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

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

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

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