Mr. Y.[Slyly.] Well, and didn’t you give yourself up?
Mr. X. No, for the following reasons: The man had no relations or other people for whom his life was necessary; he had lived out his vegetable existence; his place could be taken immediately by someone else who needed it much more; while on the other hand I was indispensable to my parents’ well-being, to my own—perhaps to science. The result of the whole business had already cured me of my penchant to punch people in the neck, and I didn’t feel inclined to sacrifice my own life and that of my parents to satisfy a sense of abstract justice.
Mr. Y. I see. So that’s how you judge human values?
Mr. X. In the case in question, yes.
Mr. Y. But how about the consciousness of guilt, retribution?
Mr. X. I had no consciousness of guilt, I hadn’t committed any crime. I’d taken and given punches as a boy. But what was responsible was my ignorance that a fatal result could be so easily produced upon an old person.
Mr. Y. Yes—but killing by chance-medley is punished by two years’ hard labor all the same—just the same as—forgery.
Mr. X. I’ve thought about it enough, as you can think. And many a night I’ve dreamed I was in prison. I say, tell me, is it as bad as they make out to be under lock and key?
Mr. Y. Yes, my dear fellow. They first disfigure your appearance by cutting your hair, so that if you didn’t look like a criminal before you do so afterward, and when you look at yourself in the glass you’re convinced that you’re a murderer.
Mr. X. That’s a mask which can perhaps be taken off, but it’s not such a bad idea.