The Tidings: Further Extracts from the Book of Tidings of the Almighty and His Spirits to Humanity

INTRODUCTION TO VOLUME THREE

The volume REVELATIONS: Extracts from the Book of Tidings of The Almighty and His Spirits to Humanity (originally published in 1992 by Winston-Derek Publishers, and now available in the revised edition published in 2000 from Trafford Publishing), contains what I consider to be highlights from the extensive material received by a small group of people during World War II and which continued until January 1971. In it are included only those conversations which reveal something new or else, in a few cases, conversations which present rather concise and explicit summaries of the material.

It would be helpful, but certainly not essential, to read REVELATIONS first, as it gives the reader an overall idea about The Almighty’s teachings, and a general understanding of, and appreciation for what they are all about. In his earlier translation, Alexander Homics included material that I chose not to include—strictly a personal judgment. I have to admit that REVELATIONS is so concentrated that it is not all that easy reading, but it does contain the most important messages/tidings.

I have organized the bulk of the material which comprises The Book of Tidings of The Almighty and His Spirits to Humanity as much as possible according to directions given in the Tidings themselves:

On April 13, 1944, Ilgya said in part,

". . . systemize all conversations with the spirits into three books. Everything that refers to the faith has to be collected into the first one. Into the second—advice for life, how to bring up the spirit and the body, how to raise children, and so on; as well as those stories which have an everyday significance. Collect into the third book everything that pertains to you and the accomplishment of your work."

In The Tidings series are included what I feel are what Ilgya calls Books One and Two. In a few cases, brief passages which probably belong in Book Three have been retained, primarily for the sake of continuity in the case of a particular conversation. Material that appeared in REVELATIONS is given here in its fuller context and is marked by arrows at the beginning and end. In order to facilitate locating a particular conversation, the table of contents lists, in chronological order, each spirit whose tiding is included in that chapter and shows whether there was more than one tiding.

The fuller context in this volume includes explanations and clarifications, stories which illustrate some of the concepts, and, sometimes, related ideas that are of importance. There are also descriptions of interesting events on the planet Earth as well as on a few other planets, some of which are related to specific heralds.

The present volume—Volume Three—covers most of the period of 1946 through 1949. Subsequent volumes in the six-volume series will cover later periods of time and will be made available as the material is published. Volume Four, for example, will include material received in the United States through the fall of 1956. Once all the material in The Tidings series has been published, I plan to start working on attempting to publish the complete material, which will include what Ilgya called Book Three. This will not add much to the teachings but will be of historical and biographical interest.

Nick Mezins

Los Alamos, 2013

Chapter I

February 1946 - Part 1

Ilgya 02/02/46 2103

The ruler of Earth, Ilgya, is speaking. - * * * -

There is a problem. If someone gets married or makes friends, he becomes rude. He is polite and helpful toward a stranger, is a gentlemen; but he is intolerant and unbearably rude and cutting toward his wife, friend, or mistress.

Under no circumstances may anyone act like that. He has to know how to control himself—if he does not know how to arrange his life differently.

I knew a man who simultaneously had seventeen mistresses, not counting his wife, but his wife felt happy. He was kind to her and displayed the appropriate honor, respect, and love to her—his wife. He also knew how to love his mistresses so that his wife got to know them only in the hereafter.

I also knew another man who had only one mistress, but he loved her so ineptly that he embarrassed his wife in front of the entire world. A life of torment and suffering began.

I knew still another man who had only a wife and did not have any mistresses, but the way he treated his wife, she felt a hundredfold unhappier than the wife whose husband had seventeen mistresses.

Which of these three husbands was the most ideal one? I would like to know very much what Mary thinks.

[[Mary: None of them was ideal, but I have to confess that the first one was the best.]]

As an ideal husband, Janoss, will of course agree with his wife.

[[Janoss: No, I think that the third one.]]

Emily? She shrugs her shoulders, but nevertheless will be unable to evade answering.

[[Emily: According to what you told us—the first one but in essence—the third one.]]

And Nakcia’s great guecha?

[[Alexo: The first one.]]

Alexander will claim that the first one was not ideal either because with his wonderful abilities, he could have safely taken on another dozen—if you are going to have them, then have them.

According to Emily’s thinking, the first husband would have been ideal, but only if he would not have had these seventeen mistresses, but only his one wife. Isn’t that so, dear Emily?

[[Emily: Yes.]]

Well, you see, sometimes, I also know how to read your thoughts. But I have a slight objection—had this capable and well-endowed man not have had these mistresses, wouldn’t he have turned into husband number three? What do you think about that, Emily?

We will attempt to clarify this complicated question immediately, but first, discuss it among yourselves. I’ll give you an entire eternity—ten minutes. [[Intermission. 2211]]

In order to be able to judge something correctly, one supposedly has to familiarize himself with it properly. Therefore, I will probably have to give you a period of several months, for it is doubtful if you will be able to do that in a few days. Still, I will try to make this experiment easier for you.

First, you have to consider one circumstance—all people are not the same. There are people of such a cold nature that even one wife is too much for them, and they don’t even know what to do with her and where to find a lover for her. Yet consider the former Sultan of Morocco. For him, the poor thing, even three hundred wives seemed not to be enough.

I have to say bluntly—dispensing with all joking because this topic is too serious—that there are few people who live like doves. Most people need several wives or several husbands.

Much will depend on how humanity will resolve this problem. Neither the strict law of marriage nor all other strict laws on Earth have ever anywhere eliminated not only polygamy and polyandry but not even prostitution.

As you can see, it is not possible to regulate passion with laws, just as to shackle fire with chains. If you will condemn it, it will turn secret—but it will nevertheless remain. There can only be the question of whether it is better for humanity to acknowledge this fact openly or attempt to conceal it.

It seems to me that an individual has no right to another person’s body and that every person has the right to do whatever he wants to with his body. If it was not possible to restrain the body with laws—even as harsh as burning at the stake and hurling stones—then it probably cannot be restrained anyway.

After all, what is a human body? It wants to drink. Is it a sin to give it something to drink? No! It wants to eat. Would it be a sin to give it something to eat because that is also so unaesthetic and even brutal? It has to be given something to eat! It is supposedly a sin to give the body excessively fancy foods. Why is that a sin? Perhaps Janoss will tell us that.

[[Janoss answers.]]

It is a sin if others lack food, but if everyone has plenty of it, what kind of a sin can there be?

The same thing is true with affairs of love. First, everyone has to be given the right to have work and bread. Everyone has to earn his own keep, except for the sick and the elderly. Society has to look after them. The same thing also holds true for children. Every human has come into the world in order to be happy and free. In order to be happy and free, he has to fulfill his obligations to society because he cannot be happy and free all by himself. Therefore, he is happy and free within limitations. These limitations, though, have to be merely the bounds of necessity. They must not unnecessarily limit an individual’s rights.

Love has to be entirely free. Only then will sin and lies vanish from it. No one has the right to interfere in love—neither priests, nor society, nor state offices—unless one of the lovers turns to them. Who can permit or make one love or not love? No one, except for the human heart! If love has died within it, then no priests, laws, or state offices will be able to revive it.

It is possible to force, by all kinds of means, two people to live together, but it is not possible to force them by any means to love each other. If love with its manifestation does not intrude on others, these others have no right to intervene in this love.

Should one or rather two people want to love each other for their entire lives, it is their business. Yet should love end quickly for another, that too is only his business. Should someone come along who is able to love him again, then everything is well once more.

It is a sin and a crime, however, to torment each other in the name of love, not to even mention killing another in the name of love.

Your current social conditions make people who detest each other and who torment each other live together because of possessions, food, and work. That is a crime because that creates the institution of lovers and the institution of prostitution, as well as spiritually empties people’s souls and turns them into animals.

You are tired, and therefore, let us take leave for today.

Ilgya. [[2305]]

Ilgya 02/03/46 1029

Let us continue our pleasant conversation of yesterday.

Now then, passion cannot be jailed behind bars like a criminal. If we were to give it complete freedom, however, wouldn’t it swirl people into a whirl of orgy? That has happened and can happen if an individual lacks moral foundations and does not have creative work or does not have ideals. Therefore, give ideals to everyone, give him work that fascinates and uplifts him. Instill a thirst for morality in man’s heart already from childhood, and passion will lose its undermining and destroying nature.

Obviously, there will always be people who will surrender to the power of passion, but exceptions have to be taken into account. To some extent, science—The Almighty’s medicine of the future—will be able to assist in these cases.

There is yet another question: To what extent does medicine have the right to intervene in each person’s individuality? Take care, people, not to produce slaves and stifle your majestic free will, for then The Almighty’s gates to the universe will close in front of you. You have to be very careful not to overstep the bounds of necessity.

You will ask, Why has The Almighty given man this passion that is hard to restrain and control? Couldn’t He have given man a different incentive for bearing children?

First, The Almighty has given passion to all living beings, except for the most primitive ones. Passion is the highest level of development. It has been achieved by means of experimentation.

Obviously, man could get by without this passion; he could simply divide, as you can see with the lower beings. That has been tried on some planets, but the results turned out to be sad.

Passion not only gives the most enjoyment to a living being, but it makes it fight to attain and retain this enjoyment. In this manner, it makes the living beings not only care about their continued existence—about children—but also about progress.

A body not only elicits passion, but the beauty of this body also strengthens it. Thus each individual tries to obtain the more beautiful—that is, the more perfect—person. Natural selection and progress take place in this manner. The less beautiful ones start to fall by the wayside on their own because no one wants them.

You will claim that this is merciless but neither The Almighty nor we, the spirits, have hearts. That is the big difference between you, people, and us, the spirits, and you keep forgetting that with every step and call God cruel.

We have only a mind and feelings of sympathy toward what is just and necessary. Therefore, your prayers and tears do not influence us if people ask from us that which is unnecessary or harmful for man’s task. You have to understand that and then much in our relationships will become different.

A human being is more complete in his feelings than a spirit and therefore the spirits incarnate so gladly. The Almighty’s goal is the ideal unification of the spirit and of matter. A common road takes us, the spirits, and you, people, toward this goal.

- * * * -

What I, Ilgya, want to tell you took place on your planet rather long ago, speaking in your concepts. My story will remind you slightly of Alexander’s story.

A ruler conquered a valiant nation. His army had suffered heavy losses and therefore the merciless ruler became even more cruel. He ordered to annihilate the entire nation and to level its cities to the ground.

He rode through the palace square of his enemy’s capital. Soldiers followed him and cut off the heads of adults and stabbed children with spears.

People threw themselves at the feet of the ruler’s horse and grasped them, held crying children up to the ruler, and begged for mercy, but with its heavy feet the ruler’s horse stepped on women’s chests and children’s heads, and they were crushed. The ruler’s eyes did not turn gentler because they saw only the long rows of his best soldiers lying on this nation’s dusty soil.

Then the ruler’s eyes spotted the figure of a young woman standing among the people who lay on the ground. Her eyes were full of tears, but she did not reach out with her arms toward the ruler and did not beg him for mercy.

The ruler’s horse neared the girl, but she did not move, and the horse’s heavy head stopped above the girl’s shoulder. The ruler gazed at the girl’s beautiful face and her blue eyes.

Why don’t you fall on your knees and beg for mercy? he asked.

Why should I do that? Is there any sense in falling to your knees in front of a tiger?

In front of a tiger? But after all, I am not a tiger but a human being!

I don’t see that, replied the girl, and why should I beg you? Your soldiers have already killed my father, mother, brothers, and sisters. I can only beg you to kill me more swiftly, as well.

You could plead for these people, for your fiancé.

Your soldiers cut off the head of my fiancé just now, but you have doomed the people to death, and I cannot plead for people who do not know how to die as behooves a free and proud human.

But after all, they are fathers and mothers, the ruler said, how could they fail to plead for their children?

I already said that there is no sense in pleading with a tiger, for it would not understand anyway. You simply have to fight against a tiger to the last draw of your breath.

You are a beautiful and brave girl and also proud. I like you, and I want you to love me.

He turned toward the guards. Place this girl in my carriage, he said as he bent down to the girl.

At this moment, something flashed in the sun and a sharp dagger struck the girl’s chest. The ruler’s hand, though, was swifter, and it grabbed the girl’s hand.

Why did you stab yourself, rather than me?

What sense would there have been in killing you because your soldiers are more barbaric and have less mercy than you. In revenging your death, they would not only kill everyone, as you have ordered, but would torture everyone to death with horrible tortures—but I love my people!

Your people? asked the ruler. Who are you?

The girl remained silent.

She is our king’s daughter, an elderly woman hastened to explain.

Fool, what are you doing? the girl exclaimed.

The ruler studied the girl.

Why did you want to kill yourself? I am also a ruler, and if you would love me, you could not only save your own life but could even become an empress.

Become an empress in order to hear for the rest of my life the dying curse me for treason and for loving an enemy and a murderer? No, death is a thousandfold better!

If I were to spare these people, will you become my wife and love me?

If you, ruler, were to spare these people, I will become not only your wife but even your lowest slave-girl. Just don’t ask me for love because I cannot promise you what I don’t have.

"You are an honest girl, and I believe you, but you also have to understand me. If you feel sorry for your people, then I, too, feel sorry for my best soldiers.

Your father’s realm and my realm were the strongest countries. Your brother made no secret that once he would become the ruler, he would defeat me in order to become the ruler of the world. He will shackle me in chains and drag me behind his carriage all over the world, and women and children will spit me in the face, but men will beat me with whips. Isn’t that what your brother said?

The girl lowered her head. Yes, ruler, that is what he said. These words have cost me many tears, but his heart was just as merciless as yours!

You are lying now, girl, because I did not do what your brother wanted to do to me. I had his—as the ruler’s son and heir to the throne—head cut off and no one spat at it, not even after he was dead.

I did not know that, ruler. That being the case, I thank you and ask you to forgive me for my unfair words.

Bring the prince’s head! the ruler ordered.

Oh, anything but that! I believe you.

Yes, the ruler continued, I even ordered to have your father, mother, and all members of your family buried, rather than leaving their corpses for dogs and crows, as they would have done to me.

Then the king turned to his army commanders, Order the killing and looting to be stopped, and order all people to assemble in this square!

He reached out with his arms and, having picked up the girl like a feather, placed her in front of him on his horse. After turning his horse around, he rode toward the palace.

The dust-covered faces of people rose from the ground. The children being held up were lowered. The desperate eyes, full of wonder and hope, looked at the ruler, and arms rose cautiously for cheers.

The ruler stepped up to a wide window of the palace. The large square billowed with people’s heads. Like a huge flock of white seagulls above the sea, the people’s hands rose greeting the merciful ruler. The people knew that their own ruler had sworn to annihilate this ruler’s nation to the last person.

The ruler responded to the people’s cheers, who greeted him as their new ruler. The ruler took the king’s daughter to the window and told the people, I present your empress to you! Be faithful and obedient to her, and as long as you will do that, peace will reign among our nations, for it reigns in her and my chest. Let us forget blood and hatred, and instead of building gallows, let us build monuments to those who have fallen and temples to love. Perhaps then it will come to us.

He turned around in order to leave. The girl’s tiny hand, though, detained the great soldier and turned him back to the window. The girl’s voice could be heard throughout the entire wide square.

My people, bow in front of the noble and merciful ruler and thank him for his noble heart. Swear loyalty for life to him because I take him to be my husband and your king, since you could not find a better ruler and I—a more beloved husband!

People dropped to their knees and thanked God that the ruler’s eyes had met the brave girl’s eyes and that his horse had not trampled her.

That is how my brief story ends.

- * * * - [[1221]]

Alexander Pushkin 02/03/46 1607

Pushkin’s spirit is speaking. Considering some circumstances, I have reached the conclusion not to tell you my poem, The Poet and the Girl. Instead, I will tell you something else in Latvian.

What should I tell you? You are already tired of poets, and of girls as well! I wanted to tell you a fairy tale, but Ali scolds me. He says, Don’t stick your nose in my realm!

I claim that it is my realm as well, Say, my Ruslan is better than your Ipsis, and you haven’t seen the Golden Fish even in a dream.

The old one, though, merely shakes his beard. Don’t get near my Ipsis, and don’t brag about all sorts of tiny fishes. Pretty soon, I’ll have my Ipsis sit on a whale and ride up the Rhine to Wiesbaden.

That being the case—don’t I have anything else besides fairy tales? I have other things as well, for example, The Story about the Eternal Seeker. There’s only one problem, though, this story talks again about a poet and girls. Therefore, in fact, it turns out that I have nothing to tell you. What are we going to do now? Should I let you go back to bed again?

Oh, you have already slept enough, and the ladies are not tired of a poet, but Janoss and particularly Alexo of a girl. Well, all right then, listen as well, my honest friends, but what about the Tidings? I question whether it is particularly worth overloading The Book of Tidings with various stories from life. However, that can be decided later on. I’ll begin.

A poet once sat on a high mountain. Red poppies and other flowers, which like so much the caresses of the clouds, bloomed. The clouds had just gathered at the poet’s feet, and one of them—the bravest one—stuck its white nose in the poet’s notebook.

Didn’t understand a thing, it told the other clouds while shaking its head. They shook their heads as well.

Then the mountain wind became mad at the obtrusive clouds and chased them off to the sea.

A small head with golden hair and real blue eyes bent over the poet’s shoulder now. These eyes looked carefully at the gray letters, and then this gilded head, too, shook its hair and the rosy lips said, Don’t understand a thing!

The mountain wind became extremely angry and attacked the girl, wanting to blow away this foolish creature as well. She, however, was not an empty cloud, stuffed full of fog. The wind managed only to lift the girl’s tattered skirt and with it knocked the notebook from the poet’s hands. The notebook spread its wings and started flying. The girl rushed after it and caught it. Out of breath, she brought the notebook back to the poet and handed it to him.

Barely caught up with it, she exhaled heavily.

The cows looked at her with their big eyes and, while chewing the cud, thought, Why do these people get so excited about this dry, white, indigestible sheet [of paper]?

The billy goat, however, raised its long beard and looked wisely at the sky, This dry, white sheet is not all that worthless. I have already eaten several of them. My stomach did growl sort of funny after that, but this doesn’t matter.

The billy goat walked up to the poet and grabbed the white sheet, wanting to prove to the silly cows that it was edible. Instead, it received from the girl such a blow with a stick that it made a somersault. The cows did not even smile. Only the dog walked up to the billy goat and barked something incomprehensible at it.

What’s in this notebook? the girl asked, while eating a large, thick slice of bread.

It contains my poem about the girl.

About what girl? asked the girl.

The poet looked at this strange creature and, somewhat confused, said, Well, about the girl—about the girl of my dreams—about the girl whom I seek and whom I want to love.

And what must this girl—whom you seek and whom you want to love—be like? the girl asked.

She has to be slender as a birch tree, nimble as a mountain goat. Her skin has to be soft and white like a lily blossom. Her steps have to be so light that even grass will not bend underneath them. Her eyes have to be blue like the springtime sky, hair as bright as the rays of the sun, lips as red and juicy like a berry of the cherry tree in the fall. She has to drink only the nectar of flowers and inhale their fragrance. Her heart has to be of gold and her mind has to be able to understand me because if she will be able to do that she will be capable of comprehending God as well. She has to be attired in a silver suit, with velvet shoes, and a crown of pearls has to burn in her hair. That is what the girl whom I seek is like.

(Three minutes.) [[Alexo relieves Mary.]]

This girl stands in front of you, came the voice of the shepherd-girl.

The poet raised his lowered head in surprise and looked at the girl.

You! he exclaimed. After all, you are so dirty that I can’t even tell to what race you belong! Where is your white skin?

Wash me off, then you’ll see, answered the girl. How are you going to stay white in this mountain shack and with these animals?

But after all, not only don’t you smell like a rose but rather more like a billy goat and a dog!

How can I smell like a rose when there aren’t any of them here? The billy goat and the dog, though, keep me warm at night—one on one side, the other on the other. How can I help smelling like a billy goat and a dog? If you were to stick me in a hot bath, this smell would dissipate.

But still, you eat coarse bread just like a woodcutter! the poet exclaimed in indignation.

If you will carry me in your arms and will have me ride in carriages, then perhaps I will be able to live on just honey alone, but if I have to run the whole day long all over the mountains after cattle, you will even gnaw on a stone, let alone this aromatic bread with goat cheese. Here, have a taste!

She stuck the slice under the poet’s nose. He quickly pushed it aside.

What can I say? I sure have found me a real butterfly! the poet muttered.

That will suffice for today. Pushkin. [[1711 The conversation was interrupted by visitors.]]

Alexander Pushkin 02/03/46 2234

Pushkin’s spirit is speaking. Since you aren’t sleepy and want to hear what eventually happened to the girl who smelled so nice, let’s try to continue telling you.

What kind of a dream girl can you be for me when even your heels sink into the ground?

But I run just as nimbly as a goat.

I wouldn’t know, replied the poet. I have never seen a mountain goat.

Then how do you know that it jumps so nimbly?

Everyone says that. Well, all right, perhaps you can jump like a goat, but where is your silver outfit?

Buy it and give it to me as a present. I’ll have it then.

Buy it! It’s easy for you to say that. Where am I, a poet, going to get that kind of money? Yet you don’t even mend the outfit that you are wearing.

The poet indicated the many holes through which the girl’s legs shone through.

They are ventilators, replied the girl, as well as little windows for enticing boys.

I don’t know whom you’ll entice with them, the poet said contemplatively.

You see, you are wise, and even claim that you comprehend God. Yet you are unable to understand me—a little shepherd girl. What would happen if I were to mend these holes?

This question is so interesting that I cannot resist posing it to you as well, heralds. Well, what will Mary say?

[[Mary: In order to retain her individuality.]]

Janoss?

[[Janoss: No sense in mending, since bushes will always tear new ones.]]

Dear Emily?

[[Emily: In order to demonstrate her poverty as a shepherd-girl.]]

Alexo?

[[Alexo: She probably lacks the time for mending.]]

The last hope—who has to defend our, the poet’s, honor from the girl’s insults—is Alexander.

[[Alexander: Judging from her words she is practical, therefore she does not mend her old skirt in order to sooner get a new one from her mistress.]]

Right!

Yes, said the girl, what would happen if I were to mend these old rags? The mistress would not give me a new one. But I, too, want to wear a new skirt.

After all, you probably are wise.

Aha, you also understood for once!

Well, all right, my dear, you have gilded hair, but where is the diadem in it? I see only thorns in it.

Yes, the thorns are the worst thing, just try and get them out of your hair. After all, I don’t want to tear out my hair, and it is painful as well.

There is nothing in you, girl, of my girl, except for your blue eyes, and I am not going to accept you only because of your eyes.

If you can’t take me for a wife, then take me along anyway. I’ll follow you everywhere, and you’ll see for yourself how good I am.

Yes, I can’t see your heart in your chest, but still, you don’t even know how to read.

I do know and well at that! For sweeping out his room and keeping the fire going in winter, the old caretaker of the church taught me how to read. I could have even read your poems if only you had written better.

No, girl, where could I go with you? I cannot buy you a dress. You also smell sort of strange. I’m afraid that people will not let us into hotels and will ridicule us.

I’ll accompany you as a maid.

The poet just whistled. At times, I do not have anything to eat for myself, how will I feed you? You see what a slice you devour! No, girl, keep on herding your billy goats! I will head into the world to seek my dream girl.

And you will not find her!

Why will I not find her?

Because she sits on a rock here on the mountain.

The poet looked at the girl once more.

I like you rather well, but you are no dream girl. Here’s some money. Buy yourself a new skirt so that you would not entice gadflies.

The girl put her hands behind her back and shook her head in refusal. No, I don’t accept money from men. I can earn it on my own!

The poet placed a gold coin on a rock and left.

The girl looked after him for a long time. Once he disappeared among the buildings of a distant village, she picked up the coin, tore a strip from her skirt, wrapped the gold coin in it, and stuck it in her pocket.

The poet headed into the wide world to seek his girl—his ideal. He traveled far. His fame grew. He was welcomed with joy and respect everywhere.

One day, he stopped by the fence of a castle. On the balcony of the castle was a table with golden plates on it, and there was a variety of foods on them. A beautiful girl sat at the table. An entire throng of maids attended her, serving her various dishes, but the girl refused all of them.

What do you want? her mother asked.

None of these nasty dishes. Just give me that rose to smell. I don’t want anything else.

Now, for once, I have found my girl, the poet thought and climbed up the stairs.

The king received him politely and was happy to learn that the famous poet wanted to marry his daughter. His daughter was happy as well. It was decided not to delay the wedding.

Both young people felt happy and kissed each other from morning till night. On the eve of the wedding day, the poet and the princess went for a walk in the mountains. Ditch diggers sat on a roadside and ate pickled cucumbers with rye bread. The princess stopped and watched them eat.

What are these people eating so heartily?

Pickled cucumbers with bread.

I have never eaten them.

She turned to the ditch diggers. They gave her a few cucumbers and broke off a piece of bread.

How tasty! the princess exclaimed, while eating the cucumbers. Juice flowed along her beautiful chin. With wide open eyes, the poet looked at her mouth.

You eat cucumbers and rye bread?

Yep, replied the princess.

But I thought that you subsist only on honey of flowers.

I’m not a three-day butterfly!

But why did you refuse all food back then?

That day, darling, I had a tummy ache.

The poet grasped his head with his hands and headed for the bushes.

Where are you going, darling? the princess shouted.

Only breaking branches in the bushes answered her.

But now, heralds, good night! Pushkin. [[2330]]

Alexander Pushkin 02/04/46 2140

Pushkin’s spirit is speaking.

The poet continued to seek his girl—while wandering from one town to another, from one country to another—but he did not succeed. Every girl lacked something from his ideal.

One day, he sat at a table in a hotel and overheard two ladies conversing.

Yes, my dear, when Linny walks, not even the flowers bend.

Who is this Linny? the poet asked a waitress.

Oh her, she is the baker’s daughter.

I have to see her, thought the poet.

Having looked out a window, the waitress continued, She’s out there, sitting in the garden.

The poet also walked up to the window. A pale, beautiful, slight girl sat among the flowerbeds.

Could I have, for once, really found whom I’ve been seeking? he thought and walked out into the garden.

The girl was knitting gloves and raised her blue eyes toward the poet.

Wonderful eyes, and her head is gilded as well.

He sat down on a bench next to the girl, and greeted her.

They started talking. The poet succumbed ever more to the girl’s spell. She was wise and probably kindhearted as well.

She only lacks a silver dress and jewels on her head. But now I am able to buy them for her.

Hours rushed by without notice.

I love you, miss, the poet said.

You love me? the girl asked. But why? After all, we have just met. You could be disappointed in me.

No, I am a poet, and I know how to evaluate a person quickly and correctly.

And you never err?

Never!

Well, all right. If my mother will agree, I am agreeable. Let’s go home. Please hand me my crutches, they are leaning against that tree behind you.

Crutches? the poet paled.

Yes, I don’t have feet, the girl said.

Oh, that’s why the grass and flowers don’t bend beneath your feet, the poet said.

Don’t bend? I don’t understand you.

Please excuse me, miss. You will not understand me, for I am a poet, and I frequently talk about matters that no one understands. Please accept my words of love also as a poet’s nightmares.

Having raised his hat, he took leave from the girl.

The search started anew.

A beautiful girl with blue eyes, gilded hair, white skin, and clad in a silver dress with jewels in her hair, attracted his attention at a ball. She danced in the hall, light as a butterfly.

Luck has finally smiled on me! the poet exclaimed.

Who is she? he asked his neighbor.

She is the court marshal’s daughter—our famous beauty and the dream of all young men.

Aha, muttered the poet, finally at hand! Where is this old man?

What old man?

Well, the court marshal.

Oh him, he’s not an old man yet. Look, there he sits at that table playing cards.

The poet walked up and introduced himself to the marshal. The poet, too, sat down at the table and rather soon completely cleaned out the marshal.

You probably do not succeed in love? the marshal stated as he got up from his chair.

I haven’t so far, the poet replied, but I hope that now I will succeed for once.

Then I will gladly play you again, the marshal joked. But where is this fortunate girl?

See, that girl!

My daughter? Have you, too, been snared by her hook? When did you manage to get acquainted with her?

I have not become acquainted with her yet.

And you have already fallen in love? Isn’t that too soon?

No, because she corresponds to my ideal.

Oh yes, I remember your famous poem. Well, may God grant you this happiness, but I have no shortage of daughters. Besides Inga, I still have an entire devil’s dozen at home.

The marshal had his daughter called over. She glided from one officer’s arms into another officer’s arms.

Inga, this gentleman wants to marry you.

Inga looked at the poet.

What is your occupation? she asked.

I’m a poet.

Oh, a poet? That’s not bad. Lizzy and Peggy will envy me so much. They dream only about poets. Tell me, are the poems that you write just as beautiful as those of Socrates?

Socrates? I have not read a single of his poems yet.

Too bad, but I have read them.

The poet scratched behind his ear. Who would have thought that this old philosopher had written love doggerels for his Xanthippe? he said. Then even Diogenes, while sitting in his barrel, probably occupied himself with that as well?

Obviously! What else can a man do in a barrel? So you want to marry me? In that case, you will have to join the army, for I love soldiers and only soldiers.

Why only them?

Well, because they have such pretty uniforms and spurs. What is a male without a uniform? It is the same thing as a finger without a fingernail!

The poet became thoughtful. There are wise heads among soldiers as well, he said, but why should I, too, not put on this pretty uniform?

The marshal remarked, We will take care of that in a few days.

Do you like poems, miss?

Why not if they’re pretty? Still, I like love novels better, particularly those in which there is much kissing. But most of all, I like fashion journals.

They walked home through the garden.

Aurora is so bright tonight, said the poet.

Aurora? After all, she wore a black dress tonight. Why do you say that she is bright?

Oh, I’m talking about the star. You see there, the Great Bear and…

Great Bear? Where? I don’t see any bears there!

Haven’t you, miss, taken any interest in astronomy at all?

No. What can there be in it that is interesting?

What have you been interested in?

A strange question! Can a human being lack things to be interested in?

Yes, you are right, but nevertheless I would like to know in what you are the most interested.

In handsome men, obviously, answered the girl.

And in nothing else?

Are you my fiancé or a teacher? the girl asked suddenly.

Neither, miss. I am simply a fool.

Having raised his hat, he took leave from the beautiful creature.

Years and years passed thus. The poet became old and gray, but he did not find the girl whom he was seeking. He no longer sought her but out of habit merely wandered all over the world.

A stormy night approached. The poet hurried along a steep mountain road in order to reach the capital before the rain started. He had heard that a queen ruled in this city. She was renowned for her beauty and her good heart; as well as her wisdom which had reached the most distant corners of Earth.

The rain came closer. The poet increased his pace even more. The rain, however, turned out to be swifter and started hacking the poet’s back. Wet and tired, he finally reached the first houses of the city and collapsed at the iron fence of a large garden. He lost consciousness.

When he came to, he saw above him the face of an elderly and gray lady and heard her voice. Bring this unfortunate man into the palace.

People rushed up and carried him into the palace. He was bathed on the lady’s order and after that dressed in dry clothing and laid on a wide, soft chair. A table with food and wine was pushed up to him.

The elderly lady herself came in after a while. She was still unusually beautiful and noble, despite her gray hair. Her figure still appeared to be youthful.

Well, how do you feel? she asked as she sat down on another chair opposite him. I am the ruler of this palace. My husband—the king—has already died.

The poet stared at the queen’s face and could not remember where he had seen this face and heard this voice.

The queen straightened out the folds of her silver dress and touched up the net of jewels on her head. Then she smiled sadly and said, Poet, you no longer recognize me. You have forgotten me, unlike I—you. I have constantly followed the march of your renown and your progress of seeking your girl.

The poet wanted to stand up, Who are you?

Keep on sitting, my friend. I am the shepherd girl who smelled of billy goat and dog.

You—the queen—the queen about whose beauty, nobility, and wisdom tales are told in the most distant lands? You are the tattered, unusual shepherd girl whom I met in my youth?

"Yes, I am the one. I did not obey you and followed you. You never looked back, though. In a marketplace, I was so absorbed in admiring you that I wound up underneath the legs of a horse. The rider jumped from his horse, lifted me up from the ground, and took me to his palace. He was the son of this country’s king. He had me washed and clothed in the attire of a lady-in-waiting. When I looked in a mirror and saw in it a fancy and beautiful lady, I bowed respectfully before her. This lady was just as respectful as I, for she turned out to be my reflection.

When the prince saw me, he was even more surprised than I had been. The old king kept me at his court, and later on, I became his son’s wife. Do you recognize this gold coin?

The queen placed a small disk of gold on the table.

You saved this gold all this time! Why didn’t you buy yourself a dress with it?

It was, after all, the only keepsake from the poet whom I loved and who faithfully sought me the whole world over. Stand up now, my friend, and come along with me.

They walked into the throne room. A large painting hung on a wall. The poet’s dream girl looked down from it.

I am the one, the queen said, or rather—that is what I was like when you started seeking me. What’s wrong with you?

She took the poet to the throne, and he collapsed on it.

I am weak. My hours [have run out, I have to hasten] back to God, he said.

The queen stroked his silvery hair, kissed him on his forehead, and said, "The eternal seeker! You have no longer anyone whom to seek on this Earth because the girl whom you seek is no longer on it. There is only an old, gray queen. But be content, poet! No one has yet found on this Earth that which he seeks because everything that he has found seems too insignificant for him compared to his dreams. Dreams live only in Heaven.

You—my poet and my love—nevertheless came to me and you will lie next to me, next to my casket in the royal chapel.

The banners dropped low. The funeral march resounded. The heads of innumerable people bowed low in deep respect and sorrow as the heavy casket swayed on the gilded shoulders of marshals. A gray, sad queen followed it.

I conclude. Pushkin. [[2325]]

Nakcia 02/09/46 2159

- * * * -

In general, people do not bother to notice whether they disturb someone else or not. A large majority of married women like very much to talk for hours on end about their children’s tummy aches and about their neighbors—how they sleep, what they see in their dreams, how many times they have been seen kissing each other, and how many times they have done that without anyone’s knowledge and in secret. [They like to talk about] how much a herring costs and which one of them—yesterday’s or today’s—was saltier, which white bread is whiter and which rye bread is darker, and whose husband is more faithful and whose knows how to curse better if dinner has been burned. These people, while wiping off their child’s one end or the other, feel happy if someone comes in to gossip with them. They do not understand that such gossiping may seem unpleasant for others and that perhaps it keeps them from work or from thinking.

There are people who cannot feel calm, like a cricket on a hot stove, unless they know everything that their neighbors do and think. A neighbor lady’s tooth is more painful to them than their own tooth, and her husband’s infidelity upsets them more than their own husbands’ infidelity.

If she, however, sees a man sitting next to a woman, her heart no longer has any calm. Why are they sitting there? How many times have they already kissed each other, and where will they, the poor things, find a place to sin? The poor, good heart can no longer find any calm, as long as God allows it to beat. With her primitive mind, she makes everything primitive.

Oh, they’re philosophizing about God? I know what kind of a God that is. They’re reading a book? But they only look into each other’s eyes. They’re reading poetry? No, dear ones, you’re not going to deceive me. They’ll be kissing each other like crazy in the evening.

And so, no matter what an individual might be doing, everything is only for the purpose of hiding his clamorous sin from her eyes.

What can one do if some tiny person is so small that he is unable to raise his head higher than his bellybutton?

One cannot escape from all that with many people living close together because there are many of these tiny people, and it is not possible to change them. Therefore there is only one possibility—to not live like herrings in a barrel, while salting each other.

Even people of a rather high value cannot restrain themselves from condemning another individual. There is a tendency in human nature to always see and expect the worst and the most evil.

If two people—a man and a woman—sit together, are friendly and if they are bound by common interests, then generally people already claim that they are in love and kiss each other like cats behind a stove. Perhaps not only they, but even God Himself, do not know yet if they will ever kiss.

Even if that were to take place, would the sun in the sky cease shining because of that, would bread turn darker, would sleep no longer cover the Earth, or else, would one’s pants become torn? No, nothing like that would ever happen! Yet the individual nevertheless has to become excited and has to ruin his good heart. Similarly, he cannot calm down if someone has sewn himself a better fur coat or else lives in a room that has one more window than this good person’s room.

- * * * -

Nakcia. [[2311]]

Alexander Pushkin 02/12/46 2132

The spirit of Alexander Pushkin is speaking. I continue my epic poem about a poet and a girl.

The high and wide hall glittered in gold and silver. The many guests sat on soft velvet seats. Laurel trees stood on the stage, and the sad face of the great poet rose above them. A barely perceptible, bitter smile lay on his lips. His gray eyes looked somewhere into the far distance, above the people’s heads. No one can say what they saw, but they saw something invisible, compared to which everything became insignificant. His once dark and thick hair had turned silvery above his high brow. The poet’s lips, however, were mute because an artist had painted them on canvas.

Ten years had passed today from the day when the great poet had departed from Earth.

A great actor stood on the stage. His hand held a few sheets of paper. Yet he started reading without looking at them.

(Intermission.) [[Interference due to visitors. 2142–2149]]

He read the famous poem about the little girl who had transgressed the laws of the people because she had loved God. The immortal words resounded. People’s hearts broke beneath their weight. Their eyes became moist, and sweet pain raged in their hearts. The golden and silvery ceiling and walls disappeared. The people seemingly faded. There were only eyes directed at the actor’s lips. There were only hearts that suffered and turned sad along with him.

A lengthy silence persisted in the hall once the actor had finished. Only eyes rose toward the one who looked above them. [They rose] toward the one who had made words live, burn, and billow and had made them raise one to Heaven and throw him into Hell. Yet the one who had made the lifeless words live, who had created from them worlds that were mightier than the worlds created by God, and whose every touch had given immortality to mortals, remained silent.

A beautiful but already gray lady sat in one of the front rows. Next to her sat her daughter—a girl with dark hair and gray eyes, which burned with her soul’s inextinguishable and uncontrollable flames.

The actor changed the sheet and brought it to his eyes. Suddenly, the gray lady came to her senses, looked around in confusion, and then glanced at the painting of the poet. Tears filled her dry eyes, and having stood up, she suddenly hurried out of the hall.

The audience, barely controlling its indignation, followed her with its eyes in amazement. Her daughter, having been surprised at the first moment, jumped to her feet and followed her mother.

The door closed behind them. The mother stopped in the empty lobby and, while leaning against a wall, covered her face with her hands.

Mother, dear mother, what’s wrong with you? Are you sick? Sit down! [The daughter] pleaded while pushing a chair up to her mother and caressing her hair.

Nothing, my dear, it’s nothing. I just felt bad for a moment.

Because of what, Mother?

I don’t know, my daughter, perhaps because of the poet’s words. My heart has become very weak.

"Oh, Mother, Mother! How could you have walked out? How could you have walked away from these words that torment, enchant, and uplift so much, and summon one away from Earth, from its insignificance? Listen