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The Devil by Maxime Gorky This is a LibriVox recording.
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All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
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information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Miss
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Avarice The Devil by Maxime Gorky Life is a burden
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in the fall, The sad season of decay and death,
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The grey days, the weeping sunless sky, The dark nights,
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the growling, whining wind, the heavy black autumn shadows, all
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that drives clouds of gloomy thoughts over the human soul,
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and fills it with a mysterious sphere of life where
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nothing is permanent. All is in eternal flux. Things are born, decay, die.
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Why? For what purpose?
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Sometimes the strength fails us to battle against the tenebrous
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thoughts that enfold the soul late in the autumn. Therefore
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those who want to assuage their bitterness ought to meet
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them halfway. This is the only way by which they
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will escape from the chaos of despair and doubt, and
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will enter on the terra firma of self-confidence. But it
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is a laborious path. It leads through thorny brambles that
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lacerate the living heart, and on that path the devil
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always lies in ambush. It is that best of all
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the devils with whom the Great Gerd has made us acquainted.
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My story is about that devil. The devil suffered from ennui.
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He is too wise to ridicule everything. He knows that
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there are phenomena of life which the devil himself is
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not able to rail at. For example, he has never
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applied the sharp scalpel of his irony to the majestic
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fact of his existence. To tell the truth, our favorite
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devil is more bold than clever, and if we were
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to look more closely at him, we might discover that,
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like ourselves, he wastes most of his time on trifles.
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But we had better leave that alone. We are not
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children that break their best toys in order to discover
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what is in them. The devil once wandered over the
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cemetery in the darkness of an autumn night. He felt
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lonely and whistled softly as he looked around himself in
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search of a distraction. He whistled an old song, my
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father's favorite song. When, in autumnal days, a leaf from
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its branch is torn, and on high by the wind
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is born. And the wind sang with him. sowing over
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the graves and among the black crosses, and heavy autumnal
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clouds slowly crawled over the heaven, and with their cold
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tears watered the narrow dwellings of the dead. The mournful
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trees in the cemetery timidly creaked under the strokes of
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the wind and stretched their bare branches to the speechless clouds.
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The branches were now and then caught by the crosses,
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and then a dull, shuffling, awful sound passed over the churchyard.
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The devil was whistling, and.
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He thought, I wonder how the dead feel in such weather.
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No doubt the dampness goes down to them, and although
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they are secure against rheumatism ever since the day of
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their death, yet I suppose they do not feel comfortable.
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How if I called one of them up and had
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a talk with him? It would be a little distraction
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for me, and very likely for him also. I will
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call him. Somewhere around here they have buried an old
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friend of mine, an author. I used to visit him
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when he was alive. Why not renew our acquaintance? People
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of his kind are dreadfully exacting. I shall find out
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whether the grave satisfies him completely. But where is his grave?
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And the devil, who, as is well known, knows everything,
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wandered for a long time about the cemetery before he
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found the author's grave. Oh, there, he called out as
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he knocked through this closet of heavy stone under which
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his acquaintance was put away. Get up!
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What for? Came the dull answer from below. I need you.
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I won't get up. Why? Who are you, anyway? You
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know me. The censor? No. Maybe a secret policeman?
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No, no.
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Not a critic, either. I am the devil. Well, I'll
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be out in a minute.
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The stone lifted itself from the grave, the earth burst open,
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and a skeleton came out of it. It was a
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very common skeleton, just the kind that students study anatomy by,
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only it was dirty, had no wire connections, and in
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the empty sockets there shone a blue phosphoric light instead
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of eyes. It crawled out of the ground, shook its
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bones in order to throw off the earth that stuck
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to them, and made a dry, rattling noise with them,
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and raising up its skull, looked with its cold blue
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eyes at the murky, cloud-covered sky. I hope you are well,
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said the devil. How can I be, curtly answered the author.
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He spoke in a strange, low voice, as if two
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bones were grating against each other. Oh, excuse my greeting,
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the devil said pleasantly.
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Never mind.
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But why have you raised me? I just wanted to
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take a walk with you, though the weather is very bad.
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I suppose you are not afraid of catching a cold,
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asked the devil.
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Not at all.
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I got used to catching colds during my lifetime. Yes,
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I remember you died pretty cold. I should say I did.
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They had poured enough cold water over me all my life.
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They walked beside each other over the narrow path, between
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graves and crosses. Two blue beams fell from the author's
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eyes upon the ground and lit the way for the devil.
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A drizzling rain sprinkled over them, and the wind freely
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passed between the author's bare ribs and through his breast
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where there was no longer a heart.
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We are going to town? he asked the devil. What
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interests you there?
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Life, my dear sir, the author said impassionately.
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What?
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It still has a meaning for you? Indeed it has.
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But why? How am I to say it?
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A man measures all by the quantity of his effort,
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and if he carries a common stone down from the
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summit of Ararat... That stone becomes a gem to him.
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Poor fellow, smiled the devil. But also a happy man,
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the author retorted coldly. The devil shrugged his shoulders. They
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left the churchyard, and before them lay a street. Two
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rows of houses, and between them was darkness in which
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the miserable lamps clearly proved the want of light upon earth.
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Tell me, the devil spoke after a pause. How do
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you like your grave? Now I am used to it,
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and it is all right. It is very quiet there.
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Is it not damp down there in the fall? asks
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the devil. A little, but you get used to that.
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The greatest annoyance comes from those various idiots who ramble
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over the cemetery and accidentally stumble on my grave. I
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don't know how long I have been lying in my grave,
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for I and everything around me is unchangeable, and the
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concept of time does not exist for me. You have
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been in the ground four years. It will soon be five,
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said the devil. Indeed? Well then, there have been three
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people at my grave during that time.
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Those accursed people make me nervous.
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One, you see, straightaway denied the fact of my existence.
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He read my name on the tombstone and said confidently,
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There was never such a man. I have never read him,
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though I remember such a name. When I was a boy...
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There lived a man of that name who had a
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broker's shop in our street. How do you like that?
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And my articles appeared for sixteen years in the most
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popular periodicals, and three times during my lifetime my books
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came out in separate editions. There were two more editions
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since your death, the devil informed him. Well, you see,
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then came two, and one of them said, Oh, that's
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that fellow.
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Yes, that is he, answered the other.
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Yes, they used to read him in the Auld Lang Syne.
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They read a lot of them. What was it he preached?
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Oh, generally ideas of beauty, goodness, and so forth.
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Oh yes, I remember. He had a heavy tongue. There
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was a lot of them in the ground, yes.
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Russia is rich in talents. And those asses went away.
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It is true, warm words do not raise the temperature
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of the grave. And I do not care for that,
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yet it hurts me. And oh, for I wanted to
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give them a piece of my mind. You ought to
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have given them a fine tongue lashing, smiled the devil. No,
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that would not have done. On the verge of the
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twentieth century, it would be absurd for dead people to scold,
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and besides, it would be hard on the materialists. The
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devil again felt the ennui coming over him. This author
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had always wished in his lifetime to be a bridegroom
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at all weddings and a corpse at all burials. And
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now that all is dead in him, his egotism is
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still alive. Is man of any importance to life? Of
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importance is only a human spirit. And only the spirit
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deserves applause and recognition. How annoying people are. The devil
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was on the point of proposing to the author to
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return to his grave, when an idea flashed through his
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evil head. They had just reached a square, and heavy
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masses of buildings surrounded them on all sides. The dark,
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wet sky hung low over the square, It seemed as
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though it rested on the roofs and markly looked at
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the dirty earth.' Say,' said the devil as he inclined
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pleasantly towards the author, 'don't you want to know how
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your wife is getting on?'' I don't know whether I
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want to.
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The author spoke slowly.
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I see you are a thorough corpse,' called out the
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devil to annoy him.' Oh, I don't know,' said the
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author and jauntily shook his bones.' I don't mind seeing her. Besides,
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she will not see me, or if she will, She
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cannot recognize me. Of course, the devil assured him. You know,
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I only said so because she did not like for
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me to go away long from home, explained the author.
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And suddenly the wall of a house disappeared or became
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as transparent as glass. The author saw the inside of
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large apartments, and it was so light and cozy in them.
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Elegant appointments, he grated his bones approvingly. Very fine appointments.
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If I had lived in such rooms, I would be
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alive now. I like it too, said the devil and smiled.
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And it is not expensive. It only costs some three thousands.
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That not expensive? I remember my largest work brought me
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815 rubles, and I worked over it a whole year.
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But who lives here? Your wife, said the devil. I
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declare that is good for her. Yes, and here comes
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her husband. She is so pretty now. And how well
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she is dressed. Her husband, you say?
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What a fine-looking fellow. Rather a bourgeois fizz. Kind, but
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somewhat stupid.
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He looks as if he might be cunning. Well, just
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the face to please a woman. Do you want me
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to heave a sigh for you? The devil proposed and
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looked maliciously at the author. But he was taken up
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with the scene before him. What happy, jolly faces both have.
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They are evidently satisfied with life. Tell me, does she
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love him? Oh, yes, very much. And who is he?
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A clerk in a millinery shop. A clerk in a
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millinery shop? The author repeated slowly and did not utter
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a word for some time. The devil looked at him
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and smiled a merry smile.
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Do you like that?
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He asked. The author spoke with an effort. I had
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some children. I know they are alive. I had some children.
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A son and a daughter. I used to think then
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that my son would turn out in time a good man.
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There are plenty of good men, but what the world
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needs is perfect men, said the devil coolly and whistled
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a jolly march.
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I think the clerk is probably a poor pedagogue.
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And my son. The author's empty skull shook sadly. Just
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look at how he's embracing her. They are living an
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easy life, exclaimed the devil. Yes. Is that clerk a
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rich man? No, he was poorer than I.
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But your wife is rich. My wife? Where did she
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get the money from?
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From the sale of your books. Oh, said the author,
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and shook his bare and empty skull. Oh, then it
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simply means that I have worked for a certain clerk?
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I confess it looks that way, the devil chimed in merrily.
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The author looked at the ground and said to the devil,
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Take me back to my grave.
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It was late.
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A rain fell, heavy clouds hung in the sky, and
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the author rattled his bones as he marched rapidly to
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his grave. The devil walked behind him and whistled merrily.
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My reader is, of course, dissatisfied. My reader is surfeited
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with literature, and even the people that write only to
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please him are rarely to his taste. In the present case,
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my reader is also dissatisfied because I have said nothing
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about hell. As my reader is justly convinced that after
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death he will find his way there, he would like
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to know something about hell during his lifetime. Really, I
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can't tell anything pleasant to my reader on that score,
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because there is no hell, no fiery hell which is
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so easy to imagine.
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Yet, there is something else and infinitely more terrible.
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The moment the doctor will have said about you to
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your friends, he is dead, you will enter an immeasurable
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illuminated space, and that is the space of the consciousness
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of your mistakes. You lie in the grave in a
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narrow coffin, and your miserable life rotates about you like
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a wheel. It moves painfully slow and passes before you
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from your first conscious step to the last moment of
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your life. You will see all that you have hidden
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from yourself during your lifetime, all the lies and meanness
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of your existence. You will think over anew all your
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past thoughts, and you will see every wrong step of yours.
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All your life will be gone over to its minutest details.
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And to increase your torments, you will know that on
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a narrow and stupid road which you have traversed, others
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are marching and pushing each other, and hurrying and lying
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and you understand that they are doing it all only
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to find out in time how shameful it is to
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live such a wretched soulless life and though you will
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see them hastening on towards their destruction you are in
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no way able to warn them you will not move
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nor cry and your helpless desire to aid them will
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tear your soul to pieces your life passes before you
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and you see it from the start and there is
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no end to the work of your conscience and there
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will be no end and to the horror of your
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torments there will never be an end. Never. End of
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The Devil Recording by Miss Avarice