The Crushed Flower & Other Stories

Something altogether unexpected has happened; the efforts of my friends, the Warden and his wife, were crowned with success, and for two months I have been free, out of prison.

I am happy to inform you that immediately upon my leaving the prison I occupied a very honourable position, to which I could hardly have aspired, conscious of my humble qualities.  The entire press met me with unanimous enthusiasm.  Numerous journalists, photographers, even caricaturists (the people of our time are so fond of laughter and clever witticisms), in hundreds of articles and drawings reproduced the story of my remarkable life.  With striking unanimity the newspapers assigned to me the name of “Master,” a highly flattering name, which I accepted, after some hesitation, with deep gratitude.  I do not know whether it is worth mentioning the few hostile notices called forth by irritation and envy—­a vice which so frequently stains the human soul.  In one of these notices, which appeared, by the way, in a very filthy little newspaper, a certain scamp, guided by wretched gossip and baseless rumours about my chats in our prison, called me a “zealot and liar.”  Enraged by the insolence of the miserable scribbler, my friends wanted to prosecute him, but I persuaded them not to do it.  Vice is its own proper punishment.

The fortune which my kind mother had left me and which had grown considerably during the time I was in prison has enabled me to settle down to a life of luxury in one of the most aristocratic hotels.  I have a large retinue of servants at my command and an automobile—­a splendid invention with which I now became acquainted for the first time—­and I have skilfully arranged my financial affairs.  Live flowers brought to me in abundance by my charming lady visitors give to my nook the appearance of a flower garden or even a bit of a tropical forest.  My servant, a very decent young man, is in a state of despair.  He says that he had never seen such a variety of flowers and had never smelled such a variety of odours at the same time.  If not for my advanced age and the strict and serious propriety with which I treat my visitors, I do not know how far they would have gone in the expression of their feelings.  How many perfumed notes!  How many languid sighs and humbly imploring eyes!  There was even a fascinating stranger with a black veil—­three times she appeared mysteriously, and when she learned that I had visitors she disappeared just as mysteriously.

I will add that at the present time I have had the honour of being elected an honourary member of numerous humanitarian organisations such as “The League of Peace,” “The League for Combating Juvenile Criminality,” “The Society of the Friends of Man,” and others.  Besides, at the request of the editor of one of the most widely read newspapers, I am to begin next month a series of public lectures, for which purpose I am going on a tour together with my kind impresario.

I have already prepared my material for the first three lectures and, in the hope that my reader may be interested, I shall give the synopsis of these lectures.

FIRST LECTURE

Chaos or order?  The eternal struggle between chaos and order.  The eternal revolt and the defeat of chaos, the rebel.  The triumph of law and order.

SECOND LECTURE

What is the soul of man?  The eternal conflict in the soul of man between chaos, whence it came, and harmony, whither it strives irresistibly.  Falsehood, as the offspring of chaos, and Truth, as the child of harmony.  The triumph of truth and the downfall of falsehood.

THIRD LECTURE

THE EXPLANATION OF THE SACRED FORMULA OF THE IRON GRATE

As my indulgent reader will see, justice is after all not an empty sound, and I am getting a great reward for my sufferings.  But not daring to reproach fate which was so merciful to me, I nevertheless do not feel that sense of contentment which, it would seem, I ought to feel.  True, at first I was positively happy, but soon my habit for strictly logical reasoning, the clearness and honesty of my views, gained by contemplating the world through a mathematically correct grate, have led me to a series of disillusions.

I am afraid to say it now with full certainty, but it seems to me that all their life of this so-called freedom is a continuous self-deception and falsehood.  The life of each of these people, whom I have seen during these days, is moving in a strictly defined circle, which is just as solid as the corridors of our prison, just as closed as the dial of the watches which they, in the innocence of their mind, lift every minute to their eyes, not understanding the fatal meaning of the eternally moving hand, which is eternally returning to its place, and each of them feels this, even as the circus horse probably feels it, but in a state of strange blindness each one assures us that he is perfectly free and moving forward.  Like the stupid bird which is beating itself to exhaustion against the transparent glass obstacle, without understanding what it is that obstructs its way, these people are helplessly beating against the walls of their glass prison.

I was greatly mistaken, it seems, also in the significance of the greetings which fell to my lot when I left the prison.  Of course I was convinced that in me they greeted the representative of our prison, a leader hardened by experience, a master, who came to them only for the purpose of revealing to them the great mystery of purpose.  And when they congratulated me upon the freedom granted to me I responded with thanks, not suspecting what an idiotic meaning they placed on the word.  May I be forgiven this coarse expression, but I am powerless now to restrain my aversion for their stupid life, for their thoughts, for their feelings.

Foolish hypocrites, fearing to tell the truth even when it adorns them!  My hardened truthfulness was cruelly taxed in the midst of these false and trivial people.  Not a single person believed that I was never so happy as in prison.  Why, then, are they so surprised at me, and why do they print my portraits?  Are there so few idiots that are unhappy in prison?  And the most remarkable thing, which only my indulgent reader will be able to appreciate, is this:  Often distrusting me completely, they nevertheless sincerely go into raptures over me, bowing before me, clasping my hands and mumbling at every step, “Master!  Master!”

If they only profited by their constant lying—­but, no; they are perfectly disinterested, and they lie as though by some one’s higher order; they lie in the fanatical conviction that falsehood is in no way different from the truth.  Wretched actors, even incapable of a decent makeup, they writhe from morning till night on the boards of the stage, and, dying the most real death, suffering the most real sufferings, they bring into their deathly convulsions the cheap art of the harlequin.  Even their crooks are not real; they only play the roles of crooks, while remaining honest people; and the role of honest people is played by rogues, and played poorly, and the public sees it, but in the name of the same fatal falsehood it gives them wreaths and bouquets.  And if there is really a talented actor who can wipe away the boundary between truth and deception, so that even they begin to believe, they go into raptures, call him great, start a subscription for a monument, but do not give any money.  Desperate cowards, they fear themselves most of all, and admiring delightedly the reflection of their spuriously made-up faces in the mirror, they howl with fear and rage when some one incautiously holds up the mirror to their soul.

My indulgent reader should accept all this relatively, not forgetting that certain grumblings are natural in old age.  Of course, I have met quite a number of most worthy people, absolutely truthful, sincere, and courageous; I am proud to admit that I found among them also a proper estimate of my personality.  With the support of these friends of mine I hope to complete successfully my struggle for truth and justice.  I am sufficiently strong for my sixty years, and, it seems, there is no power that could break my iron will.

At times I am seized with fatigue owing to their absurd mode of life.  I have not the proper rest even at night.

The consciousness that while going to bed I may absent-mindedly have forgotten to lock my bedroom door compels me to jump from my bed dozens of times and to feel the lock with a quiver of horror.

Not long ago it happened that I locked my door and hid the key under my pillow, perfectly confident that my room was locked, when suddenly I heard a knock, then the door opened, and my servant entered with a smile on his face.  You, dear reader, will easily understand the horror I experienced at this unexpected visit—­it seemed to me that some one had entered my soul.  And though I have absolutely nothing to conceal, this breaking into my room seems to me indecent, to say the least.

I caught a cold a few days ago—­there is a terrible draught in their windows—­and I asked my servant to watch me at night.  In the morning I asked him, in jest: 

“Well, did I talk much in my sleep?”

“No, you didn’t talk at all.”

“I had a terrible dream, and I remember I even cried.”

“No, you smiled all the time, and I thought—­what fine dreams our Master must see!”

The dear youth must have been sincerely devoted to me, and I am deeply moved by such devotion during these painful days.

To-morrow I shall sit down to prepare my lectures.  It is high time!