The mysterious visitor, by now my friend, divulged to me that at first he had even suffered no remorse at all. He did suffer for a long time, not from that, but from regret that he had killed the woman he loved, that she was no more, that having killed her, he had killed his love, while the fire of passion was still in his veins. But he gave almost no thought then to the blood he had shed, to the murder of a human being. The idea that his victim might have become another man’s wife seemed impossible to him, and thus for a long time he was convinced in his conscience that he could not have acted otherwise. The arrest of the servant caused him some anguish at first, but the speedy illness and then death of the arrested man set his mind at ease, for by all evidence he had died (so he reasoned then) not from the arrest or from fear, but from the chill he had caught precisely during his fugitive days, when he had lain, dead drunk, all night on the damp ground. And the stolen articles and money troubled him little, because (he kept reasoning in the same way) the theft had been committed not for gain but to divert suspicion elsewhere. The sum stolen was insignificant, and he soon donated the entire sum and even much more for the almshouse that was being established in our town. He did so on purpose to ease his conscience regarding the theft, and, remarkably, he did indeed feel eased for a time, even for a long time—he told me so himself. Then he threw himself into great official activity, took upon himself a troublesome and difficult assignment, which occupied him for about two years, and, being of strong character, almost forgot what had happened; and when he did remember, he tried not to give it any thought. He also threw himself into philanthropic work, gave and organized a great deal in our town, became known in the capitals, was elected a member of philanthropic societies in Moscow and Petersburg. Nevertheless, he fell to brooding at last, and the torment was more than he was able to bear. Just then he became attracted to a wonderful and sensible girl, and in a short time he married her, dreaming that marriage would dispel his solitary anguish, and that, entering upon a new path and zealously fulfilling his duty towards wife and children, he would escape his old memories altogether. But what happened was exactly the opposite of this expectation. Already in the first month of marriage, a ceaseless thought began troubling him: “So my wife loves me, but what if she found out?” When she became pregnant with their first child and told him of it, he suddenly became troubled: “I am giving life, but I have taken a life.” They had children: “How dare I love, teach, and raise them, how shall I speak to them of virtue: I have shed blood.” They were wonderful children, one longed to caress them: “And I cannot look at their innocent, bright faces; I am unworthy.” Finally the blood of the murdered victim began to appear to him, menacingly and bitterly, her destroyed young life, her blood crying out for revenge. He began to have horrible dreams. But, being stouthearted, he endured the torment for a long time: “I shall atone for it all with my secret torment.” But that hope, too, was vain: the longer it went on, the more intense his suffering grew. He came to be respected in society for his philanthropic activity, though everyone was afraid of his stern and gloomy character, but the more respected he became, the more unbearable it was for him. He confessed to me that he had thought of killing himself. But instead of that he began to picture a different dream—a dream he at first considered impossible and insane, but which stuck so fast to his heart that he was unable to shake it off. His dream was this: he would rise up, go out in front of people, and tell them all that he had killed a person. For about three years he lived with this dream, he kept picturing it in various forms. Finally he came to believe with his whole heart that, having told his crime, he would undoubtedly heal his soul and find peace once and for all. But, believing that, he felt terror in his heart, for how could it be carried out? And suddenly there occurred that incident at my duel. “Looking at you, I have now made up my mind.” I looked at him.
“Is it possible,” I cried to him, clasping my hands, “that such a small incident should generate such resolution in you?” “My resolution has been generating for three years,” he replied, “and your incident only gave it a push. Looking at you, I reproached myself and envied you,” he said this to me even with severity.
“But no one will believe you,” I observed to him, “it was fourteen years ago.”
“I have proofs, great proofs. I will present them.”
I wept then, and kissed him.
