Russian Dream By D'air Marty IVAN GORIONIVITCH was one of the most wealthy of all Russian nobles. His family dated back to Tzar Nickolas himself, which made it that his social standing could have been of the best had he so desired, but Ivan was not of the type who wished to be bored by the demands conventionalized social custom place on a person. He wished to be left alone to think his own thoughts, and only the rare few whom he chose as his friends ever found the door to his huge mansion opened to them. The outside world paid a great deal of attention to Ivan Gorionivitch for a good many reasons, the chief being that he had one of the most brilliant creative minds in all Europe. He wrote books on philosophy and religion. Also he criticized, somewhat caustically, the works of his contemporaries who wrote on these subjects. He had no idea of teaching any faith by sacred writings, but he wrote constantly both for and against the existing schools of thought. But his real genius lay in the field of philosophy. Here he gave to the world his own conceptions no matter how radical they seemed, for he wrote not what people wanted to read, but what he wanted to say. Ivan was further known to those familiar with his antecedents as one in whose long line of ancestry there had at certain periods cropped out cases of insanity. These dementations took all forms from epilepsy, with which his great grandfather has been stricken, to a case in which a female had played with dolls all her life, even to her death-bed at the age of eighty-nine. However, for the three past generations there had been no evidence of the malady in any of its aspects, and so there was considerable interest in Ivan's life. Although people watched carefully, it seemed that Ivan Gorionivitch was, aside from his gift for biting sarcasm and his extremely brilliant mind, as normal as if there had never been the slightest trace of mental aberration in his entire family tree. As has been said, the real literary interest of this adroit man was philosophy. He had done many books on that subject. Also he had formed a complete system by which he guided his own life. Being Russian and being one who had a contempt for convention, Ivan's philosophy seemed strange and almost revolting to most people, although they were forced to admit that it would take a person of extreme mental courage to live by it and that the rewards would be great to those who did, for if Ivan did nothing else, he commanded respect for himself and his thinking. There were many who condemned his ideas heartily and said the things which he suggested were either the impossible thoughts of an impractical dreamer or the unbridled wanderings of a mad radical, but it was found that those who made such accusations dared not believe his ideas for fear they would realize the weakness of their own philosophy and become distracted over their lot. It was this kind of people that made Ivan sit of an evening before his huge log fire with perhaps two or three friends and after a large swallow of vodka say, with his deep eyes aglow: "It is not my philosophy nor myself that is wrong, it is the fools who are afraid to admit I am right. They will find out some day, and when they do they will pull in their horns and drown themselves in a barrel of vodka." And then he would drink more himself and sit staring into the fire all nj.ght, trying to solve some problem that had presented itself during the day. When he came to an answer that satisfied him, he would turn to his writing desk and scribble feverishly, throwing page after page to the floor, where they would remain until his servants gathered them and took the manuscript to the printers to be published or added to the collection on which he happened to be working. Because of what he considered important according to his philosophy of life, there was no depending on Ivan. If he accepted an engagement to dine, even with the Tzar, and something turned up that he decided should have his attention, he would sit down before his fire and give it his attention, completely forgetting about the engagement. And if he were reminded of it by a servant or a friend he would turn back to the fire muttering: "The only reason that you wish to interrupt the meditation of a wise man is that it arouses your ire to see another lost in thought when the farthest your wizened mind ever travels is to devise a plan for pleasing some hostess so that she will fill your belly." And so because of his brilliant mind, because of his utter freedom and lack of convention, because of the taint that might at any moment make itself evident, Ivan Gorionivitch was a figure envied by some, admired by others, and a fascination to all with whom he came in contact. It was near the end of the eighteenth century when Ivan was aproaching the peak of his career that he first came in contact with "his" problem; for, as he himself wrote, "Every man, whether big or small, rich or poor, nobleman or gutter-rat, has somewhere in the maelstrom of his mind a problem which he must solve or at least be gentleman enough to try to solve. And when the day comes that such an event takes place as to present to the man his problem, he must drop all his childish, selfish, heart-warmed desires and set about to traverse the universe if necessary until he reaches the ultimate and correct answer to his special perplexing question." It happened on just such a night as has been described that he was before the fire with his overflowing glass of vodka and several friends and they were discussing the good and bad features of his latest publication on philosophy. Among those present were two gentlemen who were literary critics, and as the evening drew to a close, one of these men reminded the other of an appointment that they both had the next morning. Upon being reminded, the younger of the two told the older that he would be sure to arrive at the place on time. At this declaration of positiveness, there passed through Ivan's mind a picture of the pledger's being killed that night by accident and of his consequent inability to keep the appointment despite the fact that a mere few hours before he had been "sure" he would. Now to the average person such a thought would have passed off as of no account, but to Ivan it presented his problem. And the more he looked into the fire after the departure of his company, the more he began to see the difficulties which he must combat in answering the query, "Is the human mind ever sure of anything previous to its actual happening?" All night he sat there and gazed at the flames as they played up the chimney, and as he did so he reasoned thus: "Before me is a fire. I am reasonably sure that if I put my hand into the flames I shall receive a burn which will cause me pain. I am sure of this because I have placed my hand in fire before and been burned; so I am lead to assume that this will be true now. However, until I perform the actual movement of placing my hand in the flame, I cannot be absolutely sure. Too, in my hand I hold a glass of vodka. I know that vodka is a liquor which should make me drunk if I partake heavily of it. I know this because I have seen other people drink and become drunk. I can't say 'yes' nor be absolutely sure until I have myself tried it and observed the effects." On he argued with himself. In every matter that he thought upon he concluded that no person is sure of anything prior to experience. Morning found Ivan seated at his writing desk feverishly entering down his conclusions. Having written much, he put on his coat and left the house. As he walked down the street he mused: "If I were sure of something I would be willing to stake anything, even my life, on it. Death is the greatest price man can pay for any belief." And so he went through the town all day, asking and observing. All investigations seemed to offer confirmation to his conception. At last, just as it was getting dusk, he came upon a funeral. He stopped one of the peasants and said, "Are you sure of anything before it happens?" And the peasant looked at Ivan queerly, answering, "Of course I am sure." "Of what are you sure?" returned Ivan. And the man pointed to the disappearing casket. "I am sure of death." Then Ivan said quickly, "And would you stake your life on it?" The peasant looked at him more queerly. "Stake my life on death ? You are mad." And he walked away. Then Ivan said to himself, "Now I can complete my writing. When one wants the truth he should go to a common man, for those near the earth know better than to tell the truth. People are sure of nothing except death before it happens." All that night, the next day, and the next night he wrote without stopping. His servants came begging him to stop and take food but he waved them away and went on writing. When he had finished he called (Continued on Page 18)