By Leonid Andreyev
He loved.
According to his passport， he was called Max Z. But asit was stated in the same passport that he had no specialpeculiarities about his features， I prefer to call him Mr. N+1.
He represented a long line of young men who possess wavy，dishevelled locks， straight， bold， and open looks， well-formedand strong bodies， and very large and powerful hearts.
All these youths have loved and perpetuated their love.
Some of them have succeeded in engraving it on the tabletsof history， like Henry IV； others， like Petrarch， have madeliterary preserves of it； some have availed themselves for thatpurpose of the newspapers， wherein the happenings of the dayare recorded， and where they figured among those who hadstrangled themselves， shot themselves， or who had been shotby others； still others， the happiest and most modest of all，perpetuated their love by entering it in the birth records—bycreating posterity.
The love of N+1 was as strong as death， as a certain writerput it； as strong as life， he thought.
Max was firmly convinced that he was the first to havediscovered the method of loving so intensely， so unrestrainedly，so passionately， and he regarded with contempt all who hadloved before him. Still more， he was convinced that evenafter him no one would love as he did， and he felt sorrythat with his death the secret of true love would be lost tomankind. But， being a modest young man， he attributed partof his achievement to her—to his beloved. Not that she wasperfection itself， but she came very close to it， as close as anideal can come to reality.
There were prettier women than she， there were wiserwomen， but was there ever a better woman？ Did there everexist a woman on whose face was so clearly and distinctlywritten that she alone was worthy of love—of infinite， pure，and devoted love？ Max knew that there never were， and thatthere never would be such women. In this respect， he hadno special peculiarities， just as Adam did not have them，just as you， my reader， do not have them. Beginning withGrandmother Eve and ending with the woman upon whomyour eyes were directed—before you read these lines—thesame inion is to be clearly and distinctly read on the faceof every woman at a certain time. The difference is only in thequality of the ink.
A very nasty day set in—it was Monday or Tuesday—whenMax noticed with a feeling of great terror that the inionupon the dear face was fading. Max rubbed his eyes， lookedfirst from a distance， then from all sides； but the fact wasundeniable—the inion was fading. Soon the last letteralso disappeared—the face was white like the recentlywhitewashed wall of a new house. But he was convinced thatthe inion had disappeared not of itself， but that some onehad wiped it off. Who？
Max went to his friend， John N. He knew and he felt surethat such a true， disinterested， and honest friend there neverwas and never would be. And in this respect， too， as you see，Max had no special peculiarities. He went to his friend forthe purpose of taking his advice concerning the mysteriousdisappearance of the inion， and found John N. exactlyat the moment when he was wiping away that inion byhis kisses. It was then that the records of the local occurrenceswere enriched by another unfortunate incident， entitled “AnAttempt at Suicide.”
It is said that death always comes in due time. Evidently，that time had not yet arrived for Max， for he remainedalive—that is， he ate， drank， walked， borrowed money and didnot return it， and altogether he showed by a series of psychophysiologicalacts that he was a living being， possessing astomach， a will， and a mind—but his soul was dead， or， tobe more exact， it was absorbed in lethargic sleep. The soundof human speech reached his ears， his eyes saw tears andlaughter， but all that did not stir a single echo， a single emotionin his soul. I do not know what space of time had elapsed. Itmay have been one year， and it may have been ten years， forthe length of such intermissions in life depends on how quicklythe actor succeeds in changing his costume.
One beautiful day—it was Wednesday or Thursday—Maxawakened completely. A careful and guarded liquidation ofhis spiritual property made it clear that a fair piece of Max’ssoul， the part which contained his love for woman and for hisfriends， was dead， like a paralysis-stricken hand or foot. Butwhat remained was， nevertheless， enough for life. That waslove for and faith in mankind. Then Max， having renouncedpersonal happiness， started to work for the happiness of others.
That was a new phase—he believed.
All the evil that is tormenting the world seemed to him tobe concentrated in a “red flower，” in one red flower. It was butnecessary to tear it down， and the incessant， heart-rending criesand moans which rise to the indifferent sky from all points ofthe earth， like its natural breathing， would be silenced. Theevil of the world， he believed， lay in the evil will and in themadness of the people. They themselves were to blame forbeing unhappy， and they could be happy if they wished. Thisseemed so clear and simple that Max was dumfounded inhis amazement at human stupidity. Humanity reminded himof a crowd huddled together in a spacious temple and panicstrickenat the cry of “Fire！”
Instead of passing calmly through the wide doors and savingthemselves， the maddened people， with the cruelty of frenziedbeasts， cry and roar， crush one another and perish—not fromthe fire （for it is only imaginary）， but from their own madness.
