The same council-chamber of the military district court which had
condemned Yanson had also condemned to death a peasant of the
Government of Oryol, of the District of Yeletzk, Mikhail Golubets,
nicknamed Tsiganok, also Tatarin. His latest crime, proven beyond
question, had been the murder of three people and armed robbery. Behind
that, his dark past disappeared in a depth of mystery. There were vague
rumors that he had participated in a series of other murders and
robberies, and in his path there was felt to be a dark trail of blood,
fire, and drunken debauchery. He called himself murderer with utter
frankness and sincerity, and scornfully regarded those who, according
to the latest fashion, styled themselves “expropriators.” Of his last
crime, since it was useless for him to deny anything, he spoke freely
and in detail, but in answer to questions about his past, he merely
gritted his teeth, whistled, and said:
“Search for the wind of the fields!”
When he was annoyed in cross-examination, Tsiganok assumed a serious
and dignified air:
“All of us from Oryol are thoroughbreds,” he would say gravely and
deliberately. “Oryol and Kroma are the homes of first-class thieves.
Karachev and Livna are the breeding-places of thieves. And Yeletz—is
the parent of all thieves. Now—what else is there to say?”
He was nicknamed Tsiganok (gypsy) because of his appearance and his
thievish manner. He was black-haired, lean, with yellow spots on his
prominent, “Tartar-like cheek-bones. His glance was swift, brief, but
fearfully direct and searching, and the thing upon which he looked for
a moment seemed to lose something, seemed to deliver up to him a part
of itself, and to become something else. It was just as unpleasant and
repugnant to take a cigarette at which he looked, as though it had
already been in his mouth. There was a certain constant restlessness in
him, now twisting him like a rag, now throwing him about like a body of
coiling live wires. And he drank water almost by the bucket.
To all questions during the trial he answered shortly, firmly, jumping
up quickly, and at times he seemed to answer even with pleasure.
“Correct!” he would say.
Sometimes he emphasized it.
“Cor-r-rect!”
At one time, suddenly, when they were speaking of something that would
hardly have seemed to suggest it, he jumped to his feet and asked the
presiding judge:
“Will you allow me to whistle?”
“What for?” asked the judge, surprised.
“They said that I gave the signal to my comrades. I would like to show
you how. It is very interesting.”
The judge consented, somewhat wonderingly. Tsiganok quickly placed four
fingers in his mouth, two fingers of each hand, rolled his eyes
fiercely—and then the dead air of the courtroom was suddenly rent by a
real, wild, murderer’s whistle—at which frightened horses leap and rear
on their hind legs and human faces involuntarily blanch. The mortal
anguish of him who is to be assassinated, the wild joy of the murderer,
the dreadful warning, the call, the gloom and loneliness of a stormy
autumn night—all this rang in his piercing shriek, which was neither
human nor beastly.
The presiding officer shouted—then waved his arm at Tsiganok, and
Tsiganok obediently became silent. And, like an artist who had
triumphantly performed a difficult aria, he sat down, wiped his wet
fingers upon his coat, and surveyed those present with an air of
satisfaction.
“What a robber!” said one of the judges, rubbing his ear.
Another one, however, with a wild Russian beard, but with the eyes of a
Tartar, like those of Tsiganok, gazed pensively above Tsiganok’s head,
then smiled and remarked:
“It is indeed interesting.”
With light hearts, without mercy, without the slightest pangs of
conscience, the judges brought out against Tsiganok a verdict of death.
“Correct!” said Tsiganok, when the verdict was pronounced. “In the open
field and on a cross-beam! Correct!”
And turning to the convoy, he hurled with bravado:
“Well, are we not going? Come on, you sour-coat. And hold your gun—I
might take it away from you!”
The soldier looked at him sternly, with fear, exchanged glances with
his comrade, and felt the lock of his gun. The other did the same. And
all the way to the prison the soldiers felt that they were not walking
but flying through the air—as if hypnotized by the prisoner, they felt
neither the ground beneath their feet, nor the passage of time, nor
themselves.
Mishka Tsiganok, like Yanson, had had to spend seventeen days in prison
before his execution. And all seventeen days passed as though they were
one day—they were bound up in one inextinguishable thought of escape,
of freedom, of life. The restlessness of Tsiganok, which was now
repressed by the walls and the bars and the dead window through which
nothing could be seen, turned all its fury upon himself and burned his
soul like coals scattered upon boards. As though he were in a drunken
vapor, bright but incomplete images swarmed upon him, failing and then
becoming confused, and then again rushing through his mind in an
unrestrainable blinding whirlwind—and all were bent toward escape,
toward liberty, toward life. With his nostrils expanded, like those of
a horse, Tsiganok smelt the air for hours long—it seemed to him that he
could smell the odor of hemp, of the smoke of fire—the colorless and
biting smell of burning. Now he whirled about in the room like a top,
touching the walls, tapping them nervously with his fingers from time
to time, taking aim, boring the ceiling with his gaze, filing the
prison bars. By his restlessness, he had tired out the soldiers who
watched him through the little window, and who, several times, in
despair, had threatened to shoot. Tsiganok would retort, coarsely and
derisively, and the quarrel would end peacefully because the dispute
would soon turn into boorish, unoffending abuse, after which shooting
would have seemed absurd and impossible.
Tsiganok slept during the nights soundly, without stirring, in
unchanging yet live motionlessness, like a wire spring in temporary
inactivity. But as soon as he arose, he immediately commenced to walk,
to plan, to grope about. His hands were always dry and hot, but his
heart at times would suddenly grow cold, as if a cake of unmelting ice
had been placed upon his chest, sending a slight, dry shiver through
his whole body. At such times, Tsiganok, always dark in complexion,
would turn black, assuming the shade of bluish cast-iron. And he
acquired a curious habit; as though he had eaten too much of something
sickeningly sweet, he kept licking his lips, smacking them, and would
spit on the floor, hissingly, through his teeth. When he spoke, he did
not finish his words, so rapidly did his thoughts run that his tongue
was unable to compass them.
One day the chief warden, accompanied by a soldier, entered his cell.
He looked askance at the floor and said gruffly:
“Look! How dirty he has made it!”
Tsiganok retorted quickly:
“You’ve made the whole world dirty, you fat-face, and yet I haven’t
said anything to you. What brings you here?”
The warden, speaking as gruffly as before, asked him whether he would
act as executioner. Tsiganok burst out laughing, showing his teeth.
“You can’t find any one else? That’s good! Go ahead, hang! Ha! ha! ha!
The necks are there, the rope is there, but there is nobody to string
it up. By God! that’s good!”
“You’ll save your neck if you do it.”
“Of course—I couldn’t hang them if I were dead. Well said, you fool!”
“Well, what do you say? Is it all the same to you?”
“And how do you hang them here? I suppose they’re choked on the sly.”
“No, with music,” snarled the warden.
“Well, what a fool! Of course it can be done with music. This way!” and
he began to sing, with a bold and daring swing.
“You have lost your wits, my friend,” said the warden. “What do you
say? Speak sensibly.”
Tsiganok grinned.
“How eager you are! Come another time and I’ll tell you.”
After that, into that chaos of bright, yet incomplete images which
oppressed Tsiganok by their impetuosity, a new image came—how good it
would be to become a hangman in a red shirt. He pictured to himself
vividly a square crowded with people, a high scaffold, and he,
Tsiganok, in a red shirt walking about upon the scaffold with an ax.
The sun shone overhead, gaily flashing from the ax, and everything was
so gay and bright that even the man whose head was soon to be chopped
off was smiling. And behind the crowd, wagons and the heads of horses
could be seen—the peasants had come from the village; and beyond them,
further, he could see the village itself.
“Ts-akh!”
Tsiganok smacked his lips, licking them, and spat. And suddenly he felt
as though a fur cap had been pushed over his head to his very mouth—it
became black and stifling, and his heart again became like a cake of
unmelting ice, sending a slight, dry shiver through his whole body.
The warden came in twice again, and Tsiganok, showing his teeth, said:
“How eager you are! Come in again!”
Finally one day the warden shouted through the casement window as he
passed rapidly:
“You’ve let your chance slip by, you fool! We’ve found somebody else.”
“The devil take you! Hang yourself!” snarled Tsiganok, and he stopped
dreaming of the execution.
But toward the end, the nearer he approached the time, the weight of
the fragments of his broken images became unbearable. Tsiganok now felt
like standing still, like spreading his legs and standing—but a
whirling current of thoughts carried him away and there was nothing at
which he could clutch—everything about him swam. And his sleep also
became uneasy. Dreams even more violent than his thoughts appeared—new
dreams, solid, heavy, like wooden painted blocks. And it was no longer
like a current, but like an endless fall to an endless depth, a
whirling flight through the whole visible world of colors.
When Tsiganok was free he had worn only a pair of dashing mustaches,
but in the prison a short, black, bristly beard grew on his face and it
made him look fearsome, insane. At times Tsiganok really lost his
senses and whirled absurdly about in the cell, still tapping upon the
rough, plastered walls nervously. And he drank water like a horse.
At times toward evening when they lit the lamp, Tsiganok would stand on
all fours in the middle of his cell and would howl the quivering howl
of a wolf. He was peculiarly serious while doing it, and would howl as
though he were performing an important and indispensable act. He would
fill his chest with air and then exhale it, slowly in a prolonged
tremulous howl, and, cocking his eyes, would listen intently as the
sound issued forth. And the very quiver in his voice seemed in a manner
intentional. He did not scream wildly, but drew out each note carefully
in that mournful wail full of untold sorrow and terror.
Then he would suddenly break off howling and for several minutes would
remain silent, still standing on all fours. Then suddenly he would
mutter softly, staring at the ground:
“My darlings, my sweethearts!... My darlings, my sweethearts! have
pity.... My darlings!... My sweethearts!”
And it seemed again as if he were listening intently to his own voice.
As he said each word he would listen.
Then he would jump up and for a whole hour would curse continually.
He cursed picturesquely, shouting and rolling his blood-shot eyes.
“If you hang me—hang me!” and he would burst out cursing again.
And the sentinel, in the meantime white as chalk, weeping with pain and
fright, would knock at the door with the butt-end of the gun and cry
helplessly:
“I’ll fire! I’ll kill you as sure as I live! Do you hear?”
But he dared not shoot. If there was no actual rebellion they never
fired at those who had been condemned to death. And Tsiganok would
gnash his teeth, would curse and spit. His brain thus racked on a
monstrously sharp blade between life and death was falling to pieces
like a lump of dry clay.
When they entered the cell at midnight to lead Tsiganok to the
execution he began to bustle about and seemed to have recovered his
spirits. Again he had that sweet taste in his mouth, and his saliva
collected abundantly, but his cheeks turned rosy and in his eyes began
to glisten his former somewhat savage slyness. Dressing himself he
asked the official:
“Who is going to do the hanging? A new man? I suppose he hasn’t learned
his job yet.”
“You needn’t worry about it,” answered the official dryly.
“I can’t help worrying, your Honor. I am going to be hanged, not you.
At least don’t be stingy with the government’s soap on the noose.”
“All right, all right! Keep quiet!”
“This man here has eaten all your soap,” said Tsiganok, pointing to the
warden. “See how his face shines.”
“Silence!”
“Don’t be stingy!”
And Tsiganok burst out laughing. But he began to feel that it was
getting ever sweeter in his mouth, and suddenly his legs began to feel
strangely numb. Still, on coming out into the yard, he managed to
exclaim:
“The carriage of the Count of Bengal!”