tohis senses. To help the effect, the warden on duty, the same old man, administered medicine to Yanson in the form of several blows upon thehead. And this sensation of life returning to him really drove thefear of death away. Yanson opened his eyes, and then, his mind utterlyconfused, he slept soundly for the remainder of the night. He lay on hishack, with mouth open, and snored loudly, and between his lashes, whichwere not tightly closed, his flat, dead eyes, which were upturned sothat the pupil did not show, could be seen. 

Later, everything in the world--day and night, footsteps, voices, thesoup of sour cabbage, produced in him a continuous terror, plunging himinto a state of savage uncomprehending astonishment. His weak mind wasunable to combine these two things which so monstrously contradictedeach other--the bright day, the odor and taste of cabbage--and the factthat two days later he must die. He did not think of anything. He didnot even count the hours, but simply stood in mute stupefaction beforethis contradiction which tore his brain in two. And he became evenlypale, neither white nor redder in parts, and appeared to be calm. Onlyhe ate nothing and ceased sleeping altogether. He sat all night long ona stool, his legs crossed under him, in fright. Or he walked about inhis cell, quietly, stealthily, and sleepily looking about him on allsides. His mouth was half-open all the time, as though from incessantastonishment, and before taking the most ordinary thing into hishands, he would examine it stupidly for a long time, and would take itdistrustfully. 

When he became thus, the wardens as well as the sentinel who watched himthrough the little window, ceased paying further attention to him. Thiswas the customary condition of prisoners, and reminded the wardens ofcattle being led to slaughter after a staggering blow. 

"Now he is stunned, now he will feel nothing until his very death, " saidthe warden, looking at him with experienced eyes. "Ivan! Do you hear?Ivan!"

"I must not be hanged, " answered Yanson, in a dull voice, and his lowerjaw again drooped. 

"You should not have committed murder. You would not be hanged then, "answered the chief warden, a young but very important-looking man withmedals on his chest. "You committed murder, yet you do not want to behanged?"

"He wants to kill human beings without paying for it. Fool! fool!" saidanother. 

"I don't want to be hanged, " said Yanson. 

"Well, my friend, you may want it or not, that's your affair, " repliedthe chief warden indifferently. "Instead of talking nonsense, you hadbetter arrange your affairs. You still have something. "

"He has nothing. One shirt and a suit of clothes. And a fur cap! Asport!"

Thus time passed until Thursday. And on Thursday, at midnight a numberof people entered Yanson's cell, and one man, with shoulder-straps, said:

"Well, get ready. We must go. "

Yanson, moving slowly and drowsily as before, put on everything hehad and tied his muddy-red muffler about his neck. The man withshoulder-straps, smoking a cigarette, said to some one while watchingYanson dress:

"What a warm day this will be. Real spring. "

Yanson's small eyes were closing; he seemed to be falling asleep, and hemoved so slowly and stiffly that the warden cried to him:

"Hey, there! Quicker! Have you fallen asleep?"

Suddenly Yanson stopped. 

"I don't want to be hanged, " said he. 

He was taken by the arms and led away, and began to stride obediently, raising his shoulders. Outside he found himself in the moist, springair, and beads of sweat stood under his little nose. Notwithstandingthat it was night, it was thawing very strongly and drops of water weredripping upon the stones. And waiting while the soldiers, clanking theirsabres and bending their heads, were stepping into the unlighted blackcarriage, Yanson lazily moved his finger under his moist nose andadjusted the badly tied muffler about his neck. 

CHAPTER IV WE COME FROM ORYOL

The same council-chamber of the military district court which hadcondemned Yanson had also condemned to death a peasant of the Governmentof Oryol, of the District of Yeletzk, Mikhail Golubets, nicknamedTsiganok, also Tatarin. His latest crime, proven beyond question, hadbeen the murder of three people and armed robbery. Behind that, his darkpast disappeared in a depth of mystery. There were vague rumors that hehad participated in a series of other murders and robberies, and inhis path there was felt to be a dark trail of blood, fire, and drunkendebauchery. He called himself murderer with utter frankness andsincerity, and scornfully regarded those who, according to the latestfashion, styled themselves "expropriators. " Of his last crime, since itwas useless for him to deny anything, he spoke freely and in detail, but in answer to questions about his past, he merely gritted his teeth, whistled, and said:

"Search for the wind of the fields!"

When he was annoyed in cross-examination, Tsiganok assumed a serious anddignified air:

"All of us from Oryol are thoroughbreds, " he would say gravely anddeliberately. "Oryol and Kroma are the homes of first-class thieves. Karachev and Livna are the breeding-places of thieves. And Yeletz--is theparent of all thieves. Now--what else is there to say?"

He was nicknamed Tsiganok (gypsy) because of his appearance and histhievish manner. He was black-haired, lean, with yellow spots on hisprominent, "Tartar-like" cheek-bones. His glance was swift, brief, butfearfully direct and searching, and the thing upon which he looked fora moment seemed to lose something, seemed to deliver up to him a partof itself, and to become something else. It was just as unpleasantand repugnant to take a cigarette at which he looked, as though it hadalready been in his mouth. There was a certain constant restlessness inhim, now twisting him like a rag, now throwing him about like a body ofcoiling live wires. And he drank water almost by the bucket. 

To all questions during the trial he answered shortly, firmly, jumpingup quickly, and at times he seemed to answer even with pleasure. 

"Correct!" he would say. 

Sometimes he emphasized it. 

"Cor-r-rect!"

At one time, suddenly, when they were speaking of something that wouldhardly have seemed to suggest it, he jumped to his feet and asked thepresiding judge:

"Will you allow me to whistle?"

"What for?" asked the judge, surprised. 

"They said that I gave the signal to my comrades. I would like to showyou how. It is very interesting. "

The judge consented, somewhat wonderingly. Tsiganok quickly placedfour fingers in his mouth, two fingers of each hand, rolled his eyesfiercely--and then the dead air of the courtroom was suddenly rent by areal, wild, murderer's whistle--at which frightened horses leap and rearon their hind legs and human faces involuntarily blanch. The mortalanguish of him who is to be assassinated, the wild joy of the murderer, the dreadful warning, the call, the gloom and loneliness of a stormyautumn night--all this rang in his piercing shriek, which was neitherhuman nor beastly. 

The presiding officer shouted--then waved his arm at Tsiganok, and Tsiganok obediently became silent. And, like an artist who hadtriumphantly performed a difficult aria, he sat down, wiped his wetfingers upon his coat, and surveyed those present with an air ofsatisfaction. 

"What a robber!" said one of the judges, rubbing his ear. 

Another one, however, with a wild Russian beard, but with the eyes of aTartar, like those of Tsiganok, gazed pensively above Tsiganok's head, then smiled and remarked:

"It is indeed interesting. "

With light hearts, without mercy, without the slightest pangs ofconscience, the judges brought out against Tsiganok a verdict of death. 

"Correct!" said Tsiganok, when the verdict was pronounced. "In the openfield and on a cross-beam! Correct!"

And turning to the convoy, he hurled with bravado:

"Well, are we not going? Come on, you sour-coat. And hold your gun--Imight take it away from you!"

The soldier looked at him sternly, with fear, exchanged glances with hiscomrade, and felt the lock of his gun. The other did the same. And allthe way to the prison the soldiers felt that they were not walkingbut flying through the air--as if hypnotized by the prisoner, they feltneither the ground beneath their feet, nor the passage of time, northemselves. 

Mishka Tsiganok, like Yanson, had had to spend seventeen days in prisonbefore his execution. And all seventeen days passed as though they wereone day--they were bound up in one inextinguishable thought of escape, offreedom, of life. The restlessness of Tsiganok, which was now repressedby the walls and the bars and the dead window through which nothingcould be seen, turned all its fury upon himself and burned his soullike coals scattered upon boards. As though he were in a drunken vapor, bright but incomplete images swarmed upon him, failing and then becomingconfused, and then again rushing through his mind in an unrestrainableblinding whirlwind--and all were bent toward escape, toward liberty, toward life. With his nostrils expanded, like those of a horse, Tsiganoksmelt the air for hours long--it seemed to him that he could smell theodor of hemp, of the smoke of fire--the colorless and biting smell ofburning. Now he whirled about in the room like a top, touching thewalls, tapping them nervously with his fingers from time to time, takingaim, boring the ceiling with his gaze, filing the prison bars. By hisrestlessness, he had tired out the soldiers who watched him through thelittle window, and who, several times, in despair, had threatened toshoot. Tsiganok would retort, coarsely and derisively, and the quarrelwould end peacefully because the dispute would soon turn into boorish, unoffending abuse, after which shooting would have seemed absurd andimpossible. 

Tsiganok slept during the nights soundly, without stirring, inunchanging yet live motionlessness, like a wire spring in temporaryinactivity. But as soon as he arose, he immediately commenced to walk, to plan, to grope about. His hands were always dry and hot, but hisheart at times would suddenly grow cold, as if a cake of unmelting icehad been placed upon his chest, sending a slight, dry shiver through hiswhole body. At such times, Tsiganok, always dark in complexion, wouldturn black, assuming the shade of bluish cast-iron. And he acquired acurious habit; as though he had eaten too much of something sickeninglysweet, he kept licking his lips, smacking them, and would spit on thefloor, hissingly, through his teeth. When he spoke, he did not finishhis words, so rapidly did his thoughts run that his tongue was unable tocompass them. 

One day the chief warden, accompanied by a soldier, entered his cell. Helooked askance at the floor and said gruffly:

"Look! How dirty he has made it!"

Tsiganok retorted quickly:

"You've made the whole world dirty, you fat-face, and yet I haven't saidanything to you. What brings you here?"

The warden, speaking as gruffly as before, asked him whether he wouldact as executioner. Tsiganok burst out laughing, showing his teeth. 

"You can't find any one else? That's good! Go ahead, hang! Ha! ha! ha!The necks are there, the rope is there, but there is nobody to string itup. By God! that's good!"

"You'll save your neck if you do it. "

"Of course--I couldn't hang them if I were dead. Well said, you fool!"

"Well, what do you say? Is it all the same to you?"

"And how do you hang them here? I suppose they're choked on the sly. "

"No, with music, " snarled the warden. 

"Well, what a fool! Of course it can be done with music. This way!" andhe began to sing, with a bold and daring swing. 

"You have lost your wits, my friend, " said the warden. "What do you say?Speak sensibly. "

Tsiganok grinned. 

"How eager you are! Come another time and I'll tell you. "

After that, into that chaos of bright, yet incomplete images whichoppressed Tsiganok by their impetuosity, a new image came--how goodit would be to become a hangman in a red shirt. He pictured to himselfvividly a square crowded with people, a high scaffold, and he, Tsiganok, in a red shirt walking about upon the scaffold with an ax. The sun shoneoverhead, gaily flashing from the ax, and everything was so gay andbright that even the man whose head was soon to be chopped off wassmiling. And behind the crowd, wagons and the heads of horses could beseen--the peasants had come from the village; and beyond them, further, he could see the village itself. 

"Ts-akh!"

Tsiganok smacked his lips, licking them, and spat. And suddenly he feltas though a fur cap had been pushed over his head to his very mouth--itbecame black and stifling, and his heart again became like a cake ofunmelting ice, sending a slight, dry shiver through his whole body. 

The warden came in twice again, and Tsiganok, showing his teeth, said:

"How eager you are! Come in again!"

Finally one day the warden shouted through the casement window as hepassed rapidly:

"You've let your chance slip by, you fool! We've found somebody else. "

"The devil take you! Hang yourself!" snarled Tsiganok, and he stoppeddreaming of the execution. 

But toward the end, the nearer he approached the time, the weight of thefragments of his broken images became unbearable. Tsiganok now feltlike standing still, like spreading his legs and standing--but a whirlingcurrent of thoughts carried him away and there was nothing at whichhe could clutch--everything about him swam. And his sleep also becameuneasy. Dreams even more violent than his thoughts appeared--new dreams, solid, heavy, like wooden painted blocks. And it was no longer like acurrent, but like an endless fall to an endless depth, a whirling flightthrough the whole visible world of colors. 

When Tsiganok was free he had worn only a pair of dashing mustaches, butin the prison a short, black, bristly beard grew on his face and it madehim look fearsome, insane. At times Tsiganok really lost his sensesand whirled absurdly about in the cell, still tapping upon the rough, plastered walls nervously. And he drank water like a horse. 

At times toward evening when they lit the lamp, Tsiganok would stand onall fours in the middle of his cell and would howl the quivering howlof a wolf. He was peculiarly serious while doing it, and would howl asthough he were performing an important and indispensable act. He wouldfill his chest with air and then exhale it, slowly in a prolongedtremulous howl, and, cocking his eyes, would listen intently as thesound issued forth. And the very quiver in his voice seemed in a mannerintentional. He did not scream wildly, but drew out each note carefullyin that mournful wail full of untold sorrow and terror. 

Then he would suddenly break off howling and for several minutes wouldremain silent, still standing on all fours. Then suddenly he wouldmutter softly, staring at the ground:

"My darlings, my sweethearts!. . . My darlings, my sweethearts! havepity. . . . My darlings!. . . My sweethearts!"

And it seemed again as if he were listening intently to his own voice. As he said each word he would listen. 

Then he would jump up and for a whole hour would curse continually. 

He cursed picturesquely, shouting and rolling his blood-shot eyes. 

"If you hang me--hang me!" and he would burst out cursing again. 

And the sentinel, in the meantime white as chalk, weeping with pain andfright, would knock at the door with the butt-end of the gun and cryhelplessly:

"I'll fire! I'll kill you as sure as I live! Do you hear?"

But he dared not shoot. If there was no actual rebellion they neverfired at those who had been condemned to death. And Tsiganok would gnashhis teeth, would curse and spit. His brain thus racked on a monstrouslysharp blade between life and death was falling to pieces like a lump ofdry clay. 

When they entered the cell at midnight to lead Tsiganok to the executionhe began to bustle about and seemed to have recovered his spirits. Again he had that sweet taste in his mouth, and his saliva collectedabundantly, but his cheeks turned rosy and in his eyes began to glistenhis former somewhat savage slyness. Dressing himself he asked theofficial:

"Who is going to do the hanging? Anew man? I suppose he hasn't learnedhis job yet. "

"You needn't worry about it, " answered the official dryly. 

"I can't help worrying, your Honor. I am going to be hanged, not you. Atleast don't be stingy with the government's soap on the noose. "

"All right, all right! Keep quiet!"

"This man here has eaten all your soap, " said Tsiganok, pointing to thewarden. "See how his face shines. "

"Silence!"

"Don't be stingy!"

And Tsiganok burst out laughing. But he began to feel that it wasgetting ever sweeter in his mouth, and suddenly his legs began tofeel strangely numb. Still, on coming out into the yard, he managed toexclaim:

"The carriage of the Count of Bengal!"

CHAPTER V KISS-AND SAY NOTHING

The verdict concerning the five terrorists was pronounced finallyand confirmed upon the same day. The condemned were not told when theexecution would take place, but they knew from the usual procedure thatthey would be hanged the same night, or, at the very latest, upon thefollowing night. And when it was proposed to them that they meet theirrelatives upon the following Thursday they understood that the executionwould take place on Friday at dawn. 

Tanya Kovalchuk had no near relatives, and those whom she had weresomewhere in the wilderness in Little Russia, and it was not likelythat they even knew of the trial or of the coming execution. Musya andWerner, as unidentified people, were not supposed to have relatives, and only two, Sergey Golovin and Vasily Kashirin, were to meet theirparents. Both of them looked upon that meeting with terror and anguish, yet they dared not refuse the old people the last word, the last kiss. 

Sergey Golovin was particularly tortured by the thought of the comingmeeting. He dearly loved his father and mother; he had seen them but ashort while before, and now he was in a state of terror as to whatwould happen when they came to see him. The execution itself, in all itsmonstrous horror, in its brain-stunning madness, he could imagine moreeasily, and it seemed less terrible than these other few moments ofmeeting, brief and unsatisfactory, which seemed to reach beyond time, beyond life itself. How to look, what to think, what to say, his mindcould not determine. The most simple and ordinary act, to take hisfather by the hand, to kiss him, and to say, "How do you do, father?"seemed to him unspeakably horrible in its monstrous, inhuman, absurddeceitfulness. 

After the sentence the condemned were not placed together in one cell, as Tanya Kovalchuk had supposed they would be, but each was put insolitary confinement, and all the morning, until eleven o'clock, whenhis parents came, Sergey Golovin paced his cell furiously, tugged at hisbeard, frowned pitiably and muttered inaudibly. Sometimes he would stopabruptly, would breathe deeply and then exhale like a man who has beentoo long under water. But he was so healthy, his young life was sostrong within him, that even in the moments of most painful sufferinghis blood played under his skin, reddening his cheeks, and his blue eyesshone brightly and frankly. 

But everything was far different from what he had anticipated. 

Nikolay Sergeyevich Golovin, Sergey's father, a retired colonel, wasthe first to enter the room where the meeting took place. He was allwhite--his face, his beard, his hair, and his hands--as if he were a snowstatue attired in man's clothes He had on the same old but well-cleanedcoat, smelling of benzine, with new shoulder-straps crosswise, that hehad always worn, and he entered firmly, with an air of stateliness, withstrong and steady steps. He stretched out his white, thin hand and saidloudly:

"How do you do, Sergey?"

Behind him Sergey's mother entered with short steps, smiling strangely. But she also pressed his hands and repeated loudly:

"How do you do, Seryozhenka?"

She kissed him on the lips and sat down silently. She did not rush overto him; she did not burst into tears; she did not break into a sob; shedid not do any of the terrible things which Sergey had feared. She justkissed him and silently sat down. And with her trembling hands she evenadjusted her black silk dress. 

Sergey did not know that the colonel, having locked himself all theprevious night in his little study, had deliberated upon this ritualwith all his power. "We must not aggravate, but ease the last momentsof our son, " resolved the colonel firmly, and he carefully weighed everypossible phase of the conversation, every act and movement that mighttake place on the following day. But somehow he became confused, forgetting what he had prepared, and he wept bitterly in the corner ofthe oilcloth-covered couch. In the morning he explained to his wife howshe should behave at the meeting. 

"The main thing is, kiss--and say nothing!" he taught her. "Later you mayspeak--after a while--but when you kiss him, be silent. Don't speak rightafter the kiss, do you understand? Or you will say what you should notsay. "

"I understand, Nikolay Sergeyevich, " answered the mother, weeping. 

"And you must not weep. For God's sake, do not weep! You will kill himif you weep, old woman!"

"Why do you weep?"

"With women one cannot help weeping. But you must not weep, do youhear?"

"Very well, Nikolay Sergeyevich. "

Riding in the drozhky, he had intended to school her in the instructionsagain, but he forgot. And so they rode in silence, bent, both gray andold, and they were lost in thought, while the city was gay and noisy. Itwas Shrovetide, and the streets were crowded. 

They sat down. Then the colonel stood up, assumed a studied pose, placing his right hand upon the border of his coat. Sergey sat for aninstant, looked closely upon the wrinkled face of his mother and thenjumped up. 

"Be seated, Seryozhenka, " begged the mother. 

"Sit down, Sergey, " repeated the father. 

They became silent. The mother smiled. 

"How we have petitioned for you, Seryozhenka! Father--"

"You should not have done that, mother----"

The colonel spoke firmly:

"We had to do it, Sergey, so that you should not think your parents hadforsaken you. "

They became silent again. It was terrible for them to utter even a word, as though each word in the language had lost its individual meaning andmeant but one thing--Death. Sergey looked at his father's coat, whichsmelt of benzine, and thought: "They have no servant now, consequentlyhe must have cleaned it himself. How is it that I never before noticedwhen he cleaned his coat? I suppose he does it in the morning. " Suddenlyhe asked:

"And how is sister? Is she well?" "Ninochka does not know anything, " themother answered hastily. 

The colonel interrupted her sternly: "Why should you tell a falsehood?The child read it in the newspapers. Let Sergey know that everybody--thatthose who are dearest to him--were thinking of him--at this time--and--"

He could not say any more and stopped. Suddenly the mother's facecontracted, then it spread out, became agitated, wet and wild-looking. Her discolored eyes stared blindly, and her breathing became morefrequent, and briefer, louder. 

"Se--Se--Se-Ser--" she repeated without moving her lips. "Ser--"

"Dear mother!"

The colonel strode forward, and all quivering in every fold of his coat, in every wrinkle of his face, not understanding how terrible he himselflooked in his death-like whiteness, in his heroic, desperate firmness. He said to his wife:

"Be silent! Don't torture him! Don't torture him! He has to die! Don'ttorture him!"

Frightened, she had already become silent, but he still shook hisclenched fists before him and repeated:

"Don't torture him!"

Then he stepped back, placed his trembling hands behind his back, andloudly, with an expression of forced calm, asked with pale lips:

"When?"

"To-morrow morning, " answered Sergey, his lips also pale. 

The mother looked at the ground, chewing her lips, as if she did nothear anything. And continuing to chew, she uttered these simple words, strangely, as though they dropped like lead:

"Ninochka told me to kiss you, Seryozhenka. "

"Kiss her for me, " said Sergey. 

"Very well. The Khvostovs send you their regards. "

"Which Khvostovs? Oh, yes!"

The colonel interrupted:

"Well, we must go. Get up, mother; we must go. " The two men lifted theweakened old woman. 

"Bid him good-by!" ordered the colonel. "Make the sign of the cross. "

She did everything as she was told. But as she made the sign of thecross, and kissed her son a brief kiss, she shook her head and murmuredweakly:

"No, it isn't the right way! It is not the right way! What will I say?How will I say it? No, it is not the right way!"

"Good-by, Sergey!" said the father. They shook hands, and kissed eachother quickly but heartily. 

"You--" began Sergey. 

"Well?" asked the father abruptly. 

"No, no! It is not the right way! How shall I say it?" repeated themother weakly, nodding her head. She had sat down again and was rockingherself back and forth. 

"You--" Sergey began again. Suddenly his face wrinkled pitiably, childishly, and his eyes filled with tears immediately. Through thesparkling gleams of his tears he looked closely into the white face ofhis father, whose eyes had also filled. 

"You, father, are a noble man!"

"What is that? What are you saying?" said the colonel, surprised. Andthen suddenly, as if broken in two, he fell with his head upon his son'sshoulder. He had been taller than Sergey, but now he became short, andhis dry, downy head lay like a white ball upon his son's shoulder. Andthey kissed silently and passionately: Sergey kissed the silvery whitehair, and the old man kissed the prisoner's garb. 

"And I?" suddenly said a loud voice. 

They looked around. Sergey's mother was standing, her head thrown back, looking at them angrily, almost with contempt. 

"What is it, mother?" cried the colonel. 

"And I?" she said, shaking her head with insane intensity. "You kiss--andI? You men! Yes? And I? And I?"

"Mother!" Sergey rushed over to her. 

What took place then it is unnecessary and impossible to describe. . . . 

The last words of the colonel were:

"I give you my blessing for your death, Seryozha. Die bravely, like anofficer. "

And they went away. Somehow they went away. They had been there, theyhad stood, they had spoken--and suddenly they had gone. Here sat hismother, there stood his father--and suddenly somehow they had gone away. Returning to the cell, Sergey lay down on the cot, his face turnedtoward the wall, in order to hide it from the soldiers, and he wept fora long time. Then, exhausted by his tears, he slept soundly. 

To Vasily Kashirin only his mother came. His father, who was a wealthytradesman, did not want to come. Vasily met the old woman, as he waspacing up and down the room, trembling with cold, although it was warm, even hot. And the conversation was brief, painful. 

"It wasn't worth coming, mother. You'll only torture yourself and me. "

"Why did you do it, Vasya? Why did you do it? Oh, Lord!" The old womanburst out weeping, wiping her face with the ends of her black, woolenkerchief. And with the habit which he and his brothers had always hadof crying at their mother, who did not understand anything, he stopped, and, shuddering as with cold, spoke angrily:

"There! You see! I knew it! You understand nothing, mother! Nothing!"

"Well--well--all right! Do you feel--cold?"

"Cold!" Vasily answered bluntly, and again began to pace the room, looking at his mother askance, as if annoyed. 

"Perhaps you have caught cold?"

"Oh, mother what is a cold, when--" and he waved his hand helplessly. 

The old woman was about to say: "And your father ordered wheat cakesbeginning with Monday, " but she was frightened, and said:

"I told him: 'It is your son, you should go, give him your blessing. 'No, the old beast persisted--"

"Let him go to the devil! What sort of father has he been to me? He hasbeen a scoundrel all his life, and remains a scoundrel!"

"Vasenka! Do you speak of your father like this?" said the old womanreproachfully, straightening herself. 

"About my father!"

"About your own father?"

"He is no father to me!"

It was strange and absurd. Before him was the thought of death, whilehere something small, empty and trivial arose, and his wordscracked like the shells of nuts under foot. And almost crying withsorrow--because of the eternal misunderstanding which all his life longhad stood like a wall between him and those nearest to him, and whicheven now, in the last hour before death, peered at him stupidly andstrangely through small, widely opened eyes--Vasily exclaimed:

"Don't you understand that I am to be hanged soon? Hanged! Do youunderstand it? Hanged!"

"You shouldn't have harmed anybody and nobody would--" cried the oldwoman. 

"My God! What is this? Even beasts do not act like this! Am I not yourson?"

He began to cry, and seated himself in a corner. The old woman alsoburst out crying in her corner. Powerless, even for an instant, to blendin a feeling of love and to offset by it the horror of impending death, they wept their cold tears of loneliness which did not warm theirhearts. The mother said:

"You ask whether I am a mother to you? You reproach me! And I have growncompletely gray during these days. I have become an old woman. And yetyou say--you reproach me!"

"Well, mother, it is all right. Forgive me. It is time for you to go. Kiss my brothers for me. "

"Am I not your mother? Do I not feel sorry?"

At last she went away. She wept bitterly, wiping her face with the edgesof her kerchief, and she did not see the road. And the farther she gotfrom the prison the more bitterly she wept. She retraced her steps tothe prison, and then she strangely lost her way in the city in which shehad been born, in which she lived to her old age. She strolled into adeserted little garden with a few old, gnarled trees, and she seatedherself upon a wet bench, from which the snow had melted. 

And suddenly she understood. He was to be hanged upon the morrow!

The old woman jumped up, about to run, but suddenly her head beganto swim terribly and she fell to the ground. The icy path was wet andslippery, and she could not rise. She turned about, lifted herself onher elbows and knelt, then fell back on her side. The black kerchiefhad slipped down, baring upon the back of her head a bald spot amid hermuddy-gray hair; and then somehow it seemed to her that she was feastingat a wedding, that her son was getting married, and she had beendrinking wine and had become intoxicated. 

"I can't! My God! I can't!" she cried, as though declining something. Swaying her head, she crawled over the wet, frozen crust, and all thetime it seemed to her that they were pouring out more wine for her, morewine!

And her heart had already begun to pain her from her intoxicatedlaughter, from the rejoicing, from the wild dancing--and they kept onpouring more wine for her--pouring more wine!

CHAPTER VI THE HOURS ARE RUSHING

On the fortress where the condemned terrorists were imprisoned there wasa steeple with an old-fashioned clock upon it. At every hour, at everyhalf-hour, and at every quarter-hour the clock rang out in long-drawn, mournful chimes, slowly melting high in the air, like the distant andplaintive call of migrating birds. In the daytime, this strange and sadmusic was lost in the noise of the city, of the wide and crowded streetwhich passed near the fortress. The cars buzzed along, the hoofs of thehorses beat upon the pavements, the rocking automobiles honked in thedistance, peasant izvozchiks had come especially from the outskirts ofthe city for the Shrovetide season and the tinkling of the bellsupon the necks of their little horses filled the air. The prattleof voices--an intoxicated, merry Shrovetide prattle of voices aroseeverywhere. And in the midst of these various noises there was the youngthawing spring, the muddy pools on the meadows, the trees of the squareswhich had suddenly become black. From the sea a warm breeze was blowingin broad, moist gusts. It was almost as if one could have seen thetiny fresh particles of air carried away, merged into the free, endlessexpanse of the atmosphere--could have heard them laughing in theirflight. 

At night the street grew quiet in the lonely light of the large, electric sun. And then, the enormous fortress, within whose walls therewas not a single light, passed into darkness and silence, separatingitself from the ever living, stirring city by a wall of silence, motionlessness and darkness. Then it was that the strokes of the clockbecame audible. A strange melody, foreign to earth, was slowly andmournfully born and died out up in the heights. It was born again;deceiving the ear, it rang plaintively and softly--it broke off--andrang again. Like large, transparent, glassy drops, hours and minutesdescended from an unknown height into a metallic, softly resoundingbell. 

This was the only sound that reached the cells, by day and night, where the condemned remained in solitary confinement. Through the roof, through the thickness of the stone walls, it penetrated, stirring thesilence--it passed unnoticed, to return again, also unnoticed. Sometimesthey awaited it in despair, living from one sound to the next, trustingthe silence no longer. Only important criminals were sent to thisprison. There were special rules there, stern, grim and severe, like thecorner of the fortress wall, and if there be nobility in cruelty, thenthe dull, dead, solemnly mute silence, which caught the slightest rustleand breathing, was noble. 

And in this solemn silence, broken by the mournful tolling of thedeparting minutes, separated from all that lives, five human beings, two women and three men, waited for the advent of night, of dawn and theexecution, and all of them prepared for it, each in his or her own way. 

CHAPTER VII THERE IS NO DEATH

Just as Tanya Kovalchuk had thought all her life only of others andnever of herself, so now she suffered and grieved painfully, butonly for her comrades. She pictured death, only as awaiting them, assomething tormenting only to Sergey Golovin, to Musya, to the others--asfor herself, it did not concern her. 

As a recompense for her firmness and restraint in the courtroom she weptfor long hours, as old women who have experienced great misery, or asvery sympathetic and kind-hearted young people know how to weep. Andthe fear that perhaps Seryozha was without tobacco or Werner without thestrong tea to which he was accustomed, in addition to the fact thatthey were to die, caused her no less pain than the idea of the executionitself. Death was something inevitable and even unimportant, of whichit was not worth while to think; but for a man in prison, before hisexecution, to be left without tobacco--that was altogether unbearable. She recalled and went over in her mind all the pleasant details of theirlife together, and then she grew faint with fear when she pictured toherself the meeting between Sergey and his parents. 

She felt particularly sorry for Musya. It had long seemed to her thatMusya loved Werner, and although this was not a fact, she still dreamedof something good and bright for both of them. When she had been free, Musya had worn a silver ring, on which was the design of a skull, bones, and a crown of thorns about them. Tanya Kovalchuk had often looked uponthe ring as a symbol of doom, and she would ask Musya, now in jest, nowin earnest, to remove the ring. 

"Make me a present of it, " she had begged. 

"No, Tanechka, I will not give it to you. But perhaps you will soon haveanother ring upon your finger. "

For some reason or other they all in turn had thought that she woulddoubtless soon marry, and this had offended her--she wanted no husband. And recalling these half-jesting conversations with Musya, and the factthat now Musya was actually condemned to death, she choked with tearsin her maternal pity. And each time the clock struck she raisedher tear-stained face and listened--how were they in the other cellsreceiving this drawn-out, persistent call of death?

But Musya was happy. 

With her hands folded behind her back, dressed in a prisoner's garbwhich was much too large for her, and which made her look very much likea man--like a stripling dressed in some one else's clothes--she paced hercell evenly and tirelessly. The sleeves of the coat were too long forher, and she turned them up, and her thin, almost childish, emaciatedhands peeped out of the wide holes like a beautiful flower out of acoarse earthen jug. The rough material of the coat rubbed her thin whiteneck, and sometimes Musya would free her throat with both hands andwould cautiously feel the spot where the irritated skin was red andsmarted. 

Musya paced the cell, and, blushing in agitation, she imagined that shewas justifying herself before the people. She tried to justify herselffor the fact that she, who was so young, so insignificant, who had doneso little, and who was not at all a heroine, was yet to undergo the samehonorable and beautiful death by which real heroes and martyrs haddied before her. With unshakable faith in human kindness, in theircompassion, in their love, she pictured to herself how people were nowagitated on her account, how they suffered, how they pitied her, and shefelt so ashamed that she blushed, as if, by dying upon the scaffold, shehad committed some tremendous, awkward blunder. 

At the last meeting with their counsel she had asked him to bringher poison, but suddenly she had changed her mind. What if he and theothers, she thought, should consider that she was doing it merely tobecome conspicuous, or out of cowardice, that instead of dying modestlyand unnoticed, she was attempting to glorify herself. And she addedhastily:

"No, it isn't necessary. "

And now she desired but one thing--to be able to explain to people, toprove to them so that they should have not the slightest doubt that shewas not at all a heroine, that it was not terrible to die, that theyshould not feel sorry for her, nor trouble themselves about her. Shewished to be able to explain to them that she was not at all to blamethat she, who was so young and so insignificant, was to undergo such amartyr's death, and that so much trouble should be made on her account. 

Like a person who is actually accused of a crime, Musya soughtjustification. She endeavored to find something that would at leastmake her sacrifice more momentous, which might give it real value. Shereasoned:

"Of course, I am young and could have lived for a long time. But--"

And as a candle darkens in the glare of the rising sun, so her youthand her life seemed dull and dark compared to that great and resplendentradiance which would shine above her simple head. There was nojustification. 

But perhaps that peculiar something which she bore in her soul--boundlesslove, boundless eagerness to do great deeds, her boundless contempt forherself--was a justification in itself. She felt that she was reallynot to blame that she was hindered from doing the things she could havedone, which she had wished to do--that she had been smitten upon thethreshold of the temple, at the foot of the altar. 

But if that were so, if a person is appreciated not only for what he hasdone, but also for what he had intended to do--then--then she was worthyof the crown of the martyr!

"Is it possible?" thought Musya bashfully. "Is it possible that I amworthy of it? That I deserve that people should weep for me, should beagitated over my fate, over such a little and insignificant girl?"

And she was seized with sudden joy. There were no doubts, nohesitations--she was received into their midst--she entered justified theranks of those noble people who always ascend to heaven through fires, tortures and executions. Bright peace and tranquillity and endless, calmly radiant happiness! It was as if she had already departed fromearth and was nearing the unknown sun of truth and life, and wasin-corporeally soaring in its light. 

"And that is--Death? That is not Death!" thought Musya blissfully. 

And if scientists, philosophers and hangmen from the world over shouldcome to her cell, spreading before her books, scalpels, axes and nooses, and were to attempt to prove to her that Death existed, that a humanbeing dies and is killed, that there is no immortality, they would onlysurprise her. How could there be no deathlessness, since she was alreadydeathless? Of what other deathlessness, of what other death, could therebe a question, since she was already dead and immortal, alive in death, as she had been dead in life?

And if a coffin were brought into her cell with her own decomposing bodyin it, and she were told:

"Look! That is you!"

She would look and would answer:

"No, it is not I. "

And if they should attempt to convince her, frightening her by theominous sight of her own decomposed body, that it was she--she, Musya, would answer with a smile:

"No. You think that it is I, but it isn't. I am the one you are speakingto; how can I be the other one?"

"But you will die and become like that. "

"No, I will not die. "

"You will be executed. Here is the noose. "

"I will be executed, but I will not die. How can I die, when I amalready--now--immortal?"

And the scientists and philosophers and hangmen would retreat, speaking--with a shudder:

"Do not touch this place. It is holy. " What else was Musya thinkingabout? She was thinking of many things, for to her the thread of lifewas not broken by Death, but kept winding along calmly and evenly. Shethought of her comrades, of those who were far away, and who in painand sorrow were living through the execution together with them, and ofthose near by who were to mount the scaffold with her. She was surprisedat Vasily--that he should have been so disturbed--he, who had always beenso brave, and who had jested with Death. Thus, only on Tuesday morning, when all together they had attached explosive projectiles to theirbelts, which several hours later were to tear them into pieces, TanyaKovalchuk's hands had trembled with nervousness, and it had becomenecessary to put her aside, while Vasily jested, made merry, turnedabout, and was even so reckless that Werner had said sternly:

"You must not be too familiar with Death. "

What was he afraid of now? But this incomprehensible fear was so foreignto Musya's soul that she ceased searching for the cause of it--andsuddenly she was seized with a desperate desire to see Seryozha Golovin, to laugh with him. She meditated a little while, and then an even moredesperate desire came over her to see Werner and to convince him ofsomething. And imagining to herself that Werner was in the next cell, driving his heels into the ground with his distinct, measured steps, Musya spoke, as if addressing him:

"No, Werner, my dear; it is all nonsense; it isn't at all importantwhether or not you are killed. You are a sensible man, but you seem tobe playing chess, and that by taking one figure after another the gameis won. The important thing, Werner, is that we ourselves are readyto die. Do you understand? What do those people think? That there isnothing more terrible than death. They themselves have invented Death, they are themselves afraid of it, and they try to frighten us with it. I should like to do this--I should like to go out alone before a wholeregiment of soldiers and fire upon them with a revolver. It would notmatter that I would be alone, while they would be thousands, or that Imight not kill any of them. It is that which is important--that they arethousands. When thousands kill one, it means that the one has conquered. That is true, Werner, my dear. . . . "

But this, too, became so clear to her that she did not feel like arguingfurther--Werner must understand it himself. Perhaps her mind simply didnot want to stop at one thought--just as a bird that soars with ease, which sees endless horizons, and to which all space, all the depth, allthe joy of the soft and caressing azure are accessible. The bell ofthe clock rang unceasingly, disturbing the deep silence. And into thisharmonious, remote, beautiful sound the thoughts of the people flowed, and also began to ring for her; and the smoothly gliding images turnedinto music. It was just as if, on a quiet, dark night, Musya was ridingalong a broad, even road, while the easy springs of the carriage rockedher and the little bells tinkled. All alarm and agitation had passed, the fatigued body had dissolved in the darkness, and her joyouslywearied fancy calmly created bright images, carried away by their colorand their peaceful tranquillity. Musya recalled three of her comradeswho had been hanged but a short time before, and their faces seemedbright and happy and near to her--nearer than those in life. Thus does aman think with joy in the morning of the house of his friends where heis to go in the evening, and a greeting rises to his smiling lips. 

Musya became very tired from walking. She lay down cautiously on the cotand continued to dream with slightly closed eyes. The clock-bell rangunceasingly, stirring the mute silence, and bright, singing imagesfloated calmly before her. Musya thought:

"Is it possible that this is Death? My God! How beautiful it is! Or isit Life? I do not know. I do not know. I will look and listen. "

Her hearing had long given way to her imagination--from the first momentof her imprisonment. Inclined to be very musical, her ear had becomekeen in the silence, and on this background of silence, out of themeagre bits of reality, the footsteps of the guards in the corridors, the ringing of the clock, the rustling of the wind on the iron roof, thecreaking of the lantern--it created complete musical pictures. At firstMusya was afraid of them, brushed them away from her as if they werethe hallucinations of a sickly mind. But later she understood that sheherself was well, and that this was no derangement of any kind--and shegave herself up to the dreams calmly. 

And now, suddenly, she seemed to hear clearly and distinctly the soundsof military music. In astonishment, she opened her eyes, lifted herhead--outside the window was black night, and the clock was striking. "Again, " she thought calmly, and closed her eyes. And as soon as she didso the music resounded anew. She could hear distinctly how the soldiers, a whole regiment, were coming from behind the corner of the fortress, on the right, and now they were passing her window. Their feet beat timewith measured steps upon the frozen ground: One--two! One--two! She couldeven hear at times the leather of the boots creaking, how suddenly someone's foot slipped and immediately recovered its steps. And the musiccame ever nearer--it was an entirely unfamiliar but a very loud andspirited holiday march. Evidently there was some sort of celebration inthe fortress. 

Now the band came up alongside of her window and the cell was filledwith merry, rhythmic, harmoniously blended sounds. One large brasstrumpet brayed harshly out of tune, now too late, now comically runningahead--Musya could almost see the little soldier playing it, a greatexpression of earnestness on his face--and she laughed. 

Then everything moved away. The footsteps died out--One--two! One--two!At a distance the music sounded still more beautiful and cheerful. Thetrumpet resounded now and then with its merry, loud brass voice, out oftune, --and then everything died away. And the clock on the tower struckagain, slowly, mournfully, hardly stirring the silence. 

"They are gone!" thought Musya, with a feeling of slight sadness. Shefelt sorry for the departing sounds, which had been so cheerful and socomical. She was even sorry for the departed little soldiers, becausethose busy soldiers, with their brass trumpets and their creaking boots, were of an entirely different sort, not at all like those at whom shehad felt like firing a revolver. 

"Come again!" she begged tenderly. And more came. The figures bent overher, they surrounded her in a transparent cloud and lifted her up, wherethe migrating birds were soaring and screaming, like heralds. On theright of her, on the left, above and below her--they screamed likeheralds. They called, they announced from afar their flight. Theyflapped their wide wings and the darkness supported them, even as thelight had supported them. And on their convex breasts, cleaving the airasunder, the city far below reflected a blue light. Musya's heart beatever more evenly, her breathing grew ever more calm and quiet. She wasfalling asleep. Her face looked fatigued and pale. Beneath her eyes weredark circles, her girlish, emaciated hands seemed so thin, --but upon herlips was a smile. To-morrow, with the rise of the sun, this human facewould be distorted with an inhuman grimace, her brain would be coveredwith thick blood, and her eyes would bulge from their sockets and lookglassy, --but now she slept quietly and smiled in her great immortality. 

Musya fell asleep. 

And the life of the prison went on, deaf and sensitive, blind andsharp-sighted, like eternal alarm itself. Somewhere people were walking. Somewhere people were whispering. A gun clanked. It seemed as if someone shouted. Perhaps no one shouted at all--perhaps it merely seemed soin the silence. 

The little casement window in the door opened noiselessly. A dark, mustached face appeared in the black hole. For a long time it staredat Musya in astonishment--and then disappeared as noiselessly as it hadappeared. 

The bells rang and sang, for a long time, painfully. It seemed as if thetired Hours were climbing up a high mountain toward midnight, and thatit was becoming ever harder and harder to ascend. They fall, they slip, they slide down with a groan--and then again, they climb painfully towardthe black height. 

Somewhere people were walking. Somewhere people were whispering. Andthey were already harnessing the horses to the black carriages withoutlanterns. 

CHAPTER VIII THERE IS DEATH AS WELL AS LIFE

Sergey Golovin never thought of death, as though it were something notto be considered, something that did not concern him in the least. Hewas a strong, healthy, cheerful youth, endowed with that calm, clear joyof living which causes every evil thought and feeling that might injurelife to disappear from the organism without leaving any trace. Justas all cuts, wounds and stings on his body healed rapidly, so all thatweighed upon his soul and wounded it immediately rose to the surface anddisappeared. And he brought into every work, even into his enjoyments, the same calm and optimistic seriousness, --it mattered not whether hewas occupied with photography, with bicycling or with preparations fora terroristic act. Everything in life was joyous, everything in life wasimportant, everything should be done well. 

And he did everything well: he was an excellent sailor, an expert shotwith the revolver. He was as faithful in friendship as in love, and afanatic believer in the "word of honor. " His comrades laughed at him, saying that if the most notorious spy told him upon his word of honorthat he was not a spy, Sergey would believe him and would shake handswith him as with any comrade. He had one fault, --he was convinced that hecould sing well, whereas in fact he had no ear for music and even sangthe revolutionary songs out of tune, and felt offended when his friendslaughed at him. 

"Either you are all asses, or I am an ass, " he would declare seriouslyand even angrily. And all his friends as seriously declared: "You are anass. We can tell by your voice. "

But, as is sometimes the case with good people, he was perhaps likedmore for this little foible than for his good qualities. 

He feared death so little and thought of it so little that on the fatalmorning, before leaving the house of Tanya Kovalchuk, he was the onlyone who had breakfasted properly, with an appetite. He drank two glassesof tea with milk, and a whole five-copeck roll of bread. Then he glancedat Werner's untouched bread and said:

"Why don't you eat? Eat. We must brace up. "

"I don't feel like eating. "

"Then I'll eat it. May I?"

"You have a fine appetite, Seryozha. "

Instead of answering, Sergey, his mouth full, began to sing in a dullvoice, out of tune:

"Hostile whirlwinds are blowing over us. . . "

After the arrest he at first grew sad; the work had not been done well, they had failed; but then he thought: "There is something else now thatmust be done well--and that is, to die, " and he cheered up again. Andhowever strange it may seem, beginning with the second morning in thefortress, he commenced devoting himself to gymnastics according tothe unusually rational system of a certain German named Mueller, whichabsorbed his interest. He undressed himself completely and, to the alarmand astonishment of the guard who watched him, he carefully went throughall the prescribed eighteen exercises. The fact that the guard watchedhim and was apparently astonished, pleased him as a propagandist ofthe Mueller system; and although he knew that he would get no answer henevertheless spoke to the eye staring in the little window:

"It's a good system, my friend, it braces you up. It should beintroduced in your regiment, " he shouted convincingly and kindly, so asnot to frighten the soldier, not suspecting that the guard consideredhim a harmless lunatic. 

The fear of death came over him gradually. It was as if somebody werestriking his heart a powerful blow with the fist from below. Thissensation was rather painful than terrible. Then the sensation wasforgotten, but it returned again a few hours later, and each time itgrew more intense and of longer duration, and thus it began to assumevague outlines of some great, even unbearable fear. 

"Is it possible that I am afraid?" thought Sergey in astonishment. "Whatnonsense!"

It was not he who was afraid, --it was his young, sound, strong body, which could not be deceived either by the exercises prescribed by theMueller system, or by the cold rub-downs. On the contrary, the strongerand the fresher his body became after the cold water, the keener and themore unbearable became the sensations of his recurrent fear. And just atthose moments when, during his freedom, he had felt a special influx ofthe joy and power of life, --in the mornings after he had slept soundlyand gone through his physical exercises, --now there appeared thisdeadening fear which was so foreign to his nature. He noticed this andthought:

"It is foolish, Sergey! To die more easily, you should weaken the bodyand not strengthen it. It is foolish!"

So he dropped his gymnastics and the rub-downs. To the soldier heshouted, as if to explain and justify himself:

"Never mind that I have stopped. It's a good thing, my friend, --but notfor those who are to be hanged. But it's very good for all others. "

And, indeed, he began to feel somewhat better. He tried also to eatless, so as to grow still weaker, but notwithstanding the lack of pureair and exercises, his appetite was very good, --it was difficult for himto control it, and he ate everything that was brought to him. Then hebegan to manage differently--before starting to eat he would pour outhalf into the pail, and this seemed to work. A dull drowsiness andfaintness came over him. 

"I'll show you what I can do!" he threatened his body, and at the sametime sadly, yet tenderly he felt his flabby, softened muscles with hishand. 

Soon, however, his body grew accustomed to this regime as well, andthe fear of death appeared again--not so keen, nor so burning, but moredisgusting, somewhat akin to a nauseating sensation. "It's because theyare dragging it out so long, " thought Sergey. "It would be a good ideato sleep all the time till the day of the execution, " and he tried tosleep as much as possible. At first he succeeded, but later, eitherbecause he had slept too much, or for some other reason, insomniaappeared. And with it came eager, penetrating thoughts and a longing forlife. 

"I am not afraid of this devil!" he thought of Death. "I simply feelsorry for my life. It is a splendid thing, no matter what the pessimistssay about it. What if they were to hang a pessimist? Ah, I feel sorryfor life, very sorry! And why does my beard grow now? It didn't growbefore, but suddenly it grows--why?"

He shook his head mournfully, heaving long, painful sighs. Silence--thena sigh; then a brief silence again--followed by a longer, deeper sigh. 

Thus it went on until the trial and the terrible meeting with hisparents. When he awoke in his cell the next day he realized clearly thateverything between him and life was ended, that there were only afew empty hours of waiting and then death would come, --and a strangesensation took possession of him. He felt as though he had beenstripped, stripped entirely, --as if not only his clothes, but the sun, the air, the noise of voices and his ability to do things had beenwrested from him. Death was not there as yet, but life was there nolonger, --there was something new, something astonishing, inexplicable, not entirely reasonable and yet not altogether withoutmeaning, --something so deep and mysterious and supernatural that it wasimpossible to understand. 

"Fie, you devil!" wondered Sergey, painfully. "What is this? Where am I?I--who am I?"

He examined himself attentively, with interest, beginning with his largeprison slippers, ending with his stomach where his coat protruded. Hepaced the cell, spreading out his arms and continuing to survey himselflike a woman in a new dress which is too long for her. He tried to turnhis head, and it turned. And this strange, , terrible, uncouth creaturewas he, Sergey Golovin, and soon he would be no more!

Everything became strange. 

He tried to walk across the cell--and it seemed strange to him that hecould walk. He tried to sit down--and it seemed strange to him that hecould sit. He tried to drink some water--and it seemed strange to himthat he could drink, that he could swallow, that he could hold the cup, that he had fingers and that those fingers were trembling. He choked, began to cough and while coughing, thought: "How strange it is that I amcoughing. "

"Am I losing my reason?" thought Sergey, growing cold. "Am I coming tothat, too? The devil take them!"

He rubbed his forehead with his hand, and this also seemed strange tohim. And then he remained breathless, motionless, petrified for hours, suppressing every thought, all loud breathing, all motion, --for everythought seemed to him but madness, every motion--madness. Time was nomore; it appeared transformed into space, airless and transparent, intoan enormous square upon which all were there--the earth and life andpeople. He saw all that at one glance, all to the very end, to themysterious abyss--Death. And he was tortured not by the fact that Deathwas visible, but that both Life and Death were visible at the same time. The curtain which through eternity has hidden the mystery of life andthe mystery of death was pushed aside by a sacrilegious hand, and themysteries ceased to be mysteries--yet they remained incomprehensible, like the Truth written in a foreign tongue. There were no conceptions inhis human mind, no words in his human language that could define what hesaw. And the words "I am afraid" were uttered by him only because therewere no other words, because no other conceptions existed, nor couldother conceptions exist which would grasp this new, un-human condition. Thus would it be with a man if, while remaining within the bounds ofhuman reason, experience and feelings, he were suddenly to see GodHimself. He would see Him but would not understand, even though he knewthat it was God, and he would tremble with inconceivable sufferings ofincomprehension. 

"There is Mueller for you!" he suddenly uttered loudly, with extremeconviction, and shook his head. And with that unexpected break in hisfeelings, of which the human soul is so capable, he laughed heartily andcheerfully. 

"Oh, Mueller! My dear Mueller! Oh, you splendid German! After all youare right, Mueller, and I am an ass!"

He paced the cell quickly several times and to the great astonishmentof the soldier who was watching him through the peephole, he quicklyundressed himself and cheerfully went through all the eighteen exerciseswith the greatest care. He stretched and expanded his young, somewhatemaciated body, sat down for a moment, drew deep breaths of air andexhaled it, stood up on tip-toe, stretched his arms and his feet. Andafter each exercise he announced, with satisfaction:

"That's it! That's the real way, Mueller!" His cheeks flushed; dropsof warm, pleasant perspiration came from the pores of his body, and hisheart beat soundly and evenly. 

"The fact is, Mueller, " philosophized Sergey, expanding his chest sothat the ribs under his thin, tight skin were outlined clearly, --"thefact is, that there is a nineteenth exercise--to hang by the neckmotionless. That is called execution. Do you understand, Mueller? Theytake a live man, let us say Sergey Golovin, they swaddle him as adoll and they hang him by the neck until he is dead. It is a foolishexercise, Mueller, but it can't be helped, --we have to do it. "

He bent over on the right side and repeated:

"We have to do it, Mueller. "

CHAPTER IX DREADFUL SOLITUDE

Under the same ringing of the clock, separated from Sergey and Musya byonly a few empty cells, but yet so painfully desolate and alone in thewhole world as though no other soul existed, poor Vasily Kashirin waspassing the last hours of his life in terror and in anguish. 

Perspiring, his moist shirt clinging to his body, his once curly hairdisheveled, he tossed about in the cell convulsively and hopelessly, like a man suffering from an unbearable physical torture. He would sitdown for awhile, then start to run again, he would press his foreheadagainst the wall, stop and seek something with his eyes--as if lookingfor some medicine. His expression changed as though he had two differentfaces. The former, the young face, had disappeared somewhere, and a newone, a terrible face that had seemed to have come out of the darkness, had taken its place. 

The fear of death had come upon him all at once and taken possession ofhim completely and forcibly. In the morning, while facing almost certaindeath, he had been care-free and had scorned it, but toward eveningwhen he was placed in a cell in solitary confinement, he was whirled andcarried away by a wave of mad fear. So long as he went of his own freewill to face danger and death, so long as he had death, even thoughit seemed terrible, in his own hands, he felt at ease. He was evencheerful; in the sensation of boundless freedom, of brave and firmconviction of his fearless will, his little, shrunken, womanish fear wasdrowned, leaving no trace. With an infernal machine at his girdle, hemade the cruel force of dynamite his own, also its fiery death-bearingpower. And as he walked along the street, amidst the bustling, plainpeople, who were occupied with their affairs, who were hurriedlyavoiding the dangers from the horses of carriages and cars, he seemed tohimself as a stranger from another, unknown world, where neither deathnor fear was known. 

And suddenly this harsh, wild, stupefying change. He can no longer gowhere he pleases, but he is led where others please. He can no longerchoose the place he likes, but he is placed in a stone cage, and lockedup like a thing. He can no longer choose freely, like all people, between life and death, but he will surely and inevitably be put todeath. The incarnation of will-power, life and strength an instantbefore, he has now become a wretched image of the most pitiful weaknessin the world. He has been transformed into an animal waiting to beslaughtered, a deaf-mute object which may be taken from place to place, burnt and broken. It matters not what he might say, nobody would listento his words, and if he endeavored to shout, they would stop his mouthwith a rag. Whether he can walk alone or not, they will take him awayand hang him. 

And if he should offer resistance, struggle or lie down on theground--they will overpower him, lift him, bind him and carry him, bound, to the gallows. And the fact that this machine-like work willbe performed over him by human beings like himself, lent to them a new, extraordinary and ominous aspect--they seemed to him like ghosts thatcame to him for this one purpose, or like automatic puppets on springs. They would seize him, take him, carry him, hang him, pull him by thefeet. They would cut the rope, take him down, carry him off and buryhim. 

From the first day of his imprisonment the people and life seemed tohim to have turned into an incomprehensibly terrible world of phantomsand automatic puppets. Almost maddened with fear, he attempted topicture to himself that human beings had tongues and that they couldspeak, but he could not--they seemed to him to be mute. He tried torecall their speech, the meaning of the words that people used in theirrelations with one another--but he could not. Their mouths seemedto open, some sounds were heard; then they moved their feet anddisappeared. And nothing more. 

Thus would a man feel if he were at night alone in his house andsuddenly all objects were to come to life, start to move and overpowerhim. And suddenly they would all begin to judge him: the cupboard, thechair, the writing-table and the divan. He would cry and toss about, entreating, calling for help, while they would speak among themselves intheir own language, and then would lead him to the scaffold, --they, thecupboard, the chair, the writing-table and the divan. And the otherobjects would look on. 

To Vasily Kashirin, who was condemned to death by hanging, everythingnow seemed like children's playthings: his cell, the door with thepeephole, the strokes of the wound-up clock, the carefully moldedfortress, and especially that mechanical puppet with the gun who stampedhis feet in the corridor, and the others who, frightening him, peepedinto his cell through the little window and handed him the food insilence. And that which he was experiencing was not the fear ofdeath; death was now rather welcome to him. Death with all its eternalmysteriousness and incomprehensibility was more acceptable to his reasonthan this strangely and fantastically changed world. What is more, death seemed to have been destroyed completely in this insane world ofphantoms and puppets, having lost its great and enigmatic significance, becoming something mechanical and only for that reason terrible. Hewould be seized, taken, led, hanged, pulled by the feet, the rope wouldbe cut, he would be taken down, carried off and buried. 

And the man would have disappeared from the world. 

At the trial the nearness of his comrades brought Kashirin to himself. For an instant he imagined he saw real people; they were sittingand trying him, speaking like human beings, listening, apparentlyunderstanding him. But as he mentally rehearsed the meeting with hismother he clearly felt with the terror of a man who is beginning to losehis reason and who realizes it, that this old woman in the black littlekerchief was only an artificial, mechanical puppet, of the kind that cansay "pa-pa, " "ma-ma, " but somewhat better constructed. He tried to speakto her, while thinking at the same time with a shudder:

"O Lord! That is a puppet. A mother doll. And there is a soldier-puppet, and there, at home, is a father-puppet, and this is the puppet of VasilyKashirin. "

It seemed to him that in another moment he would hear somewhere thecreaking of the mechanism, the screeching of un-oiled wheels. When hismother began to cry, something human again flashed for an instant, butat the very first words it disappeared again, and it was interesting andterrible to see that water was flowing from the eyes of the doll. 

Then, in his cell, when the terror had become unbearable, VasilyKashirin attempted to pray. Of all that had surrounded his childhooddays in his father's house under the guise of religion only a repulsive, bitter and irritating sediment remained; but faith there was none. Butonce, perhaps in his earliest childhood, he had heard a few words whichhad filled him with palpitating emotion and which remained during allhis life enwrapped with tender poetry. These words were:

"The joy of all the afflicted. . . "

It had happened, during painful periods in his life, that he whisperedto himself, not in prayer, without being definitely conscious of it, these words: "The joy of all the afflicted"--and suddenly he would feelrelieved and a desire would come over him to go to some dear friend andquestion gently:

"Our life--is this life? Eh, my dearest, is this life?"

And then suddenly it would appear laughable to him and he would feellike mussing up his hair, putting forth his knee and thrusting out hischest as though to receive heavy blows; saying: "Here, strike!"

He did not tell anybody, not even his nearest comrades, about his "joyof all the afflicted" and it was as though he himself did not know aboutit, --so deeply was it hidden in his soul. He recalled it but rarely andcautiously. 

Now when the terror of the insoluble mystery, which appeared so plainlybefore him, enveloped him completely, even as the water in high-floodcovers the willow twigs on the shore, --a desire came upon him to pray. Hefelt like kneeling, but he was ashamed of the soldier and, folding hisarms on his chest, he whispered softly:

"The joy of all the afflicted!" And he repeated tenderly, in anguish:"Joy of all the afflicted, come to me, help Vaska Kashirin. "

"Long ago, while he was yet in his first term at the university and usedto go off on a spree sometimes, before he had made the acquaintance ofWerner and before he had entered the organization, he used then to callhimself half-boastingly, half-pityingly, "Vaska Kashirin, "--and now forsome reason or other he suddenly felt like calling himself by the samename again. But the words had a dead and toneless sound. "The joy of allthe afflicted!"

Something stirred. It was as though some one's calm and mournfulimage had flashed up in the distance and died out quietly, withoutilluminating the deathly gloom. The wound-up clock in the steeplestruck. The soldier in the corridor made a noise with his gun or withhis saber and he yawned, slowly, at intervals. 

"Joy of all the afflicted! You are silent! Will you not say anything toVaska Kashirin?"

He smiled patiently and waited. All was empty within his soul andabout him. And the calm, mournful image did not reappear. He recalled, painfully and unnecessarily, wax candles burning; the priest in hisvestments; the ikon painted on the wall. He recalled his father, bendingand stretching himself, praying and bowing to the ground, while lookingsidewise to see whether Vaska was praying, or whether he was planningsome mischief. And a feeling of still greater terror came over Vasilythan before the prayer. 

Everything now disappeared. 

Madness came crawling painfully. His consciousness was dying out likean extinguishing bonfire, growing icy like the corpse of a man whohad just died, whose heart is still warm but whose hands and feet hadalready become stiffened with cold. His dying reason flared up as redas blood again and said that he, Vasily Kashirin, might perhaps becomeinsane here, suffer pains for which there is no name, reach a degree ofanguish and suffering that had never been experienced by a single livingbeing; that he might beat his head against the wall, pick his eyes outwith his fingers, speak and shout whatever he pleased, that he mightplead with tears that he could endure it no longer, --and nothing wouldhappen. Nothing could happen. 

And nothing happened. His feet, which had a consciousness and life oftheir own, continued to walk and to carry his trembling, moist body. His hands, which had a consciousness of their own, endeavored in vain tofasten the coat which was open at his chest and to warm his trembling, moist body. 

His body quivered with cold. His eyes stared. And this was calm itselfembodied. 

But there was one more moment of wild terror. That was when peopleentered his cell. He did not even imagine that this visit meant thatit was time to go to the execution; he simply saw the people and wasfrightened like a child. 

"I will not do it! I will not do it!" he whispered inaudibly with hislivid lips and silently retreated to the depth of the cell, even as inchildhood he shrank when his father lifted his hand. 

"We must start. "

The people were speaking, walking around him, handing him something. Heclosed his eyes, he shook a little, --and began to dress himself slowly. His consciousness must have returned to him, for he suddenly asked theofficial for a cigarette. And the official generously opened his silvercigarette-case upon which was a chased figure in the style of thedecadents. 

CHAPTER X. THE WALLS ARE FALLING

The unidentified man, who called himself Werner, was tired of lifeand struggle. There was a time when he loved life very dearly, when heenjoyed the theater, literature and social intercourse. Endowed withan excellent memory and a firm will, he had mastered several Europeanlanguages and could easily pass for a German, a Frenchman or anEnglishman. He usually spoke German with a Bavarian accent, but when hefelt like it, he could speak like a born Berliner. He was fond of dress, his manners were excellent and he alone, of all the members of theorganization, dared attend the balls given in high society, withoutrunning the risk of being recognized as an outsider. 

But for a long time, altogether unnoticed by his comrades, there hadripened in his soul a dark contempt for mankind; contempt mingledwith despair and painful, almost deadly fatigue. By nature rather amathematician than a poet, he had not known until now any inspiration, any ecstasy and at times he felt like a madman, looking for the squaringof a circle in pools of human blood. The enemy against whom he struggledevery day could not inspire him with respect. It was a dense net ofstupidity, treachery and falsehood, vile insults and base deceptions. The last incident which seemed to have destroyed in him forever thedesire to live, was the murder of the provocateur which he had committedby order of the organization. He had killed him in cold blood, but whenhe saw that dead, deceitful, now calm, and after all pitiful, humanface, he suddenly ceased to respect himself and his work. Not thathe was seized with a feeling of repentance, but he simply stoppedappreciating himself. He became uninteresting to himself, unimportant, a dull stranger. But being a man of strong, unbroken will-power, he didnot leave the organization. He remained outwardly the same as before, only there was something cold, yet painful in his eyes. He never spoketo anyone of this. 

He possessed another rare quality: just as there are people who havenever known headaches, so Werner had never known fear. When other peoplewere afraid, he looked upon them without censure but also without anyparticular compassion, just as upon a rather contagious illness fromwhich, however, he himself had never suffered. He felt sorry for hiscomrades, especially for Vasya Kashirin; but that was a cold, almostofficial pity, which even some of the judges may have felt at times. 

Werner understood that the execution was not merely death, that it wassomething different, --but he resolved to face it calmly, as something notto be considered; to live until the end as if nothing had happenedand as if nothing could happen. Only in this way could he express hisgreatest contempt for capital punishment and preserve his last freedomof the spirit which could not be torn away from him. At the trial--andeven his comrades who knew well his cold, haughty fearlessness wouldperhaps not have believed this, --he thought neither of death nor oflife, --but concentrated his attention deeply and coolly upon a difficultchess game which he was playing. A superior chess player, he hadstarted this game on the first day of his imprisonment and continued ituninterruptedly. Even the sentence condemning him to death by hangingdid not remove a single figure from his imaginary chessboard. Even theknowledge that he would not be able to finish this game, did not stophim; and the morning of the last day that he was to remain on earth hestarted by correcting a not altogether successful move he had made onthe previous day. Clasping his lowered hands between his knees, he satfor a long time motionless, then he rose and began to walk, meditating. His walk was peculiar: he leaned the upper part of his body slightlyforward and stamped the ground with his heels firmly and distinctly. Hissteps usually left deep, plain imprints even on dry ground. He whistledsoftly, in one breath, a simple Italian melody, which helped hismeditation. 

But this time for some reason or other the thing did not work well. With an unpleasant feeling that he had made some important, even graveblunder, he went back several times and examined the game almost fromthe beginning. He found no blunder, yet the feeling about a blundercommitted not only failed to leave him, but even grew ever more intenseand unpleasant. Suddenly an unexpected and offensive thought came intohis mind: Did the blunder perhaps consist in his playing chess simplybecause he wanted to distract his attention from the execution and thusshield himself against the fear of death which is apparently inevitablein every person condemned to death?

"No. What for?" he answered coldly and closed calmly his imaginarychessboard. And with the same concentration with which he had playedchess, he tried to give himself an account of the horror and thehelplessness of his situation. As though he were going through a strictexamination, he looked over the cell, trying not to let anything escape. He counted the hours that remained until the execution, made for himselfan approximate and quite exact picture of the execution itself andshrugged his shoulders. 

"Well?" he said to some one half-questioningly. "Here it is. Where isthe fear?"

Indeed there was no fear. Not only was it not there, but somethingentirely different, the reverse of fear, developed--a sensation ofconfused, but enormous and savage joy. And the error, which he had notyet discovered, no longer called forth in him vexation or irritation, --itseemed to speak loudly of something good and unexpected, as though hehad believed a dear friend of his to be dead, and that friend turned outto be alive, safe and sound and laughing. 

Werner again shrugged his shoulders and felt his pulse, --his heart wasbeating faster than usual, but soundly and evenly, with a speciallyringing throb. He looked about once more, attentively, like a novice forthe first time in prison, --examined the walls, the bolts, the chair whichwas screwed to the floor, and thought:

"Why do I feel so easy, so joyous and free? Yes, so free? I think of theexecution to-morrow--and I feel as though it is not there. I look atthe walls--and I feel as though they are not here, either. And I feelso free, as though I were not in prison, but had just come out of someprison where I had spent all my life. What does this mean?"

His hands began to tremble, --something Werner had not experienced before. His thoughts fluttered ever more furiously. It was as if tongues offire had flashed up in his mind, and the fire wanted to burst forthand illumine the distance which was still dark as night. Now the lightpierced through and the widely illuminated distance began to shine. 

The fatigue that had tormented Werner during the last two years haddisappeared; the dead, cold, heavy serpent with its closed eyes andmouth clinched in death, had fallen away from his breast. Before theface of death, beautiful Youth came back to him physically. Indeed, itwas more than beautiful Youth. With that wonderful clarity of the spiritwhich in rare moments comes over man and lifts him to the loftiest peaksof meditation, Werner suddenly perceived both life and death, and he wasawed by the splendor of the unprecedented spectacle. It seemed to himthat he was walking along the highest mountain-ridge, which was narrowlike the blade of a knife, and on one side he saw Life, on the otherside--Death, --like two sparkling, deep, beautiful seas, blending in oneboundless, broad surface at the horizon. 

"What is this? What a divine spectacle!" he said slowly, risinginvoluntarily and straightening himself, as if in the presence ofa supreme being. And destroying the walls, space and time with theimpetuosity of his all-penetrating look, he cast a wide glance somewhereinto the depth of the life he was to forsake. 

And life appeared to him in a new light. He did not strive, as before, to clothe in words that which he had seen; nor were there such wordsin the still poor, meager human language. That small, cynical and evilfeeling which had called forth in him a contempt for mankind and attimes even an aversion for the sight of a human face, had disappearedcompletely. Thus, for a man who goes up in an airship, the filth andlitter of the narrow streets disappear and that which was ugly becomesbeautiful. 

Unconsciously Werner stepped over to the table and leaned his right handon it. Proud and commanding by nature, he had never before assumed sucha proud, free, commanding pose, had never turned his head and neverlooked as he did now, --for he had never yet been as free and dominantas he was here in the prison, with but a few hours from execution anddeath. 

Now men seemed new to him, --they appeared amiable and charming to hisclarified vision. Soaring over time, he saw clearly how young mankindwas, that but yesterday it had been howling like a beast in the forests;and that which had seemed to him terrible in human beings, unpardonableand repulsive, suddenly became very dear to him, --like the inability ofa child to walk as grown people do, like a child's unconnected lisping, flashing with sparks of genius; like a child's comical blunders, errorsand painful bruises. 

"My dear people!" Werner suddenly smiled and at once lost all that wasimposing in his pose; he again became a prisoner who finds his cellnarrow and uncomfortable under lock, and he was tired of the annoying, searching eye staring at him through the peephole in the door. And, strange to say, almost instantly he forgot all that he had seen a littlewhile before so clearly and distinctly; and, what is still stranger, he did not even make an effort to recall it. He simply sat down ascomfortably as possible, without the usual stiffness of his body, and surveyed the walls and the bars with a faint and gentle, strange, un-Werner-like smile. Still another new thing happened toWerner, --something that had never happened to him before: he suddenlystarted to weep. 

"My dear comrades!" he whispered, crying bitterly. "My dear comrades!"

By what mysterious ways did he change from the feeling of proud andboundless freedom to this tender and passionate compassion? He did notknow, nor did he think of it. Did he pity his dear comrades, or didhis tears conceal something else, a still loftier and more passionatefeeling?-His suddenly revived and rejuvenated heart did not know thiseither. He wept and whispered:

"My dear comrades! My dear, dear comrades!"

In this man, who was bitterly weeping and smiling through tears, noone could have recognized the cold and haughty, weary, yet daringWerner--neither the judges, nor the comrades, nor even he himself. 

CHAPTER XI ON THE WAY TO THE SCAFFOLD

Before placing the condemned people in coaches, all five were broughttogether in a large cold room with a vaulted ceiling, which resembled anoffice, where people worked no longer, or a deserted waiting-room. Theywere now permitted to speak to one another. 

Only Tanya Kovalchuk availed herself at once of the permission. Theothers firmly and silently shook each other's hands, which were as coldas ice and as hot as fire, --and silently, trying not to look at eachother, they crowded together in an awkward, absent-minded group. Nowthat they were together, they felt somewhat ashamed of what each of themhad experienced when alone; and they were afraid to look, so as not tonotice or to show that new, peculiar, somewhat shameful sensation thateach of them felt or suspected the others of feeling. 

But after a short silence they glanced at each other, smiled andimmediately began to feel at ease and unrestrained, as before. No changeseemed to have occurred, and if it had occurred, it had come so gentlyover all of them that it could not be discerned in any one separately. All spoke and moved about strangely: abruptly, by jolts, either toofast or too slowly. Sometimes they seemed to choke with their words andrepeated them a number of times; sometimes they did not finish a phrasethey had started, or thought they had finished--they did not notice it. They all blinked their eyes and examined ordinary objects curiously, notrecognizing them, like people who had worn eye-glasses and had suddenlytaken them off; and all of them frequently turned around abruptly, asthough some one behind them was calling them all the time and showingthem something. But they did not notice this, either. Musya's and TanyaKovalchuk's cheeks and ears were burning; Sergey was at first somewhatpale, but he soon recovered and looked as he always did. 

Only Vasily attracted everybody's attention. Even among them, he lookedstrange and terrible. Werner became agitated and said to Musya in a lowvoice, with tender anxiety:

"What does this mean, Musyechka? Is it possible that he---- What? I mustgo to him. "

Vasily looked at Werner from the distance, as though not recognizinghim, and he lowered his eyes. 

"Vasya, what have you done with your hair? What is the matter with you?Never mind, my dear, never mind, it will soon be over. We must keep up, we must, we must. "

Vasily was silent. But when it seemed that he would no longer sayanything, a dull, belated, terribly remote answer came--like an answerfrom the grave:

"I'm all right. I hold my own. "

Then he repeated:

"I hold my own. "

Werner was delighted. 

"That's the way, that's the way. Good boy. That's the way. "

But his eyes met Vasily's dark, wearied glance fixed upon him from thedistance and he thought with instant sorrow: "From where is he looking?From where is he speaking?" and with profound tenderness, with whichpeople address a grave, he said:

"Vasya, do you hear? I love you very much. "

"So do I love you very much, " answered the tongue, moving withdifficulty. 

Suddenly Musya took Werner by the hand and with an expression ofsurprise, she said like an actress on the stage, with measured emphasis:

"Werner, what is this? You said, 'I love'? You never before said 'Ilove' to anybody. And why are you all so--tender and serene? Why?"

"Why?"

And like an actor, also accentuating what he felt, Werner pressedMusya's hand firmly:

"Yes, now I love very much. Don't tell it to the others, --it isn'tnecessary, I feel somewhat ashamed, but I love deeply. "

Their eyes met and flashed up brightly, and everything about them seemedto have plunged in darkness. It is thus that in the flash of lightningall other lights are instantly darkened and the heavy yellow flame castsa shadow upon earth. 

"Yes, " said Musya, "yes, Werner. "

"Yes, " he answered, "yes, Musya, yes. "

They understood each other and something was firmly settled between themat this moment. And his eyes glistening, Werner again became agitatedand quickly stepped over to Sergey. 

"Seryozha!"

But Tanya Kovalchuk answered. Almost crying with maternal pride, shetugged Sergey frantically by the sleeve. 

"Listen, Werner! I am crying here for him, I am wearing myself to death, and he is occupying himself with gymnastics!"

"According to the Mueller system?" smiled Werner. 

Sergey knit his brow confusedly. 

"You needn't laugh, Werner. I have convinced myself conclusively--"

All began to laugh. Drawing strength and courage from one another, theygradually regained their poise--became the same as they used to be. Theydid not notice this, however, and thought that they had never changed atall. Suddenly Werner interrupted their laughter and said to Sergey veryearnestly:

"You are right, Seryozha. You are perfectly right. "

"No, but you must understand, " said Golovin gladly. "Of course, we--"

But at this point they were asked to start. And their jailers were sokind as to permit them to ride in pairs, as they pleased. Altogetherthe jailers were extremely kind; even too kind. It was as if they triedpartly to show themselves humane and partly to show that they were notthere at all, but that everything was being done as by machinery. Butthey were all pale. 

"Musya, you go with him. " Werner pointed at Vasily, who stoodmotionless. 

"I understand, " Musya nodded. "And you?"

"I? Tanya will go with Sergey, you go with Vasya. . . . I will go alone. That doesn't matter, I can do it, you know. "

When they went out in the yard, the moist, soft darkness rushed warmlyand strongly against their faces, their eyes, taking their breath away, then suddenly it penetrated their bodies tenderly and refreshingly. Itwas hard to believe that this wonderful effect was produced simply bythe spring wind, the warm, moist wind. And the really wonderfulspring night was filled with the odor of melting snow, and through theboundless space the noise of drops resounded. Hastily and frequently, as though trying to overtake one another, little drops were falling, striking in unison a ringing tune. Suddenly one of them would strike outof tune and all was mingled in a merry splash in hasty confusion. Then alarge, heavy drop would strike firmly and again the fast, springmelody resounded distinctly. And over the city, above the roofs ofthe fortress, hung a pale redness in the sky reflected by the electriclights. 

"U-ach!" Sergey Golovin heaved a deep sigh and held his breath, asthough he regretted to exhale from his lungs the fine, fresh air. 

"How long have you had such weather?" inquired Werner. "It's realspring. "

"It's only the second day, " was the polite answer. "Before that we hadmostly frosty weather. "

The dark carriages rolled over noiselessly one after another, took themin by twos, started off into the darkness--there where the lantern wasshaking at the gate. The convoys like gray silhouettes surrounded eachcarriage; the horseshoes struck noisily against the ground, or plashedupon the melting snow. 

When Werner bent down, about to climb into the carriage, the gendarmewhispered to him:

"There is somebody else going along with you. "

Werner was surprised. 

"Where? Where is he going? Oh, yes! Another one? Who is he?"

The gendarme was silent. Indeed, in a dark corner a small, motionlessbut living figure pressed close to the side of the carriage. By thereflection of the lantern Werner noticed the flash of an open eye. Seating himself, Werner pushed his foot against the other man's knee. 

"Excuse me, comrade. "

The man made no reply. It was only when the carriage started, that hesuddenly asked in broken Russian, speaking with difficulty:

"Who are you?"

"I am Werner, condemned to hanging for the attempt upon N--. And you?"

"I am Yanson. They must not hang me. "

They were riding thus in order to appear two hours later face to facebefore the inexplicable great mystery, in order to pass from Lifeto Death--and they were introducing each other. Life and Death movedsimultaneously, and until the very end Life remained life, to the mostridiculous and insipid trifles. 

"What have you done, Yanson?"

"I killed my master with a knife. I stole money. "

It seemed from the tone of his voice that Yanson was falling asleep. Werner found his flabby hand in the darkness and pressed it. Yansonwithdrew it drowsily. 

"Are you afraid?" asked Werner. 

"I don't want to be hanged. "

They became silent. Werner again found the Esthonian's hand and pressedit firmly between his dry, burning palms. Yanson's hand lay motionless, like a board, but he made no longer any effort to withdraw it. 

It was close and suffocating in the carriage. The air was filled withthe smell of soldiers' clothes, mustiness, and the leather of wet boots. The young gendarme who sat opposite Werner breathed warmly upon him, andin his breath there was the odor of onions and cheap tobacco. But somebrisk, fresh air came in through certain clefts, and because of this, spring was felt even more intensely in this small, stifling, moving box, than outside. The carriage kept turning now to the right, now to theleft, now it seemed to turn back. At times it seemed as though they hadbeen turning around on one and the same spot for hours for some reasonor other. At first a bluish electric light penetrated through thelowered, heavy window shades; then suddenly, after a certain turn itgrew dark, and only by this could they guess that they had turned intodeserted streets in the outskirts of the city and that they were nearingthe S. Railroad station. Sometimes during sharp turns, Werner's live, bent knee would strike against the live, bent knee of the gendarme, andit was hard to believe that the execution was approaching. 

"Where are we going?" Yanson asked suddenly. He was somewhat dizzy fromthe continuous turning of the dark box and he felt slightly sick at hisstomach. 

Werner answered and pressed the Esthonian's hand more firmly. He feltlike saying something especially kind and caressing to this little, sleepy man, and he already loved him as he had never loved anyone in hislife. 

"You don't seem to sit comfortably, my dear man. Move over here, to me. "

Yanson was silent for awhile, then he replied:

"Well, thank you. I'm sitting all right. Are they going to hang youtoo?"

"Yes, " answered Werner, almost laughing with unexpected jollity, andhe waved his hand easily and freely, as though he were speaking of someabsurd and trifling joke which kind but terribly comical people wantedto play on him. 

"Have you a wife?" asked Yanson. 

"No. I have no wife. I am single. "

"I am also alone. Alone, " said Yanson. 

Werner's head also began to feel dizzy. And at times it seemed that theywere going to some festival; strange to say, almost all those who wentto the scaffold experienced the same sensation and mingled with sorrowand fear there was a vague joy as they anticipated the extraordinarything that was soon to befall them. Reality was intoxicated with madnessand Death, united with Life, brought forth apparitions. It seemed verypossible that flags were waving over the houses. 

"We have arrived!" said Werner gayly when the carriage stopped, and hejumped out easily. But with Yanson it was a rather slow affair: silentlyand very drowsily he resisted and would not come out. He seized theknob. The gendarme opened the weak fingers and pulled his hand away. Then Yanson seized the corner of the carriage, the door, the high wheel, but immediately let it go upon the slightest effort on the part of thegendarme. He did not exactly seize these things; he rather cleaved toeach object sleepily and silently, and was torn away easily, without anyeffort. Finally he got up. 

There were no flags. The railroad station was dark, deserted andlifeless; the passenger trains were not running any longer, and thetrain which was silently waiting for these passengers on the way neededno bright light, no commotion. Suddenly Werner began to feel weary. It was not fear, nor anguish, but a feeling of enormous, painful, tormenting weariness which makes one feel like going off somewhere, lying down and closing one's eyes very tightly. Werner stretched himselfand yawned slowly. Yanson also stretched himself and quickly yawnedseveral times. 

"I wish they'd be quicker about it, " said Werner wearily. Yanson wassilent, shrinking together. 

When the condemned moved along the deserted platform which wassurrounded by soldiers, to the dimly lighted cars, Werner found himselfnear Sergey Golovin; Sergey, pointing with his hand somewhereaside, began to say something, but only the word "lantern" was hearddistinctly, and the rest was drowned in slow and weary yawning. 

"What did you say?" asked Werner, also yawning. 

"The lantern. The lamp in the lantern is smoking, " said Sergey. Wernerlooked around. Indeed, the lamp in the lantern was smoking very much, and the glass had already turned black on top. 

"Yes, it is smoking. "

Suddenly he thought: "What have I to do with the smoking of the lamp, since---"

Sergey apparently thought the same, as he glanced quickly at Werner andturned away. But both stopped yawning. 

They all went to the cars themselves, only Yanson had to be led by thearms. At first he stamped his feet and his boots seemed to stick to theboards of the platform. Then he bent his knees and fell into the armsof the gendarmes, his feet dangled like those of a very intoxicated man, and the tips of the boots scraped against the wood. It took a long timeuntil he was silently pushed through the door. 

Vasily Kashirin also moved himself, unconsciously imitating themovements of his comrades--he did everything as they did. But on boardingthe platform of the car, he stumbled, and a gendarme took him by theelbow to support him. Vasily shuddered and screamed shrilly, drawingback his arm:

"Ai!"

"What is it, Vasya?" Werner rushed over to him. Vasily was silent, trembling in every limb. The confused and even offended gendarmeexplained:

"I wanted to keep him from falling, and he--"

"Come, Vasya, let me hold you, " said Werner, about to take him by thearm. But Vasily drew back his arm again and cried more loudly thanbefore:

"Ai!"

"Vasya, it is I, Werner. "

"I know. Don't touch me. I'll go myself. "

And continuing to tremble he entered the car himself and seated himselfin a corner. Bending over to Musya, Werner asked her softly, pointingwith his eyes at Vasily:

"How about him?"

"Bad, " answered Musya, also in a soft voice. "He is dead already. Werner, tell me, is there such a thing as death?"

"I don't know, Musya, but I think that there is no such thing, " repliedWerner seriously and thoughtfully. 

"That's what I have thought. But he? I was tortured with him in thecarriage--it was like riding with a corpse. "

"I don't know, Musya. Perhaps there is such a thing as death for somepeople. Meanwhile, perhaps, but later there will be no death. For medeath also existed before, but now it exists no longer. "

Musya's somewhat paled cheeks flushed as she asked:

"It did exist, Werner? It did?"

"It did. But not now any longer. Just the same as with you. "

A noise was heard in the doorway of the car. Mishka Tsiganok entered, stamping noisily with his heels, breathing loudly and spitting. He casta swift glance and stopped obdurately. 

"No room here, gendarme!" he shouted to the tired gendarme who lookedat him angrily. "You make it so that I am comfortable here, otherwiseI won't go--hang me here on the lamp-post. What a carriage they gave me, dogs! Is that a carriage? It's the devil's belly, not a carriage!"

But suddenly he bent down his head, stretched out his neck and thus wentforward to the others. Out of the disheveled frame of hair and beard hisblack eyes looked wildly and sharply with an almost insane expression. 

"Ah, gentlemen!" he drawled out. "So that's what it is. Hello, master!"

He thrust his hand to Werner and sat down opposite him. And bendingclosely over to him, he winked one eye and quickly passed his hand overhis throat. 

"You, too? What?"

"Yes!" smiled Werner. 

"Are all of us to be hanged?"

"All. "

"Oho!" Tsiganok grinned, showing his teeth, and quickly felt everybodywith his eyes, stopping for an instant longer on Musya and Yanson. Thenhe winked again to Werner. 

"The Minister?"

"Yes, the Minister. And you?"

"I am here for something else, master. People like me don't deal withministers. I am a murderer, master, that's what I am. An ordinarymurderer. Never mind, master, move away a little, I haven't come intoyour company of my own will. There will be room enough for all of us inthe other world. "

He surveyed them all with one swift, suspicious, wild glance from underhis disheveled hair. But all looked at him silently and seriously, even with apparent interest. He grinned, showing his teeth, and quicklyclapped Werner on the knee several times. 

"That's the way, master! How does the song run? 'Don't rustle, O greenlittle mother forest. . . . '"

"Why do you call me 'master, ' since we are all going--"

"Correct, " Tsiganok agreed with satisfaction. "What kind of master areyou, if you are going to hang right beside me? There is a master foryou"; and he pointed with his finger at the silent gendarme. "Eh, thatfellow there is not worse than our kind"; he pointed with his eyes atVasily. "Master! He there, master! You're afraid, aren't you?"

"No, " answered the heavy tongue. 

"Never mind that 'No. ' Don't be ashamed; there's nothing to be ashamedof. Only a dog wags his tail and snarls when he is taken to be hanged, but you are a man. Who is that dope? He isn't one of you, is he?"

He darted his glance rapidly about, and hissing, kept spittingcontinuously. Yanson, curled up into a motionless bundle, pressedclosely into the corner. The flaps of his outworn fur cap stirred, buthe maintained silence. Werner answered for him:

"He killed his employer. "

"O Lord!" wondered Tsiganok. "Why are such people allowed to kill?"

For some time Tsiganok had been looking sideways at Musya; now turningquickly, he stared at her sharply, straight into her face. 

"Young lady, young lady! What about you? Her cheeks are rosy and she islaughing. Look, she is really laughing, " he said, clasping Werner's kneewith his clutching, iron-like fingers. "Look, look!"

Reddening, smiling confusedly, Musya also gazed straight into his sharpand wildly searching eyes. 

The wheels rattled fast and noisily. The small cars kept hopping alongthe narrow rails. Now at a curve or at a crossing the small enginewhistled shrilly and carefully--the engineer was afraid lest hemight run over somebody. It was strange to think that so much humanepainstaking care and exertion was being introduced into the business ofhanging people; that the most insane deed on earth was being committedwith such an air of simplicity and reasonableness. The cars wererunning, and human beings sat in them as people always do, and theyrode as people usually ride; and then there would be a halt, as usual. 

"The train will stop for five minutes. "

And there death would be waiting--eternity--the great mystery, on withfriendliness, watching how Yanson's fingers took the cigarette, how thematch flared, and then how the blue smoke issued from Yanson's mouth. 

"Thanks, " said Yanson; "it's good. "

"How strange!" said Sergey. 

"What is strange?" Werner turned around. "What is strange?"

"I mean--the cigarette. "

Yanson held a cigarette, an ordinary cigarette, in his ordinary livehands, and, pale-faced, looked at it with surprise, even with terror. And all fixed their eyes upon the little tube, from the end of whichsmoke was issuing, like a bluish ribbon, wafted aside by the breathing, with the ashes, gathering, turning black. The light went out. 

"The light's out, " said Tanya. 

"Yes, the light's out. "

"Let it go, " said Werner, frowning, looking uneasily at Yanson, whosehand, holding the cigarette, was hanging loosely, as if dead. SuddenlyTsiganok turned quickly, bent over to Werner, close to him, face toface, and rolling the whites of his eyes, like a horse, whispered:

"Master, how about the convoys? Suppose we--we? Shall we try?"

"No, don't do it, " Werner replied, also in a whisper. "We shall drink itto the bitter end. "

"Why not? It's livelier in a fight! Eh? I strike him, he strikes me, andyou don't even know how the thing is done. It's just as if you don't dieat all. "

"No, you shouldn't do it, " said Werner, and turned to Yanson. "Why don'tyou smoke, friend?"

Suddenly Yanson's wizened face became wofully wrinkled, as if somebodyhad pulled strings which set all the wrinkles in motion. And, as in adream, he began to whimper, without tears, in a dry, strained voice:

"I don't want to smoke. Aha! aha! aha! Why should I be hanged? Aha! aha!aha!"

They began to bustle about him. Tanya Kovalchuk, weeping freely, pettedhim on the arm, and adjusted the drooping earlaps of his worn fur cap. 

"My dear, do not cry! My own! my dear! Poor, unfortunate little fellow!"

Musya looked aside. Tsiganok caught her glance and grinned, showing histeeth. 

"What a queer fellow! He drinks tea, and yet feels cold, " he said, withan abrupt laugh. But suddenly his own face became bluish-black, likecast-iron, and his large yellow teeth flashed. 

Suddenly the little cars trembled and slackened their speed. All, exceptYanson and Kashirin, rose and sat down again quickly. 

"Here is the station, " said Sergey. 

It seemed to them as if all the air had been suddenly pumped out of thecar, it became so difficult to breathe. The heart grew larger, making the chest almost burst, beating in the throat, tossing aboutmadly-shouting in horror with its blood-filled voice. And the eyeslooked upon the quivering floor, and the ears heard how the wheels wereturning ever more slowly--the wheels slipped and turned again, and thensuddenly--they stopped. 

The train had halted. 

Then a dream set in. It was not terrible, rather fantastic, unfamiliarto the memory, strange. The dreamer himself seemed to remain aside, only his bodiless apparition moved about, spoke soundlessly, walkednoiselessly, suffered without suffering. As in a dream, they walked outof the car, formed into parties of two, inhaled the peculiarly freshspring air of the forest. As in a dream, Yanson resisted bluntly, powerlessly, and was dragged out of the car silently. 

They descended the steps of the station. 

"Are we to walk?" asked some one almost cheerily. 

"It isn't far now, " answered another, also cheerily. 

Then they walked in a large, black, silent crowd amid the forest, alonga rough, wet and soft spring road. From the forest, from the snow, afresh, strong breath of air was wafted. The feet slipped, sometimessinking into the snow, and involuntarily the hands of the comrades clungto each other. And the convoys, breathing with difficulty, walked overthe untouched snow on each side of the road. Some one said in an angryvoice:

"Why didn't they clear the road? Did they want us to turn somersaults inthe snow?"

Some one else apologized guiltily. 

"We cleaned it, your Honor. But it is thawing and it can't be helped. "

Consciousness of what they were doing returned to the prisoners, but notcompletely, --in fragments, in strange parts. Now, suddenly, their mindspractically admitted:

"It is indeed impossible to clear the road. "

Then again everything died out, and only their sense of smell remained:the unbearably fresh smell of the forest and of the melting snow. Andeverything became unusually clear to the consciousness: the forest, the night, the road and the fact that soon they would be hanged. Theirconversation, restrained to whispers, flashed in fragments. 

"It is almost four o'clock. "

"I said we started too early. "

"The sun dawns at five. "

"Of course, at five. We should have--"

They stopped in a meadow, in the darkness. A little distance away, beyond the bare trees, two small lanterns moved silently. There were thegallows. 

"I lost one of my rubbers, " said Sergey Golovin. 

"Really?" asked Werner, not understanding what he said. 

"I lost a rubber. It's cold. "

"Where's Vasily?"

"I don't know. There he is. "

Vasily stood, gloomy, motionless. 

"And where is Musya?"

"Here I am. Is that you, Werner?"

They began to look about, avoiding the direction of the gallows, where the lanterns continued to move about silently with terriblesuggestiveness. On the left, the bare forest seemed to be growingthinner, and something large and white and flat was visible. A damp windissued from it. 

"The sea, " said Sergey Golovin, inhaling the air with nose and mouth. "The sea is there!"

Musya answered sonorously:

"My love which is as broad as the sea!"

"What is that, Musya?"

"The banks of life cannot hold my love, which is as broad as the sea. "

"My love which is as broad as the sea, " echoed Sergey, thoughtfully, carried away by the sound of her voice and by her words. 

"My love which is as broad as the sea, " repeated Werner, and suddenly hespoke wonderingly, cheerfully:

"Musya, how young you are!"

Suddenly Tsiganok whispered warmly, out of breath, right into Werner'sear:

"Master! master! There's the forest! My God! what's that? There--wherethe lanterns are--are those the gallows? What does it mean?"

Werner looked at him. Tsiganok was writhing in agony before his death. 

"We must bid each other good-by, " said Tanya Kovalchuk. 

"Wait, they have yet to read the sentence, " answered Werner. "Where isYanson?"

Yanson was lying on the snow, and about him people were busyingthemselves. There was a smell of ammonia in the air. 

"Well, what is it, doctor? Will you be through soon?" some one askedimpatiently. 

"It's nothing. He has simply fainted. Rub his ears with snow! He iscoming to himself already! You may read the sentence!"

The light of the dark lantern flashed upon the paper and on the white, gloveless hands holding it. Both the paper and the hands quiveredslightly, and the voice also quivered:

"Gentlemen, perhaps it is not necessary to read the sentence to you. Youknow it already. What do you say?"

"Don't read it, " Werner answered for them all, and the little lanternwas soon extinguished. 

The services of the priest were also declined by them all. Tsiganoksaid:

"Stop your fooling, father--you will forgive me, but they will hang me. Go to--where you came from. "

And the dark, broad silhouette of the priest moved back silently andquickly and disappeared. Day was breaking: the snow turned whiter, thefigures of the people became more distinct, and the forest--thinner, moremelancholy. 

"Gentlemen, you must go in pairs. Take your places in pairs as you wish, but I ask you to hurry up. "

Werner pointed to Yanson, who was now standing, supported by twogendarmes. 

"I will go with him. And you, Seryozha, take Vasily. Go ahead. "

"Very well. "

"You and I go together, Musechka, shall we not?" asked Tanya Kovalchuk. "Come, let us kiss each other good-by. "

They kissed one another quickly. Tsiganok kissed firmly, so that theyfelt his teeth; Yanson softly, drowsily, with his mouth half open--and itseemed that he did not understand what he was doing. 

When Sergey Golovin and Kashirin had gone a few steps, Kashirin suddenlystopped and said loudly and distinctly:

"Good-by, comrades. "

"Good-by, comrade, " they shouted in answer. 

They went off. It grew quiet. The lanterns beyond the trees becamemotionless. They awaited an outcry, a voice, some kind of noise--but itwas just as quiet there as it was among them--and the yellow lanternswere motionless. 

"Oh, my God!" some one cried hoarsely and wildly. They looked about. It was Tsiganok, writhing in agony at the thought of death. "They arehanging!"

They turned away from him, and again it became quiet. Tsiganok waswrithing, catching at the air with his hands. 

"How is that, gentlemen? Am I to go alone? It's livelier to dietogether. Gentlemen, what does it mean?"

He seized Werner by the hand, his fingers clutching and then relaxing. 

"Dear master, at least you come with me? Eh? Do me the favor? Don'trefuse. "

Werner answered painfully:

"I can't, my dear fellow. I am going with him. "

"Oh, my God! Must I go alone, then? My God! How is it to be?"

Musya stepped forward and said softly:

"You may go with me. "

Tsiganok stepped back and rolled the whites of his eyes wildly. 

"With you!"

"Yes. "

"Just think of her! What a little girl! And you're not afraid? If youare, I would rather go alone!"

"No, I am not afraid. "

Tsiganok grinned. 

"Just think of her! But do you know that I am a murderer? Don't youdespise me? You had better not do it. I shan't be angry at you. "

Musya was silent, and in the faint light of dawn her face was paleand enigmatic. Then suddenly she walked over to Tsiganok quickly, and, throwing her arms about his neck, kissed him firmly upon his lips. Hetook her by the shoulders with his fingers, held her away from himself, then shook her, and, with loud smacks, kissed her on the lips, on thenose, on the eyes. 

"Come!"

Suddenly the soldier standing nearest them staggered forward, andopening his hands, let his gun drop. He did not stoop down to regain it, but stood for an instant motionless, turned abruptly and, like a blindman, walked toward the forest over the untouched snow. 

"Where are you going?" called out another soldier in fright. "Halt!"

But the man continued walking through the deep snow silently and withdifficulty. Then he must have stumbled over something, for he waved hisarms and fell face downward. And there he remained lying on the snow. 

"Pick up the gun, you sour-faced gray-coat, or I'll pick it up, " saidTsiganok sternly to the other soldier. "You don't know your business!"

The little lanterns began to move about busily again. Now it was theturn of Werner and Yanson. 

"Good-by, master!" called Tsiganok loudly. "We'll meet each other in theother world, you'll see! Don't turn away from me. When you see me, bringme some water to drink--it will be hot there for me!"

"Good-by!"

"I don't want to be hanged!" said Yanson drowsily. 

Werner took him by the hand, and then the Esthonian walked a few stepsalone. But later they saw him stop and fall down in the snow. Soldiersbent over him, lifted him up and carried him on, and he struggledfaintly in their arms. Why did he not cry? He must have forgotten eventhat he had a voice. 

And again the little yellow lanterns became motionless. 

"And I, Musechka, " said Tanya Kovalchuk mournfully, "must I go alone? Welived together, and now--"

"Tanechka, dearest--"

But Tsiganok took her part heatedly. 

Holding her by the hand, as though fearing that some one would take heraway from him, he said quickly, in a business-like manner, to Tanya:

"Ah, young lady, you can go alone! You are a pure soul--you can go alonewherever you please! But I--I can't! A murderer!. . . Understand? I can'tgo alone! Where are you going, you murderer? they will ask me. Why, Ieven stole horses, by God! But with her it is just as if--just as if Iwere with an infant, understand? Do you understand me?"

"I do. Go. Come, let me kiss you once more, Musechka. "

"Kiss! Kiss each other!" urged Tsiganok. "That's a woman's job! You mustbid each other a hearty good-by!"

Musya and Tsiganok moved forward. Musya walked cautiously, slipping, andby force of habit raising her skirts slightly. And the man led her todeath firmly, holding her arm carefully and feeling the ground with hisfoot. 

The lights stopped moving. It was quiet and lonely around TanyaKovalchuk. The soldiers were silent, all gray in the soft, colorlesslight of daybreak. 

"I am alone, " sighed Tanya Kovalchuk suddenly. "Seryozha is dead, Werneris dead--and Vasya, too. I am alone! Soldiers! soldiers! I am alone, alone--"

The sun was rising over the sea. 

The bodies were placed in a box. Then they were taken away. Withstretched necks, with bulging eyes, with blue, swollen tongues, lookinglike some unknown, terrible flowers between the lips, which were coveredwith bloody foam--the bodies were hurried back along the same road bywhich they had come--alive. And the spring snow was just as soft andfresh; the spring air was just as strong and fragrant. And on the snowlay Sergey's black rubber-shoe, wet, trampled under foot. 

Thus did men greet the rising sun. 

THE END