Five minutes passed and the prisoner never once stirred.  Fifteen years’ confinement had taught him to sit motionless.  The banker tapped on the window with his finger, but the prisoner made no movement in reply.  Then the banker cautiously tore the seals from the door and put the key into the lock.  The rusty lock gave a hoarse groan and the door creaked.  The banker expected instantly to hear a cry of surprise and the sound of steps.  Three minutes passed and it was as quiet inside as it had been before.  He made up his mind to enter.

Before the table sat a man, unlike an ordinary human being.  It was a skeleton, with tight-drawn skin, with long curly hair like a woman’s, and a shaggy beard.  The colour of his face was yellow, of an earthy shade; the cheeks were sunken, the back long and narrow, and the hand upon which he leaned his hairy head was so lean and skinny that it was painful to look upon.  His hair was already silvering with grey, and no one who glanced at the senile emaciation of the face would have believed that he was only forty years old.  On the table, before his bended head, lay a sheet of paper on which something was written in a tiny hand.

“Poor devil,” thought the banker, “he’s asleep and probably seeing millions in his dreams.  I have only to take and throw this half-dead thing on the bed, smother him a moment with the pillow, and the most careful examination will find no trace of unnatural death.  But, first, let us read what he has written here.”

The banker took the sheet from the table and read: 

“To-morrow at twelve o’clock midnight, I shall obtain my freedom and the right to mix with people.  But before I leave this room and see the sun I think it necessary to say a few words to you.  On my own clear conscience and before God who sees me I declare to you that I despise freedom, life, health, and all that your books call the blessings of the world.

“For fifteen years I have diligently studied earthly life.  True, I saw neither the earth nor the people, but in your books I drank fragrant wine, sang songs, hunted deer and wild boar in the forests, loved women...  And beautiful women, like clouds ethereal, created by the magic of your poets’ genius, visited me by night and whispered to me wonderful tales, which made my head drunken.  In your books I climbed the summits of Elbruz and Mont Blanc and saw from there how the sun rose in the morning, and in the evening suffused the sky, the ocean and lie mountain ridges with a purple gold.  I saw from there how above me lightnings glimmered cleaving the clouds; I saw green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, cities; I heard syrens singing, and the playing of the pipes of Pan; I touched the wings of beautiful devils who came flying to me to speak of God...  In your books I cast myself into bottomless abysses, worked miracles, burned cities to the ground, preached new religions, conquered whole countries...

“Your books gave me wisdom.  All that unwearying human thought created in the centuries is compressed to a little lump in my skull.  I know that I am cleverer than you all.