III

March 29

Rome.

Buy the blackest paint available, take the largest brush you can find

and, with a broad line, divide my life into Yesterday and To-day. Take

the staff of Moses and divide the stream of Time and dry it up clear

down to its bed--then only will you sense my _To-day_.

_Ave, Cæsar, moriturus te salutat!_

April 2, Rome.

Pallazzo Orsini.

I do not want to lie. There is not yet in me, oh man, any love for

you, and if you have hastened to open your arms to me, please close

them: the time has not yet come for passionate embraces. Later, at

some other date, we shall embrace, but meanwhile, let us be cold and

restrained, like two gentlemen in misfortune. I cannot say that my

respect for you has grown to any extent, although your life and your

fate have become my life and my fate: let the facts suffice that I

have voluntarily placed my neck beneath the yoke and that one and the

same whip are furrowing our backs.

Yes, that is quite sufficient for the present. You have observed that

I no longer use a super-capital in writing the word "I"?--I have

thrown it out together with the revolver. This is a sign of submission

and equality. You understand? Like a king, I have taken the oath

of allegiance to your constitution. But I shall not, like a king,

betray this vow: I have preserved from my former life a respect for

contracts. I swear I will be true to your comrades-at-hard-labor and

will not make any attempt to escape alone!

For the last few nights, before I took this decision, I thought much

upon _our_ life. It is wretched. Don't you think so? It is difficult

and humiliating to be this little thing called man, the cunning and

avaricious little worm that crawls, hastily multiplies itself and

lies, turning away its head from the final blow--the worm that no

matter how much it lies, will perish just the same at the appointed

hour. But I will be a worm. Let me, too, beget children, let the

unthinking foot also crush my unthinking head at the appointed hour--I

meekly accept all consequences. We are both of us humiliated, comrade,

and in this alone there is some consolation: you will listen to

my complaints and I--to yours. And if the matter should ultimately

reach the state of litigation, why the witnesses will all be ready!

That is well: When one kills in the public square there are always

eyewitnesses.

I will lie, if necessary. I will not lie in that free play of lying

with which even prophets lie, but in that enforced manner of lying

employed by the rabbit, which compels him to hide his ears, to be

gray in summer and white in winter. What can one do when behind every

tree a hunter with a rifle is concealed! This lying may appear to be

ignoble from one point of view and may well call forth condemnation

upon us, but you and I must live, my friend. Let _bystanders_ accuse

us to their heart's content, but, when necessary, we will lie like

wolves, too! we will spring forward, suddenly, and seize the enemy by

the throat: one must live, brother, one must live, and are we to be

held responsible for the fact that there is such great lure and such

fine taste in blood! In reality neither you nor I are proud of our

lying, of our cowardice or of our cruelty, and our bloodthirstiness is

certainly not a matter of conviction.

But however hideous our life may be, it is still more miserable. Do

you agree with that? I do not love you yet, oh man, but on these

nights I have been more than once on the verge of tears when I

thought of your suffering, of your tortured body, and of your soul,

relinquished to eternal crucifixion. It is well for a wolf to be a

wolf. It is well for a rabbit to be a rabbit. But you, man, contain

both God and Satan--and, oh, how terrible is the imprisonment of both

in that narrow and dark cell of yours! Can God be a wolf, tearing

throats and drinking blood! Can Satan be a rabbit, hiding his ears

behind his humped back! No, that is intolerable. I agree with you.

That fills life with eternal confusion and pain and the sorrow of the

soul becomes boundless.

Think of it: of three children that you beget, one becomes a murderer,

the other the victim and the third, the judge and executioner. And

each day the murderers are murdered and still they continue to be

born; and each day the murderers kill conscience and conscience kills

the murderers. And all are alive: the murderers and conscience. Oh,

what a fog we live in! Give heed to all the _words_ spoken by man

from the day of his birth and you will think: this is God! Look at

all the _deeds_ of man from his very first day and you will exclaim

in disgust: this is a beast! Thus does man struggle with himself for

thousands of years and the sorrow of his soul is boundless and the

suffering of his mind is terrible and horrible, while the _final_

judge is slow about his coming.... But he will never come. I say this

to you: we are forever alone with our life.

But I accept this, too. Not yet has the earth endowed me with my name

and I know not who I am: Cain or Abel? But I accept the sacrifice as I

do murder. I am everywhere with you and everywhere I follow you, Man.

Let us weep together in the desert, knowing that no one will give heed

to us...or perhaps some one will? You see: you and I are beginning

to have faith in some one's Ear and soon I will begin to believe in a

triangular Eye...it is really impossible that such a concert should

have no hearer, that such a spectacle should be wasted on the desert

air!

I think of the fact that no one has yet beaten me, and I am afraid.

What will become of my soul when some one's grubby hand strikes me

on the face.... What will become of me! For I know that no earthly

revenge could return my face to me. And what will then become of my

soul?

I swear I will become reconciled even to this. Everywhere with you and

after you, man. What is my face when you struck the face of your own

Christ and spat into his eyes? Everywhere with you! And if necessary,

I myself will strike at Christ with the hand with which I now write:

I go with you to all ends, man. They beat us and they will continue

to beat us. We beat Christ and will still beat him.... Ah, bitter is

our life, almost unbearable!

Only a while ago, I rejected your embraces. I said they were

premature. But now I say: let us embrace more firmly, brother, let us

cling closely to each other--it is so painful, so terrible to be alone

in this life when all exits from it are closed. And I know not yet

wherein there is more pride and liberty: in going away voluntarily,

whenever one wishes, or in accepting, without resistance, the hand

of the executioner? In calmly placing one's hands upon his breast,

putting one foot forward and, with head proudly bent backward, to wait

calmly:

"Do thy duty, executioner!"

Or:

"Soldiers, here's my breast: fire!"

There is something plastic in this pose and it pleases me. But still

more am I pleased with the fact that once again my greater Ego

is rising within me at the striking of this pose. Of course, the

executioner will not fail to do his duty and the soldiers will not

lower their rifles, but the important thing is the line, the _moment_,

when before my very death itself I shall suddenly find myself immortal

and broader than life itself. It is strange, but with one turn of the

head, with one phrase, expressed or conceived at the proper moment, I

could, so to speak, halt the function of my very spirit and the entire

operation would be performed outside of me. And when death shall have

finally performed its rôle of redeemer, its darkness would not eclipse

the light, for the latter will have first separated itself from me and

scattered into space, in order to reassemble somewhere and blaze forth

again...but where?

Strange, strange.... I sought to escape from men--and found myself

at that wall of Unconsciousness known only to Satan! How important,

indeed, is the pose! I must make note of that. But will the pose be

as convincing and will it not lose in plasticity if instead of death,

the executioner and the firing squad I should be compelled to say

something else...well, something like:

"Here's my face: strike!"

I do not know why I am so concerned about my face, but it does concern

me greatly. I confess, man, that it worries me very much indeed. No,

a mere trifle. I will simply subdue my spirit. Let them beat me! When

the spirit is crushed the operation is no more painful or humiliating

than it would be if I were to beat my overcoat on its hanger....

...But I have forgotten that I am not alone and being in your

company have fallen into impolite meditation. For a half hour I have

been silent over this sheet of paper and it seemed all the time as if

I had been talking and quite excitedly! I forgot that it is not enough

to think, that one must also speak! What a shame it is, man, that for

the exchange of thoughts we must resort to the service of such a poor

and stealthy broker as the word--he steals all that is precious and

defiles the best thoughts with the chatter of the market place. In

truth, this pains me much more than death or the beating.

I am terrified by the necessity of _silence_ when I come upon the

_extraordinary_, which is inexpressible. Like a rivulet I run and

advance only as far as the ocean: in the depths of the latter is the

end of my murmuring. Within me, however, motionless and omnipresent,

rocking to and fro, is the ocean. It only hurls noise and surf upon

the earth, but its depths are dumb and motionless and quite without

any purpose are the ships sailing on its surface. How shall I describe

it?

Before I resolved to enroll myself as an earthly slave I did not

speak to Maria or to Magnus.... Why should I speak to Maria when her

beckoning is _clear_, like her gaze? But having become a slave I went

to Magnus to complain and to seek advice--apparently the human begins

thus.

Magnus heard me in silence and, as it seemed to me, with some inner

excitement. He works day and night, virtually knowing no rest, and

the complicated business of the liquidation of my property is moving

forward as rapidly in his hands as if he had been engaged in such work

all his life. I like his heroic gestures and his contempt for details:

when he cannot unravel a situation he hurls millions out of the window

with the grace of a grandee. But he is weary and his eyes seem larger

and darker on the background of his dim face. Only now have I learned

from Maria that he is tortured by frequent headaches.

My complaints against life, I fear, have failed to arouse any

particular sympathy on his part: No matter what the accusations

I brought against man and the life he leads, Magnus would reply

impatiently:

"Yes, yes, Wondergood. That is what being a man means. Your

misfortune is that you discovered this rather late and are now quite

unnecessarily aroused. When you shall have _experienced_ at least

a part of that which now terrifies you, you will speak in quite

a different tone. However, I am glad that you have dropped your

_indifference_: you have become, much more nervous and energetic. But

whence comes this immeasurable terror in your eyes? Collect yourself,

Wondergood!"