War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy [628]
The first two men were convicts with shaven heads. One was tall and thin, the other dark, shaggy, and muscular, with a flattened nose. The third was a household serf of about forty-five, with grayish hair and a stout, well-stuffed body. The fourth was a muzhik, a very handsome one, with a bushy blond beard and dark eyes. The fifth was a factory worker, a thin, yellow-faced lad of about eighteen, in a smock.
Pierre heard the French debate about how to shoot them—by ones or by twos. “By twos,” the senior officer said coldly and calmly. There was movement in the ranks of soldiers, and it was noticeable that they were all hurrying, and hurrying not as people hurry to do something everyone understands, but as they hurry in order to finish a necessary but unpleasant and incomprehensible business.
A French official in a sash went up to the right side of the file of criminals and read the sentence in Russian and in French.
Then two pairs of Frenchmen went up to the criminals and, on instructions from the officer, took the two convicts who stood first in line. The convicts, having gone to the post, stopped and, while the sacks were brought, looked silently around them, as a wounded animal looks at the approaching hunter. One kept crossing himself, the other kept scratching his back and made a movement with his lips similar to a smile. The soldiers, their hands hurrying, set about blindfolding them, putting sacks over their heads, and tying them to the post.
Twelve riflemen with muskets left the ranks with measured, firm strides and stopped eight paces from the post. Pierre turned away so as not to see what was going to happen. Suddenly there was a crackle and boom that to Pierre seemed louder than the most terrible peals of thunder, and he turned to look. There was smoke, and the French, with pale faces and trembling hands, were doing something by the pit. Another two were led up. In the same way, with the same eyes, these two also looked at everyone, in vain, with their eyes only, silently, begging for protection, and clearly not understanding and not believing what was going to happen. They could not believe it, because they alone knew what their life was for them, and therefore did not understand or believe that it could be taken from them.
Pierre did not want to look and again turned away; but again it was as if a terrible explosion struck his hearing, and along with these noises he saw smoke, someone’s blood, and the pale, frightened faces of the Frenchmen, who again were doing something by the post, pushing each other with trembling hands. Pierre, breathing hard, looked around as if asking, “What does it mean?” The same question was in all the gazes that met Pierre’s gaze.
On all the Russian faces, on the faces of the French soldiers and officers, on all without exception, he read the same fear, horror, and struggle that were in his heart. “But who, finally, is doing this? They’re all suffering just as I am. Who is it? Who?” flashed for a second in Pierre’s soul.
“Tirailleurs du 86e, en avant!”*681 someone shouted. They led away the fifth man, who was standing next to Pierre—alone. Pierre did not understand that he was saved, that he and all the rest had been brought there only to be present at the execution. With ever-increasing horror, feeling neither joy nor relief, he watched what was being done. The fifth man was the factory worker in the smock. As soon as they touched him, he jumped away in horror and clutched at Pierre (Pierre shuddered and tore free of him). The factory worker was unable to walk. He was dragged under the arms, and he was shouting something. When he was led to the post, he suddenly fell silent. It was as if he suddenly understood something. Either he understood that it was useless to shout, or that it was impossible