Chapter one of the Men Who Found the Truth. This is a LibriVox recording.
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volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Recording by Caroline The Man Who Found
the Truth by Leonid Nikolayevitch Andreyev, translated by Hermann Bernstein. Chapter one.
I was twenty seven years old and had just maintained my thesis for the degree
of Doctor of Mathematics with unusual success, when I was suddenly seized in the
middle of the night and thrown into this prison. I shall not narrate to
you the details of the monstrous crime of which I was accused. There are
eva which people should neither remember nor even know. That they may not acquire
a feeling of aversion for themselves. But no doubt there are many people among
the living who remember that terrible case, and the human brute, as the
newspapers called me at the time. They probably remember how the entire civilized society
of the land unanimously demanded that the criminal be put to death. And it
is due only to the inexplicable kindness of the man at the head of the
government at the time that I am alive, and I now write these lines
for the edification of the weak and the wavering. I shall say briefly,
my father, my elder brother, and my sister were murdered brutally, and
I was supposed to have committed the crime for the purpose of securing a really
enormous inheritance. I am an old man. Now I shall die soon.
And you have not the slightest ground for doubting when I say that I was
entirely innocent of the monstrous and horrible crime for which twelve honest and conscientious judges
unanimously sentenced me to death. The death sentence was finally commuted to imprisonment for
life in solitary confinement. It was merely a fatal linking of circumstances, of
grave and insignificant events, of vague silence and indefinite words, which gave me
the appearance and likeness of the criminal, innocent though I was. But he
who would suspect me of being ill disposed towards my strict judges would be profoundly
mistaken. They were perfectly right, perfectly right, as people who can judge
things and events only by their appearance, and who are deprived of the ability
to penetrate their own mysterious being, they could not act differently, nor should
they have acted differently. It so happened that, in the game of circumstances,
the truth concerning my actions, which I alone knew, assumed all the
features of an insolent and shameless lie. And, however strange it may seem
to my kind and serious reader, I could establish the truth of my innocence
only by falsehood, and not by the truth. Later on, when I
was already in prison, in going over in detail the story of the crime
and the trial, and picturing myself in the place of one of my judges,
I came to the inevitable conclusion each time that I was guilty. Then
I produced a very interesting and instructive work. Having set aside entirely the question
of truth and falsehood on general principles, I subjected the facts and the words
to numerous combinations, erecting structures, even as small children built various structures with
their wooden blocks. And after persistent efforts, I finally succeeded in finding a
certain combination of facts, which, though strong in principle, seemed so plausible
that my actual innocence became perfectly clear, exactly and positively established. To this
day, I remember the great feeling of astonishment mingled with fear, which I
experienced at my strange and unexpected discovery. By telling the truth, I lead
people into error and thus deceive them, while by maintaining falsehood I lead them
on the contrary to the truth and to knowledge. I did not yet understand
at that time that, like Newton and his famous apple, I discovered unexpectedly
the great law upon which the entire history of human thought rests, which seeks
not the truth, but very similitude the appearance of truth, that is,
the harmony between that which is seen and that which is conceived, based on
the strict laws of logical reasoning. And instead of rejoicing, I exclaimed,
in an outburst of native juvenile despair, where then is the truth? Where
is the truth? In this world of phantoms and falsehood? See My Diary
of a Prisoner of June twenty ninth eighteen. I know that at the present
time, when I have but five or six more years to live, I
could easily secure my pardon if I but asked for it. But aside from
my being accustomed to the prison, and for several other important reasons of which
I shall speak later. I simply have no right to ask for pardon and
thus break the force and natural course of the law and entirely justified verdict.
Nor would I want to hear people apply to me the words a victim of
judicial error, as some of my gentle visitors expressed themselves to my sorrow.
I repeat, there was no error, nor could there be any error,
in a case in which a combination of definite circumstances inevitably lead normally constructed and
developed mind to the one and only conclusion. I was convicted justly, although
I did not commit the crime. Such is the simple and clear truth,
and I live joyously and peacefully my last few years on earth with a sense
of respect for this truth. The only purpose by which I was guided in
writing these modest notes is to show to my indulgent reader that under the most
painful conditions, where it was seem that there remains no room for hope or
life, a human being, a being of the highest order, possessing a
mind and a will, finds both hope and life. I want to show
how a human being condemned to death looked with three eyes upon the world through
the grated windows of his prison, and discovered the great purpose, harmony and
beauty of the universe, to the disgrace of those fools, who, being
free, living a life of plenty and happiness, slender life. Disgustingly,
some of my visitors reproach me for being haughty. They ask me where I
secured the right to teach, and to preage cruel In their reasoning, they
would like to drive away even the smile from the face of the man who
has been imprisoned for life as a murderer. No, just as the kind
and bright smile will not leave my lips as an evidence of a clear and
unstained conscience, so my soul will never be darkened, My soul which has
passed firmly through the defiles of life, which has been carried by a mighty
will power across these terrible abysses and bottomless pits where so many daring people have
found their heroic but alas fruitless death. And if the tone of my confessions
may sometimes seem too positive to my indulgent reader, it is not at all
due to the absence of modesty in me, but it is due to the
fact that I firmly believe that I am right, and also to my firm
desire to be useful to my neighbor, as far as my faint powers permit.
Here I must apologize for my frequent references to my Diary of a prisoner,
which is unknown to the reader. But the fact is that I consider
the complete publication of my diary too premature and perhaps even dangerous. Begun during
the remote period of cruel disillusions, of the shipwreck of all my beliefs and
hopes, breathing boundless despair, my notebook bears evidence in places that its author
was, if not a state of complete insanity, on the brink of insanity.
And if we recall how contagious that illness is, my caution in the
use of my diary will become entirely clear, Oh, blooming youth, with
an involuntary tear in my eye, I recall your magnificent dreams, your daring
visions and outbursts, your impetuous, seething power. But I should not want
your writurn, blooming Youth. Only with the grayness of the hair comes clear
wisdom and that great aptitude for unprejudiced reflection, which makes of all old men,
philosophers, and often even sages. End of chapter one, chapter two
of The Man Who Found the Truth by Leonit Nikolayevitch Andreyev translated by Herman Bernstein.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Caroline. Those of
my kind visitors who honor me by expressing their delight, and even may this
little indiscretion be forgiven me, even their adoration of my spiritual clearness, can
hardly imagine what I was when I came to this prison. The tens of
years which have passed over my head and which have whitened my hair, cannot
muffle the slight agitation which I experience at the recollection of the first moments,
when, with the creaking of the rusty hinges, the fatal prison doors opened
and then closed behind me. Forever not endowed with literary talent, which in
reality is an indomitable inclination to invent and to lie, I shall attempt to
introduce myself to my indulgent reader exactly as I was at that remote time.
I was a young man twenty seven years of age, as I had occasion
to mention before unrestrained, impetuous given to abrupt deviations, a certain dreaminess peculiar
to my age, a self respect which was easily offended and which revolted at
the slightest insignificant provocation. A passionate impetuosity in solving world problems, fits of
melancholy alternated by equally wild fits of merriment. All this gave the young mathematician
a character of extreme unsteadiness, of sad and harsh discord. I must also
mention the extreme pride, a family trait which I inherited from my mother,
and which often hindered me from taking the advice of a riper and more experienced
people than myself. Also, my extreme obstinacy in carrying out my purposes,
a good quality in itself, which becomes dangerous, however, when the purpose
in question is not sufficiently well founded and considered. Thus, during the first
days of my life confinement, I behaved like all other fools who are thrown
into prison. I shouted loudly and of course vainly, about my innocence.
I demanded violently my immediate freedom, and even beat against the door and the
walls with my fists. The door and the walls naturally remained mute, while
I caused myself a rather sharp pain. I remember I even beat my head
against the wall, and for hours I lay unconscious on the stone floor of
my cell. And for some time, when I had grown desperate, I
refused food until the persistent demands of my organism defeated my obstinacy. I cursed
my judges and threatened them with merciless vengeance. At last I commenced to regard
all human life, the whole world, even heaven, as an enormous injustice,
a derision, and a mockery. Forgetting that in my position I could
hardly be unprejudiced. I came, with the self confidence of youth, with
the sickly pain of a prisoner, gradually to the complete negation of life and
its great meaning. Those were indeed terrible days and nights. When crushed by
the walls, getting no answer to any of my questions, I paced my
cell endlessly and hurled one after another into the dark, abyss all the great
valuables which life has bestowed upon us, friendship, love, reison, and
justice. In some justification to myself, I may mention the fact that,
during the first and most painfully years of my imprisonment, a series of events
happened which reflected themselves rather painfully upon my psychic nature. Thus I learned with
the profoundest indignation that the girl, whose name I shall not mention, and
who was to become my wife, married another man. She was one of
the few who believed in my innocence. At the last parting, she swore
to me to remain faithful to me unto death, and rather to die than
betray her love for me. And within one year after that she married a
man I knew, who possessed certain good qualities, but who was not at
all a sensible man. I did not want to understand at that time that
such a marriage was natural on the part of a young, healthy and beautiful
girl. But alas we all forget our natural science when we are deceived by
the woman we love, may this little jest be forgiven me. At the
present time, Madame n is a happy and respected mother, and this proves
better than anything else. How wise and entirely in accordance with the demands of
nature and life was her marriage at that time which vexed me so painfully.
I must confess, however, that at that time I was not at all
calm her exceedingly amiable and kind letter in which she notified me of her marriage,
expressing profound regret that changed circumstances and suddenly awakened love compelled her to break
her promise to me. That amiable, truthful letter, scented with perfume,
bearing the traces of her tender fingers, seemed to me a message from the
devil himself. The letters of fire burned my exhausted brains, and in a
wild ecstasy, I shook the doors of my cell and called violently, come,
Let me look into your lying eyes, let me hear your lying voice.
Let me but touch with my fingers your tender throat, and pour into
your death rattle my last bitter love. From this quote, my indulgent reader
will see how right were the judges who convicted me for murder. They had
really foreseen in me a murderer. My gloomy view of life at the time
was aggravated by several other events. Two years after the marriage of my fiancee.
Consequently, three years after the first day of my imprisonment, my mother
died. She died, as I learned, of profound grief for me.
However strange it may seem she remained fully convinced to the end of her days
that I had committed the monstrous crime. Evidently, this conviction was an inexhaustible
source of grief to her, the chief cause of the gloomy melancholy which fettered
her lips in silence and caused her death through paralysis of the heart. As
I was told, she never mentioned my name nor the names of those who
died so tragically, and she bequeathed the entire enormous fortune which was supposed to
have served as the motive for the murder, to various charitable organizations. It
is characteristic that even under such terrible conditions, her motherly instinct did not forsake
her altogether. In a PostScript to the will, she left me a considerable
sum which secures my existence, whether I am in prison or at large.
Now I understand that, however great her grief may have been, that alone
was not enough to cause her death. The real cause was her advanced age
and a series of illnesses which had undermined her once strong and sound organism.
In the name of justice, I must say that my father, a weak,
charactered man, was not at all a model husband and family man.
By numerous betrayals, by falsehood and deception, he had led my mother to
despair, constantly offending her pride and her strict, unbribable truthfulness. But at
that time I did not understand it. The death of my mother seemed to
me one of the most cruel manifestations of universal injustice, and called forth a
new dream of useless and sacrilegious curses. I do not know whether I ought
to tire the attention of the reader with the story of other events of a
similar nature. I shall mention but briefly, that one after another of my
friends, who remained my friends from the time when I was happy and free,
stopped visiting me. According to their words, they believed in my innocence,
and at first warmly expressed to me their sympathy. But our lives mine
in prison and their set liberty were so different that, gradually, under the
pressure of perfectly natural causes such as forgetfulness, official and other duties, the
absence of mutual interests, they visited me ever more and more rarely, and
finally ceased to see me entirely. I cannot recall without a smile that even
the death of my mother even the betrayal of the girl I loved did not
arouse in me such a hopelessly bitter feeling as these gentlemen, whose names I
remember but vaguely now succeeded in resting from my soul. What horror, what
pain? My friends? You have left me alone? My friends? Do
you understand what you have done? You have left me alone. Can you
conceive of leaving a human being alone? Even a serpent has its mate,
even a spider has its comrade, And you have left a human being alone.
You have given him a soul and left him him alone. You have
given him a hard a mind, a hand for a handshake, lips for
a kiss, and you have left him alone. What shall he do now
that you have left him alone? Thus I exclaimed in my diary of a
prisoner, tormented by woeful perplexities, in my juvenile blindness, in the pain
of my young, senseless heart, I still did not want to understand that
the solitude of which I complained so bitterly, like the mind, was an
advantage given to man over other creatures, in order to fence around the sacred
mysteries of his soul from the stranger's gaze. Let my serious reader, consider
what would have become of life if man were robbed of his right of his
duty to be alone in the gathering of idle chatterers, amid the dull collection
of transparent glass dolls that kill each other with their sameness. In the wild
city, where all doors are open and all windows are open, passers by
look warily through the glass walls and observe the same evidences of the hearth and
the alcove. Only the creatures that can be alone possessive face, while those
that know no solitude, the great, blissful, sacred solitude of the soul,
have snouts instead of faces. And in calling my friends perfidious traitors,
I, poor youth that I was, could not understand the wise law of
life, according to which neither friendship, nor love, nor even the tenderest
attachment of sister and mother is eternal. Deceived by the lies of the poets
who proclaimed eternal friendship and love, I did not want to see that which
my indulgent reader observes from the windows of his dwelling. How friends, relatives,
mother and wife, in apparent despair and in tears, follow their dead
to the cemetery, and after a lapse of some time return from there.
No one buries himself altogether with the dead. No one asks the dead to
make a room in the thin. And if the grief stricken wife exclaims,
in an outburst of tears, oh bury me together with him, she is
merely expressing symbolically the extreme degree of her despair. One could easily convince himself
of this by trying in jest to push her down into the grave. And
those who restrain her are merely expressing symbolically their sympathy and understanding, thus lending
the necessary aspect of solemn grief to the funeral custom. Man must subject himself
to the laws of life, not of death, nor to the fiction of
the poets, however beautiful it may be. But can the fictitious be beautiful?
Is there are no beauty in the stern truth of life, in the
mighty work of its wise laws, which subjects to itself with great disinterestedness the
movements of the heavenly luminaries, as well as the restless linking of the tiny
creatures called human beings. End of chapter two, Chapter three of The Man
Who Found the Truth by Leoniit Nikolayevitch ch Andreyev, translated by Hermann Bernstein.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Carolyn. Chapter three.
Thus, I lived sadly in my prison for five or six years. The
first redeeming ray flushed upon me when I least expected it. En doubt,
With the gift of imagination, I made my former fiancee the object of all
my thoughts. She became my love and my dream. Another circumstance which suddenly
revealed to me the ground under my feet, was strange, as it may
seem, the conviction that it was impossible to make my escape from prison.
During the first period of my imprisonment, I, as a youthful and enthusiastic
dreamer, made all kinds of plans for escape, and some of them seemed
to me entirely possible of realization. Cheering deceptive hopes, this thought naturally kept
me in a state of tense alarm and hindered my attention from concentrating itself on
more important and substantial matters. As soon as I despaired of one plan,
I created another. But of course I did not make any progress. I
merely moved within a closed circle. It is hardly necessary to mention that each
transition from one plan to another was accompanied by cruel sufferings which tormented my soul,
just as the eagle tortured the body of Prometheus. One day, while
staring with a weary look at the walls of my cell, I suddenly began
to feel how irresistibly thick the stone was, how strong the cement which kept
it together, how skillfully and mathematically this severe fortress was constructed. It is
true my first sensation was extremely painful. It was perhaps a horror of hopelessness.
I cannot recall what I did and how I felt during the two or
three months that followed. The first note in my diary, after a long
period of silence, does not explain very much. Briefly, I state only
that they made new clothes for me, and that I had grown stout.
The fact is that, after all my hopes had been abandoned, the consciousness
of the impossibility of my escape oncefore all extinguished, also my painful alarm,
and liberated my mind, which was then already in blind to lofty contemplation and
the joys of mathematics. But the following is the day I consider as the
first real day of my liberation. It was a beautiful spring morning, May
sixth, and the bawmy invigorating air was pouring into the open window. While
walking back and forth in my cell, I unconsciously glanced at each turn with
a vague interest, at the high window, where the iron grate outlined its
form sharply and distinctly against the back ground of the azure, cloudless sky.
Why is the sky so beautiful through the bars, I reflected as I walked.
Is not this the effect of the esthetic law of contrasts, according to
which azure stands out prominently beside black? Or is it not perhaps a manifestation
of some other higher law, according to which the infinite may be conceived by
the human mind only when it is brought within certain boundaries, for instance,
when it is enclosed within a square. When I recalled that at the sight
of a wide open window which was not protected by bars or of the sky,
I had usually experienced a desire to fly, which was painful because of
its uselessness and absurdity, I suddenly began to experience a feeling of tenderness for
the bars, tense gratitude, even love forged by hand by the weak human
hand of some ignorant blacksmith who did not even give himself an account of the
profound meaning of his creation. Placed in the wall by an equally ignorant mason,
it suddenly represented in itself a model of beauty, nobility, and power.
Having seized the infinite within its iron squares, it became congealed in cold
and proud peace, frightening the ignorant, giving food for thought to the intelligent,
and delighting the sage. End of chapter three, chapter four of The
Man Who Found the Truth by Leoni T. Nikolayevitch Andreyev, translated by Hermann
Bernstein. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Carolyn. Chapter
four. 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 of those who speak to me.
And on the other hand, several rather unimportant favors 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 me and and women. I shall mention that the Warden himself and some
of his assistants honor 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
quite plastered, the building has retained its natural dark red color 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 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 darkened, 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 migrated
window commands a splendid view of the distant city and 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's 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 come 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 god advisedly.
The God is indefatigable day and night, I hear behind my doors the footsteps
of the God 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 grave, 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, skillfully 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 detail. 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 anyone 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 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 faint 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 bid
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 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 Michelangelo'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 soulent 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 has
linked them to people unworthy of them, without changing my feeling of love and
trivial personal attachment. And I thus make it foree 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 towards perfection love,
for it becomes the surest guarantee of spiritual and physical soundness. My days 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 myself 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 all Away's 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 grieve. 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 tomorrow I shall begin to build a
news structure, and in my bloody sweat, I shall erect it, for
I must live. Forgive my involuntary paths 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 traveled. 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. End of
Chapter four, Chapter five of The Man Who Found the Truth by Leonit Nikolayevitch
Andreyev, translated by Hermann Bernstein. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain
recording by Carolyne. Chapter five. Deviating from time to time from the calm
form of a historical narrative, I must pause on current events. Thus,
I will permit myself to acquaint my readers in a few lines with a rather
interesting specimen of the human species, which I have found accidentally in our prison.
One afternoon a few days ago, the warden came to me for the
usual chat, and, among other things, told me there was a very
unfortunate man in prison at the time upon whom I could exert a beneficent influence.
I expressed my willingness in the most cordial manner, and for several days
in succession I have had long discussions with the artist k by permission of the
Warden. The spirit of hostility, even of obstinacy, with which to my
regret he met me at his first visit, has now disappeared entirely. Under
the influence of my discussion. Listening willingly and with interest to my ever pacifying
words, he gradually told me his rather unusual story after a series of persistent
questions. He is a man of about twenty six or twenty eight, of
pleasant appearance and rather good manners, which show that he is a well bred
man. A certain quite natural unrestraint in his speech, a passionate vehemence with
which he talks about himself occasionally, a bitter, even ironical laughter, followed
by painful pensiveness from which it is difficult to arouse him even by a touch
of the hand. These complete the makeup of my new acquaintance. Personally to
me, he is not particularly sympathetic, and, however strange it may seem,
I am especially annoyed by his disgusting habit of constantly moving his thin,
emaciated fingers and clutching helplessly the hand of the person with whom he speaks.
Kay told me very little of his past life. Well what is that tell?
I am an artist, That's all, he repeated with a sorrowful grimace,
and refused to talk about the immoral act for which he was condemned to
solitary confinement. I don't want to corrupt you, Grandpa, live honestly,
he would jest, in a somewhat unbecoming familiar tone, which I tolerated simply
because I wished to please the warden of the prison, having learned from the
prisoner the real cause of his sufferings, which sometimes assumed an acute form of
violent and threats. During one of these painful minutes, when Kay's willpower was
weak as a result of insomnia from which he was suffering, I seated myself
on his bed and treated him in general with fatherly kindness, and he blurted
out everything to me right there and then. Not desiring to tire the reader
with an exact reproduction of his hysterical outbursts, his laughter, and his tears,
I shall give only the facts of his story. Kay's grief, at
first, not quite clear to me, consists of the fact that instead of
paper or canvas for his drawings, he was given a large slate and a
slate pencil. By the way, the art with which he mastered the material,
which was new to him is remarkable. I have seen some of his
productions, and it seems to me that they could satisfy the taste of the
most fastidious expert of graphic arts. Personally, I am indifferent to the art
of painting, preferring life and truthful nature, thus owing to the nature of
the material. Before commencing a new picture, Kay had to destroy the previous
one by wiping it off his slate, and this seemed to lead him every
time to the ViRGE of madness. You cannot imagine what it means, he
would say, clutching my hands with his thin, clinging fingers while I draw.
You know, I forget entirely that it is useless. I am usually
very cheerful, and I even whistled some tune, and once I was even
incarcerated for that, as it is forbidden to whistle in this curst prison.
But that is a trifle, for I had at least a good sleep there.
But when I finish my picture, no, even when I approach the
end of the picture, I am seized with a sensation so terrible that I
feel like tearing the brain from my head and trampling it with my feet.
Do you understand me. I understand you, my friend, I understand you
perfectly, and I sympathize with you really well. Then listen, old man,
I make the last strokes with so much pain, with such a sense
of sorrow and hopelessness, as though I were bidding goodbye to the person I
loved best of all. But here I have finished it. Do you understand
what it means? It means that it has assumed life, that it lives,
that there is a certain mysterious spirit in it. And yet it is
already doomed to death. It is dead, already dead like a herring.
Can you understand it at all? I do not understand it. And now
imagine I fool that I am. I nevertheless rejoice, I cry and rejoice.
No I think this picture I shall not destroy. It is so good
that I shall not destroy. Yet let it live. And it is a
fact that at such times I do not feel like drawing anything new. I
have not the slightest desire for it, And yet it is dreadful. Do
you understand me perfectly, my friend? No doubt the drawing ceases to please
you on the following day. Oh, what nonsense you are prating, old
man. That is exactly what he said. Nonsense. How can a dying
child cease to please you? Of course, if he lived, he might
have become a scoundrel. But when he is dying, No, old man,
that isn't it. For I am killing it myself. I do not
sleep all night long. I jump up, I look at it, and
I love it so dearly that I feel like stealing it, stealing it from
whom? What do I know? But when morning sets in, I feel
that I cannot do without it, that I must take up that cursed pencil
again and create a new What's a mockery to create? What am I a
galley slave? My friend? You are in a prison, my dear old
man. When I begin to steal over to the slate with the sponge in
my hand, I feel like a murderer. It happens that I go around
it for a day or two. Do you know? One day I bit
off a finger of my right hand so as not to draw any more.
But that, of course was only a trifle, for I started to learn
drawing with my left hand. What is this necessity for creating? To create
by all means, create for suffering, Create with the knowledge that it will
all perish? Do you understand it? Finish it, my friend? Don't
be agitated. Then I will expound to you my views. Unfortunately, my
advice hardly reached the ears of kay In one of those paroxysms of despair which
frightened the woden of our prison. Kay began to throw himself about in his
bed, tear his clothes, shout and sob, manifesting in general all the
symptoms of extreme mortification. I looked at the sufferings of the unfortunate youth with
deep emotion. Compared with me, he was a youth vainly endeavoring to hold
his fingers, which were tearing his clothes. I knew that for this breach
of discipline, new incarceration awaited him. Oh, impetuous youth, I thought,
when he had grown somewhat calmer, and I was tenderly unfolding his fine
hair, which had become entangled, how easily you fall into despair. A
bit of drawing, which may in the end fall into the hands of a
dealer in old rags or a dealer in old bronze and cemented porcelain, can
cause you so much suffering. But of course I did not tell this to
my youthful friend, striving as anyone should under similar circumstances, not to irritate
him by unnecessary contradictions. Thank you, old man, an, said Kay,
apparently calm now to tell the truth. You seemed very strange to me
at first, your face is so venerable, but your eyes have you murdered
anybody? Old man? I deliberately quote the malicious and careless phrase to show
how, in the eyes of light minded and shallow people, the stamp of
a terrible accusation is transformed into the stamp of the crime itself. Controlling my
feeling of bitterness, I remarked calmly to the impertinent youth. You are an
artist, my child. To you are known the mysteries of the human face,
that flexible, mobile, and deceptive mask, which, like the sea
reflects the hurrying clouds and the azure ether being green, the sea turns blue
under the clear sky, and black when the sky is black, when the
heavy clouds are dark. What do you want of my face over which hangs
an accusation of the most cruel crime? But occupied with his own thoughts,
the artist apparently paid no particular attention to my words and continued, in a
broken voice, what am I to do? You saw my drawing? I
destroyed it, and it is already a whole week since I touched my pencil.
Of course, he resumed, thoughtfully rubbing his brow. It would be
better to break the slate to punish me. They would not give me another
one. You had better return it to the authorities. Very well. I
may hold out another week, But what then, I know myself, even
now that devil is pushing my hand, Take the pencil. Take the pencil.
At that moment, as my eyes wandered distractedly over his cell, I
suddenly noticed that some of the artist's clothes hanging on the wall were unnaturally stretched,
and one end was skillfully fastened by the back of the court. Assuming
an air that I was tired and that I wanted to walk about in the
cell, I staggered, as from a quiver of senility in my legs,
and pushed the clothes aside. The entire wall was covered with drawings. The
artist had already leaped from his court, and thus we stood facing each other
in silence. I said, in a tone of gentle reproach, how did
you allow yourself to do this? My friend? You know the rules of
the prison, according to which no inscriptions or drawings on the walls are permissible.
I know no rules, said Km rose Lee, and then I continued
sternley. This time you lied to me, my friend. You said you
did not take the pencil into your hand for a whole week. Of course
I didn't, said the artist, with a strange smile and even a challenge,
even when caught read handed. But he did not betray any signs of
repentance, and looked rather sarcastic than guilty. Having examined more closely the drawings
on the wall, which represented human figures in various positions, I became interested
in the strange reddish yellow color of an unknown pencil. Is this iodine?
You told me that you had a pain and that you secured iodine. No,
it is blood blood. Yes, I must say frankly that I even
liked him at the moment. How did you get it from my hand?
From your hand? But how did you manage to hide yourself from the eye
that is watching you? He smiled cunningly and even winked. Don't you know
that you can always deceive if only you want to do it. My sympathies
for him were immediately dispersed. I saw before me a man who was not
particularly clever, but in all probability terribly spoilt already, who did not even
admit the thought that there are people who simply cannot lie. Recalling, however,
the promise I had made to the warden. I assumed a calm air
of dignity and said to him tenderly, as only a mother could speak to
her child. Don't be surprised, and don't condemn me for being so strict,
My friend, I am an old man. I have passed half of
my life in this prison. I have formed certain habits, like all old
people, and submitting to all the rules. Myself, I am perhaps overdoing
it somewhat in demanding the same of others. You will, of course wipe
off these drawings yourself, although I feel sorry for them, for I admire
them sincerely, and I will not say anything to the administration. We will
forget all this as if nothing had happened. Are you satisfied, he answered,
drowsily, Very well. In our prison, where we have the sad
pleasure of being confined, everything is arranged in accordance with a most purposeful plan,
and is most strictly subjected to laws and rules and the very strict order,
on account of which the existence of your creations is so short lived,
and I may say ephemeral, is full of the profoundest wisdom, allowing you
to perfect yourself in your art it wisely guards other people against the perhaps injurious
influence of your productions. And in any case, it completes, logically,
finishes, enforces, and makes clear the meaning of your solitary confinement. What
does solitary confinement in our prison mean? It means that the prisoner should be
alone. But would he be alone if by his productions he would communicate in
some way or other with other people? Outsight by the expression of Kese face,
I noticed with a sense of profound joy that my words had produced on
him the proper impression, bringing him back from the realm of poetic inventions to
the land of stern but beautiful reality. And raising my voice, I continued,
as for the rule you have broken, which forbids any inscriptions or drawings
on the wall of our prison, it is not less logical. Years will
pass in your place. There may be another prisoner like you, and he
may see that which you have drawn. Shall this be tolerated? Just think
of it? And what would become of the walls of our prison if everyone
who wished it were to leave upon them his profane marks to the devil with
it. This is exactly how Kay expressed himself. He said it loudly,
even with an air of calmness. What do you mean to say by this,
my youthful friend. I wish to say that you may perish here,
my old friend, But I shall leave this place. You cannot escape from
our prison, I retorted, sternly. Have you tried? Yes, I
have tried. He looked at me incredulously and smiled. He smiled, You
are a coward, old man, You are simply a miserable coward. I
a cow Oh with that self satisfied puppy knew what a tempest of rage he
had aroused in my soul. He would have squealed for fright, and would
have hidden himself on the bed. Ah a coward. The world has crumbled
upon my head and has not crushed me, and out of its terrible fragments,
I have created a new world according to my own design and plan.
All the evil forces of life, solitude, imprisonment, treachery, and falsehood
all have taken up arms against me. But I have subjected them all to
my will. And I who have subjected to myself even my dreams. I
am a coward, but I shall not tire the attention of my indulgent reader
with these lyrical deviations which have no bearing on the matter. I continue,
after a pause, broken only by Cay's loud breathing, I said to him,
sadly, I a coward, And you say this to the man who
came with the sole aim of helping you, of helping you, not only
in word, but also indeed you wish to help me in what? Why?
I will get you paper and pencil. The artist was silent, and
his voice was soft and timid when he asked, hesitatingly, and my drawings
will remain, Yes, they will remain. It is hard to describe the
vehement delight into which the exalted young man was thrown. Naive and pure hearted
youth knows no bounds, either in grief or enjoy. He pressed my hand
warmly, shook me, disturbing my old bones. He called me friend,
father, even dear old Fizz, and a thousand other endearing and somewhat naive
names. To my regret, our conversation lasted too long, and nonwithstanding the
entreaties of the young man, who would not part with me, I hurried
away to my cell. I did not go to the warden of the prison,
as I felt somewhat agitated at that remote time. I paced my cell
until late in the night, striving to understand what means of escaping from our
praisin that rather foolish young man could have discovered. Was it possible to run
away from our praisin? No, I could not admit, and I must
not admit it. And gradually conjuring up in my memory everything I knew about
our prison, I understood that Kay must have hit upon an old plan which
I had long discarded, and that he would convince himself of its impracticability.
Even as I convinced myself it is impossible to escape from our prisin. But
tormented I doubts. I measured my lonely cell for a long time, thinking
of various plans that might relieve Kayse position and thus divert him from the idea
of making his escape. He must not run away from our prison under any
circumstances. Then I gave myself to peaceful and sound sleep, with which benevolent
nature has rewarded those who have a clear conscience and a pure soul. By
the way, lest I forget, I shall mention the fact that I destroyed
my diary of a prisoner that night. I had long wished to do it,
but the natural pity and faint hearted love which we feel for our blunders
and our shortcomings restrained me. Besides, there was nothing in my diary that
could have compromised me in any way, and if I have destroyed it now,
it is due solely to my desire to throw my past into oblivion and
to save my reader from the tediousness of long complaints and moans, from the
horror of sacrilegious cursings. May it rest in peace. End of chapter five,
Chapter six of The Man Who Found the Truth by Leonid Nikolayevitch Andreyev,
translated by Hermann Bernstein. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by
Caroline. Chapter six. Having conveyed to the warden of our prison the contents
of my conversation with Kay, I asked him not to punish the young man
for spoiling the walls, which would thus betray me, and I to save
the youth suggested the following plan, which was accepted by the warden after a
few purely formal objections. It is important for him, I said that his
drawings should be preserved, but it is apparently a material to him in whose
possession these drawings are, Let him then avail himself of his art. Paint
your portrait, mister Warden, and after that the portraits of the entire staff
of your officials, to say nothing of the honor you would show him by
this condescension, In honor which he will surely know how to appreciate. The
painting may be useful to you as a very original ornament in your drawing room
or study. Besides, nothing will prevent us from destroying the drawings if we
should not care for them. For the naive and somewhat selfish young man apparently
does not even admit the thought that anybody's hand would destroy his productions. Smiling,
the Warden suggested, with a politeness that flattered me extremely, that the
series of portraits should commence with mine. I quote word for a word,
that which the Warden said to me, your face actually calls for reproduction on
canvas. We shall hang your portray in the office the zeal of creativeness.
These are the only words I can apply to the passionate, silent agitation in
which k reproduced my features. Usually talkative, he now maintained silence for hours,
leaving an unset my jests and remarks. Be silent, old man,
Be silent. You are at your best when you are silent, he repeated,
persistently, calling forth an involuntary smile. By his zeal. As a
professional, my portray would remind you, my indulgent reader, of that mysterious
peculit ccliarity of artists, according to which they very often transmit their own feelings,
even their external features, to the subject upon which they are working,
thus reproducing with remarkable likeness. The lower part of my face wear kindness and
the expression of authoritativeness and calm dignity are so harmoniously blended. Kay undoubtedly introduced
into my eyes his own suffering and even his horror, their fixed immobile gaze,
madness, glimmering somewhere in their depth, the painful eloquence of a deep
and infinitely lonely soul. All that was not mine is this eye, I
exclaimed, laughing, when from the canvas this terrible face, full of wild
contradictions stared at me, my friend. I do not congratulate you on this
portrait. I do not think it is successful. It is you, old
man. You, It is well drawn. You criticize it wrongly. Where
will you hang it? He grew talkative again, like a magpie, that
amiable young man, and all because his wretched painting was to be preserved for
some time. Oh impetuous, oh happy youth. Here I could not restrain
myself from a little jest for the purpose of teaching a lesson to the self
confident youngster. So I asked him with a smile, Well, my artist,
what do you think am I murderer or not? The artist, closing
one eye, examined me and the portray critically. Then whistling a polka,
he answered recklessly, the devil knows you, old man. I smiled,
kay understood my jest at last burst out laughing, and then said, with
sudden seriousness, you are speaking of the human face. But do you know
that there is nothing worse in the world than the human face. Even when
it tells the troth, when it shouts about the truth, it lies.
It lies, old man, for it speaks its own language. Do you
know, old man? A terrible incident happened to me. It was in
one of the picture galleries in Spain. I was examining a portrait of Christ
when suddenly Christ, you understand Christ, great eyes, dark terrible, suffering,
sorrow, grief, love, well in a word Christ. Suddenly I
was struck with something. Suddenly it seemed to me that it was the face
of the greatest wrongdoer, tormented by the greatest, unheard of woes of repentance?
Old man, why do you look at me, so, old man?
Nearing my eyes to the very face of the artist, I asked him
in a cautious whisper, as the occasion required dividing each word from the other.
Don't you think that when the devil tempted him in the desert, he
did not renounce him, as he said later, but consented sold himself.
That he did not renounce the devil, but sold himself. Do you understand?
Does not that passage in the Gospel seem doubtful to you? Extreme fright
was expressed on the face of my young friend. Forcing the palms of his
hands against my chest as if to push me away. He ejaculated in a
voice so low that I could hardly hear his indistinct words. What you say,
Jesus sold himself? What for? I explained softly that the people,
my child, that the people should believe him. Well, I smiled Kay's
eyes became round as if a news was strangling him. Suddenly, with that
lack of respect for old age, which was one of his characteristics, he
threw me down on the bed with a sharp thrust and jumped away into a
corner. When I was slowly getting up from the awkward position into which the
unrestraint of that young man had forced me, I fell backward, with my
head between the pillow and the back of the bed. He cried to me
loudly, don't you dare, don't you dare, Get up, you devil.
But I did not think of rising to my feet. I simply sat
down on the bed and thus seated. With an involuntary smile. At the
passionate outburst of the youth, I shook my head good natured glee, and
laughed, Oh young man, young man, you yourself have drawn me into
this theological conversation. But he stared at me stubbornly, wide eyed, and
kept repeating, sit there, sit there. I did not say this.
No, no, you said it, young man. You do you remember
Spain the picture gallery? You said it, and now you deny it,
mocking my clumsy old age. Oh Kay, suddenly lowered his hands and admitted
in a low voice. Yes, I said it, but you, old
man, I do not remember what he said after that. It is so
hard to recall all the childish chatter of this kind, But unfortunately too light
minded, young man, I remember only that we parted as friends, and
he pressed my hand warmly, expressing to me his sincere gratitude, even calling
me so far as I can remember, his savior. By the way I
succeeded in convincing the warden that the portrait of even such a man as I,
after all a prisoner, was out of place in such a solemn official
room as the office of our prison. And now the portrait hangs on the
wall of my cell, pleasantly breaking the cold monotony of the pure white walls,
leaving for a time our artist, who is now carried away by the
portrait of the warden. I shall continue my story. End of chapter six.
Chapter seven of The Man Who Found the Truth by Leonit Nikolayevich Andreyev,
translated by Hermann Bernstein. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by
Carolyn. Chapter seven. My spiritual clearness, as I had the pleasure of
informing the reader before, has built up for me a considerable circle of men
and women admirers with self evident emotion. I shall tell of the pleasant hours
of our hearty conversations, which I modestly call my talks. It is difficult
for me to explain how I deserved it, but the majority of those who
come to me regard me with a feeling of the profoundest respect, even adoration.
And only a few come for the purpose of arguing with me. But
these arguments are usually of a moderate and proper character. I usually seat myself
in the middle of the rim, in a soft and deep armchair, which
is furnished me for this occasion by the warden. My hearers surround me closely,
and some of them, the more enthusiastic youths and maidens, seat themselves
at my feet. Having before me an audience more than half of which is
composed of women and entirely disposed in my favor, I always appeal not so
much to the mind as to the sensitive and truthful heart. Fortunately, I
possess a certain oratorical power and the customary effects of the oratorical art, to
which all preachers, beginning in all probability with Mohammed, have resorted and which
I can handle rather cleverly allow me to influence my hearers in the desired direction.
It is easily understood that to the dear ladies in my audience, I
am not so much the sage who has solved the mystery of the iron gait,
as the great martyr of a righteous cause which they do not quite understand.
Shunning abstract discussions, they eagerly hang on every word of compassion and kindness
and respond with the same, allowing them to love me and to believe in
my immutable knowledge of life. I effort them the happy opportunity to depart,
at least for a time, from the coldness of life, from its painful
doubts and questions. I say openly without any false modesty, which I despise,
even as I despise hypocrisy. There were lectures at which I, myself,
being in a state of exaltation, called forth in my audience, especially
in my nervous lady visitors, a mood of intense agitation, which turned into
hysterical love and tears. Of course, I am not a prophet. I
am merely a modest thinker. But no one would succeed in convincing my lady
admirers, that there is no prophetic meaning and significance in my speeches. I
remember one such lecture which took place two months ago. The night before I
could not sleep as soundly as I usually slept. Perhaps it was simply because
of the full moon, which affects sleep, disturbing and interrupting it. I
vaguely remember the strange sensation which I experienced when the pale crescent of the moon
appeared in my window and the iron squares cut it with ominous black lines into
small silver squares. When I started for the lecture, I felt exhausted and
rather inclined to silent lends, then to conversation. The vision of the night
before disturbed me. But when I saw those dear faces, those eyes full
of hope and ardent and treity for friendly advice, When I saw before me
that rich field already plowed, waiting only for the good seat to be sown,
my heart began to burn with delight, pity, and love. Avoiding
the customary formalities which accompany the meetings of people, declining the hands outstretched to
great me, I turned to the audience, which was agitated at the very
sight of me, and gave them my blessing with a gesture to which I
know how to lend a peculiar majesty. Come on to me, I exclaimed,
Come on to me, you who have gone away from that life.
Here, in this quiet abode, under the sacred protection of the iron grate
at my heart, overflowing with love, you will find rest and comfort.
My beloved children, Give me your sad soul, exhausted from suffering, and
I shall clothe it with light. I shall carry it to those blissful lands
where the sun of eternal truth and love never sets. Many had begun to
cry already, but as it was too early for tears, I interrupted them
with a gesture of fatherly impatience, and continued, You, dear girl,
who came from the world which calls itself free? What gloomy shadows lie on
your charming and beautiful face? And you, my darling youth, why are
you so pale? Why do I see, instead of the ecstasy of victory,
the fear of defeating your lowered eyes? And you, honest mother,
tell me what wind has made your eyes so red? What furious rain has
lashed your wizened face? What snow has whitened your hair, for it used
to be dark. But the weeping and the sobs drowned the end of my
speech. And besides, I admitted, without feeling ashamed of it, I
myself brushed away more than one treacherous tear from my eyes, without allowing the
agitation to subside completely. I cooled in a voice of stern and truthful reproach.
Do not weep, because your soul is dark, stricken with misfortunes,
blinded by chaos, clipped off its wings by doubts. Give it to me,
and I shall direct it towards the light, toward order and reason.
I know the truth. I have conceived the world. I have discovered the
great principle of its purpose. I have solved the sacred formula of the iron
grate. I demand of you swear to me, by the cold iron of
its squares, that henceforth you will confess to me, without shame or fear,
all your deeds, your errors and doubts, all the secret thoughts of
your soul, and the dreams and desires of your body. We swear,
we swear, we swear, save us, reveal us the truth, Take
our sins upon yourself, save us, Save us, numerous exclamations resound it.
I must mention the sad incident which occurred during that same lecture. At
the moment when the excitement reached its height, and the hearts had already opened,
ready to unburden themselves, a certain youth, looking more rose and embittered,
exclaimed loudly, evidently addressing himself to me, liar, do not listen
to him. He is lying. The indulgent reader will easily believe that it
was only by a great effort that I succeeded in saving the incautious youth from
the fury of the audience, offended in that which is most precious to a
human being, his faith in goodness and the divine purpose of life. My
women admirers rushed upon the foolish youth in a mob and would have beaten him
cruelly. Remembering, however, that there was more joy to the pastor in
one sinner who repents than in ten righteous men, I took the young man
aside where no one could hear us, and entered into a brave conversation with
him. Did you call me a liar? My child? Moved by my
kindness, the poor young man became confused and answered hesitatingly, pardon me for
my harshness, but it seems to me that you are not telling the truth.
I understand you, my friend. You must have been agitated by the
intense ecstasy of the women, and you, as a sensible man not inclined
to mysticism, suspected me of fraud, of a hideous fraud. No,
no, don't excuse yourself. I understand you, but I wish you would
understand me. Out of the mire of superstitions, out of the deep gulf
of prejudices and unfounded beliefs, I want to lead their straight thoughts and place
them upon the solid foundation of strictly logical reasoning. The iron grate which I
mentioned is not a mystical sign. It is only a formula, a simple,
sober, honest, mathematical formulae. To you, as a sensible man,
I will willingly explain this formulae, the greatest, the scheme in which
are placed all the laws guiding the universe, which do away with chaos,
substituting in its place strict iron, inviolable order forgotten by mankind. As a
bright minded man, you will easily understand. Pardon me, I did not
understand you, and if you will permit me I, but why do you
make them swear? My friend? The soul of man, believing itself free
and constantly suffering from this spurious freedom, is demanding fetas for itself. To
some. These fetas are an oath, to others a vow. To still
others, simply a word of honor. You will give me your word of
honor, will you not? I will? And by this you are simply
striving to enter the harmony of the world, where everything is subjected to a
law. Is not the falling of a stone the fulfillment of a vow,
the vow called the law of gravitation. I shall not go into detail about
this conversation and the others that followed. The obstinate and unrestrained youth, who
had insulted me by calling me liar, became one of my warmest adherents.
I must return to the others. During the time that I talked with the
young man, their desire for penitence among my charming proselytes reached its h light.
Not patient enough to wait for me, they commenced, in a state
of intense ecstasy to confess to one another, giving to the rim an appearance
of a garden where dozens of birds of paradise were twittering at the same time.
When I returned, each of them separately unfolded her agitated soul to me.
I saw how, from day to day, from hour to hour,
terrible chaos was struggling in their souls with an eager inclination for harmony and order.
How in the bloody struggle between eternal falsehood and immortal truth, falsehood,
through inconceivable ways, passed into truth, and truth became falsehood. I found
in the human soul all the forces in the world, and none of them
was dormant. And in the mad whirlpool, each soul became like a fountain,
whose sources the abyss of the sea, and whose summit the sky.
And every human being, as I have learned and seen, is like the
rich and powerful Master who gave a masquerade ball at his castle and illuminated it
with many lights. And strange masks came from everywhere, and the Master greeted
them, bowing courteously and vainly, asking them who they were, and knew
ever stranger, ever more terrible masks were arriving, and the Master bowed to
them. Ever more courteously, staggering from fatigue and fear, and they were
laughing and whispering strange words about the eternal chaos. Whence they came, obeying
the call of the Master, and lights were burning in the castle, and
in the distance, lighted windows were visible, reminding him of the festival.
And the exhausted Master kept bowing ever lower, ever more courteously, ever more
cheerfully. My indulgent reader will easily understand that, in addition to a certain
sense of fear which I experienced, the greatest delight and even joyous emotion soon
came upon me, for I saw that eternal chaos was defeated, and the
triumphant hymn of bright harmony was rising to the skies. Not without a sense
of pride, I shall mention the modest offerings by which my kind admirers were
striving to express to me their feelings of love and adoration. I am not
afraid of calling out a smile on the lips of my readers, for I
feel how comical it is. I will say that among the offerings brought me
at first were fruit cakes, all kinds of sweetmeats. But I am afraid,
however, that no one will believe me when I say that I have
actually declined these offerings, preferring the observance of the prison regime and all its
rigidness. At the last lecture, a kind and honorable lady brought me a
basketful of life flowers. To my regret, I was compelled to declay line
this present to forgive me, madam, But flowers do not enter into the
system of our prison. I appreciate very much your magnanimous attention. I kiss
your hands, Madam, I said, but I am compelled to decline the
flowers. Traveling along the thorny road of self renunciation, I must not caress
my eyes with the ephemeral and illusionary beauty of these charming lilies and roses.
All the flowers perish in our prison, Madam. Yesterday another lady brought me
a very valuable crucifix of ivory, a family heirloom. She said, not
afflicted with the sin of hypocrisy, I told my generous lady frankly that I
do not believe in miracles. But at the same time, I said,
I regard with the profoundest respect him who is justly called the savior of the
world. And I honor greatly his services to mankind. If I should tell
you, madam, that the Gospel has long been my favorite book, that
there is not a day in my life that I do not open this great
book, drawing from it strength and courage to be able to continue my hard
course, you will understand that your liberal gift could not have fallen into better
hands. Henceforth, thanks to you, the sad solitude of my cell will
vanish. I am not alone. I bless you, my daughter. I
cannot forego mentioning the strange thoughts brought out by the crucifix as it hung there
besides my portray. It was twilight outside the wall. The bell was tolling
heavily in the invisible church, calling the believers together. In the distance,
over the deserted field overgrown with high grass, an unknown wanderer was plodding along,
passing into the unknown distance like a little black dot. It was as
quiet in our prison as in a sepulcher. I looked long and attentively at
the features of Jesus, which were so calm, so joyous, compared with
him who looked silently and dully from the wall beside him, and with my
habit formed during the long years of solitude of addressing inanimate things aloud, I
said to the motionless crucifix, good evening, Jesus. I am glad to
welcome you in our prison. There are three of us here, you,
I and the one who is looking from the wall, and I hope that
we three will manage to live in peace and in harmony. He is looking
silently, and you are silent, and your eyes are closed. I shall
speak for the three of us, a sure sign that our peace will never
be broken. They were silent, and continuing, I addressed my speech to
the portray. Where are you looking so intently and so strangely, my unknown
friend and room mate? In your eyes? I see mystery and reproach?
Is it possible that you dare reproach him? An sir? And pretending that
the portray unswerd, I continued in a different voice, with an expression of
extreme sternness and boundless grief. Yes, I do reproach him, Jesus,
Jesus, Why is your face so pure, so blissful? You have passed
only over the brink of human sufferings, as over the brink of an abyss,
and only the foam of the bloody and my ray waves have touched you.
Do you command me, a human being to sink into the dark depth?
Great is your Gulgatha Jesus, But two reverend and joyous, and one
small but interest stroke is missing the horror of aimlessness Here I interrupted the speech
of the portrait with an expression of anger. How dare you, I exclaimed,
how dare you speak of aimlessness in our prison? They were silent,
and suddenly Jesus, without opening his eyes, he even seemed to close them
more tightly and said, who knows the mysteries of the heart of Jesus?
I burst into laughter, and my esteemed reader will easily understand this laughter.
It turned out that I, a cool and sober mathematician, possessed a poetic
talent and could compose very interesting, sting comedies. I do not know how
all this would have ended, for I had already prepared a thundering answer for
my roommate when the appearance of the keeper who brought me food suddenly interrupted me.
But apparently my face bore traces of excitement, for the man asked me
with stern sympathy, were you praying? I do not remember what I ansaid
end of chapter seven. Chapter eight of The Man Who Found the Truth by
Leonite Nikolayevitch and Rayev, translated by Hermann Bernstein. This LibriVox recording is in
the public domain. Recording by Carolyn. Chapter eight, Last Sunday, A
great misfortune occurred in our prison. The artist Kay, whom the reader knows
already, ended his life in suicide by flinging himself from the table with his
head against the stone floor. The fall and the force of the blow had
been so skillfully calculated by the unfortunate young man that his skull was split into
the grief of the warden was indescribable. Having called me to the office,
the warden, without shaking hands with me, reproached me in angry and harsh
terms for having deceived him, and he regained his calm only after my hearty
apologies and promises that such accidents would not happen again. I promised to prepare
a project for watching the criminals, which would render suicide impossible. The esteemed
wife of the warden, whose portrait remained unfinished, was also grieved by the
death of the artist. Of course, I had not expected this outcome either,
although a few days before committing suicide. Kay had provoked in me a
feeling of uneasiness. Upon entering his cello one morning and greeting him, I
noticed with amazement that he was sitting before his slate once more drawing human figures.
What does this mean, my friend, I inquired cautiously, And how
about the portrait of the second assistant. The devil take it, but you,
the devil take it. After a pause, I remarked, distractedly,
your portrait of the warden is meeting with great success, although some of the
people who have seen it say that the right mustache is somewhat shorter than the
left. Shorter, yes, shorter, But in general they find that you
caught the lightness very successfully. Kay had put aside his slate pencil and perfectly
calm said, tell your warden that I'm not going to paint that prison referraf
anymore. After these words, there was nothing left for me to do but
to leave him, which I decided to do. But the artist, who
could not get along without giving vent to his effusions, seized me by the
hand and said, with his usual enthusiasm, just think of it, old
man, what a horror. Every day, a new repulsive face appears before
me, they sit and stared at me with their frog like eyes. What
am I to do? At first I laughed, I even liked it.
But when the frog like eyes stared at me every day, I was seized
with horror. I was afraid they might start to quawk qua qua. Indeed,
there was a certain fear, even madness, in the eyes of the
artist, the madness which shortly led him to his untimely grave. Old man,
it is necessary to have something beautiful. Do you understand me? And
the wife of the warden, is she not? I shall pass in silence
the unbecoming expressions with which he spoke of the lady in his excitement. I
must, however, admit that to a certain extent the artist was right in
his complaints. I had been present several times at the sittings and noticed that
all who had posed for the artist behaved rather unnaturally, sincere and naive,
conscious of the importance of their position. Convinced that the features of their faces,
perpetuated upon the converse, would go down to posterity, they exaggerated somewhat
the qualities which are so characteristic of their high and responsible office. In our
prison, A certain bombast of pose, an exaggerated expression of stern authority,
in obvious consciousness of their own importance, and a noticeable contempt for those on
whom their eyes were directed. All of this disfigured their kind and affable faces.
But I cannot understand what horrible features the artist found where there should have
been a smile. I was even indignant at the superficial attitude with which an
artist who considered himself talented and sensible passed the people without noticing that a divine
spark was glimmering in each one of them. In the quest after some fun,
fantastic beauty, he light mindedly passed by the true beauties with which the
human soul is filled. I cannot help feeling sorry for those unfortunate people who,
like K, because of a peculiar construction of their brains, always turned
their eyes towards the dark side, whereas there is so much joy and light
in our prison. When I said this to K, I heard, to
my regret, the same stereotyped and indecent answer, The devil take it.
All I could do was to shrug my shoulders. Suddenly changing his tone and
bearing, the artist turned to me seriously with a question which, in my
opinion, was also indecent. Why do you lie, old man? I
was astonished. Of course I lie. Well, let it be the truth
if you like. But why I am looking at thinking, why did you
say that? Why? My indulgent reader, who knows well what the truth
has cost me, will readily understand my profound indignation. I deliberately mention this
audacious and other calumnious phrases to show in what an atmosphere of malice, distrust,
and disrespect I have to plod along the hard road of suffering. He
insisted rudely, I have had enough of your smiles. Tell me, plainly,
why do you speak so? Then? I admit I flared up.
You want to know why I speak the truth and I committed to eternal anathema
because fate has made me a victim of injustice, and as a victim,
like him who took upon himself the great sin of the world and its great
sufferings, I wish to point out the way to mankind. Wretched egoist,
you know only yourself and your miserable art. While I love mankind, my
anger grew. I felt the veins on my forehead swelling ful miserable, dauber,
unfortunate schoolboy, in love with colors. Human beings pass before you,
and you see only their frog like eyes. How did your tongue turned to
say such a thing? Oh, if you only looked even once into the
human soul, what treasures of tenderness, love, humble faith, holy humility
you would have discovered there? And to you, bold man, it would
have seemed as if you entered a temple, a bright, illuminated temple.
But it is said of people like you, do not cast your pearls before
swine. The artist was silent, crushed by my angry and unrestrained speech.
Finally he sighed and said, forgive me, old man. I am talking
nonsense, of course, but I am so unfortunate and so lonely. Of
course, my dear year old man, it is all true about the divine
spark and about beauty. But a polished boot is also beautiful. I cannot,
I cannot just think of it. How can a man have such mustaches
as he has, and yet he is complaining that the left mustache is shorter.
He laughed like a child, and, heaving a sigh, added,
I'll make another attempt. I will paint the lady. There is really something
good in her, although she is after all a cow. He laughed again,
and, fearing to brush away with his sleeve the drawing on the slate,
he cautiously placed it in the corner. Here. I did that which
my duty compelled me to do. Seizing this slate, I smashed it to
pieces with a powerful blow. I thought that the artist would rush upon me
furiously, but he did not. To his weak mind, my act seemed
so blasphemous, so supernaturally horrible, that his deathlike lips could not utter a
word. What have you done, he asked at last, in a low
voice. You have broken it? And raising my hand, I replied solemnly,
foolish youth, I have done that which I would have done to my
heart if it wanted to jest and mock me. Unfortunate youth, Can you
not see that your art has long been mocking you, That from that slate
of yours, the devil himself was making hideous faces at you, Yes,
the devil being far from your wonderful art. I did not understand you at
first, nor your longing, your horror of aimlessness. But when I entered
yourself today and noticed you at your ruinous occupation, I said to myself,
it is better that he should not create at all than to create in this
manner. Listen to me. I then revealed for the first time to this
youth the sacred formula of the iron grate, which, dividing the infinite into
squares, thereby subjects it to itself. Kay listened to my words with emotion,
looking with the horror of an ignorant manner, the figures which must have
seemed to him to be kabalistic, but which were nothing else than the ordinary
figures used in mathematics. I am your slave, old man, he said,
at last, kissing my hand with his cold lips. No, you
will be my favorite pupil, my son. I bless you, and it
seemed to me that the artist was saved. True. He regarded me with
great joy, which could easily be explained by the extreme respect with which I
inspired him. And he painted the portrait of the warden's wife with such zealand
enthusiasm that the esteemed lady was sincerely moved, and strange to say, the
artist succeeded in making so strangely beautiful the features of this woman, who was
stout and no longer young that the warden, long accustomed to the face of
his wife, was greatly delighted by its new expression. Thus everything went on
smoothly, when suddenly this catastrophe occurred, the entire horror of which I alone
knew. Not desiring to call forth any unnecessary disputes, I concealed from the
warden the fact that, on the eve of his death, the artist had
thrown a letter into my cell, which I noticed only in the morning.
I did not preserve the note, nor do I remember all that the unfortunate
youth told me in his farewell message. I think it was a letter of
thanks for my effort to save him. He wrote that he regretted sincerely that
his failing strength did not permit him to avail himself of my instructions. But
one phrase impressed itself deeply in my memory, and you will understand the reason
for it when I repeated, in all its terrifying simplicity, I am going
away from your prison. Thus read the phrase, and he really did go
away. Here are the walls, here is the little window in the door.
Here is our prison. But he is not there. He has gone
away. Consequently, I too could go away instead of having ways did dozens
of years on a titanic struggle, Instead of being tormented by the throes of
despair, instead of growing and feebled by horror in the face of unsolved mysteries,
of striving to subject the world to my mind and my will, I
could have climbed the table, and one instant of pain, I would be
free. I would be triumphant over the lock and the walls, over truth
and falsehood, over joys and sufferings. I will not say that I had
not thought of suicide before as a means of escaping from our prison. But
now, for the first time, it appeared before me in all its attractiveness,
In a fit of base faintheartedness which I shall not conceal from my reader,
even as I do not conceal from him my good qualities. Perhaps even
in a fit of temporary insanity, I momentarily forgot all I knew about our
prison and its great purpose. I forgot, I am ashamed to say,
even the great formula of the iron grate, which I conceived and mastered with
such difficulty. And I prepared a news made of my towel for the purpose
of strangling myself. But at the last moment, when all was ready and
it was but necessary to push away the tabret, I asked myself, with
my habit of reasoning, which did not forsake me even at that time,
But where am I going? The answer was, I am going to death.
But what is death? And the answer was I do not know.
These brief reflections were enough for me to come to myself, and with a
bitter laugh at my cowardice, I removed the fatal news from my neck.
Just as I had been ready to sob for grief a minute before. So
now I laughed. I laughed like a madman, realizing that another trap placed
before me by derisive fate had so brilliantly been evaded by me. Oh,
how many traps there are in the life of man. Like a cunning fisherman,
Fate catches him, now with the alluring bait of some truth, Now
with the hairy little warm of dark falsehood, Now with the phantom of life,
Now with the fact of death. My dear young man, my fascinating
fool, my charming, silly fellow, who told you that our prison ends
here, that from one prison you did not fall into another prison from which
it will hardly be possible for you to run away. You were too hasty,
my friend. You forgot to ask me something else. I would have
told it to you. I would have told you that omnipotent law reigns over
that which you call nonexistence and death, just as it reigns over that which
you call life and existence. Only the fools dying believe that they have made
an end of themselves. They have ended but one form of themselves in order
to assume another form immediately. Thus I reflected, laughing at the foolish suicide,
the ridiculous destroyer of the fetters of eternity. And this is what I
said, addressing myself to my two silent roommates hanging motionlessly on the white wall
of my cell. I believe and confess that our prison is immortal. What
do you say to this, my friends? But they were silent, and
having burst into good natured laughter. What quiet roommates I have? I undressed
slowly and gave myself to peaceful sleep. In my dream I saw another majestic
prison, and wonderful jailers with white wings on their backs, and the chief
warden of the prison himself. I do not remember whether there were any little
windows in the doors or not, but I think there were. I recall
that something like an angel's eye was fixed upon me with tender attention and love.
My indulgent reader will, of course guess that I am jesting. I
did not dream at all. I am not in the habit of dreaming without
hoping that the warden, occupied with pressing official affairs, would understand me thoroughly
and appreciate my idea concerning the impossibility of escaping from our prison. I confined
myself in my report to an indication of several ways in which suicides could be
averted with magnanimous short sightedness peculiar to busy and trusting people. The warden failed
to notice the weak points of my project, and clasped my hand warmly,
expressing to me his gratitude in the name of our entire prison. On that
day, I had the honor for the first time to drink a glass of
tea at the home of the warden, in the presence of his kind wife
and charming children, who called me grand Pa. Tears of emotion, which
gathered in my eyes, could but faintly express the feelings that came over me
at the request of the warden's wife, who took a deep interest in me,
I related in detail the story of the tragic murders which led me me
so unexpectedly and so terribly to the prison. I could not find expressions strong
enough. There are no expressions strong enough in the human language to brand adequately
the unknown criminal who not only murdered three helpless people, but who mocked them
brutally in a fit of blind and savage rage. As the investigation and the
autopsy showed, the murderer dealt the last blows after the people had been dead.
It is very possible, however, even murderers should be given their due,
that the man, intoxicated by the sight of blood ceased to be a
human being and became a beast, the son of chaos, the child of
dark and terrible desires. It was characteristic that the murderer, after having committed
the crime, drank wine and ate biscuits. Some of these were left on
the table, together with the marks of his blood stained fingers. But there
was something so horrible that my mind could neither understand nor explain. The murderer,
after lighting a cigar himself, apparently moved by a feeling of strange kindness
put a lighted cigar between the closed teeth of my father. I had not
recalled these details in many years. They had almost been erased by the hand
of time, And now, while relating them to my shocked listeners, who
would not believe that such horrors were were possible, I felt my face turning
pale and my hair quivering on my head. In an outburst of grief and
anger, I rose from my armchair, and straightening myself to my full height,
I exclaimed, justice on earth is often powerless. But I implore heavenly
justice. I implore the justice of life, which never forgives. I implore
all the higher laws under whose authority man lives. May the guilty one not
escape his deserved punishment, his punishment. Moved by my sobs, my listeners
there and then expressed their zeal and readiness to work for my liberation and thus
at least partly redeem the injustice heaped upon me. I apologized and returned to
my cell. Evidently, my old organism cannot bear such agitations any longer.
Besides, it is hard even for a strong man to picture in his imagination
certain images without risking the loss of his raisin only in this way can I
explain this strange hallucination which appeared before my fatigued eyes in the solitude of my
cell, As though benumbed. I gazed aimlessly at the tightly closed door,
when suddenly it seemed to me that someone was standing behind me. I had
felt this deceptive sensation before, so I did not turn around for some time.
But when I turned around at last, I saw, in the distance
between the crucifix and my portray, about a quarter of a yard above the
floor, the body of my father, as though hanging in the air.
It is hard for me to give the details, for twilight had long set
in, but I can say with certainty that it was the image of a
corpse and not of a living being, although a cigar was smoking in its
mouth. To be more exact, there was no smoke from the cigar,
but a faintly reddish light was seen. It is characteristic that I did not
sense the odor of tobacco, either at that time or later. I had
long given up smoking. Here I must confess my weakness, but the illusion
was striking. I commenced to speak to the hallucination, advancing as closely as
possible. The body did not retreat as I approached, but remained perfectly motionless.
I said to the ghost, I thank you father. You know how
your son is suffering, and you have come. You have come to testify
to my innocence. I thank you Father. Give me your hand, and
with a firm, filial hand clasp I will respond to your unexpected visit.
Don't you want to let me have your hand? Give me your hand,
or I will call you a liar. I stretched out my hand, but
of course the hallucination did not deem it worth a while to respond, and
I was forever deprived of the opportunity of feeling the touch of a ghost.
The cry which I uttered, and which so upset my friend that jailer,
creating some confusion in the prison, was called forth by the sudden disappearance of
the phantom. It was so sudden that the space and the place where the
corpse had been seemed to me more terrible than the corpse itself. Such is
the power of human imagination. When excited, it creates phantoms and visions,
peopling the bottomless and ever silent emptiness with them. It is sad to admit
that there are people, however, who believe in ghosts and build upon this
belief nonsensical theories about certain relations between the world of the living and the enigmatic
land inhabited by the dead. I understand that the human ear and eye can
be deceived, But how can the great and lucid human mind fall into such
coarse and ridiculous deception? I asked the jailer. I feel a strange sensation,
as though there were the odor of cigar smoke in my cell. Don't
you smell it? The Jaala sniffed the air conscientiously and replied, no,
I don't you only imagined it. If you need any confirmation, here is
a splendid proof that all I had seen, if it existed at all,
existed only in the net of my eye. End of chapter eight, Chapter
nine of The Man Who Found the Truth by Leonit Nikolayevitch Andreyev translated by Hermann
Bernstein. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Carolyn. Chapter
nine, 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 honorable 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 richard gossip and baseless rumors about my chats in our
prison, called me a zealot and liar. Enraged by the insolence of the
miserable scribbeller, 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 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 skillfully arranged my financial
affairs. Life. 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 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 smelt such a variety of odors.
At the same time, if not for my advanced age and the strict and
serious propriety with which I trade 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 size 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 honor of being elected an honorary
member of numerous humanitarian organizations 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,
whether 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. Thirty
lecture, the explanation of the sacred formula of the Iron Great. As my
indulgent reader will see, justice is after all not an empty sound, and
I am getting a greater 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
great 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 worl 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 cause 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 faults 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 someone'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 write 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 wraths 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 someone in cause 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. Oh 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 fill 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 someone 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 draft in the 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. Tomorrow
I shall sit down to prepare my lectures. It is high time. End
of chapter nine, chapter ten of The Man Who Found the Truth by Leonid
Nikolayevitch Andreyev, translated by Herman Bernstein. This LibriVox recording is in the public
domain recording by Carolyn. Chapter ten. My God, what has happened to
me? I do not know how I shall tell my reader about it.
I was on the brink of the abyss. I almost perished. What cruel
temptation fate is sending me? Fools? We smile without suspecting anything, When
some murderous hand is already lifted to attacker, we smile, and the very
next instant we open our eyes wide with horror. I I cried, I
cried another moment, and deceived, I would have hurled myself down, thinking
that I was flying toward the sky. It turned out that the charming stranger
who wore a dark veil, and who came to me so mysteriously three times,
was no one else than Madame n my former fiancee, my love,
my dream, and my suffering. But order order, May my indulgent reader
forgive the involuntary incoherence of the preceding lines. But I am sixty years old,
and my strength is beginning to fail me, and I am alone.
My unknown reader, be my friend at this moment, for I am not
of iron, and my strength is beginning to fail me. Listen, my
friend, I shall endeavor to tell you exactly and in detail, as objectively
as my cold and clear mind will be able to do it. All that
has happened. You must understand that which my tongue may omit. I was
sitting engaged upon the preparation of my lecture, seriously carried away by the absorbing
work, when my servant announced that the strange lady in the black veil was
there again, and that she wished to see me. I confess. I
was irritated that I was ready to decline find to see her. But my
curiosity, coupled with my desire not to offend her, led me to receive
the unexpected guest, assuming the expression of majestic nobleness with which I usually greet
my visitors, and softening that expression somewhat by a smile. In view of
the romantic character of the affair, I ordered my servant to open the door.
Please be seated, my dear guest, I said politely to the stranger,
who stood as dazed before me, still keeping the veil on her face.
She sat down. Although I respect all secrecy, I continued jestingly,
I would nevertheless ask you to remove this gloomy cover which disfigures you. Does
the human face need a mask, this strange visitor declined, in a state
of agitation. Very well, I'll take it off, but not now.
Later. First, I want to see you well. The pleasant voice of
the stranger did not call forth any recollections in me. Deeply interested and even
flattered, I submitted to my strange visitor all the treasures of my mind,
experience, and talent. With enthusiasm, I related to her the edifying story
of my life, constantly illuminating every detail with array of the great purpose.
In this I availed myself partly of the material on which I had just been
working preparing my lecture. The passionate attention with which the strange lady listened to
my words, the frequent deep sighs, the nervous quiver of her thin fingers
in her black gloves, her agitated exclamations inspired me. Carried away by my
own narrative, I confess I did not pay proper attention to the queer behavior
of my strange visitor. Having lost all restraint, she now clasped my hands,
now pushed them away, She cried, and availing herself of each pause
in my speech, she implored, don't, don't, don't stop speaking.
I can't listen to it. And at the moment when I least expected it,
she tore the veil from her face, and before my eyes became before
my eyes appeared her face, the face of my love, of my dream,
of my bounteless and bitter sorrow. Perhaps because I lived all my life
dreaming of her alone, with her alone, I was young with her,
I had developed and grown old with her. I was advancing to the grave.
Her face seemed to me neither old, nor faded. It was exactly
as I had pictured it in my dreams. It seemed endlessly dear to me.
What has happened to me? For the first time in tens of years,
I forgot that I had a face. For the first time in tens
of years, I looked helplessly, like a youngster, like a criminal,
quarter red handed, waiting for some deadly blow. You see, you see
it is I. It is I, My god, Why are you so
silent? Don't you recognize me? Did I recognize her? It were better
not to have known that face at all. It were better for me to
have grown blind rather than to see her again? Why are you silent?
How terrible you are? You have forgotten me? Madam? Of course I
should have continued in this manner. I saw how she staggered. I saw
how, with trembling fingers, all almost falling, she was looking for her
veil. I saw that another word of courageous truth and the terrible vision would
vanish, never to appear again. But some stranger within me not I not.
I uttered the following absurd, ridiculous phrase, in which, despite its
chilliness, rang so much jealousy and hopeless sorrow. Madam, you have deceived
me. I don't know you. Perhaps you entered the wrong door. I
suppose your husband and your children are waiting for you. Please, my servant
will take you down to the carriage. Could I think that these words,
uttered in the same stern and cold voice, would have such a strange effect
upon the woman's heart? With a cry, all the bitter passion of which
I could not describe, she threw herself before me on her knees, exclaiming,
so you do love me. Forgetting that our life had already been lived,
that we were old, that all had been ruined and scattered like dust
by time, and that it can never return again. Forgetting that I was
gray, that my shoulders were bent, that the voice of passion sounds strangely
when it comes from old lips. I burst into impetuous reproaches and complaints.
Yes, I did deceive you. Her deathly pale lips uttered. I knew
that you were innocent. Be silent, Be silent. Everybody laughed at me,
even your friends, your mother, whom I despised for it, all
betrayed you. Only I kept a repeating he is innocent. Oh, if
this woman knew what she was doing to me with her words. If the
trumpet of the Angel announcing the day of judgment had resounded at my very ear,
I would not have been so frightened as now. What is the blaring
of a trumpet calling to battle and struggle to the ear of the brave.
It was as if an abyss had opened at my feet. It was as
if an abyss had opened before me, And as though blinded by lightning,
as though dazed by a blow, I shouted, in an outburst of wild
and strange ecstasy. Be silent. I. If that woman were sent by
God, she would have become silent. If she were sent by the devil,
she would have become silent even then. But there was neither God nor
Devil in her, and interrupting me, not permitting me to finish the phrase,
she went on, No, I will not be silent. I must
tell you all. I have waited for you so many years. Listen,
listen. But suddenly she saw my face and she retreated, seized with horror.
What is it? What is the matter with you? Why do you
laugh? I am afraid of your laughter. Stop laughing, don't don't.
But I was not laughing at all. I only smiled softly, and then
I said, very seriously, without smiling, I am smiling because I am
glad to see you tell me about yourself. And as in a dream,
I saw her face and I heard her soft, terrible whisper. You know
that I love you. You know that all my life I loved you alone.
I lived with another and was faithful to him. I have children,
but you know they are all strangers to me, He and the children,
and I myself. Yes, I deceived you. I am a criminal,
but I do not know how it happened. He was so kind to me.
He made me believe that he was convinced of your innocence. Later I
learned that he did not tell the truth. And with this, just think
of it. With this, he won me. You lie, I swear
to you. For a whole year, he followed me and spoke only of
you. One day he even cried when I told him about you, about
your sufferings, about your love. But he was lying, of course,
he was lying, But at that time he seemed so dear to me,
so kind that I kissed him on the forehead. Then we used to bring
you flowers to the prison. One day, as we were returning from you.
Listen. He suddenly proposed that we should go out driving. The evening
was so beautiful, and you went. How did you dare go out with
him? You had just seen my prison, you had just been near me,
and yet you dared to go with him? How base be silent?
Be silent? I know I am a criminal, but I was so exhausted,
so tired, and you were so far away. Understand me, she
began to cry, wringing her hands. Understand me. I was so exhausted,
and he he saw how I felt, and yet he dared kiss me.
He kissed you, and you allowed him on the lips. No,
no, only on the cheek, you lie. No, No, I
swear to you. I began to laugh. You responded, and you were
driving in the forest. You my fiancee, my love, my dream,
and all this for my sake. Tell me speak. In my rage,
I wrung her arms and wriggling like a snake, vainly trying to evade my
look. She whispered, forgive me, forgive me, How many children have
you forgive me? But my reason forsook me, and in my growing rage,
I cried, stamping my foot. How many children have you? Speak?
Or I will kill you. I actually said this. Evidently I was
losing my reason completely if I could threaten to kill a helpless woman, and
she, surmising apparently that my threats were mere words, answered with faint readiness,
kill me. You have a right to do it. I am a
criminal. I deceived you. You are a martyr, a saint. When
you told me, is it true that even in your thoughts? You never
deceived me? Even in your thoughts? And again an abyss opened be for
me. Everything trembled, everything fell, Everything became an absurd dream. And
in the last effort to save my extinguished reason, I shouted, but you
are happy. You cannot be unhappy. You have no right to be unhappy.
Otherwise I shall lose my mind. But she did not understand. With
a bitter laugh, with a senseless smile in which her suffering mingled with bright,
heavenly joy, she said, I am happy. I happy, Oh,
my dear friend. Only near you I can find happiness. From the
moment you left the prison, I began to despise my home. I am
alone there. I am a stranger to all. If you only I knew
how I hate that scoundrel. You are sensible, You must have felt that
you were not alone in prison, that I was always with you there,
and he be silent, Be silent, if you only heard with what delight.
I called him scoundrel. She burst into laughter, frightening me by the
wild expression on her face. Just think of it. All his life he
embraced only a lie, and when deceived, happy, he fell asleep.
I looked at him with wide open eyes. I gnashed my teeth softly,
and I felt like pinching him, like sticking him with a pin. She
burst into laughter again. It seemed to me that she was driving wedges into
my brain, clasping my head. I cried, you lie, you lie
to me. Indeed, it was easier for me to speak to the ghost
than to the woman. What could I say to her? My mind was
growing dim, and how could I repulse her? When she, full of
love and passion, kissed my hands, my eyes, my face. It
was she my love, my dream, my bitter sorrow. I love you,
I love you, and I believed her. I believed her love.
I believed everything. And once more I felt that my locks were black,
and I saw mysel of young again, and I knelt before her and wept
for a long time, and whispered to her about my solf for rings,
about the pain of solitude, about a heart cruelly broken, about offended,
disfigured, mutilated thoughts, and laughing and crying. She stroked my hair.
Suddenly she noticed that it was gray, and she cried strangely, what is
it? And life? I am an old woman? Already on leaving me,
she demanded that I escort her to the threshold like a young man,
and I did. Before going, she said to me, I am coming
back tomorrow. I know my children will deny me. My daughter is to
marry soon. You and I will go away. Do you love me?
I do. We will go far, far away. My dear. You
wanted to deliver some lectures. You should not do it. I don't like
what you say about that iron grate. You are exhausted. You need a
rest. Shall it be so? Yes? Oh, I forgot my veil.
Keep it, Keep it as a remembrance of this day, my dear.
In the vestibule, in the presence of the sleepy porter she kissed me,
there was the odor of some new perfume, unlike the perfume with which
her letter was sent. It and her coquettish laugh was like a sob as
she disappeared behind the glass door. That night, I aroused my servant,
ordered him to pack our things, and we went away. I shall not
say where I am at present, but the last night and tonight therees were
rustling over my head, and the rain was beating against my windows. Here
the windows are small, and I feel much better. I wrote her a
rather long letter, the contents of which I shall not reproduce. I shall
never see her again. But what am I to do? May the reader
pardon these incoherent questions? They are so natural in a man in my condition.
Besides, I caught an acute romatism while traveling, which is most painful
and even dangerous for a man of my age, and which does not permit
me to reason calmly. For some reason or another, I think very often
about my young friend Kay, who went to an untimely grave. How does
he feel in his new prison? Tomorrow morning, if my strength will permit
me, I intend to pay a visit to the warden of our prison and
to his esteemed wife our prison. End of chapter ten, Chapter eleven of
the Man who Found the Truth by Leonit Nikolayevich Andreyev, translated by Hermann Bernstein.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Carolyn Chapter eleven.
I am profoundly happy to inform my dear reader that I have completely recovered
my physical as well as my spiritual powers. A long rest out in the
country emid nature's soothing beauties, the contemplation of village life, which is so
simple and bright, the absence of the noise of the city, where hundreds
of windmills are stupidly flapping their long arms before your very nose. And finally,
the complete solitude undisturbed by anything. All these have restored to my unbalanced
view of the world, all its former steadiness and its iron irresistible firmness.
I look upon my future calmly and confidently, and although it promises me nothing
but a lonely grave and the last journeyed to an unknown distance, I am
ready to meet death just as courageously as I lived my life, drawing strength
from my solitude, from the consciousness of my innocence and my uprightness. After
long hesitations which are not quite intelligible to me, now I finally resolved to
establish for myself this system of our prison in all its rigidness. For that
purpose. Finding a small house in the outskirts of the city, which was
to be leased for a long term of years, I hired it. Then
with the kinder sistance of the warden of our prison. I cannot express my
gratitude to him adequately enough. In words, I invited to the new place
one of the most experienced jay Lass, who is still a young man,
but already hardened in the strict principles of our prison. Availing myself of his
instruction and also of the suggestion of the obliging warden, I have engaged workmen
who transformed one of the rims into a cell. The measurements, as well
as the foreman, all the details of my new and I hope my last
dwelling are strictly in accordance with my plan. My cell is eight by four
yards four yards high. The walls are painted gray at the bottom. The
upper parts of the walls and the ceiling are white, and near the ceiling
there's a square window one and a half by one and a half yards with
a massive iron grate which has already become rusty with age. In the door
locked with a heavy and strong lock, which issues a loud crak at each
turn of the key. There is a small hole for observation, and below
it a little window through which the food is brought and received. The furnishing
of the cell a table, a chair, and a cot fastened to the
wall. On the wall a crucifix, my portray and the rules concerning the
conduct of the prisoners in a black frame, and in the corner a closet
filled with books, this last being a violation of the strict harmony of my
dwelling, I was compared held to do by extreme and sad necessity. The
jailer positively refused to be my librarian and to bring the books according to my
order, and to engage a special librarian seemed to me to be an act
of unnecessary eccentricity. Aside from this, in elaborating my plans, I met
with strong opposition, not only from the local population, which simply declared me
to be insane, but even from the enlightened people. Even the warden endeavored
for some time to dissuade me, But finally he clasped my hand warmly with
an expression of sincere regret at not being in a position to offer me a
place in our present. I cannot recall the first day of my confinement without
a bitter smile. A mob of impertinent and ignorant idlers yelled from morning till
night at my window with their heads lifted high. My cells situated in the
second story, and they heaped upon me senseless abuse. There were even efforts,
to the disgrace of my townspeople, to storm my dwelling, and one
heavy stone almost crushed my head. Only the police, which arrived in time,
succeeded in averting the catastrophe. When in the evening I went out for
a walk, hundreds of fools, adults and children followed me, shouting and
whistling, keeping abuse upon me, and even hurling mud at me. Thus,
like a persecuted prophet, I wended my way without fear, amidst the
maddened crowd, answering their blows and curses with proud silence. What has stirred
these fools? In What way have I offended their empty heads? When I
lied to them, they kissed my hands. Now, when I have re
established the sacred truth of my life in all its strictness and purity, they
burst into curses. They branded me with contempt. They hurled mud at me.
They were disturbed because I dared to live alone, and because I did
not ask them for a place in the common cell for rogues. How difficult
it is to be truthful in this world. True, My perseverance and firmness
finally defeated them with the naivete of savages who honor all they do not understand.
They commenced in the second year to bow to me, and they are
making ever lower bows to me because their amazement is growing ever greater, their
fear of the inexplicable is growing ever deeper. And the fact that I never
respond to their greatings fills them with delight. And the fact that I never
smile in response to their flattering smiles fills them with the firm assurance that they
are guilt before me for some grave wrong, and that I know their guilt.
Having lost confidence in their own and other people's words, they rever my
silence, even as people rever every silence and every mystery. If I were
to start to speak suddenly, I would again become human to them, and
would disillusion them bitterly, no matter what I would say in my silence,
I am to them like their eternally silent God. For these strange people would
cease believing their God as soon as their God would commence to speak. Their
women are already regarding me as a saint, and the kneeling women and sick
ch children that I often find at the threshold of my dwelling undoubtedly expect of
me a trifle to heal them to perform a miracle. Well, another year
or two will pass, and I shall commence to perform miracles as well as
those of whom they speak with such enthusiasm. Strange people. At times,
I feel sorry for them, and I begin to feel really angry at the
devil who so skillfully mixed the cards in their game that only the cheat knows
the truth, his little cheating truth about the marked queens and the marked kings.
They bow too low, however, and this hinders me from developing a
sense of mercy. Otherwise, smile at my jest, indulgent reader, I
would not restrain myself from the temptation of performing two or three small but effective
miracles. I must go back to the description of my present. Having constructed
myself completely, I offered my jailer the following alternative, he must observe with
regard to me the worlds of the prison regime in all its rigidness, And
in that case he would inherit all my fortune according to my will, or
he would receive nothing if he failed to do his duty. It seemed that
in putting the matter before him so clearly, I would meet with no difficulties.
Yet at the very first instance, when I should have been incarcerated for
violating some prison regulation, this naive and timid man absolutely refused to do it.
And only when I threatened to get another man immediately a more conscientious jailer
was he compelled to perform his duty. Though he always locked the door punctually,
he at first neglected his duty of watching me through the peephole, And
when I tried to test his firmness by suggesting a change in some rule or
other to the detriment of common sense, he yielded willingly and quickly. One
day, on trapping him in this way, I said to him, my
friend, you are simply foolish. If you will not watch me and guard
me properly, I shall run away to another prison, taking my legacy along
with me. What will you do then I am happy to inform you that
at the present time, all these misunderstandings have been removed. And if there's
anything I can complain of, it is rather excessive strictness than mildness. Now
that my Jaila has entered into the spirit of his position, this honest man
trades me with extreme sternness, not for the sake of the prophet, but
for the sake of the principle. Thus, in the beginning of this week
he incarcerated me for twenty four hours for violating some rule of which it seemed
to me I was not guilty, and protesting against this seeming injustice, I
had the unpardonable weakness to say to him. In the end, I will
drive you away from here. You must not forget that you are my servant.
Before you drive me away, I will incarcerate you, replied this worthy
man. But how about the money, I asked with astonishment. Don't you
know that you will be deprived of it? Do I need your money?
I would give up all my own money if I could stop being what I
am. But what can I do if you violate the rule and I must
punish you by incarcerating you? I am powerless to describe the joyous emotion which
came over me at the thought that the consciousness of duty had at last entered
his dark mind, and that now, even if in a moment of weakness
I wanted to leave my prison, my conscientious Jaila would not permit me to
do it. The spark of firmness which glittered in his round eyes showed me
clearly that no matter where I might run away, he would find me and
bring me back, and that the revolver, which he often forgot to take
before, and which he now cleans every day, would do its work in
the event I decided to run away, And for the first time in all
these years, I fell asleep on the stone floor of my dark cell with
a happy smile, realizing that my plan was crowned with complete success, passing
from the realm of eccentricity to the domain of stern and austere reality. And
the fear which I felt while falling asleep in the presence of my Jaila,
my fear of his resolute look, of his revolver, my timid desire to
hear a word of praise from him, or to call forth perhaps a smile
on his lips, re echoed in my soul as the harmonious clanking of my
eternal and last chines. Thus I pass my last years as before. My
health is sound and my free spirit is clear. Let some call me fool
and laugh at me in their pitiful blindness. Let others regard me as a
saint and expect me to perform miracles, an upright man to some people,
to others, a liar and a deceiver. I myself know who I am,
and I do not ask them to understand me. And if there are
people who will accuse me of deception, of baseness, even of the lack
of simple honor, for there are scoundrels who are convinced to this day that
I committed murder, no one will dare accuse me of cowardice. No one
will dare say that I could not perform my painful duty to the end.
From the beginning till the end, I remained firm and unbribable. And though
a bugbear, a fanatic, a dark horror to some people, I may
awaken an others a heroic dream of the infinite power of man. I have
long discontinued to receive visitors, and with the death of the warden of our
prison, my only true friend, whom I visited occasionally. My last tie
with this world was broken. Only I and my ferocious Jayla, who watches
every movement of mine with mad suspicion. And the black grate which has caught
in its iron embrace and muzzled the infinite. This is my life, silently
accepting the low bows, in my cold estrangement from the people. I am
passing my last road. I am thinking of death ever more frequently. But
even before death, I do not bend my fearless look. Whether it brings
me eternal arrest or a new, unknown and terrible struggle, I am humbly
prepared to accept it. Farewell, my dear reader, like a vague phantom,
you appeared before my eyes and past, leaving me alone before the face
of life and death. Do not be angry, because at times I deceived
you and lied. You too would have lied, perhaps in my place.
Nevertheless, I loved you sincerely and sincerely longed for your love, and the
thought of your sympathy for me was quite a support to me in my movements
and days of hardship. I am sending you my last farewell and my sincere
advice forget about my existence, even as I shall henceforth forgets about yours.
Forever. A deserted field, overgrown with high grass, devoid of an echo,
extends like a deep carpet to the very fence of our prison, whose
majestic outlines subdue my imagination and my mind. When the dying sun illumines it
with its last rays, and our prison, all in red, stands like
a queen, like a martyr, with the dark wounds of its grated windows,
and the sun rises silently and proudly over the plain with sorrow, Like
a lover, I send my complaints and my sighs, and my tender reproach,
and vows to her, to my love, to my dream, to
my bitter and last sorrow. I wish I could forever remain near her.
But here I look back, and black against the fiery frame of the sunset
stands my jailer, stands and waits with a sigh. I go back in
silence, and he moves behind me, noiselessly, about two steps away,
watching every move of mine. Our prison is beautiful at sunset. End of
Chapter eleven and of the Man Who Found the Truth by Leoni T. Nikolayevitch
Andreyev, translated by Hermann Bernstein, recorded by Carolyn in Groningen in the Netherlands
in May and June twenty fifteen. Thank you for listening.