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 friendship 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 asses, or I am an ass,” he would declare seriously
and even angrily. And all his friends as seriously declared: “You are
an ass. 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 appetite. He drank two
glasses 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 appetite, 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 Müller, 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 Müller 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 assume
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
Müller 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:
“It is foolish, Sergey! To die more easily, you should weaken the body
and not strengthen it. It is foolish!”
So he dropped his gymnastics and the rub-downs. To the soldier he
shouted, as if to explain and justify himself:
“Never mind that I have stopped. It’s a good thing, my friend,—but not
for those who are to be hanged. But it’s very good for all others.”
And, indeed, he began to feel somewhat better. He tried also to eat
less, so as to grow still weaker, but notwithstanding the lack of pure
air and exercises, his appetite was very good,—it was difficult for him
to control it, and he ate everything that was brought to him. Then he
began to manage differently—before starting to eat he would pour out
half into the pail, and this seemed to work. A dull drowsiness and
faintness came over him.
“I’ll show you what I can do!” he threatened his body, and at the same
time sadly, yet tenderly he felt his flabby, softened muscles with his
hand.
Soon, however, his body grew accustomed to this regime as well, and the
fear of death appeared again—not so keen, nor so burning, but more
disgusting, somewhat akin to a nauseating sensation. “It’s because they
are dragging it out so long,” thought Sergey. “It would be a good idea
to sleep all the time till the day of the execution,” and he tried to
sleep as much as possible. At first he succeeded, but later, either
because he had slept too much, or for some other reason, insomnia
appeared. And with it came eager, penetrating thoughts and a longing
for life.
“I am not afraid of this devil!” he thought of Death. “I simply feel
sorry for my life. It is a splendid thing, no matter what the
pessimists say about it. What if they were to hang a pessimist? Ah, I
feel sorry for life, very sorry! And why does my beard grow now? It
didn’t grow before, but suddenly it grows—why?”
He shook his head mournfully, heaving long, painful sighs. Silence—then
a sigh; then a brief silence again—followed by a longer, deeper sigh.
Thus it went on until the trial and the terrible meeting with his
parents. When he awoke in his cell the next day he realized clearly
that everything between him and life was ended, that there were only a
few empty hours of waiting and then death would come,—and a strange
sensation took possession of him. He felt as though he had been
stripped, stripped entirely,—as if not only his clothes, but the sun,
the air, the noise of voices and his ability to do things had been
wrested from him. Death was not there as yet, but life was there no
longer,—there was something new, something astonishing, inexplicable,
not entirely reasonable and yet not altogether without
meaning,—something so deep and mysterious and supernatural that it was
impossible to understand.
“Fie, you devil!” wondered Sergey, painfully. “What is this? Where am
I? I—who am I?”
He examined himself attentively, with interest, beginning with his
large prison slippers, ending with his stomach where his coat
protruded. He paced the cell, spreading out his arms and continuing to
survey himself like a woman in a new dress which is too long for her.
He tried to turn his head, and it turned. And this strange, terrible,
uncouth creature was he, Sergey Golovin, and soon he would be no more!
Everything became strange.
He tried to walk across the cell—and it seemed strange to him that he
could walk. He tried to sit down—and it seemed strange to him that he
could sit. He tried to drink some water—and it seemed strange to him
that he could drink, that he could swallow, that he could hold the cup,
that he had fingers and that those fingers were trembling. He choked,
began to cough and while coughing, thought: “How strange it is that I
am coughing.”
“Am I losing my reason?” thought Sergey, growing cold. “Am I coming to
that, too? The devil take them!”
He rubbed his forehead with his hand, and this also seemed strange to
him. And then he remained breathless, motionless, petrified for hours,
suppressing every thought, all loud breathing, all motion,—for every
thought seemed to him but madness, every motion—madness. Time was no
more; it appeared transformed into space, airless and transparent, into
an enormous square upon which all were there—the earth and life and
people. He saw all that at one glance, all to the very end, to the
mysterious abyss—Death. And he was tortured not by the fact that Death
was visible, but that both Life and Death were visible at the same
time. The curtain which through eternity has hidden the mystery of life
and the mystery of death was pushed aside by a sacrilegious hand, and
the mysteries ceased to be mysteries—yet they remained
incomprehensible, like the Truth written in a foreign tongue. There
were no conceptions in his human mind, no words in his human language
that could define what he saw. And the words “I am afraid” were uttered
by him only because there were no other words, because no other
conceptions existed, nor could other conceptions exist which would
grasp this new, un-human condition. Thus would it be with a man if,
while remaining within the bounds of human reason, experience and
feelings, he were suddenly to see God Himself. He would see Him but
would not understand, even though he knew that it was God, and he would
tremble with inconceivable sufferings of incomprehension.
“There is Müller for you!” he suddenly uttered loudly, with extreme
conviction, and shook his head. And with that unexpected break in his
feelings, of which the human soul is so capable, he laughed heartily
and cheerfully.
“Oh, Müller! My dear Müller! Oh, you splendid German! After all you are
right, Müller, and I am an ass!”
He paced the cell quickly several times and to the great astonishment
of the soldier who was watching him through the peephole, he quickly
undressed himself and cheerfully went through all the eighteen
exercises with the greatest care. He stretched and expanded his young,
somewhat emaciated body, sat down for a moment, drew deep breaths of
air and exhaled it, stood up on tip-toe, stretched his arms and his
feet. And after each exercise he announced, with satisfaction:
“That’s it! That’s the real way, Müller!” His cheeks flushed; drops of
warm, pleasant perspiration came from the pores of his body, and his
heart beat soundly and evenly.
“The fact is, Müller,” philosophized Sergey, expanding his chest so
that the ribs under his thin, tight skin were outlined clearly,—“the
fact is, that there is a nineteenth exercise—to hang by the neck
motionless. That is called execution. Do you understand, Müller? They
take a live man, let us say Sergey Golovin, they swaddle him as a doll
and they hang him by the neck until he is dead. It is a foolish
exercise, Müller, but it can’t be helped,—we have to do it.”
He bent over on the right side and repeated:
“We have to do it, Müller.”