The Seven Who Were Hanged Part 8

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

"Look! That is you!"

She would look and would answer:

"No, it is not I."

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

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

"But you will die and become like that."

"No, I will not die."

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

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

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

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

"You must not be too familiar with Death."

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

"No, Werner, my dear; it is all nonsense; it isn't at all important whether or not you are killed. You are a sensible man, but you seem to be playing chess, and that by taking one figure after another the game is won. The important thing, Werner, is that we ourselves are ready to die. Do you understand? What do those people think? That there is nothing more terrible than death. They themselves have invented Death, they are themselves afraid of it, and they try to frighten us with it.

I should like to do this--I should like to go out alone before a whole regiment of soldiers and fire upon them with a revolver. It would not matter that I would be alone, while they would be thousands, or that I might not kill any of them. It is that which is important--that they are thousands. When thousands kill one, it means that the one has conquered.

That is true, Werner, my dear...."

But this, too, became so clear to her that she did not feel like arguing further--Werner must understand it himself. Perhaps her mind simply did not want to stop at one thought--just as a bird that soars with ease, which sees endless horizons, and to which all s.p.a.ce, all the depth, all the joy of the soft and caressing azure are accessible. The bell of the clock rang unceasingly, disturbing the deep silence. And into this harmonious, remote, beautiful sound the thoughts of the people flowed, and also began to ring for her; and the smoothly gliding images turned into music. It was just as if, on a quiet, dark night, Musya was riding along a broad, even road, while the easy springs of the carriage rocked her and the little bells tinkled. All alarm and agitation had pa.s.sed, the fatigued body had dissolved in the darkness, and her joyously wearied fancy calmly created bright images, carried away by their color and their peaceful tranquillity. Musya recalled three of her comrades who had been hanged but a short time before, and their faces seemed bright and happy and near to her--nearer than those in life. Thus does a man think with joy in the morning of the house of his friends where he is to go in the evening, and a greeting rises to his smiling lips.

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

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

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

And now, suddenly, she seemed to hear clearly and distinctly the sounds of military music. In astonishment, she opened her eyes, lifted her head--outside the window was black night, and the clock was striking.

"Again," she thought calmly, and closed her eyes. And as soon as she did so the music resounded anew. She could hear distinctly how the soldiers, a whole regiment, were coming from behind the corner of the fortress, on the right, and now they were pa.s.sing her window. Their feet beat time with measured steps upon the frozen ground: One--two! One--two! She could even hear at times the leather of the boots creaking, how suddenly some one's foot slipped and immediately recovered its steps. And the music came ever nearer--it was an entirely unfamiliar but a very loud and spirited holiday march. Evidently there was some sort of celebration in the fortress.

Now the band came up alongside of her window and the cell was filled with merry, rhythmic, harmoniously blended sounds. One large bra.s.s trumpet brayed harshly out of tune, now too late, now comically running ahead--Musya could almost see the little soldier playing it, a great expression of earnestness on his face--and she laughed.

Then everything moved away. The footsteps died out--One--two! One--two!

At a distance the music sounded still more beautiful and cheerful. The trumpet resounded now and then with its merry, loud bra.s.s voice, out of tune,--and then everything died away. And the clock on the tower struck again, slowly, mournfully, hardly stirring the silence.

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

"Come again!" she begged tenderly. And more came. The figures bent over her, they surrounded her in a transparent cloud and lifted her up, where the migrating birds were soaring and screaming, like heralds. On the right of her, on the left, above and below her--they screamed like heralds. They called, they announced from afar their flight. They flapped their wide wings and the darkness supported them, even as the light had supported them. And on their convex b.r.e.a.s.t.s, cleaving the air asunder, the city far below reflected a blue light. Musya's heart beat ever more evenly, her breathing grew ever more calm and quiet. She was falling asleep. Her face looked fatigued and pale. Beneath her eyes were dark circles, her girlish, emaciated hands seemed so thin,--but upon her lips was a smile. To-morrow, with the rise of the sun, this human face would be distorted with an inhuman grimace, her brain would be covered with thick blood, and her eyes would bulge from their sockets and look gla.s.sy,--but now she slept quietly and smiled in her great immortality.

Musya fell asleep.

And the life of the prison went on, deaf and sensitive, blind and sharp-sighted, like eternal alarm itself. Somewhere people were walking.

Somewhere people were whispering. A gun clanked. It seemed as if some one shouted. Perhaps no one shouted at all--perhaps it merely seemed so in the silence.

The little cas.e.m.e.nt window in the door opened noiselessly. A dark, mustached face appeared in the black hole. For a long time it stared at Musya in astonishment--and then disappeared as noiselessly as it had appeared.

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

Somewhere people were walking. Somewhere people were whispering. And they were already harnessing the horses to the black carriages without lanterns.

CHAPTER VIII THERE IS DEATH AS WELL AS LIFE

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

And he did everything well: he was an excellent sailor, an expert shot with the revolver. He was as faithful in friends.h.i.+p as in love, and a fanatic believer in the "word of honor." His comrades laughed at him, saying that if the most notorious spy told him upon his word of honor that he was not a spy, Sergey would believe him and would shake hands with him as with any comrade. He had one fault,--he was convinced that he could sing well, whereas in fact he had no ear for music and even sang the revolutionary songs out of tune, and felt offended when his friends laughed at him.

"Either you are all a.s.ses, or I am an a.s.s," he would declare seriously and even angrily. And all his friends as seriously declared: "You are an a.s.s. We can tell by your voice."

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

He feared death so little and thought of it so little that on the fatal morning, before leaving the house of Tanya Kovalchuk, he was the only one who had breakfasted properly, with an appet.i.te. He drank two gla.s.ses of tea with milk, and a whole five-copeck roll of bread. Then he glanced at Werner's untouched bread and said:

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

"I don't feel like eating."

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

"You have a fine appet.i.te, Seryozha."

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

"Hostile whirlwinds are blowing over us..."

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

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

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

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

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