WHAT TO DO?THOUGHTS EVOKED BY THE CENSUSOF MOSCOW

BYCOUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI

_TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN_BY ISABEL F. HAPGOOD

NEW YORKTHOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 13 ASTOR PLACE1887

COPYRIGHT, 1887, BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 

ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTEDBY RAND AVERY COMPANY, BOSTON. 

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE. 

Books which are prohibited by the Russian Censor are not alwaysinaccessible. An enterprising publishing-house in Geneva makes aspecialty of supplying the natural craving of man for forbidden fruit, under which heading some of Count L. N. Tolstoi's essays belong. Theseessays circulate in Russia in manuscript; and it is from one of thesemanuscripts, which fell into the hands of the Geneva firm, that the firsthalf of the present translation has been made. It is thus that theCensor's omissions have been noted, even in cases where such omissionsare in no way indicated in the twelfth volume of Count Tolstoi'scollected works, published in Moscow. As an interesting detail in thisconnection, I may mention that this twelfth volume contains all that thecensor allows of "My Religion, " amounting to a very much abridged scrapof Chapter X. In the last-named volume as known to the public outside ofRussia. The last half of the present book has not been published by theGeneva house, and omissions cannot be marked. 

ISABEL F. HAPGOOD

BOSTON, Sept. 1, 1887

ARTICLE ON THE CENSUS IN MOSCOW. [1882. ]

The object of a census is scientific. A census is a sociologicalinvestigation. And the object of the science of sociology is thehappiness of the people. This science and its methods differ sharplyfrom all other sciences. 

Its peculiarity lies in this, that sociological investigations are notconducted by learned men in their cabinets, observatories andlaboratories, but by two thousand people from the community. A secondpeculiarity is this, that the investigations of other sciences are notconducted on living people, but here living people are the subjects. Athird peculiarity is, that the aim of every other science is simplyknowledge, while here it is the good of the people. One man mayinvestigate a nebula, but for the investigation of Moscow, two thousandpersons are necessary. The object of the study of nebulae is merely thatwe may know about nebulae; the object of the study of inhabitants is thatsociological laws may be deduced, and that, on the foundation of theselaws, a better life for the people may be established. It makes nodifference to the nebula whether it is studied or not, and it has waitedlong, and is ready to wait a great while longer; but it is not a matterof indifference to the inhabitants of Moscow, especially to thoseunfortunates who constitute the most interesting subjects of the scienceof sociology. 

The census-taker enters a night lodging-house; in the basement he finds aman dying of hunger, and he politely inquires his profession, his name, his native place, the character of his occupation, and after a littlehesitation as to whether he is to be entered in the list as alive, hewrites him in and goes his way. 

And thus will the two thousand young men proceed. This is not as itshould be. 

Science does its work, and the community, summoned in the persons ofthese two thousand young men to aid science, must do its work. Astatistician drawing his deductions from figures may feel indifferenttowards people, but we census-takers, who see these people and who haveno scientific prepossessions, cannot conduct ourselves towards them in aninhuman manner. Science fulfils its task, and its work is for itsobjects and in the distant future, both useful and necessary to us. Formen of science, we can calmly say, that in 1882 there were so manybeggars, so many prostitutes, and so many uncared-for children. Sciencemay say this with composure and with pride, because it knows that theconfirmation of this fact conduces to the elucidation of the laws ofsociology, and that the elucidation of the laws of sociology leads to abetter constitution of society. But what if we, the unscientific people, say: "You are perishing in vice, you are dying of hunger, you are piningaway, and killing each other; so do not grieve about this; when you shallhave all perished, and hundreds of thousands more like you, then, possibly, science may be able to arrange everything in an excellentmanner. " For men of science, the census has its interest; and for usalso, it possesses an interest of a wholly different significance. Theinterest and significance of the census for the community lie in this, that it furnishes it with a mirror into which, willy nilly, the wholecommunity, and each one of us, gaze. 

The figures and deductions will be the mirror. It is possible to refrainfrom reading them, as it is possible to turn away from the looking-glass. It is possible to glance cursorily at both figures and mirror, and it isalso possible to scrutinize them narrowly. To go about in connectionwith the census as thousands of people are now about to do, is toscrutinize one's self closely in the mirror. 

What does this census, that is about to be made, mean for us people ofMoscow, who are not men of science? It means two things. In the firstplace, this, that we may learn with certainty, that among us tens ofthousands who live in ease, there dwell tens of thousands of people wholack bread, clothing and shelter; in the second place, this, that ourbrothers and sons will go and view this and will calmly set downaccording to the schedules, how many have died of hunger and cold. 

And both these things are very bad. 

All cry out upon the instability of our social organization, about theexceptional situation, about revolutionary tendencies. Where lies theroot of all this? To what do the revolutionists point? To poverty, toinequality in the distribution of wealth. To what do the conservativespoint? To the decline in moral principle. If the opinion of therevolutionists is correct, what must be done? Poverty and the inequalityof wealth must be lessened. How is this to be effected? The rich mustshare with the poor. If the opinion of the conservatives is correct, that the whole evil arises from the decline in moral principle, what canbe more immoral and vicious than the consciously indifferent survey ofpopular sufferings, with the sole object of cataloguing them? What mustbe done? To the census we must add the work of affectionate intercourseof the idle and cultivated rich, with the oppressed and unenlightenedpoor. 

Science will do its work, let us perform ours also. Let us do this. Inthe first place, let all of us who are occupied with the census, superintendents and census-takers, make it perfectly clear to ourselveswhat we are to investigate and why. It is the people, and the object isthat they may be happy. Whatever may be one's view of life, every onewill agree that there is nothing more important than human life, and thatthere is no more weighty task than to remove the obstacles to thedevelopment of this life, and to assist it. 

This idea, that the relations of men to poverty are at the foundation ofall popular suffering, is expressed in the Gospels with strikingharshness, but at the same time, with decision and clearness for all. 

"He who has clothed the naked, fed the hungry, visited the prisoner, thatman has clothed Me, fed Me, visited Me, " that is, has done the deed forthat which is the most important thing in the world. 

However a man may look upon things, every one knows that this is moreimportant than all else on earth. 

And this must not be forgotten, and we must not permit any otherconsideration to veil from us the most weighty fact of our existence. Letus inscribe, and reckon, but let us not forget that if we encounter a manwho is hungry and without clothes, it is of more moment to succor himthan to make all possible investigations, than to discover all possiblesciences. Perish the whole census if we may but feed an old woman. Thecensus will be longer and more difficult, but we cannot pass by people inthe poorer quarters and merely note them down without taking any heed ofthem and without endeavoring, according to the measure of our strengthand moral sensitiveness, to aid them. This in the first place. In thesecond, this is what must be done: All of us, who are to take part in thecensus, must refrain from irritation because we are annoyed; let usunderstand that this census is very useful for us; that if this is notcure, it is at least an effort to study the disease, for which we shouldbe thankful; that we must seize this occasion, and, in connection withit, we must seek to recover our health, in some small degree. Let all ofus, then, who are connected with the census, endeavor to take advantageof this solitary opportunity in ten years to purify ourselves somewhat;let us not strive against, but assist the census, and assist itespecially in this sense, that it may not have merely the harsh characterof the investigation of a hopelessly sick person, but may have thecharacter of healing and restoration to health. For the occasion isunique: eighty energetic, cultivated men, having under their orders twothousand young men of the same stamp, are to make their way over thewhole of Moscow, and not leave a single man in Moscow with whom they havenot entered into personal relations. All the wounds of society, thewounds of poverty, of vice, of ignorance--all will be laid bare. Isthere not something re-assuring in this? The census-takers will go aboutMoscow, they will set down in their lists, without distinction, thoseinsolent with prosperity, the satisfied, the calm, those who are on theway to ruin, and those who are ruined, and the curtain will fall. Thecensus-takers, our sons and brothers, these young men will behold allthis. They will say: "Yes, our life is very terrible and incurable, " andwith this admission they will live on like the rest of us, awaiting aremedy for the evil from this or that extraneous force. But those whoare perishing will go on dying, in their ruin, and those on the road toruin will continue in their course. No, let us rather grasp the ideathat science has its task, and that we, on the occasion of this census, have our task, and let us not allow the curtain once lifted to bedropped, but let us profit by the opportunity in order to remove theimmense evil of the separation existing between us and the poor, and toestablish intercourse and the work of redressing the evil of unhappinessand ignorance, and our still greater misfortune, --the indifference andaimlessness of our life. 

I already hear the customary remark: "All this is very fine, these aresounding phrases; but do you tell us what to do and how to do it?" BeforeI say what is to be done, it is indispensable that I should say what isnot to be done. It is indispensable, first of all, in my opinion, inorder that something practical may come of this activity, that no societyshould be formed, that there should be no publicity, that there should beno collection of money by balls, bazaars or theatres; that there shouldbe no announcement that Prince A. Has contributed one thousand rubles, and the honorable citizen B. Three thousand; that there shall be nocollection, no calling to account, no writing up, --most of all, nowriting up, so that there may not be the least shadow of any institution, either governmental or philanthropic. 

But in my opinion, this is what should be done instantly: Firstly, Allthose who agree with me should go to the directors, and ask for theirshares the poorest sections, the poorest dwellings; and in company withthe census-takers, twenty-three, twenty-four or twenty-five in number, they should go to these quarters, enter into relations with the peoplewho are in need of assistance, and labor for them. 

Secondly: We should direct the attention of the superintendents andcensus-takers to the inhabitants in need of assistance, and work for thempersonally, and point them out to those who wish to work over them. ButI am asked: What do you mean by _working over them_? I reply; Doing goodto people. The words "doing good" are usually understood to mean, givingmoney. But, in my opinion, doing good and giving money are not only notthe same thing, but two different and generally opposite things. Money, in itself, is evil. And therefore he who gives money gives evil. Thiserror of thinking that the giving of money means doing good, arose fromthe fact, that generally, when a man does good, he frees himself fromevil, and from money among other evils. And therefore, to give money isonly a sign that a man is beginning to rid himself of evil. To do good, signifies to do that which is good for man. But, in order to know whatis good for man, it is necessary to be on humane, i. E. , on friendly termswith him. And therefore, in order to do good, it is not money that isnecessary, but, first of all, a capacity for detaching ourselves, for atime at least, from the conditions of our own life. It is necessary thatwe should not be afraid to soil our boots and clothing, that we shouldnot fear lice and bedbugs, that we should not fear typhus fever, diphtheria, and small-pox. It is necessary that we should be in acondition to seat ourselves by the bunk of a tatterdemalion and converseearnestly with him in such a manner, that he may feel that the man who istalking with him respects and loves him, and is not putting on airs andadmiring himself. And in order that this may be so, it is necessary thata man should find the meaning of life outside himself. This is what isrequisite in order that good should be done, and this is what it isdifficult to find. 

When the idea of assisting through the medium of the census occurred tome, I discussed the matter with divers of the wealthy, and I saw how gladthe rich were of this opportunity of decently getting rid of their money, that extraneous sin which they cherish in their hearts. "Take threehundred--five hundred rubles, if you like, " they said to me, "but Icannot go into those dens myself. " There was no lack of money. RememberZaccheus, the chief of the Publicans in the Gospel. Remember how he, because he was small of stature, climbed into a tree to see Christ, andhow when Christ announced that he was going to his house, havingunderstood but one thing, that the Master did not approve of riches, heleaped headlong from the tree, ran home and arranged his feast. And how, as soon as Christ entered, Zaccheus instantly declared that he gave thehalf of his goods to the poor, and if he had wronged any man, to him hewould restore fourfold. And remember how all of us, when we read theGospel, set but little store on this Zaccheus, and involuntarily lookwith scorn on this half of his goods, and fourfold restitution. And ourfeeling is correct. Zaccheus, according to his lights, performed a greatdeed. He had not even begun to do good. He had only begun in some smallmeasure to purify himself from evil, and so Christ told him. 

He merely said to him: "To-day is salvation come nigh unto this house. "

What if the Moscow Zaccheuses were to do the same that he did? Assuredly, more than one milliard could be collected. Well, and what of that?Nothing. There would be still greater sin if we were to think ofdistributing this money among the poor. Money is not needed. What isneeded is self-sacrificing action; what is needed are people who wouldlike to do good, not by giving extraneous sin-money, but by giving theirown labor, themselves, their lives. Where are such people to be found?Here they are, walking about Moscow. They are the student enumerators. Ihave seen how they write out their charts. The student writes in thenight lodging-house, by the bedside of a sick man. "What is yourdisease?"--"Small-pox. " And the student does not make a wry face, butproceeds with his writing. And this he does for the sake of somedoubtful science. What would he do if he were doing it for the sake ofhis own undoubted good and the good of others?

When children, in merry mood, feel a desire to laugh, they never think ofdevising some reason for laughter, but they laugh without any reason, because they are gay; and thus these charming youths sacrificethemselves. They have not, as yet, contrived to devise any means ofsacrificing themselves, but they devote their attention, their labor, their lives, in order to write out a chart, from which something does ordoes not appear. What would it be if this labor were something reallyworth their while? There is and there always will be labor of this sort, which is worthy of the devotion of a whole life, whatever the man's lifemay be. This labor is the loving intercourse of man with man, and thebreaking-down of the barriers which men have erected between themselves, so that the enjoyment of the rich man may not be disturbed by the wildhowls of the men who are reverting to beasts, and by the groans ofhelpless hunger, cold and disease. 

This census will place before the eyes of us well-to-do and so-calledcultivated people, all the poverty and oppression which is lurking inevery corner of Moscow. Two thousand of our brothers, who stand on thehighest rung of the ladder, will come face to face with thousands ofpeople who stand on the lowest round of society. Let us not miss thisopportunity of communion. Let us, through these two thousand men, preserve this communion, and let us make use of it to free ourselves fromthe aimlessness and the deformity of our lives, and to free the condemnedfrom that indigence and misery which do not allow the sensitive people inour ranks to enjoy our good fortune in peace. 

This is what I propose: (1) That all our directors and enumerators shouldjoin to their business of the census a task of assistance, --of work inthe interest of the good of these people, who, in our opinion, are inneed of assistance, and with whom we shall come in contact; (2) That allof us, directors and enumerators, not by appointment of the committee ofthe City Council, but by the appointment of our own hearts, shall remainin our posts, --that is, in our relations to the inhabitants of the townwho are in need of assistance, --and that, at the conclusion of the workof the census, we shall continue our work of aid. If I have succeeded inany degree in expressing what I feel, I am sure that the onlyimpossibility will be getting the directors and enumerators to abandonthis, and that others will present themselves in the places of those wholeave; (3) That we should collect all those inhabitants of Moscow, whofeel themselves fit to work for the needy, into sections, and begin ouractivity now, in accordance with the hints of the census-takers anddirectors, and afterwards carry it on; (4) That all who, on account ofage, weakness, or other causes, cannot give their personal labor amongthe needy, shall intrust the task to their young, strong, and willingrelatives. (Good consists not in the giving of money, it consists in theloving intercourse of men. This alone is needed. )

Whatever may be the outcome of this, any thing will be better than thepresent state of things. 

Then let the final act of our enumerators and directors be to distributea hundred twenty-kopek pieces to those who have no food; and this will benot a little, not so much because the hungry will have food, but becausethe directors and enumerators will conduct themselves in a humane mannertowards a hundred poor people. How are we to compute the possibleresults which will accrue to the balance of public morality from the factthat, instead of the sentiments of irritation, anger, and envy which wearouse by reckoning the hungry, we shall awaken in a hundred instances asentiment of good, which will be communicated to a second and a third, and an endless wave which will thus be set in motion and flow betweenmen? And this is a great deal. Let those of the two thousandenumerators who have never comprehended this before, come to understandthat, when going about among the poor, it is impossible to say, "This isvery interesting;" that a man should not express himself with regard toanother man's wretchedness by interest only; and this will be a goodthing. Then let assistance be rendered to all those unfortunates, ofwhom there are not so many as I at first supposed in Moscow, who caneasily be helped by money alone to a great extent. Then let thoselaborers who have come to Moscow and have eaten their very clothing fromtheir backs, and who cannot return to the country, be despatched to theirhomes; let the abandoned orphans receive supervision; let feeble old menand indigent old women, who subsist on the charity of their companions, be released from their half-famished and dying condition. (And this isvery possible. There are not very many of them. ) And this will also bea very, very great deal accomplished. But why not think and hope thatmore and yet more will be done? Why not expect that that real task willbe partially carried out, or at least begun, which is effected, not bymoney, but by labor; that weak drunkards who have lost their health, unlucky thieves, and prostitutes who are still capable of reformation, should be saved? All evil may not be exterminated, but there will arisesome understanding of it, and the contest with it will not be policemethods, but by inward modes, --by the brotherly intercourse of the menwho perceive the evil, with the men who do not perceive it because theyare a part of it. 

No matter what may be accomplished, it will be a great deal. But why nothope that every thing will be accomplished? Why not hope that we shallaccomplish thus much, that there shall not exist in Moscow a singleperson in want of clothing, a single hungry person, a single human beingsold for money, nor a single individual oppressed by the judgment of man, who shall not know that there is fraternal aid for him? It is notsurprising that this should not be so, but it is surprising that thisshould exist side by side with our superfluous leisure and wealth, andthat we can live on composedly, knowing that these things are so. Let usforget that in great cities and in London, there is a proletariat, andlet us not say that so it must needs be. It need not be this, and itshould not, for this is contrary to our reason and our heart, and itcannot be if we are living people. Why not hope that we shall come tounderstand that there is not a single duty incumbent upon us, not tomention personal duty, for ourselves, nor our family, nor social, norgovernmental, nor scientific, which is more weighty than this? Why notthink that we shall at last come to apprehend this? Only because to doso would be too great a happiness. Why not hope that some the peoplewill wake up, and will comprehend that every thing else is a delusion, but that this is the only work in life? And why should not this "sometime" be now, and in Moscow? Why not hope that the same thing may happenin society and humanity which suddenly takes place in a diseasedorganism, when the moment of convalescence suddenly sets in? Theorganism is diseased this means, that the cells cease to perform theirmysterious functions; some die, others become infected, others stillremain in perfect condition, and work on by themselves. But all of asudden the moment comes when every living cell enters upon an independentand healthy activity: it crowds out the dead cells, encloses the infectedones in a living wall, it communicates life to that which was lifeless;and the body is restored, and lives with new life. 

Why should we not think and expect that the cells of our society willacquire fresh life and re-invigorate the organism? We know not in whatthe power of the cells consists, but we do know that our life is in ourown power. We can show forth the light that is in us, or we mayextinguish it. 

Let one man approach the Lyapinsky house in the dusk, when a thousandpersons, naked and hungry, are waiting in the bitter cold for admission, and let that one man attempt to help, and his heart will ache till itbleeds, and he will flee thence with despair and anger against men; butlet a thousand men approach that other thousand with a desire to help, and the task will prove easy and delightful. Let the mechanicians inventa machine for lifting the weight that is crushing us--that is a goodthing; but until they shall have invented it, let us bear down upon thepeople, like fools, like _muzhiki_, like peasants, like Christians, andsee whether we cannot raise them. 

And now, brothers, all together, and away it goes!

THOUGHTS EVOKED BY THE CENSUS OF MOSCOW. [1884-1885. ]

 And the people asked him, saying, What shall we do then?

 He answereth and saith unto them, He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath none; and he that hath meat, let him do likewise--LUKE iii. 10. 11. 

 Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:

 But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:

 For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. 

 The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. 

 But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!

 No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon. 

 Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?--MATT. Vi. 19-25. 

 Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? Or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?

 (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. 

 But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. 

 Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. --MATT. Vi. 31-34. 

 For it is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God. --MATT. Xix. 24; MARK x. 25; LUKE xviii. 25. 

CHAPTER I. 

I had lived all my life out of town. When, in 1881, I went to live inMoscow, the poverty of the town greatly surprised me. I am familiar withpoverty in the country; but city poverty was new and incomprehensible tome. In Moscow it was impossible to pass along the street withoutencountering beggars, and especially beggars who are unlike those in thecountry. These beggars do not go about with their pouches in the name ofChrist, as country beggars are accustomed to do, but these beggars arewithout the pouch and the name of Christ. The Moscow beggars carry nopouches, and do not ask for alms. Generally, when they meet or pass you, they merely try to catch your eye; and, according to your look, they begor refrain from it. I know one such beggar who belongs to the gentry. The old man walks slowly along, bending forward every time he sets hisfoot down. When he meets you, he rests on one foot and makes you a kindof salute. If you stop, he pulls off his hat with its cockade, and bowsand begs: if you do not halt, he pretends that that is merely his way ofwalking, and he passes on, bending forward in like manner on the otherfoot. He is a real Moscow beggar, a cultivated man. At first I did notknow why the Moscow beggars do not ask alms directly; afterwards I cameto understand why they do not beg, but still I did not understand theirposition. 

Once, as I was passing through Afanasievskaya Lane, I saw a policemanputting a ragged peasant, all swollen with dropsy, into a cab. Iinquired: "What is that for?"

The policeman answered: "For asking alms. "

"Is that forbidden?"

"Of course it is forbidden, " replied the policeman. 

The sufferer from dropsy was driven off. I took another cab, andfollowed him. I wanted to know whether it was true that begging alms wasprohibited and how it was prohibited. I could in no wise understand howone man could be forbidden to ask alms of any other man; and besides, Idid not believe that it was prohibited, when Moscow is full of beggars. Iwent to the station-house whither the beggar had been taken. At a tablein the station-house sat a man with a sword and a pistol. I inquired:

"For what was this peasant arrested?"

The man with the sword and pistol gazed sternly at me, and said:

"What business is it of yours?"

But feeling conscious that it was necessary to offer me some explanation, he added:

"The authorities have ordered that all such persons are to be arrested;of course it had to be done. "

I went out. The policeman who had brought the beggar was seated on thewindow-sill in the ante-chamber, staring gloomily at a note-book. Iasked him:

"Is it true that the poor are forbidden to ask alms in Christ's name?"

The policeman came to himself, stared at me, then did not exactly frown, but apparently fell into a doze again, and said, as he sat on the window-sill:--

"The authorities have so ordered, which shows that it is necessary, " andbetook himself once more to his note-book. I went out on the porch, tothe cab. 

"Well, how did it turn out? Have they arrested him?" asked the cabman. The man was evidently interested in this affair also. 

"Yes, " I answered. The cabman shook his head. "Why is it forbidden herein Moscow to ask alms in Christ's name?" I inquired. 

"Who knows?" said the cabman. 

"How is this?" said I, "he is Christ's poor, and he is taken to thestation-house. "

"A stop has been put to that now, it is not allowed, " said thecab-driver. 

On several occasions afterwards, I saw policemen conducting beggars tothe station house, and then to the Yusupoff house of correction. Once Iencountered on the Myasnitzkaya a company of these beggars, about thirtyin number. In front of them and behind them marched policemen. Iinquired: "What for?"--"For asking alms. "

It turned out that all these beggars, several of whom you meet with inevery street in Moscow, and who stand in files near every church duringservices, and especially during funeral services, are forbidden to askalms. 

But why are some of them caught and locked up somewhere, while others areleft alone?

This I could not understand. Either there are among them legal andillegal beggars, or there are so many of them that it is impossible toapprehend them all; or do others assemble afresh when some are removed?

There are many varieties of beggars in Moscow: there are some who live bythis profession; there are also genuine poor people, who have chancedupon Moscow in some manner or other, and who are really in want. 

Among these poor people, there are many simple, common peasants, andwomen in their peasant costume. I often met such people. Some of themhave fallen ill here, and on leaving the hospital they can neithersupport themselves here, nor get away from Moscow. Some of them, moreover, have indulged in dissipation (such was probably the case of thedropsical man); some have not been ill, but are people who have beenburnt out of their houses, or old people, or women with children; some, too, were perfectly healthy and able to work. These perfectly healthypeasants who were engaged in begging, particularly interested me. Thesehealthy, peasant beggars, who were fit for work, also interested me, because, from the date of my arrival in Moscow, I had been in the habitof going to the Sparrow Hills with two peasants, and sawing wood therefor the sake of exercise. These two peasants were just as poor as thosewhom I encountered on the streets. One was Piotr, a soldier from Kaluga;the other Semyon, a peasant from Vladimir. They possessed nothing exceptthe wages of their body and hands. And with these hands they earned, bydint of very hard labor, from forty to forty-five kopeks a day, out ofwhich each of them was laying by savings, the Kaluga man for a fur coat, the Vladimir man in order to get enough to return to his village. Therefore, on meeting precisely such men in the streets, I took anespecial interest in them. 

Why did these men toil, while those others begged?

On encountering a peasant of this stamp, I usually asked him how he hadcome to that situation. Once I met a peasant with some gray in hisbeard, but healthy. He begs. I ask him who is he, whence comes he? Hesays that he came from Kaluga to get work. At first he found employmentchopping up old wood for use in stoves. He and his comrade finished allthe chopping which one householder had; then they sought other work, butfound none; his comrade had parted from him, and for two weeks he himselfhad been struggling along; he had spent all his money, he had no saw, andno axe, and no money to buy anything. I gave him money for a saw, andtold him of a place where he could find work. I had already madearrangements with Piotr and Semyon, that they should take an assistant, and they looked up a mate for him. 

"See that you come. There is a great deal of work there. "

"I will come; why should I not come? Do you suppose I like to beg? Ican work. "

The peasant declares that he will come, and it seems to me that he is notdeceiving me, and that he intents to come. 

On the following day I go to my peasants, and inquire whether that manhas arrived. He has not been there; and in this way several men deceivedme. And those also deceived me who said that they only required moneyfor a ticket in order to return home, and who chanced upon me again inthe street a week later. Many of these I recognized, and they recognizedme, and sometimes, having forgotten me, they repeated the same trick onme; and others, on catching sight of me, beat a retreat. Thus Iperceived, that in the ranks of this class also deceivers existed. Butthese cheats were very pitiable creatures: all of them were buthalf-clad, poverty-stricken, gaunt, sickly men; they were the very peoplewho really freeze to death, or hang themselves, as we learn from thenewspapers. 

CHAPTER II. 

When I mentioned this poverty of the town to inhabitants of the town, they always said to me: "Oh, all that you have seen is nothing. Youought to see the Khitroff market-place, and the lodging-houses for thenight there. There you would see a regular 'golden company. '" {21a} Onejester told me that this was no longer a company, but a _goldenregiment_: so greatly had their numbers increased. The jester was right, but he would have been still more accurate if he had said that thesepeople now form in Moscow neither a company nor a regiment, but an entirearmy, almost fifty thousand in number, I think. [The old inhabitants, when they spoke to me about the poverty in town, always referred to itwith a certain satisfaction, as though pluming themselves over me, because they knew it. I remember that when I was in London, the oldinhabitants there also rather boasted when they spoke of the poverty ofLondon. The case is the same with us. ] {21b}

And I wanted to have a sight of this poverty of which I had been told. Several times I set out in the direction of the Khitroff market-place, but on every occasion I began to feel uncomfortable and ashamed. "Why amI going to gaze on the sufferings of people whom I cannot help?" said onevoice. "No, if you live here, and see all the charms of city life, goand view this also, " said another voice. In December three years ago, therefore, on a cold and windy day, I betook myself to that centre ofpoverty, the Khitroff market-place. This was at four o'clock in theafternoon of a week-day. As I passed through the Solyanka, I alreadybegan to see more and more people in old garments which had notoriginally belonged to them, and in still stranger foot-gear, people witha peculiar, unhealthy hue of countenance, and especially with a singularindifference to every thing around them, which was peculiar to them all. A man in the strangest of all possible attire, which was utterly unlikeany thing else, walked along with perfect unconcern, evidently without athought of the appearance which he must present to the eyes of others. All these people were making their way towards a single point. Withoutinquiring the way, with which I was not acquainted, I followed them, andcame out on the Khitroff market-place. On the market-place, women bothold and young, of the same description, in tattered cloaks and jackets ofvarious shapes, in ragged shoes and overshoes, and equally unconcerned, notwithstanding the hideousness of their attire, sat, bargained forsomething, strolled about, and scolded. There were not many people inthe market itself. Evidently market-hours were over, and the majority ofthe people were ascending the rise beyond the market and through theplace, all still proceeding in one direction. I followed them. Thefarther I advanced, the greater in numbers were the people of this sortwho flowed together on one road. Passing through the market-place andproceeding along the street, I overtook two women; one was old, the otheryoung. Both wore something ragged and gray. As they walked they werediscussing some matter. After every necessary word, they uttered one ortwo unnecessary ones, of the most improper character. They were notintoxicated, but merely troubled about something; and neither the men whomet them, nor those who walked in front of them and behind them, paid anyattention to the language which was so strange to me. In these quarters, evidently, people always talked so. Ascending the rise, we reached alarge house on a corner. The greater part of the people who were walkingalong with me halted at this house. They stood all over the sidewalk ofthis house, and sat on the curbstone, and even the snow in the street wasthronged with the same kind of people. On the right side of the entrancedoor were the women, on the left the men. I walked past the women, pastthe men (there were several hundred of them in all) and halted where theline came to an end. The house before which these people were waitingwas the Lyapinsky free lodging-house for the night. The throng of peopleconsisted of night lodgers, who were waiting to be let in. At fiveo'clock in the afternoon, the house is opened, and the people permittedto enter. Hither had come nearly all the people whom I had passed on myway. 

I halted where the line of men ended. Those nearest me began to stare atme, and attracted my attention to them by their glances. The fragmentsof garments which covered these bodies were of the most varied sorts. Butthe expression of all the glances directed towards me by these people wasidentical. In all eyes the question was expressed: "Why have you, a manfrom another world, halted here beside us? Who are you? Are you a self-satisfied rich man who wants to enjoy our wretchedness, to get rid of histedium, and to torment us still more? or are you that thing which doesnot and can not exist, --a man who pities us?" This query was on everyface. You glance about, encounter some one's eye, and turn away. Iwished to talk with some one of them, but for a long time I could notmake up my mind to it. But our glances had drawn us together alreadywhile our tongues remained silent. Greatly as our lives had separatedus, after the interchange of two or three glances we felt that we wereboth men, and we ceased to fear each other. The nearest of all to me wasa peasant with a swollen face and a red beard, in a tattered caftan, andpatched overshoes on his bare feet. And the weather was eight degreesbelow zero. {24a} For the third or fourth time I encountered his eyes, and I felt so near to him that I was no longer ashamed to accost him, butashamed not to say something to him. I inquired where he came from? heanswered readily, and we began to talk; others approached. He was fromSmolensk, and had come to seek employment that he might earn his breadand taxes. "There is no work, " said he: "the soldiers have taken it allaway. So now I am loafing about; as true as I believe in God, I have hadnothing to eat for two days. " He spoke modestly, with an effort at asmile. A _sbiten_{24b}-seller, an old soldier, stood near by. I calledhim up. He poured out his _sbiten_. The peasant took a boiling-hotglassful in his hands, and as he tried before drinking not to let any ofthe heat escape in vain, and warmed his hands over it, he related hisadventures to me. These adventures, or the histories of them, are almostalways identical: the man has been a laborer, then he has changed hisresidence, then his purse containing his money and ticket has been stolenfrom him in the night lodging-house; now it is impossible to get awayfrom Moscow. He told me that he kept himself warm by day in the dram-shops; that he nourished himself on the bits of bread in these drinkingplaces, when they were given to him; and when he was driven out of them, he came hither to the Lyapinsky house for a free lodging. He was onlywaiting for the police to make their rounds, when, as he had no passport, he would be taken to jail, and then despatched by stages to his place ofsettlement. "They say that the inspection will be made on Friday, " saidhe, "then they will arrest me. If I can only get along until Friday. "(The jail, and the journey by stages, represent the Promised Land tohim. )

As he told his story, three men from among the throng corroborated hisstatements, and said that they were in the same predicament. A gaunt, pale, long-nosed youth, with merely a shirt on the upper portion of hisbody, and that torn on the shoulders, and a cap without a visor, forcedhis way sidelong through the crowd. He shivered violently andincessantly, but tried to smile disdainfully at the peasants' remarks, thinking by this means to adopt the proper tone with me, and he stared atme. I offered him some _sbiten_; he also, on taking the glass, warmedhis hands over it; but no sooner had he begun to speak, than he wasthrust aside by a big, black, hook-nosed individual, in a chintz shirtand waistcoat, without a hat. The hook-nosed man asked for some _sbiten_also. Then came a tall old man, with a mass of beard, clad in a great-coat girded with a rope, and in bast shoes, who was drunk. Then a smallman with a swollen face and tearful eyes, in a brown nankeenround-jacket, with his bare knees protruding from the holes in his summertrousers, and knocking together with cold. He shivered so that he couldnot hold his glass, and spilled it over himself. The men began toreproach him. He only smiled in a woe-begone way, and went on shivering. Then came a crooked monster in rags, with pattens on his bare feet; thensome sort of an officer; then something in the ecclesiastical line; thensomething strange and nose-less, --all hungry and cold, beseeching andsubmissive, thronged round me, and pressed close to the _sbiten_. Theydrank up all the _sbiten_. One asked for money, and I gave it. Thenanother asked, then a third, and the whole crowd besieged me. Confusionand a press resulted. The porter of the adjoining house shouted to thecrowd to clear the sidewalk in front of his house, and the crowdsubmissively obeyed his orders. Some managers stepped out of the throng, and took me under their protection, and wanted to lead me forth out ofthe press; but the crowd, which had at first been scattered over thesidewalk, now became disorderly, and hustled me. All stared at me andbegged; and each face was more pitiful and suffering and humble than thelast. I distributed all that I had with me. I had not much money, something like twenty rubles; and in company with the crowd, I enteredthe Lyapinsky lodging-house. This house is huge. It consists of foursections. In the upper stories are the men's quarters; in the lower, thewomen's. I first entered the women's place; a vast room all occupiedwith bunks, resembling the third-class bunks on the railway. These bunkswere arranged in two rows, one above the other. The women, strange, tattered creatures, both old and young, wearing nothing over theirdresses, entered and took their places, some below and some above. Someof the old ones crossed themselves, and uttered a petition for thefounder of this refuge; some laughed and scolded. I went up-stairs. There the men had installed themselves; among them I espied one of thoseto whom I had given money. [On catching sight of him, I all at once feltterribly abashed, and I made haste to leave the room. And it was with asense of absolute crime that I quitted that house and returned home. Athome I entered over the carpeted stairs into the ante-room, whose floorwas covered with cloth; and having removed my fur coat, I sat down to adinner of five courses, waited on by two lackeys in dress-coats, whiteneckties, and white gloves. 

Thirty years ago I witnessed in Paris a man's head cut off by theguillotine in the presence of thousands of spectators. I knew that theman was a horrible criminal. I was acquainted with all the argumentswhich people have been devising for so many centuries, in order tojustify this sort of deed. I knew that they had done this expressly, deliberately. But at the moment when head and body were severed, andfell into the trough, I groaned, and apprehended, not with my mind, butwith my heart and my whole being, that all the arguments which I hadheard anent the death-penalty were arrant nonsense; that, no matter howmany people might assemble in order to perpetrate a murder, no matterwhat they might call themselves, murder is murder, the vilest sin in theworld, and that that crime had been committed before my very eyes. By mypresence and non-interference, I had lent my approval to that crime, andhad taken part in it. So now, at the sight of this hunger, cold, anddegradation of thousands of persons, I understood not with my mind, butwith my heart and my whole being, that the existence of tens of thousandsof such people in Moscow, while I and other thousands dined on filletsand sturgeon, and covered my horses and my floors with cloth and rugs, --nomatter what the wise ones of this world might say to me about its being anecessity, --was a crime, not perpetrated a single time, but one which wasincessantly being perpetrated over and over again, and that I, in myluxury, was not only an accessory, but a direct accomplice in the matter. The difference for me between these two impressions was this, that Imight have shouted to the assassins who stood around the guillotine, andperpetrated the murder, that they were committing a crime, and have triedwith all my might to prevent the murder. But while so doing I shouldhave known that my action would not prevent the murder. But here I mightnot only have given _sbiten_ and the money which I had with me, but thecoat from my back, and every thing that was in my house. But this I hadnot done; and therefore I felt, I feel, and shall never cease to feel, myself an accomplice in this constantly repeated crime, so long as I havesuperfluous food and any one else has none at all, so long as I have twogarments while any one else has not even one. ] {28}

CHAPTER III. 

That very evening, on my return from the Lyapinsky house, I related myimpressions to a friend. The friend, an inhabitant of the city, began totell me, not without satisfaction, that this was the most naturalphenomenon of town life possible, that I only saw something extraordinaryin it because of my provincialism, that it had always been so, and alwayswould be so, and that such must be and is the inevitable condition ofcivilization. In London it is even worse. Of course there is nothingwrong about it, and it is impossible to be displeased with it. I beganto reply to my friend, but with so much heat and ill-temper, that my wiferan in from the adjoining room to inquire what had happened. It appearsthat, without being conscious of it myself, I had been shouting, withtears in my voice, and flourishing my hands at my friend. I shouted:"It's impossible to live thus, impossible to live thus, impossible!" Theymade me feel ashamed of my unnecessary warmth; they told me that I couldnot talk quietly about any thing, that I got disagreeably excited; andthey proved to me, especially, that the existence of such unfortunatescould not possibly furnish any excuse for imbittering the lives of thoseabout me. 

I felt that this was perfectly just, and held my peace; but in the depthsof my soul I was conscious that I was in the right, and I could notregain my composure. 

And the life of the city, which had, even before this, been so strangeand repellent to me, now disgusted me to such a degree, that all thepleasures of a life of luxury, which had hitherto appeared to me aspleasures, become tortures to me. And try as I would, to discover in myown soul any justification whatever for our life, I could not, withoutirritation, behold either my own or other people's drawing-rooms, nor ourtables spread in the lordly style, nor our equipages and horses, norshops, theatres, and assemblies. I could not behold alongside these thehungry, cold, and down-trodden inhabitants of the Lyapinsky house. And Icould not rid myself of the thought that these two things were bound uptogether, that the one arose from the other. I remember, that, as thisfeeling of my own guilt presented itself to me at the first blush, so itpersisted in me, but to this feeling a second was speedily added whichovershadowed it. 

When I mentioned my impressions of the Lyapinsky house to my nearestfriends and acquaintances, they all gave me the same answer as the firstfriend at whom I had begun to shout; but, in addition to this, theyexpressed their approbation of my kindness of heart and my sensibility, and gave me to understand that this sight had so especially worked uponme because I, Lyof Nikolaevitch, was very kind and good. And I willinglybelieved this. And before I had time to look about me, instead of thefeeling of self-reproach and regret, which I had at first experienced, there came a sense of satisfaction with my own kindliness, and a desireto exhibit it to people. 

"It really must be, " I said to myself, "that I am not especiallyresponsible for this by the luxury of my life, but that it is theindispensable conditions of existence that are to blame. In truth, achange in my mode of life cannot rectify the evil which I have seen: byaltering my manner of life, I shall only make myself and those about meunhappy, and the other miseries will remain the same as ever. Andtherefore my problem lies not in a change of my own life, as it had firstseemed to me, but in aiding, so far as in me lies, in the amelioration ofthe situation of those unfortunate beings who have called forth mycompassion. The whole point lies here, --that I am a very kind, amiableman, and that I wish to do good to my neighbors. " And I began to thinkout a plan of beneficent activity, in which I might exhibit mybenevolence. I must confess, however, that while devising this plan ofbeneficent activity, I felt all the time, in the depths of my soul, thatthat was not the thing; but, as often happens, activity of judgment andimagination drowned that voice of conscience within me. At thatjuncture, the census came up. This struck me as a means for institutingthat benevolence in which I proposed to exhibit my charitabledisposition. I knew of many charitable institutions and societies whichwere in existence in Moscow, but all their activity seemed to me bothwrongly directed and insignificant in comparison with what I intended todo. And I devised the following scheme: to arouse the sympathy of thewealthy for the poverty of the city, to collect money, to get peopletogether who were desirous of assisting in this matter, and to visit allthe refuges of poverty in company with the census, and, in addition tothe work of the census, to enter into communion with the unfortunate, tolearn the particulars of their necessities, and to assist them withmoney, with work, by sending them away from Moscow, by placing theirchildren in school, and the old people in hospitals and asylums. And notonly that, I thought, but these people who undertake this can be formedinto a permanent society, which, by dividing the quarters of Moscow amongits members, will be able to see to it that this poverty and beggaryshall not be bred; they will incessantly annihilate it at its veryinception; then they will fulfil their duty, not so much by healing as bya course of hygiene for the wretchedness of the city. I fancied thatthere would be no more simply needy, not to mention abjectly poorpersons, in the town, and that all of us wealthy individuals wouldthereafter be able to sit in our drawing-rooms, and eat our five-coursedinners, and ride in our carriages to theatres and assemblies, and be nolonger annoyed with such sights as I had seen at the Lyapinsky house. 

Having concocted this plan, I wrote an article on the subject; and beforesending it to the printer, I went to some acquaintances, from whom Ihoped for sympathy. I said the same thing to every one whom I met thatday (and I applied chiefly to the rich), and nearly the same that Iafterwards printed in my memoir; proposed to take advantage of the censusto inquire into the wretchedness of Moscow, and to succor it, both bydeeds and money, and to do it in such a manner that there should be nopoor people in Moscow, and so that we rich ones might be able, with aquiet conscience, to enjoy the blessings of life to which we wereaccustomed. All listened to me attentively and seriously, butnevertheless the same identical thing happened with every one of themwithout exception. No sooner did my hearers comprehend the question, than they seemed to feel awkward and somewhat mortified. They seemed tobe ashamed, and principally on my account, because I was talkingnonsense, and nonsense which it was impossible to openly characterize assuch. Some external cause appeared to compel my hearers to be forbearingwith this nonsense of mine. 

"Ah, yes! of course. That would be very good, " they said to me. "It isa self-understood thing that it is impossible not to sympathize withthis. Yes, your idea is a capital one. I have thought of that myself, but . . . We are so indifferent, as a rule, that you can hardly count onmuch success . . . However, so far as I am concerned, I am, of course, ready to assist. "

They all said something of this sort to me. They all agreed, but agreed, so it seemed to me, not in consequence of my convictions, and not inconsequence of their own wish, but as the result of some outward cause, which did not permit them not to agree. I had already noticed this, and, since not one of them stated the sum which he was willing to contribute, I was obliged to fix it myself, and to ask: "So I may count on you forthree hundred, or two hundred, or one hundred, or twenty-five rubles?"And not one of them gave me any money. I mention this because, whenpeople give money for that which they themselves desire, they generallymake haste to give it. For a box to see Sarah Bernhardt, they willinstantly place the money in your hand, to clinch the bargain. Here, however, out of all those who agreed to contribute, and who expressedtheir sympathy, not one of them proposed to give me the money on thespot, but they merely assented in silence to the sum which I suggested. In the last house which I visited on that day, in the evening, Iaccidentally came upon a large company. The mistress of the house hadbusied herself with charity for several years. Numerous carriages stoodat the door, several lackeys in rich liveries were sitting in the ante-chamber. In the vast drawing-room, around two tables and lamps, satladies and young girls, in costly garments, dressing small dolls; andthere were several young men there also, hovering about the ladies. Thedolls prepared by these ladies were to be drawn in a lottery for thepoor. 

The sight of this drawing-room, and of the people assembled in it, struckme very unpleasantly. Not to mention the fact that the property of thepersons there congregated amounted to many millions, not to mention thefact that the mere income from the capital here expended on dresses, laces, bronzes, brooches, carriages, horses, liveries, and lackeys, was ahundred-fold greater than all that these ladies could earn; not tomention the outlay, the trip hither of all these ladies and gentlemen;the gloves, linen, extra time, the candles, the tea, the sugar, and thecakes had cost the hostess a hundred times more than what they wereengaged in making here. I saw all this, and therefore I couldunderstand, that precisely here I should find no sympathy with mymission: but I had come in order to make my proposition, and, difficultas this was for me, I said what I intended. (I said very nearly the samething that is contained in my printed article. )

Out of all the persons there present, one individual offered me money, saying that she did not feel equal to going among the poor herself onaccount of her sensibility, but that she would give money; how much moneyshe would give, and when, she did not say. Another individual and ayoung man offered their services in going about among the poor, but I didnot avail myself of their offer. The principal person to whom Iappealed, told me that it would be impossible to do much because meanswere lacking. Means were lacking because all the rich people in Moscowwere already on the lists, and all of them were asked for all that theycould possibly give; because on all these benefactors rank, medals, andother dignities were bestowed; because in order to secure financialsuccess, some new dignities must be secured from the authorities, andthat this was the only practical means, but this was extremely difficult. 

On my return home that night, I lay down to sleep not only with apresentment that my idea would come to nothing, but with shame and aconsciousness that all day long I had been engaged in a very repulsiveand disgraceful business. But I did not give up this undertaking. Inthe first place, the matter had been begun, and false shame would haveprevented my abandoning it; in the second place, not only the success ofthis scheme, but the very fact that I was busying myself with it, afforded me the possibility of continuing to live in the conditions underwhich I was then living; failure entailed upon me the necessity ofrenouncing my present existence and of seeking new paths of life. Andthis I unconsciously dreaded, and I could not believe the inward voice, and I went on with what I had begun. 

Having sent my article to the printer, I read the proof of it to the CityCouncil (_Dum_). I read it, stumbling, and blushing even to tears, Ifelt so awkward. And I saw that it was equally awkward for all myhearers. In answer to my question at the conclusion of my reading, as towhether the superintendents of the census would accept my proposition toretain their places with the object of becoming mediators between societyand the needy, an awkward silence ensued. Then two orators madespeeches. These speeches in some measure corrected the awkwardness of myproposal; sympathy for me was expressed, but the impracticability of myproposition, which all had approved, was demonstrated. Everybodybreathed more freely. But when, still desirous of gaining my object, Iafterwards asked the superintendents separately: Were they willing, whiletaking the census, to inquire into the needs of the poor, and to retaintheir posts, in order to serve as go-betweens between the poor and therich? they all grew uneasy again. They seemed to say to me with theirglances: "Why, we have just condoned your folly out of respect to you, and here you are beginning it again!" Such was the expression of theirfaces, but they assured me in words that they agreed; and two of themsaid in the very same words, as though they had entered into a compacttogether: "We consider ourselves _morally bound_ to do this. " The sameimpression was produced by my communication to the student-census-takers, when I said to them, that while taking our statistics, we should followup, in addition to the objects of the census, the object of benevolence. When we discussed this, I observed that they were ashamed to look thekind-hearted man, who was talking nonsense, in the eye. My articleproduced the same impression on the editor of the newspaper, when Ihanded it to him; on my son, on my wife, on the most widely differentpersons. All felt awkward, for some reason or other; but all regarded itas indispensable to applaud the idea itself, and all, immediately afterthis expression of approbation, began to express their doubts as to itssuccess, and began for some reason (and all of them, too, withoutexception) to condemn the indifference and coldness of our society and ofevery one, apparently, except themselves. 

In the depths of my own soul, I still continued to feel that all this wasnot at all what was needed, and that nothing would come of it; but thearticle was printed, and I prepared to take part in the census; I hadcontrived the matter, and now it was already carrying me a way with it. 

CHAPTER IV. 

At my request, there had been assigned to me for the census, a portion ofthe Khamovnitchesky quarter, at the Smolensk market, along the Prototchnycross-street, between Beregovoy Passage and Nikolsky Alley. In thisquarter are situated the houses generally called the Rzhanoff Houses, orthe Rzhanoff fortress. These houses once belonged to a merchant namedRzhanoff, but now belong to the Zimins. I had long before heard of thisplace as a haunt of the most terrible poverty and vice, and I hadaccordingly requested the directors of the census to assign me to thisquarter. My desire was granted. 

On receiving the instructions of the City Council, I went alone, a fewdays previous to the beginning of the census, to reconnoitre my section. I found the Rzhanoff fortress at once, from the plan with which I hadbeen furnished. 

I approached from Nikolsky Alley. Nikolsky Alley ends on the left in agloomy house, without any gates on that side; I divined from itsappearance that this was the Rzhanoff fortress. 

Passing down Nikolsky Street, I overtook some lads of from ten tofourteen years of age, clad in little caftans and great-coats, who weresliding down hill, some on their feet, and some on one skate, along theicy slope beside this house. The boys were ragged, and, like all citylads, bold and impudent. I stopped to watch them. A ragged old woman, with yellow, pendent cheeks, came round the corner. She was going totown, to the Smolensk market, and she groaned terribly at every step, like a foundered horse. As she came alongside me, she halted and drew ahoarse sigh. In any other locality, this old woman would have askedmoney of me, but here she merely addressed me. 

"Look there, " said she, pointing at the boys who were sliding, "all theydo is to play their pranks! They'll turn out just such Rzhanoff fellowsas their fathers. "

One of the boys clad in a great-coat and a visorless cap, heard her wordsand halted: "What are you scolding about?" he shouted to the old woman. "You're an old Rzhanoff nanny-goat yourself!"

I asked the boy:

"And do you live here?"

"Yes, and so does she. She stole boot-legs, " shouted the boy; andraising his foot in front, he slid away. 

The old woman burst forth into injurious words, interrupted by a cough. At that moment, an old man, all clad in rags, and as white as snow, camedown the hill in the middle of the street, flourishing his hands [in oneof them he held a bundle with one little _kalatch_ and _baranki_" {39}]. This old man bore the appearance of a person who had just strengthenedhimself with a dram. He had evidently heard the old woman's insultingwords, and he took her part. 

"I'll give it to you, you imps, that I will!" he screamed at the boys, seeming to direct his course towards them, and taking a circuit round me, he stepped on to the sidewalk. This old man creates surprise on theArbata by his great age, his weakness, and his indigence. Here he was acheery laboring-man returning from his daily toil. 

I followed the old man. He turned the corner to the left, intoPrototchny Alley, and passing by the whole length of the house and thegate, he disappeared through the door of the tavern. 

Two gates and several doors open on Prototchny Alley: those belonging toa tavern, a dram-shop, and several eating and other shops. This is theRzhanoff fortress itself. Every thing here is gray, dirty, andmalodorous--both buildings and locality, and court-yards and people. Themajority of the people whom I met here were ragged and half-clad. Somewere passing through, others were running from door to door. Two werehaggling over some rags. I made the circuit of the entire building fromPrototchny Alley and Beregovoy Passage, and returning I halted at thegate of one of these houses. I wished to enter, and see what was goingon inside, but I felt that it would be awkward. What should I say when Iwas asked what I wanted there? I hesitated, but went in nevertheless. Assoon as I entered the court-yard, I became conscious of a disgustingodor. The yard was frightfully dirty. I turned a corner, and at thesame instant I heard to my left and overhead, on the wooden balcony, thetramp of footsteps of people running, at first along the planks of thebalcony, and then on the steps of the staircase. There emerged, first agaunt woman, with her sleeves rolled up, in a faded pink gown, and littleboots on her stockingless feet. After her came a tattered man in a redshirt and very full trousers, like a petticoat, and with overshoes. Theman caught the woman at the bottom of the steps. 

"You shall not escape, " he said laughing. 

"See here, you cock-eyed devil, " began the woman, evidently flattered bythis pursuit; but catching sight of me, she shrieked viciously, "What doyou want?"

As I wanted nothing, I became confused and beat a retreat. There wasnothing remarkable about the place; but this incident, after what I hadwitnessed on the other side of the yard, the cursing old woman, the jollyold man, and the lads sliding, suddenly presented the business which Ihad concocted from a totally different point of view. I thencomprehended for the first time, that all these unfortunates to whom Iwas desirous of playing the part of benefactor, besides the time, when, suffering from cold and hunger, they awaited admission into the house, had still other time, which they employed to some other purpose, thatthere were four and twenty hours in every day, that there was a wholelife of which I had never thought, up to that moment. Here, for thefirst time, I understood, that all those people, in addition to theirdesire to shelter themselves from the cold and to obtain a good meal, must still, in some way, live out those four and twenty hours each day, which they must pass as well as everybody else. I comprehended thatthese people must lose their tempers, and get bored, show courage, andgrieve and be merry. Strange as this may seem, when put into words, Iunderstood clearly for the first time, that the business which I hadundertaken could not consist alone in feeding and clothing thousands ofpeople, as one would feed and drive under cover a thousand sheep, butthat it must consist in doing good to them. 

And then I understood that each one of those thousand people was exactlysuch a man, --with precisely the same past, with the same passions, temptations, failings, with the same thoughts, the sameperplexities, --exactly such a man as myself, and then the thing that Ihad undertaken suddenly presented itself to me as so difficult that Ifelt my powerlessness; but the thing had been begun, and I went on withit. 

CHAPTER V. 

On the first appointed day, the student enumerators arrived in themorning, and I, the benefactor, joined them at twelve o'clock. I couldnot go earlier, because I had risen at ten o'clock, then I had drunk mycoffee and smoked, while waiting on digestion. At twelve o'clock Ireached the gates of the Rzhanoff house. A policeman pointed out to methe tavern with a side entrance on Beregovoy Passage, where the census-takers had ordered every one who asked for them to be directed. Ientered the tavern. It was very dark, ill-smelling, and dirty. Directlyopposite the entrance was the counter, on the left was a room withtables, covered with soiled cloths, on the right a large apartment withpillars, and the same sort of little tables at the windows and along thewalls. Here and there at the tables sat men both ragged and decentlyclad, like laboring-men or petty tradesmen, and a few women drinking tea. The tavern was very filthy, but it was instantly apparent that it had agood trade. 

There was a business-like expression on the face of the clerk behind thecounter, and a clever readiness about the waiters. No sooner had Ientered, than one waiter prepared to remove my coat and bring me whateverI should order. It was evident that they had been trained to brisk andaccurate service. I inquired for the enumerators. 

"Vanya!" shouted a small man, dressed in German fashion, who was engagedin placing something in a cupboard behind the counter; this was thelandlord of the tavern, a Kaluga peasant, Ivan Fedotitch, who hired one-half of the Zimins' houses and sublet them to lodgers. The waiter, athin, hooked-nosed young fellow of eighteen, with a yellow complexion, hastened up. 

"Conduct this gentleman to the census-takers; they went into the mainbuilding over the well. " The young fellow threw down his napkin, anddonned a coat over his white jacket and white trousers, and a cap with alarge visor, and, tripping quickly along with his white feet, he led methrough the swinging door in the rear. In the dirty, malodorous kitchen, in the out-building, we encountered an old woman who was carefullycarrying some very bad-smelling tripe, wrapped in a rag, off somewhere. From the out-building we descended into a sloping court-yard, allencumbered with small wooden buildings on lower stories of stone. Theodor in this whole yard was extremely powerful. The centre of this odorwas an out-house, round which people were thronging whenever I passed it. It merely indicated the spot, but was not altogether used itself. It wasimpossible, when passing through the yard, not to take note of this spot;one always felt oppressed when one entered the penetrating atmospherewhich was emitted by this foul smell. 

The waiter, carefully guarding his white trousers, led me cautiously pastthis place of frozen and unfrozen uncleanness to one of the buildings. The people who were passing through the yard and along the balconies allstopped to stare at me. It was evident that a respectably dressed manwas a curiosity in these localities. 

The young man asked a woman "whether she had seen the census-takers?" Andthree men simultaneously answered his question: some said that they wereover the well, but others said that they had been there, but had come outand gone to Nikita Ivanovitch. An old man dressed only in his shirt, whowas wandering about the centre of the yard, said that they were in No. 30. The young man decided that this was the most probable report, andconducted me to No. 30 through the basement entrance, and darkness andbad smells, different from that which existed outside. We wentdown-stairs, and proceeded along the earthen floor of a dark corridor. Aswe were passing along the corridor, a door flew open abruptly, and an olddrunken man, in his shirt, probably not of the peasant class, thrusthimself out. A washerwoman, wringing her soapy hands, was pursuing andhustling the old man with piercing screams. Vanya, my guide, pushed theold man aside, and reproved him. 

"It's not proper to make such a row, " said me, "and you an officer, too!"and we went on to the door of No. 30. 

Vanya gave it a little pull. The door gave way with a smack, opened, andwe smelled soapy steam, and a sharp odor of spoilt food and tobacco, andwe entered into total darkness. The windows were on the opposite side;but the corridors ran to right and left between board partitions, andsmall doors opened, at various angles, into the rooms made of unevenwhitewashed boards. In a dark room, on the left, a woman could be seenwashing in a tub. An old woman was peeping from one of these small doorson the right. Through another open door we could see a red-faced, hairypeasant, in bast shoes, sitting on his wooden bunk; his hands rested onhis knees, and he was swinging his feet, shod in bast shoes, and gazinggloomily at them. 

At the end of the corridor was a little door leading to the apartmentwhere the census-takers were. This was the chamber of the mistress ofthe whole of No. 30; she rented the entire apartment from IvanFeodovitch, and let it out again to lodgers and as night-quarters. Inher tiny room, under the tinsel images, sat the student census-taker withhis charts; and, in his quality of investigator, he had just thoroughlyinterrogated a peasant wearing a shirt and a vest. This latter was afriend of the landlady, and had been answering questions for her. Thelandlady herself, an elderly woman, was there also, and two of hercurious tenants. When I entered, the room was already packed full. Ipushed my way to the table. I exchanged greetings with the student, andhe proceeded with his inquiries. And I began to look about me, and tointerrogate the inhabitants of these quarters for my own purpose. 

It turned out, that in this first set of lodgings, I found not a singleperson upon whom I could pour out my benevolence. The landlady, in spiteof the fact that the poverty, smallness and dirt of these quarters struckme after the palatial house in which I dwell, lived in comfort, comparedwith many of the poor inhabitants of the city, and in comparison with thepoverty in the country, with which I was thoroughly familiar, she livedluxuriously. She had a feather-bed, a quilted coverlet, a samovar, a furcloak, and a dresser with crockery. The landlady's friend had the samecomfortable appearance. He had a watch and a chain. Her lodgers werenot so well off, but there was not one of them who was in need ofimmediate assistance: the woman who was washing linen in a tub, and whohad been abandoned by her husband and had children, an aged widow withoutany means of livelihood, as she said, and that peasant in bast shoes, whotold me that he had nothing to eat that day. But on questioning them, itappeared that none of these people were in special want, and that, inorder to help them, it would be necessary to become well acquainted withthem. 

When I proposed to the woman whose husband had abandoned her, to placeher children in an asylum, she became confused, fell into thought, thanked me effusively, but evidently did not wish to do so; she wouldhave preferred pecuniary assistance. The eldest girl helped her in herwashing, and the younger took care of the little boy. The old womanbegged earnestly to be taken to the hospital, but on examining her nook Ifound that the old woman was not particularly poor. She had a chest fullof effects, a teapot with a tin spout, two cups, and caramel boxes filledwith tea and sugar. She knitted stockings and gloves, and receivedmonthly aid from some benevolent lady. And it was evident that what thepeasant needed was not so much food as drink, and that whatever might begiven him would find its way to the dram-shop. In these quarters, therefore, there were none of the sort of people whom I could renderhappy by a present of money. But there were poor people who appeared tome to be of a doubtful character. I noted down the old woman, the womanwith the children, and the peasant, and decided that they must be seento; but later on, as I was occupied with the peculiarly unfortunate whomI expected to find in this house, I made up my mind that there must besome order in the aid which we should bestow; first came the mostwretched, and then this kind. But in the next quarters, and in the nextafter that, it was the same story, all the people had to be narrowlyinvestigated before they could be helped. But unfortunates of the sortwhom a gift of money would convert from unfortunate into fortunatepeople, there were none. Mortifying as it is to me to avow this, I beganto get disenchanted, because I did not find among these people any thingof the sort which I had expected. I had expected to find peculiar peoplehere; but, after making the round of all the apartments, I was convincedthat the inhabitants of these houses were not peculiar people at all, butprecisely such persons as those among whom I lived. As there are amongus, just so among them; there were here those who were more or less good, more or less stupid, happy and unhappy. The unhappy were exactly suchunhappy beings as exist among us, that is, unhappy people whoseunhappiness lies not in their external conditions, but in themselves, asort of unhappiness which it is impossible to right by any sort of bank-note whatever. 

CHAPTER VI. 

The inhabitants of these houses constitute the lower class of the city, which numbers in Moscow, probably, one hundred thousand. There, in thathouse, are representatives of every description of this class. There arepetty employers, and master-artisans, bootmakers, brush-makers, cabinet-makers, turners, shoemakers, tailors, blacksmiths; there are cab-drivers, young women living alone, and female pedlers, laundresses, old-clothesdealers, money-lenders, day-laborers, and people without any definiteemployment; and also beggars and dissolute women. 

Here were many of the very people whom I had seen at the entrance to theLyapinsky house; but here these people were scattered about among theworking-people. And moreover, I had seen these people at their mostunfortunate time, when they had eaten and drunk up every thing, and when, cold, hungry, and driven forth from the taverns, they were awaitingadmission into the free night lodging-house, and thence into the promisedprison for despatch to their places of residence, like heavenly manna;but here I beheld them and a majority of workers, and at a time, when byone means or another, they had procured three or five kopeks for alodging for the night, and sometimes a ruble for food and drink. 

And strange as the statement may seem, I here experienced nothingresembling that sensation which I had felt in the Lyapinsky house; but, on the contrary, during the first round, both I and the studentsexperienced an almost agreeable feeling, --yes, but why do I say "almostagreeable"? This is not true; the feeling called forth by intercoursewith these people, strange as it may sound, was a distinctly agreeableone. 

Our first impression was, that the greater part of the dwellers here wereworking people and very good people at that. 

We found more than half the inhabitants at work: laundresses bending overtheir tubs, cabinet-makers at their lathes, cobblers on their benches. The narrow rooms were full of people, and cheerful and energetic laborwas in progress. There was an odor of toilsome sweat and leather at thecobbler's, of shavings at the cabinet-maker's; songs were often to beheard, and glimpses could be had of brawny arms with sleeves roiled high, quickly and skilfully making their accustomed movements. Everywhere wewere received cheerfully and politely: hardly anywhere did our intrusioninto the every-day life of these people call forth that ambition, anddesire to exhibit their importance and to put us down, which theappearance of the enumerators in the quarters of well-to-do peopleevoked. It not only did not arouse this, but, on the contrary, theyanswered all other questions properly, and without attributing anyspecial significance to them. Our questions merely served them as asubject of mirth and jesting as to how such and such a one was to be setdown in the list, when he was to be reckoned as two, and when two were tobe reckoned as one, and so forth. 

We found many of them at dinner, or tea; and on every occasion to ourgreeting: "bread and salt, " or "tea and sugar, " they replied: "we begthat you will partake, " and even stepped aside to make room for us. Instead of the den with a constantly changing population, which we hadexpected to find here, it turned out, that there were a great manyapartments in the house where people had been living for a long time. Onecabinet-maker with his men, and a boot-maker with his journeymen, hadlived there for ten years. The boot-maker's quarters were very dirty andconfined, but all the people at work were very cheerful. I tried toenter into conversation with one of the workmen, being desirous ofinquiring into the wretchedness of his situation and his debt to hismaster, but the man did not understand me and spoke of his master and hislife from the best point of view. 

In one apartment lived an old man and his old woman. They peddledapples. Their little chamber was warm, clean, and full of goods. On thefloor were spread straw mats: they had got them at the apple-warehouse. They had chests, a cupboard, a samovar, and crockery. In the cornerthere were numerous images, and two lamps were burning before them; onthe wall hung fur coats covered with sheets. The old woman, who had star-shaped wrinkles, and who was polite and talkative, evidently delighted inher quiet, comfortable, existence. 

Ivan Fedotitch, the landlord of the tavern and of these quarters, lefthis establishment and came with us. He jested in a friendly manner withmany of the landlords of apartments, addressing them all by theirChristian names and patronymics, and he gave us brief sketches of them. All were ordinary people, like everybody else, --Martin Semyonovitches, Piotr Piotrovitches, Marya Ivanovnas, --people who did not considerthemselves unhappy, but who regarded themselves, and who actually were, just like the rest of mankind. 

We had been prepared to witness nothing except what was terrible. And, all of a sudden, there was presented to us, not only nothing that wasterrible, but what was good, --things which involuntarily compelled ourrespect. And there were so many of these good people, that the tattered, corrupt, idle people whom we came across now and then among them, did notdestroy the principal impression. 

This was not so much of a surprise to the students as to me. They simplywent to fulfil a useful task, as they thought, in the interests ofscience, and, at the same time, they made their own chance observations;but I was a benefactor, I went for the purpose of aiding the unfortunate, the corrupt, vicious people, whom I supposed that I should meet with inthis house. And, behold, instead of unfortunate, corrupt, and viciouspeople, I saw that the majority were laborious, industrious, peaceable, satisfied, contented, cheerful, polite, and very good folk indeed. 

I felt particularly conscious of this when, in these quarters, Iencountered that same crying want which I had undertaken to alleviate. 

When I encountered this want, I always found that it had already beenrelieved, that the assistance which I had intended to render had alreadybeen given. This assistance had been rendered before my advent, andrendered by whom? By the very unfortunate, depraved creatures whom I hadundertaken to reclaim, and rendered in such a manner as I could notcompass. 

In one basement lay a solitary old man, ill with the typhus fever. Therewas no one with the old man. A widow and her little daughter, strangersto him, but his neighbors round the corner, looked after him, gave himtea and purchased medicine for him out of their own means. In anotherlodging lay a woman in puerperal fever. A woman who lived by vice wasrocking the baby, and giving her her bottle; and for two days, she hadbeen unremitting in her attention. The baby girl, on being left anorphan, was adopted into the family of a tailor, who had three childrenof his own. So there remained those unfortunate idle people, officials, clerks, lackeys out of place, beggars, drunkards, dissolute women, andchildren, who cannot be helped on the spot with money, but whom it isnecessary to know thoroughly, to be planned and arranged for. I hadsimply sought unfortunate people, the unfortunates of poverty, those whocould be helped by sharing with them our superfluity, and, as it seemedto me, through some signal ill-luck, none such were to be found; but Ihit upon unfortunates to whom I should be obliged to devote my time andcare. 

CHAPTER VII. 

The unfortunates whom I noted down, divided themselves, according to myideas, into three sections, namely: people who had lost their formeradvantageous position, and who were awaiting a return to it (there werepeople of this sort from both the lower and the higher class); next, dissolute women, of whom there are a great many in these houses; and athird division, children. More than all the rest, I found and noted downpeople of the first division, who had forfeited their former advantageousposition, and who hoped to regain it. Of such persons, especially fromthe governmental and official world, there are a very great number inthese houses. In almost all the lodgings which we entered, with thelandlord, Ivan Fedotitch, he said to us: "Here you need not write downthe lodger's card yourself; there is a man here who can do it, if he onlyhappens not to be intoxicated to-day. "

And Ivan Fedotitch called by name and patronymic this man, who was alwaysone of those persons who had fallen from a lofty position. At IvanFedotitch's call, there crawled forth from some dark corner, a formerwealthy member of the noble or official class, generally intoxicated andalways undressed. If he was not drunk, he always readily acceded to thetask proposed to him, nodded significantly, frowned, set down his remarksin learned phraseology, held the card neatly printed on red paper in hisdirty, trembling hands, and glanced round at his fellow-lodgers withpride and contempt, as though now triumphing in his education over thosewho had so often humiliated him. He evidently enjoyed intercourse withthat world in which cards are printed on red paper, and with that worldof which he had once formed a part. Nearly always, in answer to myinquiries about his life, the man began, not only willingly, but eagerly, to relate the story of the misfortunes which he had undergone, --which hehad learned by rote like a prayer, --and particularly of his formerposition, in which he ought still to be by right of his education. 

A great many such people were scattered over all the corners of theRzhanoff house. But one lodging was densely occupied by them alone--bothmen and women. After we had already entered, Ivan Fedotitch said to us:"Now, here are some of the nobility. " The lodging was perfectly crammed;nearly all of the people, forty in number, were at home. Moredemoralized countenances, unhappy, aged, and swollen, young, pallid, anddistracted, were not to be seen in the whole building. I conversed withseveral of them. The story was nearly identical in all cases, only invarious stages of development. Every one of them had been rich, or hisfather, his brother or his uncle was still wealthy, or his father or hehimself had had a very fine position. Then misfortune had overtaken him, the blame for which rested either on envious people, or on his own kind-heartedness, or some special chance, and so he had lost every thing, andhad been forced to condescend to these surroundings to which he was notaccustomed, and which were hateful to him--among lice, rags, amongdrunkards and corrupt persons, and to nourish himself on bread and liver, and to extend his hand in beggary. All the thoughts, desires, memoriesof these people were directed exclusively to the past. The presentappeared to them something unreal, repulsive, and not worthy ofattention. Not one of them had any present. They had only memories ofthe past, and expectations from the future, which might be realized atany moment, and for the realization of which only a very little wasrequired; but this little they did not possess, it was nowhere to beobtained, and this had been ruining their whole future life in vain, inthe case of one man, for a year, of a second for five years, and of athird for thirty years. All one needed was merely to dress respectably, so that he could present himself to a certain personage, who was well-disposed towards him another only needed to be able to dress, pay off hisdebts, and get to Orel; a third required to redeem a small property whichwas mortgaged, for the continuation of a law-suit, which must be decidedin his favor, and then all would be well once more. They all declarethat they merely require something external, in order to stand once morein the position which they regard as natural and happy in their own case. 

Had my mind not been obscured by my pride as a benefactor, a glance attheir faces, both old and young, which were mostly weak and sensitive, but amiable, would have given me to understand that their misfortuneswere irreparable by any external means, that they could not be happy inany position whatever, if their views of life were to remain unchanged, that they were in no wise remarkable people, in remarkably unfortunatecircumstances, but that they were the same people who surround us on allsides, and just like ourselves. I remember that intercourse with thissort of unfortunates was peculiarly difficult for me. I now understandwhy this was so; in them I beheld myself, as in a mirror. If I hadreflected on my own life and on the life of the people in our circle, Ishould have seen that no real difference existed between them. 

If those about me dwell in spacious quarters, and in their own houses onthe Sivtzevy Vrazhok and on the Dimitrovka, and not in the Rzhanoffhouse, and still eat and drink dainties, and not liver and herrings withbread, that does not prevent them from being exactly as unhappy. Theyare just as dissatisfied with their own positions, they mourn over thepast, and pine for better things, and the improved position for whichthey long is precisely the same as that which the inhabitants of theRzhanoff house long for; that is to say, one in which they may do aslittle work as possible themselves, and derive the utmost advantage fromthe labors of others. The difference is merely one of degrees and time. If I had reflected at that time, I should have understood this; but I didnot reflect, and I questioned these people, and wrote them down, supposing, that, having learned all the particulars of their variousconditions and necessities, I could aid them _later on_. I did notunderstand that such a man can only be helped by changing his views ofthe world. But in order to change the views of another, one must needshave better views himself, and live in conformity with them; but minewere precisely the same as theirs, and I lived in accordance with thoseviews, which must undergo a change, in order that these people mightcease to be unhappy. 

I did not see that these people were unhappy, not because they had not, so to speak, nourishing food, but because their stomachs had beenspoiled, and because their appetites demanded not nourishing butirritating viands; and I did not perceive that, in order to help them, itwas not necessary to give them food, but that it was necessary to healtheir disordered stomachs. Although I am anticipating by so doing, Iwill mention here, that, out of all these persons whom I noted down, Ireally did not help a single one, in spite of the fact that for some ofthem, that was done which they desired, and that which, apparently, mighthave raised them. Three of their number were particularly well known tome. All three, after repeated rises and falls, are now in precisely thesame situation in which they were three years ago. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The second class of unfortunates whom I also expected to assist later on, were the dissolute women; there were a very great many of them, of allsorts, in the Rzhanoff house--from those who were young and who resembledwomen, to old ones, who were frightful and horrible, and who had lostevery semblance of humanity. The hope of being of assistance to thesewomen, which I had not at first entertained, occurred to me later. Thiswas in the middle of our rounds. We had already worked out severalmechanical tricks of procedure. 

When we entered a new establishment, we immediately questioned thelandlady of the apartment; one of us sat down, clearing some sort of aplace for himself where he could write, and another penetrated thecorners, and questioned each man in all the nooks of the apartmentseparately, and reported the facts to the one who did the writing. 

On entering a set of rooms in the basement, a student went to hunt up thelandlady, while I began to interrogate all who remained in the place. Theapartment was thus arranged: in the centre was a room six _arshins_square, {59} and a small oven. From the oven radiated four partitions, forming four tiny compartments. In the first, the entrance slip, whichhad four bunks, there were two persons--an old man and a woman. Immediately adjoining this, was a rather long slip of a room; in it wasthe landlord, a young fellow, dressed in a sleeveless gray woollenjacket, a good-looking, very pale citizen. {60} On the left of the firstcorner, was a third tiny chamber; there was one person asleep there, probably a drunken peasant, and a woman in a pink blouse which was loosein front and close-fitting behind. The fourth chamber was behind thepartition; the entrance to it was from the landlord's compartment. 

The student went into the landlord's room, and I remained in the entrancecompartment, and questioned the old man and woman. The old man had beena master-printer, but now had no means of livelihood. The woman was thewife of a cook. I went to the third compartment, and questioned thewoman in the blouse about the sleeping man. She said that he was avisitor. I asked the woman who she was. She replied that she was aMoscow peasant. "What is your business?" She burst into a laugh, anddid not answer me. "What do you live on?" I repeated, thinking that shehad not understood my question. "I sit in the taverns, " she said. I didnot comprehend, and again I inquired: "What is your means of livelihood?"She made no reply and laughed. Women's voices in the fourth compartmentwhich we had not yet entered, joined in the laugh. The landlord emergedfrom his cabin and stepped up to us. He had evidently heard my questionsand the woman's replies. He cast a stern glance at the woman and turnedto me: "She is a prostitute, " said he, apparently pleased that he knewthe word in use in the language of the authorities, and that he couldpronounce it correctly. And having said this, with a respectful andbarely perceptible smile of satisfaction addressed to me, he turned tothe woman. And no sooner had he turned to her, than his whole facealtered. He said, in a peculiar, scornful, hasty tone, such as isemployed towards dogs: "What do you jabber in that careless way for? 'Isit in the taverns. ' You do sit in the taverns, and that means, to talkbusiness, that you are a prostitute, " and again he uttered the word. "Shedoes not know the name for herself. " This tone offended me. "It is notour place to abuse her, " said I. "If all of us lived according to thelaws of God, there would be none of these women. "

"That's the very point, " said the landlord, with an awkward smile. 

"Therefore, we should not reproach but pity them. Are they to blame?"

I do not recollect just what I said, but I do remember that I was vexedby the scornful tone of the landlord of these quarters which were filledwith women, whom he called prostitutes, and that I felt compassion forthis woman, and that I gave expression to both feelings. No sooner had Ispoken thus, than the boards of the bed in the next compartment, whencethe laugh had proceeded, began to creak, and above the partition, whichdid not reach to the ceiling, there appeared a woman's curly anddishevelled head, with small, swollen eyes, and a shining, red face, followed by a second, and then by a third. They were evidently standingon their beds, and all three were craning their necks, and holding theirbreath with strained attention, and gazing silently at us. 

A troubled pause ensued. The student, who had been smiling up to thistime, became serious; the landlord grew confused and dropped his eyes. All the women held their breath, stared at me, and waited. I was moreembarrassed than any of them. I had not, in the least, anticipated thata chance remark would produce such an effect. Like Ezekiel's field ofdeath, strewn with dead men's bones, there was a quiver at the touch ofthe spirit, and the dead bones stirred. I had uttered an unpremeditatedword of love and sympathy, and this word had acted on all as though theyhad only been waiting for this very remark, in order that they mightcease to be corpses and might live. They all stared at me, and waitedfor what would come next. They waited for me to utter those words, andto perform those actions by reason of which these bones might drawtogether, clothe themselves with flesh, and spring into life. But I feltthat I had no such words, no such actions, by means of which I couldcontinue what I had begun; I was conscious, in the depths of my soul, that I had lied [that I was just like them], {62} and there was nothingfurther for me to say; and I began to inscribe on the cards the names andcallings of all the persons in this set of apartments. 

This incident led me into a fresh dilemma, to the thought of how theseunfortunates also might be helped. In my self-delusion, I fancied thatthis would be very easy. I said to myself: "Here, we will make a note ofall these women also, and _later on_ when we [I did not specify to myselfwho "we" were] write every thing out, we will attend to these personstoo. " I imagined that we, the very ones who have brought and have beenbringing these women to this condition for several generations, wouldtake thought some fine day and reform all this. But, in the mean time, if I had only recalled my conversation with the disreputable woman whohad been rocking the baby of the fever-stricken patient, I might havecomprehended the full extent of the folly of such a supposition. 

When we saw this woman with the baby, we thought that it was her child. To the question, "Who was she?" she had replied in a straightforward waythat she was unmarried. She did not say--a prostitute. Only the masterof the apartment made use of that frightful word. The supposition thatshe had a child suggested to me the idea of removing her from herposition. I inquired:

"Is this your child?"

"No, it belongs to that woman yonder. "

"Why are you taking care of it?"

"Because she asked me; she is dying. "

Although my supposition proved to be erroneous, I continued myconversation with her in the same spirit. I began to question her as towho she was, and how she had come to such a state. She related herhistory very readily and simply. She was a Moscow _myeshchanka_, thedaughter of a factory hand. She had been left an orphan, and had beenadopted by an aunt. From her aunt's she had begun to frequent thetaverns. The aunt was now dead. When I asked her whether she did notwish to alter her mode of life, my question, evidently, did not evenarouse her interest. How can one take an interest in the proposition ofa man, in regard to something absolutely impossible? She laughed, andsaid: "And who would take me in with my yellow ticket?"

"Well, but if a place could be found somewhere as cook?" said I. 

This thought occurred to me because she was a stout, ruddy woman, with akindly, round, and rather stupid face. Cooks are often like that. Mywords evidently did not please her. She repeated:

"A cook--but I don't know how to make bread, " said she, and she laughed. She said that she did not know how; but I saw from the expression of hercountenance that she did not wish to become a cook, that she regarded theposition and calling of a cook as low. 

This woman, who in the simplest possible manner was sacrificing everything that she had for the sick woman, like the widow in the Gospels, atthe same time, like many of her companions, regarded the position of aperson who works as low and deserving of scorn. She had been brought upto live not by work, but by this life which was considered the naturalone for her by those about her. In that lay her misfortune. And shefell in with this misfortune and clung to her position. This led her tofrequent the taverns. Which of us--man or woman--will correct her falseview of life? Where among us are the people to be found who areconvinced that every laborious life is more worthy of respect than anidle life, --who are convinced of this, and who live in conformity withthis belief, and who in conformity with this conviction value and respectpeople? If I had thought of this, I might have understood that neitherI, nor any other person among my acquaintances, could heal thiscomplaint. 

I might have understood that these amazed and affected heads thrust overthe partition indicated only surprise at the sympathy expressed for them, but not in the least a hope of reclamation from their dissolute life. They do not perceive the immorality of their life. They see that theyare despised and cursed, but for what they are thus despised they cannotcomprehend. Their life, from childhood, has been spent among just suchwomen, who, as they very well know, always have existed, and areindispensable to society, and so indispensable that there aregovernmental officials to attend to their legal existence. Moreover, they know that they have power over men, and can bring them intosubjection, and rule them often more than other women. They see thattheir position in society is recognized by women and men and theauthorities, in spite of their continual curses, and therefore, theycannot understand why they should reform. 

In the course of one of the tours, one of the students told me that in acertain lodging, there was a woman who was bargaining for her thirteen-year-old daughter. Being desirous of rescuing this girl, I made a tripto that lodging expressly. Mother and daughter were living in thegreatest poverty. The mother, a small, dark-complexioned, dissolutewoman of forty, was not only homely, but repulsively homely. Thedaughter was equally disagreeable. To all my pointed questions abouttheir life, the mother responded curtly, suspiciously, and in a hostileway, evidently feeling that I was an enemy, with evil intentions; thedaughter made no reply, did not look at her mother, and evidently trustedthe latter fully. They inspired me with no sincere pity, but rather withdisgust. But I made up my mind that the daughter must be rescued, andthat I would interest ladies who pitied the sad condition of these women, and send them hither. But if I had reflected on the mother's long lifein the past, of how she had given birth to, nursed and reared thisdaughter in her situation, assuredly without the slightest assistancefrom outsiders, and with heavy sacrifices--if I had reflected on the viewof life which this woman had formed, I should have understood that therewas, decidedly, nothing bad or immoral in the mother's act: she had doneand was doing for her daughter all that she could, that is to say, whatshe considered the best for herself. This daughter could be forciblyremoved from her mother; but it would be impossible to convince themother that she was doing wrong, in selling her daughter. If any one wasto be saved, then it must be this woman--the mother ought to have beensaved; [and that long before, from that view of life which is approved byevery one, according to which a woman may live unmarried, that is, without bearing children and without work, and simply for thesatisfaction of the passions. If I had thought of this, I should haveunderstood that the majority of the ladies whom I intended to sendthither for the salvation of that little girl, not only live withoutbearing children and without working, and serving only passion, but thatthey deliberately rear their daughters for the same life; one mothertakes her daughter to the taverns, another takes hers to balls. But bothmothers hold the same view of the world, namely, that a woman mustsatisfy man's passions, and that for this she must be fed, dressed, andcared for. Then how are our ladies to reform this woman and herdaughter? {66} ]

CHAPTER IX. 

Still more remarkable were my relations to the children. In my _role_ ofbenefactor, I turned my attention to the children also, being desirous tosave these innocent beings from perishing in that lair of vice, andnoting them down in order to attend to them _afterwards_. 

Among the children, I was especially struck with a twelve-year-old ladnamed Serozha. I was heartily sorry for this bold, intelligent lad, whohad lived with a cobbler, and who had been left without a shelter becausehis master had been put in jail, and I wanted to do good to him. 

I will here relate the upshot of my benevolence in his case, because myexperience with this child is best adapted to show my false position inthe _role_ of benefactor. I took the boy home with me and put him in thekitchen. It was impossible, was it not, to take a child who had lived ina den of iniquity in among my own children? And I considered myself verykind and good, because he was a care, not to me, but to the servants inthe kitchen, and because not I but the cook fed him, and because I gavehim some cast-off clothing to wear. The boy staid a week. During thatweek I said a few words to him as I passed on two occasions and in thecourse of my strolls, I went to a shoemaker of my acquaintance, andproposed that he should take the lad as an apprentice. A peasant who wasvisiting me, invited him to go to the country, into his family, as alaborer; the boy refused, and at the end of the week he disappeared. Iwent to the Rzhanoff house to inquire after him. He had returned there, but was not at home when I went thither. For two days already, he hadbeen going to the Pryesnensky ponds, where he had hired himself out atthirty kopeks a day in some procession of savages in costume, who ledabout elephants. Something was being presented to the public there. Iwent a second time, but he was so ungrateful that he evidently avoidedme. Had I then reflected on the life of that boy and on my own, I shouldhave understood that this boy was spoiled because he had discovered thepossibility of a merry life without labor, and that he had grown unusedto work. And I, with the object of benefiting and reclaiming him, hadtaken him to my house, where he saw--what? My children, --both older andyounger than himself, and of the same age, --who not only never did anywork for themselves, but who made work for others by every means in theirpower, who soiled and spoiled every thing about them, who ate rich, dainty, and sweet viands, broke china, and flung to the dogs food whichwould have been a tidbit to this lad. If I had rescued him from the_abyss_, and had taken him to that nice place, then he must acquire thoseviews which prevailed in the life of that nice place; but by these views, he understood that in that fine place he must so live that he should nottoil, but eat and drink luxuriously, and lead a joyous life. It is truethat he did not know that my children bore heavy burdens in theacquisition of the declensions of Latin and Greek grammar, and that hecould not have understood the object of these labors. But it isimpossible not to see that if he had understood this, the influence of mychildren's example on him would have been even stronger. He would thenhave comprehended that my children were being educated in this manner, sothat, while doing no work now, they might be in a position hereafter, also profiting by their diplomas, to work as little as possible, and toenjoy the pleasures of life to as great an extent as possible. He didunderstand this, and he would not go with the peasant to tend cattle, andto eat potatoes and _kvas_ with him, but he went to the zoological gardenin the costume of a savage, to lead the elephant at thirty kopeks a day. 

I might have understood how clumsy I was, when I was rearing my childrenin the most utter idleness and luxury, to reform other people and theirchildren, who were perishing from idleness in what I called the den ofthe Rzhanoff house, where, nevertheless, three-fourths of the people toilfor themselves and for others. But I understood nothing of this. 

There were a great many children in the Rzhanoff house, who were in thesame pitiable plight; there were the children of dissolute women, therewere orphans, there were children who had been picked up in the streetsby beggars. They were all very wretched. But my experience with Serozhashowed me that I, living the life I did, was not in a position to helpthem. 

While Serozha was living with us, I noticed in myself an effort to hideour life from him, in particular the life of our children. I felt thatall my efforts to direct him towards a good, industrious life, werecounteracted by the examples of our lives and by that of our children. Itis very easy to take a child away from a disreputable woman, or from abeggar. It is very easy, when one has the money, to wash, clean anddress him in neat clothing, to support him, and even to teach him varioussciences; but it is not only difficult for us, who do not earn our ownbread, but quite the reverse, to teach him to work for his bread, but itis impossible, because we, by our example, and even by those material andvalueless improvements of his life, inculcate the contrary. A puppy canbe taken, tended, fed, and taught to fetch and carry, and one may takepleasure in him: but it is not enough to tend a man, to feed and teachhim Greek; we must teach the man how to live, --that is, to take as littleas possible from others, and to give as much as possible; and we cannothelp teaching him to do the contrary, if we take him into our houses, orinto an institution founded for this purpose. 

CHAPTER X. 

This feeling of compassion for people, and of disgust with myself, whichI had experienced in the Lyapinsky house, I experienced no longer. I wascompletely absorbed in the desire to carry out the scheme which I hadconcocted, --to do good to those people whom I should meet here. And, strange to say, it would appear, that, to do good--to give money to theneedy--is a very good deed, and one that should dispose me to love forthe people, but it turned out the reverse: this act produced in me ill-will and an inclination to condemn people. But during our first eveningtour, a scene occurred exactly like that in the Lyapinsky house, and itcalled forth a wholly different sentiment. 

It began by my finding in one set of apartments an unfortunateindividual, of precisely the sort who require immediate aid. I found ahungry woman who had had nothing to eat for two days. 

It came about thus: in one very large and almost empty night-lodging, Iasked an old woman whether there were many poor people who had nothing toeat? The old woman reflected, and then told me of two; and then, asthough she had just recollected, "Why, here is one of them, " said she, glancing at one of the occupied bunks. "I think that woman has had nofood. "

"Really? Who is she?"

"She was a dissolute woman: no one wants any thing to do with her now, soshe has no way of getting any thing. The landlady has had compassion onher, but now she means to turn her out . . . Agafya, hey there, Agafya!"cried the woman. 

We approached, and something rose up in the bunk. It was a woman haggardand dishevelled, whose hair was half gray, and who was as thin as askeleton, dressed in a ragged and dirty chemise, and with particularlybrilliant and staring eyes. She looked past us with her staring eyes, clutched at her jacket with one thin hand, in order to cover her bonybreast which was disclosed by her tattered chemise, and oppressed, shecried, "What is it? what is it?" I asked her about her means oflivelihood. For a long time she did not understand, and said, "I don'tknow myself; they persecute me. " I asked her, --it puts me to shame, myhand refuses to write it, --I asked her whether it was true that she hadnothing to eat? She answered in the same hurried, feverish tone, staringat me the while, --"No, I had nothing yesterday, and I have had nothing to-day. "

The sight of this woman touched me, but not at all as had been the casein the Lyapinsky house; there, my pity for these people made me instantlyfeel ashamed of myself: but here, I rejoiced because I had at last foundwhat I had been seeking, --a hungry person. 

I gave her a ruble, and I recollect being very glad that others saw it. The old woman, on seeing this, immediately begged money of me also. Itafforded me such pleasure to give, that, without finding out whether itwas necessary to give or not, I gave something to the old woman too. Theold woman accompanied me to the door, and the people standing in thecorridor heard her blessing me. Probably the questions which I had putwith regard to poverty, had aroused expectation, and several personsfollowed us. In the corridor also, they began to ask me for money. Amongthose who begged were some drunken men, who aroused an unpleasant feelingin me; but, having once given to the old woman, I had no might to refusethese people, and I began to give. As long as I continued to give, people kept coming up; and excitement ran through all the lodgings. People made them appearance on the stairs and galleries, and followed me. As I emerged into the court-yard, a little boy ran swiftly down one ofthe staircases thrusting the people aside. He did not see me, andexclaimed hastily: "He gave Agashka a ruble!" When he reached theground, the boy joined the crowd which was following me. I went out intothe street: various descriptions of people followed me, and asked formoney. I distributed all my small change, and entered an open shop withthe request that the shopkeeper would change a ten-ruble bill for me. Andthen the same thing happened as at the Lyapinsky house. A terribleconfusion ensued. Old women, noblemen, peasants, and children crowdedinto the shop with outstretched hands; I gave, and interrogated some ofthem as to their lives, and took notes. The shopkeeper, turning up thefurred points of the collar of his coat, sat like a stuffed creature, glancing at the crowd occasionally, and then fixing his eyes beyond themagain. He evidently, like every one else, felt that this was foolish, but he could not say so. 

The poverty and beggary in the Lyapinsky house had horrified me, and Ifelt myself guilty of it; I felt the desire and the possibility ofimprovement. But now, precisely the same scene produced on me anentirely different effect; I experienced, in the first place, amalevolent feeling towards many of those who were besieging me; and inthe second place, uneasiness as to what the shopkeepers and porters wouldthink of me. 

On my return home that day, I was troubled in my soul. I felt that whatI had done was foolish and immoral. But, as is always the result ofinward confusion, I talked a great deal about the plan which I hadundertaken, as though I entertained not the slightest doubt of mysuccess. 

On the following day, I went to such of the people whom I had inscribedon my list, as seemed to me the most wretched of all, and those who, asit seemed to me, would be the easiest to help. As I have already said, Idid not help any of these people. It proved to be more difficult to helpthem than I had thought. And either because I did not know how, orbecause it was impossible, I merely imitated these people, and did nothelp any one. I visited the Rzhanoff house several times before thefinal tour, and on every occasion the very same thing occurred: I wasbeset by a throng of beggars in whose mass I was completely lost. I feltthe impossibility of doing any thing, because there were too many ofthem, and because I felt ill-disposed towards them because there were somany of them; and in addition to this, each one separately did notincline me in his favor. I was conscious that every one of them wastelling me an untruth, or less than the whole truth, and that he saw inme merely a purse from which money might be drawn. And it veryfrequently seemed to me, that the very money which they squeezed out ofme, rendered their condition worse instead of improving it. The oftenerI went to that house, the more I entered into intercourse with the peoplethere, the more apparent became to me the impossibility of doing anything; but still I did not give up any scheme until the last night tour. 

The remembrance of that last tour is particularly mortifying to me. Onother occasions I had gone thither alone, but twenty of us went there onthis occasion. At seven o'clock, all who wished to take part in thisfinal night round, began to assemble at my house. Nearly all of themwere strangers to me, --students, one officer, and two of my societyacquaintances, who, uttering the usual, "_C'est tres interessant_!" hadasked me to include them in the number of the census-takers. 

My worldly acquaintances had dressed up especially for this, in some sortof hunting-jacket, and tall, travelling boots, in a costume in which theyrode and went hunting, and which, in their opinion, was appropriate foran excursion to a night-lodging-house. They took with them special note-books and remarkable pencils. They were in that peculiarly excited stateof mind in which men set off on a hunt, to a duel, or to the wars. Themost apparent thing about them was their folly and the falseness of ourposition, but all the rest of us were in the same false position. Beforewe set out, we held a consultation, after the fashion of a council ofwar, as to how we should begin, how divide our party, and so on. 

This consultation was exactly such as takes place in councils, assemblages, committees; that is to say, each person spoke, not becausehe had any thing to say or to ask, but because each one cudgelled hisbrain for something that he could say, so that he might not fall short ofthe rest. But, among all these discussions, no one alluded to thatbeneficence of which I had so often spoken to them all. Mortifying asthis was to me, I felt that it was indispensable that I should once moreremind them of benevolence, that is, of the point, that we were toobserve and take notes of all those in destitute circumstances whom weshould encounter in the course of our rounds. I had always felt ashamedto speak of this; but now, in the midst of all our excited preparationsfor our expedition, I could hardly utter the words. All listened to me, as it seemed to me, with sorrow, and, at the same time, all agreed inwords; but it was evident that they all knew that it was folly, and thatnothing would come of it, and all immediately began again to talk aboutsomething else. This went on until the time arrived for us to set out, and we started. 

We reached the tavern, roused the waiters, and began to sort our papers. When we were informed that the people had heard about this round, andwere leaving their quarters, we asked the landlord to lock the gates; andwe went ourselves into the yard to reason with the fleeing people, assuring them that no one would demand their tickets. I remember thestrange and painful impression produced on me by these alarmednight-lodgers: ragged, half-dressed, they all seemed tall to me by thelight of the lantern and the gloom of the court-yard. Frightened andterrifying in their alarm, they stood in a group around the foul-smellingout-house, and listened to our assurances, but they did not believe us, and were evidently prepared for any thing, like hunted wild beasts, provided only that they could escape from us. Gentlemen in diversshapes--as policemen, both city and rural, and as examining judges, andjudges--hunt them all their lives, in town and country, on the highwayand in the streets, and in the taverns, and in night-lodging houses; andnow, all of a sudden, these gentlemen had come and locked the gates, merely in order to count them: it was as difficult for them to believethis, as for hares to believe that dogs have come, not to chase but tocount them. But the gates were locked, and the startled lodgersreturned: and we, breaking up into groups, entered also. With me werethe two society men and two students. In front of us, in the dark, wentVanya, in his coat and white trousers, with a lantern, and we followed. We went to quarters with which I was familiar. I knew all theestablishments, and some of the people; but the majority of the peoplewere new, and the spectacle was new, and more dreadful than the one whichI had witnessed in the Lyapinsky house. All the lodgings were full, allthe bunks were occupied, not by one person only, but often by two. Thesight was terrible in that narrow space into which the people werehuddled, and men and women were mixed together. All the women who werenot dead drunk slept with men; and women with two children did the same. The sight was terrible, on account of the poverty, dirt, rags, and terrorof the people. And it was chiefly dreadful on account of the vastnumbers of people who were in this situation. One lodging, and then asecond like it, and a third, and a tenth, and a twentieth, and stillthere was no end to them. And everywhere there was the same foul odor, the same close atmosphere, the same crowding, the same mingling of thesexes, the same men and women intoxicated to stupidity, and the sameterror, submission and guilt on all faces; and again I was overwhelmedwith shame and pain, as in the Lyapinsky house, and I understood thatwhat I had undertaken was abominable and foolish and thereforeimpracticable. And I no longer took notes of anybody, and I asked noquestions, knowing that nothing would come of this. 

I was deeply pained. In the Lyapinsky house I had been like a man whohas seen a fearful wound, by chance, on the body of another man. He issorry for the other man, he is ashamed that he has not pitied the manbefore, and he can still rise to the succor of the sufferer. But now Iwas like a physician, who has come with his medicine to the sick man, hasuncovered his sore, and examined it, and who must confess to himself thatevery thing that he has done has been in vain, and that his remedy isgood for nothing. 

CHAPTER XI. 

This visit dealt the final blow to my self-delusion. It now appearedindisputable to me, that what I had undertaken was not only foolish butloathsome. 

But, in spite of the fact that I was aware of this, it seemed to me thatI could not abandon the whole thing on the spot. It seemed to me that Iwas bound to carry out this enterprise, in the first place, because by myarticle, by my visits and promises, I had aroused the expectations of thepoor; in the second, because by my article also, and by my talk, I hadaroused the sympathies of benevolent persons, many of whom had promisedme their co-operation both in personal labor and in money. And Iexpected that both sets of people would turn to me for an answer to this. 

What happened to me, so far as the appeal of the needy to me isconcerned, was as follows: By letter and personal application I receivedmore than a hundred; these applications were all from the wealthy-poor, if I may so express myself. I went to see some of them, and some of themreceived no answer. Nowhere did I succeed in doing any thing. Allapplications to me were from persons who had once occupied privilegedpositions (I thus designate those in which people receive more fromothers than they give), who had lost them, and who wished to occupy themagain. To one, two hundred rubles were indispensable, in order that hemight prop up a failing business, and complete the education of hischildren which had been begun; another wanted a photographic outfit; athird wanted his debts paid, and respectable clothing purchased for him;a fourth needed a piano, in order to perfect himself and support hisfamily by giving lessons. But the majority did not stipulate for anygiven sum of money, and simply asked for assistance; and when I came toexamine into what was required, it turned out that their demands grew inproportion to the aid, and that there was not and could not be any way ofsatisfying them. I repeat, that it is very possible that this arose fromthe fact that I did not understand how; but I did not help any one, although I sometimes endeavored to do so. 

A very strange and unexpected thing happened to me as regards theco-operation of the benevolently disposed. Out of all the persons whohad promised me financial aid, and who had even stated the number ofrubles, not a single one handed to me for distribution among the poor onesolitary ruble. But according to the pledges which had been given me, Icould reckon on about three thousand rubles; and out of all these people, not one remembered our former discussions, or gave me a single kopek. Only the students gave the money which had been assigned to them fortheir work on the census, twelve rubles, I think. So my whole scheme, which was to have been expressed by tens of thousands of rublescontributed by the wealthy, for hundreds and thousands of poor people whowere to be rescued from poverty and vice, dwindled down to this, that Igave away, haphazard, a few scores of rubles to those people who asked mefor them, and that there remained in my hands twelve rubies contributedby the students, and twenty-five sent to me by the City Council for mylabor as a superintendent, and I absolutely did not know to whom to givethem. 

The whole matter came to an end. And then, before my departure for thecountry, on the Sunday before carnival, I went to the Rzhanoff house inthe morning, in order to get rid of those thirty-seven rubles before Ishould leave Moscow, and to distribute them to the poor. I made theround of the quarters with which I was familiar, and in them found onlyone sick man, to whom I gave five rubles. There was no one else there togive any to. Of course many began to beg of me. But as I had not knownthem at first, so I did not know them now, and I made up my mind to takecounsel with Ivan Fedotitch, the landlord of the tavern, as to thepersons upon whom it would be proper to bestow the remaining thirty-tworubies. 

It was the first day of the carnival. Everybody was dressed up, andeverybody was full-fed, and many were already intoxicated. In the court-yard, close to the house, stood an old man, a rag-picker, in a tatteredsmock and bast shoes, sorting over the booty in his basket, tossing outleather, iron, and other stuff in piles, and breaking into a merry song, with a fine, powerful voice. I entered into conversation with him. Hewas seventy years old, he was alone in the world, and supported himselfby his calling of a rag-picker; and not only did he utter no complaints, but he said that he had plenty to eat and drink. I inquired of him as toespecially needy persons. He flew into a rage, and said plainly thatthere were no needy people, except drunkards and lazy men; but, onlearning my object, he asked me for a five-kopek piece to buy a drink, and ran off to the tavern. I too entered the tavern to see IvanFedotitch, and commission him to distribute the money which I had left. The tavern was full; gayly-dressed, intoxicated girls were flitting inand out; all the tables were occupied; there were already a great manydrunken people, and in the small room the harmonium was being played, andtwo persons were dancing. Out of respect to me, Ivan Fedotitch orderedthat the dance should be stopped, and seated himself with me at a vacanttable. I said to him, that, as he knew his tenants, would not he pointout to me the most needy among them; that I had been entrusted with thedistribution of a little money, and, therefore, would he indicate theproper persons? Good-natured Ivan Fedotitch (he died a year later), although he was pressed with business, broke away from it for a time, inorder to serve me. He meditated, and was evidently undecided. Anelderly waiter heard us, and joined the conference. 

They began to discuss the claims of persons, some of whom I knew, butstill they could not come to any agreement. "The Paramonovna, " suggestedthe waiter. "Yes, that would do. Sometimes she has nothing to eat. Yes, but then she tipples. "--"Well, what of that? That makes nodifference. "--"Well, Sidoron Ivanovitch has children. He would do. " ButIvan Fedotitch had his doubts about Sidoron Ivanovitch also. "Akulinashall have some. There, now, give something to the blind. " To this Iresponded. I saw him at once. He was a blind old man of eighty years, without kith or kin. It seemed as though no condition could be morepainful, and I went immediately to see him. He was lying on a feather-bed, on a high bedstead, drunk; and, as he did not see me, he wasscolding his comparatively youthful female companion in a frightful bassvoice, and in the very worst kind of language. They also summoned anarmless boy and his mother. I saw that Ivan Fedotitch was in greatstraits, on account of his conscientiousness, for me knew that whateverwas given would immediately pass to his tavern. But I had to get rid ofmy thirty-two rubles, so I insisted; and in one way and another, and halfwrongfully to boot, we assigned and distributed them. Those who receivedthem were mostly well dressed, and we had not far to go to find them, asthey were there in the tavern. The armless boy appeared in wrinkledboots, and a red shirt and vest. With this my charitable career came toan end, and I went off to the country; irritated at others, as is alwaysthe case, because I myself had done a stupid and a bad thing. Mybenevolence had ended in nothing, and it ceased altogether, but thecurrent of thoughts and feelings which it had called up with me not onlydid not come to an end, but the inward work went on with redoubled force. 

CHAPTER XII. 

What was its nature?

I had lived in the country, and there I was connected with the rusticpoor. Not out of humility, which is worse than pride, but for the sakeof telling the truth, which is indispensable for the understanding of thewhole course of my thoughts and sentiments, I will say that in thecountry I did very little for the poor, but the demands which were madeupon me were so modest that even this little was of use to the people, and formed around me an atmosphere of affection and union with thepeople, in which it was possible to soothe the gnawing sensation ofremorse at the independence of my life. On going to the city, I hadhoped to be able to live in the same manner. But here I encountered wantof an entirely different sort. City want was both less real, and moreexacting and cruel, than country poverty. But the principal point was, that there was so much of it in one spot, that it produced on me afrightful impression. The impression which I experienced in theLyapinsky house had, at the very first, made me conscious of thedeformity of my own life. This feeling was genuine and very powerful. But, notwithstanding its genuineness and power, I was, at that time, soweak that I feared the alteration in my life to which this feelingcommended me, and I resorted to a compromise. I believed what everybodytold me, and everybody has said, ever since the world was made, --thatthere is nothing evil in wealth and luxury, that they are given by God, that one may continue to live as a rich man, and yet help the needy. Ibelieved this, and I tried to do it. I wrote an essay, in which Isummoned all rich people to my assistance. The rich people allacknowledged themselves morally bound to agree with me, but evidentlythey either did not wish to do any thing, or they could not do any thingor give any thing to the poor. I began to visit the poor, and I beheldwhat I had not in the least expected. On the one hand, I beheld in thosedens, as I called them, people whom it was not conceivable that I shouldhelp, because they were working people, accustomed to labor andprivation, and therefore standing much higher and having a much firmerfoothold in life than myself; on the other hand, I saw unfortunate peoplewhom I could not aid because they were exactly like myself. The majorityof the unfortunates whom I saw were unhappy only because they had lostthe capacity, desire, and habit of earning their own bread; that is tosay, their unhappiness consisted in the fact that they were preciselysuch persons as myself. 

I found no unfortunates who were sick, hungry, or cold, to whom I couldrender immediate assistance, with the solitary exception of hungryAgafya. And I became convinced, that, on account of my remoteness fromthe lives of those people whom I desired to help, it would be almostimpossible to find any such unfortunates, because all actual wants hadalready been supplied by the very people among whom these unfortunateslive; and, most of all, I was convinced that money cannot effect anychange in the life led by these unhappy people. 

I was convinced of all this, but out of false shame at abandoning what Ihad once undertaken, because of my self-delusion as a benefactor, I wenton with this matter for a tolerably long time, --and would have gone onwith it until it came to nothing of itself, --so that it was with thegreatest difficulty that, with the help of Ivan Fedotitch, I got rid, after a fashion, as well as I could, in the tavern of the Rzhanoff house, of the thirty-seven rubles which I did not regard as belonging to me. 

Of course I might have gone on with this business, and have made out ofit a semblance of benevolence; by urging the people who had promised memoney, I might have collected more, I might have distributed this money, and consoled myself with my charity; but I perceived, on the one hand, that we rich people neither wish nor are able to share a portion of our asuperfluity with the poor (we have so many wants of our own), and thatmoney should not be given to any one, if the object really be to do goodand not to give money itself at haphazard, as I had done in the Rzhanofftavern. And I gave up the whole thing, and went off to the country withdespair in my heart. 

In the country I tried to write an essay about all this that I hadexperienced, and to tell why my undertaking had not succeeded. I wantedto justify myself against the reproaches which had been made to me on thescore of my article on the census; I wanted to convict society of its indifference, and to state the causes in which this city poverty has itsbirth, and the necessity of combating it, and the means of doing so whichI saw. 

I began this essay at once, and it seemed to me that in it I was saying avery great deal that was important. But toil as I would over it, and inspite of the abundance of materials, in spite of the superfluity of themeven, I could not get though that essay; and so I did not finish it untilthe present year, because of the irritation under the influence of whichI wrote, because I had not gone through all that was requisite in orderto bear myself properly in relation to this essay, because I did notsimply and clearly acknowledge the cause of all this, --a very simplecause, which had its root in myself. 

In the domain of morals, one very remarkable and too little notedphenomenon presents itself. 

If I tell a man who knows nothing about it, what I know about geology, astronomy, history, physics, and mathematics, that man receives entirelynew information, and he never says to me: "Well, what is there new inthat? Everybody knows that, and I have known it this long while. " Buttell that same man the most lofty truth, expressed in the clearest, mostconcise manner, as it has never before been expressed, and every ordinaryindividual, especially one who takes no particular interest in moralquestions, or, even more, one to whom the moral truth stated by you isdispleasing, will infallibly say to you: "Well, who does not know that?That was known and said long ago. " It really seems to him that this hasbeen said long ago and in just this way. Only those to whom moral truthsare dear and important know how important and precious they are, and withwhat prolonged labor the elucidation, the simplification, of moraltruths, their transit from the state of a misty, indefinitely recognizedsupposition, and desire, from indistinct, incoherent expressions, to afirm and definite expression, unavoidably demanding correspondingconcessions, are attained. 

We have all become accustomed to think that moral instruction is a mostabsurd and tiresome thing, in which there can be nothing new orinteresting; and yet all human life, together with all the varied andcomplicated activities, apparently independent, of morality, bothgovernmental and scientific, and artistic and commercial, has no otheraim than the greater and greater elucidation, confirmation, simplification, and accessibility of moral truth. 

I remember that I was once walking along the street in Moscow, and infront of me I saw a man come out and gaze attentively at the stones ofthe sidewalk, after which he selected one stone, seated himself on it, and began to plane (as it seemed to me) or to rub it with the greatestdiligence and force. "What is he doing to the sidewalk?" I said tomyself. On going close to him, I saw what the man was doing. He was ayoung fellow from a meat-shop; he was whetting his knife on the stone ofthe pavement. He was not thinking at all of the stones when hescrutinized them, still less was he thinking of them when he wasaccomplishing his task: he was whetting his knife. He was obliged towhet his knife so that he could cut the meat; but to me it seemed asthough he were doing something to the stones of the sidewalk. Just so itappears as though humanity were occupied with commerce, conventions, wars, sciences, arts; but only one business is of importance to it, andwith only one business is it occupied: it is elucidating to itself thosemoral laws by which it lives. The moral laws are already in existence;humanity is only elucidating them, and this elucidation seems unimportantand imperceptible for any one who has no need of moral laws, who does notwish to live by them. But this elucidation of the moral law is not onlyweighty, but the only real business of all humanity. This elucidation isimperceptible just as the difference between the dull and the sharp knifeis imperceptible. The knife is a knife all the same, and for a personwho is not obliged to cut any thing with this knife, the differencebetween the dull and the sharp one is imperceptible. For the man who hascome to an understanding that his whole life depends on the greater orless degree of sharpness in the knife, --for such a man, every whetting ofit is weighty, and that man knows that the knife is a knife only when itis sharp, when it cuts that which needs cutting. 

This is what happened to me, when I began to write my essay. It seemedto me that I knew all about it, that I understood every thing connectedwith those questions which had produced on me the impressions of theLyapinsky house, and the census; but when I attempted to take account ofthem and to demonstrate them, it turned out that the knife would not cut, and that it must be whetted. And it is only now, after the lapse ofthree years, that I have felt that my knife is sufficiently sharp, sothat I can cut what I choose. I have learned very little that is new. Mythoughts are all exactly the same, but they were duller then, and theyall scattered and would not unite on any thing; there was no edge tothem; they would not concentrate on one point, on the simplest andclearest decision, as they have now concentrated themselves. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

I remember that during the entire period of my unsuccessful efforts athelping the inhabitants of the city, I presented to myself the aspect ofa man who should attempt to drag another man out of a swamp while hehimself was standing on the same unstable ground. Every attempt of minehad made me conscious of the untrustworthy character of the soil on whichI stood. I felt that I was in the swamp myself, but this consciousnessdid not cause me to look more narrowly at my own feet, in order to learnupon what I was standing; I kept on seeking some external means, outsidemyself, of helping the existing evil. 

I then felt that my life was bad, and that it was impossible to live inthat manner. But from the fact that my life was bad, and that it wasimpossible to live in that manner, I did not draw the very simple andclear deduction that it was necessary to amend my life and to livebetter, but I knew the terrible deduction that in order to live wellmyself, I must needs reform the lives of others; and so I began to reformthe lives of others. I lived in the city, and I wished to reform thelives of those who lived in the city; but I soon became convinced thatthis I could not by any possibility accomplish, and I began to meditateon the inherent characteristics of city life and city poverty. 

"What are city life and city poverty? Why, when I am living in the city, cannot I help the city poor?"

I asked myself. I answered myself that I could not do any thing forthem, in the first place, because there were too many of them here in onespot; in the second place, because all the poor people here were entirelydifferent from the country poor. Why were there so many of them here?and in what did their peculiarity, as opposed to the country poor, consist? There was one and the same answer to both questions. Therewere a great many of them here, because here all those people who have nomeans of subsistence in the country collect around the rich; and theirpeculiarity lies in this, that they are not people who have come from thecountry to support themselves in the city (if there are any city paupers, those who have been born here, and whose fathers and grandfathers wereborn here, then those fathers and grandfathers came hither for thepurpose of earning their livelihood). What is the meaning of this: _toearn one's livelihood in the city_? In the words "to earn one'slivelihood in the city, " there is something strange, resembling a jest, when you reflect on their significance. How is it that people go fromthe country, --that is to say, from the places where there are forests, meadows, grain, and cattle, where all the wealth of the earth lies, --toearn their livelihood in a place where there are neither trees, norgrass, nor even land, and only stones and dust? What is the significanceof the words "to earn a livelihood in the city, " which are in suchconstant use, both by those who earn the livelihood, and by those whofurnish it, as though it were something perfectly clear andcomprehensible?

I recall the hundreds and thousands of city people, both those who livewell and the needy, with whom I have conversed on the reason why theycame hither: and all without exception said, that they had come from thecountry to earn their living; that in Moscow, where people neither sownor reap, --that in Moscow there is plenty of every thing, and that, therefore, it is only in Moscow that they can earn the money which theyrequire in the country for bread and a cottage and a horse, and articlesof prime necessity. But assuredly, in the country lies the source of allriches; there only is real wealth, --bread, and forests, and horses, andevery thing. And why, above all, take away from the country that whichdwellers in the country need, --flour, oats, horses, and cattle?

Hundreds of times did I discuss this matter with peasants living in town;and from my discussions with them, and from my observations, it has beenmade apparent to me, that the congregation of country people in the cityis partly indispensable because they cannot otherwise support themselves, partly voluntary, and that they are attracted to the city by thetemptations of the city. 

It is true, that the position of the peasant is such that, for thesatisfaction of his demands made on him in the country, he cannotextricate himself otherwise than by selling the grain and the cattlewhich he knows will be indispensable to him; and he is forced, whether hewill or no, to go to the city in order there to win back his bread. Butit is also true, that the luxury of city life, and the comparative easewith which money is there to be earned, attract him thither; and underthe pretext of gaining his living in the town, he betakes himself thitherin order that he may have lighter work, better food, and drink tea threetimes a day, and dress well, and even lead a drunken and dissolute life. The cause of both is identical, --the transfer of the riches of theproducers into the hands of non-producers, and the accumulation of wealthin the cities. And, in point of fact, when autumn has come, all wealthis collected in the country. And instantly there arise demands fortaxes, recruits, the temptations of vodka, weddings, festivals; pettypedlers make their rounds through the villages, and all sorts of othertemptations crop up; and by this road, or, if not, by some other, wealthof the most varied description--vegetables, calves, cows, horses, pigs, chickens, eggs, butter, hemp, flax, rye, oats, buckwheat, pease, hempseed, and flaxseed--all passes into the hands of strangers, iscarried off to the towns, and thence to the capitals. The countryman isobliged to surrender all this to satisfy the demands that are made uponhim, and temptations; and, having parted with his wealth, he is left withan insufficiency, and he is forced to go whither his wealth has beencarried and there he tries, in part, to obtain the money which herequires for his first needs in the country, and in part, being himselfled away by the blandishments of the city, he enjoys, in company withothers, the wealth that has there accumulated. Everywhere, throughoutthe whole of Russia, --yes, and not in Russia alone, I think, butthroughout the whole world, --the same thing goes on. The wealth of therustic producers passes into the hands of traders, landed proprietors, officials, and factory-owners; and the people who receive this wealthwish to enjoy it. But it is only in the city that they can derive fullenjoyment from this wealth. In the country, in the first place, it isdifficult to satisfy all the requirements of rich people, on account ofthe sparseness of the population; banks, shops, hotels, every sort ofartisan, and all sorts of social diversions, do not exist there. In thesecond place, one of the chief pleasures procured by wealth--vanity, thedesire to astonish and outshine other people--is difficult to satisfy inthe country; and this, again, on account of the lack of inhabitants. Inthe country, there is no one to appreciate elegance, no one to beastonished. Whatever adornments in the way of pictures and bronzes thedweller in the country may procure for his house, whatever equipages andtoilets he may provide, there is no one to see them and envy them, andthe peasants cannot judge of them. [And, in the third place, luxury iseven disagreeable and dangerous in the country for the man possessed of aconscience and fear. It is an awkward and delicate matter, in thecountry, to have baths of milk, or to feed your puppies on it, whendirectly beside you there are children who have no milk; it is an awkwardand delicate matter to build pavilions and gardens in the midst of peoplewho live in cots banked up with dung, which they have no means ofwarming. In the country there is no one to keep the stupid peasants inorder, and in their lack of cultivation they might disarrange all this. ]{94}

And accordingly rich people congregate, and join themselves to other richpeople with similar requirements, in the city, where the gratification ofevery luxurious taste is carefully protected by a numerous police force. Well-rooted inhabitants of the city of this sort, are the governmentalofficials; every description of artisan and professional man has sprungup around them, and with them the wealthy join their forces. All that arich man has to do there is to take a fancy to a thing, and he can getit. It is also more agreeable for a rich man to live there, becausethere he can gratify his vanity; there is some one with whom he can viein luxury; there is some one to astonish, and there is some one tooutshine. But the principal reason why it is more comfortable in thecity for a rich man is that formerly, in the country, his luxury made himawkward and uneasy; while now, on the contrary, it would be awkward forhim not to live luxuriously, not to live like all his peers around him. That which seemed dreadful and awkward in the country, here appears to bejust as it should be. [Rich people congregate in the city; and there, under the protection of the authorities, they calmly demand every thingthat is brought thither from the country. And the countryman is, in somemeasure, compelled to go thither, where this uninterrupted festival ofthe wealthy which demands all that is taken from him is in progress, inorder to feed upon the crumbs which fall from the tables of the rich; andpartly, also, because, when he beholds the care-free, luxurious life, approved and protected by everybody, he himself becomes desirous ofregulating his life in such a way as to work as little as possible, andto make as much use as possible of the labors of others. 

And so he betakes himself to the city, and finds employment about thewealthy, endeavoring, by every means in his power, to entice from themthat which he is in need of, and conforming to all those conditions whichthe wealthy impose upon him, he assists in the gratification of all theirwhims; he serves the rich man in the bath and in the inn, and ascab-driver and prostitute, and he makes for him equipages, toys, andfashions; and he gradually learns from the rich man to live in the samemanner as the latter, not by labor, but by divers tricks, getting awayfrom others the wealth which they have heaped together; and he becomescorrupt, and goes to destruction. And this colony, demoralized by citywealth, constitutes that city pauperism which I desired to aid and couldnot. 

All that is necessary, in fact, is for us to reflect on the condition ofthese inhabitants of the country, who have removed to the city in orderto earn their bread or their taxes, --when they behold, everywhere aroundthem, thousands squandered madly, and hundreds won by the easiestpossible means; when they themselves are forced by heavy toil to earnkopeks, --and we shall be amazed that all these people should remainworking people, and that they do not all of them take to an easier methodof getting gain, --by trading, peddling, acting as middlemen, begging, vice, rascality, and even robbery. Why, we, the participants in thatnever-ceasing orgy which goes on in town, can become so accustomed to ourlife, that it seems to us perfectly natural to dwell alone in five hugeapartments, heated by a quantity of beech logs sufficient to cook thefood for and to warm twenty families; to drive half a verst with twotrotters and two men-servants; to cover the polished wood floor withrugs; and to spend, I will not say, on a ball, five or ten thousandrubles, and twenty-five thousand on a Christmas-tree. But a man who isin need of ten rubles to buy bread for his family, or whose last sheephas been seized for a tax-debt of seven rubles, and who cannot raisethose rubles by hard labor, cannot grow accustomed to this. We thinkthat all this appears natural to poor people there are even someingenuous persons who say in all seriousness, that the poor are verygrateful to us for supporting them by this luxury. ] {96}

But poor people are not devoid of human understanding simply because theyare poor, and they judge precisely as we do. As the first thought thatoccurs to us on hearing that such and such a man has gambled away orsquandered ten or twenty thousand rubles, is: "What a foolish andworthless fellow he is to uselessly squander so much money! and what agood use I could have made of that money in a building which I have longbeen in need of, for the improvement of my estate, and so forth!"--justso do the poor judge when they behold the wealth which they need, not forcaprices, but for the satisfaction of their actual necessities, of whichthey are frequently deprived, flung madly away before their eyes. Wemake a very great mistake when we think that the poor can judge thus, reason thus, and look on indifferently at the luxury which surroundsthem. 

They never have acknowledged, and they never will acknowledge, that itcan be just for some people to live always in idleness, and for otherpeople to fast and toil incessantly; but at first they are amazed andinsulted by this; then they scrutinize it more attentively, and, seeingthat these arrangements are recognized as legitimate, they endeavor tofree themselves from toil, and to take part in the idleness. Somesucceed in this, and they become just such carousers themselves; othersgradually prepare themselves for this state; others still fail, and donot attain their goal, and, having lost the habit of work, they fill upthe disorderly houses and the night-lodging houses. 

Two years ago, we took from the country a peasant boy to wait on table. For some reason, he did not get on well with the footman, and he was sentaway: he entered the service of a merchant, won the favor of his master, and now he goes about with a vest and a watch-chain, and dandified boots. In his place, we took another peasant, a married man: he became adrunkard, and lost money. We took a third: he took to drunk, and, havingdrank up every thing he had, he suffered for a long while from poverty inthe night-lodging house. An old man, the cook, took to drink and fellsick. Last year a footman who had formerly been a hard drinker, but whohad refrained from liquor for five years in the country, while living inMoscow without his wife who encouraged him, took to drink again, andruined his whole life. A young lad from our village lives with mybrother as a table-servant. His grandfather, a blind old man, came to meduring my sojourn in the country, and asked me to remind this grandsonthat he was to send ten rubies for the taxes, otherwise it would benecessary for him to sell his cow. "He keeps saying, I must dressdecently, " said the old man: "well, he has had some shoes made, andthat's all right; but what does he want to set up a watch for?" said thegrandfather, expressing in these words the most senseless suppositionthat it was possible to originate. The supposition really was senseless, if we take into consideration that the old man throughout Lent had eatenno butter, and that he had no split wood because he could not possiblypay one ruble and twenty kopeks for it; but it turned out that the oldman's senseless jest was an actual fact. The young fellow came to see mein a fine black coat, and shoes for which he had paid eight rubles. Hehad recently borrowed ten rubles from my brother, and had spent them onthese shoes. And my children, who have known the lad from childhood, told me that he really considers it indispensable to fit himself out witha watch. He is a very good boy, but he thinks that people will laugh athim so long as he has no watch; and a watch is necessary. During thepresent year, a chambermaid, a girl of eighteen, entered into aconnection with the coachman in our house. She was discharged. An oldwoman, the nurse, with whom I spoke in regard to the unfortunate girl, reminded me of a girl whom I had forgotten. She too, ten yeans ago, during a brief stay of ours in Moscow, had become connected with afootman. She too had been discharged, and she had ended in a disorderlyhouse, and had died in the hospital before reaching the age of twenty. Itis only necessary to glance about one, to be struck with terror at thepest which we disseminate directly by our luxurious life among the peoplewhom we afterwards wish to help, not to mention the factories andestablishments which serve our luxurious tastes. 

[And thus, having penetrated into the peculiar character of city poverty, which I was unable to remedy, I perceived that its prime cause is this, that I take absolute necessaries from the dwellers in the country, andcarry them all to the city. The second cause is this, that by making usehere, in the city, of what I have collected in the country, I tempt andlead astray, by my senseless luxury, those country people who come hitherbecause of me, in order in some way to get back what they have beendeprived of in the country. ] {99}

CHAPTER XIV. 

I reached the same conclusion from a totally different point. Onrecalling all my relations with the city poor during that time, I sawthat one of the reasons why I could not help the city poor was, that thepoor were disingenuous and untruthful with me. They all looked upon me, not as a man, but as means. I could not get near them, and I thoughtthat perhaps I did not understand how to do it; but without uprightness, no help was possible. How can one help a man who does not disclose hiswhole condition? At first I blamed them for this (it is so natural toblame some one else); but a remark from an observing man named Siutaeff, who was visiting me at the time, explained this matter to me, and showedme where the cause of my want of success lay. I remember that Siutaeff'sremark struck me very forcibly at the time; but I only understood itsfull significance later on. It was at the height of my self-delusion. Iwas sitting with my sister, and Siutaeff was there also at her house; andmy sister was questioning me about my undertaking. I told her about it, and, as always happens when you have no faith in your course, I talked toher with great enthusiasm and warmth, and at great length, of what I haddone, and of what might possibly come of it. I told her every thing, --howwe were going to keep track of pauperism in Moscow, how we were going tokeep an eye on the orphans and old people, how we were going to send awayall country people who had grown poor here, how we were going to smooththe pathway to reform for the depraved; how, if only the matter could bemanaged, there would not be a man left in Moscow, who could not obtainassistance. My sister sympathized with me, and we discussed it. In themiddle of our conversation, I glanced at Siutaeff. As I was acquaintedwith his Christian life, and with the significance which he attached tocharity, I expected his sympathy, and spoke so that he understood this; Italked to my sister, but directed my remarks more at him. He satimmovable in his dark tanned sheepskin jacket, --which he wore, like allpeasants, both out of doors and in the house, --and as though he did nothear us, but were thinking of his own affairs. His small eyes did nottwinkle, and seemed to be turned inwards. Having finished what I had tosay, I turned to him with a query as to what he thought of it. 

"It's all a foolish business, " said he. 

"Why?"

"Your whole society is foolish, and nothing good can come out of it, " herepeated with conviction. 

"Why not? Why is it a stupid business to help thousands, at any ratehundreds, of unfortunate beings? Is it a bad thing, according to theGospel, to clothe the naked, and feed the hungry?"

"I know, I know, but that is not what you are doing. Is it necessary torender assistance in that way? You are walking along, and a man asks youfor twenty kopeks. You give them to him. Is that alms? Do you givespiritual alms, --teach him. But what is it that you have given? It wasonly for the sake of getting rid of him. "

"No; and, besides, that is not what we are talking about. We want toknow about this need, and then to help by both money and deeds; and tofind work. "

"You can do nothing with those people in that way. "

"So they are to be allowed to die of hunger and cold?"

"Why should they die? Are there many of them there?"

"What, many of them?" said I, thinking that he looked at the matter solightly because he was not aware how vast was the number of these people. 

"Why, do you know, " said I, "I believe that there are twenty thousand ofthese cold and hungry people in Moscow. And how about Petersburg and theother cities?"

He smiled. 

"Twenty thousand! And how many households are there in Russia alone, doyou think? Are there a million?"

"Well, what then?"

"What then?" and his eyes flashed, and he grew animated. "Come, let usdivide them among ourselves. I am not rich, I will take two persons onthe spot. There is the lad whom you took into your kitchen; I invitedhim to come to my house, and he did not come. Were there ten times asmany, let us divide them among us. Do you take some, and I will takesome. We will work together. He will see how I work, and he will learn. He will see how I live, and we will sit down at the same table together, and he will hear my words and yours. This charity society of yours isnonsense. "

These simple words impressed me. I could not but admit their justice;but it seemed to me at that time, that, in spite of their truth, stillthat which I had planned might possibly prove of service. But thefurther I carried this business, the more I associated with the poor, themore frequently did this remark recur to my mind, and the greater was thesignificance which it acquired for me. 

I arrive in a costly fur coat, or with my horses; or the man who lacksshoes sees my two-thousand-ruble apartments. He sees how, a little whileago, I gave five rubles without begrudging them, merely because I took awhim to do so. He surely knows that if I give away rubles in thatmanner, it is only because I have hoarded up so many of them, that I havea great many superfluous ones, which I not only have not given away, butwhich I have easily taken from other people. [What else could he see inme but one of those persons who have got possession of what belongs tohim? And what other feeling can he cherish towards me, than a desire toobtain from me as many of those rubles, which have been stolen from himand from others, as possible? I wish to get close to him, and I complainthat he is not frank; and here I am, afraid to sit down on his bed forfear of getting lice, or catching something infectious; and I am afraidto admit him to my room, and he, coming to me naked, waits, generally inthe vestibule, or, if very fortunate, in the ante-chamber. And yet Ideclare that he is to blame because I cannot enter into intimaterelations with him, and because me is not frank. 

Let the sternest man try the experiment of eating a dinner of fivecourses in the midst of people who have had very little or nothing butblack bread to eat. Not a man will have the spirit to eat, and to watchhow the hungry lick their chops around him. Hence, then, in order to eatdaintily amid the famishing, the first indispensable requisite is to hidefrom them, in order that they may not see it. This is the very thing, and the first thing, that we do. 

And I took a simpler view of our life, and perceived that an approach tothe poor is not difficult to us through accidental causes, but that wedeliberately arrange our lives in such a fashion so that this approachmay be rendered difficult. 

Not only this; but, on taking a survey of our life, of the life of thewealthy, I saw that every thing which is considered desirable in thatlife consists in, or is inseparably bound up with, the idea of getting asfar away from the poor as possible. In fact, all the efforts of our well-endowed life, beginning with our food, dress, houses, our cleanliness, and even down to our education, --every thing has for its chief object, the separation of ourselves from the poor. In procuring this seclusionof ourselves by impassable barriers, we spend, to put it mildly, nine-tenths of our wealth. The first thing that a man who was grown wealthydoes is to stop eating out of one bowl, and he sets up crockery, and fitshimself out with a kitchen and servants. And he feeds his servants high, too, so that their mouths may not water over his dainty viands; and heeats alone; and as eating in solitude is wearisome, he plans how he mayimprove his food and deck his table; and the very manner of taking hisfood (dinner) becomes a matter for pride and vain glory with him, and hismanner of taking his food becomes for him a means of sequestering himselffrom other men. A rich man cannot think of such a thing as inviting apoor man to his table. A man must know how to conduct ladies to table, how to bow, to sit down, to eat, to rinse out the mouth; and only richpeople know all these things. The same thing occurs in the matter ofclothing. If a rich man were to wear ordinary clothing, simply for thepurpose of protecting his body from the cold, --a short jacket, a coat, felt and leather boots, an under-jacket, trousers, shirt, --he wouldrequire but very little, and he would not be unable, when he had twocoats, to give one of them to a man who had none. But the rich manbegins by procuring for himself clothing which consists entirely ofseparate pieces, and which is fit only for separate occasions, and whichis, therefore, unsuited to the poor man. He has frock-coats, vests, pea-jackets, lacquered boots, cloaks, shoes with French heels, garments thatare chopped up into bits to conform with the fashion, hunting-coats, travelling-coats, and so on, which can only be used under conditions ofexistence far removed from poverty. And his clothing also furnishes himwith a means of keeping at a distance from the poor. The same is thecase, and even more clearly, with his dwelling. In order that one maylive alone in ten rooms, it is indispensable that those who live ten inone room should not see it. The richer a man is, the more difficult ishe of access; the more porters there are between him and people who arenot rich, the more impossible is it to conduct a poor man over rugs, andseat him in a satin chair. 

The case is the same with the means of locomotion. The peasant drivingin a cart, or a sledge, must be a very ill-tempered man when he will notgive a pedestrian a lift; and there is both room for this and apossibility of doing it. But the richer the equipage, the farther is aman from all possibility of giving a seat to any person whatsoever. Itis even said plainly, that the most stylish equipages are those meant tohold only one person. 

It is precisely the same thing with the manner of life which is expressedby the word cleanliness. 

Cleanliness! Who is there that does not know people, especially women, who reckon this cleanliness in themselves as a great virtue? and who isnot acquainted with the devices of this cleanliness, which know nobounds, when it can command the labor of others? Which of the people whohave become rich has not experienced in his own case, with whatdifficulty he carefully trained himself to this cleanliness, which onlyconfirms the proverb, "Little white hands love other people's work"?

To-day cleanliness consists in changing your shirt once a day; to-morrow, in changing it twice a day. To-day it means washing the face, and neck, and hands daily; to-morrow, the feet; and day after to-morrow, washingthe whole body every day, and, in addition and in particular, a rubbing-down. To-day the table-cloth is to serve for two days, to-morrow theremust be one each day, then two a day. To-day the footman's hands must beclean; to-morrow he must wear gloves, and in his clean gloves he mustpresent a letter on a clean salver. And there are no limits to thiscleanliness, which is useless to everybody, and objectless, except forthe purpose of separating oneself from others, and of renderingimpossible all intercourse with them, when this cleanliness is attainedby the labors of others. 

Moreover, when I studied the subject, I because convinced that even thatwhich is commonly called education is the very same thing. 

The tongue does not deceive; it calls by its real name that which menunderstand under this name. What the people call culture is fashionableclothing, political conversation, clean hands, --a certain sort ofcleanliness. Of such a man, it is said, in contradistinction to others, that he is an educated man. In a little higher circle, what they calleducation means the same thing as with the people; only to the conditionsof education are added playing on the pianoforte, a knowledge of French, the writing of Russian without orthographical errors, and a still greaterdegree of external cleanliness. In a still more elevated sphere, education means all this with the addition of the English language, and adiploma from the highest educational institution. But education isprecisely the same thing in the first, the second, and the third case. Education consists of those forms and acquirements which are calculatedto separate a man from his fellows. And its object is identical withthat of cleanliness, --to seclude us from the herd of poor, in order thatthey, the poor, may not see how we feast. But it is impossible to hideourselves, and they do see us. 

And accordingly I have become convinced that the cause of the inabilityof us rich people to help the poor of the city lies in the impossibilityof our establishing intercourse with them; and that this impossibility ofintercourse is caused by ourselves, by the whole course of our lives, byall the uses which we make of our wealth. I have become convinced thatbetween us, the rich and the poor, there rises a wall, reared byourselves out of that very cleanliness and education, and constructed ofour wealth; and that in order to be in a condition to help the poor, wemust needs, first of all, destroy this wall; and that in order to dothis, confrontation after Siutaeff's method should be rendered possible, and the poor distributed among us. And from another starting-point alsoI came to the same conclusion to which the current of my discussions asto the causes of the poverty in towns had led me: the cause was ourwealth. ] {108}

CHAPTER XV. 

I began to examine the matter from a third and wholly personal point ofview. Among the phenomena which particularly impressed me, during theperiod of my charitable activity, there was yet another, and a verystrange one, for which I could for a long time find no explanation. Itwas this: every time that I chanced, either on the street on in thehouse, to give some small coin to a poor man, without saying any thing tohim, I saw, or thought that I saw, contentment and gratitude on thecountenance of the poor man, and I myself experienced in this form ofbenevolence an agreeable sensation. I saw that I had done what the manwished and expected from me. But if I stopped the poor man, andsympathetically questioned him about his former and his present life, Ifelt that it was no longer possible to give three or twenty kopeks, and Ibegan to fumble in my purse for money, in doubt as to how much I ought togive, and I always gave more; and I always noticed that the poor man leftme dissatisfied. But if I entered into still closer intercourse with thepoor man, then my doubts as to how much to give increased also; and, nomatter how much I gave, the poor man grew ever more sullen anddiscontented. As a general rule, it always turned out thus, that if Igave, after conversation with a poor man, three rubles or even more, Ialmost always beheld gloom, displeasure, and even ill-will, on thecountenance of the poor man; and I have even known it to happen, that, having received ten rubles, he went off without so much as saying "Thankyou, " exactly as though I had insulted him. 

And thereupon I felt awkward and ashamed, and almost guilty. But if Ifollowed up a poor man for weeks and months and years, and assisted him, and explained my views to him, and associated with him, our relationsbecame a torment, and I perceived that the man despised me. And I feltthat he was in the right. 

If I go out into the street, and he, standing in that street, begs of meamong the number of the other passers-by, people who walk and ride pasthim, and I give him money, I then am to him a passer-by, and a good, kindpasser-by, who bestows on him that thread from which a shirt is made forthe naked man; he expects nothing more than the thread, and if I give ithe thanks me sincerely. But if I stop him, and talk with him as man withman, I thereby show him that I desire to be something more than a merepasser-by. If, as often happens, he weeps while relating to me his woes, then he sees in me no longer a passer-by, but that which I desire that heshould see: a good man. But if I am a good man, my goodness cannot pauseat a twenty-kopek piece, nor at ten rubles, nor at ten thousand; it isimpossible to be a little bit of a good man. Let us suppose that I havegiven him a great deal, that I have fitted him out, dressed him, set himon his feet so that the can live without outside assistance; but for somereason or other, though misfortune or his own weakness or vices, he isagain without that coat, that linen, and that money which I have givenhim; he is again cold and hungry, and he has come again to me, --how can Irefuse him? [For if the cause of my action consisted in the attainmentof a definite, material end, on giving him so many rubles or such andsuch a coat I might be at ease after having bestowed them. But the causeof my action is not this: the cause is, that I want to be a good man, that is to say, I want to see myself in every other man. Every manunderstands goodness thus, and in no other manner. ] {111} And therefore, if he should drink away every thing that you had given him twenty times, and if he should again be cold and hungry, you cannot do otherwise thangive him more, if you are a good man; you can never cease giving to him, if you have more than he has. And if you draw back, you will therebyshow that every thing that you have done, you have done not because youare a good man, but because you wished to appear a good man in his sight, and in the sight of men. 

And thus in the case with the men from whom I chanced to recede, to whomI ceased to give, and, by this action, denied good, I experienced atorturing sense of shame. 

What sort of shame was this? This shame I had experienced in theLyapinsky house, and both before and after that in the country, when Ihappened to give money or any thing else to the poor, and in myexpeditions among the city poor. 

A mortifying incident that occurred to me not long ago vividly remindedme of that shame, and led me to an explanation of that shame which I hadfelt when bestowing money on the poor. 

[This happened in the country. I wanted twenty kopeks to give to a poorpilgrim; I sent my son to borrow them from some one; he brought thepilgrim a twenty-kopek piece, and told me that he had borrowed it fromthe cook. A few days afterwards some more pilgrims arrived, and again Iwas in want of a twenty-kopek piece. I had a ruble; I recollected that Iwas in debt to the cook, and I went to the kitchen, hoping to get somemore small change from the cook. I said: "I borrowed a twenty-kopekpiece from you, so here is a ruble. " I had not finished speaking, whenthe cook called in his wife from another room: "Take it, Parasha, " saidhe. I, supposing that she understood what I wanted, handed her theruble. I must state that the cook had only lived with me a week, and, though I had seen his wife, I had never spoken to her. I was just on thepoint of saying to her that she was to give me some small coins, when shebent swiftly down to my hand, and tried to kiss it, evidently imagingthat I had given her the ruble. I muttered something, and quitted thekitchen. I was ashamed, ashamed to the verge of torture, as I had notbeen for a long time. I shrank together; I was conscious that I wasmaking grimaces, and I groaned with shame as I fled from the kitchen. This utterly unexpected, and, as it seemed to me, utterly undeservedshame, made a special impression on me, because it was a long time sinceI had been mortified, and because I, as an old man, had so lived, itseemed to me, that I had not merited this shame. I was forcibly struckby this. I told the members of my household about it, I told myacquaintances, and they all agreed that they should have felt the same. And I began to reflect: why had this caused me such shame? To this, something which had happened to me in Moscow furnished me with an answer. 

I meditated on that incident, and the shame which I had experienced inthe presence of the cook's wife was explained to me, and all thosesensations of mortification which I had undergone during the course of myMoscow benevolence, and which I now feel incessantly when I have occasionto give any one any thing except that petty alms to the poor and topilgrims, which I have become accustomed to bestow, and which I considera deed not of charity but of courtesy. If a man asks you for a light, you must strike a match for him, if you have one. If a man asks forthree or for twenty kopeks, or even for several rubles, you must givethem if you have them. This is an act of courtesy and not of charity. ]{113}

This was the case in question: I have already mentioned the two peasantswith whom I was in the habit of sawing wood three yeans ago. OneSaturday evening at dusk, I was returning to the city in their company. They were going to their employer to receive their wages. As we werecrossing the Dragomilovsky bridge, we met an old man. He asked alms, andI gave him twenty kopeks. I gave, and reflected on the good effect whichmy charity would have on Semyon, with whom I had been conversing onreligious topics. Semyon, the Vladimir peasant, who had a wife and twochildren in Moscow, halted also, pulled round the skirt of his kaftan, and got out his purse, and from this slender purse he extracted, aftersome fumbling, three kopeks, handed it to the old man, and asked for twokopeks in change. The old man exhibited in his hand two three-kopekpieces and one kopek. Semyon looked at them, was about to take thekopek, but thought better of it, pulled off his hat, crossed himself, andwalked on, leaving the old man the three-kopek piece. 

I was fully acquainted with Semyon's financial condition. He had noproperty at home at all. The money which he had laid by on the day whenhe gave three kopeks amounted to six rubles and fifty kopeks. Accordingly, six rubles and twenty kopeks was the sum of his savings. Myreserve fund was in the neighborhood of six hundred thousand. I had awife and children, Semyon had a wife and children. He was younger thanI, and his children were fewer in number than mine; but his children weresmall, and two of mine were of an age to work, so that our position, withthe exception of the savings, was on an equality; mine was somewhat themore favorable, if any thing. He gave three kopeks, I gave twenty. Whatdid he really give, and what did I really give? What ought I to havegiven, in order to do what Semyon had done? he had six hundred kopeks;out of this he gave one, and afterwards two. I had six hundred thousandrubles. In order to give what Semyon had given, I should have beenobliged to give three thousand rubles, and ask for two thousand inchange, and then leave the two thousand with the old man, cross myself, and go my way, calmly conversing about life in the factories, and thecost of liver in the Smolensk market. 

I thought of this at the time; but it was only long afterwards that I wasin a condition to draw from this incident that deduction which inevitablyresults from it. This deduction is so uncommon and so singular, apparently, that, in spite of its mathematical infallibility, onerequires time to grow used to it. It does seem as though there must besome mistake, but mistake there is none. There is merely the fearfulmist of error in which we live. 

[This deduction, when I arrived at it, and when I recognized itsundoubted truth, furnished me with an explanation of my shame in thepresence of the cook's wife, and of all the poor people to whom I hadgiven and to whom I still give money. 

What, in point of fact, is that money which I give to the poor, and whichthe cook's wife thought I was giving to her? In the majority of cases, it is that portion of my substance which it is impossible even to expressin figures to Semyon and the cook's wife, --it is generally one millionthpart or about that. I give so little that the bestowal of any money isnot and cannot be a deprivation to me; it is only a pleasure in which Iamuse myself when the whim seizes me. And it was thus that the cook'swife understood it. If I give to a man who steps in from the street oneruble or twenty kopeks, why should not I give her a ruble also? In theopinion of the cook's wife, such a bestowal of money is precisely thesame as the flinging of honey-cakes to the people by gentlemen; itfurnishes the people who have a great deal of superfluous cash withamusement. I was mortified because the mistake made by the cook's wifedemonstrated to me distinctly the view which she, and all people who arenot rich, must take of me: "He is flinging away his folly, i. E. , hisunearned money. "

As a matter of fact, what is my money, and whence did it come into mypossession? A portion of it I accumulated from the land which I receivedfrom my father. A peasant sold his last sheep or cow in order to givethe money to me. Another portion of my money is the money which I havereceived for my writings, for my books. If my books are hurtful, I onlylead astray those who purchase them, and the money which I receive forthem is ill-earned money; but if my books are useful to people, then theissue is still more disastrous. I do not give them to people: I say, "Give me seventeen rubles, and I will give them to you. " And as thepeasant sells his last sheep, in this case the poor student or teacher, or any other poor man, deprives himself of necessaries in order to giveme this money. And so I have accumulated a great deal of money in thatway, and what do I do with it? I take that money to the city, and bestowit on the poor, only when they fulfil my caprices, and come hither to thecity to clean my sidewalk, lamps, and shoes; to work for me in factories. And in return for this money, I force from them every thing that I can;that is to say, I try to give them as little as possible, and to receiveas much as possible from them. And all at once I begin, quiteunexpectedly, to bestow this money as a simple gift, on these same poorpersons, not on all, but on those to whom I take a fancy. Why should notevery poor person expect that it is quite possible that the luck may fallto him of being one of those with whom I shall amuse myself bydistributing my superfluous money? And so all look upon me as the cook'swife did. 

And I had gone so far astray that this taking of thousands from the poorwith one hand, and this flinging of kopeks with the other, to those towhom the whim moved me to give, I called good. No wonder that I feltashamed. ] {116}

Yes, before doing good it was needful for me to stand outside of evil, insuch conditions that I might cease to do evil. But my whole life isevil. I may give away a hundred thousand rubles, and still I shall notbe in a position to do good because I shall still have five hundredthousand left. Only when I have nothing shall I be in a position to dothe least particle of good, even as much as the prostitute did which shenursed the sick women and her child for three days. And that seemed solittle to me! And I dared to think of good myself! That which, on thefirst occasion, told me, at the sight of the cold and hungry in theLyapinsky house, that I was to blame for this, and that to live as I liveis impossible, and impossible, and impossible, --that alone was true. 

What, then, was I to do?

CHAPTER XVI. 

It was hard for me to come to this confession, but when I had come to itI was shocked at the error in which I had been living. I stood up to myears in the mud, and yet I wanted to drag others out of this mud. 

What is it that I wish in reality? I wish to do good to others. I wishto do it so that other people may not be cold and hungry, so that othersmay live as it is natural for people to live. 

[I wish this, and I see that in consequence of the violence, extortions, and various tricks in which I take part, people who toil are deprived ofnecessaries, and people who do not toil, in whose ranks I also belong, enjoy in superabundance the toil of other people. 

I see that this enjoyment of the labors of others is so arranged, thatthe more rascally and complicated the trickery which is employed by theman himself, or which has been employed by the person from whom heobtained his inheritance, the more does he enjoy of the labors of others, and the less does he contribute of his own labor. 

First come the Shtiglitzy, Dervizy, Morozovy, the Demidoffs, theYusapoffs; then great bankers, merchants, officials, landed proprietors, among whom I also belong; then the poor--very small traders, dramshop-keepers, usurers, district judges, overseers, teachers, sacristans, clerks; then house-porters, lackeys, coachmen, watch-carriers, cab-drivers, peddlers; and last of all, the laboringclasses--factory-hands and peasants, whose numbers bear the relation tothe first named of ten to one. I see that the life of nine-tenths of theworking classes demands, by reason of its nature, application and toil, as does every natural life; but that, in consequence of the sharppractices which take from these people what is indispensable, and placethem in such oppressive conditions, this life becomes more difficultevery year, and more filled with deprivations; but our life, the life ofthe non-laboring classes, thanks to the co-operation of the arts andsciences which are directed to this object, becomes more filled withsuperfluities, more attractive and careful, with every year. I see, that, in our day, the life of the workingman, and, in particular, thelife of old men, of women, and of children of the working population, isperishing directly from their food, which is utterly inadequate to theirfatiguing labor; and that this life of theirs is not free from care as toits very first requirements; and that, alongside of this, the life of thenon-laboring classes, to which I belong, is filled more and more, everyyear, with superfluities and luxury, and becomes more and more free fromanxiety, and has finally reached such a point of freedom from care, inthe case of its fortunate members, of whom I am one, as was only dreamedof in olden times in fairy-tales, --the state of the owner of the pursewith the inexhaustible ruble, that is, a condition in which a man is notonly utterly released from the law of labor, but in which he possessesthe possibility of enjoying, without toil, all the blessings of life, andof transferring to his children, or to any one whom he may see fit, thispurse with the inexhaustible ruble. 

I see that the products of the people's toil are more and moretransformed from the mass of the working classes to those who do notwork; that the pyramid of the social edifice seems to be reconstructed insuch fashion that the foundation stones are carried to the apex, and theswiftness of this transfer is increasing in a sort of geometrical ratio. I see that the result of this is something like that which would takeplace in an ant-heap if the community of ants were to lose their sense ofthe common law, if some ants were to begin to draw the products of laborfrom the bottom to the top of the heap, and should constantly contractthe foundations and broaden the apex, and should thereby also force theremaining ants to betake themselves from the bottom to the summit. 

I see that the ideal of the Fortunatus' purse has made its way among thepeople, in the place of the ideal of a toilsome life. Rich people, myself among the number, get possession of the inexhaustible ruble byvarious devices, and for the purpose of enjoying it we go to the city, tothe place where nothing is produced and where every thing is swallowedup. 

The industrious poor man, who is robbed in order that the rich maypossess this inexhaustible ruble, yearns for the city in his train; andthere he also takes to sharp practices, and either acquires for himself aposition in which he can work little and receive much, thereby renderingstill more oppressive the situation of the laboring classes, or, nothaving attained to such a position, he goes to ruin, and falls into theranks of those cold and hungry inhabitants of the night-lodging houses, which are being swelled with such remarkable rapidity. 

I belong to the class of those people, who, by divers tricks, take fromthe toiling masses the necessaries of life, and who have acquired forthemselves these inexhaustible rubles, and who lead these unfortunatesastray. I desire to aid people, and therefore it is clear that, first ofall, I must cease to rob them as I am doing. But I, by the mostcomplicated, and cunning, and evil practices, which have been heaped upfor centuries, have acquired for myself the position of an owner of theinexhaustible ruble, that is to say, one in which, never working myself, I can make hundreds and thousands of people toil for me--which also I do;and I imagine that I pity people, and I wish to assist them. I sit on aman's neck, I weigh him down, and I demand that he shall carry me; andwithout descending from his shoulders I assure myself and others that Iam very sorry for him, and that I desire to ameliorate his condition byall possible means, only not by getting off of him. 

Surely this is simple enough. If I want to help the poor, that is, tomake the poor no longer poor, I must not produce poor people. And Igive, at my own selection, to poor men who have gone astray from the pathof life, a ruble, or ten rubles, or a hundred; and I grasp hundreds frompeople who have not yet left the path, and thereby I render them pooralso, and demoralize them to boot. 

This is very simple; but it was horribly hard for me to understand thisfully without compromises and reservations, which might serve to justifymy position; but it sufficed for me to confess my guilt, and every thingwhich had before seemed to me strange and complicated, and lacking incleanness, became perfectly comprehensible and simple. But the chiefpoint was, that my way of life, arising from this interpretation, becamesimple, clear and pleasant, instead of perplexed, inexplicable and fullof torture as before. ] {122a}

Who am I, that I should desire to help others? I desire to help people;and I, rising at twelve o'clock after a game of _vint_ {122b} with fourcandles, weak, exhausted, demanding the aid of hundreds of people, --I goto the aid of whom? Of people who rise at five o'clock, who sleep onplanks, who nourish themselves on bread and cabbage, who know how toplough, to reap, to wield the axe, to chop, to harness, to sew, --ofpeople who in strength and endurance, and skill and abstemiousness, are ahundred times superior to me, --and I go to their succor! What exceptshame could I feel, when I entered into communion with these people? Thevery weakest of them, a drunkard, an inhabitant of the Rzhanoff house, the one whom they call "the idler, " is a hundred-fold more industriousthan I; [his balance, so to speak, that is to say, the relation of whathe takes from people and that which they give him, stands on a thousandtimes better footing than my balance, if I take into consideration what Itake from people and what I give to them. ] {122a}

And these are the people to whose assistance I go. I go to help thepoor. But who is the poor man? There is no one poorer than myself. Iam a thoroughly enervated, good-for-nothing parasite, who can only existunder the most special conditions, who can only exist when thousands ofpeople toil at the preservation of this life which is utterly useless toevery one. And I, that plant-louse, which devours the foliage of trees, wish to help the tree in its growth and health, and I wish to heal it. 

I have passed my whole life in this manner: I eat, I talk and I listen; Ieat, I write or read, that is to say, I talk and listen again; I eat, Iplay, I eat, again I talk and listen, I eat, and again I go to bed; andso each day I can do nothing else, and I understand how to do nothingelse. And in order that I may be able to do this, it is necessary thatthe porter, the peasant, the cook, male or female, the footman, thecoachman, and the laundress, should toil from morning till night; I willnot refer to the labors of the people which are necessary in order thatcoachman, cooks, male and female, footman, and the rest should have thoseimplements and articles with which, and over which, they toil for mysake; axes, tubs, brushes, household utensils, furniture, wax, blacking, kerosene, hay, wood, and beef. And all these people work hard all daylong and every day, so that I may be able to talk and eat and sleep. AndI, this cripple of a man, have imagined that I could help others, andthose the very people who support me!

It is not remarkable that I could not help any one, and that I feltashamed; but the remarkable point is that such an absurd idea could haveoccurred to me. The woman who served the sick old man, helped him; themistress of the house, who cut a slice from the bread which she had wonfrom the soil, helped the beggar; Semyon, who gave three kopeks which hehad earned, helped the beggar, because those three kopeks actuallyrepresented his labor: but I served no one, I toiled for no one, and Iwas well aware that my money did not represent my labor. 

CHAPTER XVII. {124}

Into the delusion that I could help others I was led by the fact that Ifancied that my money was of the same sort as Semyon's. But this was notthe case. 

A general idea prevails, that money represents wealth; but wealth is theproduct of labor; and, therefore, money represents labor. But this ideais as just as that every governmental regulation is the result of acompact (_contrat social_). 

Every one likes to think that money is only a medium of exchange forlabor. I have made shoes, you have raised grain, he has reared sheep:here, in order that we may the more readily effect an exchange, we willinstitute money, which represents a corresponding quantity of labor, and, by means of it, we will barter our shoes for a breast of lamb and tenpounds of flour. We will exchange our products through the medium ofmoney, and the money of each one of us represents our labor. 

This is perfectly true, but true only so long as, in the community wherethis exchange is effected, the violence of one man over the rest has notmade its appearance; not only violence over the labors of others, ashappens in wars and slavery, but where he exercises no violence for theprotection of the products of their labor from others. This will be trueonly in a community whose members fully carry out the Christian law, in acommunity where men give to him who asks, and where he who takes is notasked to make restitution. But just so soon as any violence whatever isused in the community, the significance of money for its possessor losesits significance as a representative of labor, and acquires thesignificance of a right founded, not on labor, but on violence. 

As soon as there is war, and one man has taken any thing from any otherman, money can no longer be always the representative of labor; moneyreceived by a warrior for the spoils of war, which he sells, even if heis the commander of the warriors, is in no way a product of labor, andpossesses an entirely different meaning from money received for work onshoes. As soon as there are slave-owners and slaves, as there alwayshave been throughout the whole world, it is utterly impossible to saythat money represents labor. 

Women have woven linen, sold it, and received money; serfs have woven fortheir master, and the master has sold them and received the money. Themoney is identical in both cases; but in the one case it is the productof labor, in the other the product of violence. In exactly the same way, a stranger or my own father has given me money; and my father, when hegave me that money, knew, and I know, and everybody knows, that no onecan take this money away from me; but if it should occur to any one totake it away from me, or even not to hand it over at the date when it waspromised, the law would intervene on my behalf, and would compel thedelivery to me of the money; and, again, it is evident that this moneycan in no wise be called the equivalent of labor, on a level with themoney received by Semyon for chopping wood. So that in any communitywhere there is any thing that in any manner whatever controls the laborof others, or where violence hedges in, by means of money, itspossessions from others, there money is no longer invariably therepresentative of labor. In such a community, it is sometimes therepresentative of labor, and sometimes of violence. 

Thus it would be where only one act of violence from one man againstothers, in the midst of perfectly free relations, should have made itsappearance; but now, when centuries of the most varied deeds of violencehave passed for accumulations of money, when these deeds of violence areincessant, and merely alter their forms; when, as every one admits, moneyaccumulated itself represents violence; when money, as a representativeof direct labor, forms but a very small portion of the money which isderived from every sort of violence, --to say nowadays that moneyrepresents the labor of the person who possesses it, is a self-evidenterror or a deliberate lie. 

It may be said, that thus it should be; it may be said, that this isdesirable; but by no means can it be said, that thus it is. 

Money represents labor. Yes. Money does represent labor; but whose? Inour society only in the very rarest, rarest of instances, does moneyrepresent the labor of its possessor, but it nearly always represents thelabor of other people, the past or future labor of men; it is arepresentative of the obligation of others to labor, which has beenestablished by force. 

Money, in its most accurate and at the same the simple application, isthe conventional stamp which confers a right, or, more correctly, apossibility, of taking advantage of the labors of other people. In itsideal significance, money should confer this right, or this possibility, only when it serves as the equivalent of labor, and such money might bein a community in which no violence existed. But just as soon asviolence, that is to say, the possibility of profiting by the labors ofothers without toil of one's own, exists in a community, then thatprofiting by the labors of other men is also expressed by money, withoutany distinction of the persons on whom that violence is exercised. 

The landed proprietor has imposed upon his serfs natural debts, a certainquantity of linen, grain, and cattle, or a corresponding amount of money. One household has procured the cattle, but has paid money in lieu oflinen. The proprietor takes the money to a certain amount only, becausehe knows that for that money they will make him the same quantity oflinen, (generally he takes a little more, in order to be sure that theywill make it for the same amount); and this money, evidently, representsfor the proprietor the obligation of other people to toil. 

The peasant gives the money as an obligation, to he knows not whom, butto people, and there are many of them, who undertake for this money tomake so much linen. But the people who undertake to make the linen, doso because they have not succeeded in raising sheep, and in place of thesheep, they must pay money; but the peasant who takes money for his sheeptakes it because he must pay for grain which did not bear well this year. The same thing goes on throughout this realm, and throughout the wholeworld. 

A man sells the product of his labor, past, present or to come, sometimeshis food, and generally not because money constitutes for him aconvenient means of exchange. He could have effected the barter withoutmoney, but he does so because money is exacted from him by violence as alien on his labor. 

When the sovereign of Egypt exacted labor from his slaves, the slavesgave all their labor, but only their past and present labor, their futurelabor they could not give. But with the dissemination of money tokens, and the credit which had its rise in them, it became possible to sellone's future toil for money. Money, with co-existent violence in thecommunity, only represents the possibility of a new form of impersonalslavery, which has taken the place of personal slavery. The slave-ownerhas a right to the labor of Piotr, Ivan, and Sidor. But the owner ofmoney, in a place where money is demanded from all, has a right to thetoil of all those nameless people who are in need of money. Money hasset aside all the oppressive features of slavery, under which an ownerknows his right to Ivan, and with them it has set aside all humanerelations between the owner and the slave, which mitigated the burden ofpersonal thraldom. 

I will not allude to the fact, that such a condition of things is, possibly, necessary for the development of mankind, for progress, and soforth, --that I do not contest. I have merely tried to elucidate tomyself the idea of money, and that universal error into which I fell whenI accepted money as the representative of labor. I became convinced, after experience, that money is not the representative of labor, but, inthe majority of cases, the representative of violence, or of especiallycomplicated sharp practices founded on violence. 

Money, in our day, has completely lost that significance which it is verydesirable that it should possess, as the representative of one's ownlabor; such a significance it has only as an exception, but, as a generalrule, it has been converted into a right or a possibility of profiting bythe toil of others. 

The dissemination of money, of credit, and of all sorts of money tokens, confirms this significance of money ever more and more. Money is a newform of slavery, which differs from the old form of slavery only in itsimpersonality, its annihilation of all humane relations with the slave. 

Money--money, is a value which is always equal to itself, and is alwaysconsidered legal and righteous, and whose use is regarded as not immoral, just as the right of slavery was regarded. 

In my young days, the game of loto was introduced into the clubs. Everybody rushed to play it, and, as it was said, many ruined themselves, rendered their families miserable, lost other people's money, andgovernment funds, and committed suicide; and the game was prohibited, andit remains prohibited to this day. 

I remember to have seen old and unsentimental gamblers, who told me thatthis game was particularly pleasing because you did not see from whom youwere winning, as is the case in other games; a lackey brought, not money, but chips; each man lost a little stake, and his disappointment was notvisible . . . It is the same with roulette, which is everywhereprohibited, and not without reason. 

It is the same with money. I possess a magic, inexhaustible ruble; I cutoff my coupons, and have retired from all the business of the world. Whomdo I injure, --I, the most inoffensive and kindest of men? But this isnothing more than playing at loto or roulette, where I do not see the manwho shoots himself, because of his losses, after procuring for me thosecoupons which I cut off from the bonds so accurately with a strictlyright-angled corner. 

I have done nothing, I do nothing, and I shall do nothing, except cut offthose coupons; and I firmly believe that money is the representative oflabor! Surely, this is amazing! And people talk of madmen, after that!Why, what degree of lunacy can be more frightful than this? A sensible, educated, in all other respects sane man lives in a senseless manner, andsoothes himself for not uttering the word which it is indispensablynecessary that he should utter, with the idea that there is some sense inhis conclusions, and he considers himself a just man. Coupons--therepresentatives of toil! Toil! Yes, but of whose toil? Evidently notof the man who owns them, but of him who labors. 

Slavery is far from being suppressed. It has been suppressed in Rome andin America, and among us: but only certain laws have been abrogated; onlythe word, not the thing, has been put down. Slavery is the freeing ofourselves alone from the toil which is necessary for the satisfaction ofour demands, by the transfer of this toil to others; and wherever thereexists a man who does not work, not because others work lovingly for him, but where he possesses the power of not working, and forces others towork for him, there slavery exists. There too, where, as in all Europeansocieties, there are people who make use of the labor of thousands ofmen, and regard this as their right, --there slavery exists in itsbroadest measure. 

And money is the same thing as slavery. Its object and its consequencesare the same. Its object is--that one may rid one's self of the firstborn of all laws, as a profoundly thoughtful writer from the ranks of thepeople has expressed it; from the natural law of life, as we have calledit; from the law of personal labor for the satisfaction of our own wants. And the results of money are the same as the results of slavery, for theproprietor; the creation, the invention of new and ever new and never-ending demands, which can never be satisfied; the enervation of poverty, vice, and for the slaves, the persecution of man and their degradation tothe level of the beasts. 

Money is a new and terrible form of slavery, and equally demoralizingwith the ancient form of slavery for both slave and slave-owner; onlymuch worse, because it frees the slave and the slave-owner from theirpersonal, humane relations. ]

CHAPTER XVIII. 

I am always surprised by the oft-repeated words: "Yes, this is so intheory, but how is it in practice?" Just as though theory were finewords, requisite for conversation, but not for the purpose of having allpractice, that is, all activity, indispensably founded on them. Theremust be a fearful number of stupid theories current in the world, thatsuch an extraordinary idea should have become prevalent. Theory is whata man thinks on a subject, but its practice is what he does. How can aman think it necessary to do so and so, and then do the contrary? If thetheory of baking bread is, that it must first be mixed, and then set torise, no one except a lunatic, knowing this theory, would do the reverse. But it has become the fashion with us to say, that "this is so in theory, but how about the practice?"

In the matter which interests me now, that has been confirmed which Ihave always thought, --that practice infallibly flows from theory, and notthat it justifies it, but it cannot possibly be otherwise, for if I haveunderstood the thing of which I have been thinking, then I cannot carryout this thing otherwise than as I have understood it. 

I wanted to help the unfortunate only because I had money, and I sharedthe general belief that money was the representative of labor, or, on thewhole, something legal and good. But, having begun to give away thismoney, I saw, when I gave the bills which I had accumulated from poorpeople, that I was doing precisely that which was done by some landedproprietors who made some of their serfs wait on others. I saw thatevery use of money, whether for making purchases, or for giving awaywithout an equivalent to another, is handing over a note for extortionfrom the poor, or its transfer to another man for extortion from thepoor. I saw that money in itself was not only not good, but evidentlyevil, and that it deprives us of our highest good, --labor, and thereby ofthe enjoyment of our labor, and that that blessing I was not in aposition to confer on any one, because I was myself deprived of it: I donot work, and I take no pleasure in making use of the labor of others. 

It would appear that there is something peculiar in this abstractargument as to the nature of money. But this argument which I have madenot for the sake of argument, but for the solution of the problem of mylife, of my sufferings, was for me an answer to my question: What is tobe done?

As soon as I grasped the meaning of riches, and of money, it not onlybecame clear and indisputable to me, what I ought to do, but also clearand indisputable what others ought to do, because they would infalliblydo it. I had only actually come to understand what I had known for along time previously, the theory which was given to men from the veryearliest times, both by Buddha, and Isaiah, and Lao-Tze, and Socrates, and in a peculiarly clear and indisputable manner by Jesus Christ and hisforerunner, John the Baptist. John the Baptist, in answer to thequestion of the people, --What were they to do? replied simply, briefly, and clearly: "He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hathnone; and he that hath meat, let him do likewise" (Luke iii. 10, 11). Ina similar manner, but with even greater clearness, and on many occasions, Christ spoke. He said: "Blessed are the poor, and woe to the rich. " Hesaid that it is impossible to serve God and mammon. He forbade hisdisciples to take not only money, but also two garments. He said to therich young man, that he could not enter into the kingdom of heavenbecause he was rich, and that it was easier for a camel to go through theeye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. Hesaid that he who should not leave every thing, houses and children andlands, and follow him, could not be his disciple. He told the parable ofthe rich man who did nothing bad, like our own rich men, but who onlyarrayed himself in costly garments, and ate and drank daintily, and wholost his soul thereby; and of poor Lazarus, who had done nothing good, but who was saved merely because he was poor. 

This theory was sufficiently familiar to me, but the false teachings ofthe world had so obscured it that it had become for me a theory in thesense which people are fond of attributing to that term, that is to say, empty words. But as soon as I had succeeded in destroying in myconsciousness the sophisms of worldly teaching, theory conformed topractice, and the truth with regard to my life and to the life of thepeople about me became its conclusion. 

I understood that man, besides life for his own personal good, isunavoidably bound to serve the good of others also; that, if we take anillustration from the animal kingdom, --as some people are fond of doing, defending violence and conflict by the conflict for existence in theanimal kingdom, --the illustration must be taken from gregarious animals, like bees; that consequently man, not to mention the love to his neighborincumbent on him, is called upon, both by reason and by his nature, toserve other people and the common good of humanity. I comprehended thatthe natural law of man is that according to which only he can fulfildestiny, and therefore be happy. I understood that this law has been andis broken hereby, --that people get rid of labor by force (like the robberbees), make use of the toil of others, directing this toil, not to thecommon weal, but to the private satisfaction of swift-growing desires;and, precisely as in the case of the robber bees, they perish inconsequence. [I understood that the original form of this disinclinationfor the law is the brutal violence against weaker individuals, againstwomen, wars and imprisonments, whose sequel is slavery, and also thepresent reign of money. I understood that money is the impersonal andconcealed enslavement of the poor. And, once having perceived thesignificance of money as slavery, I could not but hate it, nor refrainfrom doing all in my power to free myself from it. ] {135}

When I was a slave-owner, and comprehended the immorality of my position, I tried to escape from it. My escape consisted in this, that I, regarding it as immoral, tried to exercise my rights as slave-owner aslittle as possible, but to live, and to allow other people to live, asthough that right did not exist. And I cannot refrain from doing thesame thing now in reference to the present form of slavery, --exercisingmy right to the labor of others as little as possible, i. E. , hiring andpurchasing as little as possible. 

The root of every slavery is the use of the labor of others; and hence, the compelling others to it is founded indifferently on my right to theslave, or on my possession of money which is indispensable to him. If Ireally do not approve, and if I regard as an evil, the employment of thelabor of others, then I shall use neither my right nor my money for thatpurpose; I shall not compel others to toil for me, but I shall endeavorto free them from the labor which they have performed for me, as far aspossible, either by doing without this labor or by performing it formyself. 

And this very simple and unavoidable deduction enters into all thedetails of my life, effects a total change in it, and at one blowreleases me from those moral sufferings which I have undergone at thesight of the sufferings and the vice of the people, and instantlyannihilates all three causes of my inability to aid the poor, which I hadencountered while seeking the cause of my lack of success. 

The first cause was the herding of the people in towns, and theabsorption there of the wealth of the country. All that a man needs isto understand how every hiring or purchase is a handle to extortion fromthe poor, and that therefore he must abstain from them, and must try tofulfil his own requirements; and not a single man will then quit thecountry, where all wants can be satisfied without money, for the city, where it is necessary to buy every thing: and in the country he will bein a position to help the needy, as has been my own experience and theexperience of every one else. 

The second cause is the estrangement of the rich from the poor. A manneeds but to refrain from buying, from hiring, and, disdaining no sort ofwork, to satisfy his requirements himself, and the former estrangementwill immediately be annihilated, and the man, having rejected luxury andthe services of others, will amalgamate with the mass of the workingpeople, and, standing shoulder to shoulder with the working people, hecan help them. 

The third cause was shame, founded on a consciousness of immorality in myowning that money with which I desired to help people. All that isrequired is: to understand the significance of money as impersonalslavery, which it has acquired among us, in order to escape for thefuture from falling into the error according to which money, though evilin itself, can be an instrument of good, and in order to refrain fromacquiring money; and to rid one's self of it in order to be in a positionto do good to people, that is, to bestow on them one's labor, and not thelabor of another. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

[I saw that money is the cause of suffering and vice among the people, and that, if I desired to help people, the first thing that was requiredof me was not to create those unfortunates whom I wished to assist. 

I came to the conclusion that the man who does not love vice and thesuffering of the people should not make use of money, thus presenting aninducement to extortion from the poor, by forcing them to work for him;and that, in order not to make use of the toil of others, he must demandas little from others as possible, and work as much as possible himself. ]{138}

By dint of a long course of reasoning, I came to this inevitableconclusion, which was drawn thousands of years ago by the Chinese in thesaying, "If there is one idle man, there is another dying with hunger tooffset him. 

[Then what are we to do? John the Baptist gave the answer to this veryquestion two thousand years ago. And when the people asked him, "Whatare we to do?" he said, "Let him that hath two garments impart to himthat hath none, and let him that hath meat do the same. " What is themeaning of giving away one garment out of two, and half of one's food? Itmeans giving to others every superfluity, and thenceforth taking nothingsuperfluous from people. 

This expedient, which furnishes such perfect satisfaction to the moralfeelings, kept my eyes fast bound, and binds all our eyes; and we do notsee it, but gaze aside. 

This is precisely like a personage on the stage, who had entered a longtime since, and all the spectators see him, and it is obvious that theactors cannot help seeing him, but the point on the stage lies in theacting characters pretending not to see him, and in suffering from hisabsence. ] {139}

Thus we, in our efforts to recover from our social diseases, search inall quarters, governmental and anti-governmental, and in scientific andin philanthropic superstitions; and we do not see what is perfectlyvisible to every eye. 

For the man who really suffers from the sufferings of the people whosurround us, there exists the very plainest, simplest, and easiest means;the only possible one for the cure of the evil about us, and for theacquisition of a consciousness of the legitimacy of his life; the onegiven by John the Baptist, and confirmed by Christ: not to have more thanone garment, and not to have money. And not to have any money, means, not to employ the labor of others, and hence, first of all, to do withour own hands every thing that we can possibly do. 

This is so clear and simple! But it is clear and simple when therequirements are simple. I live in the country. I lie on the oven, andI order my debtor, my neighbor, to chop wood and light my fire. It isvery clear that I am lazy, and that I tear my neighbor away from hisaffairs, and I shall feel mortified, and I shall find it tiresome to liestill all the time; and I shall go and split my wood for myself. 

But the delusion of slavery of all descriptions lies so far back, so muchof artificial exaction has sprung up upon it, so many people, accustomedin different degrees to these habits, are interwoven with each other, enervated people, spoiled for generations, and such complicated delusionsand justifications for their luxury and idleness have been devised bypeople, that it is far from being so easy for a man who stands at thesummit of the ladder of idle people to understand his sin, as it is forthe peasant who has made his neighbor build his fire. 

It is terribly difficult for people at the top of this ladder tounderstand what is required of them. [Their heads are turned by theheight of this ladder of lies, upon which they find themselves when aplace on the ground is offered to them, to which they must descend inorder to begin to live, not yet well, but no longer cruelly, inhumanly;for this reason, this clear and simple truth appears strange to thesepeople. For the man with ten servants, liveries, coachmen, cooks, pictures, pianofortes, that will infallibly appear strange, and evenridiculous, which is the simplest, the first act of--I will not say everygood man--but of every man who is not wicked: to cut his own wood withwhich his food is cooked, and with which he warms himself; to himselfclean those boots with which he has heedlessly stepped in the mire; tohimself fetch that water with which he preserves his cleanliness, and tocarry out that dirty water in which he has washed himself. ] {140}

But, besides the remoteness of people from the truth, there is anothercause which prevents people from seeing the obligation for them of thesimplest and most natural personal, physical labor for themselves: thisis the complication, the inextricability of the conditions, the advantageof all the people who are bound together among themselves by money, inwhich the rich man lives: My luxurious life feeds people. What wouldbecome of my old valet if I were to discharge him? What! we must all doevery thing necessary, --make our clothes and hew wood? . . . And howabout the division of labor?"

[This morning I stepped out into the corridor where the fires were beingbuilt. A peasant was making a fire in the stove which warms my son'sroom. I went in; the latter was asleep. It was eleven o'clock in themorning. To-day is a holiday: there is some excuse, there are nolessons. 

The smooth-skinned, eighteen-year-old youth, with a beard, who had eatenhis fill on the preceding evening, sleeps until eleven o'clock. But thepeasant of his age had been up at dawn, and had got through a quantity ofwork, and was attending to his tenth stove, while the former slept. "Thepeasant shall not make the fire in his stove to warm that smooth, lazybody of his!" I thought. But I immediately recollected that this stovealso warmed the room of the housekeeper, a woman forty years of age, who, on the evening before, had been making preparations up to three o'clockin the morning for the supper which my son had eaten, and that she hadcleared the table, and risen at seven, nevertheless. The peasant wasbuilding the fire for her also. And under her name the lazybones waswarming himself. 

It is true that the interests of all are interwoven; but, even withoutany prolonged reckoning, the conscience of each man will say on whoseside lies labor, and on whose idleness. But although conscience saysthis, the account-book, the cash-book, says it still more clearly. Themore money any one spends, the more idle he is, that is to say, the morehe makes others work for him. The less he spends, the more he works. ]{142} But trade, but public undertakings, and, finally, the mostterrible of words, culture, the development of sciences, and thearts, --what of them?

[If I live I will make answer to those points, and in detail; and untilsuch answer I will narrate the following. ] {142}

CHAPTER XX. 

LIFE IN THE CITY. 

Last year, in March, I was returning home late at night. As I turnedfrom the Zubova into Khamovnitchesky Lane, I saw some black spots on thesnow of the Dyevitchy Pole (field). Something was moving about in oneplace. I should not have paid any attention to this, if the policemanwho was standing at the end of the street had not shouted in thedirection of the black spots, --

"Vasily! why don't you bring her in?"

"She won't come!" answered a voice, and then the spot moved towards thepoliceman. 

I halted and asked the police-officer, "What is it?"

He said, --"They are taking a girl from the Rzhanoff house to the station-house; and she is hanging back, she won't walk. " A house-porter in asheepskin coat was leading her. She was walking forward, and he waspushing her from behind. All of us, I and the porter and the policeman, were dressed in winter clothes, but she had nothing on over her dress. Inthe darkness I could make out only her brown dress, and the kerchiefs onher head and neck. She was short in stature, as is often the case withthe prematurely born, with small feet, and a comparatively broad andawkward figure. 

"We're waiting for you, you carrion. Get along, what do you mean by it?I'll give it to you!" shouted the policeman. He was evidently tired, andhe had had too much of her. She advanced a few paces, and again halted. 

The little old porter, a good-natured fellow (I know him), tugged at herhand. "Here, I'll teach you to stop! On with you!" he repeated, asthough in anger. She staggered, and began to talk in a discordant voice. At every sound there was a false note, both hoarse and whining. 

"Come now, you're shoving again. I'll get there some time!"

She stopped and then went on. I followed them. 

"You'll freeze, " said the porters

"The likes of us don't freeze: I'm hot. "

She tried to jest, but her words sounded like scolding. She halted againunder the lantern which stands not far from our house, and leanedagainst, almost hung over, the fence, and began to fumble for somethingamong her skirts, with benumbed and awkward hands. Again they shouted ather, but she muttered something and did something. In one hand she helda cigarette bent into a bow, in the other a match. I paused behind her;I was ashamed to pass her, and I was ashamed to stand and look on. But Imade up my mind, and stepped forward. Her shoulder was lying against thefence, and against the fence it was that she vainly struck the match andflung it away. I looked in her face. She was really a personprematurely born; but, as it seemed to me, already an old woman. Icredited her with thirty years. A dirty hue of face; small, dull, tipsyeyes; a button-like nose; curved moist lips with drooping corners, and ashort wisp of harsh hair escaping from beneath her kerchief; a long flatfigure, stumpy hands and feet. I paused opposite her. She stared at me, and burst into a laugh, as though she knew all that was going on in mymind. 

I felt that it was necessary to say something to her. I wanted to showher that I pitied her. 

"Are your parents alive?" I inquired. 

She laughed hoarsely, with an expression which said, "he's making upqueer things to ask. "

"My mother is, " said she. "But what do you want?"

"And how old are you?"

"Sixteen, " said she, answering promptly to a question which was evidentlycustomary. 

"Come, march, you'll freeze, you'll perish entirely, " shouted thepoliceman; and she swayed away from the fence, and, staggering along, shewent down Khamovnitchesky Lane to the police-station; and I turned to thewicket, and entered the house, and inquired whether my daughters hadreturned. I was told that they had been to an evening party, had had avery merry time, had come home, and were in bed. 

Next morning I wanted to go to the station-house to learn what had beendone with this unfortunate woman, and I was preparing to go out veryearly, when there came to see me one of those unlucky noblemen, who, through weakness, have dropped from the gentlemanly life to which theyare accustomed, and who alternately rise and fall. I had been acquaintedwith this man for three years. In the course of those three years, thisman had several times made way with every thing that he had, and evenwith all his clothes; the same thing had just happened again, and he waspassing the nights temporarily in the Rzhanoff house, in thenight-lodging section, and he had come to me for the day. He met me as Iwas going out, at the entrance, and without listening to me he began totell me what had taken place in the Rzhanoff house the night before. Hebegan his narrative, and did not half finish it; all at once (he is anold man who has seen men under all sorts of aspects) he burst outsobbing, and flooded has countenance with tears, and when he had becomesilent, turned has face to the wall. This is what he told me. Everything that he related to me was absolutely true. I authenticated hisstory on the spot, and learned fresh particulars which I will relateseparately. 

In that night-lodging house, on the lower floor, in No. 32, in which myfriend had spent the night, among the various, ever-changing lodgers, menand women, who came together there for five kopeks, there was alaundress, a woman thirty years of age, light-haired, peaceable andpretty, but sickly. The mistress of the quarters had a boatman lover. Inthe summer her lover kept a boat, and in the winter they lived by lettingaccommodations to night-lodgers: three kopeks without a pillow, fivekopeks with a pillow. 

The laundress had lived there for several months, and was a quiet woman;but latterly they had not liked her, because she coughed and preventedthe women from sleeping. An old half-crazy woman eighty years old, inparticular, also a regular lodger in these quarters, hated the laundress, and imbittered the latter's life because she prevented her sleeping, andcleared her throat all night like a sheep. The laundress held her peace;she was in debt for her lodgings, and was conscious of her guilt, andtherefore she was bound to be quiet. She began to go more and morerarely to her work, as her strength failed her, and therefore she couldnot pay her landlady; and for the last week she had not been out to workat all, and had only poisoned the existence of every one, especially ofthe old woman, who also did not go out, with her cough. Four days beforethis, the landlady had given the laundress notice to leave the quarters:the latter was already sixty kopeks in debt, and she neither paid them, nor did the landlady foresee any possibility of getting them; and all thebunks were occupied, and the women all complained of the laundress'scough. 

When the landlady gave the laundress notice, and told her that she mustleave the lodgings if she did not pay up, the old woman rejoiced andthrust the laundress out of doors. The laundress departed, but returnedin an hour, and the landlady had not the heart to put her out again. Andthe second and the third day, she did not turn her out. "Where am I togo?" said the laundress. But on the third day, the landlady's lover, aMoscow man, who knew the regulations and how to manage, sent for thepolice. A policeman with sword and pistol on a red cord came to thelodgings, and with courteous words he led the laundress into the street. 

It was a clear, sunny, but freezing March day. The gutters were flowing, the house-porters were picking at the ice. The cabman's sleigh joltedover the icy snow, and screeched over the stones. The laundress walkedup the street on the sunny side, went to the church, and seated herselfat the entrance, still on the sunny side. But when the sun began to sinkbehind the houses, the puddles began to be skimmed over with a glass offrost, and the laundress grew cold and wretched. She rose, and draggedherself . . . Whither? Home, to the only home where she had lived solong. While she was on her way, resting at times, dusk descended. Sheapproached the gates, turned in, slipped, groaned and fell. 

One man came up, and then another. "She must be drunk. " Another mancame up, and stumbled over the laundress, and said to the potter: "Whatdrunken woman is this wallowing at your gate? I came near breaking myhead over her; take her away, won't you?"

The porter came. The laundress was dead. This is what my friend toldme. It may be thought that I have wilfully mixed up facts, --I encountera prostitute of fifteen, and the story of this laundress. But let no oneimagine this; it is exactly what happened in the course of one night(only I do not remember which) in March, 1884. And so, after hearing myfriend's tale, I went to the station-house, with the intention ofproceeding thence to the Rzhanoff house to inquire more minutely into thehistory of the laundress. The weather was very beautiful and sunny; andagain, through the stars of the night-frost, water was to be seentrickling in the shade, and in the glare of the sun on Khamovnitcheskysquare every thing was melting, and the water was streaming. The riveremitted a humming noise. The trees of the Neskutchny garden looked blueacross the river; the reddish-brown sparrows, invisible in winter, attracted attention by their sprightliness; people also seemed desirousof being merry, but all of them had too many cares. The sound of thebells was audible, and at the foundation of these mingling sounds, thesounds of shots could be heard from the barracks, the whistle of rifle-balls and their crack against the target. 

I entered the station-house. In the station some armed policemenconducted me to their chief. He was similarly armed with sword andpistol, and he was engaged in taking some measures with regard to atattered, trembling old man, who was standing before him, and who couldnot answer the questions put to him, on account of his feebleness. Havingfinished his business with the old man, he turned to me. I inquiredabout the girl of the night before. At first he listened to meattentively, but afterwards he began to smile, at my ignorance of theregulations, in consequence of which she had been taken to the station-house; and particularly at my surprise at her youth. 

"Why, there are plenty of them of twelve, thirteen, or fourteen years ofage, " he said cheerfully. 

But in answer to my question about the girl whom I had seen on thepreceding evening, he explained to me that she must have been sent to thecommittee (so it appeared). To my question where she had passed thenight, he replied in an undecided manner. He did not recall the one towhom I referred. There were so many of them every day. 

In No. 32 of the Rzhanoff house I found the sacristan already readingprayers over the dead woman. They had taken her to the bunk which shehad formerly occupied; and the lodgers, all miserable beings, hadcollected money for the masses for her soul, a coffin and a shroud, andthe old women had dressed her and laid her out. The sacristan wasreading something in the gloom; a woman in a long wadded cloak wasstanding there with a wax candle; and a man (a gentleman, I must state)in a clean coat with a lamb's-skin collar, polished overshoes, and astarched shirt, was holding one like it. This was her brother. They hadhunted him up. 

I went past the dead woman to the landlady's nook, and questioned herabout the whole business. 

She was alarmed at my queries; she was evidently afraid that she would beblamed for something; but afterwards she began to talk freely, and toldme every thing. As I passed back, I glanced at the dead woman. All deadpeople are handsome, but this dead woman was particularly beautiful andtouching in her coffin; her pure, pale face, with closed swollen eyes, sunken cheeks, and soft reddish hair above the lofty brow, --a weary andkind and not a sad but a surprised face. And in fact, if the living donot see, the dead are surprised. 

On the same day that I wrote the above, there was a great ball in Moscow. 

That night I left the house at nine o'clock. I live in a locality whichis surrounded by factories, and I left the house after thefactory-whistles had sounded, releasing the people for a day of freedomafter a week of unremitting toil. 

Factory-hands overtook me, and I overtook others of them, directing theirsteps to the drinking-shops and taverns. Many were already intoxicated, many were women. Every morning at five o'clock we can hear one whistle, a second, a third, a tenth, and so forth, and so forth. That means thatthe toil of women, children, and of old men has begun. At eight o'clockanother whistle, which signifies a breathing-spell of half an hour. Attwelve, a third: this means an hour for dinner. And a fourth at eight, which denotes the end of the day. 

By an odd coincidence, all three of the factories which are situated nearme produce only articles which are in demand for balls. 

In one factory, the nearest, only stockings are made; in anotheropposite, silken fabrics; in the third, perfumes and pomades. 

It is possible to listen to these whistles, and connect no other ideawith them than as denoting the time: "There's the whistle already, it istime to go to walk. " But one can also connect with those whistles thatwhich they signify in reality; that first whistle, at five o'clock, meansthat people, often all without exception, both men and women, sleeping ina damp cellar, must rise, and hasten to that building buzzing withmachines, and must take their places at their work, whose end and use forthemselves they do not see, and thus toil, often in heat and a stiflingatmosphere, in the midst of dirt, and with the very briefest breathing-spells, an hour, two hours, three hours, twelve, and even more hours insuccession. They fall into a doze, and again they rise. And this, forthem, senseless work, to which they are driven only by necessity, iscontinued over and over again. 

And thus one week succeeds another with the breaks of holidays; and I seethese work-people released on one of these holidays. They emerge intothe street. Everywhere there are drinking-shops, taverns, and loosegirls. And they, in their drunken state, drag by the hand each other, and girls like the one whom I saw taken to the station-house; they dragwith them cabmen, and they ride and they walk from one tavern to another;and they curse and stagger, and say they themselves know not what. I hadpreviously seen such unsteady gait on the part of factory-hands, and hadturned aside in disgust, and had been on the point of rebuking them; butever since I have been in the habit of hearing those whistles every day, and understand their meaning, I am only amazed that they, all the men, donot come to the condition of the "golden squad, " of which Moscow is full, {152a} [and the women to the state of the one whom I had seen near myhouse]. {152b}

Thus I walked along, and scrutinized these factory-hands, as long as theyroamed the streets, which was until eleven o'clock. Then their movementsbegan to calm down. Some drunken men remained here and there, and hereand there I encountered men who were being taken to the station-house. And then carriages began to make their appearance on all sides, directingtheir course toward one point. 

On the box sits a coachman, sometimes in a sheepskin coat; and a footman, a dandy, with a cockade. Well-fed horses in saddle-cloths fly throughthe frost at the rate of twenty versts an hour; in the carriages sitladies muffled in round cloaks, and carefully tending their flowers andhead-dresses. Every thing from the horse-trappings, the carriages, thegutta-percha wheels, the cloth of the coachman's coat, to the stockings, shoes, flowers, velvet, gloves, and perfumes, --every thing is made bythose people, some of whom often roll drunk into their dens or sleeping-rooms, and some stay with disreputable women in the night-lodging houses, while still others are put in jail. Thus past them in all their work, and over them all, ride the frequenters of balls; and it never enterstheir heads, that there is any connection between these balls to whichthey make ready to go, and these drunkards at whom their coachman shoutsso roughly. 

These people enjoy themselves at the ball with the utmost composure ofspirit, and assurance that they are doing nothing wrong, but somethingvery good. Enjoy themselves! Enjoy themselves from eleven o'clock untilsix in the morning, in the very dead of night, at the very hour whenpeople are tossing and turning with empty stomachs in the night-lodginghouses, and while some are dying, as did the laundress. 

Their enjoyment consists in this, --that the women and young girls, havingbared their necks and arms, and applied bustles behind, place themselvesin a situation in which no uncorrupted woman or maiden would care todisplay herself to a man, on any consideration in the world; and in thishalf-naked condition, with their uncovered bosoms exposed to view, witharms bare to the shoulder, with a bustle behind and tightly swathed hips, under the most brilliant light, women and maidens, whose chief virtue hasalways been modesty, exhibit themselves in the midst of strange men, whoare also clad in improperly tight-fitting garments; and to the sound ofmaddening music, they embrace and whirl. Old women, often as naked asthe young ones, sit and look on, and eat and drink savory things; old mendo the same. It is not to be wondered at that this should take place atnight, when all the common people are asleep, so that no one may seethem. But this is not done with the object of concealment: it seems tothem that there is nothing to conceal; that it is a very good thing; thatby this merry-making, in which the labor of thousands of toiling peopleis destroyed, they not only do not injure any one, but that by this veryact they furnish the poor with the means of subsistence. Possibly it isvery merry at balls. But how does this come about? When we see thatthere is a man in the community, in our midst, who has had no food, orwho is freezing, we regret our mirth, and we cannot be cheerful until heis fed and warmed, not to mention the impossibility of imagining peoplewho can indulge in such mirth as causes suffering to others. The mirthof wicked little boys, who pitch a dog's tail in a split stick, and makemerry over it, is repulsive and incomprehensible to us. 

In the same manner here, in these diversions of ours, blindness hasfallen upon us, and we do not see the split stick with which we havepitched all those people who suffer for our amusement. 

[We live as though there were no connection between the dying laundress, the prostitute of fourteen, and our own life; and yet the connectionbetween them strikes us in the face. 

We may say: "But we personally have not pinched any tail in a stick;" butwe have no right, to deny that had the tail not been pitched, our merry-making would not have taken place. We do not see what connection existsbetween the laundress and our luxury; but that is not because no suchconnection does exist, but because we have placed a screen in front ofus, so that we may not see. 

If there were no screen, we should see that which it is impossible not tosee. ] {154}

Surely all the women who attended that ball in dresses worth a hundredand fifty rubles each were born not in a ballroom, or at MadameMinanguoit's; but they have lived in the country, and have seen thepeasants; they know their own nurse and maid, whose father and brotherare poor, for whom the earning of a hundred and fifty rubles for acottage is the object of a long, laborious life. Each woman knows this. How could she enjoy herself, when she knew that she wore on her baredbody at that ball the cottage which is the dream of her good maid'sfather and brother? But let us suppose that she could not make thisreflection; but since velvet and silk and flowers and lace and dresses donot grow of themselves, but are made by people, it would seem that shecould not help knowing what sort of people make all these things, andunder what conditions, and why they do it. She cannot fail to know thatthe seamstress, with whom she has already quarrelled, did not make herdress in the least out of love for her; therefore, she cannot helpknowing that all these things were made for her as a matter of necessity, that her laces, flowers, and velvet have been made in the same way as herdress. 

But possibly they are in such darkness that they do not consider this. One thing she cannot fail to know, --that five or six elderly andrespectable, often sick, lackeys and maids have had no sleep, and havebeen put to trouble on her account. She has seen their weary, gloomyfaces. She could not help knowing this also, that the cold that nightreached twenty-eight degrees below zero, {155} and that the old coachmansat all night long in that temperature on his box. But I know that theyreally do not see this. And if they, these young women and girls, do notsee this, on account of the hypnotic state superinduced in them by balls, it is impossible to condemn them. They, poor things, have done what isconsidered right by their elders; but how are their elders to explainaway this their cruelty to the people?

The elders always offer the explanation: "I compel no one. I purchase mythings; I hire my men, my maid-servants, and my coachman. There isnothing wrong in buying and hiring. I force no one's inclination: Ihire, and what harm is there in that?"

I recently went to see an acquaintance. As I passed through one of therooms, I was surprised to see two women seated at a table, as I knew thatmy friend was a bachelor. A thin, yellow, old-fashioned woman, thirtyyears of age, in a dress that had been carelessly thrown on, was doingsomething with her hands and fingers on the table, with great speed, trembling nervously the while, as though in a fit. Opposite her sat ayoung girl, who was also engaged in something, and who trembled in thesame manner. Both women appeared to be afflicted with St. Vitus' dance. I stepped nearer to them, and looked to see what they were doing. Theyraised their eyes to me, but went on with their work with the sameintentness. In front of them lay scattered tobacco and paper cases. Theywere making cigarettes. The woman rubbed the tobacco between her hands, pushed it into the machine, slipped on the cover, thrust the tobaccothrough, then tossed it to the girl. The girl twisted the paper, and, making it fast, threw it aside, and took up another. All thus was donewith such swiftness, with such intentness, as it is impossible todescribe to a man who has never seen it done. I expressed my surprise attheir quickness. 

"I have been doing nothing else for fourteen years, " said the woman. 

"Is it hard?"

"Yes: it pains my chest, and makes my breathing hard. "

It was not necessary for her to add this, however. A look at the girlsufficed. She had worked at this for three years, but any one who hadnot seen her at this occupation would have said that here was a strongorganism which was beginning to break down. 

My friend, a kind and liberal man, hires these women to fill hiscigarettes at two rubles fifty kopeks the thousand. He has money, and hespends it for work. What harm is there in that? My friend rises attwelve o'clock. He passes the evening, from six until two, at cards, orat the piano. He eats and drinks savory things; others do all his workfor him. He has devised a new source of pleasure, --smoking. He hastaken up smoking within my memory. 

Here is a woman, and here is a girl, who can barely support themselves byturning themselves into machines, and they pass their whole livesinhaling tobacco, and thereby running their health. He has money whichhe never earned, and he prefers to play at whist to making his owncigarettes. He gives these women money on condition that they shallcontinue to live in the same wretched manner in which they are nowliving, that is to say, by making his cigarettes. 

I love cleanliness, and I give money only on the condition that thelaundress shall wash the shirt which I change twice a day; and that shirthas destroyed the laundress's last remaining strength, and she has died. What is there wrong about that? People who buy and hire will continue toforce other people to make velvet and confections, and will purchasethem, without me; and no matter what I may do, they will hire cigarettesmade and shirts washed. Then why should I deprive myself of velvet andconfections and cigarettes and clean shirts, if things are definitivelysettled thus? This is the argument which I often, almost always, hear. This is the very argument which makes the mob which is destroyingsomething, lose its senses. This is the very argument by which dogs areguided when one of them has flung himself on another dog, and overthrownhim, and the rest of the pack rush up also, and tear their comrade inpieces. Other people have begun it, and have wrought mischief; then whyshould not I take advantage of it? Well, what will happen if I wear asoiled shirt, and make my own cigarettes? Will that make it easier foranybody else? ask people who would like to justify their course. If itwere not so far from the truth, it would be a shame to answer such aquestion, but we have become so entangled that this question seems verynatural to us; and hence, although it is a shame, it is necessary toreply to it. 

What difference will it make if I wear one shirt a week, and make may owncigarettes, or do not smoke at all? This difference, that some laundressand some cigarette-maker will exert their strength less, and that what Ihave spent for washing and for the making of cigarettes I can give tothat very laundress, or even to other laundresses and toilers who areworn out with their labor, and who, instead of laboring beyond theirstrength, will then be able to rest, and drink tea. But to this I hearan objection. (It is so mortifying to rich and luxurious people tounderstand their position. ) To this they say: "If I go about in a dirtyshirt, and give up smoking, and hand over this money to the poor, thepoor will still be deprived of every thing, and that drop in the sea ofyours will help not at all. "

Such an objection it is a shame to answer. It is such a common retort. {158}

If I had gone among savages, and they had regaled me with cutlets whichstruck me as savory, and if I should learn on the following day thatthese savory cutlets had been made from a prisoner whom they had slainfor the sake of the savory cutlets, if I do not admit that it is a goodthing to eat men, then, no matter how dainty the cutlets, no matter howuniversal the practice of eating men may be among my fellows, howeverinsignificant the advantage to prisoners, prepared for consumption, maybe my refusal to eat of the cutlets, I will not and I can not eat anymore of them. I may, possibly, eat human flesh, when hunger compels meto it; but I will not make a feast, and I will not take part in feasts, of human flesh, and I will not seek out such feasts, and pride myself onmy share in them. 

LIFE IN THE COUNTRY. 

But what is to be done? Surely it is not we who have done this? And ifnot we, who then?

We say: "We have not done this, this has done itself;" as the childrensay, when they break any thing, that it broke itself. We say, that, solong as there is a city already in existence, we, by living in it, support the people, by purchasing their labor and services. But this isnot so. And this is why. We only need to look ourselves, at the way wehave in the country, and at the manner in which we support people there. 

The winter passes in town. Easter Week passes. On the boulevards, inthe gardens in the parks, on the river, there is music. There aretheatres, water-trips, walks, all sorts of illuminations and fireworks. But in the country there is something even better, --there are better air, trees and meadows, and the flowers are fresher. One should go thitherwhere all these things have unfolded and blossomed forth. And themajority of wealthy people do go to the country to breathe the superiorair, to survey these superior forests and meadows. And there the wealthysettle down in the country, and the gray peasants, who nourish themselveson bread and onions, who toil eighteen hours a day, who get no soundsleep by night, and who are clad in blouses. Here no one has led thesepeople astray. There have been no factories nor industrialestablishments, and there are none of those idle hands, of which thereare so many in the city. Here the whole population never succeeds, allsummer long, in completing all their tasks in season; and not only arethere no idle hands, but a vast quantity of property is ruined for thelack of hands, and a throng of people, children, old men, and women, willperish through overstraining their powers in work which is beyond theirstrength. How do the rich order their lives there? In this fashion:--

If there is an old-fashioned house, built under the serf _regime_, thathouse is repaired and embellished; if there is none, then a new one iserected, of two or three stories. The rooms, of which there are fromtwelve to twenty, and even more, are all six arshins in height. {161a}Wood floors are laid down. The windows consist of one sheet of glass. There are rich rugs and costly furniture. The roads around the house aremacadamized, the ground is levelled, flower-beds are laid out, croquet-grounds are prepared, swinging-rings for gymnastics are erected, reflecting globes, often orangeries, and hotbeds, and lofty stablesalways with complicated scroll-work on the gables and ridges. 

And here, in the country, an honest educated official, or noble familydwells. All the members of the family and their guests have assembled inthe middle of June, because up to June, that is to say, up to thebeginning of mowing-time, they have been studying and undergoingexaminations; and they live there until September, that is to say, untilharvest and sowing-time. The members of this family (as is the case withnearly every one in that circle) have lived in the country from thebeginning of the press of work, the suffering time, not until the end ofthe season of toil (for in September sowing is still in progress, as wellas the digging of potatoes), but until the strain of work has relaxed alittle. During the whole of their residence in the country, all aroundthem and beside them, that summer toil of the peasantry has been goingon, of whose fatigues, no matter how much we may have heard, no matterhow much we may have heard about it, no matter how much we may have gazedupon it, we can form no idea, unless we have had personal experience ofit. And the members of this family, about ten in number, live exactly asthey do in the city. 

At St. Peter's Day, {161b} a strict fast, when the people's food consistsof kvas, bread, and onions, the mowing begins. 

The business which is effected in mowing is one of the most important inthe commune. Nearly every year, through the lack of hands and time, thehay crop may be lost by rain; and more or less strain of toil decides thequestion, as to whether twenty or more per cent of hay is to be added tothe wealth of the people, or whether it is to rot or die where it stands. And additional hay means additional meat for the old, and additional milkfor the children. Thus, in general and in particular, the question ofbread for each one of the mowers, and of milk for himself and hischildren, in the ensuing winter, is then decided. Every one of thetoilers, both male and female, knows this; even the children know thatthis is an important matter, and that it is necessary to strain everynerve to carry the jug of kvas to their father in the meadow at hismowing, and, shifting the heavy pitcher from hand to hand, to runbarefooted as rapidly as possible, two versts from the village, in orderto get there in season for dinner, and so that their fathers may notscold them. 

Every one knows, that, from the mowing season until the hay is got in, there will be no break in the work, and that there will be no time tobreathe. And there is not the mowing alone. Every one of them has otheraffairs to attend to besides the mowing: the ground must be turned up andharrowed; and the women have linen and bread and washing to attend to;and the peasants have to go to the mill, and to town, and there arecommunal matters to attend to, and legal matters before the judge and thecommissary of police; and the wagons to see to, and the horses to feed atnight: and all, old and young, and sickly, labor to the last extent oftheir powers. The peasants toil so, that on every occasion, the mowers, before the end of the third stint, whether weak, young, or old, canhardly walk as they totter past the last rows, and only with difficultyare they able to rise after the breathing-spell; and the women, oftenpregnant, or nursing infants, work in the same way. The toil is intenseand incessant. All work to the extreme bounds of their strength, andexpend in this toil, not only the entire stock of their scantynourishment, but all their previous stock. All of them--and they are notfat to begin with--grow gaunt after the "suffering" season. 

Here a little association is working at the mowing; three peasants, --onean old man, the second his nephew, a young married man, and a shoemaker, a thin, sinewy man. This hay-harvest will decide the fate of all of themfor the winter. They have been laboring incessantly for two weeks, without rest. The rain has delayed their work. After the rain, when thehay has dried, they have decided to stack it, and, in order to accomplishthis as speedily as possible, that two women for each of them shallfollow their scythes. On the part of the old man go his wife, a woman offifty, who has become unfit for work, having borne eleven children, whois deaf, but still a tolerably stout worker; and a thirteen-year-olddaughter, who is short of stature, but a strong and clever girl. On thepart of his nephew go his wife, a woman as strong and well-grown as asturdy peasant, and his daughter-in-law, a soldier's wife, who is aboutto become a mother. On the part of the shoemaker go his wife, a stoutlaborer, and her aged mother, who has reached her eightieth year, and whogenerally goes begging. They all stand in line, and labor from morningtill night, in the full fervor of the June sun. It is steaming hot, andrain threatens. Every hour of work is precious. It is a pity to tearone's self from work to fetch water or kvas. A tiny boy, the old woman'sgrandson, brings them water. The old woman, evidently only anxious lestshe shall be driven away from her work, will not let the rake out of herhand, though it is evident that she can barely move, and only withdifficulty. The little boy, all bent over, and stepping gently, with histiny bare feet, drags along a jug of water, shifting it from hand tohand, for it is heavier than he. The young girl flings over her shouldera load of hay which is also heavier than herself, advances a few steps, halts, and drops it, without the strength to carry it. The old woman offifty rakes away without stopping, and with her kerchief awry she dragsthe hay, breathing heavily and tottering. The old woman of eighty onlyrakes the hay, but even this is beyond her strength; she slowly dragsalong her feet, shod with bast shoes, and, frowning, she gazes gloomilybefore her, like a seriously ill or dying person. The old man hasintentionally sent her farther away than the rest, to rake near the cocksof hay, so that she may not keep in line with the others; but she doesnot fall in with this arrangement, and she toils on as long as the othersdo, with the same death-like, gloomy countenance. The sun is alreadysetting behind the forest; but the cocks are not yet all heaped together, and much still remains to do. All feel that it is time to stop, but noone speaks, waiting until the others shall say it. Finally theshoemaker, conscious that his strength is exhausted, proposes to the oldman, to leave the cocks until the morrow; and the old man consents, andthe women instantly run for the garments, jugs, pitchforks; and the oldwoman immediately sits down just where she has been standings and thenlies back with the same death-like look, staring straight in front ofher. But the women are going; and she rises with a groan, and dragsherself after them. And this will go on in July also, when the peasants, without obtaining sufficient sleep, reap the oats by night, lest itshould fall, and the women rise gloomily to thresh out the straw for thebands to tie the sheaves; when this old woman, already utterly cramped bythe labor of mowing, and the woman with child, and the young children, injure themselves overworking and over-drinking; and when neither hands, nor horses, nor carts will suffice to bring to the ricks that grain withwhich all men are nourished, and millions of poods {165} of which aredaily required in Russia to keep people from perishing. 

And we live as though there were no connection between the dyinglaundress, the prostitute of fourteen years, the toilsome manufacture ofcigarettes by women, the strained, intolerable, insufficiently fed toilof old women and children around us; we live as though there were noconnection between this and our own lives. 

It seems to us, that suffering stands apart by itself, and our life apartby itself. We read the description of the life of the Romans, and wemarvel at the inhumanity of those soulless Luculli, who satiatedthemselves on viands and wines while the populace were dying with hunger. We shake our heads, and we marvel at the savagery of our grandfathers, who were serf-owners, supporters of household orchestras and theatres, and of whole villages devoted to the care of their gardens; and wewonder, from the heights of our grandeur, at their inhumanity. We readthe words of Isa. V. 8: "Woe unto them that join house to house, that layfield to field, till there be no place, that they may be placed alone inthe midst of the earth! (11. ) Woe unto them that rise up early in themorning, that they may follow strong drink; that continue until night, till wine inflame them! (12. ) And the harp and the viol, and tabret andpipe, and wine are in their feasts; but they regard not the work of theLord, neither consider the operation of his hands. (18. ) Woe unto themthat draw iniquity with cords of vanity, and sin as it were with a cart-rope. (20. ) Woe unto then that call evil good, and good evil; that putdarkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter! (21. ) Woe unto them that are wise in their owneyes, and prudent in their own sight--(22. ) Woe unto them that are mightyto drink wine, and men of strength to mingle strong drink. "

We read these words, and it seems to us that this has no reference to us. We read in the Gospels (Matt. Iii. 10): "And now also the axe is laidunto the root of the trees: therefore every tree which bringeth not forthgood fruit is hewn down and cast into the fire. "

And we are fully convinced that the good tree which bringeth forth goodfruit is ourselves; and that these words are not spoken to us, but tosome other and wicked people. 

We read the words of Isa. Vi. 10: "Make the heart of this people fat, andmake their ears heavy, and shut their eyes; lest they see with theireyes, and hear with their ears, and understand with their heart, andconvert and be healed. (11. ) Then said I: Lord, how long? And heanswered, Until the cities be wasted without inhabitant, and the houseswithout man, and the land be utterly desolate. "

We read, and are fully convinced that this marvellous deed is notperformed on us, but on some other people. And because we see nothing itis, that this marvellous deed is performed, and has been performed, onus. We hear not, we see not, and we understand not with our heart. Howhas this happened?

Whether that God, or that natural law by virtue of which men exist in theworld, has acted well or ill, yet the position of men in the world, eversince we have known it, has been such, that naked people, without anyhair on their bodies, without lairs in which they could shelterthemselves, without food which they could find in the fields, --likeRobinson {167} on his island, --have all been reduced to the necessity ofconstantly and unweariedly contending with nature in order to cover theirbodies, to make themselves clothing, to construct a roof over theirheads, and to earn their bread, that two or three times a day they maysatisfy their hunger and the hunger of their helpless children and oftheir old people who cannot work. 

Wherever, at whatever time, in whatever numbers we may have observedpeople, whether in Europe, in America, in China, or in Russia, whether weregard all humanity, or any small portion of it, in ancient times, in anomad state, or in our own times, with steam-engines and sewing-machines, perfected agriculture, and electric lighting, we behold always one andthe same thing, --that man, toiling intensely and incessantly, is not ableto earn for himself and his little ones and his old people clothing, shelter, and food; and that a considerable portion of mankind, as informer times, so at the present day, perish through insufficiency of thenecessaries of life, and intolerable toil in the effort to obtain them. 

Wherever we have, if we draw a circle round us of a hundred thousand, athousand, or ten versts, or of one verst, and examine into the lives ofthe people comprehended within the limits of our circle, we shall seewithin that circle prematurely-born children, old men, old women, womenin labor, sick and weak persons, who toil beyond their strength, and whohave not sufficient food and rest for life, and who therefore die beforetheir time. We shall see people in the flower of their age actuallyslain by dangerous and injurious work. 

We see that people have been struggling, ever since the world hasendured, with fearful effort, privation, and suffering, against thisuniversal want, and that they cannot overcome it . . . {168}

ON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF SCIENCE AND ART. 

CHAPTER I. 

. . . {169} The justification of all persons who have freed themselvesfrom toil is now founded on experimental, positive science. Thescientific theory is as follows:--

"For the study of the laws of life of human societies, there exists butone indubitable method, --the positive, experimental, critical method

"Only sociology, founded on biology, founded on all the positivesciences, can give us the laws of humanity. Humanity, or humancommunities, are the organisms already prepared, or still in process offormation, and which are subservient to all the laws of the evolution oforganisms. 

"One of the chief of these laws is the variation of destination among theportions of the organs. Some people command, others obey. If some havein superabundance, and others in want, this arises not from the will ofGod, not because the empire is a form of manifestation of personality, but because in societies, as in organisms, division of labor becomesindispensable for life as a whole. Some people perform the muscularlabor in societies; others, the mental labor. "

Upon this doctrine is founded the prevailing justification of our time. 

Not long ago, their reigned in the learned, cultivated world, a moralphilosophy, according to which it appeared that every thing which existsis reasonable; that there is no such thing as evil or good; and that itis unnecessary for man to war against evil, but that it is only necessaryfor him to display intelligence, --one man in the military service, another in the judicial, another on the violin. There have been many andvaried expressions of human wisdom, and these phenomena were known to themen of the nineteenth century. The wisdom of Rousseau and of Lessing, and Spinoza and Bruno, and all the wisdom of antiquity; but no one man'swisdom overrode the crowd. It was impossible to say even this, --thatHegel's success was the result of the symmetry of this theory. Therewere other equally symmetrical theories, --those of Descartes, Leibnitz, Fichte, Schopenhauer. There was but one reason why this doctrine won foritself, for a season, the belief of the whole world; and this reason was, that the deductions of that philosophy winked at people's weaknesses. These deductions were summed up in this, --that every thing wasreasonable, every thing good; and that no one was to blame. 

When I began my career, Hegelianism was the foundation of every thing. Itwas floating in the air; it was expressed in newspaper and periodicalarticles, in historical and judicial lectures, in novels, in treatises, in art, in sermons, in conversation. The man who was not acquainted withHegal had no right to speak. Any one who desired to understand the truthstudied Hegel. Every thing rested on him. And all at once the fortiespassed, and there was nothing left of him. There was not even a hint ofhim, any more than if he had never existed. And the most amazing thingof all was, that Hegelianism did not fall because some one overthrew itor destroyed it. No! It was the same then as now, but all at once itappeared that it was of no use whatever to the learned and cultivatedworld. 

There was a time when the Hegelian wise men triumphantly instructed themasses; and the crowd, understanding nothing, blindly believed in everything, finding confirmation in the fact that it was on hand; and theybelieved that what seemed to them muddy and contradictory there on theheights of philosophy was all as clear as the day. But that time hasgone by. That theory is worn out: a new theory has presented itself inits stead. The old one has become useless; and the crowd has looked intothe secret sanctuaries of the high priests, and has seen that there isnothing there, and that there has been nothing there, save very obscureand senseless words. This has taken place within my memory. 

"But this arises, " people of the present science will say, "from the factthat all that was the raving of the theological and metaphysical period;but now there exists positive, critical science, which does not deceive, since it is all founded on induction and experiment. Now our erectionsare not shaky, as they formerly were, and only in our path lies thesolution of all the problems of humanity. "

But the old teachers said precisely the same, and they were no fools; andwe know that there were people of great intelligence among them. Andprecisely thus, within my memory, and with no less confidence, with noless recognition on the part of the crowd of so-called cultivated people, spoke the Hegelians. And neither were our Herzens, our Stankevitches, orour Byelinskys fools. But whence arose that marvellous manifestation, that sensible people should preach with the greatest assurance, and thatthe crowd should accept with devotion, such unfounded and unsupportableteachings? There is but one reason, --that the teachings thus inculcatedjustified people in their evil life. 

A very poor English writer, whose works are all forgotten, and recognizedas the most insignificant of the insignificant, writes a treatise onpopulation, in which he devises a fictitious law concerning the increaseof population disproportionate to the means of subsistence. Thisfictitious law, this writer encompasses with mathematical formulaefounded on nothing whatever; and then he launches it on the world. Fromthe frivolity and the stupidity of this hypothesis, one would supposethat it would not attract the attention of any one, and that it wouldsink into oblivion, like all the works of the same author which followedit; but it turned out quite otherwise. The hack-writer who penned thistreatise instantly becomes a scientific authority, and maintains himselfupon that height for nearly half a century. Malthus! The Malthusiantheory, --the law of the increase of the population in geometrical, and ofthe means of subsistence in arithmetical proportion, and the wise andnatural means of restricting the population, --all these have becomescientific, indubitable truths, which have not been confirmed, but whichhave been employed as axioms, for the erection of false theories. Inthis manner have learned and cultivated people proceeded; and among theherd of idle persons, there sprung up a pious trust in the great lawsexpounded by Malthus. How did this come to pass? It would seem asthough they were scientific deductions, which had nothing in common withthe instincts of the masses. But this can only appear so for the man whobelieves that science, like the Church, is something self-contained, liable to no errors, and not simply the imaginings of weak and erringfolk, who merely substitute the imposing word "science, " in place of thethoughts and words of the people, for the sake of impressiveness. 

All that was necessary was to make practical deductions from the theoryof Malthus, in order to perceive that this theory was of the most humansort, with the best defined of objects. The deductions directly arisingfrom this theory were the following: The wretched condition of thelaboring classes was such in accordance with an unalterable law, whichdoes not depend upon men; and, if any one is to blame in this matter, itis the hungry laboring classes themselves. Why are they such fools as togive birth to children, when they know that there will be nothing for thechildren to eat? And so this deduction, which is valuable for the herdof idle people, has had this result: that all learned men overlooked theincorrectness, the utter arbitrariness of these deductions, and theirinsusceptibility to proof; and the throng of cultivated, i. E. , of idlepeople, knowing instinctively to what these deductions lead, saluted thistheory with enthusiasm, conferred upon it the stamp of truth, i. E. , ofscience, and dragged it about with them for half a century. 

Is not this same thing the cause of the confidence of men in positivecritical-experimental science, and of the devout attitude of the crowdtowards that which it preaches? At first it seems strange, that thetheory of evolution can in any manner justify people in their evil ways;and it seems as though the scientific theory of evolution has to dealonly with facts, and that it does nothing else but observe facts. 

But this only appears to be the case. 

Exactly the same thing appeared to be the case with the Hegeliandoctrine, in a greater degree, and also in the special instance of theMalthusian doctrine. Hegelianism was, apparently, occupied only with itslogical constructions, and bore no relation to the life of mankind. Precisely this seemed to be the case with the Malthusian theory. Itappeared to be busy itself only with statistical data. But this was onlyin appearance. 

Contemporary science is also occupied with facts alone: it investigatesfacts. But what facts? Why precisely these facts, and no others?

The men of contemporary science are very fond of saying, triumphantly andconfidently, "We investigate only facts, " imagining that these wordscontain some meaning. It is impossible to investigate facts alone, because the facts which are subject to our investigation are_innumerable_ (in the definite sense of that word), --innumerable. Beforewe proceed to investigate facts, we must have a theory on the foundationof which these or those facts can be inquired into, i. E. , selected fromthe incalculable quantity. 

And this theory exists, and is even very definitely expressed, althoughmany of the workers in contemporary science do not know it, or oftenpretend that they do not know it. Exactly thus has it always been withall prevailing and guiding doctrines. The foundations of every doctrineare always stated in a theory, and the so-called learned men merelyinvent further deductions from the foundations once stated. Thuscontemporary science is selecting its facts on the foundation of a verydefinite theory, which it sometimes knows, sometimes refuses to know, andsometimes really does not know; but the theory exists. 

The theory is as follows: All mankind is an undying organism; men are theparticles of that organism, and each one of them has his own special taskfor the service of others. In the same manner, the cells united in anorganism share among them the labor of fight for existence of the wholeorganism; they magnify the power of one capacity, and weaken another, andunite in one organ, in order the better to supply the requirements of thewhole organism. And exactly in the same manner as with gregariousanimals, --ants or bees, --the separate individuals divide the labor amongthem. The queen lays the egg, the drone fructifies it; the bee works hiswhole life long. And precisely this thing takes place in mankind and inhuman societies. And therefore, in order to find the law of life forman, it is necessary to study the laws of the life and the development oforganisms. 

In the life and development of organisms, we find the following laws: thelaw of differentiation and integration, the law that every phenomenon isaccompanied not by direct consequences alone, another law regarding theinstability of type, and so on. All this seems very innocent; but it isonly necessary to draw the deductions from all these laws, in order toimmediately perceive that these laws incline in the same direction as thelaw of Malthus. These laws all point to one thing; namely, to therecognition of that division of labor which exists in human communities, as organic, that is to say, as indispensable. And therefore, the unjustposition in which we, the people who have freed ourselves from labor, find ourselves, must be regarded not from the point of view of common-sense and justice, but merely as an undoubted fact, confirming theuniversal law. 

Moral philosophy also justified every sort of cruelty and harshness; butthis resulted in a philosophical manner, and therefore wrongly. But withscience, all this results scientifically, and therefore in a manner notto be doubted. 

How can we fail to accept so very beautiful a theory? It is merelynecessary to look upon human society as an object of contemplation; and Ican console myself with the thought that my activity, whatever may be itsnature, is a functional activity of the organism of humanity, and thattherefore there cannot arise any question as to whether it is just thatI, in employing the labor of others, am doing only that which isagreeable to me, as there can arise no question as to the division oflabor between the brain cells and the muscular cells. How is it possiblenot to admit so very beautiful a theory, in order that one may be able, ever after, to pocket one's conscience, and have a perfectly unbridledanimal existence, feeling beneath one's self that support of sciencewhich is not to be shaken nowadays!

And it is on this new doctrine that the justification for men's idlenessand cruelty is now founded. 

CHAPTER II. 

This doctrine had its rise not so very long--fifty years--ago. Itsprincipal founder was the French _savant_ Comte. There occurred toComte, --a systematist, and a religious man to boot, --under the influenceof the then novel physiological investigations of Biche, the old ideaalready set forth by Menenius Agrippa, --the idea that human society, allhumanity even, might be regarded as one whole, as an organism; and men asliving parts of the separate organs, having each his own definiteappointment to serve the entire organism. 

This idea so pleased Comte, that upon it he began to erect aphilosophical theory; and this theory so carried him away, that heutterly forgot that the point of departure for his theory was nothingmore than a very pretty comparison, which was suitable for a fable, butwhich could by no means serve as the foundation for science. He, asfrequently happens, mistook his pet hypothesis for an axiom, and imaginedthat his whole theory was erected on the very firmest of foundations. According to his theory, it seemed that since humanity is an organism, the knowledge of what man is, and of what should be his relations to theworld, was possible only through a knowledge of the features of thisorganism. For the knowledge of these qualities, man is enabled to takeobservations on other and lower organisms, and to draw conclusions fromtheir life. Therefore, in the fist place, the true and only method, according to Comte, is the inductive, and all science is only such whenit has experiment as its basis; in the second place, the goal and crownof sciences is formed by that new science dealing with the imaginaryorganism of humanity, or the super-organic being, --humanity, --and thisnewly devised science is sociology. 

And from this view of science it appears, that all previous knowledge wasdeceitful, and that the whole story of humanity, in the sense of self-knowledge, has been divided into three, actually into two, periods: thetheological and metaphysical period, extending from the beginning of theworld to Comte, and the present period, --that of the only true science, positive science, --beginning with Comte. 

All this was very well. There was but one error, and that was this, --thatthe whole edifice was erected on the sand, on the arbitrary and falseassertion that humanity is an organism. This assertion was arbitrary, because we have just as much right to admit the existence of a humanorganism, not subject to observation, as we have to admit the existenceof any other invisible, fantastic being. This assertion was erroneous, because for the understanding of humanity, i. E. , of men, the definitionof an organism was incorrectly constructed, while in humanity itself allactual signs of organism, --the centre of feeling or consciousness, arelacking. {178}

But, in spite of the arbitrariness and incorrectness of the fundamentalassumption of positive philosophy, it was accepted by the so-calledcultivated world with the greatest sympathy. In this connection, onething is worthy of note: that out of the works of Comte, consisting oftwo parts, of positive philosophy and of positive politics, only thefirst was adopted by the learned world, --that part which justifieth, onnew promises, the existent evil of human societies; but the second part, treating of the moral obligations of altruism, arising from therecognition of mankind as an organism, was regarded as not only of noimportance, but as trivial and unscientific. It was a repetition of thesame thing that had happened in the case of Kant's works. The "Critiqueof Pure Reason" was adopted by the scientific crowd; but the "Critique ofApplied Reason, " that part which contains the gist of moral doctrine, wasrepudiated. In Kant's doctrine, that was accepted as scientific whichsubserved the existent evil. But the positive philosophy, which wasaccepted by the crowd, was founded on an arbitrary and erroneous basis, was in itself too unfounded, and therefore unsteady, and could notsupport itself alone. And so, amid all the multitude of the idle playsof thought of the men professing the so-called science, there presentsitself an assertion equally devoid of novelty, and equally arbitrary anderroneous, to the effect that living beings, i. E. , organisms, have hadtheir rise in each other, --not only one organism from another, but onefrom many; i. E. , that in a very long interval of time (in a million ofyears, for instance), not only could a duck and a fish proceed from oneancestor, but that one animal might result from a whole hive of bees. Andthis arbitrary and erroneous assumption was accepted by the learned worldwith still greater and more universal sympathy. This assumption wasarbitrary, because no one has ever seen how one organism is made fromanother, and therefore the hypothesis as to the origin of species willalways remain an hypothesis, and not an experimental fact. And thishypothesis was also erroneous, because the decision of the question as tothe origin of species--that they have originated, in consequence of thelaw of heredity and fitness, in the course of an interminably longtime--is no solution at all, but merely a re-statement of the problem ina new form. 

According to Moses' solution of the question (in the dispute with whomthe entire significance of this theory lies), it appears that thediversity of the species of living creatures proceeded according to thewill of God, and according to His almighty power; but according to thetheory of evolution, it appears that the difference between livingcreatures arose by chance, and on account of varying conditions ofheredity and surroundings, through an endless period of time. The theoryof evolution, to speak in simple language, merely asserts, that bychance, in an incalculably long period of time, out of any thing youlike, any thing else that you like may develop. 

This is no answer to the problem. And the same problem is differentlyexpressed: instead of will, chance is offered, and the co-efficient ofthe eternal is transposed from the power to the time. But this freshassertion strengthened Comte's assertion. And, moreover, according tothe ingenuous confession of the founder of Darwin's theory himself, hisidea was aroused in him by the law of Malthus; and he thereforepropounded the theory of the struggle of living creatures and people forexistence, as the fundamental law of every living thing. And lo! onlythis was needed by the throng of idle people for their justification. 

Two insecure theories, incapable of sustaining themselves on their feet, upheld each other, and acquired the semblance of stability. Boththeories bore with them that idea which is precious to the crowd, that inthe existent evil of human societies, men are not to blame, and that theexisting order of things is that which should prevail; and the new theorywas adopted by the throng with entire faith and unheard-of enthusiasm. And behold, on the strength of these two arbitrary and erroneoushypotheses, accepted as dogmas of belief, the new scientific doctrine wasratified. 

Spencer, for example, in one of his first works, expresses this doctrinethus:--

"Societies and organisms, " he says, "are alike in the following points:--

"1. In that, beginning as tiny aggregates, they imperceptibly grow inmass, so that some of them attain to the size of ten thousand times theiroriginal bulk. 

"2. In that while they were, in the beginning, of such simple structure, that they can be regarded as destitute of all structure, they acquireduring the period of their growth a constantly increasing complication ofstructure. 

"3. In that although in their early, undeveloped period, there existsbetween them hardly any interdependence of parts, their parts graduallyacquire an interdependence, which eventually becomes so strong, that thelife and activity of each part becomes possible only on condition of thelife and activity of the remaining parts. 

"4. In that life and the development of society are independent, andmore protracted than the life and development of any one of the unitsconstituting it, which are born, grow, act, reproduce themselves, and dieseparately; while the political body formed from them, continues to livegeneration after generation, developing in mass in perfection andfunctional activity. "

The points of difference between organisms and society go farther; and itis proved that these differences are merely apparent, but that organismsand societies are absolutely similar. 

For the uninitiated man the question immediately presents itself: "Whatare you talking about? Why is mankind an organism, or similar to anorganism?"

You say that societies resemble organisms in these four features; but itis nothing of the sort. You only take a few features of the organism, and beneath them you range human communities. You bring forward fourfeatures of resemblance, then you take four features of dissimilarity, which are, however, only apparent (according to you); and you thenceconclude that human societies can be regarded as organisms. But surely, this is an empty game of dialectics, and nothing more. On the samefoundation, under the features of an organism, you may range whatever youplease. I will take the fist thing that comes into my head. Let ussuppose it to be a forest, --the manner in which it sows itself in theplain, and spreads abroad. 1. Beginning with a small aggregate, itincreases imperceptibly in mass, and so forth. Exactly the same thingtakes place in the fields, when they gradually seed themselves down, andbring forth a forest. 2. In the beginning the structure is simple:afterwards it increases in complication, and so forth. Exactly the samething happens with the forest, --in the first place, there were only bitch-trees, then came brush-wood and hazel-bushes; at first all grow erect, then they interlace their branches. 3. The interdependence of the partsis so augmented, that the life of each part depends on the life andactivity of the remaining parts. It is precisely so with the forest, --thehazel-bush warms the tree-boles (cut it down, and the other trees willfreeze), the hazel-bush protects from the wind, the seed-bearing treescarry on reproduction, the tall and leafy trees afford shade, and thelife of one tree depends on the life of another. 4. The separate partsmay die, but the whole lives. Exactly the case with the forest. Theforest does not mourn one tree. 

Having proved that, in accordance with this theory, you may regard theforest as an organism, you fancy that you have proved to the disciples ofthe organic doctrine the error of their definition. Nothing of the sort. The definition which they give to the organism is so inaccurate and soelastic that under this definition they may include what they will. "Yes, " they say; "and the forest may also be regarded as an organism. Theforest is mutual re-action of individuals, which do not annihilate eachother, --an aggregate; its parts may also enter into a more intimateunion, as the hive of bees constitutes itself an organism. " Then youwill say, "If that is so, then the birds and the insects and the grass ofthis forest, which re-act upon each other, and do not destroy each other, may also be regarded as one organism, in company with the trees. " And tothis also they will agree. Every collection of living individuals, whichre-act upon each other, and do not destroy each other, may be regarded asorganisms, according to their theory. You may affirm a connection andinteraction between whatever you choose, and, according to evolution, youmay affirm, that, out of whatever you please, any other thing that youplease may proceed, in a very long period of time. 

And the most remarkable thing of all is, that this same identicalpositive science recognizes the scientific method as the sign of trueknowledge, and has itself defined what it designates as the scientificmethod. 

By the scientific method it means common-sense. 

And common-sense convicts it at every step. As soon as the Popes feltthat nothing holy remained in them, they called themselves most holy. 

As soon as science felt that no common-sense was left in her she calledherself sensible, that is to say, scientific science. 

CHAPTER III. 

Division of labor is the law of all existing things, and, therefore, itshould be present in human societies. It is very possible that this isso; but still the question remains, Of what nature is that division oflabor which I behold in my human society? is it that division of laborwhich should exist? And if people regard a certain division of labor asunreasonable and unjust, then no science whatever can convince men thatthat should exist which they regard as unreasonable and unjust. 

Division of labor is the condition of existence of organisms, and ofhuman societies; but what, in these human societies, is to be regarded asan organic division of labor? And, to whatever extent science may haveinvestigated the division of labor in the cells of worms, all theseobservations do not compel a man to acknowledge that division of labor tobe correct which his own sense and conscience do not recognize ascorrect. No matter how convincing may be the proofs of the division oflabor of the cells in the organisms studied, man, if he has not partedwith his judgment, will say, nevertheless, that a man should not weavecalico all his life, and that this is not division of labor, butpersecution of the people. Spencer and others say that there is a wholecommunity of weavers, and that the profession of weaving is an organicdivision of labor. There are weavers; so, of course, there is such adivision of labor. It would be well enough to speak thus if the colonyof weavers had arisen by the free will of its member's; but we know thatit is not thus formed of their initiative, but that we make it. Hence itis necessary to find out whether we have made these weavers in accordancewith an organic law, or with some other. 

Men live. They support themselves by agriculture, as is natural to allmen. One man has set up a blacksmith's forge, and repaired his plough;his neighbor comes to him, and asks him to mend his also, and promiseshim in return either work or money. A third comes, and a fourth; and inthe community formed by these men, there arises the following division oflabor, --a blacksmith is created. Another man has instructed his childrenwell; his neighbor brings his children to him, and requests him to teachthem also, and a teacher is created. But both blacksmith and teacherhave been created, and continue to be such, merely because they have beenasked; and they remain such as long as they are requested to beblacksmith and teacher. If it should come to pass that many blacksmithsand teachers should set themselves up, or that their work is notrequited, they will immediately, as common-sense demands and as alwayshappens when there is no occasion for disturbing the regular course ofdivision of labor, --they will immediately abandon their trade, and betakethemselves once more to agriculture. 

Men who behave thus are guided by their sense, their conscience; andhence we, the men endowed with sense and conscience, all assert that sucha division of labor is right. But if it should chance that theblacksmiths were able to compel other people to work for them, and shouldcontinue to make horse-shoes when they were not wanted, and if theteachers should go on teaching when there was no one to teach, then it isobvious to every sane man, as a man, i. E. , as a being endowed with reasonand conscience, that this would not be division, but appropriation, oflabor. And yet precisely that sort of activity is what is calleddivision of labor by scientific science. People do that which others donot think of requiring, and demand that they shall be supported for sodoing, and say that this is just because it is division of labor. 

That which constitutes the cause of the economical poverty of our age iswhat the English call over-production (which means that a mass of thingsare made which are of no use to anybody, and with which nothing can bedone). 

It would be odd to see a shoemaker, who should consider that people werebound to feed him because he incessantly made boots which had been of nouse to any one for a long time; but what shall we say of those men whomake nothing, --who not only produce nothing that is visible, but nothingthat is of use for people at large, --for whose wares there are nocustomers, and who yet demand, with the same boldness, on the ground ofdivision of labor, that they shall be supplied with fine food and drink, and that they shall be dressed well? There may be, and there are, sorcerers for whose services a demand makes itself felt, and for thispurpose there are brought to them pancakes and flasks; but it isdifficult to imagine the existence of sorcerers whose spells are uselessto every one, and who boldly demand that they shall be luxuriouslysupported because they exercise sorcery. And it is the same in ourworld. And all this comes about on the basis of that false conception ofthe division of labor, which is defined not by reason and conscience, butby observation, which men of science avow with such unanimity. 

Division of labor has, in reality, always existed, and still exists; butit is right only when man decides with his reason and his conscience thatit should be so, and not when he merely investigates it. And reason andconscience decide the question for all men very simply, unanimously, andin a manner not to be doubted. They always decide it thus: that divisionof labor is right only when a special branch of man's activity is soneedful to men, that they, entreating him to serve them, voluntarilypropose to support him in requital for that which he shall do for them. But, when a man can live from infancy to the age of thirty years on thenecks of others, promising to do, when he shall have been taught, something extremely useful, for which no one asks him; and when, from theage of thirty until his death, he can live in the same manner, stillmerely on the promise to do something, for which there has been norequest, this will not be division of labor (and, as a matter of fact, there is no such thing in our society), but it will be what it alreadyis, --merely the appropriation, by force, of the toil of others; that sameappropriation by force of the toil of others which the philosophersformerly designated by various names, --for instance, as indispensableforms of life, --but which scientific science now calls the organicdivision of labor. 

The whole significance of scientific science lies in this alone. It hasnow become a distributer of diplomas for idleness; for it alone, in itssanctuaries, selects and determines what is parasitical, and what isorganic activity, in the social organism. Just as though every man couldnot find this out for himself much more accurately and more speedily, bytaking counsel of his reason and his conscience. It seems to men ofscientific science, that there can be no doubt of this, and that theiractivity is also indubitably organic; they, the scientific and artisticworkers, are the brain cells, and the most precious cells in the wholeorganism. 

Ever since men--reasoning beings--have existed, they have distinguishedgood from evil, and have profited by the fact that men have made thisdistinction before them; they have warred against evil, and have soughtthe good, and have slowly but uninterruptedly advanced in that path. Anddivers delusions have always stood before men, hemming in this path, andhaving for their object to demonstrate to them, that it was not necessaryto do this, and that it was not necessary to live as they were living. With fearful conflict and difficulty, men have freed themselves from manydelusions. And behold, a new and a still more evil delusion has sprungup in the path of mankind, --the scientific delusion. 

This new delusion is precisely the same in nature as the old ones; itsgist lies in secretly leading astray the activity of our reason andconscience, and of those who have lived before us, by something external. In scientific science, this external thing is--investigation. 

The cunning of this science consists in this, --that, after pointing outto men the coarsest false interpretations of the activity of the reasonand conscience of man, it destroys in them faith in their own reason andconscience, and assures them that every thing which their reason andconscience say to them, that all that these have said to the loftiestrepresentatives of man heretofore, ever since the world has existed, --thatall this is conventional and subjective. "All this must be abandoned, "they say; "it is impossible to understand the truth by the reason, for wemay be mistaken. But there exists another unerring and almost mechanicalpath: it is necessary to investigate facts. "

But facts must be investigated on the foundation of scientific science, i. E. , of the two hypotheses of positivism and evolution, which are notborne out by any thing, and which give themselves out as undoubtedtruths. And the reigning science announces, with delusive solemnity, that the solution of all problems of life is possible only through thestudy of facts, of nature, and, in particular, of organisms. Thecredulous mass of young people, overwhelmed by the novelty of thisauthority, which has not yet been overthrown or even touched bycriticism, flings itself into the study of natural sciences, into thatsole path, which, according to the assertion of the reigning science, canlead to the elucidation of the problems of life. 

But the farther the disciples proceed in this study, the farther andfarther does not only the possibility, but even the very idea, of thesolution of the problems of life withdraw from them, and the more andmore do they become accustomed, not so much to investigate, as to believein the assertions of other investigators (to believe in cells, inprotoplasm, in the fourth condition of bodies, and so forth); the moreand more does the form veil the contents from them; the more and more dothey lose the consciousness of good and evil, and the capacity ofunderstanding those expressions and definitions of good and evil whichhave been elaborated through the whole foregoing life of mankind; and themore and more do they appropriate to themselves the special scientificjargon of conventional expressions, which possesses no universally humansignificance; and the deeper and deeper do they plunge into the _debris_of utterly unilluminated investigations; the more and more do they losethe power, not only of independent thought, but even of understanding thefresh human thought of others, which lies beyond the bounds of theirTalmud. But the principal thing is, that they pass their best years ingetting disused to life; they grow accustomed to consider their positionas justifiable; and they convert themselves physically into utterlyuseless parasites, and mentally they dislocate their brains and becomemental eunuchs. And in precisely the same manner, according to themeasure of their folly, do they acquire self-conceit, which deprives themforever of all possibility of return to a simple life of toil, to asimple, clear, and universally human train of reasoning. 

Division of labor always has existed in human communities, and willprobably always exist; but the question for us lies not in the fact thatit has existed, and that it will exist, but in this, --how are we togovern ourselves so that this division shall be right? But if we takeinvestigation as our rule of action, we by this very act repudiate allrule; then in that case we shall regard as right every division of laborwhich we shall descry among men, and which appears to us to be right--towhich conclusion the prevailing scientific science also leads. 

Division of labor!

Some are busied in mental or moral, others in muscular or physical, labor. With what confidence people enunciate this! They wish to thinkso, and it seems to them that, in point of fact, a perfectly regularexchange of services does take place. 

But we, in our blindness, have so completely lost sight of theresponsibility which we have assumed, that we have even forgotten inwhose name our labor is prosecuted; and the very people whom we haveundertaken to serve have become the objects of our scientific andartistic activity. We study and depict them for our amusement anddiversion. We have totally forgotten that what we need to do is not tostudy and depict them, but to serve them. To such a degree have we lostsight of this duty which we have taken upon us, that we have not evennoticed that what we have undertaken to perform in the realm of scienceand art has been accomplished not by us, but by others, and that ourplace has turned out to be occupied. 

It proves that while we have been disputing, one about the spontaneousorigin of organisms, another as to what else there is in protoplasm, andso on, the common people have been in need of spiritual food; and theunsuccessful and rejected of art and science, in obedience to the mandateof adventurers who have in view the sole aim of profit, have begun tofurnish the people with this spiritual food, and still so furnish them. For the last forty years in Europe, and for the last ten years with ushere in Russia, millions of books and pictures and song-books have beendistributed, and stalls have been opened, and the people gaze and singand receive spiritual nourishment, but not from us who have undertaken toprovide it; while we, justifying our idleness by that spiritual foodwhich we are supposed to furnish, sit by and wink at it. 

But it is impossible for us to wink at it, for our last justification isslipping from beneath our feet. We have become specialized. We have ourparticular functional activity. We are the brains of the people. Theysupport us, and we have undertaken to teach them. It is only under thispretence that we have excused ourselves from work. But what have wetaught them, and what are we now teaching them? They have waited foryears--for tens, for hundreds of years. And we keep on diverting ourminds with chatter, and we instruct each other, and we console ourselves, and we have utterly forgotten them. We have so entirely forgotten them, that others have undertaken to instruct them, and we have not evenperceived it. We have spoken of the division of labor with such lack ofseriousness, that it is obvious that what we have said about the benefitswhich we have conferred on the people was simply a shameless evasion. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Science and art have arrogated to themselves the right of idleness, andof the enjoyment of the labor of others, and have betrayed their calling. And their errors have arisen merely because their servants, having setforth a falsely conceived principle of the division of labor, haverecognized their own right to make use of the labor of others, and havelost the significance of their vocation; having taken for their aim, notthe profit of the people, but the mysterious profit of science and art, and delivered themselves over to idleness and vice--not so much of thesenses as of the mind. 

They say, "Science and art have bestowed a great deal on mankind. "

Science and art have bestowed a great deal on mankind, not because themen of art and science, under the pretext of a division of labor, live onother people, but in spite of this. 

The Roman Republic was powerful, not because her citizens had the powerto live a vicious life, but because among their number there were heroiccitizens. It is the same with art and science. Art and science havebestowed much on mankind, but not because their followers formerlypossessed on rare occasions (and now possess on every occasion) thepossibility of getting rid of labor; but because there have been men ofgenius, who, without making use of these rights, have led mankindforward. 

The class of learned men and artists, which has advanced, on thefictitious basis of a division of labor, its demands to the right ofusing the labors of others, cannot co-operate in the success of truescience and true art, because a lie cannot bring forth the truth. 

We have become so accustomed to these, our tenderly reared or weakenedrepresentatives of mental labor, that it seems to us horrible that a manof science or an artist should plough or cart manure. It seems to usthat every thing would go to destruction, and that all his wisdom wouldbe rattled out of him in the cart, and that all those grand picturesqueimages which he bears about in his breast would be soiled in the manure;but we have become so inured to this, that it does not strike us asstrange that our servitor of science--that is to say, the servant andteacher of the truth--by making other people do for him that which hemight do for himself, passes half his time in dainty eating, in smoking, in talking, in free and easy gossip, in reading the newspapers andromances, and in visiting the theatres. It is not strange to us to seeour philosopher in the tavern, in the theatre, and at the ball. It isnot strange in our eyes to learn that those artists who sweeten andennoble our souls have passed their lives in drunkenness, cards, andwomen, if not in something worse. 

Art and science are very beautiful things; but just because they are sobeautiful they should not be spoiled by the compulsory combination withthem of vice: that is to say, a man should not get rid of his obligationto serve his own life and that of other people by his own labor. Art andscience have caused mankind to progress. Yes; but not because men of artand science, under the guise of division of labor, have rid themselves ofthe very first and most indisputable of human obligations, --to labor withtheir hands in the universal struggle of mankind with nature. 

"But only the division of labor, the freedom of men of science and of artfrom the necessity of earning them living, has rendered possible thatremarkable success of science which we behold in our day, " is the answerto this. "If all were forced to till the soil, those _vast_ resultswould not have been attained which have been attained in our day; therewould have been none of those _striking_ successes which have so greatlyaugmented man's power over nature, were it not for these astronomicaldiscoveries _which are so astounding to the mind of man_, and which haveadded to the security of navigation; there would be no steamers, norailways, none of those _wonderful_ bridges, tunnels, steam-engines andtelegraphs, photography, telephones, sewing-machines, phonographs, electricity, telescopes, spectroscopes, microscopes, chloroform, Lister'sbandages, and carbolic acid. "

I will not enumerate every thing on which our age thus prides itself. This enumeration and pride of enthusiasm over ourselves and our exploitscan be found in almost any newspaper and popular pamphlet. Thisenthusiasm over ourselves is often repeated to such a degree that none ofus can sufficiently rejoice over ourselves, that we are seriouslyconvinced that art and science have never made such progress as in ourown time. And, as we are indebted for all this marvellous progress tothe division of labor, why not acknowledge it?

Let us admit that the progress made in our day is noteworthy, marvellous, unusual; let us admit that we are fortunate mortals to live in such aremarkable epoch: but let us endeavor to appraise this progress, not onthe basis of our self-satisfaction, but of that principle which defendsitself with this progress, --the division of labor. All this progress isvery amazing; but by a peculiarly unlucky chance, admitted even by themen of science, this progress has not so far improved, but it has ratherrendered worse, the position of the majority, that is to say, of theworkingman. 

If the workingman can travel on the railway, instead of walking, stillthat same railway has burned down his forest, has carried off his grainunder his very nose, and has brought his condition very near toslavery--to the capitalist. If, thanks to steam-engines and machines, the workingman can purchase inferior calico at a cheap rate, on the otherhand these engines and machines have deprived him of work at home, andhave brought him into a state of abject slavery to the manufacturer. Ifthere are telephones and telescopes, poems, romances, theatres, ballets, symphonies, operas, picture-galleries, and so forth, on the other handthe life of the workingman has not been bettered by all this; for all ofthem, by the same unlucky chance, are inaccessible to him. 

So that, on the whole (and even men of science admit this), up to thepresent time, all these remarkable discoveries and products of scienceand art have certainly not ameliorated the condition of the workingman, if, indeed, they have not made it worse. So that, if we set against thequestion as to the reality of the progress attained by the arts andsciences, not our own rapture, but that standard upon the basis of whichthe division of labor is defended, --the good of the laboring man, --weshall see that we have no firm foundations for that self-satisfaction inwhich we are so fond of indulging. 

The peasant travels on the railway, the woman buys calico, in the _isba_(cottage) there will be a lamp instead of a pine-knot, and the peasantwill light his pipe with a match, --this is convenient; but what righthave I to say that the railway and the factory have proved advantageousto the people?

If the peasant rides on the railway, and buys calico, a lamp, andmatches, it is only because it is impossible to forbid the peasant'sbuying them; but surely we are all aware that the construction ofrailways and factories has never been carried out for the benefit of thelower classes: so why should a casual convenience which the workingmanenjoys lead to a proof of the utility of all these institutions for thepeople?

There is something useful in every injurious thing. After aconflagration, one can warm one's self, and light one's pipe with afirebrand; but why declare that the conflagration is beneficial?

Men of art and science might say that their pursuits are beneficial tothe people, only when men of art and science have assigned to themselvesthe object of serving the people, as they now assign themselves theobject of serving the authorities and the capitalists. We might say thisif men of art and science had taken as their aim the needs of the people;but there are none such. All scientists are busy with their priestlyavocations, out of which proceed investigations into protoplasm, thespectral analyses of stars, and so on. But science has never oncethought of what axe or what hatchet is the most profitable to chop with, what saw is the most handy, what is the best way to mix bread, from whatflour, how to set it, how to build and heat an oven, what food and drink, and what utensils, are the most convenient and advantageous under certainconditions, what mushrooms may be eaten, how to propagate them, and howto prepare them in the most suitable manner. And yet all this is theprovince of science. 

I am aware, that, according to its own definition, science ought to beuseless, i. E. , science for the sake of science; but surely this is anobvious evasion. The province of science is to serve the people. Wehave invented telegraphs, telephones, phonographs; but what advances havewe effected in the life, in the labor, of the people? We have reckonedup two millions of beetles! And we have not tamed a single animal sincebiblical times, when all our animals were already domesticated; but thereindeer, the stag, the partridge, the heath-cock, all remain wild. 

Our botanists have discovered the cell, and in the cell protoplasm, andin that protoplasm still something more, and in that atom yet anotherthing. It is evident that these occupations will not end for a long timeto come, because it is obvious that there can be no end to them, andtherefore the scientist has no time to devote to those things which arenecessary to the people. And therefore, again, from the time of Egyptianand Hebrew antiquity, when wheat and lentils had already been cultivated, down to our own times, not a single plant has been added to the food ofthe people, with the exception of the potato, and that was not obtainedby science. 

Torpedoes have been invented, and apparatus for taxation, and so forth. But the spinning-whined, the woman's weaving-loom, the plough, thehatchet, the chain, the rake, the bucket, the well-sweep, are exactly thesame as they were in the days of Rurik; and if there has been any change, then that change has not been effected by scientific people. 

And it is the same with the arts. We have elevated a lot of people tothe rank of great writers; we have picked these writers to pieces, andhave written mountains of criticism, and criticism on the critics, andcriticism on the critics of the critics. And we have collected picture-galleries, and have studied different schools of art in detail; and wehave so many symphonies and orchestras and operas, that it is becomingdifficult even for us to listen to them. But what have we added to thepopular _bylini_ [the epic songs], legends, tales, songs? What music, what pictures, have we given to the people?

On the Nikolskaya books are manufactured for the people, and harmonicasin Tula; and in neither have we taken any part. The falsity of the wholedirection of our arts and sciences is more striking and more apparent inprecisely those very branches, which, it would seem, should, from theirvery nature, be of use to the people, and which, in consequence of theirfalse attitude, seem rather injurious than useful. The technologist, thephysician, the teacher, the artist, the author, should, in virtue oftheir very callings, it would seem, serve the people. And, what then?Under the present _regime_, they can do nothing but harm to the people. 

The technologist or the mechanic has to work with capital. Withoutcapital he is good for nothing. All his acquirements are such that fortheir display he requires capital, and the exploitation of the laboring-man on the largest scale; and--not to mention that he is trained to live, at the lowest, on from fifteen hundred to two thousand a year, and that, therefore, he cannot go to the country, where no one can give him suchwages, --he is, by virtue of his very occupation, unfitted for serving thepeople. He knows how to calculate the highest mathematical arch of abridge, how to calculate the force and transfer of the motive power, andso on; but he is confounded by the simplest questions of a peasant: howto improve a plough or a cart, or how to make irrigating canals. Allthis in the conditions of life in which the laboring man finds himself. Of this, he neither knows nor understands any thing, --less, indeed, thanthe very stupidest peasant. Give him workshops, all sorts of workmen athis desire, an order for a machine from abroad, and he will get along. But how to devise means of lightening toil, under the conditions of laborof millions of men, --this is what he does not and can not know; andbecause of his knowledge, his habits, and his demands on life, he isunfitted for this business. 

In a still worse predicament is the physician. His fancied science isall so arranged, that he only knows how to heal those persons who donothing. He requires an incalculable quantity of expensive preparations, instruments, drugs, and hygienic apparatus. 

He has studied with celebrities in the capitals, who only retain patientswho can be cured in the hospital, or who, in the course of their cure, can purchase the appliances requisite for healing, and even go at oncefrom the North to the South, to some baths or other. Science is of sucha nature, that every rural physic-man laments because there are no meansof curing working-men, because he is so poor that he has not the means toplace the sick man in the proper hygienic conditions; and at the sametime this physician complains that there are no hospitals, and that hecannot get through with his work, that he needs assistants, more doctorsand practitioners. 

What is the inference? This: that the people's principal lack, fromwhich diseases arise, and spread abroad, and refuse to be healed, is thelack of means of subsistence. And here Science, under the banner of thedivision of labor, summons her warriors to the aid of the people. Scienceis entirely arranged for the wealthy classes, and it has adopted for itstask the healing of the people who can obtain every thing for themselves;and it attempts to heal those who possess no superfluity, by the samemeans. 

But there are no means, and therefore it is necessary to take them fromthe people who are ailing, and pest-stricken, and who cannot recover forlack of means. And now the defenders of medicine for the people say thatthis matter has been, as yet, but little developed. Evidently it hasbeen but little developed, because if (which God forbid!) it had beendeveloped, and that through oppressing the people, --instead of twodoctors, midwives, and practitioners in a district, twenty would havesettled down, since they desire this, and half the people would have diedthrough the difficulty of supporting this medical staff, and soon therewould be no one to heal. 

Scientific co-operation with the people, of which the defenders ofscience talk, must be something quite different. And this co-operationwhich should exist has not yet begun. It will begin when the man ofscience, technologist or physician, will not consider it legal to takefrom people--I will not say a hundred thousand, but even a modest tenthousand, or five hundred rubles for assisting them; but when he willlive among the toiling people, under the same conditions, and exactly asthey do, then he will be able to apply his knowledge to the questions ofmechanics, technics, hygiene, and the healing of the laboring people. Butnow science, supporting itself at the expense of the working-people, hasentirely forgotten the conditions of life among these people, ignores (asit puts it) these conditions, and takes very grave offence because itsfancied knowledge finds no adherents among the people. 

The domain of medicine, like the domain of technical science, still liesuntouched. All questions as to how the time of labor is best divided, what is the best method of nourishment, with what, in what shape, andwhen it is best to clothe one's self, to shoe one's self, to counteractdampness and cold, how best to wash one's self, to feed the children, toswaddle them, and so on, in just those conditions in which the working-people find themselves, --all these questions have not yet beenpropounded. 

The same is the case with the activity of the teachers ofscience, --pedagogical teachers. Exactly in the same manner science hasso arranged this matter, that only wealthy people are able to studyscience, and teachers, like technologists and physicians, cling to money. 

And this cannot be otherwise, because a school built on a model plan (asa general rule, the more scientifically built the school, the more costlyit is), with pivot chains, and globes, and maps, and library, and pettytext-books for teachers and scholars and pedagogues, is a sort of thingfor which it would be necessary to double the taxes in every village. This science demands. The people need money for their work; and the morethere is needed, the poorer they are. 

Defenders of science say: "Pedagogy is even now proving of advantage tothe people, but give it a chance to develop, and then it will do stillbetter. " Yes, if it does develop, and instead of twenty schools in adistrict there are a hundred, and all scientific, and if the peoplesupport these schools, they will grow poorer than ever, and they willmore than ever need work for their children's sake. "What is to bedone?" they say to this. The government will build the schools, and willmake education obligatory, as it is in Europe; but again, surely, themoney is taken from the people just the same, and it will be harder towork, and they will have less leisure for work, and there will be noeducation even by compulsion. Again the sole salvation is this: that theteacher should live under the conditions of the working-men, and shouldteach for that compensation which they give him freely and voluntarily. 

Such is the false course of science, which deprives it of the power offulfilling its obligation, which is, to serve the people. 

But in nothing is this false course of science so obviously apparent, asin the vocation of art, which, from its very significance, ought to beaccessible to the people. Science may fall back on its stupid excuse, that science acts for science, and that when it turns out learned men itis laboring for the people; but art, if it is art, should be accessibleto all the people, and in particular to those in whose name it isexecuted. And our definition of art, in a striking manner, convictsthose who busy themselves with art, of their lack of desire, lack ofknowledge, and lack of power, to be useful to the people. 

The painter, for the production of his great works, must have a studio ofat least such dimensions that a whole association of carpenters (forty innumber) or shoemakers, now sickening or stifling in lairs, would be ableto work in it. But this is not all; he must have a model, costumes, travels. Millions are expended on the encouragement of art, and theproducts of this art are both incomprehensible and useless to the people. Musicians, in order to express their grand ideas, must assemble twohundred men in white neckties, or in costumes, and spend hundreds ofthousands of rubles for the equipment of an opera. And the products ofthis art cannot evoke from the people--even if the latter could at anytime enjoy it--any thing except amazement and _ennui_. 

Writers--authors--it appears, do not require surroundings, studios, models, orchestras, and actors; but it then appears that the author needs(not to mention comfort in his quarters) all the dainties of life for thepreparation of his great works, travels, palaces, cabinets, libraries, the pleasures of art, visits to theatres, concerts, the baths, and so on. If he does not earn a fortune for himself, he is granted a pension, inorder that he may compose the better. And again, these compositions, soprized by us, remain useless lumber for the people, and utterlyunserviceable to them. 

And if still more of these dealers in spiritual nourishment are developedfurther, as men of science desire, and a studio is erected in everyvillage; if an orchestra is set up, and authors are supported in thoseconditions which artistic people regard as indispensable forthemselves, --I imagine that the working-classes will sooner take an oathnever to look at any pictures, never to listen to a symphony, never toread poetry or novels, than to feed all these persons. 

And why, apparently, should art not be of service to the people? Inevery cottage there are images and pictures; every peasant man and womansings; many own harmonicas; and all recite stories and verses, and manyread. It is as if those two things which are made for each other--thelock and the key--had parted company; they have sprung so far apart, thatnot even the possibility of uniting them presents itself. Tell theartist that he should paint without a studio, model, or costumes, andthat he should paint five-kopek pictures, and he will say that that istantamount to abandoning his art, as he understands it. Tell themusician that he should play on the harmonica, and teach the women tosing songs; say to the poet, to the author, that he ought to cast asidehis poems and romances, and compose song-books, tales, and stories, comprehensible to the uneducated people, --they will say that you are mad. 

The service of the people by science and art will only be performed whenpeople, dwelling in the midst of the common folk, and, like the commonfolk, putting forward no demands, claiming no rights, shall offer to thecommon folk their scientific and artistic services; the acceptance orrejection of which shall depend wholly on the will of the common folk. 

It is said that the activity of science and art has aided in the forwardmarch of mankind, --meaning by this activity, that which is now called bythat name; which is the same as saying that an unskilled banging of oarson a vessel that is floating with the tide, which merely hinders theprogress of the vessel, is assisting the movement of the ship. It onlyretards it. The so-called division of labor, which has become in our daythe condition of activity of men of science and art, was, and hasremained, the chief cause of the tardy forward movement of mankind. 

The proofs of this lie in that confession of all men of science, that thegains of science and art are inaccessible to the laboring masses, inconsequence of the faulty distribution of riches. The irregularity ofthis distribution does not decrease in proportion to the progress ofscience and art, but only increases. Men of art and science assume anair of deep pity for this unfortunate circumstance which does not dependupon them. But this unfortunate circumstance is produced by themselves;for this irregular distribution of wealth flows solely from the theory ofthe division of labor. 

Science maintains the division of labor as a unalterable law; it seesthat the distribution of wealth, founded on the division of labor, iswrong and ruinous; and it affirms that its activity, which recognizes thedivision of labor, will lead people to bliss. The result is, that somepeople make use of the labor of others; but that, if they shall make useof the labor of others for a very long period of time, and in stilllarger measure, then this wrongful distribution of wealth, i. E. , the useof the labor of others, will come to an end. 

Men stand beside a constantly swelling spring of water, and are occupiedwith the problem of diverting it to one side, away from the thirstypeople, and they assert that they are producing this water, and that soonenough will be collected for all. But this water which has flowed, andwhich still flows unceasingly, and nourishes all mankind, not only is notthe result of the activity of the men who, standing at its source, turnit aside, but this water flows and gushes out, in spite of the efforts ofthese men to obstruct its flow. 

There have always existed a true science, and a true art; but truescience and art are not such because they called themselves by that name. It always seems to those who claim at any given period to be therepresentatives of science and art, that they have performed, and areperforming, and--most of all--that they will presently perform, the mostamazing marvels, and that beside them there never has been and there isnot any science or any art. Thus it seemed to the sophists, thescholastics, the alchemists, the cabalists, the talmudists; and thus itseems to our own scientific science, and to our art for the sake of art. 

CHAPTER V. 

"But art, --science! You repudiate art and science; that is, yourepudiate that by which mankind lives!" People are constantly makingthis--it is not a reply--to me, and they employ this mode of reception inorder to reject my deductions without examining into them. "Herepudiates science and art, he wants to send people back again into asavage state; so what is the use of listening to him and of talking tohim?" But this is unjust. I not only do not repudiate art and science, but, in the name of that which is true art and true science, I say thatwhich I do say; merely in order that mankind may emerge from that savagestate into which it will speedily fall, thanks to the erroneous teachingof our time, --only for this purpose do I say that which I say. 

Art and science are as indispensable as food and drink and clothing, --moreindispensable even; but they become so, not because we decide that whatwe designate as art and science are indispensable, but simply becausethey really are indispensable to people. 

Surely, if hay is prepared for the bodily nourishment of men, the factthat we are convinced that hay is the proper food for man will not makehay the food of man. Surely I cannot say, "Why do not you eat hay, whenit is the indispensable food?" Food is indispensable, but it may happenthat that which I offer is not food at all. This same thing has occurredwith our art and science. It seems to us, that if we add to a Greek wordthe word "logy, " and call that a science, it will be a science; and, ifwe call any abominable thing--like the dancing of nude females--by aGreek word, choreography, that that is art, and that it will be art. Butno matter how much we may say this, the business with which we occupyourselves when we count beetles, and investigate the chemicalconstituents of the stars in the Milky Way, when we paint nymphs andcompose novels and symphonies, --our business will not become either artor science until such time as it is accepted by those people for whom itis wrought. 

If it were decided that only certain people should produce food, and ifall the rest were forbidden to do this, or if they were renderedincapable of producing food, I suppose that the quality of food would belowered. If the people who enjoyed the monopoly of producing food wereRussian peasants, there would be no other food than black bread andcabbage-soup, and so on, and kvas, --nothing except what they like, andwhat is agreeable to them. The same thing would happen in the case ofthat loftiest human pursuit, of arts and sciences, if one caste were toarrogate to itself a monopoly of them: but with this sole difference, that, in the matter of bodily food, there can be no great departure fromnature, and bread and cabbage-soup, although not very savory viands, arefit for consumption; but in spiritual food, there may exist the verygreatest departures from nature, and some people may feed themselves fora long time on poisonous spiritual nourishment, which is directlyunsuitable for, or injurious to, them; they may slowly kill themselveswith spiritual opium or liquors, and they may offer this same food to themasses. 

It is this very thing that is going on among us. And it has come aboutbecause the position of men of science and art is a privileged one, because art and science (in our day), in our world, are not at all arational occupation of all mankind without exception, exerting their bestpowers for the service of art and science, but an occupation of arestricted circle of people holding a monopoly of these industries, andentitling themselves men of art and science, and who have, therefore, perverted the very idea of art and science, and have lost all the meaningof their vocation, and who are only concerned in amusing and rescuingfrom crushing _ennui_ their tiny circle of idle mouths. 

Ever since men have existed, they have always had science and art in thesimplest and broadest sense of the term. Science, in the sense of thewhole of knowledge acquired by mankind, exists and always has existed, and life without it is not conceivable; and there is no possibility ofeither attacking or defending science, taken in this sense. 

But the point lies here, --that the scope of the knowledge of all mankindas a whole is so multifarious, ranging from the knowledge of how toextract iron to the knowledge of the movements of the planets, that manloses himself in this multitude of existing knowledge, --knowledge capableof _endless_ possibilities, if he have no guiding thread, by the aid ofwhich he can classify this knowledge, and arrange the branches accordingto the degrees of their significance and importance. 

Before a man undertakes to learn any thing whatever, he must make up hismind that that branch of knowledge is of weight to him, and of moreweight and importance than the countless other objects of study withwhich he is surrounded. Before undertaking the study of any thing, a mandecides for what purpose he is studying this subject, and not the others. But to study every thing, as the men of scientific science in our daypreach, without any idea of what is to come out of such study, isdownright impossible, because the number of subjects of study is_endless_; and hence, no matter how many branches we may acquire, theiracquisition can possess no significance or reason. And, therefore, inancient times, down to even a very recent date, until the appearance ofscientific science, man's highest wisdom consisted in finding thatguiding thread, according to which the knowledge of men should beclassified as being of primary or of secondary importance. And thisknowledge, which forms the guide to all other branches of knowledge, menhave always called science in the strictest acceptation of the word. Andsuch science there has always been, even down to our own day, in allhuman communities which have emerged from their primal state of savagery. 

Ever since mankind has existed, teachers have always arisen amongpeoples, who have enunciated science in this restricted sense, --thescience of what it is most useful for man to know. This science hasalways had for its object the knowledge of what is the true ground of thewell-being of each individual man, and of all men, and why. Such was thescience of Confucius, of Buddha, of Socrates, of Mahomet, and of others;such is this science as they understood it, and as all men--with theexception of our little circle of so-called cultured people--understandit. This science has not only always occupied the highest place, but hasbeen the only and sole science, from which the standing of the rest hasbeen determined. And this was the case, not in the least because, as theso-called scientific people of our day think, cunning priestly teachersof this science attributed to it such significance, but because inreality, as every one knows, both by personal experience and byreflection, there can be no science except the science of that in whichthe destiny and welfare of man consist. For the objects of science are_incalculable_ in number, --I undermine the word "incalculable" in theexact sense in which I understand it, --and without the knowledge of thatin which the destiny and welfare of all men consist, there is nopossibility of making a choice amid this interminable multitude ofsubjects; and therefore, without this knowledge, all other arts andbranches of learning will become, as they have become among us, an idleand hurtful diversion. 

Mankind has existed and existed, and never has it existed without thescience of that in which the destiny and the welfare of men consist. Itis true that the science of the welfare of men appears different onsuperficial observation, among the Buddhists, the Brahmins, the Hebrews, the Confucians, the Tauists; but nevertheless, wherever we hear of menwho have emerged from a state of savagery, we find this science. And allof a sudden it appears that the men of our day have decided that thissame science, which has hitherto served as the guiding thread of allhuman knowledge, is the very thing which hinders every thing. Men erectbuildings; and one architect has made one estimate of cost, a second hasmade another, and a third yet another. The estimates differ somewhat;but they are correct, so that any one can see, that, if the whole iscarried out in accordance with the calculations, the building will beerected. Along come people, and assert that the chief point lies inhaving no estimates, and that it should be built thus--by the eye. Andthis "thus, " men call the most accurate of scientific science. Menrepudiate every science, the very substance of science, --the definitionof the destiny and the welfare of men, --and this repudiation theydesignate as science. 

Ever since men have existed, great minds have been born into their midst, which, in the conflict with reason and conscience, have put to themselvesquestions as to "what constitutes welfare, --the destiny and welfare, notof myself alone, but of every man?" What does that power which hascreated and which leads me, demand of me and of every man? And what isit necessary for me to do, in order to comply with the requirementsimposed upon me by the demands of individual and universal welfare? Theyhave asked themselves: "I am a whole, and also a part of somethinginfinite, eternal; what, then, are my relations to other parts similar tomyself, to men and to the whole--to the world?"

And from the voices of conscience and of reason, and from a comparison ofwhat their contemporaries and men who had lived before them, and who hadpropounded to themselves the same questions, had said, these greatteachers have deduced their doctrines, which were simple, clear, intelligible to all men, and always such as were susceptible offulfilment. Such men have existed of the first, second, third, andlowest ranks. The world is full of such men. Every living man propoundsthe question to himself, how to reconcile the demands of welfare, and ofhis personal existence, with conscience and reason; and from thisuniversal labor, slowly but uninterruptedly, new forms of life, which aremore in accord with the requirements of reason and of conscience, areworked out. 

All at once, a new caste of people makes its appearance, and they say, "All this is nonsense; all this must be abandoned. " This is thedeductive method of ratiocination (wherein lies the difference betweenthe deductive and the inductive method, no one can understand); these arethe dogmas of the technological and metaphysical period. Every thingthat these men discover by inward experience, and which they communicateto one another, concerning their knowledge of the law of their existence(of their functional activity, according to their own jargon), everything that the grandest minds of mankind have accomplished in thisdirection, since the beginning of the world, --all this is nonsense, andhas no weight whatever. According to this new doctrine, it appears thatyou are cells: and that you, as a cell, have a very definite functionalactivity, which you not only fulfil, but which you infallibly feel withinyou; and that you are a thinking, talking, understanding cell, and thatyou, for this reason, can ask another similar talking cell whether it isjust the same, and in this way verify your own experience; that you cantake advantage of the fact that speaking cells, which have lived beforeyou, have written on the same subject, and that you have millions ofcells which confirm your observations by their agreement with the cellswhich have written down their thoughts, --all this signifies nothing; allthis is an evil and an erroneous method. 

The true scientific method is this: If you wish to know in what thedestiny and the welfare of all mankind and of all the world consists, youmust, first of all, cease to listen to the voices of your conscience andof your reason, which present themselves in you and in others like you;you must cease to believe all that the great teachers of mankind havesaid with regard to your conscience and reason, and you must consider allthis as nonsense, and begin all over again. And, in order to understandevery thing from the beginning, you must look through microscopes at themovements of amoebae, and cells in worms, or, with still greatercomposure, believe in every thing that men with a diploma ofinfallibility shall say to you about them. And as you gaze at themovements of these cells, or read about what others have seen, you mustattribute to these cells your own human sensations and calculations as towhat they desire, whither they are directing themselves, how they compareand discuss, and to what they have become accustomed; and from theseobservations (in which there is not a word about an error of thought orof expression) you must deduce a conclusion by analogy as to what youare, what is your destiny, wherein lies the welfare of yourself and ofother cells like you. In order to understand yourself, you must studynot only the worms which you see, but microscopic creatures which you canbarely see, and transformations from one set of creatures into others, which no one has ever beheld, and which you, most assuredly, will neverbehold. And the same with art. Where there has been true science, arthas always been its exponent. 

Ever since men have been in existence, they have been in the habit ofdeducing, from all pursuits, the expressions of various branches oflearning concerning the destiny and the welfare of man, and theexpression of this knowledge has been art in the strict sense of theword. 

Ever since men have existed, there have been those who were peculiarlysensitive and responsive to the doctrine regarding the destiny andwelfare of man; who have given expression to their own and the popularconflict, to the delusions which lead them astray from their destinies, their sufferings in this conflict, their hopes in the triumph of good, them despair over the triumph of evil, and their raptures in theconsciousness of the approaching bliss of man, on viol and tabret, inimages and words. Always, down to the most recent times, art has servedscience and life, --only then was it what has been so highly esteemed ofmen. But art, in its capacity of an important human activity, disappeared simultaneously with the substitution for the genuine scienceof destiny and welfare, of the science of any thing you choose to fancy. Art has existed among all peoples, and will exist until that which amongus is scornfully called religion has come to be considered the onlyscience. 

In our European world, so long as there existed a Church, as the doctrineof destiny and welfare, and so long as the Church was regarded as theonly true science, art served the Church, and remained true art: but assoon as art abandoned the Church, and began to serve science, whilescience served whatever came to hand, art lost its significance. Andnotwithstanding the rights claimed on the score of ancient memories, andof the clumsy assertion which only proves its loss of its calling, thatart serves art, it has become a trade, providing men with somethingagreeable; and as such, it inevitably comes into the category ofchoreographic, culinary, hair-dressing, and cosmetic arts, whosepractitioners designate themselves as artists, with the same right as thepoets, printers, and musicians of our day. 

Glance backward into the past, and you will see that in the course ofthousands of years, out of milliards of people, only half a score ofConfucius', Buddhas, Solomons, Socrates, Solons, and Homers have beenproduced. Evidently, they are rarely met with among men, in spite of thefact that these men have not been selected from a single caste, but frommankind at large. Evidently, these true teachers and artists and learnedmen, the purveyors of spiritual nourishment, are rare. And it is notwithout reason that mankind has valued and still values them so highly. 

But it now appears, that all these great factors in the science and artof the past are no longer of use to us. Nowadays, scientific andartistic authorities can, in accordance with the law of division oflabor, be turned out by factory methods; and, in one decade, more greatmen have been manufactured in art and science, than have ever been bornof such among all nations, since the foundation of the world. Nowadaysthere is a guild of learned men and artists, and they prepare, byperfected methods, all that spiritual food which man requires. And theyhave prepared so much of it, that it is no longer necessary to refer tothe elder authorities, who have preceded them, --not only to the ancients, but to those much nearer to us. All that was the activity of thetheological and metaphysical period, --all that must be wiped out: but thetrue, the rational activity began, say, fifty years ago, and in thecourse of those fifty years we have made so many great men, that thereare about ten great men to every branch of science. And there have cometo be so many sciences, that, fortunately, it is easy to make them. Allthat is required is to add the Greek word "logy" to the name, and forcethem to conform to a set rubric, and the science is all complete. Theyhave created so many sciences, that not only can no one man know themall, but not a single individual can remember all the titles of all theexisting sciences; the titles alone form a thick lexicon, and newsciences are manufactured every day. They have been manufactured on thepattern of that Finnish teacher who taught the landed proprietor'schildren Finnish instead of French. Every thing has been excellentlyinculcated; but there is one objection, --that no one except ourselves canunderstand any thing of it, and all this is reckoned as utterly uselessnonsense. However, there is an explanation even for this. People do notappreciate the full value of scientific science, because they are underthe influence of the theological period, that profound period when allthe people, both among the Hebrews, and the Chinese, and the Indians, andthe Greeks, understood every thing that their great teachers said tothem. 

But, from whatever cause this has come about, the fact remains, thatsciences and arts have always existed among mankind, and, when theyreally did exist, they were useful and intelligible to all the people. But we practise something which we call science and art, but it appearsthat what we do is unnecessary and unintelligible to man. And hence, however beautiful may be the things that we accomplish, we have no rightto call them arts and sciences. 

CHAPTER VI. 

"But you only furnish a different definition of arts and sciences, whichis stricter, and is incompatible with science, " I shall be told in answerto this; "nevertheless, scientific and artistic activity does stillexist. There are the Galileos, Brunos, Homers, Michael Angelos, Beethovens, and all the lesser learned men and artists, who haveconsecrated their entire lives to the service of science and art, and whowere, and will remain, the benefactors of mankind. "

Generally this is what people say, striving to forget that new principleof the division of labor, on the basis of which science and art nowoccupy their privileged position, and on whose basis we are now enabledto decide without grounds, but by a given standard: Is there, or is therenot, any foundation for that activity which calls itself science and art, to so magnify itself?

When the Egyptian or the Grecian priests produced their mysteries, whichwere unintelligible to any one, and stated concerning these mysteriesthat all science and all art were contained in them, I could not verifythe reality of their science on the basis of the benefit procured by themto the people, because science, according to their assertions, wassupernatural. But now we all possess a very simple and clear definitionof the activity of art and science, which excludes every thingsupernatural: science and art promise to carry out the mental activity ofmankind, for the welfare of society, or of all the human race. 

The definition of scientific science and art is entirely correct; but, unfortunately, the activity of the present arts and sciences does notcome under this head. Some of them are directly injurious, others areuseless, others still are worthless, --good only for the wealthy. They donot fulfil that which, by their own definition, they have undertaken toaccomplish; and hence they have as little right to regard themselves asmen of art and science, as a corrupt priesthood, which does not fulfilthe obligations which it has assumed, has the right to regard itself asthe bearer of divine truth. 

And it can be understood why the makers of the present arts and scienceshave not fulfilled, and cannot fulfil, their vocation. They do notfulfil it, because out of their obligations they have erected a right. 

Scientific and artistic activity, in its real sense, is only fruitfulwhen it knows no rights, but recognizes only obligations. Only becauseit is its property to be always thus, does mankind so highly prize thisactivity. If men really were called to the service of others throughartistic work, they would see in that work only obligation, and theywould fulfil it with toil, with privations, and with self-abnegation. 

The thinker or the artist will never sit calmly on Olympian heights, aswe have become accustomed to represent them to ourselves. The thinker orthe artist should suffer in company with the people, in order that he mayfind salvation or consolation. Besides this, he will suffer because heis always and eternally in turmoil and agitation: he might decide and saythat that which would confer welfare on men, would free them fromsuffering, would afford them consolation; but he has not said so, and hasnot presented it as he should have done; he has not decided, and he hasnot spoken; and to-morrow, possibly, it will be too late, --he will die. And therefore suffering and self-sacrifice will always be the lot of thethinker and the artist. 

Not of this description will be the thinker and artist who is reared inan establishment where, apparently, they manufacture the learned man orthe artist (but in point of fact, they manufacture destroyers of scienceand of art), who receives a diploma and a certificate, who would be gladnot to think and not to express that which is imposed on his soul, butwho cannot avoid doing that to which two irresistible forces draw him, --aninward prompting, and the demand of men. 

There will be no sleek, plump, self-satisfied thinkers and artists. Spiritual activity, and its expression, which are actually necessary toothers, are the most burdensome of all man's avocations; a cross, as theGospels phrase it. And the sole indubitable sign of the presence of avocation is self-devotion, the sacrifice of self for the manifestation ofthe power that is imposed upon man for the benefit of others. 

It is possible to study out how many beetles there are in the world, toview the spots on the sun, to write romances and operas, withoutsuffering; but it is impossible, without self-sacrifice, to instructpeople in their true happiness, which consists solely in renunciation ofself and the service of others, and to give strong expression to thisdoctrine, without self-sacrifice. 

Christ did not die on the cross in vain; not in vain does the sacrificeof suffering conquer all things. 

But our art and science are provided with certificates and diplomas; andthe only anxiety of all men is, how to still better guarantee them, i. E. , how to render the service of the people impracticable for them. 

True art and true science possess two unmistakable marks: the first, aninward mark, which is this, that the servitor of art and science willfulfil his vocation, not for profit but with self-sacrifice; and thesecond, an external sign, --his productions will be intelligible to allthe people whose welfare he has in view. 

No matter what people have fixed upon as their vocation and theirwelfare, science will be the doctrine of this vocation and welfare, andart will be the expression of that doctrine. That which is calledscience and art, among us, is the product of idle minds and feelings, which have for their object to tickle similar idle minds and feelings. Our arts and sciences are incomprehensible, and say nothing to thepeople, for they have not the welfare of the common people in view. 

Ever since the life of men has been known to us, we find, always andeverywhere, the reigning doctrine falsely designating itself as science, not manifesting itself to the common people, but obscuring for them themeaning of life. Thus it was among the Greeks the sophists, then amongthe Christians the mystics, gnostics, scholastics, among the Hebrews theTalmudists and Cabalists, and so on everywhere, down to our own times. 

How fortunate it is for us that we live in so peculiar an age, when thatmental activity which calls itself science, not only does not err, butfinds itself, as we are assured, in a remarkably flourishing condition!Does not this peculiar good fortune arise from the fact that man can notand will not see his own hideousness? Why is there nothing left of thosesciences, and sophists, and Cabalists, and Talmudists, but words, whilewe are so exceptionally happy? Surely the signs are identical. There isthe same self-satisfaction and blind confidence that we, precisely we, and only we, are on the right path, and that the real thing is onlybeginning with us. There is the same expectation that we shall discoversomething remarkable; and that chief sign which leads us astray convictsus of our error: all our wisdom remains with us, and the common people donot understand, and do not accept, and do not need it. 

Our position is a very difficult one, but why not look at it squarely?

It is time to recover our senses, and to scrutinize ourselves. Surely weare nothing else than the scribes and Pharisees, who sit in Moses' seat, and who have taken the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and will neither goin ourselves, nor permit others to go in. Surely we, the high priests ofscience and art, are ourselves worthless deceivers, possessing much lessright to our position than the most crafty and depraved priests. Surelywe have no justification for our privileged position. The priests had aright to their position: they declared that they taught the people lifeand salvation. But we have taken their place, and we do not instruct thepeople in life, --we even admit that such instruction is unnecessary, --butwe educate our children in the same Talmudic-Greek and Latin grammar, inorder that they may be able to pursue the same life of parasites which welead ourselves. We say, "There used to be castes, but there are noneamong us. " But what does it mean, that some people and their childrentoil, while other people and their children do not toil?

Bring hither an Indian ignorant of our language, and show him Europeanlife, and our life, for several generations, and he will recognize thesame leading, well-defined castes--of laborers and non-laborers--as thereare in his own country. And as in his land, so in ours, the right ofrefusing to labor is conferred by a peculiar consecration, which we callscience and art, or, in general terms, culture. It is this culture, andall the distortions of sense connected with it, which have brought us tothat marvellous madness, in consequence of which we do not see that whichis so clear and indubitable. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Then, what is to be done? What are we to do?

This question, which includes within itself both an admission that ourlife is evil and wrong, and in connection with this, --as though it werean exercise for it, --that it is impossible, nevertheless, to change it, this question I have heard, and I continue to hear, on all sides. I havedescribed my own sufferings, my own gropings, and my own solution of thisquestion. I am the same kind of a man as everybody else; and if I am inany wise distinguished from the average man of our circle, it is chieflyin this respect, that I, more than the average man, have served andwinked at the false doctrine of our world; I have received moreapprobation from men professing the prevailing doctrine: and therefore, more than others, have I become depraved, and wandered from the path. Andtherefore I think that the solution of the problem, which I have found inmy own case, will be applicable to all sincere people who are propoundingthe same question to themselves. 

First of all, in answer to the question, "What is to be done?" I toldmyself: "I must lie neither to other people nor to myself. I must notfear the truth, whithersoever it may lead me. "

We all know what it means to lie to other people, but we are not afraidto lie to ourselves; yet the very worst downright lie, to other people, is not to be compared in its consequences with the lie to ourselves, uponwhich we base our whole life. 

This is the lie of which we must not be guilty if we are to be in aposition to answer the question: "What is to be done?" And, in fact, howam I to answer the question, "What is to be done?" when every thing thatI do, when my whole life, is founded on a lie, and when I carefullyparade this lie as the truth before others and before myself? Not tolie, in this sense, means not to fear the truth, not to devisesubterfuges, and not to accept the subterfuges devised by others for thepurpose of hiding from myself the deductions of my reason and myconscience; not to fear to part company with all those who surround me, and to remain alone in company with reason and conscience; not to fearthat position to which the truth shall lead me, being firmly convincedthat that position to which truth and conscience shall conduct me, however singular it may be, cannot be worse than the one which is foundedon a lie. Not to lie, in our position of privileged persons of mentallabor, means, not to be afraid to reckon one's self up wrongly. It ispossible that you are already so deeply indebted that you cannot takestock of yourself; but to whatever extent this may be the case, howeverlong may be the account, however far you have strayed from the path, itis still better than to continue therein. A lie to other people is notalone unprofitable; every matter is settled more directly and morespeedily by the truth than by a lie. A lie to others only entanglesmatters, and delays the settlement; but a lie to one's self, set forth asthe truth, ruins a man's whole life. If a man, having entered on thewrong path, assumes that it is the true one, then every step that hetakes on that path removes him farther from his goal. If a man who haslong been travelling on this false path divines for himself, or isinformed by some one, that his course is a mistaken one, but growsalarmed at the idea that he has wandered very far astray and tries toconvince himself that he may, possibly, still strike into the right road, then he never will get into it. If a man quails before the truth, and, on perceiving it, does not accept it, but does accept a lie for thetruth, then he never will learn what he ought to do. We, the not onlywealthy, but privileged and so-called cultivated persons, have advancedso far on the wrong road, that a great deal of determination, or a verygreat deal of suffering on the wrong road, is required, in order to bringus to our senses and to the acknowledgment of the lie in which we areliving. I have perceived the lie of our lives, thanks to the sufferingswhich the false path entailed upon me, and, having recognized thefalseness of this path on which I stood, I have had the boldness to go atfirst in thought only--whither reason and conscience led me, withoutreflecting where they would bring me out. And I have been rewarded forthis boldness. 

All the complicated, broken, tangled, and incoherent phenomena of lifesurrounding me, have suddenly become clear; and my position in the midstof these phenomena, which was formerly strange and burdensome, hasbecome, all at once, natural, and easy to bear. 

In this new position, my activity was defined with perfect accuracy; notat all as it had previously presented itself to me, but as a new and muchmore peaceful, loving, and joyous activity. The very thing which hadformerly terrified me, now began to attract me. Hence I think, that theman who will honestly put to himself the question, "What is to be done?"and, replying to this query, will not lie to himself, but will go whitherhis reason leads, has already solved the problem. 

There is only one thing that can hinder him in his search for anissue, --an erroneously lofty idea of himself and of his position. Thiswas the case with me; and then another, arising from the first answer tothe question: "What is to be done?" consisted for me in this, that it wasnecessary for me to repent, in the full sense of that word, --i. E. , toentirely alter my conception of my position and my activity; to confessthe hurtfulness and emptiness of my activity, instead of its utility andgravity; to confess my own ignorance instead of culture; to confess myimmorality and harshness in the place of my kindness and morality;instead of my elevation, to acknowledge my lowliness. I say, that inaddition to not lying to myself, I had to repent, because, although theone flows from the other, a false conception of my lofty importance hadso grown up with me, that, until I sincerely repented and cut myself freefrom that false estimate which I had formed of myself, I did not perceivethe greater part of the lie of which I had been guilty to myself. Onlywhen I had repented, that is to say, when I had ceased to look uponmyself as a regular man, and had begun to regard myself as a man exactlylike every one else, --only then did my path become clear before me. Before that time I had not been able to answer the question: "What is tobe done?" because I had stated the question itself wrongly. 

As long as I did not repent, I put the question thus: "What sphere ofactivity should I choose, I, the man who has received the education andthe talents which have fallen to my shame? How, in this fashion, makerecompense with that education and those talents, for what I have taken, and for what I still take, from the people?" This question was wrong, because it contained a false representation, to the effect that I was nota man just like them, but a peculiar man called to serve the people withthose talents and with that education which I had won by the efforts offorty years. 

I propounded the query to myself; but, in reality, I had answered it inadvance, in that I had in advance defined the sort of activity which wasagreeable to me, and by which I was called upon to serve the people. Ihad, in fact, asked myself: "In what manner could I, so very fine awriter, who had acquired so much learning and talents, make use of themfor the benefit of the people?"

But the question should have been put as it would have stood for alearned rabbi who had gone through the course of the Talmud, and hadlearned by heart the number of letters in all the holy books, and all thefine points of his art. The question for me, as for the rabbi, shouldstand thus: "What am I, who have spent, owing to the misfortune of mysurroundings, the year's best fitted for study in the acquisition ofgrammar, geography, judicial science, poetry, novels and romances, theFrench language, pianoforte playing, philosophical theories, and militaryexercises, instead of inuring myself to labor; what am I, who have passedthe best years of my life in idle occupations which are corrupting to thesoul, --what am I to do in defiance of these unfortunate conditions of thepast, in order that I may requite those people who during the whole timehave fed and clothed, yes, and who even now continue to feed and clotheme?" Had the question then stood as it stands before me now, after Ihave repented, --"What am I, so corrupt a man, to do?" the answer wouldhave been easy: "To strive, first of all, to support myself honestly;that is, to learn not to live upon others; and while I am learning, andwhen I have learned this, to render aid on all possible occasions to thepeople, with my hands, and my feet, and my brain, and my heart, and withevery thing to which the people should present a claim. "

And therefore I say, that for the man of our circle, in addition to notlying to himself or to others, repentance is also necessary, and that heshould scrape from himself that pride which has sprung up in us, in ourculture, in our refinements, in our talents; and that he should confessthat he is not a benefactor of the people and a distinguished man, whodoes not refuse to share with the people his useful acquirements, butthat he should confess himself to be a thoroughly guilty, corrupt, andgood-for-nothing man, who desires to reform himself and not to behavebenevolently towards the people, but simply to cease wounding andinsulting them. 

I often hear the questions of good young men who sympathize with therenunciatory part of my writings, and who ask, "Well, and what then shallI do? What am I to do, now that I have finished my course in theuniversity, or in some other institution, in order that I may be of use?"Young men ask this, and in the depths of their soul it is already decidedthat the education which they have received constitutes their privilegeand that they desire to serve the people precisely by means of thussuperiority. And hence, one thing which they will in no wise do, is tobear themselves honestly and critically towards that which they calltheir culture, and ask themselves, are those qualities which they calltheir culture good or bad? If they will do this, they will infallibly beled to see the necessity of renouncing their culture, and the necessityof beginning to learn all over again; and this is the one indispensablething. They can in no wise solve the problem, "What to do?" because thisquestion does not stand before them as it should stand. The questionmust stand thus: "In what manner am I, a helpless, useless man, who, owing to the misfortune of my conditions, have wasted my best years ofstudy in conning the scientific Talmud which corrupts soul and body, tocorrect this mistake, and learn to serve the people?" But it presentsitself to them thus: "How am I, a man who has acquired so much very finelearning, to turn this very fine learning to the use of the people?" Andsuch a man will never answer the question, "What is to be done?" until herepents. And repentance is not terrible, just as truth is not terrible, and it is equally joyful and fruitful. It is only necessary to acceptthe truth wholly, and to repent wholly, in order to understand that noone possesses any rights, privileges, or peculiarities in the matter ofthis life of ours, but that there are no ends or bounds to obligation, and that a man's first and most indubitable duty is to take part in thestruggle with nature for his own life and for the lives of others. 

And this confession of a man's obligation constitutes the gist of thethird answer to the question, "What is to be done?"

I tried not to lie to myself: I tried to cast out from myself the remainsof my false conceptions of the importance of my education and talents, and to repent; but on the way to a decision of the question, "What todo?" a fresh difficulty arose. There are so many different occupations, that an indication was necessary as to the precise one which was to beadopted. And the answer to this question was furnished me by sincererepentance for the evil in which I had lived. 

"What to do? Precisely what to do?" all ask, and that is what I alsoasked so long as, under the influence of my exalted idea of any ownimportance, I did not perceive that my first and unquestionable duty wasto feed myself, to clothe myself, to furnish my own fuel, to do my ownbuilding, and, by so doing, to serve others, because, ever since thewould has existed, the first and indubitable duty of every man hasconsisted and does consist in this. 

In fact, no matter what a man may have assumed to be hisvocation, --whether it be to govern people, to defend hisfellow-countrymen, to divine service, to instruct others, to invent meansto heighten the pleasures of life, to discover the laws of the world, toincorporate eternal truths in artistic representations, --the duty of areasonable man is to take part in the struggle with nature, for thesustenance of his own life and of that of others. This obligation is thefirst of all, because what people need most of all is their life; andtherefore, in order to defend and instruct the people, and render theirlives more agreeable, it is requisite to preserve that life itself, whilemy refusal to share in the struggle, my monopoly of the labors of others, is equivalent to annihilation of the lives of others. And, therefore, itis not rational to serve the lives of men by annihilating the lives ofmen; and it is impossible to say that I am serving men, when, by my life, I am obviously injuring them. 

A man's obligation to struggle with nature for the acquisition of themeans of livelihood will always be the first and most unquestionable ofall obligations, because this obligation is a law of life, departure fromwhich entails the inevitable punishment of either bodily or mentalannihilation of the life of man. If a man living alone excuses himselffrom the obligation of struggling with nature, he is immediatelypunished, in that his body perishes. But if a man excuses himself fromthis obligation by making other people fulfil it for him, then also he isimmediately punished by the annihilation of his mental life; that is tosay, of the life which possesses rational thought. 

In this one act, man receives--if the two things are to be separated--fullsatisfaction of the bodily and spiritual demands of his nature. Thefeeding, clothing, and taking care of himself and his family, constitutethe satisfaction of the bodily demands and requirements; and doing thesame for other people, constitutes the satisfaction of his spiritualrequirements. Every other employment of man is only legal when it isdirected to the satisfaction of this very first duty of man; for thefulfilment of this duty constitutes the whole life of man. 

I had been so turned about by my previous life, this first andindubitable law of God or of nature is so concealed in our sphere ofsociety, that the fulfilment of this law seemed to me strange, terrible, even shameful; as though the fulfilment of an eternal, unquestionablelaw, and not the departure from it, can be terrible, strange, andshameful. 

At first it seemed to me that the fulfilment of this matter required somepreparation, arrangement or community of men, holding similar views, --theconsent of one's family, life in the country; it seemed to me disgracefulto make a show of myself before people, to undertake a thing so improperin our conditions of existence, as bodily toil, and I did not know how toset about it. But it was only necessary for me to understand that thisis no exclusive occupation which requires to be invented and arrangedfor, but that this employment was merely a return from the false positionin which I found myself, to a natural one; was only a rectification ofthat lie in which I was living. I had only to recognize this fact, andall these difficulties vanished. It was not in the least necessary tomake preparations and arrangements, and to await the consent of others, for, no matter in what position I had found myself, there had always beenpeople who had fed, clothed and warmed me, in addition to themselves; andeverywhere, under all conditions, I could do the same for myself and forthem, if I had the time and the strength. Neither could I experiencefalse shame in an unwonted occupation, no matter how surprising it mightbe to people, because, through not doing it, I had already experiencednot false but real shame. 

And when I had reached this confession and the practical deduction fromit, I was fully rewarded for not having quailed before the deductions ofreason, and for following whither they led me. On arriving at thispractical deduction, I was amazed at the ease and simplicity with whichall the problems which had previously seemed to me so difficult and socomplicated, were solved. 

To the question, "What is it necessary to do?" the most indubitableanswer presented itself: first of all, that which it was necessary for meto do was, to attend to my own samovar, my own stove, my own water, myown clothing; to every thing that I could do for myself. To thequestion, "Will it not seem strange to people if you do this?" itappeared that this strangeness lasted only a week, and after the lapse ofthat week, it would have seemed strange had I returned to my formerconditions of life. With regard to the question, "Is it necessary toorganize this physical labor, to institute an association in the country, on my land?" it appeared that nothing of the sort was necessary; thatlabor, if it does not aim at the acquisition of all possible leisure, andthe enjoyment of the labor of others, --like the labor of people bent onaccumulating money, --but if it have for its object the satisfaction ofrequirements, will itself be drawn from the city to the country, to theland, where this labor is the most fruitful and cheerful. But it is notrequisite to institute any association, because the man who labors, naturally and of himself, attaches himself to the existing association oflaboring men. 

To the question, whether this labor would not monopolize all my time, anddeprive me of those intellectual pursuits which I love, to which I amaccustomed, and which, in my moments of self-conceit, I regard as notuseless to others? I received a most unexpected reply. The energy of myintellectual activity increased, and increased in exact proportion withbodily application, while freeing itself from every thing superfluous. Itappeared that by dedicating to physical toil eight hours, that half ofthe day which I had formerly passed in the oppressive state of a strugglewith _ennui_, eight hours remained to me, of which only five ofintellectual activity, according to my terms, were necessary to me. Forit appeared, that if I, a very voluminous writer, who had done nothingfor nearly forty years except write, and who had written three hundredprinted sheets;--if I had worked during all those forty years at ordinarylabor with the working-people, then, not reckoning winter evenings andleisure days, if I had read and studied for five hours every day, and hadwritten a couple of pages only on holidays (and I have been in the habitof writing at the rate of one printed sheet a day), then I should havewritten those three hundred sheets in fourteen years. The fact seemedstartling: yet it is the most simple arithmetical calculation, which canbe made by a seven-year-old boy, but which I had not been able to make upto this time. There are twenty-four hours in the day; if we take awayeight hours, sixteen remain. If any man engaged in intellectualoccupations devote five hours every day to his occupation, he willaccomplish a fearful amount. And what is to be done with the remainingeleven hours?

It proved that physical labor not only does not exclude the possibilityof mental activity, but that it improves its quality, and encourages it. 

In answer to the question, whether this physical toil does not deprive meof many innocent pleasures peculiar to man, such as the enjoyment of thearts, the acquisition of learning, intercourse with people, and thedelights of life in general, it turned out exactly the reverse: the moreintense the labor, the more nearly it approached what is considered thecoarsest agricultural toil, the more enjoyment and knowledge did I gain, and the more did I come into close and loving communion with men, and themore happiness did I derive from life. 

In answer to the question (which I have so often heard from persons notthoroughly sincere), as to what result could flow from so insignificant adrop in the sea of sympathy as my individual physical labor in the sea oflabor ingulfing me, I received also the most satisfactory and unexpectedof answers. It appeared that all I had to do was to make physical laborthe habitual condition of my life, and the majority of my false, butprecious, habits and my demands, when physically idle, fell away from meat once of their own accord, without the slightest exertion on my part. Not to mention the habit of turning day into night and _vice versa_, myhabits connected with my bed, with my clothing, with conventionalcleanliness, --which are downright impossible and oppressive with physicallabor, --and my demands as to the quality of my food, were entirelychanged. In place of the dainty, rich, refined, complicated, highly-spiced food, to which I had formerly inclined, the most simpleviands became needful and most pleasing of all to me, --cabbage-soup, porridge, black bread, and tea _v prikusku_. {238} So that, not tomention the influence upon me of the example of the simpleworking-people, who are content with little, with whom I came in contactin the course of my bodily toil, my very requirements underwent a changein consequence of my toilsome life; so that my drop of physical labor inthe sea of universal labor became larger and larger, in proportion as Iaccustomed myself to, and appropriated, the habits of the laboringclasses; in proportion, also, to the success of my labor, my demands forlabor from others grew less and less, and my life naturally, withoutexertion or privations, approached that simple existence of which I couldnot even dream without fulfilling the law of labor. 

It proved that my dearest demands from life, namely, my demands forvanity, and diversion from _ennui_, arose directly from my idle life. There was no place for vanity, in connection with physical labor; and nodiversions were needed, since my time was pleasantly occupied, and, aftermy fatigue, simple rest at tea over a book, or in conversation with myfellows, was incomparably more agreeable than theatres, cards, conceits, or a large company, --all which things are needed in physical idleness, and which cost a great deal. 

In answer to the question, Would not this unaccustomed toil ruin thathealth which is indispensable in order to render service to the peoplepossible? it appeared, in spite of the positive assertions of notedphysicians, that physical exertion, especially at my age, might have themost injurious consequences (but that Swedish gymnastics, the massagetreatment, and so on, and other expedients intended to take the place ofthe natural conditions of man's life, were better), that the more intensethe toil, the stronger, more alert, more cheerful, and more kindly did Ifeel. Thus it undoubtedly appeared, that, just as all those cunningdevices of the human mind, newspapers, theatres, concerts, visits, balls, cards, journals, romances, are nothing else than expedients formaintaining the spiritual life of man outside his natural conditions oflabor for others, --just so all the hygienic and medical devices of thehuman mind for the preparation of food, drink, lodging, ventilation, heating, clothing, medicine, water, massage, gymnastics, electric, andother means of healing, --all these clever devices are merely an expedientto sustain the bodily life of man removed from its natural conditions oflabor. It turned out that all these devices of the human mind for theagreeable arrangement of the physical existence of idle persons areprecisely analogous to those artful contrivances which people mightinvent for the production in vessels hermetically sealed, by means ofmechanical arrangements, of evaporation, and plants, of the air bestfitted for breathing, when all that is needed is to open the window. Allthe inventions of medicine and hygiene for persons of our sphere are muchthe same as though a mechanic should hit upon the idea of heating a steam-boiler which was not working, and should shut all the valves so that theboiler should not burst. Only one thing is needed, instead of all theseextremely complicated devices for pleasure, for comfort, and for medicaland hygienic preparations, intended to save people from their spiritualand bodily ailments, which swallow up so much labor, --to fulfil the lawof life; to do that which is proper not only to man, but to the animal;to fire off the charge of energy taken win in the shape of food, bymuscular exertion; to speak in plain language, to earn one's bread. Thosewho do not work should not eat, or they should earn as much as they haveeaten. 

And when I clearly comprehended all this, it struck me as ridiculous. Through a whole series of doubts and searchings, I had arrived, by a longcourse of thought, at this remarkable truth: if a man has eyes, it isthat he may see with them; if he has ears, that he may hear; and feet, that he may walk; and hands and back, that he may labor; and that if aman will not employ those members for that purpose for which they areintended, it will be the worse for him. 

I came to this conclusion, that, with us privileged people, the samething has happened which happened with the horses of a friend of mine. His steward, who was not a lover of horses, nor well versed in them, onreceiving his master's orders to place the best horses in the stable, selected them from the stud, placed them in stalls, and fed and wateredthem; but fearing for the valuable steeds, he could not bring himself totrust them to any one, and he neither rode nor drove them, nor did heeven take them out. The horses stood there until they were good fornothing. The same thing has happened with us, but with this difference:that it was impossible to deceive the horses in any way, and they werekept in bonds to prevent their getting out; but we are kept in anunnatural position that is equally injurious to us, by deceits which haveentangled us, and which hold us like chains. 

We have arranged for ourselves a life that is repugnant both to the moraland the physical nature of man, and all the powers of our intelligence weconcentrate upon assuring man that this is the most natural lifepossible. Every thing which we call culture, --our sciences, art, and theperfection of the pleasant thing's of life, --all these are attempts todeceive the moral requirements of man; every thing that is called hygieneand medicine, is an attempt to deceive the natural physical demands ofhuman nature. But these deceits have their bounds, and we advance tothem. "If such be the real human life, then it is better not to live atall, " says the reigning and extremely fashionable philosophy ofSchopenhauer and Hartmann. If such is life, 'tis better for the cominggeneration not to live, " say corrupt medical science and its newlydevised means to that end. 

In the Bible, it is laid down as the law of man: "In the sweat of thyface shalt thou eat bread, and in sorrow thou shalt bring forthchildren;" but "_nous avons change tout ca_, " as Moliere's charactersays, when expressing himself with regard to medicine, and asserting thatthe liver was on the left side. We have changed all that. Men need notwork in order to eat, and women need not bear children. 

A ragged peasant roams the Krapivensky district. During the war he wasan agent for the purchase of grain, under an official of the commissarydepartment. On being brought in contact with the official, and seeinghis luxurious life, the peasant lost his mind, and thought that he mightget along without work, like gentlemen, and receive proper support fromthe Emperor. This peasant now calls himself "the Most Serene Warrior, Prince Blokhin, purveyor of war supplies of all descriptions. " He saysof himself that he has "passed through all the ranks, " and that when heshall have served out his term in the army, he is to receive from theEmperor an unlimited bank account, clothes, uniforms, horses, equipages, tea, pease and servants, and all sorts of luxuries. This man isridiculous in the eyes of many, but to me the significance of his madnessis terrible. To the question, whether he does not wish to work, healways replies proudly: "I am much obliged. The peasants will attend toall that. " When you tell him that the peasants do not wish to work, either, he answers: "It is not difficult for the peasant. "

He generally talks in a high-flown style, and is fond of verbalsubstantives. "Now there is an invention of machinery for thealleviation of the peasants, " he says; "there is no difficulty for themin that. " When he is asked what he lives for, he replies, "To pass thetime. " I always look on this man as on a mirror. I behold in him myselfand all my class. To pass through all the ranks (_tchini_) in order tolive for the purpose of passing the time, and to receive an unlimitedbank account, while the peasants, for whom this is not difficult, becauseof the invention of machinery, do the whole business, --this is thecomplete formula of the idiotic creed of the people of our sphere insociety. 

When we inquire precisely what we are to do, surely, we ask nothing, butmerely assert--only not in such good faith as the Most Serene PrinceBlokhin, who has been promoted through all ranks, and lost his mind--thatwe do not wish to do any thing. 

He who will reflect for a moment cannot ask thus, because, on the onehand, every thing that he uses has been made, and is made, by the handsof men; and, on the other side, as soon as a healthy man has awakened andeaten, the necessity of working with feet and hands and brain makesitself felt. In order to find work and to work, he need only not holdback: only a person who thinks work disgraceful--like the lady whorequests her guest not to take the trouble to open the door, but to waituntil she can call a man for this purpose--can put to himself thequestion, what he is to do. 

The point does not lie in inventing work, --you can never get through allthe work that is to be done for yourself and for others, --but the pointlies in weaning one's self from that criminal view of life in accordancewith which I eat and sleep for my own pleasure; and in appropriating tomyself that just and simple view with which the laboring man grows up andlives, --that man is, first of all, a machine, which loads itself withfood in order to sustain itself, and that it is therefore disgraceful, wrong, and impossible to eat and not to work; that to eat and not to workis the most impious, unnatural, and, therefore, dangerous position, inthe nature of the sin of Sodom. Only let this acknowledgement be made, and there will be work; and work will always be joyous and satisfying toboth spiritual and bodily requirements. 

The matter presented itself to me thus: The day is divided for every man, by food itself, into four parts, or four stints, as the peasants call it:(1) before breakfast; (2) from breakfast until dinner; (3) from dinneruntil four o'clock; (4) from four o'clock until evening. 

A man's employment, whatever it may be that he feels a need for in hisown person, is also divided into four categories: (1) the muscularemployment of power, labor of the hands, feet, shoulders, back, --hardlabor, from which you sweat; (2) the employment of the fingers andwrists, the employment of artisan skill; (3) the employment of the mindand imagination; (4) the employment of intercourse with others. 

The benefits which man enjoys are also divided into four categories. Every man enjoys, in the first place, the product of hard labor, --grain, cattle, buildings, wells, ponds, and so forth; in the second place, theresults of artisan toil, --clothes, boots, utensils, and so forth; in thethird place, the products of mental activity, --science, art; and, in theforth place, established intercourse between people. 

And it struck me, that the best thing of all would be to arrange theoccupations of the day in such a manner as to exercise all four of man'scapacities, and myself produce all these four sorts of benefits which menmake use of, so that one portion of the day, the first, should bededicated to hard labor; the second, to intellectual labor; the third, toartisan labor; and the forth, to intercourse with people. It struck me, that only then would that false division of labor, which exists in oursociety, be abrogated, and that just division of labor established, whichdoes not destroy man's happiness. 

I, for example, have busied myself all my life with intellectual labor. Isaid to myself, that I had so divided labor, that writing, that is tosay, intellectual labor, is my special employment, and the other matterswhich were necessary to me I had left free (or relegated, rather) toothers. But this, which would appear to have been the most advantageousarrangement for intellectual toil, was precisely the most disadvantageousto mental labor, not to mention its injustice. 

All my life long, I have regulated my whole life, food, sleep, diversion, in view of these hours of special labor, and I have done nothing exceptthis work. The result of this has been, in the first place, that I havecontracted my sphere of observations and knowledge, and have frequentlyhad no means for the study even of problems which often presentedthemselves in describing the life of the people (for the life of thecommon people is the every-day problem of intellectual activity). I wasconscious of my ignorance, and was obliged to obtain instruction, to askabout things which are known by every man not engaged in special labor. In the second place, the result was, that I had been in the habit ofsitting down to write when I had no inward impulse to write, and when noone demanded from me writing, as writing, that is to say, my thoughts, but when my name was merely wanted for journalistic speculation. I triedto squeeze out of myself what I could. Sometimes I could extractnothing; sometimes it was very wretched stuff, and I was dissatisfied andgrieved. But now that I have learned the indispensability of physicallabor, both hard and artisan labor, the result is entirely different. Mytime has been occupied, however modestly, at least usefully andcheerfully, and in a manner instructive to me. And therefore I have tornmyself from that indubitably useful and cheerful occupation for myspecial duties only when I felt an inward impulse, and when I saw ademand made upon me directly for my literary work. 

And these demands called into play only good nature, and therefore theusefulness and the joy of my special labor. Thus it turned out, thatemployment in those physical labors which are indispensable to me, asthey are to every man, not only did not interfere with my specialactivity, but was an indispensable condition of the usefulness, worth, and cheerfulness of that activity. 

The bird is so constructed, that it is indispensable that it should fly, walk, peek, combine; and when it does all this, it is satisfied andhappy, --then it is a bird. Just so man, when he walks, turns, raises, drags, works with his fingers, with his eyes, with his ears, with histongue, with his brain, --only then is he satisfied, only then is he aman. 

A man who acknowledges his appointment to labor will naturally strivetowards that rotation of labor which is peculiar to him, for thesatisfaction of his inward requirements; and he can alter this labor inno other way than when he feels within himself an irresistible summons tosome exclusive form of labor, and when the demands of other men for thatlabor are expressed. 

The character of labor is such, that the satisfaction of all a man'srequirements demands that same succession of the sorts of work whichrenders work not a burden but a joy. Only a false creed, [Greek textwhich cannot be reproduced], to the effect that labor is a curse, couldhave led men to rid themselves of certain kinds of work; i. E. , to theappropriation of the work of others, demanding the forced occupation withspecial labor of other people, which they call division of labor. 

We have only grown used to our false comprehension of the regulation oflabor, because it seems to us that the shoemaker, the machinist, thewriter, or the musician will be better off if he gets rid of the laborpeculiar to man. Where there is no force exercised over the labor ofothers, or any false belief in the joy of idleness, not a single man willget rid of physical labor, necessary for the satisfaction of hisrequirements, for the sake of special work; because special work is not aprivilege, but a sacrifice which man offers to inward pressure and to hisbrethren. 

The shoemaker in the country, who abandons his wonted labor in the field, which is so grateful to him, and betakes himself to his trade, in orderto repair or make boots for his neighbors, always deprives himself of thepleasant toil of the field, simply because he likes to make boots, because he knows that no one else can do it so well as he, and thatpeople will be grateful to him for it; but the desire cannot occur tohim, to deprive himself, for the whole period of his life, of thecheering rotation of labor. 

It is the same with the _starosta_ [village elder], the machinist, thewriter, the learned man. To us, with our corrupt conception of things, it seems, that if a steward has been relegated to the position of apeasant by his master, or if a minister has been sent to the colonies, hehas been chastised, he has been ill-treated. But in reality a benefithas been conferred on him; that is to say, his special, hard labor hasbeen changed into a cheerful rotation of labor. In a naturallyconstituted society, this is quite otherwise. I know of one communitywhere the people supported themselves. One of the members of thissociety was better educated than the rest; and they called upon him toread, so that he was obliged to prepare himself during the day, in orderthat he might read in the evening. This he did gladly, feeling that hewas useful to others, and that he was performing a good deed. But hegrew weary of exclusively intellectual work, and his health suffered fromit. The members of the community took pity on him, and requested him togo to work in the fields. 

For men who regard labor as the substance and the joy of life, the basis, the foundation of life will always be the struggle with nature, --laborboth agricultural and mechanical, and intellectual, and the establishmentof communion between men. Departure from one or from many of thesevarieties of labor, and the adoption of special labor, will then onlyoccur when the man possessed of a special branch, and loving this work, and knowing that he can perform it better than others, sacrifices his ownprofit for the satisfaction of the direct demands made upon him. Only oncondition of such a view of labor, and of the natural division of laborarising from it, is that curse which is laid upon our idea of laborabrogated, and does every sort of work becomes always a joy; because aman will either perform that labor which is undoubtedly useful andjoyous, and not dull, or he will possess the consciousness ofself-abnegation in the fulfilment of more difficult and restricted toil, which he exercises for the good of others. 

But the division of labor is more profitable. More profitable for whom?It is more profitable in making the greatest possible quantity of calico, and boots in the shortest possible time. But who will make these bootsand this calico? There are people who, for whole generations, make onlythe heads of pins. Then how can this be more profitable for men? If thepoint lies in manufacturing as much calico and as many pins as possible, then this is so. But the point concerns men and their welfare. And thewelfare of men lies in life. And life is work. How, then, can thenecessity for burdensome, oppressive toil be more profitable for people?For all men, that one thing is more profitable which I desire formyself, --the utmost well-being, and the gratification of all thoserequirements, both bodily and spiritual, of the conscience and of thereason, which are imposed upon me. And in my own case I have found, thatfor my own welfare, and for the satisfaction of these needs of mine, allthat I require is to cure myself of that folly in which I had beenliving, in company with the Krapivensky madman, and which consisted inpresupposing that some people need not work, and that certain otherpeople should direct all this, and that I should therefore do only thatwhich is natural to man, i. E. , labor for the satisfaction of theirrequirements; and, having discovered this, I convinced myself that laborfor the satisfaction of one's own needs falls of itself into variouskinds of labor, each one of which possesses its own charm, and which notonly do not constitute a burden, but which serve as a respite to oneanother. I have made a rough division of this labor (not insisting onthe justice of this arrangement), in accordance with my own needs inlife, into four parts, corresponding to the four stints of labor of whichthe day is composed; and I seek in this manner to satisfy myrequirements. 

These, then, are the answers which I have found for myself to thequestion, "What is to be done?"

_First_, Not to lie to myself, however far removed my path in life may befrom the true path which my reason discloses to me. 

_Second_, To renounce my consciousness of my own righteousness, mysuperiority especially over other people; and to acknowledge my guilt. 

_Third_, To comply with that eternal and indubitable law of humanity, --thelabor of my whole being, feeling no shame at any sort of work; to contendwith nature for the maintenance of my own life and the lives of others. 

ON LABOR AND LUXURY. 

I concluded, after having said every thing that concerned myself; but Icannot refrain, from a desire to say something more which concernseverybody, from verifying the deductions which I have drawn, bycomparisons. I wish to say why it seems to me that a very large numberof our social class ought to come to the same thing to which I have come;and also to state what will be the result if a number of people shouldcome to the same conclusion. 

I think that many will come to the point which I have attained: becauseif the people of our sphere, of our caste, will only take a serious lookat themselves, then young persons, who are in search of personnelhappiness, will stand aghast at the ever-increasing wretchedness of theirlife, which is plainly leading them to destruction; conscientious peoplewill be shocked at the cruelty and the illegality of their life; andtimid people will be terrified by the danger of their mode of life. 

_The Wretchedness of our Life_:--However much we rich people may reform, however much we may bolster up this delusive life of ours with the aid ofour science and art, this life will become, with every year, both weakerand more diseased; with every year the number of suicides, and therefusals to bear children, will increase; with every year we shall feelthe growing sadness of our life; with every generation, the newgenerations of people of this sphere of society will become more puny. 

It is obvious that in this path of the augmentation of the comforts andthe pleasures of life, in the path of every sort of cure, and ofartificial preparations for the improvements of the sight, the hearing, the appetite, false teeth, false hair, respiration, massage, and so on, there can be no salvation. That people who do not make use of theseperfected preparations are stronger and healthier, has become such atruism, that advertisements are printed in the newspapers ofstomach-powders for the wealthy, under the heading, "Blessings for thepoor, " {252} in which it is stated that only the poor are possessed ofproper digestive powers, and that the rich require assistance, and, amongother various sorts of assistance, these powders. It is impossible toset the matter right by any diversions, comforts, and powders, whatever;only a change of life can rectify it. 

_The Inconsistency of our Life with our Conscience_:--however we may seekto justify our betrayal of humanity to ourselves, all our justificationswill crumble into dust in the presence of the evidence. All around us, people are dying of excessive labor and of privation; we ruin the laborof others, the food and clothing which are indispensable to them, merelywith the object of procuring diversion and variety for our wearisomelives. And, therefore, the conscience of a man of our circle, if even aspark of it be left in him, cannot be lulled to sleep, and it poisons allthese comforts and those pleasures of life which our brethren, sufferingand perishing in their toil, procure for us. But not only does everyconscientious man feel this himself, --he would be glad to forget it, butthis he cannot do. 

The new, ephemeral justifications of science for science, of art for art, do not exclude the light of a simple, healthy judgment. The conscienceof man cannot be quieted by fresh devices; and it can only be calmed by achange of life, for which and in which no justification will be required. 

Two causes prove to the people of the wealthy classes the necessity for achange of life: the requirements of their individual welfare, and of thewelfare of those most nearly connected with them, which cannot besatisfied in the path in which they now stand; and the necessity ofsatisfying the voice of conscience, the impossibility of accomplishingwhich is obvious in their present course. These causes, taken together, should lead people of the wealthy classes to alter their mode of life, tosuch a change as shall satisfy their well-being and their conscience. 

And there is only one such change possible: they must cease to deceive, they must repent, they must acknowledge that labor is not a curse, butthe glad business of life. "But what will be the result if I do toil forten, or eight, or five hours at physical work, which thousands ofpeasants will gladly perform for the money which I possess?" people sayto this. 

The first, simplest, and indubitable result will be, that you will becomea more cheerful, a healthier, a more alert, and a better man, and thatyou will learn to know the real life, from which you have hiddenyourself, or which has been hidden from you. 

The second result will be, that, if you possess a conscience, it will notonly cease to suffer as it now suffers when it gazes upon the toil ofothers, the significance of which we, through ignorance, either alwaysexaggerate or depreciate, but you will constantly experience a gladconsciousness that, with every day, you are doing more and more tosatisfy the demands of your conscience, and you will escape from thatfearful position of such an accumulation of evil heaped upon your lifethat there exists no possibility of doing good to people; you willexperience the joy of living in freedom, with the possibility of good;you will break a window, --an opening into the domain of the moral worldwhich has been closed to you. 

"But this is absurd, " people usually say to you, for people of oursphere, with profound problems standing before us, --problemsphilosophical, scientific, artistic, ecclesiastical and social. It wouldbe absurd for us ministers, senators, academicians professors, artists, aquarter of an hour of whose time is so prized by people, to waste ourtime on any thing of that sort, would it not?--on the cleaning of ourboots, the washing of our shirts, in hoeing, in planting potatoes, or infeeding our chickens and our cows, and so on; in those things which aregladly done for us, not only by our porter or our cook, but by thousandsof people who value our time?

But why should we dress ourselves, wash and comb our hair? why should wehand chairs to ladies, to guests? why should we open and shut doors, handladies, into carriages, and do a hundred other things which serfsformerly did for us? Because we think that it is necessary so to do;that human dignity demands it; that it is the duty, the obligation, ofman. 

And the same is the case with physical labor. The dignity of man, hissacred duty and obligation, consists in using the hands and feet whichhave been given to him, for that for which they were given to him, andthat which consumes food on the labor which produces that food; and thatthey should be used, not on that which shall cause them to pine away, notas objects to wash and clean, and merely for the purpose of stuffing intoone's mouth food, drink, and cigarettes. This is the significance thatphysical labor possesses for man in every community; but in ourcommunity, where the avoidance of this law of labor has occasioned theunhappiness of a whole class of people, employment in physical laboracquires still another significance, --the significance of a sermon, andof an occupation which removes a terrible misfortune that is threateningmankind. 

To say that physical labor is an insignificant occupation for a man ofeducation, is equivalent to saying, in connection with the erection of atemple: "What does it matter whether one stone is laid accurately in itsplace?" Surely, it is precisely under conditions of modesty, simplicity, and imperceptibleness, that every magnificent thing is accomplished; itis impossible to plough, to build, to pasture cattle, or even to think, amid glare, thunder, and illumination. Grand and genuine deeds arealways simple and modest. And such is the grandest of all deeds which wehave to deal with, --the reconciliation of those fearful contradictionsamid which we are living. And the deeds which will reconcile thesecontradictions are those modest, imperceptible, apparently ridiculousones, the serving one's self, physical labor for one's self, and, ifpossible, for others also, which we rich people must do, if we understandthe wretchedness, the unscrupulousness, and the danger of the positioninto which we have drifted. 

What will be the result if I, or some other man, or a handful of men, donot despise physical labor, but regard it as indispensable to ourhappiness and to the appeasement of our conscience? This will be theresult, that there will be one man, two men, or a handful of men, who, coming into conflict with no one, without governmental or revolutionaryviolence, will decide for ourselves the terrible question which standsbefore all the world, and which sets people at variance, and that weshall settle it in such wise that life will be better to them, that theirconscience will be more at peace, and that they will have nothing tofear; the result will be, that other people will see that the happinesswhich they are seeking everywhere, lies there around them; that theapparently unreconcilable contradictions of conscience and of theconstitution of this world will be reconciled in the easiest and mostjoyful manner; and that, instead of fearing the people who surround us, it will become necessary for us to draw near to them and to love them. 

The apparently insoluble economical and social problem is merely theproblem of Kriloff's casket. {256} The casket will simply open. And itwill not open, so long as people do not do simply that first and simplething--open it. 

A man sets up what he imagines to be his own peculiar library, his ownprivate picture-gallery, his own apartments and clothing, he accumulateshis own money in order therewith to purchase every thing that he needs;and the end of it all is, that engaged with this fancied property of his, as though it were real, he utterly loses his sense of that which actuallyconstitutes his property, on which he can really labor, which can reallyserve him, and which will always remain in his power, and of that whichis not and cannot be his own property, whatever he may call it, and whichcannot serve as the object of his occupation. 

Words always possess a clear significance until we deliberately attributeto them a false sense. 

What does property signify?

Property signifies that which has been given to me, which belongs to meexclusively; that with which I can always do any thing I like; that whichno one can take away from me; that which will remain mine to the end ofmy life, and precisely that which I am bound to use, increase, andimprove. Now, there exists but one such piece of property for anyman, --himself. 

Hence it results that half a score of men may till the soil, hew wood, and make shoes, not from necessity, but in consequence of anacknowledgment of the fact that man should work, and that the more heworks the better it will be for him. It results, that half a score ofmen, --or even one man, may demonstrate to people, both by his confessionand by his actions, that the terrible evil from which they are sufferingis not a law of fate, the will of God, or any historical necessity; butthat it is merely a superstition, which is not in the least powerful orterrible, but weak and insignificant, in which we must simply cease tobelieve, as in idols, in order to rid ourselves of it, and in order torend it like a paltry spider's web. Men who will labor to fulfil theglad law of their existence, that is to say, those who work in order tofulfil the law of toil, will rid themselves of that frightfulsuperstition of property for themselves. 

If the life of a man is filled with toil, and if he knows the delights ofrest, he requires no chambers, furniture, and rich and varied clothing;he requires less costly food; he needs no means of locomotion, or ofdiversion. But the principal thing is, that the man who regards labor asthe business and the joy of his life will not seek that relief from hislabor which the labors of others might afford him. The man who regardslife as a matter of labor will propose to himself as his object, inproportion as he acquires understanding, skill, and endurance, greaterand greater toil, which shall constantly fill his life to a greater andgreater degree. For such a man, who sees the meaning of his life in workitself, and not in its results, for the acquisition of property, therecan be no question as to the implements of labor. Although such a manwill always select the most suitable implements, that man will receivethe same satisfaction from work and rest, when he employs the mostunsuitable implements. If there be a steam-plough, he will use it; ifthere is none, he will till the soil with a horse-plough, and, if thereis none, with a primitive curved bit of wood shod with iron, or he willuse a rake; and, under all conditions, he will equally attain his object. He will pass his life in work that is useful to men, and he willtherefore win complete satisfaction. 

And the position of such a man, both in his external and internalconditions, will be more happy than that of the man who devotes his lifeto the acquisition of property. Such a man will never suffer need in hisoutward circumstances, because people, perceiving his desire to work, will always try to provide him with the most productive work, as theyproportion a mill to the water-power. And they will render his materialexistence free from care, which they will not do for people who arestriving to acquire property. And freedom from anxiety in his materialconditions is all that a man needs. Such a man will always be happier inhis internal conditions, than the one who seeks wealth, because the firstwill never gain that which he is striving for, while the latter alwayswill, in proportion to his powers. The feeble, the aged, the dying, according to the proverb, "With the written absolution in his hands, "will receive full satisfaction, and the love and sympathy of men. 

What, then, will be the outcome of a few eccentric individuals, ormadmen, tilling the soil, making shoes, and so on, instead of smokingcigarettes, playing whist, and roaming about everywhere to relieve theirtedium, during the space of the ten leisure hours a day which everyintellectual worker enjoys? This will be the outcome: that these madmenwill show in action, that that imaginary property for which men suffer, and for which they torment themselves and others, is not necessary forhappiness; that it is oppressive, and that it is mere superstition; thatproperty, true property, consists only in one's own head and hands; andthat, in order to actually exploit this real property with profit andpleasure, it is necessary to reject the false conception of propertyoutside one's own body, upon which we expend the best efforts of ourlives. The outcome us, that these men will show, that only when a manceases to believe in imaginary property, only when he brings into playhis real property, his capacities, his body, so that they will yield himfruit a hundred-fold, and happiness of which we have no idea, --only thenwill he be so strong, useful, and good a man, that, wherever you mayfling him, he will always land on his feet; that he will everywhere andalways be a brother to everybody; that he will be intelligible toeverybody, and necessary, and good. And men looking on one, on ten suchmadmen, will understand what they must all do in order to loose thatterrible knot in which the superstition regarding property has entangledthem, in order to free themselves from the unfortunate position in whichthey are all now groaning with one voice, not knowing whence to find anissue from it. 

But what can one man do amid a throng which does not agree with him?There is no argument which could more clearly demonstrate the terror ofthose who make use of it than this. The _burlaki_ {260} drag their barkagainst the current. There cannot be found a _burlak_ so stupid that hewill refuse to pull away at his towing-rope because he alone is not ableto drag the bark against the current. He who, in addition to his rightsto an animal life, to eat and sleep, recognizes any sort of humanobligation, knows very well in what that human obligation lies, just asthe boatman knows it when the tow-rope is attached to him. The boatmanknows very well that all he has to do is to pull at the rope, and proceedin the given direction. He will seek what he is to do, and how he is todo it, only when the tow-rope is removed from him. And as it is withthese boatmen and with all people who perform ordinary work, so it iswith the affairs of all humanity. All that each man needs is not toremove the tow-rope, but to pull away on it in the direction which hismaster orders. And, for this purpose, one sort of reason is bestowed onall men, in order that the direction may be always the same. And thisdirection has obviously been so plainly indicated, that both in the lifeof all the people about us, and in the conscience of each individual man, only he who does not wish to work can say that he does not see it. Then, what is the outcome of this?

This: that one, perhaps two men, will pull; a third will look on, andwill join them; and in this manner the best people will unite until theaffair begins to start, and make progress, as though itself inspiring andbidding thereto even those who do not understand what is being done, andwhy it is being done. First, to the contingent of men who areconsciously laboring in order to comply with the law of God, there willbe added the people who only half understand and who only half confessthe faith; then a still greater number of people who admit the samedoctrine will join them, merely on the faith of the originators; andfinally the majority of mankind will recognize this, and then it willcome to pass, that men will cease to ruin themselves, and will findhappiness. 

This will happen, --and it will be very speedily, --when people of our set, and after them a vast majority, shall cease to think it disgraceful topay visits in untanned boots, and not disgraceful to walk in overshoespast people who have no shoes at all; that it is disgraceful not tounderstand French, and not disgraceful to eat bread and not to know howto set it; that it is disgraceful not to have a starched shirt and cleanclothes, and not disgraceful to go about in clean garments therebyshowing one's idleness; that it is disgraceful to have dirty hands, andnot disgraceful not to have hands with callouses. 

All this will come to pass when the sense of the community shall demandit. But the sense of the community will demand this when those delusionsin the imagination of men, which have concealed the truth from them, shall have been abolished. Within my own recollection, great changeshave taken place in this respect. And these changes have taken placeonly because the general opinion has undergone an alteration. Within mymemory, it has come to pass, that whereas it used to be disgraceful forwealthy people not to drive out with four horses and two footmen, and notto keep a valet or a maid to dress them, wash them, put on their shoes, and so forth; it has now suddenly become discreditable for one not to puton one's own clothes and shoes for one's self, and to drive with footmen. Public opinion has effected all these changes. Are not the changes whichpublic opinion is now preparing clear?

All that was necessary five and twenty years ago was to abolish thedelusion which justified the right of serfdom, and public opinion as towhat was praiseworthy and what was discreditable changed, and lifechanged also. All that is now requisite is to annihilate the delusionwhich justifies the power of money over men, and public opinion willundergo a change as to what is creditable and what is disgraceful, andlife will be changed also; and the annihilation of the delusion, of thejustification of the moneyed power, and the change in public opinion inthis respect, will be promptly accomplished. This delusion is alreadyflickering, and the truth will very shortly be disclosed. All that isrequired is to gaze steadfastly, in order to perceive clearly that changein public opinion which has already taken place, and which is simply notrecognized, not fitted with a word. The educated man of our day has butto reflect ever so little on what will be the outcome of those views ofthe world which he professes, in order to convince himself that theestimate of good and bad, by which, by virtue of his inertia, he isguided in life, directly contradict his views of the world. 

All that the man of our century has to do is to break away for a momentfrom the life which runs on by force of inertia, to survey it from theone side, and subject it to that same standard which arises from hiswhole view of the world, in order to be horrified at the definition ofhis whole life, which follows from his views of the world. Let us take, for instance, a young man (the energy of life is greater in the young, and self-consciousness is more obscured). Let us take, for instance, ayoung man belonging to the wealthy classes, whatever his tendencies maychance to be. 

Every good young man considers it disgraceful not to help an old man, achild, or a woman; he thinks, in a general way, that it is a shame tosubject the life or health of another person to danger, or to shun ithimself. Every one considers that shameful and brutal which Schuylerrelates of the Kirghiz in times of tempest, --to send out the women andthe aged females to hold fast the corners of the _kibitka_ [tent] duringthe storm, while they themselves continue to sit within the tent, overtheir _kumis_ [fermented mare's-milk]. Every one thinks it shameful tomake a week man work for one; that it is still more disgraceful in timeof danger--on a burning ship, for example, --being strong, to be the firstto seat one's self in the lifeboat, --to thrust aside the weak and leavethem in danger, and so on. 

All men regard this as disgraceful, and would not do it upon any account, in certain exceptional circumstances; but in every-day life, the verysame actions, and others still worse, are concealed from them bydelusions, and they perpetrate them incessantly. The establishment ofthis new view of life is the business of public opinion. Public opinion, supporting such a view, will speedily be formed. 

Women form public opinion, and women are especially powerful in our day. 

TO WOMEN. 

As stated in the Bible, a law was given to the man and the woman, --to theman, the law of labor; to the woman, the law of bearing children. Although we, with our science, _avons change tout ca_, the law for theman, as for woman, remains as unalterable as the liver in its place, anddeparture from it is equally punished with inevitable death. The onlydifference lies in this, that departure from the law, in the case of theman, is punished so immediately in the future, that it may be designatedas present punishment; but departure from the law, in the case of thewoman, receives its chastisement in a more distant future. 

The general departure of all men from the law exterminates peopleimmediately; the departure from it of all women annihilates it in thesucceeding generation. But the evasion by some men and some women doesnot exterminate the human race, and only deprives those who evade it ofthe rational nature of man. The departure of men from this law began longago, among those classes who were in a position to subject others, and, constantly spreading, it has continued down to our own times; and in ourown day it has reached folly, the ideal consisting in evasion of thelaw, --the ideal expressed by Prince Blokhin, and shared in by Renan andby the whole cultivated world: "Machines will work, and people will bebundles of nerves devoted to enjoyment. "

There was hardly any departure from the law in the part of women, it wasexpressed only in prostitution, and in the refusal to bear children--inprivate cases. The women belonging to the wealthy classes fulfilledtheir law, while the men did not comply with theirs; and therefore thewomen became stronger, and continued to rule, and must rule, over men whohave evaded the law, and who have, therefore, lost their senses. It isgenerally stated that woman (the woman of Paris in particular ischildless) has become so bewitching, through making use of all the meansof civilization, that she has gained the upper hand over man by thisfascination of hers. This is not only unjust, but precisely the reverseof the truth. It is not the childless woman who has conquered man, butthe mother, that woman who has fulfilled her law, while the man has notfulfilled his. That woman who deliberately remains childless, and whoentrances man with her shoulders and her locks, is not the woman whorules over men, but the one who has been corrupted by man, who hasdescended to his level, --to the level of the vicious man, --who has evadedthe law equally with himself, and who has lost, in company with him, every rational idea of life. 

From this error springs that remarkable piece of stupidity which iscalled the rights of women. The formula of these rights of women is asfollows: "Here! you man, " says the woman, "you have departed from yourlaw of real labor, and you want us to bear the burden of our real labor. No, if this is to be so, we understand, as well as you do, how to performthose semblances of labor which you exercise in banks, ministries, universities, and academies; we desire, like yourselves, under thepretext of the division of labor, to make use of the labor of others, andto live for the gratification of our caprices alone. " They say this, andprove by their action that they understand no worse, if not better, thanmen, how to exercise this semblance of labor. 

This so-called woman question has come up, and could only come up, amongmen who have departed from the law of actual labor. All that is requiredis, to return to that, and this question cannot exist. Woman, having herown inevitable task, will never demand the right to share the toil of menin the mines and in the fields. She could only demand to share in thefictitious labors of the men of the wealthy classes. 

The woman of our circle has been, and still is, stronger than the man, not by virtue of her fascinations, not through her cleverness inperforming the same pharisaical semblance of work as man, but because shehas not stepped out from under the law that she should undergo that reallabor, with danger to her life, with exertion to the last degree, fromwhich the man of the wealthy classes has excused herself. 

But, within my memory, a departure from this law on the part of woman, that is to say, her fall, has begun; and, within my memory, it has becomemore and more the case. Woman, having lost the law, has acquired thebelief that her strength lies in the witchery of her charms, or in herskill in pharisaical pretences at intellectual work. And both things arebad for the children. And, within my memory, women of the wealthyclasses have come to refuse to bear children. And so mothers who holdthe power in their hands let it escape them, in order to make way for thedissolute women, and to put themselves on a level with them. The evil isalready wide-spread, and is extending farther and farther every day; andsoon it will lay hold on all the women of the wealthy classes, and thenthey will compare themselves with men: and in company with them, theywill lose the rational meaning of life. But there is still time. 

If women would but comprehend their destiny, their power, and use it forthe salvation of their husbands, brothers, and children, --for thesalvation of all men!

Women of the wealthy classes who are mothers, the salvation of the men ofour world from the evils from which they are suffering, lies in yourhands. 

Not those women who are occupied with their dainty figures, with theirbustles, their hair-dressing, and their attraction for men, and who bearchildren against their will, with despair, and hand them over to nurses;nor those who attend various courses of lectures, and discourse ofpsychometric centres and differentiation, and who also endeavor to escapebearing children, in order that it may not interfere with their follywhich they call culture: but those women and mothers, who, possessing thepower to refuse to bear children, consciously and in a straightforwardway submit to this eternal, unchangeable law, knowing that the burden andthe difficulty of such submission is their appointed lot in life, --theseare the women and mothers of our wealthy classes, in whose hands, morethan in those of any one else, lies the salvation of the men of oursphere in society from the miseries that oppress them. 

Ye women and mothers who deliberately submit yourselves to the law ofGod, you alone in our wretched, deformed circle, which has lost thesemblance of humanity, you alone know the whole of the real meaning oflife, according to the law of God; and you alone, by your example, candemonstrate to people that happiness in life, in submission to the willof God, of which they are depriving themselves. You alone know thoseraptures and those joys which invade the whole being, that bliss which isappointed for the man who does not depart from the law of God. You knowthe happiness of love for your husbands, --a happiness which does not cometo an end, which does not break off short, like all other forms ofhappiness, and which constitutes the beginning of a new happiness, --oflove for your child. You alone, when you are simple and obedient to thewill of God, know not that farcical pretence of labor which the men ofour circle call work, and know that the labor imposed by God on men, andknow its true rewards, the bliss which it confers. You know this, when, after the raptures of love, you await with emotion, fear, and terror thattorturing state of pregnancy which renders you ailing for nine months, which brings you to the verge of death, and to intolerable suffering andpain. You know the conditions of true labor, when, with joy, you awaitthe approach and the increase of the most terrible torture, after whichto you alone comes the bliss which you well know. You know this, when, immediately after this torture, without respite, without a break, youundertake another series of toils and sufferings, --nursing, --in whichprocess you at one and the same time deny yourselves, and subdue to yourfeelings the very strongest human need, that of sleep, which, as theproverb says, is dearer than father or mother; and for months and yearsyou never get a single sound, unbroken might's rest, and sometimes, nay, often, you do not sleep at all for a period of several nights insuccession, but with failing arms you walk alone, punishing the sickchild who is breaking your heart. And when you do all this, applauded byno one, and expecting no praises for it from any one, nor anyreward, --when you do this, not as an heroic deed, but like the laborer inthe Gospel when he came from the field, considering that you have doneonly that which was your duty, then you know what the false, pretentiouslabor of men performed for glory really is, and that true labor isfulfilling the will of God, whose command you feel in your heart. Youknow that if you are a true mother it makes no difference that no one hasseen your toil, that no one has praised you for it, but that it has onlybeen looked upon as what must needs be so, and that even those for whomyour have labored not only do not thank you, but often torture andreproach you. And with the next child you do the same: again you suffer, again you undergo the fearful, invisible labor; and again you expect noreward from any one, and yet you feel the sane satisfaction. 

If you are like this, you will not say after two children, or aftertwenty, that you have done enough, just as the laboring man fifty yearsof age will not say that he has worked enough, while he still continuesto eat and to sleep, and while his muscles still demand work; if you arelike this, your will not cast the task of nursing and care-taking uponsome other mother, just as a laboring man will not give another man thework which he has begun, and almost completed, to finish: because intothis work you will throw your life. And therefore the more there is ofthis work, the fuller and the happier is your life. 

And when you are like this, for the good fortune of men, you will applythat law of fulfilling God's will, by which you guide your life, to thelives of your husband, of your children, and of those most nearlyconnected with you. If your are like this, and know from your ownexperience, that only self-sacrificing, unseen, unrewarded labor, accompanied with danger to life and to the extreme bounds of endurance, for the lives of others, is the appointed lot of man, which affords himsatisfaction, then you will announce these demands to others; you willurge your husband to the same toil; and you will measure and value thedignity of men acceding to this toil; and for this toil you will alsoprepare your children. 

Only that mother who looks upon children as a disagreeable accident, andupon love, the comforts of life, costume, and society, as the object oflife, will rear her children in such a manner that they shall have asmuch enjoyment as possible out of life, and that they shall make thegreatest possible use of it; only she will feed them luxuriously, deckthem out, amuse them artificially; only she will teach them, not thatwhich will fit them for self-sacrificing masculine or feminine labor withdanger of their lives, and to the last limits of endurance, but thatwhich will deliver them from this labor. Only such a woman, who has lostthe meaning of her life, will sympathize with that delusive and falsemale labor, by means of which her husband, having rid himself of theobligations of a man, is enabled to enjoy, in her company, the work ofothers. Only such a woman will choose a similar man for the husband ofher daughter, and will estimate men, not by what they are personally, butby that which is connected with them, --position, money, or their abilityto take advantage of the labor of others. 

But the true mother, who actually knows the will of God, will fit herchildren to fulfil it also. For such a mother, to see her child overfed, enervated, decked out, will mean suffering; for all this, as she wellknows, will render difficult for him the fulfilment of the law of God inwhich she has instructed him. Such a mother will teach, not that whichwill enable her son and her daughter to rid themselves of labor, but thatwhich will help them to endure the toils of life. She will have no needto inquire what she shall teach her children, for what she shall preparethem. Such a woman will not only not encourage her husband to false anddelusive labor, which has but one object, that of using the labors ofothers; but she will bear herself with disgust and horror towards such anemployment, which serves as a double temptation to her children. Such awoman will not choose a husband for her daughter on account of thewhiteness of his hands and the refinement of manner; but, well aware thatlabor and deceit will exist always and everywhere, she will, beginningwith her husband, respect and value in men, and will require from them, real labor, with expenditure and risk of life, and she will despise thatdeceptive labor which has for its object the ridding one's self of alltrue toil. 

Such a mother, who brings forth children and nurses them, and willherself, rather than any other, feed her offspring and prepare theirfood, and sew, and wash, and teach her children, and sleep and talk withthem, because in this she grounds the business of her life, --only such amother will not seek for her children external guaranties in the form ofher husband's money, and the children's diplomas; but she will rear themto that same capacity for the self-sacrificing fulfilment of the will ofGod which she is conscious of herself possessing, --a capacity forenduring toil with expenditure and risk of life, --because she knows thatin this lies the sole guaranty, and the only well-being in life. Such amother will not ask other people what she ought to do; she will knowevery thing, and will fear nothing. 

If there can exist any doubt for the man and for the childless woman, asto the path in which the fulfilment of the will of God lies, this path isfirmly and clearly defined for the woman who is a mother; and if she hascomplied with it in submissiveness and in simplicity of spirit, she, standing on that loftiest height of bliss which the human being ispermitted to attain, will become a guiding-star for all men who areseeking good. Only the mother can calmly say before her death, to Himwho sent her into this world, and to Him whom she has served by bearingand rearing children more dear than herself, --only she can say calmly, having served Him who has imposed this service upon her: "Now lettestthou thy servant depart in peace. " And this is the highest perfection, towards which, as towards the highest bliss, men are striving. 

Such are the women, who, having fulfilled their destiny, reign overpowerful men; such are the women who prepare the new generations ofpeople, and fix public opinion: and, therefore, in the hands of thesewomen lies the highest power of saving men from the prevailing andthreatening evils of our times. 

Yes, ye women and mothers, in your hands, more than in those of allothers, lies the salvation of the world!

Footnotes:

{21a} The fine, tall members of a regiment, selected and placed togetherto form a showy squad. 

{21b} [] Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition printed inRussia, in the set of Count Tolstoi's works. 

{24a} Reaumur. 

{24b} A drink made of water, honey, and laurel or salvia leaves, whichis drunk as tea, especially by the poorer classes. 

{28} [] Omitted by the censor from the authorized edition published inRussia in the set of count Tolstoi's works. The omission is indicatedthus . . . 

{39} _Kalatch_, a kind of roll: _baranki_, cracknels of fine flour. 

{59} An _arshin_ is twenty-eight inches. 

{60} A _myeshchanin_, or citizen, who pays only poll-tax and not a guildtax. 

{62} Omitted in authorized edition. 

{66} Omitted by the censor in the authorized edition. 

{94} Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition. 

{96} Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition. 

{99} Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition. 

{108} Omitted by the Censor from the authorized edition. 

{111} Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition. 

{113} Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition

{116} Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition. 

{122a} Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition. 

{122b} A very complicated sort of whist. 

{124} The whole of this chapter is omitted by the Censor in theauthorized edition, and is there represented by the following sentence:"And I felt that in money, in money itself, in the possession of it, there was something immoral; and I asked myself, What is money?"

{135} Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition. 

{138} Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition. 

{139} The above passage is omitted in the authorized edition, and thefollowing is added: "I came to the simple and natural conclusion, that, if I pity the tortured horse upon which I am riding, the first thing forme to do is to alight, and to walk on my own feet. "

{140} Omitted in the authorized edition. 

{142} Omitted in the authorized edition. 

{152a} "Into a worse state, " in the authorized edition. 

{152b} Omitted in the authorized edition. 

{154} Omitted in the authorized edition. 

{155} Reaumur. 

{158} In the Moscow edition (authorized by the Censor), the concludingparagraph is replaced by the following:--"They say: The action of asingle man is but a drop in the sea. A drop in the sea!

"There is an Indian legend relating how a man dropped a pearl into thesea, and in order to recover it he took a bucket, and began to bail out, and to pour the water on the shore. Thus he toiled without intermission, and on the seventh day the spirit of the sea grew alarmed lest the manshould dip the sea dry, and so he brought him his pearl. If our socialevil of persecuting man were the sea, then that pearl which we have lostis equivalent to devoting our lives to bailing out the sea of that evil. The prince of this world will take fright, he will succumb more promptlythan did the spirit of the sea; but this social evil is not the sea, buta foul cesspool, which we assiduously fill with our own uncleanness. Allthat is required is for us to come to our senses, and to comprehend whatwe are doing; to fall out of love with our own uncleanness, --in orderthat that imaginary sea should dry away, and that we should come intopossession of that priceless pearl, --fraternal, humane life. "

{161a} An arshin is twenty-eight inches. 

{161b} The fast extends from the 5th to the 30th of June, O. S. (June 27to July 12, N. S. )

{165} A pood is thirty-six pounds. 

{167} Robinson Crusoe. 

{168} Here something has been omitted by the Censor, which I am unableto supply. --TRANS. 

{169} An omission by the censor, which I am unable to supply. TRANS. 

{178} We designate as organisms the elephant and the bacterian, onlybecause we assume by analogy in those creatures the same conjunction offeeling and consciousness that we know to exist in ourselves. But inhuman societies and in humanity, this actual sign is absent; andtherefore, however many other signs we may discover in humanity and inorganism, without this substantial token the recognition of humanity asan organism is incorrect. 

{238} _v prikusku_, when a lump of sugar is held in the teeth instead orbeing put into the tea. 

{252} In English in the text. 

{256} An excellent translation of Kriloff's Fables, by Mr. W. R. S. Ralston, is published in London. 

{260} _Burlak_, pl. _burlaki_, is a boatman on the River Volga.