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Updated: June 28, 2025
All appeared to be in repair. "Have you been here long?" inquired the Chief. "Since the second of May, your Excellency." "All right. Thank you. And who is at hut No. 164?" "Spiridov, Spiridov... Ah! is he the man against whom you made a note last year?" "He is." "Well, we will see Vasily Spiridov. Go on!" The workmen laid to the handles, and the trolley got under way.
Foma seated himself on a corner of the lounge and said to Yozhov: "I have come to stay here over night." "Well? Go on, Vasily." The latter glanced at Foma askance and went on in a creaking voice: "In my opinion, you are attacking the stupid people in vain. Masaniello was a fool, but what had to be performed was done in the best way possible.
His dying reason flared up as red as blood again and said that he, Vasily Kashirin, might perhaps become insane here, suffer pains for which there is 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.
Vasily Gusev came up to Nilovna and declared: "I am going to eat with you again. Is it good today?" And lowering his head and screwing up his eyes, he added in an undertone: "You see? It hit exactly! Good! Oh, mother, very good!"
To Vasily Kashirin, who was condemned to death by hanging, everything now seemed like children's playthings: his cell, the door with the peephole, the strokes of the wound-up clock, 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 food in silence.
The entire public, overcome by the mounting wave of excitement, hummed strangely and dully. One woman cried, some one choked and coughed. The gendarmes regarded the prisoners with dull surprise, the public with a sinister look. The judges shook, the old man shouted in a thin voice: "Ivan Gusev!" "I don't want to speak." "Vasily Gusev!" "Don't want to." "Fedor Bukin!"
Returning to the cell, Sergey lay down on the cot, his face turned toward the wall, in order to hide it from the soldiers, and he wept for a long time. Then, exhausted by his tears, he slept soundly. To Vasily Kashirin only his mother came. His father, who was a wealthy tradesman, did not want to come.
The next man, Vasily Kashirin, was torn between a terrible, dominating fear of death and a desperate desire to restrain the fear and not betray it to the judges. From early morning, from the time they had been led into court, he had been suffocating from an intolerable palpitation of his heart.
Under the same ringing of the clock, separated from Sergey and Musya by only a few empty cells, but yet so painfully desolate and alone in the whole world as though no other soul existed, poor Vasily Kashirin was passing the last hours of his life in terror and in anguish.
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 near by 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.
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