he became a Monk. The Duel



    I SPENT a long time, almost eight years, in the military cadet

school at Petersburg, and in the novelty of my surroundings there,

many of my childish impressions grew dimmer, though I forgot

nothing. I picked up so many new habits and opinions that I was

transformed into a cruel, absurd, almost savage creature. A surface

polish of courtesy and society manners I did acquire together with the

French language.

    But we all, myself included, looked upon the soldiers in our

service as cattle. I was perhaps worse than the rest in that

respect, for I was so much more impressionable than my companions.

By the time we left the school as officers, we were ready to lay

down our lives for the honour of the regiment, but no one of us had

any knowledge of the real meaning of honour, and if anyone had known

it, he would have been the first to ridicule it. Drunkenness,

debauchery and devilry were what we almost prided ourselves on. I

don't say that we were bad by nature, all these young men were good

fellows, but they behaved badly, and I worst of all. What made it

worse for me was that I had come into my own money, and so I flung

myself into a life of pleasure, and plunged headlong into all the

recklessness of youth.

    I was fond of reading, yet strange to say, the Bible was the one

book I never opened at that time, though I always carried it about

with me, and I was never separated from it; in very truth I was

keeping that book "for the day and the hour, for the month and the

year," though I knew it not.

    After four years of this life, I chanced to be in the town of K.

where our regiment was stationed at the time. We found the people of

the town hospitable, rich, and fond of entertainments. I met with a

cordial reception everywhere, as I was of a lively temperament and was

known to be well off, which always goes a long way in the world. And

then a circumstance happened which was the beginning of it all.

    I formed an attachment to a beautiful and intelligent young girl

of noble and lofty character, the daughter of people much respected.

They were well-to-do people of influence and position. They always

gave me a cordial and friendly reception. I fancied that the young

lady looked on me with favour and my heart was aflame at such an idea.

Later on I saw and fully realised that I perhaps was not so

passionately in love with her at all, but only recognised the

elevation of her mind and character, which I could not indeed have

helped doing. I was prevented, however, from making her an offer at

the time by my selfishness; I was loath to part with the allurements

of my free and licentious bachelor life in the heyday of my youth, and

with my pockets full of money. I did drop some hint as to my

feelings however, though I put off taking any decisive step for a

time. Then, all of a sudden, we were ordered off for two months to

another district.

    On my return two months later, I found the young lady already

married to a rich neighbouring landowner, a very amiable man, still

young though older than I was, connected with the best Petersburg

society, which I was not, and of excellent education, which I also was

not. I was so overwhelmed at this unexpected circumstance that my mind

was positively clouded. The worst of it all was that, as I learned

then, the young landowner had been a long while betrothed to her,

and I had met him indeed many times in her house, but blinded by my

conceit I had noticed nothing. And this particularly mortified me;

almost everybody had known all about it, while I knew nothing. I was

filled with sudden irrepressible fury. With flushed face I began

recalling how often I had been on the point of declaring my love to

her, and as she had not attempted to stop me or to warn me, she

must, I concluded, have been laughing at me all the time. Later on, of

course, I reflected and remembered that she had been very far from

laughing at me; on the contrary, she used to turn off any

love-making on my part with a jest and begin talking of other

subjects; but at that moment I was incapable of reflecting and was all

eagerness for revenge. I am surprised to remember that my wrath and

revengeful feelings were extremely repugnant to my own nature, for

being of an easy temper, I found it difficult to be angry with

anyone for long, and so I had to work myself up artificially and

became at last revolting and absurd.

    I waited for an opportunity and succeeded in insulting my

"rival" in the presence of a large company. I insulted him on a

perfectly extraneous pretext, jeering at his opinion upon an important

public event- it was in the year 1826- my jeer was, so people said,

clever and effective. Then I forced him to ask for an explanation, and

behaved so rudely that he accepted my challenge in spite of the vast

inequality between us, as I was younger, a person of no consequence,

and of inferior rank. I learned afterwards for a fact that it was from

a jealous feeling on his side also that my challenge was accepted;

he had been rather jealous of me on his wife's account before their

marriage; he fancied now that if he submitted to be insulted by me and

refused to accept my challenge, and if she heard of it, she might

begin to despise him and waver in her love for him. I soon found a

second in a comrade, an ensign of our regiment. In those days though

duels were severely punished, yet duelling was a kind of fashion among

the officers- so strong and deeply rooted will a brutal prejudice

sometimes be.

    It was the end of June, and our meeting was to take place at seven

o'clock the next day on the outskirts of the town- and then

something happened that in very truth was the turning point of my

life. In the evening, returning home in a savage and brutal humour,

I flew into a rage with my orderly Afanasy, and gave him two blows

in the face with all my might, so that it was covered with blood. He

had not long been in my service and I had struck him before, but never

with such ferocious cruelty. And, believe me, though it's forty

years ago, I recall it now with shame and pain. I went to bed and

slept for about three hours; when I waked up the day was breaking. I

got up- I did not want to sleep any more- I went to the window- opened

it, it looked out upon the garden; I saw the sun rising; it was warm

and beautiful, the birds were singing.

    "What's the meaning of it?" I thought. "I feel in my heart as it

were something vile and shameful. Is it because I am going to shed

blood? No," I thought, "I feel it's not that. Can it be that I am

afraid of death, afraid of being killed? No, that's not it, that's not

it at all."... And all at once I knew what it was: it was because I

had beaten Afanasy the evening before! It all rose before my mind,

it all was, as it were, repeated over again; he stood before me and

I was beating him straight on the face and he was holding his arms

stiffly down, his head erect, his eyes fixed upon me as though on

parade. He staggered at every blow and did not even dare to raise

his hands to protect himself. That is what a man has been brought

to, and that was a man beating a fellow creature! What a crime! It was

as though a sharp dagger had pierced me right through. I stood as if I

were struck dumb, while the sun was shining, the leaves were rejoicing

and the birds were trilling the praise of God.... I hid my face in

my hands, fell on my bed and broke into a storm of tears. And then I

remembered by brother Markel and what he said on his death-bed to

his servants: "My dear ones, why do you wait on me, why do you love

me, am I worth your waiting on me?"

    "Yes, am I worth it?" flashed through my mind. "After all what

am I worth, that another man, a fellow creature, made in the

likeness and image of God, should serve me?" For the first time in

my life this question forced itself upon me. He had said, "Mother,

my little heart, in truth we are each responsible to all for all, it's

only that men don't know this. If they knew it, the world would be a

paradise at once."

    "God, can that too be false?" I thought as I wept. "In truth,

perhaps, I am more than all others responsible for all, a greater

sinner than all men in the world." And all at once the whole truth

in its full light appeared to me: what was I going to do? I was

going to kill a good, clever, noble man, who had done me no wrong, and

by depriving his wife of happiness for the rest of her life, I

should be torturing and killing her too. I lay thus in my bed with

my face in the pillow, heedless how the time was passing. Suddenly

my second, the ensign, came in with the pistols to fetch me.

    "Ah," said he, "it's a good thing you are up already, it's time we

were off, come along!"

    I did not know what to do and hurried to and fro undecided; we

went out to the carriage, however.

    "Wait here a minute," I said to him. "I'll be back directly, I

have forgotten my purse."

    And I ran back alone, to Afanasy's little room.

    "Afanasy," I said, "I gave you two blows on the face yesterday,

forgive me," I said.

    He started as though he were frightened, and looked at me; and I

saw that it was not enough, and on the spot, in my full officer's

uniform, I dropped at his feet and bowed my head to the ground.

    "Forgive me," I said.

    Then he was completely aghast.

    "Your honour... sir, what are you doing? Am I worth it?"

    And he burst out crying as I had done before, hid his face in

his hands, turned to the window and shook all over with his sobs. I

flew out to my comrade and jumped into the carriage.

    "Ready," I cried. "Have you ever seen a conqueror?" I asked him.

"Here is one before you."

    I was in ecstasy, laughing and talking all the way, I don't

remember what about.

    He looked at me. "Well, brother, you are a plucky fellow, you'll

keep up the honour of the uniform, I can see."

    So we reached the place and found them there, waiting us. We

were placed twelve paces apart; he had the first shot. I stood

gaily, looking him full in the face; I did not twitch an eyelash, I

looked lovingly at him, for I knew what I would do. His shot just

grazed my cheek and ear.

    "Thank God," I cried, "no man has been killed," and I seized my

pistol, turned back and flung it far away into the wood. "That's the

place for you," I cried.

    I turned to my adversary.

    "Forgive me, young fool that I am, sir," I said, "for my

unprovoked insult to you and for forcing you to fire at me. I am ten

times worse than you and more, maybe. Tell that to the person whom you

hold dearest in the world."

    I had no sooner said this than they all three shouted at me.

    "Upon my word," cried my adversary, annoyed, "if you did not

want to fight, why did not you let me alone?"

    "Yesterday I was a fool, to-day I know better," I answered him

gaily.

    "As to yesterday, I believe you, but as for to-day, it is

difficult to agree with your opinion," said he.

    "Bravo," I cried, clapping my hands. "I agree with you there

too, I have deserved it!"

    "Will you shoot, sir, or not?"

    "No, I won't," I said; "if you like, fire at me again, but it

would be better for you not to fire."

    The seconds, especially mine, were shouting too: "Can you disgrace

the regiment like this, facing your antagonist and begging his

forgiveness! If I'd only known this!"

    I stood facing them all, not laughing now.

    "Gentlemen," I said, "is it really so wonderful in these days to

find a man who can repent of his stupidity and publicly confess his

wrongdoing?"

    "But not in a duel," cried my second again.

    "That's what's so strange," I said. "For I ought to have owned

my fault as soon as I got here, before he had fired a shot, before

leading him into a great and deadly sin; but we have made our life

so grotesque, that to act in that way would have been almost

impossible, for only after I had faced his shot at the distance of

twelve paces could my words have any significance for him, and if I

had spoken before, he would have said, 'He is a coward, the sight of

the pistols has frightened him, no use to listen to him.'

Gentlemen," I cried suddenly, speaking straight from my heart, "look

around you at the gifts of God, the clear sky, the pure air, the

tender grass, the birds; nature is beautiful and sinless, and we, only

we, are sinful and foolish, and we don't understand that life is

heaven, for we have only to understand that and it will at once be

fulfilled in all its beauty, we shall embrace each other and weep."

    I would have said more but I could not; my voice broke with the

sweetness and youthful gladness of it, and there was such bliss in

my heart as I had never known before in my life.

    "All this is rational and edifying," said my antagonist, "and in

any case you are an original person."

    "You may laugh," I said to him, laughing too, "but afterwards

you will approve of me."

    "Oh, I am ready to approve of you now," said he; "will you shake

hands? for I believe you are genuinely sincere."

    "No," I said, "not now, later on when I have grown worthier and

deserve your esteem, then shake hands and you will do well."

    We went home, my second upbraiding me all the way, while I

kissed him. All my comrades heard of the affair at once and gathered

together to pass judgment on me the same day.

    "He has disgraced the uniform," they said; "Let him resign his

commission."

    Some stood up for me: "He faced the shot," they said.

    "Yes, but he was afraid of his other shot and begged for

forgiveness."

    "If he had been afraid of being shot, he would have shot his own

pistol first before asking forgiveness, while he flung it loaded

into the forest. No, there's something else in this, something

original."

    I enjoyed listening and looking at them. "My dear friends and

comrades," said I, "don't worry about my resigning my commission,

for I have done so already. I have sent in my papers this morning

and as soon as I get my discharge I shall go into a monastery- it's

with that object I am leaving the regiment."

    When I had said this every one of them burst out laughing.

    "You should have told us of that first, that explains

everything, we can't judge a monk."

    They laughed and could not stop themselves, and not scornfully,

but kindly and merrily. They all felt friendly to me at once, even

those who had been sternest in their censure, and all the following

month, before my discharge came, they could not make enough of me.

"Ah, you monk," they would say. And everyone said something kind to

me, they began trying to dissuade me, even to pity me: "What are you

doing to yourself?"

    "No," they would say, "he is a brave fellow, he faced fire and

could have fired his own pistol too, but he had a dream the night

before that he should become a monk, that's why he did it."

    It was the same thing with the society of the town. Till then I

had been kindly received, but had not been the object of special

attention, and now all came to know me at once and invited me; they

laughed at me, but they loved me. I may mention that although

everybody talked openly of our duel, the authorities took no notice of

it, because my antagonist was a near relation of our general, and as

there had been no bloodshed and no serious consequences, and as I

resigned my commission, they took it as a joke. And I began then to

speak aloud and fearlessly, regardless of their laughter, for it was

always kindly and not spiteful laughter. These conversations mostly

took place in the evenings, in the company of ladies; women

particularly liked listening to me then and they made the men listen.

    "But how can I possibly be responsible for all?" everyone would

laugh in my face. "Can I, for instance, be responsible for you?"

    "You may well not know it," I would answer, "since the whole world

has long been going on a different line, since we consider the veriest

lies as truth and demand the same lies from others. Here I have for

once in my life acted sincerely and, well, you all look upon me as a

madman. Though you are friendly to me, yet, you see, you all laugh

at me."

    "But how can we help being friendly to you?" said my hostess,

laughing. The room was full of people. All of a sudden the young

lady rose, on whose account the duel had been fought and whom only

lately I had intended to be my future wife. I had not noticed her

coming into the room. She got up, came to me and held out her hand.

    "Let me tell you," she said, "that I am the first not to laugh

at you, but on the contrary I thank you with tears and express my

respect for you for your action then."

    Her husband, too, came up and then they all approached me and

almost kissed me. My heart was filled with joy, but my attention was

especially caught by a middle-aged man who came up to me with the

others. I knew him by name already, but had never made his

acquaintance nor exchanged a word with him till that evening.



                     (d) The Mysterious Visitor.



    He had long been an official in the town; he was in a prominent

position, respected by all, rich and had a reputation for benevolence.

He subscribed considerable sums to the almshouse and the orphan

asylum; he was very charitable, too, in secret, a fact which only

became known after his death. He was a man of about fifty, almost

stern in appearance and not much given to conversation. He had been

married about ten years and his wife, who was still young, had borne

him three children. Well, I was sitting alone in my room the following

evening, when my door suddenly opened and this gentleman walked in.

    I must mention, by the way, that I was no longer living in my

former quarters. As soon as I resigned my commission, I took rooms

with an old lady, the widow of a government clerk. My landlady's

servant waited upon me, for I had moved into her rooms simply

because on my return from the duel I had sent Afanasy back to the

regiment, as I felt ashamed to look him in the face after my last

interview with him. So prone is the man of the world to be ashamed

of any righteous action.

    "I have," said my visitor, "with great interest listened to you

speaking in different houses the last few days and I wanted at last to

make your personal acquaintance, so as to talk to you more intimately.

Can you, dear sir, grant me this favour?"

    "I can, with the greatest pleasure, and I shall look upon it as an

honour." I said this, though I felt almost dismayed, so greatly was

I impressed from the first moment by the appearance of this man. For

though other people had listened to me with interest and attention, no

one had come to me before with such a serious, stern, and concentrated

expression. And now he had come to see me in my own rooms. He sat

down.

    "You are, I see, a man of great strength of character" he said;

"as you have dared to serve the truth, even when by doing so you

risked incurring the contempt of all."

    "Your praise is, perhaps, excessive," I replied.

    "No, it's not excessive," he answered; "believe me, such a

course of action is far more difficult than you think. It is that

which has impressed me, and it is only on that account that I have

come to you," he continued. "Tell me, please, that is if you are not

annoyed by my perhaps unseemly curiosity, what were your exact

sensations, if you can recall them, at the moment when you made up

your mind to ask forgiveness at the duel. Do not think my question

frivolous; on the contrary, I have in asking the question a secret

motive of my own, which I will perhaps explain to you later on, if

it is God's will that we should become more intimately acquainted."

    All the while he was speaking, I was looking at him straight

into the face and I felt all at once a complete trust in him and great

curiosity on my side also, for I felt that there was some strange

secret in his soul.

    "You ask what were my exact sensations at the moment when I

asked my opponent's forgiveness," I answered; "but I had better tell

you from the beginning what I have not yet told anyone else." And I

described all that had passed between Afanasy and me, and how I had

bowed down to the ground at his feet. "From that you can see for

yourself," I concluded, "that at the time of the duel it was easier

for me, for I had made a beginning already at home, and when once I

had started on that road, to go farther along it was far from being

difficult, but became a source of joy and happiness."

    I liked the way he looked at me as he listened. "All that," he

said, "is exceedingly interesting. I will come to see you again and

again."

    And from that time forth he came to see me nearly every evening.

And we should have become greater friends, if only he had ever

talked of himself. But about himself he scarcely ever said a word, yet

continually asked me about myself. In spite of that I became very fond

of him and spoke with perfect frankness to him about all my

feelings; "for," thought I, "what need have I to know his secrets,

since I can see without that that is a good man? Moreover, though he

is such a serious man and my senior, he comes to see a youngster

like me and treats me as his equal." And I learned a great deal that

was profitable from him, for he was a man of lofty mind.

    "That life is heaven," he said to me suddenly, "that I have long

been thinking about"; and all at once he added, "I think of nothing

else indeed." He looked at me and smiled. "I am more convinced of it

than you are, I will tell you later why."

    I listened to him and thought that he evidently wanted to tell

me something.

    "Heaven," he went on, "lies hidden within all of us- here it

lies hidden in me now, and if I will it, it will be revealed to me

to-morrow and for all time."

    I looked at him; he was speaking with great emotion and gazing

mysteriously at me, as if he were questioning me.

    "And that we are all responsible to all for all, apart from our

own sins, you were quite right in thinking that, and it is wonderful

how you could comprehend it in all its significance at once. And in

very truth, so soon as men understand that, the Kingdom of Heaven will

be for them not a dream, but a living reality."

    "And when," I cried out to him bitterly, "when will that come to

pass? and will it ever come to pass? Is not it simply a dream of

ours?"

    "What then, you don't believe it," he said. "You preach it and

don't believe it yourself. Believe me, this dream, as you call it,

will come to pass without doubt; it will come, but not now, for

every process has its law. It's a spiritual, psychological process. To

transform the world, to recreate it afresh, men must turn into another

path psychologically. Until you have become really, in actual fact,

a brother to everyone, brotherhood will not come to pass. No sort of

scientific teaching, no kind of common interest, will ever teach men

to share property and privileges with equal consideration for all.

Everyone will think his share too small and they will be always

envying, complaining and attacking one another. You ask when it will

come to pass; it will come to pass, but first we have to go though the

period of isolation."

    "What do you mean by isolation?" I asked him.

    "Why, the isolation that prevails everywhere, above all in our

age- it has not fully developed, it has not reached its limit yet. For

everyone strives to keep his individuality as apart as possible,

wishes to secure the greatest possible fullness of life for himself;

but meantime all his efforts result not in attaining fullness of

life but self-destruction, for instead of self-realisation he ends

by arriving at complete solitude. All mankind in our age have split up

into units, they all keep apart, each in his own groove; each one

holds aloof, hides himself and hides what he has, from the rest, and

he ends by being repelled by others and repelling them. He heaps up

riches by himself and thinks, 'How strong I am now and how secure,'

and in his madness he does not understand that the more he heaps up,

the more he sinks into self-destructive impotence. For he is

accustomed to rely upon himself alone and to cut himself off from

the whole; he has trained himself not to believe in the help of

others, in men and in humanity, and only trembles for fear he should

lose his money and the privileges that he has won for himself.

Everywhere in these days men have, in their mockery, ceased to

understand that the true security is to be found in social

solidarity rather than in isolated individual effort. But this

terrible individualism must inevitably have an end, and all will

suddenly understand how unnaturally they are separated from one

another. It will be the spirit of the time, and people will marvel

that they have sat so long in darkness without seeing the light. And

then the sign of the Son of Man will be seen in the heavens.... But,

until then, we must keep the banner flying. Sometimes even if he has

to do it alone, and his conduct seems to be crazy, a man must set an

example, and so draw men's souls out of their solitude, and spur

them to some act of brotherly love, that the great idea may not die."

    Our evenings, one after another, were spent in such stirring and

fervent talk. I gave up society and visited my neighbours much less

frequently. Besides, my vogue was somewhat over. I say this, not as

blame, for they still loved me and treated me good-humouredly, but

there's no denying that fashion is a great power in society. I began

to regard my mysterious visitor with admiration, for besides

enjoying his intelligence, I began to perceive that he was brooding

over some plan in his heart, and was preparing himself perhaps for a

great deed. Perhaps he liked my not showing curiosity about his

secret, not seeking to discover it by direct question nor by

insinuation. But I noticed at last, that he seemed to show signs of

wanting to tell me something. This had become quite evident, indeed,

about a month after he first began to visit me.

    "Do you know," he said to me once, "that people are very

inquisitive about us in the town and wonder why I come to see you so

often. But let them wonder, for soon all will be explained."

    Sometimes an extraordinary agitation would come over him, and

almost always on such occasions he would get up and go away. Sometimes

he would fix a long piercing look upon me, and I thought, "He will say

something directly now." But he would suddenly begin talking of

something ordinary and familiar. He often complained of headache too.

    One day, quite unexpectedly indeed, after he had been talking with

great fervour a long time, I saw him suddenly turn pale, and his

face worked convulsively, while he stared persistently at me.

    "What's the matter?" I said; "do you feel ill?"- he had just

been complaining of headache.

    "I... do you know... I murdered someone."

    He said this and smiled with a face as white as chalk. "Why is

it he is smiling?" The thought flashed through my mind before I

realised anything else. I too turned pale.

    "What are you saying?" I cried.

    "You see," he said, with a pale smile, "how much it has cost me to

say the first word. Now I have said it, I feel I've taken the first

step and shall go on."

    For a long while I could not believe him, and I did not believe

him at that time, but only after he had been to see me three days

running and told me all about it. I thought he was mad, but ended by

being convinced, to my great grief and amazement. His crime was a

great and terrible one.

    Fourteen years before, he had murdered the widow of a landowner, a

wealthy and handsome young woman who had a house in our town. He

fell passionately in love with her, declared his feeling and tried

to persuade her to marry him. But she had already given her heart to

another man, an officer of noble birth and high rank in the service,

who was at that time away at the front, though she was expecting him

soon to return. She refused his offer and begged him not to come and

see her. After he had ceased to visit her, he took advantage of his

knowledge of the house to enter at night through the garden by the

roof, at great risk of discovery. But, as often happens, a crime

committed with extraordinary audacity is more successful than others.

    Entering the garret through the skylight, he went down the ladder,

knowing that the door at the bottom of it was sometimes, through the

negligence of the servants, left unlocked. He hoped to find it so, and

so it was. He made his way in the dark to her bedroom, where a light

was burning. As though on purpose, both her maids had gone off to a

birthday party in the same street, without asking leave. The other

servants slept in the servants' quarters or in the kitchen on the

ground floor. His passion flamed up at the sight of her asleep, and

then vindictive, jealous anger took possession of his heart, and

like a drunken man, beside himself, he thrust a knife into her

heart, so that she did not even cry out. Then with devilish and

criminal cunning he contrived that suspicion should fall on the

servants. He was so base as to take her purse, to open her chest

with keys from under her pillow, and to take some things from it,

doing it all as it might have been done by an ignorant servant,

leaving valuable papers and taking only money. He took some of the

larger gold things, but left smaller articles that were ten times as

valuable. He took with him, too, some things for himself as

remembrances, but of that later. Having done this awful deed. he

returned by the way he had come.

    Neither the next day, when the alarm was raised, nor at any time

after in his life, did anyone dream of suspecting that he was the

criminal. No one indeed knew of his love for her, for he was always

reserved and silent and had no friend to whom he would have opened his

heart. He was looked upon simply as an acquaintance, and not a very

intimate one, of the murdered woman, as for the previous fortnight

he had not even visited her. A serf of hers called Pyotr was at once

suspected, and every circumstance confirmed the suspicion. The man

knew- indeed his mistress did not conceal the fact- that having to

send one of her serfs as a recruit she had decided to send him, as

he had no relations and his conduct was unsatisfactory. People had

heard him angrily threatening to murder her when he was drunk in a

tavern. Two days before her death, he had run away, staying no one

knew where in the town. The day after the murder, he was found on

the road leading out of the town, dead drunk, with a knife in his

pocket, and his right hand happened to be stained with blood. He

declared that his nose had been bleeding, but no one believed him. The

maids confessed that they had gone to a party and that the street door

had been left open till they returned. And a number of similar details

came to light, throwing suspicion on the innocent servant.

    They arrested him, and he was tried for the murder; but a week

after the arrest, the prisoner fell sick of a fever and died

unconscious in the hospital. There the matter ended and the judges and

the authorities and everyone in the town remained convinced that the

crime had been committed by no one but the servant who had died in the

hospital. And after that the punishment began.

    My mysterious visitor, now my friend, told me that at first he was

not in the least troubled by pangs of conscience. He was miserable a

long time, but not for that reason; only from regret that he had

killed the woman he loved, that she was no more, that in killing her

he had killed his love, while the fire of passion was still in his

veins. But of the innocent blood he had shed, of the murder of a

fellow creature, he scarcely thought. The thought that his victim

might have become the wife of another man was insupportable to him,

and so, for a long time, he was convinced in his conscience that he

could not have acted otherwise.

    At first he was worried at the arrest of the servant, but his

illness and death soon set his mind at rest, for the man's death was

apparently (so he reflected at the time) not owing to his arrest or

his fright, but a chill he had taken on the day he ran away, when he

had lain all night dead drunk on the damp ground. The theft of the

money and other things troubled him little, for he argued that the

theft had not been committed for gain but to avert suspicion. The

sum stolen was small, and he shortly afterwards subscribed the whole

of it, and much more, towards the funds for maintaining an almshouse

in the town. He did this on purpose to set his conscience at rest

about the theft, and it's a remarkable fact that for a long time he

really was at peace- he told me this himself. He entered then upon a

career of great activity in the service, volunteered for a difficult

and laborious duty, which occupied him two years, and being a man of

strong will almost forgot the past. Whenever he recalled it, he

tried not to think of it at all. He became active in philanthropy too,

founded and helped to maintain many institutions in the town, did a

good deal in the two capitals, and in both Moscow and Petersburg was

elected a member of philanthropic societies.

    At last, however, he began brooding over the past, and the

strain of it was too much for him. Then he was attracted by a fine and

intelligent girl and soon after married her, hoping that marriage

would dispel his lonely depression, and that by entering on a new life

and scrupulously doing his duty to his wife and children, he would

escape from old memories altogether. But the very opposite of what

he expected happened. He began, even in the first month of his

marriage, to be continually fretted by the thought, "My wife loves me-

but what if she knew?" When she first told him that she would soon

bear him a child, he was troubled. "I am giving life, but I have taken

life." Children came. "How dare I love them, teach and educate them,

how can I talk to them of virtue? I have shed blood." They were

splendid children, he longed to caress them; "and I can't look at

their innocent candid faces, I am unworthy."

    At last he began to be bitterly and ominously haunted by the blood

of his murdered victim, by the young life he had destroyed, by the

blood that cried out for vengeance. He had begun to have awful dreams.

But, being a man of fortitude, he bore his suffering a long time,

thinking: "I shall expiate everything by this secret agony." But

that hope, too, was vain; the longer it went on, the more intense

was his suffering.

    He was respected in society for his active benevolence, though

everyone was overawed by his stern and gloomy character. But the

more he was respected, the more intolerable it was for him. He

confessed to me that he had thoughts of killing himself. But he

began to be haunted by another idea- an idea which he had at first

regarded as impossible and unthinkable, though at last it got such a

hold on his heart that he could not shake it off. He dreamed of rising

up, going out and confessing in the face of all men that he had

committed murder. For three years this dream had pursued him, haunting

him in different forms. At last he believed with his whole heart

that if he confessed his crime, he would heal his soul and would be at

peace for ever. But this belief filled his heart with terror, for

how could he carry it out? And then came what happened at my duel.

    "Looking at you, I have made up my mind."

    I looked at him.

    "Is it possible," I cried, clasping my hands, "that such a trivial

incident could give rise to a resolution in you?"

    "My resolution has been growing for the last three years," he

answered, "and your story only gave the last touch to it. Looking at

you, I reproached myself and envied you." He said this to me almost

sullenly.

    "But you won't be believed," I observed; "it's fourteen years

ago."

    "I have proofs, great proofs. I shall show them."

    Then I cried and kissed him.

    "Tell me one thing, one thing," he said (as though it all depended

upon me), "my wife, my children! My wife may die of grief, and

though my children won't lose their rank and property, they'll be a

convict's children and for ever! And what a memory, what a memory of

me I shall leave in their hearts!"

    I said nothing.

    "And to part from them, to leave them for ever? It's for ever, you

know, for ever!" I sat still and repeated a silent prayer. I got up at

last, I felt afraid.

    "Well?" He looked at me.

    "Go!" said I, "confess. Everything passes, only the truth remains.

Your children will understand, when they grow up, the nobility of your

resolution."

    He left me that time as though he had made up his mind. Yet for

more than a fortnight afterwards, he came to me every evening, still

preparing himself, still unable to bring himself to the point. He made

my heart ache. One day he would come determined and say fervently:

    "I know it will be heaven for me, heaven, the moment I confess.

Fourteen years I've been in hell. I want to suffer. I will take my

punishment and begin to live. You can pass through the world doing

wrong, but there's no turning back. Now I dare not love my neighbour

nor even my own children. Good God, my children will understand,

perhaps, what my punishment has cost me and will not condemn me! God

is not in strength but in truth."

    "All will understand your sacrifice," I said to him, "if not at

once, they will understand later; for you have served truth, the

higher truth, not of the earth."

    And he would go away seeming comforted, but next day he would come

again, bitter, pale, sarcastic.

    "Every time I come to you, you look at me so inquisitively as

though to say, 'He has still not confessed!' Wait a bit, don't despise

me too much. It's not such an easy thing to do as you would think.

Perhaps I shall not do it at all. You won't go and inform against me

then, will you?"

    And far from looking at him with indiscreet curiosity, I was

afraid to look at him at all. I was quite ill from anxiety, and my

heart was full of tears. I could not sleep at night.

    "I have just come from my wife," he went on. "Do you understand

what the word 'wife' means? When I went out, the children called to

me, 'Good-bye, father, make haste back to read The Children's Magazine

with us.' No, you don't understand that! No one is wise from another

man's woe."

    His eyes were glittering, his lips were twitching. Suddenly he

struck the table with his fist so that everything on it danced- it was

the first time he had done such a thing, he was such a mild man.

    "But need I?" he exclaimed, "must I? No one has been condemned, no

one has been sent to Siberia in my place, the man died of fever. And

I've been punished by my sufferings for the blood I shed. And I shan't

be believed, they won't believe my proofs. Need I confess, need I? I

am ready to go on suffering all my life for the blood I have shed,

if only my wife and children may be spared. Will it be just to ruin

them with me? Aren't we making a mistake? What is right in this

case? And will people recognise it, will they appreciate it, will they

respect it?"

    "Good Lord!" I thought to myself, "he is thinking of other

people's respect at such a moment!" And I felt so sorry for him

then, that I believe I would have shared his fate if it could have

comforted him. I saw he was beside himself. I was aghast, realising

with my heart as well as my mind what such a resolution meant.

    "Decide my fate!" he exclaimed again.

    "Go and confess," I whispered to him. My voice failed me, but I

whispered it firmly. I took up the New Testament from the table, the

Russian translation, and showed him the Gospel of St. John, chapter

12, verse 24:



                "Verily, verily, I say unto you,

                 except a corn of wheat fall into

                 the ground and die, it abideth alone:

                 but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit."



    I had just been reading that verse when he came in. He read it.

    "That's true," he said, he smiled bitterly. "It's terrible the

things you find in those books," he said, after a pause. "It's easy

enough to thrust them upon one. And who wrote them? Can they have been

written by men?"

    "The Holy Spirit wrote them," said I.

    "It's easy for you to prate," he smiled again, this time almost

with hatred.

    I took the book again, opened it in another place and showed him

the Epistle to the Hebrews, chapter 10, verse 31. He read:



                 "It is a fearful thing to fall

                  into the hands of the living God."



    He read it and simply flung down the book. He was trembling all

over.

    "An awful text," he said. "There's no denying you've picked out

fitting ones." He rose from the chair. "Well!" he said, "good-bye,

perhaps I shan't come again... we shall meet in heaven. So I have been

for fourteen years 'in the hands of the living God,' that's how one

must think of those fourteen years. To-morrow I will beseech those

hands to let me go."

    I wanted to take him in my arms and kiss him, but I did not

dare- his face was contorted add sombre. He went away.

    "Good God," I thought, "what has he gone to face!" I fell on my

knees before the ikon and wept for him before the Holy Mother of

God, our swift defender and helper. I was half an hour praying in

tears, and it was late, about midnight. Suddenly I saw the door open

and he came in again. I was surprised.

    Where have you been?" I asked him.

    "I think," he said, "I've forgotten something... my

handkerchief, I think.... Well, even if I've not forgotten anything,

let me stay a little."

    He sat down. I stood over him.

    "You sit down, too," said he.

    I sat down. We sat still for two minutes; he looked intently at me

and suddenly smiled. I remembered that- then he got up, embraced me

warmly and kissed me.

    "Remember," he said, "how I came to you a second time. Do you

hear, remember it!"

    And he went out.

    "To-morrow," I thought.

    And so it was. I did not know that evening that the next day was

his birthday. I had not been out for the last few days, so I had no

chance of hearing it from anyone. On that day he always had a great

gathering, everyone in the town went to it. It was the same this time.

After dinner he walked into the middle of the room, with a paper in

his hand- a formal declaration to the chief of his department who

was present. This declaration he read aloud to the whole assembly.

It contained a full account of the crime, in every detail.

    "I cut myself off from men as a monster. God has visited me," he

said in conclusion. "I want to suffer for my sin!"

    Then he brought out and laid on the table all the things he had

been keeping for fourteen years, that he thought would prove his

crime, the jewels belonging to the murdered woman which he had

stolen to divert suspicion, a cross and a locket taken from her neck

with a portrait of her betrothed in the locket, her notebook and two

letters; one from her betrothed, telling her that he would soon be

with her, and her unfinished answer left on the table to be sent off

next day. He carried off these two letters- what for? Why had he

kept them for fourteen years afterwards instead of destroying them

as evidence against him?

    And this is what happened: everyone was amazed and horrified,

everyone refused to believe it and thought that he was deranged,

though all listened with intense curiosity. A few days later it was

fully decided and agreed in every house that the unhappy man was

mad. The legal authorities could not refuse to take the case up, but

they too dropped it. Though the trinkets and letters made them ponder,

they decided that even if they did turn out to be authentic, no charge

could be based on those alone. Besides, she might have given him those

things as a friend, or asked him to take care of them for her. I heard

afterwards, however, that the genuineness of the things was proved

by the friends and relations of the murdered woman, and that there was

no doubt about them. Yet nothing was destined to come of it, after

all.

    Five days later, all had heard that he was ill and that his life

was in danger. The nature of his illness I can't explain; they said it

was an affection of the heart. But it became known that the doctors

had been induced by his wife to investigate his mental condition also,

and had come to the conclusion that it was a case of insanity. I

betrayed nothing, though people ran to question me. But when I

wanted to visit him, I was for a long while forbidden to do so,

above all by his wife.

    "It's you who have caused his illness," she said to me; "he was

always gloomy, but for the last year people noticed that he was

peculiarly excited and did strange things, and now you have been the

ruin of him. Your preaching has brought him to this; for the last

month he was always with you."

    Indeed, not only his wife but the whole town were down upon me and

blamed me. "It's all your doing," they said. I was silent and indeed

rejoiced at heart, for I saw plainly God's mercy to the man who had

turned against himself and punished himself. I could not believe in

his insanity.

    They let me see him at last. he insisted upon saying good-bye to

me. I went in to him and saw at once, that not only his days, but

his hours were numbered. He was weak, yellow, his hands trembled, he

gasped for breath, but his face was full of tender and happy feeling.

    "It is done!" he said. "I've long been yearning to see you. Why

didn't you come?"

    I did not tell him that they would not let me see him.

    "God has had pity on me and is calling me to Himself. I know I

am dying, but I feel joy and peace for the first time after so many

years. There was heaven in my heart from the moment I had done what

I had to do. Now I dare to love my children and to kiss them.

Neither my wife nor the judges, nor anyone has believed it. My

children will never believe it either. I see in that God's mercy to

them. I shall die, and my name will be without a stain for them. And

now I feel God near, my heart rejoices as in Heaven... I have done

my duty."

    He could not speak, he gasped for breath, he pressed my hand

warmly, looking fervently at me. We did not talk for long, his wife

kept peeping in at us. But he had time to whisper to me:

    "Do you remember how I came back to you that second time, at

midnight? I told you to remember it. You know what I came back for?

I came to kill you!"

    I started.

    "I went out from you then into the darkness, I wandered about

the streets, struggling with myself. And suddenly I hated you so

that I could hardly bear it. Now, I thought, he is all that binds

me, and he is my judge. I can't refuse to face my punishment

to-morrow, for he knows all. It was not that I was afraid you would

betray me (I never even thought of that), but I thought, 'How can I

look him in the face if I don't confess?' And if you had been at the

other end of the earth, but alive, it would have been all the same,

the thought was unendurable that you were alive knowing everything and

condemning me. I hated you as though you were the cause, as though you

were to blame for everything. I came back to you then, remembering

that you had a dagger lying on your table. I sat down and asked you to

sit down, and for a whole minute I pondered. If I had killed you, I

should have been ruined by that murder even if I had not confessed the

other. But I didn't think about that at all, and I didn't want to

think of it at that moment. I only hated you and longed to revenge

myself on you for everything. The Lord vanquished the devil in my

heart. But let me tell you, you were never nearer death."

    A week later he died. The whole town followed him to the grave.

The chief priest made a speech full of feeling. All lamented the

terrible illness that had cut short his days. But all the town was

up in arms against me after the funeral, and people even refused to

see me. Some, at first a few and afterwards more, began indeed to

believe in the truth of his story, and they visited me and

questioned me with great interest and eagerness, for man loves to

see the downfall and disgrace of the righteous. But I held my

tongue, and very shortly after, I left the town, and five months later

by God's grace I entered the safe and blessed path, praising the

unseen finger which had guided me so clearly to it. But I remember

in my prayer to this day, the servant of God, Mihail, who suffered

so greatly.