The Seven Who Were Hanged by Leonid Nikolayevich Andreyev

Dedication, forward and introduction of the Seven who Were Hanged. This is a libervox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information not to volunteer, please visit librovox dot org. Recording by Carolyn The Seven who Were Hanged by Leonit Nikolayevitch Andreyev, translated by Hermann Bernstein dedication to Count Leuen Tolstoy. This book is dedicated by Leonid Andreyev. The translation of this

story is also respectfully inscribed to Count Leuenn Tolstoy by Hermann Bernstein Forward. Leonid Andreyev, who was born nor Yol in eighteen seventy one, is the most popular and next to Tolstoy, the most gifted writer in Russia to day. Andreev has written many important stories and dramas, the best known among which our read Laughter, Life of Man to the Stars, The Life of Vasily Fiveisky Eliazar, Black Masks, and the Story of the Seven who were Hanged in

Red Laughter. He depicted the horrors of war as few men had ever before done it. He dipped his pen into the blood of Russia, and he wrote the Tragedy of the Manchurian War. In his Life of Man, Andreyev produced a great imaginative morality play which has been ranked by European critics with some of the greatest dramatic masterpieces. The Story of the Seven Who Were Hanged is

thus far his most important achievement. The keen psychological insight and the masterly simplicity with which Andreev has penetrated and depicted each of the tragedies of the Seven Who Were Hanged place him in the same class as an artist with Russia's greatest masters

of fiction, Dostoyevsky, Turgenev and Tolstoy. I consider myself fortunate to be able to present to the English reading public this remarkable work, which has already produced a profound impression in Europe, and which I believe is destined for a long time to come to play an important part in opening the eyes of the world to the horrors perpetrated in Russia and to the violence and inquity of the destruction of human life, whatever the eeror of the crime. New York Hermann

Bernstein introduction translated of the foregoing letter in Russian. I am very glad that the Story of the Seven Who Were hanged will be read in English. The misfortune of us all is that we know so little, even nothing, about one another, neither about the soul, nor the life, the sufferings,

the habits, the inclinations, the aspirations of one another. Literature, which I have the honor to serve, is dear to me, just because the noblest task it sets before itself is that of wiping out boundaries and distances. As in a hard shell, every human being is enclosed in a cover of body, dress, and life. Who is man? We may only conjecture what constitutes his joy or his sorrow. We may guess only by his acts, which are ofttimes enigmatic, by his laughter, and by his tears,

which are often entirely incomprehensible to us. And if we Russians, who live so closely together in constant misery, understand one another so poorly that we mercilessly put to death those who should be pitied or even rewarded, and reward those who should be punished by contempt and day, how much more difficult is it for you Americans to understand distant Russia. But then it is just as difficult for us Russians to understand distant America of which we dream in our youth,

and over which we ponder so deeply in our years of maturity. The Jewish massacres and famine, a parliament and executions, pillage, and the greatest heroism, the Black hundred and Leo Tolstoy. What a mixture of figures and conceptions, What a fruitful source of all kinds of misunderstandings. The truth of life stands aghast in silence, and its brazen falsehood is loudly shouting, uttering, pressing painful questions. With whom shall I sympathize, Whom shall I trust,

whom shall I love? In the Story of the Seven who Are Hanged, I attempt to give a sincere and unprejudiced answer to some of those questions. That I have treated ruling and slaughtering Russia with restraint and mildness. May best be gathered from the fact that the Russian censor has permitted my book to circulate.

This is sufficient evidence when we recall how many books, brochures, and newspapers have found eternal rest in the peaceful shade of the police stations, where they have risen to the patient's sky in the smoke and flame of bonfires. But I did not attempt to condemn the government, the fame of whose wisdom and virtues has already spread far beyond the boundaries of our unfortunate fatherland. Modest and bashful, far beyond all measure of her virtues. Russia would sincerely wish

to forego this honor. But unfortunately the free press of America and Europe has not spared her modesty and has given a sufficiently clear picture of her glorious activities. Perhaps I am wrong in this. It is possible that many honest people in America believe in the purity of the Russian government's intentions. But this question is of such importance that it requires a special treatment, for which it is necessary to have both time and calm of soul. But there is no calm

soul in Russia. My task was to point out the horror and the inquity of capital punishment under any circumstances. The horror of capital punishment is great when it falls to the lot of courageous and honest people whose only guilt is their

excess of love and the sense of righteousness. In such instances, conscience revolts, But the rope is still more horrible when it forms the news around the neck of weak and ignorant people, And however strange it may appear, I look with lesser grief and suffering upon the execution of the revolutionists such as Werner and Mussia than upon the strangling of ignorant murderers mis in mind and heart like

Janson and Siganok. Even the last mad horror of inevitably approaching execution Werna Kennofset by his enlightened mind and his iron will, and Musia by her purity and her innocence. But how are the weak and the sinful to face it if not in madness, with the most violent shock to the very foundation of their souls. And these people, now that the government has steadied its hands through its experience with the revolutionists, are being hanged throughout Russia, in some places

one at a time, in others ten at once. Children at play come upon badly buried bodies, and the crowds which gather look with horror upon the peasants boots that are sticking out of the ground. Prosecutors who have witnessed these executions are becoming insane and are taken away to hospitals. While these people are being hanged being hanged. I am deeply grateful to you for the task you

have undertaken in translating this sad story. Knowing the sensitiveness of the American people, who at one time sent across the ocean steamers full of bread for famine stricken Russia, I am convinced that in this case our people, in their misery and bitterness, will also find understanding and sympathy. And if my truthful story about seven of the thousands who were hanged will help toward destroying at least one of the barriers which separate one nation from another, one human being from

another, one soul from another soul, I shall consider myself happy. Respectfully, Yours Leonit Andreyev, and of dedication, forward and introduction, Chapter one of the Seven Who Were Hanged by Leoniit Nikolayevitch Andreyev, translated by Hermann Bernstein.

This LibriVox according is in the public domain recording by Carolyn. Chapter one at one o'clock, Your excellency, as the Minister was a very stout man, inclined to apoplexy, they feared to arouse him in any dangerous excitement, and it was with every possible precaution that they informed him that a very serious

attempt upon his life had been planned. When they saw that he received the news calmly, even with his smile, they gave him also the details The attempt was to be made on the following day, at the time that he

was to start out with his official report. Several men terrorists plans had already been betrayed by a provocateur and who were now under the vigilant surveillance of detectives, were to meet at one o'clock in the afternoon in front of his house, and armed with bombs and revolvers, werere to wait till he came out

there. The terrorists were to be trapped wait, muttered the minister, perplexed, How did they know I was to leave the house at one o'clock in the afternoon with my report when I myself learned of it only the day before yesterday. The chief of the guards stretched out his arms with a shrug. Exactly at one o'clock in the afternoon, Your excellency, he said, half surprised, half commending the work of the police, who had managed everything skillfully.

The minister shook his head a morose smile upon his thick, dark lips, and still smiling obediently, and not desiring to interfere with the plans of the police, he hastily made ready and went out to pass the night in someone else's hospital palace. His wife and his two children were also removed from

the dangerous house before which the bump throwers were together. Upon the following day, while the lights were burning in the palace, and courteous familiar faces were bowing to him, smiling and expressing their concern, the dignitary experienced a sensation of pleasant excitement. He felt as if he had already received, or was

soon to receive, some great and unexpected reward. But the people went away, the lights were extinguished, and through the mirrors, the lacelike and fantastic reflection of the electric lamps on the street quivered across the ceiling and over the walls. His stranger in the house, with its paintings, its statues, and its silence, the light itself, silent and definite, awakened painful thoughts

in him as to the vanity of bolts and guards and walls. And then, in the dead of night, in the silence and solitude of a strange bedroom. A sensation of unbearable fear swept over the dicitary. He had some kidney trouble, and whenever he grew strongly agitated, his face, his hands, and his feet became swollen. Now rising like a mountain of bloated flesh above the town springs of the bed, he felt with the anguish of a sick man, his swollen face, which seemed to him to belong to someone

else. Unceasingly, he kept thinking of the cruel fate which people were preparing for him. He recalled, one after another, all the recent horrible instances of bombs that had been thrown at men of even greater eminence than himself. He recalled how the bombs had torn bodies to pieces, had spattered brains over dirty brick walls, had knocked teeth from their roots. And influenced by these meditations, it seemed to him that his own stout, sickly body, outspread

on the bed, was already experiencing the fiery shock of the explosion. He seemed to be able to feel his arms being severed from the shoulders, his teeth knocked out, his brains scattered into particles, his feet growing numb, lying quietly there toes upward like those of a dead man. He stirred with an effort, breathed loudly, and coughed, in order not to seem to

himself to resemble a corpse in any way. He encouraged himself with the live noise of the grating springs of the rustling blanket, and to assure himself that he was actually alive and not dead. He uttered in a bast voice, loudly and abruptly in the silence and solitude of the bedroom, Mulotzi, Molotzi, Moulotzi, good boys. He was praising the detectives, the police, and the soldiers, all those who guarded his life and who saw opportunely and

so cleverly, had averted the assassination. But even though he stirred, even though he praised his protectors, even though he forced an unnatural smile in order to express his contempt for the foolish, unsuccessful terrorists, he nevertheless did not believe in his safety. He was not sure that his life would not leave him suddenly at once. Death which people had devised for him, and which was only in their minds in their intention, seemed to him to be already

standing there in the room. It seemed to him that death would remain standing there, and would not go away until those people had been captured, until the bombs had been taken from them, until they had been placed in a strong prison. Their death was standing in the corner and would not go away. It would not go away, even as an obedient sentinel stationed on guard by his superior's will and order. At one o'clock in the afternoon, Your

excellency, this phrase kept ringing, changing its tone continually. Now it was cheerfully mocking, now angry, now dull and obstinate. It sounded as if a hundred wound up gramophones had been placed in his room, and all of them, one after another, were shouting, with idiotic repetition the words they had been made to shout at one o'clock in the afternoon, your excellency.

And suddenly, this one o'clock in the afternoon tomorrow, which but a short while ago, was not in any way different from other hours, which was only a quiet movement of the hand along the dial of his gold watch, assumed an ominous finality, sprang out of the dial, began to live separately stretched itself into enormously huge black pow which cut all life in two. It seemed as if no other hours had existed before, and no other hours would

exist after. It, as if this hour alone, insolent and presumptuous, had a right to a certain peculiar existence. Well, what do you want, asked the minister, angrily, muttering between his teeth. The gramophone shouted at one o'clock in the afternoon, your excellency, and the black pole smiled and bowed, gnashing his teeth. The minister rose in his bed to his sitting posture, leaning his face on the palms of his hands. He positively

could not sleep on that dreadful night. Clasping his face in his swollen, perfumed palms, he pictured to himself with horrifying clearness. How on the following morning, not knowing anything of the plot against his life, he would have risen, would have drunk his coffee, not knowing anything, and then would

have put on his coat in the hallway. And neither he, nor the doorkeeper who would have handed him his fur coat, nor the lackey who would have brought him the coffee, would have known that it was utterly useless. To drink coffee and to put on the coat, since a few instants later everything, the fur coat and his body and the coffee within it, would be destroyed by an explosion, would be seized by death. The doorkeeper would

have opened the glass door. He the amiable, kind, gentle doorkeeper, with the blue typical eyes of a soldier, and with medals across his breast. He himself, with his own hands, would have opened the terrible door, opened it because he knew nothing. Everybody would have smiled because they did not know anything. Oh ho, he suddenly said aloud, and slowly removed his hand from his face, peering into the darkness far ahead of him with

a fixed, strained look. He outstretched his hands, just as slowly, felt the button on the wall and pressed it. Then he arose, and, without putting on his slippers, walked in his bare feet over the rug in the strange, unfamiliar bedroom, found the button of another lamp upon the

wall, and pressed it. It became light and pleasant, and only the disarranged bed with the blanket which had slipped off to the floor, spoke of the horror, not altogether past in his nightclothes, with his beard disheveled by his restless movements, with his angry eyes, the Dignitary resembled any other angry old man who suffered with insomnia and shortness of breath. It was as if the death which people were preparing for him had made him bare, had torn

away from him the magnificence and splendor which had surrounded him. And it was hard to believe that it was he who had so much power, that his body was but an ordinary, plain human body that must have perished terribly in the flame and roar of a monstrous explosion. Without dressing himself, and not feeling the cold, he sat down in the first armchair he found, stroking his disheveled beard, and fixed his eyes in deep, calm thoughtfulness upon the

unfamiliar plaster figures of the ceiling. So that was the trouble. That was why he had trembled and fear and had become so agitated. That was why death seemed to stand in the corner and would not go away. Could not go away, fools, he said emphatically, with contempt. Fools, he repeated more loudly, and turned his head slightly towards the door, that those to whom he was refiring, might hear it? He was referring to those whom he had praised but a moment before, but in the axis of their

zeal, had told him of the plots against his life. Of course, he thought deeply, an easy, convincing idea arising in his mind. Now that they have told me, I know and feel terrified. But if I had not been told, I would not have known anything and would have drunk my coffee calmly after that death would have come. But then am I so afraid of death? Here have I been suffering with kidney trouble, and I must surely die from it some day, And yet I am not afraid because

I do not know anything. And those fools told me at one o'clock in the afternoon, Your excellency, and they thought I would be glad. But instead of that, death stationed itself in the corner and would not go away. It would not go away, because it was my thought. It is not death, then, is terrible, but the knowledge of it. It would be utterly impossible to live if a man could know exactly and definitely the

day and hour of his death. And the fools cautiented me at one o'clock in the afternoon, Your excellency, He began to feel light hearted and cheerful, as if some one had told him that he was immortal, that he would never die, And feeling himself again strong and wise. Amid the hurts of fools who had so stupidly and imprudently broken into the mystery of the future,

he began to think of the bliss of ignorance. And his thoughts were the painful thoughts of an old sick man who had gone through endless experience. It was not given to any living being, man or beast to know the day and hour of death. Here he had been ill not long ago, and the physicians told him that he must expect the end, that he should make his final arrangements. But he had not believed them, and he remained alive. In his youth, he had become entangled in an affair and had

resolved to end his life. He had even loaded the revolver, had written his letters, and had fixed upon the hour for suicide. But before the very end he had suddenly changed his mind. It would always be thus, At the very last moment, something would change, an unexpected accident would befall no one could tell when he would die. At one o'clock in the afternoon,

your excellency, those kind asses had said to him. And although they had told him of it only that death might be averted, the mere knowledge of its possibility at a certain hour again filled him with horror. It was probable that some day he should be assassinated, but it would not happen to morrow. It would not happen to morrow, and he could sleep undisturbed, as if he were really immortal. Fools, they did not know what a

great law they had dislodged. What's an abyss they had opened? When they said, in their idiotic kindness, had one o'clock in the afternoon, your excellency, No, not at one o'clock in the afternoon, your excellency, But no one knows when, no one knows when what? Nothing answered, silence, nothing, But you did say something nothing nonsense, I say tomorrow

at one o'clock in the afternoon. There was a sudden, acute pain in his heart, and he understood that he would have neither sleep, nor peace nor joy until that a cursed black hour standing out of the dial should have passed. Only the shadow of the knowledge of something which no living being could know stood there in the corner, and that was enough to darken the world and envelop him in the impenetrable gloom of horror. The once disturbed fear of

death diffused through his body, penetrated into his bones. He no longer feared the murderers of the next day. They had vanished, they had been forgotten. They had mingled with the crowd of hostile faces and incidents which surrounded his life. He now feared something sudden and inevitable, an apoplectic stroke, heart failure, some foolish, thin little vessel which might suddenly fail to withstand the pressure of the blood and might burst like a tight glove upon swollen fingers.

His short, thick neck seemed terrible to him. It became unbearable for him to look upon his short, swollen fingers, to feel how short they were, and how they were filled with the moisture of death. And if before, when it was dark he had had to stir in order not to resemble a corpse. Now, in the bright, cold, inimical, dreadful light, he was so filled with horror that he could not move in order to

get a cigarette or to ring for someone. His nerves were giving why each one of them seemed as if it were a bent wire, at the top of which there was a small head with mad, wide, open, frightened eyes and a convulsively gaping, speechless mouth. He could not draw his breath. Suddenly, in the darkness, amidst the dust and cobwebs, somewhere upon the ceiling, an electric bell came to life. The small metallic tongue, agitatedly in terror, kept striking the edge of the ringing cap, became silent,

and again quivered in an unceasing frightened din. His Excellency was ringing his bell in his own room. People began to run here and there in the shadows upon the walls, lamps flared up. There were not enough of them to give light, but there were enough to cast shadow. The shadows appeared everywhere. They arose in the corners, they stretched across the ceiling, tremulously,

clinging to each and every elevation. They covered the walls, and it was hard to understand where all these innumerable, deformed, silent shadows, voiceless souls of voiceless objects had been before. A deep, trembling voice said something loudly. Then the doctor was hastily summoned by telephone. The dignitary was collapsing. The wife of his excellency was also called. End of chapter one. Chapter two of the seven who were hanged by Leoni to Nikolayevitch Andreyev translated by

Hermann Bernstein. This Liuovox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Carolyn Chapter two condemned to be hanged everything befell as the police had foretold. Four terrorists, three men and a woman, armed with bombs, infernal machines and revolvers were seized at the very entrance of the house, and another woman was later found and arrested in the house where the conspiracy had been hatched. She was its mistress. At the same time, a great deal of dynamite and

half finished bomb explosives were seized. All those arrested were very young. The eldest of the men was twenty eight years old, the younger of the women was only nineteen. They were tried in the same fortress in which they were imprisoned after the arrest. They were tried swiftly and secretly, as was done during that unmerciful time. At the trial, all of them were calm,

but very serious and thoughtful. Their contempt for the judges was so intense that none of them wished to emphasize his daring by even a superfluous smile or by a faint expression of cheerfulness. Each was simply as calm as was necessary to hetch in his soul from curious evil and inimical eyes, the great gloom that precedes death. Sometimes they refused to answer questions, sometimes answered briefly, simply and precisely, as though they were answering not the judge but statisticians for the

purpose of supplying information for particular special tables. Three of them, one woman and two men, gave their real names, while two others refused and thus remained unknown to the judges. They manifested for all that was going on at the trial, a certain curiosity softened, as though through a haze, such as is peculiar to persons who are very ill, who are carried away by

some great, all absorbing idea. They glanced op occasionally caught some word in the air more interesting than the others, and then resumed the thought from which their attention had been distracted. The man who was nearest to the judges called himself Sergey Golovin, the son of a retired colonel, himself an ex officer.

He was still a very young, light haired, broad shouldered man, so strong that neither the prison nor the expectation of inevitable death could remove the color from his cheeks and the expression of youthful, happy frankness from his blue eyes. He kept energetically tugging at his bushy, small beard, to which he had not become accustomed, and occasionally blinking, kept looking out of the

window. It was towards the end of winter, when amidst the snow storms and the gloomy frosty days, the approaching springs, and as a forerunner a clear, warm sunny day, or a but an hour yet so full of spring, so eagerly young and beaming, that sparrows on the street lost their wits for joy, and people seemed almost as intoxicated. And now this strange and beautiful sky could be seen through an upper window, which was dust covered

and unwashed since the last summer. At first sight, the sky seemed to be milky gray, smoke colored, But when you looked longer, the dark blue color began to penetrate through the shade grew into an ever deeper blue, ever brighter, ever more intense, and the fact that it did not reveal itself all at once, but hid itself chastily in the smoke of transparent clouds made it as charming as the girl you love. And Sergey Golovin looked at the sky, tugged at his beard, blinked now, one eye, now

the other, with its long curved lashes, earnestly pondering over something. Once he began to move his fingers rapidly and thoughtlessly knitted his brow in some joy. But then he glanced about, and his joy died out like a spark, which he stepped upon almost instantly. An earthen deathly blue, without first changing into pallor, showed through the color of his cheeks. He clutched his downy hair, tore their roads painfully with his fingers, whose tips had turned

white. But the joy of life in spring was stronger, and a few minutes later his frank, young face was again yearning toward the spring sky. The young, pale girl, known only by the name of Musia, was also looking in the same direction at the sky. She was younger than Golovin, but she seemed older in her gravity, and in the darkness of her open, proud eyes. Only her very thin, slender neck and her delicate,

girlish hands spoke of her youth. But in addition there was that ineffable something which his youth itself, and which sounded so distinctly in her clear, melodious voice, tuned irreproachably like a precious instrument, every simple word, every exclamation, giving evidence of its musical timbre. She was very pale, but it was not a deathly pallor, but that peculiar, warm whiteness of a person within whom, as it were, a great strong fire is burning,

whose body glows transparently like fine savoius porcelain. She sat almost motionless, and only at she touched, with an imperceptible movement of her fingers, the circular mark on the middle finger of her right hand, the mark of a ring which had been recently removed. She gazed at the sky without caressing kindness or

joyous recollection. She looked at it simply because in all the filthy official hall, the blue bit of sky was the most beautiful, the purest, the most truthful object, and the only one that did not try to search hidden depths in her eyes. The judges pitied Sergey golovin her. They despised her. Neighbor, known only by the name of Werner, sat also motionless, in a somewhat affected pose, his hands folded between his knees. If a face may be said to look like a false door, this unknown man closed

his face like an iron door and bolted it with an iron lock. He stared motionlessly at the dirty wooden floor, and it was impossible to tell whether he was calm or whether he was intensely agitated, whether he was thinking of something, or whether he was listening to the testimony of the detectives as presented

to the cord. He was not tall in stature. His features were refined and delicate, tender and handsome, so that he reminded you of a moonlit night in the south near the sea shore, where the cypress trees through their dark shadows. He at the same time gave the impression of tremendous calm, power, of invincible firmness, of cold and audacious courage. The very politeness with which he gave brief and precise answs seemed dangerous on his lips in his

half bow. And if the prison garb looked upon the others like the ridiculous costs of a buffoon upon him, it was not noticeable, so foreign was it to his personality. And although the other terrorists had been seized with bombs and infernal machines upon them, and Werner had had but a black revolver, the judges for some reason regarded him as the leader of the others and treated

him with a certain deference. Although succinctly and in a business like manner, the next man, vastly cushied in, was torn between a terrible, dominating fear of death and desperate desire to restrain the fear and not betray it to the judges. From early morning, from the time they had been led into Cord, he had been suffocating from an intolerable palpitation of his heart. Perspiration

came out and drops all along his forehead. His hands were also perspiring and cold, and his cold sweat cover that shirt clung to his body, interfering with the freedom of his movements. With his supernatural effort of will power, he forced his fingers not to tremble, his voice to be firm and distinct, his eyes to be calm. He saw nothing about him. The voices came to him as through a mist, and it was to this mist that

he made his desperate efforts to answer firmly and to answer loudly. But having answered, he immediately forgot question as well as answer, and was again struggling with himself silently and terribly. Death was disclosed in him so clearly that the judges avoided looking at him. It was hard to define his age, as is the case with the corpse which had 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 cushier in spoketly, never mind. The most terrible sensation was when he was suddenly seized with an insufferable desire to cry out, without words, the desperate cry of a beast. He touched Werder quickly, and Werna, without lifting his eyes, said softly, never mind, Fassia, it will soon be over, and embracing them

all with a motherly anxious look. The fifth terrorist, Tanya Kovalchuk, was faint with alarm. She had never had any children. She was still young. And red cheeked, just as Sergey Golovin. But she seemed as a mother to all of them, so full of anxiety, so boundless love.

Were her looks, her smiles, her sighs. She paid not the slightest attention to the trial, regarding it as though it were something entirely irrelevant, and she listened only to the manner in which the others were answering the questions, to hear whether the voice was trembling, whether there was fear, whether it was necessary to give water to anyone. She could not look at Vasia

in her anguish and only wrung her fingers silently. At Musya and Werner, she gazed proudly and respectfully, and she assumed a serious and concentrated expression, and then tried to transfer her smile to Serge Golovin. The dear boy is looking at the sky. Look look, my darling, she thought about Golovin and Vasia. What is it? My god, my god? What am I to do with him? If I should speak to him, I might

make it still worse. He might suddenly start to cry. So like a colm pond at dawn, reflecting every hastening passing cloud, she reflected upon her full, gentle kind face, every swift sensation, every thought of the other four. She did not give a single thought to the fact that she too was upon trial, that she too would be hanged. She was entirely indifferent

to it. It was in her house that the bombs in the dynamite had been discovered, and strange though it may seem, it was she who had met the police with pistol shots and had wounded one of the detectives in the head. The trial ended at about eight o'clock, when it had become dark before Musia's and Golovin's eyes. The sky, which had been turning ever bluer, was gradually losing its tint, but it did not turn rosy, did not smile softly as in summer evenings, but became muddy gray, and suddenly

grew cold wintry. Glovin heard a sigh, stretched himself, glanced again twice at the window, but the cold darkness of the night alone was there. Then continued kwing to tug at his short beard. He began to examine with childish curiosity the judges, the soldiers with their muskets, and he smiled at Tanya Kovalchuk. When the sky had darkened, Musia calmly, without lowering her eyes to the ground, turned them to the corner, where a small cobweb

was quivering from the imperceptible radiations of the steam heat. And thus she remained until the sentence was pronounced. After the verdict, having bidden good bye to their frock coated lawyers and evading each other's helplessly confused, pitying and guilty eyes, the convicted terrorists crowded in the doorway for a moment and exchanged brief words. Never mind, Vasia, everything will be over soon, said Verna.

I am all right, brother, Kasherin replied loudly, calmly, and even somewhat cheerfully, And indeed his face had turned slightly rosy, and no longer looked like that of a decomposing corpse. The devil take them. They've hanged us, Golovin cursed quaintly. That was to be expected, replied Werner, calmly. To morrow, the sentence will be pronounced in its final form, and we shall all be placed together, said Tanya Kovalchu consolingly. Until the

execution. We shall all be together. Monsieur was silent, then she resolutely moved forward. End of chapter two. Chapter three of the Seven who were hanged by Leoni T. Nikolayevitch Andreyev translated by Hermann Bernstein. This libovox according is in the public domain. Chapter three why should be hanged? Two weeks before the terrorists had been tried, the same military district court with a different set of judges, had tried and condemned to death by hanging Ivan Janson a

peasant. Ivan Janson was a workman for a well to do farmer, in no way different from other workmen. He was an Estonian by birth from Weissenberg, and in the course of several years, passing from one farm to another, he had come close to the capitol. He spoke Russian very poorly, and as his master was a Russian by name Lazarev, and as there were no Estonians in the neighborhood, Janson had practically remained silent for almost two years.

In general, he was apparently not inclined to talk, and was silent not only with human beings, but even with animals. He would water the hall in silence, harnessed in silence, moving about it slowly and lazily, with short irresolute steps, and when the horse, annoyed by his manner, would begin to frolic to become capricious, he would beat it in silence with

the heavy whip. He would beat it cruelly with stolid, angry persistency, And when this happened at a time when he was suffering from the after effects of a carouse, he would work himself into a frenzy. At such times, the crack of the whip would be heard in the house with the frightened, painful pounding of the horse's hoofs upon the board floor of the barn. For beating his horse, his master would beat Janson, but then, finding

that he could not be reformed, paid no more attention to him. Once or twice a month, jan Son became intoxicated, usually on those days when he took his master to the large railroad station where there was a refreshment bar. After leaving his master at the station, he would drive off about half a verst away and there stolen the slid and the horse and the snow on the side of the road. He would wait until the train had gone.

The sled would stand sideways, almost overturned, the horse standing with widely spread legs up to his belly in a snow bank, from time to time, lowering his head to lick the soft, downy snow, while jan Son would recline an awkward position in the sled, as if dozing away. The unfastened ear lappids of his worn fur cap would hang down like the ears of a setter, and the moist sweat would stand under his little, reddish nose.

Soon he would return to the station and would quickly become intoxicated. On his way back to the farm, the ten versts, he would drive at a fast gallop. The little horse, driven to madness by the whip, would rear as if possessed by a demon. This slid would sway almost overturn, striking against poles, and Jansn letting the reins go, would half sing,

half exclaim abrupt, meaningless phrases in Extonian. But more often he would not sing, but with his teeth gritted together in an onrush of unspeakable rage, suffering, and delight. He would drive silently on as though blind. He would not notice those who passed him. He would not call to them to look out. He would not slacken his mad pace either. At the turn of the road, or on the long slopes of the mountain roads. How it happened at such times that he crushed into no one. How he himself

was never dashed to death in one of those mad rides was inexplicable. He would have been driven from his place, as he had been driven from other places, But he was cheap and other workmen were not better, and thus

he remained there two years. His life was uneventful. One day he received a letter written in Estonian, but as he himself was illiterate, and as the others did not understand Estonian, the letter remained unread, And as if not understanding that the letter might bring him tidings from his native home, he flung it into the manure with a certain savage, grim indifference. At one time Janson tried to make love to the cook, but he was not successful

and was rudely rejected and ridiculed. He was short in stature, his face was freckled, and his small, sleepy eyes were somewhat of an indefinite color. Janson took his failure indifferently and never again bothered the cook. But while Janson spoke but little, he was listening to something all the time. He heard the sounds of the dismal snow covered fields, with their heaps of frozen manure resembling rows of small snow covered graves, the sound of the blue tender

distance of the buzzing telegraph wires, and the conversation of other people. What the fields and telegraph wires spoke to him, he alone knew. And the conversation of the people were disquieting, full of rumors about murders and robberies and arson. And one night he heard in the neighboring village the little church bell ring faintly and helplessly, and the crackling of the flames of a fire. Some vagabonds had plundered a rich farm, had killed the master and his wife,

and had set fire to the house and on there farm too. They lived in fear. The dogs were loose, not only at nights, but also during the day, and the master slept with a gun by his side. He wished to give such a gun to Yanson, only it was an old one with one barrel. But jan Son turned the gun about his hand, shook his head and declined it. His master did not understand the reason, and scolded him. But the reason was that Janson had more faith in

the power of his finished knife than in the rusty gun. It would kill me, he said, looking at his master sleepily with his glassy eyes, and the master waved his hand in despair. You fool think of having to live with such a workmen. And this same ivon Janson, who distrusted a gun. One winter evening, when the other workmen had been sent away to the station, committed a very complicated attempt at robbery, murder and rape.

He did it in a surprisingly simple manner. He locked the cook in the kitchen lazily with the air of a man who was longing to sleep, walked over to his master from behind, and swiftly stabbed him several times on the back with his knife. The master fell unconscious, and the mistress began to run about screaming, while jan Son, showing his teeth and brandishing his knife,

began to ransack the trunks and the chests of drawers. He found the money he sought, and then, as if noticing the mistress for the first time, and as though unexpectedly even to himself, he rushed upon her in order to violate her. But as he had let his knife drop to the floor. The mistress proved stronger than he and not only did not allow him to harm her, but almost choked him into unconsciousness. Then, when the master on the floor turned, the cook thundered upon the door with the oven

fork, breaking it open, and Janson ran away into the fields. He was caught an hour later kneeling down behind the corner of the barn, striking one match after another which would not ignite, in an attempt to set the place on fire. A few days later, the master died of blood poisoning, and Yanson, when his turn among other robbers and murderers, came, was tried and condemned to death. In court, he was the same as

always, the little man, freckled with sleepy, glassy eyes. It seemed as if he did not understand in the least the meaning of what was going on about him. He appeared to be entirely indifferent. He blinked his white eyelashes stupidly without curiosity, examined the somber, unfamiliar court room, and picked his nose when his heart shriveled unbending finger. Only those who had seen him on Sunday, said judge, would have known that he had made an attempt

to adorn himself. He wore on his neck and knitted muddy red shawl, and in places had dampened the hair off his head. Where the hair was wet, it lay dark and smooth, while on the other side it stuck up in lightened, sparse tufts, like straws upon a hail beaten wasted meadow. When the sentence was pronounced death by hanging, Jansen suddenly became agitated. He reddened deeply and began to tie and untie the shawl about his neck,

as though it were choking him. Then he waved his arms stupidly and said, turning to the judge who had not read the sentence, and pointing with his finger at the judge who read it, he said that I should be hanged. Do you mean, asked the presiding judge, who had pronounced the sentence in a deep bass voice. Everyone smiled, some tried to hide their smiles behind the mustaches and their papers. Janson pointed his index finger at the

presiding judge and answered angrily, looking at him as gance you well. Janson again turned his eyes to the judge, who had been silent restraining a smile, whom he felt to be a friend a man who had nothing to do with the sentence, and repeated he said, I should be hanged? Why must I be hanged? Take the prisoner away? But Janson succeeded in repeating,

once more convincingly and weightily, why must I be hanged? He looked so absurd with his small, angry face, with his outstretching that even the soldier of the convoy breaking the rule said to him in an undertone as he led him away from the court room, you are a fool, young man. Why must I be hanged? Repeated Janson stubbornly. They'll swing you up so quickly that you'll have no time to kick keep still, cried the other convoy angrily, but he himself could not refrain from adding a robber too.

Why did you take a human life, you fool? You must hang for that? They might pardon him, said the first soldier, who began to feel sorry for jansn Oh, yes, they'll pardon people like him, will they. Well, we've talked enough, but Jansen had become silent again. He was again placed in the cell in which he had already set for a month, and to which he had grown accustomed, just as he had become accustomed to everything, to blows, to vodka, to the dismal snow covered

fields with their snow heaps resembling graves. And now he even began to feel cheerful when he saw his bed, the familiar window with the grating, and when he was given something to eat. He had not eaten anything since morning. He had an unpleasant recollection of what had taken place in the court, but of that he could not think. He was unable to recall it,

and death by hanging he could not picture to himself at all. Although Jansun had been condemned to death, there were many others similarly sentenced, and he was not regarded as an important criminal. They spoke to him accordingly, with neither fear nor respect, just as they would speak to prisoners who were not to be executed. Warden, on leaning off the verdict, said to him, well, my friend, they've hanged you. When are they going to

hang me? Asked jan Son distrustfully. The warden meditated a moment, Well, you'll have to wait until they can get together a whole party. It isn't worth bothering for one man, especially for a man like you. It is necessary to work up the right spirit, and when will that be persisted jan Son, He was not at all offended that it was not worth while to hang him alone. He didn't believe it, but considered it as an excuse for postponing the execution, preparatory to revoking it altogether, and he was

seized with joy. The confused, terrible moment of which it was so painful to think, retreated fine to the distance, becoming fixtious and improbable, as death always seems. When when cried the warden, a dull, morose old man, growing angrily, it isn't like hanging a dog, which you take behind the barn, and it is done in no time. I suppose you would like to be hanged like that, you fool. I don't want to

be hanged. And suddenly Jansun frowned strangely. He said that I should be hanged, but I don't want it, and perhaps for the first time in his life, he laughed, a hoarse, absurd, yet gay and joyous laughter. It sounded like the cackling of a goose ga gagarre. The warden looked at him in astonishment, then knit his brows sternly This strange gaiety of a man who was to be executed was an offense to the prison as well

as to the very executioner. It made them appear absurd, and suddenly, for the briefest instant, it appeared to the old warden, who had passed all his life in prison, and who looked upon its laws as the laws of nature, that the prison and all the life within it was something like an insane asylum, in which he, the warden, was the chief lunatic. Pshaw the devil take you, and he spat aside. Why are you giggling here? This is no dram shop, and I don't want to be

hanged? Cagaghar laughed. Yanson Satan, muttered the inspector, feeling the need of making the sign of the cross. This little man, with his small, wizened face, he resembled least of all the devil. But there was that in his silly giggling which destroyed the sanctity and the strength of the prison.

If he laughed longer, it seemed to the warden as if the walls might fall asunder, the grating melt and drop out, as if the warden himself might lead the prisoners to the gates, bowing and saying, take a walk in the city, gentleman, or perhaps some of you would like to go to the village. But Jansen had stopped laughing and was now winking cunningly. You had better look out, said the warden, with an indefinite threat, and he walked away, glance and back of him. Janson was calm

and cheerful throughout the evening. He repeated to himself, I shall not be hanged. And it seemed to him so convincing, so wise, so irrefutable, that it was unnecessary to feel uneasy. He had long forgotten about his crime. Only sometimes he regretted that he had not been successful in his attacking

the master's wife, but he soon forgot that too. Every morning Janson asked when he was to be hanged, and every morning the warden answered him angrily, take your time, you devil, wait, and he would walk off quickly before Jansen could begin to laugh. And from these monotonously repeated words, and from the fact that each day came passed and ended as every ordinary day

had passed, Jansen became convinced that there would be no execution. He began to lose all memory of the trial, and would have rolled about all day on his court, vaguely and happily, dreaming about the white melancholy fields with their snow mounds, about the refreshment bar at the railroad station, and about other things still more vague and bright. He was well fed in the prison, and somehow he began to grow stout rapidly and to assume airs. Now

she would have liked me, he thought of his master's wife. Now I am stout, not worse looking than the master. But he longed for a drink of vodka, a drink, and to take a ride on horseback, to ride fast madly. When the terrorists were arrested, the news of it reached the prison, and in answer to Jansen's usual question, the warden said, eagerly and unexpectedly, it won't be long now. He looked at Jansen calmly with an air of importance, and repeated, it won't be long now,

I suppose in about a week. Janson turned pale and as though falling asleep. So turbid was the look in his glossy eyes, and asked, are you joking? First you could not wait, and now you think I'm joking. We are not allowed to joke. Here. You like to joke, but we are not allowed to, said the warden with dignity, as he went away. Toward evening of that day, Jansen had already grown thinner.

His skin, which had stretched out and had become smooth for a time, was suddenly covered with a multitude of small wrinkles, and in places it seemed even to hang down. His eyes became sleepy, and all his motions were now so slow and languid, as though each turn of the head, each move of the fingers, each step of the foot were a complicated and

combassome undertaking, which required very careful deliberation. Had nighty leon his coat, but did not close his eyes, and thus heavy with sleep, they remained open until morning. Uh huh, said the warden with satisfaction, seeing him on the following day, This is no dream shop for you, my dear, with the feeling of pleasant gratification, Like a scientist whose experiment had proven successful. Again, he examined the condemned man closely and carefully, from head

to foot. Now everything would go along as necessary. Satan was disgraced the sacredness of the prison, and the execution was re established and the old man inquired condescendingly, even with a feeling of sincere pity. Do you want to meet somebody or not? What for well to say good bye? Have you no mother, for instance, or a brother? I must not be hanged, said Jansen softly, and looked askance at the warden. I don't want to be hanged. The warden looked at him and waved his hand in silence.

Toward evening, Yansom grew somewhat calmer. The day had been so ordinary. The cloudy winter sky looked so ordinary. The footsteps of people and their conversation on matters of business sounded so ordinary. This small all of the sour soup of cabbage was so ordinary, customary, and natural that he again ceased believing in the execution. But the night became terrible to him. Before this, Janson had felt the night simply as darkness, as an especially dark time

when it was necessary to go to sleep. But now he began to be aware of its mysterious and uncanny nature. In order not to believe and death, it was necessary to hear and see and feel ordinary things about him, footsteps, voices, light, the soup of sour cabbage. But in the dark. Everything was unnatural. The silence and the darkness were in themselves something like death. And the longer the night dragged, the more dreadful it became.

With the ignorant innocence of a child or a savage who believe everything possible, Jansn felt like crying to the sun shine. He begged, he implored that the sun should shine, But the night drew its long dark hours remorsely over the earth, and there was no power that could hasten its cause. And this impossibility, arising for the first time before the weak consciousness of Jansun,

filled him with terror. Still not daring to realize it clearly, he already felt the inevitability of approaching death and felt himself making the first step upon the gallows with benumbed feet. Day quieted him, but night again filled him with fear. And so it was until one night when he realized fully that death was inevitable, that it would come in three days at dawn with the sunrise. He had never thought of what death was, and it had no

image to him, but now he realized clearly. He saw he that it had entered his cell and was looking for him, groping about with its hands, and to save himself. He began to run wildly about the room. But the cell was so small that it seemed that its corners were not sharp but dull, and that all of them were pushing him into the center of the room. And there was nothing behind which to hide, and the door

was locked, and it was dark. Several times he struck his body against the walls, making no sound, and once he struck against the door and gave forth a dull, empty sound. He stumbled over something and fell upon his face, and then he felt that it was going to seize him, lying on his stomach, holding to the floor, hiding his face in the dark dirty as falt yansun howled in terror. He lay and cried at the

top of his voice on till some one came. And when he was lifted from the floor and seated upon the cot and cold water was poured over his head, he still did not dare open his tightly closed eyes. He opened one eye, and, noticing some one's boot in one of the corners of the room, he commenced crying again. But the cold water began to produce its effect in bringing him to his senses. To help the effect, the

warden on duty. The same old man administered medicine to Janson in the form of several blows upon the head, and his sensation of life returning to him really drove the fear of death away. Janson opened his eyes, and then his mind utterly confused, he slept soundly for the remainder of the night. He lay on his back with mouth open and snored loudly, and between his lashes, which were not tightly closed, his flat eyes, which were upturned

so that the pupil did not show, could be seen. Later, everything in the world, day and night, footsteps, voices, the soup of sour cabbage produced in him a continuous terror, plunging him into a state of savage, uncomprehending astonishment. His weak mind was unable to combine these two things, which so monstrously contradicted each other. The bright day, the odor and taste of cabbage, and the fact that two days later he must die.

He did not think of anything. He did not even count the hours, but simply stood in mute stupe affection before this contradiction, which tore his brain in two and he became evenly pale, neither white nor redder in parts, and appeared to be calm. Only he ate nothing and ceased sleeping altogether. He sat all night long on a stool, his legs crossed under him in fright. Or he walked about his cell quietly, stealthily and sleepily, looking

about him on all sides. His mouth was half open all the time, as though from an incessant astonishment. And before taking the most ordinary thing into his hands, he would examine it stupidly for a long time, and would take it distrustfully when he became Thus, the warden, as well as the sentinel who watched him through the little window, ceased paying further attention to him. This was the customary condition of prisoners, and reminded the warden of cattle

being led to slaughter after a staggering blow. Now he is stunned. Now he will feel nothing until his very death, said the warden, looking at him with the experienced eyes. Ivan, do ye hear, Ivan, I must not be hanged, answered Janson in a dull voice, and his lower joy again dropped. You should not have committed murder. You would not be hanged, then, answered the chief warden, a young but very important looking man with medals on his chest. You committed murder, yet you do not

want to be hanged. He wants to kill human beings without paying for it. Fool fool, said another. I don't want to be hanged, said Janson. Well, my friend, you may want it or not. That's your affair, replied the chief warden indifferently. Instead of talking nonsense, you had better arrange your affairs. You still have something. He has nothing.

One shirt and a suit of clothes and a fur cap is sport. Thus TI passed until Thursday, and on Thursday, at midnight, a number of people entered Janson's cell, and one man with shoulder straps said, well, get ready, we must go. Janson, moving slowly and drowsily as before, put on everything he had and tied his muddy red muffler about his neck. The man with shoulder straps, smoking a cigarette set to someone while watching Jansen's dress, What a warm day this will be real spring. Janson's small

eyes were closing. He seemed to be falling asleep, and he moved so slowly and stiffly that the warden cried to him, Hey there, quicker, have you fallen asleep? Suddenly Janson stopped, I don't want to be hanged, said he He was taken by the arms and led away, and began to stride obediently, raising his shoulders. Outside, he found himself in the moist spring air, and beads of sweat stood under his little nose. Notwithstanding that it was night, it was thawing very strongly, and drops of water

were dripping upon the stones and waiting. While the soldiers, clanking their sabers and bending their heads, were stepping into the unlighted black carriage. Jensen lazily moved his finger under his moist nose and adjusted the badly tight muffler about his neck. End of chapter three, Chapter four of the Seven who were Hanged by Leonit Nikolayevitch Andreyev translated by Hermann Bernstein. This libovox according is in the

public domain recording by Caroline. Chapter four, we come from Oriol. This same council chamber of the Military District Court which had condemned Yanson, had also condemned to death a peasant of the government of Oriol of the district of Yelatsk, Mikhail Golubets, nicknamed Ziganok also tatarin his latest crime proven beyond question, had been the murderer of three people and armed robbery. Behind that his dark

past disappeared. In the depth of mystery. There were vague rumors that he had participated in a series of other murders and robberies, and in his path there was felt to be a dark trail of blood, fire and drunken debauchery. He called himself murderer with utter franknessnce charity, and scornfully regarded those who, according to the latest fashion, styled themselves expropriators of his last crime.

Since it was useless for him to deny anything, he spoke freely and in detail, but in answer to questions about his past he merely gritted his teeth, whistled, and said, search for the wind of the fields. When he was annoyed in cross examination, Siganok assumed a serious and dignified air. All of us from Oriole are thoroughbreds, he would say, gravely and deliberately.

Ariole and Chroma are the homes of first class thieves. Kalatchev and Livna are the breeding places of thieves, and Yelats is the parent of all thieves. Now what else is there to say? He was nicknamed and Ziganok gipsy because of his appearance in his Thievish manner. He was black haired, lean,

with yellow spots on his prominent, tartar like cheek bones. His glance was swift, brief, but fearfully direct and searching, and the thing upon which he looked for a moment seemed to lose, something, seemed to deliver up to him a part of itself, and to become something else. It was just as unpleasant and repugnant to take a cigarette at which he looked as

though it had already been in his mouth. There was a certain constant restlessness in him, now twisting him like a rag, now throwing him about like a body of coiling live wires. And he drank water almost by the bucket. To all questions during the trial he answered shortly, firmly, jumping up quickly, and at times he seemed to answer even with pleasure, correct,

he would say, sometimes he emphasized it correct. At one time, suddenly, when they were speaking of something that would hardly have seemed to suggest it, he jumped to his feet and asked the presiding judge, will you allow me to whistle? What for? Asked the judge, Surprised, they said that I gave the signal to my comrades. I would like to show you

how it is very interesting, the judge consented, somewhat wonderingly. Segamok quickly placed four fingers in his mouth, two fingers off each hand, rolled his eyes fiercely, and then the dead air of the court room was suddenly rent by a real, wild, murderous whistle, at which frightened horses leap and

rear on their hind legs, and human faces involuntarily blanche. The mortal anguish of him who was to be assassinated, the wild joy of the murderer, the dreadful warning the cow, the gloom and loneliness of a stormy autumn night. All this rang in his piercing shriek, which was neither human nor beastly.

The presiding officer shouted, then waved his arm at Siganok, and Siganok obediently became silent, and like an artist who had triumphantly performed a difficult aria, he sat down, wiped his wet fingers upon his coat, and surveyed those present with an air of satisfaction. What a robber, said one of

the judges, rubbing his ear. Another one however, with a wild Russian beard, but with the eyes of a tartar like those of Siganok, gazed pensifully above Siganok's head, then smiled and remarked, it is indeed interesting with light hearts, without mercy, without the slightest pangs of conscience. The judges

brought out against Siganok a verdict of death. Correct, said Siganok, when the verdict was pronounced in the open field on a cross beam, correct and turning to the convoy, he hurled with bravado, while are we not going, Come on your sour coat and hold your gun. I might take it away from you. The soldier looked at him sternly with fear, exchanged glances

with his comrade, and felt the lock of his gun. The other did the same, and all the way to the prison, the soldiers felt that they were not walking, but flying through the air, as if hypnotized by

the prisoner. They felt neither the ground beneath their feet, nor the passage of time, nor themselves Mishkat Siganok, like Janson, had had to spend seven eighteen days in prison before his execution, and all seventeen days passed as though they were one day they were bound up in one inextinguishable thought of escape,

of freedom, of life. The restlessness of Siganok, which was now repressed by the walls and the bars and the dead window through which nothing could be seen, turned all its fury upon himself and burnt his soul like coals, scattered upon boards, as though he were in a drunken vapor. Bright but incomplete images swarmed upon him, failing and then becoming confused, and then again rushing through his mind in an unrestrainable, blinding whirlwind, and all were

bent towards escape, toward liberty, toward life. With his nostrils expanded like those of a horse, Siganok smelt the air for hours long. It seemed to him that he could smell the order of him, of the smoke of fire, the colorless and biting smell of burning. Now he whirled about in the room like a top, touching the walls, tapping them nervously with his fingers, from time to time, taking aim, boring the ceiling with his

gaze, filing the prison bars. By his restlessness, he had tired out the soldiers who watched him through the little window, and who several times in despair had threatened to shoot, Seganac would retort coarsely and derisively, and the quarrel would end peacefully, because the dispute would soon turn into boorish, unoffending

abuse, after which shooting would have seemed absurd and impossible. Seganac slept during the nights soundly, without stirring, in unchanging yet life motionlessness, like a wires spring in temporary inactivity. But as as he arose, he immediately commenced to walk, to plan, to grope about. His hands were always dry and hot, but his heart at times would suddenly grow cold, as if a cake of unmelting ice had been placed upon his chest, sending a slight,

dry shiver through his whole body. At such times, Siganok, always dark in complexion, would turn black, assuming the shade of bluish cast iron, and he acquired a curious habit, as though he had eaten too much of something sickeningly sweet. He kept licking his lips, smacking them, and would spit on the floor, hissingly through his teeth. When he spoke, he did not finish his words. So rapidly did his thoughts run that his tongue was unable to compass them. One day, the chief warden, accompanied

by a soldier, entered his cell. He looked askance at the floor and said, gruffly, look how dirty he has made it. Siganok retorted quickly, you've made the whole world a dirty, you fat face, and yet I haven't said anything to you. What brings you here? The warden, speaking as gruffly as before, asked him whether he would act as executioner. Siganok burst out laughing, showing his teeth. You can't find anyone else. That's good, Go ahead, hang ha. The necks are there, the

rope is there, but there's nobody to string it up. By God, that's good. You'll save your neck if you do it. Of course I couldn't hang them if I were dead. We'll set you fool. Well, what do you say? Is it all the same to you? And how do you hang them here? I suppose they're choked on the sly? No with mus snarled the warden. Oh, what a fool. Of course it can be done with music this way, and he began to sing with a bold and daring swing. You have lost your wits, my friend, said

the warden. What do you say speak sensibly, Syganok grinned, how eager you are, Come another time, and I'll tell you after that. Into that chaos of bright yet incomplete images, which oppressed Siganok by the impetuosity, a new image came, how good it would be to become a hangman in a red shirt. He pictured to himself vividly a square crowded with people, a high scaffold, and he Siganok in a red shirt, walking about upon

the scaffold with an axe. The sun shone overhead, gaily, flashing from the axe, and everything was so gay and bright that even the man whose head was soon to be chopped off was smiling. And behind the crowds, wagons and the heads of horses could be seen the peasants had come from the village, and beyond them further he could see the village itself. Suck. Segonok smacked his lips, licking them and spat, and suddenly he felt as though a fur cap had been pushed over his head to his very mouth.

It became black and stifling, and his heart again became like a cake of unmelting ice, sending a slight, dry shiver through his whole body. The warden came in twice again, and Siganok, showing his teeth, said how eager you are come in again? Finally, one day, the warden shouted through the casement window as he passed rapidly. You've let your chance slip by, you fool. We've found somebody else, the devil take you hang yourself,

snarled Siyanok, and he stopped dreaming of the execution. But toward the end, nearer he approached the time, the weight of the fragments of his broken images became unbearable. Sigonoc now felt like standing still, like spreading his legs and standing, But a whirling current of thoughts carried him away, and there was nothing at which he could clutch. Everything about him swam, and

his sleep also became uneasy. Dreams even more violent than his thoughts, appeared new dreams, solid, heavy, like wooden painted blocks, and it was no longer like a current, but like an endless fall of an endless depth, a whirling flight through the whole visible world of colors. When Sigonoc was free, he had worn only a pair of dashing mustaches, but in the prison a short, black, bristly beard grew on his face. And it

made him look fearsome insane. At times, Siganok really lost his senses and whirled absurdly about in the cell, still tapping upon the rough plastered walls nervously, and he drank water like a horse. At times, toward evening, when they lit the lamp, Siganoch would stand on all fours in the middle of his cell and would howl the quivering howl of a wolf. He was peculiarly serious while doing it, and would howl as though he were performing an

important and indispensable act. He would fill his chest with air and then exhale it slowly in a prolonged, tremulous howl, and cocking. His eyes would listen intently as the sound issued forth and the very very quiver, and his voice seemed in a manner intentional. He did not scream wildly, but drew out each note carefully in that mournful wail full of untold sorrow and terror. Then he would suddenly break off howling, and for several minutes would remain silent,

still standing on all fours. Then suddenly he would mutter softly, staring at the ground. My darlings, my sweetheart, my darlings, my sweetheart, have pity, my darlings, my sweethearts. And it seemed as if he were listening intently to his own voice. As he said each word. He would listen, then he would jump up, and for a whole hour would curse continually. He cursed picturesquely, shouting and rolling his bloodshot eyes. If you hang me, hang me, and he would burst out, cursing

again. And the Sentinel in the meantime, white as chalk, weeping with pain and fright, would knock at the door with the butt end of the gun and cry helplessly, I'll fire. I'll kick you as sure as I live. Do you hear? But he dared not shoot if there was no actual rebellion. They never fired at those who had been condemned to death, and Seganoc would gnash his teeth, would curse and spit his brain, thus racked on a monstrously sharp blade between life and death, was falling to pieces

like a lump of dry clay. When they entered the cell at midnight to lead Siganok to the execution, he began to bustle about and seemed to have recovered his spirits again. He had that sweet taste in his mouth, and his saliva collected abundantly, but his cheeks turned rosy and in his eyes began to glisten his former somewhat savage slyness. Dressing himself, he asked the official, who is going to do the hanging a new man. I suppose he

hasn't learnt his job yet. You needn't worry about it, answered the official dryly. I can't help worrying your honor. I am going to be hanged, not you. At least don't be stingy with the government's soap on the noose. All right, all right, keep quiet, This man here has eaten all your soap, said Segonoc, pointing to the warden. See how his face shines. Silence. Don't be stingy, and Segonoc burst out laughing. But he began to feel that it was getting every sweeter in his mouth,

and suddenly his legs began to feel strangely numb. Still, on coming out into the yard, he managed to exclaim the carriage of the Count of Bengal end of chapter four, Chapter five of the Seven who were hanged by Leoni Tnikolayevitch Andreyev, translated by Herman Bernstein. This libovox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Carolyn. Chapter five, Kiss and Say Nothing. The verdict concerning the five terrorists was pronounced finally and confirmed upon the same day.

The condemned were not told when the execution would take place, but they knew from the usual procedure that they would be hang the same night, or at the very latest upon the following night. And when it was proposed to them that they meet their relatives upon the following Thursday, they understood that the

execution would take place on five at dawn. Tanya Kovalchuk had no near relatives, and those whom she had were somewhere in the wilderness in Little Russia, and it was not likely that they even knew of the trial, were of the coming execution. Musya and Werner, as unidentified people, were not supposed to have relatives, and only two Sage Golovin and Vasly Cushiedin, were to

meet their parents. Both of them looked upon that meeting with terror and anguish, yet they dared not refuse the old people the last word the last kiss. Sage Golovin was particularly tortured by the thought of the coming meeting. He dearly loved his father and mother. He had seen them but a short while before, and now he was in a state of terror as to what would

happen when they came to see him. The execution itself, in all its monstrous horror, in its brain stunning madness, could imagine more easily, and it seemed less terrible than these other few moments of meeting, brief and unsatisfactory, which seemed to reach beyond time, beyond life itself. How to look, what to think, what to say? His mind could not determine the most simple and ordinary act to take his father by the hand, to kiss him, and to say, how do you do? Father? Seemed to

him unspeakably horrible in its monstrous, inhuman, absurd deceitfulness. After this sentence, the condempt were not placed together in one cell, as Tanya Kovalchuk had supposed they would be, but each was put in solitary confinement, and all the morning until eleven o'clock when his parents came. Serdegey Golovin paced his cell furiously, tugged at his beard, frowned pitiably, and muttered inaudibly. Sometimes he would stop abruptly, would breathe deeply and then exhale, like a man

who has been too long under water. But he was so healthy, his young life was so strong within him that even in the moments of most painful suffering, his blood played under his skin, reddening his cheeks, and his blue eyes shone brightly and frankly. But everything was far different from what he had anticipated. Nikolay Sergyevitch golovin Seregey's father, a retired colonel, was the

first to enter the room where the meeting took place. He was all white, his face, his beard, his hair, and his hands, as if he were a snow statue tied in a man's clothes. He had on the same old but well cleaned coat, smelling of Benzene, with the new shoulder straps crosswise that he had always worn, and he entered firmly with an air of stateliness, with strong and steady steps. He stretched out his white,

thin hand and said loudly, how do you do, Sergey? Behind him, Sergey's mother entered with short steps, smiling strangely, but she also pressed his hands and repeated loudly, how do you do, Seryujenka. She kissed him on the lips and sat down silently. She did not rush over to him, She did not burst into tears, she did not break into his sob. She did not do any of the terrible things which Sedige had feared. She just kissed him and silently sat down, and with her trembling

hands she even adjusted her black silk dress. Saggie did not know that the colonel, having locked himself all the previous night in his little study, had liberated upon this ritual with all his power. We must not aggravate, but ease. The last moments of our son resolved the colonel firmly, and he carefully waited every possible phase of the conversation, every act and movement that might

take place on the following day. But somehow he became confused forgetting what he had prepared, and he wept bitterly in the corner of the oil cloth covered couch. In the morning, he explained to his wife how she should behave at the meeting. The main thing is kiss and say nothing, he told her. Later. You may speak after a while, but when you kiss him, be silent. Don't speak right after the kiss. Do you understand, or you will say what you should not say. I understand, Nikolay

Syyevitch answered his mother, weeping, and you must not wi. For God's sake, do not weep. You will kill him if you weep, old woman, why do you weep? With women? One cannot help weeping? But you must not weep? Do ye hear very well? Nikolay Sergyevitch, Riding in the Drushgay He had intended to school her in the instructions again, but he forgot, and so they rode in silence, bent both gray and old, and they were lost in thought. While the city was gay and

noisy, it was shrove tied, and the streets were crowded. They sat down. The colonel stood up, assumed a studied pose, placing his right hand upon the border of his coat. Sergey sat for an instant, looked closely upon the wrinkled face of his mother, and then jumped up be seated. Serujenka begged the mother sit down, repeated the father. They became silent. The mother smiled, how we have petitioned for you, Seryo Jenka.

Father, you should not have done that, mother. The colonel spoke firmly, We had to do it, Sergey, so that you should not think your parents had forsaken you. They became silent again. It was terrible for them to utter even a word, as though each word in the language had lost its individual meaning and met but one thing death. Seregei looked at his father's coat, which smelt of benzene, and thought, they have no servant. Now, consequently, he must have cleaned it himself. How is it

that I never before noticed when he cleaned his coat. I suppose he does it in the morning. Suddenly, he asked, and how sister is she? Well? Ninotschka doesn't know anything, the mother answered hastily. The colonel interrupted her sternly, Why would you tell a falsehood? The child read it in the newspapers. Let c again know that everybody, that those who are dearest to him were thinking of him at this time, And he could not

say any more and stopped. Suddenly the mother's face contracted, then it spread out, became agitated, wet and d wild, looking. Her discolored eyes stared blindly, and her breathing became more frequent and briefer. Louder. Say say say, sir, she repeated, without moving her lips, Sir, dear mother, The colonel strode forward and all quivering in every fold of his coat, in every wrinkle of his face, not understanding how terrible he himself

looked in his death like whiteness. In his heroic, desperate firmness, he said to his wife, be silent, don't torture him. Don't torture him. He has to die, don't torture him. Frightened, she had already become silent, but he still shook his clenched fist before him and repeated, don't torture him. Then he stepped back, placed his trembling hands behind his back, and loudly, with an expression of forced calm, asked with pale

lips when to morrow morning, answered Sergey, his lips also pale. The mother looked at the ground, chewing her lips as if she did not hear anything, and continuing to chew, she uttered these simple words strangely, as though they dropped like lead. Niinatshka told me to kiss you, Serudenka kiss her for me, said Serogey, very well, the Koschovs sent you their regards, which Kostchovs ah. Yes. The colonel interrupted, well, we

must go get up, mother, We must go. The two men lifted the weakened old woman, bid him good bye, ordered the colonel make the sign of the cross. She did everything as she was told, But as she made the sign of the cross and kissed her son a brief kiss, she shook her head and murmured weakly. No, it isn't the right way. It's not the right way. What will I say? How will I say it? No it is not the right way. Get by, Sergey,

said the father. They shook hands and kissed each other quickly but heartily. You began, Sergey, well, asked the father abruptly. No, no, it's not the right way. How shall I say it? Repeated the mother, weakly, nodding her head. She had sat down again and was rocking herself back and forth, You, Sergey began again. Suddenly his face wrinkled pitiaboly, childish, and his eyes filled with tears. Immediately threw

the sparkling gleams of his tears. He looked closely into the white face of his father, whose eyes had also filled You, father, are a noble man. What is that? What are you saying? Said the colonel, surprised, and then, suddenly, as if broken in two, he fell with his head upon his son's shoulder. He had been taller than Sergey, but now he became short, and his dry, downy head lay like a

white ball upon his son's shoulder. And they kissed silently and passionately. Serogey kissed the silvery white hair, and the old man kissed the prisoner's garb. And I suddenly, said a loud voice. They looked around. Serige's mother was standing, her head thrown back, looking at them angrily, almost with contempt. What is it, mother cried the colonel. And I, she said, shaking her head with insane intensity. You kiss and I you men, yes, and I and I mother, Serge rushed over to her.

What took place? Then? It is unnecessary and impossible to describe the last words of the colonel were, I give you my blessing for your death Seryoja die bravely like an officer. And they went away. Somehow they went away. They had been there, they had stood, they had spoken, and suddenly they had gone. Here, said his mother, There stood his father, and suddenly somehow they had gone away. Returning to the cell, Sergey lay down on the cot, his face turned toward the wall in order to

hide it from the soldiers that he wept for a long time. Then, exhausted by his tears, he slept soundly to Vasily kashitin. Only his mother came. His father, who was a wealthy tradesman, did not want to come. Vasili met the old woman as he was pacing up and down the room, trembling with cold. Although it was warm, even hot, and the conversation was brief, painful, it wasn't worth coming, mother, You will only talkt tore yourself and me. Why did you do it, Vasia?

Why did you do it? Oh lord? The old woman burst out, weeping, wiping her face with the ends of her black woolen kerchief, and with the habit which he and his brother had always had of crying at their mother, who did not understand anything. He stopped, and, shuddering as with cold, spoke angrily, there you see, I knew it. You understand nothing, mother, nothing? Well, well, all right,

do you feel cold? Cold? Vasili answered bluntly, and again began to pace the room, looking at his mother, askance, as if annoyed, perhaps you have caught cold, oh mother? What is a cold? When? And he waved his hand helplessly. The old woman was about to say, and your father ordered wheat cakes beginning with Monday. But she was frightened and said, I told him it is your son. You should go give him your blessing. No, the old beast persisted, let him go to

the devil. What sort of father has he been to me? He has been a scoundrel all his life, and remans a scoundrel. Vasenka, do you speak of your father like this? Said the old woman, reproachfully, straightening herself, about my father, about your own father. He is no

father to me. It was strange and absurd. Before him was the thought of death, while he is something small, empty and trivial arose and his words cracked like the shells of nuts underfoot, and almost crying with sorrow, because of the eternal misunderstanding, which all his life long had stood like a wall between him and those nearest to him, and which even now, in the last hour before death, peered at him stupidly and strangely through small,

widely open eyes. Vasily exclaimed, don't you understand that I am to be hanged soon? Hanged? Don't you understand it? Hanged shouldn't have harmed anybody, and nobody would cried the old woman, My god, what is this? Even beasts do not act like this? Am I not your son? He began to cry and seat himself in a corner. The old woman also burst out, crying in her corner. Powerless even for an instant to blend in the feeling of love, and to offset it by the horror of impending

death. They wept their cold tears of loneliness, which did not warm their hearts. The mother said, you ask whether I am a mother to you? You reproach me. And I have grown completely gray during these days. I have become an old woman, and yet you say you reproach me. Well, mother, it is all right. Forgive me. It is time for you to go kiss my brothers for me. Am I not your mother?

Do I not feel sorry? At last she went away. She wept bitterly, wiping her face with the edges of her kerchief, and she did not see the road. And the farther she got from the prison, the more bitterly she wept. She retracted her steps to the prison, and then she strangely lost her way. In the city in which she had been born,

in which she lived to her old age. She strolled into a deserted little garden with a few old, gnarled trees, and she seated herself upon a wet bench from which this snow had melted, and suddenly she understood he was to be hanged upon the morrow. The old woman jumped up, about to run, but suddenly her head began to swim terribly, and she fell to the ground. The icy path was wet and slippery, and she could not rise. She turned about, lifted herself on the elbows, and knelt,

then fell back on her side. The black kerchief had slipped down, bearing upon the back of her head a bald spot amid her muddy gray hair. And then somehow it seemed to her that she was feasting at a wedding, and that her son was getting married, and that she had been drinking wine and had become intoxicated. I can't, my god, I can't,

she cried, as though declining something swaying her head. She crawled over the wid frozen crust, and all the time it seemed to her that they were pouring out more wine for her, more wine, and her heart had already begun to pain her from the intoxicated laughter, from the rejoicing, from the wild dancing, and they kept on pouring more wine for her, pouring more wine. End of chapter five. Chapter six of the Seven who were Hanged

by Leonity, Nikolayevitch Andreyev translated by Herman Bernstein. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Carolyn. Chapter six, The hours are rushing On the fortress where the condemned terrorists were imprisoned. There was a steeple with an old fashioned clock upon it. At every hour, at every half hour, and at every quarter hour, the clock rang out in long, drawn, mournful chimes, slowly melting high in the air, like the distant and plaintive

call of migrating birds. In the daytime, this strange and sad music was lost in the noise of the city. Of the wide and crowded street which passed near the fortress, the cars bussed along, the hoofs of the horses

beat upon the pavements, the rocking automobiles honked in the distance. Peasant easvostchiks had come, especially from the outskirts of the city for the shrove tight season, and the tinkling of the bells upon the necks of their little horses filled the air, the prattle of voices, an intoxicated, merry shrove ted prattle of voices arose everywhere. And in the midst of these various noises, there was the young thawing spring, the muddy pools on the meadows, the trees

on the squares, which had suddenly become black from the sea. A warm breeze was blowing in broad moist gusts. It was almost as if one could have seen the tiny fresh particles of air carried away, merged into the free, endless expanse of the atmosphere, could have heard them laughing in their flight. At night, the street grew quiet in the lonely light of the large

elect trek sun. And then the enormous fortress, within whose walls there was not a single light, passed into darkness and silence, separating itself from the ever living, stirring city by a wall of silence, motionlessness, and darkness. Then it was that the stroke of the clock became audible. A strange melody foreign to earth was slowly and mournfully born and died up in the heights. It was born again, deceiving the ear. It rang plaintively and softly.

It broke off and rang again like large transparent glassy drops. Hours and minutes descended from an unknown height into a metallic, softly resounding bell. This was the only sound that reached the cells by day and night, where the condemned remained in solitary confinement. Through the roof, through the thickness of the stone walls, it penetrated, stirring the silence. It passed unnoticed, to return again, also unnoticed. Sometimes they waited it in despair, flying from

one sound to the next, trusting the silence no longer. Only important criminals were sent to this prison. There were special rules here, stern, grim and severe, like the corner of the fortress wall. And if there be nobility and cruelty, then the dull, dead, solemnly mute silence, which

caught the slightest rustle and breathing, was noble. And in this solemn silence, broken by the mournful tolling of the departing minutes, separated from all that lives, five human beings, two women and three men, waited for the event of night of dawn and the execution, and all of them prepared for it, each in his or her own way. End of chapter six, Chapter seven of the Seven who were Hanged by Leonid Nikolayevitch Andreyev, translated by

Hermann Bernstein. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Carolyn Chapter seven. There is no death. Just as Tanya Kovalchuk had thought all her life only of others and never of herself, So now she suffered and grieved painfully, but only for her comrades. She pictured death only as awaiting them, as something tormenting only to Sergey Golovin, to Musia, to the others, as for herself, did not concern her as a recompense for her firmness

and restraint. In the courtroom, she wept for long hours, as old women who have experienced great misery, or as very sympathetic and kind hearted young people know how to weep. And the fear that perhaps Serioja was without tobacco or Werner, without the strong tea to which she was accustomed, in addition to the fact that they were to die, caused her no less pain than the idea of the execution itself. Death was something inevitable and even unimportant,

of which it was not worth while to think. But a man in prison before his execution to be left without tobacco, that was altogether unbearable. She recalled and went over in her mind all the pleasant details of their life together, and then she grew faint in fear. When she pictured to her herself the meeting between Serigee and his parents. She felt peculiarly sorry for Musia.

It had long seemed to her that Musia loved Werner, and although this was not a fact, she still dreamed of something good and bright for both of them. When she had been free, Musya had worn a silver ring on which was the design of a skull, bones and a crown of thorns about them. Tanya Kovalchuk had often looked upon the ring as a symbol of doom, and she would ask Musya, now in jest, now in earnest,

to remove the ring, make me a present of it. She had begged, no, Tanechka, I will not give it to you, but perhaps you will soon have another ring upon your finger. For some reason or other, they all in turn had thought that she would doubtless soon marry, and this had offended her. She wanted no husband, and recalling these half jesting conversations with Musia and the fact that now Musia was actually condemned to death. She choked with tears in her maternal pity, and each time the clock struck,

she raised her tears stained face and listened. How were they and the other cells receiving this drawn out, persistent call of death. But Musia was happy. With her hands folded behind her back, dressed in a prisoner's garb, which was much too large for her, and which made her look very much like a man, like a stripling dressed in some one else's clothes,

she paced her cell evenly and tirelessly. The sleeves of the coat were too long for her, and she turned them up, and her thin, almost childish, immense heated hands peeped out of the white holes, like a beautiful flower out of a coarse earthen jug. The rough material of the coat rubbed her thin white neck, and sometimes Musia would free her throat with both hands and would cautiously feel the spot where the irritated skin was red and smarted.

Musia paced the cell, and, blushing in agitation, she imagined that she was justifying herself before the people. She tried to justify herself for the fact that she who was so young, so insignificant, who had done so little, and who was not at all a heroine, was yet to undergo the same honorable and beautiful death by which real heroes and martyrs had died before her, with unshakable faith and human kindness, in their compassion, in their love.

She pictured to herself how people were now agitated on her account, how they suffered, how they pitied her, and she felt so ashamed that she blushed, as if by dying upon the scaffold, she had commit it some tremendous, awkward blunder. At the last meeting with their council, she had asked him to bring her poison. But suddenly she had changed her mind. What if he and the others, she thought, should consider that she was doing it merely to become conspicuous, or out of cowardice, that instead of

dying modestly and unnoticed, she was attempting to glorify herself. And she added hastily, no, it isn't necessary. And now she desired but one thing to be able to explain to people, to prove to them, so that they should have not the slightest doubt that she was not at all a heroine, That it was not terrible to die, that they should not feel sorry

for her nor trouble themselves about her. She wished to be able to explain to them that she was not at all to blame, that she, who was so young and so insignificant, was to undergo such martyr's death, and that so much trouble should be made on her account. Like a person who was actually accused of a crime, Musieur sought justification. She endeavored to find something that would at least make her sacrifice more momentous, which might give it

real value. She reasoned, of course, I am young and could have lived for a long time. But and as a candle darkens in the glare of a rising sun, so her youth and her life seemed dull and dark compared to that great and resplendent radiance which would shine above her simple head. There was no justification, but perhaps that peculiar something which she bore in her soul, boundless love, boundless eagerness to the great deeds, her boundless contempt

for herself was a justification in itself. She felt that she was really not to blame, that she was hindered from doing the things she could have done, which she had wished to do, that she had been smitten upon the threshold of the temple, at the foot of the altar. But if that were so, if a person is appreciated not only for what he has done, but also for what he had intended to do, then then she was worthy of the crown of the martyr. Is it possible, thought mousieur bashfully.

Is it possible that I'm worthy of it, that I deserved that people should weep for me, should be agitated over my fate, over such a little and insignificant girl. And she was seized with sudden joy. There were no doubts, no hesitations. She was received into their midst. She entered justified the ranks of those noble people who always ascend to heaven through fires, torches and executions, bright peace and tranquility and endless, calmly radiant happiness.

It was as if she had already departed from earth and was nearing the unknown son of truth and life, and was incorporeally soaring in its light. And that is death, that is not death, thought Musia blissfully. And if scientists, philosophers, and hangmen from the world over should come to her cel spreading before her books sculpels, axes, and uses, and were to attempt to prefer that death existed, that a human being dies and is killed,

and there is no immortality, they would only surprise her. How could there be no deathlessness since she was already deathless of what other deathlessness? Of what other death? Could there be a question, since she was already dead and

immortal alife and death, as she had been dead in life. And if a coffin were brought into her cell with her own decomposing body in it, and she were told, look, that is you, she would look and would answer, no, it is not I. And if they should attempt to convince her, frighten her by the ominous side of her own decomposed body, that it was she, she Musieur would answer with a smile. No, you think that it is I, but it isn't. I'm the one you are speaking to. How can I be the other one? But you

will die and become like that? No, I will not die. You will be executed. Here is the news. I will be executed, But I will not die. How can I die when I am already now immortal? And the scientists and philosophers and hangmen would retreat, speaking with a shudder, do not touch this place. It is wholly What else was Musia thinking about? She was thinking of many things, for to her the thread of life was not broken by death, but kept winding along, calmly and evenly.

She thought of her comrades, of those who were far away, and who, in pain and sorrow, were living through the execution together with them,

and of those nearby who were to mount the scaffold with her. She was surprised at Vasily that he should have been so disturbed, he who had always been so brave, and who had jested with death thus only on Tuesday morning, when altogether they had attached explosive projectiles to their belts, which several hours later were to tear them into pieces, Tanya Kovalchuk's hand had trembled with nervousness, and it had become necessary to put her aside while Vasily jested.

Maid Mary turned about and was even so reckless that Werner had said sternly, you must not be too familiar with death. What was he afraid of now? But this incomprehensible fear was so foreign to Musia's soul that she ceased searching for the cause of it, And suddenly she was seized with a desperate desire to see Seryojia Golovin to laugh with him. She meditated a little while, and then an even more desperate desire came over her to see Werner and convince

him of something. And, imagining to herself that Werner was in the next cell, driving his heels into the ground with his distinct measured steps, Musier spoke as if addressing him, No, Werner, my dear, it is all nonsense. It isn't at all important whether or not you are killed. You are a sensible man. But you seem to be playing chess, and that by taking one figure after another, the game is won. The important thing is that we ourselves are ready to die. Do you understand? What

do those people think that there is nothing more terrible than death? They themselves have invented death, They are themselves afraid of it, and they try to frighten us with it. I should like to do this. I should like to go out alone before a whole regiment of soldiers and fire upon them with a revolver. It would not matter that I would be alone while they would be thousands, or that I might not kill any of them. It is that which is important that they are thousands. When thousands kill one, it

means that the one has conquered. That is true, Werner, my dear. But this too became so clear to her that she did not feel like arguing further. Werner must understand it himself. Perhaps her mind simply did not want to stop at one thought. Just as a bird that soars with ease, which sees endless hor horizons, and to which all space, all the

depth, all the joy of the soft and caressing azure are accessible. The bell of the clock rang unceasingly, disturbing the deep silence, and into this harmonious, remote, beautiful sound, the thought of the people flowed and also began to ring for her, and the smoothly gliding images turned into music. It was just as if, on a quiet, dark night, Musia was riding along the broad even road, while the easy springs of the carriage rocked

her and the little bells tinkled. All alarm and agitation had passed, the fatigued body had dissolved in the darkness, and her joyously wearied fancy calmly created bright images carried away by their color and their peaceful tranquility. Musia recalled three of her comrades who had been hanged but a short time before, and their face seemed bright and happy and near to her, nearer than those in life.

Thus does a man think with joy in the morning of the house of his friends, where he is to go in the evening, and a greeting rises to his smiling lips. Musia became very tired from walking. She lay down cautiously on the cot and continued to dream with slightly closed eyes. The cloak bell rang unceasingly, stirring the mute silence, and bright singing images floated calmly before her. Musieur thought, is it possible that this is death? My God? How beautiful it is? Or is it life? I do

not know. I do not know. I will look and listen. Her hearing had long given way to her imagination. From the first moment of her imprisonment. Inclined to be very musical, her ear had become keen in the silence, and on this background of silence, out of the meager bits of reality, the footsteps of the guards in the cordis, the ringing of the clock, the rustling of the wind, on the iron roof, the crackling

of the lantern, it created complete musical pictures. At first, Mousie was afraid of them, brushed them away from her, as if they were hallucinations of a sickly mind. But later she understood that she herself was well, and that this was no derangement of any kind, and she gave herself up to the dreams calmly. And now suddenly she seemed to hear clearly and distinctly the sounds of military music. In astonishment, she opened her eyes, lifted

her head. Outside the window was black night, and the clock was striking again. She thought calmly and closed her eyes, and as soon as she did so, the music resounded anew. She could hear distinctly how the soldiers, a whole regiment, were coming from behind the corner of the fortress on the right, and now they were passing her window. Their feet beat time with the measured steps upon the frozen ground, one too one too. She

could even hear at times the leather of the boots creaking. How suddenly someone's foot slipped and immediately recovered its steps, and the music came ever nearer. It was an entirely unfamiliar but very loud and spirited holiday march. Evidently there was some sort of celebration in the fortress. Now the band came up alongside of her window, and the cell was filled with merry, rhythmic, harmoniously blended sounds. One large brass trumpet brayed harshly out of tune, now too

late, now comically running ahead. Musia could almost see the little soldier playing it, a great expression of earnestness on his face, and she laughed. Then everything moved away. The footsteps died out, one too, one too at a distance. The music sounded still more beautiful and cheerful. The trumpet resounded now and then with its merry, loud brass voice out of tune. And then everything died away, and the clock on the tower struck again,

slowly, mournfully, hardly stirring the silence. They are gone, thought Monsieur, with a feeling of slight sadness. She felt sorry for the departing sounds, which had been so cheerful and so comical. She was even sorry for the departed little soldiers, because those busy soldiers, with their brass trumpets and their creaking boots, were of an entirely different sort, not at all like those at whom she had felt like firing a revolver. Come again, she

begged tenderly, and more came the figures bent over her. They surrounded her in a transparent cloud and lifted her up, where the migrating birds were soaring and screaming like heralds on the right of her, on the left, above and below her, they screamed like heralds. They called, they announced from afar their flight. They flapped their white wings, and the darkness supported them even as the light had supported them, and on their convex breasts, cleaving

the air as under the city far below reflected a blue light. Musia's heart beat ever more evenly, her breathing grew ever more calmly and quiet. She was falling asleep. Her face looked fatigue and pale. Beneath her eyes were dark circles. Her girlish, immenseiated hands seemed so thin, but upon her lips was a smile. Tomorrow, with the rise of the sun, this

human face would be distorted with any in human grimace. Her brain would be covered with thick blood, and her eyes would bulge from their sockets and look glassy. But now she slept quietly and smiled in her great immortality. Musia fell asleep, and the life of the prison went on, deaf and sensitive, blind and sharp sighted, like eternal alarm itself. Somewhere people were walking. Somewhere, people were whispering. A gun clanked. It seemed as if

someone shouted. Perhaps no one shouted at all, Perhaps it merely seemed so. In the silence, the little casement window in the door opened noiselessly. Her dark, mustached face appeared in the black hole. For a long time, it stared at Musia in astonishment, and then disappeared, as noiselessly as it had appeared. The bells rang and sang for a long time, painfully. It seemed as if the tied ours were climbing up a high mountain toward

midnight, and that it was becoming ever harder and harder to ascend. They fall this slip, they slide down with a groan, and then again they climb painfully towards the black height. Somewhere people were walking, Somewhere, people were whispering, and they were already harnessing the horses to the black carriages without lanterns. End of chapter seven, Chapter eight of the Seven who were hanged by Leoni to Nikolayevitch Andreyev translated Bohrmann Bernstein. This Libovox according is in the

public domain recording by Kirolin. Chapter eight. There is death as well as life. Sergey Golovin never thought of death as though it were something not to be considered, something that did not concern him in the least. He was a strong, healthy, cheerful youth, endowed with that calm, clear joy of living which causes every evil thought and feeling that might injure life to disappear

from the organism without leaving any trace. Just as all cuts, wounds and stings on his body healed rapidly, so all that weight upon his soul and wounded it immediately rose to the surface and disappeared. And he brought into every work, even into his enjoyments, the same calm and optimistic seriousness. It mattered not whether he was occupied with photography, with bicycling, or with preparations

for a terrorist act. Everything in life was joyous, Everything in life was important, Everything thing should be done well, and he did everything well. He was an excellent sailor, an expert shot with the revolver. He was faithful in friendship as in love, and a fanatic believer in the word of honor. His comrades laughed at him, saying that if the most notorious spy told him upon his word of honor that he was not a spy, Segey

would believe him and would shake his hands with him. As with any comrade. He had one fault. He was convinced that he could sing well, whereas in fact he had noear for music, and even sang the revolutionary songs out of tune, and felt offended when his friends laughed at him. Either you are all asses or I am an ass, he would declare, seriously and even angrily, and all his friends as seriously declared, you are an

ass. We can tell by your voice. But as is sometimes the case with good people, he was perhaps liked more for his little foible than for his good qualities. He feared death so little and thought of it so little that on the fatal morning, before leaving the house of Tanya Kovalchuk, he was the only one who had breakfasted properly. With an appetite, he drank two glasses of tea with milk and a whole five kopeck roll of bread. Then he glanced at Werna's untouched bread and said, why don't you eat?

Eat? We must brace up. I don't feel like eating the nal eat? May I you have a fine appetite, said Eoja. Instead of answering, serigee, his mouthful began to sing in a dull voice out of tune, hostile whirlwinds are blowing over us. After the arrest, he first grew sad the work had not been done well. They had failed. But then he thought there's something else now that must be done well, and that is

to die, and he cheered up again. And however strange it may seem, beginning with the second morning in the fortress, he commenced devoting himself to gymnastics according to the unusually rational system of a certain German named Muller, which absorbed his interest. He undressed himself completely, and to the alarm and astonishment of the guard who watched him, he carefully went through all the prescribed eighteen

exercises. The fact that the guard watched him and was apparently astonished pleased him as a propagandist of the Muller system, And although he knew that he would get no answer. He nevertheless spoke to the eyes staring in the little window. It's a good system, my friend, embraces you up. It should be introduced in your regiment, he shouted, convincingly and kindly, so as not to frighten the soldier, not suspecting that the guard considered him a harmless

lunatic. The fear of death came over him gradually. It was as if somebody were striking his heart a powerful blow with the fist from below. This sensation was rather painful than terrible. Then the sensation was forgotten, but it returned again a few hours later, and each time it grew more intense and of longer duration. And thus it began to assume vague outlines of some great, even unbearable fear. Is it possible that I am afraid? Thoughts ser

again, in astonishment, What nonsense. It was not he who was afraid. It was his young, sound, strong body, which could not be deceived either by the exercises prescribed by the Miller system or by the colder up

downs. On the contrary, the stronger and the fresher his body became, after the cold water, the keener and the more unbearable became the sensations of his recurrent fear, and just at these moments when during his freedom he had felt a special influx of the joy and power of life in the mornings after he had slept soundly and gone through his physical exercises, now there appeared this deadening fear, which was so foreign to his nature. He noticed this and

thought, it is foolish, sagey, to die more easily. You should weaken the body and not strengthen it. It is foolish. So he dropped his gymnastics and the rub downs. To the soldier, he shouted, as if to explain and justify himself. Never mind that I have stopped. It is a good thing, my friend, but not for those who are to be hanged, but it is very good for all others. And indeed he began to feel somewhat better. He tried also to eat less so as to

grow still weaker. But notwithstanding the lack of pure air and exercises, his appetite was very good. It was difficult for him to control it, and he ate everything that was brought to him. Then he began to manage differently. Before starting to eat, he would pour out half into the pail, and to this seemed to work. A dull drowsiness and faintness came over him. I'll show you what I can do, he threatened his body, and at the same time, sadly yet tenderly, he felt his flabby, softened

muscles with his hand. Soon, however, his body grew accustomed to this regime as well, and the fear of death appeared again, not so keen, nor so burning, but more disgusting, somewhat akin to a nauseating sensation. It's because they are dragging it out so long, thought Seroge. It would be a good idea to sleep all the time till the day of the

execution, and he tried to sleep as much as possible. At first he succeeded, but later, either because he had slip too much or for some other reason, insomnia appeared, and with it came eager, penetrating thoughts and a longing for life. I am not afraid of this devil, he thought of death. I simply feel sorry for my life. It is a splendid thing, no matter what the pessimists say about it. What if they were to hang a pessimist? Ah, I feel sorry for life, very sorry,

And why does my beard grow now? It didn't grow before, but suddenly it grows? Why? He shook his head mournfully, heaving long, painful sighs, silence, then a sigh, then a brief silence, again followed by a longer, deeper sigh. Thus it went on until the trial and the terrible meeting with his parents. When he awoke in his cell the next day, he realized clearly that everything between him and life was ended, that there were only a few empty hours of waiting, and then death would

come. And a strange sensation took possession of him. He felt as though he had been stripped, stripped entirely, as if not only his clothes, but the sun, the air, the noise of voices, and his ability to do things had been wrested from him. Death was not there as yet, but life was there no longer. There was something new, something astonishing, inexplicable, not entirely reasonable, and yet not altogether without meaning, something

so deep and mysterious and supernatural that it was impossible to understand. Fhi, you devil, wandered Sergey painfully. What is this? Where am I I? Who am I? He examined, himself attentively with interest, beginning with his large prison slippers, ending with his stomach, where his coat protruded. He paced the cell, spreading out his arms and continuing to survey himself like a woman in a new dress which is too long for her. He tried to turn his head, and it turned, and this strange, terrible,

uncough creature was. He sat agay Golovin, and soon he would be no more. Everything became strange. He tried to walk across the cell, and it seemed strange to him that he could walk. He tried to sit down, and it seemed strange to him that he could sit. He tried to drink some water, and it seemed strange to him that he could drink, that he could swallow, that he could hold the cop that he had fingers, and that those fingers were trembling. He choked, began to cough,

and while coughing, thought, how strange it is that I'm coughing? Am I losing my reason? Thought sedogae growing cold? Am I coming to that too? The devil take them? He rubbed his forehead with his hand, and this also seemed strange to him, And then he remained breathless, motionless, petrified for hours, suppressing every thought, all loud, breathing, all motion, for every thought seemed to him but madness, every motion, madness.

Time was no more. It appeared transformed into space, airless and transparent, into an enormous square upon which all were there, the earth and life and people. He saw all that at one glance, all to the very end, to the mysterious abyss death, and he was tortured not by the fact that death was visible, but that both life and death were visible at the same time. The curtain which through eternity has hidden the mystery of life and the mystery of death, was pushed aside by a sacrilegious hand, and

the mystery ceased to be mysteries. Yet they remained incomprehensible, like the truth written in a foreign tongue. There were no conceptions in his human mind, no words in his human language that could define what he saw, and the words I am afraid were uttered by him only because there were no other words, because no other conceptions existed, nor could other conceptions exist which would grasp this new unhuman condition. Thus would it be with the man if while remaining

within the bounds of human reason, experience, and feelings. He were suddenly to see God himself, he would see him, but would not understand, even though he knew that it was God, and he would tremble with inconceivable sufferings of incomprehension. There is Mullah for you, he suddenly uttered loudly with extreme conviction, and shook his head. And with that unexpected break in his feelings of which the human soul is so capable, he loved tartily and cheerfully.

Oh Muller, my dear Muller, Oh you splendid German. After all you are right Muller, and I am an ass. He paced the cell quickly several times, and to the great astonishment of the soldier who was watching him through the peep hole, he quickly undressed himself and cheerfully went through all

the eighteen exercises with the greatest care. He stretched and expanded his young, somewhat emaciated body, sat down for a moment, drew deep breaths of air, and exhaled it, stood up on tiptoe, stretched his arms and his feet, and after each exercise he announced with satisfaction, that's it, that's the real way. Muller. His cheeks flushed, drops of warm, pleasant perspiration came from the pores of his body, and his heart beat soundly and

evenly. The fact is Muller philosophized Sergey, expanding his chest so that the ribs under his thin, tight skin were outlined clearly. The fact is that there is a nineteenth exercise to hang by the neck motionless. That is called execution. Do you understand, Mullah. They take a live man, let us say Sergey Golovin, they swaddle him as a doll, and they hang him by the neck until he is dead. It is a foolish exercise,

Mullah. But it can't be helped. We have to do it. He bent over on the right side and repeated, we have to do it, Mullah. End of chapter eight. Chapter nine of the Seven who were Hanged

by Leonit, Nikolayevitch Andreyev translated by Hermann Bernstein. This LibriVox according is in the public domain recording by Carolyn. Chapter nine, dreadful solitude under the same ringing of the clock, separated from Serge and Musia by only a few empty cells, but yet so painfully desolate and alone in the whole world as though no other soul existed, Poor, vastily cushioned in was passing the last hours of his life in terror and anguish, perspiring, his moist shirt clinging to

his body, his once curly hair disheveled. He tossed about in the cell convulsively and hopelessly, like a man suffering from an unbearable physical torture. He would sit down for a while, then start to run again. He would press his forehead against the wall, stop and seek something with his eyes, as if looking for some medicine. His expression changed as though he had two

different faces. The former, the young face, had disappeared somewhere, and a new one, a terrible face that had seemed to have come out of darkness, had taken its place. The fear of death had come upon him all at once and taken possession of him completely and forcibly. In the morning, while facing almost certain death, he had been carefree and scorn dead. But toward evening, when he was placed in a cell in solitary confinement,

he was whirled and carried away by a wave of mad fear. So long as he went of his own free will to face danger and death, so long as he had death, even though it seemed terrible in his own hands, he felt at ease. He was even cheerful in this sensation of boundless freedom, of brave and firm conviction of his fearless will. His little shrunken womanish fear was drowned, leaving no trace. With an vernal machine at his girdle, he made the cruel force of dynamite his own, also its fiery

death bearing power. And as he walked along the street amidst the bustling plain people who were occupied with their affairs, who were hurriedly avoiding the dangers from the horses, of carriages and cars, he seemed to himself as a stranger from another unknown world, where neither death nor fear was known. And suddenly this harsh, wild, stupefying change. He can no longer go where he

pleases, but he is let to where others please. He can no longer choose the place he likes, but he is placed in a stone cage and looked up like a thing. He can no longer choose freely like all people, between life and death, but he will surely and inevitably be put to death. The incarnation of will, power, life, and strength and in and before. He has now become a wretched image of the most pitiful weakness

in the world. He has been transformed into an animal waiting to be slaughtered, a deaf, mute object which may be taken from place to place, burnt and broken. It matters not what he might say. Nobody would listen to his words, and if he endeavored to shout, they would stop his mouth with a rag. Whether he can walk alone or not, they will take him away and hang him. And if he should offer resistance, struggle, or lie down on the ground, they will overpower him, lift him,

bind him, and carry him bound to the gallows. And the fact that this machine like work will be performed over him by human beings like himself, lent to them a new extraordinary and ominous aspect. They seemed to him like ghosts that came to him for this one purpose, or like automatic popping on springs. They would seize him, take him, carry him, hang him, pull him by the feet. They would cut the rope, take

him down, carry him off, and bury him. From the first day of his imprisonment, the people and life seemed to him to have turned into an incomprehensibly terrible world of phantoms and automatic puppets. Almost maddened with fear, he attempted to picture to himself that human beings had tongs, and that they could speak, but he could not. They seemed to him to be mute. He tried to recall their speech, the meaning of the words that people

used in their relations with one another, but he could not. Their mouths seemed to open, some sounds were heard, then they moved their feet and disappeared, and nothing more. Thus would a man feel if he were at night alone in his house, and suddenly all objects were to come to life, to move and overpower him, And suddenly they would all begin to judge him. The cupboard, the chair, the writing table, and the divan.

He would cry and toss about, entreating, calling for help, while they would speak among themselves in their own language, and then would lead him to the scaffold. They the cupboard, the chair, the writing table, and the divan, and the other objects would look on to vasily. Kashidin, who was condemned to death by hanging, everything now seemed like children's playthings.

His cell, the door with the peep hole, the strokes of the wound up cloak, the carefully molded fortress, and especially that mechanical puppet with the gun who stamped his feet in the corridor, and the others who, frightening him, peeped into his cell through the little window and handed him the foot in silence. And that which he was experiencing was not the fear of

death. Death was now rather welcome to him. Death, with all its eternal mysteriousness and incomprehensibility, was more acceptable to his reason than this strangely and fantastically changed world. What is more, death seemed to have been destroyed completely in this insane world of phantoms and puppets, having lost its great and enigmatic

significance, becoming something mechanical, and only for that reason terrible. He would be seized, taken lid, hanged, pulled by the feet, the rope would be cut, he would be taken down, carried off, and buried, and the man would have disappeared from the world. Had the trial, the nearness of his comrades brought cushering to himself. For an instant he imagined he saw real people. They were sitting and trying him, speaking like human

beings, listening, apparently understanding him. But as he mentally rehearsed. The meeting with his mother, he clearly felt with the terror of a man who is beginning to lose his reason, and who realizes it that this old woman in the black little kerchief was only an artificial, mechanical puppet, of the kind that can say Papa, Mamma, but somewhat better constructed. He tried to speak to her, while thinking at the same time with a shudder, Oh, Lord, that is a puppet, a mother doll, and there

is a soldier puppet. And there at home is a father puppet. And this is the puppet of Vasily cushied in. It seemed to him that in another moment he would hear somewhere the creaking of the mechanism, the screeching of unoiled wheels. When his mother began to cry, something human again flashed for an instant, but at the very first words it disappeared again, and it was interesting and terrible to see that water was flowing from the eyes of the

doll. Then in his cell, when the terror had become unbearable, Vasily cushed it in attempted to pray of all that had surrounded his childhood days in his father's house, under the guise of religion, only repulsive, bitter and irritating sediment remained. But faith there was none. But once, perhaps in his earliest childhood, he had heard a few words which had filled him with palpitating emotion, and which remained during all his life enwrapt with tender poetry.

These words were the joy of all the afflicted. It had happened during painful periods in his life that he whispered to himself, not in prayer, without being definitely conscious of it, these words the joy of all the afflicted. And suddenly he would feel relieved, and a desire would come over him to go to some dear friend and question gently, our life. Is it life?

Eh, my dearest? Is it life? And then suddenly it would appear laughable to him, and he would feel like mossing up his hair, putting forth his knee, and thrusting out his chest as though to receive heavy blows, saying, here strike. He did not tell anybody, not even his nearest comrades, about his joy of all the afflicted, and it was as though he himself did not know about it, so deeply was it hidden

in his soul. He recalled it, but rarely and cautiously. Now, when the terror of the insoluble mystery, which appeared so plainly before him, enveloped him completely, even as the water in high flood covers the willow twigs on the shore, a desire came upon him to pray. He felt like kneeling that he was ashamed of the soldier, and folding his arms on his chest, he whispered softly, the joy of all the afflicted, and he repeated tenderly, in anguish joy of all the afflicted, Come to help me,

help us. Ska Kashirin. Long ago, while he was yet in his first term at the university, and used to go off on a spree, sometimes before he had made the acquaintance of Werner, and before he had entered the organization. He used then to call himself half boastingly, half pityingly, Vaska Kashirin. And now, for some reason or other, he suddenly felt like calling himself by the same name again, But the words had a dead and toneless sound. The joy of all the afflicted. Something stirred.

It was as though someone's calm and mournful image had flashed up in the distance and died out quietly without illuminating the deathly gloom. The wound up clock in the steeple struck. The soldier in the corridor made a noise with his gun or with his saber, and yawned slowly at intervals. Joy of all the afflicted, you are silent? Will you not say anything to Vaska kushit In? He smiled patiently and waited. All was empty within his soul and about

him, and the calm, mournful image did not reappear. He recalled painfully and unnecessarily, wax candles burning, the priest in his vestments, the ikon painted on the wall. He recalled his father, bending and stretching himself, praying and bowing to the ground, while looking sidewise to see where the Vaskar was praying or whether he was planning some mischief. And a feeling of still greater terror came over vassily than before the prayer. Everything now disappeared, Madness

came crawling painfully. His consciousness was dying out like an extinguished bonfire, growing icy, like the corpse of a man who had just died, whose heart is still warm, but whose hands and feet had already been come stiffened with cold. His dying reason flared up as red as blood again and said that he vastly cushion in, might perhaps become insane here, suffer pains for which there's no name, reach a degree of anguish and suffering that had never been

experienced by a single living being. That he might beat his head against the wall, pick his eyes out with his fingers, speak and shout whatever he pleased, that he might plead with tears, that he could endure it no longer, and nothing would happen. Nothing could happen, and nothing happened. His feet, which had a consciousness and life of their own, continued to

walk and carry his trembling, moist body. His hands, which had a consciousness of their own, endeavored in vain to fasten the coat which was open at his chest, and to warm his trembling, moist body. His body quivered with cold, His eyes stared, and this was calm itself embodied. But there was one more moment of wild terror. That was when people entered his cell. He did not even imagine that this visit meant that it was time to go to the execution. He simply saw the people and was frightened

like a child. I will not do it. I will not do it. He whispered inaudibly with his livid lips, and silently retreated to the depths of the cell. Even as in childhood, he shrank when his father lifted his hand. We must start. The people were speaking, walking around him, handing him something. He closed his eyes. He shook a little,

and he began to dress himself slowly. His consciousness must have returned to him, for he suddenly asked the official for a cigarette, and the official generously opened his silver cigarette case, upon which was a chaste figure in the style of the decadence. End of chapter nine, Chapter ten of the Seven who were Hanged by Leoni Ta, Nikolayevitch Andreyev translated by Herman Bernstein. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Carolyn. Chapter ten, The Walls

of Falling. The unidentified man who called himself Werner was tired of life and struggle. There was a time when he loved life very dearly, when he enjoyed the theater, literature, and social intercourse. Endowed with an excellent memory and a firm will, he had mastered several European languages and could easily pass for a German, a Frenchman, or an Englishman. He usually spoke German with bavarianas accent, but when he felt like it, he could speak like

a born Berlina. He was fond of dress, His manners were excellent, and he alone, of all the members of the organization dared attend the balls given in high society without running the risk of being recognized as an outsider. But for a long time, altogether unnoticed by his comrades, they had ripened in his soul a dark contempt for mankind, contempt mingled with despair and painful,

almost deadly fatigue. By nature. Rather a mathematician than a poet, he had not known until now any inspiration, any ecstasy, and at times he felt like a madman looking for the squaring of a circle in polls of human blood. The enemy against whom he struggled every day, could not inspire him with respect. It was a dense net of stupidity, treachery and falsehood,

vile insults and base deceptions. The last incident which seemed to have destroyed in him forever the desire to live, was the murder of the provocateur, which he had committed by order of the organization. He had killed him in cold blood. But when he saw that dead, deceitful, now calm and after all pitiful, human face, he suddenly ceased to respect himself and his work. Not that he was seized with a feeling of repentance, but he

simply stopped appreciating himself. He became uninteresting to himself, unimportant, a dulled stranger. But being a man of strong, unbroken will power, he did not leave the organization. He remained outwardly the same as before, only there was something cold yet painful in his eyes. He never spoke to any one. Of this he possessed another rare quality. Just as there are people who

have never known headaches, so Werner had never known fear. When other people were afraid, he looked upon them without censure, but also without any particular compassion, just as upon a rather contagious illness, from which, however, he himself had never suffered. He felt sorry for his comrades, especially for Vasya Kashitin, but that was a cold, almost official pity, which even

some of the judges may have felt. At times. Werner understood that the execution was not merely death, that it was something different but he resolved to face it calmly, as something not to be considered, to live until the end, as if nothing had happened, and as if nothing could happen. Only in this way could he express his greatest contempt for capital punishment and preserve his last freedom of the spirit, which could not be torn away from him

at the trial. And even his comrades, who knew well his cold, haughty fearlessness, would perhaps not have believed this. He thought neither of death nor of life, but concentrated his attention deeply and coolly upon a difficult chess game which he was playing a superior chess player. He had started this game on the first day of his imprisonment and continued it uninterruptedly. Even the sentence condemning him to death by hanging did not remove a single figure from his imaginary

chess board. Even the knowledge that he would not be able to finish this game did not stop him, and the morning of the last day that he was to remain on earth, he started by correcting a not altogether successful move he had made on the previous day. Clasping his lowered hands between his knees, he sat for a long time, motionless, then he rose and began

to walk, meditating. His walk was peculiar. He leaned the upper part of his body slightly forward and stamped the ground with his heels firmly and distinctly. His steps usually left deep, plain imprints, even on dry ground. He whistled softly in one breath, a simple Italian melody, which helped his meditation. But this time, for some reason or other, the thing did

not work well. With an unpleasant feeling that he had made some important, even grave, blunder, he went back several times and examined the game almost from the beginning. He found no blunder. Yet the feeling about a blunder committed not only failed to leave him, but even grew ever more intense and

unpleasant. Suddenly, an unexpected and offensive thought came into his mind. Did the blunder perhaps consist in his playing chess simply because he wanted to distract his attention from the execution and thus shield himself against the fear of death, which is apparently inevitable in every person condemned to death. No what for he answered coldly and closed calmly his imaginary chess board, and with the same concentration with

which he had played chess. He tried to give himself an account of the horror and the helplessness of his situation, as though he were going through his strict examination. He looked over the cell, trying not to let anything escape. He counted the hours that remained until the execution, made for himself an approximate and quite exact picture of the execution itself, and shrugged his shoulders. Well, he said to some one half questioningly, here it is, Where

is the fear? Indeed there was no fear. Not only was it not there, but something entirely different. The reverse of fear developed his sensation of confused but enormous and savage joy, and the error, which he had not yet discovered, no longer called forth in him vexation or irritation. It seemed to spark loudly of something good and unexpected, as though he had believed a dear friend of his to be dead, and that friend turned out to be

alive, safe and sound and laughing. Werner again shrugged his shoulders and felt his pulse. His heart was beating faster than usual, but soundly and evenly, with especially ringing throbe. He looked about once more attentively like a novice for the first time in prison. He examined the walls, the bolts, the chair, which was screwed to the floor, and thought, why do I feel so uneasy, so joyous? And free? Yes, so free. I think of the execution to morrow, and I feel as though it

is not there. I look at the walls, and i've feel as though they are not there either. And I feel so free, as though I were not in prison, but had just come out of some prison where I had spent all my life. What does this mean? His hands began to tremble, something Werner had not experienced before. His thoughts fluttered ever more furiously. It was as if tongs of fire had flashed up in his mind, and the fire wanted to burst forth and illumine the distance, which was still

dark as night. Now the light pierced through, and the widely illuminated distance began to shine. The fatigue that had tormented Werner during the last two years had disappeared. The dead, cold, heavy serpent, with its closed eyes

and mouth clinched in death, had fallen away from his breast. Before the face of death, beautiful youth came back to him physically, indeed, it was more than beautiful youth, with that wonderful clarity of the spirit, which in rare moments comes over a man and lifts him to the loftiest peaks of meditation. When a suddenly perceived both life and death, and he was awed

by the splendor of the unprecedented spectacle. It seemed to him that he was walking along the highest mountain ridge, which was narrow like the blade of a knife, and on one side he saw life, on the other side death like two sparkling, deep, beautiful seas blending in one boundless, broad surface

at the horizon. What is this? What a divine spectacle? He said, slowly, rising involuntarily and straightening himself as if in the presence of a supreme being, and destroying the walls space and time with the impetuosity of his all penetrating look. He cast a wide glance somewhere into the depths of the

life to forsake, and life appeared to him in a new light. He did not strive, as before to clothe in words that which he had seen, nor were there such words in the still poor, meager human language. That small, cynical and evil feeling which had called forth in him contempt for mankind, and at times even an aversion, for the sight of a human face had disappeared completely. Thus, for a man who goes up in an airship, the filth and litter of the narrow streets disappear, and that which

was ugly becomes beautiful. Unconsciously, Werner stepped over to the table and leaned his right hand on it, proud in commanding by nature. He had never before assumed such a proud, free, commanding pose, had never turned his head and never looked as he did now, For he had never yet been as free and dominant as he was here in the prison, with but a few hours from execute us and death. Now men seemed new to him. They appeared amiable and charming to his clarified vision. Soaring over time, he

saw clearly how young mankind was. That but yesterday it had been howling like

a beast in the forest. And that which had seemed to him terrible in human beings, unpardonable and repulsive, suddenly became very dear to him, like the inability of a child to walk as grown people do, like a child's unconnected lisping, flushing with sparks, of genius, like a child's comical blunders, heirs and painful bruises, my dear people, when a suddenly smiled and at once lost all that was imposing in his pose, He again became a

prisoner who finds his cell narrow and uncomfortable under lock, and he was tired of the annoying, searching eyes staring at him through the people in the door, and a strange to say, Almost instantly he forgot all that he had seen a little while before, so clearly and distinctly, and what is still

stranger. He did not even make an effort to recall it. He simply sat down, as comfortably as possible, without the usual stiffness of his body, and surveyed the walls and the bars with a faint and gentle, strange, unwarnerlike smile. Still, another new thing happened to Werner, something that had never happened to him before. He suddenly started to weep, My dear

comrades, he whispered, crying bitterly, my dear comrades. By what mysterious ways did he change from the feeling of proud and boundless freedom to this tender and passionate compassion. He did not know, nor did he think of it. Did he pity his dear comrades, or did his tears conceal something else? Is still lofty and more passionate feeling his suddenly revived and rejuvenated heart. Did not know this either. He wept and whispered, my dear comrades,

my dear dear comrades. In this man, who was bitterly weeping and smiling through tears. No one could have recognized the cold and haughty, weary yet daring Werner, neither the judges, nor the comrades, nor even he himself. End of chapter ten, Chapter eleven of the Seven who were hanged by Ileoni to Nikolayevitch Andreyev translated by Hermann Bernstein. This LibriVox according is in the public domain recording by Caroline, Chapter eleven, on the way to the Scaffold.

Before placing the condemned people in coaches, all five were brought together in a large cold room with a vaulted ceiling, which resembled an office where people worked no longer, or a deserted waiting room. They were now permitted to

speak to one another. Only Tanya Kovalchuk availed herself at once of the permission, the others firmly and silently shook each other's hands, which were as cold as eyes and as hot as fire, and silently, trying not to look at each other, they crowded together in an awkward, absent minded group.

Now that they were together, they felt somewhat ashamed of what each of them had experienced when alone, and they were afraid to look, so as not to notice or to show that new peculiar, somewhat shameful sensation that each of them felt or suspected the others of feeling. But after a short silence, they glanced at each other, smiled, and immediately began to feel at ease

and unrestrained. As before. No change seemed to have occurred, and if it had occurred, it had come so gently over all of them that it could not be discerned in anyone separately. All spoke and moved about strangely, abruptly by jolts, either too fast or too slowly. Sometimes they seemed to choke with their words and repeated them a number of times. Sometimes they did not finish a phrase they had started, or thought they had finished. They

didn't notice it. They all blinked their eyes and examined ordinary objects curiously, not recognizing them, like people who had worn eyeglasses and had suddenly taken them off. And all of them frequently turned around abruptly, as though someone behind them was calling them all the time and showing them something. But they did not notice this either. Musia's Antanya Kovaltchuk's chest and ears were burning. Sergey was at first somewhat pale, but he soon recovered and looked like he always

did, only vasily attracted everybody's attention. Even among them, he looked strange and terrible. Werna became agitated and said to Musia in a low voice, with tender anxiety, what does this mean, Musyechka? Is it possible that he what? I must go to him? Vasili looked at Werner from the distance, as though not recognizing him, and he lowered his eyes. Vasia, what have you done with your hair? What's the matter with you? Never mind, my dear, never mind, It will soon be over.

We must keep up, We must, we must. Vasili was silent, but when it seemed that he would no longer say anything, a dull, belated, terribly remote answer came, like an answer from the grave. I'm all right. I hold my own. Then he repeated, I hold my own. Werner was delighted. That's the way. That's the way, good boy, that's the way. But his eyes made Vasily's dark, wearied glance fixed upon him from the distance, and he thought, with instant sorrow,

from where is he looking? From where is he speaking? And with profound tenderness with which people address a grave, he said, fassier, do ye hear? I love you very much? So do I love you? Very much? Answered the tongue moving with difficulty. Suddenly Musia took Werner by the hand, and with an expression of prize, she said, like an actress on the stage, with measured emphasis, Werner, what is this? You said? I love you? Never before said I loved to anybody? And

why are you all so tender and serene? Why? Why? And like an actor, also accentuating what he felt, Werner pressed Musia's hand firmly. Yes, now, I love very much. Don't tell it to the others, it isn't necessary. I feel somewhat ashamed, but I love deeply. Their eyes met and flushed up brightly, and everything about them seemed to have plunged in darkness. It is thus that in the flash of lightning, all other lights are instantly darkened, and the heavy yellow flame casts a shadow upon

earth. Yes, said monsieur yes, Werner, yes, he answered, yes, Monsieur Yes. They understood each other, and something was firmly settled between them at this moment, and his eyes glistening, Werner again became agitated and quickly stepped over to Sergey serlyoja. But Tanya Kovalchuk answered, almost crying

with maternal pride. She tugged Sergey frantically by the sleeve. Listen, Werner, I am crying here for him, and I am wearing myself to death, and he is occupying himself with gymnastics according to the Miller system, smiled Werner. Sergey knit his brow confusedly. You needn't laugh, Werner, I have convinced myself conclusively. All began to laugh, Drawing strength and courage from one another, they gradually regained their poise became the same as they used to

be. They did not notice this, however, and thought that they had never changed at all. Suddenly Erna interrupted their laughter and said to Sergey very earnestly, you are right, said Eoja, you are perfectly right. No, but you must understand, said gulovin gladly. Of course we. But at this point they were asked to start, and their jailers were so kind as to permit them to ride and pass as they pleased. Altogether, the

jailers were extremely kind, even too kind. It was as if they tried partly to show themselves humane and partly to show that they were not there at all, but that everything was being done as by machinery. But they were all pale. Musieur, you go with him, Verna pointed at Vasili, who stood motionless. I understand, Musia nodded, and you I, Tanya will go with Sergey. You go with Vassia. I will go alone.

That doesn't matter. I can do it, you know. When they went out in the yard, the moist, soft darkness rushed warmly and strongly against their faces, their eyes, taking their breath away. Then suddenly it penetrated their bodies tenderly and refreshingly. It was hard to believe that this wonderful effect was produced simply by the spring wind. Though warm, moist wind and the really wonderful spring night was filled with the odor of melting snow and through the

boundless space. The noise of drops resounded hastily and frequently, as though trying to overtake one another. Little drops were falling, striking in unison, a ringing tune. Suddenly one of them would strike out of tune, and all was mingled in a merry splash, in hasty confusion. Then a large, heavy drop would strike firmly, and again the vast spring melody resounded distinctly, and over the city. Above the roofs of the fortress hung a pale redness

in the sky, reflected by the electric lights. Ah Sergey Golovin heaved a deep sigh, and healt his breath, as though he regretted, to exhale from his lungs the fine fresh air. How long have you had such weather, inquired Werner. It's real spring. It's only the second day, was the polite answer. Before that we had mostly frosty weather. The dark carriages rolled over noiselessly, one after another, took them in by twos, started

off in the darkness there where the lantern was shaking at the gate. The convoys, like gray silhouettes, surrounded each carriage. The horseshoes struck noisily against the ground or plashed upon the melting snow. When Werner bent down about to climb into the carriage, the gendarme whispered to him, there's somebody else going along with you. Werna was surprised, Where where's he going? Oh?

Yes, another one? Who is he? The gendarme was silent, indeed in a dark corner, his small, motionless but living figure pressed close to the side of the carriage. By the reflection of the lantern, Werner noticed the flash of an open eye seating himself. Warna pushed his foot against the other man's knee. Excuse me, comrade. The man made no reply. It was only when the carriage started that he suddenly asked, in broken Russian, speaking with difficulty, who are you? I am Werner condemned to hanging

for the attempt upon n and you I am Yansn. They must not hang me. They were writing thus in order to appear two hours later, face to face before the inexplicable great mystery, in order to pass from life to death, and they were introducing each other. Life and death moved simultaneously, and until the very end, life remained alive to the most ridiculous and insipid trifles. What have you done, Janson? I killed my master with a knife. I stole money. It seemed from the tone of his voice that

Janson was falling asleep. Then I found his flabby hand in the darkness and pressed it. Janson withdrew it drowsily. Are you afraid, asked Werner. I don't want to be hanged. They became silent. Verna again found the Estonian's hand and pressed it firmly between his dry, burning poems. Jenson's hand lay motionless like a board, but he made no longer any effort to withdraw

it. It was close and suffocating in the carriage. The air was filled with the smell of soldier's clothes, mustiness, and the leather of wet boots. The young gendarmes, who sat opposite Werner breathed warmly upon him, and in his breath there was the odor of onions and cheap tobacco. But some brisk, fresh air came in through certain clefts, and because of this spring was felt even more intensely in this small, stifling, moving box than outside.

The carriage kept turning, now to the right, now to the left. Now it seemed to turn back At times it seemed as though they had been turning around on one in the same spot for hours for some reason or other. At first, a bluish electric light penetrated the through the lowered heavy

window shades. Then suddenly, after a certain turn, it grew dark, and only by this could they guess that they had turned into deserted streets in the outskirts of the city, and that they were nearing the s railroad station. Sometimes during sharp turns, Werner's life bent knee would strike against the life bent knee of the gendarme, and it was hard to believe that the execution

was approaching. Where are we going, Jansen asked suddenly. He was somewhat dizzy from the continuous turning of the dark books, and he felt slightly sick at his stomach. Werner answered and pressed the Estonian's hand firmly. He felt like saying something especially kind and caressing to this little sleepy man, and he already loved him as he had never loved any one in his life. You don't seem to sit comfortably, my dear man, move over here to me.

Janson was silent for a while, then he replied, well, thank you, I'm sitting all right. Are they going to hang you too? Yes, answered Werner, almost laughing with unexpected jollity, and he waved his hand easily and freely, as though he were speaking of some absurd and trifling joke, which kind but terribly comical people wanted to play on him. Have you a wife, asked Janson. No, I have no wife. I

am single. I am also alone alone, said Jansn. Werner's head also began to feel dizzy, and at times it seemed that they were going to some festival. Strange to say, almost all those who went to the scaffold experienced the same sensation, and mingled with sorrow and fear, there was a vague joy as they anticipated the extraordinary thing that was soon to befall them. Reality was intoxicated with madness, and death united with life brought forth apparitions.

It seemed very possible that flags were waving over the houses. We have arrived, said Werner gaily, when the carriage stopped and he jumped out easily. But with Yanson it was a rather slow affair. Silently and very drowsily, he resisted and would not come out. He seized the knob the gendarme opened the weak finger and pulled his hand away. Then Janson seized the corner of the carriage, the door, the high wheel, but immediately let it go

upon the slightest effort on the part of the gendarmes. He did not exactly seize these things. He rather cleaved to each object sleepily and silently, and was torn away easily without any effort. Finally he got up. There were no flags. The railroad station was dark, deserted, and lifeless. The passenger trains were not running any longer, and the train, which was silently waiting for these passengers on the way, needed no bright light, no commotion.

Suddenly, Werner began to feel weary. It was not fear nor anguish, but a feeling of enormous, painful, tormenting weariness, which makes one feel like going off somewhere, lying down and closing one's eyes very tightly. Werner stretched himself and yawned slowly. Janson also stretched himself and quickly yawned several times. I wish they'd be quicker about it, said Werner wearily. Jnson

was silent, shrinking together. When the condemned moved along the deserted platform, which was surrounded by soldiers to the dimly lighted CAUs Werena found himself near Sergey Golovin. Sergey, pointing his hand somewhere aside, began to say something, but only the word lantern was heard distinctly, and the rest was drowned and slow and weary, yawning. What did you say, asked Werner, also yawning, the lantern. The lamp in the lantern is smoking, said Sergey.

Warena looked around. Indeed, the lamp and the lantern was smoking very much, and the glass had already turned black on top. Yes, it is smoking. Suddenly he thought, what have I to do with the smoking of the lamp? Since Seregey apparently thought the same, as he glanced quickly at Werner and turned away. But both stopped yawning. They all went to the cast themselves. Only Jansen had to be led by the arms. At first, he stamped his feet and his boots seemed to stick to the boards

of the platform. Then he bent his knees and fell into the arms of the gendarmes. His feet dangled like those of a very intoxicated man, and the tips of the boots scrapped against the wood. It took a long time until he was silently pushed through the door. Vasili cushion also moved himself unconsciously imitating the movements of his comrades. He did everything as they did, but on boarding the platform of the car, he stumbled, and de Gendarme took

him by the elbow to support him. Vasily shuddered and screamed shrilly, drawing back his arm. Aye, what is it, Vasier. Whena rushed over to him, Vasili was silent, trembling in every limb. The confused and even offended John Darme explained, I wanted to keep him from falling, and he come, Vasier, let me hold you, said Werner, about to take him by the arm, but Vasili drew back his arm again and cried

more loudly than before. Ay e Vassia, it is I, Werner, I know, don't touch me. I'll go myself, And continuing to tremble, he entered the car himself and seated himself in a corner. Bending over to Musia, Werna asked her softly, pointing with his eyes at Vasili. How about him, bad, answered Musia, also in a soft voice. He is dead already. Werna tell me, is there such a thing as death? I don't know, Musia, but I think that there is no

such thing, replied Werner, seriously and thoughtfully. That's what I have thought. But he I was tortured with him in the carriage. It was like riding with a corpse. I don't know, mousieur. Perhaps there is such a thing as death for some people. Meanwhile, perhaps, but later, there will be no death for me. Death also existed before, but now it exists no longer. Musia's somewhat pale cheeks flushed as she asked. It did exist, Werner? It did, It did, but not now any

longer, just the same as with you. A noise was heard in the doorway of the car Mishkatziganok entered, stamping noisily with his heels, breathing loudly and spitting. He cast a swift glance and stopped, obduredly. No room here, gendarme, he shouted to the tire gendarme, who looked at him angrily. You make it so that I am comfortable here, otherwise I won't go. Hang me here on the lamp post. What a carriage they gave me? Dogs? Is that a carriage. It's the devil's belly, not

a carriage. But suddenly he bent down his head, stretched out his neck, and thus went forward to the others. Out of the disheveled frame of hair and beard, his black eyes looked wildly and sharply with an almost insane expression. Ah, gentlemen, he drawled out. So that's what it is, hello, Master. He thrust his hand to Werner and sat down opposite him, and bending closely over to him, he winked one eye and quickly passed his hand over his throat. You too, what, yes, smiled

Werner. Are all of us to be hanged? All? Oh? Cygonard grinned, showing his teeth, and quickly felt everybody with his eyes, stopping for an instant longer a mussy an Jansen. Then he winked again to Werner. The minister, Yes, the minister, and you. I am here for something else, Master. People like me don't deal with ministers. I am a murderer, Master, That's what I am, an ordinary murderer. Never mind, Master, move away a little. I haven't common to your

company. Of my own will there will be room enough for all of us in the other world. He surveyed them with one swift, suspicious, wild glance from under his disheveled hair, but all looked at him silently and steriously, even with apparent interest. He grinned, showing his teeth, and quickly clapped Werner on the knee several times. That's the way, master, how does the song run? Don't rustle o green, little mother forest? Why

do you call me master? Since we're all going correct Siganok agreed with satisfaction. What kind of master are you? If you're going to hang right beside me? There is a master for you. And he pointed with his finger at the silent johndarn Eh, that fellow there is not worse than all kind. He pointed with his eyes at Vasili. Master. He there, Master, You afraid, aren't you? No, answered the heavy tong never mind that. No, don't be ashamed. There's nothing to be ashamed of.

Only a dog wags his tail and snarls when he's taken to be hanged. But you are a man. Who is that dope? He isn't one of you, is he? He darted his glance rapidly about and hissing, kept spitting continuously. Jan Son curled up into a motionless bundle, pressed closely into the corner. The flaps of his outworn fur cap stirred, but he maintained silence when answered for him, he killed his employer. Oh Lord, wandered Siganok, Why are so people allowed to kill for sometimes? Sigonok had been

looking sideways at Musia. Now turning quickly, he stared at her sharply, straight into her face. Young lady, young lady, what about you? Her cheeks are rosy and she is laughing. Look she is really laughing, he said, clasping on his knee with his clutching iron like fingers. Look, look reddening, Smiling confusedly, Musia also gazed straight into his sharp and

wildly searching eyes. The wheels rattled fast and noisily. The small cars kept hopping along the narrow rails, now at a curve or at a crossing. The small engine whistled shrilly and carefully. The engineer was afraid lest he might run over somebody. It was strange to think that so much humane, painstaking care and exertion was being introduced into the business of hanging people, that the most insane deed on earth was being committed with such an air of simplicity and

reasonableness. The cars were running, and human beings set in them as people always do, and they rode as people usually ride. And then there would be a halt as usual. The train will stop for five minutes, and their death would be waiting eternity, with the great mystery on with friendliness, watching how Jansen's fingers took the cigarette, how the match flared, and then how the blue smoke issued from Janson's mouth. Thanks, it's good. How

strange, said Sergey. What is strange? Rena turned round? What is strange? I mean the cigarette? Janson held a cigarette, an ordinary cigarette in his ordinary life hands, and pale faced, looked at it with surprise, even with Terra, 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 Tania. Yes, the light's out. Let it go, said Werner, frowning, looking uneasily at Jansen, whose hand holding the cigarette was hanging loosely as if did Suddenly. Tziganok turned quickly bent over to Werner, close to him, face to face, and rolling the whites of his eyes like a hoarse whispered master, how about the convoys suppose we wei? 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 lively in a fight. Eh. I strike him, he strang 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 Jansen. Why don't you smoke? Friend? Suddenly Jansn's wizened face became woefully 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. Ah ah ah. Why should I be hanged? Ah ah ah. 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, Monsieur looked aside. Signar caught her gas ants 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 Jansonen cushioned and rose and sat down again quickly. Here's the station, said Sergey. It seemed to them as if 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 bodyless 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. Jansun resisted bluntly powerlessly, and was dragged out of the car silently. They descended the steps of the station. Are we to walk? Asked someone, 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 and 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 Seragay Golovin, really asked Werner, not understanding what he said, I lost a rubber. It's cold. Where is Vasili? I dunno. There he is Vasili stood gloomy, motionless, And where is Musia 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 a 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. This sea, said Sergey Golovin, inhaling the air with nose and mouth. The sea is there, Mousieur answered sonorously, My love, which is as broad as the sea? What is that, monsieur? 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, monsieur, how young you are? Suddenly Sygonok whispered warmly out of breath, right into Werna's ear, Master, Master, there's the forest, My god? What's that there? Where the lanns are? Are those the gallows? What does

it mean? When I looked at him, Segonok was writhing in agony before his death. We must bid each other good bye, said Tannikovalchuk. Wait, they have yet to read the sentence, answered Werner, where is Yanson? Janson was lying on the snow, and about him people were busying themselves. There was a smell of ammonia in the air. Well, what is a doctor? Will you be through soon? Someone asked impatiently. It's nothing. He has simply fainted. Ropsy is 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 the all, and the little lantern was soon extinguished. The services of the

priest were also declined by the mall. Sigonoq 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 and pass, take your places and pass as you wish. But I ask you to hurry up. Erna pointed to

Janson, who is now standing, supported by two gendarmes. I will go with him, and you said, Eoja, take Vasili, go ahead, very well, You and I go together, Muzotchka, shall we not, asked Tanya Kovalchuk. Come let us kiss each other good bye. They kissed one another quickly. Siganok 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 Seegey Goulovin and Kashirin had gone a few steps, Kashirin suddenly stopped and said, loudly and distinctly, goodbye, comrades. Goodbye, 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, someone cried hoarsely. And wildly. They looked about. It was Siganok, writhing in agony at the thought of death. They are hanging. They turned away from him, and again it became quiet. Seganok was writhing, catching the air with his hands. How is that, gentleman? 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. Werna answered painfully. I can't, my dear fellow, I'm going with him. Oh, my god? Must I go alone? Then? My god, how is it to be? Musia stepped forward and said softly, you may go with me. Segonoch 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'm not afraid. Segonoch grinned jest 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, Monsieur was silent, and in the faint light of dawn, her face was pale and enigmatic. Then suddenly she walked over to t Siganok 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 to 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 towards 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 then he remained lying in the snow. Pick up the gun, you sour faced gray coat, or I'll pick it up, said Sygonoq 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 Janson. Good Bye,

master, called Syganok 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 Bye. I don't want to be hanged, said jan Son drowsily. Wer Not took him by the hand, and then the Estonian walked a few steps alone. But too later they saw him stop and fall down in the snow. Soldier spent over him, lifted him up and carried him on, and he struggled

faintly in their arms. Why did she not cry? He must have forgotten even that he had a voice. And again the little yellow lanterns became motionless. And I Muzachhka, 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? And with her, it's just as if if, just as if I were with an infant. You understand? Do you understand me? I do go? Come? Let me kiss you once more. Muzohka kiss kiss each other, urged Siganok. That's a woman's job. You must bid

each other a hearty good bye. Musya and Siganok moved forward. Musya walked cautiously, slipping and by a 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, Serioja 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 tongs 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 set against black rubber shoe wet trampled under foot. Thus did men grate the rising sun end of chapter eleven, and of the seven who were hanged by Leonid Nikolayevitch andreyev Red by Carolyn in February two thousand and twelve in Oslo, Norway. Thanks for listening.