The Crushed Flower & Other Stories

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 make-up 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.

K. told me very little of his past life.

“Well, what is there to tell?  I was 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 violence and threats.  During one of these painful minutes, when K.’s will power 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.

K.’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 live and truthful nature.) Thus, owing to the nature of the material, before commencing a new picture, K. had to destroy the previous one by wiping it off his slate, and this seemed to lead him every time to the verge 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 whistle some tune, and once I was even incarcerated for that, as it is forbidden to whistle in this cursed 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 sympathise 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 good-bye 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 it.  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 anew.  What 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 K. In one of those paroxysms of despair, which frighten the Warden of our prison, K. 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 endeavouring to hold his fingers which were tearing his clothes.  I knew that for this breach of discipline new incarceration awaited him.

“O, 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 any one should under similar circumstances, not to irritate him by unnecessary contradictions.

“Thank you, old man,” said K., 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 lightminded 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 masque, 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 skilfully fastened by the back of the cot.  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 cot, 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 drawing on the walls are permissible?”

“I know no rules,” said K. morosely.

“And then,” I continued, sternly this time, “you lied to me, my friend.  You said that you did not take the pencil into your hands for a whole week.”

“Of course I didn’t,” said the artist, with a strange smile, and even a challenge.  Even when caught red-handed, 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 colour 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 that 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 spoiled 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 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 outside?”

By the expression of K.’s 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 inscription or drawing on the walls 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 every one who wished it were to leave upon them his profane marks?”

“To the devil with it!”

This is exactly how K. 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 can’t 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 coward!  Oh, if 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.  I—­a coward!  The world has crumbled upon my head, but 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 K.’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 in deed?”

“You wish to help me?  In what way?”

“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 in joy.  He pressed my hand warmly, shook me, disturbing my old bones; he called me friend, father, even “dear old phiz” (!) and a thousand other endearing and somewhat naive names.  To my regret our conversation lasted too long, and, notwithstanding 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 prison that rather foolish young man could have discovered.  Was it possible to run away from our prison?  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 K. 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 prison.

But, tormented by doubts, I measured my lonely cell for a long time, thinking of various plans that might relieve K.’s 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!