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Updated: May 28, 2025
The sleeves of the coat were too long for her, and she turned them up, and her thin, almost childish, emaciated hands peeped out of the wide holes like a beautiful flower out of a coarse earthen jug. The rough material of the coat rubbed her thin white neck, and sometimes Musya would free her throat with both hands and would cautiously feel the spot where the irritated skin was red and smarted.
And each time the clock struck she raised her tear-stained face and listened how were they in the other cells receiving this drawn-out, persistent call of death? But Musya was happy.
Musya paced the cell, and, blushing in agitation, she imagined that she was justifying herself before the people. She tried to justify herself for the fact that she, who was so young, so insignificant, who had done so little, and who was not at all a heroine, was yet to undergo the same honorable and beautiful death by which real heroes and martyrs had died before her.
Tanya Kovalchuk, weeping freely, petted him on the arm, and adjusted the drooping earlaps of his worn fur cap. "My dear, do not cry! My own! my dear! Poor, unfortunate little fellow!" Musya looked aside. Tsiganok caught her glance and grinned, showing his teeth. "What a queer fellow! He drinks tea, and yet feels cold," he said, with an abrupt laugh.
Werner answered for him: "He killed his employer." "O Lord!" wondered Tsiganok. "Why are such people allowed to kill?" For some time Tsiganok had been looking sideways at Musya; 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.
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 or of the coming execution. Musya and Werner, as unidentified people, were not supposed to have relatives, and only two, Sergey Golovin and Vasily Kashirin, were to meet their parents.
At first Musya was afraid of them, brushed them away from her as if they were the hallucinations of a sickly mind. But later she understood that she herself was well, and that this was no derangement of any kind and she gave herself up to the dreams calmly. And now, suddenly, she seemed to hear clearly and distinctly the sounds of military music.
Musya's and Tanya Kovalchuk's cheeks and ears were burning; Sergey was at first somewhat pale, but he soon recovered and looked as he always did. Only Vasily attracted everybody's attention. Even among them, he looked strange and terrible. Werner became agitated and said to Musya in a low voice, with tender anxiety: "What does this mean, Musyechka? Is it possible that he What? I must go to him."
And continuing to tremble he entered the car himself and seated himself in a corner. Bending over to Musya, Werner asked her softly, pointing with his eyes at Vasily: "How about him?" "Bad," answered Musya, also in a soft voice. "He is dead already. Werner, tell me, is there such a thing as death?"
But the rope is still more horrible when it forms the noose around the necks of weak and ignorant people. And however strange it may appear, I look with a lesser grief and suffering upon the execution of the revolutionists, such as Werner and Musya, than upon the strangling of ignorant murderers, miserable in mind and heart, like Yanson and Tsiganok." Spoken like Dostoevski!
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