Fifty-Two Stories

In the second half of the sixth year the prisoner began an assiduous study of languages, philosophy, and history. He took it up so eagerly that the banker barely had time to order books for him. In the course of four years some six hundred volumes were ordered at his request. During the period of this passion the banker received, incidentally, the following letter from his prisoner: “My dear jailer! I am writing these lines to you in six languages. Show them to knowledgeable persons. Let them read them. If they do not find a single mistake, then, I beg you, have a shot fired in the garden. That will let me know that my efforts have not been in vain. The geniuses of all ages and countries speak in different languages, but the same fire burns in them. Oh, if you knew what unearthly happiness now fills my soul because I am able to understand them!” The prisoner’s wish was fulfilled. The banker ordered two shots to be fired in the garden.

Then, after the tenth year, the lawyer sat motionless at a desk and read nothing but the Gospel. It seemed strange to the banker that a man who, in the course of four years, had gone through six hundred sophisticated volumes, could spend nearly a year reading one easily understandable and not very thick book. After the Gospel came the history of religions and theology.

In the last two years of confinement the prisoner read a great deal, without any discrimination. First he studied natural science, then requested Byron or Shakespeare. There were notes from him asking to be sent at the same time chemistry and medical textbooks, and a novel, and some philosophical or theological treatise. His reading made it seem as if he was swimming in the sea in the midst of a shipwreck and, wishing to save his life, was greedily clutching at one piece of wreckage, then another!

II

The old banker remembered all that and thought:

“Tomorrow at twelve noon he will be set free. According to the contract, I must pay him two million. If I pay it, all is lost: I’ll be utterly ruined…”

Fifteen years ago he had had untold millions, but now he was afraid to ask himself which he had more of—money or debts? Playing the stock market, risky speculations, and a hotheadedness which he could not get rid of even in old age, gradually led to a decline in his affairs, and the fearless, confident, proud rich man turned into a middling sort of banker, trembling at every rise or fall of the rates.

“Accursed bet!” the old man muttered, clutching his head in despair. “Why didn’t the man die? He’s only forty. He’ll take my last money, get married, enjoy life, play the stock market, while I, like a beggar, will look on enviously and hear the same phrase from him every day: ‘I owe you the happiness of my life, allow me to help you!’ No, that’s too much! The only salvation from bankruptcy and disgrace is—this man’s death!”

It struck three. The banker listened: everyone in the house was asleep, and he could hear only the rustling of the chilled trees outside the windows. Trying to make no noise, he took from a safe the key to the door that had not been opened for fifteen years, put on his coat, and went out.

In the garden it was dark and cold. Rain was falling. A sharp, damp wind was howling all over the garden and gave the trees no peace. The banker strained his eyes, but could not see the ground, nor the white statues, nor the cottage, nor the trees. Coming to the place where the cottage was, he called twice to the watchman. There was no answer. Obviously the watchman had taken refuge from the bad weather and was now sleeping somewhere in the kitchen or the hothouse.

“If I have courage enough to carry out my intention,” the old man thought, “the suspicion will fall first of all on the watchman.”

He felt for the steps and the door in the darkness and entered the front hall of the cottage, then felt his way into a small corridor and lit a match. Not a soul was there. There was someone’s bed without covers, and the dark outline of an iron stove in the corner. The seals on the door leading to the prisoner’s room were intact.

When the match went out, the old man, trembling with agitation, peeked through the small window.

A candle was burning dimly in the prisoner’s room. He was sitting at the table. Only his back, his hair, and his arms could be seen. On the table, on two armchairs, and on the rug by the table lay open books.

Five minutes went by, and not once did the prisoner stir. Fifteen years of imprisonment had taught him to sit motionlessly. The banker tapped on the window with his finger, but the prisoner did not respond to this tapping with the least movement. Then the banker carefully tore the seals off the door and put the key into the keyhole. The rusty lock produced a rasping sound and the door creaked. The banker expected to hear a cry of astonishment and footsteps at once, but some three minutes went by, and behind the door it was as quiet as before. He decided to go into the room.