foreign to Musya's soul that she ceased searching for the cause of
it-and suddenly she was seized with a desperate desire to see Seryozha
Golovin, to laugh with him. She meditated a little while, and then an
even more desperate desire came over her to see Werner and to convince
him of something. And imagining to herself that Werner was in the next
cell, driving his heels into the ground with his distinct, measured
steps, Musya spoke, as if addressing him:

"No, Werner, my dear; it is all nonsense; it isn't at all important
whether or not you are killed. You are a sensible man, but you seem to
be playing chess, and that by taking one figure after another the game
is won. The important thing, Werner, is that we ourselves are ready to
die. Do you understand? What do those people think? That there is
nothing more terrible than death. They themselves have invented Death,
they are themselves afraid of it, and they try to frighten us with it.
I should like to do this- I should like to go out alone before a whole
regiment of soldiers and fire upon them with a revolver. It would not
matter that I would be alone, while they would be thousands, or that I
might not kill any of them. It is that which is important-that they
are thousands. When thousands kill one, it means that the one has
conquered. That is true, Werner, my dear. . . ."

But this, too, became so clear to her that she did not feel like
arguing further- Werner must understand it himself. Perhaps her mind
simply did not want to stop at one thought-just as a bird that soars
with ease, which sees endless horizons, and to which all space, all
the depth, all the joy of the soft and caressing azure are accessible.
The bell of the clock rang unceasingly, disturbing the deep silence.
And into this harmonious, remote, beautiful sound the thoughts of the
people flowed, and also began to ring for her; and the smoothly