The Seven Who Were Hanged

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE CHAPTER XII THEY ARE HANGED The little cars ran on carefully. Sergey Golovin at one time had lived for several years with his relatives at their country-house, along this very road. He had traveled upon it by day as well as by night, and he knew it well. He closed his eyes, and thought that he might now simply be returning home—that he had stayed out late in the city with acquaintances, and was now coming back on the last train. “We will soon he there,” he said, opening his eyes and looking out of the grated, mute window. Nobody stirred, nobody answered; only Tsiganok spat quickly several times and his eyes ran over the car, as though feeling the windows, the doors, the soldiers. “It’s cold,” said Vasily Kashirin, his lips closed tightly, as though really frozen; and his words sounded strangely. Tanya Kovalchuk began to bustle about. “Here’s a handkerchief. Tie it about your neck. It’s a very warm one.” “Around the neck?” Sergey asked suddenly, startled by his own question. But as the same thing occurred to all of them, no one seemed to hear him. It was as if nothing had been said, or as if they had all said the same thing at the same time. “Never mind, Vasya, tie it about your neck. It will be warmer,” Werner advised him. Then he turned to Yanson and asked gently: “And you, friend, are you cold?” “Werner, perhaps he wants to smoke. Comrade, perhaps you would like to smoke?” asked Musya. “We have something to smoke.” “I do.” “Give him a cigarette, Seryozha,” said Werner delightedly. But Sergey was already getting out a cigarette. All looked on with friendliness, watching how Yanson’s fingers took the cigarette, how the match flared, and then how the blue smoke issued from Yanson’s mouth. “Thanks,” said Yanson; “it’s good.” “How strange!” said Sergey. “What is strange?” Werner turned around. “What is strange?” “I mean—the cigarette.” Yanson held a cigarette, an ordinary cigarette, in his ordinary live hands, and, pale-faced, looked at it with surprise, even with terror. And all fixed their eyes upon the little tube, from the end of which smoke was issuing, like a bluish ribbon, wafted aside by the breathing, with the ashes, gathering, turning black. The light went out. “The light’s out,” said Tanya. “Yes, the light’s out.” “Let it go,” said Werner, frowning, looking uneasily at Yanson, whose hand, holding the cigarette, was hanging loosely, as if dead. Suddenly Tsiganok turned quickly, bent over to Werner, close to him, face to face, and rolling the whites of his eyes, like a horse, whispered: “Master, how about the convoys? Suppose we—eh? Shall we try?” “No, don’t do it,” Werner replied, also in a whisper. “We shall drink it to the bitter end.” “Why not? It’s livelier in a fight! Eh? I strike him, he strikes me, and you don’t even know how the thing is done. It’s just as if you don’t die at all.” “No, you shouldn’t do it,” said Werner, and turned to Yanson. “Why don’t you smoke, friend?” Suddenly Yanson’s wizened face became wofully wrinkled, as if somebody had pulled strings which set all the wrinkles in motion. And, as in a dream, he began to whimper, without tears, in a dry, strained voice: “I don’t want to smoke. Aha! aha! aha! Why should I be hanged? Aha! aha! aha!” They began to bustle about him. Tanya Kovalchuk, weeping freely, petted him on the arm, and adjusted the drooping earlaps of his worn fur cap. “My dear, do not cry! My own! my dear! Poor, unfortunate little fellow!” Musya looked aside. Tsiganok caught her glance and grinned, showing his teeth. “What a queer fellow! He drinks tea, and yet feels cold,” he said, with an abrupt laugh. But suddenly his own face became bluish-black, like cast-iron, and his large yellow teeth flashed. Suddenly the little cars trembled and slackened their speed. All, except Yanson and Kashirin, rose and sat down again quickly. “Here is the station,” said Sergey. It seemed to them as if all the air had been suddenly pumped out of the car, it became so difficult to breathe. The heart grew larger, making the chest almost burst, beating in the throat, tossing about madly—shouting in horror with its blood-filled voice. And the eyes looked upon the quivering floor, and the ears heard how the wheels were turning ever more slowly—the wheels slipped and turned again, and then suddenly—they stopped. The train had halted. Then a dream set in. It was not terrible, rather fantastic, unfamiliar to the memory, strange. The dreamer himself seemed to remain aside, only his bodiless apparition moved about, spoke soundlessly, walked noiselessly, suffered without suffering. As in a dream, they walked out of the car, formed into parties of two, inhaled the peculiarly fresh spring air of the forest. As in a dream, Yanson resisted bluntly, powerlessly, and was dragged out of the car silently. They descended the steps of the station. “Are we to walk?” asked some one almost cheerily. “It isn’t far now,” answered another, also cheerily. Then they walked in a large, black, silent crowd amid the forest, along a rough, wet and soft spring road. From the forest, from the snow, a fresh, strong breath of air was wafted. The feet slipped, sometimes sinking into the snow, and involuntarily the hands of the comrades clung to each other. And the convoys, breathing with difficulty, walked over the untouched snow on each side of the road. Some one said in an angry voice: “Why didn’t they clear the road? Did they want us to turn somersaults in the snow?” Some one else apologized guiltily. “We cleaned it, your Honor. But it is thawing and it can’t be helped.” Consciousness of what they were doing returned to the prisoners, but not completely,—in fragments, in strange parts. Now, suddenly, their minds practically admitted: “It is indeed impossible to clear the road.” Then again everything died out, and only their sense of smell remained: the unbearably fresh smell of the forest and of the melting snow. And everything became unusually clear to the consciousness: the forest, the night, the road and the fact that soon they would be hanged. Their conversation, restrained to whispers, flashed in fragments. “It is almost four o’clock.” “I said we started too early.” “The sun dawns at five.” “Of course, at five. We should have—” They stopped in a meadow, in the darkness. A little distance away, beyond the bare trees, two small lanterns moved silently. There were the gallows. “I lost one of my rubbers,” said Sergey Golovin. “Really?” asked Werner, not understanding what he said. “I lost a rubber. It’s cold.” “Where’s Vasily?” “I don’t know. There he is.” Vasily stood, gloomy, motionless. “And where is Musya?” “Here I am. Is that you, Werner?” They began to look about, avoiding the direction of the gallows, where the lanterns continued to move about silently with terrible suggestiveness. On the left, the bare forest seemed to be growing thinner, and something large and white and flat was visible. A damp wind issued from it. “The sea,” said Sergey Golovin, inhaling the air with nose and mouth. “The sea is there!” Musya answered sonorously: “My love which is as broad as the sea!” “What is that, Musya?” “The banks of life cannot hold my love, which is as broad as the sea.” “My love which is as broad as the sea,” echoed Sergey, thoughtfully, carried away by the sound of her voice and by her words. “My love which is as broad as the sea,” repeated Werner, and suddenly he spoke wonderingly, cheerfully: “Musya, how young you are!” Suddenly Tsiganok whispered warmly, out of breath, right into Werner’s ear: “Master! master! There’s the forest! My God! what’s that? There—where the lanterns are—are those the gallows? What does it mean?” Werner looked at him. Tsiganok was writhing in agony before his death. “We must bid each other good-by,” said Tanya Kovalchuk. “Wait, they have yet to read the sentence,” answered Werner. “Where is Yanson?” Yanson was lying on the snow, and about him people were busying themselves. There was a smell of ammonia in the air. “Well, what is it, doctor? Will you be through soon?” some one asked impatiently. “It’s nothing. He has simply fainted. Rub his ears with snow! He is coming to himself already! You may read the sentence!” The light of the dark lantern flashed upon the paper and on the white, gloveless hands holding it. Both the paper and the hands quivered slightly, and the voice also quivered: “Gentlemen, perhaps it is not necessary to read the sentence to you. You know it already. What do you say?” “Don’t read it,” Werner answered for them all, and the little lantern was soon extinguished. The services of the priest were also declined by them all. Tsiganok said: “Stop your fooling, father—you will forgive me, but they will hang me. Go to—where you came from.” And the dark, broad silhouette of the priest moved back silently and quickly and disappeared. Day was breaking: the snow turned whiter, the figures of the people became more distinct, and the forest—thinner, more melancholy. “Gentlemen, you must go in pairs. Take your places in pairs as you wish, but I ask you to hurry up.” Werner pointed to Yanson, who was now standing, supported by two gendarmes. “I will go with him. And you, Seryozha, take Vasily. Go ahead.” “Very well.” “You and I go together, Musechka, shall we not?” asked Tanya Kovalchuk. “Come, let us kiss each other good-by.” They kissed one another quickly. Tsiganok kissed firmly, so that they felt his teeth; Yanson softly, drowsily, with his mouth half open—and it seemed that he did not understand what he was doing. When Sergey Golovin and Kashirin had gone a few steps, Kashirin suddenly stopped and said loudly and distinctly: “Good-by, comrades.” “Good-by, comrade,” they shouted in answer. They went off. It grew quiet. The lanterns beyond the trees became motionless. They awaited an outcry, a voice, some kind of noise—but it was just as quiet there as it was among them—and the yellow lanterns were motionless. “Oh, my God!” some one cried hoarsely and wildly. They looked about. It was Tsiganok, writhing in agony at the thought of death. “They are hanging!” They turned away from him, and again it became quiet. Tsiganok was writhing, catching at the air with his hands. “How is that, gentlemen? Am I to go alone? It’s livelier to die together. Gentlemen, what does it mean?” He seized Werner by the hand, his fingers clutching and then relaxing. “Dear master, at least you come with me? Eh? Do me the favor? Don’t refuse.” Werner answered painfully: “I can’t, my dear fellow. I am going with him.” “Oh, my God! Must I go alone, then? My God! How is it to be?” Musya stepped forward and said softly: “You may go with me.” Tsiganok stepped back and rolled the whites of his eyes wildly. “With you!” “Yes.” “Just think of her! What a little girl! And you’re not afraid? If you are, I would rather go alone!” “No, I am not afraid.” Tsiganok grinned. “Just think of her! But do you know that I am a murderer? Don’t you despise me? You had better not do it. I shan’t be angry at you.” Musya was silent, and in the faint light of dawn her face was pale and enigmatic. Then suddenly she walked over to Tsiganok quickly, and, throwing her arms about his neck, kissed him firmly upon his lips. He took her by the shoulders with his fingers, held her away from himself, then shook her, and, with loud smacks, kissed her on the lips, on the nose, on the eyes. “Come!” Suddenly the soldier standing nearest them staggered forward, and opening his hands, let his gun drop. He did not stoop down to regain it, but stood for an instant motionless, turned abruptly and, like a blind man, walked toward the forest over the untouched snow. “Where are you going?” called out another soldier in fright. “Halt!” But the man continued walking through the deep snow silently and with difficulty. Then he must have stumbled over something, for he waved his arms and fell face downward. And there he remained lying on the snow. “Pick up the gun, you sour-faced gray-coat, or I’ll pick it up,” said Tsiganok sternly to the other soldier. “You don’t know your business!” The little lanterns began to move about busily again. Now it was the turn of Werner and Yanson. “Good-by, master!” called Tsiganok loudly. “We’ll meet each other in the other world, you’ll see! Don’t turn away from me. When you see me, bring me some water to drink—it will be hot there for me!” “Good-by!” “I don’t want to be hanged!” said Yanson drowsily. Werner took him by the hand, and then the Esthonian walked a few steps alone. But later they saw him stop and fall down in the snow. Soldiers bent over him, lifted him up and carried him on, and he struggled faintly in their arms. Why did he not cry? He must have forgotten even that he had a voice. And again the little yellow lanterns became motionless. “And I, Musechka,” said Tanya Kovalchuk mournfully, “must I go alone? We lived together, and now—” “Tanechka, dearest—” But Tsiganok took her part heatedly. Holding her by the hand, as though fearing that some one would take her away from him, he said quickly, in a business-like manner, to Tanya: “Ah, young lady, you can go alone! You are a pure soul—you can go alone wherever you please! But I—I can’t! A murderer!... Understand? I can’t go alone! Where are you going, you murderer? they will ask me. Why, I even stole horses, by God! But with her it is just as if—just as if I were with an infant, understand? Do you understand me?” “I do. Go. Come, let me kiss you once more, Musechka.” “Kiss! Kiss each other!” urged Tsiganok. “That’s a woman’s job! You must bid each other a hearty good-by!” Musya and Tsiganok moved forward. Musya walked cautiously, slipping, and by force of habit raising her skirts slightly. And the man led her to death firmly, holding her arm carefully and feeling the ground with his foot. The lights stopped moving. It was quiet and lonely around Tanya Kovalchuk. The soldiers were silent, all gray in the soft, colorless light of daybreak. “I am alone,” sighed Tanya Kovalchuk suddenly. “Seryozha is dead, Werner is dead—and Vasya, too. I am alone! Soldiers! soldiers! I am alone, alone—” The sun was rising over the sea. The bodies were placed in a box. Then they were taken away. With stretched necks, with bulging eyes, with blue, swollen tongues, looking like some unknown, terrible flowers between the lips, which were covered with bloody foam—the bodies were hurried back along the same road by which they had come—alive. And the spring snow was just as soft and fresh; the spring air was just as strong and fragrant. And on the snow lay Sergey’s black rubber-shoe, wet, trampled under foot. Thus did men greet the rising sun. THE END *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEVEN WHO WERE HANGED *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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