In order to make the further narrative clearer to my indulgent reader,
I am compelled to say a few words about the exclusive, quite flattering,
and, I fear, not entirely deserved, position which I occupy in our
prison. On one hand, my spiritual clearness, my rare and perfect view of
life, and the nobility of my feelings, which impress all those who speak
to me; and, on the other hand, several rather unimportant favours which
I have done to the Warden, have given me a series of privileges, of
which I avail myself, rather moderately, of course, not desiring to
upset the general plan and system of our prison.
Thus, during the weekly visiting days, my visitors are not limited to
any special time for their interviews, and all those who wish to see me
are admitted, sometimes forming quite a large audience. Not daring to
accept altogether the assurances made somewhat ironically by the Warden,
to the effect that I would be “the pride of any prison,” I may say,
nevertheless, without any false modesty, that my words are treated with
proper respect, and that among my visitors I number quite a few warm
and enthusiastic admirers, both men and women. I shall mention that the
Warden himself and some of his assistants honour me by their visits,
drawing from me strength and courage for the purpose of continuing
their hard work. Of course I use the prison library freely, and even the
archives of the prison; and if the Warden politely refused to grant my
request for an exact plan of the prison, it is not at all because of his
lack of confidence in me, but because such a plan is a state secret....
Our prison is a huge five-story building. Situated in the outskirts of
the city, at the edge of a deserted field, overgrown with high grass, it
attracts the attention of the wayfarer by its rigid outlines, promising
him peace and rest after his endless wanderings. Not being plastered,
the building has retained its natural dark red colour of old brick,
and at close view, I am told, it produces a gloomy, even threatening,
impression, especially on nervous people, to whom the red bricks recall
blood and bloody lumps of human flesh. The small, dark, flat windows
with iron bars naturally complete the impression and lend to the whole a
character of gloomy harmony, or stern beauty. Even during good weather,
when the sun shines upon our prison, it does not lose any of its dark
and grim importance, and is constantly reminding the people that there
are laws in existence and that punishment awaits those who break them.
My cell is on the fifth story, and my grated window commands a splendid
view of the distant city and a part of the deserted field to the right.
On the left, beyond the boundary of my vision, are the outskirts of the
city, and, as I am told, the church and the cemetery adjoining it. Of
the existence of the church and even the cemetery I had known before
from the mournful tolling of the bells, which custom requires during the
burial of the dead.
Quite in keeping with the external style of architecture, the interior
arrangement of our prison is also finished harmoniously and properly
constructed. For the purpose of conveying to the reader a clearer idea
of the prison, I will take the liberty of giving the example of a fool
who might make up his mind to run away from our prison. Admitting that
the brave fellow possessed supernatural, Herculean strength and broke
the lock of his room--what would he find? The corridor, with numerous
grated doors, which could withstand cannonading--and armed keepers.
Let us suppose that he kills all the keepers, breaks all the doors, and
comes out into the yard--perhaps he may think that he is already free.
But what of the walls? The walls which encircle our prison, with three
rings of stone?
I omitted the guard advisedly. The guard is indefatigable. Day and night
I hear behind my doors the footsteps of the guard; day and night his
eye watches me through the little window in my door, controlling my
movements, reading on my face my thoughts, my intentions and my dreams.
In the daytime I could deceive his attention with lies, assuming a
cheerful and carefree expression on my face, but I have rarely met the
man who could lie even in his sleep. No matter how much I would be on my
guard during the day, at night I would betray myself by an involuntary
moan, by a twitch of the face, by an expression of fatigue or grief, or
by other manifestations of a guilty and uneasy conscience. Only very
few people of unusual will power are able to lie even in their
sleep, skilfully managing the features of their faces, sometimes even
preserving a courteous and bright smile on their lips, when their souls,
given over to dreams, are quivering from the horrors of a monstrous
nightmare--but, as exceptions, these cannot be taken into consideration.
I am profoundly happy that I am not a criminal, that my conscience is
clear and calm.
“Read, my friend, read,” I say to the watchful eye as I lay myself down
to sleep peacefully. “You will not be able to read anything on my face!”
And it was I who invented the window in the prison door.
I feel that my reader is astonished and smiles incredulously, mentally
calling me an old liar, but there are instances in which modesty is
superfluous and even dangerous. Yes, this simple and great invention
belongs to me, just as Newton’s system belongs to Newton, and as
Kepler’s laws of the revolution of the planets belong to Kepler.
Later on, encouraged by the success of my invention, I devised and
introduced in our prison a series of little innovations, which were
concerned only with details; thus the form of chains and locks used in
our prison has been changed.
The little window in the door was my invention, and, if any one should
dare deny this, I would call him a liar and a scoundrel.
I came upon this invention under the following circumstances: One day,
during the roll call, a certain prisoner killed with the iron leg of his
bed the Inspector who entered his cell. Of course the rascal was hanged
in the yard of our prison, and the administration light mindedly grew
calm, but I was in despair--the great purpose of the prison proved to be
wrong since such horrible deeds were possible. How is it that no one had
noticed that the prisoner had broken off the leg of his bed? How is it
that no one had noticed the state of agitation in which the prisoner
must have been before committing the murder?
By taking up the question so directly I thus approached considerably
the solution of the problem; and indeed, after two or three weeks had
elapsed I arrived simply and even unexpectedly at my great discovery.
I confess frankly that before telling my discovery to the Warden of the
prison I experienced moments of a certain hesitation, which was quite
natural in my position of prisoner. To the reader who may still be
surprised at this hesitation, knowing me to be a man of a clear,
unstained conscience, I will answer by a quotation from my “Diary of a
Prisoner,” relating to that period:
“How difficult is the position of the man who is convicted, though
innocent, as I am. If he is sad, if his lips are sealed in silence,
and his eyes are lowered, people say of him: ‘He is repenting; he is
suffering from pangs of conscience.’
“If in the innocence of his heart he smiles brightly and kindly, the
keeper thinks: ‘There, by a false and feigned smile, he wishes to hide
his secret.’
“No matter what he does, he seems guilty--such is the force of the
prejudice against which it is necessary to struggle. But I am innocent,
and I shall be myself, firmly confident that my spiritual clearness will
destroy the malicious magic of prejudice.”
And on the following day the Warden of the prison pressed my hand
warmly, expressing his gratitude to me, and a month later little holes
were made in all doors in every prison in the land, thus opening a field
for wide and fruitful observation.
The entire system of our prison life gives me deep satisfaction. The
hours for rising and going to bed, for meals and walks are arranged so
rationally, in accordance with the real requirements of nature, that
soon they lose the appearance of compulsion and become natural, even
dear habits. Only in this way can I explain the interesting fact that
when I was free I was a nervous and weak young man, susceptible to colds
and illness, whereas in prison I have grown considerably stronger and
that for my sixty years I am enjoying an enviable state of health. I am
not stout, but I am not thin, either; my lungs are in good condition and
I have saved almost all my teeth, with the exception of two on the left
side of the jaw; I am good natured, even tempered; my sleep is sound,
almost without any dreams. In figure, in which an expression of calm
power and self-confidence predominates, and in face, I resemble somewhat
Michaelangelo’s “Moses”--that is, at least what some of my friendly
visitors have told me.
But even more than by the regular and healthy regime, the strengthening
of my soul and body was helped by the wonderful, yet natural,
peculiarity of our prison, which eliminates entirely the accidental and
the unexpected from its life. Having neither a family nor friends, I am
perfectly safe from the shocks, so injurious to life, which are caused
by treachery, by the illness or death of relatives--let my indulgent
reader recall how many people have perished before his eyes not of
their own fault, but because capricious fate had linked them to people
unworthy of them. Without changing my feeling of love into trivial
personal attachments, I thus make it free for the broad and mighty love
for all mankind; and as mankind is immortal, not subjected to illness,
and as a harmonious whole it is undoubtedly progressing toward
perfection, love for it becomes the surest guarantee of spiritual and
physical soundness.
My day is clear. So are also my days of the future, which are coming
toward me in radiant and even order. A murderer will not break into my
cell for the purpose of robbing me, a mad automobile will not crush me,
the illness of a child will not torture me, cruel treachery will not
steal its way to me from the darkness. My mind is free, my heart is
calm, my soul is clear and bright.
The clear and rigid rules of our prison define everything that I must
not do, thus freeing me from those unbearable hesitations, doubts,
and errors with which practical life is filled. True, sometimes there
penetrates even into our prison, through its high walls, something
which ignorant people call chance, or even Fate, and which is only an
inevitable reflection of the general laws; but the life of the prison,
agitated for a moment, quickly goes back to its habitual rut, like
a river after an overflow. To this category of accidents belong
the above-mentioned murder of the Inspector, the rare and always
unsuccessful attempts at escape, and also the executions, which take
place in one of the remotest yards of our prison.
There is still another peculiarity in the system of our prison, which I
consider most beneficial, and which gives to the whole thing a character
of stern and noble justice. Left to himself, and only to himself, the
prisoner cannot count upon support, or upon that spurious, wretched pity
which so often falls to the lot of weak people, disfiguring thereby the
fundamental purposes of nature.
I confess that I think, with a certain sense of pride, that if I am now
enjoying general respect and admiration, if my mind is strong, my will
powerful, my view of life clear and bright, I owe it only to myself, to
my power and my perseverance. How many weak people would have perished
in my place as victims of madness, despair, or grief? But I have
conquered everything! I have changed the world. I gave to my soul the
form which my mind desired. In the desert, working alone, exhausted with
fatigue, I have erected a stately structure in which I now live joyously
and calmly, like a king. Destroy it--and to-morrow I shall begin to
build a new structure, and in my bloody sweat I shall erect it! For I
must live!
Forgive my involuntary pathos in the last lines, which is so unbecoming
to my balanced and calm nature. But it is hard to restrain myself when I
recall the road I have travelled. I hope, however, that in the future
I shall not darken the mood of my reader with any outbursts of agitated
feelings. Only he shouts who is not confident of the truth of his words;
calm firmness and cold simplicity are becoming to the truth.
P.S.--I do not remember whether I told you that the criminal who
murdered my father has not been found as yet.