The Story of the Seven Hanged Men. Leonid Andreev The Story of the Seven Hanged Men The Story of the Seven Hanged Men download fb2

"The Tale of the Seven Hanged Men"

In “The Tale of the Seven Hanged Men” L.N. Andreev explores the psychological state of the heroes sentenced to execution. Each character in the work experiences the approach of death in his own way. First L.N. Andreev talks about the torment of an obese minister fleeing an assassination attempt by terrorists, which he was informed about. At first, while there were people around him, he experienced a feeling of pleasant excitement. Left alone, the minister plunges into an atmosphere of animal fear. He recalls recent cases of assassination attempts on high-ranking officials and literally identifies his body with those scraps of human flesh that he once saw at crime scenes.

L.N. Andreev does not spare artistic details to depict naturalistic details: “... From these memories, my own corpulent, sick body, stretched out on the bed, seemed already alien, already experiencing the fiery force of an explosion.” Analyzing his own psychological state, the minister understands that he would calmly drink his coffee. In the work, the idea arises that it is not death itself that is terrible, but its knowledge, especially if the day and hour of your end are indicated. The minister understands that he will have no peace until he survives this hour for which the alleged assassination attempt is scheduled. The tension of the whole organism reaches such strength that it thinks that the aorta will not withstand it and that it may physically not be able to cope with the growing excitement.

Further in the story L.N. Andreev explores the fate of seven prisoners sentenced to death by hanging. Five of them are exactly the same terrorists who were caught in the unsuccessful assassination attempt. The writer gives detailed portraits of them, in which already during the trial scene signs of approaching death are visible: sweat appears on the prisoners’ foreheads, their fingers tremble, there is a desire to scream and break their fingers.

For prisoners, the special torture is also not so much the execution itself, during which they behave courageously and with dignity, supporting each other, but the long wait.

L.N. Andreev consistently presents the reader with a whole gallery of images of terrorists. These are Tanya Kovalchuk, Musya, Werner, Sergei Golovin and Vasily Kashirin. The most difficult test before death for the heroes is a meeting with their parents. “The execution itself, in all its monstrous unusualness, in its brain-shattering madness, seemed easier to the imagination and did not seem as terrible as these few minutes, short and incomprehensible, standing as if outside of time, as if outside life itself,” - this is how he conveys feelings Sergei Golovin before the execution of L.N. Andreev. The writer conveys the excited state of the hero before the date through a gesture: Sergei furiously “paces around the cell,” plucks his beard, and frowns. However, the parents try to behave courageously and support Sergei. The father is in a state of tortured, desperate firmness. Even the mother only kissed and sat down silently, did not cry, but smiled strangely. Only at the end of the date, when the parents kiss Sergei jealously, do tears appear in their eyes. However, at the last minute, the father again supports his son and blesses him to die. In this artistically expressive scene, the writer glorifies the power of parental love, the most selfless and selfless feeling in the world.

Only his mother comes to see Vasily Kashirin on a date. As if in passing, we learn that his father is a rich merchant. The parents do not understand their son’s actions and condemn him. However, the mother still came to say goodbye. During the date, she seems to not understand the current situation, asks why her son is cold, and reproaches him for the last minutes of the date.

It is symbolic that they cry in different corners of the room, even in the face of death, talking about something empty and unnecessary. Only after the mother leaves the prison building does she clearly understand that her son will be hanged tomorrow. L.N. Andreev emphasizes that the mother’s torment is perhaps a hundred times stronger than the experiences of the person doomed to execution. The old woman falls, crawls on the icy crust, and she imagines that she is feasting at a wedding, and they keep pouring wine on her. In this scene, where grief borders on a crazy vision, the full force of despair of the heroine is conveyed, who will never attend her son’s wedding, will not see him happy.

Tanya Kovalchuk worries primarily about her comrades. Musya is happy to die as a heroine and martyr: “There is no doubt, no hesitation, she is accepted into the fold, she rightfully joins the ranks of those bright ones who, from time immemorial, go to the high sky through the fire, torture and execution.” Basking in her romantic dreams, she had already mentally stepped into immortality. Musya was ready for madness for the sake of the triumph of a moral victory, for the sake of euphoria from the madness of her “feat.” “I would even like this: to go out alone in front of a whole regiment of soldiers and start shooting at them from a Browning gun. Even if I am alone, and there are thousands of them, I will not kill anyone. This is what is important, that there are thousands of them. When thousands kill one, it means that one has won,” the girl reasons.

Sergei Golovin feels sorry for his young life. His fear was especially acute after physical exercise. While in freedom, he felt at these moments a special upsurge of cheerfulness. In the last hours, the hero feels as if he has been exposed: “There is no death yet, but there is no longer life, but there is something new, amazingly incomprehensible, and either completely devoid of meaning, or having meaning, but so deep, mysterious and inhuman that it is impossible to open it.” Every thought and every movement in the face of death seems madness to the hero. Time seems to stop for him, and at this moment both life and death simultaneously become visible to him. However, Sergei, through an effort of will, still forces himself to do gymnastics.

Vasily Kashirin rushes around the cell, suffering as if from a toothache. It is noteworthy that he held his own better than others when preparations were underway for a terrorist attack, as he was inspired by the feeling of affirming “his daring and fearless will.”

In prison, he is suppressed by his own powerlessness. Thus, L.N. Andreev shows how the situation with which the hero approaches death affects the person’s very perception of this event.

The most intelligent member of the terrorist group is Werner, who knows several languages, has an excellent memory and a strong will. He decided to take a philosophical approach to death, because he did not know what fear was. At the trial, Werner does not think about death or even about life, but plays a difficult chess game. At the same time, he is not at all stopped by the fact that he may not finish the game. However, before his execution, he still mourns his comrades.

Along with the terrorists, two more murderers were sentenced to execution: Ivan Yanson, the worker who sent his master to the next world, and the robber Mishka Tsyganka. Before his death, Janson withdraws into himself and repeats the same phrase all the time: “I don’t need to be hanged.” The gypsy is offered to become an executioner himself and thereby buy his own life, but he hesitates. Depicts L.N. in detail. Andreev’s torment of the hero, who either imagines himself as an executioner, or is horrified by these thoughts: “... It became dark and stuffy, and the heart became a piece of unmelting ice, sending out small dry tremors.” One day, in a moment of extreme spiritual weakness, Gypsy howls with a trembling wolf howl. And this animal howl amazes with the horror and sorrow reigning in the soul of the Gypsy. If Janson is constantly in the same detached state, then the Gypsy, on the contrary, is haunted by contrasts: he either begs for mercy, then swears, then cheers up, then he is overwhelmed by wild cunning. “His human brain, placed on the monstrously sharp line between life and death, fell apart like a lump of dry and weathered clay,”

Writes L.N. Andreev, thereby emphasizing the idea that the personality of a person sentenced to death begins to disintegrate during his lifetime. A recurring detail in the story is symbolic: “Yanson constantly adjusts the dirty red scarf around his neck. Tanya Kovalchuk suggests that the freezing Vasily Kashirin tie a warm scarf around his neck, and Musa rubs a woolen collar on his neck.”

The main idea of the story is that each of us, in the face of death, must think about the main thing, that even the last minutes of human existence have a special meaning, perhaps the most important in life, revealing the essence of our personality. “The Tale of the Seven Hanged Men” was written in line with the mood of the early 20th century, when the theme of fate, fate, and the confrontation between life and death took center stage in literature. Transition, catastrophism, loss of social supports - all these features determined the relevance of the story's problems.

Leonid Andreev

The Tale of the Seven Hanged Men

1. At one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency

Since the minister was a very obese man, prone to apoplexy, he was warned with all precautions, avoiding causing dangerous excitement, that a very serious attempt was being prepared on his life. Seeing that the minister greeted the news calmly and even with a smile, they also reported the details: the assassination attempt was to take place the next day, in the morning, when he leaves with a report; Several terrorists, already betrayed by the provocateur and now under the vigilant surveillance of detectives, must gather at the entrance at one o'clock in the afternoon with bombs and revolvers and wait for his exit. This is where they will be captured.

“Wait,” the minister was surprised, “how do they know that I will go at one o’clock in the afternoon with a report, when I myself only found out about it the day before?”

The head of security waved his hands vaguely:

- Exactly at one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency.

Either surprised or approving of the actions of the police, who arranged everything so well, the minister shook his head and smiled gloomily with his thick dark lips; and with the same smile, obediently, not wanting to further interfere with the police, he quickly got ready and left to spend the night in someone else’s hospitable palace. Also taken away from the dangerous house, near which the bomb throwers will gather tomorrow, were his wife and two children.

While the lights were burning in a strange palace and friendly, familiar faces were bowing, smiling and indignant, the dignitary experienced a feeling of pleasant excitement - as if he had already been given or would now be given a large and unexpected reward. But the people left, the lights went out, and through the mirrored glass the lacy and ghostly light of electric lanterns fell on the ceiling and walls; a stranger to the house, with its paintings, statues and the silence that entered from the street, he himself was quiet and vague, he awakened an alarming thought about the futility of locks, guards and walls. And then at night, in the silence and loneliness of someone else’s bedroom, the dignitary became unbearably afraid.

He had something wrong with his kidneys, and with every strong excitement his face, legs and arms became filled with water and swollen, and from this he seemed to become even larger, even thicker and more massive. And now, towering like a mountain of swollen meat above the crushed springs of the bed, with the melancholy of a sick person, he felt his swollen, as if someone else’s, face and persistently thought about the cruel fate that people were preparing for him. He remembered, one after another, all the recent terrible cases in which bombs had been thrown at people of his dignitary and even higher positions, and the bombs had torn bodies to shreds, splashed brains on dirty brick walls, knocked teeth out of their sockets. And from these Memories, one’s own corpulent, sick body, stretched out on the bed, seemed already alien, already experiencing the fiery force of an explosion; and it seemed as if the arms were separated from the body at the shoulders, the teeth were falling out, the brain was being divided into particles, the legs were going numb and lying obediently, with their toes up, like those of a dead person. He moved vigorously, breathed loudly, coughed so as not to resemble a dead man, surrounded himself with the living noise of ringing springs and a rustling blanket; and to show that he was completely alive, not a bit dead and far from death, like any other person, he loudly and abruptly boomed in the silence and loneliness of the bedroom:

- Well done! Well done! Well done!

It was he who praised the detectives, the police and the soldiers, all those who protected his life and so timely, so cleverly prevented the murder. But moving, but praising, but smiling with a violent crooked smile to express his mockery of the stupid terrorist losers, he still did not believe in his salvation, in the fact that life would not suddenly, immediately, leave him. The death that people had planned for him and which was only in their thoughts, in their intentions, as if it was already standing here, and will stand, and will not go away until they are captured, the bombs are taken away from them and they are put in a strong prison . She stands in that corner and doesn’t leave—she can’t leave, like an obedient soldier, put on guard by someone’s will and order.

- At one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency! - the spoken phrase sounded, shimmering into all the voices: now cheerful and mocking, now angry, now stubborn and stupid. It was as if they had placed a hundred wound-up gramophones in the bedroom, and all of them, one after another, with the idiotic diligence of a machine, shouted out the words ordered to them:

- At one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency.

And this “tomorrow hour of the day,” which so recently was no different from others, was only a calm movement of the hand along the dial of a gold watch, suddenly acquired an ominous conviction, jumped out of the dial, began to live separately, stretched out like a huge black pillar for the rest of its life. cutting in two. It was as if no other hours existed either before him or after him, and he alone, arrogant and self-important, had the right to some kind of special existence.

- Well? What do you want? – the minister asked angrily through clenched teeth.

The gramophones screamed:

- At one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency! “And the black pillar grinned and bowed.

Gritting his teeth, the minister rose up in bed and sat down, resting his face in his palms - he could not sleep that disgusting night.

And with terrifying brightness, clutching his face with his plump, perfumed palms, he imagined how tomorrow morning he would get up, knowing nothing, then drink coffee, knowing nothing, then get dressed in the hallway. And neither he, nor the doorman who served the fur coat, nor the footman who brought the coffee, would have known that it is completely pointless to drink coffee, put on a fur coat, when in a few moments all this: the fur coat, and his body, and the coffee that is in him, will be destroyed by explosion, taken by death. Here the doorman opens the glass door... And it is he, the sweet, kind, affectionate doorman, who has blue soldier’s eyes and medals all over his chest, who opens the terrible door with his own hands - he opens it because he doesn’t know anything. Everyone smiles because they don't know anything.

- Wow! – he suddenly said loudly and slowly moved his palms away from his face.

And, looking into the darkness, far in front of him, with a stopped, intense gaze, he just as slowly extended his hand, groped for the horn and turned on the light. Then he got up and, without putting on his shoes, walked around the strange unfamiliar bedroom with his bare feet on the carpet, found another horn from the wall lamp and lit it. It became light and pleasant, and only the disturbed bed with the blanket falling to the floor spoke of some kind of horror that had not yet completely passed.

In nightwear, with a beard tousled from restless movements, with angry eyes, the dignitary looked like any other angry old man who has insomnia and severe shortness of breath. It was as if the death that people were preparing for him had exposed him, torn him away from the pomp and impressive splendor that surrounded him - and it was difficult to believe that he had so much power, that this body of his, such an ordinary, simple human body, should have It’s scary to die in the fire and roar of a monstrous explosion. Without dressing and not feeling the cold, he sat down in the first chair he came across, propped up his tousled beard with his hand and concentratedly, in deep and calm thoughtfulness, stared at the unfamiliar stucco ceiling.

So that's the thing! So that's why he was so scared and so excited! So that's why she stands in the corner and doesn't leave and can't leave!

- Fools! - he said contemptuously and weightily.

- Fools! – he repeated louder and slightly turned his head towards the door so that those to whom this concerned could hear. And this applied to those whom he recently called well done and who, in excess of zeal, told him in detail about the impending assassination attempt.

“Well, of course,” he thought deeply, with a suddenly stronger and smoother thought, “after all, now that they told me, I know and I’m scared, but then I wouldn’t know anything and would calmly drink coffee. Well, and then, of course, this death - but am I really so afraid of death? My kidneys hurt, and I’ll die someday, but I’m not afraid, because I don’t know anything. And these fools said: at one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency. And they thought, fools, that I would be happy, but instead she stood in the corner and did not leave. It doesn't go away because it's my thought. And it is not death that is terrible, but the knowledge of it; and it would be completely impossible to live if a person could quite accurately and definitely know the day and hour when he would die. And these fools warn: “At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency!”

It became so easy and pleasant, as if someone had told him that he was completely immortal and would never die. And, again feeling strong and smart among this herd of fools who so senselessly and brazenly burst into the mystery of the future, he thought about the bliss of ignorance with the heavy thoughts of an old, sick man who has experienced a lot. Nothing living, neither man nor beast, is given the ability to know the day and hour of its death. He was ill recently, and the doctors told him that he was going to die, that he needed to make final orders, but he did not believe them and actually remained alive. And in his youth it was like this: he got confused in life and decided to commit suicide; and he prepared the revolver, and wrote letters, and even set an hour for suicide, but just before the end he suddenly changed his mind. And always, at the very last moment, something can change, an unexpected accident can appear, and that is why no one can say to himself when he will die.

1. At one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency

Wait,” the minister was surprised, “how do they know that I will go at one o’clock in the afternoon with a report, when I myself only found out about it the day before?”

The head of security waved his hands vaguely:

Exactly at one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency.

While the lights were burning in a strange palace and friendly, familiar faces were bowing, smiling and indignant, the dignitary experienced a feeling of pleasant excitement - as if he had already been given or would now be given a great and unexpected reward. But the people left, the lights went out, and through the mirrored glass the lacy and ghostly light of electric lanterns fell on the ceiling and walls; a stranger to the house, with its paintings, statues and the silence that entered from the street, he himself was quiet and vague, he awakened an alarming thought about the futility of locks, guards and walls. And then at night, in the silence and loneliness of someone else’s bedroom, the dignitary became unbearably afraid.

Well done! Well done! Well done!

It was he who praised the detectives, the police and the soldiers, all those who protected his life and so timely, so cleverly prevented the murder. But moving, but praising, but smiling with a violent crooked smile to express his mockery of the stupid terrorist losers, he still did not believe in his salvation, in the fact that life would not suddenly, immediately, leave him. The death that people had planned for him and which was only in their thoughts, in their intentions, as if it was already standing here, and will stand, and will not go away until they are captured, the bombs are taken away from them and they are put in a strong prison . She stands in that corner and doesn’t leave - she can’t leave, like an obedient soldier, put on guard by someone’s will and order.

Leonid Andreev

The Tale of the Seven Hanged Men

Dedicated to L. I. Tolstoy

"1. AT ONE AFTERNOON, YOUR EXCELLENCY"

Since the minister was a very obese man, prone to apoplexy, with all precautions, avoiding causing dangerous excitement, he was warned that a very serious attempt was being prepared on his life. Seeing that the minister greeted the news calmly and even with a smile, they also reported the details: the assassination attempt was to take place the next day, in the morning, when he leaves with a report; Several terrorists, already betrayed by the provocateur and now under the vigilant surveillance of detectives, must gather at the entrance at one o'clock in the afternoon with bombs and revolvers and wait for his exit. This is where they will be captured.

Wait,” the minister was surprised, “how do they know that I will go at one o’clock in the afternoon with a report, when I myself only found out about it the day before?”

The head of security waved his hands vaguely:

Exactly at one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency.

While the lights were burning in a strange palace and friendly, familiar faces were bowing, smiling and indignant, the dignitary experienced a feeling of pleasant excitement - as if he had already been given or would now be given a great and unexpected reward. But the people left, the lights went out, and through the mirrored glass the lacy and ghostly light of electric lanterns lay on the ceiling and walls; a stranger to the house, with its paintings, statues and the silence that entered from the street, he himself was quiet and vague, he awakened an alarming thought about the futility of locks, guards and walls. And then at night, in the silence and loneliness of someone else’s bedroom, the dignitary became unbearably afraid.

There was something wrong with his kidneys, and with every strong excitement, his face, legs and arms became filled with water and swollen, and from this he seemed to become even larger, even thicker and more massive. And now, towering over the crushed springs of the bed like a mountain of swollen meat, he, with the melancholy of a sick person, felt his swollen, as if someone else’s, face and persistently thought about the cruel fate that people were preparing for him. He remembered, one after another, all the recent terrible cases when bombs had been thrown at people of his dignitary and even higher position, and the bombs had torn bodies to shreds, splashed brains on dirty brick walls, knocked teeth out of their sockets. And from these Memories, one’s own corpulent, sick body, stretched out on the bed, seemed already alien, already experiencing the fiery force of an explosion; and it seemed as if the arms were separated from the body at the shoulders, the teeth were falling out, the brain was being divided into particles, the legs were going numb and lying obediently, with their toes up, like those of a dead person. He moved vigorously, breathed loudly, coughed so as not to resemble a dead man, surrounded himself with the living noise of ringing springs and a rustling blanket; and to show that he was completely alive, not a bit dead and far from death, like any other person, he loudly and abruptly boomed in the silence and loneliness of the bedroom:

Well done! Well done! Well done!

It was he who praised the detectives, the police and the soldiers, all those who protected his life and so timely, so cleverly prevented the murder. But moving, but praising, but smiling with a violent crooked smile to express his mockery of the stupid terrorist losers, he still did not believe in his salvation, in the fact that life would not suddenly, immediately, leave him. The death that people had planned for him and which was only in their thoughts, in their intentions, as if it was already standing here, and will stand, and will not leave until they are captured, the bombs are taken away from them and they are put in a strong prison . She stands in that corner and doesn’t leave - she can’t leave, like an obedient soldier, put on guard by someone’s will and order.

At one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency! - the spoken phrase sounded, shimmering into all the voices: now cheerful and mocking, now angry, now stubborn and stupid. It was as if they had placed a hundred wound-up gramophones in the bedroom, and all of them, one after another, with the idiotic diligence of a machine, shouted out the words ordered to them:

At one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency.

And this tomorrow’s “hour of the day”, which until so recently was no different from others, was only a calm movement of the hand along the dial of a gold watch, suddenly acquired an ominous conviction, jumped out of the dial, began to live separately, stretched out like a huge black pillar for the rest of its life. cutting in two. It was as if no other hours existed either before him or after him, and he alone, arrogant and self-important, had the right to some kind of special existence.

Well? What do you want? - the minister asked angrily through clenched teeth.

The gramophones screamed:

At one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency! - And the black pillar grinned and bowed.

Gritting his teeth, the minister rose up in bed and sat down, resting his face on his palms - he could not sleep that disgusting night.

And with terrifying brightness, clutching his face with his plump, perfumed palms, he imagined how tomorrow morning he would get up, not knowing anything, then drink coffee, not knowing anything, then get dressed in the hallway. And neither he, nor the doorman who served the fur coat, nor the footman who brought the coffee, would have known that it is completely pointless to drink coffee, put on a fur coat, when in a few moments all this: the fur coat, and his body, and the coffee that is in him, will be destroyed by explosion, taken by death. Here the doorman opens the glass door... And it is he, the sweet, kind, affectionate doorman, who has blue soldier’s eyes and medals all over his chest, who opens the terrible door with his own hands - he opens it because he knows nothing. Everyone smiles because they don't know anything.

Wow! - he suddenly said loudly and slowly moved his palms away from his face.

So that's the thing! So that's why he was so scared and so excited! So that's why she stands in the corner and doesn't leave and can't leave!

Fools! - he said contemptuously and weightily.

Fools! - he repeated louder and slightly turned his head towards the door so that those to whom this concerned could hear. And this applied to those whom he recently called well done and who, in excess of zeal, told him in detail about the impending assassination attempt.

Well, of course,” he thought deeply, with a suddenly stronger and smoother thought, “now that they told me, I know and I’m scared, but then I wouldn’t know anything and would calmly drink coffee. Well, and then, of course, this death - but am I really so afraid of death? My kidneys hurt, and I’ll die someday, but I’m not afraid, because I don’t know anything. And these fools said: at one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency. And they thought, fools, that I would be happy, but instead she stood in the corner and did not leave. It doesn't go away because it's my thought. And it is not death that is terrible, but the knowledge of it; and it would be completely impossible to live if a person could quite accurately and definitely know the day and hour when he would die. And these fools warn: “At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency!?”

It became so easy and pleasant, as if someone had told him that he was completely immortal and would never die. And, again feeling strong and smart among this herd of fools who so senselessly and brazenly burst into the mystery of the future, he thought about the bliss of ignorance with the heavy thoughts of an old, sick man who had experienced a lot. Nothing living, neither man nor beast, is given the ability to know the day and hour of its death. He was ill recently, and the doctors told him that he would die, that he needed to make final orders, but he did not believe them and actually remained alive. And in his youth it was like this: he got confused in life and decided to commit suicide; and he prepared the revolver, and wrote letters, and even set the hour of the day for suicide, but just before the end he suddenly changed his mind. And always, at the very last moment, something can change, an unexpected accident can appear, and that is why no one can say to himself when he will die.

“At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency?” these kind donkeys told him, and although they said it only because death was averted, the mere knowledge of its possible hour filled him with horror. It is quite possible that someday he will be killed, but tomorrow this will not happen - tomorrow this will not happen - and he can sleep peacefully, like an immortal. Fools, they didn’t know what great law they had upended, what hole they had opened, when they said with that idiotic politeness of theirs: “At one o’clock in the afternoon, your Excellency?”

No, not at one o'clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency, but who knows when. It is unknown when. What?

“Nothing,” answered silence. - Nothing.

No, you're saying something.

Nothing, nothing. I say: tomorrow, at one o'clock in the afternoon.

And with a sudden sharp melancholy in his heart, he realized that he would have no sleep, no peace, no joy until this damned, black hour snatched from the dial had passed. Only the shadow of knowledge about what no living creature should know about stood there in the corner, and it was enough to darken the light and bring an impenetrable darkness of horror to a person. Once disturbed, the fear of death spread throughout the body, penetrated into the bones, and pulled its pale head out of every pore of the body.

He was no longer afraid of tomorrow's killers - they had disappeared, forgotten, mixed with the crowd of hostile faces and phenomena surrounding his human life - but of something sudden and inevitable: an apoplexy, a ruptured heart, some thin stupid aorta that suddenly will not withstand the pressure of blood and will burst like a tightly stretched glove on chubby fingers.

And the short, thick neck seemed terrible, and it was unbearable to look at the swollen short fingers, to feel how short they were, how full of deadly moisture they were. And if earlier, in the darkness, he had to move so as not to look like a dead man, now, in this bright, coldly hostile, terrible light, it seemed terrible, impossible to move in order to get a cigarette - to call someone. Nerves were tense. And each nerve seemed like a raised, curved wire, on top of which was a small head with eyes crazily bulging in horror, a convulsively gaping, suffocated, silent mouth. I can not breathe.

And suddenly, in the darkness, among the dust and cobwebs, somewhere near the ceiling an electric bell came to life. The small metal tongue convulsively, in horror, beat against the edge of the ringing cup, fell silent - and again trembled in continuous horror and ringing. It was His Excellency calling from his room.

People were running around. Here and here, in the chandeliers and along the wall, individual light bulbs flashed - there were not enough of them for light, but enough for shadows to appear. They appeared everywhere: they stood in the corners, stretched across the ceiling; Tremblingly clinging to every elevation, they lay down against the walls; and it was difficult to understand where all these countless ugly, silent shadows, voiceless souls of voiceless things were before.

"2. TO DEATH PENALTY BY HANGING"

It turned out just as the police had hoped. Four terrorists, three men and one woman, armed with bombs, infernal machines and revolvers, were captured at the very entrance, the fifth was found and arrested at a safe house, of which she was the owner. They captured a lot of dynamite, half-loaded bombs and weapons. All those arrested were very young: the eldest of the men was twenty-eight years old, the youngest of the women was only nineteen. They were tried in the same fortress where they were imprisoned after their arrest, they were tried quickly and quietly, as was done in that merciless time.

At the trial, all five were calm, but very serious and very thoughtful: their contempt for the judges was so great that no one wanted to emphasize their courage with an extra smile or a feigned expression of fun. They were exactly as calm as needed to protect their soul and the great darkness of death from someone else’s, evil and hostile gaze. Sometimes they refused to answer questions, sometimes they answered briefly, simply and precisely, as if they were answering statisticians, not judges, to fill out some special tables. Three, one woman and two men, gave their real names, two refused to give them and remained unknown to the judges. And to everything that happened at the trial, they discovered that softened, through the haze, curiosity that is characteristic of people either very seriously ill, or captured by one huge, all-consuming thought. They looked quickly, caught on the fly some word, more interesting than others, and again continued to think, from the same place where their thoughts stopped.

The first from the judges was one of those who identified themselves - Sergei Golovin, the son of a retired colonel, himself a former officer. He was still a very young, blond, broad-shouldered young man, so healthy that neither prison nor the expectation of imminent death could erase the color from his cheeks and the expression of young, happy naivety from his blue eyes. All the time he energetically pinched his shaggy light beard, which he was not yet accustomed to, and persistently, squinting and blinking, looked out the window.

This happened at the end of winter, when, among snow storms and dim frosty days, the not-distant spring sent, like a forerunner, a clear, warm sunny day, or even just one hour, but so spring-like, so greedily young and sparkling, that the sparrows on the street went crazy with people were filled with joy and seemed to be drunk. And now, through the upper dusty window, which had not been wiped since last summer, a very strange and beautiful sky was visible: at first glance it seemed milky-gray, smoky, and when you looked longer, blue began to appear in it, it began to turn bluer deeper and deeper, more and more. brighter, more limitless. And the fact that it did not open all at once, but chastely hid in the haze of transparent clouds, made it sweet, like the girl you love; and Sergei Golovin looked at the sky, pinched his beard, squinted first one or the other eye with long fluffy eyelashes and was intensely thinking about something. Once he even quickly moved his fingers and naively wrinkled his face with some kind of joy - but he looked around and went out, like a spark that was stepped on. And almost instantly, through the color of the cheeks, almost without turning into pallor, an earthy, deathly blue appeared; and the fluffy hair, painfully torn out of its nest, squeezed, as if in a vice, in the fingers, which turned white at the tip. But the joy of life and spring was stronger - and after a few minutes the old, young, naive face reached out to the spring sky.

There, in the sky, a young pale girl, unknown, nicknamed Musya, was looking. She was younger than Golovin, but seemed older in her severity, in the blackness of her straight and proud eyes. Only a very thin, delicate neck and the same thin girlish hands spoke of her age, and even that elusive thing that is youth itself and that sounded so clearly in her voice, pure, harmonious, impeccably tuned, like an expensive instrument, in every simple word , an exclamation that reveals its musical content. She was very pale, but not with deathly pallor, but with that special hot whiteness when a huge, strong fire seemed to be lit inside a person, and the body glowed transparently, like fine Sevres porcelain. She sat almost motionless and only occasionally, with an imperceptible movement of her fingers, felt a deepened strip on the middle finger of her right hand, a trace of some recently removed ring. And she looked at the sky without affection and joyful memories, only because in the entire dirty government hall this blue piece of the sky was the most beautiful, pure and truthful - it did not pry anything from her eyes.

The judges felt sorry for Sergei Golovin, but they hated her.

Also sitting motionless, in a somewhat prim position, with his hands folded between his knees, was her unknown neighbor, nicknamed Werner. If a face can be locked like a blind door, then the unknown person closed his face like an iron door, and hung an iron lock on it. He looked motionless down at the dirty plank floor, and it was impossible to understand whether he was calm or worried endlessly, thinking about something or listening to what the detectives showed before the court. He was not tall; His facial features were delicate and noble. Delicate and beautiful so much that it resembled a moonlit night somewhere in the south, on the seashore, where there are cypress trees and the black shadows from them, at the same time it awakened a feeling of enormous calm strength, irresistible hardness, cold and daring courage. The very politeness with which he gave short and precise answers seemed dangerous in his mouth, in his half-bow; and if on everyone else the prisoner’s robe seemed like an absurd buffoonery, then on him it was not visible at all - the dress was so alien to the man. And although the other terrorists were found with bombs and infernal machines, and Werner only had a black revolver, for some reason the judges considered him the main one and addressed him with some respect, just as briefly and businesslike.

The next one, Vasily Kashirin, consisted entirely of one continuous, unbearable horror of death and the same desperate desire to contain this horror and not show it to the judges. From the very morning, as soon as they were taken to trial, he began to choke from the rapid beating of his heart; Sweat kept appearing in droplets on his forehead, his hands were just as sweaty and cold, and his cold, sweaty shirt stuck to his body, binding his movements. With a supernatural effort of will, he forced his fingers not to tremble, his voice to be firm and clear, his eyes to be calm. He saw nothing around him, voices were brought to him as if from a fog, and into the same fog he sent his desperate efforts - to answer firmly, to answer loudly. But, having answered, he immediately forgot both the question and his answer, and again silently and terribly struggled. And death appeared so clearly in him that the judges avoided looking at him, and it was difficult to determine his age, like a corpse that had already begun to decompose. According to his passport, he was only twenty-three years old. Once or twice Werner quietly touched his knee with his hand, and each time he answered with one word:

The worst thing for him was when suddenly an unbearable desire to scream appeared - without words, with an animal desperate cry. Then he quietly touched Werner, and he, without raising his eyes, answered him quietly:

Nothing, Vasya. It will end soon.

And, hugging everyone with a motherly caring eye, the fifth terrorist, Tanya Kovalchuk, languished in anxiety. She never had children, she was still very young and red-cheeked, like Sergei Golovin, but she seemed like a mother to all these people: her looks, smile, and fears were so caring, so endlessly loving. She did not pay any attention to the trial, as if it were something completely extraneous, and only listened to how others answered: whether her voice was trembling, whether she was afraid, whether she should give water.

She could not look at Vasya out of melancholy and could only quietly wring her plump fingers; She looked at Musya and Werner with pride and respect and made a serious and concentrated face, and she kept trying to convey her smile to Sergei Golovin.

Honey, he's looking at the sky. Look, look, my dear, she thought about Golovin. - And Vasya? What is this, my God, my God... What should I do with it? Saying something will make things even worse: what if she starts crying??

And, like a quiet pond at dawn, reflecting every running cloud, she reflected on her plump, sweet, kind face every quick feeling, every thought of those four. She did not think at all about the fact that she would also be tried and hanged - she was deeply indifferent. It was in her apartment that they opened a warehouse of bombs and dynamite; and, oddly enough, it was she who met the police with shots and wounded one detective in the head.

The trial ended at eight o'clock, when it was already dark. The blue sky gradually faded before the eyes of Musya and Sergei Golovin, but it did not turn pink, did not smile quietly, as on summer evenings, but became cloudy, gray, and suddenly became cold and wintry. Golovin sighed, stretched, looked out the window twice more, but there was already cold night darkness there; and, continuing to pluck his beard, he began to look with childish curiosity at the judges, soldiers with guns, and smiled at Tanya Kovalchuk. Musya, when the sky went dark, calmly, without lowering her eyes to the ground, moved them to the corner, where the cobwebs were quietly swaying under the imperceptible pressure of the oven heating; and remained so until the verdict was announced.

After the verdict, having said goodbye to the defenders in tailcoats and avoiding their helplessly confused, pitiful and guilty eyes, the accused faced each other at the door for a minute and exchanged short phrases.

Nothing, Vasya. “It will all end soon,” Werner said.

Yes, brother, nothing,” Kashirin answered loudly, calmly and even as if cheerfully.

And indeed, his face turned slightly pink and no longer seemed like the face of a decaying corpse.

Damn them, they hanged them after all,” Golovin swore naively.

“That was to be expected,” Werner answered calmly.

Tomorrow the final verdict will be announced, and we will be imprisoned together,” Kovalchuk said, consoling. - We will sit together until the execution.

Musya was silent. Then she decisively moved forward.

"3. I DON'T NEED TO BE HANGED"

Two weeks before the terrorists were tried, the same military district court, but with a different composition, tried and sentenced to death by hanging Ivan Yanson, a peasant.

This Ivan Yanson was a farm laborer for a wealthy farmer and was no different from other similar farm workers. He was originally an Estonian, from Wesenberg, and gradually, over the course of several years, moving from one farm to another, he moved closer to the capital itself. He spoke Russian very poorly, and since his owner was Russian, named Lazarev, and there were no Estonians nearby, Janson was silent for almost the entire two years. Apparently, in general he was not inclined to talkativeness, and was silent not only with people, but also with animals: he silently watered the horse, silently harnessed it, slowly and lazily moving around it with small, uncertain steps, and when the horse, dissatisfied with the silence , began to be capricious and flirt, silently beat her with a whip. He beat her brutally, with cold and angry persistence, and if this happened at a time when he was in a severe state of hangover, he would go berserk. Then the crack of a whip and the frightened, fractional, full of pain, clatter of hooves on the plank floor of the barn could be heard all the way to the house. Because Yanson beats the horse, the owner beat him himself, but he couldn’t fix it, so he abandoned him. Once or twice a month, Janson got drunk, and this usually happened on those days when he took the owner to a large railway station, where there was a buffet. Having unloaded the owner, he drove half a mile from the station and there, stuck in the snow to the side of the road, the sleigh and horse waited for the train to depart. The sleigh stood sideways, almost lying down, the horse went up to its belly into the snowdrift with its splayed legs and occasionally pulled its muzzle down to lick the soft fluffy snow, and Yanson reclined in an uncomfortable position on the sleigh and seemed to be dozing. The untied earmuffs of his shabby fur hat hung limply down, like the ears of a pointer dog, and it was damp under his small reddish nose.

Then Janson returned to the station and quickly got drunk.

Back to the farm, all ten miles, he rushed at a gallop. The beaten horse, driven to horror, galloped on all four legs like crazy, the sleigh rolled, tilted, hit the poles, and Janson, lowering the reins and almost flying out of the sleigh every minute, either sang or shouted something in Estonian abruptly, blind phrases. And more often than not he didn’t even sing, but silently, clenching his teeth tightly from the influx of unknown rage, suffering and delight, he rushed forward and was like a blind man: he didn’t see those oncoming, didn’t shout, didn’t slow down his furious pace either on the turns or on the descents. How he did not run over someone, how he himself did not fall to death on one of these wild trips - remained incomprehensible.

He should have been driven out a long time ago, just as he was driven out of other places, but he was cheap and the other workers were no better, and so he remained for two years. There were no events in Janson's life. One day he received a letter in Estonian, but since he himself was illiterate and others did not speak Estonian, the letter remained unread; and with some wild, savage indifference, as if not understanding that the letter carried news from his homeland, Yanson threw it into the manure. Yanson also tried to court the cook, pining, apparently, for a woman, but had no success and was rudely rejected and ridiculed: he was short, puny, had a freckled, flabby face and sleepy, bottle-colored, dirty eyes. And Yanson met his failure with indifference and did not pester the cook again.

But, to say the least, Janson was always listening to something. He listened to the dull snowy field, with mounds of frozen manure that looked like a row of small snow-covered graves, and to the gentle blue distances, and to the buzzing telegraph poles, and to people’s conversations. Only he knew what the field and telegraph poles were telling him, and people’s conversations were alarming, full of rumors about murders, robberies, and arson. And one night, in a neighboring village, a small bell like a bell was heard faintly and helplessly strumming on a pickaxe, and the flames of a fire were crackling: some visitors robbed a rich farm, killed the owner and his wife, and set fire to the house.

And on their farm they lived anxiously: not only at night, but also during the day, dogs were let loose, and the owner put a gun near him at night. He wanted to give the same gun, but only single-barreled and old, to Yanson, but he turned the gun over in his hands, shook his head and for some reason refused. The owner did not understand the reason for the refusal and scolded Janson, and the reason was that Janson believed more in the power of his Finnish knife than in this old rusty thing.

“She’ll kill me herself,” said Yanson, sleepily looking at the owner with glassy eyes.

And the owner waved his hand in despair:

What a fool you are, Ivan. Here you can live with such workers.

And this same Ivan Yanson, who did not trust the gun, one winter evening, when another worker was sent to the station, committed a very complex attempt at armed robbery, murder and rape of a woman. He did it somehow surprisingly simply: he locked the cook in the kitchen, lazily, with the look of a man who was dying to sleep, he approached the owner from behind and quickly, over and over again, stabbed him in the back with a knife. The owner fell unconscious, the hostess thrashed around and screamed, and Yanson, baring his teeth and waving a knife, began to unwrap chests and chests of drawers. He took out the money, and then, as if for the first time, he saw the mistress and, unexpectedly for himself, rushed to her to rape her. But since he lost the knife, the mistress turned out to be stronger and not only did not allow herself to be raped, but almost strangled him. And then the owner tossed and turned on the floor, the cook rattled with her claw, knocking down the kitchen door, and Yanson ran into the field. They captured him an hour later, when he, squatting around the corner of the barn and lighting the dying matches one after another, attempted arson.

A few days later, the owner died of blood poisoning, and Yanson, when his turn came along with other robbers and murderers, was tried and sentenced to death. At the trial he was the same as always: small, frail, freckled, with sleepy glass eyes. He seemed to not quite understand the meaning of what was happening and seemed completely indifferent: he blinked his white eyelashes, stupidly, without curiosity, looked around the unfamiliar important hall and picked his nose with a hard, calloused, stiff finger. Only those who saw him on Sundays in the kirk could have guessed that he had dressed himself up a little: he had put a knitted dirty red scarf around his neck and here and there had wet the hair on his head; and where the hair was wet, it darkened and lay smooth, and on the other side it stuck out in light and sparse curls - like straws on a skinny field beaten by hail.

When the sentence was announced: death by hanging, Janson suddenly became worried. He blushed deeply and began tying and untying the scarf as if it were choking him. Then he waved his hands stupidly and said, turning to the judge who did not read the verdict, and pointing his finger at the one who did:

She said that I should be hanged.

What is she like? - the chairman, who read the verdict, asked thickly, in a deep bass voice.

Everyone smiled, hiding their smiles under their mustaches and in their papers, and Yanson pointed his index finger at the chairman and angrily, from under his brows, answered:

Yanson again turned his eyes to the silent, reservedly smiling judge, in whom he felt a friend and a person completely uninvolved in the verdict, and repeated:

She said that I should be hanged. I don't need to be hanged.

Take the accused away.

But Yanson managed to repeat once again convincingly and forcefully:

I don't need to be hanged.

He was so absurd with his small, angry face, to which he tried in vain to attach importance, with his outstretched finger, that even the guard soldier, breaking the rules, said to him in a low voice, leading him out of the hall:

What a fool you are, boy.

“You don’t need to hang me,” Yanson repeated stubbornly.

They are pulled up for my respect, you won’t have time to jerk.

Maybe they will have mercy? - said the first soldier, who felt sorry for Janson.

Why! Have mercy on such people... Well, let’s talk.

But Janson had already fallen silent. And again they put him in the cell in which he had already been sitting for a month and to which he had managed to get used to, as he got used to everything: to beatings, to vodka, to a dull snow field dotted with round hillocks, like a cemetery. And now he even felt happy when he saw his bed, his window with bars, and they gave him something to eat - he had not eaten anything since the morning. The only thing that was unpleasant was what happened at the trial, but he couldn’t think about it, he didn’t know how. And I didn’t imagine death by hanging at all.

Although Janson was sentenced to death, there were many like him, and he was not considered an important criminal in prison. Therefore, they spoke to him without fear and without respect, as with anyone else who was not facing death. They certainly didn’t count his death as death. The warden, having learned about the verdict, told him instructively:

What, brother? So they hanged it!

When will they hang me? - Yanson asked incredulously.

The warden thought.

Well, brother, you'll have to wait. Until the party is destroyed. Otherwise, for one, and even for something like that, it’s not worth trying. It needs a lift.

Well, when? - Janson asked persistently.

He was not at all offended that he alone was not even worth hanging, and he did not believe it, considered it an excuse to delay the execution, and then completely cancel it. And it became joyful: the vague and terrible moment, which cannot be thought about, moved somewhere into the distance, became fabulous and incredible, like any death.

When when! - the warden got angry, the old man was stupid and gloomy. - It’s not for you to hang the dog: I took you behind the barn, once, and you’re done. And you would like it that way, fool!

But I do not want! - Yanson suddenly winced cheerfully. - She said that I should be hanged, but I don’t want to!

And, perhaps, for the first time in his life he laughed: a creaky, absurd, but terribly cheerful and joyful laugh. It was as if a goose screamed: ha-ha-ha! The warden looked at him in surprise, then frowned sternly: this absurd gaiety of a man who was about to be executed insulted the prison and the execution itself and made them something very strange. And suddenly for one moment, for the shortest moment, to the old warden, who had spent his whole life in prison, recognizing its rules as if they were the laws of nature, it seemed to him and all of life to be something like a madhouse, and he, the warden, was the most important madman.

Fuck you! - he spat. - Why are you baring your teeth, this is not a tavern for you!

But I don’t want to - ha-ha-ha! - Yanson laughed.

Satan! - said the warden, feeling the need to cross himself.

This man with a small, flabby face looked least like Satan, but there was something in his goose cackling that destroyed the holiness and strength of the prison. If he laughed a little more, the rotten walls would fall apart, and the sodden bars would fall, and the warden himself would lead the prisoners out of the gate: please, gentlemen, take a walk around the city - or maybe someone wants to go to the village? Satan!

But Yanson had already stopped laughing and only squinted slyly.

Well then! - the warden said with a vague threat and left, looking back.

All this evening Yanson was calm and even cheerful. He repeated to himself the phrase he had said: I don’t need to be hanged, and it was so convincing, wise, irrefutable that there was no need to worry about anything. He had long forgotten about his crime and only sometimes regretted that he had not been able to rape the mistress. And soon I forgot about that too.

Every morning Janson asked when he would be hanged, and every morning the warden answered angrily:

You still have time, Satan. Sit down! - and left quickly before Yanson had time to laugh.

And from these monotonously repeated words and from the fact that every day began, passed and ended like an ordinary day, Yanson was irrevocably convinced that there would be no execution. Very quickly he began to forget about the trial and spent whole days lying on his bed, vaguely and joyfully dreaming about dull snow fields with their hillocks, about the station buffet, about something even more distant and bright. In prison he was well fed, and somehow very quickly, in a few days, he gained weight and began to take on a little air of self-importance.

Now she would love me anyway,” he once thought about the hostess. - Now I’m fat, no worse than the owner?

And I just really wanted to drink vodka - drink it and take a quick ride on a horse.

When the terrorists were arrested, news of this reached the prison: and to Yanson’s usual question, the warden suddenly and unexpectedly answered:

Now soon.

He looked at him calmly and said importantly:

Now soon. I think in a week.

Yanson turned pale and, as if completely falling asleep, his glass eyes were so cloudy, he asked:

Are you kidding?

Either I couldn’t wait, or else you’re kidding. We're not supposed to joke. “You like to joke, but we’re not supposed to joke,” the warden said with dignity and left.

By the evening of that day, Janson had lost weight. His stretched, temporarily smoothed skin suddenly gathered into many small wrinkles, and in some places it even seemed to sag. The eyes became completely sleepy, and all movements became so slow and sluggish, as if every turn of the head, movement of the fingers, step with the foot was such a complex and cumbersome undertaking that previously needed a very long time to think about it. At night he lay down on his bed, but did not close his eyes, and so, sleepy, they remained open until the morning.

Yeah! - said the warden with pleasure when he saw him the next day. - This is not a tavern for you, my dear.

With a feeling of pleasant satisfaction, like a scientist whose experiment was once again a success, he examined the condemned man from head to toe, carefully and in detail: now everything will go as it should. Satan has been put to shame, the sanctity of prison and execution has been restored, and condescendingly, even sincerely pitying, the old man inquired:

Who will you see or not?

Why see each other?

Well, say goodbye. Mother, for example, or brother.

There’s no need to hang me,” Yanson said quietly and looked sideways at the warden. - I don't want.

The warden looked and silently waved his hand.

By evening, Yanson calmed down somewhat. It was such an ordinary day, the cloudy winter sky was so bright, the sounds of footsteps and someone’s business conversation were so common in the corridor, the smell of sauerkraut soup was so common, natural, and common, that he again stopped believing in execution. But by nightfall it became scary. Before, Yanson felt the night simply as darkness, as a special dark time when you need to sleep, but now he felt its mysterious and menacing essence. In order not to believe in death, you need to see and hear the ordinary around you: steps, voices, light, sauerkraut soup, and now everything was extraordinary, and this silence, and this darkness in itself was already as if death.

And the further the night dragged on, the more terrible it became. With the naivety of a savage or a child who thinks anything is possible, Janson wanted to shout to the sun: shine! And he asked, he begged for the sun to shine, but the night steadily dragged its black hours over the earth, and there was no force that could stop its flow. And this impossibility, which for the first time appeared so clearly to Janson’s weak brain, filled him with horror: not yet daring to feel it clearly, he already realized the inevitability of imminent death and stepped on the first step of the scaffold with a deadening foot.

The day again calmed him, and the night again frightened him, and so it was until that night when he realized and felt that death was inevitable and would come in three days, at dawn, when the sun would rise.

He had never thought about what death was, and death had no image for him, but now he clearly felt, saw, felt that she had entered the cell and was looking for him with her hands. And, to save himself, he began to run around the cell.

But the chamber was so small that it seemed that there were not sharp, but obtuse angles in it, and everyone was pushing him into the middle. And there's nothing to hide behind. And the door is locked. And it's light. He silently hit his body against the walls several times, once he hit the door - it was dull and empty. He bumped into something and fell face down, and then he felt that she was grabbing him. And, lying on his stomach, sticking to the floor, hiding his face in its dark, dirty asphalt, Yanson screamed in horror. I lay there and screamed at the top of my voice until they arrived. And when they had already lifted him from the floor, and put him on the bed, and poured cold water on his head, Yanson still did not dare to open his tightly closed eyes. He'll open one, see a bright empty corner or someone's boot in the void, and start screaming again.

But the cold water began to work. It also helped that the guard on duty, still the same old man, hit Yanson on the head several times. And this feeling of life really drove away death, and Janson opened his eyes, and for the rest of the night, with his brain clouded, he slept soundly. He lay on his back, with his mouth open, and snored loudly and deeply; and between the loosely closed eyelids there was a white, flat, dead eye without a pupil.

And then everything in the world, both day and night, and footsteps, and voices, and sauerkraut soup, became sheer horror for him, plunged him into a state of wild, incomparable amazement. His weak thought could not connect these two ideas, so monstrously contradicting one another: a usually bright day, the smell and taste of cabbage - and the fact that in two days, in a day, he should die. He did not think anything, he did not even count the hours, but simply stood in silent horror before this contradiction, which tore his brain into two parts; and he became evenly pale, neither whiter nor redder, and seemed calm in appearance. He just didn’t eat anything and stopped sleeping completely: either he sat on a stool with his legs fearfully tucked under him all night, or he quietly walked around the cell, stealthily and sleepily looking around. His mouth was always half-open, as if in constant great surprise; and before picking up any ordinary object, he looked at it for a long time and stupidly and took it incredulously.

And when he became like this, both the guards and the soldier who was watching him through the window stopped paying attention to him. This was a common state for convicts, similar, in the opinion of the warden, who had never experienced it, to that which occurs in a slaughtered animal when it is stunned by a blow to the forehead with a butt.

Now he’s deaf, now he won’t feel anything until his death,” said the warden, peering at him with experienced eyes. - Ivan, do you hear? Eh, Ivan?

I don’t need to be hanged,” Yanson responded dimly, and again his lower jaw dropped.

If you hadn’t killed, you wouldn’t have been hanged,” said the senior warden, still a young but very important man in the orders, instructively. - Because you killed him, but you don’t want to hang yourself.

I wanted to kill a man for free. Stupid, stupid, but cunning.

“I don’t want to,” Janson said.

Well, dear, don’t want it, it’s up to you,” the elder said indifferently. - It would be better, rather than talk nonsense, to dispose of the property - everything is there.

He has nothing. One shirt and ports. Yes, here’s another fur hat - a dandy!

So time passed until Thursday. And on Thursday, at twelve o’clock at night, a lot of people entered Yanson’s cell, and some gentleman with shoulder straps said:

Well, get ready. Must go.

Yanson, still moving slowly and sluggishly, put on everything he had and tied a dirty red scarf. Watching him dress, the gentleman in uniform, smoking a cigarette, said to someone:

What a warm day it is today. It's completely spring.

Yanson’s eyes were closed, he fell asleep completely and tossed and turned so slowly and tightly that the warden shouted:

Well, well, more alive. Asleep!

Suddenly Yanson stopped.

“I don’t want to,” he said weakly.

They took him by the arms and led him, and he walked obediently, raising his shoulders. In the yard, the damp spring air immediately fanned him, and it became wet under his nose; Despite the night, the thaw became even stronger, and from somewhere frequent, cheerful drops fell loudly onto the stone. And while waiting while the gendarmes climbed into the black carriage without lights, knocking sabers and bending over, Yanson lazily moved his finger under his wet nose and straightened his poorly tied scarf.

"4. WE, THE ORLOVSKIES"

By the same presence of the military district court that tried Yanson, a peasant from the Oryol province, Yelets district, Mikhail Golubets, nicknamed Mishka Tsyganok, aka Tatar, was sentenced to death by hanging. His last crime, ascertained with certainty, was the murder of three people and armed robbery; and then his dark past sank into mysterious depths. There were vague hints of his participation in a number of other robberies and murders; his blood and dark drunken revelry could be felt behind him. With complete frankness, completely sincerely, he called himself a robber and treated with irony those who fashionably called themselves “expropriators”. He spoke in detail and willingly about the last crime, where denial led to nothing, but when asked about the past he only bared his teeth and whistled:

Look for the wind in the field!

When they really pestered him with questions, Gypsy took on a serious and dignified appearance.

“We all, Orlovites, have broken heads,” he said sedately and judiciously. - Eagle and Kromy are the first thieves. Karachev and Livny are marvels to all thieves. And Yelets is the father of all thieves. What is there to interpret here!

He was nicknamed Gypsy for his appearance and thief's skills. He was strangely black-haired, thin, with spots of yellow burnt marks on his sharp Tatar cheekbones; somehow he turned out the whites of his eyes like a horse and was always in a hurry to get somewhere. His gaze was short, but terribly direct and full of curiosity, and the thing he briefly glanced at seemed to be losing something, giving him a part of itself and becoming different. The cigarette he looked at was just as unpleasant and difficult to take, as if it had already been in someone else's mouth. Some eternal restlessness sat in it and either twisted it like a tourniquet, or scattered it with a wide sheaf of writhing sparks. And he drank water almost in buckets, like a horse.

To all the questions at the trial, he jumped up quickly and answered briefly, firmly, and even as if with pleasure:

Sometimes he emphasized:

Believe it or not!

And quite unexpectedly, when they were talking about something else, he jumped up and asked the chairman:

Let me whistle!

What is this for? - he was surprised.

And how they show that I gave a sign to my comrades, then here. Very interesting.

Slightly perplexed, the chairman agreed. The gypsy quickly put four fingers into his mouth, two from each hand, rolled his eyes ferociously - and the dead air of the courtroom was cut through by a real, wild, bandit whistle, from which stunned horses spin and sit on their hind legs and involuntarily turns a human face pale. And the mortal melancholy of the one who is being killed, and the wild joy of the killer, and the terrible warning, and the call and darkness of the stormy autumn night, and loneliness - everything was in this piercing and not human and not animal cry.

The chairman shouted something, then waved his hand at Gypsy, and he obediently fell silent. And, like an artist who has victoriously performed a difficult but always successful aria, he sat down, wiped his wet fingers on his robe and looked around with self-satisfaction at those present.

Here's a robber! - said one of the judges, rubbing his ear.

But the other, with a wide Russian beard and Tatar eyes, like Gypsy’s, dreamily looked somewhere above Gypsy, smiled and objected:

But it's really interesting.

And with a calm heart, without pity and without the slightest remorse, the judges sentenced Gypsy to death.

Right! - said Tsyganok when the verdict was read. - In an open field and a crossbar. Right!

And turning to the guard, he bravely said:

Well, let's go, sour wool. Yes, hold the gun tightly - I’ll take it away!

The soldier looked at him sternly and warily, exchanged glances with his comrade and felt the lock on the gun. The other did the same. And all the way to the prison the soldiers did not exactly walk, but flew through the air - so, absorbed in the criminal, they did not feel either the ground under their feet, or time, or themselves.

Before execution, Mishka Gypsy, like Yanson, had to spend seventeen days in prison. And all seventeen days passed for him as quickly as one - like one undying thought about escape, about freedom and about life. The restless man, who owned the Gypsy and was now crushed by the walls, and the bars, and the dead window through which nothing was visible, turned all his rage inward and burned the Gypsy’s thought like coal scattered on the boards. As if in a drunken stupor, bright but unfinished images swarmed, collided and got confused, rushed past in an uncontrollable dazzling whirlwind, and everyone rushed towards one thing - to escape, to freedom, to life. Either flaring his nostrils like a horse, Gypsy sniffed the air for hours at a time - it seemed to him that he smelled of hemp and fire smoke, colorless and acrid fumes; Then he spun around the cell like a top, quickly feeling the walls, tapping his finger, trying it on, looking at the ceiling, sawing through the bars. With his restlessness, he tormented the soldier who was watching him through the peephole, and several times, in despair, the soldier threatened to shoot; The gypsy objected rudely and mockingly, and only because the matter ended peacefully was that the bickering soon turned into simple, peasant, non-offensive abuse, in which shooting seemed absurd and impossible.

During his nights, Gypsy slept soundly, almost without moving, in constant but living immobility, like a temporarily inactive spring. But, having jumped up, he immediately began to fidget, think, and feel. His hands were always dry and hot, but sometimes his heart suddenly grew cold: it was as if a piece of unmelting ice had been placed in his chest, which sent small dry tremors throughout his body. Already dark, at these moments Gypsy turned black, taking on the shade of bluish cast iron. And he developed a strange habit: as if he had eaten something excessively and unbearably sweet, he constantly licked his lips, smacked his lips and, with a hiss, through his teeth, spat the flowing saliva onto the floor. And he didn’t finish the words: his thoughts ran so quickly that his tongue didn’t have time to catch up with them.

One afternoon, accompanied by a guard, a senior guard came in to see him. He glanced sideways at the spit-stained floor and said sullenly:

Look, you messed up!

The gypsy quickly objected:

You, fat mug, have polluted the whole earth, and I have nothing to do with you. Why did you come?

Still sullen, the warden invited him to become an executioner. The gypsy bared his teeth and laughed.

Ai is not there? Clever! Here you go, hang it, ha ha! There is a neck, and there is a rope, but there is no one to hang it. By God, clever!

But you will remain alive.

Well, of course: I’m not going to hang you dead. Said he was a fool!

So how? You don't care: this way or that.

How do you hang them? They're probably secretly strangling you!

No, with music,” the warden snapped.

What a fool. Of course, it needs to be with music. Like this! - And he sang something rollicking.

“You’ve made up your mind, my dear,” said the warden. - Well, then, speak clearly.

The gypsy bared his teeth:

How fast! Come again, then I’ll tell you.

And into the chaos of bright but unfinished images that oppressed the Gypsy with their swiftness, a new one burst in: how good it is to be an executioner in a red shirt. He vividly imagined a square filled with people, a high platform, and how he, Gypsy, in a red shirt, was walking around it with a hatchet. The sun illuminates the heads, glistens cheerfully on the hatchet, and everything is so cheerful and rich that even the one whose head is now being chopped off also smiles. And behind the people you can see carts and the muzzles of horses - then the men came from the village; and then you can see the field.

Ts-ah! - Tsyganok smacked his lips, licked his lips, and spat out the saliva that was gathering.

And suddenly, as if they had pulled a fur hat down to his mouth: it became dark and stuffy, and his heart became a piece of unmelting ice, sending out small dry tremors.

The warden came in twice more, and, baring his teeth, Tsyganok said:

What a speedy one. Come again.

And finally, briefly, through the window, the warden shouted:

You missed your luck, crow! Found another!

Well, to hell with you, hang yourself! - Gypsy snapped. And he stopped dreaming about executioner.

But in the end, the closer to the execution, the swiftness of the torn images became unbearable. The gypsy already wanted to stop, stretch his legs and stop, but the spinning stream carried him away, and there was nothing to grab onto: everything was floating around. And my sleep had already become restless: new, convex, heavy, like wooden, painted logs, dreams appeared, even more rapid than thoughts. It was no longer a stream, but an endless fall from an endless mountain, a whirling flight through the entire apparently colorful world. In freedom, Tsyganok wore only a rather dandy mustache, but in prison he grew a short, black, prickly beard, and this made him look scary and crazy. At times, Gypsy actually forgot himself and circled around the cell completely senselessly, but still felt the rough plaster walls. And he drank water like a horse.

One evening, when the fire was lit, Gypsy got down on all fours in the middle of the cell and howled with a trembling wolf howl. He was somehow especially serious at the same time and howled as if he was doing an important and necessary task. He took a deep breath and slowly released it in a long, trembling howl; and carefully, closing his eyes, listened as he came out. And the very trembling in the voice seemed somewhat deliberate; and he did not scream stupidly, but carefully played out every note in this bestial scream, full of unspeakable horror and sorrow.

Then he immediately stopped the howling and remained silent for several minutes, without getting up from all fours. Suddenly, quietly, into the ground, he muttered:

My dear darlings... My dear darlings, have pity... My darlings!.. My darlings!..

And he also seemed to be listening to how it was coming out. He says a word and listens.

Then he jumped up and swore obscenely for a whole hour, without taking a breath.

Uh, so-and-so, there-ta-ta-ta! - he yelled, turning out his bloodshot eyes. - Hang it like this, hang it, or else... Uh, so-and-so...

And the chalk-white soldier, crying from anguish, from horror, poked at the door with the muzzle of his gun and shouted helplessly:

I'll shoot you! By God, I'll shoot you! Do you hear?

But he did not dare to shoot: those sentenced to execution, unless there was a real riot, were never shot. And Gypsy ground his teeth, cursed and spat - his human brain, placed on the monstrously sharp line between life and death, fell apart like a lump of dry and weathered clay.

When they came to the cell at night to take Gypsy to execution, he began to fuss and seemed to come to life. It became even sweeter in my mouth, and saliva was gathering uncontrollably, but my cheeks turned a little pink, and my eyes sparkled with the same, slightly wild slyness. While getting dressed, he asked the official:

Who will hang it? New? Look, I haven’t gotten my head around yet.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” the official answered dryly.

Why not worry, your honor, it will be me, not you, who will be hanged. At least you won’t regret using government-issued soap for a bait.

Okay, okay, please shut up.

“He ate all your soap here,” Tsyganok pointed to the warden, “look at how shiny his face is.”

Be silent!

Don't regret it!

The gypsy laughed, but his mouth became increasingly sweeter, and suddenly his legs began to go numb in a strange way. Nevertheless, going out into the yard, he managed to shout:

The carriage of the Count of Bengal!

"5. KISS - AND BE SILENT"

The verdict regarding the five terrorists was announced in final form and confirmed on the same day. The condemned were not told when the execution would take place, but from the way things were usually done, they knew that they would be hanged that same night or, at the latest, the next. And when they were offered to see their relatives the next day, that is, on Thursday, they realized that the execution would take place on Friday at dawn.

Tanya Kovalchuk did not have any close relatives, and those who did exist were somewhere in the wilderness, in Little Russia, and hardly even knew about the trial and the upcoming execution; Musya and Werner, as unknown persons, were not supposed to have any relatives at all, and only two, Sergei Golovin and Vasily Kashirin, were supposed to meet with their parents. And both of them thought about this meeting with horror and longing, but did not dare to refuse the old men their last conversation, their last kiss.

Sergei Golovin was especially tormented by the upcoming date. He loved his father and mother very much, he had only recently seen them and was now terrified of what it would be like. The execution itself, in all its monstrous unusualness, in its brain-shattering madness, seemed easier to the imagination and seemed not as terrible as these few minutes, short and incomprehensible, standing as if outside of time, as if outside of life itself. How to look, what to think, what to say - his human brain refused to understand. The simplest and most ordinary thing: to take a hand, kiss, say: “Hello, father?” seemed incomprehensibly terrible in its monstrous, inhuman, insane deceit.

After the verdict, the convicts were not imprisoned together, as Kovalchuk suggested, but each was left in his own solitary confinement; and all morning, until eleven o’clock, when his parents arrived, Sergei Golovin paced madly around the cell, plucking his beard, wincing pitifully and grumbling something. Sometimes he would stop midway, take a deep breath and puff, like a man who had been under water for too long. But he was so healthy, the young life was so strong in him that even in these moments of severe suffering, the blood played under the skin and stained his cheeks, and his eyes turned light and naive.

Everything happened, however, much better than Sergei expected.

The first to enter the room where the meeting took place was Sergei’s father, retired colonel Nikolai Sergeevich Golovin. He was all exactly white, his face, beard, hair and hands, as if a snow statue had been dressed in human clothing; and there was still the same frock coat, old, but well cleaned, smelling of gasoline, with brand new cross straps; and he entered firmly, ceremoniously, with strong, distinct steps. He extended his white, dry hand and said loudly:

Hello, Sergey!

His mother walked slowly behind him and smiled strangely. But she also shook hands and repeated loudly:

Hello, Serezhenka!

She kissed her on the lips and sat down silently. She didn’t rush, didn’t cry, didn’t scream, didn’t do something terrible that Sergei expected, but kissed her and sat down silently. And she even straightened out her black silk dress with trembling hands.

Sergei did not know that all the previous night, having locked himself in his office, the colonel had been pondering this ritual with all his might. “We should not aggravate, but make it easier for our son’s last minute?” the colonel firmly decided and carefully weighed every possible phrase of tomorrow’s conversation, every movement. But sometimes he got confused, lost what he had managed to prepare, and cried bitterly in the corner of the oilcloth sofa. And in the morning I explained to my wife how to behave on a date.

The main thing is, kiss - and be silent! - he taught. - Then you can talk, a little later, and when you kiss, then be silent. Don't talk right after the kiss, you know? - otherwise you will say the wrong thing.

“I understand, Nikolai Sergeevich,” the mother answered, crying.

And don't cry. Lord forbid you to cry! Yes, you will kill him if you cry, old woman!

Why are you crying yourself?

You'll make me cry! You shouldn't cry, do you hear?

Okay, Nikolai Sergeevich.

On the cab he wanted to repeat the instructions again, but forgot. And so they rode in silence, bent over, both gray-haired and old, and thought, and the city made a cheerful noise: it was Shrovetide week and the streets were noisy and crowded.

We sat down. The colonel stood in a prepared position, placing his right hand over the side of his coat. Sergei sat for a moment, met his mother’s wrinkled face close and jumped up.

“Sit down, Serezhenka,” the mother asked.

Sit down, Sergei,” the father confirmed.

We were silent. The mother smiled strangely.

How we worked for you, Serezhenka.

It’s in vain, mommy...

The colonel said firmly:

We had to do this, Sergei, so that you would not think that your parents abandoned you.

There was silence again. It was scary to say a word, as if every word in the language had lost its meaning and meant only one thing: death. Sergei looked at his father’s clean frock coat, smelling of gasoline, and thought: “Now the orderly is gone, which means he cleaned it himself.” How come I didn’t notice before when he cleaned his coat? It must be in the morning? And suddenly he asked:

How's your sister? Are you healthy?

“Ninochka doesn’t know anything,” her mother hastily answered.

But the colonel sternly stopped her:

Why lie? The girl read it in the newspapers. Let Sergei know that everyone... close to him... at that time... was thinking and...

He was unable to continue further and stopped. Suddenly, the mother’s face somehow immediately crumpled, blurred, swayed, became wet and wild. The faded eyes stared madly, the breathing became more frequent, shorter and louder.

Se... Ser... Se... Se... - she repeated without moving her lips. - Se...

Mommy!

The colonel stepped forward and, shaking all over, with every fold of his coat, every wrinkle of his face, not understanding how terrible he himself was in his deathly whiteness, in his tortured desperate hardness, he spoke to his wife:

Shut up! Don't torture him! Don't torture! Don't torture! He has to die! Don't torture!

Frightened, she was already silent, and he still restrainedly shook his clenched fists in front of his chest and repeated:

Don't torture!

Then he stepped back, put his trembling hand over the side of his coat and loudly, with an expression of intense calm, asked with white lips:

“Tomorrow morning,” Sergei answered with the same white lips.

The mother looked down, chewed her lips and seemed to hear nothing. And, continuing to chew, she seemed to utter simple and strange words:

Ninochka told me to kiss you, Serezhenka.

Kiss her for me,” said Sergei.

Fine. The Khvostovs also bow to you.

What kind of Khvostovs? Oh yes!

The colonel interrupted:

Well, we have to go. Get up, mother, you have to.

Together they lifted the weakened mother.

Say goodbye! - ordered the colonel. - Cross it.

She did everything she was told. But, crossing and kissing her son with a short kiss, she shook her head and repeated senselessly:

No, that's not true. No not like this. No no. What about me then? How can I tell? No not like this.

Goodbye, Sergey! - said the father.

They shook hands and kissed deeply but briefly.

You... - Sergei began.

Well? - the father asked abruptly.

No not like this. No no. How can I tell? - the mother repeated, shaking her head. She had already managed to sit down again and was swaying all over.

You... - Sergei began again.

Suddenly his face wrinkled in a pitiful, childish way, and his eyes immediately filled with tears. Through their sparkling edge, he saw closely his father’s white face with the same eyes.

You, father, are a noble man.

What you! What you! - the colonel was scared.

And suddenly, as if broken, he fell with his head on his son’s shoulder. He was once taller than Sergei, but now he became short, and his fluffy, dry head lay like a white lump on his son’s shoulder. And both silently kissed greedily: Sergei

Fluffy white hair, and he is a prisoner's robe.

They looked around: the mother stood and, throwing her head back, looked with anger, almost with hatred.

What are you doing, mother? - the colonel shouted.

And I? - she said, shaking her head, with insane expressiveness. - You kiss, and me? Men, right? And I? And I?

Mommy! - Sergei rushed to her.

There was something here that cannot and should not be talked about.

The colonel's last words were:

I bless you in death, Seryozha. Die bravely, like an officer.

And they left. Somehow they left. They were there, stood, talked, and suddenly left. Here the mother was sitting, here the father was standing - and suddenly they somehow left. Returning to the cell, Sergei lay down on the bed, facing the wall to hide from the soldiers, and cried for a long time. Then he got tired of crying and fell fast asleep.

Only his mother came to Vasily Kashirin - his father, a rich merchant, did not want to come. Vasily met the old woman, walking around the room and shivering from the cold, although it was warm and even hot. And the conversation was short and difficult.

You shouldn't have come, mom. Just torment yourself and me.

Why are you doing this, Vasya! Why did you do that! God!

The old woman began to cry, wiping herself with the ends of a black woolen scarf. And with the habit that he and his brothers had of shouting at their mother, who did not understand anything, he stopped and, trembling from the cold, spoke angrily:

Here you go! I knew it! After all, you don’t understand anything, mom! Nothing!

Well, well, okay. Why are you cold?

It’s cold...” Vasily snapped and walked again, sideways, looking angrily at his mother.

Maybe he caught a cold?

Oh, mother, what a cold it is when...

And he waved his hand hopelessly. The old woman wanted to say: “And ours ordered pancakes to be served on Monday?”, but she got scared and began to cry:

I told him: son, go and give absolution. No, I stubbornly resisted, you old goat...

Well, to hell with it! What a father he is to me! He remained a bastard all his life.

Vasenka, this is about my father! - The old woman stood up all reproachfully.

About my father.

About my own father!

What a father he is to me.

It was wild and ridiculous. Death stood ahead, and then something small, empty, unnecessary grew up, and the words cracked like empty nut shells under your foot. And, almost crying - from melancholy, from that eternal misunderstanding that had stood like a wall all his life between him and his loved ones and now, in the last hour before his death, was wildly widening his small stupid eyes, Vasily shouted:

But you must understand that they will hang me! Hang! Do you understand or not? Hang!

If you hadn’t touched people, you would have... - the old woman shouted.

God! What is this! After all, this doesn’t even happen to animals. Am I your son or not?

He cried and sat down in the corner. The old woman in her corner also began to cry. Powerless to unite even for a moment in the feeling of love and contrast it with the horror of impending death, they cried cold, heart-warming tears of loneliness. Mother said:

You’re saying whether I’m your mother or not, you’re reproaching me. And in these days I have turned completely grey, I have become an old woman. And you say, you reproach.

Okay, okay, mom. Sorry. You need to go. Kiss your brothers there.

Am I not a mother? Don't I feel sorry?

Finally left. She cried bitterly, wiping herself with the ends of her handkerchief, and could not see the road. And the farther I walked from prison, the more bitterly the tears flowed. She went back to the prison, then got wildly lost in the city where she was born, grew up, grew old. She wandered into some deserted garden with several old, broken trees and sat down on a wet, thawed bench. And suddenly I realized: he will be hanged tomorrow.

The old woman jumped up and wanted to run, but suddenly her head began to spin and she fell. The icy path was wet and slippery, and the old woman could not get up: she spun, raised herself on her elbows and knees, and fell on her side again. The black scarf slipped off his head, revealing a bald spot on the back of his head among dirty gray hair; and for some reason it seemed to her that she was feasting at a wedding: her son was getting married, and she drank wine and became very drunk.

I can not. By God, I can’t! - she refused, shaking her head, and crawled on the icy wet crust, and they kept pouring wine on her, and kept pouring it on her.

And her heart was already hurting from drunken laughter, from treats, from wild dancing - and they kept pouring wine on her. Everything poured.

"6. THE CLOCK IS RUNNING"

In the fortress where the convicted terrorists were imprisoned, there was a bell tower with an ancient clock. Every hour, every half hour, every quarter, the clock called forth something viscous, something sad, slowly melting into the heights, like the distant and plaintive cry of migratory birds. During the day, this strange and sad music was lost in the noise of the city, a large and crowded street that passed near the fortress. Trams hummed, horses' hooves clinked, swaying cars screamed far ahead; During Maslenitsa, special peasant cabbies came from the outskirts of the city, and the bells on the necks of their small horses filled the air with a buzzing sound. And the talk continued: a little drunken, cheerful Maslenitsa talk; and so the young spring thaw, muddy puddles on the panel, and the suddenly blackened trees of the square moved towards discord. A warm wind blew from the sea in wide, damp gusts: it seemed as if one could see with one’s eyes how, in a friendly flight, tiny, fresh particles of air were carried away into the vast free distance and laughed as they flew.

At night the street fell silent in the lonely light of the great electric suns. And then the huge fortress, in the flat walls of which there was not a single light, went into darkness and silence, separating itself from the ever-living, moving city with a line of silence, immobility and darkness. And then the striking of the clock became audible; alien to the earth, a strange melody slowly and sadly was born and died out in the heights. It was born again, deceiving the ear, ringing pitifully and quietly - it broke off

It rang again. Like large, transparent glass drops, hours and minutes fell from an unknown height into a metal, quietly ringing bowl. Or migratory birds were flying.

Only this ringing sound was heard day and night in the cells where the convicts were sitting one at a time. He penetrated through the roof, through the thickness of the stone walls, shaking the silence - leaving unnoticed, only to come again, just as unnoticed. Sometimes they forgot about him and did not hear him; sometimes they waited for him in despair, living from bell to bell, no longer trusting silence. The prison was intended only for important criminals; it had special rules, harsh, firm and rigid, like the corner of a fortress wall; and if there is nobility in cruelty, then the deaf, dead, solemnly mute silence was noble, catching rustles and light breathing.

And in this solemn silence, shaken by the sad ringing of the passing minutes, separated from all living things, five people, two women and three men, awaited the onset of night, dawn and execution, and each in his own way prepared for it.

"7. NO DEATH"

Just as throughout her entire life Tanya Kovalchuk thought only about others and never about herself, so now she suffered and grieved greatly only for others. She imagined death insofar as it was coming as something painful, for Seryozha Golovin, for Mysia, for others - but it didn’t seem to concern her at all.

And, rewarding herself for her forced firmness at the trial, she cried for hours, as old women who have known a lot of grief, or young, but very compassionate, very kind people can cry. And the assumption that Seryozha might not have tobacco, and Werner might be deprived of his usual strong tea, and this in addition to the fact that they had to die, tormented her, perhaps, no less than the very thought of execution . Execution is something inevitable and even extraneous, which is not worth thinking about, and if a person in prison, and even before execution, has no tobacco, it is completely unbearable. She remembered, went over the sweet details of living together and froze with fear, imagining Sergei’s meeting with his parents.

And she felt especially sorry for Musya. For a long time it seemed to her that Musya loved Werner, and although it was completely untrue, she still dreamed of something good and bright for both of them. When free, Musya wore a silver ring on which was depicted a skull, bone and a crown of thorns around them; and often, with pain, Tanya Kovalchuk looked at this ring, as a symbol of doom, and sometimes jokingly, sometimes seriously begged Musya to take it off.

Give it to me,” she begged.

No, Tanya, I won’t give it to you. And soon you will have another ring on your finger.

For some reason, in turn, they thought about her that she would definitely and soon have to get married, and this offended her - she did not want any husband. And, remembering these half-joking conversations with Musya and the fact that Musya was now really doomed, she was choking on tears, from maternal pity. And every time the clock struck, she raised her tear-stained face and listened to how there, in those cells, they received this viscous, persistent call of death.

And Musya was happy.

With her hands behind her back in a large prison robe that was too big for her height, making her look strangely like a man, like a teenage boy dressed in someone else's dress, she walked smoothly and tirelessly. The sleeves of the robe were long for her, and she turned them away, and thin, almost childish, emaciated arms came out of the wide holes, like the stems of a flower from the hole of a rough, dirty jug. The thin white neck was furred and rubbed by the hard material, and occasionally with a movement of both hands Musya freed her throat and carefully felt with her finger the place where the irritated skin was red and sore.

Musya walked and made excuses to people, worried and blushing. And she justified herself in the fact that she, young, insignificant, who had done so little and was not at all a heroine, would be subjected to the same honorable and beautiful death as real heroes and martyrs died before her. With unshakable faith in human kindness, in sympathy, in love, she imagined how people were now worried about her, how they were tormented, how sorry they were - and she was embarrassed to the point of blushing. It was as if, dying on the gallows, she had committed some great awkwardness.

During the last meeting, she had already asked her protector to get her some poison, but suddenly she realized: what if he and the others think that she is acting out of showmanship or cowardice, and instead of dying modestly and unnoticed, she makes even more noise? And hastily added:

No, however, it’s not necessary.

And now she wanted only one thing: to explain to people and prove to them for sure that she was not a heroine, that dying was not at all scary and that they would not feel sorry for her or care about her. Explain to them that it is not at all her fault that she, young and insignificant, is subjected to such death and so much fuss is made because of her.

As a person who is really accused, Musya was looking for excuses, trying to find at least something that would elevate her sacrifice, that would give her real value. Reasoned:

Of course, I’m young and could live for a long time. But…

And, as a candle fades in the brilliance of the rising sun, youth and life seemed dim and dark before that great and radiant thing that should illuminate her modest head. There's no excuse.

But perhaps that special thing she carries in her soul is boundless love, boundless readiness for heroism, boundless self-disdain? After all, it’s really not her fault that they didn’t let her do everything she could and wanted - they killed her on the threshold of the temple, at the foot of the altar.

But if this is so, if a person is valuable not only for what he did, but also for what he wanted to do, then... then she is worthy of the crown of martyrdom.

Really? - Musya thinks bashfully. - Am I really worthy? Am I worthy of people crying for me, worrying about me, so small and insignificant??

And unspeakable joy covers her. There are no doubts, no hesitations, she is accepted into the fold, she rightfully joins the ranks of those bright ones who, from time immemorial, through the fire, torture and execution, go to the high sky. Clear peace and tranquility and boundless, quietly shining happiness. It was as if she had already moved away from the earth and approached the unknown sun of truth and life and was floating disembodied in its light.

And this is death. What kind of death is this?? - Musya thinks blissfully.

And if scientists, philosophers and executioners from all over the world gathered in her cell, laid out books, scalpels, axes and nooses in front of her and began to prove that death exists, that man dies and is killed, that there is no immortality, they would only be surprised her. How is there no immortality when she is already immortal now? What other immortality, what other death can we talk about, when now it is already dead and immortal, alive in death, as it was alive in life?

And if they brought a coffin with her own decaying body into her cell, filling it with a stench, and said:

Look! It's you!

She would look and answer:

No. It's not me.

And when they began to convince her, frightening her with the ominous sight of Decay, that it was she, she! - Musya would answer with a smile:

No. You think it's me, but it's not me. I'm the one you're talking to, how can I be that?

But you will die and become this.

No, I won't die.

You will be executed. Here's the loop.

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

And the scientists, philosophers and executioners would retreat, saying with a shudder:

Don't touch this area. This place is holy.

What else was Musya thinking about? She thought about a lot - for the thread of life did not break for her with death and weaved calmly and evenly. I thought about my comrades - both those distant ones who were experiencing their execution with anguish and pain, and about those loved ones who would ascend to the scaffold together. I was surprised at Vasily why he was so afraid - he was always very brave and could even joke with death. So, even on Tuesday morning, when she and Vasily were putting explosive shells on their belts, which in a few hours were supposed to blow them up, Tanya Kovalchuk’s hands were shaking with excitement and she had to be removed, and Vasily was joking, clowning around, spinning around, and was so careless even that Werner sternly said:

There is no need to become familiar with death.

What was he afraid of now? But this incomprehensible fear was so alien to Musya’s soul that she soon stopped thinking about it and looking for the reason - suddenly she desperately wanted to see Seryozha Golovin and laugh about something with him. I thought - and even more desperately I wanted to see Werner and convince him of something. And, imagining that Werner was walking next to her with his clear, measured gait, driving his heels into the ground, Musya told him:

No, Werner, my dear, this is all nonsense, it doesn’t matter at all whether you killed NN or not. You are smart, but you play your own chess: take one piece, take another, and then you win. The important thing here, Werner, is that we ourselves are ready to die. Understand? What do these gentlemen think? That there is nothing worse than death. They themselves invented death, they themselves are afraid of it and frighten us. I would even like that: to go out alone in front of a whole regiment of soldiers and start shooting at them from a Browning gun. Even if I am alone, and there are thousands of them, I will not kill anyone. This is what is important, that there are thousands of them. When thousands kill one, it means that one has won. It's true, Werner, my dear.

But this was so clear that I didn’t want to prove it further - Werner probably now understood it himself. Or maybe she just didn’t want her thoughts to stop at one thing - like a lightly soaring bird, to which boundless horizons are visible, to which all the space, all the depth, all the joy of the caressing and gentle blue are available. The clock rang incessantly, shaking the dull silence; and thoughts flowed into this harmonious, distantly beautiful sound and also began to ring; and the smoothly sliding images became music. It was as if on a quiet dark night Musya was driving somewhere along a wide and level road, and the soft springs were swaying and the bells were ringing. All anxieties and worries disappeared, the tired body dissolved in the darkness, and the joyfully tired thought calmly created bright images, reveled in their colors and quiet peace. Musya remembered her three comrades who had recently been hanged, and their faces were clear, and joyful, and close - closer to those in life. So in the morning a man joyfully thinks about the house of his friends, where he will enter in the evening with greetings on his laughing lips.

Musya is very tired of walking. She lay down carefully on the bed and continued to dream with her eyes lightly closed. The clock rang incessantly, shaking the mute silence, and bright singing images quietly floated on its ringing banks. Musya thought:

Is this really death? My God, how beautiful she is! Or is this life? I do not know. Will I watch and listen?

Long ago, from the first days of imprisonment, her hearing began to fantasize. Very musical, it was intensified by silence and against its background, from the meager grains of reality, with its steps of sentries in the corridor, the ringing of clocks, the rustle of the wind on the iron roof, the creaking of a lantern, he created entire musical pictures. At first Musya was afraid of them, drove them away from her like painful hallucinations, then she realized that she herself was healthy and there was no illness here - and began to surrender to them calmly.

And now - suddenly, quite clearly and distinctly, she heard the sounds of military music. In amazement, she opened her eyes, raised her head - it was night outside the window, and the clock was ringing. ?Again, then!? - she thought calmly and closed her eyes. And as soon as I closed it, the music started playing again. You can clearly hear soldiers, a whole regiment, coming out from around the corner of the building, on the right, and passing by the window. The feet beat the beat evenly on the frozen ground: one-two! one-two! - you can even hear how the leather on a boot sometimes creaks, how someone’s foot suddenly slips and immediately straightens itself. And the music is closer: a completely unfamiliar, but very loud and cheerful festive march. Obviously, there is some kind of holiday in the fortress.

Now the orchestra is level with the window, and the whole chamber is full of cheerful, rhythmic, friendly and discordant sounds. One trumpet, large, copper, is sharply out of tune, sometimes late, sometimes running ahead funny - Musya sees the soldier with this trumpet, his diligent face, and laughs.

Everything is deleted. The steps freeze: one-two! one-two! From afar, the music is even more beautiful and fun. Once or twice again the trumpet screams loudly and falsely joyfully with a copper voice, and everything goes out. And again the clock in the bell tower rings, slowly, sadly, barely shaking the silence.

Gone!? - Musya thinks with slight sadness. She feels sorry for the sounds that are gone, so cheerful and funny; I even feel sorry for the departed soldiers, because these diligent ones, with copper pipes, with creaking boots, are completely different, not at all the ones she would like to shoot at with a Browning.

Well, more! - she asks affectionately. And more come. They bend over her, surround her with a transparent cloud and lift her up, to where migratory birds fly and shout like heralds. Right, left, up and down - they shout like heralds. They call, they announce, they announce their flight far away. They flap their wings widely, and the darkness holds them, just as the light holds them; and on the convex breasts cutting the air, the shining city glows blue from below. Musya’s heart beats more and more evenly, Musya’s breathing becomes calmer and quieter. She falls asleep. The face is tired and pale; There are circles under the eyes, and the girl’s emaciated hands are so thin, and there is a smile on her lips. Tomorrow, when the sun rises, this human face will be distorted with an inhuman grimace, the brain will be filled with thick blood and glassy eyes will crawl out of their sockets - but today she sleeps quietly and smiles in her great immortality.

Musya fell asleep.

And in prison there is a life of its own, deaf and sensitive, blind and vigilant, like eternal anxiety itself. They are walking somewhere. Somewhere they whisper. A gun rang somewhere. It seems like someone shouted. Or maybe no one screamed - it’s just amazing from the silence.

The window in the door silently fell away and a dark, mustachioed face appeared in the dark opening. He stares at Musya in surprise for a long time - and disappears silently, just as he appeared.

The chimes ring and sing - for a long time, painfully. As if the tired hours are crawling up a high mountain towards midnight, and the climb is becoming more and more difficult. They break off, slide, fly down with a groan - and again crawl painfully to their black peak.

They are walking somewhere. Somewhere they whisper. And they are already harnessing the horses into black carriages without lights.

"8. THERE IS DEATH, THERE IS LIFE"

Sergei Golovin never thought about death as something extraneous and completely unrelated to him. He was a strong, healthy, cheerful young man, gifted with that calm and clear cheerfulness in which every bad thought or feeling harmful to life quickly and completely disappears in the body. Just as quickly all sorts of cuts, wounds and injections healed for him, so everything that was painful and wounded his soul was immediately pushed out and left. And to every business or even fun, whether it was photography, a bicycle, or preparation for a terrorist attack, he brought the same calm and cheerful seriousness: everything in life is fun, everything in life is important, everything needs to be done well.

And he did everything well: he handled the sail superbly, shot the revolver perfectly; was strong in friendship, as well as in love, and fanatically believed in the “word of honor”. His own people laughed at him, that if a detective, a mug, a notorious spy gave him his word of honor that he was not a detective, Sergei would believe him and shake his hand in a comradely manner. There was one drawback: he was sure that he sang well, while he had no hearing at all, he sang disgustingly and was out of tune even in revolutionary songs; and was offended when they laughed.

“Either you are all donkeys, or I am an ass,” he said seriously and offended. And just as seriously, after thinking, everyone decided:

But for this flaw, as sometimes happens with good people, they loved him, perhaps, even more than for his merits.

He was so not afraid of death and did not think about it so much that on the fateful morning, before leaving Tanya Kovalchuk’s apartment, he alone, with an appetite, had breakfast: he drank two glasses of tea, half diluted with milk, and ate a whole five-kopeck roll. Then he looked sadly at Werner’s untouched bread and said:

Why aren't you eating? Eat, you need to refresh yourself.

Do not want.

Well, I'll eat it. OK?

Well, you have an appetite, Seryozha.

Instead of answering, Sergei, with his mouth full, sang dully and out of tune:

Hostile whirlwinds are blowing over us...

After the arrest, he was sad: it was not done well, it was a failure, but he thought: “Now there is something else that needs to be done well - to die?” - and he became cheerful. And strangely enough, from the second morning in the fortress he began to do gymnastics according to the unusually rational system of some German Muller, which he was fond of: he undressed naked and, to the alarming surprise of the watching sentry, carefully performed all the prescribed eighteen exercises. And the fact that the sentry observed and, apparently, was surprised, was pleasant to him, as a propagandist of the Müller system; and although he knew that he would not receive an answer, he still said to the eye sticking out of the window:

Okay, brother, it strengthens. If only you could introduce what is needed into your regiment,” he shouted convincingly and meekly, so as not to frighten him, not suspecting that the soldier considered him simply crazy.

The fear of death began to appear to him gradually and somehow in pushes: as if someone would take it from below, with all his strength, he would push his heart with his fist. More painful than scary. Then the feeling will be forgotten - and after a few hours it will appear again, and each time it becomes longer and stronger. And it is already clearly beginning to take on the dim outlines of some great and even unbearable fear.

Am I really afraid? - Sergei thought with surprise. - Here’s more nonsense!?

It was not he who was afraid - it was his young, strong, strong body that was afraid, which could not be deceived either by the gymnastics of the German Muller or by cold rubdowns. And the stronger and fresher it became after the cold water, the sharper and more unbearable the sensations of instant fear became. And it was precisely in those moments when, in freedom, he felt a special upsurge of cheerfulness and strength, in the morning, after sound sleep and physical exercise, this sharp, as if alien, fear appeared. He noticed this and thought:

Stupid, brother Sergei. To make it die easier, it must be weakened, not strengthened. Stupid!?

And he gave up gymnastics and rubdowns. And in explanation and justification he shouted to the soldier:

Don't look at what I left. It's a good thing, brother. Only for those whom hanging is not suitable, but for all others it is very good.

And indeed, it seemed to become easier. I also tried to eat less in order to weaken further, but despite the lack of clean air and exercise, my appetite was very large, it was difficult to cope, I ate everything that was brought. Then he began to do this: before even starting to eat, he poured half of the hot food into the tub; and this seemed to help: a dull drowsiness and languor appeared.

I'll show you! - he threatened the body, and he himself, with sadness, gently moved his hand over the flaccid, limp muscles.

But soon the body got used to this regime, and the fear of death appeared again - though not so acute, not so fiery, but even more boring, similar to nausea. “This is because they are dragging on for a long time,” Sergei thought, “it would be nice to sleep all this time, before the execution?”, and he tried to sleep as long as possible. At first it was possible, but then, either because he had overslept or for some other reason, insomnia appeared. And with her came sharp, vigilant thoughts, and with them a longing for life.

Am I afraid of her, the devil? - he thought about death. - I feel sorry for my life. A magnificent thing, no matter what the pessimists say. What if a pessimist is hanged? Oh, it’s a pity for life, it’s a pity. And why did I grow a beard? She didn’t grow, she didn’t grow, and then suddenly she grew. And for what??

He shook his head sadly and sighed with long, heavy sighs. Silence - and a long, deep sigh; again a short silence - and again an even longer, heavy sigh.

This was the case before the trial and until the last terrible meeting with the old people. When he woke up in the cell with a clear consciousness that everything was over with life, that only a few hours of waiting in the void and death lay ahead, it became somehow strange. It was as if he had been completely stripped, somehow extraordinarily stripped - not only had his clothes been taken off, but the sun, air, noise and light, actions and speeches had been torn from him. There is no death yet, but there is no longer life, but there is something new, amazingly incomprehensible, and either completely devoid of meaning, or having meaning, but so deep, mysterious and inhuman that it is impossible to open it.

Fu-you, damn it! - Sergei was painfully surprised. - What is this? Where am I? Am I... what am I?

He looked all over himself, carefully, with interest, starting from the large prison shoes, ending with his stomach, on which his robe protruded. He walked around the cell, spreading his arms and continuing to look around himself, like a woman in a new dress that was too long for her. He turned his head - he was spinning. And this, somewhat scary for some reason, is him, Sergei Golovin, and this will not happen. And everything became strange.

I tried to walk around the cell - it was strange that he was walking. I tried to sit - it was strange that he was sitting. I tried to drink water - it was strange that he was drinking, that he was swallowing, that he was holding a mug, that he had fingers, and these fingers were trembling. He choked, coughed and, coughing, thought: “How strange is it that I’m coughing?”

Am I going crazy? - thought Sergei, growing cold. - This was not enough for the devil to take them!?

He rubbed his forehead with his hand, but that was strange too. And then, without breathing, for what seemed like hours, he froze in immobility, extinguishing every thought, holding loud breathing, avoiding any movement - for every thought was madness, every movement was madness. Time disappeared, as if it had turned into space, transparent, airless, into a huge area on which everything, earth, life, and people; and all this is visible at one glance, all until the very end, until the mysterious cliff - death. And the torment was not that death was visible, but that both life and death were immediately visible. With a sacrilegious hand, the veil that had been hiding the mystery of life and the mystery of death for centuries was pulled back, and they ceased to be secrets, but they did not become understandable, like truth written in an unknown language. There were no such concepts in his human brain, no such words in his human language that could encompass what he saw. And the words: “I’m scared?” - sounded in it only because there was no other word, there was not and could not exist a concept corresponding to this new, inhuman state. This is how it would be with a person if, while remaining within the limits of human understanding, experience and feelings, he suddenly saw God himself - he saw and did not understand, even though he knew that it was called God, and would shudder with the unheard-of torment of an unheard-of misunderstanding.

So much for Mueller! - he suddenly said loudly, with extreme conviction, and shook his head. And with that unexpected change in feeling of which the human soul is so capable, he laughed cheerfully and sincerely. - Oh, Muller! Oh, my dear Muller! Oh, my beautiful German! And still

You're right, Muller, and I, Brother Muller, am an ass.

He quickly walked around the cell several times and, to the new, great surprise of the soldier watching through the peephole, he quickly stripped naked and cheerfully, with extreme diligence, did all eighteen exercises; he stretched and stretched his young, somewhat thinner body, squatted, inhaled and exhaled air, stood on his toes, threw out his legs and arms. And after each exercise he said with pleasure:

That's it! This is the real thing, Brother Muller!

His cheeks were flushed, droplets of hot, pleasant sweat appeared from his pores, and his heart was beating strongly and evenly.

The thing is, Muller,” Sergei reasoned, sticking out his chest so that the ribs under the thin, stretched skin were clearly outlined, “the thing is, Muller, there is another nineteenth exercise - hanging by the neck in a stationary position. And this is called execution. Do you understand, Mueller? They take a living person, say Sergei Golovin, swaddle him like a doll, and hang him by the neck until he dies. This is stupid, Muller, but nothing can be done - we have to.

He leaned over to his right side and repeated:

We have to, Brother Muller.

"9. TERRIBLE LONELINESS"

Under the same ringing of the clock, separated from Sergei and Musya by several empty cells, but alone as hard as if he existed alone in the entire universe, the unfortunate Vasily Kashirin ended his life in horror and anguish.

Sweaty, with his wet shirt sticking to his body, his previously curly hair flowing, he frantically and hopelessly rushed around the cell, like a man with an unbearable toothache. He sat down, ran again, pressed his forehead against the wall, stopped and looked for something with his eyes - as if he was looking for medicine. He had changed so much that it was as if he had two different faces, and the old, young one had gone somewhere, and in its place was a new, terrible one, coming from the darkness.

The fear of death came to him immediately and took possession of him completely and powerfully. Even in the morning, going to obvious death, he became familiar with her, and by the evening, imprisoned in solitary confinement, he was dizzy and overwhelmed by a wave of frantic fear. While he himself, of his own free will, walked into danger and death, while he held his death, even terrible in appearance, in his own hands, it was easy and fun for him even: in a feeling of boundless freedom, bold and firm assertion of his daring and fearless of will, the little one, wrinkled, like an old woman, drowned without a trace. shock. Belted by an infernal machine, he himself, as it were, turned into an infernal machine, turned on the cruel mind of dynamite, appropriated its fiery deadly power. And, walking down the street, among the bustling, everyday people, preoccupied with their own affairs, hastily fleeing from cab horses and trams, he seemed to himself as a stranger from another, unknown world, where they know neither death nor fear. And suddenly there was an abrupt, wild, stunning change. He no longer goes where he wants, but they take him wherever they want. He no longer chooses his place, but is put in a stone cage and locked with a key, like a thing. He can no longer choose freely: life or death, like all people, and he will certainly and inevitably be killed. In an instant, once the embodiment of will, life and strength, he becomes a pitiful image of the only powerlessness in the world, turns into an animal awaiting slaughter, into a deaf and voiceless thing that can be rearranged, burned, broken. No matter what he says, they will not listen to his words, and if he starts screaming, they will gag his mouth with a rag, and whether he moves his legs himself, they will take him away and hang him; and if he begins to resist, flounder, or lies on the ground, they will overpower him, lift him up, tie him up, and bring him bound to the gallows. And the fact that this machine work on him will be performed by people just like him gives them a new, unusual and ominous appearance: either ghosts, something pretending, appearing only on purpose, or mechanical dolls on a spring: they take, they grab, lead, hang, pull by the legs. They cut the rope, lay it down, transport it, and bury it.

And from the very first day of prison, people and life turned for him into an incomprehensibly terrible world of ghosts and mechanical dolls. Almost mad with horror, he tried to imagine that people had a language and spoke, but he could not - they seemed dumb; I tried to remember their speech, the meaning of the words they use during intercourse, but I could not. Their mouths open, something sounds, then they separate, moving their legs, and there is nothing.

This is how a person would feel if at night, when he was alone in the house, all things came to life, moved and acquired unlimited power over him, the person. Suddenly they would begin to judge him: the wardrobe, the chair, the desk and the sofa. He would scream and rush around, beg, call for help, and they would say something in their own way to each other, then they would take him to hang: a wardrobe, a chair, a desk and a sofa. And other things would look at it.

And everything began to seem like a toy to Vasily Kashirin, sentenced to death by hanging: his cell, the door with a peephole, the ringing of a wound clock, a neatly sculpted fortress, and especially that mechanical doll with a gun that knocks its feet along the corridor, and those others that, scaring him, they look into his window and silently serve him food. And what he felt was not the horror of death; rather, he even wanted death: in all its eternal mystery and incomprehensibility, it was more accessible to reason than this world, which had so wildly and fantastically transformed. Moreover: death seemed to be completely destroyed in this crazy world of ghosts and dolls, lost its great and mysterious meaning, and also became something mechanical and only for that reason terrible. They take, grab, lead, hang, pull by the legs. They cut the rope, lay it down, transport it, and bury it.

A man has disappeared from the world.

At the trial, the proximity of his comrades brought Kashirin to his senses, and again, for a moment, he saw people: they were sitting and judging him and saying something in human language, listening and seeming to understand. But already on a date with his mother, with the horror of a man who begins to go crazy and understands it, he felt clearly that this old woman in a black headscarf was just a skillfully made mechanical doll, like those who say: “Pa-pa?” ?Mom?, but only better made. I tried to talk to her, but myself, shuddering, thought:

God! Yes, it's a doll. Mother's doll. And here is that soldier doll, and there, at home, is the father’s doll, and this is the doll of Vasily Kashirin?

It seemed that a little more and he would hear somewhere the crackling of a mechanism, the creaking of unlubricated wheels. When the mother began to cry, for one moment something human flashed again, but at her very first words it disappeared, and it became curious and terrifying to see water flowing from the doll’s eyes.

Then, in his cell, when the horror became unbearable, Vasily Kashirin tried to pray. From all that, under the guise of religion, his youthful life in his father’s merchant’s house was surrounded, there was only one nasty, bitter and irritating aftertaste, and there was no faith. But once upon a time, perhaps in early childhood, he heard three words, and they struck him with tremulous excitement and then remained enveloped in quiet poetry for the rest of his life. These words were: “Joy to all who mourn.”

It happened that in difficult moments he would whisper to himself, without prayer, without definite consciousness: “Joy to all who mourn?” - and suddenly it becomes easier and you want to go to someone nice and complain quietly:

Our life... is this really life! Oh, my dear, is this really life!

And then suddenly it becomes funny, and you want to curl your hair, throw out your knee, expose your chest to someone’s blows: hit it!

He did not tell anyone, not even his closest comrades, about his joy? and even he himself seemed not to know about it - it was so deeply hidden in his soul. And he remembered it not often, with caution.

And now, when the horror of an unsolvable mystery that had become apparent to him had completely covered him, like water in a flood covering a coastal vine, he wanted to pray. He wanted to kneel down, but he felt ashamed in front of the soldier, and, folding his hands to his chest, he quietly whispered:

Joy to all who mourn!

And with sadness, pronouncing touchingly, he repeated:

Joy to all who mourn, come to me and support Vaska Kashirin.

Long ago, when he was in his first year at university and was still hanging out, before meeting Werner and joining society, he called himself boastfully and pitifully? Vaska Kashirin? - now for some reason I wanted to be called the same. But the words sounded dead and unresponsive:

Joy to all who mourn!

Something stirred. It was as if someone’s quiet and mournful image floated in the distance and quietly went out, not illuminating the darkness before death. The clock in the bell tower was striking. The soldier rattled with something, a saber, or maybe a gun, in the corridor and yawned for a long time, with transitions.

Joy to all who mourn! And you are silent! And you don’t want to say anything to Vaska Kashirin?

He smiled tenderly and waited. But it was empty both in my soul and around. And the quiet and mournful image did not return. I remembered needlessly and painfully burning wax candles, a priest in a cassock, an icon painted on the wall, and how the father, bending and unbending, prayed and bowed, while he himself looked from under his brows to see if Vaska was praying, or if he was engaged in self-indulgence. And it became even worse than before the prayer.

Everything has disappeared.

Madness was creeping in heavily. Consciousness went out like a scattered fire going out, it grew cold, like the corpse of a person who had just died, whose heart was still warm, but whose legs and arms were already numb. Once again, flashing bloodily, the fading thought said that he, Vaska Kashirin, could go crazy here, experience torments for which there is no name, reach such a limit of pain and suffering that no living creature has ever reached; that he can bang his head against the wall, gouge out his eyes with his finger, talk and shout whatever he wants, assure with tears that he can’t bear it anymore - and nothing. There will be nothing.

And nothing happened. The legs, which have their own consciousness and their own life, continued to walk and carry a trembling wet body. Hands, which had their own consciousness, tried in vain to wrap the robe that diverged on the chest and warm the trembling wet body. The body was shaking and cold. The eyes were watching. And it was almost peace.

But there was still a moment of wild horror. This is when people came in. He didn’t even think about what it meant - it was time to go to execution, but he just saw people and was scared, almost like a child.

I won't! I won't! - he whispered inaudibly with dead lips and quietly moved into the depths of the cell, as in childhood, when his father raised his hand.

Must go.

They talk, walk around, serve something. He closed his eyes, swayed, and began to gather himself with difficulty. His consciousness must have begun to return: he suddenly asked the official for a cigarette. And he kindly opened a silver cigarette case with a decadent design.

"10. THE WALLS ARE FALLING"

The unknown man, nicknamed Werner, was a man tired of life and the struggle. There was a time when he loved life very much, enjoyed the theater, literature, communication with people; Gifted with an excellent memory and strong will, he studied several European languages perfectly and could freely pass himself off as a German, French or Englishman. He usually spoke German with a Bavarian accent, but could, if he wanted, speak like a real, born Berliner. He loved to dress well, had excellent manners, and alone of his entire brethren, without the risk of being recognized, dared to appear at high society balls.

But for a long time, invisible to his comrades, a dark contempt for people had been ripening in his soul; and there was despair there, and heavy, almost mortal fatigue. By nature he was more of a mathematician than a poet; he had not yet known inspiration or ecstasy, and at moments he felt like a madman searching for the square of a circle in pools of human blood. The enemy with whom he fought daily could not inspire him to respect himself; it was a frequent network of stupidity, betrayal and lies, dirty spitting, vile deceptions. The last thing that seemed to destroy his desire to live forever was the murder of a provocateur, committed by him on behalf of the organization. He killed calmly, and when he saw this dead, deceitful, but now calm and yet pitiful human face, he suddenly stopped respecting himself and his business. Not that he felt repentance, but simply suddenly stopped valuing himself, became uninteresting to himself, unimportant, a boring outsider. But as a man of a single, unsplit will, he did not leave the organization and outwardly remained the same - only there was something cold and eerie in his eyes. And he didn’t say anything to anyone.

He also had another rare property: just as there are people who have never known a headache, he did not know what fear was. And when others were afraid, he treated it without condemnation, but also without much sympathy, as if it were a fairly common illness, from which he himself, however, never suffered. He pitied his comrades, especially Vasya Kashirin; but it was a cold, almost official pity, to which some of the judges were probably not alien.

Werner understood that execution was not just death, but something else, but in any case he decided to meet it calmly, as something extraneous: to live to the end as if nothing had happened or would happen. Only by this could he express the highest contempt for execution and preserve the last, inalienable freedom of spirit. And at the trial - and perhaps even his comrades, who knew his cold fearlessness and arrogance well, would not have believed this - he thought neither about death nor about life: he concentratedly, with the deepest and calmest attentiveness, played a difficult chess game. An excellent chess player, he started this game from the first day of his imprisonment and continued non-stop. And the sentence that sentenced him to death by hanging did not move a single piece on the invisible board.

Even the fact that he apparently wouldn’t have to end the party didn’t stop him; and the morning of the last day that remained for him on earth, he began by correcting one of yesterday’s not entirely successful moves. Clutching his lowered hands between his knees, he sat motionless for a long time; then he got up and began to walk, thinking. His gait was special: he slightly bent his upper body forward and hit the ground firmly and clearly with his heels - even on dry ground, his steps left a deep and noticeable mark. Quietly, in one breath, he whistled a simple Italian aria - it helped him think.

But for some reason things went badly this time. With an unpleasant feeling that he had made some kind of major, even gross mistake, he went back several times and checked the game almost from the beginning. There was no mistake found, but the feeling of having made a mistake not only did not go away, but became stronger and more annoying. And suddenly an unexpected and offensive thought appeared: is it a mistake that by playing chess he wants to distract his attention from the execution and protect himself from that fear of death, which is supposedly inevitable for the condemned?

No, why not! - he answered coldly and calmly closed the invisible board. And with the same concentrated attentiveness with which he played, as if answering a strict exam, he tried to give an account of the horror and hopelessness of his situation: having examined the cell, trying not to miss anything, he counted the hours that remained until the execution, drew himself an approximate and fairly accurate picture execution itself and shrugged.

Well? - he answered someone with a half-question. - That's all. Where is the fear?

There really was no fear. And not only was there no fear, but something seemed to be growing opposite to it - a feeling of vague, but enormous and bold joy. And the mistake, still not found, no longer caused any annoyance or irritation, and also spoke loudly about something good and unexpected, as if he considered a close, dear friend dead, and this friend turned out to be alive and unharmed and laughing.

Werner shrugged his shoulders again and tested his pulse: his heart was beating quickly, but firmly and evenly, with a particularly ringing force. Once again, carefully, like a newcomer entering prison for the first time, he looked at the walls, the locks, the chair screwed to the floor and thought:

Why is it so easy, joyful and free for me? It's free. I think about tomorrow’s execution - and it’s as if it doesn’t exist. I look at the walls - it’s as if there are no walls. And so freely, as if I was not in prison, but had just left some kind of prison in which I had been sitting all my life. What is this??

His hands began to tremble - a phenomenon unprecedented for Werner. The thought beat more and more furiously. It was as if tongues of fire were flashing in my head - the fire wanted to break through and illuminate the still night, still dark distance widely. And then he made his way out, and the widely illuminated distance began to shine.

The cloudy fatigue that had tormented Werner for the last two years disappeared, and the dead, cold, heavy snake with closed eyes and a deathly closed mouth fell away from his heart - in the face of death, beautiful youth returned, playing. And it was more than a wonderful youth. With that amazing enlightenment of the spirit that in rare moments overshadows a person and lifts him to the highest heights of contemplation, Werner suddenly saw both life and death and was amazed at the splendor of an unprecedented spectacle. It was as if he was walking along a narrow, knife-blade, highest mountain ridge and on one side he saw life, and on the other he saw death, like two sparkling, deep, beautiful seas merging on the horizon into one boundless wide expanse.

What is this! What a divine spectacle! - he said slowly, standing up involuntarily and straightening up, as if in the presence of a higher being. And, destroying walls, space and time with the swiftness of his all-penetrating gaze, he looked broadly somewhere into the depths of the life he was leaving.

And life appeared new. He did not try, as before, to capture in words what he saw, and there were no such words in the still poor, still meager human language. That small, dirty and evil thing that aroused in him contempt for people and at times even caused disgust at the sight of a human face, disappeared completely: just as for a person rising in a hot air balloon, the rubbish and dirt of the cramped streets of an abandoned town disappear, and the ugly becomes beauty.

With an unconscious movement, Werner stepped towards the table and leaned on it with his right hand. Proud and powerful by nature, he had never before taken such a proud, free and powerful pose, never turned his neck like that, never looked like that - for he had never been free and powerful as he was here, in prison, several hours away from execution and death.

And people appeared new, they seemed sweet and charming to his enlightened gaze in a new way. Soaring above time, he saw clearly how young humanity was, only yesterday howling like a beast in the forests; and what seemed terrible in people, unforgivable and disgusting, suddenly became sweet - how cute in a child is his inability to walk with the gait of an adult, his incoherent babble, shining with sparks of genius, his funny blunders, mistakes and cruel bruises.

My dears! - Werner suddenly smiled unexpectedly and immediately lost all the impressiveness of his pose, again became a prisoner, who was cramped and uncomfortable locked up, and a little bored by the annoying inquisitive eye sticking out in the plane of the door. And it’s strange: almost suddenly he forgot what he had just seen so clearly and clearly; and even stranger - I didn’t even try to remember. He simply sat down more comfortably, without the usual dryness in his body position, and with an alien, not Werner’s, weak and gentle smile, he looked around the walls and bars. Another new thing happened that had never happened to Werner: he suddenly began to cry.

My dear comrades! - he whispered and cried bitterly. - My dear comrades!

By what secret paths did he come from a feeling of proud and boundless freedom to this tender and passionate pity? He didn't know or think about it. And whether he felt sorry for them, his dear comrades, or whether his tears were hiding something else, even more lofty and passionate, his suddenly resurrected, green heart did not know either. He cried and whispered:

My dear comrades! You are dear, my comrades!

In this man who wept bitterly and smiled through his tears, no one would have recognized the cold and arrogant, tired and impudent Werner - neither the judges, nor his comrades, nor himself.

"eleven. THEY ARE BEING TRAVELED"

Before the convicts were seated in carriages, all five of them were gathered in a large, cold room with a vaulted ceiling, similar to an office where they no longer work, or an empty reception room. And they allowed us to talk to each other.

But only Tanya Kovalchuk immediately took advantage of the permission. The rest silently and firmly shook hands, cold as ice and hot as fire, and silently, trying not to look at each other, crowded together in an awkward, scattered group. Now that they were together, they seemed ashamed of what each of them had experienced alone; and they were afraid to look, lest they see and show that new, special, slightly shameful thing that everyone felt or suspected about themselves.

But once or twice they looked, smiled and immediately felt at ease and simply, as before: no change happened, and if something did happen, it fell so smoothly on everyone that it became unnoticeable to everyone individually. Everyone spoke and moved strangely: abruptly, in jerks, either too slowly, or too quickly; sometimes they choked on words and repeated them many times, sometimes they didn’t finish the sentence they started or thought it had been said - they didn’t notice it. Everyone squinted and looked at ordinary things with curiosity, without recognition, like people who wore glasses and suddenly took them off; everyone often and sharply turned back, as if all the time someone was calling out to them from behind and showing them something. But they didn’t notice this either. Musya and Tanya Kovalchuk's cheeks and ears were burning; Sergei was somewhat pale at first, but soon recovered and became the same as always.

And only Vasily was paid attention. Even among them he was unusual and terrible. Werner perked up and quietly said to Musa with gentle concern:

What is this, Musechka? Is he really that, huh? What? We need to go to him.

From somewhere far away, Vasily, as if not recognizing him, looked at Werner and lowered his eyes.

Vasya, what's wrong with your hair, huh? What are you doing? Nothing, brother, nothing, nothing, it will end now. We must hold on, we must, we must.

Vasily was silent. And when it began to seem that he would not say anything at all, a dull, belated, terribly distant answer came: this is how the grave could answer many calls:

Yes, I'm okay. I'm holding on.

And he repeated.

I'm holding on.

Werner was delighted.

Exactly. Well done. So-so.

But he met a dark, heavy gaze directed from the deepest distance and thought with instant melancholy; ?Where is he looking from? Where is he talking from?? And with deep tenderness, as they say only to the grave, he said:

Vasya, can you hear? I very love you.

“And I love you very much,” the tongue answered, tossing and turning heavily.

Suddenly Musya took Werner by the hand and, expressing surprise, intensely, like an actress on stage, said:

Werner, what's wrong with you? Did you say: I love you? You never told anyone: I love you. And why are you all so... light and soft? And what?

And, like an actor, also intensely expressing what he felt, Werner tightly squeezed Musya’s hand:

Yes, I love it very much now. Don’t tell others, don’t, I’m ashamed, but I love you very much.

Their eyes met and flashed brightly, and everything around went out: just as in the instant flash of lightning all other lights go out, and the yellow, heavy flame itself casts a shadow on the ground.

Yes,” said Musya. - Yes, Werner.

Yes, he answered. - Yes, Musya, yes!

Something was understood and affirmed by them unshakably. And, his eyes glowing, Werner perked up again and quickly stepped towards Sergei.

But Tanya Kovalchuk answered. Delighted, almost crying with maternal pride, she furiously tugged at Sergei’s sleeve.

Werner, listen up! I’m crying about him here, I’m killing myself, and he’s doing gymnastics!

According to Mueller? - Werner smiled.

Sergei frowned in confusion:

You're laughing in vain, Werner. I'm finally convinced...

Everyone laughed. In communicating with each other, drawing strength and strength, they gradually became the same as before, but they did not notice this either, they thought that they were all the same. Suddenly Werner stopped laughing and said to Sergei with extreme seriousness:

You're right, Seryozha. You are absolutely right.

No, you understand,” Golovin was delighted. - Of course we...

But then they offered to go. And they were so kind that they allowed us to sit in pairs as they wished. And in general they were very, even excessively kind: they either tried to show their human attitude, or to show that they were not there at all, but that everything was done by itself. But they were pale.

You, Musya, are with him,” Werner pointed to Vasily, who stood motionless.

“I understand,” Musya nodded her head. - And you?

I? Tanya with Sergei, you with Vasya... I'm alone. It's okay, I can do it, you know.

When they went out into the yard, the damp darkness softly, but warmly and strongly hit the face, the eyes, took away the breath, and suddenly cleansingly and tenderly permeated the entire shuddering body. It was hard to believe that this was amazing - just a spring wind, a warm, humid wind. And the real, amazing spring night smelled of melting snow - boundless expanse, ringing with drops. Busily and often, catching up with each other, fast droplets fell and struck out a ringing song in unison; but suddenly one voice will go wrong, and everything will get confused in a cheerful splash, in hasty confusion. And then a large, stern drop will hit firmly, and again the hasty spring song will be heard clearly and loudly. And above the city, on top of the fortress roofs, there was a pale glow from the electric lights.

Wow! - Sergei Golovin sighed widely and held his breath, as if regretting releasing such fresh and wonderful air from his lungs.

How long has the weather been like this? - inquired Werner. - It’s just spring.

It’s only the second day,” was the helpful and polite answer. - It’s getting more and more frosty.

One after another, dark carriages rolled up gently, picked them up two at a time, and went off into the darkness, to where the lantern swayed under the gate. The guards surrounded each carriage with gray silhouettes, and the horseshoes of their horses clinked loudly or slapped in the wet snow.

When Werner, bent over, was about to climb into the carriage, the gendarme said vaguely:

There's another one coming with you.

Werner was surprised:

Where? Where is he going? Oh yes! Another one? Who is this?

The soldier was silent. Indeed, in the corner of the carriage, in the darkness, something small, motionless, but alive was pressed against each other - an open eye flashed in the slanting beam from the lantern. Sitting down, Werner nudged his knee with his foot.

Sorry, comrade.

He didn't answer. And only when the carriage started moving did he suddenly ask in broken Russian, stuttering:

I am Werner, sentenced to hang for the attempted murder of NN. And you?

I am Janson. I don't need to be hanged.

They were driving, so that in two hours they would be faced with an unsolved great mystery, going from life to death, and they were getting acquainted. In two planes there was life and death at the same time, and to the end, to the most ridiculous and absurd little things, life remained life.

What did you do, Janson?

I stabbed the owner with a knife. Stole money.

You're scared? - asked Werner.

I don't want.

They fell silent. Werner found the Estonian's hand again and pressed it tightly between his dry and hot palms. It lay motionless, like a plank, but Yanson no longer tried to take it away.

The carriage was cramped and stuffy, smelling of soldiers' cloth, mustiness, manure and leather from wet boots. The young gendarme, sitting opposite Werner, breathed hotly on him the mixed smell of onions and cheap tobacco. But through some cracks sharp and fresh air made its way, and this made spring feel even stronger in the small, stuffy, moving box than outside. The carriage turned now to the right, now to the left, then as if going back; It sometimes seemed that for some reason they had been spinning around in one place for hours. At first, a bluish electric light made its way through the thick curtains drawn down in the windows; then suddenly, after one turn, it got dark, and only from this one could guess that they had turned into remote outlying streets and were approaching the S-sky station. Sometimes, during sharp turns, Werner’s living bent knee beat in a friendly manner against the same living bent knee of the gendarme, and it was difficult to believe in the execution.

Where are we going? - Yanson suddenly asked.

He felt slightly dizzy from the prolonged spinning in the dark box and felt slightly nauseous.

Werner answered and squeezed the Estonian’s hand tighter. I wanted to say something especially friendly, affectionate to this little sleepy man, and he already loved him like no one else in his life.

Cute! You seem uncomfortable sitting. Move over here to me.

Yanson paused and answered:

Oh, thanks. I feel good. Will they hang you too?

Same! - Werner answered unexpectedly cheerfully, almost laughing, and waved his hand in a particularly cheeky and easy way. It was as if they were talking about some kind of ridiculous and absurd joke that nice but terribly funny people wanted to play on them.

Do you have a wife? - asked Yanson.

No. What a wife! I am alone.

I'm alone too. “Alone,” Yanson corrected himself after thinking.

And Werner began to feel dizzy. And it seemed for minutes that they were going to some kind of holiday; strange, but almost everyone who went to execution felt the same and, along with melancholy and horror, vaguely rejoiced at the extraordinary thing that was about to happen. Reality reveled in madness, and death, combined with life, gave birth to ghosts. It is very possible that flags were flying on the houses.

Here we are! - Werner said curiously and cheerfully when the carriage stopped, and jumped out easily. But with Yanson the matter dragged on: silently and somehow very sluggishly he resisted and did not want to leave. If he grabs the handle, the gendarme will unclench his powerless fingers and pull his hand away; he will grab a corner, a door, a high wheel - and immediately, with a weak effort on the part of the gendarme, he will let go. The silent Yanson didn’t even grab, but rather sleepily stuck to every object - and pulled it off easily and effortlessly. Finally stood up.

There were no flags. At night the station was dark, empty and lifeless; passenger trains no longer ran, and for the train that was silently waiting for these passengers along the way, there was no need for bright lights or fuss. And suddenly Werner became bored. Not scary, not sad, but bored with a huge, viscous, languid boredom, from which you want to go somewhere, lie down, close your eyes tightly. Werner stretched and yawned long. Yanson also stretched and quickly yawned several times in a row.

At least sooner! - Werner said tiredly.

Yanson was silent and shivered.

When, on a deserted platform, cordoned off by soldiers, the convicts moved towards the dimly lit carriages, Werner found himself next to Sergei Golovin; and he, pointing somewhere to the side with his hand, began to speak, and only the word “lantern” was clearly audible, and the ending was drowned in a long and tired yawn.

What do you say? - Werner asked, also responding with a yawn.

Flashlight. The lamp in the lantern smokes,” said Sergei.

Werner looked around: indeed, the lamp in the lantern was smoking heavily, and the glass at the top was already blackened.

Yes, it smokes.

And suddenly I thought: “But what does it matter to me that the lamp smokes when...?” Sergei obviously thought the same thing: he quickly looked at Werner and turned away. But they both stopped yawning.

Everyone walked to the carriages on their own, and only Yanson had to be led by the arms: at first he rested his feet and seemed to glue his soles to the boards of the platform, then he bent his knees and hung in the hands of the gendarmes, his legs dragged like a very drunk man, and his socks scraped the wood. And they pushed him through the door for a long time, but silently.

Vasily Kashirin himself moved, vaguely copying the movements of his comrades - he did everything like them. But, going up to the platform in the carriage, he stumbled, and the gendarme took him by the elbow to support him. Vasily shook and shouted shrilly, pulling his hand away:

Vasya, what's wrong with you? - Werner rushed towards him.

Vasily was silent and shook heavily. The embarrassed and even upset gendarme explained:

I wanted to support them, but they...

“Come on, Vasya, I’ll support you,” Werner said and wanted to take his hand. But Vasily pulled his hand back again and shouted even louder:

Vasya, it's me, Werner.

I know. Dont touch me. Me myself.

And, continuing to shake, he himself entered the carriage and sat down in the corner. Leaning towards Musa, Werner quietly asked her, pointing his eyes at Vasily:

“It’s bad,” Musya answered just as quietly. - He's already dead. Werner, tell me, is there death?

I don’t know, Musya, but I think not,” Werner answered seriously and thoughtfully.

I thought so. And he? I was exhausted with him in the carriage, it was like I was riding with a dead man.

I don't know, Musya. Maybe for some people there is death. For now, and then it won’t happen at all. So for me there was death, but now it’s gone.

Musya’s somewhat pale cheeks flushed:

Was there, Werner? Was?

Was. Now there is no. As for you.

There was a noise at the door of the carriage. Mishka Tsyganok entered, loudly clicking his heels, breathing loudly and spitting. He rolled his eyes and stopped stubbornly.

There are no places here, gendarme! - he shouted to the tired, angry-looking gendarme. - Give it to me so that it’s free, otherwise I won’t go, hang it here on the lantern. They also gave me a carriage, sons of bitches - is it really a carriage? Damn tripe, not a carriage!

But suddenly he bowed his head, stretched his neck, and so walked forward to the others. From the disheveled frame of his hair and beard, his black eyes looked wildly and sharply, with a somewhat insane expression.

A! Gentlemen! - he drawled. - That's it. Hello, master.

He poked Werner's hand and sat down opposite him. And, leaning close, he winked with one eye and quickly ran his hand along his neck.

Same! - Werner smiled.

Really everyone?

Wow! - Gypsy bared his teeth and quickly scanned everyone with his eyes, stopping for a moment longer on Musa and Yanson. And he winked at Werner again:

Minister?

Minister. And you?

I, sir, have another matter. Where are we from the minister? I, gentleman, am a robber, that’s what I am. Murderer. It’s okay, master, make room, you didn’t get into the company by your own will. There is enough room for everyone in the next world.

From under his tousled hair, he looked around everyone wildly with one swift, incredulous glance. But everyone looked at him silently and seriously, and even with visible sympathy. He bared his teeth and quickly patted Werner on the knee several times.

That's it, master! As the song says: don’t make noise, mother, green oak tree.

Why do you call me master when we are all...

That’s right,” Gypsy agreed with pleasure. “What a gentleman you are when you hang next to me!” What a master he is,” he pointed his finger at the silent gendarme. “Eh, but this one of yours is no worse than ours,” he pointed with his eyes at Vasily. - Master, master, are you afraid, huh?

“Nothing,” answered the tightly tossing tongue.

Well, it’s nothing like that. Don't be ashamed, there's nothing to be ashamed of. This dog just wags its tail and bares its teeth as they lead you to hang it, but you are a human being. And who is this one, the lop-eared one? Is this one not one of yours?

He quickly darted his eyes and incessantly, with a hiss, spat out the rushing sweet saliva. Yanson, huddled in a motionless lump in the corner, slightly moved the wings of his shabby fur hat, but did not answer. Werner answered for him:

The owner was stabbed to death.

God! - Gypsy was surprised. - And how are they allowed to kill people like that!

For a long time now, Gypsy had been looking sideways at Musa, and now, quickly turning around, he stared sharply and directly at her.

Young lady, oh young lady! What are you doing? And his cheeks are rosy, and he laughs. Look, she’s really laughing,” he grabbed Werner by the knee with tenacious fingers like iron. - Look, look!

Blushing, with a somewhat embarrassed smile, Musya also looked into his sharp, somewhat crazy, heavily and wildly questioning eyes.

Everyone was silent.

The wheels tapped loudly and busily, small carriages jumped along the narrow rails and ran diligently. Here, at a curve or at a crossing, a locomotive whistled loudly and diligently - the driver was afraid of running over someone. And it was crazy to think that so much ordinary human accuracy, diligence, and efficiency were brought into the hanging of people, that the craziest thing on earth was carried out with such a simple, reasonable appearance. The carriages were running, people were sitting in them, as they always sit, and they were driving, as they usually drive; and then there will be a stop, as always - “the train costs five minutes?”.

And then death comes - eternity is a great mystery.

"12. THEY WERE BROUGHT"

The trailers ran diligently.

For several years in a row, Sergei Golovin lived with his family at the dacha along this very road, often traveled day and night and knew it well. And if you close your eyes, you would think that now he was returning home - he was late in the city with friends and was returning on the last train.

“Now, soon,” he said, opening his eyes and looking out the dark, barred, silent window.

No one moved, no one answered, and only Gypsy quickly, over and over again, spat out sweet saliva. And he began to run his eyes around the carriage, feeling the windows, doors, soldiers.

It’s cold,” said Vasily Kashirin with tight, as if truly frozen lips; and the word came out like this: ho-a-dna.

Tanya Kovalchuk began to fuss.

On a scarf, tie it around your neck. The scarf is very warm.

Neck? - Sergei suddenly asked and was afraid of the question.

But since everyone thought the same thing, no one heard him - as if no one said anything or everyone said the same word at once.

It’s okay, Vasya, tie it, tie it, it will be warmer,” Werner advised, then turned to Yanson and tenderly asked:

Honey, aren't you cold, are you?

Werner, maybe he wants to smoke. Comrade, perhaps you want to smoke? - Musya asked. - We have.

Give him a cigarette, Seryozha,” Werner was delighted.

But Sergei was already taking out a cigarette. And everyone watched with love as Yanson’s fingers took the cigarette, as the match burned and blue smoke came out of Yanson’s mouth.

Well, thank you,” said Janson. - Fine.

How strange! - said Sergei.

What's strange? - Werner turned around. - What's strange?

Yes, here it is: a cigarette.

He held a cigarette, an ordinary cigarette, between his ordinary living fingers and, pale, looked at it with surprise, even as if with horror. And everyone stared with their eyes at a thin tube, from the end of which smoke flowed like a spinning blue ribbon, carried to the side by the breath, and ashes darkened and accumulated. Has gone out.

It’s gone out,” Tanya said.

Yes, it went out.

Well, to hell! - said Werner, frowning and looking with concern at Yanson, whose hand with the cigarette hung as if dead. Suddenly Gypsy quickly turned around, close, face to face, leaned towards Werner and, turning out his whites like a horse, whispered:

Master, what if the guards of that... huh? Should I try it?

“No,” Werner answered in the same whisper. - Drink to the end.

And for cha? It's more fun in a fight, eh? I told him, he told me, and he didn’t even notice how they decided. It was as if he had never died.

No, don’t,” said Werner and turned to Janson: “Darling, why don’t you smoke?”

Suddenly, Yanson’s flabby face wrinkled pitifully: as if someone had immediately pulled the thread that set the wrinkles in motion, and they all became distorted. And, as if in a dream, Yanson whimpered, without tears, in a dry, almost feigned voice:

I don't want to smoke. Ag-ha! Ag-ha! Ag-ha! I don't need to be hanged. Ag-ha, ag-ha, ag-ha!

There was a fuss around him. Tanya Kovalchuk, crying profusely, stroked his sleeve and straightened the hanging wings of his shabby hat:

You are my dear! Darling, don’t cry, you’re my dear! Yes, my unfortunate one!

Musya looked to the side. The gypsy caught her glance and bared his teeth.

His honor is an eccentric! He drinks tea, but his belly is cold,” he said with a short laugh. But his face became blue-black, like cast iron, and large yellow teeth flashed.

Suddenly the carriages trembled and clearly slowed down. Everyone, except Yanson and Kashirin, stood up and just as quickly sat down again.

Station! - said Sergei.

It was as if all the air had been pumped out of the carriage at once: it became so difficult to breathe. The grown heart burst into the chest, stood across the throat, rushed about madly - screamed in horror in its blood-filled voice. And the eyes looked down at the shaking floor, and the ears listened to how the wheels turned more and more slowly

They slid, spun again, and suddenly they stopped.

The train stopped.

Then sleep came. It wasn’t that it was very scary, but ghostly, unconscious and somehow alien: the dreamer himself remained aloof, and only his ghost moved incorporeally, spoke silently, suffered without suffering. In the dream, they got out of the carriage, broke into pairs, and smelled the particularly fresh, forest, spring air. In his sleep, Yanson resisted stupidly and powerlessly, and they silently dragged him out of the carriage.

We went down the steps.

Is it on foot? - someone asked almost cheerfully.

“It’s not far,” someone else answered just as cheerfully.

Then a large, black, silent crowd walked through the forest along a poorly packed, wet and soft spring road. From the forest, from the snow, there was a breath of fresh, strong air; the leg slipped, sometimes fell into the snow, and the hands involuntarily grabbed for a comrade; and, breathing loudly and laboriously, the guards moved along the solid snow on the sides. Someone's voice said angrily:

The roads could not be cleared. Tumble around in the snow here.

Someone made excuses:

Cleaned, your honor. Rostepel only, nothing can be done.

Consciousness returned, but incompletely, in fragments, in strange pieces. Then suddenly the thought busily confirmed:

Really, couldn't they clear the roads?

Then everything faded away again, and only the sense of smell remained: the unbearably bright smell of air, forest, melting snow; then everything became unusually clear - the forest, the night, the road, and the fact that they would be hanged this very minute. A restrained, whispered conversation flashed by in fragments:

It's almost four.

He said: we are leaving early.

It gets light at five.

Well, yes, at five. That's what was needed...

In the dark, in a clearing, we stopped. At some distance, behind sparse trees, transparent in winter, two lanterns silently moved: there stood gallows.

“I lost my galosh,” said Sergei Golovin.

Well? - Werner didn’t understand.

I lost my galosh. Cold.

Where is Vasily?

Don't know. There he stands.

Vasily stood dark and motionless.

Where is Musya?

I'm here. Is that you, Werner?

They began to look around, avoiding looking in the direction where the lanterns continued to move silently and terribly clearly. To the left, the bare forest seemed to be thinning out, and something large, white, and flat was visible. And a humid wind came from there.

“The sea,” said Sergei Golovin, sniffing and gasping for air. - There's a sea there.

Musya responded loudly:

My love, wide as the sea!

What are you, Musya?

My love, wide as the sea, cannot be contained by the shores of life.

“My love, wide as the sea,” Sergei repeated thoughtfully, obeying the sound of his voice and words.

My love, wide as the sea... - Werner repeated and was suddenly cheerfully surprised: - Muska! How young you are!

Suddenly, close, right next to Werner’s ear, the hot, breathless whisper of the Gypsy was heard:

Master, oh master. Forest, huh? Lord, what is this! And what is that, where are the flashlights, the hanger, or what? What is this, huh?

Werner looked: Gypsy was tormented by death's languor.

We must say goodbye... - said Tanya Kovalchuk.

Yanson was lying in the snow, and people were fiddling with something near him. Suddenly there was a sharp smell of ammonia.

So what is it, doctor? Are you soon? - someone asked impatiently.

Nothing, just fainting. Rub snow on his ears. He is already leaving, you can read.

The light of a secret flashlight fell on the paper and white hands without gloves. Both trembled a little; the voice trembled:

Everyone also refused the priest. Gypsy said:

Dad, you will break the fool; you forgive me, but they will hang me. Go where you came from.

And the dark wide silhouette silently and quickly moved deeper into the depths and disappeared. Apparently, dawn was coming: the snow turned white, the figures of people darkened, and the forest became thinner, sadder and simpler.

Gentlemen, we need to go in twos. Get into pairs as you wish, but please hurry up.

Werner pointed to Janson, who was already on his feet, supported by two gendarmes:

I'm with him. And you, Seryozha, take Vasily. Go forward.

We are with you, Musechka? - asked Kovalchuk. - Well, let's kiss.

They kissed quickly. The gypsy kissed him so hard that you could feel his teeth; Yanson spoke softly and sluggishly, with his mouth half-open - however, he didn’t seem to understand what he was doing. When Sergei Golovin and Kashirin had already walked a few steps away, Kashirin suddenly stopped and said loudly and clearly, but in a completely alien, unfamiliar voice:

Farewell, comrades!

Goodbye, comrade! - they shouted to him.

Gone. It became quiet. The lanterns behind the trees stopped motionless. They waited for a scream, a voice, some noise, but it was quiet there, as here, and the yellow lanterns glowed motionless.

Oh my god! - someone wheezed wildly. They looked around: it was Gypsy who was tossing around in his dying languor. - They're hanging!

They turned away and it became quiet again. The gypsy toiled, grasping the air with his hands:

How is this so! Gentlemen, eh? Am I the only one? It's more fun in company. Gentlemen! What is this?

He grabbed Werner’s hand with fingers squeezing and falling apart, as if playing:

Master, dear, at least you are with me, huh? Do me a favor, don't refuse!

Werner, suffering, replied:

I can't, honey. I'm with him.

Oh, my God! Alone, that is. How is this possible? God!

Musya stepped forward and said quietly:

Come with me.

The gypsy man recoiled and wildly turned his squirrels on her:

With you?

Look, you. How small! Aren't you afraid? Otherwise, I’m the only one better. What is there!

No I'm not afraid.

The gypsy bared his teeth.

Look! But I'm a robber. Don't you disdain? Otherwise it’s better not to. I won't be angry with you.

Musya was silent, and in the faint illumination of dawn her face seemed pale and mysterious. Then suddenly she quickly walked up to Gypsy and, throwing her arms behind his neck, kissed him firmly on the lips. He took her by the shoulders with his fingers, pulled her away from him, shook her - and, smacking loudly, kissed her on the lips, on the nose, on the eyes.

Suddenly the nearest soldier somehow swayed and unclenched his hands, releasing his gun. But he did not bend down to pick it up, but stood motionless for a moment, turned abruptly and, like a blind man, walked into the forest through the solid snow.

Where are you going? - the other whispered in fear. - Stop!

But he still silently and difficultly climbed through the deep snow; He must have bumped into something, thrown his arms and fell face down. So he remained lying there.

Raise your gun, you sour wool! Otherwise I'll get up! - Gypsy said menacingly. - You don’t know the service!

The lanterns began to run busily again. It was Werner and Janson's turn.

Farewell, master! - Gypsy said loudly. “We’ll know each other in the next world, you’ll see when you do, don’t turn away.” Bring some water when I need to drink - it will be hot for me there.

“I don’t want to,” said Yanson listlessly.

But Werner took him by the hand, and the Estonian walked a few steps on his own; Then it was clear that he stopped and fell into the snow. They bent over him, lifted him and carried him, and he weakly floundered in the arms carrying him. Why didn't he scream? He probably forgot that he has a voice.

And again the yellowing lanterns stopped motionless.

And that means I, Musechka, am alone,” Tanya Kovalchuk said sadly. - We lived together, and now...

Tanya, dear...

But Gypsy stood up ardently. Holding Musya’s hand, as if afraid of what else might be taken away, he spoke quickly and efficiently:

Ah, young lady! You alone can do it, you are a pure soul, you can go wherever you want, you can do it alone. Understood? But not me. Like a robber... understand? It's impossible for me alone. Where are you going, they say, you murderer? I stole horses too, by God! And with her I’m like... like with a baby, you know. Didn't understand?

Understood. Well, go ahead. Let me kiss you again, Musechka.

Kiss, kiss,” Tsyganok told the women encouragingly. - This is your case, you need to say goodbye well.

Musya and Tsyganok moved. The woman walked carefully, slipping and, out of habit, holding up her skirts; and tightly by the arm, guarding and feeling the way with his foot, the man led her to death.

The lights stopped. It was quiet and empty around Tanya Kovalchuk. The soldiers were silent, all gray in the colorless and quiet light of the beginning day.

“I’m alone,” Tanya suddenly spoke and sighed. - Seryozha died, so did Werner and Vasya. Only me. Soldiers, and soldiers, I’m the only one. One…

The sun was rising over the sea.

They put the corpses in a box. Then they took us. With outstretched necks, with crazily bulging eyes, with a swollen blue tongue, which, like an unknown terrible flower, protruded among lips watered with bloody foam, the corpses floated back along the same road along which they themselves, the living ones, had come here. And the spring snow was just as soft and fragrant, and the spring air was just as fresh and strong. And the wet, worn-out galosh that Sergei had lost was black in the snow.

This is how people greeted the rising sun.

An old, obese man, tormented by illnesses, sits in someone else’s house, in someone else’s bedroom, in someone else’s chair and looks at his body with bewilderment, listens to his feelings, tries hard and cannot completely overcome the thoughts in his head: “Fools! They think that by informing me of the impending attempt on my life, telling me the hour when I was to be torn to pieces by a bomb, they saved me from the fear of death! They, fools, think that they saved me by secretly bringing me and my family to this strange house, where I am saved, where I am safe and at peace! It is not death that is terrible, but the knowledge of it. If someone probably knew the day and hour when he was supposed to die, he would not be able to live with this knowledge. And they tell me: “At one o’clock in the afternoon, Your Excellency!”

The minister, on whom the revolutionaries were preparing an assassination attempt, thinks on that night, which could be his last night, about the bliss of not knowing the end, as if someone told him that he would never die.

The attackers, detained at the appointed time by denunciation with bombs, infernal machines and revolvers at the entrance to the minister's house, spend their last nights and days before hanging, to which they will soon be sentenced, in equally painful thoughts.

How can it be that they, young, strong, healthy, will die? And is this death? “Am I afraid of her, the devil? - one of the five bomb throwers, Sergei Golovin, thinks about death. - I feel sorry for my life! A magnificent thing, no matter what the pessimists say. What if a pessimist is hanged? And why did I grow a beard? It didn’t grow, it didn’t grow, and then suddenly it grew - why?..”

Besides Sergei, the son of a retired colonel (at his last meeting, his father wished him to face death like an officer on the battlefield), there are four more in the prison cell. The son of a merchant, Vasya Kashirin, devotes all his strength to not showing the horror of death crushing him to the executioners. An unknown person named Werner, who was considered the instigator, who has his own mental judgment about death: it doesn’t matter at all whether you killed or didn’t kill, but when they kill you, thousands kill you alone, they kill you out of fear, which means you won, and death for you are no more. Unknown, nicknamed Musya, looking like a teenage boy, thin and pale, ready at the hour of execution to join the ranks of those bright, holy, best who from time to time go through torture and execution to the high sky. If she were shown her body after death, she would look at it and say: “This is not me,” and the executioners, scientists and philosophers would retreat with a shudder, saying: “Don’t touch this place. It is holy! The last among those sentenced to hanging was Tanya Kovalchuk, who seemed like a mother to her like-minded people, her look, smile, and fears for them were so caring and loving. She did not pay any attention to the trial and the verdict, completely forgot about herself and thought only about others.

Waiting to be hanged on the same crossbar with five “politicals” are Estonian Janson, a farm laborer who barely speaks Russian, convicted of murdering his owner and attempting to rape his mistress (he did all this foolishly, having heard that a similar thing had happened on a neighboring farm), and Mikhail Golubets, nicknamed Gypsy, the last in a series of atrocities was the murder and robbery of three people, and his dark past went into mysterious depths. Misha calls himself a robber with complete frankness, flaunts both what he has done and what now awaits him. Yanson, on the contrary, is paralyzed by both his crime and the court verdict and repeats the same thing to everyone, putting into one phrase everything that he cannot express: “I don’t need to be hanged.”

Hours and days are passing. Until the moment when they are gathered together and then taken together out of town, into the March forest - to hang, the condemned one by one master the idea, which seems wild, absurd, incredible to everyone in their own way. The mechanical man Werner, who treated life as a complex chess problem, will instantly be cured of contempt for people, disgust even for their appearance: he will rise above the world, as if in a hot air balloon, and will be moved by how beautiful this world is. Musya dreams of one thing: so that people in whose kindness she believes will not feel sorry for her and declare her a heroine. She thinks of her comrades, with whom she is destined to die, as friends, into whose house she will enter with greetings on her laughing lips. Seryozha exhausts his body with the gymnastics of the German doctor Müller, conquering fear with a keen sense of life in a young flexible body. Vasya Kashirin is close to insanity, all people seem to him like dolls, and, like a drowning man clutching at a straw, he clutches at the words that surfaced in his memory from somewhere in his early childhood: “Joy to all who mourn,” he pronounces them touchingly... but the tenderness immediately evaporates, he barely remembers the candles, the priest in a cassock, the icons and the hated father bowing in the church. And he becomes even more scared. Janson turns into a weak and stupid animal. And only Gypsy, until the very last step towards the gallows, swaggers and grins. He experienced horror only when he saw that everyone was being led to death in pairs, and he would be hanged alone. And then Tanechka Kovalchuk gives way to him in a pair with Musya, and Tsyganok leads her by the arm, warning her and feeling the way to death, as a man should lead a woman.

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