Just as Tanya Kovalchuk had thought all her life only of others and
never of herself, so now she suffered and grieved painfully, but only
for her comrades. She pictured death, only as awaiting them, as
something tormenting only to Sergey Golovin, to Musya, to the others—as
for herself, it did not concern her.
As a recompense for her firmness and restraint in the courtroom she
wept for long hours, as old women who have experienced great misery, or
as very sympathetic and kind-hearted young people know how to weep. And
the fear that perhaps Seryozha was without tobacco or Werner without
the strong tea to which he was accustomed, in addition to the fact that
they were to die, caused her no less pain than the idea of the
execution itself. Death was something inevitable and even unimportant,
of which it was not worth while to think; but for a man in prison,
before his execution, to be left without tobacco—that was altogether
unbearable. She recalled and went over in her mind all the pleasant
details of their life together, and then she grew faint with fear when
she pictured to herself the meeting between Sergey and his parents.
She felt particularly sorry for Musya. It had long seemed to her that
Musya loved Werner, and although this was not a fact, she still dreamed
of something good and bright for both of them. When she had been free,
Musya had worn a silver ring, on which was the design of a skull,
bones, and a crown of thorns about them. Tanya Kovalchuk had often
looked upon the ring as a symbol of doom, and she would ask Musya, now
in jest, now in earnest, to remove the ring.
“Make me a present of it,” she had begged.
“No, Tanechka, I will not give it to you. But perhaps you will soon
have another ring upon your finger.”
For some reason or other they all in turn had thought that she would
doubtless soon marry, and this had offended her—she wanted no husband.
And recalling these half-jesting conversations with Musya, and the fact
that now Musya was actually condemned to death, she choked with tears
in her maternal pity. And each time the clock struck she raised her
tear-stained face and listened—how were they in the other cells
receiving this drawn-out, persistent call of death?
But Musya was happy.
With her hands folded behind her back, dressed in a prisoner’s garb
which was much too large for her, and which made her look very much
like a man—like a stripling dressed in some one else’s clothes—she
paced her cell evenly and tirelessly. The sleeves of the coat were too
long for her, and she turned them up, and her thin, almost childish,
emaciated hands peeped out of the wide holes like a beautiful flower
out of a coarse earthen jug. The rough material of the coat rubbed her
thin white neck, and sometimes Musya would free her throat with both
hands and would cautiously feel the spot where the irritated skin was
red and smarted.
Musya paced the cell, and, blushing in agitation, she imagined that she
was justifying herself before the people. She tried to justify herself
for the fact that she, who was so young, so insignificant, who had done
so little, and who was not at all a heroine, was yet to undergo the
same honorable and beautiful death by which real heroes and martyrs had
died before her. With unshakable faith in human kindness, in their
compassion, in their love, she pictured to herself how people were now
agitated on her account, how they suffered, how they pitied her, and
she felt so ashamed that she blushed, as if, by dying upon the
scaffold, she had committed some tremendous, awkward blunder.
At the last meeting with their counsel she had asked him to bring her
poison, but suddenly she had changed her mind. What if he and the
others, she thought, should consider that she was doing it merely to
become conspicuous, or out of cowardice, that instead of dying modestly
and unnoticed, she was attempting to glorify herself. And she added
hastily:
“No, it isn’t necessary.”
And now she desired but one thing—to be able to explain to people, to
prove to them so that they should have not the slightest doubt that she
was not at all a heroine, that it was not terrible to die, that they
should not feel sorry for her, nor trouble themselves about her. She
wished to be able to explain to them that she was not at all to blame
that she, who was so young and so insignificant, was to undergo such a
martyr’s death, and that so much trouble should be made on her account.
Like a person who is actually accused of a crime, Musya sought
justification. She endeavored to find something that would at least
make her sacrifice more momentous, which might give it real value. She
reasoned:
“Of course, I am young and could have lived for a long time. But—”
And as a candle darkens in the glare of the rising sun, so her youth
and her life seemed dull and dark compared to that great and
resplendent radiance which would shine above her simple head. There was
no justification.
But perhaps that peculiar something which she bore in her
soul—boundless love, boundless eagerness to do great deeds, her
boundless contempt for herself—was a justification in itself. She felt
that she was really not to blame that she was hindered from doing the
things she could have done, which she had wished to do—that she had
been smitten upon the threshold of the temple, at the foot of the
altar.
But if that were so, if a person is appreciated not only for what he
has done, but also for what he had intended to do—then—then she was
worthy of the crown of the martyr!
“Is it possible?” thought Musya bashfully. “Is it possible that I am
worthy of it? That I deserve that people should weep for me, should be
agitated over my fate, over such a little and insignificant girl?”
And she was seized with sudden joy. There were no doubts, no
hesitations—she was received into their midst—she entered justified the
ranks of those noble people who always ascend to heaven through fires,
tortures and executions. Bright peace and tranquillity and endless,
calmly radiant happiness! It was as if she had already departed from
earth and was nearing the unknown sun of truth and life, and was
incorporeally soaring in its light.
“And that is—Death? That is not Death!” thought Musya blissfully.
And if scientists, philosophers and hangmen from the world over should
come to her cell, spreading before her books, scalpels, axes and
nooses, and were to attempt to prove to her that Death existed, that a
human being dies and is killed, that there is no immortality, they
would only surprise her. How could there be no deathlessness, since she
was already deathless? Of what other deathlessness, of what other
death, could there be a question, since she was already dead and
immortal, alive in death, as she had been dead in life?
And if a coffin were brought into her cell with her own decomposing
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 space, 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 passed, 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 God! 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 passing 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 brass
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 brass 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 brass 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 breasts, 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 glassy,—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 casement 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.