“AT ONE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON, YOUR EXCELLENCY!”
As the Minister was a very fat man, predisposed to apoplexy, and as it was necessary therefore to spare him every dangerous emotion, the took the minutest precautions in warning him that a serious attempt upon his life had been planned. When they saw that he received the news calmly, they gave him the details: the attempt was to be made the next day, at the moment when His Excellency was to leave the house to go to make his report. A few terrorists, armed with revolvers and bombs, whom a police spy had betrayed and who were now being watched by the police, were to meet near the steps at one o’clock in the afternoon, and await the Minister’s exist. There the criminals would be arrested.
“Pardon me,” interrupted the Minister in surprise. “How do they know that I am to go to present my report at one o’clock in the afternoon, when I learned it myself only two days ago?”
The commander of the body-guard made a vague gesture signifying ignorance.
“At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency!”
Astonished, and at the same time satisfied with the police who had managed the affair so well, the Minister shook his head; a disdainful smile appeared on his thick red lips; quickly he made all the necessary preparations to pass the night in another palace; in no way did he wish to embarrass the police. His wife and children also were removed from the dangerous premises.
As long as the lights gleamed in this new residence, and while his familiars bustled about him expressing their indignation, the Minister felt a sensation of agreeable excitement. It seemed to him that he had just received, or was about to receive, a great and unexpected reward. But the friends went away, and the lights were put out. The intermittent and fanastic glare of the arc-lights in the street fell upon the ceiling and the walls, penetrating through the high windows, symbolizing, as it were, the fragility of all bolts and walls, the vanity of all supervision. Then, in the silence and the solitude of a strange chamber, the dignitary was seized with an unspeakable terror.
He was afflicted with a kidney trouble. Every violent emotion caused his face, feet, and hands to swell, and made him appear heavier, more massive. Now, like a heap of bloated flesh that made the bed-springs bend, he suffered the anguish of the sick as he felt his face puff up and become, as it were, something foreign to his body. His thought recurred obstinately to the cruel fate that his enemies were preparing for him. He evoked one after the other all the horrible attempts of recent date, in which bombs had been thrown against persons as noble as himself and bearing even higher titles, tearing their bodies into a thousand shreds, hurling their brains against foul brick walls, and knocking their teeth from their jaws. And, at these recollections, it seemed to him that his diseased body was another man’s body suffering from the fiery shock of the explosion. He pictured to himself his arms detached from his shoulders, his teeth broken, his brain crushed. His legs, stretched out in the bed, grew numb and motionless, the feet pointing upward, like those of a dead man. He breathed noisily, coughing occasionally, to avoid all resemblance to a corpse: he moved about, that he might hear the sound of the metallic springs; the rustling of the silk coverlet. And, to prove that he was really alive, he exclaimed in a loud and clear voice:
“Brave fellows! Brave fellows!”
These words of praise were for the police, the gendarmes, the soldiers, all those who protected his life and had prevented the assassination. But in vain did he stir about, lavish his praise, and smile at the discomfiture of the terrorists; he could not yet believe that he was saved. It seemed to him that the death evoked for him by the anarchists, and which existed in their thought, was already there and would remain there, refusing to go away until the assassins should be seized, deprived of their bombs, and lodged safely in prison. There it stood, in the corner yonder, declining to leave, and unable to leave, like an obedient soldier placed on guard by an unknown will.
“At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency!” This phrase came back to him continually, uttered in all tones, now joyously and ironically, now irritably, now obstinately and stupidly. One would have said that a hundred phonographs had been placed in the chamber, and were crying one after the other, with the idiotic persistence of machines:
“At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency!”
And this “one o’clock in the afternoon” of the next day, which so short a time before was in no way to be distinguished from other hours, had taken on a menacing importance; it had stepped out of the clock-dial, and was beginning to live a distinct life, stretching itself like an immense black curtain, to divide life into two parts. Before it and after it no other hour existed; it alone; presumptuous and obsessing, was entitled to a special life.
Grinding his teeth, the Minister raised himself in his bed to a sitting posture. It was positively impossible for him to sleep.
Pressing his bloated hands against his face, he pictured to himself with terrifying clearness how he would have risen on the morrow if he had been left in ignorance; he would have taken his coffee, and dressed. And neither he, or the Swiss who would have helped him on with his fur coat, or the valet who would have served his coffee, would have understood the uselessness of breakfasting and dressing, when a few moments later everything would be annihilated by the explosion. . . . The Swiss opens the door. . . . And it is he, this good and thoughtful Swiss, with the blue eyes, and the open countenance, and the numerous military decorations—he it is who opens the terrible door with his own hands. . . .
“Ah!” suddenly exclaimed the Minister aloud; slowly he removed his hands from his face. Gazing far before him into the darkness with a fixed and attentive look, he stretched out his hand to turn on the light. Then he arose, and in his bare feet walked around the strange chamber so unfamiliar to him; finding another light, he turned that on also. The room became bright and agreeable; there was only the disordered bed and the fallen coverlet to indicate a terror that had not yet completely disappeared.
Clad in a night-shirt, his beard in a tangle, a look of irritation on his face, the Minister resembled, those old people who are tormented by asthma and insomnia. One would have said that the death prepared for him by others had stripped him bare, had torn him from the luxury with which he was surrounded. Without dressing he threw, himself into an arm-chair, his eyes wandered to the ceiling.
“Imbeciles!” he cried in a contemptuous tone of conviction.
“Imbeciles!” And he was speaking of the policemen whom but a few moments before he had called “brave fellows,” and who, through excess of zeal, had told him all the details of the attack that had been planned.
“Evidently,” he thought with lucidity, “I am afraid now because I have been warned and because I know. But, if I had been left in ignorance, I should have taken my coffee quietly. And then, evidently, this death. . . . But am I then so afraid of death? I have a kidney trouble; some day I must die of it, and yet I am not afraid, because I don’t know when. And these imbeciles say to me: ‘At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency!’ They thought that I would be glad to know about it! . . . Instead of that, death has placed himself in the corner yonder, and does not go away! He does not go away, because I have that fixed idea! To die is not so terrible; the terrible thing is to know that one is going to die. It would be quite impossible for a man to live if he knew the hour and day of his death with absolute certainty. And yet these idiots warn me: ‘At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency!'”
Recently he had been ill, and the doctors had told him that he was going to die and should make his final arrangements. He had refused to believe them; and, in fact, he did not die. Once, in his youth, it had happened to him to get beyond his depth; he had decided to put an end to his existence; he had loaded his revolver, written some letters, and even fixed the hour of his suicide; then, at the last moment, he had reconsidered. And always, at the supreme moment, something unexpected may happen; consequently no man can know when he will die.
“At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency!” these amiable idiots had said to him. They had informed him only because his death had been plotted; and yet he was terrified simply to learn the hour when it might have occurred. He admitted that they would kill him some day or other, but it would not be the next day . . . it would not be the next day, and he could sleep quietly, like an immortal being. . . . The imbeciles! They did not know what a gulf they had dug in saying, with stupid amiability: “At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency!”
From the bitter anguish that shot through his heart, the Minister understood that he would know neither sleep, nor rest, nor joy, until this black and accursed hour, thus detached from the course of time, had passed. It was enough in itself to annihilate the light and enwrap the man in the opaque darkness of fear. Now that he was awake, the fear of death permeated his entire body, filtered into his bones, exuded from every pore.
Already the Minister had ceased to think of the assassins of the morrow: they had disappeared, forgotten in the multitude of inauspicious things that surrounded his life. He feared the unexpected, the inevitable: an attack of apoplexy, a laceration of the heart, the rupture of a little artery suddenly made powerless to resist the flow of blood and splitting like a glove on swollen hands.
His thick, short neck frightened him; he dared not look at his swollen fingers, full of some fatal fluid. And though, just before, in the darkness, he had been compelled to stir in order to avoid resemblance to a corpse, now, under this bright, cold, hostile, frightful light, it seemed to him horrible, impossible, to move even to light a cigarette or ring for a servant. His nerves were at a tension. With red and upturned eyes and burning head, he stifled.
Suddenly, in the darkness of the sleeping house, the electric bell just under the ceiling, among the dust and spiders’ webs, became animate. Its little metallic tongue beat hurriedly against its sonorous edge. It stopped for a moment, and then began to ring again in a continuous and terrifying fashion.
People came running. Here and there lamps were lighted on the walls and chandeliers—too few of them for intense illumination, but enough to create shadows. On every hand appeared these shadows: they arose in the corners and stretched out upon the ceiling, fastening upon all projections and running along the walls. It was difficult to understand where all these taciturn, monstrous, and innumerable shadows could have kept themselves before—mute souls of mute things.
A thick and trembling voice said something indistinguishable. Then they telephoned to the doctor: the Minister was ill. His Excellency’s wife was summoned also.
SENTENCED TO BE HANGED
The predictions of the police were realized. Four terrorists, three men and one woman, carrying bombs, revolvers, and infernal machines, were taken in front of the steps of the residence; a fifth accomplice was arrested at her dwelling, where the implements had been manufactured and the conspiracy planned. A large quantity of dynamite and many weapons were found there. All five were very young: the eldest of the men was twenty-eight, the younger of the women nineteen. They were tried in the fortress where they had been imprisoned after their arrest; they were tried quickly and secretly, as was the custom at that merciless epoch.
Before the court all five were calm, but serious and thoughtful; their contempt for the judges was so great that they did not care to emphasize their fearlessness by a useless smile or a pretence of gaiety. They were just tranquil enough to protect their souls and the deep gloom of their agony from the malevolent gaze of strangers. Some questions they refused to answer, some they answered simply, briefly, precisely, as if they were speaking, not to judges, but to statisticians desirous of completing tables of figures. Three of them, one woman and to men, gave their real names; two refused to disclose their identity, which remained unknown to the court. In everything that happened they manifested that distant and attenuated curiosity peculiar to people seriously ill or possessed by a single all-powerful idea. They cast swift glances, seized upon an interesting word in its flight, and went back to their thoughts, resuming them at the exact point where they had dropped them.
The accused placed nearest the judges had given his name as Sergey Golovin, a former officer, son of a retired colonel. He was very young, with broad shoulders, and so robust that neither the prison or the expectation of certain death had been able to dim the color of his cheeks or the expression of happy innocence in his blue eyes. Throughout the trial he twisted his thick blond beard, to which he had not yet become accustomed, and gazed steadily at the window, knitting his brows.
It was the latter part of winter, that period into which, among snowstorms and gray, cold days, the approaching spring projects sometimes, as a forerunner, a warm and luminous day, or even a single hour, so passionately young and sparkling that the sparrows in the street become mad with joy and men seem intoxicated. Now, through the upper window, still covered with the dust of the previous summer, a very odd and beautiful sky was to be seen; at the first glance it seemed a thick and milky gray; then, upon a second examination, it appeared to be covered with azure stains, of an ever-deepening blue, a blue pure and infinite. And because it did not strip itself suddenly, but modestly draped itself in the transparent veil of clouds, it became charming, like one’s fiancée. Sergey Golovin looked at the sky, pulled at his mustache, winked now one and now the other of his eyes behind the long, heavy eyelashes, and reflected profoundly on nobody knows what. Once, even, his fingers moved rapidly, and an expression of naïve joy appeared upon his face; but he looked around him, and his joy was extinguished like a live coal upon which one steps. Almost instantaneously, almost without transition, the redness of his cheeks gave place to a corpse-like pallor; a fine hair painfully pulled out was pressed as in a vice between his bloodless finger-ends. But the joy of life and of the spring was still stronger. A few minutes later the young face resumed its naïve expression and sought again the sky of spring.
Toward the sky also looked an unknown young girl, surnamed Musya. She was younger than Golovin, but seemed his elder because of the severity, the gravity, of her proud and loyal eyes. The delicate neck and slender arms alone revealed that intangible something which is youth itself, and which sounded so distinctly in the pure harmonious voice that resembled a costly instrument in perfect tune. Musya was very pale, of that passionate pallor peculiar to those who burn with an inner, radiant, and powerful fire. She scarcely stirred; from time to time only, with a gesture that was hardly visible, she felt for a deep trace in the third finger of her right hand—the trace of a ring recently removed. She looked at the sky with calmness and indifference; she looked at it simply because everything in this commonplace and dirty hall was hostile to her and seemed to scrutinize her face. This bit of blue sky was the only pure and true thing upon which she could look with confidence.
The judges pitied Sergey Golovin and hated Musya.
Musya’s neighbor, motionless also, with hands folded between his knees and somewhat of affectation in his pose, was an unknown surnamed Werner. If one can bolt a face as one bolts a heavy door, the unknown had bolted his as if it were a door of iron. He gazed steadily at the floor, and it was impossible to tell whether he was calm or deeply moved, whether he was thinking of something or listening to the testimony of the policemen. He was rather short of stature; his features were fine and noble. He gave the impression of an immense and calm force, of a cold and audacious valor. The very politeness with which he uttered his clear and curt replies seemed dangerous on his lips. On the backs of the other prisoners the customary cloak seemed a ridiculous costume; on him it was not even noticeable, so foreign was the garment to the man. Although Werner had been armed only with a poor revolver, while the others carried bombs and infernal machines, the judges looked upon him as the leader, and treated him with a certain respect, with the same brevity which he employed toward them.
In his neighbor, Vasily Kashirin, a frightful moral struggle was going on between the intolerable terror of death and the desperate desire to subdue this fear and conceal it from the judges. Ever since the prisoners had been taken to court in the morning, he had been stifling under the hurried beating of his heart. Drops of sweat appeared continually on his brow; his hands were moist and cold; his damp and icy shirt, sticking to his body, hindered his movements. By a superhuman effort of the will he kept his fingers from trembling, and maintained the firmness and moderation of his voice and the tranquillity of his gaze. He saw nothing around him; the sound of the voice that he heard seemed to reach him through a fog, and it was in a fog also that he stiffened himself in a desperate effort to answer firmly and aloud. But, as soon as he had spoken, he forgot the questions, as well as his own phrases; the silent and terrible struggle began again. And upon his person death was so in evidence that the judges turned their eyes away from him. It was as difficult to determine his age as that of a rotting corpse. According to his papers he was only twenty-three. Once or twice Werner touched him gently on the knee, and each time he answered briefly:
His hardest moment was when he suddenly felt an irresistible desire to utter inarticulate cries, like a hunted beast. Then he gave Werner a slight push; without raising his eyes, the latter answered in a low voice:
“It’s nothing, Vasya. It will soon be over!”
Consumed by anxiety, Tanya Kovalchuk, the fifth terrorist, sheltered her comrades with a maternal look. She was still very young; her cheeks seemed as highly colored as those of Sergey Golovin; and yet she seemed to be the mother of all the accused, so full of tender anxiety and infinite love were her looks, her smile, her fear. The progress of the trial did not interest her. She listened to her comrades simply to see if their voices trembled, if they were afraid, if they needed water.
But she could not look at Vasya; his anguish was too intense; she contented herself with cracking her plump fingers. At Musya and Werner she gazed with proud and respectful admiration, her face then wearing a grave and serious expression. As for Sergey Golovin, she continually tried to attract his attention by her smile.
“The dear comrade, he is looking at the sky. Look, look!” thought she, as she observed the direction of his eyes.
“And Vasya? My God! My God! . . . What can be done to comfort him? If I speak to him, perhaps it will make matters worse; suppose he should begin to weep?”
Like a peaceful pool reflecting every wandering cloud, her amiable and clear countenance showed all the feelings and all the thoughts, however fleeting, of her four comrades. She forgot that she was on trial too and would be hanged; her indifference to this was absolute. It was in her dwelling that the bombs and dynamite had been found; strange as it may seem, she had received the police with pistol shots, and had wounded one of them in the head.
The trial ended toward eight o’clock, just as the day was drawing to its close. Little by little, in the eyes of Sergey and Musya, the blue sky disappeared; without reddening, without smiling, it grew dim gently as on a summer evening, becoming grayish, and suddenly cold and wintry. Gotovin heaved a sigh, stretched himself, and raised his eyes toward the window, where the chilly darkness of the night was already making itself manifest; still pulling his beard, he began to examine the judges, the soldiers, and their weapons, exchanging a smile with Tanya Kovalchuk. As for Musya, when the sun had set completely, she did not lower her gaze to the ground, but directed it toward a corner where a spider’s web was swaying gently in the invisible current of warm air from the stove; and thus she remained until the sentence had been pronounced.
After the verdict, the condemned said their farewells to their lawyers, avoiding their disconcerted, pitying, and confused looks; then they grouped themselves for a moment near the door, and exchanged short phrases.
“It’s nothing, Vasya! All will soon be over!” said Werner.
“But there is nothing the matter with me, brother!” answered Kashirin, in a strong, quiet, and almost joyous voice. In fact, his face had taken on a slight color, no longer resembling that of a corpse.
“The devil take them! They have hanged us all just the same!” swore Golovin naïvely.
“It was to have been expected,” answered Werner, without agitation.
“To-morrow the final judgment will be rendered, and they will put us all in the same cell,” said Tanya, to console her comrades. “We shall remain together until the execution.”
Silently, and with a resolute air, Musya started off.
“I MUST NOT BE HANGED”
A fortnight before the affair of the terrorists, in the same court, but before other judges, Ivan Yanson, a peasant, had been tried and sentenced to be hanged.
Ivan Yanson had been hired as a farm-hand by a well-to-do farmer, and was distinguished in no way from the other poor devils of his class. He was a native of Wesenberg, in Esthonia; for some years he had been advancing gradually toward the capital, passing from one farm to another. He had very little knowledge of Russian. As there were none of his countrymen living in the neighborhood, and as his employer was a Russian, named Lazaref, Yanson remained silent for almost two years. He said hardly a word to either man or beast. He led the horse to water and harnessed it without speaking to it, walking about it lazily, with short hesitating steps. When the horse began to run, Yanson did not say a word, but beat it cruelly with his enormous whip. Drink transformed his cold and wicked obstinacy into fury. The hissing of the lash and the regular and painful sound of his wooden shoes on the floor of the shed could be heard even at the farmhouse. To punish him for torturing the horse the farmer at first beat Yanson, but, not succeeding in correcting him, he gave it up.
Once or twice a month Yanson got drunk, especially when he took his master to the station. His employer once on board the train, Yanson drove a short distance away, and waited until the train had started.
Then he returned to the station, and got drunk at the buffet. He came back to the farm on the gallop, a distance of seven mlles, beating the unfortunate beast unmercifully, giving it its head, and singing and shouting incomprehensible phrases in Esthonian. Sometimes silent, with set teeth, impelled by a whirlwind of indescribable fury, suffering, and enthusiasm, he was like a blind man in his mad career; he did not see the passers-by, he did not insult them, uphill and down he maintained his furious gait.
His master would have discharged him, but Yanson did not demand high wages, and his comrades were no better than he.
One day he received a letter written in Esthonian; but, as he did not know how to read or write, and as no one about him knew this language, Yanson threw it into the muck-heap with savage indifference, as if he did not understand that it brought him news from his native country. Probably needing a woman, he tried also to pay court to the girl employed on the farm. She repulsed him, for he was short and puny, and covered with hideous freckles; after that, he left here alone.
But, though he spoke little, Yanson listened continually. He listened to the desolate snow-covered fields, containing hillocks of frozen manure that resembled a series of little tombs heaped up by the snow; he listened to the bluish and limpid distance, the sonorous telegraph-poles. He alone knew what the fields and telegraph-poles were saying. He listened also to the conversation of men, the stories of murder, pillage, fire.
One night, in the village, the little church-bell began to ring in a feeble and lamentable way; flames appeared. Malefactors from nobody knew where were pillaging the neighboring farm. They killed the owner and his wife, and set fire to the house. This caused a feeling of anxiety on the farm where Yanson lived: day and night the dogs were loose; the master kept a gun within reach of his bed. He wished also to give an old weapon to Yanson, but the latter, after examining it, shook his head and refused it. The farmer did not understand that Yanson had more confidence in the efficacy of his Finnish knife than in this rusty old machine.
“It would kill me myself!” saîd he.
“You are only an imbecile, Ivan!”
And one winter evening, when the other farm-hand had gone to the station, this same Ivan Yanson, who was afraid of a gun, committed robbery and murder, and made an attempt at rape. He did it with an astonishing simplicity. After shutting the servant in the kitchen, lazily, like a man almost dead with sleep, he approached his master from behind, and stabbed him several times in the back. The master fell unconscious; his wife began to cry and to run about the chamber. Showing his teeth, and holding his knife in his hand, Yanson began to ransack trunks and drawers. He found the money; then, as if he had just seen the master’s wife for the first time, he threw himself upon her to rape her, without the slightest premeditation. But he happened to drop his knife; and, as the woman was the stronger, she not only resisted Yanson, but half strangled him. At this moment the farmer recovered his senses, and the servant broke in the kitchen-door and came in. Yanson fled. They took him an hour later, squatting in the corner of the shed, and scratching matches which continually went out. He was trying to set fire to the farm.
A few days later the farmer died. Yanson was tried and sentenced to death. In the court one would have said that he did not understand what was going on; h viewed the large imposing hall without curiosity, and explored his nose with a shrunken finger that nothing disgusted. Only those who had seen him at church on Sunday could have guessed that he had done something in the way of making a toilet; he wore a knitted cravat of dirty red; in spots his hair was smooth and dark; in others it consisted of light thin locks, like wisps of straw on an uncultivated and devastated field.
When the sentence of death by hanging was pronounced, Yanson suddenly showed emotion. He turned scarlet, and began to untie and tie his cravat, as if it were choking him. Then he waved his arms without knowing why, and declared to the presiding judge, who had read the sentence:
“She has said that I must be hanged.”
“‘She’? Who?” asked the presiding judge, in a deep bass voice.
Yanson pointed at the presiding judge with his finger, and, looking at him furtively, answered angrily:
Again Yanson turned his eyes toward one of the judges, in whom he divined a friend, and repeated:
“She has said that I must be hanged. I must not be hanged.”
“Take away the accused.”
But Yanson still had time to repeat, in a grave tone of conviction:
“I must not be hanged.”
And with his outstretched finger and irritated face, to which he tried in vain to give an air of gravity, he seemed so stupid that the guard, in violation of orders, said to him in an undertone as he led him away:
“Well, you are a famous imbecile, you are!”
“I must not be hanged!” repeated Yanson, obstinately.
They shut him up again in the cell in which he had passed a month, and to which he had become accustomed, as he had become accustomed to everything: to blows, to brandy, to the desolate and snow-covered country sown with rounded hillocks resembling tombs. It even gave him pleasure to see his bed again, and his grated window, and to eat what they gave him; he had taken nothing since morning. The disagreeable thing was what had happened in court, about which he knew not what to think. He had no idea at all of what death by hanging was like.
The guard said to him, in a tone of remonstrance:
“Well, brother, there you are, hanged!”
“And when will they bang me?” asked Yanson, in a tone of incredulity. The guard reflected.
“Ah! wait, brother; you must have companions; they do not disturb themselves for a single individual, and especially for a little fellow like you.”
“Then, when?” insisted Yanson.
He was not offended that they did not want to take the trouble to hang him all alone; he did not believe in this excuse, and thought they simply wanted to put off the execution, and then pardon him.
“When? When?” resumed the guard. “It is not a question of hanging a dog, which one takes behind a shed and dispatches with a single blow! Is that what you would like, imbecile?”
“Why, no, I would not like it!” said Yanson suddenly with a joyous grimace. “‘Twas she that said I must be hanged, but I, I do not want to be hanged!”
And, for the first time in his life perhaps, he began to laugh—a grinning and stupid laugh, but terribly gay. He seemed like a goose beginning to quack. The guard looked at Yanson in astonishment, and then knitted his brows: this stupid gaiety on the part of a man who was to be executed insulted the prison, the gallows itself, and made them ridiculous. And suddenly it seemed to the old guard, who had passed all his life in prison and considered the laws of the gaol as those of nature, that the prison and all of life were a sort of mad-house in which he, the guard, was the chief madman.
“The devil take you!” said he, spitting on the ground. “Why do you show your teeth? This is no wine-shop!”
“And I, I do not want to be hanged! Ha! ha! ha!”
Yanson laughed always.
“Satan!” replied the guard, crossing himself.
All the evening Yanson was calm, and even joyous. He repeated the phrase that he had uttered: “I must not be hanged,” and so convincing, so irrefutable was it that he had no occasion for anxiety. He had long since forgotten his crime; sometimes he simply regretted that he had not succeeded in raping the woman. Soon he thought no more about the matter.
Every morning Yanson asked when he would be hanged, and every morning the guard answered him angrily:
“You have time enough.” And he went out quickly, before Yanson began to laugh.
Thanks to this invariable exchange of words, Yanson persuaded himself that the execution would never take place; for whole days he lay upon his bed, dreaming vaguely of the desolate and snow-covered fields, of the buffet at the railway station, and also of things farther away and more luminous. He was well fed in prison, he took on flesh.
“She would love me now,” he said to himself, thinking of his master’s wife. “Now I am as big as her husband.”
He had only one desire—to drink brandy and course madly over the roads with his horse at full gallop.
When the terrorists were arrested, the whole prison learned of it. One day, when Yanson put his customary question, the guard answered him abruptly, in an irritated voice:
“It will be soon. In a week, I think.”
Yanson turned pale; the gaze of his glassy eyes became so thick that he seemed as if asleep.
“You are joking?” he asked.
“Formerly you could not await the time, to-day you say that I am joking. No jokes are tolerated here. It is you who like jokes, but we do not tolerate them,” replied the guard with dignity; then he went out.
When evening came, Yanson had grown thin. His skin, which had become smooth again for a few days, was contracted into a thousand little wrinkles. He took no notice of anything; his movements were made slowly, as if every toss of the head, every gesture of the arm, every step, were a difficult undertaking, that must first be deeply studied. During the night Yanson lay on his camp-bed, but his eyes did not close; they remained open until morning.
“Ah!” exclaimed the guard, on seeing him the next day.
With the satisfaction of the savant who has made a new and a successful experiment, he examined the condemned man attentively and without haste; now everything was proceeding in the usual fashion. Satan was covered with shame, the sanctity of the prison and of the gallows was reestablished. Indulgent, and even full of sincere pity, the old man asked:
“Do you want to see someone?”
“To say good-bye, of course . . . to your mother, for instance, or to your brother.”
“I must not be hanged,” said Yanson in a low voice, casting a glance sidewise at the gaoler. “I do not want to be hanged.”
The guard looked at him, without saying a word.
Yanson was a little calmer in the evening. The day was so ordinary, the cloudy winter sky shone in so usual a fashion, so familiar was the sound of steps and conversations in the corridor, that he ceased to believe in the execution. Formerly the night had been to him simply the moment of darkness, the time for sleep. But now he was conscious of its mysterious and menacing essence. To disbelieve in death one must see and hear about one the customary course of life: steps, voices, light. And now everything seemed extraordinary to him; this silence, these shades, that seemed to be already the shades of death; already he felt the approach of inevitable death; in bewilderment he climbed the first steps of the gibbet.
The day, the night, brought him alternations of hope and fear; and so things went until the evening when he felt, or understood, that the inevitable death would come three days later, at sunrise.
He had never thought of death; for him it had no shape. But now he felt plainly that it had entered his cell, and was groping about in search of him. To escape it he began to run.
The room was so small that the corners seemed to push him back toward the centre. He could not hide himself anywhere. Several times he struck the walls with his body; once he hurled himself against the door. He staggered and fell, with his face upon the ground; he felt the grasp of death upon him. Glued to the floor, his face touching the dirty black asphalt, Yanson screamed with terror until help came. When they had lifted him up, seated him on his bed, and sprinkled him with cold water, he did not dare to open both eyes. He half opened one, perceived an empty and luminous corner of his cell, and began again to scream.
But the cold water had its effect. The guard, moreover, always the same old man, slapped Yanson several times on the head in a fatherly fashion. This sensation of life drove out the thought of death. Yanson slept deeply the rest of the night. He lay on his back, with mouth open, snoring loud and long. Between his half-closed eyelids appeared a whitish, flat, and dead eye, without a pupil.
Then day, night, voices, steps, the cabbage soup, everything became for him one continuous horror that plunged him into a state of wild astonishment. His weak mind could not reconcile the monstrous contradiction between, on the one hand, the bright light and the odor of the cabbage, and, on the other, the fact that two days later he must die. He thought of nothing; he did not even count the hours; he was simply the prey of a dumb terror in presence of this contradiction that bewildered his brain: to-day life, to-morrow death. He ate nothing, he slept no more; he sat timidly all night long on a stool, with his legs crossed under him, or else he walked up and down his cell with furtive steps. He appeared to be in a state of open-mouthed astonishment; before taking the most commonplace article into his hands, he would examine it suspiciously.
The gaolers ceased to pay attention to him. His was the ordinary condition of the condemned man, resembling, according to his gaoler who had not experienced it himself, that of an ox felled by a club.
“He is stunned; now he will feel nothing more until the moment of death,” said the guard, examining him with his experienced eye. “Ivan, do you hear? Ho there, Ivan!”
“I must not be hanged!” answered Yanson, in a colorless voice; his lower jaw had dropped.
“If you had not killed, they would not hang you,” reproachfully said the chief gaoler, a highly important young man, wearing a decoration. “To steal, you have killed, and you do not want to be hanged!”
“I do not want to be hanged!” replied Yanson.
“Well, you don’t have to want to; that’s your affair. But, instead of talking nonsense, you would do better to dispose of your possessions. You surely must have something.”
“He has nothing at all! A shirt and a pair of pantaloons! And a fur cap!”
Thus time passed until Thursday. And Thursday, at midnight, a large number of people entered Yanson’s cell; a man with cloth epaulets said to him:
“Get ready! it is time to start.”
Always with the same slowness and the same indolence Yanson dressed himself in all that he possessed, and tied his dirty shawl around his neck. While watching him dress, the man with the epaulets, who was smoking a cigarette, said to one of the assistants:
“How warm it is to-day! It is spring!”
Yanson’s eyes closed; he was in a complete drowse. The guard shouted:
“Come, come! Make haste! You are going to sleep!”
Suddenly Yanson ceased to move.
“I must not be hanged,” said he, with indolence.
He began to walk submissively, shrugging his shoulders. In the courtyard the moist spring air had a sudden effect upon him; his nose began to run; it was thawing; close by, drops of water were falling with a joyous sound. While the gendarmes were getting into the unlighted vehicle, bending over and rattling their swords, Yanson lazily passed his finger under his running nose, or arranged his badly-tied shawl.
WE OF OREL
The court that had tried Yanson sentenced to death at the same session Michael Goloubetz, known as Michka the Tzigane, a peasant of the department of Orel, district of Eletz. The last crime of which they accused him, with evidence in support of the charge, was robbery, followed by the assassination of three persons. As for his past, it was unknown. There were vague indications to warrant the belief that the Tzigane had taken part in a whole series of other murders. With absolute sincerity and frankness he termed himself a brigand, and overwhelmed with his irony those who, to follow the fashion, pompously styled themselves “expropriators”; his last crime he described willingly in all its details. But, at the slightest reference to the past, he answered:
“Go ask the wind that blows over the fields!”
And, if they persisted in questioning him, the Tzigane assumed a dignified and serious air.
“We of Orel are all hot-heads, the fathers of all the robbers of the world,” said he, in a sedate and judicial tone.
They had nicknamed him Tzigane because of his physiognomy and his thieving habits. He was thin and strangely dark; yellow spots outlined themselves upon his cheekbones which were as prominent as those of a Tartar. He had a way of rolling the whites of his eyes, that reminded one of a horse. His gaze was quick and keen, full of curiosity, terrifying. The things over which his swift glance passed seemed to lose something or other, and to become transformed by surrendering to him part of themselves. One hesitated to take a cigarette that he had looked at, as if it had already been in his mouth. His extraordinarily mobile nature made him seem now to coil and concentrate himself like a twisted handkerchief, now to scatter himself like a sheaf of sparks. He drank water almost by the pailful, like a horse.
When the judges questioned him, he raised his head quickly, and answered without hesitation, even with satisfaction:
“It is true!”
Sometimes, to lend emphasis, he rolled his “r’s” vigorously.
Suddenly he jumped to his feet, and said to the presiding judge:
“Permit me to whistle?”
“Why?” exclaimed the judge, in astonishment.
“The witnesses say that I gave the signal to my comrades; I will show you how I did it. It is very interesting.”
A little disconcerted, the judge granted the desired permission. The Tzigane quickly placed four fingers in his mouth, two of each hand; he rolled his eyes furiously. And the inanimate air of the court-room was rent by a truly savage whistle. There was everything in the piercing sound, partly human, partly animal; the mortal anguish of the victim, and the savage joy of the assassin; a threat, a call, and the tragic solitude, the darkness, of a rainy autumn night.
The judge shook his hand; with docility the Tzigane stopped. Like an artist who has just played a difficult air with assured success, he sat down, wiped his wet fingers on his cloak, and looked at the spectators with a satisfied air.
“What a brigand!” exclaimed one of the judges, rubbing his ear. But another, who had Tartar eyes, like the Tzigane’s, was looking dreamily into the distance, over the brigand’s head; he smiled, and replied:
“It was really interesting.”
Without remorse, the judges sentenced the Tzigane to death.
“It is just!” said the Tzigane, when the sentence had been pronounced.
And, turning to a soldier of the guard, he added with an air of bravado:
“Well, let us be off, imbecile! And keep a good hold of your gun, lest I snatch it from you!”
The soldier looked at him seriously and timidly; he exchanged a glance with his comrade, and tested his weapon to see if it was in working order. The other did the same. And all the way to the prison it seemed to the soldiers that they did not walk, but flew; they were so absorbed by the condemned man that they were unconscious of the route, of the weather, and of themselves.
Like Yanson, Michka the Tzigane remained seventeen days in prison before being executed. And the seventeen days passed as rapidly as a single day, filled with a single thought, that of flight, of liberty, of life. The turbulent and incoercible spirit of the Tzigane, stifled by the walls, the gratings, and the opaque window through which nothing could be seen, employed all its force in setting Michka’s brain on fire. As in a vapor of intoxication, bright but incomplete images whirled, clashed, and mingled in his head; they passed with a blinding and irresistible rapidity, and they all tended to the same end: flight, liberty, life. For entire hours, with nostrils distended like those of a horse, the Tzigane sniffed the air; it seemed to him that he inhaled the odor of hemp and flame, of dense smoke. Or else he turned in his cell like a top, examining the walls, feeling them with his fingers, measuring them, piercing the ceiling with his gaze, sawing the bars in his mind. His agitation was a source of torture to the soldier who watched him through the window; several times he threatened to fire on him.
During the night the Tzigane slept deeply, almost without stirring, in an invariable but living immobility, like a temporarily inactive spring. But, as soon as he jumped to his feet, he began again to plan, to grope, to study. His hands were always dry and hot. Sometimes his heart suddenly congealed, as if they had placed in his breast a new block of ice which did not melt, and which caused a continuous shiver to run over his skin. At these times his naturally dark complexion became darker still, taking on the blue-black shade of bronze. Then a queer tic seized him; he constantly licked his lips, as if he had eaten a dish that was much too sweet; then, with a hiss, and with set teeth, he spat upon the ground the saliva that had thus accumulated in his mouth. He left his words unfinished; his thoughts ran so fast that his tongue could no longer keep up with them.
One day the chief of the guards entered his cell, accompanied by a soldier. He squinted at the spittle with which the ground was spattered, and said rudely:
“See how he has dirtied his cell!”
The Tzigane replied quickly:
“And you, you ugly mug, you have soiled the whole earth, and I haven’t said a word to you. Why do you annoy me?”
With the same rudeness the chief of the guards offered him the post of hangman. The Tzigane showed his teeth, and began to laugh:
“So they can find none! That’s not bad! Go on then hanging people! Ah! Ah! There are necks and ropes, and nobody to do the hanging! My God, that’s not bad.”
“They will give your life as a reward!”
“I should say so: I could hardly play the hangman after I am dead!”
“Well, what do you say, yes or no?”
“And how do they hang here? They probably choke people secretly.”
“No, they hang them to music!” retorted the chief.
“Imbecile! Of course there must be music . . . like this. . . .”
And he began to sing a captivating air.
“You have gone completely mad, my friend!” said the guard. “Come, speak seriously, what is your decision?”
The Tzigane showed his teeth.
“Are you in a hurry? Come back later, and I will tell you!”
And to the chaos of unfinished images which overwhelmed the Tzigane was added a new idea: how agreeable it would be to be the headsman! He clearly pictured to himself the square black with people, and the scaffold on which he, the Tzigane, walked back and forth, in a red shirt, with axe in hand. The sun illuminates the heads, plays gaily on the axe blade; everything is so joyous, so sumptuous, that even he whose head is to be cut off smiles. Behind the crowd are to be seen the carts and the noses of the horses; the peasants have come to town for the occasion. Still farther away fields. The Tzigane licked his lips, and spat upon the ground. Suddenly it seemed to him that his fur cap had just been pulled down over his mouth; everything became dark; he gasped for breath; and his heart changed into a block of ice, while little shivers ran through his body.
Twice more the chief came back; the Tzigane, showing his teeth again, answered:
“What a hurry you are in! Come back another time!”
Finally, one day, the gaoler cried to him, as he was passing by the window:
“You have lost your chance, my ill-favoured raven. They have found another.”
“The devil take you! Go, be the hangman yourself!” replied the Tzigane. And he ceased to dream of the splendors of his trade.
But toward the end, the nearer drew the day of execution, the more intolerable became the impetuosity of the torn images. The Tzigane would have liked to wait, to halt, but the furious torrent carried him on, giving him no chance to get a hold on anything; for everything was in a whirl. And his sleep became agitated; he had new and shapeless visions, as badly squared as painted blocks, and even more impetuous than his thoughts had been. It was no longer a torrent, but a continual fall from an infinite height, a whirling flight through the whole world of colors. Formerly the Tzigane had worn only a mustache tolerably well cared for; in prison he had been obliged to grow his beard, which was short, black, and stubbly, giving him a crazy look. There were moments, in fact, when the Tzigane lost his mind. He turned about in his cell all unconscious of his movements, continuing to feel for the rough and uneven walls. And he always drank great quantities of water, like a horse.
One evening, when they were lighting the lamps, the Tzigane dropped on all fours in the middle of his cell, and began to howl like a wolf. He did this very seriously, as if performing an indispensable and important act. He filled his lungs with air, and then expelled it slowly in a prolonged and trembling howl. With knit brows, he listened to himself attentively. The very trembling of the voice seemed a little affected; he did not shout indistinctly; he made each note in this wild beast’s cry sound separately, full of unspeakable suffering and terror.
Suddenly he stopped, and remained silent for a few minutes, without getting up. He began to whisper, as if speaking to the ground:
“Dear friends, good friends . . . dear friends . . . good friends . . . have pit . . . friends! My friends!”
He said a word, and listened to it.
He jumped to his feet, and for a whole hour poured forth a steady stream of the worst curses.
“Go to the devil, you scoundrels!” he screamed, rolling his bloodshot eyes. “If I must be hanged, hang me, instead of . . . Ah, you blackguards!”
The soldier on guard, as white as chalk, wept with anguish and fear; he pounded the door with the muzzle of his gun, and cried in a lamentable voice:
“I will shoot you! By God, do you hear? I will shoot you!”
But he did not dare to fire; they never fire on prisoners sentenced to death, except in case of revolt. And the Tzigane ground his teeth, swore, and spat. His brain, placed on the narrow frontier that separates life from death, crumbled like a lump of dried clay.
When they came, during the night, to take him to the gallows, he regained a little of his animation. His cheeks took on some color; in his eyes the usual strategy, a little savage, sparkled again, and he asked of one of the functionaries:
“Who will hang us? The new one? Is he accustomed to it yet?”
“You needn’t disturb yourself about that,” answered the personage thus appealed to.
“What? Not disturb myself! It is not Your Highness that is going to be hanged, but I! At least don’t spare the soap on the slip-noose; the State pays for it!”
“I beg you to hold your tongue!”
“This fellow, you see, consumes all the soap in the prison; see how his face shines,” continued the Tzigane, pointing to the chief of the guards.
“Don’t spare the soap!”
Suddenly he began to laugh, and his legs became numb. Yet, when he arrived in the court-yard, he could still cry:
“Say, there! you fellows yonder, come forward with my carriage!”
“KISS HIM AND BE SILENT”
The verdict against the five terrorists was pronounced in its final form and confirmed the same day. The condemned were not notified of the day of execution. But they foresaw that they would be hanged, according to custom, the same night, or, at the latest, the night following. When they were offered the opportunity of seeing their families the next day, they understood that the execution was fixed for Friday at daybreak.
Tanya Kovalchuk had no near relatives. She knew only of some distant relatives living in Little Russia, who probably knew nothing of the trial or the verdict. Musya and Werner, not having revealed their identity, did not insist on seeing any of ther people. Only Sergey Golovin and Vasily Kashirin were to see their families. The thought of this approaching interview was frightful to both of them, but they could not make up their minds to refuse a final conversation, a last kiss.
Sergey Golovin thought sadly of this visit. He was fond of his father and mother; he had seen them very recently, and he was filled with terror at the thought of what was going to happen. The hanging itself, in all its monstrosity, in its disconcerting madness, outlined itself more readily in his imagination than these few short, incomprehensible minutes, that seemed apart from time, apart from life. What to do? What to say? The most simple and customary gestures—to shake hands, embrace, and say “How do you do, father?”—seemed to him frightful in their monstrous inhuman, insane insignificance.
After the verdict they did not put the condemned in the same cell, as Tanya expected them to do. All the morning, up to the time when he received his parents, Sergey Golovin walked back and forth in his cell, twisting his short beard, his features pitiably contracted. Sometimes he stopped suddenly, filled his lungs with air, and puffed like a swimmer who has remained too long under water. But, as he was in good health, and as his young life was solidly implanted within him, even in these minutes of atrocious suffering, the blood coursed under his skin, coloring his cheeks; his blue eyes preserved their usual brilliancy.
Everything went off better than Sergey expected; his father, Nicolas Sergiévitch Golovin, a retired colonel, was the first to enter the room where the visitors were received. Evrything about him was white and of the same whiteness: face, hair, beard, hands. His old and well-brushed garment smelt of benzine; his epaulets seemed new. He entered with a firm and measured step, straightening himself up. Extending his dry, white hand, he said aloud:
“How do you do, Sergey?”
Behind him came the mother, with short steps; she wore a strange smile. But she too shook hands with her son, and repeated aloud:
“How do you do, my little Sergey?”
She kissed him and sat down without saying a word. She did not throw herself upon her son, she did not begin to weep or cry, as Sergey expected her to do. She kissed him and sat down without speaking. With a trembling hand she even smoothed the wrinkles in her black silk gown.
Sergey did not know that the colonel had spent the entire previous night in rehearsing this interview. “We must lighten the last moments of our son’s life, and not make them more painful for him,” the colonel had decided; and he had carefully weighed each phrase, each gesture, of the morrow’s visit. But sometimes, in the course of the rehearsal, he became confused, he forgot what he had prepared himself to say, and he wept bitterly, sunk in the corner of his sofa. The next morning he had explained to his wife what she was to do.
“Above all, kiss him and be silent,” he repeated. “You will be able to speak later, a little later; but, after kissing him, be silent. Do not speak immediately after kissing him, do you understand? Otherwise you will say what you should not.”
“I understand, Nicolas Sergiévitch!” answered the mother, with tears.
“And do not weep! May God keep you from that! Do not weep! You will kill him if you weep, mother!”
“And why do you weep yourself?”
“Why should one not weep here with the rest of you? You must not weep, do you hear?”
“All right, Nicolas Sergiévitch.”
They got into a cab and started off, silent, bent, old; they were plunged in their thoughts amid the gay roar of the city; it was the carnival season, and the streets were filled with a noisy crowd.
They sat down. The colonel assumed a suitable attitude, his right hand thrust in the front of his frock-coat. Sergey remained seated a moment; his look met his mother’s wrinkled face; he rose suddenly.
“Sit down, my little Sergey!” begged the mother.
“Sit down, Sergey!” repeated the father.
They kept silence. The mother wore a strange smile.
“How many moves we have made in your behalf, Sergey! Your father . . .”
“It was useless, my little mother!”
The colonel said, firmly:
“We were in duty bound to do it that you might not think that your parents had abandoned you.”
Again they became silent. They were afraid to utter a syllable, as if each word of the language had lost its proper meaning and now meant but one thing: death. Sergey looked at the neat little frock-coat smelling of benzine, and thought: “He has no orderly now; then he must have cleaned his coat himself. How is it that I have never seen him clean his coat? Probably he does it in the morning.” Suddenly he asked:
“And my sister? Is she well?”
“Ninotchka knows nothing!” answered the mother, quickly.
But the colonel sternly interrupted her:
“What is the use of lying? She has read the newspaper . . . let Sergey know that . . . all . . . his own . . . have thought . . . and . . .”
Unable to continue, he stopped. Suddenly the mother’s face contracted, her features became confused and wild. Her colorless eyes were madly distended; more and more she panted for breath.
“Se . . . Ser . . . Ser . . . Ser . . .” she repeated, without moving her lips; “Ser . . .”
“My little mother!”
The colonel took a step; trembling all over, without knowing how frightful he was in his corpse-like pallor, in his desperate and forced firmness, he said to his wife:
“Be silent! Do not torture him! Do not torture him! Do not torture him! He must die! Do not torture him!”
Frightened, she was silent already, and he continued to repeat, with his trembling hands pressed against his breast:
“Do not torture him!”
Then he took a step backward, and again thrust his hand into the front of his frock-coat; wearing an expression of forced calmness, he asked aloud, with pallid lips:
“To-morrow morning,” answered Sergey.
The mother looked at the ground, biting her lips, as if she heard nothing. And she seemed to continue to bite her lips as she let fall these simple words:
“Ninotchka told me to kiss you, my little Sergey!”
“Kiss her for me!” said the condemned man.
“Good! The Chvostofs send their salutations. . . .”
“Who are they? Ah! yes. . . .”
The colonel interrupted him:
“Well, we must start. Rise, mother, it is necessary!”
The two men lifted the swooning woman.
“Bid him farewell!” ordered the colonel. “Give him your blessing!”
She did everything that she was told. But, while giving her son a short kiss and making on his person the sign of the cross, she shook her head and repeated distractedly:
“No, it is not that! No, it is not that!”
“Adieu, Sergey!” said the father. They shook hands, and exchanged a short, but earnest, kiss.
“You . . . ” began Sergey.
“Well?” asked the father, spasmodically.
“No, not like that. No, no! What shall I say?” repeated the mother, shaking her head.
She had sat down again, and was tottering.
“You . . .” resumed Sergey. Suddenly his face took on a lamentable expression, and he grimaced like a child, tears filling his eyes. Through their sparkling facets he saw beside him the pale face of his father, who was weeping also.
“Father, you are a strong man!”
“What do you say? What do you say?” said the bewildered colonel. Suddenly, as if completely broken, he fell, with his head on his son’s shoulder. And the two covered each other with ardent kisses, the father receiving them on his light hair, the prisoner on his cloak.
“And I?” asked suddenly a hoarse voice.
They looked: the mother was on her feet again, and, with her head thrown back, was watching them wrathfully, almost hatefully.
“What is the matter with you, mother?” cried the colonel.
“And I?” she repeated, shaking her head with an insane energy. “You embrace each other, and I? You are men, are you not? And I? and I? . . .”
“Mother!” and Sergey threw himself into her arms.
The last words of the colonel were:
“My blessing for your death, Sergey! Die with courage, like an officer!”
And they went away. . . . On returning to his cell Sergey lay upon his camp-bed, with face turned toward the wall that the soldiers might not see him, and wept a long time.
Vasily Kashirin’s mother came alone to visit him. The father, a rich merchant, had refused to accompany her. When the old woman entered, Vasily was walking in his cell. In spite of the heat, he was trembling with cold. The conversation was short and painful.
“You ought not to have come, mother. Why should we two torment each other?”
“Why all this, Vasya? Why have you done this, my son? God! God!”
The old woman began to weep, drying her tears with her black silk neckerchief.
Accustomed as they were, his brothers and he, to treat their mother roughly, she being a simple woman who did not understand them, he stopped, and, in the midst of his shivering, said to her, harshly:
“That’s it, I knew how it would be. You understand nothing, mama, nothing!”
“Very well, my son. What is the matter with you? Are you cold?”
“I am cold,” answered Vasily, and he began to walk again, looking sidewise now and then at the old woman with the same air of irritation.
“You are cold, my son . . .”
“Ah! You speak of cold, but soon . . .” He made a gesture of desperation.
Again the mother began to sob.
“I said to your father: ‘Go to see him, he is your son, your flesh; give him a last farewell.’ He would not.”
“The devil take him! He is not a father. All his life he has been a scoundrel. He remains one!”
“Yet, Vasya, he is your father. . . .”
And the old woman shook her head reproachfully.
It was ridiculous and terrible. This paltry and useless conversation engaged them when face to face with death. While almost weeping, so sad was the situation, Vasily cried out:
“Understand then, mother. They are going to hang me, to hang me! Do you understand, yes or no?”
“And why did you kill?” she cried.
“My God! What are you saying? Even the beasts have feelings. Am I your son or not?”
He sat down and wept. His mother wept also; but, in their incapability of communicating in the same affection in order to face the terror of the approaching death, they wept cold tears that did not warm the heart.
“You ask me if I am your mother? You heap reproaches on me; and yet I have turned completely white these last few days.”
“All right, all right, forgive me. Adieu! Embrace my brothers for me.”
“Am I not your mother? Do I not suffer for you?”
At last she departed. She was weeping so that she could not see her way. And, the farther she got from the prison, the more abundant became her tears. She retraced her steps, losing herself in this city in which she was born, in which she had grown up, in which she had grown old. She entered a little abandoned garden, and sat down on a damp bench.
And suddenly she understood: to-morrow they would hang her son! She sprang to her feet, and tried to shout and run, but suddenly her head turned, and she sank to the earth. The path, white with frost, was wet and slippery; the old woman could not rise again. She rested her weight on her wrists, and then fell back again. The black neckerchief slipped from her head, uncovering her dirty gray hair. It seemed to her that she was celebrating her son’s wedding. Yes, they had just married him, and she had drunk a little wine; she was slightly intoxicated.
“I cannot help myself! My God, I cannot help myself!”
And, with swinging head, she said to herself that she had drunk too much, and was crawling around on the wet ground, . . . but they gave her wine to drink, and wine again, and still more wine. And from her heart arose the laugh of the drunkard and the desire to abandon herself to a wild dance; . . . but they kept on lifting cups to her lips, one after another, one after another.
THE HOURS FLY
In the fortress where the condemned terrorists were confined there was a steeple with an old clock. Every hour, every half-hour, every quarter of an hour, this clock struck in a tone of infinite sadness, like the distant and plaintive cry of birds of passage. In the daytime this odd and desolate music was lost in the noise of the city, of the broad and animated street that passed the fortress. The tramways rumbled, the shoes of the horses rattled, the trembling automobiles sounded their hoarse horns far into the distance. As the carnival was approaching, the peasants of the suburbs had come to town to earn some money as cab-drivers; the bells of the little Russian horses tinkled noisily. The conversations were gay, and had a flavor of intoxication, real holiday conversations. The weather harmonized with the occasion; the spring had brought a thaw, and the road was wet with dirty puddles. The trees on the squares had suddenly darkened. A slightly warm wind was blowing from the sea in copious moist puffs—a light, fresh air that seemed to have started on a joyous flight toward the infinite.
By night the street was silent under the brilliancy of the large electric suns. The immense fortress with its smooth walls was plunged in darkness and silence; a barrier of calm and shadow separated it from the ever-living city. Then they heard the striking of the hours, the slow, sad birth and death of a strange melody, foreign to the land. Like big drops of transparent glass, the hours and the minutes fell from an immeasurable height into a metallic basin that was vibrating gently. Sometimes they were like birds that passed.
Into the cells came, day and night, this single sound. It penetrated through the roof, through the thick stone walls; it alone broke the silence. Sometimes they forgot it, or did not hear it. Sometimes they awaited it with despair; they lived only by and for this sound, having learned to be distrustful of silence. The prison was reserved for criminals of note; its special, rigorous regulations were as rigid and sharp as the corners of the walls. If there is nobility in cruelty, then the solemn, deaf, dead silence that caught up every breath and every rustle was noble.
In this silence, penetrated by the desolate striking of the flying minutes, three men and two women, separated from the world, were awaiting the coming of the night, of the dawn, and of the execution; and each was preparing for it in his own fashion.
Throughout her life Tanya Kovalchuk had thought only of others, and now also it was for her comrades that she underwent suffering and torture. She pictured death to herself only because it threatened Sergey Golovin, Musya, and the others; but her thoughts did not dwell on the fact that she too would be executed.
As if to reward herself for the artificial firmness that she had shown before the judges, she wept for hours altogether. This is characteristic of old women who have suffered much. When it occurred to her that Sergey might be unprovided with tobacco, or that Werner possibly was deprived of the tea of which he was so fond—and this at the moment that they were about to die—she suffered perhaps as much as at the idea of the execution. The execution was something inevitable, even incidental, not worthy of consideration; but that an imprisoned man should be without tobacco on the very eve of his execution was an idea absolutely intolerable. Evoking the pleasant memories of their common life, she lamented over the interview between Sergey and his parents.
For Musya she felt a special pity. For a long time it had seemed to her, mistakenly, however, that Musya was in love with Werner; she had beautiful and luminous dreams for their future. Before her arrest Musya wore a silver ring on which were engraved a skull and crossbones surrounded with a crown of thorns. Often Tanya Kovalchuk had looked at this ring sorrowfully, viewing it as a symbol of renunciation; half serious, half joking, she had asked Musya to take it off.
“No, Tanya, I will not give it to you. You will soon have another on your finger!”
Her comrades always thought that she would soon be married, which much offended her. She wanted no husband. And, as she recalled these conversations with Musya and reflected that Musya was indeed sacrificed, Tanya, full of motherly pity, felt the tears choking her. Every time the clock struck, she lifted her face, covered with tears, and listened, wondering how this plaintive and persistent summons of death was being received in the other cells.
THERE IS NO DEATH
And Musya was happy!
With arms folded behind her back, dressed in a prisoner’s gown that was too large for her and that made her look like a youth wearing a borrowed costume, she walked back and forth in her cell, at a regular pace, never wearying. She had tucked up the long sleeves of her gown, and her thin and emaciated arms, the arms of a child, emerged from the flaring breadths like flower-stems from a coarse and unclean pitcher. The roughness of the stuff irritated the skin of her white and slender neck; sometimes, with her two hands, he released her throat, and felt cautiously for the spot where her skin was burning.
Musya walked with a long stride, and tried blushingly to justify to herself the fact that the finest of deaths, reserved hitherto for martyrs, had been assigned to her, so young, so humble, and who had done so little. It seemed to her that, in dying upon the scaffold, she was making a pretentious show that was in bad taste.
At her last interview with her lawyer she had asked him to procure poison for her, but immediately had given up the idea: would not people think that she was actuated by fear or by ostentation? Instead of dying modestly and unnoticed, would she not cause still further scandal? And she had added, quickly:
“No, no, it is useless!”
Now her sole desire was to explain, to prove, that she was not a heroine, that it was not a frightful thing to die, and that no one need pity her or worry on her account.
Musya sought excuses, pretexts of such a nature as to exalt her sacrifice and give it a real value, as if it had actually been called in question.
“In fact,” she said to herself, “I am young; I might have lived for a long time. But . . .”
Just as the gleam of a candle is effaced by the radiance of the rising sun, youth and life seem to her dull and sombre beside the magnificent and luminous halo that is about to crown her modest person.
“Is it possible?” Musya asks herself, in great confusion. “Is it possible that I am worth anybody’s tears?”
And she is seized with an unspeakable joy. There is no more doubt; she has been taken into the pale. She has a right to figure among the heroes who from all countries go to heaven through flames and executions. What serene peace, what infinite happiness! An immaterial being, she believes herself hovering in a divine light.
Of what else was Musya thinking? Of many things, since for her the thread of life was not severed by death but continued to unroll in a calm and regular fashion. She was thinking of her comrades, of those who at a distance were filled with anguish at the idea of her approaching execution, of those who nearer at hand would go with her to the gallows. She was astonished that Vasily should be a prey to terror, he who had always been brave. On Tuesday morning, when they had prepared themselves to kill, and then to die themselves, Tanya Kovalchuk had trembled with emotion; they had been obliged to send her away, whereas Vasily joked and laughed and moved about amid the bombs with so little caution that Werner had said to him severely:
“One should not play with death!”
Why, then, was Vasily afraid now? And this incomprehensible terror was so foreign to Musya’s soul that she soon ceased to think about it and to inquire into its cause. Suddenly she felt a mad desire to see Sergey Golovin and laugh with him.
Perhaps too her thought was unwilling to dwell long on the same subject, resembling therein a light bird that hovers before infinite horizons, all space, the caressing and tender azure, being accessible to it. The hours continued to strike. Thoughts blended in this harmonious and distant symphony; fleeting images became a sort of music. It seemed to Musya that she was travelling on a broad and easy road in a quiet night; the carriage rode easily on its springs. All care had vanished; the tired body was dissolved in the darkness; joyous and weary, the thought peacefully created vivid images, and became intoxicated on their beauty. Musya recalled three comrades who had been hanged lately; their faces were illuminated and near, nearer than those of the living. . . . So in the morning one thinks gaily of the hospitable friends who will receive you in the evening with smiles on their lips.
At last Musya became weary from walking. She lay down cautiously on the camp-bed and continued to dream, with half-closed eyes.
“Is this really death? My God, how beautiful it is! Or is it life? I do not know, I do not know! I am going to see and hear. . . .”
From the first days of her imprisonment she had been a prey to hallucinations. She had a very musical ear; her sense of hearing, sharpened by the silence, gathered in the slightest echoes of life; the footsteps of the sentinels in the corridor, the striking of the clock, the whispering of the wind over the zinc roof, the creaking of a lantern, all blended for her in a vast and mysterious symphony. At first the hallucinations frightened Musya, and she drove them away as morbid manifestations; then, perceiving that she was in good health and had no pathological symptoms, she ceased to resist.
But now she hears very plainly the sound of the military band. She opens her eyes in astonishment, and raises her head. Through the windows she sees the night; the clock strikes. “Again!” she thought, as she closed her eyes without disturbing herself. Again the music begins. Musya clearly distinguishes the steps of the soldiers as they turn the corner of the prison; a whole regiment is passing before her windows. The boots keep time to the music on the frozen ground; one! two! one! two! Sometimes a boot squeaks; a foot slips and then recovers itself. The music draws nearer; it is playing a noisy and stirring triumphal march which Musya does not know. There is probably some festival in the fortress.
The soldiers are under her windows, and the cell is filled with joyous, regular, and harmonious sounds. A big brass trumpet emits false notes: it is not in time; now it is in advance, now it lags behind in a ridiculous fashion. Musya pictures to herself a little soldier playing this trumpet assiduously, and she laughs.
The regiment has passed; the sound of the footsteps grows fainter and fainter; one! two! one! two! In the distance the music becomes gayer and more beautiful. Several times more the trumpet sounds out of time, with its metallic, sonorous, and gay voice, and then all is quiet. Again the clock in the steeple strikes the hours.
New forms come and lean over her, surrounding her with transparent clouds and lifting her to a great height, where birds of prey are hovering. At left and right, above and below, everywhere birds are crying like heralds; they call, they warn. They spread their wings, and immensity sustains them. And on their inflated breasts that split the air is reflected the sparkling azure. The beating of Musya’s heart becomes more and more regular, her respiration more and more calm and peaceful. She sleeps; her face is pale; her features are drawn; there are dark rings around her eyes. On her lips a smile. To-morrow, when the sun shall rise, this intelligent and fine face will be deformed by a grimace in which no trace of the human will be left; the brain will be inundated with thick blood; the glassy eyes will protrude from their orbits. But to-day Musya sleeps quietly, and smiles in her immortality.
And the prison continues to live its special, blind, vigilant life, a sort of perpetual anxiety. They walk. They whisper. A gun rings out. It seems as if someone cries out. Is this reality or hallucination?
The grating in the door lowers noiselessly. In the dark opening appears a sinister bearded face. For a long time the widely-opened eyes view with astonishment the sleeping Musya; then the face disappears as quietly as it came.
The bells in the steeple ring and sing interminably. One would say that the weary hours were climbing a high mountain toward midnight. The ascent grows more and more painful. They slip, fall back with a groan, and begin again to toil painfully toward the black summit.
There is a sound of foosteps. Whispering voices are heard. Already they are harnessing the horses to the sombre, unlighted vehicle.
DEATH EXISTS, AND LIFE ALSO
Sergey Golovin never thought of death. It seemed to him something incidental and foreign. He was robust, endowed with that serenity in the joy of living which causes all evil thoughts, all thoughts fatal to life, to disappear rapidly, leaving the organism intact. Just as, with him, physical wounds healed quickly, so all injuries to his soul were immediately nullified. He brought into all his acts, into his pleasures and into his preparations for crime, the same happy and tranquil gravity: everything in life was gay, everything was important, worthy of being well done.
And he did everything well; he sailed a boat admirably, he was an excellent marksman. He was as faithful in friendship as in love, and had an unshakeable confidence in the “word of honor.” His comrades declared laughingly that, if one who had been proved a spy should swear to Sergey that he was not a spy, Sergey would believe him and shake hands with him. A single fault: he thought himself a good singer, whereas he sang atrociously false, even in the case of revolutionary hymns. He got angry when they laughed at him.
“Either you are all asses, or else I am an ass!” he said in a serious and offended tone. And, after a moment’s reflection, the comrades declared, in a tone quite as serious:
“It is you who are an ass. You show it in your voice!”
And, as is sometimes the case with worthy people, they loved him perhaps more for his eccentricities than for his virtues.
He thought so little of death, he feared it so little, that on the fatal morning, before leaving the dwelling of Tanya Kovalchuk, he alone had breakfasted with appetite, as usual. He had taken two glasses of tea, and eaten a whole two-cent loaf. Then, looking with sadness at Werner’s untouched bread, he said to him:
“Why don’t you eat? Eat; it is necessary to get strength!”
“I am not hungry.”
“Well, I will eat your bread! Shall I?”
“What an appetite you have, Sergey!”
By way of reply, Sergey, with his mouth full, began to sing, in a false and hollow voice:
“A hostile wind is blowing o’er our heads.” After the arrest Sergey had a moment of sadness; the plot had been badly planned. But he said to himself: “Now there is something else that must be done well: to die.” And his gaiety returned. On his second day in the fortress he began gymnastic exercises, according to the extremely rational system of a German named Müller, which interested him much. He undressed himself completely; and, to the amazement of the anxious sentinel, he went carefully through the eighteen prescribed exercises.
As a propagander of the Müller system, it gave him much satisfaction to see the soldier follow his movements. Although he knew that he would get no answer, he said to the eye that appeared at the grating:
“That is the kind of thing that does you good, brother; that gives you strength! That is what they ought to make you do in the regiment,” he added, in a gentle and persuasive voice, that he might not frighten the soldier, not suspecting that his guardian took him for a madman.
The fear of death showed itself in him progressively, seemingly by shocks: it seemed to him that someone was thumping him violently in the heart from below. Then the sensation disappeared, but came back a few hours later, each time more intense and prolonged. It was beginning already to take on the vague outlines of an unendurable anguish.
“Is it possible that I am afraid?” thought Sergey, in astonishment. “How stupid!”
It was not he who was afraid; it was his young, robust, and vigorous body, which neither the gymnastics of Müller nor the cold shower-baths could deceive. The stronger and fresher he became after his cold-water ablutions, the more acute and unendurable was his sensation of temporary fear. And it was in the morning, after his deep sleep and physical exercises, that this atrocious fear like something foreign appeared—exactly at the moment when formerly he had been particularly conscious of his strength and his joy in living. He noticed this, and said to himself:
“You are stupid, my friend. In order that the body may die more easily, it should be weakened, not fortified.”
From that time he gave up his gymnastics and his massage. And, to explain this right-about-face, he cried to the soldier:
“Brother, the method is a good one. It is only for those who are going to be hanged that it is good for nothing.”
In fact, he felt a sort of relief. He tried also to eat less in order to further weaken himself, but, in spite of the lack of air and exercise, his appetite remained excellent. Sergey could not resist it, and ate everything that they brought him. Then he resorted to a subterfuge; before sitting down to table, he poured half of his soup into his bucket. And this method succeeded; a great weariness, a vague numbness, took possession of him.
“I will teach you!” he said, threatening his body; and he caressed his softening muscles sadly.
But soon the body became accustomed to this régime and the fear of death appeared again, not in so acute a form, but as a vague sensation of nausea, still harder to bear. “It is because this lasts so long,” thought Sergey. “If only I could sleep all the time until the day of execution!” He tried to sleep as much as possible. His first efforts were not altogether fruitless; then insomnia set in, accompanied with obsessing thoughts and, with these, a regret that he must part with life.
“Am I then afraid of it?” he asked himself, thinking of death. “It is the loss of life that I regret. Life is an admirable thing, whatever the pessimists may say. What would a pessimist say if they were to hang him? Ah! I regret to lose my life, I regret it much.”
When he clearly understood that for him all was over, that he had before him only a few hours of empty waiting and then death, he had a queer feeling. It seemed to him that they had stripped him naked in an extraordinary fashion. Not only had they taken away his clothes, but also sun, air, sound and light, speech and the power of action. Death had not yet arrived, and yet life seemed already absent; he felt a strange sensation, sometimes incomprehensible, sometimes intelligible, but very subtle and mysterious.
“What is it then?” wondered Sergey, in his torment. “And I, where am I? I . . . What I?”
He examined himself attentively, with interest, beginning with his loose slippers, such as the prisoners wore, and stopping with his belly, over which hung his ample cloak. He began to walk back and forth in his cell, with arms apart, and continued to look at himself as a woman does when trying on a gown that is too long. He tried to turn his head: is turned. And what seemed to him a little terrifying was he himself, Sergey Golovin, who soon would be no more!
Everything become strange.
He tried to walk, and it seemed queer to him to walk. He tried to sit down, and he was surprised that he could do so. He tried to drink water, and it seemed queer to him to drink, to swallow, to hold the goblet, to see his fingers, his trembling fingers. He began to cough, and thought: “How curious it is! I cough.”
“What is the matter? Am I going mad?” he asked himself. “That would be the last straw, indeed!”
He wiped his brow, and this gesture seemed to him equally surprising. Then he fixed himself in a motionless posture, without breathing—for entire hours, it seemed to him, extinguishing all thought, holding his breath, avoiding all motion; for every thought was madness, every gesture an aberration. Time disappeared as if transformed into space, into a transparent space in which there was no air, into an immense place containing everything—land and life and men. And one could take in everything at a glance, to the very extremity, to the edge of the unknown gulf, to death. And it was not because he saw death that Sergey suffered, but because he saw life and death at the same time. A sacrilegious hand had lifted the curtain which from all eternity had hidden the mystery of life and the mystery of death; they had ceased to be mysteries, but they were no more comprehensible than truth written in a foreign language.
“And here we are back to Müller again!” he suddenly declared aloud, in a voice of deep conviction. He shook his head and began to laugh gaily, sincerely:
“Ah, my good Müller! My dear Müller! My worthy German! You are right, after all, Müller; as for me, brother Müller, I am only an ass!”
He quickly made the round of his cell; and, to the great astonishment of the soldier who was watching him through the grating, he entirely undressed and went through the eighteen exercises with scrupulous exactness. He bent and straightened up his young body which had grown a little thin; he stooped, inhaling and exhaling the air; he raised himself on tiptoe, and moved his arms and legs.
“Yes, but, you know, Müller,” reasoned Sergey, throwing out his chest, his ribs outlining themselves plainly under his thin, distended skin—”you know, Müller, there is still a nineteenth exercise—suspension by the neck in a fixed position. And that is called hanging. Do you understand, Müller? They take a living man, Sergey Golovin, for example, they wrap him up like a doll, and they hang him by the neck until he is dead. It is stupid, Müller, but that is the way it is; one must be resigned!”
He leaned on his right side, and repeated:
“One must be resigned, Müller!”
THE HORRIBLE SOLITUDE
Under the same roof and to the same melodious chant of the indifferent hours, separated from Sergey and from Musya by a few empty cells, but as isolated as if he alone had existed in the whole universe, the unhappy Vasily Kashirin was finishing his life in anguish and terror.
Covered with sweat, his shirt adhering to his body, his formerly curly hair now falling in straight locks, he went back and forth in his cell with the jerky and lamentable gait of one suffering atrociously with the toothache. He sat down for a moment, and then began to run again; then he rested his forehead against the wall, stopped, and looked about as if in search of a remedy. He had so changed that one might think that he possessed two different faces, one of which, the younger, had gone nobody knows where, to give place to the second, a terrible face, that seemed to have come from darkness.
Fear had shown itself suddenly to him, and had seized upon his person as an exclusive and sovereign mistress. On the fatal morning, when he was marching to certain death, he had played with it; but that evening, confined in his cell, he had been carried away and lashed by a wave of mad terror. As long as he had gone freely forward to meet danger and death, as long as he had held his fate in his own hands, however terrible it might be, he had appeared tranquil and even joyous, the small amount of shameful and decrepit fear that he had felt having disappeared in a consciousness of infinite liberty, in the firm and audacious affirmation of his intrepid will, leaving no trace behind. With an infernal machine strapped around his waist, he had transformed himself into an instrument of death, he had borrowed from the dynamite its cruel reason and its flashing and homicidal power. In the street, among the busy people preoccupied with their affairs and quickly dodging the tramcars and the cabs, it seemed to him as if he came from another and an unknown world, where there was no such thing as death or fear.
Suddenly a brutal, bewildering change had taken place. Vasily no longer went where he wanted to go, but was led where others wanted him to go. He no longer chose his place; they placed him in a stone cage and locked him in, as if he were a thing. He could no longer choose between life and death; they led him to death, certainly and inevitably. He who had been for a moment the incarnation of will, of life, and of force, had become a lamentable specimen of impotence; he was nothing but an animal destined for the slaughter. Whatever he might say, they would not listen; if he started to cry out, they would stuff a rag in his mouth; and, if he even tried to walk, they would take him away and hang him. If he resisted, if he struggled, if he lay down on the ground, they would be stronger than he; they would pick him up, they would tie him, and thus they would carry him to the gallows. And his imagination gave to the men charged with this execution, men like himself, the new, extraordinary, and terrifying aspect of unthinking automata, whom nothing in the world could stop, and who seized a man, overpowered him, hanged him, pulled him by the feet, cut the rope, put the body in a coffin, carried it away, and buried it.
From the first day of his imprisonment, people and life had transformed themselves for him into an unspeakably frightful world filled with mechanical dolls. Almost mad with fear, he tried to fancy to himself that these people had tongues and spoke, but he did not succeed. Their mouths opened, something like a sound came from them; then they separated with movements of their legs, and all was over. He was in the situation of a man who, left alone in a house at night, should see all things become animate, move, and assume over him an unlimited power; suddenly the wardrobe, the chair, the sofa, the writing-table would sit in judgment upon him. He would cry out, call for help, beg, and rove from room to room; and the things would speak to each other in their own tongue; and then the wardrobe, the chair, the sofa, and the writing-table would start to hang him, the other things looking on.
In the eyes of Vasily Kashirin, sentenced to be hanged, everything took on a puerile aspect; the cell, the grated door, the striking apparatus of the clock, the fortress with its carefully modelled ceilings, and, above, the mechanical doll equipped with a musket, who walked up and down in the corridor, and the other dolls who frightened him by looking through the grating and handing him his food without a word.
A man had disappeared from the world.
In court the presence of the comrades had brought Kashirin back to himself. Again for a moment he saw people; they were there, judging him, speaking the language of men, listening, and seeming to understand. But, when he saw his mother, he felt clearly, with the terror of a man who is going mad and he knows it, that this old woman in a black neckerchief was a simple mechanical doll. He was astonished at not having suspected it before, and at having awaited this visit as something infinitely sorrowful in its distressing gentleness. While forcing himself to speak, he thought with a shudder:
“My God! But it is a doll! A doll-mother! And yonder is a doll-soldier; at home there is a doll-father, and this is the doll Vasily Kashirin.”
When the mother began to weep, Vasily again saw something human in her, but this disappeared with the first words that she uttered. With curiosity and terror he watched the tears flow from the doll’s eyes.
When his fear became intolerable, Vasily Kashirin tried to pray. There remained with him only a bitter, detestable, and enervating rancor against all the religious principles upon which his youth had been nourished, in the house of his father, a large merchant. He had no faith. But one day, in his childhood, he had heard some words that had made an impression upon him and that remained surrounded forever with a gentle poesy. These words were:
“Joy of all the afflicted!”
Sometimes, in painful moments, he whispered, without praying, without even accounting to himself for what he was doing: “Joy of all the afflicted!” And then he suddenly felt relieved; he had a desire to approach someone who was dear to him and complain gently:
“Our life! . . . but is it really a life? Say, my dear, it is really a life?”
And then suddenly he felt himself ridiculous; he would have liked to bare his breast and ask someone to beat it.
He had spoken to no one, not even to his best comrades, of his “Joy of all the afflicted!” He seemed to know nothing of it himself, so deeply hidden was it in his soul. And he evoked it rarely, with precaution.
Now that the fear of the unfathomable mystery which was rising before him completely covered him, as the water covers the plants on the bank when the tide is rising, he had a desire to pray. He wanted to fall upon his knees, but was seized with shame before the sentinel; so, with hands clasped upon his breast, he murmured in a low voice:
“Joy of all the afflicted!”
And he repeated with anxiety, in a tone of supplication:
“Joy of all the afflicted, descend into me, sustain me!”
Something moved softly. It seemed to him that a sorrowful and gentle force hovered in the distance and then vanished, without illuminating the shades of the agony. In the steeple the hour struck. The soldier yawned long and repeatedly.
“Joy of all the afflicted! You are silent! And you will say nothing to Vasily Kashirin!”
He wore an imploring smile, and waited. But in his soul there was the same void as around him. Useless and tormenting thoughts came to him; again he saw the lighted candles, the priest in his robe, the holy image painted on the wall, his father bending and straightening up again, praying and kneeling, casting furtive glances at Vasily to see if he too was praying or was simply amusing himself. And Kashirin was in still deeper anguish than before.
His consciousness went out like the dying embers that one scatters on the hearth; it froze, like the body of a man just dead in which the heart is still warm while the hands and feet are already cold.
Vasily had a moment of wild terror when they came into his cell to get him. He did not even suspect that the hour of the execution had arrived; he simply saw the people and took fright, almost like a child.
“I will not do it again! I will not do it again!” he whispered, without being heard; and his lips became icy as he recoiled slowly toward the rear of his cell, just as in childhood he had tried to escape the punishments of his father.
“You will have to go . . .”
They talked, they walked around him, they gave him he knew not what. He closed his eyes, staggered, and began to prepare himself painfully. Undoubtedly he had recovered consciousness; he suddenly asked a cigarette of one of the officials, who amiably extended his cigarette case.
THE WALLS CRUMBLE
The unknown, surnamed Werner, was a man fatigued by struggle. He had loved life, the theatre, society, art, literature, passionately. Endowed with an excellent memory, he spoke several languages perfectly. He was fond of dress, and had excellent manners. Of the whole group of terrorists he was the only one who was able to appear in society without risk of recognition.
For a long time already, and without his comrades having noticed it, he had entertained a profound contempt for men. More of a mathematician than a poet, ecstasy and inspiration had remained so far things unknown to him; at times he would look upon himself as a madman seeking to square the circle in seas of human blood. The enemy against which he daily struggled could not inspire him with respect; it was nothing but a compact network of stupidities, treasons, falsehoods, base deceits. The thing that had finally destroyed in him forever, it seemed to him, the desire to live, was his execution of a police-spy in obedience to the order of his party. He had killed him tranquilly, but at sight of this human countenance, inanimate, calm, but still false, pitiable in spite of everything, he suddenly lost his esteem for himself and his work. He considered himself as the most indifferent, the least interesting, of beings. Being a man of will, he did not leave his party; apparently he remained the same; but from that time there was something cold and terrifying in his eyes. He said nothing to anyone.
He possessed also a very rare quality: he knew not fear. He pitied those of his comrades who had this feeling, especially Vasily Kashirin. But his pity was cold, almost official.
Werner understood that the execution was not simply death, but also something more. In any case, he was determined to meet it calmly, to live until the end as if nothing had happened or would happen. Only in this way could he express the profoundest contempt for the execution and preserve his liberty of mind. In the courtroom—his comrades, although knowing well his cold and haughty intrepidity, perhaps would not have believed it themselves—he thought not of life or of death: he played in his mind a difficult game of chess, giving it his deepest and quietest attention. An excellent player, he had begun this game on the very day of his imprisonment, and he kept it up continually. And the verdict that condemned him did not displace a single piece on the invisible board.
The idea that he probably would not finish the game did not stop Werner. On the morning of the last day he began by correcting a plan that had failed the night before. With hands pressed between his knees, he sat a long time motionless; then he arose, and began to walk, reflecting. He had a gait of his own; the upper part of his body inclined a little forward, and he brought down his heels forcibly; even when the ground was dry, he left clear footprints behind him. He whistled softly a rather simple Italian melody, which helped him to reflect.
But now he was shrugging his shoulders and feeling his pulse. His heart beat fast, but tranquilly and regularly, with a sonorous force. Like a novice thrown into prison for the first time, he examined attentively the cell, the bolts, the chair screwed to the wall, and said to himself:
“Why have I such a sensation of joy, of liberty? Yes, of liberty; I think of to-morrow’s execution, and it seems to me that it does not exist. I look at the walls, and they seem to me not to exist either. And I feel as free as if instead of being in prison, I had just come out of another cell in which I had been confined all my life.”
Werner’s hands began to tremble, a thing unknown to him. His thought became more and more vibrant. It seemed to him that tongues of fire were moving in his head, trying to escape from his brain to lighten the still obscure distance. Finally the flame darted forth, and the horizon was brilliantly illuminated.
The vague lassitude that had tortured Werner during the last two years had disappeared at the sight of death; his beautiful youth came back as he played. It was even something more than beautiful youth. With the astonishing clearness of mind that sometimes lifts man to the supreme heights of meditation, Werner saw suddenly both life and death; and the majesty of this new spectacle struck him. He seemed to be following a path as narrow as the edge of a blade, on the crest of the loftiest mountain. On one side he saw life, and on the other he saw death; and they were like two deep seas, sparkling and beautiful, melting into each other at the horizon in a single infinite extension.
“What is this, then? What a divine spectacle!” said he slowly.
He arose involuntarily and straightened up, as if in presence of the Supreme Being. And, annihilating the walls, annihilating space and time, by the force of his all-penetrating look, he cast his eyes into the depths of the life that he had quitted.
And life took on a new aspect. He no longer tried, as of old, to translate into words what he was; moreover, in the whole range of human language, still so poor and miserly, he found no words adequate. The paltry, dirty, and evil things that suggested to him contempt and sometimes even disgust at the sight of men had completely disappeared, just as, to people rising in a balloon, the mud and filth of the narrow streets become invisible and ugliness changes into beauty.
With an unconscious movement Werner walked toward the table and leaned upon it with his right arm. Haughty and authoritarian by nature, he had never been seen in a prouder, freer, and more imperious attitude; never had his face worn such a look, never had he so lifted up his head, for at no previous time had he been as free and powerful as now, in this prison, on the eve of execution, at the threshold of death.
In his illuminated eyes men wore a new aspect, an unknown beauty and charm. He hovered above time, and never had this humanity, which only the night before was howling like a wild beast in the forests, appeared to him so young. What had heretofore seemed to him terrible, unpardonable, and base became suddenly touching and naïve, just as we cherish in the child the awkwardness of its behaviour, the incoherent stammerings in which its unconscious genius glimmers, its laughable errors and blunders, its cruel bruises.
“My dear friends!”
Werner smiled suddenly, and his attitude lost its haughty and imposing force. Again he became the prisoner suffering in his narrow cell, weary of seeing a curious eye steadily fixed upon him through the door. He sat down, but not in his usual stiff position, and looked at the walls and the gratings with a weak and gentle smile such as his face had never worn. And something happened which had never happened to him before: he wept.
“My dear comrades!” he whispered, shedding bitter tears. “My dear comrades!”
What mysterious path had he followed to pass from a feeling of unlimited and haughty liberty to this passionate and moving pity? He did not know. Did he really pity his comrades, or did his tears hide something more passionate, something really greater? His heart, which had suddenly revived and reblossomed, could not tell him. Werner wept, and whispered:
“My dear comrades! My dear comrades!”
And in this man who wept, and who smiled through his tears, no one—not the judges, or his comrades, or himself—would have recognized the cold and haughty Werner, skeptical and insolent.
ON THE WAY TO THE GALLOWS
Before getting into the vehicles, all five of the condemned were gathered in a large cold room with an arched ceiling, resembling an abandoned office or an unused reception-room. They were permitted to talk with each other.
Only Tanya Kovalchuk took immediate advantage of the permission. The others pressed in silence hands as cold as ice or as hot as fire; dumb, trying to avoid each other’s gaze, they formed a confused and distracted group. Now that they were reunited, they seemed to be ashamed of what they had felt individually in the solitude. They were afraid to look at each other, afraid to show the new, special, somewhat embarrassing thing that they felt or suspected in each other.
Nevertheless, they did look, and, after a smile or two, all found themselves at ease, as before; no change revealed itself, or, if something had happened, all had taken an equal share in it, so that nothing special was noticeable in any one of them. All talked and moved in a queer and jerky fashion, impulsively, either too slowly or too quickly. Sometimes one of them quickly repeated the same words, or else failed to finish a phrase that he had begun or thought he had already spoken. But nothing of all this did they notice. All blinkingly examined the familiar objects without recognizing them, like people who have suddenly taken off their glasses. They often turned around quickly, as if someone were calling them from the rear. But they did not notice this. The cheeks and ears of Musya and Tanya were burning. At first Sergey was a little pale; he soon recovered, and appeared as usual.
Vasily alone attracted attention. Even in such a group he was extraordinary and dreadful. Werner was moved, and said in a low voice to Musya, with deep anxiety:
“What is the matter with him, Musya? Is it possible that he has . . .? Really, we must speak to him.”
Vasily looked at Werner from a distance, as if he had not recognized him; then he lowered his eyes.
“But, Vasily, what is the matter with your hair? What is the matter with you? It is nothing, brother, it will soon be over! We must control ourselves! We really must!”
Vasily did not break the silence. But, when they had already concluded that he would say absolutely nothing, there came a hollow, tardy, terribly distant reply, such as the grave might give up after a long appeal:
“But there is nothing the matter with me. I am in control of myself!”
“I am in control of myself!”
Werner was delighted.
“Good, good! You are a brave fellow! All is well!”
But, when his eyes met the dark and heavy gaze of Vasily, he felt a momentary anguish, asking himself: “But whence does he look? whence does he speak?” In a tone of deep tenderness, he said:
“Vasily, do you hear? I love you much!”
“And I too, I love you much!” replied a tongue that moved painfully.
Suddenly Musya seized Werner by the arm, and, expressing her astonishment forcibly, like an actress on the stage, she said:
“Werner, what is the matter with you? You said: ‘I love you’? You never said that to anyone before. And why is your face so sparkling and your voice so tender? What is it? What is it?”
And Werner, also in the manner of an actor dwelling upon his words, answered, as he pressed the young girl’s hand:
“Yes, I love, now! Do not tell the others. I am ashamed of it, but I love my brothers passionately!”
Their eyes met and burst into flame: everything about them became extinct, just as all other lights pale in the fugitive flash of the lightning.
“Yes!” said Musya. “Yes, Werner!”
“Yes!” he answered. “Yes, Musya, yes!”
They had understood something and ratified it forever. With sparkling eyes and quick steps, Werner moved on again in the direction of Sergey.
But it was Tonya Kovalchuk that answered. Full of joy, almost weeping with maternal pride, she pulled Sergey violently by the sleeve.
“Just listen, Werner! I weep on his account. I torment myself, and he, he does gymnastics!”
“The Müller system?” asked Werner, with a smile.
Sergey, somewhat confused, knit his brows.
“You do wrong to laugh, Werner! I have absolutely convinced myself . . .”
Everybody began to laugh. Gaining strength and firmness from their mutual communion, they gradually became again what they used to be; they did not notice it, and thought that they were always the same. Suddenly Werner stopped laughing; with perfect gravity he said to Sergey:
“You are right, Sergey! You are perfectly right!”
“Understand this then!” rejoined Sergey, satisfied. “Of course we . . .”
Just then they were asked to get into the vehicles. The officials even had the amiability to allow them to place themselves in their own fashion, in pairs. In general, they were very amiable with them, even too much so; were they trying to give evidence of a little humanity, or to show that they were not responsible for what was taking place and that everything was happening of itself? It is impossible to say, but all those taking part were pale.
“Go with him, Musya!” said Werner, pointing the young girl to Vasily, who stood motionless.
“I understand!” she answered, nodding her head. “And you?”
“I? Tanya will go with Sergey, you with Vasily. As for me, I shall be alone! What matters it? I can stand it, you know!”
When they had reached the courtyard, the damp and slightly warm air fell softly upon their faces and eyes, cut their breathing, and penetrated their shivering bodies, purifying them. It was hard to believe that this stimulant was simply the wind, a spring wind, gentle and moist.
The astonishing spring night had a flavor of melted snow, of infinite space; it made the stones resound. Brisk and busy little drops of water fell rapidly, one after another, making a sonorous song. But, if one of them delayed a little or fell too soon, the song changed into a joyous splash, an animated confusion. Then a big drop fell heavily, and again the spring-like song began, rhythmical and sonorous. Above the city, higher than the walls of the fortress, was the pale halo formed by the electric lights.
Sergey Golovin heaved a deep sigh, and then held his breath, as if regretting to expel from his lungs air so pure and fresh.
“Have we had this fine weather long?” Werner inquired. “It is spring!”
“Only since yesterday!” they answered politely and promptly. “There have been many cold days.”
One after another the black vehicles came up, took in two persons, and went away in the darkness, toward the spot where a lantern was swinging in the gateway. Around each vehicle were moving the gray outlines of soldiers; their horses’ shoes resounded loudly; often the beasts slipped on the wet snow.
When Werner bent to get into the vehicle, a gendarme said to him, in a vague way:
“There is another in there who goes with you!”
Werner was astonished.
“Who goes where? Ah! Yes! Another one! Who is it?”
The soldier said nothing. In a dark corner something small and motionless, but alive, lay rolled up; an open eye shone under an oblique ray of the lantern. As he sat down, Werner brushed against a knee with his foot.
“Pardon me, comrade!”
There was no answer. Not until the vehicle had started did the man ask hesitatingly, in bad Russian:
“Who are you?”
“My name is Werner, sentenced to be hanged for an attempt upon the life of XX. And you?”
“I am Yanson. . . . I must not be hanged. . . .”
In two hours they would be face to face with the great mystery as yet unsolved; in two hours they would leave life for death; thither both were going; and yet they became acquainted. Life and death were marching simultaneously on two different planes, and to the very end, even in the most laughable and most stupid details, life remained life.
“What did you do, Yanson?”
“I stuck a knife into my boss. I stole money.”
From the sound of his voice it seemed as if Yanson were asleep. Werner found his limp hand in the darkness, and pressed it. Yanson lazily withdrew it.
“You are afraid?” asked Werner.
“I do not want to be hanged.”
They became silent. Again Werner found the Esthonian’s hand, and pressed it tightly between his dry and burning palms. It remained motionless, but Yanson did not try again to release it.
They stifled in the cramped vehicle, whost musty smell mingled with the odors of the soldiers’ uniform, of the muck-heap, and of wet leather. The breath of a young gendarme, redolent of garlic and bad tobacco, streamed continually into the face of Werner, who sat opposite. But the keen fresh air came in at the windows, and thanks to this the presence of spring was felt in the little moving box even more plainly than outside. The vehicle turned now to the right, now to the left; sometimes it seemed to turn around and go back. There were moments when it appeared to the prisoners as if they had been going in a circle for hours. At first the bluish electric light came in between the heavy lowered curtains; then suddenly, after a turn, darkness set in; it was from this that the travellers gathered that they had reached the suburbs and were approaching the station of S——. Sometimes, at a sudden turn, Werner’s bent and living knee brushed in a friendly way against the bent and living knee of the gendarme, and it was hard to believe in the approaching execution.
“Where are we going?” asked Yanson, suddenly. The continuous and prolonged shaking of the sombre vehicle gave him vertigo and a little nausea.
Werner answered, and pressed the Esthonian’s hand more tightly than before. He would have liked to say specially friendly and kind words to this little sleeping man, whom already he loved more than anyone in the world.
“Dear friend! I think that you are in an uncomfortable position! Draw nearer to me!”
At first Yanson said nothing, but after a moment he replied:
“Thank you! I am comfortable! And you, they are going to hang you too?”
“Yes!” replied Werner, with an unlooked-for gaiety, almost laughing. He made a free-and-easy gesture, as if they were speaking of some futile and stupid prank that a band of affectionate practical jokers were trying to play upon them.
“You have a wife?” asked Yanson.
“No! A wife! I! No, I am alone!”
“So am I! I am alone.”
Werner, too, was beginning to feel the vertigo. At times it seemed to him that he was on his way to some festivity. A queer thing; almost all those who were going to the execution had the same feeling; although a prey to fear and anguish, they rejoiced vaguely in the extraordinary thing that was about to happen. Reality became intoxicated on madness, and death, coupling with life, gave birth to phantoms.
“Here we are at last!” said Werner, gay and curious, when the vehicle stopped; and he leaped lightly to the ground. Not so with Yanson, who resisted, without saying a word, very lazily it seemed, and who refused to descend. He clung to the handle of the door; the gendarme loosened his weak fingers, and grasped his arm. Ivan caught at the corner, at the door, at the high wheel, but yielded at every intervention of the gendarme. He adhered to things rather than gripped them. And it was not necessary to use much force to loosen his grasp. In short, they prevailed over him.
As always at night, the station was dark, deserted, and inanimate. The passenger trains had already passed, and for the train that was waiting on the track for the prisoners there was no need of light or activity. Werner was seized with ennui. He was not afraid, he was not in distress, but he was bored; an immense, heavy, fatiguing ennui filled him with a desire to go away no matter where, lie down, and close his eyes. He stretched himself, and yawned repeatedly.
“If only they did these things more quickly!” said he, wearily.
Yanson said nothing, and shuddered.
When the condemned passed over the deserted platform surrounded with soldiers, on their way to the poorly-lighted railway carriages, Werner found himself placed beside Sergey Golovin. The latter designated something with his hand, and began to speak; his neighbor clearly understood only the word “lamp”; the rest of the phrase was lost in a weary and prolonged yawn.
“What did you say?” asked Werner, yawning also.
“The reflector . . . the lamp of the reflector is smoking,” said Sergey.
Werner turned around. It was true; the glass shades were already black.
“Yes, it is smoking!”
Suddenly he thought: “What matters it to me whether the lamp is smoking, when . . .?” Sergey undoubtedly had the same idea. He threw a quick glance at Werner, and turned away his head. But both stopped yawning.
All walked to the train without difficulty; Yanson alone had to be led. At first he stiffened his legs, and glued the soles of his feet to the platform; then he bent his knees. The entire weight of his body fell upon the arms of the policemen; his legs dragged like those of a drunken man; and the toes of his boots ground against the wooden platform. With a thousand difficulties, but in silence, they lifted him into the railway-carriage.
Vasily Kashirin himself walked unsupported; unconsciously he imitated the movements of his comrades. After mounting the steps of the carriage, he drew back; a policeman took him by the elbow to sustain him. Then Vasily began to tremble violently and uttered a piercing cry, pushing away the policeman!
“Vasily, what is the matter with you?” asked Werner rushing toward him.
Vasily kept silence, shivering the while. The policeman, vexed and even chagrined, explained:
“I wanted to sustain him, and he—he . . .”
“Come, Vasily, I will sustain you,” said Werner.
He tried to take his comrade’s arm. But the latter repulsed him, and cried louder than ever.
“Vasily, it is I, Werner!”
“I know! Don’t touch me! I want to walk alone!”
And, still trembling, he entered the carriage and sat down in a corner. Werner leaned toward Musya, and asked in a low voice, designating Vasily with his eyes:
“Well, how are things with him?”
“Badly!” answered Musya, in a whisper. “He is already dead. Tell me, Werner, does death really exist?”
“I don’t know, Musya; but I think not!” answered Werner in a serious and thoughtful tone.
“That is what I thought! And he? I suffered on his account during the whole ride; it seemed to me that I was travelling beside a dead man.”
“I don’t know, Musya. Perhaps death still exists for some. Later it will not exist at all. For me, for instance, death has existed, but now it exists no more.”
The slightly pallid cheeks of Musya reddened.
“It has existed for you, Werner? For you?”
“Yes, but no more. As for you!”
They heard a sound at the door of the railway carriage; Michka the Tzigane entered spitting, breathing noisily, and making a racket with his boot-heels. He glanced about him, and stopped short.
“There is no room left, officer!” he declared to the fatigued and irritated policeman. “See to it that I travel comfortably, otherwise I will not go with you! Rather hang me right here, to the lamp-post! Oh, the scoundrels, what a carriage they have given me! Do you call this a carriage? The devil’s guts, yes, but not a carriage!”
But suddenly he lowered his head, stretched out his neck, and advanced towards the other prisoners. From the frame of his bushy hair and beard his black eyes shot a savage, sharp, and rather crazy look.
“Oh, my God!” he cried; “so this is where we are! How do you do, sir!”
He sat down opposite Werner, holding out his hand; then with a wink, he leaned over and swiftly passed his hand across his companion’s neck:
“You too? Eh?”
“Yes!” smiled Werner.
“Oh! oh!” said the Tzigane, showing his teeth. He examined the other prisoners with a swift glance, which nevertheless dwelt longest on Musya and Yanson.
“On account of the Minister?”
“Oh, sir, my case is quite another story. I am not so distinguished! I, sir, am a brigand, an assassin. That makes no difference, sir; move up a little to make room for me; it is not my fault that they have put me in your company! In the other world there will be room for all.”
He took the measure of all the prisoners with a watchful, distrustful, and savage gaze. But they looked at him without a word, seriously and even with evident compassion. Again he showed his teeth, and slapped Werner several times on the knee.
“So that is how it is, sir! As they say in the song:
“‘Take care to make no sound, O forest of green oaks!” “Why do you call me sir, when all of us . . .”
“You are right!” acquiesced the Tzigane, with satisfaction. “Why should you be sir, since you are to be hanged beside me? There sits the real sir!”
He pointed his finger at the silent policeman.
“And your comrade yonder, he doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself hugely!” he added, looking at Vasily. “Say there, you are afraid?”
“No!” answered a tongue that moved with difficulty.
“Well, then, don’t be so disturbed; there is nothing to be ashamed of. It is only dogs that wag their tails and show their teeth when they are going to be hanged; you are a man. And this marionette, who is he? He certainly is not one of your crowd?”
His eyes danced incessantly; constantly, with a hissing sound, he spat out his abundant and sweetish saliva. Yanson, doubled up motionless in a corner, slightly shook the ears of his bald fur cap, but said nothing. Werner answered for him.
“He killed his employer.”
“My God!” exclaimed the Tzigane, in astonishment. “How is it that they permit such birds as that to kill people?”
For a moment he looked at Musya stealthily; then suddenly he turned, and fixed his straight and piercing gaze upon her.
“Miss! Say there, Miss! what is the matter with you? Your cheeks are pink, and you are laughing! Look, she is really laughing! Look! Look!” And he seized Werner’s knee with his hooked fingers.
Blushing and somewhat confused, Musya squarely returned the gaze of the attentive and savage eyes that questioned her. All kept silence.
The little cars bounced speedily along the narrow track. At every turn or grade-crossing the whistle blew, the engineer being afraid of crushing somebody. Was it not atrocious to think that so much care and effort, in short all human activity, was being expended in taking men to be hanged? The maddest thing in the world was being done with an air of simplicity and reasonableness. Cars were running; people were sitting in them as usual, travelling as people ordinarily travel. Then there would be a halt as usual: “Five minutes’ stop.”
And then would come death—eternity—the great mystery.
The train advanced rapidly.
Sergey Golovin remembered to have spent the summer, some years before, in a little country-house along this very line. He had often travelled the road by day and by night, and knew it well. Closing his eyes, he could fancy himself returning by the last train, after staying out late at night with friends.
“I shall arrive soon,” thought he, straightening up: and his eyes met the dark grated window. Around him nothing stirred. Only the Tzigane kept on spitting, and his eyes ran the length of the car, seeming to touch the doors and the soldiers.
“It is cold,” said Vasily Kashirin between his thin lips, which seemed frozen.
Tanya Kovalchuk bestirred herself in a maternal fashion:
“Here’s a very warm kerchief to wrap around your . . .”
“Neck?” asked Sergey, and he was frightened by his own question.
“What matters it, Vasya? Take it.”
“Wrap yourself up. You will be warmer,” added Werner.
He turned to Yanson, and asked him tenderly:
“And aren’t you cold, too?”
“Werner, perhaps he wants to smoke. Comrade, do you want to smoke?” asked Musya. “We have some tobacco.”
“Yes, I want to.”
“Give him a cigarette, Sergey,” said Werner.
But Sergey was already holding out his cigarette-case.
And all began to watch tenderly Yanson’s clumsy fingers as they took the cigarette and struck the match, and the little curl of bluish smoke that issued from his mouth.
“Thank you,” said Yanson. “It is good.”
“How queer it is,” said Sergey.
“How queer what is?” asked Werner.
“The cigarette,” answered Sergey, unwilling to say all that he thought.
Yanson held the cigarette between his pale and living fingers. With astonishment he looked at it. And all fixed their gaze on this tiny bit of paper, on this little curl of smoke rising from the gray ashes.
The cigarette went out.
“It is out,” said Tanya.
“Yes, it is out.”
“The devil take it!” said Werner, looking anxiously at Yanson, whose hand, holding the cigarette, hung as if dead. Suddenly the Tzigane turned, placed his face close to Werner’s, and, looking into the whites of his eyes, whispered:
“Suppose, sir, we were to attack the soldiers of the convoy? What do you think about it?”
“No,” answered Werner.
“Why? It is better to die fighting. I will strike a blow, they strike back, and I shall die without noticing it.”
“No, it is not necessary,” said Werner. And he turned to Yanson:
“Why don’t you smoke?”
Yanson’s dried-up face wrinkled pitifully, as if someone had pulled the threads that moved the creases in his face. As in a nightmare, Yanson sobbed in a colorless voice, shedding no tears:
“I can’t smoke. Ah! Ah! Ah! I must not be hanged. Ah! Ah! Ah!”
Everybody turned toward him. Tanya, weeping copiously, stroked his arms and readjusted his fur cap.
“My dear, my friend, don’t cry, my friend! My poor friend!”
Suddenly the cars bumped into one another and began to slow up. The prisoners rose, but immediately sat down again.
“Here we are,” said Sergey.
It was as if all the air had suddenly been pumped out of the car. It became difficult to breathe. Their swollen hearts became heavy in their breasts, rose to their throats, beat desperately and their blood, in its terror, seemed to revolt. Their eyes looked at the trembling floor, their ears listened to the slowly-turning wheels, which began to turn more slowly still, and gently stopped.
The train halted.
The prisoners were plunged into a strange stupor. They did not suffer. They seemed to live an unconscious life. Their corporeal being was absent; only its phantom moved about, voiceless but speaking, silent but walking. They went out. They arranged themselves in pairs, breathing in the fresh air of the woods. Like one in a dream, Yanson struggled awkwardly: they dragged him from the car.
“Are we to go on foot?” asked someone, almost gaily.
“It isn’t far,” answered a careless voice.
Without a word they advanced into the forest, along a damp and muddy road. Their feet slipped and sank into the snow, and their hands sometimes clung involuntarily to those of their comrades. Breathing with difficulty the soldiers marched in single file, on either side of the prisoners. An irritated voice complained:
“Could they not have cleared the road? It is difficult to advance.”
A deferential voice answered:
“It was cleaned, Your Honour, but it is thawing. There is nothing to be done.”
The prisoners began to recover their consciousness. Now they seemed to grasp the idea: “It is true, they could not clean the roads”; now it became obscured again, and there remained only the sense of smell, which perceived with singular keenness the strong and healthy odor of the forest; and now again all became very clear and comprehensible, the forest, and the night, and the road . . . and the certainty that very soon, in a minute, implacable death would lay its hands upon them. And little by little a whispering began.
“It is almost four o’clock.”
“I told you so. We started too early.”
“The sun rises at five.”
“That’s right, at five: we should have waited.”
They halted in the twilight. Near by, behind the trees, whose huge shadows were waving on the ground, swung silently two lanterns. There the gallows had been erected.
“I have lost one of my rubbers,” said Sergey.
“Well?” asked Werner, not understanding.
“I have lost it. I am cold.”
“Where is Vasily?”
“I don’t know. There he is.”
Vasily was standing close by them, gloomy and motionless.
“Where is Musya?”
“Here I am. Is that you, Werner?”
They looked at each other, their eyes avoiding the silent and terrible significant swaying of the lanterns. At the left the thin forest seemed to be growing lighter. And beyond, something vast and gray and flat appeared, whence came a moist breeze.
“That is the sea,” said Sergey, sucking in the damp air. “That is the sea.”
Musya answered by a line from the song:
“My love as broad as is the sea.” “What did you say, Musya?”
“The shores of life cannot contain My love as broad as is the sea.”
“‘My love as broad as is the sea,'” repeated Sergey, pensively.
“‘My love as broad as is the sea,'” echoed Werner. And suddenly he exclaimed in astonishment:
“Musya, my little Musya, how young you still are!”
Just then, close to Werner’s ear, sounded the breathless and passionate voice of the Tzigane:
“Sir, sir, look at the forest. My God! What is all that? And yonder! The lanterns! My God, is that the scaffold?”
Werner looked at him. The convulsed features of the unfortunate man were frightful to see.
“We must say our farewells,” said Tanya.
“Wait! They still have to read the sentence. Where is Yanson?”
Yanson lay stretched in the snow, surrounded by people. A strong smell of ammonia filled the air around him.
“Well, doctor, will you soon be through?” asked someone, impatiently.
“It’s nothing. A fainting fit. Rub his ears with snow. He is better already. You can read.”
The light of a dark lantern fell upon the paper and the ungloved white hands. Both paper and hands trembled. The voice also.
“Gentlemen, perhaps it is better not to read. You all know the sentence.”
“Do not read!” answered Werner for all; and the light immediately went out.
The condemned refused also the services of the priest. Said the Tzigane:
“No nonsense, father; you will forgive me, they will hang me.”
The broad dark silhouette of the priest took a few steps backward and disappeared. The day was breaking. The snow became whiter, the faces of the condemned darker, and the forest barer and sadder.
“Gentlemen, you will go in pairs, choosing your companion. But I beg you to make haste.”
Werner pointed to Yanson, who now was standing again, sustained by two soldiers.
“I will go with him. You, Sergey, take Vasily. You go first.”
“I am going with you, Musya,” said Tanya. “Come, let us kiss each other!”
Quickly they kissed all round. The Tzigane kissed forcibly; they felt his teeth. Yanson kissed gently and softly, with mouth half open. He did not seem to understand what he was doing. When Sergey and Kashirin had taken a few steps, the latter stopped suddenly, and in a loud voice, which seemed strange and unfamiliar, shouted:
“Good-bye, comrade,” they answered him.
The two started off again. All was quiet. The lanterns behind the trees became motionless. They expected to hear a cry, a voice, some sound or other, but there as here all was calm.
“Oh! My God!” exclaimed someone hoarsely.
They turned around: it was the Tzigane, crying desperately:
“They are going to hang us.”
He struggled, clutching the air with his hands, and cried again:
“God! Am I to be hanged alone? My God!”
His convulsive hands gripped the hand of Werner, and he continued:
“Sir, my dear sir, my good sir. You will come with me, won’t you?”
Werner, his face drawn with sorrow, answered:
“I cannot; I am with Yanson.”
“Oh! My God! then I shall be alone. Why? Why?”
Musya took a step toward him, and said softly:
“I will go with you.”
The Tzigane drew back, and fixed his big swollen eyes upon her:
“But you are so little! You are not afraid of me? No, I don’t want you to. I will go alone.”
“But I am not afraid of you.”
The Tzigane grinned.
“Don’t you know that I am a brigand? And you are willing to go with me? Think a moment. I shall not be angry if you refuse.”
Musya was silent. And in the faint light of the dawn her face seemed to take on a luminous and mystic pallor. Suddenly she advanced rapidly toward the Tzigane, and, taking his head in her hands, kissed him vigorously. He took her by the shoulders, put her away a little, and then kissed her loudly on her cheeks and eyes.
The soldier nearest them stopped, opened his hands, and let his gun fall. But he did not stoop to pick it up. He stood still for a moment, then turned suddenly, and began to walk into the forest.
“Where are you going?” shouted his comrade, in a frightened voice. “Stay!”
But the other painfully endeavored to advance. Suddenly he clutched the air with his hands, and fell, face downward.
“Milksop, pick up your gun, or I will pick it up for you,” cried the Tzigane, firmly. “You don’t know your duty. Have you never seen a man die?”
Again the lantern swung. The turn of Werner and Yanson had come.
“Good-bye, sir!” said the Tzigane, in a loud voice. “We shall meet again in the other world. When you see me there, don’t turn away from me.”
“I must not be hanged,” said Yanson again, in a faint voice.
But Werner grasped his hand, and Yanson took a few steps. Then he was seen to sink into the snow. They bent over him, lifted him up, and carried him, while he weakly struggled in the soldiers’ arms.
And again the yellow lanterns became motionless.
“And I, Musya? Am I then to go alone?” said Tanya, sadly. “We have lived together, and now . . .”
“Tanya, my good Tanya!”
The Tzigane hotly interrupted, holding Musya as if he feared that they might tear her from him.
“Miss,” he cried, “you are able to go alone. You have a pure soul. You can go alone where you like. But I cannot. I am a bandit. I cannot go alone. ‘Where are you going?’ they will say to me, ‘you who have killed, you who have stolen?’ For I have stolen horses, too, Miss. And with her I shall be as if I were with an innocent child. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand. Go on then! Let me kiss you once more, Musya.”
“Kiss each other! Kiss each other!” said the Tzigane. “You are women. You must say good-bye to each other.”
Then came the turn of Musya and the Tzigane. The woman walked carefully, her feet slipping, lifting her skirts by force of habit. Holding her with a strong hand, and feeling the ground with his foot, the man accompanied her to death. The lights became motionless. Around Tanya all was tranquil again, and solitary. The soldiers, gray in the dawn’s pale light, were silent.
“I am left alone,” said Tanya. And she sighed. “Sergey is dead, Werner and Vasily are dead. And Musya is dying. I am alone. Soldiers, my little soldiers, you see, I am alone, alone . . .”
The sun appeared above the sea. . . .
They placed the bodies in boxes, and started off with them. With elongated necks, bulging eyes, and blue tongues protruding from their mouths, the dead retraced the road by which, living, they had come.
And the snow was still soft, and the air of the forest was still pure and balmy.
On the white road lay the black rubber that Sergey had lost. . . .
Thus it was that men greeted the rising sun.