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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 tjMVK^SlTY of CALIFOKMlA
 
 CHILDHOOD, 
 
 BOYHOOD, 
 
 TOUTH. 
 
 BY 
 
 COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN 
 
 BY 
 
 ISABEL F. HAPGOGD. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 THGMAS Y. CRGWELL & CG.,
 
 Copyright, 18S6, 
 Вт THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 
 10 8 
 
 5 00
 
 PEEFAOE. 
 
 Count Ltof Nikolaevitch Tolstoi ^is unquestionably one 
 of the most interesting personalities of the period. Any 
 thing, therefore, which can add to our knowledge of him as 
 a man, cannot fail to be welcome to those who have already 
 made his acquaintance through his writings on religion, and 
 through those characters in his novels which reflect himself. 
 These Memoirs, which in the Russian bear no common title, 
 are of particular interest, since they show that many of the 
 author's ideas yf thirty years ago were precisely similar to 
 those which he is putting in practice to-day in his own per- 
 son. There are also points which every one will recognize 
 as having been true of himself at the ages herein dealt with. 
 It is to be regretted that the original plan has not been car- 
 ried out. This comprised a great novel, founded on the rem- 
 iniscences and traditions of his family. The first instalment, 
 " Childhood," wa'^ written while he was in the Caucasus, and 
 publislied in 1852 in the '' Contemporar}' '' (Sovr'emennfk). 
 The last, "Youth," was written after the conclusion of 
 the Crimean war, in 1855 ; " Boyhood " having preceded it. 
 "Childhood" was one of the first things he wi'ote ; his 
 "Cossacks," which Turgeneff admired extremely, having 
 been written about the same time, though it was not printed 
 until long afterwards. The most important of his other 
 writings are already before the public. 
 
 That the Memoirs reflect the man, and his mental and 
 moral youth, there can be no doubt ; but they do not strictly
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 confoiTn to facts in other respects, and therefore merit the 
 titles which he gave them, novels. The facts, for comparison, 
 are as follows : — • 
 
 Count Tolstoi was born Ang. 28, 1828, in the village of 
 Yusnaya Polyaua, his mother's estate, in the government 
 of Tula. His father. Count Nikolai Hitch Tolstoi, was a 
 retired colonel, who had taken part in the campaigns of 1812 
 and 1813. He was descended, in a direct line, from Count 
 Fiotr Andreevitch, a companion of Peter the Great. His 
 mother was Princess Marya Nikolaevna Volkonskaya, only 
 daughter of Prince Nikolai Sergieevitch Volkonsky. His 
 mother died in 1830, before he was two 3'ears old. His edu- 
 cation, as well as that of his three elder brothers, Nikolai, 
 Sergiei, and Dmitri, and of his younger sister Marya, was 
 undertaken, after the death of his mother, by a distant 
 relative of the young Count's, Tatyana Alexaudrovna Yer- 
 golskaya, a maiden lady, of whom a very warm memory is 
 cherished in the Tolstoi family. She had been brought up, 
 being an orphan, in the house of their grandfather, Count 
 ИЗ'а Andreevitch Tolstoi. 
 
 In 1837 the Tolstoi family, which had lived without inter- 
 mission in the country, went to Moscow, as the eldest son 
 was about to enter the university. The children's tutors at 
 that time wer^a German named Fedor Ivanovitch Rossel, 
 and, after their removal to Moscow, a Frenchman named 
 Prosper Saint-Thomas. They seem to be the persons de- 
 scribed in these Memoirs. 
 
 Count Lyof Tolstoi received his first lessons in French and 
 Russian from Tatyana Alexaudrovna Yergolskaya and his 
 paternal aunt. Countess Alexandra Ilinitchna Osten-Saken, 
 who lived in her brother's house. In Moscow tutors came 
 to the house, in addition to those above mentioned. 
 
 In 1837 the father died suddenly, and his affairs turned 
 out to be in great disorder. The Countess of Osteu-Saken 
 was appointed the guardian of the childi'eu. For the sake
 
 PREFACE. Т 
 
 of economy it was decided to 1еал^е the two elder children in 
 Moscow, and to take the other three, together with Tatyana 
 Yergolskaya, to the country. Their education did not pro- 
 ceed very smoothly, Sometimes they were taught by (ier- 
 man tutors, sometimes by Russian seminarists, none of wliom 
 remained long in the house. 
 
 In 18-iO the guardian of the Tolstois, the Countess of 
 Osten-Saken, died ; and the guardianship devoh'ed upon an- 
 other aunt (also a sister of their father) , Pelagic Ilinitchna 
 Yuschkova, who resided in Kazan with her husband. All 
 the young Tolstois were taken to Kazan in 1841 ; and even 
 the eldest brother, at his guardian's request, was transferred 
 from the University of Moscow to that of Kazan. The 
 younger brothers pursued their preparation for the university 
 at Kazan. Count I,4;QX_Nikolaevitch entered the university in 
 1843, in the division of Oriental languages, but remained 
 only a year, and then passed to the department of 1алу. Here 
 he remained two years, and Avas preparing to enter the third 
 class when his brothers passed their final examinations. But 
 when the}^ had finished, and prepared to set out for the coun- 
 try. Count Lyof suddenly made up his mind to quit the uni- 
 versity before the completion of his course. The rector and 
 several of the professors endeavored in vain to dissuade him : 
 his resolution was taken, and at eighteen h^went with his 
 brothers to Yasnaya Polj'ana, which had fallen to him in the 
 division of his father's estate. Here he lived, almost with- 
 out intermission, until 1851, taking only an occasional peep 
 at Peterburg and Moscow. It is not known whether he 
 wrote any thing during this period, or what fate his efforts 
 met with, nor when the desire to лvrite first came to him. 
 
 In 1851 his beloved brother Nikolai, who was serving in 
 the Caucasus, came home on leave, and spent some time 
 in the country. The desire to be with his beloved brother, and 
 to see a new country celebrated by Russian poets, induced 
 Count Lyof to quit his estate for the Caucasus. He was so
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 much fascinated by the originality of the half-savage life 
 there, and the magnificence of nature, that he entered the 
 service in 1851, in the Junkers corps, in the same battery 
 where his brother served. Here, for the first time, he began 
 to write (as far as is known) in the form of a novel ; and 
 these Memoirs were the first work which he planned. Be- 
 sides these and the "Cossacks," he also wrote at this time 
 "The Incursion" {Nabyeg) and "The Felling of the For- 
 est ' ' (Rubka Lyesa) . 
 
 It is probably to the period of this sojourn in the Caucasus 
 that the following biographical details, related by the Count 
 to a friend now dead, refer ; and they show us some sides 
 of the young Count's character in a strong light. Having 
 lost money at cards, Count Lyof gave his property over to 
 his brother-in-law, with directions to pay his debts from the 
 income, and to allow him onh- five hundred rubles a year 
 to subsist on. At the same time the Count gave his луоп! 
 not to play cards any more. But in the Caucasus he could 
 not resist temptation ; he began to play again, lost all he had 
 with him, and ran in debt to the extent of five hundred 
 rubles silver, for which he gave a note to a certain K. The 
 note fell due, but the Count had no money to pay it : he 
 dared not write to his brother-in-law, and he was in despair. 
 He was living*ta Tiflis at the time, where he had passed his 
 examination as a Junker. He could not sleep at night, and 
 tormented himself with thinking what he should do. He 
 began to pray from the very depths of his soul, regarding 
 his prayer as a test of the power of faith. He prayed as 
 young people pray, and went to bed in a state of composure. 
 As soon as he was awake in the morning he was handed a 
 packet from his brother. The first thing he saw in the 
 packet was his note, torn in two. His brother wrote, from 
 Tchetchen : " Sado (my friend, a 3'oung Tchetchenetz, and 
 
 a gambler) won your note from Kn , and brought it to me, 
 
 and won't take any money from my brother on any terms."
 
 PREFACE. Vii 
 
 Count Tolstoi took part in all tlie expeditions in the Cau- 
 casus, enduring all hardships on the same footing as a com- 
 mon soldier, and remaining there until 1853. It was here 
 that he began to sketch types of the Russian soldier with such 
 wonderful power and truth, in his '• Military Tales " ( Voen- 
 nnie R((zskazui). The Crimean war had barely begun when 
 the Count was transferred, at his own request, to the army 
 of the Danube, where he took part in the campaign of 1854, 
 on the staff of Prince Gortchakoff. He afterwards went to 
 Sevastopol, and in Ma^', 1855, was appointed commander of 
 a division. After the storming of Sevastopol he was sent to 
 Peterburg as a courier ; and it was during this period, be- 
 tween 1853 and 1855, that he wrote " Sevastopol in May," 
 and " Sevastopol in December." 
 
 At the close of the campaign, in 1855, Count Tolstoi went 
 on the retired list, and lived in Moscow or Peterburg in win- 
 ter, and at Yasnaya Poh'ana in summer. This was his most 
 fertile literary period. " Youth," " Sevastopol in August," 
 "Two Hussars," "Three Deaths," " Family Happiness," 
 and ' Polikuschka " were written, and published in maga- 
 zines at this time. He was recognized as the equal of 
 Turgeneff, Gontcharoff, Ostrovsky, and Pisemsky. 
 
 The agitation in connection with the serfs deeply inter- 
 ested him, for he had stood very near the people all his life ; 
 and he began to occupy himself seriously, both in theory and 
 practice, with the question of schools for the peasants, which 
 did not then exist. He made two trips abroad, between 
 1855 and 1861, probably to study this subject. 
 
 After Feb. 19, 1861 (the date of the emancipation of 
 the serfs), Count Tolstoi, and a л-егу few other landed 
 proprietors, settled definitely upon their estates, and lived 
 there for a long time uninterruptedly. The Count was pro- 
 foundly conscious of his duty towards his people ; he was 
 for some time a justice of the peace ; took an ardent interest 
 in common schools ; and even began the publication of a
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 highly original pedagogical journal, called " Ynsnaj'a Poly- 
 ana." In it he presented his views on the needs of popular 
 education, which he had acquired directl}' from life, and on 
 matters connected with the schools. He also dared to 
 express very serious doulits as to what we have be'come 
 accustomed to extol under the pompous titles of culture, 
 civilization, progress, and so forth. Count Tolstoi attacked 
 these questions boldly, set them forth in sharp outlines, and 
 showed himself at times rather paradoxical, but at the same 
 time produced a mass of facts and examples m the highest 
 degree convincing and important, which were drawn directly 
 from the life of the people, and from actual observation of 
 peasant cliildren. 
 
 Progress, according to his ideas, was fitted only for a 
 small section, and that the least occupied section, of society ; 
 and he opposed it as a distinct evil for the majorit}-, for the 
 people as a whole. Against the blessings of culture he set 
 the blessings of nature, of forest, of wild creatures, and of 
 rivers ; ph^^sical development, purity of morals, and so 
 forth. This is the report made by a journalist who visited 
 him in 1802; and he adds, "It seems as though this man 
 lives the life of the people, shares their views ; that he is 
 devoted to the good of tlie people with all the powers of his 
 soul, though his understanding of them differs from that of 
 others. The proof of this is his school, and the children, of 
 whom he spoke with evident affection, praising their talents, 
 their quickness of comprehensiou, their artistic feeling, their 
 moral soundness, iri which respects they are far in advance 
 of the children in other classes of society." 
 
 Shortly after this. Count Tolstoi married (1862) Sophia 
 Andi'eevna Bers, daughter of Andrei Evstafievitch Bers, a 
 doctor, a MoscoA'ian by birth, and a graduate of the University 
 of Moscow. Her mother belonged to the Isleneff family, 
 who had long been friends of the Tolstoi family, find whose 
 large village, Krasnoe, was situated not far from Yasnaya
 
 PREFACE. ix 
 
 Polyana. The Isleneff children were among the first friends 
 and visitors of the Tolstoi household in the country. 
 
 After his marriage, Count Tolstoi devoted himself wholly 
 to family life, which had constantly been his ideal, and gave 
 himself up more fully than ever to his village \<\y\. For 
 many years he published nothing ; and it was only towards 
 the end of the '' sixties " that he began " War and Peace " 
 in the "Russian Messenger " (Russky Viestnik) , which placed 
 him next to Pushkin, and higher than any other Russian 
 literary man. Between this and the publication in the same 
 magazine of "Anna Karenina," which was begun in 1875, 
 he gave nothing to the world but some primers and reading- 
 books for common schools, and an article on the Samara 
 famine. Since the appearance of "Anna Karenina," he has 
 devoted himself to the consideration of purely religious ques- 
 tions, and their application to life. 
 
 These details are derived from Polevoi's "History of Rus- 
 sian Literature," from which the accompanying portrait of 
 Count Tolstoi in his peasant's smock is also taken. It is to 
 be hoped that he will return to literature, as Turgeneif be- 
 sought him upon his death-bed to do, and that he will at some 
 future day complete these Memoirs. 
 
 THE TRANSLATOR. 
 
 Boston, May 27, 1886.
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE TUTOR KARL IVANITCH. 
 
 On the 12th of August, 18 — , the third day after my 
 birthday when I had attained the age_jDf ten, and had re- 
 ceived such wonderful presents, Karl Ivaniteh woke me at 
 seven o'clock in the morning by striking at a fly directly 
 al^ve my head, with a flapper made of sugar-paper and fas- 
 tened to a stick. He did it so awkwardly that he entan- 
 gled the image of my angel, which hung upon the oaken 
 hea(ll)oard of the bed ; and the dead fly fell straight upon 
 my head. I thrust my nose out from under the coverlet, 
 stopped the image, which was still rocking, with my hand, 
 flung the dead fly on the floor, and regarded Karl Ivaniteh 
 with angr3' although sleepy eyes. But attired in his motley 
 wadded dressing-gown, girded with a belt of the same 
 material, a red knitted skull-cap with a tassel, and soft 
 goatskiu shoes, he pursued his course along the Avails, catch- 
 ing on things and flapping away. 
 
 " Suppose I am little," I thought, " why should he worry 
 
 me? AVhy doesn't he kill the flies round Yolody a's bed? 
 
 There ai'e quantities of them there. No : Volodj^a is older 
 
 than I ; I am the 3'oungest of all ; and tliat is whj' he tor- 
 
 ^^ents me. He thinks of nothing else in life," I whispered,. 
 
 except how he may do unpleasant things to me. He 
 
 -lows well enough that he has waked me up and friglit- 
 
 led me ; but he pretends not to see it, — the hateful man .' 
 
 nd his dressing-gown, and his cap, and his tassel — how 
 
 iiigusting ! " 3
 
 4 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 As I was thus mentally exi)ressiiig my \'exation with Karl 
 Ivauitch, he approached his own bed, glanced at the watch 
 which hung above it in a slipper embroidered with glass 
 beads, hung his flapper on a nail, and turned towards us, 
 evidently in the most agreeable frame of mind. 
 
 " Get up, children, get up. It's time ! Your mother 
 is already in the drawing-room!"^ he cried in his kindly 
 German voice ; then he came over to me, sat down at my 
 feet, and pulled his snuff-box from his pocket. I pretended 
 to be asleep. First Karl Ivauitch took a pinch of snuff, 
 wiped his nose, cracked his fingers, and then turned his 
 attention to me. He began to tickle my heels, laughing the 
 while. " Come, come, lazybones," he said. 
 
 Much as I dreaded tickling, 1 neither spi'ang out of bed 
 nor made an}- repl}', but buried my head deeper under the 
 pillow, kicked with all my might, and used every effort to 
 keep from laughing. 
 
 "■ How good he is, and how he loves us, and 3'et I could 
 think so badly of him ! " 
 
 I was vexed at myself and at Karl Ivauitch ; I wanted to 
 laugh and to cry : my nerves were upset. 
 
 '^ Oh, let me alone, Karl Ivauitch ! " I cried with tears in 
 my eyes, thrusting my head out from beneath the pillow. 
 Karl Ivauitch was surprised ; he left my soles in peace, and 
 began quietly to inquire what was the matter with me : had 
 I had a bad dream? His kind German face, the sympathy 
 with which he strove to divine the cause of my tears, caused 
 them to flow more aJjundantly. I was ashamed ; and I could 
 not understand how, a moment beforeV I had been unable 
 to love Karl Ivauitch, and had thought his dressing-gown, 
 cap, and tassel disgusting : now, on the contrary, the}' all 
 seemed to me extremely pleasing, and even the tassel ap- 
 peared a plain proof of his goodness. I told him that I 
 was crying because I had had a bad dream, — I thought 
 mamma was dead, and they were carrying her away to bui'v 
 her. 1 invented all this, for I really did not know what I 
 had been dreaming that night ; but when Karl Ivauitch, 
 touched by my tale, began to comfort and soothe me, it 
 seemed to me that I actually had seen that dreadful vision, 
 and my tears flowed from another cause. 
 
 When Karl Ivanitch left me, and, sitting up in bed. I 
 began to draw ni}- stockings upon my little legs, my tears 
 
 1 IsjxxX Ivanitch gcuenilly speaks iu German.
 
 CHILDHOOD. 5 
 
 ceased in some measure ; but gloomy thoughts of the ficti- 
 tious dream did not leave me. Dyadka ^ Nikolai came in, -^ — 
 a small, neat little man. who was always serious, precise, and 
 respectful, and a great friend of Karl lA'anitch. He brought 
 our clothes and shoes; Volodya had boots, but I still had 
 those intolerable slippers with ribbons. I was^ ashamed to 
 cxy_before him ; besides, the morning sun was shining cheer- 
 fully in at the window, and Volodya was imitating Marya^ 
 Ivanovna (my sisters' governess), and laughing so loudly 
 ancTmerrily as he stood over the wash-basin, that oven grave 
 Nikolai, with towel on shoulder, the soap in one hand, and 
 a hand-basin in the other, smiled and said : 
 
 '^ Enough, Vladimir Petrovitch, please wash 3'ourself.'" I 
 became quite cheerful. 
 
 "Are you nearly ready?" called Karl Ivanitch's voice 
 from the schoolroom. 
 
 His A'oice was stern, and had no longer that kindly accent 
 no'^ ^^^^ moved me to tears. In the schooli'oom Karl 
 
 -nitch was another man : he was the tutor. I dressed 
 
 ckly, washed, and with brush in hand, still smoothing my 
 
 t hair, I appeared at his call. 
 
 Karl Ivauitch, with spectacles on nose, and a book in his 
 ^land, was sitting in his usual place, between the door and 
 /the window. To the loft of the door were two shelves of 
 books: one was ours — the children's; the other was Karl 
 Ivaniich's particular property. On ours were all sorts of 
 books, — school-buoks and others : some stood upright, others 
 were lying down. Only two big volumes of "• Histoire des 
 Voj'ages," in red bindings, leaned in a statel}' way against 
 the wall ; then came long, thick, big, and little books, — 
 covers without books, and books without сол -ers. All were 
 piled up and pushed in when we were ordered to put the 
 library, as Karl Ivauitch called this shelf, щ order before our 
 pla^'-hour. If the collection of books on his private shelf 
 was not as large as ours, it was even more miscellaneous. 
 I remember three of them, — a German pamphlet on the 
 manuring of cal)bage-gardens, without a- cover ; one volume 
 of the history of the " Seven Years War," in parchment^ 
 burned on one corner ; and a complete course of hydrostatics. 
 Karl Ivauitch passed the greater part of his time in reading, 
 and even injured his eyesight thereby ; but he never read 
 any thing except these bi^oks and "Tiie Northern Bee." 
 
 1 ChilUieirt» valeL.
 
 6 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Among the articles which Uiy ou Karl Ivanitch's shelf, 
 was one which recalls him to me more than all the rest. It 
 was a circle of cardboard fixed on a wooden foot, npon 
 which it revolved by means of pegs. Upon this circle were 
 pasted pictures representing caricatures of some gentleman 
 and a wig-maker. Karl Ivanitch pasted very well, and had 
 himself invented and manufactured this circle in order to 
 protect his weak eyes from the bright light. 
 
 I seem now to see before me his long figure, in its wadded 
 dressing-gown, and the red cap beneath which his thin gray 
 hair is visible. He sits beside a little table, upon which stands 
 the circle with the wig-maker, casting its shadow upon his face ; 
 in one hand he holds a book, the other rests ou the arm of the 
 chair ; beside him lies his watch, with the huntsman painted 
 on the face, his checked handkerchief, his round black snuff- 
 box, his green spectacle-case, and the snuffers on the dish. 
 All this lies with so much dignity and precision, each in its 
 proper place, that one might conclude from this orderiisesi-' 
 alone that Karl Ivanitch has a pure conscience and a restful 
 spirit. 
 
 If you stole up-stairs on tiptoe to the schoolroom, after 
 running al)ont down-stairs in the hall as much as you 
 pleased, behold — Karl Ivanitch , was sitting alone in his 
 arm-chair, reading some one of his beloved books, with a 
 proud, calm expression of countenance. Sometimes I found 
 him at such times when he was not reading : his spectacles 
 had dropped down on his big aquiline nose ; his blue, half- 
 shut -e^'es 'had a certain peculiar expression ; and his lips 
 smiled sadly. All was quiet in the room : his even breath- 
 ing, and the ticking of the hunter-adorned watch, alone were 
 audible. 
 
 He did not peijceive me ; and I used to stand in the door, 
 and think: Pooi'wpoor old man! There are many of us ; i 
 we play, we are merry: but he — he is all alone, and no one' 
 treats iiim kindly. He tells the truth, when he says he is anj 
 orphan. And the history of his life is terrible ! Iremembert 
 that he related it to Nikolai : it is dreadful to be in his situa- 
 tion ! .And it made one so sorry, that one wanted to go toll 
 him, take his hand, and say, '' Dear Karl Ivanitch! " Hel 
 liked to have me say that : he always petted me, and it was! 
 plaiq that he was touched. 
 
 On the otiier wall hung maps, nearly all of them torn,' 
 but skilfully repaired by the hand of Karl Ivanitch. Ou thei
 
 CniLDUOOD. 7 
 
 third wall, in the midclle of which Avas the door leading down 
 stairs, hung two rulers : one was all hacked up — that луаз 
 ours ; the other — the new one — was his own private inler, 
 and employed more for encouraging us than for ruling 
 proper. On the other side of the door 'was a blackboard, 
 npou which our grand misdeeds were designated by circles, 
 and our small ones by crosses. To the left of tlae board 
 was the corner where we were put on our knees. 
 
 How well I remember that corner ! I remember the sto\-e- 
 door, and the slide in it, and the noise this made when it 
 was turned. You would kneel and kneel in that corner until 
 your knees and back "ached, and you would think, "Karl 
 Ivauitch has forgotten me ;■ he must be sitting quietly in his 
 soft arm-chair, and reading his hydrostatics : and how is it 
 with me?" And then you would begin to hint of your 
 existence, to softly open and shut the damper, or pick the 
 plaster from the wall ; but if too big a piece suddenly fell 
 noisily to the floor, the fright alone was worse than the 
 whole punishment. You would peep round at Karl Ivauitch ; 
 and there he sat, book in hand, as though he had not noticed 
 any thing. 
 
 In the middle of the room stood a table, covered with a 
 ragged black oil-cloth, beneath which the edge, hacked in 
 places with penknives, was visible in many places. Around 
 the table stood several nnpainted stools, polished with long 
 use. The last wall was occupied by three little windows. 
 This was the view which was had from them : . Directly in 
 front of the windows ran the road, every hollow, pebble, 
 and rut of which had long been familiar and dear to me ; 
 beyond the road was a close-trimmed linden alley, behind 
 which the wattled fence was visible here and there. A field 
 could be seen through the alley ; on one Jide of this was a 
 threshing-floor, on the other a wood ; the^uard's little cot- 
 tage was visible in the distance. To the right, a part of the 
 terrace could be seen, upon which the grown-up people gen- 
 erally sat before dinner. If you looked in that direction 
 while Karl Ivauitch was correcting your page of dictation, 
 5^u could see mamma's black head, and some one's back, 
 and hear faint sounds of conversation and laughter ; and 
 you would grow vexed that you could not be there, and 
 think, 4wben I grow up, shall I stop learning lessons, 
 and sit, not over conversations forever, but always with 
 those I love?" Vexation increases to sorrow; and God
 
 8 CIIILDIIOOD. 
 
 knows why and what з^оп dream, until 3'ou hear Karl Ivauitch 
 raging over your mistakes. 
 
 Karl Ivauitch took oft' his dressing-gown, put on his lilue 
 swallow-tailed coat with humps and folds upon the shoulders, 
 arranged his necktie before the glass, and led us down-stairs 
 to say good-morning to mamma.
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Mamjia was sitting in the parlor, and pouring out the 
 tea : in one hand she held the teapot, in the other the faucet 
 of the samovar, from which the water flowed over the top 
 of tlie teapot upon the tray beneath. But though she was 
 gazing steadily at it, she did not perceive it, nor that we had 
 entered. 
 
 So many memories of the past present themselves when 
 one tries to revive in fancy the features of a beloved being, 
 that one A'iews them dimly through these memories, as 
 through tears. These are the tears of imagination. When 
 I tr}' to recall my mother as she was at that time, nothing 
 appears to me but her brown ез -es, which always expressed 
 love and goodness ; the mole on her neck a little lower down 
 than the spot where the short hairs grow ; her white embroid- 
 ered collar; her cool, soft hand, which petted me so often, 
 and which I so often kissed : but her image as a whole 
 escapes me. 
 
 To the left of the di^-an stood the old English grand piano ; 
 and before the piano sat my dark-complexioned sister Liu- 
 botchka, playing dementi's studies with evident effort, and 
 with rosy fingers which had just been washed in cold water. 
 She was eleven. She wore a short linen dress with white 
 lace-trimmed pantalettes, and could only manage an octave 
 as an arpeggio. Beside her, half turned awa}-, sat Marj'a 
 Ivanovna, in a cap with rose-colored ribbons, a blue jacket, 
 and a red aud angry face, which assumed a still more for- 
 bidding expression when Karl b^anitch entered. She looked 
 threateningl}- at him ; and. without responding to his salute, 
 she continued to count, and beat time with heV foot, oue, ttvo, 
 three, more loudly and commandingly than before. 
 
 Karl Ivanitch, paying no attention whatever to this, ac- 
 cording to his custom, went straight to kiss my mother's
 
 10 CHILnnOOD. 
 
 hand with a German gre(>ting. She recovered herself, shook 
 her little head as thouiih desirous of driving away painful 
 tlic^ughts with the gebtui'e, gave her hand to Karl Ivanitch, 
 and kissed him on his wrinkled temple, \vhile he kissed her 
 hand. 
 
 '' Thank you, my dear Karl Ivanitch." And continuing 
 to speak in (Jerman, she inquired : 
 
 '' Did the children sleep well? " 
 
 Karl Ivanitch was deaf in one ear, and now heard nothing 
 at all on account of the noise from the piano. He bent over 
 the divan, rested one hand on the table as he stood on one 
 foot ; and with a smile which seemed to me then the height 
 of refinement, he raised his cap above his head, and said : 
 
 " Will you excuse me, Natah^a Nikolaevna? " 
 
 Karl Ivanitch, for the sake of not catching cold in his 
 bald head, never took off his red cap ; but each time he 
 entered the drawing-room he begged permission to keep it 
 on. 
 
 " Put on 3'our cap, Karl Ivanitch. ... I ask you if the 
 children slept well?" said mamma, moving nearer to him, 
 and speaking louiler. 
 
 But again he heard nothing, covered his bald spot with 
 his red cap, and smiled more amiabl}' than ever. 
 
 " Stop a minute, Mimi," said mamma to Marya Iva- 
 novna with a smile : " we can hear nothing." 
 
 licautiful as Avas mamma's face, it became incomparably 
 more lovely лгЬеп she smiled, and seemed to enliven every 
 thing al)Out her. If in life's trying moments I could catch 
 but a glimpse of that smile, I should not know what grief is. 
 It seems to me that Avhat is called beauty of face consists in 
 the smile alone : if it does not alter the countenance, then 
 the latter is ordinary ; if it spoils it, then it is bad. 
 
 AYhen greeting me, mamma took m}' head in both her 
 hands, and bent it back, looked intently at me, and said : 
 
 " You have been crying this morning? " 
 
 I made no reply. She kissed me on the e^'es, and asked 
 in German : 
 
 " AVhat were you cr^'ing about? " 
 
 When she spoke pleasantly to us, she alwa3S addressed us 
 in that tongue, which she knew to perfection. 
 
 " I cried in ni}- sleep, mamma," I said, recalling my ficti- 
 tious dream with all the details, and I involuntarily shuddered 
 at the thought.
 
 CniLDnOOD. 11 
 
 Karl Ivanitch confirmed my statement, but held his peace 
 about the dream. After discussing the weather, in Avhich 
 conversation Mimi also took part, mamma laid six pieces of 
 sugar on the tray for some of the favored servants, and went 
 to her embroidery-frame which stood in the window. 
 
 '•Now go to your father, children, and tell him tliat he must 
 come to me without fail before he goes to threshing-floor." 
 
 The music, counting, and black looks began again, and 
 we went to papa. Passing through the room which had 
 borne the title of the butler's pantry since grandfather's 
 time, we entered the study.
 
 12 CIIILDnOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 PAPA. 
 
 He was standing bj' his writing-table, and pointing to some 
 envelopes, y)apers, and l)undles of bank-notes. He was an- 
 giy, and was discnssing something shaqjly with the OA'erseer, 
 YajkovMikliailef, who, standing in his usnal place, between 
 the door and the barometer, with his hands behind him, 
 \vas moving his fingers with great vivacity in varions direc- 
 tions. 
 
 The angrier papa grew, the more swiftly did the fingers 
 move, and on the contrary, when papa ceased speaking, the 
 fingers also stopped ; bnt when Yakov began to talk himself, 
 liis fingers nnderwent the greatest disturbance, and jumped 
 wildly about on all sides. It seemed to me that Yakov's 
 secret thoughts might be guessed from their movements : 
 but his face was always quiet ; it expressed a sense of his 
 own dignity and at the same time of subordination, that is 
 to say, '' I am right, but nevertheless have 3'our own way ! " 
 
 When papa saw us, he merely said : 
 
 '' Wait, I'll be with you presently." 
 
 And he nodded his head towards the door, to indicate tliat 
 one of us was to shut it. 
 
 ''Ah, merciful God! what's to be done with з'оп now, 
 Yakov?" he went on, speaking to the overseer, shrugging his 
 shoulders (which was a habit with him). "•This envelope 
 Avith an enclosure of eight hundred rubles ..." 
 
 lakov moved his abacus, counted off eight hundred rubles, 
 fixed his gaze on some indefinite point, and waited for what 
 Avas coming next. 
 
 " Is for the expenses of the farming during my absence. 
 Do 3'ou understand? From the mill j'on are to receive one 
 thousand rubles : is that so, or not? You are to receive back 
 eight thousand worth of loans from the treasur}- ; for the 
 h ;y, of which, according to 3'our own calculation, з^ои can
 
 CHILDHOOD. lo 
 
 sell seven thousand poods, ^ — at forty-five kopeks, I Avill say, 
 • — you will get thiee thousand: couseciueiitl}^ how much 
 money will 3'ou have in all? Twelve thousand: is that so, 
 or not? " 
 
 " Elxactly, sir," said Yakov. 
 
 But I perceived from tlie briskness with which his fingers 
 moved, that he wanted to answer back : papa interrupted 
 him. 
 
 •• Now, out of this money, л'ои will send ten thousand ru- 
 bles to the council at Petrovskoe. Now, the money which 
 is in the office " continued papa (Yakov mixed up tiiis twelve 
 thousand, and told off twenty-one thousand), '' you will bring 
 to me, and charge to expenses on this present date." (Yakov 
 shook up his abacus again, and turned it, indicating thereby, 
 it is probable, that the twentj'-one thousand Avould disapj)ear 
 also). ''And this envelope containing money you will for- 
 ward from me to its address." 
 
 I was standing near the table, and I glanced at the inscrip- 
 tion. It read : " Karl Ivanitch Planer." 
 
 Papa must have pei'ceived that I had read what it was not 
 necessary that I should know ; for he laid his hand on my 
 shoulder, and witli a slight movement indicated tliat I was to 
 go away from his table. I did not understand whetlier it 
 was a caress or a hint ; but, whatever it meant, I kissed the 
 large, sinewy hand Avhich rested on my shoulder. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Yakov. " And what are your orders with 
 regard to the Khabarovka money? " 
 
 Khabarovka was mamma's A'illage. 
 
 " Leave it in the office, and on no account make use of it 
 without my orders." 
 
 Jakov remained silent for a few seconds, then his fingers 
 twisted about with increased raj^iditv, and altering the ex- 
 pression of servile stupidity Avith which he had listened to 
 his master's orders, to the expression of bold cunning which 
 Avas natural to him, he drew the abacus towards him, and 
 began to speak. 
 
 " Permit me to report, Piotr Alexandritch, that it shall be 
 as 3'ou please, but it is impossible to pay the council on time. 
 You said," he continued, his speecli broken with pauses, 
 " that we must receive money from the loans, from the mill, 
 and from the hay." As he mentioned these statistics, he 
 calculated them on the abacus. " I am afraid that we may 
 
 » A pood ie about forty pouude.
 
 14 CniLDHOOD. 
 
 be making some mistake in our reckoning," he added after 
 a i)ause, alaneing sharply at papa. 
 
 -HowV" 
 
 '' Please to consider: with regard to the mill, since the 
 miller has been to me twice to ask for delay, and has sworn 
 by Christ the Lord that he has no money . . . and he is 
 here now. Will you not please to talk with him yourself? " 
 
 " What does he say?" asked papa, signifying by a motion 
 of his head that he did not wish to speak with the miller. 
 
 "The same old story. He says that there was no grind- 
 ing ; that what little money he got, he put into the dam. If 
 we take him awaj^, sir, will it be of any advantage to us? 
 AVith regard to the loans, as j'ou were pleased to mention 
 tliem, 1 think I have already reported that our money is sunk 
 th.M'e, and we shall not be able to get at it very soon. I 
 sent a load of flour into the city a few days ago, to 1л'ап 
 Afanasitch, with a note about the matter ; he replied that 
 he would be glad to exert himself in Piotr Alexandrovitch's 
 behalf, but the affair is not in my hands, and you will hardly 
 receive your quittance under two months. You were pleased 
 to speak of the hay : suppose it does sell for three thousand." 
 
 He marked oft' three thousand on his abacus, and remaiued 
 silent for a moment, glancing first at his calculating frame 
 and then at papa's eyes, as much as to say : 
 
 " You see 3'ourself how little it is. Yes, and we will chaf- 
 fer about the hay again if it is to be sold now, 3'ou \vill 
 please to understand." 
 
 It was plain that he had a great store of arguments ; it 
 must have been for that reason that papa interrupted him. 
 
 " I shall make no change in my arrangements," he said ; 
 "but if any delay should actuall3' occur in receiving this 
 money, then there is nothing to be done ; 3'ou will take 
 what is necessary from the Khabarovka funds." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 It was evident from the expression of Jakov's face and 
 fingers, that this last order aft'orded him the greatest satis- 
 faction. 
 
 Yakov was a serf, and a very zealous and devoted man. 
 Like all good overseers, he was extremely parsimonious on 
 his master's account, and entertained the strangest possible 
 ideas as to what Avas for his master's interest. He was eter- 
 nalh' fretting ол'ег the increase of his master's propert}^ at 
 the expense of that of his mistress, and tried to demonstrate
 
 CHILDHOOD. 15 
 
 that it was indispensable to employ all the revenue from her 
 estate upon Petrovskoe (the village in which we lived) . He 
 was triumphant at the present moment, because he had suc- 
 ceeded on this point. 
 
 Papa greeted us, and said that it was time to put a stop 
 to our idleness : we were no longer small children, and it was 
 time for us to study seriously. 
 
 "J think you already know that I am going to Moscow 
 to-night, and I shall take you with me," he said. " You 
 will live with your grandmother, and mamma will remain 
 here with the girls. And \o\\ know that she will have but 
 one consolation, — to hear that you are studying well, and 
 that they are pleased with you." 
 
 Although we had been expecting something unusual, from 
 the preparations which had been making for several days, 
 tlrfs news surprised us terribly. Volodya turned red, and 
 repeated mamma's message in a trembling voice. 
 
 '^ So that is what my dream foretold, " I thought. "God 
 grant there may be nothing worse ! " 
 
 I was very, xevy sorry for mamma ; and, at the same time, 
 the thought that we were grown up afforded me pleasure. 
 
 '• If we are going away to-night, we surely shall Ьал'е no 
 lessons. That's famous," I thought. " But I'm sorry for 
 Karl Ivanovitch. He is ccrtainW going to be discharged, 
 otherwise that envelope would not have been prepared for 
 him. It would be better to go on studying forever, and not 
 go away, and not part from mamma, and not hurt poor Karl 
 Ivanitch's feelings. He is so very unhappy ! " 
 
 These thoughts flashed through my mind. I did not stir from 
 the spot, and gazed intently at the black ribbons in my slippers. 
 
 After speaking a few words to Karl Ivanitch about the 
 fall of the barometer, and giving orders to Jakoy not to feed 
 the dogs, in order that he might go out after dinner and , 
 make a farewell trial of the 3'oung hounds, papa, contrary ' 
 to m}^ expectations, sent us to our studies, comforting us, 
 however, with a promise to take us on the hunt. 
 
 On the way up-stairs, I ran out on the terrace. Papa's 
 favorite greyhound, Milka, lay blinking in the sunshine at 
 tlie door. 
 
 " Milotchka," I said, petting her and kissing her nose, 
 " we are going away to-day ;'good-by ! AVe shall never see 
 each other again." 
 
 My feelings overpower.e^^^e, and I burst into tears.
 
 16 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 сыагтр:к IV. 
 
 LESSOXS. 
 
 Karl Ivanitch was л^егу much out of sorts. This was 
 evident from his frowuing brows, and from the way he flung 
 his coat into the commode, his angry manner of tying his 
 girdle, and the deep mark which he made with his nail in the 
 conversation-book to indicate the point which we must attam. 
 Volodya studied properly ; but my mind was so upset thftt 
 I positively could do nothing. I gazed long and stupidly 
 at the conversation-book, but I could not read for the tears 
 which gathered in my eyes at the thought of the parting 
 before us. When the time for recitation came, Karl Ivanitch 
 listened with his eyes half shut (which was a bad sign) ; and 
 just at the place where one says, " Where do you come 
 from?" and the other answers, "I come from the coffee- 
 house," I could no longer restrain my tears; and soljs [)ге- 
 vented my uttering, ''Have you not read the paper?" 
 \Vhen it came to writing, I made such blots with my tears 
 falling on the paper, that I might have been writing with 
 water on wrapping-pai)er. 
 
 Karl Ivanitch became angry ; he put me on his knees, 
 declared that it was obstinacy, a puppet comedy (this was a 
 fa\'orite expression of his), threatened me Avith the ruler, 
 and demanded that I should beg his pardon, although I could 
 not utter a word for my tears. He must have recognized 
 his injustice at length, for he went into Nikolai's room and 
 slammed the door. 
 
 The conversation in dyadka's room was audible in the 
 schoolroom. 
 
 "You have heard, Nikolai, that the children are going to 
 Moscow? " said Karl Iл'anitch as he entered. 
 
 " Certainly, I have heard that." 
 
 Nikolai must ha\'e made a motion to rise, for Karl Ivanitch 
 said, "Sit still, Nikolai!" and then he shut the door. I 
 emerged from the corner, and went to listen at the door.
 
 CHILDHOOD. 17 
 
 " However much good you do to people, however much 
 you are attached to them, gratitude is not to be expected, 
 apparent!}', ЛЧкоЫ," said Karl Ivanitch with feeling. 
 
 ISikohii, who was sitting at the window at his shoemaking, 
 nodded his head affirmatively. 
 
 '•'• 1 have lived in this house twelve j'ears, and I can say 
 before God, Nikolai," continued Kai'l Ivanitch, raising his 
 eyes and his snuff-box to the ceiling, "that 1 have loved them, 
 and taken more interest in them than if they had been my 
 own children. You remember, Nikolai, when Volodenka had 
 the fever, hoлv I sat by his bedside, and never closed m}' eyes 
 for nine days. Yes ; then I was good, dear Karl Ivanitch ; 
 then I was necessary. But now," he added with an ironical 
 smile, " now the children are grown up ; they must study in 
 earnest. Just as if fhey were not learning any thing here, 
 Nikolai! " 
 
 ''So they are to study more, it seems?" said Nikolai, 
 laying down his awl, and drawing out his thread Avith both 
 hands. 
 
 '' Yes : I am no longer needed, I must be driven off. But 
 where are their promises ? Where is their gratitude ? I re- 
 vere and love Natalya Nikolaevua, Nikolai," said he, laying 
 his hand on his breast. '" But what is she? Her will is of 
 no more consequence in this house than that ; " hereupon he 
 flung a scrap of leather on the floor with an expressive ges- 
 ture. " 1 know whose doing this is, and why I am no longer 
 needed ; because I don't lie, and pretend not to see things, 
 like some people. I have alwaj's been accustomed to speak 
 the truth to every one," said he proudly. " God be with 
 them ! They won't accumulate wealth by getting rid of me ; 
 and God is merciful. — I shall find a bit of bread for m^-self , 
 . . . shall I not, Nikolai?" 
 
 Nikolai I'aised his head and looked at Karl Ivanitch, ar 
 though desirous of assuring himself whether he reall}' wouby 
 be able to find a l)it of bread ; but he said nothing. Г} 
 
 Karl Ivanitch talked much and long in this strain. II^j 
 said they had l)een moi'e cnpable of :ippreci;iting his servic к- 
 at a certain general's liousc. where lie had formerly lived ( ... 
 was much pained to lie:>r it). He si^oke of Saxony, of his 
 parents, of his friend the tialor, Scliunheit, antl so forth, and 
 SI) forth. 
 
 I symi)athizi'<l with his sorrDW. and il iiained me that papa 
 and Karl Ivanitch, \\ hum 1 Ьпчч! almost equally, «lid nut
 
 i 
 
 18 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 understand each other. I l)eto(>k myself to ra}- corner again, 
 crouched down on my lieels, and pondered how 1 might bring 
 about an undei'stancbng between them. 
 
 When Karl Ivanitch returned to the sclioolroom, he ordered 
 me to get up, and prepare my сору-1юок for writing from 
 dictation. AVhen all was ready, he seated himself majesti- 
 cally in his arm-chair, and in a л'о1се which appeared t(j issue 
 from some great deptli, he Ijegan to dictate as follows : 
 
 " 'Of all pas-sions the most re-volt-ing is,' have you writ- 
 ten that?" Here he paused, slowly took a pinch of snuff, 
 and continued with reuevved energy, — " ' the most revolting 
 is In-gra-ti-tude ' . . . a capital /." 
 
 1 looked at him after writing the last word, in expectation 
 of more. 
 
 "Period," said he, with a barely perceptible smile, and 
 made me a sign to give him my copy-book. 
 
 He read this apothegm, which gave utterance to his in- 
 ward sentiment, througii several times, with various intona- 
 tions, and with an expression of the greatest satisfaction. 
 Then he set us a lesson in history, and seated himself by 
 the window. His face was not so morose as it had 1)een ; it 
 expressed the deliglit of a man who had taken a proper 
 revenge for an insult that had l)een put upon him. 
 
 It was quarter to one ; but Karl Ivanitch had no idea of 
 dismissing us, apparently : in fact, he gave out some new 
 lessons. 
 
 Ennui and hunger increased in equal measure. With the 
 greatest impatience, I noted all the signs which betokened 
 the near approach of dinner. There came the woman with 
 her mop to wash the plates ; then I could hear the dishes 
 rattle on the sideboard. I heard them move the table, and 
 l)lace the chairs; then Mimi came in from the garden with 
 J.;ubotchka and Jvatenka (Katenka was Mimi's twelve-year- 
 ' )ld daughter); but hdthing was to be seen of Foka, the 
 .mtler, who always came and announced that dinner was 
 'eady. Then only could we throw aside our books without 
 aying au}' attention to Karl Ivanitch, and run down-stairs. 
 
 Then footsteps were audible on the stairs, but that was 
 not Foka ! I knew his step by heart, and could always 
 recognize the squeak of his boots. The door opened, and a 
 flgure which was totally unknown to me appeared.
 
 CHILDHOOD. 19 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE FOOL. 
 
 Into the room walked a man of fifty, with a long, pale, 
 pock-marked face, with long gra}' hair and a sparse reddish 
 beard. He was of sncli vast height, that in order to pass 
 through the door, he was obliged to bend not only his head, 
 but his whole bod}'. He wore a ragged garment which re- 
 semljled both a caftan and a cassock ; in his hand he carried 
 a huge staff. As he entered the room, he smote the floor 
 with it with all his might ; opening his mouth, and wrinkling 
 his brows, he laughed in a terrible and unnatural manner. 
 He was blind of one eye ; and the white pupil of that eye 
 hopped about incessanth% and imparted to his otherwise 
 homely countenance a still more repulsive exi)ression. 
 
 "Aha! I've found you!" he shouted, running up to 
 A"olod3^a with little steps : he seized his head, and began a 
 careful examination of his crown. Then, with a perfectly 
 serious expression, he left him, walked up to the table, and 
 began to blow under the oil-cloth, and to make the sign of 
 the cross over it. " 0-oh, it's a pity! o-oh, it's sad ! The 
 
 ! dear children . . . will fly away," he said, in a voice quiv- 
 ering with tears, gazing feelingly at Volodya ; and he began 
 
 ' to wipe ana}- the tears which were actually falling, with his 
 
 /^sleeve. 
 
 / His A'oice was coarse and hoarse ; his moA-ements hast}'^ 
 and rough ; his talk was silly and incoherent (he пел-ег used 
 any pronouns) ; but his intonations were so touching, and 
 his grotesque yellow face assumed at times such a frankly 
 sorrowful expiession, that, in listening to him. it was impos- 
 silile to refrain from a feeling of mingled pit}', fear, and 
 grief._ • 
 
 This was the fool and pilgrim Grischa. 
 ДУЬепсе was he? "Wlio were liis parents? "What h:id in- 
 duced him to adopt the singular life uhieii he led? No one
 
 20 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 knew. I only knew that ho had passed since the aoje of fif- 
 teen as a foul who went barefoot winter and «uinmer. \-isited 
 the monasteries, gave little images to those who struck his 
 fanc3\ and uttered enigmatic words whicli some people ac- 
 cepted as prophecy ; that no one hatl ever known him in any 
 other aspect; that he occasionally went to grandmother's; 
 and that some said he was the unfortunate sou of Avealth}' 
 parents, and a genuine fool ; while others held that he was a 
 simple peasant and lazy. 
 
 At length the long-wished-for and punctual Foka arrived, 
 and we went down-stairs. Grischa, who continued to sob 
 and talk all sorts of nonsense, followed us, and pounded 
 every step on the stairs with his staff. Papa and mamma 
 entered the drawing-room arm in arm. discussing something 
 in a low tone. Marya Ivanovna w^as sitting with much dig- 
 nity in one of the arm-chairs, symmetrically arranged at right 
 angles close to the divan, and giving instructions in a stern, 
 repressed л'о1се to the girls who sat l^eside her. As soon 
 as Karl Ivanitch entered the room, she glanced at him, but 
 immediately turned awa}' ; and her face assumed an expres- 
 sion which might have been interi)reted to mean: "I do not 
 see you, Karl ivanitch." It was plain from the girls' eyes, 
 that they were ver^' anxious to impart to us some extiemel}- 
 important news as soon as possible ; but it would have been 
 an infringement of Mirai's rules to jump up and come to us. 
 We must first go to her, and say, '■'^ Bo)iJour, Mimi ! " and 
 give a scrape with the foot ; and then it Avas permissil)le to 
 enter into conversation. 
 
 What an intolerable creature that Mimi was ! It was im- 
 possible to talk about any thing in her presence : she con- 
 sidered every thing improi)er. Moreover, she was coubtr 
 exhorting us to speak French, and that, as if out of m; 
 just when we wanted to chatter in Russian ; or at dinii 
 you would just begin to enjoy a dish, and Avant to 1 
 alone, when she would infallibly say, " Eat that with brci ..." 
 or •• How are з'ои holding your fork? " — " What business is 
 it of hers? " you think. '• Let her teach her girls, but Karl 
 Ivauitch is there to see to us." I fully 'shared his hatred 
 for some 2)eo2)Ie. 
 
 " Ask mamma to take us on the hunt," whispered Katen- 
 ka, stopping me by seizing my round jacket, when tfie 
 grown-up peojjle iiad passed on before into the dining-roipm. 
 
 •'\'erv good : we will trv."
 
 CIIILDUOOD. 21 
 
 Grischa ate in the dining-room, but at a small table apart ; 
 he did not raise his eyes from liis plate, made feaifnl o-rim- 
 aces, sighed occasionally, and said, as though speaking to 
 himself: ''It's a pity .\ . she ^ has flown away . . . the 
 dove will fly to heaven. . . . Oh, there's a stone on the 
 grave ! " and so on. 
 
 Mamma had been in a troubled state of mind ever since 
 the morning ; Grischa's presence, words, and behavior, 
 evidently increased this i)ertiirl)ation. 
 
 •'Ah,' I nearly forgot to ask you about one thing," she 
 said, handing papa a plate of soup. 
 
 "What is it? " 
 
 "Please have your dreadful dogs shut up: they came 
 near biting poor Grischa when he [)assed through the yard. 
 And they might attack the children." 
 
 Hearing himself mentioned, Grischa turned towards the 
 table, and began to exhibit the torn tails of his garment, 
 and to speak with his mouth full. 
 
 " They wanted to bite to death. . . . God did not allow 
 it. . . . It's a sin to set the dogs on ! Don't beat the 
 bolschak- . . . why beat? God forgives — times are dif- 
 ferent now." 
 
 " What's that he's saying?" asked papa, gazing sternly 
 and intently at him. '• I don't understand a word." 
 
 "But I understand," answered mamma: "he is telling 
 me that some huntsman set his dogs on liim, on pur[)Ose, as 
 he says, 'that they might bite him to death,' and he begs 
 3'ou not to punish the man for it." 
 
 " Ah ! that's it," said papa. " How does he know that I 
 mean to punish tlie huntsman? You know that I'm not over 
 fond of these gentlemen," he added in French, "and this 
 one in i)articular does not please me, and ought" — 
 
 " Ah, do not say that, my dear." interrupted mamma, os 
 if frightened at something. '• What do you know about him ?" 
 
 "it seems to me that I have had occasion to learn these 
 people's ways by heart : enough of them come to you. 
 They're all of one cut. It's forever and eternally the same/ 
 story." 
 
 It was plain that mamma held a totally different opinion 
 on this point, but she would not dispute. 
 
 ' It is iiidispeiisable to the [^еч^е in English to ciniiloy pror.onns, occasionally. 
 This limy be considered a speeimen of Gnscha's piopUucy, the prououu being iudi- 
 calcd liy th(^ temii nation of the veib. 
 
 - Elder of a village, family, or ivligious coiumuuity.
 
 22 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 " Please ^ive me a patty," said she. " Are the}' good to- 
 day?" 
 
 "Yes, it makes me angry," went on papa, taking a patty 
 in his hand, bnt hokling it at such a distance that mamma 
 coukl not reach it ; "it makes me angry, when I see sensible 
 and cultivated people fall into the trap." 
 
 And he struck the table with his fork. 
 
 "■ I asked you to hand me a patt}^," she repeated, reaching 
 out her hand. 
 
 "And they do well," continued papa, moving his hand 
 farther awaj', "when they arrest such people. The only 
 good the}' do is to upset the weak nerves of certain indi- 
 viduals," he added with a smile, perceiving that the conver- 
 sation greatly displeased mannna, and gave her the patty. 
 
 " I have only one remark to make to you on the subject : 
 it is difficult to believe that a man, who, in spite of his sixty 
 years, goes barefoot summer and winter, and wears chains 
 weighing two poods, which he never takes off, under his 
 clothes, and who has more than once rejected a proposal to 
 lead an easy life, — it is difficult to believe that such a man 
 does all this from laziness." 
 
 " As for prophecy," she added, with a sigh, after a pause, 
 " I have paid for my belief; I think I have told j'ou how 
 Kiriuscha foretold the very day and hour of papa's death." 
 
 "Ah, what have you done to me!" exclaimed papa, 
 smiling and putting his hand to his mouth on the side where 
 Mimi sat. (When he did this, I always listened with strained 
 attention, in the expectation of something amusing.) " Why 
 have you reminded me of his feet? I have looked at them, 
 and now I shall not be able to eat апл' thing." 
 
 The dinner was nearing its end. Liubotchka and Katenka 
 winked at us incessantly, twisted on their cliairs. and evinced 
 the greatest uneasiness. The winks signified : " Why don't 
 you ask them to take us hunting? " I nudged Volodya with 
 my elbow ; Volodya nudged me, and finally summoned up his 
 couiage : he explained, at first in a timid voice, but after- 
 wards quite lirmly and loudly, that, as we were to leave on 
 that day, we should like to have the girls taken to the hunt 
 лvith us, in the carriage. After a short consultation among 
 the grown-up people, the question was decided in our favor; 
 aud, what Avas still more pleasant, mamma said that she 
 would ЦО with us herself.
 
 cniLDnooB. 23 
 
 CHAPTER Vr. 
 
 PKEPARATIONS FOR THE HUNT. 
 
 During dessert, Jakov was summoned, and recewed orders 
 with regard to the carriage, the dogs, and the saddle-horses, 
 --all being giA'en with the greatest minuteness, and every 
 Aorse specified byname. Volodya's horse was lame: papa 
 ordered the hunter to be saddled for him. This word 
 "■hunter" always souuded strange in mamma's ears: it 
 seemed to her that it must be something in the nature of a 
 wild beast, and that it would infallibly run away with and 
 kill Volodya. In spite of the exhortations of papa and of 
 Volodya, who with wonderful boldness asserted that that was 
 nothing, and that he liked to have the horse run away ex- 
 tremely, poor mamma continued to declare that she should 
 be in torments during the whole of the excursion. 
 
 Dinner came to an end ; the big people went to the library 
 to drink their coffee, while we ran into the garden, to scrape 
 our feet along the paths covered with the yellow leaves which 
 had fallen, and to talk. The conversation began on the 
 subject of Volodya riding the hunter, and how shameful it 
 was that Liubotchka ran more softly than Katenka, and how 
 interesting it would be to see Grischa's chains, and so on : 
 not a word was said about our separation. Our conversation 
 was interrupted by the arrival of the carriage, upon each of 
 whose springs sat a servant boy. Behind the carriage came 
 the huntsmen with the dogs; behind the huntsmen, Ignat 
 tlie coachman, on the horse destined for Volod^'a, and lead- 
 ing my old nag by the bridle. First луе rushed to the fence, 
 whence all these interesting things were visible, and then we 
 flew up-stairs shrieking and stamping, lo dress ourselves as 
 much like hunters as possible. One of the chief means to 
 this end was tucking our trousers into our boots. We be- 
 took ourselves to this without delay, making haste to com- 
 plete the operation, and run out upon the steps to enjoy the
 
 24 CniLDUOOD. 
 
 sight of the dogs and horses, and the conversation with the 
 huntsmen. 
 
 Tlie day was warm. AVhite clouds of fanciful forms had 
 been hoA'ering all the morning on the horizon ; then the little 
 breezes drove them nearer and nearer, so that they obscured 
 the sun from time to time. But black and frequent as were 
 these clouds, it was i)lain that the}" were not destined to 
 gather into a thunder-storm, and spoil our enjoyment on our 
 last opportunity. Towards evening they began to disperse 
 again : some grew pale, lengthened out, and fled to the hori- 
 zon ; others, just overhead, turned into white transparent 
 scales ; only one large black cloud lingered in the east. 
 Karl Ivanitch always knew Avhere every sort of cloud went ; 
 he declared that this cloud would go to Maslovka, that there 
 would be no rain, and that the weather would be fine. 
 
 Foka, in spite of his advanced years, ran down the steps 
 very quickly and cleverly, cried, " Drive up ! " and, planting 
 his feet far apart, stood firm in the middle of the entrance, 
 between the spot to which the carriage should be brought, 
 and the threshold, in the attitude of a man who does not need 
 to be I'eminded of his duty. The ladies folloлved, and after 
 a brief dispute as to луЬо should sit on which side, and whom 
 they should cling to (although it seemed to me quite un- 
 necessar}^ to hold on), they seated themselves, opened their 
 parasols, and drove off. When the lineika ^ started, mam- 
 ma pointed to the hunter, and asked the coachman in a 
 trembling voice : 
 
 '• Is that the horse for Vladimir PetroA'iteh? " 
 
 And when the coachman replied in the affirmative, she 
 waved her hand and turned away. I луаз very impatient : 1 
 mounted my horse, looked straight between his ears, and 
 went through various evolutions in the court-yard. 
 
 " Please not to crush the dogs," said one of the hunts- 
 men. 
 
 " Rest easy : this is not my first experience," I answered 
 pi'oudly. 
 
 Volodya mounted the hunter, not without some quaking 
 in spite of his resolution of character, and asked several 
 times as he patted him : 
 
 '• Is he gentle? " 
 
 He looked very handsome on horseback, — just like я 
 grown-up person. His thighs sat so well on the saddle that 
 
 ' л particular so.t of four-sealeii diozhky.
 
 CniLDnOOD. 25 
 
 I was еплпоиз, — particularly as, so far as I could judge 
 from my shadow, I was far from presenting so fine au 
 appearance. 
 
 Then w^e heard papa's step on the stairs : the overseer of 
 the young dogs drove up the scattered hounds ; the hunts- 
 men with greyliounds called in theirs, and began to mount. 
 The groom led the horse to the steps ; papa's leash of dogs, 
 wiiich had been h'ing about in various picturesque poses, 
 viva to him. After him, in a bead collar jingling like iron, 
 jNIilka sprang gayly out. She always greeted the male dogs 
 ^viien she came out; she played with some, smelled of 
 others, growled a little, and hunted fleas ou others. 
 
 Тара mounted his horse, and we set out.
 
 26 CHILDHOOn. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE HUNT, 
 
 The huntsman in chief, who was called Turka, rode in 
 front on a dark-gray Koman-nosed horse ; he wore a shaggy 
 cap, a huge horn over his shoulder, and a knife in his belt. 
 From the man's fierce and gloomj^ exterior, one would sooner 
 imagine that he was going to deadl}' conflict than on a hunt- 
 ing expedition. About the hiud heels of his horse ran the 
 hounds, clustered together in a many-hued. undulating pack. 
 It was pitiful to contemplate the fate which befell any un- 
 fortunate dog who took it into his head to linger behind. 
 His companion was forced to drag him along with great 
 effort ; and when he had succeeded in this, one of the hunts- 
 men who rode in the rear never failed to give him a cut with 
 liis whip, saying, "To the pack with you!" AVhen ^Ye 
 emerged from the gates, papa ordered us and the huntsmen 
 to ride along the road, but he himself turned into a field of 
 rye. 
 
 The grain harvest was in full swing. The shinmg yellow 
 field, extending farther than the eye could reach, was closed 
 in on one side only by a lofty blue forest which seemed to 
 me then a very distant and mysterious place, behind which 
 the world came to an end, or some uninhabited region began. 
 The whole field was covered with shocks of sheaves and with 
 people. Here and there amid the tall rye, on some spot 
 that had been reaped, the bended back of a reaper was 
 visible, the swing of the ears as she laid them between her 
 fingers, a woman in the shade, bending over a cradle, and 
 scattered sheaA^es upon the stubble strewn with cornflowers. 
 In another quarter, peasants clad only in their shirts, stand- 
 ing on carts, were loading the sheaA'es, and raising a dust in 
 the dry, hot fields. The starosta (overseer), in boots, and 
 with his armyak^ thrown on without the slecA^es, and tally- 
 
 1 A long, wide coat worn by peasants.
 
 CniLDHOOD. 27 
 
 sticks ill his hand, perceiving papa in the distance, took off 
 bis lamb's-wool cap, wiped liis reddish head and lieard with 
 a towel, and shouted at the women. The sorrel horse which 
 papa rode had a light, playful gait ; now and then he 
 dropped his head on his breast, pulled at the reins, and with 
 liis heavy tail brushed away the horse-flies and common flies 
 Avhich clung thirstil}" to him. Two gre^diouuds with their 
 tails curved in the shape of a sickle lifted their legs high, 
 and si)rang gracefully over the tall stul)ble, behind the 
 horse's heels ; Milka ran in front, and, Avith head bent low, 
 was watching for the scent. The conversation of the peo- 
 ple, the noise of the horses and carts, the merry whistle of 
 the quail, the hum of insects which circled in motionless 
 swarms in the air, the scent of the wormwood, the straw, and 
 the sweat of the horses, the thousands of A'aryiug hues and 
 shadows лvhich the glowing sun poured over the bright- 
 yellow stubble field, the blue of the distant forest and the 
 pale lilac of the clouds, the white spider's webs which floated 
 through the air or lay upon the stubble, — all this I saw, 
 heard, and felt. 
 
 When лve reached Kalinovoe (л -ibnrnum) woods, we found 
 the carriage alread}^ there, and, beyond all our expectations, 
 a cart, in the midst of which sat the butler. In the shade 
 луе beheld a samovar, a cask with a form of ice-cream, and 
 some other attractive parcels and baskets. It was impossi- 
 ble to make an^' mistake : there was to be tea, ice-cream, 
 and fruit in the open air. At the sight of the cart, we 
 manifested an uproarious 303^ ; for it was considered a great 
 treat to drink tea in the woods on the grass, and especially 
 in a place where nobody had ел'ег drunk tea before. 
 
 Turka came to this little meadow-encircled wood, halted, 
 listened attentively to papa's minute directions how to get 
 into line, and where to sally forth (he never minded these 
 directions, however, and did what seemed good to him), un- 
 coupled the dogs, arranged the straps in a leisurely manner, 
 mounted his horse, and disappeared behind the j'oung birches. 
 The first thing the hounds did on being released was to 
 express their joy by wagging their tails, shaking themselves, 
 putting themselves in order ; and then, after a little scamper, 
 they smelled each other, wagged their tails again, and set off 
 in various directions. 
 
 '• Have you a handkerchief?" asked papa. 
 
 I pulled one from my pocket, and showed it to him.
 
 28 CHILDnOOD. 
 
 " Well, take that grny do^ on ycmv linndkerchief " — 
 
 ''Zhirao?" 1 inquired with a knowing air. 
 
 " Yes ; and run along the road. AVlien you come to a 
 little meadow, stop '^uO^ look about you ; don't come back to 
 nie without a hare." 
 
 I wound тз' handkerchief about Zhiran's shagg}- neck, 
 and started at a headlong pace for the spot indicated to me. 
 Va\)ii laughed and called after me : 
 
 " Faster, faster, or you'll be too late." 
 
 Zhiran kept halting, pricking up his ears, and listening to 
 the sounds of the hunt. I had not the strength to drag him 
 from the spot, and I began to shout, "Catch him! catch 
 him i " Then Zhiran tore awa}' with such force that I could 
 hardly hold him, and I fell down more than once before 1 
 reached my post. .Selecting a shady and level place at the 
 root of a lofty oak, I lay down on the grass, placed Zhiran 
 beside me. and waited. My imagination, as always happens 
 in such cases, far outran realit}'. I fancied that I was 
 already coursing my third hare, when the first hound burst 
 from the woods. Turka's voice rang loudly and Avith anima- 
 tion through the forest ; the hound was whinipei'ing, and its 
 voice was more and more frequently audible. Another voice, 
 a bass, joined in, then a third and a fourth. These voices 
 ceased, and again they interrupted each other. The sounds 
 grew gradually louder and more unbroken, and at length 
 merged into one ringing, all-pervading roar. The meadow- 
 encircled clump of trees was one mass of sound, and the 
 hounds were burning with impatience. 
 
 When I heard that, I stiffened at ray post. Fixing my 
 eyes upon the edge of the woods, 1 smiled foolishly ; the per- 
 spiration poured from me in streams, and although the drops 
 tickled me as they ran down my chin, I did not wipe them 
 Oil'. It seemed to me that nothing could be more decisive 
 t!!an this moment. This attitude of expectancy Avas too un- 
 natural to last long. The hounds poured into the edge of 
 the woods, then the}" retreated from me ; there was no hare. 
 I began to look about. Zhiran was in the same state ; at 
 tirst he tugged and whimpered, then la}' down beside me, 
 put his nose upon my knees and became quiet. 
 
 Around the bare roots of the oak tree under which I sat, 
 upon the gray, parched earth, amid the withered oak-leaves, 
 acorns, dry moss-grown sticks, yellowisli-green moss, and 
 the liiin green bhuk's of grass which pushed their way through
 
 CniLDHOOD. 29 
 
 here and there, ants swarmed in countless numbers. They 
 hurried after each other along the thorny paths which they 
 had themselves prepared ; sou)e with burdens, some unladen. 
 ] picked up an acorn, and obstructed their way with it. You 
 should Ьал'е seen how some, despising the obstacle, climbed 
 over it, while others, especially those who bad loads, quite 
 lost their heads and did not know what to do ; they halted 
 aud hunted for a path, or turned back, or crawled upon my 
 hand from the acorn, with the intention, apparentl}^ of get- 
 ting under the sleeve of my jacket. I was diverted from 
 tiiese interesting observations by a butterfly with yellow 
 Avings, which hoA'ered before me in an extremely attractive 
 manner. No sooner had I directed my attention to it than 
 it flew алуау a couple of paces, circled about a nearly- wilted 
 head of wild white clover, and settled upon it. 1 do not 
 know whether it was warming itself in the sun, or drawing 
 the sap fi'om this weed, but it was evident that it was enjoy- 
 ing itself. Now aud then it fluttered its wings and ])ressed 
 closer to the flower, and at last becauie perfectl}' still. I 
 propped ni}' head on both bauds and gazed at it with pleasure. 
 
 All at once, Zhiran began to howl, and tugged with such 
 force that I nearly fell over. I glanced about. Along the 
 skirt of the woods ski[)ped a hare, with one ear droo]:)ing, 
 the other raised. The blood rushed to my head, aud. for- 
 getting every tiling for the moment, I shouted something in 
 a Avild voice, loosed my dog, and set out to run. But no 
 sooner had I done this than my repentance began. The hare 
 squatted, gaA'e a leap, and I saw no more of him. 
 
 But what was my mortification, when, following the 
 hounds, who came baying down to the edge of the woods, 
 Turka made his appearance from behind a bush ! He per- 
 ceived my mistake (Avhich consisted in not Jiolding rntt), and 
 casting a scornful glance u]^on me, he mereh' said, '■^ Eh^ 
 b((n'n!"^ But you should have heard how he said it. It 
 would Ьал'е been pleasanter for me if he had hung me to 
 his saddle like a hare. 
 
 For a long time I stood in deep despair on the same sj)ot. 
 I did not call the dog, and only repeated as 1 beat my thighs, 
 " Heavens, what have I done ! " 
 
 I heard the hounds coursing in the distance ; I heard them 
 give tongue on the other side of the лvood-island, and kill a 
 hare, and Turka summoning the dogs with his long whip : 
 but stilh 1 did not stir from the spot, 
 
 1 Ma^iter,
 
 30 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 GAMES. 
 
 TiiK hunt was at an end. Л cloth was spread under the 
 shadow of the young birches, and the whole company seated 
 themselves around it. Gavrilo, the butler, having trodden 
 down the lush green grass aliout him. wiped' the plates, and 
 emptied the baskets of the plums and peaches wrapped in 
 leaA'es. The sun shone through the green branches of the 
 young birches, and cast round quivering gleams upon the 
 patterns of the tablecloth, upon my feet, and even upon 
 Gavrilo's polished perspiring hetid. A light breeze flutter- 
 ing through the leaves, upon my hair and my streaming face, 
 was ver}- refreshing. 
 
 When we had divided the ices and fruits, there was noth- 
 ing more to be done at the cloth ; and in spite of the sun's 
 scorching, oblique rays, we rose and began to play. 
 
 "Nov,-, what shall it be?" said Liubotchka, blinking in 
 the sun, and dancing up and down upon the grass. " Let 
 us have Robinson ! " 
 
 "No, it's tiresome," said Volodya, rolling lazil}' on the 
 turf, and chewing a leaf : '' it's eternally Robinson ! If you 
 insist upon it, though, let's build an аг1юг." 
 
 Volodya was evidently putting on airs : it must have been 
 because he was proud of having ridden the hunter, and he 
 feigned to be л'^ег}' much fatigued. Possibly also, he had 
 too much sound sense, and too little force of imagination, 
 to fully enjoy a game of Robinson. This game consisted in 
 acting a scene from the " Robinsou Suisse," ^ which we had 
 read not long before. 
 
 " Now, please . . . wh}" won't you do this to please us? " 
 persisted the girls. " You shall be Charles or Ernest or tlie 
 father, whichever you like," said Katenka, trying to pull him 
 from the ground b}' the sleeves of his jacket. 
 
 ' The Swiss Family llobineoii.
 
 CTIILDIIOOD. 31 
 
 "I really don't want to: it's tiresome," said Volodya, 
 stretching himself and smiling iu a self-satisfied way. 
 
 " It's better to stay at home if nobody wants to play," 
 declared Liubotchka through her tears. 
 
 She was a horrible cry-baby. 
 
 " Come along, then ; only please don't cry. I can't stand 
 it." 
 
 Volod^'a's condescension afforded us but very little satis- 
 faction : on the contrary, his bored and lazy look destroyed 
 all the illusion of the play. AVhen we sat down on tlie 
 ground, and, imagining that we were setting out on a fishing 
 expedition, began to row with all our might, Volodya sat 
 with folded hands, and in an attitude which had nothing in 
 connnon with the attitude of a fisherman. I remarked on 
 this to him ; but he retorted that we should gain nothing 
 and do no good by either a greater or less flourish of hands, 
 and should not travel an^' farther. 1 involuntarily agreed 
 with him. AVhen I made believe go hunting with a stick on 
 my shoulder, and took m}^ wa}' to the woods', Volod3'a lay 
 down flat on his back, with his hands under his head, and 
 said it was all the same as though he went too. Such 
 speeches and behavior cooled us towards this game, and 
 were extremely unpleasant ; the more so, as it '^^as impossible 
 not to admit in one's own mind that Volodya was behaving 
 sensibly. 
 
 I knew myself that not only could I not )-ill a bird with 
 my stick, but that it was impossilile to fii'c it off. That was 
 what the game consisted in. If you judge tinngs in that 
 fashion, then it is impossible to ride on chairs ; hut, thought' 
 I, Volodya himself must remember how, on Jong winter 
 evenings, we covered an ai'mchair with a cloth, hvd made a 
 calash out of it, while one mounted as coachman, the other 
 as footman, and the girls sat in the middle, Avitli thre« chairs 
 for a troika of horses, and we set out on a journey. And 
 how many adventures hai)pened on the way ! and how mer- 
 rily and swiftly the winter evenings passed ! Judging by the 
 present standard, there would be no games. And if there 
 are no games, what is left?
 
 32 CUILDUOOD. 
 
 СН АРТЕК IX. 
 
 SOMETHING IN THE XATUUE OF FIRST LOVE. 
 
 Pretexding that she was plucking some American fruits 
 from a tree, Liubotclika tore off a leaf with a huge caterpillar 
 on it, flung it on the ground in terror, raised her hands, and 
 sprang back as though she feared that something would 
 spout out of it. The game came to an end : we all flung 
 ourselves down on the ground with our heads together, to 
 gaze at this curiosit}'. 
 
 I looked over Katenka's shoulder : she was trying to pick 
 the worm up on a leaf which she placed in its wa}-. 
 
 I had ol)served that many girls have a trick of tAvisting 
 their shoulders, endeavoring liy this movement to bring back 
 their low-necked dresses. Avhich have slipped down, to their 
 proper place. I remember that this motion always made 
 Mimi angry: "It is the gesture of a chambermaid," she 
 said. Kateuka made this motion as she bent over the 
 worm, and at the same moment the wind raised her kerchief 
 from her Avhite neck. Her little shoulder was within two 
 fingers' length of ni}^ lips. I no longer looked at the worm : 
 I stared and stared at Katenka's shoulder, and kissed it with 
 all my might. She did not turn round, but I noticed that 
 her cheeks crimsoned up to her л^егу ears. Volodya did not 
 raise his head, but said scornfully: 
 
 '•^ What tenderness ! " 
 
 The tears came into my eyes. 
 
 I never took my eyes from Katenka. I had long been 
 used to her fresh little blonde face, and I had always loved 
 it. But now I began to observe it more attentiveh', and I 
 liked it still better. When we went back to the grown-up 
 people, papa announced, to our great joy. that, at mamma's 
 request, our departure was postponed until the following day. 
 
 We rode back in company Avith the carriage. Volodya 
 and I, desirous of outdoing each other in the art of horse-
 
 CniLDIIOOD. 33 
 
 manship and in boldness, galloped around it. INIy sliadow 
 was longer than before, and, judging from it, I imagined 
 that I must present tlie effect of a very tine rider ; but the 
 feeling of self-satisfaction wliich I experienced was speedily 
 destroyed by the following circumstance. Desiring to com- 
 pletely fascinate all who rode in the carriage, I fell behind a 
 little ; then, with the assistance of my whip, I started my 
 horse forwai'd, and assumed an attitude of careless grace, 
 with the intention of dashing past them like a whirlwind on 
 the side Avhere Katenka sat. The only point I was in doubt 
 about was : would it be better to gallop by in silence, or to 
 cry out? But the hateful horse came to a standstill so un- 
 expectedly when he came up with the carriage-horses, that I 
 flew over the saddle upon his neck, and almost tumbled off 
 his back.
 
 34 VUILJJIIOOI). 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 WHAT KIND OP A MAN "W .S MY FATHER? 
 
 He was a mau of the last century, and possessed that 
 indeiuiable chivahy of character which was common to the 
 youth of that period. He looked with disdain upon the 
 people of the present century ; and this view proceeded 
 quite as much from innate pride as from a secret feeling of 
 vexation that he could not wield tliat influence or enjoy those 
 successes in our age which he had enjo3'ed iu his own. His 
 two principal passions in life were cards and women : he 
 had won several millions during his lifetime, and had had 
 liaisons with an innumerable number of women of all classes. 
 
 A tall, stately figure, a strange, tripping gait, a habit of 
 shrugging his shoulders, little eyes which were always smil- 
 ing, a large aquiline nose, irregular lips which closed awk- 
 wardly but agreeably, a defect in speech resulting in a lisp, 
 and a large bald spot extending all over his head — such 
 was my father's appearance from the time I first recollect 
 him, — an appearance by means of which he not only man- 
 aged to make the reputation of a man й bonnes fortunes, but 
 to be so, and to please every one without exception, — people 
 of all classes and conditions, and especially those whom 
 he desired to please. 
 
 ,^e understood how to get the upper hand in all his deal- 
 ings. Without ever ha\4ng been a member of the very hiijh- 
 est societi], he had always had intercourse with individuals 
 belonging to that circle, and of such a sort that he was 
 always respected. He understood that extreme measure of 
 pride and self-confidence which, without offending others, 
 raised him in the estimation of the world. He was original, 
 though not always, and employed his originality as an in- 
 sti'ument which in some cases takes the place of worldly 
 wisdom or wealth. Nothing in the world could arouse in 
 him a sensation of Avonder : however brilliant his position, 
 be seemed born to it. He understood so well how to hide
 
 CniLDHOOD. 35 
 
 from others, and put away from himself, that dark side of 
 life which is familiar to every one, and filled with petty 
 vexations and griefs, that it was impossible not to envy him. 
 
 He was a connoisseur of all things which afford comfort 
 or pleasure, and understood how to make use of them. His 
 hobb}' was h is brilliant couuectioiis, which lie possessed 
 parti}" through my mother^s~reIation;s and partly through the 
 companions of his youth, with whom he was secretly en- 
 raged, because they had all risen to high official positions, 
 while he had remained oul}' a retired lieutenant in the 
 Guards, ^Like all men who have once been in the army, he 
 did not know how to dress fashionably : nevertheless, his 
 dress was original and elegant) His clothes were always 
 very loose and light, his linen of the most beautiful quality, 
 his large cuffs and collars were turned back. And it all 
 suited his tall figure, his muscular build, his bald head, and 
 his calm, self-confident movements. He was sensitive, and 
 even easily moved to tears. Often, when he came to a 
 pathetic place while reading aloud, his voice would begin to 
 tremble, the tears would come ; and he would drop the book 
 in A'exation. He loved music, and sang, to his own piano 
 accompaniment, the romances of his friend A., g.ypsy songs, 
 and some airs from the operas ; but he did not like scientific 
 music, and said frankly, without heeding the general opin- 
 ion, that Beethoven's sonatas drove him to sleep and enmd; 
 and that "lie кпелу nothing finer than " Wake the 3'oung girl 
 not," as sung b}' Madame Semenova, and " Not alone," as 
 gypsy Taniuscha sang it. His nature was one of those to 
 whose good deeds a i)ul)lic is indispensable. And he only 
 considered that good which was so reckoned by the public. 
 God knows whether he had an}- moral convictions. His l ife 
 was so full of passions of every sort, that he never had any 
 time to make an inventory of them, and he was so happy in 
 his life that he saw no necessity for so doing. 
 
 A fixed opinion on things generally, and unalterable prin- 
 ciples, formulated themselves in his mind as he grew older 
 — but solely on practical grounds. Those deeds and that 
 manner of life which procured him happiness and pleasure, 
 he considered good ; and he thought that every one should 
 always do the same. He talked very persuasively ; and thir? 
 quality, it seems to me, heightened the flexibility of his 
 pi'incii)les : he was cnpable of depicting the same act as a 
 charming bit of mischief, or as a [)iece of low-lived vilhuiy.
 
 36 CHILDUOOI). 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 OCCUPATIONS IX THE LIBKAKY AND THE DRAWIXG-KOOM. 
 
 It was already dark when we reached home. Mamma 
 seated herself at the piano, and we children fetched our 
 paper, pencils, and paints, and settled ourselves about the 
 round table at our drawing. I had onl}- blue i>aint ; never- 
 theless, I undertook to depict the hunt. After representing, 
 in very lively style, a blue bo}' mounted on a blue horse, and 
 some blue dogs, I was not quite sure whether I could paint 
 a blue hare, and ran to papa in his stud}' to take advice on 
 the matter. Papa was reading ; and in answer to my ques- 
 tion, "Are there any blue hares?" he said, without raising 
 his head, "Yes, my dear, there are." I went back to the 
 round table, and painted a blue hare ; then I found it neces- 
 sary to turn the blue hare into a bush. The luish did not 
 please me either ; I turned it into a tree, and the tree into 
 a stack of hay. and the haystack into a cloud ; and finally 
 I blotted my whole paper so with blue paint, that I tore it 
 up in vexation, and Avent to dozing in the l)ig arm-chair. 
 
 Mamma was playing the Second Concerto of Field — her 
 teacher. I dreamed, and light, bright, transparent recollec- 
 tions penetrated my imagination. 8he played Beethoven's 
 Sonata Pathetique, and my memories became painful, dark, 
 burdensome. Mamma often })layed those two pieces ; there- 
 fore I Avell remember the feeling which they aroused in me. 
 It resembled memories: but memories of what? I seemed 
 to remember something which had never happened. 
 
 Opposite ine was the door into the study, and I saw Yakov 
 enter, and some other people wijji caftans and beards. 
 The door immediately closed behind them. " Now business 
 lias begun ! " I thought. It seemed to me that nothing in 
 the world could be more important than the l)usiness wliich 
 was being transacted in that study; this idea of mine was 
 coutirmed by the fact that all who entered the study door
 
 CniLBHOOD, 37 
 
 did SO on tiptoe and exchanging whispers. Papa's loud 
 voice was audible ; and the smell of cigars, which always 
 attracted me very much, I know not why, was perceptible. 
 ЛИ at once, I was much surprised in my half slumber by 
 the familiar squeak of boots in the butler's pantry. Kai'l 
 Ivanitch walked up to the door on tiptoe, but with a gloomy 
 and decided countenance, and some papers in his hand, 
 and knocked lightl}'. He was admitted, and the door was 
 slammed again. 
 
 ''Some misfortune must have happened," I thought. 
 "Karl Ivanitch is angry: he is ready for any thing." 
 
 And again I fell into a doze. 
 
 But no misfortune had occurred. In about an hour, the 
 same squeaking boots woke me up. Karl Ivanitch emerged 
 from the door, wiping away the tears which I espied on his 
 clieeks, with his handkerchief, and went up-stairs, muttering 
 something to himself. Papa came out after him, and en- 
 tered the drawing-room. 
 
 " Do you know what I have just decided upon? " he said 
 in a gay voice, laying his hand on mamma's shoulder. 
 
 " What is it, my dear? " 
 
 " I shall take Karl Ivanitch with the children. There is 
 room for him in the britchka. They are used to him, and it 
 seems that, he is very much attached to them ; and seven 
 I :r.4li'ed .ubles a year does not count for much : and then he 
 IS a very good sort of fellow at bottom." 
 
 I never could understand why })ai)a scolded Karl Ivanitch. 
 
 " I am л^егу glad," said mamma, " both for the children's 
 sake and for his : he is a fine old fellow." 
 
 " If 3'ou could only have seen how much affected he was 
 when I told him that he was to keep the five hundred rubles as 
 a gift ! But the most amusing thing of all is this account 
 which he brought me. It's worth looking at," he added 
 with a smile, handing her a list in Karl Ivanitch's hand- 
 writing : "it was delightful." 
 
 This was what the list contained : — 
 
 " Two fish-hooks for the children, seventy kopeks. 
 
 " Colored paper, gold binding, a press and stretcher for a 
 little box for a present, ^ix rul)les fifty-five kopeks. 
 
 "Books and bows, presents to the children, eight rubles 
 sixteen kopeks. 
 
 " Trousers for Nikolai, four rubles. 
 
 "^lie gold watch promised by Piotr Alexandrovitch,
 
 38 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 to Ъе got from Moscow in 18 — , one hundred and forty 
 rubles. 
 
 ''Total due Karl Mauer, above his salary, one hundred 
 and fifty-nine rubles seventj'-nine kopeks." 
 
 After reading this list, in which Karl Ivauitch demanded 
 payment of all the sums which he had expended for presents, 
 and even the price of the gifts promised to himself, any 
 one would think that. Karl Ivanitch was nothing more than 
 an unfeeling, covetous egoist — and he would be very much 
 mistaken. 
 
 When he entered the study with this account in his hand, 
 and a speech ready prepared in his head, he intended to set 
 forth eloquently' before papa all that he had endured in 
 our house; but when he began to speak in that touching 
 voice, and with the feeling intonations луЬ1сЬ he usually 
 employed when dictating to us, his eloquence acted most 
 powerfully on himself ; so that when he reached the place 
 where he said, "Painful as it is to me to part from the 
 children," he became utterly confused, his voice trembled, 
 and he was forced to pull his checked handkerchief from his 
 pocket. 
 
 "Yes, Piolr Alexandritch," he said through his tears 
 (this passage did not occur in the prepared speech): "I 
 have become so used to the children, that I do not know 
 what I shall do without them. It will be better for me to 
 serve you without salary," he added, wiping away his tears 
 ■with one hand, and presenting the bill with the other. 
 
 That Karl b^anitch was sincere Avhen he spoke thus, I can 
 affirm Vvith authority, for I know his kind heart ; but how he 
 reconciled that account with his words, remains a mystery 
 to me. 
 
 "If it is painful for you, it would be still more painful 
 for me to part with you," said papa, tapping him on the 
 shoulder. " I have changed my mind." 
 
 Not long before supper Grischa entered the room. From 
 the moment he had come to the house, he had not ceased to 
 sigh and weep ; which, according to the opinion of those who 
 believed in his power of prophecy, presaged some evil to our 
 house. He began to take leave, and said that he should 
 proceed farther the next morning. I winked at Volodya, 
 and went out. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " If you want to see Grischa's chains, let's go np-stairs to
 
 CHILDHOOD. 39 
 
 the men's rooms immediately. Grischa sleeps in the second 
 chamber. ЛУе can sit in the garret perfectly well, and see 
 every thing." 
 
 " Splendid ! Wait here ; I'll call the girls." 
 The girls ran out, and we betook ourselves up-stairs. It 
 was settled, not Avithout some disputing, however, who was 
 to go first into the dark garret ; and we sat down and waited.
 
 40 ClIILDUOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 GRISCHA. 
 
 The darkness oppressed all of us : we pressed close to 
 each other, aud did uot speak. Grischa followed us almost 
 immediately, witli his quiet steps. In one hand he carried 
 his staff, in the other a tallow caudle in a brass candlestick. 
 We held our breaths. 
 
 '' Lord Jesus Christ ! Most Holy Mother of God ! Father, 
 Son, and Holy Ghost!" he repeated several times, with 
 A'arious intonations and abbrcAnations which are peculiar to 
 those only who repeat these words often, as he drew the air 
 into his lungs. 
 
 Having placed his staff in the corner, and inspected his 
 bed during his prayer, he began to undress. He unfastened 
 his old black belt, removecl his tattered nankeen smock, 
 folded it carefully, and laid it over the back of a chair. His 
 face did not now express haste and stupidit}', as usual : on 
 the contrary, it was composed, melancholy, and even majes- 
 tic. His movements were deliberate and thoughtful. 
 
 Clad in his underclothes alone, he sank gently down upon 
 the bed, made the sign of the cross over it on all sides, 
 aud with an evident effort (for he frowned) he adjusted the 
 chains beneath his shirt. After sitting there a Avhile and 
 anxiously examining several rents in his linen, he rose, 
 lifted the candlestick on a level with the shrine in the 
 corner, which contained several images, repeating a prayer 
 meantime, crossed himself before them, and turned the 
 candle upside down. It sputtered and went out. 
 
 The moon, which was almost full, shone in through the 
 window, looking towards the forest. The long wdiite figure 
 of the fool was illuminated on one side by the pale, silvery 
 rays of the moon : on the other it was in deep shadow ; it 
 feil on tlie floor and walls, and reached to the ceiling in com- 
 pany with the sliadows from the window-frame. Tlie watch- 
 inau knocked (>n the copper plate in the court-yard.
 
 CniLDIIOOB. 41 
 
 Grischa folded his huge arras across his breast, bent his 
 head, sighing heavil3% and without intermission, and stood 
 in silence before the images ; then he knelt, with some diffi- 
 culty, and began to pray. 
 
 At first he softly recited the familiar praj-ers, merely ac- 
 centuating certain words ; then he repeated them, but in a 
 loud voice, and with much animation. He began to employ 
 his own words, endeavoring, with evident effort, to express 
 himself in Slavic st^de. His words were incoherent but 
 touching. He prayed for all his benefactors (as he called 
 those who entertained him), among them mamma, and us; 
 he praj^ed for himself, besought God to forgive him his 
 grievous sins, and said: ''O God, forgive my enemies!" 
 He rose with a groan, and, repeating the same words over 
 and over, he fell to the ground again, and again rose, not- 
 withstanding the weight of the chains, which emitted a harsh, 
 sharp sound as they struck the floor. 
 
 Volodya gave me a painful pinch on my foot, but I did 
 not even look round : I merely rubbed the spot with one 
 hand, and continued to observe all Grischa's words and 
 motions wnth a sentiment of childish wonder, pit}', and rev- 
 erence. 
 
 Instead of the merriment and laughter, upon which I had 
 reckoned when I entered the garret, I felt a trembling and 
 sinking at m}' heart. 
 
 Grischa remained in this state of religious exaltation for a 
 long time, and improvised prayers. He repeated '-'•Lord 
 have viercy," several times in succession, but each time with 
 fresh force and expression. Then he said: '■'■ Forgive we, 
 Lord; teach me ivhat I should do ; tench me what I shoidd do, 
 Lord!'" with an expression as though he expected an im- 
 mediate response to his words ; then several lamentable groans 
 were audible. He rose to his knees, crossed his hands upon 
 his breast, and became silent. 
 
 I put my head softly out of the door, and held my breath. 
 Grischa did not stir ; heavy sighs forced themselves from his 
 breast ; a tear stood in tiie dim pupil of his blind eye, which 
 was illuminated by the moon. 
 
 "Thy will be done! " he cried suddenly, with an inde- 
 scribable expression, fell лvith his forehead to the floor, and 
 sobbed like a child. 
 
 A long time has passed since then ; many memories of the 
 past have lost all significance for me, and have become like
 
 42 CniLDUOOD. 
 
 confused visions ; even pilgrim Grischa has long ago taken 
 his last journey : but the impression which he made upon 
 me, and the feeling which he awakened, will never die out 
 of my memoiy. 
 
 О great Christian Grischa ! Thy faith was so__ strong, 
 that thou didst feel the nearness of God ; thy love was so 
 great, tliat thy words poured from thy lips of themselves, — 
 thou didst not revise them with thy judgment. And what 
 lofty praise didst thou offer to His majesty, when, finding no 
 words, thou didst tling thyself to the earth in tears ! 
 
 The emotion with which I listened to Grischa could not 
 last long ; in the first place, because my curiosity was satis- 
 fied, and, in the second, because my legs were stiff with 
 sitting in one position, and I wanted to join in the general 
 whispering and movement which was audible behind me in 
 the dark garret. Some one caught my hand, and said, 
 " Whose hand is this? " It was perfectly dark, but I imme- 
 diately recognized Katenka by the touch of the hand, and 
 by the voice which was just above my ear. 
 
 It was quite without premeditation that I gi'asped her arm, 
 on which the sleeve reached only to the elbow, and raised 
 it to my lips. Katenka was evidently surprised at this, and 
 pulled her hand away : this movement caused her to strike 
 a broken chair which stood in the garret. Grischa raised 
 his head, glanced quietly about, repeating a prayer, and 
 began to make the sign of the cross on all the corners. 
 We ran out of the garret whispering, and making a great 
 commotion.
 
 CniLDHOOB. 45 
 
 ' ^r knitting 
 *oom 
 
 CHAPTER ХШ. 
 
 NATALYA SAVISCHNA. 
 
 About the middle of the last century, a plump, red- 
 clieeked, barefooted, but merry girl, Natasehka, used to 
 run about the court-yard in the village of Khabarovka in a 
 tattered dress. My grandfather had taken her upstairs as, 
 one of grandmother's female servants, on account of the ser- 
 vices of her father Нал'Л'а, and at his request. Natasehka, 
 as a maid, was distinguished for her gentleness of nature, 
 and her zeal. When mamma was born, and a nurse was 
 required, this service was intrusted to Natasehka; and in 
 this new career she won both praises and rewards for her 
 activit}', faithfulness, and attachment to her 3'oung mistress. 
 
 But the powdered head, stockings, and buckles of the 
 stout young butler Foka, who, in virtue of his office, was 
 often brought in contact with Natalya, captivated her rough 
 but loving heart. She even made up her mind to go herself 
 to grandfather, and ask permission to marr^^ Foka. Grand- 
 father looked upon her request as ingratitude, turned her 
 away, and sent poor Natalya to tlie cattle-farm, in a village 
 of the steppe, to punish her. But within six months Na- 
 talya was restoi'ed to her former duty, since no one could fill 
 her place. On returning from banishment, she entered 
 grandfather's presence, threw herself at his feet, and be- 
 sought him to restore her to faл'or and affection, and to for- 
 get the folly which had come upon her, and to which she 
 swore not to return. And she kept her word. 
 
 From that day Natasehka became Natalya Savischna, and 
 wore a cap. All the treasures of love which she possessed 
 she transferred to her young mistress. 
 
 When, later on, a governess replaced her with mamma, 
 she received the keys of the storehouse, and all the linen and 
 provisions were given into her charge. She fulliUed these 
 new duties with the same love and zeal. She had always
 
 42 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 confusefl'ic estate ; she saw waste, ruin, robbery, on every 
 hi'', iind endeavored by every means in her power to coun- 
 teract them. 
 
 When mamma married, desiring in some way to show her 
 gratitude to Natal3'a Savischna for her labor and attachment 
 of twenty years, she had her summoned ; and. expi-essing in 
 the most flattering terms all her love and obligations, she 
 handed her a sheet of stamped paper, which declared that 
 Natalya Savischna was a free woman ; and she said that 
 whether the latter should continue to serve \\\ our house 
 or not, she would alwaj's receive a yearly pension of three 
 hundred rubles. Natalya Savischna listened to all this in 
 silence ; then taking the document in her own hands, she 
 looked angrily at it, muttered something between lier lips, 
 and flew out of the room, slamming the door behind her. 
 Not understanding the cause of this strange behavior, 
 mamma, after wailing a little, went to Natalya's room. She 
 was sitting on her chest, with tear-swollen ej'es, twisting her 
 handkerchief in her fingers, and intently regarding the 
 tattered fragments of her emancipation paper, which were 
 scattered over the floor before her. 
 
 " What is the matter, dearest Natalya Savischna? " asked 
 mamma, taking her hand. 
 
 " Nothing, matuschka," ^ she replied. " I must be repul- 
 sive to vou in some way, that you drive me from the house. 
 Well, I will go." 
 
 She pulled away her hand, and, with difficulty restraining 
 her tears, she made a motion to leave the room. Mamma 
 detained her, embraced her, and they Ijoth wept in compan}'. 
 
 From the time when I can recollect any thing, I remenil)er 
 
 Natalya Savischna, her love and caresses ; but only now am 
 
 I able to appreciate their worth, — but then it пел^ег entered 
 
 my mind to think what a rare and wonderful being that old 
 
 woman Avas. Not only did she пел'ег speak, but she seemed 
 
 never even to think, of herself : her Avhole life was love and 
 
 self-sacrifice. I was so accustomed to her tender, unselfish 
 
 love for us, that I did not even imagine that it could be 
 
 otherwise ; was not in the least grateful to her, and never 
 
 I asked myself. Is she happy? Is slie content? 
 
 \ Sometimes, under the plea of imperative necessity, I would 
 
 \ run away from m^- lessons to her room, and begin to dream 
 
 j aloud, not in the least embariassed by her presence. She 
 
 I • Little mother ; a teim of euciearmeut.
 
 CHILDHOOD. 45 
 
 was always busy ол^ег something ; she was either knitting 
 a stocking, or turning ол-^г the chests with which her room 
 was filled, or taking account of the linen, and listening to 
 all the nonsense which I uttered; how, •• when I got to be 
 a general, I would marry a wonderful beauty, buy myself a 
 sori'el horse, build a glass house, and send for all Karl Ivan- 
 itch's relatives from 8ахопз%" and so on; she Avould sa}^ 
 '••Yes, batiuschka,^ yes." Generally; when I rose and pre- 
 pared to take my departure, she opened a blue chest, — on the 
 inside of whose cover, as I now remember, there were pasted 
 a picture of a hussar, a picture from a pomade-box, and a 
 drawing by Yolodya, — and took from it a stick of incense, 
 lighted it, and said as she waved it about, — 
 
 "• This, my dear, is incense. When j^our late grandfather 
 — may the kingdom of heaven be his! — went against the 
 Turks, he brought this back. This is the last bit," she 
 added with a sigh. 
 
 Positively, there was every thing in the chests with which 
 ■ her room was filled. Whatever was needed, the cry always 
 was, " We must ask Natalya Savischna ; " and, in fact, she 
 always found the article required, after a little lummaging, 
 and said, "It's well that I hid it away." In those chests 
 were thousands of things лvhich nobody in the house, except 
 herself, ever knew or troubled themselves about. 
 
 Once I was angry with her. This is how it was, I 
 dropped the decanter when I was pouring myself some kvas 
 at dinner, and spilled it on the tablecloth. 
 
 " Call Natalya .Savischna, that she may take pride in her 
 favorite," said mamma. 
 
 Natalya Savischna came, and on seeing the puddle which 
 I had made, she shook her head ; then mamma whispered 
 something in her ear, and she went out, shaking her finger at 
 me. 
 
 After dinner, I was on my way to the hall, and skip- 
 ping about in the most cheerful frame of mind, when, all 
 at once, Natalya Savischna sprang out from behind the 
 door, with the tablecloth in her hand, caught me, and, in 
 s[)ite of desperate resistance on m}- part, began to rub my 
 face with the wet place, crying, " Don't spot the tablecloth, 
 don't spot the tablecloth ! " 1 was so offended that I roared 
 with rage. 
 ■*% *•■ What ! " I said to myself, as I walked up and down the 
 
 1 Little father, my dear.
 
 46 CniLDnOOD. 
 
 room and gulped down my tears, " Natalj^a Savischna, plain 
 Nattdya^ calls me thou^ and strikes me in the face with a wet 
 tablecloth to boot, as if 1 were a servant boy ! This is hor- 
 rible ! " 
 
 When Natalya Savischna saw that I was gasping with 
 rage, she immediately ran off, and I went on pacing to and 
 fro, and meditating how I might pay off that impudent 
 Natal^'a for the insult which she had inflicted on me. 
 
 In a few minutes Natalya Savischna returned, approached 
 me timidl}', and began to exhort me. 
 
 " Enough, my dear, don't cry. Forgive me, I was foolish. 
 I am in the wrong. You will forgive me, my dove. Here, 
 this is for 3'ou." 
 
 From beneath her kerchief she drew a horn of red paper, 
 in which were two caramels and one grape, and gave it to 
 me with a treml)liug hand. 1 had not the strength to look 
 the good old woman in the face ; I turned away, took her 
 gift, and my tears flowed still more abundantly, but from 
 love and shame now, and no longer from anger.
 
 CniLDUOOD. 47 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 At twelve o'clock ou the day following the events which I 
 have described, the calash and britchka stood at the door. 
 Nikolai was dressed for travelling ; that is to say, his trou- 
 sers were tucked into his boots, and his old coat was \Qvy 
 closely belted. He stood by the britchka, packing the over- 
 coats and cushions under the seat ; when the pile seemed to 
 him too high, he seated himself on the cushions, jumped up 
 and dowu, and flattened them. 
 
 " For HeaA'en's sake, Nikolai Dmitritch, can't we put the 
 master's strong box in? " said papa's panting valet, leaning 
 out of the calash : " it is small." 
 
 " You should have said so before, Mikhei Ivanitch," an- 
 swered Nikolai quickly and angrily, flinging a parcel with 
 all his might on the floor of the britchka. "O Lord, my 
 head is going round, and here you come with your box ! " he 
 added, pulling off his cap, and wiping the big drops of per- 
 spiration from his burning brow. 
 
 Men-servants in coats, caftans, shirts, without hats, women 
 in striped petticoats and striped dresses, with children in 
 their arms, and barefooted children stood about the steps, 
 stared at the equipages, and talked among themselves. One 
 of the post-boys — a bent old man in a winter-cap and arm- 
 yak — held in his hand the pole of the calash, moved it back 
 and forth, and thoughtfully surveyed its action ; the other, a 
 good-hjoking young fellow, clad onl}' in a white smock with 
 siioulder-gnssets of red kumatch,^ and a l)lack lamb's-wool 
 cap, which he tilted first over one ear and then over the 
 other as he scratched his l)londe curls, placed his armyak ou 
 the box, flung the reins there also, and, cracking his braided 
 knout, gazed now at his boots, now at the coachmen who 
 were greasing the britchka. One of them, after having fin- 
 
 1 л red cottou material.
 
 48 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 ished his liibors, was strainino; himself and holding the steps ; 
 another was bending over the wheel, and carefully greasing 
 axle and box, and even smearing it from below in a circle, 
 in order tliat the oil upon his cloth might not be wasted. 
 The broken-down post-horses of various coloi's stood at the 
 fence, and brushed away the flies with tlieir tails. Some of 
 them planted their shaggy, swollen legs far apart, closed 
 thi'ir eyes, and dozed ; some scratched each other from 
 ennui, or nipped the fronds and stalks of the harsh, dark- 
 green ferns which grew beside the porch. Several grey- 
 hounds breathed heavily as they lay in the sun ; others got 
 into the shade beneath the calash and britchka, and licked 
 the tallow around the axles. The whole atmosphere was 
 flUed with a kind of dusty mist ; the horizon was of a grayish 
 lilac hue, but there was not so much as a tiny cloud in the 
 sky. The strong west wind raised pillars of dust from the 
 roads and fields, bent the crests of the loft}' lindens, and 
 the birches in the garden, and bore far awa}- the falling yel- 
 low leaves. I sat by the window, and awaited the completion 
 of the preparations with impatience. 
 
 When all were assembled around the large table in the 
 drawing-room, in order to spend a few minutes together for 
 the last time, it never entered my mind what a painful 
 moment was awaiting us. The most trivial thoughts wan- 
 dered through my brain. I asked mj^self, Which post-boy 
 will drive the calash, and which the britchka? who would 
 travel with papa, and who with Karl Ivanitch ? and луЬз* was 
 it indispensable to wrap me up in a scarf and a long wadded 
 overcoat ? 
 
 ''Am I so delicate? I shall not freeze. I wish they 
 would get through this as quickly as [wssible ! I want to 
 get in and ride off." 
 
 "To whom shall I give the list of the children's linen?" 
 asked Natalya Savischna, coming in with tear-swollen e^'es 
 and the list in her hand, as she turned to mamma. 
 
 " Give it to Nikolai, and come back to say good-by to the 
 children." 
 
 The old woman tried to say something, but suddenly 
 paused, covered her face with her handkerchief, and left the 
 room with a wave of the hand. 
 
 My heart contracted with pain when I saw that motion ; 
 but im]:)atieuce to start was stronger than that feeling, and 
 I continued to listen indifferentl}' to papa's conversation with
 
 сщьвнооп. 49 
 
 mamma. They talked of things which evidently interested 
 nuither of them : What Avas it necessaij to purchase fur the 
 house? what was to l)e said to Princess Sophie aud Madame 
 Julie? and would the traA-elling be good? 
 
 Foka entered, and, halting on the threshold, said, " The 
 horses are ready," in exactly the same tone with which lie 
 announced, "Dinner is served." I noticed that mamma 
 shuddered aud turned pale at this announcement, as though 
 she had not expected it. 
 
 Foka was ordered to close all the doors of the room. ] 
 was very much amused *■* at their all hiding themselves from 
 somebody." 
 
 When all sat down, Foka also seated himself on the edge 
 of a chair ; but no sooner liad he done so than a door 
 squeaked, and all glanced round. Natalya Savischna entered 
 in haste, and, without raising her e3'es, took refuge on the 
 same chair with Foka. I seem now to see Foka's bald head 
 and wrinkled, immovable face, and the kind, bent form in the 
 cap beneath which the gray hair was visil)le. They crowded 
 together on the one chair, and both felt awkward. 
 
 1 remained unconcerned and impatient. The ten seconds 
 during which we sat there with closed doors seemed a wliole 
 hour to me. At length we all rose, crossed ourselves, and 
 began to take leave. Papa embraced mamma, aud kissed 
 her several times. 
 
 "Enough, my dear," said papa. " AVe are not parting 
 forcA'er." 
 
 "It is painful, nevertheless," said mamma in a voice 
 Avliich quivered with tears. 
 
 When I heard that voice, and l)eheld her trembling lips 
 and her eyes filled with tears, I forgot ever}' thing, and every 
 thing seemed to me so sad and miserable and terrible tliat I 
 would rather have run away than have said good-by to her. 
 At that moment I realized tliat when she embraced papa, she 
 had already taken leave of us. 
 
 She kissed aud crossed Yolodya so many times, that, sup- 
 posing that she would now turn to me, I stepped forward. 
 But she continued to bless him and to press him to her liosom. 
 Finally I eml)raced lier. and clinging to lier I wept witliout a 
 thouglit beyond my grief. 
 
 Wlien we went out to get into tlie carnage, the tiresome 
 servants stepped forward in the anteroom to say farewell. 
 Their '* Your hand, please, sir," their uoisy kis-scs on our
 
 50 CniLBIIOOD. 
 
 shonklers, and the smell of the tallow on their heads, aroused 
 in me a sentiment nearly akin to that of bitterness inirrital)le 
 people. Under the iniiuence of this feeling I kissed Natah a 
 Navischna л^егу coldl}' on her cap when, bathed in tears, she 
 bade me farewell. 
 
 It is strange that I can even now see the faces of all those 
 servants, and I could draw them with all the most minute 
 details, but mamma's face and attitude have utterly escaped 
 my mind ; perhaps because during all that time I could not 
 once summon up courage to look at her. It seemed to me 
 that if I did so, her sorrow and mine must increase to the 
 bounds of impossibility. 
 
 I flung myself first of all into the calash, and placed my- 
 self on the back seat. As the back was up, I could see 
 nothing, but some instinct told me that mamma was still 
 there. 
 
 " Shall I look at her again, or not? ЛУе11, for the last 
 time, then ! " I said to myself, and leaned out of the calash 
 towards the porch. At that moment mamma had come to 
 the other side of the carriage with the same intent, and called 
 me by name. When I heard her Aoice behind me, I turned 
 round, but I did it so abruptly that we bumped our heads 
 together. She smiled mourufull}', and kissed me long and 
 warml}- for the last time. 
 
 When we had driven several rods, I made up my mind to 
 look at her. The breeze raised the blue kerchief which was 
 tied about her head ; with bended head, and face covered 
 with her hands, she was entering the porch slowly. Foka 
 was sustaining her. 
 
 Papa sat beside me, and said nothing. I was choking 
 with tears, and something oppressed my throat so that I 
 was afraid I should stifle. As we entered the highway, we 
 saw a white handkerchief which some one was waving from 
 the balcony. I began to wave mine, and this movement 
 calmed me somewhat. I continued to cry, and the thought 
 that my tears proved my sensitiveness afforded me pleasure 
 and consolation. 
 
 After we had travelled a verst, I sat more composedly, 
 and began to observe the nearest objects which presented 
 themselves to my eyes, — the hind quarters of the side horse 
 which was on my side. I noticed how this piebald animal 
 flourished his tail, how he set one foot down after the otlier, 
 how the post-boy's braided knout reached him, and his feet
 
 5*5 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 began to leap together. I noticed bow tbe harness leaped 
 about on him, and the lings on the harness ; and I gazed 
 until the harness was covered around the tail with foam. 1 
 began to look about me, upon the undulating fields of ripe 
 rye, on the dark waste laud, on which here and there ploughs, 
 peasants, and mares with their foals were visible ; on the 
 verst-stones ; I even glanced at the carriage-box to find out 
 which post-boy was driving us ; and the teai's were not dry 
 on my face, when my thoughts were already far from the 
 mother whom I had left perhaps forever. But every recol- 
 lection led me to the thought of her. I recalled the mush- 
 room which I had found the day before in the birch-alley, 
 and remembered that Liubotchka and Kateuka had disputed 
 as to who should pluck it, and I remember how they had 
 wept at parting from us. 
 
 I was sorry for them, and for Natalya Savischna, and the 
 birch-alley, and РЪка. I was even sorry for malicious Mimi. 
 I was sorry for every thing, every thing ! But poor mamma, У 
 And the tears again filled my eyes, but not for long. 
 
 г^
 
 50 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Happy, happy days of j'oiith which can never be recalled ! 
 How is it possible not to love it, to cheribh memories of it? 
 Those memories refresh and elevate my soul, and serve me 
 as the fountain of my best enjoyment. 
 
 — You have run your fill. You sit at the tea-table, in 
 your high chair ; 3'ou have drunk your cup of milk and sugar 
 long ago ; sleep is gluing your eyes together, but you do not 
 stir from the spot, you sit and listen. And how can 3'ou 
 help listening? Mamma is talking with souie one, and the 
 sound of her voice is so sweet, so courteous. That sound 
 alone says so much to my heart ! With ej'es dimmed with 
 slumber, I gaze upon her face, and all at once she has become 
 sm.all, so small — her face is no larger than a button, but I 
 see it just as plainly still. I see her look at me and smile. 
 I like to see her so small. I draw my eyelids still closer 
 together, and she is no larger than the little boys one sees in 
 the pupils of the eyes ; but I moved, and the illusion was 
 destro3-ed. I close my e3'es, twist about, and try in eveiy 
 way to reproduce it, but in vain. 
 
 1 rise, tuck my feet under me, and settle myself comfort- 
 abl}' in an eas^'-chair. 
 
 "You will go to sleep again, Nikoliuka," sa^-s mamma; 
 "you had better go up-stairs." 
 
 "I don't want to go to bed, mamma," 3'ou reply, and 
 sweet, dim fancies fill your brain ; the healthy slee'p of child- 
 hood closes your lids, and in a moment 30U lose conscious- 
 ness, and sleep until the}' wake 3'ou. You feel in your 
 dreams that somebody's soft hand is touching you ; you 
 recognize it by that touch alone ; and still sleeping you invol- 
 untarily seize it, and press it warmh', so warmly, to your lips. 
 
 Every one has already dejiarted : one candle only burns in 
 the drawing-room. Mamma has said that she would wake
 
 г 
 
 CniLDIIOOD. 55 
 
 me : it is she who has sat down on the chair in wh. 
 ain sleeping, and strokes my hair лvith her wonderfully ь 
 hand, and in my ears resoimds the dear, familiar лю1се. 
 
 '' Get up, m}' darling, it is time to go to bed." 
 
 She is not embarrassed b}' any one's indifferent glances ; 
 she does not fear to pour out upon me all her tenderness and 
 love. I do not move, but kiss her hand yet more earnestly. 
 
 " Get up, тз' angel." 
 
 She takes me by the neck with her other hand, and her 
 slender fingers rouse me and tickle me ; she touches me, and 
 I am conscious of her perfume and her voice. All this 
 makes me spring up, encircle her neck with my arms, press 
 my head to her bosom with a sigh, and say, — 
 
 '' Oh, dear, dear mamma, how I love 3'ou ! " 
 
 She smiles, with her sad, beлvitching smile, takes mj^ head 
 in both her hands, kisses my brow, and sets me on her 
 knees. 
 
 "So 3'ou 1ол'е me very nuich?" She is silent for a 
 moment, then speaks: "See that 3'ou alwa3^s love me, and 
 never forget me. If you lose 3'our mamma, 3'ou will not for- 
 get her? 3"0U will not forget her, Nikolinka?" 
 
 She kisses me still more tenderly. 
 
 "Stop! don't say that, my darling, my precious one!" 
 I СГ3', kissing her knees ; and the tears stream in floods from 
 my eyes, — tears of love and rapture. 
 
 After that, perhaps, wdien 3'ou go up-stairs, and stand 
 before the images in yovw wadded dressing-gown, what a 
 wonderful sensation з'ои experience when you sa3% "O Lord ! 
 save papa and mamma!" In repeating the ргаз^егз which 
 my mouth lisped for the first time after nn- Ijeloved mother, 
 tlie love of her and the love of God are united, in some 
 strange fashion, in one feeling. 
 
 After 3'our ргаз^ег you wrap yourself in the bedclothes, 
 with a spirit light, bright, and inspiring ; one dream succeeds 
 another, but what are they all about? They are indescrib- 
 able ; but'full of pure love, of hope and earthly happiness. 
 You perhaps recall Karl Ivanitch and his bitter lot, — the 
 only unhappy man I knew, — and 3'Ou are so sorry for him, 
 you lo\e liim so, that tears trickle from your eyes, and you 
 think, "May God give him happiness; may He grant me 
 power to help him, to lighten his sorrow ; I am ready to 
 sacrifice everv thing for him." Then you thrust your favorite 
 porcelain plaything — a dog and a hare — into the corner of
 
 -^ CniLDUOOD. 
 
 .own pillow, and it pleases you to think how warm and 
 
 .nt'ortal)le they will be there. You pray again, that God 
 .»ill grant ha[)i)iuess to all, that every one may be content, 
 and that the weather to-morrow may be good for walking. 
 You turn on the other side ; your thoughts and dreams min- 
 gle confusedly, and intertwine, and you fall asleep quietly, 
 calmly, with your face still wet with tears. 
 
 Will that freshness, that happy carelessness, that neces- 
 sity for love and strength of faith, which you possessed in 
 childhood, ever return? Can anytime be better thah that 
 when tlie two greatest of virtues — innocent gayet}-, and 
 unbounded thirst for love — were the only requirements in 
 life? 
 
 Where are those burning prayers? AYhere is that best 
 , gift of all, those pure tears of emotion ? The angel of com- 
 fort flew thither with a smile, and wiped away those tears, 
 and instilled sweet visions into the uucorrupted imagination 
 of infancy. 
 
 lias life left such heavy traces in my heart that those 
 tears and raptures have deserted me forever ? Do the memo- 
 ries alone abide?
 
 CHILDHOOD. 55 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 VERSES. 
 
 Nearly a month after we removed to Moscow, I was 
 sitting up-stairs in grandmamma's Iiouse, at a big table, 
 writing. Opposite me sat the drawing-master, making the 
 final corrections in a pencil-sketch of the head of some Turk 
 or otlier in a turban. Volodya was standing behind the 
 master, with outstretched neck, gazing over his shoulder. 
 This little head was Volodya' s first production in pencil ; and 
 it was to be presented to 'grandmamma that day, which was 
 her saint's day . 
 
 "And you would not put any more shading here?" said 
 Volodya, rising on tiptoe, and poiuting at the Turk's neck. 
 
 "■ No, it is not necessary," said the teacher, laying aside 
 the pencil and drawing-pen in a little box with a lock; "it 
 is very good now, and you must not touch it again. Now 
 for you, Nikolinka," he added, rising, and continuing to 
 gaze at the Turk from the corner of his eye : " reveal yowY 
 secret to us. What are you going to carry to your graud- 
 mother? To tell the truth, another head just like this would 
 be the best thing. Good-by, gentlemen," said he, and, 
 taking his hat and note, he went out. 
 
 I had been thinking myself, at the moment, that a head 
 would be better than what I was working at. When it had 
 been announced to us that grandmamma's name-day was 
 near at hand, and that we must prepare gifts for the occa- 
 sion, I had immediately made up a couple of verses, hoping 
 soon to find the rest. I really do not know how such a 
 strange idea for a child entered my miud ; but I rememlier 
 that it pleased me greatly, and that to all questions on the 
 subject I replied that I would give grandmamma a present 
 without fail, but that I would not tell any one of wiuit it was 
 to consist. 
 
 Contrary to my expectations, and in spite of all ni}' efforts,
 
 56 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 I could not compose any more than the two stanzas which 
 I had thouoht out on the S|)ur of the moment. I began to 
 read the poems in our books ; but neither Umitrief nor 
 Derzhavin afforded me any assistance. Quite the re\'erse : 
 they but couA'iuced me more thoroughl}' of m^^ own in- 
 capacity. Knowing that Karl Ivauitch was fond of copying 
 poetr}', I went to rummaging among his papers on the sly ; 
 and among the German poems I found one liussian, which 
 must have been the product of his own pen : 
 
 JBr TO MADA]ME L. 
 
 Remember me near; 
 Eemember me afar; 
 Eemember me 
 Колу and forever; 
 Remember ел^еп to my grave 
 How faithfully I can love.^ 
 
 KARL MAUER. 
 Petrovskoe, 1S28, June 3. 
 
 This poem, transcribed in a handsome round hand, on a 
 thin sheet of note-paper, pleased me because of the touching 
 sentiment with which it was penetrated. I immediately 
 learned it by heart, and resolved to take it for a pattern. 
 The matter progressed much more easily then. On the 
 name-day a congratulation in twelve verses was read}^ and 
 Д8 I sat in the schoolroom, I was copying it on vellum paper. 
 
 Two sheets of paper were already ruined ; not because 
 I had undertaken to make any alterations in them, — the 
 verses seemed to me very fine, — but from the third line on, 
 the ends began to incline upwards more and more, so that 
 it was evident, ел^еп at a distance, that it was written 
 crookedly, and was fit for nothing. 
 
 The third sheet was askew like the others ; but I was 
 determined not to do any more copying. In my poem I con- 
 gratulated grandmamma, wished her many years of health, 
 and concluded thus : 
 
 " To comfort thee we shall endeavor, 
 And love thee like our own dear motlier." 
 
 It seemed to be very good, з -et the last line offended my 
 ear strangely. 
 
 1 It hardly comes under the head of poetry, even lu the original. — Tiianslatob.
 
 CniLDUOOD. 57 
 
 I kept repeating it to m3'self, апЛ trj'ing to find a rlij^rae 
 instead of " mother." ^ " Well, let it go. It's better than 
 Karl lA'auitch's, au3'\vay." 
 
 So I transcribed the last stanza. Then I read mj' whole 
 composition over aloud in the bedroom, with feeling and ges- 
 ticulations. The verses were entirely lacking in rhythm, but 
 I did not pause over them ; the last, however, struck me still 
 more powerfully and unpleasantly. I sat down on the bed, 
 and began to think. 
 
 " ЛУЬу did I write like our own dear mother? She's not 
 here, and it was not necessary to mention her. I 1ол^е grand- 
 ma, it's true ; I reverence her, but still she is not the same. 
 AVhy did I write that? Why have I lied? Suppose this is 
 poetry : it was not necessary, all the same." 
 
 At this moment the tailor entered with a new jacket. 
 
 ''AVell, let it go," I said, vei'y impatiently, thrust my 
 verses under m}' pillow in great vexation, and ran to try ou 
 my Moscow clothes. 
 
 The Moscow coat proved to be excellent. The cinnamon- 
 brown half-coat, with its bronze buttons, was made to fit 
 snugly ; not as they made them in the country. The black 
 trousers were also tight ; it was wonderful to see how well 
 they showed the muscles, and set upon the shoes. 
 
 "At last I've got some trousers with real straps," I 
 thought, quite beside myself with joy, as I surveyed my legs 
 on all sides. Although the new garments were л^ег}' tight, 
 and it was hard to move in them, I concealed the fact from 
 everybody, and declared, that, on the contrary, I was ex- 
 tremely comfortable, and that if there was an}' fault about 
 the clothes, it was that the}' were, if any thing, a little too 
 large. After that I stood for a long time before the glass, 
 ])rushing my copiously pomaded hair: but, try as I would, I 
 could not make the tuft where the hair parts ou the crown 
 lie flat ; as soon as I ceased to press it down with the brush, 
 in order to see if .it would obey me, it rose, and projected in 
 all directions, imparting to my face the most ridiculous ex- 
 pression. 
 
 Karl Ivanitch was dressing in another room ; and his blue 
 swallow-tailed coat, and some white belongings, were carried 
 through the schoolroom to him. The voice of one of grand- 
 mamma's maids became audible at the door which led down- 
 
 ^ Mat (mother), as a rhyme to uti/eschat (to comfort), is the difficultj-. Nikolai 
 tries to fit in igrat (to play) and krovat (bed), in elderly rhymester fashion.
 
 58 CniLDHOOD. 
 
 stairs. I went out to see what she wanted. In her hand 
 she held a stiffl}^ starched shirt-front, which she told me she 
 had brouglit for Karl Ivanitch, and that she had not slept all 
 the previous night, in order that she might get it washed in 
 season. I undertook to deliver it, and asked if grandmamma 
 had risen. 
 
 " Yes indeed, sir ! She has already drank her coffee, and 
 the protopope^ has arrived. How fine you are ! " she added, 
 glancing at my new suit with a smile. 
 
 This remark made me blush. I whirled round on one foot, 
 cracked my fingers, and gave a leap ; wishing by this means 
 to make her feel that slie did not thoroughly appreciate, as 
 yet, how very grand I was. 
 
 When 1 carried the shirt-front to Karl Ivanitch, he no 
 longer needed it ; he had put on another, and, bending over 
 before the little glass wliich stood on the table, he was hold- 
 ing the splendid ribbon of his cravat with both hands, and 
 trying whether his clean-shaven chin would go into it easily 
 and out again. After smoothing our clothes down on all 
 sides, and requesting Nikolai to do the same for him, he led 
 us to grandmamma. I laugh when I remember how strongly 
 we three smelt of pomade as we descended the stairs. 
 
 Karl Ivanitch had in his hands a little box of his own manu- 
 facture, Volodya had his drawing, I had my verses ; each 
 one had upon his tongue the greeting with which he intended 
 to present his gift. At the very moment when Karl Ivanitch 
 opened the drawing-room door, the priest was putting on his 
 robes, and the first sounds of the service resounded. 
 
 Grandmamma was already in the drawing-room: she was 
 standing by the wall, sup[)orting herself on the back of a 
 chair, over which she bent, and was praying devoutl}^ ; beside 
 her stood papa. He turned towards us, and smiled, as he 
 saw us hide our gifts in haste behind our backs, and halt just 
 inside the door, in our endeavor to escape being seen. The 
 whole effect of unexpectedness upon which we had counted 
 was ruined. 
 
 When the time came to go up and kiss the cross, I sud- 
 denly felt that I was under the oppressive influence of an 
 ill-defined, benumbing timidity, and, realizing that I should 
 never have courage to present my gift, I hid behind Karl 
 Ivanitch, who, having congratulated grandmamma in the 
 choicest language, shifted his box from his right hand to his 
 
 » Upper priest.
 
 CniLDnOOD. 69 
 
 left, handed it to the lady whose name-day it was, and re- 
 treated a few paces in order to make way for Volodya. 
 Grandmamma appeared to be in ecstasies over the box, 
 which had gilt strips jiasted on the edges, and expressed 
 her gratitude with the most flattering of smiles. It was evi- 
 dent, however, that she did not know where to put the dox, 
 and it must have been for this reason that she proposed that 
 papa should examine with лvhat wonderful taste it was made- 
 After satisfying his curiosity, papa handed it to the proto- 
 pope, who seemed exceedingly pleased with this trifle. He 
 dandled his head, and gazed curiously now at the box, and 
 again at the artist who could make such a beautiful object. 
 Volodya produced his Turk, and he also received the most 
 flattering encomiums from all quarters. Now it was my turn : 
 grandmamma turned to me with an encouraging smile. 
 
 Those who have suffered from shyness know that that feel- 
 ing increases in direct proportion to the time which elapseSi, 
 and that resolution deci'eases in an inverse ratio ; that is to' 
 say, the longer the sensation lasts, the more unconquerable 
 it becomes, and the less decision there is left. 
 
 The last remnants of courage and determination forsook 
 me when Karl Ivanitch and Volodya presented their gifts, 
 and my shyness reached a crisis ; I felt that the blood was 
 incessantly rushing from my heart into my head, as though 
 one color succeeded another on ray face, and that great 
 drops of perspiration broke out upon m}' nose and forehead. 
 My ears burned ; I felt a shiver and a cold perspiration all 
 over my body ; I sliifted from foot to foot, and did not stir 
 from the spot. 
 
 "Come, Nikoliuka, show us what you Ьал^е, — a box or 
 a drawing," said papa. There Avas nothing to be done. 
 With a trembling hand, I presented the crumpled, fateful 
 parcel ; but my voice utterly refused to serve me, and 1 
 stood before grandmamma in silence. I could not get over 
 the thought, that, in place of the drawing ллЬ1сЬ was ex- 
 pected, my worthless verses would be read before ever}' one, 
 including the words, like our ow)i dear mother, which would 
 clearly i)rove that I had пел'ег loAcd her and had forgotten 
 her. IIow convey an idea of ni}' sufferings during the time 
 when grandmamma liegan to read m}' poem aloud, and when, 
 unable to decipher it, she paused in the middle of a line in 
 order to glance at papa with what then seemed to me a 
 mocking smile ; when she did not pronounce to suit me ; and
 
 60 CniLDnOOD. 
 
 when, owing to her feebleness of vision, she gave the paper 
 to papa before she had finished, and begged him to read it 
 all over again from the beginning? It seemed to me that 
 she did it becanse she did not like to read sueh stupid and 
 crookedly written verses, and in order that papa might read 
 for himself that last line which proved so clearly my lack of 
 feeling. I expected that he would give me a fillip on the 
 nose with those verses, and say, ''You good-for-nothing 
 boy, don't forget 3'our mother — take that!" But nothing 
 of the sort happened : on the contrary, when all was read, 
 grandmamma said, '' Charming ! " and kissed my brow. 
 
 The little box, the drawing, and the verses were laid out 
 in a row, beside two cambric handkerchiefs and a snuff-box 
 with a portrait of mamma, on the movable table attached to 
 the arm-chair in which grandmamma alwaj's sat. 
 
 " Princess Varvara Ilinitchna," announced one of the two 
 huge lackeys who accompanied grandmamma's carriage. 
 
 Grandmamma gazed thoughtfully at the portrait set in the 
 tortoise-shell cover of the snuff-box, and made no reply. 
 
 " Will your excellency receive her? " repeated the footman.
 
 CniLDnOOD. 61 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 PRINCESS KORNAKOVA. 
 
 "Ask her iu," said grandmamma, sitting back in her 
 arm-chair. 
 
 The Princess was a woman of about fortj'-five, small, 
 fragile, dry and bitter, with disagreeable grayish-green eyes, 
 whose expression plainly contradicted tliat of the preter- 
 naturally sweet pursed-up mouth. Beneath her л"elл'et bon- 
 net, adorned with an ostrich plume, her bright red hair was 
 visible ; her eyebrows and lashes appeared still lighter and 
 redder against the unhealth}' color of her face. In spite of 
 this, thanks to her unconstrained movements, her tiny hands, 
 and a peculiar coldness of feature, her general appearance 
 was rather noble and energetic. 
 
 The Princess talked a great deal, and by her distinct enun- 
 ciation belonged to the class of people who always speak as 
 though some one were contradicting them, though no one 
 has uttered a word : she alternately raised her voice and 
 lowered it gradually, and began all at once to speak with 
 fresh animation, and gazed at the persons who were present 
 but who took no part in the conversation, as though endeav- 
 oring to obtain sui)port by this glance. 
 
 In si)ite of the fact that the Princess kissed grandmamma's 
 hand, and called her via bonne tante incessantly, I observed 
 tliat grandmamma was not pleased with her : she twitched 
 her l)rows in a peculiar manner while listening to her story, 
 al)out the reason why Prince INIikhailo could not come iu 
 person to congratulate grandmamma, iu spite of his ardent 
 desire to do so ; and, replying in Russian to the Princess's 
 French, she said, with a singular drawl, "I am very much 
 obliged to you, m}' dear, for your attention ; and as for Prince 
 Mikhailo not coming, it is not worth mentioning, he always 
 has so much to do ; and what pleasure could he find in 
 sitting with an old woman? "
 
 62 CniLDIIOOB. 
 
 And without giving the Princess time to contradict her, 
 she went on : 
 
 " How lire з'оиг children, my dear? " 
 
 "Thank God, aunt, they are growing well, and studying 
 and placing pranks, especially Etienne. He is the eldest, 
 and he is getting to be so wild that луе can't do any thing 
 with him; but he's clever, — a promising boy. — Just im- 
 agine, cousin," she continued, turning exclusively to papa, 
 because grandmamma, who took no interest in the Princess's 
 children, and wanted to brag of her own grandchildren, had 
 taken my verses from the box with great care, and was 
 beginning to unfold them, — " just imagine, cousin, what he 
 did the other day." And the Princess bent over papa, 
 and began to i-elate something with great animation. When 
 she had finished her tale, which I did not hear, she imme- 
 diately began to laugh, and looking inquiringly at papa, said : 
 
 "That's a nice kind of boy, cousin? He deserA'ed a 
 whipping; but his caper луаз so clever and amusing, that I 
 forgave him, cousin." 
 
 And, fixing her eyes on grandmamma, the Princess went 
 on smiling, but said nothing. 
 
 "Do 3'ou beat your children, my dear? " inquired grand- 
 manmia, raising her brov\s significantly, and laying a special 
 emphasis on the word beat. 
 
 "Ah, my good aunt," replied the Princess in a good- 
 natured tone, as she cast a swift glance at papa, " I know 
 your opinion on that point ; but you must permit me to dis- 
 agree with you in one particular : iu spite of all my thought 
 and reading, in spite of all the advice which I have taken 
 on this subject, experience has led me to the conviction, 
 that it is indispensable that one should act upon children 
 thi-ough their fears. Fear is requisite, in order to make any 
 thing out of a child; is it not so, my cousin? Now, I ask 
 you, do children fear any thing more than the rod? " 
 
 AVith this, she glanced inquiringly at us, and I confess I 
 felt rather uncomfortable at that moment. 
 
 " Whatever you may say, a boy of twelve, or even one 
 of fourteen, is still a child ; but a girl is quite another 
 matter. ' ' 
 
 "How lucky," I thought to myself, "that I am not her 
 
 son 
 
 "Yes, that's all very fine, my dear," said grandmamma, 
 folding up my verses, and placing them under the box, as
 
 CniLDnOOD. 63 
 
 though, after that, she considered the Princess unTvorthy of 
 hearing such a production : '' that's all \чму fine, but tell 
 me, please, how you can expect au}^ delicac}' of feeling in 
 your children after that." 
 
 And regarding this argument as unanswerable, grand- 
 mamma added, in order to put an end to the conversation : 
 
 " However, every one has a right to his own opinion on 
 that subject." 
 
 The Princess made no reply, but smiled condescendingly, 
 thereby giving us to understand that she pardoned these 
 strange prejudices in an individual who was so much re- 
 spected. 
 
 " Ah, pray make me acquainted with your young people," 
 she said, glancing at us, and smiling politely. 
 
 We rose, fixed our eyes on the Princess's face, but did 
 not in the least know what we ought to do in order to show 
 that the acquaintance had been made. 
 
 " Kiss the Princess's hand," said papa. 
 
 " I beg that you will love your old aunt." she said, kissing 
 Volodya on the hair: '' although I am only a distant aunt, 
 I reckon on our friendly relations rather than on degrees of 
 blood relationship," she added, directing her remarks chiefly 
 to grandmamma ; but grandmamma was still displeased with 
 her, and answered : 
 
 " Eh ! my dear, does such relationship count for any thing 
 nowadays ? ' ' 
 
 "This is going to be m}' young man of the world," said 
 papa, pointing to Volod^-a ; " and this is the poet," he added, 
 just as I was kissing the Princess's dry little hand, and im- 
 agining, with exceeding vividness, that the hand held a rod, 
 and beneatli the rod was a l)ench, and so on, and so on. 
 
 '• Which? " asked the Princess, detaining me b}- the hand. 
 
 "This little fellow Avith the tuft on his crown," answered 
 papa, smiling gayl}'. 
 
 *'AVhat does my tuft matter to him? Is there no other 
 sul)ject of conversation?" 1 thought, and retreated into a 
 corner. 
 
 I had the strangest possible conceptions of beauty. I 
 even considered Karl Ivanitch the greatest beaut}' in the 
 world ; but I knew very Avell that I was not good-looking 
 myself, and on this point I made no mistake : therefore 
 any allusion to my personal appearance offended me deeply. 
 
 I remember very well, how once — I was six years old
 
 64 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 at the time — they were discussing my looks at dinner, and 
 mamma was trviiig to discover something handsome about 
 my face : she said 1 had intelligent eyes, an agreeable smile, 
 and at last, yielding to papa's arguments and to ocular 
 evidence, she was forced to confess that I was homely ; and 
 then, wdien I thanked her for the dinner, she tapped my cheek 
 and said : 
 ^ " You know, Nikolinka, that no one will love you for j^our 
 Jit*' face ; therefore you must endeavor to be a good and sensi- 
 ble boy." 
 
 These words not only convinced me that I was not a 
 beauty, but also that I should, Avithout fail, become a good 
 sensible boy. 
 
 In spite of this, moments of despair often visited me ; I 
 fancied that there was no happiness on earth for a person 
 with such a wide nose, such thick lips, and such small gray 
 eyes as I had ; I besought God to woi'k a miracle, to turn 
 me into a beauty, and all I had in the present, or might 
 have in the future, I would give in exchange for a handsome 
 face»
 
 CHILDHOOD. в5 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 PRINCE IVAN IVANITCH. 
 
 "When the Princess had heard the A^erses, and had show- 
 ered praises npon the author, grandmamma relented, began 
 to address her in French, ceased to call her you,^ and mif 
 dear, and invited her to come to us in the evening, with all 
 her children, to which the Pi-incess consented ; and afcer 
 sitting a while longer, she took her departure. 
 
 So many visitors came that day with congratulations, that 
 the court-yard near the entrance was never free, all the 
 morning, from several carriages. 
 
 '•Good-morning, cousin," said one of the guests, as he 
 entered the room, and kissed grandmamma's hand. 
 
 He was a man about seventy years of age, of lofty stature, 
 dressed in a militar}' uniform, Avith big epaulets, from be- 
 neath the collar of Avhich a large white cross was visible, 
 and with a calm, frank expression of countenance. The 
 freedom and simplicity of his moA^ements surprised me. 
 His face was still notably handsome, in spite of the fact 
 that onl}^ a thin semicircle of hair was left on the nape of 
 the neck, and that the position of his upper lip betrayed the 
 lack of teeth. 
 
 Prince Ivan Ivanitch had enjoj'ed a brilliant career while 
 he was still \evy young at the end of the last century, thanks 
 to his noble character, his handsome person, his noteworthy 
 bravery, his distinguished and powerful family, and thanks 
 especiallv to good luck. He remained in the service, and his 
 ambition was very speedily so thoroughly gratified that there 
 was nothing left for him to wish for in that direction. From 
 his earliest youth he had conducted himself as if preparing 
 himself to occupy that dazzling station in the worlil in which 
 fate eventually |ilaced him. Th.orefore. although he encoun- 
 tered some dibappointments. disenciiantmeuts, and bitterness 
 
 1 TluiL IS Ij buy, oliu Ciiilc-d liur Ihuu.
 
 66 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 in his brilliant and somewhat vain-glorious life, such as all 
 people undergo, he never once changed his usual calm char- 
 acter, his lofty manner of thought, nor his well-grounded 
 principles of religion and moralitj', and won universal re- 
 spect, which was founded not so much on his brilliant posi- 
 tion as upon his firmness and trustworthiness. His mind 
 was small ; but, thanks to a position which permitted him to 
 look down upon all the л^а1п bustle of life, his cast of thouglit 
 was elevated. He was kind and feeling, but cold and some- 
 лvhat haught}' in his intercourse with others. This arose from 
 the circumstance that he was placed in a position where 
 he could be of use to many people, and he endeavored by 
 his cold manner to protect himself against the incessant peti- 
 tions and appeals of persons who onl}' wished to take advan- 
 tage of his influence. But this coldness was softened b}' the 
 condescending courtesy of a man of the very hiijhest society. 
 He was cultivated and well read ; but his cultivation 
 stopped at what he had acquired in his youth, that is to say, 
 at the close of the last century. He had read every tiling 
 of note which had been written in France on the subject of 
 philosophy and eloquence during the eighteenth centur}' ; he 
 was thoroughly acquainted with all the best products of 
 French literature, so that he was able to quote passages 
 from Racine, Corneille, Boilean, MoliOre, Montaigne, and 
 Fenelon, and was fond of doing so ; he possessed a brilliant 
 knowledge of mythology, and had studied with profit the 
 ancient monuments of epic poetry in the French translations ; 
 he had acquired a sufficient knowledge of history from Segur ; 
 but he knew nothing at all of mathematics beyond arithme- 
 tic, nor of physics, nor of contemporary literature ; he could 
 maintain a courteous silence in conversation, or utter a few 
 commonplaces, about Goethe, Schiller, and Byron, but he 
 had never read them. In spite of this French and classical 
 cultivation, of which so few examples still exist, his conver- 
 sation was simple ; and yet this simplicity concealed his 
 ignorance of various things, and exhibited tolerance and an 
 agreeable tone. He was a great enemy of all originalit}^, 
 declaring that originality is the bait of people of bad tone. 
 Society was a necessity to him, wherever he might be living ; 
 wliether ifi ^Moscow or abroad, he always lived generously, 
 and on certain da^'s received all the town. His standing in 
 town was such that an invitation from him served as a pass- 
 port to all drawing-rooms, and many young and pretty
 
 стьвпооп. 67 
 
 women willingl}' presented to him their rosy cheeks which he 
 kissed with a kind of fatherly feeling ; and otlier, to all ap- 
 pearances, л'егз' important and respectable people were in a 
 state of indescribable joy when they were admitted to the 
 Prince's parties. 
 
 Verj- few people were now left, who, like grandmamma, 
 had been members of the same circle, of the same age, 
 possessed of the same education, the same view of matters ; 
 and for that reason he especially prized the ancient friendly 
 connection with her, and always showed her the greatest 
 respect. 
 
 1 could not gaze enough at the Prince. The respect 
 which ел'егу one showed him, his huge epaulets, the par- 
 ticular joy which grandmamma manifested at the sight of 
 liim, and the fact that he alone did not fear her, treated her 
 with perfect ease, and even had the daring to address her as 
 ma coushie, inspired me with a reverence for him which 
 equalled if it did not excel that which 1 felt for grandmannna. 
 When she showed him my A'erses, he called me to him, and 
 said, — 
 
 " Who knows, cousin, but this may be another Derzhavin ? " 
 
 Thereupon he pinched my cheek in such a painful manner 
 that if I did not сг}' out it was because I guessed that it 
 must be accepted as a caress. 
 
 The guests dispersed. Papa and Volodya went out : only 
 the Prince, grandmamma, and I remained in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 " AVhy did not our dear Natalya К1ко1аелта come?" 
 asked Prince Ivan Ivanitch suddenly, after a momentary 
 silence. 
 
 " Ah ! vion cher," replied grandmamma, bending her head 
 and la3"ing her hand upon the sleeve of his uniform, " she 
 certainly would have come had she been free to do as 
 she wished. She лvrites to me that Pierre proposed that she 
 should come, but that she had refused because they had had 
 no income at all this j^ear ; and she Avrites : ' Moreover, there 
 is no reason why I should remove to ]Moscow this з^еаг with the 
 whole household. Liiibotchka is still too 3'oung ; and as for 
 the bo^'s who are to Ил^е with you, I am more easj" about 
 tlieni than if they were to live with me.' All that is very 
 fine ! " continued grandmannna. in a tone which showed very 
 plainly that she did not consider it fine at all. "The l)oys 
 should luu'c been sent here long ago, in order that they might
 
 68 CTITLDIIOOD. 
 
 learn somethliifT, and become ficcustomed to society. What 
 kind of education was it possible to give tlicm in the coun- 
 try? Why, the eldest will soon be thirteen, and the other 
 eleven. You have observed, cousin, that tliey are perfectly 
 untamed here : the}' don't know how to enter a room." 
 
 •'• But I don't undeistand," re[)lied the prince : " why these 
 daily complaints of reduced circumstancco? He has a л'егу 
 handsome property, and Isataschinka's КЬаЬагол'ка, where I 
 played in the theatre with you once upon a time, I know as 
 луе11 as the five fingers on my own hand. It's a wonderful 
 estate, and it must always bring in a handsome revenue." 
 
 " I will tell you, as a true friend," broke in grandmamma, 
 with an expression of sadness: "it seems to me that all 
 excuses are simply for the jiurpose of allowing him to live 
 here alone, to lounge about at the clubs, at dinners, and to 
 do God knows what else. . But she suspects uothiug. You 
 know what an augel of goodness she is ; she believes him 
 in every thing. He assured her that it was necessary to 
 bring the children to Moscow, and to leave her alone with 
 that stui)id governess in the countr3% and she believed him. 
 Jf he were to tell her that it Avas necessary to whip the chil- 
 dren as Princess Varvara lliuitehna whips hers, she would 
 prol^ably agree to it," said grandmamma, turning about in 
 her chair, with an expression of thorough disdain. '' Yes, 
 my friend," pursued grandmamma, after a momentary pause, 
 taking in her hand one of the two handkerchiefs, in order to 
 Avipe away the tear which made its appearance: "I often 
 think that he can neither value her nor understand her, and 
 that, in spite of all her goodness and love for him. and her 
 efforts to conceal her grief, — I know^ it very well, — she 
 cannot be happy with him ; and mark my w'ords, if he does 
 not . . ." 
 
 Grandmamma covered her face with her handkerchief. 
 
 "Eh, my good friend," said the Prince reproachfully. 
 " I see that you have not gi'own any wisei'. You are always 
 mourning and weejnng over an imaginary' grief. Come, are 
 you not ashamed of yourself? I have known him for a long 
 time, and I know him to be a good, attentive, and л-ег^- fine 
 husband, and, what is the principal thing, a perfectly honest 
 man." 
 
 Having involuntarily overheard this conversation which I 
 ought not to have heard, I took myself out of the room, on 
 tiptoe, in violent emotion.
 
 CIIILDUOGD. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE IVINS. I 
 
 " VoLODYA ! Voloclya ! the Ivins ! " I shouted, catching 
 siglit from the window of three boys in bhie overcoats, with 
 beaver collars, who were crossing from the opposite sidewalk 
 to our house, headed by their young and dandified tutor. 
 
 The Ivins were related to us, and were of about our own 
 age ; we had made their acquaintance, and struck up a 
 friendship soon after our arrival in Moscow. 
 
 The second Ivin, Serozha, was a dark-complexioned, curly- 
 headed boy, with a determined, turned-up little nose, very 
 fresh red lips, which seldom completely covered the upi)er 
 row of his white teeth, handsome dark-blue eyes, and a 
 remarkably alert expression of countenance. He never 
 smiled, but eitlier looked quite serious, or laughed heartily 
 with a distinct, ringing, and very attractive laugh. His 
 original beauty struck me at first sight. I felt for him an 
 unconquerable liking. It was sutficient for my happiness to 
 see him : at one time, all the powers of my soul were concen- 
 trated upon this wish ; when three or four da3's chanced to 
 pass without my having seen him, I began to feel bored and 
 sad even to tear . All my dreams, both waking and sleep- 
 ing, were of him : when I lay down to sleep, 1 willed to 
 dream of him ; when I shut my eyes, I saw him before me, 
 and cherished the vision as the greatest bliss. I could not 
 linve brcuglit myself to confess this feeling to any one in the 
 v.orh], much as I prized it. He evidently i)ref erred to play 
 witli \'olodya and to talk wilii him, lather tlian with me, pos- 
 .sil)ly because it annoyed him to feel my restless eyes con- 
 stantly fixed upon him, or simply because he felt no sympathy 
 forme: but nevertheless I was content; I desired notliing, 
 dcmande<l notlung. and was read}' to sacrifice every thing for 
 him. Besides the passionate attachment with which he in- 
 spired me, his presence aroused another feeling in a no iess 
 pcnverful degree. — a fear of i)aiuiug or ofteudiug him in any
 
 CnTLDHOOD. 
 
 . of displeasing him. I felt as much fear for him as 
 ., perhaps liecause his face had a hauglity expression, or 
 ^ecause, despising my own appearance, I valued the advan- 
 tage of beauty too highly in others, or, what is most probable 
 of all, because this is an infallible sign of love. The first 
 time Serozha spoke to me, I lost my wits to such a degree 
 at this unexpected bliss, that I turned pale, blushed, and 
 could make no reply. He had a bad habit of fixing his eyes 
 upon some one spot, when he was thinking, and of winking 
 incessantly, at the same time twitching h's nose and eye- 
 brows. Every one thought tliat this trick spoiled him, but I 
 thought it so charming that I involuntaril}^ accpiired the same 
 habit ; and a few days after I had become acquainted with 
 him, grandmamma inquired. Did my eyes pain me, that I 
 was blinknig like an owl? Not a word about love w^as ever 
 uttered between us ; but he felt his power over me, and 
 exercised it unconsciousl}^ but tyraunieally in our childish 
 intercourse. And, no matter how hard 1 tried to tell him 
 all that was in my mind, 1 was too much afraid of him to 
 resolve on frankness ; I endeavored to seem indifferent, and 
 submitted to him without a murmur. At times his influence 
 appeared to me oppressive, intolerable ; but it was not in my 
 power to escape from it. 
 
 It saddens me to think of that fresh, beautiful feeling of 
 unselfish and unbounded love, wliich died away without hav- 
 ing found vent, or met with a return. 
 
 It is strange, how, when I was a child, I strove to be like 
 a grown-up peison, and how, since I have ceased to be a 
 child, I have often longed to be like one. i 
 
 How many times did this desire not to seem like a child in I 
 jhij' intercourse with Serozha restrain the feeling which was 
 ready to pour forth, and cause me to dissimulate ! I not only 
 did not dare to kiss him, which I very much wanted to do at 
 times, to take his hand, to tell him that I лvas glad to see 
 him, but I did not even dare to call him Serozha, but kept 
 strictly to Sergiei. 80 it was settled between us. Elvery ex- 
 pression of sentiment betrayed cliildishness, and that he who 
 permitted himself any thing of the sort was still a little boy. 
 Without having, as yet, gone through those bitter trials which 
 lead adults to caution and coldness in their intercourse with 
 each other, we deprived ourselves of the pure enjoyment of 
 tender, childish affection, simply through the strange desire to 
 imitate yrowu-up people, /
 
 CIIILDHOOD. 71 
 
 I met the Ivius in the anteroom, exchanged greetings with 
 them, and then flew headlong to grandmamma. 1 announced 
 that the Ivins had arrived; and, from my expression, one 
 would have supposed that this news must render her com- 
 pletely happy. Then, without taking my eyes from .Serozha, 
 1 followed him into the drawing-room, watching his every 
 movement. While grandmamma was telling him that he had 
 grown a great deal, and fixed her peneti'ating eyes u[)on him, 
 1 experienced that sensation of terror and hope wliich a 
 painter must experience when he is awaiting the verdict upon 
 his work from a judge whom he respects. 
 
 Herr Frost, the Ivins' young tutor, with grandmamma's 
 permission, went into the front garden with us, seated him- 
 self on a green bench, crossed his legs picturesquely, placing 
 between them a cane with a bronze head, and began to smoke 
 his cigar with the air of a man who is very well satisfied with 
 his own conduct. 
 
 Herr Frost was a Gicrman, but a German of a л-егу different 
 cut from our good Karl Ivanitch. In the first place, he spoke 
 Russian correctly, he spoke Frencli with a bad accent, and 
 generally enjoyed, especially among the ladies, the reputation 
 of being a very learned man ; in the second place, he wore a 
 red mustache, a big ruby pin in his black satin cravat, the 
 ends of which were tucked under his suspenders, and light lilue 
 trousers with spring bottoms and straps ; in the third place, 
 he was 3'oung. had a handsome, self-satisfied exterior, and 
 remarkably fine muscular legs. It was evident that he set a 
 particular value on this last advantage ; he considered its 
 effect irresistible on members of the female sex, and it must 
 have been with this view that he tried to exhibit his legs in 
 the most conspicuous place, and, whether standing or sitting, 
 iihvays put his calves in motion. He was a type of the young 
 Ktissian German, who aspires to be a gay fellow, and a lady's 
 man. 
 
 It was very lively in the garden. Our game of robbers 
 could not have been more successful ; but one circumstance 
 came near ruining every thing. Serozha was the robber: as 
 he was hastening in jHU'suit of ti'avellers, he stumbled, and 
 in full flight struck his knee vvitli so much force agamst a 
 tree that I thought he had shivered it into splinters. In spite 
 of the fact that I was the gendarme, and that my duty con- 
 sisted in capturing him, I approached, and sympathetically 
 inquired whether he had hurt iiimself. Serozha got angry
 
 72 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 with me : he clinched his fists, stamped his foot, and in a 
 voice which plainly betrayed that he had injured himself 
 badly, he shouted at me, — 
 
 " Well, what's this? After this we'll Ьал^е no more games ! 
 Come, why don't you catch me? why don't you catch me? " 
 he repeated seA^eral times, glancing sideways at Volodya and 
 the elder Ivin, who, in their character of travellers, were leap- 
 ing and running along the path ; and all at once he gave a 
 shriek, and rushed after them with a loud laugh. 
 
 I cannot describe how this heroic conduct impressed and 
 captivated me. In spite of the terrible pain, he not only did 
 not cry, but he did not even show that he was hurt, and 
 never for a moment forgot the game. 
 
 Shortly after this, when llinka Grap also joined our com- 
 pany, and we went up-stairs to wait for dinner, Serozha had 
 another opportunity of enslaving and amazing me with his 
 marvellous manliness and firmness of character. 
 
 llinka Grap was the son of a poor foreigner who had once 
 lived at my grandfather's, was indebted to him in some way, 
 and now considered it his imperative duty to send his son to 
 us very often. If he supposed that an acquaintance with 
 us could afford any honor or satisfaction to his sou, he was 
 entirely mistaken ; for we not only did not make friends with 
 llinka, but we only noticed him when we wanted to make 
 fun of him. llinka Grap was a thin, tall, pale boy of thir- 
 teen, with a bird-like face, and a good-naturedl}' submissive 
 expression. He was very poorly dressed, but his hair was 
 always so excessively greased that we declared that, on sunny 
 days, Grap's pomade melted and trickled down under his 
 jacket. As I recall him now, 1 find that he was very willing 
 to be of service, and a very quiet, kind boy ; but at that 
 time he appeared to me as a contemptible being, whom it 
 was not necessary to pity or even to think of. 
 
 When the game of robbers came to an end, we went up- 
 stairs and began to cut capers, and to sliow off various gym- 
 nastic tricks before each otlier. lUnka watched us with a 
 timid smile of admiration, and when we proposed to him to 
 do the same, he refused, saying that he had no strength at 
 all. Serozha was wonderfully charming. He took off his 
 jacket. His cheeks and eyes were blazing ; he laughed in- 
 cessantl}', and invented new tricks; he leaped over three 
 chairs placed in a row, trundled all over the room like a 
 wheel, stood on his head on Talischef's lexicon, whicli he
 
 CHILDHOOD. 73 
 
 placed in the middle of the room for a pedestal, and at the 
 same time cut such funny capers with his feet that it was 
 impossible to refrain from laughing. After this last perform- 
 ance he became thoughtful, screwed up his eyes, and went 
 up to Ilinka with a perfectly sober face, '' Try to do that ; 
 it really is not difficult." Grap, perceiving that general 
 attention was directed to him, turned red, and declared, in 
 a scarcely audible voice, that he could do nothing of the 
 kind. 
 
 " And why won't he show off anyway? What a girl he 
 is ! he must stand on his head." 
 
 And Serozha took him by the hand. 
 
 "You must, you must stand on your head!" we all 
 shouted, surrounding Ilinka, лvho at that moment was visibly 
 terrified, and turned pale ; then we seized his arms, and 
 dragged him to the lexicon. 
 
 " Let me go, I'll do it myself! You'll tear my jacket," 
 cried the unliapp}- victim. But these cries of despair im- 
 parted fresh animation to us ; we were dying with laughter : 
 the green jacket was cracking in ever}- seam. 
 
 Volodya and the eldest Ivin bent his head down and placed 
 it on the dictionary ; Serozha and I seized the poor boy's 
 thin legs, which he flourished in all directions, stripped up 
 his trousers to the knee, and with great laughter turned them 
 up ; the youngest Iviu preserved the equilibrium of his whole 
 body. 
 
 After our noisy laughter, we all became suddenly silent ; 
 and it was so quiet in the room, that the unfortunate Grap's 
 breathing alone was audible. At that moment I was by no 
 means thoroughly convinced that all this was so very laugh- 
 able and amusing. 
 
 " There's a fine fellow, now," said Serozha, slapping him. 
 
 Ilinka remained silent, and in his endeavor to free himself 
 flung his logs out in all directions. In one of these des- 
 perate movements, he struck Serozha in the eye with his heel 
 in such a painful manner, that Serozha immediately released 
 his leg, clasped his own eye, from which the unbidden tears 
 were streaming, and pushed Ilinka with all his might. Ilinka, 
 being no longer supported by us, went down on the floor with 
 a crash, like some lifeless object, and all he could utter for 
 his tears was : 
 
 "■ Why do you tyrannize over me so? " 
 
 The woful figure of poor Ilinka, with his tear-stained face,
 
 74 cniLBUOoB. 
 
 disordered hair, and his tucked-up trousers, xinder which his 
 dirty boot-legs were visible, impressed us : we did not speak, 
 and we tried to smile in a constrained fashion. 
 
 8erozha was the first to гесол'ег himself. 
 
 " There's a woman, a bawler," he said, pushing him light-- 
 ly with his foot: " it's impossible to joke with him. Come, 
 enough of that; get up." 
 
 " 1 told you that you were a good-for-nothing little l)oy," 
 said Ilinka angrily, and turning away he sol)bed loudly. 
 
 ''AVliat! you use your heels, and then scold! " screamed 
 Serozha, seizing the lexicon, and swinging it over the head 
 of the wretched boy, who never thought of defending himself, 
 and only covered his head with his hands. 
 
 "There! there! Let's drop him, if he can't understand 
 a joke. Let's go down-stairs," said tSerozha, laughing in au 
 unnatural way. 
 
 I gazed with sj'mpathy at the poor fellow, who lay on the 
 floor, hiding his face on the lexicon, and crying so that it 
 seemed as if he were on the point of dying of the convul- 
 sions which shook his whole body. 
 
 '' He^^ vSergiei ! " I said to him, " why did you do that? " 
 
 " That's good ! I didn't cry, 1 hope, when 1 cut ray knee 
 nearly to the bone to-day." 
 
 '' Yes, that's true," 1 thought ; " Ilinka is nothing but a 
 bawler ; but there's Serozha, he is so brave. What a manly 
 fellow he is ! " 
 
 I had no idea that the poor boy was crying, not so much 
 from phj'sical pain, as from the thought that five bo3's, 
 whom he probably liked, had all agreed, without any cause, 
 in hating and persecuting him. 
 
 I really cannot explain to myself the cruelty' of this con- 
 duct. Why did I not go to him, protect him, comfort him? 
 What had become of that sentiment of pity, which had for- 
 merly made me cry violently at the sight of a young daw 
 which had been thrown from its nest, or a puppy which was 
 to be thrown out of the garden, or a chicken which the cook 
 was carrying off for soup ? 
 
 Had this beautiful feeling been destroyed in me, by love 
 for Serozha, and the desire to appear as maul}' in his sight 
 as he was himself? That 1ол'е, and that desire to appear 
 manly, were not enviable qualities. They were the cause of 
 the onl}' dark spots in the pages of my childish memories.
 
 CHILDHOOD. 75 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE GUESTS ASSEMBLE. 
 
 Judging from the special activity perceptible in the pantry, 
 the brilliant illnmination which imparted a new and festive 
 aspect to ol)jects in the drawing-room and .salon, which had 
 long been familiar to me, and particnlarly judging from the 
 fact that Prince Ivan Ivanitch would not have sent his music 
 for nothing, a large number of guests were expected for 
 the evening. 
 
 I ran to the window at the, sound of every passing car- 
 riage, put the palms of my hand to my temples and against 
 the glass, and gazed into the street with impatient curiosity. 
 Through the darkness, which at first covered all objects 
 from the window, there gradually appeared, across the way, 
 a long familiar shop, with a lantern ; in an ol)lique line, a 
 large house with two lighted Avindovvs on the lower floor ; in 
 tlie middle of the street some Viuiku^^ with two passengers, 
 or an empty calash returning home at a foot-pace ; but now 
 a carriage drove up to the porch, and in the full conviction 
 that it was the I\ins, who had promised to come early, I ran 
 down to meet them in the aute-room. Instead of the Ivins, 
 two ladies made their appearance behind the liveried arm 
 wliich opened the door : one was large, and wore a blue 
 cloak with a sable collar; the other, who was small, was all 
 wrapped up in a green shawl, beneath which her little feet, 
 shod in fur boots, alone were visible. Paying no attention 
 to my presence in the ante-room, although I considered it 
 my duty to make my bow when these pei'sons appeared, the 
 little one walked up to the big one, and halted in front of 
 her. The big one unwound tlie kerchief which covered the 
 little one's liead, unbuttoned her cloak, and when the livvried 
 footman took charge of these things, and pulled off her little 
 fur boots, there appeared from this nuich-wrapped-up indi- 
 
 ' Loc:il tcnii fur a poor rustic driver, wlio ciilors servico for the winter in town.
 
 76 CIIILDUOOD. 
 
 vidnal, a wonderful twelve-year-old little girl, dressed in a 
 low-necked white muslin frock, white pantalettes, and tin}' 
 black slip[)ers. There was a black velvet ribbon on her little 
 white neck ; her head was a mass of dark chestnut cuils, 
 which suited her lovely face admirably, and fell upon her 
 white shoulders behind so beautifully, that I would not have 
 believed Karl Ivanitch himself if he had told me that they 
 curled so because they had been twisted up in bits of ■' The 
 IMoscow Gazette" ever since the morning, and pinched with 
 hot irons. She seemed to have been born with that curly 
 head. 
 
 A stiiking feature of her face was her nnusuall}' large, 
 prominent, half-closed eyes, which formed a strange but 
 agreeable contrast to her small mouth. Iler li[)s were tightly 
 closed; and her eyes had such a serious look, and the gen- 
 eral expression of her face was such, 'that зюи Avould not look 
 for a smile on it ; and therefore a smile was all the more 
 enchanting. 
 
 I crept to the door of the hall, endeavoring to remain 
 unperceived, and decided that it would be well to walk back 
 and forth feigning meditation, and that I was not aware ttiat 
 guests had arrived. AVhen thej' had traversed half the 
 apartment, I apparently came to myself, made my bow, and 
 informed them that grandmamma was in the drawing-room. 
 Madame Valakhina, whose face pleased me extremely, espe- 
 cially because I discerned in it a strong resemblance to her 
 daughter Sonitchka, nodded graciously to me. 
 
 Grandmamma appeared to be very glad to see Sonitchka: 
 she called her close to her, adjusted one of her curls which 
 had fallen over her forehead, and, gazing attentively at her 
 face, she said, ''What a charming child!" Sonitchkai 
 smiled and blushed so prettily that I l)lushed also as I looked 
 at her. 
 
 •' I hope 3'ou will not be bored here, ni}^ little friend," 
 said grandmamma, taking hold of her chin, and raising her 
 little face. " I beg that you will be merry and dance as 
 much as possible. Ыеге is one lady and two cavaliers," she 
 added, turning to Madame Valakhina, and touching me with 
 her hand. 
 
 Tins biinging us together pleased me so much that it made 
 me blush again. 
 
 Conscious that my shyness was increasing, and hearing 
 thii noise of another cariiage as it drove up, 1 deemed it best
 
 cniLDUoon. 77 
 
 to make a retreat. In the ante-room I fonncl Princess Kor- 
 nakova with her son and an incredible number of daughters. 
 The daughters were all exactly alike in countenance, — they 
 resembled the Princess, and were ugly : therefore no one of 
 them arrested my attention. As they took off their cloaks, 
 and shook out their trains, they all began suddenly- to talk in 
 thin little voices as they fussed and laughed at something — 
 probably because there were so man}' of them. Etienne was 
 a tall, fleshy lad of fifteen, with a bloodless face, sunken 
 eyes with blue circles beneath them, and hands and feet 
 which were enormous for his age : he was awkward, had a 
 rough and disagreeable voice, but appeared very well satis- 
 fied with himself, and according to my views he was precisely ' 
 the sort of boy who gets whipped with a switch. 
 
 We stood for quite a while oppcjsite each other, without 
 uttering a word, examining each other attentively. Then we 
 approached a little nearer, apparentl}^ with the desire to kiss 
 each other, but we clianged our minds for some reason or 
 other after we had looked in each other's eyes. When the 
 dresses of all his sisters rustled past us, I inquired, for the 
 sake of beginning the conversation, whether tliey were not 
 crowded in the carriage. 
 
 •'I don't know," he answered carelessly, "for I пел'ег 
 ride in the carriage, because just as soon as I take my seat I 
 begin to feel ill, and mamma knows it. When we go any- 
 where in the evening, I always sit on the box. It's much 
 jollier, you can see every thing ; and Philip lets me drive, 
 and sometimes I have the whip. Sometimes I do .so to the 
 passers-by," he added with an expressive gesture: "it's 
 splendid Г " 
 
 "Your excellency," said the footman, entering the ante- 
 room, "Philip wants to know where you were pleased to 
 put the луЬ1р? " 
 
 " AVhat's the matter? I gave it to him." 
 
 " He says that you did not." 
 
 " Well, then I hung it on the lantern." 
 
 " Philip says that it is not on the lantern ; and you had 
 better say that you took it and lost it, or Philip will have to 
 pay for your pranks out of his small Avages," continued the 
 angry footman with increasing animation. 
 
 The footman, wdio seemed to be a respectable but sullen 
 man, appeared to take Philip's side, and was resolved to clear 
 up this matter at any cost. From an involuntary feeling of
 
 78 cniLDnooj). 
 
 delicacy I stepped aside as though I had obsen'ed nothing. 
 But the lackeys who were present behaved quite differently : 
 they came nearer, and gazed approvingly at the old servant. 
 
 " Well, I lost it, I lost it," said Etienne, avoiding further 
 explanations. "I'll pay him what the whip Is worth. This 
 is amusing ! " he added, approaching me, and leading mc 
 towards the drawing-room. 
 
 " No, master, how will you pay? I know 3'ou have been 
 eight months paying Marya Vasilievna twenty kopeks, and it's 
 the same in my case, and it's two years since Petrushka " — 
 
 " Hold your tongue ! " shouted the 3'oung prince, turning 
 pale with rage. " I'll tell all about it." 
 
 "You'll tell all, you'll tell all!" went on the footman. 
 "This is bad, your excellency," he added with a peculiar 
 expression as we entered the drawing-room, and he went to 
 the wardrobe with the cloaks. 
 
 "That's right, that's right!" said an approving voice 
 behind us in the ante-room. 
 
 Grandmamma had a peculiar gift for expressing her opin- 
 ion of people by adding to a certain tone on certain occa- 
 sions the singular and plural pronouns of the secoi.d person. 
 Although she employed you and thou in direct opposition to 
 the generally received usage, these shades of meaning ac- 
 quired an entirely different significance in her mouth. When 
 the young prince approached her, she at first addressed a few 
 words to him, calling him yon, and regarding him with such 
 an expression of scorn that had I been in his place I should 
 have become utterlj- abashed. But evidently Etienne was not 
 a boy of that stamp : he not only paid no heed to grand- 
 mamma's reception, but even to her person, and saluted the 
 whole company, if not gracefull}' at least without constraint. 
 Sonitchka occupied all my attention. I remember that when 
 Volodya, Etienne, and I were talking together in a part of the 
 room from which Sonitchka was visible, and she could see 
 and hear us, I spoke with pleasure ; when I had occasion to 
 utter what seemed to me an amusing or manly remark, I 
 spoke loudly, and glanced at the drawing-room door ; but 
 when we changed to another place from which it was impos- 
 sible to be seen or heard from the drawing-room, I remained 
 silent, and found no further pleasure in the conversation. 
 
 The drawing-room and salon gradually tilled with guests. 
 As alwaj^s happens at children's parties, there were several 
 large; children among the number, who were not willing to
 
 CHILDHOOD. 79 
 
 miss an opportunity of dancing and making merry, if only 
 for the sake of pleasing the hostess. 
 
 AVhen the Ivins arrived, instead of the pleasure which I 
 generally experienced at meeting Serozha, I was conscious 
 of a certain strange vexation because he would see Souitchka 
 and would show оЙ' to her. 
 
 v^
 
 80 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 BEFORE THE MAZURKA. 
 
 "Eh! yoii are evidently going to have dancing," said 
 Serozha, coming from the drawing-room, and pulling a pair 
 of new kid gloves from his pocket: "I must put on П13' 
 gloves." 
 
 "What's that for? we have no gioл'es," I thought: "I 
 must go up-stairs, and hunt for some." 
 
 But although I rummaged all the drawers, all I found 
 was, in one, our green travelling mittens ; in another, one 
 kid glove which was of no зеглчсе whatever to me, in the 
 first place because it was very old and dirty, in the second 
 because it was too large for me, and especially because the 
 middle finger was wanting, having been cut off long ago, 
 ргоЬа1)1зг by Karl Ivanitch for a sore hand. Nevertheless 1 
 put this remnant of a glove upon my hand, and regarded 
 intently that place upon my middle finger which was always 
 smeared with ink. 
 
 " If Natalya Savischna were only here, she would surely 
 find me some gloves." It was impossible to go down-stairs 
 in such a plight, because, if they asked me why I did not 
 dance, what could I say? To remain here was equallj'^ im- 
 possible, because I should infallibly be caught. " What am 
 I to do?" I said, flouiisiiing ni}' hands. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" asked Л''olodya, running 
 iu : "go engage 3'our lady, it will begin directly." 
 
 " Yolodya," I said to him, displa^'iug ni}' hand, with two 
 fingers sticking out of the dirt}' glove, and expressing in my 
 voice that I was in a state which bordered on despair, — 
 " Volodya, 3'ou never thought of this." 
 
 "Of what?" said he impatiently. "Ah! gloves," he 
 added quite indifferent^, catching sight of ni}' hand. "No, 
 I didn't, in fact. You must ask grandmamma. What will 
 she say ? " and, without pausing to refiect, he ran down-stairs.
 
 CHILDHOOD. 83 
 
 The cold-bloodedness with which he expressed hiuTir^(^| q-\^_ 
 a point which seemed to me so weighty, re-assured me,^.,tpj. 
 I hastened to the drawing-room, totally' oblivious of tht. 
 grotesque glove on my left hand. 
 
 Approaching grandmamma's arm-chair with caution, and 
 touching her mantle lightly, 1 said in a whisper : 
 
 "Grandmamma! what are we to do? ЛУе have no 
 gloves ! " 
 
 " What, my dear? " 
 
 "We have no gloves," I repeated, drawing nearer and 
 nearer, and laying both hands on the arm of her chair. 
 
 "And what is this?" she said all at once seeing my 
 left hand. "See here, my dear," she went on, turning 
 to Madame Valakhina, "this young man has made himself 
 elegant in order to dance with your daughter." 
 
 Grandmamma held me firmly by the hand, and gazed 
 seriously but inquiringly at her guests until all had satisfied 
 their curiosity, and the laugh had become general. 
 
 I should have been very much troubled if Serozha had 
 seen me during the time, when, frowning with shame, I 
 vainly endeavored to tear my hand free ; but I was not at all 
 pained in the presence of Sonitchka, who laughed until her 
 eyes were filled with tears, and all her curls fluttered about 
 her rosy little face. 1 understood that her laugh was too 
 loud and natural to be mocking : on the contrary, we 
 laughed together, and seemed to come nearer to each other 
 as we exchanged glances. This episode of the glove, although 
 it might end badly, gained me this advantage, that it placed 
 me on easy terms with a circle which had always seemed to 
 me most terrible, — the drawing-room circle; I felt not the 
 slightest timidity in the hall. 
 
 The sufferings of shy people arise from their uncertainty 
 as to the opinion which people have formed of them : as 
 soon as this opinion is o[>ciily demonstrated, — in whatever 
 form it may occur, — this suffering ceases. 
 
 How charming Sonitchka Valakhina was, as she danced 
 opposite me in the French quadrille with the clumsy young 
 Prince ! How sweetly she smiled when she gave me her 
 little hand in the chain ! How prettily her golden curls 
 waved in measure, how naively she brought her tiny feet 
 together ! AVhen, in the fifth figure, my i)artner left me and 
 went to the other side, while 1 waited for tlie time and piv- 
 pared to execute my solo, Sonitchka clobtd her lii)s srriunsly
 
 80 CUILDIIOOD. 
 
 i<ed aside. But her fear for me was unnecessary, 
 jidly made my chasse to the front, chasse to the rear, 
 and ray glide ; and when I ai)proaehed her, I phiyf uUy showed 
 her my glove with my two fingers sticking out. She laughed 
 excessively, and her little feet tripped about upon the waxed 
 floor more bewitchingly than ever. I still rem^'mber how, 
 when we formed a circle and all joined hands, she bent her 
 little head, and, without removing her hand from mine, 
 scratched her little nose with her glove. I can still see all 
 this as though it were directly before \ny eyes, and I still 
 hear the quadrille from ''ТЬе Maid of the Danube," to 
 whose music all this took place. 
 
 The second quadrille arriA'cd, and I danced it with So- 
 nitchka. After seating myself beside her, I felt extremely 
 awkward, and did not know in the least what to say to her. 
 IVhen my silence had lasted too long, I began to fear that 
 she would take me for a fool ; and I resolved to rescue her 
 from any such error on my account, at any cost. '' You are 
 an inhal)itant of Moscow? " I said to her, and after receiv- 
 ing an answer in the affirmative, I went on : " For my part, 
 I have never yet frequented the capital," with a calculation 
 as to the effect which the word " frequent" would produce. 
 Nevertheless, I felt that although this was a very brilliant 
 beginning, and full^- proved my Ivuowledge of the РЧ -ench 
 tongue, 1 was incapable of continuing the conversation in 
 this strain. Our turn to dance would not come very soon, 
 but the silence was renewed. I gazed at her uneasily, de- 
 sirous of knowing what impression I had produced, and 
 awaiting her assistance. " Where did you find such a funny 
 glove?" she inquired suddenly; and this question caused 
 me the greatest pleasure and relief. I explained that the 
 glove belonged to Karl Ivanitch, went into some rather ironi- 
 cal details concerning Karl Ivanitch's person, — how ridicu- 
 lous he was when he took off his red cap ; and, how he had 
 once fallen from a liorse, when dressed in his green overcoat, 
 straight into a puddle, and so forth. The quadrille passed 
 off without our perceiving it. All this was very delightful ; 
 but wh}' did I ridicule Karl Ivanitch? Should I have lost 
 Sonitchka's good opinion if I had described him with the 
 love and respect луЬ{сЬ I felt for him ? 
 
 When the quadrille came to an end, Sonitchka said, "Thank 
 V'ou," with as sweet an expression as though I had really 
 deserved her «ratitude. 1 was in ecstasies. I was l)eside
 
 CHILDHOOD. 83 
 
 myself with joy, and did not know myself whence I had ob- 
 tained such daring, confidence, and even boldness. " Noth- 
 ing can confnse me," I thought, promenading about the 
 salon quite unembarrassed ; ''I am ready for an}' thing." 
 
 iSerozha proposed to me to be his vis-a-vis. "Very well," 
 said I, **I have no partner, but I will find one." Casting 
 a decisive glance about the room, I perceived that all the 
 ladies were engaged with the exception of one big girl, who 
 Avas standing at the parlor door. A tall young man ap- 
 proached her with the intention, as I concluded, of inviting 
 her to dance ; he was within a couple of paces of her, but 
 I was at the other end of the hall. In the twinkling of 
 an eye, I flew across the space which separated her, sliding 
 gracefully over the polished floor, and Avith a scrape of my 
 foot and a firm voice. I invited her for the contra-dance. 
 The big girl smiled patronizingly, gave me her hand, and 
 the 5'oung man was left partnerless. 
 
 I was so conscious of my power, that I paid no heed to 
 the 3'ouug man's vexation ; but I afterwards learned that he 
 inquired who that frowsy bo}- was, who had jumped in front 
 of him and taken away Jais partner.
 
 84 CniLDHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE MAZURKA. 
 
 The young man whom I had robbed of his lady, danced in 
 the first couple of the mazurka. He sprang from his place, 
 holding his lady by the hand, and, instead of making the 
 pas de Basques as Mimi had taught us, he simply ran for- 
 ward. When he had reached the corner, he halted, cracked 
 his heels, turned around, and went skipping on farther. 
 
 As I had no partner for the mazurka, I sat behind grand- 
 mamma's high chair, and looked on. 
 
 '' Why does he do that?" I pondered. "That's not at 
 all as Mimi taught us. 8he declared that everybody danced 
 the mazurka on their toes, bringing their feet round in a 
 gliding circular form ; and it turns out that they don't dance 
 that way at all. There are the Ivins and Etienne and all 
 of them dancing, and they are not doing the />as de Basques. 
 And our Volodya has picked up the new fashion ! It's not 
 bad ! And how lovel}' Souitchka is ! There she goes ! " 
 
 I was very merry. 
 
 The mazurka was nearing its end. Several elderlv ladies 
 and gentlemen came up to take leave of grandmanmia, and 
 departed. The lackeys, skilfully keeping out of the way of 
 the dancers, brought the dishes into the back room. Grand- 
 mamma was evidently weary, and seemed to speak unwill- 
 ingly and in a very drawling waN' : the musicians indolently 
 began the same air for the thirtieth time. The big girl with 
 whom 1 liad danced caught sight of me as she was going 
 through a figure, and smiling treacherously, — she must have 
 wanted to please grandmamma, — she led Sonitclika and one 
 of the innumerable princesses up to me. "Rose or nettle?" 
 said she. 
 
 "Ah, so you are here!" said grandmamma, turning 
 I'ound in her chair. " Go, my dear, go." 
 
 Althouiih at that moment 1 would much rather ha\e hid
 
 CHILDnOOD. 85 
 
 my head under grandmamma's chair, than emerge from be- 
 hind it, how could I refuse ? I stood up, and said '' Rose," 
 as 1 glanced timidly at Souitchka. Before I could гесолег 
 myself, some one's hand in a white kid glove rested in mine, 
 and the princess started forward with a pleasant smile, with- 
 out the least suspicion that 1 did not in the least know what 
 to do with mj' feet. 
 
 I knew that the p^rs de Basques was out of place, un- 
 suitable, and that it might even put me to shame ; but the 
 well-known sounds of the Mazurka acting upon my ear, 
 communicated a familiar movement to the acoustic nerves, 
 which, in turn, communicated it to my feet ; and the latter, 
 quite involuntarily, and to the amazement of all beholders, 
 began the fatal circular gliding step on the tips of the toes. 
 As loug as we proceeded straight ahead, we got on after a 
 fashion ; but when we turned I observed, that, unless I took 
 some precautions, I should certainly get in advance. In 
 order to avoid such a catastrophe I stopped short, with the 
 intention of making the same kind of knee which the 3'oung 
 man in the first couple made so beautifully. But at the 
 very moment w'hen I separated my feet, and was preparing 
 to spring, the princess, circling hastily around me, looked 
 down at ni}' feet w'ith an expression of stupid curiosity' and 
 amazement. That look finished me. I lost my self-com- 
 mand to such an extent, that instead of dancing I stamped 
 my feet up and down in one spot in a fashion which resem- 
 bled nothing on earth, and finall}' came to a dead stand-still. 
 Every one stared at me, some with surprise, others with 
 curiosity, with amusement, or sympathy ; grandmamma alone 
 looked on Avith complete indifference. 
 
 ''You should not dance if you do not know how," said 
 jiapa's angry voice in my ear ; and thrusting me aside with 
 a light push, he took my partner's hand, danced a turn Avith 
 her in antique fashiou, to the A-ast delight of the lookers-on, 
 and led her to her seat. The mazurka immediately came to 
 an end. 
 
 Lord ! wh}' dost thou. chastise me so terribly^? 
 
 Everybody despises me, and will always scorn me. The 
 paths to every thing, love, friendshi[), honor, are shut to 
 me. AH is lost! Why did ЛЪЬх1уа make signs to me 
 wliich ever3' one saw, and which could render me no assist- 
 ance ? Why did that hateful princess look at my feet like
 
 86 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 that? Why (lid Sonitchka — she was lovely, but why did 
 she smile just theu? Why did papa blush, and seize my 
 hand? was even he asliamed of me? Oh, this was frightful ! 
 If mamma had been there, she would uot have blushed for 
 her Nikolinka. And my fancy bore me far awa}' to this 
 sweet vision. I recalled the meadow in front of the house, 
 the tall linden-trees in the garden, the clear pond over which 
 the swallows tluttered, tlie blue sk}" in which hung transpar- 
 ent white clouds, the perfumed stacks of fresh hay ; and 
 many other joyous, soothing memories were borne in upon 
 шу distracted uuaginatiou.
 
 CHILDUOOD. 87 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 AFTER THE MAZURKA. 
 
 At supper, the young man who had danced in the first 
 couple sat down at our children's table, and paid special 
 attention to me, which would have flattered my vanity not a 
 little, if I had been capable of any sentiment whatever after 
 the catastrophe which had occurred to me. But the young 
 man seemed determined to cheer me up on any terms. He 
 played with me, he called me a fine fellow ; and when none 
 of the grown-up people were looking at us, he poured me 
 glasses of wine out of various bottles, and made me drink 
 them. At the end of the supper, when the waiter poured me 
 only a quarter of a glass of champagne from his napkin- 
 wrapped bottle, and the youug man insisted that he should 
 pour it full, and made me swallow it at one gulp, I felt an 
 agreeable warmth through all my body, and a special kindli- 
 ness towards m}' jolly protector, and I laughed excessively 
 over something. 
 
 All at once the sounds of the grandfather dance resounded 
 from the salon, and the guests began to rise from the table. 
 My friendship with the young man immediately came to an 
 end ; he went off to the big people, and I, not daring to fol- 
 low, approached with a curiosity to hear what Madame 
 Valakhina was saying to her daughter. 
 
 *■' Just another little half-hour," said Souitchka entreat- 
 ingly. 
 
 "It is really impossible, m}- angel." 
 
 "Come, for my sake, please," she said coaxingly. 
 
 " Will it make you happy if I am ill to-morrow?" said 
 Madame Valakhina, and was so inipi'udent as to smile. 
 
 "Oh, you permit it! we may stay?" cric^d Souitchka, 
 dancing with joy. 
 
 " What is to be done with you? Well then, go, dance. 
 Here's a cavalier for you," she said, pointing at me.
 
 88 - CniLDIIOOD. 
 
 Sonitchka gave me her hand, and we ran into the salon. 
 
 The wine which I had drunk, tSonitchka's presence and 
 gayety, caused me to completely forget my miserable scrape 
 in the mazurka. I cut amusing cai)ers with my feet ; 1 imi- 
 tated a horse, and went at a gentle trot, lifting m}' legs 
 proudly, then I stamped on one spot like a ram Avho is angr^' 
 at a dog, and laughed heartil}', without caring in the least 
 what impression I might produce upon the spectators. 
 Sonitchka, too, never ceased to laugh ; she laughed when we 
 circled round hand in hand, she laughed when she looked at 
 some old gentleman who lifted his feet with care and stepped 
 over a handkerchief, pretending that it was very difficult for 
 him to do it, and she nearly died of laughter when I leaped 
 almost to the ceiling in order to display my agility. 
 
 As I passed through grandmamma's study, I glanced at 
 myself in the mirror: my face Avas bathed in perspiration, 
 тз' hair was in disorder, the tuft on the crown of my head 
 stood up worse than ever ; but the general expression of my 
 countenance was so merry, kind, and healthy, that I was 
 even pleased W4th myself. 
 
 " If I were always like this," I thought, " I might be able 
 to please." 
 
 But when I glanced again at the very beautiful little face 
 of my partner, there was in it, besides the expression of 
 gayety, health, and freedom from care, which had pleased me 
 in my own, so much gentle and elegant beauty, that I was 
 vexed with myself. I comprehended how stupid it was of 
 me to call the attention of such a wonderful being to myself. 
 I could not hope for a reciprocal feeling, and, indeed, I did 
 not think of it : my soul was filled with bliss independent 
 of that. I did not understand that in return for the love 
 which filled my soul with joy, still greater happiness might be 
 demanded, and that something more was to be desired than 
 that this feeling might never end. All was well with me. 
 My heart fluttered like a dove, the blood poured iuto it 
 incessantly, and I wanted to ег}-. 
 
 AVhen we went through the comdor, past the dark store- 
 room under the stairs, I glanced at it, and thought : What 
 bliss it would be if I could live forever with her in that dark 
 storeroom ! and if nobody knew that we lived there. 
 
 ''It's very jolly now, isn't it?" I said in a quiet, ti'em- 
 bling voice, and hastened my stej^s. frightened not so much 
 at what 1 had said, but at what 1 had been mindetl to say.
 
 CfllLDflOOD. 89 
 
 "Yes, very, "-she replied, turning her little head towards 
 me, with sucli a frank, kind expression that m}- fears ceased. 
 
 "Especially after supper. But if you only knew how 
 sorry [I Avanted to say j^ciined, but did not dare] I ain that 
 you are going away so soon, and that we shall not see each 
 other any inore ! " 
 
 " Why shall we not see each other? " said she, regarding 
 intently the toes of her slippers, and drawing her fingers 
 along the grated screen which we were passing. " Mamma 
 and I go to the Tversky boulevard every Tuesday and Friday. 
 Don't you go to walk ? " 
 
 " I shall ask to go without fail on Tuesday ; and if they 
 won't let me go, I will run away alone, and without my hat. 
 I know the way." 
 
 " Do you know," said Sonitchka suddenly, " I always say 
 thou to some little boys who come to our house ; let us call 
 each other thou. Wilt thou? " she added throwing back her 
 little head, and looking me straight in the eye. 
 
 At this moment we entered the salon, and the second, 
 livelv part of grandfather was beginning. "Do," I said at 
 a point when the noise and music could drown my words. 
 
 " Say thoii," ^ corrected Sonitchka, with a laugh. ■ 
 
 " Grandfather" ended, and I had not managed to utter a 
 single phrase with thou, although 1 never ceased inventing 
 such as would allow of several repetitions of that pronoun. 
 I had not sufficient courage. "Wilt thou?" resounded in 
 my ears, and produced a kind of intoxication. I saw nothing 
 and nobody but Sonitchka. I saw them lift her locks, and 
 tuck them behind her ears, disclosii>g portions of her brow 
 and temples which I had not seen before ; I saw them wrap 
 her up in the green shawl so closely, that only the tip of her 
 little nose was visible ; I observed that if she had not made 
 a little aperture near her mouth with her rosy little fingers, she 
 wcjuld infaUibly have suffocated ; and I saw how she turned 
 quickly towards us, as she descended the stairs with her 
 mother, nodded her head, and disappeared through the door. 
 
 Volodya, the Ivins, the young Prince, and 1 were all in 
 love with Sonitchka, and we followed her with our eyes as 
 we stood on the stairs. I do not know to whom in particu- 
 lar she nodded her little head ; but at that moment I was 
 firmly convinced that it was done for me. 
 
 1 Nikolai used davai-te, the second person plural. Sonitchka said datai, second 
 person singular.
 
 90 CniLDnOOD. 
 
 As I took leave of the Ivins, I couverserl and shook hands 
 quite iinconstrainedly, and even rather coldly, with Serozha. 
 If he understood that on that day he had lost my love, and 
 his power over me, he was surely sorry for it, though he 
 endeavored to appear quite indifferent. 
 
 For the fii'st time in my life I had changed in love, and 
 for the first time I experienced the sweetness of that feeling. 
 It delighted me to exchange a worn-out sentiment of familiar 
 affection for the fresh feeling of a love full of mystery and 
 uncertainty. Moreover, to fall out of love and into love at 
 the same time means loving with twice the previous fervor.
 
 CHILDHOOD. 91 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 "How could I love Serozlia so passionately, and so long? " 
 1 meditated, as I lay in bed, "• No, he never understood, 
 he never was capable of prizing my love, and he was never 
 worthy of it. And Sonitchka? how charming ! ' Wilt thou? * 
 ' It is thy turn to begin.' " 
 
 I sprang up on all fours, as I pictured to myself her little 
 face in lively colors, covered my head with the coverlet, 
 tucked it under me on all sides, and when no opening re- 
 mained an}- where, I lay down, and, with a pleasant sensation 
 of warmth, buried myself in sweet visions and memories. 
 Fixing my gaze immovably upon the lining of the wadded 
 quilt, I saw her as clearly as I had seen her an hour before ; 
 I conversed with her mentally, and that conversation, though 
 utterly lacking in sense, afforded me iudescribal)le delight, 
 because thee, to thee, and thine occurred in it constantly. 
 
 These visions were so clear that I could not sleep for sweet 
 emotion, and I wanted to share my superabundance of bliss 
 with some one. 
 
 " The darling ! " I said almost aloud, turning abruptly оц 
 the other side. " Volodya ! are you awake? " 
 
 " No," he replied in a sleepy voice : " what is it? " 
 
 " I am in love, Volodya. I am decidedly in love with 
 Sonitchka." 
 
 " AVell, Avhat of it? " he answered, stretching himself. 
 
 "O Volodya! you cannot imagine what is going on with- 
 in me ; here I was just now lying tucked up in the coverlet, 
 and I saw her so plainly, so plainly, and I talked with her ; 
 it wassimjily marvellous ! And, do yon know, when 1 lie and 
 think of her I grow sad, and 1 want to weep dreadfully, 
 God knows why." 
 
 Volodya moved. 
 
 " There's only one thing I wish," I went on : " that is, to
 
 92 CniLDIIOOD. 
 
 be always with her, to see her always, and nothing else. 
 And are you in love? Confess the truth, Volodya ! " 
 
 It's odd, but I wanted everybody to be in love \vith So- 
 nitchka, and then I wanted them all to tell me. 
 
 " What is that to 3'ou ? " said Volodya, turning his face 
 towards me, — '■'■ perhaps." 
 
 "You don't Avant to sleep; you were making believe! " 
 I cried, perceiving by his shining eyes that he was not think- 
 ing of sleep in the least ; and I flung aside the coverlet. 
 "Let's discuss her. She's charming, isn't she? 80 charm- 
 ing that if she were to say to me : ' Nikolascha ! jump out of 
 the window, or throw yourself into the fire,' — well, 1 swear 
 I should do it immediately," said I, "and with joy. Ah, 
 how bewitching! " I added, as I called her before me in 
 imagination, and in order to enjoy myself in this manner to 
 the fullest extent, I rolled abruptly over on the other side, 
 and thrust my head under the pillow. " I want to cry 
 dreadfully, Volodya ! " 
 
 " What a fool ! " said he smiling, and then was silent for 
 a while. " I'm not a bit like you : I think that, if it were 
 possible, I should like at first to sit beside her and talk." 
 
 " Ah ! so you are in love too? " I interrupted. 
 
 "And then," continued Volodya, smiling tenderly, "then 
 I would kiss her little fingers, her eyes, her lips, her nose, 
 her tin}' feet, — I would kiss all." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " cried I from under the pillow. 
 
 " You don't understand any thing about it," said Volodya 
 contemjituously. 
 
 "Yes, I do understand, but you don't, and 3'ou're talkiug 
 nonsense," I said tlirough my tears. 
 
 " AVell, there's nothing to cry about. She's a genuine 
 oirll"
 
 CHILDHOOD. 93 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE LETTER. 
 
 On the 16th of April, nearly six months after the clay 
 which I have described, father came np-stairs to us, during 
 our lesson liour, and announced to us that we were to set 
 out for the country with him tliat night. My heart con- 
 tracted at this news, and my thoughts turned at once to my 
 mother. 
 
 The following letter was the cause of our unexpected de- 
 parture : — 
 
 Petrovskoe, April 12. 
 
 I have but just recpived your kind letter of April .3d, at ten o'clock 
 in the evening, and, in accordance with my usual custom, I answer it 
 immediately. Fedor l)rought it from town last night, but, as it was 
 late, he gave it to Mimi. And Mimi, under the pretext that I was ill 
 and unnerved, did not give it to me for a whole day. I really have 
 had a little fever, and, to tell the truth, this is the fourth day that I 
 have been too ill to leave my bed. 
 
 Pray do not be alarmed, my dear; I feel very well, and if Ivan 
 Vasilitch will permit me, I intend to get up to-morrow. 
 
 On Friday of last week. I went to ride with the children; but the 
 horses stuck in the nuid close to the entrance to the higliAvay, near 
 tiiat very bridge which has always frightened me. The day was \erf 
 fine, and I thought I would go as far as the highway on foot, while 
 they pulled the calash out. When I reached tlie chapel, I was very 
 nui'di faiigued, and sat down to rest; and about half an hour elapsed 
 while they were sunmioning people to drag the carriage out. I felt 
 col 1, particularly in my feet, for I had on thin-soled shoes, and they 
 were wet through. After dinner I felt a chill and a hot turn, but I 
 coutinued to walk according to the usual programme, and after tea 
 I sat down to play a duet Avith Liubotchka. ( Vou would not recog- 
 nize her, she has made such progress!) But imagine my surprise, 
 when I found that I could not count the time. I began to count 
 several times, but my head was all in confusion, and I felt a strange 
 n;)ise in my ears. I counted one, two, three, then all at once eiglit 
 and fifteen; and the chief point was tliat I saw that I was lying, and 
 could not correct myself. Finally Mimi came to my assistance, and 
 put me to bed, almost by force. This, my dear, is a circmnstaiitial 
 account of how I became ill, and how I myself am to W ime. The
 
 94 CHILDHOOD, 
 
 next day, I had quite a high fever, and oiir good old Ivan Vasilitch 
 came: he still lives with us, and promises to set me free speedily in 
 God's world once more. Л wonderful old man is tliat Ivan Vasilitch! 
 When I had the fever, and was delirious, he sat beside my bed all 
 night, without closing his eyes; and now he knows that I am writing, 
 he is sitting in the boudoir with the girls, and from my bedroom I can 
 hear him telling them German tales, and them dying with laughter 
 as they listen. 
 
 La belle Flamande, as you call her, has been staying with me for 
 two weeks past, because her mother has gone off visiting somewhere, 
 and she evinces the most sincere affection by her care for me. She 
 intrusts me with all her secrets of the heart. If she were in good 
 hands, she might turn out a very fine girl, with her beautiful face, 
 kind lieart, and youth; but she will be utterly ruined in the society in 
 whicli sbe lives, judging from her own account. It has occurred to 
 me, that, if I had not so many children, I should be doing a good deed 
 in taking charge of her. 
 
 Liubotchka wanted to Avrite to you herself; but she has already 
 torn up the third sheet of paper, and says: "I know what a scoffer 
 papa is; if you make a single mistake, he shows it to everybody." 
 Katenka is as sweet as ever, Mimi as good and stupid. 
 
 Now I will talk to you about serious matters. You write that your 
 affairs are not going well this winter, and that it is indispensable that 
 you should take the money from Khabarovka. It surprises me that 
 you should even ask my consent to that. Does not what belongs to 
 me belong equally to you ? 
 
 You are so kind an 1 good, that you conceal the real state of things, 
 from the fear of troubling me: but I guess that you have probably 
 lost a great deal at play, and I assure you that I am not angry at you; 
 therefore, if the matter can only be arranged, pray do not think too 
 much of it, and do not worry yourself needlessly. I bave become ac- 
 customed not to count upon your winnings for the children, but even 
 (excuse me) on your whole estate. Your winnings cause me as little 
 pleasure as your losses cause pain: the only thing which does pain 
 me is your unhappy passion for gambling, which deprives me of 
 a portion of your tender attachment, and makes me tell you such 
 bitter truths as I tell you now; and God knows how this hurts me! 
 I shall not cease to pray God for one thing, that he will save you, not 
 from poverty (what is poverty?), but from that frightful situation, 
 when the interests of the children, which I am bound to protect, shall 
 come into conflict with ours. Heretofore tbe Lord has fulfilled my 
 prayer: you have not passed the line beyond which we must either 
 sacrifice our property, — which no longer belongs to us, but to ош* 
 children, — or — and it is terrible to think of, but this horrible misfor- 
 tune continu;illy tbreatens us. Yes, it is a heavy cross which the Lord 
 has sent to both of us. 
 
 You write about the children, and return to our old dispute: you 
 ask me to consent to send them to some educational institution. You 
 know my prejudices against such education. 
 
 I do not know, my dear friend, whether you will agree with me; 
 but I beseech you, in any case, to promise, out of love for me, that as 
 long as I live, and after my death, if it shall jilease God to part us, 
 never to do this. 
 
 You write that it is indispensable that you should go to Petersburg
 
 CUILDIIOOD. 93 
 
 about our affairs. Christ be with you, my friend; go and return as 
 speedily as possible. It is so wearisome for all of us without you! 
 The spi'ing is wonderfully beautiful. The balcony door has already 
 been taken down, the paths to the orangery were perfectly dry four 
 days ago, the peach-trees are in full bloom, the snow lingers in a few 
 spots only, the swallows have come, and now Liubotchica has brought 
 me the first spring tlowers. The doctor says I shall be quite Avell in 
 three days, and may breathe the fresh air, and warm myself in the 
 April sun. Farewell, dear friend: pray do not луоггу about my illness, 
 nor about your losses; finisli your business as speedily as possible, and 
 come to us with the children for the whole summer. I am making 
 famous plans for passing it, and you alone are lacking to their realiza- 
 tion. 
 
 The remaining portion of the letter was written in French, 
 in a cramped and uneven hand, on a second scrap of paper. 
 I translate it word for word : — 
 
 Do not believe what I wrote to you about my Illness ; no one sus- 
 pects how serious it is. I alone know that I shall never rise from my 
 bed again. Do not lose a moment: come and bring the children. 
 Perhaps I may be able to embrace them once again, and bless them: 
 that is my last wish. I know what a terrible blow I am dealing you; 
 but it matters not: sooner or later you would receive it from me, or 
 from others. Let us try to bear this misfortune with firmness, and 
 hope in God's mercy. Let us submit to His will. 
 
 Do not think that what I write is the raving of a delirious imagin- 
 ation: on the contrary, my thoughts are remarkably clear at this 
 moment, and 1 am perfectly composed. Do not comfort yourself with 
 vain hopes, that these are but the dim deceitful presentiments of a 
 timid soul. No, I feel, I know — and I know because God was 
 pleased to reveal this to me — that I have not long to live. 
 
 Will my love for you and the children end with this life? I know 
 that this is imi)ossible. I feel too strongly at this moment to think that 
 this feeling, without which I cannot conceive of existence, could ever 
 be annihilated. My soul cannot exist without its love for you; and 
 I know that it will exist forever, from this one thing, that such a 
 sentiment as my love could never arise, were it ever to come to an end. 
 
 1 shall not be with you, but I am firmly convinced that my love 
 will never leave you; and tliis thought is so comforting to my heart, 
 that I await my fast apijroaching death, calmly, and without terror. 
 
 I am calm, and G(jd knows tliat4 have always regarded death, and 
 still regard it, as a passage to a better life; but why do tears crush me? 
 Why deprive the childi-en of their beloved mother? Why deal you so 
 heavy, so unlooked-for a blow? ^Vhy must 1 die, when your love has 
 rendered life boundlessly happy for me? 
 
 May His holy will be done! 
 
 I can write no more for tears. Perhaps I shall not see you. I 
 thank you, my precious friend, for all the happiness with Avhich you 
 have surrounded me in this life; I shall pray God there, that he will 
 reward you. Farewell, dear friend ; remember, when I am no more, 
 that my love wiil never abandon you, wherever you may be. Fare- 
 well Volodya, fai'ewell my angel, farewell Benjamin, my Nikolinka. 
 \ W^ill they ever forget me? 
 
 \
 
 06 CniLDnOOD. 
 
 This letter enclosed a note in French, from Mimi, which 
 read c4s follows : — 
 
 The sa 1 presentiments of which she speaks are Imt too well con- 
 firmeJ by tlie doctor's words. Last night slie ordered tliis letter to he 
 talcen to the post at once. Thinking that slie said tliis in delirium, I 
 Avaited until this morning, and then made up my mind to open it. No 
 sooner had I done so, than Natalya Nilcolaevna asked me what I had 
 done Avith the letter, and ordered me to burn it if it had not been 
 sent. Slie keeps speaking of it and declai-es that it Avill kill you. Do 
 not delay your coming, if you wish to see this angel while she is still 
 left with us. Excuse this scrawl. I have not slept for three nights. 
 You know how I love her! 
 
 Natalya Savisclina, who had passed the entire night of 
 the 11th of April in mamma's chamber, told me, that, after 
 writing the first part of the letter, mamma laid it on the 
 little table beside her, and went to sleep. 
 
 "I confess," said Natal3'a Savisclina, "that I dozed in 
 the arm-chair myself, and my stocking fell from my hands. 
 But, about one o'clock, I heard in my dreams, that she 
 seemed to be couv^ersing with some one ; I opened my eyes, 
 and looked : she was sitting up in bed, my little doA^e, with 
 her little hands folded thus, and her tears were flowing in 
 streams. ' So all is over?' she said, and covered her face 
 with her hands. I sprang up and began to inquire, ' What 
 is the matter with j'ou ? ' 
 
 " 'Ah, Natalya Savischna, if you onl}^ knew what I have 
 just seen ! ' 
 
 " But in spite of all my questions, she would say no more ; 
 she merely ordered me to bring the little table, wrote some- 
 thing more, commanded me to seal the letter in her presence, 
 and send it off immediately. After that, things grew worse 
 and worse."
 
 CUlLLUOOn. 97 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 WIIAT АЛ^АТТЕВ US IX THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Ox the 2')th of April we descended from the travellinc; 
 carriage at the porch of the Petrovskoe house. Papa hatl 
 been very thoughtful when we left Moscow, and when Volodva 
 asked him whether mamma was not ill, he looked sadly at 
 him, and nodded in silence. During the journey he evidently 
 grew more composed ; but as we approached home his face 
 assumed a more and more mournful expression, and when, 
 on alighting from the calash, he asked Foka, who ran pantmg 
 out, '" Where is Natalya Nikolaevna? " his \o\cq Avas not 
 firm, and there were tears in his eyes. Good old Foka 
 glanced at us, dropped his eyes, and, opening the door of the 
 anteroom, he turned aside and answered : 
 
 '' She has not left her room in six days." 
 
 31 ilka, who. as I afterwards learned, had not ceased to 
 howl mournfully since the very day that mamma v/as taken 
 ill, sprang joyously at papa, leaped upon him, whined, and 
 licked his hands ; but he pushed her aside, and went into the 
 drawing-room, thence into the boudoir, from which a door 
 led directly into the bedroom. The nearer he came to the 
 room, the more evident became his disquiet, as was shown by 
 all his movements : as he entered the boudoir, he walked on 
 tiptoe, hardly drew his breath, and crossed himself before he 
 could make up his mind to grasp the handle of the closed 
 door. At that moment Mimi. dishevelled and tear-stained, 
 ran in from the corridor. •• Ah.Piotr Alexandrovitch." she 
 said in a whisper, with an exi)ression of genuine despair, and 
 then, observing that i)apa Avas turning the handle, she added 
 almost inaudildy, •■ it is imi)ossible to pass here; the s[)ring 
 is gone." 
 
 Oh, how sadly this affected my childish imagination, wliich 
 was attuned to sorrow, with a fearful foreboding ! 
 
 We weut to the maids' room. In the corridor we eu-
 
 98 CIllLBUOOD. 
 
 countered Akim, the little fool, who always amused us with 
 his grimaces ; but at that moment he not only did not seem 
 laughable to me, but nothing struck me so painfully as his 
 mindless, iuditferent face. In the maids' room two maids, 
 who were sitting over their work, rose in order to courtesy to 
 us, with such a sorrowful expression that I was frightened. 
 Traversing Mimi's room next, papa opened the door of the 
 bedroom, and we entered. To the right of the door >vere two 
 windows, hung with cloths ; at one of them sat Natalya 
 Savischua, with her spectacles on her nose, knitting a 
 stocking. She did not kiss us as she generally did, but 
 merely rose, looked at us through her spectacles, and the tears 
 poured down her face in streams. I did not like it at all to__ 
 have people begin to cry as soon as they looked at us, when 
 they had been quite calm before. 
 
 At the left of the door stood a screen, and behind the screen 
 the bed, a little table, a little cabinet spread with medicines, 
 and the big arm-chair in which dozed the doctor ; beside the 
 bed stood a youug, extremely fair, and remarkably pretty 
 girl, in a white morning dress, who, with her sleeves turned 
 back, was applying ice to mamma's head, which I could not 
 see at that moment. This girl was la belle Fhimande. of 
 whom mamma had written, and who, later on, played such an 
 important role in the life of the whole farail}'. As soon as 
 we entered, she removed one hand from mamma's head, and 
 arranged the folds on the bosom of her gown, then said in a 
 whisper, " She is unconscious." 
 
 I was very wretched at that moment, but I involuntarily 
 noted all these trifles. It was nearly dark in the room, it was 
 hot, and there was a mingled odor of mint, cologne-water, 
 chamomile, and Hoffmann's drops. This odor impressed me 
 to such a degree that when I siuell it, or when I even recall 
 it, fancy immediately bears me back to that dark, stifling 
 chamber, and reproduces every detail, even the most minute, 
 of that terrible moment. 
 
 Mamma's eyes were open, but she saw nothing.' Oh. I 
 shall never forget that dreadful look ! It expressed so much 
 suffering. 
 
 They led us away. 
 
 ЛУЬеп I afterwards asked Xatalya Savischna about 
 mamma's last moments, this is what she told me : 
 
 '•'After you were taken away, my dear one was restless 
 . for a long time as though something oppressed her, then she
 
 CniLDHOOD. 99 
 
 dropped her head on her pillow, and dozed as quietl}' and 
 peacefully as an angel from heaven. I only went out to see 
 why they did not bring her drinks. AVheu I returned my 
 darling was throwing herself all about, and beckoning your 
 papa to her ; he bent over her, and it was evident that he 
 lacked the power to sa}' what he wished to ; she could only 
 open her lips, and begin to groan, ' My God ! Lord ! The 
 children, the children ! ' I wanted to run and fetch you, but 
 Ivan Vasilitch stopped me and said, 'It луШ excite her more, 
 it is better not.' After that she only raised her hand and 
 dropped it again. What she meant by that, God only knows. 
 I think that she was blessing you in your absence, and it was 
 plain that the Lord did not grant her to see her little children 
 before the end. Then my little dove raised herself, made 
 this motion with her hand, and all at once she spoke in a voice 
 which I cannot bear to think of, ' Mother of God, do not 
 desert them ! ' Then the pain attained her heart ; it was evi- 
 dent from her eyes that the poor woman was sutfering 
 toitures ; she fell back on the pillows, caught the bed-clothes 
 in her teeth, and her tears flowed, my dear." 
 
 " Well, and then? " I asked. 
 
 Natalya Savischna said no more ; she turned away and 
 wept bitterl}'. 
 
 Mamma died in terrible agony.
 
 100 CUILDIIOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 SORROW. 
 
 Late in the evening of the following clay I wanted to see 
 her once more. 1 overcame the involuntary feeling of teiTor, 
 opened the door gently, and entered the hall on tiptoe. 
 
 In the middle of the room, upon a table, stood the coffin, 
 and around it stood lighted candles in tall silver candlesticks. 
 In a distant corner sat the dyaehok,^ reading the Pbalter in a 
 low, monotonous voice. 
 
 I itaused at the door, and gazed ; but my eyes were so swol- 
 len with weeping, and my nerves were so unstrung, that I could 
 distinguish nothing. Every thing ran together in a strange 
 fashion, — lights, brocade, velvet, the great candelabra, tli(! 
 rose-colored pillow bordered with lace, the frontlet,- the cap 
 with ribbons, and the transparent light of the wax candles. 
 1 climbed upon a chair in order to see her face, but in the 
 place where it was the same pale-yellowish transparent object 
 presented itself to me. I could not believe that that was her 
 face. I began to examine it attentively, and little by little I 
 began to recognize the dear familiar features. I shivered 
 Vi'itli terror when I had convinced myself that it was she ; br.t 
 why were the closed ез^ез so sunken? Why that dreadful 
 pallor, and the blackish spot lieneath the skin on one cheek? 
 Why was the expression of the whole face so stern and cold.'' 
 Why were the lii)s so pale, and their outline so л-егу b-.-au- 
 tifui, so majestic, and so expressive of an unearthly calm 
 that a cold shudder I'an down my back and through my hair 
 when I looked upon it? 
 
 1 gazed, and felt that some incomprehensible, irresistible 
 power was drawing my cj^es to that lifeless face. I did not 
 take my eyes from it, and imagination sketched me a picture 
 
 ' Clerk-ecclesiastical. 
 
 2 'I'he ri/i'iilc/ilA- i i iiiacle of saUii or paper, with pictures of {'hvist, ЛГа'у, aiij St. 
 Joba, ami laid upou the blow of the corpse, iii the Russian Church. — Tii.
 
 CHILDHOOD. 101 
 
 of blooming life rnd liappiness. I forgot tliat the dead body 
 which lay before me, and upon which 1 stnpidly gazed, as 
 upon an object which had nothing iu common with me, was 
 she. I fancied her now in one, now in another situation — 
 alive, merry, smiling. Then all at once some feature in the 
 pale face upon which my eyes rested struck me. I recalled 
 the terrible realit}', shuddered, but did not cease my gaze. 
 And again visions usurped the place of reality, and again the 
 consciousness of the reality shattered my visions. At length 
 imagination grew weary, it ceased to deceive me ; the con- 
 sciousness of reality also vanished, and I lost rr.y senses. I 
 do not know how long I remained in this state, I do not 
 know in what it consisted ; I only know, that, for a time, I 
 lost consciousness of my existence, and expei'ieneed an ex- 
 alted, indescribably pleasant and sorrowful delight. 
 
 Perliaps, in flying hence to a better world, her beautiful 
 soul gazed sadly back upon that in which she left us ; she 
 perceived my grief, took pity upon it, and descended to earth 
 on the pinions of love, with a heavenly smile of compassion, 
 iu order to comfort and bless me. 
 
 The door creaked, a dyachok entered the room to relieve 
 the other. This noise roused me ; and the first thought 
 which occurred to me was that since 1 was not crying, and 
 was standing on a chair, in an attitude which had nothing 
 touching about it, the dyaclioic might take me for an unft'cl- 
 ing boy, who had climbed on the chair out of pity or curios- 
 ity. I crossed myself, made a reverence, and began to cry. 
 
 As I now recall my impressions, I find that that moment 
 of self-forgetf uln ^ss was the only one of genuine grief. Be- 
 fore and after f le burial, 1 never ceased to weej), and was 
 sad ; l)ut it puts me to shame to recall that sadness, because 
 a feeling of self-love was always mingled with it ; at one time 
 a desire to show that I was more sorr}' than anyI)ody else ; 
 again, solicitude as to the impression which I was producing 
 u[)on others ; at another time, an aimless curiosity wliich 
 caused me to make observations upon Mimi's ca}) and the 
 faces of those present. I despised myself, because the feel- 
 ing I experienced was not exclusively one of sorrow, and I 
 tried to conceal all others ; for this reason my regret was 
 insincere and unnatural. Moreover, 1 experienced a sort of 
 pleasure in knowing that I was unha[^py. t 1 tried to arouse 
 my consciousness of unha[)|)iness ; and tliis egotistical feel- 
 ing, mont tliau all tlie rest, stilled genuini' grief within me.
 
 102 стъвпоов. 
 
 After passing the night in a deep and quiet sleep, as is 
 always the ease after great sorrow, I awoke with my tears 
 dried and m}' nerves calm. At ten o'clock we were sum- 
 moned to the mass for the dead, which was celebrated Ijefore 
 the body was taken away. The room was filled with house- 
 servants and peasants, who came in tears to take leave of 
 their mistress. During the service I cried in proper fashion, 
 crossed myself, and made reverences to the earth ; but 1 did 
 not pray in spirit, and was tolerabh' cold-blooded. I was 
 worrying because my new half-coat, which they had put on 
 me, hurt me very much under the arms. I meditated how 
 not to spot the knees of my trousers too much ; and 1 took 
 observations, on the sly, of all those who were present. My 
 father stood at the head of the coffin. He was as pale as his 
 handkerchief, and restrained his tears with evident difficulty. 
 His tall figure in its black coat, his pale, expressive face, his 
 movements, graceful and assured as ever, when he crossed 
 himself, bowed, touching the ground with his hand, took the 
 candle from the hand of the priest, or approached the coffin, 
 were extremely effective. But, I do not know why, the fact 
 that tie could show himself off so effectively at such a moment 
 was precisely what did not please me. Mimi stood leaning 
 against the wall, and appeareil hardh' able to keep her feet. 
 Her dress was crumpled and flecked with down ; her cap was 
 pushed on one side ; her swollen eyes were red ; her head 
 shook. She never ceased to sob in a voice that rent the 
 soul, and she incessantly covered her face with her hands 
 and her handkerchief. It seemed to me that she did this iu 
 order to hide her countenance from the spectators, and to 
 rest for a moment after her feigned sobs. I remembered 
 how she had told papa, the day before, that mamma's death 
 was such a terrible shock to her that she had no hope of liv- 
 ing through it ; that it deprived her of every thing ; that that 
 angel (as she called mamma) had not forgotten her before 
 her death, and had expressed a desire to secure her future 
 and Katenka's forever from care. She shed bitter tears as 
 she said this, and perhaps her grief was genuine. l)ut it was 
 not pure and exclusive. Liubotchka. in her black frock, with 
 mourning trimmings, was all bathed iu tears, and dropped 
 her little head, glancing rarely at the coffin, and her face 
 expressed only childish terror. Katenka stood beside her 
 mother, and, in spite of the long face she had put on. was as 
 rosy as ever. Yolodya's frank nature was frank even in his
 
 CBILDnOOD. 103 
 
 grief. He stood at times with his thoughtful, immovable 
 glance fixed ou some object ; theu his moutli began sudden- 
 ly to twitch, and he hastily' crossed himself, and bowed in rev- 
 erence. All the strangers who were present at the funeral 
 were intolerable to me. The phrases of consolation which 
 /they uttered to father, that she would be better off there, thaJt / 
 / she was not for this world, aroused a kind of anger in me. i 
 I AVhat right had they to speak of her and mourn for her? 
 1 Some of them in speaking of us called us orplians. As if 
 ' we did not know without their assistance that children who 
 have no mother are called by that name Г It evidently 
 pleased them to be the first to bestow it upon us, just as 
 the}^ generally make haste to call a young girl who has just . 
 been married, Madame for the first time. ■ 
 
 In the far corner of the hall, almost concealed by the 
 open door of the pantry, knelt a bowed and gra3'-haired 
 woman. AVith clasped hands, and eyes raised to Ьеал'еп, she 
 neither wept nor prayed. Her soul aspired to God, and she 
 besought him to let her join the one whom she loved more 
 than all on earth, and she confidently hoped that it would 
 be soon. 
 
 ''There is one who loved her trulj' ! " thought I, and I 
 was ashamed of myself. 
 
 The mass came to an end ; the face of the dead woman 
 was uncovered, and all present, with the exception of our- 
 selves, approached the coffin one by one and kissed it. 
 
 One of the last to draw near and take leave of her was a 
 peasant woman, leading a beautiful five-year-old girl, whom 
 she had brought hither God only knows wh}'. At that 
 moment, I unexpectedly dropped m}^ moist handkerchief, 
 and stooped to pick it up. But I had no sooner bent over, 
 than a frightful piercing shriek startled me : it was so full 
 of terror that if I live a hundred j'ears I shall never forget 
 it, and when I recall it a cold chill always runs all over 
 my body. I raised my head : on a tabouret beside the coffin, 
 stood the same peasant woman, holding in her arms with 
 difficulty the little girl, who with her tiny hands thrust out 
 before her, her frightened little face turned aside, and her 
 staring eyes fastened upon the face of the corpse, was 
 shrieking in a wild and dreadful voice. I uttered a shriek 
 in a tone which I think must have been even moi'e terrible 
 then the one which had startled me, and ran out of the 
 room.
 
 104 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 It was onl}^ at that moment that I understood whence 
 came that strong, heavy odor, which, mingling with the odor 
 of the incense, filled the room ; and the thought that that 
 face, лvhich a few days before had been full of beauty and 
 tenderness, that face which I loved more than any thing in 
 the world, could excite terror, seemed for the first time to 
 reveal to me the bitter truth, and filled my soul with despair. 
 
 О
 
 K^lllljUllUUU. 
 
 ш 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE LAST SAD MEMORIES. 
 
 Mamma was dead, but our life pursued its iisiial course. 
 We went to bed and got up at the same hours, and in tlie 
 same rooms ; morning and evening tea, dinner, supper, all 
 took place at the usual time ; tlie tables and chairs stood in 
 the same places ; nothing was changed in the house or in our 
 manner of life, only — she was no more. 
 
 It seemed to me, that, after such unhappiness, all must 
 change : our ordinary manner of life appeared to me au 
 insult to her memory, and recalled her absence too vividly. 
 
 After dinner, on the evening before the funeral, I wanted 
 to go to sleep ; and I went to Natalj^a Savischna's room, 
 intending to install myself in her bed, on the soft feather- 
 bed, aud beneath the warm wadded coverlet. ЛУЬеп I en- 
 tered, Natalya Savischna was lying on her bed, and was 
 probably asleep ; hearing the noise of my footsteps, she rose 
 up, flung aside the woollen cloth which protected her head 
 from the flies, and, adjusting her cap, seated herself on the 
 edge of the bed. 
 
 '^ What is it? They have sent you to get some rest, my 
 dear? Lie down." 
 
 '^ЛVllat is the matter with you, Natalya Savischna?" I 
 said, holding her hand. " That is not it at all. I just came, 
 and you are weary yourself; you had better lie down." 
 
 '• No, batiuschka, I have slept enough," she said (I knew 
 that she had not slept for three days, for grief.) "And 
 besides, I am not sleepy now," she added with a deep sigh. 
 
 I wanted to discuss our misfortune with Natalya Savischna. 
 I knew her honesty and love, and it would have been a 
 comfort to me to луеер witli her. 
 
 " Natalya Savischna," I said, seating myself on the bed, 
 after a brief silence, " did you ex[)ect this? " 
 
 The old woman looked at me iu amazement and curiosity,
 
 106 CniLDnOOD. 
 
 probably because she did not understand why I asked her 
 that. 
 
 " Who could expect this? " I repeated. 
 
 " Ah, my dear," said she, casting a glance of the tender- 
 est sympathy upon me, "it was not to be expected, and I 
 cannot believe it even now. Such an old woman as I ought 
 to have laid her old bones in the grave long ago. The old 
 master. Prince Nikolai Mikhailovitch, your grandfather (may 
 his memor}^ be eternal!) had two brothers, and a sister 
 Annuchka ; and I have buried them all, and they were all 
 younger than I am, batiusehka ; and now, for my sins evi- 
 dentl}', it is my fate to outlive her. His holy will be done ! 
 He took her because she was worthy, and He wants good 
 people there." 
 
 This simple thought impressed me as a comfort; and I 
 moved nearer Natalya Savischna. She folded her hands on 
 her bosom, and looked upwards; her sunken, tearful e_yes 
 expressed great but quiet suffering. She cherished a firm 
 hope that God would not long part her from her u[)on whom 
 she had for so many years concentrated all the power of her 
 love. 
 
 " Yes, my dear, it does not seem long since I was her 
 nurse, and dressed her, and she called me Naselia. She 
 would run to me, seize me with her plump little hands, and 
 begin to kiss me, and to say : 
 
 ^' ' My Naschjk, my beauty, my little turkey ! ' 
 
 "And I would say in jest : 
 
 " ' It's not true, matuschka, you do not 1ол'е me ; wait until 
 you grow up, and marry, and forget your Nascha.' She 
 would begin to reflect. *■ No,' she would say, 'it will be 
 better not to maiTy, if I cannot take Nascha with me ; I 
 will never desert Nascha.' And now she has deserted me, 
 and has not waited for me. And she loved me, the dear 
 dead woman ! And, in truth, who was there that she did not 
 love? Yes, batiusehka, it is impossible for you to forget 
 З'оиг mamma. She was not a human being, but an an^el 
 from heaven. When her soul reaches the kingdom of 
 heaven, it will love you there, and rejoice over 3'ou." 
 
 " Why do you say, when she reaches the kingdom of 
 heaven, Natalya Savischna? " 1 asked. " Why, 1 think she 
 is there now." 
 
 " No. batiusehka." said Natalya Savischna, loweriu",- her 
 voice, and biUiug closer to uie on tiie bed: " her t^ovA is hare
 
 CniLDIIOOD. 107 
 
 now," and she pointed upwards. She spoke almost in a 
 whisper, and with so much feeling and conviction that I 
 invohintaril}' raised my eyes, and inspected the cornice in 
 search of something. " Before the soul of the just goes to 
 paradise, it undergoes fort}' clianges, my dear, and it can 
 stay in its home for forty days." 
 
 iSlie tallved long in this strain, and with as much simplicity 
 and faith as though she were relating the most every-day oc- 
 currences, which she had witnessed herself, and on tlie score 
 of which it would иел'ег enter any one's head to entertain 
 the sliglitcst donl)t. I held nw breath as I listened to her ; 
 and although I did not understand very well what she said, I 
 believed her entirely. 
 
 "Yes, batiuschka, she is here now; she is looking at us; 
 perhnps she hears what we are saying," said Natalya 8a- 
 vischna, in conclusion. 
 
 She bent her head, and became silent. She wanted a 
 handkerchief to wipe her falling tears ; she rose, looked me 
 straight in the face, and said, in a voice which treml)led with 
 emotion : 
 
 "The Lord has brought me many degrees nearer to him 
 through this. AVhat is left for me here now ? "Whom have 
 I to live for? Whom Ьал^е I to love? " 
 
 "■Don't 3"ou love us?" I said reproachfully, hardly re- 
 straining my tears. 
 
 "God knoAvs how I love you, my darlings ; but IJiave 
 never loved any one as I loved her, and 1 never can love 
 any one in that way." 
 
 She could say no more, but turned away, and sobbed 
 loudly. 
 
 I no longer thought of sleeping : we sat opposite each 
 other in silence, and wept. 
 
 Foka entered the room ; perceiving our condition, and 
 probably not wishing to disturb us, he glanced at us timidly 
 and in silence, and paused at the door. 
 
 " What do 3-0U Avant, Fokaseha? " asked Xatal^-a Savisch- 
 na, wiping her e^'es. 
 
 ",V pound and a half of raisins, four pounds of sugar, and 
 three pounds of rice, for the kiitija." ^ 
 
 " Lnmediatel}^ immediately, batiuschka," said Natalya 
 Savisclma, taking a hasty pinch of snuff; and she went to 
 her cupboaid V\-ith brisk steps. The last traces of the grief 
 
 1 л i!i.<h which Ь curried to the chuich iit the mass in memory of ;i dcuj i)ersou.
 
 108 CTIILDTIOOT). 
 
 called forth hv our convei'sation had vanished when she set 
 alK)Ui her duty, which she considered as extremely im- 
 portant. 
 
 " What are the four pounds for?" she grumbled, as she 
 took out the sugar, and weighed it in the scales. '' Three and 
 fi half will be enough," and she took several bits from the 
 scales. " Who ever heard the like? 1 gave out eight pounds 
 of rice yesterday, and now more is demanded. You will 
 have it so, Foka Demiditch, but I won't let you have tli3 
 rice. That Vanka is glad because the house is upside down : 
 he thinks no one will notice. No, 1 won't shut my eyes to 
 attempts on my master's goods. Now, was such a thing 
 ever seen, as eight pounds? " 
 
 " What is to be done? He says that it's all gone." 
 
 " AVell, there, take it, there ! Let him have it ! " 
 
 I was surprised at this transition from the affecting senti- 
 ment with which she had talked with me, to this grumbling 
 and petty^calculati(jn. On reflecting upon the subject aftei- 
 wards, I saw, that, in spite of what was going on in her soul, 
 she retained sufficient presence of mind to busy herself with 
 лег affairs, and the force of habit drew her to her customary 
 employments. Sorrow acted so powcrfull}' upon her, that 
 she did not find it necessary to dissemble, and she was able 
 to occupy herself with extraneous oltjects : she would not 
 even have been able to understand how such a thought could 
 occi^ to any one. 
 
 Vanity is a feeling which is utterly incompatible with gen- 
 uine grief ; and, at the same time, this feeling is so strongly 
 interwoven with the nature of many, that ел^еп the deepest 
 луое rarely expels it. Vanity exhibits itself in sorrow by the 
 desire to appear sad, or unhappy, or firm ; and these low 
 desires, Avhich we do not acknowledge, but which rarely 
 forsake us even in the deepest trouble, deprive it of force, 
 dignity, and truth. But Natalya Savischna was so deeply 
 wounded by her unhappiness, that not a single desire lingered 
 in her soul, and she only lived from habit. 
 
 After 2,iving Foka the provisions he had asked for, and 
 reminding him of the pas'ty which must be [jrcpared f-,; the 
 entertainment of the clergy, she dismissed him, took her 
 stocking, and seated herself beside me again. 
 
 The conversation turned again upon the same subject as 
 before ; and again we wept, and again dried our eyes. 
 
 These conversations with Natalya Savischna were repeated
 
 CHILDHOOD. 109 
 
 ever}' (lay ; her quiet tears and calm, devout words brought 
 me comfort and consolation. 
 
 But we were soon parted. Three daj^s after the funeral, 
 the whole household removed to Moscow, and 1 was fated 
 never to see her more. 
 
 Grandmother only received the terril)le news on our arrival, 
 and her grief was exti-aordinai-y. We were not admitted to 
 her i)resence, because she lay unconscious for a whole week, 
 and the doctor feared for her life, the more so as she not 
 only would not take any medicine, but would speak to no 
 one, did not sleep, and took no nourishment. Sometimes, as 
 she sat alone in her chamber, in her arm-chair, she suddenly 
 broke into a laugh, then began to sob, but shed no tears ; then 
 she was seized with convulsions, and uttered frightful and 
 incoherent words in a voice of madness. She felt the need of 
 blaming some one for her misery ; and she said terrible things, 
 spoke to some invisible person with unusual energy, sprang 
 from her chair, paced the room in long and rapid strides, and 
 then fell senseless. 
 
 I entered her room on one occasion. She was sitting in her 
 arm-chair, as usual, and was calm to all appearances, but 
 her glance startled me. Her eyes were very wide open, but 
 their gaze was wavering and stupid ; she looked straight at me, 
 but she could not have seen me. Her lips began a slow smile, 
 and she spoke in a voice of touching gentleness: "Come 
 here, my dear ; come here, my angel." 1 thought that shdw'as 
 addressing me, and approached nearer ; but she did not look 
 at me. "Ah, if you only knew, my love, what torments I 
 have suffered, and how glad I am that you have come!" 
 Then I understood that she fancied she saw mamma, and 
 halted. "The}' told me you were dead," she went on, with 
 a frown. "What nonsense! Could you die before me?" 
 and she gave a dreadful h\steric laugh. 
 
 Only people who are capable of loving strongl}' can also 
 suft'er great sorrow ; but this same necessity of loving serves 
 to counteract their grief, and heals them. For this reason the 
 moral nature of man is more active than the physical Grie 
 lever kills. 
 
 After the lapse of a week, grandmamma could weep, and 
 her condition improA^ed. Her first thought, when she came 
 to herself, was of us ; and her love for us increased. We 
 never left her arm-chair ; she cried softly,, spoke of mamma, 
 and tenderly caressed us. 
 
 /
 
 110 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 It could not enter the mind of any one who looked upou 
 grandmamma's grief, that she was exaggerating it, and the 
 expressions of that grief were forcil^le and touching ; but I 
 do not know why I sympathized more with Natalya Savischna, 
 and to this day 1 am convinced that no one loved and 
 mourned mamma so purely and so sincerely as that sini[)lo, 
 affectionate creature. 
 
 The happy da^'s of childhood ended for me with mamma's 
 death, and a new epoch began, — the e[)och of boyhood ; but 
 as my recollections of Natalya Savischna, Avhom I never saw 
 v4«again, and who exercised such a powerful and beneficent in- 
 , flnence over my career and the development of my sensibility, 
 belong to the first epoch, 1 will say a few words more about 
 her and her death. 
 
 After our departure, as we were afterwards informed, she 
 remained in the village, and found the time hang heavy on 
 her hands from lack of occupation. Although all the clothes- 
 presses were still in her hands, and she never ceased to turn 
 over their contents, alter the arrangement, hang things up, and 
 pack them away again, yet she missed the noise and turmoil 
 of a country house which is inhabited by its owners, to which 
 she had been accustomed from her childhood. Grief, the 
 change in her manner of life, the absence of responsibilities, 
 speedily developed an old complaiut to which she had long 
 been inclined. Just a year after mamma's death, dropsy 
 made its appearance, and she took to her bed. 
 
 It was hard, I think, for Natalya Savischna to live alone, 
 and still harder for her to die alone, in the great empty house 
 at Petrovskoe, without relatives or friends. Eyery one in tj ie 
 house lo_Y ed..o,n_dj^Y^§V-^d-^^talya Savischna ; birtsheenter- 
 tained no friendship with an}' one, and was proud of it. She 
 considered that in her position of a housekeeper who enjoyed 
 the confidence of her master, and had in her charge so many 
 chests filled with all sorts of property, a friendship with any 
 one would infallibly lead to paiiiality and a criminal conde- 
 scension. For that reason, or, possibl}', because she had 
 nothing in common with the other servants, she held herself 
 aloof from all, and said that she had neither gossips nor 
 cronies in the house, and she would not countenance any 
 attacks upon her master's property. 
 
 She sought and found consolation by confiding lie r feeling 
 to Go d in rervent praver : but sometnues. m those mo ments of 
 wenivuess to which we are all subiect^ when mau finds his
 
 CHILDnOOD. 
 
 best_comfort.in the tears and sympathy of a living being, 
 put her little dog on her bed (it licked her hand, and fixed ii^. 
 yellow eyes upon her), talked to it, and wept softly as she 
 petted it. When the poodle bega,n to howl piteously, she 
 endeavored to quiet it, and said, "Stop; I know, without 
 your telling me, that I shall die soon." 
 
 A month before her death, she took from her chest some 
 white calico, white muslia, and pink ribbons ; with the as- 
 sistance of her maid she made herself a white dress and a 
 cap, and arranged every thing which was requisite for her 
 funeral, down to the most minute detail. She also sorted 
 over the chests belonging to her master, and transferred them 
 with the greatest precision, in writing, to the overseer. There 
 remained to her two silk dresses, an old shawl which grand- 
 mamma had given her at some time or other, and grandfather's 
 militar}' uniform which had also been given to her for her 
 own. Thanks to her care, the embroidery and galloon on 
 the uniform were perfectly fresh, and the cloth had not been 
 touched by the moths. 
 
 Before her death, she expressed a v^'isb. tliat one of these 
 dresses, the pink one, should be given to Volodya for a 
 dressing-gown or jacket, and tlie other, the brown checked 
 one, to me for the same purpose, and the shawl to Liu- 
 botchka. The uniform she bequeathed to whichever of us 
 should first l)ecome an otiicer. All the rest of her proper- 
 ty, and her money, with the exception of fort}^ ruliles which 
 she laid aside for her funeral and masses, she left to her 
 brother. Her brother, who had received his freedom long 
 before, resided in some distant government, and led a л'егу 
 dissipated life ; hence she had had no intercourse with him 
 during her lifetime. 
 
 When Natalya Savischna's brother presented himself to 
 receive his inheritance, and the deceased's entire projKnty 
 proved to consist of twenty-five rubles in bills, he w^uld not ^ 
 believe it, and said that it could not be that the old woman, 
 wiio had lived for sixty years in a wealthy family, and had 
 had every thing in her hands, had lived in a miserly way all 
 her life, and had fretted over every scra[), hail left nothing. 
 But, this was actually the case. 
 
 Natalya Savischna suffered for two months from her com- 
 plaint, and bore her pain Avith a truly Christian patience ; 
 she did not grumble or complain, but mereh' prayed inces- 
 santly, as was her custom. She confessed with joy, and re-
 
 112 CTIILDIIOOD. 
 
 ceived the communion and extreme unction, an hour before 
 iier death. 
 
 She begged forgiveness of all the house-servants foi' any 
 injuries which she might have done them, and besought her 
 priest, Father Vasili, to say to all of us, that she did not 
 know how to express her thanks for all our kindness, and 
 prayed us to pardon her if she had pained any cue by her 
 stupidity; "but I never was a thief, and J can say that I 
 never cheated m}' masters out of a thread." This was the 
 only quality in herself which she valued. 
 
 Having put on the wrapper and cap which she had pre- 
 pared, and propped herself up on the pillows, she never 
 ceased until the moment of death to converse with the priest. 
 She reminded him that she had not left any one poor, gaA'e 
 him ten rubles, and begged him to distribute it in the par- 
 ish. Then she crossed herself, lay back, sighed for the last 
 time, and uttered the name of God in a joyous tone. 
 
 She quitted life without regret ; she did not fear death, 
 but accepted it as a blessing. This is often said, but how 
 prely is it true ! Natalya Savischna could not fear death, 
 )ecause she died firm in the faith and fulfilling the law of 
 4he Gospels. Her whole life had been pure, unselfish love 
 and self-sacrifice. 
 
 What if her creed might have been more lofty, if her life 
 might liave lieen devoted to higher aims? is this pure soul 
 any the less deserving of love and admiration on that ac- 
 count? 
 
 She accomplished the best and grandest deed in this life : 
 she died without regret or fear. 
 
 She was buried, in accordance with her wish, not far from 
 the chapel which stood upon mamma's grave. The hillock, 
 overgrown with brambles and burdock, beneath which she 
 lies, is enclosed within an black iron paling ; but I never 
 forget to go from the chapel to that railing, and bow myself 
 to the earth in reverence. 
 
 Sometimes I pause silent, midway between the chapel an( 
 that black fence. Painful reminiscences suddenly penetrate 
 my soul. The thought comes to me : Did Providence con-'\ 
 nect me wiih these two beings merely in order that I jnight \ 
 be made to mourn for them forever? J
 
 
 РАЕТ П. -BOYHOOD. 
 
 А NOVEL. 

 
 BOYHOOD. 
 
 1 « ■ 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A JOURNEY WITHOUT RELAYS 
 
 Two equipages were agaiu brought to the porch of the 
 Petrovskoe house : one was a coach in which sat Mimi, 
 Katenka, Liubotchka, aud the maid, with the clerk Yakov on 
 tlie box ; the other was a Iiritchka, in wliich rode Volodya 
 and I, and the footman \^asili wlio had recently been taken 
 from obrok.^ 
 
 Papa, who was to follow us to Moscow in a few days, 
 stands on the porch without his hat, and makes the sign 
 of the cross upon the window of the coach and the britchka, 
 
 " Well, Christ be with you ! drive on ! " Yakov and the 
 coachman (we are travelling in our own carriage) take off 
 their hats, and cross themselves. ''No! No! In God's 
 name ! " 
 
 The bodies of the carriage and britchka begin to jolt 
 over the uneven road, and the birches along the great ave- 
 nue fly past us one by one. I am not at all sad ; my men- 
 tal gaze is fixed, not upon what I am leaving, but upon what 
 awaits me. In proportion as the objects connected with the 
 painful memories which have filled ni}' mind until this mo- 
 ment retreat into tlie distance, these memories lose their 
 force, and are speedily replaced b}' a sense of acquaintance- 
 ship with life, which is full of force, freshness, and hope. 
 
 Rarely have I spent days so — 1 will not say merrily, for 
 
 ' л sum paid to the proprietor by a serf in lieu of i)er8oiial service. Mauy serfs 
 (if lioth sexes exercised various trades in the cities, and their obrok ofteu yielded 
 their masters quite a sum. 
 
 115
 
 116 BOYHOOD. 
 
 I was still rather conscience-stricken at the idea of yielding 
 to merriment — but so agreeably, so pleasantly, as the fonr 
 during which our journey lasted. 
 
 I had no longer before my eyes the closed door of 
 manuna's room, which I could not pass without a shudder; 
 nor the closed piano, which no one approached, but whieli 
 every one regarded with a sort of fear ; nor the mourning 
 garments (we all had on simple travelling suits), nor any of 
 those things, which, by recalling to me vividly my irrevo- 
 cable loss, made me avoid every appearance of life, from 
 the fear of offending her memory in some way. Here, on 
 the other hand, new and picturesque spots and objects arrest 
 and divert my attention, and nature in its spring garb fixes 
 firmly in ni}' mind the cheering sense of satisfaction in the 
 present, and bright hopes for the future. 
 
 Early, ver}" early in the morning, pitiless Л''asiИ, who was 
 over-zealous as people always are in new situations, pulls off 
 the coverlet, and announces that it was time to set out, and 
 that every thing is ready. Snuggle and rage and contrive 
 as 3'ou will to prolong even for another quarter of an hour 
 the sweet morning slumber, 3'ou see by Vasili's determined 
 face that he is inexorable, and prepared to drag off the 
 coverlet twenty times : so you jump up, and run out into 
 the court to wash yourself. 
 
 The samovar is already boiling in the ante-room, and 
 Mitka the out-rider is blowing it until he is as red as a crab. 
 It is damp and dark out of doors, as tliough the steam were 
 rising from an odoriferous dung-heap ; the sun illuminates 
 the eastern sk}' with a bright cheerful light, and the straw 
 roofs of the ample sheds surrounding the eourt-yaid, which 
 are sparkling with dew. lieneath thorn our horses are visi- 
 ble, hitched about the fodder, and the i)eaceful stjund of 
 their mastication is audiljle. 
 
 A shaggy black dog луЬо has lain down upon a diy heap 
 of manure before dawn, stretches lazily, and betakes him- 
 self to the other side of the yard at a gentle trot, wagging 
 his tail the while. The busy housewife opens the creaking 
 gates, drives the meditative cows into the street, where the 
 tramp, lowing and bloating of herds is already audible, and 
 exchanges a word with her sleepy neighbor. Philip, with 
 tlie sleeves of his shirt strip))ed up, draws the bucket from 
 the deep well, all dripping with clear water, l)y means of the 
 wheel, and empties it into an oakeu trough, about which wide-
 
 BOYHOOD. Ill 
 
 awake duclcs are already splashing in the pool ; and I gaze 
 лvith pleasure upon Philip's handsome face with its great 
 beard, and at the thick sinews and muscles which are sharply 
 defined upon his bare, hairy arms when he makes any exer- 
 tion. 
 
 Behind the screen where Mimi slept with the girls, and 
 ол'вг Avhich we had conversed in the evening, a movement 
 was audible. Mascha runs past us repeatedly with various 
 objects which she endeavors to conceal from our curiosit\' 
 with her dress ; and finally she opens the door, and calls us 
 to drink our tea. 
 
 Vasili. in a lit of superfluous zeal, runs into the room 
 incessantly, carries out first one thing, then another, beckons 
 to us, and in every way exhoits Marya Ivanovna to set out 
 as speedily as possible. The horses are harnessed, and 
 express their impatience by jingling their bells every now 
 and then ; the trunks, chests, caskets, and dressing-cases are 
 again packed away, and we take our seats. But each time 
 we find a mouutain inside the britchka instead of a seat, 
 so that it is impossible to understand how all this had been 
 arranged the day before, and how we are going to sit now. 
 One walnut-wood tea-cadd}' with a triangular cover, in par- 
 ticular, which is intrusted to us in the britchka, is placed 
 under me, and enrages me extremely. But Vasili says that 
 луЩ settle down, and I am forced to believe him. 
 
 The sun has but just risen above the dense Avhite clouds 
 which veil the east, and all the country round aliout is illumi- 
 nated with a quietly cheerful light. All is so very beauti- 
 ful about me, and I am so tranquil and liglit of heart. The 
 road winds away in front like a wide, unconlined ril)bon, 
 amid fields of dr}" stubble, and herbage sparkling with 
 dew. Here and there l)y .the roadside we come upon a 
 gloomy willow, or a young l)irch with small sticky leaves, 
 casting a long, motionless shadow u^^ on the dr}^ claN'ey ruts 
 and the short green grass of the higliway. The monot- 
 onous sound of the wheels and bells does not drown the 
 song of the larks, who circle close to the very road. The 
 smell of moth-eaten cloth, of dust, and a certain sourness, 
 which cliaracterize our Ijritchka, is overpowered by the per- 
 fume of the morning ; and I feel a joyous uneasiness in my 
 soul, a desire to do something, which is a sign of true eu- 
 joN'ment. 
 
 1 luid not managed to say niy prayers at the post-house ;
 
 118 ' BOYUOOD. 
 
 but as I Ьал'С more than once observed that some misfortune 
 happens to me on the day when, from an}' eircuuislanee. I 
 forget to fulfil this ceremony, I make an effort to repair my 
 mistake. I take off my cap, turn to the corner of the 
 britchka, recite some prayers, and cross m^'self under my 
 jacket so that no one may see it. But a thousand different 
 objects distract m}' attention ; and I repeat the same words 
 of the prayer several times over, in my absence of mind. 
 
 Yonder on the footpath which winds beside the road, 
 some slowly moving figures are visible ; the}' are pilgrin)s. 
 Their heads are enveloped in dirty cloths ; sacks of birch- 
 bark are bound upon their backs ; their feet are wrapped 
 in dirty, tattered footbauds, and shod in heavy bast shoes. 
 Swaying their staves in unison, and hardh' glancing at us, 
 they move on Avith a heavy deliberate tread, one after the 
 other; and questions take possession of my mind, — whither 
 are the}' going, and why? will their journey last long? and 
 will the long shadows which they cast upon the road, soon 
 unite with the shadow of the willow which they must pass ? 
 Here a calash with four post-horses comes rapidly to meet us. 
 Two seconds more, and the faces which looked at us with 
 polite curiosity at a distance of two arshins ^ have already 
 flashed past ; and it seems strange that these faces have 
 nothing in common with me, and that, in all probability I 
 shall never behold them again. 
 
 Here come two shaggy, perspiring horses, galloping along 
 the side of the road in their halters, with the traces knotted 
 up to the breech strap ; and behind, with his long legs and 
 huge shoes dangling on each side of a horse, over whose 
 forelock hangs the dug^^ and who jingles his little bells almost 
 inandibly now and then, rides a young lad of a postilion, 
 with his lamb's-wool cap cocked over one ear, drawling a 
 long-drawn-out song. His face and attitude are expressive 
 of so much lazy, careless content, that it seems to me it 
 would be the height of bliss to be a post-boy, to ride the 
 horses home, and sing some melancholy songs. Yonder, far 
 beyond the гал'1пе,-а village church with its green roof is 
 visible against the bright blue sky ; yonder is a hamlet, the 
 red roof of a gentleman's house, and a green garden. Who 
 lives in tliis house? Are there children in it, father, mother, 
 tutor? AVhy should we not go to this house, and make the 
 
 ' Ли arshiii ie twenty -eight inches. 
 
 2 Arch over the middle horse of a troika, or three horses harnessed abreast.
 
 BOYHOOD. 119 
 
 acquaintance of the owner? Here is a long train of huge 
 wagons harnessed to troikas of well-fed, thick-legged horses, 
 which we are obliged to turn out to pass. "■ What are you 
 carrying?" inquiies Vasili of the first carter, who, with his 
 big feet hanging from the boai'd which forms his seat, and 
 flourisliing his whi[), regards us for a long time with an 
 intent, mindless gaze, and only makes some sort of reply 
 when it is impossible for him not to hear. " With what 
 wares do j'ou travel? " \"asili asks, turning to another team, 
 upon whose railed-in front lies anotlier carter beneath a new 
 rug. A blonde head, accompanied b}' a I'ed face and a I'ed- 
 dish beard, is thrust out from beneath the rug for a moment ; 
 it casts a glance of inditfereut scorn upon us, and disappears 
 again ; and the thought occurs to me that these carters surely 
 cannot know who we are and whither we are going. 
 
 Absorbed in varied meditations, for an hour and a half I 
 pay no heed to the crooked numbers inscribed upon the verst- 
 stoues. But now the sun begins to warm my head and back 
 with more fervor, the road grows more dusty, the triangular 
 cover of the tea-cadd}' begins to discommode me greatl}', and 
 I change my position several times. I am becoming hot and 
 uncomfortable and bored. My whole attention is directed'to 
 the A4n'st-stones, and the figures upon them. I make A'arious 
 mathematical calculations as to the time it will take us to 
 reach the station. 
 
 ''Twelve л -ersts make one-third of thii-ty-six, and it is 
 fort^'-one to Lipetz : consequently we have travelled only 
 one-third and how much?" and so forth. 
 
 '•Vasili," I say, when I оЬзегл'е that he is beginning to 
 nod upon the box, " let me come on the box, that's a dear." 
 Vasili consents ; we change places ; he immediately begins 
 to snore and roll about so that there is no room left for any 
 one in the britchka ; and before me, from the height which I 
 occupy, the most delightful picture presents itself, — our four 
 horses, Nerutchinska^^a, the Deacon, Lyevaya, the pole-horse, 
 and Apothecary, all of whom I know by laeart in the most 
 minute details and shades of each quality. 
 
 "Why is the Deacon on the right side to-day instead of 
 on the left, Philip?" I inquired with some diffidence. 
 
 " Deacon?" 
 
 " And Nerutchinskaya is not drawing at all," I say. 
 
 " It is impossible to harness the Deacon on the left," says 
 Phili[), paying no attention to my last remark. " He is not
 
 l20 boyhood. 
 
 ;lie kind of a horse which can be harnessed on the left ; on 
 the left a liorse is needed which is a horse, in one word, and 
 lie's not such a horse as that." 
 
 And with these words Philip bends over to the right, and, 
 pulling on the reins with all his might, he begins to whip 
 poor Deacon on the tail and legs, in a peculiar manner, from 
 below ; and in spite of the fact that Deacon tries with all his 
 might, and drags the whole britchka along, Philip ceases 
 this man<£uvre only when he finds it necessar}' to take a rest 
 and to tip his hat over on one side, for some unknown 
 reason, although it was sitting very properly and firmly on 
 his head already. 1 take advantage of this favorable oppor- 
 tunity, and beg Philip to let me drive. At first Philip gives 
 me one rein, then another; and finally all six reins and the 
 whip are transferred to my hands and, I am perfectly happy. 
 I endeavor in ел^егу wa}" to imitate Philii) ; I ask him whether 
 that is right : but it generally ends in his leaving me dissatis- 
 fied ; he says that one horse is pulling a great deal, and that 
 another is not pulling at all, thrusts his elbow out in front 
 of my breast, and takes the reins away from me. The heat 
 increases continuall}-. The little white clouds, which we call 
 sheep, begin to puff up higher and higher, like soap-bul»l)les, 
 then unite and take on a dark-gray tint. A hand, holding 'a 
 bottle and a little package, emerges from the coach window. 
 Vasili leaps from the box with wonderful agility, while we 
 are in motion, and brings us little cheesecakes and kvas. 
 
 We all alight from the carriages at a sharp descent, and 
 have a race to the bridge, while \^asili and Yakov put on the 
 brakes, and support the coach on both sides with their hands 
 as though they were able to restrain it if it fell. Then, with 
 Mimi's permission, either I or Volod^a seat ourselves in 
 the coach, and Liubotchka or Katenka takes the place in the 
 britchka. These changes afford the girls great pleasure, be- 
 cause, as the}^ jiistW decide, it is jollier in the britchka. 
 Sometimes, when it is hot and we are passing through the 
 woods, we linger behind the coach, tear off green boughs, and 
 build an arbor in the britchka. This moving arbor overtakes 
 the coach, and Liubotchka pipes np in the most piercing of 
 voices, which she never forgets to do on any occasion which 
 affords her pleasure. 
 
 But here is the village where we are to dine and rest. We 
 have already smelled the village, the smoke, tar, lamb-skins. 
 ЛУе have heard the sound of conversation, steps and wlieels ;
 
 BOYHOOD. 121 
 
 the bells alreadj' sound differently from what they did in the 
 open fields ; and izbas (eottages) appear on either side with 
 their thatched roofs, carved wooden porches, and little win- 
 dows with red and green shutters, between which the face 
 of a curious woman peeps out. Here are the little peasant 
 boys and girls, clad only in thin little smocks, who open 
 their eyes wide, and throw out Iheir hands and stand motion- 
 less on one spot, or run swiftl}' with their little bare feet 
 through the dust, after the carriages, and try to climb upon 
 the trunks, in spite of Philip's menacing gestures. The 
 blonde inhabitants hasten up to the carriages from every di- 
 rection, and endea\'or. with alluring words and gestures, to 
 entice the travellers from each other. Tpru ! the gate creaks, 
 the splinter-bar catches on the gate-posts, and we enter the 
 court-yard. Four hours of rest and freedom !
 
 122 BOYHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE THUNDER-STORM. 
 
 The sun declined toAvards the west, and burned m}' neck 
 and cheeks intolerably with its hot, slanting rays. It was im- 
 possible to toucli tlie scorching sides of the britchka. The 
 dust rose thickly in the road, and filled the air. There was 
 not the slightest breeze to carry it awa3\ In front of us, and 
 always at the same distance, rolled the tall, dusty body of the 
 coach and the splinter-bar, from behind whicli. now and then, 
 the knout was visible as the coachman flourished it, as well 
 as his hat and Yakov's cap. I did not know what to do with 
 mN'self ; neither Volod3'a's face, which was black with dust, 
 as he dozed beside me, nor the moA^ements of Philip's back, 
 nor the long shadow of our britchka, which followed us be- 
 neath the oblique rays of the sun, afforded me any diversion. 
 My entire attention Avas directed to the verst-stones, which I 
 perceived in the distance, and to the clouds, лу1псЬ had be- 
 fore been scattered over the sk}^ and had now collected into 
 one big, dark mass. From time to time, the thunder rum- 
 bled afar. This last circumstance, more than all the rest, in- 
 creased my impatience to reach the post-house as speedily as 
 possible. A thunder-storm occasioned me an indescribably 
 oppressive sensation of sadness and terror. 
 
 It was still ten versts to the nearest ; but the gTcat, dark, 
 purple cloud which had collected, God knows whence, without 
 the smallest breeze, was moving swiftly upon us. The sun, 
 which is not yet hidden by the clouds, brightly illumines its 
 dark form, and the gray streaks which extend from it to the 
 very horizon. From time to time, the lightning flashes in 
 the distance ; and a faint, dull roar is audible, which gradu- 
 ally increases in volume, api)r()aclies, and changes into 
 broken peals which embrace the whole heavens. Vasili stai;ds 
 upon tiie box. and raises the cover of the britchka. The 
 coachmen put on their armyaks, and, at every clap of than-
 
 BOYHOOD. 123 
 
 cler, remove their hats and cioss themselves. The horses 
 prick up tlieir ears, pulT out their nostrils as if smelling the 
 fresh air which is wafted from the approaching thunder-cloud, 
 and the britchka rolls faster along the dusty road. I feel 
 oppressed, and am conscious that the blood courses more 
 rapidly tlu'ough my veins. But the advance guard of clouds 
 already begins to conceal the sun ; now it has peeped forth for 
 the last time, has illumined the terrilily dark portion of the 
 horizon, and vanished. The entire landsca[)e suddenly under- 
 goes a change, and assumes a gloomy character. The ash 
 woods quiver ; the leaves take on a kind of dull whitish hue, 
 and stand out against the purple background of cloud, and 
 rustle and flutter ; the crowns of the great birches begin to 
 rock, and tufts of dry grass fly across the road. The water 
 and white-breasted swallows circle about the britclika, and fly 
 beneath the horses, as though with tlie intention of stopping 
 us ; daws with ruffled wings fly sideways to tlie wind : the 
 edges of the leather apron, which we have buttoned up, begin 
 to rise, and admit bursts of moist wind, and flap and beat 
 against the body of the carriage. The ligiitning seems to 
 flash in the britchka itself, dazzles the vision, and for a 
 moment lights up the gray cloth, the border gimp, ami \o- 
 lodj'a's figure cowering in a corner. At the same moment, 
 direcllj' above our heads, a majestic roar resounds, which 
 seems to rise ever higher and higher, and to spread ever 
 wider and wider, in a vast spiral, gradually gaining force, 
 until it passes into a deafening crash, Avhich causes one to 
 tremble and hold one's breath involuntaril}-. The wrath of 
 God ! how much poetry there is in this conception of the 
 common people ! 
 
 The wheels whirl faster and faster. From the backs of 
 Vasil}' and Philip, who is flourishing his reins, I [)erceive that 
 they are afraid. The britchka rolls swiftly down the hill. 
 and thunders over the bridge of planks. I am afraid to 
 move, and momentarily await our universal destruction. 
 
 Tpru ! the trace is broken, and in spite of the unceasing, 
 deafening claps of thunder, луе are forced to halt upon the 
 bridge. 
 
 I lean my head against the side of the britchka, and, catch- 
 ing my breath with a sinking of the heart, I listen despair- 
 ingly to the movements of Philip's fat black fingers, as he 
 slowly ties a knot, and straightens out the traces, and strikes 
 the side horse with palm and whip-handle.
 
 124 BOY HOOT). 
 
 The uneasy feelings of sadness and terror increase within 
 me with tlie force of the storm ; l)ut when the grand mo- 
 m^mt of silence arrives, which generally i)recedes the thnn- 
 der-clap, these feelings had reached such a point, that, if 
 this state of things had lasted a quarter of an hour. 1 am 
 couvineed that I should have died of excitement. At the 
 same moment, there appears from beneath the l)ridg4' a 
 human form, clothed in a dirtv, ragged shirt, with a bloated 
 senseless face, a shaven, wagging, totally uncovered head, 
 crooked, nerveless legs, and a shining red stump in place 
 of a hand, which he thrusts out directly at the britchka. 
 
 '•' Ba-a-schka ! ^ Help-a-cripple-for-Christ's-sake ! " says 
 the beggar, beginning to repeat his petition by rote, i.i a 
 weak voice, as he crosses himself at every Avord, and b.ows 
 to his very belt. 
 
 I cannot describe the feeling of chill terror wliich took 
 possession of my soul at that moment. A sliudder ran 
 through my hair, and my eyes were riveted on the beggar, 
 in a stupor of fright. 
 
 Vasili, who bestows the alms on the journey, is giving 
 Ihilip directions how to strengthen the trac3 ;■ and it is only 
 wlien all is ready, and Philip, gathering up the reins, climbs 
 upon the box, that he begins to draw something from his 
 side pocket. But we have no sooner started than a dazzling 
 Hash of lightning, which fills the whole ravine for a moment 
 with its fiery glare, brings the horses to a stand, and is ac- 
 companied, without the slightest interval, by such a deafen- 
 ing clap of thunder that it seems as though the whole vault 
 of heaven were falling in ruins upon us. The wind increases ; 
 the manes and tails of the horses, \"asily's cloak, and the 
 edges of the apron, take one direction, and flutter wildly in 
 the buists of the raging gale. A great drop of rain fell 
 hoavil}' upon the leathar hood of the britchka, then a second, 
 a third, a fourth ; and all at once it beat upon us like a 
 drum, and the whole landscape resounded with the regular 
 nuumur of falling rain. 1 perceive, from the movement of 
 A'asili's elbow, that he is untying his purse ; the beggar, still 
 crossing himself and bowing, runs close to the wheel, so that 
 it seems as if he w^uld be crushed. " Give-for-Chiist's- 
 sake ! " At last a copper groschen flies past us. and the 
 wretched creature halts with surprise in the middle of the 
 road ; his smock, wet through and through, and clinging to 
 
 ' Imperfect proiiuuciation of batimnlika, litUe father.
 
 BOYHOOD. 125 
 
 his lean limbs, flutters in the gale, and he disappears from 
 our sight. 
 
 The slanting rain, driving before a strong wind, ponred 
 down as from a bucket; streams trickled from Vasili's frieze 
 back into the puddle of dirty water which had collected on 
 the apron. The dust, wliich at first had been beaten into 
 pellets, was converted into liquid mud, through which tlie 
 wheels splashed ; the jolts became fewer, and turbid brooks 
 flowed in the ruts. The lightning-flashes grew broader and 
 paler ; the thunder-claps were no longer so startling after tiie 
 uniform sound of the rain. 
 
 Now the rain grows less violent ; the thunder-cloud l)egins 
 to disperse ; light appears in the place where the sun should 
 be, and a scrap of clear azure is almost visible through the 
 grayish-white edges of the cloud. A moment more, and 
 a timid ray of sunlight gleams in the pools along the road, 
 upon the sheets of fine, perpendicular rain whicli fall as if 
 tin'ough a sieve, and upon the «hining, newly waslied verdure 
 of the wayside grass. 
 
 The black thunder-cloud oA'erspreads the opposite portion 
 of the sky in equall}' threatening fashion, but 1 no longer 
 fear it. 1 experience an inexpressibly joyous feeling of hope 
 in life, which has quickly taken the place of )ny oppressive 
 sensation of fear. My soul smiles, like Nature, refrcbhed 
 and enlivened. 
 
 Vasily turns down his с jat-collar, takes off the apron, and 
 shakes it. I lean out of the britchka, and eagerly drink 
 in the fresh, perfumed air. The shining, well-washed body of 
 the coach, with its cross-bar and trunks, rolls along in front 
 of us ; the backs of the horses, the breeching and reins, 
 the tires of the wheels, all are wet, and glitter in the sun as 
 though covered with lacquer. On one side of the road, a 
 limitless field of winter wheat, intersected here and there by 
 shallow channels, gleams with damp earth and verdure, and 
 spreads in a carpet of varying tints to the very horizon ; on 
 the other side an ash grove, with an undergrowth of nut- 
 bushes and wild cherry, stands as in an overflow of bliss, 
 quite motionless, and sloAvly sheds the bright rain-drops from 
 its well-Avashed liranches upon last year's dr}' leaves. Crest- 
 ed larks flutter about on all sides Avith joyous song and fall ; 
 in the wet bushes, the uneasy movements of little birds are 
 audible, and the note of the cuckoo is wafted distinctly 
 from the heart of the wood. The marvellous perfume of the
 
 126 вотпоов. 
 
 forest is so enchanting after this spring thunder-storm, the scent 
 of the birches, the violets, the dead leaves, the mushrooms, 
 the wild-cherry trees, that I cannot sit still in the britchka, 
 but jump from the step, run to the bushes, and in spite of 
 the shower of rain-drops I tear off branches of the fluttering 
 cherry-trees, switch my face with them, and drink in their 
 wondrous perfume. 
 
 Without heeding the fact that great clods of mud adhere 
 to my boots, and that my stockings were wet through long 
 ago, 1 splash through the mud, at a run, to the window of 
 the coach. 
 
 '' Liubotchka ! Katenka ! " I cry, handing in several 
 branches of cherr}', "see how beautiful!" 
 
 The girls pipe up, and cry "ah!" Mimi screams that 
 1 am to go away, or I shall infallibly be crushed. 
 
 " Smell how sweet it is ! " 1 shout.
 
 BOYUOOD. 127 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 A NEW VIEW. 
 
 Katexka was sitting beside me in the britclika, and, with 
 her pretty head bent, was thoughtfully watching the dusty 
 road as it flew past beneath the wheels. I gazed at her 
 in silence, and wondered at the sad, uuchildish expression, 
 which I encountered for the first time on her rosy little 
 face. 
 
 " We shall soon be in Moscow now," said I. " What do 
 you think it is like?" 
 
 "I do not know," she answered unwillingly. 
 
 " But what do you think? Is it bigger than Serpukhof, 
 or not? " 
 
 ''What?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing." 
 
 But through that instinct by means of which one person 
 divines the thoughts of another, and which sei'ves as a guid- 
 ing-thread in conversation, Katenka understood that her in- 
 ditferenee pained me : she raised her head, and turned 
 towards me. 
 
 "Your papa has told you that we are to live with gi-and- 
 mamma ? ' ' 
 
 " Yes, grandmamma insists on our living with her." 
 
 " And we are all to live tliere? " 
 
 "Of course: we shall live up-stairs in one half of the 
 house ; you will live in the other half, and papa will live 
 in the лving ; but we shall all dine together down-stairs with 
 grandmamma." 
 
 "Mamma sa3's that your grandmother is so majestic — 
 and cross." 
 
 " No-o ! She only seems so at first. She is majestic, 
 but not at all cross : on the contrary, she is very kind and 
 clieerful. If you had only seen what a ball we had on her 
 name-day ! "
 
 128 в or HOOD. 
 
 " NeA'ertheless, T am afriiid of her; and besides, God 
 knows if we shall " — 
 
 Katenka stopped suddeidy, and again fell into thought. 
 
 " What is it? " 1 asked uneasily. 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Yes, but 3'ou said, ' God knows ' " — 
 
 " And you said, ' Wliat a ball we had at grandmamina's.' "' 
 
 "•Yes, it's a pity that you were not there: there were 
 ever so many guests, — forty people, music, generals, and I 
 danced. Katenka ! " 1 said all at once, pausing in the middle 
 of my desci'iption, "you are not listening." 
 
 '' Yes, I am : j'ou said that 30U danced.' 
 
 "Why are люи so sad?" 
 
 " One can't be gay all the time." 
 
 "No: you have changed greatly since we returned from 
 Moscow. Tell me trulv," I added, Avith a look of (h^termi- 
 nation, as I turned towards her, "why have you grown so 
 strange? " 
 
 "Am I strange ?" replied Katenka, with an animation 
 which showed that my remark interested her. " 1 am not 
 at all strange." 
 
 " You are not as you were formerly," I went on. " It 
 used to be evident that we were one in every thing, that you 
 regarded us as relatives, and loved us, just as we did you ; 
 and now 3'Ou have become so serious, you keep apart from 
 us ' — 
 
 "Not at all! " 
 
 "No, let me finish," I interrupted, alread}' beginning to 
 be conscious of a slight tickling in my nose, which preceded 
 the tears that were always rising to my eyes, when I gave 
 utterance to a long-rejiressed, tender thought. "You with- 
 draw from us ; j'ou talk onlj^ with Mimi, as if you did not 
 want to know us." 
 
 "Well, it's impossible to remain the same always; one 
 must change some time," replied Katenka, who had a habit 
 of explaining every thing by a kind of fatalistic necessity, 
 when she did not know what to say. 
 
 I remember that once, after quarrelling with Liuliotciika, 
 who had called hev a stupid little girl, she answered, " Every- 
 body cannot be wise: some people must be stupid." But 
 this rei)ly, that a change was necessary sometimes, did not 
 satisfy me, and I pursued my inquiries : 
 
 " Why is it necessary? "
 
 BOYHOOD. 129 
 
 " Why, we can't live together always," answered Katen- 
 ka, reddening slightly, and staring steadily at Philip's back. 
 " My mamma could live with your dead mamma, because she 
 was her friend ; but God knows wdiether she will get along 
 with ihe countess, who is said to be so cross. Besides, we 
 must part some da}', in any case. You are rich, you have 
 Petrovskoe ; but we are poor, my mamma has nothing." 
 
 You are rich ; we ai'e poor ! These words, and the ideas 
 connected with them, seemed very strange to me. Accord- 
 ing to my notions at that period, onlj- beggars an*^. peasants 
 .could be poor, and this idea of poverty I coulo inever rec- 
 oncile in my imagination with pretty, graceful Katya. It 
 seemed to me, that, since Mimi and Katya had once lived 
 with us, they would always do so, and share every thing 
 equally. It could not be otherwise. But now a thousand 
 new, undefined thoughts, touching their position, dawned on 
 m}' brain ; and I was so ashamed that we were rich, that I 
 blushed, and positively could not look Katenka in the face. 
 
 '"What does it mean?" I thought, "that we are rich 
 and they are poor? And how does that entail the neces- 
 sity of a separation? Why cannot we share what we have 
 equall}"?" But I understood that it was not fitting that I 
 should speak to Katenka about this ;^ and some practical in- 
 tinct, which ran contrary to these logical deductions, already 
 told me that she was right, and that it would be out of place 
 to explain this idea to her. 
 
 "Are 5'ou actually going to leave us?" I said. "How 
 shall we live apart? " 
 
 " What is to be done? It pains me too ; but if this takes 
 place, I know what I shall do." 
 
 " You will become an actress ! What nonsense ! " I broke 
 ia, knowing that it had alwaj's been one of her cherished 
 dreams to be, an actress. 
 
 " No : I said that when I was very small." 
 
 " What will you do, then? " 
 
 " I will go into a monastery, and live there, and go about 
 in a black gown and a velvet hood." 
 
 Katenka began to cry. 
 
 Has it ever happened to you, reader, to perceive, all at 
 once, at a certain period of your life, tliat your view of things 
 has entirely changed : as tliough ail the objects which you 
 had seen hitherto had suddenly turned another side to you ? 
 This species of moral change took [)lace ia me for tlie first
 
 130 BOYHOOD. 
 
 time during our journey, from which epoch I date the begin- 
 ning of my boyhood. 
 
 For the first time a distinct idea entered my head, that not 
 our family alone inhabited this world ; that all interests did 
 not revolve about us ; and that there exists another life for 
 people who have nothing in conmion with us, who care noth- 
 ing for us, who have no idea of our existence even. No 
 doubt, I had known all this before ; but I had not known it 
 as 1 knew it now. I did not acknowledge it or feel it. 
 
 A thouij^ht often passes into conviction by one familiar 
 path, whic-iis often entirely unexpected and apart from the 
 paths which other souls traverse to arrive at the same con- 
 clusion. The conversation with Katenka, wdiich affected me 
 powerfully, and caused me to reflect upon her future position, 
 constituted that i)ath for me. When I looked at the villages 
 and towns which we traversed, in every house of which lived 
 at least one such family as ours ; at the women and children 
 who gazed after our carriages with momentary curiosity, and 
 vanished forever from sight ; ■ at the shopkeepers and the 
 peasants, who not only did not salute us as I was accustomed 
 to see them do in Petrovskoe, but did not deign so much as 
 a glance, — the question entered my mind for the first time, 
 what could occupy them if they cared nothing for us? And 
 from this question, others arose : how and by what means do 
 they live? how do they bring up their children? do they in- 
 struct them, or let them play? how do they punish them? 
 and so forth.
 
 BOYHOOD. 131 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN MOSCOW. 
 
 On our arrival in Moscow, the change in my views of 
 things, people, and my own relations to them, became still 
 more sensible. When, at ni}' first meeting with grandmamma, 
 I saw her thin wrinkled face and dim eyes, the feeling of 
 servile reverence and terror which I had entertained for her 
 changed to one of sympathy. It made me uncomfortable to 
 see her sorrow at meeting us. I recognized the fact that 
 we, of ourselves, were nothing in her eyes ; that we were 
 dear to her as memories. I felt that this thought was ex- 
 pressed in every one of the kisses with which she covered 
 my cheeks : '' She is dead; she is gone; I shall never see 
 her more." 
 
 Papa, who had next to nothing to do with us in Moscow, 
 and, with ever-anxious face, came to us only at dinner-time, in 
 a black coat or dress-suit, lost a great deal in my eyes, along 
 with his big flaring collars, his dressing-gown, his stewards, 
 his clerks, and his expeditions of the threshing-floor and hunt- 
 ing. Karl Ivanitch, whom grandmamma called dyacUrt, and 
 who had suddenly taken it into his head, God knows why, to 
 exchange his respectable and familiar baldness for a red wig 
 with a parting almost in the middle of his head, seemed to 
 me so strange and ridiculous, that I wondered how I could 
 have failed to remark it before. 
 
 Some invisible barrier also made its appearance between 
 the girls and us. Both tliey and we had our own secrets. 
 They seemed to take on airs l)efore ns over their petticoats, 
 which grew longer, and we were proud of our trousers with 
 straps. And jNIimi appeared at the first Sunday dinner in 
 such an elegant gown, and with such ribbons on her head, 
 that it was at once apparent that we were not in the country, 
 uud that ever}- thing was to be different now.
 
 132 BOYHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE ELDER BROTHER. 
 
 I WAS only a 3'ear aud some months younp;er than Volodya : 
 we had grown up, studied aud played together always. The 
 distinction of elder and younger was not made between us. 
 But just about the time of which I am speaking I began to 
 comprehend that Volodya was not my comrade in years, in- 
 clinations, and qualities. It even seemed to me that Volodya 
 recognized his superiority, and was proud of it. This con- 
 viction, possibly a false one, inspired me with self-love, 
 луЬ1сЬ suffered at every encounter with him. He stood 
 higher than 1 in ел''егу thing, — in amusements, in studies, in 
 quarrels, in the knowledge of how to conduct himself ; and 
 all this removed me to a distance from him, aud caused me 
 to experience moral torments which were incompreheusible 
 to me. If, on the first occasion when Volodya put on linen 
 shirts with plaits, I had said plainly that I was vexed at not 
 having the same, I am sure that I should have been more 
 comfortable, and it would not have seemed, every time that 
 he adjusted his collar, that it was done solel}' in order to hurt 
 m\' feelings. 
 
 What tormented me most of all was, that Volodya under- 
 stood me, as it seemed to me at times, but tried to hide it. 
 
 Who has not remarked those secret, wordless relations 
 which are shown in an imperceptible smile, a motiou or a 
 glance, between people who live together constantl}', brothers, 
 friends, husband and wife, master aud servant, and j)articu- 
 larly when these people are not in ever}' respect frank with 
 each other ! How many unuttered desires, thoughts, and 
 fears — of being understood — are expressed in one casual 
 glance when our e3'es meet timidl}* and irresolutely ! 
 ^-~— i*ut possibly I was deceived on this point by my excessive 
 s?n8>!)ility, and tendency to analysis ; perhaps Volodya did 
 not feel at all as I did. He was impetuous, frank, aud iu-
 
 BOYHOOD. 133 
 
 constant in his im?4ilses. He was carried away by the most 
 diverse oljjects, t ad he entered into them with his whole 
 soul. 
 
 At one time a passion for pictures took possession of him : 
 he took to drawing himself, spent all his money on it, begged 
 of his drawing-master, of papa and of grandmamma ; then it 
 was a passion for articles with which he decorated his table, 
 and he collected them from all parts of the house r then a 
 passion for romances, Avhich he pi'ocured on the sl3% and read 
 all day and all night. I was involuntarily carried away by 
 his hobbies ; but I Avas too proud to follow in his footsteps, 
 and too young and too little self-dependent to select a new 
 path. But there was nothing лvhich I envied so much as 
 ^'olod3'a's happy, frank, and noble character, which was dis- 
 pla3'ed with special clearness in the quarrels which took place 
 between us. I felt that he behaved well, but could not 
 imitate him. 
 
 Once, during the greatest fervor of his passion for orna- 
 mental articles, I went up to his table, and unintentiouall}' 
 broke an empty variegated little smelling-bottle. 
 
 " Who asked you to touch my things? " said A^olodya, as 
 he entered the room, and perceived the havoc which I had 
 vv'rouglit in the symraetr}' of the varied ornaments of his 
 table; "and Avhere's that little smelling-bottle? you must 
 have" — 
 
 "I dropped it unintentionally: it broke. Where's the 
 harm?" 
 
 " Please never to dare to touch ray things," he said, put- 
 ting the bits of the broken bottle together, and regarding 
 them sorrowfully. 
 
 '■' Please don't give any orders," I retovted. "I broke it, 
 that's the end of it: what's the use of talking about it? " 
 
 And I smiled, although I had not the least desire to smile. 
 
 '' Yes, it's nothing to you, but it's something to me," went 
 on \'olodya, making that motion of shrugging his shoulders 
 Avhich he had inherited from papa: "he has broken it, and 
 yet he laughs, this intolerable little boy ! " 
 
 " I am a little boy, but you are big and stupid." 
 
 " I don't mean to quarrel with you," said Volodya, giving 
 me a slight push : "go away." 
 
 " Don't 3'ou push me ! " 
 
 "Go away! " 
 
 " I tell you, dou't you piibh me ! "
 
 134 BOYHOOD. 
 
 Volodya took me Ъу the hand, and tried to drag me away 
 from the table ; but 1 was irritated to the highest degree. I 
 seized the table by the leg, and tipped it over. " Take that ! " 
 and all the ornaments of porcelain and glass were shivered 
 in pieces on the floor. 
 
 '' You disgusting little boy ! " shrieked Volodya, attempt- 
 ing to upliold the tailing ornaments. 
 
 "•Well, every thing is at an end between ns now!" I 
 thought, as I quitted the room: "we have quarrelled for- 
 ever." 
 
 We did not speak to each other until evening : I felt 
 myself in the wrong, was afraid to look at him, and could 
 not occupy myself with any thing all day long. Volodya, on 
 the contrary, studied well, and chatted and laughed with the 
 girls after dinner, as usual. 
 
 As soon as our teacher had finished his lessons, I left the 
 room. I was too afraid, awkward, and conscience-stricken 
 to remain alone with my brother. After the evening lesson 
 in history, I took my note-book, and started towards the 
 door. As I passed Volodya, in spite of the fact , that I 
 wanted to go up to him, and make peace, I pouted, and tried 
 to put on an angry face. Volotlya raised his head just at 
 that moment, and with a barely perceptible, good-naturedly 
 derisive smile, looked boldly at me. Our eyes met, and I 
 knew that he understood me, and also that I understood that 
 he understood me ; but an insuperable feeling made me turn 
 away. 
 
 " Nikolinka ! " he said, in his usual simple and not at all 
 pathetic voice : "j^u've been angry long enough. Forgive 
 me if I insulted 3'ou." 
 
 And he gave me his hand. 
 
 All at once, something rose higher and higher in my breast, 
 and began to oppress me, and stop my breath : tears came 
 to my eyes, and I felt better. 
 
 " For-give me, Vol-dya ! " I said, squeezing his hand. 
 
 But ^'olodya looked at me as though he could not at all 
 comprehend why there were tears in my eyes.
 
 BOYHOOD. 135 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MASCHA. 
 
 But not one of the changes which took place in my views 
 of things was so surprising to me m3^self, as that in con- 
 sequence of which 1 ceased to regard one of our maids as 
 a servant of the female sex, and began to regard her as a 
 woman, on whom my peace and happiness might, in some 
 degree, depend. 
 
 From the time when I can remember any thing, I recall 
 Mascha in onr house ; and never, until tlie occasion which 
 altered my view of her completely, and which I will relate 
 presently, did I pay the slightest attention to her. Masolia 
 was twenty-five when I was fourteen ; she was very pretty. 
 But I am afraid to describe her. I fear lest my fancy should 
 again present to me the enchanting and deceitful picture 
 which existed in it during the period of my passion for her. 
 In order to make no mistake, I will merely say, that she was 
 remarkabh" white, luxuriantly developed, and was a woman ; 
 and I was fourteen years old. 
 
 At one of those moments Avhen, with lesson in hand, you 
 busy yourself with a promenade up and down the room, en- 
 deavoring to step only on one crack in the floor, or with the 
 singing of some incoherent air, or the smearing of the edge 
 of the table with ink, or the repetition, without the applica- 
 tion of any thought, of some phrase, — in a word, at one of 
 those moments when the mind refuses to act, and the ima- 
 gination, assuming the upper hand, seeks an impression, — I 
 ■ stepped out of the schoolroom, and went down to the land- 
 ing, without any object whatever. 
 
 Some one in slippers was ascending the next turn of the 
 stairs. Of course I wanted to know who it was ; but the 
 sound of the footsteps suddenly ceased, and 1 heard Mas- 
 cha' s voice : 
 
 '^ Now, what ai-e you playing pranks for? Will it be well 
 when Marva Ivanovna ctmjs? "
 
 136 BOY П GOD. 
 
 "She won't come," said Volodya's voice in a whisper, 
 and then there was some movement, as if Volodya had at- 
 tempted to detain her. 
 
 "Now what are you doiug with your hands? 3'ou shame- 
 less fellow ! " and Mtischa ran past me with her necker- 
 chief pushed to one side, so that her plump white neck was 
 visible beneath it. 
 
 I cannot express the degree of amazement which this dis- 
 cover}^ caused me ; but the feeling of amazement soon gave 
 way to sympathy with Volodya's caper. AVhat surprised me 
 was not his behavior, but how he had got at the idea tluit 
 it was pleasant to behave so. And involuntarily I began to 
 want to imitate him. 
 
 I sometimes spent whole hours on that landing, without 
 a single thought, listening with strained attention to the 
 slightest movement which proceeded from аЬол^е ; but I 
 never could force myself to imitate Volodya, in spite of the 
 fact that I wanted to do it more than any thing else in the 
 world. Sometimes, having concealed myself behind a door, 
 I Listened with envy and jealousy to the commotion which 
 arose in the maids' room, and the thought occurred to me, 
 AVhat would be my position if I were to go up-stairs. and, 
 like Volodya, try to kiss Mascha? AVhat should I, with my 
 broad nose and flaunting tuft of hair, say when she asked me 
 лvhat I wanted ? Sometimes I heard Mascha say to A^olodya, 
 " Take that to punish you ! AA^hy do you cling to me? Go 
 awa3% you scamp ! AVhy doesn't Nikolai Petrovitch ever 
 come here and make a fool of himself? " She did not know 
 that Nikolai Petrovitch was at that moment sitting on the 
 stairs, and would have given every thing in the world in 
 order to be in the place of the scamp A'olodya. 
 
 I was modest by nature, but my modesty was further in- 
 creased by the conviction of my own ugliness. And 1 am 
 sure that nothing has such a decisive influence upon a man's 
 course as his personal appearance, and not so much his 
 appearance as his belief in its attractiveness or unattrac- 
 tiveness. 
 
 I was too egotistical to become accustomed to my position, 
 and consoled inj-self , like the fox, by assuring myself that 
 the grapes were still green ; that is to say, I endeavored to 
 despise all the pleasures derived from the pleasing exterior 
 which A^olodj^a eujojed in my eyes, and whicli I envied with 
 all my soul, and I strained every nerve of my mind and 
 imagiuation to thul solace in [)roud solitude.
 
 BOYHOOD. 137 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SHOT. 
 
 " Mt God, powder! " screamed Mimi, panting with emo- 
 tion. "What are you doing? Do 3'ou want to bum the 
 house down, and ruin us all? " ' 
 
 And, with an indeseriljable expression of firmness, Mimi 
 commanded all to retire, walked up to the scattered shot with 
 long and determined strides, and, despising the danger which 
 might result from a premature explosion, she began to stamp 
 it out with her feet. When, in her opinion, the danger was 
 averted, she called Mikhei, and ordered him to fling all that 
 jjowder as far away as possible, or, what was better still, 
 into the Avater ; and, proudly smoothing her cap, she betook 
 herself to the drawing-room. "They are well looked after, 
 there's no denying that," she grumbled. 
 
 When papa came from the wing, and we accompanied him 
 to grandmamma, Mimi was already seated near the window 
 in her room, gazing threateningly at tlie door with a certain 
 mysteriously official expression. She held something envel- 
 oped in paper in her hand. I guessed that it was the shot, 
 and that grandmamma alread}' knew every thing. 
 
 In grandmamma's room tliere were, besides Mimi, Gascha 
 the maid, who, as was evident from her red and angry face, 
 was л'сгу much put out; and Dr. Blumenthal, a small, [юск- 
 marked man, who was vainly endeavoring to calm Gascha by 
 making mysterious and pacifying signs to her with his eyes 
 and head. 
 
 Grandmamma herself was sitting rather sideways, and lay- 
 ing out her " patience," the Traveller., which always indicated 
 an extremely unpropitious frame of mind. 
 
 " How do you feel to-day, mamma? have vou sle[)t well? " 
 said papa, as he respectfully kissed her hand. 
 
 " Ver}' well, my dear; I believe 3'ou know that I am 
 always well," replied grandmamma in a tone which seemed to
 
 .138 BOYHOOD. 
 
 indicate that papa's question was as misplaced and insulting 
 as it could be. " Well, are you going to give me a clean 
 handkerchief?" she continued, turning to Gascha. 
 
 "■ 1 have given it to you," replied Gascha, pointing to a 
 cambric handkei'chief, as white as snow, which lay on the 
 arm of the chair. 
 
 ''Take away that dirty thing, and give me a clean one, 
 my dear." 
 
 Gascha went to the chiffonier, pulled out a drawer, and 
 slammed it in again with such force that all the glass in the 
 room rattled. Grandmamma glanced round with a threaten- 
 ing look at all of us, and continued to watch the maid's тол-е- 
 ments attentiveh'. When the latter gave her what appeared 
 to me to be the same handkerchief, grandmamma said : 
 
 " When will you grind my snuff, my dear? " 
 
 " AVhen there's lime, I'll do it." 
 
 "AVhat did you say?" 
 
 "I'll do it to-day." 
 
 " If 3'Ou don't wish to serve me, my dear, you might have 
 said so ; I would have discharged you long ago." 
 
 "• If you discharge me, 1 sha'n't cr}'," muttered the maid 
 in a low tone. 
 
 At that moment the doctor tried to wink at her ; but she 
 looked at him with so much anger and decision that he im- 
 mediately dropped his ез'ез, and busied himself Avith his 
 watch-key. 
 
 " You see, my dear," said grandmamma, turning to papa, 
 when Gascha, still muttering, had left the room, " how people 
 speak to me in my own house." 
 
 " If 3'ou will permit me, mamma, I will grind your snuff," 
 said papa, who was evidently very much embarrassed by this 
 unexpected behavior. 
 
 "• No, I thank you ; she is impudent because she knows 
 that no one but herself understands how to grind snuff as I 
 like it. You know, m}' dear," went on grandmamma, after a 
 momentary pause, " that your children came near setting 
 the house on fire to-day? " 
 
 Papa gazed at grandmamma with respectful curiosity. 
 
 "This is what they play with. — Show him," she said, 
 turning to Mimi. 
 
 Papa took the shot in his hand, and could not forbear a 
 smile. 
 
 " Why, this is shot, шатша," said he; "it's not at all 
 dangei'ous."
 
 вотпоои. 139 
 
 "I am л -ery much obliged to you, my dear, for teaching 
 me, only I'm too old." 
 
 "•Nerves! nerves," whispered the doctor. 
 
 And papa immediately turned to us. 
 
 '* Where did you get that? aud how dare you play pranks 
 with such things? " 
 
 "Don't ask them anything; you must ask their dy- 
 adka,"^ said grandmamma, pronouncing the word dyadka 
 with particular contempt, •' what he is looking after." 
 
 '' Voldemar said that Karl Ivanitch himself gave him this 
 powder," put in Mimi. 
 
 "Now you see what he is good for," continued grand- 
 mamma. " And where is he, that dyadka., what's his name? 
 Send him here." 
 
 " I gave him leave to go out and make a visit," said papa. 
 
 " There's no sense in that ; he ought to be here all the time. 
 The children are not mine, but yours, and I have no right to 
 advise you, because you are wiser than I," pursued grand- 
 mamma ; " but it does seem as though it were time to engage 
 a tutor for them, and not a valet, a German peasant, — yes, a 
 stupid peasant, who can teach them nothing except bad man- 
 ners and T^'rolese songs. Is it extremely necessary, now, 
 I ask you, that children should know Ьолу to sing Tyrolese 
 songs ? Howe\'er, nobody thinks of this now, and you can do 
 as you please." 
 
 The word " now " meant that they had no mother, and 
 called up sad memories in grandmamma's heart. She 
 dropped her eyes on her snuff-box, with its portrait, and be- 
 came thoughtful. 
 
 "I have long been meditating that." papa hastened to 
 say, " and I wanted to advise with you, mamma. Shall we 
 not inAdte St. Jerome, who is now giving them lessons by 
 the day?" 
 
 " You will be doing extremely well, my friend." said 
 grandmamma, and no longer in the dissatisfied tone in which 
 she had spoken before. " St. Jerome is at least a tutor who 
 knows how children of good famil}" should be trained, and 
 not a paltr}- valet, who is good for nothing but to take them 
 to walk." 
 
 "I лvill speak with him to-morrow," said papa. 
 
 And, in fact, two days after this conversation, Karl Ivan- 
 itch yielded his place to the young French dandy. 
 
 1 Val^j^
 
 140 BOYHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 KARL IVANITCH's IIISTOUY. 
 
 Late on the eA^ening which preceded the day which Karl 
 Ivanitch Avas to leave us forever, he stood beside the bed in 
 his wadded gown and red cap, bending ол^ег his trunk, and 
 carefully packing his effects. 
 
 Karl Ivanitch's intercourse with us had been peculiaily dry 
 of late. He seemed to avoid all connection with us ; so луЬеп 
 I now entered the room, he glanced askance at me, and went 
 on with his work. I lay down on my bed, but Karl Ivanitch, 
 ■•who had in former times strictly prohibited this, said nothing 
 i^to me ; and the thought that he would never more scold us or 
 stop us, that he had no concern with us now, reminded me 
 vividly of the approaching separation. I was soi'ry that he 
 had ceased to love us, and w^anted to express this feeling to 
 him. " Let me he\\) you, Karl Iv^anitch," I said, going up 
 to him. Karl Ivanitch glanced at me, and again turned 
 aside ; but in the fleeting look which he cast at me, I read not 
 the indifference with which he explained his coldness, but 
 genuine, concentrated grief. 
 
 " God sees all, and knows all : and may His holy will he 
 done in all things ! ' he said, drew himself up to ids full height, 
 and sighed heavily. "Yes, Nikolinka," he went on, per- 
 ceiving the expression of unfeigned synn.iath}' with which I 
 regarded him, " it is my fate to be unhappy from my very 
 infanc}" to my coffin. I have always been repaid with evil 
 for the good which I have done to people ; and my reward is 
 not here, but 3'onder," he said, pointing toward heaven. "If 
 you only knew my history, and all that I have undergone in 
 this life ! 1 have been a shoemaker, I have been a soldier, 
 1 have been a desert ei\ I have been a workman, I have been 
 a teacher, and now I am nothing ; and, like the Son of God, 
 I have nowhere to lay my liead," he concluded, and, closing 
 his e\es, he tVU into a cliair.
 
 BOYHOOD. 141 
 
 Perceiving that Karl Ivanitch was in that sensitive state of 
 mind in which he uttered his dearest thoughts for iiis own sat- 
 isfaction, Avithont heeding the Iiearer, I seated myself on tlie 
 bed in silence, and without removing ray eyes from his kind 
 face. 
 
 '' You are not a cliild, you can understand. I will tell yon 
 my story, and all that 1 have endured in this life. Some 
 day you will recall the old friend, who 1олхч1 you very much, 
 children." 
 
 Karl Ivanitch leaned his elbow on the talile which stood 
 beside him, took a pinch of snuff, and, rolling his eyes 
 heavenward, began his tale in that peculiar, measured, 
 throat voice, in which he usually dictated to us. 
 
 ''/ was ujihapjjy even before I toas born,"'^ he said with 
 great feeling. 
 
 As Karl Ivanitch related his history to me more than once 
 afterwards, in exactly the same terms, and always with the 
 same identical intonations, I hope to be al)le to reproduce it 
 almost word for word, the faults of language, of course, 
 excepted, of which the readei- can form his own judgment 
 from the first sentence. AVhether it really was his history, 
 or a production of the imagination, Avhich had had its l)irth 
 during his loneh* life in our house, or whether he onl}' colored 
 the real events of his life with fantastic facts, I have not 
 been able to decide to this da}'. On the one hand, he related 
 his story with too much of that lively feeling and method- 
 ical sequence which constitute the chief proofs of A^eracity, 
 to permit one to doubt it : on the other hand, there was too 
 much poetic beauty about his history, so that this very 
 beauty evoked doubts. 
 
 "•In my veins flows the noble lilood of the counts of Soni- 
 m('rl)latt. I was born six weeks aft3r tlie marriage. ^ly 
 mother's husltand (I called him papa) was a fanner under 
 Count Sommerblatt. He could never forget my mother's 
 shame, and did not love me. I had a little brother Johann 
 and two sisters ; but I was a strangei* in the midst of my 
 own family. When Johann committed any follies, papa used 
 to say, ' I never have a moment's peace with that child 
 Karl ! ' and then I was scolded and punished. When my 
 sisters got angry with each other, papa said, ' Karl will 
 never be an obedient bo}* ! ' and I was scolded and punished. 
 
 ' " ГндГшк rcrfohjte viich nc/ion ha Suhoosse laeiiwr Mutter." 'ГЬе liuesiaii 
 i:< also incorrect.
 
 142 воупооп. 
 
 " My good mammri alone loved me and petted me. She 
 often said to me, ' Karl, come here, to my room,' and 
 then she kissed me on tlie sly. ' Poor, poor Karl ! ' she said, 
 ' no one loves you, but I would not change you for any one. 
 One thing з'оиг mamma begs of you,' she said to me : 
 ' study well, and always be an honorable man, and God will 
 not desert you.' And I tried. When I was fourteen, and 
 could go to communion, mamma said to papa, ' Karl is a 
 big boy now, Gustav : what shall we do with him ? ' And 
 papa said, 'I don't know.' Then mamma said, 'Let us 
 send him to Herr Sehultz in the town, and let him be a 
 shoemaker.' And papa said, ' Very good.' Six years and 
 seven months I lived in the town, with the master shoemaker, 
 and the master loved me. He said, ' Karl is a good work- 
 man, and he shall soon be my partner.' But man proposes, 
 and God disposes. In 1796 a conscription was appointed, 
 and all who could serve, from eighteen to twentj^-one з^еага 
 of age, nuist assemble in the town. 
 
 " Papa and brother Johanu came to town, and we went 
 together to di'aw lots to see who should be and who should 
 not be a soldier. Johann drew a bad number : he must , 
 become a soldic-r. I drew a good number : 1 was not obliged 
 to become a soldier. And papa said, ' I had one son, and I 
 must part Mith him.' 
 
 " I took his hand, and said, ' Why did you say that, papa? 
 Come with me, I will tell you something.' And papa went. 
 Papa went, and we seated ourselves at a little table. ' Give 
 Lis a couple of jugs of beer,' I said, and they were brought. 
 We drank them glass for glass, and brother Johann drank 
 also. 
 
 "'Papa,' I said, ' do not say that you had one son, and 
 Vou must part with him. My heart wants to leaj} nut when 
 [ hear that. Brother Johann shall not serve : I will be a sol- 
 dier. No one needs Karl here, and Kai'l will be a soldier.' 
 
 '"You are an honest man, Karl Ivanitch,' said papa to 
 me, and he kissed me. 
 
 "And 1 became a soldier.
 
 BOYHOOD. 143 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 COKTmUATION OP THE PRECEDING. 
 
 "That was a terrible time, Nikolinka," continued Karl 
 Ivaniteh. " Napoleon was alive then. He wanted to con- 
 quer German}^ and we defended our fatherland to the last 
 drop of blood ! 
 
 " I was at Ulm, I was at Austerlitz, I was at Wagrain." 
 
 "Did you fight too?" I asked, gazing at him in amaze- 
 ment. "Did \o\\ also kill people ? " 
 
 Karl Ivaniteh immediately relieved my mind on that score. 
 
 " Once a French grenadier lingered behind his comrades, 
 and fell by the way. I ran up with my gun, and was about 
 to transfix him ; but the Frenchman threw away his weapons, 
 and begged for mercy, and I let him go. 
 
 " At Wagram, Napoleon chased us to the islands, and sur- 
 rounded us so that there was no safety anywhere. For three 
 days we had no provisions, and we stood in the water up to 
 our knees. 
 
 "The miscreant Napoleon would neither take us nor leave 
 us. 
 
 " On the fourth daj', thank God, we were taken prisonei's, 
 and led off to the fortress. I had on l)lue trousers, a unifoi-ni 
 of good cloth, fifteen thalers in money, and a silver watch, 
 the gift of my papa. A French soldier took all from me. 
 Fortunately, I had three ducats left, which mamma had 
 sewed into \n\ doublet. Nobody found them. 
 
 " I did not wish to remain long in the fortress, and de- 
 cided to run away. Once on a great festival day, I told the 
 sergeant who looked after us, ' Herr sergeant, this is a 
 solemn festiA^il, and I want to obscn've it. Please fetch two 
 bottles of Madeira, and we will drink them together.' And 
 the sergeant said, ' Very good.' When the sergeant l)rought 
 the Madi'ira, and we had drank it in a wineglass, turn and 
 turn about, 1 took him by the hand, and said, ' Herr «er-
 
 144 nor lino J). 
 
 gcant, do you happen to have a father and mother?' lie 
 said, ' Yes, Herr Mauer.' — ■ My fatlier and mother,' said I, 
 ' have not seen me for eight 3'ears, and do not linow wliether 
 I am alive or whellier my bones are lying in the damp earth. 
 
 Herr sergeant I I have two ducats, which were in my 
 doul)let: take tiiom, and let me go. Be my benefactor, and 
 my mamma will pray to Almighty God for you all her life.' 
 
 '•' The sergeant drank a glass of Madeira, and said, ' Herr 
 Mauer, I love and pity 3'on extremely ; but you are a prisoner, 
 and I am a soldier.' 1 pressed his hand, and said, 'Herr 
 sergeant ! ' 
 
 "And the sergeant said, 'You are a poor man, and I will 
 not take your money ; V)ut I will help you. When I go to 
 bed, bu}»^ a Inicket of brandy for the soldiers, and they will 
 sleep. I will not watch 3'ou.' 
 
 " He w^as a good man. I bought the bucket of brandy ; and 
 when the soldiers were drunk, 1 put on my boots and my old 
 cloak, and went out of the door. I went to the wall, with 
 the intention of jumping ол^ег ; bnt there was water there, and 
 
 1 would not spoil my last remaining clothes. I went to the 
 gate. 
 
 " The sentry was marching up and down with his gun.■^ and 
 he looked at me. 'Qui vive?' he said for the first time, 
 and J made no answer. 'Qui vive?' said he the second 
 time, and 1 made no answer. 'Qui л'ive?' he said for the 
 third time, and I ran away. I sprang irtto the icater, 
 climbed out on the other side, and took my dex)arture. 
 
 "All night 1 ran along the road; but when it began to 
 dawn, I w^as afraid that they w^ould recognize me, and ,1 hid 
 in the tall rye. Then I knelt, folded m}' hands, and thanked 
 our heavenly Father for saving me, and fell asleep with a 
 tranquil mind. 
 
 "'l woke in the evening, and proceeded farther. All at 
 once, a great German wagon with two black horses over- 
 took me. In the wagon sat a handsomel}' dressed man, 
 who was smoking a pipe, and looking at me. I walked 
 slowl}-, in order that the wagon might pass me ; but when I' 
 went slowly, the wagon went more slowh' still, and the man 
 stared at me. I sat down by the roadside ; tlie man stopped 
 his horses, and looked at me. ' Young man,' said he, 
 'whither are you going so late?' I said, 'I am going 
 
 ' K:\il [vanitch's language is an extraordinary mixture of bad Russian and Ger- 
 man, wbich it ia irupoesible to reproduce williout much tiresome repetition. — Tr.
 
 BOYHOOD. 145 
 
 to Frankfort.' — ' Get into ni}- wagon ; there's room, and 
 I will take 30U there. Why have 3'ou nothing* wuth 3'ou? 
 why is your beard unshaved? and why are your clothes 
 muddy?' he said to me, when I had seated myself by him. 
 ' I am a poor man,' I said. ' I want to hire out somewhere 
 as a workman ; and my clothes are muddy because I fell 
 down in the road.' — ' You are telling an untruth, young 
 man,' said he : ' the road is dry now.' 
 
 "And I remained silent. 
 
 "'Tell me the whole truth,' said the good man to me. 
 'Who are you, and лу hence come you? Your face pleases 
 me, and if you are an honest man I will help you.' 
 
 "And I told him all. He said, 'Very good, young man. 
 Come to my rope-factory. I Avill give you work, clothes, and 
 money, and you shall live with me.' 
 
 " And I said, ' Very well.' 
 
 " We went to the rope-factory, and the good man said to his 
 wife, ' Here is a young man who has fought for his country, 
 and escaped from captivity ; he has neither home, clothes, 
 nor bread. He will live with me. Give him some clean 
 linen, and feed him.' 
 
 " I lived at the rope-factory for a year and a half, and 
 my master became so fond of me that he would not let me 
 go. I was a handsome man then ; I was 3'ouug, tall, with 
 blue eyes, and a Roman nose ; and Madame L. (I cannot 
 tell her name), the Avife of ray master, Avas a young and 
 pretty' woman, and she fell in love with me. 
 
 "When she saw me, she said, ' ilerr Mauer, Avluvt does 
 your mamma call 3^u ? ' 1 said, ' Karlehen.' 
 
 " And she said, ' Karlehen, sit here beside me.' 
 
 " I seated myself beside her, and she said, ■• Karlehen, kiss 
 me I 
 
 " I kissed her, and she said, ' Karlehen. I love you so, that 
 1 cannot endure it any longer,' and she trembled all over." 
 
 Here Karl Ivaiiitch made a prolonged i)!^4se ; and rolling 
 up his kind blue eyes, he rocked hi« head, and began to 
 smile, as people do when under the influence of pleasant 
 recollections. 
 
 "Yes," he began again, settling himself in his arm-chair, 
 and folding his dressing-gown about him. " I have been 
 through a great deal, both of good and bad. in my life ; but 
 He is my witness." he said, pointing to a figure of the Sav- 
 iour, worked on canvas, 'л1:1^11 Imng over his ЬеЛ, " nobody
 
 146 BOYHOOD. 
 
 can say that Karl Ivanitch has been a dishonorable man ! I 
 would not repay the kindness which Herr L. had shown me, 
 by black ingratitude ; and I resolved to run awaiy from him. 
 In the evening, when all had gone to bed, I wrote a letter to 
 my master, laid it on the table in my room, took my clothes 
 and three thalers in money, and stepped quietly out into the 
 street. No one saw me, and 1 walked along the road.
 
 BOYHOOD. 147 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 CONTINUATION. 
 
 "I HAD not seen my mamma for nine years; and I did 
 not know whether she was аИл'е, or whether her bones were 
 already lying in the damp earth. I retnrned to my father- 
 land. AYhen I readied the town, I inquired where Gustav 
 Mauer lived, who had l)een farmer to Count Sommerblatt ; 
 and they told me, ' Count Sommerblatt is dead ; and Gus- 
 tav Mauer lives in the high street, and keeps a liquor-shop.' 
 I put on my new vest, a handsome coat (a gift of the 
 manufacturer), brushed mj' hair well, and went to my papa's 
 liquor-shop. My sister Mariechen лгаз sitting in the shop, 
 and inquired what 1 лvanted. I said, ' May 1 drink a glass 
 of liquor?' and she said, ' Father, a young man is asking 
 for a glass of liquor.' And papa said, 'Give the young 
 man a glass of liquor.' I sat down at the table, drank 
 my glass of liquor, smoked my pipe, and looked at papa, 
 Mariechen, and Johann, who had also entered the shop. 
 During the couA'ersation, papa said to me, 'You probably 
 know, young man, where our army stands now?' I said, 
 '• 1 have come from the army myself, and it is near Vienna.' 
 — ' Our son,' said papa, ' was a soldier, and it is nine j'ears 
 since he has written to us, and we do not know whether j*?i 
 he is alive or dead. M}' wife is always weeping for him.' 
 I smoked away at my pipe, and said, ' What was your son's 
 name, and Avhere did he serve? Perhaps I know him.' — 
 ' He was called Karl Mauer, and he served in the Austrian 
 Jilgers,' said papa. ' He was a tall, handsome man, like 
 you,' said sister Mariechen. 
 
 "'I know your Karl,' said I. ' Amalia ! ' cried my 
 father suddenly, ' come here ! here is a young man who 
 knows our Karl.' And my dear mamma comes through the 
 rear door. I immediatebi recognize her. ' You Jcnow our 
 Karl?' she said, looked at me, tamed very pale, and began
 
 148 вот ODD. 
 
 to tremble! 'Yes, I have seen him,' said I, and did not 
 dare to lift my eyes to her ; my heait wanted to /cfj). ' ]My 
 Karl is alive!' said mamma, -thank God I Where is he, 
 my dear Karl? I shonld die in peace if I could see him once 
 more, my beloved son; bnt it is not God's will,' and she 
 began to cr}'. / conld not bear if. ' Mamma,' said I, • I 
 am your Karl,' cnid яЬе fell into шц arms." 
 
 Karl Ivanitch closed his eyes, and his lips trembled. 
 
 " ' Mother,' said I, ' I am your son, I am your Karl.' and 
 she fell into my arms," he repeated, becoming somewdiat 
 calmer, as he wiped away the big tears winch trickled down 
 his cheeks. 
 
 '• But it was not God's pleasni-e that I should end my days 
 in my own country. I was destined to ill luck. Misfortune 
 followed me everywhere. I lived in my native land only 
 three months. One Snndny I was in a coffee-house buying a 
 jug of l)eer. smoking тл' pipe, and talking politics with my 
 acquaintances, and about the Emperor Franz, about Nai)0- 
 leou and the war, and each one was expressing his opinion. 
 Near us sat a strange gentleman, in a gray overcoat, who 
 drank his coffee, smoked his pipe, and said nothing to us. 
 When the night watchman cried ten o'clock, I took my hat, 
 paid my reckoning, and went home. About midnight some 
 one knocked at the door. I woke .up and said, ' Who's 
 there?' — 'Open!' I said, 'Tell me who you are, and I 
 vi'ill open.' — 'Open in the name of the law!' came the 
 answer from outside the door, and I opened. Two soldiers 
 with guns stood at the door ; and the strange man in the 
 gray overcoat, who had been sitting near us in the coffee- 
 house, entered the room. He was a spy. ' Come Avith me,' 
 said the spy. ' Ver}' good,' said I. 1 put on my boots and 
 trousers, buckled my suspenders, and walked about the room. 
 I was raging at heart. I said, 'He is a villain.' AVhen I 
 reached the wall where my sword hung, I suddenly seized it, 
 and said, ' You are a spy: defend yourself!' I gave him 
 a cut on the right, a cut on the left, and one on the J;eud. 
 The spj/ fell! I seized my portmanteau and my money, and 
 leaped out of the window. 1 got to Ems ; there I made the 
 acquaintance of General Saziu. He took a fancj' to m?. got 
 a passport from the ambassador, and took me to Russia with 
 him to teach his children. When General Sazin died, your 
 mamma called me to her. * Karl Ivanitch,' she said, ' Г 
 give my children into 3'our charge : love them, nud I wiil
 
 BOYHOOD. 149 
 
 never discharge j'ou ; I will make your old age comfortable.' 
 Now she is dead, and all is forgotten. After twenty years of 
 service I must now go out into the street, in my old age, to 
 seek a crust of dry bread. God sees it and knows it., and 
 His holy will be done: only I am sorry for you, children! " 
 said Karl Ivauitch in conclusion, drawing me to him by the 
 hand, and kissing me on the head.
 
 150 BOYHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ONE. 
 
 By the conclusion of the year of mourning, grandmamma 
 had somewhat recovered from the grief which had pros- 
 trated her, and began to receive guests now and then, espe- 
 cially children, boys and girls of our own age. 
 
 On Liul)Otchka's birthday, the 13th of December, Prin 
 cess Kornakova and her daughters, Madame Valakhina and 
 Sonitchka, llinka Grap, and the two younger Ivin brothers, 
 arrived before dinner. 
 
 The sounds of conversation, laughter, and running about 
 ascended to us from below, where all this company was as- 
 seml)led ; but we could not join them until our morning lessons 
 were finished. On the calendar which was suspended in the 
 schoolroom was inscribed: "Monday, from 2 to 3, teaclier 
 of history and geography' ; " and it was that master of history 
 whom we were obliged to wait for, listen to, and get rid of, 
 before we should be free. It was twenty minutes past two, 
 but nothing had yet been heard of the teacher of history ; he 
 was not even to be seen in the street which he nuist traverse, 
 and which I was inspecting with a strong desire of never 
 beholding him. 
 
 > "• Lebedeff does not appej^r to be coming to-day," said 
 Volodya, tearing himself for a moment from Smaragdoff 's 
 book, in Avhich he was preparing his lesson. 
 
 " God grant, God grant he may not ! but I know nothing. 
 But he seems to be coming yonder," I added in a sorrowful 
 voice. V' • • r, к 
 
 Volodya rose, and came to the window. 
 
 "No, that is not he; it is some (fentleman," said he. 
 " Let's w^ait until lialf- past two," he added, stretching him- 
 self and scrateliing liis head, as he was in the habit of doing 
 in moments of respite from work; "if he lias not come by 
 half-past two, then we can tell 8t. Jerome to take away the 
 uote-books."
 
 BOYHOOD. 151 
 
 "I don't see what he wants to co-o-o-me for," I said, 
 stretching also, and shaking Kaidauoff's book, which I held 
 in both hands, above my head. 
 
 For lack of something to do, I opened the book at the 
 place where our lesson was appointed, and began to read. 
 The lesson was long and difficult. I knew nothing about it, 
 and I perceived tliat I should not succeed in remembering 
 any thing about it, the more so as I was in that state of 
 nervous excitement in which one's thoughts refuse to cou- 
 centrate themselves on any subject whatever. 
 
 After the last history lesson, which alwa^'s seemed to me 
 the very stupidest, on the most wearisome of all subjects, 
 Lebedeff had complained to St. Jerome about me ; and two 
 marks were placed against me in the books, which was con- 
 sidered very bad. 8t. Jerome told me then, that, if I got 
 less than three at the next lesson, I should be severely 
 punished. Now this next lesson was imminent, and I con- 
 fess that I felt very much of a coward. 
 
 I was so carried away with the perusal of the lesson which 
 I did not know, that the somid of galoshes being removed in 
 the ante-room startled me all at once. I had hardly had time 
 to cast a glance in that direction, when the pock-marked face 
 Avhich was so anti[)athetic to me, and the awkward, far too 
 well known figure of the teacher, in its blue coat closely fas- 
 tened with learned buttons, made their appearance in the 
 doorway. 
 
 The teacher slowly deposited his hat on the window, his 
 note-books on the table, pulled aside the tails of his swallow- 
 tailed coat (as though it were very important), and seated 
 himself, panting, in his place. 
 
 '' Now, gentlemen," said he, rubbing one perspiring hand 
 over the other: "let us first review Avhat was said at the 
 last lesson, and then 1 will endeavor to acquaint 3'ou with 
 succeeding events of the Middle Ages." 
 
 That meant : Say your lesson. 
 
 At the moment when Volod^'a was answering him Avith 
 the freedom and confidence peculiar to a person who is 
 thoronghl}' acquainted with his subject, I went out on the 
 stairs, without any object whatever; and, snice it was im- 
 possible for me to go down, it was very natural that 1 should 
 find myself, quite unexpectedly to myself, on the landing. 
 But just as I was about to install myself in my custonuiry 
 post of observation, behind a door, Mimi, wlio had always
 
 152 BOYHOOD. 
 
 been the cause of m}' misfortunes, suddenly ran against me. 
 "You here?" said she, looking threateningly at me, then 
 at the door of the maids' room, and then at me again. 
 
 I felt thorough!}' guilty, both because I was not in tlie 
 schoolroom, and because I was in a place where I had no 
 business to be. So I held my tongue, and, hanging m}' head, 
 exhibited in my person the most touching expression of 
 penitence. "Well, who ever saw the like!" said Mimi. 
 " \Vhat have 3'ou been doing here?" I remained silent. 
 "No, things shall not be left in this state," she repeated, 
 rapping her knuckles against the stair-railings : "I shall tell 
 the Countess all about it." 
 
 It was already tive minutes to three, when I returned to 
 the schoolroom. The teacher was explaining the following 
 lesson to Volodya, as though he had remarked neither my 
 absence nor my presence. When he had finished his expo- 
 sition, he began to put his note-books together, and \"olodya 
 went into the other room to fetch the lesson-ticket ; and the 
 cheering tliought occurred to me, that all was over, and that 
 I had been forgotten. 
 
 But all at once the teacher turned to me with a malicious 
 half smile. 
 
 "I hope 3'ou have learned your lesson, sir," he said, rub- 
 bing his hands. 
 
 " I have learned it, sir," I answered. 
 
 " Ti'y to tell me something al)out St. Louis's crusade," 
 said he, shiftiug about in his chair, and gazing thouglitfuUy 
 at his feet. " You may tell me first the causes which induced 
 the French King to take the cross," said he, raising his 
 brows, and pointing his finger at the ink-bottle. " Then you 
 may explain to me the general and characteristic traits of 
 that expedition," he added, m.aking a movement with his 
 wrist, as though endeavoring to catch something. "And, 
 finally, the influence of this crusade upon European sove- 
 reignty^ in general," said he, striking the left side of the table 
 with his note-books. " And upon the French monarchy in 
 particular," he concluded, striking the right side of the table, 
 and inclining his head to the right. 
 
 I gulped down my spittle a few times, coughed, bent my 
 head on one side, and remained silent. Then seizing a pen, 
 wliieh la}' upon the table, I began to pluck it to pieces, still 
 maintaining m}' silence. 
 
 " Permit me to take that pen," said the teacher, extending 
 his hand ; " it is good for something. No»v, sir ! "
 
 BOYHOOD. 153 
 
 " Lon — King — St. Louis — was — was — was — a good 
 and wise emperor." 
 
 ''What, sir?" 
 
 "An emperor. He conceived the idea of going to Jeru- 
 salem, and transferred the reins of government to his mother." 
 
 •" What was lier name? " 
 
 "B — B — lauka." 
 
 "What, sir? Bulanka?"! 
 
 I laughed rather awkwardly, and with constraint. 
 
 "Well, sir, do j'ou know any thing else?" he said sar- 
 castically. 
 
 There was nothing for me to lose, so I coughed, and began 
 to utter whatever lies came into mj' head. The teacher, лл1ю 
 sat silently flicking the dust from the table, with the quill 
 pen which he had taken awa}^ from me, gazed straight past 
 my ear, and repeated, " Good, very good, sir." I Avas con- 
 scious that I knew nothing, that I was not expressing myself 
 at all as I should ; and it pained me frightfully to see that 
 the teacher did not stop me, or correct me. 
 
 " Why did he conceive the idea of going to Jerusalem?" 
 said he, repeating my words. 
 
 " Because — for the reason — for the purpose, because " — 
 I stopped short, uttered not another word, and felt that if 
 that villanous teacher were to hold his tongue for a whole 
 year, and gaze inquiringly at me, I should not be in a con- 
 dition to emit another sound. The teacher stared at me for 
 three minutes ; then an exi^ression of deep sorrow appeared 
 on his face, and he said to Volod3'a, who had just entered 
 the room, in a feeling tone : 
 
 " Please hand me the record-book." 
 
 Volodya gave him the book, and carefully laid the ticket 
 beside it. 
 
 The teacher opened the book, and, cautiously dipping his 
 pen, he put down five, iu his beautiful hand, for ^'olodз'a, 
 under the head of recitations and behavior. Then ho 
 stopped his pen over the column in which my delinquencies 
 were inscribed, looked at me, flirted oft" the ink, and |)ondered. 
 
 All at once his hand made an almost impercei)til)le move- 
 ment, and there appeared a handsomely shaped one and a 
 period ; another movement, and in the conduct column stood 
 another one and a dot. 
 
 Carefully closing the record-book, the teacher rose and 
 
 * Name for a creara-coloied horse.
 
 154 nOYUOOD. 
 
 went to the door, as though he did not perceive my glance, 
 in which despair, entreat}-, and reproach were expressed. 
 
 "Mikhail llarionovitch," said 1, 
 
 "No," said he, understanding at once what I w'anted to 
 say to him ; " it's impossible to teach in that way. I won't 
 receive money for nothing." 
 
 The teacher put on his galoshes and his camelot cloak, and 
 knotted his scarf with great care. As if any one could care 
 for any thing after what had happened to me ! A moA'ement 
 of the pen for him, but the greatest misfortune for me. 
 
 " Is the lesson ended? " inquired .St. Jerome, entering the 
 room. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Was your teacher satisfied with 3'ou? " 
 
 "Yes," said Volodya. 
 
 " How many did you get? " 
 
 "Five." 
 
 "And Nicholas?" 
 
 I said nothing. 
 
 " Four, apparently," said Volodya. 
 
 He knew that it was neeessar}^ to зал'е me, if only for 
 that da}'. If I were to be punished, let it not be to-day, 
 when there were guests in the house. 
 
 " Let us see, gentlemen [St. Jerome had a way of saying 
 "let us see" (voyons) at every other word], make your toi- 
 lets, and we will go down-stairs."
 
 BOYHOOD. 155 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE LITTLE KEY, 
 
 We had barcll}' got down-stairs and exchanged salutations 
 with all the guests, when we were summoned to the table. 
 Papa was very gay (he was winning money just then), pre- 
 sented Liubotchka with a handsome silver serA'ice, and, after 
 dinner, remembered that he had also a bonbon box in his 
 wing for the birthday girl. 
 
 '•There's no use in sending a man; better go j'ourself, 
 Koko," he said to me. ''The keys are lying on tlie large 
 table, in the shell, you know. Take them, and with the л'егу 
 largest key, open the second drawer on the right. There you 
 will find the box and some bonbons in a paper ; and you are 
 to bring them all here." 
 
 "And shall I bring you some cigars?" I asked, knowing 
 that he always sent for them after dinner. 
 
 "Bring them, but see that you don't touch anything in 
 my rooms," he called after me. 
 
 I found the keys in the place designated, and was about to 
 open the drawer, when I was stopped b}" a desire to know 
 what a very small key, which hung on the same bunch, opened. 
 
 On the table, amid a thousand varied objects, and near the 
 railing, lay an embroidered portfolio, with a padlock ; and I 
 took a fancy to try whether the little ke}^ would lit it. My 
 experiment was crowned with complete success ; the portfolio 
 opened, and in it I found a whole iieap of jiapers. A feeling 
 of curiosity counselled me with such conviction to find out 
 what those pa[)ers were, that I did not succeed in hearkening 
 to the voice of conscience, and set to woi'k to examine what 
 was in the portfolio. 
 
 The childish sentiment of unquestioning respect towards 
 all my elders, and especially towards papa, was so strong 
 within me, that my mind involuntarily refused to draw any
 
 156 BOYHOOD. 
 
 conclusions whatCA'er from what I saw. I felt that papa 
 must live in a totally different sphere, which was very beau- 
 tiful, unattainable, and incomprehensible to me, and that to 
 attempt to penetrate the secrets of his life, would be some- 
 thing in the nature of sacrilege on my part. 
 
 Therefore the discovery which I had almost unconsciously 
 made in papa's portfolio, left in me no clear conception, 
 except a dim knowledge that I had behaved badly. I was 
 ashamed and uncomfortable. 
 
 Under the influence of this feeling, I desired to close the 
 portfolio as speedily as possible, but I was evidently fated to 
 endure every possible kind of misfortune upon that memor- 
 able day. Placing the key in the keyhole of the padlock, I 
 turned it the other way ; supposing that the lock was closed, 
 I pulled out the key, and — oh, horror! the head of the key 
 only remained in my hand. In vain did I endeaA'or to unite it 
 with the half in the lock, and release it by means of some 
 magic. I was forced at length to accustom myself to the 
 frightful thought, that I had committed a fresh crime, which 
 must be discovered this very day, when papa returned to his 
 study. 
 
 Mimi's complaint, the one mark, and that little key ! 
 Nothing worse could have happened. Grandmamma on ac- 
 count of Mimi's complaint, St. Jerome about the one mark, 
 papa, about that ke}' ; and all these would overwhelm me, and 
 not later than that very evening. 
 
 " AVhat will become of me ? Oh, what have I clone?" I 
 said aloud, as I paced the soft carpet of the study. "Eh," 
 I said to myself, as I got the bonbons and cigars, ^^ what 
 will be, will be," and I ran into the house. 
 
 This fatalistic adage, which I had heard from Nikolai in 
 my cliildhood, produced a beneficial and temporarily sooth- 
 ing effect upon me at all difficult crises in my life. ЛУЬеп 
 I entered the hall, I was in a somewhat excited and un- 
 natural but extremely merry mood.
 
 BOYHOOD. 157 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE TRAITRESS. 
 
 After dinner, games began, and I took the most lively 
 interest in them. While playing at cat and inouse^ I awk- 
 wardh' ran against the Kornakoff's governess, who was play- 
 ing with us, stepped on her dress unintentionally, and tore it. 
 Perceiving that it afforded all the girls, and Souitchka in 
 particular, great satisfaction to see the governess retire with 
 a perturbed countenance, to the maids' room, to mend her 
 dress, I resolved to procure them that pleasure once more. 
 In consequence of this amiable intention, the governess had 
 no sooner returned to the room, than I began to gallop round 
 her, and I kept up this evolution until I found a favorable 
 opportunity to catch my heel once more in her skirt, and tear 
 it. Sonitchka and the Princesses could hardly restrain their 
 laughter, which flattered my vanity very agreeably ; but St. 
 Jerome, who must have been observing my pranks, came up 
 to me, and said with a frown (whicli 1 could not endure) tlmt 
 I evidently was not merry in a good way, and that if I were 
 not more discreet he would make me repent of it, ^even 
 though it was a festive day. 
 
 liut I was in the state of excitement of a man who has 
 gambled away more tli^.u he has in his pocket, and who fears 
 to reckon up his accounts, and continues to bet on desperate 
 cards witliout any hoi)e of redeeming himself, and only for 
 the purpose of not giving himself lime to think. I smiled 
 iminidently, and walked away from him. 
 
 After the game of " cat and mouse," some one started a 
 game which we called Long Nose. The [Лау consisted in 
 placing two rows of chairs opposite each other; then the 
 ladies and gentlemen divided into two parties, each choosing 
 another in turn. 
 
 The youngest Princess chose the smallest Ivin every time ; 
 
 1 I'use in the corner.
 
 158 BOYHOOD. 
 
 Katenka chose either \^olodya or Iliiika ; Sonitehka took Se- 
 rozha every time, and was not at all abashed, to my ex- 
 treme amazement, when Serozha went and seated himself 
 directly opposite her. She laughed with her pretty, ringing 
 laugh, and made him a sign with her head, to show that 
 she understood. I comprehended, to the great injury of my 
 vanity, that I was superfluous, left out ; that they must say 
 of me every time, " 1ГДо remains yet? Jes, NikoUnka: 
 icell, ive'll t(fke him.'' 
 
 AVhen, therefore, it came my turn to step forward, I went 
 boldly up either to my sister or to one of the ugly Prin- 
 cesses, and, unfortunately, never made a mistake. And So- 
 nitehka seemed so absorbed in Serozha Iviu, that 1 did not 
 exist for her. I do not know on what grounds I mentally 
 called her a traitress., since she had never given me a prom- 
 ise to choose me, and not Serozha ; but 1 was firmly con- 
 vinced that she had behaved in the most revolting manner. 
 
 After the game, I noticed that the traitress., whom I de- 
 spised, but from whom, nevertheless, I could not take my 
 eyes, had retired into a corner with Serozha and Katenka, 
 where they were discussing something in a mysterious man- 
 ner. Creeping up behind the piano, in order to discover 
 their secret, 1 saw this : Katenka was holding a cambric 
 handkerchief by two of its corners, thus forming a screen 
 between Sonitchka's head and Serozha's. " No, you have 
 lost; nov/ you shall pay!" said Serozha. Sonitehka stood 
 before him, with her arms hanging beside her, as if guilt}', 
 and said, blushing, ''No, I have not lost; have I, Mile. 
 Catherine? " — "I love the truth," replied Katenka : "you 
 have lost your bet, my dear." 
 
 Katenka had hardly uttered these words, when Serozha 
 bent over, and kissed Sonitehka. He kissed her full upon 
 her rosy lips. And Sonitehka laughed, as though that wei'e 
 nothing, as though it were very amusing. Horrible!!! Oh 
 the sly traitress!
 
 BOYHOOD. 159 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE ECLIPSE. 
 
 I suDDEXLY felt a contempt for the entire female sex in 
 general, and for Sonitchka in particular ; I began to assure 
 myself, that there was nothing jolty about these games, 
 that the}' were only fit for little girls; and I fdlt very much 
 inclined to create an uproar, to do some manty deed, which 
 would astonish them all. An occasion was not long in pre- 
 senting itself. 
 
 St. Jerome, after talking of something with Mimi, left the 
 room ; at first, his footsteps were audible on the stairs, and 
 then above us, in the direction of the schoolroom. The 
 thought occurred to me. that Mimi had told him where she had 
 seen me during lesson hours, and that he had gone to inspect 
 the iournal. At that time, I did not attribute to St. Jerome 
 any other object in life than a desire to punish me. I had 
 read somewhere, that children from twelve to fourteen years 
 of age, that is to say, those who are in the transition stage of 
 boyhood, are particularly inclined to arson and murder. 
 In recalling my boyhood, and especialty the frame of mind 
 in which I was on that unlucky day, I very clearly appreciate 
 the importance of the most frightful crime, committed with- 
 out oliject or intent to injure, but from curiosity, to meet an 
 uncons\?ious need for activity. There are moments when thtj 
 future presents itself to a man in such sombre colors, that he 
 dreads to fix his mental gaze upon it, entirely represses the 
 action of his mind, and endeavors to convince himself tliat 
 the future will not be, and that the past has not been. At 
 such rnoments, when thouglit does not sit in judgment be- 
 fore every decision of the will, and the fleshly instincts remain 
 the sole spring of life, I can understand how a child is esjje- 
 cially inclined, by reason of his inexperience, to set and light 
 a fire under the very house in which his brothers, his father 
 and his mother, whom he tenderly loves, are sleeping, with-
 
 160 BOYHOOD. 
 
 out the slightest hesitation or fear, and л^•ith a smile of cnri- 
 osit}'. Under the influence of this temporary absence of 
 reflection, approaching aberration of mind, a peasant lad 
 of seventeen, contemplating the freshly shar[)ened edge of an 
 axe. beside the bench on which sleeps his aged father, face 
 downward, suddenly flourishes the axe, and gazes with stu- 
 pid curiosit}^ at the blood, as it drips from the seл'ered neck 
 on the bench ; under the influence of the same absence of re- 
 flection, and instinctive curiosity, a man experieuces a certain 
 enjoyment in pausing upon the brink of a precipice, and 
 thinking, "What if I should throw myself down there? " 
 Or, placing a loaded pistol to his forehead, he thinks, 
 "What if I pull the trigger?" Or he gazes upon some 
 person for whom society universally cherishes a peculiar re- 
 spect, and thinks, " What if I were to go up to him, take 
 him by the nose, and say, ' Come, my dear fellow, shall we 
 go ? ' " 
 
 Under the influence of this internal excitement, and absence 
 of reflection, when St. Jerome came down-stairs, and told me 
 that I had no right to be there that evening, because I had 
 behaved badl}' and studied badly, and that I was to go up- 
 stairs at once, I stuck out my tongue at him, and said that 
 I would not 1еал'е that spot. 
 
 For a moment, St. Jerome could not utter a word for sur- 
 prise and anger. 
 
 "Very well," he said, following me : " I have promised to 
 punish 3'ou several times already, and your grandmamma has 
 wanted to beg j'ou off ; but now I see that nothing but the 
 rod will make you mind, and vou have fully deserved it 
 to-day." 
 
 He said this so loudly that сл'егу one heard his words. The 
 blood retreated to my heart with unusual force. I felt that 
 it was beating л -ioleutly, that the color fled from my face, 
 and that my lips trembled quite involuntarily. I must Ьал'е 
 looked terrible at that moment, for St. Jerome, aA'oiding 
 my glance, walked quickly up to me, and seized me by the 
 hand; but I no sooner felt the touch of his hand, than, 
 beside myself with rage, I tore my hand away, and struck 
 him with all my childish strength. 
 
 "What is tlie matter with you?" said Volodya, who had 
 seen m.y act with horror and amazement, as he approached 
 me. 
 
 " L 't nie alone!" I shrieked ;it him through my tears:
 
 BOYHOOD. 161 
 
 " not one of 3'ou lo\'es me, nor understands how unhappy I 
 am. You are all hateful, disgustiug," 1 added, turning to 
 the whole company in a sort of fury. 
 
 But this time St. Jerome came up to me with a pale, deter- 
 mined face, and before 1 had time to prepare for defence, he 
 grasped both my hands as in a vise, with a powerful move- 
 ment, and dragged me awa}-. My head was whirling with 
 excitement. I only rememl)er that 1 fought desperatel}' with 
 head and knees as long as 1 had any strength left. I remem- 
 ber that my nose came in contact several times with some 
 one's hips, and that some one's coat fell into my mouth, that 
 I was conscious of the presence of some one's feet all around 
 me, and of the smell of dust, and of the violet with which 
 St. Jerome perfumed himself. 
 
 Five minutes later, the garret door closed behind me. 
 
 " Basil ! " said he in a revolting, triumphant voice : " bring 
 the rod*."
 
 162 BOYUOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 FANCIES. 
 
 Could I at that time suppose that I should remain alive 
 after all the misfortunes Avhich came upon me. and that the 
 day would come when I should recall them Avith composure? 
 
 When I remembered what I had done, I could not imasrine 
 what would become of me, but I dimly comprehended that I 
 was irretrievably ruined. 
 
 At first, absolute silence reigned below and around me. or 
 so it seemed to me at least, because of ray excessively 
 powerful inward agitation ; but gradually' I began to distin- 
 guish the different sounds. Vasili came down-stairs, and, 
 flinging something which resembled a broom on the Aviudow- 
 ledge, lay down on the chest with a yawn. Below, August 
 Antonitch's huge voice was audible (he must have been 
 speaking of me), then childish voices, then laughter and 
 runnnig ; and then a few minutes later ever}' tlnng in the 
 house had again relapsed into its former moA^emeut, as 
 though no oue knew or thought of me sitting in the dark 
 garret. 
 
 I did not cry, but something as Ьеал'у as a stone lay upon 
 my heart. Thoughts and visions passed with redoubled 
 swiftness before my disturbed imagination ; but the memory 
 of the misfortune Avhicli had overtaken me incessantly broke 
 their wondrous chain, and 1 again traversed an endless laby- 
 rinth of uncertaint}' as to the fate which awaited me, of 
 terror and despair. 
 
 Then it occurs to me. that there must exist some cause for 
 the general dislike and even hatred of me. (At that time I 
 was firmly couA-inced that ever^-body, beginning with grand- 
 mamma and down to Philip the coachman, hated me, and 
 found pleasure in ray sufferings.) 
 
 It must be that I ara not the son of my father and mother, 
 not Volodya's brother, but an unliai)py orphan, a foundling,
 
 BOYHOOD. 163 
 
 adopted out of charity, I say to myself ; and thi» absurd idea 
 not only affoixls me a certain melancholy comfort, but even 
 appears extremely probable. It pleases me to think that I 
 am unhappy not because I am myself to blame, but because 
 such has been my fate since my ver}' birth, and that my lot is 
 similar to that of the unfortunate Karl Ivauitch. 
 
 " But why conceal this secret any longer, when I have 
 myself succeeded in penetrating it?" I say to myself. 
 "■ To-morrow I will go to papa, and say to him, ' Papa, in vain 
 do you conceal from me the secret of my birth : 1 know it,' 
 He will say, 'What is to be done, my friend? Sooner or 
 later you would have learned it. You are not m}' son ; but I 
 have adopted you, and if you will prove worthy of my love, 
 I will never desert \"ou.' And I shall say to him, 'Papa, 
 although I have no right to call you by that name, I now 
 utter it for the last time. I have always loved 30U, and I 
 shall always love you, and I shall never forget that you are 
 my benefactor ; but I can no longer remain in з'оиг house. 
 No one here loves me, and St. Jerome has sworn my ruin. 
 Either he or I must leave your house, because I cannot 
 answer for iBj'self . I hate that man to such a degree that I 
 am prepared for any thing. I would kill him as readily as I 
 say : Papa, I will kill him.' Papa will begin to beseecli me ; 
 but I shall wave my hand, and say, ' No, ni}- fi'iend, my bene- 
 factor, we cannot live together; but release me.' And then 
 I will embrace him, and say in French, ' О my father ! О my 
 benefactor! give me thy blessing for the last time, and nijay 
 God's will be done.' " And as 1 sit on the chest in the dark 
 storeroom, I weep and cry at the thought. But all, at qnce 
 1 remember the shameful punishment which is ,aw-aiting me ; 
 reality presents itself to me in its true light, Sntl'Tuiy^fancies 
 moiuentarily take flight. 
 
 Then I fancy myself alread\' at liberty, outside our house. 
 I enter the hussars, and go to the war. Enemies bear 
 down upon me from all sides ; I wave my sword, and kill one ; 
 a second wave, I slay another, and a third. Finall}', ex- 
 hausted by wounds and fatigue, I fall to the earth, and shout 
 " Victory ! " The general approaches, and asks, " Where is 
 he, our savior? " They point me out to him ; he flings him- 
 self on my neck, and shouts, with tears of joy, " Victory ! " 
 I recover, and with an arm bandaged in a black hantlker- 
 chief I promenade the Tversky boulevard. I am a general! 
 But, lo, the Emperor meets me, and incjuires, "• Who is this
 
 164 BOYHOOD. 
 
 wounded young man? " He is told that it is the renowned 
 hero Nikolai. The Emperor comes up to me, and says, " I 
 thank you. I will do any thing you ask of me." I salute 
 respectfully, and leaning on my sword I say, " I am happy, 
 great P^raperor, to have been able to shed my blood for my 
 fatherland, and I wish to die for it; but if you will be so 
 gracious, then permit me to beg one thing of you, — permit 
 me to annihilate m}' enemy, the foreigner, 8t. Jerome. I 
 Avant to annihilate ray enemy, St. Jerome." I halt threaten- 
 ingly before St. Jerome, and say to him, " You have caused 
 my misfortune. On your knees ! " But suddenly the thought 
 occurs to me, that the real St. Jerome may enter at an^- 
 moment with the rods ; and again I see m3'self , not a 
 general serving his country, but a very pitiful, weeping 
 creature. 
 
 The thought of God comes to me, and T ask Him impu- 
 dently why He is punishing me. " 1 never have forgotten 
 my prayers morning and evening; then why do I suffer? " 
 I can assert conclusively that the first step towards the re- 
 ligious doubts which troubled me during my boyhood was 
 taken then, not because unhappiness excited my murmuring 
 find unbelief, but because the thought of the injustice of 
 Providence, which entered my mind in that time of si)iritiial 
 disorder and solitude of twenty-four hours duration, began 
 speedily to grow and to send forth roots, like a pernicious 
 seed which has fallen upon the soft earth after a rain. Then I 
 imagined that I should certainly die, and i-epresented vividly 
 to myself St. Jerome's amazement when he. should find 
 a lifeless body in the garret, instead of me. Recalling 
 Natalya Savisc-hna's tales of how the soul of a dead perso.i 
 does not quit the house for fortj' daj's, I penetrate, in 
 thought, unseen, all the rooms of grandmamma's house, and 
 listen to Liubotchka's sincere tears, to grandmamma's grief, 
 and papa's conversation with August Antonitch. " He was 
 a fine bo}'," saj^s papa, with tears in his eyes. " Yes," says 
 St. Jerome, "but a great scamp." — "You should respect 
 the dead," says papa. " You were the cause of his death ; 
 you frightened him ; he could not endure the humiliation 
 which you were preparing for him. Away from here, you 
 villain ! ' ' 
 
 And St. Jerome falls on his knees, and weeps, and sues 
 for pardon. At the end of the forty days, my soul fiios to 
 heaven ; there I behold something wonderfully beautiful,
 
 BOYHOOD. 165 
 
 white, transparent, and long, and I feel that it is my mother. 
 This white something surrounds me, caresses me ; but I feel 
 an uneasiness, as though I did not know her. "If it really 
 is you," I say, "then show yourself to me more distinctly, 
 that I ma}' embrace you." And her voice answers me, " We 
 are all so, here. I cannot embrace you any better. Do 
 you not think it well thus? " — " Yes, 1 think it is very well ; 
 but you cannot tickle me, and I cannot kiss your hands." 
 — " That is not necessary ; it is so very beautiful here," she 
 sa^'s. and I feel that it really is very beautiful, and we soar 
 away together, higher and ever higher. Then I suddenly 
 seem to wake, and find myself again on the chest in the 
 dark garret, my cheeks wet with tears, without a single 
 thought, repeating the words, ^^ And we soar hiyher and 
 ever higher." For a long time, I exert all ni}' power to ex- 
 plain my situation ; but only one fearfully gloomy, impenetra- 
 ble perspective offers itself to m}^ mental gaze at the present 
 moment. I endeavor to return once more to those cheer- 
 ing, blissful dreams, which destro^'ed consciousness of reality ; 
 but to my amazement, no sooner do 1 enter upon the traces 
 of m}^ former reveries, than I see that a prolongation of 
 them is iuipossil)le, and, Avhat is still more surprising, that 
 it no longer affords me any pleasure.
 
 166 BOYHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 GRIKD LONG ENOUGH, AND THE MEAL WILL COME, 
 
 I SPENT the night in the garret, and no one came near me ; 
 it was only on the foUowing day, that is to say, on Sunday, 
 that I was taken to a little room adjoining the schoolroom, 
 and again locked up. I began to hope that my punishment 
 would be confined to imprisonment; and my thoughts, under 
 the influence of sweet, refreshing slumber, of the bright sun- 
 light Inlaying upon the frost-patterns on the windows, and 
 the customary noises of the day in the streets, began to 
 grow composed. Nevertheless, my solitude was very oppres- 
 sive : I wanted to move al)ont, to tell somebody all that was 
 seething in my soul, and there was not a living being near 
 me. This position of affairs was all the more disagreeable, 
 because, however repulsive it was to me, I could not avoid 
 hearing St. Jerome whistling various ga}' airs with ])erfect 
 tranrjuillity, as he walked about his room. I was fully per- 
 suaded that he did not want to whistle at all, but that he 
 did it solely for the sake of tormenting me. 
 
 At two o'clock, St. Jerome and Volodya went down-stairs ; 
 but Nikolai brought my dinner, and when I spoke to him 
 about what I had done, and what awaited me, he said : 
 
 " Eh, sir ! don't grieve ; grind long enough, and the meal 
 will come." ^ 
 
 This adage, which, later on, more than once sustained my 
 firmness of spirit, comforted me somewhat ; but the very 
 fact that they had not sent me bread and water alone, but a 
 complete dinner, including rose i)atties, caused me to meditate 
 profoundly. If the}' had not sent me the rose patties, then 
 it would have signified that I was to be punished b\' imi)ris- 
 onment ; but now it turned out that I had not been punished 
 yet, that I was only isolated from others as a pernicious 
 person, and that chastisement was still ])efore me. While 
 
 1 EquivaU-nl to vaiious English proverbs wliicli inculcate pulience.
 
 BOYHOOD. 167 
 
 I was busy with the solution of this question, the key turned 
 iu the lock of my prison, and 8t. Jerome entered the room, 
 with a stern, official countenance. 
 
 " Come to your grandmother," he said, without looking at 
 me. 
 
 1 wanted to clean the cuffs of my jacket, which Avere 
 smeared with chalk, before leaving the room ; but St. Jerome 
 told me that this was quite unnecessary, as though I was al- 
 ready in such a pitiful moral condition that it was not worth 
 while to trouble nn'self ab(^ut my external ai)i)earauce. 
 
 Katenka, Liubotchka, and Volodya stared at me, as St. 
 Jerome led me through tiie hall by the hand, with exactly 
 the same expression with which we generally gaze upon tlie 
 prisoners who are led past our windows every week. But 
 when I approached grandmamma's chair with the intention 
 of kissing her hand, slie turned away from me, and hid her 
 hand l)eneath her mantilla. 
 
 " Well, m}^ dear," she said, after a tolerably long silence, 
 during which slie surveyed me from head to foot with such a 
 look that I did not know what to do Avith my eyes and hands, 
 " I must say that you prize my love, and afford me true 
 pleasure. M. St. Jerome, who at my request," she added, 
 pausing on each word, '■'• undertook your education, does not 
 wish now to remain in my house any longer. Why? Because 
 of you, my dear. I did hope that 30U would be grateful," 
 she continued after a short silence, and in a tone which 
 showed that her speech had been prepared beforehand, " for 
 his care and labor, that you would understand how to value 
 his services ; but you, a simpleton, a little boy, have brought 
 yourself to raise your hand against him. Very good ! Ex- 
 tremely fine ! I, also, begin to think that you are incapable 
 of appreciating gentle treatment, that other and more de- 
 graded means are required for 3'ou. Ask his pardon this 
 instant," she added in a tone of stern command, pointing to 
 St. Jerome : "do you hear? " 
 
 I glanced in the direction indicated by grandmamma's 
 hand, and, catching sight of St. Jerome's coat, turned away, 
 and did not stir from the spot ; and again 1 began to feel 
 that sinking at my heart. 
 
 " What? Don't you hear what I say to 3'ou? " 
 
 I trembled all over, but did not move. 
 
 " Koko ! " said grandmamma, who must have perceived 
 the inward agony which 1 was suffering. "Koko!" she
 
 168 BOYHOOD. 
 
 said in a tender, rather than a commanding, voice, '' is this 
 you?" 
 
 "Grandmamma, I will not beg his pardon, because" — 
 said I, pausing suddenly, for I felt that I should not be able 
 to restrain the tears which were suffocating me if 1 uttered a 
 single word more. 
 
 "■ I command you, I beseech you. What is the matter 
 with you ? " t 
 
 "I — I — won't — I can't," I said; and the stifled soVis 
 which had collected in my breast suddenly cast down the 
 barriers which restrained them, and dissolved in a flood of 
 despair. 
 
 "■ Is this the wa}' you obey your second mother? is this the 
 way you repa}' her kindness? " said 8t. Jerome in a tragic 
 voice. " On your knees ! " 
 
 "My God, if she could have seen this!" said grand- 
 mamma, turning away from me, and wiping her tears which 
 began to make their appearance. " If she could have seen — 
 All is for the best. Yes, she could not have borne this sor- 
 row, she could not have borne it." 
 
 And grandmamma wept more and more violently. I wept 
 also, but I never thought of begging pardon. 
 
 " Calm yourself, in the name of heaven, Madame la Com- 
 tesse," said St. Jerome. 
 
 But grandmamma no longer heard him : she covered her 
 face with her hands, and her sobs speedily turned into hic- 
 coughs and hysterics. Mirai and Gascha rushed into the 
 room with frightened faces, and made her smell of some 
 spirits, and a running and whispering speedily arose all over 
 the room. 
 
 "Admire your work," said St. Jerome, leading me up-stairs. 
 
 " My God, what have I done? What a frightful criminal 
 I am!" 
 
 As soon as St. Jerome had gone down-stairs again, after 
 ordering me to go to my room, 1 ran to the great staircase 
 leading to the street, without giving myself any reason for 
 what 1 was about. 
 
 I do not remember whether I meant to run away, or to 
 drown myself : I only know, that covering my face with my 
 hands, ill order that 1 might not see any one, I ran farther 
 and farther down those stairs. 
 
 " Where are you going? " a fnmiliar voice inquired all at 
 once. " 1 want you too, my dear."
 
 BOYHOOD. 169 
 
 I tried to run past ; but papa caught me b}' the hand, and 
 said sternh' : 
 
 '' Come with me, my good fellow ! How dared you touch 
 the portfolio in my study?" said he, leading me after him 
 into the little boudoir. " Eh! Why are you silent? Hey?" 
 he added, taking me by the ear. 
 
 "Forgive me," I said: "I don't know what possessed 
 me." 
 
 "Ah, you don't know what possessed you! you don't 
 know ! you don't know ! you don't know ! you don't know I " 
 he repeated, and gave my ear a pull at each word. " AVill 
 you poke your nose where you have no business in future ? 
 will you? will you? " 
 
 Although my ear pained me л-егу much, I did not cry ; but 
 I experienced a pleasant moral feeling. No sooner had 
 papa released my ear, than I seized his haud, and began to 
 cover it with tears and kisses. 
 
 " Whip me," said I through my tears. " Whip me hard, 
 painfully ; I am good for nothing ; I am a wretch ; I am a 
 miserable being." 
 
 " What's the matter with you?" he said, slightly repuls- 
 ing me. 
 
 "No, I won't go away on any account," I said, clinging 
 to his coat. "Everybody hates me, I know that; but for 
 God's sake, listen to me, protect me, or turn me out of the 
 house. I cannot live with him ; he tries in every way to 
 humiliate me. He makes me go on m}' knees befor: hirj. He 
 wants to thrash me. I won't have it ; I am not a little boy. 
 I can't endure it ; I shall die ; I will kill myself. He told 
 grandmamma that I was a good-for-nothing, and now she is 
 ill, and she will die because of me. I — for God's sake, 
 flog me ! why torture me for it ? " 
 
 Tears suffocated me. I seated m3"self on the divan, utter- 
 1}^ powerless to say more, and dropped my head on his knees, 
 sobbing so that it seemed to me that I should die that very 
 minute. 
 
 " AVhat are you crying about, baby?" said papa sympa- 
 theticalh', as he bent over me. 
 
 " He is my tyrant — tormentor. I shall die ; nobody loves 
 me! " I could hardly speak, and I began to fall into con- 
 vulsions. 
 
 Гара took me in his arms, and carried me into the bed- 
 room. 1 fell asleep. When 1 awoke, it was veiY • ^ A
 
 170 BOYHOOD. 
 
 single candle was burning near my bed, and our famih^ doc- 
 tor, Mimi, and Liubotchka луеге sitting in the room. It was 
 evident from their faces, that they feared for my health ; but 
 I felt so well and light after my twelve hours sleep, that I 
 could have leajjed from the bed, had it not been disagree- 
 чЬ1е for me to disturb their belief iu my severe illness.
 
 BOYHOOD. 171 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 HATRED. 
 
 Yes, it was a genuine feeling of hatred. Not that hatred 
 which is only depicted in romances, and in which I do 
 not believe, — hatred which finds delight in doing evil to 
 mankind : but that hatred which inspires you with an uncon- 
 querable aversion to a person who nevertheless deserves your 
 respect ; which makes his hair, his neck, his walk, the sound 
 of his voice, his ever}' limb, his ever}' motion, repulsive to 
 you, and at the same time attracts you to him by some in- 
 comprehensible power, and forces you to watch his slightest 
 acts. This feeling I experienced toward St. Jerome. 
 
 St. Jerome had lived with us for a year and a half. Judg- 
 ing the man now, in cold blood, 1 find that he was a fine 
 Frenchman, but a Frenchman in the most thorough sense. 
 He was not stupid: he was tolerably well educated, and he^ 
 conscientiously fulfilled his duties toward us : but he possessed 
 the distinctive traits >vhich are peculiar to all his country- 
 men, and which are so repugnant to the Russian character, — • 
 egotism, vanity, impudence, and unmannerly self-confidence. 
 All this dis[)leased me greatly. 
 
 Of course grandmamma explained to him her \'iews on cor- 
 poral punishment, and he did not dare to whip us ; but in 
 spite of this, he often threatened us, especially me, with the 
 rod, and pronounced the word foneiter (as if it were /(Aiafter) 
 •in a very repulsive manner, and with an intonation which 
 seemed to indicate that it would afford him the greatest sat- 
 isfaction to flog me. 
 
 I did not fear the pain of punishment at all, never having 
 experienced it ; but the thought alone that St. Jerome might 
 strike me put me into a state of suppressed rage and despair. 
 
 It had happened that Karl Ivanitch, in a moment of vex- 
 ation, liad reduced us to order with the ruler or his sus- 
 penders, but I recall this without the slightest ap"' >r. Even
 
 172 BOYHOOD. 
 
 at the time of which I speak (when I was fourteen), if Karl 
 Ivanitch had chauced to flog me, I should have borne his 
 chastisement with perfect composure. I loved Karl Ivanitch. 
 I remembered him from the time when I remembered luyself, 
 and was accustomed to him as a member of m^- family ; but 
 St. Jerome was a haughty, self-conceited man, for whom I 
 felt no sentiment but that involuntary' respect with лvllich all 
 grown-up people inspired me. Karl Ivanitch was a ridiculous 
 old man, a kind of man-servant whom I heartily loved, but 
 placed beneath myself in my childish comprehension of 
 social classes. 
 
 St. Jerome, on the contrary, was a handsome, cultivated 
 young dandy, who tried to stand on an equality with every 
 one. 
 
 Karl Ivanitch always scolded and punished us cooll}'. It 
 was evident that he regarded it as a necessary but disagree- 
 able duty. St. Jerome, on the other hand, liked io pose in 
 the role of an instructor. It was plain, Avhen he punished us, 
 that he did so more for his own satisfaction than for our 
 good. He was carried awa}' by his own greatness. His ele- 
 gant French phrases, which he uttered with strong emphasis 
 on the last syllal)le, with circumflex accents, were inexpress- 
 ibly repugnant to lue. AVhen Karl Ivanitch got angry, he 
 said, " Puppets' comedy, scamp, little boy of a^ champagne 
 fl}' ! " St. Jerome called us " Avorthless fell^(nv, vile scape- 
 grace," and so forth, names which wounded my self- 
 love. 
 
 Karl Ivanitch put us on our knees, with our faces in a cor- 
 ner ; and the punishment consisted of the physical pain inci- 
 dent to such an attitude. St. Jerome threw out his chest, 
 and shouted, with a majestic wave of the hand, and in a 
 tragic voice, '' On your knees ! " made us kneel with our faces 
 towards him, and beg his pardon. The punishment consisted 
 in humiliation. 
 
 I was not punished, and no one so much as mentioned to 
 me what had happened ; but 1 could not forget all that I had 
 undergone — despair, shame,, terror, and hate — in those two 
 da^^s. In spite of the fact that St. Jerome, from that time 
 forth, seemed to give up all hopes of me, and hardly con- 
 cerned himself with me at all, I could not accustom myself to 
 look upon him with indifference. Ever}- time that our eyes 
 met by accident, it seemed to me that enmity was far too 
 plainly expressed iu my glance, and 1 hastened to assume an
 
 BOYHOOD. 173 
 
 expression of indifference ; but then it seemed to me that he 
 understood my hj^pocrisy, and I blushed and turned quite 
 away. 
 
 In a word, it was inexpressibly- disagreeable to me to have 
 any relations whatever with him.
 
 174 BOYHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIir. 
 
 THE maids' room. 
 
 (I FELT more and more lonely, and solitar}' meditation and 
 observation formed m}' principal delights. The suliject of my 
 meditations I will ti'eat of in a succeeding chapter ; but the 
 chief theatre of my observations was the maids' room, in which 
 a ver}' al>sorbing and touching romance, for me, took place. 
 The heroine of this romance was Mascha, of course. She 
 was in love with Vasili, who had known her when she lived 
 out of service, and had promised to marry her at that time. 
 Fate, which had parted them five years before, had again 
 brought them together in grandmamma's house, but had 
 placed a barrier in the way of their mutual love in the person 
 of Nikolai (Mascha's uncle), who would not hear to his 
 niece's marriage with \'asili, whom he called an unsuitable 
 and dissipatexl man. 
 
 The effect of this obstacle w-as to cause the hitherto cold- 
 blooded and negligent Vasili to suddenly faU in love with 
 Mascha ; and he loved her in a way of which only a house- 
 serf from the tailor's corps, with a pink shirt and pomaded 
 hair, is. capable. 
 
 In spite of the fact that the exhibitions of his love were 
 exceedingly strange and unsuitable (for instance, when he 
 met Mascha, he always tried to cause her pain, and either 
 pinched her, or slapped her, or hugged her with such force 
 that she could hardly draw her breath), but his affection was 
 genuine, which was proved b}- the circumstance that from 
 the day when Nikolai finally refused him his niece's hand, 
 \"asili took to drinking from grief, and began to loiter about 
 the drinking-houses, create disturbances, and, in a word, to 
 conduct himself so badly, that more than once he subjected 
 himself to scandalous correction by the police. But this be- 
 havior and its results appeared to constitute a merit in IMas- 
 cha's eyes, and increased her love for him. When Vasili
 
 BOYHOOD. 175 
 
 was in retirement^ Mascha wept for da^'s together without 
 drying her eyes, complained of her bitter fate to Gaseha 
 (who took a lively interest in the affairs of the nnhaiipy 
 loл'ers) ; and, scorning the scoldings and beatings of her 
 uncle, she stole awa}^ to the police-station on the sly to visit 
 and comfort her friend. 
 
 Бе not angr}', reader, at the society' to which I am intro- 
 ducing you. If the chords of love and sympathy have not 
 grown weak within your soul, sounds to which they will respond 
 will be found in the maids' room. AVhether it please you or 
 not to follow me, I shall betake myself to the lauding on 
 the staircase, from which I could see all that went on in the 
 maids' room. There is the bench on which they stand ; the 
 flat-iron, the pasteboard doll with a broken nose, the little 
 wash-tub, and the hand-basin ; there is the window-sill upon 
 which are heaped in confusion a bit of black wax, a skein of 
 silk, a green cucumber which has been bitten, and a bonbon 
 box ; there, also, is the large red table, upon which, upon a 
 bit of sewing which is begun, lies a brick wrapped in calico, 
 and behind which she sits, in my favorite pink linen dress 
 and blue kerchief, which particularly attracts my attention. 
 She sews, pausing now and then in order to scratch her head 
 with her needle, or adjust a candle ; and I gaze and think. 
 Why was she not born a lady, with those bright blue eyes, that 
 huge golden braid of hair, and plump bosom ? How it would 
 have become her to sit in the drawing-room, in a cap with 
 pink ribbons, and a deep red gown, not such as Mimi has, 
 but like the one I saw on the Tversk}^ boulevard ! She would 
 have embroidered at her frame, and I might have watched 
 her in the mirror ; and I would have done every thing she 
 wanted, whatever it might have been : 1 would have handed 
 her her mantle and her hood myself. 
 
 And what a drunken face and disgusting figure that Vasili 
 has in his tight coat, worn above that dirty pink shirt, which 
 hangs out ! At every movement of his body, at every bend 
 of his spine, I seem to perceive the indisi)utable signs of the 
 revolting punishment which had overtaken him. 
 
 " What, Vasya ! again? " said Mascha, sticking her needle 
 into the cushion, but not raising her head to greet Vasili as 
 he entered. 
 
 " And what of it? AVill any good come of liim? " retorted 
 Vasili. " Jf 1 had only decided on tiomethiug alone ! but 
 now 1 shall be ruined all for nothing, and all through hna."
 
 176 BOY HOOD. 
 
 " AVill you have some tea?" said Nadezlida, auoUicr 
 maid. 
 
 " I tliauk you hnnibh'. And why does tliat thief, your 
 uncle, hate me? Wliy? Because 1 have clothes of un'owu, 
 because of ray pride, because of my walk. Euouiih. There 
 you have it ! " concluded Vasili, with a wave of the hand. 
 
 "One must be obedient," said Mascha, biting off her 
 thread, " and you are so " — 
 
 " I had no property, that's where it is ! " 
 
 At tliat moi^ent the sound of a closing door resounded 
 from graudmanuna's room, and Gascha's grumbling voice 
 approaching the staircase. 
 
 '"Go try to please her, Avhen she doesn't know herself 
 what she wants. Cursed good-for-nothing jail-l)ird ! May 
 the Lord forgive my sins, if for that alone," she muttered, 
 flourishing her arms. 
 
 "My respects, Agaf у a Mikhailovna," said Vasili, rising 
 to greet her. 
 
 " Well, so you are there! I don't want your respects," 
 she replied grimly, staring at him. " And why do you come 
 here? Is the maids' room a place for men to come? " 
 
 " I wanted to inquire after your health," said Vasili tim- 
 idly. 
 
 "I shall soon expire, that's the state of my health," 
 screamed Agafya Mikhailovna, still more angrily, and at the 
 top of her voice. 
 
 Vasili laughed. 
 
 "There's nothing to laugh at, and if I say that you are 
 to take yourself off, then march ! See, that heathen wants to 
 marry, the low fellow ! Now march, be off ! " 
 
 And Agafya went stamping to her room, and slammed the 
 door so violently that the glass in the windows rattled. 
 
 She was audible for a long time behind the partition, scold- 
 ing at everything and everybody, cursing her existence, 
 hurling her effects about, and pulling the ears of her beloved 
 cat ; finally the door opened a crack, and the cat flew out, 
 swung by her tail, and mewing piteously. 
 
 " Evidently I had better come another time to drink tea," 
 said Vasili in a whisper; "farewell until a pleasant meet- 
 ing." 
 
 "Never mind," said Nadezhda with a wink, "I will go 
 and see to the samovar." 
 
 " Yes, and I'll make an end of it once for all," continued
 
 BOYHOOD. 177 
 
 Vasili, seating himself close to Mascha, as soou as Nadezbda 
 had left the room. 
 
 " I'll either go straight to the Countess, and say, ' Thus and 
 so is the state of things,' or else — I'll give up ел'егу thing, 
 and run away to the ends of the earth, by God ! " 
 
 ^'^ And how can I remain? " 
 
 " I am only sorry for you, and люп should have been free, 
 my little dove, lo-o-ng ago, so surely as God lives." 
 
 " Why don't you bring me your shirts to wash, Vasya?" 
 said Mascha after a momentary silence : '"' see how black this 
 one is," she added, taking hold of the sliirt-coUar. 
 
 At that moment, grandmamma's little bell was heard from 
 below, and Gascha emerged from her chamber. 
 
 "• What are you getting from her now, you vile man? " she 
 said, pushing Vasili towards the door, as he rose hastily at 
 the sight of her: ''you have brought the girl to this state, 
 and still you cling to her, you wretch ; evidently, it's merry 
 for зюи to gaze upon her tears.. Go away. Take yourself 
 off. — What good did you ever find in him?" she went on, 
 turning to INIascha. " Didn't your uncle beat you to-day on 
 his account? No, з'ои will liave your own way: 'I won't 
 marry anybody Init Vasili Gruskoff. ' The fool ! " 
 
 " I won't marry anybody, J don't love anybody, if I'm 
 beaten to death for it," cried Mascha, bursting into tears all 
 at once. 
 
 I gazed long at Mascha, who. reclining upon a chest, Aviped 
 away her tears with her kerchief ; and 1 made every effort to 
 alter my opinion of Vasili, and endeavored to find the point 
 of view from which he could appear so attractive to her. 
 But, in spite of my sincere sympathy with her grief, I could 
 not possibly comprehend how such a l)ewitching being as 
 Mascha appeared in my e3'es could love Vasili. 
 
 "When 1 am grown up," I reasoned with myself, as I 
 went up-stairs to my own quarters, " Petrovskoe will be mine, 
 and Mascha and Vasili will be my serfs. I shall be sitting 
 in the stud}', smoking my pipe, and JMascha will be going to 
 the kitchen with hc4' flat-iron. I shall sa}', 4'all Mascha to 
 me.' She will come, and there will be no one in the room — 
 All at once, Vasili will enter, and when he sees ]\Iaseha he 
 will say, ' My dear little dove is ruined ! ' And Masclia will 
 crj' ; and I shall say, 'Vasili, I know that з'ои love her, 
 and she loves you : here are a thousand rubles for you ; 
 marry her; and may God grant you happiness.' And then
 
 i78 BOY noon. 
 
 T shall go into the houdoir."^ Among the innnmerable 
 thonghts and fancies which pass throngh the mind and imagi- 
 nation, leaving no trace, there are some which leave a deep, 
 sensitive furrow, so that, without recalling the thought itself, 
 one remembers that there was something jjleasant in one's 
 mind, and one feels the trace of the thought, and tries to 
 leproduce it once again. !Such a deep trace did the thought 
 of sacrificing my own feeling for the sake of such happiness 
 as ^lascha might tind in a marriage with Vasili, leave In 
 my soul. 
 
 1 Or divaiiroom.
 
 BOYUOOD. 
 
 ua^ — . 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 BOYHOOD. 
 
 I CAX scarceh'^ ЬеИел'е Avhat were the faл•oпte and most 
 constant sul)jects of my meditations during m}' boviiood — 
 they were so incompatible лvitll my age and position. But, 
 in my opinion, incompatibility between a man's position and 
 his moral activity is the truest proof of sincerity. 
 
 During the course of the Л'еаг, when I led an isolated 
 moral life, concentrated within myself, all the abstract ques- 
 tions concerning the destination of man, the future life, the 
 immortality of the soul, had presented themselves to me ; 
 and, with all the fervor of inexperience, my weak, chiklish 
 mind endeavored to solve these questions, the presentation of 
 which represents the highest stage to which the mind of man 
 can attain, but the solution of which is not granted to him. 
 
 It seems to me that the human mind, in every separate 
 individual, traverses the same path during development by 
 which it is developed in whole races ; that the thoughts 
 which serve as a foundation for the A'arious philosophical 
 theories form the inaliena'ole attributes of the mind : but that 
 every man has recognized them, Avith more or less clearness, 
 even before he knew of the philosophical theories. 
 
 These thoughts presented themselves to vc\y mind with 
 such clearness, and in such a striking light, that I even tried 
 to apply them to life, fancying that I was t\ni. first to discover 
 such great and useful truths. 
 
 Once the thought occurred to me, that happiness does not - 
 depend upon external conditions, but on our relations to >J 
 them ; that man, after he is accustomed to endure suffering, 
 cannot be unhappy ; and, in order to accustom myself to 
 labor, I held Tatischef's lexicon for five minutes in my out- 
 stretched hands, in spite of dreadful pain, or I went into the 
 garret and castigated myself on the bare back with a rope so 
 severely that tears sprang involuntarily to my eyes.
 
 180 BOYHOOD. 
 
 \\ Ou another occasion, remembering, a'/i of a sudden, that 
 death awaited me at any hour, at any moment, I made up 
 my mind, not understanding" nc.v people had hitherto failed 
 to understand it, that man can be happ}- only l)y making use 
 of the present, and not thinking of the future ; and for 
 three days, under tlie influence of this thought, I neglected 
 my lessons, and did nothing but lie on the bed, and enjoy 
 myself l)y reading a romance and eating gingerbread with 
 Kronoff honey, for which I spent the last money I had. ' 
 
 (_)n another occasion, Avhile standing before the blackboard 
 engaged in drawing A'arious figures upon it with chalk, I was 
 suddenly struck by the thought : Why is symmetry pleasing 
 to the eye ? What is symmetr}' ? 
 
 It is an inborn feeling, I answered myself. Rut on what 
 is it founded? Is there symmetry in every thing in life? On 
 the contrar}', here is life. And I drew an oval figure ou the 
 blackboard. After life the soul passes into eternity. And 
 from one side of the oval, I drew a line which extended to 
 the verN' edge of the board. Why not another similar line 
 from the other side? Yes, and, as a matter of fact, wiiat kind 
 of eternity is that which is on one side only? for we certainly 
 have existed before this life, althougli we have lost the 
 memory of it. 
 
 This reasoning, which appeared to me extremely novel and 
 lucid, and whose thread I can now only catch with difficulty, 
 pleased me excessiveh', and I took a sheet of paper with the 
 idea of committing it to writing ; but, in the process, such a 
 mass of thoughts suddenly entered my mind, that I was 
 obliged to rise and walk about the room. When I a])proached 
 the window, my attention turned on the water-carrier horse 
 which the coachman was harnessing at the moment ; and all 
 my thoughts were concentrated upon the solution of the 
 question. Into what animal or man will the soul of that 
 horse migrate, when it is set free? At that moment, 
 Volodya was passing through the room, and smiled, j^erceiv- 
 ing that I was meditating something ; and that smile was suf- 
 ficient to make me comprehend that all I bad been thinking 
 about was the most frightfid nonsense. 
 
 I have related this, to me, memorable occasion, merely for 
 the purpose of giving the reader to understand the nature of 
 my reflections. 
 
 P>ut in none of all the philosophical directions was I drawn 
 so far as by scepticism, which at one time brought me into a
 
 BOYHOOD. 181 
 
 state bordering ( n madness. I fancied that, besides m3^self, 
 nothing and nol xly existed in tlie whole world ; that objects 
 were not objects, but images which only appeared when I 
 directed my attention to them ; and that, as soon as I ceased 
 to think of them, the objects disappeared. 
 
 In a word, I agreed with Schelling in the conAdction that 
 objects do not exist, but only my relation to them exists. 
 There were moments, when, under the influence of this Ji.ved 
 idea, I reached such a stage of derangement, that I some- 
 times glanced quickl}' in the opposite direction, hoping to 
 suddenly find nothingness {neant) where 1 was not. 
 
 A pitifnl,worthless spring of moral action is the mind of man ! 
 
 M}' weak mind could not penetrate the impenetrable ; but 
 in this labor, which Avas l)eyoud its strength, I lost, one after 
 the other, the convictions which, for the happiness of my 
 own life, I never should have dared to touch upon. 
 / From all this heavy moral toil I brought away nothing У 
 Texcept a quickness of mind which weakened the force of плуу^ 
 \will, and a habit of constant moral anal3'sis, which destroyed 
 fxeshness of feeling and clearness of judgment. 
 ,' Abstract thoughts take shape, in consequence of man's 
 Capacity to seize with his perceptions the state of his soul at 
 any given moment, and transfer it to his memory./ My tend- 
 ency to absti'act meditation develoi)ed the perceptive facul- 
 ties in me to such an unnatural degree, that frequentl}', 
 when I began to think of the simplest sort of thing, I fell 
 into an inextricable circle of analysis of my thoughts, and 
 no longer considered the question which had occupied me, 
 but thought of what I was thinking about. AVhen I asked 
 myself. Of what am I thinking? I replied, I think of what I 
 am thinking. And now what am I thinking of? I think 
 that I am thinking of what I am thinking, and so on, 
 Intellect gave waj' before ratiocination. - 
 
 Nevertheless, the philosophical discoveries which I made 
 луеге extremely flattering to my self-conceit. I often fancied 
 myself a great man, who was discovering new truths for the 
 benefit of maukmd, and I gazed upon other mortals with a 
 proud consciousness of my worth ; but, strange to say, when 
 I came in contact with these mortals, I was shy in the pres- 
 ence of every one of them, and the higher I rated myself in 
 my own oi)inion, the less capable I was of disi)laying my 
 consciousness of my own merit to others, and I could not 
 even accustom myself not to feel ashamed of ni}" everv word 
 and movement, however snnple. ,
 
 182 BOYHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 VOLODYA. 
 
 Yes, the farther I proceed in the description of this period 
 of my life, the more painful and difficult does it become 
 for me. Rarely, rarely, amid the memories of this period, do 
 I find moments of the genume wai-mth of feeling which so 
 brilliantly and constantly illumined the beginning of my life. 
 I feel an involuntary desire to pass as quickly as possible 
 over the desert of boyhood, and attain that happy epoch 
 when a truly tender, noble sentiment of friendship lighted up 
 the conclusion of this period of growth, and laid the founda- 
 tion for a new epoch, full of charm and poetry, — the epoch 
 of adolescence. 
 
 I shall not trace my recollections hour by hour ; but I will 
 cast a quick glance at the principal ones, from that time until 
 my connection with a remarkable man, who exercised a decided 
 and beneficial influence ui)on my character and course. 
 
 Volodya will enter the university in a few days. Separate 
 masters come for him ; and I listen with envy and involuntary 
 respect as he taps the blackboard boldly with the chalk, and 
 talks of functions, and sinuses, and co-ordinates, and so on, 
 which seem to me the expression of unattainable wisdom. 
 But one Sunday, after dinner, all the teachers and two pro- 
 fessors assemble in grandmamma's room ; and in the presence 
 of papa and several guests they review the university exam- 
 ination, in the course of which Volodya, to grandmamma's 
 great joy, exhibits remarkable learning. Questions on vari- 
 ous sul)jects are also put to me ; but I make a very poor 
 show, and the professors evidently endeavor to conceal my 
 ignorance before grandmamma, which confuses me still more. 
 However, very little attention is paid to me ; I am only 
 fifteen, consequently there is still a year to my examination. 
 Vcjlodya only comes down-stairs at dinner-time, but six'nds 
 the wliole day and even the evenings up-stairs in liis occu- 
 pations, not of necessity, but at his own desire. He is ex-
 
 BOYHOOD. 183 
 
 tremely vain, and does not want to pass merely a mediocre 
 examination, but a distiugnislied one. 
 
 But now the day of tlie first examination lias arrived. 
 Volodya puts on his blue coat, with brass buttons, his gold 
 watch, and lac(iuered boots ; papa's phaeton is brought up to 
 the door. Nikolai throws aside the apron, and Volodya and 
 8t. Jerome drive off to the universit}'. The girls, especially 
 Katenka, look out of the window at Volodya's fine figure as 
 he seats himself in the carriage, with jo^'ous and rapturous 
 faces ; and papa says, " God grant it ! God grant it ! " and 
 grandmamma, who has also dragged herself to the window, 
 makes the sign of the cross over Volod^'a, with tears in her 
 eyes, until the phaeton disappears round the corner of the 
 lane, and says something in a whisper. 
 
 Volodya returns. All inquire impatiently, "Well, was it 
 good? how much?" But it is already evident from his 
 beaming face that it is good. Volodya has received five. 
 On the following da}' he is accompanied by the same anxiety 
 and wishes for his success, and received with the same impa- 
 tience and joy. Thus nine days pass. On the tenth day, 
 the last and most difficult examination of all awaits him — the 
 Law of God ; and all of us stand at the window and wait for 
 him with the greatest impatience. Two hours have already 
 elapsed, and still Volodya has not returned. 
 
 "Heavens! my dears! here they are! here they are!" 
 screams Liubotchka, with her face glued to the pane. 
 
 And, in fact, Volodya is sitting beside St. Jerome in the 
 phaeton, but dressed no longer in his blue coat and gray cap, 
 but in student uniform, with blue embroidered collar, three- 
 cornered hat, and a gilt dagger by his side. 
 
 "Oh, if you were only alive!" shrieks grandmamma, 
 when she beholds Volodya in his uniform, and falls into a 
 swoon . 
 
 Volodya runs into the A'estibule with a beaming face, kisses 
 me, Liubotchka, Mimi, and Katenka, who blushes to lier 
 very ears. Volodya is beside himself with joy. And how 
 handsome he is in his uniform ! How becoming his blue 
 collar is to his black whiskers, which are almost sprouting ! 
 What a long, slender waist he has, and what a fine gait ! 
 On that memorable day, all dine in grandmamma's room. 
 Joy beams from every countenance ; and after dinner, at 
 dessert, tlie butler, with politely mnjestic but merry counte- 
 nance, brings in a bottle of cnampagne, enveloped in a
 
 184 BOYHOOD. 
 
 napkin. Grandmamma drinks champagne, for the first tinie 
 smee mamma's death : she drinks a whole ghiss, as she 
 congratulates Volodya, and she weeps again with joy as she 
 looks at h'm. ^'olodya drivos out of the court-yard in his 
 own equipage now, receives his acquaintances in his own 
 apartments, smokes tobacco, goes to balls ; and I even saw 
 him and his companions, on one occasion, diink up two l>ottles 
 of champagne in his room, and at ever}' glass ])iopose the 
 healths of some mysterious peisonages, and dispute as to 
 which one the bottom of the bottle l)elonged to. But he 
 dines regularly at home, and sits in the boudoir after dinner, 
 as before, and is forever engaged in some mysterious discus- 
 sion with Katenka ; but so far as I can hear — for I do not 
 lake part in their conversation — they are merely talking of 
 the heroes and heroines of the novels which they have read, 
 of love and jealous}' ; and I cannot at all understand what 
 interest they can find in such discussions, and why they 
 smile so delicately and dispute so warmly. 
 
 I observe in general, that some strange relations exist 
 between Katenka and Volodya, besides the readily intelligible 
 friendship between companions of childhood, which set tb.em 
 apart from us, and unite them to each other in a mystericus 
 way.
 
 JWYIIOOD. 185 
 
 CHAPTER XXr. 
 
 KATF.NKA ЛХГ) l.IUBOTCHKA- 
 
 Katf.nka is sixteen, slie is jrrown up: tlio angulaiity of 
 form, the timidity and a\vkwardncs,s of movement, i)eciiliar 
 to girls in the age of transition, have made way for the har- 
 monious freshness and grace of a newly blown flower. But 
 she has not changed: the same bright blue eyes and smiling 
 glance, the same little straight nose which foims almost one 
 line with the brow, with its strong nostrils, and the tiny 
 mouth with its brilliant smile, the dimples on the rosy, trans- 
 parent cheeks, the same little while hands; and for some 
 reason, as heretofore, the expression, a pure girl, (its her 
 peculiarly well. The only new thing about her is her heavy 
 blonde hair, which she wears in the fashion of grown-np 
 people : and her young l)osom. whose advent plainly delights 
 yet shames her. 
 
 Although Liubotchka has grown np and always studied 
 with her, she is quite q different girl in every respect. 
 
 Liubotchka is small of stature, and in consequence of the 
 rickets her legs are still crooked, ami her figure is very ugly. 
 The only prett}' thing about her face is her eyes, and they 
 are really very beautiful, — large and black, and with such 
 an indefinably attractive expression of dignity and simplicity 
 that it is impossible not to remark them. Liubotchka is uat' 
 m-al and simple in every thing, (ivatenka does not wish to be 
 like any one else in any respect. \ Liubotchka's gaze is al- 
 ways straight forward ; and sometimes she fixes her great 
 black eyes on a person, and kee[)s them there so long that 
 she is reproved and told that it is not polite. 
 
 Katenka, on the other hand, droi)s her eyelashes, draws 
 her lids together, and declares that she is short-sighted, 
 though I know very well that her sight is perfectly good. 
 Liubotchka does not like to attitudinize before strangers ; 
 and when any of tiie guests begin to kiss her, she pouts, and
 
 186 лот 001). 
 
 says lliat slio cannot rmluie soifhnent. Kutenka. on the oon- 
 tiary, I)ooomcs paitionlnrly nffoetionntc with Minii in the 
 presence of gncsts, пп({ loves to promenade in the hull, in 
 the enil)race of some Д1г1. Liiibotchkn is a tenil)le hmniier ; 
 and sometimes, in outburst of merriment, she fiouiislies her 
 hands, and runs about the room. Katenka, on the con- 
 tiary, covers lier mouth with Ium- hands or her handkerchief 
 when she begins t<j laus^h. Liubotchka is always di'cadfully , 
 2;lad when she succeeds in lalkuis with a grown-up man, and 
 declaies that she Avill certainly many a hussar; but Katenka 
 says that all men are hateful to her. that she will never 
 n)ari V, and becomes quite a different girl when a man speaks 
 to hei . just as though she were afraid of something. Liu- 
 botchka is forever offended with Mimi because they lace her 
 ii[) so tight in corsets that she '"can't breathe," and she is 
 fond of catuig ; but Katenka. on the other hand, often thrusts 
 her finger under the point of her bodice, and shows us how 
 loose it is for her, and she eats very little. Liubotchka 
 loves to draw heads, but Katenka draws only flowers and 
 butterflies. Liubotchka i>lays Field's concertos perfectly, 
 and some of Beethoven's sonatas. Katenka plays varia- 
 tions and waltzes, retards the time, i^ounds, uses the pedal 
 incessantly; and before she begins to pla}' any thing, she 
 stiikes three ari)eggi() chords. 
 
 lint Katenka. according to my opinion then, was much 
 июге like an adult, and therefore she pleased me far more.
 
 BOYHOOD. 187 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 PAPA. 
 
 Рлрл had been particularly gay since Volodya's entrance 
 to tlie universily, and comes to dine with grandmamma much 
 ofteuer than nsual. Moreover, the cause of his cheerfulness, 
 as I have learned from Nikolai, consists in the fact that he has 
 луоп a remarkably large amount of money of late. It even 
 haijpens that he sometimes comes to us in the evening liefore 
 going to his chib, sits down at the piano, gathers us all about 
 him, and sings gypsy songs, accomi)anying them by stamping 
 iiis feet in their soft shoes (he cannot bear heels, and never 
 Avears them) . And then the rapture of his favorite Liubotchka, 
 on her side, who adores him, is worth seeing. ^Sometimes 
 he comet; to the schoolroom, and listens with a stern counte- 
 nance while I recite my lessons ; but I perceive, from the 
 occasional words with which he endeavors to set me right, 
 tluit lie is but badly acquainted with Avhat I am learning. 
 Sometimes he gives us a sly wink, and makes signs to us, 
 when grandmamma begins to grumble and get into a rage 
 with everybody without cause. " Now it's our turn to catch 
 it, children," he says afterwards. On the whole, he has 
 descended somewhat in my eyes from the unapproachable 
 height upon which my childish imagination had placed him. 
 I kiss his large white hand, with the same feeling of genuine 
 love and respect ; but I already permit myself to think of 
 him, to pass judgment on his acts, and thoughts occur to me 
 in regard to him which frighten me. Never shall I forget one 
 circumstance which inspired many such thoughts in me, and 
 caused me mucii moral suffering. 
 
 Once, late in the evening, he entered the drawing-room, iu 
 his black dress-coat and white waistcoat, in order to carry 
 off Volodya with him to a l)all. The latter w^чs dressing \л 
 his own room at t!ie time. Grandmother was wait nig ni he;' 
 bedroou) for Volodya to come and show himself to her (she
 
 ,188 BOYHOOD. 
 
 had a habit of summoning him to her presence before every 
 ball, to inspect him, and to bestow upon him her blessing and 
 instructions) . In the hall, which was lighted by one candle 
 only, JMimi and Katenka were pacing to and fro ; but Lin- 
 botchka was seated at the piano, engaged in memorizing 
 Field's .Second Concerto, which was one of mamma's favorite 
 pieces. 
 
 Never, in auj^ one whatever, have I met such an irtimate 
 likeness as existed between my sister and my mother? This 
 likeness consisted not in face, nor form, but in some intan- 
 gible quality, — in her hands, in her manner of walking, in 
 peculiarities of voice, and in certain expressions. When 
 Liubotchka got angry, and said, " It won't be allowed for a 
 whole age," she pronounced the words, a whole age, which 
 mamma was also accustomed to use, so that it seemed as if 
 one heard them lengthened, who-o-le a-ge. But the likeness 
 was still more remarkable in her playing on the piano, and 
 in all her wa3^s connected with this. .She adjusted her dress 
 in exactly the wa}', and turned her pages from above with 
 her left hand, and pounded the keys with her fist from vexa- 
 tion when she was long in conquering a difflrult passage, 
 and said, " Ah, heavens ! " and she had that same indescrib- 
 able tenderness and accuracy of execution, that b,eautiful 
 execution like Field, which is so well called jeu perM, and 
 whose charm all the hocus-pocus of newer pianists cannot 
 make one forget. 
 
 Papa entered the room with swift, short steps, and Avent 
 up to Liubotchka, who stopped playing when she saw him. 
 
 " No, go on playing, Liuba, go on," said he, putting her 
 back in her seat : " you know how I love to hear you." 
 
 Liubotchka continued her i)laying, and papa sat opposite 
 her for a long time, supporting his head on his hand ; then 
 he gave his shoulders a sudden twitch, rose, and began to 
 pace the room. Every time that he approached the piano, 
 he paused, and looked intently at Liubotchka. I perceived, 
 from his movements and his manner of walking, that he was 
 excited. After traversing the room several times, he paused 
 behind Liubotchka's seat, kissed her black hair, and then, 
 turning away, he pursued his walk. When Liubotchka had 
 finished her piece, and Avent up to him with the question, 
 "■ Is it pretty? " he took her head silently in his hands, and 
 began to kiss her brow and eyes with such tenderness as I 
 had never seen him display.
 
 BOYHOOD. 189 
 
 "Ah, lieaA'ens ! j'ou are weeping! " said LinV)otclika, all 
 at once dropping the chain of his watch, and fixing her great, 
 surprised eyes on his face. " Forgive me, dear papa : 1 had 
 quite forgotten that that was mamma's p/ece." 
 
 " No, my dear, play it as often as possible," he said in a 
 voice which quivered with emotion ; "if 30U only knew how 
 good it is for me to weep with your " — 
 
 He kissed her once more, and, endeavoring to overcome 
 his emotion, he twitched his shoulders, and went out of the 
 door which led to the corridor and Volodya's room. 
 
 "■ Waldemar ! AVill you be ready soon? " he cried, halting 
 midway in the corridor. At that moment, Mascha the maid 
 passed him, and, seeing the master, she dropped her eyes, 
 and tried to avoid him. He stopped her. " You grow 
 prettier and prettier," he said, bending over her. 
 
 Mascha blushed, and drooped her head still lower. " Per- 
 mit me," she whispered. 
 
 "Waldemar, are you nearly read}'?" repeated papa, 
 twitching himself and coughing, when Mascha passed, and 
 he caught sight of me. 
 
 I love my father ; but the mind of man exists independ- 
 ently of the heart, and often mixes within itself thoughts 
 which are insulting to him, with feelings both incomprehen- 
 sible and stern concerning him. And such thoughts come to 
 me, although I strive to drive them away.
 
 100 BOYHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER xxm. 
 
 GRANDMAMMA. 
 
 Grandmamma grows weaker from clay to day ; her bell, 
 Gasr-ha's grumbling voice and the slamming of doors are 
 heard more frequentl}' in lier room, and she no longer receives 
 us in the library in her reclining-chair, but in her bedroom in her 
 high bed with its lace-trimmed pillows. I perceive, on salut- 
 ing her, that there is a pale, з -ellowish, shining swelling on her 
 hand, and that oppressive odor in the chamber which I had 
 observed йл'е j'ears before in mamma's room. The doctor 
 comes to the house three times a day, and several consulta- 
 tions have been held. But her character, her haughty and 
 ceremonious intercourse with all members of the household, 
 particularly with papa, is not altered in the least ; she enun- 
 ciates her words, elevates her brows, and says, " my dear," ^ 
 in exactly the same manner as usual. 
 
 But, for several days now, we have not been admitted to 
 her ; and once in the morning St. Jerome proposes to me that 
 I shajl go to ride with Liubotchka and Katenka during lesson 
 hours. Although I notice, as I take my seat in the sleigh, 
 that the street in front of grandmamma's windows is strewn 
 with straw, and that several people in blue oA-ercoats are 
 standing about our gate, I cannot in the least understand 
 why I have been sent to ride at this unusual hour. During 
 our entire ride on that day, Liubotchka and I are, for some 
 reason, in that particularly cheerful frame of mind when 
 every occurrence, ever}' word, every motion, excites one's 
 laughter. 
 
 A carrier crosses the road at a trot, holding on to his 
 elbows, and we laugh. A ragged л'апка- OA'ertakes our 
 sleigh at a gallop, flourishing the ends of his reins, and we 
 shout with laughter. Philip's knout has caught in the run- 
 ners of the sleigh; he turns around, and says, "Alas!" 
 
 5 ,1/Ьг mihtii, equivalent to топ c/ter, and not always a term of eiuleainieut. 
 " Cabman.
 
 BornooD. 191 
 
 and we die with laughter. Mimi reraarks, with a face of 
 displeasui'e, that onh' stvpid i^Goiile huigh without cause ; and 
 Liubotchka, all rosy with the strain of repressed laughter, 
 casts a sidelong glance at me. Our e^'es meet, and we break 
 out into such Homeric laughter, that the tears come to our 
 eyes, and we are in no condition to repress the bursts of mer- 
 riment which ai'C suffocating us. AVe have no sooner (juieted 
 di)wn to some extent, than 1 glance at Liui)otchka, and utter 
 a [)rivate little word which has been in fashion for some time 
 among us, and which always calls forth a laugh ; and again 
 we break out. 
 
 On our return home, I have but just opened my mouth 
 in order to make a very fine grimace at Liubotchka, when 
 my eyes are startled by the black cover of a coffin leaning 
 against one half of our entrance door, and my mouth retains 
 its distorted shape. 
 
 '• Your grandmother is dead," says St. Jerome, coming to 
 meet us with a pale face. 
 
 During the whole time that grandmamma's body remains 
 in the house, I experience au oppressive feeling, a fear of 
 death, as if the dead body were alive, and unpleasantly 
 reminding me that I must die some time, — a feeling which it 
 is usual, for some reason, to confound with grief. I do not 
 mourn for grandmamma, and, in fact, there can hardh' be 
 an}' one who sincerely mourns her. Although the house is 
 full of mourning visitors, no one sorrows for her death, 
 except one individual, whose wild grief impresses me in au 
 indescribable manner. And this person is Gascha, the maid. 
 She goes oft' to the garret, locks herself up there, weeps inces- 
 santly, curses herself, tears her hair, will not listen to any 
 advice, and declares that death is the only consolation left 
 for her after the death of her beloved mistress. 
 
 I repeat once more, that inconsistency in matters of feeling 
 is the most trustworthy sign of genuineness. 
 
 Grandmother is no more, but memories and various re- 
 marks about her still live in her house. Tliese remarks refer 
 especialh' to the will which she made before her end, and 
 the contents of which no one knows, with the exception of 
 her executor, Prince 1л'ап Ivanitch. 1 observe some excite- 
 ment among grandmamma's people, and I frequently over- 
 hear remarks as to who will become whose propt^rty ; and I 
 must confess that I tliink, with involuntary joy, )t the fact 
 that we shall receive a legacy.
 
 192 BOYHOOD. 
 
 At the end of six weeks, Nikolai, wlio is tlie daily псч'з- 
 paper of our estalilislnnent, informs me that gi'andmamma 
 has l^ft all her proi)erty to Liii!)Otchka, intrusting the guard- 
 ianship until her marriage, not to papa, but to Triuee Ivuu 
 Ivanitch.
 
 BOYHOOD. 193 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Only a few months remain before my entrance to the nni- 
 versit}^ I am studying well. I not only await m}' teachers 
 without terror, but even feel a certain pleasure in my lessons. 
 
 I am cheerful. I can recite the lesson I have learned, 
 clearly and accurateh'. I am preparing for the mathematical 
 facult}^ ; and this choice, to tell the truth, has been made by 
 me simpl}' because the words, sinuses, tangents, differentials, 
 integrals, and so forth, please me extremely. 
 
 I am much shorter of stature than Volodj^a, broad-shoul- 
 dered and fleshy, homelv as ever, and worried about it as 
 usual. 1 try to appear original. One thing consoles me : 
 that is, that papa once said of me that I had a sensible x>hiz, 
 and I am fully convinced of it. 
 
 8t. Jerome is satisfied with me ; autl I not oulj' do not 
 hate him, but, when he occasionally remarks that with my 
 gifts and my mind it is a shame that I do not do thus and so, 
 it even seems to me that I love him. 
 
 My observations on the maids' room ceased long ago ; I 
 am ashamed to hide myself behind a door, and, moreover, 
 my conviction that Mascha loves Vasili has cooled me some- 
 what, I must confess. Vasili's marriage, the permission for 
 лу1пс11, at his request, I obtain from papa, effects a final cure 
 of this uuhappy passion in me. 
 
 When the young 2xur come, with bonbons on a tra}', to 
 thank pajja, and Mascha in a blue-rib])oned cap, kissing each 
 of us on the shoulder, also returns tlianks to all of us for 
 something or other. I am conscious onl}^ of the rose pomade 
 on her hair, but not of the least emotion. 
 
 On the whole, 1 am beginning gradually to recover from 
 my b93'ish follies ; with the excei)tion, however, of the chief 
 one, Avhich is still futed to cause ше much injury in life, — 
 my tendency to meta[)hysics.
 
 194 BOYHOOD. 
 
 ■\' 
 
 ^? 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 volodya's friends. 
 
 Although in the company of Volod3'a's aeqnaintancos I 
 played a rdle which wounded my self-love, I Uked to sit in 
 his room when he had visitors, and silently observe all that 
 took place there. 
 
 The most freqent of all Volodya's guests were Adjutant 
 Dubkoff, and a student, Prince N'ekliliudoff. Dubkotf was a 
 small, muscular, dark-complexioned man, no longer in his 
 first youth, and rather short-legged, but not bad-looking, and 
 always gay. He was one of those narrow-minded persons 
 to whom their own narrow-mindedness is particularly agree- 
 able, who are not capable of viewing subjects from different 
 sides, and who are continually allowing themselves to be 
 carried away with something. The judgment of such people 
 is one-sided and erroneous, but always open-hearted and 
 captivating. Even their narrow egotism seems j)ardonable 
 and attractive, for some reason. Besides this, Dubkoff 
 possessed a double charm for Volodya and me, — a military 
 exterior, and, most of all, the age, with which young people 
 have a habit of confounding their ideas of what is comme il 
 f((ut, which is very higiily prized during these years. More- 
 over, Dubkoff reall}' was what is called a man comme il faut. 
 One thing displeased me ; and that was, that Volodya seemed 
 at times to be ashamed, in his presence, of my most innocent 
 acts, and, most of all, my youth. 
 
 Nekhlindoff was not handsome : little gi'ay eyes, a low, 
 rough forehead, disproportionately long arms and legs, could 
 not be called beautiful features. The only handsome thing 
 about him was his unnsuall}^ lofty stature, the delicate color- 
 ing of his face, and his very fine teeth. But his countenance 
 acquired such a character of originality and energy from his 
 narrow, brilliant eyes, and the expression of his smile which 
 changed from sternness to childish indefiniteuess, that it was 
 impobsibL; not to take note of him.
 
 BOYHOOD. 195 
 
 He was, it appeared, excessivel}' modest, for every trifle 
 made him flush up to his л'егу ears ; but his shyness did not 
 resemble mine. The more he reddened, the more determina- 
 tion did his face express. He seemed angry with himself 
 for his weakness. Although he seemed very friendl}' with 
 Du1)koff and Volod3'a, it was worthy of note that chance alone 
 had connected him with them. Their views were entirely 
 dift'erent. Volod3'a and Uubkotf seemed afraid of every thing 
 which even resembled serious discussion and feeling ; Nekh- 
 liudoff, on the contrary, was an enthusiast in the highest 
 degree, and often entered into discussion of philosophical 
 questions and of feelings, in spite of ridicule. Volodya and 
 Dul)koff were fond of talking about the objects of their love 
 (and they fell in love, all of a sudden, with several, and 
 both with the same persons) : Nekhliudoff, on the contrary, 
 always became seriously angry when they hinted at his love 
 for a little red-haired girl. 
 
 Volodya and Dubkoff often permitted themselves to make 
 sport of their relatives : Nekhliudoff, on the contrary, could 
 be driven quite l>eside himself by uncomplimentary allusions 
 to his aunt, for whom he cherished a sort of rapturous rev- 
 erence. Volodya and Dubkoff used to go off somewhere 
 after supper without Nekhliudoff', and they called him a pretty 
 little girl. 
 
 Prince Nekhliudoff impressed me from the first by his con- 
 versation as well as by his appearance. But although 1 found 
 much in his tastes that was common to mine, — or perhaps 
 just for that reason, — the feeling with which he inspired me 
 when I saw him for the first time was extremely hostile. 
 
 I was displeased by his quick glance, his firm voice, his 
 haughty look, but most of all by tlie utter indifference towards 
 me which he exhibited. Often, during a conversation, 1 had 
 a terrible desire to contradict him ; I wanted to quarrel with 
 him to punish him for his pride, to show him that I was sen- 
 8il)le, alllK^ugh he would not pay the slightest attention to 
 me. Diffidence restrained me.
 
 196 BOYHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 DISCUSSIONS. 
 
 A^'oLODYA was Ij'iiig with his feet on the divan, and leaning 
 on his elbow ; he Avas engaged in reading a French romance, 
 when I went to his room after my evening lessons according 
 to cnstom. He raised his head for a second to glance at me, 
 and again turned to his reading ; the most simple and nat- 
 ural movement possible, but it made me blush. It seemed 
 to me that his glance expressed the question луЬу I had come 
 there ; and his hasty bend of the head, a desire to conceal 
 from me the meaning of the glance. This tendency to at- 
 tribute significance to the simplest movement constituted one 
 of my characteristic traits at that age. I walked up to the 
 table, and took a book ; but before I began to read it, it 
 occuri'ed to me how ridiculous it was not to say any thing to 
 each other, when we had not seen each other all daj'. 
 
 " Shall 3'ou be at home this evening? " 
 
 "I don't know. AVhy?" 
 
 " Because," said I, perceiving I could not start a conver- 
 sation. I took my book, and began to read. 
 
 It >vas strange that Volodya and I would pass whole hours 
 ill silence, face to face, but that it required only the presence 
 of a third person, even if taciturn, to start the most interest- 
 ing and varied discussions. We felt that we knew each 
 other too well ; and too intimate or too slight knowledge of 
 each other prevents approacli. 
 
 ''Is V'olodya at home?" said Dubkotf's voice in the 
 vestibule. 
 
 "Yes," said Volodya, lowering his feet, and laying his 
 book on the table. 
 
 Dubkotf and Nekhliudoff entered the room in their coats 
 and hats. 
 
 "■ Wiiat do you say, Volodya? shall we go to the theatre? " 
 
 " No, I don't want to," replied Volodya, turuhig red.
 
 BOYnOOD. 197 
 
 " Well, that's an idea ! Pray let us go." 
 
 " I haven't any ticket." 
 
 "You can get as many tickets as ^юи want at the en- 
 trance." 
 
 " "Wait, I'll come directl3%" said Volodya, yielding, and 
 he left the room with a twitcli of his shoulders. 
 
 I knew tliat Volodya wanted very mucli to go to the 
 theatre, whither Dul)koff invited him ; that he only refused 
 because he had no money ; and that he had gone to borrow 
 five rubles of the butler until his next instalment of allowance 
 became due. 
 
 "How are 3'ou, Diplomat V said Dubkoff, giving me his 
 hand. 
 
 Volodya's friends called me the diplomat, because once, 
 after a dinner with my grandmother, in speaking of our 
 future, she had said, in their presence, that Volodya was to 
 be a soldier, and that she hoped to see me a diplomat, in a 
 black dress-coat, and with my hair dressed a la coq, which, 
 according to her views, constituted an indispensable part of 
 the dii)lomatic profession. 
 
 " AVhere has Volod3\4 gone? " Nekhliudoff asked. 
 
 " I don't know," I replied, reddening at the thought that 
 they probably guessed why Volodya had quitted the room. 
 
 " He can't have any money! is that so? oh. Diplomat ! " 
 he added with conviction, displaying his smile, " I haven't 
 any money either ; have you, Dubkoff? " 
 
 " We shall see," said Dubkoff, pulling out his purse, and 
 very carefull}- feeling a few bits of small change with his 
 short fingers. "Here's a five-kopek bit, and here's a twenty- 
 kopek piece, and f-f-f-f-u ! " said he, making a comical ges- 
 ture with his hand. 
 
 At that moment Volodya entered the room. 
 
 "AVell, shall we go?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "How ridiculous you are!" said Nekhliudoff. "Why 
 don't you say that you haven't any money? Take ni}' ticket 
 if 3'ou like." 
 
 " But what will 3'ou do? " 
 
 " He will go to his cousin's box," said Dubkoff. 
 
 " No, I will not go at all." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because, as you know, I don't like to sit in a box." 
 
 "Why?"
 
 198 BOYHOOD. 
 
 " I don't like it ; it makes me feel awkward." 
 
 " The same old thing again ! 1 don't understand how 3'ou 
 can feel awkward where every one is glad to have you. It's 
 absurd, my dear fellow." 
 
 " What am I to do, if I am timid? I am convinced that 
 you have never blushed in your life, but 1 do it every moment 
 for the veriest trifles," turning crimson as he spoke. 
 
 " Do you know the cause of your timidity? An excess of 
 self-love, my dear fellow," said Dubkoff in a patronizing 
 tone. 
 
 "An excess of self-love, indeed!" said Nekhliudoff, 
 touched to the quick. "On the contrary, it is because I 
 have too little self-love : it seems to me that things displease 
 and bore me — because ' ' — 
 
 "Dress yourself, Volod^'a," said Dubkoif, seizmg hnn by 
 the shoulders, and pulling off his coat. " Ignat, dress your 
 master ! " 
 
 " Because, it often happens to me " — went on Nekhliudoff. 
 
 But Dubkoff' was no longer listening to him. " Tra-la- 
 ta-ra-ra-la-la," and he hummed an air. 
 
 "You have not escaped," said Nekhliudoff; "and I will 
 prove to you that shyness does not proceed from self-love 
 at all." 
 
 " You will prove it if you come with us." 
 
 " I have said that I Avould not go." 
 
 " AVell, stay, then, and prove it to the diplomat; and he 
 shall tell us when we come back." 
 
 "I will prove it," retorted Nekhliudoff, with childish ob- 
 stinacy ; " but come back as soon as you can." 
 
 " What do you think? am 1 vain? " he said, seating him- 
 self beside me. 
 
 Although I had formed an opinion on that point, I was so 
 intimidated by this unexpected appeal, that I could not an- 
 swer him very promptly. 
 
 " Yes, I think so," I said, feeling that my voice trembled 
 and the color covered my face at the thought that the time 
 had come to show him that / was mtelligent, — "I think 
 that every man is vain, and that every thing a man does is 
 done from vanity." 
 
 "What is vanity, in your opinion?" said Nekhliudoff, 
 smiling somewhat disdainfully, as it struck me. 
 
 "Vanity — self-love" — said I, "is the conviction that I 
 am better and wiser than anybody else."
 
 BOYHOOD. 199 
 
 '' But how can everybody entertain that conviction ? " 
 
 " 1 do not know whether I am correct or not, l)ut no one 
 except myself confesses to it : I am persuaded tluit 1 am 
 wiser than any one in the world, and I am persuaded that 
 you are convinced of the same thing." 
 
 " No, I am the first to say of myself, that I have met 
 people whom I have acknowledged to be wiser than myself," 
 said Nekhliudoff. 
 
 "• Impossible," I answered with conviction. 
 
 " Do you really think so? " said Nekhliudoff, looking in- 
 tently at me. 
 
 And then an idea occurred to me, to which I immediately 
 gaA^e utterance. 
 
 " I will prove it to you. AVhy do we love ourselves moie 
 than others? Because we consider ourselves better than 
 others, more worthy of love. If we considered others better 
 than ourselves, then we should love them more than our- 
 selves, and that never happens. Even if it does happen, I 
 am riglit all the same," I added, with an involuntary smile 
 of vanity. 
 
 Nekhliudoff remained silent for a moment. 
 
 ' ' I never thought that you were so clever ! " he said with 
 such a sweet, good-natured smile, that it seemed to me all at 
 once that I was perfectly happy. 
 
 Praise acts so powerfully not only on the feelings but on 
 the mind of man, that under its pleasant influence it seemed 
 to me that I became much more clever, and ideas occurred to 
 me one after the other лvith unusual swiftness. From vanity 
 we passed, without noticing it, to love ; and discussion on this 
 theme seemed inexhaustible. Although our judgments might 
 seem utter nonsense to an uninteresied listener, — so unin- 
 telligible and one-sided were the}', — they possessed a lofty 
 significance for us. Our souls were so agreeal)ly attuned in 
 harmony, that the slightest touch upon any chord in one found 
 an echo in thc^ other. We took pleasure in this mutual echo- 
 ing of the divers chords which we touched in our discussion. 
 It seemed to us that time and words were lacking to express 
 to each other the thouahts which souoht utterance.
 
 200 вот 001). 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 From that time, rather strange but very agreeable rela- 
 tions existed l)et\veen nie and Dmitri Nekhliudoff. In the 
 presence of strangers, he paid hardly any attention to me ; 
 but as soon as we chanced to be alone, we seated ourselves 
 in some quiet nook, and began to discuss, forgetful of every 
 thing, and perceiving not how the time flew. 
 
 We talked of the future life, and of the arts, and of the 
 
 igo\'ernment service, and marriage, and bringing up children ; 
 
 I and it never entered our heads that all we said was the 
 
 {most frightful nonsense. It never occurred to us, because 
 the nonsense we talked was wise and nice nonsense ; and 
 •in youth one still prizes wisdom, and believes in it. In 
 3'outh, all the powers of the soul are directed towards the 
 future ; and that future assumes such varied, viA'id, and en- 
 chanting forms under the influence of hope, founded, not 
 upon experience of the past, but upon the fancied possibili- 
 ties of happiness, that the mere conceptions and dreams of 
 future bliss form a genuine happiness at that age, when 
 shared. In the metaphysical discussions which formed one 
 \ of the chief subjects of our conversation, I loved the mo- 
 
 Vnient when thoughts succeed each other more and more 
 swiftly, and, growing ever more abstract, finally attain such 
 a degree of mistiness that one sees no possibility of express- 
 ing them, and, supposing that one is saying w:hat he thinks, 
 he says something entirely difl'erent. I loved the moment, 
 when, soaring higher and higher into the realms of thought, 
 one suddenly comprehends all its infiniteuess, and confesses 
 the impossibility of proceeding farther. 
 
 Once, during the carnival, Nehkliudoff was so absorbed in 
 various pleasures, that, although he came to the house several 
 times a day, he never once spoke to me ; and this so offended 
 me, that he again seemed to me a haughty and disagreeable
 
 BOYHOOD. 201 
 
 man. I only waited for an opportiinit}^ to show liim that I 
 did not value his society in the least, and entertained no 
 special affection for him. 
 
 On the first occasion after the carnival that he wanted to 
 talk to me, I said that I was obliged to prepare my lessons, 
 and went up-stairs ; but a quarter of an hour later, some 
 one opened the schoolroom door, aucl Nekhliudoff entered. 
 
 " Do I disturb you?" said he. 
 
 " No," I replied, although 1 wanted to say that I really 
 was busy. 
 
 "Then wh}^ did you leave Volodya's room? We haven't 
 had a talk for a long while. And 1 have become so used to 
 it, that it seems as if something were missing." 
 
 My vexation vanished in a moment, and Dmitri again 
 appeared the same kind and chaiuning man as before in my 
 eyes. 
 
 "• Yon probabl^^ know why I went away," said I. 
 
 " Perhaps," he replied, seating himself beside me. " But 
 if I guess it, I cannot say why, but you can," said he. 
 
 "I will say it: I went away because I was angry with 
 5'ou — not ^nguy, but vexed. To speak plainly, I am always 
 afraid that you will despise me because I am still so very 
 young." 
 
 " Do you know why T Ьал^е become so intimate with you? " 
 he said, replying to my confession with a good-humored and 
 sensible smile, — "why I love you more than people with 
 Avhom I am better acquainted, and with whom 1 have more 
 in connnon? I settled it at once. I You have a wonderfully 
 rare quality, — frankness." 
 
 " Yes, 1 always say just the ver^- things that I am ashamed 
 to acknowledge," I said, confirming him, " but only to those 
 people whom I can trust." 
 
 " Yes ; but in order to trust a person, one must be entirely 
 friendly with him, and we are not friends yet, Nicolas. You 
 remember that we discussed friendship : in order to be true 
 friends, it is necessar}^ to trust one another." 
 
 " To trust that what I tell you, you will not repeat to any 
 one," said I. " But the most important, the most interesting 
 thoughts, are just those which we would not tell each other for 
 any thing ! ' ' 
 
 "And what loathsome thoughts! such thoughts, that, if 
 we knew that we should be forced to acknowledge them, 
 we should never have dared to think them.
 
 202 BOYHOOD. 
 
 "Do you know wliat idea has come to me, Nicolas?" 
 he added, rising from Iiis thair, aud mbbiug liis bauds, wiih 
 a smile. "i>o it, and j'ou will see how beneficial it will be 
 for both of us. Let us give our word to coufcss everj^ thing 
 to each other : we shall know each other, aud we shall not be 
 ashamed ; but, iu order that we ma}- not fear strangers, let 
 us take a vow never to say cmy thing to anybody about each 
 other. Let us do this." 
 
 And we actually did it. What came of it, I shall relate 
 hereafter. 
 
 Karr has said, that, iu every attachment, there are two 
 sides : one loves, while the other permits himself to be loved ; 
 one kisses, the other offers the cheek. This is perfectly 
 correct ; and in our friendship I kissed, but Dmitri offered 
 his cheek : but he was also ready to kiss me. We loved 
 equally, because we knew aud \'alued each other ; but this 
 did not prevent his exercising an influence over me, aud 
 my submitting to him. 
 
 Of course, uuder the influence of Nekhliudoff, I uncon- 
 sciousW adopted his \4ew, the gist of which consisted in an 
 entliusiastic adoration of the ideal of virtue, and in a belief 
 that man is inteuded to constantly perfect himself. Then 
 the reformation of all manlrind, the aunihiiation of all 
 popular vices and miseries, appeared a practicable thing. It 
 seemed very simple aud easy to reform one's self, to acquire 
 all virtues, and be happy. 
 
 But God only knows whether these lofty aspirations of 
 youth were ridiculous, .and who was to blame that they 
 were not fulfilled.
 
 PART III. -YOUTH. 
 
 A NOVEL.
 
 г ■ 
 
 я 
 
 / 
 
 9^
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WHAT I CONSIDER THE BEGINNING OF YOUTH. 
 
 I HAVE said that ni}^ friendship with Dmitri revealed a new 
 view of life to me, its aims and bearings. <^ his view con- 
 sisted essentially in the belief that man's destiny is to strive 
 for moral perfection, and that this perfection is easy, possi- 
 ble, and eternal. Bnt hitherto I had revelled only in the dis- 
 covery of the new thoughts which sprang from this belief, and 
 in the construction of brilliant plans for a moral and active 
 future ; bnt my life went on in the same petty, confused, and 
 idle fashion. 
 
 The philanthropic thoughts which I examined in my con- 
 versations with my adored friend Dmitri, iconderfid Mitya as 
 I called him in a whisper to myself sometimes, still pleased 
 my mind only, but not m}' feelings. But the time arrived 
 when these thoughts came into my head with such freshness 
 and force of moral disco\ery, that I was alarmed when I re- 
 flected how much time I had wasted in ла1п ; and I wanted to 
 apjily these thoughts immediately, that very second, to life, 
 with the firm intention of never changing them. 
 
 And from that time I date the beginning of youth. At 
 that time I was nearly! sixteen\ Masters continued to come 
 to me. St. Jerome supervisScl my studies, and I was forced 
 unwillingly to prepare for the university. Besides ray 
 studies, my occupations consisted in solitar}', incoherent 
 revenes and meditation ; in gjnnnastic exercises with a view 
 to making mvselTThG strongest man in the world ; in roam- 
 ing, witliout any definite aim or idea, through all the roouis, 
 
 205
 
 20G YOUTH. 
 
 and particnlarl}' in the corridor of tlic maids' room ; and 
 in gazing at myself in tliejairrur, from whicli last occnpa- 
 tion, by the way, I alwaj's desisted with a heavy feeling of 
 sorrow and even of aversion. I was convinced that my ap- 
 pearance was not only plain, but I could not even comfort 
 myself with the consolations usual in such cases. 1 could 
 not say that my face was expressive, intellectual, and noble. 
 There was nothing expressive about it : the features were of 
 the coarsest, most ordinary, and homeliest. My small grny 
 eyes were stupid rather than intelligent, particularly when 1 
 looked in the mirror. There was still less of maidiness about 
 it. Although I was not so very diminutive in stature, ar.d 
 very strong for my age, all my features were soft, flabby, and 
 unformed. There was not even any thing noble about it: 
 on the contrary, my face was exactl}' like that of a common 
 peasant (ynuzhik), and I had just such big hands and feet i 
 and this seemed to me at that time very disgraceful.
 
 YOUTH. 207 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 On the year when I entered the university, Easter fell so 
 late in April that the examinations were set for Quasimodo 
 Week, and I was obliged to prepare for the sacrament, and 
 make my final preparations, during Passion Week. 
 
 The weather had been soft, warm, and cleai" for three 
 da3's after the wet snow which Karl Ivanitch had been in 
 the habit of calling " the son follmced the father." Not a 
 lump of snow was to be seen in the streets ; dirty paste had 
 given place to the wet, shining pavements and rapid rivu- 
 lets. The last drops were thawing from the roofs in the sun. 
 The buds were swelling on the trees within the enclosures. 
 The path in the court-yard was dry. In the direction of 
 the stable, past the frozen heaps of manure, and between the 
 stones about the porch, the moss-like grass was beginning to 
 turn green. It was that particular period of spring which 
 acts most powerfully upon the soul of man, — the clear, full, 
 brilliant but not hot sun, the brooks and snow-bare places 
 bi'cathing freshness to the air ; and the tender I)lue sky, with 
 its long transparent clouds. I do not know why, l)ut it 
 seems to me that the influence of this first period of birth of 
 the spring is even more powerful and percei)tible in a great 
 city : one sees less, but foresees more. I stood by the win- 
 dow, through луЬо8е double frames the morning sun cast 
 dusty rays of light upon the floor of the schoolroom which 
 bored me so intolerably, solving along algebraic equation on 
 the l)lackboard. In one hand I held a soft, tattered co|iy 
 of Franker' s Algebra, in the other a small bit of chalk, with 
 which I had already smeared both hands, my face, and the 
 elbows of my coat. Nikolai, wearing an apron, and with 
 his sleeves rolled up, was chip|)ing off the cement, and ex- 
 tracting the nails of the windows which opened on the front 
 yard. His occupation, and the noise lie juade, distracted my
 
 208 YOUTH. 
 
 attention. Besides, I was in a very evil and dissatisfied 
 state of mind. Nothing would go riglit with me. I had made 
 a mistake at the beginning of my calculation, so that I had 
 had to begin all over again, I had dropped the chalk twice. 
 I was conscious that my hands and face were dirty. The 
 sponge had disappeared somewhere or other ; the noise which 
 Nikolai made shook my nerves painfully. I wanted to get 
 into a rage, and growl. I flung aside the chalk and algebra, 
 and began to pace the room. But I remembei'cd that to-day 
 I must go to confession, and that I must refrain from all 
 evil ; and all at once I fell into a peculiar, gentle mood, and 
 approached Nikolai. 
 
 " Permit me ; I will help you, Nikolai," said I, trying to 
 impart the gentlest of tones to my voice. The thought that 
 I was behaving well, stifling my vexation, and helping hira, 
 heightened this gentle disposition of mind still further. 
 
 The cement was cut away, the nails removed ; but although 
 Nikolai tugged at the cross-frame with all his might, the 
 frame would not yield. 
 
 " If the frame comes out immediately now, when I pull 
 on it," I thought, " it will signify that it is a sin, and that I 
 need not do any more work to-day." The frame leaned to 
 one side, and came out. 
 
 " Where is it to be carried? " said I. 
 
 "If you please, I will take care of it myself," replied 
 Nikolai, evidently amazed and seemingly displeased with my 
 zeal : "it must not be dropped, but they beloiig in the garret 
 in my room." 
 
 " I will take care of it," said I, lifting the frame. 
 
 It seems to me, that if the garret were two versts away, and 
 the window-frame were twice as heavy, I should be very 
 much pleased. I wanted to torture myself by performing 
 this service for Nikolai. When I returned to the room, 
 the tiles and the cones of salt ^ were already transferred to 
 the window-sills, and Nikolai had brushed off the sand and 
 drowsy flies through the open window. The fresh, perfumed 
 air had alread}' entered and filled the room. From the win- 
 dow, the hum of the city and the twittering of the sparrows 
 in the yard were audible. 
 
 1 In order to aid the sand, which is placed between the double windows to absorb 
 dampness, little cones of nail two or three inches high are added, about three to a 
 window. The salt is put into little paper moulds while damp, to give it this conical 
 form, and the moulds are sometimes left also. Tiles or little bricks are often added, 
 like cases, between the salt, for ornament ; and provincial a;slhetes frequently add 
 or Bubslitule little bunches ot artificial llowers.
 
 YOUTH. 209 
 
 Every object was brilliantly illuminated ; the room had 
 grown cheerful ; the light spring breeze fluttered the 1еал'ез 
 of my algebra, and Nikolai's hair. I approached the win- 
 dow, sat down in it, bent towards the yard, and began to 
 think. 
 
 ►Some new, exceedingly powerful, and pleasant sensation 
 penetrated my soul all at once. The wet earth, through 
 луЬ1сЬ, here and there, bright green spears of grass with 
 yellow stalks pushed their way ; the rivulets, sparkling in the 
 sun, and whirling along little clods of earth and shavings and 
 reddening twigs of syringa with swollen buds which undulate 
 just beneath the window ; the anxious twittering of the birds 
 thronging this bush ; the blackish hedge wet with the melted 
 snow ; but chiefly the damp, fi-agrant air and cheerful sun, — 
 spoke to me intelligibljs clearly, of something new and very 
 beautiful, which, though I cannot reproduce it as it told 
 itself to me, I_sliall endeavor to repeatjisi received-it r every 
 thii2g spoke to me of beautyj 11а4)4шаейй.,_а1м1д^1а1лШт said that 
 botji were easj^a_nd__possibIa to_ лпз,. that onccould not exist 
 with mit th e other, aud^ej^en^tlial- bG;wity,-hai>ivii>ess, and virtue 
 are one and the same. . "How could I fail to understand 
 this? How wicked I was before! How happy 1 might have 
 been, and how hai)py 1 may be in the future ! " I said to my- 
 self. "■ Ooijst l)ecome апоШег man^is_q^uLckly, as quickh'^, 
 as pQs&ibie, this ve ry mom ent, and begju to li\:e differently." 
 But, in s pite of t his, I_sti]l_sat f or a lojig^timeJa the window, 
 di:eaming and doing nothing. Has it ever happened to you, 
 in sunnu'-ir, to lie down to sleep, during the daytime, in 
 gloomy, rainy weather, and, waking up at sunset, to open 
 your eyes, to catch sight through the wide square window, 
 from und.-n' the linen shade which swells ami beats its stick 
 against tlie window-sill, of the shndy, purplmg side of the 
 lindi'U alley, wet with rain, and the damp gai'den walks, 
 illuminated by tlie bright, slanting rays ; to suddenly catvh 
 the sound of merry life among the l)irds in the garden, and 
 to see the insects which are circling in the window aperture, 
 transparent in the sun, and Ijecome conscious of the fra- 
 grance of the air after rain, and to thuik, " 1 low shameful 
 of me to sleep away such an evening ! " and then to sj)ring 
 up in haste, in order to go to the garden and rejoice in life? 
 If this has happened to yon, then here is a specimen of the 
 powerful feeling whicli I experienced then.
 
 210 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 REVERIES. 
 
 "To-pay I shall confess, I shall purify myself of all my 
 sins," 1 thought, "and I shall never commit any more." 
 ( Here I recalled all the sins Avhich troubled me most.) " I 
 shall go to church, without fail, every Sunday, and after- 
 wards I shall read the Gospels for a whole hour ; and then, 
 out of the white bank-bill which I shall receive every month 
 when I enter the university, I will be sure to give two 
 rubles and a half (one-tenth) to the poor, and in such a 
 manner that no one shall know it — and not to beggars, but 
 I will seek out poor people, an oi'phan or old woman, whom 
 no one knows about. 
 
 " I shall have a room to myself ( probabl}- St. Jerome's), 
 and I shall take care of it myself, and keep it wonderfully 
 clean ; and I shall leave the man nothing to do for me, for 
 he is just the same as I am. Tlien I shall go all day to the 
 university on foot (and if they give me a drozhky, I shall 
 sell it, and give that money also to the poor) , and I shall 
 do ever}- thing with the greatest precision [лvhat this ' every 
 thing ' was, 1 could not have told, in the least, then ; but I 
 vividly realized and felt this " every thing ' in an intellectual, 
 moral, and irreproachable life]. I shall prepare my lectures, 
 and even go over the subjects beforehand, so that I shall be 
 at the head in the first course, and write the dissertation ; 
 in the second course, I shall know every thing beforehand, 
 and they can transfer me directly to the third course, so that 
 at eighteen I shall graduate as first candidate, with two gold 
 medals ; then I shall stand my examination for the degree of 
 Master, then Doctor, and I shall become the leading savant 
 in Russia ; I may be the most learned man in Europe, even." 
 " Vv'oU, and afterwards?" I asked myself. But here I 
 remc'ubeied that these were dreams, — pride, sin, which I 
 shuiu J have to recount to the priest that evening ; and 1 went
 
 YOUTH. 211 
 
 back to the beginning of m}' argument. " As a preparation 
 for my lectures, I will walk out to the Sparrow Hills ; ^ there 
 I will select a spot Ijeneath a tree, and read over the lesson. 
 Sometimes I shall take something to eat with me, cheese or 
 patties from Pedotti, or something. I shall rest myself, and 
 then I shall read some good book, or sketch views, or pla}^ on 
 some instrument ( 1 must not fail to learn to play the flute). 
 Then she will also take a walk on the vSparrow Hills, and some 
 day she will come up to me, and ask who I am. And I shall 
 look at her so mournfully, and say that I am the son of a 
 priest, and that I am happy only here when I am alone, quite, 
 quite alone. Then she will give me her hand, and say some- 
 thing, and sit down beside me. Thus we shall come there 
 every day, and we shall become friends, and I shall kiss her. 
 — No, that is not well : on the contrary, from this day forth, 
 I shall never more look at a woman. Never, never will I 
 go into the maids' room, I will try not to pass by it even ; 
 and in three years I shall be free from guardianship, and I 
 shall marry, without fail. I shall take as much exercise as 
 possible with gymnastics every day, so that when I am 
 twent}' I shall be stronger than Eappeau. The first day, I 
 will hold half a pood ^ in my out-stretched hand for five 
 minutes ; on the second day, twenty-one pounds ; on the 
 third day, twenty-two pounds, and so on, so that at last I 
 can support four poods in each hand, and I shall be stronger 
 than any one at court ; and when any one undertakes to 
 insult me, or express himself disrespectfully of hei% I will 
 take him thus, quite simply, by the breast, I will lift him an 
 arshin or two from the ground with one hand, and only hold 
 him long enough to let him feel my power, and then I will 
 release him. — But this is not well : no, I лу111 not do him any 
 harm, 1 will only show him " — 
 
 Reproach me not because the dreams of adolescence were 
 
 as childish as the dreams of childhood and bo3hood. I am 
 
 . convinced that if I am fated to live to extreme old age, and 
 
 1шу story follows my growth, as an old man of seventy I shall 
 
 \di'eam in exactl}' the same impossibly childish way as now. 
 
 I shall dream of some cliarming Marie, who will fall in love 
 
 with me as a toothless old mnn, as she loved Mazeppa ; ^ of 
 
 how my weak-minded son will suddenly ])ecome a minister, 
 
 througii some unusual circumstance ; or of how a treasure of 
 
 1 Ilille near Moscow. " About twenty pouuds. 
 
 3 Au allusiou to Fuahkiii's poem, " Poltava."
 
 212 тоитп. 
 
 millions will fall to me all of a sudden. I am convinced that 
 there is no human being or age which is deprived of this 
 benelicent, comforting capacit}- for dreaming. But, exclusive 
 of the general traits of impossihilitj^ — the witchcraft of rev- 
 ery, — the dreams of each man and of each stage of growth 
 possess their own distinctive character. During that period 
 of time which I regard as the limit of boyhood and the be- 
 ginning of adolescence, four sentiments formed the founda- 
 tion of my dreams: Ipye for /<е>', the ideal woman, of whom 
 I thought always in the same strain, and whom I expected 
 to meet somewhere at any moment. This she was a little 
 like Sonitchka ; a little like Mascha, Vasili's wife, when she 
 washes the clothes in the tub ; and a little like the woman 
 with pearls on her white neck, whom I saw in the theatre 
 л-егу long ago, in the box next to ours. The second sentiment 
 was'love of love.. I wanted to have ел^ег}' one know and love 
 me. I wanted to pronounce my name, Nikolai Irteneff, and 
 have every one, startled b}' this information, surround me, 
 and thank me for something. The third feeling was the 
 hope of some remarkable, glorious good fortune, — so great 
 and firm that it would boi'der on madness. I was so sure 
 that I should become the greatest and most distinguished 
 man in the world ver}' soon, in consequence of some ex- 
 ti'aordinary circumstance or other, tliat I found myself con- 
 stantly' in a state of agitated expectation of something 
 euchantingl}' blissful. I was always expecting that it teas 
 about to begin, and that I was on the point of attaining 
 whatever a man may desire ; and I was always hastening 
 about in all directions, supposing that it was already begin- 
 ning in tlie place where I was not. The fourth and principal 
 feeling was disgust at myself, and remorse, but a remorse 
 so mingled with hope of bliss that there w^as nothing sorrow- 
 ful al)Out it. It seemed to me so easy and natural to tear 
 myself away from all the past, to reconstruct, to forget 
 every thing which had been, and to begin m}- life with all its 
 relations quite anew, that the past neither Aveighed upon nor 
 fettered me. I even took {Measure in ni}' repugnance to the 
 past, and began to see it in more sombre colors than it had 
 possessed. The blacker was the circle of memories of the 
 past, the purer and brighter did the pure, bright point of 
 the present and the rainbow hues of the future stand out in 
 relief against it. This voice of remorse, and of passionate 
 desii'c for [)erfection, was the chief new spiritual sentiment
 
 YOUTH. 213 
 
 at that epoch of my development ; and it marked a new era 
 in my views with regard to myself, to people, and the world. 
 That beneficent, cheering voice has, since then, so often bold- 
 ly been raised, in those sad hours when the soul has silently 
 submitted to the weight of life's falsehood and vice, against 
 ever}' untruth, maliciously convicting the past, pointing to 
 the bright spot of the present and making one love it, and 
 promising good and happiness in the future, — the blessed, 
 comforting voice ! >Vilt thou ever cease to sound ?
 
 214 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OUR FAMILY CIRCLE. 
 
 Papa was seldom at home that spring. But when it did 
 happen, he was extremely ga}' ; he rattled off his faA'orite 
 pieces on the piano, made eyes and invented jests about Mimi 
 and all of us, such as that the Tzarevitch of Georgia had 
 seen Mimi out riding, and had fallen so much in love that he 
 had sent a petition to the synod for a divorce, and that I- had 
 been appointed assistant to the ambassador to Vienna, — and 
 he communicated this news with a sober face ; and frightened 
 Katenka with spiders, which she was afraid of. He was very 
 gracious to our friends DuV)koff and NekhliudofF. and was 
 constantly telling us and visitors his plans for the coming 
 year. Although these plans were clianged nearly every day, 
 and contradicted each other, they were so attractive that we 
 listened to them eagerly, and Liubotchka stared straight at 
 papa's mouth, never winking lest she should lose a single 
 word. But the plan consisted in leaving ns in INIoscow at 
 the university, and going to Italy with Liubotchka for two 
 years, and purchasing an estate in the Crimea, on the south- 
 ern shore, and going there every summer, and in removmg 
 to Peterburg with . the whole family, and so forth. But 
 another change had taken place in papa, besides his remark- 
 able gayety, which greatly surprised me. He had got himself 
 some fashionable clothes, — an olive-colored coat, fashion- 
 able trousers with straps, and a long overcoat which became 
 him extremel}', — and he was often deliciously scented with 
 perfi^mes when he went anywhere, and particularly to one 
 lady of whom INIimi never spoke except with a sigh, and 
 with a face on which one might have read the words, "•Poor 
 orphans ! An unfortunate passion. It is well that she is no 
 more," and so on. I learned from Nikolai (for papa never 
 told us about his ganibling affairs), that he had been very 
 lucky in i)lay that winter ; he had won a dreadfully large
 
 YOUTH. 215 
 
 sum at I'hombre, and did not want to play any that spring. 
 Probably this was the reason that he w^as so anxious to go to 
 the country as soon as possible, lest he should not be able 
 to restrain himself. He even decided not to await my en- 
 trance to the university, but went off immediately after Piaster 
 to Petrovskoe with the girls, whither Volodya and I were to 
 follow him later on. 
 
 Volodya had been inseparable from Dubkoff all winter and 
 "^'en until the spring (but he and Dmitri began to treat each 
 other rather coldly) . Their chief pleasures, so far as I could 
 judge from the conversations which I heard, consisted in 
 drinking champagne incessantly, driving in a sleigh past the 
 windows of young ladies with whom they were both iu love, 
 and dancing vis-iX-vis, not at children's balls any more, but 
 at real balls. 
 
 This last circumstance caused a great separation between 
 \''olodya and me, although we loved each other. AVe were 
 conscious that the difference was too great between the boy 
 to whom teachers still came, and the man who danced at 
 great balls, to allow of our making up our minds to share our 
 thoughts. Katenka was already quite grown up, read a great 
 many romances, and the thought that she might soon marry 
 no longer seemed a joke to me ; but although Volodya was 
 grown up also, they did not associate, and it even seemed as 
 though they despised each other. Generally, when Katenka 
 was at home, she had nothing to occupy her but romances, 
 and she was bored most of the time ; but when strange men 
 came, she became very lively and charming, made ез'ез at 
 them, and what she meant to express by this I could not in 
 the least understand. Only later, when I learned from her 
 in conversation that the only coquetry permitted to a girl is 
 this coquetry of the eyes, could I explain to myself the 
 strange, unnatural grimaces of the eyes, л¥Ь1сЬ did not seem 
 to surprise other people at all. Liubotchka also had begun 
 to wear dresses which were almost long, so that her crooked 
 feet were hardly visible at all ; but she cried as much as ever. 
 She no longer dreamed now of marrying a hussar, but a 
 singer, or a musician ; and to this end she busied herself 
 diligently with music. St. Jerome, who knew that he Avas to 
 remain in the house only until the conclusion of my examina- 
 tions, had found a situation with some Count, and from that 
 time forth looked upon our household rather disdainfully. 
 He was seldom at hovue, took to s'uoking cigarettes, which
 
 216 YOUTH. 
 
 were then the height of dandyism, and was incessantly whis- 
 tling merry airs through a card. Mimi became more bitter 
 every day, and it seemed as though she did not expect any 
 good from au}' one of us from the time we were grown 
 
 When I came down to dinner, I found only Mimi, Katenka, 
 Liubotchka, and St. Jerome in the dining-room ; papa was 
 not at home, and Volodya, who was preparing for examina- 
 tion, was with his comrades in his room, and had ordered his 
 dinner to be served there. Of late, Mimi, whom none of us 
 resi)ected, had taken the head of the table most of the time, 
 and dinner lost much of its charm. Dinner was no longer, 
 as in mamma's day, and grandmamma's, a kind of ceremony 
 which united the whole family at a certain hour, and divided 
 the day into two halves. We permitted ourselves to be late, 
 to come in at the second course, to drink wine from tumblei's 
 (St. Jerome himself set the example on this point), to lounge 
 on our chairs, to go off before dinner was over, and similar 
 lil)erties. From that moment dinner ceased to be, as for- 
 merly, a joyous, daily family solemnity. It was quite 
 another thing at Petrovskoe, where all, freshly washed and 
 dressed for dinner, seated themselves in the drawing-room at 
 two o'clock, and chatted merrily while waiting for the ap- 
 pointed hour. Just as the clock in the butler's pantr}^ squeaks 
 preparatory to striking two, Foka enters softly, a napkin on 
 his arm, and with a dignitied and rather stern countenance. 
 "Dinner is read}' ! " he says in a loud, drawling voice ; and 
 all go to the dining-room, the elder people in front, the 
 young ones behind, with gay, contented faces ; rattling their 
 starched skirts, and squeaking their shoes, and softly talking, 
 they seat themselves in their familiar places. And it used to 
 be very different in Moscow, where all stood softly talking 
 before the table, waiting for grandmamma. Gavrilo has 
 already gone to announce to her that dinner is served : all 
 at once the door opens, the rustle of a dress and the sound 
 of feet become audible, and grandmamma swims out of her 
 chamber, in a remarkable cap with lilac ribbons and all on 
 one side, smiling or scowling darkly (according to the state 
 of her health). Gavrilo rushes to her chair, the chairs rattle, 
 and with a feeling of cold trickling down your spine — a fore- 
 runner of appetite — you take your rather damp, starched 
 napkin, devour your crust of bread, and, rubbing your hands 
 under the table with impatient and joyous greediness, you
 
 YOUTH. 217 
 
 gaze at the steamino; tureen of soup, which the butler dis- 
 penses according to rank, age. and grandmamma's ideas. 
 
 I no longer experience any such joj nor emotion луПеп I 
 come to dinner. 
 
 The chatter between Mimi, St. Jerome, and the girls about 
 the frightful shoes which the Russian teacher wears, and Prin- 
 cess Kornakova's flounced dresses, and so on, — that chatter 
 which formerly inspired me with genuine contempt, which I 
 did not even tr}^ to conceal so far as Liubotchka and Katenka 
 were concerned, — did not withdraw me from my new and 
 virtuous frame of mind. I was unusuall}' gentle ; I listened 
 to them with a peculiarly courteous smile, asked to have the 
 kvas passed to me respectfully, and agreed with St. Jerome 
 when he corrected me for a phrase which I had used before 
 dinner, and told me that it was better to say je puis than je 
 рейх. But I must confess that it rather displeased me to 
 find that no one paid any special attention to my gentleness 
 and amiability. After dinner Liuliotchka showed me a paper 
 on which she had written down all her sins ; I thought that 
 very fine, but that it would be still better to inscribe one's 
 sins in one's soul, and that " all that amouuied to nothing." 
 
 " AVhy not? " asked Liubotchka. 
 
 " Well, but this is ver}' good ; you don't understand me." 
 And I went np-stairs to ni}' own room, telling St. Jerome that 
 I was going to occupy myself until time to go to confession, 
 which was an hour and a half off yet, with writing out a list 
 of my duties and occupations for my whole life, and laying 
 out on paper the aim of my life, and the rules by which I 
 was always to act witiiout any deviation.
 
 218 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 BULES. 
 
 I PROCURED a sheet of paper, and wanted first of all to set 
 about a list of my duties and occupations for the coming 
 year. For this the paper must be ruled ; but as I had not 
 the ruler by me, I used the Latin dictionary for that purpose. 
 When I drew the pea along the dictionary, and then 
 moved that back, it appeared that instead of a line I had 
 made a long puddle of ink on the paper; besides, the dic- 
 tionary was shorter than the paper, and the line curved 
 around its soft corner. I took another piece of paper, and 
 by moving the lexicon I managed to draw the line after a 
 fashion. Separating my duties into three classes, — duties to 
 myself, to my neighbor, and to God, — I began to write down 
 the first ; but they turned out to be so numerous, and of so 
 many kinds and subdivisions, that it was necessary to write 
 fiist, '' Rules of Life," and then to set about making a list 
 of them. I took six sheets of paper, sewed them into a 
 book, and wrote at the top, " Rules of Life." These words 
 were so crookedly and unevenl}^ written that I pondered for 
 a long while whether I should not wi'ite them over ; and I 
 worried long as I looked at the tattered list, and this deformed 
 heading. Why does every thing which was so beautiful and 
 clean in my soul turn out so repulsive on paper, and in life 
 generally, when I want to put in practice any of the things 
 which I think? 
 
 '' The priest has arrived ; please come down-stairs to attend 
 to him," Nikolai came to announce. 
 
 I hid my blank-book in the table, looked in the glass, 
 brushed my hair up, which, in my opinion, gave me a thought- 
 ful look, and went to the boudoir, where stood a covered 
 talUe with the images and the wax candles for sacramental 
 preparation. Papa entered b}' another door at the same time 
 as myself. The priest, a gray -haired monk with a steru,
 
 YOUTH. 219 
 
 aged face, gave papa his blessing. Papa Ivissecl his small, 
 broad, dry hand ; 1 did the same. 
 
 ''Call Waldemar," said papa: "where is he? But no, 
 he will make his preparation at the universit}'." 
 
 "He is engaged with the Prince," said Katenka, and 
 looked at Liubotchka. Liubotchka suddenly blushed for 
 some reason, pretended that she felt ill, and quitted the 
 room. I followed her. She paused in the drawing-room, 
 and wrote something more on her paper. 
 
 " What, have 3'ou committed a fresh sin? " I asked. 
 
 "No, it's nothing," she replied, turning red. 
 
 At that moment Dmitri's voice became audible in the ante- 
 room, as he took leave of Volodya. 
 
 " Every thing is a temptation to you," said Katenka, enter- 
 ing the room, and addressing Liubotchka. 
 
 I could not understand what had happened to my sister : 
 she was so confused that tears rose to her eyes, and her agi- 
 tation, attaining the highest point, passed into anger at herself 
 and Katenka, who was evidently teasing her. 
 
 " It's plain that you are a foreigner [nothing could be 
 more insulting to Katenka than the appellation of "for- 
 eigner," and therefore Liubotchka made use of it] : before 
 'such a sacrament," she continued, with dignity in her voice, 
 "and 3'ou are distracting me intentionally; you ought to 
 understand that this is not a jest at all." 
 
 "Do you know what she has written, Nikoliuka?" said 
 Katenka, offended by the word "foreigner." "She has 
 written ' ' — 
 
 " I did not expect that you would be so malicious," said 
 Liubotchka, breaking down completely, and leaving us. 
 " She leads me into sin, and on purpose, at such a moment. 
 I shall not stand by you in your feelings and sufferings."
 
 22C YOUTTT. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 CONFESSION. 
 
 With these and other similar distracting thoughts, I re- 
 turned to the boudoir, when all were assembled there, and 
 the priest, rising, prepared to read the prayer before confes- 
 sion. But as soon as the stern, expressi%'e voice of the 
 monk resounded amid the universal silence, and especially 
 when he addressed us with the words, '' Confess all your 
 sins vnthout shame, secrecy, or justification, and your soiil shall 
 be j>urified before God; but if ye conceal aught, so shall ye 
 have greater sin," the feeling of devout agitation which I 
 had felt on the preceding morning, at the thought of the 
 coming sacrament, returned to me. I even took pleasure in 
 the admission of this state, and tried to retain it, putting a 
 stop to all thoughts which occurred to me, and trying to fear 
 something. 
 
 The first who approached to confess was papa. He re- 
 mained for a very long time in grandmamma's room, and 
 meanwhile all of us in the boudoir remained silent, or dis- 
 cussed in whispers who should go first. At length the monk's 
 voice was again audible behind the door, as he read a prayer, 
 and then papa's footsteps. The door creaked, and he 
 emerged, coughing, as was his wont, twitching his shoulders, 
 and not looking at any of us. 
 
 ''Come, do you go now, Liuba, and see that you tell every 
 thing. You are my great sinner," said papa gayly, pinching 
 her cheek. 
 
 Liubotchka reddened and turned pale, pulled her list from 
 her apron and hid it again, and hanging her head, and seem- 
 ing to shorten her neck, as though expecting a blow from 
 aliove, she passed through the door. 8he did not stay long, 
 but when she came out her shoulders were heaving with sobs. 
 
 Finally, after pretty Katenka, who came out smiling, my 
 turn came. I entered the half-li"hted room with the same
 
 YOUTH. 221 
 
 dull terror, and я desire to deliberately augment that terror, 
 in myself. The priest stood before the reading-desk, and 
 slowly turned his face towards me. 
 
 I did not remain more than five minutes in grandmamma's 
 room, and came out happy, and, according to my соплас- 
 tjons at the time, a perfectly pure, morally changed, and new 
 man. Although all the old surroundings of life struck me 
 "unpleasantly, the same rooms, the same furniture, the same 
 face in myself (I should have liked to change my exterior, 
 just as all my interior had been changed, as I thought), — 
 still, notwithstanding this, I remained in this refreshing frame 
 of mind until I went to bed. 
 
 I had already fallen into a doze, as I was going over in 
 imagination all the sins of which I had been purified, when 
 all at once I recalled one shameful sin which I had kept back 
 in confession. The words of the prayer preceding confes- 
 sion came back to me, and resounded in my ears without 
 intermission. All 1113' composure vanished in a moment. 
 " And if ye conceal aught, so shall ye have greater sin," 
 I heard incessantly. I saw that I was such a terrible sinner 
 that there was no punishment adequate for me. Long did I 
 toss from side to side, as I reflected on ray situation, and 
 awaited God's punishment and even sudden death from mo- 
 ment to moment, — a thought which threw me into indescrib- 
 able terror. But suddenly the happy thought occurred to me, 
 to go or ride to the priest at the monastery as soon as it was 
 light, and confess again ; and I became calm.
 
 222 то V TIL 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE TRIP TO THE MONASTERY. 
 
 I WOKE up several times during the niglit, fearing to over- 
 sleep myself in the morning, and at six o'clock I was already 
 on my feet. It was hardly light at the windows yet. I put 
 on my clothes and my boots, which lay in a heap and un- 
 brushed by the bed, for Nikolai had not succeeded in carry- 
 ing them off ; and without washing myself or saying my 
 ргаз'егз, I went out into tlie street alone for the first time in 
 my life. — 
 
 From beliind the big, green-roofed house on the other side 
 of the street, the red flush of the dull, cold dawn appeared. 
 A rather hard spring morning frost bound the mud and the 
 rivulets, crackled under foot, and bit my face and hands. 
 
 There was not a single cabman in our lane as yet, though 
 I had counted on it in order that I might go and return the 
 more speedily. Only a few carts were dragging slowly along 
 the Arbata, and a couple of working stone-masons passed 
 along the sidewalk in conversation. After I had gone a 
 thousand paces, I began to meet men and women going to 
 market with their baskets, and casks going for Avater. A 
 pie-seller had come out at the corner ; one kalatch-baker's 
 shop ^ was open, and at the Arbatsky gate I came across 
 an old cabman asleep on his луогп, blue, patched drozhky. 
 It must have been in his sleep that he asked me twenty kopeks 
 to the monastery and back, but then he suddenl}^ recollected 
 himself ; and onl}' when I was about to take my seat, did he 
 lash his horse with the ends of the reins, and attempt to 
 drive off. ''I must feed my horse ! impossible, master ! " 
 he muttered. 
 
 It Avas with difficulty that T persuaded him to stop b}" offer- 
 ing him forty kopeks. He pulled up his horse, looked me 
 over carefully, and said, "Get in, master." I confess that 
 
 ' Kalatch, a certain kind of white roll or small loaf.
 
 YOUTH. 223 
 
 I waf3 rather afraid that he would drive me to some sechided 
 lane, and lob me. Catching hold of his tattered coat-collar, 
 whereupon his wrinkled neck, mounted upon a deepl}' bowed 
 spine, was laid bare in a pitiful way, I climlied up to the 
 blue, undulating, rocking seat, and we went shaking down 
 the Vosdvizhenka. On the way. I observed that the l)ack of 
 the drozhky was lined with bits of the greenish material from 
 which the driver's coat was made ; and this fact calmed me, 
 for some reason, and I was no longer afraid that the izvosh- 
 chik would carry me off to an obscure alley and rob me. 
 
 The sun was already quite high, and had gilded the cupolas 
 of the churches brilliantly, when w^e arrived at the monastery. 
 Frost still lingered in the shade ; but along the road flowed 
 swift turlnd streams, and the horse splashed along through 
 liquid mud. On entering the enclosure of the monastery, I 
 inquired of the first person I saw, Avhere I could find the 
 priest. 
 
 " Yonder is his cell," said the passing monk, pausing for 
 a moment, and pointing at a tiny house w'ith a tiny portico. 
 
 " I am extremely obliged," said I. 
 
 But what could the monks, who all stared at me as they 
 came out of the church one by one, think of me? I was 
 neither an adult nor a child ; my face was unwashed, my 
 liair uncombed, my clothing dusty, my shoes uucleaned and 
 still muddy. To Avhat class did the monks, who луеге sur- 
 veying me, assign me? And the}' examined me attentively. 
 NcA^ertlieless, I walked in the direction indicated to me by 
 the young monk. 
 
 An old man in a l)lack gai*meut, with a thick gray beard, 
 met me in the narrow path which led to the cell, and asked 
 what I wanted. 
 
 For a moment, I wanted to say, " Nothing." run bock to 
 the carriage, and drive home ; but the old man's face inspired 
 confidence, in spite of his contracted brows. I said that 1 
 must see the priest, an<l mentioned his name. 
 
 " Come, 3'oung sir, I will conduct 3'ou," said he, tuining 
 back, and apparently divining my situation at once. ''The 
 father is at mass : he will soon I)e here." 
 
 He opened the door, and led me through a clean vestibule 
 and ante-room, over a clean linen floor-covering, into the 
 cell. 
 
 " Wait h'jre," said he, with a kindly, sot^thing glance, and 
 went o;".t.
 
 224 YOUTH. 
 
 The little room in which I found myself was extremely 
 small, and arranged with the greatest neatness. A little 
 table covered with oilcloth, which stood between two double- 
 leaved windows, upon which stood two pots of geraniums, 
 a stand supporting the images, ajid a lamp which swung 
 before them, one arm-chair and two common chairs, com- 
 prised the entire furniture. In the corner hung a wall- 
 clock, its dial adorned wdth painted flowers, and with its 
 brass weights on chains half unwound : two cassocks hung 
 from nails in the partition, behind which was probabl}' the 
 bed, and which was joined to the ceiling by white-washed 
 wooden poles. 
 
 The windows opened on a white wall about two arshins 
 distant. Between them and the wall, was a little bush of 
 s^'ringa. Not a sound from without penetrated to the room, 
 so that the regular tick of the pendulum seemed a loud noise 
 in this stillness. As soon as I was alone in this quiet nook, 
 all my former ideas and memories suddenly leaped out of my 
 head, as if they had never been there, and 1 became wholly 
 absorbed m an inexpressibly agreeable revery. That 
 yellow nankeen cassock, Avith its tattered lining, the worn 
 black leather bmdings of the books and their brass clasps, 
 the dull green hue of the plants, the carefully watered earth 
 and well-washed leaл'es, and the monotonous, interrupted 
 sound of the pendulum in particular, spoke to me distinctly 
 of a new life hitherto unknown to me, — a life of solitude, of 
 prayer, of calm, quiet happiness. 
 
 "Months pass by, years pass b}'," I thought. "He is 
 always alone, always calm ; he always feels that his con- 
 science is pure in the sight of God, and that his prayers are 
 heard by Him." For half an hour, I sat on that chair, trying 
 not to move, and not to breathe loudl}', in order that I might 
 not disturb that harmony of sounds which had been so elo- 
 quent to me. And the pendulum ticked on as before, loudly 
 to the right, more softly to the left.
 
 YOUTH. 225 
 
 ( CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A SECOND CONFESSION. 
 
 The priest's footsteps aroused me from this revery. 
 
 "■AVelcorae," said he, adjusting his gray hair with his 
 hand. " What would you like ? " 
 
 I asked him to bless me, and kissed his small yellow hand 
 with peculiar satisfaction. 
 
 When I explained my petition to him, he made no reply 
 to me, but went to the ikon,^ and began the confession. 
 
 When the confession was finished, I conquered my shame, 
 told him all that was in my soul ; he laid his hands upon my 
 head, and in his quiet, melodious voice, he said, '■"My son, 
 may the blessing of our heavenly Father be upon 3'ou, and 
 may he preserve faith, peace, and gentleness within you 
 evermore. Amen." 
 
 I was perfectly happy ; tears of bliss rose in ray throat ; I 
 kissed the folds of his lady's-cloth cassock, and raised my 
 head. The monk's face was quite calm. 
 
 I felt that I was taking delight in the sensation of emotion ; 
 and, fearing tiuit I might banish it in some way, I took leave 
 of the priest in haste, and without glancing aside, in order 
 not to distract my attention, quitted the enclosure, and seated 
 myself again in the motley and jolting drozhkv. But the 
 jolts of the equipage, the variety of objects which flashed 
 before my eyes, speedily dissipated that sensation, and I 
 already began to think that the priest was probably thinking 
 by this time, that such a fine soul of a young man as I, he 
 had never met, and never would meet in all his life, and that 
 there were no others like me. I was convinced of that, and 
 this conviction called forth in me a feeling of cheerfulness of 
 such a nature that it demanded conuuunication to some one. 
 
 I wanted dreadfully to talk to some one ; l)ut as there was 
 no one at hand excc'[)t the izvosheliik, I turned to Inm. 
 
 1 I'icUuee of Ibe Baiiite.
 
 226 YOUTH. 
 
 " Well, was I gone long? " I asked. 
 
 " Not so very long ; but it was time to feed the horse long 
 ago, because I am a night-c:il)man," replied the old izvosh- 
 chik, who seemed quite lively, now that the sun лvas up, 
 compared with v>'hat he had been before. 
 
 "It seemed to me that it was only a minute," said I. 
 " And do you know why 1 went to the monaster}' ? " I added, 
 changing m}' seat to the hollow which was nearer the driver. 
 
 "What business is that of mine? I take my passengers 
 wherever they order me," he replied. 
 
 " No, but nevertheless what do you think? " I went on 
 with m}- interrogations. 
 
 " Well, probably, some one is to be buried, and you went 
 to bu}' a place," said he. 
 
 " No, brother ; but do you know why I went? " 
 
 " I can't know, master," he repeated. 
 
 The izvoshchik's л'о1се seemed to me so kind, that I deter- 
 mined to relate to him the cause of my journey, and ел^еп 
 the feeling which I had experienced, for his edification. 
 
 " I will tell 3'ou, if you like. You see " — 
 
 And I told him ever^' thing, and described all my beautiful 
 sentiments. I blush even now at the memory of it. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the izvoshchik incredulously. 
 
 And for a long time after that, he sat silent and motion- 
 less, only now and then adjusting the tail of his coat, that 
 escaped from beneath his motley feet which jogged up and 
 down in their big boots on the footljoard. I was already 
 thinking that he was thinking al>out me in the same wa}' as 
 the priest, — that is, as such a ver}' fine young man, Avhose 
 like did not exist in the world ; l)ut he suddenly turned to me. 
 
 " Well, master, is your business connected Avith the 
 quality ? ' ' 
 
 "What?" I inquired. 
 
 " Your business, is 3'our business with the quality? " 
 
 "No, he has not understood me," I thought, but I said 
 nothing more to him until we reached home. 
 
 Although the feeling of agitation and devotion did not last 
 the whole way, self-satisfaction in having experien.ced it did, 
 in spite of the people who dotted the streets everywhere with 
 color Ш tlie brilliant sunlight ; but as soon as I reached home, 
 this feeling entirely disappeared. I did not have my two 
 twenty-kopek jneces to pay the driver. Gavrilo the butler, to 
 whom 1 was already indebted, would not lend me any more.
 
 ^^^^^- /l^ ^ 
 
 227 
 
 The izvoshchik, after seeing me run through the court-yard 
 twice to get the money, must have guessed why I was run- 
 ning, climbed down from his drozhky, and, although he had 
 seemed to me so kind, began to talk loudly, with an evident 
 desire to wound me, about swindlers who would not pay for 
 their rides. 
 
 Every one was still asleep in the house, so there was no 
 one of whom I could borrow the forty kopeks except the 
 servants. Finall}' Vasili, under my sacred, most sacred word 
 of honor, which (I could see it by his face) he did not put 
 the slightest faith in, but because he loved me and remem- 
 bered the service which I had rendered him, paid the izvosh- 
 chik for me. When I went to dress for church, in order that 
 I might receive the communion with the rest, and it turned 
 out that my clothes had not been mended and 1 could not put 
 them on, I sinned to an incalculable extent. Having donned 
 another suit, I went to the communion in a strange state of 
 agitation of mind, and with utter disbelief in my very fine 
 proclivities.
 
 228 YOUTU. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HOW I PREPARE FOR EXAMINATION. 
 
 On the Friday after Easter, papa, my sister, Mimi, and 
 Kateuka went to the eountr}' ; so that in all grandmamma's 
 great house there remained only Volod3'a, myself, and Nt. 
 Jerome. The frame of mind in which I had found nij-self 
 on the day of confession, and when I went to the monastery, 
 had completely disappeared, and had left l)ehind only a 
 troubled though agreeable memory, which was more and 
 more dulled by the new impressions of a free life. 
 
 The blank-book with the heading, " Rules of Life," had 
 also been hidden under roughly written note-books of my 
 studies. Although the idea of the possibility of establishing 
 rules for all the contingencies of life, and of guiding myself 
 alwa3s by them, pleased me, and seemed ver}' simple and at 
 the same time very grand, and I intended all the same to 
 apply it to life, I seemed to have again forgotten that it 
 was necessary to do this at once, and I kept putting it off to 
 some indefinite time. But one fact delighted me ; and that 
 was, that every thouglit which occurred to me now ranged 
 itself immediately under one or other of the classifications of 
 my rules and duties, — either under the head of duty to my 
 neighbor, to myself, or to God. " Now I will set it down 
 there," I said to myself, "and many, many other thoughts 
 which will occur to me then on this subject." I often ask 
 myself now : When was 1 better and more correct, — then, 
 when I believed in the omnipotency of the human intellect, 
 or now that I have lost faith in the power of development, 
 and doubt the power and significance of the human mind? 
 And I cannot give myself any positive answer. 
 
 The consciousness of freedom, and that spring feeling of 
 expecting something, which I have already mentioned, agi- 
 tated me to such a degree that I positively could not control 
 myself, and I was very badly prepared for my examination.
 
 Suppose уогт are busy in the schoolroom in the mornuig, and 
 know that it is necessary to work. Itecause to-morrow there is 
 to be an examination on a subject, two whole questions on 
 ■which you Ьал'е not read up at all, when, all of a sudden, a 
 spring perfume wafts in at the window : it seems as though 
 it were indispensably necessary to recall something : your 
 hands drop of themselves, your feet begin to move of 
 their own will, and to pace back and forth, and some spring 
 seems to be pressed in your head which sets the whole ma- 
 chine in motion ; and it is so light and natural in your mind, 
 and divers merry, motley reveries begin to run through it, 
 and you can only succeed in catching their gleam. Thus an 
 hour, two honi's, pass unnoticed. Or, you are sitting over 
 your book, and Concentrating your attention, after a fashion, 
 on what you are reading ; and suddenly you hear the sound of 
 a woman's footsteps and dress in the corridor, and every 
 thing has sprung out of your head, and there is no possibility 
 of sitting still in one place, although you know л^егу well that 
 nobody can be passing through that corridor except Gascha, 
 grandmother's old maid-servant. " AVell, but if it should be 
 she all at once?" comes into your mind; " and what if it 
 should be beginning now, and I let the opportunity slip?" 
 And you spring out into the corridor, and see that it is actu- 
 ally Gascha; but you do not recover control of your head 
 for a long time. Tlie spring has been pressed, and again a 
 frightful disorder has ensued. Or, you are sitting alone in 
 the evening, with a tallow candle, in your room ; and all at 
 once you tear yourself from your book for a moment in order 
 to snuff the candle or to place a chair, and з'ои see that it is 
 dark everywhere, at the doors and in the corners, and you 
 hear how quiet it is all over the house ; and again it is 
 impossible not to stop and listen to that silence, and not to 
 stare at that obscurit}' of the door which is open into a dark 
 chamber, and not to remain for a long, long time immovable in 
 the same attitude, or not to go down-stairs, or pass through 
 all the empty rooms. Often, too, I have sat unperceived for 
 a long time in the hall, listening to the sound of the '' Nightin- 
 gale," which Gascha was playing with one finger on the piano, 
 as she sat alone with one tallow candle in tbe great apart- 
 ment. And when there was moonlight I could not resist 
 rising from my bed, and lying on the window toAvards the 
 ynrd. and gazing at the illuminated roof of the Schapo- 
 schnikof house, and the graceful bell- tower of our parish
 
 230 TOUTR. 
 
 church, and at the nip;ht shadows of the hedge and bushes 
 as they lay upon the garden paths ; and I could not help sit- 
 ting there so long, that 1 was only able to rouse myself with 
 difficulty at ten o'clock in the morning. 
 
 So that, had it not been for the masters who continued to 
 come to me, 8t. Jerome, who now and then unwillingl}- tic- 
 kled my A'anity, and most of all the desire to show myself a 
 capable young fellow in the eyes of my friend Nekhliudoft", > 
 that is, b}' passing an excellent examination, Avhicli in his 
 opinion was a matter of great importance, — if it had not 
 been for this, the spring and libert3' would have had the 
 effect of making me forget every thing I had known V)efore, 
 and I should not have been able to pass the examination on 
 any terms.
 
 YOUTH. 231 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE EXAMINATION IN HISTORY. 
 
 On the 10th of April I Avent to the great hall of the uni- 
 versity for the first time, under the protection of St. Jerome. 
 We drove there in our ratlier dandified phaeton. I was in a 
 dress-coat for the first time in my life ; and all my clothing, 
 even my linen and stockings, was perfectly new, and of the 
 very best. When the Swiss pulled off my overcoat, and I 
 stood before him in all the beauty of my costume, 1 was 
 rather ashamed of being so dazzling ; but I had no sooner 
 stepped into the bright hall, with its polished floor, which 
 was filled with people, and beheld hundreds of young men 
 m gymnasium uniforms and dress-coats, several of whom 
 glanced at me with indifference, and the dignified professors 
 at the farther end, walking freely about among the 
 and sitting in large arm-chairs, than I was instantb 
 chanted in my hope of turning the general attention upon 
 myself, and the expression of my countenance, which at home 
 and even in the anteroom had indicated that I possessed 
 that noble and distinguished appearance against my will, 
 changed into an expression of the most excessive timidity, and 
 to some extent of depression. I even fell into the other ex- 
 treme, and rejoiced greatly when I beheld at the nearest desk 
 an excessively ugly, dirtily dressed gentleman, not yet old 
 but almost entirely gray, who sat on the last bench, at a dis- 
 tance from all the rest. I immediately seated myself beside 
 him, and began to observe the candidates for examination, 
 and to draw m}' conclusions about them. jMany and varied 
 were the figures and faces there ; but all, accordmg to my 
 opinion at the time, were easily divisible into three classes. 
 
 There were those who, like myself, presented themselves 
 for examination, accompanied Ьл' their tutors or parents ; and 
 among their number Avas the youngest Ivin with the well- 
 known Frobt, and lliuka Grap with his aged father. All 
 
 rotessors 
 e tables, \ 
 :h' disen- I
 
 232 YOiTTlL 
 
 such had downy chins, prominent linen, and sat qnirtly with- 
 out openiuii- the books and blank-hooks wliich they had 
 brought with them, and regarded tiie professors and the ex- 
 amination tables with evident timidity. ']"he s 'cond elass of 
 candidates were the young men in the gymnasium uniforms, 
 many of whom had already shaved. Most of these knew each 
 other, talked loudly, mentioned the professors by their names 
 and patronymics, were already preparing questions, passing 
 their uote-books to each other, walking over the stools in the 
 anteroom, and bringing in patties and slices of bread-and- 
 butter, Avhich they immediately devoured, merel}' b^'uduig 
 their heads to a level with the desks. And lastly, there was 
 a third class of candidates, very few in number, however, 
 who were quite old, were attired in dress-coats, though 
 the majority wore surtouts, and were without any visible 
 linen. The one who consoled me by being certainly dressed 
 worse than I was belonged to this last class, lie leaned his 
 head on both hands, and between his fingers escaped dishev- 
 elled locks of half-gray hair ; he was reading a book, and 
 merely glanced at me for a moment with his brilliant eyes 
 in any thing but a good-natured way, scowled darkly, and 
 thrust out a shining elbow in my direction, so that I might not 
 move any nearer to him. The gymnasium men, on the other 
 hand, лусге too familiar, and I was a little afraid of them. 
 One said, as he thrust a book into my hand, "Give this to 
 that man yonder;" another said, as he passed me, '"Go 
 ahead, batinschka ; " a third, as he climbed over the desk, 
 leaned on my shoulder as though it had been the bench. All 
 this was coarse and disagreeable to me. I considered m3'self 
 much better than these fellows from the gymnasium, and 
 thought the}' had no business to permit themselves such lib- 
 erties with me. At last they began to call the family names ; 
 the gymnasium fellows stepped out boldly, answered well for 
 the most part, and returned cheerfully. Our set were much 
 more timid, and answered worse, it appeared. Some of the 
 elder men answered excellently, others very badly indeed. 
 When Semenoff was called, my neighbor with the hair and 
 glittering eyes stepped over my feet with a rude push, and 
 went up to the table. On returning to his place, he took up 
 his note-books, and quietly went away witliout finding out 
 how he had been rated. I had alreu.ly shuddei^d several 
 times at the sound of the voice which called the family names, 
 but my turn nad not yet come, according to the alphabetical
 
 YOUTH. 233 
 
 list, although some whose names began with К had ah'eady 
 been called up. *■' Ikouin and Teneff,'' shouted some one in 
 the professors' corner all of a sudden. A shiver ran through 
 my back and my liair. 
 
 " Who is called? Who is Barteneff ? " they began to say 
 around me. 
 
 " Go, Ikonin, you are called : but who is Barteneff, Mor- 
 deneff ? I do not know, confess," said a tall, ruddy gym- 
 nasist as he stood before me. 
 
 " It is you," said 8t. Jerome. 
 
 " М3' name is Irteneff," said I to the red-faced gj'mnasist. 
 ^^ Did they call for Irteneff? " 
 
 " Yes ; wh}' don't you go? What a fop ! " he added, not 
 loudly, but so that I heard his words as I left the bench. 
 In front of me walked Ikonin, a tall young man of five and 
 twenty, who belonged to the third class of old candidates. 
 He wore a tight olive coat, a blue satin neckerchief, upon 
 Avhieh liehind liung liis long, light liair, dressed a la uuizhik.^ 
 I had already remarked his personal appearance on the seats. 
 He was rather good-looking and excitable. 
 
 What especially struck me in him was the queer reddisli 
 hair which he had allowed to grow on his throat ; and, still 
 more, a strange custcMn which he had of incessantly unbut- 
 toning his waistcoat, and scratching his breast under his 
 shirt. 
 
 Three professors were seated at the table which Ikonin and 
 I were approaching : not one of them returned our salute. 
 The young professor was shuffling tickets like a paclc of 
 cards : tlie second professor, with a star on his coat, was 
 staring at the gymnasist who was saying something very 
 rapidly about Charlemagne, adding "at length" to eveiy 
 word ; and the third, an old man, looked at us through his 
 spectacles, and pointed to tlie tickets. I felt that his gaze 
 was directed upon Ikouin and me jointly, and that something 
 in our appearance disi)leased him (possibly Ikonin's red 
 beard) because as he looked at us again in the same way lie 
 made an impatient sign with his head to us that we should 
 take our tickets as quickly as possible. I felt vexed and 
 insulted, in the first place, because no one had retiu'ned our 
 greeting, and, in the second, because they were evidently iu- 
 chuling me and Ikonin in one classification, tliat of candidates 
 for examination, and were ah'eady i)rejudiced against me 
 
 1 ruasaiit : cut square all rouud.
 
 234 YOUTH. 
 
 because of Ikonin's red Avhiskers. I took my ticket without 
 timidity, and prepared to answer, but the professor directed 
 his gaze at Ikoniu. I read my ticket through ; 1 knew it, 
 and, while cahnly awaiting my turn, I observed what was 
 going on before me. Ikoniu was not in the least embarrassed, 
 and was even too bold, for he moved sideways to take his 
 ticket, shook back his hair, and read what was printed on it in 
 a dashing way. He was on the point of opening his mouth to 
 repl}', I thought, when the professor with the star, having 
 dismissed the gymnasist with praise, glanced at him. Ikoniu 
 seemed to recollect himself, and paused. The general silence 
 lasted for a couple of miuutes. 
 
 " Well," said the professor in spectacles. 
 
 Ikoniu opened his mouth, and again remained silent. 
 
 "Come, you are not the only one; will you answer or 
 not?" said the 3'Ouug professor, but Ikonin did not even 
 look at him. He stared intently at the ticket, and did not 
 utter a single Avord. The professor in spectacles looked at 
 him through his glasses, and over his glasses, and without his 
 glasses, because by tins time he had managed to . remove 
 them, wipe them carefully, and put them on again. Ikonin 
 never uttered a word. Suddenly a smile dawned upon his 
 face, he shook back liis hair, again turned full liroadside to 
 the table, looked at all the professors in turn, then at me, 
 turned, aud flourishing his hands walked jauutil}^ back to his 
 bench. The professors exchanged glances. 
 
 " A fine bird! "^ said the young professor: "he studies 
 at his own expense." 
 
 I stepped ueai'er to the table, but the professors continued 
 to talk almost in a whisper among themselves, as though 
 none of them even suspected my existence. Then I was 
 firmly convinced that all three professors were very much 
 occupied with the question as to whether I would stand the 
 examination, and whether I would come out of it well ; but 
 that thev луеге only pretending, for the sake of their dignity, 
 that it was a matter of utter iudifference to them, and that 
 they did not perceive me. 
 
 When the professor in spectacles turned indifferently to 
 me, inviting me to answer the questions, I looked him full in 
 the eye, aud was rather ashamed for him that he should so 
 dissemble before me, and I hesitated somewhat in beginning 
 my answer ; but afterwards it becauie easier and easier, and 
 
 * Golabtthik, little dove.
 
 YOUTH. 235 
 
 as the question was from Russian liistory whicli I knew л'егу 
 well, I linished in brilliant style, and even gained contideuce 
 to such an extent that, desiring to make the professors 
 feel that I was not Ikonin, and that it was impossible to 
 confound me with him, I proposed to take his ticket also ; 
 but the professor shook his head, and said, '' Very good, sir," 
 and noted down something in his journal. When 1 returned 
 to the benches, I immediately learned from the gymnasists, 
 who know every thing, God knows how, that 1 had received 
 five.
 
 236 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE EXAMINATION IX MATHEMATICS. 
 
 In the succeeding examinations I bad many new acquaint- 
 ances besides Grap, — whom I deemed unworthy of my 
 acquaintance, and Ivin, wlio was afraid of me for some 
 reason. Several ah'eady exchanged greetings with me. 
 Ikonin was even rejoiced when he saw me, and confided to 
 me that he should be re-examined in history, that the history 
 professor had had a spite against him since the last examina- 
 tion, at which, also, he had thrown him into confusion. 
 Semenoff, who was going to enter the same course as I, math- 
 ematics, was shy of ever}^ one until the very end of the ex- 
 aminations, sat silent and alone, leaning on his elbows, лvith 
 his hands thrust into his gra}^ hair, and passed his examina- 
 tions in excellent style. He was second ; a student from the 
 first gymnasium was first. The latter was a tall, thin, 
 extremely pale, dark-complexioned man, with a neck wrapped 
 in a black neck-cloth, and a forehead covered with pimples. 
 His hands were thin and red, with remarkably long fingers, 
 and nails so bitten that the ends of his fingers seemed to be 
 wound with thread. All this seemed very beautiful to me, 
 and just as it should be in the case of the first gymnasist. 
 He spoke to everybody exactly like anybody else, and I even 
 made his acquaintance ; but it seemed to me that there was 
 something unusually magnetic in his walk, the movements of 
 his lips, and in his black eyes. 
 
 In the mathematical examination, I was called up earlier 
 than usual, I knew the subject pretty well ; but there were 
 two questions in algebra wliich I had contriл'ed in some wa}' 
 to hide from my teacher, and which I knew absolutely nothing 
 about. They were, as I now recall them, the theory of 
 combinations, and Newton's binomial theorem. I seated 
 myself at the desk in the rear, amriooked over the two un- 
 familiar questions ; but the fact that 1 was not accustomed to
 
 YOUTH. 237 
 
 work in a noisy room, and the lack of time, which I foresaw, 
 prevented iny understanding what I read. 
 
 "Here he is; come here, Nekhliudoff," said Volodya's 
 familiar voice behind me. 
 
 1 turned, and saw my brother and Dmitri, who were making 
 their way towards me between the benches, лvith coats un- 
 buttoned and hands flourishing. It was immediately apparent 
 that they were students in their second year, who were as 
 much at home in the university as in their own houses. The 
 sight of their unbuttoned coats alone expressed disdain for 
 us who were entering, and inspired us with envy and respect. 
 It flattered me very much to think that all about me could 
 see that 1 was acquainted with two students in their second 
 year, and I rose hastily to meet them. 
 
 Volodya could not even refrain from expressing his supe- 
 riority. 
 
 "O you poor wretch ! " said he; "how goes it? Have 
 you been examined yet? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " What are you reading? Aren't з^ои prepared? " 
 
 "Yes; but not quite on two questions. 1 don't under- 
 stand them." 
 
 "What! this one here?" said Volod3'a, and began to 
 explain to me Newton's l)inomial theorem, but so rapidly 
 and in such a confused manner, that, reading disbelief in his 
 knowledge in my eyes, he glanced at Dmitri, and probably 
 reading the same in his, he turned red, but went on, never- 
 theless, to sa}^ something which I did not understand. 
 
 " No, Volodya, stop ; let me go through it with him : per- 
 haps we shall succeed," said Dmitri, glancing at the profess- 
 ors' corner ; and he seated himself beside me. 
 
 I immediately perceived tliat my friend was in that gentle, 
 complacent mood which always came upon him лvhen he v.'as 
 satisfled with himself, and which I specially liked in him. 
 As he understood mathematics well, and spoke clearly, he 
 went over the subject so splendidl}' with me, that I remem- 
 ber it to this day. But scared}' had he finished, when St. 
 Jerome s:ud in a loud wliisper, " It's your turn, Nicolas,'' 
 and I followed Ilvouin from l)ehind the desk, without liaving 
 succeeded in looking over the other unfamiliar question. 1 
 approached the tat)le where the two professors sat, and a gvm- 
 misist was stniidiiig before the blackboard. The gynniasist 
 had boldly announced ьоше formula, breaking his chalk
 
 238 YOUTH. 
 
 with a tap on the board, and still went on writino;, although 
 tiie professor had already said, "Enough! " and ordeied us 
 to take our tickets. '• Now, what if 1 get that theory of the 
 combination of numbers?" thought I, picking out my ticket 
 with trembling fingers from tlie soft pile of cut paper. Ikonin 
 took the topmost ticket, without making any choice, with the 
 same bold gesture and sideways lunge of his whole body as 
 in the preceding examination. 
 
 "• 1 always have such devilish luck ! " he muttered. 
 
 I looked at mine. 
 
 Oh, horror ! It was tlie theory of combinations. 
 
 " What have you got? " asked Ikouin. 
 
 I showed him. 
 
 " I know that," said he. 
 
 ' ' Will з'ои change ? ' ' 
 
 " No, it's no matter; I feel that I'm not in condition,'* 
 Ikonin barely contrived to whisper, when the professor sum- 
 moned us to the board. 
 
 " W441, all's lost ! " I thought. " Instead of the brilliant 
 examination which I dreamed of passing, I shall cover myself 
 with eternal disgrace, even worse than Ikonin." But all at 
 once Ikonin turned to me, right before the professor's eyes, 
 snatched the card from my hand, and gave me his. I 
 glanced at his card. It was Newton's binomial theorem. 
 
 The professor was not an old man ; and he had a jileasant, 
 sensible expression, to which the extremely prominent lower 
 l)art of his forehead particularly contributed. 
 
 '' What is this, gentlemen? you have exchanged cards?" 
 
 " No, he gave me his to look at, professor," said ikonin, 
 inventing, — and again the word professor was the last one 
 he uttered in that place; and again, as he retired past me, 
 Ihe glanced at the professors, at me, smiled, and shrugged his 
 shoulders, with an expression as much as to say, '' No mat- 
 ter, brother ! " (I afterwards learned that this was the third 
 year that Ikonin had presented himself for the entrance ex- 
 aniiiiati<ju.) 
 
 I answered the question which I had just gone over, excel- 
 lently, — even better, as the professor told me, than would 
 have been required, — and received live.
 
 YOUTH. 239 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE LATIN EXAMINATION. 
 
 All went on finely until the Latin examination. The 
 gymnasist лvith his neck bound up was first, Semenoff second, 
 I was the third. I ел^еп began to feel proud, and to think 
 that, in spite of ni}^ youth, I was not to be taken in jest. 
 
 From the very first examination, everybody had been 
 talking with terror of the Latin professor, who was repre- 
 sented as a kind of wild beast wlio took delight in the desti'uc- 
 tiou of young men, especially of such as lived at their own 
 expense, and as speaking onl}^ in the Latin or Greek tongue. 
 St. Jerome, who was my instructor in the Latin language, 
 encouraged me ; and it reall}' seemed to me, that since I 
 could translate from Cicero and several odes of Horace 
 without a lexicon, and since I knew Zumpt veiy well indeed, 
 I was no worse prepared than the rest. But it turned out 
 otherwise. All the morning there was nothing to be heard 
 but tales of the failures of those who preceded me ; this one 
 had been marked zero ; another, one ; and still another had 
 been scolded terril)ly, and had been on the point of getting 
 turned out. and so forth, and so forth. Semenoff and the first 
 gymnasist alone went up and returned with as much com- 
 posure as usual, having each received five. I already had a 
 presentiment of disaster, when I was called up with Ikon in 
 to the little table, facing which the terrible professor sat 
 quite alone. The ten-ible professor was a small, thin, yellow 
 man, with long oil}' hair and a very thoughtful countenance. 
 
 He gave Ikouin a volume of Cicero's Orations, and made 
 him translate. 
 
 To my great amazement. Ikoniu not only read, but even 
 translated several lines, with the aid of the professor, who 
 prompted him. Conscious of my snpeiiority over such a. 
 feel)le rival, I could not refrain from smiling, and from 
 doing so in a rather scornful лгау too, Avhen the question of
 
 240 YOUTH. 
 
 analysis came up, and Ikonin, as before, sank into stubl)orn 
 silence. 1 meant to conciliate the professor by that intelli- 
 gent, slightly ironical smile ; but it turned out the other 
 way. 
 
 " You evidently know better, since you smile," said the 
 professor to me m bad Russian. "Let us see. Come, do 
 you say it." 
 
 1 learned afterwards that the Latin professor was Ikonin 's 
 protector, and that Ikonin eveu lived with him. I imme- 
 diately replied to the question in syntax which had been 
 propounded to Ikonin ; but the professor put on a sad 
 expression, and turned away from me. 
 
 "Very good, sir; your turn will come; we shall see how 
 much you know," said he, not looking at me, and began to 
 explain to Ikonin what he had questioned him on. 
 
 " Go," said he ; and I saw him set down four for Ikonin 
 in the register. "Well," thought I, "he is not nearly as 
 stern as they said." After Ikouin's departure, — for at 
 least five minutes, which seemed to me five hours, — he 
 arranged his books and cards, blew his nose, adjusted his 
 arm-chair, threw himself back in it, and looked round the 
 room, and on all sides except in my direction. But all this 
 dissimulation seemed to him insufficient. He opened a book, 
 and pretended to read it, as though 1 were not there. I 
 stepped up nearer, and coughed. 
 
 "Ah, yes! Are you still there? Well, translate some- 
 thing," said he, handing me a book. " But no; better take 
 this one." He turned over the leaves of a copy of Horace, 
 and opened it at a passage which it seemed to me nobody 
 ever could have translated. 
 
 " I have not prepared this," said I. 
 
 "And you want to recite what you have learned b}' heart? 
 Very good ! No ; translate this." 
 
 I managed to get the sense of it after a fashion ; but the 
 professor only shook his head at each of my inquiring glances, 
 and merely answered " No," with a sigh. At last, he closed 
 his book with such nervous quickness that he pinched his 
 own finger between the leaves. He jerked it out angrily, 
 gave me a card in grammar, and, flhiging himself back in his 
 chair, he continued to preserve the most malicious silence. 
 1 was on the point of answering ; but the expression of his 
 countenance fettered my tongue, and every thing which I 
 baid appeared to me to be wrong.
 
 YOUTH. 241 
 
 "That's not it! that's not it! that's not it at all!" he 
 Buddenly broke out with his horrible i)rouunciation as he 
 briskl}' changed his attitude, leaned his elbows on the table, 
 and played with the gold ling which clung weakly to a thin 
 finger of his left hand. " It's impossible, sir, to prepare 
 for the higher educational institutions in this manner. All 
 you want is to wear the uniform, with its blue collar, and 
 brag of being first, and think that you can be students. No, 
 gentlemen ; you must be thoroughly grounded in your sub- 
 ject ; " and so forth, and so fortli. 
 
 During the whole of this speech, which was uttered in 
 broken language, 1 gazed with dull attention at his eyes, 
 which were fixed on the floor. At first, the disenchantment 
 of not being third tortured me ; then the fear of not getting 
 through my examination at all ; and. finally, a sense of injus- 
 tice was added, of wounded vanity and unmerited humilia- 
 tion. Besides this, contempt for the professor because he 
 was not, in my opinion, a man comme il faat, — Avhicli I 
 discerned b}' looking at his short, strong, round nails, — 
 influenced me still more, and rendered all these feelings poi- 
 sonous, lie glanced at me ; and, perceiving my quivering 
 lips and my eyes filled with tears, he must have construed 
 my emotion into a prayer to increase my mark, and he said, 
 as though compassionating me (and before another professor, 
 too, who had come up), — 
 
 " Very good, sir. 1 will give you a xevy fine mark " (that 
 meant two), " although you do not deserve it, out of respect 
 to your youth, and in the hope that you will not be so light- 
 minded in the university." 
 
 This last i)hrase, uttered in the presence of the strange 
 professor, who looked at me as if to sa}', "There, you see, 
 young man!" completed my confusion. For one moment, 
 a mist A^eiled my eyes ; the terrible professor, with his table, 
 seemed to me to be sitting somewhere in the far distance, 
 and the wild thought came into m}- mind, with a terrible 
 one-sided distinctness: " And what if — what will come of 
 this?" But I did not do it, for some reason ; but, on the 
 contrary, I saluted both professors mechanicall}', with special 
 courtes}', and left the table, smiling sliglitly, with the same 
 smile, apparently, that Ikonin had exhil)ited. 
 
 This injustice affected me so powerfully at the time, that, 
 had I been master of my own actions, I should not have 
 gone to any more examinations. I lost all my vanity (it was
 
 242 YOUTH. 
 
 impossible to think any longer of being nnmber three), finrl I 
 let the remaining examinations pass witliout any exertion, 
 and even without emotion. My average, however, was some- 
 what over four, but this did not interest me in the least : 
 I made up luy mind, and proved it to myself very clearly, 
 that it was bad form to try to be first, and that one ought 
 to be neither too good nor too bad, like Volodya. I meant to 
 keep to this in the university, although I, for the first time, 
 differed from m}^ friend on this point. 
 
 1 was already thinking of m}' uniform, my three-cornered 
 hat, my own drozhky, my own room, and, most of all, of my 
 freedom.
 
 YOUTH. 243 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 I AM GROWN UP. 
 
 And even these thoughts had their cliarra. 
 
 On my returu from the last examination in the Law of 
 God, on the Hth of Ma}-, I found at the house a tailor's 
 apprentice, whom I knew, from Kosanoff, who had ah-eady 
 brought my finished uniform and a coat of glossy black cloth, 
 open at the throat, and had marked the revers with chalk, 
 and had now l)rought the finished garment with brilliant gilt 
 buttons, enveloped in papers. 
 
 I put on this garment, and thought it very fine (although 
 St. Jerome declared that it wrinkled in the back), and went 
 down-stairs with a self-satisfied smile, which spread over my 
 face quite involuntarily, to find Volodya, conscious of the 
 glances of the domestics which were eagerl}' fixed on me from 
 the ante-room and corridor, but pretending that I was not. 
 Gavrilo, the butler, overtook me in the hall, congratulated 
 me on my entrance, handed over to me, by papa's orders, 
 four Avhite bank-bills, and also, by papa's direction, Kuzma 
 the coachman, a proly6tka,■^ and the brown horse Beauty, 
 to be at my exclusive disposal from that day forth. I was so 
 rejoiced at this almost unlooked-for happiness, that I could 
 not manage to appear indifferent before Gavrilo, and in some 
 confusion I said with a sigh the first thmg which came into 
 my head, which was that Beauty was a ver^' fine trotter ! 
 Glancing at the heads which were thrust out of the doors 
 leading from the ante-room and corridor, I could no longer 
 control myself ; and I rushed through the hall at a trot, in 
 my new coat and shining brass buttons. As I entered 
 Volodya's room, I heard the voices of Dubkoff and Nekhliu- 
 doff, who had come to congratulate me, and to propose that 
 we sliould go somewhere to dine and drink champagne, in 
 honor of my entrance. Dmitri t(;ld me that, although he did 
 
 1 A kind of diozhky.
 
 244 TOUT п. 
 
 not care to drink ehampngne, he would go with ns that day 
 in order to drink with me on our beginning to call each other 
 thou. Dubkoff dechired that, for some I'eason, I reseral)led 
 a colonel. Volodja did not congiatulate me, and only said 
 very dryly, that now we should be able to set out for tlie 
 country on the next da}^ but one. it seemed as though, 
 while glad of my entrance, it was rathei' disagreeable to him 
 that I should now be as much grown up as he. St. Jerome, 
 who had also come to the house, said in a лег\ liaughty way 
 that his duties were now at an end, and he di-l not know 
 whether they had been fulfilled well or ill, but that he had done 
 all he could, and he should go to his Count on the next day. 
 In answer to all that was said to me, I felt a sweet, blissful, 
 rather foolishly self-satisfied smile dawn upon my counte- 
 nance against my will ; and I perceived that this smile even 
 communicated itself to all who talked with me. 
 
 And here I am, Avithout a tutor ; I have a drozhky of my 
 fowu ; ni}' name is inscribed on the register of students ; I 
 have a dagger in my belt ; the sentries might sometimes 
 salute me. " I am grown up," and 1 think 1 am happy. 
 
 We decided to dine at Jahr's at five o'clock ; but as 
 Volod^'a went oif with DubkoflT, and Dmitri also disappeaied 
 somewhere according to custom, saying that he had an affair 
 to attend to before dinner, I could dispose of two hours as 
 I pleased. I Avalked about through all the rooms for quite a 
 while, inspecting myself in all the mirrors, now with my coat 
 buttoned, again with it quite unbuttoned, then with onlv tiie 
 upper button fastened ; and every way seemed excellent to 
 ime. Then, ashamed as I was to exhibit too much joy, I could 
 not refrain from going to the stable and coach-house, to 
 inspect Beauty, Kuzma, and tlie drozhky ; tlien I went liack 
 and began to wander through the rooms, looking in the mir- 
 rois, counting the money in my pocket, and smiling in the 
 same blissful manner all the while. But an hour had not 
 elapsed when I felt rather bored, or sorry that there was no 
 one to see me in that dazzling state ; and I craved movement 
 and activity. As a consequence of this, I ordered the 
 drozhky to be brought round, and decided that it would be 
 better to go to the Kuznetzky ■^ bridge, and make some pur- 
 chases. 
 
 I recollected that when Volodya entered the nniversitv he 
 had bought himself a lithograph of Victor Adam's horses, 
 
 ^ The smilhs' bridge.
 
 YOUTH. 245 
 
 some tobacco, and a pipe ; and it seemed to me that it was 
 indispensable tliat 1 should do the same. 
 
 I drove to the Kuznetzky bridge, with glances tiu'ned on 
 me from all sides, with the bright sunlight on my buttons, on 
 the cockade in my hat, and on m}' dagger, and drew up near 
 Datziaro's picture-shop. I glanced about me on all sides, 
 and entered. I did not want to buy Victor Adam's horses, 
 lest I should be accused of aping ^Ъlodya ; but hurrying to 
 make my choice as quickly as possible, out of shame at the 
 trouble to which I was putting the polite shopman, I took a 
 female head painted in water-colors, wdiich stood in the win- 
 dow, and paid twenty rubles for it. But after expending 
 twenty rubles I felt rather conscience-stricken at having trou- 
 bled the two handsomely dressed shopmen with such trifles, 
 and yet it seemed as though they looked at me in altogether 
 too negligent a way. Desirous of letting them undei'stand 
 who I was, I turned my attention to a small silver piece 
 which lay beneath the glass, and, learning that it was a 
 pencil-holder worth eighteen rubles, I ordered it done up in 
 paper, paid my money, and, learning also that good pipes and 
 tobacco were to be had in the adjoining tobacco-shoy), 1 bowed 
 politely to the two shopmen, and stepi)ed into the street with 
 my picture under my arm. In the neighboring shop, on 
 whose sign was painted a negro smoking a cigar. I bought 
 (also out of a desire not to imitate any one) not Zhukoft", but 
 Sultan tobacco, a Turkish pipe, and two tchibouks, one of 
 linden, the other of rosewood. On emerging from the shop, 
 on my way to my drozhky, I percei'^ed Semenoff, who was 
 walking along the sidewalk at a rapid pace, dressed in civil 
 costume, and with his head bent down. I was vexed that he 
 did not recognize me. I said in quite a loud tone, ''Drive 
 up!" and, seating myself in the drozhky, I overto' ' 
 8emenoff. 
 
 " How do you do? " I said to him. 
 
 " ]M'v resi)ects," he answered, pursuing his way. 
 
 '' Why are you not in uniform? " I inquired. 
 
 Semenoff halted, screwed up his eyes, and shoAVcd hisлvhite 
 teeth, as though it pained him to look at the sun, but in 
 reality to express his inditference towards my drozhky and 
 uniform, gazed at me in silence, and walked on. 
 
 From the Kuznetzky l)ridge I drove to the confectioner's 
 shop on the Tversky : and though I tried to pretend that the 
 ue\vsi)a[)ers in tin- shop intercbted me piincii)ally, 1 could not
 
 246 YOUTH. 
 
 restrain myself, and I began to devoi:r one sweet tart after 
 another. Although I was ashamed before the gentlemen who 
 gazed at me witii curiosity from behind their papers, I ate 
 eight patties, of all the sorts which were in the shop, with 
 great rapidity. 
 
 On arriving at home, I felt a little heart-burn, but paying 
 no attention to it I busied myself with examining my pur- 
 chases. The picture so displeased me, that I not only did 
 not have it framed, and hang it in my room, as Volodya had 
 done, but I even hid it in a drawer where no one could see it. 
 The porte -сгаз'оп did not please me now that I had got it 
 home, either. I laid it on the table, comforting myself with 
 the thought that the thing was made of silver, expensive, and 
 extremely useful to a student. 
 
 But I resolved to put my smoking-utensils into immediate 
 use, and try them. 
 
 Having unsealed a quarter-of-a-pound package, and care- 
 fully filled my Turkish pii)e with the reddish-yellow, fine-cut 
 Sultan tobacco, I laid a burning coal upon it, and taking one 
 of my pipe-stems between my middle and third fingers (the 
 position of the hand pleased me extremely), I began to 
 smoke. 
 
 The odor of the tobacco was very agreeable, but my mouth 
 tasted bitter, and my breathing was interrupted. But I took 
 courage, and drew the smoke into myself for quite a long 
 time, tried to puff it out in rings, and draw the smoke in. 
 The whole room was soon filled with clouds of bluish smoke ; 
 the pipe began to bubble, the hot tobacco to leap ; I felt a bit- 
 terness in my mouth, and a slight swimming in my head ; I 
 tried to rise, and look at myself in the glass with my pipe ; 
 Avhen, to my amazement, I began to stagger, the room whirled 
 round, and as I glanced in the mirror, which I had reached 
 with ditficulty, I saw that my face was as pale as a sheet. I 
 barely succeeded in dropping upon a divan, when I was sensi- 
 l)le of such illness and feebleness, that, fancying the pipe had 
 been fatal to me, I thought that I was dying. 1 was seriously 
 alarmed, and wanted to sunnnon assistance, and send for the 
 doctor. 
 
 But this terror did not last long. I quickly understood 
 where the trouble was ; and I lay for a long time on the 
 lounge, weak, with a frightful pain in my head, gazing with 
 dull attention at Bostandzhoglo's arms delineated upon the 
 quarter-pound package, on the pipe and smoking-utensils,
 
 YOUTH. 247 
 
 and the remains of the confectioner's patties rolling on the 
 floor, and tlionght sadl}' in my disenchantment, '• I surely 
 am not grown up yet, if I cannot smoke like other people ; 
 and it is plain that it is not my fate to hold my pipe, like 
 others, between my middle and ray third fingers, to swallow 
 m}- smoke, and puff it out through my blonde mustache." 
 
 When Dmitri came to me at йл-е o'clock, he found me in 
 this unpleasant condition. But after I had drank a glass of 
 water 1 was nearly well again, and ready to go with him. 
 
 ^'^ What made you want to smoke? " he said, as he gazed 
 upon the traces of my smoking: '' it's all nonsense, and a 
 useless Avaste of money. I have promised myself that I will 
 never smoke. However, let's set out as quickly as possible, 
 for we must go after Dubkoff."
 
 248 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 now VOLODYA AND DUBKOFF OCCUPIED ТНЕМЗЕЬЛ'ЕЗ. 
 
 As soon as Dmitri entered the room, I knew by his face, 
 his walk, and by a gesture Avhieh was peculiar to him when 
 in a bad humor, — a winking of the eyes and a grotesque way 
 of drawing his head down on one side, — that he was in the 
 coldly rigid frame of mind which came over him when he was 
 displeased with himself, and which always produced a chill- 
 ing effect upon my feeling for him. I had lately 1>egun to 
 notice and judge my friend's character, but our friendship 
 had suffered no change in consequence ; it was still so youth- 
 ful and so strong, that, from whatever point of view I looked 
 at Dmitri, I could not but perceive his perfection. There 
 were two separate men in him, both of whom were vei'y fine 
 in my eyes. One, whom I warmly loved, was courteous, 
 good, gentle, merry, and with a consciousness of these ami- 
 able qualities : when he was in this mood, his whole appeai"- 
 ance, the sound of his voice, his every moл■ement, seemed to 
 say, "I am gentle and virtuous; I en jo}' being gentle and 
 virtuous, as you can all of you perceive." The other — I 
 have only now begun to comprehend him and to bow before 
 his grandeur — was cold, stern towards himself and others, 
 proud, religious to fanaticism, and pedantically moral. At 
 the present moment, he w^as that second man. 
 
 AVith the frankness which constituted the indispensable 
 condition of our relations, I told him, when we were seated 
 in the drozhky, that it pained me and made me sad to see 
 him in such a heavy, disagreeable frame of mind towards me 
 on the day which was such a happy one to me. 
 
 " Surely something has disturbed 3'ou : why will you not 
 tell me? " I asked. 
 
 " Nikolinka ! " he replied deliberately, turning his head 
 nervously to one side, and screwing u|) his eyes : ''since I 
 have given my. word not to hide any thing from you, you
 
 YOUTH. 249 
 
 have no cause to suspect me of secrecy. It is impossible to 
 be always iu the same mood ; and if any thing has disturbed 
 me, I cannot even give an account of it to myself." 
 
 '' What a wonderfully frank, honorable character!" I 
 thought, and I said no more to him. 
 
 ЛУе drove to Dubkoff's in silence. Dubkoff's quarters were 
 remarkably handsome, or seemed so to me then. There were 
 rugs, i)ictures, curtains, colored hangings, portraits, curving 
 armchairs everywhere : on the walls hung guns, pistols, to- 
 bacco-pouches, and some heads of wild animals in cardboard. 
 At the sight of this study, I saw whom Volodya had been 
 imitating in the adornment of his own chamber. We found 
 Volodya and Dubkoff playing cards. A gentleman who was 
 a stranger to me (and who must have been of little impor- 
 tance, judging from his humble attitude) was sitting at the 
 table, and watching the game with great attention. Dubkoti 
 had on a silk dressing-gown and soft shoes. Volodya in his 
 shirt-sleeves was sitting opposite him on the sofa ; and judg- 
 ing from his flushed face, and the dissatisfied, fleeting glance 
 which he tore away from the cards for a moment to cast at 
 us, he was very much absorbed in the game. On catching 
 sight of me, he turned still redder. 
 
 "Come, it's your turn to deal," he said to Dulikoff. I 
 comprehended that it displeased him to have me know that 
 he played cards. But there was no confusion discernible in 
 his glance, which seemed to say to me, " Yes, I'm playing, 
 and you are only surprised at it because you are 3'oung yet. 
 It is not only not bad, but even necessary, at our age." 
 
 I immediately felt and understood this. 
 
 Dubkoff did not deal the cards, however, but rose, shook 
 hands with us, gave us seats, and offered us pipes, which we 
 declined. 
 
 " So this is our diplomat, the hei'o of the festival," said 
 Dubkoff. " By heavens, he's awfully like the colonel." 
 
 " Hm ! " I growled, as I felt that foolishly self-satisfied 
 smile spreading over my face. 
 
 I respected Dubkoff as only a boy of sixteen can respect 
 an adjutant of twenty-seven whom all the grown-up peojile 
 declare to be a very fine young man, who dances beautifully, 
 and talks French, and who, while he in his soul despises my 
 youth, evidentl}' strives to conceal the fact. 
 
 I')Ut in spite of all my respect for him, I had alwnys. Heaven 
 knows wli}", during the whole period of our acquaintance,
 
 250 YOUTH. 
 
 found it difficult and awkward to look him in the eye. And 
 I have since observed that there are three classes of people 
 whom it is difficult for me to look in the eye, — those who are 
 much worse than m^'self ; those who are much belter than 
 myself ; and those with whom I cannot make up my mind to 
 mention things that we both know, and wlio will not mention 
 them to me. Possil)ly Dubkoff was better than I, perhaps he 
 was worse : but one thing was certain, that he often lied, but 
 without confessing it ; that I detected this weakness in him, 
 of course, but could not l)ring myself to speak of it. 
 
 *•' Let's play one more game," said Volodya, twisting his 
 shoulders like papa, and shuffling the cards. 
 
 '' How persistent he is ! " said^'Dubkoff. " We'll play it 
 out later. Well, then, one. Hand them here." 
 
 While they played, I watched their hands. Volodya had 
 a large, handsome hand. He separated his thumb and bent 
 the other fingers out when he held his cards, and it was so 
 much like papa's hand that at one time it really seemed to 
 me that Volodya held his hands so on purpose, in order 
 to resemble a grown-up person ; but, Avhen I glanced at his 
 face, it became immediateh' evident that he was thinking of 
 nothing except his game. Dubkott's hands, on the contrary, 
 were small, phimp, bent inwards, and had extremely soft and 
 skilful fingers ; just the kind of hands, in fact, which suit 
 rings, and which belong to people who are inclined to man- 
 ual labor, and are fond of having fine things. 
 
 ^'olodya must have lost ; for the gentleman who looked 
 over his cards remai-ked that Madimir Fetrovitch had fright- 
 fully bad luck ; and DuI)koff got his portfolio, and noted 
 something down in it, and said, as he showed Avhat he had 
 written to Volodya, '' Is that right? " 
 
 "Yes," said Volodya, glancing at the note-book with 
 feigned abstraction. '' Now let's go." 
 
 Volod3'a drove Dubkoff, and Dmitri took me in his 
 phaeton. 
 
 " Wliat were they playing? " I inquired of Dmitri. 
 
 "Piquet. It's a stupid game, and gambling is a stupid 
 thing, an}' way." 
 
 ' ' Do they play for large sums ? ' ' 
 
 " Not very ; but it's not right, all the same." _ 
 
 "And do you not play?" 
 
 "No; I have given my word not to; but Dubkoff can't 
 give his not to win all somebody's monej- away."
 
 YOUTH. 251 
 
 " But that surely is not right ou his part," said I. " Volo- 
 dya must pla}' worse tiian he." 
 
 ''Of course it's not right ; but there's nothing particularly 
 wicked about it. Dubkott' loves to play, but still he's au 
 excellent fellow." 
 
 " Ijut 1 had no idea " — said I. 
 
 " You must not think any ill of him, because he really i^ 
 a very hue man ; and 1 am very fond of him, and shall ahvay 
 love him in spite of his weaknesses." 
 
 It seemed to me, for some reason, that, just because Dmi- 
 tri stood up for Dubkoff with too much Avarmth, he no longer 
 loved or respected him, but that he would not coufess it, out 
 of ol)stinacy, and in order that no one might reproach him 
 with fickleness. He Avas one of those people who love their 
 friends for life, not so much because the friends always 
 remain amiable towards them, as because, having once token 
 a liking to a man, even by mistake, they consider it dis- 
 honorable to cease to like him.
 
 252 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 I RECEIVE CONGRATULATIONS. 
 
 DuBKOFP and Volodya knew all the people at Jabr's Ъу 
 name ; and every one, from porter to pr(;prietor, showed 
 them the greatest respect. We were immediately conducted 
 to a private room, and served with a wonderful dinner, 
 selected by Dubkoff from the French bill of fare. A bottle 
 of cool champagne, which I endeavored to survey with as 
 much indift'erence as possible, was already prei)arod. The 
 dinner passed off very agreea))!}' and merrily, although Dub- 
 koft", as was his custom, related the strangest occurrences as 
 though they were true, — among others, how his grandmother 
 had shot three robbers, who had attacked her, with a blun- 
 derbuss (wherenpou I blushed, dropped my eyes, and tui-n» d 
 away from him), — and although Volodya was visibly fright- 
 ened every time that I undertook to say any thing (which 
 was quite sui)erfluous ; for I did not say any thing particu- 
 larly disgraceful, so far as I can remember). When the 
 champagne was served, all congratulated me, and I drnnk 
 thi'ough my hand ''to thou" with Dubkotf and Dmitri, and 
 exchanged kisses with them. As I did not know to whom 
 the bottle of champagne Itelonged (it was in common, as 
 they afterwards explained to me), and I wanted to entertain 
 my friends on my own money, which I felt of incessantly 
 in my pocket, I quietly got hold of a ten-ruble note ; and, 
 smnmoning the waiter, I gave him the money, and told him 
 in a whisper, but in such a manner that they all heard it. to 
 ])le(ise to bring another small bottle of champagne. Volo- 
 dya turned red, writhed, and looked at me and the rest in 
 affright ; but the bottle was brought, and we drank it Avith 
 the greatest satisfaction. Things continued to go merrily. 
 Dubkoff lied without intermission ; and Volodya, too, told 
 such funny stories, and told them better than I had ever 
 expected of him ; and we laughed a great deal. U'he char-
 
 Yourn. 253 
 
 acter of their wit — that is, Dubkoff's and Volodya's — 
 consisted iu mimicry, and exaggeration of the well-known 
 anecdote : '' Well, have you been abroad? " says one. '■^ No, 
 I have not," replies the other, "but my brother plays on 
 the violin." They had attained such perfection iu this sort 
 of comic nonsense, that they even related that anecdote 
 thus: "My brother never played on the violin either." 
 They replied to every one of each other's questions in this 
 style ; and sometimes they tried, without questions, to join 
 two utterl}- incongruous things, — talked this nonsense with 
 sober faces, — and it proved extremely laughable. I began 
 to understand the point, and I also tried to tell something- 
 funny ; but they all looked frightened, or tried not to look 
 at me while I was speaking, and the anecdote was not a 
 success. Dubkoff said, "The diplomat has begun to lie, 
 brother;" but I felt so well with the champagne I had 
 drunk, and in the company of these grown-up people, that 
 this remark hardly wounded me at all. Dmitri alone, though 
 lie had drunk evenly with us, continued in the stern, serious 
 mood, which put some restraint upon the general merriment. 
 
 " Now listen, gentlemen !" said Dubkoff. "After dinner, 
 the dii)lomat must be taken in hand Shall we not go to our 
 aunt's ? AYe'U soon settle him there." 
 
 " Nekhlindoff won't go," said Volodya. 
 
 "The intolerable goody! You're an intolcralilo goody," 
 said Dubkoff, turning to him. " Come with us, and you'll 
 see what a charming lady auntie is." 
 
 "I not only will not go, but I won't let him," answered 
 Dmitri, turning red. 
 
 "Who? the diplomat? — Do you want to go, diplomat? 
 Look, he beamed all over as soon as Ave mentioned auntie." 
 
 " I don't mean that I won't let him," contimied Dmitri, 
 rising from his seat, and beginning to pace the room, without 
 looking at me, "but I do not advise him, nor wish him to 
 go. He is no longer a child, and if he wishes he can go 
 alone without you. But 3'ou ought to l)e ashamed of your- 
 self, Dubkoff ; what you are doing is not right, and you want 
 others to do so too." 
 
 "What's the harm," said Dubkoff, winking at Volodya, 
 " if I invite 3'ou all to my aunt's for a cup of tea? Well, if 
 it's not agreeable to you to go with us, then Volodya and I 
 will go. — Are you coming, Volodya? " 
 
 " Hm, hm ! " said Volodya, a!!h-matively. " AVe'll go
 
 254 YOUTH. 
 
 there, and then we'll come to my rooms, and go on with our 
 piquet." 
 
 '* Well, do you want to go with them, or not? " said Dmitri, 
 coming up to me. 
 
 " No," I answered, moving along on the sofa to make 
 room for him beside me ; "if you do not advise it, I will not 
 go, on any account. 
 
 '' No," I added afterwards; "I do not speak the truth 
 when I say that I do not want to go with them ; but 1 am 
 glad that I am not going." 
 
 '' Excellent." said he : " live according to 3'our own ideas, 
 and don't dance to any one's pipe ; that's the best wa}' of 
 all." 
 
 This little dispute not only did not disturb our pleasure, 
 but even heightened it. Dmitri all at once came into the 
 gentle mood which I loved so well. .Such an influence, as I 
 afterwards more than once observed, did the consciousness 
 of a good deed have upon him. He was pleased v»ith him- 
 self now for having deterred me from going. He grew very 
 merry, ordered another bottle of champagne (which was 
 against his rules) , called a strauge gentleman into the room, 
 and began to give him wine, sang Gaudeamus if/ilar, 
 requested that all should join in, and proposed to ride to the 
 Sokolinki, whereupon Dubkotf remarked that it was too sen- 
 timental. 
 
 "Let's be jolly to-da3%" said Dmitri, with a smile : "in 
 honor of his entrance to the universit}', I will get drunk for 
 the lirst time: so be it." This gayet}- sat rather strangely 
 on Dmitri. He resembled a tutor or a kind father who is 
 satisfied with his children, and wishes to please them, and at 
 the same time to shoAv that he can be ga}' in an honorable 
 and respectable fashion : ncA^ertheless, this unexpected mirth 
 seemed to act infectiously upon us, the more so as each of us 
 had drunk about half a bottle of champagne. 
 
 It was in this agreeable frame of mind, that I stepped out 
 info the public apartment to smoke a cigarette which Dubkoff 
 had given me. 
 
 "When I rose from my scat, I perceiA'cd that mv head was 
 a little unstead}', and that ni}^ feet and my hands were in 
 a natural condition onl}' Avhen I fixed ni}^ atteutiou firmly 
 upon them. Otherwise my feet crept off to one side, and my 
 hands executed various gestures. I fixed my whole atten- 
 tion upon these limbs, ordered ni}' hands to rise, and button
 
 YOUTH. 255 
 
 my coat, and smooth my haiv (in the course of which, my 
 elbows jerked themselves up fearfully high), and my legs to 
 carry me to the door ; which command they complied with, 
 but set themselves down either too hard or too gently, and 
 the left foot in particular stood constantly on its toe. Some 
 voice or other shouted to me, '' Where are you going? The}' 
 are bringing lights." I guessed that the voice belonged to 
 Volodya, and the thought that I had guessed it afforded me 
 satisfaction ; but I only smiled in answer, and went my way.
 
 256 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE QUARREL. 
 
 In the public room, behind a little table, sat a short, stout 
 gentleman, in plain clothes, with a red mustache, engaged 
 in eating. Beside him, sat a tall, dark-complexioned man, 
 without a mustache. They were conversing in French. 
 Their glances confused me, but I made up ni}' mind to light 
 my cigarette at the candle which stood before them. Glan- 
 cing aside, in order that I might not encounter their gaze, I 
 marched up to the table, and began to light my cigarette. 
 When the cigarette had caught the flame, I could not resist, 
 and glanced at the gentleman who was dining. His gray 
 eyes were fixed intently and disapprovingl}^ iipon me. As I 
 was about to turn away, his red mustache moved, and he 
 said in French, " I don't like to have people smoke while I 
 am dining, my dear sir." 
 
 I muttered -some unintelligible reply. 
 
 " Yes, sir, I don't like it," went on the gentleman with 
 the mustache sternly, with a quick glance at the gentleman 
 who had no mustache, as if inviting him to admire the man- 
 ner in which he was about to settle me, — "I don't like 
 people who are impolite, my dear sir, who come and smoke 
 under one's nose; I don't like them." I immediately saw 
 that the gentleman was scolding me, and it seemed to me at 
 first that I was very much in the wrong, with regard to him. 
 
 " I did not think that it would disturb you," said I. 
 
 "Ah, you did not think you were ill-bred, but I did!" 
 shouted the gentleman. 
 
 " AVhat right have you to yell?" said I, feeling that he 
 was insulting me, and beginning to get angry myself. 
 
 " This right, that I never permit any one to be insolent to 
 me ; and I shall always give such young fellows as you a 
 lesson. What's your surname, sir? and where do you 
 live?"
 
 тоитп. 257 
 
 I was extremely angry, my lips quivered, and ray breath 
 came in gasps. But 1 felt that I was in the wrong, never- 
 theless, and it must have been because I had drunk so much 
 champagne ; and I did not say any thuig insulting to the 
 gentleman, but on the contrary my lips uttered my name and 
 our address in the most submissive manner possible. 
 
 " My name is Kolpikoff, ш}^ dear sir, and see that you are 
 more courteous in future. You shall hear from me," he 
 concluded, the whole conversation having taken place in 
 French. 
 
 I only said, " I am very glad to make your acquaintance," 
 endeavoring to render my voice as firm as possible, turned 
 away, and went back to our room with my cigarette, which 
 had contrived to go out. 
 
 I did not mention what had occurred to my brother, nor to 
 mv friend, particularly as they were engaged in a hot dispute, ,^ 
 but seated myself alone in a corner to refleot upon this 
 strange circumstance. The words, "You are ill-bred, sir," 
 as they rang in my ears, troubled me more and more. My 
 intoxication had completely passed away. ЛУЬеп I reflected 
 on my behavior in the matter, the strange thought all at once 
 occurred to me that I had behaved like a coward. " What 
 right had he to attack me? Why didn't he say simply that 
 it disturbed him? He must have been in the wrong. Why, 
 when he told me that I was ill-bred, did I not say to him, ' He 
 is ill-bred, sir, who permits himself impertinences ; ' or why 
 did I not simply shout at him, ^ Silence!' that would have 
 been capital. Why did I not challenge him to a duel? No, 
 I did none of these things, but swallowed the insult like a vile 
 coward." " You are ill-bred, sir," rang in m}' ears inces- 
 santly in an exasperating wa}'. " No, this cannot be left in 
 tills state," I thought, and I rose with the fixed intention of 
 going back to the gentleman, and saying something dreadful 
 to liim, and, possibly, of striking liim over the head with the 
 candlestick if it should seem suitable. I reflected ui)on this 
 last intention with the greatest delight, but it was not without 
 great terror that I entered the public room again. Fortu- 
 nately, Gospodin. (Mr.) Kolpikoff was no longer there ; there 
 was but one waiter in the room, and he was clearing the 
 table. I wanted to tell the waiter what had happened, and 
 to explain to him tliat I was not at all to blame ; but I 
 changed my mind for some reason or other, and returned 
 again to our own room in the most gloomy frame of mind.
 
 258 YOUTH. 
 
 "What's the matter with our diplomat?" said Dubkoff, 
 " he's probably deciding the fate of Europe now." 
 
 "Oh, let me alone," I said crossly, as I turned away. 
 Then, as 1 wandered al)Out the room, I began to think, for 
 some reason, that Dubkoff was not a nice man at all. And 
 as for his eternal jests, and that nickname of "diplomat." 
 there was nothing amiable about them. All he was go(}d 
 I for was to win money from Volod3'a, and to go to some 
 launt or other. And there was nothing pleasing about him. 
 Every thing he said was a lie, or an absurdity, and he wanted 
 to laugh eternall}'. It seemed to me that he Avas onh' stupid, 
 and a bad man to boot. In such reflections as these I sp^mt 
 five minutes, feeling more and more inimical towards Dub- 
 koff, But Dubkoff paid no attention to me, and this enraged 
 me still more, I even got angry with Volodya and Dmitri 
 because the}' talked to him, 
 
 "Do 3'ou know what, gentlemen? we must pour some 
 water over the diplomat," said Dubkoff suddenly, glancing 
 at me with what seemed to me to be a mocking, and even 
 treacherous, smile: " he's in a bad way, Bj' heavens, but 
 he's in a state ! " 
 
 " You need to be ducked, you're in a bad way yourself," 
 I retorted with an angry smile, even forgetting that I had 
 addressed him as thou. 
 
 This answer must have amazed Dubkoff ; but he turned 
 away from me indifferently, and continued his couA-ersatiou 
 Avith Volodj'a and Dmitri, 
 
 I would Ь.ал'е tried to join the conversation, Imt I felt that 
 I certainly should not be able to dissemble, and I again re- 
 treated to my corner, where I remained until our departure. 
 
 When we had paid the bill, and were putting on our over- 
 coats, Dubkoff said to Dmitri, " AVell, where are Orestes and 
 Pylades going? Home, probably, to converse of love. We'll 
 find out about the same thing from our dear auntie: it's 
 better than your sour friendship," 
 
 ^^ How dare j^u talk so, and ridicule us?" I said, sud- 
 denly, marching up to him and gesticulating, " How dare 
 you laugh at feelings that you don't understand? I wont 
 permit it. Silence! " I shouted, and became silent m3'self, 
 not knowing what to say, and panting with agitation. Dub- 
 koff was amazed at first ; then he tried to smile, and took it 
 as a joke ; but finally, to my extreme surprise, he got fright- 
 ened, and dropped his eyes-
 
 тоитп. 259 
 
 " I am not ridicnling 3^011 and ^юпг feelings in the least: 
 it'.s only my way of talking," he said evasively. 
 
 ''80 that's it," I shonted; but at the same time I was 
 ashamed of mj'self, and sorry for Dubkolf, лvhose handsome, 
 troubled face betrayed genuine suffering. 
 
 '' What's the matter with you? " asked Volodya and Dmi- 
 tri together. " Nobod}' meant to insult you." 
 
 " Yes, he did mean to insult me." 
 
 " That brother of yours is a sauc}' gentleman," said Dub- ' 
 koff, just as he went out of the door, so that he could not 
 hear what I might say. 
 
 Possibly, I might have rushed after him, and uttered some 
 more impertinent speeches ; but, just at that moment, the 
 same waiter who had been present at my affair with Kol- 
 pikoff handed me my coat, and I immediately calmed down, 
 feigning only so much anger in Dmitri's presence as was 
 indispensable, in order that my instantaneous tranquillity 
 might not seem queer. The next day, Dubkolf and I met in 
 Volod^'a's room. We did not allude to this affair, and con- 
 tinued to address each other as '■'■you;" and it was more 
 difficult than ever for us to look each other in the eye. 
 
 The memory of my quarrel with Koli)ikoff, who neither on 
 that day nor ever afterwards let me " hear from him," was 
 frightfully oppressive and vivid for many years. I writhed 
 and screamed, full five years later, every time that I recalled 
 that unatoned insult ; an(,l comforted myself by remembering, 
 with self-satisfaction, how manly I had afty^rvvards been in ' 
 my atfair with Dubkoff. It was only л-егу much later that I 
 Itegan to regard the matter in quite a ditferent light, and to 
 recall my quarrel with Koli)ikoff with comical satisfaction, 
 and to repent of the undeserved wound which I had dealt 
 to tiiat gond little frlloiv, Dul)koff. 
 
 AVhen I related to Dmitri that same day my encounter with 
 Kolpikoff, whose api)earance I described to him minutel}', he 
 was very much surprised. 
 
 "Yes, it's the very same fellow," said he. "Just imagine ! 
 that Kolpikoff is a well-known scamp, a card-sharper, but, 
 most of all, a coward, who was driven out of the regiment 
 by his comrades because he had received a box on the ear, 
 and would not fight. Where did he get his valor?" he 
 added, with a kindh' smile, as he glanced at me. "80 he 
 didn't say any thing more tlian ' ill-bred ' ? " 
 
 " Y'es," 1 replied, reddening.
 
 260 YOUTH. 
 
 "It's bad; but there's no harm done yet," Dmitri said, 
 to console me. 
 
 It луаз only when I thought this affair over quietly, long 
 afterwards, that I arrived at the tolerably' probable inference 
 that Kolpikoft', feeling, after the lapse of many years, thnt 
 he could attack me, had taken his revenge on me, in the 
 presence of the beardless, dark-complexioned man, for the 
 box on the ear which he had once received, just as I imme- 
 diately revenged myself for his '' ill-bred" on the innocent 
 Dubkoff.
 
 YOU г 11. 261 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 • I MAKE PREPARATIONS TO PAY SOME CALLS. 
 
 My first thought, on waking the next day, was my adven- 
 ture with Kolpikoff. Again I roared and ran about the 
 room, but there was nothing to be done: besides, this was 
 the last day I was to spend in Moscow ; and, by papa's 
 orders, I was to make some calls which he had himself writ- 
 ten down for me. Papa's solicitude for us was not so much 
 on the point of morals and learning as on that of worldly 
 connections. On the paper was written in his rapid, pointed 
 hand: " (1) To Prince Ivan Ivanitch without fail; (2) to 
 the Ivinfi loithoat fail ; (3) to Prince Mikhailo ; (4) to Prin- 
 cess Nekhliudoff and Madame Valakhina if possible ; " and, 
 of course, to the curator, the rector, and the professors. 
 
 Dmitri dissuaded me from pajnug these last calls, saying 
 that it not only was not necessary, but would even be 
 improper ; but all the rest must be made to-day. Of these, 
 the two first calls, beside which without fail was written, 
 frightened me particularly. Prince Ivan Ivanitch was gen- 
 eral-in-chief, an old man, wealthy and alone ; so I, a stu- 
 dent of sixteen, must have direct intercourse with him, which 
 I had a presentiment could not prove at all flattering to me. 
 The Ivins also were wealth}', and their father was an impor- 
 tant civil general, who had only been to our home once, in 
 grandmamma's day. After grandmamma's death, I observed 
 that the 3'oungest Ivin a\'oided us, and seemed to put on airs. 
 The eldest, as I knew by report, had already completed his 
 course in law, and was serving in Petersburg ; the second, 
 (Sergiei), whom I had once adored, was also in Petersburg, 
 — a big, fat cadet in the Pages' Corps. In my youth, I not 
 only did not like to associate with people who considered 
 themselves above me, but such intercourse was intoleralily 
 painful, in consequence of a constant fear of insult, and the
 
 262 YOU т гг. 
 
 stmiiiing of all my mental faculties to the end of exhibiting 
 my independence. But, as I was not going to obey papa's 
 last orders, 1 must smoothe matters over by complying with 
 the first. I paced my chamber, glancing at niy clotlies, 
 which were spread out upou the chairs, at my dagger and 
 hat, and was already preparing to go. when old Grap came 
 with his congratulations, bringing Ilinka with him. Father 
 Grap was a Russianized German, intolerably mawkish and 
 flattering, and very often intoxicated. He generally came 
 to us simply for the purpose of asking for something ; and 
 papa sometimes let him sit down in his study, but he never 
 had him dine with us. His humility and persistent begging 
 were so intermingled with a certain superficial good-nature 
 and familiarity with oiu" house, that evei-ybody reckoned it 
 as a sort of merit in him that he should be so attached to all 
 of us ; but, for some reason, I never liked him, and, Avhen 
 he spoke, I always felt ashamed for him. 
 
 I was very much displeased at the агг1л\а1 of these guests, 
 and I made no effort to conceal my displeasure. I had be- 
 come so accustomed to look down upon Ilinka, and had 
 become so used to consider that we were in the right in so 
 doing, that it was rather disagreeable for mo to have him a 
 student as well as mj'self. It struck me, too, that he was 
 rather abashed, in my presence, by this equality. I greeted 
 them coldly, and did not ask them to sit down, because 1 was 
 ashamed to do so, thinking that they might do it without 
 my invitation ; and I ordered my carriage to be got ready. 
 Ilinka \vas a kind, very honorable, and л^егу clever young 
 man, but he was still what is called a man of caprice. 
 Some extreme mood was always coming over him, and, as 
 it appeared, without any reason wdiatever : now it was a 
 weeping mood, then an inclination to laugh, then to take 
 offence at every trifle. And now, it seemed, he was in this 
 last frame of mind. He said nothing, glanced angrily at 
 me and his father ; and only when he was addressed did he 
 smile, with the submissive, constrained smile, under which 
 he was already accustomed to hide his feelings, and espe- 
 cially the feeling of shame for his father, which he could not 
 help feeling in our presence. 
 
 " So, sir, Nikolai Petrovitch," said the old man. follow- 
 ing me about the room while I dressed, and turning the silver 
 snuff-box, which grandmamma had given him, sloAvly and 
 respectfully between his fat fingers ; "as soon as I learned
 
 YOUTn. 263 
 
 from iny son that you had deigned to pass an excellent 
 examination. — for your clcA'erness is known to all, — 1 im- 
 mediately hastened hither to congratulate you, batiuschka ; 
 why, I have carried you on my shoulder, and God sees that 
 I love 34)u all like relatives ; and my Ilinka is always beg- 
 ging to be allowed to come to 3'ou. He, too, has already 
 become accustomed to you." 
 
 Meantime, Ilinka sat in silence, by the window, apparently 
 gazing at ni}' three-cornered hat, and muttering something 
 angrily, and almost inaudibly. 
 
 '' Now, I wanted to ask з'ои, Nikolai Petrovitch," contin- 
 ued the old man, " did my Ilinka pass a good examination? 
 He said he should be with you, and you would not leave 
 him ; you would look after him, and advise him." 
 
 " AVhy, he passed a very fine one," I replied, glancing at 
 Ilinka, who, feeling my glance, blushed, and stopped moving 
 his lips. 
 
 " And can he pass the day with you ? " said the old man, 
 with a timid smile, as though he were very much afraid of 
 me, and always standing so close to me, whenever I halted, 
 that the odor of wine and tobacco, in which he was steeped, 
 did not cease for a single second to be perceptible to me. I 
 was provoked at him for having placed me in such a false 
 position towards his son, and because he had diverted my 
 attention from my very important occupation at that moment 
 — dressing ; but most of all, that ever-present odor of strong 
 brandy so distracted me, that I said, very coldly, that I 
 could not remain with Ilinka, because I should not be at 
 home all day. 
 
 " You wanted to go to your sister, batiuschka," said 
 Ilinka, smiling, but not looking at me ; " and I have some- 
 thing to do besides." I was still more vexed and mortified, 
 and, in order to smooth over my refusal I hastened to im- 
 part the information, that I should not be at home because I 
 must go to Prince Ivan Ivanitch, and Princess Kornakova, 
 and to Ivin, the one who held such an important post, and 
 that I should probably dine with Princess Nekhliudova. It 
 seemed to me tliat when they learned to what distinguished 
 houses I was going, they could make no more claims upon 
 me. When they prepared to dei)art, I invited Ilmka to come 
 again ; but Ilinka only muttered something, and smiled with 
 a constrained expression. It was evident that his feet would 
 never cross my threshold again.
 
 264 YOUTH. 
 
 After their departure, I set out on my visits. Volodya, 
 whom I had tliat morning invited to accompany me, in order 
 that it migiit not be as awkward as if 1 were alone, liad 
 refused, under the pretext that it would be too sentimental 
 for two brothers to ride together in one carriage.
 
 YOUTH. 265 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE VALAKHINS. 
 
 So I set out alone. My first visit, in point of locality, 
 was to tlie Valakhins, in the SiA'tzavoi Vrazhok. I had not 
 seen Sonitclika for three years, and of course my love for 
 her had vanished long ago ; but a lively and touching mem- 
 ory of that past childish love still lingered in my soul. It 
 had happened to me, in the course of those three years, to 
 recall her with such force and clearness, that I shed tears, 
 and felt myself in love again ; but this onlj' lasted a few 
 minutes, and did not speedily return. 
 
 I knew that Sonitclika had been abroad with her mother, 
 where they had remained for two j^ears, and where, it was 
 said, they had been upset in a diligence, and Sonitchka's 
 face had been badly cut with the glass, so that she had lost 
 her good looks to a great extent. On ni}- way thither, I 
 vividly recalled the former Sonitchka, and thought of hovf 
 I should meet her now. In consequence of her two years' 
 stay abroad I fancied her extremely tall, with a verj- fine 
 figure, serious and dignified, but remarkably attractive. My 
 imagination refused to present her with a face disfigured 
 with scars : on the contrary, having heard somewhere of the 
 passionate lover who remained faitliful to the beloved object, 
 m spite of disfigurement by small-pox, I tried to think that 
 1 was in love with Sonitchka, in order that I might have the 
 merit of remaining true to her in s[)ite of the scars. On the 
 whole, when I drove up to the Valakhins' house I was not 
 in love, but having set in motion old memories of love I 
 was well prepared to fall ш love, and was very desirous to 
 do so ; the more so as I had long felt ashamed when I looked 
 at all my enamoured friends, because I had left the ranks. 
 
 The Valakhins lived in a neat little wooden house, the 
 entrance to which was from the court-yard. The door was 
 opened to me at the sound of the bell, which was then a great
 
 266 YOUTH. 
 
 rarity in Moscow, by a very small and neatly dressed boy. 
 He eitlier did not understand me, or did not want to tell me 
 if the famil}' were at home ; and leaving me in the dark ves- 
 tibule, he ran into the still darker corridor. 
 
 1 remained alone for (juite a while in that dark room, in 
 which there was one closed door, besides the one leadmg to 
 the corridor ; and I wondered parti}' at the gloomy character 
 of the house, and in part supposed that it must be so with 
 people who had been abroad. After the lapse of five minutes 
 the door to the hall was opened from the inside by the same 
 boy, and he led me to the neatly but not richly furnished 
 drawing-room, into which Sonitchka followed me. 
 
 iShe w'as seventeen. She was very short in stature, very 
 thin, and with a yellowish, unhealthy color in her face. 
 There were no scars visible on her face ; but her charming, 
 prominent eyes, and her bright, good-natured, merry smile 
 were the same which I had known and loved in my childhood. 
 I had not expected to find her like this at all, and therefore 
 I could not at once pour out upon her the feeling which I hai^ 
 ])repared on the way. She gave me her hand in the English 
 fashion, which was then as much of a rarit}- as the bell, shook 
 my hand frankly, and seated me beside her on the sofa. 
 
 " Ah, how glad T am to see you, my dear Nicolas ! " she 
 said, gazing mto my face with the same genuine expression 
 of pleasure which her words implied. The "■ m}' dear Nico- 
 las," I observed, was uttered in a friendly, not in a patron- 
 izing, tone. To my amazement, she was more simple, sweet, 
 and natural in her maimer after her trip abroad than before. 
 I observed two little scars near her nose, and on her fore- 
 head ; but her wonderful eyes and smile were perfectl}' true 
 to my recollections, and shone in the old wa}'. 
 
 '' How you have changed!" said she: "j^ou have quite 
 grown up. Well, and I — what do you think of me ? " 
 
 " Ah, I should not have known you," I answered, although 
 at that very time I was thinking that I should have known 
 her anywhere. I again felt 1113 self in that cai'e-free, merry 
 mood in which, five years before, 1 had danced the "grand- 
 father" with her at grandmamma's ball. 
 
 "What, have I grown very ugly?" she asked, shaking 
 her head. 
 
 " No, not at all ; you have grown some, you are older," 
 I made haste to reply: "but on the contrary — and 
 even ' ' —
 
 YOUTH. 267 
 
 "AYell, no matter: I reraembei' our dances, our games, 
 St. Jerome, Mme. Dorat." (I did not recollect an}' Mme. 
 Dorat : she was evideutl}' carried away by tlie enjoj-meut of 
 her childish memories, and was confounding; them.) ''Ah, 
 that was a famous time ! " she continued ; and the same smile, 
 even more beautiful than the one I bore in my memory, and 
 the very same eyes, gleamed before me. While she was 
 speaking I had succeeded in realizing the situation in whicL 
 I found myself at the present moment, and I decided that at 
 the present moment 1 was in love. As soon as I had made 
 up my mind to this, that instant my happy, careless mood 
 vanished, a dark cloud enveloped every thing before me, — 
 even her eyes and smile, — I became ashamed of something, 
 I turned red, and lost all power to speak. 
 
 " Times are different now," she went on with a sigh, ele- 
 vating her brows slightly : " every thing is much worse, and 
 we are worse ; are we not, Nicolas? " 
 
 I could not answer, and gazed at her in silence. 
 
 "Where are all the Ivins and Kornakoffs of those days? 
 Do you remember?" she continued, looking at my red and 
 frightened face with some curiosity: ''that was a famous 
 time ! " 
 
 And still I could not repl^^ 
 
 The entrance of the elder Valakhina relieved me of this 
 uncomfortable situation for a time. I rose, bowed, and re- 
 covered my power of speech ; but in turn, a strange change 
 came over Sonitchka with her mother's entrance. All her 
 gayety and naturalness suddenly disappeared, her very smile 
 A\*as different ; and all at once, with the exception of her tall 
 stature, she became exactly the young lady returned from 
 aliroad which I had imagined her to be. It seemed as though 
 this change could have no cause, since her mother smiled 
 iust as pleasantly, and all her movements expressed as much 
 gentleness, as of old. The Valakhina ^ seated herself in a 
 large arm-chair, and indicated to me a place near her. She 
 said something to her daughter in English, and Sonitchka 
 immediately left the room, which afforded me some relief. 
 Tlie Valakhina inquired after my relatives, my brother, and 
 my father, and then spoke to me of her own sorrow, — the 
 loss of her husband, — and finally, feeling that there was 
 
 ' л ladj-'s surname is not infrequently used thus, witliout prefix. The feminine 
 form lias been used throutchout, in preference to the masculine form with i\u'. jirertx 
 of " Madame" (as Mine. Valakhin, Koruakoff, etc.), for the sake of illustnitini; thie 
 point. — Tb.
 
 268 YOUTH. 
 
 nothing to say to me, she looked fit me in silence, as if to 
 say, " If you will rise now, and make your bow, and go 
 away, you will be doing very well, my dear fellow." But a 
 strange thing happened to me. Souitchka had returned 
 with her work, and seated herself in the corner of the room, 
 so that I felt her glance fixed upon me. While the Vala- 
 khina was relating the loss of her husband, I once more re- 
 membered that I was in 1ол-е, and thought that perhaps the 
 mother guessed it ; and I had another lit of shyness of such 
 power that 1 did not find m^-self in a condition to move even a 
 single limb in a natural manner. 1 knew that in order to rise 
 and take my departure, I should be obliged to think where to 
 set my foot, what to do with my head, what with my hand : 
 in one word, I felt almost exactly as I had felt the evening 
 before after drinking half a bottle of champagne. I had a 
 presentiment that I could not get through with all this, and 
 thei'efore could not rise ; and I actually could not. The Val- 
 akhina was probably surprised when she beheld my face, as 
 red as cloth, and my utter immovability ; but I decided that 
 it was better to sit still in that stupid attitude than to risk 
 rising Ш an awkward manner, and taking my departure. I 
 sat thus for quite a long time, expecting that some unfore- 
 seen circumstance w^uld rescue me from that position. This 
 circumstance presented itself in the person of an insignifi- 
 cant young man, who entered the room with the air of a 
 member of the famil}', and bowed courteously to me. The 
 Valakhina rose, excusing herself on the ground that it was 
 necessary for her to speak with her business manager, and 
 looked at me with an expression of surprise which said, "If 
 you want to sit there forever, I will not drive you out." I 
 made a tremendous effort, and rose, but was no longer in a 
 condition to make a bow ; and as I went out, accompanied by 
 the compassionate glances of mother and daughter, 1 knocked 
 against a chair which did not stand in ni}' л\ау at all ; I only 
 ran against it because my whole attention was directed upon 
 not stumbling over the carpet which was under my feet. 
 But once in the open air, — where I writhed and growled so 
 loudly that even Kuzma Inquired several times, '' What is 
 your wish?" — this feeling disappeared; and I began to 
 meditate quite calmly upon my love for Sonitchka, and her 
 relation with her mother, which struck me as singular. 
 AVhen I afterward communicated my observations to my 
 father, — that INIme. Л^а1акЬ1па and her daughter were not on 
 good teims, — he said :
 
 Yourn. 2G9 
 
 "Yes, she torments her, poor thing, with her strange 
 miserliness ; and it's odd enough," he added, with a stronger 
 feeling than he could have for a mere relative, "-How charm- 
 ing she was, the dear, queer woman ! I cannot understand 
 wh}' she is so changed. You did not see any secretai-y 
 there, did you ? AVhat sort of a fashion is it for Russian 
 ladies to have secretaries?" he said angrily, walking away 
 from me. 
 
 '• I did see him," said I. 
 
 " Well, he is good-looking at least? " 
 
 " No, he is not at all good-looking." 
 
 "It's incomprehensible," said papa, and he twitched his 
 shoulders angril}' and coughed. 
 
 " Here I am in love, too," I thought as I rode on in my 
 drozhky.
 
 270 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE KORNAKOFS. 
 
 The second call on my way was on the Kornakoffs. They 
 lived on the first floor of a great house on tlie Arbuta. The 
 staircase was very showy and clean, but not luxurious. 
 P>erywhere there was striped crash fastened directly on the 
 stairs b}' rails of polished copper ; but there were neither 
 flowers nor mirrors. The hall, over Avhose brightly polished 
 floor I passed to reach the drawing-room, was also forbidding, 
 cold, and neatly arranged ; every thing shone, and seemed 
 durable, altiiough not at all new ; but neither pictures, cur- 
 tains, nor any other species of adornment were au^'where 
 visible. Several Princesses were in the drawing-room. They 
 were sitting in such a precise and leisurely attitude that it 
 was immediately perceptible that they did not sit so when 
 guests were not present. 
 
 '•Mamma will be here immediately," said the eldest of 
 them to me, as she seated herself uearer me. For a quarter 
 of an hour, this Princess engaged me in a л'егу easy сопл'ег- 
 sation, and she did it so skilfully that the conversation never, 
 languished for a moment. But it was too evident that shei 
 was enteilaining me, and therefore she did not please me. 
 Among other things, she told me that her brother Stepan, 
 whom they called Etievne, and who had 1)een sent to tlie 
 Junkers' School, had already been promoted to be an oMiccr. 
 When she sjioke of her brother, and especially when she 
 mentioned that he had entered the hussars against his moth- 
 er's wish, she put on a frightened look ; and all the Prin- 
 cesses, who sat there in silence, put en the same frightened 
 faces. ЛУЬеп she spoke of grandmamma's death, she })at 
 on a sorrowful look, and all the younger Princesses did the 
 same. When she recalled how 1 had struck St. Jerome, and 
 how I had been led off, she laughed, and showed her bad 
 teeth ; and all the Princesses laughed, aud showed their 
 bad teeth.
 
 YOUTH. 271 
 
 The Princess entered. She was te same little diied-up 
 woman, with restless eyes, and a habit of looking at other 
 people while talking with one. She took me by the hand, 
 and raised her hand to my lips, in order that I might kiss it ; 
 which I should not otherwise have done, not supposing that 
 it was indispensable. 
 
 '^ How glad I am to see you!" she said, with her usual 
 eloquence, glancing at her daughters. ''Ah, how like his 
 mamma he is! Is he not, Lise?" 
 
 Lise said that it was so ; though I know, for a fact, that I 
 possessed not the slightest resemblance to mamma. 
 
 " And how large you have grown ! And my Etienne, you 
 remember, he is your second cousin — no, not your second ; 
 but how is it, Lise ? My mother was Varvara Dmitrievna, 
 daughter of Dmitri Nikolaevitch, and your grandmother was 
 Natalya Nikolaevitch." 
 
 "Then he is our third cousin, mamma," said the eldest 
 Princess. 
 
 "Oh, 3'ou are mixing things all up," cried the Princess 
 angrily. " It's not third cousin at all, but issus de germdhis, 
 — children of cousins ; that's what you and my dear little 
 Etienne are. He's an officer already: did you know it? 
 But it's not well in one respect : he has too much lil)erty. 
 You young people must be kept in hand ; that's how it 
 is ! You will not be angry with me, your old aunt, if I tell 
 you the truth? I brought up Etienne stiictly, and I think 
 that's the proper way to do. 
 
 "Yes, that's the relationship between us," she went on. 
 "Prince Ivan Ivanitch was my own uncle, and your mother's 
 uncle. So we were cousins to your mamma, and not second 
 cousins. Yes, that's it. Now, tell me. Have you been 
 to Piince Ivan's? " 
 
 I said that I had not been there yet, but should go that 
 day. 
 
 '•Ah! how is that possible?" she exclaimed. "That 
 should have been your very (irst call. Why, you know that 
 Prince Ivan is just the same as a father to you. He has no 
 children, so his only heirs are you and my children. You 
 must revere him on account of liis age, and his position in 
 the world, and every thing. I know that you young pe()i)le 
 of the present generation think nothing of relationshij), and 
 do not like old peo[)le ; l)ut yon must obey me, ycnir old 
 aunt; for 1 love you, and I loved your mamma, and your
 
 272 YOUTH. 
 
 granclmotlicr, too, T loved and respected very, л'егу much. 
 Yes. you must go without fail. You certainly must go." 
 
 I said that I certaiiily would go, and as tlie call had already 
 lasted long enough, in my opinion, 1 rose, and made a mo- 
 tion to go ; but she detained me. 
 
 " No, wait a minute. — Where is j^our father, Lise? Call 
 him here. — He will be so glad to see you," she continued, 
 turning to me. 
 
 In a couple of minutes Prince Mikhailo actually entered. 
 He was a short, stout man, very negligently dressed, un- 
 shaven, and with such an expression of indifference on his 
 countenance that it approached stupidity. He was not at all 
 glad to see me ; at all events, he did not express any thing 
 of the sort. But the Princess, of whom he was evidently 
 very much afraid, said to him, — 
 
 " Waldemar [she had plainly forgotten my name] is 
 very like his mother, is he not? " and she made such a sig- 
 nal with her eyes that the Prince must have divined her wish, 
 for he came up to me, and, with the most apathetic and even 
 dissatisfied expression of countenance, presented his unshaven 
 cheek to me, which I was forced to kiss. 
 
 " But you are not dressed, and you must go instantly," the 
 Princess began at once to say to him, in an angr}' tone, 
 which was evidently her usual one with members of her 
 household. "You want to prejudice people against 3'ou 
 again, to make people angry with 3'ou again ! " 
 
 "At once, at once, matiuschka," said Prince Mikhailo, 
 and departed. I bowed, and departed also. 
 
 I had heard for the first time that we were heirs of Prince 
 Ivan Ivanitch, and this news struck me unpleasantly.
 
 YOUTH. 273 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE IVINS. 
 
 It distressed me still more to think of that impending, 
 indispensable visit. But before I went to the Prince. 1 had 
 to stop at the Ivins' on the way. They lived on the Tversky 
 Boulevard, in a large and handsome house. It was not with- 
 out timidity that I drove up to the state entrance, at which 
 stood a porter with a cane. 
 
 I asked him if the family was at home. 
 
 "Whom do you wish to see? The general's sou is at 
 home," said the porter. 
 
 " And the general himself? " 
 
 " I \vill iiKiuire. Whom shall I announce?" said the por- 
 ter, and rang. 
 
 A footman's feet, clad in gaiters, appeared upon the 
 stairs. I was so much alarmed, I do not know myself 
 that I told the footman that he was not to announce me to 
 the general, and that I would go first to the general's son. 
 ЛУЬеп I went upstairs, along that great staircase, it seemed 
 to me that I became frighfully small (and not in the fig- 
 urative, but in the actual, sense of the word). I had expe- 
 rienced the same sensation when m}' drozhky drove up to tlie 
 grand entrance ; it had seemed to me that the drozlik}- and 
 the horse and the coachman became small. The general's 
 son was lying, fast asleep, upon a sofa, with an open book 
 before him, when I entered the room. His tutor, Ilerr Frost, 
 who still remained in the house, followed mc into tlie room, 
 with his active step, and woke ui) his pupil. Ivin did not 
 exhibit an}' especial delight at the sight of me, and I observed 
 that he looked at my eyebrows while he was talking. Al- 
 though he was very polite, it seemed to me tiiat he was enter- 
 taining me exactly as the Princess had done, and th.-it he felt 
 no i)arti('ular attraction towards me, and did not need my ac- 
 quaintance, since he probably had his (jwu different circle of
 
 274 YOUTH. 
 
 acquaintances. ЛИ this I imagined, principally because he 
 gazed at my eyebrows. In a word, his relations to me, 
 however disagreeable it might be to me to confess it, were 
 almost exactly the same as mine to Ilinka. I began to get 
 irritated ; I caught every look of Ivin's on the fly, and 
 when his eyes and Frost's met, I translated his question : 
 " And why has ho come to us? " 
 
 After talking with me for a short time, Iviu said that his 
 father and mother were at home, and would 1 not like to 
 have him go with me to them ? 
 
 ''I will dress myself at once," he added, going into 
 another room, although he was very well dressed in this 
 room, — in a new coat and a white waist(*oat. In a few 
 minutes he came back in his uniform, completely l)uttoned 
 up, and we went down-stairs together. The state apartments 
 which we passed through were extremely lofty, and appar- 
 ently very richly furnished ; there was marble and gilding, 
 and something wrapped up in muslin, and mirrors. The 
 Ivina entered the small room behind the drawing-room 
 through another door, at the same time that we did. 8he 
 received me in a very friendly manner, like a relative, gave 
 me a seat beside her, and inquired with interest about all 
 our family. 
 
 Mme. Ivina, of whom I had only caught a couple of fleet- 
 ing glimpses previous to tiiis, pleased me very much now 
 that 1 looked at her attentively. She was tall, thin, very 
 white, and seemed always melancholy and exhausted. Her 
 smile Avas sad, but exti-emely kind ; her eyes were large, 
 weary, and not quite straight, which gave her a still more 
 melancholy and attractive expression. She did not sit ex- 
 actly bent over, but with her Avhole body limp, and all her 
 movements were languishing. She spoke languidly, but the 
 sound of her voice, and her indistinct utterance of r and ^, 
 were very pleasing. She did not entertain me. My answers 
 about my relatives evidentl}' afforded her a melancholyinter- 
 est, as though, while listening to me, she sadl}^ recalled 
 better days. Her sou went off somewhere ; she gazed at 
 me in silence for a couple of minutes, and all at once she 
 began to cr}'. I sat there before her, and could not think of 
 an}' thing whatever to say or do. She went on crying, and 
 never looked at me. At first I was sorry for her ; then I 
 thought, '' Ought I not to comfort her, and how must it be 
 done?" and llnally I became vexed at her, for placing me
 
 YOUTU. 21 Ь 
 
 in such an awkward position. "Have I such a pitiful ap- 
 pearance? " I thought, " or is she doing this on purpose to 
 iind out how I will behave under the circumstances? " 
 
 '•'• It is aAvkward to take leave now, it will seem as though 
 I am running away from her tears," I continued my reflec- 
 tions. I moved about on my chair to remind her of my 
 presence. 
 
 '"Oh, how stupid I am! " she said, glancing at ше, and 
 trying to smile; "there are da3's when one weeps without 
 any cause whatever." 
 
 She began to search for her handkerchief, beside her on 
 the sofa, and all at once she broke out crying harder than 
 ever. 
 
 " Ah, my heavens ! how ridiculous it is for me to cry so! 
 I loved your mother so, we were such — friends — and " — 
 
 She found her handkerchief, covered her face with it, and 
 went on crying. My awkward position was renewed, and 
 lasted for quite a long while. Her tears seemed genuine, and I 
 kept thinking that she was not weeping so much because 
 of my mother, as because things did not suit her now, but 
 had been much better at some time in former days. I do 
 not know how it would have ended, had not young Ivin en- 
 tered and said that old Ivin was asking for her. She rose, 
 and was on the point of going, when Ivin himself entered the 
 room. He was a small, stout, gray-haired gentleman, with 
 thick black brows, perfectly gray close-cut hair, and an ex- 
 tremely stern and firm expression of countenance. 
 
 I rose and saluted him ; but Ivin, who had three stars on 
 his green coat, not only did not respond to my greeting, but 
 hardly so much as glanced at me, so that I all at once felt 
 that 1 was not a man, but some sort of thing which was not 
 worth}' of notice, — an armchair or a window, or, if a man, 
 then such a one as is not distinguished in any way from an 
 armchair or a window. 
 
 "You haven't written to the Countess yet, my dear," he 
 said to his wife in French, with an apathetic but firm expres- 
 sion of countenance. 
 
 " Farewell, Mr. Irteneff," said Mme. Ivina to me, inclining 
 her head rather haughtily all at once, and gazing at my eye- 
 brows as her son had done. I bowed once more to her and 
 her husband, and again my salute acted upon the elder Ivin 
 exactly as the opening or shutting of a window would have 
 done. But Ivin the student accompanied me to the door,
 
 276 YOUTH. 
 
 and told me on the way that he was going to be transferred 
 to the Petersburg university, because his fatlier had received 
 an appointment there (and he meutioued a ver^' important 
 position). 
 
 ''Well, as papa likes," I muttered to myself as I seated 
 myself in my drozhky : " but my feet will never enter here 
 again. That bawler cries when she looks at me, just as thougli 
 1 were some miserable creature ; and Ivin is a pig, and doesn't 
 bow to me. I'll give him" — what 1 wanted to give him, 
 1 really do not know, but that was the word which occurred 
 to me. 
 
 1 was often obliged afterwards to endure my father's exhor- 
 tations, and he said that it was indispensable to ^^ cultivate" 
 this acquaintance, and that I could not require a man in such 
 a position as Ivin's to pay attention to such a boj' as I ; but 
 I preserved шу resolution for a long time.
 
 YOUTH. Til 
 
 CHAPTER ХХГ. 
 
 PUINCE IVAN IVANITCII. 
 
 " Nenv for the last call on the Nikitskaya," I ssaid to Kuz- 
 ma, and we rolled away to Prince Ivau Ivanitch's house. 
 
 After having gone through several calling experiences, I 
 had acquired self-reliance by practice ; and now 1 was about 
 to drive up to the Prince's in a tolerably composed frame of 
 niind. when I suddenly recalled the words of Princess Korna- 
 kova, to the effect that I was his heir ; moreover, I beheld 
 two equipages at the entrance, and 1 felt n\y former timidity 
 again. 
 
 It seemed to me that the old porter who opened the door 
 for me, and the footman луЬо took otf my coat, and the three 
 ladies and the two gentlemen whom I found in the drawing- 
 rcjom, and Prince Ivan Ivanitch himself in particular, who was 
 sitting on the sofa in a plain coat, — it seemed to me that 
 they all looked ui)on me as the heir, and therefore with ill- 
 will. The Prince was very friendly with me : he kissed me, 
 that is to say, he laid his soft, dry, cold lips against my cheek 
 for a moment, inquired about my occupations and plans, 
 jested witii me, asked if I still wrote verses like those whicli 
 1 had written for my grandmother's name-day, and said that 
 I must conje and dine Avith him that day. But the moi-e 
 couiteous he was, the more it seemed to me as though he 
 Avanted to |)et me only to prevent my perceiving how disa- 
 grecabli" was to him the thought that I was his heir. He had 
 a liabit — arising from the false teeth with which his mouth 
 луа8 llUed — of raising his upper lip towards his nose after 
 he had said any thing, and uttering a slight snort, as though 
 he were drawing his Iq) into his nostrils ; aad when he did 
 this on the present occasion, it seemed to me as though he 
 were saying to himself, " Little boy, little boy, I know it 
 without your reminding me of it : you are the heir, the heir," 
 and so on.
 
 278 YOUTH. 
 
 When we were children, we had called Prince Ivan Тл'апНсЬ 
 " uncle : " but now, in ni}^ capacity of heir, my tongue could 
 not bring itself to say '' uncle" to him, and it seemed to 
 me humiliating to call him " your excellency," as one of the 
 gentlemen present did ; so that, during the entire conversa- 
 tion, I tried not to call him any thing at all. But what 
 abashed me most of all was the old Princess, who was also 
 one of the Prince's heirs, and lived in his house. During 
 the whole course of dinner, at which I was seated beside 
 the Princess, I fancied that the Princess did not address me 
 because she hated me for being also an heir of the Prince as 
 well as herself ; and that the Prince paid no attention to our 
 side of the table because we — the Princess and I — were 
 heirs, and equally repulsive to him. 
 
 " Yes ; you can't believe how disagreeable it was for me," 
 I said that same evening to Dmitri, desiring to brag to him 
 of the feeling of repugnance to the thought that I was au 
 heir (this sentiment seemed very fine to me), — "how dis- 
 agreeable it was for me to pass two whole hours at the 
 Prince's to-day. lie is a very line man, and was very polite 
 to me," said I, wishing, among other things, to impress my 
 friend with the fact that wliat I said was not in consequence 
 of having felt humiliated before the Prince; ''but," 1 con- 
 tinued, '• the thought that tliey might look upon me as they 
 do upon the Princess who lives in his house, and behaves in 
 such a servile way before him, is frightful. lie is a won- 
 derful old man, and extremely kind and delicate withal, but 
 it is painful to see how he maltreats that Princess. This 
 disgusting money ruins all intercourse ! 
 
 "Do you know, I think it would be much better to explain 
 myself clearly to the Prince," said I, — "to tell him that I 
 revere him as a man, but that I am not thinking of his 
 inheritance, and that I beg him not to leave me any thing, 
 and that under that condition only will I go to his house." 
 
 Dmitri did not laugh when I told him this : on the con- 
 trary, he became thoughtful, and, after a silence of several 
 minutes, he said to me, — 
 
 " Do you know what? You are not in the right. Either 
 you should not suppose at all that people can think of you 
 as of 34:)ur Princess : or else, if 3'ou do already supjtose it, 
 then you should carry з'оиг suppositions farther ; that is, to 
 the effect that you know what people may think of you, but 
 that such thoughts are so far from your intentions that you
 
 YOUTH. 279 
 
 scorn them, and will do nothing which is founded on the in. 
 Now, suppose tluxt they suppose that you suppose this — 
 I)Ut, in short," he added, conscious that he Avas inл-oiving 
 himself in his reflections, " it's much better noL to suppose 
 it at all." 
 
 M}- friend was quite right. It was only later, much later, 
 that I was convinced from my experience of life how inju- 
 rious it is to think, and how much more injurious to utter, 
 much which seems very noble, but which should remain for- 
 ever hidden from all in the heart of each individual man ; 
 and how rarely noble words accompan}' noble deeds. I am 
 convinced that the very fact that a good intention has been 
 announced renders the execution of this good intention more 
 difficult, and generally mipossible. But how restrain the 
 utterance of the nobly self-satisfied impulses of 3'outh? 
 One only recollects them afterwards, and mourns over them 
 as over a flower which did not last, — which .one has plucked 
 ere it had opened, and then has beheld ujjou the ground, 
 withered and trampled on. 
 
 I, who had but just told my friend Dmitri that money 
 ruined intercourse, borrowed twenty-five rubles of him, which 
 he offered me the next morning, before our departure to the 
 country, when I found that I had wasted all my own money 
 on divers pictures and pipe-stems ; and then I remained in 
 his debt a very long time indeed.
 
 280 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 AN INTIMATE CONVERSATION ЛУ1ТН MY FRIEND. 
 
 Our present conversation arose in the phaeton on the road 
 to Kuntzovo. Dmitri had dissuaded nie from calling on his 
 mother in the morning ; but he came to me, after diimer, to 
 carry me off for the whole afternoon, and even to pass the 
 night at the country-house where his family lived. It was 
 only when we had emerged from the city and the dirty, mot- 
 ley streets, and the intolerably deafening sound of the pave- 
 ments had been exchanged for the broad view of the fields 
 and the soft rattle of the wheels along the dustj^ road, and 
 the fragrant spring air and the sense of space had seized 
 bold upon me from all sides, — it was onh' then that I гесол''- 
 ered my senses in some degree from the various new impres- 
 sions and consciousness of freedom which had quite confused 
 me for the last two days. Dmitri was gentle and sympa- 
 thetic, did not adjust his neckerchief with his head, and did 
 not screw his e3'es up. I was satisfied лvith the lofty senti- 
 ments which I had communicated to him, supposing that, in 
 consideration of them, he had quite forgiven my shameful 
 affair with Kolpikoff, and would not despise me for it ; and 
 we conversed, in a friendl}^ way, of many intimate things 
 which friends do not talk to each other about under all con- 
 ditions. Dmitri told me about his family, whom I did not 
 know as j^et, — about his mother, his aunt, his sister, and 
 about the person whom Volodya and Dubkof considered my 
 friend's passion, and called the little red-liead. He spoke of 
 his mother with a certain cool, triumphant praise, as though 
 to forestall any objection on that subject ; he expressed en- 
 thusiasm with regard to his aunt, but with some condescen- 
 sion ; of his sister, he said very little, and seemed ashamed 
 to talk to me about her ; but as for the little red-head, whose 
 name was really Liubov^ Sergieevna, and who was an elderly 
 maiden lady, who lived in the Nekhliudoffs' house in some 
 
 ' Love • not au uucommou femitiiue ChiisUau name.
 
 тоитп. 281 
 
 family relation or other, he spoke to me of her with aui- 
 mation. 
 
 "■ Yes, she is a wonderful girl," said he, blushing modest- 
 1}', but, at the same time, looking me boldly iu the eye. 
 '* She is no longer a young girl : she is even rather old, and 
 not at all pretty ; but how stupid, how senseless it is to love 
 beauty ! I cannot understand it, it is so stupid [he spoke 
 as if he had but just discovered a perfectly new and remark- 
 al»le truth], but she has such a soul, such a heart, such piin- 
 ciijles, I am convinced that you will not find anotlier such 
 girl in this present world." (I do not know why Dmitri had 
 acpiired the hal)it of saying that every thing good was rare 
 in this present world ; he was fond of repeating this expres- 
 sion, and it seemed to become him.) 
 
 *'I am only afraid," he continued calmly, after having 
 already annihilated with his condemnation people who had 
 tlie stupidity to love beauty, " I am afraid that you will 
 iKjt soon comprehend her. and learn to know her. She is 
 modest, even reserved ; she is not fond of displaying her 
 fine, her wonderful qualities. There is mamma, who, as you 
 Avill see, is a very handsome and intelligent луотап ; she has 
 known Liubov Sergiec^vna for several years, and can not and 
 will not understand her. Even last night I — I will tell you 
 wh}' I was out of spirits when you asked me. Day before 
 yesterday, ЫиЬол' Sergieevna wanted me to go with her to 
 Ivan Yakovlevitch — you have certainh- heard of Ivan Ya- 
 kovlevitch, who is said to be crazy, but, in realit}-, is a re- 
 markable man. Liubov Sergieevna is ver^^ religious, I must 
 tell you. and understands Ivan Yakovlevitch perfectly. She 
 frequently goes to see him, talks w-ith him, and giл'es liim 
 money for his poor people, Avhich she has earned herself. 
 She is a wonderful woman, as you wall see. AVell. so I went 
 with her to Ivan Yakovlevitch, and was very grateful to her 
 for having seen that remarkalile man. But mamma never 
 will understand this, and regards it as superstition. Last 
 night I had a quarrel with my mother, for the first time in my 
 life, aid a rather hot one," he concluded, with a convul:^ive 
 n.oveme-)it of the neck, as though in memoi-y of the feeling 
 which he had experienced during this quarrel. 
 
 '' Well, and what do 3'ou think ? That is, how do you fancy 
 it will turn out? or do л'оп talk with her of how it is to be, 
 and how 3'our love and friendship will end? " I inquired, 
 wishing to divert him from unpleasant memories.
 
 282 тоитп. 
 
 " You mean to ask, whether I thhik of marrying her? " he 
 inquired, reddening again, but turning and looking me ])old- 
 ly in the face. 
 
 "Well, in fact," I thought, tranquillizing myself, "it's 
 nothing : we are grown up ; we two friends are riding in this 
 phaeton, and discussing our future life. Any one would 
 enjoy listening and looking at us now, unseen." 
 
 " Why not? " he went on, after my answer in the affirma- 
 tive. "It is my aim, as it is the aim of ever}- right-minded 
 man, to be happy and good, so far as that is possible; and 
 with her, if she will only have it so, I shall be happier and 
 better than with the greatest beauty in the world, as soon as 
 I am entirely independent." 
 
 t^ngaged in such discourse, we did not observe that we had 
 arrived at Kuntzovo, that the sky had clouded over, and that 
 it was preparing to rain. The sun stood not \evy high on 
 the right, above the ancient trees of the Kuntzovo garden, 
 and half of its brilliant red disk was covered with gra}', 
 slightly luminous clouds; liroken, fiery rays escaped in bursts 
 fioni the other half, and lighted up the old trees of the gar- 
 den with striking brilliancy, as their dense green motionless 
 crowns shone in the illuminated spot of azure sky. The 
 gleam and light of this side of the heavens was strongly 
 contrasted with the heav}^ purplish cloud which lay before us 
 above the young birches which were visible on the horizon. 
 
 A little farther to the right, behind the bushes and trees, 
 we could already see the multi-colored roofs of the buildings 
 of the villa, some of which reflected the brilliant rays of the 
 sun, while some assumed the melancholy character of the 
 other half of the heavens. Below, on the left, the motion- 
 less pond gleamed blue, surrounded by pale green willows 
 which stood out darkly against its dull and seemingly swollen 
 surface. Beyond the pond, halfway up the hill, stretched a 
 bl.ack steaming field ; and the straight line of green which 
 divided it in the middle ran off into the distance, and rested 
 on the threatening, lead-colored horizon. On l)Oth sides of 
 the soft road, along which the phaeton rolled with regular 
 motion, luxuriant tangled rye stood out sharply in its ver- 
 dure, and was already beginning to develop stalks here and 
 there. The air was perfectly quiet, and exhaled freshness ; 
 the verdure of trees, leaves, and rye was motionless and 
 unusualh' pure and clear. It seemed as though every leaf, 
 every blade of grass, were liviuj; its own free, happy, Individ-
 
 YOUTH. 283 
 
 iial life. Beside the road, I espied a blackish foot-path, 
 which wound amid the dark green rye, which was now 
 more than quarter grown ; and this path, for some reason, 
 recalled the A'illage to me with special vividness ; and, in 
 consequence of my thoughts of the village, b}' some strange 
 combination of ideas, it reminded me with special vividness 
 of Sonitchka, and that I was in love with her. 
 
 In spite of all my frieudship for Dmitri, and the pleasure 
 which his frankness afforded me, I did not want to know any 
 more about his feelings and intentions Avith regard to Liubov 
 Sergieevna ; but I Avanted, without fail, to inform him of my 
 love for Sonitchka, which seemed to me love of a much 
 higher type. But. for some reason, I -could not make up 
 my mind to tell him directly my iileas of how fine it would 
 be, when, having married Sonitchka, I should live in the 
 country, and how I should have little children who would 
 creep about the floor and call me papa, and how delighted I 
 should be when he and his wife, Liubov Sergieevna, came to 
 see me in their travelling dress : but in place of all this, I 
 pointed at the setting sun. " See, Dmitri, how charming 
 it is! " 
 
 Dmitri said nothing, being apparently displeased that 1 
 had replied to his confession, which had [irobaltly cost him 
 some pain, l\y directing his attention to natiu-e, to which he 
 was, in general, coolly indifferent. Nature affected him 
 ver}' differently from what it did me : it affected him not so 
 much l)y its Ijcaut}' as by its interest; he loved it with his 
 Blind, rather than with his feelings. 
 
 " I am very happ}'," I said to him after this, paying no 
 heed to the fact that he was evidently occupied with his own 
 thoughts, and was quite indifferent to whatever I might say 
 to him ; "I ЬеИел'е I told з'ои about a young lady with whom 
 I was in love when a child ; I have seen her again to-day," 
 I continued with enthusiasm, "■ and now I am decidedly in 
 love with her." 
 
 And I told him about my love, and all my plans for con- 
 sul )ial bliss in the future, in spite of the expression of indif- 
 
 rence which still lingered on his face. And, strange to 
 say, no sooner had I minutely described all the strength of 
 my feeling, than it began to decrease. 
 
 The rain ол -ertook us just after we had entered the birch 
 avenue leading to the villa. I onl}' knew that it was raining 
 because a few drops fell upou my nose and hand, and some- 
 
 '/
 
 284 YOUTH. 
 
 thing pattered on the young, sticky loaves of the hirnhes, 
 which, drooping their curling motionless branches, seemed to 
 receive these pure, transparent drops on themselves with 
 delight, which was expressed l)y the strong [)i.M-fume with 
 which they filled the avenue. We descended from the calush, 
 in order to reach the house more quickly by running through 
 the garden. But just at the entrance to the house we en- 
 countered four ladies, two of whom had some work, the third 
 a book, and the other was approaching from another directi<jn 
 with a little dog, at a rapid pace. Dmitri immediately i re- 
 sented me to his mother, sister, aunt, and Liubov Sergieevna. 
 They stopped for a moment, but the rain began to descend 
 faster and faster. 
 
 " Let us go to the veranda, and 3'ou shall introduce him to 
 us again there," said the one Avhom I took to be Dmitii's 
 mother ; and we ascended the steps with the ladies.
 
 YOUTH. 285 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE NEKIILIUDOFFS. 
 
 At first sight, out of all this compaii}' the one who struck 
 me most was Liubov Sergieevna, who mounted the steps last 
 of all, in thick knitted shoes, holding in her arms a Bo- 
 lognese spaniel, and, halting twice, gazed attentively at me 
 and immediately afterwards kissed her dog. She was very 
 ugly, red-h;iired, thin, short, and rather one-sided. What 
 rendered her homely face even plainer was her queer manner 
 of dressing her hair, all to one side (one of those coiffures 
 which bald women invent for themselves). Try as 1 would, 
 out of a desire to [)lease my friend, I could not discover a 
 single good feature in her. Even her l)rown eyes, although 
 they expressed good-nature, were too small and dull, and 
 decidedly ugly ; even her hands, that characteristic trait, 
 though not large, and not bad in shape, were red and rough. 
 
 When I followed them on to the terrace, each one of the 
 ladies, except Varenka, Dmitri's sister, who only surveyed 
 me attentively with her great, dark-gray e3'es, said a few 
 words to me before they resumed their several occupations ; 
 but Varenka began to read aloud from the book which she 
 held on her knee, using her finger as a murker. 
 
 Princess Marya Ivanovna was a tall, stately woman of 
 fort}'. She might have been taken for more, judging l»y the 
 curls of half-gray hair which were frankly displayed beneath 
 her cap. But she seemed much younger, on account of her 
 fresh and delicate face, which was scarcely wrinkled at all, 
 and particularly from the lively, merry gleam of her lai'ge 
 eyes. Her eyes were brown, and very well opened ; her 
 lips were too thin, and somewhat stern ; her nose was suf- 
 ficiently regular, and a little to the left side ; there were no 
 rings on her large, almost masculine hands, with their long 
 fingers. She wore a close, dark-blue dress, which fitted 
 tightly to her elegant and still youthful figure, of which she
 
 286 YOUTH. 
 
 was evidently pronrl. She sat remarkabl}' upright, and 
 sewed on some garment. When I enteied the veranda she 
 took my hand, drew me towards her as though desii'ous of 
 viewing me more elosel}', and said, as she looked at me with 
 the same cold, open gaze which her son also possessed, that 
 she had long known me from Dmitri's accounts of me, and 
 that slie had invited me to spend a whole day with them, in 
 order that she might become better acquainted with me. 
 " Do whatcA'er you like, without minding us in the least, 
 just as we shall put no constraint on ourselves because of 
 you. Walk, read, listen, or sleep, if that amuses you 
 more," she added. 
 
 Sophia Ivanovna was an elderly spinster, and the Prin- 
 cess's youngest sister, but from her looks she seemed older. 
 She had that peculiar build, full of character, Avhich is only 
 met with in very plump, short old maids who wear corsets. 
 It was as if all her health had risen ui)wards with such force 
 that it threatened every moment to suffocate her. Her little 
 fat hands could not meet beneath the projecting point of her 
 bodice, and the tightly stretched point itself she could not 
 see. There was a strong family resemblance between the 
 sisters, in spite of the fact that lilarya Ivanovna had lilack 
 hair and black eyes, and Sopliia Ivanovna was a blonde with 
 large, livel}', and at the same time calm, blue e^'es (which is a 
 great rarity). They had the same expression, the same nose, 
 and the same lips, only Sophia Ivanovna's nose and lips 
 were a little thicker, and on the right side when she smiled, 
 while the Princess's were on the left. Sophia Ivanovna evi- 
 dently tried to appear young still, judging from her dress 
 and coitTure, and w^uld not have disi)layed her gray curls if 
 she had had them. Her looks and her treatment of me 
 seemed to me extremel}' haughty from the ver}' first moment, 
 and they emliarrassed me ; while with the Princess, on the 
 other hand, I felt perfectly at my ease. Possibly it was her 
 stoutness, and a certain likeness in her figure to the portrait 
 of Catherine the Great which struck me in her, that gave her 
 that haughty aspect in my e^^es ; but I was thoroughly abashed 
 when she said to me, gazing at me intently the -while, ''The 
 friends of our friends are our friends." I regained my com- 
 posure, and changed my opinion of her entirely, only when, 
 after uttering these words, she paused a Avhile, and then 
 opened her month, and sighed heavily. It must have been 
 on account of her stoutness that she had a habit of sighing
 
 тоитп. 287 
 
 deeply after sajing a few words, opening her mouth a little, 
 and rolling her large blue eyes. So much amiable good- 
 nature was expressed by this habit, for some reason or other, 
 that after that sigh I lost all fear of her, and she pleased me 
 extremely. Her eyes were charming, her voice melodious 
 and pleasing ; ел^еп the excessively rounded lines of her 
 form seemed to me at that period of my youth not devoid 
 of beauty. 
 
 Liubov Sergieevna. as the friend of my friend, would 
 (I supposed) innnediately say something extremely friendly 
 and contidential to me, and she even gazed at me quite a long 
 Avhile in silence as if in indecision as to whether what she 
 meant to say to me Avere not too friendly ; but she only broke 
 the silence in order to inquire in what course I was. Tlien 
 slie gazed at me again intently for quite a while, evidently 
 hesitating whether to utter or not to utter that confidential, 
 friendly word ; and I, perceiving this doubt, besought her by 
 the expression of my countenance to tell me all ; but she said, 
 '• They say that very little attention is paid to science in the 
 universities nowadays," and callt'd her little dog Suzette. 
 
 Liubov Sergieevna talked the whole evening in the same 
 soit of phrases, which, for the most part, fitted neither the 
 matter in hand nor each other ; but I believed so firmly in 
 Dmitri, and he looked so anxiously first at me and then at 
 her the whole CA'cning Avith an expression that asked, " Well, 
 Avhat do you think?" — that, as it frequently happens, 
 although I was already convinced in my own soul that there 
 was nothing so very special about Liubov vSergieevna, I was 
 very far from expressing my thought even to myself. 
 
 Finally, the last member of this family, Varenka, was a 
 very plump girl of sixteen. 
 
 The only pretty things al)out her Avere her great dark-gray 
 eyes, with an expression which united mirth and calm obser- 
 vation, and were very nuich like her aunt's eyes; her very 
 large blonde braid of hair ; and an extremely soft and pretty 
 hand. 
 
 " I think it bores you. Mr. Nicolas, to listen to the middle 
 of this," said Sophia Ivanovna Avith her good-natured sigh, 
 turning over the pieces of a garment which she was engaged 
 in sewing. The reading had come to an end by this time, 
 because Dmitri had gone off somewhere. 
 
 " Or perhaps you have alread}^ read ' Rob Roy? ' " 
 
 At that time 1 considered it my duty, simi)ly because 1
 
 288 YOUTH. 
 
 wore a student's uniform, to repl}' with great intpJh'genre and 
 originaiitf/ without fail to every questi(Mi, however smiple. 
 from people whom I did not Icnow very well ; and I regarded 
 it as the greatest disgrace to make brief, clear replies li'vc 
 "yes" and "no," "it is tiresome," "it is pleasant." and 
 the like. Glancing at my fashionable new trousers, and at 
 the brilliant buttons on m}- coat, 1 rc^plied that I had not read 
 " Rob Koy," but that it was very inleresliug to me to listen 
 to it, because 1 preferred to read books from the middle 
 instead of from the beginning. 
 
 "It is twice as interesting: you can guess at wh:\t has 
 happened, and what will happen," 1 added with a self-satis- 
 fied smile. 
 
 The Princess began to laugh a kind of unnatural laugh 
 (I afterwards observed that she had no other laugh). 
 
 "But this must be correct," said she. "And shall you 
 remain here long, Nicolas? You will not take offence that 1 
 address you without the monsieur? When are you going 
 away ? ' ' 
 
 "1 do not know ; to-moiTow perhaps, and possibly we may 
 stay quite a long time," I replied for some reason or other, 
 although we must certainly go on the morrow. 
 
 "1 should have liked you to remain, both for our sakes 
 and for Dmitri's," remarked the Princess, looking off in ihe 
 distance ; " friendship is a glorious thing at your age." 
 
 1 felt that they were all looking at me, and waiting to see 
 what I would say, although Varenka pretended that she was 
 inspecting her aunt's work. I felt that I was undergoing 
 examination after a fashion, and that I must show off as 
 favoral)ly as possible. 
 
 "Yes, for me," said I, "Dmitri's friendship is useful; 
 but I cannot be useful to him, he is a thousand times better 
 than I." (Dmitri could not hear what I was sajing, other- 
 wise I should have been afraid that he would delect the in- 
 sincerity of my words.) 
 
 The Princess laughed again with the unnatural laugh which 
 was natural to her. 
 
 " Well, but to hear him talk," said she, "it is you лvho 
 are a little monster of perfection." 
 
 " ' A monster of perfection,' that's capital, I must remem- 
 ber that," I thought. 
 
 " However, leaving 3'ou out of the case, he is a master- 
 hand at that," she went on, lowering her voice (which was
 
 YOUTH. 289 
 
 particularly agreeable to me), and indicating Liubov Ser- 
 gieevua with her eyes. "He has discovered in his poor 
 little aunt" (that was what they called Liubov Sergieevna), 
 "■ whom I have known, with her Suzette, for twenty 3'ears, 
 such perfections as I never even suspected. — Varya, order 
 them to bring me a glass of water," she added, glancing 
 into the distance again, having probably discovered that it 
 was rather earl}^, or not at all necessary, to initiate me into 
 family affairs : "or, better still, let him go. He has noth- 
 ing to do, and do you go on reading. — Go straight into that 
 door, my friend, and after you have traversed fviiy paces 
 halt, and say in a loud voice, ' Piotr, take Marya Ivauovna 
 a glass of ice-water ! ' " she said to me, and again she laughed 
 lightly with her unnatural laugh. 
 
 " She certainly wants to discuss me," I thought, as I left 
 the room: "probably she wants to say, that she has ob- 
 serл^ed that I am a very, very intelligent young man." But 
 I had not gone fifty paces when fat and panting Sophia 
 IvanoA'na overtook me with light swift stepc. 
 
 "Thanks, mon cher," said she : "I am going there my- 
 self, and 1 will tell him."
 
 290 J о и TIL 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Sophia Ivaxovxa, a,s I afterwards learned, was one of 
 those rare elderly woman, who, though born for family life, 
 have been denied this happiness by fate, and who, in conse- 
 quence of this denial, decide all at once to pour out all the 
 treasure of love which has been stored up so long, which has 
 grown and strengthened in their hearts, upon certain chosen 
 favorites. And the store is so inexhaustible among old 
 maids of this sort, that, although the chosen ones are many, 
 much love still remains, which they pour out upon all about 
 thera, on all the good and bad people with whom they come 
 in contact in life. 
 
 There are three kinds of Лол^е : — 
 
 ( 1 ) Beautiful love ; 
 
 (2) Self-sacrificing love ; and 
 
 (3) Active love. 
 
 1 do not speak of the love of a young man for a young girl, 
 and hers for him : J^:^' these tendernesses, and I have been 
 so unfortunate in lire as never to have seen a single spark of 
 truth in this species of love, but only a lie, in which senti- 
 ment, connubial relations, mone}', a desire to bind or to 
 u )l)ind one's hands, have to such an extent confused the 
 fei'ling itself, that it has been imi)ossible to disentangle it. 
 1 am speaking of the love for man, which, according to the 
 greater or lesser ролуег of soul, concentrates itself upon one, 
 upon several, or pours itself out upon many ; of the lo\'e 
 of mother, father, brother, children, for a comrade, friends, 
 fellow-countryman, — of 1ол^е for man. 
 
 B"(iiitiful love consists in love of the beauty of the senti- 
 ment itself, and its expression. For people who love thus, 
 the beloved object is beloved only inasmuch as it arouses 
 ^hat agreeable sentiment, in the consciousness and expression
 
 YOUTH. 293 
 
 every thing with her own weak, unskilled lingers, which 3*011 
 cannot avoid watching with repressed vexation, when those 
 white fingers strive in vain to uncork a phial, to extinguish a 
 candle, to pour out your medicine, or when they touch you 
 jteevishl}'. If you are an impatient, hot-tempered man, and 
 beg her to go away, you hear her with your irritated, sickly 
 sense of hearing, sighing and crying outside the door, and 
 whispering something to your man ; and finally, if 3'ou do not 
 die, your loving wife, who has not slept all the twenty nights 
 during \vhich your sickness has lasted (as she repeats to you 
 incessantly), falls ill, goes into a decline, suffers, and be- 
 comes still less capable of anj' occupation, and, by the time 
 you are in a normal condition, expresses her 1ол^е of self- 
 sacrifice only b}' a gentle ennui which involuntaril}' com- 
 mimicates itself to you, and to all about j'ou. 
 
 The third sort — active love — consists in the endeavor 
 to satisf}^ all needs, desires, whims, all vices even, of the \ 
 beloved object. People who love thus, always love for life : 
 for the more they love, the more they know the beloved 
 object, and the easier it is for them to love ; that is, to 
 satisfy his desires. Their love is rarel}' expressed in w^ords ; 
 and, if expressed, it is not with self-satisfaction, eloquently, 
 . but shamefacedly, awkwardly, for they are alw^ays afraid 
 that they do not love sufficiently. The}' seek reciprocity, 
 even willingly deceiving themselves, believe in it, and are 
 happy if they have it ; but the}' love all the same, even under 
 the opposite conditions, and not only desire happiness for the 
 beloved object, but constantly strive to procure it for him l>y 
 all the moral and material, the great and the petty means 
 which are in their power. 
 
 And it was this active love for her nephew, for her sister, 
 for Linl)ov Sergieevna, for me, even, because Dmitri loved 
 me. Avhicli shone in the eyes, in every word and movement, 
 of Sophia Ivanovna. 
 
 It was only much later that I estimated Sophia Ivanovna 
 at her full worth ; but even then the question occurred to 
 me. Why did Dmitri, who was trying to understand love in 
 a totally different fashion from what was usual with young 
 men, and who had always before his eyes this sweet, affec- 
 tionate Sophia Ivanovna, suddenl}' fall in love with that 
 incomprehensible Liubov Sergieevna, and only admit that 
 his aunt also possessed good qualities? Evidently, the say- 
 ing is just: "A prophet has no honor in his own country."
 
 294 Yourn. 
 
 One of two things must be : either there actuall}^ is more 
 evil than good in every man, or else man is more accessiiile 
 to evil than to good. He had not known Liubov Sergieevna 
 long, but his aunt's love he had experienced ever since his 
 birth.
 
 YOUTH. 295 
 
 CHAPTER XXV, 
 
 I BECOME ACQUAINTED. 
 
 When I returned to the л'егапс1а, they were not speakhig 
 of me at all, as I had sii])posed : but Varenka was not read- 
 ing ; and, having laid aside her book, she was engaged in a 
 hot dispute with Dmitri, who was pacing back and forth, 
 settling liis neck in his neckerchief, and screwing up his 
 eyes. The subject of their quarrel seemed to be Ivan Yakov- 
 levitch and superstition ; but the quarrel was so fierj', that 
 the real but unmeutioned cause could not fail to be a dif- 
 ferent one, and one which touched the whole family more 
 nearly. The Princess and Liubov Sergieevna sat silent, lis- 
 tening to every word, evideutly desirous at times to take 
 part in the discussion, but restraining themselves, and allow- 
 ing themselves to be represented, the one by Varenka, the 
 other by Dmitri. When I entered, Varenka glanced at me 
 with such an expression of indifference that it was plain that 
 the dispute interested her deei)ly, and that it made no differ- 
 ence to her whether I heard what she said or not. The 
 Princess, who evidenth' was on Varenka's side, wore the 
 same expression. But Dmitri began to dispute with even 
 greater heat in my presence ; and Liubov Sergieevna seemed 
 excessively frightened at m}' appearance, and said, without 
 addressing an}- one in particular, ''Old people say truly: If 
 youth knew, if old age had the power" {si jeunesse savait, 
 si vieillesse pnuvait) . 
 
 Ikit this adage did not put an end to the dispute, and only 
 promi)ted the tiiought in me that Liubov Sergieevna and my 
 friend were in the wrong. Although I felt rather avvkward 
 at being present at a petty family quarrel, it was neverthe- 
 less pleasant to ol)serve the real relations of this family, 
 which were exhibited in consequence of the deliate ; and I 
 felt that my presence did not prevent their exhibiting them- 
 selves.
 
 296 YOUTH. 
 
 It often happens that you see a family for years under the 
 same deceitful veil of propriety, and the true relations of the 
 members remain a secret to you. (1 have even observed, 
 that, the more impenetrable and ornamental the curtain, the 
 coarser are the genuine relations which are concealed fn^m 
 you.) Then it comes to pass on a day, quite unexpectedly, 
 that there arises in this family circle some question, often 
 apparentl}' trivial, concerning some blonde, or a visit with 
 the husband's horses : and, without any visible cause, the 
 quarrel grows more and more violent, the space beneath the 
 curtain becomes too contracted for a settlement, and all at 
 once, to the terror of the wranglers themselves, and to the 
 amazement of those present, all the real, coarse relations 
 creep out ; the curtain, which no longer covers any thing, 
 flutters useless between the warring sides, and only serves 
 to remind you how long you have been deceived by it. 
 Often it is not so painful to dash one's head against the ceil- 
 ing in full swing as it is to touch a sore and sensitive spot, 
 though ever so lightly. And such a sore and sensitiA^e 
 spot exists in nearly every family. In the Nekhliudoff fam- 
 ily, this sensitive spot consisted of Dmitri's strange love for 
 Liubov Sergieevna, which aroused in his mother and sister, 
 if not a sense of envy, at least a sentiment of wounded 
 family feeling. Therefore it was that the dispute about 
 Ivan Yakovleviteh and superstition held such a serious sig- 
 uiticance for all of them. 
 
 " You are always trying to see into what other people 
 ridicule and despise," said Varenka, in her melodious voice, 
 pronouncing every letter distinctly. " It is just iu all those 
 kinds of things that you tr^' to discover something remark- 
 ably tine." 
 
 "■In the first place, only the most frivolous of men can 
 speak of despising such a remarkable man as Ivan Yakovle- 
 viteh," retorted Dmitri, throwing his head spasmodically on 
 the opposite side from his sister ; '' and iu the second jilace, 
 you are trying purposely not to see the good which stands 
 before your very eyes." 
 
 On her return to us, Sophia Ivanovna glanced зелчм-а! 
 times, in a frightened way, now at her nephew, then at her 
 niece, then at me ; and twice she opened her mouth as though 
 to speak, and sighed heavily. 
 
 " Please, Varya, read as quickly as possilile," she said, 
 handing her the book, and tapping her caressingly on the
 
 тоитгт. 2У7 
 
 hand ; "I am xevy anxious to know whether they found her 
 again. [It seems that there is no question whateA'cr, in tlie 
 book, of any one finding any one else.] And as for you, 
 Mit3'a, my dear, you had better wrap up j-our cheek, for tlie 
 air is fresh, and your teeth will ache again," said she to her 
 nephew, notwithstanding the look of displeasure which he 
 cast upon her, proljabl}' because she had broken tlie thread 
 of his argument. The reading was resumed. 
 
 This little quarrel did not in the least disturb the family 
 peace, and that sensible concord which breathed from that 
 feminine circle. 
 
 This circle, to which Princess Marj^a Ivanovna eA'idently 
 gave the character and direction, had for me a perfectly 
 novel and attractive tone, of a certain sort of logic, and at 
 the same time of simplicity and elegance. This tone was 
 expressed for me by the beaut^', purity, and simplicity of 
 things, — the bell, the binding of the book, the arm-chair, 
 the table ; and in the straight, snug bodice, in the pose of 
 the Princess, in her gray curls brought out into view, and 
 in her manner of calling me simply Nicolas, and he, at our 
 first meeting ; in their occupations, the reading aloud, the 
 scAving ; and in the remarkable whiteness of the ladies' 
 hands. (They all had a common family mark on the hand, 
 which consisted in the soft portion of the palm being of a 
 deep-red hue, and separated by a sharp, straight line from 
 the unusual whiteness of the upper part of the hand.) But 
 this character was expressed most of all, in the excellent 
 manner in which all three spoke French and Russian ; pro- 
 nouncing every letter distinctly, and finishing every word and 
 jilu-ase with pedantic accuracy'. All this, and in particular 
 the fact that they treated me simply and seriously in this 
 society, as a growm-up person, uttered their own thoughts to 
 me, listened to my opinions, — to this I was so little accus- 
 tomed, that, in spite of my brilliant buttons and blue facings, 
 I Avas still afraid they would say to me, all at once, ^^ Do 
 you think people are going to talk seriously with you? go 
 stud}^ ! " — all this resulted in my not feeling the slightest 
 embarrassment in their society. I I'ose and changed my seat 
 from place to place, and talked with all except Varenka, to 
 whom it still seemed to me improper, for some reason, to 
 speak first. 
 
 During the reading, as I listened to her pleasant voice, I 
 glanced now at her, now at the sandy path of the flower-
 
 298 YOUTH. 
 
 garden, upon which dark ronnd spots of rain were forming, 
 upon the lindens, on whose k'aves occasional drops of rain 
 still continned to patter from the pale, bluish edge of the 
 thinning thunder-cloud which enveloped us, then at her 
 again, then at the last crimson ra^^s of the setting sun, which 
 illmninated the dense and ancient birches all dripping with 
 rain, and then at Л^агепка again ; and I decided that she was 
 not at all ugly, as she had seemed to ше at first. 
 
 " It's a pity that I am already in love," I thought, " and 
 that Varenka is not Sonitchka. How nice \t would be to 
 suddenly become a member of this famil}' ! 1 should gain a 
 mother and an aunt and a лvife all at once." And as medi- 
 tating thus I glanced at Л^агепка as she read, and thought 
 that I would magnetize her, and make her look at me, Va- 
 renka raised her head from her book, glanced at me, and, 
 meeting my ej^es. turned away. 
 
 " It has not stopped raining j-et," she said. 
 
 And all at once I experienced a strange sensation. T sud- 
 denly recollected tliat Avhat was now happening to me was an 
 exact repetition of what had hai)pened once before ; that 
 then, also, a light rain was falling, and the sun was setting 
 behind the birches, and I was looking at Лег, and she was 
 reading, and I had magnetized her, and she had glanced up, 
 and I had even recollected that this had happened before. 
 
 "Is it she? she 9" I thought. "^ Is it beginning V But 
 I speedily decided that she was not the s/ie, and that it was 
 not beginning yet. "In the first place, she is ugly," I 
 thought; "and in the next place, she is simply a j'oung 
 lady, and I have made her acquaintance in the most com- 
 monplace manner. But she will be remarka1)le, and I shall 
 meet her somewhere, in some uncommon place ; and, besides, 
 this family only pleases me so much because I have not see» 
 any thing yet," I decided. " But of course there are always 
 sucL . and I shall meet with many during my life."
 
 YOUTH. 299 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 I SIIOAV MYSELF FROM THE MOST ADVANTAGEOUS POINT OP 
 
 VIEW. 
 
 At tea-time the reading came to an end ; and tlie ladies 
 engaged in a conversation between themselves, about persons 
 and circnmstances with which I was unfamiliar, expressly, so 
 it seemed to me, for the purpose of making me feel, in spite 
 of my cordial recejition, the dilTerence which existed, both in 
 years and in worldly position, between them and me. But in 
 the general conversation in which I could take part, I made 
 up for my former silence, and endeavored to exhibit my 
 remarkable intelligence and originalit}', which I considered 
 that my uniform specially bound me to do. When the con- 
 versation turned on country-houses, I suddenly related how 
 Prince Ivan Ivan itch had such a villa neai- Moscow that peo- 
 ple came from London and Paris to see it ; that there was 
 a grating there which was worth three hundred and eight}' 
 thousand rubles ; and that Prince 1л'ап Ivanitch was a very 
 near relative of mine, and that I had dined with him that 
 day, and he had told me tliat I must be sure to come andi 
 spend the whole summer with him at that villa, but thatl 
 1 liad refused, because I knew the house very well, since l\ 
 had l)een there a number of times, and tliat all those fences ) 
 and ])ridges were not at all interesting to me because I could A 
 not bear luxury, especially in the countrj^, and that I liked] 
 every thing in the country to be like the country. Havingf 
 uttered this strangely complicated lie, I became coi1ifused,j 
 and turned so red that every one must have certainlj- per-/ 
 ceived that I was l^'ing. Varenka, who handed me a cup of^ 
 tea at that moment, and Sophia Ivanovna, who had been 
 gazing at me while I was spealving, both turned awa}' from 
 me, and began to talk of something else, with an expression 
 of countenance which I have often met with in good people 
 since then, when a very 3'oung man begins plainly to lie iu
 
 300 YOUTH. 
 
 their very faces, and which signifies, "Of course wc know 
 that he is lying, and Avliy lie does it, poor fellow ! " 
 
 The reason why 1 said that Prince Ivan Ivanitch had a 
 лчИа was that I saw no better pretext for mentioning my 
 I'elationship to Prince Ivan Ivanitch. and that I liad dined 
 with him that day ; but wh}^ did I tell about that grating worth 
 three hundred and eighty thousand rubles, and that I had 
 ])een to his house so often, when 1 had never been even once, 
 and could not go, since Prince Ivan Ivanitch lived only in 
 Moscow or Naples, which the Nekhliudoffs knew verj' well? 
 I really cannot account to myself for it. Neither in child- 
 )hood, nor boyhood, nor afterwards in a riper stage of growth, 
 have I ever detected the vice of l3'ing in myself; on the con- 
 trary, I have lieen rather too frank and upright : but during 
 this first period of adolescence, a strange desire to lie in the 
 most desperate manner, and without any apparent cause, 
 frequently took possession of me. I say "desperate man- 
 ner" expressly, because I lied about things where it was 
 extremely easy to find me out. It seems to me that a \sxix\- 
 glorious desire to show myself off as an entireh' different 
 man from what I am, united to the impracticable hope in life 
 of lying so as not to be detected in the lie, was the chief 
 cause of this strange tendency. 
 
 After tea, as the rain had ceased, and the weather was 
 clear and calm, the Princess proposed that avc should go for 
 a walk in the lower garden, and admii'e her faA'orite spot. In 
 accordance with my rule of alwa^'s being original, and con- 
 sidei-ing that such clever people as the Princess and myself 
 must stand above trivial politeness, I replied that I could not 
 V)ear to walk without an object, and if I cared to walk at all, 
 it was quite alone. I had no idea that this was downright 
 rude ; but it seemed to me then that there was nothing more 
 disgraceful than state compliments, that notliing was more 
 amiable and original than a little discourteous frankness. 
 Nevertheless, quite content with my answer, I went to walk 
 with the rest of the company. 
 
 The Princess's favorite spot was at the very bottom of the 
 garden in its depths, on a little bridge which was thrown 
 over a small swamp. The view was extremely restricted, 
 but very melancholy and pleasing. We are so accustomed 
 to confounding art with nature, that very frequentl}^ those 
 manifestations of nature which we have never encountered 
 in pictures seem to us unnatural, — as though nature could
 
 YOIJTTL 301 
 
 bo nnnatiiral, — and those plienomona which have been too 
 frequently repented in art seem to us threadbare. But 
 some views, too thoroughly penetrated with thought and sen- 
 timent alone, seem fantastic when we come upon them in 
 nature. The view from the Princess's favorite place was of 
 this nature. It consisted of a small pond with overgrown 
 banks ; directly behind it was a stef^p hill covered with vast, 
 ancient trees and bushes, with frequent changes in its many- 
 hued verdure ; and at the foot of the hill, drooping over the 
 pond, an ancient birch, which, parti}' clinging to the damp 
 bank of the pool with its thick roots, rested its crown upon 
 a tall and stately ash-tree, and swung its curling branches 
 ол'сг the smooth surface of the pond, which gave back the 
 reflection of these drooping boughs and the surrounding 
 greenery. 
 
 "How charming!" said the Princess, shaking her head, 
 and not addressing any one in particular. 
 
 " Yes, it is wonderful, only it seems to me that it is fright- 
 fully like theatrical scenery," said I, desirous of showing 
 that I had an opinion of my own on every thing. 
 
 The Princess continued to admire the view as though she 
 had not hoard ni}' remark, and turning to her sister and Liu- 
 bov Sergieevna she pointed out separate details, — the crook- 
 ed ovoi-hanging stump, and the reflection which particularly 
 pleased her. Sophia Ivanovna said that it was all very 
 beautiful, and that her sister was in the habit of passing 
 several hours at a time here ; but it was evident that she only 
 said so to please the Piincess. I have observed that people 
 who are endowed with the facult}' of love are rarely sensitive 
 to the beauties of nature. Liubov SeigiecA'na also went into 
 iai)tures, asking, '' What does that birch hold to? will it stand 
 l.)ng?" and she glanced constantly at her Suzette, who ran 
 back and forth across the bridge on her crooked legs, wagging 
 her tail, with an anxious expression, as though for the first 
 time in her life it had chanced to her not to be in a room, 
 bmitri began a logical argument with his mother, on the 
 point that no view could be very beautiful where the horizon 
 was limited. Varonka said nothing. When I glanced round 
 at her, she Vv'as standing leaning on the railing of the bridge, 
 with her profile towards me, and looking straight in front 
 of her. Something pro1)a1>ly interested her deeply, and even 
 touched her ; for she had evidently forgotten herself, and had 
 no thought for herself or that she was being lookQd at. Her
 
 802 YOUTH. 
 
 large eyes were so full of intent observation, of calm, clear 
 thought, her pose was so unaffected, and in s[)ite of her 
 short stature there was so much niajest3^bout her, that I 
 was again struck by what seemed a memory of her, and 
 again I asked myself, *■' Is it not beginning':'" and again I 
 answered myself, that I was already in love with 8ouitchka, 
 and that Varenka was simply a young lady, the sister of my 
 friend. But she pleased me at that moment, and I felt in 
 consequence an unbounded desire to do or say to her some 
 little unpleasant thing. 
 
 " Do you know, Dmitri," I said to my friend, approaching 
 nearer to Varenka, in order that she might hear what 1 was 
 about to say, " I think, that, even if there were not any 
 mosquitoes, there would be nothing beautiful about this 
 place ; and now," I added, slapping my forehead, and really 
 crushing a mosquito, '' it's perfectly dreadful." 
 
 " You do not seem to love nature? " said Varenka to me, 
 without turning her head. 
 
 " I think it is an idle, useless occupation," I replied, very 
 well satisfied with having uttered my little unpleasantness, 
 and having been original. Varenka raised her e3'ebrows iu 
 an almost imperceptible manner for a moment, with an ex- 
 pression of pity, and continued to look straight before her as 
 composedly as ever. 
 
 I was vexed with her ; but in spite of this, the grayish rail- 
 ing of the bridge with its faded paint, upon which she leaned, 
 the reflection in the dark pond of the drooping stump of the 
 overturned birch, which seemed desirous of joining its di'oop- 
 ing branches, the odor of the swamp, the feeling of tlie 
 crushed mosquito upon my forehead, and her attentive gaze 
 and majestic attitude, often presented themselves after- 
 wards quite unexpectedly to my imagination.
 
 VjVTS. 803 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 ЛУнЕХ we returned home after our walk, Varenka did not 
 wish to sing as she usually did in the evening ; and I had the 
 selt'-assurauce to set it down to my own account, fancying 
 that the cause was what I had said to her on the bridge. 
 The Nekhliudoffs did not have supper, and dispersed early ; 
 and that dav, since Dmitri's teeth began to ache, as Sophia 
 Ivanoлчla had predicted, we went off to his room even earlier 
 than usual. Supposing that I had done all that m}' blue 
 collar and my buttons required of me, and that I had pleased 
 everybody, I was in an extremely amiable, self-satisfied frame 
 of mind. Dmitri, on the contrary-, in consequence of the 
 quarrel and his toothache, was silent and morose. He seat- 
 ed himself at the table, got out his note-books, his diary, 
 and the book in which he was accustomed to write down 
 every evening his past and future occupations, and wrote in 
 them for quite a long time, frowning incessanth', and touch- 
 ing his clieek with his hand. 
 
 '•Oh, leave me in peace!'' he shouted at the maid луЬо 
 had been sent by Sophia Ivanovna to inquire how his teeth 
 were, and if he did not want to make himself a fomenta- 
 tion. After that, telling me that my bed would be ready 
 directly, and that he would retire immediately, he went to 
 Liubov vSergieevna. 
 
 " What a pity that Varenka is not pretty, and particularly 
 that she is not Sonitchka!" I meditated, when I was left 
 alone in the room. " How pleasant it would be to come to 
 them, and offer her my hand, when I 1еал'е the university ! 
 I should say, ' Princess, I am no longer j'oung ; I cannot 
 love passionate!}' ; but I shall always love you like a dear 
 sister.' ' I already respect you,' I sliould say to her mother ; 
 'and as for you, Sophia Ivanovna, pray ])elieve that I esteem 
 you highly. Then say simply and plainly, will you be my
 
 304 ГО и г. 7. 
 
 wife? ' — ' Yes ; ' and she will give me her hand, and I shall 
 pix'ss it, and say, ' IMy love is not in words, bnt in deeds.' 
 Well, and what if Dmitri should all at once fall in love with 
 Liiibotchka? " came into my mind. — " for Liubotehka is in 
 Icjve with him, — and should wish to marry her? Then one of 
 us would not be able to marry. And that would be capital. 
 Then this is what 1 should do. I should immediately perceive 
 it. say nothing, but go to Dmitri, and say, ' It is in vain, my 
 friend, that we have tried to keep secrets from each other 
 You know that m}- love for your sister will end only with my 
 life ; I)ut I know all, you have deprived me of my best hope, 
 you ha\^e renderecT me unhappy ; Init do you know how 
 Nikolai Irteneff revenges himself for the unhappiness of his 
 whole life? Here is my sister for you,' and 1 should give 
 him Liubotchka's hand. He would say, 'No, not on any 
 terms ! ' and I should say, ' Prince Nekhliudoff, in vain do 
 3'ou endeavor to be more magnanimous than Nikolai Irteneff. 
 There is not a more magnanimous man in the world than he.' 
 Then I should bow and retire. Dmitri and Liubotehka would 
 run after me in tears, and beseech me to accept their sacri- 
 fice, — and I might consent and be very happy if I were only 
 -in love with Varenka." These dreams were so agreeable 
 that I wanted very much to communicate them to my friend ; 
 but in spite of our mutual vow of frankness, I felt that for 
 some reason it was phj'sically impossible to say it. 
 
 Dmitri returned from Liubov Sergieevna, with some drops 
 on his tooth which she had given him, in still greater suffer- 
 ing, and consequentl}' btill m{^ve gloomy. М3' bed was not 
 leady yet ; and a little boy, Dmitri's servant, came to ask 
 him where I was to sleep. 
 
 "Go to the devil!" shouted Dmitri, stamping his foot. 
 '' Vaska. Vaska, Vaska ! " he cried as soon as the boy was 
 gone, raising his voice at each repetition, — ''Vaska, make 
 me up a bed on the floor." 
 
 " No. it will be better for me to lie on the floor," said I. 
 
 " Well, it's no matter : make it up somewhere," went on 
 Dmitri in the same angry tone. "Vaska! why don't you 
 spread it down? " 
 
 But Vaska evidently did not understand what was wanted 
 of him, and stood motionless. 
 
 " Well, what's the matter with you? Make it! make it! 
 Vaska, Vaska ! " shouted Dmitri, suddenly flying into a kind 
 of lury.
 
 тоитп. 305 
 
 Bat Vaska, still not comprehending, and becoming fright- 
 ened, did not move. 
 
 '^ 80 you have sworn to mur — to drive me mad?" and, 
 springing from his chair, Dmitri flew at the bo}', and struck 
 several blows with his fist upon the head of Vaska, who ran 
 headlong from the room. Halting at the door, Dmitri glanced 
 at me ; and the expression of rage and cruelty which his 
 face had borne for a moment changed into such a gentle, 
 shamefaced, and affectionatel}- childish expression, that 1 wtss 
 sorry for him. But, much as I wanted to turn away, I could 
 not make up my mind to do it. He said nothing to me, but 
 paced the room for a long time, glancing at me from time to 
 time with the same look which besought forgiveness, then took 
 a note-book fiom the table, wrotj something iu it, pulled off 
 his coat, folded it carefully, went to the corner where the 
 images hung, crossed his large white hands upon his breast, 
 and began to pray. He prayed so long, that Vaska had time 
 to fetch a mattress, and spread it on the floor as I directed 
 him in a whisper to do. I undressed, and lay down upon the 
 bed thus prepared on the floor ; but Dmitri still continued to 
 pray. As 1 glanced at Dmitri's somewhat bent back, and 
 at the soles of his feet, луЬ1сЬ were presented to me in a rather 
 submissive way when he prostrated himself on the earth, 
 I loved Dmitri still more strongly than before, and I kept 
 thinking, '' Shall I or shall I not tell him Avhat I have been 
 dreaming about our sisters?" Having finished his рга_уег, 
 Dmitri lay down beside me on the l)ed ; and, supporting him- 
 self on his elbow, he looked at me long and silently with a 
 steady affectionate gaze. It was evidently painful for him, 
 but he seemed to be punishing himself. I smiled as I looked 
 at him. He smiled also. 
 
 •'Why don't you tell me," said he, "that I have acted 
 abominably? Of course you thought it at once." 
 
 "Yes," I answered, — although I had been thinking of 
 something else, but it seemed to me that I had really thought 
 it, — "yes. it was not nice at all: I did not expect it of 
 you," said I, experiencing a special satisfaction at the mo- 
 ment in addi'essing him as thou. *• Well, how are your 
 teeth?" I added. 
 
 "The pain has passed off. Ah. Nikolinka, my friend," 
 broke out Dmitri so aff'ectionately, that stars seemed to stand 
 in his sparkling eyes. •' I know and feel that 1 am wicked : and 
 God sees how 1 desire to be better, and how 1 beseech Him
 
 306 YOUTH. 
 
 to make me better. But what am I to do if I liave such a 
 wretched, repulsive character? wliat am I to do? 1 try to 
 restrain myself, to reform myself ; but all at once this becomes 
 impossible, and impossible to me alone. I need some one 
 to sui)port, to help me. There is Liubov Sergieevua, she un- 
 derstands me, and has helped me a great deal in this. I 
 know b}' my journal that I have improved a great deal during 
 the last 3'ear. Ah, Nikolinka, my soul ! " he continued with 
 peculiar, unaccustomed tenderness, and a tone that was al- 
 ready quieter after this confession, " how much the influence 
 of a woman like her means ! М3' God ! how good it will be 
 when I am independent with another like her ! I am a totally 
 different man with her." 
 
 And then Dmitri began to unfold to me his plans for mar- 
 riage, country life, and constant labor upon himself. 
 
 "I shall live in the, country. You will come to rae, 
 perhaps; and you will be married to Sonitchka," said he. 
 '' Our children will play together. Of course this all sounds 
 ridiculous and stupid, but it may come to pass nevertheless." 
 
 ''The idea! it is extremely possible," said I, smiling, and 
 thinking at the same time that it would be much better still 
 if 1 were marri-ed to his sister. 
 
 " I am going to tell you something, do you know?" said 
 he, after a short silence : " you are only imagining that you 
 are in love with Sonitchka, but it's nonsense, I can see it ; 
 and you do not yet know what the genuine feeling is like." 
 
 I made no reply, because I almost agreed with him. We 
 remained silent for a while. 
 
 ' ' You surely must have observed that I have been in an 
 abominable temper again to-daj', and quarrelled in an ugly 
 way Avith Varya. It was frightfully disagreeable for me 
 afterwards, especially because it was before you. Although 
 she thinks of many things in a way she should not, she's a 
 splendid girl, and very good луЬеп j'ou come to know her 
 more intimatel}'." 
 
 His change of the conversation fi'om the statement that I 
 was not in love, to praises of his sister, rejoiced me greatly, 
 and made me blush : nevertheless, I said nothing to him about 
 his sister, and we went on talking of something else. 
 
 Thus we chatted away until the second cock-crow, and the 
 pale dawn had already peeped in at the window, when Dmi- 
 tri went to his own bed, and extinguished the light. 
 
 " Well, now for sleep," said he.
 
 YOUTH. 307 
 
 " Yes," I answered, " but oue word more." 
 
 "Well?" "^ 
 
 "Is it good to live in this world? " 
 
 " It is good to live in this Avorld," he responded in such a 
 voice, that it seemed to me that even in the dark I could see 
 the expression of his merry, affectionate eyes and childlike 
 smile.
 
 308 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 The next day Volodya and I set off for the country, with 
 post-horses. As I went over all my Moscow memories ni 
 my mind on the way, I remembered Sonitchka VaUikhiiia, 
 but only in the evening, when we had travelled five stages. 
 '^Biit it is strange," thought I, ''that I am in love, and 
 quite forgot it: 1 must think of her." And I did begin to 
 think of her, as one thinks while travelling, incoherently but 
 vividly ; and I meditated to such a degree, that 1 considered 
 it indispensable, for some reason or other, to api:jear sad and 
 thoughtful for two days after our arrival in the country, 
 before all the household, and especially in the presence of 
 Kateuka, whom I regarded as a great connoisseur in matters 
 of this sort, and to whom I gave a hint of the condition in 
 which I found my heart. But in spite of all my attempts at 
 dissinuilation lief ore others and before myself, in spite of my 
 deliberate assumption of all the signs which I had observed 
 in others in an enamoureil condition, in the course of those 
 two days I did not constantly Itear it in mind that I \v:is i'l 
 love, but remembered it chietly in the evening ; and finally I 
 fell into the new round of country life and ocoui)ations so 
 quickly that I quite forgot about my love for Sonitchka. 
 
 We arrived at Petrovskoe at night ; and I was sleei)ing so 
 soundly that I saw neither the house nor the birch avenue, 
 nor any of the household, who had already retired and had 
 long been asleep. Old bent Foka, barefooted, and wrapped 
 in a kind of woman's wadded dressing-gown, with a candle 
 in his hand, shoved back the door-fastenings for us. He quiv- 
 ered with joy on beholding us, kissed us on the shoulder, 
 hastily gathered up his felt rug, and began to dress himself. 
 I traversed the vestibule and staircase without being tiior- 
 oughly awake ; but in the ante-room the lock on the do<n*, 
 the bolt, the crooked boards, the clothes-prcbs, thj ancient
 
 YOUTH. (S6^ 
 
 candlestifk spotted with tallow as of old. the shadow of the 
 cold, bent, recently liiilited tallow candle iu the image-lani[), 
 tlie always dusty doul)le window Avhich was never removed, 
 l»ehind which, as I remembered, there grew a mountaiu-ash 
 tree, — all this was so familiar, so full of memories, so har- 
 monious with itself, as though united in one thought, that I 
 suddenly felt upon me the caress of this dear old house. The 
 question involuntarih' presented itself to me, "How coiiUl 
 лус, the house and I, go on without each other so long? " and 
 I ran in haste to see whether these were the same rooms. 
 Every thing was the same, onh^ every thing had grown small- 
 er, lower. But the house received me joyously into its em- 
 brace just as I was ; and .every floor, every window, every 
 step of the stairs, every sound, awakened in me a world of 
 forms, feelings, occurrences of the hapjjy past, which would 
 never return. We went to the bedroom of our childhood : all 
 my childish terrors were hiding again in the darkness of 
 the corners and doors. We went into the drawing-room : the 
 same gentle motherly love was diffused over every object 
 луЫсЬ was iu the room. We went to the hall : it seemed as 
 though boisterous, careless childish mirth had lingered in this 
 apartment, and was onh' waiting to be revivified. In the bou- 
 doir, whither Foka led us and where he had made up beds for 
 us, it seemed as if every thing — the mirror, the screen, the 
 ancient wooden image, every inequalit}' of the walls covered 
 with white i)apcr — all spoke of suffering, of death, of that 
 which would never exist again. 
 
 We lay down, and Foka left us after wishing us good 
 night. 
 
 '■• 3Iamma died in this room, surely," said Volodya. 
 
 I did not answer him, and pretended to be asleep. If 
 1 had said a word, I should have bui'st out crying. When I 
 awoke the next morning, papa, not yet dressed, was sitting 
 on Volodya's bed, in fanciful sli[)pers and dressing-gown, 
 chatting and laughing with him. He si)rang up from N'olodya 
 Avith a merry bound, came up to me. and, slapi)iug me on the 
 back with his large hand, he presented his cheek to me, and 
 pressed it to my lips. 
 
 '• Well, capital, thanks, dii)lomat," said he wilh his own 
 peculiar caress, gazing at me with his small, twinkling eyes. 
 " \'olodya says that you got tlirougli wt-ll, young ftdlow : 
 that's glorious. You're my line littl > fellow wlu'U you take 
 a notion not to be stupid. Thanks, my friend. We shall live
 
 310 YOUTH. 
 
 л'егу pleasantly here now, but wc shall go to Peterburg for 
 the winter ; onl}' it's a pity that the hunting is over, for I 
 might have amused you. You can hunt Avith a gun, Walcle- 
 mar? there's any quantity of game, and 1 will go with 30U 
 myself some da}'. So, if it be God's will, we shall go to 
 Peterburg for the winter : you shall see people, make connec- 
 tions. You are grown up now, my children, and I was just 
 telling Waldemar that you now stand on the road, and my 
 task is over : you can walk alone. But if you Avant to confer 
 with me, to ask advice, I am no longer your daddy, but your 
 friend and comrade, and counsellor, wherever I can be of 
 use, and nothing more. How does that suit your philosophy, 
 Koko ? Heh ? is it good or bad ? heh ? ' ' 
 
 Of course I answered that it was capital, and I really 
 thought it so. Papa had a peculiarly fascinating, merry, 
 happy expression that day ; and these novel relations with 
 me, as with an equal, a companion, made me love him more 
 than ever. 
 
 " Now tell me, did you call on all our relatives, and on 
 the Ivins? Did you see the old man? AVhat did he say 
 to you? " he continued to interrogate me. '' Did you go to 
 see Prince Ivan Ivanitch?" 
 
 And we chatted so long before dressing, that the sun had 
 already begun to desert the windows of the divan-room ; and 
 Yakov, who луаа just exactly as old as ever, and twisted his 
 lingers behind his ))ack and spoke just the same as ел'ег, came 
 to our room, and announced to papa that the calash was ready. 
 
 '• Where are з'ои going? " I asked papa. 
 
 " Ah, I had nearly forgotten," said papa with a twitch and 
 cough of vexation. '•• I promised to go to the Epifanoffs' to- 
 da}'. Do you remember the EpifanoA'a, la belle Flaviande? 
 she used to visit з'оиг mamma. The}' are л'егу nice people," 
 and papa left the room twitching his shoulders in embarrass- 
 ment, as it seemed to me. 
 
 Liubotchka had come to the door 8ел'е1а1 times during our 
 chat, and inquired, "Can 1 come in?" but each time papa 
 shouted to her through the door, that it " was utterly impos- 
 sible, because we were not dressed." 
 
 ''What's the harm? I've seen you in your dressing- 
 gown." 
 
 '• It's impossible for you to see your brothers without their 
 riiexpressibles," he shouted to her ; " and if each one of them 
 knocks on the door to you, will you be satisfied? Knock,
 
 YOUTH. 311 
 
 aud it is even improper for them to sj)eak to j'ou in such 
 neglige." 
 
 "Al), how unbearable yon are! At all eл•ents, do come 
 to the drawing-room as quickly as possible. Mimi wants so 
 much to see you ! " called Linbotchka outside the door. 
 
 As soon as papa >vent away I dressed myself as quickly as 
 possible in my student's coat, and went to the drawing-room. 
 Volodya, on the contrary, did not hurry himself, and sat up- 
 stairs for a long time, talking лvith Yakov about the places to 
 find snipe and woodcock. As I have already said, tiiere 
 was nothing in the world which he dreaded so much as senti- 
 ment with his brother, his sister, or papa, as he expressed it ; 
 and, in avoiding every expression of feeling, he fell into the 
 other extreme, — coldness, — which often hurt the feelings of 
 people who did not understand its cause. In the ante-room 
 I met papa, who was on his way to the carriage with short, 
 brisk ste[)s. He had on his fashionable new Moscow coat, 
 and he was redolent of perfume. When he caught sight of 
 me, he nodded gayly, as much as to say, " You see, isn't it 
 fine?" and again I was struck by the happy expression of 
 his eyes, which I had already observed that morning. 
 
 The drawing-room was the same l)right,- lofty apartment, 
 with the yellowish English grand piano, aud its great open 
 windows, through which the green trees and the yellowish- 
 red paths of the garden peeped gayly. Having kissed Mimi 
 aud Linbotchka, it suddenly occurred to me as 1 approached 
 Kateuka, that it was not proper to kiss her ; aud I came to a 
 standstill, silent and blushing. Kateuka, who was not at al 
 embarrassed, offered me her white hand, and congratulateo. 
 me on ray entrance to the university. When Volodya entered 
 the room, the same thing hapjiened to him at the sight of 
 Kateuka. lu fact, it was hard to decide, after having grown 
 up together, and having been in the habit of seeing each 
 other every day during all that time, how we ought to meet 
 now after our first separation. Kateuka blushed far more 
 deeply than all the rest of us. A'olodya suffered no em- 
 barrassment, but boAving slightly to her, he walked off to 
 Linbotchka, with whom he talked a little but not seriously ; 
 then he went off somewhere for a solitary walk.
 
 312 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 OUR RELATIONS TO THE GIRLS. 
 
 VoLODYA had such queer views about the girls, that he 
 could interest himself in the questions : were they fat? had 
 they slept enough? were they properly dressed? did they 
 make mistakes in French which he should be ashamed of 
 before strangers ? But he never admitted the idea that they 
 could think or feel any thing human, and still less did he 
 admit the idea that it was possible to discuss any thing with 
 them. When they chanced to have occasion to appeal to hira 
 with any serious question (which, however, they already 
 endeavored to avoid), if they asked his opinion about a novel 
 or his occupations in the university, he made a face at them, 
 and walked oft' in silence, or auswered with some mutilated 
 French phrase, such as comme ci tri joW^ and the like; or, 
 putting on a serious and thoughtfully stupid face, he uttered 
 some word which had no sense or connection at all with the 
 question, made his eyes dull all at once, and said, a roll, or 
 they have gone away, or cabbage, or something of that sort. 
 When I chanced to repeat to him these words which Liubotch- 
 ka or Katenka had reported to me, he always said : 
 
 " Hm ! so 5'ou still discuss matters with them? Yes, I see 
 3'ou are still in a bad wa}-." 
 
 And the pi'ofouud, invariable contempt which was expressed 
 in this phrase required to be heard in order to be appreciated. 
 Volodya had been grown up for two j'ears now ; he was con- 
 stantly falling in love with ел^егу pretty woman that he met : 
 but although he saw Katenka every day (she had worn long 
 dresses for two years, and grew prettier ever}' day), the idea 
 of the possibilit}' of falling in love with her never entered 
 his head. Whether this arose from the prosaic recollections 
 of childhood, — the ruler, her simplicity; her cajmees, were 
 still too fresh in his memory ; or fi'ora the repugnance which 
 
 ' Coiume c'est lies joli.
 
 Your п. 313 
 
 ver}' young people have for ever}' thing that belongs to their 
 own house ; or from the general liuman weakness, which, on 
 meeting a good or a very beautiful ihing at the beginning of 
 the road, passes by saying to itself, '' Eh ! I shall meet 
 man}' such in the course of my life," — at all events, up to 
 this time Volodya had not looked upon Katenka as a woman. 
 
 Volodya was evidently very much bored all that summer. 
 His ennui proceeded from his scorn for us, wliich, as I have 
 said, he did not attempt to hide. The expression of his face 
 said constantly, " Fu ! how tiresome ! and there's nobody to 
 talk to." Perhaps he would set out on a hunt in the morn- 
 ing with his gun, or would read a l)ook in his room, without 
 dressing himself, until dinner. If papa was not at home, he 
 even brought his book to the table, and went on reading, 
 without exchanging a syllable with any of nis, which made us 
 feel guilty of something or other towards him. In the even- 
 ing, too, he lav with his feet on the sofa in the drawing-room, 
 and slept with his liead resting on his hand, or invented the 
 strangest nonsense, which was at times even improper, and 
 lied with a serious face, which made IMimi grow angry, and 
 turn red in spots, while we Avere dying witli laughter ; but he 
 never condescended to talk seriously with any member of our 
 family except papa, and, once in a while, with me. I quite 
 involuntarily aped m}' brother in his views about the girls, 
 although I was not so much afraid of sentiment as he was, 
 and my contempt for the girls was far from being so deep and 
 firmly rooted. 1 even made several attempts that summer, 
 out of ennui, to enter into closer relations with Liubotchka 
 and Katenka, and converse with them ; but on every occasion 
 I found such an absence of the capacit}' for logical thought, 
 and such ignorance of the simplest, most ordinary things, 
 such as, for example, what money was, what was taught in 
 the university, what war is, and so on, and such indift'erence 
 to the explanations of all these things, that these attempts 
 only served to confirm me in my unfaл'orable opinion of 
 them. 
 
 I remember how, one evening, Liubotchka was repeating 
 some intolerably tiresome passage for the hundredth time on 
 the piano. Volodya was lying dozing on the sofa in the 
 drawing-room, and muttering at intervals with a certain 
 malicious irony, but without addressing himself to any one 
 in particular, "Ai ! there she pounds away ; she's a musician, 
 a Beethoven, [this name he uttered with special irony], that's
 
 314 YOUTH. 
 
 clever, now once more, thnt's it," and so on. Katenka and 
 I were still at the tea-table, and 1 do not remember how 
 Katenka led the conversation to her favorite topic, — love. I 
 was in a mood to philosophize, and I began in a lofty way to 
 define love as the desire to acquire in another that wliich you 
 had not 3'ourself, and so forth. But Katenka retorted, that, 
 ou the contrary, it was not love, if a giil contemplated 
 marrying a rich man, and that, in her opinion, property was 
 the most worthless of all things, but that the only true love 
 was tliat which can endure separation (I understood by this, 
 that she was hinting at her love for Dubkoif ). Volodya, who 
 must have overheard our conversation, raised himself on his 
 elbow, and cried interrogatively, '•'•Китенка liitsskikk.^ " 
 
 "• Oh. 3'our eternal nonsense I " said Katenka. 
 
 " V p('ri'srhnitzn? '' ^ went on Volodya, emphasizing each 
 vowel. And I could not but think that Volodya was quite 
 right. 
 
 Entirely separate from the general qualities of intelligence, 
 sensibilit3', and artistic feeling, there is a private quality 
 which is more or less deл^eloped in various circles of society, 
 and especially in families, which I call under standing. The 
 essential point of this quality consists in a certain feeling of 
 proportion which has been agreed upon, and in an accepted, 
 one-sided A'iew of subjects. Two men of the same circle, or 
 of the same family, who possess this quality, can always 
 allow their expression of feeling to reach a certain point, 
 Ьеу(лк1 Avhic-h both of them foresee the i)hrase. At one and 
 the same moment they perceive where praise ends and irony 
 begins, where enthusiasm ends and dissinndation begins; 
 while, with people of another understanding, it may appear 
 quite otherwise. For people with one understanding, every 
 object which they have in common presents itself chiefly 
 through its ridiculous, its beautiful, or its foul side, in 
 order to render more easy this identity of comprehension, 
 there arises, among people of a certain cii'cle or family, a 
 tongue of its own, certain terms of speech, certain Avords 
 even, which denote those shades of meaning which do not 
 exist for other people. In our family, this understanding was 
 developed to the highest degree between papa and us two 
 brothers. Dubkoff also had fitted our little cn-cle pretty well, 
 and u)iderstood ; but Dmitri, although much cleverer than he, 
 
 ' As will be seen from what follows, these words are nonsense, and make an 
 much sense untranslated as Ihey wouid if au arbitrary meauiug were assigned to 
 them.
 
 YOUTH. 315 
 
 was stupid on this point. But in no case was tliis faculty 
 developed to such a pitch of refinement as between Volodya 
 and myself, who had grown up under identical conditions. 
 Pa[)a was already far behind us, and much that was as clear 
 to us as two times two was incomprehensible to him. For 
 instance, Volodya and I had agreed, God knows why. upon 
 the following words with corresponding meanings : Bai.sins 
 signified a vaiu-glorious desire to show that I had money ; 
 a bump (the fingers must be joined, and the special emphasis 
 placed on two of the consonants at the same time) signified 
 something fresh, healthy, elegant, but not foppish ; a noun 
 employed in the plural signified unreasonable passion for the 
 object ; and so forth, and so forth. Moreover, the meaning 
 depended on the expression of countenance, on the conver- 
 sation as a whole ; so that, whatever new expression one of 
 us invented for a new shade of meaning, the other under- 
 stood it exactly in that sense at the first hint. The girls did 
 not have our understanding, and this was the chief cause of 
 our moral solitude, and of the scorn which we felt for them. 
 Perhaps they had an understand hi r/ of their own ; but it 
 was so unlike ours, that, where we beheld a phrase, they saw 
 a sentiment: our irony was truth to them, and so forth. 
 But I did not understand at the time tliat they were not to 
 blame in this respect, and that this lack of comprehension 
 did not ]irevent them from being very good and clever girls ; 
 but I desi)ised them. Having, moreover, hit upon the idea 
 of frankness, and carrying the application of it to extremes 
 in m}' own case, I accused Liubotchka, with her peaceful, 
 trusting nature, of secrecy, because she saw no necessity for 
 digging up and examining all her thoughts and spiritual 
 instincts. For example, it seemed to me all excessive 
 hypoci'isy when Liubotchka made the sign of the cross over 
 papa ever}' night, and when she and Katenka wept in the 
 chapel when th«.'y went to have the mass for mamma's soul, 
 and when Katenka sighed and rolled her eyes when she 
 plaj'ed on the piano ; and I asked myself, AV'hen did they 
 learn to dissbnulate thus like grown-up people, and why 
 were they not ashamed of themselves?
 
 316 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 MY OCCUPATIONS. 
 
 In spite of this, I came into nearer relations with our 
 young ladies that sunmier than in other years, b}' reason of 
 a passion for music 3JUCI1 had made its apisearance in me. 
 That spring, ayoiing man, a neighbor, came to call upon us 
 in the country, who had no sooner entered the drawing-room 
 tlian he began to gaze at the piano, and to move his chair 
 im|)erceptibly towards it as he conversed, among others, 
 with Mmii and Katenka. Having discussed the weather, 
 and the pleasures of country life, he skilfully led the con- 
 versation to a tuner, to music, to the piano, and finally he 
 announced tliat he played ; and very soon he had executed 
 three waltzes, while Liubotchka, Mimi, and Katenka stood 
 around the piano and looked at him. This young man never 
 came again ; but his placing pleased me extremely, and his 
 attitude at the piano, and the way he shook his hair, and, in 
 particular, the manner in which he took octaves with his left 
 hand, swiftly extending his tluunb and little finger over the 
 si)ace of the octave, ihen slowly drawing them away, and 
 again briskly extending them. This graceful gesture, his 
 cnieless jr'se, the way he tossed his hair, and the attention 
 Wiiich our ladies paid to his talent, inspired me with the idea 
 оГ playing on the piano. Having convinced myself, in con- 
 sequence of this idea, that 1 had talent and a passion for 
 music, I undertook to learn. In this I'espect, 1 behaved like 
 millions of the male and especially of the female sex, who 
 study without a good teacher, without a real л -ocation, and 
 without the slightest comprehension of what art can give, 
 and of how necessary it is to apply to it in order that it may 
 furnish something. Music, or rather playing on the piano, 
 was for me a means of captivating girls through their feel- 
 ings. Witli the help of Katenka, avIio taught me my notes 
 and broke my thick fingers in a little, in wdiich process, by
 
 YOUTH. 817 
 
 the way, I consumed two months of such zeal that I even 
 exercised m}' disobedient fourth linger on mj' knee at dinner 
 and on my pilh^w in bed, I at once began to play p/'ftv^s, 
 and played them, of course, soulfully {avec dute), as even 
 Katenka confessed, but utterly out of time. 
 
 The choice of pieces was familiar, — waltzes, galops, ro- 
 mances, arrangements, and so forth, — all by those pleasing- 
 composers of which any man i)ossessed of a little healthy 
 taste will select a little i)ile for 3'ou from the heaps of very 
 beautiful things in the music-shops, and say, ''• These are 
 what you must not play, because nothiug worse, more taste- 
 less, and uK^re senseless was ever written on music-paper;" 
 and which you find upon the pianoforte of every young Rus- 
 sian lady, prob.ibly for that ver}' reason. We had, it is true, 
 the unhappy "• Sonate Pathetique," and Beethoven's sonatas 
 in C-rainor, which are forever being murdered by young ladies, 
 and which Liubotchka played in memory of mannna, and 
 other fine things, which her Moscow teacher had given her ; 
 but there were also compositions by this teacher, absurd 
 marches and galops, Avhich Liubotchka played as well. 
 Katenka and 1 did not like serious things, and preferred, 
 to every thing else, " Le Fou " and the " Nightingale," 
 which Katenka played in such a manner that her fingers 
 were not visible, and I already began to play quite loudly 
 and connectedly. I acquired the young man's gestuies, 
 and often mourned because there were no strangers to 
 look on when I was playing, liut Liszt and Kalkbrenner 
 soon proved beyond my powers, and I perceived the impos- 
 sibility of overtaking Katenka. Fancying, in consequence 
 of this, that classical music was easier, and partly for the 
 sake of originality, 1 all at once came to the conclusion that 
 I liked learned German music, began to go into rajitures 
 when Liubotchka played the '^Sonate Pathetique," although, 
 to tell the truth, this sonata had long ago excited my ex- 
 treme disgust. I began to play Beethoven myself, and to 
 pronounce it Beeethoven. But through all this muddle and 
 hypocrisy, as I now recall, there was something in the nature 
 of talent in me, for music often produced on me an effect 
 slifnciently powerful to call forth tears, and the things which 
 pleased me 1 could manage to pick out upon the piano with- 
 out notes ; so that, if any one had then taught me to look 
 upon music as an end, as an independent enjoyment, and 
 not as a means of fascinating girls by the swiftness and
 
 318 YOUTH. 
 
 sentiment of my execution, I might, perhaps, have actually 
 become a very respectable musician. 
 
 The perusal of French romances, of which Volodya had 
 brought down a great many, was another of my occupations 
 during this summer. At that time '• Monte Cristo " and 
 various " Mysteries " had just begun to make their appear- 
 ance ; and 1 buried myself in the romances of Sue, Dunuis, 
 and Paul de Kock. All the most unnatural personages and 
 occurrences were as living for me as reality ; and I not only 
 did not dare to suspect the author of lying, but the author 
 himself did not even exist for me, but living, acting people 
 and adventures appeai-ed before me out of the printed book. 
 If 1 had пел'ег anywhere met peoi)le like those I read about, 
 still I did not for a second doubt their existence. 
 
 I discovered in myself all the passions which were de- 
 scribed, and a likeness to all the characters, and to the 
 heroes and the villains of every romance, as a sensitive man 
 finds in himself all the symptoms of all possible diseases 
 when he reads a medical book. What pleased me in these 
 romances was the artful thoughts and fiery sentiments, the 
 genuine characters : the good man was thoroughl}' good, the 
 bad man was as thoroughly bad : exacts as I fancied people 
 were in my early youth. It pleased me very, very much, that 
 this was all in French, and that I could remember aud quote, on 
 the occasion of a noble deed, the magnanimous words uttered 
 by the noble heroes. How many ditTerent French phrases 
 I concocted with the aid of those romances, for Kolpikoff if I 
 should ever encounter him again, and for her., when I should 
 at length meet her, and declare m}' love to her ! I prepared 
 such things to say to them, that they would Ьал^е died on 
 hearing me. On the foundation of these novels I even con- 
 structed new ideals of the moral worth which I wished to 
 attain to. Most of all, I desired to be '' noble " in all my 
 deeds and behavior (I say noble, and not blagorodnnii^ because 
 the French word has another meaning, which the Germans 
 understood when they adopted the word nobel.,'^ and did not 
 confound it with ehrlich) ; next to be pussionate ; and lastl}', 
 to be what I already had an inclination to be, as comme il 
 fant as possible. I even endeavored to resemble, in my per- 
 sonal appearance and habits, the heroes who possessed any 
 of these qualities. I remember that in one, out of the hun- 
 
 ' Kohel means noble, generous. Ehrlich siguilies honest, honorable, faithful, aud 
 so forth.
 
 YOUTH. 319 
 
 dreds of novels which I read that summer, there was an 
 excessively' passionate hero, witli thick e^^ebrows ; and I so 
 much desired to be like him exteruall}^ (1 felt myself to be 
 exactly like him morally) , that, as I examined my eyebrows 
 in the miiTor, it occurred to me to cut them a little, in order 
 that they might grow thicker; but when I began to cut them 
 1 chanced to shear away more in one place. I had to trim 
 it down evenly ; and when that was accomplished I looked 
 in the glass, and beheld myself, to my horror, without any 
 eyebrow's, and consequently very ugly indeed. HowcA'er, 1 
 took comfort in the hope that my brows would soon grow 
 out thick, like the passionate man's, and was onl}' disturbed 
 as to what our family would say when they should see me 
 without my eyebrows. I got some powder from Volodya, 
 rul>bed it on my eyebrows, and set fiie to it. Althongh the 
 powder did not flash up, I was sufficiently like a person who 
 has been burned. No one suspected m}' trick, and my brows 
 really did grow out much thicker after 1 had forgotten the 
 passionate man.
 
 320 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 СОММЕ IL FAUT. 
 
 Several times already, in the course of this narrative, T 
 have referred to the idea corresi)Ouding to this French head- 
 ing ; and now I feel the necessity of devoting a whole chapter 
 to this idea, which was one of the most false and pernicious 
 with which I was inoculated by education and society. 
 
 The human race may be separated into man}- classes, — 
 into rich and poor, good and bad, soldiers and civilians, into 
 clever people and stupid, and so on. But every man, with- 
 out exception, has his own favorite principal subdivisi(Лls 
 under which he mechanically classes each new individual. 
 My chief and favorite subdivision of people, at the time of 
 which I write, was into people who were comme il fant, and 
 peoi^le who were comme il ne faut pas. The second class 
 was again sulidivided into people wdio were simply not comme 
 il f'lut., and the common people. People who were comme il 
 faut, I considered worthy of holding equal intercourse with 
 me ; as for the second class, I pretended to despise them, 
 but in reality I hated them, and cherished towards them a 
 certain sense of personal injury ; the third did not exist for 
 me — 1 scorned them utterW- 3/}/ comme il faut consisted 
 lii'st and сЫейз?^ in an excellent knowledge of the French 
 tongue, and a good pronunciation in particular. A man Avho 
 did not pronounce French well instantly awakened a feeling 
 of hatred in me. " ЛУЬу do you want to talk like us, when 
 you don't know, how?" I asked him mentally, with biting 
 iron3\ The second condition of comme il faut was long, 
 clean, polished finger-nails ; a third was a knowledge of how- 
 to bow, dance, and converse ; a fourth, and very impoitant 
 one, was indifference to every thing, and the constant ex- 
 pression of a certain elegant, scornful ernmi. Besides these, 
 1 had general indications, by means of which I decided with- 
 out having spoken to a man, to which class he belonged.
 
 YOUTH. 321 
 
 The chief of these, besides the arransreinent of his room, his 
 ьея1, Ills handwriting, and his ecjuipage, was his feet. The 
 ri'hitions of his boots to his trousers immediately settled the 
 status of the man in ray eyes. Boots Avithout heels, with 
 pointed toes, and trousers with narrow bottoms, and Avithout 
 straps, — this was common; boots with round, narrow toes 
 aiul heels, and trousers narrow below with straps surrounding 
 ihe feet, or Avide with straps which arched over the toes like 
 canopies, — this was a man of mauvais getire; and so on. 
 It is strange that this idea should have so deeply inoculated 
 me, who was decidedly disqualified to be comme il faut. But 
 perhaps the very reason that it took such deep root in me was 
 because it cost me vast labor to acquire this comme il faid. 
 It is fearful to recall how much of my priceless time at the 
 best period of life, sixteen, 1 wasted in the acquirement of 
 this quality. It all seemed to come easily to all those whom 
 I imitated, — Volodya, Dubkoff, and the greater part of my 
 acquaintances. I gazed at them with envy, and labored 
 secretly at the French tongue, at the art of bowing, without 
 regard to the person 1 bowed to, at conversation, at dancing, 
 at cultivating indilTerence and ennui^ at my finger-nails. — 
 where I cut my ttesh with the scissors. — and all the while I 
 felt that much labor yet remained before ] should attain my 
 object. But as for my room, my writing-tal)le, my equipage 
 — -all these I did not in the least know how to arrange in 
 such a manner that the}' should be comme il faut, although I 
 strove to attend to it, in spite of my repugnance to practical 
 matters. But>it seemed as though these troubles all settled 
 tluunselves excellently with every one else, and as though 
 they could not l)e otherwise. I remember, once, after arduous 
 :ui(l fruitless labor over my nails, asking Dubkoff, whose 
 nails were woiderfuUy fine, whether they had been so long, 
 and how he managed it. Dubkoff replied, '' I Ьал^е never done 
 any thing, as far ])ack as I can remember, to make then) so, 
 and I don't understand how any nice man can have any other 
 kind of nails." This answer wounded me deeply. I did 
 not tlien know that one of the chief conditions of being 
 счипие il J'unt is secrecy witli I'cgnrd to tlie labors with 
 which that соыте il funl is ol)tained. Comme il faut was 
 not only a great merit, in my opinion, a very fine quality, a 
 perfection which I desired to attain, but it was tlie indispens- 
 able conditioi) in life, Avithout which tliere could le neither 
 hapi)iness, nor glory, nor any thing good in the 401 Id. 1
 
 322 YOUTH. 
 
 should not have respected a renowned artist, nor a savavt., 
 nor a benefactor of the human race, if he had not l)een 
 comme il fiut. The man who was comme il fdiit stood in- 
 oomparabl}' higher than the}' ; he aUowed them the liberty of 
 painting pictures, writing music and books, of doing good ; 
 he even praised them for so doing, for why should not good 
 be praised, in whatever it consisted? but he could not stand 
 on one level with them : he was comme il faut, and they were 
 not, and that was enough. It even seems to me that if we 
 had had a bi'other, a mother, or a father who was not comme 
 il f((ut, I should have said it was a misfortune, but that there 
 could be nothing in common between them and me. But 
 neither the loss of golden time, emph^yed in constant worry 
 over the observation of all the conditions of comme il funt 
 which were so difficult for me, which excluded every serious 
 interest, nor the hatred and contempt for nine-tenths of the 
 human race, nor the lack of attention to all the fine deeds 
 which took place outside the circle of the comme il faut, — 
 this Avas not the chief harm which this idea did me. The 
 chief harm consisted in the couAaction that comme il faut is a 
 fixed position In society ; that a man need not exert himself to 
 become either an official or a cartwright, a soldier or a savant, 
 if he is comme il font; that, having once attained this state, 
 he has fulfilled his vocation, and has even placed himself 
 above the level of the majority of mankind. 
 
 At a certain pei'iod of adolescence, after many blundei-s 
 and distractions, every man, as a rule, feels the necessity 
 of taking an active i)art in social life, selects some branch of 
 industry, and devotes himself to it ; but this rarely hapi)ens 
 with a man comme il faut. I have known, and I still know, 
 ' many, very many old people who are proud, self-confident, 
 sharp in their judgments, who, if the question were put to 
 them in the other world, "Who are you? What have you 
 done there below?" would not be able to return any other 
 answer than, '■'■ Je fus un homme tres comme il faut " (I was 
 .a thoroughly genteel man). 
 
 This fate awaited me.
 
 YOUTH. 325 
 
 tratecl the thicket, begin to l)um your head ; j'our desire to 
 eat has long since vanished, and you sit on in the wilderness, 
 and listen and look and meditate, and mechanically pull off 
 and swallow still more berries. 
 
 I generally Avent to the drawing-room at eleven, usually 
 after tea, when the ladies were already seated at their work. 
 Around the first window, curtained with a blind of un- 
 bleached linen, through a crevice of which the brilliant sim 
 casts such dazzling, fiery circles on every thing which comes 
 in its way that it pains the eyes to look at them, stands the 
 eml)roidery-frame, over whose white linen the flies promenade 
 peacefully. At the frame sits Mimi, shaking her head inces- 
 santl_y, in an angry manner, and moving from place to place 
 to escape the sun, which, suddenly breaking through some- 
 where or other, casts a burning streak of light now on her 
 hand, now on her face. Through the other three windows it 
 falls, with the shadows of the frames, in full, brilliant, 
 square patches. Upon one of these, on the unpainted floor 
 of the drawing-room, lies Milka, from ancient habit, and 
 pricks up her ears and watches the flies as they walk about 
 over the square of light. Katenka knits or reads, as she 
 sits on the sofa, and flourishes her white hands, which seem 
 transparent in the bright light, impatientl}', or shakes her 
 head, with a frown, in order to drive oft' the flies which have 
 crawled into her thick golden locks and are fluttering there. 
 Linbotchka either paces back and forth in the room, with 
 her hands behind her, waiting until they shall go into the 
 garden, or plays some piece upon the piano, with ever}' note 
 of which I have long been familiar. I seat myself some- 
 where, and listen to the music or the reading, and wait until 
 1 can sit down to the piano m3'self. After dinner I occa- 
 sionally condescended to ride on horseback with the girls (I 
 considered walking exercise unsuitable to mj^'age and posi- 
 tion in the world) ; and our excursions, during Avhich 1 led 
 them fhi-ough extraordinary places and галчпез, were vei-y 
 pleasant. Sometimes we had adventures, in Avhich I exhib- 
 ited great In-avery, and the ladies praised my riding and my 
 daring, and regarded me as their protector. In the evening, 
 if there are no visitors, after tea, which we drink in the 
 shady veranda, and after a stroll with papa on the business 
 of the estate, I lie down in my old place on the A'eranda, and 
 read and dream, as of old, as I listen to Katenka's and Liu- 
 botchka'a music. (Sometimes when I аш left alone in tlie
 
 326 YOUTH. 
 
 drawing-room, find Liuhotclika is playing some ancient music, 
 I drop my book, aud, gazing thi(nigh the open door of the 
 balcony at the curling, drooping boughs of the lofty beeches, 
 upon which the shadows of evening are already falling, and 
 at the pure heavens, in which, if 3'ou gaze fixedl}', a dusty 
 yellowish sjiot seems to appear all at once, and vanish again, 
 and lending an ear to the sounds of music from the hall, to 
 the creaking of the gate, tlie voices of women and the herd 
 returning to the A'illage, 1 suddenly recall Natalya Savischna 
 with great vividness, aud mamma, aud Karl Ivauitch, and 
 for a moment 1 feel sad. But my soul is so full of life 
 and hope at this period, that these memories only brush me 
 with their wings, and soar awa}'. 
 
 After supper, and sometimes after a walk b}' night in the 
 garden with some one, — 1 was afraid to traverse the dark 
 alleys alone, — I went off alone to sleep on the floor of the 
 veranda, which afforded me great pleasure, in spite of the 
 millions of mosQuitoes which devoured me. When the moon 
 was at the full, I often spent Avhole nights seated on my 
 mattress, gazing at the lights and shadows, listening to the 
 stillness aud the noises, dreaming of various subjects, espe- 
 aially of poetic and voluptuous bliss, which then seemed to 
 me to be the highest happiness in life, aud grieving because, 
 U'p to this time, it had been granted to me to imagine it oidy. 
 Sometimes when all have but just dispersed, and the lights 
 in the drawing-room have beeu transferred to the upper 
 chambers, where feminine voices, and the sound of windows 
 opening and shutting, have become audible, I betake myself 
 to the gallery, and pace it listenmg eagerly to all the sounds 
 of the house as it hipses into sleep. ISo long as there is the 
 smallest, unfounded hope of a bliss, even though incomi)lete, 
 such as that I dream of, I cannot calmly construct an ima- 
 ginary bliss f(>r nn'self. 
 
 At every sound of naked feet, at every cough, sigh, touch 
 given to a window, or rustle of a dress, I spring from my 
 bed, I hearken like a robber, I peer about, and become agi- 
 tated without any visible cause. But now tlie lights dis- 
 appear in the upper windows ; the sounds of footsteps and 
 conversation are replaced by snores ; the night-watchman 
 begins to tap upon his board ; the garden grows more 
 gloom^', and 3'et lirighter, as the streaks of red light from 
 the windows disappear from it ; the last candle flits from the 
 pantry to the ante-room, throwing a strip of light upon the
 
 YOUTH. 327 
 
 dewy garden ; and through the window I can see the bent 
 figure of Foka, on his лгау to bed, ckxd in a wrapper, and 
 with a candle in his hands. I often took a great and agi- 
 tating delight in creeping over the damp grass, in the black 
 shadow of the house, approaching the window of the ante- 
 room, and listening, as I held my breath, to the snores of the 
 l)oy. the groans of Foka, who supposed that no one could 
 hear him, and the sound of his aged \'oice as he recited 
 prayers for a long, long time. At length his last candle was 
 extinguished, the wukIow was slammed to, and I remained 
 quite alone ; and glanciug about on all sides, to see whether 
 there was a white woman anywhere, beside the clumps of 
 shrubbery or beside my bed, I hastened to the A^eranda 
 at a trot. And sometimes I lay on my bed with my face to 
 the garden, and, covering myself as much as possible from the 
 mosquitoes and bats, I gazed into the garden, listened to 
 the sounds of the night, and dreamed of love and bliss. 
 
 Then ever}- thing acquired another meaning for me ; and 
 the sight of the ancient beeches, as their branches on one 
 side shone in the light of the moonlit Ьеал'спз, on the other 
 side casting 1)lack shadows over the bushes and the road ; and 
 the calm, splendid gleam of the pond increasing like a sound ; 
 and the moonlit gleam of dewdrops upon the flowers in front 
 of the veranda, which threw their gi-aceful shadows acnjss 
 the gray beds ; and the sound of the snipe beyond the pond ; 
 and the л'о1се of a man on the highway ; and the quiet, 
 almost inaudible scraping of two old beeches against each 
 other ; and the hum of a mosquito over my ear and beneath 
 tlie coverlet ; and the fall of an apple which has been caught 
 on the dry bough, upon the dry leaves ; and the hops of the 
 frogs which sometimes even got so far as the A'eranda ste[»s, 
 and shone rather mysteriously in the moonlight with their 
 green backs. — all this assumed a strange significance for 
 me, the significance of a beauty too great, and of an endless 
 happiness. And then she appeared, with a long black braid 
 of hau', a swelling bosom, alwa^'s sad and very beautiful, 
 with bare arms and voluptuous embraces. She loved me, 
 and for one moment of her love I sacrificed my whole life. 
 But the moon rose higher and higher, brighter and brighter 
 in the sky ; the gorgeous gleam of the pond, swelling like a 
 sound, became clearer and clearer ; the shadows grew blacker 
 and Itlacker, the liglit more and more trans[)arent : and as I 
 looked upon and listened to it all, something told me that she
 
 328 YOUTH. 
 
 with her bare arms and fiery embrace was far, very far from 
 being the whole of liappiness, that love for her was far, лчм'у 
 far from being all of bliss ; and the more I gazed upon the 
 high, full moon, the more and more lofty, the purer and 
 purer, the nearer and nearer to Him, to the source of all 
 beauty and bliss, did true beauty and bliss seem to me ; and 
 tears of an unsatisfied but agitated joy rushed to my eyes. 
 
 And still I was alone, and still it seemed to me that this 
 mysteriousl\' magnificent nature, the bright sphere of the moon 
 which draws one to her, and hangs in a lofty but uncertain 
 spot in the pale blue heavens, and yet seems to stand every- 
 where as though filling with itself all immeasurable space, 
 and I, an insignificant worm, already stained with all poor, 
 petty earthly passions, but endowed also with a boundlessly 
 compelling power of imagination and of love, — it seemed to 
 me at such moments, as though nature and the moon and I 
 were all one and the same.
 
 YOUTH. 329 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 NEIGHBORS. 
 
 I HAD been veiy much surprised, the first dn}' we were in 
 the country, that papa should call the Epifanoffs fine people, 
 and still more surprised that he should go to their house. 
 There was a lawsuit of long standing between us and the 
 Epifanoffs. I had heard papa rage ол'ег this lawsuit many 
 a time when I was a child, storm at the Epifanoffs, and sum- 
 mon various people to defend him against them, as I under- 
 stood it ; I had heard Yakov call them our enemies, and 
 serfs ;^ and I remember how mamma requested that no men- 
 tion of these people might be made in her house or in her 
 presence. 
 
 On these data I had constructed for myself, in my child- 
 hood, such a fine and clear idea that the Epifanoffs were our 
 enemies., who were ready not only to cut papa's throat or to 
 strangle him, but that of his son also if they could catch him, 
 and that they were black people in the literq,! sense of the 
 word, that луЬеп I beheld Avdotya Vasilievna Epifanotf, 
 la belle Flamande., waiting upon mamma the year she died, 
 it was with difficulty that I could believe that she was one of 
 that family of black people ; and I still retained the basest 
 opiuion of this family. Although we often met them in the 
 course of this summer, I continued to be strongh' prejudiced 
 against the whole family. In reality, this was what the 
 P>pifanoffs were. The family consisted of the mother, a 
 widow of fifteen j^ears' standing, who was still a fresh and 
 merr}^ old lady, the beautiful daugliter Avdotya Vasilievna, 
 and a stuttering son, Piotr ^'asiIievitch, who лvas a retired 
 lieutenant, and a bachelor of a very serious character. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna Epifauoff had lived apart from her hus- 
 band for twenty years before his death, sometimes in Peter- 
 burg, where she had relatives, but for the most part in her 
 
 ^ Tchertiuie liudi, black people.
 
 330 YOUTH. 
 
 village of Muitishcha, which was situated at a distance of three 
 versts from us. Such horrors were related in the neighbor- 
 hood about her manner of life, that Messalina was an inno- 
 cent child in comparison with her. In consequence of this, 
 mamma requested that even the name of the EpifanoA'a might 
 not be mentioned in her house ; bul speaking entirely without 
 irony, it was impossible to believe even a tenth part of the 
 most malicious of all possible scandals, — the scandals of 
 neighbors in the counl ry. But when I knew Anna Dmitrievua, 
 although she had in the house a peasant business manager 
 named Mitiuscha. who was always pomaded and curled, and 
 dressed in a coat after the Circassian fashion, who stood 
 behind Anna Dmitrievua's chair at dinner, while she fre- 
 quently invited her guests in French in his presence to 
 admire his handsome e3'es and mouth, there was nothing of 
 the sort which rumor continued to talk about. In fact, it 
 appears that for the last ten years, from the time, indeed, 
 when Anna Dmiti'ievna had recalled her dutiful son Petruscha 
 from the service, she had entirely changed her manner of 
 life. 
 
 Anna Dmitrievna's estate was small, a hundred souls in all, 
 and her expenses dni-ing her gay life were large, so that ten 
 years before this, of course, the mortgages and double mort- 
 gages on her estate had fallen due, and its sale by auction 
 was unavoidable. Fancying in these extremities that the 
 trusteeship, the inventor}' of the estate, the arrival of the 
 judge, and such like unpleasantnesses arose not so much 
 from her failure to pay the interest, as from the fact that she 
 was a woman, Anna Dmitrievua wa-ote to her son, who was 
 with his regiment, to come to the rescue of his mother in this 
 strait. 
 
 Although Piotr Vasilievitch was doing so well in the service 
 that he hoped soon to be earning his own bit of bread, he 
 gave up every thing, went on the retired list, and like a 
 respectful son, who considered it as his first duty to comfort 
 his mother's old age (as he wrote with perfect sincerity in 
 his letters), came to the village. 
 
 Piotr Vasilievitch, in spite of his homely face, his awk- 
 wardness, and his stutter, was a man of very firm principles, 
 and remarkable practical sense. He kept possession of the 
 property by means of small loans, temporizing, prayers, and 
 promises. Having turned propertj'-owner, Piotr Vasilievitch 
 donned his father's fur-lined coat which had been laid up in
 
 YOUTH. 331 
 
 the storeroom, got rid of his horses and carriages, taught 
 visitors not to come to Muitishclia, dug drains, increased the 
 arable land, cut down the peasants' allotments, felled his 
 woods and sold them in a business-like way, and got b.is 
 affairs into order. Piotr Vasilievitch took a vow, and kept 
 it, that, until all the debts were paid, he would wear no other 
 clothes than his father's bekescha (coat), and a canvas pale- 
 tot which he made for himself, and that he would not ride 
 Ш any other way than in a telega with the peasants' work- 
 horses. He endeavored to impose this stoical manner of life 
 upon all the family, in so far as his servile respect for his 
 mother, which he considered his duty, permitted. In the 
 drawing-room he stammered, and conducted himself in the 
 most slavish manner towards his mother, fidlilled all her 
 wishes, scolded people if they did not do what Anna Dmi- 
 trievna commanded ; but in his own study, and in the office, 
 he called every one to strict account because a duck had been 
 sent to the table without his orders, or because a muzhik had 
 been sent by Anna Dmitrievna to inquire after some neigh- 
 bor's health, or because the peasant gii'ls had been sent to 
 the woods for raspberries, instead of being at work weeding 
 the garden. 
 
 In the course of three years, all the debts had been paid, 
 and Piotr Vasilievitch returned from a trip to JMoscow in 
 new clothes and a tarantass. But in spite of this flourish- 
 ing state of affairs, he still retained the same stoical procliv- 
 ities, in Avhich he seemed to take a glowing pride before his 
 олуп family and strangers ; and he often said with a stutter, 
 "Any one who really wants to see 2iie«will be glad to see 
 me in my tulup,^ and he will also eat m}' cabbage-soup and 
 gruel — I eat them," he added. Every w^ord and movement 
 expressed pride founded upon the consciousness that he had 
 sacrificed himself for his mother, and had redeemed the prop- 
 ert}', and scorn for others because they had done nothing of 
 the sort. 
 
 The characters of the mother and daughter wm-e totally 
 unlike this, and they differed from each other in many re- 
 spects. The mother was one of the most agreeal)le and 
 cheerful women in society, and always cquabW good-natured. 
 She really rejoiced iu every thing that was gay and pleasing. 
 She even possessed, in the higliest degree, the cai)acity of 
 enjoying the sight of young people making m-rry, which is a 
 
 1 Sheepskin coat.
 
 332 YOUTH. 
 
 trait encountered only in the most good-natured old people. 
 Her daughter, Avdotya Vasilievua, on the contrary, was of 
 a serious character ; or, rather, she possessed that peculiarly 
 indifferent, dreamy disposition, luiited to liaughtiness which 
 was utterl}^ without grounds, and which unmarried beauties 
 generally possess. When she Avished to be gay, her mirth 
 proved rather strange, as though she were laughing at herself, 
 at those with whom she spoke, or at all the world, which she 
 assuredly did not mean to do. I often wondered and ques- 
 tioned myself as to what she meant by such phrases as these : 
 " Yes, I am awfully handsome; of course everybody is in 
 love with me," and so on. Anna Dmitrievna was alwa^'s 
 active. She had a passion for arranging the little house 
 and garden, for flowers, canaries, and pretty things. Her 
 chambers and garden лvere not large or luxurious ; but every 
 thing was so clean, so neatly arranged, and every thing bore 
 such a geueral imprint of that daintily light mirth \vhieh 
 a pretty waltz or polka expresses, that the word toy, Avhich 
 was often used in commeiKlation by her guests, was particu- 
 larly suited to Anna Dmitrievna's tiny garden and apart- 
 ments. And Anna Dmitrievna herself was a toy — small, 
 thin, with a bright complexion, and pretty little hands, al- 
 ways merry, and always becomingly dressed. Only the 
 rather excessively swollen, dark-lilac veins which were traced 
 upon her little hands, disturbed this general character. 
 
 Avdotya Vasilievna, on the contrary, hardly ever did any 
 thing, and not only was not fond of busying herself over 
 flowers and dainty trifles, but she occupied herself too little 
 with herself, and alwjiys ran off to dress when visitors arrived. 
 But when she retui'ued dressed to the room, she was remark- 
 ably^ prett}', with the exception of the cold expression of her 
 eyes and smile, which is characteristic of all very hand- 
 some faces. Her strictly regular and very beautiful face 
 and her stately figure seemed to be constantly saving to 
 you, '^ You may look at me, if yon please." 
 
 But notwithstanding the vivacious character of the mother, 
 and the indifferent, dreamy exterior of the daughter, some- 
 thing told us that the former had never loved au}^ thing either 
 now or in times past, except what was prett}' and gay ; and 
 that Avdotya Vasilievna was one of those natures which, if 
 they once love, will sacritice their whole life to the one they 
 love.
 
 YOUTH. 333 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 father's marriage. 
 
 Father was forty-eight years old when he took AA'dot}'» 
 VasilieA'na P^pifanova for his second wife. 
 
 1 fancy that when papa came alone, in the spring, to the 
 country, with the girls, he was in that nervously happy and 
 sympathetic state of mind in which gamblers usually are 
 when they have ceased playing after large winnings. He 
 felt that much unexhausted luck yet remained for him, 
 Avhich, if he did not care to employ it any longer on cards, 
 he might expend upon general success in life. Moreover, it 
 was spring ; he was unexpectedly in possession of a good deal 
 of mone}' ; he was entirel}' alone, and bored. In discussing 
 matters with Yakov, and recalling the interminable lawsuit 
 with the Epifanoffs, and the l^eautiful Avdotya Vasilievna, 
 whom he had not seen for a long time, I can fancy how he 
 said to Yakov, " Do you know, Yakov Kharlamitch, 1 think 
 it would be better to yield that cursed piece of ground to 
 them than to go on with this suit ; hey ? What do you think ? " 
 
 I can imagine how Yakov's fingers twisted a negative be- 
 hind his back at such a question, and how he proved that 
 ^' we have the rights of that business, after all, Tiotr Alex- 
 androvitch." 
 
 But papa ordered the calash to be got ready, put on his 
 fasliionable olive coat, brushed tlie remains of his hair, 
 S[)riukled his handkerchief Avitli perfume, and in the most 
 cheei-ful frame of mind, which was inspired in him by the 
 conviction that he was acting in a lordly way, and chiefly by 
 the hope of seeing a pratty woman, he drove off to his 
 neighbor's. 
 
 I only know that papa, at his visit, did not find Piotr 
 Vasilievitch, who was in the fields ; and he passed an hour 
 or two with the ladies. I can imagine how he overflowed 
 with amiability, how he charmed them, as he tapped the
 
 334 YOUTH. 
 
 floor with his soft boots, whispered, and made slioep's-eyes. 
 1 can imagine, too, how the merry little old woman con- 
 ceived a sndden tender affection for him, and how animated 
 her cold and beautiful daughter became. 
 
 When the maid-servant ran panting to announce to Piotr 
 Vasilievitch that old Irteneff himself had come, I can ima- 
 gine how he answered angrily, '•• Well, what of it? What 
 has he come for?" and how, in consequence of this, he 
 returned home as quietly as possible, and perhaps even turn- 
 ing in to his study, put on his dirty paletot expressly, and 
 sent word to the cook not to dare, under any circumstances 
 whatever, to make an^- additions to the dinner, even if the 
 ladies ordered it. 
 
 J often saw papa in Epifanoff's company afterwards, so 
 that 1 can form a vivid idea of that first meeting. I can im- 
 agine how, in spite of the fact that papa offered to terminate 
 that suit peacefull3', Piotr Vasilievitch was gloomy and angry 
 because he had sacrificed his career to his mother, and papa 
 had done nothing of the sort, and so did not admire him in 
 the least ; and how papa, pretending not to see this gloom, 
 was merry and playful, and treated him as a wonderful jester, 
 which at times rather offended Piotr Vasilievitch, though he 
 could not help yielding to him occasionally, against his will. 
 Papa, with his proclivity for turning every thing into jest, 
 called Piotr Vasilievitch Colonel, for some reason or other ; 
 and in s[)ite of the fact that Epifanoff once remarked, in my 
 presence, reddening with A^exatiou, and stuttering even worse 
 than usual, that he "• was not a co-co-co-co-lonel, but a lieu- 
 lieu-lieu-lieutenant," papa called him Colonel again five min- 
 utes afterwards. ^ 
 
 Liubotciika told me, that before our arrival in the village 
 he saw the Epifanoffs every (\ixy, and was extremely gay. 
 Papa, with his faculty for ari'anging every thing in a certain 
 original, jesting, and at the same time simple and elegant 
 manner, had got up hunting and fishing parties, and some 
 fireworks, at which the Epifanoff's had been present. And 
 tilings would liave been jollier still, said Liubotchka, if it 
 had not been for that intolerable Piotr Vasilievitch, who 
 pouted and stuttered, and upset every thing. 
 
 But that is what I contrived to observe during the time 
 
 1 The touch of probability neccssaiy to allow Irteneff to do this without seeming 
 to intend a direct offence is furnished by the similarity of the lirst syllables of the 
 words iu liussiau : pulkocnik nud porutchi/c.
 
 YOUTH. 335 
 
 that I saw papa with Dunitchka, as mamma had called her. 
 Papa was coustantly in that hai)p_y mood which had struck 
 me on the day of our arrival. He was so gay and young, 
 and full of life and happiness, that the beams of this happi- 
 ness spread over all about him, and involuntarily infected 
 them with the same mood. He never went so much as a stei) 
 apart from Avdotya Л"а81Иеупа when she was in the room, 
 and paid her incessantly' such sweet compliments, that I felt 
 ashamed for him ; or he sat gazing at her in silence, and 
 twitched his shoulders in a passionate and self-satisfied sort 
 of way, and coughed ; and sometimes even whispered to her 
 smilingly. All this was done with that expression, ihixt jest- 
 ing way, which Avas characteristic of him in the most serious 
 matters. 
 
 Avdot3'a Vasilievna seemed to Ьал^е appropriated to herself 
 from papa the expression of happiness, which at this period 
 beamed in her great blue eyes almost constantly, with the 
 exception of the moments when such shyness took possession 
 of her, all of a sudden, that it made me, who was acquainted 
 with the feeling, pained and sony to look at her. At such 
 moments, she visibly feared every glance and movement ; 
 it seemed to her as though every one were staring at her, 
 thinking only of her, and considered every thing about her 
 improper. iShe glanced timidly at all ; the color constantly 
 flooded her face, and retreated from it; and she began to talk 
 loudly and daringl}', uttering nonsense for the most part, and 
 slie was conscious of it, and conscious that everybody includ- 
 ing papa was listening, and then she blushed still more. But 
 in such cases, papa did not even observe the nonsense, but 
 went on coughing as passionately as ever, and gazing at her 
 with joyous rai)ture. I observed that, although Avdotya's 
 fits of shyness came upon her without an}' cause, they some- 
 times immediately followed the mention of some young and 
 beautiful woman in pai)a's presence. The constant transi- 
 tions from thoughtfulness to this strange, awkward gayet}' 
 of hers, of which I have already spoken, the repetition of 
 papa's favorite words and turns of speech, her way of con- 
 tinuing with other people discussions which had been begun 
 with papa, all this would have explained to me the relations 
 which existed between papa and Avdotya Vasilievna, had the 
 person in question been au}' one but my own father, and had 
 I been a little older ; but I suspected nothing, even wlieu 
 papa, on receiving in my presence a letter from Tiotr Vabilie-
 
 336 YOUTH. 
 
 vitch, was very much put out, and ceased his visits to the 
 Epifanoffs until the end of August. 
 
 At the end of Aug'ust, papa again began to visit our 
 neighbors ; and on the day before Volodya and I set out for 
 Moscow, he announced to us that he was going to marry 
 Avdotya Vasilievn'i.
 
 YOUTH. 337 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 НОЛУ AVE RECEIVED THE NEWS. 
 
 ■ Every one in the house had known the fact on the day 
 before the official announcement, and A^arious verdicts had 
 been pronounced on it. Mimi did not leave her room all 
 day, and cried. Katenka sat with her, and only came out 
 to dinner, with an injured expression of countenance whicli 
 she had evidentl}- borrowed froin her mother. Liul)otchka, 
 on the contrary, was very cheerful, and said at dinner that 
 she knew a splendid secret which she would not tell any one. 
 
 " There's nothing splendid in your secret," said Volodya, 
 who did not share her satisfaction : " on the contrary, if you 
 were capable of thinking of any thing serious, you would un- 
 derstand that it is л'ег}' bad." Liubotchka looked at him 
 intently in amazement, and said nothing. 
 
 After dinner, \"oh)dya wanted to take me by the arm ; but 
 fearing probably that this would be too much like tenderness, 
 he merely touched me on the elbow, and motioned me to the 
 hall with a nod. 
 
 " Do you know the secret which Liubotchka mentioned? " 
 he said to me, when he had satislied himself that we were 
 alone. 
 
 Volodya and I rarely talked to each other face to face about 
 an}' thing serious, so that when it did happen, we felt a kind 
 of mutual awkwardness, and little bo^s began to dance in 
 our eyes, as Volodya expressed it ; but now, in answer to the 
 consternation expressed in my e\cs, he continued to stare 
 me steadily and seriously in the eye with an expression which 
 said, " There's nothing to be а1агт(ч1 about, but we're broth- 
 ers all the same, and nmst consult together upon a weighty 
 family matter." I understood him, and he proceeded: 
 
 " Papa is going to marry the Epifanova, you know? " 
 
 I nodded, liecause I iiad already heard about it. 
 
 " It's not nice at all," went on N'olodya.
 
 338 YOUTH. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Why?" he replied with A'exation : "it's л'егу pleasant 
 to have such a stammering uncle, a colonel, and all those con- 
 nections. Yes, and she only seems good now ; but that proves 
 nothing, and who knows what she'll turn out? Granted that 
 it makes no difference to us, still Liubotchka must soon come 
 out in the world. It's not very pleasant with such a step- 
 mother ; she even speaks French badly, and what manners 
 she may give her ! She's a fish-wife and nothing more : sup- 
 pose she is good, she's a fish-wife all the same," concluded 
 Volodya, evidentl}' very much pleased with this appellation 
 of " fish- wife." 
 
 8ti'ange as it was to me to hear Volodya thus calmU' pass 
 judgment on pai)a's choice, it struck me that he was right. 
 
 " Why does papa marry? " I inquired. 
 
 "It's a queer story; God only knows. All I know is, 
 that Piotr Alexandrovitch pei'suaded him to marry, and de- 
 manded it ; that papa did not wish to, and then he took a 
 fancy to, out of some idea of chivalry : it's a queer story. 
 I have but just begun to understand father," went on Volo- 
 dya (his calling him " father" instead of " papa" wounded 
 me deeply) ; "that he is a very fine man, good and intelli- 
 gent, but so light-minded and fickle : it's amazing ! He 
 can't look at a луотап with any coolness. Wh3% you know 
 that lie has never been acquainted with any woman, that he 
 has not been in love with her. You know it's so ; and even 
 wilh Mimi." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I tell you that I found out a while ago that he was in 
 love Avitli Mimi when she was young, wrote her verses, and 
 there was something between them. Mimi suffers to this 
 day." And Volodya broke into a laugh. 
 
 " It can't be so ! " I said in amazement. 
 
 " But the chief point," continued Volodya, becoming 
 serious again, and beginning suddenly to speak in French, 
 "is, how agreeable such a marriage will be to all our kin! 
 And she'll be sure to have children." 
 
 Volodya's sensible view, and his foresight, startled me so 
 that I did not know what to say in reply. 
 
 Just then Liubotchka approached us. 
 
 " So you know? " she asked, лvith a glad face. 
 
 "Yes," said Volodya; "but I am surprised, Liubotchka. 
 You are no longer a child iu swaddlino-olothes : how can
 
 YOUTH. 339 
 
 3^u feel glad that papa is going to marry a worthless 
 woman? " 
 
 Liiibotehka suddenly' looked grave, and became thoughtful. 
 
 " Volodya ! why do you say worthless? How dare j'ou 
 speak so of Avdotya Vasilievna? If papa is going to marry 
 her. then of course she is not worthless." 
 
 "Well, not worthless; that was only m}' way of putting 
 it : but still" — 
 
 "There's no 'but still' about it," broke in Liubotchka, 
 with warmth. " 1 didn't say that the young lady you are in 
 love with was worthless. How can you say it about papa 
 and an excellent woman, even if you are my eldest brother? 
 Don't say that to me : you must not sa}' it." 
 
 " And why can't one judge " — 
 
 " Such a father as ours must not be judged," inter- 
 rupted Liubotchka again. "Mimi may judge, but not you, 
 my ' eldest brother. ' ' 
 
 " No, you understand nothing about it yet," said Л^olodз'a 
 contemptuously. " Listen. Is it a good thing that some 
 Epifanova, Danitclika, should take the place of your dead 
 mother? " 
 
 Liubotchka remained silent for a minute, and then all at 
 once tears rose to her eyes. 
 
 " I knew that you were proud, but I did not know that 
 З'ои wei'e so wicked." said she, and left us. 
 
 " V biilkii / " ^ said Volod_va. pulling a gravely comical face, 
 and with troubled eyes. "Just try to argue with them," he 
 went on, as though reproaching himself for having forgotten 
 himself to such a degree as to make up his mind to conde- 
 scend to a conversation with Liubotchka. 
 
 The weather was bad on the following day, and neither 
 papa nor the ladies had ccme down for their tea when I 
 entered the drawing-room. There had been a cold autunmal 
 rain during the night ; the remains of the clouds, which had 
 emptied themselves over night, were still Hying through the 
 sky ; the sun, which had already risen (piite high, shone 
 dimly through them, and was designated by a bright circle. 
 It was windy, damp, and cold. The door was oi)en into the 
 garden ; pools of the night-rain were di-ying otf the pavement 
 of the terrace, which was black with moisture. The wind 
 was swinging the open door l)aek and fortli on its hinges ; 
 the paths were damp and muddy ; the old birches, with their 
 
 * Nonsense iu the secret jargon explained in chap. xxix.
 
 340 YOUTH. 
 
 bare white boughs, the bushes and the grass, the nettles, the 
 currants, the elder, with the pale side of its leaves turned 
 out, struggled each on its own spot, and seemed to want to 
 tear themselves from their roots ; round yellow leaves flew, 
 twisting and chasing each other, from the Hnden-alley, and, 
 as they became wet through, spread themselves on the wet 
 road, and on the damp, dark-green aftermath of the meadow. 
 My thoughts were occupied with my father's second mar- 
 riage, from the point of view from which A'olodj'a had looked 
 at it. The future of ray sister, our future, and even that of 
 my father, promised nothing good to me. I was troubled by 
 the thought that an outsider, a stranger, and. most of all, a 
 уапид woman, who had no right to it, should all at once take 
 the place, in many respects, — of whom? She was a simple 
 young lady, and she was taking ihe place of my dead mother ! 
 1 was sad. and my father seemed to me more and more guilty. 
 At that moment, I heard his voice and Volodya's talking in 
 the butler's pantry. I did not want to see my father just at 
 tliat moment, and I passed out through the door; but Liu- 
 botchka came for me. and said that papa was asking for me. 
 
 He was standing in the drawing-room, resting one hand 
 on the piano, and gazing in ray direction impatiently, and at 
 the same time triumphantly. That expression of youth and 
 happiness which I had observed upon his face during all this 
 period was not there now. He looked troiibled. Volodya 
 was walking about the room with a pipe in his hand. I 
 went up to my father, and said good-morning to him. 
 
 •• Well, my friends," he said, with decision, as he raised 
 his head, and in that peculiar, brisk tone in which paljjably 
 disagreeable things, which it is too late to judge, are spoken 
 of, 'M'ou know, i think, that I am going to marry Avdotya 
 Л^а81Иеупа." (He remained silent for a while.) "I never 
 wanted to marry after your mamma, but " — (he paused for 
 a moment) "but — but it's evidently fate. Dunitchka is a 
 dear, kind girl, and no longer very young. I hope you will 
 love her, children ; and she already loves you heartil}-, and 
 she is good. Now," he said, turning to me and Volodya, 
 and apparently making haste to speak, lest we should suc- 
 ceed in interrupting, "■ it's time for 3'ou to leave here ; but I 
 shall remain until the new year, when I shall come to IMos- 
 cow " (again he hesitated) '^ with my wife and Liubotchka." 
 It pained me to see my father seem so timid and guilty 
 before us, and I stepped up closer to him ; but Volodya con-
 
 тоитп. 341 
 
 tinued to smoke, and paced the room with drooping head. 
 " 80, ray friends, this is what your old man has devised," 
 concluded papa, as he blushed and coughed, and pressed 
 Volodya's hand and mine. There were tears in his eyes when 
 he said it ; and I observed that the hand which he extended 
 to Volodya, who was at the other end of the room at the 
 moment, trembled a little. The sight of this trembling hand 
 impressed me painfully, and a strange thought occurred to 
 me, and touched me still more : the thought came to me 
 that papa had served in the year '12, and had been a brave 
 officer, as was well known. I retained his large, muscular 
 hand, and kissed it. He pressed mine vigorously ; and, 
 gulping down his tears, he siiddenl}- took Liubotchka's black 
 head in both hands, and began to kiss her on the eyes. 
 Volodya pretended to drop his pipe ; and, stooping over, he 
 slyly wiped his eyes with his fist, and left the room, making 
 an effort to do so unobserved.
 
 342 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THE иЛЧУЕК81ТТ. 
 
 The wedding was to take place in two weeks ; but our 
 lectui'es had begim, and Volodya and I went back to Moscow 
 at the beginning of September. The Nekhliudoffs had also 
 returned from the country-. Dmitri (we had promised when 
 we parted to write to each other, and of course we had not 
 done so a single time) immediately came to me, and we 
 decided that, on the following day, he should take me to the 
 univ.ersity for my first lecture. 
 
 i It was a brilliant, sunny day. 
 
 \ As soon as I entered the auditorium, I felt that my per- 
 sonality disappeared in this throng of gay young fellows 
 which undulated noisil}' through all the doors and corridors 
 in the brilliant sunlight. The sensation of knowing that I 
 was a member of this large compau}' was very pleasant. 
 But very few among all these individuals were known to me, 
 and the acquaintance was limited to a nod of the head, and 
 tlie words, "■ How are you, Irteneff?" But, all around me, 
 they were shaking hands with each other and chatting, — 
 words of friendship, smiles, good-will, jests, showered from 
 all quaiters. Everywheie I was conscious of the bond which 
 united all this youthful company, and I felt sadly that this 
 bond had missed me in some way. But this was ovAy a 
 momentary impression. In consequence of this and of the 
 vexation thereby engendered, on the contrary, I even dis- 
 covered л'ег}^ speedily that it was a very good thing that I 
 did not belong to this outre society ; that I must have my 
 own little circle of nice people ; and I seated myself on the 
 third bench, where sat Count В., Baron Z., Prince P., lyiu, 
 and other gentlemen of that class, of луЬош I knew only 
 Iviu and the Count. I set about observing all that went on 
 around me. SemenofT, with his gray, rumpled hair and his 
 white teeth, and with his coat unbuttoned, sat not far from
 
 YOUTH. 343 
 
 me, propping himself np on his elbows, and gnawing at a 
 pen. The gymnasist, who had stood first in the examina- 
 tion, was sitting npon the first bench, with his neck still 
 bonnd up in the black neckcloth, and placing with a silver 
 watch-key upon his satin vest. Ikonin, who had got into 
 the universit}^, was seated on the highest bench, in blue 
 trousers with spring liottoms, laughing and shouting that he 
 was on Parnassus, llinka, who, to my amazement, saluted 
 me not only coldl}', but even scornfully, as if desirous of 
 reminding me that we were all equal here, seated himself in 
 front of me, and, putting up his thin legs upon the bench 
 in a particularly free and easy way (for my benefit, as it 
 seemed to me), chatted with another student, and glanced at 
 me now and then. 
 
 The Ivin part}' beside .me conversed in French. These 
 gentlemen seemed to me frightfully stupid. Every word of 
 their conversation which I overheard not onlj' seemed to me 
 senseless but incorrect, simply not French at all. ('' Ce 
 n' est pas frangais^" 1 said to myself in my own mind) ; and 
 the attitudes, speeches, and behavior of Semenott, llinka, 
 and others, seemed to me ignoble, ungentlemanly, not 
 '' comme il faut." 
 
 I did not belong to any company ; and conscious of my 
 isolation, and my unfitness for making approaches, I became 
 angry. One student on the bench in front of me was biting 
 his nails, which were all red with hangnails ; and this seemed 
 so revolting to me that I even moved my seat farther away 
 from him. But in my inmost soul I remember that this first 
 day was a very doleful one for me. 
 
 When the professor entered, and all ])egan to rustle about, 
 and then became silent, I remember that I extended my 
 satirical view of things to the professor, and I was surprised 
 that the professor should begin his lecture with an intro- 
 ductory phrase which had no sense, accoi'ding to my oi>inion. 
 I wanted the lecture to begin at the end, and to be so wise 
 that nothing could be cut out nor a single word added to it. 
 Having been undeceived in this resi)ect, 1 innnediately 
 sketched eighteen profiles, joined together in a circle like a 
 wreath, under the heading, '^ First Lecture," inscribed in 
 the handsomely bonnd note-book which I had brought with 
 me, and only moved my hand across the paper now and then 
 so that the professor (who, I was convinced, was paying a 
 great deal of attention to me) might think that I was writing.
 
 344 YOUTH. 
 
 Having decided, during this same lecture, that it was not 
 necessary to write down every thing that every professor 
 said, and that it would even be stupid to do so, 1 kept to 
 that rule during the whole of my course. 
 
 At the succeeding lectures I did not feel my isolation so 
 strongly ; I made many acquaintances, shook hands and 
 chatted : but for some reason or other no real union took 
 place between me and my comrades, and it still frequently 
 happened that I was sad, and that 1 dissimulated. I could 
 not join the company of Ivin and the aristocrats, as they 
 were called, because, as I now remember, I was rough and 
 savage with them, and only bowed to them when they bowed 
 to me ; and they evidently had very little need of m\' ac- 
 quaintance. But this took place for a very different reason 
 witli tlie majorit^^ As soon as I was conscious that a com- 
 rade was beginning to be favorably inclined towards me, I 
 immediately gave him to understand that I dined at Prince 
 Ivan Ivanitch's, and that I had a drozhkз^ All this I said 
 simply for the sake of showing myself off in a more favor- 
 able light, and in order that my comrade might love me all 
 the more ; but in almost every instance, on the contrary, to 
 my amazement, my comrade suddenly became proud and 
 cold towards me in consequence of the news of m}' relation- 
 ship with Prince Ivan. 
 
 AVe had among us a student maintained at the expense of 
 the crown, Operoff, a modest, extremel}^ capable, and zeal- 
 ous young man, who always gave his hand to every one like 
 a board, without bending his lingers or making any move- 
 ment with it, so that the jesters among his comrades some- 
 times shook hands with him in the same way, and called it 
 shaking hands ''like a board." I almost always sat beside 
 him, and we frequently conversed. Operoff pleased me par- 
 ticularly by the free opinions to which he gave utterance, 
 about the professors. He defined, in a very clear and cate- 
 gorical manner, the merits and defects of each professor's 
 instruction ; and he even ridiculed them sometimes, which 
 produced a particularly strange and startling effect upon me, 
 as it came from his very small mouth in his quiet voice. 
 Nevertheless, he carefully wrote down all the lectures, with- 
 out exception, in his minute hand. AVe had begun to make 
 friends, we had decided to prepare our lessons together, and 
 his small, gray, short-sighted eyes had already begun to tui'n 
 to me with pleasure, луЬеп I went and seated myself beside
 
 YOUTH. 345 
 
 him in my own place. But I found it necessary to explain 
 to him once, in tiie course of conversation, that when my 
 mother was dying she had begged my father not to send us 
 to any institutions supported bj' the crown, and that all crown 
 scholars, though the}' might be very learned, were not at all 
 the thing for me : " Ce ne sont pas des gens comme il f<(ut," 
 "• 1Ъез' are not genteel," said I, stammering, and conscious 
 that 1 blushed for some reason or other. Operotf said noth- 
 ing to me ; but at succeeding lectures he did not greet me first, 
 did not give me his board, did not address me, and when I 
 seated myself in my place he bent his head sideways on his 
 finger away from the books, and pretended that he was not 
 looking on. I was surprised atOperoff's causeless coldness. 
 But I considered it improper for a j'oung man of good birth 
 to coax the crown student Operoff; and I left him in peace, 
 although his coolness grieved me, I must confess. Once I 
 arrived earlier than he, and as the lecture was by a favorite 
 professor, and the students who were not in the habit of 
 attending lectures had flocked to it, and all the seats were 
 occupied, I sat down in Operoff' s place, laid my note-boolcs 
 on the desk, and went out. On my return to the auditorium 
 I was surprised to find ni}- note-books removed to the rear 
 bench, and Operoff seated in his own place. I remarked to 
 him that I had laid my books there. 
 
 "I don't know," he retorted, suddenly flashing up, and 
 not glancing at me. 
 
 "I tell зюи that I placed m}' books there," said, I pur- 
 posely beginning to get heated, and tliinking to frighten him 
 with my boldness. "Everybody saw it," I added, glancing 
 round at the students ; but although many of them looked at 
 me with curiosity, no one replied. 
 
 " Places are not purchased here ; the one who comes first 
 takes his seat," said Operoff, settling himself angrih' in his 
 place, and casting a fleeting and agitated glance upon me. 
 
 '' That means tliat you are ill-bred," said I. 
 
 It seemed as though Operoff" muttered something ; it ел'сп 
 seemed as though he muttered that I was " a stupid little 
 boy," but I certainly did not hear it. And what would have 
 been the good if I had heard it? should v,e revile each other 
 like rustic louts? (I was very fond of the word manant, 
 and it served me as an answer and a solution in many a com- 
 plicated affair.) Perhaps I might have said something more ; 
 but just then the door slammed, and the professor, in his
 
 346 ' YOUTTL 
 
 blue frock-coat, entered his desk with a scrape of his 
 foot. 
 
 However, when I needed the note-books, before the exam- 
 inations, OperotT, remembering his promise, offered me his, 
 and invited me to study them with him.
 
 YOUTH. 347 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 AFFAIRS OF THE HEART. 
 
 Affairs of the heart engrossed my attention a good deal 
 in the course of the winter. I was in love three times. Once 
 I fell passionately in 1ол'е with a very plump lady who rode 
 in the Freytag riding-school, in consequence of which I went 
 to the school every Tuesday and Friday — the days on which 
 she rode — in order to gaze at her ; but on every occasion I 
 was feo much afraid that she would see me, and for that 
 reason I always stood so far away from her, and fled so 
 precipitately from the place where slie had to pass through, 
 and turned aside so negligently when she glanced in my di- 
 rection, tliat I did not even get a good look at her face, and 
 to this day I do not know whether she was actually pretty 
 or not. 
 
 Dubkoff, who was acquainted with this lady, once caught 
 me at the school hiding behind a footman, and the fur cloaks 
 which he was carrying; and having learned of my passion 
 from Dmitri, he so friglitened me with a proposal to intro- 
 duce me to this amazon, that I fled lieadlong from the place ; 
 and the very idea that he had told her about me prevented 
 my ever daring to enter the school again, even as fai- as tlie 
 lackeys, from the fear of meeting her. 
 
 When I was in love with strangers, and especially with 
 married women, I was overwhelmed with a shyness which was 
 a thousand times more powerful than that which I had expe- 
 rienced in .Sonitchka's case. I feared, more than any thing 
 else in the world, that the object of my love would discover 
 it, and even my existence. It seemed to me that if she heaid 
 of the sentiments which I entertained towards her, it would 
 be such an insult to her that she would never be able to for- 
 give me. And, in fact, if that amazon had known in detail 
 how, when I peeped at her from l)ehind the lackeys, I medi- 
 tated seizing her, and carrying her off to the country, and
 
 / 
 
 348 YOUTH. 
 
 how I was going to Iwe there with her, and what I was going 
 to do, she might perhaps with justice liave felt л^егу much 
 insulted. But I could not clearly imagine tliat if she knew 
 me she would not also instantly know all my thoughts, and 
 that therefore there was nothing disgraceful in simply making 
 her acquaintance. 
 
 I fell in love again with Sonitchka when I saw her with 
 my sister. My second love for her had passed away long 
 ago ; but I fell in love for the third time, because Liu- 
 botchka gave me a volume of verses which Sonitchka had 
 copied, in which many gloomily amorous passages from 
 Lermoutoff's "Demon" were underlined in red ink, and 
 had flowers laid in to mark them. Recalling how Volodya 
 had kissed his lady-love's little purse the year before, I tried 
 to do the same ; and in fact, when, alone in my room in 
 the evening, I fell into reveries, and pressed my lips to the 
 flowers as I gazed upon them, I was conscious of a certain 
 agreeably tearful sentiment, and was in love again, or at 
 least fancied I was, for several days. 
 
 And, finally, I fell in love for the third time that winter, 
 with the young lady with whom Volodya was in love, and 
 who visited at our house. As I now recall that young lady, 
 there was nothing pretty about her, and nothing of that par- 
 ticular beauty which generally pleased me. She was the 
 daughter of a well-known intellectual and learned lady of 
 INIoscow ; she was small, thin, with long blonde curls of 
 English fashion, and a transparent profile. Ever^-bod}' said 
 that this young lady was more clever and learned than her 
 mother ; but I could form no judgment whatever on this 
 point, for, feeling a kind of passion-fraught terror at the 
 thought of her cleverness and learning. I only spoke to her 
 once, and that with inexpressible trepidation. But the 
 ecstasy of Volodya, who was never restrained by the presence 
 of others in the expression of his raptures, was communi- 
 cated to me with such force that I fell passionately in love 
 with the young woman. As I felt that the news that two 
 brothers were in love with the same young woman would not 
 be agreeable to Volod}^^, I did not mention my love to him. 
 But, on the contrary, that which afforded me the greatest 
 satisfaction in this sentiment was that our love was so 
 pure, that, although its object was one and the same charm- 
 ing being, we should remain friends, and ready, should the 
 emergency occur, to sacrifice ourselves for each other. II
 
 YOUTH. 349 
 
 appefired, however, with regard to the readiness for sacrifice, 
 that Volodya did not sliare my feeling at all ; for he was so 
 passionatel}' enamoured, that he wanted to slap a genuine 
 di[)lomat's face, and challenge him to a duel, because he was 
 to marry her, as it was said. It was very agreeable to me 
 to sacrifice my feelings, probably because it cost me no 
 effort, so that I only spoke to the young lady once, and that 
 in a fantastic kind of way, about the worth of scientific 
 music ; and my love passed away on the following vv^eek, as I 
 made no endeavor to cherish it.
 
 S50 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE AVORLD. 
 
 The worldl}' pleasures to which I had dreamed of devoting 
 m3'self when I entered the university, in imitation of my elder 
 brother, quite disenchanted me during the winter. VolocWa 
 danced a great deal, papa also went to balls with his young 
 wife ; but they must have considered me still too youthful or 
 unfitted for such pleasures, and no one introduced me in 
 those houses when balls were given. In spite of my promise 
 of frankness to Dmitri, I did not speak to any one, even to 
 him, of my desire to go to balls, and of how it pained and 
 vexed me that I was forgotten, and evidentl}^ regarded as a 
 philosopher, which I pretended to be in consequence. 
 
 But in the course of the winter. Princess Kornakova had 
 an evening party. She invited all of us herself, and me 
 among the rest; and I was to go to a ball for the first time. 
 Voloclya came to my room before he set out. and wanted to 
 see how I was dressed. This proceeding on his part greatly 
 sui'prised and abashed me. It seemed to me that the desire 
 to be well dressed was very disgraceful, and that it was neces- 
 sary to conceal it ; he,- on tlie other hand, considered this 
 desire natural and indispensable to such a degree, that he 
 said ver}' frankly that he was afraid I should do myself dis- 
 credit. He ordered me to be sure to don varnished shoes, 
 and was struck with horror when I wanted to put on chamois- 
 leather gloves, arranged my watch for me in a particular wa}', 
 and carried me off to the hair-dresser's on the Kuznetzky 
 bridge. They curled my hair : Volodya stepped off, and 
 viewed me from a distance. 
 
 "There, that's good, but can't 3'ou flatten down the hair 
 where it parts on the crown?" he said, turning to the hair- 
 dresser. 
 
 But in spite of all M. Charles's anointing of my tuft with 
 some gummy essence, it stood up the same as ever when I
 
 YOUTH. 351 
 
 put on my hat ; and altogether niy appearance when curled 
 seemed to me much uglier even than before. My only salva- 
 tion was an affectation of negligence. Only in this way was 
 my exterior like any thing whatever. 
 
 Volodya, it appears, was of the same opinion, for he 
 begged me to get rid of the curls ; and when I had done this, 
 and still did not look well, he did not glance at me again, and 
 was silent and gloomy all the way to the Korna'.ioffs' house. 
 
 1 entered the Kornakoffs' apartments boldly with Volodya ; 
 but when the Princess invited me to dance, and I said, for 
 some reason or other, that I did not dance, in spite of the 
 fact that I had come with the sole idea of dancing a very 
 great deal, I grew timid ; and when I was left alone with 
 people whom I did not know, I lapsed into my ordinary in- 
 surmountable and ever-increasing shyness. I stood dumb in 
 one place the entire evening. 
 
 During a waltz, one of the Princesses came up to me, 
 and, with the official amiability which was common to the 
 entire family, asked me why I was not dancing? I remember 
 how shy I grew at this question, but how at the same time, 
 and quite involuntarily so far as I was concerned, a self- 
 satistied smile spread over my countenance, and I began to 
 utter such nonsense in pompous French full of parentheses, 
 that it makes me ashamed to rememlier it now after the lapse 
 of ten years. The music must have thus acted upon ine, ex- 
 citing my nerves, and drowning," as I supposed, the not л'сгу 
 intelligible portion of my speech. I said something about 
 the highest society, about the frivolity of men and women ; 
 and at last I got so entangled that I came to a standstill in 
 the middle of a word in some sentence or other, which there 
 was no possibility of completing. 
 
 Even the Princess, who was worldly by nature, became^ 
 confused, and gazed reproachfully at me. I smiled. At that 
 critical moment, Volodya, who had perceived that I was 
 speaking with Avarmth, and pr()l)al)ly Avanted to know how I 
 was making up for not dancing by my conversation, ap- 
 proached us with Dubkoff. On perceiving m}' smiling face 
 and the frightened mien of the I'rincess, and hearing the 
 frightful stuff with which I wound up, he reddened, and 
 turned away. The Princess rose and left me. I went on 
 smiling, but suffered so much from the consciousness of my 
 stupidity, that I was read}' to sink through the eai-fli, and 
 1 felt the necessity of making some movement, at any cost,
 
 352 YOUTFI. 
 
 and of sa3nng soraetliing to effect some change in my posi- 
 tion. I went up to DubkotF, and inquired if lie liad danced 
 many waltzes with her. ' By this I seemed to be jesting and in 
 a merry mood, but in reality 1 was beseeching the assistance 
 of that ver}^ Dubkoff'to whom I had shouted, '' Silence! " 
 during the dinner at Jahr's. Dubkoff pretended not to hear 
 me, and turned aside. I approached Volodya, and said with 
 an effort, and trying to impart a jesting tone to my voice, 
 "■ Well, how now, Volodya? have 1 got myself up gorgeous- 
 ly? " But Volodya looked at me as much as to say, '■'■ You 
 don't talk like that to me when we are alonfe," and he walked 
 away from me in silence, evidently fearing that I should still 
 get into some difficulty. 
 
 " My God ! my brother also deserts me ! " I thought. 
 
 But, for some reason, I had not the strength to take ray 
 departure. I stood ou gloomily, till the end of the evening, 
 in one place ; and only when all were crowded into the ante- 
 room as they dispersed, and the footman put my coat upon 
 the tip of my hat, so that it tilted up, I laughed in a sickly 
 way through my tears, and said, without addressing any one 
 in particular, " How pleasant it is ! "
 
 YOUTH. 353 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE CAROUSE. 
 
 Although I had not as yet, in consequence of Dmitri's 
 influence, given myself up to tlie usual pleasures of students, 
 which are called carouses, it had been my lot once, during 
 the course of this winter, to take part in such a merry- 
 making ; and I carried away with me a not wholly agreeable 
 impression. This is the way it was. 
 
 One day, duriug a lecture at the beginning of the year, 
 Baron Z., a tall, blonde young man, with a very serious 
 expression u[)Ou his regular features, invited us all to his 
 house to pass an evening as comrades together. All of us 
 meant, of course, all the members of our class who were 
 more or less comme ilfaut; among whose number, of course, 
 neither Grap nor Semenoff nor Operoff were included, nor 
 any of the meaner fellows. Volodya smiled contemptuously 
 when he heard that I was going to a carouse of first-year 
 men ; but I expected great and remarkable pleasure from 
 this to me entirely novel mode of passing the time, and I 
 was at Baron Z.'s punctually at eight o'clock, — the hour 
 indicated. 
 
 Baron Z., in a white vest and with his coat unbuttoned, 
 was receiving his guests in the brilliantly lighted hall and 
 drawing-room of the small house in which his parents dwelt : 
 they had given up the state apartments to him for that even- 
 ing's festivity. In the corridor, the heads and dresses of 
 curious maids were visible ; and in the pantry, the dress of a 
 lady, whom I took to be the Baroness herself, flashed by 
 once. 
 
 The guests were twenty in number, and were all students, 
 with the exception of Herr Frost, Avho had come with Ivin, 
 and a tall, ruddy-complexioned gentleman in plain clothes, 
 who attended to the l)anquet. and who was known to every- 
 body as a relative of the P.aron. and a former student at the 
 University of Dorpat. The over-brilliant illuniinaUon, and
 
 854 YOUTH. 
 
 the usual regal decoration of the state ajiartments, produced 
 a chilling effect at first upon this youthful company, all of 
 whose members involuntarily kept close to the walls, лvith 
 the exception of a few bold spirits and the student from 
 Dorpat, who had alread}' unbuttoned his waistcoat, and 
 seemed to be in ever}' room and in every corner of every 
 room at one and the same time, and to till tiie whole apart- 
 ment with the sound of his resonant and agreeable and 
 never-silent tenor voice. But .tlie fellows either remained 
 silent, or modestl}' discussed the professors, the sciences, 
 the examinations, and serious and interesting subjects, on 
 the whole. Every one, without exception, stared at the door 
 of the supper-room, and wore the expression which said, 
 though they strove to hide it, '■'■ Whv, it's time to liegin i " 
 I also felt that it лvas time to begin, and I awaited the 
 beginning with impatient joy. 
 
 After tea, whicli the footman handed round to tlie guests, 
 the Dorpat student asked Frost in Russian, — 
 
 " Do you know how to make punch, Frost? " 
 
 ''Oh, yes! " replied Frost, wriggling his calves; but the 
 Dorpat student again addressed him in Russian : — 
 
 "Then set about it" (he called him thou, as a fellow- 
 student at Dorpat) ; and Frost l)egan to go from the draw- 
 ing-room to the supper-room, from the supper-room to the 
 drawing-room, Avith great strides of his eur\ed and muscular 
 legs; and there speedil}' made its appearance on the table a 
 large soup-tureen, and in it a ten-pound loaf of sugar, sur- 
 rounded bj' three student-daggers laid crosswise. During 
 this time, Baron Z. had kept incessantly approaching all the 
 guests, who were assembled in the di'awing-room, and saying 
 to all, with an immovably-serious face and in almost the 
 same words, " Come, gentlemen, let us mutually drink to 
 brothei'hood in student fashion, or лте shall have no com- 
 radeship at all in our class." And. in fact, the Dorpat stu- 
 dent, after taking off his coat, and stripping up his white 
 shirt-sleeves above his white elbows, and planting his feet 
 far apart in a a decided fashion, had already set tire to the 
 rum in the soup-tureen. 
 
 ''Put out the liglits, gentlemen!" cried the Dorpat stu- 
 dent suddenly, as loudly and' pleasantly as he could have 
 done if we had all shouted. But we all gazed silently at the 
 ftoup-tureen, and at the Dorjtat student's white shirt, and all 
 telt that the solemn moment had arrived.
 
 YOUTH. 355 
 
 " Extinguish the lights, Frost ! " cried the Dorpat student 
 again, and in German. haA'ing evidently become too much 
 heated. Frost and all the rest of us set about extinguishing 
 the caudles. All was dark in the room, onl}' the white sleeves 
 and the hands which lifted the loaf of sugar on the daggers 
 were illuminated bv the bluish flame. The Dorpat student's 
 loud tenor was no longer alone, for talking and laughter pro- 
 ceeded from every quarter of the room. Man}' took off their 
 coats (especially those who had fine and perfectly clean 
 shirts). I did the same, and understood that it had begun. 
 Although notliing jolly had happened so far, I Avas firmly con- 
 vinced that it would be capital when we had drunk a glass 
 of the beverage which had been prepared. 
 
 The beverage was a success. The Dorpat student poured 
 the punch into glasses, spotting the table a good deal in the 
 process, and shouted, "Now, gentlemen, give your hands ! " 
 And each time that we took a full, stick}- glass in our 
 hands, the Dorpat student and Frost struck up a German 
 song, in which the exclamation jurhhe was frequently re- 
 peated ; we joined in discoidantly, began to clink our 
 glasses, to shout something, to praise the punch, and to 
 quaff the sweet, strong liquor through our hands or simply. 
 There was nothing to wait for now, therefore the carouse 
 was in full swing. I had alread}- drunk a full glass of punch, 
 they poured me another : my temples began to throb, the fire 
 seemed crimson, every one was shouting and laughing around 
 me : but still it not only did not seem joU}', but 1 was even 
 convinced that I, and every one else, was bored, and that I 
 and the others considered it indispensable, for some reason 
 or other, to pretend that it was very jolly. The only one 
 who could not have been dissimulating was the Dorpat stu- 
 dent. He grew constantly redder and more talkative, filled 
 every one's empt}' glass, and spilled more and more on the 
 table, Avhich Ijecame all sлveet and stick}'. I do not remem- 
 ber in just what order things occurred, but I recollect that 
 I was awfully fond of Frost and the Dorpat student that 
 evening, that I learned a German song by heart, and kissed 
 them lioth on their sweet lips. I also recollect that I hated 
 the Dorpat student that same CA'cning. and wanted to fling 
 a chair at him, but refrained. I recollect, that in addition 
 to the consciousness of the insubordination of all my limbs, 
 which I had experienced at Jahr's, my head ached and swam 
 80 that evening that I was awfully afraid I was going to die
 
 356 YOUTH. 
 
 that very minute. I also recollect that wc all seated our- 
 selves ou the floor, for some reason oi' other, flourished our 
 arms iu imitation of oars, sang " Adovvn our Motlier Volga," 
 and that, meantime, I was thinking that it was not at all 
 necessar3' to do so. Furthermore, 1 recollect that, as I lay 
 ou the floor, I hooked one leg around the other, stretched 
 myself out in g3'psy fashion, twisted some one's neck, and 
 thought that it would not have happened if he had not been 
 drunk. I remember too, that we had supper, and drank 
 something else ; that I went out into the courtyard to refresh 
 myself, and my head felt cold ; and that I noticed when I 
 went away that it was dreadfully dark, that the step of my 
 drozhky lproli/6tk<i) had become steep and slipper3% and 
 that it was impossible to hold on to Kuzma, because he had 
 become weak, and swayed aljout like a rag. [But I remember 
 chiefly, that in the course of the evening I constantly felt that 
 I was behaving very stupidly in feigning to be very jolly, to 
 be very fond of drinking a great deal, and did not think 
 of being drunk, and all the time I felt that the others were 
 behaving very foolishly in pretending the same. It seemed 
 to me that it was disagreeable for each one individually, as 
 it was for me ; but as each supposed that he alone experi- 
 enced this disagreeable sensation, he considered himself 
 bound to feign gayety in order not to interfere with the gen- 
 eral jollity. Moreover, strange to say, I felt that dissimu- 
 lation was incumbent on me simply because three bottles of 
 champagne at ten rubles apiece, and ten bottles of rum at 
 four rubles, had been poured into the soup-tureen, which 
 amounted to seventy rubles, besides the supper. I was so 
 fully convinced of this, that I was very much surprised the 
 next day at the lecture, when my comrades who had been !.t 
 Baron Z.'s not only were not ashamed to mention that they 
 had been there, but talked about the party so that other stu- 
 denta could hear. They said that it was a spleudid carouse ; 
 that the Dorpat fellows were great hands at these things, and 
 that twenty men had drunk forty bottles of rum between 
 them, and that many had been left for dead under the tables. 
 I could not understand why they talked about it, and even 
 lied about themselves.
 
 YOUTH. 357 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP WITH THE NEKIILIUDOFFS. 
 
 During the winter, I not only saw a great deal of Dmitri, 
 who came to our house quite frequently, but of all his family, 
 with whom I began to associate. 
 
 The Nekhliudoffs, the mother, aunt, and daughter, passed 
 all their evenings at home ; and the Princess liked to have 
 young people come to see her in the evening, men of the sort, 
 as she expressed it, who were capable of passing a whole 
 evening without cards and dancing. But there must have been 
 very few such men ; for I rarely met any visitors there, though 
 1 went there nearly every evening. 1 l)ecame accustomed to 
 the members of this family, and to their various dispositions, 
 and had already formed a clear conception of their nmtual 
 relations. I l)ecame accustomed to their rooms and furni- 
 ture ; and when there were no guests I felt myself perfectly 
 at my ease, except on the occasions when I was left alone in 
 I he room vvitii Varenka. It still seemed to me as if, although 
 not a very pretty girl, she would like very much to have me 
 f;ili in love with her. But even this agitation began to pass 
 off. She had such a natural appearance of not caring 
 whether she talked to me, or to her brother, or Liubov Ser- 
 gieevna, that I acquired the lml»it of looking upon her ;is 
 upon a person to луЬош it was not at :dl either di.^graceful or 
 dangerous to show tlie pleasure which I took in her society. 
 During the whole period of my acquaintance with her. .she 
 seemed to me on different days very ugly, again not such a 
 very ugh' girl ; but never once did I ask myself with regard 
 to her, "Am I in love with her, or not?" I sometimes 
 chnnced to talk directly to her, but more frecpiently I con- 
 vei'sed with her ])y directing my remarks in her presence to 
 liiubov Sergieevna or Dmitri, and this l.-ist nn'thod gave me 
 pnrticnlar pleasure. I took great satisfaction in talking 
 before her, in listening to her ■singing, and in the general
 
 858 YOUTH. 
 
 consciousness of her presence in the room whore I was ; liut 
 the thought as to what my relations with Varenka would 
 eventually become, and dreams of sacrificing myself for my 
 friend in case he should fall in love with my sister, rarely 
 entered my head now. If such ideas and dreams did occur 
 to me, I strove to thrust aside any thought of the future, 
 since I was content with the present. 
 
 In spite, however, of this intimacy, I coutinned to feel it 
 m}' imperative duty to conceal from the whole Nekhliudofif 
 society, and from Varenka in particular, my real sentiments 
 and inclinations ; and I endeavored to show myself an entirely 
 different young man from what I was in realit}^ and such, 
 indeed, as I could not be in reality. I strove to appear emo- 
 tional ; I Avent into raptures, I groaned, and made passionate 
 gestures when any thing pleased me greatly : and at the same 
 time I endeavored to seem iudiffci-ent to ever}^ unusual occur- 
 rence which I saw, or of which I was told. I tried to ai)pear 
 a malicious scorner who held nothhig sacred, and at the same 
 time a delicate obserA^er. I tried to appear logical in all my 
 actions, refined and accurate in nw life, and at the same 
 time a person Avho despised all material things. I can assert 
 boldl} that. I was much better in reality than the strange being 
 which I endeavored to represent as myself ; but neverthe- 
 less, and represent myself as I would, the Nekhliudoffs liked 
 me, and, happily for me as it turned out, did not believe 
 in my dissimulation. Liubov fSergieevna alone, who, it 
 seems, regarded me as a great egoist, a godless and sneer- 
 ing fellow, did not like me, and often quarrelled with me, 
 got into a rage, and amazed me with her broken and inco- 
 herent phrases. But Dmitri still maintained the same strange 
 rather than fiiendly relations with her, and said that no one 
 understood her. and that she did him a very great deal of 
 good. His friendship with her continued to be a grievance 
 to his family. 
 
 Once Varenka, in discussing with me this union which 
 was so incomprehensible to them all, explained it thus : 
 '' Dmitri is an egoist. He is too proud, and, in spite of all 
 his cleverness, he is ver}" fond of praise and admiration, 
 loves to be first always ; and aunty, in the innocence of her 
 soul, finds herself admiring him ; and has not sufficient tact 
 to conceal this admiration from him. and so it comes to pass 
 that she flatters, only not hypocritically, ])ut in earnest." 
 
 I remembered this judgment, and ou examining it after-
 
 YOUTH. 359 
 
 wards I could not but think that Varenka was veiy clever ; 
 and I exalted her in my own opinion with satisfaction, in 
 consequence. This sort of exaltation, in consequence of the 
 intelligence I had discovered in her, and of other moral qual- 
 ities, I accomplished with a certain stern moderation, thcjugh 
 with satisfaction ; and I never Avent into ecstasies, the high- 
 est point of that exaltation. Thus, when Sophia Ivanovna, 
 who talked unweariedly of her niece, told me how, Avhen Va- 
 renka was a child in the country four years before, she had 
 given all her clothes and shoes to the peasant children Avith- 
 out permission, so that they had to be taken away after- 
 wards, I did not at once accept that fact as worth}- of exalt- 
 ing her in my opinion, but I mentally ridiculed her for such 
 an unpractical vicAv of things. 
 
 ЛУЬеп there were guests at the Nekhliudoffs', and among 
 others Volodya and DubkoiT, I retired into the background 
 in a self-satisfied way, and with a certain calm consciousness 
 of power, as of a man of the house ; did not talk, and merely 
 listened to what others said. And every thing that Avas said 
 seemed to me so incrediljly stupid, that 1 inwardly wondered 
 how such an intelligent, logical woman as the Princess, and 
 all her logical famih', could listen to such folly, and repl}' to 
 it. Had it then occurred to me to compare what others said 
 with what I said myself when I was alone, I should certainly 
 not have marvelled in the least. I should have marvelled 
 still less if I had believed that the members of our house- 
 hold — Avdotj^a, Vasilievna, Liubotchka, and Kateuka — 
 were just like all other women, and no worse than any 
 others ; and if I had recalled the fact that Dubkoff, Katenka, 
 and Avdotya YasilicA^ia had conversed together for whole 
 evenings, laughing merrily ; and how, on nearh* every occa- 
 sion, Dubkoff, desiring to get up a discussion on something, 
 recited, with feeling, ,the A'erses, " Au banquet de la \\e 
 infortuue convive," ^ or extracts from "The Demon ; " ^ and 
 what nonsense the}' talked, on the whole, and with how much 
 pleasure, for several hours together. 
 
 AVhen there were visitors, of course Varenka paid less 
 attention to me than when we were alone ; and then there 
 Avas no music or reading, which I was ver}' fond of listening 
 to. In conversing with visitors, she lost what was for me 
 her chief charm, — her calm deliberation and simplicity. I 
 
 1 An unfortunate auest at the banquet o' life. 
 * A. celebrateii poem by Lermouloff.
 
 360 YOUTH. 
 
 remcmlicr what a strange surprise her ooiiA^ersations with my 
 brother V^olodya, about the theatre and the weather, were to 
 me. I knew that Volodya avoided and despised common- 
 places more than any tiling else in the world ; Varenka, 
 also, always ridiculed hyi)()eritically absorbing discussions 
 about the weather, and so forth : then why, when they came 
 together, did they constantly utter the most intolerable 
 absurdities, and that, too, as though they were ashamed of 
 each other? I went into a private rage with Varenka after 
 every such conversation, ridiculed the visitors on the follow- 
 ing da}', but took still greater pleasure in being alone in the 
 Nekhliudoff family circle. 
 
 At all events, 1 began to take more pleasure in being with 
 Dmitri in his mother's drawing-room than alone face to face 
 with him.
 
 YOUTH. 361 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 FRIEXDSniP ЛУ1Т11 THE NEKHLIUDOFFS. 
 
 Just at this time, in}' friendship with Dmitri hung by a 
 liair. I had begun to criticise him too long ago not to find 
 that he had failings ; but, in our early youth, we love with 
 the passions only, and therefore only perfect people. But 
 as soon as the mist of passion begins, little by little, to 
 decrease, or as soon as the clear rays of judgment begin 
 to pierce it involuntarily, and we behold the object of our 
 passion in his real aspect, with his merits and his short- 
 comings, the shortcomings alone strilve us as something 
 unexpected, in a vivid and exaggerated manner ; the feeling 
 of attraction towards a пол -elty, and the hope that it is not 
 utteily imi)0ssible in another man, encourage us not only to 
 coolness, but to repugnance for the former ol)jeet of our 
 passion, and we desert him without compunction, and hasten 
 forward to seek some new perfection. If it was not pre- 
 cisely this which happened to me in my connection with 
 Dmitri, it was because I was only bound to him by an obsti- 
 nate, pedantic, and intellectual affection, rather than by an 
 affection from the heart, which I was too much ashamed to 
 ))e false to. ЛУе were bound, тогеол-ег, by our strange rule 
 of frankness. We were afraid, that, if we parted, we should 
 leave too much in each other's power all the moral secrets 
 which we had confided to each other, and of which some 
 were dishonorable to us. Besides, our rule of franknes^s, 
 as лvas evident to us, had not been kept for a long time ; 
 and it embarrassed us, and brought about strange relations 
 between us. 
 
 Almost every time that I went to Dmitri that winter. I Ър^ 
 found with him his comrade in the universit}^ a student ^i 
 named Bezobyedoff. with whom he was engaged. Bezobye- ^"'"'^^ 
 doff was a small, thin, pock-marked man, with very small 
 bauds which were covered with freckles, and a great mass of
 
 362 YOUTH. 
 
 unkempt red hair. He was always ver\^ rasfged and dirty, he 
 was ипсиклл'а1еи, and he even stndied badly. Dmitri's rela- 
 tions Avith him were, like his rcdations witii Liubov Sergieevna, 
 iucomprehensil)le to me. The sole reason why he conld 
 have selected him from among all his comrades, and have 
 become intimate with him, was, that there was not a student 
 in the whole universit}* who was uglier in appearance than 
 Bezobyedoff. But it must have been precisel}^ for that 
 reason that Dmitri found it agreeable to exhibit friendship 
 for him in spite of everybody. In his whole intercourse 
 witli this student, the luiuglity sentiment was expressed: 
 "■ It's nothing to me who you are: you are all the same to 
 me. I like him, and of course he's all right." 
 
 I was surprised that he did not find it hard to put a 
 constant constraint upon himself, and that the unfortunate 
 Bezobyedoff endured his awkward position. This friendship 
 did not please me at all. 
 
 Once I came to Dmitri in the evening for the purpose of 
 spending the evening in his mothei-'s drawing-room with him, 
 in conversation and in listening to Varenka's singing or read- 
 ing ; but Bezobyedoff was sitting up-stairs. Dmitri replied 
 to me in a sharp tone that he could not come down because 
 he had company, as I could see for m^'self. 
 
 "And what fun is there there?" he added: " it's much 
 better to sit here and chat." Although tlie idea of sitting 
 and talking with Bezobyedoff for a couple of h(jurs did not 
 attract me. I could not make up my mind to go to the draw- 
 ing-room alone ; and vexed to the soul at my friend's eccen- 
 tricity, I seated nn'self in a rocking-chair, and began to rock 
 in silence. I was very much provoked with Dmitri and with 
 Bezobyedoff, because they had depi'ived me of the pleasure of 
 going down-stairs. I wanted to see whether Bezobyedoff 
 would take his departure soon ; and I was angry with him and 
 Dmitri as I listened in silence to their conversation. " A verj' 
 agreeable guest! sit down with him ! " thought I, when the 
 footman brought tea, and Dmitri had to ask Bezobyedoff five 
 times to take a glass, because the timid visitor considered 
 himself bound to decline tlie first and second glasses, and to 
 say, " Hcl[) 3'ourself. " Dmitri, with a visible effort, engaged 
 his A'isitor in conversation, into wliicli he made several vain 
 efforts to drag me. I preserved a gloomy silence. 
 
 ''There's nothing to be done: let nc one dare suspect 
 from my face tliat I am bored," 1 addressed myself men-
 
 YOUTH. 363 
 
 tally to Dmitri, as I rocked mj-self silonth' and regularly in 
 my chair. I fanned the flame of quiet hatred towards my 
 friend within me more and more. " What a fool ! " 1 thouglit 
 of him. '• He might have spent a delightful evening with his 
 dear relations, but no, he sits here with this beast ; and now 
 the time is past, it is already too late to go to the drawing- 
 room ; " and I peeped at mj^ friend from behind the edge of 
 my chair. His hands, his attitude, his neck, and especially 
 the nape of it, and his knees, seemed so repulsive an(l morti- 
 fying that I could have taken great delight at that moment 
 i:i doing something to him, even something extremely dis- 
 agreeable. 
 
 At length Bezobyedoff rose, but Dmitri could not at once 
 [)art from so agreeable a guest. He jn-oposed to him that he 
 should spend the night there ; to which, fortunatel}'^, Bezo- 
 byedoff clid not consent, and departed. 
 
 After having seen him off, Dmitri returned ; and smiling 
 brightly in a self-satisfied wa}", and rubbing his hands, prob- 
 al)ly because he had kept up his character, and because he 
 Iiad at last got rid of his ennui., he began to pace the room, 
 glancing at me from time to time. He was still more repul-, 
 sive to me. '' How dare he walk and smile? " thought I. 
 
 "• Why are you angry? " said he suddenly, halting in front 
 of mc. 
 
 •• I am not angry at all," I answered, as one always an- 
 swers on such occasions : ''I am only vexed that you sliould 
 dissimulate to me and to Bezoliyedoff, and to yourself." 
 
 '• What nonsense ! I never dissimulate to au}^ one." 
 
 '* I have not forgotten our rule of frankness: I speak 
 openly to you. I am convinced that that Bezoliyedoff is as 
 intolerable to you as to me, because he is stupid, and God 
 knows what else ; but j^u like to put on airs before him." 
 
 '*Xo! and, m the first place, Bezobyedoff is a л^ег}' fine 
 man." 
 
 '• And I tell 3'ou, yes ; I will even go so far as to say to 
 you that 3'our friendship with Liubov Sergieevna is also 
 founded on the fact that she considers you a god." 
 
 "And I tell you, no." 
 
 " But I tell з'ои, 3^es, because I know it l>y ray own case," 
 I rei)lied with the warmth of suppressed vexation, and desir- 
 ous of disarming him by my frankness. " I have told you, 
 and I repeat it, that it always seems to me that 1 like those 
 people who say pleasant things to me ; and when I come to
 
 364 Your тт. 
 
 examine the matter well, I see that there is no real attach- 
 ment." 
 
 "■ No," went on Dmitri, acliustino- his neckerchief wilh av. 
 angry motion of the nec-lv ; *•' wlien 1 love, neither prai.se uor 
 blame can change m^' feelings." 
 
 "■ It is not true. I have confessed to you that Avlien pnpa 
 called me a good-for-nothing, I iiated him for a while, and 
 desired his death, just as you " — 
 
 " Speak for yourself. It's a great pity if you ai*e sut h " — 
 
 " On the contrary," I cried, springing from my chair, and 
 looking him in the eye with desperate braver}^ '' wiiat you 
 are saying is not right ; did з'ои not speak to me about my 
 brother? I will not remind you of it, because that would be 
 dishonorable. Did you not s[)eak tome — And I will tell 
 you how I understand you now " — 
 
 And, endeavoi'ing to wound him ел^еп more painfully than 
 he had wounded me, I began to demonstrate to him that he 
 did not love any one, and to tell him every thing with wliich, 
 as it seemed to me, I had a right to repi'oach him. I was 
 ver}' much pleased at having told hira ever}- thing, quite for- 
 getting that the only possible oltject of this exposition, which 
 [consisted in his confessing the shortcomings with which I 
 charged him, could not be attained at the present moment, 
 rhen he was excited. But I never said this to hira when he 
 ras in a state of composure, and could acknowledge it. 
 
 The dispute had already passed into a quarrel, when Dmi- 
 tri became silent all at once, and went into the next room. 
 I was on the point of following him, talking all the while, 
 but he did not reply to me. I knew that violent passion was 
 set down in his list of vices, and that he had conquered him- 
 * self now. I cursed all his registers. 
 
 \ So this was to what our rule had led us, ^^ tell each other 
 
 \ every thing thxt tve thnught, and neoer to sai/ am/ thing about 
 \ f"c7i other to any third pey'.son. Carried away by frauk- 
 \ ness, we had sometimes proceeded to the most shameless 
 \ confessions, announcing, to our own shame, ideas, dreams 
 \of desire and sentiment, such as I had just expressed to him, 
 tor example ; and these confessions not only had not drawn 
 closer the bond which nnited us, but they had drietl up the 
 feeling itself, and separated us. And now, all at once, ego- 
 tism clid not permit him to make the most trivial confession ; 
 and in the heat of our dispute we made use of the very 
 weapons with which we had previously supplied each other, 
 and which dealt frightfully painful blows.
 
 YOUTH. 3G5 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE STEPMOTHER. 
 
 Although papa had not meant to come to ]\roscow with 
 his wife until after the new year, he arrived in October, at 
 a season Avlien there was excellent autunm hunting to be had 
 with the dogs. Papa said that he had changed his plan be- 
 cause his case was to be heard in the senate ; but Alimi told 
 us that Avdotya Vasilievna hod become so bored in the 
 country, had spoken so frequently of Moscow, and feigned 
 illness, that papa had decided to compl}^ with her wishes. 
 For she had never loved him, but had only niurmm-ed her 
 love in everybody's ears, out of a desire to marry a rich 
 man, said Mimi, sighing thoughtfully, as miicli as to say, 
 '' It's not what some people would have done for him, if he 
 had but known how to prize them." 
 
 Some peojjle were unjust to Avdotya \^asilievna. Her love 
 for papa, passionate, devoted love, and self-sacrifice, were 
 evident in every word, every look, and every movement. 
 But this love did not in the least prevent her cherishing a 
 desire, in company with the desire not to leave her husband, 
 for remarkal)le headdresses from Madame Annette, for l)on- 
 nets with extraordinary blue osti'ich-feathers, and gowns of 
 blue Venetian velvet, that artistically revealed her fine white 
 arms and bosom, which had hitherto been exhibited to no one 
 except to her husband and dressing-maids. Katenka took 
 her mother's part, of coarse ; while between our stepmother 
 and us certain odd, jesting relations established themselves 
 from the verj- day of her arrival. As soon as she alighted 
 from the carriage, Volod3'a went up, scraping, and swaying 
 back and forth, to kiss her hand, having assumed a grave 
 face and troubled eyes, and said, as though he were intro- 
 ducing some one : 
 
 " I have the honor to offer my congratulations on the arrival 
 of a dear mamma, and to kiss her baud."
 
 366 YOVTIL 
 
 " Ah, my clear sou ! " said Avdotya A'asilievua, witli her 
 beautiful, mouotouous smile. 
 
 ''And do not forget 3'our second little son," said I, also 
 approachiug to kiss her hand, and involuntarily trying to as- 
 sume the expression of \'olodya's face and voice. 
 
 If our stepmother and we had been sure of our mutual 
 attachment, this expression might have indicated scorn of 
 the exhiliition of any tokens of affection ; if we had already 
 been ill-disposed towards each other, it might have indicated 
 irony, or scorn of hypocrisy, or a desire to conceal our real 
 relations from our father, who was present, and man}' other 
 thoughts and feelings : but in the present ease this expres- 
 sion, which suited Avdotya Vasilievua's taste extremely well, 
 indicated notliing at all, and only pointed to an utter ab- 
 sence of all relations. I have often observed these false and 
 jesting relations since, in other families, where the meml)ers 
 of them foresee that the actual relations will not be quite 
 agreeable ; and-these relations involuntaril}' established them- 
 selves between us and Avdotya \"asilievna. AVe hardly ever 
 departed from them ; we were always hypocritically polite to 
 her, spoke French, scraped and bowed, and calletl her '■•chere 
 maman," to which she alwa3's replied with jests, in the same 
 style, and her beautiful, monotonous smile. Tearful Liu- 
 botchka alone, with her crooked legs and innocent prattle, 
 took a liking to the stepmother, and strove very naively, and 
 sometimes awkwardly, to bring her into closer connection 
 with all our family ; and in return, the onl}' creature in all 
 the world for whom Ал -dotya Vasilievna had a drop of affec- 
 tion, with the exception of her passionate love for papa, 
 was Liubotchka. Avdotya Vasilievna even exhibited for 
 her a certain ecstatic admiration and a timid respect, which 
 greatly amazed me. 
 
 At first Avdotya was very fond of calling herself a step- 
 mother, and hinting at the evil and unjust wa}' in which chil- 
 dren and members of the household always look upon a step- 
 mother, and how different her position was in consequence of 
 this. But though she had perceived all the unpleasantness 
 of the position, she had done nothing to escape it ; she did not 
 caress one, make presents to another, and avoid grumbling, 
 which Avould have been л'егу easy for her, since she was verj* 
 amiable, and not exacting in disposition. And she not onl}' 
 did not do this, but on the contrary, foreseeing all the un- 
 pleasantness of her position, she prepared herself for defence
 
 YOUTH. 367 
 
 without having been attacked ; and, taking it for granted that 
 all the members of the household wished to use all the means 
 in their power to insult her, and make things disagreeable for 
 her, she perceived design in every thing, and considered 
 that the most dignified wa3- for her was to suffer in silence ; 
 and, since she won no love by her abstention from action, 
 of course she w-on ill-will. Moreover, she was so lacking in 
 that quality of understanding which was developed to such a 
 high degree in our liouse, and which I have already men- 
 tioned, and her habits were so opposed to those wdiich had 
 become rooted in our house, that this alone prejudiced people 
 against her. In our neat, precise house she always lived as 
 though she had but just arrived ; she rose and retired now 
 early, now late ;' at one time she would come out to dinner, 
 at another she would not, and sometimes she had su[)per, and 
 again she had none. She went about half-dressed the greater 
 part of the time whon we had no visitors, and was not 
 ashamed to show herself to us. and even to the servants, in a 
 white petticoat, with a shawl thrown around her, and with 
 bare arms. At first this simplicity pleased me ; but I very 
 soon lost all the respect I had entertained for her, in conse- 
 quence of this very simplicity. It seemed still stranger to us, 
 that there w^ere two totally dissimilar women in her, accord- 
 ing to whether we had visitors or not : one, in the presence 
 of guests, w'as a healthy, cold young beauty, elegantly 
 dressed, neither clever nor foolish, but cheerful; the other, 
 when no guests were by, was a sad, worn-out woman, no 
 longer young, untidy, and bored, though affectionate. I 
 often thought, as I looked at her when she returned smiling 
 from making calls, and blushing with the winter cohl, happy 
 in the consciousness of her beaut}', and went up to the mirror 
 to зигл'еу herself as she removed her bonnet ; or when she 
 went to the carriage rustling in her rich, low-necked ball- 
 dress, feeling a little ashamed, 3'et proud, before the servants ; 
 or at home, when we had little evening gatherings, in a close 
 silk gown with some delicate lace about her soft neck, she 
 beamed on all sides with her monotonous but beautiful smile, 
 — what would those who raved over her have said if the}' 
 could have seen her as I did on the evenings when she stayed 
 at home, and strayed though the dimly lighted rooms like a 
 shadow, as she awaited her husband's ri'turn from tlie cluli, 
 in some sort of a wrapper, with unkempt hair? Sometimes 
 she went to the piano, and played her one waltz, frowning 
 
 \
 
 368 YOUTH. 
 
 with the effort ; then she would take a A'ohime of romance, 
 and. after i'eadin<>' a few Hues ont (jf the middle of it. llirnw 
 it away ; again, in order not to wake up the servants, she 
 would go to the panti'y herself, and get a cucumber and cold 
 Л''еа1, and eat it standing by the pautiy-wiiulow ; or would 
 wander from room to room aimlessly, both wear}" and bored. 
 But what separated us from lier more than any ihiug else was 
 her lack of tact, ivhich was expressed chietly b^' the peculiar 
 manner of her condescending attention when people talked 
 to her about things which she did not understand. She was 
 not to blame, because she had unconsciously acquired a habit 
 of smiling slightly with the lips alone, and bending her head 
 when she was told things which did not interest her (and 
 nothing except herself and her husband did interest her) ; 
 but that smile, and bend of the head, frequently repeated, 
 were inexpressibly repellant. Her mirth, too, which seemed 
 to ridicule herself, us, and all the world, was awkward, and 
 communicated itself to no one ; her sensibility was too arti- 
 ficial. But the chief thing of all was that she was not 
 ashamed to talk constant^ to every one about her love for 
 papa. Although she did not lie in the least in sa^'ing of it 
 that her whole life consisted in her love for her husband, and 
 although she proved it with her whole life, yet, according to 
 our views, such ceaseless, unreserved assertion of her affec- 
 tion was disgusting, and we' were ashamed for her when she 
 spoke of it before strangers, even more than when she made 
 mistakes in French. 
 
 She loved her husband more than any thing in the world ; 
 and her husband loved her, especially at first, and when he 
 saw that he was not the only one wiiom she pleased. The 
 sole aim of her existence was the acquirement of her hus- 
 band's love ; but it seemed as though she purposely did every 
 thing which could be disagreeable to him, and all with the 
 object of showing him the full power of her love, and her 
 readiness to sacrifice herself. 
 
 She loved gala attire ; my father liked to see her a beauty 
 in society, exciting praise and admiration : she sacrificed her 
 love for festivities, for father's sake, and grew more and more 
 accustomed to sit at home in a gi'ay blouse. Papa, who 
 always had considered freedom and equality indispensable 
 conditions in family intercourse, hoped that his beloved 
 Linbotchka and his good young wife would come together 
 in a sincere and friendly way ; but Avdotya Vasilievua was
 
 YOUTH. 369 
 
 sacrificing herself, and considered it requisite to sliow the 
 real mistress of the house, as slie called Liubotclika, an un- 
 suitable amount of respect, which wounded \щул deeply. 
 He gambled a great deal that winter, and, towards the end, 
 lost a good deal of money ; and concealed his gambling 
 matters from all the household, as he always did, not wish- 
 ing to mix up his play with his family life. Avdotya 
 Vasilievna sacrificed lierself ; sometimes she was ill, and 
 towards the end of the winter she was enciente, but she con- 
 sidered it her duty to go to meet papa with her swinging 
 gait, in her gray blouse, and with unkempt hair, at four or 
 five o'clock in the morning, when he returned from his club, 
 at times weary and ashamed after his losses. 
 
 She inquired, in an absent-minded wa}-, whether he had 
 been lucky at play ; and listened, with condescending atten- 
 tion, as she smiled and rolled Jier head about, to what he 
 told her as to his doings at the club, and to his request, a 
 hundred times repeated, that she would never wait for him. 
 But although his losses and winnings, ui)on Avhich, according 
 to his play, all papa's property depended, did not interest 
 her in the least, she was the first to meet him every night 
 when he returned from the club. Moreover, she was urged 
 to these meetings, not by her passion for self-sacrifice alone, 
 btit by a certain concealed jealousy from which she suffered 
 in the highest degree. No one in the world could convince 
 her that papa was returning late from the club, and not from 
 some mistress. She tried to read papa's 1ол''е secrets in his 
 face ; and, as she could see nothing there, she sighed with a 
 certain luxury of woe, and gave herself up to the contempla- 
 tion of her unhappiness. 
 
 In consequence of these and many other incessant sac- 
 rifices, there came to be, in papa's conduct to his wife, 
 towards the later months of the winter, during лу1йеЬ he had 
 lost a great deal, so that he was out of spirits the greater 
 part of the time, an evident and mingled feeling. of quiet 
 hate, of that suppressed repugnance to the object of one's 
 affections which expresses itself by an unconscious endeavor 
 to cause that object every possible sort of petty moral un- 
 pleasantnesses.
 
 370 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 NEW COMRADES. 
 
 The winter passed away un perceived, and the thaw had 
 ah'eady begun again, and at the university the lists of 
 examinations had ah-eadv been nailed up ; when all at once 
 I remembered that I must answer to the eighteen subjects 
 which 1 had listened to, and not one of which I had heard, 
 written down, or prepared. Strange that such a plain 
 question, " How am I to pass the examinations? " had never 
 once presented itself to me. But I had been in such a mist 
 that whole winter, arising from m}' delight in being grown 
 up and being comme it faut^ that when it did occur to me, 
 ^' How am I to pass the examinations? " I compared myself 
 with my comrades, and thought, "They will pass, but the 
 majority of them are not comme il faut yet ; so I still have 
 an extra advantage over them, and I must pass." I went to 
 the lectures simply because I had become accustomed to it, 
 and because papa sent me out of the house. Moreover, I 
 had a great many acquaintances, and I often had a jolly 
 time at the university. I loved the noise, the chattering, the 
 laughing in the auditorium : I loved to sit on the rear bench 
 during tlie lecture, and dream of something or other to the 
 monotonous sound of the professor's voice, and to observe 
 my comrades ; I liked to run out at times лvith some one to 
 Materna's, to drink vixlka and take a bite, and, knowing 
 that I uMght be punished for it, to enter the auditorium after 
 the piofessor, creaking the door timidly ; I loved to take 
 l)art in' a piece of mischief when class after class congre- 
 gated amid laughter in the corridors. All this was very 
 jolly. 
 
 When every bod}' had begun to attend the lectures more 
 faithfully, and the professor of physics had finished his 
 course, and had taken leave until the examinations, the stu- 
 dents began to collect their note-books, and prepare them-
 
 YOUTH. 371 
 
 selves. I also begau to tliink of preparing m3'self. Operoflf 
 aud 1 continued to bow to eacli otlier, but were on the very 
 coolest terms, as I have already said. He not only offered 
 me his note-books, but invited me to prepare myself from 
 them with him and other students. I thanked him, and con- 
 sented, hoping bj' this honor to entirely smooth over my 
 former disagreement with him ; but all I asked was that all 
 would be sure to meet at my house every time, as I had fine 
 quarters. 
 
 I was told that the preparations would be made in turn at 
 one house or another, according to its nearness. The first 
 meeting took place at Zukhin's. It was a little room, behind 
 a partition, in a large house on the Trubnoi Boulevard. I 
 was late on the first day named, and came when they had 
 already begun the reading. The little room was full of 
 smoke from the coarse tobacco which Zukhin used, which 
 was makhorka} On the table stood a square bottle of 
 vodka, glasses, bread, salt, and a mutton-bone. 
 
 Zukhin invited me, without rising, to take a drink of 
 vodka, and to take off my coat. 
 
 "I think you are not accustomed to such an eufertaiu- 
 ment," he added. 
 
 All were in dirty calico shirts, with false bosoms. I 
 removed my coat, trying not to show my scorn for them, 
 and laid it on the sofa with an air of comradeship. Zukhin 
 recited, referring now and then to the note-books : the others 
 stopped him to ask questions ; and he explained concisely, 
 intelligently, and accurately. I began to listen ; and as I 
 did not understand much, not knowing what had gone be- 
 fore, I asked a question. 
 
 " Eh. batiuschka, you can't listen if you don't know that," 
 said Zukhin. " I will give you the note-books, and you can 
 go through them for to-morrow." 
 
 I was ashamed of my ignorance, and, conscious at the 
 same time of the entire j'ustice of Zukhin's remark, I ceased 
 to listen, and busied myself with obser\-ations on these new 
 associates. According to the classification of men into those 
 %vho were comme il faut, and those avIio were comme U ve 
 faut pas, the}- evidently belonged to the second division, and 
 awakened in me, consequently, a feeling not only of scoi-n, 
 but of a certain personal hatred which I experienced for 
 them, because, though they were not amime il faut, they not 
 
 1 Peesant tobacco {tiitotiana rustka), ijrowii in Little Kussia.
 
 372 YOUTH. 
 
 ouly seemed to resrarrl me as their equal, but even patronized 
 me in a good-natured way. Tills feeling was aroused in me 
 b}' their feet, and their dii'ty hands with their ch)seh' bitten 
 nails, and one long nail on Operoff's little finger, and their 
 piuk shirts, and their false bosoms, and the oaths with which 
 they affectionately addi'essed each other, and the dirty room, 
 and Zukhin's habit of constantly blowing his nose a little, 
 while he pressed one nostril with his finger, and in particular 
 their manner of speaking, of employing and accenting certain 
 words. For instance, they used blockhead instead of fool ; 
 just so instead of exactly ; splendid instead of very beautiful ; 
 and so on : which seemed to me to be book-language, and dis- 
 gustingly ungentlemanly. But that which aroused my comme 
 il fuut hatred was the accent which the}' placed on certain 
 Kussian, and especiall}^ on foreign words : they said machine, 
 activity, on purpose, in the chimney, Shakspeare instead of 
 Shakspeare, and so forth, and so forth. 
 
 But in spite of their exterior, which at that time was in- 
 superabl}' repugnant to me, I had a presentiment that there 
 was something good about these people ; and, envious of the 
 jolly comradeship which united them, I felt atti'acted to 
 them, and wanted to get better acquainted with them, which 
 was not a difficult thing for me to do. I already knew the 
 gentle and upright Operoff. Now, the dashing and remark- 
 ably clever Zukliin, who evidently reigned over this circle, 
 pleased me extremely. He was a small, stout, dark-com- 
 plexioned man, with somewhat swollen and always shining 
 but extremely intelligent, lively, and independent face. This 
 expression w-as especially due to his forehead, which was not 
 lofty, but arched over deep black eyes, his short, bristling 
 hair, and his thick black beard, which bore the appearance of 
 never being shaved. He did not seem to think of himself (a 
 thing which always pleased me in peo[)le), but it was evident 
 that his mind was never idle. His was one of those expres- 
 sive countenances which undergo an entire and sudden 
 change in 3'our eyes a few hours after >ou have seen them 
 for the first time. This is what happened in m}' eyes with 
 Zukhin's face towards the end of the evening. New wrinkles 
 suddenly made their appearance on his countenance, his eyes 
 retreated still deeper, his smile became different, and his 
 whole face was so changed that it was with difficulty that I 
 recognized him. 
 
 When the meeting was at an end, Zukhin, the other stu-
 
 YOUTH. 373 
 
 dents, and I drank a glass of A'odka apiece in order to sliow 
 our desire to be good comrades, and hardi}' an}' remained 
 in tlie bottle. Zukhin inquired who had a quarter-ruble, that 
 the old woman who served him might be sent for more 
 vodka. I offered my money ; but Zukhin turned to Operoff 
 as though he had not heard me, and Operoff, pulling out a 
 little bead purse, gave him the monej* that was needed. 
 
 '' See that you don't get drunk," said Operoff, who did not 
 drink at all himself. 
 
 " By no means," replied Zukhin, sucking the marrow 
 from the mutton-bone (I remember thinking at the time, 
 " He is so clever because he eats a great deal of marrow.") 
 "By no means," лveut on Zukhin, smiling sliglitl}', and his 
 smile was such that one noticed it involuntarily, and felt 
 grateful to him for the smile. " Though I should get drunk, 
 there's no harm. Now let's see, brothers : who will wager 
 that I'll come out better than he will, or he better than I? 
 It's all ready, brothers," he added, tapping his head boast- 
 fully. " There's Semenoff, he would not have broken down 
 if he had not caroused so deeply." 
 
 In fact, that same gray-haired Semenoff, who had so much 
 delighted me at the first examination by being homelier than 
 myself, and who, after having passed second in the entrance 
 examinations, had attended the lectures punctually during 
 the first month of his student-hood, had caroused before the 
 review, and towards the end of the year's course had not 
 shown himself at the university at all. 
 
 "• Where is he? " asked some one. 
 
 " I have lost sight of him," went on Zukhin. " The last 
 time we were together we ruined Lisbon. He turned out a 
 magnificent scamp. They sa}^ there was some stor}' or other 
 afterwards. That was a head ! What fire there was in that 
 man! AVhat a mind ! It's a pity if he has come to grief; 
 but he certainly has. He wasn't the kind of a hoy to sit stili 
 in the university with bis outbreaks." 
 
 After a little further conversation, all rose to go, having 
 agreed to meet at Zukhin 's on the following daj's, because 
 his quarters were the nearest to all the rest. When we 
 all emerged into the court^-ard, I was rather conscience- 
 stricken that they should all be on foot, while I alone rode in 
 a drozhky ; and in my shame I proposed to Operoff to take 
 him home. Zukhin had come out with us, and, borrowing 
 a silver ruble of Operofl", he went off somewhere to visit for
 
 374 YOUTH. 
 
 the night. On the way Operoflf told me a grent deal ahont 
 Zukliin's character, and manner of Hfe ; and wlien I reached 
 yhome 1 did not go to sleep for a long time, for thinking of 
 the new people with whom I had become acquainted. For a 
 long while I did not fall asleep, but wavered, on the one 
 hand, between respect for them whose learning, simplicity, 
 honesty, and poetry of j'outh and daring, inclined me in 
 their favor ; and their iingentleraanly exterior, which repelled 
 me, on the other hand. In spite of all this desire, it was at 
 that time literally impossible for me to associate with them. 
 Our ideas were entirely different. There was between us an 
 abyss of shades. Avhich constituted for me all the charm and 
 reason of life, which were utterly incomprehensible to them, 
 and vice versa. But the principal reason why we could not 
 l)ossibly associate was the twenty-ruble cloth of my coat, 
 mj^ drozhky, and my cambric shirts. This reason had par- 
 ticular weight with me. It seemed to me tliat I insulted 
 them with the signs of my prosperity. I felt guilty before 
 them ; and I could not in any way enter upon equal, gen- 
 uinely friendly relations Avith them, because I first humbled 
 myself, then rebelled against my undeserved humiliation, and 
 then proceeded to self-confidence. But the coarse, vicious 
 side of Zukhiu's character had been, during this period, to 
 such a degree overwhelmed by that powerful -poetry of 
 braver}' of which I had a presentiment in him, that it did not 
 affect me at all unpleasantly. 
 
 For two weeks I went nearly every evening to study at 
 Zukhiu's. I studied very little ; for. as I have already said, I 
 had fallen behind my comrades, and as I had not sufficient 
 force to study alone, in order to catch up with them, 1 onl}' 
 pretended to listen and understand what was read. It seemed 
 to me that my companions divined my dissimulation ; and I 
 observed that they frequently skipped passages which they 
 knew themselves, and. never asked me. 
 
 Every day I became more and more lenient towards the 
 disorder of this circle, I felt drawn towards it, and fouud 
 much that was poetical in it. My word of honor alone, 
 vvhich I had given to Dmitri, not to go an^'where on a carouse 
 with them, restrained my desire to share their pleasures. 
 
 Once I attempted to brag before them of my knowledge of 
 literature, and particularly of French literature ; and I led the 
 conversation to that subject. It turued out, to my amaze- 
 ment, that, although they pronounced titles of foreign books
 
 TOUTiL 375 
 
 in Russian fashion, that they had read a great deal more 
 than I, that they knew and prized English and even Spanish 
 writers, and Lesage of Avhom I had never even heaixl. Push- 
 kin and Zhukovsky were literature to them (and not, as to 
 me, little books in j-ellow bindings which I had read and 
 learned as a child). They despised Dumas, Sue, and Feval 
 equally ; and passed judgment, Zukhin in particular, upon 
 literature much better and more clearly than I, as I could not 
 but acknowledge. Neither had I any advantage over them 
 in my knowledge of music. Still more to my amazement, 
 Operotf played on the violin, another of the students who 
 studied wdth us played the violoncello and the piano ; and 
 both played in the university orchestra, knew music very well, 
 and prized it highl34 In a word, with the exception of the 
 French and German accent, they knew every thing that I at- 
 tempted to brag about before them, much better than I did, 
 and Avere not in the least proud of it. I might have boasted 
 of my social position ; but, unlike Volodya, I had none. 
 What, then, w\as that height from which I looked down upon 
 them? my acquaintance with Prince Ivan Ivanitch? my pro- 
 nunciation of French? my drozhky? ni}' cambric shirts? m}' 
 finger-nails? And was not this all nonsense? — began to 
 pass dimly through my mind at tim'es, under the influence of 
 envy for the fellowship and good-natured j'outhful mirth 
 which I saw before me. They all called each other thou. 
 The simplicity of their intercourse approached coarseness, 
 but even beneath this rough exterior a fear of offending each 
 other in any way Avas constantly visible. Sccanp and 'р/д, 
 which were emplo^-ed by them in an affectionate sense, only 
 made me recoil, and gave me cause for inward ridicule ; but 
 these words did not offend them in the least, or prevent their 
 standing on the most friendly footing with one another, 
 I'hey were careful and delicate in their dealings with one 
 another, as only very poor and vary young peojile are. But 
 the chief point was, that I scented something bi'oad and wild 
 in the character of Zukhin and his adventures in Lisl)on. I 
 ii.'id a suspicion that these carouses must be something quite 
 different from the sham with burnt rum and champagne iu 
 Avhieh I had participated at Baron Z.'s.
 
 376 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 ZUKHIN AND SEMENOFF. 
 
 I DO not know to what class of society Zukhin lielonged ; 
 but I know that he was from the C. gymnasiuu, had uo money 
 whatever, and apparently was not of noble birth. He was 
 eighteen at this time, though he appeared much older. He 
 was remarkably clever, and particularly quick at grasping an 
 idea ; it was easier for him to embrace the whole of a many- 
 sided subject, to foresee all its branches and the deductions 
 from it, than to examine carefully by means of knowledge 
 the laws by which these deductions are arrived at. He knew 
 that he was clever ; he was proud of it, and in consequence 
 of this pride he was uniformly simple and good-natured in his 
 intercourse with ел-егу one. He must have suffered nuich in 
 the course of his life. His fiery, sensitive natui'e had already 
 succeeded iu reflecting in itself love and friendship aud busi- 
 ness and money. Although in a restricted measure, aud iu 
 the lower classes of society, there was nothing for which, after 
 having made proof of it, he did not feel either scorn, or a 
 certain indifference aud inattention, which proceeded from the 
 too great facility Avith which he acquired every thing. Ap- 
 parently he only grasped at ел^егу novelt}' for the sake of 
 scorning what he had obtained after gaining his object, and 
 his gifted nature always attained its goal, and had a right to 
 its contempt. It was the same thing with the sciences : he 
 studied little, took no notes, yet had a superior knowledge of 
 mathematics, and boasted of it, saying that he could beat the 
 professor. He thought a great deal of what they taught was 
 nonsense ; but with his characteristic, unconsrionsh/ practical, 
 and roguish nature, he immediately fell in with what the pro- 
 fessor required, and all the professors liked him. He was 
 outspoken in his bearing with the authorities, yet the authori- 
 ties respected him. He not only did not respect or love the 
 sciences, but he even despised those who occupied themselves
 
 YOUTH. 377 
 
 serioiisl}- with what he acquired so ea; ily. The sciences, as 
 lie uiKlerstood them, did not requii-e the tenth part of his 
 gifts ; life in his position as a student did not offer any thing 
 to which he could devote himself wholly : but, as he said, his 
 fiery, active nature demanded life, and he gave himself up 
 to dissipation of such a kind as his means permitted, and 
 yielded himself with ardor and a desire to exhaust it so far 
 as lay in his power. Now, before the examinations, Operoff's 
 prediction was fulfilled. He disappeared for a couple of 
 weeks, so that we made our preparations during the last part 
 of the time at another student's rooms. But at the first ex- 
 amination, he made his appearance in the hall, pale, haggard, 
 and with trembling hands, and passed into the second course 
 in a brilliant manner. 
 
 At tht* beginning of the course, there were eight men in 
 the company of carousers, at vphose head stood Zukhin. 
 Ikonin and Semenoff were among the number at first. The 
 former left the company because he could not endure the wild 
 dissipation to which they gave themselves over at the begin- 
 ning of the year ; but the second did not desert them, 
 because it seemed a small thing to him. At first, all the 
 men in our class looked upon them with a kind of horror, 
 and related their pranks to each other. 
 
 The chief heroes of these pranks were Zukhin, and, to- 
 wards the end of the year, Semenoff. All regarded Semen- 
 off, towards the end, with a certain terror ; and when he 
 came to a lecture, which ver}- rarely happened, there was a 
 sensation in the auditorium. 
 
 Semenoff wound up his career of dissipation, just before 
 the examinations, in the most original and energetic manner; 
 to which 1 was a witness, thanks to my acquaintance with 
 Zukhin. This is how it was. One evening, when we had 
 just assembled at Znkhin's, and Operoft', having arranged 
 beside him, in addition to the tallow caudle in the Candle- 
 stick, a tallow candle in a bottle, and, with his head bent 
 down over the note-books, was beginning to read in his shrill 
 voice from his minutely written notes on physics, the land- 
 lady entered the room, and informed Zukhin that some cue 
 had come with a note for him.^ . . . 
 
 1 The rest of the story io omitted in the liuseiaa.
 
 378 YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 I MAKE A FAILURE. 
 
 At length the first examination arrived, on the differential 
 and integral calculus ; but I was in a kind of a strange 
 mist, and had no clear conception of what awaited me. It 
 occurred to me during the evening, after enjo3nng the society 
 of Zukhin and his comrades, that it was necessary to make 
 some change in my couvietious ; that there was something 
 about them which was not nice, and not just what it should 
 be : but iu the morning, in the light of the sun, I again 
 became comme il f<ii(t, wna very well content with that, and 
 desired no alterations in myself. 
 
 It was in this frame of mind that I came to the first exam- 
 ination. I seated myself on a bench on the side where sat 
 the princes, counts, and barons, and began to converse with 
 tliem in French ; and. strange as it may seem, the thought 
 never occurred to me that I should presently be called upon 
 to answer questions upon a subject which I knew nothing 
 about. I gazed coolly at those wlio went up to be examined, 
 and I even permitted m^^self to make fun of some of them. 
 
 "Well, Grap, how goes it?" I said to Ilinka when he 
 returned from the table. "Did you get frightened?" 
 
 " ЛУе'П see how you come out," said Ilinka, who had 
 utterly rebelled against my influence from the day he entered 
 the university, did not smile when I spoke to him, and was 
 ill-disposed towards me. 
 
 I smiled scornfully at Ilinka's replj', although the doubt 
 which he expressed alarmed me for a moment. But the 
 mist again spread itself over this feeling ; and I remained 
 indifferent and absent-minded, so that I j^romised to go and 
 lunch with Baron Z. at Materna's just as soon as I had been 
 examined (as though this was a matter of the utmost insig- 
 nificance to me) . When I was called up with Ikonin, I 
 arranged the skirts of my uniform, and stepped up to the 
 examination table with perfect nonchalauce.
 
 YOUTH. 379 
 
 A slight chill of terror oourscd through my back only 
 when the 3'oung professor — the same one who had c^ues- 
 tioned me at the entrance examination — looked me straight 
 in the face, and I touched the note-paper on which tlie ques- 
 tions were written. Although Ikonin took his ticket wiih 
 the same swaj'ing of his whole body as during the preceding 
 examinations, he answered after a fashion, though very 
 badly. And I did what he had done at tlie first examina- 
 tions : I did even worse ; for I took a second card, and made 
 no reply at all. The professor looked me compassionately 
 in the face, and said in a firm but quiet voice, — 
 
 "You will not pass into the second class, Mr. Irteneff. 
 It will be better not to present yourself for examination. 
 This course must be weeded out. — And the same with you, 
 Mr. Ikonin," he added. 
 
 Ikonin asked permission to be re-examined, as though it 
 were an alms ; but the professor replied that he could not 
 accomplish iu two days what he had not accomplished in the 
 course of a year, and that he could not possibly pass. Iko- 
 nin begged again in a humble and pitiful manner, but the 
 professor again refused. 
 
 "You may go, gentlemen," he said in the same low but 
 firm voice. 
 
 It was only then that I сриМ make up my mind to leave 
 the table ; and I was ashamed at having, as it were, taken 
 part by my silence in Ikonin's prayers. I do not remember 
 how I traA^ersed the hall, past the students ; what reph' I 
 made to their questions ; how I made m}- way into the ante- 
 room, and got home. 
 
 j For three days I did not leave m}' room : I saw no one ; I 
 [found solace in tears, as in ni}' cliildliood, and wei)t a great 
 deal. I looked up my pistols, in order that I miglit shoot 
 myself if I should want to do so very much. I thought that 
 I Ilinka Grap would spit in my face when he met me, and 
 that lie would be quite right in so doing ; that Operoff would 
 rejoice in ray misfortune, and tell everybody about it; that 
 Kolpikoff was quite correct in insulting me at Jahr's ; tliat 
 my stupid speeches to Princess Kornakova could Ьал'е no 
 other result; and so on, and so on. All the moments of 
 my life which had been torturing to my self-love, and hard 
 to lioar, passed tlu'ough ni}' mind one after the other ; and I 
 tried to blame some one else for my misfortunes. I thought 
 that some one had done this on purpose ; 1 invented a whole
 
 380 TOUTU. 
 
 intrigue against myself ; I grumbled at the professors, at my 
 comrades, at Volod3\n, at Dmitri, at papa because he had 
 sent me to the university ; I complained of Providence for 
 having allowed me to live to see such disgrace. Finally, 
 conscious of my complete ruin in the ез'сз of all who knew 
 me, I begged papa to let me enter the hussars, or go to the 
 Caucasus. Papa was displeased with me ; but, on seeing 
 my terrible grief, he comforted me by saying that it was not 
 so very bad ; that matters might be arranged if I would take 
 a different course of study. Volodya too, who did not see 
 an}- thing dreadful in my misfortune, said that in another 
 course I should at least not feel ashamed before my fellow- 
 studeuts. 
 
 Our ladies did not understand it at all, and would not, or 
 could not, comprehend what an examination was, — what it 
 meant, to fail to pass ; and only pitied me, because they saw 
 ni}^ grief. 
 
 Dmitri came to see me every day, and was extremely gen- 
 tle and tender during this whole period ; but, for that very 
 reason, it seemed to me that he had grown cold towards me. 
 It alwa3s seemed to me a pain and an insult, when, mount- 
 ing to m}" room, he sat down close to me in silence, with a 
 little of that expression which a doctor wears when he seats 
 himself at the bedside of a very sick man. Sophia Ivan- 
 ovna and Varenka sent me books b}' him, which I had for- 
 merly wanted, and wished me to come to see them ; but, in 
 this verj' attention, I perceived a haughty and insulting con- 
 descension towards me, the man who had fallen so very low. 
 At the end of three days, I became somewhat composed: 
 but, even up to our departure for the country, I did not 
 leave the house ; and, thinking only of my grief, I lounged 
 idl}' from room to room, endeavoring to avoid all members 
 of the household. 
 
 I thought and thought ; and finally, late in the evening, as 
 I was sitting down-stairs and listening to Avdotya Vasiliev- 
 na's waltz, I suddenly sprang up, ran up-stairs, got my note- 
 book, on which was written, "Rules of Life," opened it, 
 and a moment of repentance and moral expansion came over 
 me. I wept, but no longer with tears of despair. "When I 
 recovered myself, I decided to write down my rules of life 
 again ; and I was firml}- convinced that I should never hence- 
 forth do any thing wrong, nor spend a single minute in idle- 
 ness, nor ever alter my rules.
 
 YOUTH. 381 
 
 Whether this moral impetus histcd long, in what it con- 
 sisted, and what new laws it imposed upon my moral devel- 
 opment, I shall relate in the following and happier half of 
 шз' youth. ^ 
 
 1 Thia last half of the Memoirs, if written, has never been published. 
 
 5o^ V\^ ■%
 
 ЖНАТ ТО DO? 
 
 THOUGHTS EVOKED BY THE CENSUS 
 OF MOSCOW 
 
 BY 
 
 COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI 
 
 A NEW АШ) AUTHORIZED TRAXSLATION FROM THE 
 UNABRIDGED RUSSIAN MANUSCRIPT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.
 
 COPTRIGHT, ISSe, 
 
 Вт THOMAS Y. CROWELL & OO.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Great social questions face us. They are rising like 
 ominous storm-clouds above the horizon, not only in what 
 are sometimes called the " effete monarchies " of the Old 
 AVorld, but here in this New World, in this favored land. 
 Thoughtful men and women are everywhere busying them- 
 selves with their solution. 
 
 Side by side with the portentous increase of wealth, is the 
 more portentous increase of destitution and crime. On the 
 one side, unheard-of luxury ; on the other, desperate poverty. 
 On the one side, pride and idleness ; on the other, beggary 
 and anarchy. There are warnings in history, — two mighty 
 warnings, — the fall of Rome, the French Revolution. Rome 
 sowed the wind, and reaped the whirlwind. The French 
 aristocracy cried, ^''Ajjres nous le deluge;'^ but the deluge 
 came ichile, not after; it was a deluge of blood. 
 
 Modern civilization is sowing the whirlwind : what shall 
 we or our children reap ? There are enormous wrongs. Can 
 they be righted while j'et there is time ? How ? 
 
 Various methods have suggested themselves. Some are 
 visionary : some would be practicable if men's eyes were 
 opened. 
 
 . AVho doubts, that, if alcoholic drinks could be banished 
 from the earth, the question of poverty and crime would be 
 practically settled ? 
 
 Meanwhile, associated charities rally earnest men and 
 women, and home missionarjes devote their lives to this 
 work.
 
 IV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 But still the problem grows more ominous. 
 
 A voice from Russia — the voice, as it were, of a prophet 
 — has proclaimed another and inexorable way. 
 
 A nobleman, rich and famous, a popular novelist, a great 
 land-owner, with every thing in his grasp that ambition might 
 suggest, found himself face to face with this question. 
 
 He had lived the idle, luxurious life of "the upper 
 classes," the world ол^ег, and thought to compound with liis 
 conscience by a dilettante system of тоцез' -giving. With 
 this charitable object in view, he investigated the poverty of 
 Moscow, which is exactl}' like the poverty of every other 
 city, — Paris, London, New York, Berlin, Boston, — and 
 after sj'stematic examination he came to the conclusion that 
 the mere giving of money only added to the existing evil. 
 
 Then the great question took possession of him, — Wliat 
 Mast We Do? 
 
 He discovered a solution which he claims to be ?Ле solution, 
 and he has carried it out in the spirit of ISakj^a Muni and of 
 Christ. 
 
 Absolute renunciation in the line of the text, "Whoso 
 loseth his life shall find it." 
 
 For Count Tolstoi, true life is to be found only in labor — 
 bodily labor, mental labor, moral labor, all co-ordinated into 
 the one struggle with nature — the struggle for existence iu 
 which every man must lend a hand to aid his neighbor. 
 
 It is democracy pure and simple. 
 
 It is socialism in its grim and classic but divine features. 
 
 It is organized anarchy, if one may be permitted to use 
 hxxch a paradox. No rulers, no armies, no money, no taxes, 
 no possessions, no cities, but everj' man living in accordance 
 with the Golden Rule, eating his l)read in the sweat of his 
 brow ; while art and science, legitimate when removed from 
 the realm of private gain, shall serve to edupate the people, 
 4nd make them better. 
 
 The story of Count Tolstoi's great struggle, and of his
 
 IN ТВ OD UCTION. V 
 
 arrival at the solution, is told by himself in a series of papers 
 collected under the general head " ]Vliat To Do ? " or, more 
 correctly, " ЛУ1ш1 Must We Do Then?" 
 
 The theories presented, and the experiences related, were, 
 in some details, too radical for an autocratic country lilve 
 Russia ; and the authorized edition of Count Tolstoi's col- 
 lected writings, contains only garbled extracts from this 
 work. 
 
 The work circulates, however, in Russia, in unpublished 
 form ; and a friend and disciple of the Count, having a copy 
 in his possession, put it into an English translation, with tlie 
 design that it should be published in America in a form cheap 
 enough to reach the masses. Sucli is the explanation of the 
 present edition of " WJiat To Do?" It will be found in many 
 respects different from the translation published last year. 
 It is complete and unabridged. 
 
 The reader must not forget that it was written for Russians, 
 and that, therefore, it must be judged with reference to Rus- 
 sian conditions. But no one can read these glowing pages 
 witliout a thrill of admiration for the honesty and manliness 
 of the great novelist, who has himself shoAvn his sincerity 
 by adopting the manner of life which he holds up as the 
 ideal of the world. 
 
 His words are eloquent ; they ring often with solemn 
 warning ; and they are to be read, not for curiosit}', as those 
 of a fanatic, but for instruction, as the prophecy of a seer. 
 
 N. II. DOLE. 
 
 Boston, Nov. 1, 188S.
 
 i
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEX? 
 
 " And the people asked him, saying, What shall we do then? 
 
 " He answereth and saitfa unto them, lie that hath two coats, let him impart to 
 him that hath none; and he that hath meat, let him do likewise." (Luke iii. 10, 11.) 
 
 "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth 
 corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal : 
 
 " But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust 
 doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal : 
 
 " For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. 
 
 " The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole 
 body shall be full of light. 
 
 " But if thine eye be evil, thj- whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore 
 the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness ! 
 
 "No man can serve two masters: for either he will hale the one, and love the 
 other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God 
 and mammon. 
 
 " Therefore I say unto j'ou. Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or 
 what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Ls not the life 
 more than meat, and the body than raiment? " (^fatt. vi. ]9-2o.) 
 
 "Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we 
 drink? or, Wherewithal. shall we be clothed? 
 
 " (For after all these things do the (Jentiles seek :) for your heavenly Father 
 knoweth that ye have need of all these things. 
 
 "But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these 
 things shall bt added unto you." (Matt. vi. 31-3.3.) 
 
 " For it is easier for a camel to go throut'h a needle's eye, than for a rich man to 
 enter ii;to the kingdom of God." (Luke xviii. 25.) 
 
 Havixg passed the oreatcr part of my life in tlie ontintrv. 
 I cnuie at length, in the year 18.S1, to reside in jNIoscow, 
 Avhere I was immediately strnek with the extreme state of 
 pauperism in that city. Thonuh well aequaintcd witli the 
 privations of the i>oor in rui'al districts, I hud not the faintest 
 conception of their actual condition in towns. 
 
 In ^loscow it is impossible to ])ass a strt'ct withont meet- 
 ing beggars of a peculiar kind quite unlike tliose in the
 
 2 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 country, лу1ю go about there, as the saying is, " with a hag 
 and the name of Christ." 
 
 The Moscow beggars neitlier carry a bag nor ask for ahns. 
 In most cases when tliey meet you, they oul}' try to catch 
 your eye, and act according to tlie expression of your 
 face. 
 
 1 know of one such, a bankrupt gentleman. He is an old 
 man, who advances slowly, limping painfully on each leg. 
 IVhen be meets you, he limps, and makes a bow. If you 
 stop, he takes off his cap, furnished with a cockade, bows 
 again, and begs. If you do not stop, he pretends only to be 
 lame, and continues limping along. 
 
 Tliat is a specimen of a genuine Moscow beggar, and an 
 experienced one. 
 
 At first I did not know why such mendicants did not ask 
 openly ; but afterwards I learned why, without understanding 
 the reason. 
 
 One day I saw a policeman push a ragged peasant, all 
 swollen from dropsy, into a cab. I asked what he had been 
 doing, and the policeman replied, — 
 
 '' Begging." 
 
 "Is begging, then, forbidden?" 
 
 " So it seems," he answered. As the man was being 
 driven away, I took another cab, and followed. I wished to 
 find out whether mendicancy was really forbidden, and if so, 
 why it was? I could not at all understand how it was pos- 
 sible to forbid one man asking something from another ; and, 
 moreover. I had m^' doulits whether it was illegal in a city 
 where it flourished to such an extent. 
 
 I entered the police-station where the pauper had been 
 taken, and asked an official armed with sword and pistol, 
 and seated at a talile, what he had lieen arrested for. 
 
 The man looked up at me sharply, and said, " \Yhat 
 business is that of yours? " 
 
 However, feeling the necessity of some explanation, he 
 added, " The authorities order such fellows to be arrested, 
 so I suppose it is necessary." 
 
 I went away. The policeman who had brought the man 
 was sitting in the window of the ante-room, studying his 
 note-book. I said to him, — 
 
 "Is it really true that poor people are not allowed to ask 
 for alms in Christ's name? " 
 
 The man atarted, as if waking up from a sleep, stared at
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 3 
 
 mo, tlicn relapsed again into a state of stolid indifference, 
 and, reseating himself on the window-sill, said, — 
 
 " The anthorities reqnire it, so yon see it is necessary." 
 
 And as he became again absorbed in his note-book, 1 went 
 down the steps towards my cab. 
 
 "Well! have they locked him up?" asked the cabman. 
 He had evidently become interested in the matter. 
 
 '' They have," I answered. He shook his head. 
 
 '' Is begging, tlien, forbidden here in Moscow? " I asked. 
 
 " I can't tell you," he said. 
 
 " How," I said, " can a man be locked up, for begging in 
 the name of Christ? " 
 
 " Nowadays things have changed, and you see it is for- 
 bidden," he answered. 
 
 Since that time, 1 have seen policemen several times taking 
 paupers to the police-station, and thence to the work-house : 
 indeed, I once met a whole crowd of these poor creatures, 
 about thirty, escorted before and behind by policemen. I 
 asked what they had been doing. 
 
 '"'■ Begging," was the reply. 
 
 It a|)[)ears that, according to law, medicancy is forbidden 
 in MosC(iw, notwithstanding the great number of beggars 
 one meets there in every street, Avhole rows of them near the 
 cluu'ches during service-time, and most of all at funerals. 
 But why are some caught and locked up, while others are 
 let alone? This I have not been able to solve. Either 
 there are lawful and unlawful beggars amongst them, or else 
 there are so many that it is impossible to catch them all ; 
 or, perhaps, though some are taken up, otiiers fill their 
 places. 
 
 There are a great variety of such mendicants in Moscow. 
 There are those that make a livmg l)y begging. There ai'e 
 also honestly destitute people, such as have somehow 
 chanced to reach Moscow, and are really in extreme 
 need. 
 
 Amongst these last are men and women evidentl}^ from the 
 country. I have often met such. Some of them who had 
 fallen ill, and afterward recovered and left the hospital, 
 could now find no means, either of feeding themselves, or of 
 getting away from jNIoscow ; some of them, besides, had taken 
 to drink (such probal)ly was tiie case of the man with dropsy 
 wliom I met) ; some were in good health. l)Ut had been 
 b irned out of house and iionie, oi' else were very old, or were
 
 4 WHAT MUST ]VE DO THEN? 
 
 widowed or deserted women with cliildren ; some otliers were 
 sound as to health, and quite capable of working. 
 
 These robust fellows especially interested me, — the more 
 so, because, since my arrival in Moscow. I had, for the sake 
 of exercise, contracted the habit of going to the Sparrow 
 Hills, and working there with two peasants, who sawed wood. 
 These men were exactly like the beggars whom 1 often met 
 in the streets. One was called Peter, and was an ex-soldier 
 from Kaluga; the other, Simon, from Vladimir. They pos- 
 sessed nothing save the clothes on their backs : and they 
 earned, by working very hard, from forty to forty-live 
 kopeks a day ; out of this they both put a little aside, — the 
 Kaluga soldier, in order to buy a fur coat; the Vladimir 
 peasant, in order to get moue^' enough to return to his home 
 in the country. 
 
 Meeting, therefore, in the streets similar individuals. I was 
 particularly interested in them, and failed to understand why 
 some begged whilst others worked. 
 
 Whenever I met a beggar of this description, I used to ask 
 him how it was that he had come to such a state. Once 
 I met a strong, healthy-looking peasant : he asked alms. I 
 questioned him as to who he was, and whence he had come. 
 
 He told me he had come from Kaluga, in search of work. 
 He had at first found some, such as sawing old timl>er into 
 fire-wood ; but after he and his companion had finished the 
 job, though they had continually looked for more Avork, 
 the}' had not found any ; his companion had left him, and he 
 himself had passed a fortnight in the utmost need, and, hav- 
 ing sold all he possessed to obtain food, had not now enough, 
 even to buy the tools necessai-y for sawing. 
 
 I gave him the money for a saw, and told him where to go 
 for work. I had previously arranged with Peter and Simon 
 that they should accept a new fellow-worker, and find him a 
 companion. 
 
 "■ Be sure you come ! There is plent}' of work to be done," 
 I said on parting. 
 
 '" You may depend on me," he answered. '^ Do you 
 think there can be any pleasure in knocking al)Out, begging, 
 if I could work? " 
 
 The man solemnly promised that he would come ; and he 
 seemed to be honest, and really meaning to work. 
 
 Next day, on coming to my fiicnds, Peter and Simon. I 
 asked them whether the man had arrived. They said \ic h.u)
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 5 
 
 not ; nor, indeed, did he come at all : and in this way I was 
 frequently deceived. 
 
 I have also been deceived by those who stated that they 
 only wanted a little money to buy a ticket, in order to return 
 home, aud whom I again met in the streets a few days later. 
 JMany of them I came to know well, and they knew me; 
 though occasionally, having forgotten me, they would repeat 
 the same false tale ; but sometimes they would turn away ou 
 recognizing me. 
 
 In this way I discovered, that, even in this class of men, 
 there are many rogues. 
 
 But still, these poor rogues were also very much to be 
 pitied: they were all of them ragged, hungry paupers; they 
 are of the soi't who die of cold in the streets, or hang them- 
 selves to escape living, as the papers frequently tell us. 
 
 II. 
 
 AYiiEN I talked to ш}- town friends about this pauperism 
 which surrounded them, they always replied, " Oh ! you have 
 seen nothing yet ! You should go to the Khitrof Market, 
 and visit the lodging-houses there, if you want to see the 
 genuine ' Golden Company.' " 
 
 One jovial friend of mine added, that the number of these 
 paupers had so increased, that they already formed, not a 
 " (iolden Company," but a '^ Golden Regiment." 
 
 INIy lively friend was right ; but he would have been yet 
 nearer the truth had he said that these men formed, in 
 Moscow, not a company, nor a regiment, but a whole army, 
 — an army, I should judge, of about fifty thousand. 
 
 The regular townspeople, when they spoke to me about 
 the pauperism of the city, always seemed to feel a certain 
 pl(>asm-e or pride in being able to give me such precise 
 information. 
 
 I remember I noticed, when visiting Loudon, that the 
 citizens there seemed also to find a certain satisfaction in 
 telling me about Loudon destitution, as though it were some- 
 thing to be proud of. 
 
 However, wishing to inspect this poverty about which I 
 had heard so .nuich, I turned my steps very often towards 
 the Khitrof Market; but, on eacli occasion, I felt a sensation 
 of pain and shame. " Why should you go to look at the
 
 6 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 siifTeiing of luiman I)eini2;s whom you cannot help? " said one 
 voice witliin me. '"• If 3'ou live liere, and see all tliat is 
 pleasant iu town life, go and see also wliat is wretched," 
 replied another. 
 
 And so, one cold, windy day in December, two 3'ears 
 ago, I went to the Khitrof Market, the centre of the town 
 l)auperism. 
 
 It was on a week-day, about four in the afternoon. "While 
 still a gootl distance off, 1 noticed greater and greater num- 
 bers of men iu strange garb, evidently not originally meant 
 for them ; and in yet stianger foot-apparel, men of a peculiar 
 unhealtliy complexion, and all apparently showing a remark- 
 able indifference to all that surrounded tliem. 
 
 Men in the strangest, most incongruous costumes saun- 
 tered along, evidently without the least thouglit as to how 
 they might look in the eyes of others. They were all going 
 in the same direction. Without asking the wa}', which was 
 unknown to me, I followed them, and came to the Khitrof 
 Market. 
 
 There I found women likewise in ragged capes, rough- 
 looking cloaks, jackets, boots, and goloslies. Perfectly free 
 and easy in their manner, notwithstanding the grotesque 
 ujonstrosit}' of their attire, these women, old and 3'oung, were 
 sitting, bargaining, strolling about, and abusing one another. 
 
 Market-time having evidently passed, there were not 
 many i)eople there ; and as most of them were going up-hill, 
 through the market-place, and all iu the same direction, 1 
 followed them. 
 
 The farther I went, the greater became the stream of 
 people flowing into the one road. Having passed the mar- 
 ket, and gone up the street, I found that I was following two 
 women, one old, the other j^oung. P)Oth were clothed in 
 some giay ragged stuff. They were talking, as they walked, 
 about some kind of business. 
 
 Every expression was unfailingl}' accompanied by some 
 obscene word. They were neither of them drunk, but were 
 absorbed with their own affairs ; and the men passing, and 
 those about them, paid not the slightest attention to their 
 language, which sounded so strange to me. It appeared to 
 be the generally accepted manner of speech in those parts. 
 On the left луе passed some private night-lodging-houses, 
 and some of the crowd entered them : others continued to 
 ascend the hill towards a large corner house. The majorit}'
 
 iVlIAT 31 и ST WE DO THEN? 7 
 
 of the people walking along with me went into tliis house. 
 In front of it, people all of the same sort were standing and 
 sitting, on the sidewalk and in the snow. 
 
 At the right of the entrance were women ; at the left, men. 
 I passed by the men : X passed bj' the women (there were 
 several hundreds in all), and stopped where the crowd 
 ceased. 
 
 This building was the " Liapin free night-lodging-house." 
 Th3 crowd was composed of night-lodgers, waiting to be let 
 in. At live o'clock in the evening this iiouse is opened and 
 the crowd admitted. Hither came almost all the people whom 
 1 followed. 
 
 1 remained standing where the file of men ended. Those 
 nearest to me stared at me till I had to look at them. The 
 remnants of garments covering their bodies were very 
 various : but the one expression of the eyes of all alike 
 seemed to be, " Why have you, a man from another world, 
 stopped here with us? Who are you? Are yon a self- 
 satisfied man of wealth, desiring to be gladdened l)3'the sight 
 of our need, to divert yourself in j'our idleness, and to mock 
 at us? or are you that which does not and can not exist, — 
 a man who pities us?" 
 
 On all their faces the same question was written. Each 
 would look at me, meet my eyes, and turn awa}^ again. 
 
 1 wautetl to speak to some one of them, but for a long 
 time I could not summon up courage. However, CA'cntually 
 our mutual exchange of glances introduced us to each other ; 
 and we felt that, however widel}^ separated were our social 
 positions in life, after all we were fellow-men, and so ceased 
 to be afraid of one another. 
 
 Next to me stood a peasant with a swollen face, and red 
 beard, in a ragged jacket, and worn-out golosiies on his 
 naked feet, though there were eight degrees of frost. •^ For 
 the third or fourth time our ез'ез met ; and I felt so drawn 
 to him that I was no longer ashamed to address him (to have 
 refrained from doing so would have been the only real 
 shame), and asked him where he came from. 
 
 He answered eagerly, while a crowd began to collect round 
 us. that he had come from Smolensk in search of work, in 
 order to lie able to Ьил' bread, and pa}^ his taxes. 
 
 '• There is no work to be had nowadays," he said: "the 
 sokliers have got hold of it all. So here am I knocking 
 
 ^ liC'aumur.
 
 8 WHAT MUST WE no THEN? 
 
 about: and God is my witness, I have not had any thing to 
 eat for two days." 
 
 He said this shyly, with an attempt at a smile. A seller ' 
 of warm drinks, an old soldier, was standing near. I called 
 him, and made him pour out a glass for liiin. Tiie peasant 
 took tlie warm vessel in his hands, and, before drinking, 
 warmed them against the glass, trying not to lose any of the 
 precious heat ; and whilst doing this he related to me his 
 story. 
 
 The adventures of these people, or at least the stories 
 which they tell, are almost always the same : He had had 
 a little work ; then it had ceased : and here, in the night-lodg- 
 ing-house, his i)urse, containing his money and passport, iiad 
 been stolen from him. Now he could not leave Moscc^w. 
 
 He told me that during the day he warmed himself in 
 public-houses, eating any stale crust of liread which might 
 be given him. His night's lodging here in Liapiu's house 
 cost him nothing. 
 
 He was only waiting for the round of the police-sergeant 
 to lock him up for being without his passjiort, when he would 
 be sent on foot, with a party of men similarly situated, to 
 the place of his birth. 
 
 "They say the inspection will take place on Thursday, 
 when I shall be taken up ; so I must try and keep on until 
 then." (The prison and his compulsory journey appeared 
 to him as the "promised land.") AVhile he was speaking, 
 two or three men in the crowd said they were also in exactly 
 the same situation. 
 
 A thin, pale youth, with a long nose, only a shirt upon his 
 back, and that torn about the shoulders, and a tattered cap 
 on his head, edged his way to me through the crowd. He 
 was shivering violently all the time, but tried, as he caught 
 my eye, to smile scornfully at the peasant's talk, thinking 
 thus to show his superiority. 
 
 I offered him some drink. 
 
 He warmed his hands on the tumbler as the other had done ; 
 but just as he began to speak, he was shouldered aside by 
 a big, black, hook-nosed, bare-headed fellow, in a thin shirt 
 and waistcoat, who also asked for some drink. 
 
 Then a tall old man, with a thin beard, in an overcoat 
 fastened round the waist with a cord, and in matting-shoes, 
 had some. He was drunk. 
 
 1 A sbiten-seller : нЬНеп is <i hot drink made of herbs or siiices and molasses.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO Til EX? 9 
 
 Then came a little man, Avitli a swollen face and teary eyes, 
 in a coarse brown jacket, and with knees protruding through 
 his torn trousers, and knocking against each other with cold. 
 He shivered so that he could not hold the glass, and spilled 
 the contents over his clothes : the others took to abusing 
 him, but he only grinned miseralily, and shivered. 
 
 After him came an ugly, deformed man in rags, and Avitli 
 bare feet. Then an individual of the officer type ; another 
 belonging to the church class ; then a strange-looking being 
 without a nose, — and all of them hungry, cold, suppliant, and 
 humble, — crowded round me, and stretched out their hands 
 for the glass ; but the drink was exhausted. Then one man 
 asked for money : I gave him some. A second and a third 
 followed, till the whole crowd pressed on me. In the general 
 confusion the gatekeeper of the neighboring house shouted 
 to the crowd to clear the pavement before his house, and the 
 peoi)le sulunissively obej'ed. 
 
 Some of them undertook to control the tumult, and took 
 me under their protection. They attem[)ted to drag me out 
 of the crush. But the crowd that formerly had lined the 
 pavement in a long file, now had become condensed about 
 me. Every one looked at me and begged ; and it seemed as 
 if each face were more pitiful, harassed, and degraded than 
 the other. I distributed all the money I had, — only about 
 twenty rubles, — and entered the lodging-house with the 
 crowd. The house was enormous, and consisted of four paits. 
 In the upper stories were the men's rooms; on the ground- 
 floor the women's. I went first into the women's dormitory, 
 — a large room, filled with beds resembling the bertlis in a 
 third-class railway-carriage. They were arranged in two 
 tiers, one above the other. 
 
 Strange-looking women in ragged dresses, without jackets, 
 old and young, kept coming in and occupying places, some 
 below, others climbing above. Some of the elder ones 
 crossed themselves, pronouncing the name of the founder of 
 the refuge. Some laughed and swore. 
 
 I went up-stairs. There, in a similar way, the men had 
 taken their places. Amongst them I recognized one of those 
 to whom I had given money. On seeing him I suddenly felt 
 horribl}' ashamed, and made haste to leave. 
 
 And with a sense of having committed some crime, I 
 returned home. There I entered along the carpeted steps 
 into the rug-covered luill, and, having taken off my fur coat,
 
 10 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 sat down lo я meal of five courses, served by two footmen in 
 Jnery. With wliite tics and white gloves. And a scene of the 
 past came suddenly before me. Thirty years ago I saw 
 a man's head cut off under the guillotine \n Paris before a 
 crowd of thousands of spectators. I Avas aware that the 
 man hud been a great ciiminal : I was acquainted with ;dl 
 the aignments in justification of capital punishment for such 
 offences. I saw this execution carried out deliberately : but 
 at the moment that the head and body were severed from 
 each other by the keen blade, I gasi)ed, and realized in ever}' 
 lil)re of my being, that all the arguments which 1 had hitherto 
 heard n])on cai)ital punishment were wickedly false ; that, no 
 matter how many might agree as to its being a lawful act, it 
 was literally murder ; whatever other title men might give 
 it. they thus had virtually committed murder, that W4)rst of all 
 crimes : and there was I, both by my silence and my non- 
 interference, an aider, abetter, and participator in the sin. 
 
 Similar convictions were now again forced upon me when 
 I l)eheld the misery, cold, hunger, and humiliation of thou- 
 sands of my fellow-men. I realized not only with my braiu, 
 but in every pulse of my soul, that, whilst there were thou- 
 sands of such sufferers in Moscow, I, with tens of tliousands 
 of others, filled myself daily to repletion with luxurious 
 dainties of eveiy description, took the tenderest care of my 
 horses, and clothed my very floors with velvet cari)ets ! 
 
 "Whatever the wise and learned of the world might say 
 about it, however unalterable the course of life might seem to 
 be, the same evil was continually being enacted, and I, by my 
 own personal habits of luxury, was a promoter of that evil. 
 
 The difference between the two cases was only this : that 
 in the first, all I could have done would ha^^e been to shout 
 out to the murderers standing near the guillotine, who were 
 accomplishing the deed, that they were committing a murder, 
 though of course knowing that my interference would have 
 been in vain. Whereas, in this second case, I might have 
 given away, not only the drink and the small sum of money I 
 had with me. b:it also the coat from off my shoulders, and 
 all that I possessed at home. Yet I had not done so, 
 and therefore felt, and feel, and can never cease to feel, 
 myself a partaker in a crime which is continually being com- 
 mitted, so long as I have superfluous food whilst otliers have 
 none, so long as 1 have two coats whilst there exists one 
 man Avithout any.
 
 WHAT MUST \['E DO THEN? 11 
 
 III. 
 
 On the same evening that I retin-ned from Liapin's honse, 
 I imparted \r\y impressions to a friend : and he, a resident of 
 tlie town, began to explain to me, not without a certain 
 satisfaction, that this was the most natural state of things in 
 a town ; that it was only owing to my i)rovincialism that I 
 found any thing remarkable in it; and that it had ever 
 bren. ami ever would be, so, such betng one of the 
 iiK'vitalilo conditions of civilization. In London it was 
 yet worse, . . . therefore there could be nothing wrong 
 ai)(.)ut it, and there was nothing to be disturbed and tronl)led 
 about. 
 
 1 began to argue with my friend, lint with sucli warmth 
 nnd so angrily, that my wife rushed in from the adjoining 
 loom to ask what had happened. It appeared that I had, 
 williout bemg aware of it, shouted out in an agonized voice, 
 gesticulating wildly, " We should not go on living in this 
 way! we must not live so! we have no right!" I was 
 u'l)uked for my unnecessary excitenient ; I was told that I 
 could not talk quietly upon any question ; that I was irrita- 
 ble ; and it was pointetl out to me that the existence of such 
 miseiy as I had witnessed, should in no way be a reason 
 for embittering the life of my home-circle. 
 
 I felt thai this was perfectly just, and held my tongue ; 
 but in the depth of my soul I knew that I was right, and I 
 could not quiet my conscience. 
 
 'Y\\Q town life, which had previously seemed alien and 
 strange to me, became now so hateful that all the indul- 
 gences of a luxurious existence, in which I had formerly 
 delighted, now served to torment me. 
 
 However much I tried to find some kind of excuse for my 
 mode of life, I could not contemplate without irritation 
 either my own or other people's drawing-rooms, nor a clean, 
 richly served dinner-table, nor a carriage with well-fed 
 coachman and horses, nor the shops, theatres, and enter- 
 tainments. 1 could not help seeing, in contrast with all this, 
 those hungiy, shivering, and degraded inhabitants of the 
 night lodging-house. And I could never free myself from 
 the thought that these two conditions were inseparable — 
 that the one iMoceeded from the otiier. I remember that the 
 sense of culpability which I had felt from the first moment
 
 12 WHAT MUST WE BO TIlENf 
 
 never left me ; Imt with this feeling another soon became 
 mingled, which lessened the tirst. 
 
 Wlien I talked to my intimate friends and acqnaintances 
 abont my impressions on Liapin's house, the}' all answered 
 in the same way. and expressed besides their appreciation of 
 my kindness and tender-heartedness, and gave me to under- 
 stand that the sight had so imi)ressed me because I, Leo 
 Tolstoi, was kind-hearted and good. And I willingly 
 allowed myself to believe it. 
 
 The natural consequence of this was, that the first keen 
 sense of self-reproach and shame was blunted, and was re- 
 placed b}^ a sense of satisfaction at my own virtue, and a 
 desire to make it known to others. " It is in truth," I said 
 to myself, " probably not my connection with a luxurious 
 life which is at fault, but the unavoidable circumstances of 
 life. And thus a change in my particular life cannot alter 
 the evil which I have seen." 
 
 In changing my own life, I should only render m^'self and 
 those nearest and dearest to me miserable, Avhilst that other 
 miseiT would remam the same ; and therefore my object 
 should be, not to alter my own way of living, as I had at 
 first imagined, but to try as much as was in my power to 
 ameliorate the position of those unfortunate ones who had 
 excited my compassion. 
 
 The whole matter, I reasoned, lies in the fact that I, being 
 an extremely kind and good man, wish to do good to my 
 fellow-men. And I began to arrange a plan of philanthropic 
 activitj' in which I might exhibit all my virtues. I must, 
 however, here remark, that, while planning this charitalile 
 effort, in the depth of m}- heart I felt that I was not doing 
 the right thing ; but, as too often happens, reason and im- 
 agination were stitling the voice of conscience. About this 
 time the census was being taken, and it seemed to me a good 
 opportunity for instituting that charitable organization iu 
 which I Avauted to shine. 
 
 I was acquainted with many philanthropic institutions and 
 societies already existing in Moscow, but all their activity 
 seemed to me both wrongly directed and insignificant in 
 comparison with what I myself wished to do. And this was 
 what I invented to excite sj-mpathy amongst the rich people 
 for the poor : I l)egan to collect monev, and enlist men who. 
 wished to help in the work, and who would, in company with 
 the census otHcers, visit all the nests of pauperism, entering
 
 WHAT Л и ST ]VE DO THEN? 13 
 
 into relations with the poor, finding ont the details of tlieir 
 needs, hel])ing them with money and work, sending them ont 
 of Moscow, placing their children in schools, and their old 
 men and women in liomes and houses of refuge. 
 
 I thought, moreover, that, from those who undertook this 
 луогк, there could be formed a permanent society, Avhich, 
 dividing ])etweeu its members the various districts of Mos- 
 cow, would take care that new cases of want and misery 
 should be avoided, and so l)y degrees stifle paui)erism at its 
 very birth, accomplishing their task, not so much by cure, as 
 by prevention. 
 
 I already saw in the future, begging and poverty entirely 
 disa[)pearing, I having been the means of its accomi)lislnnent. 
 Then all of us who were rich could go on living in all our 
 luxury as before, dwelling in fine houses, eating dinners of 
 live courses, driving in our carriages to theatres and enter- 
 tainments, and no longer being harassed b}' such sights as I 
 had witnessed at Liapin's house. 
 
 Having invented this plan, 1 wrote an article about it ; and, 
 before even giving it to be printed, I went to those acquaint- 
 ances from whom I hoped to obtain co-operation, and ex- 
 l^ounded to all whom I visited that day (chiefly the rich) the 
 ideas I afterwards pul)lished in my article. 
 
 I proposed to [)ro(it b}' tiie census in order to stud}' tlie 
 state of pauperism in Moscow, and to help to exterminate it 
 by personal effort and money, after which we might all wiih 
 a quiet conscience enjoy our usual pleasures. All listened 
 to me attentively and seriously ; but, in every case, I re- 
 marked that the moment my hearers came to understand 
 what 1 was driving at, they seemed to become uncomfortable 
 and somewhat embarrassed. But it was principally, I feel 
 sure, on my account ; because they considered all that I said 
 b) be folly. It seemed as though some other motive compelled 
 my listeners to agree for the moment with m}' foolishness. 
 — '' Oil, yes! Certainly. It would be delightful," tliey 
 said : " of course it is impossil)le not to sympathize with 
 you. Your idea is si)lendid. I myself have had the same ; 
 but . . . people here are so indifferent, that it is hardly rea- 
 sonable to expect a great success. However, as far as I am 
 concerned, I am, of course, ready to sluire in tlie enterpi'ise." 
 
 Similar answers I received from all. They consented, as 
 it appeared to me, not because tliev were pei'suaded by my 
 arguments, nor in com[»liaiU4' with my re(jur.st, l)ut becau.se
 
 14 WHAT 3Ib'ST WE DO THEN? 
 
 of some exterior reason, which rendered it impossille for 
 them to refuse. 
 
 1 remarked this partly because none of tliose who promised 
 me their help in the form of money, defined the sum they 
 meant to give ; so that I had to name the amount by askin<>;. 
 '• iMay I count upon 3'ou for twenty-five, or one hundred, or 
 two Inmdred, or three hundi'ed, I'ubles?" And not one cf 
 them paid the money. 1 draw attention to this fact, because. 
 when people are going to pay for what the}' are anxious tc 
 have, the}' are generally in haste to give it. Suppose it wyw 
 to secure a box to see Sarah Bernhardt, the money is innne- 
 diately produced. Here, however, of all who agreed to give, 
 and expressed their sympathy, no one immediately produced 
 the amount, but merel}' silently acquiesced in the sum 1 hap- 
 pened to name. 
 
 In the last house I visited that day, there was a large party. 
 The mistress of the house had for some 3'eai's been emi)loye(l 
 in works of charity. Several carriages were waiting at the 
 door of the house. Footmen in expensive liveries were 
 seated in the hall. In the spacious drawing-room, ladies, 
 old and 3'oung, wearing rich dresses and ornaments, were 
 talking to some 3"oung men, and dressing up small dolls, 
 destined for a lotteiy in aid of the poor. 
 
 The sight of this drawing-room, and of the people assem- 
 bled there, struck me very painfully. For not onl}' was their 
 property worth several million rubles ; not only could the 
 interest on the capital spent here on dresses, laces, bronzes, 
 jewels, carriages, horses, liveries, footmen, exceed a hundred 
 times the value of these ladies' work ; not only was this tlie 
 case, — but even the expenses caused b}' this very party ol 
 ladies and gentlemen, the gloves, linen, candles, tea, sugar, 
 cakes, all this represented a sum a hundred times exceed- 
 ing the value of the work done. 
 
 1 saw all tins, and therefore might have understood thai 
 here, at all events, I should not find sympathy for my plan ; 
 but I had come in order to give an invitation, and, howevei 
 painful it was to me, I said what I wished to say, repeating 
 almost the words of my article. 
 
 One lady present offered me some money, adding that, 
 owing to her sensibilities, she did not feel strong enough to 
 visit the poor herself, but that she would give hell) in this 
 foim. How nmch money, and when she would give it, she 
 did not s:iy. Another lady and a young man offered their
 
 WHAT MUST ]УЕ DO THEN? 15 
 
 sen'ices in visiting the poor, but I did not profit hy tlioir 
 offer. The princi[)al person I addressed, told me that it 
 would be impossil)le to do much, because the means were 
 not forthcoming. And the means were scarce, because all 
 the rich men in Moscow who were known, and could be 
 counted upon, had given all it was possible to get from them ; 
 their charities having already been rewarded with titles, 
 medals, and other distinctions, this being the only effectual ' 
 method of insuring success in the collection of money, — 
 namel}', to obtain new honors from the authorities, and that 
 being very diflicult. 
 
 Having returned home, I went to bed, not only with a pre- 
 sentiment that nothing would result from my idea, but also 
 with the shameful consciousness of having, during the whole 
 day, been doing something vile and contemptible. However, 
 I did not desist. 
 
 First, the work had been begun, and false shame would 
 have prevented my giving it up ; secondly, not only the 
 success of the enterprise itself, but even my occupation in 
 it, afforded me the possibility of continuing to live in my 
 usual wa}' : whereas, the failure of this enterprise would 
 have put me under the constraint of giving up m}' present 
 mode of life, and of seeking another. 0Г this, 1 was un- 
 consciously afraid : therefore, I refused to listen to my inner 
 voice, and continued what I had begun. 
 
 Having sent my article to be printed, I read a proof-copy 
 at a census-meeting in the town-hall, hesitatingly, and blush- 
 ing till my cheeks burned again, so uncomfortable did I feel. 
 
 1 saw that all m}' heai'ers felt equally uncomfortiible. 
 
 Upon my question, whether the managers of the census 
 would accept my proposal that they should remain at their 
 posts in lorder to form a link between society and those iu 
 need, an awkward silence ensued. 
 
 Then two of those present made speeches, which seemed 
 to mend the awkwardness of my suggestions : sympathy for 
 me was expressed along Avith their general approbation. 
 They, however, pointed out the impracticability of my 
 scheme. Every one seemed more at ease : but aftei'wards, 
 wlien, still wishing to succeed, I asked each district man- 
 ager separately, whether he was willing during the census 
 to investigate the needs of the poor, and afterwards remain 
 at his post in order to form this link between the poor 
 and the rich, all again were coufouuded ; it seeuied as
 
 16 WUAT Ml'^T UE 1)0 THEN? 
 
 though their looks sfiid, "Why, out of personal regard for 
 you, we have listei>ed to your silly proposition ; but here you 
 come out with it again ! " Such was the expression of their 
 faces, but in words they told me that they consented ; and 
 two of them, separately, but as though they had agreed 
 together, said in the same words, "• We regaixl it as our 
 moral duty to do so." Tiie same impression was produced 
 by my words upon the students, who had volunteered to act 
 as clerks during the census, when I told them that they might 
 then, besides their scientific pursuits, accomplish also a 
 charitable work. 
 
 When we talked the matter over, I noticed that they лусге 
 shy of looking me straiglit in the face, as one often hesitates 
 to look into the face of a good-natured шмп wlio is talking 
 nonsense. The same impression Avas produced by ni}^ article 
 upon the editor of tlie paper when I handed it to him ; also 
 upon my son, my Avife, and various other people. Ever\' one 
 seemed embarrassed, but all found it necessary to approve 
 of tiie idea itself ; and all, immediately after this a[)proba- 
 tion, began to express their doubts as to the success of the 
 plan, and, for some reason or other (all without exception), 
 .took to condemning the indifference and coldness of society 
 and of the world, though evidently excluding themselves. 
 
 In the depth of my soul, I continued to feel that all this 
 was not the right thing, that nothing would come of it ; but 
 the article had been printed, and I had agreed to take part 
 in the census. 1 had put a i)lan into action, and now the 
 plan itself drew me along. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In accordance with my request, the part of the town 
 was assigned to me for the census Avhich contained the 
 houses generally known under the name of the Rzhanoff 
 lodgings. I had long before heard that the}' were consid- 
 ered to be the lowest circle of povert}' and vice, and that 
 was the reason that I asked the officers of the census to 
 as>;ign me this district. 
 
 ]\Iy desire Avas gratified. 
 
 Having received the appointment from the Town Council, 
 I went, a few daj-s before the census, alone, to inspect my 
 district. With the help of a plan I was furnished with, I
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 17 
 
 soon found the Rzlianoff Houses, — approached b}' a street, 
 \Nliich terminated on the left-liand side of a gloomy building 
 ■without any apparent entrance. From the aspect of this 
 house,' I guessed it was the one I was in search of. On de- 
 scending the street, 1 had come across some boys, from ten 
 to fourteen 3'ears old, in short coats, sliding down the frozen 
 gutter, some on their feet, others upon a single skate. 
 
 The boys were ragged, and, like all town boys, sharp and 
 bold. I stopped to look at them. An old woman in torn 
 clothes, with hanging yellow cheeks, came round the corner. 
 She was going up-hill, and, like a horse out of wind, gasped 
 painfully at every step ; and, when abreast of me, she stopped 
 with hoarse, choking breath. In any other place, this old 
 woman would have asked alms of me, but here she onl}'^ 
 began to talk. 
 
 ''Just look at them!" she said, pointing to the sliding 
 boys; "always at mischief! They will become the same 
 Kzlianoff good-for-notiiings as their fathers." One boy, in 
 an overcoat and visorless cap, overhearing her words, stopi)ed. 
 '• You sliut up ! " he shouted. " You're only an old Kzhanoff 
 goat yourself ! " 
 
 1 asked tlie boy if he lived here. " Yes, and so does she. 
 Slie stole some boots," he called out, and, pushing himself 
 otf, ^lid on. 
 
 The woman gave vent to a torrent of abuse, interrupted 
 by her cough. During this squabble an old white-haired 
 ni;in, all in rags, came down the middle of the street, brand- 
 ishing his firms, and carrying in one hand a bundle of small 
 loaves, lie seemed to have just fortified himself with a glass 
 of iicpior. lie had evidentl}- heaid the old woman's abuse, 
 nnd took her side. 
 
 "• I'll give it you, you little devils, yon ! " he cried out, 
 pretending to i-ush after them ; and, having passed behind me, 
 he stepijc'il upon the pavement. If von saw this old man in 
 a fashionable street, you would be struck with his air of de- 
 crepitude, fee!)leness, and poverty. Here he ajjpeared in 
 tiie character of a пкч'гу workman, ivluruing from his day's 
 labor. 
 
 I followed him. He turned round the corner to the left 
 into an alley ; and, having passed the fi'ont of tiie house and 
 the gate, he disappeared through the door of an inn. Into 
 this alley the doors of the latter, a public-house, and several 
 sniidl eating-houses, opened. It was the Kzhanoff Houses.
 
 18 ЦЧ1АТ 31 и ST WE DO THEN? 
 
 Every thing was gray, dirt}', and foul-smelling, — buildings, 
 lodgings, courts, and people. Most of those I met here were 
 in tattered clothes, half naked. Some were passing along, 
 others were running from one door to another. Two were 
 bargaining about some rags. I went round the whole build- 
 ing, down another lane and a court, and, having returned, 
 stopped at the archway of the Rzhanoff Houses. 
 
 I wanted to go in, and see what was going on inside, but 
 the idea made me feel painfully awkward. What should 1 
 say if the}' asked me Avhat I had come for? 
 
 However, after a little hesitation, I went in. The moment 
 I entered the court, I was conscious of a most revolting 
 odor. The court was dreadfully dirty. I turned round the 
 corner, and at the same instant heard the steps of people 
 running along the boards of the gallery, and thence down the 
 stairs. 
 
 First a gaunt-looking woman, with tucked-up sleeves, a 
 faded pink dress, and shoes on her stockingless feet, rushed 
 out ; after her, a rough-haired man in a red shirt, and ex- 
 tremely wide trousers, like a petticoat, and with goloshes on 
 his feet. The man caught her under the stairs: "You 
 sha'n't escai)e me," he said, laughing. 
 
 " Just listen to the squint-eyed devil ! " began the woman, 
 who was evidently not averse to his attentions ; but, having 
 caught sight of me, she exclaimed angrily, '' AV4io are you 
 looking for? " As I did not want any one in particular, I 
 felt somewhat confused, and went away. 
 
 This little incident, though by no means remarkable in 
 itself, suddenly showed to me the work I was about to under- 
 take in an entirely new light, especially after what I had 
 seen on the other side of the courtyard, — ^ the scolding 
 old woman, the light-hearted old man, and the sliding boys. 
 I had meditated doing good to these people by the help of 
 the rich men of INIoscow. I now realized, for the first time, 
 that all these poor unfortunates, whom I had been wishing 
 to help, had, besides the time they spent suttering from cold 
 and hunger, in waiting to get a lodging, several hours daily 
 to get through, and that they must somehow fill up the rest 
 of the twenty-four hours of every day, — a whole life, of 
 which I had never thought before. I realized now, for the 
 first time, that all these people, besides the mere effort to 
 find food and shelter from the cold, must live through the 
 rest of every day of their life as other people have to do,
 
 ]УПЛТ MUST ]VE DO THEN? 19 
 
 must get angry at times, and be dull, and try to appear liglit- 
 hcarted, and be sad or meiry. And now, for the first time 
 (liowever strange the confession ma}' sound), 1 was fully 
 aware that the task which I was undertaking could not 
 sim|)ly consist in feeding and clothing a thousand pe<jple 
 (just as one might feed a thousand head of sheep, and drive 
 them into shelter), but must develop some more essential 
 help. And when I considered that each one of these in- 
 dividuals was just such another man as myself, possessiug 
 also a past historj', with the same passions, temptations, 
 and en'ors, the same tlioughts, the same questions to be 
 answered, then suddenly the work before me appeared stu- 
 pendous, and I felt my own utter helplessness ; — but it had 
 been begun, and 1 was resolved to continue it. 
 
 V. 
 
 Ox the appoiuted day, the students who were to assist me 
 started eai-ly in tlie morning ; while I, tiie instigator, only 
 joined thein at twelve o'clock. 1 could not come earlier ; as 
 I did not get up till ten, after which I had to take some 
 colfee, and then smoke for the sake of my digestion. Twelve 
 o'clock then found me at the door of the Rzhanoff Houses. 
 A policeman showed me a public-house, to which the census- 
 clerks referred all those who wished to inquire for them. I 
 entered, and found it very dirty and unsavory. Here, right 
 in front of me, was a counter ; to the left a small room, fur- 
 nished with tables covered ^'ith soiled napkins ; to the right 
 a lai'gc room on pillars, containing similar little tables placed 
 ill the windows and along the walls ; with men here and 
 there having tea, some very ragged, others well dressed, ap- 
 p;u4'ntly workmen or small sli()[)keepers. There were also 
 several women. In spite of the dirt, it Avas easy to see, by 
 the business air of the man in charge, and the ready, obliging 
 nianuers of the waiters, that the eating-house was driving a 
 good trade. I had no sooner entered than one of the waiters 
 was already preparing to assist me in getting off my over- 
 coat, and anxious to take my orders, showing that evidently 
 t'.ie people here were in the iiabit of doing their work quickly 
 and readily. 
 
 iMy inquiry for the census-clerks was answere(l liy a call 
 lor " V^anya" from a little man (.Iressed in foreign fashion,
 
 20 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 wlio was arranging something in a cupboard behind the 
 counter. This was the proprietor of the public-house, a 
 peasant from Kahiga, Ivan Fedotitch by name, who also 
 rented half of the other houses, sub-letting the rooms to 
 lodgers. In answer to his call, a thin, sallow-faced, h(jok- 
 nosed lad, of some eighteen years, came forward hastily ; and 
 the landlord said, " Take this gentleman to the clerks: they 
 have gone to the main body of the building over the well." 
 
 The lad put down his napkin, pulled a coat on over his 
 Avhite shirt and trousers, picked up a large cap, then, with 
 quick, short steps, he led the way by a back-door through the 
 buildings. At the entrance of a greasy, malodorous kitchen, 
 we met an old woman, who was carefully carrying in a rag 
 some putrid tripe. We descended into a court, built up all 
 round with wooden buildings on stone foundations. The 
 smell was most offensive, and seemed to be concentrated in a 
 privy, to which numbers of people were constantly resorting. 
 This awful cesspool forced itself upon one's notice by the 
 pestilential atmosphere around it. 
 
 The boy, taking care not to soil his white trousers, led me 
 cautiously across frozen and unfrozen filth, and approached 
 one of the buildings. The people crossing the yard and 
 galleries all stopped to gaze at me. It was evident that a 
 cleanly-dressed man was an unusual sight in the place. 
 
 The boy asked a woman whom we met, whether she had 
 seen where the census officials had entered, and three people 
 at once answered his question : some said that the}- weie 
 over the well ; others said that they had been there, but had 
 now gone to Nikita Ivanovitch's. » 
 
 An old man in the middle of the court, who had only a 
 shirt on, said that they were at No. 30. The boy concluded 
 that this information was the most probable, and led me to 
 No. 30, into the basement, where darkness and a bad smell, 
 different from that which filled the court, prevailed. 
 
 We continued to descend along a dark passage. As we 
 were traversing it, a door was suddenly opened ; and out of 
 it came a drunken old man in a shirt, evidently not of the 
 peasant class. A shrieking washerwoman, with tucked-up 
 sleeves and soapy arms, was pushing him out of the room. 
 " Vanya " (my guide) shoA^ed him aside, saying, " It won't 
 do to kick up such a row here — and you an officer too ! " 
 
 When we arrived at No. 30, Vanya pulled the door, wliich 
 opened with the sound of a wet slap ; and we felt a gu.'sli of
 
 WHAT 21 и ST WE DO THEN? 21 
 
 soapy steam, and an odor of bad food and tobacco, and en- 
 tered into complete darkness. The windows were on the other 
 side ; and we were in a crooked corridor, that went right and 
 left, and with doors leading, at different angles, into rooms 
 separated from it by a partition of nneveul}' laid boards, 
 ronghly wliite washed. 
 
 In a dark room to the left we conld see* a woman washing 
 at a trongh. Another old woman was looking out of a door 
 at the right. Near an open door was a hairy, red-skinned 
 peasant in bark shoes, sitting on a conch. His hands rested 
 upon his knees ; and he was swinging his feet, and looking 
 sadly at his shoes. 
 
 At the end of the passage was a small door leading into 
 the room where the census officers were assembled. This 
 was the room of the landlady of the whole of No. 30. She 
 rented the a|)tirtment from Ivdn Fedotitch, and snb-let the 
 rooms to ordinary or night lodgers. 
 
 In this tiny room a student sat under an image glittering 
 with gilt paper, and, with the air of a magistrate, was put- 
 ting questions to a man dressed in shirt and vest. Tliis last 
 was a friend of tlie landlady's, who vA-as answering the ques- 
 tions in her stead. The landlady herself, — an old woman, 
 — and two inquisitive lodgers, were also present. 
 
 lYhen I entered, the room was quite filled up. I pushed 
 through to the table, shook hands with the student, and he 
 went on extracting his informntion ; while I studied the 
 inhabitants, and put questions to them for my own ends. 
 
 It apj)eared, however, I could find no one here upon whom 
 to bestow my benevolence. The landlady of the rooms, 
 notwithstanding their wretchedness and filth (which espe- 
 cially struck me in comparison with the mansion in which I 
 lived), was Avell off, even from the point of view of town 
 poverty ; and compared with the country destitution, with 
 which I was well acquainted,. she lived luxuriously. She 
 had a feather-bed, a quilted blanket, a samovar, a fur cloak, 
 a cupboard, with dishes, plates, etc. Tiie landlady's friend 
 had the same Avell-to-do appearance, and boasted even a 
 watch and chain. The lodgers were poor, but among them 
 there was no one requiring inmiediate help. 
 
 Three only applied for aid, — the woman washing linen, 
 who said she had been abandoned by her husband; an old 
 widowed woman, without means of livelihood ; and the 
 peasant in the ragged shoes, who told me he had not had
 
 22 ТГЯ.'1Г 2ICfSr ]ГЕ DO THEN? 
 
 an}' thing to eat that day. But, upon gathering more precise 
 information, it became evident that all these people were not 
 in extreme want, and that, in order really to help, it would be 
 necessary to become more intimately acquainted with them 
 
 When I offered the washerwoman to place her children i.i a 
 "home," she became confused, thought over it some time, 
 then thanked me much, but evidently did not desire it : slie 
 Avished rather to be given some money. Her eldest daugh- 
 ter helped her in the washing, and the second acted as nui'se 
 to the little 1юу. 
 
 The old woman asked to I)e put into a refuge ; but, upon 
 examining her corner, 1 saw that she was not in dire distress. 
 She had a box containing her property : she had a teapot, 
 two cups, and old bonbon-boxes with tea and sugar. She 
 knitted stockings and gloves, and received a monthly allow- 
 ance from a lady benefactress. 
 
 The peasant was evidently more desirous of wetting his 
 throat after his last day's drunkenness than of food, and 
 any thing given him would have gone to the public-house. 
 In these rooms, therefore, there was no one whom I could 
 have rendered in any respect happier by helping them with 
 money. 
 
 There were only pnupers there, — and paupers, it seemed 
 to me, of a questionable kind. 
 
 I put down the names of the old woman, the laundress, 
 and the peasant, and settled in my mind that it would be ne- 
 cessary to do something for them, but that first I should aid 
 those other especially unfortunate ones whom I expected to 
 come across in this house. I made up my mind that some 
 system was necessary in distributing the aid which we had 
 to give : first, we should find the most needy, and then come 
 to such as these. 
 
 But in the next lodging, and in the next again, I found only 
 similar cases, which would have to be looked into more closely 
 before being helped. Of those whom pecuniary aid alone 
 would have rendered happ}', I found none. 
 
 However ashamed I feel in confessing it, I began to 
 experience a certain disappointment at not finding in these 
 houses any thing resembi. _:g what I had expected. I thought 
 to find vei-y exceptional people ; but, when I had gone over 
 all the lodgings, 1 became convinced that their inhabitrni^ 
 were in no way extremely peculiar, but much like those 
 aniono-st whom I lived.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 23 
 
 As with us, so also with them, there were some more or 
 less good, and others more or less bad : there were some 
 more or less happy, and others more or less unhappy. Those 
 wb.o were unhap[)y amongst them would Ьал^е been equally 
 wretched with us, their misery being within themselves, — a 
 misery not to be -mended by any kind of bank-note. 
 
 VI. 
 
 TiTF, inhabitants of these houses belonged to the lowest 
 population of the town, which in Moscow amounts to per- 
 haps more tlian a hundred thousand. In this house, tiiere 
 were re[)resentative men of all kinds, — pett}" employers 
 and journeymen, shoemakers, brushmakers. joiners, hackney 
 coachmen, jobbers carrying on business on their own account, 
 waslierwomen, second-hand dealers, money-lenders, day-la- 
 borers, and others without any delinite occupation : here also 
 lodged beggars and women of the town. 
 
 Many like those whom I had seen waiting in front of 
 Lia[)in's house lived here, but they were mixed up with the 
 "working-people ; and, besides, those whom I then saw- were in 
 a must wretched condition, when, having eaten and drunk 
 all they had. they were turned out of the public-house, and, 
 cold and hungry, were waiting, as for heavenl}" manna, to be 
 admitted into the free night-lodging-house, — day by day 
 longing to be taken to prison, in order to be sent back to 
 their respective homes. Here I saw the same men among 
 a greater number of working-people, and at a time, when, 
 by some means or other, they had got a few farthings to pay 
 for their night's lodging, and perhaps a ruble or two for 
 food and drink. 
 
 However strange it ma}' sound, I had no such feelings here 
 as 1 experienced in Liapin's house ; but, on the contrary', dur- 
 ing my first visiting-round, I and the students had a sensa- 
 tion w'liich was rather agreeable than otherwise. I might 
 even say it was entirely agreeable. 
 
 My first impression was, that the majorit}' of those lodging 
 here were workingmen, and very kindly disposed. We found 
 most of the lodgers at work, — the washerwomen at their tubs, 
 thy jt>iiiers by their benches, the bootmakers at their lasts. 
 The tiny rooms were full of people, and the work Avas going 
 on cheer IViUy and with energy. There was a smell of per-
 
 24 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 spiration among the workmen, of leather at the bootmaker's, 
 ot" chips in the carpenter's shop. We often heard songs, 
 and saw bare, sinewy arms working bi"iskly and skilfnlly. 
 
 Everywhere we were received kindly and clieerfnlly. 
 Nearly everywhere our intrusion into the daily life of these 
 people excited iu them no desire to show us tlieir impor- 
 tance:, or to rate us soundl3% as happens when such visits 
 are paid to the lodgings of well-to-do peo[)le. On the con- 
 trary, all our questions were answered respectfully witliout 
 an}' particular importance b^ing attached to tliem, — served, 
 indeed, only as an excuse for them to be гиеггу, and to joke 
 as to how the}' were to be enrolled on the list ; how such a 
 one was as good as two, and ln)W two others ought to be reck- 
 oned as one. 
 
 Many we found at dinner or at tea ; and each time, in answer 
 to our greeting, "•Bread and salt," or, '■•Tea and sugar," 
 they said, '' You are welcome ; " and some even made room 
 for us to sit down. Instead of the place being the lesort of 
 an ever-shifting population, such as we expected to lind here, 
 it turned out that in tliis house were many rooms wliich had 
 been tenanted by the same people for long periods. 
 
 One carpenter, with his workmen, and a bootmaker, with 
 his journeymen, had been living here for ten years. The boot- 
 maker's shop was very dirty and quite clioked up, but all his 
 men were working very cheeril}'. 1 tried to talk witli one 
 of the workmen, wishing to sound him about the miseries 
 of his lot, what he owed to the master, and so forth ; but he 
 did not understand me, and spoke of his master and of his 
 life from a ver}' favorable point of view. 
 
 In one lodging, there lived an old man Avith his old wife. 
 They dealt iu apples. Their room was warm, clean, ami 
 filled with their belongings. The floor was covered with 
 iii-.itling made of apple-sacks. There were chests, a eup- 
 lioard, a samovar, and crockery. Iu the corner were many 
 holy images, before which two lamps were burning: on the 
 wail hung fur cloaks wrapped up iu a sheet. The old woman 
 with wrinkled face, kind and talkative, was apparently her- 
 self delighted with her quiet, respectable life. 
 
 Ivan l-'edotitch. the owner of the inn and of the lodgings, 
 came out, and walked with us. He joked kindly with many 
 of the lodgers, calling them all by their names, and giving 
 us short sketches of their cliai-acters. They were as othei 
 men, did not consider themselves unhapp}', but believed
 
 WHAT MUST WE 1)0 THEN? 25 
 
 they were like every one else, us in reality they were. ЛУе 
 were pre[)ared to see only dreadful things, and we met instead 
 objects not only not repulsiA'e, but estimable. And there 
 were so many of them, compared with the ragged, ruined, 
 unoccupied people we met now and then among them, that 
 the latter did not in the least destroy the general impression. 
 To the students it did not appear so remarkable as it did to 
 me. They were merely performing an act, as the}^ thought, 
 useful to science, and, iu passing, made casual observations : 
 but I was a benefactor ; my object in going there was to help 
 the unhappy, ruined, depraved men and women whom I had 
 expected to meet in this house. And suddenly, instead of 
 unhapp}', ruined, depraved beings, I found the majority to 
 be workingmen, quiet, satisfied, cheerful, kind, and very 
 good. 
 
 1 was still more strongly impressed when I found that in 
 these lodgings the crying want I wished to relieve had 
 already been relieved before I came. But b}' whom? liy 
 these same unhappy, depraved beings whom I was prepared 
 to save ; and this help was given in a way not open to me. 
 
 In one cellar lay a lonely old man sutfering from typhus- 
 fever. He had no connections in the world ; yet a woman, — 
 a widow with a little girl, — quite a stranger to him, but liv- 
 ing in the corner next to him, nursed him, and gave him tea, 
 and bought him medicine with her own mone}'. 
 
 In another lodging lay a woman in pueri)eral fever. A 
 woman of the town was nursing her child, and had prepared 
 a sucking-bottle for him, and had not gone out to ply her sad 
 trade for two days. 
 
 An orphan girl was taken into the family of a tailor, wlio 
 had three children of his own. Thus, there remained only 
 such miseral)le unoccupied men as retired officials, clerks, 
 men-servants out of situations, beggars, tipsy people, pros- 
 titutes, children, whom it was not possible to help all at once 
 by means of money, but whose cases it was necessary to 
 consider carefully l)efore assisting them. I had been seek- 
 ing for men sut^'ering from want of means, whom one might 
 be able to help by sharing one's supertluities with them. I 
 had not found them. All those I had seen, it would have 
 been very dillicult to assist materially without devoting time 
 and care to them.
 
 26 WHAT MUST WE DO TUENf 
 
 VII. 
 
 These unfortunate people ranged themselves in my mind 
 under three heads : first, those who had lost former advan- 
 tageous positions, and who were waiting to return to them 
 (such men belonged to the lowest as well as to the highest 
 classes of society) ; secondly, women of the town, who are 
 very numerous in these houses ; and thirdly, children. 
 
 The majority of those I found, and noted down, were 
 men who had lost former places, and were desirous of 
 returning to them. Such men were also numerous, being 
 chietly of the better class, and government officials. In 
 almost all the lodgings we entered with the landlord, we 
 were told, " Here we need not trouble to fill up the resi- 
 dential card ourselves : there is a man here who is able to 
 do it, provided he is not tipsy." 
 
 And Ivan Fedotitch would call by name some such indi- 
 vidual, who always belonged to this class of ruined people 
 of a higher grade. AVhen thus summoned, the man, if he 
 were not tipsy, was always willing to undertake the task : 
 he kept nodding his head with a sense of importance, knitted 
 his brows, inserted now and then learned terms in his 
 remarks, and carefully holding in his dirty, trembling hands 
 the neat pink card, looked round at his fellow-lodgers with 
 pride and contempt, as if he were now, by the superiority of 
 his education, triumphing over those who had been continu- 
 ally humbling him. 
 
 He w;is evidently pleased with having intercourse with the 
 world which used pink cards, with a world of which he him- 
 self had once been a member. 
 
 To my questions about his life, this kind of man not only 
 replied willingly, but with enthusiasm, — beginning to tell a 
 story, fixed in his mind like a prayer, about all kinds of 
 misfortunes which had happened to him, and chiefly about 
 his former position, in which, considering his education, he 
 ought to have remained. 
 
 i\Iany such people are scattered about in all the tenements 
 of the Rzhanoff Houses. One lodging-house was tenanted 
 exclusively by them, women and men. As we approached 
 them, Ivtin Fedotitch said, " Now, here's where the nobility 
 live." 
 
 The lodging was full: almost all the lodgers — about forty
 
 WHAT MUST ]VE DO THEN? 27 
 
 persons — were at home. In the whole house, there were no 
 faces so ruined and degraded-looking as these, — if old, 
 flabl)y : if young, pale and haggard. 
 
 I talked \vith several of them. Almost alwa^^s the same 
 story was told, only in different degrees of develoimient. 
 One and all had been once rich, or had still a rich father or 
 biother or uncle ; or either his father or the unfortunate him- 
 self had held a high оШсе. Then came some misfortune 
 caused by envious enemies or his own imprudent kindness, 
 or some out-of-the-way occurrence ; and, having lost every 
 thing, he was obliged to descend to these strange and hate- 
 ful surroundings, among lice and rags, in company Avith 
 d unkards and loose characters, feediug upon bread and 
 liver, and sul)sisting by beggary. 
 
 All the thoughts, desires, and recollections of these men 
 are turned toward the past. The present appears to them 
 as something unnatural, hideous, and unworthy of attention. 
 The present does not exist for them. They have only recol- 
 lections of the past, and expectations of the future, which 
 may be realized at any moment, and for the attainment of 
 which but very little is needed; but, unfoitunately, this little 
 is out of their reach ; it cannot be got anywhere : and so they 
 perish needlessl3% one sooner, another later. 
 
 One needs only to be dressed respectably, in order to call 
 on a well-known person who is kindly disposed toward him ; 
 another requires only to be dressed, have his debts paid, and 
 go to some town or other ; a third wants to take his effects out 
 of pawn, and get a small sum to carry on a law-suit, which 
 must be decided in his favor, and then all will be well again. 
 All say that they have need of some external circumstance 
 in order to regain that position which they think natural and 
 happy for them. 
 
 If I had not been blinded by mj^ pride in being a bene- 
 factor, I shotdd have needed only to look a little closer 
 into their faces, young and old, which wei-e generally weak, 
 sensual, but kind, in order to understand that their misfor- 
 tunes could not be met by exterior means ; that they could 
 be happy in no situation, while their present conception of 
 life remtiinod the same ; that they were by no means peculiar 
 people in peculiarly unhappy circumstances, but that tiiey 
 were like all other men, ourselves includeil. 
 
 I remember well how my intercourse witli men of this class 
 was particularly trying to me. I now understand why it was
 
 28 WHAT MUST WE no TflKNf 
 
 so. In them T snw my own sc4f as in я miiroi-. If I harl 
 considered carefully my own life, and the lives of jXMjple of 
 my own ekiss, I shonld luive seen, that, between us and these 
 unfortunate men, there existed no essential differeuce. 
 
 Those who live nvound me in expensive suites of ajiart- 
 ments, and houses of their own in the best streets of the city, 
 eating something" better, too, than liver or lierring with their 
 biead, ai'e none the less unha|)py. 1 hey also are discon- 
 tented with their lot, regret the [jast, and desire a liappier 
 future, precisely as did the wretched tenants of the Ixzhauoff 
 Houses. Both wish to work less, and to be worked for more, 
 the ditference l)etween them being or^ly in degrees of idleness. 
 
 Unfortunately, 1 did not see this nt first, nor did I under- 
 stand that such people needed to be i-elieved, not by my 
 charity, but of their own false views of the world ; and that, 
 to change a man's estimate of life, he must be given one 
 more accurate than his own, which, unhappily, not possessing 
 myself, I could not communicate to others. 
 
 These men were unhappy, not because, to use an illustra- 
 tion, the}' had not nonrislung food, but because their stom- 
 achs were spoiled ; and the}' required, not nourishment, but 
 a tonic. I did not see, that, in order to help them, it was 
 not necessary to give them food, but to teach them how to 
 eat. Though I am anticipating, I must say, that, of all these 
 people whose names I put down, 1 did not in I'eality help 
 one, notwithstanding that all some of them had desired was 
 done in order to relieve tlKin. Of these I became acquainted 
 with three men in particular. ЛИ three, after many failures 
 and much assistance, are now just iu the same position m 
 which they were three years ago. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The second class of unfortunates, whom I hoped after- 
 wards to be able to help, were women ot the town. 8uch 
 women were very numerous iu the KzhanofT Houses ; and they 
 луеге of every kind, from young giils still bearing some like- 
 ness to women, to old and fearful-looking creatures without a 
 vestige of humanity. The hope of helping these луотеп, 
 whom I had not at lirst in view, was aroused by the following 
 circumstances. 
 
 When we had just finished half of our visiting-tour, we
 
 WHAT 2IUSr WE DO THEN? 29 
 
 had already acquired a somewhat mechanical method. On 
 enleriiio' a new lodging, we at once asked for the landlord. 
 One of us sat down, clearing a space to write ; and the other 
 Avent from one to another, (juestioning each man and woman 
 in the room, and reporting the information obtained to the 
 one who was writing. 
 
 On our entering one of the basement lodgings, the student 
 went to look for the landlord ; and I began to question all 
 wlio were in the place. Tliis place was thus divided : Jn the 
 midille of the room, whicii was four 3'ards square, there 
 stood a stOA'e. From the stove radiated four partitions, or 
 screens, making a similar number of small compartments. 
 Jn the first of these, which had two doors in it opposite each 
 other, and four pallets, were an old man and a woman. Next 
 to it was a rather long but narrow room, in which was the 
 landlord, a young, pale, good-looking man, dressed in a gray 
 луооПеп coat. To the left of the first division, there was a 
 tliird small room where a man was sleei)ing, seemingly tipsy, 
 and a woman in a pink dressing-gown. The fourth com- 
 ]):irtment was behind a partition, access to it being through 
 the landlord's room. 
 
 The student entered the latter, while I remained in the 
 first, questioning the old man and the woman. The former 
 had been a typesetter, but had now no means of livelihood 
 whatever. 
 
 The woman was a cook's wife. 
 
 I went into the third compartment, and asked the woman 
 in tlie dressing-gown about the man who was asleep. 
 
 She answered that he was a visitor. 
 
 1 asked her лу11о she was. 
 
 She replied that she was a peasant girl from the county of 
 Moscow. 
 
 " What is 3'our occupation? " She laughed, and made no 
 answer. 
 
 '' What do 3'ou do for 5'our living?" I repeated, thinking 
 she had not undei'stood the question. 
 
 '' I sit in the inn," she said. 
 
 I did not understand her. and asked again, — 
 
 •' What are your means of living? " 
 
 She gave me no nnswer. Itut continued to giggle. In the 
 fnmth room, where we had not yel Ьсч'П, I heard the voices 
 of \v(imcn ;ds() giggling. 
 
 TIk' huidlurd came out of his room, and approached us.
 
 30 WHAT MUST WE 1)0 THEN? 
 
 He bad cvidentl}' hoard my questions and the woman's an 
 svvers. lie ghinced stendy at her, and. turning to me, s:dd- 
 " She is a prostitute ; " and it was evident tiiat he was pleaseci 
 tluit lie knew tiiis word, wliich is the one used in otiieial cir- 
 cles, and at having pronounced it correctly. And having 
 said this with a respectful smile of satisfaction towards me, 
 he turned to the woman. As he did so, the expression of 
 his face changed. In a peculiarly contemptuous maiuici-, 
 and лvitll rapid utterance as one would speak to a dog. he 
 said, without looking at her, "Don't be a fool! instead of 
 saying you sit in the inn, speak plainly, and say you are a 
 prostitute. — She does not even yet know her proper name," 
 be said, tuining to me. 
 
 This manner of speaking shocked me. 
 
 '' It is not for us to shame her," I said. " If we were all 
 living according to God's commandment, there would be no 
 such persons." 
 
 "Yes, yes: of course you are right," said the landlord, 
 with a forced smile. 
 
 " Therefore we must pity them, and not reproach them as 
 if it were their own fault entirely." 
 
 I do not remember exactly what I said. I remember only 
 that I was disgusted by the disdainful tone of this young 
 landlord, in a lodgnig tilled with females whom he termed 
 prostitutes ; and I pitied the woman, and expressed both 
 feelings. 
 
 No sooner had I said this, tlian I heard from the small 
 compartment where the giggling had been, the noise of creak- 
 ing bed-boards; and over the partition, which did not reach 
 to the ceiling, appeared the dishevelled curly head of a 
 female with small swollen eyes, and a shining red face ; 
 a second, and then a third, head followed. They were evi- 
 dently standing on their beds; and all three were stretching 
 their necks and holding their breath, and looking silently at 
 me with strained attention. 
 
 A pninful silence followed. 
 
 The student, who had been smiling before this happened, 
 now became grave ; the landlord became confused, and cast 
 down his eyes ; and the women continued to look at me in 
 expectation. 
 
 I felt more disconcerted tlinn all the rest. I had certainly 
 not expected tiiat a casual word would produce such an 
 effect. It was like the field of battle covered with dead
 
 WUAT MUST ]VE DO THEN? 31 
 
 bones seen hy the prophet Ezekiel, on which, trembling from 
 contact with the spirit, the dead bones began to move. I 
 had casually uttered a word of love and pity, which pro- 
 duced upon all such an effect that it seemed as if they had 
 been only waiting for it, to cease to be corpses, and to 
 become alive again. 
 
 They continued to look at me, as if wondering what would 
 come next, as if waiting for me to say those words and do 
 those acts by which these dr}' bones would begin to come 
 together, — be covered with flesh and receive life. 
 
 But I felt, alas ! that I had no such words or deeds to 
 give, or to continue as I had begun. In the depth of my 
 soul I felt that I had told a lie, that I myself was like them, 
 that I had nothing more to say ; and I began to write down 
 on the domiciliary card the names and the occupations of all 
 the lodgers there. 
 
 This occurrence led me into a new kind of error. I began 
 to think that these unhappy ones also could be helped. This, 
 in my self-deception it seemed to me, would be very easily 
 done. 1 said to myself, '' Now we shall put down the names 
 of these women too ; and afterwards, when we (though it 
 never occurred to me to ask who were the we) have written 
 every thing down, we can occupy ourselves with their affairs." 
 1 imagined that we, the very persons who, during many gen- 
 erations, have been leading such women into such a condi- 
 tion, and still continue to do so, could one line morning 
 wake, and remedy it all. And 3'et, if I could have recol- 
 lected my conversation with the lost woman who was nursing 
 the baby for the sick mother, I should have understood all 
 the folly of such an idea. 
 
 When we first saw this woman nursing the child, we 
 thought that it was hers ; but upon our asking her what she 
 was, slie answered us plainly that she was unmarried. She 
 did not say "• prostifute." It was left for the rude pro- 
 prietor of the lodgings to make use of that terrible word. 
 The supposition that she had a child gave me the idea of 
 heli)ing her out of her present position. 
 
 '' Is this child yours?" I asked. 
 
 " No : it is that woman's there." 
 
 " Why do you nurse him? " 
 
 " She asked me to : she is dying." 
 
 Though my surmise turned out to be wrong, T continued 
 to speak with her in the same s[)irit. I began to quesliuu
 
 32 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 her as to who she was, and how she came to bo in such a 
 position. She told me lier story willingly, and very plainly. 
 She belonged to the lower ranks of Moscow society, the 
 daughter of a factory workman. She Avas left an ori)han, 
 and adopted by her annt, from whose house she began to 
 visit the inns. The annt was nor: dead. 
 
 When I asked her whether she wished to change her course 
 of life, my question did not even interest her. How can a 
 supposition about something quite impossible awaken an 
 interest in any one? She smiled, and said, - - 
 
 '• Who Avould take me with a yellow ticket? " 
 
 " But," said I, " if it were possible to find you a situation 
 as a cook or something else?" 1 said this because she 
 looked like a strong woman, with a kind, dull, round face, 
 not unlike many cooks 1 had seen. 
 
 Evidently my words did not please her. She repeated, 
 '' Cook ! but I do not understand how to bake bread." 
 
 She spoke jestingly ; but, by the expression of her face, I 
 saw that she was unvvilling ; that she even considered the 
 position and rank of a cook beneath her. 
 
 This woman, who, in the most simple manner, like the 
 widow in the gospel, had sacrificed all that she had for a 
 sick person, at the same time, like other women of the same 
 profession, considered the position of a workman or working- 
 woman low and des[)icable. She had been educated in order 
 to live without work. — a life which all her friends considered 
 quite natural. This was her misfortune. And by this she 
 came into her present position, and is kept in it. This 
 brought her to the inns. Who of us men and women will 
 cure her of this false view of life? Are there among us men 
 convinced that a laboiious life is more respectable than an 
 idle one, and who are living according to this conviction, 
 and who make this the test of their esteem and respect? 
 
 If I had thought about it, 1 should have understood ihat 
 neither I. nor anybody else I know, was able to cure a pcr^^on 
 of this disease. 
 
 I should have understood that those wondering and awak- 
 ened faces that looked over the partition expressed merely 
 astonisinnent at the pity shown to them, but no wish to 
 reform their lives. They did not see the immorality of them. 
 They knew that they were despised and condemned, l)ut the 
 reason for it tliey could not understand. They had lived in 
 this manner from their infancv among women like them-
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 33 
 
 selves, who, they know л'сп' well, have always existed, do 
 exist, and are so necessary to society, that there are officials 
 deputed by government to see that they conform to regula- 
 tions. 
 
 l^esides, they know that they have power over men, and 
 subdue them, and often influence them more than any other 
 women. They see that their position in society, notwith- 
 standing the fact that they are always blamed, is recognized 
 bj- men as well as by women and by the government ; and 
 therefore they cannot even understand of what they have to 
 repent, and wherein they should reform. 
 
 During one of our visiting-tours the student told me, that, 
 in one of the lodgings, there was a woman about to sell her 
 daughter, thirteen years old. ЛVishing to save this little girl, 
 I went on pur[)ose to their lodging. 
 
 INlother and daughter were living in great poverty. The 
 mother, a small, dark-complexioned prostitute of forty years 
 of age, was not simply ugly, but disagi'eeabl}- ugly. The 
 diiughter also was bad-looking. To all my indirect (jues- 
 tions about their mode of life, the mother replied curtly, 
 with a look of suspicion and animosity, apparently feeliiig 
 that I was an enemy with bad intentions : the daughter said 
 nothing without looking first at the mother, in whom she 
 evidently had entire confidence. 
 
 The}^ did not awaken pity in my heart, but rather disgust. 
 But I decided that it was necessary to save the daughter, to 
 awaken an interest in ladies who might sympathize with the 
 miserable condition of these women, and miglit so be brought 
 here. 
 
 But if I had thought aljout the antecedents of the mother, 
 bow she luul given birth to her daughter, how she had fed 
 and educated her, certainly without any outside hel[), and 
 with great sacrifices to herself ; if 1 had thought of the view 
 of life wiiich had formed itself in her mind, — I should have 
 understood, that, in the mother's conduct, there was nothing 
 at all bad or immoral, seeing she had been doing for her 
 daughter all she could; i.e., what she considered best for 
 herself, 
 
 it was possible to take this girl away from her mother by 
 force ; but to convince her that she was doing wrong in sell- 
 ing hei- daughter, was not i)OSsible. It would first be nece^^- 
 sary to save this woman — this mother — from a condition 
 of life approved by every one, and according to vvhicii a
 
 34 WHAT MUST WE BO rilEN? 
 
 woiiinn тпяу live without marrying and without working, 
 serving exc'hisively as a gratitication to the passions. If I 
 had tiiought about this, I should have understood tiiat the 
 majority of those ladies whom I wished to send here for the 
 saving of this girl were not only themselves avoiding family 
 duties, and leading idle and sensual lives, but were con- 
 sciously educating their daughters for this very same mode 
 of existence. One mother leads her daughter to the inn, 
 and another to court and to balls. But the views of the 
 world held l)y l»)th mothers are the same; \'iz., that a 
 woman must gratify the lusts of men, and for that she must 
 be fed, dressed, and taken care of. 
 
 How, then, are our ladies to reform this woman and her 
 daughter ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 Still more strange were my dealings with the children.. 
 In my г(Че as a benefactor, I paid attention to tlie cliildren, 
 too, wishing to save innocent beings fiom going to ruin in 
 this den ; and I wrote down tiieir names in order to attend to 
 them myself afterwurds. 
 
 Among these children, my attention was particularly drawn 
 to Serozha, a l)oy twelve years old. I sincerely pitie'd this 
 clever, intelligent lad, who had been living with a bootmaker, 
 and who was left without any place of refuge when his mas- 
 ter was put into prison. 1 wished to do something for him. 
 
 I will now give the result of my benevolence in his case, 
 because this boj-'s story \y\\\ show my false position as a 
 benefactor better than any thing else. 
 
 I took the boy into m}' house, and lodged liim in the 
 kitchen. Could 1 possibly biing a lousy boy out of a den of 
 depravity to my children ? 1 considered that I had been very 
 kind in having put him where he was, amongst my servants. 
 I thought myself a great benefactor for having given him 
 some of my old clothes and fed him ; though it was properly 
 my cook who did it, not I. The bo}- remained iu my house 
 about a week. 
 
 During this week I saw him twice, and, i)assing by him, 
 spoke some words to him, and, when out walking, called on 
 a bootmaker whom I knew, and proposed the bo}' as an 
 a[)prentice. A peasant who was on a visit at my house 
 invited him to go to his village, and work in a family.
 
 WHAT MUST ]VE DO THEN? 35 
 
 The boy refused to accept it, and disappeared within a 
 week. 
 
 I went to Rzhanoff's house to inquire after him. lie Iiad 
 returned there ; but when I called, he was not at home. Me 
 had already been two days to the zoological gardens, where 
 he hired himself for thirty kopeks a day to a|)pear in a pro- 
 cession of savages in costume, leading an ele[)hant. There 
 was some public show on at the time. 
 
 I went to see him again, but he evidently avoided me. 
 Had I reflected upon the life of this boy, and on my own, I 
 should have undeistood that the boy had been spoiled by the 
 fact of his having tasted the sweets of a merry and idle life, 
 and that he had lost the habit of working. And I. hi order 
 to confer a benelit on him and reform him, took him into ray 
 own house; and what did he see there? He saw my chil- 
 dren, some older than he, some younger, and some of the 
 same age, who not only never did any thing for themselves, 
 but gave as nnich work to others as they could. They 
 dirtied and si)oiled every thing about them, surfeited them- 
 selves with all sorts of dainties, broke the china, upset and 
 threw to the dogs food which would have been a ti'eat to 
 him. If I took him out of a den and brought him to a re- 
 spectable place, he could not but assimilate those views of 
 life which existed there; and, according to these views, he 
 understood, that, in a respectable position, one must live 
 without working, eat and drink well, and lead a merry life. 
 
 True, he did not know that my children had nuich labor 
 in learning the exceptions in Latin and Oreek grannnars ; 
 and he would not have been al)le to understand the object of 
 such work. But one cannot help seeing, that, had he even 
 understood it, the influence upon him of the example of ray 
 children would have been still stronger. He would have then 
 understood tliatthey were i»eing educated in such a way, that, 
 not working now, they might hereafter also work as little as 
 possible, and enjoy the good things of life by virtue of their 
 diplomas. 
 
 But what he dfd understand of it, made him go, not to the 
 peasant to take care of cattle and feed on potatoes and 
 kvas, but to the zoological gardens in the costume of a 
 savage to lead an elephant for thirty kopeks a day. I ought 
 to liave understood how fooli^^h it was of one who was edueat- 
 - ing his own children in complete idleness and luxury, to try 
 to reform other men and their children, and save them from
 
 36 ЦЧ1АТ MUST ]VE DO THEN? 
 
 going to ruin and idleness in what I called the- dens in 
 lizhauoff's house ; where, however, three-fourths of the men 
 were working for themselves and for others. But then I 
 understood nothing of all this. 
 
 In Rzhanoft's house, there were a great many children in 
 the most miserable condition. There were children of pros- 
 titutes, orphans, and children carried about the streets by 
 beggars. They were all very wretched. But my experience 
 wilh Sei'ozha showed me, that, so long as I continued living 
 the life which I did, I was not able to help them. 
 
 While the latter was living with us, I rememl)er that I toqk 
 pains to hide from him our way of life, particularly that of 
 my children. I felt that all ni}' endeavors to lead him to a 
 good and laborious life were frustrated by my example, and 
 that of my children. It is very easy to take away a child 
 from a prostitute or a beggar. It is very easy, when one 
 has money, to wash him, dress him in пелу clothes, feed him 
 well, and even teach him different accomplishments; but to 
 teach him how to earn his living, is, for us who have not been 
 earning ours, but have been doing just the contrary, not only 
 difficult, but quite impossible, l)ecause l\y our example, antl 
 by the very improvements of his mode of life effected by us, 
 without any cost on our part, we teach him tlie ver}' o|)[)Osite. 
 
 You may take a puppy, pet him, f(ied him, teach him to 
 carry things after you, and be pleased with looking at him : 
 but it is not enough to feed a man, dress him, and teach him 
 Greek; you must teach him how to live; i.e., how to take 
 less from othei's, and give them more in return : and yet we 
 cannot help teaching him the very opposite, through our own 
 mode of life, Avhether we take him into our own house, or 
 put him into a home to bring up. 
 
 I HAVE пел^ег since experienced such a feeling of compas- 
 sion towards men, and of aversion towards nivself, as I felt 
 in Liapin's house. I was now filled with the desire to carry 
 out the scheme which I had already begun, and to do good to 
 those men whom I met with. 
 
 And, strange to say, though it might seem that to do good 
 and to give money to those in want of it, was a good deeil, 
 and ougiit to dispose men to universal love, it turned out
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 37 
 
 quite the reverse ; calling up in me bitter feeling, and a dis- 
 position to censure them. Even dui'ing our Hrst visiting-tour a 
 scene occurred similar to that in Liapin's house ; but it failed 
 to produce again the same effect, and created a very different 
 impression. 
 
 it began with my finding in one of the lodgings a miserable 
 pei-son who required immediate help, — a Avoman who iiad not 
 eaten food for two days. 
 
 It happened thus : In one very large and almost empty 
 nlglit-lodging, I asked an old woman whether there were any 
 poor people who had nothing to eat. She hesitated a moment, 
 and then named two ; then suddenly, as if recollecting her- 
 self, she said, "Yes, there lies one of them," pointing to 
 a pallet. " This one," she added, " indeed, has nothing to 
 eat." 
 
 "Yon don't say so! Who is she?" 
 
 "She has been a lost woman; but as nobody takes her 
 now, she can't earn any thing. The landlady has had pity 
 on her, but now she wants to turn her out. — Agafia ! I sa_y, 
 Agafia I " cried the old woman. 
 
 We went a little nearer, and saw something rise from tlie 
 pallet. Tills was a gray-haired, dishevelled woman, thin as 
 a skeleton, in a dirty, torn chemise, and with peculiarly glit- 
 tering, immovable eyes. She looked fixedly beyond us, tried 
 to snatch up her jacket behind her in order to cover her 
 bony chest, and growled out like a dog, " What? what? " 
 
 I asked her how she managed to live. For some time she 
 was unable to see the drift of my Avords, and said, "I do 
 not know myself : they are going to turn me out." 
 
 I asked again ; and oh, how ashamed of myself I feel ! 
 my hand can scarcely Avrite it ! I asked her whether it was 
 true that she was starving. She replied in the same feverish, 
 excited manner, "I had nothing to eat yesterday; I have 
 had nothing to eat to-day." 
 
 The miserable aspect of this woman impressed me deeply, 
 but quite differently, from what those had in Liapin's house : 
 there, out of pity for them, I felt embarrassed and ashamed 
 of myself ; but here, I rejoiced that I had, at last, found what 
 I had been looking for, — a hungry being. 
 
 I gave her a ruble, and I remember how glad I felt that 
 the others had seen it. 
 
 The old woman forthwith asked me also for money. It 
 was so pleasant to me to give, that I handed her some also,
 
 38 WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 
 
 without thinking whether it was necessary or not. She 
 accompanied me to the door, and those who were in the cor- 
 ridor heard how she thanked me. Probably my questions 
 about the poor provoked expectations, for some of tlie 
 inmates began to follow us wherever we went. 
 
 Among those that begged, there were evidently drunkards, 
 who gave me a most disagreeable impression ; but, having 
 once given to the old дуошап, I thought I had no right to 
 refuse them, and 1 began to give away more. This only 
 increased the number of applicants, and there was a stir 
 throughout the whole lodging-house. 
 
 On the stairs and in the galleries, people appeared dogging 
 m}' steps. When I came out of the yard, a boy ran quickly 
 down the stairs, pushing through the people. He did not 
 notice me, and said hurriedly, — 
 
 " He gave a ruble to Agatia ! " 
 
 Having reached the ground, he, too, joined the crowd that 
 was following me. I came out into the street. All sorts of 
 people crowded round me, begging for money. Having given 
 away all I had in coppers, i entered a shop and asked the 
 proprietor to give me change for ten rubles. 
 
 And here a scene similar to that which took place in 
 Liapiu's house occurred. A dreadful confusion ensued. 
 Old women, seedy gentlefolk, peasants, children, all crowded 
 about the shop, stretching out their hands ; I gave, and 
 asked some of them about their position and means, and 
 entered all in my note-book. The shopkeeper, having turned 
 up the fur collar of his great-coat, was sitting like a statue, 
 glancing now and then at the crowd, and again staring 
 beyond it. He apparently felt like every one else, that all 
 this was л'егу foolish, but he dared not say so. 
 
 In Liapin's house the misery and humiliation of the people 
 had overwhelmed me ; and I felt myself to blame for it, and 
 also felt the desire and the possibility of becoming a better man. 
 But though the scene here was similar, it produced a quite 
 different effect. In the first place, I felt angr}' with many 
 of those who assailed me, and then I felt anxious as to what 
 the shopmen and the dvorniks might think of me. I 
 returned home that day with a weight on my mind. I knew 
 that w^hat I had done was foolish and inconsistent ; but, as 
 usual, when m}- conscience was troubled, I talked the more 
 about my projected plan, as if I had no doubt whatever as 
 to its success.
 
 WHAT 31 и ST WE DO THEN? 39 
 
 The next day I went alone to those Avhom I had noted 
 down, and who seemed the most miserable, thinking they 
 could be more easily helped than others. 
 
 As I have already mentioned, I was not really able to help 
 an}- of these people. It turned out that to do so was more 
 difficult than I had imagined : either I did not understand 
 hoAV to do it, or else it was indeed impossible. 
 
 1 went several times before the last visiting-tour to Rzhan- 
 off's house, and each time the same thing occurred : I was 
 assailed by a crowd of men and women, in the midst of whom 
 I utterly lost my presence of mind. 
 
 I felt the impossibility of doing any thing because there 
 were so man}' of them, and I was angry with them because 
 they were so many ; besides, each of them, taken separately, 
 did not awaken any sympathy in me. 1 felt that each one of 
 them lied, or at least prevaricated, and regarded me only as 
 a purse out of which money could be abstracted. It often 
 seemed to me that the very money which was extorted from 
 me did not improve their position, but only made it worse. 
 
 The oftener I went to these houses, the closer the inter- 
 course which I had with the inmates, the more apparent 
 became the impossibility of doing any thing ; but, notwith- 
 standing this, I did not give up my plan uutil after the last 
 night tour with the census-takers. 
 
 1 feel more ashamed of this visit than of any other. 
 Formerly I had gone alone, but now twenty of us went 
 together. At seven o'clock all those who wished to take 
 part in this last tour began to assemble in my house. They 
 were almost all strangers to me. 8ome students, an officer, 
 and two of my fashionable acquaintances, who, after having 
 repeated the usual phrase, " C'est tres interessant! " asked 
 me to put them into the number of the census-takers. 
 
 These fashionable friends of mine had dressed themselves 
 in shooting-jackets and high travelling boots, which they 
 thought more suited to the visit than their ordinary attire. 
 They carried with them peculiar pocket-books and extraordi- 
 nary-looking pencils. They were in tliat agitated stale of 
 mind which one experiences just before going to a hunt, or to 
 a duel, or into a battle. The falseness and foolishness of our 
 enterprise was now more apparant to me when looking at 
 them ; but were we not all in the same ridiculous position? 
 
 Before starting we had a conference, somewiiat like a 
 council of war, as to what we should begin with, how to
 
 40 WHAT MUST ]VE DO THEN? 
 
 divide ourselves, and so on. This conference was just like 
 all other official councils, meetings, and committees : each 
 spoke, not because he had any thiug to say, or to ask, but 
 because every one tried to find something to say in order not 
 to be behind the rest. But during this conversation no one 
 alluded to the acts of benevolence to which I had so many 
 times referred ; and however much ashamed I felt, I found 
 it was needful to remind them that we must carry out our 
 charitable intentions by w-riting down, during the visiting- 
 tour, the names of all whom we should find in a destitute 
 condition. 
 
 I had always felt ashamed to speak about these matters ; 
 but here, in the midst of our hurried preparations for the 
 expedition, I could scarcely utter a word about them. All 
 listened to me and seemed touched, all agreed with me 
 in words ; but it was evident that each of them knew that 
 it was folly, and that it would lead to nothing, so they began 
 at once to talk about other subjects, and continued doing so 
 until it was time for us to start. 
 
 AVe came to the dark tavern, aroused the waiters, and 
 began to sort our papers, When we were told that the peo- 
 l)le, having heard about this visiting-tour, had begun to leave 
 their lodgings, we asked the landlord to shut the gate, and 
 we ourselves went to tlie yard to persuade those to remain 
 who wanted to escape, assuring them that no one would ask 
 to see their tickets. 
 
 1 remember the strange and painful impression produced 
 upon me by these frightened night-lodgers. Ragged and lialf- 
 dr?ssed, tliey all appeared tall to me by the light of the lan- 
 tern in the dark court-yard. Frightened and horrible in their 
 terror, they stood in a small knot round the pestilential out- 
 house, listening to our persuasions, but not believing us ; and 
 evidently, like hunted animals, were prepared to do any thing 
 to escape from us. 
 
 Gentlemen of all kinds, town and country policemen, pub- 
 lic prosecutors and judges, had, all their lives long, been 
 hunting them in towns and villages, on the roads and in the 
 streets, in the taverns and in the lodging-houses, and sud- 
 denh' these gentlemen had come at night and shut the gate, 
 only, forsooth, in order to count them ; they found it as diffi- 
 cult to believe this as it would be for hares to believe that 
 the dogs are come out not to catch but to count them. 
 
 But the gates were shut, and the frightened night-lodgers
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 41 
 
 rc'ttirned to their respective places ; and we, having separated 
 into groups, began our visit. With me were ray fashionable 
 acquaintances and two students. Vanya, with a hmtern, 
 went before us in a great-coat and white trousers, and we fol- 
 lowed. We entered lodgings well known to me. The place 
 was familiar, some of the persons also ; but the majority were 
 new to me, and the spectacle was also a new and dreadful one, 
 — still more dreadful than that which I had seen at LiajMn's 
 house. All the lodgings were filled, all the pallets occupied, 
 and not only 1)3' one, but often by two persons. The sight 
 was dreadful, because of the closeness with which these 
 peoi)le were huddled together, and because of the indis- 
 criminate commingling of men and women. Such of the 
 latter as were not dead-drunk were sleeping with men. Many 
 women with children slept with strange men on narrow beds. 
 
 The spectacle was dreadful, owing to the misery, dirt, rag- 
 gedness, and terror of these people ; and chiefl}' so because 
 there were so many of them. One lodging, then another, 
 then a third, a tenth, a twentieth, and so on, without end. 
 And everywhere the same fearful stench, the same suffo- 
 cating exhalation, the same confusion of sexes, men and 
 women, drunk, or in a state of insensiliility ; the same terror, 
 submissiveness, and guilt stamped on all faces, so that I felt 
 deeply ashamed and grieved, as I had before at Liapin's. 
 At last I understood that what I was about to do was dis- 
 gusting, foolish, and therefore imi)Ossible ; so I left oft" writ- 
 ing down their names and questioning them, knowing now 
 that nothing would come of it. 
 
 At Liapin's I had been like a man who sees a horrible 
 wound on the body of another. He feels sorry for the man, 
 ashamed of not having relieved him before, yet he can still 
 hope to help the sufferer ; but now I was like a doctor who 
 comes with his own medicines to the patient, uncovers his 
 womid only to mangle it, and to confess to himself that 
 all he lias done has been in vain, and that his remedy is inef- 
 fectual. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Tins visit gave the last blow to ray self-deception. It be- 
 came very evident to rae that my aim was not oul}' foolish, 
 but also productive of evil. And yet, though I knew this, it 
 seemed to be my duty to continue my project a little longer :
 
 42 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 first, because by the article which I had written, and my 
 visits, I had raised the expectations of tlie poor ; secondly, 
 because what 1 had said and written had awakened the 
 sympathy of some benefactors, many of whom had promised 
 to assist me personally and with mone}'. And I was expect- 
 ing to be applied to by botli, and hoped to satisfy them as 
 well as I was able. 
 
 As regartls the applications made to me by those who were 
 in need, the following details may be given : I received more 
 than a hundred letters, which came exclusively from the 
 '' rich poor," if I may so express myself. Some of them I 
 visited, and some 1 left unanswered. In no instance did 
 I succeed in doing any good. All the applications made to 
 me were from })ersons who were once in a privileged position 
 (I call such persons privileged who receive more from others 
 than they give in return), had lost that position, and were 
 desirous of regaining it. One wanted two hundred rubles 
 in order to keep his business from going to ruin, and to 
 enalile him to finish the education of his children ; another 
 wanted to have a pliotographic establishment ; a third wanted 
 money to [)av his debts, and take his best clothes out of 
 pawn ; a fourth was in need of a piano, in order to perfect 
 himself, and earn money to support his family by giving les- 
 sons. The majority did not name any particular sum of 
 money : they simply asked for help ; but when 1 began to in- 
 vestigate what was necessary, it turned out that their wants 
 increased in proportion to the help offered, and nothing 
 satisfactory resulted. I repeat again, the fault may have 
 been in my want of understanding; but in any case I helped 
 no one, notwithstanding the fact that 1 made ever}^ effort to 
 do so. 
 
 As for the philanthropists who were to co-operate with me, 
 something very strange and quite unexpected occurred : of 
 all who promised to assist with money, and even stated the 
 amount they would give, not one contributed any thing for 
 distribution among the poor. 
 
 The promises of pecuniary assistance amounted to about 
 three thousand rubles ; but of all these people, not one recol- 
 lected his agreement, or gave me a single kopek. The 
 students alone gave the mone}' which they received as pay- 
 ment for visiting, about twelve rubles ; so that my scheme, 
 which was to have collected tens of thousands of nd)les from 
 the rich, and to have saved hundreds and thousands of
 
 WUAr MUST WE DO TUEN ? 43 
 
 people from misery and vice, ended in my distributing at 
 random some few rubles among those who came begging ; 
 and there remained on my liands the twelve rubles offered by 
 the students, witli tAventy-five more sent me by tlie town- 
 council for my labor as manager, which I positively did not 
 know what to do witli. 
 
 And so ended the affair. 
 
 Then, before leaviifg Moscow for the country, on the Sun- 
 day ])efore the carnival I went to the Rzhanoff house in the 
 morning iu order to distribute the thirty-seven rubles among 
 the poor. I visited all whom I knew in the lodgings, but 
 found only one invalid, to whom I gave something, — I tliink, 
 five rubles. There was nobody else to give to. Of course, 
 many began to beg; but, as I did not know them, I made 
 up my mind to take the advice of Ivan Fedotitch, tlie tavern- 
 keeper, respecting the distribution of the remaining thirty- 
 two rubles. 
 
 It was the first day of the carnival. Everybody was 
 smartl}' dressed, all had had food, and many were drunk. In 
 the 3'ard near the corner of the house stood an old-clothes 
 man, dressed in a ragged peasant's coat and bark shoes. 
 lie was still hale and hearty. Sorting his purchases, he was 
 putting them into different heaps, — leather, iron, and other 
 things, — and was singing a merry song at the top of his 
 voice. 
 
 I Itegan to talk with him. He was seventy years of age; 
 had uo lelatives ; earned his living by dealing in old clothes, 
 and not only did not complain, but said he had enough to 
 eat, diiuk, and to spare. I asked him who in the place were 
 jiariiculai'ly in want. He became cross, and said plainly that 
 there was no one in want but drunkards and idlers ; but on 
 learning my object in asking, he begged of me five kopeks 
 for drink, and ran to the tavern for it. 
 
 1 also went to the tavern to see Ivan Fedotitch, in order to 
 ask him to distribute tlie money for me. It was full ; gayly- 
 dressed tipsy prostitutes wei'c walking to and fro ; all the 
 tables were occupied ; many people were already drunk ; and 
 in the small room some one was playing a harmonium, and 
 two peo|ile were dancing. Ivan Fedotitch, out of respect for 
 me. ordered them to leave off, and sat down next me at a 
 vacant tal)le. I asked him, as he knew his lodgers well, to 
 point out those most in want, as I was intrusted with a little 
 money for distribution, and wished him to direct me. The
 
 44 WriAT MUST WE no THEN? 
 
 kind-henrtod man (he died a year after) , altbougli he had to 
 wait on his customers, gave me his attention for a time in 
 order to obUge me. He began to think over it, and was 
 evidently puzzk^d. One old waiter had ovei'heaid us, and 
 took his i)art in the conference. 
 
 They began to go over his lodgers, some of whom were 
 known to me, but they could not agree. '•' Paramouovna," 
 suggested the waiter. 
 
 ''Well, yes, she does go hungry sometimes; but she 
 drinks." 
 
 '' What difference does that make? " 
 
 •■' Well, Spiridon Ivanovitch, he has children ; that's the 
 man for you. " 
 
 But Ivan Fedotiteh had doubts about Spiridon too. 
 
 " Akulina, but she has a pension. Ah, but there is the 
 blind man ! " 
 
 To him I газ -self objected : I had just seen him. This was 
 an old man of eighty 3'ears of age, without any relatives. 
 One could scarcely imagine any condition to be worse ; and 
 j'et I had just seen him lying drunk on a feather bed, curs- 
 ing at his comparatively young mistress in the most filth}' 
 language. 
 
 They then named a one-armed l)oy and his mother. I saw 
 that Iv/ui Fedotiteh was in great difficulty, owing to his 
 conscientiousness, for he knew that every thing given away 
 by me would be spent at his tavei'u. But as I had to get 
 rid of my thirty-two rubles, I insisted, and we managed 
 somehow or otlier to distribute the money. Those who re- 
 ceived it were mostly well-dressed, and we had not far to go 
 to find them : they were all in the tavern. 
 
 Thus ended all my benevolent enterprises ; and I left for 
 the country, vexed with every one, as it always happens 
 when one does something foolish and harmful. Nothing 
 came of it all, except the train of thoughts and feelings 
 which it called forth in me, which not only did not cease, but 
 doubly agitated ni}' mind. 
 
 XII. 
 
 "What did it all mean? 
 
 I had lived in the country, and had entered into relations 
 with the counti'y-poor. It is not out of false modesty, but in 
 01ч1;м' to state the truth, which is necessaiTin order to under- 
 stand the run of all my thoughts and feelings, that 1 must
 
 WHAT MUST WE no THEN? 45 
 
 say that in the country I had done perhaps but little for the 
 poor, the help which had been required of me was so small ; 
 but even the little I had done had been useful, and liad 
 formed round me an atmosphere of love and sympatliy willi 
 my fellow-creatures, in the midst of whom it might _yet be 
 possible for me to quiet the gnawing of my conscience as to 
 the unlawfulness of my life of luxury. 
 
 On going to the city I had hoped for the same happy rela- 
 tions with the poor, but there things ^were upon quite another 
 footing. In the city, povert}' was at once less truthful, more 
 exacting, and more bitter, than in the country. It was chiefly 
 because there was so much more of it accumulated together, 
 that it produced upon me a most harrowing impression. 
 What I experienced at Liapin's house made my own luxuri- 
 ous life seem monstrously evil. I could not doubt the sin- 
 cerity and the strength of this conviction ; yet, notwithstand- 
 ing this, I was quite incapal)le of carrying out that revolution 
 which demanded an entire change in my mode of life : I was 
 frightened at the prospect, and so I resorted to compromises. 
 I accepted what I was told by every one, and what has been 
 said by everybod}' since the world began, — that riches and 
 luxury contain in themselves no evil, that they are given by 
 God, and that it is possible to help those in need whilst con- 
 tinuing to live luxnriously. I believed this, and wanted to 
 do so. And I wrote an article in which I called upon all 
 rich people to help. These all admitted themselves moially 
 obliged to agree with me, but evidently did not wish, or could 
 not, either do or give any thing for the poor. 
 
 I then began visitmg. and discovered what I had in no 
 way expected to see. On the one hand, I saw in these dens 
 (as I had at first called them) men whom it was iinpossilile 
 for me to help, because they were working-men, accustomed to 
 labor and inivatiou, and therefore having a much firmei' hold 
 on life than I had. On the other hand, I saw miseral)le men 
 whom I could not aid because they were just such as I was 
 myself. The majority of the poor whom I saw were wretched, 
 merely because they had lost the ca[)acity, desu'e, and habit 
 of earning their bread ; in other words, their misery consisted 
 m the fact that they were just like myself. AVhereas, of poor 
 peoi)Ie, t(^ whom it was possible to give immediate assistance, 
 — those suffering from illness, cold, and hunger, — I found 
 none, excei)t the starving Agafia; and I became persuaded 
 that, being so far removed from the life of those whom I
 
 46 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 wished to succor, it was almost impossible to find such need 
 as I sought, because all real need was attended to by those 
 amongst whom these unhappy creatures lived : and my prin- 
 cipal conviction now was, that, with money, I could never 
 reform that life of misery which these people led. 
 
 I was persuaded of this : yet a feeling of shame to leave off 
 all I had begun, and self-deception as to m}' own virtues, 
 made me continue ni}' plan for some time longer, till it died 
 a natural death ; thus, only with great difficulty and the helj) 
 of Ivun Fedotiteh, I managed to distribute in the tavern 
 at Kzhanoff's house the thirty-seven rubles which 1 con- 
 sidered were not my own. 
 
 Of course I might have continued this style of thing, and 
 have transformed it into a kind of charity ; and, by in)i)ortun- 
 ing those who promised to give me money, I might have 
 obtained and distributed more, thus comforting myself with 
 the idea of my own excellence : but I became convinced on 
 the one hand, that we rich people do not wish, and are also 
 unable, to distribute to the poor a portion of our superfluities 
 (we have so man}' wants ourselves), and that money should 
 not be given to any one if we really wished to do good, and 
 not merely to distribute it at random as 1 had done in the 
 Rzhanoff tavern ; so I dropped the affair entirely, and quitted 
 Moscow, in despair, for my own village. 
 
 I intended on returning home to write a pamphlet on my 
 experience, and to state why my project had not succeeded. 
 I wanted to justify myself from the imputations which re- 
 sulted from my article on the census ; I wanted also to 
 denounce society and its heartless indifference ; and I desired 
 to point out the causes of this town miser}', and the necessity 
 for endeavoring to remedy it, as well as those means which 
 I thought were requisite for this purpose. I began even then 
 to write, and fancied I had many very important facts to 
 communicate. But in vain did I rack my brain : I could not 
 manage it, notwithstanding the suporal)undance of material 
 at my command, because of the irritation under which I 
 wrote, and because 1 had not yet learned by experience what 
 was necessar}' to grasp the question rightly ; still more be- 
 cause I had not become fidh' conscious of the cause of it all, 
 — a very simple cause, Avhich was deep-rooted in myself ; so 
 the pamphlet was not finished at the commencement of the 
 present year (1884-1885). In the matter of moral law we 
 witness a strange phenomenon to which men pay too little
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO TUEN ? 47 
 
 attention. If I speak to an milearned man about geolog}', 
 astronomy, history, natural philosophy, or mathematics, he 
 receives the information as quite new to him, and never says 
 to me, " There is nothing new in what зюи tell me ; every one 
 knows it, and I have known it for a long time." 
 
 But tell a man one of the highest moral truths in the 
 simplest manner, in such a way as it has never been befoie 
 formulated, and every ordinary man, particularly one луЬо 
 does not take any interest in moral questions, and, above all, 
 one who dislikes them, is sure to say, " AVho does not know 
 that? It has been always known and expressed." And he 
 really believes this. Only those who can appreciate moral 
 truths know how to value their elucidation and simplification 
 by a long and laborious process, or can prize the transition 
 from a first vaguely undei'stood proposition or desire to a 
 firm and determined expression calling for a corresponding 
 change of conduct. 
 
 We are all accustomed to consider moral doctrine to be a 
 very insipid and dull affair, in which there cannot be any 
 thn)g new or interesting; whereas, in reality, human life, 
 with all its complicated and varied actions, which seem to 
 have no connection with morals, — political activity, activity 
 in the sciences, in the arts, and in conunerce, — has no other 
 object than to elucidate moral truths more and more, and to 
 confirm, simplify, and make them accessible to all. 
 
 I recollect once while walking in a street in Moscow I saw 
 a man come out and examine the flag-stones attentively ; 
 then, choosing one of them, he sat down by it and began 
 to scrape or rul) it A'igorously. 
 
 '' What is he doing with the pavement? " I wondered ; and, 
 having come up close to him, I discovered he was a young 
 man from a butcher's shop, and was shai'pening his knife on 
 the fiagstone. He was not thinking about the stones when 
 examining them, and still less while doing his work : he was 
 merely sharpening his knife. It was necessary for him to do 
 so in order to cut the meat, but to me it seemed that he was 
 doing something to the pavement. 
 
 In the same way mankind seems to be occupied with com- 
 merce, treaties, wars, sciences, arts ; and yet for them one 
 thing onlv is important, and they do only that, — they are 
 elucidating those moral laws by which they live. 
 
 Moral laws are already in existence, and mankind has been 
 merely re-discovering them : this elucidation appears to be
 
 48 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 uuimpoi'tant and imperceptible to one who lias no need of 
 moral law, and who does not desire to live l)y it. Yet tiiis is 
 not only the chief, but ought to be the sole, business of all 
 men. This elucidation is imperceptil)le in the same way as 
 the difference between a shari) knife and a blunt one is im- 
 perceptible. A knife remains a knife ; and one who lias lujt 
 got to cut any tiling with it, will not notice its edge : Ijiit for 
 one who understands tiiat all his life depends more or less 
 upon whether his knife is blunt or sharp, eveiT improvement 
 in sharpening it is important; and such a man knows tliat 
 there must be no limit to this improvement, and that the 
 knife is only really a knife when it is sharp, and when it cuts 
 what it has to cut. 
 
 The conviction of this ti-uth flashed upon me when I began 
 to write my pamphlet. Previously it seemed to me that Г 
 knew every thing about my subject, that I had a thorough 
 understanding of every thing connected with those questions 
 which had been awakened in me by the impressions made in 
 Liapin's house during the census ; but when 1 tried to sum 
 tiiem up, and to put them on paper, it turned out that the 
 knife would not cut, and had to be sharpened : so it is only 
 now after three yenvs that I feel my knife is sharp enough 
 for me to cut out what 1 want. It is not that 1 have learned 
 new things : my thoughts are still the same ; but the}' were 
 blunt formerly ; they kept scattering in every direction ; 
 there was no edge to them ; nor was any thing brought, as it 
 is now, to cue central point, to one most simple and plaiu 
 conclusion. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I RECOLLECT that during the whole time of my unsuccess- 
 ful endeavors to helj) the unfortunate inhabitants of JMoscow, 
 I felt that I was like a man trying to help others out of a 
 morass, who was himself all the time stuck fast in it. Every 
 effort made me feel the instability of that ground upon \vhich 
 I was standing. I was conscious that I myself was in this 
 same morass ; but this acknowledguient did not help me to 
 look more closely under my feet in order to ascertain the 
 nature of the ground upon which 1 stood : I kept looking for 
 some exterior means to remed}^ the existing evil. 
 
 I felt then that my life was a bad one, and that people 
 ought not to live so ; yet 1 did not come to the most natural 
 
 i
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 49 
 
 and obvious conclusion, tliat I must first reform my own mode 
 of life before I should have any conception of how: to reform 
 that of others. And so 1 began as it were at the wrong end. 
 1 was living in town, and I desired to improve the lives of 
 the men there ; but 1 was soon convinced that 1 iiad no power 
 to do so, and I began to ponder over the nature of town life 
 and town miser}'. 
 
 I said to myself over and over, " AVhat is this town life 
 and town miser}'? And why, while living in town, am I 
 unable to help the town poor?" The only reply I found 
 was, that 1 was powerless to do any thing for tliem : first, 
 because there were too many collected together in one place ; 
 secondly, because none of them was at all like those in the 
 countr}'. And again I asked myself, " Why ai'e there so 
 many here, and in what do they differ from the country 
 
 poor? " 
 
 To both these questions the answer was one and the same. 
 Tliei'e are many poor people in towns because there all those 
 who have nothing to subsist on in the country ai'e collected 
 round the rich, and their peculiarity consists only in that 
 tliey have all come into the towns from the country in order 
 to get a living. (If there are any town poor born there, 
 whose fathers and grandfathers were town born, these in 
 their turn originally came there to get a living.) But what 
 are we to understand l)y the ex[)ression, ''getting a living in 
 town"? There is souietliing strange in the expression : it 
 sounds like a joke when we reflect on its meaning. How is 
 it that from the countr}^ — i.e., from places where there are 
 woods, meadows, com and cattle, wiiere the earth yields the 
 treasures of fertility — men come away in order to get a 
 living in a place where there are none of these advantages, 
 but onl}' stones and dust? What, then, do these words 
 signify, to '' get a living in town " ? 
 
 Such a phrase is constantly used, both by the employed 
 and their emi)loyers, and that as if it were quite clear and 
 intelligible. I remember now all the hundreds and thousands 
 of town people living well or in want with wliom 1 had 
 spoken about their object in coming here ; and all of them, 
 Avithout exception, told me they had quitted their villages in 
 order to get a living ; that according to the proverb, '' Mos- 
 cow neither sows nor reaps, yet lives in wealth ; " that in 
 Moscow there is abundance of every thing ; and that, there- 
 fore, in Moscow one may get the money which is needed in
 
 50 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 the country for geltiug corn, cottages, horses, and the other 
 essentials of life. 
 
 But, in fact, the source of all wealth is the country ; there 
 onl}' are real riches, — corn, woods, horses, and every thing 
 necessarз^ Wh}' then go to towns in order to get what is 
 to be had in the country? And why should people carr}' 
 away from the country into the towns such things as are 
 necessary for couutrj' people, — flour, oats, horses, and 
 cattle ? 
 
 Hundreds of times have I spoken thus with peasants who 
 live in towns ; and from my talks with them, and from my 
 own observations, it became clear to me that the accumula- 
 tion of country people in our cities is partly necessary, be- 
 cause they could not otherwise earn their livelihood, and 
 partly voluntary, because they are attracted by the tempta- 
 tions of a town life. It is true that tlie circumstances of a 
 peasant are such, that, in order to satisfy the pecuniary de- 
 mands made on him in his village, he cannot do it otherwise 
 than by selling tliat corn and cattle which he very well knows 
 will be necessary for himself; and he is compelled, whether 
 he will or not, to go to town in order to earn back that which 
 was his own. But it is also true that he is attracted to town 
 by the charms of a comparatively easy wa}' of getting money, 
 and by the luxury of lif there ; and, under the pretext of 
 thus earning his living, he goes there ui order to Ьал^е easier 
 work and better eating, to drink tea three times a da}', to 
 dress himself smartly, and even to get drunk, and lead a dis- 
 solute life. 
 
 The cause is a simple one, for property passing from the 
 hands of the agriculturalist into those of non-agriculturalists 
 thus accumulates in towns. Observe towards autumn how 
 nnich wealth is gathered together in villages. Then come 
 the demands of taxes, rents, recruiting ; then the temptations 
 of vodka, marriages, feasts, peddlers, and all sorts of other 
 snares ; so that in one way or other, this property, in all its 
 various forms (sheep, calves, cows, horses, pigs, poultr}^ 
 eggs, butter, hemp, flax, rye, oats, buckwheat, pease, hemp- 
 seed, and flax-seed), passes into the hands of strangers, and 
 is taken first to provincial towns, and from them to the capi- 
 tals. A villager is compelled to dispose of all these in order 
 to satisfy the demands made upon him. and the temptations 
 oiTered him ; and, having thus dispensed his goods, he is left 
 iu want, and must follow where his wealth has been taken ;
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 51 
 
 and there he tries to earn back the money necessary for his 
 most urgent needs at home ; and so. being partly carried 
 awaj' by tliese temptations, he himself, along with others, 
 makes use of the accumulated wealth. 
 
 Everywhere tliroughout Russia, and I think not oiil^y in 
 Russia but all over the Avorld, the same thing ha[)pens. 
 The wealth of country producers passes into the hands of 
 trades[)eople, land-owners, government functionaries, manu- 
 facturers ; the men who receive this wealth want to enjoy it, 
 and to enjoy it fully the}' must be in town. In the village, 
 in the first place, owing to the inhabitants being scattered, it 
 is difficult for the rich to gratif}' all their desires : 3'ou do not 
 find there all sorts of shops, banks, restaurants, theatres, 
 and various kinds of public amusements. 
 
 .Secondly, another of the chief pleasures procured by 
 wealth, — vanity, the desire to astonish, to make a display 
 before others, — cannot be gratified in the country for the 
 same reason, its inhabitants being too scattered. There is 
 no one in the countr}' to appreciate luxury ; there is no one 
 to astonish. There you ma}^ have wl t you like to embellish 
 your dwelling, — pictures, bronze statues, all sorts of car- 
 riages, fine toilets, — but there is nobody to look at them or 
 to envy you ; the peasants do not understand the value of all 
 this, and cannot make head or tail of it. Thirdly, luxury in 
 the country is even disagreeable to a man who has a con- 
 science, and is an anxiety to a timid person. One feels uneasy 
 or ashamed at taking a milk bath, or in feeding puppies with 
 milk, when there are children close by needing it : one feels 
 the same in building pavilions and gardens among a people 
 лу1ю live in cottages covered with stable litter, and who Ьал'е 
 no wood to burn. There is no one in the village to prevent 
 the stupid, uneducated peasants from s[)oiling our comforts. 
 
 And, therefore, rich people gather together in towns, and 
 settle near those who, in similar positions, have similar de- 
 sires. In towns, the enjoyment of all sorts of luxuries is 
 carefully protected by a numerous police. The chief inhabit- 
 ants of the town are government functionaries, round whom 
 all sorts of master-workmen, artisans, and all the rich 
 peoi)le have settled. There, a rich man has only to think 
 about any thing in order to get it. It is also more agreeable 
 for him to live there, because he can gratif}' his vanity ; there 
 are people with whom he may try to compete in luxtu'v, 
 whom he may astonish or eclipse. But it is especially
 
 52 WHAT J/r.Sr WE DO THEN? 
 
 pleasant for a wealthy man to live in town, because, where his 
 country life was uncomfortable, and somewhat incongruous 
 on account of his luxur}', in town, on the contrary', it '.vould 
 be uncomfortable for him not to live splendidly, and as liis 
 equals in wealth do. 
 
 What seemed out of place there, appears indispensable 
 here. Rich people collect together in towns, and. under tlie 
 protection of the authorities, peacefully enjoy all that has 
 been brought there b}' the villagers. A countryman often 
 cannot help going to town луЬеге a ceaseless round of feast- 
 ing is going on, where what has been pi'ocured from the 
 peasants is being spent; becomes into the town in order to 
 feed "upon those crumbs Avhich fall from the tables of the 
 rich ; and partly by observing the careless, luxurious, and 
 universall}' approved mode of living of these men, he begins 
 to desire to order his own affairs in such a manner that he, 
 too, may be able to work less, and avail himself more of 
 the labor of others. And at last he decides to settle down 
 in the neighborhood of the wealthy, trying by ever}' means in 
 his power to get back from them what is necessar}' for him, 
 and submitting to all the conditions Avhich the rich enforce. 
 These countr\- people assist in gratifying all the fancies of 
 the wealthy : the}- serve tliem in public baths, in taverns, as 
 coachmen, and as prostitutes. They manufacture carriages, 
 make toys and dresses, and little b}" little learn from their 
 wealthy neighbors how to live like them, not by real labor, 
 but by all sorts of tricks, squeezing out from others the 
 money they have collected, and so become depraved, and are 
 ruined. It is then this same population, depraved by the 
 wealth of towns, which forms that cit}' miser}' which I 
 wished to relieve, but could not. 
 
 And indeed, if one only reflects upon the condition of 
 these country folk coming to town in order to earn money 
 to buy bread or to pay taxes, seeing everywhere thousands 
 of rubles foolishly squandered, and hundreds л'егу easily 
 earned, while they have to earn their pence by the hardest 
 labor, one cannot but be astonished that there are still many 
 of such people at work, and that they do not all of them 
 have recourse to a more easy way of getting money, — by 
 trade, begging, лчсе, cheating, and even robbery. 
 
 But it is only we who join in the ceaseless orgy going on in 
 the towns who can get so accustomed to our own mode of 
 life, that it seems quite natural to us for one fine gentleman
 
 WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 53 
 
 to occupy five large rooms which are lioated with such a quan- 
 tity of firewood as would be euougli for tweut}' fauiilies to 
 warm their homes, and coolv their food with. To driv^e a 
 sliort distance, we emplo}' two thorouglibreds and two men ; 
 we cover our inlaid tlcjors with carpets, and spend five or ten 
 thousand rubles on a ball, or even twenty-five for a Christ- 
 mas-tree, and so on. Yet a man who needs ten rubles in 
 order to buy bread for his family, or from whom his last 
 sheep is taicen to meet a tax of seven rubles which he can- 
 not save by the hardest labor, cannot get accustomed to all 
 tills, which we imagine must seem quite natural to the poor ; 
 there are even such naive peoj^le as say that the poor are 
 thankful to us because we feed them by living so luxuri- 
 ously. 
 
 But poor people do not lose their reasoning powers 1)ecause 
 the\" are poor: they reason quite in the same manner as we 
 do. When we have heard that some one has lost a fortune 
 at cards, or squandered ten or twenty thousand rubles, the 
 first thought tliat comes into our minds is : How stupid and 
 bad this man must be to have parted with such a large sum 
 without any equivalent ; and how^ well I could have em[)loyed 
 this mone}- for some building I have long wanted to get done, 
 or for the improvement of nn^ estate, and so on. 
 
 80 also do the poor reason on seeing how foolishly we 
 waste our wealth ; all the more forcil)ly, i)ecause tills money 
 is needed, not to satisfy their whims, but for the chief neces- 
 saries of life, of which they are in want. We are greatly 
 mistaken in thinking that the poor, while alileto reason thus, 
 still look on unconcernedly at the luxury around them. 
 
 They have never acknowledged, and fiever will, that it is 
 right for one man to be always iflling, and for another to be 
 continually working. At first they are astonished at it and 
 offended ; then, looking closer into the question, they see that 
 this order of things is acknowleilgcd to be lawful, and thej' 
 try themselves to get rid of working, and to take part in the 
 feasting. Some succeed in so doing, and acquire similar 
 wanton habits ; others, little by little, approach such a condi- 
 tion ; others break down before they reach their object, and, 
 having lost the habit of working, fill" the night-houses and the 
 haunts of A'ice. 
 
 The year before last we took from the village a young 
 peasant to be our butler's assistant. He could not agree 
 with the footman, and was sent away ; he entered the service
 
 54 WnAT MUST WE no THEY? 
 
 of a merchant, pleased his masters, and now wears a watch 
 and chain, and has smart boots. 
 
 In his place we took another peasant, a mai'ried man. He 
 turned out a drnnkard, and lost money. AVe took a third : he 
 began to drink, and. having drunk up all he had, was for a 
 long time in distress in a night-lodging-house. Our old cook 
 took to drinking in the town, and fell ill. Last 3'ear a foot- 
 man who used formerly to have fits of drunkenness, and who 
 when in the village kept himself from it for five years, when 
 living in Moscow without his wife, who used to keep him in 
 order, began again to drink, and ruined himself. A young 
 boy of our village is living as butler's assistant at my 
 brother's. His grandfather, a blind old man, came to me 
 while I was living in the country, and asked me to persuade 
 this grandson to send ten rubles for taxes. Iiecause, unless 
 this were done, the cow w'ould have to be sold. 
 
 " He keeps telling me that he has to dress himself i-espect- 
 alil}'," said the oUl man. " He got himself boots, and that 
 ought to be enough ; but I actually believe he would like to 
 bu}^ a watch ! " 
 
 in these words the grandfather expressed the utmost 
 degree of extravagance. And this was really so : for the old 
 man could not afford a drop of oil for his food during the 
 whole of Lent, and his wood was spoilt because he had not 
 the ruble and a quai'ter necessar}' for cutting it up. But the 
 old man's jrony turned out to be a reality. His grandson 
 came to me dressed in a fine black overcoat, and in boots for 
 which he had paid eight rubles. Lately he got ten ru1)les 
 from my brother, and spent them on his boots. And ni}' 
 children, wiio have known the boy from his infancy, told me 
 that he really considers it necessary to buy a watcii. He is 
 a very good boy, but he considers that he will be laughed at 
 for not having one. 
 
 This year a housemaid, eighteen years of age, formed an 
 intimacy with the coachman, and was sent away. Our old 
 nurse, to wdiom I related the case, reminded me of a girl 
 whom 1 had quite forgotten. Ten 3'ears ago, during our 
 short stay in ^loscow, she formed an intimacy with a foot- 
 man. She was also sent awa}', and drifted at last into a 
 house of ill-f;ime, and died in a hospital before she was 
 twenty years of age. 
 
 We have only to look around us in order to become leriified 
 by that infection whicli (to say nothing of nmnufactories
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 55 
 
 and workshops existing only to gratify our luxury) we di- 
 rectly, by our luxurious town life, spread among those very 
 people whom we desire afterwai'ds to help. 
 
 Thus, having got at the root of that town misery which 1 
 was not able to alleviate. I saw that its first cause is in our 
 taking from the villagers their necessaries and carrying them 
 to town. The second cause is, that in those towns we avail 
 ourselves of Avhat we have gathered from the country, and, 
 by our foolish luxury, tempt and deprave those peasants who 
 follow us there in order to get back something of what we 
 have taken from them in the country. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 From an opposite point of view to that previoush' stated, 
 I again came to the same conclusion. KecoUectiiig all my 
 connection with the town poor during this period, 1 saw that 
 one reason why I was not able to help them was their insin- 
 cerity and falseness. They all considered me not as an 
 individual, but merely as a means to an end. I felt I could 
 not become intimate with them : I thought I did not perhaps 
 understand how to do so ; but without truthfulness, no help 
 was possible. How can one help a man who does not tell all 
 his circumstances? Formerly I accused the poor of this, — 
 it is so natural to accuse others ; but one word spoken by 
 a remarkable man, namely, Sutaief, who was then on a visit 
 at my house, cleared up the difficulty, and showed me wherein 
 lay the cause of my non-success. 
 
 I remember that even then what he said made a deep im- 
 pression upon me ; but I did not understand its full meaning 
 until afterwards. It haijpened that while in the full ardor 
 of my self-deception, I was at my sister's house, Sutaief 
 being also there ; and my sister was questioning me about 
 my work. 
 
 I was relating it to her ; and, as is often the case when 
 one does not fully believe in one's own enterprises, I related 
 with great enthusiasm, ardor, and at full length, all I had 
 been doing, and all the possible results. I was telling her 
 how we should keep our ез^ез open to what went on in Mos- 
 cow ; how we should take care of orphans and old people ; 
 how we should afford means to imi)overislied villagers to 
 return to their homes, and pave tlie way to reform the
 
 56 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 depraved. I explained, that, if we succeeded in our iinder- 
 tiiking, there w{)ui<i not be iu Moscow a single [юиг uuin who 
 could not find help. 
 
 My sister SN'mpathized with me ; and while speakiiii.':. I kept 
 looking now and then at Sntaief, knowing his Chiistian hU-, 
 and the importance attached by him to works of charity. I 
 expected sympathy from him, and 1 spoke so that he miglit 
 miderstand me ; for, though I was addressing my histev, yet 
 my conversation ^vas really more directed to him. 
 
 He sat immovable, dressed in his black-tanned sheepskin 
 coat, which he, like other peasants, wore in-doors as well as 
 out. It seemed that he was not listening to us, but w:;s 
 thinking about something else. His small eyes gave no le- 
 responding gleam, but seemed to be turned inwards. Havin.g 
 spoken out to my own satisfaction, I turned to him and asked 
 bim what he thought about it. 
 
 '' 'llie whole thing is superficial," he replied. 
 
 '^Why?" 
 
 " Tlie i^lan is an empty one, and Uo good will come of it," 
 he i-(>peated with conviction. 
 
 '' How is it that nothing will come of it? Why is it a 
 useless business, if we help thousands, or even hundreds, of 
 unhappy ones? Is it a bad thing, according to the gosi)el, 
 to clothe the naked, or to feed the hungry? " 
 
 '•I know, I know; but what yon are doing is not that. 
 Is it possible to help thus? You are walking in the street; 
 somebody asks you for a few kopeks; you give it him. Is 
 that charity? Do him some S[)iritual good : teach hiin . . . 
 what you gave him merely' says, ' Leave me alone.' " 
 
 '' No ; but that is not what we were speaking of : we wish 
 to become acquainted with the wants, and then help by 
 money and by deeds. We will try to tind for the poor people 
 some work to do." 
 
 '■'• That would be no way of helping them." 
 
 ''How then? must they be left to die of starvation and 
 cold?" 
 
 *' Why left to die? How many are there of them? " 
 
 "How many?" said I, thinking that he took the matter 
 so lightly from not knowing the great number of these men. 
 
 " Yon are not aware, I dare say, that there are in Moscow 
 about twenty thousand cold and hungry. And then, think 
 of those in St. Petersburg and other towns! " 
 
 He smiled.
 
 WHAT 3IUST WE DO THEN? 57 
 
 " Twenty thousand ! And how many families are there in 
 Russia alone? Would they amount to a million? " 
 
 " Well ; but what of that? " 
 
 " What of that?" said he, with animation, and his eyes 
 sparkled. " Let us unite them with ourselves ; I am not 
 rich myself, but will at once take two of them. You take a 
 young fellow into your kitchen : I invite him into my family. 
 If there were ten times as many, we should take them all into 
 our families. You one, I another. We shall work together ; 
 those I take to live with meAvill see how 1 work ; I will teach 
 them to reap, and we shall cat out of one Ijowl, at one table ; 
 and they will hear a good word from me, and from you also. 
 This is charity ; but all this plan of yours is no good." 
 
 These plain woi'ds made an impression upon me. I could 
 not help recognizing that this was true ; but it seemed to me 
 then, that, notwithstanding the justice of what he said, my 
 Ijroposed plan might, perhaps, also be useful. 
 
 But the longer 1 was occupied with this affair, and the 
 closer my intercourse with the poor, the oftener I rt'coUecled 
 these words, and the greater meaning I found in them. 
 
 I, indeed, go in an expensive fur coat, or drive in my own 
 carriage to a man who is in want of boots : he sees nn' house 
 which costs two hundred rubles a month, or he notices that 
 T give away, without thinking, five rul)les, only because such 
 is my fancy ; he is then aware that if 1 give away rubles in 
 such a manner, it is because I have accumulated so many of 
 them that I have a lot to spare, which I not onl}' am never 
 in the habit of giving to an}- one, but which I have, without 
 coni|)unction, taken awa}' from others. What can he see in 
 ine but one of those persons who have become possessed of 
 what should belong to him? And what other feeling can he 
 Jiave towards me but the desire to get back as man}- as pos- 
 sible of these rubles which were taken by me from him and 
 from others ? 
 
 I should like to become intimate with him, and 1 complain 
 that he is not sincere ; but I am afraid to sit down щюп his 
 bed for fear of lice or some infectious disease ; I am also 
 afraid to let him come into my room ; and when he comes to 
 me half-dressed, he has to wait, — if fortunate, in the en- 
 trance-hall, but oftener in the cold porch. And then I say 
 that it is all his fault that I cannot become intimate with him, 
 and that he is not sincere. 
 
 Let the most hard-hearted man sit down to dine upon
 
 58 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 five courses among hungry people who have little or nothing 
 to eat except black bread, and no one conld have the heart 
 to eat while hungry people are around him licking their lips. 
 
 Therefore, in order to eat well, when living among half- 
 starving men, the first thing necessary is to liide ourselves 
 from them, and to eat so that they may not see us. This is 
 the very thing we do at present. 
 
 Without prejudice 1 Io(^ved into our own mode of life, and 
 became awaie that it was not by chance that closer inter- 
 course with the poor is difficult for us, but that луе ouiselves 
 ai'e intentionalh' ordering our lives in such a way as to make 
 this intercourse impossilile. And not only this; but, on look- 
 ing at our lives, or at the lives of ricli people from without, 
 I saw that all that is considered as the summum bonum of 
 these lives consists in being separateil as much as possible 
 from the poor, or is in some way or other connected with this 
 desired separation. 
 
 In fact, all the aim of our lives, beginning with food, dress, 
 dwelling, cleanliness, and ending with our education, con- 
 sists in placing a gulf between us and them. And in order 
 to estal)lisli this distinction and separation we spend nine- 
 tenths of our wealth in erecting impassable bai'riers. 
 
 The first thing a man does who has grown rich is to leave 
 off eating with others out of one bowl. He ai'ranges 
 plates for himself and his famil3\ and separates himself from 
 the kitchen and the servants. He feeds his servants well, in 
 order that their mouths may not water, and he dines alone. 
 But eating alone is dull. He invents whatevei' he con to im- 
 prove his food, embellish his table ; and the very manner of 
 taking food, as at dinner-parties, becomes for him a matter 
 of vanity, of pride. His manner of eating his food is a means 
 of separating himself from other people. For a rich man it 
 is out of the question to invite a poor person to his tabl;^. 
 One must know how to hand a lady to table, how to b.ow, 
 how to sit, to eat, to use a finger-bowl, all of which the ricli 
 alone know how to do. 
 
 The same holds good with dress. 
 
 If a rich man, in order to cover his body and protect it 
 from cold, wore ordinary- dress, — a jacket, a fur coat, felt 
 shoes, leather boots, an undercoat, trousers, a shirt, — he 
 would require л'сгу little ; and, having two fur coats, he could 
 not help giving one away to somel)ody who had none. l>ut 
 the wealthy man begins with wearing clothes which consist
 
 WHAT 31 if ST WE 1)0 THEN? 59 
 
 of many separate parts, and can be of use only on particular 
 occasions, and therefore are of.no use for a poor man. The 
 man of fashion must have evening dress-coats, waistcoats, 
 frock-coats, patent-leather shoes : his wife, bodices and 
 dresses (which, according to fashion, are made of many 
 parts), high-heeled shoes, hunting and travelling jackets, 
 and so on. All these articles can be of use only to people 
 in a condition far removed from poverty. 
 
 And thus dressing also becomes a means of isolation. 
 Fashions make their ai)pearauce, and are among the chief 
 things which separate the rich man from the i)oor one. 
 
 The same thing shows itself more plainly still in our dwell- 
 ings. In order for one person to occupy ten rooms, we must 
 manage so that he may not be seen b}' people who are living 
 by tens in one room. 
 
 The richer a man is, the more difficult it is to get at him ; 
 tht^ more footmen there are between him and people not rich, 
 the more impossible it is for him to receive a poor guest, to 
 let him walk on carpets, and sit on satin-covered chairs. 
 
 The same thing happens in travelling. A peasant who 
 drives in a cart or on a carrier's sledge must b^ л'егу hard- 
 hearted if he refuses to give a pedestrian a lift ; he has 
 enough room, and can do it. But the richer the carriage is, 
 the more impossible it is to put any one in it besides the 
 owner of it. Some of the most elegant carriages are so 
 n.iriow ;is to be termed ^^ egotists." 
 
 Tlu' s:nne thing applies to all the modes of living expressed 
 by the word '■"cleanliness." Cleanliness! Who does not 
 know human beings, especinlly women, who make a great 
 virtue of cleanliness? Who does not know the various 
 phases of this cleanliness, which have no limit whatever 
 when it is procured by the labor of others? Who among 
 self-made men has not experienced in his own peison with 
 what pains he carefully accustomed himself to this cleanli- 
 ness, which illustrates the saying, " White hands are fond of 
 another's labor " ? 
 
 To-day cleanliness consists in changing one's shirt daily, 
 and to-mori'ow it will be changed twice a day. At tirst, one 
 has to wash one's hands and neck every day, then one will 
 have to wash one's feet every day, and afterwaids it will be 
 the whole body, and in i)eculiar methods. A clean table- 
 cloth serves for two days, then it is changed every day, and 
 afterwards two table-cloths a da3^ are used. To-day the
 
 60 WHAT MUST WE DO Til EX? 
 
 footman is required to hav43 clenn hands: to-mon•ov^• he must 
 wear gloves, and clean gloves, and he must hand the lelteis 
 on a clean tray. 
 
 And there are no limits to this cleanliness, which is of no 
 other use to anj' one except to sei)arate us from others, and 
 to make our intercourse with them inii)ossible, while cleanli- 
 ness is obtained through the lal)or of others. 
 
 Not only so ; but when I had deeply reflected ujion this, I 
 came to the conclusion that \vhat we term education is a sim- 
 ilar thing. Language cannot deciiA'e : it gives the right ap- 
 pellation to ever}- thing. The connnon i)e()iile call education 
 fashionable dress, smart conversation, white hands, and a cer- 
 tain degree of cleanliness. Of such a man they say, when 
 distinguishing him from others, that he is an educated man. 
 
 In a little higher circle, men by education denote the same 
 things, but add playing on the piano, the knowledge of 
 French, good Russian spelling, and still greater cleanliness. 
 
 In the still higher circle, education consists of all this, with 
 the addition of English, and a diploma from a high government 
 estaV)lishment, and a still greater degree of cleanliness. liut 
 in all these Shades education is in substance quite the same. 
 
 It consists in those forms and various kinds of infoimntiun 
 which separate a man from his fellow-creatures. Its object 
 is the same as that of cleanliness : to separate us from the 
 crowd, in order that they, hungry and cold, may not see how 
 we feast. But it is impossible to hide ourselves, and our 
 efforts are seen through. 
 
 And so I became aware that the cause of the impossil:ility 
 for us riph men to help the town poor was nothing more or 
 less than the impossibility of our having closer intercourse 
 with them, and that this we ourselves create by our wdiole 
 life, and by all the uses we make of our wealth. I became 
 persuaded that between us rich men and the poor there 
 stood, erected by ourselves, a barrier of cleanliifoss and edu- 
 cation which arose out of our wealth, and that, in order to be 
 able to help them, we have first to break down this barrier, 
 and render possible the realization of the means suggested 
 by Sutaief, to take the poor into our respective homes. 
 And so, as I have already said at the beginning of this chap- 
 ter, I came to the same conclusion from a different point of 
 view from that to which the train of thought about town 
 misery had led me; viz., the cause of it all lay in our 
 wealth.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 61 
 
 XV. 
 
 I BEGAN again to analyze the matter from a third and 
 purely personal point of view. Among the plienomena 
 which particularly impressed me during my benevolent ac- 
 tivity, there was one, — a very strange one, — which I could 
 not understand for a longtime. 
 
 Whenever 1 happened, in the street or at home, to give a 
 poor person a trifling sum without entering into conversation 
 with him, I saw, or imagined I saw, on his face an expres- 
 sion of pleasure and gratitude ; and I myself experienced an 
 agreeable feeling at this form of charit}'. I saw that I had 
 done what was expected of me. But when I stopped and 
 began to question the man about his past and present life, 
 entering more or less into particulars, I felt it was impossible 
 to give him any thing ; and I always began to finger the mone}' 
 in my purse, and, not knowing how much to give, I alwa^'s 
 gave more under these circumstances : but, nevertheless, I saw 
 that the poor man went away from me dissatisfied. When I 
 entered into still closer intercourse with him, mj- doubts as to 
 how much I should give increased ; and, no matter what I 
 gave, the recipient seemed more and more gloomy and dis- 
 satisfied. 
 
 As a general rule, it almost always liappened that if, и\юп 
 nearer accpiaintance with the poor man, I gave him three 
 rubles or moie. I always saw gloominess, dissatisfaction, and 
 even anger depicted on his face ; and sometimes, after hav- 
 ing received fro.m me ten rubles, he has left me without even 
 thanking me, as if I had offended him. 
 
 In such cases I was always uncomfortable and ashamed, 
 and felt myself guilty. When I watched the poor person dur- 
 ing weeks, months, or years, helped him, and expressed my 
 A'iews, and became intimate with him, then our intercourse 
 became a torment, and I saw tiiat the man (lesi)ised me. 
 And I felt that he was right in doing so. AVhen in the street 
 a beggar asks me, along with other passers-b}', for three 
 kopeks, and I give it him, then, in his estimation, I am a 
 kind and good man who gives '' one of the threads which go 
 to make tlu; shirt of a naked one : " he expects nothing more 
 than a thread, and, if I give it. he sincerely blesses me. 
 
 But if I stop and speak to liim as man to man, show him 
 that 1 wish to be пиле than a mere passer-by, and, as it often
 
 62 U'lIAT MUST WE DO Til EX? 
 
 liaj)peno(l. !ie sheds tears in relating his nii.^f'ortnne. then he 
 sees in me not merely a elutnce helper, but that uhie'i 1 wi.sh 
 him to see, — a kind num. If I am a kind man, ihen my 
 kindness cannot stop at twenty kopeks, or at ten rubles, or 
 ten thousand. One cannot be a second-rate kind man. Let 
 us suppose that I give him much ; that 1 [)Ut him straight, 
 dress him, set him on his legs so that he can help himself, 
 but, from some I'eason or other, either from an accident or 
 his own weakness, he again loses the great-coat and cloth- 
 ing and money I gave him, he is again hungry and cokL and 
 he again comes to me, why should 1 refuse him assistance ? 
 For if the end of my benevolent activit}' was merely' the at- 
 tainment of some delinite, material object, such as giving 
 him so many rubles, or a certain great-coat, having given 
 them I could be easy in my mind ; but the end I have in vi^'W 
 is to be a benevolent man ; that is, to put myself in the 
 position of every other man. All understand kindness thus, 
 and not otherwise. 
 
 And therefore, if such a man should spend in drink all 
 you gave him twenty times over, and be again hnngiy and 
 cold, then, if vou are a benevolent man, you cannot help 
 giving him more money, you can never leave off doing so 
 while yon have more than he has ; but if you draw back, 
 you show that all you have done before was done by л'оп 
 not because you are benevolent, but because you wish to 
 ap|)ear so to others and to him. And it was from my having 
 to back out of such cases, and by ceasing to give, b}' seem- 
 ing to put a limit to nn' kindness, that 1 felt a painful sense 
 of shame. 
 
 What was this feeling, then? I had experienced it in 
 Liapin's house and in the coinitry. and when I ha|)pened to 
 give money or any thing else to the poor, and in my adven- 
 tures among the town people. One case which occurred to 
 me lately reminded nie of it forcibly, and led me to discover 
 its cause. 
 
 Itha|)[)ened in the country. I wanted twenty kopeks to give 
 to a pilgrim. I sent m}' son to borrow it from somebody'. 
 lie brought it to the man, and told me that he had borrowed 
 it from the cook. Some days after other pilgrims came, 
 and I was again in need of twenty kopeks. I had a ruble. 
 I lecoUected what I owed the cook, went into the kitchen, 
 hoping that she would have some more coppers. I said, — ■ 
 
 "" 1 owe you twenty kopeks : here is a ruble."
 
 WUAT MUST ]VE DO THEN? 63 
 
 I had not yet done speaking when the cook called his wife 
 from the adjoining room : '• Parasha, take it," he said. 
 
 I, thinking she had understood Avhat I wanted, gave her 
 the ruble. I must tell you that the cook had been living at 
 our house about a week, and I had seen his wife, but had 
 never spoken to her. I just wished to tell her to give me 
 the change, wiien she briskly bowed herself over my hand, 
 and was about to kiss it, evidently thinking I was giving her 
 the rul)le. I stammered out something and left the kitchen. 
 I felt ashamed, painfully ashamed, as J had not felt for a long 
 time. I actually trembled, and felt that I was making a wry 
 face ; and, groaning with shame, 1 ran away from the kitchen. 
 
 This feeling which I fancied I had not deserved, and which 
 came over me quite unexpectedly, impressed me particularly, 
 because it was so long since I had felt any thing like it, and 
 also because I fancied that I had been living in a way there 
 was no reason fpr me to be ashamed of. 
 
 This surprised me greatly. I related the case to my family, 
 to my acquaintances, and they all agreed that they also would 
 have experienced the same. And 1 began to reflect : why is 
 it that 1 felt so ? 
 
 The answer came from a case лvhich had formerly occurred 
 to me in Moscow. I reflected upon it, and understood this 
 shame which 1 have alwa^'s experienced when I hai)pen to 
 give any thing besidrs trifling alms to beggars and pilgrims, 
 which 1 am accustomed to give, and which I consider not as 
 charity, but politeness. 
 
 If a man asks you for a light, you must light a match if 
 you have it. If a man begs for three or twenty kopeivs, or a 
 few rul)lcs, you must give if 3'ou have them. It is a question 
 of politeness, not of charity. 
 
 The following is the case I referred to. I have already 
 spoken about two peasants with whom I sawed wood three 
 years ago. One Saturdaj' evening, in the twilight, I was 
 walking with them back to town. They were going to their 
 master to receive their wages. On crossing a bridge we met 
 an old man. He begged, and I gave him twenty' kopeks. I 
 gave, thinking what a good impression my alms would make 
 upon Semyon, with whom I luul been speaking on religious 
 questions. 
 
 Semyon. a peasant from the province of Vladimir, who 
 had a wife and two children in Moscow, also turned u[) the 
 lappet of hib kaftan, and touk out his purae ; and, after having
 
 64 WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 
 
 looked over his mono}', he picked out a three-kopck piece, 
 gave it to the old man, and asked for two kopeks back. 
 The old man showed him in his iiand two three-koi)('k pieces 
 and a single kopek. .Semycni looked at it, was ai)ont to take 
 one kopek, but, changing his mind, tot^v off his ca|). ci'osseil 
 himself, and went away, leaving the old man the three-kopek 
 piece. 
 
 I was acquainted w\t\\ all Semvon's pecuniar}' circum- 
 stances. He had neither house nor other i)roperty. When 
 he gave the old man the three kopeks, he possessed six rubles 
 and lifty kopeks, which he had been saving up, and tliis was 
 all the capital he had. 
 
 M}^ property amounted to about six hundred thousand 
 rubles. I had a wife and children, so also had Semyon. He 
 was younger than I, and had not so many children ; but his 
 children were young, and two of mine were grown-up men, 
 old ;enongh to work, so that our circumstances, independently 
 of our property, were alike, though I was in this respect 
 even better off than he. 
 
 He gave three kopeks, I gaA'e twenty. What was, then, 
 the difference in our gifts? What should I have given in 
 order to do as he had done? He had six hundred kopeks; 
 out of these he gave one, and then another two. I had six 
 hundred thousand rubles. In oider to give as much as Sem- 
 yon gaA'e. I ought to have given three thousand rubles, and 
 asked the man to give me back two thousand ; and, in the 
 event of his not having change, to leave him these two 
 thousand also, cross myself, and go away calmly, conversing 
 about how people Ил^е in the manufactories, anil what is the 
 price of liver at the Smolensk market. 
 
 I thought about this at the time, but it was long before I 
 was able to draw from this case the conclusion which inevi- 
 tably follows from it. This conclusion seems to be so un- 
 common and strai]ge, notwithstanding its mathematical accu- 
 racy, that it re(inires time in order to get accustomed to it. 
 I could not help thinking there was some mistake in it, but 
 there is none. It is only the dreadful darkness of prejudice 
 in which we live. 
 
 This, when I arrived at it and recognized its inevitable- 
 ness, explained to me the nature of my feelings of shame in 
 the presence of the cook's wife, and before all the ]юог to 
 whom I gave and still give money. Indeed, what is that 
 money which I give to the poor, and which the cook's wife
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 65 
 
 thought I was giving her? In the majority of cases it forms 
 such a minute part of my income that it cannot be expressed 
 ill a fraction comprehensible to Semyon or to a cook's wife, 
 — it is in most cases a millionth part or thereabout. I give 
 so little that my gift is not, and cannot be, a sacrifice to me : 
 it is only a something with which I amuse myself when and 
 how it pleases me. And this was indeed how my cook's 
 wife had understood me. If I gave a stranger in the street 
 a ruble or twent}' kopeks, why should I not give her also a 
 ruble? For her, such a distribution of money was the same 
 thing as a gentleman throwing gingerbread nuts into a crowd. 
 It is the amusement of people who possess much " fool's 
 money." I was ashamed, Ijecause the mistake of the cook's 
 wife showed me plainly what ideas she and all poor people 
 must have of me. " He is throwing awa}' a ' fool's money ;' " 
 that is, money not earned by him. 
 
 And, indeed, what is my money, and how did I come by 
 it? One part of it I collected in the shape of rent for my 
 land, which I had inherited from my father. The peasant 
 sold his last sheep or cow in order to pay it to me. 
 
 Another part of my money I received for the books I had 
 written. If 1113' books are harmful, and yet sell, the}' can 
 only do so by some seductive attraction, and the money 
 which I receive for them is badly earned money ; but if my 
 books are useful, the thing is still worse. I do not give 
 them to people, but say, '' Give me so many rubles, and I 
 will sell them to you." 
 
 And as in the former case a peasant sells his last sheep, 
 here a poor student or a teacher does it : each poor person 
 who buys denies himself some necessary thing in order to 
 give me this money. And now I have gathered much of 
 such money, and what am I doing with it? I take it to 
 town, give it to the poor only when they satisfy all my 
 fancies, and come to town to clean pavements, lami)s, or 
 b(X)ts, to work for me in the factories, and so on. And with 
 this money I draw from them all I can. I try to give tliem 
 as little as I can, and take from them as much as possible. 
 
 And now, (juite unexpectedly, I begin to share all this said 
 money with these same poor persons for nothing, but not 
 indiscriininatel}', only as fancy prompts me. 
 
 , Why should not every poor man expect that his turn might 
 come to-day to be one of such with whom I amuse myself by 
 giving them my '' fool's money " ?
 
 66 WHAT Mi^ST WE DO THEN? 
 
 Thus eveiy one regards me as did the cook's wife. And 
 I had gone astray with the notion that tliis was cliarit\', — • 
 this taking away thousands with one hand, and throwing 
 koj^eks with the other to those I select. 
 
 Xo wonder I was ashamed. But, before beginning to do 
 good, 1 must leave off the evil, and put myself in a position 
 in whicli I should cease to cause it. But all my course of 
 life is evil. If 1 were to give away a hundred thousand, I 
 have not yet put myself in a condition in which I could do 
 good, because I have still five hundred thousand left. 
 
 It is only when I possess nothing at all that 1 shall be able 
 to do a little good ; such as, for instance, the poor prostitute 
 did who nursed a sick woman and her child for three days. 
 Yet this seemed to me to be but so little ! And 1 A^entured 
 to think of doing good I One thing only was true, which I 
 at tirst felt on seeing the hungry and cold people outside 
 Liapin's house, — that I was guilty of that ; and that to 
 live as I did was impossible, utterly impossible. This alone 
 Avas true. But what was to be done? This question for any 
 one interested, I will answer with full particulars, if God 
 permit me, in the following chapters. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 It was difficult for me at last to own this ; but when I did 
 get thus far, I was terrified at the delusion in which I had 
 been living. I had been head over ears in the mud, and I 
 had been trving to drag others out of it. 
 
 What is it that I really want? I want to do good ; I лvant 
 to so contrive that no human beings should be hungry and 
 cold, and that men may live as it is proper for them to live. 
 I desire this ; and 1 see that in consequence of all sorts of 
 violence, extortions, and various expedients in which I too 
 take part, tlie working people are deprived of the nccessaiy 
 things, and the non-working community, to whom I also be- 
 long, monopolize the labor of others. I see that this use of 
 other people's labor is distributed thus : that the more cun- 
 ning and complicated the tricks employed by the man hnn- 
 self (or by those from whom he has inherited his property), 
 the more largely he employs the labors of other people, and 
 the less he works himself. 
 
 Fu'st come the millionnaires ; then the wealthy bankers,
 
 wiJAT MUST WE no ti:en ? 67 
 
 merchants, land-owners, government functionaries ; then the 
 smaller bankers, merchants, government functionaries, land- 
 owners, to whom I belong ; then shopmen, publicans, usurers, 
 police sergeants and inspectors, teachers, sacristans, clerks ; 
 then, again, house-porters, footmen, соасфтеп, water-carters, 
 cabmen, pedlers ; and then, last of all, tiie workmen, factor}' 
 hands and peasants, the number of this class in proportion 
 to the former being as ten to one. 
 
 I see that the lives of nine-tenths of the working people 
 essentiall}' recjuire exerlion and labor liice ever}' other natural 
 mode of living ; but that, in consequence of the tricks by 
 wliich the necessaries of life are taken away from these 
 people, their lives become every 3'ear more difficult, and more 
 beset with privations ; and our lives, the lives of the non- 
 laboring community, owing to the co-operation of sciences 
 and arts, which have this very end in view, become every 
 year more sumptuous, more attractive and secure. 
 
 I see that in our days the life of a lai)oring man, and 
 especially the lives of old people, women, and children, of the 
 working-classes, are quite worn away by increased lal)or, not 
 in proportion to their nourishment, and that even the very 
 first necessaries of life are not secured to them. I see that 
 side b side with these the lives of the non-laboring class, to 
 which I belong, are each year more and more filled up with 
 superfluities and luxury, and are becoming continually more 
 secure : the lives of the wealthy have attained to that degree 
 of security of Avhich in olden times men dreamed onW in 
 fairy-tales, — to the condition of the owner of the magic 
 purse with an '^ inexhaustil)le ruble ; " to such a state when 
 a man not only is entirely free from the law of labor for tlie 
 sustenance of his life, but has the possibility of enjoying 
 without working all the goods of this life, and of bequeath- 
 ing to his children, or to any he chooses, this purse with the 
 '• inexhaustible ruble." 
 
 I see that the productions of the labor of men pass over 
 more than ever from the masses of laborers to those of non- 
 laborers ; that the pyramid of the social structure is, as it 
 Avere, being rebuilt, so that the stones of the foundation pass 
 to the top, and the rapidity of this passage increases in a 
 kind of geometric progression. 
 
 I see that there is going on somctliing like th;it which 
 would have taken place in an ant-hill, if the society of ants 
 should have lost the sense of the general law, and some of the
 
 68 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 ants were to take the productions of labor out of the foun- 
 dations and carry thein to the top of the hill, making the 
 foundation narrower and narrower, thus enlarging the top, 
 and by that means making their fellows pass also from the 
 foundation to the tojD. 
 
 I see that instead of an ideal, as exemplified in a laborious 
 life, men have created the ideal of a purse with an " inex- 
 haustible ru])le." The rich, I among their number, arrange 
 tliis ruble for ourselves by various artifices ; and. in order to 
 enjoy it, we locate ourselves in towns, in a place where noth- 
 ing is produced, but every thing is swallowed up. 
 
 Tlie poor laboring man, swindled in order that the rich 
 may have this magic ruble, follows them to town ; and there 
 he also has recouise to artifices, either arranging matters so 
 that he may work little and enjoy much, thus making the 
 condition of workingmen still more heavy, or, not having 
 attained to this state, he ruins himself, and drifts into the 
 continually and rapidly increasing number of hungry and cold 
 tenants of night-houses. 
 
 I belong to the category of those men who, by the means 
 of these various devices, take away from the working people 
 the necessaries of life, and who thus create, as it were, for 
 themselves, the inexhaustible fairy ruble, which tempts in 
 turn these unfortunate ones. 
 
 I wish to hel[) men ; and therefore it is clear that, first of all, 
 I ought on the one side to cease to plunder them as I am 
 doing now, and on the other I must leave oft" tempting 
 them. But I, by means of most complicated, cunning, and 
 wicked contrivances practised for centuries, have made my- 
 self the owner of this said ruble ; that is, have got into such a 
 condition that I may, while never doing any thing myself, 
 compel hundreds and thousands of people to work for me, 
 and am really availing myself of this privileged monopoly, 
 liotwithstanding that all the time I imagine I pity these men, 
 and wish to help them. 
 
 It is as if I were sitting on the neck of a man, and, having 
 quite crushed him down, I compel him to carry me, and will 
 not alight from off his shoulders, while I assure myself and 
 others that I am very sorry for him. and wish to ease his con- 
 dition by every means in mv power except bv getting off his , 
 back. ^ " ^ 
 
 Sin-ely this is plain. If I wish to help the poor, that is, to 
 make the poor cease to be poor, I ought not to create these
 
 WnAT MUST WE DO THEN.' 69 
 
 same poor. Yet I give money according to my fancy to 
 those who have gone astraVr iiml take away tens of rubles 
 from men who have not yet done so, thereby making them 
 poor, and at the same time malving them depraved. 
 
 This is ver\' clear ; but at tirst it was for me exceedingly 
 difficult to understand, without an}' modification or reserve 
 Avhich would justify my position. However, as soon as I 
 саше to see my own error, all that formerly appeared stiange, 
 comi)lieated. clouded, and inexplicable, became quite siniiile 
 and intelligible to me ; and the line of conduct which ensued 
 became both clear and satisfactory to my conscience b}- the 
 following considerations. 
 
 Who am I that desire to better men's condition? I desire 
 it ; and yet I get up at noon, after having played at cards iu 
 a brilliantly lighted saloon during all the previous night. I, 
 an enfeebled and effeminate man, who thus require the help 
 and services of hundreds of people, I come to help them 1 — 
 these men who rise at five, sleep on boards, feed upon cab- 
 bage and bread, understand how to plough, to reap, to put a 
 handle to an axe, to write, to harness horses, to sew ; men 
 who, b}' their strength and perseverance and self-restraint, 
 are a hundred times stronger than I who come to help 
 them. 
 
 AVhat could I have experienced in m}' intercourse with 
 these people but shame? The weakest of them, — a drunk- 
 ard, an inhabitant of Kzhanoff's house, he whom they call 
 " the sluggard," — is a hundred times more laborious than I ; 
 his balance, so to .say, — in other words, the relation between 
 what he takes from men and what he gives them, — is a thou- 
 sand times more to his credit than mine, when I count what I 
 receive from others, and what I give them in return. And to 
 such men I go in order to assist them. 
 
 I go to help the poor. But of the two, who is the poorer? 
 No one is poorer than myself. I am a weak, good-foi-noth- 
 ing parasite, who can only exist in verv peculiar conditions, 
 who can li\e only when thousands of people labor to support 
 this life which is not useful to any one. And I, this very 
 caterpillar which eats up the leaves of a tree, wish to help 
 the growth and the health of the tree, and to cure it. 
 
 All my life is thus spent : I eat, talk, and listen ; then I 
 eat, write, or read, which are only talking and listening in 
 another form; I eat again, and \Ллу ; then eat, talk, and 
 listen, and finally eat and go to sleep : and thus every day is
 
 то WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 spent ; I neither do any thing else, nor nnderstancl how to 
 do it. And in order tliat I may enjoy tiiis life, it is necessary 
 that from morning till night, house-porters, dvorniks, cooks, 
 male and female, footmen, coachmen, and laundresses, should 
 work, to say nothing of the manual labor necessary in order 
 that the coachmen, co(jks. footmen, and others, may have the 
 instruments and the articles by which, and upon which, they 
 work forme, — axes, casks, brushes, dishes, furniture, glasses, 
 wax, shoe-black, kerosene, hay, wood, and food. And all 
 these men and women work hard all the day, and evevy day, 
 in order that I may talk, eat, and sleep. 
 
 And I, this useless man, imagined that I was able to bene- 
 fit others, they being the veiy same people who were serving 
 mc. Tiiat I did not benefit anyone, and that I was ashamed 
 of myself, is not so astonishing as the fact that such a foolish 
 idea ever came into my mind. 
 
 The woman who nursed the sick old man helped him ; the 
 peasant's wife, who cut a slice of her bread earned by her 
 from the л^егу sowing of the corn that made it, helped the 
 hungry one ; Semyon, who gave three kopeks which he had 
 earned, assisted the pilgrim, because these three kopeks 
 really represented his labor; but I had served nobody, 
 worked for no one, and knew very well that my money did 
 not represent my labor. And so I felt tliat in money, or in 
 money's worth, and in the possession of it, there was some- 
 thing wrong and evil ; tliat the money itself, and the fact of 
 my iiaving it, was one of the chief causes of those evils 
 which I had seen before me, and I asked myself, What is 
 money ? 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Money! What, then, is money? 
 
 It is answered, money represents labor. I meet educated 
 people who even assert that money represents labor per- 
 formed b}' those who possess it. I confess that I myself 
 formerly shared this oi)inion, although I did not л'егу clearly 
 understand it. But now it became necessary for me to learn 
 thoroughly what money was. 
 
 In order to do so, I addressed myself to science. Science 
 snys that money in itself is neither unjust nor pernicious ; 
 that money is the natural result of the conditions of social 
 life, and is indispensable, first, for convenience of ex-
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 71 
 
 change ; secondl\', as a measure of \'aliie ; thirdly, for 
 saving; and fourthl}', for payments. 
 
 The evident fact that wlien I liave in my pocket three 
 rubles to spare, whicli I am not in need of, I liave only to 
 whistle, and in every civilized town I obtain a hundred peo- 
 ple ready for these three rubles, to do the worst, most dis- 
 gusting, and humiliating act I require ; and this comes not 
 from money, but from the very complicated condition^ of 
 the economical life of nations. 
 
 Tlie dominion of one niau over others comes not from 
 money, but from the circumstance that a workingman does 
 not receive the full л^а1ие of his labor ; and the fact that he 
 does not get the full value of his labor, depends upon the 
 nature of capital, rent, and wages, and upon complicated 
 connections between them and production itself, and between 
 the distribution and consumption of wealth. 
 
 In plain language, it means that people who have mone}- 
 may twist around their linger those who have none. But 
 science says that this is an illusion ; that in every kind of 
 production three factors take part, — land, savings of labor 
 (cai)ital), and labor; and that the dominion of the few 
 over the man}', proceeds from the various connections be- 
 tween these factors of production, — because the two first 
 factors, land and capital, are not in the hands of working 
 peoi)le : from this fact, and from the various combinations 
 resulting therefrom, proceeds this domination. 
 
 Whence comes the great power of mone}' which strikes us 
 all with a sense of its injustice and cruel! /? Why is one 
 man by the means of money to have dominion over others? 
 Science says. It comes from the division of the agents of 
 production, and from the consequent complicated combina- 
 tions which oppi'ess the workingman. 
 
 This answer has always appeared to me to be strange, not 
 only because it leaves one part of the question unnoticed, 
 namely, the signification of money, but also because of the 
 division of the factors of production, which to an unin- 
 formed man will always appear artificial, and not in accord- 
 ance with reality. It is asserted that in елчч'у production 
 three agents come into operation, — land, capital, and lal)or ; 
 and along with this division it is understood that property 
 (or its value in money) is naturally divided among those who 
 possess one of these agents; thus, rent, — the value of tiie 
 ground, — belongs to the land-owner; interest to the capi- 
 talist ; and labor to the workingman.
 
 72 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 Is it really so ? 
 
 First, is it true that in every production three agencies 
 operate? Now, while I am writing this, around me proceeds 
 the production of hay. Of wliat is this production com- 
 posed? I am told, of the land which ])rodaces tlie grass, of 
 capital, — scythes, rakes, pitch-forks, carts, — which are 
 necessary for the housing of ha}-, and of labor. But I see 
 that this is not true. Besides the laud, there is the sun and 
 rain ; besides social order, which has been keeping these 
 meadows from damage caused by letting stray cattle graze 
 upon them, the prudence of workmen, their knowledge of 
 language, and many other agencies of production, wliich, for 
 some unknown reason, are not taken into consideration by 
 political economy. 
 
 The power of the sun is as necessary as the land. I may 
 instance the position of men in Avhich (as, for instance, in a 
 town) some of them assume the right to keep out the sun 
 from others by means of walls or trees. Why, then, is this 
 sun not inchided among the agents of production? 
 
 Rain is another means as necessary as the ground itself. 
 The air too. I can picture to m3'self the position of men 
 without water and pure air, because other men assume to 
 themselves the right to monopolize these, which are essentially 
 necessary to all. Public security is likewise a necessary 
 element ; food and dress for workmen are similar means in 
 production ; this last is even recognized by some economists. 
 Education, the knowledge of language which creates tlie 
 possibility of reasonable work, is likewise an agent. I could 
 fill a volume by enumerating such combinations, unnoticed 
 by science. 
 
 Why, then, are three only to be chosen and laid as a foun- 
 dation for the science of political economy ? Why are the 
 rays of the sun, rain, food, knowledge, not equally recog- 
 nized? AVhy only the land, the instruments of labor, and 
 the labor itself? Simply because the riglit of men to enjoj' 
 the rays of the sun, rain, food, speech, and audience, are 
 challenged only on rare occasions ; but the use of land, and 
 of the instruments of labor, are constantly challenged in 
 society. 
 
 This is the true foundation for it ; and the division of 
 these agents for production, into three, is quite arliitrary, 
 and is not involved in the nature of things. But it may 
 perhaps be urged, that this division is so suitable to man, that.
 
 WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 73 
 
 wherever economical relationships form themselves, there 
 these appear at once and alone. 
 
 Let us see whether it is really so. First of all, I look at 
 what is around nie, — at Russian colonists, of whom millions 
 liave for long existed. They come to a land, settle themselves 
 on it. and begin to labor ; and it does not enter into the mind 
 of any one of them, that a man who does not use the land 
 could have any claim to it, and the land does not assert any 
 rights of its own ; on the contrary, the colonists conscien- 
 tiously recognize the communism of the land, and that it is 
 right for every one of them to plough and to mow wherever 
 he likes. 
 
 For cultivation, for gardening, for building houses, the 
 colonists obtain various implements of labor : nor does it 
 enter the mind of any one of them, that these instruments 
 of labor may bring profit in themselves, and the capital does 
 not assert any rights of its own ; but, on the contrary, the 
 colonists conscientiously recognize that all interest for tools, 
 or borrowed corn or capital, is unjust. 
 
 They work upon a free land, labor with their own tools, or 
 with those borrowed without interest, each for himself, or all 
 tcjgether, for common business ; and in such a communit}", it 
 is impossible to prove either the existence of rent or interest 
 accruing from capital, or remuneration for labor. 
 
 Speaking of such a community, I am not indulging my 
 fancy, but am describing what has always taken place, not 
 only among primitive Russian colonists, but among so-called 
 intellectual men, who are not few, and who have settled in 
 Russia and in America. 
 
 I am describing what appears to every one to be natural 
 and leasonable. Men settle on land, and each luidertakes to 
 do such business as suits him ; and each, having earned what 
 is uecessar}', does his own work. 
 
 And when these men find it more convenient to labor 
 togetlicr, they form a workmen's association ; but neither in 
 separate households, nor in associations, will there appear 
 separate agents of production, till men artificially and 
 forcibly divide them. But there will be labor, and the ne- 
 cessary conditions of labor, — the sun which warms all, the 
 air which men breathe, water which they drink, .land on 
 which they labor, clothes on the body, food in the stomach, 
 stakes, shovels, ploughs, machines, with which men work ; 
 and it is evident that neither the rays of the sun, nor the
 
 74 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 clothes on the body, nor the stakes with which the man 
 labors, nor the spade, nor the plough, nor the machine with 
 which he works in the workmen's association, can belong to 
 any one else but to those who enjoy the rays of the sun, 
 breathe the air, drink the water, eat the bread, clothe their 
 bodies, and labor with the spade or with the machine, because 
 all this is necessary onl}' for those who make use of it. And 
 when men act thus, we see that they act reasonably. 
 
 Therefore, observing the economical conditions which are 
 created among men, 1 do not see that the division into three 
 is natural. 1 see, on the contrary, that it is neither natural 
 nor reasonable. But perhaps the setting apart of these three 
 does not take place in pi imitive societies of men; but that 
 when the population inci^eases, and cultivation begins to 
 develop, it is unavoidable, and we cannot but recognize the 
 fact that this division has taken place in European society. 
 Let us see whether it is really so. 
 
 We are told that in European society this division of agen- 
 cies has taken place ; that is, that one man possesses land, 
 anothe^' possesses instruments of labor, and the third are 
 without land and instruments. We have grown so accus- 
 tomed to this assertion that we are no longer struck by the 
 strangeness of it. 
 
 If we will but reflect upon this expression, we cannot help 
 seeing, not only the injustice, but even the absurdity, of it. 
 Under tlie idea of a laboring man are included the land upon 
 which he lives, and the tools with Avhich he works. If he 
 were not living on the land, and had no tools, he would not 
 be a laboring man. There has never been, and can never be, 
 such a man without laud and without tools, without scythe, 
 cart, and horse ; there cannot be a bootmaker without a 
 house for his work standing upon ground, witliout water, air, 
 and tools with which he works. 
 
 If a laborer has no land, horse, or scythe, and a boot- 
 maker is witliout a house, water, or awl, then it means that 
 some oiie has driven him from the ground, or taken it away 
 from hiin, or cheated him out of his scythe, cart, horse, or 
 awl ; but it does not at all mean that there can be a country 
 laborer without a scj'the, or a bootmaker without tools. 
 
 So you cannot imaoine a fisherman remaining on dry land 
 without fishing implements, unless he has been driven away 
 from the water by some one who has taken away from him 
 his necessaiy imiileinents for fishing ; so also we cannot pic-
 
 WHAT MUST WE no THEN? 75 
 
 ture to ourselves a workman without the ground upon which 
 he lives, and without tools for his trade, unless somebody 
 has driven him from the former, or robbed him of the latter. 
 
 There may be such men, hunted from one place to another, 
 and such who, having been robbed, are compelled perforce 
 to work for another man, and do things unnecessary lor 
 themselves ; but this does not mean that such is the nature of 
 production, and therefore the land and the tools cannot be 
 considered as separate agents in the work. 
 
 But if we are to consider as the agents of pi'oduction all 
 that is claimed b}' other people, and what a workingman 
 ma}' be deprived of by the violence of others, wh}' not count 
 among tliem the claim upon the person of a slave? Why not 
 count claims on the rain and the газ -s of the sun ? We might 
 meet with a man who would build a wall and thus keep the 
 sun from his neighbor ; another may come who will turn the 
 coui'se of a river into his own pond, and by that means con- 
 taminate its water ; or an individual wlio would claim a fellow- 
 man as his own propert}' ; but none of these claims, al- 
 though they may be enforced by violence, can be recognized 
 as a foundation for calculating the agents of production ; and 
 therefore it is as equally unjust to consider the exclusive en- 
 joyment of the rays of the sun, or of the air or water, or the 
 persous of others, as separate agents in production. 
 
 There ma}' be men who will assert their rights to the land 
 and to the tools of a workingman, as there were men who 
 asserted their rights to the persons of others, and as there 
 may be men who would assert their rights to the exclusive 
 use of the rays of the sun, or to the use of water and aii- ; 
 there may be men who would drive away a workingman 
 from place to place, taking from him by foi'ce the products 
 of his labor as they are produced, and the ver}' iustruments 
 for its production, who might compel him to work, not for 
 himself, but for his mnster. as occurs in the factories; — all 
 this is possible : but a workingman without land and tools is 
 still an imj)ossibility, just ns there does not exist a man who 
 would willingly become the property of another, notwith- 
 standing that men have asserted their right to him for many 
 generations. 
 
 Just as a 6laim on the person of another man couid not 
 deprive a slave of his innate right to seek his own welfare, 
 and not that of his master ; so, too, the claim for the ex- 
 clusive possession of the land and tools of others cannot
 
 76 WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 
 
 deprive the workingman of his riglit, like that of every man, 
 to live upon the land, and to woi-k with iiis own tools, or 
 those of his comuuiuit}^, as he consideis most useful for 
 himself. 
 
 All that science can say in examining the present econom- 
 ical question, is this: that in Eui'ope there exist claims of 
 some men to the land and the tools of workingmen, in con- 
 sequence of which, for some of these wori\ingmen (but liy 
 no means for all of them), the proper conditions of produc- 
 tion are violated, so that the}' are dei)rived of land and 
 implements of labor, and are compelled to work with the 
 tools of others ; but by no means is it established that this 
 casual violation of the lasv of production is that very law 
 itself. 
 
 In saying that this isolation of the agents of produce is 
 the fundamental law of production, the economist is doing 
 the very thing a zoologist would do, who, upon seeing a great 
 many siskins, with their wings cut, and kept in little cages, 
 drawing water-barrels out of an imaginary well, would assevt 
 this was the most essential condition for the life of birds, 
 and that their life is composed of these conditions. 
 
 However many siskins there may be kept in pasteboard 
 houses with their wings cut, a zoologist cannot acknowledge 
 these houses to be the natural home of the birds. However 
 great the number of working-people there ma}^ be driven from 
 place to place, and deprived of their productions as well as 
 the tools for their labor, the natural right of man to live 
 upon the land, and to work with his own tools, is that which 
 he needs, and it will remain so forever. 
 
 We have some who lay claim to the land and to the tools 
 of workingmen, just as there existed in former ages the 
 claim of some men over the persons of others ; but there may 
 be no real division of men into lords and slaves as was an- 
 ciently established, nor can there exist any division in the 
 agents of production, in land and capital, as economists want 
 to establish at present. 
 
 These very unlawful claims of some men over the liberty 
 of others, science calls the natural condition of production. 
 Instead of taking its fundamental principles from the natural 
 properties of human societies, science took them from a par- 
 ticular case ; and, desiring to justify this case, it recognized 
 t'lf right of some men to the land by which other men earned 
 th-'i!- living, and to the tools witli which other men worked;
 
 WHAT MUST WE 1)0 TUENf 77 
 
 in other words, it recognized as a right that which had never 
 existed, and cannot exist, and which is in itself a couti'adic- 
 tion, because the chiim of the land-owner to the land on 
 which he does not labor, is in essence nothing more than the 
 right to use the land which he does not use ; the claim on the 
 tuols of others is nothing more than a man assuming a right 
 to work with im[)lements with which he does not work. 
 
 Science, by isolating the agents of production, declares 
 that the natural condition of a workingraau — that is, of a 
 man in the true sense of the word — is that unnatural condition 
 in which he exists at present, as in ancient times, by the 
 division of men into citizens and slaves, when it was asserted 
 that the unnatural condition of slavery was the natural con- 
 dition of life. 
 
 This ver}' division accepted by science only in oixler to 
 justify the existing injustice, and the adjudging this division 
 to be the foundation of all its inquiries, has for its result 
 that science vainly tries to give some explanation of existing 
 phenomena ; and denying the clearest and plainest answers 
 to the questions that arise, gives answers which have no 
 meaning in them at all. 
 
 The question of economical science is this : What is the 
 reason of the fact that stnne men by means of money acquire 
 an imaginary right to the land and capitaU and may make 
 slaves of those men who have no money? The answer which 
 presents itself to common sense would l)e, that it is the result 
 of money, the nature of Avhicli is to enslave men. 
 
 But science denies this, and says. This ai'ises, not from 
 the nature of money, but from the fact that some men have 
 land and capital, and others have neither. We ask why per- 
 sons who possess land and cai)ital op[)ress such as possess 
 neither? and we are answered. Because they do possess land 
 and capital. 
 
 But this is just what we are inquiring about. Is not 
 deprivation of land and tools enforced slavery? • Life ceases 
 not to put this essential question : and even science herself 
 notices it. and tries to answer it, but does not succeed in 
 doing so ; proceeding from her ow4i fundamental principles, 
 she only turns herself round, as in a magic circle. 
 
 In order to give itself a satisfactory answer to the above 
 question, science lias (irst of all to deny that wrong division 
 of the agents of i)rodiietion. to cease to acknowledge the 
 result of the phenomena as being the cause of them ; and she
 
 78 WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 has to seek, first, the more obvious, and then the remoter, 
 causes of those phenomena wliieh make up the whole. 
 
 Science must answer the question, What is tlie reason 
 that some men are deprived of hind and tools while others 
 possess both? or, Why is it that land and tools are taken 
 away from persons who labor upon the land, and work with 
 the tools? 
 
 As soon as science puts this question to herself, she will 
 at once get new ideas which will transform all the previous 
 ideas of that sham science, which has been moving in an 
 unalterable circle of propositions, as, for instance, the mis- 
 erable condition of working-peoi>le proceeding from the fact 
 that it is miserable. P'or simple-minded persons, it must 
 seem unquestionable that the obvious reason of the oppres- 
 sion of some men by others is this money. But science, 
 denying this, says that money is only a medium of exchange, 
 which has nothing in common with oppression or slavery. 
 
 Let us see whether it is so or not. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Whence comes money? How is it that a nation always 
 has money, and under what circumstances is it that a nation 
 need not use money? There is a small tribe in Africa, and 
 one in Australia, who live as lived the Sknepies and the 
 Drevlyans iu olden times. 
 
 These tribes lived and ploughed, bred cattle, and culti- 
 vated gardens. ЛУе became acquainted with them only at 
 the dawn of history. And history begins with recording the 
 fact that some invaders appear on the stage. And invaders 
 always do the same thing : they take away from the abori- 
 gines every thing they can take, — cattle, corn, and stuffs; 
 even make prisoners, male and female, and carry them awaj'. 
 
 After some years the invaders appear again ; but the peo- 
 ple have not got over the consequences of their misfortune, 
 and there is scarcely any thing to take from them, so the 
 invaders invent another and better m.eans of making use of 
 their victims. 
 
 These means are very simple, and naturally present them- 
 selves to the mind of every man. The first is personal 
 slavery. There is a drawback to this, seeing the enforcers of 
 it have to put every thing into working order, and feed all the
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 79 
 
 slaves : hence, naturally- there appears the second. The peo- 
 ple are left on their own land, wliieh becomes the recognized 
 property of the invaders, who portion it out among the lead- 
 ing miUtary men, in order that Ьл' means of these men they 
 may utilize the labor of the people. 
 
 But this, too, has its drawback. It is not convenient to 
 tliese otilcers to have an oversight over all the productions of 
 the conquered people, and thus the third means is introduced, 
 Avliich is as primitive as the two former ones ; and this is the 
 levying of a certain obligatory tax which the conquered have 
 to pay at stated periods. 
 
 The object of a conquest is to take from the conquered as 
 much as possible of the products of their labor. It is 
 evident, that, in order to do this, the conipierors must take 
 such articles as are the most valuable to the conquered, and 
 which at the same time are not cumbersome, and are con- 
 venient for keeping. — skins of animals and gold. 
 
 And the conqueror lays upon the family or the tribe a tax 
 in these skins or gold, wliich is to be paid at fixed times ; and 
 by means of this tribute, he utilizes the labor of the con- 
 quered peoi)le in the most convenient way. 
 
 Almost all the skins and all the gold are taken aw^ay from 
 their oi-iginal i)ossessors, and therefore these are compelled 
 to sail all they have amongst themselves to obtain gold and 
 skins for their masters ; that is, they have to sell their prop- 
 erty and their labor. 
 
 This very thing happened in ancient times, in the INIiddle 
 Ages, and occurs now too. In the ancient world, when the 
 subjugation of one people by another was frequent, and 
 owing to the equality of men not being acknowledged, per- 
 sonal slavery was the most widely si)read means for compel- 
 ling the service of others, and was the centre of gravity in 
 this compidsion. In the Middle Ages, feudalism — land- 
 ownership and the servitude connected with it — partly takes 
 the place of personal slavery, and the centre of compulsion is 
 transferred from persons to land : in modern times, since 
 the discovery of America, the development of commerce, 
 and the influx of gold, which is accepted as a universal 
 medium of exchange, the triliute in money with the increase 
 of the state power becomes the chief instrument for enslav- 
 ing men, and upon it are now built all economical relation- 
 shi[)s. 
 
 In ^'^ The Literary Miscellany " is printed an article by Pro-
 
 80 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 fessor Yan joul, in which he describes the recent history of the 
 Fiji Islands. If I were tr^'ing to find t!ie most pointed illus- 
 tration of how in our time the forcible I'eqnirement of money 
 became the chief instrument of the enslaving of some men 
 by others, I could not imagine any thing more striking and 
 convincing than this trustworthy hi&tory, — histoi-y based 
 upon documents of facts, which are of recent occurrence." 
 
 In tl>e South-Sea Islands in Polynesia lives a race cidL-d 
 Fiji. The group on which they live, says Professor 
 Yanjoul, is composed of small isles, which all together 
 occupy a space of al>out forty thousand square miles. Only 
 half of these islands are inhabited by one hundred and lifty 
 thousand naiives, and fifteen hundred white men. The 
 natives had been reclaimed from a savage state a long 
 time ago, and are distinguished among otlier natives of 
 Pol3'nesia by their intellectual capacities ; and they appear 
 to be a nation capal»le of labor and development, which they 
 have also proved by the fact that in a short period of time 
 they became good workmen and breeders of cattle. 
 
 The inhaltitants were well-to-do, but in the year 1850 
 the condition of this new state became desperate : the na- 
 tives of Fiji, and their representative. Ivoka!), were m need 
 of money. The money, fovty-tive thousand dollars, was 
 wanted b\' the Government of Fiji for ihe payment of a con- 
 tribution or indemnilication, which was demanded of them 
 b}' the United States of America for violence done b}" Fijis 
 to some citizens of tlie American Repnl)lic. 
 
 For this purpose the Americans sent a squadron, which 
 unexpectedh' took possession of some of the best islands, 
 under the pretext that they would hold them as a guaranty-, 
 and threatened to bombard and ruin the towns if the indem- 
 nification were not paid over, upon a certain date, to the 
 ie[)resentatives of America. 
 
 The Americans were among the first colonists who. to- 
 gether with missionaries, came to the Fiji Islands. They 
 chose and (under one pretext or another) took possession 
 of the best pieces of land on the islands, and establislied 
 there cotton and coffee plantations. They hired wiiole 
 crowds of natives, binding them by contracts unknown to 
 this half-'civilized race ; or acted through special contractors 
 or purveyors of human merchandise. 
 
 ^lisundeistandings between such master-planters an<l t'le 
 natives, whom they considered almost as slaves, were uu-
 
 WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 81 
 
 avoidable : it was some of these quarrels which served as a 
 pretext for the American iiidemniticatioii. 
 
 Notwitlistaiiding their prosperit}' the Fijis had preserved 
 almost up to the present time the forms of so-called natural 
 economy, whicli existed in Europe during the Middle Ages : 
 money was scarcely' in circulation among tlie natives, and 
 their trade had almost exclusively the character of barter ; 
 — one merchandise was exchanged for another, and a few 
 social taxes and those of the state were taken out in produc- 
 tions. What were the Fiji-Islanders with their King Kokab 
 to do when tlie Americans required from them fortj'-five 
 thousand dollars under the most terrible threat in the event 
 of non-payment? To tlie Fijis the very figures appeared to 
 be something inconceivable, to say notliing of the money 
 itself, which they had never seen in such large quantities. 
 After deliberating with other chiefs, Kokab made up his 
 mind to apply to the Queen of England, at first asking her 
 to take the islands under her protection, and then plainly 
 under her rule. 
 
 But the English regarded this request circumspectly, and 
 were in no hurry to assist the half-savage monarch out of his 
 difficulty. Instead of giving a direct answer, they sent, in 
 1<S(5(), si)ecial commissioners to make inquiries about the Fiji- 
 Islanders, in order to be able to deci le whether it was worth 
 Avhile to annex them to the British Possessions, and to lay 
 out money to satisfy the American claims. 
 
 ^Meanwhile the American Government continued to insist 
 u[)on [)ayment,' and held as a pledge in their de fado domiii- 
 ion some of the best parts, and, having looked closely into 
 the national wealth, raised their former claim to ninety thou- 
 sand dollars, and threatened to increase it still if Kokab did 
 not pay at once. 
 
 B;'ing thus jHished on every side, the poor king, unac- 
 quainted with European means of credit accommodation, in 
 accordance with the advice of European colonists, began to 
 try to raise money in Melbourne, among the merchants, cost 
 what it might, if even he should be obliged to yield up all his 
 kingdom into private hands. 
 
 And so in Melbourne, in consequence of his application, a 
 commercial society was formed. This joint-stock company, 
 which took the name of the Polynesian Company, formed 
 with the chiefs of the Fiji-Islanders a treaty upon terms the 
 most advantageous to itself. It took upon itself the debt to
 
 82 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 the American Government, and pledged itself to pay it by 
 several instalments ; for this the company received, accord- 
 ing to the first treaty, one, and then two liundred thousand 
 acres of the best land, selected by themselves ; the perpetual 
 Immunity from all taxes and dues for all its factories, opera- 
 tions, and colonies, and the exclusive riglit for a long period 
 to estaljlish in the Fiji Islands issuing-banks, with the privi- 
 lege of printing uulimited number of notes. 
 
 Since this treaty, definitively concluded in the year 18G8, 
 there appeared in the Fiji Islands, along with their local 
 government with Kokab at the head, another powerful 
 authority, — a commercial factory, with large estates over all 
 the islands, exercising a decided influence upon the govern- 
 ment. 
 
 Up to this time the wants of the government of Kokab had 
 been satisfied with the payment in natural productions, which 
 consisted of various duties and a small custom tax on goods 
 imported. With the couclusion of the treaty, and the form- 
 ing of the influential Pol^'nesian Compan}', the king's financial 
 circumstances had changed. 
 
 A considerable part of the best land in his dominion had 
 passed into the hands of the company', his income from the 
 land therefore diminished ; on the other hand, the income 
 from the custom taxes also diminished, because the company 
 obtained for itself an import and export of all kinds of goods 
 free of custom duties. 
 
 The natives — ninety-nine per cent of all the population 
 — had always been bad payers of custom duties, because 
 they scarcely bought any of the European productions, ex- 
 cept some stuffs and hardware ; and now, from the freeing 
 from custom duties, along with the Polynesian Company, of 
 man}' well-to-do Europeans, tiie income of King Kokab was 
 reduced to ?н7, and he was obliged to take steps to resusci- 
 tate it if possil;le. 
 
 He began to consult his white friends as to how he was to 
 avert the calamity, and they advised him to create the first 
 direct tax in the country ; and, in order, I suppose, to have 
 less trouble about it, in money. The tax was established in 
 the form of a general poll-tax, amounting to one pound for 
 every man, and to four shillings for every woman, throughout 
 the islands. 
 
 As we have already said, on the Fiji Islands there still ex- 
 ist a natural economy and a trade by barter. Very few
 
 WHAT 3IUST WE DO ТПЕХ? 83 
 
 natives possess гаопез\ Their wealth consists chiefly of 
 Viirious raw productions and cattle ; Avliilst the new tax re- 
 quired the possession in a famil}' of considerable sums of 
 mone}' at fixed times. 
 
 Up to that date a native had not been accustomed to 
 an}' individual burden in the interests of his government, 
 except personal obligations ; all the taxes which had to be 
 paid, were paid by the community or village to which he be- 
 longed, and from the common fields from which he received 
 his principal income. 
 
 One alternative was left to him, — to try to raise money 
 from the European colonists ; that is, to address himself 
 either to the merchant or to the planter. 
 
 To the first he Avas obliged to sell his productions on the 
 merchant's own terms, because the tax-collector required 
 money at a certain fixed date, or he had even to raise money 
 by selling his expected production, лvhich enabled the mer- 
 chant to take iniquitous interest. Or he had to address him- 
 self to the planter, and sell him his labor ; that is, to become 
 his workman : but the wages on the Fiji Islands were very 
 low, owing, I suppose, to the exceptionall}' great offer of 
 services. 
 
 The}' did not exceed one shilling per week for a grown-up 
 man, or two pounds twelve shillings a year ; and therefore, 
 in order merely to get the money necessary for the payment 
 for himself, not to speak of his family, a Fiji had to leave 
 his house, his family, and his own land, and often go far 
 away to another island, and there enslave himself to the 
 planter for at least half a year in order to get the one pound 
 necessary for the payment of the new tax ; and as for tlie 
 payment of taxes for his whole family, he had to look for it 
 to some other means. 
 
 We can understand what was the result of such a state. 
 From a lumdred and fifty thousand of his subjects, Kokab 
 collected in all, six thousand pounds ; and now there began 
 a forcible extortion of taxes unknown till then, and a series 
 of AMolent measures. 
 
 The local administration, which had been formerly incor- 
 ruptible, soon made common cause with the European 
 planters, who began to have their own way with the country. 
 For non-payment, th : Fijis were summoned to the court and 
 were sentenced, not only to pay the expenses, hut also to be 
 sent to prison for n<_t, less than half a year. This prison
 
 84 WHAT MUST WE DO TUENf 
 
 was really the plantations of the first white man who chose 
 to pay the tax-money and the legal expenses of the con- 
 demned. 
 
 Thus the white settlers received cheap labor to any amount. 
 First this compulsory labor was fixed at not longer than half 
 a year; but afterwards the bribed judges found it possible to 
 pass sentence for eigliteeu months, and then to renew the 
 sentence. 
 
 Very quickly, in the course of a few 3'ears, the picture of 
 the social condition of the inhabitants of Fiji was quite 
 changed. 
 
 AVhole districts, formerly flourishing, lost half of their 
 population, and were greatly impoverished. All the male 
 population, except the old and infirm, was working away 
 from their homes for European planters, in order to get 
 mone}^ necessary for the payment of taxes, or in consequence 
 of the law court. The women on the Fiji Islands had scarcely 
 ever worked in the fields ; therefore, in the absence of the 
 men, all farming was neglected, and went to ruin. In the 
 course of a few j^ears, half of the population of Fiji was 
 transformed into the slaves of the colonists. 
 
 In order to ease their situation, the Fiji-Islanders again 
 appealed to England. A new petition was got up, sub- 
 scribed by a great many eminent persons and chiefs, praying 
 to be annexed to England ; and this was handed to the British 
 consul. Meanwhile, England, thanks to her learned expedi- 
 tion, had time not onU- to investigate the affairs of the islands, 
 but even to survey them, and duly to appreciate the natural 
 riches of this fine corner of the globe. 
 
 Owing to all these circumstances, the negotiations this 
 time were crowned with full success; and in 1874, to the 
 great dissatisfaction of the American planters, England 
 offlcialh' took possession of the Fiji Islands, and added them 
 to its colonies. Kokab died, and his heirs had a small 
 pension assigned to them. 
 
 The administi'ation of the islands was intrusted to Sir 
 Hercules Robinson, the governor of New South AVales. In 
 the first year of its annexation to England, the Fiji-Islanders 
 had not had any self-government, but were under the direc- 
 tion of Sir Hercules Robinson, who had appointed an admin- 
 istrator for them. Taking the islands into their hands, the 
 English Government had to undertake the ditEcult task of 
 gratifying various cxi)ectations raised by them.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 85 
 
 The natiA^es, of course, first of all expected the abolition 
 of the luited poll-tax ; one part of the white colonists (the 
 Americans) looked with suspicion upon the British rule ; and 
 another part (those of English origin) expected all kinds of 
 conth'mations of tlieir [)Ower over the natives, — permission to 
 enclose the land, and so on. The P^nglish Government, how- 
 ever, proved itself equal to the task ; and its first act was 
 to aliolish forever the poll-tax, which had created the slavery 
 of the natives in the interest of a few colonists. But here, 
 JSir Hercules Kobinson had at once to face a difficult dilemma. 
 
 It was necessary to abolish the poll-tax, which had made 
 the Fijis seek help of the English Government; but, at the 
 same time, according to Pлlg•lish colonial роИсз% the colonies 
 had to support themselves ; the}' had to find their own means 
 for covering the expenses of the government. With the 
 abolition of the poll-tax, all the incomes of the Fijis (from 
 custom duties) did not amount to more than six thousand 
 pounds, while the government expenses required at least 
 seventy thousand a year. 
 
 And now Sir Hercules Robinson, having abolished the 
 money tax, thought of a labor tax ; but it did not yield the 
 sum necessary for feeding him and his assistants. Matters did 
 not mend until a new governor had been apjiointed, — Gordon, 
 — who, in order to get out of the inhabitants the money 
 necessary for keeping him and his functionaries, resolved 
 not to demand money until it had come sufficiently into 
 general circulation on the islands, but to take from the 
 natives their productions, and to sell them himself. 
 
 This tragical episode in the lives of the Fijis is the clearest 
 and best proof of what is the true meaning of money in our 
 time. 
 
 In this case every thing is illustrated, the first funda- 
 mental condition of slavery. — the gun, threats, murders, 
 and plunder, and lastly, money, the means of subjugation, 
 whieh has taken the place of all other. That which in an 
 historical sketch of economical development has to be inves- 
 tigated during centuries, here when all the forms of monetary 
 violence have fully developed themselves, had been concen- 
 trated into a space of ten years. The drama begins thus : 
 tiie American Government sends ships with loaded guns to 
 the shores of the islands, whose inliabitants they want 
 to enslave. The pretext of this threat is monetary ; but the 
 beginning of the tragedy is the levelling of guns against all the
 
 86 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 inhal)itants, — wives, chiblren, old people, and men, — though 
 they have not committed any crime. •' Your money or your 
 life," — forty-tive thousand dollars, then ninety thousand or 
 slaughter. But ninet}' thousand are not to be had. And 
 now begins the second act : it is necessary to foi-ego a 
 slaughter, which would be blood}', terrible, and concentrated, 
 in a short period ; it is necessary' to substitute a suffering 
 less perceptible which can be laid upon all, and will last 
 longer; and the natives with their rei)resentative seek to 
 substitute for slaughter a slavery of money. They borrow 
 money, and the planned means of enslaving men by money 
 at once begins to operate like a disciplined army. In five 
 years the thing is done, — men have not only lost their right 
 to utilize their own land and tiieir propert}', but also their 
 liberty, — they have become slaves. Here begins act three. 
 The situation is too painful ; and the unfortunate ones are 
 told they may change their master, and become slaves of 
 another : there is not a thought about freedom from the 
 slavery brought about b}' the means of money. And tlie 
 people call for another master, to whom they give themselves 
 up, asking him to improve their condition. The English 
 come and see that dominion over these islands gives them 
 the possibility of feeding their already too greath' multijjlied 
 parasites, and the English Government takes possession 
 of these islands and their iniial)itants ; but it does not take 
 them in the form of personal slaves ; it does not take ел'еп 
 the land, nor distribute it among its assistants. 
 
 These old ways are not necessary now : only one thing is 
 necessary. — taxes which must be large enough on the one 
 hand to prevent the workingmen from freeing themselves 
 from virtual slavery, and on the other hand to feed luxuri- 
 ously a great number of parasites. The inhabitants must 
 раз' seventy thousand pounds sterling, — that is the funda- 
 mental condition upon which Elngland consents to free the 
 Fijis from the American despotism, and this is just what was 
 wanting for the final enslaving of the inhabitants. But it 
 turned out that the Fiji-Islanders cannot under any circum- 
 stances pay these sevent}' thousand pounds in their present 
 state. The claim is too great. 
 
 The P^nglish temporarily modify it, and take a part of it 
 out in natural productions in order that in time, when money 
 has come into circulalion. they ma}' receive the full sum. 
 They do not behave like the former company, whose conduct
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 87 
 
 we maj^ liken to the first coming of savage in\'aders into an 
 uncivilized land, wlien they want only to take as much as 
 possible and then decamp : but England behaves like a more 
 clear-sighted enslaver ; she does not kill at one blow the 
 goose with the golden eggs, but feeds her in order that she 
 ma}- continue to lay them. England at first relaxes the reins 
 for her own interest that she ma}- hold them forever after- 
 Avards, and so has brought the Fiji-Islanders into that state 
 of permanent monetary thraldom in Avhich all civilized 
 European people now are, and from which their chance of 
 escape is not apparent. 
 
 This phenomena repeats itself in America, in China, in 
 Central Asia ; and it is the same in the history of the con- 
 quest of all nations. 
 
 Money is an inoffensive means of exchange when it is not 
 collected with violence, or when loaded guns are not directed 
 from the seashore against the defenceless inhabitants. As 
 soon as it is taken by force of arms, the same thing must 
 unavoidably take place which occurred on the Fiji Islands, 
 and has always and everywhere repeated itself. 
 
 Such men as consider it their lawful right to utilize the 
 labor of others, and who have the means of doing so, will 
 achieve this by means of forcibly demanding such sums of 
 money as will compel the oppressed to become the slaves 
 of the oppressors. 
 
 And moreover, that will happen which occurred between 
 the English and the Fijis, — the extortioners will always, in 
 their demand for money, rather exceed the limit to which the 
 amount of the sum required must rise in order that the 
 enslaving may take place more effectuall3\ They Avill 
 respect this limit only while they have moral sense and sulli- 
 cient money for themselves : they will overstep it when they 
 lose their moral sense or require funds. 
 
 As for governments, they will always exceed this limit, — 
 first, because for a government there exists no moral sense 
 of justice ; and secondly, because, as we all know, every 
 government is in the greatest want of money, caused by 
 wars and the necessity of giving gratuities to their allies. 
 All governments are insoh^ent, and cannot help following a 
 maxim expressed by a Russian statesman of the eighteenth 
 century. —that the peasant must be sheared of his wool lest 
 it should grow too long. All governments are hopelessly in 
 debt, and ihis debt on an average (not taking iu considera-
 
 88 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 tioii its occasional diminution in England and America) is 
 growing at a terrible rate. So also grow tlie budgets ; I hat 
 is, the necessity of struggling witli otlier extortioners, and of 
 giving presents to tliose vvlio assist in extortion. 
 
 Wages do not increase, not because of the hiw of I'cnt, 
 but because taxes collected with violence exist, in oidjr 
 to take away from men their superfluities, so that they may 
 be compelled to sell their labor to satisfy them, the utilizii)g 
 of their labor being the aim of raising them. 
 
 And their labor can only be utilized when on a general 
 average the taxes required are more than the Avorkhig-poo- 
 ple are able to give without depriving themselves of all 
 means of subsistence. The rising of wages would put an 
 end to the possibility of enslaving ; and therefore, as long 
 as violence exists, wages can never rise. This simple and 
 ])lain mode of action by some men towards others, political 
 economists term the iron law; the instrument by which such 
 action is performed, they call a medium of exchange : and 
 money is this inoffensive medium of exchange necessary 
 for men in their transactions with each otlier. 
 
 Why is it, then, that, whenever there is no violent demand 
 for money taxes, there has never been, and can never be, 
 money in its true signification ; but, as among the Fiji- 
 Islanders, the Phoenicians, the Kirghis. and generally among 
 men who do not pay taxes, as among the Africans, there is 
 either a direct exchange of produce or arbitrary standards of 
 value, as sheep, hides, skins, and shells? 
 
 A definite kind of money, whatever it mav be, will always 
 become, not a means of exchange, but a means of ransom- 
 ing from violence ; and it begins to circulate among men 
 only when a definite standard is compulsorilv required from 
 all. 
 
 It is only then that everj'body equally wants it, and only 
 then it receives any A'alue. 
 
 Further, it is not the thing that is most convenient for 
 exchange that receives any value, but that which is re- 
 quired by the government. If gold is demanded, gold 
 becomes valuable : if knuckle-bones were demanded, they, 
 too, would become valuable. If it were not so, why, then, 
 has the issue of this means of excliange always been the 
 prerogative of the government? The Fiji-Islanders, for 
 instance, have arranged among themselves their own means 
 of exchange ; well, then, let them be free to exchange what
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 89 
 
 and how they like, and you, men possessing power, or the 
 means of violence, do not interfei'e witli this exchange. 
 But instead 3'ou coin money, not allowing an}- one else to 
 do so ; or, as is the case with us. you merely print some 
 notes, engraving upon them tlie heads of the tsars, sign 
 them with a particular signature, and threaten to punish 
 every falsification of them, distribute this money to 3'our 
 assistants, and require everylx^d}^ to give yon such money 
 or such notes лvith such signatures, and so many of them 
 that a \vorkingman must give алуау all his lalior in order 
 to get these ver}' notes or coins ; and then 3'ou want to 
 convince us that this money is necessary for us as a means 
 of exchange. 
 
 All men are free, and none of them oppresses the others 
 by keeping them in slavery ; but there exist only money 
 in society and an iron law, in consequence of which rent 
 increases, and wages diminish down to a minimum. Tiiat 
 lialf (nay, more than half) of the Russian peasants, in order 
 t(^ pay direct and indirect taxes and land taxes, enslave theu^- 
 selves to labor for the land-owners, or for manufacturers, does 
 not at all signify (which is obvious) ; for the violent collec- 
 tion of poU-taxc'S and indirect and land taxes which are paid 
 in money to the government and to its assistants, — the land- 
 owners, — compels the workingaian to be in slavery to 
 those who collect money ; l)ut it means that this money, 
 as a means of exchange, and an iron law, exist. 
 
 Before the serfs were free, I could compel Ivun to do 
 апз' work ; and if he refused to do it, I could send him 
 to the police-sergeant, and the latter would give him the rod 
 till he submittecl. And if I compelled Ivan to overwork 
 himself, and did not give him either land or food, the mat- 
 ter would go up to the authorities, and I should have to 
 answer for it. 
 
 But now that men are free, I can compel Ivan and Peter 
 and .Sidor to do every kind of work ; and if they refuse to do 
 it. I give them no money to pay taxes, and they will be 
 flogged till they submit : besides this, I may also make a (Ger- 
 man, a Frenchman, a Chinaman, and an Indian, work for me 
 by that means, so that, if they do not sul)mit, I shall not give 
 them money to hire land, or to buy bread, because they have 
 neither land nor bread. And if I make them overwork tiiera- 
 selves, or kill them with excess of labor, nobody will say a 
 word to me about it ; and, moreover, if I have read books oa
 
 90 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 political economy, I shall be strongly persuaded that all men 
 are free, and that money does not create slavery ! Our peas- 
 ants have long known that with a ruble one can Ijurt more 
 tlian Avith a stick. But it is only political econonii&ts who do 
 not want to see it. 
 
 To say that money does not create bondage, is to say that 
 half a centurj' ago servitude did not create slaver}^ Toliti- 
 cal economists say that mone}'^ is an inoffensive medium of 
 exchange, notwithstanding the fact that, in cousecpience of 
 possessing it, one man ma}^ enslave the other. Why, then, 
 was it not said half a century ago that servitude was, in it- 
 self, an inoffensive medium of reciprocal services, notwith- 
 standing the fact that by no lawful means could one man 
 enslave another? 
 
 Some men give their manual labor; and the work of others 
 consists in taking care of the physical and intellectual wel- 
 fare of the slaves, and in superintending their efforts. 
 
 And, I fancy, some have really said this. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 If the object of this sham, so-called science of Political 
 Economy had not been the same as that of all other sciences 
 of law, — the justification of A'iolence, — it could not have 
 avoided noticing the strange phenomenon that the distril)u- 
 tion of wealth, and the depriving of some men of land and 
 capital, and the enslaving of some men by others, depend 
 upon mone}', and that it is only by means of money that 
 some men utilize the labor of others ; in other words, enslave 
 them. 
 
 I repeat it, a man who has money, may buy up and mo- 
 nopolize all the corn, and kill others with starvation, com- 
 pletely oppressing them, as it has frequently happened before 
 our own ej'cs on a very large scale. 
 
 It would seem that we ouglit to look out for the connection 
 of these occurrences with money ; but science, with full as- 
 surance, asserts that money has no connection whatever with 
 the matter in question. 
 
 Science says. Money is as much an article of merchan- 
 dise as an}' thing else which has the value of its production, 
 only лvith this difference, — that this article of merchandise is 
 chosen as the more couvenieu medium of exchange for
 
 WHAT 3IUSr WE DO THEN? 91 
 
 establishing A'alues, for saving, and for making payments. 
 One man has made boots, another has grown wheat, the 
 third has bred sheep ; and now, in order to exel}ange more 
 conveniently, they put into circulation money, which repre- 
 sents the equivalent of labor ; and by this medium they 
 exchange the soles of boots for a loin of mutton, or ten pounds 
 of flour. 
 
 Students of this sham science are very fond of picturing to 
 themselves such a state of affairs ; but there has never been 
 such a condition in tlie world. Such an idea about society is 
 like the idea al^out the primitive, prehistorical, perfect hu- 
 man state, which the philosophers cherished ; but there has 
 never existed such a state. 
 
 In all human societies where there has been money, there 
 Ills been also the violence of the strong and the armed over 
 the weak and the defenceless ; and wherever there has been 
 лм(Лепее, there the standard of value, — money, — be it what 
 it may, — either cattle or hides, or skins or metals, — must 
 have lost unavoidably its significance as a meduun of ex- 
 change, and received the meaning of a ransom from violence. 
 
 Without dou])t, money possesses the inoffensive properties 
 whifh science enumerates ; but these properties it would 
 have onl\' in a society in which tliere was no violence, in an 
 ideal state ; but in such a society, mone}' would not be found 
 as a general measure of value ; it has never existed, and 
 could never exist, in a society which had not come under tlie 
 general violence of the state. 
 
 In all societies known to us where there is money, it re- 
 ceives the signification of the medium of exchange only 
 because it serves as a means of violence. And its chief 
 object is to act thus, and not as a mere medium. Where 
 there is violence, money cannot be a regular medium of 
 exchange, because it cannot be a measure of value. And it 
 cannot be a measure of value, because, as soon as in a society 
 one man can take away from another the productions of liis 
 labor, this measure is directly violated. If horses and cows, 
 l)red by one man, and violently taken away by others, were 
 brought to a market, it is plain that the value of horses and 
 cows thei'e would no longer corresi)ond with the labor of 
 breeding them ; and the value of all other things would also 
 change in accordance with this change, and money would not 
 determine their value. 
 
 Besides, if one man may acquire by force a cow or a hoi'se
 
 92 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 or a house, he may b^^ the same force acquire money itself, 
 and with this шопе}' acquire all kinds of produce. If, then, 
 money itself is acquired by violence, and spent to purchase 
 things, moue}" entirely loses its quality* as a medium of ex- 
 change. 
 
 The oppressor who takes away money, and gives it for the 
 production of iabur, does not exchange any thing, but by 
 the means of labor takes away all that he wants. 
 
 But let us suppose that such an imaginary and impossil)le 
 state of society really existed, in which, without a general 
 violence of the state exercised over men, money is in circu- 
 lation, — silver or gold serving as a measure of value and as 
 a medium of exchange. All the savings in such a society 
 are expressed by топез\ There appears in this society an 
 oppressor in the shape of a conqueror. Let us suppose that 
 this oppressor takes away the cows, horses, clothes, and the 
 houses of the inhaljitants, but, as it is not convenient for hiui 
 to be in possession of all this, he will therefore naturally 
 think of taking from these men that which represents among 
 them all kinds of value, and is exchanged for all kinds of 
 things, — money. And at once in this community, money 
 will receive for the oppressor and his assistants another 
 signification: its character as a medium of exchange will 
 therefore cease in such a society. 
 
 The measure of the value of all things will always depend 
 upon the pleasure of the oppressor. 
 
 The articles most necessary for him, and for which he 
 gives more money, will receive a greater value, and vice versa; 
 so that, in a community exposed to violence, money receives 
 at once its chief meaning, — it becomes a means of violence 
 and a ransom from violence, and it will retain among the 
 oppressed people its signification as a medium of exchange, 
 only so far as it is convenient for the oppressor. Let us 
 picture the whole affair in a circle, thus : — 
 
 The serfs supply their landlord Avith linen, poultry, sheep, 
 and dail}' labor. 
 
 The landlord substitutes monej' for these goods, and fixes 
 the value of various articles sent in. Those who have no 
 linen, corn, cattle, or manual labor to offer, may bring a 
 definite sum of money. 
 
 It is obvious, that, in the society of the peasants of this 
 landlord, the price of various articles will always depend 
 upon the landlord's pleasure. The landlord uses the articles
 
 WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 93 
 
 collected among his peasants, and some of these articles are 
 more necessary for him than others : accordingly, he fixes 
 the prices for them, more or less. It is clear that the mere 
 will and requirements of the landlord must regulate the 
 prices of these articles among the payers. If he is in want 
 of corn, he will set a high price for a fixed quantity of it, 
 and a low price for linen, cattle, or work ; and therefore those 
 who have no corn will sell their labor, linen, and cattle to 
 others, in order to buy corn to give it to tlie landlord. 
 
 If the landlord chooses to substitute mone}' for all kinds 
 of claim, then the value of things will again depend, not 
 npon the value of laboi', but first upon the sum of money 
 which the landlord will require, and secondly upon the 
 articles produced by the peasants which are more necessary 
 to the landlord, and for which he will allow a higlier price. 
 
 The money-claim made by the landlord upon the peasants 
 would cease only to have any influence u[)on the prices of biie 
 articles wdien the peasants of this landlord should live sepa- 
 rate from other people and have no connection with an}' one 
 besides themselves and the landlord ; and secondly, when the 
 landlord eniplo_ys money, not in purchasing things in his own 
 village, but elsewhere. It is only under these two conditions 
 that the prices of things, though changed nominally, would 
 remain relatively the same, and money would have the signifi- 
 cation of a measure of value and of a medium of exchange. 
 
 I)Ut if tiie peasants have any business connections with 
 the inhabitants surrounding them, the prices of the articles 
 of their produce, as sold to their neighbors, would de})end 
 upon the sum of money required from them b}' their landlord. 
 
 (If from their neighbors less money is required than from 
 them, then their productions would be sold cheaper than the 
 productions of their neighbors, and vice versa.) And again, 
 the money-demand made by the landlord ui)on his peasants 
 would cease to have any influence upon the prices of the arti- 
 cles, only when the sums collected by the landlord were not 
 spent in Inlying the productions of his own peasants. But if 
 he spends money in purcliasing from them, it is plain that 
 the prices of various articles will constantly vary among them 
 according as the landlord bu^'s more of one thing than 
 another. 
 
 Suppose one landlord has fixed a very high poll-tax, and 
 his neiglibor a very low one : it is clear tliat on the estate of 
 the first landlord every thing will l)e cheaper than on the
 
 94- WHAT MUST WE no THEN? 
 
 estate of the second, and that the prices on either estate will 
 depend only npon the augmentation and diminution of the 
 poll-tuxes. This is one influence of violence upon value. 
 
 Another, arising out of the first, consists in the relative 
 value of all things. Suppose one landlord is fond of horses, 
 and pays a high price for them : another is fond of towels, 
 and otfers a high figure for them. It is obvious that on the 
 estate of either of these two landlords, the horses and the 
 towels will be dear, and the prices for these articles will not 
 be in proportion to those of cows or of corn. If to-morrow 
 the collector of towels dies, and his heirs are fond of i)oullry, 
 then it is obvious that the price of towels will fall, and that 
 of poultry will rise. 
 
 Wherever there is in society the mastery of one man over 
 another, there the meaning of money as the measure of л'акш 
 at once yields to the will of the oppressor, and its meaning as 
 a medium of exchange of the productions of labor is replaced 
 by another, that of the most convenient means of utilizing 
 the labor of others. 
 
 The oppressor wants money neither as a medium of ex- 
 change. — for he will take whatever he wants without 
 exchange, — nor as a measure of value, — for he will himself 
 determine the value of every thing, — but only for the con- 
 venience it affords of exercising violence ; and this convenience 
 consists in the fact that money maj^ be saved up, and is the 
 most convenient means of holding in slavery the majority of 
 mankind. 
 
 It is not convenient to carry away all the cattle in order 
 always to have horses, cows, and sheep whenever Avanted, 
 because they must be fed ; the same holds good with corn, 
 for it may be spoiled ; the same with slaves ; sometimes a 
 man may require thousands of workmen, and sometimes 
 none. Money demanded from those who have not got it, 
 makes it possible to get rid of all these inconveniences, and 
 to have every thing that is required : this is why the oppressor 
 wants money. Besides this, he wants money in order that his 
 right to utilize another's labor may not be confined to certain 
 men, but may be extended to all men wdio likewise require it. 
 
 When there was no money in circulation, each landlord 
 could utilize the labor only of his own serfs ; but when they 
 agreed to demand from their peasants money wdiich they had 
 not, they were all enabled to appropriate without distinction 
 the labor of the men on every estate.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 95 
 
 Thus the oppressor finds it more convenient to press all 
 his chiims upon another's hxbor in the shape of money, and 
 for this sole object is it desired. To the victim from wliom 
 it is taken away, money cannot be of use, either for the pur- 
 pose of exchange, seeing he exchanges without money, as all 
 nations have exchanged who had no government ; nor for a 
 measure of value, because this is fixed witliout him ; nor for 
 the purpose of saving, because the man whose productions 
 are taken away cannot save ; neither for payments, because 
 an oppressed man will always have more to pay than to re- 
 ceive ; and if he does receive an}' thing, the payment will be 
 made, not in money, but in articles of merchandise in either 
 case ; whether the workman takes goods out of his master's 
 shop as remuneration for his labor, or whether he buys the 
 necessaries of life with all his earnings in other shops, the 
 money is required from him, and he is told by his oppressors 
 that if he does not pay it, they will refuse to give him land 
 or bread, or will take away his cow or his horse, or condenm 
 him to work, or put liim in prison. He can only free himself 
 from all this by selling the productions of his toil, his own 
 labor, or that of his children. 
 
 And this he will have to sell according to those prices 
 which will be established, not b}' a regular exchange, but 
 by the authority which demands money of him. 
 
 Under the conditions of the influence of tribute and taxes 
 upon the prices Avliich everywhere and always repeat them- 
 selves, as with the laud-owners in a narrow circle, so also 
 with the state on a larger scale (in which the causes of the 
 modification of prices are as obvious to us, as it is obvious 
 how the hands and feet of puppets are set in motion, to 
 tiiose who look behind the curtain and see who are the wire- 
 l)ullers) : under these circumstances, to say that money is 
 a medium of exchange and a measure of value, is at least 
 astonishing. 
 
 XX. 
 
 All slavery is based solely on the fact that one man can 
 deprive another of his life, and by threatening to do so 
 compel him to do his луШ. We may see for certain that 
 whenever one man is enslaved by another, when against 
 his own will, and according to the will of another, he does 
 certain actions, which are contrary to his inclination, the
 
 96 WHAT 31 и ST WE DO THEN? 
 
 cause, if traced to its source, is nothing more nor less than 
 a result of this threat. If a man gives to others all his 
 labor, has not enough to eat, has to send his little cliildrcu 
 from home to work hard, leaves his family, and devotes all 
 his life to a hated and unnecessary task, as hap[)ens before 
 our own eyes in the world (which we term civilized because 
 we ourselves live in it) , then we may certainly say that 
 he does so only because not to do so would be equivalent 
 to loss of life. 
 
 And therefore in our civilized woild, where the majority 
 of people, amidst terrible privations, perform hated laljors 
 unnecessary* to themselves, the greater number of men are 
 in slavery based upon the threat of being deprived of their 
 existence. Of what, tlien. does this slavery consist? And 
 wherein lies this power of threat? 
 
 In olden times the means of subjugation and the threat 
 to kill were plain and obvious to all : the primitive means 
 of enslaving men consisted then in a direct threat to kill 
 with the sword. 
 
 An armed man said to an unarmed, "I can kill thee, as 
 thou hast seen I have done to thy brother, but I do not 
 want to do it: I will spare thee, — first, because it is not 
 agreeable for me to kill thee ; secondl}', because, as well for 
 me as for thee, it will be more convenient that thou shouldst 
 labor for me than that I should kill thee. Therefore do 
 all I order thee to do, but know that, if thou refusest, I will 
 take til}' life." 
 
 So the unarmed man submitted to the armed one ; and 
 did every thing which he лvas ordered to do. The unarmed 
 man laliored, the armed threatened. This was that per- 
 sonal slavery which appeared first among all nations, and 
 which still exists among primitive races. 
 
 This means of enslaving always begins the work; but 
 when life becomes more complicated, it undergoes a change. 
 With the complication of life, such a means presents great 
 inconveniences to the oppressor. He, in oixler to appropri- 
 ate the labor of the weak, has to feed and clothe them, 
 and keep them able to work, and so the number of slaves 
 is diminished : besides, this compels the ensla\'er to remain 
 continually with the enslaved, driving him to work by the 
 threat of murdering him. And thus is developed another 
 means of subjugation. 
 
 Five thousand years ago (as we find in the Bible) this
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO TUEN ? 97 
 
 novel, convenient, and clever means of oppression was dis- 
 covered by Joseph the Beautiful. 
 
 It is similar to that employed now in the menageries for 
 taming restive horses and wild beasts. 
 
 It is hunger ! / 
 
 This contrivance is thus described in the Bible : — 
 
 Genesis xli. 48 : And he gathered up all the food of the 
 seven years, which were in the land of Egypt, and laid up 
 the food in the cities : the food of the field, which was 
 round about every city, laid he up in the same. 
 
 4LI. And Joseph gathered corn as the sand of the sea, 
 vei'y much, until he left numbering ; for it was without 
 number. 
 
 53. And the seven years of plenteousuess, that was in 
 the land of Egypt, were ended. 
 
 54. And the seven years of dearth began to come, ac- 
 cording as Joseph had said : and the dearth was in all lands ; 
 but in all the laud of Egypt, there was bread. 
 
 55. And when all the land of Egypt was famished, the 
 people cried to Pharaoh for bread : and Pharaoh said unto 
 all the Egyptians, Go unto Joseph; what he saith to you, 
 do. 
 
 50. And the famine was over all the face of the earth : 
 And Joseph opened all the storehouses, and sold unto the 
 Egyptians ; and the famine waxed sore in the land of Egypt. 
 
 57. And all countries came into Egypt to Joseph for to 
 buy corn ; because that the famine was so sore in all lands. 
 
 Joseph, making use of the primitive, means of enslaving 
 men by the threat of the sword, gathered corn during the 
 seven years of plenty in expectation of seven yeai"s of 
 famine, which generally follow years of plent}', — men know 
 all this without the dreams of Pharaoh, — and then by the 
 Ijangs of hunger he more securely and conveniently made all 
 the Egyptians and the inhabitants of the surrounding coun- 
 tries slaves to Pharaoh. And when the people began to be 
 famislied, he arranged matters so as to keep them in his 
 power forever. 
 
 Genesis xlvii. 13 : And there was no bread in all the land ; 
 for the famine луав л-егу sore, so that the land of Eg.\ pt 
 and all the land of Canaan fainted by reason of the famine.
 
 98 WHAT MUST WE 1)0 THEN? 
 
 14. And Joseph gathered up all the топез' that was found 
 in the land of Egypt, and in the land of Canaan, for the 
 corn which they bought : and Joseph brought the money into 
 Pharaoh's house. 
 
 15. And when money failed in the laud of Egypt, and in 
 the land of Canaan, all the Egyptians came unto Joseph, 
 and said. Give us bread : for why should we die in th^- pres- 
 ence? for the money faileth. 
 
 16. And Joseph said, Give your cattle; and I will give 
 yon for your cattle, if money fail. 
 
 17. And the}^ brought their cattle unto Joseph: and 
 Joseph gave them bread in exchange for horses, and for the 
 flocks, and for the cattle of the herds, i.ud for tlie asses : 
 and he fed them with bread for all their cattle for that year. 
 
 18. When that year was ended, they came unto him the 
 second year, and said unto him. We will not hide it from m\'^ 
 Lord, how that our money is spent ; my lord also hath our 
 herds of cattle ; there is not ought left in the sight of my 
 lord, but our bodies, and our lands : 
 
 19. AVherefore shall we die before thine eyes, both лге 
 and our land? buy us and our land for bread, and we and 
 our land will be servants unto Pharaoli : and give us seed, 
 that we ma}^ live, and not die. that the land be not desolate. 
 
 20. And Josepli bought all the laud of Egypt for Plia- 
 raoh ; for the Eg^'ptians sold every man his field, because the 
 famine prevailed over them : so the land became Pharaoh's. 
 
 21. And as for the people, he removed them to cities from 
 one end of the borders of Egypt even to the other end 
 •thereof. 
 
 22. Onl}' the land of the priests bought he not ; for the 
 priests had a portion assigned them of Pharaoh, and did eat 
 their portion Avhich Pharaoh gave them : wherefore they sold 
 not their lands. 
 
 23. Then Joseph said unto the people. Behold, I have 
 bought you this day and your land for Pharaoh : lo, here is 
 seed for 3'ou, and ye shall sow the land. 
 
 24. And it shall come to pass in the uicrease, that ye shall 
 give the fifth part unto Pharaoh, and four parts shall be 
 3'our own, for seed of the field, and for your food, and for 
 them of 3'our households, and for food for your little ones. 
 
 25. And they said. Thou hast saved our lives : let us find 
 grace in the sight of my lord, and we will be Pharaoh's 
 servants.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 99 
 
 2G. And Joseph made it a law over the land of Egypt 
 unto this day, that Piiaraoh should haA'e the fifth part ; except 
 the land of the priests only, which became not Pharaoh's. 
 
 Formerly, in order to appi'opriate labor, riiaraoh had to 
 use violence towards them ; but now, when the stores and the 
 land belonged to Pharaoh, he had only to keep these stores 
 by force, and by means of hunger compel men to labor for 
 him. 
 
 All the laud now belonged to Pharaoh, and he had all the 
 stores (which were taken away from the people) ; and there- 
 fore, instead of driving them to work iudividnally b}' the 
 sword, he had only to keep food from them, and they were 
 enslaved, not by the sword, but by hunger. 
 
 In a year of scarcity, all men may be starved to death at 
 Pharaoh's will ; and in a year of plentj', all may be killed 
 who, fiom casual misfortunes, Ьал'е no stores of corn. 
 
 And thence comes into oi)eration the second means of 
 enslaving, not directly with the sword, — that is, by the strong 
 man driving tlie weak one to labor under threat of killing 
 liim, — but b}' the strong one having taken away from the Aveak 
 the stores of corn Avhich, keeping by the sword, he compels 
 the weak to work for. 
 
 Joseph said to the hungry men, ''I could starve you to 
 death, because I have the corn ; but I will spare your life, 
 but only under the condition that you do all 1 order you for 
 the food which I will give 3'ou." For the first means of 
 enslaving, the oppressor needs only soldiers to ride to and 
 fro among the inhabitants, and under threat of death make 
 them fulfil the requirements of their master. And thus the 
 oppressor has only to pay his soldiers ; but with the second 
 means, besides these the oppressor must have different assist- 
 ants for keeping and protecting the land and stores from 
 the starving people. 
 
 These are the Josephs and his stewards and distrilmters. 
 And tlie oppressor has to reward them, and to give Joseph a 
 dress of fine linen, a gold ring, and servants, and corn and 
 silver to his brothers and relatives. Besides this, fi-om the 
 very nature of this second means, not only the stewards and 
 their relations, but all those who have stores of corn, become 
 participators in this violence, just as by the first means, based 
 upon crude force, every one who has arms becomes a part- 
 ner in tyranny ; so b}' this means, based upon hunger, every
 
 100 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 one who has stores of provision shares in it, and has powei 
 over those who have no stores. 
 
 The advantage of this means over the former for the op- 
 pressor, consists, first and chiefl}', in the fact that he need 
 no longer compel the workingraen by force to do his will, 
 for they themselves come to him, and sell themselves to him ; 
 secondly, in the circniustance that fewer men escape from 
 his violence : the draw'back is, that he has to employ a greater 
 number of men. For the oppressed the advantage of it consists 
 in the fact that they are no longer exposed to rough violence, 
 but are left to themselves, and can always hope to pass from 
 being the oppressed to become oppressors in their turn, 
 which they sometimes reall}' do by fortunate circumstances. 
 The drawback for them is, that the}' can never escape from 
 participating in the oppression of others. 
 
 This new means of enslaving generally comes into opera- 
 tion together with the old one ; and the oppressor lessens the 
 one and increases the other, according to his desires. 
 
 But this does not fully satisfy the man who wishes to have 
 as little trouble and care as possible, and to take away as 
 much as possible of the productions of labor of as many 
 working-people as he can find, and to enslave as many men 
 as possible ; and, therefore, a third means of oppression is 
 evolved. 
 
 This is the slavery of taxation, and, like the second, it is 
 based upon hunger ; but to the means of subduing men by 
 depriving them of bread, is added the privation of other 
 necessaries of life. 
 
 The oppressor requires from the slaves such a quantity of 
 money which he himself has coined, that, in order to olitain 
 it, the slaves are compelled to sell not only stores of corn in 
 greater quantity than the fifth part which was fixed by 
 Joseph, but the first necessaries of life as well, — meat, skins, 
 wool, clothes, firewood, even their dwellings ; and therefore 
 the oppressor always keeps his slaves in his ])ower, not onl}' 
 Ьз' hunger, but by hunger, thirst, cold, and other privations. 
 
 And then the third means of slaver}' comes into oi)eration, 
 a monetary, a tributary one, consisting in the oppressor say- 
 ing to the oppressed, " I can do with each of з'ои just what 
 I like ; I can kill and destroy you by taking away tiie land by 
 which you earn 3'our living; I can, with tliis money which 
 3'ou must give me, bu}^ all the corn upon which з^оп feed, and 
 sell it to strangers, and at an}' time annihilate you by bturva-
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 101 
 
 tion ; I can take from you all that you have, — your cattle, 
 your houses, your clothes ; but it is ueither convenient nor 
 agTeeable for me to do so, and therefore 1 let you alone, to 
 work as you please ; only give me so much of the nione}' 
 which I demand of 3'ou, either as a poll-tax, or according to 
 the quantity of your food and drink, or your clothes or your 
 houses. Give me this money, and do what you like among 
 yourseh^es, but know that I shall neither protect nor main- 
 tain widows nor orphans nor invalids nor old people, nor 
 such as have been burned out : I shall only protect the i-egular 
 circulation of this money. This right will always be mine to 
 protect only those who regularly give me the fixed numl)er of 
 tliese pieces of money : as to how or where you get it, I will 
 not in the least trouble myself." And so the o[)pressor dis- 
 tiibntes these pieces of money as an acknowledgment that 
 his demand has been complied with. 
 
 The second means of enslaving consists in tliat, having 
 taken away the fifth part of the harvest, and collected stores 
 of corn, the Pharaoh, besides the personal slavery by tlie 
 sword, receives, by his assistants, the possibility of dominion 
 over the working-people during the time of famine, and over 
 some of them forever from misfortunes which happen to 
 them. 
 
 The third means consists in this : Pharaoh requires from 
 the working-peojile moi'c money than the л'аЬю of the fifth 
 part of corn which he took from them ; he, together with his 
 assistants, gets a new means of dominion over the working- 
 class, not merely during the famine and their casual misfor- 
 tunes, but permanently. By the second means, men retain 
 stores of corn whieii [iel[) them to bear indifferent harvests 
 and casual misfortunes without going into slavery ; by the 
 third, when there are more demands, the stores, not of corn 
 only, but of all other necessaries of life, are taken away fi'om 
 them, and at the first misfortune a workingman, having 
 neither stores of corn, nor any other stores which he might 
 have exchanged for corn, falls into slavery to those who have 
 monc)'. 
 
 For the first, an oppressor need have only soldiers, and 
 share the booty with them ; for the second, he must have, 
 besides the protectors of the land and tiie stores of corn, 
 collectors and clerks for the distribution of this corn ; for 
 the third, he must have, besides the soldiers for keeping 
 the laud and his property, collectors of taxes, assessors
 
 102 WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 
 
 of direct and indirect taxation, supervisors, custom-house 
 clerks, managers of money, and coiners of it. 
 
 Tlie organization of tlie tliird means is much more com- 
 plicated than tliat of the second. By the second, the getting 
 in of corn may be leased out, as was tlie case in olden limes 
 and is still in Turkey; but by putting taxes -on men, there 
 is need of a coni[)licated administration, which has to in- 
 sure tliat the taxes are rightly levied. And therefore, I)y 
 the third means, the op[)ressor has to share the plunder 
 with a still greater number of men than by the second ; 
 besides, according to the very natui-e of the thing, all those 
 men of the same or of the foreign country who possess 
 money, become sharers with the oppressed. 
 
 The advantage of this means over the first and second 
 consists in the following fact : chiefly that by it there is 
 no need of waiting for a year of scarcity, as in the time of 
 Joseph, but 3'ears of famine are established forever, and 
 (whilst by the second method the part of the labor which 
 is taken алуау depends upon the harvest, and cannot be 
 augmented ad libitum^ because if there is no corn, there 
 can be nothing to take) by the new monetary method 
 the requirement can be brought to any desired limit, for 
 the demand for money can ahvaj's be satisfied, because the 
 delator, in order to satisfy it, will sell his cattle, clothes, or 
 houses. The chief advantage of this means to the oppressor 
 consists in the fact that by it he can take away the greatest 
 quantit}' of labor and in the most con\'enieut vray ; for a 
 money-tax, like a screws may easily and convenienth- be 
 screwed up to the utmost limit, and golden eggs be obtained 
 thougli the bird that lays them is all but dead. 
 
 Another of its advantages for the oppressor is that its 
 violence reaches all those also who, by possessing no land, 
 escaped from it formerly by giA'ing only a part of their 
 labor for corn ; and now besides that part which they give 
 for corn, they must give another part for taxes. A draw- 
 l)ack for the oppressor is, that he has to share the plunder 
 with a still greater number of men, not only with his direct 
 assistants, but also лу11Ь all those men of his own country, 
 and even foreign countries, who may have the mone}' which 
 is demanded from the slaves. 
 
 Its advantage for the oppressed is only that he is allowed 
 greater independence : he may live wherever he chooses, 
 do whatever he likes ; he may sow or not sow ; he has not
 
 WHAT MUST IVE DO ТПЕ. 
 
 to give an}^ account of his labor ; and if he i 
 may consider himself entirely free, and cous 
 though only^ for a time, when he has money U 
 obtain not only an independent position, bu 
 become an oppressor himself. 
 
 The drawback is-, that, on a general aA'erage, the i 
 of the oppressed becomes much worse, and they i 
 piived of the greater part of the productions of their . 
 because by it the number of those who utilize the labo 
 others increases, and therefore tlie burden of keeping th 
 falls upon a smaller number of men. This third means 
 enslaving men is also a ver}^ old one, and comes into opei 
 ation with the former two without entirely excluding them. 
 
 All three have always been in operation. All may be 
 likened to screws, which secure the board w'liich is laid upon 
 the working-people, and which presses them down. The 
 fundamental, or middle screw, without which the other 
 screws could not hold,, which is first screwed up. and which 
 is never slackened, is the screw of personal slavery, the 
 enslaving of some men by others under threat of slaughter ; 
 the second, which is screwed up after the first, is that of 
 enslaving men by taking awaj' the laud and stores of pro- 
 visions from them, such abduction })eing maintained under 
 threat to murder; and the third screw is slavery enforced 
 by the requirement of certain coins ; and this demand is 
 also maintained under threat of murder. 
 
 These three screws are made fast, and it is onl}' when one 
 of them is tightened that the two others are slackened. For 
 the complete enslaving of the workingman, all three are neces- 
 sary ; and in our society, all three are in operation together. 
 The first means by personal slavery under the threat of mur- 
 der by the sword has never been abolished, and never will 
 l)e so long as there is oi)pression, because all kinds of oi)pres- 
 sion are I)ased upon this alone. AVe are all very sure that 
 personal slavery is abolished in our civilized world ; that the 
 last remnant of it has been annihilated in America and in 
 Russia, and that it isonh' among barbarians that real slavery 
 exists, and that with us it is no longer in being. 
 
 We forget only one small circumstance, — those hundreds 
 of millions of standing troops, without which no state exists, 
 and witii the abolition of which all the economical organiza- 
 tion of each state would inevitably fall to pieces. Yet what 
 are these millions of soldiers but the personal slaves of those
 
 HAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 r them? Are not these men com])ellecl to do 
 leir comraauders, under the threat of torture and 
 threat often carried out? the difference consisting 
 e fact tliat the submission of these slaves is not 
 „very, but discipline ; the only difference being that 
 .•eso from their birth, and soldiers' onl^' during a more 
 short period of their so-called service, 
 sonal slavery, therefore, is not only not abolished in 
 civilized world, but, under the general system of recruit- 
 ,, it has become confirmed of late j'ears ; and as it has 
 ways existed, so it has remained, having only somewhat 
 jhauged from its original form. And it cannot but exist, 
 because, so long as there is the enslaving of one man by 
 another, there will be this personal slavery too, that which 
 under threat of the sword maintains the serfdom of land- 
 ownership and taxes. 
 
 It may be that this slavery, that is, of troops, is neces- 
 sary, as it is said, for the defence and the glor}^ of the 
 country ; but this kind of utility is more than doubtful, be- 
 cause we see how often in the case of unsuccessful wai's it 
 serves only for the subjugation and shame of the country ; 
 but the expediency of this slavery for maintaining that of the 
 land and taxes is unquestionable. 
 
 If Irish or Russian peasants were to take possession of the 
 land of the land-owners, troops would be sent to dispossess 
 them. 
 
 If you build a distillery or a brewery, and do not pa}' ex- 
 cise, then soldiers will be sent to shut it up. Refuse to pay 
 taxes, the same thing will happen to you. 
 
 The second screw is the means of enslaving men b}' taking 
 away from them the land and their stores of provisions. 
 This means has also been always in existence wherever men 
 are oppressed ; and, whatever changes it may undergo, it is 
 everywhere in operation. 
 
 .Sometimes all the land belongs to the sovereign, as is the 
 case in Turkey, and there one-tenth is given to the state 
 treasury. Sometimes a part of the land belongs to the sove- 
 reign, and taxes are raised upon it. Sometimes all the land 
 belongs to a few people, and is let out for labor, as is the 
 case ill England. .Sometimes more or less large portions of 
 the land belong to the land-owners, as is the case in Russia, 
 Germany, and France. But wherever there is enslaving, 
 there exists also the appropriation of the land b}' the oi)-
 
 / 
 
 WHAT 3ICrST W^BO THE 
 
 ./ 
 
 m 
 
 prcssoi-. This screw is slackened or tightem 
 the couditioii of the other screws. 
 
 Thus, in Russia, when personal slaver}' was 
 tlie majority of working-people, there was no ne 
 slavery ; but the screw of personal slavery was sL 
 Russia only Avhen the screws of land and tax sla'. 
 tightened. 
 
 In England, for instance, the land slavery is pre-em 
 in operation, and the question about the nationalizing с 
 land consists only in the screw of taxation being tightent 
 order that the screw of land appropriation may be slacken^ 
 
 The third means of enslaving men by taxes has also bee 
 in operation for ages ; and in our days, with the extension ol 
 uniform standards of mone}' and the strengthening of the 
 state power, it has received only a particular influence. 
 
 This means is so worked out in our days, that it tends 
 to substitute the second means of enslaving, — the laud 
 monopoly. 
 
 This is the screw by the tightening of which the screw 
 of land slavery is slackened, as is obvious from the politico- 
 economical state of all Europe. 
 
 We have, in our lifetime, witnessed in Russia two trans- 
 formations of slavery : when the serfs were liberated, and 
 their landlords retained the right to the greater part of the 
 land, the landlords were afraid that the}' were going to lose 
 their power over their slaves ; but experience has shown, that, 
 having let go the old chain of personal slavery, they had 
 only to seize another, — that of the land. A peasant was 
 short of corn ; he had not enough to Ил'е on : and the landlord 
 had land and stores of corn, and therefore the peasant still 
 remained the same slave. 
 
 Another transformation was caused by the government 
 screw of taxation being pressed home, when the majority of 
 working-people, having no stores, were obliged to sell them- 
 selves to their landlords and to the factories. The new 
 form of oppression held the people still tighter, so that 
 nine-tenths of the Russian working-people are working for 
 their landlords and in the factoiies to pay these taxes. This 
 is so obvious, that, if the government were not to raise taxes 
 for one year only, all labor would be stop]ied in the fields of 
 the landlords and in the factories. Nine-tenths of the 
 Ru'^sian people hire theuiselves out during and before the 
 collection of taxes. All these three means have never ceased
 
 ЛТ MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 are still in operation ; but men are ineliued to 
 
 .md new excuses are invented for them, 
 
 is most remarkable of all is this, that the very 
 
 hich, at the moment in question, every thing is 
 
 .it screw which is screwed up tighter than all 
 
 hich holds every thing, is not noticed so long as it 
 
 When in the ancient world all the economical admin- 
 
 /u was upheld by personal slavery, the greatest intellects 
 
 ot notice it. To Plato, as well as to Xenophon and 
 
 cotle and to the Romans, it seemed that it could not be 
 
 iCrwise, and that slavery was an unavoidable and natural 
 
 ,sult of wars, without which the existence of mankind 
 
 jould not be thought of. So also in the Middle Ages and up 
 
 to the present time, men have not apprehended the meaning 
 
 of laud-ownership, upon which depended all the economical 
 
 administration of their time. 
 
 So also, at present, no one sees, or wants to see, that in 
 our time the enslaving of the majority of the people depends 
 upon taxes collected b}' the government from its own land 
 slaves, taxes collected by the troops, b}' the very same troops, 
 which are maintained by means of these taxes. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 No wonder that the slaves themselves, who have always 
 been enslaved, do not understand their own position, and 
 that this condition in which they have always been living is 
 considered b}' them to be that natural to human life, and 
 that they hail as a relief any change in their foi'm of slavery ; 
 no wonder that their owners sometimes quite sincerel}^ think 
 the}' are, in a measure, freeing the slaves by slackening one 
 screw, though they are compelled to do so by the over-tension 
 of another. 
 
 Both become accustomed to their state ; and one part, — 
 the slaves. — never having known what freedom is. merely 
 seek an alleviation, or onl}' the change of their condition ; 
 the other, — the owners, — wishing to mask their injustice, try 
 to assign a particular meaning to those new forms of slavery 
 ■which they enforce in place of older ones : but it is womler- 
 ful how the majority of the investigators of the economical 
 conditions of the life of the people fail to see that which 
 forms the basis of all the economical conditions of a people.
 
 WnAT MUST WE 1)0 TL 
 
 It would seem that the dut}' of a true sc. 
 to ascertain the couuection of the phenomci 
 cause of a series of occurrences. But the n 
 representatives of modern Political Economy ь 
 the reverse of this : they carefully hide the col 
 meaning of the phenomena, and avoid answeriL 
 sim[)le and essential questions. 
 
 Modern Political Econom}^ like an idle, lazy ct. 
 goes well only doлvn-llill, wlien it has no collar-work 
 soon as it has any thing to draw, it at once refuses, prel 
 it has to go somewhere aside after its own l)usiness. 
 any grave, essential question is put to Political Econc 
 scientific discussions are started about some matter or oth 
 which does not in the least concern the question. 
 
 You ask, How are we to account for a fact so unnaturai 
 monstrous, unreasonable, and not useless only, but harmful, 
 tliat some men can eat or work only in accordance with the 
 will of other men? 
 
 And you are gravely answered. Because some men must 
 arrange the labor and the feeding of others, — such is the 
 law of production. 
 
 You ask, What is this right of property, according to 
 which some men appropriate to themselves the land, food, 
 and instruments of labor belonging to others? You are 
 again gravely answered. This right is based upon the pro- 
 tection of labor, — that is, the protection of some men's 
 lal)or is effected b}' taking possession of the labor of other 
 men. 
 
 You ask. What is that money which is everywhere coined 
 and stamped by the governments, by the authorities, and 
 wliicli is so exorbitantly demanded from the working-peoi)le, 
 and which in the shape of national debts is levied upon the 
 future generations of woikingmen? And further, has not 
 this moncN'. demanded from the people in the sliape of taxes, 
 raised to the utmost pitch, has not this money any infiuence 
 u\)on tlie economical relationships of men,' — between the 
 payers and the receivers? And 3'ou are answered in all seri- 
 ousness, Money is an article of merchandise like sugar, or 
 chintz ; and it differs from other articles only in the fact that 
 it is more convenient for exchange. 
 
 As for the influence of taxes upon the economical condi- 
 tions of a people, it is a different question altogether: the 
 laws of production, exchange, and distribution of wealth, aie
 
 LT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 axation is quite another. You ask whether 
 
 once upon the economical conditions of a peo- 
 
 overnnient can arbitrarily raise or lower prices, 
 
 augmented the taxes, can enslave all those who 
 
 id? The i)ompous answer is, Tiie laws of pro- 
 
 ^change, and distribution of wealth is one science, 
 
 x\ Economy ; and taxes, and, general!}- speaking, 
 
 eouomy, come under another head, — the Law of 
 
 .1 ask finally. Is there no influence exercised upon 
 
 jmical conditions by the circumstance that all the people 
 
 in bondage to the government, and that this governnient 
 
 n arbitrarily ruin all men, take away all the productions of 
 
 . Oil's labor, and even carry the men themselves away from 
 cheir labor into military slaver^'? You are answered. That 
 this is altogether a different question, belonging to the State 
 Law. 
 
 The majorit}'' of the representatives of science discuss 
 quite serioush- the laws of the economical life of a people, 
 while all the functions and activities of this life are depend- 
 ent upon the will of the oppressor; whilst, at the same 
 time, recognizing the influence of the op[)ressor as a natural 
 condition of the life of a people, they do the same thing 
 that an investigator of the economical conditions of the life 
 of the personal slaves of different masters would do, were he 
 not to consider the influence exercised upon the life of these 
 slaves by the will of that master who compels them to labor 
 upon this or that thing, and who drives them from one place 
 to another, according to his pleasure, who feeds them or neg- 
 lects to do so, who kills them or leaves them аИлт. 
 
 A dreadful superstition has been long, and is still, in exist- 
 ence, — a superstition w'hich has done more harm to men than 
 all the most terrible religious superstitions. 
 
 And so-called science supports this superstition with all its 
 power, and with the utmost zeal. This superstition resem- 
 bles exactly the religious one, and consists in atfirming, that, 
 besitles the duties of man to man, there are still more impor- 
 tant duties towards an imaginary being, which theologians 
 call God, and political science the State. 
 
 The religious superstition consists in this : That the sacri- 
 fices, sometimes of human lives, offered to this imaginary 
 being, are necessar}', and that they can and ought to be en- 
 forced by every глеапз, even by violence. The political
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO Ti 
 
 superstition consists in tliis : TImt, besides 
 to num, there exist still more important cli. 
 ginary being ; and the offerings, very often, ». 
 brought to this imaginary being, — the .Stai 
 necessary, and can and ought to be enforced by , 
 even by violence. 
 
 This very superstition which was formerly encc 
 the priests of different religious, is now sustaiue 
 called science. 
 
 3Jeu are thrown into slavery, into the most terrible ь 
 worse tlian has ever before existed ; but so-called scienc 
 to persuade men that sucli is necessary, and cannot be avoi 
 
 The state must exist for the welfare and business of 
 people ; to rule and protect them from their enemies. 
 
 For this puri)ose the state wants money and troops 
 JNIone}' must be subscribed by all the citizens of the state. 
 And hence all the relationships of men must be considered 
 under the conditions of the existence of the state. 
 
 " I want to help my father by vay labor," says a counnon, 
 unlearned man. " I want also to marry ; but instead, 1 am 
 taken and sent to Kazan, to be a soldier for six years. I 
 leave the military service. I want to plough the ground^ 
 and earn food for my family ; but 1 am not allowed to phjugh 
 for one hundred vei'sts around me, unless I pay money, 
 which 1 have not got, and pay it to those men who do not 
 understand how to plough, and who require for the land so 
 much mone}', that I must give tliem all my labor to procure 
 it : how'ever. I still manage to save something, and I want to 
 give my savings to my children ; but a police sergeant comes 
 to me, and takes from me all I had saved for taxes : I earn a 
 little more, and am again deprived of it. All mv economical 
 activity is under the influence of state demands ; and it ap- 
 pears to me that the amelioration of my position, and that of 
 my brethren, will follow our liberation from the demands of 
 the state." 
 
 But he is told, such reasoning is the result of his ignorance. 
 
 Study the laws of pioduetion, exchange and disti'il)Ution of 
 wealth, and do not mix up economical questions with those 
 of the state. 
 
 The phenomena which you \)o\\\i to are not at all a con- 
 straint put upon your freed(jm ; but they are those lU'ccssar^' 
 sacrifices whicli you. along with others, must make for your 
 own ficed.jU) and welfare.
 
 lT must we do then? 
 
 .las been taken away from mc," sa3's again a 
 
 ' and they threaten to take away all my sons as 
 
 are grown up : they took him away by force, 
 
 m to face tlie enemy's guns into some country 
 
 л'с never heard of, and for an object which we 
 
 erstand. 
 
 oS for the land which they do not allow us to plough, 
 
 vvant of which we are starving, it belongs to a man 
 
 t possession of it by force, and whom we have never 
 
 aid wliose affairs we cannot even understand. And 
 
 axes, to collect which the police sergeant has by force 
 
 .n away my cow from my children, so far as I know, will 
 
 over to this same man who took my cow away, and to va- 
 
 ous members of committees, and of dei)artments wdiich I do 
 
 jot know of, and in the ntilit\' of which I do not l)elieve. 
 
 How is it, tiien, that all these acts of violence secure my 
 
 liberty, and all this evil is to procure good?" 
 
 You may com[)el a man to be a slave, and to do that which 
 he considers to be evil for himself, but you cannot com|)el 
 him to tiiink, that, in suttering violence, he is free, and that 
 the obvious evil which he endures, constitutes his good. 
 
 Yet this seemingly impossible thing has been done in our 
 days. 
 
 The government, that is, the armed oppressors, decide 
 what they want from those whom they o[ipress (as in the 
 case of England and the Fiji-Islanders) : the}' decide how 
 much labor they want from their slaves, — the}' decide 
 how man}' assistants they will need in collecting the fruits 
 of this labor; they organize their assistants in the shape of 
 soldiers, land-owners, and collectors of taxes. 
 
 And the slaves give their labor, and, at the same time, be- 
 lieve that they give it, not because their masters demand it, 
 but for the sake of their own freedom and welfare ; and that 
 this service and these bloody sacrilices to the divinity called 
 State are necessary, and that, barring this service to their 
 Deity, they are free. They believe it because the same had 
 been formerly said in the name of religion by the priests^ 
 and is now said in the name of so-called science, — by 
 learned men. 
 
 But one need only cease to ЬеИеле what is said by other 
 
 men, who call themselves priests or learned men, in order 
 
 that the absurdity of such an assertion may become obvious. 
 
 The men who oppress others assure them that this oppres-
 
 WHAT MUST WE BO Th 
 
 sion is necessaiy for the state, — and the s 
 for the freedom and welfare of men ; so that 
 the oppressors o[) press men for the sake of l 
 and do tliem evil for the sake of good. But 
 uished with reason in order to understand when 
 their own good, and to do it willing^. 
 
 As for the acts, the goodness of which is not intt 
 men, and to which they are compelled by force, sue 
 serve for their good, because a reasoning being may l 
 as good only the thing which appears so to his reaso. 
 men from passion or folly are driven to evil, all that . 
 who are not so driven can do, is to persuade men as to . 
 constitutes their real good. You may try to persuade n 
 that their welfare will be greater when they are all becon, 
 soldiers, are deprived of laud, and have given their whole 
 labor away for taxes ; but until all men consider this condition 
 to be their welfare, and undertake it willingly', one cannot 
 call such a state of things the common welfare of men. 
 
 The willing acceptance of a condition by men is the sole 
 criterion of its good. And the lives of men al)ound with 
 such acts. Ten workmen buy tools in common, in order to 
 work together with them, and in so doing they are undoubt- 
 edly benelitiug themselves ; but we cannot sa[)pose that if 
 tliese ten workmen were to compel an eleventh, by force, to 
 join in their association, they would insist that their common 
 Avelfare will be the same for him. 
 
 And so with gentlemen who agree to give a subscription 
 dinner at a pound a head to a mutual friend, no one can assert 
 that such a dinner will benefit a man who, against his will, 
 has been obliged to pay a sovereign for it ; and so with peas- 
 ants who decide, for their common convenience, to dig a 
 pond. 
 
 For those Avho consider the existence of such more л'акь 
 able timn the labor spent upon it, the digging of it will be a 
 coinuion good. But to the one who considers the existence 
 of the pond of less value than a day's harvesting, in which 
 he is hi'liind-hand. the digging of it will appear evil. The 
 same iiolds good with roads, churches, and museums, aud 
 with all various social and state afl'aiis. 
 
 All such work may be good for those who consider it good, 
 and who therefore freely and willingly perform it, — the dinner 
 which the gentlemen give, the pond which the peasants dig. 
 But the work to which шеи must be driveu by force, ceases
 
 IT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 good precisely by the fact of such violence. 
 iuiii and simple, that, if men had not Ijcluj so 
 , there vvouUl he no need to explain it. 
 с live in a village where all tlie inhat»itants liave 
 iiild a viaduct over the morass which is a danger 
 VV'e agree together, and promise to give from each 
 niuch in money or wood or days of labor. We 
 do this because tlie making of this road is more ad- 
 jous to ns than what we exchange for it ; but among 
 re. are some for whom it is more advantageous to do 
 jut a road than to spend money on it, or who, at all 
 its, think it is so. Can the compelling of these men to 
 dvB the w'ay make it of advantage to them? Obviously 
 ot ; because those who considered that their joining by 
 choice in making the way would have been to their disad- 
 vantage, will consider it, a fortiori, still more disadvantageous 
 when ihey are compelled to do so. !Su[)pose. even, that we 
 all, without exception, were agreed, and promised so much 
 money or labor from each house, but ihat it happened that 
 some of those who had promised did not give what they 
 agreed on, their circumstances having meanwhile changed, 
 so that it is more advantageous for such now to be without 
 the road than to spend mone}' on it ; or that they have simply 
 changed their mind about it, or even calculate that others 
 will make the road without them, and that thev will pass 
 over it. Can the compelling of these men to join in the 
 labor make them consider the sacrifices enforced upon them 
 their own good? 
 
 Obviously not ; because, if such have not fulfilled what 
 they have promised, owing to a change in their circumstances, 
 so that now the sacrifices for tlie sake of the road outbalance 
 their gain by it, the compulsory sacrifices of such would be 
 only a worse evil. But if those who refuse to join in build- 
 ing the ])ridge have in view^ the utilizing of the labor of 
 others, then in this case also the compelling them to maki' a 
 sacrifice would be only a punishment on a supi)osition, and 
 their object, which noljod}' can prove, will be punished be- 
 fore it is made apparent : but in neither case can the compel- 
 ling them to join m a work undesired b}' them be good for 
 them. 
 
 And if it be so with sacrifices for a work comprehensible 
 by all. obvious and undoubtedly useful to ail as a road over 
 a morass ; how stiU more unjust and unreasonable is the
 
 WHAT J/f/Sr IVE DO Til. 
 
 compelling of millions of men to make sacri, 
 of which is iiicomprehensible, imperceptible, 
 doubtedly harmful, as is the case with militar^^ 
 with taxes. 
 
 But it is believed that what appears to ел'егу о 
 evil, is a common good : it appears that there a 
 small minority, who alone know what the common j. 
 sists in, and, notwithstanding the fact that all ot. 
 consider this common good to be an evil, this minoi. 
 compel other men to do whatever they may consider 
 for the common good. This constitutes the chief sup^ 
 tion and the chief deceit, which hinders the progress of n 
 kind towards the True and the Good. 
 
 The nursing of this superstitious deceit has been tl 
 ol)ject of political sciences in general, and of so-calleu 
 Political Economy in particular. 
 
 Many are making use of it in order to hide from men the 
 state of o[)pression and slavery in which they now are. 
 
 The way they set about doing so is b}' stalling the theory 
 that violence, connected with the economy of social slavery, 
 is a natural and unavoidable evil, and men thereby- are 
 deceived, and turn their eyes from the real causes of their 
 misfortiuies. 
 
 Slavery has long been abolished. It has been abolished 
 as well in Kouie as in America, and among ourselves ; but 
 the woi'd only lias been abolished, and not the evil. 
 
 Slavery is the violent freeing of some men from the labor 
 necessary for satisfying their wants, which transfers this 
 labor to others ; and wherever there is a man who does not 
 work, not because others willingly and lovingly w^rk for 
 him, but because he has the possibility, while not working 
 himself, to make others work for him, there is slavery. 
 
 And wherever there are, as is the case witli all European 
 societies, men who by means of violence utilize the labor of 
 thousands of others, and consider such to be their right, and 
 others who submit to this violence considei-ing it to be their 
 duty, — there is slavery in its most dreadful i)roportions. 
 
 Slavery does exist. In what, then, does it consist? In 
 that by which it has always consisted, and without which it 
 cannot exist at all, — in the violence of a strong and armed 
 uian over a weak and unarmed one. 
 
 Slavery with its three fundamental modes of operation, — 
 personal violence, soldiery, laud-taxes, — maintained by
 
 IT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 irect and indirect taxes put upon all the 
 d so maintained, is still in operation now as 
 tore. 
 
 t see it, because each of these three forms of 
 received a new justification, which hides its mean- 
 s. 
 .sonal violence of armed over unarmed men received 
 .cation in the defence of the country from its imagi- 
 .emies, while in its essence it has the one old mean- 
 -the submission of the conquered to the oppressors. 
 .e taking away by violence from the laborers of their 
 I was justified as a recompense for services rendered to 
 imaginary common welfare, and is confirmed by the right 
 . heritage ; but in reality it is the same depriving men of 
 and and enslaving them, which has been performed by the 
 troops. 
 
 And the last, tlie monetary violence by meaus of taxes, 
 the strongest and most effective in our days, had received a 
 most wonderful justification. 
 
 The depriving men of the possession of their liberty and 
 of all their goods is said to be done for the sake of the com- 
 mon liberty and of the common welfare. But iu fact it is 
 the same shivery, only an imi)ersonal one. 
 
 AVherever violence is turned into law, there is slavery. 
 \Vhether violence finds its expression in the circumstance 
 that princes with their courtiers come, kill, and burn down 
 villages, or in the fact that the slave-owners take labor or 
 money for the land from their slaves, and enforce payment 
 by means of armed men, or by putting taxes on others, and 
 riding armed to and fro in the villages, or in the circumstance 
 of a Home Department collecting money through goA^ernors 
 and police sergeants, — in one word, as long as violence is 
 maintained by the bayonet, there will be no distribution of 
 wealth, but it will all be accumulated among the oppressors. 
 As a striking illustration of the truth of this assertion, the 
 project of Mr. George as to the nationalization of the land 
 ma}' serve us. 
 
 Mr. George proposes to recognize all the land as the prop- 
 erty of the state, and therefore to substitute the land-rent 
 foi- all the taxes direct and indirect. That is, that ever}' one 
 who utilizes the land would have to pa}' to the state the 
 value of its rent. 
 
 What would be the result? The land slavery would be
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO Til 
 
 quite abolished within the limits of the sta 
 would belong to the state, — English land to i- 
 can to America, and so on ; so that there won. 
 which would be determined by the quantity of . 
 It might be that the condition of some labore. 
 prove ; but лу1п1е a forcible demand for rent rei 
 slavery Avould remain too. 
 
 The laborer, after a bad harvest, being unable te 
 rent required from him, in order not to lose every th. 
 to retain the land, would be obliged to enslave himself 
 one who happened to have the money. If a pail leaks, 
 must be a hole. On looking to the bottom of the pail 
 may imagine that water runs from different holes ; but hi 
 ever man}' imaginary holes we tried to stop. from without, t 
 water would not cease running. 
 
 In order to put a stop to this leakage, we must find the 
 place out of which water runs, and stop it from the inside. 
 The same holds good with the proposed means of stopping 
 the irregular distribution of wealth, — the holes through 
 which tlie wealth runs away from the people. 
 
 It is said, Organize workingmen's corporations, make 
 capital social property, make land social property. All this 
 is only the mere stopping from the outside of those holes 
 from which we fanc}' water runs away. In order to stop 
 wealth going from the hands of workingmen to those of 
 non-workingmen, it is necessary^ to try to find out from in- 
 side the hole through which this leakage takes place. This 
 hole is the violence of armed over unarmed men. the violence 
 of ti'oops, by means of which men are carried away from 
 their labor, and the land, and the productions of labor, taken 
 away from men. 
 
 As long as there is an armed man with the acknowledg- 
 ment of his riglit to kill another man. wiioever he may be, so 
 long will there also exist an unjust distribution of wealth, — 
 in other words, slavery. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 I AiAv.vYS wonder at the often repeated words, " Yes, it is 
 all true in theory, but how is it in practice?" As though 
 lliis theor}' was a mere collection of good words, needful for 
 conversation, and not as though all pi'acticc — that is, all 
 activity of life — was inevitably based upon it.
 
 Т MUST WE ВО THEN? 
 
 ,'0. been in the world an immense number of 
 
 if men employed such wonderful reasoning. 
 
 at theory is what a man tliinks about a thing, 
 
 is what he does. How can it be tliat a man 
 
 that he ought to act in one way, and then do 
 
 /erse? If the theory of baking bread consists in 
 
 a"st of all one must knead the dough, then put it 
 
 , then any one knowing tliis would be a fool to do 
 
 se. But with us it has come into fashion to say, 
 
 ais is very well in theory, but how would it be in 
 
 :e?" 
 
 all that has occupied me, practice has unavoidably fol- 
 
 d theory, not mainly in order to justify it, but because 
 
 aimot help doing so : if I have understood the affair upon 
 
 .lich I have med'itated, I cannot help doing it in the way 
 
 л which I have understood it, 
 
 I wished to help the needy, only because I had money to 
 spare ; and I shared the general superstition that mone}' is 
 the representative of labor, and, generally speaking, some- 
 thing lawful and good in itself. But, having ])egun to give 
 this monev away, I saw that I was only drawing bills of 
 exchange collected by me from poor people ; that I was 
 doing the very thing the old landlords used to do in com- 
 pelling some of their serfs to work for other serfs. 
 
 I saw that every use of moue}', whether bu^-ing any 
 thing with it, or giving it away gratis, is a drawing of bills 
 of exchange on poor people, or passing them to others to 
 be drawn by them. And therefore I clearh' understood 
 the foolishness of what I was doing, in helping the poor 
 by exacting mone}' from them. 
 
 I saw that monej' in itself was not onl}^ not a good thing, 
 but obviously an evil one, depriving men of their chief 
 good, labor, and the utilizing of their labor, and that this 
 very good I cannot give to any one, because I am myself 
 deprived of it : I have neither labor, nor the happiness of 
 utilizing my lq,bor. 
 
 It might be asked by some, " AVhat is there so peculiaily 
 important in abstractly discussing the meaning of money? " 
 But this argument which I have opened, is not merely for 
 the sake of discussion, but in order to And an answer to 
 the vital question, which had caused me so much suffering, 
 and on which my life depended, in order to discover what 
 1 was to do.
 
 WHAT MUST ]VE BO 1 
 
 As soon as I understood what riches 
 is, at once it became plain and unquestioi 
 all men must do. In reality 1 merely came l 
 have long known, — that truth which has be 
 to men from the oldest times, by Buddha, 
 Laotse, and by Socrates, and particularly cleai\ 
 tivel}^ by Jesus Christ, and his predecessor 
 Baptist. 
 
 John the Baptist, in answer to men's question 
 sliall we do then?" answeied plainly and briefly 
 that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hatli 
 and he that hath meat, let him do likewise" (Lu 
 10, 11). 
 
 The same thing, and with still greater clearness, . 
 Christ, — blessing the poor, and uttering woes on the y'k 
 He said that no man can serve God and mammon. 
 
 He forbade his disciples not only to take mone}', bu 
 also to have two coats. He said to the rich young man' 
 that he could .not enter into the kingdom of God, because 
 he was rich, and that it is easier for a camel to go through 
 the needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom 
 of (^od. 
 
 He said that he who would not 1еал^е every thing — his 
 houses and children and his fields — in order to folloлv him, 
 was not his disciple. He spoke a parable about a rich man 
 who had done nothing wrong (like our own rich people), 
 but merely dressed well, ate and drank well, yet by this 
 lost his own soul ; and about a beggar named Lazarus, 
 who had done nothing good, and who had saved his soul 
 by his beggar's life. 
 
 This truth had long been known to me ; l)ut the false 
 teaching of the world had so cunningly hidden it, that it 
 became a theory in the sense which men like to attach to 
 this word, — that is, a pure abstraction. But as soon as I 
 succeeded in pulling down in my consciousness the sophistry 
 of the world's teaching, then theor}' became one with 
 practice, and the reality of ni}' life became its unavoidable 
 result. 
 
 I understood that man, besides living for his own good, 
 must work for the good of othei-s ; that if we were to (b\aw 
 our c()m[)arison from the world of animals, as some men 
 are so loud of doing in justifying л -iolence and contest by 
 the law of the struggle for existence, we must take this
 
 .' MUST WE DO rilEN? 
 
 I'ora the lives of social animals like bees ; 
 
 .n, saying nothing of his love to iiis ueigh- 
 
 j upon hiui, as well by reason as 1)V his 
 
 , called upon to serve his fellows and their 
 
 ^d that tills is the natural law of man, ])y 
 
 jich he can alone fulfil his calling, and therefore 
 
 I understood that this law has been, and is 
 
 iated by the fact that men by violence (as robber- 
 
 ee themselves from labor, and utilize the labor of 
 
 using this labor not for the common purpose, but 
 
 3. personal satisfaction of their constantly increasing 
 
 and also, like robber-bees, they perish thereby. I 
 
 jrstood that the misfortune of men comes from the 
 
 /ery in which some men are kept by others. I understood 
 
 at this slavery is brought about in our days by the violence 
 
 f military force, by the approi)riation of laud, and by the 
 
 exaction of money. 
 
 And, having understood the meaning of all these three 
 instruments of modern slaver}', I could not help desiring to 
 free myself from any share in it. 
 
 AVhen I was a landlord, possessing serfs, and came to 
 understand the immoralit}' of such a position, T, along with 
 other men who had understood the same thing, tried to free 
 myself from it. Failing to do so, I entloavored to assert my 
 claims as a slave-owner as little as possible, and to live, and 
 to let other people live, as if such claims did not exist, and 
 at the same time,bv' trying every means, to suggest to other 
 slave-owners the unlawfulness and inhumanit}- of their im- 
 aginary rights. 
 
 I cannot help doing the same now with reference to exist- 
 ent slavery ; that is, I try as little as possible to assert my 
 claims while I am unable to free myself from such power 
 of claim which gives me land-owaiership and mone}', raised 
 by the violence of military force, and at the same time by 
 all means in m}' power to try to suggest to other men the 
 unlawfulness and inhumanity of these imaginary rights. 
 
 The share in enslaving men, from the stand-point of a 
 slave-owner, consists in utilizing the labor of others : it is 
 quite the same, whetiier the enslaving is based upon a claim 
 to the person of the slave, or upon the possession of land 
 or money. And therefore, if a man really docs not like 
 slavery, and does not desire to be a partaker in it, the first
 
 WUAT MUST WE BO THEN? 119 
 
 thing which he must do is this : neither utilize men's labor 
 b}' serving the government, nor possess land or mone}'. 
 
 The refusal of all the means in use for utilizing another's 
 labor will unavoidably bring such a man to the necessity, on 
 the one hand, of lessening his wants, and, on the other, of 
 doing liimself what formerly was done for him b}' others. 
 And this so simple inference at once puts an end to all three 
 causes Avhich prevent our heli)ing the poor, which I discov- 
 ered in seeking tlie cause of my non-success. 
 
 The first cause was the accumulation of people in towns, 
 and the absorption there of the productions of tlie country. 
 
 All that a man needs is not to desire to utilize another's 
 labor by serving the government, possessing land and money, 
 and then, according to his strength and ability, to satisfy 
 unaided his own wants, and the idea of leaving his village 
 would never enter his mind, because in the countr}' it is easier 
 for him personally to satisfy his wants, while in a town every 
 thing is the production of the labor of others; in the coun- 
 try a man will always be able to heli) the needy, and will not 
 experience that feeling of being useless, whicli I felt in the 
 town when I wanted to help men, not with my own, but with 
 other men's labors. 
 
 The second cause was the estrangement between the poor 
 and the rich. A man need only not desire to utilize other 
 men's labor by serving the government, possessing land ami 
 money, and he would be compelled himself to satisfy his 
 wants, and at once involuntarily that barrier would be pushed 
 down which separates him from the working-people, and he 
 would be one with the people, standing shoulder to shoulder 
 with them, and seeing the possibility of helping them. 
 
 The third cause was shame, based upon the consciousness 
 of the immorality of possessing money with which I wanted 
 to help others. A mnn needs only not to desire to utilize 
 another man's labor by serving the government, possessing 
 land and money, and he will never have that superfluous 
 '■'• fool's money," the fact of possessing which made those 
 who wanted money ask me for pecuniary assistance, which I 
 was not a))le to satisf}^, and called forth in me the conscious- 
 ness of my unrighteousness.
 
 120 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 I SAAV that the cause of the sufferings and dcpraA-ity of 
 men lies in the fact that some men are in bomUige to others ; 
 and therefore I came to tlie obvious conclusion, that if I want 
 to help men, I have first of all to leave off causing th(jse very 
 misftjrtunes which I want to remedy, — iu other words, I 
 must not share in the enslaving of men. 
 
 I was led to the enslaving of men by the circumstance 
 that from my infancy I had been accustomed not io work, 
 but to utilize the labor of others, and I have been living in 
 a society which is not only accustomed to this slavery, but 
 justifies it by all kinds of sophistry', clever and foolish. 
 
 I came to the following simple conclueion. that, in order 
 to avoid causing the sutTcrings and depravity of men, I ought 
 to make other men work for me as little as possible, and to 
 work nn'self as much as possible. 
 
 It was by this roundabout way that I arrived at the inevi- 
 table conclusion to which the C'liinese arrived some thousand 
 years ago, and which they exi)ress thus: '" If there is one 
 idle man, there must be another wlio is starving." 
 
 I came to that sim[)le and natural conclusion, that if I pity 
 the exhausted horse on whose back I ride, the first thing for. 
 me to do, if I really pity him, is to get off him, and walk. 
 This answer, which gives such complete satisfaction to the 
 moral sense, has been always before my eyes, as it is before 
 the eyes of every one, but we do not all see it. 
 
 In seeking to heal our social diseases we look everywhere, — 
 in the governmental, anti-governmental, scientific, and phil- 
 anthropic superstitions, — and yet we do not see that which 
 meets the eyes of every one. We fill our drains with filtij, 
 and require other men to clean them, and pretend to be veiy 
 sorry for them, and we want to ease their work, and are in- 
 venting all sorts of devices except one, the simplest ; namely, 
 that we should ourselves remove our slops so long as we find 
 it necessary to produce them in our rooms. 
 
 For One who really suffers from the sufferings of other 
 men surrounding him, there exists a most clear, simple, and 
 easy means, the only one sufficient t^) heal this evil, and to 
 confer a sense of the lawfulness of one's life. This means is 
 that wliich Jolin the Ba[)tist recommended when he answered 
 the queslion, "What shall we do then?" and whi^-h was
 
 WHAT ilUST WE no THEN? 121 
 
 confirmed b}' Christ, not to have more than one coat, and 
 not to possess money, — -that is, not to profit by another man's 
 hibor ; and in order not to utihze another's labor, we must do 
 witli our own liands all that we can do. This is so plain and 
 simple ! But this is plain and simple and clear, only when 
 our wants are also i)lain, and when we ourselves are still 
 sound, and not corrui)ted to the backbone l)y idleness and 
 laziness. 
 
 I live in a village, lie by the stove, and tell my neighbor, 
 who is my debtor, to light it. It is obvious that I am lazy, 
 take my neighbor away from his own work, and 1 at last feel 
 ashamed of it ; and besides, it grows dull for me to be alwnys 
 lying down when my muscles are strong, and accustomed to 
 work, and I go to fetch the wood myself. 
 
 But slavery of all kinds has been going on so long, so 
 many artificial wants have grown about it, so many jieofjle 
 with different degrees of familiarity with these wants are in- 
 ti'rwoven one with anothcM', through so nmny generations 
 men have been spoiled and made effeminate, such compli- 
 cated temi)tations and justifications of luxui-y and idleness 
 have been invented by men, that for one who staiids on the 
 top of the pyramid of idle men, it is not at all so easy to 
 understand his sin as it is for the peasant, who compels his 
 neighbor to light his stove. 
 
 Men who stand at the toj) find it most diilicult to under- 
 stand what is required of them. They become giddy from 
 the height of the structure of lies on which they stand when 
 they look at that spot on the earth to Aviiich they must de- 
 scend, in order to begin to live, not righteously, but only not 
 quite inhumanl}' ; and that is why this plain and clear truth 
 appears to these men so sti'ange. 
 
 A man who employ's ten servants in liver}', coachmen and 
 cooks, who has pictures and pianos, must certainly regard 
 as strange and even ridiculous the simple preliminary duty 
 of, I do not say a good man, Itut of eveiy man who is not a 
 beast, to hew that wood with which his food is cooked and 
 by which he is warmed ; to clean those; boots in which he 
 carelessly stepped into the mud ; to l)ring that water whh 
 which he keeps himself clean, and to carry away those sloi)S 
 in which he has washed himself. 
 
 But besides the estrangement of men from the truth, there 
 is another cause wiiich hinders men from seeing tiie duty of 
 doing the most simple and natural physical work ; that is
 
 122 WHAT ЗШ8Т WE 1)0 TUEN f 
 
 tlie complicity aiul interweaving of the conditions in which a 
 rich niun lives. 
 
 This morning I entered the corridor in Avhich the stoves are 
 heated. A peasant was heating the stove which Avarnied my 
 sou's room. I entered his bedroom : he was asleep, and it 
 was eleven o'clock in the morning. The excuse was, "To- 
 day is a holiday ; uo lessons." A stout lad of eighteen years 
 of age, having over-eaten himself the previous night, is sleep- 
 ing until eleven o'clock ; and a peasant of his age, who had 
 already that morning done a quantity of work, was now light- 
 ing the tenth stove. " It would be better, pei'haps, if the 
 peasant did not light the stove to warm this stout, lazy fel- 
 low ! " thought I ; but I remembered at once that this stove 
 also wai'raed the room of our housekeeper, a woman of forty 
 years of age, who had been working the night before till 
 three o'clock in the morning, to pre[)are every thing for the 
 supper which m}' son ate ; and then she put away the dishes, 
 and, notwithstanding this, got up at scA'en. 
 
 She cannot heat the stove herself : she has no time for 
 that. The peasant is heating the stove for her too. And 
 under her name ni}' laz\- fellow was being warmed. 
 
 True, the advantages of all are interwoven ; but without 
 much consideration the conscience of each will say, On whose 
 side is the labor, and on whose the idleness ? But not only 
 does conscience tell this, the account-book also tells it : the 
 more money one spends, the more peo[)le work. The less 
 one spends, the more one works one's self. My luxurious life 
 gives means of living to others. Where should my old 
 footman go, if I were to discharge him ? What ! every one 
 must do ever}^ thing for himself? Make his coat as well as 
 hew his wood? And how about division of labor? And 
 industry and social undertakings? And, last of all, come 
 the most horrible of words, — civilization, science, art! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Last INIarch I was returning home late in the CA'ening. 
 On turning into a by-lane, I perceived on the snow, in a 
 distant field, some black shadows. I should not have noticed 
 this, but for the policeman, Avho stood at the end of the lane, 
 and ciied in the direction of the shadows, '' \'asili, why 
 don't you come along? "
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 123 
 
 " She won't move," answered a voice ; and thereupon the 
 shadows came towards the policeman. I stopped and aslved 
 him, — 
 
 •' ^Vhat is tlie matter?" 
 
 He said, " We have got some girls from TJzhanoff's lioiise, 
 and are taking them to the police-station ; and one of them 
 lags behind, and won't come along." 
 
 A night-watchman in sheepskin coat appeared now, leading 
 a girl, who slouched along, while he pi'oddcd her from 
 behind. I, the watchman and the policeman, were wearing 
 winter-coats : she alone had none, having only her gown on. 
 Ill the dark, I could distinguish only a brown dress, and 
 a kerchief round her head and neck. She was short, like 
 most starvelings, and had a broad, clumsy figure. 
 
 '■ We aren't going to stay hei'e all night for you, yon hag ! 
 Get on, or I'll give it you ! " shouted the policeman. He 
 was evidently fatigued, and tired of her. .She walked some 
 paces, and stopped again. 
 
 The old watchman, a good-natured man (I knew him), 
 pulled her by the hand. " I'll wake you up ! come along ! " 
 said he, pretending to be angry. She staggered, and began 
 to speak, with a creaking, hoarse voice, •' Let me be ; 
 don't you push. I'll get on myself." 
 
 '' You'll be frozen to death," he returned. 
 
 " A girl like me won't be frozen : I've lots of hot blood." 
 
 She meant it as a joke, but her words sounded like a curse. 
 By a lamp, which stood not far from the gate of my house, 
 she stopped again, leaned back against the paling, and began 
 to seek for something among her petticoats with awkward, 
 frozen hands. They again shouted to her; but she only 
 muttered, and continued searching. She held in one hand a 
 crumpled cigarette, and matches in the other, I remained 
 behind her : I was ashamed to pass by, or to stay and look 
 at her. But I made up my mind, and came up to her. She 
 leaned with her shoulder against the paling, and vainly- tried 
 to light a match on it. 
 
 I looked narrowly at her face. She was indeed a starveling, 
 and appeared to me to be a woman of about thirty. Пег 
 complexion was dirty ; her eyes small, dim, and bleared with 
 drinking ; she had a squat nose ; her lips were wry and 
 slavering, with downcast angles ; from under her kerchief 
 fell a tuft of dry hair. Her figure was long and flat ; her 
 arms and leo's short.
 
 124 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 I stopped in front of her. She looked at me and smiled, 
 as if she knew all that I was tliiukin;^- aijoiit. I felt that I 
 oui>iit to say something to her. 1 waiilc'd to show hex' that 
 I pitied her. 
 
 *■' Have YOU parents?" I asked. She hui^lied lioavseiy, 
 then suddenly stoi)[)ed, and, lifting her l)rows, began to look 
 at me steadfastly. 
 
 " Have you |)arents? " I repeated. 
 
 She smiled with a grimace which seemed to say, " What 
 a question for him to put ! " 
 
 " I have a mother," she said at last ; " but what's that to 
 you?" 
 
 " And how old are you? " 
 
 " I am over fifteen," said she, at once answering a ques- 
 tion she was accustomed to hear. 
 
 '■ Come, come ! go on ; we shall all l)e frozen for yon ; the 
 deuce take you ! " shouted the policeman ; and she edged off 
 from the paling, and staggered on along the lane to the police- 
 station : and 1 turned to the gate, and entered my house, and 
 asked whether m}' daughters were at home. I was told that 
 they had been to an evening party, had enjoyed themselves 
 mucli, and now were asleep. 
 
 The next morning I was about to go to the police-station 
 to inquire what had become of this unhai)py girl ; and I was 
 ready to start early enough, when one of those unfortunate 
 men called, who from weakness have dropped out of the 
 gentlemanly line of life to which they have been accustomed, 
 and Avlio rise and fall b}^ turns. 1 had been acquainted with 
 him three years. During this time he had several times sold 
 ever\' thing he had, — even his clothes; and, having just 
 done so again, he passed his nights temporarily in Rzhanoff's 
 house, and his days at my lodgings. He met me as 1 Avas 
 going out, and, without listening to me, began at once to tell 
 me what had happened at Rzhanoff's house the night before. 
 
 He began to relate it, j-et had not got through one-half 
 when, all of a sudden, he, an old man, who had gone through 
 much in his life, began to sob, and, ceasing to speak, 
 turned his face awa}' from me. This was what he related. 
 I ascertained the truth of his story on the spot, where 1 
 learned some new particulars, which I shall relate too. 
 
 A v/asherwoman thirty years of age, fair, quiet, good-look- 
 ing, but delicate, passed her nights in that night-lodging on 
 the ground-floor in No. 32, where my friend slept among
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 125 
 
 various shiftino- night-lodgers, men and women, who for five 
 kopeks sk'i)t with euch other. 
 
 The hiudhidy at this lodging was the mistress of a boat- 
 man. In smiuner her lover kept a boat ; and in winter they 
 earned their living by letting hxlgings to night-lodgers at 
 three kopeks without a pillow, and at five kopeks with one. 
 
 The w'asherwoman had been living here some months, 
 and was a quiet woman ; but lately the}' began to object to 
 her because she coughed, and prevented the other lodgers 
 from sleeping. An old woman in particular, eight}' years 
 old, half silly, and also a permanent inmate of this lodging, 
 began to (lislilce the washerwoman, and kept annoying her, 
 because she disturbed her sleep ; for all night she coughed like 
 a sheep. 
 
 The waslierwoman said nothing. She owed for rent, and 
 felt herself guilty, and was therefore compelled to endure. She 
 began to work less and less, for her sti'ength failed her ; and 
 that was why she was unable to pay her rent. She had not 
 been to work at all the whole of tlie last week ; and she had 
 been making the lives of all. and particularly of the old 
 woman, miserable by her cough. 
 
 Four days ago the landlady gave her notice to leave. She 
 already' owed sixty kopeks, and could not pay them, and there 
 was no hope of doing so ; and other lodgers complained of her 
 cough. 
 
 When the landlad\' gave the washerwoman notice, and told 
 her she must go away if siie did not pay tlie rent, the old 
 woman was glad, and pushed her out into the yard. The 
 washei'woman went away, but came back again in an hour, 
 and tlie landlady had not the heart to send lier away again. 
 . . . During the second and the third day the landlady left 
 her there. '' Where shall I go?" she kei)t saying. On tiie 
 third day, the landlad3''s lover, a Moscow man, who knew 
 all the rules and regulations, went for a policeman. The 
 policeman, with a sword and a pistol slung on a red cord, 
 came into the lodging, and quietly and politely turned the 
 washerwoman out into the street. 
 
 It was a brigiit, sunny, but frosty day in IMai'ch. The 
 melting snow ran down in streams, the house-porters were 
 breaking the ice. Tlie hackney sletlges l)umped on the ice- 
 glazed snow, and creaked over the stones. The waslier- 
 woman went up the hill on the sunny side, got to the church, 
 and sat down in the sun at the ciiurch-[)uieh. But when the
 
 12G WHAT MUST WE no THEN? 
 
 sun began to go down behind the houses, and the pools of 
 watL'i- began to be covered over with a thin sheet of ice, the 
 washerwoman felt chilly and teri-ilied. She got up and 
 slowly walked on. . . . Where? Home, — to the only house 
 in wliich she had been living latel}'. 
 
 While she was walking there, several times resting lierself, 
 it began to get dark. She approached the gate, turned into 
 it, her foot slipped, she gave a shriek, and fell down. 
 
 One man passed b}', then another. " She mu>t be drunk." 
 they thought. Anothei" man passed, and stumbled up against 
 her, and said to the house-[)orter, '■'■ Some tipsy won)an is 
 lying at the gate. I very nearly broke my ueck over her. 
 Won't you take her away? " 
 
 The house-porter came. The washerwoman was dead. 
 Such was what my friend related to me. 
 
 The reader will perhaps fancy I have picked out particular 
 cases in the prostitute of lifteen years of age and the stor}' 
 of this washerwoman ; but let him not think so : this really 
 hap[)ened in one and the same night. I do not exactly re- 
 member the date, only it was in March, 18<S4:, 
 
 Having heard my friend's story, I went to the police-sta- 
 tion, intending from there to go to Kzhanoff's house to learn 
 all the pai'tieulars of the washerwoman's stor}'. 
 
 The weather was fine and sunny ; and again under the ice 
 of the previous night, in the shade, 3'ou could see the water 
 running ; and in the sun, in the square, every thing was melt- 
 ing fast. The trees of the garden appeared blue from over 
 the river ; the sparrows that were reddisli in Avinter, and un- 
 noticed then, now attracted people's attention by their mer- 
 riness ; men also tried to be merry, but they all had too many 
 cares. The bells of the churches sounded ; and blending with 
 them from the barracks were heard sounds of shooting, — the 
 hiss of the rifle-balls, and the crack when they struck the 
 target. 
 
 I entered the police-station. There some armed men — 
 policemen — led me to their chief. He, also armed with a 
 sword, sabre, and pistol, was bus}' giving some orders al)out 
 a ragged, trembling old man who was standing before him, 
 and from weakness could not'clearly answer what was asked 
 of him. Having done with tlie old man. he turned to me. I 
 inquiied about the girl of last night. He first listened to me 
 attentive!}', then he smiled, not only because I did not know 
 why they луеге taken to the police-station, but more particu-
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 127 
 
 larly at my astonishment at her youth. "Goodness! there 
 are some of twelve, thirteen, and fourteen years of age 
 often," said he, in a lively tone. 
 
 To my question al)out my friend of yesterday, he told me 
 that she had probably been already sent to the committee (if 
 I understood him right). To my question where such passed 
 the night, he gave a vague answer. The one about whom 
 1 spoke, he did not remember. There were so many of them 
 every day. 
 
 At Kzhanoff's house, in No. 32, I already found the clerk 
 reading prayers over the dead laundry- woman. She had 
 been brought in and laid on her former pallet ; and the 
 lodgers, all starvelings themselves, contributed money for 
 the prayers, the coffin, and the shroud; the old woman had 
 dressed her, and laid her out. The clerk was reading 
 something in the dark ; a woman in a cloak stood holding 
 a wax taper; and with a similar wax taper stood a man 
 (a gentleman, it is fair to state) , in a nice great-coat, trimmed 
 with an Astrachan collar, in bright goloshes, and he had 
 on a starched shirt. That was her brother. He had been 
 hunted up. 
 
 I passed by the dead to the landlady's room, in order to 
 ask her all the particulars. She was afraid of my questions, 
 — afraid probal)ly of being charged with something; but by 
 and by she grew talkative, and told me ail. On passing [)y 
 again, I looked at the dead l)ody. All the dead are beauti- 
 ful ; but this one was particularh' so, and touching in her 
 codin, with her clear, pale face, with closed, swollen ej'es, 
 sunken cheeks, and fair, soft hair over her high forehead ; 
 her face looked wear}', but kind, and not sad at all, l)ut 
 rather astonished. And indeed, if the living do not see, the 
 dead may well be astonished. 
 
 On the da}' 1 wrote this, there was a great ball in Moscow. 
 On the same night I left home after eight o'clock. 1 live in 
 a locality surrounded by factories ; and 1 left home after the 
 factory whistle had sounded, and when, after a week of in- 
 cessant work, people were freed for their holiday. Factory- 
 men passed by me, and I by tliem, all turning their steps to 
 the pul)lic-houses and inns. iVIany were already tiiJS}' : many 
 more were with women. 
 
 Every mf)niing at five I hear each of the whist k's. which 
 means that the lalior of women, childicn. and oUl people has 
 begun. At eight o'clock another whistle, — this means half
 
 128 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 an hour's rest ; at twelve the third whistle, — this means an 
 hour for dinner. At eight o'clock the fourth whistle, indi- 
 cating cessation from work. By a strange coincidence, all 
 the tiu'ee factories in my neighborhood produce onl}^ the 
 articles necessary for balls. 
 
 In one factory, — the one nearest to me, — they make 
 nothing but stockings ; in the other opposite, silk stuffs ; in 
 the tliird, perfumes and pomades. 
 
 Que may, on hearing these whistles, attach to them no other 
 meaning than that of the indication of time. ''There, the 
 whistle has sounded : it is time to go out for a walk." 
 
 But one may associate with them also the meaning they in 
 reality have, — that at the first Avhistle at five o'clock in the 
 morning, men and women, who have slept side by side in a 
 damp cellar, get up in the dark, and hurry aw-ay into the 
 nois}^ building, and take their part in a work of which they 
 see neither cessation nor utility for themselves, and work 
 often so in the heat, in suffocating exhalations, with very 
 rare intervals of rest, for one, two, or three, or even twelve 
 and more hours. They fall asleep, and get up again, and 
 again do this work, meaningless for themselves, to which 
 they are compelled exclusively by want. And so it goes on 
 from one week to another, intemipted onW by holidays. 
 
 And now 1 saw these working-people freed for one of 
 these holidays. They go out into the street : everywhere 
 there are inns, pulilic-houses, and ga}' women. And they, in 
 a drunken state, pull each other by the arms, and carr}' along 
 with them girls like the one whom 1 saw conducted to the 
 police-station : the}' hire hackney-coaches, and ride and walk 
 from one inn to another, and abuse each other, and totter 
 al)out, and sa}' they know not what. 
 
 Formerly, when I saw the factorv people knocking about 
 in this way, I used to turn aside with disgust, and almost 
 i-eproached them ; but since I hear these dail}' whistles, and 
 know what they mean, I am onl}'^ astonished that all these 
 men do not come into the condition of utter beggars. Avith 
 whom Moscow is filled ; and the луотеп into the position of 
 the girl whom 1 had met near ni}' house. 
 
 Thus I walked on, looking at these men, observing how 
 they went about the streets till eleven o'clock. Then their 
 movements became quieter : there remained here and there 
 a few tipsy people, and I met some men and women who 
 were being conducted to the police-station. And now, from
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO TUEN f 129 
 
 every side, carriages appeared, all going in one direction. On 
 the coach-box sat a coachman, sometimes in a sheepskin 
 coat; and a footman, — a dandy with a cockade. Well-fed 
 trotters, covered with cloth, ran at the rate of fifteen miles an 
 hour: in the carriages sat ladies wrapped in shawls, and 
 taking great care not to spoil their flowers and their toilets. 
 All, beginning with the harness on the horses, carriages, 
 gutta-percha wheels, the cloth of the coachman's coat, down 
 to the stockings, shoes, flowers, velvet, gloves, scents, — all 
 these articles have been made by those men, some of whom 
 fell asleep on their own pallets in their mean rooms, some in 
 uight-houses with prostitutes, and others iu the police- 
 station. 
 
 The ball-goers drive past these men, in and with things 
 made by them ; and it does not even enter into their minds 
 that there could possibW be any connection between the ball 
 they are going to and these tipsy people, to whom their 
 coachmen shout out so angrily. With quite easy minds, and 
 assurance that they are doing nothing wrong, they enjoy 
 themselves at the ball. 
 
 Enjoy themselves ! 
 
 From eleven o'clock iu the evening till six in the morning, 
 in the very depth of the night, while with emi)ty stomachs 
 men are lying in night-lodgings, or dying as the washer- 
 woman had done ! 
 
 The enjoyment of the ball consists iu women and girls 
 uncovering their bosoms, putting on artificial protuberances, 
 and altogether getting themselves up iu a \vay that no girl and 
 no woman who is not yet depraved would, on any account, 
 appear before men ; and iu this half-naked condition, with 
 uncovered bosoms, and arms bare up to the shoulders, with 
 diesses puffed behind and tight round the hips, iu the bright- 
 est light, women and girls, whose first virtue has always been 
 modesty, appear among strange men, w^ho are also dressed 
 in indecently tight-fitting clothes, and with them, to tlie 
 sound of exciting music, embrace each other, and pivot round 
 and round. Old women, often also half naked like the 
 younger ones, are sitting looking on. and eating and drink- 
 ing : the old men do the same. No wonder it is done at 
 night, when every one else is sleeping, so that no one may 
 see it I 
 
 But this is not done in order to hide it ; there is nothing 
 indeed to hide ; all is very nice and good ; and by this
 
 130 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 enjoyment, in which is swallowed np the painful Labor of 
 thousands, not only is nobody harmed, but by this vciy tiling 
 poor people are fed ! The ball goes on ver}' merrily, may 
 be, but how did it come to do so? When we see in society 
 or among ourselves one who has not eaten, or is cold, we are 
 ashamed to enjoy ourselves, and cannot begin to be merry 
 until he is fed, saying nothing of the fact that we canno.^ 
 imagine that there are such people who can enjoy themselves 
 by means of any thing which produces the sufferings of 
 others. 
 
 We are disgusted, and we do not understand the enjoy^- 
 ment of naught}- boj'S who have squeezed a dog's tail into a 
 piece of split Avood. Ho^v is it, then, that in our enjoy- 
 ments we become blind, and do not see that cleft in which 
 we have pinched those men who suffer for our enjoyment? 
 
 We know that each woman at this ball whose dress costs a 
 hundred and lifty rubles was not born at the ball, but she 
 has lived also in the countiy, has seen peasants, knows her 
 own nurse and maid, whose fathers and brothers are poor, 
 for whom earning one hundred and fifty rubles to build a cot- 
 tage with is the end and aim of a long, laborious life ; she 
 knows this ; how can she, then, enjoy herself, knowing tliat 
 on her half-naked body she is wearing the cottage which is 
 the dream of her housemaid's brother? 
 
 But let us suppose she has not thought about this : she 
 cannot help knowing that velvet and silk, sweetmeats and 
 flowers, and laces and dresses, do not grow of themselves, but 
 are made li}' men. 
 
 It would seem she could not help knowing that men make 
 all this, and nnder what circumstances, and why. She can- 
 not help knowing that her dressmaker, whom she has been 
 scolding to-da}', has made this dress not at all out of love 
 to her, tlierefore she cannot help knowing that all these 
 things were made — her laces, flowers, and velvet — from 
 sheer Avant. 
 
 But perhaps she is so blinded that she does not think of 
 all this. Well, but, at all events, she could not help know- 
 ing that five people, old, respectable, often delicate men and 
 women, have not slept all night, and have been bus}- on her 
 account. This, also, she could not help knowing, — that on 
 this night there were twenty-eight degrees of frost, and that 
 her coachman — an old man — was sitting in this frost all 
 night, upon his coach-box.
 
 1177.1 г MUST WE ВО TUEN ? 131 
 
 Tf these young women and girls, from the h3'pnotic influ- 
 ence of the ball, fail lo see all this, we cannot jiulge them. 
 Poor things ! they consider all to bo good which is pro- 
 nounced so by their elders. How do these elders explain 
 their cruelty? They, indeed, always answer in the same 
 way : '' I compel no one ; wliat I Ьал^е, I have bought ; foot- 
 men, chambermaids, coachman, I hire. There is no harm 
 in engaging and in buying. I compel none ; I hire ; what 
 wrong is there in that? " 
 
 Some days ago I called on a friend. Passing through the 
 lirst room, I wondered at seeing at a table two females, for I 
 know my acquaintance was a bachelor. A skinny, 3"ellow, 
 elderly-looking woman, about thirty, with a kerchief thrown 
 over her shoulder, лvas briskly doing something over the table 
 with her hands, jerking nervousl}*, as if in a fit. Opposite to 
 her sat a little girl, who was also doing something, jerking in 
 tlie same wa^'. They both seemed to be suffering from St. 
 Vitus's dance. I came nearer and looked closer to see what 
 they were about. 
 
 They glanced up at me, and then continued their work as 
 attentively as before. 
 
 Before them were spread tobacco and cigarettes. They 
 were making cigarettes. The woman rubbed the tobacco fine 
 between the palms of her hands, caught it up by a machine, 
 put f)n the tubes, and threw them to the girl. The girl folded 
 the papers, put them over the cigarette, threw it aside, and 
 took up another. 
 
 All this was performed with such speed, with such dex- 
 terity, that it was impossible to descril)e it. I expressed my 
 wonder at their quickness. " I have been at this business 
 fourteen years," said the woman. 
 
 "Is it hard work? " 
 
 " Yes : my chest aches, and the air is choky with tobacco." 
 
 But it was not necessary for her to have said so : you need 
 only have looked at her or at the girl. The latter had been 
 at this business three 3'ears ; but any one not seeing her at 
 tliis work would have said that she had a strong constitution, 
 which was already beginning to be broken. 
 
 M\' acquaintance, a kind-hearted man of lil)eral views, 
 hired tiiese women to make him cigarettes at two rul)les and 
 a half a thousand. He has money, and he pays it away for 
 this work : wliat harm is there in it? 
 
 My acquaintance gets up at twelve. His evenings, from
 
 132 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 six to two, he spends at cards or at the piano ; he eats and 
 drinks ; other people do all the work for him. He has de- 
 xiaed for himself a new pleasure, — smoking. I can remem- 
 ber when he began to smoke. Here are a woman and a girl, 
 who scarcely earn their living by transforming themselves 
 into machines, and pass all their lives in breathing tol)acco, 
 thus ruining their lives. He has money which he hasnot 
 earned, and he prefers playing at cards to making eigaiettcs 
 for himself. He gives these women money, only under the 
 condition that they continue to live as miserably as the}' have 
 been living, in making cigarettes for him. 
 
 1 am fond of cleanliness ; and I give money, only under the 
 condition that the washerwoman washes my shirts, which I 
 change twice a day ; and the washing of these shirts having 
 taxed the utmost strength of the washerwoman, she has died. 
 
 What is wrong in tliis? 
 
 Men who buy and hire will continue doing so whether I do, 
 or do not ; they will force other people to make velvets and 
 dainties, and will buy them лvhether I do, or do not ; so also 
 they will hire people to make cigarettes and to wash shirts. 
 Why should I, then, deprive myself of velvets, sweetmeats, 
 cigarettes, and clean shirts, when their production is already 
 set in going. 
 
 A crowd, maddened with the passion of destruction, will 
 employ this very reasoning. It leads a pack of dogs, when 
 one of their number runs against another and knocks it down, 
 to attack it and tear it to pieces. Others have already be- 
 gun, have done a little mischief ; why shouldn't I, too, do the 
 same? What can it possibly signify if I wear a dirty shirt, 
 and make m}' cigarettes myself? Could that help any one? 
 Ask men who desire to justify themselves. 
 
 Had we not wandered so far from truth, it would be need- 
 less to answer this question ; but we are so entangled that 
 such a question seems natural to us, and, therefore, though I 
 feel ashamed, I must answer it. 
 
 What difference would it be if I should wear my shirt a 
 week instead of one day, and make mj' cigarettes myself, or 
 leave otf smoking altogether? 
 
 The difference would be this, — that a certain Avasherwoman, 
 and a certain cigarette-maker, would exert themselves less, 
 and what I gave former]}' for the washing of my shirt, ard 
 for the making of my cigarettes, I may give now to that or 
 to another woman ; and working-people who aro tired by their
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 133 
 
 work, instead of overworking themselves, will be able to rest 
 and to have tea. But I have heaid objections to this, so 
 averse are the rich and the luxurious to understand their 
 position. 
 
 The}' repl}^ " If I should wear dirty linen, leave off smok- 
 ing, and give this money away to the poor, tlieu tiiis money 
 would be all the same taken away from them, and m\' drop 
 will not help to swell the sea." 
 
 I am still more ashamed to answer such a reply, but at the 
 same time I must do so. If I came among savages who 
 gave me chops which I thought delicious, but the next day I 
 learned (perliaps saw myself) that these delicious chops 
 were made of a human prisoner who had been slain in order 
 to make them ; and if I think it bad to eat men, however de- 
 licious the cutlets may be. and however general the custom 
 to eat men among the persons with луЬот 1 live, and however 
 small the utilit}' to the prisoners who have been prepared f(jr 
 food m}' refusal to cat them may be, I shall not and can not 
 eat them. 
 
 JNIaybe I shall eat human flesh when urged by hunger ; but 
 I shall not make a feast of it, and shall not take part in 
 feasts with human flesh, and shall not seek such feasts, and 
 be proud of my partaking of them. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But what is to be done, then? Is it we who are to blame? 
 And if not, луЬо is? 
 
 We say, It is not we who have done all this : it has been 
 done of itself ; as children say when they break any thing, 
 that it broke itself. We sa}' that, as towns are already in 
 existence, we, who are living there, must feed men by 
 buying their labor. But that is not true. It need onlj' be 
 ol)served how we live in the cuuutr}', and how we feed peo- 
 ple there. 
 
 Winter is over : Piaster is past. In town the same or- 
 gies of the rich go on, — on the boulevards, in gardens, in 
 the parks, on the river, music, theatres, riding, illuminations, 
 fire-works ; but in the conntr}- it is still better, — the air 
 is purer ; the trees, the meadows, the flowers, are fresher. 
 We must go where all is budding and blooming. And now 
 the majority of rich people, who utilize other men's labor,
 
 134 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 go into the country to breathe the purer air, to look at the 
 meadows and woods. And here in the country among 
 huml)le villagers, who feed upon bread and onions, work 
 eighteen hours every day, and have neither sufficient sleep 
 nor clothes, rich people take up their abode. No one tempts 
 these people : here are no factories, and no idle hands, of 
 which there are so many in town, and which we imagine 
 we feed by givnig them work to do. Here people never 
 can do their own work in time during the summer ; and not 
 only are there no idle hands, but much property is lost for 
 want of hands ; and an immense number of men, children, 
 old people, and women with child, overwork themselves. 
 
 How, then, do rich peo[)le order their lives here? Thus: 
 If there happens to be an old mansion, built in the time of 
 the serfs, tlien this lujuse is renewed and embellished : if 
 there is not, one is built of two or three stories. The rooms, 
 which are from twelve to twenty and more in number, are 
 all about sixteen feet high. The floors are inlaid ; in the 
 windows are put single panes of glass, expensive carpets 
 on the floors ; ex[)ensive furniture is procured, — a sideboard, 
 for instance, costing from twenty to sixty pounds. Near 
 the mansion, roads are made; flower-beds are laid out; 
 there are croquet-grounds, giant-strides, reflecling-globes, 
 conservatories, and liot-honses, and always luxurious stables. 
 All is painted in colors, prepared with the very oil which 
 old peo[)le and children lack for their porridge. If a rich 
 man can afford it, he buys such a house for liimself ; if he 
 cannot, he hires one : but however poor and however liberal 
 a man of our circle may be, he always takes up his abode 
 in the countr}' in such a house, for building and keeping 
 which it is necessary to take away dozens of working-people 
 who have not enough time to do their own business in the 
 field in order to earn their living. 
 
 Here we cannot say that factories are already in existence 
 and will continue so, whether we make use of their work 
 or no ; we cannot say that we are feeding idle hands ; here 
 we plainly establish the factories for making things neces- 
 sary for us, and simply make use of the surrounding people ; 
 we divert the peojile from work necessary for them, as 
 for us and for all, and by such system deprave some, and 
 ruin the lives and the health of others. 
 
 There lives, let us say, in a village, an educated and 
 respectable family of the upper class, or that of a govern-
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 135 
 
 mcnt officer. All the members of it and the A'isitors assem- 
 ble towards the middle of June, because up to June they 
 had been studying and jjassing their examinations : they 
 assemble when mowing begins, and they stay until Septem- 
 ber, until the harvest and sowing time. The members of 
 the family (as almost all men of this class) remain in the 
 country from the beginning of the urgent work, — harvest- 
 time, — not to the end of it, indeed, because in September 
 tlie sowing goes on. and the digging up of potatoes, but till 
 labor begins to slacken. During all the time of their stay, 
 around them and close by, the peasants' summer work has 
 been proceeding, the strain of which, howcAxn- much we may 
 have heard or read of it, however much we may have looked 
 at it, we can form no adequate idea without having experi- 
 enced it ourselves. 
 
 And the members of the famil}', about ten persons, have 
 been living as they did iu town, if possible still worse than 
 in town, because here in the village they are supposed to 
 be resting (after doing nothing), and offer no pretence in 
 the way of work, and no excuse for their idleness. 
 
 In the middle of the summer, when people are forced from 
 want to feed on kvas, and bread and onions, begins the 
 mowing-time. Gentlefolks, who live in the country-, see 
 this labor, partly order it, partly admire it ; enjoy the smell 
 of the drying hoy. the sound of women's songs, the noise of 
 the scythes, and the sight of the rows of mowers, and of the 
 women raking. They see this as well near their house as 
 when they, with young people and children, who do nothing 
 all the day long, drive well-fed horses a distance of a few 
 hundred yards to the bathing-place. 
 
 The work of mowing is one of the most important in the 
 world. Nearly every year, from want of hands and of time, 
 the meadows remain half cut, and may remain so till the 
 rains begin ; so that the degree of intensitj' of the labor 
 decides the question whether twent}- or more per cent will be 
 added to the stores of men, or whether this hay will be left 
 to rot and spoil while yet uncut. 
 
 And if there is more hay, there will be also more meat for 
 old people, and milk for children ; thus matters stand in gen- 
 eral ; but in i)articular for each mower here is decided the 
 question of bread and milk for himself, and for his children 
 during the winter. 
 
 Each of the working-people, male and female, knows it*
 
 136 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 even the children know tlint this is an important business, 
 and that one ought to work with all one's strength, carry a 
 jug with kvas for the father to the mowing-place, and, shift- 
 ing it from one hand to another, run barefoot as quickly as 
 possible, a distance of perhaps a mile and a half from tiie 
 village, in order to be in time for dinner, that father may not 
 grumble. Every one knows, that, from the mowing to the 
 harvest, there will be no interruption of labor, and no time 
 for rest. And besides mowing, each has some other business 
 to do, -^ to plough up new land, and to harrow it ; the women 
 have cloth to make, bread to bake, and the washing to do ; and 
 the peasants must drive to the mill and to market ; they have 
 the official att'airs of their community to attend to ; they 
 have also to provide the local government officials with means 
 of locomotion, and to pass the night in the fields with tlie 
 pastured horses. 
 
 All, old and young and sick, work with all their strength. 
 
 The peasants work in such a way, that, when cutting the 
 last rows, the mowers, weak people, growing youths, old men, 
 are so tired, that, having rested a little, it is with great pain 
 they begin anew : the women, often with child, work hard 
 too. 
 
 It is a strained, incessant labor. All work to the utmost 
 of their strength, and use not onlj' all their provisions, but 
 what they have in store : during harvest-time all the peasants 
 grow thinner, although they never were very stout. 
 
 There is a small company laboring in the hayfield, three 
 peasants, — one of them an old man ; another his nephew, who 
 is married ; and tlie third the village bootmaker, a thin, wiry 
 man. Their mowing this morning decides their fate for the 
 coming winter, whether they will be able to keep a cow and 
 pay taxes. This is their second week's work. The rain 
 hindered them for a while. After the rain had left otf, and 
 the water had di'ied up, thej' decided on making hayricks ; 
 and in order to do it quicker, they decided that two women 
 must rake to each scythe. With the old man came out his 
 wife, fifty years of age, worn out with labor and the bearing 
 of eleven children, deaf, but still strong enough for work; 
 and his daughter, thirteen years of age, a short but brisk 
 and strong little girl. 
 
 Witli the nephew came his wife, — a tall woman, as strong 
 as a peasant; and his sister-in-law, — a soldier's wife, who 
 was with child. With the bootmaker came his wife, — a
 
 WHAT MUST ]VE DO THEN f 137 
 
 strong working- woman ; and her mother, — an old woman 
 abont eighty, wlio for the rest of the year nsed to beg. 
 
 They all draw up in a line, and work from morning to 
 evening in the bnrning sim of June. It is steaming hot, and 
 a thunder-shower is threatening. Every moment of work is 
 precious. They have not wished to leave off working, even 
 in order to fetch water or kvas. A small boy, the grandson 
 of the old woman, brings them water. The old woman is 
 evidently anxious only on one point, — not to be obliged to 
 cease working. She does not let the rake out of her hands, 
 and moves about with great difficulty. The little boy, quite 
 bent under the jug with water, heavier than he himself, walks 
 with short steps on his bare feet'', and carries the jug, with 
 many shifts. The little girl takes on her shoulders a load of 
 hay, which is also heavier than herself; walks a few paces, 
 and stops, then throws it down, having no strength to carry 
 it farther. The old man's wife rakes together unceasingly, 
 her kerchief loosened from her disordered hair ; she carries 
 the ha3% breathing heavily, and staggering under the burden : 
 the cobbler's mother is only raking, but this also is beyond 
 her strength ; she slowly drags her ill-shod feet, and looks 
 gloomily before her, like one at the point of death. The old 
 man puiposely sends her far away from the others, to rake 
 about the ricks, in order that she ma}' not attempt to com- 
 pete with tliem ; but she does not leave off working, but 
 continues with the same dead, gloomy face as long as the 
 others. 
 
 The sun is already setting behind the wood, and the ricks 
 are not yet in order : there is much still to be done. 
 
 All feel that it is time to leave off working, but no one 
 says so ; each waiting for the other to suggest it. At last, 
 the bootmaker, realizing that he has no more strength left, 
 proposes to the old man to leave the ricks till to-morrow, and 
 th.' old man agrees to it ; and at once the women go to fetch 
 tiii'ir clothes, their jugs, their pitchforks; and the old woman 
 sits down where she was standing, and then lays herself 
 down with the same fixed stare on her face. But as the 
 women go away, she gets up groaning, and, crawling along, 
 follows them. 
 
 Let us turn to the country-house. The same evening, 
 when from the side of the village were heard the rattle of the 
 scythes of the toil-worn mowers who were returning from 
 work, the sounds of the hammer against the anvil, the cries
 
 138 WHAT зги ST WE DO THEN? 
 
 of women and girls who had just had time to put away their 
 rakes, and were already nmuing to drive the eattle in, — with 
 these blend other sounds from the country-huuse. Drin, 
 drin, drin ! goes the piano ; a Himgariau song is heard 
 through the noise of the croquet-balls ; before the stable an 
 open carriage is standing, harnessed with four fat horses, 
 which has been hired for twenty shillings to bring souie 
 guests a distance of ten miles. 
 
 Horses standing by the carnage rattle their little bells. 
 Before them hay has been thrown, which they are scattering 
 with their hoofs, the same hay which the peasants have ])eeu 
 gathering witli such hard labor. In the yard of this mansion 
 there is movement ; a health}', well-fed fellow in a pink shirt, 
 presented to him for his service as a house-porter, is calling 
 the coachmen, and telling them to harness and saddle some 
 horses. Two jjcasants, who live here as coachmen, come out 
 of their room, and go in an easy manner, swinging their arms, 
 to saddle horses for the ladies and gentlemen. Still nearer 
 to the house the sonnds of another piano are heard. It is 
 the music-mistress, who lives in the family to teach the chil- 
 dren, practising her .Schumann. The sounds of one piano 
 jangle with tliose of another. Quite near the house walk 
 two tmrses ; one is young, another old ; they lead and carry 
 children to bed ; these children are of the same age as those 
 who ran from the village with jugs. One nurse is P^nglish : 
 she cannot speak Russian. She was engaged to come from 
 England, not from being distinguished b}' some peculiar qual- 
 ities, but simply because she does not speak Russian. Far- 
 tlier on is another person, a French woman, who is also 
 engaged because she does not know Russian. P\4rther on a 
 peasant, with two women, is watering flowers near the house : 
 another is cleaning a gun for one of the young gentlemen. 
 Here two women are carrying a basket with clean linen, — 
 they have been washing for all these gentlefolks. In the 
 house two women have scarceh' time to wash the plates and 
 dishes after the company, who have just done eating ; and 
 two peasants in evening clothes are running up and down 
 the stairs, serving coffee, tea, wine, seltzer-water, etc. Up- 
 stairs a table is spread. A meal has just ended; and an- 
 other will soon begin, to continue till cock-crow, and often 
 till morning dawns. Some are sitting smoking, playing 
 cards ; others are sittins: and smoking, engaged in discours- 
 ing liberal ideas of reform; and others, again, walk to and
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 139 
 
 fro, eat, smoke, and, not knowing what to do, have made up 
 their mind to take a drive. 
 
 Tlie househokl consists of fifteen persons, healtliy men 
 and women ; and tliirty persons, healtliy working-[)eo[)le, 
 male and female, labor for them. And this takes place 
 there, where every hour, and each little boj^ , are precious. 
 
 This will be so, also, in July, when the peasants, not having 
 had their sleep out, will mow the oats at night, in order that 
 it may not be lost, and the women will get up before dawn 
 in order to finish their threshing in time ; when this old 
 woman, who had been exhausted during the harvest, and the 
 women with child, and the little children, all will again over- 
 Avork themselves, and when there is a great want of hands, 
 horses, carts, in order to house this corn upon which all men 
 feed, of which millions of poods are necessary in Russia in 
 order that men should not die : during even such a time, 
 the idle lives of ladies and gentlemen Avill go on. There will 
 be private theatricals, picnics, hunting, drinking, eating, 
 piano-playing, singing, dancing, — in fact, incessant orgies. 
 
 Here, at least, it is impossible to find any excuse from 
 the fact that all this had been going on before : nothing 
 of the kind had been in existence. We ourselves carefully 
 create such a life, taking bread and labor away from the 
 work-worn people. We live sumptuously, as if there were 
 no connection whatever between the dying washerwoman, 
 child-prostitute, women worn out by making cigarettes, and 
 by all the intense labor around us which is inadequate to 
 their unnourished strength. We do not Avant to see the fact 
 tiiat if there were not our idle, luxurious, depraved lives, 
 there would not be this lal)or dispro])orti()ned to the strength 
 of ])eople, and that if there were not this labor we could not 
 go on living in the same way. 
 
 It ai)pears to us that tiieir sufferings are one thing, and our 
 lives another, and that we, living as we do, are innocent and 
 l)!ire as doves. We read the description of the lives of tiie 
 Ivomans. and wonder at the inhumanity of a heartless Lucul- 
 lus, who gorged himself with fine dishes and delicious wines 
 while people were starving : we shake our heads, and wonder 
 at the barbarism of our grandfathers, — the serf-owners. — 
 who provided themselves with orchestras and theatres, and 
 emi)l()yed whole villages to keep up their gainh'ns. From tiie 
 height of our greatness лус wonder nt their inhumanity. We 
 read the words of Isaiah v. S, Woe unto them that join
 
 140 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 house to house, that lay field to field, till there be no room, 
 aud ye be made to dwell alone ia the midst of the laud. 
 
 li. Woe uuto tlieui that rise up early iu the morniug. that 
 they ma}' follow strong drink ; that tarry late into the night, 
 till wine inflame them ! 
 
 12. And the harp, aud the lute, the tabret, the pipe, and 
 wine, are in their feasts : but the}' regard not the work of the 
 Lord, neither have they considered the operation of his hands. 
 
 18. Woe unto them that draw iniquity with cords of vanity, 
 and sin as it were with a cart rope. 
 
 20. Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil ; 
 that put darkness for light, and light for darkness ; that put 
 bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter ! 
 
 21. Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes, and 
 prudent in their own sight ! 
 
 22. ЛУое unto them that are mighty to drink wine, and men 
 of strength to mingle strong- drink : 
 
 23. Which justify the wicked for reward, and take away 
 the righteousness of the righteous from him ! 
 
 ЛУе read these words, and it seems to us that they have 
 nothing to do with us. We read iu the Gospel, Matthew 
 iii. 10 : Aud even now is the axe laid unto the root of the 
 tree : every tree therefore that bringeth not forth good fruit 
 is hewn down, and cast into the fire. 
 
 And we are quite sui-e that the good tree bearing good fruit 
 is we ourselves, and that those words are said, not to us, but 
 to some other bad men. 
 
 ЛУе read the words of Isaiah vi. 10: Make the heart of 
 this people fat, and make their ears heav\-, and shut their 
 eyes ; lest they see witii their eyes^ and hear with their ears, 
 aud understand with their heart, and turn again, and be 
 healed. , 
 
 11. Then said I, Lord, how long? And he answered, 
 Until cities be waste without inhabitant, and houses with- 
 out man, and the land become utterly waste. 
 
 We read, and are quite assured that this wonderful thing 
 has not happened to us. but to some other people. But it is 
 for this very reason we do not see that this has happened to, 
 and is taking place with, us. ЛУе do not hear, we do not see, 
 and do not understand with our heart. But wh}- has it so 
 happened ?
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 141 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 HoAV can a man who considers himself to be, we will not 
 say a Christian, or an edncated and humane man, but siuii)ly 
 a man not entirely devoid of reason and of conscience, — 
 how can he, 1 say, live in such a way, that, not taking part 
 in the struggle of all mankind for life, he only swallows ui) 
 the labor of others, struggling for existence, and l)y his own 
 claims increases the labor of those who struggle, and the 
 number of those who perish in struggle? 
 
 And such men abound in our so-called Christian aiid cul- 
 tured world ; and not only do they abound in our world, but 
 the ver}' ideal of the men of our Christian, cultured world, is 
 to get the largest amount of property, — that is, wealth, — 
 which secures all comforts and idleness of life by freeing its 
 possessors from tlie struggle for existence, and enabling them, 
 as much as possible, to profit by the labor of those brothers 
 of theirs who perish in that struggle. 
 
 How could men have fallen into such astounding error? 
 
 How could they have come to such a state that they can 
 neither see nor hear nor understand with tlieir heart that 
 which is so clear, obvious, and certain ? 
 
 One need only tiiink for a moment in order to be terrified 
 at the contradiction of our lives to wliat we profess to 
 believe, we, wlietlier we be Christian, or only humane, edu- 
 cated people. Be it God or a law of nature that governs 
 the world and men, good or bad, the position of men in 
 this world, so long as we know it, has always been such 
 that naked men, without wool on their bodies, without holes 
 in which to take refuge, without food which they might 
 find in tlie field like Robinson Crusoe on his island, are 
 put into a position of a continual and incessant struggle 
 with nature in order to cover their bodies b}' making clotlies 
 for tliemselves, to protect themselves by a roof over their 
 heads, and to earn food in order twice or thrice a day to 
 satisfy tlieir hunger, and that of their cliildren and of their 
 {)arents. 
 
 Wlierover and whenever and to wliatever extent we 
 observe the lives of men, wlietlier in Europe, America, 
 China, or Russia ; whether we take into consideration all 
 mankind, or a small portion, whether in olden times in a 
 nomad state, or in modi'in times with steam-engines, steam-
 
 142 WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 ploughs, sewing-machiues, and electric light, — we shall see 
 one and the same thing going on, — that men, working con- 
 stantly and incessantly, are not able to get clothes, shelter, 
 and food for themselves, their little ones, and the old, and 
 that the greatest nnmber of men as well in olden times as 
 now perish from want of the necessaries of life and from 
 overwork. 
 
 Wherever we may live, if we draw a circle around us, of 
 a hundred thousand, or a thousand or ten, or even one mile's 
 circumference, and look at the lives of those men who are 
 inside our circle, we shall find half-starved children, old 
 people male and female, pregnant women, sick and weak 
 persons, woi'king beyond their strength, and who have 
 neither food nor rest enough to support them, and who, for 
 this reason, die before their time : we shall see others full- 
 grown, who are even killed by dangerous and hurtful tasks. 
 
 Since the лvorld has existed, Ave find that men with great 
 efforts, sufferings, and privations have been struggling for 
 their common Avants, and have not been able to overcome 
 the difficulty. 
 
 Besides, we also know that every one of us, wherever 
 and however he ma}' live, nolens volens, is ever}' day, and 
 every hour of the day, absorbing for himself a part of the 
 labor done b}' mankind. 
 
 WhereA^er and however he lives, his house, the roof over 
 him, do not grow of themselves ; the firewood in his stove 
 does not get there of itself ; the water did not come of itself 
 either ; and the baked bread does not fall down from the 
 sky ; his dinner, his clothes, and the covering for his feet, 
 all this has been made for him, not onlj^ by men of past 
 generations, long dead, but it is being done for him now 
 by those men of whom hundreds and thousands are fainting 
 awa}' and dying, in vain efforts to get for themselves and 
 for their children sufftcient shelter, food, and clothes, — 
 means to save themselves and their children from suffering 
 and a premature death. 
 
 All men are struggling with want. They are struggling 
 so intensely that always around them their brethren, 
 fathers, mothers, children, are perishing. Men in this 
 world are like those on a dismantled or water-logged ship, 
 witli a short allowance of food ; all are put by God, or iiy 
 nature, in such a position that they must husband their 
 food, and unceasingly war with want.
 
 WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 143 
 
 Each interruption in tliis work of every one of ns, each 
 absorption of the labor of others useless for the couiiuon 
 welfare, is ruinous, alike for us and them. 
 
 How is it that tlie majority of educated people, without 
 laboring, are quietly absorbing the labors of others, neces- 
 sary for their own lives, and are considering such an exist- 
 ence quite natural and reasonable? 
 
 If we are to free ourselves from the labor proper and 
 natural to all, and lay it on others, at the same time not 
 considering ourselves to be traitors and thieves, we can do 
 so only by two suppositions, — first, that we (the men who 
 take no pai't in common labor) are different beings from 
 workingmen, and have a peculiar destin}' to fulfil in society 
 (like drone-bees, which have a different function from the 
 working-bees) ; or secondly, that the business which we 
 (men freed from the struggle for existence) are doing for 
 other men is so useful for all that it undoubtedly compen- 
 sates for that harm which we do to others in overburdening 
 them. 
 
 In olden times, men who utilized the labor of others 
 asserted, first, tliat they belonged to a different race ; and 
 secondly, that they had from God a peculiar mission, — car- 
 ing for the welfare of others ; in other words, to gOA^ern and 
 teach them : and therefore, they assured others, and partly 
 believed themselves, that the business they did was more 
 useful and more important for the people than those labors 
 by which they profit. This justification was sufficient so 
 long as the direct interference of God in human affairs, and 
 the inecpiality of human races, was undoubted. 
 
 l)Ut with Christianit}', and the consciousness of the equality 
 and unit}' of all men proceeding from it, this justification 
 could no longer be expressed in its previous form. 
 
 It was no longer i)ossible to assert that men are born of 
 diffei'ent kind and qualit}', and having a different destiny ; 
 and the old justificaticni, th(Kigh still held by some, has been 
 little by little destroyed, and has now almost entirely disap- 
 peared. 
 
 But tliough the justification disappeared, the fact itself, 
 of the freeing of some men from labor, and the appropriation 
 by them of other men's labor, remained the same for those 
 who had the power of enforcing it. For this existing fact, 
 new excuses iiave constantly been invented, in order that, 
 without asserting the difference of human beings, men might
 
 144 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 be able to free theinselves from personal labor with apparent 
 justice. A great many such justifications have been in- 
 vented. 
 
 However strange it may seem, the main object of all that 
 has been called science, and tlie ruling tendene\' of science, 
 has been the seeking out of such excuse. 
 
 This has been the object of the theological sciences, and 
 of the science of law : this was tlie object of so-calltd 
 philosophy, and this became lately the object of modern 
 rationalistic science. All the theological subtleties whicli 
 aimed at proving that a certain church is the only true 
 successor of Christ, and that, therefore, she alone lias full 
 and uncontrolled power over the souls and bodies of men, 
 had in view this ver}' object. 
 
 All the legal sciences — those of state law, penal law, civil 
 law, and international law — have this sole aim : the majoiity 
 of philosophical theories, especially that of Hegel, which 
 reigned over the minds of men for such a long time, and 
 maintained the assertion that ever}' thing which exists is 
 reasonable, and that the state is a necessary form of the 
 development of human personality, had only this one object 
 in view. 
 
 . Comte's positive philosophy and its outcome, the doctrine 
 that mankind is an organism ; Darwin's doctrine of the 
 struggle for existence, directing life and. its conclusion, the 
 teaching of diversity of human races, the now so popular 
 anthropology, biology, and sociolog}', — all have the same 
 aim. These sciences have become favorites, because tliey all 
 serve for the justification of the existing fact of some men 
 being able to free themselves from the human dut}' of labor, 
 and to consume other men's labor. 
 
 All these theories, as is always the case, are worked out 
 in the m3'sterious sanctums of augurs, and in vague, unintelli- 
 gil)le exi)ressions are spread abroad among the masses, and 
 adopted by them. 
 
 As in olden times, the subtleties of theology, which justified 
 violence in church and state, were the special })ro[)eitv of 
 priests ; and in the masses of the i)eople, the conclusions, 
 taken by faith, and ready made for them, were circulated, 
 that the power of kings, clergy and nobility, was sacred : so 
 afterwards, the philoso[)hical and legal subtleties of so-called 
 science became the property" of the priests of science ; and 
 through the masses only the ready-made eouclusions*, accepted
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 145 
 
 by faith, that social order (the organization of societ}') 
 must l)e such as it is, and cannot be otherwise, Avas 
 ditfused. 
 
 So it is also now : it is only in the sanctuaries of the 
 modern sages that the laws of life and development of or- 
 ganisms are analyzed. Whereas in the crowd, the ready- 
 made conclusion accepted on trust, that division of labor is 
 a law, confirmed by science, is circulated, and that thus it 
 must be tliat some ai'e starving and toiling, and others 
 eternalh' feasting, and that this very ruin of some, and feasting 
 of others, is the undoubted law of man's life, to which we 
 must submit. 
 
 The current justification of their idleness of all so-called 
 educated people, with their various activities, from the 
 railway pro[)rietor down to the author and artist, is this : 
 AVe men who have freed ourselves from the common human 
 duty of taking part in the struggle for existence, are furthering 
 progress, and so we are of great use to all human society, of 
 such use that it counteibalances all the harm we do the people 
 by consuming their labor. 
 
 This reasoning seems to the men of our day to be not at 
 all like the reasoning by which the former non-workers 
 justifii.41 themselves ; just as the reasoning of the Roman 
 empei'ors and citizens, that but for them the civilized woi-ld 
 would go to ruin, seemed to them to be of quite another 
 order to that of the Egyptians and Persians, and so also an 
 exactly similar kind of reasoning seemed in turn to the knights 
 and clergy of the Middle Ages totally ditfereut from that of 
 the Romans. 
 
 But it only seems to be so. One need but reflect upon 
 the justification of our time in order to ascertain that in it 
 there is nothing new. It is only a little differently dressed 
 u|). Init it is the same because it is based upon the same 
 principle. Every justification of one man's consumption of 
 till' 1а1)()Г of others, while producing none himself, as with 
 I'haraoh and his soothsayers, the emperors of Rome and 
 those of the ^Middle Ages and their citizens, knights, priests, 
 and clergy, always consists in these two assertions : Eirst, 
 we take the labor of the masses, because we are a peculiar 
 people, called by God to govern them, and to teach them 
 divine truths ; secondh', those who compose tlie masses 
 cannot he judges of the measure of labor which we take 
 from them for the good we do for them, because, as it has
 
 146 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 been said by the Pharisees, " This multitiide which kuoweth 
 not the law are accursed " (John vii. 49). 
 
 The people do not understand wherein lies their good, and 
 therefore they cannot be judges of the benefits done to them. 
 The justification of our time, notwithstanding all apparent 
 originality, in fact consists of the same fundamental asser- 
 tions : First, we are a peculiar people, — we are an educated 
 people, — we further progress and civilization, and by this 
 fact, we procure for the masses a great advantage. Sec- 
 ondly, the uneducated crowd does not understand that 
 advantage which we procure for them, and therefore cannot 
 be judges of it. 
 
 The fundamental assertions are the same. We free our- 
 selves from labor, appropriate the labor of others, and by 
 this increase the burden of our fellows, and assert that in 
 compensation for this we bring them a greater advantage, of 
 which they, owing to their ignorance, cannot be judges. 
 
 Is it not, then, the same thing? The only difference lies in 
 this, that formerly the citizens, the Roman priests, the 
 kniglits, and tlie nobility, had claims on other men's labor, 
 and now these claims are put forward by a caste who term 
 themselves educated. 
 
 The lie is the same, because the men who justify them- 
 selves are in the same false position. The lie consists in the 
 fact, that, before beginning to reason about the advantages 
 conferred on the people by men wiio have freed themselves 
 from labor, certain men, Pharaohs, priests, or we ourselves, — 
 educated people. — assume this position, and only afterwards 
 excogitate a justification for it. 
 
 This very position of some men who oppressed others, 
 in former time as now, serves as a universal basis. The 
 difference of our justification from the ancient ones, consists 
 only in the fact that it is more false, and less well grounded. 
 The old emperors and popes, if they themselves and the peo- 
 ple believed in their divine calling, could plainly explain why 
 the}' were the men to control the labor of others : they said 
 that they were appointed b}' ftod himself for this very thing, 
 and from God they had a commandment to teach the people 
 divine truths revealed to them, and to govern them. 
 
 But modern, educated men, who do not labor with their 
 hands, acknowledging the equality of all men, cannot explain 
 why they in particular and their children (for education is 
 only by шопе}' ; that is, by power) are those lucky [lersons
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 147 
 
 who are called to an immaterial, easy utility, out of those 
 millions who by hundreds and thousands are perishing in 
 making it possible for them to be educated. Their only jus- 
 tilicatiou consists in this, that they, such as the}' now are, 
 instead of doing harm to the people by freeing themselves 
 from labor, and by swallowing up labor, bring to the people 
 an advantage unintelligible to them, which compensates for 
 all the evil perpetrated upon them. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The theory by which men who have freed themselves from 
 personal labor justify themselves in its simplest and most 
 exact form, is this : We men, having freed ourselves from 
 work, and having by violence appropriated the labor of oth- 
 ers, find ourselves better able to benefit them ; in other 
 words, certain men, for doing the people a palpable and 
 comi)rehensil)le harm, — utilizing by violence their labor, and 
 thereby increasing the difficulty of their struggles with nature, 
 — do to them an impalpable and incomprehensible good. 
 
 This i)roposition is a very strange one ; but men, as well of 
 former as also of modern times, who have lived on the labors 
 of workingmen, believe it, and calm their conscience by it. 
 Let us see in what way it is justified in different classes of 
 men, who have freed themselves from labor in our own days. 
 
 I serve men by my activity in state or church, — as king, 
 minister, archbishop; I serve men by my trading or by in- 
 dustry ; I serve men by my activity in the departments of 
 science or art. 
 
 By our activities we are all as necessary to the people as 
 they are to us. 
 
 80 say various men of to-day, who have freed themselves 
 from laboring. 
 
 Let us consider seriatim those principles upon which they 
 base the usefulness of tlieir activity. 
 
 There are only two indications of the usefulness of any 
 activity of one man for another: an exterior indication, — 
 tile acknowledgment of the utility of activity by those to 
 whom it is produced ; and an interior indication, — the desire 
 to be of use to otliers lying at the root of the activity of the 
 one who is trying to be of use. 
 
 Statesmen (I include the Church dignitaries ai)[)uinted liy
 
 148 -WUAT MUST WE no THEN? 
 
 the govern ment in the category of statesmen) are of use to 
 those Avhom the}' govern. Tlie emperor, the king, the pres- 
 ident of a republic, the prime minister, the minister of justice, 
 the minister of war, the minister of public instruction, the 
 bishop, and all under them, ^\\ю serve the state, all live, 
 having freed themselves from the struggle of mankind for 
 existence, and having laid all the burden of this struggle upon 
 other men, upon the ground that their non-activity compen- 
 sates for this. 
 
 Let us appl}' the first indication to those for whose welfare 
 the activity of statesmen is bestowed. Do they, I ask, rec- 
 ognize the usefulness of this activity'? 
 
 Yes, it is recognized : most men consider statesmanship 
 necessary to them ; the majorit}- recognize the usefulness of 
 this activity' in principle ; but in all its manifestations as 
 known to us, in all particular cases as known to us, the use- 
 fulness of each of the institutions and of each of the mani- 
 festations of this actiA'ity is not only denied, by those for 
 whose advantage it is performed, but they assert that this 
 activity is even pernicious and hurtful. There is no state 
 function or social activit}' which is not considered by many 
 men to be hurtful : there is no institution which is not con- 
 sidered pernicious, — courts of justice, banks, local self-gov- 
 ernment, police, clergy. Every state activity, fi'om the 
 minister down to the policeman, from the bishop to the sex- 
 ton, is considered b}' some men to be useful, and b}' others 
 to be pernicious. And this is the case, not only in Eussia, 
 but throughout the world, in France as well as in America. 
 
 All the activity of the republican party is considered per- 
 nicious In' the radical party, and vice versa : all the actiA'ity 
 of the radical party, if the power is in their hands, is con- 
 sidered bad by the republican and other parties. But not 
 only is it a fact that the activit}' of statesmen is пел'ег con- 
 sidered b}' all men to be useful, their activity has, besides, 
 this peculiarity, that it must always be carried out b}- vio- 
 lence, and that, in order to attain this end, there are necessary, 
 murders, executions, prisons, taxes raised b}' force, and so 
 on. 
 
 It therefore appears, that besides the fact that the useful- 
 ness of state activit}' is not recognized by all men. and is 
 always denied by one portion of men, this usefulness has 
 the peculiarity of vindicating itself always b}' violence. 
 
 And therefore the usefulness of state activity cannot be
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 149 
 
 confirmed by the fact thut it is recognized by tliose men for 
 whom it is performed. 
 
 Let us apply the second test : let us a,sk statesmen them- 
 selves, from the tsar down to the policeman, from the presi- 
 dent to the secretary, from the patriarch to the sexton, 
 begging for a sincere answer, Avhether, in occupying their 
 respective positions, they have in view the good which they 
 wish to do for men, or something else. In their desire to lill 
 the situation of a tsar, a president, a minister, a police- 
 sergeant, a sexton, a teacher, are the}' moved by the 
 desire of being useful to men, or for their own personal 
 advantage? And the answer of sincere men would be, that 
 their chief motive is their own personal advantage. 
 
 And so it appears that one class of men, who utilize the 
 labor of others who perish bv their labors, compensate for 
 such an undoubted evil bj- an activity which is always con- 
 sidered by a great many men to be not only useless, but 
 pernicious ; which cannot be voluntarily accepted by men, 
 but to which they must alwa^'s be compelled, and the aim of 
 which is not the benefit of othei's, but the personal advan- 
 tage of those men who perform it. 
 
 What is it, then, that confiims the theory that state activity 
 is useful for men ? Onl}' the fact that those men who per- 
 form it, firmly believe it to be useful, and that it has been 
 alwa3's in existence ; but so have always been not only use- 
 less institutions, but very pernicious ones, like slavery, 
 prostitution, and wars. 
 
 business people (merchants, manufacturers, railway pro- 
 prietors, bankers, land-owners) believe in the fact that they 
 do a good which undoubtedly' compensates for the harm done 
 by them. Upon what grounds do they believe it? To the 
 question by whom the usefulness of their activity is recog- 
 nized, men in church and in state are able to point to tlie 
 thousands and millions of working-people who in principle 
 recognize the usefulness of state and church activity ; but to 
 whom will bankers, distillers, manufacturers of velvet, of 
 bronzes, of looking-glasses, to say nothing of guns, — to 
 whom will thej' point when we ask them is their usefulness 
 recognized by the majority? 
 
 Jf there can bo found men who recognize the usefulness of 
 manufacturing chintzes, rails, beer, and such like things, 
 tiicrc will be found also a still greater number of men who 
 consider the manufacture of these articles pernicious.
 
 150 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 And as foi- the activity of merchants who raise the prices 
 of all articles, and that of laud-owners, nobody would even 
 attempt to justify it. 
 
 Besides, this activity is always associated with the harm 
 done to working-people and with violence, if less direct than 
 that of the state, yet just as cruel in its consequences : for 
 the activities displayed in industry and in trade are entirely 
 based upon taking advantage of the wants of working-people 
 in every form, in order to compel workingmen to hard and 
 hated labor ; to buy all goods cheap, and to sell to the people 
 the articles necessary for them at the highest possible price ; 
 and to raise the interest on money. P"'rom whatever point 
 we consider their activit}', we see that the usefulness of Inisi- 
 ness-men is not recognized by those for whom it is expended, 
 neither in principle nor in particular cases ; and by the 
 majorit}' their activity is considered to be directly i)ernicious. 
 If we were to apply the second test, and to ask. What is the 
 chief motive of the activity of business-men? we should 
 receive a still more determinate answer than that on the 
 activit}' of statesmen. 
 
 If a statesman says that besides a personal advantage he 
 has in view the common benefit, we cannot help believing 
 him, ami each of us knows such men ; but a business-man, 
 from the very nature of his occu[)ations, cannot have in view 
 a common advantage, and would be ridiculous in the sight of 
 his fellows if he were in his. business aiming at something 
 besides the increasing of his own wealth and the keeping of 
 it. And, therefore, working-people do not consider the 
 activity of business-men of any help to them. Their 
 activity is associated with violence towards such people ; and 
 its object is not their good, but always and onl}' personal 
 advantage ; and lo ! strange to say, these business-men are 
 so assured of their own usefulness that they boldly, for the 
 sake of this imaginary good, do an undoubted, obvious harm 
 to workingmen by extricating themselves from laboring, and 
 consuming the labor of the working-classes. Men of science 
 and of art have freed themselves from laboring by putting 
 this labor on others, and live with a quiet conscience, think- 
 ing they bring a sufficient advantage to other men to com- 
 pensate for it. 
 
 On what is their assurance based? Let us ask them as we 
 have done statesmen and business-men. 
 
 Is the utility of the arts and sciences recognized by all, or 
 even ])y the majorit}', of working-people?
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 151 
 
 "We shall гесегл'е a very deplorable answer. The activity 
 of men in church and state is recognized to be useful in 
 theory b}^ almost all, and in application by the majority of 
 those for Avhom it is performed ; the activity of business-men 
 is recognized as useful by a small number of working-people ; 
 but the activity of men of science and of art is not recog- 
 nized to be useful b}' any of the working-class. The useful- 
 ness of their activity is recognized only by those who are 
 engaged in it, or who desire to practise it. Those who bear 
 upon their shoulders all the labor of life, and who feed and 
 clothe the men of science and art, cannot recognize the useful- 
 ness of the activity of these men, because they cannot even 
 form any idea about an activity which alwa3's appears to 
 workingmen useless and even depraving. 
 
 Thus, without any exception, working-people think the 
 same of univx'rsities. libraries, conservatories, picture and 
 statue galleries, and theatres, which are built at their expense. 
 
 A workingman considers this activit}' to be so decidedly 
 pernicious that he does not send his children to be taught ; 
 and in order to compel peo[)le to accept this activity, it has 
 been everywhere found necessary to introduce a law com- 
 pelling parents to send the children to school. 
 
 A workingman always looks at this activity with ill-will, 
 and only ceases to look at it so when he ceases to be a work- 
 ingman, and having saved money, and been educated, he 
 passes out of the class of working-people into the class of 
 men who live upon the necks of others. 
 
 And notwithstanding the fact that the usefulness of the 
 activity of men of science and art is not recognized, and even 
 cannot be recognized, b}- any лтогктап, these men are all the 
 same compelled to make a sacrifice for such an activity. 
 
 A statesman simply sends another to the guillotine or to 
 prison ; a business-man, utilizing the labor of another, takes 
 away from him his last resource, leaving Iiim the alternative 
 of starvation, or labor destructive of his health and life : but 
 a man of science or of art seemingly compels nobody to do 
 any thing ; he merely offers the good he has done to those who 
 are willing to take it ; but, in order to be able to make his 
 productions undesiral)le to the working-people, he takes 
 away from the people, by violence, throngli the statesmen, 
 the greatest part of their labor for the building and keeping 
 oi)en of academics, universities, colleges, schools, museums, 
 lil)raries, conservatories, and for the wages for himself and 
 his fellows.
 
 152 WHAT MUST WE T)0 THEN? 
 
 But if we were to ask men of science and art al)oiit the 
 object which they are pursuiiio; in their activity, we slionld 
 receive the most astonishing rci^ies. 
 
 A statesman would answer that his aim was tlie common 
 welfare ; and in his answer, there would be an admixture of 
 ti'uth confirmed by public opinion. 
 
 In the answer of the business-man, that his aim was sooi-d 
 welfare, there would be less probability ; but we could admit 
 even this also. 
 
 But the answer of men of science and art strikes one at 
 once by its want of proof and by its effrontery. .Such men 
 say, without bringing any proofs, just as priests used to do 
 in olden times, that their activity is the most important of 
 all, and the most necessar}^ for all men, and that without it 
 all mankind would go to ruin. They assert that it is so, 
 notwithstanding the fact that nobody except they themselves 
 eitlier understands or acknowledges their activit}', and not- 
 withstanding the fact that, according to their own definition, 
 true science and true art should not have a utilitarian aim. 
 
 These men are occupied with the matter they like, without 
 troubling themselves what advantage will come out of it to 
 men ; and they are always assured that the}' are doing the 
 most important thing, and the most necessar}' for all man- 
 kind. 
 
 So that while a sincere statesman, acknowledging that the 
 chief motive of his activity is a [)ersonal one, tries to be as 
 useful as possible t(^ the working-people ; while a business- 
 man, acknowledging the egotism of his activity, tries to 
 give it an appearance of being one of universal utility, — 
 men of science and art do not consider it necessary to seem 
 to shelter themselves under a pretence of usefulness : they 
 deny even the object of usefulness, so sure are they, not 
 oidy of the usefulness, but even of the sacredness, of their 
 own business. 
 
 And now it turns out that the third class of men, who 
 have freed themselves from labor, and have laid it on other 
 men, are occupied with things which are totally incompre- 
 hensible to working-people, and Avhich these people consider 
 to be trirtes, and often very pernicious trifles; and are occu- 
 pied with these things without any consideration of their 
 usefulness, but merely for the gratification of their own 
 pleasure : it turns out that these men are. from some reason 
 or other, quite assured that their activity will always produce
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 153 
 
 that without which working-people would never be able to 
 exist. 
 
 Men have freed themselves from laboring for their living, 
 and have thrown the work upon others, who perish under it : 
 the}' utilize this labor, and assert that their occupations, which 
 are incomprehensible to all other men, and which are not 
 directed to useful aims, compensate for all the evil they are 
 doing to men by freeing themselves from the labor of earn- 
 ing their livelihood, and swallowing up the labor of others. 
 
 The statesman, in order to compensate for that undoubted 
 and obvious evil which he does to man by freeing himsi'lf 
 from the struggle with nature, and by appropriating the 
 labor of others, does men another obvious and undoubted 
 harm by countenancing all sorts of violence. 
 
 The business-man, in order to compensate for that un- 
 dou!)ted and ol)vious harm which he does to men by using 
 u[) their labor, tries to earn for himself as much wealth as 
 possible ; that is, as much of other men's labor as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 The man of science and art, in compensating for the 
 same undoubted and obvious harm which he dix's to working- 
 pco|)le, is occu[)ied with matters to which he feels attracted, 
 and which is quite incom[)reliensible to working-people, and 
 which, according to his own assertion, in order to be a true 
 one, ought not to aim at usefulness. 
 
 And therefore, all these men are quite sure that their 
 right of utilizing other men's labor is secure. Yet it seems 
 ()l)vious that all those men who have freed themselves from 
 the labor of earning their livelihood have no ground for 
 doing this. 
 
 But, strange to say, these men firmly believe in their own 
 ]-ighteousness, and live as they do with an easy conscience. 
 There must be some plausible ground, some false belief, at 
 the bottom of such a profound error. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And, in reality, the position in which men, living b}^ other 
 men's labor, are placed, is l)ased, not only upon a certain 
 belief, but upon an entire docti'ine ; and not only on one 
 doctrine, l)ut on three, which have giown one upon another 
 duiing centuries, and are now fused together into an awful
 
 154 WHAT MUST WE DO TUENf 
 
 deceit, or humbug as the English cull it, which hides from 
 men tiieir unrighteousness. 
 
 Tlie oldest ot these in our world, whicii justifies the treason 
 of men against the fundamental duty of labor to earn their 
 livelihood, was the Church-Christian doctrine, according to 
 which men, by the will of God, differ one from another, as 
 the suu differs from the moon and the stars, and as one star 
 differs from another. Some men God ordains to have domin- 
 ion over all ; others to have power over many ; others, still, 
 over a few ; and the remainder are ordained by God to 
 obey. 
 
 This doctrine, though already shaken to its foundations, 
 still continues to iufiueuce some men. so that many who do 
 not accept it, who often even ignore the existence of it, are, 
 nevertheless, guided by it. 
 
 The second is what I cannot help terming the State-philo- 
 sophical doctrine. According to it, as fully developed by 
 Hegel, all that exists is reasonable, and the established order 
 of life is constant and sustained, not merel}' by men, but as 
 the only possible form of the manifestation of the spirit, or, 
 generall}', of the life of mankind. 
 
 This doctrine, too. is no longer accepted b}" men who direct 
 social opinion, and it holds its position only by the propert}' 
 of inertia. 
 
 Tlie last doctrine, Avhich is now ruling the minds of men, 
 and on which is based the justification as well of leading 
 statesmen as also of leading men of business and of science 
 and art, is a scientific one, not in the evident sense of the 
 word, meaning knowledge generally, but in the sense of a 
 knowledge peculiar in form as well as in matter, termed sci- 
 ence in particular. On this new doctrine particularly is 
 based in our days the justification of man's idleness, hiding 
 from him his treason against his calling. 
 
 This new doctrine appeared in Europe contemporaneously 
 with a large class of rich and idle people, who served neither 
 the church nor the state, and who were in лvant of a justifi- 
 cation of their position. 
 
 Not very long ago in France, before the revolution in En- 
 rope, it was always the case that all non-working people, in 
 order to have a right to utilize other men's labor, were 
 obliged to have some definite occupation, — to serve in the 
 church, the state, or the army. 
 
 Men who served the government, governed the people ;
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 155 
 
 those who served the church, taught the people divine truths ; 
 and those who served the army, protected the people. 
 
 Only these three classes of men — the cleroy, the states- 
 men, and the military men — claimed for themselves the 
 right of utilizing workingmen's labor, and the}' could always 
 point out their services to the people : the remaining lich 
 men, who had not this justification, were despised, and, feel- 
 ing tlieir own want of right, were ashamed of their wealth 
 and of their idleness. But as time went on, this class of rich 
 people, who did not belong either to the clerg\-, to the gov- 
 ernment, or to the arm}', owing to the vices of these three 
 classes, increased in number, and became a powerful party. 
 They were in want of a justification of their position. And 
 one was invented for them. A century had not elapsed when 
 the men who did not serve either the state or the church, 
 and who took no part whatever in their affairs, received the 
 same right to live by other men's labor as the former classes ; 
 and they not only left off being ashamed of their wealth and 
 idleness, but began to consider their position quite justified. 
 And tiie number of such men has increased, and is still in- 
 creasing in our days. 
 
 And the most wonderful of all is this, that these men, the 
 same whose claims to be freed from lal)()ring were unrecog- 
 nized not long ago, now consider tliemselves alone to be fully 
 right, and are attacking the foi'mer three classes, — the ser- 
 vants of the church, state, and army, — alleging their exemp- 
 tion from labor to be be unjust, and often even considering 
 their activity to be directly pernicious. And what is still 
 more wonderful is this, that the former servants of church, 
 state, and army, do not now lean upon the divineness of 
 their calling, nor even upon the philosophy which considers 
 tlie state necessary for individual development, but they set 
 aside these supports Avliich have so long maintained them, 
 and are now seeking the same supports on svhich the пелу 
 reigning class of men, who have found a novel justification, 
 stands, and at the head of which are the men of science 
 and art. 
 
 If a statesman now sometimes, appealing to old memories, 
 justifies his position l)y the fact that he was set in it by God, 
 or l)y the fact that the state is a form of the development of 
 personality, he does it because he is behind the age, and he 
 feels tliat nobody believes him. 
 
 In order to justify himself effectually, he ought to find now
 
 156 WHAT 3IUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 neither theological nor pliilosophieal, but other new, scien- 
 tiiic supports. 
 
 It is necessary to point to tlie principle of nationalities, op 
 to that of the development of an organism ; and to gain over 
 the ruling class, as in the Middle Ages, it was necessary to 
 gain over the clergy ; and as at the end of tlie last century, 
 it was necessary to obtain the sanction of philosoi)hers, as 
 seen in the case of Frederick the Great and Catherine of 
 Russia. If now a rich man, after the old fashion, says 
 sometimes that it is God's providence which makes him rich, 
 or if he points to the importance of a nobility for the welfare 
 of a state, he does it because he is behind the times. 
 
 In order to justify himself completel}', he must point to his 
 furtliering progress and civilization by improving the modes 
 of production, by lowering the prices of consumption, by 
 establishing an intercourse between nations. A rich man 
 ought to think and to si)eak in scientific language, and, as 
 the clergy formerly, he has to offer sacrifices to the ruling 
 class : he must publish magazines and books, provide him- 
 self with a pictiu'e-galler}', a musical society, a kindergarten 
 or a teciuiical school. The ruling class is the class of learned 
 men and artists of a definite character. They possess com- 
 plete justification for having freed themselves from laboring ; 
 and upon this justification (as in former times upon the 
 theological justification, and afterwards upon the philosophical 
 one) all is based: and it is these men who now give the 
 diploma of exemption to other classes. 
 
 Tlie class of men wlio now feel completely justified in free- 
 ing themselves from labor, is that of men of science, and 
 particularly of experimental, positive, critical, evolutional 
 science, and of artists who develop their ideas according to 
 this tendency. 
 
 If a learned man or an artist, after the old fashion, speaks 
 nowadays about prophecy', revelation, or the manifestation 
 of the si)irit, he does so because he is behind the age, but lie 
 will not succeed in justifying himself : in order to stand firm 
 he must try to associate his activity with experimental, posi- 
 tive, critical science, and he must make this science the 
 fundamental principle of his activity. Then only would the 
 science or the art with which he is occupied appear to be a 
 true one, and he would then stand in our days on firm ground, 
 and then will there be no doubt as to the usefulness he is 
 bringing to mankind. The justification of all those who have
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO TUEN? 157 
 
 freed themselves from laboring is based upon experimental, 
 critical, positive science. 
 
 The theological and philosophical explanations have already 
 had their day : they timitlly and bashfiiU}' now introduce 
 themselves to notice, and try to humor their scientific usurper, 
 which, however, boldly knocks down and destroys the rem- 
 nants of the past, everywhere taking its place, and with assur- 
 ance in its own firmness lifts aloft its head. 
 
 Tlie theological justification maintained that men b}' their 
 destination are called, — some to govern, others to obey; 
 some to live sumptuously, others to lal)or : and therefore 
 those Avho believed in the revelation of God could not doubt 
 the lawfulness of the position of those men, who, according 
 to the will of God, are called to govern and to be rich. 
 
 The state-philosophical justification used to saj^ The state 
 with all its institutions and differences of classes, according 
 to rights and possessions, is that historical form which is 
 necessary for the right manifestation of the spirit in man- 
 kind ; and therefore the situation which ел-егу one occupies 
 in state and in society according to his rights and to his pos- 
 sessions must be sucli as to insure the sound life of mankind. 
 
 The sciottific theory says, All this is nonsense and super- 
 stition : the one is the fruit of the theological period of 
 thought, and the other of the metaphysical period. 
 
 For the study of the laws of the life of human societies, 
 there is ojily one sure method, — that of a positive, experi- 
 mental, critical science. It is onlj' sociology based upon 
 liiology. l)ased again upon all other positive sciences, which 
 is able to give us new laws of the life of mankind. Man- 
 kind, or human societies, are organisms either already perfect, 
 or in a state of development subject to all the laws of the 
 evolution of organisms. One of the first of these laAvs is the 
 division of labor among the portions of the organs. If some 
 men govern, and others obey, some live in opulence, and others 
 in want, tlien this takes place, neither according to the will of 
 God. nor because tlie state is the form of the manifestation of 
 personality, but because in societies as in organisms a division 
 of labor takes place which is necessary for the life of the 
 Avliole. Some men perform in societies the muscular part of 
 labor, and others the mental. 
 
 Upon tliis doctrine is built the iiiling excuse of the age.
 
 158 WHAT MU6T WE DO THEN I 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Christ teaches men in a new way, and this teaching is 
 written down in the Gospels. 
 
 Jt is lirst persecuted, and tlien accepted ; and upon it at 
 once a complete system of theological dogma is invented, 
 which is thereafter accepted for the teaching of Christ. The 
 system is absurd, it has -no foundation ; but by virtue of it, 
 men are led to believe that they may continue to live in an 
 evil way, and none the less be Christians. And this con- 
 clusion is so agreeable to the mass of weak men, who have 
 no affection for moral effort, that the system is eagerly ac- 
 cepted, not only as true, but even as the Divine truth as 
 revealed by God himself. And the invention becomes the 
 groundwork on which for centuries theologians build their 
 theories. 
 
 Then by degrees these learned men diverge by various 
 •channels into special systems of their own, and finally en- 
 deavor to overthrow each other's theories. They begin to 
 feel tliere is something amiss, and cease to understand what 
 they themselves are talking about. But the crowd still 
 requires them to expound its favorite instruction ; and thus 
 the theologians, pretending both to understand and believe 
 what they are saying, continue to dispense it. 
 
 In process of time, however, the conclusions dra,wn from 
 theological conceptions cease to be necessar}' to the masses, 
 who, then, peeping into the very sanctuaries of their augurs, 
 discover them to be utterly \o\(X of those glorious and indu- 
 bitable truths which the m3'steries of theology had seemed to 
 suggest. 
 
 The same happened to pliilosoph}', not in the sense of the 
 wisdom of men like Confucius or Kpictetus, but with profes- 
 sional i)hilosoi)hy, Avlien it humored the instincts of the crowd 
 of lich and idle people. Not long ago in the learned Avorld, 
 a moral philosoi)hy was in fashion, according to Avhich it ap- 
 peared that every thing that is, is reasonable ; that there is 
 neither good nor evil ; that man has not to struggle with evil, 
 but has merel}^ to manifest the spirit, some in military ser- 
 \'ice, some in courts of justice, and some on the violin. 
 
 Many and various were the expressions of human wisdom, 
 and as such were known to the men of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury, — Rousseau, Pascal, Lessing, and Si)int)za ; and all tiie
 
 WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 159 
 
 wisdom of antiquity was expounded, but none of its systems 
 laid liold of the crowd. We cannot say that Hegel's success 
 was due to the harmony of his theor}'. We had no less 
 harmonious theories from Descartes, Leibnitz, Fichte, and 
 »Schoi)enhauer. 
 
 There was only one reason for the fact that this doctrine 
 became for a short time the belief of the civilized world, the 
 same which had caused the success of theology ; to wit, that 
 tlie deductions of this philosophical theory humored the 
 weak side of men's nature. It said, All is reasonable, all 
 is good ; nobody is to blame for any thing. 
 
 And as at first with the church upon theological founda- 
 tions, so also, with the philosophy of Hegel for a base, a 
 Babel's tower was built (some who are behind the age, are 
 still sitting upon it) ; and here again was a confusion of 
 tongues, men feeling that they themselves did not know of 
 what they were talking, but trying to conceal their ignorance, 
 and to keep their prestige before the crowd. 
 
 When I began life, Hegelianism was the order of the day ; 
 it was in the very air you breathed ; it found its expression 
 in newspapers and magazines, in lectni'es upon histor}' and 
 u[)on law, in novels, in tracts, in art, in sermons, in conver- 
 sation. A man who did not know Hegel, had no right to 
 open his mouth ; those who desired to learn the truth, were 
 studying Hegel, — every thing pointed to him; and lo ! 
 foity years have elapsed, and nothing is left of him ; there is 
 no remembrance of him ; all is as though he had never ex- 
 isted. And the most remarkable of all is, that as false 
 Christianity, so also Hegelianism has fallen, not because 
 some one had refuted or overthrown it ; no, it is now as it 
 was Ijefore, l)ut both have only become no longer necessary 
 for the learned, educated world. 
 
 If, at the present time, any man of culture is questioned 
 a1)out the system of theological dogma, he will neither contra- 
 dict nor argue, but will simply ask, " Wh}' should I believe 
 these dogmas? " — " What good are they to me? " 
 
 So also with Hegelianism. No one of our day will argue 
 its theses. He will only inquire, '' What Spirit? " " Where 
 did it come from?" ''With what purpose?" "What good 
 will it do me?" Not very long ago the sages of Hege- 
 lianism were solemnly teaching the croAvd ; and the crowd, 
 understanding nothing, blindly believed all, finding the 
 confirmation of what suited them, and thinking that what
 
 IGO WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 seemed to them to be not quite clear or even contradictory, 
 ou the heiglits of philosophy was clearer tluiii day : but 
 time went ou, the theor}^ was worn out, a new one appeared 
 in its place, the former oue was no longer demanded, and 
 again the crowd looked into the m3"sterious temples of the 
 augurs, and saw there was nothing tliere, and that notliing 
 had ever been there but words, very dark and nK-auiiigk^ss. 
 
 (This happened within ni}'^ memory.) Tiiese tilings 
 hap[)ened, we are told, because they were ravings of the 
 theological and metaphysical period ; but now луе have a 
 critical, positive science, which will not deceive us, because 
 it is based upon induction and experience. Now our knowl- 
 edge is no longer uncertain as it formerly was, and it is 
 only by following it that oue can find the answer to all the 
 questions of life. 
 
 But this is exactly the same that was said b}^ the old 
 teachers, and they certainly were no fools, and we know 
 that among them were men of immense intellect ; and within 
 my memory the disciples of Ilegel said exactly the same 
 thing, with no less assurance and no less acknowledgment 
 on the side of the crowd of so-called educated people. And 
 such men as our Herzen, Stankievich, Byelinsky, were no 
 fools either. But why, then, has this wonderful thing hap- 
 pened that clever men preached with the greatest assurance, 
 and the crowd accepted with л'eueration such groundless 
 and meaningless doctrines? Tiie reason of it is only that 
 these doctrines justified men in their bad mode of living. 
 
 A very commonplace P^nglish writer, whose books are 
 now almost forgotten, and recognized as the emptiest of 
 all empt}' ones, wrote a tract upon population, in which he 
 invented an imaginar}' law that the means of living does 
 not increase with increase of [)oi)ulatiou. This sham law 
 the author dressed out with formulaj of mathematics, whicii 
 have no foundation whatever, and [)ublished it. Judged 
 by the lightness of mind and the want of talent disi)layed 
 in this treatise, we might suppose that it would have passed 
 unnoticed, and been forgotten as all other writings of the 
 same author have been ; l)ut it turned out quite differently. 
 The author who wrote it became at once a scientitic au- 
 thority, and has maintained this high position for nearly 
 half a century. Malthus ! The iMalthusian theory, — the 
 law of the increase of population \n geometrical progression, 
 and the increase of means- of living in arithmetical [)rogres-
 
 WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 161 
 
 sion, and the natural and prudent means of restraining the 
 increase of population, — all these became scientilic, un- 
 doubted truths which have never been verified, but, being 
 accepted as axioms, have served for further deductions. 
 
 Thus learned, educated men were deceived ; Avhereas 
 in the crowd of idle men, there was a devout trust in the 
 great laws, discovered by Malthus. How, then, did this hap- 
 pen? These seem to be scientific deductions, which hatl 
 nothing in common Avith the instincts of the crowd. 
 
 But this is so only to those who believe science to be some- 
 thing self-existent, liice the Church, not liable to errors, and 
 not merely the thoughts of weak men liable to mistakes, who 
 only for importance' sake call by a pompous word, science, 
 their own thoughts and words. It was only necessary to 
 draw practical conclusions from the Malthusiau theory in 
 order to see that it was quite a human one with very de- 
 terminate aims. 
 
 The deductions which followed directly from this theory 
 were the following : The miserable condition of working- 
 people does not come from the crueltj', egotism, and un- 
 reasonableness of rich and strong men, but it exists according 
 to an unchangeable law which does not depend upon man, 
 and, if an3'body is to blame, it is the starving working- 
 l)eople themselves : why do these fools come into the Avorld 
 when the}^ know that they will not have enough to cat? and 
 therefore the wealthy and powerful classes are not at all 
 to blame for any thing, and they may quietl}' continue to 
 live as they have done. 
 
 This conclusion, precious to the crowd of idle men, in- 
 duced all learned men to overlook the incorrectness and 
 total arljitrariness of the deductions ; and the crowd of edu- 
 cated idle people, instinctively guessing to what these 
 deductions led, greeted the theory with delight, set ui)on 
 it the seal of truth, and cherished it during half a century. 
 The reason for all this Avas, that these doctrines justified 
 men in their bad mode of life. 
 
 Is not the same cause at the bottom of the self-assurance 
 of men of positive, critical, experimental science, and of 
 the reverent regard of the crowd to what they preach? At 
 first it ai)pears strange that the theor}' of evolution justifies 
 men in their unrighteousness, and that the scientilic tiieoi-y 
 has only to do with facts, and does nothing else than observe 
 facts. But it only seems so.
 
 162 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 So it had been with theological teaching ; theology 
 seemed to be occu[)ied only with doctrines, and to liave 
 notliing to do with the lives of men : so it had been 
 with philosophy, which also seemed to be occupied only with 
 facts. 
 
 So it had been with the teaching of Hegel on a large 
 scale, and with the theory of Malthus on a small one. 
 Hegelianism seemed to be occupied merely with its logical 
 constructions, and to have nothing to do with the lives of 
 men ; so with the theory of Malthus, which seemed to be 
 occupied exclusively with statistics. 
 
 But it only seemed so. 
 
 Modern science is also occupied exclusively with facts : it 
 studies facts. 
 
 But what facts? Why such facts, and not others? 
 
 The men of modern science are very fond of speaking 
 with a solemn assurance, '' ^Уe study facts alone," imagin- 
 ing that these words have some meaning. 
 
 To study facts alone is quite impossible, because the num- 
 ber of facts, which may be objects of our study, are count- 
 less, in the strict sense of the word. 
 
 Before beginning to study facts, one must have some 
 theory, according to which facts are studied ; that is, these 
 or those being selected from the countless number of facts. 
 And this theory indeed exists, and is even very definitely 
 expressed, though many of the agents of modern science 
 ignore it ; that is, do not Avant to know it, or really do not 
 know it, and sometimes i)retend not to know it. 
 
 Thus matters stood before with all most important beliefs. 
 
 The foundations of each are always given in theory ; and 
 so-called learned men seek only for further deductions from 
 various foundations given to them, though sometimes ignor- 
 ing even these. 
 
 But a fundamental theory must always be present. So 
 is it also now : modern science selects its facts upon the 
 gi'ound of a determinate theory, which sometimes it knows, 
 sometimes does not wish to know, sometimes really does not 
 know ; but it exists. And the theory is this : All mankind 
 is an undying organism ; men are particles of the organs of 
 this oi'ganism, having each his special calling for the service 
 of the whole. As the cells, growing into an organism, divide 
 among th(Mnselves the labor of the struggle for existence of 
 the whole organism, increase one capacity, and diminish
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 163 
 
 another, and all together form an organ in order better to sat- 
 isfy the wants of the whole organism ; and as among social 
 animals, — auts and hees, — the individuals divide the lalior 
 among themselves ((jueenbees lay eggs, drone-bees fecun- 
 date, working-bees labor for tlie life of the whole), — so also 
 in mankind and in hnmau societies there takes place the 
 same differentiation and integration of the parts. And 
 therefore, in order to find the law of man's life, we must study 
 the laws of the lives and development of organisms. And 
 in these we find the following laws : That each phenomenon 
 is followed by more than one consequence ; the failure of 
 uniformity ; the law of uniformity and diversity, and so on. 
 All this seems to be very innocent, but we need only draw 
 deductions from these observations of facts in order to see 
 at once to what they are tending. 
 
 These facts lead to one thing, — the acknowledgment that 
 the existence in human societies of division of activities is 
 organic ; that is, necessary. And they therefore induce us to 
 consider the unjust position in which we are, who have freed 
 ourselves from laboring, not from the point of reasonable- 
 ness and justice, but merely as an induljitable fact which 
 confirms a general law. Moral philosophy used also to 
 justify ever}^ cruelty and wickedness ; but there it turned out 
 to be i)hilosophical, and therefore incorrect : but according to 
 science, the same thing turns out to be scientific, and therefore 
 unquestionable. 
 
 How, then, can we help accepting such a fine theory ! We 
 need onl}' look at human society merely' as at an object of 
 oljservation, and we may quietly devour the labor of perish- 
 ing men, calming ourselves Avith the idea that our activity as 
 a dancing-master, a lawyer, a doctor, a philosopher, an 
 actor, an investigator of the theory of mediumism and of 
 forms of atoms, and so on, is a functional activity of the 
 organism of mankind, and therefore there caimot be a ques- 
 tion whether it is just that I should live doing only what is 
 pleasant, as there can be no question whether the division of 
 labor between a mental and a muscular cell is just or not. 
 How, then, can we help accepting sucli a nice theory Avhich 
 enables us afterwards forever to put our conscience into our 
 pockets, and live a completely unbridled, animal life, feeling 
 under our feet a firm, scientific support? And it is щюп this 
 new belief that the justification of idleness and the cruelty 
 of men is built.
 
 164 WUAT MUST П'Е no TUEN ? 
 
 XXX. 
 
 This doctrine had its commencement about half a century 
 ago. Its chief founder was the French philosopher Comte. 
 Corate, being a lover of s^'stematie theory, and at the s:une 
 time a man of religious tendency, was impressed by the tiien 
 new physiological researches of Bichat ; and he conceived 
 the old idea, expressed in by-gone days by Menenius 
 Agrippa, that human societies, indeed all human-kind, may 
 be regarded as one whole, an organism ; and men, — as live 
 particles of separate organs, each having his definite 
 destination to fulfil in the service of the whole organism. 
 
 Corate was so fascinated by this idea, that he founded 
 upon it his philosophical theor}' ; and this theory so capti- 
 vated him, that he quite forgot that the point of departure 
 he had started from was no more than a pretty comparison, 
 suitable enough in a fable, but in no way justifiable as the 
 foundation of a science. As often happens, he took his pet 
 hypothesis for an axiom, and so imagined that his whole 
 theor}^ was based upon the most firm and positive 
 foundations. 
 
 According to his theory, it appeared that, as mankind is 
 an organism, therefore the knowledge of what man is and 
 Avhat ought to be his relation to the world, is onl}' possible 
 through a knowledge of the properties of this organism. 
 In order to learn these properties, man is fitted to make 
 observations upon other lower organisms, and draw deduc- 
 tions from their lives. 
 
 Therefore, first, the true and exclusive method of science, 
 according to Comte, is the inductive one, and science is onl}' 
 science when it has experiment for its basis ; secondly, the 
 final aim and the summit of science becomes the new 
 science concerning the imaginary organism of mankind, or 
 the organic being, — mankind ; this new hypothetic science 
 is sociology ; from this view of science, it generally turns out 
 that all former knowledge was false, and that the whole 
 history of mankind, in the sense of its self-consciousness, 
 divides itself into three, or rather into two, periods : first, 
 the theological and metaphysical period, from the beginning 
 of the world to Comte ; and secondh', the modern period of 
 true science, positive science, beginning with Comte. 
 
 All this was very well, but there was a single mistake in
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 1G5 
 
 it ; it was this : tliat all this edifice was built upon the sand, 
 upon an arbitrary and incorrect assertion that mankind, 
 collectively considered, was au organism. This assertion 
 was arbitrary, because there is no more reason why, if we 
 acknowledge the existence of mankind to be an organism, 
 we should refuse to allow the correctness of all the various 
 theological propositions. 
 
 It was incorrect, because to the idea of mankind, that is, 
 of men, the definition of an organism was incorrectly added, 
 whereas mankind lacks the essential characteristic of an 
 organism, — a centre of sensation or consciousness. We call 
 an elephant, as well as a bacterium, organisms, only because 
 we suppose b}* analogy in these beings unification of 
 sensations or consciousness. As for human societies and 
 mankind, they lack this essential; and therefore, however 
 many other general character-signs we may find out in 
 mankind and in an organism, without this, the acknowledg- 
 ment of mankind to be an organism is incorrect. 
 
 But notwithstanding the arbitrariness and incorrectness of 
 the fundamental proposition of positive philosophy, it was 
 accepted by the so-called educated Avorld with great 
 sympath3% because of that great fact important for the 
 crowd, that it afforded a justification of the existing order of 
 things by recognizing the lawfulness of the existing division 
 of labor; that is, of violence in mankind. It is remarkal)le 
 in this respect that from the writings of Comte composed of 
 two parts, — a positive philosoi)hy and a positive politics, — 
 by the leai'ned world, only the first part \vas accepted, that 
 wliicli justified u[)on new experimental principles the exist- 
 ing evil in human society : the second part, treating of tiie 
 moral altruistic duties, following from this recognition of 
 mankind to be an organism, was considered not only to be 
 unimportant, but even unscientific. 
 
 Here the same thing was repeated which occurred with the 
 two parts of Kant's writings : the "Critique of Pure Keason " 
 was accepted bj' science; but the " Critique of Practical 
 Reason," that part which contains the essence of moral 
 doctrine, was rejected. In the teaching of Comte, that лvas 
 recognized to be scientific which humored the reigning evil. 
 
 But the positive philosophy, accepted by the crowd, based 
 upon an arbitrary and incorrect supposition, was by itself 
 too ill-grounded, and therefore too unsteady, and could not 
 be sustained by itself.
 
 166 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 And now among all the idle play of ideas of so-called 
 men of science, Iheie also appeared a similarly arbitraiy and 
 incori'ect assertion, not a ' new one at all, to the effect that 
 all living beings, that is, organisms, proceed one from 
 anotlier ; not only one organism from another, but one 
 organism from many ; that during a ver}^ long period, a 
 niilliun of years fur instance, not only a fish and a duck may 
 have i)roceeded from one and the same forefather, but also 
 one organism might have proceeded from many se[)arate 
 organisms ; so, for instance, out of a swarm of bees a 
 single animal may proceed. And this arbitrary and incorrect 
 assertion was accepted by the learned world with still 
 greater sym[)ath3\ 
 
 This assertion was an arbitrary one, because nobody' has 
 ever seen how one kind of oigauism is made from others ; 
 and therefore the hypothesis about the origin of species will 
 always remain a mere supposition, and never will become an 
 experimental fact. 
 
 This hypothesis was incorrect because the solution of the 
 problem of the origin of species by the theory that they had 
 their origin in the law of inheritance and accommodation 
 during an infinitely long time, was not at all a solution 
 of the prol)lem, but the mere iteration of the question in 
 another form. 
 
 According to the solution of this problem by Moses (in 
 opposition to which consists all the object of Comte's the- 
 ory), it appeared that the variety of the species of living 
 beings proceeded from the will of God and his infinite om- 
 nipotence : according to the theory of evolution, it appears 
 that the variety of species of living beings proceeded by 
 themselves in consequence of the infinite variety of conditions 
 of Inheritance and environment In an Infinite period of time. 
 
 The theorv of evolution, speaking plainly, asserts only 
 that by chance in an infinite period of time anv thing you 
 like ma}' proceed from any thing else 3'ou choose. 
 
 Tills Is no answer to the question ; It Is slmph' the same 
 question put differently: Instead of will is put chance, and 
 the co-efficient of the infinite Is transferred from omnipotence 
 to time. 
 
 But this new assertion, enforced by Darwin's followers In 
 an arbitrary and inaccurate spirit, maintained the former 
 assertion of Comte, and therefore it became a revelation for 
 our time, and the foundation of all sciences, even that of
 
 WHAT MUST П'Е DO THEN? 167 
 
 the histoiyof philosophy and religion ; and besides, according 
 to the lauve confession of the very founder of Darwin's 
 theory, this idea was awakened in him by the law of Mallhus ; 
 and therefore he pointed to the struggle for existence of not 
 oul}' of men, but of all living beings, as to a fundamental 
 law of every living thing. And this was exactly what was 
 wanted by the crowd of idle people for their own justification. 
 
 Two unstable theories which could not stand upon their 
 own feet supported each other, and received a show of 
 stability. Both the theories bore in them a sense, precious 
 for the crowd, that for the existing evil in human societies 
 men are not to be blamed, thai the existing order is what 
 ought to be, and thus the new theory was accepted by the 
 crowd in the sense which was wanted by them, with full 
 confidence and unprecedented enthusiasm. 
 
 And so the new scientific doctrine was founded upon two 
 arbitrary and incorrect propositions, which were accepted in 
 the same way as dogmas of faith are accepted. Both in 
 matter and form, this new doctrine is remarkabl}^ similar to 
 the Church-Christian one. In matter, the similarity lies in 
 the fact, that in both doctrines alike, a fantastical meaning is 
 attached to really existing things, and this artificial meaning 
 is taken as the object of our research. 
 
 In the Church-Christian doctrine, the Christ which did really 
 exist is screened away b}' a whole S3'stem of fantastical theo- 
 logical dogmas : in the positive doctrine, to the really exist- 
 ing fact of live men is attributed the fantastical attributes of 
 an organism. 
 
 In form, the similaritj^ of these two doctrines is remarkable, 
 since, in both cases, a theory emanating from one class of 
 men is accepted as the only and infaliiljle trutli. In the 
 Church-Christian doctrine, the Church's wa3'of understanding 
 God's revelation to men is regarded as the sacred and only 
 true one. In the doctrine of positivism, certain men's way 
 of understanding science is regarded as absolutely correct 
 and true. 
 
 As the Cliurch-Christians regard the foundation of their 
 church as the only origin of the true knowledge of (iod, and 
 Old}' out of a kind of courtesy admit that former believeis 
 may also be regarded as having formed a church ; so in 
 precisely the same manner does positive science, according 
 to its own statement, place its origin in Comte : and its rep- 
 resentatives, also only out of courtesy, ailmit the existence
 
 168 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 of previous science, and that only as regarding certain 
 thinkers, as, for instance, Aristotle. Botli tlie Cliurcb and 
 positive science altogether exclude the ideas of all the rest of 
 mankind, and regard all knowledge outside their own as 
 erroneous. 
 
 In our time, the old dogma of evolution comes in with 
 new importance to help the fmidamental dogma of Comte 
 concerning the organism of mankind ; and from these two 
 elements a new scientific doctrine has been formed. If it is 
 not quite clear to a believer in the organism of mankind 
 why a collection of individuals may be counted as an or- 
 ganism, the dogma of evolution is charged with the expla- 
 nation. This dogma is needed to reconcile the contradictions 
 and certainties of the first: mankind is an organism, and 
 we see that it does not contain the chief characteristic of an 
 organism ; how must we account for it? 
 
 Here the dogma of evolution comes in, and explains, 
 Mankind is an organism in a state of development. If you 
 accept this, you may then consider mankind as such. 
 
 A iDan who is free from the positive superstition cannot 
 even understand wherein lies the interest of the theory of 
 the origin of species and of eA'olution ; and this interest is 
 explained, only when we learn the fundamental dogma, that 
 mankind is an organism. And as all the subtleties of 
 theology are intelligible only to those who believe in its 
 fundamental dogmas, so also all the subtleties of sociology, 
 which now occupy the minds of all men of this recent and 
 profound science, are intelligible only to believers. 
 
 The similarity between these two doctrines holds good yet 
 further. Being founded upon dogmas accepted by faith, 
 these doctrines neither question nor analyze their own 
 principles, which, on the other hand, are used as starting- 
 points for the most extraordinary theories. The preachers 
 of these call themselves, in theology, sanctified ; in positive 
 knowledge, scientific ; in both cases, infallible. And at the 
 same time, they attain the most peremptory, incredible, and 
 unfounded assertions, which they give forth with the greatest 
 pomp and seriousness, and which are with equal pomp and 
 seriousness contradicted in all their details l>y others who do 
 not agree, and yet who equally recognize the fundamental 
 dogmas. 
 
 The Basil the Great of scientific doctrine, Spencer, in one 
 of his first writings expresses these doctrines thus : Societies
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO Г HEX? 169 
 
 nnd ortjanisms, says he, are alike in the followiiifj points : 
 First, in that, being conceived as small aggregates, they 
 ini[)erceptibly grow iii) in mass, so that some of them become 
 ten tliousand times bigger than their originals. 
 
 Secondly, in that, while in the beginning they have such 
 simi)le structure that they may almost be considered as 
 structureless, in their growth they develop an ever-increasing 
 comi)lexity of structure. 
 
 Tliiidly, in that, though in their earl}' undcA^eloped period 
 there does not exist among them any dependence of particles 
 one upon another, these particles by and by acquire a mutual 
 deiK'udence, which at last becomes so strong that the activity 
 and the life of each part is possible only with the activity and 
 the lives of all others. 
 
 Fourtiily, in this, that the life and the development of 
 society is more independent and longer than the life and the 
 develoi)ment of every unit which goes to form it, and which 
 are separately born and growing and acting and multii)lying 
 and dying while the political bod}' formed of them continues 
 to live one generation after another, developing in mass, in 
 perfection of structure, and in functional activity. 
 
 Then follow the points of difference between organisms 
 and societies, and it is demonstrated that these differences 
 are only seeming ones, and that organisms and societies are 
 quite similar. For an impartial man the question at once 
 arises, What are 3'ou, then, speaking about ? Why is mankind 
 an organism, or something similar? 
 
 You say that societies are similar to organisms according 
 to these four points ; but even this comparison is incorrect. 
 You take only a few characteristics of an organism, and you 
 then apply them to human societies. You j^roduce four points 
 of similarity, then you take the points of diff'erence which you 
 say are only seemingly so, and you conclude that human 
 societies may be considered as organisms. 
 
 Rut this is nothing else than an idle play of dialectics. 
 Upon this ground we may consider as organism ел-ег}^ thing 
 we choose. I take the first thing which comes to my mind. — 
 a forest, — as it is planted in a field and grows up: first be- 
 ginning as a small aggregate, it imperceptiltly increases in 
 mass. This is also the case with fields, when, after being 
 planted the}' are gradually covered with forest-trees. Sec- 
 ondly, in the beginning the structure of an organism is sim- 
 ple, then the complexity increases, and so ou.
 
 170 WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 The same is the case with the forest : at first there are 
 only birch-trees, then hazel, and so on ; first all the trees grow 
 straight, and afterwards they interlace their branches. 
 Thirdl}', the dependence of the parts increases so that the 
 life of each part depends upon the lives and activities of all 
 the others : it is exactly the same with the forest ; the nut- 
 tree warms the trunks (if you hew it down, the other trees 
 will be frozen in winter), the underwood keeps off wind, 
 the seed-trees continue the species, the tall and leafy ones 
 give shadow, and the life of each tree depends upon that of 
 the rest. Fourthly, separate parts ma}' die, but tlie whole 
 organism continues to live. Separate trees perish, but the 
 forest continues in life and growth. The same holds good 
 with the example so often brought by the defenders of the 
 scientific doctrine. Cutoff an arm, — the arm will die: we 
 may say remove a tree from the shadow and the ground of a 
 forest, it will die. 
 
 Another remai'kable similarit}' between this scientific doc- 
 trine and the Church-Christian one, — as also in the case of 
 any other theory founded upon propositions, accepted through 
 faith, — lies in their capacity of being proof against logic. 
 
 After having demonstrated that by this theory a forest 
 may be considered as an oiganism, you think you have proved 
 to the followers of the theoi-y of organisms the incorrectness of 
 their definition ? Not at all. Their definition of an organism 
 is so inexact and dilatable, that thej' can apply it to ever}' 
 thing they like. 
 
 Yes. they will say, you may consider the forest, too, as an 
 organism. A forest is a mutual co-operationship of the in- 
 dividmds who do not destroy each other ; an aggregate : its 
 parts can also pass into a closer relationship, and by differen- 
 tiation and integration it may become an organism. 
 
 Then you will say, that in that case, the birds too and the 
 insects, and the herbs of tiiis forest, whic!) mutually co-oper- 
 ate and do not destroy each other, may lie considered with 
 the trees to be an organism. They would agree to this 
 too. According to their theory, we may consider as an 
 organism every collection of living beings which mutually 
 co-operate, and do not destroy one another. Yon may estab- 
 lish a connection and co-operation l)et\veen every thing you 
 like, and, according to evolution, you may assert th:it from 
 any thing may proceed any thing else you like, if a long enough 
 period is granted.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO TUEN f 171 
 
 It is quite impossible to prove to a believer in a theological 
 floctrinc, that liis doctrine is false. But one may tell him 
 tliat if one man arbitrarily asserts one dogma, another has 
 the same right arbitrarily to invent and assert anotlier. One 
 may say the same thing with 3'et better ground to the follow- 
 ers of positive and evolutional science. Upon the basis of 
 this science one could undertake to prove any thing one liked. 
 And the strangest tiling of all is, that this same positive 
 science regards the scientific method as a condition of true 
 knowledge, and that it has itself defined the elements of 
 the scientific method. It professes that common sense is the 
 scientific method. And yet common sense itself discloses at 
 every step the fallacies of this doctrine. The moment those 
 who occupied the position of saints felt that there was no 
 longer any thing sacred left in them, like the Pope and our 
 own Synod, they immediately called themselves not merely 
 sacred, but " most sacred." The moment science felt that 
 it had given up common sense, it called itself the science of 
 reason, the only really scientific science. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The division of labor is the law pervading every existing 
 thing, therefore it must exist in human societies too. That 
 may be so ; but the question still remains, whether the now 
 existing divisio]! of labor in human society is that division 
 which ouglit to be. And when men consider a certain divis- 
 ion of labor to be reasonable and just, no science wliatever 
 can prove to men tluit there ought to be that, which they 
 consider to be uiu'easonable and nnjust. 
 
 The theolf)gical theory demonstrated that power is of God, 
 and it very well may ])e so. But the (]nestion still remains. 
 To whom is the power given, — to Catlierine the Empress, 
 or to the rebel Pugatchof? And no theological subtleties 
 whatever can solve this difficulty. Moral Thilosophy de- 
 monstrated that a state is merely a form of the social 
 development of the individual ; but the question still 
 remains, Can the state of a Nero or that. of a Gengis Khan 
 be considered a form of such development? And no tran- 
 scendental words whatever can solve tlie difficulty. 
 
 It is the same with scientific science also. The division of 
 labor is the condition of the life of organisms and of human
 
 172 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 societies ; but what have we to consider in these human socie- 
 ties to be an organic division of labor? And however much 
 science studies tlie division of labor in tlie molecnles of a 
 tape-worm, all tliese observations cannot compel men to 
 acknowledoe a division of labor to be correct which cannot 
 be admitted by their reason and conscience. However con- 
 vincing ma}' be the proofs of the division of labor in the 
 cells of investigated organisms, a man, if he has not yet 
 lost his reason, will say it is wrong that some should only 
 weave cloth all their life long, and that this is not a division 
 of labor, but oppression of a human being. 
 
 Herbert Spencer and others say that, as there are a whole 
 population of weavers, therefore the weaver's activity is 
 the organic division of labor. Saying this, they use a simi- 
 lar line of reasoning as do theologians. There is a power, 
 and therefore it is of God, whatever it may be : there are 
 weavers, therefore they exist as a result of the law of divis- 
 ion of labor. There might be some sense in this if the 
 power and the position of weavers were created by them- 
 selves ; but we know that they are not, but that it is we who 
 create them. Well, then, we ought to ascertain whether we 
 have established this before-mentioned power according to 
 the will of God, or of ourselves, and whether we have called 
 these weavers into being by virtue of some organic law, or 
 from some other cause. 
 
 Here are men earning their living by agriculture, as it is 
 proper for all men to do : one man has arranged a smith's 
 forge, and mended his plough ; his neighbor comes to him, 
 and asks him to mend his plough, too, and promises to 
 give labor or money in return. A second comes with a 
 similar request ; otliers follow ; and in the society of these 
 men, a form of division of labor arises: thus, one mau 
 becomes a smith. 
 
 Another man has taught his children well ; his neighbor ^ 
 brings him his children, and asks him to teach them, and ^ 
 thus a teacher is formed : but the smith as well as the — 
 teacher become, and continue to be, snch^ only because y^ 
 they were aske<l, and they remain such as long as people 
 require their trades, if it happens that too many smiths 
 and teach(M's appear, or if their labor is no longer wanted, 
 they at once, according to common sense, throw aside their 
 trade, and become laborers again, as it everywhere always 
 hinpens where there is no cause for the violation of a right 
 u visi(!n of labor.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 173 
 
 Men who behave in such a way are dii-ected both b}' their 
 reason and their conscience ; and therefore we who are en- 
 dowed with reason and conscience, all agree that such a 
 division of labor is a right one. But if it were to hai)pen 
 that smiths, having the possibility of compelling otlier men 
 to labor for them, were to continue to make horseshoes 
 when there was no longer a demand for them, and teachers 
 лусге to wish to continue to teach when there was nobod}' 
 to be taught, so to every impartial man endowed with rea- 
 son and conscience, it would become obvious that such is 
 not real division of labor, but a usurpation of other men's 
 labcjr ; because such a division could no longer be tested 
 satisfactorily by that sole standard by which we may know 
 whether it is right or not, — the demand of such labor by 
 other men, and a voluntary compensation offered for it by 
 them. And exactly such an overjjlus, however, is that 
 which scientific science terms a division of labor. 
 
 Men do that which others do not require, and they ask to be 
 fed for this, and sa}' it is just, because it is division of labor. 
 That which forms the chief social evil of a people, not only 
 Avith us alone, is the countless number of government func- 
 tionaries : that which is the cause of the economical misery 
 of our days is what is called in P2ngland over-pioduction 
 (that is, the production of an enormous quantity of articles, 
 wanted by nobody, and which no one knows how *.o get rid 
 of) . All this comes simply from this strange idea about 
 the division of labor. 
 
 It W(Mild be ver}' strange to see a boot-maker луЬо con- 
 sidered that men were bound to feed him because, forsooth, 
 lu! continued to produce boots wanted by no one; but wliat 
 sliall we say about those men in government, church, science, 
 and art, who not only do not produce any thing tangil)ly 
 useful for the people, and whose produce is wanted by 
 nobody, and who as boldly require to be well fed and 
 clotlied on account of the division of labor? 
 
 There may be some sorcerers, for whose activity there 
 is a demand, and to whom men give cakes and spirits ; but 
 we cannot even imagine the existence of such sorcerers 
 who. лvhile their sorcery is not wanted by anv])ody, require 
 to be fed simply because tiiey wish to practise their art. 
 And this very thing is the case in oin- world with men in 
 church and stati\ with men of science and art. And all tiiis 
 proceeds from that false conception of the division of labor
 
 174 WHAT MUST ]VE BO THEN? 
 
 which is defined, not by reason and conscience, but by deduc- 
 tions to which men of science so unanimously resort. 
 
 The division of labor, indeed, has always existed ; Tuit it 
 is correct only when man decides wherein it ought to con- 
 sist by his reason and conscience, and not by his making 
 observation upon it. And the conscience and the reason of 
 all men solve this question in the simplest and surest way. 
 They always decide that question by recognizing the division 
 of lal)or to be a right one onh' when the special activit}' of 
 a man is so necessar}" to others, that they, asking him to 
 serve them, freely offer to feed him in compensation for what 
 he will do for them. But when a man from his infancy up 
 to his thirtieth year lives upon the shoulders of other men, 
 promising to do. лvhen he finishes his studies, something very 
 useful, which nobody' has ever asked him for, and then for 
 the rest of his life lives in the same wa}', promising only to 
 do presently something Avhich nobody asks him to do. tliis 
 would not be a true division of lal)or, but, as it really is, 
 only a violation by a strong man of the labor of others ; 
 the same appropriation of other's labor by a strong man, 
 which formerly theologians called diA'ine destination ; pl>i- 
 losophers, inevitable conditions of life ; and now scientilic 
 science, the organic division of labor. 
 
 All the importance of the ruling science consists in this 
 alone. This science becomes now the dispenser of diplomas 
 for idleness, because she alone in her temples analyzes and 
 determines what activity is a parasitic and what an organic 
 one in the social organism. As if men could not, each for 
 himself, much better decide it, and more quickly, too, by con- 
 sulting his reason and conscience. 
 
 And as formerly both for the clergy and then for states- 
 men, there could not have been an}' dou])t as to who were 
 most necessary for other people, so now for the men of pos- 
 itive science it seems that there cannot be any doubt about 
 this, that their own activit}' is undoubtedly an organic one : 
 they, factors of science and ait, are the cells of the brain, 
 the most precious cells of all the human organism. Let us 
 leave them to reign, eat and drink, and be feasted, as priests 
 and sophists of old have done before them, as long as they 
 do not depiave men ! 
 
 Since men exist as reasonable creatures, they Ьале dis- 
 criminated good from evil, making use of what has been done 
 in this direction before them by others, struggled with evil,
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 175 
 
 seeking a true and better wa}', and slowly but unceasingly 
 have been advancing in this way. And always across it vari- 
 ous deceits stood before them, which had in view to sliow 
 them that this struggle was not at all necessary for them, but 
 that Ihey should submit to the tide of life. There existed 
 the awful old deceits of the Church ; with dreadful struggle 
 and effort men little b}' little got rid of them : but scarcely 
 had they done so when in the place of the old deceit arose 
 a new one, — a state and philosophical one. Men freed 
 themselves out of these too. 
 
 And now a new deceit, a still worse one, springs up in their 
 path, — the scientific one. 
 
 This new deceit is exactly such as the old ones were : its 
 essence consists in the substitution for reason and conscience 
 of something external ; and this external thing is observa- 
 tion, as in theology it was revelation. 
 
 The snare of tJiis science consists in this, that having shown 
 to men the most bare-faced perversions of the activity of 
 reason and conscience, it destroys in them confidence in both 
 reason and conscience. Things which are the property of 
 conscience and reason are now to be discerned by observa- 
 tion alone : these men lose the conception of good and evil, 
 and become unable to understand those expressions and 
 deliuitions of good and evil which have been worked out by 
 all the former existence of mankind. 
 
 All that reason and conscience sa}^ to themselves, all that 
 they said to the highest representatives of men since the 
 world has existed, all this in their slang is conditional and 
 sulijective. All this must be left behind. 
 
 It is said by reason, one cannot apprehend the truth, be- 
 cause reason is liable to error : there is another way, unmis- 
 takable and almost mechanical, — one ought to study facts 
 upon the ground of science, that is, upon two groundless 
 su[)positions, positivism and evolution, which are given out 
 to be most undoubted truths. And the ruling science with 
 mock solemnity asserts that the solving of all the questions 
 of life is only possible through studying the facts of nature, 
 and especially those of organisms. 
 
 The credulous crowd of youth, overwhelmed b}' the novelty 
 of this authority, not only not destroyed, but not yet even 
 touched by critics, rush to the study of these facts of natural 
 sciences to that only way which, according to the assertion of 
 the ruling doctrine, alone can lead to the elucidation of all
 
 176 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 questions of life. But the farther the students proceed in thi^ 
 study, the farther do they remove not only the possibility of 
 solving the questions of life, but even the very thonglit of 
 this solution ; the more they grow accustomed not so much 
 to observe themselves as to believe upon their word otiicr 
 men's observations (to believe in cells, in protoplasm, in the 
 fourth dimension of matter, and so on) ; the more the f(;rm 
 hides from them the contents ; the more they lose the con- 
 sciousness of good and evil, and the capacity of understand- 
 ing those expressions and definitions of gcjod and evil uliich 
 have been worked out by all the former career of mankintl ; 
 the more thev appropriate to themselves that special scien- 
 tific slang of conditional expressions which have no common 
 human meaning in them ; the farther and farther they get 
 into the thick forest of observations which is not lighted 
 up by any thing ; the more the}' lose the ca|)acity. not only 
 of an independent thinking, but even of understanding 
 other men's fresh human ideas which are not included in their 
 Talmud: but chiefly they pass their best years in losinir the 
 habit of life, that is, of laboj'ing, and accustom themselves 
 to consider their own position justified, and thus become 
 physicall}- good-for-nothing parasites, and mentall}' dislo- 
 cate their brains, and lose all power of thought-produc- 
 tiveness. 
 
 And so by degrees, their capacities more and more blunted, 
 they acquire self-assurance, which deprives them forever of 
 the possibility of returning to a simple, laborious life, to 
 япу plain, clear, common, human manner of thinking. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 TriE division of labor in human society has alwa3'S existed, 
 and I dare say always will exist; but the question for us js, 
 not whether or not it has been and will still continue, out 
 what should guide us to arrange that this division ma}' ])e a 
 right one. 
 
 If we take the facts of observation for our standard, we 
 must refuse to have any standard at all : every division of 
 labor which we see among men, and which ma}- seem to us 
 to be a right one, we shall consider right ; and this is what 
 the ruling scientific science is leading us to. 
 
 Division of labor !
 
 WHAT 31 и ST WE DO THEN? 177 
 
 Some are occupied with meutal aud spiritual, others with 
 muscular aud pliysical, hibor. 
 
 Witli wiiat an assurance do men express this ! They wish 
 to thiuk so, and that seems to them in reality' a correct ex- 
 change of services which is only the very apparent ancient 
 violence. 
 
 Tiiou, or rather you (because it is alwa3's many who have 
 to feed one) , — you feed me, dress me, do for me all this rough 
 labor, which I require of 3'ou, to which j^u are accustomed 
 from your infancy, and 1 do for you that mental work to 
 which I have already become accustomed. Give me bodil}' 
 food, and I will give you in return the spiritual. 
 
 The statement seems to be a correct one ; aud it would 
 really be so if only such exchange of services Avere free, if 
 tliose who supply the bodily food were not obliged to supply it 
 before they get the spiritual. The producer of the spiritual 
 food says. In order that I may be able to give you this 
 food, you must feed me, clothe ше, aud remove all tilth from 
 my house. 
 
 But, as for the producer of bodily food, he must do it 
 without making any claims of his own, and he has' to give 
 bodily food whether he receive spiritual food or not. If the 
 exchange were a free one, the conditions on both sides would 
 be equal. We agree that si)iritual food is as necessary to 
 man as bodily. The learned man, the artist, says. Before 
 we can begin to serve men by giving tliem spiritual food, we 
 want men to provide us with bodily food. 
 
 But why should not the producers of this latter say, Before 
 we bi-gin to serve you with bodily food, we want s[)iritual 
 1\пн1 ; and until we receive it, we cannot labor? 
 
 You say, J require the labor of a ploughman, a smith, a 
 boot-maker, a carpenter, masons, and others, in order that 1 
 may prepai-e the spiritual food 1 have to offer. 
 
 Eveiy workman might say, too. Before I go to work, to 
 prepare bodily food for you, I want the fruits of the spirit. 
 Jucndeito have strength for laboring, I require a religi(nis 
 teaching, the social order of common life, application of 
 knowledge to labor, and the joys and comforts which art 
 gives. I have no time to луогк out for myself a teaching 
 concerning the meaning of life, — give it to me. 
 
 1 have no time to think out statutes of connnon life which 
 would prevent the violation of justice, — give me this too. 
 1 have no time to study mechanics, natural philosophy,
 
 178 WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 chemistiT, technology ; give me books with information as to 
 how 1 am to improve my tools, my ways of working, my 
 dwelling, the heating and lighting of it. I have no time to 
 occupy myself with poetr}', with plastic art, or music ; give me 
 those excitements and comforts necessary for life ; give 
 me these productions of the arts. 
 
 You say it is impossible for you to do your important and 
 necessary business if you were to be deprived of the laljor 
 working-people do for 3'ou ; and I say, a workman may 
 declare, It is impossible forme to do my important and neces- 
 sary business, not less important than yours, — to plough, to 
 cart awa}' refuse, and clean your houses, — if I be deprived 
 of a religious guidance corresponding to the \vants of my 
 intellect and my conscience, of a reasonable government 
 which would secure my labor, of information for easing my 
 labor, and the enjoyment of art to ennoble it. All you have 
 offered me in the shape of spiritual food, is not only of no 
 use to me whatever, but 1 cannot even understand to whom 
 it could be of any use. And until I receive this nourish- 
 ment, proper for me as for every man, I caimot produce 
 bodily food to feed you with. 
 
 What if tlie working-peoi)le should speak thus ? And if they 
 said so, it would be no jest, but the simplest justice. If a 
 workingman said this, he would be far more in the I'ight than 
 a man of intellectual labor ; because the labor produced by 
 the workingman is more urgent and more necessarj' than 
 that done by tlie producer of intellectual work, and because 
 a man of intellect is hindered by nothing from giving that 
 spiritual food which he promised to give, but the working- 
 man is hindered in giAdug the bodily food by the fact that he 
 himself is short of it. 
 
 What, then, should we, men of intellectual labor, answer, if 
 such simple and lawful claims were made upon ns? How 
 should we satisfy these claims ? Should we satisfy the religious 
 wants of the people b}' the catechism of Philaret, b}' sacred 
 histories of Sokolof, by the literature sent out by various 
 monasteries and St. Isaak's cathedral? And should we satisfy 
 their demand for order b}' the Code of Laws, and cassation 
 verdicts of different departments, or by statutes of committees 
 and commissions ? And should we satisf}' their want of knowl- 
 edge by giving them spectrum analysis, a survey of the 
 Milky Wa^', speculative geometry, microscopic investigations, 
 controversies concerning spiritualism and mediumism, the
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 179 
 
 activity of academies of science? How should we satisfy 
 their artistic wants? B}' Pushkin, Dosto3-evsky, Tui-geuief, 
 L. Tolstoi', by pictures of French salons, and of tiiose of 
 our artists who represent nalved women, satin, velvet, and 
 landscapes, and pictures of domestic life, by the music of 
 Wagner, and tliat of our own musicians? 
 
 All this is of no use, and cannot be of any use, because we, 
 with our right to utilize the labor of the people, and absence 
 of all duties in our preparation of their spiritual food, have 
 quite lost from sight the single destination our activit3- should 
 have. 
 
 We do not even know what is required by the working- 
 man ; we have even forgotten his mode of life, his views of 
 things, his language ; we have even lost sight of the very 
 working-people themselves, and we study them like some 
 ethnographical rarity or newly discovered continent. Now, 
 Ave, demanding for oiu'selves bodily food, have taken upon 
 ourselves to provide the spiritual ; but in consequence of the 
 imaginary division of labor, according to which we may not 
 only lirst take our dinner, and afterwards do our work, but 
 may during many generations dine luxuriously, and do no 
 work, — in the way of compensation for our food we Ьал'в 
 prepared something which is of use, as it seems to us, for 
 oiu'selves and for science and art, but of no use whatever for 
 those very jieople whose labor we consume under the pre- 
 text of providing them in return with intellectual food, and 
 not only of no use, but quite unintelligible and distasteful to 
 them. 
 
 In our blindness we have to such a degree left out of sight 
 the duty which we took upon us, that we have even forgotten 
 for what our labor is being done ; and the ver}- people whom 
 we undertook to serve, we have made an object of our 
 scientilic and artistic activities. We study them and rcpi-e- 
 sent them for our own pleasure and amusement: we have 
 (piile foi-gotten that it is our duty, not to study and depict, 
 but to serve them. 
 
 We have to such a degre'e left out of sight the duty which 
 we assumed, that we have not even noticed that other people 
 do what we undertook in the departments of science and art, 
 and that our place turns out to be occuj)ied. 
 
 It appears tliat, while we have been in controversy, now 
 al)out tlie immaculate conception, and now about spont:ineous 
 generation of organisms ; now about j^itiritualism, and now
 
 180 WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 about the forms of atoms ; now about pangenesis, now ahont 
 protoplasms, and so on, — the rest of the world none the less 
 required intellectual food, and the abortive outcasts of science 
 and art began to provide for the people this spiritual food ])V 
 order of various speculators Avho had in view exclusively 
 their own profit and gain. 
 
 Now, for some forty years in Europe, and ten years in 
 Russia, millions of books and pictures and songs have been 
 circulating ; shows have been opened : and the people look 
 and sing, and receive intellectual food, though not from those 
 who promised to provide it for them ; and we, who justify 
 our idleness b}' the need for that intellectual food which we 
 pretend to provide for the people, are sitting still, and taking 
 no notice. 
 
 But we cannot do so, because our final justification has 
 vanished from under our feet. We have taken upon our- 
 selves a peculiar department : we have a peculiar functional 
 activity of our own. We are the brain of the people. They 
 feed us, and we have undertaken to teach them. Only for the 
 sake of this have we freed ourselves from labor. What, 
 then, have we been teaching them? They have waited years, 
 tens of years, hundreds of years. And we are still convers- 
 ing among ourselves, and teaching each other, aud amusing 
 ourselves, aud have quite forgotten them ; we have so totally 
 forgotten them, that others have taken upon themselves to 
 teach and amuse them, and we have not even become aware 
 of this in our flippant talk about division of labor : and it 
 is ve-ry obvious that all our talk about the utility we offer to 
 the people was only a shameful excuse. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 There was a time when the Church guided the intellectual 
 life of the men of our луогк!. The Church promised men 
 happiness, and, in compensation for this, she freed herself 
 from taking part in mankind's common struggle for life. 
 
 And, as soon as she did so, she went astray from her call- 
 ing, and men turned away from, her. It was not the errors 
 of the Church which caused her ruin, but the fact that her 
 ministers had violated the law of labor with the help of the 
 secular power in the time of Constantine, and their claim lu 
 idleness aud luxury gave birth to her errors.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 181 
 
 As soon as she obtained this right, she began to care for 
 herself, and not for man, whom she liad taken npon herself 
 to serve. The ministers of the Church gave themselves up to 
 idleness and depravity. 
 
 The /State took upon itself to guide men's lives. The 
 State promised men justice, peace, security, order, satisfac- 
 tion for common intellectual and material wants, and in 
 compensation men who served the State freed themselves 
 from taking part in the struggle for life. And the Stale's 
 servants, as soon as they were enabled to utilize other men's 
 lal)or, have acted in the same way as the ministers of the 
 Church. 
 
 They had not in view the people ; but the state servants, 
 from kings down to the lowest functionaries, in Rome, as 
 well as in France, England, Russia, and Amei'ica, gave them- 
 selves over to idleness and dei)ravity. 
 
 And men lost their faith in the state, and now anarchy is 
 seriously advocated as an ideal. 
 
 The state lost its pi'cstige among men, only because its 
 ministers claimed the right of utilizing for themselves the 
 people's labor. 
 
 Science and art have done the same with the assistance of 
 the state power which they took upon themselves to sustain. 
 They have also claimed and obtained for themselves the 
 right of idleness, and of utilizing other men's labor, and 
 have also been false to their calling. And their errors also 
 proceeded onl}' from tlie fact that tlunr ministers, pointing to 
 a falsely conceived principle of the division of labor, claimed 
 for themselves the right to utilize the work of the ])eople. and 
 so lost the meaning of their calling, making the aim of their 
 activit}^ not the utility of the people, Init a mysterious activity 
 of science and art ; and also, like their forerunners, they have 
 given themselves over to idleness and depravity, though not 
 so much to a fleshly, as to an intellectual, corruption. 
 
 It is said, science and art have done much for mankind. 
 
 This is quite true. 
 
 Science and art also have done much for mankind, not be- 
 cause, but in spite of, the fact that men of science and art, 
 uuch'r the pretext of division of labor, live npon the shoulders 
 of the working-peo[)le. 
 
 The I^jman Re[)ublic was powei'ful. not because its citizens 
 were able to lead a life of depravity, l)ut because it could 
 number amongst them men who were virtuous.
 
 182 WUAT MUST WE DO TUENf 
 
 The same is the case with science and art. 
 
 Science and art have effected much for mankind, not be- 
 cause their ministers had sometimes formerly, and have 
 always at present, the possibility of freeing themselves from 
 laboring, but because men of genius, not utilizing these 
 rights, have forwarded the progress of mankind. 
 
 The class of learned men and artists who claim, on account 
 of a false division of labor, the right of utilizing other men's 
 labor, cannot coutril)ute to the progress of true science and 
 true art, because a lie can never produce a truth. 
 
 We are so accustomed to our pampered or debilitated rep- 
 resentatives of intellectual labor, that it would seem тегу 
 strange if a learned man or an artist were to plough or cart 
 manure. We think that, were he to do so, all would go to 
 ruin ; that all his wisdom would be shaken out of him, and 
 the great artistic images he carries in his breast would be 
 soiled by the manure : but we are so accustomed to our pres- 
 ent conditions that we do not wonder at our ministers of 
 science, that is, ministers and teachers of truth, compelling 
 other people to do for them that which they could very well 
 do themselves, passing half their time eating, smoking, chat- 
 tering in '• liberal " gossip, reading newsi)apers. novels, 
 visiting theatres ; we are not sur[)rised to see our philosopher 
 in an inn, in a theatre, at a ball ; we do not wonder when we 
 learn that those artists \\\\o delight and ennolile our souls, 
 pass their lives in drunkenness, in tjlaying cards, in compauj' 
 with loose women, or do things still worse. 
 
 Science and art are fine things : but just because they are 
 fine things, men ought not to spoil them by associating them 
 with depravity ; by freeing themselves from man's duty to 
 serve by labor his own life and the lives of other men. 
 
 Science and art have forwarded the progress of mankind. 
 Yes ; but this was not done by the fact that men of science 
 and art, under the pretext of a division of labor, taught men 
 by word, and chiefly by deed, to utilize by violence the 
 misery and sufferings of the people, in order to free them- 
 selves from the very first and unquestionable human duty of 
 laboring with their hands in the common struggle of mankind 
 with nature.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 183 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " But it is," you sa}-, " this л'егу division of labor, tlie 
 freeing men of science and of art from the necessity of earn- 
 ing their bread, that lias rendered possible that extraordinary 
 success in science which we see in our daj's. 
 
 " If everybody were to plougli, these enormous results 
 would not be attained ; there would not be those astonishing 
 successes which have so enlarged man's power over nature ; 
 there would not be those discoveries in astronomy which 
 so strike the minds of men and promote navigation ; there 
 would be no steamers, railwa3's, wonderful bridges, tunnels, 
 steam-engines, and telegraphs, photographs, telephones, 
 sewing-machines, phonographs, electricity, telescopes, spec- 
 troscopes, microscopes, chloroform. Lister bandages, carbolic 
 acid." 
 
 I will not attempt to enumerate all the things of which our 
 century is so proud. This enumeration, and the ecstasy of 
 contemplation of ourselves and of our great deeds, you may 
 find in almost every newspaper and popular book. 
 
 These raptures of self-contemplation are so often repeated, 
 and we are so seldom tired of praising ourselves, that we 
 really come to believe, with Jules Verne, that science and art 
 have never made such progress as in our time. And all this 
 is rendered possible only by division of labor : how can we, 
 then, avoid countenancing it? 
 
 Let us suppose that the progress of our century is indeed 
 striking, astonishing, extraordinary : let us suppose that 
 we, too, are particularly^ lucky in living at such an extraor- 
 dinar}' time : but let us try to ascertain the value of these 
 successes, not by our own self-contentment, but b}' the very 
 principle of the division of lalior ; that is, by that intellect- 
 ual laljor of men of science for the advantage of the people 
 Avhieh has to compensate for the freeing men of science and 
 art from labor. 
 
 All this progress is л'егу striking indeed ; but owing to 
 some unluck}' chance, recognized, too, by men of science, 
 this progress has not as yet ameliorated, but it has rather 
 deteriorated, the condition of workingmen. 
 
 Though a workiugman, instead of walking, can use the 
 railway, it is this very railway which has caused his foi'fst 
 to be burned, and has carried away his bread from under
 
 184 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 his very nose, and put him into a condition which is next 
 door to shivery to the railway pro[)i'ietor. 
 
 If, thanks to the engines and steam-machines, a working- 
 man can buy cheap and poor calico, it will be these very 
 engines and machines which have deprived him of his 
 wages, and brought him to a state of entire slaver}- to the 
 manufacturer. 
 
 If there are telegraphs, \vliich he is not forbidden to urse, 
 but which he does not use because he cannot afford it, then 
 each of his productions, the value of which Huctuates, is 
 bought up from under his very eyes by capitalists at low 
 prices, thanks to the telegrai)h, before the workingmaa 
 even becomes aware that the article is in demand. 
 
 Though there are telephones and telescopes, novels, operas, 
 picture-galleries, and so on, the life of the workingman is 
 not at all improved by an}' of them, because all, owing to 
 the same unlucky chance, are beyond his reacli. So tiiat, 
 after all, these wonderful discoveries and i)roductions of 
 ai't, if they have not made the life of working-|)eople worse, 
 have by no means improved it : on tliis the men of science 
 are agreed. 
 
 So that, if to the question as to the reality of the suc- 
 cesses attained by the sciences and arts, we api)ly, not our 
 rapture of self-contemplation, but the л'сгу standard on 
 w'hich the ground of the division of labor is defended. — • 
 utility to the working-world, — we shall see that we have not 
 yet any sound reason for the self-contentment to which we 
 consign ourselves so willingly. 
 
 A peasant uses the railway ; a peasant's wife buys calico ; 
 in the cottage a lamp, and not a pine-knot, burns ; and the 
 peasant lights his pipe with a match, — this is comfortable ; 
 but what right have I from this to say that railways and 
 factories have done good to the people? 
 
 If a peasant uses the railway, and buys a lamp, calico, and 
 matclies, he does it only because w^e cannot forbid his doing 
 so : w^e all know very well tiiat railways and factories have 
 never been built for the use of the people ; why, then, should 
 the casual comfort a workingman obtains by chance, be 
 brought forward as a proof of the usefulness of these insti- 
 tutions to the people? 
 
 We all know very well- that if those engineers and capi- 
 talists who build a railway or a factory have been thinking 
 about \vorking-i)eople, they have been thinking only how
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO Til EX ? 185 
 
 to make the best possible use of ihem. And we see they 
 have fully succeeded in doing so as well in Russia as in 
 Europe and America. 
 
 In every hurtful thing, there is something useful. After 
 a house has been })urned down, we may sit and warm our- 
 selves, and light our pipes with one of the fire-brands ; but 
 should we therefore say that a conflagration is beneficial? 
 
 Whatever we do, let us not deceive ourselves. We all 
 know very well the motives for building railways, and for 
 pioducing kerosene and matches. An engineer builds a 
 railway for the government, to facilitate wars, or for tlie 
 cai)italists for financial purposes. He makes machines for 
 manufacturers for his own advantage, and for the profit of 
 capitalists. All that he makes or excogitates he does for 
 the purpose of the government, the capitalists, and other 
 rich peoi)le. His most skilful inventions are either directly 
 luii'mful to the people, as guns, torpedoes, solitary prisons, 
 and so on ; or they are not only useless, but quite inacces- 
 sible to them, as electric light, telephones, and the innumer- 
 al)le improvements of comfort ; or lastly, they deprave the 
 ]K'ople. and rob them of their last ko[)ek, that is, their last 
 lal)or, for spirits, лу1пе, beer, opium, tobacco, calicoes, and 
 all sorts of trifles. 
 
 But if it happens sometimes that the iuA'entions of men 
 of science, and the works of engineers, are of any use to the 
 people, as, for instance, railways, calicoes, steel, scythes, it 
 only proA'es that, in this world of ours, all things are mutu- 
 ally connected together, and that, out of every hurtful 
 activity, there may arise an accidental good for those to 
 whom this activity was hurtful. 
 
 Men of science and of art can say that their activity is 
 useful for the people, only if they have aimed in their ac- 
 tivity at serving the people, as they do now to serve govern- 
 ments and capitalists. 
 
 We could have said that, only if men of science and art 
 made the wants of the people their object ; but such is not 
 the case. 
 
 All learned men are occupied with their sacred business, 
 which leads to the iuvestigation of protoplasms, the spec- 
 trum analysis of stars, and so on : but concerning investiga- 
 tions as to how to set an axe, or with what kind it is more 
 advantageous to hew ; which saw is the most handy ; with 
 what flour bread shall be made, how it may best be
 
 186 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 kneaded, how to set it to rise ; bow to heat and to build 
 stoves ; what food, drink, crockery-ware, it is best to use ; 
 what mushiooms may be eaten, and how they may be pre- 
 pared more conveniently, — science has never troubled 
 itself. 
 
 And yet all this is tlie business of science. 
 
 I know that, according to its own definition, science must 
 be useless ; but this is only an excuse, and a very impudent 
 one. 
 
 The business of science is to serve people. "We have 
 invented telegraphs, telephones, phonographs, but what 
 improvements have we made in the life of the jjcople? We 
 have catalogued two millions of insects ! but have we do- 
 mesticated a single animal since biblical times, Avhen all 
 our animals had long been domesticated, and still the elk 
 and the deer, and the partridge and the grouse and the 
 wood-hen, are wild? 
 
 Botanists have discovered the cells, and in the cells proto- 
 plasms, and in protoplasms something else, and in this some- 
 thing else again. 
 
 These occupations will evidentl}' never end, and therefore 
 learned men have no time to do any thing useful. And hence 
 from the times of the ancient Egyptians and Hebrews, when 
 wheat and lentils were already cultivated, down to the pres- 
 ent time, not a single plant has been added for the nourish- 
 ment of the people except potatoes, and these have not been 
 discovered by science. ЛУе have invented torpedoes, house- 
 drains ; but the spinning-wheel, weaving-looms, ploughs and 
 axe-handles, flails and rakes, buckets and well-sweeps, are 
 still the same as in the time of Rurik. 
 
 And if some things Ьал^е been improved, it is not the 
 learned who have done it. 
 
 The same is the case with art. ЛУе have praised up many 
 great writers, have carefully sifted these writers, and have 
 written mountains of critiques and criticisms upon critics ; 
 we have collected pictures in galleries, and we have thor- 
 oughly studied all the schools of art ; and we have such sym- 
 phonies and operas that we ourselves are tired of listening 
 to ; but what have we added to the folk-lore, legends, tales, 
 songs? what pictures, what music, have we created for the 
 people? 
 
 Books and pictures are published, and harmoniums are 
 made for the people, but we do not care for either.
 
 WHAT MUST WE no THEN? 187 
 
 That which is most striking and obvious, is the false ten- 
 dency of our science and art, wliich manifests itself in those 
 departments which, according to their own propositions, would 
 seem to be useful to people, and which, owing to this ten- 
 deuc}', appear rather pernicious than useful. An engineer, 
 a surgeon, a teacher, an artist, an author, seem by their very 
 professions to be obliged to serve the people, but what do 
 we see? 
 
 With the present tendency, the}* can bring to the people 
 nothing but harm. An engineer and a mechanic must work 
 with capital : without capital they are good for nothing. 
 
 All their informations are such, that, in order to make use 
 of them, they need capital and the employment of working- 
 people on a large scale, to sa}- nothing of the fact that they 
 themselves are accustomed to spend from fifteen hundred 
 to two thousand rubles a 3'ear, and therefore they cannot go to 
 a village, since no one there can give tliem апз* such remu- 
 neration : they, from their very occupations, are not tit for 
 the service of the people. 
 
 The}' understand how to calculate by means of the highest 
 mathematics the arch of a bridge, iiow to calculate power 
 and the transfer of power in an engine, and so on : but they 
 л\111 be at a loss to meet the plain requirements of popular 
 labor ; they do not know how to improve the plough or the 
 cart ; how to make a brook passable, taking into considera- 
 tion the conditions of a workingmau's life. 
 
 They know and understand nothing of all this, less even 
 than does the poorest peasant. Give them workshops, 
 plenty of ])eople, order engines from abroad, then they will 
 arrange these matters. But to find out how to ease the lal)or 
 of millions of people in their present condition, they do not 
 know, and cannot do it ; and accordingly, by their knowledge 
 and habits and wants, they are not at all fit for this l)usiness. 
 A surgeon is in a still worse condition. His imaginar}- sci- 
 ence is such that he understands how to cure those only who 
 have nothing to do, and who may utilize other men's labor. 
 He requires a countless number of expensive accessories, in- 
 struments, medicines, sanitary dwellings, food, and drains, 
 in order that he may act scientifically : besides his fee, he 
 demands such expenses, that, in order to cure one patient, 
 he must kill with starvation hundreds of those who bear, this 
 exiXMise. 
 
 He has studied under eminent pei'sons in the capital cities,
 
 188 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 who attend only to snch patients whom they may take into 
 hospitals, oi' who can afford to buy all tlie necessaiy u)t(U- 
 cines and machines, and even go at once from north to the 
 south, to these or those mineral waters, as the case may be. 
 
 Their science is such that every country sui-geon comphiins 
 that there is no possibility of attending to the working-peo- 
 ple, who are so poor that they cannot afford sauitar\' accom- 
 modations, and that there are no hos[)itals, and that he 
 cannot attend to the business alone, that he requires help 
 and assistant-surgeons. What does this really mean? 
 
 It means this, — that the want of the necessaries of life is 
 the chief cause of people's misfortunes, and as well the 
 source of diseases as also of their spreading and incurability. 
 And now science, under the banners of the division of labor, 
 calls its cham[)ions to help the people. Science has settled 
 satisfactorily about rich classes, and seeks how to cure those 
 who can get every thing necessary for the purpose, and it 
 sends persons to cure in the same way those who have noth- 
 ing to spare. But there are no means ; and therefore they 
 are to be raised from the people, who become ill, and catch 
 diseases, and cannot be cured for want of means. 
 
 The advocates of the healing art for the people say, that, 
 up to the present time, this business has not been sufticiently 
 developed , 
 
 Evidently it is not yet developed, because if, which God 
 forbid ! it were developed among our people, and, instead cf 
 two doctors and midwiл'es and two assistant-surgeons in the 
 district, there should be twenty sent, as they want, then there 
 would soon be no one left to attend to. The scientiflc co- 
 operation for the people must be quite a different one. And 
 such co-operation wiiich ought to be, has not yet begun. 
 
 It wdll begin when a man of science, an engineer, or a 
 surgeon, will cease to consider as lawful that division of 
 labor, or rather that taking away other men's labor, which now 
 exists, and when he no longer considers that he has the right 
 to take, I do not saj- hundreds of thousands, but even a 
 moderate sum of one thousand or five hundred rubles as 
 a compensation for his services ; but when such a man comes 
 to live among laboring-people in the same condition and ia 
 the same way as they, then he will apply his information in 
 mechanics, technics, hygiene, to the curing of working-people. 
 
 But now scientific men, who are fed at tho exjiense of the 
 working man, have quite forgotten the conditions of the life
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 189 
 
 of these men : the}' ignore (as tho}^ say) these conditions, and 
 are quite seriously offended that their imaginary knowledge 
 does not fiud application among the peoi)le. 
 
 The departments as well of the healing art as the me- 
 chanical have not yet been touched : the questions how best 
 to divide the time of labor, how and upon what it is best to 
 feed, how best to dress, how to counteract dampness and 
 cold, how best to wash, to suckle, and swaddle children, and so 
 on, and all these applied to those conditions in which the 
 working-people are, — all these questions have not yet been 
 put. 
 
 The same applies to the activity of scientific teachers, — 
 pedagogues. Science has arranged this business, too, in such 
 a way that teaching according to science is possible only for 
 those who are rich ; and the teachers, like the engineers and 
 surgeons, are involuntarih' drawn towards money, and among 
 us in Russia especially towards the government. 
 
 And this cannot be otherwise, because a school properly 
 arranged (and the general rule is, that the more scientifically 
 a school is arranged, the more expensive it is), with convert- 
 ible benches, glol)es, maps, libraries, and method manuals for 
 teachers and pupils, is just such a school for whose mainten- 
 ance it is necessary to double the taxes of the people. So 
 science wants to have it. The children are necessary for 
 work, and the moi'e so with the poorer people. The advocates 
 of science say, Pedagogy is even now of use for the people ; 
 but let it be developed, and instead of twenty schools in a 
 district, let there be a hundred, all of them seientificall}- ar- 
 ranged, and the people will support these schools. Hut then 
 they will be still poorer, and will waut the labor of their 
 children still more urgently. 
 
 What is then to be done? 
 
 To this they reply. The gOA'crnment will estaT)lisli schools, 
 and will make education oljligatorj'^ as it is in the rest of 
 Europe. But the money will still have to be raised from the 
 people, and labor will be still harder for them, and they will 
 have less time to spare from their lal)or, and there will be 
 then no obligatory education at all. 
 
 There is, again, only one escape, — for a teacher to live in the 
 conditions of a workingman, and to teach for that compen- 
 sation which will be freely offered him. Such is the false 
 tendency of science which deprives it of the possil)ility to 
 fulfil its duty in serving the peo[)le. l>ut this false tendency
 
 190 WHAT MUST WE no THEN? 
 
 of our educated class is still more obvious in art-activity, 
 which, for the sake of its very meauing, ought to be accessible 
 to the people. 
 
 Science may point to its stupid excuse that science is acting 
 for science, and that, when it will be fully developed, it will 
 become accessible to the people ; but art, if it is art indeed, 
 ought to be accessible to all, especially to those for the sake 
 of whom it is created. And our art strikingly denounces its 
 factors in that tliey do not wish, and do not understand, and 
 are not able to be of use to the people. A painter, in order 
 to produce his great works, must have a large studio, in which 
 at least fort}' joiners or boot-makers might work, who are 
 now freezing or suffocating in wretched lodgings : but this is 
 not all : he requires models, costumes, journeys from place 
 to place. The Academy of Art has spent millions of rubles 
 collected from the people for the encouragement of art ; and 
 the productions of this art are hung in palaces, and are 
 neither intelligible to the people, nor wanted by them. 
 
 Musicians, in order to express their great ideas, must 
 gather about two hundred men with white neckties or in 
 costumes, and si)end hundreds of thousands of rubles to arrange 
 operas. But this art-production would never appear to the 
 people (even if they could afford to use it) as any thing but per- 
 plexing or dull. The authors, writers, seem not to want any 
 particular accommodations, studios, models, orchestras, and 
 actors ; but here also it tui'ns out that an author, a writer, to 
 say nothing of all the comforts of his dwelling and all the 
 comforts of his life, in order to prepare his great works, wants 
 travelling, palaces, cabinets, enjo3'ments of art, theatres, 
 concerts, mineral waters, and so on. If he himself has not 
 saved up enough money for this purpose, he is given a pen- 
 sion in order that he may compose better. And, again, these 
 writings, which we value so highly, remain for the people, 
 rubbish, and are not at all necessary to them. 
 
 AVhat if, according to the wish of men of science and art, 
 such producers of mental food should multipU'. so that, in 
 cver}^ village, it would be necessary to build a studio, provide 
 an orchestra, and keep an author in the conditions which men 
 of art consider indispensal)le to them ? I dare say working- 
 people would make a vow never to look at a picture, or listen 
 to a symphou}', or read poetry and novels, in order only not to 
 be compelled to feed all these good-for-nothing parasites. 
 
 And why should not men of art serve the people? In
 
 WHAT MUST ]VE DO THEN? 191 
 
 ел'егу cottage, there are holy images and i)ictures ; each peas- 
 ant, each woman of the people, sings ; шап}^ have instruments 
 of music ; and all can relate stories, repeat poeti'y ; and many 
 of them read. How came it to pass that these two things 
 were separated which were as much made for one another as 
 a key for a lock, and how are they so separated that we can- 
 not imagine how to re-unite them ? 
 
 Tell a painter to paint without a studio, models, costumes, 
 and to draw penny pictures, he will say that this would be a 
 denying of art as he understands it. Tell a musician to play 
 on a harmonium, and to teach country-women to sing songs ; 
 tell a poet to throw aside writing poems and novels and 
 satires, and to compose song-books for the people, and 
 stories and tales Avhich might be intelligible to ignorant 
 persons, — the}'' will say yon are cracked. 
 
 But is it not being worse than cracked Avhen men, who 
 have freed themselves from labor because they promised to 
 provide mental food for those луЬо have brought them up, 
 and are feeding and clothing them, afterwards have so for- 
 gotten their promise that the}' have ceased to understand 
 how to make food fit for the people? Yet this very forsaking 
 of their promises the}' consider dignifies them. iSuch is the 
 case everywhere, they say. Everywhere the case is very 
 unreasonable, then ; and it will be so while men, under the 
 pretext of division of labor, promise to provide mental food 
 for the people, but only swallow up the labor of the peo- 
 ple. Men will serve the people with science and art, only 
 when, living among and in the same way as do the people, 
 putting forth no claims whatever, they offer to the people 
 their scientific and aitistic services, leaving it to the free will 
 of the people to accept or refuse them. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 To say that the activities of the arts and sciences have co- 
 operated in forwarding the progress of mankind, and by 
 these activities to mean that which is now called by this 
 name, is the same as to say that an awkward moving of the 
 oars, hindering the progress of a boat going down the 
 stream, is forwarding the progress of the boat ; but it only 
 hinders it. The so-called division of labor — that is, the 
 violation of other men's labor which has become in our
 
 192 WHAT л и ST WE DO THEN? 
 
 time a condition of the activity of men of art and science — 
 has been, and still remains, the chief cause of ihe «lowuess 
 of the progi-ess of mankind. 
 
 The proof of it we have in the acknowledgment of all 
 men of science and art that the acquisitions of art and 
 science are not accessible to the workiiiy-classes l)ecanse of a 
 wrong distribution of wealth. And the incorrectness of this 
 distribution does not diminish in proportion to the progress 
 of art and science, but rather increases. And it is not as- 
 tonishing that such is the case ; because the incorrect distri- 
 bution of wealth proceeds solel}^ from the theory of the 
 division of labor, preached by men of art and science for 
 sellish purposes. 
 
 ►Science, defending the division of labor as an unchange- 
 al)le law, sees that the distribution of wealth based upon the 
 division of labor is incorrect and pernicious, and asserts 
 that its activity, which recognizes the division of labor, 
 лу111 set all right again, and lead men to happiness. 
 
 It appears, then, that some men utilize the labor of 
 others ; but if thev will only continue to do this for a long 
 time, and on a still larger scale, then this incorrect distribu- 
 tion of wealth, that is, utilizing of other men's labor, will 
 vanish. 
 
 Men are standing by an ever-increasing spring of water, 
 and are busy turning it aside from thirst}- men, and then 
 the}" assert that it is they who produce this Avater, and that 
 soon there will be so much of it that everybody will have 
 enough and to spare. And this Avater, which has been run- 
 ning unceasingly, and nourishing all mankind, is not only 
 not the result of the activity of those men. who, standing 
 at the source of it. turn it aside, but this water runs and 
 spreads iiself in spite of the endeaA'^ors of those men to stop 
 it from doing so. 
 
 There has always existed a true church. — in other words, 
 men united b}' the iiighest truth accessible to them at a cer- 
 tain epoch. — but it has never been that church which gave 
 herself out for such ; and there Ьал-е always been real art and 
 science, but it was not that which calls itself now by these 
 names. 
 
 Men who consider themselves to be the representatives of 
 art and science in a given period of time, always imagine that 
 they have been doing, and will continue to do. wonderful 
 things, and that beyond them there has never been any art
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 193 
 
 or science. Thus it seemed to the sophists, to the scho- 
 liasts, alchemists, cabiilists, Tahmidists, aud to our owu 
 scieutific science and to our artistic art. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " But science ! art! You repudiate science, art ; that is, 
 you repudiate that by which manl\iud live." 
 
 I am always hearing this : people choose this way to put 
 aside ni}' arguments altogether without analyzing them. He 
 repudiates science and art ; he wishes to turn men back 
 again to the savage state ; why, then, should we listen to him, 
 or argue with him? 
 
 But it is unjust. I not only do not repudiate science — 
 human reasonable activity — and art, — the expression of 
 this reasonable activity, — but it is only in the name of this 
 reasonable activity' and its expression that I say what I do, 
 in order that mankind may avoid the savage state towards 
 which thev are rapidly moving, owing to the false teaching 
 of our time. 
 
 Science and art are as necessary to men as food, drink, 
 and clothes, — even still more necessary than these ; but they 
 become such, not because we decide that what we call science 
 and art are necessary, but because the}' indeed are necessary 
 to men. Now, if I should prepare ha}' for the bodily food of 
 men, my idea that hay is the food for men would not make 
 it to be so. I cannot say, AVhy do you not eat ha}' when it 
 is your necessary food ? Food is, indeed, necessary, but 
 perhaps Avhat I offer is not food at all. 
 
 This very thing has happened with our science and art. 
 And to us it seems that when we add to a Greek word the 
 tc'rmination loyj/, and call this science, it will be science in- 
 deed ; and if we call an indecency, like the dancing of nalced 
 women, by the Greek word " choreography," and term it art, 
 it will be art indeed. 
 
 But however much we may say this, the business which we 
 are about, in counting up the insects, and chemically analyz- 
 ing the contents of the jMilky Way. in painting watcr-nyniphs 
 and historical i)ictures, in writing novels, and in composing 
 sym[)honies, this, our business, will not become science or 
 art until it is willingly accei)ted by those for whom it is being 
 done.
 
 194 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 And till now it has not been accepted. If only some men 
 were allowed to ijrepare food, and all others were eitlier for- 
 bidden to do it, or be rendered incapable of producing it, I 
 dare say that the quality of the food would deteriorate. If 
 these men who have the exclusive privilege of producing 
 food were Russian peasants, then there would be no other 
 food than black bread, kvas, potatoes, and flour, which they 
 are fond of, and which is agreeable to them. The same 
 would be the case with that highest human activity in art and 
 science if their exclusive privilege were appropriated by one 
 caste, with this difference onl>', that in bodiW food there can- 
 not be too great digressions from the natural ; bread as well 
 as onions, though unsavory food, is still eatable: but in 
 mental food, there may be great digressions ; and some men 
 ma}^ for a very long time feed upon an unnecessary, or even 
 hurtful and poisonous, mental food ; they themselves may 
 slowly kill themselves Avith opium or with spirits, and this 
 sort of food they may offer to the masses of the people. 
 
 This very thing has happened with us. And it has hap- 
 pened because men of art and science are in privileged con- 
 ditions ; because art and science in our world are not that 
 mental activity of all mankind, without any exception, who 
 separate their best powers for the service of art and science : 
 but it is the activity of a snlall comi)anv of men having the 
 monopoly of these occupations, and calling themselves men 
 of art and science ; and therefore the}' have perverted the 
 very conceptions of art and science, and lost the sense 
 of their own calling, and are merely occupied in amusing, 
 and saving from burdensome dulaess, a small com[)any of 
 parasites. 
 
 Since men have existed, the}' have always had science in 
 the plainest and largest sense of the word. Science, as the 
 sum of all human information, has always been in existence; 
 and without it life is not conceivable, and there is no neces- 
 sity whatever either to attack or to defend it. 
 
 But the fact is this, that the region of this knowledge is 
 so various, so much information of all kinds enters into it, 
 from the information how to obtain iron up to the knowledge 
 about the movements of the celestial bodies, that man would 
 be lost among all this varied information if he had no clew 
 which could help him to decide which of all these kinds of 
 information is more, and which less, important. 
 
 And, therefore, the highest wisdom of men has always
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO TUEN ? 195 
 
 consisted in findinfr out the clew accordino; to which must be 
 arranged the information of men, and by Avhich decided what 
 kinds of information are more, and what are less, important. 
 And tliis which has directed all other knowledge, men have 
 always called science in the strictest sense of the word. And 
 such science has alwa\-s been, up to the present time, in hu- 
 man societies which Ьал'е left the savage state behind them. 
 Since mankind has existed, in every nation teachers have 
 appeared to form science in this strict sense, — the science 
 about what it is most necessary for men to know. This sci- 
 ence has always had for its object the inquiry as to what 
 was the destinj-, and therefore the true welfare, of each man 
 and of all men. This science has served as a clew in deter- 
 mining the importance and the expression of all other sci- 
 ences. The kinds of information and the art which co-operated 
 with the science of man's destiny and welfare were con- 
 sidered highest in public opinion. 
 
 Such was the science of Confucius, Buddha, Moses, 
 Socrates, Christ, Mohammed, — science such as it has been 
 understood by all men except by our own circle of so-called 
 educated people. 
 
 Such a science has not only always occupied the first place, 
 but it is the one science which has determined the importance 
 of other sciences. And this, not at all because so-called 
 learned men of our time imagine that it is only deceitful 
 priests and teachers of this science who have given it such 
 an importance, but because, indeed, as every one can learn 
 by his own inward experience, without the science of man's 
 destiny and welfare, there cannot be any determining of 
 other values, or any choice of art and science for man. And, 
 therefore, there cannot be any stud}" of science, for there 
 are innumerable quantities of subjects to which science may 
 be applied. I itaUcize the word innumerable, as I use it in 
 its exact value. 
 
 Without knowledge as to what constitutes the calling and 
 welfare of all men, all other arts and sciences become, as is 
 really the case at present with us, onh- an idle and pernicious 
 amusement. Mankind have been living long, and they have 
 never been living witiiout a science relative to the calling and 
 welfare of men : it is true that the science of the welfare of 
 men to a superficial observation appears to be different with 
 Buddhists, Brahmins. Hebrews, Christians, with the f(jllo\vers 
 of Confucius and those of Laotse, though one need only
 
 196 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 reflect on these teachings in order to see their essential unity; 
 where men have left the savage state behind them, we find 
 this science ; and now of a sudden it turns out that modern 
 men have decided that this very science whicli has been till 
 now the guide of all human information, is that Avhich is in 
 the way of every thing. 
 
 Men build houses : one architect makes one estimate, an- 
 other makes a second, and so on. The estimates are a little 
 different, but they are separately correct ; and every one sees 
 that, if each estimate is fulfilled, the house will be erected. 
 Such architects are Confucius, Buddha, Moses, Christ. And 
 now some men come and assure us that the chief thing to 
 come by is the absence of any estimate, and that men ought 
 to build anyhow according to eyesight. And this " ап}'- 
 how " these men call the most exact science, as the Pope 
 terms himself the " most holy." 
 
 Men deny every science, the most essential science of 
 man's calling and welfare ; and this denial of science they 
 call science. Since men have existed, great intellects have 
 always appeared, which, in the struggle with the demands of 
 their reason and conscience, have put to themselves questions 
 concerning the calling and welfare, not only of themselves 
 individually, but of every man. AVhat does that Power, 
 which created me, require from me and from each man? 
 And what am I to do in order to satisfy the craving in- 
 grafted in me for a personal and common welfare? 
 
 They have asked themselves, I am a whole and a part of 
 something unfathomable, infinite : what are to be my rela- 
 tions to other parts similar to me, — to men and to the whole ? 
 
 And from the voice of conscience and from reason, and 
 from considerations on what men have said who lived before, 
 and from contemporaries who have asked themselves the 
 same questions, these great teachers have deduced teachings, 
 — plain, clear, intelligible to all men, and alwaj's such as 
 could be put into practice. 
 
 The world is full of such men. All living men put to 
 themselves the question. How am I to reconcile my own 
 demands for personal life with conscience and reason, which 
 demand the common good of all men? And out of this com- 
 mon travail are evolved slowh', but unceasingly, new forms 
 of life, satisfying more and more the demands of reason and 
 conscience. 
 
 And of a sudden a new caste of men appears, who say,
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 197 
 
 All these are nonsense, and are to be left behind. Tliis is 
 the deductive way of thinking (thongh wherein lies the difti'r- 
 ence between the inductive and the deductive way of think- 
 ing, nobody ever has been able to understand), and this is 
 also the method of the theological and metaphysical periods. 
 
 All that men have understood by inward experience, and 
 have related to each other concerning the consciousness of 
 the law of their own life (functional activity, in their cant 
 phrase) ; all that from the beginning of the world has l)een 
 done in this direction by the greatest intellects of mankind, — 
 all these are trifles, having no weight whatever. 
 
 According to this new teaching. You are a cell of an 
 organism, and the problem of j^our reasonable activity con- 
 sists in trying to ascertain your functional activity. In 
 order to ascertain this, you must make observations outside 
 yourself. 
 
 The fact that you are a cell which thinks, suffers, speaks, 
 and understands, and that for that ver}' reason 3'ou can 
 inquire of another similar speaking, suffering cell whether he 
 or she suffers and rejoices in the same Avay as yourself, and 
 that thus you may verify your own experience ; and the fact 
 that you may make use of what the speaking cells, who lived 
 and suffered before you wrote on the subject ; and your 
 knowledge that millions of cells, agreeing with what the past 
 cells have written, confirm your own experience, that you 
 yourself are a living cell, who always, % a direct inward 
 experience, apprehend tiie correctness or incorrectness of 
 your own functional activity, — all this means nothing, we 
 are told : it is all a false and evil method. 
 
 The true scientific method is this : If you wish to learn 
 in what consists your functional activity, what is з'опг des- 
 tiny and welfare, and what the destinj- of mankind, and of 
 the whole world, then first you must cease to listen to the 
 voice and demands of your conscience and of your reason, 
 which manifest themselves inwardly to 3'ou and to your fel- 
 low-men ; you must leave off believing all the great teachers 
 of humanity have said about their own conscience and reason, 
 and 3'ou must consider all this to be nonsense, and begin 
 at the beginning. 
 
 And in order to begin from the l>eginning, 3'ou have to 
 observe through a microscope the movements of amoebce 
 and the cells of tape-worms ; or, still easier, you must l)e- 
 lieve every thing that people with the diploma of infallibility
 
 198 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 may tell you about them. And observing the movements of 
 these amoebae and cells, or reading what others have seen, 
 you must ascribe to these cells your own human feelings and 
 calculations as to what they desire, what are their tendencies, 
 their reflections and calculations, their habits ; and from 
 these observations (in which each word contains some mis- 
 take of thought or of expression), according to analogy, you 
 must deduce what is your own destiny, and what that of other 
 cells similar to you. 
 
 In order to be able to understand yourself, з'ои must study 
 not merely the tape-worm which you see, but also micro- 
 scopic animalcules which you cannot see, and the transfor- 
 mation from one set of beings into another, which neither 
 you nor anybody else has ever seen, and which you certainly 
 will never see. 
 
 The same holds good with art. AVherever a true science 
 has existed, it has been expressed by art. Since men have 
 existed they have always separated out of all their activities, 
 from their varied information, the chief expression of science, 
 the knowledge of man's destination and welfare ; and art, 
 in the strict sense of the vv'ord, has been the expression of 
 this. 
 
 Since men have existed, there have always been persons 
 particularly sensitive to tlie teaching of man's welfare and 
 destiny, who have expressed in word, and upon psaltery 
 and cymbals, their human struggle with deceit which led them 
 aside from their true destiny, and their sufferings in this 
 struggle, their hopes about the victory of good, their despair 
 about the triumph of evil, and their raptures in expectation 
 of coming welfare. 
 
 Since men have existed, the true art, that which has been 
 valued by men most highl3% had no other destiny than to be 
 the expression of science on man's destiny and welfare. 
 
 Always down to the present time art has served the teach- 
 ing of life (afterwards called religion), and it has on\y been 
 this art which men has-e valued so highh'. 
 
 But contemporaneously with the fact that in the place of 
 the science of man's destiny and welfare appeared the science 
 of universal knowledge, since science lost its own sense and 
 meaning, and the true science has been scornfully called 
 r.'ligion, true art, as an important activit}' of men, has dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 As long as the church existed, and taught man's calling
 
 WHAT MUST wn: do then? 199 
 
 and welfare, art served the church, and was true ; but from 
 the moment it left the church, and begtui to serve a science 
 which served every thing it met, art lost its meaning, and, 
 notwithstanding its old-fashioned claims, and a stui)id asser- 
 tion that art serves merel}^ art itself, and nothing else, it 
 turned out to be a trade which procures luxuries for men, and 
 unaA'Oidabl}' mixes itself with choreography, culiuaiy art, 
 hair-dfessiug, and cosmetics, the producers of which may 
 call themselves artists with the same riglit as the poets, 
 painters, and musicians of our day. 
 
 Looking back, we see that during thousands of years, from 
 among thousands of millions of men who have lived, there 
 came forth a few like Confucius, Buddlia, Solon, Socrates, 
 Solomon, Homer, Isaiah, David. Apparently true artist- 
 producers of spiritual food appear seldom among men, not- 
 Avithstanding the fact that they aj^pear, not from one caste 
 onl}-, but from among all men ; and it is not without cause 
 that mankind have always so highly valued them. And now 
 it turns out tliat we have no longer any need of all these 
 former great factors of art and science. 
 
 Now, according to the law of the division of labor, it is 
 possil)le to manufacture scientific and artistic factors almost 
 mechanically ; and we shall manufacture in the space of ten 
 years, more great men of art and science than have been l)orii 
 among all men from the beginning of the world. Now.a- 
 days there is a trade corporation of learned men and artists, 
 and they prepare by an improved way all the mental food 
 which is wanted by mankind. And they have prepared so 
 much of it, that there need no longer be any rememl)ranee 
 of the old producers, not only of the very ancient, l)ut of 
 more recent, ones, — all this, we are told, was the activity 
 of the theological and metai>liysical i)eriod : all had to lie 
 destroyed, and the true, mental activit}^ began some fifty 
 3'ears ago. 
 
 And in these fifty years we have manufactured so many 
 great men that in a (German university there are more of them 
 than have been in the whole world, and of sciences we have 
 manufactured a great number too ; for one need onl}' put to 
 a Greek word the termination logy, and arrange the sub- 
 ject according to read^'-made paragraphs, and the science is 
 made : we have thus mamifactured so many sciences that not 
 only one man cannot know them all, l)ut he cannot even 
 remember all their names, — these names alone would 1111
 
 200 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 a large dictionary ; and every day new sciences come into 
 existence. 
 
 In tliis respect we are like that Finnish teacher who taught 
 the cliildren of a land-owner the Finuisli lang'uage instead of 
 the French. He taught very well ; but there was one draw- 
 back, — that nobody, except himself, understood it. 
 
 But to this there is also an explanation : Men do not 
 understand all the utility of the scientific science because they 
 are still under the influence of the theological period of 
 knowledge, that stupid period when all the people of the 
 Hebrew race, as well as the Chinese and Indians and Greeks, 
 understood every thing spoken to them by their great teachers. 
 
 But whatever may be the cause, the fact is this, — that art 
 and science have always existed among mankind ; and when 
 they really existed, then they were necessary and intelligible 
 to all men. 
 
 We are busy about something which we call art and science, 
 and it turns out that what we are busy about is neitlier 
 necessary nor intelligible to men. And therefore, however 
 fine the things we are about may be, we have no right to call 
 them art and science. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 But it is said to me, " You only give another narrower defi- 
 nition of art and science, which science does not agree with ; 
 but even this does not exclude them, and notv\4thstanding all 
 you say, there still remains the scientific and art activities of 
 men like Galileo, Bruno, Homer, Michael Angelo, Beethoven, 
 Wagner, and other learned men and artists of lesser magni- 
 tude who have devoted all their lives to ail and science." 
 
 Usually this is said in the endeavor to establish a link 
 connecting the activity of former learned men and artists 
 with the modern ones, trjnng to forget that new princiiile of 
 the division of labor by reason of which art and science are 
 occupying now a privileged position. 
 
 First of all, it is not possible to establish any such connec- 
 tion between the former factors and the modern ones, as the 
 holy life of the first Christian has nothing in common with 
 the lives of popes : thus, the activity of men like Galileo, 
 Shakspeare, Вее1Ьол'еп, has nothing in common witli the ac- 
 tivities of men like Tyndal. Hugo, and Wagner. As the Holy 
 Fathers would have denied any connection with the Popes,
 
 WUAT MUST WE no THEN? 201 
 
 so the ancient factors of science would have denied any 
 relationship with tlie modern ones. 
 
 And secondly, owing U> that importance which art and 
 science ascribe to themselves, we have a ver}' clear standard 
 established by them by means of which we are able to deter- 
 mine whether they do, or do not, fulfil their destiny ; and we 
 therefore decide, not without proofs, but according to their 
 own standard, whether that activity which calls itself art and 
 science has, or has not, any right to call itself thus. 
 
 Though the Egj'ptians or Greek priests performed mys- 
 teries known to none but themselves, and said that these 
 mysteries included all ai't and science, I could not, on the 
 ground of the asserted utility of these to the people, ascertain 
 the reality of their science, because this said science, accord- 
 ing to their ipse dixit, was a supernatural one : but now we 
 all Ьал'е a very clear and plain standard, excluding every 
 tiling supernatural ; art and science promise to put forth the 
 mental activity of mankind for the welfare of society, or even 
 of the whole of mankind. And therefore we have a right to 
 call only such activity, art and science, which has this aim 
 in view, and attains it. And therefore, however those learned 
 men and artists may call themselves, who excogitate the the- 
 ory of penal laws, of state laws, and of the laws of nations, 
 who invent new guns and explosive substances, who compose 
 obscene operas and operettas, or similarly obscene novels, 
 we have no right to call such activity the activity of art and 
 science, because this activity has not in view the welfare of 
 the society oi' of mankind, but on the contrary it is directed 
 to the harm of men. Therefore none of these efforts are 
 either ai't or science. 
 
 In like manner, however, these learned men may call them- 
 selves, who in their simplicity are occupied during all tiieir 
 lives with the investigations of the microscopical animalcule 
 and of telescopical and spectral jihenomena ; or those artists 
 wlio, after having carefully investigated the monuments of 
 old times, are busy writing historical novels, making pictures, 
 concocting symphonies and beautiful verses. All these men, 
 notwithstanding all their zeal, cannot be, according to the 
 d;'luiition of their own science, called men of science and art, 
 (list liecause their activity in science for the sake of science, 
 and of art for art, has not in view man's welfare ; and sec- 
 ondly, because we do not see any results of these activities 
 for the welfare of society or maukiud.
 
 202 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 Aud the fact that sometimes something comes of their 
 activities useful or agreeable for some meu, as out of every 
 thing something useful and agreeable may result for some 
 men, by no means gives us any right, according to their own 
 scieutihc definition, to consider them to be meu of art aud 
 science. 
 
 In like manner, however those men may call themselves 
 who excogitate the application of electricity to lighting, heat- 
 ing, and motion ; or who inveut some new chemical combi- 
 nations, producing dynamite or fine colors ; men who 
 correctly play Beethoven's symphonies ; who act on the stage, 
 or paint portraits well, domestic pictures, landscapes, and 
 other pictures ; who compose interesting novels, the object 
 of which is raerel}' to amuse rich people, — the activity of 
 these men, I sa}^ cannot be called art and science, because 
 this activity is not directed, like the activitj^ of the brain in 
 the organism, to the welfare of the whole, but is guided 
 merel}' by personal gain, privileges, money, which one obtains 
 for the inventing and producing of so-called art ; and there- 
 fore this activity cannot possibly be separated from other 
 covetous, personal activity, which adds agreeable things to 
 life, like the activity of innkeepers, jockeys, milliners, and 
 prestitutes, and so on, because the activity of the first, the 
 second, and the last, do not come under the definition of art 
 and science, on the ground of the division of labor, which 
 promises to serve for tiie welfare of all mankind. 
 
 The scientific definition of art and science is a correct one ; 
 but nnluckil3\ the activity of modern art and science does not 
 come under it. Some produce directly luirtful things, oth- 
 ers useless things ; and a third part}' invent trifles fit only 
 for the use of rich people. They may all be very good per- 
 sons, but the}' do not fulfil what they, according to their own 
 definition, have taken upon themselves to fulfil ; and therefoi-o 
 the}' liave as little right to call themselves men of art aud 
 science as the modern clergy, who do not fulfil their duties, 
 have the right to cousider themselves the bearers and teach- 
 ers of divine truth. 
 
 And it is not difficnlt to nnderstand why the factors of 
 modern art and science have not fulfilled, aud cannot fulfil, 
 their calluig. They do not fulfil it, liecause they have con- 
 verted their duty into a riglit. Tlie scientific and art activi- 
 ties, in their true sense, are fruitful only when they ignore 
 their rights, aud know only their duties. Mankind value
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO TUEN ? 203 
 
 this activity so highl}-, only because it is a sclf-deuying 
 one. 
 
 If men are really called to serve others by mental labor, 
 they will have to suffer in performing this labor, because it 
 is only b}' sufferings that spiritual fruit is produced. Self- 
 denying and suffering are the lot and portion of a thinker 
 and an artist, because their object is the welfare of men. 
 Men are wretched : they suffer and go to ruin. One cannot 
 wait and lose one's time. 
 
 A thinker and an artist will never sit on the heights of 
 Olympus, as we are apt to imagine : he must suffer in com- 
 pany with men in order to find salvation or consolation. He 
 will suffer because he is constantly in anxiet}' and agitation : 
 he might have found out and told what would give happiness 
 to men, might have saved them from suft'ering ; and he has 
 neither found it out nor said it, and to-morrow it may be too 
 late — he may die. And therefore suffei'iug and self-sacrifice 
 will always be the lot of the thinker and the artist. 
 
 Not that man will become a thinker and an artist who 
 is brought up in an estal)lishment where learned men and 
 artists are ci'eated (but, in reality, they create only destroy- 
 ers of art and science), and who obtains a di|jloma, and is 
 well provided for, for life, but he who would gladly abstain 
 from thinking, and expressing that which is ingrafted in his 
 soul, but whicli lie cannot ovei'look, being drawn to it by two 
 ii'resistihle powers, — his own inward impulse and the wants 
 of men. 
 
 Thinkers and artists cannot be sleek, fat men, enjoying 
 themselves, and self-conceited. Spiritual and mental activ- 
 ity and their expression, are really necessary for others, and 
 are the most diMieult of men's callings, — a cross, as it is 
 called in the gospel. 
 
 And the only one certain characteristic of the presence of 
 a calling is the self-denying, the sacrifice of one's self in 
 order to manifest thepower iu grafted in man for the benefit 
 of others. To teach how many insects there are iu the 
 world, and observe the spots on the sun, to write novels and 
 operas, can be done without suffering ; but to teach men their 
 wi'lfare, which entirely consists in self-denial, and in serving 
 otiiers, and to express powerfully this teaching, cannot be 
 done without self-denial. 
 
 The Churcii existed in her ]iurity as long as her teachers 
 endured patiently and suffered ; but as soon as they became
 
 204 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 fat and sleek, their teaching activity was ended. "Formerly," 
 say the people, " priests were of gold, and chalices of wood ; 
 now chalices are of gold, and priests of wood." It was not 
 in vain that Christ died on a cross : it is not in vain that 
 sacrifice and suffering conquer every thing. 
 
 And as for our art and sciences, tliey are provided for : 
 the}^ have diplomas, and everybody is only thinking about 
 how to provide still bettei' for them ; that is, to make it im- 
 possible for them to serve men. A true art and a true 
 science have two unmistaka1)le characteristics, — the first, aa 
 interior one, that a minister of art or science fulfils his calling, 
 not for the sake of gain, but with self-denial ; and the second, 
 an exterior one, that his productions are intelligible to all 
 men, whose welfare he is aiming at. 
 
 Whatever men may consider to be their destiny and wel- 
 fare, science will be the teacher of this destiny and welfare, 
 and art the expression of this teaching. The laws of Solon, 
 of Confucius, are science ; the teachings of Moses, of Christ, 
 are science ; the temples in Athens, the psalms of David, 
 church worship, are art : but finding out the fourth dimension 
 of matter, and tabulating chomical combinations, and so on, 
 have never been, and never will be, science. 
 
 The place of true science is occupied, in our time, by 
 theology and law ; the place of true art is occupied by the 
 church and state ceremonies, in which nobody believes, and 
 which are not considered seriously by anybody : and tliat 
 which with us is called art and science, is only the productions 
 of idle minds and feelings which have in view to stimulate 
 similarly idle minds and feelings, and which are nnintelligible 
 and dumb for the people, because they have not their welfare 
 in view. 
 
 Since we have known the lives of men, we alwa3's and 
 ever^'where have found a ruling false doctrine, calling itself 
 science, which does not show men the true meaning of life, 
 but rather hides it from them. 
 
 So it was among the Egyptians, the Indians, the Chinese, 
 and partially among the Greeks (sophists) ; and among the 
 mystics. Gnostics, and cabalists ; in the Middle Ages, in 
 theology, scholasticism, alchemy ; and so on down to our 
 days. How fortunate indeed are we to be living in such a 
 pci iiliar time, when that mental activity which calls itself 
 science is not onl}' free from errors, but. as we are assured, 
 is in a state of peculiar progress ! Does not this good fortune
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 205 
 
 come from the fact that man can not and will not see his own 
 defoi'inities? While of the sciences of theologians, and that 
 of cabalists, nothing is left but empty words, why bhould we 
 be so particularly fortunate? 
 
 The characteristics of our and of former times are quite 
 similar : there is the same self-conceit and blind assurance 
 that we onl}- are on the true wa}-, and that only with us true 
 knowledge begins ; there are the same expectations that we 
 shall presently discover something very wonderful ; and 
 there is the same exposure of our error, in the fact that all 
 our wisdom remains with us, while the masses of the people 
 do not understand it, and neither accept nor want it. (3ur 
 position is a very difficult one, but why should we not look 
 it in the face ? 
 
 It is time to come to our senses, and to look more closel}' 
 to ourselves. We are, indeed, nothing but scribes and Phar- 
 isees, who, sitting in Moses' seat, and having the key of the 
 kingdom of God, do not enter themselves, and refuse entrance 
 to others. 
 
 We. priests of art and science, are most wretched deceivers, 
 who have nuich less right to our position than the most 
 cunning and depraved priests ever had. 
 
 For our privileged position, there is no excuse whatever: 
 we have taken u[) this position by a kind of swindling, and 
 we retain it by deceit. Pagan priests, the clergy, as well 
 Eussian as Roman Catholic, however depraved they may 
 have been, had rights to their position, because they pro- 
 fessed to teach men about life and salvation. And we, who 
 have cut the ground from under their feet, and proved to men 
 that they were deceivers, we have taken their place, and not 
 only do not teach men about life, we even acknowledge that 
 there is no necessity for them to learn. We suck the blood 
 of the people, and for this we teach our children Greek and 
 Latin grammars in order that they also may continue the 
 same i)arasitic life which we are living. 
 
 We say. There have been castes, we will abolish them. 
 But what means the fact that some men and their chihlren 
 work, and oilier men and tiieir children do not work? 
 
 Bring a Hindu who does not know our language, and 
 show him the Russian and tlie Kuropean lives of many gener- 
 ations, and he will recognize the existence of two important 
 detinite castes of Avorking-peopk" and of non-working-people 
 as they are in existence in liis own country. As m his couu-
 
 206 WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 tiy, so also among iis, the right of not \vorking is acquired 
 through a peculiar initiation which we call art and science, 
 and generally education. 
 
 This education it is, and the perversions of reason as- 
 sociated with it, that have brouglit us to this w'onderful 
 folly, whence it has come to pass that we do not see what is 
 so plain and certain. We are eating up the lives of our 
 brethren, and consider ourselves to be Christians, humane, 
 educated, and quite righteous people. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 What is to be done? What must we do? 
 
 This question, which includes the acknowledgment of the 
 fact that our life is bad and unrighteous, and at the same 
 time hints that there is no possibility of changing it, — this 
 question 1 hear everywhere, and therefore I chose it for the 
 title of my work. ^ 
 
 I have described my own sufferings, ni}^ search, and the 
 answer which I have found to this question. 
 
 lama man, like all others; and if I distinguish myself 
 from an average man of my own circle in any thing, it is 
 chierty in the fact that I, more than this average man, have 
 served and indulged the false teaching of our world, that 
 1 have been praised by the men of the prevalent school of 
 teaching, and that therefore 1 must be more depraved, and 
 have gone farther astray, than most of my fellows. 
 
 Therefore I think that the answer to this question луЬ1сЬ I 
 have found for myself will do for all sincere persons who 
 will put the same question to themselves. First of all, to 
 the question, "What is to be done?" I answer that we 
 must neither deceive other men nor ourselves ; that we must 
 not be afraid of the truth, whatever the result may be. 
 
 We all know what it is to deceive other men ; and notwith- 
 standing this, we do deceive from morning to evening, — 
 '■ Not at home," wiien I am in ; " Very glad," when I am 
 not at all glad; '• P^steemed," w'hen I do not esteem; "I 
 have no money," Avhen I have it, and so ou. 
 
 We consider the deception of others, particularly a cer- 
 tain kind of deception, to be evil; but we are not afraid 
 to deceive oui'selves': but the worst direct lie to men. seeing 
 its result, is nothing in comparison with that lie to ourselves
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 207 
 
 according to луИюЬ we shape our lives. Now, this very lie 
 we must avoid if we wish to be able to answer the question, 
 ^^What is to be clone?" 
 
 And, indeed, how am I to answer the question as to 
 what is to be done, when ever}^ thing I do, all my life, is 
 based upon a lie and I carefully give out this lie for truth 
 to others and to mj'self? Not to lie in this sense means 
 . to be not afraid of truth ; not to invent excuses, and not to 
 accept excuses invented by others, in order to hide from one's 
 self the deduction of reason and conscience ; not to be afraid 
 of contradicting all our environmeut, and of being left alone 
 with reason and conscience ; not to be afraid of that con- 
 dition to which truth and conscience lead us : however dreadful 
 it may be, it cannot be worse than that which is based upon 
 deceit. 
 
 To avoid lying, for men in our privileged position of 
 mental labor, means not to be afraid of learning. Perhaps 
 we owe so much that we should never be able to pay it all ; 
 but, however much we may owe, луе must make out our bill : 
 however far we have gone astray, it is better to return than 
 to continue straying. 
 
 Lying to our fellows is always disadvantageous. Every 
 l)usiness is always more directly done, and more quickly too, 
 by truth than by lies. Lying to otlier men makes the mat- 
 ter only more complicated,, and retards the decision ; but 
 lying to one's self, which is given out to be the truth, entirely 
 ruius the life of man. 
 
 If a man considers a wrong road to be a right one, then 
 his every step onl}' leads him farther from his aim : a man 
 who has been walking for a long time on a wrong road may 
 hud out for himself, or be told by others, that his road is a 
 wrong one ; but if he, being afraid of the thought of how 
 far he has gone astray, tries to assure himself that he ma}', 
 by following this wrong \vay, still come across the right one, 
 then he will certainly never find it. If a man becomes 
 afraid of the truth, and, on seeing it, will not acknowledge 
 it, Ijut takes falsehood for truth, then this man will never learn 
 what is to be done. 
 
 We, not only rich men, but men in a privileged position, 
 so-called educated men, have gone so far astray that we 
 require either a firm resolution or very great sufferings on our 
 false way in onler to come to our senses again, and to recog- 
 nize the lie by which we live.
 
 208 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 I became aware of the lie of our life, thanks to those suf- 
 ferings to which my wrong road led me ; and, havinir 
 acknowledged the error of the way on which I was bent, 1 
 had the boldness to go, first in theory, then in reality, 
 wherever my reason and conscience led me, without any de- 
 liberation as to whither they were tending. 
 
 And I was rewarded. 
 
 All the соиц)1ех, disjointed, intricate, and meaningless 
 phenomena of life surrounding me became of a sudden clear ; 
 and ш}' position, formerly so strange and vile, among these 
 phenomena, became of a sudden natural and easy. 
 
 And in this new situation my activity has exactly deter- 
 mined itself, but it is quite a different activity from that 
 which appeared possible to me before : it is a new activity, 
 far more quiet, affectionate, and joyous. The very thing 
 which frightened me before, now attracts me. 
 
 And therefore, I think that every one who sincerely puts 
 to himself the question, "What is to be done?" and in 
 answering this question, does not lie or deceive himself, but 
 goes whei'ever his reason and conscience may lead him, that 
 man has already answered the question. 
 
 If he will only avoid deceiving himself, he will find out 
 what to do, where to go, and how to act. Tiiere is only one 
 thing which may hinder him in finding an answer, — that 
 is a too high estimate of himself, and his own position. 
 So it was with me ; and therefore the second answei- to the 
 question, " What is to be done?" resulting from the first, 
 consisted for me in repenting, in the full meaning of this 
 word, that is, entirely changing the estimate of my own 
 position and activity ; instead of considering such to be use- 
 ful and of importance, we must come to acknowledge it to 
 be harmful and trifiing ; instead of considering ourselves 
 educated, we must get to see our ignorance ; instead of 
 imagining ourselves to be kind and moral, we must acknowl- 
 edge tliat we are immoral and cruel ; instead of our impor- 
 tance, we must see our owm insignificance. 
 
 I say, that besides avoiding lying to mj'self , I had more- 
 over to repent^ because, though the one results from the 
 other, the wrong idea about my great importance Avas so 
 much a part of my own nature, that until I had sincerely 
 repented, and had put aside tliat wrong estimate of myself 
 wliicli I had, I did not see the enormity of the lie of which J 
 had been guilty.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO TIIENf 209 
 
 It was only when I repented, — that is, left off considering 
 myself to be a peculiar man, and began to consider myself 
 to be like all other men, — it was then that my way became 
 clear to me. Before this, I was not al)le to answer the ques- 
 tion, ''What is to be done?" because the very question it- 
 self was put incorrectly. 
 
 liefore I repented, I had put the question thus: "What 
 activit}' should I choose, I, the man with the education I 
 have acquired? How can I compensate by this education 
 and these talents for what I have been taking away from the 
 people ? ' ' 
 
 This question was a false one, because it included a wrong 
 idea as to my not being like other men, but a peculiar man, 
 called to serve other men with those talents and that educa- 
 tion which I had acquired in forty years. 
 
 I had put the question to myself, but in reality I had already 
 answered it in advance by having determined befoi-ehand the 
 kind of activit}' agreeable to myself by which I was called 
 u[)on to serve men. I really asked myself, " How have I, 
 so fine a writer, one so very well informed, and with sueh 
 talents, how can 1 utilize them for the benefit of man- 
 kind?" 
 
 But the question ought to have been put thus, as it would 
 have to be put to a learned rabbi wlio had studied all the 
 Tiibnud, and knew the exact number of the letters in tlie 
 Holy Scripture, and all the subtleties of his science : " AVliat 
 have I to do, who, from unlucky circumstances, have lost 
 my best years in study instead of accustoming myself to 
 lai)or, in leaiMiing the French language, the piano, grannnar, 
 geography, law, poetry ; in reading novels, romances, philo- 
 soi)iiical tlieories, and in performing military exercises? what 
 have 1 to do, who have passed the l)est years of my life in 
 idle occupations, depraving the soul ? wluil iiave 1 to do, 
 notwithstanding these unluck}' conditions of the past, in 
 order to requite those men, who, during all this time, have 
 fed and clothed me, and who still continue to feed and to 
 clothe me?" 
 
 И" the question had been put thus, after I had repented, 
 " What have I, so ruined a man, to do?" the answer would 
 have been easy : First of all, Г must try to get my living 
 honestly, — that is, learn not to live upon the shoulders of 
 others ; and while learning this, and after I have leai'ued it, 
 to try ou every occasion to be of use to men with my hands
 
 210 WHAT MUST WE BO THEN? 
 
 and with my feet, as well as with my braiu and my heart, and 
 with all of me that is wanted by men. 
 
 And therefore I sa\' that for one of my own circle, besides 
 aл^oiding lying to others and to ourselves, it is necessary 
 moreover to repent, to lay aside that pride about our edu- 
 cation, refinement, and talents, not considering ourselves 
 to be benefactors of the people, advanced men, who are 
 ready to share our useful acquirements with the people, but 
 to acknowledge ourselves to be entirely guilty, ruined, good- 
 for-uothiug men, who desire to turn over a new leaf, and not 
 to be benefactors of the people, but to cease to offend and 
 to humiliate them. Very often good young people, who sym- 
 pathize with the negative part of my writings, put to me the 
 question, " AYhat must I then do? What have I, who have 
 finished my study in the university or in some other high 
 establishment, — what have I to do in order to be useful? " 
 
 These young people ask the question ; but in the depths of 
 their souls they have already decided that that education 
 which they have received is their great advantage, and that 
 they wish to serve the people by this very advantage. 
 
 And, therefore, there is one thing which they do not do, — 
 honestly and critically examine what they call their educa- 
 tion, by asking themselves whether it is a good or a bad thing. 
 
 But if they do this, they will be unavoidably led to deny 
 their education, and to begin to learn anew ; and this is alone 
 what is wanted. Tiiey never will be able to answer the 
 question, as to what there is to be done, because they put it 
 wrongly. The question should be put thus: "How can I, 
 a helpless, useless man, seeing now the misfortune of hav- 
 ing lost ni}^ best years in studying the scientific Talmud, 
 pernicious for soul and body, how can I rectify this mistake, 
 and learn to serve men?" But the question is always put 
 thus: "How can I, who have acquired so much fine in- 
 formation, how can I be useful to men with this my 
 information ? " 
 
 And, therefore, a man will never answer the question, 
 " What is to be done? " until he leaves off deceiving himself 
 and repents. And repentance is not dreadful, even as truth 
 is not dreadful, but it is equally beneficent and fruitful of 
 good. We need only accei)t the whole truth and fully repent 
 in order to understand that in life no one has any rights or 
 privileges, and that there is no end of duties, and no limits 
 to them, and that the first and unquestionable duty of a man
 
 WHAT 3IUST WE DO THEN? 211 
 
 is to take a part in the struggle with nature for his own life, 
 and for the lives of other men. And this acknowledgment 
 of men's dut}' forms the essence of the third answer to the 
 question, " What is to be done? " 
 
 I have tried to avoid deceiving myself. I have endeavored 
 to extirpate the remainders of the false estimate of the 
 irajjortance of my education and talents, and to repent ; but 
 before answering the question, What is to be done? stands 
 a new didiculty. 
 
 There are so many things to be done, that one requires to 
 know what is to be done in particular? And the answer 
 to this question has been given me by the sincere repentance 
 of the evil in w^iich I have been living. 
 
 Wliat is to be done? >Yhat is there exactly to be done? 
 evei'ybody keeps asking; and I, too, kept asking this, while, 
 under the influence of a high opinion of my own calling, I 
 had not seen that ni}" first and unquestionable business is to 
 earn my living, clothing, heating, building, and so forth, 
 and in doing this to serve others as well as myself, because, 
 since the world has existed, the first and unquestionable duty 
 of every man has been comprised in this. 
 
 In this one business, man receives, if he has already begun 
 to take part in it, tlie full satisfaction of all the bodily and 
 mental wants of his nature: to feed, clothe, take care of 
 himself and of his family, will satisfy' his bodily wants ; to 
 do the same for others, will satisfy his spiritual. 
 
 p]very other activity of man is only lawful when these first 
 have been satisfied. In wliatever department a man thinks 
 tf) be his calling, whether in governing the people, in protect- 
 ing his countrymen, in officiating at divine services, in teach- 
 ing, in inventing the means of increasing the delights of life, 
 in discovering the laws of the universe, in incorporating 
 eternal truths in artistic images, the very first and tlie most 
 unquestionable duty of a reasonable man will always consist 
 in taking part in the struggle with nature for preserving his 
 own life and the lives of other men. 
 
 This duty will always rank lirst, because the most neces- 
 sary thing for men is life : and therefore, in order to protect 
 and to teach men, and to make their lives more agreeable, it 
 is necessary to keep this лч'гу life ; while by not taking part 
 iu the struggle, and by swallowing up the labor of others, 
 lives are destroyed. And it is folly to endeavor to serve 
 men by destroying their lives.
 
 212 WHAT MUST WE BO TUEN? 
 
 Man's cluty to acquire in the struggle with nature the 
 means of living, will always be unquestionably the very first 
 of all duties, because it is the law of life, the violation of 
 which unavoidably brings with it a punishment by destroying 
 the bodily or mental life of man. If a man, living alone, 
 free himself from the duty of struggling with nature, he will 
 at once be punished by his body perishing. 
 
 But if a man free himself from this duty by compelling 
 other men to fulfil it for him, in ruining their lives, he will be 
 at once punished by the destruction of his reasonable life ; 
 that is, the life which has a reasonable sense in it. 
 
 I had been so perverted by my antecedents, and this first 
 and unquestionable law of God or nature is so hidden in our 
 present world, that the fuliilling of it had seemed to me 
 strange, and I was afraid and ashamed of it, as if the fulfil- 
 ment, and not the violation, of this eternal unquestionable law 
 were strange, unnatural, and shameful. At first it seemed to 
 me, that, in order to fulfil this law, some sort of accommoda- 
 tion was necessary, some established association of fellow- 
 thinkers, the consent of the family, and life in the country 
 (not in town) : then I felt ashamed, as if I were putting 
 myself forward in performing things so unusual to our life as 
 bodily labor, and I did not know how to begin. 
 
 But I needed only to understand that this was not some 
 exclusive activity, which I had to invent and to arrange, l)ut 
 that it was merely returning from a false condition in which 
 I had been to a natural one, merely rectifying that lie in 
 which I had been living, — I had onl}' to acknowledge all this, 
 in order that all the difflculties should vanish. 
 
 It was not at all necessary to arrange and accommodate 
 any thing, or to wait for the consent of other people, because 
 everywhere, in whatever condition I was, there were men 
 who fed, dressed, and warmed me as well as themselves ; and 
 everj'where, under all circumstances, I was able to do these 
 for myself and for them, if I had sufficient time and 
 strength. 
 
 Nor could I feel a false shame in performing matters un- 
 usual and strange to me, because, in not doing so, I already' 
 experienced, not a false, but a real, shame. 
 
 And having come to this acknowledgment, and to the prac- 
 tical deduction from it, I had been fully rewarded for not 
 having lieen afraid of the deductions of I'eason, and for luiving 
 gone whither they led me.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO TEEN? 213 
 
 Having; come to this practical conclusion, I was struck by 
 the facility and simplicity of the solution of all those problems 
 which had formerly seemed to me so difficult and complicated. 
 To the question, '^ What have we to do? " I received a very 
 plain answer: Do first what is necossai'y for yourself; ar- 
 range all you can do by yourself, — your tea-urn, stove, water, 
 and clothes. 
 
 To the question, " Would not this seem strange to those 
 who had been accustomed to do all this for me?" it ap- 
 peared that it was strange only during a week, and after a 
 week it seemed more strange for me to return to my former 
 condition. 
 
 In answer to the question, " Is it necessary to organize 
 this physical labor, to establish a society in a \'illage upon 
 this liasis? " it appeared that it was not at all necessary to do 
 all this ; that if the labor does not aim at rendering idleness 
 possible, and at utilizing other men's labor, as is the case 
 with men who save up money, but merely the satisfying of 
 necessities, then si»ch labor will naturally induce people to 
 leave towns for the country, where this labor is most agree- 
 able and productive. 
 
 There was also no need to establish a society, because a 
 workingman will naturally associate Avith other working- 
 people. In answer to the question, " Would not this labor 
 take up all my time, and would it not deprive me of the pos- 
 sibility of that mental activit}' which I am so fond of, and to 
 which I have become accustomed, and which in moments of 
 self-conceit I consider to be useful to others?" the answer will 
 be quite an unexpected one. In proportion to bodily exercise 
 the energy of m}' mental activity increased, having freed 
 itself from all that was superfluous. 
 
 In fact, having spent eight hours in physical labor, — 
 half a day, — Avhich formerly I used to spend in endeavor- 
 ing to struggle with dulness, there still remained for me 
 eight hours, out of which in my circumstances I required five 
 for mental lal)or ; and if I, a very prolific writer, who had 
 been doing nothing during forty years but writing, and who 
 had written three Imndred printed sheets, that if during these 
 fort}' years I had been doing ordinary work along with work- 
 ing-i)eople. then, not taking into consideration winter even- 
 ings and holidays, if I had been reading and learning during 
 the five hours a day, and written only on holidays two pages a 
 day (and 1 have sometimes written sixteen pages a day), I
 
 214 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 should have written the same three hundred printed sheets in 
 fourteen years. 
 
 A wonderful thing, perhaps, but a most simple arithmetical 
 calculation which ever}' boy of seven years of age may do, 
 and which I had never done. Day and night have together 
 twenty-four hours ; we sleep eight hours ; there remain six- 
 teen hours. If any man labor mentally five hours a day, he 
 will do a vast amount of business ; what do we, then, do 
 during the remaining eleven hours? 
 
 80 it appears that physical labor not only does not exclude 
 the possibility of mental activity, but improves and stimu- 
 lates it. 
 
 In answer to the question whether this physical labor would 
 deprive me of many innocent enjoyments proper to man, 
 such as tlie enjoN'ment of art, the acquirement of knowledge, 
 of social intercourse, and, generally, of the happiness of life, 
 it was really quite tlie reverse : the more intense ray physical 
 labor was, the more it approached that labor which is con- 
 sidered the hardest, that is, agricultural, labor, the more I 
 acquired enjoyments, knowledge, and the closer and more 
 affectionate was my intercourse with mankind, and the 
 more happiness did 4 feel in life. 
 
 In answer to the (piestion (which I hear so often from men 
 who are not quite sincere), " What result can there be from 
 such an awfull}^ small drop in the sea? what is all ni}' per- 
 sonal physical labor in comparison with the sea of labor 
 which I swallow up?" 
 
 To this question I also received a very unexpected 
 answer. 
 
 It appeared that as soon as I had made physical labor the 
 ordinary condition of m}^ life, then at once the greatest part 
 of my false and expensive habits and wants which I had, 
 while I had been physically idle, ceased of themselves, with- 
 out any endeavor on my part. To say nothing of the habit 
 of turning day into night, and vice versa, of mj' bedding, 
 clothes, my conventional cleanliness, which all became im- 
 possible and embarrassing when I began to labor phj'sically, 
 both the quantity and the quality of my food was totally 
 changed. Instead of the sweet, rich, delicate, complicated, 
 and highly spiced food, which I was formerh' fond of. I now 
 required and ol)tained plain food as the most agreeal)le. — 
 sour cabbage soup, porridge, black bread, tea with a bit of 
 su^ar.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 215 
 
 So that, to say nothing of the example of common work- 
 ingmen who are satisfied with little, with whom I came into 
 closer intercourse, m}- very wants themselves were graduall}' 
 changed by my life of labor ; so that my drop of physical 
 labor in proportion to m}' growing accustomed to this labor 
 and acquiring the ways of it, became indeed more perceptible 
 in the ocean of common labor ; and in proportion as my lal)or 
 grew more fruitful, my demands for other men's labor grew 
 less and less, and my life naturally, without effort or i)riva- 
 tion, came nearer to that simple life of which I could not 
 even have dreamed without fulfilling the law of labor. 
 
 It became appai-ent that my former most expensive de- 
 mands — the demands of vanity and amusement — were the 
 direct result of an idle life. With physical labor, there was 
 no room for vanity, and no need for amusement, because my 
 time was agreeably occupied ; and after weariness simple rest 
 while drinking tea, or reading a book, or conversing with tlie 
 members of my family, was far more agreeable than the 
 theatre, playing at cards, concerts, or large parties. 
 
 In answer to the question, '• Would not tliis unusual lalior 
 be hurtful to my health, which is necessary for me in order 
 that I may serve men? " it appeared that, in spite of the posi- 
 tive assurance of eminent doctors that hard physical labor, 
 especially at my age, might have the worst results (and that 
 Swedish gymnastics, riding, and other expedients intended 
 to supply the natural conditions of man, would be far better), 
 the harder 1 worked, the stronger, sounder, more cheerful, 
 and kinder, I felt myself. 
 
 So that it became undoubtedly certain that just as all those 
 inventions of the human mind, such as newspapers, theatres, 
 concerts, parties, balls, cards, magazines, novels, are nothing 
 else than means to sustain the mental life of men out of its 
 natural condition of labor for others, in the same way 
 all the hygienic and medical inventions of the human mind 
 for the accommodation of food, drink, dwelling, ventilation, 
 warming of rooms, clothes, medicines, mineral waters, gym- 
 nastics, electric and other cures, are all merely means to 
 sustain the bodily life of man out of its natural conditions of 
 labor ; that all these are nothing else than an establishment 
 hermetically closed, in which, by the means of chemical ap- 
 paratus, the evaporation of water for the plants is arranged 
 when you only need to open the window, and do that which 
 is natural, not only to men but to beasts too ; in other words.
 
 216 WHAT MUST WE no THEN? 
 
 having absorbed the food, and thns iiroduced a chaige of 
 еиогд'у, to discharge it by muscular hibor. 
 
 All the profound thouglits of hygic^ne and of the art of 
 healing for the men of our circle are like the efforts of a me- 
 chanic, who, having stopped all the valves of an overheat.-'d 
 engine, should invent something to prevent this engine from 
 bursting. 
 
 When I had plainl}' understood all this, it became to me 
 ridiculous, that I, through a long series of doubt, research, and 
 much thinking, had arrived at this extraordinary truth, that 
 if man has eyes, they are to be seen through ; ears, to hear by ; 
 feet to walk with, and hands and back to work with, — and 
 that if man will not use these, his members, for what they are 
 meant, then it will be worse for him. I came to this conclu- 
 sion, that with us, privileged people, the same thing has 
 happened which happened to the horses of a friend of mine : 
 The stew^ard, who was not fond of horses, and did not 
 understand any thing about them, having received from iiis 
 master orders to prepare the best cobs for sale, chose the 
 best out of the di'ove of horses, and put them into the stable, 
 fed them upon oats ; but being over-ansious, he trusted them 
 to nobody, neither rode them himself, nor drove nor led them. 
 
 All of these horses became, of course, good for nothing. 
 
 The same has happened to us with this difference, — that 
 you cannot deceive horses, and, in order not to let them out, 
 they must be secured ; and we are kept in unnatural and 
 hurtful conditions by all sorts of temptations, which fasten 
 and hold us as with chains. 
 
 We have arranged for ourselves a life which is against 
 the moral and physical nature of man, and we use all the 
 powers of our mind in order to assure men that this life is 
 a real one. All that we call culture, — our science and arts 
 for improving the delights of life, — all these are only meant 
 to deceive man's natural requirements : all that we call 
 hj^giene, and the art of healing, are endeavors to deceive 
 the natural physical want of human nature. 
 
 But these deceits have their limit, and we are come to 
 these limits. " If such be real human life, then it is better 
 not to live at all," saj'S the fashionable phildsoph}'^ of 
 Schopenhauer and Hartman. " If such be life, it is better 
 for future generations, too, not to live," says the indulgent 
 healing art, and invents means to destroy women's fecundity. 
 
 In the Bible the law to human beings is expressed thus :
 
 WHAT 3IUST V,'E no THEN? 217 
 
 "In the sweat of thy face shnlt thou eat bread," and "In 
 sorrow thou shalt bring forth children." 
 
 Tlie peasant Bondaref, who wrote an article about this, 
 threw g-reat light upon the wisdom of this sentence. Dur- 
 ing the whole of my life, two thinking men — Russians — 
 have exercised a great moral influence over me : they have 
 enriched my thoughts, and enlightened my contemplation of 
 the world. 
 
 These men were neither poets, nor learned men, nor 
 preachers : they were two remarkable men, both living peas- 
 ants, — Sntaief and Bondaref. But " nous avous change 
 tout 9a," as says one of Moliere's personages, talking at 
 "random about the healing art. and saying that the liver is 
 on the left side, " we have changed all that." Men need 
 not work, — all work will be done by machines ; and women 
 need not bring forth children. The healing art will teach 
 different means of avoiding this, and there are already too 
 many people in the vvorld. 
 
 In the Krapivensk}' district, ^ there lives a ragged peasant 
 Avho during the war was a purchaser of meat for a commis- 
 sary of stores. Having beecmie acquainted with this function- 
 ary, and having seen his eomfoitable life, he became mad, 
 and now thinks that he, too, can live as gentlemen do, without 
 working. l)eing provided for b}' the P^mi)eror. 
 
 This peasant now calls himself '' the Most Serene ]\Iarshal 
 Prince Blokhin, purveyor of war-stores of all kinds." 
 
 He says of himself that he has gone through all ranks, 
 and for his services during the war he has to receive from 
 the Emperor an unlimited bank-account, clothes, uniforms, 
 horses, carriages, tea, servants, and all kinds of provision. 
 When anybody asks him whether he would like to work 
 a little, he always answers, "Thanks: the peasants will 
 attend to all that." AVhen we saj' to him that the peasants 
 also may not be disposed to work, he answers, " Machines 
 have been invented to case the labor of peasants. They 
 have no difficulty in their business." When we ask him 
 what is he living for, he answers, " To pass away the time." 
 
 I always consider this man as a mirror. 1 see in him 
 myself and all my class. To pass through all ranks in 
 order to live, to pass away the time, and to receive an 
 unlimited bank-account, while peasants attend to every 
 
 ' Count Tolstoi's village of Уа*пауа Toiyana is eituatud in this district.— 
 Am. £d.
 
 218 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 thing, aucl find it easy to do so, because of the invention 
 of machines. 
 
 This is tlie л^егу form of the foolish belief of men of our 
 class. When we ask лvhat have we particularly to do, we 
 are in reality asking nothing, but only asserting — not so 
 sincerely indeed as the Most Serene Mai'shal Prince Blokhin, 
 who liad passed through all ranks, and lost his mind — that 
 we do not wish to do any thing. 
 
 He who has come to his senses cannot ask this, because 
 from one side all that he makes use of has been done, and 
 is being done, liy the hands of men : on the other side, as 
 soon as a healthy man has got up and breakfasted, he feels 
 the inclination to work, as well with his feet as with his 
 hands and brain. In order to find work, he has only not to 
 restrain himself from labor. Only lie who considers labor 
 to be a shame, like the lady who asked her guest not to 
 troul)ie hei'self to open the door, l)ut to wait till she called 
 a servant to do it, only such persons can ask what is there 
 to be done in particular. 
 
 The difficult}' is not in inventing some work, — every one 
 has enough to do for himself and for others, — but in losing 
 this criminal view of life, that we eat and sleep for our own 
 pleasure, and in appropriating that simple and correct vicAv 
 in which every working-person grows up, that man first of 
 all is a machine which is charged with food, in order to 
 earn his living, and that therefore it is shameful, difficult, 
 and impossible to eat and not to work ; that to eat and not to 
 work is a most dangerous state, and as bad as incendiarism. 
 
 It is necessarv merely to have this consciousness, and we 
 shall find work will always be pleasant, and capable of satis- 
 f3'ing all the wants of our soul and body. 
 
 I picture to myself the whole matter thus : Everj' man's 
 day is divided by his meals into four parts, or four stages 
 as it is called by the peasants : First, before breakfast ; 
 secondl)% from breakfast to dinner ; thirdly, from dinner to 
 poldnik (a slight evening meal between dinner and supper) ; 
 and fourthly, from poldnik to night. The activity of man 
 to which he is drawn, is also divided into four kinds: First, 
 the activity of the muscles, the labor of the hands, feet, 
 shoulders, back, — hard labor by which one perspires ; 
 secondly, the activity of the fingers and wrists, the activity 
 of skill and liandicraft ; thirdly, the activity of the intellect 
 and imagination ; fourthly, the activity of intercourse with 
 other men.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 219 
 
 And the goods which man makes use of may also be 
 divided into four kinds : First, every man makes use of tlie 
 productions of hard labor, — bread, cattle. l)uildino;s, wells, 
 bridges, and so on ; secondly, the productions of handicraft, — 
 clothes, boots, hardware, and so on ; thirdly, the productions 
 of mental activity, — science, art ; and fourthly, the inter- 
 course with men, acquaintanceship, societies. 
 
 And I thought that it would be the- best thing so to arrange 
 the occupations of the day that one miglit be able to exercise 
 all these four faculties, and to return all the four kinds of 
 production of labor, which one makes use of; so tliat the 
 four parts of the day were devoted, first, to hard labor; 
 secondly, to mental labor ; thirdly, to handicraft ; fourthl}', to 
 the intercourse with men. It would be good if one could so 
 arrange his labor ; but if it is not possible to arrange thus, 
 one thing is important, — to acknowledge the duty of labor- 
 ing, the dut}' of making a good use of each i)art of the day. 
 
 I thought that it would be only then that the false division 
 of labor would disappear which now rules our society, and a 
 just division would be established which should not interfere 
 лvith the happiness of mankind. 
 
 I, for instance, have all my life been busy with mental 
 work. I had said to myself that I have thus divided the 
 lal)or that my special work is writing ; that is, mental labor : 
 and all other works necessary for me, 1 left to be done by 
 other men, or rather compelled them to do it. But this ar- 
 rangement, seemingly so convenient for mental labor, became 
 most inconvenient, especially for mental labor. I have been 
 writing all my life, have accommodated mj' food, sleep, 
 amusements, with reference to this special labor, and besides 
 this work I did nothing. 
 
 The results of which were, first, that I had been narrow- 
 ing the circle of my observation and information, and often 
 I had not any object to stud}', and therefore, having had to 
 describe the life of men (the life of men is a continual prob- 
 lem of every mental activity), I felt my ignorance, and had to 
 learn and to ask about such things, which every one not 
 occupied with a special work knows ; secondly, it happened 
 that when I sat down to write, I often had no inwaid inclina- 
 tion to write, and nobody wanted my writing itself, that is, 
 my thoughts, but people merely wanted ui}' name for profits 
 in the magazines. 
 
 I made great efforts to write what I could ; sometimes I
 
 220 WHAT MUST WE no THEN? 
 
 did not succeed at all ; sometimes succeeded in Avriting some- 
 thing very bad, and I felt dissatistied and dull. But now 
 since I have acknowledged the necessity of i)hysical labor as 
 well as hard labor, and also that of handicraft, it is all quite 
 different : my time is occupied humbly, but certainly in a use- 
 ful way, and pleasantl}' and instructively for me. 
 
 And therefore I, for the sake of my specialty, leave off 
 this undoubtedly useful and pleasant occupation, only when I 
 feel an inward want, or see a direct demand for my literary 
 work. And this has improved tlie quality, and therefore the 
 usefulness and pleasantness, of my special labor. 
 
 So that it has happened that my occupation with those 
 physical works, which are necessar}' for me as Avell as for 
 every man, not only did not interfere Avith my special ac- 
 tivity, but was a necessary condition of the utility, quality, 
 and pleasantness of this activity. 
 
 A bird is so created that it is necessary for it to fly, to 
 walk, to peck, to consider ; and when it does all this, it is 
 satifled and happy ; then it is a bird. Exactly so with a man 
 when he walks, turns over heavy things, lifts them up, carries 
 them, works with his fingers, eyes, ears, tongue, brain, then 
 on!}' is he satisfied, then onl}' is he a man. 
 
 A man who has come to recognize his calling to labor will 
 naturally be inclined to that change of labor which is proper 
 for him for the satisfying of his outward and inward wants, 
 and he will reverse this order only when he feels an irresist- 
 ible impulse to some special labor, and other men will require 
 from him this labor. The nature of labor is such that the 
 satisfying of all men's wants requires that л-егу alternation 
 of different kinds of labor which renders labor easy and 
 pleasant. 
 
 Only the erroneous idea that labor is a curse could lead 
 men to the freeing themselves from some kinds of labor, that 
 is, to the seizure of other men's labor which requires a forced 
 occupation with a 'special labor from other men which is 
 called nowadaj's the division of labor. 
 
 We have become so accustomed to our false conception of 
 the arrangement of labor that it seems to us that for a boot- 
 maker, a machinist, a writer, a musician, it would be better 
 to be freed from the labor proper to man. Where there is 
 no violence over other men's labor, nor a false belief in the 
 pleasures of idleness, no man for the sake of his special labor 
 will free himself from physical labor necessary for the satis-
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 221 
 
 fying of his wants, because special occupation is not a privi- 
 lege, but a sacritlce of a man's inclination for the sake of his 
 brethren. 
 
 A boot-maker in a village having torn himself from his 
 usual pleasant lal)or in the field, and having begun his labor 
 of mending or making boots for his neighbors, deprives him- 
 self of a pleasant, useful labor in the Held for the sake of 
 others, only because he is fond of sewing, and knows that 
 nobody will do it better than he does, and that people will be 
 thankful to him. 
 
 But he cannot wish to deprive himself for all his life of 
 the pleasant alternation of labor. The same with the sta- 
 rosta, the machinist, the writer, the learned man. 
 
 It is only to us with our perverted ideas, that it seems, 
 when the master sends his clerk to be a peasant, or 
 government sentences one of its ministers to deportation, 
 that they are punished and have been dealt with hardly. 
 But in reality they have had a great good done to them ; that 
 is, they have exchanged their heav}' special work for a pleas- 
 ant alternation of labor. 
 
 In a natural society all is quite different. I know a com- 
 mune where the people earn their living themselves. One of 
 the members of this community was more educated than the 
 rest; and they required him to deliver lectures, for which he 
 had to prepare himself during the day, in order to be able to 
 deliver them in the evening. He did it joyfull3% feeling that 
 he was useful to others, and that he could do it well. But 
 he got tired of the exclusive mental labor, and his health suf- 
 fered accordingly. The members of the community therefore 
 pitied him, and asked him to come again and labor in the 
 field. 
 
 For men who consider labor to be the essential thing and 
 the joy of life, the ground, the basis, of it will always be 
 the struggle with nature, — not only agricultural labor, but 
 also that of handicraft, mental work, and intercourse with 
 men. 
 
 The divergence from one or many of these kinds of labor, 
 and specialties of labor, will be performed only when a 
 man of special gifts, being fond of this work, and knowing 
 that he performs it better than anybody else, will sacrifice 
 his own advantage in order to fulfil the demands of others 
 put directly to liiin. 
 
 JJuly wi'di such a view of labor and the natural division of
 
 222 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 labor resulting from it, will the curse disappear which we 
 iu our imagination have put upon labor ; and every lal)(>r will 
 always be a joy, because man will do eitlier an unqucstion- 
 abl}'^ useful, pleasant, and easy work, or will l)e conscious 
 that he makes a sacrifice in performing a moi'e difficult s[)e- 
 cial labor for the good of others. 
 
 But the division of labor is, it is said, more advantageous. 
 Advantageous for whom ? Is it more advantageous to make 
 as quickly as possible as many boots and cotton-prints as 
 possible? But who will make these boots and cotton-pi'ints? 
 Men who from generation to generation have been making 
 only pin-heads? How, then, can it be more advantageous for 
 people? If the question were to make as many cotton-prints 
 and pins as possible, it would be so ; but the question is, 
 how to make people happy? 
 
 The happiness of men consists in life. And life is iu 
 labor. 
 
 How, then, can the necessity of a painful, oppressing work 
 be advantageous for men ? If the question were only for 
 the advantage of some men without any consideration of the 
 welfare of all, then it would be most advantageous for some 
 men to eat others. 
 
 The thing most advantageous for all men is that which I 
 wish for myself, — the greatest welfai-e and the satisfying of 
 all my wants, those of body as луеИ as those of soul, of con- 
 science, and of reason, which are ingrafted in me. 
 
 And now, for myself I have found, that for ni}- welfare 
 and for the satisfying of these лvants, I need only to be cured 
 of the foil}- in which I, as well as the Krapivensky madman, 
 have lived, which consisted in the idea that gentlefolk need 
 not work, and that all must be done for them by others, and 
 that, producing nothing, I have to do onl}^ what is proper to 
 man, — satisfy my own wants. 
 
 And having discovered this, I became persuaded that this 
 labor for the satisfying of my own wants, is divisible into 
 various kinds of labor, each of which has its own charm, 
 and is not only not a burden, but serves as rest after some 
 other, 
 
 I Ьал^е divided my labor into four parts parallel to the four 
 ■parts of the laborer's day's work, which are divided by his 
 meals ; and thus I try to satisfy my wants. 
 
 These are, then, the answers to the question, " What is to 
 be done? "' which I have found for myself.
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 223 
 
 Firsts To avoid deceiving mj'self. However far I have 
 gone astray from that road of life which my reason shows to 
 ii)e, I must not be afraid of the truth. 
 
 /Secondly, To renounce my own righteousness, my own 
 advantages, peculiarities, distinguishing me from others, and 
 to confess the guilt of such. 
 
 Thirdly, To fulfil that eternal, unquestionable law of man, 
 — by laboring with all my being to struggle with nature, to 
 sustain my own life, and the lives of others. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 I HAVE now finished, having said all that concerns m3'self ; 
 but 1 cannot restrain my desire to say that which concerns 
 every one, and to verify b}' several considerations my own 
 deductions. 
 
 I wish to explain why it is I think that a great man}- of 
 my own class must arrive where I myself am, and I must 
 also speak of Avhat will result if even some few men arrive 
 there ; and in the first place, if onl}' men of our circle, our 
 caste, will seriously think the matter out themselves, the 
 younger generation, who seek their own personal happiness, 
 will become afraid of the ever-increasing misery of lives 
 which obviously lead them to ruin ; scrupulous persons 
 among us (if they would examine themselves more closol}') 
 will be terrified at the cruelty and unlawfulness of their own 
 lives, and timid persons will be frightened at the danger of 
 their mode of life. 
 
 The misery of our lives! Howeл^•er we, rich men, may try 
 to mend and to support, with the assistance of our science 
 and art, this our false life, it must become Aveaker every 
 day, unhealthier, and more and more painful : with each year 
 suicide, and the sin against the unborn babe, increase ; with 
 each 3'ear the new generations of our class grow weaker, 
 with each year we more and more feel the increasing dulness 
 of our lives. 
 
 It is obvious that on this roa.d, with an increase of the 
 comforts and delights of life, of cures, artificial teeth and 
 hair, and so on, there can be no salvation. 
 
 Tills truth has become such a truism, that in newspapers 
 advertisements are printed about stomach powder for rich 
 people, under the title "■ Blessiugs of the poor," where they
 
 224 )VUAT MUST WE DO THEN! 
 
 say that only poor people have a good digestion, and the 
 rich need help, and among other things this powder. You 
 cannot ameliorate this mutter b}' an}'- kind of amusements, 
 comforts, powders, but only by turning over a new leaf. 
 
 Our lives are in contradiciion to our consciences. However 
 much vfe may try to justify to ourselves our treason ngainst 
 mankind, all our justilication falls to pieces before evidence : 
 around us, people are dying from ovei'work and want ; and 
 Ave destroy the food, clothes, lalior of men merely in order 
 to amuse ourselves. And therefore the conscience of a man 
 of our circle, though he may have but a small remainder of 
 it in his breast, cannot be stifled, and poisons all these com- 
 forts and charms of life which our suffering and perishing 
 brethren procure for us. But not only does every scrupu- 
 lous man feel this himself, but he must feel it more acutely' 
 at present, because the best part of art and science, that 
 part in which there still remains a sense of its high calling, 
 constantly reminds him of his cruelty, and the unlawfulness 
 of his position. 
 
 The old secure justifications are all destroyed ; and the 
 new ephemeral justifications of the progress of science for 
 science's sake, and art for art's sake, will not bear the light 
 of i)lain common sense. 
 
 The conscience of men cannot be calmed b}- new ideas : 
 it can be calmed only by turning over a new leaf, when 
 there will no longer be any necessity for justification. 
 
 The danger to our lives! However much we may try to 
 hide from ourselves the plain and most obvious danger of 
 exhausting the patience of those men whom we oppress ; 
 however much we may try to counteract this danger by all 
 sorts of deceit, violence and flattery, — it is still growing with 
 each day, with each hour, and it has long been threatening 
 us, but now it is so lipe that we are scarcely able to hold 
 our course in a vessel tossed by a roaring and overflowing 
 sea, — a sea ^ich will pi'csently swallow us up in wrath. 
 
 The workman's revolution, л^Ь the terrors of destruction 
 and murder, not only threate™fis. but we have been already 
 living upon its verge during tRe last thirty years, and it is 
 only b}' various cunning devices that we have been postpon- 
 ing the crisis. 
 
 Such is the state in Europe : such is the state in Russia, 
 because we have no safety-valves. The classes who oppress 
 the people, with ".he exception of the Tsar, have no longer
 
 WHAT JSIUST WE DO THEN f 225 
 
 in the eyes of onr people any justification ; they all keep up 
 tlxMi' position merely b^- violence, cunning, and expediency ; 
 but the hatred towards us of the worst representatives of 
 the people, and the contempt of us from the best, is increas- 
 ing with every hour. 
 
 Among the Russian people during the last three or four 
 years, a new word full of significance has been circulating : 
 b}- this word, which 1 never heard before, people are swear- 
 ing in the streets, and calling us parasites. 
 
 The hatred and contempt of the oppressed people are 
 increasing, and the physical and moral strength of the richer 
 classes are decreasing : the deceit which supports all this 
 is wearing out, and the rich classes have nothing wherewith 
 to comfort themselves. To return to the old order of things 
 is impossible: one thing only remains for those who are 
 not willing to change the course of their lives, and to turn 
 over a new leaf, — to hope that, during their lives, they will 
 fare well enough, after which the people ma}- do as they 
 like. 80 think the blind crowd of the rich ; but the danger 
 is ever increasing, and the awful catastrophe is coming nearer 
 and nearer. 
 
 There are three reasons which prove to rich people the 
 necessity of turning over a new leaf : First, the desire for 
 their own personal welfare and that of their families, which 
 is not secured by the w'ay in which rich people are living ; 
 secondly, the inability to satisfy the voice of conscience, 
 which is obviously impossible in the present condition of 
 tilings ; and thirdly, the threatening and constantly increas- 
 ing danger to life, which cannot be met by any outward 
 means. All these together ought to induce rich people to 
 change their mode of life. This change alone луоик! satisfy 
 the desire of welfare and conscience, and would remove the 
 danger. And there is but one means of making such change, 
 — to leave off deceiving ourselves, to repent, ^d to acknowl- 
 edge labor to be, not a curse, but the joyful business of life. 
 
 To this it is replied, " W%rt will come from the fact of 
 my physical labor during ten, eight, or five hours, which 
 thousands of peasants would gladly do for the money which 
 I have?" 
 
 The first good would be, that you will l)ccome livelier, 
 healthier, sounder, kinder; and you will learn that I'onl life 
 from which you have been hiding yourself, or which was 
 hidden from you.
 
 22G WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 Tlie second good will be, that, if you have a conscience, 
 it will not only not suffer as it suffers now looking at the 
 labor ot" men, the importance of which we always, from our 
 ignorance, either increase or diminish, but you will constantly 
 experience a joyful acknowledgment that with each day 
 you ai'e more and more satisfying the demands of your con- 
 science, and are leaving behind you that awful state in 
 which so much evil is accinnulated in our lives that we feel 
 that we cannot possibly do any good in the world ; you will 
 experience the joy of free life, with the possibility of doing 
 good to others ; you will open for j'ourself a Avay into the 
 regions of the world of morality which has hitherto been 
 shut to you. 
 
 The third good will be this, that, instead of constant fear 
 of revenge for your evil deeds, you will feel that you are 
 saving others from this revenge, and are principally saving 
 the oppressed from the cruel feeling of rancor and resent- 
 ment. 
 
 But it is usuall}- said, that it would be ridiculous if we, 
 men of our stamp, with deep philosoi)hical, scientific, politi- 
 cal, artistic, ecclesiastical, social questions before us, we 
 state ministers, senators, academists, professors, artists, 
 singers, we whose quarter-hours are valued so highly by men, 
 should spend our time in doing — what? Cleaning our boots, 
 washing our shirts, digging, planting potatoes, or feeding 
 our chickens and cows, and so on, — in such business which 
 not only our house-porter, our cook, but thousands of men 
 besides who value our time, would be very glad to do for ns. 
 
 PiUt why do we dress, wash, and comb our hair ourselves? 
 \Vhy do we walk, hand chairs to ladies, to our guests, open 
 and shut the door, help people into carriages, and perform 
 hundreds of such actions which were formerly performed for 
 us b}' our slaves ? 
 
 Because we consider that such may be done b}' ourselves ; 
 that it is compatible with human dignity; that is, human 
 duty. The same holds good' with piiysical labor. Man's 
 dignity, his sacred duty, is to use his hands, his feet, for that 
 purpose for which they were given him, and not to be wasted 
 by disuse, not that he may wash and clean them and use 
 them only for the purpose of stuffing food and cigarettes 
 into his month. 
 
 Such is the moaning of physical labor for every man in 
 every society. But in our class, with the divergence from
 
 WHAT MUST WE no THEN? 221 
 
 this law of nature came the misery of a whole circle of men ; 
 and for us, physical labor receives anotlier meaning, — the 
 meaning of a preaching and a propaganda which divert the 
 terrible evil which threatens mankind. 
 
 To say that for an educated man, ph^^sical labor is a use- 
 less occupation, is the same as to say, in the building of a 
 temple, AVhat importance can there be iu putting each stone 
 exactly iu its place? Every great act is done uuder the 
 conditions of imperceptibility, modest}', and simplicity. One 
 can neither plough, nor feed cattle, nor tiiink, duriug a great 
 illumination, or thundering of guns, or while in uniform. 
 
 Iliumiuation, the roar of cannon, music, uniforms, clean- 
 liness, brilliancy, Avhich we usually connect Avith the idea of 
 the importance of any act, are, on the conti'ar}', tokens of 
 the absence of importance iu the same. Great, true deeds 
 are always simi)le and modest. And such is also the 
 greatest deed which is left to us to do, — the solution of 
 those awful contradictious in which we are living, Aud the 
 acts which solve those contradictions are those modest, im- 
 perceptible, seemingly ridiculous acts, such as helping our- 
 selves by physical labor, and, if possible, helping others 
 too : this is what we rich people have to do. if we under- 
 stand the miser}', wrong, and danger of the position iu which 
 we are living. 
 
 What will come out of the circumstance that I, and another, 
 and a third, and a tenth man, do not despise i)hysical labor, 
 but consider it necessary for our happiness, for the calming 
 of our consciences, and for our safety? This will come of 
 it, — that one, two, three, ten men, coming into coutlict with 
 no one, without the violence either of the government or of 
 revolution, will solve for themselves the problem which is 
 before all the world, and which has appeared insolvable ; aud 
 they will solve it in such a way that life will become for them 
 a good thing: their consciences Avill be calm, and the evil 
 which oppresses thern will cease to be dreadful to them. 
 
 Another effect will be this : that other men, too, will see 
 that the welfare, which they have been looking for every- 
 where, is quite close b}' thein, that seemingly insolvable con- 
 tradictions of conscience and the order of the woild are 
 solved iu the easiest and pleasantest way, and that, instead 
 of being afraid of men surrounding them, they must have 
 intercourse with them, and love them. 
 
 The seemingly insolvable economical and social questions
 
 228 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 are like the problem of Krilof s casket. The casket opened 
 of itself, without any tlifficulty : but it will not open until 
 men do the very simplest and most natural thing ; that is, 
 open it. The seemingU' insolvable question is the old question 
 of utilizing some men's labor b}' others : this question, in 
 our time, has found its expression in property. 
 
 Formerly, otiier men's labor was used simply by violence, 
 by slavery : in our time, it is being done b}- the means of 
 property. In our time, property is the root of all evil and 
 of the sufferings of men who possess it, or are without it, 
 and of all the remorse of conscience of those who misuse it, 
 and of the danger from the collision between those who have 
 it, and those who have it not. 
 
 Propert}^ is the root of all evil ; and, at the same time, 
 propert}' is that towards which all the activity of our modern 
 society is directed, and that which directs the activity of the 
 world. States and governments intrigue, make wars, for 
 the sake of propert}-, for the possession of the banks of the 
 Rhine, of land in Africa, China, the Balkan Peninsula. 
 Bankers, merchants, manufacturers, land-owners, labor, use 
 cunning, torment themselves, torment others, for the sake of 
 property ; government functionaries, tradesmen, landlords, 
 struggle, deceive, oppress, suffer, for the sake of property ; 
 courts of justice and police protect property ; pennl servi- 
 tude, prisons, all the terrors of so-called punishments, — 
 all is done for the sake of property. 
 
 Propert}' is the root of all ела! ; and now all the world is 
 busy with the distribution and protecting of w^ealth. 
 
 AYhat, then, is propert}'? Men are accustomed to think 
 that propert}' is something really belonging to man, and for 
 this reason they have called it property. We speak indis- 
 criminately of our OW41 house and onr own land. But this 
 is obviously an error and a superstition. We know, and if 
 we do not, it is easy to perceive, that property is only the 
 means of utilizing other men's labor. And another's labor 
 can by no means belong to me. 
 
 Man has been always calling his own that wdiich is subject 
 to his own will and joined with his own consciousness. As 
 soon as man calls his own something wdiich is not his body, 
 but which he should like to be subject to his will as his body 
 is. then he makes a mistake, and gets disappointment, suffer- 
 ing, and compels other people to suffer as well. Man calls 
 his wife his own, his children, his slaves, his belongings, his
 
 WUAT MUST IVE DO THEN? 229 
 
 own too ; but the realit}' always sliows him his error : and he 
 must either get rid of this superstition, or suffer, and mulvc 
 others suffer. 
 
 Now we, haA'ing nominally renounced the possessing of 
 slaves, owing to money (and to its exaetment b}' the govern- 
 ment), claim our right also to mone}' ; that is, to the labor of 
 otlier men. 
 
 But as to our claiming our wives as our property', or our 
 sons, our slaves, our horses, — this is pui'e fiction contradicted 
 by realit}', and which onh' makes those suffer who believe in 
 it ; because a wife or a sou will never be so sul^ject to my will 
 as ni}' body is ; therefore my own body will always remain 
 the only thing I can call my true property ; so also mone}', — 
 pro[)erty Avill never be real property, but only a deception and 
 a source of suffering, and it is only my own body which will 
 be my property, that which always obeys me, and is connected 
 with m}' consciousness. 
 
 It is only to us, who are so accustomed to call other things 
 than our body our own, that such a wild superstition ma}' ap- 
 pear useful for us, and be without evil results ; but we have 
 only to reflect upon the nature of the matter in order to see 
 how this, like every other superstition, brings with it only 
 dreadful consequences. 
 
 Let us take tlie most simple examine. I consider myself 
 my own, and another man like myself I consider m}' own too. 
 I must understand how to cook my dinner : if I were free 
 from the superstition of considering another man as my prop- 
 erty, I should have been taught this art as well as every other 
 necessary to my real property (that is, my body) ; but now 
 I have it taught to my imaginary property, and the result is 
 that my cook does not obey me, does not wish to humor me, 
 and even runs away from me, or dies, and I remain with an 
 unsatisfied want, and have lost the habit of learning, and 
 recognize that 1 have spent as mucli time in cares about this 
 cook as I should have spent in learning the art of cooking 
 myself. 
 
 The same is the case with thr property of buildings, clothes, 
 wares ; with the propert}' of the land ; with the i)roperty of 
 money. Every imaginary property calls forth in me a non- 
 corresponding want whicii cannot always be gratified, and 
 deprives me of the possil)ility of acquiring for my true and 
 sure property — my own bod}' — that information, that skill, 
 those habits, improvements, which I might have acquired.
 
 230 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 The result is always that I have spent (without gain to 
 myself. — to my true pioperty) strength, sometimes my 
 whole life, on tliat which never has been, and never could 
 be, my property. 
 
 I provide myself with an imaginary "private" library, a 
 "private" picture-gallery, "private" apartments, clothes; 
 acquire my " own " money in order to purchase with it every 
 thing I want, and the matter stands thus, — that I, being 
 busy al)out this imaginary property, as if it were real, leave 
 quite out of sight that which is my true proi)erty. upon which 
 I ma}' really lal)or, and which really may serve me, and 
 which always remains in my power. 
 
 Words have always a definite meaning until we purposely 
 give them a false signification. 
 
 What does property mean? 
 
 Property means that which is given to me alone, which 
 belongs to me alone, exclusively ; that with which I may 
 always do every thing I like, which nobody can take away 
 from me, which remains mine to the end of ni}' life, and that 
 I ought to use in ordei- to increase and to improve it. Such 
 property for eveiy man is only himself. 
 
 And it is in this very sense that imaginary property is un- 
 derstood, that very property for the sake of which (in order 
 to make it impossible for this imaginary property to become 
 a real one) all the sufferings of this world exist, — wars, 
 executions, judgments, [)risons, luxury, depravity, murders, 
 and the ruin of mankind. 
 
 What, then, will come out of the circumstance that ten men 
 plough, hew wood, make boots, not from want, but from the 
 acknowledgment that man needs work, and that the more he 
 works, the better it will be for him? 
 
 This will come out of it : that ten men, or even one single 
 man, in thought and in deed, will show men that this fearful 
 evil from which they are suffering, is not the law of their 
 destiny, nor the will of God, nor any historical necessity, but 
 a superstition not at all a strong or overpowering one, but 
 weak and null, in which it is only necessar}' to 1еал'е off be- 
 lieving, as in idols, in order to get rid of it, and to destroy' it 
 as a frail cobweb is swejjt away. 
 
 ]\Ien who begin to work in order to fulfil the pleasant law 
 of their lives, who work for the fullilment of the law of labor, 
 will free themselves from the supeistition of property wliicli 
 is so full of misery, and then all these worldly establishments
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO TUENf 231 
 
 which exist in order to protect ,this imaginary property out- 
 side of one's own body, will become not only unnecessary 
 for them, but burdensome ; and it will become plain to all 
 that these institutions are not necessary, but pernicious, 
 imaginary, and false conditions of life. 
 
 For a man wLo considers labor not a curse, but a joy, prop- 
 erty' outside his own body — that is. the right or possibility 
 of utilizing other men's labor — will be not only useless, but 
 an imi)ediment. If I am fond of cooking my dinner, and 
 accustomed to do it, then the fact that another man will 
 do it for me, will deprive me of my usual business, and 
 will not satisfy me as well as I have satislied myself ; be- 
 sides, the acquirement of an imaginar}- property will not 
 be necessary for such a man : a man who considers labor 
 to be his ver}' life, fills up with it all his life, and there- 
 fore requires less and less the lal)or of others, — in other 
 words, property' in order to fill up his unoccupied time, and 
 to embellish his life. 
 
 If the life of a man is occupied by labor, he does not 
 require many rooms, much furniture, various fine clothes : 
 he does not require expensive food, carriages, amusements. 
 But particularly a man who considers labor to be the busi- 
 ness and the joy of his life, will not seek to ease his own 
 labor by utilizing that of others. 
 
 A man who considers life to consist in labor, in propor- 
 tion as he acquires more skill, craft, and endurance, will aim 
 at having more and more work to do, which should occupy 
 all his time. For such a man, who sees the ol)ject of his 
 life in labor, and not in the results of this labor for the 
 acquirement of property, there cannot be even a question 
 about the instruments of laI)or. Though such a man will 
 always choose the most productive instrument of labor, 
 he will have the same satisfaction in working with the most 
 unproductive. 
 
 If he has a steam-plough, he will plough with it ; if he 
 has not such, he will plough with a horse-i)lougli ; if he has 
 not this, he will plough with the plain Kussian soklni ; if 
 he has not even this, he will use a spade : and under any 
 circumstances, he will attain his aim ; that is, will pass his 
 life in a 1а1к)г useful to man, and therefore he will have 
 fullest satisfaction : and the position of such a man, accord- 
 ing to exterior and interior circumstances, will l)e happier 
 than the condition of a man who gives his life away to 
 acquire i)roperty.
 
 232 WHAT MUST WE DO TnENf 
 
 According to exterior circumstances, he will never want, 
 because men, seeing that he does not mind work, will alwa^'s 
 try to make his labor most productive to them, as they 
 arrange a mill by running water ; and in order that his 
 labor might be more productive, they will provide for his 
 material existence, which thej' will never do for men who 
 aim at acquiring property. 
 
 And the providing for material wants, is all that a man 
 requires. According to interior conditions, such a man will 
 be always happier than he who seeks for property, because 
 the latter will never receive what he is aiming at, and the 
 former always in proportion to his strength : even the weak, 
 old, dying (according to the proverb, with a Kored in his 
 hands), will receive full satisfaction, and the love and sym- 
 pathy of men. 
 
 One of the consequences of this will be, that some odd, 
 half-insane persons will plough, make boots, and so on, 
 instead of smoking, playing cards, and riding about, carry- 
 ing with them, from one place to another, their dulness 
 during the ten hours which every man of letters has at his 
 conmiand. 
 
 Another result will be, that those silly people will demon- 
 strate in deed, that that imaginary property for the sake of 
 which men suffer, torment themselves and others, is not 
 necessary for happiness, and even impedes it, and is only 
 a superstition ; and that true property is only one's own 
 head, hands, feet ; and that, in order to utilize this true 
 property usefully and joyfully, it is necessary to get rid of 
 the false idea of pi'operty outside one's own body, on which 
 we waste the best powers of our life. 
 
 Another result will be, that these men will show, that, 
 when a man leaves off believing in imaginary property, 
 then only will he make real use of his true property, — his 
 own body, which will yield him fruit an hundred-fold, and 
 such happiness of which we have no idea as yet ; and he 
 W'ill be a useful, strong, kind man, луЬо will ever^'where 
 stand on his own feet, will always be a brother to every- 
 bodv, wnll be intelligible to all, desired by all, and dear 
 to all. 
 
 And men, looking at one, at ten such, silly men will 
 undei-stand what they have all to do in order to undo that 
 dreadful knot in which they have all been tied by the super- 
 stition respecting property, in order to get rid of the miser-
 
 WnAT MUST ]VE DO THEN? 233 
 
 alilo condition from wliich they are groaning now, and from 
 which they do not know iiow to free tliemselves. 
 
 But what can a man do in a crowd wlio do not agree with 
 him ? There is no reasoning which could more oljviousl}^ 
 demonstrate the nnrigliteousuess of those wlio employ it as 
 does this. The boatmen are dragging vessels against the 
 stream. Is it possible that there could be found such a 
 stu[)id boatman who would refuse to do his part in drag- 
 ging, because he alone cannot drag the boat up against the 
 stream ? He who, besides his rights of animal life, — to 
 eat and to sleep, — acknowledges any human dut}', knows 
 very well wherein such duty consists : just in the same way 
 as a boatman knows that he has only to get into his breast- 
 collar, and to walk in the given direction, to find out what he 
 has to do, and bow to do it. 
 
 And so with the boatmen, and with all men who do any 
 labor in common, so with the labor of all mankind; each 
 man need only keep on his breast-collar, and go in the given 
 direction. And for this purpose one and the same reason 
 is given to all men that this direction may always be the 
 same. 
 
 And that this direction is given to us, is obvious and cer- 
 tain from the lives of all those who surround us, as well as in 
 the conscience of every man, and in all the previous expres- 
 sions of human wisdom ; so that only he who does not want 
 work, may say that he does not see it. 
 
 What will, then, come out of this? 
 
 This, that first one man, then another, will drag ; looking 
 at them, a third will join ; and so one b}' one the best men 
 will join, until the business will be set a-going, and will 
 move as of itself, inducing those also to join who do not 
 yet understand why and whei'efore it is being done. 
 
 First, to tlie number of men who conscientiously work in 
 order to fulfil the law of God, will be added those who will 
 accept half conscientiously and half upon faith ; then to these 
 a still greater number of men. only upon the faith in the fore- 
 most men ; and lastly the majority of people : and then it will 
 come to pass that men will cease to ruin themselves, and 
 will find out happiness. 
 
 This will happen soon when men of our circle, and after 
 them all the great majority of working-jieople. will no longer 
 consider it shameful to clean sewers, but will consider it 
 shameful to fill them up in order that other men, our brethren,
 
 234 WHAT MUST WE DO TEEN? 
 
 may carry their contents away ; the}' will not consider it 
 shcuneful to go visiting in coumiun boots, but lliey will con- 
 sider it shameful to walk in goloshes by barefooted i)eo[)U' ; 
 they will not think it shameful not to know French, or about 
 the last novel, but they will consider it shameful to eat bread, 
 and not to know how it is prepared ; they^ will not consider 
 it shameful not to have a starched shirt or a clean dress, but 
 that it is shameful to wear a clean coat as a token of one's 
 idleness ; they will not consider it shameful to have dirty 
 hands, but not to have callouses on their hands. 
 
 "Within my memory, still more striking changes have taken 
 place. I remember that at table, behind each chair, a ser- 
 vant stood with a plate. JNIen made visits accompanied by 
 two footmen. A Cossack bo}' and a girl stood in a room to 
 give peo[)le their pipes, and to clean them, and so on. Now 
 this seems to us strange and remarkable. But is it not 
 equally strange that a young man or woman, or even an 
 elderly man, in order to visit a friend, should order his horses 
 to be harnessed, and that well-fed horses are onl}' kept for 
 this purpose? Is it not as strange that one man lives in five 
 rooms, or that a woman spends tens, hundreds, thousands of 
 rubles for her dress when she only needs some flax and wool 
 in order to spin dresses for herself, and clothes for her hus- 
 band and children ? 
 
 Is it not strange that men live doing nothing, riding to and 
 fro, smoking and playing, and that a battalion of people are 
 busy feeding and warming them ? 
 
 Is it not strange that old people quite gravely talk and 
 write in newspapers about theatres, music, and other insane 
 people drive to look at musicians or actors? 
 
 Is it not strange that tens of thousands of boys and girls 
 are brought up so as to make them unfit for every work 
 (they return home from school, and their two books arc 
 carried for them bj' a servant) ? 
 
 There will soon come a time, and it is already drawing near, 
 when it will be shameful to dine on five courses served by 
 footmen, and cooked by an}' but the masters themselves ; it 
 will be shameful not only to ride thoroughbreds or in a coach 
 when one has feet to walk on ; to wear on week-days such 
 dress, shoes, gloves, in which it is impossible to work ; it 
 will be shameful to play on a piano which costs one hundred 
 and fifty pounds, or e\en ten pounds, while others woi-k for 
 one ; to feed dogs upon milk and white bread, and to burn
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 235 
 
 lamps and candles witlioiit working by their light ; to heat 
 stoves in which the meal is not cooked. Then it would be 
 impossible to think about giving openly not merely one 
 pound, l)ut six pence, for a place in a concert or in a theatre. 
 All this will be when the law of labor becomes public opinion. 
 
 XL. 
 
 As it is said in the Bible, tiiere is a law given unto man 
 and Avoman, — to man, the law of labor; to woman, the 
 law of child-bearing. Although with our science, '' nou^ 
 aeons change tout fa," the law of man as well as of woman 
 remains as immutable as the liver in its place ; and the breach 
 of it is as inevitably punished I)}- death. The only difference 
 is, that for man, the breach of law is j^unished by death in 
 such a near future that it can almost be called present ; 
 but for woman, the breach of law is punished in a more 
 distant future. 
 
 A general breach, by all men, of the law, destroys men 
 iinmetliately : the breach b}' women destroys the men of the 
 following generation. The evasion of the law b}' a few 
 men and women does not destroy the human race, but de- 
 prives the offender of rational human nature. 
 
 The Invach of this law by men began л'еагз ago in the 
 classes which could use violence with others ; and, spreading 
 on its way, it has reached our day, and has now attained 
 madness, the ideal contained in a breach of the law, the 
 ideal expressed by Prince Blokliin, and shared by Kenan 
 and the whole educated world : work will be don(> by 
 macliines, and men will be bundles of nerves enjoying lliem- 
 selvcs. 
 
 There has been scarcely any breach of the law b}' women. 
 It has only manifested itself in i)rostitution, and in i)rivatc 
 cases of crime in destroying progeny. Women of the 
 wealthy classes have fuHllled their law, wliile men did not 
 fuliil theirs ; and therefore women Iiave grown stronger, and 
 liave continued to govern, and will govern, men, who have 
 deviated from their law, and who, consequently', have lost 
 tiieir reason. It is generally said that women (the women of 
 Paris, especially those who are childless) have beconn' so 
 bewitching, using ;dl the means of civilization, that thcj- have 
 mastered man by their charms.
 
 236 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 This is not onh' wrong, but it is just the reverse of tlie 
 truth. It is not tlie childless woman who has mastered man, 
 but it is the motlier, the one who has fullilled her duty, while 
 man has not fullilled his. 
 
 As to the woman who artificially remains childless, and 
 bewitches man by her shoulders and curls, she is not a 
 woman, mastering man, but a woman corrupted by him, 
 reduced to his level, to the corrupted man, and who, as well 
 as he, has deviated fi'om her dut3% and who, as well as he, 
 has lost every reasonal)le seufce of life. 
 
 This mistake produces also the astounding nonsense which 
 is called " woman's rights." The formula of these rights 
 is as follows : — 
 
 '■'■ You men," says woman, " have deviated from 3'our law 
 of true labor, and want us to carr}' the load of ours. No : 
 if so, we also, as well as you, will make a pretence of labor, 
 as you do in banks, ministries, universities, and academies ; 
 we wish, as well as j'ou, b}' the pretence of division of 
 work, to pix)fit by other people's work, and to live, only to 
 satisfy our lust." They say so, and in deed show that they 
 can make that pretence of labor, not at all worse, but even 
 better, than men do it. 
 
 The so-called question of woman's rights arose, and only 
 could arise, among men who had deviated from the law of 
 real labor. One has only to return to it, and that question 
 must cease to exist. A woman who has her own particular, 
 inevitable labor will never claim the right of sharing man's 
 lalior, — in mines, or in ploughing fields. She claims a 
 share only in the sham labor of the wealth}^ classes. 
 
 The луотап of our class was stronger than man, and is 
 now still stronger, not through her charms, not through her 
 skill in performing the same pharisaic similitude of work as 
 man, but because she has not stepped outside of the law ; 
 because she has borne that true labor with danger of life, 
 with uttermost effort ; true labor, from which the man of the 
 Avealthy classes has freed himself. 
 
 But within my memory has begun also the deviation from 
 the law by woman, — that is to say, her fall ; and within my 
 memory, it has proceeded farther and farther. A woman 
 who has lost the law, believes that her power consists in the 
 charms of her witchery, or in her skill at a pharisaic pre- 
 tence of intellectual labor. But children hinder the one and 
 tiyj: olher. Therefore, with the help of science, within my
 
 WHAT MUST IV E DO THEN? 237 
 
 memory it has come to pass that among the wealth}' classes, 
 scores of meaus of destroying progeny have appeared. 
 And behold, — women, mothers, some of them of the wealthy 
 classes, who held their power in their hands, let it slip away, 
 о ily to place themselves on a level with women of the street. 
 The evil has spread far, and si)reads farther every day, and 
 will soon grasp all the women of the wealthy classes ; and 
 then they will become even with men, and together with 
 them will lose every reasonable sense of life. But there is 
 3'et time. 
 
 If only women wonld understand their worth, their power, 
 and would use them for the work of salvation of their 
 husl)ands. brothers, and children ! the salvation of all men ! 
 
 Women, mothers of the wealth}' classes, the salvation of 
 men of our world from the evils fi'om which it sutfers, is in 
 your hands ! 
 
 Not those women who are occupied by their figures, 
 bustles, head-dresses, and their charms for men, and who, 
 contrary to their will, by oversight and with despair, beav 
 children, and then give their children to wet-nurses ; nor yet 
 those who go to different lectures, and talk of psychometrical 
 centres and differentiation, and who also try to free them- 
 selves from bearing children in order not to hinder their folly, 
 which they call development, — but those women and 
 mothers who, having the power of freeing themselves from 
 child-bearing, hold strictly and consciously to that eternal, 
 immutable law, knowing that the weight and labor of that 
 submission is the aim of their life. These women and 
 mothers of our wealthy classes are those in whose hands, 
 more than in any others, lies the salvation of the men of our 
 sphere in life, from the calamities which oppress them. 
 
 You women and mothers who submit consciously to the 
 law of God, you are the only ones who, in our miserable, 
 mutilated world, which has lost all seml)lance of humanity, 
 you are the only ones who know the whole true meaning of 
 life according to the law of God ; and you are the only ones 
 who, by your example, can show men the happiness of that 
 sul)raission to God's law, of which they rol) themselves. 
 
 You are the only ones who know the joy and happiness 
 which takes possession of one's whole l)eing; the bliss which 
 is the share of every man wIk^ does not deviate from God's 
 law. You know the joy of love to your husliand, — a joy 
 never ending, never destroyed, like all other joys, but form-
 
 238 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 ing the beginning of another new joy — love to your child. 
 Y(ju are the only ones, when you are simple aud submissive 
 to God's hxvv, who know, not the farcical preteuce of labor, 
 which men of your world call labor, but that true labor which 
 is hnposed by God upou men, and know the rewards for it, — 
 the bliss which it gives. 
 
 You know it when, after the joys of love, you expect with 
 emotion, fear, aud hope, the torturing state of pregnancy, 
 which makes you ill for nine months, and brings you to the 
 briuk of death and to unbearable sufferings and [)ains : you 
 know the conditions of true labor, when with joy you expect 
 the approach and increase of the most dreadful sufferings, 
 after whicli comes the bliss, known to you only. 
 
 You know it when, directly after those sufferings, without 
 rest, without interruption, you undertake another series of 
 labors and sufferings, — those of nursing; for the sake of 
 which you subjugate to з'оиг feeling, and I'euounce, the strong- 
 est human necessit}', — that of sleep, wliich, according to the 
 saying, is sweeter than father aud mother. And for mouths 
 and years j'ou do not sleep two nights running, and often you 
 do not sleep whole nights ; walking alone to and fro, rocking 
 in your wearied arms an ailing baby, whose sufferings tear 
 your heart. And when 3'ou do all this, unapproved and unseen 
 by an^'body, not expecting any praise or reward for it ; when 
 you do this, not as a great deed, but as the laborer of the gos- 
 pel parable, who came from the field, considering that you are 
 onl}" doing 3'our dut3% — 3'ou know then what is false, fictitious 
 labor, — for human fame ; and what is true labor, — the fulfil- 
 ment of God's will, the indication of which you feel in your 
 heart. Y'ou know, if j'ou are a true mother, that not onlj^ 
 nobody has seen and praised your labor, considering that it is 
 onl}' what ought to be, but even those for whom you toiled are 
 not only ungrateful to you, but often torment and reproach 
 you. And with the next child you do the same, — again з^ои 
 suffer, again 3'ou bear unseen, terrible toil, and again 3'ou do 
 not expect апз' reward from an3'bod3', aud feel the same 
 satisfaction. 
 
 If you are such, 3'ou will not say, after two or after twenty 
 children, that you have borne children enough; as a fift3'- 
 З^еаг-ок! workman will not say that he has worked enough, 
 when he still eats and sleeps, and his muscles demand work. 
 If you are such. 3-ой will not cast the trouble of nursing and 
 care on a strange mother, anj' more than a workman will give
 
 WUAT MUST WE DO THEN? 239 
 
 the work which he has begun, aud nearly finished, to another 
 man, because in that work you put your life, aud because, the 
 more you have of that work, the fuller aud happier is your 
 life. 
 
 But when you are like this, — and there are yet such women, 
 happily for men, — the same law of fullihneut of God's will, 
 by v.hich you guide your own life, you will apph' also to the 
 life of your husband, of your children, and of men near to 
 you. If you are such, and if you know b}^ experience that 
 only self-denied, unseen, unrewarded labor with danger of 
 life, and uttermost etfort for the life of others, is that mission 
 of man which gives satisfaction, you лу111 claim the same 
 from others, з^и will encourage your husband to do the 
 same labor, you will value and appreciate the worth of men 
 by this same labor, and for it you will prepare your children. 
 
 Ouly tliat mother who looks on child-bearing as a dis- 
 agreeal)le accident, and upon the pleasures of love, comfort, 
 education, sociability, as the sense of life, will bring up her 
 children so that they shall have as many pleasures, and enjoy 
 tUiMU as nnich, as possible ; will feed them luxuriously, dress 
 them smartly, will artilicially divert them, and will teach them, 
 not that which will make them capable of self-sacrificing 
 man's and woman's laboi- with danger of life and uttermost 
 effort, but that which will deliver them from that labor. 
 Only such a woman, who has lost the sense of her life, will 
 sympathize with that false, sham man's labor, by means of 
 which her husband, freeing himself from man's dut}', has the 
 possibility of profiting, together with her, by the labor of 
 others. Only such a woman will choose a similar husband 
 for her daughter, and value men, not by what they are in 
 themselves, but by what is attaciied to them, — position, 
 money, the art of profiting by the labor of others. 
 
 A true mother, who really knows God's law, will prepdre 
 her children for the fulfilment of it. For such a mother to 
 see her child overfed, delicate, overdressed, will be a suffer- 
 ing, because all this, she knows, will hinder it in the fuHilment 
 of God's law, experienced by herself. Such a woman will 
 not teach that which will give her son or daughter the possi- 
 liility of delivering tliemselves from labor, but that which 
 will help them to bear the labor of life. 
 
 She will not want to ask what to teach her children, or for 
 what to [)repare them, knowing what it is and in what con- 
 sists the mission of men, and consequently knowing what
 
 240 WHAT MUST ]VE DO THEN? 
 
 to teach her thiklren, aud for what to prepare them. Such 
 a woman will uot only discourage her hiisl)and from false, 
 sham labor, the only aim of which is to profit b}- other 
 people's work, but will view with disgust and dread an 
 activity that will sprve as a double tenii)tation for her chil- 
 dren, bueh a woman will not choose her daughter's husband 
 according to the whiteness of his hands, and the retinenient 
 of his manners, but, knowing thoroughly what is lal)or and 
 what deceit, will alwa3's and everywhere, beginning with her 
 husband, respect and appreciate men. will claim from them 
 true labor with waste and danger of life, and will scorn that 
 false, sham labor which has for its aim the delivering of 
 one's self from true labor. 
 
 Such a mother icill bring forth and iitirseher chtldren her- 
 self, and. above all things else, will feed and provide for 
 them, will лvork for them, wash and teach them, will sleep 
 and talk with them. l)ecause she makes that her life-work. 
 Only such a mother will not seek for her children external secu- 
 rity through her husband's mone}', or her children's diplomas, 
 but she will exercise in them the same capacity' of self-sac- 
 riticing fultilment of God's will which she knows in herself, 
 tiie capacity for bearing labor with waste and danger of life, 
 because she knows that only in that lie the security and wel- 
 fare of life. Such a mother will not have to ask others what 
 is her duty : she will know eveiy thing beforehand, aud will 
 fear nothing. 
 
 If there can be doubts for a man or for a childless woman 
 about the way to fuUil God's will, for a mother that way 
 is firmly and clearly drawn ; and if she fulfils it humbly, with 
 a simple heart, standing on the highest point of good, which 
 it is only given to a human being to attain, she becomes the 
 guiding-star for all men, tending to the same good. Only a 
 mother before her death can say to Him who sent her into 
 this world, and to Him whom she has served by bearing and 
 bringing up children, beloved by her more than herself. — 
 only she can peacefully say, after having served Him in her 
 appointed service, — 
 
 " ' Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.' " 
 
 And this is that highest perfection, to which, as to the 
 highest good, men aspire. 
 
 Such women, who fulfil their mission, are those who reign 
 over reigning men ; those who prepare new generations of
 
 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 241 
 
 men, and form public opinion : and therefore in the liands of 
 these women lies the highest power of men's salvation from 
 the existing and threatening evils of our time. 
 
 Yes, women, mothers, in your hands, more than in those 
 of any others, lies the sah^ation of the world !
 
 244 WHAT MUST WE DO THEN? 
 
 bringing up children will only be useful to mankind when she not 
 only gives birth to children for her own pleasure, but when she 
 prepares future servants of mankind ; лу11еп the education of those 
 children is done in the name of truth and for the welfare of 
 others. — that is to say, when she will educate her children in such 
 a manner that they shall be the very best men possible, and the 
 very best laborers for others. 
 
 The ideal woman, in my opinion, is the one who, appropriating 
 the highest view of life of the time in which she lives, yet gives 
 herself to her feminine mission, which is irresistibly placed --i her, — 
 that of bringing forth, nursing and educating, the greatest possible 
 number of children, fitted to work for people according to the view 
 луЬ1сЬ she has of life. 
 
 But in order to appropriate the h'. best view of life, I think 
 there is no need of visiting lectures : ah that she requires is to read 
 the gospel, and not to shut her eyes, ears, and, most of all, her 
 heart. 
 
 Well, and if you ask what those are to do who havg no children, 
 who are not married, or are widows, I answer that those will do 
 well to shar^ .лап'з multifarious labor. But one cannot help 
 being sorry that such a precious tool as woman is, should be 
 bereft of the possibility of fulfilling the great vocation which it is 
 proper to her alone to fulfil. 
 
 Especially as every woman, when she has finished bearing chil- 
 dren, if she has strength left, will have the time to occupy herself 
 with that help in man's labor. AVoman's help in that labor is very 
 precious ; but it will always be a pity to see a young woman fit for 
 child-bearing, and occupied by man's labor. 
 
 To see such a woman, is tlie same as to see precious vegetable 
 soil covered with stones for a place of parade or for a walking- 
 ground. Still more a pity, because this earth could only produce 
 bread, and a woman could produce that for which there cannot be 
 an / equivalent, higher than which there is nothing, — man. And 
 en у she is able to do this. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 5909
 
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