LazarusIWhen Lazarus rose from the grave, after three days and nights in the mysterious thraldom of death, and returned alive to his home, it was a long time before any one noticed the evil peculiarities in him that were later to make his very name terrible. His friends and relatives were jubilant that he had come back to life. They surrounded him with tenderness, they were lavish of their eager attentions, spending the greatest care upon his food and drink and the new garments they made for him. They clad him gorgeously in the glowing colours of hope and laughter, and when, arrayed like a bridegroom, he sat at table with them again, ate again,and drank again, they wept fondly and summoned the neighbours to look upon the man miraculously raised from the dead.The neighbours came and were moved with joy. trangers arrived from distant cities and villages to worship the miracle. They burst into stormy e!clamations, and buzzed around the house of "ary and "artha, like so many bees.That which was new in Lazarus# face and gestures they e!plained naturally, as the traces of hissevere illness and the shock he had passed through. $t was evident that the disintegration of the body had been halted by a miraculous power, but that the restoration had not been complete% that death had left upon his face and body the effect of an artist#s unfinished sketchseen through a thin glass. &n his temples, under his eyes, and in the hollow of his cheek lay a thick, earthy blue. His fingers were blue, too, and under his nails, which had grown long in thegrave, the blue had turned livid. Here and there on his lips and body, the skin, blistered in the grave, had burst open and left reddish glistening cracks, as if covered with a thin, glassy slime. 'nd he had grown e!ceedingly stout. His body was horribly bloated and suggested the fetid, damp smell of putrefaction. (ut the cadaverous, heavy odour that clung to his burial garments and, as it seemed, to his very body, soon wore off, and after some time the blue of his hands and face softened, and the reddish cracks of his skin smoothed out, though they never disappeared completely. uch was the aspect of Lazarus in his second life. $t looked natural only to those who had seen him buried.)ot merely Lazarus# face, but his very character, it seemed, had changed% though it astonishedno one and did not attract the attention it deserved. (efore his death Lazarus had been cheerful and careless, a lover of laughter and harmless jest. $t was because of his good humour, pleasant and e*uable, his freedom from meanness and gloom, that he had been so beloved by the "aster. )ow he was grave and silent% neither he himself jested nor did he laugh at the jests of others% and the words he spoke occasionally were simple, ordinary and necessary words++words as much devoid of sense and depth as are the sounds with which an animal e!presses pain and pleasure, thirst and hunger. uch words a man may speak all his life and no one would ever know the sorrows and joys that dwelt within him.Thus it was that Lazarus sat at the festive table among his friends and relatives++his face the face of a corpse over which, for three days, death had reigned in darkness, his garments gorgeous and festive, glittering with gold, bloody+red and purple% his mien heavy and silent. He was horribly changed and strange, but as yet undiscovered. $n high waves, now mild, now stormy, the festivities went on around him. Warm glances of love caressed his face, still cold with the touch of the grave% and a friend#s warm hand patted his bluish, heavy hand. 'nd the music played joyous tunes mingled of the sounds of the tympanum, the pipe, the zither and the dulcimer. $t was as if bees were humming, locusts buzzing and birds singing over the happy home of "ary and "artha.IIome one recklessly lifted the veil. (y one breath of an uttered word he destroyed the serene charm, and uncovered the truth in its ugly nakedness. )o thought was clearly defined in his mind, when his lips smilingly asked, -Why do you not tell us, Lazarus, what was There.- 'nd all became silent, struck with the *uestion. &nly now it seemed to have occurred to them that for three days Lazarus had been dead% and they looked with curiosity, awaiting an answer. (ut Lazarus remained silent.-/ou will not tell us.- wondered the in*uirer. -$s it so terrible There.-'gain his thought lagged behind his words. Had it preceded them, he would not have asked the *uestion, for, at the very moment he uttered it, his heart sank with a dread fear. 'll grew restless% they awaited the words of Lazarus an!iously. (ut he was silent, cold and severe, and his eyes were cast down. 'nd now, as if for the first time, they perceived the horrible bluishness of his face and the loathsome corpulence of his body. &n the table, as if forgotten by Lazarus, lay his livid blue hand, and all eyes were riveted upon it, as though e!pecting the desired answer from that hand. The musicians still played% then silence fell upon them, too, and the gay sounds died down, as scattered coals are e!tinguished by water. The pipe becamemute, and the ringing tympanum and the murmuring dulcimer% and as though a chord were broken, as though song itself were dying, the zither echoed a trembling broken sound. Then allwas *uiet.-/ou will not.- repeated the in*uirer, unable to restrain his babbling tongue. ilence reigned, and the livid blue hand lay motionless. $t moved slightly, and the company sighed with relief and raised their eyes. Lazarus, risen from the dead, was looking straight at them, embracing all with one glance, heavy and terrible.This was on the third day after Lazarus had arisen from the grave. ince then many had felt that his gaze was the gaze of destruction, but neither those who had been forever crushed by it, nor those who in the prime of life 0mysterious even as death1 had found the will to resist hisglance, could ever e!plain the terror that lay immovable in the depths of his black pupils. He looked *uiet and simple. &ne felt that he had no intention to hide anything, but also no intention to tell anything. His look was cold, as of one who is entirely indifferent to all that is alive. 'nd many careless people who pressed around him, and did not notice him, later learned with wonder and fear the name of this stout, *uiet man who brushed against them with his sumptuous, gaudy garments. The sun did not stop shining when he looked, neither did the fountain cease playing, and the 2astern sky remained cloudless and blue as always% but the man who fell under his inscrutable gaze could no longer feel the sun, nor hear the fountain, nor recognise his native sky. ometimes he would cry bitterly, sometimes tear his hair in despair and madly call for help% but generally it happened that the men thus stricken by the gaze of Lazarus began to fade away listlessly and *uietly and pass into a slow death lasting many long years. They died in the presence of everybody, colourless, haggard and gloomy, like trees withering on rocky ground. Those who screamed in madness sometimes came back to life% but the others, never.-o you will not tell us, Lazarus, what you saw There.- the in*uirer repeated for the third time. (ut now his voice was dull, and a dead, grey weariness looked stupidly from out his eyes. The faces of all present were also covered by the same dead grey weariness like a mist. The guests stared at one another stupidly, not knowing why they had come together or why they sat around this rich table. They stopped talking, and vaguely felt it was time to leave% butthey could not overcome the lassitude that spread through their muscles. o they continued tosit there, each one isolated, like little dim lights scattered in the darkness of night.The musicians were paid to play, and they again took up the instruments, and again played gay or mournful airs. (ut it was music made to order, always the same tunes, and the guests listened wonderingly. Why was this music necessary, they thought, why was it necessary and what good did it do for people to pull at strings and blow their cheeks into thin pipes, and produce varied and strange+sounding noises.-How badly they play3- said some one.The musicians were insulted and left. Then the guests departed one by one, for it was nearing night. 'nd when the *uiet darkness enveloped them, and it became easier to breathe, the image of Lazarus suddenly arose before each one in stern splendour. There he stood, with the blue face of a corpse and the raiment of a bridegroom, sumptuous and resplendent, in his eyesthat cold stare in the depths of which lurkedThe Horrible! They stood still as if turned into stone. The darkness surrounded them, and in the midst of this darkness flamed up the horrible apparition, the supernatural vision, of the one who for three days had lain under the measureless power of death. Three days he had been dead. Thrice had the sun risen and set++and he had lain dead. The children had played, the water had murmured as it streamed over the rocks, the hot dust had clouded the highway++and he had been dead. 'nd now he was among men again++touched them++looked at them++looked at them! 'nd through the black rings of his pupils, as through dark glasses, the unfathomable There gazed upon humanity.III)o one took care of Lazarus, and no friends or kindred remained with him. &nly the great desert, enfolding the Holy 4ity, came close to the threshold of his abode. $t entered his home, and lay down on his couch like a spouse, and put out all the fires. )o one cared for Lazarus. &ne after the other went away, even his sisters, "ary and "artha. 5or a long while "artha did not want to leave him, for she knew not who would nurse him or take care of him% and she cried and prayed. (ut one night, when the wind was roaming about the desert, and the rustling cypress trees were bending over the roof, she dressed herself *uietly, and *uietly wentaway. Lazarus probably heard how the door was slammed++it had not shut properly and the wind kept knocking it continually against the post++but he did not rise, did not go out, did not try to find out the reason. 'nd the whole night until the morning the cypress trees hissed over his head, and the door swung to and fro, allowing the cold, greedily prowling desert to enter his dwelling. 2verybody shunned him as though he were a leper. They wanted to put a bell on his neck to avoid meeting him. (ut some one, turning pale, remarked it would be terrible if at night, under the windows, one should happen to hear Lazarus# bell, and all grew pale and assented.ince he did nothing for himself, he would probably have starved had not his neighbours, in trepidation, saved some food for him. 4hildren brought it to him. They did not fear him, neither did they laugh at him in the innocent cruelty in which children often laugh at unfortunates. They were indifferent to him, and Lazarus showed the same indifference to them. He showed no desire to thank them for their services% he did not try to pat the dark hands and look into the simple shining little eyes. 'bandoned to the ravages of time and the desert, his house was falling to ruins, and his hungry, bleating goats had long been scattered among his neighbours. His wedding garments had grown old. He wore them without changing them, as he had donned them on that happy day when the musicians played. He did not see the difference between old and new, between torn and whole. The brilliant colours were burnt and faded% the vicious dogs of the city and the sharp thorns of the desert had rent the fine clothes to shreds.6uring the day, when the sun beat down mercilessly upon all living things, and even the scorpions hid under the stones, convulsed with a mad desire to sting, he sat motionless in the burning rays, lifting high his blue face and shaggy wild beard.While yet the people were unafraid to speak to him, same one had asked him, -7oor Lazarus3 6o you find it pleasant to sit so, and look at the sun.- 'nd he answered, -/es, it is pleasant.-The thought suggested itself to people that the cold of the three days in the grave had been sointense, its darkness so deep, that there was not in all the earth enough heat or light to warm Lazarus and lighten the gloom of his eyes% and in*uirers turned away with a sigh.'nd when the setting sun, flat and purple+red, descended to earth, Lazarus went into the desert and walked straight toward it, as though intending to reach it. 'lways he walked directly toward the sun, and those who tried to follow him and find out what he did at night in the desert had indelibly imprinted upon their mind#s vision the black silhouette of a tall, stout man against the red background of an immense disk. The horrors of the night drove them away, and so they never found out what Lazarus did in the desert% but the image of the black form against the red was burned forever into their brains. Like an animal with a cinder in its eye which furiously rubs its muzzle against its paws, they foolishly rubbed their eyes% but the impression left by Lazarus was ineffaceable, forgotten only in death.There were people living far away who never saw Lazarus and only heard of him. With an audacious curiosity which is stronger than fear and feeds on fear, with a secret sneer in their hearts, some of them came to him one day as he basked in the sun, and entered into conversation with him. 't that time his appearance had changed for the better and was not so frightful. 't first the visitors snapped their fingers and thought disapprovingly of the foolish inhabitants of the Holy 4ity. (ut when the short talk came to an end and they went home, their e!pression was such that the inhabitants of the Holy 4ity at once knew their errand and said, -Here go some more madmen at whom Lazarus has looked.- The speakers raised their hands in silent pity.&ther visitors came, among them brave warriors in clinking armour, who knew not fear, and happy youths who made merry with laughter and song. (usy merchants, jingling their coins, ran in for awhile, and proud attendants at the Temple placed their staffs at Lazarus# door. (ut no one returned the same as he came. ' frightful shadow fell upon their souls, and gave a newappearance to the old familiar world.Those who felt any desire to speak, after they had been stricken by the gaze of Lazarus, described the change that had come over them somewhat like this,All objects seen by the eye and palpable to the hand became empty, light and transparent, as though they were light shadows in the darkness; and this darkness enveloped the whole universe. It was dispelled neither by the sun, nor by the moon, nor by the stars, but embraced the earth like a mother, and clothed it in a boundless black veil.Into all bodies it penetrated, even into iron and stone; and the particles o the body lost their unity and became lonely. !ven to the heart o the particles it penetrated, and the particles o the particles became lonely.The vast emptiness which surrounds the universe, was not illed with things seen, with sun or moon or stars; it stretched boundless, penetrating everywhere, disuniting everything, body rom body, particle rom particle.In emptiness the trees spread their roots, themselves empty; in emptiness rose phantom temples, palaces and houses""all empty; and in the emptiness moved restless #an, himsel empty and light, like a shadow.There was no more a sense o time; the beginning o all things and their end merged into one.In the very moment when a building was being erected and one could hear the builders striking with their hammers, one seemed already to see its ruins, and then emptiness where the ruins were.A man was just born, and uneral candles were already lighted at his head, and then were e$tinguished; and soon there was emptiness where beore had been the man and the candles.And surrounded by %arkness and !mpty &aste, #an trembled hopelessly beore the dread o the Ininite.o spoke those who had a desire to speak. (ut much more could probably have been told by those who did not want to talk, and who died in silence.IV't that time there lived in 8ome a celebrated sculptor by the name of 'urelius. &ut of clay, marble and bronze he created forms of gods and men of such beauty that this beauty was proclaimed immortal. (ut he himself was not satisfied, and said there was a supreme beauty that he had never succeeded in e!pressing in marble or bronze. -$ have not yet gathered the radiance of the moon,- he said% -$ have not yet caught the glare of the sun. There is no soul inmy marble, there is no life in my beautiful bronze.- 'nd when by moonlight he would slowly wander along the roads, crossing the black shadows of the cypress+trees, his white tunic flashing in the moonlight, those he met used to laugh good+naturedly and say, -$s it moonlightthat you are gathering, 'urelius. Why did you not bring some baskets along.-'nd he, too, would laugh and point to his eyes and say, -Here are the baskets in which $ gather the light of the moon and the radiance of the sun.-'nd that was the truth. $n his eyes shone moon and sun. (ut he could not transmit the radiance to marble. Therein lay the greatest tragedy of his life. He was a descendant of an ancient race of patricians, had a good wife and children, and e!cept in this one respect, lackednothing.When the dark rumour about Lazarus reached him, he consulted his wife and friends and decided to make the long voyage to 9udea, in order that he might look upon the man miraculously raised from the dead. He felt lonely in those days and hoped on the way to renewhis jaded energies. What they told him about Lazarus did not frighten him. He had meditated much upon death. He did not like it, nor did he like those who tried to harmonise it with life. &n this side, beautiful life% on the other, mysterious death, he reasoned, and no better lot could befall a man than to live++to enjoy life and the beauty of living. 'nd he already had conceived a desire to convince Lazarus of the truth of this view and to return his soul to life even as his body had been returned. This task did not appear impossible, for the reports aboutLazarus, fearsome and strange as they were, did not tell the whole truth about him, but only carried a vague warning against something awful.Lazarus was getting up from a stone to follow in the path of the setting sun, on the evening when the rich 8oman, accompanied by an armed slave, approached him, and in a ringing voicecalled to him, -Lazarus3-Lazarus saw a proud and beautiful face, made radiant by fame, and white garments and precious jewels shining in the sunlight. The ruddy rays of the sun lent to the head and face a likeness to dimly shining bronze++that was what Lazarus saw. He sank back to his seat obediently, and wearily lowered his eyes.-$t is true you are not beautiful, my poor Lazarus,- said the 8oman *uietly, playing with his gold chain. -/ou are even frightful, my poor friend% and death was not lazy the day when you so carelessly fell into its arms. (ut you are as fat as a barrel, and #5at people are not bad,# as the great 4aesar said. $ do not understand why people are so afraid of you. /ou will permit meto stay with you over night. $t is already late, and $ have no abode.-)obody had ever asked Lazarus to be allowed to pass the night with him.-$ have no bed,- said he.-$ am somewhat of a warrior and can sleep sitting,- replied the 8oman. -We shall make a light.--$ have no light.--Then we will converse in the darkness like two friends. $ suppose you have some wine.--$ have no wine.-The 8oman laughed.-)ow $ understand why you are so gloomy and why you do not like your second life. )o wine. Well, we shall do without. /ou know there are words that go to one#s head even as 5alernian wine.-With a motion of his head he dismissed the slave, and they were alone. 'nd again the sculptorspoke, but it seemed as though the sinking sun had penetrated into his words. They faded, pale and empty, as if trembling on weak feet, as if slipping and falling, drunk with the wine of anguish and despair. 'nd black chasms appeared between the two men++like remote hints of vast emptiness and vast darkness.-)ow $ am your guest and you will not ill+treat me, Lazarus3- said the 8oman. -Hospitality is binding even upon those who have been three days dead. Three days, $ am told, you were in the grave. $t must have been cold there... and it is from there that you have brought this bad habit of doing without light and wine. $ like a light. $t gets dark so *uickly here. /our eyebrowsand forehead have an interesting line, even as the ruins of castles covered with the ashes of an earth*uake. (ut why in such strange, ugly clothes. $ have seen the bridegrooms of your country, they wear clothes like that++such ridiculous clothes++such awful garments... 're you a bridegroom.-'lready the sun had disappeared. ' gigantic black shadow was approaching fast from the west, as if prodigious bare feet were rustling over the sand. 'nd the chill breezes stole up behind.-$n the darkness you seem even bigger, Lazarus, as though you had grown stouter in these few minutes. 6o you feed on darkness, perchance.... 'nd $ would like a light... just a small light... just a small light. 'nd $ am cold. The nights here are so barbarously cold... $f it were not so dark, $ should say you were looking at me, Lazarus. /es, it seems, you are looking. /ou are looking. 'ou are looking at me!... $ feel it++now you are smiling.-The night had come, and a heavy blackness filled the air.-How good it will be when the sun rises again to+morrow... /ou know $ am a great sculptor... so my friends call me. $ create, yes, they say $ create, but for that daylight is necessary. $ givelife to cold marble. $ melt the ringing bronze in the fire, in a bright, hot fire. Why did you touchme with your hand.--4ome,- said Lazarus, -you are my guest.- 'nd they went into the house. 'nd the shadows of the long evening fell on the earth...The slave at last grew tired waiting for his master, and when the sun stood high he came to the house. 'nd he saw, directly under its burning rays, Lazarus and his master sitting close together. They looked straight up and were silent.The slave wept and cried aloud, -"aster, what ails you, "aster3-The same day 'urelius left for 8ome. The whole way he was thoughtful and silent, attentively e!amining everything, the people, the ship, and the sea, as though endeavouring to recall something. &n the sea a great storm overtook them, and all the while 'urelius remained on deck and gazed eagerly at the approaching and falling waves. When he reached home his family were shocked at the terrible change in his demeanour, but he calmed them with the words, -$ have found it3-$n the dusty clothes which he had worn during the entire journey and had not changed, he began his work, and the marble ringingly responded to the resounding blows of the hammer. Long and eagerly he worked, admitting no one. 't last, one morning, he announced that the work was ready, and gave instructions that all his friends, and the severe critics and judges of art, be called together. Then he donned gorgeous garments, shining with gold, glowing with the purple of the byssin.-Here is what $ have created,- he said thoughtfully.His friends looked, and immediately the shadow of deep sorrow covered their faces. $t was a thing monstrous, possessing none of the forms familiar to the eye, yet not devoid of a hint of some new unknown form. &n a thin tortuous little branch, or rather an ugly likeness of one, lay crooked, strange, unsightly, shapeless heaps of something turned outside in, or something turned inside out++wild fragments which seemed to be feebly trying to get away from themselves. 'nd, accidentally, under one of the wild projections, they noticed a wonderfully sculptured butterfly, with transparent wings, trembling as though with a weak longing to fly.-Why that wonderful butterfly, 'urelius.- timidly asked some one.-$ do not know,- answered the sculptor.The truth had to be told, and one of his friends, the one who loved 'urelius best, said, -This isugly, my poor friend. $t must be destroyed. :ive me the hammer.- 'nd with two blows he destroyed the monstrous mass, leaving only the wonderfully sculptured butterfly.'fter that 'urelius created nothing. He looked with absolute indifference at marble and at bronze and at his own divine creations, in which dwelt immortal beauty. $n the hope of breathing into him once again the old flame of inspiration, with the idea of awakening his deadsoul, his friends led him to see the beautiful creations of others, but he remained indifferent and no smile warmed his closed lips. 'nd only after they spoke to him much and long of beauty, he would reply wearily,-(ut all this is++a lie.-'nd in the daytime, when the sun was shining, he would go into his rich and beautifully laid+out garden, and finding a place where there was no shadow, would e!pose his bare head and his dull eyes to the glitter and burning heat of the sun. 8ed and white butterflies fluttered around% down into the marble cistern ran splashing water from the crooked mouth of a blissfully drunken atyr% but he sat motionless, like a pale shadow of that other one who, in a far land, at the very gates of the stony desert, also sat motionless under the fiery sun.V'nd it came about finally that Lazarus was summoned to 8ome by the great 'ugustus.They dressed him in gorgeous garments as though it had been ordained that he was to remaina bridegroom to an unknown bride until the very day of his death. $t was as if an old coffin, rotten and falling apart, were regilded over and over, and gay tassels were hung on it. 'nd solemnly they conducted him in gala attire, as though in truth it were a bridal procession, the runners loudly sounding the trumpet that the way be made for the ambassadors of the 2mperor. (ut the roads along which he passed were deserted. His entire native land cursed thee!ecrable name of Lazarus, the man miraculously brought to life, and the people scattered at the mere report of his horrible approach. The trumpeters blew lonely blasts, and only the desert answered with a dying echo.Then they carried him across the sea on the saddest and most gorgeous ship that was ever mirrored in the azure waves of the "editerranean. There were many people aboard, but the ship was silent and still as a coffin, and the water seemed to moan as it parted before the short curved prow. Lazarus sat lonely, baring his head to the sun, and listening in silence to the splashing of the waters. 5urther away the seamen and the ambassadors gathered like a crowd of distressed shadows. $f a thunderstorm had happened to burst upon them at that timeor the wind had overwhelmed the red sails, the ship would probably have perished, for none ofthose who were on her had strength or desire enough to fight for life. With supreme effort some went to the side of the ship and eagerly gazed at the blue, transparent abyss. 7erhaps they imagined they saw a naiad flashing a pink shoulder through the waves, or an insanely joyous and drunken centaur galloping by, splashing up the water with his hoofs. (ut the sea was deserted and mute, and so was the watery abyss.Listlessly Lazarus set foot on the streets of the 2ternal 4ity, as though all its riches, all the majesty of its gigantic edifices, all the lustre and beauty and music of refined life, were simply the echo of the wind in the desert, or the misty images of hot running sand. 4hariots whirled by% the crowd of strong, beautiful, haughty men passed on, builders of the 2ternal 4ity and proud partakers of its life% songs rang out% fountains laughed% pearly laughter of women filled the air, while the drunkard philosophised and the sober ones smilingly listened% horseshoes rattled on the pavement. 'nd surrounded on all sides by glad sounds, a fat, heavy man movedthrough the centre of the city like a cold spot of silence, sowing in his path grief, anger and vague, carking distress. Who dared to be sad in 8ome. indignantly demanded frowning citizens% and in two days the swift+tongued 8ome knew of Lazarus, the man miraculously raised from the grave, and timidly evaded him.There were many brave men ready to try their strength, and at their senseless call Lazarus came obediently. The 2mperor was so engrossed with state affairs that he delayed receiving the visitor, and for seven days Lazarus moved among the people.' jovial drunkard met him with a smile on his red lips. -6rink, Lazarus, drink3- he cried, -Would not 'ugustus laugh to see you drink3- 'nd naked, besotted women laughed, and decked the blue hands of Lazarus with rose+leaves. (ut the drunkard looked into the eyes of Lazarus++and his joy ended forever. Thereafter he was always drunk. He drank no more, but was drunk all the time, shadowed by fearful dreams, instead of the joyous reveries that wine gives. 5earful dreams became the food of his broken spirit. 5earful dreams held him day and night in the mists of monstrous fantasy, and death itself was no more fearful than the apparition of its fierce precursor.Lazarus came to a youth and his lass who loved each other and were beautiful in their love. 7roudly and strongly holding in his arms his beloved one, the youth said, with gentle pity, -Look at us, Lazarus, and rejoice with us. $s there anything stronger than love.-'nd Lazarus looked at them. 'nd their whole life they continued to love one another, but their love became mournful and gloomy, even as those cypress trees over the tombs that feed their roots on the putrescence of the grave, and strive in vain in the *uiet evening hour to touch thesky with their pointed tops. Hurled by fathomless life+forces into each other#s arms, they mingled their kisses with tears, their joy with pain, and only succeeded in realising the more vividly a sense of their slavery to the silent )othing. 5orever united, forever parted, they flashed like sparks, and like sparks went out in boundless darkness.Lazarus came to a proud sage, and the sage said to him, -$ already know all the horrors that you may tell me, Lazarus. With what else can you terrify me.-&nly a few moments passed before the sage realised that the knowledge of the horrible is not the horrible, and that the sight of death is not death. 'nd he felt that in the eyes of the $nfinite wisdom and folly are the same, for the $nfinite knows them not. 'nd the boundaries between knowledge and ignorance, between truth and falsehood, between top and bottom, faded and his shapeless thought was suspended in emptiness. Then he grasped his grey head in his hands and cried out insanely, -$ cannot think3 $ cannot think3-Thus it was that under the cool gaze of Lazarus, the man miraculously raised from the dead, all that serves to affirm life, its sense and its joys, perished. 'nd people began to say it was dangerous to allow him to see the 2mperor% that it were better to kill him and bury him secretly, and swear he had disappeared. words were sharpened and youths devoted to the welfare of the people announced their readiness to become assassins, when 'ugustus upset the cruel plans by demanding that Lazarus appear before him.2ven though Lazarus could not be kept away, it was felt that the heavy impression conveyed by his face might be somewhat softened. With that end in view e!pert painters, barbers and artists were secured who worked the whole night on Lazarus# head. His beard was trimmed and curled. The disagreeable and deadly bluishness of his hands and face was covered up withpaint% his hands were whitened, his cheeks rouged. The disgusting wrinkles of suffering that ridged his old face were patched up and painted, and on the smooth surface, wrinkles of good+nature and laughter, and of pleasant, good+humoured cheeriness, were laid on artistically with fine brushes.Lazarus submitted indifferently to all they did with him, and soon was transformed into a stout, nice+looking old man, for all the world a *uiet and good+humoured grandfather of numerous grandchildren. He looked as though the smile with which he told funny stories had not left his lips, as though a *uiet tenderness still lay hidden in the corner of his eyes. (ut the wedding+dress they did not dare to take off% and they could not change his eyes++the dark, terrible eyes from out of which stared the incomprehensible There.VILazarus was untouched by the magnificence of the imperial apartments. He remained stolidly indifferent, as though he saw no contrast between his ruined house at the edge of the desert and the solid, beautiful palace of stone. ;nder his feet the hard marble of the floor took on thesemblance of the moving sands of the desert, and to his eyes the throngs of gaily dressed, haughty men were as unreal as the emptiness of the air. They looked not into his face as he passed by, fearing to come under the awful bane of his eyes% but when the sound of his heavy steps announced that he had passed, heads were lifted, and eyes e!amined with timid curiosity the figure of the corpulent, tall, slightly stooping old man, as he slowly passed into the heart of the imperial palace. $f death itself had appeared men would not have feared it so much% for hitherto death had been known to the dead only, and life to the living only, and between these two there had been no bridge. (ut this strange being knew death, and that knowledge of his was felt to be mysterious and cursed. -He will kill our great, divine 'ugustus,- men cried with horror, and they hurled curses after him. lowly and stolidly he passed them by, penetrating ever deeper into the palace.4aesar knew already who Lazarus was, and was prepared to meet him. He was a courageous man% he felt his power was invincible, and in the fateful encounter with the man -wonderfully raised from the dead- he refused to lean on other men#s weak help. "an to man, face to face, he met Lazarus.-6o not fi! your gaze on me, Lazarus,- he commanded. -$ have heard that your head is like the head of "edusa, and turns into stone all upon whom you look. (ut $ should like to have a close look at you, and to talk to you before $ turn into stone,- he added in a spirit of playfulness that concealed his real misgivings.'pproaching him, he e!amined closely Lazarus# face and his strange festive clothes. Though his eyes were sharp and keen, he was deceived by the skilful counterfeit.-Well, your appearance is not terrible, venerable sir. (ut all the worse for men, when the terrible takes on such a venerable and pleasant appearance. )ow let us talk.-'ugustus sat down, and as much by glance as by words began the discussion. -Why did you not salute me when you entered.-Lazarus answered indifferently, -$ did not know it was necessary.--/ou are a 4hristian.--)o.-'ugustus nodded approvingly. -That is good. $ do not like the 4hristians. They shake the tree of life, forbidding it to bear fruit, and they scatter to the wind its fragrant blossoms. (ut who are you.-With some effort Lazarus answered, -$ was dead.--$ heard about that. (ut who are you now.-Lazarus# answer came slowly. 5inally he said again, listlessly and indistinctly, -$ was dead.--Listen to me, stranger,- said the 2mperor sharply, giving e!pression to what had been in his mind before. -"y empire is an empire of the living% my people are a people of the living and not of the dead. /ou are superfluous here. $ do not know who you are, $ do not know what youhave seen There, but if you lie, $ hate your lies, and if you tell the truth, $ hate your truth. $n my heart $ feel the pulse of life% in my hands $ feel power, and my proud thoughts, like eagles,fly through space. (ehind my back, under the protection of my authority, under the shadow of the laws $ have created, men live and labour and rejoice. 6o you hear this divine harmony of life. 6o you hear the war cry that men hurl into the face of the future, challenging it to strife.-'ugustus e!tended his arms reverently and solemnly cried out, -(lessed art thou, :reat 6ivineLife3-(ut Lazarus was silent, and the 2mperor continued more severely, -/ou are not wanted here. 7itiful remnant, half devoured of death, you fill men with distress and aversion to life. Like a caterpillar on the fields, you are gnawing away at the full seed of joy, e!uding the slime of despair and sorrow. /our truth is like a rusted sword in the hands of a night assassin, and $ shall condemn you to death as an assassin. (ut first $ want to look into your eyes. "ayhap only cowards fear them, and brave men are spurred on to struggle and victory. Then will you merit not death but a reward. Look at me, Lazarus.-'t first it seemed to divine 'ugustus as if a friend were looking at him, so soft, so alluring, so gently fascinating was the gaze of Lazarus. $t promised not horror but *uiet rest, and the $nfinite dwelt there as a fond mistress, a compassionate sister, a mother. 'nd ever stronger grew its gentle embrace, until he felt, as it were, the breath of a mouth hungry for kisses... Then it seemed as if iron bones protruded in a ravenous grip, and closed upon him in an iron band% and cold nails touched his heart, and slowly, slowly sank into it.-$t pains me,- said divine 'ugustus, growing pale% -but look, Lazarus, look3-7onderous gates, shutting off eternity, appeared to be slowly swinging open, and through the growing aperture poured in, coldly and calmly, the awful horror of the $nfinite. (oundless 2mptiness and (oundless :loom entered like two shadows, e!tinguishing the sun, removing the ground from under the feet, and the cover from over the head. 'nd the pain in his icy heart ceased.-Look at me, look at me, Lazarus3- commanded 'ugustus, staggering...Time ceased and the beginning of things came perilously near to the end. The throne of 'ugustus, so recently erected, fell to pieces, and emptiness took the place of the throne and of'ugustus. 8ome fell silently into ruins. ' new city rose in its place, and it too was erased by emptiness. Like phantom giants, cities, kingdoms, and countries swiftly fell and disappeared into emptiness++swallowed up in the black maw of the $nfinite...-4ease,- commanded the 2mperor. 'lready the accent of indifference was in his voice. His arms hung powerless, and his eagle eyes flashed and were dimmed again, struggling against overwhelming darkness.-/ou have killed me, Lazarus,- he said drowsily.These words of despair saved him. He thought of the people, whose shield he was destined to be, and a sharp, redeeming pang pierced his dull heart. He thought of them doomed to perish,and he was filled with anguish. 5irst they seemed bright shadows in the gloom of the $nfinite.++How terrible3 Then they appeared as fragile vessels with life+agitated blood, and hearts that knew both sorrow and great joy.++'nd he thought of them with tenderness.'nd so thinking and feeling, inclining the scales now to the side of life, now to the side of death, he slowly returned to life, to find in its suffering and joy a refuge from the gloom, emptiness and fear of the $nfinite.-)o, you did not kill me, Lazarus,- said he firmly. -(ut $ will kill you. :o3-2vening came and divine 'ugustus partook of food and drink with great joy. (ut there were moments when his raised arm would remain suspended in the air, and the light of his shining, eager eyes was dimmed. $t seemed as if an icy wave of horror washed against his feet. He wasvan*uished but not killed, and coldly awaited his doom, like a black shadow. His nights were haunted by horror, but the bright days still brought him the joys, as well as the sorrows, of life.)e!t day, by order of the 2mperor, they burned out Lazarus# eyes with hot irons and sent him home. 2ven 'ugustus dared not kill him.Lazarus returned to the desert and the desert received him with the breath of the hissing windand the ardour of the glowing sun. 'gain he sat on the stone with matted beard uplifted% and two black holes, where the eyes had once been, looked dull and horrible at the sky. $n the distance the Holy 4ity surged and roared restlessly, but near him all was deserted and still. )o one approached the place where Lazarus, miraculously raised from the dead, passed his last days, for his neighbours had long since abandoned their homes. His cursed knowledge, driven by the hot irons from his eyes deep into the brain, lay there in ambush% as if from ambush it might spring out upon men with a thousand unseen eyes. )o one dared to look at Lazarus.'nd in the evening, when the sun, swollen crimson and growing larger, bent its way toward the west, blind Lazarus slowly groped after it. He stumbled against stones and fell% corpulent and feeble, he rose heavily and walked on% and against the red curtain of sunset his dark formand outstretched arms gave him the semblance of a cross.$t happened once that he went and never returned. Thus ended the second life of Lazarus, who for three days had been in the mysterious thraldom of death and then was miraculously raised from the dead.The Man Who Found the Truth$ was twenty+seven years old and had just maintained my thesis for the degree of 6octor of "athematics with unusual success, when $ was suddenly seized in the middle of the night and thrown into this prison. $ shall not narrate to you the details of the monstrous crime of which $was accused++there are events which people should neither remember nor even know, that they may not ac*uire 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 that time. They probably remember how the entire civilised society ofthe land unanimously demanded that the criminal be put to death, and it is due only to the ine!plicable kindness of the man at the head of the :overnment at the time that $ am alive, and $ now write these lines for the edification of the weak and the wavering.$ shall say briefly, "y father, my elder brother, and my sister were murdered brutally, and $ was supposed to have committed the crime for the purpose of securing a really enormous inheritance.$ am an old man now% $ shall die soon, and you have not the slightest ground for doubting when $ say that $ was entirely innocent of the monstrous and horrible crime, for which twelve honest and conscientious judges unanimously sentenced me to death. The death sentence wasfinally commuted to imprisonment for life in solitary confinement.$t 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 $ was. (ut he who would suspect me of being ill+disposed toward my strict judges would be profoundly mistaken. They were perfectly right, perfectly right. 's people whocan 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.$t so happened that in the game of circumstances, the truth concerning my actions, which $ alone knew, assumed all the features of an insolent and shameless lie% and however strange it may seem to my kind and serious reader, $ could establish the truth of my innocence only by falsehood, and not by the truth.Later on, when $ 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, $ came to the inevitable conclusioneach time that $ was guilty. Then $ produced a very interesting and instructive work% having set aside entirely the *uestion of truth and falsehood on general principles, $ subjected the facts and the words to numerous combinations, erecting structures, even as small children build various structures with their wooden blocks% and after persistent efforts $ finally succeeded in finding a certain combination of facts which, though strong in principle, seemed so plausible that my actual innocence became perfectly clear, e!actly and positively established.To this day $ remember the great feeling of astonishment, mingled with fear, which $ e!perienced at my strange and une!pected discovery% by telling the truth $ lead people into error and thus deceive them, while by maintaining falsehood $ lead them, on the contrary, to the truth and to knowledge.$ did not yet understand at that time that, like )ewton and his famous apple, $ discovered une!pectedly the great law upon which the entire history of human thought rests, which seeksnot the truth, but verisimilitude, 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. 'nd instead of rejoicing, $ e!claimed in an outburst of naive, juvenile despair, -Where, then, is the truth. Where is the truth in this world of phantoms and falsehood.- 0ee my -6iary of a 7risoner- of 9une ?++.1$ know that at the present time, when $ have but five or si! more years to live, $ could easily secure my pardon if $ but asked for it. (ut aside from my being accustomed to the prison and for several other important reasons, of which $ shall speak later, $ simply have no right to ask for pardon, and thus break the force and natural course of the lawful and entirely justified verdict. )or would $ want to hear people apply to me the words, -a victim of judicial error,- as some of my gentle visitors e!pressed themselves, to my sorrow. $ repeat, there was no error, nor could there be any error in a case in which a combination of definite circumstances inevitably lead a normally constructed and developed mind to the one and only conclusion.$ was convicted justly, although $ did not commit the crime++such is the simple and clear truth,and $ live joyously and peacefully my last few years on earth with a sense of respect for this truth.The only purpose by which $ was guided in writing these modest notes is to show to my indulgent reader that under the most painful conditions, where it would 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. $ want to show how a human being, condemned to death, looked with free eyes upon the world, through the grated window 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, slander life disgustingly.ome of my visitors reproach me for being -haughty-% they ask me where $ secured the right to teach and to preach% 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.)o. 9ust 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, alas3 fruitless, death.'nd 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 $ firmly believe that $ am right, and also to my firm desire to be useful to my neighbour as far as my faint powers permit.Here $ must apologise for my fre*uent references to my -6iary of a 7risoner,- which is unknown to the reader% but the fact is that $ consider the complete publication of my -6iary- too premature and perhaps even dangerous. (egun 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 in a state of complete insanity, on the brink of insanity. 'nd if we recall how contagious that illness is, my caution in the use of my -6iary- will become entirely clear.&, blooming youth3 With an involuntary tear in my eye $ recall your magnificent dreams, your daring visions and outbursts, your impetuous, seething power++but $ should not want your return, blooming youth3 &nly with the greyness of the hair comes clear wisdom, and that greataptitude for unprejudiced reflection which makes of all old men philosophers and often even sages.IIThose of my kind visitors who honour me by e!pressing their delight and even++may this little indiscretion be forgiven me3++even their adoration of my spiritual clearness, can hardly imagine what $ was when $ 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 $ e!perience atthe recollection of the first moments when, with the creaking of the rusty hinges, the fatal prison doors opened and then closed behind me forever.)ot endowed with literary talent, which in reality is an indomitable inclination to invent and to lie, $ shall attempt to introduce myself to my indulgent reader e!actly as $ was at that remote time.$ was a young man, twenty+seven years of age++as $ had occasion to mention before++unrestrained, impetuous, given to abrupt deviations. ' 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 e*ually wild fits of merriment++all this gave the young mathematician a character of e!treme unsteadiness, of sad and harsh discord.$ must also mention the e!treme pride, a family trait, which $ inherited from my mother, and which often hindered me from taking the advice of riper and more e!perienced people than myself% also my e!treme obstinacy in carrying out my purposes, a good *uality in itself, which becomes dangerous, however, when the purpose in *uestion is not sufficiently well founded and considered.Thus, during the first days of my confinement, $ behaved like all other fools who are thrown into prison. $ shouted loudly and, of course, vainly about my innocence% $ 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 $ caused myself a rather sharp pain. $ remember$ even beat my head against the wall, and for hours $ lay unconscious on the stone floor of mycell% and for some time, when $ had grown desperate, $ refused food, until the persistent demands of my organism defeated my obstinacy.$ cursed my judges and threatened them with merciless vengeance. 't last $ commenced to regard all human life, the whole world, even Heaven, as an enormous injustice, a derision and a mockery. 5orgetting that in my position $ could hardly be unprejudiced, $ 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 *uestions, $ 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, reason and justice.$n some justification to myself $ may mention the fact that during the first and most painful years of my imprisonment a series of events happened which reflected themselves rather painfully upon my psychic nature. Thus $ learned with the profoundest indignation that the girl, whose name $ shall not mention and who was to become my wife, married another man. he 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 $ knew, who possessed certain good *ualities, but who was not at all a sensible man. $ did not want to understand at that time that such a marriage was natural on the part of a young, healthy, and beautiful girl. (ut, alas3 we all forget our natural science when we are deceived by the woman we love++may this little jest be forgiven me3 't the present time "me. ). is a happy and respected mother, and this proves better thananything else how wise and entirely in accordance with the demands of nature and life was hermarriage at that time, which ve!ed me so painfully.$ must confess, however, that at that time $ was not at all calm. Her e!ceedingly amiable and kind letter in which she notified me of her marriage, e!pressing profound regret that changed circumstances and a 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 e!hausted brains, and in a wild ecstasy $ shook the doors of my cell and called violently,-4ome3 Let me look into your lying eyes3 Let me hear your lying voice3 Let me but touch with my fingers your tender throat and pour into your death rattle my last bitter laugh3-5rom this *uotation my indulgent reader will see how right were the judges who convicted me for murder% they had really foreseen in me a murderer."y gloomy view of life at the time was aggravated by several other events. Two years after themarriage of my fiancee, conse*uently three years after the first day of my imprisonment, my mother died++ she died, as $ learned, of profound grief for me. However strange it may seem, she remained firmly convinced to the end of her days that $ had committed the monstrous crime. 2vidently this conviction was an ine!haustible 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. 's $ was told, she never mentioned my name nor the names of those who died so tragically, and she be*ueathed the entire enormous fortune, which was supposed to have served as the motive for the murder, to various charitable organisations. $t is characteristic that even under such terrible conditions her motherly instinct did not forsake heraltogether% in a postscript to the will she left me a considerable sum, which secures my e!istence whether $ am in prison or at large.)ow $ 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. $n the name of justice, $ 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. (ut at that time $ 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 stream of useless and sacrilegious curses.$ do not know whether $ ought to tire the attention of the reader with the story of other eventsof a similar nature. $ shall mention but briefly that one after another my friends, who remainedmy friends from the time when $ was happy and free, stopped visiting me. 'ccording to their words, they believed in my innocence, and at first warmly e!pressed to me their sympathy. (ut our lives, mine in prison and theirs at 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. $ cannot recall without a smile that even the death of my mother, even the betrayal of the girl $ loved did not arouse in me such a hopelessly bitter feeling as these gentlemen, whose names $ remember but vaguely now, succeeded in wresting from my soul.-What horror3 What pain3 "y friends, you have left me alone3 "y friends, do you understand what you have done. /ou have left me alone. 4an you conceive of leaving a human being alone. 2ven a serpent has its mate, even a spider has its comrade++and you have left a humanbeing alone3 /ou have given him a soul++and left him alone3 /ou have given him a heart, a mind, a hand for a handshake, lips for a kiss++and you have left him alone3 What shall he do now that you have left him alone.-Thus $ e!claimed in my -6iary of a 7risoner,- tormented by woeful perple!ities. $n my juvenile blindness, in the pain of my young, senseless heart, $ still did not want to understand that the solitude, of which $ 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. $n 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 wearily through the glass walls andobserve the same evidences of the hearth and the alcove. &nly the creatures that can be alone possess a face% while those that know no solitude++the great, blissful, sacred solitude of the soul++have snouts instead of faces.'nd in calling my friends -perfidious traitors- $, poor youth that $ 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. 6eceived by the lies of the poets, who proclaimed eternal friendship and love, $ 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. )o one buries himself together with the dead, no one asks the dead to make room in the coffin, and if the grief+stricken wife e!claims, in an outburst of tears, -&h, bury me together with him3- she is merely e!pressing symbolically the e!treme degree of her despair++one could easily convince himself of this by trying, in jest, to push her down into the grave. 'nd those who restrain her are merely e!pressing symbolically their sympathy and understanding, thus lending the necessary aspect of solemn grief to the funeral custom."an must subject himself to the laws of life, not of death, nor to the fiction of the poets, however beautiful it may be. (ut can the fictitious be beautiful. $s there no beauty in the sterntruth 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.IIIThus $ lived sadly in my prison for five or si! years.The first redeeming ray flashed upon me when $ least e!pected it.2ndowed with the gift of imagination, $ made my former fiancee the object of all my thoughts. he became my love and my dream.'nother 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.6uring the first period of my imprisonment, $, as a youthful and enthusiastic dreamer, made all kinds of plans for escape, and some of them seemed to me entirely possible of realisation. 4herishing 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. 'ssoon as $ despaired of one plan $ created another, but of course $ did not make any progress++$ merely moved within a closed circle. $t 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 7rometheus.&ne day, while staring with a weary look at the walls of my cell, $ suddenly began to feel how irresistibly thick the stone was, how strong the cement which kept it together, how skilfully and mathematically this severe fortress was constructed. $t is true, my first sensation was e!tremely painful% it was, perhaps, a horror of hopelessness.$ cannot recall what $ did and how $ felt during the two or three months that followed. The firstnote in my diary after a long period of silence does not e!plain very much. (riefly $ state only that they made new clothes for me and that $ had grown stout.The fact is that, after all my hopes had been abandoned, the consciousness of the impossibilityof my escape once for all e!tinguished also my painful alarm and liberated my mind, which was then already inclined to lofty contemplation and the joys of mathematics.(ut the following is the day $ consider as the first real day of my liberation. $t was a beautiful spring morning 0"ay @1 and the balmy, invigorating air was pouring into the open window% while walking back and forth in my cell $ 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 background of the azure, cloudless sky.-Why is the sky so beautiful through these bars.- $ reflected as $ walked. -$s not this the effectof the aesthetic law of contrasts, according to which azure stands out prominently beside black. &r 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 s*uare.-When $ recalled that at the sight of a wide open window, which was not protected by bars, or of the sky, $ had usually e!perienced a desire to fly, which was painful because of its uselessness and absurdity++$ suddenly began to e!perience a feeling of tenderness for the bars% tender gratitude, even love. 5orged 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 e*ually ignorant mason, it suddenly represented in itself a model of beauty, nobility and power. Having seized the infinite within its iron s*uares, it became congealed in cold and proud peace, frightening the ignorant, giving food for thought to the intelligent and delighting the sage3IV$n order to make the further narrative clearer to my indulgent reader, $ am compelled to say a few words about the e!clusive, *uite flattering, and, $ fear, not entirely deserved, position which $ occupy in our prison. &n one hand, my spiritual clearness, my rare and perfect view oflife, and the nobility of my feelings, which impress all those who speak to me% and, on the other hand, several rather unimportant favours which $ have done to the Warden, have given me a series of privileges, of which $ 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 *uite a large audience. )ot daring to accept altogether the assurances made somewhat ironically by the Warden, to the effect that $ would be -the pride of any prison,- $ may say, nevertheless, without any false modesty, that my words are treated with proper respect, and that among myvisitors $ number *uite a few warm and enthusiastic admirers, both men and women. $ shall mention that the Warden himself and some of his assistants honour me by their visits, drawingfrom me strength and courage for the purpose of continuing their hard work. &f course $ use the prison library freely, and even the archives of the prison% and if the Warden politely refused to grant my re*uest for an e!act 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....&ur prison is a huge five+story building. ituated 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. )ot being plastered, the building has retained its natural dark red colour of old brick, and at close view, $ 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 a character of gloomy harmony, or stern beauty. 2ven during good weather, when the sun shines upon our prison, it does not lose any of its dark and grim importance, and is constantly reminding the people thatthere are laws in e!istence and that punishment awaits those who break them."y cell is on the fifth story, and my grated window commands a splendid view of the distant city and a part of the deserted field to the right. &n the left, beyond the boundary of my vision, are the outskirts of the city, and, as $ am told, the church and the cemetery adjoining it. &f the e!istence of the church and even the cemetery $ had known before from the mournful tolling of the bells, which custom re*uires during the burial of the dead.Auite in keeping with the e!ternal style of architecture, the interior arrangement of our prison is also finished harmoniously and properly constructed. 5or the purpose of conveying to the reader a clearer idea of the prison, $ will take the liberty of giving the e!ample of a fool who might make up his mind to run away from our prison. 'dmitting 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 comes out into the yard++perhaps he may think that he is already free. (ut what of the walls. The walls which encircle our prison, with three rings of stone.$ omitted the guard advisedly. The guard is indefatigable. 6ay and night $ hear behind my doors the footsteps of the guard% 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. $n the daytime $ could deceive his attention with lies, assuming a cheerful and carefree e!pression on my face, but $ have rarely met the man who could lie even in his sleep.)o matter how much $ would be on my guard during the day, at night $ would betray myself by an involuntary moan, by a twitch of the face, by an e!pression of fatigue or grief, or by other manifestations of a guilty and uneasy conscience. &nly very few people of unusual will power are able to lie even in their sleep, skilfully 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 *uivering from the horrors of a monstrous nightmare++but, as e!ceptions, these cannot be taken into consideration. $ am profoundly happy that $ am not a criminal, thatmy conscience is clear and calm.-8ead, my friend, read,- $ say to the watchful eye as $ lay myself down to sleep peacefully. -/ou will not be able to read anything on my face3-'nd it was $ who invented the window in the prison door.$ 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. /es, this simple and great invention belongs to me, just as )ewton#s system belongs to )ewton, and as Bepler#s laws of the revolution of the planets belong to Bepler.Later on, encouraged by the success of my invention, $ devised and introduced in our prison a series of little innovations, which were concerned only with details% 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 any one should dare deny this, $ would call him a liar and a scoundrel.$ came upon this invention under the following circumstances, &ne day, during the roll call, a certain prisoner killed with the iron leg of his bed the $nspector who entered his cell. &f coursethe rascal was hanged in the yard of our prison, and the administration light mindedly grew calm, but $ 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.(y taking up the *uestion so directly $ thus approached considerably the solution of the problem% and indeed, after two or three weeks had elapsed $ arrived simply and even une!pectedly at my great discovery. $ confess frankly that before telling my discovery to the Warden of the prison $ e!perienced moments of a certain hesitation, which was *uite natural inmy position of prisoner. To the reader who may still be surprised at this hesitation, knowing me to be a man of a clear, unstained conscience, $ will answer by a *uotation from my -6iary of a 7risoner,- relating to that period,-How difficult is the position of the man who is convicted, though innocent, as $ am. $f he is sad, if his lips are sealed in silence, and his eyes are lowered, people say of him, #He is repenting% he is suffering from pangs of conscience.#-$f in the innocence of his heart he smiles brightly and kindly, the keeper thinks, #There, by a false and feigned smile, he wishes to hide his secret.#-)o matter what he does, he seems guilty++such is the force of the prejudice against which it is necessary to struggle. (ut $ am innocent, and $ shall be myself, firmly confident that my spiritual clearness will destroy the malicious magic of prejudice.-'nd on the following day the Warden of the prison pressed my hand warmly, e!pressing 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 bed, for meals and walks are arranged so rationally, in accordance with the real re*uirements of nature, that soon they lose the appearance of compulsion and become natural, even dear habits. &nly in this way can $ e!plain the interesting fact that when $ was free $ was a nervous and weak young man, susceptible to colds and illness, whereas in prison $ have grown considerably stronger and that for my si!ty years $ am enjoying an enviable state of health. $ am not stout, but $ am not thin, either% my lungs are in good condition and $ have saved almost all my teeth, with the e!ception of two on the left side of the jaw% $ am good natured, even tempered% my sleep is sound, almost without any dreams. $n figure, in which an e!pression of calm power and self+confidence predominates, and in face, $ resemble somewhat "ichaelangelo#s -"oses-++that is, at least what some of my friendly visitors have told me.(ut even more than by the regular and healthy regime, the strengthening of my soul and bodywas helped by the wonderful, yet natural, peculiarity of our prison, which eliminates entirely the accidental and the une!pected from its life. Having neither a family nor friends, $ 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 had linked them to people unworthy of them. Without changing my feeling of love into trivial personal attachments, $ thus make it free 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 toward perfection, love for it becomes the surest guarantee of spiritual and physical soundness."y day is clear. o are also my days of the future, which are coming toward me in radiant and even order. ' murderer will not break into my cell 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. "y mind is free, my heart is calm, my soul is clear and bright.The clear and rigid rules of our prison define everything that $ 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 5ate, and which is only an inevitable reflection of the general laws% but the life of the prison, agitated for a moment, *uickly goes back to its habitual rut, like a river after an overflow. To this category of accidents belong the above+mentioned murder of the $nspector, the rare and always unsuccessful attempts at escape, and also the e!ecutions, which take place in one of the remotest yards of our prison.There is still another peculiarity in the system of our prison, which $ 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.$ confess that $ think, with a certain sense of pride, that if $ am now enjoying general respect and admiration, if my mind is strong, my will powerful, my view of life clear and bright, $ 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 grief. (ut $ have con*uered everything3 $ have changed the world. $ gave to my soul the form which my mind desired. $n the desert, working alone, e!hausted with fatigue, $ have erected a stately structure in which $now live joyously and calmly, like a king. 6estroy it++and to+morrow $ shall begin to build a new structure, and in my bloody sweat $ shall erect it3 5or $ must live35orgive my involuntary pathos in the last lines, which is so unbecoming to my balanced and calm nature. (ut it is hard to restrain myself when $ recall the road $ have travelled. $ hope, however, that in the future $ shall not darken the mood of my reader with any outbursts of agitated feelings. &nly he shouts who is not confident of the truth of his words% calm firmness and cold simplicity are becoming to the truth.7..++$ do not remember whether $ told you that the criminal who murdered my father has not been found as yet.V6eviating from time to time from the calm form of a historical narrative $ must pause on current events. Thus $ will permit myself to ac*uaint my readers in a few lines with a rather interesting specimen of the human species which $ have found accidentally in our prison.&ne 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 $ could e!ert a beneficent influence. $ e!pressed my willingness in the most cordial manner, and for several days in succession $ have had long discussions with the artist B., 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 *uestions.He is a man of about twenty+si! or twenty+eight, of pleasant appearance, and rather good manners, which show that he is a well+bred man. ' certain *uite 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 ac*uaintance. 7ersonally to me he is not particularly sympathetic, and however strange it may seem $ 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.B. told me very little of his past life.-Well, what is there to tell. $ 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.-$ don#t want to corrupt you, grandpa++live honestly,- he would jest in a somewhat unbecoming familiar tone, which $ tolerated simply because $ 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. 6uring one of these painful minutes, when B.#s will power was weak, as a result of insomnia, from which he was suffering, $ seated myself on his bed and treated him in general with fatherly kindness, and he blurted out everything to me right there and then.)ot desiring to tire the reader with an e!act reproduction of his hysterical outbursts, his laughter and his tears, $ shall give only the facts of his story.B.#s grief, at first not *uite 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. 0(y the way, the art with which he mastered the material, which was new to him, is remarkable. $ have seen some of his productions, and it seems to me that they could satisfy the taste of the most fastidious e!pert of graphic arts. 7ersonally $ am indifferent to the art of painting, preferring live and truthful nature.1 Thus, owing to the nature of the material, before commencing a new picture, B. 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.-/ou cannot imagine what it means,- he would say, clutching my hands with his thin, clinging fingers. -While $ draw, you know, $ forget entirely that it is useless% $ am usually very cheerful and $ even whistle some tune, and once $ was even incarcerated for that, as it is forbidden to whistle in this cursed prison. (ut that is a trifle++for $ had at least a good sleep there. (ut when $ finish my picture++no, even when $ approach the end of the picture, $ am seized with a sensation so terrible that $ feel like tearing the brain from my head and trampling it with my feet. 6o you understand me.--$ understand you, my friend, $ understand you perfectly, and $ sympathise with you.--8eally. Well, then, listen, old man. $ make the last strokes with so much pain, with such a sense of sorrow and hopelessness, as though $ were bidding good+bye to the person $ loved best of all. (ut here $ have finished it. 6o you understand what it means. $t means that it has assumed life, that it lives, that there is a certain mysterious spirit in it. 'nd yet it is already doomed to death, it is dead already, dead like a herring. 4an you understand it at all. $ do not understand it. 'nd, now, imagine, $++fool that $ am++$ nevertheless rejoice, $ cry and rejoice. )o, $ think, this picture $ shall not destroy% it is so good that $ shall not destroy it. Let it live. 'nd it is a fact that at such times $ do not feel like drawing anything new, $ have not the slightest desire for it. 'nd yet it is dreadful. 6o you understand me.--7erfectly, my friend. )o doubt the drawing ceases to please you on the following day++--&h, what nonsense you are prating, old man3 0That is e!actly what he said. #)onsense.#1 How can a dying child cease to please you. &f course, if he lived, he might have become a scoundrel, but when he is dying++ )o, old man, that isn#t it. 5or $ am killing it myself. $ do not sleep all night long, $ jump up, $ look at it, and $ love it so dearly that $ feel like stealing it. tealing it from whom. What do $ know. (ut when morning sets in $ feel that $ cannot do without it, that $ must take up that cursed pencil again and create anew. What a mockery3 To create3 What am $, a galley slave.--"y friend, you are in a prison.--"y dear old man3 When $ begin to steal over to the slate with the sponge in my hand $ feel like a murderer. $t happens that $ go around it for a day or two. 6o you know, one day $ bit offa finger of my right hand so as not to draw any more, but that, of course, was only a trifle, for$ started to learn drawing with my left hand. What is this necessity for creating3 To create by all means, create for suffering++create with the knowledge that it will all perish3 6o you understand it.--5inish it, my friend, don#t be agitated% then $ will e!pound to you my views.-;nfortunately, my advice hardly reached the ears of B. $n one of those paro!ysms of despair, which frighten the Warden of our prison, B. began to throw himself about in his bed, tear his clothes, shout and sob, manifesting in general all the symptoms of e!treme mortification. $ looked at the sufferings of the unfortunate youth with deep emotion 0compared with me he was a youth1, vainly endeavouring to hold his fingers which were tearing his clothes. $ knew that for this breach of discipline new incarceration awaited him.-&, impetuous youth,- $ thought when he had grown somewhat calmer, and $ was tenderly unfolding his fine hair which had become entangled, -how easily you fall into despair3 ' 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 suffering3- (ut, of course, $ 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 B., 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.-$ deliberately *uote 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. 4ontrolling my feeling of bitterness, $ remarked calmly to the impertinent youth,-/ou are an artist, my child% to you are known the mysteries of the human face, that fle!ible, mobile and deceptive mas*ue, which, like the sea, reflects the hurrying clouds and the azure ether. (eing 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.-(ut, occupied with his own thoughts, the artist apparently paid no particular attention to my words and continued in a broken voice,-What am $ to do. /ou saw my drawing. $ destroyed it, and it is already a whole week since $ touched my pencil. &f 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++--/ou had better return it to the authorities.--Cery well, $ may hold out another week, but what then. $ know myself. 2ven now that devil ispushing my hand, #Take the pencil, take the pencil.#-'t that moment, as my eyes wandered distractedly over his cell, $ 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. 'ssuming an air that $ was tired and that $ wanted to walk about in the cell, $ staggered as from a *uiver of senility in my legs, and pushed the clothes aside. The entire wall was covered with drawings3The artist had already leaped from his cot, and thus we stood facing each other in silence. $ said in a tone of gentle reproach,-How did you allow yourself to do this, my friend. /ou know the rules of the prison, according to which no inscriptions or drawing on the walls are permissible.--$ know no rules,- said B. morosely.-'nd then,- $ continued, sternly this time, -you lied to me, my friend. /ou said that you did nottake the pencil into your hands for a whole week.--&f course $ didn#t,- said the artist, with a strange smile, and even a challenge. 2ven when caught red+handed, he did not betray any signs of repentance, and looked rather sarcastic than guilty. Having e!amined more closely the drawings on the wall, which represented humanfigures in various positions, $ became interested in the strange reddish+yellow colour of an unknown pencil.-$s this iodine. /ou told me that you had a pain and that you secured iodine.--)o. $t is blood.--(lood.--/es.-$ must say frankly that $ even liked him at that moment.-How did you get it.--5rom my hand.--5rom your hand. (ut how did you manage to hide yourself from the eye that is watching you.-He smiled cunningly, and even winked.-6on#t you know that you can always deceive if only you want to do it.-"y sympathies for him were immediately dispersed. $ 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. 8ecalling, however, the promise $ had made to the Warden, $ assumed a calm air of dignity and said to him tenderly, as only a mother could speak to her child,-6on#t be surprised and don#t condemn me for being so strict, my friend. $ am an old man. $ have passed half of my life in this prison% $ have formed certain habits, like all old people, and submitting to all rules myself, $ am perhaps overdoing it somewhat in demanding the same of others. /ou will of course wipe off these drawings yourself++although $ feel sorry for them, for $admire them sincerely++and $ will not say anything to the administration. We will forget all this,as if nothing had happened. 're you satisfied.-He answered drowsily,-Cery well.--$n our prison, where we have the sad pleasure of being confined, everything is arranged in accordance with a most purposeful plan and is most strictly subjected to laws and rules. 'nd the very strict order, on account of which the e!istence of your creations is so short lived, and,$ may say, ephemeral, is full of the profoundest wisdom. 'llowing 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. $t means that the prisoner should be alone. (ut would he be alone if by his productions he wouldcommunicate in some way or other with other people outside.-(y the e!pression of B.#s face $ 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 inventionsto the land of stern but beautiful reality. 'nd, raising my voice, $ continued,-'s for the rule you have broken, which forbids any inscription or drawing on the walls of our prison, it is not less logical. /ears will pass% in your place there may be another prisoner like you++and he may see that which you have drawn. hall this be tolerated. 9ust think of it3 'nd 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 it3-This is e!actly how B. e!pressed himself. He said it loudly, even with an air of calmness.-What do you mean to say by this, my youthful friend.--$ wish to say that you may perish here, my old friend, but $ shall leave this place.--/ou can#t escape from our prison,- $ retorted, sternly.-Have you tried.--/es, $ have tried.-He looked at me incredulously and smiled. He smiled3-/ou are a coward, old man. /ou are simply a miserable coward.-$++a coward3 &h, if that self+satisfied puppy knew what a tempest of rage he had aroused in my soul he would have s*uealed for fright and would have hidden himself on the bed. $++a coward3 The world has crumbled upon my head, but has not crushed me, and out of its terriblefragments $ 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 $ have subjected them all to my will. 'nd $ who have subjected to myself evenmy dreams++$ am a coward.(ut $ shall not tire the attention of my indulgent reader with these lyrical deviations, which have no bearing on the matter. $ continue.'fter a pause, broken only by B.#s loud breathing, $ said to him sadly,-$++a coward3 'nd you say this to the man who came with the sole aim of helping you. &f helping you not only in word but also in deed.--/ou wish to help me. $n what way.--$ will get you paper and pencil.-The artist was silent. 'nd his voice was soft and timid when he asked, hesitatingly,-'nd++my drawings++will remain.--/es% they will remain.-$t is hard to describe the vehement delight into which the e!alted 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- 031 and a thousand other endearing and somewhat naive names. To my regret our conversation lasted too long, and, notwi