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What Men Live By And Other Tales=
By
Leo Tolstoy
Contents
I =
II =
III =
VI =
VII =
VIII =
XI =
XII =
HOW
MUCH LAND DOES A MAN NEED?
I =
II =
III =
VI =
VII =
VIII =
Notes: =
"We know that we have passed out of death
into life, because we love the
brethren. He that loveth not
abideth in death." --1 "E=
pistle
St. John" iii. 14.
"Whoso hath=
the
world's goods, and beholdeth his brother in need, and
shutteth up his compassion from him, how doth the love of God=
abide
in him? My little children, let us not love in wor=
d,
neither with the tongue; but in deed and truth."
--iii. 17-18.
"Love is of=
God;
and every one that loveth is begotten of God, and kn=
oweth
God. He that loveth not knowe=
th not
God; =
for
God is love." --iv. 7-8.
"No man hath
beheld God at any time; if we love one another, God abideth=
in
us." --iv. 12.
"God is lov=
e; and
he that abideth in love abideth in God, and God abi=
deth
in him." --iv. 16.
"If a man s=
ay, I
love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar; for h=
e that
loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he =
love
God whom he hath not seen?"
--iv. 20.
A shoemaker named Simon, who had neither house=
nor
land of his own, lived with his wife and children in a peasant's hut, and
earned his living by his work. Work was cheap, but bread was dear, and what=
he earned
he spent for food. The man and his wife had but one sheepskin coat between =
them
for winter wear, and even that was torn to tatters, and this was the second
year he had been wanting to buy sheep-skins for a new coat. Before winter S=
imon
saved up a little money: a three-rouble note lay hidden in his wife's box, =
and
five roubles and twenty kopeks were owed him by customers in the village.
So one morning he prepared to go to the villag=
e to
buy the sheep-skins. He put on over his shirt his wife's wadded nankeen jac=
ket,
and over that he put his own cloth coat. He took the three-rouble note in h=
is pocket,
cut himself a stick to serve as a staff, and started off after breakfast.
"I'll collect the five roubles that are due to me," thought he,
"add the three I have got, and that will be enough to buy sheep-skins =
for
the winter coat."
He came to the village and called at a peasant=
's
hut, but the man was not at home. The peasant's wife promised that the money
should be paid next week, but she would not pay it herself. Then Simon call=
ed
on another peasant, but this one swore he had no money, and would only pay =
twenty
kopeks which he owed for a pair of boots Simon had mended. Simon then tried=
to
buy the sheep-skins on credit, but the dealer would not trust him.
"Bring your money," said he, "t=
hen
you may have your pick of the skins. We know what debt-collecting is
like." So all the business the shoemaker did was to get the twenty kop=
eks
for boots he had mended, and to take a pair of felt boots a peasant gave hi=
m to
sole with leather.
Simon felt downhearted. He spent the twenty ko=
peks
on vodka, and started homewards without having bought any skins. In the mor=
ning
he had felt the frost; but now, after drinking the vodka, he felt warm, even
without a sheep-skin coat. He trudged along, striking his stick on the froz=
en earth
with one hand, swinging the felt boots with the other, and talking to himse=
lf.
"I'm quite warm," said he, "tho=
ugh
I have no sheep-skin coat. I've had a drop, and it runs through all my vein=
s. I
need no sheep-skins. I go along and don't worry about anything. That's the =
sort
of man I am! What do I care? I can live without sheep-skins. I don't need t=
hem.
My wife will fret, to be sure. And, true enough, it is a shame; one works a=
ll day
long, and then does not get paid. Stop a bit! If you don't bring that money
along, sure enough I'll skin you, blessed if I don't. How's that? He pays
twenty kopeks at a time! What can I do with twenty kopeks? Drink it-that's =
all
one can do! Hard up, he says he is! So he may be--but what about me? You ha=
ve a
house, and cattle, and everything; I've only what I stand up in! You have c=
orn
of your own growing; I have to buy every grain. Do what I will, I must spend
three roubles every week for bread alone. I come home and find the bread all
used up, and I have to fork out another rouble and a half. So just pay up w=
hat
you owe, and no nonsense about it!"
By this time he had nearly reached the shrine =
at
the bend of the road. Looking up, he saw something whitish behind the shrin=
e.
The daylight was fading, and the shoemaker peered at the thing without being
able to make out what it was. "There was no white stone here before. C=
an
it be an ox? It's not like an ox. It has a head like a man, but it's too wh=
ite;
and what could a man be doing there?"
He came closer, so that it was clearly visible=
. To
his surprise it really was a man, alive or dead, sitting naked, leaning
motionless against the shrine. Terror seized the shoemaker, and he thought,
"Some one has killed him, stripped him, and left him there. If I meddl=
e I shall
surely get into trouble."
So the shoemaker went on. He passed in front of
the shrine so that he could not see the man. When he had gone some way, he
looked back, and saw that the man was no longer leaning against the shrine,=
but
was moving as if looking towards him. The shoemaker felt more frightened th=
an
before, and thought, "Shall I go back to him, or shall I go on? If I go
near him something dreadful may happen. Who knows who the fellow is? He has=
not
come here for any good. If I go near him he may jump up and throttle me, and
there will be no getting away. Or if not, he'd still be a burden on one's
hands. What could I do with a naked man? I couldn't give him my last clothe=
s.
Heaven only help me to get away!"
So the shoemaker hurried on, leaving the shrine
behind him-when suddenly his conscience smote him, and he stopped in the ro=
ad.
"What are you doing, Simon?" said he=
to
himself. "The man may be dying of want, and you slip past afraid. Have=
you
grown so rich as to be afraid of robbers? Ah, Simon, shame on you!"
So he turned back and went up to the man.
Simon approached the stranger, looked at him, =
and
saw that he was a young man, fit, with no bruises on his body, only evident=
ly
freezing and frightened, and he sat there leaning back without looking up at
Simon, as if too faint to lift his eyes. Simon went close to him, and then =
the man
seemed to wake up. Turning his head, he opened his eyes and looked into Sim=
on's
face. That one look was enough to make Simon fond of the man. He threw the =
felt
boots on the ground, undid his sash, laid it on the boots, and took off his
cloth coat.
"It's not a time for talking," said =
he.
"Come, put this coat on at once!" And Simon took the man by the
elbows and helped him to rise. As he stood there, Simon saw that his body w=
as
clean and in good condition, his hands and feet shapely, and his face good =
and
kind. He threw his coat over the man's shoulders, but the latter could not =
find
the sleeves. Simon guided his arms into them, and drawing the coat well on,=
wrapped
it closely about him, tying the sash round the man's waist.
Simon even took off his torn cap to put it on =
the
man's head, but then his own head felt cold, and he thought: "I'm quite
bald, while he has long curly hair." So he put his cap on his own head
again. "It will be better to give him something for his feet,"
thought he; and he made the man sit down, and helped him to put on the felt
boots, saying, "There, friend, now move about and warm yourself. Other
matters can be settled later on. Can you walk?"
The man stood up and looked kindly at Simon, b=
ut
could not say a word.
"Why don't you speak?" said Simon.
"It's too cold to stay here, we must be getting home. There now, take =
my
stick, and if you're feeling weak, lean on that. Now step out!"
The man started walking, and moved easily, not
lagging behind.
As they went along, Simon asked him, "And
where do you belong to?" "I'm not from these parts."
"I thought as much. I know the folks
hereabouts. But, how did you come to be there by the shrine?"
"I cannot tell."
"Has some one been ill-treating you?"=
;
"No one has ill-treated me. God has punis=
hed
me."
"Of course God rules all. Still, you'll h=
ave
to find food and shelter somewhere. Where do you want to go to?"
"It is all the same to me."
Simon was amazed. The man did not look like a
rogue, and he spoke gently, but yet he gave no account of himself. Still Si=
mon
thought, "Who knows what may have happened?" And he said to the
stranger: "Well then, come home with me, and at least warm yourself
awhile."
So Simon walked towards his home, and the stra=
nger
kept up with him, walking at his side. The wind had risen and Simon felt it
cold under his shirt. He was getting over his tipsiness by now, and began to
feel the frost. He went along sniffling and wrapping his wife's coat round =
him,
and he thought to himself: "There now--talk about sheep-skins! I went =
out
for sheep-skins and come home without even a coat to my back, and what is m=
ore,
I'm bringing a naked man along with me. Matryona won't be pleased!" And
when he thought of his wife he felt sad; but when he looked at the stranger=
and
remembered how he had looked up at him at the shrine, his heart was glad.
Simon's wife had everything ready early that d=
ay.
She had cut wood, brought water, fed the children, eaten her own meal, and =
now
she sat thinking. She wondered when she ought to make bread: now or tomorro=
w? There
was still a large piece left.
"If Simon has had some dinner in town,&qu=
ot;
thought she, "and does not eat much for supper, the bread will last out
another day."
She weighed the piece of bread in her hand aga=
in
and again, and thought: "I won't make any more today. We have only eno=
ugh
flour left to bake one batch; We can manage to make this last out till
Friday."
So Matryona put away the bread, and sat down at
the table to patch her husband's shirt. While she worked she thought how her
husband was buying skins for a winter coat.
"If only the dealer does not cheat him. My
good man is much too simple; he cheats nobody, but any child can take him i=
n.
Eight roubles is a lot of money--he should get a good coat at that price. N=
ot
tanned skins, but still a proper winter coat. How difficult it was last win=
ter
to get on without a warm coat. I could neither get down to the river, nor go
out anywhere. When he went out he put on all we had, and there was nothing =
left
for me. He did not start very early today, but still it's time he was back.=
I
only hope he has not gone on the spree!"
Hardly had Matryona thought this, when steps w=
ere
heard on the threshold, and some one entered. Matryona stuck her needle into
her work and went out into the passage. There she saw two men: Simon, and w=
ith him
a man without a hat, and wearing felt boots.
Matryona noticed at once that her husband smel=
t of
spirits. "There now, he has been drinking," thought she. And when=
she
saw that he was coatless, had only her jacket on, brought no parcel, stood
there silent, and seemed ashamed, her heart was ready to break with
disappointment. "He has drunk the money," thought she, "and =
has
been on the spree with some good-for-nothing fellow whom he has brought home
with him."
Matryona let them pass into the hut, followed =
them
in, and saw that the stranger was a young, slight man, wearing her husband's
coat. There was no shirt to be seen under it, and he had no hat. Having
entered, he stood, neither moving, nor raising his eyes, and Matryona thoug=
ht:
"He must be a bad man--he's afraid."
Matryona frowned, and stood beside the oven
looking to see what they would do.
Simon took off his cap and sat down on the ben=
ch
as if things were all right.
"Come, Matryona; if supper is ready, let =
us
have some."
Matryona muttered something to herself and did=
not
move, but stayed where she was, by the oven. She looked first at the one and
then at the other of them, and only shook her head. Simon saw that his wife=
was
annoyed, but tried to pass it off. Pretending not to notice anything, he to=
ok
the stranger by the arm.
"Sit down, friend," said he, "a=
nd
let us have some supper."
The stranger sat down on the bench.
"Haven't you cooked anything for us?"
said Simon.
Matryona's anger boiled over. "I've cooke=
d,
but not for you. It seems to me you have drunk your wits away. You went to =
buy
a sheep-skin coat, but come home without so much as the coat you had on, and
bring a naked vagabond home with you. I have no supper for drunkards like
you."
"That's enough, Matryona. Don't wag your
tongue without reason. You had better ask what sort of man--"
"And you tell me what you've done with the
money?"
Simon found the pocket of the jacket, drew out=
the
three-rouble note, and unfolded it.
"Here is the money. Trifonof did not pay,=
but
promises to pay soon."
Matryona got still more angry; he had bought no
sheep-skins, but had put his only coat on some naked fellow and had even
brought him to their house.
She snatched up the note from the table, took =
it
to put away in safety, and said: "I have no supper for you. We can't f=
eed
all the naked drunkards in the world."
"There now, Matryona, hold your tongue a =
bit.
First hear what a man has to say-"
"Much wisdom I shall hear from a drunken
fool. I was right in not wanting to marry you-a drunkard. The linen my moth=
er
gave me you drank; and now you've been to buy a coat-and have drunk it,
too!"
Simon tried to explain to his wife that he had
only spent twenty kopeks; tried to tell how he had found the man--but Matry=
ona
would not let him get a word in. She talked nineteen to the dozen, and drag=
ged
in things that had happened ten years before.
Matryona talked and talked, and at last she fl=
ew
at Simon and seized him by the sleeve.
"Give me my jacket. It is the only one I
have, and you must needs take it from me and wear it yourself. Give it here,
you mangy dog, and may the devil take you."
Simon began to pull off the jacket, and turned=
a
sleeve of it inside out; Matryona seized the jacket and it burst its seams,=
She
snatched it up, threw it over her head and went to the door. She meant to go
out, but stopped undecided--she wanted to work off her anger, but she also =
wanted
to learn what sort of a man the stranger was.
Matryona stopped and said: "If he were a =
good
man he would not be naked. Why, he hasn't even a shirt on him. If he were a=
ll
right, you would say where you came across the fellow."
"That's just what I am trying to tell
you," said Simon. "As I came to the shrine I saw him sitting all
naked and frozen. It isn't quite the weather to sit about naked! God sent m=
e to
him, or he would have perished. What was I to do? How do we know what may h=
ave
happened to him? So I took him, clothed him, and brought him along. Don't b=
e so
angry, Matryona. It is a sin. Remember, we all must die one day."
Angry words rose to Matryona's lips, but she
looked at the stranger and was silent. He sat on the edge of the bench,
motionless, his hands folded on his knees, his head drooping on his breast,=
his
eyes closed, and his brows knit as if in pain. Matryona was silent: and Sim=
on
said: "Matryona, have you no love of God?"
Matryona heard these words, and as she looked =
at
the stranger, suddenly her heart softened towards him. She came back from t=
he
door, and going to the oven she got out the supper. Setting a cup on the ta=
ble,
she poured out some kvas. Then she brought out the last piece of bread, and=
set
out a knife and spoons.
"Eat, if you want to," said she.
Simon drew the stranger to the table.
"Take your place, young man," said h=
e.
Simon cut the bread, crumbled it into the brot=
h,
and they began to eat. Matryona sat at the corner of the table resting her =
head
on her hand and looking at the stranger.
And Matryona was touched with pity for the
stranger, and began to feel fond of him. And at once the stranger's face lit
up; his brows were no longer bent, he raised his eyes and smiled at Matryon=
a.
When they had finished supper, the woman clear=
ed
away the things and began questioning the stranger. "Where are you
from?" said she.
"I am not from these parts."
"But how did you come to be on the
road?"
"I may not tell."
"Did some one rob you?"
"God punished me."
"And you were lying there naked?"
"Yes, naked and freezing. Simon saw me and
had pity on me. He took off his coat, put it on me and brought me here. And=
you
have fed me, given me drink, and shown pity on me. God will reward you!&quo=
t;
Matryona rose, took from the window Simon's old
shirt she had been patching, and gave it to the stranger. She also brought =
out
a pair of trousers for him.
"There," said she, "I see you h=
ave
no shirt. Put this on, and lie down where you please, in the loft or on the
oven."
The stranger took off the coat, put on the shi=
rt,
and lay down in the loft. Matryona put out the candle, took the coat, and
climbed to where her husband lay.
Matryona drew the skirts of the coat over her =
and
lay down, but could not sleep; she could not get the stranger out of her mi=
nd.
When she remembered that he had eaten their la=
st
piece of bread and that there was none for tomorrow, and thought of the shi=
rt
and trousers she had given away, she felt grieved; but when she remembered =
how
he had smiled, her heart was glad.
Long did Matryona lie awake, and she noticed t=
hat
Simon also was awake--he drew the coat towards him.
"Simon!"
"Well?"
"You have had the last of the bread, and I
have not put any to rise. I don't know what we shall do tomorrow. Perhaps I=
can
borrow some of neighbor Martha."
"If we're alive we shall find something to
eat."
The woman lay still awhile, and then said,
"He seems a good man, but why does he not tell us who he is?"
"I suppose he has his reasons."
"Simon!"
"Well?"
"We give; but why does nobody give us
anything?"
Simon did not know what to say; so he only sai=
d,
"Let us stop talking," and turned over and went to sleep.
In the morning Simon awoke. The children were
still asleep; his wife had gone to the neighbor's to borrow some bread. The
stranger alone was sitting on the bench, dressed in the old shirt and trous=
ers,
and looking upwards. His face was brighter than it had been the day before.=
Simon said to him, "Well, friend; the bel=
ly
wants bread, and the naked body clothes. One has to work for a living What =
work
do you know?"
"I do not know any."
This surprised Simon, but he said, "Men w=
ho
want to learn can learn anything."
"Men work, and I will work also."
"What is your name?"
"Michael."
"Well, Michael, if you don't wish to talk
about yourself, that is your own affair; but you'll have to earn a living f=
or
yourself. If you will work as I tell you, I will give you food and
shelter."
"May God reward you! I will learn. Show me
what to do."
Simon took yarn, put it round his thumb and be=
gan to
twist it.
"It is easy enough--see!"
Michael watched him, put some yarn round his o=
wn
thumb in the same way, caught the knack, and twisted the yarn also.
Then Simon showed him how to wax the thread. T=
his
also Michael mastered. Next Simon showed him how to twist the bristle in, a=
nd
how to sew, and this, too, Michael learned at once.
Whatever Simon showed him he understood at onc=
e,
and after three days he worked as if he had sewn boots all his life. He wor=
ked
without stopping, and ate little. When work was over he sat silently, looki=
ng
upwards. He hardly went into the street, spoke only when necessary, and nei=
ther
joked nor laughed. They never saw him smile, except that first evening when
Matryona gave them supper.
Day by day and week by week the year went roun=
d.
Michael lived and worked with Simon. His fame spread till people said that =
no
one sewed boots so neatly and strongly as Simon's workman, Michael; and from
all the district round people came to Simon for their boots, and he began t=
o be
well off.
One winter day, as Simon and Michael sat worki=
ng,
a carriage on sledge-runners, with three horses and with bells, drove up to=
the
hut. They looked out of the window; the carriage stopped at their door, a f=
ine
servant jumped down from the box and opened the door. A gentleman in a fur =
coat
got out and walked up to Simon's hut. Up jumped Matryona and opened the door
wide. The gentleman stooped to enter the hut, and when he drew himself up a=
gain
his head nearly reached the ceiling, and he seemed quite to fill his end of=
the
room.
Simon rose, bowed, and looked at the gentleman
with astonishment. He had never seen any one like him. Simon himself was le=
an,
Michael was thin, and Matryona was dry as a bone, but this man was like some
one from another world: red-faced, burly, with a neck like a bull's, and
looking altogether as if he were cast in iron.
The gentleman puffed, threw off his fur coat, =
sat
down on the bench, and said, "Which of you is the master bootmaker?&qu=
ot;
"I am, your Excellency," said Simon,
coming forward.
Then the gentleman shouted to his lad, "H=
ey,
Fedka, bring the leather!"
The servant ran in, bringing a parcel. The
gentleman took the parcel and put it on the table.
"Untie it," said he. The lad untied =
it.
The gentleman pointed to the leather.
"Look here, shoemaker," said he,
"do you see this leather?"
"Yes, your honor."
"But do you know what sort of leather it
is?"
Simon felt the leather and said, "It is g=
ood
leather."
"Good, indeed! Why, you fool, you never s=
aw
such leather before in your life. It's German, and cost twenty roubles.&quo=
t;
Simon was frightened, and said, "Where sh=
ould
I ever see leather like that?"
"Just so! Now, can you make it into boots=
for
me?"
"Yes, your Excellency, I can."
Then the gentleman shouted at him: "You c=
an,
can you? Well, remember whom you are to make them for, and what the leather=
is.
You must make me boots that will wear for a year, neither losing shape nor
coming unsown. If you can do it, take the leather and cut it up; but if you
can't, say so. I warn you now if your boots become unsewn or lose shape wit=
hin
a year, I will have you put in prison. If they don't burst or lose shape fo=
r a
year I will pay you ten roubles for your work."
Simon was frightened, and did not know what to
say. He glanced at Michael and nudging him with his elbow, whispered:
"Shall I take the work?"
Michael nodded his head as if to say, "Ye=
s,
take it."
Simon did as Michael advised, and undertook to
make boots that would not lose shape or split for a whole year.
Calling his servant, the gentleman told him to
pull the boot off his left leg, which he stretched out.
"Take my measure!" said he.
Simon stitched a paper measure seventeen inches
long, smoothed it out, knelt down, wiped his hand well on his apron so as n=
ot
to soil the gentleman's sock, and began to measure. He measured the sole, a=
nd
round the instep, and began to measure the calf of the leg, but the paper w=
as too
short. The calf of the leg was as thick as a beam.
"Mind you don't make it too tight in the
leg."
Simon stitched on another strip of paper. The
gentleman twitched his toes about in his sock, looking round at those in the
hut, and as he did so he noticed Michael.
"Whom have you there?" asked he.
"That is my workman. He will sew the
boots."
"Mind," said the gentleman to Michae=
l,
"remember to make them so that they will last me a year."
Simon also looked at Michael, and saw that Mic=
hael
was not looking at the gentleman, but was gazing into the corner behind the
gentleman, as if he saw some one there. Michael looked and looked, and sudd=
enly
he smiled, and his face became brighter.
"What are you grinning at, you fool?"
thundered the gentleman. "You had better look to it that the boots are
ready in time."
"They shall be ready in good time," =
said
Michael.
"Mind it is so," said the gentleman,=
and
he put on his boots and his fur coat, wrapped the latter round him, and wen=
t to
the door. But he forgot to stoop, and struck his head against the lintel.
He swore and rubbed his head. Then he took his
seat in the carriage and drove away.
When he had gone, Simon said: "There's a
figure of a man for you! You could not kill him with a mallet. He almost
knocked out the lintel, but little harm it did him."
And Matryona said: "Living as he does, how
should he not grow strong? Death itself can't touch such a rock as that.&qu=
ot;
Then Simon said to Michael: "Well, we have
taken the work, but we must see we don't get into trouble over it. The leat=
her
is dear, and the gentleman hot-tempered. We must make no mistakes. Come, yo=
ur
eye is truer and your hands have become nimbler than mine, so you take this=
measure
and cut out the boots. I will finish off the sewing of the vamps."
Michael did as he was told. He took the leathe=
r,
spread it out on the table, folded it in two, took a knife and began to cut
out.
Matryona came and watched him cutting, and was
surprised to see how he was doing it. Matryona was accustomed to seeing boo=
ts
made, and she looked and saw that Michael was not cutting the leather for
boots, but was cutting it round.
She wished to say something, but she thought to
herself: "Perhaps I do not understand how gentleman's boots should be
made. I suppose Michael knows more about it--and I won't interfere."
When Michael had cut up the leather, he took a
thread and began to sew not with two ends, as boots are sewn, but with a si=
ngle
end, as for soft slippers.
Again Matryona wondered, but again she did not
interfere. Michael sewed on steadily till noon. Then Simon rose for dinner,
looked around, and saw that Michael had made slippers out of the gentleman's
leather.
"Ah," groaned Simon, and he thought,
"How is it that Michael, who has been with me a whole year and never m=
ade
a mistake before, should do such a dreadful thing? The gentleman ordered hi=
gh
boots, welted, with whole fronts, and Michael has made soft slippers with
single soles, and has wasted the leather. What am I to say to the gentleman=
? I
can never replace leather such as this."
And he said to Michael, "What are you doi=
ng,
friend? You have ruined me! You know the gentleman ordered high boots, but =
see
what you have made!"
Hardly had he begun to rebuke Michael, when
"rat-tat" went the iron ring that hung at the door. Some one was
knocking. They looked out of the window; a man had come on horseback, and w=
as
fastening his horse. They opened the door, and the servant who had been with
the gentleman came in.
"Good day," said he.
"Good day," replied Simon. "What
can we do for you?"
"My mistress has sent me about the
boots."
"What about the boots?"
"Why, my master no longer needs them. He =
is
dead."
"Is it possible?"
"He did not live to get home after leaving
you, but died in the carriage. When we reached home and the servants came to
help him alight, he rolled over like a sack. He was dead already, and so st=
iff
that he could hardly be got out of the carriage. My mistress sent me here, =
saying:
'Tell the bootmaker that the gentleman who ordered boots of him and left the
leather for them no longer needs the boots, but that he must quickly make s=
oft
slippers for the corpse. Wait till they are ready, and bring them back with
you.' That is why I have come."
Michael gathered up the remnants of the leathe=
r;
rolled them up, took the soft slippers he had made, slapped them together,
wiped them down with his apron, and handed them and the roll of leather to =
the
servant, who took them and said: "Good-bye, masters, and good day to
you!"
Another year passed, and another, and Michael =
was
now living his sixth year with Simon. He lived as before. He went nowhere, =
only
spoke when necessary, and had only smiled twice in all those years--once wh=
en Matryona
gave him food, and a second time when the gentleman was in their hut. Simon=
was
more than pleased with his workman. He never now asked him where he came fr=
om,
and only feared lest Michael should go away.
They were all at home one day. Matryona was
putting iron pots in the oven; the children were running along the benches =
and
looking out of the window; Simon was sewing at one window, and Michael was
fastening on a heel at the other.
One of the boys ran along the bench to Michael,
leant on his shoulder, and looked out of the window.
"Look, Uncle Michael! There is a lady with
little girls! She seems to be coming here. And one of the girls is lame.&qu=
ot;
When the boy said that, Michael dropped his wo=
rk,
turned to the window, and looked out into the street.
Simon was surprised. Michael never used to look
out into the street, but now he pressed against the window, staring at
something. Simon also looked out, and saw that a well-dressed woman was rea=
lly
coming to his hut, leading by the hand two little girls in fur coats and wo=
olen
shawls. The girls could hardly be told one from the other, except that one =
of
them was crippled in her left leg and walked with a limp.
The woman stepped into the porch and entered t=
he
passage. Feeling about for the entrance she found the latch, which she lift=
ed,
and opened the door. She let the two girls go in first, and followed them i=
nto
the hut.
"Good day, good folk!"
"Pray come in," said Simon. "Wh=
at
can we do for you?"
The woman sat down by the table. The two little
girls pressed close to her knees, afraid of the people in the hut.
"I want leather shoes made for these two
little girls for spring."
"We can do that. We never have made such
small shoes, but we can make them; either welted or turnover shoes, linen
lined. My man, Michael, is a master at the work."
Simon glanced at Michael and saw that he had l=
eft
his work and was sitting with his eyes fixed on the little girls. Simon was
surprised. It was true the girls were pretty, with black eyes, plump, and r=
osy-cheeked,
and they wore nice kerchiefs and fur coats, but still Simon could not
understand why Michael should look at them like that--just as if he had kno=
wn
them before. He was puzzled, but went on talking with the woman, and arrang=
ing
the price. Having fixed it, he prepared the measure. The woman lifted the l=
ame
girl on to her lap and said: "Take two measures from this little girl.
Make one shoe for the lame foot and three for the sound one. They both have=
the
same size feet. They are twins."
Simon took the measure and, speaking of the la=
me
girl, said: "How did it happen to her? She is such a pretty girl. Was =
she
born so?"
"No, her mother crushed her leg."
Then Matryona joined in. She wondered who this
woman was, and whose the children were, so she said: "Are not you their
mother then?"
"No, my good woman; I am neither their mo=
ther
nor any relation to them. They were quite strangers to me, but I adopted
them."
"They are not your children and yet you a=
re
so fond of them?"
"How can I help being fond of them? I fed
them both at my own breasts. I had a child of my own, but God took him. I w=
as
not so fond of him as I now am of them."
"Then whose children are they?"
The woman, having begun talking, told them the
whole story.
"It is about six years since their parents
died, both in one week: their father was buried on the Tuesday, and their
mother died on the Friday. These orphans were born three days after their
father's death, and their mother did not live another day. My husband and I
were then living as peasants in the village. We were neighbors of theirs, o=
ur
yard being next to theirs. Their father was a lonely man; a wood-cutter in =
the forest.
When felling trees one day, they let one fall on him. It fell across his bo=
dy
and crushed his bowels out. They hardly got him home before his soul went to
God; and that same week his wife gave birth to twins--these little girls. S=
he
was poor and alone; she had no one, young or old, with her. Alone she gave =
them
birth, and alone she met her death."
"The next morning I went to see her, but =
when
I entered the hut, she, poor thing, was already stark and cold. In dying she
had rolled on to this child and crushed her leg. The village folk came to t=
he
hut, washed the body, laid her out, made a coffin, and buried her. They were
good folk. The babies were left alone. What was to be done with them? I was=
the
only woman there who had a baby at the time. I was nursing my first-born--e=
ight
weeks old. So I took them for a time. The peasants came together, and thoug=
ht
and thought what to do with them; and at last they said to me: 'For the
present, Mary, you had better keep the girls, and later on we will arrange =
what
to do for them.' So I nursed the sound one at my breast, but at first I did=
not
feed this crippled one. I did not suppose she would live. But then I though=
t to
myself, why should the poor innocent suffer? I pitied her, and began to feed
her. And so I fed my own boy and these two--the three of them--at my own
breast. I was young and strong, and had good food, and God gave me so much =
milk
that at times it even overflowed. I used sometimes to feed two at a time, w=
hile
the third was waiting. When one had enough I nursed the third. And God so
ordered it that these grew up, while my own was buried before he was two ye=
ars
old. And I had no more children, though we prospered. Now my husband is wor=
king
for the corn merchant at the mill. The pay is good, and we are well off. Bu=
t I
have no children of my own, and how lonely I should be without these little
girls! How can I help loving them! They are the joy of my life!"
She pressed the lame little girl to her with o=
ne
hand, while with the other she wiped the tears from her cheeks.
And Matryona sighed, and said: "The prove=
rb
is true that says, 'One may live without father or mother, but one cannot l=
ive
without God.'"
So they talked together, when suddenly the who=
le
hut was lighted up as though by summer lightning from the corner where Mich=
ael
sat. They all looked towards him and saw him sitting, his hands folded on h=
is
knees, gazing upwards and smiling.
The woman went away with the girls. Michael ro=
se
from the bench, put down his work, and took off his apron. Then, bowing low=
to
Simon and his wife, he said: "Farewell, masters. God has forgiven me. I
ask your forgiveness, too, for anything done amiss."
And they saw that a light shone from Michael. =
And
Simon rose, bowed down to Michael, and said: "I see, Michael, that you=
are
no common man, and I can neither keep you nor question you. Only tell me th=
is:
how is it that when I found you and brought you home, you were gloomy, and =
when
my wife gave you food you smiled at her and became brighter? Then when the =
gentleman
came to order the boots, you smiled again and became brighter still? And no=
w,
when this woman brought the little girls, you smiled a third time, and have
become as bright as day? Tell me, Michael, why does your face shine so, and=
why
did you smile those three times?"
And Michael answered: "Light shines from =
me
because I have been punished, but now God has pardoned me. And I smiled thr=
ee
times, because God sent me to learn three truths, and I have learnt them. O=
ne I
learnt when your wife pitied me, and that is why I smiled the first time. T=
he second
I learnt when the rich man ordered the boots, and then I smiled again. And =
now,
when I saw those little girls, I learn the third and last truth, and I smil=
ed
the third time."
And Simon said, "Tell me, Michael, what d=
id
God punish you for? and what were the three truths? that I, too, may know
them."
And Michael answered: "God punished me for
disobeying Him. I was an angel in heaven and disobeyed God. God sent me to
fetch a woman's soul. I flew to earth, and saw a sick woman lying alone, who
had just given birth to twin girls. They moved feebly at their mother's sid=
e,
but she could not lift them to her breast. When she saw me, she understood =
that
God had sent me for her soul, and she wept and said: 'Angel of God! My husb=
and
has just been buried, killed by a falling tree. I have neither sister, nor
aunt, nor mother: no one to care for my orphans. Do not take my soul! Let me
nurse my babes, feed them, and set them on their feet before I die. Children
cannot live without father or mother.' And I hearkened to her. I placed one
child at her breast and gave the other into her arms, and returned to the L=
ord
in heaven. I flew to the Lord, and said: 'I could not take the soul of the
mother. Her husband was killed by a tree; the woman has twins, and prays th=
at
her soul may not be taken. She says: "Let me nurse and feed my childre=
n,
and set them on their feet. Children cannot live without father or
mother." I have not taken her soul.' And God said: 'Go-take the mother=
's
soul, and learn three truths: Learn What dwells in man, What is not given to
man, and What men live by. When thou has learnt these things, thou shalt re=
turn
to heaven.' So I flew again to earth and took the mother's soul. The babes
dropped from her breasts. Her body rolled over on the bed and crushed one b=
abe,
twisting its leg. I rose above the village, wishing to take her soul to God;
but a wind seized me, and my wings drooped and dropped off. Her soul rose a=
lone
to God, while I fell to earth by the roadside."
And Simon and Matryona understood who it was t=
hat
had lived with them, and whom they had clothed and fed. And they wept with =
awe
and with joy. And the angel said: "I was alone in the field, naked. I =
had
never known human needs, cold and hunger, till I became a man. I was famish=
ed, frozen,
and did not know what to do. I saw, near the field I was in, a shrine built=
for
God, and I went to it hoping to find shelter. But the shrine was locked, an=
d I
could not enter. So I sat down behind the shrine to shelter myself at least
from the wind. Evening drew on. I was hungry, frozen, and in pain. Suddenly=
I
heard a man coming along the road. He carried a pair of boots, and was talk=
ing
to himself. For the first time since I became a man I saw the mortal face o=
f a
man, and his face seemed terrible to me and I turned from it. And I heard t=
he
man talking to himself of how to cover his body from the cold in winter, an=
d how
to feed wife and children. And I thought: 'I am perishing of cold and hunge=
r,
and here is a man thinking only of how to clothe himself and his wife, and =
how
to get bread for themselves. He cannot help me.' When the man saw me he fro=
wned
and became still more terrible, and passed me by on the other side. I
despaired; but suddenly I heard him coming back. I looked up, and did not
recognize the same man; before, I had seen death in his face; but now he was
alive, and I recognized in him the presence of God. He came up to me, cloth=
ed
me, took me with him, and brought me to his home. I entered the house; a wo=
man
came to meet us and began to speak. The woman was still more terrible than =
the
man had been; the spirit of death came from her mouth; I could not breathe =
for
the stench of death that spread around her. She wished to drive me out into=
the
cold, and I knew that if she did so she would die. Suddenly her husband spo=
ke
to her of God, and the woman changed at once. And when she brought me food =
and
looked at me, I glanced at her and saw that death no longer dwelt in her; s=
he
had become alive, and in her, too, I saw God.
"Then I remembered the first lesson God h=
ad set
me: 'Learn what dwells in man.' And I understood that in man dwells Love! I=
was
glad that God had already begun to show me what He had promised, and I smil=
ed
for the first time. But I had not yet learnt all. I did not yet know What is
not given to man, and What men live by.
"I lived with you, and a year passed. A m=
an
came to order boots that should wear for a year without losing shape or
cracking. I looked at him, and suddenly, behind his shoulder, I saw my
comrade--the angel of death. None but me saw that angel; but I knew him, and
knew that before the sun set he would take that rich man's soul. And I thou=
ght
to myself, 'The man is making preparations for a year, and does not know th=
at
he will die before evening.' And I remembered God's second saying, 'Learn w=
hat
is not given to man.'
"What dwells in man I already knew. Now I
learnt what is not given him. It is not given to man to know his own needs.=
And
I smiled for the second time. I was glad to have seen my comrade angel--glad
also that God had revealed to me the second saying.
"But I still did not know all. I did not =
know
What men live by. And I lived on, waiting till God should reveal to me the =
last
lesson. In the sixth year came the girl-twins with the woman; and I recogni=
zed
the girls, and heard how they had been kept alive. Having heard the story, I
thought, 'Their mother besought me for the children's sake, and I believed =
her
when she said that children cannot live without father or mother; but a
stranger has nursed them, and has brought them up.' And when the woman show=
ed
her love for the children that were not her own, and wept over them, I saw =
in
her the living God and understood What men live by. And I knew that God had
revealed to me the last lesson, and had forgiven my sin. And then I smiled =
for
the third time."
=
And the angel's body was bared, and he was clo=
thed
in light so that eye could not look on him; and his voice grew louder, as
though it came not from him but from heaven above. And the angel said:
"I have learnt that all men live not by c=
are
for themselves but by love.
"It was not given to the mother to know w= hat her children needed for their life. Nor was it given to the rich man to know what he himself needed. Nor is it given to any man to know whether, when evening comes, he will need boots for his body or slippers for his corpse.<= o:p>
"I remained alive when I was a man, not by
care of myself, but because love was present in a passer-by, and because he=
and
his wife pitied and loved me. The orphans remained alive not because of the=
ir
mother's care, but because there was love in the heart of a woman, a strang=
er
to them, who pitied and loved them. And all men live not by the thought the=
y spend
on their own welfare, but because love exists in man.
"I knew before that God gave life to men =
and
desires that they should live; now I understood more than that.
"I understood that God does not wish men =
to
live apart, and therefore he does not reveal to them what each one needs for
himself; but he wishes them to live united, and therefore reveals to each of
them what is necessary for all.
"I have now understood that though it see=
ms
to men that they live by care for themselves, in truth it is love alone by
which they live. He who has love, is in God, and God is in him, for God is
love."
And the angel sang praise to God, so that the =
hut
trembled at his voice. The roof opened, and a column of fire rose from eart=
h to
heaven. Simon and his wife and children fell to the ground. Wings appeared =
upon
the angel's shoulders, and he rose into the heavens.
And when Simon came to himself the hut stood as
before, and there was no one in it but his own family.
=
It
once occurred to a certain king, that if he always knew the right time to b=
egin
everything; if he knew who were the right people to listen to, and whom to
avoid; and, above all, if he always knew what was the most important thing =
to
do, he would never fail in anything he might undertake.
And this thought having occurred to him, he ha=
d it
proclaimed throughout his kingdom that he would give a great reward to any =
one
who would teach him what was the right time for every action, and who were =
the
most necessary people, and how he might know what was the most important th=
ing
to do.
And learned men came to the King, but they all
answered his questions differently.
In reply to the first question, some said that=
to
know the right time for every action, one must draw up in advance, a table =
of
days, months and years, and must live strictly according to it. Only thus, =
said
they, could everything be done at its proper time. Others declared that it =
was
impossible to decide beforehand the right time for every action; but that, =
not
letting oneself be absorbed in idle pastimes, one should always attend to a=
ll
that was going on, and then do what was most needful. Others, again, said t=
hat
however attentive the King might be to what was going on, it was impossible=
for
one man to decide correctly the right time for every action, but that he sh=
ould
have a Council of wise men, who would help him to fix the proper time for
everything.
But then again others said there were some thi=
ngs
which could not wait to be laid before a Council, but about which one had at
once to decide whether to undertake them or not. But in order to decide tha=
t,
one must know beforehand what was going to happen. It is only magicians who
know that; and, therefore, in order to know the right time for every action=
, one
must consult magicians.
Equally various were the answers to the second
question. Some said, the people the King most needed were his councillors;
others, the priests; others, the doctors; while some said the warriors were=
the
most necessary.
To the third question, as to what was the most
important occupation: some replied that the most important thing in the wor=
ld
was science. Others said it was skill in warfare; and others, again, that it
was religious worship.
All the answers being different, the King agre=
ed
with none of them, and gave the reward to none. But still wishing to find t=
he
right answers to his questions, he decided to consult a hermit, widely reno=
wned
for his wisdom.
The hermit lived in a wood which he never quit=
ted,
and he received none but common folk. So the King put on simple clothes, and
before reaching the hermit's cell dismounted from his horse, and, leaving h=
is
body-guard behind, went on alone.
When the King approached, the hermit was diggi=
ng
the ground in front of his hut. Seeing the King, he greeted him and went on
digging. The hermit was frail and weak, and each time he stuck his spade in=
to the
ground and turned a little earth, he breathed heavily.
The King went up to him and said: "I have
come to you, wise hermit, to ask you to answer three questions: How can I l=
earn
to do the right thing at the right time? Who are the people I most need, an=
d to
whom should I, therefore, pay more attention than to the rest? And, what
affairs are the most important, and need my first attention?"
The hermit listened to the King, but answered
nothing. He just spat on his hand and recommenced digging.
"You are tired," said the King,
"let me take the spade and work awhile for you."
"Thanks!" said the hermit, and, givi=
ng
the spade to the King, he sat down on the ground.
When he had dug two beds, the King stopped and
repeated his questions. The hermit again gave no answer, but rose, stretched
out his hand for the spade, and said:
"Now rest awhile-and let me work a bit.&q=
uot;
But the King did not give him the spade, and continued to dig. One hour passed, and another. The sun began to sink behind the trees, and the King at last stuck the spade into the ground, and said:<= o:p>
"I came to you, wise man, for an answer t=
o my
questions. If you can give me none, tell me so, and I will return home.&quo=
t;
"Here comes some one running," said =
the
hermit, "let us see who it is."
The King turned round, and saw a bearded man c=
ome
running out of the wood. The man held his hands pressed against his stomach,
and blood was flowing from under them. When he reached the King, he fell
fainting on the ground moaning feebly. The King and the hermit unfastened t=
he
man's clothing. There was a large wound in his stomach. The King washed it =
as best
he could, and bandaged it with his handkerchief and with a towel the hermit
had. But the blood would not stop flowing, and the King again and again rem=
oved
the bandage soaked with warm blood, and washed and rebandaged the wound. Wh=
en
at last the blood ceased flowing, the man revived and asked for something to
drink. The King brought fresh water and gave it to him. Meanwhile the sun h=
ad
set, and it had become cool. So the King, with the hermit's help, carried t=
he
wounded man into the hut and laid him on the bed. Lying on the bed the man
closed his eyes and was quiet; but the King was so tired with his walk and =
with
the work he had done, that he crouched down on the threshold, and also fell=
asleep--so
soundly that he slept all through the short summer night. When he awoke in =
the
morning, it was long before he could remember where he was, or who was the
strange bearded man lying on the bed and gazing intently at him with shining
eyes.
"Forgive me!" said the bearded man i=
n a
weak voice, when he saw that the King was awake and was looking at him.
"I do not know you, and have nothing to
forgive you for," said the King.
"You do not know me, but I know you. I am
that enemy of yours who swore to revenge himself on you, because you execut=
ed
his brother and seized his property. I knew you had gone alone to see the
hermit, and I resolved to kill you on your way back. But the day passed and=
you
did not return. So I came out from my ambush to find you, and I came upon y=
our
bodyguard, and they recognized me, and wounded me. I escaped from them, but
should have bled to death had you not dressed my wound. I wished to kill yo=
u,
and you have saved my life. Now, if I live, and if you wish it, I will serve
you as your most faithful slave, and will bid my sons do the same. Forgive
me!"
The King was very glad to have made peace with=
his
enemy so easily, and to have gained him for a friend, and he not only forga=
ve
him, but said he would send his servants and his own physician to attend hi=
m,
and promised to restore his property.
Having taken leave of the wounded man, the King
went out into the porch and looked around for the hermit. Before going away=
he
wished once more to beg an answer to the questions he had put. The hermit w=
as
outside, on his knees, sowing seeds in the beds that had been dug the day
before.
The King approached him, and said:
"For the last time, I pray you to answer =
my
questions, wise man."
"You have already been answered!" sa=
id
the hermit, still crouching on his thin legs, and looking up at the King, w=
ho
stood before him.
"How answered? What do you mean?" as=
ked
the King.
"Do you not see," replied the hermit.
"If you had not pitied my weakness yesterday, and had not dug those be=
ds
for me, but had gone your way, that man would have attacked you, and you wo=
uld
have repented of not having stayed with me. So the most important time was =
when
you were digging the beds; and I was the most important man; and to do me g=
ood was
your most important business. Afterwards when that man ran to us, the most
important time was when you were attending to him, for if you had not bound=
up
his wounds he would have died without having made peace with you. So he was=
the
most important man, and what you did for him was your most important busine=
ss.
Remember then: there is only one time that is important--Now! It is the most
important time because it is the only time when we have any power. The most
necessary man is he with whom you are, for no man knows whether he will ever
have dealings with any one else: and the most important affair is, to do him
good, because for that purpose alone was man sent into this life!"
(After Bernardin de Saint-Pierre)
=
In the
town of Surat, in India, was a coffee-house where many travellers and
foreigners from all parts of the world met and conversed.
One day a learned Persian theologian visited t=
his
coffee-house. He was a man who had spent his life studying the nature of the
Deity, and reading and writing books upon the subject. He had thought, read,
and written so much about God, that eventually he lost his wits, became qui=
te
confused, and ceased even to believe in the existence of a God. The Shah,
hearing of this, had banished him from Persia.
After having argued all his life about the Fir=
st
Cause, this unfortunate theologian had ended by quite perplexing himself, a=
nd
instead of understanding that he had lost his own reason, he began to think
that there was no higher Reason controlling the universe.
This man had an African slave who followed him
everywhere. When the theologian entered the coffee-house, the slave remained
outside, near the door, sitting on a stone in the glare of the sun, and dri=
ving
away the flies that buzzed around him. The Persian having settled down on a=
divan
in the coffee-house, ordered himself a cup of opium. When he had drunk it a=
nd
the opium had begun to quicken the workings of his brain, he addressed his
slave through the open door:
"Tell me, wretched slave," said he,
"do you think there is a God, or not?"
"Of course there is," said the slave,
and immediately drew from under his girdle a small idol of wood.
"There," said he, "that is the =
God
who has guarded me from the day of my birth. Every one in our country worsh=
ips
the fetish tree, from the wood of which this God was made."
This conversation between the theologian and h=
is
slave was listened to with surprise by the other guests in the coffee-house.
They were astonished at the master's question, and yet more so at the slave=
's reply.
One of them, a Brahmin, on hearing the words
spoken by the slave, turned to him and said:
"Miserable fool! Is it possible you belie=
ve
that God can be carried under a man's girdle? There is one God--Brahma, and=
he
is greater than the whole world, for he created it. Brahma is the One, the
mighty God, and in His honour are built the temples on the Ganges' banks, w=
here
his true priests, the Brahmins, worship him. They know the true God, and no=
ne
but they. A thousand score of years have passed, and yet through revolution
after revolution these priests have held their sway, because Brahma, the one
true God, has protected them."
So spoke the Brahmin, thinking to convince eve=
ry
one; but a Jewish broker who was present replied to him, and said:
"No! the temple of the true God is not in
India. Neither does God protect the Brahmin caste. The true God is not the =
God
of the Brahmins, but of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. None does He protect but=
His
chosen people, the Israelites. From the commencement of the world, our nati=
on has
been beloved of Him, and ours alone. If we are now scattered over the whole
earth, it is but to try us; for God has promised that He will one day gather
His people together in Jerusalem. Then, with the Temple of Jerusalem--the
wonder of the ancient world--restored to its splendor, shall Israel be
established a ruler over all nations."
So spoke the Jew, and burst into tears. He wis=
hed
to say more, but an Italian missionary who was there interrupted him.
"What you are saying is untrue," sai=
d he
to the Jew. "You attribute injustice to God. He cannot love your nation
above the rest. Nay rather, even if it be true that of old He favored the
Israelites, it is now nineteen hundred years since they angered Him, and ca=
used
Him to destroy their nation and scatter them over the earth, so that their
faith makes no converts and has died out except here and there. God shows
preference to no nation, but calls all who wish to be saved to the bosom of=
the
Catholic Church of Rome, the one outside whose borders no salvation can be
found."
So spoke the Italian. But a Protestant ministe=
r,
who happened to be present, growing pale, turned to the Catholic missionary=
and
exclaimed:
"How can you say that salvation belongs to
your religion? Those only will be saved, who serve God according to the Gos=
pel,
in spirit and in truth, as bidden by the word of Christ."
Then a Turk, an office-holder in the custom-ho=
use
at Surat, who was sitting in the coffee-house smoking a pipe, turned with an
air of superiority to both the Christians.
"Your belief in your Roman religion is
vain," said he. "It was superseded twelve hundred years ago by the
true faith: that of Mohammed! You cannot but observe how the true Mohammed
faith continues to spread both in Europe and Asia, and even in the enlighte=
ned
country of China. You say yourselves that God has rejected the Jews; and, a=
s a
proof, you quote the fact that the Jews are humiliated and their faith does=
not
spread. Confess then the truth of Mohammedanism, for it is triumphant and
spreads far and wide. None will be saved but the followers of Mohammed, God=
's
latest prophet; and of them, only the followers of Omar, and not of Ali, for
the latter are false to the faith."
To this the Persian theologian, who was of the=
sect
of Ali, wished to reply; but by this time a great dispute had arisen among =
all
the strangers of different faiths and creeds present. There were Abyssinian=
Christians,
Llamas from Thibet, Ismailians and Fireworshippers. They all argued about t=
he
nature of God, and how He should be worshipped. Each of them asserted that =
in
his country alone was the true God known and rightly worshipped.
Every one argued and shouted, except a Chinama=
n, a
student of Confucius, who sat quietly in one corner of the coffee-house, not
joining in the dispute. He sat there drinking tea and listening to what the
others said, but did not speak himself.
The Turk noticed him sitting there, and appeal=
ed
to him, saying:
"You can confirm what I say, my good
Chinaman. You hold your peace, but if you spoke I know you would uphold my
opinion. Traders from your country, who come to me for assistance, tell me =
that
though many religions have been introduced into China, you Chinese consider=
Mohammedanism
the best of all, and adopt it willingly. Confirm, then, my words, and tell =
us
your opinion of the true God and of His prophet."
"Yes, yes," said the rest, turning to
the Chinaman, "let us hear what you think on the subject."
The Chinaman, the student of Confucius, closed=
his
eyes, and thought a while. Then he opened them again, and drawing his hands=
out
of the wide sleeves of his garment, and folding them on his breast, he spok=
e as
follows, in a calm and quiet voice.
Sirs, it seems to me that it is chiefly pride =
that
prevents men agreeing with one another on matters of faith. If you care to
listen to me, I will tell you a story which will explain this by an example=
.
I came here from China on an English steamer w=
hich
had been round the world. We stopped for fresh water, and landed on the east
coast of the island of Sumatra. It was midday, and some of us, having lande=
d,
sat in the shade of some cocoanut palms by the seashore, not far from a nat=
ive village.
We were a party of men of different nationalities.
As we sat there, a blind man approached us. We
learned afterwards that he had gone blind from gazing too long and too
persistently at the sun, trying to find out what it is, in order to seize i=
ts
light.
He strove a long time to accomplish this,
constantly looking at the sun; but the only result was that his eyes were
injured by its brightness, and he became blind.
Then he said to himself:
"The light of the sun is not a liquid; fo=
r if
it were a liquid it would be possible to pour it from one vessel into anoth=
er,
and it would be moved, like water, by the wind. Neither is it fire; for if =
it
were fire, water would extinguish it. Neither is light a spirit, for it is =
seen
by the eye; nor is it matter, for it cannot be moved. Therefore, as the lig=
ht
of the sun is neither liquid, nor fire, nor spirit, nor matter, it is--noth=
ing!"
So he argued, and, as a result of always looki=
ng
at the sun and always thinking about it, he lost both his sight and his rea=
son.
And when he went quite blind, he became fully convinced that the sun did not
exist.
With this blind man came a slave, who after
placing his master in the shade of a cocoanut tree, picked up a cocoanut fr=
om
the ground, and began making it into a night-light. He twisted a wick from =
the
fibre of the cocoanut: squeezed oil from the nut in the shell, and soaked t=
he wick
in it.
As the slave sat doing this, the blind man sig=
hed
and said to him:
"Well, slave, was I not right when I told=
you
there is no sun? Do you not see how dark it is? Yet people say there is a
sun.... But if so, what is it?"
"I do not know what the sun is," said
the slave. "That is no business of mine. But I know what light is. Her=
e I
have made a night-light, by the help of which I can serve you and find anyt=
hing
I want in the hut."
And the slave picked up the cocoanut shell,
saying:
"This is my sun."
A lame man with crutches, who was sitting near=
by,
heard these words, and laughed:
"You have evidently been blind all your
life," said he to the blind man, "not to know what the sun is. I =
will
tell you what it is. The sun is a ball of fire, which rises every morning o=
ut
of the sea and goes down again among the mountains of our island each eveni=
ng.
We have all seen this, and if you had had your eyesight you too would have =
seen
it."
A fisherman, who had been listening to the
conversation said:
"It is plain enough that you have never b=
een
beyond your own island. If you were not lame, and if you had been out as I =
have
in a fishing-boat, you would know that the sun does not set among the mount=
ains
of our island, but as it rises from the ocean every morning so it sets agai=
n in
the sea every night. What I am telling you is true, for I see it every day =
with
my own eyes."
Then an Indian who was of our party, interrupt=
ed
him by saying:
"I am astonished that a reasonable man sh=
ould
talk such nonsense. How can a ball of fire possibly descend into the water =
and
not be extinguished? The sun is not a ball of fire at all, it is the Deity =
named
Deva, who rides for ever in a chariot round the golden mountain, Meru.
Sometimes the evil serpents Ragu and Ketu attack Deva and swallow him: and =
then
the earth is dark. But our priests pray that the Deity may be released, and
then he is set free. Only such ignorant men as you, who have never been bey=
ond
their own island, can imagine that the sun shines for their country
alone."
Then the master of an Egyptian vessel, who was
present, spoke in his turn.
"No," said he, "you also are wr=
ong.
The sun is not a Deity, and does not move only round India and its golden
mountain. I have sailed much on the Black Sea, and along the coasts of Arab=
ia,
and have been to Madagascar and to the Philippines. The sun lights the whole
earth, and not India alone. It does not circle round one mountain, but rises
far in the East, beyond the Isles of Japan, and sets far, far away in the W=
est,
beyond the islands of England. That is why the Japanese call their country =
'Nippon,'
that is, 'the birth of the sun.' I know this well, for I have myself seen m=
uch,
and heard more from my grandfather, who sailed to the very ends of the
sea."
He would have gone on, but an English sailor f=
rom
our ship interrupted him.
"There is no country," he said
"where people know so much about the sun's movements as in England. The
sun, as every one in England knows, rises nowhere and sets nowhere. It is
always moving round the earth. We can be sure of this for we have just been
round the world ourselves, and nowhere knocked up against the sun. Wherever=
we
went, the sun showed itself in the morning and hid itself at night, just as=
it
does here."
And the Englishman took a stick and, drawing
circles on the sand, tried to explain how the sun moves in the heavens and =
goes
round the world. But he was unable to explain it clearly, and pointing to t=
he
ship's pilot said:
"This man knows more about it than I do. =
He
can explain it properly."
The pilot, who was an intelligent man, had
listened in silence to the talk till he was asked to speak. Now every one
turned to him, and he said:
"You are all misleading one another, and =
are
yourselves deceived. The sun does not go round the earth, but the earth goes
round the sun, revolving as it goes, and turning towards the sun in the cou=
rse
of each twenty-four hours, not only Japan, and the Philippines, and Sumatra=
where
we now are, but Africa, and Europe, and America, and many lands besides. The
sun does not shine for some one mountain, or for some one island, or for so=
me
one sea, nor even for one earth alone, but for other planets as well as our
earth. If you would only look up at the heavens, instead of at the ground
beneath your own feet, you might all understand this, and would then no lon=
ger
suppose that the sun shines for you, or for your country alone."
Thus spoke the wise pilot, who had voyaged much
about the world, and had gazed much upon the heavens above.
"So on matters of faith," continued =
the
Chinaman, the student of Confucius, "it is pride that causes error and
discord among men. As with the sun, so it is with God. Each man wants to ha=
ve a
special God of his own, or at least a special God for his native land. Each
nation wishes to confine in its own temples Him, whom the world cannot cont=
ain.
"Can any temple compare with that which G=
od
Himself has built to unite all men in one faith and one religion?
"All human temples are built on the model=
of
this temple, which is God's own world. Every temple has its fonts, its vaul=
ted
roof, its lamps, its pictures or sculptures, its inscriptions, its books of=
the
law, its offerings, its altars and its priests. But in what temple is there
such a font as the ocean; such a vault as that of the heavens; such lamps as
the sun, moon, and stars; or any figures to be compared with living, loving,
mutually-helpful men? Where are there any records of God's goodness so easy=
to
understand as the blessings which God has strewn abroad for man's happiness?
Where is there any book of the law so clear to each man as that written in =
his
heart? What sacrifices equal the self-denials which loving men and women ma=
ke
for one another? And what altar can be compared with the heart of a good ma=
n,
on which God Himself accepts the sacrifice?
"The higher a man's conception of God, the
better will he know Him. And the better he knows God, the nearer will he dr=
aw
to Him, imitating His goodness, His mercy, and His love of man.
"Therefore, let him who sees the sun's wh=
ole
light filling the world, refrain from blaming or despising the superstitious
man, who in his own idol sees one ray of that same light. Let him not despi=
se
even the unbeliever who is blind and cannot see the sun at all."
So spoke the Chinaman, the student of Confuciu=
s;
and all who were present in the coffee-house were silent, and disputed no m=
ore
as to whose faith was the best.
An elder sister came to visit her younger sist=
er
in the country. The elder was married to a tradesman in town, the younger t=
o a
peasant in the village. As the sisters sat over their tea talking, the elder
began to boast of the advantages of town life: saying how comfortably they =
lived
there, how well they dressed, what fine clothes her children wore, what good
things they ate and drank, and how she went to the theatre, promenades, and
entertainments.
The younger sister was piqued, and in turn
disparaged the life of a tradesman, and stood up for that of a peasant.
"I would not change my way of life for
yours," said she. "We may live roughly, but at least we are free =
from
anxiety. You live in better style than we do, but though you often earn more
than you need, you are very likely to lose all you have. You know the prove=
rb,
'Loss and gain are brothers twain.' It often happens that people who are
wealthy one day are begging their bread the next. Our way is safer. Though a
peasant's life is not a fat one, it is a long one. We shall never grow rich,
but we shall always have enough to eat."
The elder sister said sneeringly:
"Enough? Yes, if you like to share with t=
he
pigs and the calves! What do you know of elegance or manners! However much =
your
good man may slave, you will die as you are living-on a dung heap-and your
children the same."
"Well, what of that?" replied the
younger. "Of course our work is rough and coarse. But, on the other ha=
nd,
it is sure; and we need not bow to any one. But you, in your towns, are
surrounded by temptations; today all may be right, but tomorrow the Evil One
may tempt your husband with cards, wine, or women, and all will go to ruin.
Don't such things happen often enough?"
Pahom, the master of the house, was lying on t=
he
top of the oven, and he listened to the women's chatter.
"It is perfectly true," thought he. = "Busy as we are from childhood tilling Mother Earth, we peasants have no time to = let any nonsense settle in our heads. Our only trouble is that we haven't land enough. If I had plenty of land, I shouldn't fear the Devil himself!"<= o:p>
The women finished their tea, chatted a while
about dress, and then cleared away the tea-things and lay down to sleep.
But the Devil had been sitting behind the oven,
and had heard all that was said. He was pleased that the peasant's wife had=
led
her husband into boasting, and that he had said that if he had plenty of la=
nd
he would not fear the Devil himself.
"All right," thought the Devil. &quo=
t;We
will have a tussle. I'll give you land enough; and by means of that land I =
will
get you into my power."
Close to the village there lived a lady, a sma=
ll
landowner, who had an estate of about three hundred acres. She had always l=
ived
on good terms with the peasants, until she engaged as her steward an old
soldier, who took to burdening the people with fines. However careful Pahom
tried to be, it happened again and again that now a horse of his got among =
the lady's
oats, now a cow strayed into her garden, now his calves found their way into
her meadows-and he always had to pay a fine.
Pahom paid, but grumbled, and, going home in a
temper, was rough with his family. All through that summer Pahom had much
trouble because of this steward; and he was even glad when winter came and =
the
cattle had to be stabled. Though he grudged the fodder when they could no
longer graze on the pasture-land, at least he was free from anxiety about t=
hem.
In the winter the news got about that the lady=
was
going to sell her land, and that the keeper of the inn on the high road was
bargaining for it. When the peasants heard this they were very much alarmed=
.
"Well," thought they, "if the
innkeeper gets the land he will worry us with fines worse than the lady's
steward. We all depend on that estate."
So the peasants went on behalf of their Commun=
e,
and asked the lady not to sell the land to the innkeeper; offering her a be=
tter
price for it themselves. The lady agreed to let them have it. Then the peas=
ants
tried to arrange for the Commune to buy the whole estate, so that it might =
be
held by all in common. They met twice to discuss it, but could not settle t=
he
matter; the Evil One sowed discord among them, and they could not agree. So
they decided to buy the land individually, each according to his means; and=
the
lady agreed to this plan as she had to the other.
Presently Pahom heard that a neighbor of his w=
as
buying fifty acres, and that the lady had consented to accept one half in c=
ash
and to wait a year for the other half. Pahom felt envious.
"Look at that," thought he, "the
land is all being sold, and I shall get none of it." So he spoke to his
wife.
"Other people are buying," said he,
"and we must also buy twenty acres or so. Life is becoming impossible.
That steward is simply crushing us with his fines."
So they put their heads together and considered
how they could manage to buy it. They had one hundred roubles laid by. They
sold a colt, and one
half of their bees; hired out one of their son=
s as
a laborer, and took his wages in advance; borrowed the rest from a
brother-in-law, and so scraped together half the purchase money.
Having done this, Pahom chose out a farm of fo=
rty
acres, some of it wooded, and went to the lady to bargain for it. They came=
to
an agreement, and he shook hands with her upon it, and paid her a deposit in
advance. Then they went to town and signed the deeds; he paying half the pr=
ice
down, and undertaking to pay the remainder within two years.
So now Pahom had land of his own. He borrowed
seed, and sowed it on the land he had bought. The harvest was a good one, a=
nd
within a year he had managed to pay off his debts both to the lady and to h=
is
brother-in-law. So he became a landowner, ploughing and sowing his own land,
making hay on his own land, cutting his own trees, and feeding his cattle on
his own pasture. When he went out to plough his fields, or to look at his g=
rowing
corn, or at his grass meadows, his heart would fill with joy. The grass that
grew and the flowers that bloomed there, seemed to him unlike any that grew
elsewhere. Formerly, when he had passed by that land, it had appeared the s=
ame
as any other land, but now it seemed quite different.
So Pahom was well contented, and everything wo=
uld
have been right if the neighboring peasants would only not have trespassed =
on
his corn-fields and meadows. He appealed to them most civilly, but they sti=
ll
went on: now the Communal herdsmen would let the village cows stray into hi=
s meadows;
then horses from the night pasture would get among his corn. Pahom turned t=
hem
out again and again, and forgave their owners, and for a long time he forbo=
re
from prosecuting any one. But at last he lost patience and complained to the
District Court. He knew it was the peasants' want of land, and no evil inte=
nt
on their part, that caused the trouble; but he thought:
"I cannot go on overlooking it, or they w=
ill
destroy all I have. They must be taught a lesson."
So he had them up, gave them one lesson, and t=
hen
another, and two or three of the peasants were fined. After a time Pahom's
neighbours began to bear him a grudge for this, and would now and then let
their cattle on his land on purpose. One peasant even got into Pahom's wood=
at
night and cut down five young lime trees for their bark. Pahom passing thro=
ugh the
wood one day noticed something white. He came nearer, and saw the stripped
trunks lying on the ground, and close by stood the stumps, where the tree h=
ad
been. Pahom was furious.
"If he had only cut one here and there it
would have been bad enough," thought Pahom, "but the rascal has
actually cut down a whole clump. If I could only find out who did this, I w=
ould
pay him out."
He racked his brains as to who it could be.
Finally he decided: "It must be Simon-no one else could have done
it." Se he went to Simon's homestead to have a look around, but he fou=
nd
nothing, and only had an angry scene. However' he now felt more certain than
ever that Simon had done it, and he lodged a complaint. Simon was summoned.=
The
case was tried, and re-tried, and at the end of it all Simon was acquitted,
there being no evidence against him. Pahom felt still more aggrieved, and l=
et his
anger loose upon the Elder and the Judges.
"You let thieves grease your palms,"
said he. "If you were honest folk yourselves, you would not let a thie=
f go
free."
So Pahom quarrelled with the Judges and with h=
is
neighbors. Threats to burn his building began to be uttered. So though Pahom
had more land, his place in the Commune was much worse than before.
About this time a rumor got about that many pe=
ople
were moving to new parts.
"There's no need for me to leave my
land," thought Pahom. "But some of the others might leave our vil=
lage,
and then there would be more room for us. I would take over their land myse=
lf,
and make my estate a bit bigger. I could then live more at ease. As it is, =
I am
still too cramped to be comfortable."
One day Pahom was sitting at home, when a peas=
ant
passing through the village, happened to call in. He was allowed to stay the
night, and supper was given him. Pahom had a talk with this peasant and ask=
ed
him where he came from. The stranger answered that he came from beyond the =
Volga,
where he had been working. One word led to another, and the man went on to =
say
that many people were settling in those parts. He told how some people from=
his
village had settled there. They had joined the Commune, and had had twenty-=
five
acres per man granted them. The land was so good, he said, that the rye sow=
n on
it grew as high as a horse, and so thick that five cuts of a sickle made a
sheaf. One peasant, he said, had brought nothing with him but his bare hand=
s,
and now he had six horses and two cows of his own.
Pahom's heart kindled with desire. He thought:=
"Why should I suffer in this narrow hole,=
if
one can live so well elsewhere? I will sell my land and my homestead here, =
and
with the money I will start afresh over there and get everything new. In th=
is
crowded place one is always having trouble. But I must first go and find out
all about it myself."
Towards summer he got ready and started. He we=
nt
down the Volga on a steamer to Samara, then walked another three hundred mi=
les
on foot, and at last reached the place. It was just as the stranger had sai=
d.
The peasants had plenty of land: every man had twenty-five acres of Communa=
l land
given him for his use, and any one who had money could buy, besides, at
fifty-cents an acre as much good freehold land as he wanted.
Having found out all he wished to know, Pahom
returned home as autumn came on, and began selling off his belongings. He s=
old
his land at a profit, sold his homestead and all his cattle, and withdrew f=
rom membership
of the Commune. He only waited till the spring, and then started with his
family for the new settlement.
As soon as Pahom and his family arrived at the=
ir
new abode, he applied for admission into the Commune of a large village. He
stood treat to the Elders, and obtained the necessary documents. Five share=
s of
Communal land were given him for his own and his sons' use: that is to say-=
-125
acres (not altogether, but in different fields) besides the use of the Comm=
unal
pasture. Pahom put up the buildings he needed, and bought cattle. Of the
Communal land alone he had three times as much as at his former home, and t=
he
land was good corn-land. He was ten times better off than he had been. He h=
ad
plenty of arable land and pasturage, and could keep as many head of cattle =
as
he liked.
At first, in the bustle of building and settli=
ng
down, Pahom was pleased with it all, but when he got used to it he began to
think that even here he had not enough land. The first year, he sowed wheat=
on
his share of the Communal land, and had a good crop. He wanted to go on sow=
ing wheat,
but had not enough Communal land for the purpose, and what he had already u=
sed
was not available; for in those parts wheat is only sown on virgin soil or =
on
fallow land. It is sown for one or two years, and then the land lies fallow
till it is again overgrown with prairie grass. There were many who wanted s=
uch
land, and there was not enough for all; so that people quarrelled about it.
Those who were better off, wanted it for growing wheat, and those who were
poor, wanted it to let to dealers, so that they might raise money to pay th=
eir
taxes. Pahom wanted to sow more wheat; so he rented land from a dealer for a
year. He sowed much wheat and had a fine crop, but the land was too far from
the village--the wheat had to be carted more than ten miles. After a time P=
ahom
noticed that some peasant-dealers were living on separate farms, and were
growing wealthy; and he thought:
"If I were to buy some freehold land, and
have a homestead on it, it would be a different thing, altogether. Then it
would all be nice and compact."
The question of buying freehold land recurred =
to
him again and again.
He went on in the same way for three years;
renting land and sowing wheat. The seasons turned out well and the crops we=
re
good, so that he began to lay money by. He might have gone on living
contentedly, but he grew tired of having to rent other people's land every
year, and having to scramble for it. Wherever there was good land to be had,
the peasants would rush for it and it was taken up at once, so that unless =
you
were sharp about it you got none. It happened in the third year that he and=
a
dealer together rented a piece of pasture land from some peasants; and they=
had
already ploughed it up, when there was some dispute, and the peasants went =
to
law about it, and things fell out so that the labor was all lost. "If =
it
were my own land," thought Pahom, "I should be independent, and t=
here
would not be all this unpleasantness."
So Pahom began looking out for land which he c=
ould
buy; and he came across a peasant who had bought thirteen hundred acres, but
having got into difficulties was willing to sell again cheap. Pahom bargain=
ed
and haggled with him, and at last they settled the price at 1,500 roubles, =
part
in cash and part to be paid later. They had all but clinched the matter, wh=
en a
passing dealer happened to stop at Pahom's one day to get a feed for his ho=
rse.
He drank tea with Pahom, and they had a talk. The dealer said that he was j=
ust
returning from the land of the Bashkirs, far away, where he had bought thir=
teen
thousand acres of land all for 1,000 roubles. Pahom questioned him further,=
and
the tradesman said:
"All one need do is to make friends with =
the
chiefs. I gave away about one hundred roubles' worth of dressing-gowns and
carpets, besides a case of tea, and I gave wine to those who would drink it;
and I got the land for less than two cents an acre. And he showed Pahom the
title-deeds, saying:
"The land lies near a river, and the whole
prairie is virgin soil."
Pahom plied him with questions, and the trades=
man
said:
"There is more land there than you could
cover if you walked a year, and it all belongs to the Bashkirs. They are as
simple as sheep, and land can be got almost for nothing."
"There now," thought Pahom, "wi=
th
my one thousand roubles, why should I get only thirteen hundred acres, and
saddle myself with a debt besides. If I take it out there, I can get more t=
han
ten times as much for the money."
Pahom inquired how to get to the place, and as
soon as the tradesman had left him, he prepared to go there himself. He left
his wife to look after the homestead, and started on his journey taking his=
man
with him. They stopped at a town on their way, and bought a case of tea, so=
me wine,
and other presents, as the tradesman had advised. On and on they went until
they had gone more than three hundred miles, and on the seventh day they ca=
me
to a place where the Bashkirs had pitched their tents. It was all just as t=
he
tradesman had said. The people lived on the steppes, by a river, in
felt-covered tents. They neither tilled the ground, nor ate bread. Their ca=
ttle
and horses grazed in herds on the steppe. The colts were tethered behind the
tents, and the mares were driven to them twice a day. The mares were milked,
and from the milk kumiss was made. It was the women who prepared kumiss, and
they also made cheese. As far as the men were concerned, drinking kumiss and
tea, eating mutton, and playing on their pipes, was all they cared about. T=
hey
were all stout and merry, and all the summer long they never thought of doi=
ng
any work. They were quite ignorant, and knew no Russian, but were good-natu=
red
enough.
As soon as they saw Pahom, they came out of th=
eir
tents and gathered round their visitor. An interpreter was found, and Pahom
told them he had come about some land. The Bashkirs seemed very glad; they =
took
Pahom and led him into one of the best tents, where they made him sit on so=
me down
cushions placed on a carpet, while they sat round him. They gave him tea and
kumiss, and had a sheep killed, and gave him mutton to eat. Pahom took pres=
ents
out of his cart and distributed them among the Bashkirs, and divided amongst
them the tea. The Bashkirs were delighted. They talked a great deal among
themselves, and then told the interpreter to translate.
"They wish to tell you," said the
interpreter, "that they like you, and that it is our custom to do all =
we
can to please a guest and to repay him for his gifts. You have given us
presents, now tell us which of the things we possess please you best, that =
we
may present them to you."
"What pleases me best here," answered
Pahom, "is your land. Our land is crowded, and the soil is exhausted; =
but
you have plenty of land and it is good land. I never saw the like of it.&qu=
ot;
The interpreter translated. The Bashkirs talked
among themselves for a while. Pahom could not understand what they were say=
ing,
but saw that they were much amused, and that they shouted and laughed. Then
they were silent and looked at Pahom while the interpreter said:
"They wish me to tell you that in return =
for
your presents they will gladly give you as much land as you want. You have =
only
to point it out with your hand and it is yours."
The Bashkirs talked again for a while and bega=
n to
dispute. Pahom asked what they were disputing about, and the interpreter to=
ld
him that some of them thought they ought to ask their Chief about the land =
and
not act in his absence, while others thought there was no need to wait for =
his return.
While the Bashkirs were disputing, a man in a
large fox-fur cap appeared on the scene. They all became silent and rose to
their feet. The interpreter said, "This is our Chief himself."
Pahom immediately fetched the best dressing-go=
wn
and five pounds of tea, and offered these to the Chief. The Chief accepted
them, and seated himself in the place of honour. The Bashkirs at once began
telling him something. The Chief listened for a while, then made a sign with
his head for them to be silent, and addressing himself to Pahom, said in Ru=
ssian:
"Well, let it be so. Choose whatever piec=
e of
land you like; we have plenty of it."
"How can I take as much as I like?"
thought Pahom. "I must get a deed to make it secure, or else they may =
say,
'It is yours,' and afterwards may take it away again."
"Thank you for your kind words," he =
said
aloud. "You have much land, and I only want a little. But I should lik=
e to
be sure which bit is mine. Could it not be measured and made over to me? Li=
fe
and death are in God's hands. You good people give it to me, but your child=
ren
might wish to take it away again."
"You are quite right," said the Chie=
f.
"We will make it over to you."
"I heard that a dealer had been here,&quo=
t;
continued Pahom, "and that you gave him a little land, too, and signed
title-deeds to that effect. I should like to have it done in the same
way."
The Chief understood.
"Yes," replied he, "that can be
done quite easily. We have a scribe, and we will go to town with you and ha=
ve
the deed properly sealed."
"And what will be the price?" asked
Pahom.
"Our price is always the same: one thousa=
nd
roubles a day."
Pahom did not understand.
"A day? What measure is that? How many ac=
res
would that be?"
"We do not know how to reckon it out,&quo=
t;
said the Chief. "We sell it by the day. As much as you can go round on
your feet in a day is yours, and the price is one thousand roubles a day.&q=
uot;
Pahom was surprised.
"But in a day you can get round a large t=
ract
of land," he said.
The Chief laughed.
"It will all be yours!" said he.
"But there is one condition: If you don't return on the same day to the
spot whence you started, your money is lost."
"But how am I to mark the way that I have
gone?"
"Why, we shall go to any spot you like, a=
nd
stay there. You must start from that spot and make your round, taking a spa=
de
with you. Wherever you think necessary, make a mark. At every turning, dig a
hole and pile up the turf; then afterwards we will go round with a plough f=
rom
hole to hole. You may make as large a circuit as you please, but before the=
sun
sets you must return to the place you started from. All the land you cover =
will
be yours."
Pahom was delighted. It-was decided to start e=
arly
next morning. They talked a while, and after drinking some more kumiss and
eating some more mutton, they had tea again, and then the night came on. Th=
ey
gave Pahom a feather-bed to sleep on, and the Bashkirs dispersed for the ni=
ght,
promising to assemble the next morning at daybreak and ride out before sunr=
ise
to the appointed spot.
Pahom lay on the feather-bed, but could not sl=
eep.
He kept thinking about the land.
"What a large tract I will mark off!"
thought he. "I can easily go thirty-five miles in a day. The days are =
long
now, and within a circuit of thirty-five miles what a lot of land there will
be! I will sell the poorer land, or let it to peasants, but I'll pick out t=
he
best and farm it. I will buy two ox-teams, and hire two more laborers. Abou=
t a
hundred and fifty acres shall be plough-land, and I will pasture cattle on =
the rest."
Pahom lay awake all night, and dozed off only =
just
before dawn. Hardly were his eyes closed when he had a dream. He thought he=
was
lying in that same tent, and heard somebody chuckling outside. He wondered =
who
it could be, and rose and went out, and he saw the Bashkir Chief sitting in
front of the tent holding his side and rolling about with laughter. Going
nearer to the Chief, Pahom asked: "What are you laughing at?" But=
he
saw that it was no longer the Chief, but the dealer who had recently stoppe=
d at
his house and had told him about the land. Just as Pahom was going to ask,
"Have you been here long?" he saw that it was not the dealer, but=
the
peasant who had come up from the Volga, long ago, to Pahom's old home. Then=
he
saw that it was not the peasant either, but the Devil himself with hoofs and
horns, sitting there and chuckling, and before him lay a man barefoot,
prostrate on the ground, with only trousers and a shirt on. And Pahom dreamt
that he looked more attentively to see what sort of a man it was lying ther=
e,
and he saw that the man was dead, and that it was himself! He awoke horror-=
struck.
"What things one does dream," thought
he.
Looking round he saw through the open door that
the dawn was breaking.
"It's time to wake them up," thought=
he.
"We ought to be starting."
He got up, roused his man (who was sleeping in=
his
cart), bade him harness; and went to call the Bashkirs.
"It's time to go to the steppe to measure=
the
land," he said.
The Bashkirs rose and assembled, and the Chief
came, too. Then they began drinking kumiss again, and offered Pahom some te=
a,
but he would not wait.
"If we are to go, let us go. It is high
time," said he.
The Bashkirs got ready and they all started: s=
ome
mounted on horses, and some in carts. Pahom drove in his own small cart with
his servant, and took a spade with him. When they reached the steppe, the
morning red was beginning to kindle. They ascended a hillock (called by the
Bashkirs a shikhan) and dismounting from their carts and their horses, gath=
ered
in one spot. The Chief came up to Pahom and stretched out his arm towards t=
he
plain:
"See," said he, "all this, as f=
ar
as your eye can reach, is ours. You may have any part of it you like."=
Pahom's eyes glistened: it was all virgin soil=
, as
flat as the palm of your hand, as black as the seed of a poppy, and in the
hollows different kinds of grasses grew breast high.
The Chief took off his fox-fur cap, placed it =
on
the ground and said:
"This will be the mark. Start from here, =
and
return here again. All the land you go round shall be yours."
Pahom took out his money and put it on the cap.
Then he took off his outer coat, remaining in his sleeveless under coat. He
unfastened his girdle and tied it tight below his stomach, put a little bag=
of
bread into the breast of his coat, and tying a flask of water to his girdle=
, he
drew up the tops of his boots, took the spade from his man, and stood ready=
to
start. He considered for some moments which way he had better go--it was
tempting everywhere.
"No matter," he concluded, "I w=
ill
go towards the rising sun."
He turned his face to the east, stretched hims=
elf,
and waited for the sun to appear above the rim.
"I must lose no time," he thought,
"and it is easier walking while it is still cool."
The sun's rays had hardly flashed above the
horizon, before Pahom, carrying the spade over his shoulder, went down into=
the
steppe.
Pahom started walking neither slowly nor quick=
ly.
After having gone a thousand yards he stopped, dug a hole and placed pieces=
of
turf one on another to make it more visible. Then he went on; and now that =
he
had walked off his stiffness he quickened his pace. After a while he dug an=
other
hole.
Pahom looked back. The hillock could be distin=
ctly
seen in the sunlight, with the people on it, and the glittering tires of the
cartwheels. At a rough guess Pahom concluded that he had walked three miles=
. It
was growing warmer; he took off his under-coat, flung it across his shoulde=
r,
and went on again. It had grown quite warm now; he looked at the sun, it was
time to think of breakfast.
"The first shift is done, but there are f=
our
in a day, and it is too soon yet to turn. But I will just take off my
boots," said he to himself.
He sat down, took off his boots, stuck them in=
to
his girdle, and went on. It was easy walking now.
"I will go on for another three miles,&qu=
ot;
thought he, "and then turn to the left. The spot is so fine, that it w=
ould
be a pity to lose it. The further one goes, the better the land seems."=
;
He went straight on a for a while, and when he
looked round, the hillock was scarcely visible and the people on it looked =
like
black ants, and he could just see something glistening there in the sun.
"Ah," thought Pahom, "I have go=
ne
far enough in this direction, it is time to turn. Besides I am in a regular
sweat, and very thirsty."
He stopped, dug a large hole, and heaped up pi=
eces
of turf. Next he untied his flask, had a drink, and then turned sharply to =
the
left. He went on and on; the grass was high, and it was very hot.
Pahom began to grow tired: he looked at the sun
and saw that it was noon.
"Well," he thought, "I must hav=
e a
rest."
He sat down, and ate some bread and drank some
water; but he did not lie down, thinking that if he did he might fall aslee=
p.
After sitting a little while, he went on again. At first he walked easily: =
the
food had strengthened him; but it had become terribly hot, and he felt slee=
py; still
he went on, thinking: "An hour to suffer, a life-time to live."
He went a long way in this direction also, and=
was
about to turn to the left again, when he perceived a damp hollow: "It
would be a pity to leave that out," he thought. "Flax would do we=
ll
there." So he went on past the hollow, and dug a hole on the other sid=
e of
it before he turned the corner. Pahom looked towards the hillock. The heat =
made
the air hazy: it seemed to be quivering, and through the haze the people on=
the
hillock could scarcely be seen.
"Ah!" thought Pahom, "I have ma=
de
the sides too long; I must make this one shorter." And he went along t=
he
third side, stepping faster. He looked at the sun: it was nearly half way to
the horizon, and he had not yet done two miles of the third side of the squ=
are.
He was still ten miles from the goal.
"No," he thought, "though it wi=
ll
make my land lopsided, I must hurry back in a straight line now. I might go=
too
far, and as it is I have a great deal of land."
So Pahom hurriedly dug a hole, and turned stra=
ight
towards the hillock.
Pahom went straight towards the hillock, but he
now walked with difficulty. He was done up with the heat, his bare feet were
cut and bruised, and his legs began to fail. He longed to rest, but it was =
impossible
if he meant to get back before sunset. The sun waits for no man, and it was
sinking lower and lower.
"Oh dear," he thought, "if only=
I
have not blundered trying for too much! What if I am too late?"
He looked towards the hillock and at the sun. =
He
was still far from his goal, and the sun was already near the rim. Pahom wa=
lked
on and on; it was very hard walking, but he went quicker and quicker. He
pressed on, but was still far from the place. He began running, threw away =
his
coat, his boots, his flask, and his cap, and kept only the spade which he u=
sed as
a support.
"What shall I do," he thought again,
"I have grasped too much, and ruined the whole affair. I can't get the=
re
before the sun sets."
And this fear made him still more breathless.
Pahom went on running, his soaking shirt and trousers stuck to him, and his
mouth was parched. His breast was working like a blacksmith's bellows, his
heart was beating like a hammer, and his legs were giving way as if they did
not belong to him. Pahom was seized with terror lest he should die of the
strain.
Though afraid of death, he could not stop.
"After having run all that way they will call me a fool if I stop
now," thought he. And he ran on and on, and drew near and heard the Ba=
shkirs
yelling and shouting to him, and their cries inflamed his heart still more.=
He
gathered his last strength and ran on.
The sun was close to the rim, and cloaked in m=
ist
looked large, and red as blood. Now, yes now, it was about to set! The sun =
was quite
low, but he was also quite near his aim. Pahom could already see the people=
on the
hillock waving their arms to hurry him up. He could see the fox-fur cap on =
the
ground, and the money on it, and the Chief sitting on the ground holding his
sides. And Pahom remembered his dream.
"There is plenty of land," thought h=
e,
"but will God let me live on it? I have lost my life, I have lost my l=
ife!
I shall never reach that spot!"
Pahom looked at the sun, which had reached the
earth: one side of it had already disappeared. With all his remaining stren=
gth
he rushed on, bending his body forward so that his legs could hardly follow
fast enough to keep him from falling. Just as he reached the hillock it sud=
denly
grew dark. He looked up--the sun had already set. He gave a cry: "All =
my
labor has been in vain," thought he, and was about to stop, but he hea=
rd
the Bashkirs still shouting, and remembered that though to him, from below,=
the
sun seemed to have set, they on the hillock could still see it. He took a l=
ong
breath and ran up the hillock. It was still light there. He reached the top=
and
saw the cap. Before it sat the Chief laughing and holding his sides. Again
Pahom remembered his dream, and he uttered a cry: his legs gave way beneath
him, he fell forward and reached the cap with his hands.
"Ah, what a fine fellow!" exclaimed =
the
Chief. "He has gained much land!"
Pahom's servant came running up and tried to r=
aise
him, but he saw that blood was flowing from his mouth. Pahom was dead!
The Bashkirs clicked their tongues to show the=
ir
pity.
His servant picked up the spade and dug a grave
long enough for Pahom to lie in, and buried him in it. Six feet from his he=
ad
to his heels was all he needed.
1. One hundred kopeks make a rouble. The kopek=
is
worth about half a cent.
2. A non-intoxicating drink usually made from
rye-malt and rye-flour.
3. The brick oven in a Russian peasant's hut is
usually built so as to leave a flat top, large enough to lie on, for those =
who
want to sleep in a warm place.
4. 120 "desyatins." The
"desyatina" is properly 2.7 acres; but in this story round numbers
are used.
5. Three roubles per "desyatina."
6. Five "kopeks" for a
"desyatina."