(d) The Mysterious Visitor
He had been an official in our town for a long time, held a prominent position, was universally respected, wealthy, well known for his philanthropy, had donated considerable sums for an almshouse and an orphanage, and besides that did many good deeds in private, without publicity, all of which became known later, after his death. He was about fifty years old and of almost stern appearance; he was taciturn; he had been married for no more than ten years to a wife who was still young and who had borne him three still-small children. And so I was sitting at home the next evening when suddenly my door opened and this very gentleman walked in.
It should be noted that I was no longer living in my old quarters then, but had moved, as soon as I turned in my resignation, to different rooms, rented out by the old widow of an official, and including her servant, for I had moved to these lodgings for one reason only, that on the same day that I returned from the duel I had sent Afanasy back to his company, being ashamed to look him in the face after the way I had behaved with him that morning—so far is an unprepared man of the world inclined to be ashamed even of the most righteous act.
“For several days now,” the gentleman said upon entering, “I have been listening to you in various houses with great curiosity, and wanted finally to make your personal acquaintance, in order to talk with you in more detail. Can you do me such a great service, my dear sir?” “I can,” I said, “with the greatest pleasure, and I would even consider it a special honor.” I said this, and yet I was almost frightened, so strong was the impression he made on me that first time. For though people listened to me and were curious, no one had yet come up to me with such a serious and stern inner look. And this man had even come to my own rooms. He sat down. “I see there is great strength of character in you,” he went on, “for you were not afraid to serve the truth in such an affair, though for the sake of your truth you risked suffering general contempt.” “Your praise of me is perhaps rather exaggerated,” I said to him. “No, it is not exaggerated,” he replied. “Believe me, to accomplish such an act is far more difficult than you think. As a matter of fact,” he went on, “I was struck precisely by that, and because of that I have come to see you. Describe for me, if you do not disdain my perhaps quite indecent curiosity, exactly what you felt at that moment, when you decided to ask forgiveness during the duel—can you remember? Do not regard my question as frivolous; on the contrary, I have my own secret purpose in asking such a question, which I shall probably explain to you in the future, if God wills that we become more closely acquainted.”
All the while he was speaking, I looked him straight in the face and suddenly felt the greatest trust in him, and, besides that, an extraordinary curiosity on my own part, for I sensed that he had some sort of special secret in his soul.
“You ask exactly what I felt at that moment when I asked forgiveness of my adversary,” I replied, “but I had better tell you from the beginning what I have not yet told to anyone else,” and I told him all that had happened between Afanasy and me, and how I had bowed to the ground before him. “From that you can see for yourself,” I concluded, “that it was easier for me during the duel, for I had already started at home, and once I set out on that path, the rest went not only without difficulty but even joyfully and happily.”
