Hristo Smirnenski is one of Bulgaria's most cherished poets and writers of the 20th century, known for his socially conscious and deeply empathetic work. Smirnenski died of tuberculosis at just 25, but that was enough time for him to craft his relevant and powerfully executed critiques of social inequality, which have gone on to leave a lasting imprint on Bulgarian literature. Among his works is The Story of the Ladder (1923), a poignant allegory of the troubling link between ambition and corruption.
This short piece develops a dark metaphor around a young man initially driven to succeed out of righteous anger and a desire for justice. A self-proclaimed defender of the downtrodden, he stands before a marble staircase determined to climb it and avenge the woes of his people on those in power. As he ascends he encounters the Devil, guarding the path and demanding incremental sacrifices: first the man’s hearing, then his sight, then his heart and his memory. Each sacrifice strips him of his humanity yet the young man continues, consumed by his original goal.
The story dramatises the ease with which idealism can be corrupted by the insidious seductions of status and privilege, all while purporting to uphold its original values. Each price the Devil demands is a critical faculty of humanity – sensory connection, empathy, the memory of where you come from and of where you want to go.
The young man’s idealistic beginning is jarringly juxtaposed with his oblivious, complacent end, yet everything happens step by step with each choice appearing perfectly sensible, even necessary. This returns us to Smirnenski’s warning: without self-awareness and a clear gaze, even the most principled can betray their own values in what seems a natural journey to acquiring power.
The Story of the Ladder is a timeless cautionary tale that illustrates how ambition is only noble as long as it is tempered by vigilance and humility. Impactful in its brevity, the work lays bare the moral compromises that accompany the sociopolitical game, challenging readers to reflect on whether their values really are evident in the choices they make.
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The Story of the Ladder
By Hristo Smirnenski
Dedicated to all who will say, "This doesn’t concern me!”
"Who are you?" the Devil asked him.
"I am a plebeian by birth, and all the poor wretches are my brothers! Oh, how ugly the earth is and how miserable the people are!"
This was said by a young man with a proud brow and clenched fists. He stood before a staircase – a tall staircase of white marble with pink veins. His gaze was cast into the distance, where, like the murky waters of a flooded river, grey crowds of misery surged. They moved, seethed, raised a forest of thin, black hands, and a thunder of indignation and fierce cries shook the air, fading away slowly, solemnly, like distant cannon blasts. The crowds grew, advancing, clouds of yellow dust rising; individual silhouettes emerged more and more clearly from the general greyness. An old man approached, bent low to the ground, as if searching for his lost youth. Clinging to his ragged clothing was a barefoot little girl, who gazed at the tall ladder with gentle, cornflower-blue eyes. She looked and smiled. And behind them came still more ragged, grey, withered figures, all singing a prolonged, funeral song in unison. Someone whistled sharply. Another, hands stuffed in his pockets, laughed loudly, madness burning in his eyes.
"I am a plebeian by birth, and all the poor wretches are my brothers! Oh, how ugly the earth is and how miserable the people are! Oh, you up there, you..."
This was said by a young man with a proud brow and clenched fists raised in defiance.
"You hate those men?" asked the Devil, leering slyly over the young man.
"Oh, I will take revenge on those princes and nobles. I will avenge my brothers, my brothers with faces yellow as wax, who moan more eerily than the December winds! See their bare, bloody flesh; hear their groans! I will avenge them! Let me through!"
The Devil smiled. "I am the guardian of those above, and without a bribe, I will not let them go."
"I have no gold, I have nothing to bribe you with... I am a poor, ragged youth... But I am ready to give my life."
The Devil smiled again. "Oh, I don’t want that much! Just give me your hearing!"
"My hearing? Gladly… Let me never hear anything again, let me..."
"You will still hear," the Devil reassured him, stepping aside. "Go on!"
The young man ran, climbing three steps in one leap, but the Devil's hairy hand stopped him. "Enough! Stop to hear how your brothers down there moan!"
The young man listened. "How strange, they've suddenly begun to sing cheerfully and laugh so carefree!" And again he ran upwards. The Devil stopped him again.
"To climb another three steps, I want your eyes!"
The young man waved his hand in despair.
"But then I won’t be able to see my brothers, nor those I am going to take revenge on!"
The Devil said, "You will still see... I will give you new, much better eyes!"
The young man climbed three more steps and looked down. The Devil reminded him: "Look at their bare, bloody flesh!"
"My God! How strange – it seems they are dressed so finely! And instead of bloody wounds, they have decked themselves in marvellous scarlet roses!"
Every three steps, the Devil took his small toll. But the young man kept climbing, giving everything willingly, just to reach the top and take revenge on those fat princes and nobles. Just one more step, one last step, and he would be up there! He would avenge his brothers!
"I am a plebeian by birth, and all the poor wretches..."
"Young man, just one more step! Only one more, and you will have your revenge! But for this step, I always ask double payment: give me your heart and your memory!"
The young man waved his hand.
"My heart? No! That is too cruel!"
The Devil laughed, his voice resonant and commanding.
"I am not so cruel. I will give you a golden heart and a brand new memory in exchange! If you do not agree, you will never take this step, never avenge your brothers – those with faces like sand, who moan more eerily than the December winds."
The youth looked into the Devil’s mocking green eyes.
"But I will be the most miserable. You are taking everything human from me!"
"On the contrary – you will be the happiest! So? Are you willing? Just your heart and memory?"
The young man thought, a dark shadow crossed his face, murky drops of sweat beaded on his furrowed brow. He clenched his fists in anger and gritted his teeth.
"Let it be! Take them!"
...And like a summer storm, furious and angry, his dark hair streaming, he climbed the last step. He was already at the top. Suddenly, a smile lit up his face, his eyes gleamed with quiet joy, and his fists relaxed. He looked at the feasting princes, then down below, where the grey crowd roared and cursed. He looked, but no muscle twitched on his face; it was bright, cheerful, content. He saw festive crowds below; the groans were now hymns.
"Who are you?" the Devil asked hoarsely and slyly.
"I am a prince by birth, and the gods are my brothers! Oh, how beautiful the earth is and how happy the people are!"
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