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Updated: May 28, 2025
When the sky had darkened Musya 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.
Musya was silent. Then she resolutely moved forward. 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 Yanson, a peasant. Ivan Yanson was a workman for a well-to-do farmer, in no way different from other workmen.
"I don't know, Musya, 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, Musya. Perhaps there is such a thing as death for some people. Meanwhile, perhaps, but later there will be no death.
But the joy of life and 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 Musya, 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.
Don't tell it to the others, it isn't necessary, I feel somewhat ashamed, but I love deeply." Their eyes met and flashed 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 Musya, "yes, Werner."
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 a martyr's death, and that so much trouble should be made on her account. Like a person who is actually accused of a crime, Musya sought justification.
To-morrow, with the rise of the sun, this human face would be distorted with an inhuman 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. Musya fell asleep. And the life of the prison went on, deaf and sensitive, blind and sharp-sighted, like eternal alarm itself.
"Is it possible?" thought Musya bashfully. "Is it possible that I am worthy of it? That I deserve 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 are thousands of women in Russia like Musya, and they are now, as they were in the days of Turgenev, the one hope of the country. In Merezhkovski's interesting work "Tolstoi as Man and Artist," the author says: "We are accustomed to think that the more abstract thought is, the more cold and dispassionate it is. It is not so; or at least it is not so with us.
Must I go alone, then? My God! How is it to be?" Musya stepped forward and said softly: "You may go with me." Tsiganok stepped back and rolled the whites of his eyes wildly. "With you!" "Yes." "Just think of her! What a little girl! And you're not afraid? If you are, I would rather go alone!" "No, I am not afraid." Tsiganok grinned. "Just think of her! But do you know that I am a murderer?
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