The Seven Who Were Hanged

I read this book with a lot of glum written all over my face. This is a tale of the last moments in the lives of seven prisoners who are about to be executed. All seven have been tried and and sentenced to death. Most of them have committed serious offences. The question that I kept asking myself is whether their cri es justifies tge death penalty.

When I read the book, I realized that they were stil human beings who are capable of experiences which other 'normal' people e A very sorrowful tale. When I read the book, I realized that they were stil human beings who are capable of experiences which other 'normal' people experience. Their thoughts and anguish were my thoughts and anguish. Their fears were my fears. Their hopes were my hopes, their desires were my desires.

The death penalty would end their humanity, but to some of them, it was not going to kill their spirit. Still the brutality of the death penalty is felt even before they are executed. It affects the mind as well as tge body with the same brutak force. I enjoyed the book. Feb 07, Bryn Hammond rated it it was amazing Shelves: Perfect craft in this story on the cruelty of execution. I don't know a better story in the world. I think, though, they'd each be proud to have written this. It not only has the seven perspectives -- terrorists and common murderers -- but the effects on guards; and begins in theme with the political victim who gets away, but no Perfect craft in this story on the cruelty of execution.

It not only has the seven perspectives -- terrorists and common murderers -- but the effects on guards; and begins in theme with the political victim who gets away, but not before he discovers the psychic torture of a scheduled death. Pour quelqu'un qui avait moins lu dans le genre, il plaira certainement plus. Jul 18, Laura marked it as to-read Recommended to Laura by: Free download available at Project Gutenberg. View all 5 comments.

Oct 20, Nick rated it really liked it. Leonid Andreyev belonged to that unhappy generation of Russians fortunate enough to see the Tsar fall and unfortunate enough to see the rise of the Bolsheviks. His eventual exile into poverty in Finland ended his career. His oeuvre is small, a few plays and a wide-ranging prose. He had an eye for turning the Bible on its head: In Andreyev's world nothing is as it seems, and it is dangerous to trust even those one loves.

Cinque terroristi, tre uomini e due donne, vengono condannati a morte in seguito ad un attentato fallito, ed a loro si aggiungono nell'attesa dell'esecuzione due delinquenti comuni. Il libro si sofferma in particolare sui giorni che precedono l'impiccagione, sulle reazioni di ciascuno dei personaggi di fronte alla certezza della morte. Jun 01, Bev Spicer rated it it was amazing. Set at the time of the first Russian revolution in , the book opens with a plot to kill an important official, a plot which has been foiled by Russian police.

Later, the authorities arrest three young men and two young women who are accused of terrorism and condemned to death by hanging. There are two other prisoners who will join them on the day of their execution, one a servant who murders his master and tries to rape his master's wife and the other a bandit and a murderer. We know from the Set at the time of the first Russian revolution in , the book opens with a plot to kill an important official, a plot which has been foiled by Russian police.

We know from the title that there is no escape, but this does not detract from the tension. What makes this a truly astonishing book is that Andreyev involves the reader in the fates of his characters by revealing what is in their minds. He leads us through the psychological mazes that each of the condemned criminals wanders around, never able to find an alternative exit.

The gallows awaits them and they can only escape the overwhelming reality of their imminent death by conjuring new worlds where such a horrendous outcome is made acceptable. Andreyev is informed by his professional experience as a police-court reporter and also draws on his interest in psychology to strengthen his profoundly affecting depiction of what happens to the mind when a human being is left devoid of hope. The ending is particularly moving, but I shall not go into detail, as this would spoil the reader's enjoyment of what is a highly intelligent and thought provoking novel.

Aug 14, Sli rated it it was ok. Ljepota smrti je u neznanju, neizvjesnosti. Covers the crimes, trials, and last days of the titular Seven Who Were Hanged. Interesting to compare and contrast with the last chapter of The Stranger by Camus; French vs. Quite dragging at some parts, and repetitive in its portrayals of the prisoners' thoughts-- understandably thorough of the dark subject matter, but the work itself probably would have been stronger as a short story rather than a novella; still Covers the crimes, trials, and last days of the titular Seven Who Were Hanged.

Quite dragging at some parts, and repetitive in its portrayals of the prisoners' thoughts-- understandably thorough of the dark subject matter, but the work itself probably would have been stronger as a short story rather than a novella; still, not a terribly long novella, and certain paragraphs themselves especially the last few paint the succinct, brutal portrait that make the book strong as Russian literature and as a work dealing with capital punishment.

Jul 19, Maz rated it it was amazing. Brutal, pessimistic and powerful. A story about the last moments of seven people, written against capital punishment, Leonid Andreyev's astonishing skill is beyond description! May 04, Mirish rated it it was amazing. Leonid Andreyev wrote an introduction to the English translation of The Seven Who Were Hanged in which he says, "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.

Andreyev's message is equally important in every language and in every time. This is a tough book; it deals Leonid Andreyev wrote an introduction to the English translation of The Seven Who Were Hanged in which he says, "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. This is a tough book; it deals with Death in an uncompromising personal way. Andreyev makes an effective case against capital punishment by making it personal, by putting us inside the cells with those who are to be hanged.

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He does not diminish their crimes or culpability but he does remove the comfort of seeing criminals as inhuman monsters. The writing is superb, and beautifully translated by the Jewish activist and journalist Herman Bernstein. Andreyev makes palpable the horror of knowing the imminence of one's death and the psychological toll that knowledge takes on both an intended victim of an assassination and those who are to be hanged.

He describes how time manifests itself to the prisoners who hear a bell toll every 15 minutes. I have changed my mind for at least two reasons. First I believe that at is not applied impartially. The second reason, the fundamental, overarching reason that Andreyev dramatizes, is that when the state commits murder we all are made culpable. Like the soldier who drops his gun and falls face first in the snow, I am overwhelmed at being made part of this. Andreyev, with Bernstein as his English voice, say it all in one line, "When thousand kill one, it means that the one has conquered.

Otra cosa que me pasa seguido es que abro Goodreads y me encuentro con que alguna bestia le ha dado tres estrellas o menos a libros hermosos. Han hecho prisioneros a cinco terroristas que conspiraban contra el ministro. Musya's neighbor, motionless also, with hands folded between his knees and somewhat of affectation in his pose, was an unknown surnamed Werner. If one can bolt a face as one bolts a heavy door, the unknown had bolted his as if it were a door of iron.

He gazed steadily at the floor, and it was impossible to tell whether he was calm or deeply moved, whether he was thinking of something or listening to the testimony of the policemen. He was rather short of stature; his features were fine and noble. He gave the impression of an immense and calm force, of a cold and audacious valor.

The very politeness with which he uttered his clear and curt replies seemed dangerous on his lips. On the backs of the other prisoners the customary cloak seemed a ridiculous costume; on him it was not even noticeable, so foreign was the garment to the man. Although Werner had been armed only with a poor revolver, while the others carried bombs and infernal machines, the judges looked upon him as the leader, and treated him with a certain respect, with the same brevity which he employed toward them. In his neighbor, Vasily Kashirin, a frightful moral struggle was going on between the intolerable terror of death and the desperate desire to subdue this fear and conceal it from the judges.

Ever since the prisoners had been taken to court in the morning, he had been stifling under the hurried beating of his heart. Drops of sweat appeared continually on his brow; his hands were moist and cold; his damp and icy shirt, sticking to his body, hindered his movements.

By a superhuman effort of the will he kept his fingers from trembling, and maintained the firmness and moderation of his voice and the tranquillity of his gaze. He saw nothing around him; the sound of the voice that he heard seemed to reach him through a fog, and it was in a fog also that he stiffened himself in a desperate effort to answer firmly and aloud. But, as soon as he had spoken, he forgot the questions, as well as his own phrases; the silent and terrible struggle began again.

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And upon his person death was so in evidence that the judges turned their eyes away from him. It was as difficult to determine his age as that of a rotting corpse. According to his papers he was only twenty-three. Once or twice Werner touched him gently on the knee, and each time he answered briefly:. His hardest moment was when he suddenly felt an irresistible desire to utter inarticulate cries, like a hunted beast. Then he gave Werner a slight push; without raising his eyes, the latter answered in a low voice:. Consumed by anxiety, Tanya Kovalchuk, the fifth terrorist, sheltered her comrades with a maternal look.

She was still very young; her cheeks seemed as highly colored as those of Sergey Golovin; and yet she seemed to be the mother of all the accused, so full of tender anxiety and infinite love were her looks, her smile, her fear. The progress of the trial did not interest her. She listened to her comrades simply to see if their voices trembled, if they were afraid, if they needed water. But she could not look at Vasya; his anguish was too intense; she contented herself with cracking her plump fingers. At Musya and Werner she gazed with proud and respectful admiration, her face then wearing a grave and serious expression.

As for Sergey Golovin, she continually tried to attract his attention by her smile. What can be done to comfort him? If I speak to him, perhaps it will make matters worse; suppose he should begin to weep? Like a peaceful pool reflecting every wandering cloud, her amiable and clear countenance showed all the feelings and all the thoughts, however fleeting, of her four comrades.

She forgot that she was on trial too and would be hanged; her indifference to this was absolute. It was in her dwelling that the bombs and dynamite had been found; strange as it may seem, she had received the police with pistol shots, and had wounded one of them in the head. The trial ended toward eight o'clock, just as the day was drawing to its close.

Little by little, in the eyes of Sergey and Musya, the blue sky disappeared; without reddening, without smiling, it grew dim gently as on a summer evening, becoming grayish, and suddenly cold and wintry. Gotovin heaved a sigh, stretched himself, and raised his eyes toward the window, where the chilly darkness of the night was already making itself manifest; still pulling his beard, he began to examine the judges, the soldiers, and their weapons, exchanging a smile with Tanya Kovalchuk.

As for Musya, when the sun had set completely, she did not lower her gaze to the ground, but directed it toward a corner where a spider's web was swaying gently in the invisible current of warm air from the stove; and thus she remained until the sentence had been pronounced. After the verdict, the condemned said their farewells to their lawyers, avoiding their disconcerted, pitying, and confused looks; then they grouped themselves for a moment near the door, and exchanged short phrases.

In fact, his face had taken on a slight color, no longer resembling that of a corpse. A fortnight before the affair of the terrorists, in the same court, but before other judges, Ivan Yanson, a peasant, had been tried and sentenced to be hanged. Ivan Yanson had been hired as a farm-hand by a well-to-do farmer, and was distinguished in no way from the other poor devils of his class. He was a native of Wesenberg, in Esthonia; for some years he had been advancing gradually toward the capital, passing from one farm to another. He had very little knowledge of Russian.

As there were none of his countrymen living in the neighborhood, and as his employer was a Russian, named Lazaref, Yanson remained silent for almost two years. He said hardly a word to either man or beast. He led the horse to water and harnessed it without speaking to it, walking about it lazily, with short hesitating steps. When the horse began to run, Yanson did not say a word, but beat it cruelly with his enormous whip. Drink transformed his cold and wicked obstinacy into fury.

The hissing of the lash and the regular and painful sound of his wooden shoes on the floor of the shed could be heard even at the farmhouse. To punish him for torturing the horse the farmer at first beat Yanson, but, not succeeding in correcting him, he gave it up.

Once or twice a month Yanson got drunk, especially when he took his master to the station. His employer once on board the train, Yanson drove a short distance away, and waited until the train had started. Then he returned to the station, and got drunk at the buffet. He came back to the farm on the gallop, a distance of seven mlles, beating the unfortunate beast unmercifully, giving it its head, and singing and shouting incomprehensible phrases in Esthonian. Sometimes silent, with set teeth, impelled by a whirlwind of indescribable fury, suffering, and enthusiasm, he was like a blind man in his mad career; he did not see the passers-by, he did not insult them, uphill and down he maintained his furious gait.

His master would have discharged him, but Yanson did not demand high wages, and his comrades were no better than he. One day he received a letter written in Esthonian; but, as he did not know how to read or write, and as no one about him knew this language, Yanson threw it into the muck-heap with savage indifference, as if he did not understand that it brought him news from his native country. Probably needing a woman, he tried also to pay court to the girl employed on the farm. She repulsed him, for he was short and puny, and covered with hideous freckles; after that, he left here alone. But, though he spoke little, Yanson listened continually.

He listened to the desolate snow-covered fields, containing hillocks of frozen manure that resembled a series of little tombs heaped up by the snow; he listened to the bluish and limpid distance, the sonorous telegraph-poles. He alone knew what the fields and telegraph-poles were saying. He listened also to the conversation of men, the stories of murder, pillage, fire. One night, in the village, the little church-bell began to ring in a feeble and lamentable way; flames appeared.

Malefactors from nobody knew where were pillaging the neighboring farm.

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They killed the owner and his wife, and set fire to the house. This caused a feeling of anxiety on the farm where Yanson lived: He wished also to give an old weapon to Yanson, but the latter, after examining it, shook his head and refused it. The farmer did not understand that Yanson had more confidence in the efficacy of his Finnish knife than in this rusty old machine. And one winter evening, when the other farm-hand had gone to the station, this same Ivan Yanson, who was afraid of a gun, committed robbery and murder, and made an attempt at rape.

He did it with an astonishing simplicity. After shutting the servant in the kitchen, lazily, like a man almost dead with sleep, he approached his master from behind, and stabbed him several times in the back. The master fell unconscious; his wife began to cry and to run about the chamber. Showing his teeth, and holding his knife in his hand, Yanson began to ransack trunks and drawers. He found the money; then, as if he had just seen the master's wife for the first time, he threw himself upon her to rape her, without the slightest premeditation.

But he happened to drop his knife; and, as the woman was the stronger, she not only resisted Yanson, but half strangled him. At this moment the farmer recovered his senses, and the servant broke in the kitchen-door and came in. They took him an hour later, squatting in the corner of the shed, and scratching matches which continually went out. He was trying to set fire to the farm. A few days later the farmer died.

Yanson was tried and sentenced to death. In the court one would have said that he did not understand what was going on; h viewed the large imposing hall without curiosity, and explored his nose with a shrunken finger that nothing disgusted. Only those who had seen him at church on Sunday could have guessed that he had done something in the way of making a toilet; he wore a knitted cravat of dirty red; in spots his hair was smooth and dark; in others it consisted of light thin locks, like wisps of straw on an uncultivated and devastated field.

When the sentence of death by hanging was pronounced, Yanson suddenly showed emotion. He turned scarlet, and began to untie and tie his cravat, as if it were choking him. Then he waved his arms without knowing why, and declared to the presiding judge, who had read the sentence:. Yanson pointed at the presiding judge with his finger, and, looking at him furtively, answered angrily:. Again Yanson turned his eyes toward one of the judges, in whom he divined a friend, and repeated:.

And with his outstretched finger and irritated face, to which he tried in vain to give an air of gravity, he seemed so stupid that the guard, in violation of orders, said to him in an undertone as he led him away:. They shut him up again in the cell in which he had passed a month, and to which he had become accustomed, as he had become accustomed to everything: It even gave him pleasure to see his bed again, and his grated window, and to eat what they gave him; he had taken nothing since morning.

The disagreeable thing was what had happened in court, about which he knew not what to think. He had no idea at all of what death by hanging was like. He was not offended that they did not want to take the trouble to hang him all alone; he did not believe in this excuse, and thought they simply wanted to put off the execution, and then pardon him.

Is that what you would like, imbecile? And, for the first time in his life perhaps, he began to laugh—a grinning and stupid laugh, but terribly gay. He seemed like a goose beginning to quack. The guard looked at Yanson in astonishment, and then knitted his brows: And suddenly it seemed to the old guard, who had passed all his life in prison and considered the laws of the gaol as those of nature, that the prison and all of life were a sort of mad-house in which he, the guard, was the chief madman.

This is no wine-shop! All the evening Yanson was calm, and even joyous. He repeated the phrase that he had uttered: He had long since forgotten his crime; sometimes he simply regretted that he had not succeeded in raping the woman. Soon he thought no more about the matter. Every morning Yanson asked when he would be hanged, and every morning the guard answered him angrily:. Thanks to this invariable exchange of words, Yanson persuaded himself that the execution would never take place; for whole days he lay upon his bed, dreaming vaguely of the desolate and snow-covered fields, of the buffet at the railway station, and also of things farther away and more luminous.

He was well fed in prison, he took on flesh. He had only one desire—to drink brandy and course madly over the roads with his horse at full gallop. When the terrorists were arrested, the whole prison learned of it. One day, when Yanson put his customary question, the guard answered him abruptly, in an irritated voice:. No jokes are tolerated here. It is you who like jokes, but we do not tolerate them," replied the guard with dignity; then he went out. When evening came, Yanson had grown thin.

His skin, which had become smooth again for a few days, was contracted into a thousand little wrinkles. He took no notice of anything; his movements were made slowly, as if every toss of the head, every gesture of the arm, every step, were a difficult undertaking, that must first be deeply studied. During the night Yanson lay on his camp-bed, but his eyes did not close; they remained open until morning.

With the satisfaction of the savant who has made a new and a successful experiment, he examined the condemned man attentively and without haste; now everything was proceeding in the usual fashion. Satan was covered with shame, the sanctity of the prison and of the gallows was reestablished. Indulgent, and even full of sincere pity, the old man asked:.

Yanson was a little calmer in the evening. The day was so ordinary, the cloudy winter sky shone in so usual a fashion, so familiar was the sound of steps and conversations in the corridor, that he ceased to believe in the execution. Formerly the night had been to him simply the moment of darkness, the time for sleep. But now he was conscious of its mysterious and menacing essence. To disbelieve in death one must see and hear about one the customary course of life: And now everything seemed extraordinary to him; this silence, these shades, that seemed to be already the shades of death; already he felt the approach of inevitable death; in bewilderment he climbed the first steps of the gibbet.

The day, the night, brought him alternations of hope and fear; and so things went until the evening when he felt, or understood, that the inevitable death would come three days later, at sunrise. He had never thought of death; for him it had no shape. But now he felt plainly that it had entered his cell, and was groping about in search of him. To escape it he began to run.

The room was so small that the corners seemed to push him back toward the centre. He could not hide himself anywhere. Several times he struck the walls with his body; once he hurled himself against the door. He staggered and fell, with his face upon the ground; he felt the grasp of death upon him.

Glued to the floor, his face touching the dirty black asphalt, Yanson screamed with terror until help came. When they had lifted him up, seated him on his bed, and sprinkled him with cold water, he did not dare to open both eyes. He half opened one, perceived an empty and luminous corner of his cell, and began again to scream.

But the cold water had its effect. The guard, moreover, always the same old man, slapped Yanson several times on the head in a fatherly fashion. This sensation of life drove out the thought of death. Yanson slept deeply the rest of the night. He lay on his back, with mouth open, snoring loud and long. Between his half-closed eyelids appeared a whitish, flat, and dead eye, without a pupil. Then day, night, voices, steps, the cabbage soup, everything became for him one continuous horror that plunged him into a state of wild astonishment.

His weak mind could not reconcile the monstrous contradiction between, on the one hand, the bright light and the odor of the cabbage, and, on the other, the fact that two days later he must die. He thought of nothing; he did not even count the hours; he was simply the prey of a dumb terror in presence of this contradiction that bewildered his brain: He ate nothing, he slept no more; he sat timidly all night long on a stool, with his legs crossed under him, or else he walked up and down his cell with furtive steps.

He appeared to be in a state of open-mouthed astonishment; before taking the most commonplace article into his hands, he would examine it suspiciously. The gaolers ceased to pay attention to him. His was the ordinary condition of the condemned man, resembling, according to his gaoler who had not experienced it himself, that of an ox felled by a club. But, instead of talking nonsense, you would do better to dispose of your possessions. You surely must have something. Thus time passed until Thursday. And Thursday, at midnight, a large number of people entered Yanson's cell; a man with cloth epaulets said to him:.

Always with the same slowness and the same indolence Yanson dressed himself in all that he possessed, and tied his dirty shawl around his neck. While watching him dress, the man with the epaulets, who was smoking a cigarette, said to one of the assistants:. He began to walk submissively, shrugging his shoulders. In the courtyard the moist spring air had a sudden effect upon him; his nose began to run; it was thawing; close by, drops of water were falling with a joyous sound.

While the gendarmes were getting into the unlighted vehicle, bending over and rattling their swords, Yanson lazily passed his finger under his running nose, or arranged his badly-tied shawl. The court that had tried Yanson sentenced to death at the same session Michael Goloubetz, known as Michka the Tzigane, a peasant of the department of Orel, district of Eletz.

The last crime of which they accused him, with evidence in support of the charge, was robbery, followed by the assassination of three persons. As for his past, it was unknown. There were vague indications to warrant the belief that the Tzigane had taken part in a whole series of other murders. With absolute sincerity and frankness he termed himself a brigand, and overwhelmed with his irony those who, to follow the fashion, pompously styled themselves "expropriators"; his last crime he described willingly in all its details.

But, at the slightest reference to the past, he answered:. They had nicknamed him Tzigane because of his physiognomy and his thieving habits. He was thin and strangely dark; yellow spots outlined themselves upon his cheekbones which were as prominent as those of a Tartar. He had a way of rolling the whites of his eyes, that reminded one of a horse.

His gaze was quick and keen, full of curiosity, terrifying. The things over which his swift glance passed seemed to lose something or other, and to become transformed by surrendering to him part of themselves. One hesitated to take a cigarette that he had looked at, as if it had already been in his mouth. His extraordinarily mobile nature made him seem now to coil and concentrate himself like a twisted handkerchief, now to scatter himself like a sheaf of sparks.

He drank water almost by the pailful, like a horse. When the judges questioned him, he raised his head quickly, and answered without hesitation, even with satisfaction:. It is very interesting. A little disconcerted, the judge granted the desired permission. The Tzigane quickly placed four fingers in his mouth, two of each hand; he rolled his eyes furiously. And the inanimate air of the court-room was rent by a truly savage whistle.

There was everything in the piercing sound, partly human, partly animal; the mortal anguish of the victim, and the savage joy of the assassin; a threat, a call, and the tragic solitude, the darkness, of a rainy autumn night. The judge shook his hand; with docility the Tzigane stopped. Like an artist who has just played a difficult air with assured success, he sat down, wiped his wet fingers on his cloak, and looked at the spectators with a satisfied air. But another, who had Tartar eyes, like the Tzigane's, was looking dreamily into the distance, over the brigand's head; he smiled, and replied:.

The soldier looked at him seriously and timidly; he exchanged a glance with his comrade, and tested his weapon to see if it was in working order. The other did the same. And all the way to the prison it seemed to the soldiers that they did not walk, but flew; they were so absorbed by the condemned man that they were unconscious of the route, of the weather, and of themselves. Like Yanson, Michka the Tzigane remained seventeen days in prison before being executed. And the seventeen days passed as rapidly as a single day, filled with a single thought, that of flight, of liberty, of life.

The turbulent and incoercible spirit of the Tzigane, stifled by the walls, the gratings, and the opaque window through which nothing could be seen, employed all its force in setting Michka's brain on fire. As in a vapor of intoxication, bright but incomplete images whirled, clashed, and mingled in his head; they passed with a blinding and irresistible rapidity, and they all tended to the same end: For entire hours, with nostrils distended like those of a horse, the Tzigane sniffed the air; it seemed to him that he inhaled the odor of hemp and flame, of dense smoke.

Or else he turned in his cell like a top, examining the walls, feeling them with his fingers, measuring them, piercing the ceiling with his gaze, sawing the bars in his mind.

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His agitation was a source of torture to the soldier who watched him through the window; several times he threatened to fire on him. During the night the Tzigane slept deeply, almost without stirring, in an invariable but living immobility, like a temporarily inactive spring. But, as soon as he jumped to his feet, he began again to plan, to grope, to study.

His hands were always dry and hot. Sometimes his heart suddenly congealed, as if they had placed in his breast a new block of ice which did not melt, and which caused a continuous shiver to run over his skin. At these times his naturally dark complexion became darker still, taking on the blue-black shade of bronze. Then a queer tic seized him; he constantly licked his lips, as if he had eaten a dish that was much too sweet; then, with a hiss, and with set teeth, he spat upon the ground the saliva that had thus accumulated in his mouth. He left his words unfinished; his thoughts ran so fast that his tongue could no longer keep up with them.

One day the chief of the guards entered his cell, accompanied by a soldier. He squinted at the spittle with which the ground was spattered, and said rudely:. Why do you annoy me? With the same rudeness the chief of the guards offered him the post of hangman. The Tzigane showed his teeth, and began to laugh:. Go on then hanging people! There are necks and ropes, and nobody to do the hanging! My God, that's not bad. And he began to sing a captivating air.

And to the chaos of unfinished images which overwhelmed the Tzigane was added a new idea: He clearly pictured to himself the square black with people, and the scaffold on which he, the Tzigane, walked back and forth, in a red shirt, with axe in hand. The sun illuminates the heads, plays gaily on the axe blade; everything is so joyous, so sumptuous, that even he whose head is to be cut off smiles.

Behind the crowd are to be seen the carts and the noses of the horses; the peasants have come to town for the occasion. Still farther away fields. The Tzigane licked his lips, and spat upon the ground. Suddenly it seemed to him that his fur cap had just been pulled down over his mouth; everything became dark; he gasped for breath; and his heart changed into a block of ice, while little shivers ran through his body. Go, be the hangman yourself! And he ceased to dream of the splendors of his trade. But toward the end, the nearer drew the day of execution, the more intolerable became the impetuosity of the torn images.

The Tzigane would have liked to wait, to halt, but the furious torrent carried him on, giving him no chance to get a hold on anything; for everything was in a whirl. And his sleep became agitated; he had new and shapeless visions, as badly squared as painted blocks, and even more impetuous than his thoughts had been.

It was no longer a torrent, but a continual fall from an infinite height, a whirling flight through the whole world of colors. Formerly the Tzigane had worn only a mustache tolerably well cared for; in prison he had been obliged to grow his beard, which was short, black, and stubbly, giving him a crazy look. There were moments, in fact, when the Tzigane lost his mind. He turned about in his cell all unconscious of his movements, continuing to feel for the rough and uneven walls. And he always drank great quantities of water, like a horse.

One evening, when they were lighting the lamps, the Tzigane dropped on all fours in the middle of his cell, and began to howl like a wolf. He did this very seriously, as if performing an indispensable and important act. He filled his lungs with air, and then expelled it slowly in a prolonged and trembling howl. With knit brows, he listened to himself attentively.

The very trembling of the voice seemed a little affected; he did not shout indistinctly; he made each note in this wild beast's cry sound separately, full of unspeakable suffering and terror. Suddenly he stopped, and remained silent for a few minutes, without getting up. He began to whisper, as if speaking to the ground:. The soldier on guard, as white as chalk, wept with anguish and fear; he pounded the door with the muzzle of his gun, and cried in a lamentable voice:.

But he did not dare to fire; they never fire on prisoners sentenced to death, except in case of revolt. And the Tzigane ground his teeth, swore, and spat. His brain, placed on the narrow frontier that separates life from death, crumbled like a lump of dried clay. When they came, during the night, to take him to the gallows, he regained a little of his animation. His cheeks took on some color; in his eyes the usual strategy, a little savage, sparkled again, and he asked of one of the functionaries:.

Is he accustomed to it yet? It is not Your Highness that is going to be hanged, but I!

At least don't spare the soap on the slip-noose; the State pays for it! Suddenly he began to laugh, and his legs became numb. Yet, when he arrived in the court-yard, he could still cry:. The verdict against the five terrorists was pronounced in its final form and confirmed the same day.

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The condemned were not notified of the day of execution. But they foresaw that they would be hanged, according to custom, the same night, or, at the latest, the night following. When they were offered the opportunity of seeing their families the next day, they understood that the execution was fixed for Friday at daybreak. Tanya Kovalchuk had no near relatives. She knew only of some distant relatives living in Little Russia, who probably knew nothing of the trial or the verdict. Musya and Werner, not having revealed their identity, did not insist on seeing any of ther people.

Only Sergey Golovin and Vasily Kashirin were to see their families. The thought of this approaching interview was frightful to both of them, but they could not make up their minds to refuse a final conversation, a last kiss. Sergey Golovin thought sadly of this visit. He was fond of his father and mother; he had seen them very recently, and he was filled with terror at the thought of what was going to happen.

The hanging itself, in all its monstrosity, in its disconcerting madness, outlined itself more readily in his imagination than these few short, incomprehensible minutes, that seemed apart from time, apart from life. The most simple and customary gestures—to shake hands, embrace, and say "How do you do, father?

After the verdict they did not put the condemned in the same cell, as Tanya expected them to do. All the morning, up to the time when he received his parents, Sergey Golovin walked back and forth in his cell, twisting his short beard, his features pitiably contracted. Sometimes he stopped suddenly, filled his lungs with air, and puffed like a swimmer who has remained too long under water. But, as he was in good health, and as his young life was solidly implanted within him, even in these minutes of atrocious suffering, the blood coursed under his skin, coloring his cheeks; his blue eyes preserved their usual brilliancy.

Evrything about him was white and of the same whiteness: His old and well-brushed garment smelt of benzine; his epaulets seemed new. He entered with a firm and measured step, straightening himself up. Extending his dry, white hand, he said aloud:. Behind him came the mother, with short steps; she wore a strange smile.

But she too shook hands with her son, and repeated aloud:. She kissed him and sat down without saying a word. She did not throw herself upon her son, she did not begin to weep or cry, as Sergey expected her to do. She kissed him and sat down without speaking. With a trembling hand she even smoothed the wrinkles in her black silk gown.

Sergey did not know that the colonel had spent the entire previous night in rehearsing this interview. But sometimes, in the course of the rehearsal, he became confused, he forgot what he had prepared himself to say, and he wept bitterly, sunk in the corner of his sofa. The next morning he had explained to his wife what she was to do.

Do not speak immediately after kissing him, do you understand? Otherwise you will say what you should not. May God keep you from that! You will kill him if you weep, mother! You must not weep, do you hear? They got into a cab and started off, silent, bent, old; they were plunged in their thoughts amid the gay roar of the city; it was the carnival season, and the streets were filled with a noisy crowd. The colonel assumed a suitable attitude, his right hand thrust in the front of his frock-coat.

Sergey remained seated a moment; his look met his mother's wrinkled face; he rose suddenly. Again they became silent. They were afraid to utter a syllable, as if each word of the language had lost its proper meaning and now meant but one thing: Sergey looked at the neat little frock-coat smelling of benzine, and thought: How is it that I have never seen him clean his coat? Probably he does it in the morning. She has read the newspaper.

Unable to continue, he stopped. Suddenly the mother's face contracted, her features became confused and wild. Her colorless eyes were madly distended; more and more she panted for breath. The colonel took a step; trembling all over, without knowing how frightful he was in his corpse-like pallor, in his desperate and forced firmness, he said to his wife:. Do not torture him!

Frightened, she was silent already, and he continued to repeat, with his trembling hands pressed against his breast:. Then he took a step backward, and again thrust his hand into the front of his frock-coat; wearing an expression of forced calmness, he asked aloud, with pallid lips:. The mother looked at the ground, biting her lips, as if she heard nothing.

Best Russian Short Stories/The Seven That Were Hanged - Wikisource, the free online library

And she seemed to continue to bite her lips as she let fall these simple words:. She did everything that she was told. But, while giving her son a short kiss and making on his person the sign of the cross, she shook her head and repeated distractedly:. Suddenly his face took on a lamentable expression, and he grimaced like a child, tears filling his eyes.

Through their sparkling facets he saw beside him the pale face of his father, who was weeping also. What do you say? Suddenly, as if completely broken, he fell, with his head on his son's shoulder. And the two covered each other with ardent kisses, the father receiving them on his light hair, the prisoner on his cloak. You are men, are you not? And they went away. On returning to his cell Sergey lay upon his camp-bed, with face turned toward the wall that the soldiers might not see him, and wept a long time. Vasily Kashirin's mother came alone to visit him.

The father, a rich merchant, had refused to accompany her. When the old woman entered, Vasily was walking in his cell. In spite of the heat, he was trembling with cold. The conversation was short and painful. Accustomed as they were, his brothers and he, to treat their mother roughly, she being a simple woman who did not understand them, he stopped, and, in the midst of his shivering, said to her, harshly:.

It was ridiculous and terrible. This paltry and useless conversation engaged them when face to face with death. While almost weeping, so sad was the situation, Vasily cried out:. What are you saying? Even the beasts have feelings. Am I your son or not? He sat down and wept. His mother wept also; but, in their incapability of communicating in the same affection in order to face the terror of the approaching death, they wept cold tears that did not warm the heart.

You heap reproaches on me; and yet I have turned completely white these last few days. At last she departed. She was weeping so that she could not see her way. And, the farther she got from the prison, the more abundant became her tears. She retraced her steps, losing herself in this city in which she was born, in which she had grown up, in which she had grown old. She entered a little abandoned garden, and sat down on a damp bench.

And suddenly she understood: She sprang to her feet, and tried to shout and run, but suddenly her head turned, and she sank to the earth. In , he and his family emigrated to the United States, where he completed his education. He married Sophie Friedman on December 31, During his life he translated a number of important literary works from Russian to English.

To Count Leo N. Tolstoy by Herman Bernstein. Yanson , "miserable in mind and heart" , an Estonian servant at a Russian estate who kills his master and tries to rape the master's wife; Tziganok , a Russian bandit and thief from Orel, to be executed for murder. The five revolutionist 'terrorists' are: Werner , a social yet internally bitter man who loathes humanity—but learns to love it before the end; Musya , young and in love with Werner; Sergey Golovin , son of a retired colonel, himself an ex-officer; Vassily Kashirin , twenty-three years old, and Tanya Kovalchuk , young and selfless, "but she seemed as a mother to all of them".

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