THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV
Chapter 2 - (c) Recollections of Father Zossima's Youth before
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.