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FATHER SERGIUS

WORKS OF LEO TOLSTOY
Published by Dodd, Mead & Company
Resurrection, a Novel
Hadji Murád, a Novel
Father Sergius and Other Stories
The Forged Coupon and Other Stories
The Man Who Was Dead
(The Living Corpse) Dramas
The Light That Shines in Darkness, a Drama

FATHER SERGIUS
And Other Stories
BY
LEO TOLSTOY
EDITED BY DR. HAGBERG WRIGHT
Frontispiece

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1912
COPYRIGHT, 1912
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
t
③9 s 12
CONTENTS
PAGE
FATHER SERGIUS . . . . . . . . . 9
THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN . . . . . . . 97.
THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE HERMIT, FEDOR
KUSMICH . . . . . . . . . . . 189
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC . . . . . . . . 227
Two WAYFARERS . . . . . . . . . 253
KHODINKA: AN INCIDENT OF THE CORONATION OF
NICHOLAS II . . . . . . . . . 261
INTRODUCTION TO “A MOTHER” . . . . . 279
The MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER ..... 293
FATHER VASILY: A FRAGMENT. . . . . · 307
FATHER SERGIUS
FATHER SERGIUS
forties an event which startled society.
A handsome youth, a prince, an officer in the
Cuirassiers for whom every one had predicted the
rank of aide-de-camp and a brilliant career at-
tached to the person of Emperor Nicholas I.,
quitted the service. He broke with his beautiful
fiancée, a lady-in-waiting, and a favourite of the
empress, just a fortnight before the wedding-day,
and giving his small estate to his sister, retired to
a monastery to become a monk.
To those who were ignorant of the hidden
motives, this was an extraordinary and unaccount-
able step; but as regards Prince Stephen Kasatsky
himself, it was such a natural move that he could
not conceive an alternative.
His father, a retired colonel of the Guards,
died when the son was twelve. Although it was
would not act in defiance of the wishes of her late
10. FATHER SERGIUS
mo
h the us in o daughter
husband, who had expressed the desire that in the
event of his death the boy should be sent away
and educated as a cadet. So she secured his ad-
mission to the corps.
The widow herself with her daughter Varvara
moved to St. Petersburg in order to be in the
same town with the boy and to take him home
for his holidays. He showed brilliant capacity
n and extraordinary ambition, and came out first in
military drill, in riding, and in his studies,
mathematics especially — for which he had a par-
ticular liking.
In spite of his abnormal height he was a hand-
some, graceful lad, and had it not been for his
violent temper he would have been an altogether
exemplary cadet. He never drank or indulged
in any sort of dissipation, and he was particu-
larly truthful. The fits of fury which maddened
him from time to time, when he lost all control
over himself and raged like a wild animal, were
the only faults in his character. Once, when a
cadet ragged him because of his collection of min-
erals, he almost threw the boy out of the win-
dow. On another occasion he rushed at an offi-
cer and struck him, it was said, for having bro-
ken his word and told a direct lie.
For this he would surely have been degraded
to the rank of a common soldier, if it had not
FATHER SERGIUS
II
been for the head of the school, who hushed up
the matter and dismissed the officer.
• At eighteen Kasatsky left with the rank of lieu-
tenant and entered an aristocratic Guard regiment.
The Emperor Nicholas had known him while he
was in the cadet corps, and had shown him favour
while in the regiment. It was on this account
that people prophesied that he would become an
aide-de-camp. Kasatsky desired it greatly, al-
though less from ambition than from passionate
love for the emperor whom he had cherished since
his cadet days. Each time the emperor visited
the school -- and he visited it very often -- as
Kasatsky saw the tall figure, the broad chest, the
aquiline nose above the moustache, and the close-
cropped side whiskers, the military uniform, and
the brisk, firm step, and heard him greeting the
cadets in his strident voice, he experienced the mo-
mentary ecstasy of one who sees his well-beloved.
But his passionate adoration of the emperor was
even more intense. He desired to give up some-
thing, everything, even himself, to show his in-
finite devotion. The Emperor Nicholas knew
that he inspired such admiration, and deliberately
provoked it. He played with the cadets, made
them surround him, and treated them sometimes
with childish simplicity, sometimes as a friend,
and then again with an air of solemn grandeur.
I 2
FATHER SERGIUS
: After the incident with the officer, the emperor,
who did not allude to it, waved Kasatsky theat-
rically aside when the latter approached him.
Then, when he was leaving, he frowned and shook
his finger at the boy, saying, “Be assured that
everything is known to me; but there are things
I do not wish to know. Nevertheless they are
here," and he pointed to his heart.
When the .cadets were formally received by the
emperor on leaving the school, he did not remind
Kasatsky of his insubordination, but told them all,
as was his custom, that they could turn to him in :
need, that they were to serve him and their coun-
try with loyalty, and that he would ever remain
their best friend. All were touched — as usual
and Kasatsky, remembering the past, shed
tears and made a vow to serve his beloved Tsar
with all his might.
When Kasatsky entered the regiment, his
mother and sister left St. Petersburg, going first
to Moscow and then to their estate in the coun-
What remained was quite sufficient to support him
in the expensive regiment which he had joined.
Viewed from outside, Kasatsky seemed like an
ordinary brilliant young officer of the Guards
making a career for himself. But within his
soul there were intense and complex strivings.
FATHER SERGIUS
Although this striving, which had been going on
ever since his childhood, seemed to vary in its na-
ture, it was essentially one and the same, and had
for its object that absolute perfection in every un-
dertaking which would give him the applause and
admiration of the world. Whatever it might be,
accomplishments or learning, he worked to merit
praise, and to stand as an example to the rest.
Mastering one subject he took up another, and so
obtained first place in his studies. For example,
while he was still in the corps, conscious of a lack
of fluency in his French, he contrived to master
the language so that he knew it like his own.
while still in the corps, he worked at the game till
he acquired proficiency.
Apart from the chief end of life, which was in
his eyes the service of the Tsar and his country, he
had always some self-appointed aim, and, how-
ever unimportant it might be, he pursued this with
his whole soul, and lived for it until it was ac-
complished. But the moment it was attained an-
other arose in its place. This passion for distin-
guishing himself and for pursuing one object in
order to distinguish himself filled his life. So it
was that after entering upon his career he set him-
self to acquire the utmost perfection in the knowl-
edge of the service, and, except for his uncon-
14
FATHER SERGIUS
trollable Temper, which was sometimes the occa-
sion of actions that were inimical to his success,
he soon became a model officer.
Once, during a conversation in society, he real-
ised the need of a more general education. So
setting himself to work to read books, he soon at-
tained what he desired. Then he wanted to hold
a brilliant position in aristocratic society. He
learned to dance beautifully, and was presently
invited to all the balls and parties in the best cir-
cles. But he was not satisfied with this. He was
accustomed to being first in everything, and in
this instance he was very far from that. Society
at that time consisted, as I suppose it has done in
every time and place, of four kinds of people —
rich people who are received at court; people who
are not rich, but are born and brought up in court
circles; rich people who ape the court; and peo-
ple, neither rich nor of the court, who copy both.
Kasatsky did not belong to the first two, but
was gladly received in the last two sets. On en-
tering society his first idea was that he must have
a liaison with a society lady; and quite unexpect-
edly it soon came about. Presently, however, he
realised that the circle in which he moved was not
the most exclusive, and that there were higher
spheres, and that, notwithstanding he was re-
ceived there, he was a stranger in their midst.
FATHER SERGIUS
15
They were polite to him, but their manner made
it plain that they had their own intimates, and
that he was not one of them. Kasatsky longed
to be one of them. To attain this end he must
become an aide-de-camp — which he expected to
be -- or else he must marry into the set. He re-
solved upon this latter course. His choice fell
upon a young girl, a beauty, belonging to the
court, and not merely belonging to the circle he
wished to move in, whose society was coveted by
the most distinguished and the most firmly rooted
in this circle. This was the Countess Korotkova.
Kasatsky began to pay court to her purely for the
sake of his career; she was uncommonly attractive,
and he very soon fell in love with her. She was
noticeably cool towards him at first, and then sud-
denly everything changed. She treated him gra-
ciously, and her mother continually invited him
to the house.
Kasatsky proposed, and was accepted. He
was rather astonished at the facility with which
he gained his happiness, and he noticed something
strange in the behaviour towards him of both
mother and daughter. He was deeply in love,
and love had made him blind, so he failed to
realise what nearly the whole town knew -- that
the previous year his fiancée had been the favour-
ite of the Emperor Nicholas.
16
FATHER SERGIUS
Two weeks before the day arranged for the
wedding Kasatsky was at Tsarskoye Selo, at the
country place of his fiancée. It was a hot day in
May. The lovers had had a walk in the garden,
and were sitting on a bench in the shade of the
lindens. Mary looked exceedingly pretty in her
white muslin dress. She seemed the personifica-
tion of love and innocence now bending her
head, now gazing at her handsome young lover,
who was talking to her with great tenderness and
self-restraint, as though he feared by look or ges-
ture to offend her angelic purity. Kasatsky be-
longed to those men of the 'forties, who do not
exist nowadays, who deliberately, while condon-
ing impurity in themselves, require in their wives
the most ideal and seraphic innocence. Being
prepared to find this purity in every girl of their
set, they behaved accordingly. This theory, in
so far as it concerned the laxity which the men per-
mitted themselves, was certainly altogether wrong
and harmful; but in its relation to the women I
think, compared with the notion of the modern
young man who sees in every girl nothing but a
mate or a female, there was much to be said for
it. The girls, perceiving such adoration, en-
deavoured with more or less success to be god-
desses.
Kasatsky held the views of his time, and looked
FATHER SERGIUS
17.
with such eyes upon his sweetheart. That day
he was more in love than ever, but there was
nothing sensual in his feelings towards his
fiancée. On the contrary he regarded her with
the tender adoration of something unattainable.
He rose and stood at his full height before her,
leaning with both hands on his sabre.
“Now for the first time I know what happi-
ness is. And it is you – darling -- who have
given me that happiness," he said, smiling shyly.
He was still at that stage where endearments
are not yet a habit, and it made him gasp to think
of using them to such an angel.
“ It is you who have made me see myself..
clearly. You have shown me that I am better
than I thought," he added.
"I knew it long ago. That is what made me
begin to love you.”
The nightingales were beginning their song
somewhere near, and the young leaves moved in
the sudden gusts of wind. He raised her hand
to his lips and there were tears in his eyes.
She understood that he was thanking her for
having said that she loved him. He took a few
steps backwards and forwards, remaining silent,
then approached her again, and sat beside her.
“You know, when I began to make love to
you, it was not disinterested on my part. I
18
FATHER SERGIUS
де
wanted to get into society. And then, when I
came to know you better, how little all that mat-
tered, compared to you! Are you angry with me
for that?"
She did not answer, but touched his hand. He
understood that it meant “ I am not angry."
"Well, you said —” he stopped. It seemed
too bold to say what he intended. “You said
that you — began to love me — forgive me
- I quite believe it -- but there is something
that troubles you and stands in the way of your
feelings. What is it?"
“Yes - now or never," she thought. “He
will know it anyhow. But now he will not for-
sake me because of it. Oh, if he should, how
dreadful!” And she gazed with deep affection
upon that tall, noble, powerful figure. She loved
him now more than the Tsar, and were it not for
Nicholas being an emperor, her choice between
them would rest on Kasatsky.
“Listen,” she said, “I cannot deceive you. I
must tell you everything. You asked me what
stood in the way. It is that I have loved be-
fore."
She again laid her hand on his with an implor-
ing gesture.
He was silent.
FATHER SERGIUS
19
“Do you want to know who it was?
The em-
peror."
“We all loved him. I can imagine you, a
school-girl in the institute -".
“No. After that. It was only a passing in-
fatuation, but I must tell you "
“Well — what?"
"No; it was not simply —” She covered her
face with her hands.
“What! You gave yourself to him?”
She was silent.
“His mistress ? "
Still she did not answer.
He sprang to his feet, and pale as death, with
his teeth chattering, stood before her. He now
remembered how the emperor, meeting him on
the Nevsky, had congratulated him.
“ Oh, my God, what have I done! Stephen!”
"Don't touch me — don't touch me! Oh,
how terrible!”
He turned and went to the house.
There he met her mother.
“What's the matter with you, prince?" she
stopped, seeing his face. The blood rushed sud-
denly to his head.
“You knew it! And you wanted me to shield
them! Oh, if you weren't a woman —" he
20
FATHER SERGIUS
T
shouted, raising his large fist. Then he turned
and ran away.
Had the lover of his fiancée been a private
individual he would have killed him. But it was
his beloved Tsar.
The next day he asked for furlough, and then
for his discharge. Feigning illness, he refused to
see any one, and went away to the country.
There he spent the summer putting his affairs
in order. When summer was over he did not
return to St. Petersburg, but entered a monastery
with the intention of becoming a monk.
His mother wrote to dissuade him from this
momentous step. He answered that he felt a
vocation for God which was above all other con-
siderations. It was only his sister, who was as
proud and ambitious as himself, who understood
him.
She was quite right in her estimate of his mo-
tives. His becoming a monk was only to show
his contempt for all that seemed most important
to the rest of the world, and had seemed so to
himself while he was still an officer. He climbed
to a pinnacle from which he could look down on
those he had previously envied. However, con-
trary to his sister's opinion, this was not the only
guiding motive. Mingled with his pride and his
passion for ascendancy, there was also a genuine
FATHER SERGIUS
21
religious sentiment which Varyara did not know
he possessed. His sense of injury and his disap-
pointment in Mary, whom he had thought such
an angel, were so poignant that they led him to
despair. His despair led where? To God, to
faith, to a childish faith which had never been
destroyed.
On the feast of the Intercession of the Virgin,
Kasatsky entered the monastery to show his su-
periority over all those who fancied themselves
above him."
The abbot was a nobleman by birth, a learned
man, and a writer. He belonged to that monas-
tic order which hails from Walachia, the mem-
bers of which choose, and in their turn are chosen,
leaders to be followed unswervingly and implic-
itly obeyed.
This abbot was the disciple of the famous Am-
brosius, disciple of Makardix of the Leonidas,
disciple of Païssy Velichkovsky.
To this abbot Kasatsky submitted himself as to
the superior of his choice.
Beside the feeling of ascendancy over others,
which Kasatsky felt in the monastery as he had
felt it in the world, he found here the joy of at-
taining perfection in the highest degree inwardly
as well as outwardly. As in the regiment, he had
rejoiced in being more than an irreproachable
officer, even exceeding his duties; so as a monk
his endeavour was to be perfect, industrious, ab-
22
FATHER SERGIUS 23
stemious, meek, and humble: and, above all,
pure, not only in deed but in thought; and obe-
dient. This last quality made his life there far
easier. In that much-frequented monastery there
were many conditions objectionable to him, but
through obedience he became reconciled to them
all.
." It is not for me to reason. I have but to
obey, whatever the command.” On guard be-
fore the sacred relics, singing in the choir, or add-
ing up accounts in the hostelry, all possibility of
doubt was silenced by obedience to his superior.
Had it not been for that, the monotony and
length of the church service, the intrusion of vis-
itors and the inferiority of the other monks,
would have been extremely distasteful to him.
But as it was he bore it all perfectly and found
it even a solace and a support.
"I don't know," he thought, “why I ought to
hear the same prayers many times a day, but I
know that it is necessary, and knowing this I
rejoice." His superior had told him that as food
is necessary for the life of the body, so is spir-
itual food, such as prayers in church, necessary
for maintaining the life of the spirit. He be-
lieved it, and though he found the service for
which he had to rise at a very early hour a diffi-
culty, it brought him indubitable comfort and joy.
24
FATHER SERGIUS
This was the result of humility and the certainty
that anything done in obedience to the superior
was right.
The aim of his life was neither the gradual at- .
tainment of utter subjugation of his will, nor the
attainment of greater and greater humility; but
the achievement of all those Christian virtues
which seemed in the beginning so easy of posses-
sion.
Being not in the least half hearted, he gave
what fortune remained to him to the monastery
without regret.
Humility before his inferiors, far from being
difficult, was a delight to him. Even the victory
over the sins of greed and lust were easy for him.
The superior had especially warned him against
this latter sin, but Kasatsky was glad to feel im-
munity from it. He was only tortured by the
thought of his fiancée. It was not only the
thought of what had been; but the vivid picture
of what might have been. He could not resist
recalling to himself the image of the famous mis-
tress of the emperor who afterwards married and
became a good wife and mother. Her husband
had a high position, influence, and esteem, and a
good and penitent wife.
In his better hours Kasatsky was not distressed
by this thought. At such times he rejoiced that
FATHER SERGIUS
251
these temptations were past. But there were mo-
ments when all that went to make up his present
life grew dark before his mind; moments when,
if he did not actually cease to believe in the foun-
dation of his present life, he was at least unable
to perceive it; when he could not discover the ob-
ject of his present life; when he was overcome
with recollections of the past, and terrible to say,
with regret at having abandoned the world. His
only salvation in that state of mind was obedience
and work, and prayers the whole day long. He
went through his usual forms at prayers, he even
prayed more than was his wont, but it was lip-
service, and his soul took no part. This condi-
tion would sometimes last a day or two days, and
would then pass away. But these days were hid-
eous. Kasatsky felt that he was neither in his
own hands nor God's, but subject to some outside
will. All he could do at those times was to fol.
low the advice of his superior and undertake noth-
ing, but simply wait.
On the whole, Kasatsky lived then, not accord-
ing to his own will but in complete obedience to
his superior; and in that obedience he found
peace.
Such was Kasatsky's life in his first monastery,
which lasted seven years. At the end of the
third year he was ordained to the priesthood and
26 FATHER SERGIUS
7
was given the name of Sergius. The ordination
was a momentous event in his inner life. He had
previously experienced great comfort and spirit-
ual uplifting at holy communions. At first, when
he was himself celebrating .mass, at the moment
of the oblation, his soul was filled with exaltation.
But gradually this sense became dulled; and when
on one occasion he had to celebrate mass in an
hour of depression as he sometimes had, he felt
that this exaltation could not endure. The emo-
tion eventually paled until only the habit was left.
On the whole, in the seven years of his life in
the monastery, Sergius began to grow weary. All
that he had to learn, all that he had to attain
was done, and he had nothing more to do.
But his stupefaction only increased. During
that time he heard of his mother's death and of
Mary's marriage. Both events were matters of
indifference to him, as all his attention and all his
interest were concentrated on his inner life.
In the fourth year of his monastic experience,
during which the bishop had shown him marked
kindness, his superior told him that in the event
of high honours being offered to him he should
not decline. Just then monastic ambition, pre-
cisely that quality which was so disgusting to him
in all the other monks, arose within him. He
was sent to a monastery close to the capital. He
FATHER SERGIUS
27
1
would have been glad to refuse, but his superior
ordered him to accept, so he obeyed, and taking
leave of his superior, left for the other monastery.
This transfer to the monastery near the me-
tropolis was an important event in Sergius's life.
There he encountered many temptations, and his
whole will power was concentrated on the strug-
gle they entailed. In the first monastery women
were no trial to him, but in the second instance
this special temptation assumed grave dimensions
and even took definite shape.
There was a lady known for her frivolous be-
haviour, who began to seek his favour. She
talked to him and asked him to call upon her.
Sergius refused with severity, but was horrified
at the definiteness of his desire. He was so
alarmed that he wrote to his superior. More-
over, for the sake of humiliation, he called a
young novice and, conquering his shame, con-
fessed his weakness. He begged him to keep an
eye on him and not let him go anywhere but to
service and to do penance.
Besides that, Sergius suffered severely on ac-
count of his great antipathy to the abbot of this
monastery, a worldly man and clever in worldly
ways who was making a career for himself within
the church. In spite of his most earnest en-
deavours, Sergius could not overcome his dislike
28
FATHER SERGIUS
for him. He was submissive to him, but in his
heart he criticised him unceasingly. At last,
when he had been there nearly two years, his real
sentiments burst forth.
On the feast of the Intercession of the Virgin,
the vesper service was being celebrated in the
church proper. There were many visitors from
the neighbourhood, and the service was con-
ducted by the abbot himself. Father Sergius was
standing in his usual place, and was praying; that
is to say, he was engaged in that inner combat
which always occupied him during service, espe-
cially in this second monastery.
The conflict was caused by his irritation at the
presence of all the fine folk and especially the
ladies. He tried not to notice what was going
on around him. He could not help, however,
seeing a soldier who while conducting the better
dressed people pushed the common crowd aside,
and noticing the ladies who pointed out the
monks, often himself and another monk as well,
who was noted for his good looks. He tried to
concentrate his mind, to see nothing but the lighť
of the candles on the ikonostasis, the sacred im-
ages, and the priests. He tried to hear nothing
but the prayers which were spoken and chanted;
to feel nothing but self-oblivion in the fulfilment
of his duty. This was a feeling he always ex-
FATHER SERGIUS
29.
perienced when he listened to prayers and antici-
pated the word in the prayers he had so often
heard.
So he stood, crossing himself, prostrating him-
self, struggling with himself, now indulging in
quiet condemnation, and now giving himself up
to that obliteration of thought and feeling which
he voluntarily induced in himself.
When the treasurer, Father Nicodemus (also
a great stumbling-block in Father Sergius's way
—that Father Nicodemus!), whom he couldn't
help censuring for flattering and fawning on the
abbot, approached him, and saluting him with a
low bow that nearly bent him in two, said that the
abbot requested his presence behind the holy
gates, Father Sergius straightened his cassock,
covered his head, and went circumspectly through
the crowd.
“Lise, regardes á droite - c'est lui," he heard
a woman's voice say.
“Où, où? Il n'est pas tellement beau!”.
He knew they were referring to him. As his
habit was when he was tempted, he repeated,
"Lead us not into temptation.” Dropping his
eyes and bowing his head, he walked past the
lectern and the canons, who at that moment were
passing in front of the ikonostasis; and went be-
hind the holy gates by the north portal. Ac-
COY
30
FATHER SERGIUS
cording to custom, he crossed himself, bending
double before the ikon. Then he raised his head
and looked at the abbot, whom, together with
some one standing beside him in brilliant array,
he had already seen out of the corner of his eye.
The abbot stood against the wall in his vest-
ments, taking his short fat hands from beneath
his chasuble and folding them on his fat stom-
ach. Fingering the braid on his chasuble, he
smiled as he talked to a man wearing the uniform
of a general in the emperor's suite, with insignia
and epaulettes, which Father Sergius at once rec-
ognised with his experienced military eye. This
general was a former colonel in command of his
regiment, who now evidently held a very high
position. Father Sergius at once noticed that the
abbot was fully aware of this, and was so pleased
that his fat red face and his bald head gleamed
with satisfaction. Father Sergius was grieved
and disgusted, and all the more so when he heard
from the abbot that he had only sent for him to
satisfy the curiosity of the general, who wanted
to see his famous “colleague," as he put it.
"I am so glad to see you in your angelic guise,”
said the general, holding out his hand. “I hope
you have not forgotten your old comrade."
The whole thing -- the abbot's red and smiling
'face above his white beard in evident approval of
FATHER SERGIUS
31
the general's words; the well-scrubbed face of
the general with his self-satisfied smile, the smell
of wine from the general's breath, and the
smell of cigars from his whiskers — made Sergius
boil.
He bowed once more before the abbot, and
said, “Your grace deigned to call me—" and he
stopped, asking by the very expression of his face
and eyes, “What for?"
The abbot said, “Yes, to meet the general."
“Your grace, I left the world to save myself
from temptation,” he said, pale and with quiver-
ing lips; “why, then, do you expose me to it dur-
ing prayers in the house of God?”.
“Gol gol” said the abbot, frowning and grow-
ing angry.
Next day Father Sergius asked forgiveness of
the abbot and of the brethren for his pride. But
at the same time, after a night spent in prayer,
he decided that his only possible course was to
leave this monastery; so he wrote a letter to his
superior imploring him to grant him leave to re-
turn to his monastery. He wrote that he felt
his weakness and the impossibility of struggling
alone against temptation without his help. He did
penance for his sin of pride. The next post
brought him a letter from the superior, who wrote
that the sole cause of all his trouble was pride.
32
FATHER SERGIUS
The old man explained to him that his fits of an-
ger were due to the fact that in refusing all clerical
honour he humiliated himself not for the sake of
God, but for the sake of his pride; merely for the
sake of saying to himself: “Now, am I not a
splendid fellow not to desire anything?” That
was why he could not tolerate the abbot's action.
“I have renounced everything for the glory of
God, and here I am exhibited like a wild beast!"
“ If you would just give up vanity for God's glory
you would be able to bear it," wrote the old man;
"worldly pride is not yet dead in you. I have
thought often of you, Sergius, my son. I
have prayed also, and this is God's message
with regard to you: Go on as you are, and sub-
mit."
At that moment tidings came that the recluse
Hilary, a man of saintly life, had died in the
hermitage. He had lived there for eighteen
years. The abbot of that hermitage inquired
whether there was not a brother who would take
his place.
“Now with regard to that letter of yours,"
wrote the superior, “go to Father Païssy, of the
T- Monastery. I have written to him about
you, and asked him to take you into Hilary's cell.
I do not say you could replace Hilary, but you
FATHER SERGIUS 33
want solitude to stifle your pride. And may God
bless you in your undertaking."
Sergius obeyed his superior, showed his letter
to the abbot, and, asking his permission, gave up
his cell, handed all his belongings over to the
monastery, and departed for the hermitage at
T-
The abbot of that hermitage, a former mer-
chant, received Sergius calmly and quietly, and
left him alone in his cell. This cell was a cave
dug in a mountain, and Hilary was buried there.
In a niche at the back was Hilary's grave, and in
front was a place to sleep, a small table, and a
shelf with ikons and books. At the entrance
door, which could be closed, was another shelf.
Upon that shelf food was placed once a day by a
brother from the monastery.
So Father Sergius became a hermit.
III
DURING the Carnival in Sergius's second year of
seclusion a merry company of rich people, ladies
and gentlemen from the neighbouring town, made
up a troika party after a meal of carnival pan-
cakes and wine. The company was composed of
two lawyers, a wealthy landowner, an officer, and
four ladies. One of the ladies was the wife of the
officer; another was the wife of the landowner;
the third was his sister, a young girl; the fourth
was a divorcée, beautiful, rich, a little mad, whose
ways gave rise to amazement and indignation in
the town.
The night was fine; the roads smooth as a floor.
They drove ten miles out of town, and then held
a consultation as to whether they should turn back
or go on.
“But where does this road lead?” asked
Madame Makovkin, the beautiful divorcée.
“To T , twelve miles further on," said the
lawyer who was having a flirtation with Madame
Makoykin.
" And beyond?"
34
FATHER SERGIUS
35
“Then to L- past the monastery."
“Oh, the one where Father Sergius is ? "
“ Yes."
“ The handsome hermit - Kasatsky."
“Yes."
“Oh - messieurs et mesdames ! - let us go in
and see Kasatsky. We can rest at T and
have a bite."
“But we shan't get home to-night?"
“We'll just spend the night at Kasatsky's
then."
“Of course. There is a hostelry at the mon-
astery, and a very good one. When I was de-
fending Makine I stopped there."
“No, I shall spend the night at Kasatsky's!”
“Even your great power, dear lady, could not
make that possible.”
“Not possible? I'll bet you!"
“Good! If you spend the night at Kasatsky's
I'll pay you whatever you like."
“ A discrétion!”
“And you the same, remember."
“Agreed! Let's start."
They gave the driver some wine, and they
opened a basket of pies, cakes, and wines for
themselves. The ladies drew their white furs
round about them. The postillions broke into a
dispute as to which should go ahead, and the
36
FATHER SERGIUS
younger one, turning sharply round, lifted his
whip-handle high up and shouted at the horses;
the bells tinkled, and the runners creaked beneath
the sledge. The sledge swayed and rocked a lit-
tle; the outer horses trotted smoothly and briskly,
with their tightly-bound tails under the gaily dec-
orated breech-bands. The slippery road faded
away rapidly. The driver held the reins
tightly.
The lawyer and the officer who sat on the back
seat talked nonsense to Madame Makovkin's..
neighbour, 'and she herself, huddled in her furs,
sat motionless and in thought.
“Eternally the same old things! The ugliness
of it. Shiny red faces reeking with liquor and
with tobacco, the same words, the same thoughts,
for ever the same abomination; and they are all
content and satisfied that it should be so, and thus
they will go on till they die. But I can't — it
bores me. I want something to happen that will
upset and shatter the whole thing. We might at
least be frozen to death as they were at Saratov.
What would these people do? How would they
behave? Execrably, I suppose. Everybody
would think of nothing but himself, and I no less
than the rest. But I have beauty — that's some-
thing. They know it. Well — and that monk
I wonder if he really is indifferent to beauty.
FATHER SERGIUS
37
No, they all care for it, just like that cadet last
autumn. And what a fool he was!"
"Ivan Nicolaievich," she said.
He answered, “Yes ? "
" How old is he?"
“Who?"
“ Why, Kasatsky."
“Over forty, I should think."
“Does he receive visitors ? Does he see every-
body?”
"Everybody, yes; but not always.”
“Cover up my feet. Not that way - how,
clumsy you are? Yes, like that. But you
needn't squeeze them.”
Thus they came to the forest where the cell
was.
She stepped out of the sledge and bade them
drive on. They tried to dissuade her, but she
grew irritable, and commanded them to go on.
Father Sergius was now forty-nine years old.
His life in solitude was very hard: not because
of fasting and prayers. He endured those easily.
But it was the inner struggle which he had not
anticipated. There were two reasons for this
struggle: his religious doubts and the temptations
of desire. He thought these were two different
fiends. But they were one and the same. When
his doubts were gone lust was gone. But think-
38
FATHER SERGIUS
ing these were two different devils, he fought them
separately. They, however, always attacked him
together.
"O my God, my God," he cried, "why dost
Thou not give me faith? There is lust of course,
but even St. Anthony and the rest had to fight
that; but faith - they had that! There are mo-
ments and hours and days when I do not possess
it. Why does the world exist with all its charm,
if it is sinful and we must renounce it? Why hast
Thou created this temptation? Temptation ?
But isn't this temptation to renounce the joys of
the world and to prepare for the life beyond,
where there is nothing and where there can be
nothing?" Saying this to himself, he became
horrified and filled with disgust at himself.
“You vile thing! And you think of being a
saint!” he said.
He rose to pray. But when he began praying
he saw himself as he appeared at the monastery
in his vestments and all his grandeur, and he
shook his head.
“No, that is not so. It is a lie. I may de-
ceive all the world, but not myself, and not God.
I am insignificant. I am pitiable." And he
pushed back the skirts of his cassock, and gazed
at his thin legs in their underclothing.
Then he dropped his robe again, and began to
FATHER SERGIUS 39
.
repeat his prayers, making the sign of the cross
and prostrating himself.
“Will that couch be my bier ?” he read; and,
as if a demon whispered to him, he heard: “The
solitary couch is also the coffin."
“It is a lie!" and he saw in imagination the
shoulders of a widow who had been his mistress.
He shook himself and went on reading. After
having read the precepts he took up the Gospels.
He opened the book at a passage that he had
often repeated and knew by heart.
“Lord, I believe. Help thou my unbelief."
He stifled the doubts that arose. Just as one
replaces an object without disturbing its balance,
he carefully put his faith back into its position
while it trembled at its base, and stepped back
cautiously so as neither to touch it nor upset it.
He again pulled himself together and regained his
peace of mind and repeating his childish prayer:
“O Lord, take me, take me!” felt not only at
ease, but glad and thrilled. He crossed himself
and lay down to sleep on his narrow bench, put-
ting his light summer garment under his head.
He dropped off to sleep at once. In his light
slumber he heard small tinkling bells. He did
not know whether he was dreaming or waking.
But a knock at the door aroused him. He sat up
on his couch, not trusting his senses. The knock
40
FATHER SERGIUS
came again. Yes, it was nearer, it was at his own
door, and after it came the sound of a woman's
voice.
“My God! is it true that the devil takes the
form of a woman, as I have read in the lives of
the saints? Yes — it is a woman's voice! So
timid — So sweet - So tender!” And he spat to
exorcise the devil. “No! It was only imagina-
tion!” and he went to the corner where the lec-
tern stood and fell on his knees, his regular and
habitual motion that of itself gave him comfort
and pleasure. He bowed low, his hair falling
forward on his face, and pressed his bare fore-
head to the damp, cold floor. There was a
draught from the floor. He read a psalm which,
as old Father Piman had told him, would ward off
the assaults of the devil. His light, slender
frame started up upon its strong limbs, and he
meant to go on reading his prayers. But he did
not read. He involuntarily inclined his head to
listen. He wanted to hear more.
All was silent. From the corner of the roof
the same regular drops fell into the tub below.
Without was a mist, a fog that swallowed up the
snow. It was still, very still. There was a sud-
den rustle at the window, and a distinct voice, the
same tender, timid voice, a voice that could only
belong to a charming woman.
FATHER SERGIUS
“Let me in, for Christ's sake.”
All the blood rushed to his heart and settled
there. He could not even sigh.
“May the Lord appear and his enemies be con-
founded."
“But I am not the devil!"
He could not hear that the words were spoken
by smiling lips. “I am not the devil. I am just
a wicked woman that's lost her way, literally and
figuratively." (She laughed.) “I am frozen,
and I beg for shelter.”
He put his face close to the window. The
little ikon lamp was reflected in the glass. He
put his hands up to his face and peered between
them. Fog, mist, darkness, a tree, and — at the
right - She herself, a woman in thick white furs,
in a fur cap with a lovely, lovely, gentle, fright-
ened face, two inches away, leaning towards him.
Their eyes met and they recognised each other -
not because they had ever seen each other before.
They had never met. But in the look they
exchanged they felt - and he particularly -
that they knew each other; that they under-
stood.
After that glance which they exchanged how
could he entertain any further doubt that this was
the devil instead of just a sweet, timid, fright-
ened woman?
42 FATHER SERGIUS
“Who are you? Why have you come ?” he
asked.
“Open the door, I say," she said with a whim-
sical authority. “I tell you I've lost my way."
“But I am a monk — a hermit."
“Open that door all the same. Do you want
me to freeze while you say your prayers ?”
“But how -"
“I won't eat you. Let me in for God's sake.
I'm quite frozen."
She began to be really frightened and spoke
almost tearfully.
He stepped back into the room, looked at the
ikon representing the Saviour with His crown of
thorns.
“God help me — help me, O God!” he said,
crossing himself and bowing low. Then he went
to the door which opened into the little porch,
and feeling for the latch tried to unhook it. He
heard steps outside. She was going from the win-
dow to the door.
“Oh!” he heard her exclaim, and he knew she
had stepped into a puddle made by the dripping
rain. His hands trembled, and he could not move
the hook which stuck a little.
“Well, can't you let me in? I'm quite soaked,
and I'm frozen. You are only bent on saving
your own soul while I freeze to death."
FATHER SERGIUS
43
He jerked the door towards him in order to
raise the latch, and then, unable to measure his
movements, pushed it open with such violence
that it struck her.
“Oh- pardon!” he said suddenly, reverting
to his former tone with ladies.
She smiled, hearing that “pardon.” “Oh,
well, he's not so dreadful,” she thought. “Never
mind; it is you who must pardon me,” she said,
passing by him. “I would never have ventured,
but such an extraordinary circumstance —”.
“If you please," he said, making way for her.
He was struck by the fragrance of fine perfume
that he had not smelt for many a long day.
She went through the porch into the chamber.
He shut the outer door without latching it and
passed into the room after her. Not only in his
heart but involuntarily moving his lips he repeated
unceasingly, “O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God,
have mercy on me, a sinner, have mercy on me, a
sinner."
“If you please," he said to her again.
She stood in the middle of the room, dripping,
and examined him closely. Her eyes smiled.
“Forgive me for disturbing your solitude," she
said, “but you must see what a position I am
placed in. It all came about by our coming out
for a drive from town. I made a wager that I
44
FATHER SERGIUS
would walk by myself from Vorobieyka to town.
But I lost my way. That's how I happened to
find your cell.” Her lies now began.
But his face confused her so that she could not
proceed, so she stopped. She expected him to be
quite different from the man she saw. He was
not as handsome as she had imagined, but he was
beautiful to her. His grey hair and beard,
slightly curling, his fine, regular features and his
eyes like burning coals when he looked straight
at her, impressed her profoundly. He saw that
she was lying..
“Yes; very well,” he said, looking at her and
dropping his eyes. “Now I will go in there, and
this place is at your disposal.”
He took the burning lamp down from before
the ikon, lit a candle, and making a low bow went
out to the little niche on the other side of the par-
tition, and she heard him begin to move some-
thing there.
"He is probably trying to shut himself up away
from me," she thought, smiling. Taking off her
white fur, she tried to remove her cap, but it
caught in her hair and in the knitted shawl she
was wearing underneath it. She had not got wet
at all standing outside at the window. She said
so only as a pretext to be admitted. But she had
really stepped into a puddle at the door, and her
FATHER SERGIUS
45
left foot was wet to the ankle, and one shoe was
full of water. She sat down on his bed, a bench
only covered with a carpet, and began to take her
shoes off. The little cell pleased her. It was
about nine feet by twelve, and as clean as glass.
There was nothing in it save the bench on which
she sat, the book-shelf above it, and the lectern in
the corner. On the door were nails where his fur
coat and his cassock hung. Beside the lantern
was the image of Christ with His crown of thorns,
and the lamp. The room smelt strangely of oil
and of earth. She liked everything, even that
smell. Her wet feet were uncomfortable, the left
one especially, and she took off her shoes and
stockings, never ceasing to smile. She was happy
not only in having achieved her object, but be-
cause she perceived that he was troubled by her
ice. He, the charming, striking, strange,
attractive man!
“Well, if he wasn't responsive, it doesn't mat-
ter," she said to herself. “Father Sergius!
Father Sergius! -- or what am I to call
you!"
“What do you want?" answered a low voice.
“Please forgive me for disturbing your soli-
tude, but really I couldn't help it. I would have
fallen ill. And even now I don't know if I shan't.
I'm quite wet and my feet are like ice."
46
FATHER SERGIUS
“Pardon me," answered the quiet voice. "I
cannot be of any assistance to you.”.
“I would not have come if I could have helped
it. I shall only stop till dawn.".
He did not answer. She heard him muttering
something, probably his prayers.
"I hope you will not come in here," she said,
smiling," for I must undress to get dry."
He did not answer, continuing to read his pray-
ers in a steady voice.
“That is a man,” she thought, as she attempted
to remove her wet shoe. She tugged at it in vain
and felt like laughing. Almost inaudibly, she did
laugh; then, knowing that he would hear, and
would be moved by it just as she wanted him to
be, she laughed louder. The kind, cheerful, nat-
ural laughter did indeed affect him just as she had
wished.
“I could love a man like that. Such eyes; and
his simple, noble face, passionate in spite of all
the prayers it mutters. There's no fooling us
women in that. The instant he put his face
against the window-pane and saw me, he knew me
and understood me. The glimmer of it was in
his eyes and a seal was set upon it for ever. That
instant he began to love me and to want me.
Yes — he wants me," she said, finally getting off
her shoe and fumbling at her stocking.
FATHER SERGIUS
47
DU
To remove those long stockings fastened with
elastic, she had to raise her skirts. She felt em-
barrassed and said, “Don't come in." But there
was no answer from the other side and she heard
the same monotonous murmurs and movements.
“I suppose he's bowing down to the ground,"
she thought, “but that won't help him. He's
thinking about me just as I'm thinking about
him. He's thinking about these very feet of
mine," she said, taking off the wet stockings and
sitting up on the couch barefooted, with her hands
clasped about her knees. She sat awhile like
this, gazing pensively before her.
"It's a perfect desert here. Nobody would
ever know-"
She got down, took her stockings over to the
stove and hung them on the damper. It was
such a quaint damper! She turned it, and then
slipping quietly over to the couch she sat up there
again with her feet upon it. There was absolute
silence on the other side of the partition. She
looked at the little watch hanging round her neck.
Two o'clock. "My people will return about
three.” She had more than an hour before her.
“Well! Am I going to sit here by myself the
whole time? Nonsense! I don't like that. I'll
call him at once. Father Sergius! Father Ser-
gius! Sergei Dimitrievich! Prince Kasatsky!”
48 FATHER SERGIUS
No answer.
“I say! That's cruel. I wouldn't call you if
I didn't need you. I'm ill. I don't know what's
the matter," she said in a tone of suffering.
“Oh! oh!" she groaned, falling back on the
couch, and, strange to say, she really felt that she
was getting faint, that everything ached, that she
was trembling as if with fever.
"Here, listen! Help me! I don't know
what's the matter with. Oh! oh!”
She opened her dress, uncovering her breast,
and raised her arms, bare to the elbows, above her
head. “Oh, oh!"
All this time he stood on the other side of the
door and prayed.
Having finished all the evening prayers, he
stood motionless, fixing his eyes on the end of his
nose, and praying in his heart he repeated with all
his soul: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have
mercy on me!”
He had heard everything. He had heard how
the silk rustled when she took off her dress; how
she stepped on the floor with her bare feet. He
heard how she rubbed her hands and feet. He
felt himself getting weak, and thought he might
be lost at any moment. That was why he prayed
unceasingly. His feelings must have been some-
what like those of the hero in the fairy tale who
FATHER SERGIUS
49
had to go on and on without ever turning back.
Sergius heard and felt that the danger was there
just above his head, around him, and that the only
way to escape it was not to look round on it for an
instant. Then suddenly the desire to see her came
upon him, and at that very instant she exclaimed,
“Now this is monstrous! I may die."
“Yes, I will come. But I will go like that
saint who laid one hand upon the adulteress but
put the other upon burning coals."
But there were no burning coals. He looked
round. The lamp! The lamp!
He put a finger over the flame and frowned,
ready to endure. In the beginning it seemed to
him that there was no sensation. But then of a
sudden, before he had decided whether it hurt
him or how much it hurt him, his face writhed,
and he jerked his hand away, shaking it in the
air.
“No, that I can't do."
“For God's sake, come to me. I am dying.
Oh!”
“Must I be lost? No! I'll come to you
presently," he said, opening the door. And with-
out looking at her he passed through the room to
the porch where he used to chop wood. He felt
about to find the block and the axe which were
leaning against the wall.
50
FATHER SERGIUS
“Presently!” he said, and taking the axe in his
right hand, he laid the forefinger of his left hand
upon the block. He raised the axe and struck at
the finger below the second joint. The finger
flew off more lightly than wood, and bounding
up, turned over on the edge of the block and
then on to the floor. Sergius heard that sound
before he realised the pain, but ere he could re-
cover his senses he felt a burning pain and the
warmth of the flowing blood. He hastily pressed
the end of his cassock to the maimed finger,
pressed it to his hip, and going back into her
room stood before the woman.
“What do you want?” he asked her in a low
voice.
She looked at his pale face with its trembling
cheeks and felt ashamed. She jumped up,
grasped her fur, and throwing it around her shoul-
ders tucked herself up in it.
“I was in pain I've taken cold- I-
Father Sergius --I-"
He turned his eyes, which were shining with the
quiet light of joy upon her, and said,
“Dear sister, why have you desired to lose
your immortal soul? Temptation must come into
the world, but woe to him by whom temptation
cometh. Pray that God may forgive us both.”
She listened and looked at him. Suddenly she
FATHER SERGIUS
51
heard the sound of something dripping. She
looked closely and saw that blood was dropping
from his hand on to his cassock.
“What have you done to your hand ? "
She remembered the sound she had heard, and
seizing the little ikon lamp ran out to the porch;
there on the floor she saw the bloody finger.
She returned with her face paler than his, and
wanted to say something. But he went silently
to his little apartment and shut the door.
“Forgive me," she said. “How can I atone
for my sin?”
“ Go."
“Let me bind your wound."
“Go hence."
She dressed hurriedly and silently and sat in
her furs waiting.
The sound of little bells reached her from out-
side.
“Father Sergius, forgive me.”
“Go — God will forgive you."
“Father Sergius, I will change my life. Do
not forsake me.”
“Go."
“Forgive -- and bless me!”
"In the name of the Father and of the Son and
of the Holy Ghost," she heard from behind the
door. “Go."
52
FATHER SERGIUS
She sobbed and went out from the cell.
The lawyer came forward to meet her.
“Well," he said, “I see I have lost. There's
no help for it. Where will you sit?"
“I don't care."
She took a seat in the sledge and did not speak
a word till they reached home.
A year later she entered a convent as a novice
and led a life of severe discipline under the guid-
ance of hermit
R w ho wrote her letters at
long intervals.
IV
ANOTHER seven years Father Sergius lived as a
hermit. In the beginning he accepted a great
part of what people used to bring him — tea,
sugar, white bread, milk, clothes, and wood.
But as time went on he led a life of ever greater
austerity. Refusing anything that could be
thought superfluous, he finally accepted nothing
but rye bread once a week. All that was brought
to him he gave to the poor who visited him.
His entire time was spent in his cell in prayer
or in conversation with visitors whose number
continually increased
Father Sergius appeared in church only three
times a year, and when it was necessary he went
out to fetch water and wood.
After the episode with Madame Makovkin, the
change he effected in her life, and her taking the
veil, the fame of Father Sergius increased. Vis-
itors came in greater and greater numbers, and
monks came to live in his neighbourhood. A
church was built there, and a hostelry. Fame, as
usual, exaggerated his feats. People came from
54
FATHER SERGIUS
a great distance and began bringing invalids to
him in the belief that he could heal them.
His first cure happened in the eighth year of
his seclusion. He actually healed a boy of four-
teen brought to him by his mother who insisted
on Father Sergius putting his hand on the child's
head. The idea had never occurred to him that
he could heal the sick. He would have regarded
such a thought as a great sin of pride.
But the mother who brought the boy never
ceased imploring him, on her knees.
“Why wouldn't he help her son when he
healed other people?" she asked, and again be-
sought him in the name of Christ.
When Father Sergius replied that only God
could heal, she said she wanted him only to lay
his hands on his head and pray.
Father Sergius refused and went back to his
cell. But next morning — for this happened in
the autumn and the nights were already cold —
coming out of his cell to fetch water, he saw the
same mother with her child, the same boy of
fourteen, and heard the same petitions.
Father Sergius remembered the parable of the
righteous judge, and contrary to his first instinct
that he must indubitably refuse, he began to pray,
and prayed until a resolve formed itself in his
soul. This decision was that he must accede to
FATHER SERGIUS
55
the woman's request, and that her faith was suffi-
cient to save her child. As for him, Father Ser-
gius, he would be in that case but the worthless
instrument chosen by God.
Returning to the mother, Father Sergius yielded
to her request, put his hand on the boy's head and
prayed.
The mother left with her son. In a month the
boy was cured, and the fame of the holy healing
power of “old Father Sergius," as he was called
then, spread abroad. From that time not a week
passed without sick people coming to Father Ser-
gius.
Complying with the requests of some, he could
not refuse the rest; he laid his hands on them and
prayed. Many were healed and his fame be-
came more and more widespread.
Having thus passed seven years in the monas-
tery and many years in the hermitage, he looked
now like an old man. He had a long grey beard,
and his hair had grown thin.
Now Father Sergius had for weeks been haunted
by one relentless thought, whether it was right for
him to have acquiesced in a state of things not so
much created by himself as by the archimandrite
and the abbot.
This state of things had begun after the heal-
ing of the boy of fourteen. Since that time Ser-
gius felt that each passing month, each week and
each day, his inner life had somehow been de-
stroyed and a merely external life had been sub-
stituted for it. It was as if he had been turned
inside out. Sergius saw that he was a means of
attracting visitors and patrons to the monastery,
and that, therefore, the authorities of the monas-
tery tried to arrange matters in such a way that he
might be most profitable to them. For instance,
he had no chance of doing any work. Everything
thing they asked was that he should not refuse
his blessing to the visitors who came to seek it.
For his convenience days were appointed on which
he should receive them. A reception room was
arranged for men; and a place was also enclosed
56
FATHER SERGIUS
57
by railings in order that the crowds of women
who came to him should not overwhelm him, a
place where he could bestow his blessing upon
those who came.
When he was told that he was necessary to
men, and that if he would follow the rule of
Christ's love, he could not refuse them when
they desired to see him, and that his holding aloof
from them would be cruel, he could not but agree.
But the more he gave himself up to such an
existence the more he felt his inner life trans-
formed into an external one. He felt the fount
of living water drying up within him; and that
everything he did now was performed more and
more for man and less for God. Whatever he
did, whether admonishing or simply blessing, or
praying for the sick, or giving advice on the con-
duct of life, or listening to expressions of grati-
tude from those he had helped, or healed (as they
say) or instructed or advised, he could not help
feeling a certain pleasure when they expressed
their gratitude to him. Neither could he be in-
different to the results of his activity, nor to his
influence. He now thought himself a shining
light. But the more he harboured that idea, the
more he was conscious of the fact that the divine
light of truth which had previously burned within
him was flickering and dying.
58
FATHER SERGIUS
IS
“How much of what I do is done for God and
how much for man?” That was the question
that tormented him. Not that he could not find
an answer to it, but he dared not give an answer.
He felt deep down in his soul that the devil had
somehow changed all his work for God into work
for man. Because just as it had formerly been
hard for him to be torn from solitude, now soli-
tude itself was hard. He was often wearied with
visitors, but in the bottom of his heart he en-
joyed their presence and rejoiced in the praise
which was heaped on him.
There came a time when he made up his mind
to go away, to hide. He even thought out a
plan. He got ready a peasant shirt and peasant
trousers, a coat and a cap. He explained that
he wanted them to give to the poor, and he kept
these clothes in his cell, thinking how he would
one day put them on and cut his hair, and go
away. First he would take a train and travel for
about three hundred miles. Then he would get
out and walk from village to village. He asked
an old soldier how he tramped; if people gave
alms, and whether they admitted wayfarers into
their houses. The soldier told him where peo-
ple were most charitable, and where they would
take a wanderer in for the night, and Father Ser-
gius decided to act on his advice. One night, he
FATHER SERGIUS
59
even put on those clothes and was about to go.
But he did not know which was best, to remain
or to run away. For a time he was undecided.
Then the state of indecision passed. He grew ac-
customed to the devil and yielded to him; and the
peasant clothes only served to remind him of
thoughts and feelings that were no more.
Crowds flocked to him increasingly from day to
day, and he had less and less time for prayers and
for renewing his spiritual strength. Sometimes,
in his brighter moments, he thought he was like
a place where a brook had once been. There
had been a quiet stream of living water which
flowed out of him and through him, he thought.
That had been real life, the time when she had
tempted him. He always thought with ecstasy
of that night and of her who was now Mother
Agnes. She had tasted of that pure water.
Since then the water had hardly been given time
to collect before those who were thirsty arrived
in crowds, pushing one another aside, and they
had trodden down the little brook until nothing
but mud was left. So he thought in his clearer
moments; but his ordinary state of mind was
weariness and a sort of tenderness for himself
because of that weariness.
It was spring, the eve of a festal day. Father
Sergius celebrated Vespers in the church in the
60
FATHER SERGIUS
cave. There were as many people as the place
could hold — about twenty altogether. They all
belonged to the better classes, rich merchants and
such like. Father Sergius admitted every one to
his church, but a selection was made by the monk
appointed to serve him and by a man on duty
who was sent to the hermitage every day from the
monastery. A crowd of about eighty pilgrims,
chiefly women, stood outside, waiting for Father
Sergius to come out and bless them. In that part
of the service, when he went to the tomb of his
predecessor to bless it, he felt faint, and stag-
gered, and would have fallen had it not been for
à merchant who served as deacon who caught
him.
“What is the matter with you? Father Ser-
gius, dear Father Sergius! O God!" exclaimed
a woman's voice. “He is as white as a sheet!”
But Father Sergius pulled himself together and
though still very pale, pushed aside the deacon
and the merchant and resumed the prayers.
Father Serafian, the deacon, and the acolytes and
a lady, Sophia Ivanovna, who always lived
close by the hermitage to attend on Father
Sergius, begged him to bring the service to an
end.
“No, there's nothing the matter," said Father
Sergius, faintly smiling from beneath his mous-
FATHER SERGIUS
61
tache and continuing his prayers. “Ah, that is
the way of saints," he thought.
"A holy man -- an angel of God," he heard
Sophia Ivanovna and the merchant who had sup-
ported him a moment before murmur. He did
not heed their entreaties, but went on with the
service. Crowding one another as before, they
all filed through narrow passages back into the
little church where Father Sergius completed ves-
pers, merely curtailing the service a little. Di-
rectly after this, having pronounced the benedic-
tion on those present, he sat down outside on a
little bench beneath an elm tree at the entrance to
the cave. He wanted to rest; to breathe fresh
air. He felt the need of it; but the moment he
appeared, a crowd of people rushed to him so-
liciting his blessing, his advice, and his help. In
the crowd was a number of women, pilgrims going
from one holy place to another, from one holy
tuary and before each saint.
Father Sergius knew this common, cold, irre-
ligious, unemotional type. As for the men in the
crowd, they were for the most part retired sol-
diers, long unaccustomed to a settled life, and
most of them were poor, drunken old men who
tramped from monastery to monastery merely for
a living. The dull peasantry also flocked there,
62
FATHER SERGIUS
men and women, with their selfish requirements
seeking healing or advice in their little daily in-
terests; how their daughters should be married,
or a shop hired, or land bought, or how a woman
could atone for a child she had lain over in sleep
and killed, or for a child she had borne out of
wedlock.
All this was an old story to Father Sergius and
did not interest him. He knew he would hear
nothing new from them. The spectacle of their
faces could not arouse any religious emotion in
him. But he liked to look at them as a crowd
which was in need of his benediction and revered
his words. This made him like the crowd, al-
though he found them fatiguing and tiresome.
Father Serafian began to disperse the people
saying that Father Sergius was weary. But
Father Sergius recollected the words of the Gos-
pel, “Suffer the little children to come unto me
and forbid them not,” and touched at his recol-
lection of the passage he permitted them to ap-
proach. He rose, walked to the little railing be-
yond which the crowd had gathered, and began to
bless them, but his answers to their questions were
so faint that he was moved at hearing himself.
Despite his wish to receive them all, it was
too much for him. Everything grew dark again
before his eyes, and he staggered and grasped the
FATHER SERGIUS
63
railings. He felt the blood rushing to his head,
and grew pale and then scarlet.
“I must leave the rest till tomorrow, I can do
no more now,” he said, and pronouncing a gen-
eral benediction, returned to the bench.
The merchant supported him again, and taking
him by the arm assisted him to be seated. Voices
exclaimed in the crowd, -
"Father, dear father, don't forsake us. We
are lost without you."
The merchant, having helped Father Sergius
to the bench under the elm tree, took upon him-
self the duties of policeman and began energet-
ically to disperse the crowd. It was true he spoke
in a low voice so that Father Sergius could not
overhear, but he spoke very decidedly and in an
angry tone.
“Get away, get away, I say! He has blessed
you. What else do you want? Get along! or
you'll catch it. Move on there! Get along
there, old woman, with your dirty rags. Go on!
Where do you think you're going; I told you it
was finished. To-morrow's coming, but to-day
he's done, I tell youl"
"Dear father! I only want to look on his
dear face with my own little eyes," said an old
woman.
“Little eyes indeed! You don't get in here!”
... 64
FATHER SERGIUS
Father Sergius noticed that the merchant was
doing it rather too thoroughly, and spoke to his
attendant saying the crowd was not to be turned
away. He knew perfectly well that the crowd
would be dispersed all the same, and he desired
to remain alone and rest, but he sent his attendant
with the order merely to make an impression.
“Well -— well - I'm not turning them away;
I'm only talking to them," answered the merchant.
“They'll drive the man to death. They have no
mercy. They're only thinking of themselves.
No, I say! Get away! Tomorrow!” and he
drove them all away.
The merchant took all this trouble because he
loved order and liked to turn people away and
abuse them; but more because he wanted to have
Father Sergius to himself. He was a widower
and had an only daughter, an invalid and unmar-
ried. He had brought her fourteen hundred
miles to Father Sergius to be healed. During the
two years of the girl's illness he had taken her to
various cures. First to the university clinic in
the principal town of the province, but this was
not of much use; then to a peasant in the prov-
ince of Samara, who did her a little good. After-
wards he took her to a doctor in Moscow and
paid him a huge fee; but this did not help at all.
Then he was told that Father Sergius wrought
FATHER SERGIUS
65
cures, so he brought her to him. Consequently
an
out any warning, he said in a loud voice,-
“Holy Father! Bless my afflicted child and
heal her of her sufferings. I venture to pros-
trate myself at your holy feet," and he put one
hand on another, palms up, cup-wise. All this
he did as if it were something distinctly and rig-
idly appointed by law and usage; as if it were
the sole and precise method by which a man
should request the healing of his daughter. He
did it with such conviction that even Sergius felt
for the moment that that was just the right way.
However he bade him rise from his knees and
tell him what the trouble was. The merchant
said that his daughter, a girl of twenty-two, had
fallen ill two years before, after the sudden death
of her mother. She just said " Ah!" as he put
it, and went out of her mind. He had brought
her fourteen hundred miles, and she was waiting
in the hostelry till Father Sergius could receive
her. She never went out by day, being afraid
of the sunlight, but only after dusk.
“ Is she very weak?" asked Father Sergius.
“No, she has no special weakness, but she's
rather stout, and the doctor says she's neuras
thenic. If you will just let me fetch her, Father
66
FATHER SERGIUS
Sergius, I'll be back with her in a minute. Re-
vive, O holy father, the heart of a parent, restore
his line, and save my afflicted offspring with your
prayers !” and the merchant fell down on his
knees again and bending sideways with his head
over his palms, which appeared to hold little heaps
of something, remained like a figure in stone.
Father Sergius again told him to get up, and
thinking once more how trying his work was, and
how patiently he bore it in spite of everything,
sighed heavily. After a few moments' silence,
he said:
“Well, bring her to-night. I will pray over
her. But now I am weary," and he closed his
eyes. “I will send for you."
The merchant went away, stepping on tiptoe,
which made his boots creak still louder, and
Father Sergius remained alone.
Father Sergius's life was filled with church
services and with visitors; but this day was par-
ticularly difficult. In the morning an important
official had come to hold a long conference with
him. Then a lady came with her son. The son
was a young professor, an unbeliever, and his
mother, who was ardently religious and devoted
to Father Sergius, brought him to Father Sergius
that he might talk to him. The talk was very
trying. The young man evidently did not wish
FATHER SERGIUS 67
to have a discussion with the monk, and just
agreed with him in everything, as with an in-
ferior. Father Sergius saw that the youth was
an infidel, but that he had nevertheless a clear and
tranquil conscience. The memory of the conver-
sation was now unpleasant to him.
“Won't you eat something, Father Sergius?"
asked the attendant.
“ Very well — bring me something."
The attendant went to a little hut built ten
paces from the cave, and Father Sergius remained
alone.
The time was long past when Father Sergius
lived alone, doing everything for himself and
having but a holy wafer and bread for nourish-
ment. He had been warned long ago that he
had no right to be careless of his health and he
was given wholesome meals, although of Lenten
quality. He did not eat much, but more than he
had done; and sometimes he even felt a pleasure
in eating; the disgust and the sense of sin he had
experienced before was gone.
• He took some gruel and had a cup of tea with
half a roll of white bread. The attendant went
away while he remained alone on the bench under
the elm-tree. It was a beautiful evening in May.
The leaves of the birches, the aspens, the elms,
the alder bushes, and the oaks were just beginning
68
FATHER SERGIUS
to blossom. The alder bushes behind the elms
were still in full bloom. A nightingale was sing-
ing near at hand, and two or three more in the
bushes down by the river trilled and warbled.
From the river came the songs of working-men,
perhaps on their way home from their labour.
The sun was setting behind the forest and was
throwing little broken rays of light among the
leaves. This side was bright green and the other
side was dark. Beetles were flying about and,
colliding together, were falling to the ground.
After supper Father Sergius began to repeat a
prayer mentally:
“O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have
mercy on us," and then he read a psalm. Sud-
denly, in the middle of the psalm a sparrow flew
out from a bush on the ground, and hopping
along, came to him; then it flew away frightened.
He was reading a prayer that bore upon renun-
ciation of the world and hastened to get to the
end of it in order that he might send for the mer-
chant and his daughter. He was interested in
the daughter because she offered a sort of diver-
sion, and also because she and her father thought
him a saint, a saint whose prayer was efficacious.
He repudiated the idea, but in the depths of his
soul he nevertheless concurred. He often won-
7
FATHER SERGIUS
69
dered how he, Sergius Kasatsky, had contrived to
become such an extraordinary saint and worker of
miracles, but that it was a fact he did not doubt.
He could not fail to believe in the miracles he
saw with his own eyes, beginning with the sick boy
and ending with this last old woman who had re-
covered her sight through his prayers. Strange
as it was, it was a fact. Accordingly the mer-
chant's daughter interested him as a new individ-
ual that had faith in him, and besides, as an
occasion of bearing witness to his healing power
and to his fame.
“ People come thousands of miles. Papers
talk about it. The emperor knows. All Europe
knows all godless Europe.” And then he felt
ashamed of his vanity and began to pray:
"God, King of Heaven, Comforter, True Soul,
come into — inspire me — and cleanse me from
all sin, and save, O All-merciful, 'my soul.
Cleanse me from the sin of worldly vanity that
has overtaken me," he said, remembering how
often he had made that prayer and how vain it
had been. His prayers worked miracles for
others, but as for himself God had not granted
him strength to conquer this petty passion. He
remembered his prayers at the commencement of
his seclusion when he asked for the grace of pur-
70
FATHER SERGIUS
ity, humility, and love, and how it seemed to
him at that time that God heard his prayers. He
had retained his purity and had hewn off his fin-
ger. He raised the stump of the finger with folds
of skin on it to his lips, and kissed it. It seemed
to him now, that at that time when he had been
filled with disgust at his own sinfulness, he had
been humble; and that he had also possessed love.
He recalled also the tender feelings with which
he had received the old drunken soldier who had
come to ask alms of him; and how he had received
her. And now; he asked himself whether he
loved anybody; whether he loved Sophia Ivan-
ing of love for those who had come to him that
day. He asked himself if he had felt any love
toward the learned young man with whom he had
held that instructive discussion with the object
only of showing off his own intelligence and prov-
He wanted love from them, and rejoiced in it;
but felt no love himself for them. Now he had
neither love nor humility. He was pleased to
hear that the merchant's daughter was twenty-
two, and was anxious to know if she was good-
looking. When he inquired if she was weak, he
only wanted to know if she had feminine charm.
“Is it true that I have fallen so low?” he
FATHER SERGIUS
71
thought. “God help me! Restore my strength
restore me, O God my Saviour!” and he
clasped his hands and began to pray.
The nightingales sang, a beetle flew at him and
crept along the back of his neck. He brushed it
away.
“But does He exist? What if I am knocking
at a house which is locked from without. The bar
is on the door, and we can see it. Nightingales,
beetles, nature are the bar to our understanding.
That young man was perhaps right." He began
to pray aloud, and prayed long, till all these
thoughts disappeared and he became calm and
firm in the faith. He rang the bell, and told the
attendant to say that the merchant might now
come with his daughter.
The merchant came, leading his daughter by
the arm, and brought her to the cell, where he
left her.
The daughter was pale, with fair hair. She
was very short, and had a frightened, childish
face and full figure. Father Sergius remained
seated on the bench at the entrance. When the
girl passed him and stood near him he blessed
her, feeling aghast because of the way in which
he looked at her figure. As she passed by him,
he felt a sting. He saw by her face that she was
sensual and feeble minded. He rose and entered
72
FATHER SERGIUS
his cell. She was sitting on a stool waiting for
him, and when he entered she rose.
"I want to go back to my papa," she said..
"Do not be afraid," he said. “Where do you
feel pain?"
“I feel pain all over," she answered, and sud-
denly her face brightened with a smile.
“You will regain your health," he said.
66 Pray.”
“What's the use? I've prayed. · It doesn't
help," and she continued smiling. “I wish you
would pray and lay your hands on me. I saw
you in a dream."
“How so?”
“I saw you put your hand on my chest."
She took his hand and pressed it to her breast.
“Here."
He yielded his right hand to her.
“What is your name?” he asked, his whole
body shaking, and feeling that he was overcome
and could not control his instinct.
“Marie, why?"
She took his hand and kissed it, and then
put her arm around his waist and pressed
him.
“Marie, what are you doing?” he said.
“ You are a devil, Marie!"
“Oh, perhaps. Never mind."
FATHER SERGIUS
73
And embracing him, she sat down at his side
on the bed.
At dawn he went out of the door. Had all
this really happened? Her father would come.
She would tell. “She's a devil. But what have
I done? Oh, there is the axe which I used to
chop off my finger.”
He took the axe and went back to the cell.
The attendant came toward him. “Do you
want some wood cut? Give me the axe."
He gave him the axe, and entered the cell.
She lay asleep. He looked on her with horror.
Going back into the cell he put on the peasant
clothes, seized the scissors, cut his hair, and then,
issuing forth, took the path down the hill to the
river, where he had not been for four years.
The road ran along the river. He went by it,
walking till noon. Then he went into a cornfield
and lay among the corn. Toward evening he ap-
proached a village, but did not enter it. He
went again to the river, to a cliff.
It was early morning, half an hour before sun-
rise. All was grey and mournful around him,
and a cold, early morning wind blew from the
west.
“I must end it all. There is no God. How
can I do it? Throw myself in! I can swim;
nori
74
FATHER SERGIUS
S
I should not drown. Hang myself? Yes; just
with this belt, to a branch."
This seemed so feasible and so easy that he
wanted to pray, as he always did in moments of
distress. But there was nothing to pray to. God
was not. He dropped down on his elbow, and
such a longing for sleep instantly overcame him
that he couldn't hold his head up with his arm
any longer. Stretching out his arm, he laid his
head upon it and went to sleep. But this sleep
lasted only a moment. He woke at once, and
what followed was half dream and half recol-
lection.
He saw himself as a child in the house of his
mother in the country. A carriage was approach-
ing, and out of it stepped Uncle Nicholas Sergei-
vich, with a long black beard like a spade, and
with him a slender girl, Pashinka, with large soft
eyes and a timid, pathetic little face. This girl
was taken to the place where the boys were play-
ing, and they were forced to play with her, which
was very tedious indeed. She was a silly little
girl, and it ended in their making fun of her, and
making her show them how she swam. She lay
down on the floor and went through the motions.
They laughed and turned her into ridicule; which,
when she became aware of it, made her blush in
patches. She looked so piteous that his con-
FATHER SERGIUS
75
science pricked him, and he could never forget
her kind, submissive, tremulous smile. Sergius
remembered how he had seen her since then. A
long time ago, just before he became a monk, she
had married a landowner who had squandered all
her fortune, and who beat her. She had two chil-
dren, a son and a daughter; but the son died when
he was little, and Sergius remembered seeing her
very wretched after that, and then again at the
monastery, when she was a widow. She was still
just the same, not exactly stupid, but insipid, in-
significant, and piteous. She had come with her
daughter and her daughter's fiancé. They were
poor at that time, and later on he heard that she
was living in a little provincial town and was al-
most destitute.
oes she come into my head?” he
asked himself, but still he could not help thinking
about her. “Where is she? What has become
of her? Is she as unhappy as she was when she
had to show us how she swam on the floor? But
what's the use of my thinking of her now? My
business is to put an end to myself.”
Again he was afraid, and again, in order to
spare himself, he began to think about her. Thus
he lay a long time, thinking now of his extraor-
dinary end, now of Pashinka. She seemed some-
how the means of his salvation. At last he feli)
-
den
6.-
76
FATHER SERGIUS
asleep, and in his dream he saw an angel, who
came to him and said:
“Go to Pashinka. Find out what you have to
do, and what your sin is, and what is your way
of salvation."
He awoke, convinced that this was a vision
from on high. He rejoiced, and resolved to do
as he was told in the dream. He knew the town
where she lived, three hundred miles away, so he
walked to that place.
VT
PASHINKA was no longer Pashinka. She had be-
come Praskovia Mikhailovna, old, wrinkled, and
shrivelled, the mother-in-law of a drunken offi-
cial, Mavrikiev -a failure. She lived in the lit-
tle provincial town where he had occupied his last
position, and had supported the family: a daugh-
ter, a nervous, ailing husband, and five grand-
children. Her sole means of supporting them
was by giving music lessons to the daughters of
merchants for fifty kopeks an hour. She had
sometimes four, sometimes five lessons a day, and
earned about sixty roubles a month. They all
lived for the moment on that in expectation of an-
other situation. She had sent letters to all her
friends and relations, asking for a post for her
son-in-law, and had also written to Sergius, but
the letter had never reached him.
It was Saturday, and Praskovia Mikhailovna
was kneading dough for currant bread such as the
cook, a serf on her father's estate, used to make,
for she wanted to give her grandchildren a treat
on Sunday.
78
FATHER SERGIUS
Her daughter Masha was looking after her
youngest child, and the eldest boy and girl were
at school. As for her husband, he had not slept
that night, and was now asleep. Praskovia Mik-
hailoyna had not slept well either, trying to ap-
pease her daughter's anger against her hus-
band.
She saw that her son-in-law, being a weak
character, could not talk or act differently, and
she perceived that the reproaches of his wife
availed nothing. All her energies were employed
in softening these reproaches. She did not want
harsh feelings and resentment to exist. Physi-
cally she could not stand a condition of ill-will.
It was clear to her that bitter feelings did not
mend matters, but simply made them worse. She
did not think about it. Seeing anger made her
suffer precisely as a bad odour or a shrill sound or
a blow.
She was just showing Lucaria, the servant, how
to mix the dough when her grandson, Misha, a
boy six years old, with little crooked legs in darned
stockings, ran into the kitchen looking frightened.
“Grandmother, a dreadful old man wants to
see you!"
Lucaria looked out of the door.
“Oh, ma'am, it's a pilgrim.”
Praskovia Mikhailovna wiped her thin elbows
FATHER SERGIUS 79
with her hands, and then her hands on her apron,
and was about to go into the room to get five
kopeks out of her purse, when she remembered
that she had only a ten kopek piece, so, deciding
to give bread instead, she turned to the cupboard.
But then she blushed at the thought of having
grudged him alms, and ordering Lucaria to cut a
slice of bread, went to fetch the ten kopeks.
“That serves you right,” she said to herself.
"Now you must give twice as much.”
She gave both bread and money to the pilgrim
with apologies, and in doing so she was not at all
proud of her generosity. On the contrary, she
was ashamed of having given so little. The man
had such an imposing appearance.
In spite of having tramped three hundred miles,
begging in the name of Christ, and being nearly
in rags; in spite of having grown thin and weath-
er-beaten, and having his hair cut, and wearing
a peasant cap and boots; in spite, also, of his bow-
ing with great humility, Sergius had the same im-
pressive appearance which had attracted every one
to him. Praskovia Mikhailovna did not recog-
nise him. How could she, not having seen him
for many years ?
“Excuse this humble gift, father. Wouldn't
you like something to eat?”
He took the bread and money, and Praskovia
80
FATHER SERGIUS
Mikhailovna was astonished that he did not go,
but stood looking at her.
“Pashinka, I have come to you. Won't you
take me in?”
His beautiful black eyes looked at her intently,
imploringly, and shone, tears starting; and his
lips quivered painfully under the grey moustache.
Praskovia Mikhailovna pressed her hand to her
shrivelled breast, opened her mouth, and stared at
the pilgrim with dilated eyes.
" It can't be possible! Steph - Sergius
Father Sergius!"
“Yes, it is I," said Sergius in a low voice.
“But no longer Sergius or Father Sergius, but a
great sinner, Stephen Kasatsky - a great sinner,
a lost sinner. Take me in — help me."
“No, it can't be possible! Such great humil-
ity! Come?” She stretched out her hand, but
he did not take it. He only followed her.
But where could she lead him? They had very
little space. She had a tiny little room for her-
self, hardly more than a closet, but even that
she had given up to her daughter, and now
Masha was sitting there rocking the baby to
sleep.
" Please, be seated here," she said to Sergius,
pointing to a bench in the kitchen. He sat down
at once, and took off, with an evidently accustomed
FATHER SERGIUS
81
action, the straps of his wallet first from one shoul-
der and then from the other.
“Heavens! What humility! What an hon-
our, and now -".
Sergius did not answer, but smiled meekly, lay-
ing his wallet on one side.
“Masha, do you know who this is ?" And
Praskovia Mikhailovna told her daughter in a
whisper. They took the bed and the cradle out
of the little room, and made it ready for Sergius.
Praskovia Mikhailovna led him in.
“Now have a rest. Excuse this humble room..
I must go."
“Where?”
“I have lessons. I'm ashamed to say I teach
music.”
“Music! That is 'well. But just one thing,
Praskovia Mikhailovna. I came to you with an
object. Could I have a talk with you?"
“I shall be happy. Will this evening do?"
“It will. One thing more. Do not say who I
am. I have only revealed myself to you. No
one knows where I went, and no one need
know."
“Oh, but I told my daughter —"
"Well, ask her not to tell any one.”
Sergius took off his boots and slept after a
sleepless night and a forty-mile tramp.
82
FATHER SERGIUS
When Praskovia Mikhailovna returned Sergius
was sitting in the little room waiting for her.
He had not come out for dinner, but had some
soup and gruel which Lucaria brought in to him.
“Why did you return earlier than you said?"
asked Father Sergius. “May I speak to you
now ? "
“What have I done to deserve the happiness
of having such a guest! I only missed one les-
son. That can wait. I have dreamed for a long
time of going to see you. I wrote to you. And
now this good fortune!”
“Pashinka, please - listen to what I am going
to tell you, as if it were a confession; as if it were
something I should say to God in the hour of
death. Pashinka, I am not a holy man. I am
a vile and loathsome sinner. I have gone
astray through pride, and I am the vilest of the
yile."
Pashinka stared at him. She believed what he
said. Then, when she had quite taken it in, she
touched his hand and smiled sadly, and said,
“Stevie, perhaps you exaggerate.”
“No, Pashinka, I am an adulterer, a murderer,
a blasphemer, a cheat."
“My God, what does he mean?" she mut-
tered.
“But I must go on living. I, who thought I
FATHER SERGIUS
83
knew everything, who taught others how to live,
I know nothing. I ask you to teach me."
“O Stevie! You are laughing at me. Why
do you always laugh at me?"
“Very well; have it as you will that I am
laughing at you. Still, tell me how you live, and
how you have lived your life.”
"I? But I've lived a very bad life, the worst
life possible. Now God is punishing me, and I
deserve it. And I am so miserable now — SO
miserable!"
“And your marriage - how did you get on?”
" It was all bad. I married because I fell in
love from low motives. Father didn't want me
to, but I wouldn't listen to anything. I just mar-
ried. And then, instead of helping my husband,
I made him wretched by my jealousy, which I
couldn't overcome.”
“He drank, I heard."
“Well, but I didn't give him any peace. I re-
proached him. That's a disease. He couldn't
stop it. I remember now how I took his drink
away from him. We had such frightful scenes!"
She looked at Kasatsky with pain in her beauti-
ful eyes at the recollection.
Kasatsky called to mind that he had been told
that her husband beat Pashinka, and looking at
her thin withered neck with yeins standing out
84
FATHER SERGIUS
behind her ears, the thin coil of hair, half grey,
half auburn, he saw it all just as it happened.
“Then I was left alone with two children, and
with no means."
“But you had an estate!”
“Oh, that was sold when Vasily was alive.
And the money was — spent. We had to live,
and I didn't know how to work like all the
young ladies of that time. I was worse than the
rest — quite helpless. So we spent everything we
had. I taught the children. Masha had learnt
something. Then Misha fell ill when he was in
the fourth class in the school, and God took him.
Masha fell in love with Vania, my son-in-law.
He's a good man but very unfortunate. He's
ill."
Misha. I can't be everywhere."
Praskovia Mikhailovna started, rose, and step-
ping quickly in her worn shoes, went out of the
room and came back with a boy of two in her
arms. The child was throwing himself back-
wards and grabbing at her shawl.
"Where was I? Yes — he had a very good
post here, and such a good chief, too. But poor
Vania couldn't go on, and he had to give up his
position.”
"What is the matter with him?"
FATHER SERGIUS
85
“Neurasthenia. It's such a horrid illness.
We have been to the doctor, but he ought to go
away, and we can't afford it. Still, I hope it will
pass. He doesn't suffer much pain, but ".
“Lucaria !” said a feeble and angry voice.
“She's always sent out when I need her.
Mother!”
“I'm coming," said Praskovia Mikhailovna,
again interrupting her conversation. “You see,
he hasn't had his dinner yet. He can't eat with
us."
She went out and arranged something, and
came back, wiping her thin, dark hands.
"Well, this is the way I live. I complain, and
I'm not satisfied, but, thank God, all my grand-
children are such nice healthy children, and life is
quite bearable. But why am I talking about my-
self?”
“What do you live on?”
“Why, I earn a little. How I used to hate
music! and now it's so useful to me!"
Her small hand lay on the chest of drawers that
stood beside her where she was sitting, and she
drummed exercises with her thin fingers.
“How much are you paid for your lessons ?”
“Sometimes a rouble, sometimes fifty kopeks,
and sometimes thirty. They are all so kind to
me."
86
FATHER SERGIUS
“And do your pupils get on well?” asked
Kasatsky, smiling faintly with his eyes.
Praskovia Mikhailovna did not believe at first
that he was asking ker seriously, and looked in-
quiringly into his eyes.
"Some of them do," she said. “I have one
very nice pupil — the butcher's daughter. Such
a good, kind girl. If I were a clever woman I
could surely use my father's influence and get a
position for my son-in-law. But it is my fault
they are so badly off. I brought them to it."
“Yes, yes," said Kasatsky, dropping his head.
“Well, Pashinka, and what about your attitude to
the church?”
“Oh, don't speak of it! I'm so bad that way.
I have neglected it so! When the children have
to go, I fast and go to communion with them, but
as for the rest of the time I often do not go for a
month. I just send them."
“And why don't you go?"
“Well, to tell the truth -" she blushed — " I'm
ashamed for Masha's sake and the children's to
go in my old clothes. And I haven't anything
else. Besides, I'm just lazy."
“ And do you pray at home?"
"I do, but it's just a mechanical sort of praying.
I know it's wrong, but I have no real religious
feeling. I only know I'm wicked - that's all.”
TY
FATHER SERGIUS
87
“Yes, yes. That's right, that's right!" said
Kasatsky, as if in approval.
“I'm coming - I'm coming!" she called, in
answer to her son-in-law, and, tidying her hair,
went to the other room.
This time she was absent a long while. When
she returned, Kasatsky was sitting in the same
position, his elbow on his knee and his head down.
But his wallet was ready strapped on his back.
When she came in with a little tin lamp without
a shade, he raised his beautiful, weary eyes, and
sighed deeply.
“I didn't tell them who you were," she began
shyly. “I just said you were a pilgrima no-
bleman -- and that I used to know you. Won't.
you come into the dining-room and have tea ?”
"No."
“Then I'll bring some in to you here."
"No; I don't want anything. God bless you,
Pashinka. I am going now. If you have any
pity for me, don't tell any one you have seen me.
For the love of God, tell no one. I thank you.
I would kneel down before you, but I know it
would only make you feel awkward. Forgive me,
for Christ's sake." :
“Give me your blessing."
“God bless you. Forgive me, for Christ's
sake."
88
FATHER SERGIUS
He rose to go, but she restrained him and
brought him some bread and butter, which he took
and departed.
It was dark, and he had hardly passed the
second house when he was lost to sight, and she
only knew he was there because the dog at the
priest's house was barking.
" That was the meaning of my vision. Pa-
shinka is what I should have been, and was not. I
lived for man, on the pretext of living for God;
and she lives for God, imagining she lives for
man! Yes; one good deed -- a cup of cold water
given without expectation of reward — is worth
far more than all the benefits I thought I was be-
stowing on the world. But was there not, after
all, one grain of sincere desire to serve God?” he
asked himself. And the answer came: “Yes,
there was; but it was so soiled, so overgrown with
desire for the world's praise. No; there is no
God for the man who lives for the praise of the
world. I must now seek Him."
He walked on, just as he had made his way
to Pashinka, from village to village, meeting and
parting with other pilgrims, and asking for bread
and a night's rest in the name of Christ. Some-
times an angry housekeeper would abuse him,
sometimes a drunken peasant would revile him;
FATHER SERGIUS 89
but for the most part he was given food and
drink, and often something to take with him.
Many were favourably disposed towards him on
account of his noble bearing. Some, on the other
hand, seemed to enjoy the sight of a gentleman so
reduced to poverty. But his gentleness yan-
quished all hearts.
He often found a Bible in a house where he
was staying. He would read it aloud, and the
people always listened to him, touched by what
he read them, and wondering, as if it were some-
thing new, although so familiar.
If he succeeded in helping people by his advice
or by knowing how to read and write, or by set-
tling a dispute, he did not afterwards wait to see
their gratitude, for he went away directly. And
little by little God began to reveal Himself within
him.
One day he was walking along the road with
two women and a soldier. They were stopped
by a party consisting of a lady and gentleman in
a trap drawn by a trotter, and another gentleman
and lady riding. The gentleman beside the lady
in the trap was evidently a traveller — a French-
man -- while her husband was on horseback with
his daughter.
pilgrims, who, according to a superstition of the
90
FATHER SERGIUS
Russian peasantry, show their superiority by
tramping instead of working. They spoke French,
thinking they would not be understood.
"Demandez-leur," asked the Frenchman, " s'ils
sont bien sûres de ce que leur pèlerinage est agréa-
ble à Dieu?"
The old woman answered,
"Just as God wills it. Our feet have arrived at
the holy places, but we can't tell about our hearts."
They asked the soldier. He answered that he
was alone in the world, and belonged nowhere.
They asked Kasatsky who he was.
“A servant of God.”
“Qu'est-ce-qu'il dit? Il ne répond pas?”
“ Il dit qu'il est un serviteur de Dieu."
“Il doit être un fils de prêtre. Il a de la race.
Avez-vous de la petite monnaie?"
The Frenchman had some change, and gave
each of them twenty kopeks.
“Mais dites-leur que ce n'est pas pour les
cierges que je leur donne, mais pour qu'ils se réga-
lent du thé. Tea — tea," he said, with a smile.
“ Pour vous, mon vieux." And he patted Kasat-
sky on the shoulder with his gloved hand.
"Christ save you," said Kasatsky, and without
putting on his hat, bent his bald head.
Kasatsky rejoiced particularly in this incident,
because he had shown contempt for the world's
FATHER SERGIUS
91
opinion, and had done something quite trifling
and easy. He accepted twenty kopeks, and gave
them afterwards to a blind beggar who was a
friend of his.
The less he cared for the opinion of the world
the more he felt that God was with him.
For eight months Kasatsky tramped in this
fashion, until at last he was arrested in a provin-
cial town in a night-shelter where he passed the
night with other pilgrims. Having no passport to
show, he was taken to the police-station. When
he was asked for documents to prove his identity
he said he had none; that he was a servant of
God. He was numbered among the tramps and
sent to Siberia.
There he settled down on the estate of a rich
peasant, where he still lives. He works in the
vegetable garden, teaches the children to read and
write, and nurses the sick.
THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
I. ON RELIGION.
2. ON WAR.
3. ON STATE AND FATHERLAND.
4. ON TAXES.
ON JUDGING.
6. ON KINDNESS.
7. ON REMUNERATION OF LABOUR.
8. ON DRINK.
9. ON CAPITAL PUNISHMENT.
10. ON PRISONS.
II. ON WEALTH.
12. ON THOSE WHO OFFEND YOU.
13. ON THE PRESS.
14. ON REPENTANCE.
15. ON ART.
16. ON SCIENCE.
17. ON GOING TO LAW.
18. ON THE CRIMINAL COURT.
19. ON PROPERTY.
20. ON CHILDREN.
21. ON EDUCATION:
ON RELIGION.
ΒΟΥ.
Why is Nurse so nicely dressed to-day, and why
did she make me wear that new shirt ?
"HIER.
MOTHER.
Because this is a holiday, and we are going to
church.
Boy.
What holiday?
MOTHER.
Ascension day.
Boy.
What does Ascension mean?
MOTHER.
It means that Jesus Christ has ascended to
heaven.
Boy.
What does that mean: ascended?
MOTHER.
It means that He flew up to heaven.
98 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
ΒΟΥ.
How did he fly? With his wings?
MOTHER.
Without any wings whatever. He simply flew
up because He is God, and God can do anything.
Boy.
But where did he fly to ? Father told me there
was nothing in heaven at all, and we only think we
see something; that there's nothing but stars up
there, and behind them more stars still, and that
there is no end to it. Then where did He fly to?
MOTHER.
(smiling.) You are unable to understand every-
thing. You must believe.
Boy.
What must I believe?
u ar
Wn
MOTHER.
What you are told by grown-up people.
Boy.
But when I said to you that somebody was
going to die because some salt had been spilt, you
said I was not to believe in nonsense.
ON RELIGION
99
MOTHER.
Of course you are not to believe in nonsense.
Boy.
But how am I to know what is nonsense and
what is not?
MOTHER.
You must believe what the true faith says, and
not in nonsense.
Boy.
Which is the true faith then?
MOTHER.
Our faith is the true one. (To herself.) I
am afraid I am talking nonsense. (Aloud.) Go
and tell father we are ready for church, and get
your coat.
Boy.
And shall we have chocolate after church?
ON WAR
KARLCHEN SCHMIDT, nine years; PETIA ORLOV,
ten years; and MASHA ORLOV, eight years.
KARLCHEN.
... Because we Prussians will not allow Russia
to rob us of our land.
PETIA.
But we say this land belongs to us; we con-
quered it first.
MASHA.
To whom? Is it ours?
PETIA.
You are a child, and you don't understand.
“To us” means to our state.
KARLCHEN.
It is this way; some belong to one state and
some to another.
MASHA.
What do I belong to?
100
ON WAR
IDI
PETIA.
You belong to Russia, like the rest of us.
MASHA.
And if I don't want to?
PETIA.
It doesn't matter whether you want to or not.
You are Russian all the same. Every nation
has its Tsar, its King.
KARLCHEN.
(interrupting.) And a parliament.
PETIA.
Each state has its army, each state raises taxes.
MASHA.
But why must each state stand by itself?
es.
PETIA.
What a silly question! Because each state is a
separate one.
MASHA.
But why must it exist apart?
PETIA.
Can't you understand? Because everybody
loves his own country.
102 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
MASHA.
I don't understand why they must be separate
from the rest. Wouldn't it be better if they all
kept together?
PETIA.
• To keep together is all right when you play
games. But this is no game: it is a very serious
matter.
MASHA.
I don't understand.
KARLCHEN.
You will when you grow up.
MASHA.
Then I don't want to grow up.
PETIA.
Such a tiny girl, and obstinate already, just like
all of them.
ON STATE AND FATHERLAND
GAYRILA, a soldier in the reserve, a servant.
MISHA, his master's young son.
GAVRILA.
Good-bye, Mishenka, my dear little master.
Who knows whether God will permit me to see
you again?
MISHA.
Are you really leaving?
GAVRILA.
I have to. There is war again. And I am in
the reserve.
Misha.
A war with whom? Who's fighting, and who
are they fighting against ?
GAVRILA.
God knows. It's very difficult to understand
all that. I have read about it in the papers, but I
103
104 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
can't make it out. They say that some one in
Austria has a grudge against us because of some
favour he did to what's-their-names. ...
MISHA.
But what are you fighting for?
GAVRILA.
I am fighting for the Tsar, of course; for my
country and the Orthodox Faith.
MISHA.
But you don't wish to go to the war, do you?
GAVRILA.
Certainly not. To leave my wife and my chil-
'dren. ... Do you suppose I would leave this
happy life of my own free will?
MISHA.
Then why do you go? Tell them you don't
want to, and stop here. What can they do to
you?
They will take
WII
GAVRILA.
(laughing.) What can they do?
me by force.
MISHA.
Who can take you by force?
ON STATE AND FATHERLAND 105
GAVRILA.
Men who have to obey, and who are exactly in
my position.
MISHA.
Why will they take you by force if they are in
the same position?
GAVRILA.
Because of the authorities. They will be or-
dered to take me, and they will have to do it.
MisHA.
But suppose they don't want to?
A
.
GAVRILA.
They have to obey.
MISHA.
But why?
GAVRILA.
Why? Because of the law.
MISHA.
What law
GAVRILA.
You are a funny boy. It's a pleasure to chat
with you. But now I had better go and get the
samovar ready. It will be for the last time.
ON TAXES
THE BAILIFF AND GRUSHKA.
BAILIFF.
(entering a poor cottage. Nobody is in except
GRUSHKA, a little girl of seven. He looks around
him.) Nobody at home ?
GRUSHKA.
Mother has gone to bring home the cow, and
Fedka is at work in the master's yard.
BAILIFF.
Well, tell your mother the bailiff called. Tell
her I am giving her notice for the third time, and
that she must pay her taxes before Sunday without
fail, or else I will take her cow.
GRUSHKA.
The cow? Are you a thief? We will not let
you take our cow.
BAILIFF.
(smiling.) What a smart girl, I say! What is
your name?
106
ON TAXES
107
GRUSHKA.
Grushka.
BAILIFF.
You are a good girl, Grushka. Now listen.
Tell your mother that, although I am not a thief,
I will take her cow.
GRUSHKA.
Why will you take our cow if you are not a
thief?
BAILIFF.
Because what is due must be paid. I shall
take the cow for the taxes that are not paid.
GRUSHKA.
What's that: taxes?
BAILIFF.
What a nuisance of a girl! What are taxes ?
They are money paid by the people by the order of
the Tsar.
GRUSHKA.
To whom?
BAILIFF.
The Tsar will look after that when the money
comes in.
GRUSHKA.
He's not poor, is he? We are the poor people.
108 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
The Tsar is rich. Why does he want us to give
him money?
BAILIFF.
He does not take it for himself. He spends it
on us, fools that we are. It all goes to supply our
needs -- to pay the authorities, the army, the
schools. It is for our own good that we pay taxes.
GRUSHKA.
How does it benefit us if our cow is taken away?
There's no good in that.
17
BAILIFF.
You will understand that when you are grown-
up. Now, mind you give your mother my mes-
sage.
GRUSHKA.
I will not repeat all your nonsense to her. You
can do whatever you and the Tsar want. And
we shall mind our own business.
BAILIFF.
What a devil of a girl she will be when she
grows up!
LIF
ON JUDGING
MITIA, a boy of ten; ILIUSHA, a boy of nine;
SONIA, a girl of six.
MITIA.
I told Peter Semenovich we could get used to
wearing no clothes at all. And he said, “That is
impossible.” Then I told him Michael Ivano-
vich said that just as we have managed to get our
W.
with our whole body. Peter Semenovich said,
“Your Michael Ivanovich is a fool.” (He
laughs.) And Michael Ivanovich said to me
only yesterday, “Peter Semenovich is talking a
lot of nonsense. But, of course," he added,
" there's no law for fools." (He laughs.).
ILIUSHA.
If I were you I would tell Peter Semenovich,
“You abuse Michael Ivanovich, and he does the
same to you."
MITIA.
No; but truly, I wish I knew which of them is
the fool.
109
110 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
T
SONIA.
They both are. Whoever calls another person
a fool is a fool himself.
· ILIUSHA.
And you have called them both fools. Then
you are one also.
MITIA.
Well, I hate people saying things about each
other behind their backs and never openly to their
faces. When I am grown-up I shan't be like that.
I shall always say what I think.
ILIUSHA.
So shall I.
SONIA.
And I shall do just whatever I like.
MITIA.
What do you mean?
SONIA.
Why, I shall say what I think if I choose.
And if I don't choose, I won't.
ILIUSHA.
You're a big fool, that is what you are.
SONIA.
And you have just said you will never call
people names. But of course. . . .
ON KINDNESS
The children, MASHA and MISHA, are building a
tent for their dolls in front of the house.
MISHA.
(in an angry tone to MASHA.) No, not this.
Bring that stick there. What a blockhead you
are!
AN OLD WOMAN.
(coming out of the house, crossing herself, and
muttering.) Jesus Christ reward her! What
an angel! She has pity on every one.
(The CHILDREN cease to play, and
look at the old woman.)
MISHA
Who is as good as all that?
OLD WOMAN.
Your mother. She has God in her soul. She
pities us, the poor. She has given me a skirt —
and some tea, and money too. The Queen of
III
112 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
Heaven save her! Not like that godless man.
“Such a lot of you," he says, “tramping about
here." And such savage dogs he has!
Misha.
Who is that?
OLD WOMAN.
The man opposite. The wine merchant. A
very unkind gentleman, I can tell you. But never
mind. I am so thankful to the dear lady. She
has given me presents, has relieved me, miserable
creature that I am. How could we exist if it were
not for such kind people? (She weeps.).
MASHA.
(to MISHA.) How good she is!
OLD WOMAN.
When you are grown up, children, be as kind as
she is to the poor. God will reward you.
(Exit.)
MISHA.
How wretched she is !
MASHA.
I am so glad mother has given her something.
MISHA.
Why shouldn't one give, if one has got plenty
ON KINDNESS
113
re
of everything oneself? We are not poor, and
she is.
MASHA.
You remember, John the Baptist said: Who-
ever has two coats, let him give away one.
MISHA.
Oh, when I am grown up I will give away
everything I have.
MASHA.
Not everything, I should think.
MISHA.
Why not?
MASHA.
But what would you have left for yourself?
MisHA.
I don't care. We must always be kind. Then
the whole world will be happy.
(MISHA stopped playing with his sis-
ter, went to the nursery, tore a page out
of a copy-book, wrote a line on it, and
put it in his pocket. On that page was
written: We Must Be KIND.)
ON REMUNERATION OF LABOUR
The FATHER; KATIA, a girl of nine; FEDIA, a boy.
of eight.
KATIA.
Father, our sledge is broken. Couldn't you
mend it for us ?
FATHER.
No, darling, I can not. I don't know how to
do it. Give it to Prohor; he will put it right for
you.
KATIA.
We have asked him to already. He says he is
busy. He is making a gate.
FATHER.
Well, then, you must just wait a little with your
sledge.
FEDIA.
And you, father, can't you mend it for us,
really?
114
REMUNERATION OF LABOUR 115
FATHER.
(smiling.) Really, my boy.
FEDIA.
Can't you do any work at all?
FATHER.
(laughing.) Oh yes, there are some kinds of
work I can do. But not the kind that Prohor
does.
FEDIA.
Can you make samovars like Vania ?
FATHER.
No.
FEDIA.
Or harness horses?
FATHER.
Not that either.
FEDIA.
I wonder why are we all unable to do any work,
and they do it all for us. Ought it to be like
that?
FATHER.
Everybody has to do the work he is fit for.
Learn, like a good boy, and you will know what
work everybody has to do.
116 THE I
WISDOM OF CHILDREN
WIA.
FEDIA.
Are we not to learn how to prepare food and
to harness horses ?
FATHER.
There are things more necessary than that.
FEDIA.
I know: to be kind, not to get cross, not to
abuse people. But isn't it possible to do the cook-
ing and harness horses, and be kind just the same?
Isn't that possible?
FATHER.
Undoubtedly. Just wait till you are grown up.
Then you will understand.
FeDIA.
And what if I don't grow up ?
FATHER.
Don't talk nonsense!
KATIA.
Then we may ask Prohor to mend the sledge ?
FATHER.
Yes, do. Go to Prohor and tell him I wish
him to do it.
ON DRINK
An evening in the autumn.
(MAKARKA, a boy of twelve, and
MARFUTKA, a girl of eight, are coming
'out of the house into the street. MAR-
FUTKA is crying. PAVLUSHKA, a boy
of ten, stands before the house next
door.)
PAVLUSHKA.
Where the devil are you going to, both of you?
Have yoų any night work?
MAKARKA.
Crazy drunk again.
PAVLUSHKA.
Who? Uncle Prohor?
MAKARKA.
Of course.
MARFUTKA.
He is beating mother-
117
118 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
MAKARKA.
I won't go inside to-night. He would hit me
also. (Sitting down on the doorstep.) I will
stay here the whole night. I will.
(MARFUTKA weeps.)
PAVLUSHKA.
Stop crying. Never mind. It can't be helped.
Stop crying, I say.
MARFUTKA.
If I was the Tsar, I would have the people who
give him any drink just beaten to death. I would
not allow anybody to sell brandy.
PAVLUSHKA.
Wouldn't you? But it is the Tsar himself who
sells it. He doesn't let anybody else sell it, for
fear it would lessen his own profits.
MARFUTKA.
It is a lie!
PAVLUSHKA.
Humph! A lie! You just ask anybody you
like. Why have they put Akulina in prison ?
Because they did not want her to sell brandy and
lessen their profits.
MAKARKA.
Is that really so! I heard she had done some-
thing against the law. -
ON DRINK
119
PAVLUSHKA.
What she did against the law was selling
brandy.
MARFUTKA.
I would not allow her to sell it either. It is
just that brandy that does all the mischief. Some-
times he is very nice, and then at other times he
hits everybody.
MAKARKA.
(to PAVLUSHKA.) You say very strange things.
I will ask the schoolmaster to-morrow. He must
know.
PAVLUSHKA.
Do ask him.
(The next morning PROHOR,
MAKARKA's father, after a night's
sleep, goes to refresh himself with a
drink; MAKARKA's mother, with a
swollen eye, is kneading bread.
MAKARKA has gone to school. The
SCHOOLMASTER is sitting at the door of
the village school, watching the children
coming in.)
MAKARKA.
(coming up to the schoolmaster.)" Tell me,
please, Eugene Semenovich, is it true, what a fel-
low was telling me, that the Tsar makes a busi-
120 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
ness of selling brandy, and that is why Akulina
has been sent to prison?
SCHOOLMASTER.
That is a very silly question, and whoever told
you that is a fool. The Tsar sells nothing what-
soever. A tsar never does. As for Akulina, she
was put in prison because she was selling brandy
without a license, and was thereby lessening the
revenues of the Crown.
MAKARKA.
How lessening?
SCHOOLMASTER.
Because there is a duty on spirits. A barrel
costs so much in the factory, and is sold to the
public for so much more. This surplus constitutes
the income of the state. The largest revenue
comes from it, and amounts to many millions.
MAKARKA.
Then the more brandy people drink the greater
the income?
SCHOOLMASTER.
Certainly. If it were not for that income there
would be nothing to keep the army with, or
schools, or all the rest of the things you need.
ON DRINK
I2I
MAKARKA.
But if all those things are necessary, why not
take the money directly for the necessary things?
Why get it by means of brandy ?
SCHOOLMASTER.
Why? Because that is the law. But the chil-
dren are all in now. Take your seats.
ON CAPITAL PUNISHMENT
PETER PETROVICH, a professor. MARIA IVAN-
OVNA, his wife (sewing.) FEDIA, their son, a boy
of nine (listening to his father's conversation.)
IVAN VASILIEVICH, counsel for the prosecution in
the court martial.
IVAN VASILIEVICH.
The experience of history cannot be gainsaid.
We have not only seen in France after the revolu-
tion, and at other historical moments, but in our
own country as well, that doing away with — I
mean the removal of perverted and dangerous
members of society has in fact the desired result.
PETER PETROVICH.
No, we cannot know what the consequences of
this are in reality. The proclamation of a state
of siege is therefore not justified.
IVAN VASILIEVICH.
But neither have we the right to presume that
the consequences of a state of siege must be bad,
122
ON CAPITAL PUNISHMENT 123
or, if it proves to be so, that such consequences
are brought about by the employment of a state of
siege. This is one point. The other is that fear
cannot fail to influence those who have lost every
human sensibility and are like beasts. What ex-
cept fear could have any effect on men like that
one who calmly stabbed an old woman and three
children in order to steal three hundred roubles?
PETER PETROVICH.
But I am not against capital punishment in
principle; I am only opposed to the special courts
martial which are so often formed. If these
frequent executions did nothing but inspire fear,
it would be different. But in addition they per-
vert the mind, and killing becomes a habit of
thought.
SS
a
IVAN VASILIEVICH.
There again we don't know anything about the
remote consequences, but we do know, on the con-
trary, how beneficial. ...
PETER PETROVICH.
Beneficial?
IVAN VASILIEVICH.
Yes, how beneficial the immediate results are,
and we have no right to deny it. How could
LE
'124 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
society similarly fail to exact the penalty from
such a wretch as ...
PETER PETROVICH.
You mean society must take its revenge?
IVAN VASILIEVICH.
No, the object is not revenge. On the con-
trary, it must substitute for personal revenge the
penalty imposed for the good of the community.
Comm
PETER PETROVICH.
But in that case it must be subject to regulations
settled by the law once for ever, and not as a
special order of things.
IVAN VASILIEVICH.
The penalty imposed by the community is a
substitute for casual, exaggerated revenge, in
many cases ungrounded and erroneous, which a
private individual might take.
PETER PETROVICH.
(passionately.) Do you really mean to say the
penalty imposed by society is never casual, is
always well founded, is never erroneous? I can.
not admit that. None of your arguments could
ever convince me or anyone else that this is true
ON CAPITAL PUNISHMENT 125
of a state of siege, under which thousands have
been executed . . and under which execu-
tions are still going on — that all this is both just
and legal, and beneficial into the bargain! (Rises
and walks up and down in great agitation.)
FEDIA.
"(to his mother.). Mother, what is father talking
about?
MARIA IVANOVNA.
Father thinks it wrong that so many people are
put to death.
FEDIA.
Do you mean really put to death?
MARIA IVANOVNA.
Yes. He thinks it ought not to be done so
frequently.
FEDIA.
'(coming up to his father.) Father, isn't it writ-
ten in the Ten Commandments: “ Thou shalt not
kill ”? Doesn't that mean you are not to kill at
all?
PETER PETROVICH.
(smiling.) That does not refer to what we are
talking about. It only means that men are not
to kill other men.
126 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
FEDIA.
But when they execute they kill, don't they?
PETER PETROVICH.
Certainly. But the thing is to know why and
when it is permissible.
Fedia.
When is it?
PETER PETROVICH.
has committed many murders. How could one
leave him unpunished?
But isn't it written in the Gospel that we must
love and forgive everybody?
PETER PETROVICH.
If we could do that it would be splendid. But
that cannot be.
FEDIA.
Why?
PETER PETROVICH.
(to IVAN VASILIEVICH, who listens to FEDIA with
a smile.) As I said, dear Ivan Vasilievich, I can-
not and will not admit the benefit of a state of
siege and courts-martial.
ON PRISONS
SEMKA, a boy of thirteen; AKSUTKA, a girl of
ten; PALASHKA, a girl of nine; VANKA, a boy of
eight. They are sitting at the well, with baskets
of mushrooms which they have gathered.
AKSUTKA.
Aunt Matrena was crying so desperately. And
the children too would not leave off howling, all
at the same time.
VANKA.
Why were they howling?
PALASHKA.
What about? Why, their father has been
taken off to prison. Who should cry but the
family?
VANKA.
Why is he in prison?
AKSUTKA.
I don't know. They came and told him to get
127
128 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
his things ready and led him away. We saw it
all from our cottage.
SEMKA.
Serves him right for being a horse-stealer. He
stole a horse from Demkin's place and one from
Hramov's. He and his gang also got hold of our
gelding. Who could love him for that?
AKSUTKA.
That is all right, but I am sorry for the poor
brats. There are four of them. And so poor -
no bread in the house. To-day they had to come
to us.
SEMKA.
Serves the thief right.
MITKA.
But he's the only one that is the thief. Why
must his children become beggars?
SEMKA.
Why did he steal?
MITKA.
The kid's didn't steal — it is just he.
SEMKA.
Kids indeed! Why did he do wrong? That
doesn't alter the case, that he has got children.
Does that give him the right to be a thief?
ON PRISONS
129
VANKA.
What will they do to him in prison?
AKSUTKA.
He will just sit there. That's all.
VANKA.
And will they give him food ?
SEMKA.
That's just the reason why they're not afraid,
those damned horse-thieves ! He doesn't mind
going to prison. They provide him with every-
thing and he has nothing to do but sit idle the
whole day long. If I were the Tsar, I would
know how to manage those horse-thieves. ...
I would teach them a lesson that would make
them give up the habit of stealing. Now he has
nothing to worry him. He sits in the company
of fellows like himself, and they teach each other
how to steal. Grandfather said Petrusha was
quite a good boy when he went to prison for the
first time, but he came out a desperate villain.
Since then he's taken to -
VANKA.
Then why do they put people in prison ?
SEMKA.
Just ask them.
130 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
AKSUTKA.
He will have all his food given to him
SEMKA.
(agreeing.) So he will get more accustomed to
finding the food ready for him!
AKSUTKA.
While the kiddies and their mother have to die
of starvation. They are our neighbours; we can't
help pitying them. When they come asking for
bread, we can't refuse. How could we?
VANKA.
Then why are those people put in prison?
SEMKA.
What else could be done with them?
VANKA.
What? What could be done? One must
somehow manage that. ...
SEMKA.
Yes, somehow! But you don't know how.
There have been people with more brains than
you've got who have thought about that, and they
couldn't invent anything.
PALASHKA.
I think if I had been a queen...
ON PRISONS
131
II
AKSUTKA.
(laughing.) Well, what would you have done,
my queen?
PALASHKA.
I would have things so that nobody would steal
and the children would not cry.
AKSUTKA.
How would you do that?
PALASHKA.
I would just see that everybody was given what
he needed, that nobody was wronged by anybody
else, and that they were all happy.
SEMKA.
Three cheers for the queen! But how would
you 'manage that?
PALASHKA.
I would just do it, you would see.
MITKA.
Let us all go to the birch woods. The girls
have been gathering a lot there lately.
SEMKA.
‘All right. Come along, you fellows. And
you, queen, mind you don't drop your mushrooms.
You are so sharp.
(They get up and go away.)
ON WEALTH
The LANDLORD, his Wife, their DAUGHTER
on the veranda. The grown-up children are
playing tennis. A YOUNG BEGGAR comes up to
the veranda.
LANDLORD.
(to the beggar.) What do you want?
BEGGAR.
(bowing to him.) I dare say you know. Have
pity on a man out of work. I am tramping, with
nothing to eat, and no clothes to wear. I have
been to Moscow, and am trying to get home.
Help a poor man.
LANDLORD.
Why are you poor?
BEGGAR.
Why? Because I haven't got anything.
LANDLORD.
You would not be poor if you worked.
132
ON WEALTH
133
BEGGAR.
I would be glad to, but I can't get a job.
Everything is shut down now.
LANDLORD.
How is it other people find work and you can-
not?
BEGGAR.
Believe me, upon my soul, I would be only too
glad to work. But I can't find a job. Have pity
on me, sir. I have not eaten for two days, and
I've been tramping all the time.
LANDLORD.
(to his wife in French.) Have you any change ?
I have only notes.
DLO
His WIFE.
(to Vasia.) Be a good boy, go and fetch my
purse; it is in my bag on the little table beside my
bed.
(VASIA does not hear what his mother
'says; he has his eyes fixed on the beggar.)
THE WIFE
Don't you hear, Vasia ? '(Pulling him by the
sleeve.) Vasia!
134 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
Iess.
VASIA.
What, mother?
(THE WIFE repeats her directions.)
VASIA.
(jumping up.) I am off. (Goes, looking back
at the beggar.)
LANDLORD.
(to the beggar.) Wait a moment. (BEGGAR
steps aside.)
LANDLORD.
(to his wife, in French.) Is it not dreadful? So
many are out of work now. It is all laziness.
Yet, it is horrid if he really is hungry.
His WIFE.
I hear it is just the same abroad. I have read
that in New York there are 100,000 unemployed.
Another cup of tea?
LANDLORD.
Yes, but much weaker. (He lights a cigarette;
they stop talking.)
(BEGGAR looks at them, shakes his
head and coughs, evidently to attract
their attention.)
(VASIA comes running with the
purse looks round for the beggar and,
passing the purse to his mother, looks
again fixedly at the beggar.)
9
ON WEALTH
.135
LANDLORD.
"(taking a ten kopek piece out of the purse.)
There, What's-your-name, take that.
BEGGAR.
(bows, pulls off his cap and takes the money.)
Thank you, thank you for that much. Many
thanks for having pity on a poor man.
LANDLORD.
I pity you chiefly for being out of work. Work
would save you from poverty. He who works
will never be poor.
(having received the money, puts on his cap and
turns away.) They say truly that work does not
make a rich man but a humpback. (Exit.).
VASIA.
What did he say!
LANDLORD.
He repeated that stupid peasant's proverb, that
work does not make a rich man but a humpback.
VASIA.
What does that mean?
136 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
urse
LANDLORD.
It is supposed to mean that work makes a man's
back crooked, without ever making him rich.
VASIA.
But that is not true, is it?
FATHER.
Of course not. Those who tramp about like
that man there and have no desire to work, are
always poor. It's only those who work, who get
rich.
VASIA.
Why are we rich, then, when we don't work?
MOTHER.
(laughing.) How do you know father doesn't
work?
VASIA.
I don't know, but since we are very rich, father
ought to be working very hard. Is he, I wonder?
FATHER.
There is work and work. My work is perhaps
work that everybody could not do.
VASIA.
What is your work?
ON WEALTH
137
FATHER.
My work is to provide for your food, your
clothes, and your education.
VASIA.
But hasn't he to provide all that also ? Then
why is he so miserable when we are so
FATHER.
(laughing.) What a self-made socialist, I say!
MOTHER.
Yes, people say: "A fool can ask more ques-
tions than a thousand wise men can answer.” In-
stead of " fool," we ought to say “every child."
ON THOSE WHO OFFEND YOU
MASHA, a girl of ten; VANIA, a boy of eight.
MASHA.
What I wish is that mother would come home
at once and take us shopping, and then to call on
Nastia. What would you like to happen now?
VANIA.
I? I wish something would happen like it did
yesterday.
MASHA.
What happened yesterday? You mean when
Grisha hit you and you both began to cry? There
wasn't much good in that.
VANIA.
That's just what was beautiful. Nothing could
have been more so. That's what I want to hap-
pen again.
MASHA.
I don't understand.
138
ON THOSE WHO OFFEND YOU 139
VANIA.
Well, I will explain what I want. Do you
remember last Sunday, Uncle P. you know how
I love him....
MASHA.
Who wouldn't. Mother says he is a saint; and
it's true.
VANIA.
Well, you remember he told us a story last
Sunday about a man whom people used to insult.
The more any one insulted him the more he loved
the offender. They abused him, and he praised
them. They hit him and he helped them. Uncle
said that anybody who acts so feels very happy.
I liked what he said, and I wanted to be like that
man. So, when Grisha hit me yesterday, I re-
membered my wish and kissed Grisha. He burst
out crying. I felt very happy. But with nurse
yesterday it was different; she began scolding me,
and I quite forgot how I ought to have behaved,
and I answered her very rudely. What I wish
now is to have the same experience over again
that I had with Grisha.
MASHA.
Then you would like somebody to strike you?
140 THE WISDOM PS
OF CHILDREN
VANIA.
I would like it awfully. I would immediately
do what I did to Grisha, and I would be so glad.
MASHA.
How stupid! Just like the fool you've always
been.
VANIA.
I don't mind being a fool. I only know now
what to do, so as to feel happy all the time.
MASHA.
A regular fool! Do you really feel happy, do-
ing so?
VANIA.
Just awfully happy!
ON THE PRESS
The schoolroom at home.
(VOLODIA, a schoolboy of fourteen,
is reading; SONIA, a girl of fifteen, is
writing. The YARD-PORTER enters,
carrying a heavy load on his back;
Misha, a boy of eight, following him.)
PORTER.
Where am I to put that bundle, sir? My
shoulders are bent down with the weight of it.
VOLODIA.
Where were you told to put it?
PORTER.
Vasily Timofeëvich told me to carry it to the
schoolroom and leave it for him.
VOLODIA.
Then put it in the corner.
(PORTER unloads the bundle and
sighs heavily.)
oom
141
142 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
SONIA.
What is it?
VOLODIA.
" Truth”-a paper.
MISHA
“Truth”? What do you mean?
SONIA.
Why have you so many?
VOLODIA.
It is a collection of the whole year's issues.
(Continues reading.)
MISHA.
Has all this been written?
PORTER.
The fellows who wrote it weren't very lazy,
I'll bet.
(laughs.) What did you say?
PORTER.
I said what I meant. It wasn't a lazy lot that
e all that. Well, I'm going. Will you
kindly say I have brought the bundle. (Exit.).
SONIA.
(to VOLODIA.) What does father want all those
papers for ?
ON THE PRESS
143
VOLODIA.
He wants to collect Bolchakov's articles from
them.
SONIA.
And Uncle Michael Ivanovich says reading
Bolchakov makes him ill.
VOLODIA.
Just like Uncle Michael Ivanovich. He only
reads “ Truth for All."
MISHA.
And is uncle's " Truth” as big as this?
SONIA.
Bigger. But this is only for one year, and the
papers have been published twenty years or more.
MISHA.
That makes twenty such bundles and another
twenty more.
SONIA.
(wishing to mystify MISHA.) That's nothing.
These are only two papers, and besides there are
at least thirty more.
VOLODIA.
(without raising his head.) Thirty, you say!
There are five hundred and thirty in Russia alone.
And with those published abroad there are thou-
sands altogether.
144 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
MISHA.
They couldn't all be put into this room.
VOLODIA.
Not even in this whole street. But please
don't disturb me in my work. To-morrow teacher
is sure to call upon me, and you don't give me a
chance of learning my lessons with your silly talk.
(Resumes his reading.)
MISHA.
I don't think there's any use writing so much.
SONIA.
Why not?
MISHA.
Because if what they write is true, then why say
the same thing over and over again? If it isn't,
then why say what is not true?
SONIA.
An excellent judgment!
Misha.
Why do they write such an awful lot?
VOLODIA.
(without taking his eyes off his book.) Because
if it wasn't for the freedom of the press, how
would people know what the truth is ?
ON THE PRESS
145
MISHA.
Father says the “Truth” contains the truth,
and Uncle Michael Ivanovich says “Truth "
makes him ill. Then how do they know where
the truth really is -- in " Truth" or in “Truth for
All”?
SONIA.
I think you are right. There are really too
many papers and magazines and books.
VOLODIA.
Just like a woman: perfectly senseless in every
conclusion!
SONIA.
I only mean that when there is so much written
it is impossible to know anything really.
VOLODIA.
But everybody has brains given him to find out
where the truth is.
MISHA.
Then if everybody has got brains he can reason
things out for himself.
VOLODIA.
So that's how you reason with your large supply
of brains! Please go somewhere else and leave
me alone to work.
reas
ON REPENTANCE
es To
VOLIA, a boy of eight, stands in the passage
with an empty plate and cries. FEDIA, a boy of
ten, comes running into the passage.
FEDIA.
Mother sent me to see where you were; but
what are you crying for? Have you brought
nurse . . . (Sees the empty plate, and whistles.)
Where is the cake?
VOLIA.
I-I-I wanted it, I-'(and then suddenly)
- Boo-hoo-hoo! All of a sudden I ate it up
without meaning to.
FEDIA.
Instead of taking it to nurse, you have eaten
it yourself on the way! Well I never! Mother
thought you wanted nurse to have the cake.
VOLIA.
I did (and then suddenly, without meaning to).
— Boo-hoo-hoo!
146
ON REPENTANCE 147
FEDIA.
You just tasted it, and then you ate the whole
of it. Well, I never! (Laughs.)
VOLIA.
It is all very well for you to laugh, but how am
I going to tell. . . . Now I can't go to nurse -
or to mother either.
FEDIA.
A nice mess you have made of it, I must say.
Ha, ha! So you have eaten the whole cake? It
is no use crying. Just try to think of some way
of getting out of it.
Volia.
I can't see how I can. What shall I do?
FEDIA.
Fancy that! (Trying to restrain himself from
laughing. A pause.)
VOLIA.
What am I to do now? I am losť. (Howls.)
FEDIA.
Don't you care. Stop that howling. Simply
go to mother and tell her you have eaten the cake
yourself.
VOLIA.
That is worse.
148 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
FEDIA.
Then go and confess to nurse.
VOLIA.
How can I?
FEDIA.
Listen; you wait here. I will find nurse and
tell her. She won't mind.
VOLIA.
No, don't. I cannot let her know about it.
FEDIA.
Nonsense. You did it by mistake; it can't be
helped. I will tell her in a minute. (Runs
away.)
VOLIA.
Fedia, Fedia, wait! He is gone - I just
tasted it, and then I don't remember how I did it.
What am I to do now! (Sobbing.)
FEDIA.
(comes running back.) Stop your bawling, I say.
I told you nurse would forgive you. She only
said, "Oh, the darling!"
· VOLIA.
She is not cross with me?
ON REPENTANCE
149
FEDIA.
Not a bit. She said, “I don't care for the
cake; I would have given it to him anyhow."
VOLIA.
But I didn't mean to eat it. (Cries again.)
FEDIA.
Why are you crying again? We won't tell
mother. Nurse has quite forgiven you.
VOLIA.
Nurse has forgiven me. I know she is kind
and good. But me, I am a wicked boy, and that's
what makes me cry.
ON ART
FOOTMAN; HOUSEKEEPER; NATASHA (a little
girl.)
FOOTMAN.
'(with a tray.) Almond milk for the tea, and
rum-
HOUSEKEEPER.
(knitting a stocking and counting the stitches.)
Twenty-three, twenty-four-
FOOTMAN.
I say, Avdotia Vasilievna, can't you hear?
HOUSEKEEPER.
I hear, I hear. I'll give it to you presently.
I can't tear myself to pieces to do all kinds of
work at the same moment. (To NATASHA.)
Yes, darling; I will bring you the prunes presently.
Just wait a moment, till I have given him the
milk. (Strains the almond milk.)
FOOTMAN.
(sitting down.) I tell you I have seen something
150
ON ART
151
to-night. To think that they pay good money
for that!
HOUSEKEEPER.
Oh, you have been to the theatre. You were
out late to-night.
FOOTMAN.
An opera is always a long affair. I have al-
ways to wait hours and hours. To-night they
were kind, and let me in to see the performance.
(The kitchen-maid, the manservant
PAVEL enters with the cream and stands
listening.)
CM
HOUSEKEEPER.
Then there was singing to-night?
FOOTMAN.
Singing - humph! Just silly, loud screaming,
not a bit like real singing. “I," he said —"I
love her so much." And he puts it all to a tune,
and it is not like anything under heaven. Then
they had a row, and ought to have fought it out;
but they started singing instead.
HOUSEKEEPER.
And yet I've heard it costs a lot to get seats for
the season.
152 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
FOOTMAN.
Our box cost three hundred roubles for twelve
nights.
PAVEL.
(shaking his head.) Three hundred! And who
does that money go to?
FOOTMAN.
was told a lady singer makes fifty thousand a
year.
PAVEL.
You talk of thousands — why, three hundred is
a pile of money in the country. Some folks toil
their whole life long, and can't even get together
one hundred.
(NINA, a schoolgirl, enters the ser-
vants' pantry.)
ΝΙΝΑ.
Is Natasha here? Why don't you come?
Mother wants you.
NATASHA.
(munching a prune.) I am coming.
NINA.
(to PAVEL.) What were you saying about a hun-
dred roubles?
ON ART
153
HOUSEKEEPER.
Simeon (pointing to the footman) was just tell-
ing us about the singing he listened to to-night in
the theatre, and about the lady singers being paid
such a lot of money. That's what made Pavel
wonder. Is that really true, Nina Mikhailovna,
that a lady may get fifty thousand for her singing ?
NINA.
More than that. A lady has been engaged to
sing in America for a hundred and fifty thousand
roubles. But even better than that, yesterday's
paper says a musician has been paid fifty thousand
roubles for his finger-nail.
PAVEL
The papers write all sorts of nonsense. That
couldn't be. How could he be paid that?
DU
NINA.
(evidently pleased.) He was, I tell you.
Pavel.
Just for a finger-nail ?
Ta
NATASHA.
How is that possible?
154 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
NINA.
He was a pianist, and was insured for that
amount in case anything happened to his hand,
and he couldn't go on playing the piano.
PAVEL.
Well, I'll be blowed!
SENICHKA.
(a schoolboy in the upper class of the school, en-
tering the pantry.) You've got a regular meet-
ing here. What is it all about?
(NINA tells him what they have
been talking about.)
SENICHKA.
(with still more complacency than NINA.) That
story of the nail is nothing at all. Why, a dancer
in Paris had her foot insured for two hundred
thousand roubles, in case she sprained it and was
not able to go on dancing.
FOOTMAN.
That's them girls -- excuse me for mentioning
it — that work with their legs without any stock-
ings on.
PAVEL.
You call that work! And they are paid for it!
MA
ON ART
155
SENICHKA.
But every one cannot do that kind of work —
and she had to study a good many years.
PAVEL.
What did she study that did any good? Mere
hopping about?
SENICHKA.
You don't understand. Art is a great thing.
PAVEL.
I think it is all nonsense. People spend money
like that because they have such an easy time. If
they had to bend their backs as we do to make
a living, there wouldn't be all these singing and
dancing girls. They ain't worth anything but
what is the use of saying so?
SENICHKA.
There we have the outcome of ignorance. To
him Beethoven and Viardot and Rafael are utter
folly.
NATASHA.
Well, I think what he says is so.
NINA.
Come, let's go.
ON SCIENCE
Two schoolboys, one a pupil of the real gym-
nasium* and the other of the classical gymnasium;
two twins, brothers of the latter; VOLODIA and
PETRUSHA, eight years of age.
SCIENCE SCHOLAR.
What do I want with Latin and Greek, when
everything of any value has been translated into
the modern languages ?
CLASSICAL SCHOLAR.
You will never understand the Iliad unless you
read it in Greek.
SCIENCE SCHOLAR.
But I don't see the use of reading it. I don't
want to.
LAR
VOLODIA.
What is the Iliad?
SCIENCE SCHOLAR.
A story.
* A school for natural science without Greek and Latin; in
the classical gymnasium Latin and Greek are taught.
156
ON SCIENCE
157
CLASSICAL SCHOLAR.
Yes, a story, but one that has not its equal in
the world.
PETRUSHA.
What is it that makes the story so particularly
good?
SCIENCE SCHOLAR.
Nothing. It is just a story, and nothing else.
CLASSICAL SCHOLAR.
Yes; but you cannot really understand antiquity
without a knowledge of this story.
SCIENCE SCHOLAR.
I consider that a superstition just like religious
instruction.
CLASSICAL SCHOLAR.
(getting excited.) Religious instruction is noth-
ing but lies and nonsense, while this is history and
wisdom.
VOLODIA.
Is religious instruction all nonsense?
CLASSICAL SCHOLAR.
Why do you sit there listening to our talk?
You can't understand.
BOTH Boys.
(hurt.) Why shouldn't we?
158 THE WISDOM A
OF CHILDREN
.
VOLODIA.
Perhaps we understand things better than you
do.
CLASSICAL SCHOLAR.
Very well. Just be quiet, and don't interrupt.
(To the SCIENCE SCHOLAR.) You say Latin and
Greek is of no use in life: but that applies as well
to bacteriology, to chemistry, to physics, and as-
tronomy. Why is it necessary to know anything
about the distance of the stars, about their size,
and all those unnecessary details ?
SCIENCE SCHOLAR.
Unnecessary? On the contrary, they are very
necessary indeed.
CLASSICAL SCHOLAR.
What for?
SCIENCE SCHOLAR.
Why, for everything. Take navigation. You
would think that had not much to do with astron-
omy. But look at the practical results of science
-- the way it is applied to agriculture, to medicine,
to the industries —
CLASSICAL SCHOLAR.
On the other hand, it is used also in making
bombs, for purposes of war, and for revolutionary
ON SCIENCE
159
Te
objects as well. If science contributed to the
moral improvement, then
SCIENCE SCHOLAR.
. But what about your sort of knowledge? Does
that raise the moral standard?
VOLODIA.
Is there any science that makes people better?
CLASSICAL SCHOLAR.
I told you not to interfere in the discussions of
grown-up people. You say nothing but silly
things.
VOLODIA and PETRUSHA.
(with one voice.) Not so silly as you im-
agine. ... Just tell us which science teaches
people how to be good.
SCIENCE SCHOLAR.
There isn't such a science. Everybody has to
find that out for himself.
CLASSICAL SCHOLAR.
What is the use of talking to them? They don't
understand.
SCIENCE SCHOLAR.
Why not? They might. How to be good,
Volodia and Petrusha, is not taught in schools.
160 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
VOLODIA.
Well, if that is not taught, it is no use going to
school.
PETRUSHA.
When we are grown up we will not learn useless
things.
VOLODIA.
As for the right way to live, we'll do that better
than you.
CLASSICAL SCHOLAR.
(laughing.) Oh, the wisdom of that conclusion!
ON GOING TO LAW
A PEASANT, HIS WIFE, A KINSWOMAN, FEDIA,
the peasant's son, a lad of nineteen. PETKA, an-
other son, a boy of nine.
FATHER.
(entering the cottage and taking off his cloak.)
What beastly weather! I could hardly manage to
get home.
MOTHER.
And such a long way for you. It must be
nearly fifteen miles.
FATHER.
Not less than twenty, I can tell you. '(To his
son, FEDIA.) Take the colt to the stable.
MOTHER.
Well, have we won?
PEASANT.
We have not, 'damn it all. It will never come
right.
HER.
161
162 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
KINSWOMAN.
But what is it all about, cousin ? I don't quite
understand.
PEASANT.
It is simply that Averian has taken possession
of my vegetable garden and is holding it. And I
can't get at him in the right way.
WIFE.
That lawsuit has been dragging along over a
year now.
KINSWOMAN.
I know, I know. I remember as far back as
Lent, when the matter was before the village
court. My man told me it had been settled in
your favour.
PEASANT.
That finished it, didn't it? But Averian ap-
pealed to the head of the Zemstvo,* and he had
the whole business gone into again. I then ap-
pealed to the judge and won. That ought to have
been the end of it. But it wasn't. After that he
won. Nice sort of judges they are!
WIFE.
What are we to do now?
* County council.
ON GOING TO LAW 163
PEASANT.
I won't stand his having my property. I will
appeal to the higher court, I have already had a
talk with a lawyer.
KINSWOMAN.
But suppose they take his side in the upper
court?
PEASANT.
Then I'll go to the Supreme Court. I'll sell
my last cow before I'll give in to that fat hound.
I'll teach him a lesson.
KINSWOMAN.
A lot of trouble comes from these trials, a lot of
trouble, I declare! And suppose he wins again?
PEASANT.
Then I'll appeal to the Tsar. Now I had bet-
ter go out and give the pony some hay. (Exit.)
PETKA.
Why do they judge like that, some saying Aver-
ian is right and some daddy?
MOTHER.
Probably because they don't know who is right
themselves.
164 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
PETKA.
Then why ask them, if they don't know?
MOTHER.
Because nobody wants to give up his property.
PETKA.
When I grow up, I will do like this: If I have
a dispute with somebody, we will cast lots and see
who wins. And that will settle it. We always
settle it this way with Akulika.
KINSWOMAN.
Don't you think, cousin, that is quite a good
way? One sin less, anyhow.
MOTHER.
Quite so. What a lot we have spent on that
trial! More than the whole vegetable garden is
worth. Oh, it is a sin, a great sin!
ON THE CRIMINAL COURT
Children: GRISHKA, SEMKA, JISHKA.
JISHKA.
Serves him right. Why did he make his way
into another person's corn loft? When he is put
in prison that will teach him not to do it another
time.
SEMKA.
Of course if he has really done it. But old
Mikita said Mitrofan was run into prison without
CL
being guilt
SEL
JISHKA.
Without being guilty? And won't anything
happen to the man who judged him falsely?
GRISHKA.
Well, they won't pat him on the head for it, of
course. If he hasn't judged according to law he
will be punished too.
165
166 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
SEMKA.
Who will punish him?
JISHKA.
Those above him.
SEMKA.
Who are above him?
GRISHKA.
His superiors.
JISHKA.
And if the superiors also make a mistake?
GRISHKA.
There are higher powers above them, and they
will be punished by these. That's what the Tsar
is for.
TISHKA.
But if the Tsar judges wrong, who is going to
punish him?
GRISHKA.
Who? Why do you ask that? Don't you
know?
SEMKA,
God will punish him.
JISHKA.
God will also punish him who stole the corn
from the loft. Then why not leave it to God to
ON THE CRIMINAL COURT 167
punish those who are guilty? He will not judge
wrong.
GRISHKA.
It's clear that that is not possible.
JISHKA.
Why not?
GRISHKA.
Because ...
ON PROPERTY
An old carpenter is mending the railings on a
veranda. A boy of seven, the son of the master
of the house, is watching the man working.
Boy.
How well you work! What is your name?
CARPENTER.
My name? They used to call me Hrolka, and
now they call me Hrol, and even Hrol Savich*
when they speak respectfully.
Boy.
How well you work, Frol Savich.
CARPENTER.
As long as you have to work, you may as well
do good work.
Boy.
Have you got a veranda in your house?
* The name is Frol, but the common way of the ignorant masses
is to use H, instead of F. It is as if one said Johnny then John
and then John Smith.
168
ON PROPERTY
169
CARPENTER.
In our house? We have a veranda, my boy,
yours here is nothing to compare with it. A ver-
anda with no windows. And if you step on to it,
well, you can't believe your eyes. That's the kind
of veranda we've got.
Boy.
You are making fun. No, seriously, tell me:
have you a veranda like this? I want to know.
CARPENTER.
My dear child, how can the likes of us have a
veranda ? It's a blessing if we've a roof over our
heads, and you say, “a veranda!” I've been
thinking about having a roof built ever since last
spring. I've just managed to pull down the old
one, but the new one isn't finished, and the house
is standing there and getting damp without it.
Boy.
(surprised.) But why?
CARPENTER.
Just because I am not able to do it.
Why?
Boy.
If you are able to work for us?
How so?
170 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
CARPENTER.
I can work all right for you, but not for my-
self.
Boy.
Why? I can't understand. Please explain.
CARPENTER.
You will understand when you are grown up.
I am able to do your work, but as for my own, I
can't do it.
Boy.
But why?
CARPENTER.
Because I need wood for that, and I haven't got
any. It has to be bought. I have nothing to buy
it with. When I have finished my work here,
and your mother pays me, just you tell her to pay
me well. Then I'll drive to the forest, get five
ash-trees or so to bring home and finish my roof.
Boy.
Do you mean you haven't a forest of your own?
CARPENTER.
We have such big forests that you can walk
three whole days and not reach the end. But,
worse luck, they don't belong to us.
ON PROPERTY
171
Boy.
Mother says all her trouble comes from our
forest; she has continual worries about it.
CARPENTER.
That's the worst of it. Your mother is worried
by having too much wood, and I'm worried by
having none at all. But here I am gabbling with
you and forgetting my work. And the likes of us
don't get made much of for doing that.
(Resumes his work.)
Boy.
When I grow up I shall arrange to have just
the same as everybody else, so that all of us are
equal.
CARPENTER.
Mind you grow up quickly, that I may still be
alive. Then, mind you, don't forget. ...
Where have I put my plane?
ON CHILDREN
A LADY with her children -- a SCHOOLBOY of
fourteen, a girl of five, JANICHKA, are walking in
the garden. An OLD PEASANT WOMAN ap-
proaches them.
LADY.
What do you want, Matresha ?
OLD WOMAN.
I have come again to ask a favour of your lady-
А
ship.
LADY.
What is it?
OLD WOMAN.
I am simply ashamed to speak, your ladyship,
but that don't help. My daughter, the one for
whom you stood godmother, has got another baby.
God has given her a boy this time. She sent me
to ask your ladyship if you would do her a favour,
and have the child christened into our Orthodox
faith.*
* When a lady in Russia stands godmother she gives the chris-
tening robes and a dress to the mother. The godfather pays the
priest and gives his godchild a cross.
172
ON CHILDREN
173
LADY.
But didn't she have a child very recently?
OLD WOMAN.
Well, that's just as you think. A year ago in
Lent.
LADY.
How many grandchildren have you got now?
OLD WOMAN.
I could hardly tell you, dear lady. All of them
are still babes. Such a misfortune!
LADY.
How many children has your daughter ?
OLD WOMAN.
This is the seventh child, your ladyship, and all
alive. I wish God had taken some back to Him.
LADY.
How can you speak like that?
OLD WOMAN.
I can't help it. That's how one comes to sin.
But then our misery is so great. Well, your lady-
ship, are you willing to help us, and stand god-
mother to the child? Believe me, on my soul,
AN
174 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
AT
lady, we have not even got anything to pay the
priest; bread itself is scarce in the house. All the
children are small. My son-in-law is working
away from home, and I am alone with my daugh-
ter. I am old, and she is expecting or nursing
the whole time, and what work can you ask her
to do with all that? So it is me that has to do
everything. And that hungry lot all the while
asking for food.
LADY.
Are there really seven children?
OLD WOMAN.
Seven, your ladyship, sure. Just the eldest girl
begins to help a bit; all the rest are little.
LADY.
But why do they have such a lot of children?
OLD WOMAN.
How can one help that, dear lady? He comes
now and then for a short stay, or just for a feast
day. They are young, and he lives near in town.
I wish he had to go somewhere far away.
(ΑΙ
LADY.
That's the way! Some people are sad because
ON CHILDREN
175
they have no children, or their children die, and
you complain of having too many.
OLD WOMAN.
They are too many. We have not the means
to keep them. Well, your ladyship, may I cheer
her up with your consent?
LADY.
Well, I will stand godmother to this one like
the others. It is a boy, you say?
OLD WOMAN.
It's a small baby, but very strong; he's got
good lungs. What day do you order the chris-
tening to be?
LADY.
Whenever you like.
(OLD WOMAN thanks her and goes.),
JANICHKA.
Mother, why is it that some people have chil-
dren and some have not? You have, Matresha,
has, but Parasha hasn't any
LADY.
Parasha is not married. People have children
when they are married. They marry, become
husband and wife, and then only children come.
176 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
JANICHKA.
Do they always get children then?
Lady.
No, not always. Our cook has a wife, but they
have no children.
JANICHKA.
Couldn't it be arranged that only those who
want children should have them, and those who
don't want them should have none?
SCHOOLBOY.
What nonsense you talk!
JANICHKA.
That is not nonsense at all. I only thought
that if Matresha's daughter doesn't want to have
children, it ought to be arranged so that she
shouldn't have any. Couldn't it be arranged,
mother?
SCHOOLBOY.
Have I not told you not to talk nonsense about
things you know nothing about?
JANICHKA.
Mother, could it be arranged as I say?
LADY.
I don't know: we never know about that. It
all depends on the will of God.
ON CHILDREN
177
JANICHKA.
But how do children come into the world?
SCHOOLBOY.
The goat brings them.
JANICHKA.
(hurt.) Why do you tease me? I don't see
anything to laugh at in what I am saying. But I
do think that since Matresha says they are worse
off for having children, it ought to be managed so
that no children should be born to her. There is
Nurse who has none.
LADY.
But she is not married.
JANICHKA.
Then all those that do not care for children
ought not to marry. As it is now, children are
born and people have nothing to feed them with.
(The mother exchanges a glance with her son, and
does not answer.) When I am grown up I will
marry by all means, and I shall see that I have one
girl and one boy, and no more. Do you think it
is nice when children are born and people don't
care for them? As for mine, I shall love them
dearly. Don't you think so, mother? I will go
and ask Nurse. (Exit.)
178 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
LADY.
(to her son.) Yes, truth flows from the lips of
children. What she says is a great truth. If
people would understand how serious marriage is,
instead of regarding it as amusement — if they
would marry not for their own sake, but for the
sake of the children - then all these horrors
would not exist. There would be no children suf-
fering from neglect or distress, nor would such
cases happen as that of Matresha's daughter,
where children bring sorrow in place of joy.
ON EDUCATION.
The YARD PORTER is cleaning the handles of
the doors. KATIA, a girl of seven, is building a
house with blocks. NICHOLAS, a schoolboy of
fifteen, enters with a book and throws it angrily
on the floor.
NICHOLAS.
To the devil with that damned school!
PORTER.
What is the matter with it?
NichoLAS.
Again a bad mark. That means more new
trouble. Damn it all! What do I want their
cursed geography for? California — why is it
necessary to know about California ?
PORTER.
What will they do to you?
NICHOLAS.
They will keep me another year in that same
old class.
old they will keep you can
179
180 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
PORTER.
Then why don't you learn your lessons ?
NICHOLAS.
Why? Because I can't learn the stupid things.
Damn it all! (Throwing himself on a chair.)
I'll go and tell mother. I'll tell her I can't do it.
Let them do whatever they like but I can't do it.
And if after that she doesn't take me out of school
I will run away from home. I swear I will.
PORTER.
But where will you go?
NICHOLAS.
Just away. I will look out for a place as a
coachman, or a yard porter. Anything is better
than having to learn that cursed nonsense.
PORTER.
But to be a yard porter is not an easy job
either, I can tell you. A porter has to get up
early, chop wood, carry it in, make fires —
NICHOLAS.
Whew! (Whistles.) But that is like a holi-
day. I love chopping wood. I simply adore it.
No, that would not stop me. No, you just try
what it is to learn geography.
ON EDUCATION
181
PORTER.
You're right there. But why do you learn it?
What use is it to you? Is it that they make you
do it?
NICHOLAS.
I wish I knew why. It is of no use whatever.
But that's the rule. They think one cannot do
without it.
PORTER.
I dare say it is necessary for you in order to
become an official, to get honours, high appoint-
ments, like your father and uncle.
NICHOLAS.
But since I don't care for all that.
KATIA.
Since he does not care!
(Enter MOTHER, with a letter in her
'hand.)
MOTHER.
I have just heard from the director of the
school that you have got a bad mark again. That
won't do, Nikolenka. It must be one thing or
the other: learn or not learn.
NICHOLAS.
I'll stick to the one: I cannot, I cannot, I can-
.
182 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
not learn. For God's sake, let me go. I cannot
in.
learn.
MOTHER.
You cannot learn?
NICHOLAS.
I cannot. It won't get into my head.
MOTHER.
That is because your head is full of nonsense.
Don't think about all your stupid things, but con-
centrate your mind on the lessons you have to
learn.
NICHOLAS.
Mother, I am talking seriously. Take me away
from school. I wish for nothing else in the world
but to get rid of that dreadful school, of that
treadmill! I can't stand it.
MOTHER.
But what would you do out of school?
NICHOLAS.
That is my own business.
MOTHER.
It is not your own business, but mine. I have
to answer to God for you. I must give you an.
education.
ON EDUCATION
183
NICHOLAS.
But since I cannot.
MOTHER.
(severely.) What nonsense to say you cannot.
For the last time, I will speak to you like a mother.
I beseech you to mend your ways and to do what
is required of you. If you will not obey me this
time I shall take other measures.
NICHOLAS.
I tell you, I cannot and I will not learn.
MOTHER.
Take care, Nicholas.
NICHOLAS.
Why should I take care? Why do you torture
me? Don't you see you do!
MOTHER.
I forbid you to speak like that. How dare
you! Go away! You will see
NICHOLAS
Very well—I will go. I am not afraid of
whatever comes, and I don't want anything from
you. (Dashes out of the room and bangs the
door.).
184 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
MOTHER.
(to herself.) How unhappy he makes me. I
know exactly how it has all come about. It is all
because he does not think about the things he
ought to do, and his head is full of nothing but
his own stupid interests, his dogs, and his hens.
KATIA.
But, mother, you remember the tale you told
me: how impossible it is not to think about the
white polar bear when you are told not to.
MOTHER.
I am not speaking of that; I say a boy has to
learn when he is told to.
KATIA.
But he says he cannot.
MOTHER.
That's nonsense.
KATIA.
But he does not say he is not willing to do any
work whatever. He only objects to learning
geography. He wants to work, to be a coachman,
a yard-porter.
MOTHER.
If he had been a yard-porter's son he might
ON EDUCATION
185
1
become one himself. But being your father's son
he must learn.
KATIA.
But he does not want to.
MOTHER.
Whether he wants to or not he must obey.
KATIA.
And if he simply cannot learn?
MOTHER.
Take care that you are not like him yourself.
KATIA.
That's just what I want to be. I shall not, on
any condition, learn what I do not wish to.
MOTHER.
Then you will grow up a fool.
KATIA.
And when I am grown up, and have children, I
will never compel them to learn. If they want to
they may learn, if not, let them do without learn-
ing.
MOTHER.
When you are grown up, you will be sure to
have changed your mind.
186 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN
KATIA.
I shall certainly not.
MOTHER.
You will.
KATIA.
No, I shall not, I shall not.
MOTHER.
Then you will be a fool.
KATIA.
Nurse says God wants fools also.
THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE
HERMIT, FEDOR KUSMICH
THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE
HERMIT, FEDOR KUSMICH
I
THERE were strange tales about the old hermit,
Fedor Kusmich, who appeared in Siberia in the
year 1836, and lived there in various places dur-
ing the space of twenty-seven years. Even before
he died it used to be said of him that he concealed
his indentity -- that he was no other than the
Emperor Alexander I., but after his death these
tales spread and came to be more firmly believed.
That he positively was Alexander I. was consid-
ered a fact not only among the commoner people,
but also in the highest circles; and even in the
royal family in Alexander III.'s lifetime. It was
also believed by the learned historian, Shilder,
who wrote a history of his reign.
The incidents which gave rise to these rumours
were, firstly, that the Emperor died quite suddenly
without any serious illness; secondly, that it hap-
pened away from everybody in the obscure town
of Vaganrog; thirdly, it was declared by those
who had chanced to see him in his coffin that he
had changed to such an extent as to be hardly
189
190
FEDOR KUSMICH
S
WY.
recognisable, and was in consequence kept cov-
ered and not shown to any one; fourthly, he was
known to have both said and written a great
many times, especially in his later years, that he
desired nothing better than to give up his throne
and retire from the world. A fifth circumstance,
about which very little is known, is the fact that
in the official record describing his body, it was
stated that the whole of his back was covered with
black and blue marks, a thing hardly credible on
the Emperor's delicate skin.
The reasons why Kusmich in particular was
believed to be the Emperor in hiding, were first
of all, that in height, build, and appearance he was
so much like the monarch. Everybody (even the
palace servants) who had seen Alexander I. and
his portraits, was struck by the great resemblance
between him and the old man, both in regard to
age and the characteristic stoop. Secondly, al-
though Kusmich passed as a nameless tramp, he
was nevertheless familiar with foreign languages,
and in his bearing there was a certain majestic
courtesy betokening a man accustomed to the
highest positon. Thirdly, he never revealed his
identity to any one, but from certain expressions
that escaped him unawares, it could plainly be seen
that he was a man who had once ranked high
above others. Fourthly, he had destroyed all his
FEDOR KUSMICH
191
papers, of which but one page remained, bearing
a mysterious sign and the initials A. P. Lastly,
in spite of his great piety, the old man never went
to confession. When the bishop, during his visit,
tried to induce him to fulfil this duty which was
enjoined by the Church, Kusmich said, “If I re-
frained from telling the truth about myself in con-
fession, I should astonish all in heaven; if I dis-
closed who I was, I should astonish all on earth."
All these doubts and conjectures were cleared
up by the discovery of the old man's diary, which
begins as follows:
God bless my dearest friend, Ivan Gregorievich,
for this delightful retreat. I am not worthy of
his kindness, nor of God's mercy. Here I am at
peace. There are less people to disturb me, and
I am left alone with the recollections of my past
wickedness and with my Maker. I will take ad-
vantage of this solitude to relate the whole story
of my life. It may prove a warning to others.
For forty-seven years I lived amidst the most
terrible temptations, and not only made no attempt
to resist them, but abandoned myself to them —
I sinned and made others sin. At last the Lord
had mercy on me. The loathsomeness of my
192
FEDOR KUSMICH
life was revealed to me in all its horrors, and
He delivered me from evil; if not wholly, at any
rate from active participation in it. What inner
anguish I went through, and what took place in
my soul when I realised my transgressions and
felt the need of atonement, not merely by faith
but by deeds and by suffering, I will relate in due
course. I will now describe the way in which I
escaped from my position, leaving in my place the
corpse of a soldier, who had been tortured to death
in my name, and then proceed to relate my whole
story from the very beginning.
It happened like this: In Vaganrog I continued
the same life of dissipation I had been leading for
the past twenty-four years. I am the greatest of
all criminals. I murdered my own father; I
caused the death of hundreds of thousands of
men in wars of my making. I am a base libertine,
a mean wretch, who believed in other people's
flatteries, and who considered myself the saviour
of Europe, a benefactor of mankind, a model of
perfection, un heureux hasard, as I once said to
Madame Stahl. But in spite of it all, the Lord
in His mercy did not quite forsake me, and the
ever watchful voice of conscience gave me no rest.
It seemed to me that everything and everybody
were wrong; I only was right, and every one failed
to see it. I turned to God. At first, with Fotey's
ce
FEDOR KUSMICH
193
rrow-
help, I prayed to the God of the Orthodox Church;
then I turned to the Catholic; then to the Protes-
tant with Parrot; then to the god of the Mystics
with Krudener; but I only prayed that others
might see and be filled with admiration of me. I
used to despise everybody, yet the opinion of the
very people I despised was the one thing of im-
portance to me — the only thing for which I lived,
and which guided all my actions. It was terrible
to be left alone. Still more terrible to be alone
with her — with my wife. Consumptive, narrow-
minded, deceitful, capricious, spiteful, hypocriti-
cal, she did more to poison my life than anything
else. Nous étions censés to spend our new lune
de miel, a very hell clothed in decent garb, too
horrible to think of.
I felt particularly wretched on one occasion. I
had received a letter from Arakcheev the night
before, in which he informed me about the assassi-
nation of his mistress, and spoke of his utter grief
and despair. Strange to say, in spite of his con-
stant subtle flattery, I liked him. It was not
altogether flattery, perhaps, but a real dog-like
devotion, which began even in my father's time,
when we both took the oath of allegiance to him
unknown to my grandmother. This devotion of
his made me love him -- if I loved any man at that
time -- although the word love can hardly be used
194 FEDOR KUSMICH
A
W
1
in connection with such a monster. What drew
me to him particularly was the fact that not only
had he no hand in my father's death, as so many
others had who became hateful to me afterwards
as accomplices in my crime, but he had been de-
voted alike to him and to me. However, of this
later.
Strange to say, the murder of the beautiful,
wicked Nastasia — she was a sensuous beauty
had the effect of arousing all my desires so that I
could not sleep the whole night. The fact that
my consumptive wife, whom I loathed, was lying
in the room next but one to me, coupled with
thoughts of Mary Narishkin, who had thrown me
over for an insignificant diplomat, vexed and tor-
mented me still more. Both my father and I
seemed to have been doomed to be jealous of the
Gagarins. But I was carried away again. I
could not sleep the whole of that night. With the
first signs of dawn I pulled up my blind, slipped
on a white dressing-gown, and rang for my valet.
Every one was still asleep. I dressed, put on a
civilian overcoat and cap, and went out past the
sentinels into the street.
It was a cool, autumn morning, the sun was just
rising over the sea. I felt revived in the fresh
air, and my depressing thoughts left me. I turned
my steps towards the sea. The first rays of the
1
II
FEDOR KUSMICH
195
rising sun were dancing about on its surface. I
had barely reached the green-coloured house at the
corner when I was attracted by sounds of drum-
ming and piping from the square. I listened for
a moment, and guessed that a punishment was
going on, that some one was running the gauntlet.
I had frequently sanctioned this form of punish-
ment, but had never seen it before. All at once,
as though at the instigation of Satan himself, a
picture rose up in my mind of the beautiful Nas-
tasia who had been murdered, and of the soldier's
body as it was being lashed with sticks, the two
mingling together in one maddening sensation.
I tried to recall this punishment in the Semijonov
regiment, amongst the military settlers, hundreds
of whom had been flogged to death in this way,
and was suddenly seized by an overwhelming de-
sire to witness this sight. As I was in civilian
garb, it was quite possible for me to do so. The
beating of the drum and the sound of the pipes
grew louder as I drew nearer the square. Being
short-sighted, I could not see very well without
my glasses, but I could just make out a tall figure
with a white back, marching along between two
rows of soldiers. When I joined the crowd stand-
ing behind, I got out my glasses, and could see
everything that was going on distinctly. A tall
man with his bare arms tied to a bayonet, his bare
TOV
196
FEDOR KUSMICH
back -- on which the blood was beginning to show
itself - slightly bent, was walking down an
avenue of soldiers armed with sticks. This man
was the image of myself -- my double! The
same height, stooping shoulders, bald head, the
same kind of whiskers without a moustache, the
same cheek-bones, mouth, and blue eyes. But
there was no smile on those lips that opened and
contorted with pain at the blows, no tender, caress-
ing expression in those eyes that protruded horri-
bly, now closing, now opening.
I recognised him at once. It was Strumensky,
a corporal in the third company of the Semijonov
regiment, well known to the guards by his likeness
to me. They used to call him Alexander II. in
fun. I knew that he had been transferred to the
garrison, together with some other rebels, and had
most likely tried to escape or something of the
sort, and having been caught, was undergoing pun-
ishment. I confirmed this afterwards. I stood
as one petrified, gazing at the unfortunate man, as
he was marching along under the blows. Sud-
denly I noticed that the crowd was staring at me,
some people stepping aside, others approaching
nearer. I had evidently been recognised; I turned
my steps quickly homewards. The drumming and
piping continued, so I gathered that the flogging
was not yet over.
FEDOR KUSMICH
197
My first sensation on getting away was that my
sympathies ought to be on the side of those who
were inflicting the punishment; at any rate, that
I ought to acknowledge that what they were doing
was right, good, and necessary. But I could not
do this, and was at the same time conscious that
if I did not acknowledge it, I must admit that my
whole life had been wrong from beginning to end,
and that I ought to do what I had long ago
wanted to do — throw up everything, go away,
and disappear.
I was completely overwhelmed by this sensation.
I tried to fight against it, now assuring myself that
the thing was right, a grievous necessity that could
not be dispensed with; now feeling that I ought
to be in the unfortunate man's place. Strange to
say, I did not pity the man in the least. Instead
of doing anything to stop the proceeding, I has-
tened home merely to avoid recognition. Soon the
drumming ceased, and the disturbing sensation
somehow left me. I had some tea on reaching
home, and received Volkonsky with his report.
Then there was breakfast, the usual burdensome,
insincere relations with my wife; then Dibich, and
another report dealing with certain informations
about a secret society. With God's grace I will
deal with this more fully in its proper place. I
will merely say now that I received the informa-
1
IIIS
198 FEDOR KUSMICH
tion with outward composure. I continued in a
more or less calm state until dinner came to an end,
when I went into my study, lay down on the
couch, and dozed off. I had scarcely been asleep
for five minutes when I was suddenly awakened
by a powerful shock. I distinctly heard the beat-
ing of the drum, the sound of the pipes and Stru-
mensky's cries. I saw his agonised face, or mine
— I was not quite sure which; whether it was Stru-
mensky or myself - and the grim contorted faces
of the soldiers and officers. I remained in this
trance for a short time, and when I came to my-
self put on my hat and sword, and went out say-
ing that I was going for a walk. I knew where
the military hospital was situated, and directed my
steps straight there. My appearance caused a.
great tumult as usual. The chief doctor and head
of the staff came running up breathless. I told
them that I wished to inspect the wards. On my
round I caught sight of Strumensky's bald head in
the second ward. He was lying face downwards,
his head resting on his arm, moaning pitifully.
“He's been punished for desertion," some one
said to me.
“Ah!" I exclaimed, with my usual gesture of
approval, and walked on.
The next day I sent a messenger to ask how
he was, and learnt that he had received the sacra-
ment and was dying.
FEDOR KUSMICH
199
was
It was my brother Michael's name-day; there
was a special service and parade. I feigned to be
unwell, as a result of my recent journey from the
Crimea, and did not go to church. Dibich came
again and continued his report about the conspir-
acy in the second army. He drew my attention to
what Count Vitt had said before my Crimean visit,
and to the information that had been received from
Corporal Sherwood. Whilst listening to Dibich,
and seeing the immense importance he attached to
these plots and conspiracies, I was suddenly struck
by the full significance of the revolution that had
taken place within me. All these people were
conspiring to change the form of government,
to set up a constitution, the very thing I had my-
self wanted to do twenty years ago. I had
made and unmade constitutions in Europe, but
was there one soul the better for it? What right
had I to take such a task upon myself? In re-
ality external life, external affairs and participa-
tion in them were unimportant, unnecessary, and
had nothing whatever to do with me. Had I not
participated in them to the full, changed the fates
of European nations? I suddenly realised that
this did not concern me, that the only thing of
importance to me, was myself — my soul. My
former ideas about abdication came back to me
with new force. This time it was without any
affectation, without any desire to grieve others,
ncern
200
FEDOR KUSMICH
to astonish the world, or to add to my own ag-
grandisement — all the things that had prompted
me formerly; but it was with a real sincerity, not
for the sake of impressing others, but for myself
- for the needs of my own soul. It seemed as if
I had gone through my brilliant career (in the
worldly sense of course), in order to return to
that dream of my youth, which had reached me
through penitence. I had come back to it with no
feeling of vanity or desire for self glorification; it
was for my true self alone, for God. In my youth
the idea had not been quite clear to me, but now
it seemed to me impossible to go on living as I
had been doing. Nevertheless how could I es-
cape? I no longer wished to astonish the world,
but on the contrary wanted to go away quietly,
unknown to any one — to go away and suffer. I
was so filled with joy at the idea that I began
considering ways and means of accomplishing it,
and used all the resources of my mind and my
peculiar subtleness to bring it about. Curiously
enough it was not nearly so difficult as I had
anticipated. My plan was to feign a dangerous
illness, bribe the doctor, get Strumensky, who was
dying, put in my place, and flee without disclosing
my identity to any one.
Everything turned out favourably. On the
gth, by some peculiar fate, I fell ill of a fever. I
Vas
FEDOR KUSMICH
201
stayed in bed for about a week, during which time
I considered my idea thoroughly, and became
more confirmed in it. On the 16th I got up feel-
ing quite well again.
. I shaved as usual on that day and cut myself
rather badly. I bled a great deal, and feeling
faint dropped down on the floor. People came
rushing in, and I was immediately raised. I could
see at a glance that the incident might prove
useful to my purpose, and though I had quite re-
covered, pretended to be very weak, and going
back to bed and asked for Doctor Villier's assist-
ant. I knew it would have been impossible to
bribe Villier, but I had hopes of his assistant. I
told him of my purpose and offered him eighty
thousand roubles, if he would do everything I
wanted of him.
I had hit on the following plan, having heard
that Strumensky was not expected to live through
the day, I pretended to be irritated and annoyed
with everybody, and allowed no one to come near
me except the young doctor, whom I had bribed.
He was to bring Strumensky's body hidden in a
bath, put him in my place, and announce my sud-
den death. It all happened as we had arranged
it, and on the 7th day of November I was a free
man.
Strumensky's body was buried in great state.
202
FEDOR KUSMICH
My brother Nicholas came to the throne, con-
demning the conspirators to hard labour. I met
several of them later in Siberia. I have suffered
very little in comparison to the enormity of my
crime, and have enjoyed the greatest of all hap-
piness. But I will speak of this in due course.
An old man of seventy-two, on the brink of the
grave, fully realising the vanity of my former life
and the deep significance of my present one as
a wanderer, I will now endeavour to relate the
whole story of the past.
II
THE STORY OF MY LIFE
December 12, 1849,
Near Krasnorechinsk, Siberia.
To-day is my birthday. I have reached my
seventy-second year. Exactly seventy-two years
ago I was born in the Winter Palace in St. Peters-
burg. My mother, the Empress, was then the
Grand Duchess Maria Fedorovna.
I slept well last night, and feel better than I did
yesterday. I have come out of my spiritual torpor
and can turn once more to God. During the
night I prayed in the darkness, and a conscious-
ness came upon me that my one and only purpose in
FEDOR KUSMICH 203
life was to serve Him who had sent me into the
world.
It is within my own power either to serve or
not to serve Him. Serving Him I add to my own
good and to the good of the whole world; not
serving Him I forfeit my own good, and deprive
the world of that good which was in my power
to create; not, however, of its potential good.
What I ought to have done, others will do after
me, and His will shall be fulfilled. This is the
meaning of free will. But if He knows every-
thing that is to be, if all is ordained by Him, then
how can there be free will? I do not know.
This is the boundary of thought and the begin-
ning of prayer. Let Thy will be done, O Lord.
Help us. Come and dwell within us. Or more
simply: Lord have mercy upon us! Lord have
mercy upon us! Lord have mercy upon us, and
forgive us our sins! Words fail me, O Lord, but
Thou knowest what is in my heart, for Thou
dwellest in it. And so I fell asleep. I was rest-
less as usual, woke up several times, and had bad
dreams. I seemed to be swimming in the sea,
and wondering how it was that I lay so high above
the water; why the water did not cover me. The
sea was a beautiful green, and some people seemed
to be in my way.
I wanted to come out of the water, but could
204
FEDOR KUSMICH
A
not, because several women were standing on the
shore and I was naked. I took the dream to
mean that the power of the flesh was strong within
me, standing in my way, but deliverance was close
at hand. I got up before dawn, struck a flint, but
could not light the tinder for a long time, after
which, putting on my dressing-gown of elk skin, I
went out into the fresh air. The rosy orange glow
of the rising sun could be seen behind the snow-
clad pines and larches. I brought in the wood
which I chopped yesterday, lit my stove, and began
chopping some more. It grew lighter. I had
my breakfast of soaked rusks, shut the damper
of the stove as soon as the logs were red, and sat
down to write.
I begin again. I was born on Ioth December
1777, and was named Alexander by my grand-
mother's wish, in the hope, as she afterwards told
me, that I should become as great as Alexander
of Macedonia, and as holy as Alexander Nevsky.
I was christened a week after my birth in the big
church of the palace. I was carried into the
church by the Duchess of Courland on a brocade
pillow, whilst a number of other great personages
held a cover over me. The Empress was my
godmother, the Emperor of Austria and the King
of Prussia were my godfathers.
FEDOR KUSMICH
205
My room was arranged according to my grand-
mother's taste. I can of course remember noth-
ing about it, but have been told by other people.
It was a large room with three high windows. A
space was portioned off in the middle by four
columns, with a velvety canopy overhead fastened
to the ceiling, and silk curtains falling to the
ground. Under this canopy there was a little
iron bedstead with a leather mattress, a little pil-
low, and a light English blanket. The whole was
enclosed by a rail four feet high, so that visitors
should not come too close. There was no furni-
ture in the room with the exception of the nurse's
bed behind the curtains.
All the details of my physical training were
settled by my grandmother. I was not allowed
to be rocked, and was swathed in a new way, with
the feet left bare. I used to be bathed first in
warm then in cold water. My clothes, too, were
of a peculiar kind; none of my garments had any
seams or fasteners, and were slipped straight over
my head. As soon as I was able to crawl, I was
put upon the carpet and left to my own devices.
I was told that in the early days my grandmother
used frequently to sit down beside me on the
carpet and play with me. But I have no recollec-
tion of it, neither do I remember my nurse.
She was the wife of a gardener at Tsarskoye
206 FEDOR KUSMICH
vas
Selo, and was called Avdotia Petrova. I saw her
again in the garden at Tsarskoye when I was
eighteen years old — she came up and told me
who she was. It was at the best time of my life,
during my first friendship with Chartorisky, when
I was filled with disgust at what went on at the
two courts — my poor unfortunate father's and my
grandmother's. She had made me hate her at
that time. I was still a man then, and not a bad
man, full of good intentions. I was walking in the
garden with Chartorisky, when a neatly-dressed
woman came out of one of the side avenues. Her
rosy face, wreathed in smiles, was wonderfully
kind and pleasant. She came up to me excitedly,
and falling down on her knees, seized my hand
and began kissing it.
“Who are you?" I asked.
"Your Highness! Your Highness! Heaven
be praised that I see you again!”.
"I was your foster-mother, Avdotia Dunyasha.
I nursed you for eleven months. Thank the Lord
for this meeting with you!”
· I raised her with difficulty, asked where she
lived, and promised to go and see her.
The charming interior of her tiny cottage, her
sweet daughter, my foster-sister, a perfect Russian
beauty, who was engaged to the court riding-
master, her husband the gardener, just as smiling
as his wife, and their group of little children, all
FEDOR KUSMICH
207
irse
novna
seemed to light up the darkness surrounding
me.
“This is real life, real happiness!” I thought.
“How simple it all is, how clear! No envies,
intrigues, quarrels!" .
This beloved Dunyasha was my foster-mother.
My head nurse was a certain Sophia Ivanovna
Benkendorf, a German; my second nurse was a
Miss Hessler, an Englishwoman. Sophia Ivan-
ovna Benkendorf was a tall, stout woman, with
a pale complexion and straight nose. She had
a majestic bearing when in the nursery, but was
marvellously small and servile when in the pres-
ence of my grandmother, who was about a head
shorter than herself. She was obsequious and
severe with me at the same time. At one moment
she was a queen in her broad skirts and with her
haughty countenance; at another she was a cring-
ing, hypocritical serving-maid. Praskovia Ivan-
oyna Hessler was a long-faced, red-haired, serious
Englishwoman, but when she smiled, her face
shone with radiance, so that it was impossible to
keep from smiling with her. I liked her sense of
order, her cleanliness, her kindness, and her firm-
ness. She seemed to be possessed of some mys-
terious knowledge of which neither my mother nor
even grandmother herself were aware.
I remember my mother at that time as some
supernaturally beautiful vision, mysterious and
208
FEDOR KUSMICH
sad, gorgeously dressed in silks and laces, and
glittering with diamonds. She would come into
my room with her bare round white arms and a
curiously aloof expression on her face which I did
not understand. She would caress me, take me up
in those lovely arms of hers, raise me to her still
more lovely face, and, shaking back her beautiful
thick hair, would kiss me and begin to cry. On
one occasion she let me drop out of her arms as
she fell to the floor senseless.
Strange to say, I had no sort of love for my
mother. Whether it was due to her attitude
towards me, or to my grandmother's influence, or
because I was able by my childish instinct to see
through all the court intrigues centring round me,
I am unable to say. There used to be something
strained about her manner towards me. She was
not really interested in me, but seemed to be dis-
playing me for some end, and I was conscious of
this. " I was not mistaken, as I learnt later.
My grandmother took me away from my par-
ents and brought me up entirely herself. She in-
tended placing me on the throne instead of my
poor unfortunate father, her son, whom she hated.
Needless to say, I knew nothing of this at the time,
but as soon as I began to notice things I felt my-
self to be an object of enmity and rivalry, the play-
thing of conspirators, without knowing the why
FEDOR KUSMICH
209
or wherefore. I was conscious of every one's
utter indifference to me — to my childish heart,
that had no need of a crown but rather of love,
of which I knew nothing. There was my mother,
who was always depressed when she saw me. On
one occasion she was talking to Sophia Ivanovna
in German, when she heard my grandmother com-
ing; she suddenly burst into tears and ran out of
the room. There was my father, who sometimes
came to see us and whom we sometimes went to
see. This poor unfortunate father of mine
showed even greater displeasure on seeing me than
my mother. His whole bearing towards me was
one of restrained anger. I remember on one
occasion how we were taken to their apartments
before they set out for their travels abroad in
1781. I happened to be standing next to him,
when he suddenly thrust me away, jumped up
from his chair with flashing eyes, and gasped out
something concerning me and my grandmother.
I cannot recall all that he said, but the words
après 62 tout est possible have remained in my
memory. I remember how I got frightened and
burst into tears. My mother took me up in her
arms and kissed me, then carried me over to him.
He gave me his blessing hurriedly and rushed
out of the room, his high heels clattering as he
went.
Сс
210
FEDOR KUSMICH
It was not until long after that I understood
the meaning of this outburst. They set out for
their travels under the name of Comte et Comtesse
du Nord. It was my grandmother's idea that
they should go. My father was afraid that in his
absence he would be deprived of the right to the
throne and that I should be acknowledged as his
successor. Good God! he prized that which
ruined us both — ruined us bodily and spiritually,
and I, unfortunate man, prized it no less than he!
I hear some one knocking at the door and
chanting a prayer in the name of Father and Son.
Amen. I must put away my papers and go and
see who it is. With God's grace I will continue
to-morrow.
III
December 13.
Last night I slept very little and had bad dreams.
I thought that an unpleasant, sickly-looking woman
was pressing herself close against me and I was not
afraid of her, nor of the sin, but afraid that my
wife should see us. I did not want to hear her
reproaches again. I am seventy-two years old
and am not yet free. In a waking state it is pos-
sible to deceive yourself, but in dreams you get a
FEDOR KUSMICH
211
true estimate of the plane that you have reached.
I had a second dream which gave me another
proof of my low moral condition. I thought that
some one had brought me some sweets wrapped
up in green moss. We unpacked them and divided
them between us, leaving a few over. I still went
on selecting some for myself, when suddenly I
caught sight of an unpleasant-looking, dark-col-
oured boy, a son of the Sultan, stretching his arm
towards me and trying to clutch them. I pushed
him away rudely, though I knew quite well that it
was far more natural for a child to eat sweets
than for me, but I was angry with him and would
not give him any and was conscious at the same
time that it was mean.
A similar thing happened to me when I was
awake. I had a visit from Maria Martemen-
oyna; a messenger called yesterday to ask if she
might come. I did not like to hurt her feelings,
so I consented, but I find these visits extremely
trying. She came to-day. I could hear the sound
of her sledge over the crisp snow when she was
still some way off. She arrived in her fur coat
and shawls, laden with packages she had brought
for me, letting in so much cold that I was obliged
to put on my dressing-gown. She had brought me
pancakes, lenten oil, and apples. She had come
to consult me about her daughter, whom a rich
212
FEDOR KUSMICH
in
widower wished to marry, and wanted to know if
she was to give her consent. Their tremendous
opinion of my wisdom is extremely annoying to
me. All my protestations to the contrary they
invariably put down to my humility. I repeated
to her what I had said many times before, that
chastity is higher than marriage, but that the Apos-
tle Paul says it is better to marry than be the
slave of passion.
Her brother-in-law Nikanor Ivanov was with
her. He had once asked me to settle in his house,
and has never since ceased worrying me with his
visits. Nikanor Ivanov is a great trial to me. I
can never overcome my aversion of him. Help
me, O Lord, to see my own sins that I may not
judge my brother. All his shortcomings are
known to me. I see through them with a ma-
licious shrewdness. I am conscious of his weak-
nesses and cannot conquer my dislike of him —
and he is my brother, with the same divine element
in him that is in me. What do these aversions
mean! It is not my first experience of them.
The two strongest antipathies I ever felt in my
life were against Louis XVIII., with his corpulent
body, hook nose, irritating white hands; his con-
ceit, insolence, and utter stupidity ... (there!
I cannot keep from abusing him). The other"
was against Nikanor Ivanov, who tormented me
FEDOR KUSMICH
213
' for two whole hours yesterday. Everything about
him, from his voice, his hair, to his very nails was
repulsive to me. I pretended to be unwell in or-
der to account for my depression to Maria Marte-
menovna. After they had gone I said my prayers
and grew calmer. I thank Thee, O Lord, for the
power Thou hast granted me over the only thing
that is necessary to me. I tried to remember that
Nikanor Ivanov was once an innocent child and
that he will come to die like the rest of us. I
tried to think kindly of Louis XVIII., who was
dead. I felt sorry that Nikanor Ivanov was not
there that I might show him how kindly disposed
I felt towards him.
Maria Martemenovna brought me a quantity
of candles so that I shall be able to write at night.
I have just been out. To the left the stars had
already merged into the glorious light of the au-
rora borealis. How beautiful! How beautiful!
I must continue.
My father and mother started on their travels
abroad and my brother Constantine and I were
left in the entire charge of our grandmother. My
brother, who was born two years later than I,
had been christened Constantine in the hope that
he would one day become the Emperor of Con-
stantinople.
214
FEDOR KUSMICH
Children readily grow fond of people, especially
of those who are kind to them. My grandmother
was very nice to me, made much of me, and I
loved her in spite of an extremely repellant odour
that always seemed to hang about her. The strin-
gent scents could not disguise this odour – I used
to notice it particularly when I sat upon her knee.
I was still more repelled by her clean yellowish
hands covered with wrinkles, so shiny and slip-
pery, the fingers bending over, and the nails un-
naturally long. Her languid, lustreless eyes, that
seemed almost dead, and the smile playing about
her toothless mouth, produced an oppressive
though not altogether unpleasant effect on those
who saw her. I believed at that time that the
languid expression of her eyes was due to the enor-
mous pains she took over her toilet. At any rate
I was told so. I felt sorry for her then, but now
I think of it with disgust.
I had seen Potemkin once or twice. This
huge, greasy, one-eyed monster was terrible.
The thing that awed me most about him, though
he used to play with me and call me your High-
ness, was the fact that he never seemed afraid of
my grandmother, like other people, but would
speak boldly in her presence in his gruff, bellow-
ing voice.
Another man whom I frequently saw in her
FEDOR KUSMICH 215
company was. Lanskoy. He was nearly always
with her. The whole Court hovered about him
and made much of him. Needless to say I did
not understand who Lanskoy was at the time, and
liked him. I was attracted by his curly hair, his
shapely legs in tight elk-skin breeches, his happy,
light-hearted smile, his diamonds and jewels, glit-
tering all over him.
It was a time full of gaieties. We were taken
to Tsarskoye Selo, we rowed on the river, we
busied ourselves in the garden, we went out walk-
ing and riding. Constantine, a chubby, red-
haired little boy, un petit Bacchus as grandmother
used to call him, kept us amused with his lively
fun. He used to mimic everybody, including
Sophia Ivanovna and even grandmother herself.
One event of that time impressed itself on my
memory. This was the death of Sophia Ivanoyna
Benkendorf. She died one evening at Tsarskoye
in grandmother's presence. Sophia Ivanovna had
just brought us in to her and was talking and smil-
ing, and suddenly her face changed, she reeled,
leaned up against the door for support, and fell
down senseless. People came running in and we
were taken away. The next day we heard that
she was dead. I cried very much, felt very mis-
erable, and would not be comforted. They all
thought that I was grieved about Sophia Ivanovna,
216 FEDOR KUSMICH
A
but that was not true. I cried at the thought
that people should have to die; that there should
be such a thing as death in the world. I could
not comprehend, could not believe, that it was
the inevitable fate of all men. I remember how,
in my five-year-old soul, there rose up questions
about the meaning of death and the meaning of
life that ends in death. Those vital questions
· confronting all men, to which the wise have tried
to seek an answer in vain, and the foolish have
tried to ignore and forget. As is natural to a
child, particularly one in my position, I dismissed
the terrifying idea of death from my mind; for-
got about it as if it did not exist.
Another important event of that time which
came as a consequence of Sophia Ivanovna's death,
was that we passed over into the charge of a tutor.
He was Nicolai Ivanovich Saltikov —- not the
Saltikoy who, in all probability, was our grand-
father, but Nicolai Ivanovich, who had been at-
tached to my father's Court. He was a little
man, with an enormous head and a stupid-looking
countenance, on which there was a constant grim-
ace. Constantine used to imitate it beautifully.
This change necessitated parting with my dear
Praskovia Ivanovna, my old nurse.
Those who have not had the misfortune of be-
ing born in a royal house can hardly imagine the
FEDOR KUSMICH
217
distorted view we have of people, nor our false
attitude towards them. Instead of being instilled
with a sense of dependence on our elders natural
to children, or with a sense of gratitude for all the
good we enjoyed, we were made to believe that
we were some kind of superior beings whose every
wish must be gratified. Beings who, by a single
word or smile, not only paid for all the kindness
showered upon them, but were even conferring
some sort of favour, making others happy.
It is true that politeness was expected of us;
but by a peculiar childish instinct, I soon saw that
we were not meant to be polite for the benefit of
others, but merely so as to enhance our own
grandeur.
I remember one festive day. My brother,
Saltikov and I were driving along the Nevsky.
We sat on the front seat, with two powdered foot-
men in red livery standing behind. It was a
beautiful day. Constantine and I were dressed
in uniforms, unbuttoned in front, exposing our
white waistcoats, on which lay the order of St.
Andrew. We wore hats with feathers, which we
kept raising all the time to people greeting us.
The crowd stared and cheered, and ran after us
“ On vous salue.” Nicolai Ivanovich kept on say-
ing, “ A droite." As we passed the guardhouse
the sentinels came running out to have a look at us.
218
FEDOR KUSMICH
I always liked to see them. From my earliest
childhood I had a passion for soldiers and military
manæuvres.
It was always instilled into us, particularly by
our grandmother, who believed it least of all, that
we must always bear in mind that all men are
equal. But I knew somehow that those who
talked about equality did not believe in it.
Once when I was playing with Sasha Galitsin,
he pushed me accidentally, and hurt me.
“How dare you!" I cried.
"I didn't mean it. It's all right!”
I was so outraged that my blood rushed to my
heart. I complained to Nicolai Ivanovich, and
was not ashamed when Galitsin was made to apol-
ogise.
Enough for to-day. My candle is nearly out,
and I must break up some fagots. My axe is
blunt, and I have nothing to sharpen it on. Be-
sides, I don't know how to do it.
IV
December 17.
I have not written anything for the last three
days, because I have not been very well. I tried
to read the Testament, but could not bring myself
FEDOR KUSMICH
219
to that understanding of it, that communion with
God that I formerly experienced. I used to think
at one time that it was impossible for man to live
without desire. I was always in a state of desire
for something or other, and am not free from it
now. At one time I desired to conquer Napoleon;
I desired to be Europe's peacemaker; I desired
to free myself of my crown; but all these desires,
whether fulfilled, or unfulfilled, soon ceased to
attract me, and gave place to new ones. So it
went on without end. Recently I longed for win-
ter to come — winter has come. I longed for sol-
itude, and have almost attained it. Now I want
to write the story of my life so that it may be a
warning to others, but whether I accomplish it or
not, new desires will spring up just the same. If
life is nothing more than the begetting of desire,
and happiness the fulfilment of desire, then is
there not some sort of desire fundamental to every
man that would always be fulfilled, or that would
be possible of fulfilment? It became clear to me
that such a desire must be death. The whole of
life would then become a preparation for the ful-
filment of this desire, and would inevitably be
fulfilled.
The idea seemed strange to me at first, but
meditating on it further, I was convinced that the
only thing a wise man could wish for was death.
A
220
FEDOR KUSMICH
Not death for its own sake, but for that stream of
life leading from it. It would free the spiritual
nature inherent in every man from all passions
and temptations. I see this now, having been
freed from the worst of that darkness that ob-
scured my own soul from me, not letting me see
its oneness with God — nay, that obscured God
Himself. The idea came to me unconsciously.
If I really believed that my highest good was to
be delivered from passion and to be united with
God, then I ought to welcome everything that
brought me nearer death, such as old age and
sickness. It would in a sense be a fulfilment of
my one and only desire. I see this clearly when
I am well, but when I am ill, as I have been for
the last two days, I cannot see it in the same light,
and though I do not rebel against death, yet do
not long for its approach. This is a condition of
spiritual inertia. I must be patient.
I will go on from where I left off yesterday.
Most of the things I have related about my
childhood I have heard from others. Frequently
the things that have been told me and my own
impressions get mixed up one with another, so that
I am sometimes unable to distinguish between the
two.
The whole of my life from the very moment of
my birth until my present old age, makes me think
of a plain enveloped in a thick fog. Everything
FEDOR KUSMICH
221
.
SU
is hidden from view, when all at once the mist
lifts itself in places, disclosing tiny little islands
des éclaircies on which people and objects can be
distinguished, quite disconnected with one another,
surrounded by an impenetrable veil of mist.
In my childhood these éclaircies appeared very
rarely in the interminable sea of fog and smoke
surrounding me. As I grew older I could see
them more often, but even now there are periods
of my life that have left no trace on my memory.
I have already given some of the events of my
early childhood that have most impressed them-
selves on my mind, the death of Sophia Benken-
dorf, the parting scene with my parents, my lively
brother Constantine, and there are other reminis-
cences that come crowding back as I think of the
past. But, for instance, I have no recollection of
when Constantine first appeared, nor when we
came to live together, but I do remember one
Christmas Eve when he was five and I was seven
years old. It was after the midnight service when
they put us to bed. We both got together as soon
as we were left alone. Constantine, with nothing
on but a nightshirt, climbed into my bed, and we
began a lively game which consisted in slapping
each other on our naked bodies. We laughed un-
til our sides ached, and were feeling ever so happy,
when suddenly Nicolai Ivanovich came into the
222
FEDOR KUSMICH
room with his enormous powdered head, and in
an embroidered coat. He was horror-stricken
on catching sight of us, and flew at us in a perfect
state of terror that I have never been able to
fathom. He put Constantine back in his own
bed, threatened to punish us and to tell our grand-
mother.
Another thing that impressed itself on my mem-
ory occurred somewhat later, when I was about
nine. It was the quarrel between Alexei Gregori-
evich Orlov and Potenkin, which took place in my
grandmother's room in our presence. It happened
a short time before our departure for the Crimea
and our first visit to Moscow. Nicolai Ivanovich
had taken us to see grandmother as usual. The
large room with a carved and painted ceiling was
full of people. My grandmother was sitting be-
fore a golden dressing-table, in a white dressing-
jacket, surrounded by her maids, who were put-
ting the finishing touches to her hair. It was
tastefully dressed on the top of her head. She
smiled on seeing us, and went on talking to a gen-
eral decorated with the order of St. Andrew. He
was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a terrible
scar across his cheek from the mouth to the ear.
It was Orlov, le Balafre. I had never seen him
before.
My favourite little dog, Michot, sprang from
FEDOR KUSMICH
223
the foot of grandmother's dress, and began paw-
ing me and licking my face. We came up to
grandmother and kissed her plump yellow hand.
She put it under my chin, and began to caress me
with her bent fingers. In spite of her perfumes, I
felt that unpleasant odour about her. She con-
tinued talking to the Balafre. “Is he not a fine
fellow ?" she said, pointing to me. “You haven't
seen him before, have you, Count?”
“They are both fine fellows,' the Count replied,
kissing our hands in turn.
“All right, all right!” she said to the maid,
who was arranging a cap on her head. It was
dear Marie Stepanoyna, powdered and painted,
who was always kind to me.
Lanskoy came up with an open snuff-box.
Grandmother took some snuff, and smiled as she
caught sight of Matriona Denisovna, her jester,
who was just coming in. .....
(Here the papers break off.)
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC.
na.
This morning I underwent a medical examina-
tion in the government council room. The opin-
ions of the doctors were divided. They argued
among themselves and came at last to the con-
clusion that I was not mad. But this was due to
the fact that I tried hard during the examination
not to give myself away. I was afraid of being
sent to the lunatic asylum, where I would not be
able to go on with the mad undertaking I have on
my hands. They pronounced me subject to fits of
excitement, and something else, too, but never-
theless of sound mind. The doctor prescribed a
certain treatment, and assured me that by follow-
ing his directions my trouble would completely
disappear. Imagine, all that torments me dis-
appearing completely! Oh, there is nothing I
would not give to be free from my trouble. The
suffering is too great!
I am going to tell explicitly how I came to un-
dergo that examination; how I went mad, and
how my madness was revealed to the outside
world.
227
228 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
Up to the age of thirty-five I lived like the
rest of the world, and nobody had noticed any
peculiarities in me. Only in my early childhood,
before I was ten, I had occasionally been in a men-
tal state similar to the present one, and then only
at intervals, whereas now I am continually con-
scious of it.
I remember going to bed one evening, when I
was a child of five or six. Nurse Euprasia, a tall,
lean woman in a brown dress, with a double chin,
was undressing me, and was just lifting me up to
put me into bed.
"I will get into bed myself,” I said, preparing
to step over the net at the bedside.
“Lie down, Fedinka. You see, Mitinka is al-
ready lying quite still," she said, pointing with
her head to my brother in his bed.
I jumped into my bed still holding nurse's hand
in mine. Then I let it go, stretched my legs under
the blanket and wrapped myself up. I felt so nice
and warm! I grew silent all of a sudden and
began thinking: “I love nurse, nurse loves me
and Mitinka, I love Mitinka too, and he loves me
and nurse. And nurse loves Taras; I love Taras
too, and so does Mitinka. And Taras loves me
and nurse. And mother loves me and nurse;
nurse loves mother and me and father; everybody
loves everybody, and everybody is happy." ;
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 229
Suddenly the housekeeper rushed in and began
to shout in an angry voice something about a sugar
basin she could not find. Nurse got cross and
said she did not take it. I felt frightened; it was
all so strange. A cold horror came over me, and
I hid myself under the blanket. But I felt no
better in the darkness under the blanket. I
thought of a boy who had got a thrashing one day
in my presence — of his screams, and of the cruel
face of Foka when he was beating the boy.
“Then you won't do it any more; you won't!"
he repeated and went on beating.
“I won't," said the boy; and Foka kept on
repeating over and over, “You won't, you
won't!" and did not cease to strike the boy.
That was when my madness came over me for
the first time. I burst into sobs, and they could
not quiet me for a long while. The tears and
despair of that day were the first signs of my
present trouble.
I well remember the second time my madness
seized me. It was when aunt was telling us about
Christ. She told His story and got up to leave
the room. But we held her back: “Tell us
more about Jesus Christ!” we said.
“I must go," she replied.
“No, tell us more, please!" Mitinka insisted,
and she repeated all she had said before. She
INI
230 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
told us how they crucified Him, how they beat and
martyred Him, and how He went on praying and
did not blame them.
“Auntie, why 'did they torture Him?!
“They were wicked.”
" But wasn't He God?”
"Be still — it is nine o'clock, don't you hear
the clock striking?"
“Why did they beat Him? He had forgiven
them. Then why did they hit Him? Did it
hurt Him? Auntie, did it hurt?"
“Be quiet, I say. I am going to the dining-
room to have tea now.”
“But perhaps it never happened, perhaps He
was not beaten by them?”.
“I am going.”
“No, Auntie, don't gol..." And again my
madness took possession of me. I sobbed and
sobbed, and began knocking my head against the
wall.
Such had been the fits of madness in my child-
hood. But after I was fourteen, from the time
the instincts of sex awoke and I began to give way
to vice, my madness seemed to have passed, and
I was a boy like other boys. Just as happens
with all of us who are brought up on rich, over-
abundant food, and are spoiled and made effemi-
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 231
W
ever &
nate, because we never do any physical work, and
are surrounded by all possible temptations, which
excite our sensual nature when in the company of
other children similarly spoiled, so I had been
taught vice by other boys of my age and I in-
dulged in it. As time passed other vices came to
take the place of the first. I began to know
women, and so I went on living, up to the time I
was thirty-five, looking out for all kinds of pleas-
ures and enjoying them. I had a perfectly sound
mind then, and never a sign of madness.
twenty years of my normal life passed without
leaving any special record on my memory, and now
it is only with a great effort of mind and with utter
disgust, that I can concentrate my thoughts
upon that time.
Like all the boys of my set, who were of sound
mind, I entered school, passed on to the university
and went through a course of law studies. Then
I entered the State service for a short time, mar-
ried, and settled down in the country, educating —
if our way of bringing up children can be called
educating — my children, looking after the land,
and filling the post of a Justice of the Peace.
It was when I had been married ten years that
one of those attacks of madness I suffered from in
my childhood made its appearance again. My
wife and I had sayed up money from her inherit-
232 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
ance and from some Government bonds* of mine
which I had sold, and we decided that with that
money we would buy another estate. I was natu-
rally keen to increase our fortune, and to do it
in the shrewdest way, better than any one else
would manage it. I went about inquiring what
estates were to be sold, and used to read all the
advertisements in the papers. What I wanted was
to buy an estate, the produce or timber of which
would cover the cost of purchase, and then I would
have the estate practically for nothing. I was
looking out for a fool who did not understand
business, and there came a day when I thought I
had found one. An estate with large forests at-
tached to it was to be sold in the Pensa Govern-
ment. To judge by the information I had re-
ceived the proprietor of that estate was exactly
the imbecile I wanted, and I might expect the for-
ests to cover the price asked for the whole estate.
I got my things ready and was soon on my way
to the estate I wished to inspect.
We had first to go by train (I had taken my
man-servant with me), then by coach, with relays
* These government bonds were of a peculiar kind: At the
moment of the abolition of serfdom, the Russian Government
handed to the owners of serfs State bonds instead of money,
called in Russia “the redemption bonds.” The money due by
the Government on those papers were paid off at fixed periods
and the owners of those bonds sold them often like ordinary
Government papers.
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 233
new S
of horses at the various stations. The journey
was very pleasant, and my servant, a good-natured
youth, liked it as much as I did. We enjoyed the
new surroundings and the new people, and having
now only about two hundred miles more to drive,
we decided to go on without stopping, except to
change horses at the stations. Night came on
and we were still driving. I had been dozing, but
presently I awoke, seized with a sudden fear.
As often happens in such a case, I was so excited
that I was thoroughly awake and it seemed as if
sleep were gone for ever. “Why am I driving?
Where am I going?” I suddenly asked myself.
It was not that I disliked the idea of buying an
estate at a bargain, but it seemed at that moment
so senseless to journey to such a far away place,
and I had a feeling as if I were going to die there,
away from home. I was overcome with horror.
My servant Sergius awoke, and I took advan-
tage of the fact to talk to him. I began to remark
upon the scenery around us; he had also a good
deal to say, of the people at home, of the pleasure
of the journey, and it seemed strange to me that
he could talk so gaily. He appeared so pleased
with everything and in such good spirits, whereas
I was annoyed with it all. Still, I felt more at
ease when I was talking with him. Along with
my feelings of restlessness and my secret horror,
234 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
however, I was fatigued as well, and longed to
break the journey somewhere. It seemed to me
my uneasiness would cease if I could only enter a
room, have tea, and, what I desired most of all,
sleep.
We were approaching the town Arzamas.
“Don't you think we had better stop here and
have a rest?”
“Why not? It's an excellent idea."
“How far are we from the town?" I asked the
driver.
"Another seven miles."
The driver was a quiet, silent man. He was
driving rather slowly and wearily.
We drove on. I was silent, but I felt better,
looking forward to a rest and hoping to feel the
better for it. We drove on and on in the dark-
ness, and the seven miles seemed to have no end.
At last we reached the town. It was sound asleep
at that early hour. First came the small houses,
piercing the darkness, and as we passed them, the
noise of our jingling bells and the trotting of our
horses sounded louder. In a few places the
houses were large and white, but I did not feel
less dejected for seeing them. I was waiting for
the station, and the samovar, and longed to lie
down and rest.
At last we approached a house with pillars in
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 235
front of it. The house was white, but it seemed
to me very melancholy. I felt even frightened at
its aspect and stepped slowly out of the carriage.
Sergius was busying himself with our luggage,
taking what we needed for the night, running
about and stepping heavily on the doorsteps. The
sound of his brisk tread increased my weariness.
I walked in and came into a small passage. A
man received us; he had a large spot on his cheek
and that spot filled me with horror. He asked us
into a room which was just an ordinary room.
My uneasiness was growing.
“ Could we have a room to rest in?" I asked.
“Oh, yes, I have a very nice bedroom at your
disposal. A square room, newly whitewashed.”
The fact of the little room being square was --
I remember it so well -- most painful to me. It
had one window with a red curtain, a table of
birchwood and a sofa with a curved back and
arms. Sergius boiled the water in the samovar
and made the tea. I put a pillow on the sofa in
the meantime and lay down. I was not asleep; I
heard Sergius busy with the samovar and urging
me to have tea. I was afraid to get up from the
sofa, afraid of driving away sleep; and just to be
sitting in that room seemed awful. I did not get
up, but fell into a sort of doze. When I started
up out of it, nobody was in the room and it was
236 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
quite dark. I woke up with the very same sensa-
tion I had the first time and knew sleep was gone.
“Why am I here? Where am I going? Just as
I am I must be for ever. Neither the Pensa nor
any other estate will add to or take anything away
from me. As for me, I am unbearably weary of
myself. I want to go to sleep, to forget -- and I
cannot, I cannot get rid of self."
I went out into the passage. Sergius was sleep-
ing there on a narrow bench, his hand hanging
down beside it. He was sleeping soundly, and
the man with the spot on his cheek was also asleep.
I thought, by going out of the room, to get away
from what was tormenting me. But it followed
me and made everything seem dark and dreary.
My feeling of horror, instead of leaving me, was
increasing.
“What nonsense!" I said to myself. “Why
am I so dejected? What am I afraid of?”
“You are afraid of me" - I heard the voice of
Death — "I am here."
I shuddered. Yes, - Death! Death will come,
it will come and it ought not to come. Even in
facing actual death I would certainly not feel any-
thing of what I felt now. Then it would be simply
fear, whereas now it was more than that. I was
actually seeing, feeling the approach of death, and
along with it I felt that death ought not to exist.
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 237
el
My entire being was conscious of the necessity
of the right to live, and at the same time of the
inevitability of dying. This inner conflict was
causing me unbearable pain. I tried to shake off
the horror; I found a half-burnt candle in a brass
candlestick and lighted it. The candle with its red
flame burnt down until it was not much taller than
the low candlestick. The same thing seemed to
be repeated over and over: nothing lasts, life is
not, all is death — but death ought not to exist.
I tried to turn my thoughts to what had interested
me before, to the estate I was to buy and to my
wife. Far from being a relief, these seemed noth-
ing to me now. To feel my life 'doomed to be
taken from me was a terror shutting out any other
thought. “I must try to sleep," I decided. I
went to bed, but the next instant I jumped up,
seized with horror. A sickness overcame me, a
spiritual sickness not unlike the physical uneasi-
ness preceding actual illness — but in the spirit,
not in the body. A terrible fear similar to the
fear of death, when mingled with the recollec-
tions of my past life, developed into a horror
as if life were departing. Life and death were
flowing into one another. An unknown power
was trying to tear my soul into pieces, but could
not rend it. Once more I went out into the
passage to look at the two men asleep; once more
238 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
I tried to go to sleep. The horror was always the
same — now red, now white and square. Some-
thing was tearing within but could not be torn
apart. A torturing sensation! An arid hatred
deprived me of every spark of kindly feeling.
Just a dull and steady hatred against myself and
against that which had created me. What did
create me? God? We say God. ...“ What
if I tried to pray?" I suddenly thought. I had
not said a prayer for more than twenty years and
I had no religious sentiment, although just for
formality's sake I fasted and partook of the com-
munion every year. I began saying prayers:
“God, forgive me," " Our Father," " Our Lady,"
I was composing new prayers, crossing myself,
bowing to the earth, looking around me all the
while for fear I might be discovered in my de-
votional attitude. The prayers seemed to divert
my thoughts from the previous terror, but it was
more the fear of being seen by somebody that did
it. I went to bed again. But the moment I shut
my eyes the very same feeling of terror made me
jump up. I could not stand it any longer. I
called the hotel servant, roused Sergius from his
sleep, ordered him to harness the horses to the
carriage and we were soon driving on once more.
The open air and the drive made me feel much
better. But I realised that something new had
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 239
come into my soul, and had poisoned the life I had
lived up to that hour.
We reached our destination in the evening.
The whole day long I remained struggling with
despair, and finally conquered it; but a horror re-
mained in the depth of my soul. It was as if a
misfortune had happened to me, and although
I was able to forget it for a while, it remained at
the bottom of my soul, and I was entirely domi-
nated by it.
The manager of the estate, an old man, received
us in a very friendly manner, though not exactly
with great joy; he was sorry that the estate was to
be sold. The clean little rooms with upholstered
furniture, a new, shining samovar on the tea-table,
nice large cups, honey served with the tea, -every-
thing was pleasant to see. I began questioning
him about the estate without any interest, as if I
were repeating a lesson learned long ago and
nearly forgotten. It was so uninteresting. But
that night I was able to go to sleep without feel-
ing miserable. I thought this was due to having
said my prayers again before going to bed.
After that incident I resumed my ordinary life;
but the apprehension that this horror would again
come upon me was continual. I had to live my
usual life without any respite, not giving way to
my thoughts, just like a schoolboy who repeats
240 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
by habit and without thinking the lesson learned
by heart. That was the only way to avoid being
seized again by the horror and the despair I had
experienced in Arzamas.
I had returned home safe from my journey; I
had not bought the estate -- I had not enough
money. My life at home seemed to be just as
it had always been, save for my having taken to
saying prayers and to going to church. But
now, when I recollect that time, I see that I only
imagined my life to be the same as before. The
fact was I merely continued what I had previously
started, and was running with the same speed on
rails already laid; but I did not undertake any-
thing new.
Even in those things which I had already taken
in hand my interest had diminished. I was tired
of everything, and was growing very religious.
My wife noticed this, and was often vexed with
me for it. No new fit of distress occurred while
I was at home. But one day I had to go unex-
pectedly to Moscow, where a lawsuit was pending.
In the train I entered into conversation with a land.
owner from Kharkov. We were talking about the
management of estates, about bank business, about
the hotels in Moscow, and the theatres. We both
decided to stop at the “Moscow Court," in the
Miasnizkaia Street, and go that evening to the
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 241
opera, to Faust. When we arrived I was shown
into a small room, the heavy smell of the passage
being still in my nostrils. The porter brought in
my portmanteau, and the maid lighted the candle,
the flame of which burned up brightly and then
flickered, as it usually does. In the room next to
mine I heard somebody coughing, probably an old
man. The maid went out, and the porter asked
whether I wished him to open my bag. In the
meanwhile the candle flame had flared up, throw-
ing its light on the blue wallpaper with yellow
stripes, on the partition, on the shabby table, on
the small sofa in front of it, on the mirror hang-
ing on the wall, and on the window. I saw what
the small room was like, and suddenly felt the
horror of the Arzamas night awakening within
me.
“My God! Must I stay here for the night?
How can I?" I thought. “Will you kindly un-
fasten my bag?" I said to the porter, to keep
him longer in the room. “And now I'll dress
quickly and go to the theatre," I said to myself.
When the bag had been untied I said to the
porter, “ Please tell the gentleman in Number 8
— the one who came with me - that I shall be
ready presently, and ask him to wait for me."
The porter left, and I began to dress in haste,
afraid to look at the walls. “But what non-
242 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
sense!” I said to myself. “Why am I frightened
like a child? I am not afraid of ghosts —"
Ghosts ! — To be afraid of ghosts is nothing to
what I was afraid of!" But what is it? Abso-
lutely nothing. I am only afraid of myself. ...
Nonsense!"
I slipped into a cold, rough, starched shirt, stuck
in the studs, put on evening dress and new boots,
and went to call for the Kharkov landowner, who
was ready. We started for the opera house. He
stopped on the way to have his hair curled, while
I went to a French hairdresser to have mine cut,
where I talked a little to the Frenchwoman in the
shop and bought a pair of gloves. Everything
seemed all right. I had completely forgotten the
oblong room in the hotel, and the walls.
I enjoyed the Faust performance very much,
and when it was over my companion proposed
that we should have supper. This was contrary
to my habits; but just at that moment I remem-
bered the walls in my room, and accepted.
We returned home after one. I had two glasses
of wine - an unusual thing for me in spite of
which I was feeling quite at ease.
But the moment we entered the passage with
the lowered lamp lighting it, the moment I was
surrounded by the peculiar smell of the hotel, I
felt a cold shudder of horror running down my
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 243
!
more
back. But there was nothing to be done. I shook
hands with my new friend, and stepped into my
room.
I had a frightful night — much worse than the
night at Arzamas; and it was not until dawn, when
the old man in the next room was coughing again,
that I fell asleep -- and then not in my bed, but,
after getting in and out of it many times, on the
sofa.
I suffered the whole night unbearably. Once
more my soul and my body were tearing them-
selves apart within me. The same thoughts came
again: “I am living, I have lived up till now, I
have the right to live; but all around me is death
and destruction. Then why live? Why not die?
Why not kill myself immediately? No; I could
not. I am afraid. Is it better to wait for death
to come when it will? No, that is even worse; and
I am also afraid of that. Then, I must live. But
what for? In order to die?” I could not get
out of that circle. I took a book, and began
reading. For a moment it made me forget my
thoughts. But then the same questions and the
same horror came again. I got into bed, lay
down, and shut my eyes. That made the horror
worse. God had created things as they are. · But
why? They say, “Don't ask; pray.” Well, I
did pray; I was praying now, just as I did at Arza-
sa
244 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
mas. At that time I had prayed simply, like a
child. Now my prayers had a definite meaning:
“If Thou exist, reveal Thy existence to me. To
what end am I created? What am I?” I was
bowing to the earth, repeating all the prayers I
knew, composing new ones; and I was adding each
time, “ Reveal Thy existence to me!” I became
quiet, waiting for an answer. But no answer
came, as if there were nothing to answer. I was
alone, alone with myself and was answering my
own questions in place of Him who would not
answer. “What am I created for?” “To live
in a future life," I answered. “Then why this
uncertainty and torment? I cannot believe in
future life. I did believe when I asked, but not
with my whole soul. Now I cannot, I cannot!
If Thou didst exist, Thou wouldst reveal it to me,
to all men. But Thou dost not exist, and there
is nothing true but distress.” But I cannot accept
that! I rebelled against it; I implored Him to
reveal His existence to me. I did all that every-
body does, but He did not reveal Himself to me.
“Ask, and it shall be given unto you," I remem-
bered, and began to entreat; in doing so I felt
no real comfort, but just surcease of despair. Per-.
haps it was not entreaty on my part, but only denial
of Him. You retreat a step from Him, and He
goes from you a mile. I did not believe in Him,
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 245
and yet here I was entreating Him. But He did
not reveal Himself. I was balancing my accounts
with Him, and was blaming Him. I simply did
not believe.
The next day I used all my endeavours to get
through with my affairs somehow during the day,
in order to be saved from another night in the
hotel room. Although I had not finished every-
thing, I left for home in the evening.
That night at Moscow brought a still greater
change into my life, which had been changing ever
since the night at Arzamas. I was now paying
less attention to my affairs, and grew more and
more indifferent to everything around me. My
health was also getting bad. My wife urged me
to consult a doctor. To her my continual talk
about God and religion was a sign of ill-health,
whereas I knew I was ill and weak, because of the
unsolved questions of religion and of God.
I was trying not to let that question dominate
my mind, and continued living amid the old un-
altered conditions, filling up my time with incessant
occupations. On Sundays and feast days I went
to church; I even fasted as I had begun to do
since my journey to Pensa, and did not cease to
pray. I had no faith in my prayers, but somehow
I kept the demand note in my possession instead
246 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
of tearing it up, and was always presenting it for
payment, although I was aware of the impossibility
of getting paid. I did it just on the chance. I
occupied my days, not with the management of
the estate — I felt disgusted with all business be-
cause of the struggle it involved - but with the
reading of papers, magazines, and novels, and with
card-playing for small stakes. The only outlet
for my energy was hunting. I had kept that up
from habit, having been fond of this sport all my
life.
One day in winter, a neighbour of mine came
with his dogs to hunt wolves. Having arrived at
the meeting-place, we put on snowshoes to walk
over the snow and move rapidly along. The hunt
was unsuccessful; the wolves contrived to escape
through the stockade. As I became aware of
that from a distance, I took the direction of the
forest to follow the fresh track of a hare. This
led me far away into a field. There I spied the
hare, but he had disappeared before I could fire.
I turned to go back, and had to pass a forest of
huge trees. The snow was deep, the snowshoes
were sinking in, and the branches were entangling
me. The wood was getting thicker and thicker.
I wondered where I was, for the snow had
changed all the familiar places. Suddenly I re-
alised that I had lost my way. How should I get
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 247
home or reach the hunting party? Not a sound
to guide me! I was tired and bathed in perspira-
tion. If I stopped, I would probably freeze
to death; if I walked on, my strength would for-
sake me. I shouted, but all was quiet, and no an-
swer came. I turned in the opposite direction,
which was wrong again, and looked round. Noth-
ing but the wood on every hand. I could not tell
which was east or west. I turned back again, but
I could hardly move a step. I was frightened, and
stopped. The horror I had experienced in Arza-
mas and in Moscow seized me again, only a hun-
dred times greater. My heart was beating, my
hands and feet were shaking. Am I to die here?
I don't wan't want to! Why death? What is
death? I was about to ask again, to reproach
God, when I suddenly felt I must not; I ought not.
I had not the right to present any account to Him;
He had said all that was necessary, and the fault
was wholly mine. I began to implore His forgive-
ness for I felt disgusted with myself. The horror,
however, did not last long. I stood still one mo-
ment, plucked up courage, took the direction which
seemed to be the right one, and was actually soon
out of the wood. I had not been far from its edge
when I lost my way. As I came out on the main
road, my hands and feet were still shaking, and
my heart was beating violently. But my soul was
248 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
full of joy. I soon found my party, and we all
returned home together. I was not quite happy,
but I knew there was a joy within me which I
would understand later on; and that joy proved
real. I went to my study to be alone and prayed,
remembering my sins, and asking for forgiveness.
They did not seem to be numerous; but when I
thought of what they were they were hateful to
me.
Then I began to read the Scriptures. The Old
Testament I found incomprehensible but enchant-
ing, the New touching in its meekness. But my
favourite reading was now the lives of the saints;
they were consoling to me, affording examples
which seemed more and more possible to follow.
Since that time I have grown even less interested
in the management of affairs and in family matters.
These things even became repulsive to me. Ev-
erything was wrong in my eyes. I did not quite
realise why they were wrong, but I knew that the
things of which my whole life had consisted, now
counted for nothing. This was plainly revealed
to me again on the occasion of the projected pur-
chase of an estate, which was for sale in our neigh-
bourhood on very advantageous terms. I went to
inspect it. Everything was very satisfactory, the
more so because the peasants on that estate had no
land of their own beyond their vegetable gardens.
vere
MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC 249.
I grasped at once that in exchange for the right of
using the landowner's pasture-grounds, they would
do all the harvesting for him; and the information
I was given proved that I was right. I saw how
important that was, and was pleased, as it was in
accordance with my old habits of thought. But
on my way home I met an old woman who asked
her way, and I entered into a conversation with
her, during which she told me about her poverty.
On returning home, when telling my wife about
the advantages the estate afforded, all at once I
felt ashamed and disgusted. I said I was not go-
ing to buy that estate, for its profits were based on
the sufferings of the peasants. I was struck at
that moment with the truth of what I was saying,
the truth of the peasants having the same desire to
live as ourselves, of their being our equals, our
brethren, the children of the Father, as the Gospel
says. But unexpectedly something which had been
gnawing within me for a long time became loos-
ened and was torn away, and something new
seemed to be born instead.
My wife was vexed with me and abused me.
But I was full of joy. This was the first sign of
my madness. My utter madness began to show
itself about a month later.
This began by my going to church; I was listen-
ing to the Mass with great attention and with
250 MEMOIRS OF A LUNATIC
7
a faithful heart, when I was suddenly given a
wafer; after which every one began to move for-
ward to kiss the Cross, pushing each other on all
sides. As I was leaving church, beggars were
standing on the steps. It became instantly clear
to me that this ought not to be, and in reality was
not. But if this is not, then there is no death and
no fear, and nothing is being torn asunder within
me, and I am not afraid of any calamity which may
come.
At that moment the full light of the truth was
kindled in me, and I grew into what I am now.
If all this horror does not necessarily exist around
me, then it certainly does not exist within me. I
distributed on the spot all the money I had among
the beggars in the porch, and walked home instead
of driving in my carriage as usual, and all the way
I talked with the peasants.
TWO WAYFARERS
TWO WAYFARERS
Two men with bundles over their shoulders were
walking along the dusty highroad that lies between
Moscow and Toula. The younger man wore a
short coat and velveteen trousers. Spectacles
gleamed out from under the brim of his new peas-
ant's hat. The other was a man of about fifty,
remarkably handsome, dressed in a monk's frock,
with a leather belt round his waist and a high-
round black cap, such as novices wear in monas-
teries. His long dark beard and dark hair were
turning grey.
The younger man was pale and sallow, was
covered with dust, and seemed scarcely able to
drag one foot after the other. The old man
walked cheerfully along, swinging his arms, his
shoulders well thrown back. It seemed as though
dust dared not settle on his handsome face nor his
body feel fatigue.
The young man, Serge Vasilievich Borzin, was
old man, Nicholas Petrovich Serpov, had been a
sub-lieutenant in an infantry regiment during the
253
254
TWO WAYFARERS
reign of Alexander, then he had become a monk,
but was expelled from the monastery for bad con-
duct. He had, however, retained the monastic
garb. The men had come together in this wise.
Borzin, after taking his doctor's degree, and after
writing several articles for the Moscow reviews,
went to stay in the country, to plunge into the
current of peasant life and to refresh himself in
the waves of the popular stream, as he put it.
After a month spent in the country in complete
solitude, he wrote the following letter to a literary
friend of his, who was editor of a journal:
“MY MASTER AND FRIEND IVAN FINOGEICH,
- It is not for us to predict - indeed we cannot
- the ultimate solution of those problems which
are solving themselves in the secrecy of the village
life of the Russian people. Various phases of the
Russian mind and its phenomena must be carefully
taken into consideration — the seclusion of their
lives; the revolutionary reforms introduced by Pe-
ter; etc., etc.”
The long and the short of it was that Borzin,
having been deeply impressed by the everyday life
of the people, had become convinced that the prob-
lem of determining the destiny of the Russian na-
tion was more difficult and complex than he had
TWO WAYFARERS 255
Consider such though it
hould wear.
been wont to imagine, and that in order to find its
solution he must traverse Russia on foot; so he
asked his friend not to discuss the question in his
journal pending his return, promising to set forth
all that he discovered in a series of articles.
Having written this letter, Borzin set about
making preparations for his journey. Though it
annoyed him, he had to consider such details as
what he should wear. He bought a coat, nailed
boots, and a hat such as the peasants wear, and,
shutting out his servants, studied himself for a
long time in his glass. He could not get rid of
his spectacles, as he was too near-sighted. After
this, the most essential thing was to get some
money. He needed at least 300 roubles. There
was no money in his cash-box, so Borzin summoned
his bailiff and accountant and went through his
books. Finding that he had 180 quarters of
oats, he ordered them to be sold, but the bailiff
remarked that the oats had been kept for seed.
In another column he found an entry of 160 quar-
ters of rye, and asked if that would suffice for
seed. The bailiff replied by asking if he wanted
them to sow last year's rye. The conversation
ended shortly after, the bailiff recognising that
Borzin knew as little about farming as a babe,
and Borzin realising that the rye had been sown
already, that new seed was usually used, and that
256 TWO WAYFARERS
after deducting enough for daily needs from the
180 quarters of corn, the rest might be sold.
The money having been obtained, Borzin made
up his mind one evening to start next day, when he
heard an unknown voice in the hall, and his fath-
er's old valet Stephen entered and announced
Nicholas Petrovich Serpov.
“Who is he?"
“ Don't you remember the monk who used to
visit your father?"
"No, not at all. What does he want?”
“He wishes to see you, but I don't think he is
quite himself.”
Serpov entered the room, bowed, stamped his
foot and said,
“ Serpoy a wayfarer." They shook hands.
"Nothing but ignorance - no education. I ad-
monish Russia in vain. Russia is a fool. The
peasant is industrious but Russia is a fool. Don't
you agree? I knew your father. We used to sit
and chat, and he would say, “You will get on.'
But why are you dressed like that? I am as plain-
spoken as a soldier, and I ask why?"
"I am going to make a journey on foot."
“I am on the road myself. I am a wayfarer.
I have been all the way to Greece, to the Athos
Monastery, but I never saw any one as honest as
our peasants."
11
TWO WAYFARERS
257
Serpov sat down, asked for vodka, and then
went to bed. Borzin was puzzled. Next day
Serpov was the listener and, as Borzin liked to
talk, Serpoy heard all about his theory and the aim
of his journey. Serpov thoroughly approved of
it, and ended by offering himself as companion,
which Borzin accepted; partly because he did not
know how to get rid of him; partly because, with
all his craziness, Serpov could flatter; partly, and
chiefly, because Borzin regarded the monk as a
remarkable, though somewhat complicated, phe-
nomenon of Russian life.
They set out, and when we found them on the
highroad they were nearing the place, where, ac-
cording to their plan, the first night was to be
spent. They had accomplished the first twenty-
two versts of their journey.
Serpov had a glass at the public-house and was
in good spirits.
KHODINKA: AN INCIDENT OF THE
CORONATION OF NICHOLAS II.
KHODINKA*: AN INCIDENT OF THE
CORONATION OF NICHOLAS II.
“I CANNOT understand such obstinacy. Why
should you do without sleep and go 'with the
people,' when you can go straight to the pavilion
with your Aunt Vera, and see everything without
any trouble? I told you Behr had promised to
pass you through, though, as far as that's con-
cerned, you have the right of entry as a maid of
honour."
It was thus that Prince Paul Golitsin — known
in the aristocratic set as “ Pigeon" — addressed
his twenty-three-year-old daughter Alexandra,
called for shortness' sake “ Rina."
The conversation took place in Moscow on
17th May 1893 — on the eve of the popular fête
held to celebrate the coronation. Rina, a strong,
handsome girl, with a profile characteristic of
her race - the hooked nose of a bird of prey —
had long ceased to be passionately devoted to balls
* The Khodinka is a large plain outside Moscow where the
military often exercise. It was here that the people of Moscow
assembled to celebrate the Tsar's accession, and where many
hundreds were crushed to death.
261
262
KHODINKA
or social functions, and was, or at least considered
herself to be, an “advanced” woman and a lover
of “the people.” She was her father's only
daughter and his favourite, and always did what
she wished. In this particular instance it occurred
to her that she would like to go to the popular
festival with her cousin, not at mid-day with the
Court, but together with the people, the porter and
the grooms of their own household, who intended
to start in the early morning.
“But, father, I do not want to look at the peo-
ple; I want to be with them. I want to see how
they feel towards the young Tsar. Surely for
once ..."
“Well, well, do as you like. I know how ob-
stinate you are."
“ Don't be angry, father, dear. I promise to
be careful, and Alec will not leave my side."
Although the plan seemed wild and fantastic to
her father, he gave his consent.
“Yes, of course you may," he answered when
she asked if she might have the victoria. "Drive
to Khodinka and send it back."
“ All right."
She went up to him, and he blessed her, as was
his custom, and she kissed his big white hand, and
they separated.
There was no talk of anything but the morrow's
KHODINKA
263
festival among the cigarette-makers in the lodgings
let by the notorious Marie Yakovlevna. Several
of Emelian Tagodin's friends had met in his room
to discuss when they should start.
“It's not worth while going to bed at all.
You'll only oversleep yourself," said Yakov, a
bright youth who occupied a space behind a
wooden partition.
“Why not have a little sleep?" retorted Eme-
lian. “We'll start at dawn. Every one says
that's the thing to do."
“Well, if we are going to bed, it's time we
went."
“But, Emelian, mind you call us if we don't
wake up in time.”
Emelian promised he would, and, taking a reel
of silk from a drawer in the table, drew the lamp
nearer, and began to sew a missing button on his
summer overcoat. When he had finished this job
he laid out his best clothes and cleaned his boots,
and, after saying several prayers —“Our Father,"
“Hail Mary," etc., the meaning of which he had
never fathomed, and had not even been interested
in -- he took off his boots, and lay down on the
crumpled, creaking bed.
“Why not?” he said to himself. “There is
such a thing as luck. Perhaps I shall get a lottery
ticket and win." The rumour had spread among
264
KHODINKA
the people that, besides other gifts, some lottery
tickets were to be distributed. “Well, the 10,000
rouble prize is expecting too much, but one might
win 500 roubles. What couldn't I do with it?
I could send something to the old folk; I'd make
my wife leave her situation: it's no sort of exist-
ence living apart like this. I'd buy a good watch
and a fur coat. As it is, it's one long struggle,
and you're never out of your difficulties."
He began to dream that he and his wife were
walking around the Alexander Gardens, and that
the same policeman who had taken him up a year
ago for using bad language when he was drunk
was no longer a policeman, but a general, and that
this same general smiled at him and invited him
to go to a neighbouring public-house with him to
hear a mechanical organ. The organ sounded
just like a clock striking, and Emelian awoke to
find that the clock really was striking wheezily,
and that the landlady was coughing behind his
door. It was not quite so dark as it had been the
night before.
“Don't oversleep yourself."
Emelian got up, went barefooted across the
room to the wooden partition to awake Yasha, and
then proceeded to dress carefully, greasing and
brushing his hair before the broken mirror.
“ I'm all right! That's why girls are so fond
ouring Pu
The Olian aw
as
KHODINKA
265.
of me. Only I don't want to get into mischief.”
He went to the landlady, as arranged the day
before, to get some food. He put a meat pie,
two eggs, some ham, and a small bottle of vodka
into a bag, and then left the house with Yasha
and walked towards the Peter Park.
They were not alone. Some were in front;
others were hurrying up from behind. From all
sides happy men, women, and children, dressed in
their best, were collecting together, all going in
the same direction. At last they reached the field
called Khodinka. Its edges were black with peo-
ple. It was cold in the early dawn, and here
and there smoke was arising from the fires which
were made from such twigs and branches as were
available. Emelian found some friends who also
had a fire, and round which they were sitting pre-
paring their food and drink. The sun was rising
clear and bright, and the general merriment was
increasing. The air was filled with singing and
chattering, and with jokes and laughter. Every-
thing gave rise to pleasure, but still greater pleas-
ures were in store. Emelian had a drink, and,
lighting a cigarette, felt happier than ever.
The people were wearing their best clothes, but
several rich merchants, with their wives and chil-
dren, were also noticeable among the well-dressed
working men. Rina Golitsin, too, was remarka-
266
KHODINKA
ble as she walked at her cousin's side between the
wood fires, happy and radiant at having got her
own way, and at the thought of celebrating with
the people the accession to the throne of a Tsar
who was adored by them.
“Here's to your health, good lady," cried a
factory hand to her, raising his glass to his lips.
“ Don't refuse to break bread with us." .
“ Thank you."
“You ought to answer a good appetite to
you,'” whispered her cousin, showing off his
knowledge of popular customs, and they moved
on.
Accustomed to occupy the best places every-
where, they penetrated through the crowd, going
straight for the pavilion. The crowd was so dense
that, notwithstanding the bright weather, a thick
mist caused by the breath of the people, hung over
the field. But the police would not let them pass.
“I'm rather glad,” said Rina. “Let us re-
turn," and so they went back into the crowd.
“Lies, all lies," said Emelian, seated with his
companions in a circle round the food which was
spread out on white paper — in answer to a young
factory hand who, on approaching them, told them.
that the distribution of gifts had begun.
“I tell you it is so. It's contrary to regula-
tions, but they have begun. I saw it myself.
KHODINKA
267
Each one receives a mug and a packet and away
they go.”
“Of course, what do the crazy commissionaires
care? They give as they choose."
“But why should they, how can they — against
regulations?"
“You see they can."
“Let's go, friends. Why should we wait?"
They all rose. Emelian pocketed his bottle with
the remains of the vodka and advanced with his
comrades. They had not gone more than twenty
yards when the crowd became so dense that it was
difficult to stir.
“What are you pushing for?"
“You're pushing yourself."
“ You're not the only one here."
“That'll do."
“Oh, Lord! I'm crushed!” cried a woman's
voice.
A child could be heard screaming on the other
side.
“Go to "
“How dare you? Are you the only one?
Everything will be taken before we get there.
But I'll be even with them, the beasts, the devils,"
cried Emelian, squaring his stalwart shoulders and
elbowing his way forward as best he could. See-
ing every one else was elbowing and pushing he,
rii
268
KHODINKA
without knowing exactly why, also began to try to
force a way for himself through the crowd. On
every side people were crushing him, but those in
front did not move or let any one through their
ranks — and all were shouting and shrieking and
groaning.
Emelian silently clenched his strong teeth and
frowned, but without losing heart or strength he
steadily continued to push those in front, though
he made but little progress.
All at once there was a sudden agitation; the
steady surging and swaying was followed by a rush
forward to the right. Emelian looked to that side
and saw something whizz over his head and fall
among the crowd. One, two, three -- he realised
what it meant, and a voice near him exclaimed:
“Cursed devils — they are throwing the things
among the crowd!”
The sound of screaming, laughing and groaning
came from that part of the crowd where the bags
were falling. Some one gave Emelian a severe
and angrier, but before he had time to recover
from the blow some one else had trodden on his
foot. Then his coat, his new coat, caught and was
torn. With a feeling of maliciousness in his heart
he exerted all his strength to advance when some-
thing suddenly happened which he could not under-
KHODINKA
269
stand; and he found himself in an open space and
could see the tents, where the mugs and packets of
sweets were to be distributed. Up to then he had
seen nothing but the backs of other people in front
of him.
He felt glad, but only for a moment, for he
realised that the reason he could see all these
was because those who were in front had reached
the trench and were slipping or rolling over into
it, and that he himself was knocked down on top
of a mass of people. He was tumbling on those
below, and others from behind him were in their
turn tumbling on him. For the first time he felt
afraid. As he fell, a woman in a woollen shawl
stumbled over him. Shaking her off, he tried to
turn round, but those behind prevented him and
his strength began to fail. Then someone
clutched his legs and screamed. He neither saw
nor heard anything, but fought his way through,
treading on human beings on all sides.
“Friends, help,— take my watch — my gold
watch," shrieked a man near him.
“Who wants a watch now?” thought Emelian,
climbing out to the other side of the trench.
His heart was divided between fear -- fear for
himself and for his own life -- and anger at those
wild creatures who were pushing him. In spite of
this, the aim with which he had set out — to reach
270
the tents and get hold of a packet with a lottery
ticket - still drew him on.
The tents were now close at hand. He could
see the distributors quite distinctly and could hear
the cries of those who had arrived at the tents
and the creaking of the boards on which the people
in front were crowding.
Emelian stumbled. He had only about twenty
paces more to go when he heard a child's scream
under or rather between his feet. Emelian looked
down and saw a bare-headed boy in a torn shirt
lying face downwards, crying incessantly, and
clutching at his legs. He felt his heart stop beat-
ing. All fear for himself immediately disap-
peared and with it his anger against the rest. He
1
arm round his waist, but those behind him were
pushing so violently that he nearly fell and let go
the child. Summoning his strength for a supreme
effort he caught him up again and lifted him on
his shoulders. For a moment the crush became
less and Emelian managed to carry off the child.
"Give him to me,” cried a coachman who was
at Emelian's side, and taking the boy, raised him
above the crowd.
“Run over the people."
Looking back, Emelian saw how the child
walked further and further away, over the heads
KHODINKA
271
and shoulders of the swaying mass, now rising
above it, now vanishing in the crowd.
Emelian, however, continued to advance. He
could not help doing so; but he was no longer at-
tracted by the gifts and had no desire to reach the
tents. He thought of the little boy Yasha, of
those who had been trampled on, and of those
whom he had seen as he crossed the trench.
When he reached the pavilion at last he received
a mug and a packet of sweets, but they gave him
no pleasure. What pleased him was that the
crush was over, and that he could breathe and
move about; but his pleasure, however, only lasted
a moment, on account of the sight which met his
eyes. A woman, in a torn striped shawl and in
buttoned boots which stuck straight up, with her
brown hair loose and in disorder, was lying on her
back. One hand lay on the grass, the other, with
closed fingers, was folded below her breast. Her
face was white — that bluish white peculiar to
the dead. She was the first who had been crushed
to death and had been thrown over the fence right
in front of the Tsar's pavilion.
When Emelian caught sight of her, two police-
men were standing over her, and a police officer
was giving them directions. A minute after a few
Cossacks rode up and no sooner had their officer
given them some order, than they rode full speed
272
KHODINKA
at Emelian and at the others who were standing
there, and drove them back into the crowd. Eme-
lian was again caught in the whirl. The crush
became worse than ever; and to add to the horror,
one and the same everlasting crying and groaning
of women and children, and men trampling their
fellows under foot -- and not able to help doing
so. Emelian was no longer terrified or angry
with those who were crushing him. He had but
one desire -- to get out, to be free, to have a smoke
and a drink, and to explain the meaning of those
feelings which arose in his mind.
He longed for a smoke and a drink, and when
at last he managed to get away from the throng,
he satisfied his craving for these.
It was not so with Alec and Rina. As they did
not expect anything, they moved about among the
people who were seated in groups, chatting with
the women and children, when the whole people
suddenly made a rush for the pavilion, the rumour
having spread that the sweets and mugs were being
given away contrary to regulations, and before
Rina had time to turn round, she was separated
from Alec and carried along by the crowd, and was
overcome by terror. She tried to be quiet, but
could not help screaming out for mercy. But
there was no mercy, for they pressed round her
KHODINKA
273
more and more. Her dress was torn, and her hat
also fell off. She could not be quite sure, but she
thought some one snatched at her watch and chain.
Though she was a strong girl and might have
resisted, she was in mortal fear not being able
to breathe. Ragged and battered she just man-
aged to keep on her feet.
But the moment the Cossacks charged the crowd
to disperse it, Rina lost hope and directly she
yielded to despair, her strength failed her and she
fainted. Falling down she was not conscious of
anything further.
When she regained consciousness she was lying
on the grass. A bearded working man in a torn
coat was squatting beside her and squirting water
into her face as she opened her eyes; the man
crossed himself and spat out the water. It was
Emelian.
“Who are you? Where am I?"
“You're on Khodinka field. Who am I? I'm
a man, I've been badly crushed myself, but the
likes of us can stand a good deal," said Eme-
lian.
“What's this ? ” Rina asked, pointing to the
coppers that lay on her breast.
“That's because people thought you were dead,
they gave coppers for your burial. But I had a
274
KHODINKA
.
good look at you and thought to myself: 'No,
she's alive,' and I got some water for you."
Rina glanced at herself and seeing her torn dress
and bare breast, felt ashamed. The man under-
stood and covered her.
“You're all right, miss, you'll not die."
People came up and also a policeman, while
Rina sat up, and gave her father's name and ad-
dress, and Emelian went for the cab. The crowd
round her continued to increase. When Emelian
returned with the.cab, she rose, and refusing help,
got into the vehicle by herself. She was so
ashamed of the condition she was in.
“Where is your cousin ?" asked an old woman.
“I don't know. I don't know," said Rina in
despair.
(On reaching home she learnt that Alec had
managed to leave the crowd when the crush first
began and he returned home safely.)
“That man saved me," said Rina. “If it had
not been for him, I don't know what would have
happened."
“What is you name?” she said, turning to
Emelian.
“Mine? What does my name matter ? "
“She's a princess," a woman whispered in his
ear. “Ri-i-i-ch."
“Come with me to my father, he will thank
KHODINKA
275
you." Suddenly the heart of Emelian seemed to
be infused with a kind of strength so that he
would not have exchanged this feeling for a lottery
ticket worth 200,000 roubles.
“Nonsense, go home, miss. What is there to
thank me for?"
“Oh, no. I would so much rather.
“Good-bye, miss, God be with you. But, there,
'don't take away my overcoat," and he showed his
white teeth with a merry smile which lived in
Rina's memory to console her for the most terrible
moments of her life.
INTRODUCTION TO “A MOTHER"
INTRODUCTION TO “A MOTHER"
vna
I HAD known Marie Alexandrovna ever since we
were children. As so often happens with young
people, there was no suggestion of love-making
about our companionship, with the possible ex-
ception of one evening when she was at our house
and we played “Ladies and Gentlemen." She
was fifteen, with plump, rosy hands, beautiful
dark eyes, and a thick plait of black hair. I was
so impressed by her during that evening that I
imagined that I was in love with her. But that
was the only time; during all the rest of our forty
years' acquaintance we were on those excellent
terms of friendship which exist between a man and
a woman who mutually respect each other, which
are so delightful when -- as in our case -- they
are free from any idea of love-making.
I got a lot of enjoyment out of our friendship,
and it taught me a great deal. I have never
known a woman who more perfectly typified the
good wife, the good mother. Through her I
learned much, and came to understand many
things.
279
280 INTRODUCTION TO “A MOTHER”
I saw her for the last time last year, only a
month before her death, which neither of us ex-
pected. She had just settled down to live alone
with Barbara, her cook, in the grounds of a mon-
astery. It was very strange to see this mother
of eight children — this woman who had nearly
fifty grandchildren - living alone in that way.
But there was an evident finality about her deter-
mination to live by herself for the rest of her days
in spite of the more or less sincere invitations of
her family. As I knew her to be, I will not say a
free-thinker, for she never laid any stress on that,
but one who thought for herself with courage and
common sense, I was puzzled at first to see her
taking up her abode in the precincts of a monas-
tery.
I knew that her heart was too full of real feeling
to have any room for superstition, and I was well
aware of her hatred of hypocrisy and of every-
thing pharisaical. Then suddenly came this house
close to the monastery, this regular attendance at
church services, and this complete submission to
the guidance of the priest, Father Nicodim, though
all this was done unostentatiously and with moder-
ation, as if she were somewhat ashamed of it.
When we met it was evident that she wished to
avoid all discussion of her reasons for choosing
a life of that sort. But I think that I understood.
INTRODUCTION TO “A MOTHER” 281
Although she had a sceptical mind, it was dom-
inated by the fulness of her heart. When, after
forty years of household activity, she found that
all her children had outgrown the need for her
care, she was at a loose end, and it became neces-
sary to seek some fresh occupation for her heart,
some fresh outlet for her feelings. Since the
homes of her children could not satisfy her crav-
ings, she decided to go into retreat, hoping that
she would find the solace which others found in
seclusion, the consolation of religion. Though
her pride, both on her own account and for the
sake of her children, prevented her from giving
more than the merest hint of the truth, there could
be no doubt that she was unhappy.
I knew all her children, and when I inquired
after them she answered reluctantly, for she never
blamed them. But I could see what a tragedy,
or rather, what a series of tragedies lay buried in
her heart.
“Yes, Volodia has done very well,” she said.
“He is President of the Chamber, and has bought
an estate.. :. Yes, his children are growing up
- three boys and two girls," and as she stopped
talking her black eyebrows were contracted into
a frown, and I could see that she was making an
effort to prevent herself from expressing her
thoughts, trying to rid herself of them.
282 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER"
"Well, and Basil ? "
“Basil is just the same; you know the sort of
man he is."
“ Still devoted to society?"
" Yes."
“Has he any children?"
" Three."
That is how we talked when her sons and
daughters were our subject of conversation.
She would rather talk of Peter than of the
others. He was the failure of the family — he
had squandered all that he had, did not pay his
any of them. But he was her best-beloved in
spite of his waywardness, for she saw, as she put
it, his" heart of gold.”
There is often a peculiar charm about the rem-
iniscences of those who have gone through hid-
den sorrows, and it was only when we touched
on the days of her careless youth that she let
herself go. Our last talk was the best of them
all, so delightful that I did not leave her home
until after midnight. It was full of tender sym-
pathy. It was about Peter Nikiforovich, the first
tutor her children ever had. He was a graduate
of Moscow University, and he died of consump-
tion in her house. He was a remarkable man,
and had exercised a great influence over her.
INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER" 283
Though she did not realise it, he was the only man
whom she could, or did, love besides her husband.
We talked about him and about his theories of
life, views which I had known and shared at the
time. He was not exactly a disciple of Rousseau,
though he knew and approved of his theories, but
he had a mind of the same type. He very much
resembled our usual conception of the wise men
of antiquity. He was full of the gentle humility
of unconscious Christianity. Though he was con-
vinced that he hated the teachings of Christianity,
his whole life was one long self-sacrifice. He
was obviously wretched when he could find no
opportunity to deny himself something for the
sake of others, and it must be something that
could only be relinquished with suffering and diffi-
culty. Then he was really happy. He was as in-
nocent as a child and as tender as a woman.
There may be some doubt as to whether she
loved him; but there could be absolutely no doubt
that she was his only love, his idol, for any one
who ever saw him in her presence. To banish
any shadow of question, it was quite enough to
watch his great, round, blue eyes following her
every movement, reflecting every shade of expres-
sion on her face; frail and attenuated as he was,
in his shapeless, ill-fitting coat, it was more than
enough to see him draw himself up, to note how
no
284 INTRODUCTION TO “A MOTHER"
he bent or turned toward the spot which she occu-
pied.
Alexis Nicolaevich, her late husband, knew it,
and did not mind in the least, frequently leaving
him alone with her and the children for whole
evenings. The children knew it. They loved
both their mother and their tutor, and thought it
only natural that their mother and their tutor
should love one another.
Alexis Nicolaevich's only precaution was to call
him “ Peter the Wise." He, too, loved him and
respected him; indeed, he could not help respect-
ing him for his exceptional affectionate devotion to
the children, and for the unusual loftiness of his
morality; and never for a moment did he think of
passion between him and his wife as a possibility.
But I am inclined to believe that she did love him.
His death was not only a deep grief, but a bereave-
ment. Certain sides of her nature, the best, the
fundamental, the most essential, withered away
after his death.
So we talked about him, and about his opinions
on life; how he had believed that the highest
morality lay in taking from others as little as
possible, and in giving to others as much as pos-
sible of oneself, of one's soul; and how, in order
that one might take as little as possible, he believed
that one should cultivate what Plato ranked as the
INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER” 285
highest virtue, abstinence: that one should sleep
on a plank bed, wear the same clothing winter and
summer, have bread and water for one's nourish-
ment, or, as a great indulgence, milk. (That was
how he had lived, and Marie Alexandrovna thought
that that was how he had ruined his health.) He
had held that, to equip oneself for giving to others,
it was essential to develop one's spiritual forces,
chief among which was love, dynamic love, de-
voted to service in life, to uplifting of life. He
would have brought up the children on these lines
if he could have had his way; but their parents
insisted upon some concession to convention, and
an excellent compromise was adopted. But un-
fortunately, his régime did not last long, as he
only lived with them for four years. .-
"Just think of it," said Marie Alexandrovna,
“I have taken to reading religious tracts, I listen
to Father Nicodim's sermons, and believe me"-
here her smiling eyes shone with a glance so bright
that it brought to mind the independence of
thought which was so characteristic of her — "be-
lieve me, all these pious exhortations are infinitely
inferior to the sayings of Peter Nikiforovich.
They deal with the same things, but on a much
lower plane. But, above all, he taught one not
so much by precept as by practice. And how
did he do it? Why, his whole life was a flame,
286 INTRODUCTION TO "A MOTHER"
1
and it consumed him. Do you remember when
Mitia and Vera had scarlatina — you were stay-
ing with us - do you remember how he sat up at
night with them, but insisted upon going on with
his lessons with the older children during the day?
He regarded it as a sacred duty. And then, when
Barbara's boy was ill, he did the same thing, and
was quite angry because we would not have the
child moved to our house. Barbara was talking
about him only the other day. Then when Vania,
the page boy, broke his bust of some sage or other,
do you remember how, after scolding him, he went
out of his way to atone for his anger, begged the
boy's pardon, and bought him a ticket for the
circus. He was a wonderful man. He insisted
that the sort of life we led was not worth living,
and begged my husband to give up our land to the
peasants and to live by his own labour. Alexan-
der only laughed. But the advice had been given
quite earnestly, from a sense of duty.
"He had arrived at that conclusion, and he was
right. Yet we went on living just as others did,
and what was the result? I made a round of visits
last year, to all my children except Peter. Well,
what did I find? Were they happy ? Still it was
not possible to alter everything as he wanted. It
was not for nothing that the first man fell and that
sin came into the world."
INTRODUCTION TO “A MOTHER" 287
That was our last talk. "I have done a great
deal of thinking in my loneliness," she said; "in-
deed, I have done more than thinking; I have done
some writing," and she smiled at me with an air of
embarrassment that gave her aged face a sweet,
wistful expression. “I have put down my
thoughts about all these things, or rather, the out-
come of my experiences. I kept a diary before I
was married, and afterwards too, for a time.
But I gave it up later, when it all began, about ten
years ago." She did not say what had begun,
but I knew that she meant the strained relations
with her older children, the misunderstandings,
and the contentions. She had had the entire con-
trol of the family estate after her husband's death.
“In looking through my possessions here I found
my old diaries and re-read them. There is a good
deal in them that is silly, but there is a good deal
that is good, and”- again the same smile —“in-
structive, too. I could not make up my mind at
first whether to burn them or not, so I asked
Father Nicodim, and he said, 'Burn them. But
that was all nonsense, you know. He could not
understand. So I didn't burn them." How well
I recognised her characteristic illogical consistency.
She was obedient to Father Nicodim in most
things, and had settled near the monastery to be
under his guidance; but when she thought that his
288 INTRODUCTION TO “A MOTHER"
judgment was irrational, she did what seemed best
to her.
“Not only did I not burn them, I wrote two
more volumes. There is nothing to do here, so I
wrote what I thought about it all, and when I die
- I don't mean to die yet: my mother lived to be
seventy, and my father eighty — but when I do die
these books are to be sent to you. You are to
read them and to decide whether there is anything
of real value in them, and if there is, you will let
others share it. For no one seems to know. We
go on suffering incessantly for our children, from
before their birth until the time comes when they
begin to insist on their rights. Think of the
sleepless nights, the anxiety, the pain and the
'despair we go through. It would not matter if
they really loved us, or even if they were happy.
But they don't, and they aren't. I don't care what
you say, there is something wrong somewhere.
That is what I have written about. You will read
it when I am dead. But I have said enough about
it."
I promised, though I assured her that I did not
expect to outlive her. We parted, and a month
later I received the news of her death. Feeling
faint at vespers, she had sat down on a little fold-
ing stool she carried with her, leaned her head
against the wall, and died. It was some sort of
INTRODUCTION TO “A MOTHER" 289
heart trouble. I went to the funeral. All the chil-
dren were there except Helen, who was abroad,
and Mitia — the one who had had scarlatina —
who could not go because he was in the Caucasus
undergoing a cure for a serious illness.
It was an ostentatious funeral, and its display
inspired the monks with more respect for her than
they had felt while she was alive. Her belongings
were divided up rather as keepsakes than with a
view to any intrinsic value. In momory of our
friendship, I received her malachite paper-weight
as well as six old leather-bound diaries and four
new ordinary manuscript books in which, as she
had said, she had written“ about it all” while
living near the monastery.
The book contains this remarkable woman's
touching and instructive story.
As I knew her and her husband throughout their
life together, and watched the growth and devel-
opment of her children from the time of their
birth to the time of their marriage, I have been
able to fill in any omission in her memoirs from
my own reminiscences whenever it has seemed
necessary to make the story more clear.
THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER
THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER
It is the 3rd of May 1857, and I begin a new
diary. My old one covers a long period, but I
did not write it properly; there was too much in-
trospection, too much sentimentality and nonsense
-- about being in love with Ivan Zakharovich -
the desire to be famous, or to enter a convent. I
have just read over a good deal that was nice,
written when I was fifteen or sixteen. But now
it is quite different. I am twenty, and I really am
in love and in a state of ecstasy. I do not worry
myself with fears as to whether it is real, or
whether this is what true love should be, or
whether my love is inadequate; on the contrary,
I am afraid that this is the real thing, fate; that
I love far, far too much, and cannot help loving,
and I am afraid. There is something serious and
dignified about him — his face, the sound of his
voice, his cheery word in spite of the fact that
he is always bright and laughing, and can turn
everything round so that it becomes graceful,
clever, and humorous. Every one is amused, and
so am I; yet there is something solemn about it.
293
294 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER
Our eyes meet; they pierce deep, deep down into
the other's, and go farther and farther. I am
frightened, and I see that he is too.
But I will describe it all in order. He is the
son of Anna Pavlovna Lutkovsky, and is related
to the Obolenskys and the Mikashins; his eldest
brother is the Lutkovsky who distinguished him-
self at the siege of Sevastopol, and he himself,
Alexis,* is mine, yes mine! He was in Sevas-
topol, too, but only because he did not want to
be safe at home when other men were dying
there. He is above ambition. After the cam-
paign he left the army, and did some sort of work
in Petersburg; now he has come to our province,
and is on the Committee. He is young, but
he is liked and appreciated. Michel brought
him to our house, and he became intimate with us
at once. Mother took a fancy to him, and was
very friendly. Father, as usual with all young
men who wished to marry his daughters, received
him coldly. He at once began to pay attention
to Madia, the sort of attention men do pay to girls
of sixteen; but in my innermost heart I knew at
once that it was I, only I did not dare to own
it even to myself. He used to come often; and
from the first day, although nothing was said, I
knew that it was all over that it was he. Yes.
#"Peter" is the original.
THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 295.
LI
terday, on leaving, he pressed my hand. We
were on the landing of the staircase. I do not
know why, but I felt that I was blushing. He
looked at me, and he blushed also; and lost his
head so completely that he turned round and ran
downstairs, dropped his hat, picked it up, and
stopped outside in the porch.
I went upstairs and looked out of the window.
His carriage drove up, but he did not get in. I
leaned out to look into the porch. He was stand-
ing there, stroking his beard into his mouth, and
biting it. I was afraid he might turn round, and
so I moved away from the window, and at the
same moment I heard his step on the stairs. He
was running up quickly, impetuously. How I
knew I cannot say, but I went to the door and
stood still, waiting. My heart ceased to beat; it
seemed to stand still, and my breast heaved pain-
fully, yet joyfully. Why I knew I cannot say.
But I knew. He might very well have run up- ·
stairs and said, “I beg your pardon, I forgot my
cigarettes," or something like that. That might
very well have happened. What should I have
done then? But no, that was impossible. What
was to be -- was. His face was solemn, timid,
determined, and joyful. His eyes shone, his lips
quivered. He had his overcoat on, and held his
hat in his hand. We were alone every one
296 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER
was on the veranda, “Marie Alexandrovna," *
he said, stopping on the last step, “it's best to
have it over once for all than to go on in misery,
and perhaps to upset you." I felt ill at ease, but
painfully happy. Those dear eyes, that beautiful
forehead, those trembling lips, so much more used
to smiling, and the timidity of the strong energetic
figure! I felt sobs rising to my throat. I expect
he saw the expression on my face.
"Marie Alexandrovna,* you know what I want
to tell you, don't you?”
"I don't know"... I began. “Yes, I do."
“Yes," he went on, “ you know what I mean
to ask you, and do not dare." He broke off, and
then, suddenly, as though angry with himself:
“Well, what is to be, will be. Can you love me
as I love you; be my wife. Yes or no?"
I could not speak. Joy suffocated me. I held
out my hand. He took it and kissed it. "Is it
really yes? Truly? Yes? You knew, didn't
you. I have suffered so long. I need not go
away?”
“No, no."
I said that I loved him, and we kissed; and that
first kiss seemed strange and unpleasant rather than
pleasant, our lips just touching the other's face,
*“ Barbara Nicolaevna” in the original.
THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 297
as though by chance. He went down and sent
went to father, who came out of his room. It
was all over -- we were engaged. It was past
one when he left, and he will come again to-
morrow, and the wedding will be in a month.
He wanted it to be next week, but mother would
not hear of it.
It was fifty-seven years ago. The war was just
over. The Voronov household was busy with
wedding preparations. The second daughter,
Marie,* was engaged to Alexis Lutkovsky.†
They had known each other since childhood. I
They had played and danced together. Now he
had returned from Sevastopol, with the rank of
lieutenant.
At the very height of the war he had left the
civil service to join a regiment as an ensign. On
his return he could not make up his mind what to
do. He felt nothing but contempt for military
service, especially in the Guards, and did not want
to go on with it in time of peace. But an uncle
wanted him to be his aide-de-camp in Kiey. A
cousin offered him a post at Constantinople. His
*« Barbara" in the original.
op"Evgraf Lotukhine" in the original.
See p. 294 where she says, “Michel introduced him to our
house," etc.
298 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER
ex-chief asked him to go back to his former post.
He had plenty of friends and relatives, and they
were all fond of him. They were not quite fond
enough of him to miss him when he was not
there, but they were fond enough to say when he
appeared (at least most of them), “ Ah, Alexis ! *.
how jolly!" He was never in any one's way,
and most people liked to have him about, though
for very different reasons. He could tell stories,
and sing or play the guitar in first-rate fashion.
But, above all, he never gave himself any airs.
He was clever, good-looking, good-natured, and
sympathetic. While he was looking round and
discussing where and with whom he should work,
and while he was thinking the matter over and
weighing it very carefully, notwithstanding his
seeming indifference, he met the Voronoys in
Moscow. They invited him to their country-
house, where he went and stayed a week; then left,
and a week later returned and proposed.
He was accepted with great pleasure. It was a
good match. He became engaged.
“There's nothing to be particularly pleased
about," said old Voronoy to his wife, who was
standing near his desk looking at him wist-
fully.
“He is good-natured."
*“Grisha” in the original.
THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 299
“Good-natured, indeed! That's not the point.
But, as a matter of fact, he has lived: he has lived
a good deal. I know the Lutkovsky * stock.
What has he got except good intentions and
his service? What we can give them will not
provide for them.”
“But they love one another, and they have
been so frank about it," she said. She was so
gentle and so mild.
“Yes, of course, he's all right. They're all
alike, but I wanted some one better for Marie.fi
She is such an open-hearted, tender little soul,
There was something else I had wished for. But
it can't be helped. Come.” And they left the
room together.
Just at first father seemed displeased. No, not
exactly displeased, but sad, not quite himself. I
know him. Just as though he did not like him.
I cannot understand it; I am not the only one. It
is not because I am engaged to him, but nobility,
truthfulness, and purity are so clearly written all
over his being that one could not find more of
them anywhere. It is evident that what is in his
mind is on his tongue: he has nothing to hide.
He only hides his own noble qualities. He will
not, he cannot bear to speak of his Sevastopol ex-
*" Lotukhine" in the original.
“Barbara" in the original.
300 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER
ploits, nor about Michel. He blushed when I
spoke of him. I thank Thee, Lord. I desire
nothing, nothing more.
Lutkovsky * went to Moscow to make prepar-
ations for the wedding. He stopped at the chev-
alier, and there on the stairway he met Souschov.
“Ah, Alexis, † is it true that you are going to get
married?"
“Yes, it is true."
"I congratulate you. I know them. It is a
charming family. I knew your bride too. She
is beautiful. Let us have dinner together."
They dined together, and had first one bottle,
then a second.
“Let's be off. Let's drive somewhere; there's
nothing else to do."
They drove to the Hermitage, which had only
just been opened. As they approached the thea-
tre they met Anna. Anna did not know; but
even if she had known he was going to be mar-
ried, she would not have altered her manner, and
would have smiled and shown her dimples with
even more delight.
“Oh, there, how dull you are; come along!”
She took his hand.
*“Lotukhine" in the original.
+“ Grisha” in the original.
THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 301
“ Take care," said Souschov behind them.
“ Directly, directly."
Lutkovsky * walked as far as the theatre with
her, and then handed her over to Basil, whom he
happened to meet there.
“No, it is wrong. I will go home. Why did
I come?"
Notwithstanding urgent requests to remain, he
went home. In his hotel room he drank two
glasses of seltzer water, and sat down at the table
to make up his accounts. In the morning he had
to go out on business - to borrow money. His
brother had refused to lend him any, and so he
had got it from a money-lender. He sat there
making his calculations, and all the while his
thoughts returned to Anna, and he felt annoyed
that he had refused her, though he felt proud that
he had done so.
He took out Marie's * photograph. She was
a strong, well-developed, slender Russian beauty.
He looked at the picture with admiration, then
put it in front of him and went on with his
work.
Suddenly in the corridor he heard the voices of
Anna and Souschov. He was leading her
straight to his door.
*“Lotukhine" in the original.
of "Barbara's” in the original.
302 THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER
At
" Alexis,* how could you ? "
She entered his room.
Next morning Lutkovsky t went to breakfast
with Souschov, who reproached him.
“You must know how terribly this would grieve
her.”
“Of course I do. Don't worry. I am as dumb
as a fish. May I · Alexis I has returned from
Moscow, the same clear, child-like soul. I see he
is unhappy because he is not rich, for my sake -
only for my sake. Last night the conversation
turned on children, on our future children. I can-
not believe I shall have children, or even one
child. It is impossible. I shall die of happi-
ness. Oh, but if I had them, how could I love
them and him? The two things do not go to-
gether. Well, what is to be will be."
A month later the wedding took place. In the
autumn Lutkovsky s got a post in the Civil Sery-
ice, and they went to St. Petersburg. In Septem-
ber they discovered that she was going to be a
mother, and in March her first son was born.
The accouchement, as is usually the case, was
unexpected, and confusion ensued just because
*“Grisha” in the original.
+" Lotukhine" in the original.
“Grisha” in the original.
§ “Lotukhine" in the original.
foole co
THE MEMOIRS OF A MOTHER 303
things actually turned out quite different.
[This is only a fragment, and contains some inconsistencies
and some confusion in the names, which have been corrected.
EDITOR.]
FATHER VASILY: A FRAGMENT
FATHER VASILY: A FRAGMENT
It was autumn. Before daybreak a cart rattled
over the road, which was in bad repair, and drove
up to Father Vasily's double-fronted thatched
house. A peasant in a cap, with the collar of his
kaftan turned up, jumped out of the cart, and,
turning his horse round, knocked with his big whip
at the window of the room which he knew to be
that of the priest's cook.
“Who's there?”
“I want the priest."
"What for?"
“For some one who is sick."
“Where do you come from?"
“From Vozdrevo."
A man struck a light, and, coming out into the
yard, opened the gate for the peasant.
The priest's wife --- a short, stout woman,
dressed in a quilted jacket, with a shawl over her
head and felt boots on her feet - came out and
began to speak in an angry, hoarse voice.
“What evil spirit has brought you here?”
“I have come for the priest."
307
308
FATHER VASILY
“What are you servants thinking about? You
haven't lit the fire yet."
“Is it time yet?”
“If it were not time I shouldn't say anything."
The peasant from Vozdrevo went to the
kitchen, crossed himself before the ikon, and, mak-
ing a low bow to the priest's wife, sat down on a
bench near the door.
The peasant's wife had been suffering a long
time; and, having given birth to a still-born child,
was now at the point of death.
While gazing at what was going on in the hut
he sat busily thinking how he should carry off the
priest. Should he drive him across the Kossoe, as
he had come, or should he go round another way?
The road was bad near the village. The river
was frozen over, but was not strong enough to
bear. He had hardly been able to get across.
A labourer came in and threw down an armful
of birch logs near the stove, asking the peasant to
break up some of it to light the fire, whereupon
the peasant took off his coat and set to work.
The priest awoke, as he always did, full of life
and spirits. While still in bed, he crossed himself
and said his favourite prayer, “To the King of
Heaven," and repeated“ Lord have mercy on us"
several times. Getting up, he washed, brushed
his long hair, put on his boots and an old cassock,
FATHER VASILY 309
and then, standing before the ikons, began his
morning prayers. When he reached the middle
of the Lord's Prayer, and had come to the words,
“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them
that trespass against us," he stopped, remember-
ing the deacon who was drunk the day before,
and who on meeting hirn muttered audibly, “Hyp-
ocrite, Pharisee." These words, Pharisee and
hypocrite, pained Father Vasily particularly be-
cause, although conscious of having many faults,
he did not believe hypocrisy to be one of them.
He was angry with the deacon. “Yes, I for-
give," he said to himself; “God be with him,"
and he continued his prayers. The words, “Lead
us not into temptation," reminded him how he had
felt when hot tea with rum had been handed to
him the night before after yespers in the house of
a rich landowner.
Having said his prayers he glanced at himself
in a little mirror which distorted everything, and
passed his hands over his smooth, fair hair, which
grew in a circle round a moderately large bald
patch, and then he looked with pleasure at his
broad, kind face, with its thin beard, which looked
young in spite of his forty-two years. After this
he went into the sitting-room, where he found his
samovar, which was on the point of boiling over.
310
FATHER VASILY
"Why do you do that yourself? Where's
Thekla ?”
“Why do you do it yourself?” mocked his
wife. “Who else is to do it?"
“But why so early?”
“A man from Vozdrevo has come to fetch you.
His wife is dying."
“Has he been here long?"
" Yes, some time."
“ Why was I not called before?"
Father Vasily drank his tea without milk (it
was Friday); and then, taking the sacred elements,
put on his fur coat and cap and went out into the
porch with a resolute air. The peasant was
awaiting for him there. “Good-morning, Mi-
tri," said Father Vasily, and turning up his sleeve,
made the sign of the cross, after which he
stretched out his small strong hand with its short
cut nails for him to kiss, and walked out on to the
steps. The sun had risen, but was not yet visible
behind the overhanging clouds. The peasant
brought the cart out from the yard, and drove
up to the front door. Father Vasily stepped
quickly on the axle of the back wheel and sat down
on the seat, which was bound round with hay.
Mitri getting in beside him, whipped up the big-
barrelled mare with its drooping ears, and the
cart rattled over the frozen mud. A fine snow.
was falling.
FATHER VASILY
311
II
Father Vasily's family consisted of his wife,
her mother (the widow of the former priest of
the parish), and three children -- two sons and a
daughter. The eldest son had finished his course
at the seminary, and was now preparing to enter
the university; the second son -- the mother's fa-
vourite, a boy of fifteen – was still at the semi-
nary, and his sixteen-year-old daughter, Lena, lived
at home, though discontented with her lot, do-
ing little to help her mother. Father Vasily him-
self had studied at the seminary in his youth,
and had done so brilliantly that, when he left in
1840, he was at the top of his class. He then
began to prepare for entrance into the ecclesiasti-
cal academy, and even dreamt of a professor-
ship, or of a bishopric. But his mother, the
widow of a verger, with three daughters and an
elder son who drank — lived in the greatest pov-
erty. The step he took at that time gave a sug-
gestion of self-sacrifice and renunciation to his
whole life. To please his mother he left the
academy, and became a village priest. He did
this out of love for his mother though he never
confessed it to himself, but ascribed his decision
to indolence and dislike for intellectual pursuits.
The place to which he was presented was a living
312
FATHER VASILY
in a small village, and was offered to him on con-
dition that he would marry the former priest's
daughter.* The living was not a rich one, for
the old priest had been poor and had left a widow
and two daughters in distress. Anna, by whose
aid he was to obtain the living, was a plain girl,
but bright in every sense of the word. She liter-
ally fascinated Vasily and forced him to marry
her, which he did. So he became Father Vasily,
first wearing his hair short and afterwards long,
and he lived happily with his wife, Anna Tik-
honoyna, for twenty-two years. Notwithstand-
ing her romantic attachment to a student, the son
of a former deacon, he was as kind to her as ever,
as if he loved her still more tenderly, and wished
to atone for the angry feelings which her attach-
ment to the student had awakened in him.
It had afforded him an opportunity for the same
self-sacrifice and self-denial; the result of which
was that he gave up the academy, and felt a calm,
almost unconscious, inner joy.
III
At first the two men drove on in silence. The
road through the village was so uneven that al-
* The custom of giving a living to a son-in-law is universal
in Russia. The living is usually the dowry of the youngest
daughter.
FATHER VASILY 313
though they moved slowly the cart was thrown
from side to side, while the priest kept sliding off
his seat, settling himself again and wrapping his
cloak round him.
It was only after they had left the village be-
hind, and crossed over the trench into the meadow
that the priest spoke.
“Is your wife very bad?” he asked.
“We don't expect her to live," answered the
peasant reluctantly.
"It is in God's, not man's hands. It is God's
will," said the priest. “There is nothing for it
but to submit."
The peasant raised his head and glanced at the
priest's face. Apparently he was on the point of
making an angry rejoinder, but the kind look
which met his eyes disarmed him — so shaking
his head he only said: “It may be God's will,
but it is very hard on me, Father. I am alone.
What will become of my little ones ? "
"Don't be faint-hearted God will protect
them.” The peasant did not reply, but swearing
at the mare, who had changed from a trot into a
slow walk, he pulled the rope reins sharply.
They entered a forest where the tracks were all
equally bad, and drove along in silence for some
time, trying to pick out the best of them. It was
only after they had passed through the forest,
314
FATHER VASILY
and were on the high road which led through
fields bright with springing shoots of the autumn-
sown corn, that the priest spoke again.
“There is promise of a good crop," he said.
"Not bad," answered the peasant, and was
silent. All further attempts at conversation on
the part of the priest were in vain. .
They reached the patient's house about break-
fast-time.
The woman, who was still alive, had ceased
to suffer, but lay on her bed too weak to move,
her expressive eyes alone showing that life was
not yet extinct. She gazed at the priest with a
look of entreaty, and kept her eyes fixed on him
alone. An old woman stood near her, and the
children were up on the stove. The eldest girl,
a child of ten, dressed in a loose shirt, was stand-
ing, as if she were grown up, at a table near the
bed, and resting her chin on her right hand, and
supporting the right arm with her left, silently
stared at her mother. The priest went to the bed-
side and administered the sacrament, and turning
towards the ikon, began to pray. The old woman
drew near to the dying woman, and looking at
her shook her head and then covered her face
with a piece of linen; after which she approached
the priest, and put a coin into his hand. He knew
TT 1.
FATHER VASILY. 315
it was a five kopek * piece, and accepted it. At
that moment the husband came into the hut.
“Is she dead?” he asked.
“She is dying," said the old woman.
On hearing this the girl burst into tears, mut-
tering something. The three children on the
stove began to howl in chorus.
The peasant crossed himself, and going up to
his wife, uncovered her face and looked at her.
The white face was calm and still. He stood
over the dead woman for a few minutes, then ten-
derly covered the face again, and crossing himself
several times, turned to the priest and said,
“Shall we start?"
“Yes, we had better go."
“All right. I'll just water the mare.” And
he left the hut.
The old woman began a wailing chant about the
orphans left motherless, with no one to feed or
clothe them, comparing them to young birds who
have fallen from their nest. At every verse of
her chant she breathed heavily, and was more and
more carried away by her own wailing. The
priest listened, and became sad and sorry for the
children and wanted to help them. He felt for
his purse in the pocket of his cassock, remember-
* About three half-pence.
se
316 FATHER VASILY
ing that he had a half-rouble (about a shilling)
coin in it, which he had received from the land-
owner at whose house he had said vespers the
evening before. He had not found time to hand
it over to his wife, as he always did with his
money; and, regardless of the consequences, he
took out the coin, and showing it to the old
woman, put it on the window-sill.
The peasant came in without his coat on and
said that he had asked a friend to drive the priest
back, as he had to go himself to fetch some boards
for the coffin.
IV.
Theodore, the friend who drove Father Vasily
back, was a sociable, merry giant with red hair
and a red beard. His son had just been taken as
a recruit, and to celebrate the event, Theodore
had had a drink, and was therefore in a particu-
larly happy frame of mind.
“Mitri's mare was tired out," he said; "why
not help a friend? Why not help a friend? We
ought to be kind to one another, oughtn't we?
Now then, my beauty!” he shouted to the bay
horse with its tightly plaited tail, and touched it
with the whip.
FATHER VASILY
317.
“Gently, gently,” said Father Vasily, shaken
as he was by the jolting.
“Well, we can go slower. Is she dead?”
“Yes, she is at rest,” said the priest.
The red-haired man wanted to express his sym-
pathy, but he also wanted to have a joke.
“God's taken one wife, He'll send another," he
said, wishing to have a laugh.
“Oh, it is terribly sad for the poor fellow!”
said the priest.
“Of course it is. He is poor and has no one
to help him. He came to me and said, 'Take the
priest home, will you; my mare can't do any
more.' We must help one another, mustn't we?"
“You've been drinking, I see. It's wrong of
you, Theodore. It's a working-day."
“Do you think I drank at the expense of oth-
ers? I drank at my own. I was seeing my son
off. Forgive me, Father, for God's sake."
" It is not my business to forgive. I only say
it is better not to drink."
“Of course it is, but what am I to do? If I
I live openly. I am sorry for Mitri. Who could
help being sorry for him? Why, only last year
some one stole his horse. Oh, you have to keep
a sharp eye on folk nowadays.”
Theodore began a long story about some horses
318 FATHER VASILY
that were stolen from a fair; how one was killed
for the sake of its skin -- but the thief was caught
and was beaten black and blue, said Theodore,
with evident satisfaction.
. “They ought not to have beaten him."
“Do you think they ought to have patted him
on the back?"
While conversing in this manner they reached
Father Vasily's house.
Father Vasily wanted to go to his room and
rest, but 'during his absence two letters had come
bishop's circular was of no importance, but the
son's letter gave rise to a stormy scene, which in-
creased when his wife asked him for the half-
rouble and found that he had given it away. Her
anger grew, but the real cause was the boy's letter
nd their inability to satisfy his demands — due
entirely to her husband's carelessness, she thought.
THE END
i
UNIV. OF MICHIGAN,
AUG 3 1912

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