In Search of the Miraculous

embarrassment in talking in such a manner either with me or with other people. And

chiefly they think that this can be combined with some kind of 'work.' They do not

even want to understand that when a man reaches this notch his little song has been

sung.

"And note one thing more. They are a pair. If they were separate, each one by

himself, it would be easier for them to see their situation and come back. But they are

a pair, they are friends, and one supports the other precisely in his weaknesses. Now

one cannot return without the other. And even if they wanted to come back, I would

just take one of them and not take the other."

"Why?" asked one of those present.

"That is another question entirely," said G., "in the present case simply in order to enable the other to ask himself who is the most important for him, I or his friend. If he is the most important, then there is nothing to talk about, but if I am the most

important, then he must leave his friend and come back alone. And then, afterwards,

the other may come back. But I tell you that they cling to one another and hinder one

another. This is an exact example of how people do the very worst thing they possibly

can for themselves when they depart from what is good in them."

In October I was with G. in Moscow.

His small apartment on the Bolshaia Dmitrovka, all the floors and walls of which

were covered in the Eastern style with carpets and the ceilings hung with silk shawls,

astonished me by its special atmosphere. First of all the people who came there—who

were all G.'s pupils— were not afraid to keep silent. This alone was something

unusual. They came, sat down, smoked, they often did not speak a single word for

hours. And there was nothing oppressive or unpleasant in this silence; on the contrary, there was a feeling of assurance and of freedom from the necessity of playing a forced and invented role. But on chance and curious visitors this silence produced an

extraordinarily strange impression. They began to talk and they talked without

stopping as if they were afraid of stopping and feeling something. On the other hand

others were offended, they thought that the "silence" was directed against them in order to show them how much superior G.'s pupils were and to make them understand

that it was not worth while even talking to them; others found it stupid, amusing,

"unnatural," and that it showed our worst features, particularly

our weakness and our complete subordination to G. who was "oppressing us."

P. even decided to make notes of the reactions of various types of people to the

"silence." I realized in this place that people feared silence more than anything else, that our tendency to talk arises from self-defense and is always based upon a

reluctance to see something, a reluctance to confess something to oneself.

I quickly noticed a still stranger property of G.'s apartment. It was not possible to tell lies there. A lie at once became apparent, obvious, tangible, indubitable. Once there came an acquaintance of G.'s whom I had met before and who sometimes came

to G.'s groups. Besides myself there were two or three people in the apartment. G.

himself was not there. And having sat a while in silence our guest began to tell how

he had just met a man who had told him some extraordinarily interesting things about

the war, about possibilities of peace and so on. And suddenly quite unexpectedly for

me I felt that he was lying. He had not met anybody and nobody had told him

anything. He was making it all up on the spot simply because he could not endure the

silence.

I felt awkward looking at him. It seemed to me that if I looked at him he would

realize that I saw that he was lying. I glanced at the others and saw that they felt as I did and were barely able to repress their smiles. I then looked at the one who was

talking and I saw that he alone noticed nothing and he continued to talk very rapidly,

becoming more and more carried away by his subject and not at all noticing the

glances that we unintentionally exchanged with one another.

This was not the only case. I suddenly remembered the attempts we made in the

summer to describe our lives and the "intonations" with which we spoke when we

tried to hide facts. I realized that here also the whole thing was in the intonations.

When a man is chattering or simply waiting for an opportunity to begin he does not

notice the intonations of others and is unable to distinguish lies from the truth. But

directly he is quiet himself, that is, awakes a little, he hears the different intonations and begins to distinguish other people's lies.

We spoke several times with G.'s pupils on this subject. I told them what had

happened in Finland and about the "sleeping people" I had seen on the streets of St.

Petersburg. The feeling of mechanical lying people here in G.'s apartment reminded

me very much of the feeling of "sleeping people."