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What To Do?
By
Leo Tolstoy
Contents
ARTICLE
ON THE CENSUS IN MOSCOW. [1882.].
THOUGHTS EVOKED BY TH=
E CENSUS
OF MOSCOW. [1884-1885.]
ON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF
SCIENCE AND ART.
ARTICLE ON THE CENSUS IN
MOSCOW. [1882.]
The object of a census is
scientific. A census is a
sociological investigation. A=
nd the
object of the science of sociology is the happiness of the people. This science and its methods differ
sharply from all other sciences.
Its peculiarity l=
ies
in this, that sociological investigations are not conducted by learned men =
in
their cabinets, observatories and laboratories, but by two thousand people =
from
the community. A second pecul=
iarity
is this, that the investigations of other sciences are not conducted on liv=
ing
people, but here living people are the subjects. A third peculiarity is, that the a=
im of
every other science is simply knowledge, while here it is the good of the
people. One man may investiga=
te a
nebula, but for the investigation of Moscow, two thousand persons are
necessary. The object of the =
study
of nebulae is merely that we may know about nebulae; the object of the stud=
y of
inhabitants is that sociological laws may be deduced, and that, on the
foundation of these laws, a better life for the people may be established.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It makes no difference to the nebu=
la
whether it is studied or not, and it has waited long, and is ready to wait a
great while longer; but it is not a matter of indifference to the inhabitan=
ts
of Moscow, especially to those unfortunates who constitute the most interes=
ting
subjects of the science of sociology.
The census-taker
enters a night lodging-house; in the basement he finds a man dying of hunge=
r,
and he politely inquires his profession, his name, his native place, the
character of his occupation, and after a little hesitation as to whether he=
is
to be entered in the list as alive, he writes him in and goes his way.
And thus will the=
two
thousand young men proceed. T=
his is
not as it should be.
Science does its
work, and the community, summoned in the persons of these two thousand young
men to aid science, must do its work.
A statistician drawing his deductions from figures may feel indiffer=
ent towards
people, but we census-takers, who see these people and who have no scientif=
ic
prepossessions, cannot conduct ourselves towards them in an inhuman
manner. Science fulfils its t=
ask,
and its work is for its objects and in the distant future, both useful and
necessary to us. For men of
science, we can calmly say, that in 1882 there were so many beggars, so many
prostitutes, and so many uncared-for children. Science may say this with composur=
e and
with pride, because it knows that the confirmation of this fact conduces to=
the
elucidation of the laws of sociology, and that the elucidation of the laws =
of
sociology leads to a better constitution of society. But what if we, the unscientific p=
eople,
say: "You are perishing in vice, you are dying of hunger, you are pini=
ng away,
and killing each other; so do not grieve about this; when you shall have all
perished, and hundreds of thousands more like you, then, possibly, science =
may
be able to arrange everything in an excellent manner." For men of science, the census has=
its
interest; and for us also, it possesses an interest of a wholly different
significance. The interest and
significance of the census for the community lie in this, that it furnishes=
it
with a mirror into which, willy nilly, the whole community, and each one of=
us,
gaze.
The figures and
deductions will be the mirror. It
is possible to refrain from reading them, as it is possible to turn away fr=
om
the looking-glass. It is possible to glance cursorily at both figures and
mirror, and it is also possible to scrutinize them narrowly. To go about in connection with the
census as thousands of people are now about to do, is to scrutinize one's s=
elf
closely in the mirror.
What does this
census, that is about to be made, mean for us people of Moscow, who are not=
men
of science? It means two
things. In the first place, t=
his,
that we may learn with certainty, that among us tens of thousands who live =
in
ease, there dwell tens of thousands of people who lack bread, clothing and
shelter; in the second place, this, that our brothers and sons will go and =
view
this and will calmly set down according to the schedules, how many have die=
d of
hunger and cold.
And both these th=
ings
are very bad.
All cry out upon =
the
instability of our social organization, about the exceptional situation, ab=
out
revolutionary tendencies. Whe=
re
lies the root of all this? To=
what
do the revolutionists point? =
To
poverty, to inequality in the distribution of wealth. To what do the conservatives point=
? To the decline in moral principle.=
If the opinion of the revolutionis=
ts is
correct, what must be done? P=
overty
and the inequality of wealth must be lessened. How is this to be effected? The rich must share with the poor.=
If the opinion of the conservative=
s is
correct, that the whole evil arises from the decline in moral principle, wh=
at
can be more immoral and vicious than the consciously indifferent survey of =
popular
sufferings, with the sole object of cataloguing them? What must be done? To the census we must add the work=
of
affectionate intercourse of the idle and cultivated rich, with the oppressed
and unenlightened poor.
Science will do i=
ts
work, let us perform ours also. Let
us do this. In the first plac=
e, let
all of us who are occupied with the census, superintendents and census-take=
rs,
make it perfectly clear to ourselves what we are to investigate and why.
This idea, that t=
he
relations of men to poverty are at the foundation of all popular suffering,=
is
expressed in the Gospels with striking harshness, but at the same time, with
decision and clearness for all.
"He who has
clothed the naked, fed the hungry, visited the prisoner, that man has cloth=
ed
Me, fed Me, visited Me," that is, has done the deed for that which is =
the
most important thing in the world.
However a man may
look upon things, every one knows that this is more important than all else=
on
earth.
And this must not=
be
forgotten, and we must not permit any other consideration to veil from us t=
he
most weighty fact of our existence.
Let us inscribe, and reckon, but let us not forget that if we encoun=
ter
a man who is hungry and without clothes, it is of more moment to succor him=
than
to make all possible investigations, than to discover all possible sciences=
. Perish the whole census if we may =
but
feed an old woman. The census=
will
be longer and more difficult, but we cannot pass by people in the poorer
quarters and merely note them down without taking any heed of them and with=
out
endeavoring, according to the measure of our strength and moral sensitivene=
ss,
to aid them. This in the first
place. In the second, this is=
what
must be done: All of us, who are to take part in the census, must refrain f=
rom
irritation because we are annoyed; let us understand that this census is ve=
ry
useful for us; that if this is not cure, it is at least an effort to study =
the
disease, for which we should be thankful; that we must seize this occasion,
and, in connection with it, we must seek to recover our health, in some sma=
ll
degree. Let all of us, then, =
who
are connected with the census, endeavor to take advantage of this solitary
opportunity in ten years to purify ourselves somewhat; let us not strive
against, but assist the census, and assist it especially in this sense, tha=
t it
may not have merely the harsh character of the investigation of a hopelessly
sick person, but may have the character of healing and restoration to
health. For the occasion is u=
nique:
eighty energetic, cultivated men, having under their orders two thousand yo=
ung
men of the same stamp, are to make their way over the whole of Moscow, and =
not
leave a single man in Moscow with whom they have not entered into personal
relations. All the wounds of
society, the wounds of poverty, of vice, of ignorance--all will be laid
bare. Is there not something
re-assuring in this? The
census-takers will go about Moscow, they will set down in their lists, with=
out
distinction, those insolent with prosperity, the satisfied, the calm, those=
who
are on the way to ruin, and those who are ruined, and the curtain will
fall. The census-takers, our =
sons
and brothers, these young men will behold all this. They will say: "Yes, our life=
is
very terrible and incurable," and with this admission they will live on
like the rest of us, awaiting a remedy for the evil from this or that
extraneous force. But those w=
ho are
perishing will go on dying, in their ruin, and those on the road to ruin wi=
ll
continue in their course. No,=
let
us rather grasp the idea that science has its task, and that we, on the
occasion of this census, have our task, and let us not allow the curtain on=
ce
lifted to be dropped, but let us profit by the opportunity in order to remo=
ve
the immense evil of the separation existing between us and the poor, and to=
establish
intercourse and the work of redressing the evil of unhappiness and ignoranc=
e,
and our still greater misfortune,--the indifference and aimlessness of our
life.
I already hear the
customary remark: "All this is very fine, these are sounding phrases; =
but
do you tell us what to do and how to do it?" Before I say what is to be done, i=
t is
indispensable that I should say what is not to be done. It is indispensable, first of all,=
in my
opinion, in order that something practical may come of this activity, that =
no
society should be formed, that there should be no publicity, that there sho=
uld
be no collection of money by balls, bazaars or theatres; that there should =
be
no announcement that Prince A. has contributed one thousand rubles, and the
honorable citizen B. three thousand; that there shall be no collection, no
calling to account, no writing up,--most of all, no writing up, so that the=
re
may not be the least shadow of any institution, either governmental or
philanthropic.
But in my opinion,
this is what should be done instantly: Firstly, All those who agree with me
should go to the directors, and ask for their shares the poorest sections, =
the
poorest dwellings; and in company with the census-takers, twenty-three,
twenty-four or twenty-five in number, they should go to these quarters, ent=
er
into relations with the people who are in need of assistance, and labor for
them.
Secondly: We shou=
ld
direct the attention of the superintendents and census-takers to the
inhabitants in need of assistance, and work for them personally, and point =
them
out to those who wish to work over them.&n=
bsp;
But I am asked: What do you mean by working over them? I reply; Doing good to people. The words "doing good" a=
re
usually understood to mean, giving money.&=
nbsp;
But, in my opinion, doing good and giving money are not only not the
same thing, but two different and generally opposite things. Money, in itself, is evil. And therefore he who gives money g=
ives
evil. This error of thinking =
that
the giving of money means doing good, arose from the fact, that generally, =
when
a man does good, he frees himself from evil, and from money among other
evils. And therefore, to give=
money
is only a sign that a man is beginning to rid himself of evil. To do good, signifies to do that w=
hich
is good for man. But, in orde=
r to
know what is good for man, it is necessary to be on humane, i.e., on friend=
ly
terms with him. And therefore=
, in
order to do good, it is not money that is necessary, but, first of all, a
capacity for detaching ourselves, for a time at least, from the conditions =
of
our own life. It is necessary=
that we
should not be afraid to soil our boots and clothing, that we should not fear
lice and bedbugs, that we should not fear typhus fever, diphtheria, and
small-pox. It is necessary th=
at we
should be in a condition to seat ourselves by the bunk of a tatterdemalion =
and
converse earnestly with him in such a manner, that he may feel that the man=
who
is talking with him respects and loves him, and is not putting on airs and =
admiring
himself. And in order that th=
is may
be so, it is necessary that a man should find the meaning of life outside
himself. This is what is requ=
isite
in order that good should be done, and this is what it is difficult to find=
.
When the idea of
assisting through the medium of the census occurred to me, I discussed the
matter with divers of the wealthy, and I saw how glad the rich were of this
opportunity of decently getting rid of their money, that extraneous sin whi=
ch
they cherish in their hearts.
"Take three hundred--five hundred rubles, if you like," th=
ey
said to me, "but I cannot go into those dens myself." There was no lack of money. Remember Zaccheus, the chief of the
Publicans in the Gospel. Reme=
mber
how he, because he was small of stature, climbed into a tree to see Christ,=
and
how when Christ announced that he was going to his house, having understood=
but
one thing, that the Master did not approve of riches, he leaped headlong fr=
om
the tree, ran home and arranged his feast.=
And how, as soon as Christ entered, Zaccheus instantly declared that=
he
gave the half of his goods to the poor, and if he had wronged any man, to h=
im
he would restore fourfold. And
remember how all of us, when we read the Gospel, set but little store on th=
is
Zaccheus, and involuntarily look with scorn on this half of his goods, and
fourfold restitution. And our=
feeling
is correct. Zaccheus, accordi=
ng to
his lights, performed a great deed.
He had not even begun to do good.&n=
bsp;
He had only begun in some small measure to purify himself from evil,=
and
so Christ told him.
He merely said to
him: "To-day is salvation come nigh unto this house."
What if the Moscow
Zaccheuses were to do the same that he did? Assuredly, more than one milliard =
could
be collected. Well, and what =
of
that? Nothing. There would be=
still
greater sin if we were to think of distributing this money among the poor.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Money is not needed. What is needed is self-sacrificing
action; what is needed are people who would like to do good, not by giving
extraneous sin-money, but by giving their own labor, themselves, their
lives. Where are such people =
to be
found? Here they are, walking about Moscow. They are the student enumerators.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I have seen how they write out the=
ir
charts. The student writes in=
the night
lodging-house, by the bedside of a sick man. "What is your disease?"-=
-"Small-pox." And the student does not make a wry
face, but proceeds with his writing.
And this he does for the sake of some doubtful science. What would he do if he were doing =
it for
the sake of his own undoubted good and the good of others?
When children, in
merry mood, feel a desire to laugh, they never think of devising some reason
for laughter, but they laugh without any reason, because they are gay; and =
thus
these charming youths sacrifice themselves. They have not, as yet, contrived to
devise any means of sacrificing themselves, but they devote their attention,
their labor, their lives, in order to write out a chart, from which somethi=
ng
does or does not appear. What=
would
it be if this labor were something really worth their while? There is and there always will be =
labor
of this sort, which is worthy of the devotion of a whole life, whatever the
man's life may be. This labor=
is
the loving intercourse of man with man, and the breaking-down of the barrie=
rs
which men have erected between themselves, so that the enjoyment of the rich
man may not be disturbed by the wild howls of the men who are reverting to
beasts, and by the groans of helpless hunger, cold and disease.
This census will
place before the eyes of us well-to-do and so-called cultivated people, all=
the
poverty and oppression which is lurking in every corner of Moscow. Two thousand of our brothers, who =
stand
on the highest rung of the ladder, will come face to face with thousands of=
people
who stand on the lowest round of society.&=
nbsp;
Let us not miss this opportunity of communion. Let us, through these two thousand=
men, preserve
this communion, and let us make use of it to free ourselves from the
aimlessness and the deformity of our lives, and to free the condemned from =
that
indigence and misery which do not allow the sensitive people in our ranks to
enjoy our good fortune in peace.
This is what I
propose: (1) That all our directors and enumerators should join to their bu=
siness
of the census a task of assistance,--of work in the interest of the good of
these people, who, in our opinion, are in need of assistance, and with whom=
we
shall come in contact; (2) That all of us, directors and enumerators, not by
appointment of the committee of the City Council, but by the appointment of=
our
own hearts, shall remain in our posts,--that is, in our relations to the
inhabitants of the town who are in need of assistance,--and that, at the
conclusion of the work of the census, we shall continue our work of aid.
Whatever may be t=
he
outcome of this, any thing will be better than the present state of things.=
Then let the final
act of our enumerators and directors be to distribute a hundred twenty-kopek
pieces to those who have no food; and this will be not a little, not so much
because the hungry will have food, but because the directors and enumerators
will conduct themselves in a humane manner towards a hundred poor people. How are we to compute the possible=
results
which will accrue to the balance of public morality from the fact that, ins=
tead
of the sentiments of irritation, anger, and envy which we arouse by reckoni=
ng
the hungry, we shall awaken in a hundred instances a sentiment of good, whi=
ch
will be communicated to a second and a third, and an endless wave which will
thus be set in motion and flow between men? And this is a great deal. Let those of the two thousand enum=
erators
who have never comprehended this before, come to understand that, when going
about among the poor, it is impossible to say, "This is very
interesting;" that a man should not express himself with regard to ano=
ther
man's wretchedness by interest only; and this will be a good thing. Then let assistance be rendered to=
all
those unfortunates, of whom there are not so many as I at first supposed in
Moscow, who can easily be helped by money alone to a great extent. Then let those laborers who have c=
ome to
Moscow and have eaten their very clothing from their backs, and who cannot
return to the country, be despatched to their homes; let the abandoned orph=
ans
receive supervision; let feeble old men and indigent old women, who subsist=
on
the charity of their companions, be released from their half-famished and d=
ying
condition. (And this is very
possible. There are not very =
many
of them.) And this will also =
be a
very, very great deal accomplished.
But why not think and hope that more and yet more will be done? Why not expect that that real task=
will be
partially carried out, or at least begun, which is effected, not by money, =
but
by labor; that weak drunkards who have lost their health, unlucky thieves, =
and
prostitutes who are still capable of reformation, should be saved? All evil may not be exterminated, =
but
there will arise some understanding of it, and the contest with it will not=
be
police methods, but by inward modes,--by the brotherly intercourse of the m=
en who
perceive the evil, with the men who do not perceive it because they are a p=
art
of it.
No matter what ma=
y be
accomplished, it will be a great deal.&nbs=
p;
But why not hope that every thing will be accomplished? Why not hope that we shall accompl=
ish
thus much, that there shall not exist in Moscow a single person in want of
clothing, a single hungry person, a single human being sold for money, nor =
a single
individual oppressed by the judgment of man, who shall not know that there =
is
fraternal aid for him? It is =
not surprising
that this should not be so, but it is surprising that this should exist sid=
e by
side with our superfluous leisure and wealth, and that we can live on
composedly, knowing that these things are so. Let us forget that in great cities=
and
in London, there is a proletariat, and let us not say that so it must needs
be. It need not be this, and =
it should
not, for this is contrary to our reason and our heart, and it cannot be if =
we
are living people. Why not ho=
pe
that we shall come to understand that there is not a single duty incumbent =
upon
us, not to mention personal duty, for ourselves, nor our family, nor social,
nor governmental, nor scientific, which is more weighty than this? Why not think that we shall at las=
t come
to apprehend this? Only becau=
se to
do so would be too great a happiness.
Why not hope that some the people will wake up, and will comprehend =
that
every thing else is a delusion, but that this is the only work in life? And why should not this "some=
time"
be now, and in Moscow? Why no=
t hope
that the same thing may happen in society and humanity which suddenly takes
place in a diseased organism, when the moment of convalescence suddenly sets
in? The organism is diseased =
this
means, that the cells cease to perform their mysterious functions; some die,
others become infected, others still remain in perfect condition, and work =
on
by themselves. But all of a s=
udden
the moment comes when every living cell enters upon an independent and heal=
thy
activity: it crowds out the dead cells, encloses the infected ones in a liv=
ing
wall, it communicates life to that which was lifeless; and the body is
restored, and lives with new life.
Why should we not
think and expect that the cells of our society will acquire fresh life and
re-invigorate the organism? W=
e know
not in what the power of the cells consists, but we do know that our life i=
s in
our own power. We can show fo=
rth
the light that is in us, or we may extinguish it.
Let one man appro=
ach
the Lyapinsky house in the dusk, when a thousand persons, naked and hungry,=
are
waiting in the bitter cold for admission, and let that one man attempt to h=
elp,
and his heart will ache till it bleeds, and he will flee thence with despair
and anger against men; but let a thousand men approach that other thousand =
with
a desire to help, and the task will prove easy and delightful. Let the mechanicians invent a mach=
ine
for lifting the weight that is crushing us--that is a good thing; but until
they shall have invented it, let us bear down upon the people, like fools, =
like
muzhiki, like peasants, like Christians, and see whether we cannot raise th=
em.
And now, brothers,
all together, and away it goes!
THOUGHTS EVOKED BY THE CE=
NSUS
OF MOSCOW. [1884-1885.]
And the people asked him, sa=
ying,
What shall we do then?
He answereth and saith unto =
them,
He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath=
none;
and he that hath meat, let him do likewise--LUKE iii. 10.=
11.
Lay not up for yourselves
treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where
thieves break through and steal:
But lay up for yourselves
treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and =
where
thieves do not break through nor steal:
For where your treasure is, =
there
will your heart be also.
The light of the body is the=
eye:
if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be=
full
of light.
But if thine eye be evil, thy
whole body shall be full of darkness.
If therefo=
re the
light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!
No man can serve two masters=
: for
either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else=
he
will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.
Therefore I say unto you, Ta=
ke no
thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall d=
rink;
nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, an=
d the
body than raiment?--MATT. vi. 19-25.
Therefore take no thought, s=
aying,
What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? Or, Wherewithal shall we be clothe=
d?
(For after all these things =
do the
Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye =
have
need of all these things.
But seek ye first the kingdo=
m of
God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be a=
dded
unto you.
Take therefore no thought fo=
r the
morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things =
of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evi=
l thereof.--MATT. vi. 31-=
34.
For it is easier for a camel=
to go
through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter into =
the
kingdom of God.--MATT. xix. 24; MARK x. 25; LUKE xviii. 25.
I had lived all my life out of town=
. When, in 1881, I went to live in M=
oscow,
the poverty of the town greatly surprised me. I am familiar with poverty in the
country; but city poverty was new and incomprehensible to me. In Moscow it was impossible to pass
along the street without encountering beggars, and especially beggars who a=
re
unlike those in the country. =
These
beggars do not go about with their pouches in the name of Christ, as country
beggars are accustomed to do, but these beggars are without the pouch and t=
he
name of Christ. The Moscow be=
ggars
carry no pouches, and do not ask for alms.=
Generally, when they meet or pass you, they merely try to catch your
eye; and, according to your look, they beg or refrain from it. I know one such beggar who belongs=
to
the gentry. The old man walks slowly along, bending forward every time he s=
ets
his foot down. When he meets =
you,
he rests on one foot and makes you a kind of salute. If you stop, he pulls off his hat =
with
its cockade, and bows and begs: if you do not halt, he pretends that that is
merely his way of walking, and he passes on, bending forward in like manner=
on
the other foot. He is a real =
Moscow
beggar, a cultivated man. At =
first
I did not know why the Moscow beggars do not ask alms directly; afterwards I
came to understand why they do not beg, but still I did not understand thei=
r position.
Once, as I was
passing through Afanasievskaya Lane, I saw a policeman putting a ragged
peasant, all swollen with dropsy, into a cab. I inquired: "What is that
for?"
The policeman
answered: "For asking alms."
"Is that
forbidden?"
"Of course i=
t is
forbidden," replied the policeman.
The sufferer from
dropsy was driven off. I took
another cab, and followed him. I
wanted to know whether it was true that begging alms was prohibited and how=
it
was prohibited. I could in no=
wise
understand how one man could be forbidden to ask alms of any other man; and
besides, I did not believe that it was prohibited, when Moscow is full of
beggars. I went to the statio=
n-house
whither the beggar had been taken.
At a table in the station-house sat a man with a sword and a
pistol. I inquired:
"For what was
this peasant arrested?"
The man with the
sword and pistol gazed sternly at me, and said:
"What busine=
ss
is it of yours?"
But feeling consc=
ious
that it was necessary to offer me some explanation, he added:
"The authori=
ties
have ordered that all such persons are to be arrested; of course it had to =
be
done."
I went out. The policeman who had brought the =
beggar
was seated on the window-sill in the ante-chamber, staring gloomily at a
note-book. I asked him:
"Is it true =
that
the poor are forbidden to ask alms in Christ's name?"
The policeman cam=
e to
himself, stared at me, then did not exactly frown, but apparently fell into=
a
doze again, and said, as he sat on the window- sill:--
"The authori=
ties
have so ordered, which shows that it is necessary," and betook himself
once more to his note-book. I=
went
out on the porch, to the cab.
"Well, how d=
id
it turn out? Have they arrest=
ed
him?" asked the cabman. The man was evidently interested in this affair
also.
"Yes," I
answered. The cabman shook his
head. "Why is it forbidd=
en
here in Moscow to ask alms in Christ's name?" I inquired.
"Who
knows?" said the cabman.
"How is this=
?"
said I, "he is Christ's poor, and he is taken to the station-house.&qu=
ot;
"A stop has =
been
put to that now, it is not allowed," said the cab-driver.
On several occasi=
ons
afterwards, I saw policemen conducting beggars to the station house, and th=
en
to the Yusupoff house of correction.
Once I encountered on the Myasnitzkaya a company of these beggars, a=
bout
thirty in number. In front of=
them
and behind them marched policemen.
I inquired: "What for?"--"For asking alms."
It turned out that
all these beggars, several of whom you meet with in every street in Moscow,=
and
who stand in files near every church during services, and especially during
funeral services, are forbidden to ask alms.
But why are some =
of
them caught and locked up somewhere, while others are left alone?
This I could not
understand. Either there are =
among
them legal and illegal beggars, or there are so many of them that it is
impossible to apprehend them all; or do others assemble afresh when some are
removed?
There are many
varieties of beggars in Moscow: there are some who live by this profession;
there are also genuine poor people, who have chanced upon Moscow in some ma=
nner
or other, and who are really in want.
Among these poor
people, there are many simple, common peasants, and women in their peasant
costume. I often met such
people. Some of them have fal=
len
ill here, and on leaving the hospital they can neither support themselves h=
ere,
nor get away from Moscow. Som=
e of
them, moreover, have indulged in dissipation (such was probably the case of=
the
dropsical man); some have not been ill, but are people who have been burnt =
out
of their houses, or old people, or women with children; some, too, were
perfectly healthy and able to work.
These perfectly healthy peasants who were engaged in begging,
particularly interested me. T=
hese healthy,
peasant beggars, who were fit for work, also interested me, because, from t=
he
date of my arrival in Moscow, I had been in the habit of going to the Sparr=
ow
Hills with two peasants, and sawing wood there for the sake of exercise.
Why did these men
toil, while those others begged?
On encountering a
peasant of this stamp, I usually asked him how he had come to that
situation. Once I met a peasa=
nt
with some gray in his beard, but healthy.&=
nbsp;
He begs. I ask him who=
is
he, whence comes he? He says =
that
he came from Kaluga to get work. At
first he found employment chopping up old wood for use in stoves. He and his comrade finished all th=
e chopping
which one householder had; then they sought other work, but found none; his
comrade had parted from him, and for two weeks he himself had been struggli=
ng
along; he had spent all his money, he had no saw, and no axe, and no money =
to
buy anything. I gave him mone=
y for
a saw, and told him of a place where he could find work. I had already made arrangements wi=
th
Piotr and Semyon, that they should take an assistant, and they looked up a =
mate
for him.
"See that you
come. There is a great deal o=
f work
there."
"I will come;
why should I not come? Do you
suppose I like to beg? I can
work."
The peasant decla=
res
that he will come, and it seems to me that he is not deceiving me, and that=
he
intents to come.
On the following =
day
I go to my peasants, and inquire whether that man has arrived. He has not been there; and in this=
way
several men deceived me. And =
those
also deceived me who said that they only required money for a ticket in ord=
er
to return home, and who chanced upon me again in the street a week later. Many of these I recognized, and th=
ey
recognized me, and sometimes, having forgotten me, they repeated the same t=
rick
on me; and others, on catching sight of me, beat a retreat. Thus I perceived, that in the rank=
s of
this class also deceivers existed.
But these cheats were very pitiable creatures: all of them were but =
half-clad,
poverty-stricken, gaunt, sickly men; they were the very people who really
freeze to death, or hang themselves, as we learn from the newspapers.
When I mentioned this poverty of th=
e town
to inhabitants of the town, they always said to me: "Oh, all that you =
have
seen is nothing. You ought to=
see
the Khitroff market-place, and the lodging-houses for the night there. There you would see a regular 'gol=
den
company.'" {21a} One jes=
ter
told me that this was no longer a company, but a golden regiment: so greatly
had their numbers increased. =
The
jester was right, but he would have been still more accurate if he had said
that these people now form in Moscow neither a company nor a regiment, but =
an
entire army, almost fifty thousand in number, I think. [The old inhabitants, when they sp=
oke to
me about the poverty in town, always referred to it with a certain
satisfaction, as though pluming themselves over me, because they knew it. I remember that when I was in Lond=
on,
the old inhabitants there also rather boasted when they spoke of the povert=
y of
London. The case is the same =
with
us.] {21b}
And I wanted to h=
ave
a sight of this poverty of which I had been told. Several times I set out in
the direction of the Khitroff market-place, but on every occasion I began to
feel uncomfortable and ashamed.
"Why am I going to gaze on the sufferings of people whom I cann=
ot
help?" said one voice.
"No, if you live here, and see all the charms of city life, go =
and
view this also," said another voice.&=
nbsp;
In December three years ago, therefore, on a cold and windy day, I
betook myself to that centre of poverty, the Khitroff market-place. This was at four o'clock in the af=
ternoon
of a week-day. As I passed th=
rough
the Solyanka, I already began to see more and more people in old garments w=
hich
had not originally belonged to them, and in still stranger foot-gear, people
with a peculiar, unhealthy hue of countenance, and especially with a singul=
ar indifference
to every thing around them, which was peculiar to them all. A man in the
strangest of all possible attire, which was utterly unlike any thing else,
walked along with perfect unconcern, evidently without a thought of the
appearance which he must present to the eyes of others. All these people we=
re
making their way towards a single point.&n=
bsp;
Without inquiring the way, with which I was not acquainted, I follow=
ed
them, and came out on the Khitroff market-place. On the market-place, women both ol=
d and
young, of the same description, in tattered cloaks and jackets of various
shapes, in ragged shoes and overshoes, and equally unconcerned, notwithstan=
ding
the hideousness of their attire, sat, bargained for something, strolled abo=
ut,
and scolded. There were not m=
any
people in the market itself.
Evidently market-hours were over, and the majority of the people were
ascending the rise beyond the market and through the place, all still
proceeding in one direction. I
followed them. The farther I =
advanced,
the greater in numbers were the people of this sort who flowed together on =
one
road. Passing through the
market-place and proceeding along the street, I overtook two women; one was
old, the other young. Both wo=
re
something ragged and gray. As=
they
walked they were discussing some matter.&n=
bsp;
After every necessary word, they uttered one or two unnecessary ones=
, of
the most improper character. =
They
were not intoxicated, but merely troubled about something; and neither the =
men
who met them, nor those who walked in front of them and behind them, paid a=
ny attention
to the language which was so strange to me. In these quarters, evidently, peop=
le
always talked so. Ascending t=
he
rise, we reached a large house on a corner. The greater part of the people who=
were
walking along with me halted at this house. They stood all over the sidewalk o=
f this
house, and sat on the curbstone, and even the snow in the street was throng=
ed
with the same kind of people. On
the right side of the entrance door were the women, on the left the men.
I halted where th=
e line
of men ended. Those nearest me
began to stare at me, and attracted my attention to them by their glances.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The fragments of garments which co=
vered
these bodies were of the most varied sorts. But the expression of all the glan=
ces
directed towards me by these people was identical. In all eyes the question was expre=
ssed:
"Why have you, a man from another world, halted here beside us? Who are you? Are you a self- satisfied rich man=
who
wants to enjoy our wretchedness, to get rid of his tedium, and to torment us
still more? or are you that thing which does not and can not exist,--a man =
who
pities us?" This query w=
as on
every face. You glance about,
encounter some one's eye, and turn away.&n=
bsp;
I wished to talk with some one of them, but for a long time I could =
not make
up my mind to it. But our gla=
nces
had drawn us together already while our tongues remained silent. Greatly as our lives had separated=
us,
after the interchange of two or three glances we felt that we were both men,
and we ceased to fear each other.
The nearest of all to me was a peasant with a swollen face and a red
beard, in a tattered caftan, and patched overshoes on his bare feet. And the weather was eight degrees =
below
zero. {24a} For the third or =
fourth
time I encountered his eyes, and I felt so near to him that I was no longer
ashamed to accost him, but ashamed not to say something to him. I inquired where he came from? he =
answered
readily, and we began to talk; others approached. He was from Smolensk, and had come=
to
seek employment that he might earn his bread and taxes. "There is no work," said=
he:
"the soldiers have taken it all away.=
So now I am loafing about; as true as I believe in God, I have had n=
othing
to eat for two days." He=
spoke
modestly, with an effort at a smile.
A sbiten{24b}-seller, an old soldier, stood near by. I called him up. He poured out his sbiten. The peasant took a boiling-hot gla=
ssful
in his hands, and as he tried before drinking not to let any of the heat es=
cape
in vain, and warmed his hands over it, he related his adventures to me. These adventures, or the histories=
of
them, are almost always identical: the man has been a laborer, then he has
changed his residence, then his purse containing his money and ticket has b=
een
stolen from him in the night lodging-house; now it is impossible to get awa=
y from
Moscow. He told me that he ke=
pt
himself warm by day in the dram- shops; that he nourished himself on the bi=
ts
of bread in these drinking places, when they were given to him; and when he=
was
driven out of them, he came hither to the Lyapinsky house for a free
lodging. He was only waiting =
for
the police to make their rounds, when, as he had no passport, he would be t=
aken
to jail, and then despatched by stages to his place of settlement. "They say that the inspection=
will
be made on Friday," said he, "then they will arrest me. If I can only get along until
Friday." (The jail, and the journey by stages, represent the Promised =
Land
to him.)
As he told his st=
ory,
three men from among the throng corroborated his statements, and said that =
they
were in the same predicament. A
gaunt, pale, long-nosed youth, with merely a shirt on the upper portion of =
his body,
and that torn on the shoulders, and a cap without a visor, forced his way
sidelong through the crowd. He
shivered violently and incessantly, but tried to smile disdainfully at the
peasants' remarks, thinking by this means to adopt the proper tone with me,=
and
he stared at me. I offered hi=
m some
sbiten; he also, on taking the glass, warmed his hands over it; but no soon=
er
had he begun to speak, than he was thrust aside by a big, black, hook-nosed
individual, in a chintz shirt and waistcoat, without a hat. The hook-nosed man asked for some =
sbiten
also. Then came a tall old ma=
n,
with a mass of beard, clad in a great- coat girded with a rope, and in bast
shoes, who was drunk. Then a =
small man
with a swollen face and tearful eyes, in a brown nankeen round-jacket, with=
his
bare knees protruding from the holes in his summer trousers, and knocking
together with cold. He shiver=
ed so
that he could not hold his glass, and spilled it over himself. The men began to reproach him. He only smiled in a woe-begone way=
, and
went on shivering. Then came a crooked monster in rags, with pattens on his
bare feet; then some sort of an officer; then something in the ecclesiastic=
al
line; then something strange and nose-less,--all hungry and cold, beseeching
and submissive, thronged round me, and pressed close to the sbiten. They drank up all the sbiten. One asked for money, and I gave it=
. Then another asked, then a third, =
and
the whole crowd besieged me.
Confusion and a press resulted.&nbs=
p;
The porter of the adjoining house shouted to the crowd to clear the
sidewalk in front of his house, and the crowd submissively obeyed his order=
s. Some managers stepped out of the t=
hrong,
and took me under their protection, and wanted to lead me forth out of the
press; but the crowd, which had at first been scattered over the sidewalk, =
now
became disorderly, and hustled me.
All stared at me and begged; and each face was more pitiful and
suffering and humble than the last.
I distributed all that I had with me. I had not much money, something li=
ke
twenty rubles; and in company with the crowd, I entered the Lyapinsky
lodging-house. This house is
huge. It consists of four sec=
tions. In the upper stories are the men's
quarters; in the lower, the women's.
I first entered the women's place; a vast room all occupied with bun=
ks,
resembling the third-class bunks on the railway. These bunks were arranged in two r=
ows,
one above the other. The wome=
n,
strange, tattered creatures, both old and young, wearing nothing over their=
dresses,
entered and took their places, some below and some above. Some of the old ones crossed thems=
elves,
and uttered a petition for the founder of this refuge; some laughed and
scolded. I went up-stairs. Th=
ere
the men had installed themselves; among them I espied one of those to whom I
had given money. [On catching=
sight
of him, I all at once felt terribly abashed, and I made haste to leave the
room. And it was with a sense=
of
absolute crime that I quitted that house and returned home. At home I entered over the carpeted
stairs into the ante-room, whose floor was covered with cloth; and having
removed my fur coat, I sat down to a dinner of five courses, waited on by t=
wo
lackeys in dress-coats, white neckties, and white gloves.
Thirty years ago I
witnessed in Paris a man's head cut off by the guillotine in the presence of
thousands of spectators. I kn=
ew
that the man was a horrible criminal.
I was acquainted with all the arguments which people have been devis=
ing
for so many centuries, in order to justify this sort of deed. I knew that they had done this
expressly, deliberately. But =
at the
moment when head and body were severed, and fell into the trough, I groaned,
and apprehended, not with my mind, but with my heart and my whole being, th=
at
all the arguments which I had heard anent the death-penalty were arrant
nonsense; that, no matter how many people might assemble in order to perpet=
rate
a murder, no matter what they might call themselves, murder is murder, the
vilest sin in the world, and that that crime had been committed before my v=
ery
eyes. By my presence and
non-interference, I had lent my approval to that crime, and had taken part =
in
it. So now, at the sight of t=
his
hunger, cold, and degradation of thousands of persons, I understood not wit=
h my
mind, but with my heart and my whole being, that the existence of tens of
thousands of such people in Moscow, while I and other thousands dined on
fillets and sturgeon, and covered my horses and my floors with cloth and
rugs,--no matter what the wise ones of this world might say to me about its
being a necessity,--was a crime, not perpetrated a single time, but one whi=
ch
was incessantly being perpetrated over and over again, and that I, in my lu=
xury,
was not only an accessory, but a direct accomplice in the matter. The
difference for me between these two impressions was this, that I might have
shouted to the assassins who stood around the guillotine, and perpetrated t=
he
murder, that they were committing a crime, and have tried with all my might=
to
prevent the murder. But while=
so
doing I should have known that my action would not prevent the murder. But here I might not only have giv=
en
sbiten and the money which I had with me, but the coat from my back, and ev=
ery
thing that was in my house. B=
ut
this I had not done; and therefore I felt, I feel, and shall never cease to
feel, myself an accomplice in this constantly repeated crime, so long as I =
have
superfluous food and any one else has none at all, so long as I have two ga=
rments
while any one else has not even one.] {28}
That very evening, on my return fro=
m the
Lyapinsky house, I related my impressions to a friend. The friend, an inhabitant of the c=
ity,
began to tell me, not without satisfaction, that this was the most natural =
phenomenon
of town life possible, that I only saw something extraordinary in it becaus=
e of
my provincialism, that it had always been so, and always would be so, and t=
hat
such must be and is the inevitable condition of civilization. In London it is even worse. Of course there is nothing wrong a=
bout
it, and it is impossible to be displeased with it. I began to reply to my friend, but=
with so
much heat and ill-temper, that my wife ran in from the adjoining room to
inquire what had happened. It
appears that, without being conscious of it myself, I had been shouting, wi=
th tears
in my voice, and flourishing my hands at my friend. I shouted: "It's impossible t=
o live
thus, impossible to live thus, impossible!" They made me feel ashamed of my
unnecessary warmth; they told me that I could not talk quietly about any th=
ing,
that I got disagreeably excited; and they proved to me, especially, that the
existence of such unfortunates could not possibly furnish any excuse for
imbittering the lives of those about me.
I felt that this =
was
perfectly just, and held my peace; but in the depths of my soul I was consc=
ious
that I was in the right, and I could not regain my composure.
And the life of t=
he
city, which had, even before this, been so strange and repellent to me, now
disgusted me to such a degree, that all the pleasures of a life of luxury,
which had hitherto appeared to me as pleasures, become tortures to me. And try as I would, to discover in=
my own
soul any justification whatever for our life, I could not, without irritati=
on,
behold either my own or other people's drawing-rooms, nor our tables spread=
in
the lordly style, nor our equipages and horses, nor shops, theatres, and
assemblies. I could not behold
alongside these the hungry, cold, and down-trodden inhabitants of the Lyapi=
nsky
house. And I could not rid my=
self
of the thought that these two things were bound up together, that the one a=
rose
from the other. I remember, t=
hat,
as this feeling of my own guilt presented itself to me at the first blush, =
so
it persisted in me, but to this feeling a second was speedily added which o=
vershadowed
it.
When I mentioned =
my
impressions of the Lyapinsky house to my nearest friends and acquaintances,
they all gave me the same answer as the first friend at whom I had begun to
shout; but, in addition to this, they expressed their approbation of my
kindness of heart and my sensibility, and gave me to understand that this s=
ight
had so especially worked upon me because I, Lyof Nikolaevitch, was very kind
and good. And I willingly bel=
ieved
this. And before I had time t=
o look
about me, instead of the feeling of self-reproach and regret, which I had at
first experienced, there came a sense of satisfaction with my own kindlines=
s,
and a desire to exhibit it to people.
"It really m=
ust
be," I said to myself, "that I am not especially responsible for =
this
by the luxury of my life, but that it is the indispensable conditions of
existence that are to blame. =
In
truth, a change in my mode of life cannot rectify the evil which I have see=
n:
by altering my manner of life, I shall only make myself and those about me =
unhappy,
and the other miseries will remain the same as ever. And therefore my problem lies not i=
n a
change of my own life, as it had first seemed to me, but in aiding, so far =
as
in me lies, in the amelioration of the situation of those unfortunate beings
who have called forth my compassion.
The whole point lies here,--that I am a very kind, amiable man, and =
that
I wish to do good to my neighbors."&n=
bsp;
And I began to think out a plan of beneficent activity, in which I m=
ight
exhibit my benevolence. I must
confess, however, that while devising this plan of beneficent activity, I f=
elt
all the time, in the depths of my soul, that that was not the thing; but, as
often happens, activity of judgment and imagination drowned that voice of
conscience within me. At that=
juncture,
the census came up. This stru=
ck me
as a means for instituting that benevolence in which I proposed to exhibit =
my
charitable disposition. I kne=
w of
many charitable institutions and societies which were in existence in Mosco=
w,
but all their activity seemed to me both wrongly directed and insignificant=
in
comparison with what I intended to do.&nbs=
p;
And I devised the following scheme: to arouse the sympathy of the we=
althy
for the poverty of the city, to collect money, to get people together who w=
ere
desirous of assisting in this matter, and to visit all the refuges of pover=
ty
in company with the census, and, in addition to the work of the census, to
enter into communion with the unfortunate, to learn the particulars of their
necessities, and to assist them with money, with work, by sending them away
from Moscow, by placing their children in school, and the old people in
hospitals and asylums. And no=
t only
that, I thought, but these people who undertake this can be formed into a
permanent society, which, by dividing the quarters of Moscow among its memb=
ers,
will be able to see to it that this poverty and beggary shall not be bred; =
they
will incessantly annihilate it at its very inception; then they will fulfil
their duty, not so much by healing as by a course of hygiene for the
wretchedness of the city. I f=
ancied
that there would be no more simply needy, not to mention abjectly poor pers=
ons,
in the town, and that all of us wealthy individuals would thereafter be abl=
e to
sit in our drawing-rooms, and eat our five-course dinners, and ride in our
carriages to theatres and assemblies, and be no longer annoyed with such si=
ghts
as I had seen at the Lyapinsky house.
Having concocted =
this
plan, I wrote an article on the subject; and before sending it to the print=
er,
I went to some acquaintances, from whom I hoped for sympathy. I said the same thing to every one=
whom
I met that day (and I applied chiefly to the rich), and nearly the same tha=
t I afterwards
printed in my memoir; proposed to take advantage of the census to inquire i=
nto
the wretchedness of Moscow, and to succor it, both by deeds and money, and =
to
do it in such a manner that there should be no poor people in Moscow, and so
that we rich ones might be able, with a quiet conscience, to enjoy the
blessings of life to which we were accustomed. All listened to me attentively and
seriously, but nevertheless the same identical thing happened with every on=
e of
them without exception. No so=
oner
did my hearers comprehend the question, than they seemed to feel awkward and
somewhat mortified. They seem=
ed to be
ashamed, and principally on my account, because I was talking nonsense, and
nonsense which it was impossible to openly characterize as such. Some external cause appeared to co=
mpel
my hearers to be forbearing with this nonsense of mine.
"Ah, yes! of
course. That would be very
good," they said to me.
"It is a self-understood thing that it is impossible not to
sympathize with this. Yes, yo=
ur
idea is a capital one. I have
thought of that myself, but . . . we are so indifferent, as a rule, that you
can hardly count on much success . . . however, so far as I am concerned, I=
am,
of course, ready to assist."
They all said
something of this sort to me. They
all agreed, but agreed, so it seemed to me, not in consequence of my
convictions, and not in consequence of their own wish, but as the result of
some outward cause, which did not permit them not to agree. I had already noticed this, and, s=
ince
not one of them stated the sum which he was willing to contribute, I was
obliged to fix it myself, and to ask: "So I may count on you for three
hundred, or two hundred, or one hundred, or twenty-five rubles?" And n=
ot
one of them gave me any money. I
mention this because, when people give money for that which they themselves
desire, they generally make haste to give it. For a box to see Sarah Bernhardt, =
they
will instantly place the money in your hand, to clinch the bargain. Here, however, out of all those who
agreed to contribute, and who expressed their sympathy, not one of them
proposed to give me the money on the spot, but they merely assented in sile=
nce
to the sum which I suggested. In the last house which I visited on that day=
, in
the evening, I accidentally came upon a large company. The mistress of the house had busi=
ed
herself with charity for several years.&nb=
sp;
Numerous carriages stood at the door, several lackeys in rich liveri=
es
were sitting in the ante- chamber.
In the vast drawing-room, around two tables and lamps, sat ladies and
young girls, in costly garments, dressing small dolls; and there were sever=
al
young men there also, hovering about the ladies. The dolls prepared by these ladies=
were
to be drawn in a lottery for the poor.
The sight of this
drawing-room, and of the people assembled in it, struck me very
unpleasantly. Not to mention =
the
fact that the property of the persons there congregated amounted to many
millions, not to mention the fact that the mere income from the capital here
expended on dresses, laces, bronzes, brooches, carriages, horses, liveries,=
and
lackeys, was a hundred-fold greater than all that these ladies could earn; =
not
to mention the outlay, the trip hither of all these ladies and gentlemen; t=
he
gloves, linen, extra time, the candles, the tea, the sugar, and the cakes h=
ad
cost the hostess a hundred times more than what they were engaged in making
here. I saw all this, and the=
refore
I could understand, that precisely here I should find no sympathy with my m=
ission:
but I had come in order to make my proposition, and, difficult as this was =
for
me, I said what I intended. (=
I said
very nearly the same thing that is contained in my printed article.)
Out of all the
persons there present, one individual offered me money, saying that she did=
not
feel equal to going among the poor herself on account of her sensibility, b=
ut
that she would give money; how much money she would give, and when, she did=
not
say. Another individual and a=
young
man offered their services in going about among the poor, but I did not ava=
il
myself of their offer. The
principal person to whom I appealed, told me that it would be impossible to=
do
much because means were lacking.
Means were lacking because all the rich people in Moscow were alread=
y on
the lists, and all of them were asked for all that they could possibly give;
because on all these benefactors rank, medals, and other dignities were
bestowed; because in order to secure financial success, some new dignities =
must
be secured from the authorities, and that this was the only practical means,
but this was extremely difficult.
On my return home
that night, I lay down to sleep not only with a presentment that my idea wo=
uld
come to nothing, but with shame and a consciousness that all day long I had
been engaged in a very repulsive and disgraceful business. But I did not give up this
undertaking. In the first pla=
ce,
the matter had been begun, and false shame would have prevented my abandoni=
ng
it; in the second place, not only the success of this scheme, but the very =
fact
that I was busying myself with it, afforded me the possibility of continuin=
g to
live in the conditions under which I was then living; failure entailed upon=
me
the necessity of renouncing my present existence and of seeking new paths of
life. And this I unconsciously
dreaded, and I could not believe the inward voice, and I went on with what I
had begun.
Having sent my
article to the printer, I read the proof of it to the City Council (Dum). I read it, stumbling, and blushing=
even
to tears, I felt so awkward. =
And I
saw that it was equally awkward for all my hearers. In answer to my question at the co=
nclusion
of my reading, as to whether the superintendents of the census would accept=
my
proposition to retain their places with the object of becoming mediators
between society and the needy, an awkward silence ensued. Then two orators made speeches.
up, in addition to
the objects of the census, the object of benevolence. When we discussed thi=
s, I
observed that they were ashamed to look the kind-hearted man, who was talki=
ng
nonsense, in the eye. My arti=
cle produced
the same impression on the editor of the newspaper, when I handed it to him=
; on
my son, on my wife, on the most widely different persons. All felt awkward, for some reason =
or
other; but all regarded it as indispensable to applaud the idea itself, and
all, immediately after this expression of approbation, began to express the=
ir
doubts as to its success, and began for some reason (and all of them, too,
without exception) to condemn the indifference and coldness of our society =
and
of every one, apparently, except themselves.
In the depths of =
my
own soul, I still continued to feel that all this was not at all what was
needed, and that nothing would come of it; but the article was printed, and=
I
prepared to take part in the census; I had contrived the matter, and now it=
was
already carrying me a way with it.
At my request, there had been assig=
ned to
me for the census, a portion of the Khamovnitchesky quarter, at the Smolensk
market, along the Prototchny cross-street, between Beregovoy Passage and Ni=
kolsky
Alley. In this quarter are si=
tuated
the houses generally called the Rzhanoff Houses, or the Rzhanoff fortress.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> These houses once belonged to a me=
rchant
named Rzhanoff, but now belong to the Zimins. I had long before heard of this pl=
ace as
a haunt of the most terrible poverty and vice, and I had accordingly reques=
ted
the directors of the census to assign me to this quarter. My desire was granted.
On receiving the
instructions of the City Council, I went alone, a few days previous to the
beginning of the census, to reconnoitre my section. I found the Rzhanoff
fortress at once, from the plan with which I had been furnished.
I approached from
Nikolsky Alley. Nikolsky Alle=
y ends
on the left in a gloomy house, without any gates on that side; I divined fr=
om
its appearance that this was the Rzhanoff fortress.
Passing down Niko=
lsky
Street, I overtook some lads of from ten to fourteen years of age, clad in
little caftans and great-coats, who were sliding down hill, some on their f=
eet,
and some on one skate, along the icy slope beside this house. The boys were ragged, and, like al=
l city
lads, bold and impudent. I st=
opped
to watch them. A ragged old w=
oman, with
yellow, pendent cheeks, came round the corner. She was going to town, to the Smol=
ensk
market, and she groaned terribly at every step, like a foundered horse. As she came alongside me, she halt=
ed and
drew a hoarse sigh. In any ot=
her
locality, this old woman would have asked money of me, but here she merely
addressed me.
"Look
there," said she, pointing at the boys who were sliding, "all the=
y do
is to play their pranks! They=
'll
turn out just such Rzhanoff fellows as their fathers."
One of the boys c=
lad
in a great-coat and a visorless cap, heard her words and halted: "What=
are
you scolding about?" he shouted to the old woman. "You're an old
Rzhanoff nanny-goat yourself!"
I asked the boy:<= o:p>
"And do you =
live
here?"
"Yes, and so
does she. She stole
boot-legs," shouted the boy; and raising his foot in front, he slid aw=
ay.
The old woman bur=
st
forth into injurious words, interrupted by a cough. At that moment, an old =
man,
all clad in rags, and as white as snow, came down the hill in the middle of=
the
street, flourishing his hands [in one of them he held a bundle with one lit=
tle
kalatch and baranki" {39}]. This old man bore the appearance of a pers=
on
who had just strengthened himself with a dram. He had evidently heard the old wom=
an's
insulting words, and he took her part.
"I'll give i=
t to
you, you imps, that I will!" he screamed at the boys, seeming to direct
his course towards them, and taking a circuit round me, he stepped on to the
sidewalk. This old man creates
surprise on the Arbata by his great age, his weakness, and his indigence. Here he was a cheery laboring-man
returning from his daily toil.
I followed the old
man. He turned the corner to =
the
left, into Prototchny Alley, and passing by the whole length of the house a=
nd
the gate, he disappeared through the door of the tavern.
Two gates and sev=
eral
doors open on Prototchny Alley: those belonging to a tavern, a dram-shop, a=
nd
several eating and other shops.
This is the Rzhanoff fortress itself. Every thing here is gray, dirty, a=
nd malodorous--both
buildings and locality, and court-yards and people. The majority of the people whom I =
met
here were ragged and half-clad.
Some were passing through, others were running from door to door.
"You shall n=
ot
escape," he said laughing.
"See here, y=
ou
cock-eyed devil," began the woman, evidently flattered by this pursuit;
but catching sight of me, she shrieked viciously, "What do you want?&q=
uot;
As I wanted nothi=
ng,
I became confused and beat a retreat.
There was nothing remarkable about the place; but this incident, aft=
er
what I had witnessed on the other side of the yard, the cursing old woman, =
the
jolly old man, and the lads sliding, suddenly presented the business which =
I had
concocted from a totally different point of view. I then comprehended for the first =
time,
that all these unfortunates to whom I was desirous of playing the part of
benefactor, besides the time, when, suffering from cold and hunger, they
awaited admission into the house, had still other time, which they employed=
to
some other purpose, that there were four and twenty hours in every day, that
there was a whole life of which I had never thought, up to that moment. Here, for the first time, I unders=
tood,
that all those people, in addition to their desire to shelter themselves fr=
om
the cold and to obtain a good meal, must still, in some way, live out those
four and twenty hours each day, which they must pass as well as everybody
else. I comprehended that the=
se
people must lose their tempers, and get bored, show courage, and grieve and=
be
merry. Strange as this may se=
em,
when put into words, I understood clearly for the first time, that the busi=
ness
which I had undertaken could not consist alone in feeding and clothing
thousands of people, as one would feed and drive under cover a thousand she=
ep,
but that it must consist in doing good to them.
And then I unders=
tood
that each one of those thousand people was exactly such a man,--with precis=
ely
the same past, with the same passions, temptations, failings, with the same
thoughts, the same perplexities,--exactly such a man as myself, and then the
thing that I had undertaken suddenly presented itself to me as so difficult
that I felt my powerlessness; but the thing had been begun, and I went on w=
ith it.
On the first appointed day, the stu=
dent
enumerators arrived in the morning, and I, the benefactor, joined them at
twelve o'clock. I could not go
earlier, because I had risen at ten o'clock, then I had drunk my coffee and
smoked, while waiting on digestion.
At twelve o'clock I reached the gates of the Rzhanoff house. A policeman pointed out to me the =
tavern
with a side entrance on Beregovoy Passage, where the census- takers had ord=
ered
every one who asked for them to be directed. I entered the tavern. It was very dark, ill-smelling, and
dirty. Directly opposite the
entrance was the counter, on the left was a room with tables, covered with
soiled cloths, on the right a large apartment with pillars, and the same so=
rt
of little tables at the windows and along the walls. Here and there at the tables sat m=
en
both ragged and decently clad, like laboring-men or petty tradesmen, and a =
few
women drinking tea. The tavern was very filthy, but it was instantly appare=
nt
that it had a good trade.
There was a
business-like expression on the face of the clerk behind the counter, and a
clever readiness about the waiters.
No sooner had I entered, than one waiter prepared to remove my coat =
and
bring me whatever I should order.
It was evident that they had been trained to brisk and accurate
service. I inquired for the
enumerators.
"Vanya!"
shouted a small man, dressed in German fashion, who was engaged in placing
something in a cupboard behind the counter; this was the landlord of the
tavern, a Kaluga peasant, Ivan Fedotitch, who hired one- half of the Zimins'
houses and sublet them to lodgers.
The waiter, a thin, hooked-nosed young fellow of eighteen, with a ye=
llow
complexion, hastened up.
"Conduct this
gentleman to the census-takers; they went into the main building over the
well." The young fellow =
threw
down his napkin, and donned a coat over his white jacket and white trousers,
and a cap with a large visor, and, tripping quickly along with his white fe=
et,
he led me through the swinging door in the rear. In the dirty, malodorous kitchen, =
in the
out-building, we encountered an old woman who was carefully carrying some v=
ery
bad-smelling tripe, wrapped in a rag, off somewhere. From the out-building =
we
descended into a sloping court-yard, all encumbered with small wooden build=
ings
on lower stories of stone. Th=
e odor
in this whole yard was extremely powerful.=
The centre of this odor was an out-house, round which people were
thronging whenever I passed it. It merely indicated the spot, but was not
altogether used itself. It wa=
s impossible,
when passing through the yard, not to take note of this spot; one always fe=
lt
oppressed when one entered the penetrating atmosphere which was emitted by =
this
foul smell.
The waiter, caref=
ully
guarding his white trousers, led me cautiously past this place of frozen and
unfrozen uncleanness to one of the buildings. The people who were passing
through the yard and along the balconies all stopped to stare at me. It was evident that a respectably
dressed man was a curiosity in these localities.
The young man ask=
ed a
woman "whether she had seen the census-takers?" And three men simultaneously answe=
red
his question: some said that they were over the well, but others said that =
they
had been there, but had come out and gone to Nikita Ivanovitch. An old man dressed only in his shi=
rt,
who was wandering about the centre of the yard, said that they were in No. =
30. The young man decided that this wa=
s the
most probable report, and conducted me to No. 30 through the basement entra=
nce,
and darkness and bad smells, different from that which existed outside. We went down-stairs, and proceeded=
along
the earthen floor of a dark corridor.
As we were passing along the corridor, a door flew open abruptly, an=
d an
old drunken man, in his shirt, probably not of the peasant class, thrust hi=
mself
out. A washerwoman, wringing =
her
soapy hands, was pursuing and hustling the old man with piercing screams. Vanya, my guide, pushed the old man
aside, and reproved him.
"It's not pr=
oper
to make such a row," said me, "and you an officer, too!" and=
we
went on to the door of No. 30.
Vanya gave it a
little pull. The door gave wa=
y with
a smack, opened, and we smelled soapy steam, and a sharp odor of spoilt food
and tobacco, and we entered into total darkness. The windows were on the opposite s=
ide; but
the corridors ran to right and left between board partitions, and small doo=
rs
opened, at various angles, into the rooms made of uneven whitewashed
boards. In a dark room, on the
left, a woman could be seen washing in a tub. An old woman was peeping from one =
of
these small doors on the right.
Through another open door we could see a red-faced, hairy peasant, in
bast shoes, sitting on his wooden bunk; his hands rested on his knees, and =
he
was swinging his feet, shod in bast shoes, and gazing gloomily at them.
At the end of the
corridor was a little door leading to the apartment where the census-takers
were. This was the chamber of=
the
mistress of the whole of No. 30; she rented the entire apartment from Ivan =
Feodovitch,
and let it out again to lodgers and as night-quarters. In her tiny room, under the tinsel
images, sat the student census-taker with his charts; and, in his quality of
investigator, he had just thoroughly interrogated a peasant wearing a shirt=
and
a vest. This latter was a fri=
end of
the landlady, and had been answering questions for her. The landlady herself, an elderly w=
oman,
was there also, and two of her curious tenants. When I entered, the room was alrea=
dy
packed full. I pushed my way =
to the
table. I exchanged greetings =
with
the student, and he proceeded with his inquiries. And I began to look about me, and =
to interrogate
the inhabitants of these quarters for my own purpose.
It turned out, th=
at
in this first set of lodgings, I found not a single person upon whom I could
pour out my benevolence. The
landlady, in spite of the fact that the poverty, smallness and dirt of these
quarters struck me after the palatial house in which I dwell, lived in comf=
ort,
compared with many of the poor inhabitants of the city, and in comparison w=
ith
the poverty in the country, with which I was thoroughly familiar, she lived=
luxuriously. She had a feather-bed, a quilted c=
overlet,
a samovar, a fur cloak, and a dresser with crockery. The landlady's friend had the same=
comfortable
appearance. He had a watch an=
d a
chain. Her lodgers were not s=
o well
off, but there was not one of them who was in need of immediate assistance:=
the
woman who was washing linen in a tub, and who had been abandoned by her hus=
band
and had children, an aged widow without any means of livelihood, as she sai=
d,
and that peasant in bast shoes, who told me that he had nothing to eat that
day. But on questioning them,=
it appeared
that none of these people were in special want, and that, in order to help
them, it would be necessary to become well acquainted with them.
When I proposed to
the woman whose husband had abandoned her, to place her children in an asyl=
um,
she became confused, fell into thought, thanked me effusively, but evidently
did not wish to do so; she would have preferred pecuniary assistance. The eldest girl helped her in her =
washing,
and the younger took care of the little boy. The old woman begged earnestly to =
be
taken to the hospital, but on examining her nook I found that the old woman=
was
not particularly poor. She ha=
d a
chest full of effects, a teapot with a tin spout, two cups, and caramel box=
es
filled with tea and sugar. She
knitted stockings and gloves, and received monthly aid from some benevolent
lady. And it was evident that=
what
the peasant needed was not so much food as drink, and that whatever might b=
e given
him would find its way to the dram-shop.&n=
bsp;
In these quarters, therefore, there were none of the sort of people =
whom
I could render happy by a present of money. But there were poor people who app=
eared
to me to be of a doubtful character.
I noted down the old woman, the woman with the children, and the
peasant, and decided that they must be seen to; but later on, as I was occu=
pied
with the peculiarly unfortunate whom I expected to find in this house, I ma=
de
up my mind that there must be some order in the aid which we should bestow;
first came the most wretched, and then this kind. But in the next quarters, and in t=
he
next after that, it was the same story, all the people had to be narrowly i=
nvestigated
before they could be helped. =
But
unfortunates of the sort whom a gift of money would convert from unfortunate
into fortunate people, there were none.&nb=
sp;
Mortifying as it is to me to avow this, I began to get disenchanted,
because I did not find among these people any thing of the sort which I had
expected. I had expected to f=
ind
peculiar people here; but, after making the round of all the apartments, I =
was
convinced that the inhabitants of these houses were not peculiar people at =
all,
but precisely such persons as those among whom I lived. As there are among us, just so amo=
ng
them; there were here those who were more or less good, more or less stupid,
happy and unhappy. The unhapp=
y were
exactly such unhappy beings as exist among us, that is, unhappy people whos=
e unhappiness
lies not in their external conditions, but in themselves, a sort of unhappi=
ness
which it is impossible to right by any sort of bank- note whatever.
The inhabitants of these houses
constitute the lower class of the city, which numbers in Moscow, probably, =
one
hundred thousand. There, in t=
hat house,
are representatives of every description of this class. There are petty employers, and
master-artisans, bootmakers, brush-makers, cabinet- makers, turners,
shoemakers, tailors, blacksmiths; there are cab-drivers, young women living
alone, and female pedlers, laundresses, old-clothes dealers, money-lenders,
day-laborers, and people without any definite employment; and also beggars =
and
dissolute women.
Here were many of=
the
very people whom I had seen at the entrance to the Lyapinsky house; but here
these people were scattered about among the working-people. And moreover, I had seen these peo=
ple at
their most unfortunate time, when they had eaten and drunk up every thing, =
and
when, cold, hungry, and driven forth from the taverns, they were awaiting a=
dmission
into the free night lodging-house, and thence into the promised prison for
despatch to their places of residence, like heavenly manna; but here I behe=
ld
them and a majority of workers, and at a time, when by one means or another,
they had procured three or five kopeks for a lodging for the night, and
sometimes a ruble for food and drink.
And strange as the
statement may seem, I here experienced nothing resembling that sensation wh=
ich
I had felt in the Lyapinsky house; but, on the contrary, during the first
round, both I and the students experienced an almost agreeable feeling,--ye=
s,
but why do I say "almost agreeable"? This is not true; the feeling call=
ed
forth by intercourse with these people, strange as it may sound, was a
distinctly agreeable one.
Our first impress=
ion
was, that the greater part of the dwellers here were working people and very
good people at that.
We found more than
half the inhabitants at work: laundresses bending over their tubs,
cabinet-makers at their lathes, cobblers on their benches. The narrow rooms
were full of people, and cheerful and energetic labor was in progress. There was an odor of toilsome swea=
t and
leather at the cobbler's, of shavings at the cabinet-maker's; songs were of=
ten
to be heard, and glimpses could be had of brawny arms with sleeves roiled h=
igh,
quickly and skilfully making their accustomed movements. Everywhere we were received cheerf=
ully
and politely: hardly anywhere did our intrusion into the every-day life of
these people call forth that ambition, and desire to exhibit their importan=
ce
and to put us down, which the appearance of the enumerators in the quarters=
of
well-to-do people evoked. It =
not
only did not arouse this, but, on the contrary, they answered all other
questions properly, and without attributing any special significance to
them. Our questions merely se=
rved
them as a subject of mirth and jesting as to how such and such a one was to=
be
set down in the list, when he was to be reckoned as two, and when two were =
to be
reckoned as one, and so forth.
We found many of =
them
at dinner, or tea; and on every occasion to our greeting: "bread and
salt," or "tea and sugar," they replied: "we beg that y=
ou
will partake," and even stepped aside to make room for us. Instead of =
the
den with a constantly changing population, which we had expected to find he=
re,
it turned out, that there were a great many apartments in the house where
people had been living for a long time.&nb=
sp;
One cabinet-maker with his men, and a boot-maker with his journeymen,
had lived there for ten years. The
boot-maker's quarters were very dirty and confined, but all the people at w=
ork
were very cheerful. I tried t=
o enter
into conversation with one of the workmen, being desirous of inquiring into=
the
wretchedness of his situation and his debt to his master, but the man did n=
ot
understand me and spoke of his master and his life from the best point of v=
iew.
In one apartment
lived an old man and his old woman.
They peddled apples. T=
heir
little chamber was warm, clean, and full of goods. On the floor were spread straw mat=
s:
they had got them at the apple-warehouse. They had chests, a cupboard, a
samovar, and crockery. In the
corner there were numerous images, and two lamps were burning before them; =
on the
wall hung fur coats covered with sheets.&n=
bsp;
The old woman, who had star- shaped wrinkles, and who was polite and
talkative, evidently delighted in her quiet, comfortable, existence.
Ivan Fedotitch, t=
he
landlord of the tavern and of these quarters, left his establishment and ca=
me
with us. He jested in a frien=
dly
manner with many of the landlords of apartments, addressing them all by the=
ir Christian
names and patronymics, and he gave us brief sketches of them. All were ordi=
nary
people, like everybody else,--Martin Semyonovitches, Piotr Piotrovitches, M=
arya
Ivanovnas,--people who did not consider themselves unhappy, but who regarded
themselves, and who actually were, just like the rest of mankind.
We had been prepa=
red
to witness nothing except what was terrible. And, all of a sudden, there was
presented to us, not only nothing that was terrible, but what was good,--th=
ings
which involuntarily compelled our respect.=
And there were so many of these good people, that the tattered, corr=
upt,
idle people whom we came across now and then among them, did not destroy the
principal impression.
This was not so m=
uch
of a surprise to the students as to me.&nb=
sp;
They simply went to fulfil a useful task, as they thought, in the
interests of science, and, at the same time, they made their own chance
observations; but I was a benefactor, I went for the purpose of aiding the
unfortunate, the corrupt, vicious people, whom I supposed that I should meet
with in this house. And, beho=
ld,
instead of unfortunate, corrupt, and vicious people, I saw that the majority
were laborious, industrious, peaceable, satisfied, contented, cheerful, pol=
ite,
and very good folk indeed.
I felt particular=
ly
conscious of this when, in these quarters, I encountered that same crying w=
ant
which I had undertaken to alleviate.
When I encountered
this want, I always found that it had already been relieved, that the
assistance which I had intended to render had already been given. This assistance had been rendered =
before
my advent, and rendered by whom? By
the very unfortunate, depraved creatures whom I had undertaken to reclaim, =
and
rendered in such a manner as I could not compass.
In one basement l=
ay a
solitary old man, ill with the typhus fever. There was no one with the old man.=
A widow and her little daughter,
strangers to him, but his neighbors round the corner, looked after him, gave
him tea and purchased medicine for him out of their own means. In another lodging lay a woman in
puerperal fever. A woman who =
lived
by vice was rocking the baby, and giving her her bottle; and for two days, =
she
had been unremitting in her attention.&nbs=
p;
The baby girl, on being left an orphan, was adopted into the family =
of a
tailor, who had three children of his own.=
So there remained those unfortunate idle people, officials, clerks,
lackeys out of place, beggars, drunkards, dissolute women, and children, who
cannot be helped on the spot with money, but whom it is necessary to know
thoroughly, to be planned and arranged for. I had simply sought unfortunate pe=
ople,
the unfortunates of poverty, those who could be helped by sharing with them=
our
superfluity, and, as it seemed to me, through some signal ill-luck, none su=
ch
were to be found; but I hit upon unfortunates to whom I should be obliged to
devote my time and care.
The unfortunates whom I noted down,
divided themselves, according to my ideas, into three sections, namely: peo=
ple
who had lost their former advantageous position, and who were awaiting a re=
turn
to it (there were people of this sort from both the lower and the higher
class); next, dissolute women, of whom there are a great many in these hous=
es;
and a third division, children.
More than all the rest, I found and noted down people of the first
division, who had forfeited their former advantageous position, and who hop=
ed
to regain it. Of such persons,
especially from the governmental and official world, there are a very great
number in these houses. In al=
most
all the lodgings which we entered, with the landlord, Ivan Fedotitch, he sa=
id
to us: "Here you need not write down the lodger's card yourself; there=
is
a man here who can do it, if he only happens not to be intoxicated
to-day."
And Ivan Fedotitch
called by name and patronymic this man, who was always one of those persons=
who
had fallen from a lofty position.
At Ivan Fedotitch's call, there crawled forth from some dark corner,=
a
former wealthy member of the noble or official class, generally intoxicated=
and
always undressed. If he was n=
ot
drunk, he always readily acceded to the task proposed to him, nodded
significantly, frowned, set down his remarks in learned phraseology, held t=
he
card neatly printed on red paper in his dirty, trembling hands, and glanced
round at his fellow-lodgers with pride and contempt, as though now triumphi=
ng
in his education over those who had so often humiliated him. He evidently enjoyed intercourse w=
ith that
world in which cards are printed on red paper, and with that world of which=
he
had once formed a part. Nearly
always, in answer to my inquiries about his life, the man began, not only
willingly, but eagerly, to relate the story of the misfortunes which he had
undergone,--which he had learned by rote like a prayer,--and particularly of
his former position, in which he ought still to be by right of his educatio=
n.
A great many such
people were scattered over all the corners of the Rzhanoff house. But one lodging was densely occupi=
ed by
them alone--both men and women.
After we had already entered, Ivan Fedotitch said to us: "Now, =
here
are some of the nobility." The
lodging was perfectly crammed; nearly all of the people, forty in number, w=
ere
at home. More demoralized
countenances, unhappy, aged, and swollen, young, pallid, and distracted, we=
re
not to be seen in the whole building.
I conversed with several of them.&n=
bsp;
The story was nearly identical in all cases, only in various stages =
of
development. Every one of the=
m had
been rich, or his father, his brother or his uncle was still wealthy, or his
father or he himself had had a very fine position. Then misfortune had overtaken him,=
the
blame for which rested either on envious people, or on his own kind- hearte=
dness,
or some special chance, and so he had lost every thing, and had been forced=
to
condescend to these surroundings to which he was not accustomed, and which =
were
hateful to him--among lice, rags, among drunkards and corrupt persons, and =
to
nourish himself on bread and liver, and to extend his hand in beggary. All the thoughts, desires, memorie=
s of
these people were directed exclusively to the past. The present appeared to them somet=
hing
unreal, repulsive, and not worthy of attention. Not one of them had any present. They had only memories of the past=
, and
expectations from the future, which might be realized at any moment, and for
the realization of which only a very little was required; but this little t=
hey
did not possess, it was nowhere to be obtained, and this had been ruining t=
heir
whole future life in vain, in the case of one man, for a year, of a second =
for
five years, and of a third for thirty years. All one needed was merely to dress
respectably, so that he could present himself to a certain personage, who w=
as
well- disposed towards him another only needed to be able to dress, pay off=
his
debts, and get to Orel; a third required to redeem a small property which w=
as
mortgaged, for the continuation of a law-suit, which must be decided in his
favor, and then all would be well once more. They all declare that they merely
require something external, in order to stand once more in the position whi=
ch
they regard as natural and happy in their own case.
Had my mind not b=
een
obscured by my pride as a benefactor, a glance at their faces, both old and
young, which were mostly weak and sensitive, but amiable, would have given =
me
to understand that their misfortunes were irreparable by any external means,
that they could not be happy in any position whatever, if their views of li=
fe
were to remain unchanged, that they were in no wise remarkable people, in
remarkably unfortunate circumstances, but that they were the same people who
surround us on all sides, and just like ourselves. I remember that intercourse with t=
his sort
of unfortunates was peculiarly difficult for me. I now understand why this was so; =
in
them I beheld myself, as in a mirror.
If I had reflected on my own life and on the life of the people in o=
ur
circle, I should have seen that no real difference existed between them.
If those about me
dwell in spacious quarters, and in their own houses on the Sivtzevy Vrazhok=
and
on the Dimitrovka, and not in the Rzhanoff house, and still eat and drink
dainties, and not liver and herrings with bread, that does not prevent them
from being exactly as unhappy. They
are just as dissatisfied with their own positions, they mourn over the past,
and pine for better things, and the improved position for which they long is
precisely the same as that which the inhabitants of the Rzhanoff house long
for; that is to say, one in which they may do as little work as possible
themselves, and derive the utmost advantage from the labors of others. The difference is merely one of de=
grees
and time. If I had reflected at that time, I should have understood this; b=
ut I
did not reflect, and I questioned these people, and wrote them down, suppos=
ing,
that, having learned all the particulars of their various conditions and
necessities, I could aid them later on.&nb=
sp;
I did not understand that such a man can only be helped by changing =
his
views of the world. But in or=
der to
change the views of another, one must needs have better views himself, and =
live
in conformity with them; but mine were precisely the same as theirs, and I
lived in accordance with those views, which must undergo a change, in order
that these people might cease to be unhappy.
I did not see that
these people were unhappy, not because they had not, so to speak, nourishing
food, but because their stomachs had been spoiled, and because their appeti=
tes
demanded not nourishing but irritating viands; and I did not perceive that,=
in
order to help them, it was not necessary to give them food, but that it was
necessary to heal their disordered stomachs. Although I am anticipating by so d=
oing,
I will mention here, that, out of all these persons whom I noted down, I re=
ally
did not help a single one, in spite of the fact that for some of them, that=
was
done which they desired, and that which, apparently, might have raised
them. Three of their number w=
ere
particularly well known to me. All
three, after repeated rises and falls, are now in precisely the same situat=
ion
in which they were three years ago.
The second class of unfortunates wh=
om I
also expected to assist later on, were the dissolute women; there were a ve=
ry
great many of them, of all sorts, in the Rzhanoff house--from those who were
young and who resembled women, to old ones, who were frightful and horrible,
and who had lost every semblance of humanity. The hope of being of assistance to=
these
women, which I had not at first entertained, occurred to me later. This was in the middle of our
rounds. We had already worked=
out
several mechanical tricks of procedure.
When we entered a=
new
establishment, we immediately questioned the landlady of the apartment; one=
of
us sat down, clearing some sort of a place for himself where he could write,
and another penetrated the corners, and questioned each man in all the nook=
s of
the apartment separately, and reported the facts to the one who did the
writing.
On entering a set=
of
rooms in the basement, a student went to hunt up the landlady, while I bega=
n to
interrogate all who remained in the place.=
The apartment was thus arranged: in the centre was a room six arshin=
s square,
{59} and a small oven. From t=
he
oven radiated four partitions, forming four tiny compartments. In the first, the entrance slip, w=
hich had
four bunks, there were two persons--an old man and a woman. Immediately
adjoining this, was a rather long slip of a room; in it was the landlord, a
young fellow, dressed in a sleeveless gray woollen jacket, a good-looking, =
very
pale citizen. {60} On the lef=
t of
the first corner, was a third tiny chamber; there was one person asleep the=
re, probably
a drunken peasant, and a woman in a pink blouse which was loose in front and
close-fitting behind. The fou=
rth
chamber was behind the partition; the entrance to it was from the landlord's
compartment.
The student went =
into
the landlord's room, and I remained in the entrance compartment, and questi=
oned
the old man and woman. The ol=
d man
had been a master-printer, but now had no means of livelihood. The woman was the wife of a cook.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I went to the third compartment, a=
nd
questioned the woman in the blouse about the sleeping man. She said that he was a visitor.
"That's the =
very
point," said the landlord, with an awkward smile.
"Therefore, =
we
should not reproach but pity them.
Are they to blame?"
I do not recollect
just what I said, but I do remember that I was vexed by the scornful tone of
the landlord of these quarters which were filled with women, whom he called
prostitutes, and that I felt compassion for this woman, and that I gave
expression to both feelings. =
No
sooner had I spoken thus, than the boards of the bed in the next compartmen=
t,
whence the laugh had proceeded, began to creak, and above the partition, wh=
ich did
not reach to the ceiling, there appeared a woman's curly and dishevelled he=
ad,
with small, swollen eyes, and a shining, red face, followed by a second, and
then by a third. They were ev=
idently
standing on their beds, and all three were craning their necks, and holding
their breath with strained attention, and gazing silently at us.
A troubled pause
ensued. The student, who had =
been
smiling up to this time, became serious; the landlord grew confused and dro=
pped
his eyes. All the women held their breath, stared at me, and waited. I was more embarrassed than any of
them. I had not, in the least,
anticipated that a chance remark would produce such an effect. Like Ezekiel's field of death, str=
ewn
with dead men's bones, there was a quiver at the touch of the spirit, and t=
he
dead bones stirred. I had utt=
ered
an unpremeditated word of love and sympathy, and this word had acted on all=
as
though they had only been waiting for this very remark, in order that they
might cease to be corpses and might live.&=
nbsp;
They all stared at me, and waited for what would come next. They waited for me to utter those =
words,
and to perform those actions by reason of which these bones might draw toge=
ther,
clothe themselves with flesh, and spring into life. But I felt that I had no such word=
s, no
such actions, by means of which I could continue what I had begun; I was
conscious, in the depths of my soul, that I had lied [that I was just like
them], {62} and there was nothing further for me to say; and I began to
inscribe on the cards the names and callings of all the persons in this set=
of
apartments.
This incident led=
me
into a fresh dilemma, to the thought of how these unfortunates also might be
helped. In my self-delusion, I
fancied that this would be very easy.
I said to myself: "Here, we will make a note of all these women
also, and later on when we [I did not specify to myself who "we"
were] write every thing out, we will attend to these persons too." I imagined that we, the very ones =
who
have brought and have been bringing these women to this condition for sever=
al
generations, would take thought some fine day and reform all this. But, in the mean time, if I had on=
ly
recalled my conversation with the disreputable woman who had been rocking t=
he
baby of the fever-stricken patient, I might have comprehended the full exte=
nt
of the folly of such a supposition.
When we saw this
woman with the baby, we thought that it was her child. To the question,
"Who was she?" she had replied in a straightforward way that she =
was
unmarried. She did not say--a
prostitute. Only the master o=
f the
apartment made use of that frightful word.=
The supposition that she had a child suggested to me the idea of
removing her from her position. I
inquired:
"Is this your
child?"
"No, it belo=
ngs
to that woman yonder."
"Why are you
taking care of it?"
"Because she
asked me; she is dying."
Although my
supposition proved to be erroneous, I continued my conversation with her in=
the
same spirit. I began to quest=
ion
her as to who she was, and how she had come to such a state. She related her history very readi=
ly and
simply. She was a Moscow
myeshchanka, the daughter of a factory hand. She had been left an orphan, and h=
ad
been adopted by an aunt. From=
her
aunt's she had begun to frequent the taverns. The aunt was now dead. When I asked her whether she did n=
ot wish
to alter her mode of life, my question, evidently, did not even arouse her
interest. How can one take an
interest in the proposition of a man, in regard to something absolutely
impossible? She laughed, and =
said:
"And who would take me in with my yellow ticket?"
"Well, but i=
f a
place could be found somewhere as cook?" said I.
This thought occu=
rred
to me because she was a stout, ruddy woman, with a kindly, round, and rather
stupid face. Cooks are often =
like
that. My words evidently did =
not
please her. She repeated:
"A cook--but=
I
don't know how to make bread," said she, and she laughed. She said that
she did not know how; but I saw from the expression of her countenance that=
she
did not wish to become a cook, that she regarded the position and calling o=
f a
cook as low.
This woman, who in
the simplest possible manner was sacrificing every thing that she had for t=
he
sick woman, like the widow in the Gospels, at the same time, like many of h=
er
companions, regarded the position of a person who works as low and deservin=
g of
scorn. She had been brought u=
p to
live not by work, but by this life which was considered the natural one for=
her
by those about her. In that l=
ay her
misfortune. And she fell in w=
ith
this misfortune and clung to her position.=
This led her to frequent the taverns. Which of us--man or woman--will co=
rrect
her false view of life? Where=
among
us are the people to be found who are convinced that every laborious life is
more worthy of respect than an idle life,--who are convinced of this, and w=
ho
live in conformity with this belief, and who in conformity with this convic=
tion
value and respect people? If =
I had
thought of this, I might have understood that neither I, nor any other pers=
on
among my acquaintances, could heal this complaint.
I might have
understood that these amazed and affected heads thrust over the partition
indicated only surprise at the sympathy expressed for them, but not in the
least a hope of reclamation from their dissolute life. They do not perceive=
the
immorality of their life. The=
y see
that they are despised and cursed, but for what they are thus despised they
cannot comprehend. Their life=
, from
childhood, has been spent among just such women, who, as they very well kno=
w,
always have existed, and are indispensable to society, and so indispensable
that there are governmental officials to attend to their legal existence. Moreover, they know that they have=
power
over men, and can bring them into subjection, and rule them often more than
other women. They see that th=
eir
position in society is recognized by women and men and the authorities, in
spite of their continual curses, and therefore, they cannot understand why =
they
should reform.
In the course of =
one
of the tours, one of the students told me that in a certain lodging, there =
was
a woman who was bargaining for her thirteen- year-old daughter. Being desirous of rescuing this gi=
rl, I
made a trip to that lodging expressly.&nbs=
p;
Mother and daughter were living in the greatest poverty. The mother, a small, dark-complexi=
oned,
dissolute woman of forty, was not only homely, but repulsively homely. The daughter was equally
disagreeable. To all my point=
ed
questions about their life, the mother responded curtly, suspiciously, and =
in a
hostile way, evidently feeling that I was an enemy, with evil intentions; t=
he daughter
made no reply, did not look at her mother, and evidently trusted the latter
fully. They inspired me with =
no
sincere pity, but rather with disgust.&nbs=
p;
But I made up my mind that the daughter must be rescued, and that I
would interest ladies who pitied the sad condition of these women, and send
them hither. But if I had ref=
lected
on the mother's long life in the past, of how she had given birth to, nursed
and reared this daughter in her situation, assuredly without the slightest
assistance from outsiders, and with heavy sacrifices--if I had reflected on=
the
view of life which this woman had formed, I should have understood that the=
re was,
decidedly, nothing bad or immoral in the mother's act: she had done and was
doing for her daughter all that she could, that is to say, what she conside=
red
the best for herself. This da=
ughter
could be forcibly removed from her mother; but it would be impossible to
convince the mother that she was doing wrong, in selling her daughter. If any one was to be saved, then i=
t must
be this woman--the mother ought to have been saved; [and that long before, =
from
that view of life which is approved by every one, according to which a woman
may live unmarried, that is, without bearing children and without work, and
simply for the satisfaction of the passions. If I had thought of this, I should=
have understood
that the majority of the ladies whom I intended to send thither for the
salvation of that little girl, not only live without bearing children and
without working, and serving only passion, but that they deliberately rear
their daughters for the same life; one mother takes her daughter to the
taverns, another takes hers to balls.
But both mothers hold the same view of the world, namely, that a wom=
an
must satisfy man's passions, and that for this she must be fed, dressed, an=
d cared
for. Then how are our ladies =
to
reform this woman and her daughter? {66} ]
Still more remarkable were my relat=
ions
to the children. In my role o=
f benefactor,
I turned my attention to the children also, being desirous to save these
innocent beings from perishing in that lair of vice, and noting them down in
order to attend to them afterwards.
Among the childre=
n, I
was especially struck with a twelve-year-old lad named Serozha. I was heartily sorry for this bold,
intelligent lad, who had lived with a cobbler, and who had been left withou=
t a
shelter because his master had been put in jail, and I wanted to do good to
him.
I will here relate
the upshot of my benevolence in his case, because my experience with this c=
hild
is best adapted to show my false position in the role of benefactor. I took the boy home with me and pu=
t him
in the kitchen. It was imposs=
ible,
was it not, to take a child who had lived in a den of iniquity in among my =
own
children? And I considered my=
self
very kind and good, because he was a care, not to me, but to the servants i=
n the
kitchen, and because not I but the cook fed him, and because I gave him some
cast-off clothing to wear. Th=
e boy
staid a week. During that wee=
k I
said a few words to him as I passed on two occasions and in the course of my
strolls, I went to a shoemaker of my acquaintance, and proposed that he sho=
uld
take the lad as an apprentice. A
peasant who was visiting me, invited him to go to the country, into his fam=
ily,
as a laborer; the boy refused, and at the end of the week he disappeared. I went to the Rzhanoff house to in=
quire
after him. He had returned th=
ere, but
was not at home when I went thither.
For two days already, he had been going to the Pryesnensky ponds, wh=
ere
he had hired himself out at thirty kopeks a day in some procession of savag=
es
in costume, who led about elephants.
Something was being presented to the public there. I went a second time, but he was so
ungrateful that he evidently avoided me.&n=
bsp;
Had I then reflected on the life of that boy and on my own, I should=
have
understood that this boy was spoiled because he had discovered the possibil=
ity
of a merry life without labor, and that he had grown unused to work. And I, with the object of benefiti=
ng and
reclaiming him, had taken him to my house, where he saw--what? My children,--both older and young=
er
than himself, and of the same age,--who not only never did any work for
themselves, but who made work for others by every means in their power, who
soiled and spoiled every thing about them, who ate rich, dainty, and sweet
viands, broke china, and flung to the dogs food which would have been a tid=
bit
to this lad. If I had rescued=
him
from the abyss, and had taken him to that nice place, then he must acquire
those views which prevailed in the life of that nice place; but by these vi=
ews,
he understood that in that fine place he must so live that he should not to=
il,
but eat and drink luxuriously, and lead a joyous life. It is true that he did not know th=
at my
children bore heavy burdens in the acquisition of the declensions of Latin =
and
Greek grammar, and that he could not have understood the object of these
labors. But it is impossible =
not to
see that if he had understood this, the influence of my children's example =
on
him would have been even stronger.
He would then have comprehended that my children were being educated=
in
this manner, so that, while doing no work now, they might be in a position
hereafter, also profiting by their diplomas, to work as little as possible,=
and
to enjoy the pleasures of life to as great an extent as possible. He did understand this, and he wou=
ld not
go with the peasant to tend cattle, and to eat potatoes and kvas with him, =
but
he went to the zoological garden in the costume of a savage, to lead the
elephant at thirty kopeks a day.
I might have
understood how clumsy I was, when I was rearing my children in the most utt=
er
idleness and luxury, to reform other people and their children, who were
perishing from idleness in what I called the den of the Rzhanoff house, whe=
re,
nevertheless, three-fourths of the people toil for themselves and for
others. But I understood noth=
ing of
this.
There were a great
many children in the Rzhanoff house, who were in the same pitiable plight;
there were the children of dissolute women, there were orphans, there were
children who had been picked up in the streets by beggars. They were all very wretched. But my experience with Serozha sho=
wed me
that I, living the life I did, was not in a position to help them.
While Serozha was
living with us, I noticed in myself an effort to hide our life from him, in
particular the life of our children.
I felt that all my efforts to direct him towards a good, industrious
life, were counteracted by the examples of our lives and by that of our
children. It is very easy to =
take a
child away from a disreputable woman, or from a beggar. It is very easy, when one has the =
money,
to wash, clean and dress him in neat clothing, to support him, and even to
teach him various sciences; but it is not only difficult for us, who do not
earn our own bread, but quite the reverse, to teach him to work for his bre=
ad,
but it is impossible, because we, by our example, and even by those material
and valueless improvements of his life, inculcate the contrary. A puppy can be taken, tended, fed,=
and taught
to fetch and carry, and one may take pleasure in him: but it is not enough =
to
tend a man, to feed and teach him Greek; we must teach the man how to
live,--that is, to take as little as possible from others, and to give as m=
uch
as possible; and we cannot help teaching him to do the contrary, if we take=
him
into our houses, or into an institution founded for this purpose.
This feeling of compassion for peop=
le,
and of disgust with myself, which I had experienced in the Lyapinsky house,=
I experienced
no longer. I was completely
absorbed in the desire to carry out the scheme which I had concocted,--to do
good to those people whom I should meet here. And, strange to say, it would appe=
ar,
that, to do good--to give money to the needy--is a very good deed, and one =
that
should dispose me to love for the people, but it turned out the reverse: th=
is
act produced in me ill- will and an inclination to condemn people. But during our first evening tour,=
a
scene occurred exactly like that in the Lyapinsky house, and it called fort=
h a
wholly different sentiment.
It began by my
finding in one set of apartments an unfortunate individual, of precisely the
sort who require immediate aid. I
found a hungry woman who had had nothing to eat for two days.
It came about thu=
s:
in one very large and almost empty night-lodging, I asked an old woman whet=
her
there were many poor people who had nothing to eat? The old woman reflected, and then =
told
me of two; and then, as though she had just recollected, "Why, here is=
one
of them," said she, glancing at one of the occupied bunks. "I think that woman has had n=
o food."
"Really? Who is she?"
"She was a
dissolute woman: no one wants any thing to do with her now, so she has no w=
ay
of getting any thing. The lan=
dlady
has had compassion on her, but now she means to turn her out . . . Agafya, =
hey
there, Agafya!" cried the woman.
We approached, and
something rose up in the bunk. It
was a woman haggard and dishevelled, whose hair was half gray, and who was =
as
thin as a skeleton, dressed in a ragged and dirty chemise, and with
particularly brilliant and staring eyes.&n=
bsp;
She looked past us with her staring eyes, clutched at her jacket with
one thin hand, in order to cover her bony breast which was disclosed by her
tattered chemise, and oppressed, she cried, "What is it? what is
it?" I asked her about h=
er
means of livelihood. For a lo=
ng
time she did not understand, and said, "I don't know myself; they
persecute me." I asked
her,--it puts me to shame, my hand refuses to write it,--I asked her whethe=
r it
was true that she had nothing to eat?
She answered in the same hurried, feverish tone, staring at me the
while,--"No, I had nothing yesterday, and I have had nothing to- day.&=
quot;
The sight of this
woman touched me, but not at all as had been the case in the Lyapinsky hous=
e;
there, my pity for these people made me instantly feel ashamed of myself: b=
ut
here, I rejoiced because I had at last found what I had been seeking,--a hu=
ngry
person.
I gave her a rubl=
e,
and I recollect being very glad that others saw it. The old woman, on seeing
this, immediately begged money of me also.=
It afforded me such pleasure to give, that, without finding out whet=
her
it was necessary to give or not, I gave something to the old woman too. The old woman accompanied me to the
door, and the people standing in the corridor heard her blessing me. Probably the questions which I had=
put with
regard to poverty, had aroused expectation, and several persons followed
us. In the corridor also, they
began to ask me for money. Am=
ong those
who begged were some drunken men, who aroused an unpleasant feeling in me; =
but,
having once given to the old woman, I had no might to refuse these people, =
and
I began to give. As long as I
continued to give, people kept coming up; and excitement ran through all the
lodgings. People made them appearance on the stairs and galleries, and foll=
owed
me. As I emerged into the court-yard, a little boy ran swiftly down one of =
the
staircases thrusting the people aside.&nbs=
p;
He did not see me, and exclaimed hastily: "He gave Agashka a
ruble!" When he reached =
the ground,
the boy joined the crowd which was following me. I went out into the street: various
descriptions of people followed me, and asked for money. I distributed all my small change,=
and
entered an open shop with the request that the shopkeeper would change a
ten-ruble bill for me. And th=
en the
same thing happened as at the Lyapinsky house. A terrible confusion ensued. Old women, noblemen, peasants, and
children crowded into the shop with outstretched hands; I gave, and
interrogated some of them as to their lives, and took notes. The shopkeeper, turning up the fur=
red
points of the collar of his coat, sat like a stuffed creature, glancing at =
the
crowd occasionally, and then fixing his eyes beyond them again. He evidently, like every one else,=
felt
that this was foolish, but he could not say so.
The poverty and
beggary in the Lyapinsky house had horrified me, and I felt myself guilty of
it; I felt the desire and the possibility of improvement. But now, precisely the same scene
produced on me an entirely different effect; I experienced, in the first pl=
ace,
a malevolent feeling towards many of those who were besieging me; and in the
second place, uneasiness as to what the shopkeepers and porters would think=
of
me.
On my return home
that day, I was troubled in my soul.
I felt that what I had done was foolish and immoral. But, as is always the result of in=
ward
confusion, I talked a great deal about the plan which I had undertaken, as =
though
I entertained not the slightest doubt of my success.
On the following =
day,
I went to such of the people whom I had inscribed on my list, as seemed to =
me
the most wretched of all, and those who, as it seemed to me, would be the
easiest to help. As I have al=
ready
said, I did not help any of these people.&=
nbsp;
It proved to be more difficult to help them than I had thought. And either because I did not know =
how,
or because it was impossible, I merely imitated these people, and did not h=
elp
any one. I visited the Rzhano=
ff
house several times before the final tour, and on every occasion the very s=
ame
thing occurred: I was beset by a throng of beggars in whose mass I was
completely lost. I felt the
impossibility of doing any thing, because there were too many of them, and
because I felt ill-disposed towards them because there were so many of them;
and in addition to this, each one separately did not incline me in his
favor. I was conscious that e=
very
one of them was telling me an untruth, or less than the whole truth, and th=
at
he saw in me merely a purse from which money might be drawn. And it very frequently seemed to m=
e,
that the very money which they squeezed out of me, rendered their condition
worse instead of improving it. The
oftener I went to that house, the more I entered into intercourse with the
people there, the more apparent became to me the impossibility of doing any=
thing;
but still I did not give up any scheme until the last night tour.
The remembrance of
that last tour is particularly mortifying to me. On other occasions I had gone thit=
her
alone, but twenty of us went there on this occasion. At seven o'clock, all who wished t=
o take
part in this final night round, began to assemble at my house. Nearly all of them were strangers =
to
me,--students, one officer, and two of my society acquaintances, who, utter=
ing
the usual, "C'est tres interessant!" had asked me to include them=
in
the number of the census-takers.
My worldly
acquaintances had dressed up especially for this, in some sort of hunting-j=
acket,
and tall, travelling boots, in a costume in which they rode and went huntin=
g,
and which, in their opinion, was appropriate for an excursion to a
night-lodging-house. They too=
k with
them special note- books and remarkable pencils. They were in that peculiarly excit=
ed
state of mind in which men set off on a hunt, to a duel, or to the wars.
This consultation=
was
exactly such as takes place in councils, assemblages, committees; that is to
say, each person spoke, not because he had any thing to say or to ask, but
because each one cudgelled his brain for something that he could say, so th=
at
he might not fall short of the rest.
But, among all these discussions, no one alluded to that beneficence=
of
which I had so often spoken to them all.&n=
bsp;
Mortifying as this was to me, I felt that it was indispensable that I
should once more remind them of benevolence, that is, of the point, that we
were to observe and take notes of all those in destitute circumstances whom=
we should
encounter in the course of our rounds.&nbs=
p;
I had always felt ashamed to speak of this; but now, in the midst of=
all
our excited preparations for our expedition, I could hardly utter the
words. All listened to me, as=
it
seemed to me, with sorrow, and, at the same time, all agreed in words; but =
it
was evident that they all knew that it was folly, and that nothing would co=
me
of it, and all immediately began again to talk about something else. This went on until the time arrive=
d for
us to set out, and we started.
We reached the
tavern, roused the waiters, and began to sort our papers. When we were info=
rmed
that the people had heard about this round, and were leaving their quarters=
, we
asked the landlord to lock the gates; and we went ourselves into the yard to
reason with the fleeing people, assuring them that no one would demand their
tickets. I remember the stran=
ge and
painful impression produced on me by these alarmed night-lodgers: ragged,
half-dressed, they all seemed tall to me by the light of the lantern and the
gloom of the court-yard. Frig=
htened
and terrifying in their alarm, they stood in a group around the foul-smelli=
ng out-house,
and listened to our assurances, but they did not believe us, and were evide=
ntly
prepared for any thing, like hunted wild beasts, provided only that they co=
uld
escape from us. Gentlemen in =
divers
shapes--as policemen, both city and rural, and as examining judges, and jud=
ges--hunt
them all their lives, in town and country, on the highway and in the street=
s,
and in the taverns, and in night-lodging houses; and now, all of a sudden,
these gentlemen had come and locked the gates, merely in order to count the=
m:
it was as difficult for them to believe this, as for hares to believe that =
dogs
have come, not to chase but to count them.=
But the gates were locked, and the startled lodgers returned: and we,
breaking up into groups, entered also.&nbs=
p;
With me were the two society men and two students. In front of us, in the dark, went =
Vanya,
in his coat and white trousers, with a lantern, and we followed. We went to
quarters with which I was familiar.
I knew all the establishments, and some of the people; but the major=
ity
of the people were new, and the spectacle was new, and more dreadful than t=
he
one which I had witnessed in the Lyapinsky house. All the lodgings were full, all the
bunks were occupied, not by one person only, but often by two. The sight was terrible in that nar=
row
space into which the people were huddled, and men and women were mixed
together. All the women who w=
ere not
dead drunk slept with men; and women with two children did the same. The si=
ght
was terrible, on account of the poverty, dirt, rags, and terror of the
people. And it was chiefly dr=
eadful
on account of the vast numbers of people who were in this situation. One lodging, and then a second lik=
e it,
and a third, and a tenth, and a twentieth, and still there was no end to
them. And everywhere there wa=
s the
same foul odor, the same close atmosphere, the same crowding, the same ming=
ling
of the sexes, the same men and women intoxicated to stupidity, and the same=
terror,
submission and guilt on all faces; and again I was overwhelmed with shame a=
nd
pain, as in the Lyapinsky house, and I understood that what I had undertaken
was abominable and foolish and therefore impracticable. And I no longer took notes of anyb=
ody,
and I asked no questions, knowing that nothing would come of this.
I was deeply
pained. In the Lyapinsky hous=
e I
had been like a man who has seen a fearful wound, by chance, on the body of
another man. He is sorry for =
the
other man, he is ashamed that he has not pitied the man before, and he can
still rise to the succor of the sufferer.&=
nbsp;
But now I was like a physician, who has come with his medicine to the
sick man, has uncovered his sore, and examined it, and who must confess to
himself that every thing that he has done has been in vain, and that his re=
medy
is good for nothing.
This visit dealt the final blow to =
my
self-delusion. It now appeare=
d indisputable
to me, that what I had undertaken was not only foolish but loathsome.
But, in spite of =
the
fact that I was aware of this, it seemed to me that I could not abandon the
whole thing on the spot. It s=
eemed
to me that I was bound to carry out this enterprise, in the first place,
because by my article, by my visits and promises, I had aroused the
expectations of the poor; in the second, because by my article also, and by=
my
talk, I had aroused the sympathies of benevolent persons, many of whom had
promised me their co-operation both in personal labor and in money. And I expected that both sets of p=
eople
would turn to me for an answer to this.
What happened to =
me,
so far as the appeal of the needy to me is concerned, was as follows: By le=
tter
and personal application I received more than a hundred; these applications
were all from the wealthy-poor, if I may so express myself. I went to see some of them, and so=
me of
them received no answer. Nowh=
ere
did I succeed in doing any thing.
All applications to me were from persons who had once occupied
privileged positions (I thus designate those in which people receive more f=
rom others
than they give), who had lost them, and who wished to occupy them again.
A very strange and
unexpected thing happened to me as regards the co-operation of the benevole=
ntly
disposed. Out of all the pers=
ons
who had promised me financial aid, and who had even stated the number of ru=
bles,
not a single one handed to me for distribution among the poor one solitary
ruble. But according to the p=
ledges
which had been given me, I could reckon on about three thousand rubles; and=
out
of all these people, not one remembered our former discussions, or gave me a
single kopek. Only the students gave the money which had been assigned to t=
hem
for their work on the census, twelve rubles, I think. So my whole scheme, which was to h=
ave
been expressed by tens of thousands of rubles contributed by the wealthy, f=
or
hundreds and thousands of poor people who were to be rescued from poverty a=
nd vice,
dwindled down to this, that I gave away, haphazard, a few scores of rubles =
to
those people who asked me for them, and that there remained in my hands twe=
lve
rubies contributed by the students, and twenty-five sent to me by the City
Council for my labor as a superintendent, and I absolutely did not know to =
whom
to give them.
The whole matter =
came
to an end. And then, before my
departure for the country, on the Sunday before carnival, I went to the
Rzhanoff house in the morning, in order to get rid of those thirty-seven ru=
bles
before I should leave Moscow, and to distribute them to the poor. I made the round of the quarters w=
ith
which I was familiar, and in them found only one sick man, to whom I gave f=
ive
rubles. There was no one else=
there
to give any to. Of course many
began to beg of me. But as I =
had
not known them at first, so I did not know them now, and I made up my mind =
to
take counsel with Ivan Fedotitch, the landlord of the tavern, as to the per=
sons
upon whom it would be proper to bestow the remaining thirty-two rubies.
It was the first =
day
of the carnival. Everybody was
dressed up, and everybody was full-fed, and many were already intoxicated.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> In the court- yard, close to the h=
ouse,
stood an old man, a rag-picker, in a tattered smock and bast shoes, sorting
over the booty in his basket, tossing out leather, iron, and other stuff in
piles, and breaking into a merry song, with a fine, powerful voice. I entered into conversation with
him. He was seventy years old=
, he
was alone in the world, and supported himself by his calling of a rag-picke=
r;
and not only did he utter no complaints, but he said that he had plenty to =
eat
and drink. I inquired of him =
as to especially
needy persons. He flew into a=
rage,
and said plainly that there were no needy people, except drunkards and lazy
men; but, on learning my object, he asked me for a five-kopek piece to buy a
drink, and ran off to the tavern. =
span>I
too entered the tavern to see Ivan Fedotitch, and commission him to distrib=
ute
the money which I had left. The tavern was full; gayly-dressed, intoxicated
girls were flitting in and out; all the tables were occupied; there were
already a great many drunken people, and in the small room the harmonium was
being played, and two persons were dancing. Out of respect to me, Ivan Fedotit=
ch
ordered that the dance should be stopped, and seated himself with me at a
vacant table. I said to him, =
that,
as he knew his tenants, would not he point out to me the most needy among t=
hem;
that I had been entrusted with the distribution of a little money, and,
therefore, would he indicate the proper persons? Good-natured Ivan Fedotitch (he di=
ed a
year later), although he was pressed with business, broke away from it for a
time, in order to serve me. He
meditated, and was evidently undecided.&nb=
sp;
An elderly waiter heard us, and joined the conference.
They began to dis=
cuss
the claims of persons, some of whom I knew, but still they could not come to
any agreement. "The
Paramonovna," suggested the waiter.&n=
bsp;
"Yes, that would do.
Sometimes she has nothing to eat.&n=
bsp;
Yes, but then she tipples."--"Well, what of that? That makes no difference."--&=
quot;Well,
Sidoron Ivanovitch has children. He
would do." But Ivan Fedo=
titch
had his doubts about Sidoron Ivanovitch also. "Akulina shall have some. There, now, give something to the
blind." To this I respon=
ded. I saw him at once. He was a blind old man of eighty y=
ears, without
kith or kin. It seemed as tho=
ugh no
condition could be more painful, and I went immediately to see him. He was lying on a feather-
bed, on a high
bedstead, drunk; and, as he did not see me, he was scolding his comparative=
ly
youthful female companion in a frightful bass voice, and in the very worst =
kind
of language. They also summon=
ed an armless
boy and his mother. I saw tha=
t Ivan
Fedotitch was in great straits, on account of his conscientiousness, for me
knew that whatever was given would immediately pass to his tavern. But I had to get rid of my thirty-=
two
rubles, so I insisted; and in one way and another, and half wrongfully to b=
oot,
we assigned and distributed them.
Those who received them were mostly well dressed, and we had not far=
to
go to find them, as they were there in the tavern. The armless boy appeared in wrinkl=
ed boots,
and a red shirt and vest. Wit=
h this
my charitable career came to an end, and I went off to the country; irritat=
ed
at others, as is always the case, because I myself had done a stupid and a =
bad
thing. My benevolence had end=
ed in
nothing, and it ceased altogether, but the current of thoughts and feelings
which it had called up with me not only did not come to an end, but the inw=
ard
work went on with redoubled force.
What was its nature?
I had lived in the
country, and there I was connected with the rustic poor. Not out of humility, which is wors=
e than
pride, but for the sake of telling the truth, which is indispensable for the
understanding of the whole course of my thoughts and sentiments, I will say
that in the country I did very little for the poor, but the demands which w=
ere
made upon me were so modest that even this little was of use to the people,=
and
formed around me an atmosphere of affection and union with the people, in w=
hich
it was possible to soothe the gnawing sensation of remorse at the independe=
nce
of my life. On going to the c=
ity, I
had hoped to be able to live in the same manner. But here I encountered want of an
entirely different sort. City=
want
was both less real, and more exacting and cruel, than country poverty. But the principal point was, that =
there
was so much of it in one spot, that it produced on me a frightful
impression. The impression wh=
ich I
experienced in the Lyapinsky house had, at the very first, made me consciou=
s of
the deformity of my own life. This
feeling was genuine and very powerful. But, notwithstanding its genuineness=
and
power, I was, at that time, so weak that I feared the alteration in my life=
to
which this feeling commended me, and I resorted to a compromise. I believed what everybody told me,=
and
everybody has said, ever since the world was made,--that there is nothing e=
vil
in wealth and luxury, that they are given by God, that one may continue to =
live
as a rich man, and yet help the needy.&nbs=
p;
I believed this, and I tried to do it. I wrote an essay, in which I summo=
ned
all rich people to my assistance.
The rich people all acknowledged themselves morally bound to agree w=
ith
me, but evidently they either did not wish to do any thing, or they could n=
ot
do any thing or give any thing to the poor. I began to visit the poor, and I b=
eheld what
I had not in the least expected. On
the one hand, I beheld in those dens, as I called them, people whom it was =
not
conceivable that I should help, because they were working people, accustome=
d to
labor and privation, and therefore standing much higher and having a much
firmer foothold in life than myself; on the other hand, I saw unfortunate
people whom I could not aid because they were exactly like myself. The majority of the unfortunates w=
hom I
saw were unhappy only because they had lost the capacity, desire, and habit=
of
earning their own bread; that is to say, their unhappiness consisted in the
fact that they were precisely such persons as myself.
I found no
unfortunates who were sick, hungry, or cold, to whom I could render immedia=
te
assistance, with the solitary exception of hungry Agafya. And I became convinced, that, on a=
ccount
of my remoteness from the lives of those people whom I desired to help, it
would be almost impossible to find any such unfortunates, because all actual
wants had already been supplied by the very people among whom these
unfortunates live; and, most of all, I was convinced that money cannot effe=
ct
any change in the life led by these unhappy people.
I was convinced of
all this, but out of false shame at abandoning what I had once undertaken,
because of my self-delusion as a benefactor, I went on with this matter for=
a
tolerably long time,--and would have gone on with it until it came to nothi=
ng
of itself,--so that it was with the greatest difficulty that, with the help=
of
Ivan Fedotitch, I got rid, after a fashion, as well as I could, in the tave=
rn
of the Rzhanoff house, of the thirty-seven rubles which I did not regard as
belonging to me.
Of course I might
have gone on with this business, and have made out of it a semblance of
benevolence; by urging the people who had promised me money, I might have
collected more, I might have distributed this money, and consoled myself wi=
th
my charity; but I perceived, on the one hand, that we rich people neither w=
ish
nor are able to share a portion of our a superfluity with the poor (we have=
so
many wants of our own), and that money should not be given to any one, if t=
he
object really be to do good and not to give money itself at haphazard, as I=
had
done in the Rzhanoff tavern. =
And I
gave up the whole thing, and went off to the country with despair in my hea=
rt.
In the country I
tried to write an essay about all this that I had experienced, and to tell =
why
my undertaking had not succeeded. =
span>I
wanted to justify myself against the reproaches which had been made to me on
the score of my article on the census; I wanted to convict society of its i=
n difference,
and to state the causes in which this city poverty has its birth, and the
necessity of combating it, and the means of doing so which I saw.
I began this essa=
y at
once, and it seemed to me that in it I was saying a very great deal that was
important. But toil as I woul=
d over
it, and in spite of the abundance of materials, in spite of the superfluity=
of
them even, I could not get though that essay; and so I did not finish it un=
til the
present year, because of the irritation under the influence of which I wrot=
e,
because I had not gone through all that was requisite in order to bear myse=
lf
properly in relation to this essay, because I did not simply and clearly
acknowledge the cause of all this,--a very simple cause, which had its root=
in
myself.
In the domain of
morals, one very remarkable and too little noted phenomenon presents itself=
.
If I tell a man w=
ho
knows nothing about it, what I know about geology, astronomy, history, phys=
ics,
and mathematics, that man receives entirely new information, and he never s=
ays
to me: "Well, what is there new in that? Everybody knows that, and I have k=
nown
it this long while." But=
tell
that same man the most lofty truth, expressed in the clearest, most concise
manner, as it has never before been expressed, and every ordinary individua=
l,
especially one who takes no particular interest in moral questions, or, even
more, one to whom the moral truth stated by you is displeasing, will infall=
ibly
say to you: "Well, who does not know that? That was known and said long
ago." It really seems to=
him
that this has been said long ago and in just this way. Only those to whom moral truths ar=
e dear
and important know how important and precious they are, and with what prolo=
nged
labor the elucidation, the simplification, of moral truths, their transit f=
rom
the state of a misty, indefinitely recognized supposition, and desire, from
indistinct, incoherent expressions, to a firm and definite expression,
unavoidably demanding corresponding concessions, are attained.
We have all become
accustomed to think that moral instruction is a most absurd and tiresome th=
ing,
in which there can be nothing new or interesting; and yet all human life,
together with all the varied and complicated activities, apparently
independent, of morality, both governmental and scientific, and artistic and
commercial, has no other aim than the greater and greater elucidation,
confirmation, simplification, and accessibility of moral truth.
I remember that I=
was
once walking along the street in Moscow, and in front of me I saw a man come
out and gaze attentively at the stones of the sidewalk, after which he sele=
cted
one stone, seated himself on it, and began to plane (as it seemed to me) or=
to
rub it with the greatest diligence and force. "What is he doing to the
sidewalk?" I said to myself.
On going close to him, I saw what the man was doing. He was a young fellow from a meat-=
shop;
he was whetting his knife on the stone of the pavement. He was not thinking at all of the =
stones
when he scrutinized them, still less was he thinking of them when he was ac=
complishing
his task: he was whetting his knife.
He was obliged to whet his knife so that he could cut the meat; but =
to
me it seemed as though he were doing something to the stones of the
sidewalk. Just so it appears =
as
though humanity were occupied with commerce, conventions, wars, sciences, a=
rts;
but only one business is of importance to it, and with only one business is=
it
occupied: it is elucidating to itself those moral laws by which it lives. The moral laws are already in exis=
tence;
humanity is only elucidating them, and this elucidation seems unimportant a=
nd
imperceptible for any one who has no need of moral laws, who does not wish =
to
live by them. But this elucid=
ation
of the moral law is not only weighty, but the only real business of all
humanity. This elucidation is=
imperceptible
just as the difference between the dull and the sharp knife is
imperceptible. The knife is a=
knife
all the same, and for a person who is not obliged to cut any thing with this
knife, the difference between the dull and the sharp one is imperceptible.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> For the man who has come to an
understanding that his whole life depends on the greater or less degree of
sharpness in the knife,--for such a man, every whetting of it is weighty, a=
nd
that man knows that the knife is a knife only when it is sharp, when it cuts
that which needs cutting.
This is what happ=
ened
to me, when I began to write my essay.&nbs=
p;
It seemed to me that I knew all about it, that I understood every th=
ing
connected with those questions which had produced on me the impressions of =
the Lyapinsky
house, and the census; but when I attempted to take account of them and to
demonstrate them, it turned out that the knife would not cut, and that it m=
ust
be whetted. And it is only no=
w,
after the lapse of three years, that I have felt that my knife is sufficien=
tly
sharp, so that I can cut what I choose.&nb=
sp;
I have learned very little that is new. My thoughts are all exactly the sa=
me,
but they were duller then, and they all scattered and would not unite on any
thing; there was no edge to them; they would not concentrate on one point, =
on
the simplest and clearest decision, as they have now concentrated themselve=
s.
I remember that during the entire p=
eriod
of my unsuccessful efforts at helping the inhabitants of the city, I presen=
ted
to myself the aspect of a man who should attempt to drag another man out of=
a
swamp while he himself was standing on the same unstable ground. Every attempt of mine had made me
conscious of the untrustworthy character of the soil on which I stood. I felt that I was in the swamp mys=
elf,
but this consciousness did not cause me to look more narrowly at my own fee=
t,
in order to learn upon what I was standing; I kept on seeking some external
means, outside myself, of helping the existing evil.
I then felt that =
my
life was bad, and that it was impossible to live in that manner. But from the fact that my life was=
bad,
and that it was impossible to live in that manner, I did not draw the very
simple and clear deduction that it was necessary to amend my life and to li=
ve better,
but I knew the terrible deduction that in order to live well myself, I must
needs reform the lives of others; and so I began to reform the lives of
others. I lived in the city, =
and I
wished to reform the lives of those who lived in the city; but I soon became
convinced that this I could not by any possibility accomplish, and I began =
to
meditate on the inherent characteristics of city life and city poverty.
"What are ci=
ty
life and city poverty? Why, w=
hen I
am living in the city, cannot I help the city poor?"
I asked myself. I answered myself that I could not=
do
any thing for them, in the first place, because there were too many of them
here in one spot; in the second place, because all the poor people here were
entirely different from the country poor.&=
nbsp;
Why were there so many of them here? and in what did their peculiari=
ty,
as opposed to the country poor, consist?&n=
bsp;
There was one and the same answer to both questions. There were a great many of them he=
re,
because here all those people who have no means of subsistence in the count=
ry
collect around the rich; and their peculiarity lies in this, that they are =
not
people who have come from the country to support themselves in the city (if
there are any city paupers, those who have been born here, and whose fathers
and grandfathers were born here, then those fathers and grandfathers came
hither for the purpose of earning their livelihood). What is the meaning of this: to ea=
rn
one's livelihood in the city? In
the words "to earn one's livelihood in the city," there is someth=
ing
strange, resembling a jest, when you reflect on their significance. How is it that people go from the
country,--that is to say, from the places where there are forests, meadows,
grain, and cattle, where all the wealth of the earth lies,--to earn their
livelihood in a place where there are neither trees, nor grass, nor even la=
nd,
and only stones and dust? Wha=
t is
the significance of the words "to earn a livelihood in the city,"
which are in such constant use, both by those who earn the livelihood, and =
by
those who furnish it, as though it were something perfectly clear and compr=
ehensible?
I recall the hund=
reds
and thousands of city people, both those who live well and the needy, with =
whom
I have conversed on the reason why they came hither: and all without except=
ion
said, that they had come from the country to earn their living; that in Mos=
cow,
where people neither sow nor reap,--that in Moscow there is plenty of every
thing, and that, therefore, it is only in Moscow that they can earn the mon=
ey
which they require in the country for bread and a cottage and a horse, and
articles of prime necessity. =
But
assuredly, in the country lies the source of all riches; there only is real
wealth,--bread, and forests, and horses, and every thing. And why, above all, take away from=
the
country that which dwellers in the country need,--flour, oats, horses, and
cattle?
Hundreds of times=
did
I discuss this matter with peasants living in town; and from my discussions
with them, and from my observations, it has been made apparent to me, that =
the
congregation of country people in the city is partly indispensable because =
they
cannot otherwise support themselves, partly voluntary, and that they are
attracted to the city by the temptations of the city.
It is true, that =
the
position of the peasant is such that, for the satisfaction of his demands m=
ade
on him in the country, he cannot extricate himself otherwise than by selling
the grain and the cattle which he knows will be indispensable to him; and h=
e is
forced, whether he will or no, to go to the city in order there to win back=
his
bread. But it is also true, t=
hat
the luxury of city life, and the comparative ease with which money is there=
to
be earned, attract him thither; and under the pretext of gaining his living=
in
the town, he betakes himself thither in order that he may have lighter work,
better food, and drink tea three times a day, and dress well, and even lead=
a
drunken and dissolute life. The cause of both is identical,--the transfer of
the riches of the producers into the hands of non-producers, and the accumu=
lation
of wealth in the cities. And,=
in
point of fact, when autumn has come, all wealth is collected in the
country. And instantly there =
arise
demands for taxes, recruits, the temptations of vodka, weddings, festivals;
petty pedlers make their rounds through the villages, and all sorts of othe=
r temptations
crop up; and by this road, or, if not, by some other, wealth of the most va=
ried
description--vegetables, calves, cows, horses, pigs, chickens, eggs, butter,
hemp, flax, rye, oats, buckwheat, pease, hempseed, and flaxseed--all passes
into the hands of strangers, is carried off to the towns, and thence to the
capitals. The countryman is o=
bliged
to surrender all this to satisfy the demands that are made upon him, and
temptations; and, having parted with his wealth, he is left with an
insufficiency, and he is forced to go whither his wealth has been carried a=
nd
there he tries, in part, to obtain the money which he requires for his first
needs in the country, and in part, being himself led away by the blandishme=
nts
of the city, he enjoys, in company with others, the wealth that has there
accumulated. Everywhere, thro=
ughout
the whole of Russia,--yes, and not in Russia alone, I think, but throughout=
the
whole world,--the same thing goes on.
The wealth of the rustic producers passes into the hands of traders,
landed proprietors, officials, and factory-owners; and the people who recei=
ve
this wealth wish to enjoy it. But
it is only in the city that they can derive full enjoyment from this
wealth. In the country, in the
first place, it is difficult to satisfy all the requirements of rich people=
, on
account of the sparseness of the population; banks, shops, hotels, every so=
rt
of artisan, and all sorts of social diversions, do not exist there. In the second place, one of the ch=
ief
pleasures procured by wealth--vanity, the desire to astonish and outshine o=
ther
people--is difficult to satisfy in the country; and this, again, on account=
of
the lack of inhabitants. In t=
he
country, there is no one to appreciate elegance, no one to be astonished. Whatever adornments in the way of
pictures and bronzes the dweller in the country may procure for his house,
whatever equipages and toilets he may provide, there is no one to see them =
and
envy them, and the peasants cannot judge of them. [And, in the third place, luxury i=
s even
disagreeable and dangerous in the country for the man possessed of a consci=
ence
and fear. It is an awkward and
delicate matter, in the country, to have baths of milk, or to feed your pup=
pies
on it, when directly beside you there are children who have no milk; it is =
an
awkward and delicate matter to build pavilions and gardens in the midst of
people who live in cots banked up with dung, which they have no means of wa=
rming. In the country there is no one to =
keep
the stupid peasants in order, and in their lack of cultivation they might
disarrange all this.] {94}
And accordingly r=
ich
people congregate, and join themselves to other rich people with similar
requirements, in the city, where the gratification of every luxurious taste=
is
carefully protected by a numerous police force. Well-rooted inhabitants of =
the
city of this sort, are the governmental officials; every description of art=
isan
and professional man has sprung up around them, and with them the wealthy j=
oin
their forces. All that a rich=
man
has to do there is to take a fancy to a thing, and he can get it. It is also more agreeable for a ri=
ch man
to live there, because there he can gratify his vanity; there is some one w=
ith
whom he can vie in luxury; there is some one to astonish, and there is some=
one
to outshine. But the principal
reason why it is more comfortable in the city for a rich man is that former=
ly,
in the country, his luxury made him awkward and uneasy; while now, on the
contrary, it would be awkward for him not to live luxuriously, not to live =
like
all his peers around him. That which seemed dreadful and awkward in the
country, here appears to be just as it should be. [Rich people congregate in the cit=
y; and
there, under the protection of the authorities, they calmly demand every th=
ing that
is brought thither from the country.
And the countryman is, in some measure, compelled to go thither, whe=
re
this uninterrupted festival of the wealthy which demands all that is taken =
from
him is in progress, in order to feed upon the crumbs which fall from the ta=
bles
of the rich; and partly, also, because, when he beholds the care-free,
luxurious life, approved and protected by everybody, he himself becomes
desirous of regulating his life in such a way as to work as little as possi=
ble,
and to make as much use as possible of the labors of others.
And so he betakes
himself to the city, and finds employment about the wealthy, endeavoring, by
every means in his power, to entice from them that which he is in need of, =
and
conforming to all those conditions which the wealthy impose upon him, he
assists in the gratification of all their whims; he serves the rich man in =
the
bath and in the inn, and as cab-driver and prostitute, and he makes for him
equipages, toys, and fashions; and he gradually learns from the rich man to
live in the same manner as the latter, not by labor, but by divers tricks,
getting away from others the wealth which they have heaped together; and he
becomes corrupt, and goes to destruction.&=
nbsp;
And this colony, demoralized by city wealth, constitutes that city
pauperism which I desired to aid and could not.
All that is
necessary, in fact, is for us to reflect on the condition of these inhabita=
nts
of the country, who have removed to the city in order to earn their bread or
their taxes,--when they behold, everywhere around them, thousands squandered
madly, and hundreds won by the easiest possible means; when they themselves=
are
forced by heavy toil to earn kopeks,--and we shall be amazed that all these
people should remain working people, and that they do not all of them take =
to
an easier method of getting gain,--by trading, peddling, acting as middleme=
n,
begging, vice, rascality, and even robbery. Why, we, the participants in that =
never-ceasing
orgy which goes on in town, can become so accustomed to our life, that it s=
eems
to us perfectly natural to dwell alone in five huge apartments, heated by a
quantity of beech logs sufficient to cook the food for and to warm twenty
families; to drive half a verst with two trotters and two men-servants; to
cover the polished wood floor with rugs; and to spend, I will not say, on a
ball, five or ten thousand rubles, and twenty-five thousand on a
Christmas-tree. But a man who=
is in
need of ten rubles to buy bread for his family, or whose last sheep has been
seized for a tax-debt of seven rubles, and who cannot raise those rubles by
hard labor, cannot grow accustomed to this. We think that all this appears nat=
ural
to poor people there are even some ingenuous persons who say in all
seriousness, that the poor are very grateful to us for supporting them by t=
his
luxury.] {96}
But poor people a=
re
not devoid of human understanding simply because they are poor, and they ju=
dge
precisely as we do. As the fi=
rst
thought that occurs to us on hearing that such and such a man has gambled a=
way
or squandered ten or twenty thousand rubles, is: "What a foolish and w=
orthless
fellow he is to uselessly squander so much money! and what a good use I cou=
ld
have made of that money in a building which I have long been in need of, for
the improvement of my estate, and so forth!"--just so do the poor judge
when they behold the wealth which they need, not for caprices, but for the
satisfaction of their actual necessities, of which they are frequently
deprived, flung madly away before their eyes. We make a very great mistake when =
we
think that the poor can judge thus, reason thus, and look on indifferently =
at
the luxury which surrounds them.
They never have
acknowledged, and they never will acknowledge, that it can be just for some
people to live always in idleness, and for other people to fast and toil
incessantly; but at first they are amazed and insulted by this; then they
scrutinize it more attentively, and, seeing that these arrangements are
recognized as legitimate, they endeavor to free themselves from toil, and to
take part in the idleness. So=
me succeed
in this, and they become just such carousers themselves; others gradually
prepare themselves for this state; others still fail, and do not attain the=
ir
goal, and, having lost the habit of work, they fill up the disorderly houses
and the night-lodging houses.
Two years ago, we
took from the country a peasant boy to wait on table. For some reason, he d=
id
not get on well with the footman, and he was sent away: he entered the serv=
ice
of a merchant, won the favor of his master, and now he goes about with a ve=
st
and a watch-chain, and dandified boots. In his place, we took another peasa=
nt,
a married man: he became a drunkard, and lost money. We took a third: he took to drunk,=
and,
having drank up every thing he had, he suffered for a long while from pover=
ty
in the night-lodging house. A=
n old
man, the cook, took to drink and fell sick. Last year a footman who had former=
ly
been a hard drinker, but who had refrained from liquor for five years in the
country, while living in Moscow without his wife who encouraged him, took to
drink again, and ruined his whole life.&nb=
sp;
A young lad from our village lives with my brother as a
table-servant. His grandfathe=
r, a
blind old man, came to me during my sojourn in the country, and asked me to
remind this grandson that he was to send ten rubies for the taxes, otherwis=
e it
would be necessary for him to sell his cow. "He keeps saying, I must dres=
s decently,"
said the old man: "well, he has had some shoes made, and that's all ri=
ght;
but what does he want to set up a watch for?" said the grandfather,
expressing in these words the most senseless supposition that it was possib=
le
to originate. The supposition
really was senseless, if we take into consideration that the old man throug=
hout
Lent had eaten no butter, and that he had no split wood because he could not
possibly pay one ruble and twenty kopeks for it; but it turned out that the=
old
man's senseless jest was an actual fact.&n=
bsp;
The young fellow came to see me in a fine black coat, and shoes for
which he had paid eight rubles. He had
recently borrowed ten rubles from my brother, and had spent them on these
shoes. And my children, who h=
ave
known the lad from childhood, told me that he really considers it indispens=
able
to fit himself out with a watch. He
is a very good boy, but he thinks that people will laugh at him so long as =
he
has no watch; and a watch is necessary.&nb=
sp;
During the present year, a chambermaid, a girl of eighteen, entered =
into
a connection with the coachman in our house. She was discharged. An old woman, the nurse, with whom=
I
spoke in regard to the unfortunate girl, reminded me of a girl whom I had
forgotten. She too, ten yeans=
ago, during
a brief stay of ours in Moscow, had become connected with a footman. She too had been discharged, and s=
he had
ended in a disorderly house, and had died in the hospital before reaching t=
he
age of twenty. It is only nec=
essary
to glance about one, to be struck with terror at the pest which we dissemin=
ate
directly by our luxurious life among the people whom we afterwards wish to
help, not to mention the factories and establishments which serve our luxur=
ious
tastes.
[And thus, having
penetrated into the peculiar character of city poverty, which I was unable =
to
remedy, I perceived that its prime cause is this,
that I take absol=
ute
necessaries from the dwellers in the country, and carry them all to the
city. The second cause is thi=
s,
that by making use here, in the city, of what I have collected in the count=
ry,
I tempt and lead astray, by my senseless luxury, those country people who c=
ome
hither because of me, in order in some way to get back what they have been =
deprived
of in the country.] {99}
I reached the same conclusion from a
totally different point. On r=
ecalling
all my relations with the city poor during that time, I saw that one of the
reasons why I could not help the city poor was, that the poor were disingen=
uous
and untruthful with me. They =
all
looked upon me, not as a man, but as means. I could not get near them, and I t=
hought
that perhaps I did not understand how to do it; but without uprightness, no
help was possible. How can on=
e help
a man who does not disclose his whole condition? At first I blamed them for this (i=
t is
so natural to blame some one else); but a remark from an observing man named
Siutaeff, who was visiting me at the time, explained this matter to me, and
showed me where the cause of my want of success lay. I remember that Siutaeff's remark =
struck
me very forcibly at the time; but I only understood its full significance l=
ater
on. It was at the height of my
self-delusion. I was sitting =
with
my sister, and Siutaeff was there also at her house; and my sister was
questioning me about my undertaking.
I told her about it, and, as always happens when you have no faith in
your course, I talked to her with great enthusiasm and warmth, and at great
length, of what I had done, and of what might possibly come of it. I told her every thing,--how we we=
re
going to keep track of pauperism in Moscow, how we were going to keep an ey=
e on
the orphans and old people, how we were going to send away all country peop=
le
who had grown poor here, how we were going to smooth the pathway to reform =
for
the depraved; how, if only the matter could be managed, there would not be a
man left in Moscow, who could not obtain assistance. My sister sympathized with me, and=
we
discussed it. In the middle o=
f our
conversation, I glanced at Siutaeff.
As I was acquainted with his Christian life, and with the significan=
ce
which he attached to charity, I expected his sympathy, and spoke so that he
understood this; I talked to my sister, but directed my remarks more at
him. He sat immovable in his =
dark
tanned sheepskin jacket,--which he wore, like all peasants, both out of doo=
rs
and in the house,--and as though he did not hear us, but were thinking of h=
is
own affairs. His small eyes d=
id not
twinkle, and seemed to be turned inwards.&=
nbsp;
Having finished what I had to say, I turned to him with a query as to
what he thought of it.
"It's all a
foolish business," said he.
"Why?"<= o:p>
"Your whole
society is foolish, and nothing good can come out of it," he repeated =
with
conviction.
"Why not?
"I know, I k=
now,
but that is not what you are doing.
Is it necessary to render assistance in that way? You are walking along, and a man a=
sks
you for twenty kopeks. You gi=
ve
them to him. Is that alms?
"No; and,
besides, that is not what we are talking about. We want to know about this need, a=
nd
then to help by both money and deeds; and to find work."
"You can do
nothing with those people in that way."
"So they are=
to
be allowed to die of hunger and cold?"
"Why should =
they
die? Are there many of them
there?"
"What, many =
of
them?" said I, thinking that he looked at the matter so lightly becaus=
e he
was not aware how vast was the number of these people.
"Why, do you
know," said I, "I believe that there are twenty thousand of these
cold and hungry people in Moscow.
And how about Petersburg and the other cities?"
He smiled.
"Twenty
thousand! And how many househ=
olds
are there in Russia alone, do you think?&n=
bsp;
Are there a million?"
"Well, what
then?"
"What
then?" and his eyes flashed, and he grew animated. "Come, let us divide them amo=
ng
ourselves. I am not rich, I w=
ill
take two persons on the spot. There
is the lad whom you took into your kitchen; I invited him to come to my hou=
se,
and he did not come. Were the=
re ten
times as many, let us divide them among us. Do you take some, and I will take =
some. We will work together. He will see how I work, and he will
learn. He will see how I live, and we will sit down at the same table toget=
her,
and he will hear my words and yours.
This charity society of yours is nonsense."
These simple words impressed me. I could not but= admit their justice; but it seemed to me at that time, that, in spite of their tr= uth, still that which I had planned might possibly prove of service. But the further I carried this bus= iness, the more I associated with the poor, the more frequently did this remark re= cur to my mind, and the greater was the significance which it acquired for me.<= o:p>
I arrive in a cos=
tly
fur coat, or with my horses; or the man who lacks shoes sees my
two-thousand-ruble apartments. He
sees how, a little while ago, I gave five rubles without begrudging them,
merely because I took a whim to do so.&nbs=
p;
He surely knows that if I give away rubles in that manner, it is only
because I have hoarded up so many of them, that I have a great many superfl=
uous
ones, which I not only have not given away, but which I have easily taken f=
rom
other people. [What else coul=
d he
see in me but one of those persons who have got possession of what belongs =
to him? And what other feeling can he cher=
ish
towards me, than a desire to obtain from me as many of those rubles, which =
have
been stolen from him and from others, as possible? I wish to get close to him, and I
complain that he is not frank; and here I am, afraid to sit down on his bed=
for
fear of getting lice, or catching something infectious; and I am afraid to
admit him to my room, and he, coming to me naked, waits, generally in the
vestibule, or, if very fortunate, in the ante-chamber. And yet I declare that he is to bl=
ame
because I cannot enter into intimate relations with him, and because me is =
not
frank.
Let the sternest =
man
try the experiment of eating a dinner of five courses in the midst of people
who have had very little or nothing but black bread to eat. Not a man will have the spirit to =
eat,
and to watch how the hungry lick their chops around him. Hence, then, in order to eat daint=
ily
amid the famishing, the first indispensable requisite is to hide from them,=
in
order that they may not see it.
This is the very thing, and the first thing, that we do.
And I took a simp=
ler
view of our life, and perceived that an approach to the poor is not difficu=
lt
to us through accidental causes, but that we deliberately arrange our lives=
in
such a fashion so that this approach may be rendered difficult.
Not only this; bu=
t,
on taking a survey of our life, of the life of the wealthy, I saw that every
thing which is considered desirable in that life consists in, or is insepar=
ably
bound up with, the idea of getting as far away from the poor as possible. In fact, all the efforts of our we=
ll- endowed
life, beginning with our food, dress, houses, our cleanliness, and even dow=
n to
our education,--every thing has for its chief object, the separation of
ourselves from the poor. In
procuring this seclusion of ourselves by impassable barriers, we spend, to =
put
it mildly, nine- tenths of our wealth.&nbs=
p;
The first thing that a man who was grown wealthy does is to stop eat=
ing
out of one bowl, and he sets up crockery, and fits himself out with a kitch=
en
and servants. And he feeds his
servants high, too, so that their mouths may not water over his dainty vian=
ds;
and he eats alone; and as eating in solitude is wearisome, he plans how he =
may improve
his food and deck his table; and the very manner of taking his food (dinner)
becomes a matter for pride and vain glory with him, and his manner of taking
his food becomes for him a means of sequestering himself from other men.
The case is the s=
ame
with the means of locomotion. The
peasant driving in a cart, or a sledge, must be a very ill-tempered man whe=
n he
will not give a pedestrian a lift; and there is both room for this and a po=
ssibility
of doing it. But the richer t=
he
equipage, the farther is a man from all possibility of giving a seat to any
person whatsoever. It is even=
said
plainly, that the most stylish equipages are those meant to hold only one
person.
It is precisely t=
he
same thing with the manner of life which is expressed by the word cleanline=
ss.
Cleanliness! Who is there that does not know pe=
ople,
especially women, who reckon this cleanliness in themselves as a great virt=
ue?
and who is not acquainted with the devices of this cleanliness, which know =
no bounds,
when it can command the labor of others?&n=
bsp;
Which of the people who have become rich has not experienced in his =
own
case, with what difficulty he carefully trained himself to this cleanliness,
which only confirms the proverb, "Little white hands love other people=
's
work"?
To-day cleanliness
consists in changing your shirt once a day; to-morrow, in changing it twice=
a
day. To-day it means washing =
the
face, and neck, and hands daily; to-morrow, the feet; and day after to-morr=
ow,
washing the whole body every day, and, in addition and in particular, a
rubbing- down. To-day the
table-cloth is to serve for two days, to-morrow there must be one each day,
then two a day. To-day the
footman's hands must be clean; to-morrow he must wear gloves, and in his cl=
ean
gloves he must present a letter on a clean salver. And there are no limits to this cl=
eanliness,
which is useless to everybody, and objectless, except for the purpose of
separating oneself from others, and of rendering impossible all intercourse
with them, when this cleanliness is attained by the labors of others.
Moreover, when I
studied the subject, I because convinced that even that which is commonly
called education is the very same thing.
The tongue does n=
ot
deceive; it calls by its real name that which men understand under this nam=
e. What the people call culture is
fashionable clothing, political conversation, clean hands,--a certain sort =
of cleanliness. Of such a man, it is said, in
contradistinction to others, that he is an educated man. In a little higher circle, what th=
ey call
education means the same thing as with the people; only to the conditions of
education are added playing on the pianoforte, a knowledge of French, the
writing of Russian without orthographical errors, and a still greater degre=
e of
external cleanliness. In a st=
ill
more elevated sphere, education means all this with the addition of the Eng=
lish
language, and a diploma from the highest educational institution. But education is precisely the same
thing in the first, the second, and the third case. Education consists of t=
hose
forms and acquirements which are calculated to separate a man from his
fellows. And its object is
identical with that of cleanliness,--to seclude us from the herd of poor, in
order that they, the poor, may not see how we feast. But it is impossible to hide ourse=
lves,
and they do see us.
And accordingly I
have become convinced that the cause of the inability of us rich people to =
help
the poor of the city lies in the impossibility of our establishing intercou=
rse
with them; and that this impossibility of intercourse is caused by ourselve=
s,
by the whole course of our lives, by all the uses which we make of our
wealth. I have become convinc=
ed
that between us, the rich and the poor, there rises a wall, reared by ourse=
lves
out of that very cleanliness and education, and constructed of our wealth; =
and
that in order to be in a condition to help the poor, we must needs, first of
all, destroy this wall; and that in order to do this, confrontation after
Siutaeff's method should be rendered possible, and the poor distributed amo=
ng
us. And from another starting=
-point
also I came to the same conclusion to which the current of my discussions a=
s to
the causes of the poverty in towns had led me: the cause was our wealth.] {=
108}
I began to examine the matter from a
third and wholly personal point of view.&n=
bsp;
Among the phenomena which particularly impressed me, during the peri=
od
of my charitable activity, there was yet another, and a very strange one, f=
or
which I could for a long time find no explanation. It was this: every time that I cha=
nced,
either on the street on in the house, to give some small coin to a poor man,
without saying any thing to him, I saw, or thought that I saw, contentment =
and
gratitude on the countenance of the poor man, and I myself experienced in t=
his
form of benevolence an agreeable sensation. I saw that I had done what the man=
wished
and expected from me. But if I
stopped the poor man, and sympathetically questioned him about his former a=
nd
his present life, I felt that it was no longer possible to give three or tw=
enty
kopeks, and I began to fumble in my purse for money, in doubt as to how muc=
h I
ought to give, and I always gave more; and I always noticed that the poor m=
an
left me dissatisfied. But if I
entered into still closer intercourse with the poor man, then my doubts as =
to
how much to give increased also; and, no matter how much I gave, the poor m=
an
grew ever more sullen and discontented.&nb=
sp;
As a general rule, it always turned out thus, that if I gave, after =
conversation
with a poor man, three rubles or even more, I almost always beheld gloom,
displeasure, and even ill-will, on the countenance of the poor man; and I h=
ave
even known it to happen, that, having received ten rubles, he went off with=
out
so much as saying "Thank you," exactly as though I had insulted h=
im.
And thereupon I f=
elt
awkward and ashamed, and almost guilty.&nb=
sp;
But if I followed up a poor man for weeks and months and years, and
assisted him, and explained my views to him, and associated with him, our
relations became a torment, and I perceived that the man despised me. And I felt that he was in the righ=
t.
If I go out into =
the
street, and he, standing in that street, begs of me among the number of the
other passers-by, people who walk and ride past him, and I give him money, I
then am to him a passer-by, and a good, kind passer-by, who bestows on him =
that
thread from which a shirt is made for the naked man; he expects nothing more
than the thread, and if I give it he thanks me sincerely. But if I stop him, and talk with h=
im as
man with man, I thereby show him that I desire to be something more than a =
mere
passer-by. If, as often happe=
ns, he
weeps while relating to me his woes, then he sees in me no longer a passer-=
by,
but that which I desire that he should see: a good man. But if I am a good man, my goodness
cannot pause at a twenty-kopek piece, nor at ten rubles, nor at ten thousan=
d;
it is impossible to be a little bit of a good man. Let us suppose that I have given h=
im a
great deal, that I have fitted him out, dressed him, set him on his feet so
that the can live without outside assistance; but for some reason or other,
though misfortune or his own weakness or vices, he is again without that co=
at,
that linen, and that money which I have given him; he is again cold and hun=
gry,
and he has come again to me,--how can I refuse him? [For if the cause of my action con=
sisted
in the attainment of a definite, material end, on giving him so many rubles=
or
such and such a coat I might be at ease after having bestowed them. But the cause of my action is not =
this:
the cause is, that I want to be a good man, that is to say, I want to see
myself in every other man. Ev=
ery
man understands goodness thus, and in no other manner.] {111} And therefore, if he should drink =
away
every thing that you had given him twenty times, and if he should again be =
cold
and hungry, you cannot do otherwise than give him more, if you are a good m=
an;
you can never cease giving to him, if you have more than he has. And if you draw back, you will the=
reby show
that every thing that you have done, you have done not because you are a go=
od
man, but because you wished to appear a good man in his sight, and in the s=
ight
of men.
And thus in the c=
ase
with the men from whom I chanced to recede, to whom I ceased to give, and, =
by
this action, denied good, I experienced a torturing sense of shame.
What sort of shame
was this? This shame I had
experienced in the Lyapinsky house, and both before and after that in the
country, when I happened to give money or any thing else to the poor, and i=
n my
expeditions among the city poor.
A mortifying inci=
dent
that occurred to me not long ago vividly reminded me of that shame, and led=
me
to an explanation of that shame which I had felt when bestowing money on the
poor.
[This happened in=
the
country. I wanted twenty kope=
ks to
give to a poor pilgrim; I sent my son to borrow them from some one; he brou=
ght
the pilgrim a twenty-kopek piece, and told me that he had borrowed it from =
the
cook. A few days afterwards s=
ome
more pilgrims arrived, and again I was in want of a twenty-kopek piece. I had a ruble; I recollected that =
I was
in debt to the cook, and I went to the kitchen, hoping to get some more sma=
ll
change from the cook. I said:
"I borrowed a twenty-kopek piece from you, so here is a ruble." I had not finished speaking, when =
the
cook called in his wife from another room: "Take it, Parasha," sa=
id he. I, supposing that she understood w=
hat I
wanted, handed her the ruble. I
must state that the cook had only lived with me a week, and, though I had s=
een
his wife, I had never spoken to her.
I was just on the point of saying to her that she was to give me some
small coins, when she bent swiftly down to my hand, and tried to kiss it,
evidently imaging that I had given her the ruble. I muttered something, and quitted =
the kitchen. I was ashamed, ashamed to the verg=
e of
torture, as I had not been for a long time. I shrank together; I was conscious=
that
I was making grimaces, and I groaned with shame as I fled from the kitchen.=
This
utterly unexpected, and, as it seemed to me, utterly undeserved shame, made=
a
special impression on me, because it was a long time since I had been
mortified, and because I, as an old man, had so lived, it seemed to me, tha=
t I
had not merited this shame. I=
was
forcibly struck by this. I to=
ld the
members of my household about it, I told my acquaintances, and they all agr=
eed
that they should have felt the same. And I began to reflect: why had this
caused me such shame? To this=
, something
which had happened to me in Moscow furnished me with an answer.
I meditated on th=
at
incident, and the shame which I had experienced in the presence of the cook=
's
wife was explained to me, and all those sensations of mortification which I=
had
undergone during the course of my Moscow benevolence, and which I now feel
incessantly when I have occasion to give any one any thing except that petty
alms to the poor and to pilgrims, which I have become accustomed to bestow,=
and
which I consider a deed not of charity but of courtesy. If a man asks you for a light, you=
must
strike a match for him, if you have one.&n=
bsp;
If a man asks for three or for twenty kopeks, or even for several
rubles, you must give them if you have them. This is an act of courtesy and not=
of
charity.] {113}
This was the case=
in
question: I have already mentioned the two peasants with whom I was in the
habit of sawing wood three yeans ago.
One Saturday evening at dusk, I was returning to the city in their
company. They were going to their employer to receive their wages. As we were crossing the Dragomilov=
sky
bridge, we met an old man. He=
asked
alms, and I gave him twenty kopeks.
I gave, and reflected on the good effect which my charity would have=
on
Semyon, with whom I had been conversing on religious topics. Semyon, the Vladimir peasant, who =
had a
wife and two children in Moscow, halted also, pulled round the skirt of his
kaftan, and got out his purse, and from this slender purse he extracted, af=
ter some
fumbling, three kopeks, handed it to the old man, and asked for two kopeks =
in
change. The old man exhibited=
in
his hand two three-kopek pieces and one kopek. Semyon looked at them, was about t=
o take
the kopek, but thought better of it, pulled off his hat, crossed himself, a=
nd walked
on, leaving the old man the three-kopek piece.
I was fully
acquainted with Semyon's financial condition. He had no property at home at all.=
The money which he had laid by on =
the
day when he gave three kopeks amounted to six rubles and fifty kopeks. Acco=
rdingly,
six rubles and twenty kopeks was the sum of his savings. My reserve fund was in the neighbo=
rhood
of six hundred thousand. I ha=
d a wife
and children, Semyon had a wife and children. He was younger than I, and his chi=
ldren
were fewer in number than mine; but his children were small, and two of mine
were of an age to work, so that our position, with the exception of the
savings, was on an equality; mine was somewhat the more favorable, if any
thing. He gave three kopeks, =
I gave
twenty. What did he really gi=
ve,
and what did I really give? W=
hat
ought I to have given, in order to do what Semyon had done? he had six hund=
red
kopeks; out of this he gave one, and afterwards two. I had six hundred thousand rubles.=
In order to give what Semyon had g=
iven,
I should have been obliged to give three thousand rubles, and ask for two
thousand in change, and then leave the two thousand with the old man, cross
myself, and go my way, calmly conversing about life in the factories, and t=
he cost
of liver in the Smolensk market.
I thought of this=
at
the time; but it was only long afterwards that I was in a condition to draw
from this incident that deduction which inevitably results from it. This deduction is so uncommon and =
so
singular, apparently, that, in spite of its mathematical infallibility, one=
requires
time to grow used to it. It d=
oes
seem as though there must be some mistake, but mistake there is none. There is merely the fearful mist of
error in which we live.
[This deduction, =
when
I arrived at it, and when I recognized its undoubted truth, furnished me wi=
th
an explanation of my shame in the presence of the cook's wife, and of all t=
he
poor people to whom I had given and to whom I still give money.
What, in point of
fact, is that money which I give to the poor, and which the cook's wife tho=
ught
I was giving to her? In the
majority of cases, it is that portion of my substance which it is impossible
even to express in figures to Semyon and the cook's wife,--it is generally =
one
millionth part or about that. I
give so little that the bestowal of any money is not and cannot be a
deprivation to me; it is only a pleasure in which I amuse myself when the w=
him
seizes me. And it was thus th=
at the
cook's wife understood it. If=
I
give to a man who steps in from the street one ruble or twenty kopeks, why
should not I give her a ruble also?
In the opinion of the cook's wife, such a bestowal of money is preci=
sely
the same as the flinging of honey-cakes to the people by gentlemen; it furn=
ishes
the people who have a great deal of superfluous cash with amusement. I was mortified because the mistak=
e made
by the cook's wife demonstrated to me distinctly the view which she, and all
people who are not rich, must take of me: "He is flinging away his fol=
ly,
i.e., his unearned money."
As a matter of fa=
ct,
what is my money, and whence did it come into my possession? A portion of it I accumulated from=
the
land which I received from my father.
A peasant sold his last sheep or cow in order to give the money to
me. Another portion of my mon=
ey is
the money which I have received for my writings, for my books. If my books are hurtful, I only le=
ad
astray those who purchase them, and the money which I receive for them is
ill-earned money; but if my books are useful to people, then the issue is s=
till
more disastrous. I do not giv=
e them
to people: I say, "Give me seventeen rubles, and I will give them to
you." And as the peasant=
sells
his last sheep, in this case the poor student or teacher, or any other poor
man, deprives himself of necessaries in order to give me this money. And so I have accumulated a great =
deal
of money in that way, and what do I do with it? I take that money to the city, and
bestow it on the poor, only when they fulfil my caprices, and come hither to
the city to clean my sidewalk, lamps, and shoes; to work for me in factorie=
s. And
in return for this money, I force from them every thing that I can; that is=
to
say, I try to give them as little as possible, and to receive as much as
possible from them. And all a=
t once
I begin, quite unexpectedly, to bestow this money as a simple gift, on these
same poor persons, not on all, but on those to whom I take a fancy. Why should not every poor person e=
xpect
that it is quite possible that the luck may fall to him of being one of tho=
se
with whom I shall amuse myself by distributing my superfluous money? And so all look upon me as the coo=
k's wife
did.
And I had gone so=
far
astray that this taking of thousands from the poor with one hand, and this
flinging of kopeks with the other, to those to whom the whim moved me to gi=
ve,
I called good. No wonder that=
I
felt ashamed.] {116}
Yes, before doing
good it was needful for me to stand outside of evil, in such conditions tha=
t I
might cease to do evil. But my
whole life is evil. I may giv=
e away
a hundred thousand rubles, and still I shall not be in a position to do good
because I shall still have five hundred thousand left. Only when I have nothing shall I b=
e in a
position to do the least particle of good, even as much as the prostitute d=
id
which she nursed the sick women and her child for three days. And that seemed so little to me! And I dared to think of good
myself! That which, on the fi=
rst
occasion, told me, at the sight of the cold and hungry in the Lyapinsky hou=
se,
that I was to blame for this, and that to live as I live is impossible, and
impossible, and impossible,--that alone was true.
What, then, was I=
to
do?
It was hard for me to come to this
confession, but when I had come to it I was shocked at the error in which I=
had
been living. I stood up to my=
ears
in the mud, and yet I wanted to drag others out of this mud.
What is it that I
wish in reality? I wish to do=
good
to others. I wish to do it so=
that
other people may not be cold and hungry, so that others may live as it is
natural for people to live.
[I wish this, and=
I
see that in consequence of the violence, extortions, and various tricks in
which I take part, people who toil are deprived of necessaries, and people =
who
do not toil, in whose ranks I also belong, enjoy in superabundance the toil=
of
other people.
I see that this
enjoyment of the labors of others is so arranged, that the more rascally and
complicated the trickery which is employed by the man himself, or which has
been employed by the person from whom he obtained his inheritance, the more
does he enjoy of the labors of others, and the less does he contribute of h=
is
own labor.
First come the
Shtiglitzy, Dervizy, Morozovy, the Demidoffs, the Yusapoffs; then great
bankers, merchants, officials, landed proprietors, among whom I also belong;
then the poor--very small traders, dramshop- keepers, usurers, district jud=
ges,
overseers, teachers, sacristans, clerks; then house-porters, lackeys, coach=
men,
watch-carriers, cab-drivers, peddlers; and last of all, the laboring classe=
s--factory-hands
and peasants, whose numbers bear the relation to the first named of ten to
one. I see that the life of
nine-tenths of the working classes demands, by reason of its nature,
application and toil, as does every natural life; but that, in consequence =
of
the sharp practices which take from these people what is indispensable, and
place them in such oppressive conditions, this life becomes more difficult =
every
year, and more filled with deprivations; but our life, the life of the
non-laboring classes, thanks to the co-operation of the arts and sciences w=
hich
are directed to this object, becomes more filled with superfluities, more
attractive and careful, with every year.&n=
bsp;
I see, that, in our day, the life of the workingman, and, in particu=
lar,
the life of old men, of women, and of children of the working population, i=
s perishing
directly from their food, which is utterly inadequate to their fatiguing la=
bor;
and that this life of theirs is not free from care as to its very first
requirements; and that, alongside of this, the life of the non-laboring
classes, to which I belong, is filled more and more, every year, with
superfluities and luxury, and becomes more and more free from anxiety, and =
has
finally reached such a point of freedom from care, in the case of its fortu=
nate
members, of whom I am one, as was only dreamed of in olden times in
fairy-tales,--the state of the owner of the purse with the inexhaustible ru=
ble,
that is, a condition in which a man is not only utterly released from the l=
aw
of labor, but in which he possesses the possibility of enjoying, without to=
il,
all the blessings of life, and of transferring to his children, or to any o=
ne
whom he may see fit, this purse with the inexhaustible ruble.
I see that the pr=
oducts
of the people's toil are more and more transformed from the mass of the wor=
king
classes to those who do not work; that the pyramid of the social edifice se=
ems
to be reconstructed in such fashion that the foundation stones are carried =
to
the apex, and the swiftness of this transfer is increasing in a sort of
geometrical ratio. I see that the result of this is something like that whi=
ch
would take place in an ant-heap if the community of ants were to lose their
sense of the common law, if some ants were to begin to draw the products of
labor from the bottom to the top of the heap, and should constantly contrac=
t the
foundations and broaden the apex, and should thereby also force the remaini=
ng
ants to betake themselves from the bottom to the summit.
I see that the id=
eal
of the Fortunatus' purse has made its way among the people, in the place of=
the
ideal of a toilsome life. Rich
people, myself among the number, get possession of the inexhaustible ruble =
by various
devices, and for the purpose of enjoying it we go to the city, to the place
where nothing is produced and where every thing is swallowed up.
The industrious p=
oor
man, who is robbed in order that the rich may possess this inexhaustible ru=
ble,
yearns for the city in his train; and there he also takes to sharp practice=
s,
and either acquires for himself a position in which he can work little and
receive much, thereby rendering still more oppressive the situation of the
laboring classes, or, not having attained to such a position, he goes to ru=
in,
and falls into the ranks of those cold and hungry inhabitants of the
night-lodging houses, which are being swelled with such remarkable rapidity=
.
I belong to the c=
lass
of those people, who, by divers tricks, take from the toiling masses the
necessaries of life, and who have acquired for themselves these inexhaustib=
le
rubles, and who lead these unfortunates astray. I desire to aid people, and theref=
ore it
is clear that, first of all, I must cease to rob them as I am doing. But I, by the most complicated, and
cunning, and evil practices, which have been heaped up for centuries, have
acquired for myself the position of an owner of the inexhaustible ruble, th=
at
is to say, one in which, never working myself, I can make hundreds and
thousands of people toil for me--which also I do; and I imagine that I pity
people, and I wish to assist them.
I sit on a man's neck, I weigh him down, and I demand that he shall
carry me; and without descending from his shoulders I assure myself and oth=
ers
that I am very sorry for him, and that I desire to ameliorate his condition=
by all
possible means, only not by getting off of him.
Surely this is si=
mple
enough. If I want to help the=
poor,
that is, to make the poor no longer poor, I must not produce poor people. And I give, at my own selection, t=
o poor
men who have gone astray from the path of life, a ruble, or ten rubles, or a
hundred; and I grasp hundreds from people who have not yet left the path, a=
nd
thereby I render them poor also, and demoralize them to boot.
This is very simp=
le;
but it was horribly hard for me to understand this fully without compromises
and reservations, which might serve to justify my position; but it sufficed=
for
me to confess my guilt, and every thing which had before seemed to me stran=
ge
and complicated, and lacking in cleanness, became perfectly comprehensible =
and
simple. But the chief point w=
as,
that my way of life, arising from this interpretation, became simple, clear=
and
pleasant, instead of perplexed, inexplicable and full of torture as before.=
] {122a}
Who am I, that I
should desire to help others? I
desire to help people; and I, rising at twelve o'clock after a game of vint
{122b} with four candles, weak, exhausted, demanding the aid of hundreds of
people,--I go to the aid of whom?
Of people who rise at five o'clock, who sleep on planks, who nourish
themselves on bread and cabbage, who know how to plough, to reap, to wield =
the
axe, to chop, to harness, to sew,--of people who in strength and endurance,=
and
skill and abstemiousness, are a hundred times superior to me,--and I go to
their succor! What except sha=
me
could I feel, when I entered into communion with these people? The very weakest of them, a drunka=
rd, an
inhabitant of the Rzhanoff house, the one whom they call "the idler,&q=
uot;
is a hundred-fold more industrious than I; [his balance, so to speak, that =
is
to say, the relation of what he takes from people and that which they give =
him,
stands on a thousand times better footing than my balance, if I take into
consideration what I take from people and what I give to them.] {122a}
And these are the
people to whose assistance I go. I
go to help the poor. But who =
is the
poor man? There is no one poo=
rer
than myself. I am a thoroughly
enervated, good-for-nothing parasite, who can only exist under the most spe=
cial
conditions, who can only exist when thousands of people toil at the
preservation of this life which is utterly useless to every one. And I, that plant-louse, which dev=
ours
the foliage of trees, wish to help the tree in its growth and health, and I
wish to heal it.
I have passed my
whole life in this manner: I eat, I talk and I listen; I eat, I write or re=
ad,
that is to say, I talk and listen again; I eat, I play, I eat, again I talk=
and
listen, I eat, and again I go to bed; and so each day I can do nothing else,
and I understand how to do nothing else.&n=
bsp;
And in order that I may be able to do this, it is necessary that the
porter, the peasant, the cook, male or female, the footman, the coachman, a=
nd
the laundress, should toil from morning till night; I will not refer to the
labors of the people which are necessary in order that coachman, cooks, male
and female, footman, and the rest should have those implements and articles
with which, and over which, they toil for my sake; axes, tubs, brushes,
household utensils, furniture, wax, blacking, kerosene, hay, wood, and
beef. And all these people wo=
rk
hard all day long and every day, so that I may be able to talk and eat and
sleep. And I, this cripple of=
a
man, have imagined that I could help others, and those the very people who
support me!
It is not remarka=
ble
that I could not help any one, and that I felt ashamed; but the remarkable
point is that such an absurd idea could have occurred to me. The woman who served the sick old =
man,
helped him; the mistress of the house, who cut a slice from the bread which=
she
had won from the soil, helped the beggar; Semyon, who gave three kopeks whi=
ch
he had earned, helped the beggar, because those three kopeks actually repre=
sented
his labor: but I served no one, I toiled for no one, and I was well aware t=
hat
my money did not represent my labor.
Into the delusion that I could help
others I was led by the fact that I fancied that my money was of the same s=
ort
as Semyon's. But this was not=
the case.
A general idea
prevails, that money represents wealth; but wealth is the product of labor;
and, therefore, money represents labor.&nb=
sp;
But this idea is as just as that every governmental regulation is the
result of a compact (contrat social).
Every one likes to
think that money is only a medium of exchange for labor. I have made shoes, you have raised
grain, he has reared sheep: here, in order that we may the more readily eff=
ect
an exchange, we will institute money, which represents a corresponding quan=
tity
of labor, and, by means of it, we will barter our shoes for a breast of lamb
and ten pounds of flour. We w=
ill
exchange our products through the medium of money, and the money of each on=
e of
us represents our labor.
This is perfectly
true, but true only so long as, in the community where this exchange is
effected, the violence of one man over the rest has not made its appearance;
not only violence over the labors of others, as happens in wars and slavery,
but where he exercises no violence for the protection of the products of th=
eir
labor from others. This will =
be
true only in a community whose members fully carry out the Christian law, i=
n a community
where men give to him who asks, and where he who takes is not asked to make
restitution. But just so soon=
as
any violence whatever is used in the community, the significance of money f=
or
its possessor loses its significance as a representative of labor, and acqu=
ires
the significance of a right founded, not on labor, but on violence.
As soon as there =
is
war, and one man has taken any thing from any other man, money can no longe=
r be
always the representative of labor; money received by a warrior for the spo=
ils
of war, which he sells, even if he is the commander of the warriors, is in =
no
way a product of labor, and possesses an entirely different meaning from mo=
ney
received for work on shoes. A=
s soon
as there are slave-owners and slaves, as there always have been throughout =
the
whole world, it is utterly impossible to say that money represents labor.
Women have woven
linen, sold it, and received money; serfs have woven for their master, and =
the
master has sold them and received the money. The money is identical in both cas=
es;
but in the one case it is the product of labor, in the other the product of
violence. In exactly the same=
way, a
stranger or my own father has given me money; and my father, when he gave me
that money, knew, and I know, and everybody knows, that no one can take this
money away from me; but if it should occur to any one to take it away from =
me,
or even not to hand it over at the date when it was promised, the law would
intervene on my behalf, and would compel the delivery to me of the money; a=
nd,
again, it is evident that this money can in no wise be called the equivalen=
t of
labor, on a level with the money received by Semyon for chopping wood. So that in any community where the=
re is
any thing that in any manner whatever controls the labor of others, or where
violence hedges in, by means of money, its possessions from others, there m=
oney
is no longer invariably the representative of labor. In such a community, it is sometim=
es the
representative of labor, and sometimes of violence.
Thus it would be
where only one act of violence from one man against others, in the midst of
perfectly free relations, should have made its appearance; but now, when
centuries of the most varied deeds of violence have passed for accumulation=
s of
money, when these deeds of violence are incessant, and merely alter their
forms; when, as every one admits, money accumulated itself represents viole=
nce;
when money, as a representative of direct labor, forms but a very small por=
tion
of the money which is derived from every sort of violence,--to say nowadays
that money represents the labor of the person who possesses it, is a
self-evident error or a deliberate lie.
It may be said, t=
hat
thus it should be; it may be said, that this is desirable; but by no means =
can
it be said, that thus it is.
Money represents
labor. Yes. Money does represent labor; but
whose? In our society only in=
the
very rarest, rarest of instances, does money represent the labor of its
possessor, but it nearly always represents the labor of other people, the p=
ast
or future labor of men; it is a representative of the obligation of others =
to
labor, which has been established by force.
Money, in its most
accurate and at the same the simple application, is the conventional stamp
which confers a right, or, more correctly, a possibility, of taking advanta=
ge
of the labors of other people. In
its ideal significance, money should confer this right, or this possibility=
, only
when it serves as the equivalent of labor, and such money might be in a
community in which no violence existed.&nb=
sp;
But just as soon as violence, that is to say, the possibility of pro=
fiting
by the labors of others without toil of one's own, exists in a community, t=
hen
that profiting by the labors of other men is also expressed by money, witho=
ut any
distinction of the persons on whom that violence is exercised.
The landed propri=
etor
has imposed upon his serfs natural debts, a certain quantity of linen, grai=
n,
and cattle, or a corresponding amount of money. One household has procured =
the
cattle, but has paid money in lieu of linen. The proprietor takes the money to a
certain amount only, because he knows that for that money they will make him
the same quantity of linen, (generally he takes a little more, in order to =
be
sure that they will make it for the same amount); and this money, evidently,
represents for the proprietor the obligation of other people to toil.
The peasant gives=
the
money as an obligation, to he knows not whom, but to people, and there are =
many
of them, who undertake for this money to make so much linen. But the people who undertake to ma=
ke the
linen, do so because they have not succeeded in raising sheep, and in place=
of
the sheep, they must pay money; but the peasant who takes money for his she=
ep takes
it because he must pay for grain which did not bear well this year. The same
thing goes on throughout this realm, and throughout the whole world.
A man sells the
product of his labor, past, present or to come, sometimes his food, and
generally not because money constitutes for him a convenient means of
exchange. He could have effec=
ted
the barter without money, but he does so because money is exacted from him =
by
violence as a lien on his labor.
When the sovereig=
n of
Egypt exacted labor from his slaves, the slaves gave all their labor, but o=
nly
their past and present labor, their future labor they could not give. But with the dissemination of money
tokens, and the credit which had its rise in them, it became possible to se=
ll one's
future toil for money. Money,=
with
co-existent violence in the community, only represents the possibility of a=
new
form of impersonal slavery, which has taken the place of personal slavery.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The slave-owner has a right to the=
labor
of Piotr, Ivan, and Sidor. Bu=
t the
owner of money, in a place where money is demanded from all, has a right to=
the
toil of all those nameless people who are in need of money. Money has set aside all the oppres=
sive
features of slavery, under which an owner knows his right to Ivan, and with
them it has set aside all humane relations between the owner and the slave,
which mitigated the burden of personal thraldom.
I will not allude=
to
the fact, that such a condition of things is, possibly, necessary for the
development of mankind, for progress, and so forth,--that I do not
contest. I have merely tried =
to
elucidate to myself the idea of money, and that universal error into which I
fell when I accepted money as the representative of labor. I became convinced, after experien=
ce,
that money is not the representative of labor, but, in the majority of case=
s,
the representative of violence, or of especially complicated sharp practices
founded on violence.
Money, in our day,
has completely lost that significance which it is very desirable that it sh=
ould
possess, as the representative of one's own labor; such a significance it h=
as
only as an exception, but, as a general rule, it has been converted into a
right or a possibility of profiting by the toil of others.
The dissemination=
of
money, of credit, and of all sorts of money tokens, confirms this significa=
nce
of money ever more and more. =
Money
is a new form of slavery, which differs from the old form of slavery only in
its impersonality, its annihilation of all humane relations with the slave.=
Money--money, is a
value which is always equal to itself, and is always considered legal and
righteous, and whose use is regarded as not immoral, just as the right of
slavery was regarded.
In my young days,=
the
game of loto was introduced into the clubs. Everybody rushed to play it, an=
d,
as it was said, many ruined themselves, rendered their families miserable, =
lost
other people's money, and government funds, and committed suicide; and the =
game
was prohibited, and it remains prohibited to this day.
I remember to have
seen old and unsentimental gamblers, who told me that this game was
particularly pleasing because you did not see from whom you were winning, a=
s is
the case in other games; a lackey brought, not money, but chips; each man l=
ost
a little stake, and his disappointment was not visible . . . It is the same with roulette, whic=
h is
everywhere prohibited, and not without reason.
It is the same wi=
th
money. I possess a magic,
inexhaustible ruble; I cut off my coupons, and have retired from all the
business of the world. Whom d=
o I
injure,--I, the most inoffensive and kindest of men? But this is nothing more than play=
ing at
loto or roulette, where I do not see the man who shoots himself, because of=
his
losses, after procuring for me those coupons which I cut off from the bonds=
so
accurately with a strictly right-angled corner.
I have done nothi=
ng,
I do nothing, and I shall do nothing, except cut off those coupons; and I
firmly believe that money is the representative of labor! Surely, this is amazing! And people talk of madmen, after t=
hat! Why,
what degree of lunacy can be more frightful than this? A sensible, educated, in all other
respects sane man lives in a senseless manner, and soothes himself for not
uttering the word which it is indispensably necessary that he should utter,
with the idea that there is some sense in his conclusions, and he considers
himself a just man. Coupons--=
the representatives
of toil! Toil! Yes, but of whose toil? Evidently not of the man who owns =
them,
but of him who labors.
Slavery is far fr=
om
being suppressed. It has been
suppressed in Rome and in America, and among us: but only certain laws have=
been
abrogated; only the word, not the thing, has been put down. Slavery is the freeing of ourselves
alone from the toil which is necessary for the satisfaction of our demands,=
by
the transfer of this toil to others; and wherever there exists a man who do=
es
not work, not because others work lovingly for him, but where he possesses =
the
power of not working, and forces others to work for him, there slavery
exists. There too, where, as =
in all
European societies, there are people who make use of the labor of thousands=
of men,
and regard this as their right,--there slavery exists in its broadest measu=
re.
And money is the =
same
thing as slavery. Its object =
and
its consequences are the same. Its
object is--that one may rid one's self of the first born of all laws, as a
profoundly thoughtful writer from the ranks of the people has expressed it;
from the natural law of life, as we have called it; from the law of personal
labor for the satisfaction of our own wants. And the results of money are t=
he
same as the results of slavery, for the proprietor; the creation, the inven=
tion
of new and ever new and never- ending demands, which can never be satisfied;
the enervation of poverty, vice, and for the slaves, the persecution of man=
and
their degradation to the level of the beasts.
Money is a new and
terrible form of slavery, and equally demoralizing with the ancient form of
slavery for both slave and slave-owner; only much worse, because it frees t=
he
slave and the slave-owner from their personal, humane relations.]
I am always surprised by the oft-re=
peated
words: "Yes, this is so in theory, but how is it in practice?"
In the matter whi=
ch
interests me now, that has been confirmed which I have always thought,--that
practice infallibly flows from theory, and not that it justifies it, but it
cannot possibly be otherwise, for if I have understood the thing of which I
have been thinking, then I cannot carry out this thing otherwise than as I =
have
understood it.
I wanted to help =
the
unfortunate only because I had money, and I shared the general belief that =
money
was the representative of labor, or, on the whole, something legal and
good. But, having begun to gi=
ve
away this money, I saw, when I gave the bills which I had accumulated from =
poor
people, that I was doing precisely that which was done by some landed propr=
ietors
who made some of their serfs wait on others. I saw that every use of money, whe=
ther
for making purchases, or for giving away without an equivalent to another, =
is
handing over a note for extortion from the poor, or its transfer to another=
man
for extortion from the poor. =
I saw
that money in itself was not only not good, but evidently evil, and that it
deprives us of our highest good,--labor, and thereby of the enjoyment of our
labor, and that that blessing I was not in a position to confer on any one,
because I was myself deprived of it: I do not work, and I take no pleasure =
in
making use of the labor of others.
It would appear t=
hat
there is something peculiar in this abstract argument as to the nature of
money. But this argument whic=
h I
have made not for the sake of argument, but for the solution of the problem=
of
my life, of my sufferings, was for me an answer to my question: What is to =
be
done?
As soon as I gras=
ped
the meaning of riches, and of money, it not only became clear and indisputa=
ble
to me, what I ought to do, but also clear and indisputable what others ough=
t to
do, because they would infallibly do it.&n=
bsp;
I had only actually come to understand what I had known for a long t=
ime
previously, the theory which was given to men from the very earliest times,
both by Buddha, and Isaiah, and Lao-Tze, and Socrates, and in a peculiarly
clear and indisputable manner by Jesus Christ and his forerunner, John the
Baptist. John the Baptist, in
answer to the question of the people,--What were they to do? replied simply,
briefly, and clearly: "He that hath two coats, let him impart to him t=
hat
hath none; and he that hath meat, let him do likewise" (Luke iii. 10,
11). In a similar manner, but=
with
even greater clearness, and on many occasions, Christ spoke. He said: "Blessed are the poo=
r, and
woe to the rich." He sai=
d that
it is impossible to serve God and mammon.&=
nbsp;
He forbade his disciples to take not only money, but also two
garments. He said to the rich=
young
man, that he could not enter into the kingdom of heaven because he was rich,
and that it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than =
for
a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.&nb=
sp;
He said that he who should not leave every thing, houses and children
and lands, and follow him, could not be his disciple. He told the parable of the rich ma=
n who
did nothing bad, like our own rich men, but who only arrayed himself in cos=
tly
garments, and ate and drank daintily, and who lost his soul thereby; and of
poor Lazarus, who had done nothing good, but who was saved merely because he
was poor.
This theory was
sufficiently familiar to me, but the false teachings of the world had so
obscured it that it had become for me a theory in the sense which people are
fond of attributing to that term, that is to say, empty words. But as soon as I had succeeded in
destroying in my consciousness the sophisms of worldly teaching, theory
conformed to practice, and the truth with regard to my life and to the life=
of
the people about me became its conclusion.
I understood that
man, besides life for his own personal good, is unavoidably bound to serve =
the
good of others also; that, if we take an illustration from the animal
kingdom,--as some people are fond of doing, defending violence and conflict=
by
the conflict for existence in the animal kingdom,--the illustration must be
taken from gregarious animals, like bees; that consequently man, not to men=
tion
the love to his neighbor incumbent on him, is called upon, both by reason a=
nd
by his nature, to serve other people and the common good of humanity. I comprehended that the natural la=
w of
man is that according to which only he can fulfil destiny, and therefore be
happy. I understood that this=
law
has been and is broken hereby,--that people get rid of labor by force (like=
the
robber bees), make use of the toil of others, directing this toil, not to t=
he common
weal, but to the private satisfaction of swift-growing desires; and, precis=
ely
as in the case of the robber bees, they perish in consequence. [I understood that the original fo=
rm of
this disinclination for the law is the brutal violence against weaker
individuals, against women, wars and imprisonments, whose sequel is slavery,
and also the present reign of money.
I understood that money is the impersonal and concealed enslavement =
of
the poor. And, once having
perceived the significance of money as slavery, I could not but hate it, nor
refrain from doing all in my power to free myself from it.] {135}
When I was a
slave-owner, and comprehended the immorality of my position, I tried to esc=
ape
from it. My escape consisted =
in
this, that I, regarding it as immoral, tried to exercise my rights as
slave-owner as little as possible, but to live, and to allow other people to
live, as though that right did not exist.&=
nbsp;
And I cannot refrain from doing the same thing now in reference to t=
he
present form of slavery,--exercising my right to the labor of others as lit=
tle
as possible, i.e., hiring and purchasing as little as possible.
The root of every
slavery is the use of the labor of others; and hence, the compelling others=
to
it is founded indifferently on my right to the slave, or on my possession of
money which is indispensable to him.
If I really do not approve, and if I regard as an evil, the employme=
nt
of the labor of others, then I shall use neither my right nor my money for =
that
purpose; I shall not compel others to toil for me, but I shall endeavor to =
free
them from the labor which they have performed for me, as far as possible,
either by doing without this labor or by performing it for myself.
And this very sim=
ple
and unavoidable deduction enters into all the details of my life, effects a
total change in it, and at one blow releases me from those moral sufferings
which I have undergone at the sight of the sufferings and the vice of the
people, and instantly annihilates all three causes of my inability to aid t=
he
poor, which I had encountered while seeking the cause of my lack of success=
.
The first cause w=
as
the herding of the people in towns, and the absorption there of the wealth =
of
the country. All that a man n=
eeds
is to understand how every hiring or purchase is a handle to extortion from=
the
poor, and that therefore he must abstain from them, and must try to fulfil =
his
own requirements; and not a single man will then quit the country, where all
wants can be satisfied without money, for the city, where it is necessary to
buy every thing: and in the country he will be in a position to help the ne=
edy,
as has been my own experience and the experience of every one else.
The second cause =
is
the estrangement of the rich from the poor. A man needs but to refrain from bu=
ying,
from hiring, and, disdaining no sort of work, to satisfy his requirements
himself, and the former estrangement will immediately be annihilated, and t=
he
man, having rejected luxury and the services of others, will amalgamate with
the mass of the working people, and, standing shoulder to shoulder with the
working people, he can help them.
The third cause w=
as
shame, founded on a consciousness of immorality in my owning that money with
which I desired to help people. All
that is required is: to understand the significance of money as impersonal =
slavery,
which it has acquired among us, in order to escape for the future from fall=
ing
into the error according to which money, though evil in itself, can be an
instrument of good, and in order to refrain from acquiring money; and to rid
one's self of it in order to be in a position to do good to people, that is=
, to
bestow on them one's labor, and not the labor of another.
[I saw that money is the cause of
suffering and vice among the people, and that, if I desired to help people,=
the
first thing that was required of me was not to create those unfortunates wh=
om I
wished to assist.
I came to the con=
clusion
that the man who does not love vice and the suffering of the people should =
not
make use of money, thus presenting an inducement to extortion from the poor=
, by
forcing them to work for him; and that, in order not to make use of the toi=
l of
others, he must demand as little from others as possible, and work as much =
as
possible himself.] {138}
By dint of a long
course of reasoning, I came to this inevitable conclusion, which was drawn
thousands of years ago by the Chinese in the saying, "If there is one =
idle
man, there is another dying with hunger to offset him.
[Then what are we=
to
do? John the Baptist gave the
answer to this very question two thousand years ago. And when the people asked him,
"What are we to do?" he said, "Let him that hath two garments
impart to him that hath none, and let him that hath meat do the
same." What is the meani=
ng of
giving away one garment out of two, and half of one's food? It means giving to others every
superfluity, and thenceforth taking nothing superfluous from people.
This expedient, w=
hich
furnishes such perfect satisfaction to the moral feelings, kept my eyes fast
bound, and binds all our eyes; and we do not see it, but gaze aside.
This is precisely
like a personage on the stage, who had entered a long time since, and all t=
he
spectators see him, and it is obvious that the actors cannot help seeing hi=
m,
but the point on the stage lies in the acting characters pretending not to =
see
him, and in suffering from his absence.] {139}
Thus we, in our
efforts to recover from our social diseases, search in all quarters,
governmental and anti-governmental, and in scientific and in philanthropic
superstitions; and we do not see what is perfectly visible to every eye.
For the man who
really suffers from the sufferings of the people who surround us, there exi=
sts
the very plainest, simplest, and easiest means; the only possible one for t=
he
cure of the evil about us, and for the acquisition of a consciousness of the
legitimacy of his life; the one given by John the Baptist, and confirmed by
Christ: not to have more than one garment, and not to have money. And not to have any money, means, =
not to
employ the labor of others, and hence, first of all, to do with our own han=
ds
every thing that we can possibly do.
This is so clear =
and
simple! But it is clear and s=
imple
when the requirements are simple. =
span>I
live in the country. I lie on=
the
oven, and I order my debtor, my neighbor, to chop wood and light my fire. It is very clear that I am lazy, a=
nd
that I tear my neighbor away from his affairs, and I shall feel mortified, =
and
I shall find it tiresome to lie still all the time; and I shall go and spli=
t my
wood for myself.
But the delusion =
of
slavery of all descriptions lies so far back, so much of artificial exaction
has sprung up upon it, so many people, accustomed in different degrees to t=
hese
habits, are interwoven with each other, enervated people, spoiled for
generations, and such complicated delusions and justifications for their lu=
xury
and idleness have been devised by people, that it is far from being so easy=
for
a man who stands at the summit of the ladder of idle people to understand h=
is
sin, as it is for the peasant who has made his neighbor build his fire.
It is terribly
difficult for people at the top of this ladder to understand what is requir=
ed
of them. [Their heads are tur=
ned by
the height of this ladder of lies, upon which they find themselves when a p=
lace
on the ground is offered to them, to which they must descend in order to be=
gin
to live, not yet well, but no longer cruelly, inhumanly; for this reason, t=
his
clear and simple truth appears strange to these people. For the man with ten servants, liv=
eries,
coachmen, cooks, pictures, pianofortes, that will infallibly appear strange,
and even ridiculous, which is the simplest, the first act of--I will not say
every good man--but of every man who is not wicked: to cut his own wood wit=
h which
his food is cooked, and with which he warms himself; to himself clean those
boots with which he has heedlessly stepped in the mire; to himself fetch th=
at
water with which he preserves his cleanliness, and to carry out that dirty
water in which he has washed himself.] {140}
But, besides the
remoteness of people from the truth, there is another cause which prevents
people from seeing the obligation for them of the simplest and most natural
personal, physical labor for themselves: this is the complication, the
inextricability of the conditions, the advantage of all the people who are
bound together among themselves by money, in which the rich man lives: My
luxurious life feeds people. =
What
would become of my old valet if I were to discharge him? What! we must all do every thing
necessary,--make our clothes and hew wood? . . . And how about the division of
labor?"
[This morning I s=
tepped
out into the corridor where the fires were being built. A peasant was making a fire in the=
stove
which warms my son's room. I =
went
in; the latter was asleep. It=
was
eleven o'clock in the morning.
To-day is a holiday: there is some excuse, there are no lessons.
The smooth-skinne=
d,
eighteen-year-old youth, with a beard, who had eaten his fill on the preced=
ing
evening, sleeps until eleven o'clock.
But the peasant of his age had been up at dawn, and had got through a
quantity of work, and was attending to his tenth stove, while the former
slept. "The peasant shal=
l not
make the fire in his stove to warm that smooth, lazy body of his!" I
thought. But I immediately
recollected that this stove also warmed the room of the housekeeper, a woman
forty years of age, who, on the evening before, had been making preparation=
s up
to three o'clock in the morning for the supper which my son had eaten, and =
that
she had cleared the table, and risen at seven, nevertheless. The peasant was building the fire =
for
her also. And under her name =
the
lazybones was warming himself.
It is true that t=
he
interests of all are interwoven; but, even without any prolonged reckoning,=
the
conscience of each man will say on whose side lies labor, and on whose
idleness. But although consci=
ence
says this, the account-book, the cash-book, says it still more clearly. The more money any one spends, the=
more
idle he is, that is to say, the more he makes others work for him. The less he spends, the more he wo=
rks.] {142} But trade, but public undertakings=
, and,
finally, the most terrible of words, culture, the development of sciences, =
and
the arts,--what of them?
[If I live I will
make answer to those points, and in detail; and until such answer I will
narrate the following.] {142}
LIFE IN THE CITY.=
Last year, in March, I was returnin=
g home
late at night. As I turned fr=
om the
Zubova into Khamovnitchesky Lane, I saw some black spots on the snow of the
Dyevitchy Pole (field). Somet=
hing
was moving about in one place. I
should not have paid any attention to this, if the policeman who was standi=
ng
at the end of the street had not shouted in the direction of the black spot=
s,--
"Vasily! why
don't you bring her in?"
"She won't
come!" answered a voice, and then the spot moved towards the policeman=
.
I halted and asked
the police-officer, "What is it?"
He said,--"T=
hey
are taking a girl from the Rzhanoff house to the station- house; and she is
hanging back, she won't walk."
A house-porter in a sheepskin coat was leading her. She was walking forward, and he wa=
s pushing
her from behind. All of us, I=
and
the porter and the policeman, were dressed in winter clothes, but she had
nothing on over her dress. In=
the
darkness I could make out only her brown dress, and the kerchiefs on her he=
ad
and neck. She was short in st=
ature,
as is often the case with the prematurely born, with small feet, and a
comparatively broad and awkward figure.
"We're waiti=
ng
for you, you carrion. Get alo=
ng,
what do you mean by it? I'll give it to you!" shouted the policeman. He was evidently tired, and he had=
had
too much of her. She advanced=
a few
paces, and again halted.
The little old
porter, a good-natured fellow (I know him), tugged at her hand. "Here, I'll teach you to stop=
! On with you!" he repeated, as=
though
in anger. She staggered, and =
began
to talk in a discordant voice. At every sound there was a false note, both
hoarse and whining.
"Come now,
you're shoving again. I'll get
there some time!"
She stopped and t=
hen
went on. I followed them.
"You'll
freeze," said the porters
"The likes o=
f us
don't freeze: I'm hot."
She tried to jest,
but her words sounded like scolding.
She halted again under the lantern which stands not far from our hou=
se,
and leaned against, almost hung over, the fence, and began to fumble for
something among her skirts, with benumbed and awkward hands. Again they shouted at her, but she
muttered something and did something.
In one hand she held a cigarette bent into a bow, in the other a
match. I paused behind her; I=
was
ashamed to pass her, and I was ashamed to stand and look on. But I made up my mind, and stepped
forward. Her shoulder was lyi=
ng
against the fence, and against the fence it was that she vainly struck the
match and flung it away. I lo=
oked
in her face. She was really a
person prematurely born; but, as it seemed to me, already an old woman. I credited her with thirty years.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> A dirty hue of face; small, dull, =
tipsy eyes;
a button-like nose; curved moist lips with drooping corners, and a short wi=
sp
of harsh hair escaping from beneath her kerchief; a long flat figure, stumpy
hands and feet. I paused oppo=
site
her. She stared at me, and bu=
rst
into a laugh, as though she knew all that was going on in my mind.
I felt that it was
necessary to say something to her.
I wanted to show her that I pitied her.
"Are your
parents alive?" I inquired.
She laughed hoars=
ely,
with an expression which said, "he's making up queer things to ask.&qu=
ot;
"My mother
is," said she. "But=
what
do you want?"
"And how old=
are
you?"
"Sixteen,&qu=
ot;
said she, answering promptly to a question which was evidently customary.
"Come, march,
you'll freeze, you'll perish entirely," shouted the policeman; and she
swayed away from the fence, and, staggering along, she went down
Khamovnitchesky Lane to the police-station; and I turned to the wicket, and
entered the house, and inquired whether my daughters had returned. I was told that they had been to an
evening party, had had a very merry time, had come home, and were in bed.
Next morning I wa=
nted
to go to the station-house to learn what had been done with this unfortunate
woman, and I was preparing to go out very early, when there came to see me =
one
of those unlucky noblemen, who, through weakness, have dropped from the
gentlemanly life to which they are accustomed, and who alternately rise and
fall. I had been acquainted w=
ith
this man for three years. In =
the
course of those three years, this man had several times made way with every
thing that he had, and even with all his clothes; the same thing had just
happened again, and he was passing the nights temporarily in the Rzhanoff
house, in the night-lodging section, and he had come to me for the day. He met me as I was going out, at t=
he
entrance, and without listening to me he began to tell me what had taken pl=
ace
in the Rzhanoff house the night before.&nb=
sp;
He began his narrative, and did not half finish it; all at once (he =
is
an old man who has seen men under all sorts of aspects) he burst out sobbin=
g,
and flooded has countenance with tears, and when he had become silent, turn=
ed
has face to the wall. This is=
what
he told me. Every thing that =
he
related to me was absolutely true.
I authenticated his story on the spot, and learned fresh particulars
which I will relate separately.
In that night-lod=
ging
house, on the lower floor, in No. 32, in which my friend had spent the nigh=
t,
among the various, ever-changing lodgers, men and women, who came together
there for five kopeks, there was a laundress, a woman thirty years of age,
light-haired, peaceable and pretty, but sickly. The mistress of the quarters had a
boatman lover. In the summer =
her
lover kept a boat, and in the winter they lived by letting accommodations to
night-lodgers: three kopeks without a pillow, five kopeks with a pillow.
The laundress had
lived there for several months, and was a quiet woman; but latterly they had
not liked her, because she coughed and prevented the women from sleeping. An old half-crazy woman eighty yea=
rs
old, in particular, also a regular lodger in these quarters, hated the
laundress, and imbittered the latter's life because she prevented her sleep=
ing,
and cleared her throat all night like a sheep. The laundress held her peace; she =
was in
debt for her lodgings, and was conscious of her guilt, and therefore she wa=
s bound
to be quiet. She began to go =
more
and more rarely to her work, as her strength failed her, and therefore she
could not pay her landlady; and for the last week she had not been out to w=
ork at
all, and had only poisoned the existence of every one, especially of the old
woman, who also did not go out, with her cough. Four days before this, the landlad=
y had
given the laundress notice to leave the quarters: the latter was already si=
xty
kopeks in debt, and she neither paid them, nor did the landlady foresee any
possibility of getting them; and all the bunks were occupied, and the women=
all
complained of the laundress's cough.
When the landlady
gave the laundress notice, and told her that she must leave the lodgings if=
she
did not pay up, the old woman rejoiced and thrust the laundress out of
doors. The laundress departed=
, but
returned in an hour, and the landlady had not the heart to put her out
again. And the second and the=
third
day, she did not turn her out.
"Where am I to go?" said the laundress. But on the third day, the landlady=
's
lover, a Moscow man, who knew the regulations and how to manage, sent for t=
he police. A policeman with sword and pistol =
on a
red cord came to the lodgings, and with courteous words he led the laundress
into the street.
It was a clear,
sunny, but freezing March day. The
gutters were flowing, the house-porters were picking at the ice. The cabman's sleigh jolted over th=
e icy
snow, and screeched over the stones.
The laundress walked up the street on the sunny side, went to the
church, and seated herself at the entrance, still on the sunny side. But when the sun began to sink beh=
ind
the houses, the puddles began to be skimmed over with a glass of frost, and=
the
laundress grew cold and wretched.
She rose, and dragged herself . . . whither? Home, to the only home where she h=
ad
lived so long. While she was =
on her
way, resting at times, dusk descended.&nbs=
p;
She approached the gates, turned in, slipped, groaned and fell.
One man came up, =
and
then another. "She must =
be
drunk." Another man came=
up,
and stumbled over the laundress, and said to the potter: "What drunken
woman is this wallowing at your gate?
I came near breaking my head over her; take her away, won't you?&quo=
t;
The porter came.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The laundress was dead. This is what my friend told me.
I entered the
station-house. In the station=
some
armed policemen conducted me to their chief. He was similarly armed with sword =
and pistol,
and he was engaged in taking some measures with regard to a tattered, tremb=
ling
old man, who was standing before him, and who could not answer the questions
put to him, on account of his feebleness.&=
nbsp;
Having finished his business with the old man, he turned to me. I inquired about the girl of the n=
ight
before. At first he listened =
to me attentively,
but afterwards he began to smile, at my ignorance of the regulations, in
consequence of which she had been taken to the station- house; and particul=
arly
at my surprise at her youth.
"Why, there =
are
plenty of them of twelve, thirteen, or fourteen years of age," he said
cheerfully.
But in answer to =
my
question about the girl whom I had seen on the preceding evening, he explai=
ned
to me that she must have been sent to the committee (so it appeared). To my question where she had passe=
d the night,
he replied in an undecided manner.
He did not recall the one to whom I referred. There were so many of them every d=
ay.
In No. 32 of the
Rzhanoff house I found the sacristan already reading prayers over the dead
woman. They had taken her to =
the
bunk which she had formerly occupied; and the lodgers, all miserable beings,
had collected money for the masses for her soul, a coffin and a shroud, and=
the
old women had dressed her and laid her out. The sacristan was reading somethin=
g in
the gloom; a woman in a long wadded cloak was standing there with a wax can=
dle;
and a man (a gentleman, I must state) in a clean coat with a lamb's-skin
collar, polished overshoes, and a starched shirt, was holding one like it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> This was her brother. They had hunted him up.
I went past the d= ead woman to the landlady's nook, and questioned her about the whole business.<= o:p>
She was alarmed a=
t my
queries; she was evidently afraid that she would be blamed for something; b=
ut
afterwards she began to talk freely, and told me every thing. As I passed back, I glanced at the=
dead
woman. All dead people are
handsome, but this dead woman was particularly beautiful and touching in her
coffin; her pure, pale face, with closed swollen eyes, sunken cheeks, and s=
oft
reddish hair above the lofty brow,--a weary and kind and not a sad but a
surprised face. And in fact, =
if the
living do not see, the dead are surprised.
On the same day t=
hat
I wrote the above, there was a great ball in Moscow.
That night I left=
the
house at nine o'clock. I live=
in a
locality which is surrounded by factories, and I left the house after the f=
actory-whistles
had sounded, releasing the people for a day of freedom after a week of
unremitting toil.
Factory-hands
overtook me, and I overtook others of them, directing their steps to the
drinking-shops and taverns. M=
any
were already intoxicated, many were women.=
Every morning at five o'clock we can hear one whistle, a second, a
third, a tenth, and so forth, and so forth. That means that the toil of women,
children, and of old men has begun.
At eight o'clock another whistle, which signifies a breathing-spell =
of
half an hour. At twelve, a th=
ird:
this means an hour for dinner. And
a fourth at eight, which denotes the end of the day.
By an odd
coincidence, all three of the factories which are situated near me produce =
only
articles which are in demand for balls.
In one factory, t=
he
nearest, only stockings are made; in another opposite, silken fabrics; in t=
he
third, perfumes and pomades.
It is possible to
listen to these whistles, and connect no other idea with them than as denot=
ing
the time: "There's the whistle already, it is time to go to
walk." But one can also
connect with those whistles that which they signify in reality; that first
whistle, at five o'clock, means that people, often all without exception, b=
oth
men and women, sleeping in a damp cellar, must rise, and hasten to that bui=
lding
buzzing with machines, and must take their places at their work, whose end =
and
use for themselves they do not see, and thus toil, often in heat and a stif=
ling
atmosphere, in the midst of dirt, and with the very briefest breathing- spe=
lls,
an hour, two hours, three hours, twelve, and even more hours in succession.=
They fall into a doze, and again t=
hey
rise. And this, for them, sen=
seless
work, to which they are driven only by necessity, is continued over and over
again.
And thus one week
succeeds another with the breaks of holidays; and I see these work-people
released on one of these holidays.
They emerge into the street.
Everywhere there are drinking-shops, taverns, and loose girls. And they, in their drunken state, =
drag
by the hand each other, and girls like the one whom I saw taken to the
station-house; they drag with them cabmen, and they ride and they walk from=
one
tavern to another; and they curse and stagger, and say they themselves know=
not
what. I had previously seen s=
uch
unsteady gait on the part of factory-hands, and had turned aside in disgust,
and had been on the point of rebuking them; but ever since I have been in t=
he
habit of hearing those whistles every day, and understand their meaning, I =
am
only amazed that they, all the men, do not come to the condition of the
"golden squad," of which Moscow is full, {152a} [and the women to=
the
state of the one whom I had seen near my house]. {152b}
Thus I walked alo=
ng,
and scrutinized these factory-hands, as long as they roamed the streets, wh=
ich
was until eleven o'clock. Then
their movements began to calm down.
Some drunken men remained here and there, and here and there I
encountered men who were being taken to the station-house. And then carriag=
es
began to make their appearance on all sides, directing their course toward =
one
point.
On the box sits a
coachman, sometimes in a sheepskin coat; and a footman, a dandy, with a
cockade. Well-fed horses in
saddle-cloths fly through the frost at the rate of twenty versts an hour; in
the carriages sit ladies muffled in round cloaks, and carefully tending the=
ir
flowers and head-dresses. Eve=
ry
thing from the horse-trappings, the carriages, the gutta-percha wheels, the
cloth of the coachman's coat, to the stockings, shoes, flowers, velvet, glo=
ves,
and perfumes,--every thing is made by those people, some of whom often roll
drunk into their dens or sleeping- rooms, and some stay with disreputable w=
omen
in the night-lodging houses, while still others are put in jail. Thus past them in all their work, =
and
over them all, ride the frequenters of balls; and it never enters their hea=
ds,
that there is any connection between these balls to which they make ready to
go, and these drunkards at whom their coachman shouts so roughly.
These people enjoy
themselves at the ball with the utmost composure of spirit, and assurance t=
hat
they are doing nothing wrong, but something very good. Enjoy themselves! Enjoy themselves from eleven o'clo=
ck
until six in the morning, in the very dead of night, at the very hour when =
people
are tossing and turning with empty stomachs in the night-lodging houses, and
while some are dying, as did the laundress.
Their enjoyment
consists in this,--that the women and young girls, having bared their necks=
and
arms, and applied bustles behind, place themselves in a situation in which =
no
uncorrupted woman or maiden would care to display herself to a man, on any
consideration in the world; and in this half-naked condition, with their
uncovered bosoms exposed to view, with arms bare to the shoulder, with a bu=
stle
behind and tightly swathed hips, under the most brilliant light, women and
maidens, whose chief virtue has always been modesty, exhibit themselves in =
the
midst of strange men, who are also clad in improperly tight-fitting garment=
s;
and to the sound of maddening music, they embrace and whirl. Old women, often as naked as the y=
oung
ones, sit and look on, and eat and drink savory things; old men do the
same. It is not to be wondere=
d at
that this should take place at night, when all the common people are asleep=
, so
that no one may see them. But=
this
is not done with the object of concealment: it seems to them that there is
nothing to conceal; that it is a very good thing; that by this merry-making=
, in
which the labor of thousands of toiling people is destroyed, they not only =
do
not injure any one, but that by this very act they furnish the poor with the
means of subsistence. Possibl=
y it
is very merry at balls. But h=
ow
does this come about? When we=
see
that there is a man in the community, in our midst, who has had no food, or=
who
is freezing, we regret our mirth, and we cannot be cheerful until he is fed=
and
warmed, not to mention the impossibility of imagining people who can indulg=
e in
such mirth as causes suffering to others.&=
nbsp;
The mirth of wicked little boys, who pitch a dog's tail in a split
stick, and make merry over it, is repulsive and incomprehensible to us.
In the same manner
here, in these diversions of ours, blindness has fallen upon us, and we do =
not
see the split stick with which we have pitched all those people who suffer =
for
our amusement.
[We live as though
there were no connection between the dying laundress, the prostitute of
fourteen, and our own life; and yet the connection between them strikes us =
in
the face.
We may say: "=
;But
we personally have not pinched any tail in a stick;" but we have no ri=
ght,
to deny that had the tail not been pitched, our merry- making would not have
taken place. We do not see wh=
at
connection exists between the laundress and our luxury; but that is not bec=
ause
no such connection does exist, but because we have placed a screen in front=
of us,
so that we may not see.
If there were no
screen, we should see that which it is impossible not to see.] {154}
Surely all the wo=
men
who attended that ball in dresses worth a hundred and fifty rubles each were
born not in a ballroom, or at Madame Minanguoit's; but they have lived in t=
he
country, and have seen the peasants; they know their own nurse and maid, wh=
ose
father and brother are poor, for whom the earning of a hundred and fifty ru=
bles
for a cottage is the object of a long, laborious life. Each woman knows this. How could s=
he
enjoy herself, when she knew that she wore on her bared body at that ball t=
he
cottage which is the dream of her good maid's father and brother? But let us suppose that she could =
not
make this reflection; but since velvet and silk and flowers and lace and
dresses do not grow of themselves, but are made by people, it would seem th=
at
she could not help knowing what sort of people make all these things, and u=
nder
what conditions, and why they do it.
She cannot fail to know that the seamstress, with whom she has alrea=
dy
quarrelled, did not make her dress in the least out of love for her; theref=
ore,
she cannot help knowing that all these things were made for her as a matter=
of
necessity, that her laces, flowers, and velvet have been made in the same w=
ay
as her dress.
But possibly they=
are
in such darkness that they do not consider this. One thing she cannot fail =
to
know,--that five or six elderly and respectable, often sick, lackeys and ma=
ids
have had no sleep, and have been put to trouble on her account. She has seen their weary, gloomy f=
aces. She could not help knowing this al=
so,
that the cold that night reached twenty-eight degrees below zero, {155} and
that the old coachman sat all night long in that temperature on his box.
The elders always
offer the explanation: "I compel no one. I purchase my things; I hire my me=
n, my
maid-servants, and my coachman.
There is nothing wrong in buying and hiring. I force no one's inclination: I hi=
re,
and what harm is there in that?"
I recently went to
see an acquaintance. As I pas=
sed
through one of the rooms, I was surprised to see two women seated at a tabl=
e,
as I knew that my friend was a bachelor.&n=
bsp;
A thin, yellow, old-fashioned woman, thirty years of age, in a dress
that had been carelessly thrown on, was doing something with her hands and
fingers on the table, with great speed, trembling nervously the while, as
though in a fit. Opposite her=
sat a
young girl, who was also engaged in something, and who trembled in the same
manner. Both women appeared t=
o be
afflicted with St. Vitus' dance. I stepped nearer to them, and looked to see
what they were doing. They ra=
ised
their eyes to me, but went on with their work with the same intentness. In front of them lay scattered tob=
acco
and paper cases. They were ma=
king
cigarettes. The woman rubbed =
the
tobacco between her hands, pushed it into the machine, slipped on the cover,
thrust the tobacco through, then tossed it to the girl. The girl twisted the paper, and, m=
aking
it fast, threw it aside, and took up another. All thus was done with such swiftn=
ess,
with such intentness, as it is impossible to describe to a man who has never
seen it done. I expressed my
surprise at their quickness.
"I have been
doing nothing else for fourteen years," said the woman.
"Is it
hard?"
"Yes: it pai=
ns
my chest, and makes my breathing hard."
It was not necess=
ary
for her to add this, however. A
look at the girl sufficed. Sh=
e had
worked at this for three years, but any one who had not seen her at this
occupation would have said that here was a strong organism which was beginn=
ing
to break down.
My friend, a kind=
and
liberal man, hires these women to fill his cigarettes at two rubles fifty
kopeks the thousand. He has m=
oney,
and he spends it for work. Wh=
at
harm is there in that? My fri=
end
rises at twelve o'clock. He p=
asses
the evening, from six until two, at cards, or at the piano. He eats and drinks savory things; =
others
do all his work for him. He h=
as
devised a new source of pleasure,--smoking. He has taken up smoking within my
memory.
Here is a woman, =
and
here is a girl, who can barely support themselves by turning themselves into
machines, and they pass their whole lives inhaling tobacco, and thereby run=
ning
their health. He has money wh=
ich he
never earned, and he prefers to play at whist to making his own cigarettes.=
He gives these women money on condi=
tion
that they shall continue to live in the same wretched manner in which they =
are
now living, that is to say, by making his cigarettes.
I love cleanlines=
s,
and I give money only on the condition that the laundress shall wash the sh=
irt
which I change twice a day; and that shirt has destroyed the laundress's la=
st
remaining strength, and she has died. What is there wrong about that? People who buy and hire will conti=
nue to
force other people to make velvet and confections, and will purchase them,
without me; and no matter what I may do, they will hire cigarettes made and
shirts washed. Then why shoul=
d I
deprive myself of velvet and confections and cigarettes and clean shirts, if
things are definitively settled thus?
This is the argument which I often, almost always, hear. This is the
very argument which makes the mob which is destroying something, lose its
senses. This is the very argu=
ment
by which dogs are guided when one of them has flung himself on another dog,=
and
overthrown him, and the rest of the pack rush up also, and tear their comra=
de
in pieces. Other people have =
begun
it, and have wrought mischief; then why should not I take advantage of it?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Well, what will happen if I wear a=
soiled
shirt, and make my own cigarettes?
Will that make it easier for anybody else? ask people who would like=
to
justify their course. If it w=
ere
not so far from the truth, it would be a shame to answer such a question, b=
ut
we have become so entangled that this question seems very natural to us; and
hence, although it is a shame, it is necessary to reply to it.
What difference w=
ill
it make if I wear one shirt a week, and make may own cigarettes, or do not
smoke at all? This difference=
, that
some laundress and some cigarette-maker will exert their strength less, and
that what I have spent for washing and for the making of cigarettes I can g=
ive
to that very laundress, or even to other laundresses and toilers who are wo=
rn
out with their labor, and who, instead of laboring beyond their strength, w=
ill
then be able to rest, and drink tea.
But to this I hear an objection.&nb=
sp;
(It is so mortifying to rich and luxurious people to understand their
position.) To this they say:
"If I go about in a dirty shirt, and give up smoking, and hand over th=
is
money to the poor, the poor will still be deprived of every thing, and that
drop in the sea of yours will help not at all."
Such an objection=
it
is a shame to answer. It is s=
uch a
common retort. {158}
If I had gone amo=
ng
savages, and they had regaled me with cutlets which struck me as savory, an=
d if
I should learn on the following day that these savory cutlets had been made
from a prisoner whom they had slain for the sake of the savory cutlets, if =
I do
not admit that it is a good thing to eat men, then, no matter how dainty the
cutlets, no matter how universal the practice of eating men may be among my
fellows, however insignificant the advantage to prisoners, prepared for
consumption, may be my refusal to eat of the cutlets, I will not and I can =
not
eat any more of them. I may,
possibly, eat human flesh, when hunger compels me to it; but I will not mak=
e a
feast, and I will not take part in feasts, of human flesh, and I will not s=
eek
out such feasts, and pride myself on my share in them.
LIFE IN THE COUNTRY.
But what is to be done? Surely it is not we who have done
this? And if not we, who then=
?
We say: "We =
have
not done this, this has done itself;" as the children say, when they b=
reak
any thing, that it broke itself. We
say, that, so long as there is a city already in existence, we, by living in
it, support the people, by purchasing their labor and services. But this is not so. And this is why. We only need to look ourselves, at=
the
way we have in the country, and at the manner in which we support people th=
ere.
The winter passes=
in
town. Easter Week passes. On the boulevards, in the gardens =
in the
parks, on the river, there is music.
There are theatres, water-trips, walks, all sorts of illuminations a=
nd
fireworks. But in the country there is something even better,--there are be=
tter
air, trees and meadows, and the flowers are fresher. One should go thither where all th=
ese
things have unfolded and blossomed forth.&=
nbsp;
And the majority of wealthy people do go to the country to breathe t=
he
superior air, to survey these superior forests and meadows. And there the wealthy settle down =
in the
country, and the gray peasants, who nourish themselves on bread and onions,=
who
toil eighteen hours a day, who get no sound sleep by night, and who are cla=
d in
blouses. Here no one has led =
these people
astray. There have been no
factories nor industrial establishments, and there are none of those idle
hands, of which there are so many in the city. Here the whole population never
succeeds, all summer long, in completing all their tasks in season; and not
only are there no idle hands, but a vast quantity of property is ruined for=
the
lack of hands, and a throng of people, children, old men, and women, will p=
erish
through overstraining their powers in work which is beyond their strength.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> How do the rich order their lives
there? In this fashion:--
If there is an
old-fashioned house, built under the serf regime, that house is repaired and
embellished; if there is none, then a new one is erected, of two or three s=
tories. The rooms, of which there are from=
twelve
to twenty, and even more, are all six arshins in height. {161a} Wood floors=
are
laid down. The windows consis=
t of
one sheet of glass. There are rich rugs and costly furniture. The roads around the house are mac=
adamized,
the ground is levelled, flower-beds are laid out, croquet- grounds are
prepared, swinging-rings for gymnastics are erected, reflecting globes, oft=
en
orangeries, and hotbeds, and lofty stables always with complicated scroll-w=
ork
on the gables and ridges.
And here, in the
country, an honest educated official, or noble family dwells. All the members of the family and =
their
guests have assembled in the middle of June, because up to June, that is to
say, up to the beginning of mowing-time, they have been studying and underg=
oing
examinations; and they live there until September, that is to say, until ha=
rvest
and sowing-time. The members =
of
this family (as is the case with nearly every one in that circle) have live=
d in
the country from the beginning of the press of work, the suffering time, not
until the end of the season of toil (for in September sowing is still in
progress, as well as the digging of potatoes), but until the strain of work=
has
relaxed a little. During the =
whole
of their residence in the country, all around them and beside them, that su=
mmer
toil of the peasantry has been going on, of whose fatigues, no matter how m=
uch
we may have heard, no matter how much we may have heard about it, no matter=
how
much we may have gazed upon it, we can form no idea, unless we have had
personal experience of it. An=
d the
members of this family, about ten in number, live exactly as they do in the
city.
At St. Peter's Da=
y,
{161b} a strict fast, when the people's food consists of kvas, bread, and
onions, the mowing begins.
The business whic=
h is
effected in mowing is one of the most important in the commune. Nearly every year, through the lac=
k of
hands and time, the hay crop may be lost by rain; and more or less strain of
toil decides the question, as to whether twenty or more per cent of hay is =
to
be added to the wealth of the people, or whether it is to rot or die where =
it
stands. And additional hay means additional meat for the old, and additional
milk for the children. Thus, =
in
general and in particular, the question of bread for each one of the mowers,
and of milk for himself and his children, in the ensuing winter, is then
decided. Every one of the toi=
lers,
both male and female, knows this; even the children know that this is an
important matter, and that it is necessary to strain every nerve to carry t=
he
jug of kvas to their father in the meadow at his mowing, and, shifting the
heavy pitcher from hand to hand, to run barefooted as rapidly as possible, =
two
versts from the village, in order to get there in season for dinner, and so
that their fathers may not scold them.
Every one knows,
that, from the mowing season until the hay is got in, there will be no brea=
k in
the work, and that there will be no time to breathe. And there is not the mowing alone.=
Every one of them has other affair=
s to
attend to besides the mowing: the ground must be turned up and harrowed; and
the women have linen and bread and washing to attend to; and the peasants h=
ave
to go to the mill, and to town, and there are communal matters to attend to,
and legal matters before the judge and the commissary of police; and the wa=
gons
to see to, and the horses to feed at night: and all, old and young, and sic=
kly,
labor to the last extent of their powers.&=
nbsp;
The peasants toil so, that on every occasion, the mowers, before the=
end
of the third stint, whether weak, young, or old, can hardly walk as they to=
tter
past the last rows, and only with difficulty are they able to rise after the
breathing-spell; and the women, often pregnant, or nursing infants, work in=
the
same way. The toil is intense=
and
incessant. All work to the ex=
treme
bounds of their strength, and expend in this toil, not only the entire stoc=
k of
their scanty nourishment, but all their previous stock. All of them--and they are not fat =
to
begin with--grow gaunt after the "suffering" season.
Here a little
association is working at the mowing; three peasants,--one an old man, the
second his nephew, a young married man, and a shoemaker, a thin, sinewy
man. This hay-harvest will de=
cide
the fate of all of them for the winter.&nb=
sp;
They have been laboring incessantly for two weeks, without rest. The rain has delayed their work. After the rain, when the hay has d=
ried,
they have decided to stack it, and, in order to accomplish this as speedily=
as
possible, that two women for each of them shall follow their scythes. On the part of the old man go his =
wife,
a woman of fifty, who has become unfit for work, having borne eleven childr=
en,
who is deaf, but still a tolerably stout worker; and a thirteen-year-old da=
ughter,
who is short of stature, but a strong and clever girl. On the part of his nephew go his w=
ife, a
woman as strong and well-grown as a sturdy peasant, and his daughter-in-law=
, a
soldier's wife, who is about to become a mother. On the part of the shoemaker go his
wife, a stout laborer, and her aged mother, who has reached her eightieth y=
ear,
and who generally goes begging.
They all stand in line, and labor from morning till night, in the fu=
ll
fervor of the June sun. It is
steaming hot, and rain threatens.
Every hour of work is precious.&nbs=
p;
It is a pity to tear one's self from work to fetch water or kvas.
And we live as th=
ough
there were no connection between the dying laundress, the prostitute of
fourteen years, the toilsome manufacture of cigarettes by women, the strain=
ed,
intolerable, insufficiently fed toil of old women and children around us; we
live as though there were no connection between this and our own lives.
It seems to us, t=
hat
suffering stands apart by itself, and our life apart by itself. We read the description of the lif=
e of
the Romans, and we marvel at the inhumanity of those soulless Luculli, who
satiated themselves on viands and wines while the populace were dying with
hunger. We shake our heads, and we marvel at the savagery of our grandfathe=
rs, who
were serf-owners, supporters of household orchestras and theatres, and of w=
hole
villages devoted to the care of their gardens; and we wonder, from the heig=
hts
of our grandeur, at their inhumanity.
We read the words of Isa. v. 8: "Woe unto them that join house =
to
house, that lay field to field, till there be no place, that they may be pl=
aced
alone in the midst of the earth!
(11.) Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may
follow strong drink; that continue until night, till wine inflame them! (12.) And the harp and the viol, a=
nd
tabret and pipe, and wine are in their feasts; but they regard not the work=
of
the Lord, neither consider the operation of his hands. (18.) Woe unto them that draw iniq=
uity
with cords of vanity, and sin as it were with a cart- rope. (20.) Woe unto then that call evil=
good,
and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put
bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter! (21.) Woe unto them that are wise in
their own eyes, and prudent in their own sight--(22.) Woe unto them that are
mighty to drink wine, and men of strength to mingle strong drink."
We read these wor=
ds,
and it seems to us that this has no reference to us. We read in the Gospels
(Matt. iii. 10): "And now also the axe is laid unto the root of the tr=
ees:
therefore every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down and c=
ast
into the fire."
And we are fully
convinced that the good tree which bringeth forth good fruit is ourselves; =
and
that these words are not spoken to us, but to some other and wicked people.=
We read the words=
of
Isa. vi. 10: "Make the heart of this people fat, and make their ears
heavy, and shut their eyes; lest they see with their eyes, and hear with th=
eir
ears, and understand with their heart, and convert and be healed. (11.) Then said I: Lord, how long?=
And he answered, Until the cities =
be
wasted without inhabitant, and the houses without man, and the land be utte=
rly
desolate."
We read, and are
fully convinced that this marvellous deed is not performed on us, but on so=
me
other people. And because we =
see
nothing it is, that this marvellous deed is performed, and has been perform=
ed,
on us. We hear not, we see no=
t, and
we understand not with our heart.
How has this happened?
Whether that God,=
or
that natural law by virtue of which men exist in the world, has acted well =
or
ill, yet the position of men in the world, ever since we have known it, has
been such, that naked people, without any hair on their bodies, without lai=
rs
in which they could shelter themselves, without food which they could find =
in
the fields,--like Robinson {167} on his island,--have all been reduced to t=
he
necessity of constantly and unweariedly contending with nature in order to
cover their bodies, to make themselves clothing, to construct a roof over t=
heir
heads, and to earn their bread, that two or three times a day they may sati=
sfy
their hunger and the hunger of their helpless children and of their old peo=
ple
who cannot work.
Wherever, at what=
ever
time, in whatever numbers we may have observed people, whether in Europe, in
America, in China, or in Russia, whether we regard all humanity, or any sma=
ll
portion of it, in ancient times, in a nomad state, or in our own times, with
steam-engines and sewing-machines, perfected agriculture, and electric
lighting, we behold always one and the same thing,--that man, toiling inten=
sely
and incessantly, is not able to earn for himself and his little ones and his
old people clothing, shelter, and food; and that a considerable portion of
mankind, as in former times, so at the present day, perish through
insufficiency of the necessaries of life, and intolerable toil in the effor=
t to
obtain them.
Wherever we have,=
if
we draw a circle round us of a hundred thousand, a thousand, or ten versts,=
or
of one verst, and examine into the lives of the people comprehended within =
the
limits of our circle, we shall see within that circle prematurely-born
children, old men, old women, women in labor, sick and weak persons, who to=
il
beyond their strength, and who have not sufficient food and rest for life, =
and
who therefore die before their time.
We shall see people in the flower of their age actually slain by
dangerous and injurious work.
We see that people
have been struggling, ever since the world has endured, with fearful effort,
privation, and suffering, against this universal want, and that they cannot
overcome it . . . {168}
ON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF
SCIENCE AND ART.
. . . {169} The justification of all
persons who have freed themselves from toil is now founded on experimental,
positive science. The scienti=
fic
theory is as follows:--
"For the stu=
dy
of the laws of life of human societies, there exists but one indubitable
method,--the positive, experimental, critical method
"Only sociol=
ogy,
founded on biology, founded on all the positive sciences, can give us the l=
aws
of humanity. Humanity, or hum=
an communities,
are the organisms already prepared, or still in process of formation, and w=
hich
are subservient to all the laws of the evolution of organisms.
"One of the
chief of these laws is the variation of destination among the portions of t=
he
organs. Some people command, =
others
obey. If some have in
superabundance, and others in want, this arises not from the will of God, n=
ot
because the empire is a form of manifestation of personality, but because in
societies, as in organisms, division of labor becomes indispensable for lif=
e as
a whole. Some people perform =
the
muscular labor in societies; others, the mental labor."
Upon this doctrin=
e is
founded the prevailing justification of our time.
Not long ago, the=
ir
reigned in the learned, cultivated world, a moral philosophy, according to
which it appeared that every thing which exists is reasonable; that there i=
s no
such thing as evil or good; and that it is unnecessary for man to war again=
st
evil, but that it is only necessary for him to display intelligence,--one m=
an
in the military service, another in the judicial, another on the violin.
When I began my
career, Hegelianism was the foundation of every thing. It was floating in the air; it was
expressed in newspaper and periodical articles, in historical and judicial
lectures, in novels, in treatises, in art, in sermons, in conversation. The man who was not acquainted wit=
h Hegal
had no right to speak. Any on=
e who
desired to understand the truth studied Hegel. Every thing rested on him. And all at once the forties passed=
, and
there was nothing left of him.
There was not even a hint of him, any more than if he had never exis=
ted. And the most amazing thing of all =
was,
that Hegelianism did not fall because some one overthrew it or destroyed
it. No! It was the same then as now, but a=
ll at
once it appeared that it was of no use whatever to the learned and cultivat=
ed world.
There was a time =
when
the Hegelian wise men triumphantly instructed the masses; and the crowd,
understanding nothing, blindly believed in every thing, finding confirmatio=
n in
the fact that it was on hand; and they believed that what seemed to them mu=
ddy
and contradictory there on the heights of philosophy was all as clear as the
day. But that time has gone
by. That theory is worn out: =
a new
theory has presented itself in its stead.&=
nbsp;
The old one has become useless; and the crowd has looked into the se=
cret
sanctuaries of the high priests, and has seen that there is nothing there, =
and
that there has been nothing there, save very obscure and senseless words. This has taken place within my mem=
ory.
"But this
arises," people of the present science will say, "from the fact t=
hat
all that was the raving of the theological and metaphysical period; but now
there exists positive, critical science, which does not deceive, since it is
all founded on induction and experiment.&n=
bsp;
Now our erections are not shaky, as they formerly were, and only in =
our
path lies the solution of all the problems of humanity."
But the old teach=
ers
said precisely the same, and they were no fools; and we know that there were
people of great intelligence among them.&n=
bsp;
And precisely thus, within my memory, and with no less confidence, w=
ith
no less recognition on the part of the crowd of so-called cultivated people=
, spoke
the Hegelians. And neither we=
re our
Herzens, our Stankevitches, or our Byelinskys fools. But whence arose that marvellous
manifestation, that sensible people should preach with the greatest assuran=
ce,
and that the crowd should accept with devotion, such unfounded and
unsupportable teachings? Ther=
e is
but one reason,--that the teachings thus inculcated justified people in the=
ir
evil life.
A very poor Engli=
sh
writer, whose works are all forgotten, and recognized as the most insignifi=
cant
of the insignificant, writes a treatise on population, in which he devises a
fictitious law concerning the increase of population disproportionate to the
means of subsistence. This fi=
ctitious
law, this writer encompasses with mathematical formulae founded on nothing
whatever; and then he launches it on the world. From the frivolity and the stupidi=
ty of
this hypothesis, one would suppose that it would not attract the attention =
of
any one, and that it would sink into oblivion, like all the works of the sa=
me
author which followed it; but it turned out quite otherwise. The hack-writer who penned this tr=
eatise
instantly becomes a scientific authority, and maintains himself upon that
height for nearly half a century.
Malthus! The Malthusia=
n theory,--the
law of the increase of the population in geometrical, and of the means of
subsistence in arithmetical proportion, and the wise and natural means of
restricting the population,--all these have become scientific, indubitable
truths, which have not been confirmed, but which have been employed as axio=
ms,
for the erection of false theories.
In this manner have learned and cultivated people proceeded; and amo=
ng
the herd of idle persons, there sprung up a pious trust in the great laws e=
xpounded
by Malthus. How did this come=
to
pass? It would seem as though=
they
were scientific deductions, which had nothing in common with the instincts =
of
the masses. But this can only
appear so for the man who believes that science, like the Church, is someth=
ing
self-contained, liable to no errors, and not simply the imaginings of weak =
and
erring folk, who merely substitute the imposing word "science," in
place of the thoughts and words of the people, for the sake of impressivene=
ss.
All that was
necessary was to make practical deductions from the theory of Malthus, in o=
rder
to perceive that this theory was of the most human sort, with the best defi=
ned
of objects. The deductions di=
rectly
arising from this theory were the following: The wretched condition of the =
laboring
classes was such in accordance with an unalterable law, which does not depe=
nd
upon men; and, if any one is to blame in this matter, it is the hungry labo=
ring
classes themselves. Why are t=
hey
such fools as to give birth to children, when they know that there will be
nothing for the children to eat?
And so this deduction, which is valuable for the herd of idle people,
has had this result: that all learned men overlooked the incorrectness, the
utter arbitrariness of these deductions, and their insusceptibility to proo=
f;
and the throng of cultivated, i.e., of idle people, knowing instinctively to
what these deductions lead, saluted this theory with enthusiasm, conferred =
upon
it the stamp of truth, i.e., of science, and dragged it about with them for
half a century.
Is not this same
thing the cause of the confidence of men in positive critical-experimental
science, and of the devout attitude of the crowd towards that which it
preaches? At first it seems
strange, that the theory of evolution can in any manner justify people in t=
heir
evil ways; and it seems as though the scientific theory of evolution has to
deal only with facts, and that it does nothing else but observe facts.
But this only app=
ears
to be the case.
Exactly the same
thing appeared to be the case with the Hegelian doctrine, in a greater degr=
ee,
and also in the special instance of the Malthusian doctrine. Hegelianism was, apparently, occup=
ied
only with its logical constructions, and bore no relation to the life of
mankind. Precisely this seemed to be the case with the Malthusian theory. It appeared to be busy itself only=
with
statistical data. But this wa=
s only
in appearance.
Contemporary scie=
nce
is also occupied with facts alone: it investigates facts. But what facts? Why precisely these facts, and no
others?
The men of
contemporary science are very fond of saying, triumphantly and confidently,
"We investigate only facts," imagining that these words contain s=
ome
meaning. It is impossible to
investigate facts alone, because the facts which are subject to our
investigation are innumerable (in the definite sense of that
word),--innumerable. Before we
proceed to investigate facts, we must have a theory on the foundation of wh=
ich
these or those facts can be inquired into, i.e., selected from the incalcul=
able
quantity.
And this theory
exists, and is even very definitely expressed, although many of the workers=
in
contemporary science do not know it, or often pretend that they do not know
it. Exactly thus has it alway=
s been
with all prevailing and guiding doctrines.=
The foundations of every doctrine are always stated in a theory, and=
the
so-called learned men merely invent further deductions from the foundations
once stated. Thus contemporary
science is selecting its facts on the foundation of a very definite theory,
which it sometimes knows, sometimes refuses to know, and sometimes really d=
oes
not know; but the theory exists.
The theory is as
follows: All mankind is an undying organism; men are the particles of that
organism, and each one of them has his own special task for the service of
others. In the same manner, t=
he
cells united in an organism share among them the labor of fight for existen=
ce
of the whole organism; they magnify the power of one capacity, and weaken
another, and unite in one organ, in order the better to supply the requirem=
ents
of the whole organism. And ex=
actly
in the same manner as with gregarious animals,--ants or bees,--the separate=
individuals
divide the labor among them. =
The
queen lays the egg, the drone fructifies it; the bee works his whole life
long. And precisely this thing
takes place in mankind and in human societies. And therefore, in order to find th=
e law
of life for man, it is necessary to study the laws of the life and the
development of organisms.
In the life and
development of organisms, we find the following laws: the law of
differentiation and integration, the law that every phenomenon is accompani=
ed
not by direct consequences alone, another law regarding the instability of
type, and so on. All this see=
ms
very innocent; but it is only necessary to draw the deductions from all the=
se
laws, in order to immediately perceive that these laws incline in the same
direction as the law of Malthus.
These laws all point to one thing; namely, to the recognition of that
division of labor which exists in human communities, as organic, that is to
say, as indispensable. And
therefore, the unjust position in which we, the people who have freed ourse=
lves
from labor, find ourselves, must be regarded not from the point of view of
common- sense and justice, but merely as an undoubted fact, confirming the =
universal
law.
Moral philosophy =
also
justified every sort of cruelty and harshness; but this resulted in a
philosophical manner, and therefore wrongly. But with science, all this results
scientifically, and therefore in a manner not to be doubted.
How can we fail to
accept so very beautiful a theory?
It is merely necessary to look upon human society as an object of
contemplation; and I can console myself with the thought that my activity,
whatever may be its nature, is a functional activity of the organism of
humanity, and that therefore there cannot arise any question as to whether =
it
is just that I, in employing the labor of others, am doing only that which =
is agreeable
to me, as there can arise no question as to the division of labor between t=
he
brain cells and the muscular cells.
How is it possible not to admit so very beautiful a theory, in order
that one may be able, ever after, to pocket one's conscience, and have a
perfectly unbridled animal existence, feeling beneath one's self that suppo=
rt
of science which is not to be shaken nowadays!
And it is on this=
new
doctrine that the justification for men's idleness and cruelty is now found=
ed.
This doctrine had its rise not so v=
ery
long--fifty years--ago. Its p=
rincipal
founder was the French savant Comte.
There occurred to Comte,--a systematist, and a religious man to
boot,--under the influence of the then novel physiological investigations of
Biche, the old idea already set forth by Menenius Agrippa,--the idea that h=
uman
society, all humanity even, might be regarded as one whole, as an organism;=
and
men as living parts of the separate organs, having each his own definite ap=
pointment
to serve the entire organism.
This idea so plea=
sed
Comte, that upon it he began to erect a philosophical theory; and this theo=
ry
so carried him away, that he utterly forgot that the point of departure for=
his
theory was nothing more than a very pretty comparison, which was suitable f=
or a
fable, but which could by no means serve as the foundation for science. He, as frequently happens, mistook=
his
pet hypothesis for an axiom, and imagined that his whole theory was erected=
on
the very firmest of foundations. According to his theory, it seemed that si=
nce
humanity is an organism, the knowledge of what man is, and of what should be
his relations to the world, was possible only through a knowledge of the
features of this organism. Fo=
r the
knowledge of these qualities, man is enabled to take observations on other =
and
lower organisms, and to draw conclusions from their life. Therefore, in the fist place, the =
true
and only method, according to Comte, is the inductive, and all science is o=
nly
such when it has experiment as its basis; in the second place, the goal and
crown of sciences is formed by that new science dealing with the imaginary =
organism
of humanity, or the super-organic being,--humanity,--and this newly devised
science is sociology.
And from this vie=
w of
science it appears, that all previous knowledge was deceitful, and that the
whole story of humanity, in the sense of self- knowledge, has been divided =
into
three, actually into two, periods: the theological and metaphysical period,
extending from the beginning of the world to Comte, and the present
period,--that of the only true science, positive science,--beginning with
Comte.
All this was very
well. There was but one error=
, and
that was this,--that the whole edifice was erected on the sand, on the
arbitrary and false assertion that humanity is an organism. This assertion was arbitrary, beca=
use we
have just as much right to admit the existence of a human organism, not sub=
ject
to observation, as we have to admit the existence of any other invisible,
fantastic being. This asserti=
on was
erroneous, because for the understanding of humanity, i.e., of men, the
definition of an organism was incorrectly constructed, while in humanity it=
self
all actual signs of organism,--the centre of feeling or consciousness, are =
lacking.
{178}
But, in spite of =
the
arbitrariness and incorrectness of the fundamental assumption of positive
philosophy, it was accepted by the so-called cultivated world with the grea=
test
sympathy. In this connection,=
one thing
is worthy of note: that out of the works of Comte, consisting of two parts,=
of
positive philosophy and of positive politics, only the first was adopted by=
the
learned world,--that part which justifieth, on new promises, the existent e=
vil
of human societies; but the second part, treating of the moral obligations =
of
altruism, arising from the recognition of mankind as an organism, was regar=
ded
as not only of no importance, but as trivial and unscientific. It was a repetition of the same th=
ing
that had happened in the case of Kant's works. The "Critique of Pure Reason&=
quot;
was adopted by the scientific crowd; but the "Critique of Applied
Reason," that part which contains the gist of moral doctrine, was repu=
diated. In Kant's doctrine, that was accep=
ted as
scientific which subserved the existent evil. But the positive philosophy, which=
was accepted
by the crowd, was founded on an arbitrary and erroneous basis, was in itself
too unfounded, and therefore unsteady, and could not support itself alone.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And so, amid all the multitude of =
the
idle plays of thought of the men professing the so-called science, there
presents itself an assertion equally devoid of novelty, and equally arbitra=
ry
and erroneous, to the effect that living beings, i.e., organisms, have had =
their
rise in each other,--not only one organism from another, but one from many;
i.e., that in a very long interval of time (in a million of years, for
instance), not only could a duck and a fish proceed from one ancestor, but =
that
one animal might result from a whole hive of bees. And this arbitrary and erroneous
assumption was accepted by the learned world with still greater and more
universal sympathy. This assu=
mption
was arbitrary, because no one has ever seen how one organism is made from a=
nother,
and therefore the hypothesis as to the origin of species will always remain=
an
hypothesis, and not an experimental fact. And this hypothesis was also
erroneous, because the decision of the question as to the origin of
species--that they have originated, in consequence of the law of heredity a=
nd
fitness, in the course of an interminably long time--is no solution at all,=
but
merely a re-statement of the problem in a new form.
According to Mose=
s'
solution of the question (in the dispute with whom the entire significance =
of
this theory lies), it appears that the diversity of the species of living
creatures proceeded according to the will of God, and according to His almi=
ghty
power; but according to the theory of evolution, it appears that the differ=
ence
between living creatures arose by chance, and on account of varying conditi=
ons
of heredity and surroundings, through an endless period of time. The theory of evolution, to speak =
in
simple language, merely asserts, that by chance, in an incalculably long pe=
riod
of time, out of any thing you like, any thing else that you like may develo=
p.
This is no answer=
to
the problem. And the same pro=
blem
is differently expressed: instead of will, chance is offered, and the co-ef=
ficient
of the eternal is transposed from the power to the time. But this fresh assertion strengthe=
ned
Comte's assertion. And, moreo=
ver,
according to the ingenuous confession of the founder of Darwin's theory
himself, his idea was aroused in him by the law of Malthus; and he therefor=
e propounded
the theory of the struggle of living creatures and people for existence, as=
the
fundamental law of every living thing.&nbs=
p;
And lo! only this was needed by the throng of idle people for their
justification.
Two insecure
theories, incapable of sustaining themselves on their feet, upheld each oth=
er,
and acquired the semblance of stability.&n=
bsp;
Both theories bore with them that idea which is precious to the crow=
d,
that in the existent evil of human societies, men are not to blame, and that
the existing order of things is that which should prevail; and the new theo=
ry was
adopted by the throng with entire faith and unheard-of enthusiasm. And beho=
ld,
on the strength of these two arbitrary and erroneous hypotheses, accepted as
dogmas of belief, the new scientific doctrine was ratified.
Spencer, for exam=
ple,
in one of his first works, expresses this doctrine thus:--
"Societies a=
nd
organisms," he says, "are alike in the following points:--
"1. In that, beginning as tiny aggrega=
tes,
they imperceptibly grow in mass, so that some of them attain to the size of=
ten
thousand times their original bulk.
"2. In that while they were, in the
beginning, of such simple structure, that they can be regarded as destitute=
of
all structure, they acquire during the period of their growth a constantly
increasing complication of structure.
"3. In that although in their early,
undeveloped period, there exists between them hardly any interdependence of
parts, their parts gradually acquire an interdependence, which eventually
becomes so strong, that the life and activity of each part becomes possible
only on condition of the life and activity of the remaining parts.
"4. In that life and the development of
society are independent, and more protracted than the life and development =
of
any one of the units constituting it, which are born, grow, act, reproduce
themselves, and die separately; while the political body formed from them,
continues to live generation after generation, developing in mass in perfec=
tion
and functional activity."
The points of
difference between organisms and society go farther; and it is proved that
these differences are merely apparent, but that organisms and societies are
absolutely similar.
For the uninitiat=
ed
man the question immediately presents itself: "What are you talking
about? Why is mankind an orga=
nism,
or similar to an organism?"
You say that
societies resemble organisms in these four features; but it is nothing of t=
he
sort. You only take a few fea=
tures
of the organism, and beneath them you range human communities. You bring forward four features of
resemblance, then you take four features of dissimilarity, which are, howev=
er,
only apparent (according to you); and you thence conclude that human societ=
ies
can be regarded as organisms. But
surely, this is an empty game of dialectics, and nothing more. On the same foundation, under the
features of an organism, you may range whatever you please. I will take the fist thing that co=
mes
into my head. Let us suppose =
it to be
a forest,--the manner in which it sows itself in the plain, and spreads
abroad. 1. Beginning with a s=
mall
aggregate, it increases imperceptibly in mass, and so forth. Exactly the same thing takes place=
in
the fields, when they gradually seed themselves down, and bring forth a
forest. 2. In the beginning t=
he
structure is simple: afterwards it increases in complication, and so
forth. Exactly the same thing
happens with the forest,--in the first place, there were only bitch- trees,
then came brush-wood and hazel-bushes; at first all grow erect, then they
interlace their branches. 3. =
The
interdependence of the parts is so augmented, that the life of each part
depends on the life and activity of the remaining parts. It is precisely so with the forest=
,--the
hazel-bush warms the tree-boles (cut it down, and the other trees will free=
ze),
the hazel-bush protects from the wind, the seed-bearing trees carry on
reproduction, the tall and leafy trees afford shade, and the life of one tr=
ee
depends on the life of another. 4.
The separate parts may die, but the whole lives. Exactly the case with the forest.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The forest does not mourn one tree=
.
Having proved tha=
t,
in accordance with this theory, you may regard the forest as an organism, y=
ou
fancy that you have proved to the disciples of the organic doctrine the err=
or
of their definition. Nothing =
of the
sort. The definition which they give to the organism is so inaccurate and s=
o elastic
that under this definition they may include what they will. "Yes,"
they say; "and the forest may also be regarded as an organism. The forest is mutual re-action of
individuals, which do not annihilate each other,--an aggregate; its parts m=
ay
also enter into a more intimate union, as the hive of bees constitutes itse=
lf
an organism." Then you w=
ill
say, "If that is so, then the birds and the insects and the grass of t=
his
forest, which re-act upon each other, and do not destroy each other, may al=
so
be regarded as one organism, in company with the trees." And to this also they will agree.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Every collection of living individ=
uals,
which re-act upon each other, and do not destroy each other, may be regarde=
d as
organisms, according to their theory.
You may affirm a connection and interaction between whatever you cho=
ose,
and, according to evolution, you may affirm, that, out of whatever you plea=
se,
any other thing that you please may proceed, in a very long period of time.=
And the most
remarkable thing of all is, that this same identical positive science
recognizes the scientific method as the sign of true knowledge, and has its=
elf
defined what it designates as the scientific method.
By the scientific
method it means common-sense.
And common-sense
convicts it at every step. As=
soon
as the Popes felt that nothing holy remained in them, they called themselves
most holy.
As soon as science
felt that no common-sense was left in her she called herself sensible, that=
is
to say, scientific science.
Division of labor is the law of all
existing things, and, therefore, it should be present in human societies. It is very possible that this is s=
o; but
still the question remains, Of what nature is that division of labor which I
behold in my human society? is it that division of labor which should
exist? And if people regard a
certain division of labor as unreasonable and unjust, then no science whate=
ver
can convince men that that should exist which they regard as unreasonable a=
nd
unjust.
Division of labor=
is
the condition of existence of organisms, and of human societies; but what, =
in these
human societies, is to be regarded as an organic division of labor? And, to whatever extent science ma=
y have
investigated the division of labor in the cells of worms, all these observa=
tions
do not compel a man to acknowledge that division of labor to be correct whi=
ch
his own sense and conscience do not recognize as correct. No matter how convincing may be the
proofs of the division of labor of the cells in the organisms studied, man,=
if
he has not parted with his judgment, will say, nevertheless, that a man sho=
uld
not weave calico all his life, and that this is not division of labor, but =
persecution
of the people. Spencer and ot=
hers
say that there is a whole community of weavers, and that the profession of
weaving is an organic division of labor.&n=
bsp;
There are weavers; so, of course, there is such a division of
labor. It would be well enoug=
h to
speak thus if the colony of weavers had arisen by the free will of its
member's; but we know that it is not thus formed of their initiative, but t=
hat
we make it. Hence it is neces=
sary
to find out whether we have made these weavers in accordance with an organic
law, or with some other.
Men live. They support themselves by agricul=
ture,
as is natural to all men. One=
man
has set up a blacksmith's forge, and repaired his plough; his neighbor come=
s to
him, and asks him to mend his also, and promises him in return either work =
or
money. A third comes, and a f=
ourth;
and in the community formed by these men, there arises the following divisi=
on
of labor,--a blacksmith is created.
Another man has instructed his children well; his neighbor brings his
children to him, and requests him to teach them also, and a teacher is
created. But both blacksmith =
and
teacher have been created, and continue to be such, merely because they have
been asked; and they remain such as long as they are requested to be blacks=
mith
and teacher. If it should com=
e to
pass that many blacksmiths and teachers should set themselves up, or that t=
heir
work is not requited, they will immediately, as common-sense demands and as
always happens when there is no occasion for disturbing the regular course =
of division
of labor,--they will immediately abandon their trade, and betake themselves
once more to agriculture.
Men who behave th=
us
are guided by their sense, their conscience; and hence we, the men endowed =
with
sense and conscience, all assert that such a division of labor is right.
That which
constitutes the cause of the economical poverty of our age is what the Engl=
ish
call over-production (which means that a mass of things are made which are =
of
no use to anybody, and with which nothing can be done).
It would be odd to
see a shoemaker, who should consider that people were bound to feed him bec=
ause
he incessantly made boots which had been of no use to any one for a long ti=
me;
but what shall we say of those men who make nothing,--who not only produce =
nothing
that is visible, but nothing that is of use for people at large,--for whose
wares there are no customers, and who yet demand, with the same boldness, on
the ground of division of labor, that they shall be supplied with fine food=
and
drink, and that they shall be dressed well? There may be, and there are, sorce=
rers
for whose services a demand makes itself felt, and for this purpose there a=
re
brought to them pancakes and flasks; but it is difficult to imagine the
existence of sorcerers whose spells are useless to every one, and who boldly
demand that they shall be luxuriously supported because they exercise
sorcery. And it is the same i=
n our world. And all this comes about on the ba=
sis of
that false conception of the division of labor, which is defined not by rea=
son
and conscience, but by observation, which men of science avow with such
unanimity.
Division of labor
has, in reality, always existed, and still exists; but it is right only when
man decides with his reason and his conscience that it should be so, and not
when he merely investigates it. And
reason and conscience decide the question for all men very simply, unanimou=
sly,
and in a manner not to be doubted.
They always decide it thus: that division of labor is right only whe=
n a
special branch of man's activity is so needful to men, that they, entreating
him to serve them, voluntarily propose to support him in requital for that
which he shall do for them. But, when a man can live from infancy to the ag=
e of
thirty years on the necks of others, promising to do, when he shall have be=
en
taught, something extremely useful, for which no one asks him; and when, fr=
om
the age of thirty until his death, he can live in the same manner, still me=
rely
on the promise to do something, for which there has been no request, this w=
ill
not be division of labor (and, as a matter of fact, there is no such thing =
in
our society), but it will be what it already is,--merely the appropriation,=
by
force, of the toil of others; that same appropriation by force of the toil =
of others
which the philosophers formerly designated by various names,--for instance,=
as
indispensable forms of life,--but which scientific science now calls the
organic division of labor.
The whole
significance of scientific science lies in this alone. It has now become a distributer of
diplomas for idleness; for it alone, in its sanctuaries, selects and determ=
ines
what is parasitical, and what is organic activity, in the social organism.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Just as though every man could not=
find
this out for himself much more accurately and more speedily, by taking coun=
sel
of his reason and his conscience.
It seems to men of scientific science, that there can be no doubt of
this, and that their activity is also indubitably organic; they, the scient=
ific
and artistic workers, are the brain cells, and the most precious cells in t=
he
whole organism.
Ever since
men--reasoning beings--have existed, they have distinguished good from evil,
and have profited by the fact that men have made this distinction before th=
em;
they have warred against evil, and have sought the good, and have slowly but
uninterruptedly advanced in that path.&nbs=
p;
And divers delusions have always stood before men, hemming in this p=
ath,
and having for their object to demonstrate to them, that it was not necessa=
ry to
do this, and that it was not necessary to live as they were living. With
fearful conflict and difficulty, men have freed themselves from many delusi=
ons. And behold, a new and a still more=
evil
delusion has sprung up in the path of mankind,--the scientific delusion.
This new delusion=
is
precisely the same in nature as the old ones; its gist lies in secretly lea=
ding
astray the activity of our reason and conscience, and of those who have liv=
ed
before us, by something external. In scientific science, this external thing
is--investigation.
The cunning of th=
is
science consists in this,--that, after pointing out to men the coarsest fal=
se
interpretations of the activity of the reason and conscience of man, it
destroys in them faith in their own reason and conscience, and assures them
that every thing which their reason and conscience say to them, that all th=
at
these have said to the loftiest representatives of man heretofore, ever sin=
ce
the world has existed,--that all this is conventional and subjective. "All this must be abandoned,&=
quot; they
say; "it is impossible to understand the truth by the reason, for we m=
ay
be mistaken. But there exists
another unerring and almost mechanical path: it is necessary to investigate
facts."
But facts must be
investigated on the foundation of scientific science, i.e., of the two
hypotheses of positivism and evolution, which are not borne out by any thin=
g,
and which give themselves out as undoubted truths. And the reigning science announces=
, with
delusive solemnity, that the solution of all problems of life is possible o=
nly
through the study of facts, of nature, and, in particular, of organisms.
But the farther t=
he
disciples proceed in this study, the farther and farther does not only the
possibility, but even the very idea, of the solution of the problems of life
withdraw from them, and the more and more do they become accustomed, not so
much to investigate, as to believe in the assertions of other investigators=
(to
believe in cells, in protoplasm, in the fourth condition of bodies, and so
forth); the more and more does the form veil the contents from them; the mo=
re
and more do they lose the consciousness of good and evil, and the capacity =
of understanding
those expressions and definitions of good and evil which have been elaborat=
ed
through the whole foregoing life of mankind; and the more and more do they
appropriate to themselves the special scientific jargon of conventional
expressions, which possesses no universally human significance; and the dee=
per
and deeper do they plunge into the debris of utterly unilluminated
investigations; the more and more do they lose the power, not only of
independent thought, but even of understanding the fresh human thought of o=
thers,
which lies beyond the bounds of their Talmud. But the principal thing is, that t=
hey
pass their best years in getting disused to life; they grow accustomed to
consider their position as justifiable; and they convert themselves physica=
lly
into utterly useless parasites, and mentally they dislocate their brains and
become mental eunuchs. And in
precisely the same manner, according to the measure of their folly, do they
acquire self-conceit, which deprives them forever of all possibility of ret=
urn
to a simple life of toil, to a simple, clear, and universally human train of
reasoning.
Division of labor
always has existed in human communities, and will probably always exist; but
the question for us lies not in the fact that it has existed, and that it w=
ill
exist, but in this,--how are we to govern ourselves so that this division s=
hall
be right? But if we take inve=
stigation
as our rule of action, we by this very act repudiate all rule; then in that
case we shall regard as right every division of labor which we shall descry
among men, and which appears to us to be right--to which conclusion the
prevailing scientific science also leads.
Division of labor=
!
Some are busied in
mental or moral, others in muscular or physical, labor. With what confidence people enunci=
ate
this! They wish to think so, =
and it
seems to them that, in point of fact, a perfectly regular exchange of servi=
ces
does take place.
But we, in our
blindness, have so completely lost sight of the responsibility which we have
assumed, that we have even forgotten in whose name our labor is prosecuted;=
and
the very people whom we have undertaken to serve have become the objects of=
our
scientific and artistic activity.
We study and depict them for our amusement and diversion. We have totally forgotten that wha=
t we
need to do is not to study and depict them, but to serve them. To such a degree have we lost sigh=
t of
this duty which we have taken upon us, that we have not even noticed that w=
hat
we have undertaken to perform in the realm of science and art has been
accomplished not by us, but by others, and that our place has turned out to=
be
occupied.
It proves that wh=
ile
we have been disputing, one about the spontaneous origin of organisms, anot=
her
as to what else there is in protoplasm, and so on, the common people have b=
een
in need of spiritual food; and the unsuccessful and rejected of art and
science, in obedience to the mandate of adventurers who have in view the so=
le
aim of profit, have begun to furnish the people with this spiritual food, a=
nd
still so furnish them. For the last forty years in Europe, and for the last=
ten
years with us here in Russia, millions of books and pictures and song-books
have been distributed, and stalls have been opened, and the people gaze and
sing and receive spiritual nourishment, but not from us who have undertaken=
to provide
it; while we, justifying our idleness by that spiritual food which we are
supposed to furnish, sit by and wink at it.
But it is impossi=
ble
for us to wink at it, for our last justification is slipping from beneath o=
ur
feet. We have become
specialized. We have our part=
icular
functional activity. We are t=
he
brains of the people. They su=
pport
us, and we have undertaken to teach them.&=
nbsp;
It is only under this pretence that we have excused ourselves from
work. But what have we taught=
them,
and what are we now teaching them?
They have waited for years--for tens, for hundreds of years. And we keep on diverting our minds=
with
chatter, and we instruct each other, and we console ourselves, and we have
utterly forgotten them. We ha=
ve so
entirely forgotten them, that others have undertaken to instruct them, and =
we
have not even perceived it. W=
e have
spoken of the division of labor with such lack of seriousness, that it is
obvious that what we have said about the benefits which we have conferred on
the people was simply a shameless evasion.
Science and art have arrogated to
themselves the right of idleness, and of the enjoyment of the labor of othe=
rs,
and have betrayed their calling. And their errors have arisen merely because
their servants, having set forth a falsely conceived principle of the divis=
ion
of labor, have recognized their own right to make use of the labor of other=
s,
and have lost the significance of their vocation; having taken for their ai=
m,
not the profit of the people, but the mysterious profit of science and art,=
and
delivered themselves over to idleness and vice--not so much of the senses a=
s of
the mind.
They say,
"Science and art have bestowed a great deal on mankind."
Science and art h=
ave
bestowed a great deal on mankind, not because the men of art and science, u=
nder
the pretext of a division of labor, live on other people, but in spite of t=
his.
The Roman Republic
was powerful, not because her citizens had the power to live a vicious life,
but because among their number there were heroic citizens. It is the same with art and
science. Art and science have=
bestowed
much on mankind, but not because their followers formerly possessed on rare
occasions (and now possess on every occasion) the possibility of getting ri=
d of
labor; but because there have been men of genius, who, without making use of
these rights, have led mankind forward.
The class of lear=
ned
men and artists, which has advanced, on the fictitious basis of a division =
of
labor, its demands to the right of using the labors of others, cannot
co-operate in the success of true science and true art, because a lie cannot
bring forth the truth.
We have become so
accustomed to these, our tenderly reared or weakened representatives of men=
tal
labor, that it seems to us horrible that a man of science or an artist shou=
ld
plough or cart manure. It see=
ms to
us that every thing would go to destruction, and that all his wisdom would =
be
rattled out of him in the cart, and that all those grand picturesque images
which he bears about in his breast would be soiled in the manure; but we ha=
ve
become so inured to this, that it does not strike us as strange that our
servitor of science--that is to say, the servant and teacher of the truth--=
by
making other people do for him that which he might do for himself, passes h=
alf
his time in dainty eating, in smoking, in talking, in free and easy gossip,=
in
reading the newspapers and romances, and in visiting the theatres. It is not strange to us to see our
philosopher in the tavern, in the theatre, and at the ball. It is not strange in our eyes to l=
earn
that those artists who sweeten and ennoble our souls have passed their live=
s in
drunkenness, cards, and women, if not in something worse.
Art and science a=
re
very beautiful things; but just because they are so beautiful they should n=
ot
be spoiled by the compulsory combination with them of vice: that is to say,=
a
man should not get rid of his obligation to serve his own life and that of
other people by his own labor. Art
and science have caused mankind to progress. Yes; but not because men of art and
science, under the guise of division of labor, have rid themselves of the v=
ery
first and most indisputable of human obligations,--to labor with their hand=
s in
the universal struggle of mankind with nature.
"But only the
division of labor, the freedom of men of science and of art from the necess=
ity
of earning them living, has rendered possible that remarkable success of
science which we behold in our day," is the answer to this. "If all were forced to till t=
he
soil, those vast results would not have been attained which have been attai=
ned
in our day; there would have been none of those striking successes which ha=
ve
so greatly augmented man's power over nature, were it not for these
astronomical discoveries which are so astounding to the mind of man, and wh=
ich
have added to the security of navigation; there would be no steamers, no ra=
ilways,
none of those wonderful bridges, tunnels, steam-engines and telegraphs,
photography, telephones, sewing-machines, phonographs, electricity, telesco=
pes,
spectroscopes, microscopes, chloroform, Lister's bandages, and carbolic
acid."
I will not enumer=
ate
every thing on which our age thus prides itself. This enumeration and pride=
of
enthusiasm over ourselves and our exploits can be found in almost any newsp=
aper
and popular pamphlet. This en=
thusiasm
over ourselves is often repeated to such a degree that none of us can
sufficiently rejoice over ourselves, that we are seriously convinced that a=
rt
and science have never made such progress as in our own time. And, as we are indebted for all th=
is
marvellous progress to the division of labor, why not acknowledge it?
Let us admit that=
the
progress made in our day is noteworthy, marvellous, unusual; let us admit t=
hat
we are fortunate mortals to live in such a remarkable epoch: but let us
endeavor to appraise this progress, not on the basis of our self-satisfacti=
on,
but of that principle which defends itself with this progress,--the divisio=
n of
labor. All this progress is v=
ery
amazing; but by a peculiarly unlucky chance, admitted even by the men of
science, this progress has not so far improved, but it has rather rendered
worse, the position of the majority, that is to say, of the workingman.
If the workingman=
can
travel on the railway, instead of walking, still that same railway has burn=
ed
down his forest, has carried off his grain under his very nose, and has bro=
ught
his condition very near to slavery--to the capitalist. If, thanks to steam-engines and
machines, the workingman can purchase inferior calico at a cheap rate, on t=
he
other hand these engines and machines have deprived him of work at home, an=
d have
brought him into a state of abject slavery to the manufacturer. If there are telephones and telesc=
opes,
poems, romances, theatres, ballets, symphonies, operas, picture-galleries, =
and
so forth, on the other hand the life of the workingman has not been bettere=
d by
all this; for all of them, by the same unlucky chance, are inaccessible to =
him.
So that, on the w=
hole
(and even men of science admit this), up to the present time, all these
remarkable discoveries and products of science and art have certainly not
ameliorated the condition of the workingman, if, indeed, they have not made=
it
worse. So that, if we set aga=
inst
the question as to the reality of the progress attained by the arts and sci=
ences,
not our own rapture, but that standard upon the basis of which the division=
of
labor is defended,--the good of the laboring man,--we shall see that we hav=
e no
firm foundations for that self-satisfaction in which we are so fond of
indulging.
The peasant trave=
ls
on the railway, the woman buys calico, in the isba (cottage) there will be a
lamp instead of a pine-knot, and the peasant will light his pipe with a
match,--this is convenient; but what right have I to say that the railway a=
nd
the factory have proved advantageous to the people?
If the peasant ri=
des
on the railway, and buys calico, a lamp, and matches, it is only because it=
is
impossible to forbid the peasant's buying them; but surely we are all aware
that the construction of railways and factories has never been carried out =
for
the benefit of the lower classes: so why should a casual convenience which =
the
workingman enjoys lead to a proof of the utility of all these institutions =
for
the people?
There is something
useful in every injurious thing.
After a conflagration, one can warm one's self, and light one's pipe
with a firebrand; but why declare that the conflagration is beneficial?
Men of art and
science might say that their pursuits are beneficial to the people, only wh=
en
men of art and science have assigned to themselves the object of serving the
people, as they now assign themselves the object of serving the authorities=
and
the capitalists. We might say=
this if
men of art and science had taken as their aim the needs of the people; but
there are none such. All scie=
ntists
are busy with their priestly avocations, out of which proceed investigations
into protoplasm, the spectral analyses of stars, and so on. But science has never once thought=
of
what axe or what hatchet is the most profitable to chop with, what saw is t=
he
most handy, what is the best way to mix bread, from what flour, how to set =
it,
how to build and heat an oven, what food and drink, and what utensils, are =
the
most convenient and advantageous under certain conditions, what mushrooms m=
ay
be eaten, how to propagate them, and how to prepare them in the most suitab=
le
manner. And yet all this is t=
he province
of science.
I am aware, that,
according to its own definition, science ought to be useless, i.e., science=
for
the sake of science; but surely this is an obvious evasion. The province of science is to serv=
e the
people. We have invented
telegraphs, telephones, phonographs; but what advances have we effected in =
the
life, in the labor, of the people?
We have reckoned up two millions of beetles! And we have not tamed a single ani=
mal
since biblical times, when all our animals were already domesticated; but t=
he reindeer,
the stag, the partridge, the heath-cock, all remain wild.
Our botanists have
discovered the cell, and in the cell protoplasm, and in that protoplasm sti=
ll
something more, and in that atom yet another thing. It is evident that these occupatio=
ns
will not end for a long time to come, because it is obvious that there can =
be
no end to them, and therefore the scientist has no time to devote to those
things which are necessary to the people.&=
nbsp;
And therefore, again, from the time of Egyptian and Hebrew antiquity,
when wheat and lentils had already been cultivated, down to our own times, =
not
a single plant has been added to the food of the people, with the exception=
of
the potato, and that was not obtained by science.
Torpedoes have be=
en
invented, and apparatus for taxation, and so forth. But the spinning-whined,
the woman's weaving-loom, the plough, the hatchet, the chain, the rake, the
bucket, the well-sweep, are exactly the same as they were in the days of Ru=
rik;
and if there has been any change, then that change has not been effected by
scientific people.
And it is the same
with the arts. We have elevat=
ed a
lot of people to the rank of great writers; we have picked these writers to
pieces, and have written mountains of criticism, and criticism on the criti=
cs,
and criticism on the critics of the critics. And we have collected picture- gal=
leries,
and have studied different schools of art in detail; and we have so many
symphonies and orchestras and operas, that it is becoming difficult even fo=
r us
to listen to them. But what h=
ave we
added to the popular bylini [the epic songs], legends, tales, songs? What music, what pictures, have we=
given
to the people?
On the Nikolskaya
books are manufactured for the people, and harmonicas in Tula; and in neith=
er
have we taken any part. The f=
alsity
of the whole direction of our arts and sciences is more striking and more
apparent in precisely those very branches, which, it would seem, should, fr=
om
their very nature, be of use to the people, and which, in consequence of th=
eir false
attitude, seem rather injurious than useful. The technologist, the physician, t=
he
teacher, the artist, the author, should, in virtue of their very callings, =
it
would seem, serve the people. And,
what then? Under the present regime, they can do nothing but harm to the
people.
The technologist =
or
the mechanic has to work with capital.&nbs=
p;
Without capital he is good for nothing. All his acquirements are such that=
for their
display he requires capital, and the exploitation of the laboring- man on t=
he
largest scale; and--not to mention that he is trained to live, at the lowes=
t,
on from fifteen hundred to two thousand a year, and that, therefore, he can=
not
go to the country, where no one can give him such wages,--he is, by virtue =
of
his very occupation, unfitted for serving the people. He knows how to calculate the high=
est
mathematical arch of a bridge, how to calculate the force and transfer of t=
he
motive power, and so on; but he is confounded by the simplest questions of a
peasant: how to improve a plough or a cart, or how to make irrigating
canals. All this in the condi=
tions
of life in which the laboring man finds himself. Of this, he neither knows =
nor
understands any thing,--less, indeed, than the very stupidest peasant. Give him workshops, all sorts of w=
orkmen
at his desire, an order for a machine from abroad, and he will get along. B=
ut
how to devise means of lightening toil, under the conditions of labor of
millions of men,--this is what he does not and can not know; and because of=
his
knowledge, his habits, and his demands on life, he is unfitted for this
business.
In a still worse
predicament is the physician. His
fancied science is all so arranged, that he only knows how to heal those
persons who do nothing. He re=
quires
an incalculable quantity of expensive preparations, instruments, drugs, and
hygienic apparatus.
He has studied wi=
th
celebrities in the capitals, who only retain patients who can be cured in t=
he
hospital, or who, in the course of their cure, can purchase the appliances
requisite for healing, and even go at once from the North to the South, to =
some
baths or other. Science is of=
such a
nature, that every rural physic-man laments because there are no means of
curing working-men, because he is so poor that he has not the means to place
the sick man in the proper hygienic conditions; and at the same time this
physician complains that there are no hospitals, and that he cannot get thr=
ough
with his work, that he needs assistants, more doctors and practitioners.
What is the infer=
ence? This: that the people's principal =
lack,
from which diseases arise, and spread abroad, and refuse to be healed, is t=
he lack
of means of subsistence. And =
here
Science, under the banner of the division of labor, summons her warriors to=
the
aid of the people. Science is
entirely arranged for the wealthy classes, and it has adopted for its task =
the
healing of the people who can obtain every thing for themselves; and it
attempts to heal those who possess no superfluity, by the same means.
But there are no
means, and therefore it is necessary to take them from the people who are
ailing, and pest-stricken, and who cannot recover for lack of means. And now the defenders of medicine =
for
the people say that this matter has been, as yet, but little developed. Evidently it has been but little
developed, because if (which God forbid!) it had been developed, and that
through oppressing the people,--instead of two doctors, midwives, and
practitioners in a district, twenty would have settled down, since they des=
ire
this, and half the people would have died through the difficulty of support=
ing
this medical staff, and soon there would be no one to heal.
Scientific
co-operation with the people, of which the defenders of science talk, must =
be
something quite different. An=
d this
co-operation which should exist has not yet begun. It will begin when the man of scie=
nce,
technologist or physician, will not consider it legal to take from people--I
will not say a hundred thousand, but even a modest ten thousand, or five
hundred rubles for assisting them; but when he will live among the toiling
people, under the same conditions, and exactly as they do, then he will be =
able
to apply his knowledge to the questions of mechanics, technics, hygiene, and
the healing of the laboring people.
But now science, supporting itself at the expense of the working-peo=
ple,
has entirely forgotten the conditions of life among these people, ignores (=
as it
puts it) these conditions, and takes very grave offence because its fancied
knowledge finds no adherents among the people.
The domain of
medicine, like the domain of technical science, still lies untouched. All questions as to how the time of
labor is best divided, what is the best method of nourishment, with what, in
what shape, and when it is best to clothe one's self, to shoe one's self, to
counteract dampness and cold, how best to wash one's self, to feed the
children, to swaddle them, and so on, in just those conditions in which the
working- people find themselves,--all these questions have not yet been pro=
pounded.
The same is the c=
ase
with the activity of the teachers of science,--pedagogical teachers. Exactly in the same manner science=
has so
arranged this matter, that only wealthy people are able to study science, a=
nd
teachers, like technologists and physicians, cling to money.
And this cannot be
otherwise, because a school built on a model plan (as a general rule, the m=
ore
scientifically built the school, the more costly it is), with pivot chains,=
and
globes, and maps, and library, and petty text-books for teachers and schola=
rs
and pedagogues, is a sort of thing for which it would be necessary to double
the taxes in every village. This science demands. The people need money for their wo=
rk;
and the more there is needed, the poorer they are.
Defenders of scie=
nce
say: "Pedagogy is even now proving of advantage to the people, but giv=
e it
a chance to develop, and then it will do still better." Yes, if it does develop, and inste=
ad of
twenty schools in a district there are a hundred, and all scientific, and if
the people support these schools, they will grow poorer than ever, and they
will more than ever need work for their children's sake. "What is to be done?" th=
ey say
to this. The government will =
build
the schools, and will make education obligatory, as it is in Europe; but ag=
ain,
surely, the money is taken from the people just the same, and it will be ha=
rder
to work, and they will have less leisure for work, and there will be no edu=
cation
even by compulsion. Again the=
sole
salvation is this: that the teacher should live under the conditions of the
working-men, and should teach for that compensation which they give him fre=
ely
and voluntarily.
Such is the false
course of science, which deprives it of the power of fulfilling its obligat=
ion,
which is, to serve the people.
But in nothing is
this false course of science so obviously apparent, as in the vocation of a=
rt,
which, from its very significance, ought to be accessible to the people.
The painter, for =
the
production of his great works, must have a studio of at least such dimensio=
ns
that a whole association of carpenters (forty in number) or shoemakers, now
sickening or stifling in lairs, would be able to work in it. But this is not all; he must have a
model, costumes, travels. Mil=
lions
are expended on the encouragement of art, and the products of this art are =
both
incomprehensible and useless to the people. Musicians, in order to express
their grand ideas, must assemble two hundred men in white neckties, or in
costumes, and spend hundreds of thousands of rubles for the equipment of an
opera. And the products of th=
is art
cannot evoke from the people--even if the latter could at any time enjoy
it--any thing except amazement and ennui.
Writers--authors-=
-it
appears, do not require surroundings, studios, models, orchestras, and acto=
rs;
but it then appears that the author needs (not to mention comfort in his
quarters) all the dainties of life for the preparation of his great works,
travels, palaces, cabinets, libraries, the pleasures of art, visits to
theatres, concerts, the baths, and so on. If he does not earn a fortune for
himself, he is granted a pension, in order that he may compose the better.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And again, these compositions, so =
prized
by us, remain useless lumber for the people, and utterly unserviceable to t=
hem.
And if still more=
of
these dealers in spiritual nourishment are developed further, as men of sci=
ence
desire, and a studio is erected in every village; if an orchestra is set up,
and authors are supported in those conditions which artistic people regard =
as
indispensable for themselves,--I imagine that the working-classes will soon=
er
take an oath never to look at any pictures, never to listen to a symphony,
never to read poetry or novels, than to feed all these persons.
And why, apparent=
ly,
should art not be of service to the people? In every cottage there are images =
and
pictures; every peasant man and woman sings; many own harmonicas; and all
recite stories and verses, and many read.&=
nbsp;
It is as if those two things which are made for each other--the lock=
and
the key--had parted company; they have sprung so far apart, that not even t=
he
possibility of uniting them presents itself. Tell the artist that he should pai=
nt
without a studio, model, or costumes, and that he should paint five-kopek
pictures, and he will say that that is tantamount to abandoning his art, as=
he
understands it. Tell the musi=
cian
that he should play on the harmonica, and teach the women to sing songs; sa=
y to
the poet, to the author, that he ought to cast aside his poems and romances,
and compose song-books, tales, and stories, comprehensible to the uneducated
people,--they will say that you are mad.
The service of the
people by science and art will only be performed when people, dwelling in t=
he
midst of the common folk, and, like the common folk, putting forward no dem=
ands,
claiming no rights, shall offer to the common folk their scientific and
artistic services; the acceptance or rejection of which shall depend wholly=
on
the will of the common folk.
It is said that t=
he
activity of science and art has aided in the forward march of mankind,--mea=
ning
by this activity, that which is now called by that name; which is the same =
as
saying that an unskilled banging of oars on a vessel that is floating with =
the
tide, which merely hinders the progress of the vessel, is assisting the
movement of the ship. It only=
retards
it. The so-called division of
labor, which has become in our day the condition of activity of men of scie=
nce
and art, was, and has remained, the chief cause of the tardy forward moveme=
nt
of mankind.
The proofs of this
lie in that confession of all men of science, that the gains of science and=
art
are inaccessible to the laboring masses, in consequence of the faulty
distribution of riches. The
irregularity of this distribution does not decrease in proportion to the
progress of science and art, but only increases. Men of art and science assume an a=
ir of
deep pity for this unfortunate circumstance which does not depend upon
them. But this unfortunate
circumstance is produced by themselves; for this irregular distribution of
wealth flows solely from the theory of the division of labor.
Science maintains=
the
division of labor as a unalterable law; it sees that the distribution of
wealth, founded on the division of labor, is wrong and ruinous; and it affi=
rms
that its activity, which recognizes the division of labor, will lead people=
to
bliss. The result is, that so=
me people
make use of the labor of others; but that, if they shall make use of the la=
bor
of others for a very long period of time, and in still larger measure, then
this wrongful distribution of wealth, i.e., the use of the labor of others,
will come to an end.
Men stand beside a
constantly swelling spring of water, and are occupied with the problem of
diverting it to one side, away from the thirsty people, and they assert that
they are producing this water, and that soon enough will be collected for
all. But this water which has
flowed, and which still flows unceasingly, and nourishes all mankind, not o=
nly
is not the result of the activity of the men who, standing at its source, t=
urn it
aside, but this water flows and gushes out, in spite of the efforts of these
men to obstruct its flow.
There have always
existed a true science, and a true art; but true science and art are not su=
ch
because they called themselves by that name. It always seems to those who c=
laim
at any given period to be the representatives of science and art, that they
have performed, and are performing, and--most of all--that they will presen=
tly
perform, the most amazing marvels, and that beside them there never has been
and there is not any science or any art.&n=
bsp;
Thus it seemed to the sophists, the scholastics, the alchemists, the
cabalists, the talmudists; and thus it seems to our own scientific science,=
and
to our art for the sake of art.
"But art,--science! You repudiate art and science; tha=
t is,
you repudiate that by which mankind lives!" People are constantly making this-=
-it is
not a reply--to me, and they employ this mode of reception in order to reje=
ct
my deductions without examining into them.=
"He repudiates science and art, he wants to send people back ag=
ain
into a savage state; so what is the use of listening to him and of talking =
to him?" But this is unjust. I not only do not repudiate art and
science, but, in the name of that which is true art and true science, I say
that which I do say; merely in order that mankind may emerge from that sava=
ge state
into which it will speedily fall, thanks to the erroneous teaching of our
time,--only for this purpose do I say that which I say.
Art and science a=
re
as indispensable as food and drink and clothing,--more indispensable even; =
but
they become so, not because we decide that what we designate as art and sci=
ence
are indispensable, but simply because they really are indispensable to peop=
le.
Surely, if hay is
prepared for the bodily nourishment of men, the fact that we are convinced =
that
hay is the proper food for man will not make hay the food of man. Surely I cannot say, "Why do =
not
you eat hay, when it is the indispensable food?" Food is indispensable, but it may =
happen
that that which I offer is not food at all. This same thing has occurred with =
our
art and science. It seems to =
us,
that if we add to a Greek word the word "logy," and call that a
science, it will be a science; and, if we call any abominable thing--like t=
he
dancing of nude females--by a Greek word, choreography, that that is art, a=
nd
that it will be art. But no m=
atter
how much we may say this, the business with which we occupy ourselves when =
we
count beetles, and investigate the chemical constituents of the stars in the
Milky Way, when we paint nymphs and compose novels and symphonies,--our
business will not become either art or science until such time as it is
accepted by those people for whom it is wrought.
If it were decided
that only certain people should produce food, and if all the rest were
forbidden to do this, or if they were rendered incapable of producing food,=
I
suppose that the quality of food would be lowered. If the people who enjoyed the mono=
poly
of producing food were Russian peasants, there would be no other food than
black bread and cabbage-soup, and so on, and kvas,--nothing except what they
like, and what is agreeable to them.
The same thing would happen in the case of that loftiest human pursu=
it,
of arts and sciences, if one caste were to arrogate to itself a monopoly of
them: but with this sole difference, that, in the matter of bodily food, th=
ere
can be no great departure from nature, and bread and cabbage-soup, although=
not
very savory viands, are fit for consumption; but in spiritual food, there m=
ay
exist the very greatest departures from nature, and some people may feed
themselves for a long time on poisonous spiritual nourishment, which is
directly unsuitable for, or injurious to, them; they may slowly kill themse=
lves
with spiritual opium or liquors, and they may offer this same food to the m=
asses.
It is this very t= hing that is going on among us. An= d it has come about because the position of men of science and art is a privileg= ed one, because art and science (in our day), in our world, are not at all a r= ational occupation of all mankind without exception, exerting their best powers for= the service of art and science, but an occupation of a restricted circle of peo= ple holding a monopoly of these industries, and entitling themselves men of art= and science, and who have, therefore, perverted the very idea of art and scienc= e, and have lost all the meaning of their vocation, and who are only concerned= in amusing and rescuing from crushing ennui their tiny circle of idle mouths.<= o:p>
Ever since men ha=
ve
existed, they have always had science and art in the simplest and broadest
sense of the term. Science, i=
n the
sense of the whole of knowledge acquired by mankind, exists and always has =
existed,
and life without it is not conceivable; and there is no possibility of eith=
er
attacking or defending science, taken in this sense.
But the point lies
here,--that the scope of the knowledge of all mankind as a whole is so
multifarious, ranging from the knowledge of how to extract iron to the
knowledge of the movements of the planets, that man loses himself in this
multitude of existing knowledge,--knowledge capable of endless possibilitie=
s,
if he have no guiding thread, by the aid of which he can classify this
knowledge, and arrange the branches according to the degrees of their
significance and importance.
Before a man
undertakes to learn any thing whatever, he must make up his mind that that
branch of knowledge is of weight to him, and of more weight and importance =
than
the countless other objects of study with which he is surrounded. Before undertaking the study of any
thing, a man decides for what purpose he is studying this subject, and not =
the
others. But to study every thing, as the men of scientific science in our d=
ay preach,
without any idea of what is to come out of such study, is downright impossi=
ble,
because the number of subjects of study is endless; and hence, no matter how
many branches we may acquire, their acquisition can possess no significance=
or
reason. And, therefore, in an=
cient
times, down to even a very recent date, until the appearance of scientific
science, man's highest wisdom consisted in finding that guiding thread,
according to which the knowledge of men should be classified as being of
primary or of secondary importance.
And this knowledge, which forms the guide to all other branches of
knowledge, men have always called science in the strictest acceptation of t=
he
word. And such science there =
has
always been, even down to our own day, in all human communities which have
emerged from their primal state of savagery.
Ever since mankind
has existed, teachers have always arisen among peoples, who have enunciated
science in this restricted sense,--the science of what it is most useful for
man to know. This science has=
always
had for its object the knowledge of what is the true ground of the well-bei=
ng
of each individual man, and of all men, and why. Such was the science of Confucius,=
of
Buddha, of Socrates, of Mahomet, and of others; such is this science as they
understood it, and as all men--with the exception of our little circle of
so-called cultured people--understand it.&=
nbsp;
This science has not only always occupied the highest place, but has=
been
the only and sole science, from which the standing of the rest has been
determined. And this was the =
case,
not in the least because, as the so-called scientific people of our day thi=
nk,
cunning priestly teachers of this science attributed to it such significanc=
e,
but because in reality, as every one knows, both by personal experience and=
by reflection,
there can be no science except the science of that in which the destiny and
welfare of man consist. For t=
he
objects of science are incalculable in number,--I undermine the word
"incalculable" in the exact sense in which I understand it,--and
without the knowledge of that in which the destiny and welfare of all men
consist, there is no possibility of making a choice amid this interminable
multitude of subjects; and therefore, without this knowledge, all other arts
and branches of learning will become, as they have become among us, an idle=
and
hurtful diversion.
Mankind has exist=
ed
and existed, and never has it existed without the science of that in which =
the
destiny and the welfare of men consist.&nb=
sp;
It is true that the science of the welfare of men appears different =
on superficial
observation, among the Buddhists, the Brahmins, the Hebrews, the Confucians,
the Tauists; but nevertheless, wherever we hear of men who have emerged fro=
m a
state of savagery, we find this science.&n=
bsp;
And all of a sudden it appears that the men of our day have decided =
that
this same science, which has hitherto served as the guiding thread of all h=
uman
knowledge, is the very thing which hinders every thing. Men erect buildings; and one archi=
tect
has made one estimate of cost, a second has made another, and a third yet
another. The estimates differ
somewhat; but they are correct, so that any one can see, that, if the whole=
is carried
out in accordance with the calculations, the building will be erected. Along come people, and assert that=
the
chief point lies in having no estimates, and that it should be built thus--=
by
the eye. And this "thus,=
"
men call the most accurate of scientific science. Men repudiate every science, the v=
ery
substance of science,--the definition of the destiny and the welfare of
men,--and this repudiation they designate as science.
Ever since men ha=
ve
existed, great minds have been born into their midst, which, in the conflict
with reason and conscience, have put to themselves questions as to "wh=
at
constitutes welfare,--the destiny and welfare, not of myself alone, but of
every man?" What does th=
at
power which has created and which leads me, demand of me and of every man?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And what is it necessary for me to=
do,
in order to comply with the requirements imposed upon me by the demands of
individual and universal welfare?
They have asked themselves: "I am a whole, and also a part of
something infinite, eternal; what, then, are my relations to other parts
similar to myself, to men and to the whole--to the world?"
And from the voic=
es
of conscience and of reason, and from a comparison of what their contempora=
ries
and men who had lived before them, and who had propounded to themselves the
same questions, had said, these great teachers have deduced their doctrines,
which were simple, clear, intelligible to all men, and always such as were
susceptible of fulfilment. Su=
ch men
have existed of the first, second, third, and lowest ranks. The world is full of such men. Every living man propounds the que=
stion
to himself, how to reconcile the demands of welfare, and of his personal
existence, with conscience and reason; and from this universal labor, slowly
but uninterruptedly, new forms of life, which are more in accord with the
requirements of reason and of conscience, are worked out.
All at once, a new
caste of people makes its appearance, and they say, "All this is nonse=
nse;
all this must be abandoned."
This is the deductive method of ratiocination (wherein lies the
difference between the deductive and the inductive method, no one can
understand); these are the dogmas of the technological and metaphysical
period. Every thing that thes=
e men
discover by inward experience, and which they communicate to one another,
concerning their knowledge of the law of their existence (of their function=
al
activity, according to their own jargon), every thing that the grandest min=
ds
of mankind have accomplished in this direction, since the beginning of the
world,--all this is nonsense, and has no weight whatever. According to this new doctrine, it
appears that you are cells: and that you, as a cell, have a very definite
functional activity, which you not only fulfil, but which you infallibly fe=
el
within you; and that you are a thinking, talking, understanding cell, and t=
hat you,
for this reason, can ask another similar talking cell whether it is just the
same, and in this way verify your own experience; that you can take advanta=
ge
of the fact that speaking cells, which have lived before you, have written =
on
the same subject, and that you have millions of cells which confirm your
observations by their agreement with the cells which have written down their
thoughts,--all this signifies nothing; all this is an evil and an erroneous
method.
The true scientif=
ic
method is this: If you wish to know in what the destiny and the welfare of =
all
mankind and of all the world consists, you must, first of all, cease to lis=
ten
to the voices of your conscience and of your reason, which present themselv=
es
in you and in others like you; you must cease to believe all that the great
teachers of mankind have said with regard to your conscience and reason, and
you must consider all this as nonsense, and begin all over again. And, in order to understand every =
thing
from the beginning, you must look through microscopes at the movements of
amoebae, and cells in worms, or, with still greater composure, believe in e=
very
thing that men with a diploma of infallibility shall say to you about
them. And as you gaze at the =
movements
of these cells, or read about what others have seen, you must attribute to
these cells your own human sensations and calculations as to what they desi=
re,
whither they are directing themselves, how they compare and discuss, and to=
what
they have become accustomed; and from these observations (in which there is=
not
a word about an error of thought or of expression) you must deduce a conclu=
sion
by analogy as to what you are, what is your destiny, wherein lies the welfa=
re
of yourself and of other cells like you.&n=
bsp;
In order to understand yourself, you must study not only the worms w=
hich
you see, but microscopic creatures which you can barely see, and
transformations from one set of creatures into others, which no one has ever
beheld, and which you, most assuredly, will never behold. And the same with art. Where there has been true science,=
art has
always been its exponent.
Ever since men ha=
ve
been in existence, they have been in the habit of deducing, from all pursui=
ts,
the expressions of various branches of learning concerning the destiny and =
the
welfare of man, and the expression of this knowledge has been art in the st=
rict
sense of the word.
Ever since men ha=
ve
existed, there have been those who were peculiarly sensitive and responsive=
to
the doctrine regarding the destiny and welfare of man; who have given
expression to their own and the popular conflict, to the delusions which le=
ad
them astray from their destinies, their sufferings in this conflict, their
hopes in the triumph of good, them despair over the triumph of evil, and th=
eir
raptures in the consciousness of the approaching bliss of man, on viol and
tabret, in images and words.
Always, down to the most recent times, art has served science and
life,--only then was it what has been so highly esteemed of men. But art, in its capacity of an imp=
ortant
human activity, disappeared simultaneously with the substitution for the
genuine science of destiny and welfare, of the science of any thing you cho=
ose
to fancy. Art has existed among all peoples, and will exist until that which
among us is scornfully called religion has come to be considered the only s=
cience.
In our European
world, so long as there existed a Church, as the doctrine of destiny and
welfare, and so long as the Church was regarded as the only true science, a=
rt
served the Church, and remained true art: but as soon as art abandoned the
Church, and began to serve science, while science served whatever came to h=
and,
art lost its significance. An=
d notwithstanding
the rights claimed on the score of ancient memories, and of the clumsy
assertion which only proves its loss of its calling, that art serves art, it
has become a trade, providing men with something agreeable; and as such, it
inevitably comes into the category of choreographic, culinary, hair-dressin=
g,
and cosmetic arts, whose practitioners designate themselves as artists, with
the same right as the poets, printers, and musicians of our day.
Glance backward i=
nto
the past, and you will see that in the course of thousands of years, out of
milliards of people, only half a score of Confucius', Buddhas, Solomons,
Socrates, Solons, and Homers have been produced. Evidently, they are rarely met with
among men, in spite of the fact that these men have not been selected from =
a single
caste, but from mankind at large.
Evidently, these true teachers and artists and learned men, the
purveyors of spiritual nourishment, are rare. And it is not without reason that
mankind has valued and still values them so highly.
But it now appear=
s,
that all these great factors in the science and art of the past are no long=
er
of use to us. Nowadays, scien=
tific
and artistic authorities can, in accordance with the law of division of lab=
or,
be turned out by factory methods; and, in one decade, more great men have b=
een
manufactured in art and science, than have ever been born of such among all
nations, since the foundation of the world. Nowadays there is a guild of learn=
ed men
and artists, and they prepare, by perfected methods, all that spiritual food
which man requires. And they =
have
prepared so much of it, that it is no longer necessary to refer to the elder
authorities, who have preceded them,--not only to the ancients, but to those
much nearer to us. All that w=
as the
activity of the theological and metaphysical period,--all that must be wiped
out: but the true, the rational activity began, say, fifty years ago, and in
the course of those fifty years we have made so many great men, that there =
are
about ten great men to every branch of science. And there have come to be so many
sciences, that, fortunately, it is easy to make them. All that is required is to add the=
Greek
word "logy" to the name, and force them to conform to a set rubri=
c,
and the science is all complete.
They have created so many sciences, that not only can no one man know
them all, but not a single individual can remember all the titles of all th=
e existing
sciences; the titles alone form a thick lexicon, and new sciences are
manufactured every day. They =
have
been manufactured on the pattern of that Finnish teacher who taught the lan=
ded
proprietor's children Finnish instead of French. Every thing has been excellently i=
nculcated;
but there is one objection,--that no one except ourselves can understand any
thing of it, and all this is reckoned as utterly useless nonsense. However, there is an explanation e=
ven
for this. People do not appre=
ciate
the full value of scientific science, because they are under the influence =
of
the theological period, that profound period when all the people, both among
the Hebrews, and the Chinese, and the Indians, and the Greeks, understood e=
very
thing that their great teachers said to them.
But, from whatever
cause this has come about, the fact remains, that sciences and arts have al=
ways
existed among mankind, and, when they really did exist, they were useful and
intelligible to all the people. But we practise something which we call sci=
ence
and art, but it appears that what we do is unnecessary and unintelligible to
man. And hence, however beaut=
iful
may be the things that we accomplish, we have no right to call them arts and
sciences.
"But you only furnish a differ=
ent
definition of arts and sciences, which is stricter, and is incompatible with
science," I shall be told in answer to this; "nevertheless,
scientific and artistic activity does still exist. There are the Galileos, Brunos, Ho=
mers,
Michael Angelos, Beethovens, and all the lesser learned men and artists, who
have consecrated their entire lives to the service of science and art, and =
who were,
and will remain, the benefactors of mankind."
Generally this is
what people say, striving to forget that new principle of the division of
labor, on the basis of which science and art now occupy their privileged
position, and on whose basis we are now enabled to decide without grounds, =
but
by a given standard: Is there, or is there not, any foundation for that
activity which calls itself science and art, to so magnify itself?
When the Egyptian=
or
the Grecian priests produced their mysteries, which were unintelligible to =
any
one, and stated concerning these mysteries that all science and all art were
contained in them, I could not verify the reality of their science on the b=
asis
of the benefit procured by them to the people, because science, according to
their assertions, was supernatural.
But now we all possess a very simple and clear definition of the
activity of art and science, which excludes every thing supernatural: scien=
ce
and art promise to carry out the mental activity of mankind, for the welfar=
e of
society, or of all the human race.
The definition of
scientific science and art is entirely correct; but, unfortunately, the
activity of the present arts and sciences does not come under this head.
And it can be
understood why the makers of the present arts and sciences have not fulfill=
ed,
and cannot fulfil, their vocation.
They do not fulfil it, because out of their obligations they have
erected a right.
Scientific and
artistic activity, in its real sense, is only fruitful when it knows no rig=
hts,
but recognizes only obligations.
Only because it is its property to be always thus, does mankind so
highly prize this activity. I=
f men
really were called to the service of others through artistic work, they wou=
ld
see in that work only obligation, and they would fulfil it with toil, with
privations, and with self-abnegation.
The thinker or the
artist will never sit calmly on Olympian heights, as we have become accusto=
med
to represent them to ourselves. The
thinker or the artist should suffer in company with the people, in order th=
at
he may find salvation or consolation.
Besides this, he will suffer because he is always and eternally in
turmoil and agitation: he might decide and say that that which would confer
welfare on men, would free them from suffering, would afford them consolati=
on;
but he has not said so, and has not presented it as he should have done; he=
has
not decided, and he has not spoken; and to-morrow, possibly, it will be too
late,--he will die. And therefore suffering and self-sacrifice will always =
be
the lot of the thinker and the artist.
Not of this description will be the thinker and artist who is reared in an establishment where, apparently, they manufacture the learned man or the artist (but in p= oint of fact, they manufacture destroyers of science and of art), who receives a diploma and a certificate, who would be glad not to think and not to express that which is imposed on his soul, but who cannot avoid doing that to which= two irresistible forces draw him,--an inward prompting, and the demand of men.<= o:p>
There will be no
sleek, plump, self-satisfied thinkers and artists. Spiritual activity, and =
its
expression, which are actually necessary to others, are the most burdensome=
of
all man's avocations; a cross, as the Gospels phrase it. And the sole indubitable sign of t=
he
presence of a vocation is self-devotion, the sacrifice of self for the
manifestation of the power that is imposed upon man for the benefit of othe=
rs.
It is possible to
study out how many beetles there are in the world, to view the spots on the
sun, to write romances and operas, without suffering; but it is impossible,
without self-sacrifice, to instruct people in their true happiness, which
consists solely in renunciation of self and the service of others, and to g=
ive
strong expression to this doctrine, without self-sacrifice.
Christ did not di=
e on
the cross in vain; not in vain does the sacrifice of suffering conquer all
things.
But our art and
science are provided with certificates and diplomas; and the only anxiety of
all men is, how to still better guarantee them, i.e., how to render the ser=
vice
of the people impracticable for them.
True art and true
science possess two unmistakable marks: the first, an inward mark, which is
this, that the servitor of art and science will fulfil his vocation, not for
profit but with self-sacrifice; and the second, an external sign,--his
productions will be intelligible to all the people whose welfare he has in
view.
No matter what pe=
ople
have fixed upon as their vocation and their welfare, science will be the
doctrine of this vocation and welfare, and art will be the expression of th=
at
doctrine. That which is calle=
d science
and art, among us, is the product of idle minds and feelings, which have for
their object to tickle similar idle minds and feelings. Our arts and scienc=
es
are incomprehensible, and say nothing to the people, for they have not the
welfare of the common people in view.
Ever since the li=
fe
of men has been known to us, we find, always and everywhere, the reigning
doctrine falsely designating itself as science, not manifesting itself to t=
he
common people, but obscuring for them the meaning of life. Thus it was among the Greeks the
sophists, then among the Christians the mystics, gnostics, scholastics, amo=
ng
the Hebrews the Talmudists and Cabalists, and so on everywhere, down to our=
own
times.
How fortunate it =
is
for us that we live in so peculiar an age, when that mental activity which
calls itself science, not only does not err, but finds itself, as we are
assured, in a remarkably flourishing condition! Does not this peculiar good=
fortune
arise from the fact that man can not and will not see his own hideousness?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Why is there nothing left of those=
sciences,
and sophists, and Cabalists, and Talmudists, but words, while we are so
exceptionally happy? Surely t=
he
signs are identical. There is=
the
same self-satisfaction and blind confidence that we, precisely we, and only=
we,
are on the right path, and that the real thing is only beginning with us. There is the same expectation that=
we
shall discover something remarkable; and that chief sign which leads us ast=
ray
convicts us of our error: all our wisdom remains with us, and the common pe=
ople
do not understand, and do not accept, and do not need it.
Our position is a
very difficult one, but why not look at it squarely?
It is time to rec=
over
our senses, and to scrutinize ourselves.&n=
bsp;
Surely we are nothing else than the scribes and Pharisees, who sit in
Moses' seat, and who have taken the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and will
neither go in ourselves, nor permit others to go in. Surely we, the high priests of sci=
ence
and art, are ourselves worthless deceivers, possessing much less right to o=
ur
position than the most crafty and depraved priests. Surely we have no justification fo=
r our
privileged position. The prie=
sts
had a right to their position: they declared that they taught the people li=
fe and
salvation. But we have taken =
their
place, and we do not instruct the people in life,--we even admit that such
instruction is unnecessary,--but we educate our children in the same
Talmudic-Greek and Latin grammar, in order that they may be able to pursue =
the
same life of parasites which we lead ourselves. We say, "There used to be cas=
tes,
but there are none among us."
But what does it mean, that some people and their children toil, whi=
le
other people and their children do not toil?
Bring hither an
Indian ignorant of our language, and show him European life, and our life, =
for
several generations, and he will recognize the same leading, well-defined
castes--of laborers and non-laborers--as there are in his own country. And as in his land, so in ours, the
right of refusing to labor is conferred by a peculiar consecration, which we
call science and art, or, in general terms, culture. It is this culture, and all the
distortions of sense connected with it, which have brought us to that
marvellous madness, in consequence of which we do not see that which is so
clear and indubitable.
Then, what is to be done? What are we to do?
This question, wh=
ich
includes within itself both an admission that our life is evil and wrong, a=
nd
in connection with this,--as though it were an exercise for it,--that it is
impossible, nevertheless, to change it, this question I have heard, and I
continue to hear, on all sides. I
have described my own sufferings, my own gropings, and my own solution of t=
his question. I am the same kind of a man as eve=
rybody
else; and if I am in any wise distinguished from the average man of our cir=
cle,
it is chiefly in this respect, that I, more than the average man, have serv=
ed
and winked at the false doctrine of our world; I have received more approba=
tion
from men professing the prevailing doctrine: and therefore, more than other=
s,
have I become depraved, and wandered from the path. And therefore I think that the sol=
ution of
the problem, which I have found in my own case, will be applicable to all
sincere people who are propounding the same question to themselves.
First of all, in
answer to the question, "What is to be done?" I told myself: &quo=
t;I
must lie neither to other people nor to myself. I must not fear the truth, whither=
soever
it may lead me."
We all know what = it means to lie to other people, but we are not afraid to lie to ourselves; yet the very worst downright lie, to other people, is not to be compared in its consequences with the lie to ourselves, upon which we base our whole life.<= o:p>
This is the lie of
which we must not be guilty if we are to be in a position to answer the
question: "What is to be done?"&=
nbsp;
And, in fact, how am I to answer the question, "What is to be
done?" when every thing that I do, when my whole life, is founded on a
lie, and when I carefully parade this lie as the truth before others and be=
fore
myself? Not to lie, in this s=
ense,
means not to fear the truth, not to devise subterfuges, and not to accept t=
he
subterfuges devised by others for the purpose of hiding from myself the
deductions of my reason and my conscience; not to fear to part company with=
all
those who surround me, and to remain alone in company with reason and
conscience; not to fear that position to which the truth shall lead me, bei=
ng
firmly convinced that that position to which truth and conscience shall con=
duct
me, however singular it may be, cannot be worse than the one which is found=
ed on
a lie. Not to lie, in our pos=
ition
of privileged persons of mental labor, means, not to be afraid to reckon on=
e's
self up wrongly. It is possib=
le
that you are already so deeply indebted that you cannot take stock of yours=
elf;
but to whatever extent this may be the case, however long may be the accoun=
t,
however far you have strayed from the path, it is still better than to cont=
inue
therein. A lie to other peopl=
e is
not alone unprofitable; every matter is settled more directly and more spee=
dily
by the truth than by a lie. A=
lie
to others only entangles matters, and delays the settlement; but a lie to o=
ne's
self, set forth as the truth, ruins a man's whole life. If a man, having entered on the wr=
ong
path, assumes that it is the true one, then every step that he takes on that
path removes him farther from his goal.&nb=
sp;
If a man who has long been travelling on this false path divines for
himself, or is informed by some one, that his course is a mistaken one, but
grows alarmed at the idea that he has wandered very far astray and tries to=
convince
himself that he may, possibly, still strike into the right road, then he ne=
ver
will get into it. If a man qu=
ails
before the truth, and, on perceiving it, does not accept it, but does accep=
t a
lie for the truth, then he never will learn what he ought to do. We, the not only wealthy, but priv=
ileged
and so-called cultivated persons, have advanced so far on the wrong road, t=
hat
a great deal of determination, or a very great deal of suffering on the wro=
ng
road, is required, in order to bring us to our senses and to the acknowledg=
ment
of the lie in which we are living.
I have perceived the lie of our lives, thanks to the sufferings which
the false path entailed upon me, and, having recognized the falseness of th=
is
path on which I stood, I have had the boldness to go at first in thought
only--whither reason and conscience led me, without reflecting where they w=
ould
bring me out. And I have been
rewarded for this boldness.
All the complicat=
ed,
broken, tangled, and incoherent phenomena of life surrounding me, have sudd=
enly
become clear; and my position in the midst of these phenomena, which was
formerly strange and burdensome, has become, all at once, natural, and easy=
to
bear.
In this new posit=
ion,
my activity was defined with perfect accuracy; not at all as it had previou=
sly
presented itself to me, but as a new and much more peaceful, loving, and jo=
yous
activity. The very thing whic=
h had formerly
terrified me, now began to attract me.&nbs=
p;
Hence I think, that the man who will honestly put to himself the
question, "What is to be done?" and, replying to this query, will=
not
lie to himself, but will go whither his reason leads, has already solved the
problem.
There is only one
thing that can hinder him in his search for an issue,--an erroneously lofty
idea of himself and of his position.
This was the case with me; and then another, arising from the first
answer to the question: "What is to be done?" consisted for me in
this, that it was necessary for me to repent, in the full sense of that
word,--i.e., to entirely alter my conception of my position and my activity=
; to
confess the hurtfulness and emptiness of my activity, instead of its utility
and gravity; to confess my own ignorance instead of culture; to confess my =
immorality
and harshness in the place of my kindness and morality; instead of my
elevation, to acknowledge my lowliness.&nb=
sp;
I say, that in addition to not lying to myself, I had to repent,
because, although the one flows from the other, a false conception of my lo=
fty
importance had so grown up with me, that, until I sincerely repented and cut
myself free from that false estimate which I had formed of myself, I did not
perceive the greater part of the lie of which I had been guilty to myself.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Only when I had repented, that is =
to
say, when I had ceased to look upon myself as a regular man, and had begun =
to
regard myself as a man exactly like every one else,--only then did my path
become clear before me. Before that time I had not been able to answer the
question: "What is to be done?" because I had stated the question
itself wrongly.
As long as I did =
not
repent, I put the question thus: "What sphere of activity should I cho=
ose,
I, the man who has received the education and the talents which have fallen=
to
my shame? How, in this fashio=
n,
make recompense with that education and those talents, for what I have take=
n, and
for what I still take, from the people?" This question was wrong, because it
contained a false representation, to the effect that I was not a man just l=
ike
them, but a peculiar man called to serve the people with those talents and =
with
that education which I had won by the efforts of forty years.
I propounded the
query to myself; but, in reality, I had answered it in advance, in that I h=
ad
in advance defined the sort of activity which was agreeable to me, and by w=
hich
I was called upon to serve the people.&nbs=
p;
I had, in fact, asked myself: "In what manner could I, so very =
fine
a writer, who had acquired so much learning and talents, make use of them f=
or
the benefit of the people?"
But the question
should have been put as it would have stood for a learned rabbi who had gone
through the course of the Talmud, and had learned by heart the number of
letters in all the holy books, and all the fine points of his art. The question for me, as for the ra=
bbi,
should stand thus: "What am I, who have spent, owing to the misfortune=
of
my surroundings, the year's best fitted for study in the acquisition of gra=
mmar,
geography, judicial science, poetry, novels and romances, the French langua=
ge,
pianoforte playing, philosophical theories, and military exercises, instead=
of
inuring myself to labor; what am I, who have passed the best years of my li=
fe
in idle occupations which are corrupting to the soul,--what am I to do in
defiance of these unfortunate conditions of the past, in order that I may
requite those people who during the whole time have fed and clothed, yes, a=
nd
who even now continue to feed and clothe me?" Had the question then stood as it =
stands
before me now, after I have repented,--"What am I, so corrupt a man, to
do?" the answer would have been easy: "To strive, first of all, to
support myself honestly; that is, to learn not to live upon others; and whi=
le I
am learning, and when I have learned this, to render aid on all possible
occasions to the people, with my hands, and my feet, and my brain, and my
heart, and with every thing to which the people should present a claim.&quo=
t;
And therefore I s=
ay,
that for the man of our circle, in addition to not lying to himself or to
others, repentance is also necessary, and that he should scrape from himself
that pride which has sprung up in us, in our culture, in our refinements, in
our talents; and that he should confess that he is not a benefactor of the
people and a distinguished man, who does not refuse to share with the people
his useful acquirements, but that he should confess himself to be a thoroug=
hly
guilty, corrupt, and good-for-nothing man, who desires to reform himself and
not to behave benevolently towards the people, but simply to cease wounding=
and
insulting them.
I often hear the
questions of good young men who sympathize with the renunciatory part of my
writings, and who ask, "Well, and what then shall I do? What am I to do, now that I have
finished my course in the university, or in some other institution, in order
that I may be of use?" Young men ask this, and in the depths of their =
soul
it is already decided that the education which they have received constitut=
es
their privilege and that they desire to serve the people precisely by means=
of
thus superiority. And hence, =
one
thing which they will in no wise do, is to bear themselves honestly and
critically towards that which they call their culture, and ask themselves, =
are
those qualities which they call their culture good or bad? If they will do this, they will
infallibly be led to see the necessity of renouncing their culture, and the
necessity of beginning to learn all over again; and this is the one
indispensable thing. They can=
in no
wise solve the problem, "What to do?" because this question does =
not
stand before them as it should stand.
The question must stand thus: "In what manner am I, a helpless,
useless man, who, owing to the misfortune of my conditions, have wasted my =
best
years of study in conning the scientific Talmud which corrupts soul and bod=
y, to
correct this mistake, and learn to serve the people?" But it presents itself to them thu=
s:
"How am I, a man who has acquired so much very fine learning, to turn =
this
very fine learning to the use of the people?" And such a man will never answer t=
he question,
"What is to be done?" until he repents. And repentance is not terrible, ju=
st as
truth is not terrible, and it is equally joyful and fruitful. It is only necessary to accept the=
truth
wholly, and to repent wholly, in order to understand that no one possesses =
any
rights, privileges, or peculiarities in the matter of this life of ours, but
that there are no ends or bounds to obligation, and that a man's first and =
most
indubitable duty is to take part in the struggle with nature for his own li=
fe
and for the lives of others.
And this confessi=
on
of a man's obligation constitutes the gist of the third answer to the quest=
ion,
"What is to be done?"
I tried not to li=
e to
myself: I tried to cast out from myself the remains of my false conceptions=
of
the importance of my education and talents, and to repent; but on the way t=
o a
decision of the question, "What to do?" a fresh difficulty
arose. There are so many diff=
erent
occupations, that an indication was necessary as to the precise one which w=
as
to be adopted. And the answer=
to
this question was furnished me by sincere repentance for the evil in which I
had lived.
"What to
do? Precisely what to do?&quo=
t; all
ask, and that is what I also asked so long as, under the influence of my
exalted idea of any own importance, I did not perceive that my first and
unquestionable duty was to feed myself, to clothe myself, to furnish my own
fuel, to do my own building, and, by so doing, to serve others, because, ev=
er
since the would has existed, the first and indubitable duty of every man ha=
s consisted
and does consist in this.
In fact, no matter
what a man may have assumed to be his vocation,--whether it be to govern
people, to defend his fellow-countrymen, to divine service, to instruct oth=
ers,
to invent means to heighten the pleasures of life, to discover the laws of =
the
world, to incorporate eternal truths in artistic representations,--the duty=
of
a reasonable man is to take part in the struggle with nature, for the suste=
nance
of his own life and of that of others.&nbs=
p;
This obligation is the first of all, because what people need most of
all is their life; and therefore, in order to defend and instruct the peopl=
e,
and render their lives more agreeable, it is requisite to preserve that life
itself, while my refusal to share in the struggle, my monopoly of the labor=
s of
others, is equivalent to annihilation of the lives of others. And, therefore, it is not rational=
to
serve the lives of men by annihilating the lives of men; and it is impossib=
le
to say that I am serving men, when, by my life, I am obviously injuring the=
m.
A man's obligatio=
n to
struggle with nature for the acquisition of the means of livelihood will al=
ways
be the first and most unquestionable of all obligations, because this
obligation is a law of life, departure from which entails the inevitable
punishment of either bodily or mental annihilation of the life of man. If a man living alone excuses hims=
elf from
the obligation of struggling with nature, he is immediately punished, in th=
at
his body perishes. But if a m=
an
excuses himself from this obligation by making other people fulfil it for h=
im,
then also he is immediately punished by the annihilation of his mental life;
that is to say, of the life which possesses rational thought.
In this one act, =
man
receives--if the two things are to be separated--full satisfaction of the
bodily and spiritual demands of his nature. The feeding, clothing, and taking =
care
of himself and his family, constitute the satisfaction of the bodily demands
and requirements; and doing the same for other people, constitutes the
satisfaction of his spiritual requirements. Every other employment of man is o=
nly
legal when it is directed to the satisfaction of this very first duty of ma=
n;
for the fulfilment of this duty constitutes the whole life of man.
I had been so tur=
ned
about by my previous life, this first and indubitable law of God or of natu=
re
is so concealed in our sphere of society, that the fulfilment of this law
seemed to me strange, terrible, even shameful; as though the fulfilment of =
an
eternal, unquestionable law, and not the departure from it, can be terrible,
strange, and shameful.
At first it seeme=
d to
me that the fulfilment of this matter required some preparation, arrangemen=
t or
community of men, holding similar views,--the consent of one's family, life=
in
the country; it seemed to me disgraceful to make a show of myself before
people, to undertake a thing so improper in our conditions of existence, as
bodily toil, and I did not know how to set about it. But it was only necessary for me to
understand that this is no exclusive occupation which requires to be invent=
ed
and arranged for, but that this employment was merely a return from the fal=
se
position in which I found myself, to a natural one; was only a rectificatio=
n of
that lie in which I was living. I
had only to recognize this fact, and all these difficulties vanished. It was not in the least necessary =
to make
preparations and arrangements, and to await the consent of others, for, no
matter in what position I had found myself, there had always been people who
had fed, clothed and warmed me, in addition to themselves; and everywhere,
under all conditions, I could do the same for myself and for them, if I had=
the
time and the strength. Neither
could I experience false shame in an unwonted occupation, no matter how
surprising it might be to people, because, through not doing it, I had alre=
ady
experienced not false but real shame.
And when I had
reached this confession and the practical deduction from it, I was fully
rewarded for not having quailed before the deductions of reason, and for
following whither they led me. On
arriving at this practical deduction, I was amazed at the ease and simplici=
ty
with which all the problems which had previously seemed to me so difficult =
and
so complicated, were solved.
To the question,
"What is it necessary to do?" the most indubitable answer present=
ed
itself: first of all, that which it was necessary for me to do was, to atte=
nd
to my own samovar, my own stove, my own water, my own clothing; to every th=
ing
that I could do for myself. T=
o the question,
"Will it not seem strange to people if you do this?" it appeared =
that
this strangeness lasted only a week, and after the lapse of that week, it w=
ould
have seemed strange had I returned to my former conditions of life. With regard to the question, "=
;Is it
necessary to organize this physical labor, to institute an association in t=
he
country, on my land?" it appeared that nothing of the sort was necessa=
ry;
that labor, if it does not aim at the acquisition of all possible leisure, =
and the
enjoyment of the labor of others,--like the labor of people bent on accumul=
ating
money,--but if it have for its object the satisfaction of requirements, will
itself be drawn from the city to the country, to the land, where this labor=
is
the most fruitful and cheerful. But
it is not requisite to institute any association, because the man who labor=
s, naturally
and of himself, attaches himself to the existing association of laboring me=
n.
To the question,
whether this labor would not monopolize all my time, and deprive me of those
intellectual pursuits which I love, to which I am accustomed, and which, in=
my
moments of self-conceit, I regard as not useless to others? I received a mo=
st
unexpected reply. The energy =
of my intellectual
activity increased, and increased in exact proportion with bodily applicati=
on,
while freeing itself from every thing superfluous. It appeared that by dedicating to
physical toil eight hours, that half of the day which I had formerly passed=
in
the oppressive state of a struggle with ennui, eight hours remained to me, =
of
which only five of intellectual activity, according to my terms, were neces=
sary
to me. For it appeared, that =
if I,
a very voluminous writer, who had done nothing for nearly forty years except
write, and who had written three hundred printed sheets;--if I had worked
during all those forty years at ordinary labor with the working-people, the=
n,
not reckoning winter evenings and leisure days, if I had read and studied f=
or
five hours every day, and had written a couple of pages only on holidays (a=
nd I
have been in the habit of writing at the rate of one printed sheet a day), =
then
I should have written those three hundred sheets in fourteen years. The fact seemed startling: yet it =
is the
most simple arithmetical calculation, which can be made by a seven-year-old
boy, but which I had not been able to make up to this time. There are twenty-four hours in the=
day;
if we take away eight hours, sixteen remain. If any man engaged in intellectual=
occupations
devote five hours every day to his occupation, he will accomplish a fearful
amount. And what is to be don=
e with
the remaining eleven hours?
It proved that
physical labor not only does not exclude the possibility of mental activity,
but that it improves its quality, and encourages it.
In answer to the
question, whether this physical toil does not deprive me of many innocent
pleasures peculiar to man, such as the enjoyment of the arts, the acquisiti=
on
of learning, intercourse with people, and the delights of life in general, =
it
turned out exactly the reverse: the more intense the labor, the more nearly=
it
approached what is considered the coarsest agricultural toil, the more
enjoyment and knowledge did I gain, and the more did I come into close and
loving communion with men, and the more happiness did I derive from life.
In answer to the
question (which I have so often heard from persons not thoroughly sincere),=
as
to what result could flow from so insignificant a drop in the sea of sympat=
hy
as my individual physical labor in the sea of labor ingulfing me, I received
also the most satisfactory and unexpected of answers. It appeared that all I had to do w=
as to
make physical labor the habitual condition of my life, and the majority of =
my
false, but precious, habits and my demands, when physically idle, fell away
from me at once of their own accord, without the slightest exertion on my p=
art.
Not to mention the habit of turning day into night and vice versa, my habits
connected with my bed, with my clothing, with conventional cleanliness,--wh=
ich
are downright impossible and oppressive with physical labor,--and my demand=
s as
to the quality of my food, were entirely changed. In place of the dainty, rich, refi=
ned,
complicated, highly-spiced food, to which I had formerly inclined, the most
simple viands became needful and most pleasing of all to me,--cabbage-soup,=
porridge,
black bread, and tea v prikusku. {238}&nbs=
p;
So that, not to mention the influence upon me of the example of the
simple working-people, who are content with little, with whom I came in con=
tact
in the course of my bodily toil, my very requirements underwent a change in
consequence of my toilsome life; so that my drop of physical labor in the s=
ea
of universal labor became larger and larger, in proportion as I accustomed
myself to, and appropriated, the habits of the laboring classes; in proport=
ion,
also, to the success of my labor, my demands for labor from others grew less
and less, and my life naturally, without exertion or privations, approached
that simple existence of which I could not even dream without fulfilling the
law of labor.
It proved that my
dearest demands from life, namely, my demands for vanity, and diversion from
ennui, arose directly from my idle life. There was no place for vanity, in
connection with physical labor; and no diversions were needed, since my time
was pleasantly occupied, and, after my fatigue, simple rest at tea over a b=
ook,
or in conversation with my fellows, was incomparably more agreeable than
theatres, cards, conceits, or a large company,--all which things are needed=
in
physical idleness, and which cost a great deal.
In answer to the
question, Would not this unaccustomed toil ruin that health which is
indispensable in order to render service to the people possible? it appeare=
d,
in spite of the positive assertions of noted physicians, that physical
exertion, especially at my age, might have the most injurious consequences =
(but
that Swedish gymnastics, the massage treatment, and so on, and other expedi=
ents
intended to take the place of the natural conditions of man's life, were
better), that the more intense the toil, the stronger, more alert, more
cheerful, and more kindly did I feel.
Thus it undoubtedly appeared, that, just as all those cunning device=
s of
the human mind, newspapers, theatres, concerts, visits, balls, cards, journ=
als,
romances, are nothing else than expedients for maintaining the spiritual li=
fe
of man outside his natural conditions of labor for others,--just so all the
hygienic and medical devices of the human mind for the preparation of food,
drink, lodging, ventilation, heating, clothing, medicine, water, massage,
gymnastics, electric, and other means of healing,--all these clever devices=
are
merely an expedient to sustain the bodily life of man removed from its natu=
ral
conditions of labor. It turne=
d out
that all these devices of the human mind for the agreeable arrangement of t=
he
physical existence of idle persons are precisely analogous to those artful
contrivances which people might invent for the production in vessels
hermetically sealed, by means of mechanical arrangements, of evaporation, a=
nd
plants, of the air best fitted for breathing, when all that is needed is to
open the window. All the inve=
ntions
of medicine and hygiene for persons of our sphere are much the same as thou=
gh a
mechanic should hit upon the idea of heating a steam- boiler which was not
working, and should shut all the valves so that the boiler should not
burst. Only one thing is need=
ed,
instead of all these extremely complicated devices for pleasure, for comfor=
t,
and for medical and hygienic preparations, intended to save people from the=
ir
spiritual and bodily ailments, which swallow up so much labor,--to fulfil t=
he
law of life; to do that which is proper not only to man, but to the animal;=
to
fire off the charge of energy taken win in the shape of food, by muscular
exertion; to speak in plain language, to earn one's bread. Those who do not work should not e=
at, or
they should earn as much as they have eaten.
And when I clearly
comprehended all this, it struck me as ridiculous. Through a whole series of
doubts and searchings, I had arrived, by a long course of thought, at this
remarkable truth: if a man has eyes, it is that he may see with them; if he=
has
ears, that he may hear; and feet, that he may walk; and hands and back, tha=
t he
may labor; and that if a man will not employ those members for that purpose=
for
which they are intended, it will be the worse for him.
I came to this
conclusion, that, with us privileged people, the same thing has happened wh=
ich
happened with the horses of a friend of mine. His steward, who was not a lo=
ver
of horses, nor well versed in them, on receiving his master's orders to pla=
ce
the best horses in the stable, selected them from the stud, placed them in
stalls, and fed and watered them; but fearing for the valuable steeds, he c=
ould
not bring himself to trust them to any one, and he neither rode nor drove t=
hem,
nor did he even take them out. The
horses stood there until they were good for nothing. The same thing has happened with u=
s, but
with this difference: that it was impossible to deceive the horses in any w=
ay,
and they were kept in bonds to prevent their getting out; but we are kept i=
n an
unnatural position that is equally injurious to us, by deceits which have e=
ntangled
us, and which hold us like chains.
We have arranged =
for
ourselves a life that is repugnant both to the moral and the physical natur=
e of
man, and all the powers of our intelligence we concentrate upon assuring man
that this is the most natural life possible. Every thing which we call culture,=
--our
sciences, art, and the perfection of the pleasant thing's of life,--all the=
se
are attempts to deceive the moral requirements of man; every thing that is
called hygiene and medicine, is an attempt to deceive the natural physical
demands of human nature. But =
these
deceits have their bounds, and we advance to them. "If such be the real human li=
fe,
then it is better not to live at all," says the reigning and extremely
fashionable philosophy of Schopenhauer and Hartmann. If such is life, 'tis better for t=
he
coming generation not to live," say corrupt medical science and its ne=
wly devised
means to that end.
In the Bible, it =
is
laid down as the law of man: "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat
bread, and in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children;" but "nous
avons change tout ca," as Moliere's character says, when expressing
himself with regard to medicine, and asserting that the liver was on the le=
ft
side. We have changed all
that. Men need not work in or=
der to
eat, and women need not bear children.
A ragged peasant
roams the Krapivensky district.
During the war he was an agent for the purchase of grain, under an
official of the commissary department.&nbs=
p;
On being brought in contact with the official, and seeing his luxuri=
ous
life, the peasant lost his mind, and thought that he might get along without
work, like gentlemen, and receive proper support from the Emperor. This peasant now calls himself &qu=
ot;the
Most Serene Warrior, Prince Blokhin, purveyor of war supplies of all
descriptions." He says of
himself that he has "passed through all the ranks," and that when=
he shall
have served out his term in the army, he is to receive from the Emperor an
unlimited bank account, clothes, uniforms, horses, equipages, tea, pease and
servants, and all sorts of luxuries.
This man is ridiculous in the eyes of many, but to me the significan=
ce
of his madness is terrible. T=
o the
question, whether he does not wish to work, he always replies proudly: &quo=
t;I
am much obliged. The peasants=
will
attend to all that." Whe=
n you
tell him that the peasants do not wish to work, either, he answers: "I=
t is
not difficult for the peasant."
He generally talk=
s in
a high-flown style, and is fond of verbal substantives. "Now there is an invention of
machinery for the alleviation of the peasants," he says; "there i=
s no
difficulty for them in that."
When he is asked what he lives for, he replies, "To pass the ti=
me." I always look on this man as on a
mirror. I behold in him mysel=
f and
all my class. To pass through=
all
the ranks (tchini) in order to live for the purpose of passing the time, an=
d to
receive an unlimited bank account, while the peasants, for whom this is not
difficult, because of the invention of machinery, do the whole business,--t=
his
is the complete formula of the idiotic creed of the people of our sphere in=
society.
When we inquire precisely what we are to do, surely, we ask nothing, but merely assert--only not in such good faith as the Most Serene Prince Blokhin, who has been prom= oted through all ranks, and lost his mind--that we do not wish to do any thing.<= o:p>
He who will refle=
ct
for a moment cannot ask thus, because, on the one hand, every thing that he
uses has been made, and is made, by the hands of men; and, on the other sid=
e,
as soon as a healthy man has awakened and eaten, the necessity of working w=
ith
feet and hands and brain makes itself felt. In order to find work and to work,=
he
need only not hold back: only a person who thinks work disgraceful--like the
lady who requests her guest not to take the trouble to open the door, but to
wait until she can call a man for this purpose--can put to himself the ques=
tion,
what he is to do.
The point does not
lie in inventing work,--you can never get through all the work that is to be
done for yourself and for others,--but the point lies in weaning one's self
from that criminal view of life in accordance with which I eat and sleep fo=
r my
own pleasure; and in appropriating to myself that just and simple view with
which the laboring man grows up and lives,--that man is, first of all, a
machine, which loads itself with food in order to sustain itself, and that =
it
is therefore disgraceful, wrong, and impossible to eat and not to work; tha=
t to
eat and not to work is the most impious, unnatural, and, therefore, dangero=
us
position, in the nature of the sin of Sodom. Only let this acknowledgement be m=
ade, and
there will be work; and work will always be joyous and satisfying to both
spiritual and bodily requirements.
The matter presen=
ted
itself to me thus: The day is divided for every man, by food itself, into f=
our
parts, or four stints, as the peasants call it: (1) before breakfast; (2) f=
rom
breakfast until dinner; (3) from dinner until four o'clock; (4) from four
o'clock until evening.
A man's employmen=
t,
whatever it may be that he feels a need for in his own person, is also divi=
ded
into four categories: (1) the muscular employment of power, labor of the ha=
nds,
feet, shoulders, back,--hard labor, from which you sweat; (2) the employmen=
t of
the fingers and wrists, the employment of artisan skill; (3) the employment=
of
the mind and imagination; (4) the employment of intercourse with others.
The benefits which
man enjoys are also divided into four categories. Every man enjoys, in the
first place, the product of hard labor,--grain, cattle, buildings, wells,
ponds, and so forth; in the second place, the results of artisan
toil,--clothes, boots, utensils, and so forth; in the third place, the prod=
ucts
of mental activity,--science, art; and, in the forth place, established
intercourse between people.
And it struck me,
that the best thing of all would be to arrange the occupations of the day in
such a manner as to exercise all four of man's capacities, and myself produ=
ce
all these four sorts of benefits which men make use of, so that one portion=
of
the day, the first, should be dedicated to hard labor; the second, to
intellectual labor; the third, to artisan labor; and the forth, to intercou=
rse
with people. It struck me, th=
at
only then would that false division of labor, which exists in our society, =
be
abrogated, and that just division of labor established, which does not dest=
roy
man's happiness.
I, for example, h=
ave
busied myself all my life with intellectual labor. I said to myself, that I had so di=
vided
labor, that writing, that is to say, intellectual labor, is my special
employment, and the other matters which were necessary to me I had left free
(or relegated, rather) to others.
But this, which would appear to have been the most advantageous arra=
ngement
for intellectual toil, was precisely the most disadvantageous to mental lab=
or,
not to mention its injustice.
All my life long,=
I
have regulated my whole life, food, sleep, diversion, in view of these hour=
s of
special labor, and I have done nothing except this work. The result of this has been, in the
first place, that I have contracted my sphere of observations and knowledge,
and have frequently had no means for the study even of problems which often
presented themselves in describing the life of the people (for the life of =
the common
people is the every-day problem of intellectual activity). I was conscious of my ignorance, a=
nd was
obliged to obtain instruction, to ask about things which are known by every=
man
not engaged in special labor. In the second place, the result was, that I h=
ad
been in the habit of sitting down to write when I had no inward impulse to
write, and when no one demanded from me writing, as writing, that is to say=
, my
thoughts, but when my name was merely wanted for journalistic speculation.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I tried to squeeze out of myself w=
hat I
could. Sometimes I could extr=
act nothing;
sometimes it was very wretched stuff, and I was dissatisfied and grieved. But now that I have learned the
indispensability of physical labor, both hard and artisan labor, the result=
is
entirely different. My time h=
as
been occupied, however modestly, at least usefully and cheerfully, and in a
manner instructive to me. And
therefore I have torn myself from that indubitably useful and cheerful
occupation for my special duties only when I felt an inward impulse, and wh=
en I
saw a demand made upon me directly for my literary work.
And these demands
called into play only good nature, and therefore the usefulness and the joy=
of
my special labor. Thus it tur=
ned
out, that employment in those physical labors which are indispensable to me=
, as
they are to every man, not only did not interfere with my special activity,=
but
was an indispensable condition of the usefulness, worth, and cheerfulness of
that activity.
The bird is so
constructed, that it is indispensable that it should fly, walk, peek, combi=
ne;
and when it does all this, it is satisfied and happy,--then it is a bird. Just so man, when he walks, turns,
raises, drags, works with his fingers, with his eyes, with his ears, with h=
is tongue,
with his brain,--only then is he satisfied, only then is he a man.
A man who
acknowledges his appointment to labor will naturally strive towards that
rotation of labor which is peculiar to him, for the satisfaction of his inw=
ard
requirements; and he can alter this labor in no other way than when he feels
within himself an irresistible summons to some exclusive form of labor, and
when the demands of other men for that labor are expressed.
The character of
labor is such, that the satisfaction of all a man's requirements demands th=
at
same succession of the sorts of work which renders work not a burden but a
joy. Only a false creed, [Gre=
ek
text which cannot be reproduced], to the effect that labor is a curse, coul=
d have
led men to rid themselves of certain kinds of work; i.e., to the appropriat=
ion
of the work of others, demanding the forced occupation with special labor of
other people, which they call division of labor.
We have only grown
used to our false comprehension of the regulation of labor, because it seem=
s to
us that the shoemaker, the machinist, the writer, or the musician will be
better off if he gets rid of the labor peculiar to man. Where there is no force exercised =
over
the labor of others, or any false belief in the joy of idleness, not a sing=
le
man will get rid of physical labor, necessary for the satisfaction of his r=
equirements,
for the sake of special work; because special work is not a privilege, but a
sacrifice which man offers to inward pressure and to his brethren.
The shoemaker in =
the
country, who abandons his wonted labor in the field, which is so grateful to
him, and betakes himself to his trade, in order to repair or make boots for=
his
neighbors, always deprives himself of the pleasant toil of the field, simply
because he likes to make boots, because he knows that no one else can do it=
so
well as he, and that people will be grateful to him for it; but the desire
cannot occur to him, to deprive himself, for the whole period of his life, =
of
the cheering rotation of labor.
It is the same wi=
th
the starosta [village elder], the machinist, the writer, the learned man. To us, with our corrupt conception=
of
things, it seems, that if a steward has been relegated to the position of a=
peasant
by his master, or if a minister has been sent to the colonies, he has been
chastised, he has been ill-treated.
But in reality a benefit has been conferred on him; that is to say, =
his
special, hard labor has been changed into a cheerful rotation of labor. In a naturally constituted society=
, this
is quite otherwise. I know of=
one
community where the people supported themselves. One of the members of this society=
was
better educated than the rest; and they called upon him to read, so that he=
was
obliged to prepare himself during the day, in order that he might read in t=
he
evening. This he did gladly,
feeling that he was useful to others, and that he was performing a good
deed. But he grew weary of
exclusively intellectual work, and his health suffered from it. The members of the community took =
pity
on him, and requested him to go to work in the fields.
For men who regard
labor as the substance and the joy of life, the basis, the foundation of li=
fe
will always be the struggle with nature,--labor both agricultural and
mechanical, and intellectual, and the establishment of communion between
men. Departure from one or fr=
om
many of these varieties of labor, and the adoption of special labor, will t=
hen
only occur when the man possessed of a special branch, and loving this work=
, and
knowing that he can perform it better than others, sacrifices his own profit
for the satisfaction of the direct demands made upon him. Only on condition of such a view of
labor, and of the natural division of labor arising from it, is that curse
which is laid upon our idea of labor abrogated, and does every sort of work
becomes always a joy; because a man will either perform that labor which is
undoubtedly useful and joyous, and not dull, or he will possess the
consciousness of self-abnegation in the fulfilment of more difficult and
restricted toil, which he exercises for the good of others.
But the division =
of
labor is more profitable. More
profitable for whom? It is more profitable in making the greatest possible
quantity of calico, and boots in the shortest possible time. But who will make these boots and =
this
calico? There are people who,=
for
whole generations, make only the heads of pins. Then how can this be more profitab=
le for
men? If the point lies in
manufacturing as much calico and as many pins as possible, then this is
so. But the point concerns me=
n and
their welfare. And the welfar=
e of
men lies in life. And life is
work. How, then, can the nece=
ssity
for burdensome, oppressive toil be more profitable for people? For all men,
that one thing is more profitable which I desire for myself,--the utmost
well-being, and the gratification of all those requirements, both bodily and
spiritual, of the conscience and of the reason, which are imposed upon me.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And in my own case I have found, t=
hat for
my own welfare, and for the satisfaction of these needs of mine, all that I
require is to cure myself of that folly in which I had been living, in comp=
any
with the Krapivensky madman, and which consisted in presupposing that some
people need not work, and that certain other people should direct all this,=
and
that I should therefore do only that which is natural to man, i.e., labor f=
or
the satisfaction of their requirements; and, having discovered this, I
convinced myself that labor for the satisfaction of one's own needs falls of
itself into various kinds of labor, each one of which possesses its own cha=
rm,
and which not only do not constitute a burden, but which serve as a respite=
to
one another. I have made a ro=
ugh
division of this labor (not insisting on the justice of this arrangement), =
in
accordance with my own needs in life, into four parts, corresponding to the
four stints of labor of which the day is composed; and I seek in this manne=
r to
satisfy my requirements.
These, then, are =
the
answers which I have found for myself to the question, "What is to be
done?"
First, Not to lie=
to
myself, however far removed my path in life may be from the true path which=
my
reason discloses to me.
Second, To renoun=
ce
my consciousness of my own righteousness, my superiority especially over ot=
her
people; and to acknowledge my guilt.
Third, To comply =
with
that eternal and indubitable law of humanity,--the labor of my whole being,
feeling no shame at any sort of work; to contend with nature for the
maintenance of my own life and the lives of others.
I concluded, after having said every
thing that concerned myself; but I cannot refrain, from a desire to say
something more which concerns everybody, from verifying the deductions whic=
h I
have drawn, by comparisons. I=
wish
to say why it seems to me that a very large number of our social class ough=
t to
come to the same thing to which I have come; and also to state what will be=
the
result if a number of people should come to the same conclusion.
I think that many
will come to the point which I have attained: because if the people of our
sphere, of our caste, will only take a serious look at themselves, then you=
ng
persons, who are in search of personnel happiness, will stand aghast at the
ever-increasing wretchedness of their life, which is plainly leading them to
destruction; conscientious people will be shocked at the cruelty and the
illegality of their life; and timid people will be terrified by the danger =
of
their mode of life.
The Wretchedness =
of
our Life:--However much we rich people may reform, however much we may bols=
ter
up this delusive life of ours with the aid of our science and art, this life
will become, with every year, both weaker and more diseased; with every year
the number of suicides, and the refusals to bear children, will increase; w=
ith
every year we shall feel the growing sadness of our life; with every
generation, the new generations of people of this sphere of society will be=
come
more puny.
It is obvious tha=
t in
this path of the augmentation of the comforts and the pleasures of life, in=
the
path of every sort of cure, and of artificial preparations for the improvem=
ents
of the sight, the hearing, the appetite, false teeth, false hair, respirati=
on,
massage, and so on, there can be no salvation. That people who do not make use of=
these
perfected preparations are stronger and healthier, has become such a truism,
that advertisements are printed in the newspapers of stomach-powders for the
wealthy, under the heading, "Blessings for the poor," {252} in wh=
ich
it is stated that only the poor are possessed of proper digestive powers, a=
nd
that the rich require assistance, and, among other various sorts of assista=
nce,
these powders. It is impossib=
le to set
the matter right by any diversions, comforts, and powders, whatever; only a
change of life can rectify it.
The Inconsistency=
of
our Life with our Conscience:--however we may seek to justify our betrayal =
of
humanity to ourselves, all our justifications will crumble into dust in the
presence of the evidence. All
around us, people are dying of excessive labor and of privation; we ruin the
labor of others, the food and clothing which are indispensable to them, mer=
ely with
the object of procuring diversion and variety for our wearisome lives. And, therefore, the conscience of =
a man
of our circle, if even a spark of it be left in him, cannot be lulled to sl=
eep,
and it poisons all these comforts and those pleasures of life which our
brethren, suffering and perishing in their toil, procure for us. But not only does every conscienti=
ous
man feel this himself,--he would be glad to forget it, but this he cannot d=
o.
The new, ephemeral
justifications of science for science, of art for art, do not exclude the l=
ight
of a simple, healthy judgment. The
conscience of man cannot be quieted by fresh devices; and it can only be ca=
lmed
by a change of life, for which and in which no justification will be requir=
ed.
Two causes prove =
to
the people of the wealthy classes the necessity for a change of life: the
requirements of their individual welfare, and of the welfare of those most
nearly connected with them, which cannot be satisfied in the path in which =
they
now stand; and the necessity of satisfying the voice of conscience, the imp=
ossibility
of accomplishing which is obvious in their present course. These causes, taken together, shou=
ld
lead people of the wealthy classes to alter their mode of life, to such a
change as shall satisfy their well-being and their conscience.
And there is only=
one
such change possible: they must cease to deceive, they must repent, they mu=
st
acknowledge that labor is not a curse, but the glad business of life. "But what will be the result =
if I
do toil for ten, or eight, or five hours at physical work, which thousands =
of peasants
will gladly perform for the money which I possess?" people say to this=
.
The first, simple=
st,
and indubitable result will be, that you will become a more cheerful, a
healthier, a more alert, and a better man, and that you will learn to know =
the
real life, from which you have hidden yourself, or which has been hidden fr=
om
you.
The second result
will be, that, if you possess a conscience, it will not only cease to suffe=
r as
it now suffers when it gazes upon the toil of others, the significance of w=
hich
we, through ignorance, either always exaggerate or depreciate, but you will
constantly experience a glad consciousness that, with every day, you are do=
ing
more and more to satisfy the demands of your conscience, and you will escape
from that fearful position of such an accumulation of evil heaped upon your
life that there exists no possibility of doing good to people; you will exp=
erience
the joy of living in freedom, with the possibility of good; you will break a
window,--an opening into the domain of the moral world which has been close=
d to
you.
"But this is
absurd," people usually say to you, for people of our sphere, with
profound problems standing before us,--problems philosophical, scientific,
artistic, ecclesiastical and social.
It would be absurd for us ministers, senators, academicians professo=
rs,
artists, a quarter of an hour of whose time is so prized by people, to waste
our time on any thing of that sort, would it not?--on the cleaning of our b=
oots,
the washing of our shirts, in hoeing, in planting potatoes, or in feeding o=
ur
chickens and our cows, and so on; in those things which are gladly done for=
us,
not only by our porter or our cook, but by thousands of people who value our
time?
But why should we
dress ourselves, wash and comb our hair? why should we hand chairs to ladie=
s,
to guests? why should we open and shut doors, hand ladies, into carriages, =
and
do a hundred other things which serfs formerly did for us? Because we think that it is necess=
ary so
to do; that human dignity demands it; that it is the duty, the obligation, =
of man.
And the same is t=
he
case with physical labor. The
dignity of man, his sacred duty and obligation, consists in using the hands=
and
feet which have been given to him, for that for which they were given to hi=
m,
and that which consumes food on the labor which produces that food; and tha=
t they
should be used, not on that which shall cause them to pine away, not as obj=
ects
to wash and clean, and merely for the purpose of stuffing into one's mouth =
food,
drink, and cigarettes. This i=
s the
significance that physical labor possesses for man in every community; but =
in
our community, where the avoidance of this law of labor has occasioned the =
unhappiness
of a whole class of people, employment in physical labor acquires still ano=
ther
significance,--the significance of a sermon, and of an occupation which rem=
oves
a terrible misfortune that is threatening mankind.
To say that physi=
cal
labor is an insignificant occupation for a man of education, is equivalent =
to
saying, in connection with the erection of a temple: "What does it mat=
ter
whether one stone is laid accurately in its place?" Surely, it is precisely under cond=
itions
of modesty, simplicity, and imperceptibleness, that every magnificent thing=
is
accomplished; it is impossible to plough, to build, to pasture cattle, or e=
ven
to think, amid glare, thunder, and illumination. Grand and genuine deeds are always
simple and modest. And such i=
s the
grandest of all deeds which we have to deal with,--the reconciliation of th=
ose
fearful contradictions amid which we are living. And the deeds which will reconcile=
these
contradictions are those modest, imperceptible, apparently ridiculous ones,=
the
serving one's self, physical labor for one's self, and, if possible, for ot=
hers
also, which we rich people must do, if we understand the wretchedness, the
unscrupulousness, and the danger of the position into which we have drifted=
.
What will be the
result if I, or some other man, or a handful of men, do not despise physical
labor, but regard it as indispensable to our happiness and to the appeaseme=
nt
of our conscience? This will =
be the
result, that there will be one man, two men, or a handful of men, who, comi=
ng
into conflict with no one, without governmental or revolutionary violence, =
will
decide for ourselves the terrible question which stands before all the worl=
d,
and which sets people at variance, and that we shall settle it in such wise
that life will be better to them, that their conscience will be more at pea=
ce,
and that they will have nothing to fear; the result will be, that other peo=
ple
will see that the happiness which they are seeking everywhere, lies there
around them; that the apparently unreconcilable contradictions of conscience
and of the constitution of this world will be reconciled in the easiest and
most joyful manner; and that, instead of fearing the people who surround us=
, it
will become necessary for us to draw near to them and to love them.
The apparently
insoluble economical and social problem is merely the problem of Kriloff's
casket. {256} The casket will
simply open. And it will not =
open,
so long as people do not do simply that first and simple thing--open it.
A man sets up wha=
t he
imagines to be his own peculiar library, his own private picture-gallery, h=
is
own apartments and clothing, he accumulates his own money in order therewit=
h to
purchase every thing that he needs; and the end of it all is, that engaged =
with
this fancied property of his, as though it were real, he utterly loses his
sense of that which actually constitutes his property, on which he can real=
ly
labor, which can really serve him, and which will always remain in his powe=
r,
and of that which is not and cannot be his own property, whatever he may ca=
ll
it, and which cannot serve as the object of his occupation.
Words always poss=
ess
a clear significance until we deliberately attribute to them a false sense.=
What does property
signify?
Property signifies
that which has been given to me, which belongs to me exclusively; that with=
which
I can always do any thing I like; that which no one can take away from me; =
that
which will remain mine to the end of my life, and precisely that which I am
bound to use, increase, and improve.
Now, there exists but one such piece of property for any man,--himse=
lf.
Hence it results =
that
half a score of men may till the soil, hew wood, and make shoes, not from
necessity, but in consequence of an acknowledgment of the fact that man sho=
uld
work, and that the more he works the better it will be for him. It results, that half a score of me=
n,--or
even one man, may demonstrate to people, both by his confession and by his
actions, that the terrible evil from which they are suffering is not a law =
of
fate, the will of God, or any historical necessity; but that it is merely a
superstition, which is not in the least powerful or terrible, but weak and
insignificant, in which we must simply cease to believe, as in idols, in or=
der
to rid ourselves of it, and in order to rend it like a paltry spider's
web. Men who will labor to fu=
lfil
the glad law of their existence, that is to say, those who work in order to=
fulfil
the law of toil, will rid themselves of that frightful superstition of prop=
erty
for themselves.
If the life of a =
man
is filled with toil, and if he knows the delights of rest, he requires no
chambers, furniture, and rich and varied clothing; he requires less costly
food; he needs no means of locomotion, or of diversion. But the principal thing is, that t=
he man
who regards labor as the business and the joy of his life will not seek that
relief from his labor which the labors of others might afford him. The man who regards life as a matt=
er of
labor will propose to himself as his object, in proportion as he acquires
understanding, skill, and endurance, greater and greater toil, which shall
constantly fill his life to a greater and greater degree. For such a man, who sees the meani=
ng of
his life in work itself, and not in its results, for the acquisition of
property, there can be no question as to the implements of labor. Although such a man will always se=
lect
the most suitable implements, that man will receive the same satisfaction f=
rom
work and rest, when he employs the most unsuitable implements. If there be a steam-plough, he wil=
l use
it; if there is none, he will till the soil with a horse-plough, and, if th=
ere is
none, with a primitive curved bit of wood shod with iron, or he will use a
rake; and, under all conditions, he will equally attain his object. He will
pass his life in work that is useful to men, and he will therefore win comp=
lete
satisfaction.
And the position =
of
such a man, both in his external and internal conditions, will be more happy
than that of the man who devotes his life to the acquisition of property. Such a man will never suffer need =
in his
outward circumstances, because people, perceiving his desire to work, will
always try to provide him with the most productive work, as they proportion=
a
mill to the water-power. And =
they
will render his material existence free from care, which they will not do f=
or
people who are striving to acquire property. And freedom from anxiety in his ma=
terial
conditions is all that a man needs.
Such a man will always be happier in his internal conditions, than t=
he
one who seeks wealth, because the first will never gain that which he is
striving for, while the latter always will, in proportion to his powers.
What, then, will =
be
the outcome of a few eccentric individuals, or madmen, tilling the soil, ma=
king
shoes, and so on, instead of smoking cigarettes, playing whist, and roaming
about everywhere to relieve their tedium, during the space of the ten leisu=
re
hours a day which every intellectual worker enjoys? This will be the outcome: that the=
se
madmen will show in action, that that imaginary property for which men suff=
er, and
for which they torment themselves and others, is not necessary for happines=
s;
that it is oppressive, and that it is mere superstition; that property, true
property, consists only in one's own head and hands; and that, in order to
actually exploit this real property with profit and pleasure, it is necessa=
ry
to reject the false conception of property outside one's own body, upon whi=
ch
we expend the best efforts of our lives.&n=
bsp;
The outcome us, that these men will show, that only when a man cease=
s to
believe in imaginary property, only when he brings into play his real prope=
rty,
his capacities, his body, so that they will yield him fruit a hundred-fold,=
and
happiness of which we have no idea,--only then will he be so strong, useful,
and good a man, that, wherever you may fling him, he will always land on his
feet; that he will everywhere and always be a brother to everybody; that he
will be intelligible to everybody, and necessary, and good. And men looking on one, on ten suc=
h madmen,
will understand what they must all do in order to loose that terrible knot =
in
which the superstition regarding property has entangled them, in order to f=
ree
themselves from the unfortunate position in which they are all now groaning
with one voice, not knowing whence to find an issue from it.
But what can one =
man
do amid a throng which does not agree with him? There is no argument which
could more clearly demonstrate the terror of those who make use of it than
this. The burlaki {260} drag =
their
bark against the current. The=
re
cannot be found a burlak so stupid that he will refuse to pull away at his
towing-rope because he alone is not able to drag the bark against the
current. He who, in addition =
to his
rights to an animal life, to eat and sleep, recognizes any sort of human ob=
ligation,
knows very well in what that human obligation lies, just as the boatman kno=
ws
it when the tow-rope is attached to him.&n=
bsp;
The boatman knows very well that all he has to do is to pull at the
rope, and proceed in the given direction.&=
nbsp;
He will seek what he is to do, and how he is to do it, only when the
tow-rope is removed from him. And
as it is with these boatmen and with all people who perform ordinary work, =
so
it is with the affairs of all humanity.&nb=
sp;
All that each man needs is not to remove the tow-rope, but to pull a=
way
on it in the direction which his master orders. And, for this purpose, one sort of
reason is bestowed on all men, in order that the direction may be always the
same. And this direction has
obviously been so plainly indicated, that both in the life of all the people
about us, and in the conscience of each individual man, only he who does not
wish to work can say that he does not see it. Then, what is the outcome of this?=
This: that one,
perhaps two men, will pull; a third will look on, and will join them; and in
this manner the best people will unite until the affair begins to start, and
make progress, as though itself inspiring and bidding thereto even those wh=
o do
not understand what is being done, and why it is being done. First, to the contingent of men wh=
o are consciously
laboring in order to comply with the law of God, there will be added the pe=
ople
who only half understand and who only half confess the faith; then a still
greater number of people who admit the same doctrine will join them, merely=
on
the faith of the originators; and finally the majority of mankind will
recognize this, and then it will come to pass, that men will cease to ruin
themselves, and will find happiness.
This will
happen,--and it will be very speedily,--when people of our set, and after t=
hem
a vast majority, shall cease to think it disgraceful to pay visits in untan=
ned
boots, and not disgraceful to walk in overshoes past people who have no sho=
es
at all; that it is disgraceful not to understand French, and not disgracefu=
l to
eat bread and not to know how to set it; that it is disgraceful not to have=
a
starched shirt and clean clothes, and not disgraceful to go about in clean
garments thereby showing one's idleness; that it is disgraceful to have dir=
ty
hands, and not disgraceful not to have hands with callouses.
All this will com=
e to
pass when the sense of the community shall demand it. But the sense of the community will
demand this when those delusions in the imagination of men, which have
concealed the truth from them, shall have been abolished. Within my own recollection, great
changes have taken place in this respect.&=
nbsp;
And these changes have taken place only because the general opinion =
has
undergone an alteration. With=
in my memory,
it has come to pass, that whereas it used to be disgraceful for wealthy peo=
ple
not to drive out with four horses and two footmen, and not to keep a valet =
or a
maid to dress them, wash them, put on their shoes, and so forth; it has now
suddenly become discreditable for one not to put on one's own clothes and s=
hoes
for one's self, and to drive with footmen. Public opinion has effected all
these changes. Are not the ch=
anges
which public opinion is now preparing clear?
All that was
necessary five and twenty years ago was to abolish the delusion which justi=
fied
the right of serfdom, and public opinion as to what was praiseworthy and wh=
at
was discreditable changed, and life changed also. All that is now requisite is to
annihilate the delusion which justifies the power of money over men, and pu=
blic
opinion will undergo a change as to what is creditable and what is disgrace=
ful,
and life will be changed also; and the annihilation of the delusion, of the=
justification
of the moneyed power, and the change in public opinion in this respect, wil=
l be
promptly accomplished. This
delusion is already flickering, and the truth will very shortly be
disclosed. All that is requir=
ed is
to gaze steadfastly, in order to perceive clearly that change in public opi=
nion
which has already taken place, and which is simply not recognized, not fitt=
ed
with a word. The educated man=
of
our day has but to reflect ever so little on what will be the outcome of th=
ose
views of the world which he professes, in order to convince himself that th=
e estimate
of good and bad, by which, by virtue of his inertia, he is guided in life,
directly contradict his views of the world.
All that the man =
of
our century has to do is to break away for a moment from the life which run=
s on
by force of inertia, to survey it from the one side, and subject it to that
same standard which arises from his whole view of the world, in order to be
horrified at the definition of his whole life, which follows from his views=
of
the world. Let us take, for
instance, a young man (the energy of life is greater in the young, and
self-consciousness is more obscured).
Let us take, for instance, a young man belonging to the wealthy clas=
ses,
whatever his tendencies may chance to be.
Every good young =
man
considers it disgraceful not to help an old man, a child, or a woman; he
thinks, in a general way, that it is a shame to subject the life or health =
of
another person to danger, or to shun it himself. Every one considers that shameful =
and
brutal which Schuyler relates of the Kirghiz in times of tempest,--to send =
out
the women and the aged females to hold fast the corners of the kibitka [ten=
t]
during the storm, while they themselves continue to sit within the tent, ov=
er their
kumis [fermented mare's-milk].
Every one thinks it shameful to make a week man work for one; that i=
t is
still more disgraceful in time of danger--on a burning ship, for
example,--being strong, to be the first to seat one's self in the lifeboat,=
--to
thrust aside the weak and leave them in danger, and so on.
All men regard th=
is
as disgraceful, and would not do it upon any account, in certain exceptional
circumstances; but in every-day life, the very same actions, and others sti=
ll
worse, are concealed from them by delusions, and they perpetrate them
incessantly. The establishmen=
t of this
new view of life is the business of public opinion. Public opinion, supporting such a =
view,
will speedily be formed.
Women form public
opinion, and women are especially powerful in our day.
As stated in the Bible, a law was g=
iven
to the man and the woman,--to the man, the law of labor; to the woman, the =
law
of bearing children. Although we, with our science, avons change tout ca, t=
he
law for the man, as for woman, remains as unalterable as the liver in its
place, and departure from it is equally punished with inevitable death. The only difference lies in this, =
that
departure from the law, in the case of the man, is punished so immediately =
in
the future, that it may be designated as present punishment; but departure =
from
the law, in the case of the woman, receives its chastisement in a more dist=
ant
future.
The general depar=
ture
of all men from the law exterminates people immediately; the departure from=
it
of all women annihilates it in the succeeding generation. But the evasion by some men and so=
me
women does not exterminate the human race, and only deprives those who evad=
e it
of the rational nature of man. The departure of men from this law began lon=
g ago,
among those classes who were in a position to subject others, and, constant=
ly
spreading, it has continued down to our own times; and in our own day it has
reached folly, the ideal consisting in evasion of the law,--the ideal expre=
ssed
by Prince Blokhin, and shared in by Renan and by the whole cultivated world:
"Machines will work, and people will be bundles of nerves devoted to
enjoyment."
There was hardly =
any
departure from the law in the part of women, it was expressed only in
prostitution, and in the refusal to bear children--in private cases. The women belonging to the wealthy
classes fulfilled their law, while the men did not comply with theirs; and
therefore the women became stronger, and continued to rule, and must rule, =
over
men who have evaded the law, and who have, therefore, lost their senses.
From this error
springs that remarkable piece of stupidity which is called the rights of
women. The formula of these r=
ights
of women is as follows: "Here! you man," says the woman, "you
have departed from your law of real labor, and you want us to bear the burd=
en
of our real labor. No, if this is to be so, we understand, as well as you d=
o,
how to perform those semblances of labor which you exercise in banks,
ministries, universities, and academies; we desire, like yourselves, under =
the pretext
of the division of labor, to make use of the labor of others, and to live f=
or
the gratification of our caprices alone." They say this, and prove by their =
action
that they understand no worse, if not better, than men, how to exercise this
semblance of labor.
This so-called wo=
man
question has come up, and could only come up, among men who have departed f=
rom
the law of actual labor. All =
that
is required is, to return to that, and this question cannot exist. Woman, having her own inevitable t=
ask,
will never demand the right to share the toil of men in the mines and in th=
e fields. She could only demand to share in =
the fictitious
labors of the men of the wealthy classes.
The woman of our
circle has been, and still is, stronger than the man, not by virtue of her
fascinations, not through her cleverness in performing the same pharisaical
semblance of work as man, but because she has not stepped out from under the
law that she should undergo that real labor, with danger to her life, with
exertion to the last degree, from which the man of the wealthy classes has
excused herself.
But, within my
memory, a departure from this law on the part of woman, that is to say, her
fall, has begun; and, within my memory, it has become more and more the
case. Woman, having lost the =
law,
has acquired the belief that her strength lies in the witchery of her charm=
s,
or in her skill in pharisaical pretences at intellectual work. And both things are bad for the
children. And, within my memo=
ry,
women of the wealthy classes have come to refuse to bear children. And so mothers who hold the power =
in their
hands let it escape them, in order to make way for the dissolute women, and=
to
put themselves on a level with them.
The evil is already wide-spread, and is extending farther and farther
every day; and soon it will lay hold on all the women of the wealthy classe=
s,
and then they will compare themselves with men: and in company with them, t=
hey will
lose the rational meaning of life.
But there is still time.
If women would but
comprehend their destiny, their power, and use it for the salvation of thei=
r husbands,
brothers, and children,--for the salvation of all men!
Women of the weal=
thy
classes who are mothers, the salvation of the men of our world from the evi=
ls
from which they are suffering, lies in your hands.
Not those women w=
ho
are occupied with their dainty figures, with their bustles, their
hair-dressing, and their attraction for men, and who bear children against
their will, with despair, and hand them over to nurses; nor those who attend
various courses of lectures, and discourse of psychometric centres and
differentiation, and who also endeavor to escape bearing children, in order
that it may not interfere with their folly which they call culture: but tho=
se
women and mothers, who, possessing the power to refuse to bear children,
consciously and in a straightforward way submit to this eternal, unchangeab=
le
law, knowing that the burden and the difficulty of such submission is their
appointed lot in life,--these are the women and mothers of our wealthy clas=
ses,
in whose hands, more than in those of any one else, lies the salvation of t=
he
men of our sphere in society from the miseries that oppress them.
Ye women and moth=
ers
who deliberately submit yourselves to the law of God, you alone in our
wretched, deformed circle, which has lost the semblance of humanity, you al=
one
know the whole of the real meaning of life, according to the law of God; and
you alone, by your example, can demonstrate to people that happiness in lif=
e,
in submission to the will of God, of which they are depriving themselves. You alone know those raptures and =
those
joys which invade the whole being, that bliss which is appointed for the man
who does not depart from the law of God.&n=
bsp;
You know the happiness of love for your husbands,--a happiness which
does not come to an end, which does not break off short, like all other for=
ms
of happiness, and which constitutes the beginning of a new happiness,--of l=
ove
for your child. You alone, wh=
en you
are simple and obedient to the will of God, know not that farcical pretence=
of
labor which the men of our circle call work, and know that the labor impose=
d by
God on men, and know its true rewards, the bliss which it confers. You know this, when, after the rap=
tures
of love, you await with emotion, fear, and terror that torturing state of
pregnancy which renders you ailing for nine months, which brings you to the
verge of death, and to intolerable suffering and pain. You know the conditions of true la=
bor,
when, with joy, you await the approach and the increase of the most terrible
torture, after which to you alone comes the bliss which you well know. You know this, when, immediately a=
fter
this torture, without respite, without a break, you undertake another serie=
s of
toils and sufferings,--nursing,--in which process you at one and the same t=
ime
deny yourselves, and subdue to your feelings the very strongest human need,
that of sleep, which, as the proverb says, is dearer than father or mother;=
and
for months and years you never get a single sound, unbroken might's rest, a=
nd
sometimes, nay, often, you do not sleep at all for a period of several nigh=
ts
in succession, but with failing arms you walk alone, punishing the sick chi=
ld
who is breaking your heart. A=
nd
when you do all this, applauded by no one, and expecting no praises for it =
from
any one, nor any reward,--when you do this, not as an heroic deed, but like=
the
laborer in the Gospel when he came from the field, considering that you have
done only that which was your duty, then you know what the false, pretentio=
us labor
of men performed for glory really is, and that true labor is fulfilling the
will of God, whose command you feel in your heart. You know that if you are a true mo=
ther
it makes no difference that no one has seen your toil, that no one has prai=
sed
you for it, but that it has only been looked upon as what must needs be so,=
and
that even those for whom your have labored not only do not thank you, but o=
ften
torture and reproach you. And=
with
the next child you do the same: again you suffer, again you undergo the
fearful, invisible labor; and again you expect no reward from any one, and =
yet
you feel the sane satisfaction.
If you are like t=
his,
you will not say after two children, or after twenty, that you have done
enough, just as the laboring man fifty years of age will not say that he has
worked enough, while he still continues to eat and to sleep, and while his
muscles still demand work; if you are like this, your will not cast the tas=
k of
nursing and care-taking upon some other mother, just as a laboring man will=
not
give another man the work which he has begun, and almost completed, to fini=
sh:
because into this work you will throw your life. And therefore the more there is of=
this
work, the fuller and the happier is your life.
And when you are =
like
this, for the good fortune of men, you will apply that law of fulfilling Go=
d's
will, by which you guide your life, to the lives of your husband, of your
children, and of those most nearly connected with you. If your are like this, and know fr=
om
your own experience, that only self-sacrificing, unseen, unrewarded labor, =
accompanied
with danger to life and to the extreme bounds of endurance, for the lives of
others, is the appointed lot of man, which affords him satisfaction, then y=
ou
will announce these demands to others; you will urge your husband to the sa=
me
toil; and you will measure and value the dignity of men acceding to this to=
il;
and for this toil you will also prepare your children.
Only that mother =
who
looks upon children as a disagreeable accident, and upon love, the comforts=
of
life, costume, and society, as the object of life, will rear her children in
such a manner that they shall have as much enjoyment as possible out of lif=
e,
and that they shall make the greatest possible use of it; only she will feed
them luxuriously, deck them out, amuse them artificially; only she will tea=
ch
them, not that which will fit them for self-sacrificing masculine or femini=
ne
labor with danger of their lives, and to the last limits of endurance, but =
that
which will deliver them from this labor.&n=
bsp;
Only such a woman, who has lost the meaning of her life, will sympat=
hize
with that delusive and false male labor, by means of which her husband, hav=
ing
rid himself of the obligations of a man, is enabled to enjoy, in her compan=
y,
the work of others. Only such=
a
woman will choose a similar man for the husband of her daughter, and will
estimate men, not by what they are personally, but by that which is connect=
ed
with them,--position, money, or their ability to take advantage of the labo=
r of
others.
But the true moth=
er,
who actually knows the will of God, will fit her children to fulfil it
also. For such a mother, to s=
ee her
child overfed, enervated, decked out, will mean suffering; for all this, as=
she
well knows, will render difficult for him the fulfilment of the law of God =
in which
she has instructed him. Such a
mother will teach, not that which will enable her son and her daughter to r=
id
themselves of labor, but that which will help them to endure the toils of
life. She will have no need to
inquire what she shall teach her children, for what she shall prepare them.=
Such a woman will not only not enc=
ourage
her husband to false and delusive labor, which has but one object, that of
using the labors of others; but she will bear herself with disgust and horr=
or
towards such an employment, which serves as a double temptation to her
children. Such a woman will n=
ot
choose a husband for her daughter on account of the whiteness of his hands =
and
the refinement of manner; but, well aware that labor and deceit will exist
always and everywhere, she will, beginning with her husband, respect and va=
lue
in men, and will require from them, real labor, with expenditure and risk of
life, and she will despise that deceptive labor which has for its object the
ridding one's self of all true toil.
Such a mother, who
brings forth children and nurses them, and will herself, rather than any ot=
her,
feed her offspring and prepare their food, and sew, and wash, and teach her
children, and sleep and talk with them, because in this she grounds the
business of her life,--only such a mother will not seek for her children
external guaranties in the form of her husband's money, and the children's
diplomas; but she will rear them to that same capacity for the self-sacrifi=
cing
fulfilment of the will of God which she is conscious of herself possessing,=
--a
capacity for enduring toil with expenditure and risk of life,--because she
knows that in this lies the sole guaranty, and the only well-being in
life. Such a mother will not =
ask
other people what she ought to do; she will know every thing, and will fear
nothing.
If there can exist
any doubt for the man and for the childless woman, as to the path in which =
the
fulfilment of the will of God lies, this path is firmly and clearly defined=
for
the woman who is a mother; and if she has complied with it in submissiveness
and in simplicity of spirit, she, standing on that loftiest height of bliss
which the human being is permitted to attain, will become a guiding-star for
all men who are seeking good. Only
the mother can calmly say before her death, to Him who sent her into this
world, and to Him whom she has served by bearing and rearing children more =
dear
than herself,--only she can say calmly, having served Him who has imposed t=
his
service upon her: "Now lettest thou thy servant depart in
peace." And this is the
highest perfection, towards which, as towards the highest bliss, men are
striving.
Such are the wome=
n,
who, having fulfilled their destiny, reign over powerful men; such are the
women who prepare the new generations of people, and fix public opinion: an=
d,
therefore, in the hands of these women lies the highest power of saving men
from the prevailing and threatening evils of our times.
Yes, ye women and
mothers, in your hands, more than in those of all others, lies the salvatio=
n of
the world!
{21a} The fine, tall members of a regime=
nt,
selected and placed together to form a showy squad.
{21b} [] Omitted by the Censor in the authorized edition printed in Russia, in the set of Count Tolstoi's works.<= o:p>
{24a} Reaumur.
{24b} A drink made of water, honey, and = laurel or salvia leaves, which is drunk as tea, especially by the poorer classes.<= o:p>
{28} [] Omitted by the censor from the
authorized edition published in Russia in the set of count Tolstoi's
works. The omission is indica=
ted thus
. . .
{39} Kalatch, a kind of roll: baranki,
cracknels of fine flour.
{59} An arshin is twenty-eight inches.<= o:p>
{60} A myeshchanin, or citizen, who pay=
s only
poll-tax and not a guild tax.
{62} Omitted in authorized edition.
{66} Omitted by the censor in the autho=
rized
edition.
{94} Omitted by the Censor in the autho=
rized
edition.
{96} Omitted by the Censor in the autho=
rized
edition.
{99} Omitted by the Censor in the autho=
rized
edition.
{108} Omitted by the Censor from the
authorized edition.
{111} Omitted by the Censor in the autho=
rized
edition.
{113} Omitted by the Censor in the autho=
rized
edition
{116} Omitted by the Censor in the autho=
rized
edition.
{122a} Omitted by the Censor in the autho=
rized
edition.
{122b} A very complicated sort of whist.<= o:p>
{124} The whole of this chapter is omitt=
ed by
the Censor in the authorized edition, and is there represented by the follo=
wing
sentence: "And I felt that in money, in money itself, in the possessio=
n of
it, there was something immoral; and I asked myself, What is money?"
{135} Omitted by the Censor in the autho=
rized
edition.
{138} Omitted by the Censor in the autho=
rized
edition.
{139} The above passage is omitted in the
authorized edition, and the following is added: "I came to the simple =
and
natural conclusion, that, if I pity the tortured horse upon which I am ridi=
ng,
the first thing for me to do is to alight, and to walk on my own feet."=
;
{140} Omitted in the authorized edition.=
{142} Omitted in the authorized edition.=
{152a} "Into a worse state," in=
the
authorized edition.
{152b} Omitted in the authorized edition.=
{154} Omitted in the authorized edition.=
{155} Reaumur.
{158} In the Moscow edition (authorized =
by the
Censor), the concluding paragraph is replaced by the following:--"They
say: The action of a single man is but a drop in the sea. A drop in the sea!
"There is an
Indian legend relating how a man dropped a pearl into the sea, and in order=
to
recover it he took a bucket, and began to bail out, and to pour the water on
the shore. Thus he toiled wit=
hout
intermission, and on the seventh day the spirit of the sea grew alarmed lest
the man should dip the sea dry, and so he brought him his pearl. If our social evil of persecuting =
man
were the sea, then that pearl which we have lost is equivalent to devoting =
our
lives to bailing out the sea of that evil. The prince of this world will ta=
ke
fright, he will succumb more promptly than did the spirit of the sea; but t=
his social
evil is not the sea, but a foul cesspool, which we assiduously fill with our
own uncleanness. All that is
required is for us to come to our senses, and to comprehend what we are doi=
ng;
to fall out of love with our own uncleanness,--in order that that imaginary=
sea
should dry away, and that we should come into possession of that priceless
pearl,--fraternal, humane life."
{161a} An arshin is twenty-eight inches.<= o:p>
{161b} The fast extends from the 5th to t=
he
30th of June, O.S. (June 27 t=
o July
12, N.S.)
{165} A pood is thirty-six pounds.
{167} Robinson Crusoe.
{168} Here something has been omitted by=
the
Censor, which I am unable to supply.--TRANS.
{169} An omission by the censor, which I=
am
unable to supply. TRANS.
{178} We designate as organisms the elep=
hant
and the bacterian, only because we assume by analogy in those creatures the
same conjunction of feeling and consciousness that we know to exist in
ourselves. But in human socie=
ties
and in humanity, this actual sign is absent; and therefore, however many ot=
her
signs we may discover in humanity and in organism, without this substantial
token the recognition of humanity as an organism is incorrect.
{238} v prikusku, when a lump of sugar i=
s held
in the teeth instead or being put into the tea.
{252} In English in the text.
{256} An excellent translation of Krilof=
f's
Fables, by Mr. W. R. S. Ralston, is published in London.
{260} Burlak, pl. burlaki, is a boatman =
on the
River Volga.