Something altogether unexpected has happened; the efforts of my friends,
the Warden and his wife, were crowned with success, and for two months I
have been free, out of prison.
I am happy to inform you that immediately upon my leaving the prison
I occupied a very honourable position, to which I could hardly have
aspired, conscious of my humble qualities. The entire press met me
with unanimous enthusiasm. Numerous journalists, photographers, even
caricaturists (the people of our time are so fond of laughter and clever
witticisms), in hundreds of articles and drawings reproduced the story
of my remarkable life. With striking unanimity the newspapers assigned
to me the name of “Master,” a highly flattering name, which I accepted,
after some hesitation, with deep gratitude. I do not know whether it is
worth mentioning the few hostile notices called forth by irritation and
envy--a vice which so frequently stains the human soul. In one of these
notices, which appeared, by the way, in a very filthy little newspaper,
a certain scamp, guided by wretched gossip and baseless rumours about
my chats in our prison, called me a “zealot and liar.” Enraged by the
insolence of the miserable scribbler, my friends wanted to prosecute
him, but I persuaded them not to do it. Vice is its own proper
punishment.
The fortune which my kind mother had left me and which had grown
considerably during the time I was in prison has enabled me to settle
down to a life of luxury in one of the most aristocratic hotels. I have
a large retinue of servants at my command and an automobile--a splendid
invention with which I now became acquainted for the first time--and I
have skilfully arranged my financial affairs. Live flowers brought to me
in abundance by my charming lady visitors give to my nook the appearance
of a flower garden or even a bit of a tropical forest. My servant, a
very decent young man, is in a state of despair. He says that he had
never seen such a variety of flowers and had never smelled such a
variety of odours at the same time. If not for my advanced age and the
strict and serious propriety with which I treat my visitors, I do not
know how far they would have gone in the expression of their feelings.
How many perfumed notes! How many languid sighs and humbly imploring
eyes! There was even a fascinating stranger with a black veil--three
times she appeared mysteriously, and when she learned that I had
visitors she disappeared just as mysteriously.
I will add that at the present time I have had the honour of being
elected an honourary member of numerous humanitarian organisations
such as “The League of Peace,” “The League for Combating Juvenile
Criminality,” “The Society of the Friends of Man,” and others. Besides,
at the request of the editor of one of the most widely read newspapers,
I am to begin next month a series of public lectures, for which purpose
I am going on a tour together with my kind impresario.
I have already prepared my material for the first three lectures and, in
the hope that my reader may be interested, I shall give the synopsis of
these lectures.
FIRST LECTURE
Chaos or order? The eternal struggle between chaos and order. The
eternal revolt and the defeat of chaos, the rebel. The triumph of law
and order.
SECOND LECTURE
What is the soul of man? The eternal conflict in the soul of man between
chaos, whence it came, and harmony, whither it strives irresistibly.
Falsehood, as the offspring of chaos, and Truth, as the child of
harmony. The triumph of truth and the downfall of falsehood.
THIRD LECTURE
THE EXPLANATION OF THE SACRED FORMULA OF THE IRON GRATE
As my indulgent reader will see, justice is after all not an empty
sound, and I am getting a great reward for my sufferings. But not daring
to reproach fate which was so merciful to me, I nevertheless do not feel
that sense of contentment which, it would seem, I ought to feel. True,
at first I was positively happy, but soon my habit for strictly
logical reasoning, the clearness and honesty of my views, gained by
contemplating the world through a mathematically correct grate, have led
me to a series of disillusions.
I am afraid to say it now with full certainty, but it seems to me that
all their life of this so-called freedom is a continuous self-deception
and falsehood. The life of each of these people, whom I have seen during
these days, is moving in a strictly defined circle, which is just as
solid as the corridors of our prison, just as closed as the dial of the
watches which they, in the innocence of their mind, lift every minute to
their eyes, not understanding the fatal meaning of the eternally moving
hand, which is eternally returning to its place, and each of them feels
this, even as the circus horse probably feels it, but in a state of
strange blindness each one assures us that he is perfectly free
and moving forward. Like the stupid bird which is beating itself to
exhaustion against the transparent glass obstacle, without understanding
what it is that obstructs its way, these people are helplessly beating
against the walls of their glass prison.
I was greatly mistaken, it seems, also in the significance of the
greetings which fell to my lot when I left the prison. Of course I was
convinced that in me they greeted the representative of our prison, a
leader hardened by experience, a master, who came to them only for the
purpose of revealing to them the great mystery of purpose. And when they
congratulated me upon the freedom granted to me I responded with thanks,
not suspecting what an idiotic meaning they placed on the word. May I be
forgiven this coarse expression, but I am powerless now to restrain my
aversion for their stupid life, for their thoughts, for their feelings.
Foolish hypocrites, fearing to tell the truth even when it adorns them!
My hardened truthfulness was cruelly taxed in the midst of these false
and trivial people. Not a single person believed that I was never so
happy as in prison. Why, then, are they so surprised at me, and why do
they print my portraits? Are there so few idiots that are unhappy in
prison? And the most remarkable thing, which only my indulgent reader
will be able to appreciate, is this: Often distrusting me completely,
they nevertheless sincerely go into raptures over me, bowing before me,
clasping my hands and mumbling at every step, “Master! Master!”
If they only profited by their constant lying--but, no; they are
perfectly disinterested, and they lie as though by some one’s higher
order; they lie in the fanatical conviction that falsehood is in no way
different from the truth. Wretched actors, even incapable of a decent
makeup, they writhe from morning till night on the boards of the stage,
and, dying the most real death, suffering the most real sufferings, they
bring into their deathly convulsions the cheap art of the harlequin.
Even their crooks are not real; they only play the roles of crooks,
while remaining honest people; and the role of honest people is played
by rogues, and played poorly, and the public sees it, but in the name
of the same fatal falsehood it gives them wreaths and bouquets. And if
there is really a talented actor who can wipe away the boundary between
truth and deception, so that even they begin to believe, they go into
raptures, call him great, start a subscription for a monument, but do
not give any money. Desperate cowards, they fear themselves most of
all, and admiring delightedly the reflection of their spuriously
made-up faces in the mirror, they howl with fear and rage when some one
incautiously holds up the mirror to their soul.
My indulgent reader should accept all this relatively, not forgetting
that certain grumblings are natural in old age. Of course, I have met
quite a number of most worthy people, absolutely truthful, sincere, and
courageous; I am proud to admit that I found among them also a proper
estimate of my personality. With the support of these friends of mine
I hope to complete successfully my struggle for truth and justice. I am
sufficiently strong for my sixty years, and, it seems, there is no power
that could break my iron will.
At times I am seized with fatigue owing to their absurd mode of life. I
have not the proper rest even at night.
The consciousness that while going to bed I may absent-mindedly have
forgotten to lock my bedroom door compels me to jump from my bed dozens
of times and to feel the lock with a quiver of horror.
Not long ago it happened that I locked my door and hid the key under
my pillow, perfectly confident that my room was locked, when suddenly I
heard a knock, then the door opened, and my servant entered with a
smile on his face. You, dear reader, will easily understand the horror I
experienced at this unexpected visit--it seemed to me that some one had
entered my soul. And though I have absolutely nothing to conceal, this
breaking into my room seems to me indecent, to say the least.
I caught a cold a few days ago--there is a terrible draught in their
windows--and I asked my servant to watch me at night. In the morning I
asked him, in jest:
“Well, did I talk much in my sleep?”
“No, you didn’t talk at all.”
“I had a terrible dream, and I remember I even cried.”
“No, you smiled all the time, and I thought--what fine dreams our Master
must see!”
The dear youth must have been sincerely devoted to me, and I am deeply
moved by such devotion during these painful days.
To-morrow I shall sit down to prepare my lectures. It is high time!