There are, in Dostoevsky’s life, certain extremely obscure episodes. One, in particular, already alluded to in _Crime and Punishment_ and which seems to have served as theme for a certain chapter in _The Possessed_. This chapter does not figure in the novel, having been so far withheld in Russia even. It has, I believe, been printed in Germany, but in an edition for private circulation only.[49] It deals with the rape of a young girl. The child victim hangs herself, and in the next room, Stavrogin, the guilty man, knowing that she is hanging herself, waits until life has left her little body. What measure of truth is there in this sinister tale? For the moment, it is not for me to say. The fact remains that Dostoevsky, after an adventure of this nature, was moved to what one must needs describe as remorse. This remorse preyed upon him for a while, and doubtless he said to himself what Sonia said to Raskolnikov. The need for confession became urgent, but confession not merely to a priest. He sought to find the person before whom confession would cause him the acutest suffering. Turgeniev, without the shadow of a doubt! Dostoevsky had not seen him for long, and was on uncommonly bad terms with him. M. Turgeniev was a respectable man, rich, famous, and held in wide esteem. Dostoevsky summoned up all his courage, or rather, he succumbed to a kind of giddiness, to a mysterious and awful attraction. Picture Turgeniev’s comfortable study: the author himself at his desk.--The bell rings.--A manservant announces Fyodor Dostoevsky.--What is his business?--He is shown in, and at once begins to tell his tale.--Turgeniev listens, dumb with stupefaction. What business of his is all this? No doubt the other man is mad!--After the confession, a great silence. Dostoevsky waits for some word or sign from Turgeniev, believing no doubt that like in his own novels, Turgeniev will take him in his arms, kiss him and weep over him, and be reconciled ... but nothing happens: “Monsieur Turgeniev, I must tell you how deeply I despise myself....” He pauses again.... The silence remains unbroken until Dostoevsky, unable to contain himself any longer, bursts out in wrath: “But _you_ I despise even more! That’s all I wanted to say to you,” and off he goes, slamming the door behind him. Here we see how humility is suddenly displaced by a very different feeling. The man who in his humility was abasing himself, draws up in revolt at the humiliation. Humility opens the gates of Heaven: humiliation the gates of Hell. Humility implies a measure of free-will submission; it is accepted without constraint and proves the truth of the Gospel teaching: “_For whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased: and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted._” Humiliation, on the other hand, degrades the soul, warping and deforming it; it irritates, impoverishes, and blights, inflicting a moral hurt most ill to heal.